I’m honestly not that interesting, but my room is. My room is covered floor to ceiling in posters and records and other miscellaneous things! I also love collecting vintage furniture and clothing/jewelry.
Summary: Behind closed doors, Joanne lets herself be loved.
Warnings: Older Woman/Younger Woman, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Aging, Mentions of Alcohol, Light Drinking, Discussions of Aging/Insecurity
AO3
AN: sorry for not posting in a while nor consistently, I’ve been swamped with papers and finals recently and I’ve just got a new job.
The apartment always smells faintly like perfume and red wine.
Not fresh perfume, either. Something older. Powdery. Expensive in a way nobody really wears anymore. It clings to the silk scarves draped over lamp shades and the wool coats hanging by the door and the cardigans Joanne leaves folded over the back of the couch like she forgot them there, even though she never really forgets anything.
Tonight the television is on low in the background, some black-and-white movie neither of you are watching. Rain taps softly against the windows. The city glows gold outside.
Joanne is in the kitchen barefoot except for her house slippers, muttering to herself while she digs through the freezer for ice. “Someone,” she says, voice dry, “finished the good olives.” You smile into your book. “You finished the good olives.” She shuts the freezer harder than necessary. “Well. Then someone should’ve stopped me.”
Most people would not recognize her like this. Not the Joanne who sits at dinner parties in sharp black dresses with diamonds at her throat and martinis balanced elegantly between ringed fingers. Not the woman who tears through conversation like she’s trimming dead branches off a tree. Not the Joanne people whisper about afterward—intimidating, glamorous, impossible to hold onto.
They don’t know about this version. The cardigan hanging loose off one shoulder. The reading glasses suspended from their little gold chain while she squints at the liquor cabinet anyway because she refuses to admit her eyesight is getting worse. The silver roots beginning to show through dark dye near her temples because she keeps postponing her salon appointment another week. You know every version.
You hear the ice clink into her glass. Hear her sigh afterward. Tired. “Baby,” she calls a moment later. “Did you move the vermouth or am I becoming senile?”
“In the fridge.”
“Oh, horrifying. Thank you.”
She appears in the doorway holding her drink, cardigan sleeves pushed up messily to her elbows. There’s lipstick still faintly lingering around the edges of her mouth from some charity gala earlier tonight, though most of the rest has worn away. She looks softer without it. Older, too. Beautiful anyway.
Her eyes flick toward you over the rims of her glasses now perched properly on her nose. “You’re staring.”
“You’re cute.” Joanne narrows her eyes immediately. “I am never cute.”
“You’re wearing slippers with little tassels.”
“They’re Ferragamo.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
A quiet scoff leaves her, but you see it—the tiny fight against a smile. She crosses the room slowly, drink in hand, and lowers herself beside you on the couch with the familiar carefulness she pretends you don’t notice lately. One hand presses briefly to her hip once she settles. You pretend not to notice too. That’s love sometimes. Knowing where dignity matters.
She leans back with a long exhale, warm shoulder nudging yours. The rain keeps falling outside. For a while neither of you says anything. Then, quietly: “You know what happened tonight?”
“Hm?”
“That horrible man Richard what-ever-his-name asked if I was Bobby’s mother.” You burst into laughter before you can stop yourself. Joanne looks deeply offended for all of three seconds before her mouth twitches too. “I could kill him,” she mutters. “You threatened to kill him at least twice already.”
“Yes, but now I mean it sincerely.” You laugh harder, leaning into her shoulder, and Joanne finally lets herself smile fully. Small. Tired. Real. Not the sharp public smile. Not the performance. Just Joanne.
Her hand finds your knee absentmindedly. Warm fingers. Heavy rings. “You know,” she says after a minute, quieter now, gaze somewhere distant toward the rain-lit windows, “everyone thinks they want a woman like me until they actually have one.” You look up from your book, the book you’ve barely read a page in for the last twenty minutes.
The television flickers soft light across her face. You can see the exhaustion there now that nobody else is around to witness it. The age. The humanity of her. You close your book carefully. “I think,” you murmur, reaching over to straighten the crooked glasses chain against her cardigan, “most people never got close enough to know you.”
Something shifts in her expression then. Tiny. Almost invisible. Joanne looks down into her drink for a second before setting it aside altogether. Then she reaches for your hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
The movie ends without either of you noticing. The rain slows to a soft hiss against the windows, and the apartment settles into that deep nighttime quiet Joanne claims she hates but secretly clings to. The lamp beside the couch throws everything gold and soft. Her drink sits abandoned on the coffee table now, ice melted down completely.
You’re still tucked against her shoulder when Joanne shifts beside you. Not much at first. Just a small movement. Her hand sliding from your knee to your waist. Then, with a quiet little sigh that sounds older than she ever lets herself sound in public, she sets her glasses carefully on the side table and opens one arm toward you. “Come here,” she murmurs. You go immediately.
Joanne pulls you against her chest with surprising firmness, cardigan soft beneath your cheek. One arm wraps fully around you after that, heavy and protective and possessive in a way that always makes your stomach ache a little. Her hand settles between your shoulder blades and stays there. Like she needs the proof. Like she still can’t quite believe you’re real sometimes.
“There,” she says quietly, almost to herself. You can hear her heartbeat through the layers of wool and silk and skin. Slow. Steady. Joanne sinks deeper into the couch with you folded against her, chin resting lightly against the top of your head now. Her fingers move once along your back. Not even really a stroke. Just touch for the sake of touch. No audience. No sharp little one-liners. No martini-glass shield. No performance. Just a woman holding the person she loves most in the world.
You tilt your face up slightly. “You’re sleepy.”
“I’m old,” she corrects automatically.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m dating someone over thirty years younger than me. I’ve earned dramatic.” You laugh softly against her chest, and Joanne’s mouth presses briefly into your hair afterward. Barely there. Tender enough that nobody else would believe it if they saw. But nobody else gets this version of her.
Nobody else sees the way her face softens when she looks at you. The way her hands linger. The way she always reaches for you in unconscious little movements, like her body learned yours months ago and never stopped searching for it afterward.
She holds you tighter suddenly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough that you feel the shift. You glance up again. Joanne’s staring somewhere past the windows now, expression gone quieter around the edges. “What?” you ask softly. Her thumb moves once against your back before she answers. “I wasted a lot of years,” she says. You frown immediately. “Jo—”
“No, I did.” Her voice stays calm. Matter-of-fact. “Terrible husbands. Terrible parties. Terrible people.” A dry little breath leaves her. “All that time thinking love was supposed to feel difficult.” Your chest tightens. Joanne finally looks down at you then. Those eyes. Older now. Tired around the corners. A little glassy from wine and exhaustion and honesty. But warm. Always warm with you.
“And then you came along,” she says quietly. You feel your face heat under her gaze, but Joanne just keeps looking at you like she’s trying to memorize something. “I’ve loved plenty of things in my life,” she murmurs. “Apartments. Jewelry. Money. Attention.” One side of her mouth lifts faintly. “A few dogs.”
You laugh softly. “But you…” Her hand spreads gently over your back. “Sweetheart, I have never loved anything the way I love you.” The room goes still around the words. Joanne isn’t dramatic when she says things like this. That’s what makes it worse. Better. More dangerous.
She says it plainly. Like truth. You stare at her for a second before burying yourself closer against her chest again, and Joanne lets out the quietest sound—almost relief—before wrapping both arms around you fully this time. Protective. Certain. Like she’d hold you there forever if she could.
Her lips brush slowly against your forehead. “My girl,” she murmurs, so soft you almost miss it. Then again, quieter this time: “My sweet girl.”
Joanne keeps holding you long after the apartment goes quiet.
The lamp beside the couch hums softly. Somewhere downstairs, a cab horn echoes briefly through the street before fading again. Her breathing has gone slow and heavy above you now, one hand still spread across your back beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. You’re half draped across her at this point, legs tangled together under the blanket she insisted she “didn’t need” ten minutes earlier.
Her hand rests near your waist. You reach for it absentmindedly at first. Just something to do while you listen to the rain. Joanne’s fingers loosen immediately when yours touch them, familiar with your hands by now. Comfortable. Trusting. You lace your fingers together loosely, rubbing your thumb over the back of her hand while she watches the darkened television screen. And then you feel it.
The slight stiffness in her knuckles. The thinner skin. The faint ache in her joints she complains about only when she’s had enough wine not to stop herself. Even the veins beneath her skin feel more delicate than the rest of her somehow.
Joanne always hides her age beautifully everywhere else. The monthly hair appointments when the silver starts showing too much at the roots. The expensive creams lined up across the bathroom counter. The careful makeup. The posture. The jewelry. The lighting. In public she is immaculate. Sharp black dresses. Perfect lipstick. Glamorous and untouchable and dangerous enough that people stop noticing the number attached to her age altogether.
But her hands tell the truth. You trace gently over one of her rings. Then over the lines across her knuckles. Joanne shifts slightly beside you. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice lower now. Sleepier. “Nothing.”
“Hm.” But she looks down anyway. You feel it the second she realizes what you’re looking at. Her hand tries to pull back automatically. Small. Reflexive. You tighten your fingers around hers before she can. Joanne goes still. “They look old tonight,” she says after a moment, too casual. Your chest aches a little at the tone. You glance up at her. “Jo.”
“I mean, objectively.” Her mouth twists faintly. “My dermatologist says hands are impossible. You can do the face, the neck, all of it, but hands…” She exhales through her nose. “Hands betray you.” You keep tracing your thumb slowly across her skin. “They’re beautiful.” She gives you a look immediately. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re still fresh. You still think aging is poetic.” You smile a little. “No. I think your hands are beautiful because they’re yours.” Joanne’s expression flickers. You lift her hand carefully then, turning it slightly beneath the lamp light. Her rings glint gold between your fingers.
“These hands make martinis too strong,” you murmur. “These hands point at people when you’re angry.” Another small stroke across her knuckles. “These hands hold onto me every night like you think I’m going somewhere.” Joanne looks away first. That almost never happens. You keep going softer this time.
“These hands scratch my back when I can’t sleep.” You press a kiss against the center of her palm. “They play with my hair during movies. They fix my necklaces because you hate when the clasp twists around.” A long silence settles after that. Joanne swallows once.
When she finally speaks again, her voice comes out quieter than before. “You make me sound ancient.” You smile against her skin. “You are ancient.”
“Oh, cruel.” But there’s no bite in it. None at all. You settle closer into her side again afterward, still holding her hand between both of yours now. Joanne watches you for another long moment, something unreadable moving behind her eyes.
