Chapter Text
Carol Grant did not do house parties. They were loud, and messy, and every single person in attendance was their own specific kind of obnoxious. Practically nobody was of legal drinking age, and yet everyone was drunk. It remained a complete mystery why Sarah kept dragging her to these things, only to immediately abandon her to go mack on some random guy she didn’t know and would no doubt never see again. It was infuriating, and it was completely predictable. Carol made a hypocrite of herself, and resorted to the same liquid idiocy as everyone else. There was a punch, of course, but she wasn’t that desperate. She stood in a corner, and she worked away at her third Smirnoff Ice.
The party was being held in the fancy part of town, in the Stansfield mansion. The son, Jonah, had apparently orchestrated the event while his parents were away on business. It was an absolutely massive place, a bigger house than any she’d ever actually set foot in before. Now, her own family wasn’t destitute by any means, but Carol couldn’t help but look up at the crystal chandelier that swayed with the heavy beat of the music and wonder if it selling the house would be enough to pay for any eventual damage she could do to it. A quick swing with her light, and a million little crystal stars on the dance floor.
Watching from her dark little corner, it was quite mesmerizing really, seeing all those people and all those lights swim about between the old-ass carpet and the beautiful beams that crossed the ceiling like wooden ribs. It was sort of like being inside a chest—it even had the thumping heart. The heart did admittedly sound a lot more like The Chemical Brothers than any heartbeat she’d ever heard before. Almost the right BPM though, actually.
She was distracted quite thoroughly from her musings by the window next to her sliding open, and even moreso by the girl that then proceeded to clamber inside through it. The girl was probably her own age, dressed in camo-pattern cargo pants, an oversized white tee, and a decidedly much too large flannel button-up—which was, of course, entirely unbuttoned. Gracelessly, the girl tumbled to the ground with an ‘oof!’ before rolling onto her back. Brilliant, luminous green eyes stared up at Carol from the face of an angel haloed by wild brown hair.
The girl smiled at her without compulsion, and it twisted her gut into a tight knot. “Hi!” said the girl, while standing up to dust herself off. She peered out of the window and stage-whispered, “Come on! You’re clear!”
Managing to pull her attention away from the girl—who, she couldn’t help note, had a deep and softly throaty voice, like she was made for radio. Or oration. Anything heavily featuring her voice—to look around the room to see if anyone had noticed her entrance. It was by no means empty in there, a massive room crammed with people, but it seemed that if anyone had they really didn’t care.
Come to think of it, saying it should heavily feature her voice implied it shouldn’t highlight her as much visually, which would be a goddamn shame. She turned back to the girl, finding her already staring right back at her. Carol quickly downed the rest of her Smirnoff.
“Oh, shit, you’re— No hang on, don’t tell me.” The girl clicked her fingers, tongue peeking out from between her lips as she thought hard. A thin, pink tongue, and lush red-painted lips. Carol shook herself as the girl gasped, clapped, and then took the hand she wasn’t still holding an empty bottle with in both of hers. “Carol! Carol Grant, shit, I read your— in the— your article, y’know?”
This strange girl knew her name, and was holding her hand, and she was excited to meet her. This strange girl had read her article? It wasn’t much, she’d thought—obvious stuff, really, about strengthening womens’ place in government and the judicial system. She’d been wanting to get into law, and— fucking hell this girl had soft hands, and she was running her thumb across Carol’s knuckles seemingly without really thinking about it. Or was she? Thinking about it?
“Uh, yeah, that’s— that’s me,” she managed to say. “I’m glad you— What’s your name?”
“God I have to talk to you about it, I—” She smiled again—hadn’t really stopped, but it broadened, and she had such a wide and expressive mouth—and giggled. The sound made her buzz more than the no doubt priceless speaker system could manage. “I’m— Oh, fuck! Sorry, hold on.”
The mystery girl let go, taking her warmth with her, and turned back to the window. She paused briefly, looked back to Carol with her lip between her teeth in consideration, then reached out for one of her hands again. “Could you brace me?” she asked, placing Carol’s hand on her waist like it was nothing. She smiled, which meant Carol would definitely do it for her, but it was definitely something. “Thanks, Cary.”
That metaphorical hand the girl had used to twist Carol’s gut tightened its grip. Her own two hands, Carol used to hold onto the girl—one on either side of her waist. There was a beautiful, subtle curve, and the undeniable tension of muscle. The girl leaned half-way out of the window, reached down, and began to pull. Carol heard grunting from outside, and had to actually work to hold her in place as the girl hauled someone else up and inside.
This new person was no stranger, but also not anyone Carol had actually ever spoken to. Marnie Banks, the school’s outest and proudest lesbian, which in itself was really a rather impressive feat. Fortunately for her, and anyone who associated closely with her, the self-styled dyke was strong enough to keep herself safe enough. There were almost as many broken noses as there were stories of mens’ egos damaged by her hand. With her shorn-off hair and the prominent poorly tattooed labrys on her bicep, there really wasn’t any mistaking her.
