waywardpen
in
rpfs
Convinced, Idina Menzel/Tracie Thoms, NC-17
Title: Convinced
Fandom: RPFS
Pairing: Idina Menzel/Tracie Thoms (Rent)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Harsh language, explicit f/f sex
Summary: Idina's husband is FAR too understanding.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, don't know 'em.
Comments: Sure.
“You don’t have to go see her.”
Idina turned in the middle of applying her makeup and regarded her husband. “Yeah, I do,” she said uneasily. “She’s moving.”
“So what?” Taye asked her, his voice taking on a tone of calm and quiet - she hated that tone. So soft… just before he exploded. She knew it well. “The world won’t fall apart if Tracie moves without you saying goodbye to her, ‘dina. And we both know you aren’t going just to say goodbye.”
She went back to putting on her lip liner. No reply was necessary to that, and it wouldn’t have done any good if he had required one - there wasn’t an answer to his accusation. Not one that she could ever voice aloud, anyway. How to explain to her husband of 3 years that she felt this pull, this strange need to go see someone that she hadn’t even spoken to, much less laid eyes on, since the premiere in November? Oh, Taye knew things, he’d held her head while she vomited into the toilet just after midnight on New Year’s, and listened as she literally spilled her guts about it between heaves. To his credit, he’d merely moved his pillow and blanket to the couch that night, instead of walking out the door like she’d expected. They hadn’t spoken of it the next morning. She hadn’t tried, and he didn’t bother. Months later, and now the prospect of an almost-stranger moving across country was causing Idina’s hand to tremble so that she smeared lipstick across her cheek.
Taye picked up a tissue and gently wiped away the thick paint. He tossed it into the trash and put his hands on Idina’s shoulders, staring deeply into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go, baby,” he said. “You won’t get what you’re looking for.”
“That’s because I’m not looking for anything.” She smiled brightly, and then whirled around in front of him, her dress swooping up in a red Marilyn Monroe parody. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Taye finally snapped, storming away from her and flinging onto the couch, picking up a magazine, “that what you’re looking for is a fuck. And certainly not from me.”
Idina rubbed her forehead and picked up her purse. “I have to go,” she said woodenly.
Taye threw his magazine down. “Listen. I may not be here when you get back.”
Idina smiled wearily and opened the door. “Yes, you will,” she said to him as the door closed behind her. It wasn’t so much bragging as it was a statement of fact. It wouldn’t have been in Taye’s nature to leave; something Idina had always marveled about him was that, like an abused puppy, you could kick him and he’d still keep coming back. He loved her so much he wouldn’t have thought of not being there when she returned home, no matter what happened in the hours between.
She started to try to plan it all out as the taxi wound its way towards Tracie’s soon-to-be old apartment. The curse of the actress, she sometimes called it, or maybe some mental disorder. She hated surprises, always wanted every moment, every touch, every word to be carefully formatted, leaving no room for thinking. But she couldn’t get past the opening of Tracie’s door, wondering what the other woman’s expression would be, or even if she would get past the door. Tracie might just slam it in her face. Not that it wouldn’t be warranted. Again.
Idina’s mind had played the memory of their last meeting together in a continuous loop, like a record with its needle stuck, since last November. Tracie’s face had shone with tears; it was kind of endearing the way her nose ran when she cried. She’d thrown off Idina’s hand when she’d tried to comfort her, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you,” then locked the door and left Idina alone in the hallway. She’d tried fruitlessly banging on the door about sixty times; had yelled so loud that the neighbors came out and told her to shut the hell up or they were calling the cops. The door stayed locked; Tracie’s sobs could still be heard. She’d walked slowly home, trying to convince herself that it didn’t matter. By December it mattered so much she was keeping a fresh bottle on her bedside table.
The taxi stopped a block from Tracie’s apartment building; Idina had paid the driver just enough to get her to this point, hoping that traversing the busy city sidewalk would give her time to clear her head of the past and concentrate on the present before she made another fool of herself. That and she was hoping that she could get the burning taste of Tracie’s kisses off of her lips. Months, and the sensation lingered like old perfume on bed sheets, or a message on a voicemail you didn’t want to delete for fear that you’d never hear the laugh again.
