Work Header


Work Text:

Vicky-T is wearing striped stockings, black and white like piano keys, uneven stripes climbing her long, long legs to the hem of her black babydoll dress. Greta, in something cute and blue and tame—vintage 1940s from a consignment shop in Dallas—sips champagne and chimes in on her parts of Chris's story about That Time They Were Almost Arrested In Seattle, and tries not to stare too long at Victoria's legs.

It's an exclusive sort of party: someone's house, bands and friends and girlfriends and no press. Even so, she's been sticking with her boys, most comfortable with the familiar Hush Sound brand of baffling jokes and obscure literary allusions. There aren't a lot of women at the party—girlfriends, sure, Ashlee with Pete at the DJ booth, Keltie and Cassie and Haley in a pile of Panic—but it's really only Greta and Victoria in the bands, Greta and Victoria, sole female islands in a sea of boys. She's used to it, she even likes it, but she can't stop looking at Victoria, sandwiched between Gabe and Patrick on a couch across the room.

Victoria catches her looking, raises one dark eyebrow, and Greta smiles back, shyly, carefully, until Victoria gives her a tiny nod. They don't know each other well—different circles, different tours in their too-small, too-large world—but they have an instinctual sort of connection. Girls in bands. Piano keys.

"I'm going to go talk to Victoria," she says, cutting in.

Chris rolls his eyes, unperturbed. "Didn't you get enough girl time with Spencer, earlier?"

"Don't besmirch Spencer," Darren says. "He has turned into a real man."

"And thus I find myself in need of a new bosom companion." Greta sets her glass down on the table and stands up, smoothing out the creases in her skirt. "I'll see you guys later." Bob doesn't say anything, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, amused and approving, and he knows her better than any of them.

Patrick waves as she walks over, and she feels immediately steadier; Patrick always sets her at ease, has since the very beginning. "I need to steal Victoria," she says, even more certain when Victoria gazes up at her, a speculative light in her eyes that leaves Greta just a little too warm.

"A ladies' tête-à-tête!" Gabe cries, clapping his hands. "Can I come?"

"Let me check," Victoria puts a hand on Gabe's crotch and squeezes. "Nope, you've still got a penis."

Gabe sighs dramatically, "Prejudice and sexism! You should be ashamed, Victoria Asher!"

"But I'm not." Victoria slides gracefully to her feet. "Bye, boys. Come on, Greta." She takes Greta's hand and sets off through the crowd. Greta shoots a smile at Patrick and Gabe, not at all apologetic, and follows.

They're halfway upstairs before Greta thinks to ask where they're going, but Victoria just tugs her into an empty bedroom and shuts the door behind them. She's even more gorgeous up close, fair skin and dark hair and enigmatic smile, long lines and minor notes, and Greta has just enough time to wonder if she really knows what she's doing before she's up against the door with Victoria's wine-red mouth on hers.

She tastes like wine, too, something dark and complicated, and Greta chases the taste, leaning up and in, her tongue tangling with Victoria's. Victoria bites her lower lip, lightly, and pulls back. "So," she says, just a little breathlessly, "I've been wanting to get to know you better."

"I like your stockings," Greta says, inanely, and Victoria laughs.

"I like your voice. Is that enough small talk?" She hasn't let go of Greta's hand. "Because there are better things we could be doing right now."

Greta can feel herself blushing, skin hot and prickly all along her arms. "Yes," she says, her voice steady. And then, more daring, "There's a bed in here and everything." She hopes it's a guest room.

Victoria drops Greta's hand and reaches back, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor. She steps out of her shoes, out of the dress, and in stockings and bra and garter belt and panties she's just about the hottest thing Greta has ever seen.

"I like it when you stare, too," Victoria says, conversationally. "And also you should lock the door."

Greta blinks and turns away to fumble with the lock. It takes her longer than it should, and when she looks back, Victoria is on the bed. Her stockings clash with the floral bedspread, and that diminishes the hotness of the scene just enough for Greta to slide off her shoes and join Victoria on the bed.

Victoria kisses her again, longer this time, and deep. Greta gets a little lost in the warmth of her mouth, and before she knows it she has her hands tight on Victoria's hips and Victoria is straddling her waist.

"I should—" she says, "—clothes." Victoria laughs, again, and starts in on the row of tiny buttons running down the front of Greta's dress.

She's at something of a loss without Victoria's mouth, so she slides one hand up her back to unhook her bra. Victoria stops unbuttoning long enough to shrug out of it, and grins. "Another good reason to have sex with girls: ease of bra removal." Then she frowns, "but I hate buttons."

Greta likes this dress, and she's not about to let Victoria rip off the buttons. They go faster with two, and soon her dress and bra are on the floor and she's wrapped around Victoria on the bed again, skin to skin. Victoria's skin is glorious, soft and smooth, and Greta trails a hand along her side, cups her breasts, kisses her collarbone.

Victoria retaliates, rolling Greta's nipples between her fingers until Greta is arching into her, off the bed, and then Victoria wraps one long leg around her waist and things heat up, speed up, Victoria's tongue in Greta's mouth and Greta's fingers stroking down the inside of her thigh and up, past the top of her stocking and the line of her garter belt, under the thin fabric of her panties.

"Take them off," Victoria says against her mouth, so Greta does, but she leaves the stockings and the garter belt. Victoria kisses her again, traces her mouth along Greta's neck and down to her breast, and Greta reaches back up and slides two long fingers into Victoria's cunt. She's wet, and warm, and Greta is suddenly completely in love with the way she feels around her fingers. She strokes forward, back, pushes her thumb up against Victoria's clit, and Victoria shudders around her.

"I fucking love piano players," she gasps, breathless and hot, and Greta laughs, startled, and fucks Victoria harder, deeper, three fingers and a thumb stroking back and forth across her clit until Victoria shudders around her and comes. Greta fucks her through the first orgasm, and the second, and then Victoria unwinds her legs from Greta's waist and slides off her fingers, falling back on the bed.

"You're good at that," she says. Her bangs are damp, and dark tendrils of her hair cling to her cheeks and shoulders; she's glistening a little with sweat, and she's still wearing the stockings.

"You are extremely hot." Greta's a little breathless, herself, and a little concerned that she might spontaneously combust if Victoria doesn't touch her soon; she's also a little concerned that she might spontaneously combust if Victoria does touch her, though.

Victoria grins, wide and bright and gorgeous. "So are you," she says, and then Greta's on her back on the bed and Victoria is straddling her again, pulling off her panties and rubbing her clit lightly with the pads of her fingers. She keeps rubbing—too much, not enough—until Greta moans, low and loud, and Victoria rewards her with fingers. Greta loves keytar players, god, and she loses track of whatever Victoria is doing until she's coming, clenching around Victoria's amazing keytarist fingers, and Victoria is smiling down at her, beautiful and self-satisfied.

"Do you think," she says, when she can talk again, "that this is what the boys think 'girl time' means?"

Victoria, stretched out on the bed, still in the stockings, purses her lips. "I think it's what they want it to mean."

Greta makes a face. "Sometimes I really hate boys."

"Yeah, but on the other hand, this might be a good opportunity to screw with their heads."

Greta runs her hand up and down Victoria's leg, tapping out the first few right-hand chords of "You Are The Moon" on the stripes of her stockings. There could definitely be a good prank in this.

Victoria picks up her other hand. "At the very least, we should do this again sometime."

They really should. Greta grins, and winds the fingers of her left hand through Victoria's. "Can I borrow your stockings?"