Then, slowly, she turns her hand over completely and threads her fingers through yours on purpose this time. No hiding. Her thumb strokes once against your wrist. “You really don’t mind?” she asks eventually, so quietly it almost disappears. The question hits harder than it should.
You look up immediately. “Joanne.” She shrugs one shoulder, gaze fixed somewhere ahead again now. “The age difference. All of it.” A pause. “The reality of me.”
The reality of me. Not Joanne the performer. Not Joanne the glittering terrifying woman people whisper about at parties. Just this. A sixty-two-year-old woman in a cardigan and slippers holding the girl she loves on a rainy night.
You move before thinking, climbing higher into her lap until she lets out a startled little sound beneath you. Your hands come up carefully to either side of her face. Reading-glasses marks still faint against her nose. Silver hidden beneath dark dye near her temples. Beautiful. “I love the reality of you,” you whisper.
Joanne stares at you. And for one brief second she looks unbearably vulnerable. Stripped clean of all the sharpness she wears like armor everywhere else. Then she pulls you down against her again quickly. Almost fiercely. Like she can’t stand the feeling of being seen for too long. Her face disappears into your neck. One hand tightens at your waist. “My girl,” she murmurs against your skin, rougher now. “God, you’re my girl.”
At some point Joanne stops talking altogether.
The rain outside fades completely, leaving only the low hum of the city and the occasional rattle of pipes somewhere deep in the building. The lamp beside the couch still burns warm and low, catching on the gold chain of Joanne’s glasses where they sit abandoned on the side table beside her untouched drink.
You’re curled almost fully in her lap now.
One of Joanne’s arms stays wrapped around your waist even in sleepiness, fingers flexing every so often like she’s checking you’re still there. Her cardigan is warm against your cheek. Soft from age and too many washes.
You can feel her drifting. It happens slowly with her. Joanne fights sleep like it’s personally offended her. Even exhausted, she keeps trying to stay awake long enough to say one more thing. “You know,” she murmurs drowsily above your head, “if I die before my cousin gets her money back from that gallery investor, promise me you’ll laugh.” You snort softly. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Hm.” A pause. Then, quieter: “You smell nice.” You smile into her shoulder. “That’s your perfume.”
“Well. Excellent taste, then.” Her words start slurring together after that. You feel her chin dip against the top of your head once. Twice. Then silence. Real silence this time. For a few minutes all you hear is her breathing. Deep and slow now, chest rising steadily beneath your cheek while one hand stays heavy against your side.
And then—A snore. You close your eyes immediately. God. Not even delicate, either. Joanne snores like an aging heiress in an old movie. Low at first, then abruptly louder on the exhale, right into your ear. Normally you complain about it relentlessly. Normally Joanne wakes up afterward pretending she “wasn’t asleep” while you laugh so hard you nearly fall off the couch. She threatens separate bedrooms every time.
Tonight you just stay where you are. Another snore vibrates through her chest beneath your cheek. You should move. Your neck hurts a little. One of your legs is falling asleep under the blanket. Joanne’s rings keep pressing against your waist where her hand rests possessively even unconscious.
But then she shifts slightly in her sleep and pulls you closer automatically. A sleepy reflex. Like even unconscious she’s searching for you. Your chest tightens painfully. You tilt your head just enough to look up at her. Joanne asleep is still strange to you sometimes. The sharpness disappears completely. No socialite smile. No cutting remarks. No performance holding her together.
Just a woman in her sixties asleep on the couch in house slippers and a slipping cardigan, hair slightly mussed, mouth parted faintly as she snores into your ear without an ounce of dignity left. And somehow you love her most like this.
You reach up carefully and smooth your fingers through the hair near her temple, where silver roots are beginning to show again beneath the dark dye. Joanne makes a soft sleepy sound but doesn’t wake. “I love you too,” you whisper anyway.
Another snore answers you immediately. You laugh quietly against her shoulder this time, eyes slipping shut again as you settle deeper into her arms instead of moving away.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
The next morning starts with Joanne groaning. Not elegant groaning, either. Real groaning. The kind that sounds dragged out of somebody against their will.
You blink awake slowly to grey morning light filtering through the windows and Joanne shifting beside you with all the quiet grace of a collapsing building. “Oh, Christ,” she mutters. Your face is still tucked against her shoulder. “Good morning to you too.”
“My hip is ruined.” You smile immediately without opening your eyes yet. “Mhm.”
“No, I’m serious.” Joanne carefully presses one hand against her lower back with a deeply offended expression. “Why would you let me sleep on this couch?”
“It’s your couch.”
“It’s decorative.” That finally makes you laugh awake. Joanne glares down at you, hair flattened on one side from the cushions. Without last night’s lipstick and careful styling she looks wonderfully disheveled—cardigan wrinkled, glasses crooked on her nose again, silver peeking openly through dark roots in the morning light. Beautiful. Miserable. She shifts again and immediately hisses through her teeth. “Oh, absolutely not.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am sixty-two years old.”
“You say that like you’re ninety.”
“My spine says otherwise.” You prop yourself up on one elbow, smiling helplessly while Joanne continues muttering under her breath about “structural support” and “the lies of modern furniture.”
“You could’ve woken me up,” she says finally, shooting you another look. “You know my hips can’t handle this.”
“You looked comfortable.”
“I was unconscious.”
“And snoring.” Joanne freezes. Slowly narrows her eyes. “I do not snore.” You burst out laughing immediately. “Joanne.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You were snoring directly into my skull.”
“That sounds medically impossible.”
“You sounded like a sleepy bulldog.” Her expression turns scandalized. “A bulldog?”
“Mhm.”
“In my own home.” Joanne starts trying to stand, one hand braced dramatically against the couch cushion. “I was suffering.” You reach automatically to help her, but Joanne waves you off before immediately regretting it halfway upright. “Oh, for God’s sake—” You grab her arm before she can topple sideways back onto the couch laughing. “There we go,” you murmur. “I hate aging.”
“No you don’t.”
“I absolutely do.” But she leans into you anyway while you guide her carefully toward the kitchen. The apartment still smells faintly like last night’s wine and rain. Morning light catches dust in the air. Joanne shuffles slightly in her slippers beside you, one hand staying around your wrist longer than necessary. “You know what the worst part is?” she says bitterly. “What?”
“I used to be able to sleep on floors.” You gasp softly. “Joanne.”
“It’s true.”
“You’ve never slept on a floor in your life.”
“I was once young and bohemian.”
“You were once drunk in someone else’s penthouse.”
“That still counts.” You laugh again, and Joanne finally cracks too, a small reluctant smile pulling briefly at her mouth before she sighs and presses closer into your side. “Treason,” she mutters, resting her head lightly against yours for a second while you wait for the coffee to brew. “My own girlfriend letting me decay on decorative furniture.”
“You looked peaceful.”
“I looked dead.”
“You looked loved.” That stops her. Completely. Joanne goes quiet beside you. You glance over and find her already looking at you now, sleep-heavy and soft in the pale morning light. The irritation drains slowly from her face until all that’s left is something warmer. Older. Vulnerable in that private way she only ever lets herself become around you. Her hand slips from your wrist to your waist. “Well,” she says quietly after a moment, voice rough with sleep, “that’s different.”
Joanne insists the screwdriver is medicinal. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning,” you tell her from the kitchen counter while she pours vodka into a crystal glass with absolutely no restraint whatsoever. “It’s physical therapy.”
“That’s not orange juice anymore.”
“It’s fortified.” You laugh into your coffee while Joanne takes a long sip with the grim determination of someone treating a chronic illness. She’s changed into one of her softer cardigans now—cream-colored this time, sleeves hanging past her wrists slightly—and she keeps rolling one hip carefully like she’s trying to negotiate with it. “You’re mocking an elderly woman,” she says. “You called yourself elderly, not me.”
“Well somebody has to acknowledge my suffering in this apartment.” She points vaguely at you with the screwdriver before shuffling toward the bedroom in her slippers, muttering under her breath about “joint failure” and “beautiful young women with no compassion.” You hear drawers opening a few moments later. Closet doors. The familiar rhythm of Joanne reconstructing herself.
It always fascinates you a little—how deliberate the transformation is. How the woman from last night slowly disappears piece by piece once morning settles in properly. The glasses come off. The posture straightens. The expensive creams. Concealer beneath tired eyes. Lipstick carefully reapplied even if she claims she’s “not going anywhere important.” Hair brushed meticulously to disguise the silver at her roots for another week or two.
Armor. Beautiful armor, but armor all the same.
You wander into the bedroom doorway eventually, coffee still warm between your hands. Joanne sits at the vanity in a silk slip now, one leg crossed carefully over the other while she fastens an earring. Sunlight spills across the room in pale gold bands. The bedroom still smells faintly like her perfume and cold cream and last night’s rain drifting through cracked windows.
She catches your reflection in the mirror immediately. “Are you supervising?”
“I’m admiring.”
“Hm. Dangerous.” You lean quietly against the doorway watching her for another moment. And then you see it. The locket. Small gold oval resting against her collarbone, partially hidden beneath the neckline of her slip. Old-fashioned. Worn smooth from years of touch. Joanne almost never takes it off. Even sleeping. Even in the bath sometimes, though she claims that’s accidental.
She notices your eyes flick toward it and instinctively touches it once with her fingertips. Soft. Protective. Your chest tightens immediately. “That thing is practically fused to you.” Joanne hums lightly, still looking at herself in the mirror while she reaches up to unclasp it. “Probably.”
For a second you think she’s just adjusting it. Then she turns slightly in the chair and holds her hand out toward you. “Come here.” You step closer automatically. Joanne places the locket carefully into your palm. It feels warm from her skin. Old. Important. “You can open it,” she says, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
You glance up at her once before carefully pressing the tiny clasp. Inside, on one side, is a picture of you. Not posed. Not glamorous. You’re laughing in it. Head turned halfway away from the camera, eyes crinkled soft at the corners. You remember that day suddenly—brunch downtown, Joanne pretending to be irritated while secretly taking pictures of you every ten minutes.
Your throat tightens immediately.And on the other side—The two of you together. Foreheads touching. Joanne mid-laugh for once instead of composed. Her hand visible against your cheek. You stare at it for a long moment. “You carry this around every day?” you ask quietly. Joanne reaches for her drink on the vanity. “I’m old. Old women like lockets.”
“Jo.” She shrugs one shoulder, but you can see the faint color rising beneath her makeup already. “I spent most of my life carrying around things that didn’t matter,” she says after a moment, voice calmer now. “Money. Jewelry. Husbands.” A dry little smile touches her mouth. “Thought I should probably start carrying something I actually loved.”