Taye had suspected, even before she had told him. There were too many evasive cell phone calls, a smile that grew too wide when Idina would walk into the room, the brush of a hand or disappearing at the same time and not coming back for an hour or two. Freshly-applied lipstick at every scene or finding strange buttons on the floor of a dressing room. And then she’d messed it up, a moment captured on film that would be imprisoned on DVD for all time - Idina had told Tracie she loved her. During La Vie Boheme. Three words, mouthed. Taye’s own mouth had closed to a thin line at the premiere, and Idina knew that he knew. Tracie had sat behind her. When she reached up a hand to playfully swat at Idina’s shoulder, the dark-haired woman had stiffened. That night, she broke it off.
“I just don’t want to be with you anymore!”
It had come out way bitchier than she had intended. But she’d listened to 20 minutes of Tracie’s protests, her feeble reasonings as to how it could work, how maybe she could stay married to Taye but the two of them could still be together if they were just careful enough. Idina hated desperation and Tracie was a massive ball of it. So she decided in one second, with no planning, no thought, no care at all, that the best way to break it off… was to break her.
She took the elevator to the 3rd floor of the apartment building. She’d walked its length many times in her sleep; even now she still remembered where each stain was on the walls, what the cleaner they used on the tile floors smelled like, how smooth the 3 was against her fingertip as she pressed it, feeling the lurch of her stomach when it launched, then fell back slowly.
Tracie had punched her. Or, rather, she had fallen against her, hands melded into fists, battering against Idina’s chest in her rage. Words tumbled forth from her mouth, slurs like bitch and whore, fucker and hurt, but mostly why? Why, why, why? And Idina could still hear it as she’d left the hallway and back to her husband.
Apartment 626. She stood in front of it now, and felt every nerve ending in her body screaming for her to turn ‘round and run for it, get the hell out of there, forget all this shit, just leave it alone and go back to your husband again, the husband you’d been married to for 3 years, the husband that loved you and the husband that you loved in return. Instead, she knocked.
Twenty seconds, thirty, thirty-five, plenty of time for her to make it into the elevator and into the lobby, out the door and into the New York life. But she waited, feet rooted to the spot, her lips forming a silent O when the door slipped open a crack.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” It came out ragged, like a frog’s, weak and insipid, not at all the image she wanted to portray. Get ahold of yourself, stupid, Idina chastised herself.
A pause. And then: “What the hell are you doing here?” The door started to shut.
Idina stuck her high heel in the space. “Don’t,” she said evenly. “If you don’t let me in, I swear to God this really will be the last time you ever see me.” She removed her foot, allowing the door to swing as far as the chain would allow.
Fifty more seconds, and a perfectly manicured, light brown index finger appeared, unlatching the chain. Tracie stood before her then, arms crossed over the white tank top she wore, covered in dust; long legs clad in the shortest of khaki shorts. She regarded Idina sourly. She turned on her heel and walked into her apartment, not saying a word.
Idina followed her. The place was virtually empty except for one easy chair and a television so old that it had rabbit ears. Boxes were stacked against the wall practically as high as the ceiling; shades that had come with the apartment were drawn and the only light came from a single lightbulb dangling in the kitchen, casting the living room into eerie shadows.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re glad to see me.”
She had meant it to be a joke, but one look from Tracie and Idina regretted that it had ever passed through her lips. Tracie was struggling mightily to keep her lower lip from trembling, and Idina was struggling even mightier to keep from running her fingertip along it. Instead she busied herself with picking up some magazines left on the floor and went towards an open box.
“Don’t touch those!” Tracie went to snatch them from her hands, but not before Idina had seen her own face staring back at her from the glossy pages. All magazines in which she had been featured, for Wicked or Rent, all magazines that were opened to her pictures, all magazines in which the pictures were creased and greasy with fingerprints, or ink-smeared with… what? Tears? She gave them to Tracie, meeting the woman’s brown eyes with her own.