It occurred to Carol, seeing the two next to each-other, that the flannel the girl wore definitely belonged to Banks. Most likely, that implied something similar about the girl herself. Carol’s hands let go as if burned, and was glad to see neither of them seemed to have noticed. The hand curled tighter into her gut.
“Thanks, Nettle,” said Banks, glancing around the room until her eyes settled on Carol. Nettle, she called the girl. Nettle. Carol’s hands certainly stung enough. “No shit. Grant? Didn’t figure you for a party girl.”
So now Marnie Banks knew who she was, too?
“My sister is,” Carol told her, strangely compelled to defend herself. Was it a bad thing to be a party girl? She really had no way of knowing right now. Her hands still hurt.
“Right fuckin’ there with ya,” she said, nudging Nettle—which earned her an indignant scoff. Banks nodded at the chandelier. “Not my scene either, but someone—”
Nettle rapidly and playfully slapped at Banks’ arm, which didn’t so much make her cry out as it did make her laugh. When this didn’t have the desired effect, she quickly stepped over and threw an arm over Carol’s shoulder. So close, it was impossible to miss how much taller Nettle was—almost a whole head—and that she had the faintest of freckles only on one side of her face, and that her breath smelled like floral tonic.
“If you don’t want to, me and my new best girl Cary here can do it,” said Nettle, sticking her tongue out at her—friend? Girlfriend? The words ‘new best girl’ ricocheted around Carol’s head. Cary was also starting to do something to her.
“Cary, eh?” Banks grinned at Nettle, then twitched an eyebrow up at Carol.
“Her name’s Carol Grant!” Nettle shook her around, smiling all the while. “Like Cary Grant, like. And she’s handsome? He’s handsome, she’s handsome, Carol Cary Grant.”
“Handsome?” Carol asked, while Banks nodded and said, “I got eyes, ‘Net, and you know how I feel about Charade.”
“She likes to insist he’s actually a butch lesbian,” Nettle whispered in her ear.
If Carol wasn’t already overwhelmed, that soft voice and the gust of warm breath so close definitely pushed her over into it. There was no resistance when she brusquely shrugged Nettle’s arm off and took a step away, crossing her arms across her chest. It was neither the time nor the place to use her power, even though curling up into a ball would have been fucking great at the moment. She felt herself frown, glare just a little—couldn’t stop herself. Nettle only rocked back on her heels, thumbs tucked into pockets, and kept smiling. Beside her, Banks had turned her attention out on the room again.
“Want to come with us?” Nettle asked.
The three of them swung by the kitchen to grab more drinks, each opting for a different type of canned or bottled beverage. More Smirnoff Ice for Carol—and one for Nettle, too—while Marnie just popped open a can of Blue Ribbon. Nettle led, and the other two followed, and they made their way through the throng of party-goers towards the center of the mansion. When they reached the stairs, Nettle headed up without hesitation.
“Where the hell are you actually going?” Carol asked her, at last.
Nettle looked over her shoulder, chittered gleefully, and said simply, “Where the hell are we going, Cary.”
Carol turned to Banks, hoping for clarification. “You heard the lady,” was all she got, despite said lady not having said anything even remotely helpful.
They emerged on the landing of the third floor, which seemed to contain the bedrooms and such. Nettle led them with clear purpose, sipping as she walked, towards the back of the house. It was surreal, in a way, to explore a building like this during a party. If she had been in the chest, before, this felt suddenly like a cold extremity. There was the distant thump of bass, and clearly people were occupying some of these rooms to do god knew what. Carol could admittedly guess, with how loud some of them were. A distal body part, still living.
It was a little difficult, walking along past peoples’ poorly muted sexual escapades with one known lesbian and a girl of a highly-probably similar persuasion. Carol couldn’t help but think about why they’d brought her along. Where were they going? What were they going to do when they got there? Why the hell had Nettle picked her? She kept hearing the word handsome, and the phrase ‘my new best girl.’
Carol had kissed guys before, had done some hand stuff with one of them. She’d been called beautiful quite a lot, even cute once—by an idiot, admittedly—but never handsome. And she’d definitely never been anyone’s best girl. Which, now that she thought about it, seemed like a very weird old-timey thing to call someone, but Nettle just made it sound natural.
There was also the fact that Nettle was a girl. Despite the grip on her gut—so tight the organ tissue threatened to split open—she found herself wondering how much that actually mattered.
A lot, said her straining tissue, stretched thin and taut by those soft hands. Please, it matters.