You look at her through the mirror. Really look. The careful makeup. The mostly dyed hair. The jewelry. The posture she rebuilds every morning like scaffolding. And beneath all of it, still just Joanne. A woman terrified sometimes of becoming invisible. Of becoming old. Unwanted. Ridiculous for loving someone younger this much.
Meanwhile she carries your face over her heart every single day. You move before thinking, stepping between her knees where she sits at the vanity. Joanne looks up immediately, one hand still wrapped loosely around her screwdriver glass. “You’re staring again,” she murmurs.
“You’re very loved.” Something in her expression falters at that. Tiny. Immediate. Then she reaches up and hooks two fingers lightly into the waistband of your pajama shorts, pulling you a little closer between her knees. “Well,” she says softly, eyes moving over your face like she’s memorizing it all over again, “that’s because I’m selfish.” You smile faintly. “Selfish?”
“Mhm.” Her thumb brushes slowly against your hip. “I found the love of my life and decided to keep her.”
You wake before she does, which almost never happens.
The room is still dim, curtains only half-drawn, that soft gray light settling over everything. She’s beside you on her stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched toward your side of the bed like she reached for you in her sleep and stayed there. Her hair’s a little messy, pressed at the back where it met the pillow, and there’s a quiet, steady rhythm to her breathing that fills the space more than any sound.
You don’t move right away. Just watch her.
It’s her birthday.
The thought sits warm in your chest, simple and a little heavy. You reach out, slow, careful not to wake her yet, and brush your fingers through the ends of her hair where it spills across her shoulder. It’s a light touch. Testing. She stirs anyway. A soft shift. A breath that changes. Then her voice, low and rough with sleep. “You’re awake.”
“Mm,” you murmur. Your hand stays where it is, resting now at the curve of her shoulder. “I was being quiet.”
“You’re never quiet,” she says, but there’s no bite to it. Just that familiar edge softened by sleep, by the way she turns her head slightly toward you without opening her eyes. You smile a little. “It’s your birthday. I was trying to be respectful.” That gets her.
One eye opens, barely, just enough to look at you. “That’s how you start? By lying to me?” You huff a quiet laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Happy birthday, Patti.” She studies you for a second, like she’s deciding something. Then her hand moves, slow but certain, finding your wrist where it rests against her. Her fingers curl there, warm, grounding, and she tugs just enough to bring you closer.
“Come here,” she says. You go easily, shifting onto your side, close enough that your knees press into the back of her thigh. She turns her head more fully now, eyes open, clearer, that sharpness starting to come back—but softer than it usually is, held back by the morning. “You woke up early for me,” she says. It’s not really a question. You shrug a little, though it’s awkward this close. “Maybe.”
Her thumb brushes once over the inside of your wrist. Slow. Absent, almost. But it lingers. “Suspicious,” she murmurs.
“There’s coffee,” you say, quieter now. “And I made breakfast. Well. Part of it. The rest is waiting.” Her brow lifts just slightly. “You cooked.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked,” she says, and there’s a faint hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I’m concerned.” You nudge her lightly with your knee. “You’re awful.”
“I’m honest.” You hold her gaze for a second, then soften. Your hand slides from her shoulder to her upper arm, a slow, grounding touch. “I wanted it to be nice,” you say. “For you.” Something in her expression shifts. It’s small. Quieter. She looks at you a little longer than before, like she’s taking you in properly now. The morning light, the way you’re still half-wrapped in sleep, the effort you’re pretending isn’t a big deal.
Her hand tightens just slightly around your wrist. “It is,” she says. You don’t answer right away. Just watch her, close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the way they soften when she’s like this. Offstage. Not performing for anyone. Just yours.
“Get up,” she adds after a moment, though she doesn’t let go of you. “If you’ve made a mess of my kitchen, I need time to emotionally prepare.” You smile, leaning in just enough to press a soft kiss to her shoulder, right where your hand had been earlier. “You’ll survive.”
“We’ll see.” But she rolls onto her side anyway, finally letting go of your wrist so she can push herself up. There’s a pause as she sits there, hair falling into her face, still waking up. Then she glances back at you. “Coffee first,” she says. “Then I’ll decide how much I love you.”
You push yourself up too, close enough that your arm brushes hers. “You love me a normal amount.” She gives you a look. Dry, familiar. “Don’t push it.” Still, she doesn’t move away when you reach for her again—this time just taking her hand properly, fingers lacing together as you guide her out of bed and toward the kitchen.
The apartment feels warmer out there. Brighter. The smell of coffee already settled into the air, something sweet underneath it from whatever you managed to put together. She notices immediately. Of course she does. Her grip on your hand shifts, not pulling away—just adjusting, thumb brushing once over your knuckles.
“Alright,” she says, voice steadier now, but still softer than usual. “Let’s see what you’ve done.” You glance at her, a little smile pulling at your mouth. “Be nice.”
“No promises.” But she stays close as you walk in, shoulder just barely brushing yours, and when she sees the table—nothing extravagant, just careful, thought-out—she goes quiet for a second. Her hand tightens once more around yours before she lets go, stepping forward to take it in. The coffee, the breakfast, the small details you knew she’d notice even if she pretended not to.
“…You didn’t burn anything,” she says finally. You exhale a quiet laugh. “High praise.” She turns her head, looking at you over her shoulder. There’s something softer in her eyes again. Less guarded. “Don’t get used to it.” But she reaches back for your hand anyway. Finds it without looking. Holds on.
You stay there a second, just like that, before moving with her toward the table. It feels easy. It feels right. And when she finally sits, pulling you down into the chair beside her instead of across like you’d planned, you don’t argue.
You just let your knee press against hers under the table, close and steady, while she takes her first sip of coffee and hums, low in her throat. “…Alright,” she admits. You glance at her. “Alright?” She looks at you over the rim of the mug, that faint smile still there. “I love you more than a normal amount.”
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
By the time the light starts to shift warmer through the window, she’s already pulled you into the living room without really asking. It happens slowly. Naturally. One of those quiet progressions where you don’t notice until you’re already there.
You’d been standing by the counter, rinsing a plate, feeling her watch you again the way she does when she’s thinking something over. Then her hand found your hip. Just rested there at first. Warm, steady. Not moving.
“Leave it,” she’d said, low, almost absent. You didn’t argue. You never really do when she sounds like that. Now you’re in her chair—her chair, the one by the window she pretends she doesn’t claim but always ends up in anyway—and she’s sitting back in it, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. You’re half on her lap, half turned toward her, your thighs on either side of hers, not quite settled yet.
She takes her time adjusting you.
One hand at your waist. The other sliding up your side, slow, deliberate, like she’s mapping you again even though she knows every inch already. She shifts you back just a little more until you’re fully on her, the solid weight of her thigh between yours. There.
“Comfortable?” she asks, voice quieter now. You hum, but it comes out a little breathier than you meant. Her mouth pulls at one corner. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I thought so.”
The room is quiet. Just the faint sound of something outside—distant traffic, maybe—but it doesn’t really reach you. Not like this. Not with her this close, her hand still resting firm at your waist, thumb pressing in slightly like she’s reminding you to stay right there.
Her other hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward her. “You’ve been very good today,” she says. It lands heavier than it should.
You feel it low in your stomach, that small shift, that pull. Your hands move without thinking, settling on her shoulders, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her shirt. “I made you breakfast,” you say, softer.
“I noticed.” Her thumb drags along your lower lip. Slow. Not quite touching inside, but close enough that you feel it. “And you behaved,” she adds. You swallow. Her gaze drops for a second—your mouth, your throat, the way your chest rises a little faster now—and then back up to your eyes. There’s something sharper there now. Awake. Focused.
“Which brings me to a very important question.” Her hand slides from your face, down your neck, pausing just briefly at your collarbone before continuing lower, over your chest, your stomach, until it settles at your hip again. Firm. Holding you in place.
She leans back slightly in the chair, just enough to look at you properly, like she wants to see your reaction before she even says it. “Am I going to get my yearly birthday sex,” she asks, calm as anything, “or was breakfast the main event?”
The heat hits you all at once. Your grip tightens on her shoulders, and you shift without meaning to, your thighs pressing in around her leg. She feels it immediately. Of course she does. Her hand tightens at your hip. “Careful,” she murmurs. “You’ll answer before you mean to.”
“I—” you start, then stop, because your voice doesn’t quite cooperate. Her brow lifts, just slightly. Waiting. You shift again, slower this time, and it’s worse—because now you feel her properly, the solid pressure of her thigh exactly where you’re already starting to ache. “Oh,” she says quietly.
Not surprised. Just acknowledging. Her hand moves again, sliding from your hip around to your lower back, pressing you down just a little more firmly against her leg. “That’s a yes, then.” Your breath catches. “Patti—”
“What?” she says, almost mild, but her grip tightens again, guiding your hips into a slow, deliberate roll. It drags a soft sound out of you before you can stop it. There it is. Her eyes flicker. Darker. “Use your words,” she says. You shake your head a little, not really refusing—just overwhelmed by how quickly she’s pulled you into it. The warmth, the pressure, the way she’s already controlling the pace without seeming like she’s trying.
“I was going to—” you manage. “Going to what?” Her hand slips lower, just brushing the edge of your ass, fingers pressing in, holding you steady as she moves you again. Slow. Grinding you down against her thigh with a rhythm that feels almost casual. You gasp softly, your forehead dipping toward her shoulder. “Give it to you,” you finish, quieter now.
“Mm.” She leans in slightly, her mouth near your ear, her voice dropping lower. “That’s better.” Her hand slides under your shirt now, palm warm against your back, fingers spreading, holding you there as she shifts her leg just enough to change the angle.
It hits deeper. You feel it immediately. Your hips jerk a little, and she doesn’t stop you this time. Just lets you move, lets you find it, but her hand stays firm at your back, guiding the pace, not letting you rush. “Easy,” she murmurs. “You don’t get to fall apart that fast.”
“I’m not—” you start, but it breaks off when she moves you again, slower, dragging you over her thigh in a way that makes your stomach tighten. She hums softly, almost pleased. “No?” she says. “Feels like it.”
Your hands slide from her shoulders, down her arms, like you need something to hold onto that isn’t already controlling you. But she catches one of your wrists halfway, brings it back up, presses it against her shoulder again.
“Stay,” she says. You do. Of course you do. Your breathing’s uneven now, your body already responding faster than you want it to, the pressure building in a slow, steady climb. She keeps you there, moving you in that same measured rhythm, not letting you speed up, not letting you pull away.
Every time you try, her grip tightens just enough. “Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Just like that.” You whimper softly, your head dropping against her shoulder, your body starting to melt into the movement, into her. Your hips move a little more desperately now, chasing the friction, the pressure. She lets you for a second. Then slows you down again. “No,” she says, quieter but firmer. “You wait.”