Tracie growled something unintelligible low in her throat, and then sat in the easy chair. “What,” she asked again, “the hell are you doing here, Idina?” But she couldn’t stop her gaze from roving over Idina’s body, from the way the red dress clung to her every curve to the way the brown curls fell about the most tender part of her neck - the part that used to drive her wild when Tracie would kiss and touch her there.
“I had to see you again,” Idina confessed with a shrug. “I didn’t want you to leave without…”
“Well, you’ve seen me,” Tracie sighed. “Now you can go.”
“Tracie…” and here her voice took on the same tone Tracie’s had had that night months ago, somewhere between a plea and a demand. “Tracie, I’m…”
“No.” Tracie stood up, her hands on her hips. “No, don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry, Idina Menzel, because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry about everything, that you wish it could have been different, because in the end you’ll still go back to your husband and nothing will be different. I can’t… I can’t….” Tracie faltered, and she shook her head, moving to look out the window.
“I wanted to kill myself that night. Do you even know what that feels like? You can go back to the loving arms of Taye, Idina, but I can’t go into anybody’s arms. I have nobody but myself. And sometimes, I’m just not enough for me. I can’t feel that way again.”
Idina’s mouth had fallen slack at Tracie’s revelation; she took a step forward, arms raised to clasp her close, but let them rest back at her sides. She let her eyes drink Tracie in; the darkness of her skin against the fabric of her clothes; the curve of her ass in the shorts, how her nipples were stiff in the window-light. Her hair still wild and beautiful, thick enough to be tangled in fingers and pulled, or stroked gently against a shoulder.
“Goodbye….” With nothing else to say, nothing to fill a gap that seemed wider than the Grand Canyon, Idina turned to go.
She was stopped before she even crossed the floor, a hand grasping her arm and squeezing it hard. She turned around in protest but Tracie’s lips captured hers before she could even get the words out.
“You’re not leaving,” Tracie breathed against her throat, causing Idina to shiver. “I am not letting you walk out on me before you get what we’re both here for.”
Then Tracie was groping her, hands roaming, teeth nipping at the spot on Idina’s neck until the woman growled into her mouth, tongues slipping and sliding roughly. Idina’s fingers found Tracie’s nipples and pinched them harshly, relishing the sharp intake of air as a response. She heard rather than felt Tracie sliding her panties off of her hips.
Tracie kept her hand around Idina’s arm and pulled her until she was sitting in the armchair, and settled Idina until the woman was straddling her thigh. Warm skin met smooth wet skin, and with Tracie’s palm splayed against her back, Idina slowly began to move. Back and forth she went, coating Tracie’s leg with her nakedness, moaning into her ear. Tracie stripped Idina’s dress off over her head and descended her mouth to a bare breast, suckling it eagerly, forcefully, until she had the girl hissing in pain. Tracie maneuvered herself so that her knee was directly against Idina’s clit, grinding it into her, feeling her grow wetter with every stroke, before dipping her hand and pushing three fingers as deeply into her as she could manage.
“This what you want?” Tracie asked above Idina’s gasps and whimpers. She pumped her fingers slowly, drawing a thumb across her swollen clit. “This what you came here for, baby? Is it? Tell me!”
“Yes… yes,” Idina groaned, riding hard. “Dammit, Tracie, I need you… I need you…” and then she was sobbing as she released, burying her head in the crook of Tracie’s neck, arms wrapping around her waist as the trembling took hold.
Tracie was stiff underneath her when Idina had stopped crying; she raised her head and saw tears streaking down the other woman’s soft cheeks. Idina took her hand and slipped it into Tracie’s shorts, finding her clit and rubbing the slick wetness until Tracie came with one loud grunt against Idina’s chest.
They lay there together in the chair, arms and legs tangled up in each other, breathing hard. Tracie gently helped her up and handed Idina her dress and underwear. “I didn’t want this,” she said in a pained voice, watching her former lover put on her clothes.
“Yes, we did,” Idina replied, then turned to look at her. “I don’t want you to move, baby.”
Tracie hesitated, and then moved to hold the door open. Idina walked through it, then turned around.
“I still love you, Tracie.”
Tracie shook her head. “I don’t love you, baby.” She smiled ruefully. “Maybe if I keep saying it, I’ll convince myself it’s true.” She reached up and touched Idina’s tear-stained face before closing the door.