As they came to a halt outside of a door through which no torrid sounds filtered, Carol realized she couldn’t hear the beat of the house anymore, and the rhythmic thud she could feel was her own heart. Nettle crouched down by the handle, and rooted around in her pocket. The girl paused, and glanced up at Carol through her lashes.
“How cool are you with mild breaking and entering?” she asked, wetting her lips and then leaving her tongue poking out ever so slightly from between her teeth. Nettle was biting her tongue, she could see the press of her teeth into the soft flesh of it.
“I’m—” She stopped herself from saying ‘a hero.’ Carol quite literally fought crime, almost for a living. She was in a team, for gods’ sake. They’d stopped a break-in last week. Nettle smiled coyly up at her, from down there on her knees. “—cool with it.”
The grin she received for that small lie burned far worse than her touch, and made her head swim like the lights downstairs. It was so fucking bright, her own constructs couldn’t compare. She could almost feel something start to split inside her. It was terrifying, and it was so very exhilarating.
“Sweet,” said Nettle, and produced a set of lockpicks—which she set about using on the door.
Banks clapped her on the shoulder, helpfully reminding Carol that it wasn’t just her and Nettle. She smirked and said, “Hell yeah, Grant. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Neither did she, to be fair. She was starting to think there were a couple of things about herself she hadn’t known before today. “Don’t much like Jonah anyway,” she lied. Carol knew nothing about the guy.
“God, right?” Banks scoffed out a chuckle. “What a dickhead.”
“Aha!” Nettle threw her hands up in celebration, then rocked forward to push the doors wide open. “Open sesame!”
Inside was what was undoubtedly the Stansfield patriarch’s office. E-something or other, Carol hadn’t paid enough attention. Nettle stood, and gestured for Banks to enter—which she did. Herself and Carol hung back, watching for a moment as Banks beelined for the desk.
“So, you're actually looking for something?” Carol asked.
“Eh,” said Nettles, waggling her hand—and bottle—about. She looked around surreptitiously, then walked both of them into the office, closing the door behind them. “Yeah no we totally are.”
“Then what the fuck was the ‘eh’ for?”
“She's a menace, is why,” Banks told her, while carefully sorting through some documents.
“Am not!” Nettle groused. But then she smiled, and—either she was blushing or it was just the alcohol. God, but she was stupidly pretty. “Okay, maybe I am. But it's fun! You think I'm fun, right, Cary?”
There were several words that sprang to mind before ‘fun’, if she was being honest with herself, but she wasn't ready to be quite that honest.
“No yeah, for sure.” This didn't seem quite what she was looking for, so Carol appended, “You're very fun, Nettle.”
That was either close enough or very much spot on. Nettle beamed, delighted, and took her hand again. She leaned close—god did she lean close—and she said, “I love the way you say my name, Cary.”
That little split inside her that had begun outside the room tore open at her words, at the softness with which she said it, and the way her lips moved around Cary. Fuck it all, maybe it was wrong, but Carol had lost the ability to care. Kissing a girl would be far from the worst thing she'd done.
Now, if only she could actually make herself do it.
“I like Cary,” she said quietly, instead. “I like that for me.”
Nettle didn't move away, only chuckled breathily enough Cary could take the warm air into her own lungs. Without pulling away, Nettle put her own drink away on a nearby table, and Cary’s, too.
“We should get you a name tag,” Nettle suggested, and lifted a finger to run across Cary’s collar bone.
“I like when you say it,” she murmured.
Nettle's finger trailed side to side, then ever so slowly up the column of Cary’s throat. There was something so very intoxicating about having to look up at her. Like this, Cary would have to stand on her toes to reach. Or—shit, or maybe—Nettle would have to lean down. Feeling short next to someone had never felt so fucking good before.
“Just me?” Nettle asked, with a sly little grin.
“I don't know yet.” And yet, she immediately followed that with a nod. “Uh, actually, yes?”
“It can be our thing.” The finger ran up to the chin, then backwards along the jaw. Cary felt that blunt, red-painted nail—the same as her lips—run a slow circle along the shell of her ear. She really couldn't help but shiver.
“We can have a thing?” she asked breathlessly.
“I like you, Cary,” Nettle whispered, one finger becoming many fingers as they skirted around to the back of her neck, and up into her hairline. “We can have many things.”
“Can I—” She stopped herself, and shook her head—but with Nettle’s hand in her hair, the movement accidentally made her yank it. A groan startled out of her.
“Yes?” Nettle prompted.
“Nothing,” Cary insisted, “it's nothing.”
The hand in her hair wound, and grabbed, and suddenly Cary couldn't look away from her even if she wanted to. Her whole body was a live wire, thrumming and wild and— Was it? She wanted to say it was, in some new and exciting part of her being. Hers. That she was hers.
“Ask me, Cary,” she insisted with that beautiful smile. Nettle smiled with her whole face, scrunching her eyes and her nose and her upper lip. She looked so happy, and so radiant, and so fucking hot. There was this piercing, hungry depth in her eyes. There was a tiny gap between her two front teeth, and Cary wanted to taste it.