“Patti—please—”
“There it is,” she breathes. Her hand comes up, fingers sliding into your hair, not pulling—just holding, keeping you right there, your face pressed close to her neck. “You want it,” she says. You nod, quick, helpless. “Say it.”
“I want it.” Her thumb presses into your lower back again, pushing you down harder against her thigh, holding you there as she shifts underneath you just enough to make you feel it all at once. You gasp, your whole body tightening. “Good,” she says softly. “That’s what I thought.”
Her mouth brushes your temple, not quite a kiss, just close enough to feel. “Then you can give me my birthday present properly.” Her hand slides lower again, guiding your hips back into that slow, controlled rhythm. “Go on,” she murmurs. “Show me how much you love me.”
Your body is still shaking when she stops you. Not all at once. Just enough.
Her hand tightens at your hip, holding you down against her thigh while everything in you is still chasing it, still trying to move, to keep going. The rhythm cuts off, and it leaves you hanging there, breath catching, your hips twitching once like you can’t quite help it.
“Patti—” it slips out, soft, wrecked. She doesn’t move you. Doesn’t soothe it. Her palm drifts up your back instead, slow, steady, like she’s calming something she doesn’t actually plan to give you. “You were getting greedy,” she says.
You shake your head against her shoulder, a small, helpless protest. You can still feel it—how close you were, how easy it would be to tip over again if she just—
Her hand slides into your hair and tilts your head back enough to look at her. “No,” she says quietly. “You had one.” It lands heavy. You swallow. “I could—”
“I know you could,” she cuts in, calm, certain. “That’s not the point.” Her gaze drags over your face, taking in the way you’re still flushed, your lips parted, your breathing uneven. Her thumb brushes once along your cheek, almost soft.
Then her hand moves. Down your side. Your waist. Your hip. “Up,” she says. You hesitate for a second, your body not wanting to leave her, not wanting to lose the heat of her thigh between yours. But her grip presses again, more insistent this time. “Come on.”
You push yourself up, legs a little unsteady as you lift off her. The loss of pressure makes you inhale sharply, your hips shifting like you’re trying to find it again without thinking. She watches that. Her mouth tilts, just slightly. Then she pats her thigh once. Lower. Your stomach tightens.
“Oh,” you breathe. Her eyes stay on yours, steady, waiting for you to catch up. “On your knees,” she says. Your pulse jumps hard this time. You sink down slowly in front of her, the carpet pressing into your knees, your hands hovering before they settle on her thighs. She leans back into the chair, one leg parting just enough to make space for you.
Her hand comes down to the back of your neck. Warm. Firm. Holding you there. “That’s better,” she murmurs. You look up at her, your breath still uneven, your body still sensitive and aching in a way that makes it hard to think clearly. “You going to take care of me,” she asks, voice low, “or do I have to ask again?”
“I will,” you say quickly. Softer now. Obedient. Her fingers curl slightly at your neck, not pushing—just reminding you where you are. “Good.” Your hands slide higher on her thighs, slow, deliberate, thumbs brushing along the inside where her skin is warmer. You can feel the tension there already, the way she’s waiting but not rushing you.
You hook your fingers into her waistband and tug it down, inch by inch. She lifts her hips just enough to help, quiet, controlled. No words. You pull the fabric the rest of the way, letting it settle around her thighs. There’s a pause. You can feel her watching you.
Your hands spread again, holding her open, your thumbs pressing lightly into the soft inside of her thighs. You lean in, closer now, your breath warm against her. A soft kiss first. Then another, higher. “Don’t tease,” she says, low. Not sharp. Just certain. You nod slightly. “Yes, Patti.”
Then you finally move where she wants you. Your mouth presses against her pussy, slow at first, a soft, open kiss that makes her exhale, her head tipping back just a little against the chair. “Yeah,” she murmurs.
Your tongue slides through her folds, slow, deliberate, tasting her, feeling the way she reacts immediately—her hand tightening at your neck, her thigh shifting under your palm. You do it again. Slower.
Your mouth opens more, your tongue dragging over her clit this time, firmer, and she inhales sharply. “Fuck,” she breathes. Your grip tightens on her thighs, holding her steady while you settle into it properly, your tongue moving in a slow rhythm over her clit, then dipping lower, pressing into her pussy, tasting, exploring.
Her fingers press into your neck, guiding you. “Right there,” she says. “Stay there.” You obey. You keep your tongue on her clit, steady, circling, then flattening, adjusting to the way her breath changes. Your other hand shifts slightly, thumb brushing just at the edge of her hole, feeling the way she tightens, the way her hips move subtly toward you.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Don’t rush.” You don’t. You take your time, your mouth working her open, your tongue pressing into her pussy before sliding back up to her clit again, slow and deliberate. You let her feel every part of it, every shift.
Her breathing gets heavier. Her hand tightens in your hair now, not pulling, but holding you exactly where she wants you. “Just like that,” she says, lower now. “Fuck—yeah.”
You hum softly against her, the vibration pulling a deeper sound from her, her thigh tensing under your hand. Your own hips shift slightly where you kneel, your body still sensitive, still aching—but you don’t chase it. “Stay there,” she says again when you start to move too much. Her hand presses firmer at your neck. “Focus on my pussy.”
“Okay,” you whisper against her, your mouth already moving again. You slow it down. More pressure on her clit. Slower strokes of your tongue. Your hand steadies on her thigh while the other lingers near her hole, not pushing in, just there, grounding, feeling the way she reacts to every movement.
Her head tips back further. Her breath catches. “Right there,” she says, sharper now. “Don’t—don’t move—” You don’t. You keep it exactly the same, your tongue working her clit in that same steady rhythm, your mouth open against her, your breath warm.
Her grip tightens hard in your hair. Her hips lift slightly off the chair. “Good—fuck—just like that—” Her voice breaks as she comes, her body tightening under your hands, her pussy clenching as you keep your mouth on her, not stopping, letting her ride it out exactly how she needs.
You stay there through it. Through the way her thighs tense. Through the small, involuntary movements of her hips. Through the way her grip holds you in place until it slowly starts to loosen. Only then do you ease back slightly, your breath uneven, your lips warm and damp. Your forehead rests lightly against her thigh. You don’t speak. For a second, neither does she.
Then her fingers slide through your hair again, slower now. Softer. “…There you go,” she murmurs. Her thumb brushes along your hairline, almost absent, almost gentle. “Much better.”
You stay where you are for a moment longer, still catching your breath, still feeling the weight of it settle. And above you, she leans back into the chair, quiet again—but her hand doesn’t leave you.
She lets you stay there for a moment. Her hand still in your hair, slower now, fingers drifting instead of guiding. You’re still catching your breath against her thigh, your body warm and a little shaky, your mouth soft where you’d just been on her.
Then she exhales. Not tired. Just settling. “Alright,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Her hand tightens slightly in your hair again, just enough to get your attention. You lift your head, slow, blinking up at her, still a little dazed.
She studies you like that for a second. Your flushed face. Your lips. The way you’re still not quite steady. Then her mouth pulls, faintly. “I can already tell,” she says, dry, “you’re going to be unbearable if I leave you like this.”
You frown a little, confused, still catching up. “I—” She cuts you off with a soft huff. “Don’t argue,” she says. “You’ll spend the rest of the day pacing around, touching me every five minutes, pretending you’re not still desperate.” Your face warms more. You don’t answer.
She hums. “Exactly.” Her hand slides from your hair down to your shoulder, then your arm, fingers closing around your wrist. “Come here.” There’s no hesitation this time. You push yourself up from the floor, your legs a little unsteady again, and she guides you back toward her lap, her grip steady, certain.
You settle over her, slower now, your body still sensitive as you straddle her thigh again. It’s different this time—your movements smaller, more careful, like everything is still turned up too high. Her hands come to your hips immediately, steadying you before you can even adjust properly. “Relax,” she murmurs.
“I am,” you say, but it comes out softer than you mean. Her thumbs press into your hips, grounding. “No, you’re not.” She shifts you slightly, pulling you closer, your body settling more fully against her. You feel it immediately—the warmth of her, the solid press of her thigh again, the way your body reacts without asking.
You inhale sharply. “See?” she says, low. Her hand slides from your hip, down, slipping between your bodies without rushing. Her fingers trace along your inner thigh first, slow, like she’s reminding you she’s in control of this too. You tense. “Patti—”
“Shh.” Her fingers move higher. You feel it before she even touches you properly, your body already reacting, your breath catching as her hand slides where you’re warm and sensitive and not nearly as composed as you’d like to be. “You’re still soaked,” she murmurs, almost thoughtful. Your grip tightens on her shoulders. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” she says. Her fingers finally press in, sliding through you, slow at first, just enough to make your hips jerk slightly against her. You gasp, your head dipping toward her shoulder again. “Easy,” she murmurs. But she doesn’t stop.
Her fingers move again, a little firmer this time, parting you, finding exactly where you’re most sensitive without hesitation. She drags them through you once, twice, like she’s testing how much you can take before you start to fall apart again.
You whimper softly. “Still sensitive,” she notes. “Because of you,” you breathe. “Good.” Her fingers shift, and then she presses in. You feel it immediately—one finger sliding into your pussy, slow but purposeful, your body tightening around her without thinking. Your breath catches hard, your hands gripping her tighter. “Fuck—”
“There it is,” she murmurs. She doesn’t give you time to adjust for long. Her pace picks up quickly—no teasing now, no slow build. Her finger moves in and out of you with a steady rhythm, not rough, but not gentle either. Focused. Like she’s already decided exactly what she’s doing. You gasp, your hips trying to move with it, but her other hand comes back to your hip, holding you down, controlling the angle. “Stay,” she says.
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Her finger curls slightly inside you, and it pulls a sharper sound out of you, your whole body reacting, your head dropping against her shoulder again. “Patti—please—”
“What?” she says, calm, even as her pace stays quick, deliberate. “You were the one who wanted more.” You shake your head weakly, but there’s no real argument left in you. Not when she’s moving like this, her hand steady, her rhythm consistent, pushing you higher again much faster than before.
Your breathing turns uneven, your body tightening, your thighs pressing in around her as you try to keep up with it. “Good,” she murmurs. “That’s what I thought.” Her thumb brushes against your clit then—just once at first. You jolt. “Patti—”
“What?” she repeats, softer now, but there’s something in it. Her thumb presses again, firmer this time, circling your clit while her finger keeps moving inside you, quick, precise. It’s too much. Your hips jerk, your body tightening fast, the sensation building almost immediately, sharper than before because she didn’t let you come down properly.