Fandom: RPFS
Pairing: Idina Menzel/Tracie Thoms (Rent)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Harsh language, explicit f/f sex
Summary: Idina's husband is FAR too understanding.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, don't know 'em.
Comments: Sure.
“You don’t have to go see her.”
Idina turned in the middle of applying her makeup and regarded her husband. “Yeah, I do,” she said uneasily. “She’s moving.”
“So what?” Taye asked her, his voice taking on a tone of calm and quiet - she hated that tone. So soft… just before he exploded. She knew it well. “The world won’t fall apart if Tracie moves without you saying goodbye to her, ‘dina. And we both know you aren’t going just to say goodbye.”
She went back to putting on her lip liner. No reply was necessary to that, and it wouldn’t have done any good if he had required one - there wasn’t an answer to his accusation. Not one that she could ever voice aloud, anyway. How to explain to her husband of 3 years that she felt this pull, this strange need to go see someone that she hadn’t even spoken to, much less laid eyes on, since the premiere in November? Oh, Taye knew things, he’d held her head while she vomited into the toilet just after midnight on New Year’s, and listened as she literally spilled her guts about it between heaves. To his credit, he’d merely moved his pillow and blanket to the couch that night, instead of walking out the door like she’d expected. They hadn’t spoken of it the next morning. She hadn’t tried, and he didn’t bother. Months later, and now the prospect of an almost-stranger moving across country was causing Idina’s hand to tremble so that she smeared lipstick across her cheek.
Taye picked up a tissue and gently wiped away the thick paint. He tossed it into the trash and put his hands on Idina’s shoulders, staring deeply into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go, baby,” he said. “You won’t get what you’re looking for.”
“That’s because I’m not looking for anything.” She smiled brightly, and then whirled around in front of him, her dress swooping up in a red Marilyn Monroe parody. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Taye finally snapped, storming away from her and flinging onto the couch, picking up a magazine, “that what you’re looking for is a fuck. And certainly not from me.”
Idina rubbed her forehead and picked up her purse. “I have to go,” she said woodenly.
Taye threw his magazine down. “Listen. I may not be here when you get back.”
Idina smiled wearily and opened the door. “Yes, you will,” she said to him as the door closed behind her. It wasn’t so much bragging as it was a statement of fact. It wouldn’t have been in Taye’s nature to leave; something Idina had always marveled about him was that, like an abused puppy, you could kick him and he’d still keep coming back. He loved her so much he wouldn’t have thought of not being there when she returned home, no matter what happened in the hours between.
She started to try to plan it all out as the taxi wound its way towards Tracie’s soon-to-be old apartment. The curse of the actress, she sometimes called it, or maybe some mental disorder. She hated surprises, always wanted every moment, every touch, every word to be carefully formatted, leaving no room for thinking. But she couldn’t get past the opening of Tracie’s door, wondering what the other woman’s expression would be, or even if she would get past the door. Tracie might just slam it in her face. Not that it wouldn’t be warranted. Again.
Idina’s mind had played the memory of their last meeting together in a continuous loop, like a record with its needle stuck, since last November. Tracie’s face had shone with tears; it was kind of endearing the way her nose ran when she cried. She’d thrown off Idina’s hand when she’d tried to comfort her, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you,” then locked the door and left Idina alone in the hallway. She’d tried fruitlessly banging on the door about sixty times; had yelled so loud that the neighbors came out and told her to shut the hell up or they were calling the cops. The door stayed locked; Tracie’s sobs could still be heard. She’d walked slowly home, trying to convince herself that it didn’t matter. By December it mattered so much she was keeping a fresh bottle on her bedside table.
The taxi stopped a block from Tracie’s apartment building; Idina had paid the driver just enough to get her to this point, hoping that traversing the busy city sidewalk would give her time to clear her head of the past and concentrate on the present before she made another fool of herself. That and she was hoping that she could get the burning taste of Tracie’s kisses off of her lips. Months, and the sensation lingered like old perfume on bed sheets, or a message on a voicemail you didn’t want to delete for fear that you’d never hear the laugh again.
