Work Text:
Taylor is peeling off layers of tights when there's a knock at her dressing room door.
People don't usually knock on her door this soon after a show; they know she likes to unwind, reset, take a breather, chug Gatorade. So she's a little startled, but she manages to call out, "Just a sec!" and finish undressing down to her underwear, then throw on a robe and open the door.
It's Phoebe, which is weird. She gives an awkward little wave and says, "Hey." And then: "Can I come in?"
Taylor looks at her for a second, confused, but steps back to clear Phoebe's way into the spacious dressing room.
Phoebe sits down hard on a chair. She's back out of her performance wear and into jeans and a black band tee, scuffed sneakers barely touching the floor. Taylor leans against the counter in front of one of several vanities framed by light bulbs. "You, uh, okay?" she asks, not sure what, exactly, is happening.
"Yeah," Phoebe says, contradicting this by shaking her head at the same time. "No? I'm fine. I just...you know I was seeing—that guy."
"Sure." Was?
"I don't know, I think we broke up last night, and I'm just feeling a little off—I was worried it came out in the show."
"No," Taylor says immediately, "no, you were fantastic. I love being onstage with you. Don't worry." Then: "But I'm sorry."
Phoebe shrugs. "It wasn't—I don't know, it was just a thing."
"Right," Taylor says. Not sure what she's doing until she's done it, she reaches out and grips Phoebe's hand. "You are way too good for him, okay?"
Phoebe seems to be staring very hard at their hands. "Okay," she says softly. Then she looks up, meeting Taylor's eyes. "I think he was just kind of...a distraction."
They're heading into territory they haven't touched before, but Taylor still asks, "A distraction from what?"
"From, uh...from what I really want." Phoebe looks down at her knees now. Their clasped hands are growing sweaty; Taylor wants to wipe her hand on her robe but she also doesn't really want to let go.
Taylor doesn't ask the obvious question, because the thought of doing so makes her feel like her insides are flooded with ice water. "Sure," she says.
Phoebe chews on her lower lip, a nervous gesture that inexplicably makes Taylor's heart pound. Then she looks up again, and they make eye contact a second time, and this time there's a sizzle of electricity in the look.
Taylor looks away, but then looking away feels too much like surrender, so she looks back and sees something hungry in Phoebe's eyes. "Phoebe..." she says slowly. "You know I can't—"
"Shh," Phoebe says softly. She stands and kisses Taylor, achingly softly, on the lips.
Then she pulls back.
"Shit, Taylor, I'm—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Taylor just stares, heart thudding in her chest in a way she can't identify one way or the other as excitement or panic. And then this girl in front of her, looking devastatingly beautiful and painfully sad; Taylor wants to kiss her, to hold her, to throw her out. "It's okay," she says, but she feels as if she's deep inside herself, sending messages to her brain that take a long time to process. "Phoebe, I..." She wants to say I'm not like that, I'm not like you, but she can't manage to make the words come out. And maybe she's tired—tired of holding herself back, tired of being so careful, tired of being so afraid to make a mess that she spends her life on tiptoe. Phoebe looks embarrassed and sad but she's still leaning towards Taylor, just a little, some kind of want still deep in her eyes, and Taylor thinks, maybe for a moment, she can let herself want right back.
She leans in this time, reaching out for Phoebe, catching a hand around the back of her skull and drawing her in. Phoebe makes a startled noise at first but then seems to melt into Taylor's mouth, still gentle and tremulous. Taylor swipes her tongue against Phoebe's lips and Phoebe's mouth opens to accommodate her, and their tongues slide against each other in a way that feels almost obscene, sending a rush of heat through Taylor's body. She reaches for Phoebe's waist and Phoebe feels tiny under her hands, and a weird sensation of something twists in her chest. Taylor's teeth scrape Phoebe's lower lip and Phoebe groans into her mouth, and then Phoebe is kissing her neck, her jaw, down into the hollow of her throat. Taylor's head tilts back involuntarily and then Phoebe's reaching inside her robe to grope her breasts through her bra and Taylor's arching her back into Phoebe's touch, and fuck.
