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All it's Cracked up to Be

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Velma smirks over her shoulder as they skip into the dressing room, all sex and smiles for the audience behind the stage. They'll believe anything, Roxie thinks as she throws them her own, more demure and sunny, smile. The flashbulbs flicker like lightning before the door shuts tight, closing everyone else out.

They drop the smiles and pretense when they're alone, just another costume for the masses. The hiss-clatter of bright beads behind her says Velma has slithered out of her dress already. The snake shedding its skin, Roxie thinks cynically as she kicks off her shoes.

"Idiots." The scorn matches her own, the tone a bit wearier. "They wouldn't know good jazz if it bit them on the ass."

Privately, Roxie agrees — the problem with being a novelty act is that they come to see the novelty, not the act. She can't help needling Velma, though, the double-act ingrained by now. "If you mean we're not good, you speak for yourself." She takes a moment to admire the expensive paste necklace before placing it in its box.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. Roxie Hart is always good." That low, dark chuckle shouldn't be allowed on a woman. Velma strides across to her, heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, and the next words are hissed into her ear. "Except when she's not."

She spins as Velma pushes her, as perfectly choreographed as they ever are, and then her shoulders hit the brick wall, Velma's weight pressing her hard against it as her hand slides up under Roxie's dress.

Roxie retaliates, unhooking Velma's garters and pulling them taut before releasing them with twin snaps that hit the backs of her thighs. In turn, Velma bites Roxie's bottom lip, taking her mouth in a brutal kiss.

Despite herself, Roxie gasps as two fingers rub her roughly, direct on her clit, and it's too much, and Velma knows, and Roxie sinks her fingernails into Velma's ass, grabbing hard with one hand, bringing the other up to snatch Velma's bra down and wrench at one nipple.

Velma pushes against her, riding her thigh, and those harsh fingers push into her, palm flattening over her mound, and she barely has the presence of mind not to crack her head against the bricks as she throws it back, but she rubs and strokes the breast beneath her hand, reaching to just tease Velma's opening through wet silk with the other, making her push harder, faster, straining.

"Bitch!" Velma curses her, and she laughs breathlessly and twists her fingers in the thin fabric, pulling it tight.

They find a frantic rhythm, teasing and torturing until none of it means anything, and all that matters is the pleasure, and then it's there, and Roxie gasps again and shudders, spasming on Velma's hand, and it feels so good she doesn't even mind Velma moving against her to find her own climax, just lets her do it.

Afterwards, she showers off the sweat of jazz and sex, and debates with herself whether she should use up all the hot water. Velma could use a cold shower, she thinks sourly. Sure, the shit they do would make anyone horny, but couldn't she save it till she got to a man? Well, at least she's better than Amos in bed. But not for the first time, Roxie wonders if it was her man or her sister Velma got so upset with that night.

Still, there are worse fates, she supposes. Like being alone and unknown and broke. And really, there are two businesses where it doesn't matter one bit if you hate your partner's guts; and it turns out she can't do either one of them alone properly. With a shrug, she turns off the water and grabs a towel. It'll work as long as they can keep the interest up. And after that ... well, murder's always good for a little publicity.