Taye had suspected, even before she had told him. There were too many evasive cell phone calls, a smile that grew too wide when Idina would walk into the room, the brush of a hand or disappearing at the same time and not coming back for an hour or two. Freshly-applied lipstick at every scene or finding strange buttons on the floor of a dressing room. And then she’d messed it up, a moment captured on film that would be imprisoned on DVD for all time - Idina had told Tracie she loved her. During La Vie Boheme. Three words, mouthed. Taye’s own mouth had closed to a thin line at the premiere, and Idina knew that he knew. Tracie had sat behind her. When she reached up a hand to playfully swat at Idina’s shoulder, the dark-haired woman had stiffened. That night, she broke it off.
“I just don’t want to be with you anymore!”
It had come out way bitchier than she had intended. But she’d listened to 20 minutes of Tracie’s protests, her feeble reasonings as to how it could work, how maybe she could stay married to Taye but the two of them could still be together if they were just careful enough. Idina hated desperation and Tracie was a massive ball of it. So she decided in one second, with no planning, no thought, no care at all, that the best way to break it off… was to break her.
She took the elevator to the 3rd floor of the apartment building. She’d walked its length many times in her sleep; even now she still remembered where each stain was on the walls, what the cleaner they used on the tile floors smelled like, how smooth the 3 was against her fingertip as she pressed it, feeling the lurch of her stomach when it launched, then fell back slowly.
Tracie had punched her. Or, rather, she had fallen against her, hands melded into fists, battering against Idina’s chest in her rage. Words tumbled forth from her mouth, slurs like bitch and whore, fucker and hurt, but mostly why? Why, why, why? And Idina could still hear it as she’d left the hallway and back to her husband.
Apartment 626. She stood in front of it now, and felt every nerve ending in her body screaming for her to turn ‘round and run for it, get the hell out of there, forget all this shit, just leave it alone and go back to your husband again, the husband you’d been married to for 3 years, the husband that loved you and the husband that you loved in return. Instead, she knocked.
Twenty seconds, thirty, thirty-five, plenty of time for her to make it into the elevator and into the lobby, out the door and into the New York life. But she waited, feet rooted to the spot, her lips forming a silent O when the door slipped open a crack.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” It came out ragged, like a frog’s, weak and insipid, not at all the image she wanted to portray. Get ahold of yourself, stupid, Idina chastised herself.
A pause. And then: “What the hell are you doing here?” The door started to shut.
Idina stuck her high heel in the space. “Don’t,” she said evenly. “If you don’t let me in, I swear to God this really will be the last time you ever see me.” She removed her foot, allowing the door to swing as far as the chain would allow.
Fifty more seconds, and a perfectly manicured, light brown index finger appeared, unlatching the chain. Tracie stood before her then, arms crossed over the white tank top she wore, covered in dust; long legs clad in the shortest of khaki shorts. She regarded Idina sourly. She turned on her heel and walked into her apartment, not saying a word.
Idina followed her. The place was virtually empty except for one easy chair and a television so old that it had rabbit ears. Boxes were stacked against the wall practically as high as the ceiling; shades that had come with the apartment were drawn and the only light came from a single lightbulb dangling in the kitchen, casting the living room into eerie shadows.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re glad to see me.”
She had meant it to be a joke, but one look from Tracie and Idina regretted that it had ever passed through her lips. Tracie was struggling mightily to keep her lower lip from trembling, and Idina was struggling even mightier to keep from running her fingertip along it. Instead she busied herself with picking up some magazines left on the floor and went towards an open box.
“Don’t touch those!” Tracie went to snatch them from her hands, but not before Idina had seen her own face staring back at her from the glossy pages. All magazines in which she had been featured, for Wicked or Rent, all magazines that were opened to her pictures, all magazines in which the pictures were creased and greasy with fingerprints, or ink-smeared with… what? Tears? She gave them to Tracie, meeting the woman’s brown eyes with her own.
Tracie growled something unintelligible low in her throat, and then sat in the easy chair. “What,” she asked again, “the hell are you doing here, Idina?” But she couldn’t stop her gaze from roving over Idina’s body, from the way the red dress clung to her every curve to the way the brown curls fell about the most tender part of her neck - the part that used to drive her wild when Tracie would kiss and touch her there.