“I’m—” you try, but it breaks. “I know,” she says. Her hand tightens at your hip again, holding you in place as she keeps the pace exactly where it is—fast, controlled, not letting you escape it. “Go on,” she murmurs, low. “Get it out of your system.” You shake your head, but it’s useless. Your body’s already there, already tipping, your breath catching harder, your grip tightening on her shoulders.
“Patti—”
“Come on.” Her thumb presses harder against your clit, her finger curling again inside you, hitting that spot that makes your whole body tighten. “Don’t drag it out.” That does it. Your body gives in all at once, your hips jerking against her as you come, your breath breaking, your fingers digging into her as everything tightens and then releases.
She keeps her hand there through it, not slowing until you ride it out fully, your body shaking against hers. Only then does she ease up. Her fingers slow, then slip out of you, her thumb lifting from your clit as your body softens, your head still resting against her shoulder.
Your breathing is uneven. Your whole body warm and heavy. She exhales quietly. “There,” she says. Her hand slides back to your hip, steady again, grounding. “Now you won’t spend the rest of the day whining about it.” You let out a weak breath, somewhere between a laugh and something softer, your grip loosening on her shoulders.
“You’re—” you start, then stop, because you don’t have the energy to finish it. She hums softly. “I know.” Her hand drifts up your back again, slower now, almost absent as she lets you settle against her properly this time. “…Happy birthday to me,” she adds under her breath. And you stay there, still a little shaky, still pressed close, while her hand rests warm and steady against you like she has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
The room is warm in that late-evening way, light soft and golden across the vanity, the window cracked just enough to let the city drift in under it. You’re sitting in front of the mirror, one leg tucked under you, makeup spread out in small, familiar chaos, brushes and compacts and open tubes catching the light.
Behind you, the bed creaks quietly. She’s stretched out across it, still half-dressed, one arm folded behind her head, the other resting loose over her stomach. Watching you.
She’s been watching you. “You take longer every year,” she says, voice lazy, carrying across the room. You don’t turn yet. Just lean in a little closer to the mirror, steadying your hand as you finish your eyeliner.
“I look good every year,” you say. “It takes work.” A soft huff from the bed. Not quite a laugh. “You always look good,” she says. “You’re just dramatic about it.” You glance at her then, through the mirror. She’s looking right back at you. Not even pretending otherwise.
Her gaze drops, slow, deliberate, from your face to your shoulders, down your back where your shirt dips, lower. Taking her time. You feel it. Heat settles low in your stomach again, familiar now after the afternoon. “You’re staring,” you say quietly. “I’m thinking,” she corrects. Your brow lifts slightly. “That’s dangerous.”
“Very.” She shifts, the bed creaking softly as she rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. Her attention doesn’t leave you for a second. “You’re going to sit through dinner like that,” she says, “and expect me to behave.”
You turn back to the mirror, but your hand stills for just a second. “I always expect you to behave in public.” She hums, low. “That’s your first mistake.” You press your lips together slightly, trying not to smile, but it doesn’t quite hold. You reach for your lipstick instead, twisting it up slowly, focusing on the movement.
Behind you, she shifts again. The mattress dips as she sits up this time, feet finding the floor. You can hear her moving closer before you feel it—her presence filling the space behind you, quiet but impossible to ignore. Then her hands.
They settle at your hips, slow, familiar, her thumbs pressing in just slightly like she’s checking something. You inhale softly. “Patti,” you murmur. “What?” she says, mild. Her hands slide a little higher, fingertips brushing under the edge of your shirt, just barely there. “You’re distracting me.”
“That’s the point.” Her mouth is close to your ear now. You can feel her breath, warm against your skin. “You think I forgot what you were like earlier?” she murmurs. “How you sounded?” Your grip tightens slightly on the edge of the vanity. “We’re going out,” you say, softer now. “I know.”
Her hands move again, one sliding around your waist, the other dipping lower, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh where your dress rides up slightly. You shift in the chair, your breath catching. “Patti—”
“You were so wet,” she says quietly, like she’s remembering it in real time. “All over my fingers. Couldn’t even hold still.” Heat rushes up your neck. You glance at her in the mirror, but her eyes are already on you, steady, unashamed. “You’re going to make me mess this up,” you whisper.
Her mouth curves faintly. “I don’t mind.” Her fingers press in slightly against your thigh, not enough to do anything, just enough to remind you how close she is to doing something. “You’re going to sit across from me tonight,” she continues, voice low, even, “pretend you’re listening to whatever story someone’s telling, and all you’re going to be able to think about is how I had you on your knees earlier. Mouth on my pussy. Taking it exactly how I wanted.”
Your breath stutters. Her hand at your waist tightens slightly. “And when we get back,” she adds, quieter now, almost thoughtful, “I’m not going to be patient.” You swallow. “Patti…”
“What?” she says again, soft, but there’s an edge under it now. Her fingers slide a little higher along your inner thigh, just brushing, not quite where you want them. “You think I’m going to let you take your time tonight?” she murmurs. “After the way you were grinding on my thigh like you couldn’t help yourself?”
Your hips shift slightly in the chair before you can stop them. She notices. Of course she does. “There it is,” she says. Her hand presses firmer at your waist, holding you still. “I’m going to put you back on your knees,” she continues, voice dropping lower, closer to your ear. “Spread you open and watch how wet your pussy gets before I even touch you.”
You grip the edge of the vanity harder, your lipstick forgotten in your other hand. “You won’t be quiet,” she adds. “You never are.” You let out a shaky breath. “We’re going to be late,” you manage. “Mm.” Her fingers finally slip just a little higher, brushing where you’re already sensitive, already reacting.
You gasp softly. She pulls back just as quickly. Not enough to lose the feeling. Just enough to leave you wanting it. “Finish your makeup,” she says. You blink at the mirror, trying to steady your breathing again, your hand not quite as steady as before.
Behind you, she steps back, slow, unhurried, like she has all the time in the world. “You’re going to look perfect,” she adds. A pause. “And then I’m going to ruin it.” You glance back at her again.
She’s already picking up her jacket, completely composed, like she didn’t just say any of that. But her eyes meet yours. Sharp. Certain. Waiting.
She slips her jacket on like nothing happened, smoothing it down over her shoulders, adjusting the cuffs with small, precise movements. Composed again. Put together in that way she always is when she’s about to step out into a room full of people.
But her eyes flick back to you. Just for a second. It’s enough. You turn back to the mirror, exhaling slowly, steadying your hand as you finally finish your lipstick. It goes on a little softer than usual, a little less perfect—but you don’t fix it. You don’t need to.
When you set the tube down, there’s a quiet pause. You look at yourself properly this time—not checking, just taking it in. The dress, the way your hair falls, the faint flush that hasn’t quite left your skin. Then you stand. The room shifts with it. The air. The moment.
She watches you come toward her, her gaze dragging slowly over you again—but this time it’s not as heavy. Not as teasing. Just… warm. “…Yeah,” she says quietly.
You stop in front of her, close enough that your hands brush when you reach to fix the collar of her jacket. It’s slightly crooked. You smooth it down without thinking, your fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. “You look nice,” you murmur. She huffs, soft, but there’s no edge to it. “I always look nice.”
You smile a little. “You do.” Her hands come up, resting lightly at your waist—not pulling, not demanding. Just there. Grounding. She looks at you for a moment, really looks this time. Not like earlier. Not like she’s planning anything. Just you. “You did all this for me,” she says. It’s not dramatic. Not heavy. Just… said. You shrug a little, your hands still resting against her jacket. “It’s your birthday.”
“I know.” A pause. Her thumbs brush once, absent, along your sides. “Still,” she says. Something in your chest softens. You lean in slightly, pressing a small, easy kiss to her cheek. It lingers just a second, your hand sliding up to steady against her shoulder. “Come on,” you murmur. “Your friends are waiting.”
She exhales quietly, like she’s letting something go. Then her hand shifts, sliding from your waist down to find yours instead. Her fingers lace through yours without looking. “Alright,” she says.
You move together toward the door, slow at first, then a little more certain. The apartment feels quieter now behind you, the evening stretching ahead—lights, voices, the clink of glasses, all of it waiting.
At the door, you pause to grab your things. She doesn’t let go of your hand. Of course she doesn’t. When you finally step out into the hallway, she glances at you once more, that familiar look returning—but softer at the edges now.
“Stay close,” she says. You squeeze her hand lightly. “I always do.” She hums, satisfied. Then the two of you head out together, her shoulder brushing yours, your hands still linked, the night just beginning—and something warm, steady, and yours lingering underneath it all.
Summary: Joan tries to be a woman of God. But there’s one temptation she can’t resist—you.
Warnings: Religious Guilt, Soft Joan, Fingering, innocence kink?, Oral, I’m really bad at tagging
AO3
The house is quiet in that heavy, evening way. The kind of quiet that presses into the walls.
Joan keeps the lamps low. She always does. Soft yellow light, the television murmuring some late-night sermon she isn’t really watching, the faint smell of furniture polish and the lilies she bought yesterday sitting on the side table.
You’re curled beside her on the couch with your legs tucked under one of her thighs, half asleep against her shoulder. The hem of her cardigan scratches softly against your cheek every time you breathe in.
Joan’s hand is in your hair. It has been for a while. She isn’t petting you the way she usually does—slow, soothing strokes meant to keep you settled against her. Her fingers keep stopping. Pausing. Starting again like she’s forgotten what she was doing.
The television preacher talks about salvation. Joan mutes it. Her hand stills in your hair. For a moment she just sits there, staring at the dark screen, her jaw tight in that way you’ve started to recognize. The same way it gets after church. After confession. After she spends too long kneeling beside the bed whispering prayers under her breath.
You shift a little against her. Her arm tightens automatically around your shoulders. “You should go home tonight,” she says quietly. It’s not the first time she’s said it. You lift your head slowly, blinking up at her. Your hair is rumpled from her lap, your cheek warm where it had been pressed against her stomach.
“You say that every night,” you murmur. Joan doesn’t look at you. Her hand moves from your hair to the back of your neck, fingers resting there. Heavy. Warm. Possessive in a way she pretends she doesn’t mean. “That doesn’t make it untrue.”
You sit up a little more, studying her. Joan Ramsey looks immaculate even sitting on the couch at midnight—hair pinned perfectly, blouse buttoned high, the gold cross at her throat catching the lamplight.
Except her lipstick is gone. You kissed it off earlier. Your eyes drift to her mouth. Joan notices. Her breath changes. Just slightly. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she says, softer now. You tilt your head. “Like what?”
Joan finally looks at you then. Her gaze is dark. Tired. Something aching underneath it. “Like you trust me.” The words land heavy in the quiet room. You don’t pull away. Your hand slides slowly across the couch cushion until your fingers touch hers.