“Please kiss me,” she whispered.
If Nettle’s eyes hungered, her mouth was ravenous. Barely a moment passed with only the softness of her lips, the press of their bodies together—Cary’s back against the door—before Nettle forced her tongue into her mouth. Cary had never been kissed like this before, and suddenly began to doubt she ever would again unless it was by her. It set her aglow, and she might have worried if that was literal if she didn't have something far more important to focus on.
Cary kissed her back. She sucked Nettle’s tongue further into her mouth, gasped when she bit her lip, whined with glee when Nettle pulled her head back by the hair to get a better angle. Finally, she allowed herself to touch her again. Her hands flew up to take hold of Nettle’s shirt, to touch at the skin of her throat and her stomach, to wrap her arms around her and hold herself as close as she could.
Feeling entirely melted, she barely managed more than a petulant groan when Nettle pulled away. They could have been going for seconds or minutes, Cary had no way of knowing.
“I've been leaning a little on the handsome thing,” Nettle said, freeing one hand from Cary’s hair to brush some out of her face. “But you are so fucking pretty, it's ridiculous.”
It was impossible to keep eye contact, with the way Nettle was looking at her, so Cary was very very thankful Nettle let her tip her head forward. This was also where Cary discovered her new favorite smell. The sweet, warm smell of the skin at the back of Nettle’s neck. She pushed her face into it, breathed it in, brushed her lips over as much of it as she could.
“O—oh my god, you're adorable,” Nettle groaned, and as with most of the things this girl said, it felt good. If anyone else had called her that, she would have been annoyed. Here, from her, she preened. “I want to keep you. I'm keeping you. Jesus fuck. Cary, here, come here.”
Nettle pulled her away by her hair again, which made Cary hum with floaty delight, and again they were kissing. This was perhaps the best day of her life ever. The kiss was no less intense, but Nettle definitely wasn't pushing her tongue in as deep. Hands touched at her cheeks, trailed down her sides, and even grabbed at her ass.
“Mnh— Oh, fucking shit—” Cary startled at Nettle’s volume, and at the girl pulling out of the kiss. In her confusion she followed her line of sight—physically jumping when she remembered about Banks existing in the same space as the two of them.
“Hey, don't mind me,” said the suddenly extant third member of their group. There was this devious little smile on her face, which was a little bit ruddy.
“Ugh, you are such a dick,” Nettle complained. “Fuck off, perv.”
“It is literally not at all my fault y'all forgot I was standing—what, six feet away?”
“Turn around? Banks, man, come on.”
“You're in front of the desk, which I was searching?”
“Um?” They both stopped dead in their bickering and turned to Cary, who shrunk under their stares. Obviously she knew what was going on, but she felt weirdly lost and a bit dizzy? “Net, what—? I—?”
Nettle immediately swept her up into a hug, and almost as soon as Cary was wrapped up in those arms, and her face was back in the crook of Nettle’s neck, she started calming down.
“Sorry, Cary,” she murmured. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I— I'm okay, yeah. I don't know what happened there…”
“We're drunk, and—oh, huh, fuck—well, and it's— It's a thing, totally normal. Serotonin crash.”
“Oh,” she nodded, “yeah, no that makes sense. I was a bit, uh, weird there.”
Gently, but immediately, Nettle leaned back out of the hug to look her in the face. “You were fucking spectacular, Cary,” she assured her. “Can I kiss you again? Just a quick one. You— You can say no, um, if you want.”
Equally as immediately, and half as gently, Cary stood up onto the tips of her toes and gave Nettle a quick little kiss. Nettle seemed surprised—which Cary enjoyed immensely—and Banks snorted from somewhere behind Nettle—which Cary ignored.
Quietly—just for Nettle—she asked, “You, uh, said we can have a thing?”
“Many things,” Nettle corrected with a sweet little smile, showing off that little gap in her teeth. Cary remembered the shape of it on her tongue. “Yes, we can definitely have a thing, if you want?”
“I want,” Cary told her immediately, then flushed when she giggled at the enthusiasm. “I mean, I— Yeah, for sure. I do want to have a thing. Many. With you.”
“Smooth,” said Banks.
“Fuck off,” said both of them, in near perfect sync.
Banks put her hands up in surrender, Nettle chittered like a strange and wonderful bug, and Cary tried not to smile too much.
“I look forward to many things with you, Cary Grant,” said Nettle, having turned back to face her.
She soundly failed at not smiling too much. “I look forward to many things with you too, Nettle.”
“Annette,” that wonderful girl told her, quietly. “Annette Rose.”
Oh, and that was the floral smell. The one on her breath. Rose. She would never, she was quite sure, forget the taste of Rose.