“I had to see you again,” Idina confessed with a shrug. “I didn’t want you to leave without…”
“Well, you’ve seen me,” Tracie sighed. “Now you can go.”
“Tracie…” and here her voice took on the same tone Tracie’s had had that night months ago, somewhere between a plea and a demand. “Tracie, I’m…”
“No.” Tracie stood up, her hands on her hips. “No, don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare say you’re sorry, Idina Menzel, because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry about everything, that you wish it could have been different, because in the end you’ll still go back to your husband and nothing will be different. I can’t… I can’t….” Tracie faltered, and she shook her head, moving to look out the window.
“I wanted to kill myself that night. Do you even know what that feels like? You can go back to the loving arms of Taye, Idina, but I can’t go into anybody’s arms. I have nobody but myself. And sometimes, I’m just not enough for me. I can’t feel that way again.”
Idina’s mouth had fallen slack at Tracie’s revelation; she took a step forward, arms raised to clasp her close, but let them rest back at her sides. She let her eyes drink Tracie in; the darkness of her skin against the fabric of her clothes; the curve of her ass in the shorts, how her nipples were stiff in the window-light. Her hair still wild and beautiful, thick enough to be tangled in fingers and pulled, or stroked gently against a shoulder.
“Goodbye….” With nothing else to say, nothing to fill a gap that seemed wider than the Grand Canyon, Idina turned to go.
She was stopped before she even crossed the floor, a hand grasping her arm and squeezing it hard. She turned around in protest but Tracie’s lips captured hers before she could even get the words out.
“You’re not leaving,” Tracie breathed against her throat, causing Idina to shiver. “I am not letting you walk out on me before you get what we’re both here for.”
Then Tracie was groping her, hands roaming, teeth nipping at the spot on Idina’s neck until the woman growled into her mouth, tongues slipping and sliding roughly. Idina’s fingers found Tracie’s nipples and pinched them harshly, relishing the sharp intake of air as a response. She heard rather than felt Tracie sliding her panties off of her hips.
Tracie kept her hand around Idina’s arm and pulled her until she was sitting in the armchair, and settled Idina until the woman was straddling her thigh. Warm skin met smooth wet skin, and with Tracie’s palm splayed against her back, Idina slowly began to move. Back and forth she went, coating Tracie’s leg with her nakedness, moaning into her ear. Tracie stripped Idina’s dress off over her head and descended her mouth to a bare breast, suckling it eagerly, forcefully, until she had the girl hissing in pain. Tracie maneuvered herself so that her knee was directly against Idina’s clit, grinding it into her, feeling her grow wetter with every stroke, before dipping her hand and pushing three fingers as deeply into her as she could manage.
“This what you want?” Tracie asked above Idina’s gasps and whimpers. She pumped her fingers slowly, drawing a thumb across her swollen clit. “This what you came here for, baby? Is it? Tell me!”
“Yes… yes,” Idina groaned, riding hard. “Dammit, Tracie, I need you… I need you…” and then she was sobbing as she released, burying her head in the crook of Tracie’s neck, arms wrapping around her waist as the trembling took hold.
Tracie was stiff underneath her when Idina had stopped crying; she raised her head and saw tears streaking down the other woman’s soft cheeks. Idina took her hand and slipped it into Tracie’s shorts, finding her clit and rubbing the slick wetness until Tracie came with one loud grunt against Idina’s chest.
They lay there together in the chair, arms and legs tangled up in each other, breathing hard. Tracie gently helped her up and handed Idina her dress and underwear. “I didn’t want this,” she said in a pained voice, watching her former lover put on her clothes.
“Yes, we did,” Idina replied, then turned to look at her. “I don’t want you to move, baby.”
Tracie hesitated, and then moved to hold the door open. Idina walked through it, then turned around.
“I still love you, Tracie.”
Tracie shook her head. “I don’t love you, baby.” She smiled ruefully. “Maybe if I keep saying it, I’ll convince myself it’s true.” She reached up and touched Idina’s tear-stained face before closing the door.