Joan inhales sharply. “You’re so young,” she says, voice rough now. “You had never even—” She stops. Her eyes flick down to your mouth again before she can help it. You squeeze her hand. “I wanted you.” Joan closes her eyes. Her thumb presses against your wrist like she’s checking your pulse. “You didn’t know what you were asking for.”
Your knee nudges between hers, gentle but stubborn. The way you always do when she starts drifting into guilt again. “Joan.” She shakes her head slowly. “I should have protected you.” Her hand moves suddenly, gripping your jaw with surprising firmness. Not harsh. Just… steady. Like she needs you to stay right where you are.
Her voice drops. “I should not have taken something that belonged to your husband someday.” You blink at her. Then you lean forward and kiss the corner of her mouth. It’s soft. Barely there. Joan freezes.
Your nose brushes her cheek when you whisper. “I think my husband would be very confused.” For a moment Joan just stares at you. And then—God help her—she laughs. Quiet. Disbelieving. The sound slipping out before she can stop it.
Her hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers curling there, pulling you closer again until your forehead rests against hers. Her voice drops to a whisper. “You are going to be the death of me.” Your lips brush hers again. Joan lets you. Just for a second.
Then she exhales shakily, pressing her forehead harder against yours. “Lord forgive me.” But her hand is already sliding down your spine. And she doesn’t stop.
Joan keeps her forehead against yours for a long moment after that. You can feel the way she’s breathing. Slow at first. Careful. Like she’s trying to bring herself back into something steady. Something respectable.
Her hand is still on the back of your neck. The house is so quiet you can hear the little ticking sound the lamp makes when it warms up. “Lord forgive me,” she murmurs again, softer this time.
But she doesn’t move away. Your nose brushes hers when you shift closer. You can feel the faint tremor in her fingers where they curl at the base of your skull. Joan Ramsey—perfect posture, iron discipline, the woman who scolds neighbors for gossip and corrects hymns when the choir sings off-key.
And right now she’s shaking a little. You whisper, barely a breath. “Joan.” Her eyes open. There’s something almost frightened in them. Not of you. Never of you. Of herself.
“You should go home,” she says again, though the words come out thin this time. “You shouldn’t be here with me this late.” You don’t move.
Your knee presses between hers again, the couch dipping slightly beneath your weight. Her skirt shifts with the motion, fabric pulling tight across her thighs. Joan notices. You can see the exact moment she does. Her breath stutters.
Her hand leaves your neck and drops between you both, resting on your wrist like she’s about to gently move you away. Instead she holds on. Herthumb drags slowly across the inside of your wrist, back and forth, back and forth. Feeling the pulse there.
“You don’t understand,” she says quietly. “You’re so young. I should be setting an example for you.” You tilt your head, watching her. “You do.” Joan lets out a small, helpless sound under her breath. Her hand tightens around yours.
For a second it looks like she’s about to pull your hand away from her entirely. Put space back between you. Do the right thing. Instead—she lifts your hand. Slowly.
Your brows knit together in surprise as she guides it across her knee, across the soft wool of her skirt. Her grip on you is firm now. Certain. Like the decision has already been made somewhere deep inside her. “Joan—”
“Hush.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it carries that familiar authority. Your hand reaches the hem of her skirt. Joan hesitates. You feel the pause in her fingers. The tremor that runs through them. Her eyes close. “God help me.”
Then she lifts the fabric. Just enough. And slides your hand underneath. The warmth hits your palm first. Joan inhales sharply the moment your skin meets hers, her head tipping back against the couch cushion. Her thighs press together around your wrist automatically, like her body already knows what it wants from you even while her mind fights it.
Your fingers curl instinctively. “Joan,” you whisper again, stunned. Her hand clamps over yours. Holding you there. Not letting you move yet. Not letting you pull away either. Her voice comes out rough now. “You see what you do to me.”
Her breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling beneath that perfectly buttoned blouse. The gold cross at her throat trembles with every breath. “You come in here with that sweet face and those big eyes,” she murmurs, almost accusing, “and you look at me like I’m something good.”
Her grip on your hand tightens again. “And then I forget everything I promised the Lord I would be.” She finally looks at you again. Her gaze drops to your mouth. “Move,” she whispers. The word is quiet.
But the way her hips shift slightly beneath your hand tells you she’s already waiting for you to obey.And when your fingers finally start to move—Joan gasps.Not like someone shocked. Like someone who’s been starving.
The room is quiet except for the sound of Joan breathing. Not steady anymore. Your hand had just started moving under her skirt when she suddenly grips your wrist and pulls you back. For a second you think you’ve done something wrong. “Joan—”
But she isn’t looking at you. She’s staring down at her lap, chest rising hard under the neat white blouse. The little gold cross at her throat lifts and falls with every breath. Her voice comes out low. Frayed. “I can’t—”
The words stop halfway. Her hands move to the zipper of her skirt. The sound is small in the quiet room. Metal sliding down. You watch her throat move when she swallows. Her fingers pause on the loosened waistband like she’s giving herself one last chance to stop. One last chance to be the woman she’s spent fifty years trying to be.
Instead she pushes the skirt down.
The fabric slides over her hips, down her thighs, bunching around her knees where she sits on the couch. Joan shifts a little, pushing it the rest of the way down with an impatient movement of her foot. Her legs are bare in the lamplight now. Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself.
Joan notices. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t tell you to look away. Her hands slip under the waistband of her panties next. “Lord forgive me,” she whispers. Then she pushes those down too.
They slide down her thighs and she kicks them aside with the same quiet urgency. For a moment she just sits there like that—blouse still buttoned to the collar, hair pinned neat, posture straight. Everything proper. Except the way her legs slowly open.
Your breath catches a little when you see her. The soft dark hair between her thighs, the heat of her in the lamplight. She’s already wet. You can see it glistening there. Joan watches your face. Her voice is quieter now. “Look at you.” Not scolding. Almost… wondering.
She reaches for your hand again and pulls you closer on the couch, your knee sliding between hers as she guides your wrist back where it had been. This time there’s nothing in the way. Your palm settles between her thighs. Joan gasps.
Her thighs close around your wrist immediately, warm and firm. Her head falls back against the couch cushion and for a second she just breathes through it. Your fingers move slowly at first. Feeling. She’s slick already, the heat of her soaking into your fingertips when you slide through her folds.
Joan makes a soft sound in the back of her throat. “Don’t—” But her hips lift slightly into your hand at the same time. Your thumb brushes her clit. Joan’s breath breaks. “Oh—” The sound slips out before she can stop it. Her hand flies to your wrist again, gripping tight, but instead of pulling you away she presses you harder against her.
Her voice is shaky now. “You shouldn’t know how to do this.” Your thumb circles her clit again. Joan’s body jerks. “Jesus—” She catches herself, biting the word off halfway, but it’s too late. Her thighs tighten around your arm as a shudder runs through her.
Your fingers slip lower. You feel her clench when you press inside her. Joan gasps again, louder this time, her head tipping forward as she grabs the back of the couch with her other hand. “Oh God—” The prayer doesn’t sound like a prayer anymore. Her hips start moving without her meaning them to. Slow at first, then a little more desperate as your fingers push deeper into her wet heat.
“You’re—” her voice breaks. “You’re so young.” Your thumb presses her clit again. Joan moans. A real one this time. Her forehead drops against yours when she leans forward, breath hot against your mouth, voice barely a whisper now. “This is what I meant,” she pants softly. “Corrupting you.” But she’s the one rocking against your hand now. Chasing the way your fingers move inside her.
Joan’s body keeps moving against your hand like she’s forgotten how to stop. Her breath is uneven now, little broken sounds slipping out every time your thumb drags across her clit. The couch creaks faintly under the shift of her hips.
She’s gripping your wrist hard with one hand. The other had flown up without her noticing. Now it’s clamped over her chest. Her fingers curl tight over her blouse, pressing into the soft weight of her breasts like she’s trying to hold herself together. The fabric wrinkles under her grip.
You feel it when she shudders. Your fingers move inside her again. Joan gasps. Her thighs squeeze around your arm and her head falls back against the couch cushion, throat exposed, the gold cross sliding against her skin as her chest lifts with another shaky breath.
“Lord… forgive—” The words dissolve when your thumb presses against her clit again. Her hand tightens over her breast. For a moment she just breathes like that, chest rising hard under the white blouse, her palm flattened over the curve of herself like she’s trying to hide the way her body is reacting.
But it’s useless. You can feel how wet she is. How her hips keep rocking into your hand without her telling them to. Joan lets out a quiet, frustrated sound. Then she suddenly sits up.
Your fingers still inside her make her gasp again, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead she releases your wrist and grabs the front of her blouse. Her hands shake a little as they find the buttons.
“Joan,” you murmur. She doesn’t look at you. Her eyes are fixed on her own hands as she starts undoing them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each button slips open quickly now, her breath hitching every time your thumb moves against her clit while she works. “You—” she swallows. “You make it impossible to think.” The last button comes undone. Joan pulls the blouse open.
The fabric falls loose around her shoulders, revealing the soft swell of her breasts pushed up by her bra beneath. Her chest is flushed now, pink spreading down from her throat. For a second she just looks down at herself like she can’t believe what she’s doing. Then she reaches behind her back. The clasp of her bra snaps open.
She pushes the straps off her shoulders and lets it fall away, the fabric sliding down her arms before dropping somewhere onto the couch. Now there’s nothing covering her. Her breasts settle free against her chest, full and soft, the lamplight catching the pale curve of them. Joan exhales slowly.
Your hand is still between her thighs. Her fingers find your wrist again and press your palm a little deeper against her pussy, like she needs the pressure. Then her other hand moves to her breast. This time she doesn’t cover herself. She touches.
Her fingers drag slowly over the soft weight of her tit before her thumb finds her nipple, already tight from the way she’s breathing. Joan inhales sharply when she squeezes it. Her head tips forward again, her forehead brushing yours. “You see?” she whispers hoarsely.
Your thumb circles her clit again. Joan shudders. Her hand tightens around her breast, squeezing harder as her hips rock into your hand. “This is what you do to me.” But she’s the one guiding your wrist again. The one pulling your fingers deeper inside her. The one pressing your palm harder against her clit while her other hand kneads slowly at her tit, breath falling apart against your mouth.
Joan is already trembling.
You can feel it around your fingers every time they move inside her. The heat of her. The way she keeps tightening and loosening again like her body can’t decide whether to pull you deeper or push you away.
Her blouse hangs open now, sleeves slipping down her arms, the fabric wrinkled from where she’d been grabbing at herself. Her breasts rise and fall hard with every breath, flushed across the tops.