Taylor pictures herself pushing Phoebe away, again saying I'm not like this, or saying something responsible and kind, something like I know you feel like you want this right now, but you'll regret it later. Instead she reaches out and tangles her hand in Phoebe's silvery hair, draws her up from the attention she's lavishing on Taylor's belly to kiss her on the mouth again. Phoebe lets out a small moan of a noise as she's dragged upwards, and the sound sends a rush of heat between Taylor's legs and an ache into her stomach.
"You know," Phoebe whispers, "I always had a crush on you."
Taylor shakes her head. "Don't—don't say that."
Phoebe looks up at Taylor, their faces close, her eyes huge. "Ever since I heard you on the radio when I was a kid."
Taylor feels like she's choking. She swallows hard, trying to get past the lump in her throat. "Phoebe..."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Phoebe kisses the side of her face; Taylor lets her. "I just want to show you...what you mean to me, okay?"
Taylor feels, suddenly, that they could destroy each other; Phoebe with her sweet earnest entreaties feels desperately fragile, yet somehow deeply threatening. It's not a nice thought to have, while Phoebe unties her robe, but Taylor knows that every album is just a tiny extension on her expiration date, which should have already passed by now. And Phoebe may not be that much younger but she's new, she's fresh and exciting and nobody's tired of hearing about her yet.
Taylor wants to swallow her whole, take on Phoebe's radiance for herself.
She places her hands on Phoebe's waist again and kisses her, hungry and desperate and unable to stop herself from biting down hard enough that Phoebe gasps and whines against her mouth. Phoebe moves down to her chest, pushing Taylor's bra up and sucking dark hickeys into the flesh of her breasts, then groping one breast while she traces circles around the nipple of the other with her tongue. "Oh," Taylor breathes, and then: "Phoebe, God..."
"Not quite," says Phoebe, looking up with a toothy grin, canines sharp and vampiric. She bites down on the tender flesh of Taylor's belly; Taylor yelps, and her hips jerk towards Phoebe involuntarily. Phoebe presses her back against the counter, and touches the backs of her thighs urgently. Grasping her meaning, Taylor lifts herself up and sits, feet dangling, back against the mirror.
She's not sure what she was expecting, but it was not for Phoebe to immediately sink to her knees in front of her. Taylor lets out a shaky breath. Phoebe kisses her shin gently, then her knee, and then she's biting and licking her way up Taylor's thighs. Phoebe grabs the waistband of Taylor's underwear and Taylor lifts her hips to let Phoebe drag them down and off, tossing them behind her.
She feels exposed now, Phoebe still fully dressed and kneeling before her, but she doesn't have much time to ponder this before Phoebe kisses, again, the tender flesh of her inner thigh, and it sends shivers all through her.
Then it's Phoebe's mouth on her and she thinks I must be so sweaty, and then Oh, fuck, and then as Phoebe thrusts her tongue inside her she no longer thinks anything at all.
Her eyes flutter open for an instant, and in the other mirror across the room from them she sees it: the whole picture, herself naked and splayed open, and Phoebe gripping her thighs, eating her out with the kind of devotion typically reserved for prayer. It's narcissistic, maybe, but the scene sends another rush of arousal between her thighs, which Phoebe laps up hungrily. Then the flat of Phoebe's tongue is pressed against her clit, stroking against her again and again and sending shock waves through her with each movement. Taylor grabs the back of Phoebe's head and holds it hard against her, one hand gripping Phoebe's hair and the other the counter; her nails dig into Phoebe's scalp and Phoebe responds with a muffled groan.
With one more stroke of Phoebe's tongue, Taylor careens over the edge, gasping and shaking, her head knocking against the mirror behind her as the orgasm radiates through her body in waves. Finally, when she's finished and on the edge of overstimulated, she pulls Phoebe back.
Phoebe looks up at her with adoring eyes. "Thank you," she's murmuring, "thank you," and if only to get her to shut up Taylor pulls her up to standing again for a kiss, tastes herself on Phoebe's lips and tongue.
"I'm sorry," Taylor says, not sure why she's saying it, and then; "Thank you," and then: "I should—get dressed."
"Yeah." Phoebe rubs at her knees, likely sore from the hard floor. "I'm serious, though. Thank you."
"Okay," Taylor says softly. "Okay." She swallows hard.
This was a very bad idea, she thinks, and then wonders what Phoebe might feel like around her fingers, and then feels a sick sensation that rises in her stomach and won't let go.