One of her hands is wrapped around your wrist. Not stopping you. Holding you there. Your fingers push into her again, slow, feeling the slick warmth of her cunt close around them. Joan gasps. Her hips lift off the couch a little without her meaning them to.
“Oh—” The sound slips out of her throat before she can swallow it back. Your thumb drags across her clit. Joan’s whole body jerks. Her head falls back against the couch cushion and her thighs clamp around your arm, warm and tight, trapping your wrist between them.
“You—” she tries again, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t know how to—” Your thumb circles her clit again. Joan moans. A real one this time. Low and helpless, her mouth falling open as her hips start moving against your hand. Grinding. Chasing the pressure.
Your fingers curl deeper inside her pussy and she sucks in a sharp breath, her back arching slightly as her breasts lift with the motion. “Oh God.” Her hand tightens hard around your wrist now, but she’s pulling you closer, pushing your palm harder against her clit while her hips rock desperately against you.
You can feel how wet she is. Every time your fingers slide inside her there’s more of it, slick heat coating your knuckles while her cunt squeezes around you. “Jesus—” she gasps.
Your thumb presses down on her clit again. Joan’s voice breaks into a moan. Her other hand flies back to her breast, grabbing at it roughly now, fingers digging into the soft weight while her thumb drags over her nipple.
Her hips are moving faster. Not careful anymore. Not dignified. She’s practically fucking herself on your hand now, grinding down against your fingers while little broken sounds keep falling out of her throat. “Oh God— oh God—”
Your fingers push deeper. Joan gasps so sharply it almost turns into a sob. Her thighs squeeze hard around your arm as her whole body tightens. You can feel her clenching around your fingers now, her cunt gripping them every time your thumb rubs over her clit again.
“You’re going to make me—” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Your thumb presses firmly against her clit again and Joan’s hips jerk hard against your palm. “Oh—!” Her back arches off the couch. Her orgasm hits her all at once.
Her cunt clamps tight around your fingers as a loud, helpless moan tears out of her throat, her hand crushing around your wrist while her hips grind desperately against your palm. “God—!”
Her thighs shake around your arm as she comes, her body rocking weakly against your hand while her pussy pulses around your fingers again and again. She can’t stop moving.
Even as the first wave passes she’s still grinding down against your thumb, chasing the pressure on her clit while little breathless sounds spill out of her mouth.
“Oh God… oh God…” Her head drops forward against your shoulder when the tremors finally start to ease. Your fingers are still inside her. Still warm. Her breathing is ragged now, chest rising hard as she tries to catch her breath. One of her hands is still tangled around your wrist, the other resting weakly against her breast.
For a long moment she just sits there. Then she lets out a shaky exhale. “You see,” she murmurs hoarsely, forehead resting against yours. Her hips give one last slow, absentminded roll against your palm. “This is exactly what I meant.” Her voice drops softer. “You’re ruining me.”
Joan is still shaking a little when the room finally goes quiet again.
Your hand is still between her thighs. Her breath is slowly beginning to steady, though every now and then a small shiver runs through her body like the aftershock of something she still can’t quite believe she allowed to happen.
The lamp hums softly beside the couch. Joan exhales. Then she gently takes your wrist. Not pushing you away. Just guiding your hand out from between her legs. The movement makes her inhale sharply again, like she can still feel the ghost of your fingers there.
Her thighs close. For a moment she just sits like that—blouse open, skirt pooled around her knees, chest flushed pink all the way up to her throat. Her eyes drift toward the ceiling.
“Lord…” she murmurs quietly. You know that tone. You’ve heard it before. Joan pushes herself to her feet. She gathers her skirt and panties from the floor with quick, slightly flustered movements, pulling them back up her legs. Her blouse is still hanging open when she turns back toward you.
Her eyes soften immediately when she sees you watching her. “Come on,” she says gently. You follow her down the hallway. Joan’s house always feels especially quiet at night. The carpet muffles your steps, the faint scent of lavender soap drifting from the bathroom.
She pushes open the bedroom door. The room is neat the way everything in Joan’s house is neat. The bedspread smooth, pillows arranged carefully, the small wooden cross mounted above the headboard.
Joan pauses when she sees it. Her shoulders drop slightly. “I need to pray,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now. There’s no anger in it. No frustration. Just that familiar heaviness. You nod softly. “That’s okay.”
Joan glances back at you like she’s searching your face for judgment. When she doesn’t find any, something in her expression eases. She reaches out and brushes her hand over your arm. “Get ready for bed, sweetheart.” Then she turns toward the side of the bed. Joan kneels.
The motion is practiced, natural, the way someone moves who has done it every night for decades. Her knees settle onto the rug beside the mattress, hands clasping together in front of her. Her head bows. You quietly move around the room while she begins to pray.
The soft rustle of clothes fills the space as you slip out of yours, folding them loosely over the chair by the dresser. The room is warm, the sheets already turned down. Behind you, Joan’s voice murmurs low and steady. “…forgive me my sins…”
You slide into one of her sleep shirts hanging over the bedpost. It smells like her laundry soap. Like the faint trace of her perfume. Joan’s voice falters slightly. “…for the weakness of the flesh…” You glance over your shoulder.
She’s still kneeling beside the bed, head bowed, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles have turned pale. Her blouse is still unbuttoned from earlier, the fabric parted slightly at her chest as she breathes. “…for the temptation I have allowed into my home…”
You pull back the covers and slip beneath them, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. Joan continues praying. “…grant me strength…” Her voice trembles just slightly on the last word. The room goes quiet for a moment. Then she inhales slowly. “…and forgive the things I have done tonight.”
You watch her for a moment from the bed. The way her shoulders rise and fall. The way her hands are still clasped so tightly. Finally Joan makes the sign of the cross. Then she sits back on her heels. For a long second she doesn’t move. Then she turns her head slightly.
Her eyes find you in the bed. Your hair is already spilling across her pillow. Joan exhales softly. There’s still guilt in her expression. But there’s something warmer there too. She pushes herself up from the floor and walks toward the bed, her steps quiet across the rug.
“You’re still here,” she murmurs. You shift under the covers. “Of course I am.” Joan sits on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly beneath her weight. She looks down at you for a moment. Then she reaches out and gently brushes your hair back from your forehead.
Her voice is softer now. “I swear I try to be stronger than this.” But her thumb lingers against your cheek. And she doesn’t move away.
Joan stays sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment after the prayer ends. Her hands rest loosely in her lap now instead of clasped tight. The tension in her shoulders has softened, though the guilt hasn’t quite left her face.
You’re already under the covers. Curled slightly into her pillow. The soft cotton sleep shirt slipping a little off one shoulder while you watch her quietly. Joan notices. Her eyes linger. Then she clears her throat softly and stands.
“Alright,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Normally Joan’s nighttime routine is slow. Careful. Every step done the same way it has been for years. But tonight she moves differently. She steps out of her skirt quickly, letting it slide down to the floor beside the bed. The blouse is already open from earlier, so she slips it off her shoulders and drapes it over the chair instead of hanging it neatly in the closet the way she usually would.
Her bra follows a moment later. She moves toward the dresser, pulling out one of her nightgowns. You can tell she’s trying to act normal. But she keeps glancing over at the bed. At you. You’re watching her with your chin resting on the pillow. Waiting.
Joan exhales through her nose, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. “Stop that,” she says softly. You blink. “Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.” You shift slightly under the blankets. “How am I looking at you?” Joan shakes her head once as she pulls the nightgown over her head, the soft fabric settling down over her hips. “Like you know something.” You don’t answer.
She walks toward the bathroom to wash her face, but even that only takes a minute tonight. The faucet runs briefly, the soft sound of water in the quiet house. Usually she would brush her hair longer. Say another prayer. Tidy the dresser. Tonight she just pats her face dry with the towel and switches off the light.
When she comes back into the bedroom you’re still watching her. Joan pauses in the doorway. For a second she just takes in the sight of you tucked into her bed, her shirt hanging loosely on your frame. Then she shakes her head with a quiet breath. “You’re trouble.” But her voice is warm.
She turns down the lamp beside the bed until the room is dim and soft. Then she slides under the covers beside you. The mattress dips with her weight. For a moment she settles on her back, staring up at the ceiling like she’s trying very hard to behave. You shift closer. Your knee brushes her thigh. Joan exhales slowly.
Her hand moves automatically, resting against your waist under the blankets. “You should be asleep,” she murmurs. But her fingers are already starting to drift. Tracing slow circles against your hip like she’s been thinking about getting back into this bed ever since she started praying. Her voice drops softer.
“I told the Lord I would try to be good tonight.” Her thumb brushes your side. A quiet pause. Then she sighs. “…He knows I’m failing already.” Joan settles deeper into the mattress beside you. The room is dim now. Just the small lamp on her nightstand turned low, casting soft yellow across the bedspread and the wall with the cross above it.
You’ve already moved closer. Your knee slides over her thigh under the blankets, your head finding the familiar place against her shoulder. Joan’s arm wraps around you automatically, her hand resting at the small of your back. She exhales slowly.
“Alright,” she murmurs. Her voice has that soft, steady tone again. The one she uses when she prays out loud sometimes. Her eyes drift up toward the ceiling. You already know what she’s doing. Every night she says one more prayer once she’s in bed. And it’s always for you.
Her hand begins to move slowly over your back while she speaks. “Lord,” Joan begins quietly, her voice calm and low, “please watch over this girl.” Her fingers slide up your spine. You shift closer against her.
“…keep her safe,” she continues softly, “keep her gentle heart from harm…” Her palm settles between your shoulder blades. Then slowly begins drifting lower. You feel the moment her hand reaches the hem of the sleep shirt you’re wearing. Joan pauses. Just briefly.
“…guide her steps,” she murmurs. Her fingers slip beneath the fabric. Your breath changes slightly when her warm hand touches your bare skin underneath. Joan continues like nothing has happened.
“…protect her from those who might take advantage of her kindness…” Her hand slides slowly upward under the shirt, her palm warm against your back as her fingers spread across your ribs. You tilt your head up to look at her. Joan’s gaze is still lifted toward the ceiling. Still praying. But her thumb begins tracing slow circles against your skin.
“…give her wisdom,” she whispers. Her hand slides higher. The fabric of the sleep shirt begins to lift with the motion.
“…and patience…” The shirt bunches slowly upward along your back as Joan’s hand continues its quiet path, guiding the fabric with it. You watch her face. Her expression is peaceful. Almost reverent. But her fingers are steady as they gather more of the shirt in their grip.
“…and please, Lord,” she murmurs softly, her voice lowering just a little now, “help her forgive the woman who keeps leading her into temptation.” The shirt slides up over your ribs. Joan’s eyes finally lower. They meet yours. Her breath catches just slightly.
“…even when that woman loves her very much.” The last words come out quieter. Her hands move again. She gently lifts the shirt up over your chest, slowly pulling it over your head and tossing it aside onto the floor beside the bed. Now you’re bare under the blankets. Joan exhales softly. Her hand returns to your side, warm against your skin as her thumb drifts across your waist.
“…amen,” she finishes quietly. For a moment she just looks down at you in the low lamplight. Then her fingers begin moving again. Slow. Absentminded. Like her body kept going even after the prayer ended. Her voice drops softer. “You make it very difficult to be a good Christian.” But the way she pulls you closer under the blankets says she isn’t trying very hard tonight.
Joan stays very still for a moment after the prayer. Her hand is still resting on your side beneath the blankets, warm against your bare skin. The room has gone quiet again except for the soft rustle of sheets when you shift closer to her. She looks down at you.
Your hair is spread across her pillow. Your cheek pressed against her shoulder like it belongs there. Joan exhales slowly. “You know,” she murmurs, voice thoughtful in that soft, half-tired way she gets late at night, “tomorrow is Sunday.” You blink up at her. “Mm?”
Her thumb drifts slowly across your waist. “I can confess,” she says quietly. The words hang in the warm air between you. You watch her face as the thought settles into her mind. The way her brows knit for just a second… then slowly smooth again. Joan lets out a small breath through her nose.
“Well.” She shifts. Before you can ask what she means, Joan pulls the blankets back and slides lower in the bed. You lift your head slightly, confused at first as she moves down the mattress. “Joan?” She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she gently nudges your thighs apart beneath the covers, her hands warm on your legs as she settles between them. The sheets rustle softly as she pulls them back over both of you again.
Now she’s under the blankets with you. You feel her breath on the inside of your thigh. Joan exhales slowly. “You see what you’ve done to me,” she murmurs quietly into the dim warmth under the covers. Her voice is low and almost amused with herself now.
“All evening I’ve been praying for strength.” Her hands slide up your thighs. “…and here I am.” Your breath catches slightly when her thumbs trace the soft inside of your legs, gently encouraging them open for her. Joan’s head dips lower. Her voice drops softer. “But I suppose,” she murmurs, “the Lord already knows I’m a sinner.”
Then she leans in. The first touch of her mouth is slow. Warm. Her lips brush softly over your pussy like she’s savoring it, the way she always does when she lets herself forget her guilt for a little while. You inhale sharply when her tongue finally slides through your folds.
Joan hums quietly under the blankets. “Mmm.” Her hands settle firmly on your thighs, holding you open while she moves her mouth over you again—slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue that make your hips lift instinctively toward her. “You’re sweet,” she murmurs softly against you. The words vibrate against your clit.
Your back arches slightly into the mattress. Joan notices immediately. Her grip tightens just a little on your thighs as she pulls you closer, her mouth returning to your pussy with much less hesitation now. Her tongue presses firmly against your clit. You gasp.
Joan exhales warmly against you, clearly pleased with the sound. “There we are,” she murmurs. She takes her time after that. Long, slow licks through your folds, her tongue circling your clit in steady movements that make your hips start to shift restlessly under the blankets. Joan doesn’t rush. She never does.
Her mouth stays buried between your thighs, breathing you in between each slow stroke of her tongue while the quiet creak of the mattress and your soft breaths fill the dark bedroom. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs softly against your skin. Her tongue flicks over your clit again. “I’ll repent.” Then she presses a slow kiss to your pussy and dives back in.
Joan settles deeper under the blankets. Her hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open while her mouth moves slowly against you. The sheets shift softly around her shoulders every time she breathes. You can feel the warmth of her breath first. Then her tongue again. Slow. Careful.
Joan exhales quietly against you like she’s concentrating. “Mmm.” Your hips twitch. She notices immediately. Her grip on your thighs tightens just a little, steadying you while she drags her tongue through your folds again, slower this time. Deliberate. Like she’s learning the shape of you all over again.
You gasp softly. Joan hums. The sound vibrates right against your clit. Your back arches into the mattress before you can help it. Joan pauses just long enough to murmur something under her breath. “Good Lord.” But she doesn’t stop. If anything, she seems more focused now.
Her tongue slides over your clit again, firm and steady, then back down through your pussy before circling slowly upward again. Not rushed. Not messy. Controlled. Your breath is already starting to break apart above her. It doesn’t match the woman kneeling in church every Sunday morning. Or the one who prays before every meal.
But between your thighs—Joan Ramsey knows exactly what she’s doing. Her tongue presses flatter against your pussy now, licking slowly through the slick warmth there before she focuses back on your clit again. A slow circle. Another. Then a soft flick that makes your hips jerk.
Joan exhales a quiet laugh against your skin. “Well,” she murmurs. Her voice is slightly muffled under the blankets, warm against your thighs. “I may not have much practice.” Her tongue drags slowly over your clit again. “But I pay attention.”
Your breath catches sharply. Joan hums again, clearly pleased with the reaction. Her hands slide slightly higher up your thighs now, thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin there as she pulls you a little closer to her mouth. And then she really settles in.
Her tongue moves in slow, steady circles over your clit now—never quite the same rhythm twice. Sometimes slower, sometimes firmer, sometimes flattening before flicking lightly across the sensitive tip again.
Your hips start moving. Not even on purpose. Just following her. Joan notices that too. Her grip tightens again, holding you steady as she murmurs quietly against you. “Easy, sweetheart.” But the way she presses her tongue harder against your clit right after says she’s enjoying this far too much to stop you.
Your breathing is getting louder now. Shorter. The mattress creaks faintly when your hips lift again. Joan hums softly, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your body. “You see,” she murmurs lazily against your pussy. Her tongue drags through your folds again. “…this is why I shouldn’t start.” Another slow circle of her tongue over your clit. Because once she does—Joan doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping anytime soon.
Joan keeps her hands steady on your thighs. At first she’d been careful. Slow. Controlled in that deliberate way she does everything. But the longer she stays between your legs, the less careful she becomes.
Your hips won’t stay still anymore. They keep lifting off the mattress every time her tongue drags across your clit, every time she presses deeper between your folds. The sheets rustle under you, the bed creaking faintly with the movement.
Joan doesn’t try to stop you now. In fact—she seems to like it. Her fingers tighten slightly where they hold your thighs open, keeping you right where she wants you while your hips shift restlessly against her mouth. “Mm.” The sound is low and pleased.
Your pussy is slick now. You can feel it every time her tongue moves, the wet heat spreading between your legs and onto the sheets beneath you. Joan breathes you in. Her tongue slides slowly through the mess of it, gathering everything before she circles back up to your clit again. Your hips jerk.
Joan exhales a quiet laugh against your skin. “Well,” she murmurs softly, her voice warm and slightly breathless under the blankets. Her thumb presses lightly into your thigh as your hips try to move again. “You certainly aren’t shy.” Your back arches. Joan’s tongue presses flatter against you, licking slowly through your folds again. There’s no neatness to it anymore—her mouth moving through the slick warmth between your legs while the sound of it fills the small space under the covers. Wet. Unhurried.
Your hips roll helplessly against her mouth. Joan hums again. The vibration hits your clit and your whole body shudders. “Oh—” you breathe. She notices everything. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips keep lifting. The way the sheets beneath you are getting damp.
Joan pulls back just slightly, just enough to look up the length of your body from between your thighs. Her lips are wet. There’s a shine of it on her chin now too. Her eyes soften when she sees how you’re breathing. Then she leans right back in. This time there’s no hesitation at all.
Her tongue moves deeper through your folds again, slow and thorough, spreading the slick warmth there before returning to your clit with a firm press that makes your hips jerk upward again. Joan laughs quietly against you. “Goodness.”
Her hands slide a little higher up your thighs now, steadying you when your hips move again. “You’re making quite a mess.” But she doesn’t sound bothered. If anything, she seems more focused now.
Her tongue moves steadily over your clit again, slow circles that make your hips start rocking helplessly against her mouth while her spit mixes with the wet warmth between your legs. The sound of it is unmistakable. Soft. Messy.
Joan exhales another warm breath against you. “Alright,” she murmurs quietly. Her grip tightens slightly on your thighs as your hips lift again. “Go ahead.” Her tongue presses firmly against your clit again. “I’ve got you.” And she keeps going, slow and patient, completely unbothered by the way you’re soaking the sheets beneath you.
Joan keeps her mouth right where it is.
Your hips are already restless above her, shifting against the mattress every time her tongue circles your clit again. The sheets beneath you are warm and damp now, the quiet rustle of fabric filling the dim bedroom along with your uneven breathing.
Joan doesn’t rush. She never does. Her hands stay firm on your thighs while her tongue moves steadily between your folds, gathering the slick warmth there before returning to your clit again. Slow. Focused. Your breath breaks apart above her. “Joan—”
Your hips lift again and she hums softly against you, the vibration sending a sharp spark through your stomach. “There we are,” she murmurs quietly. Your thighs tremble around her shoulders now. She can feel it. Joan presses her tongue firmly against your clit again and your whole body tenses. Your back arches. The sound that leaves your throat is breathless and shaky as the orgasm finally hits you.
Joan doesn’t move away. She keeps her hands steady on your thighs while your hips jerk helplessly against her mouth, your body tightening and shaking through it. Your pussy clenches, slick and warm against her tongue. Joan hums again, slow and pleased, letting you ride it out while the last little tremors run through your body.
Only when your hips finally settle back against the mattress does she pull away. The blankets shift as she slides back out from between your legs. Joan exhales softly as she sits up. Her hair has come slightly loose around her face now. There’s a faint flush across her cheeks, her lips still damp.
She reaches up to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she glances down at the bed. And pauses. “Well.” You’re still lying there catching your breath when you see the expression on her face. Joan lifts the corner of the sheet slightly between two fingers.
The damp spot is unmistakable. She sighs. Not annoyed. Just… resigned. “Sweetheart.” Her voice has slipped back into that gentle, practical tone she uses when something needs to be handled. “You’ve soaked the sheets.” You blink up at her, still a little dazed. Joan pushes herself off the mattress with a small groan of effort. “Come on.” You watch her walk around to your side of the bed, tugging lightly at the blankets. “Up you go.”
“Joan,” you mumble, still half sunk into the pillow. She gives you a look. Not harsh. Just very firm. “You are not sleeping in that,” she says, gesturing toward the damp patch with a small shake of her head. She pulls the blankets back further, nudging your shoulder gently. “Up.”
You slowly sit up, hair messy, still warm and loose from the orgasm. Joan’s expression softens slightly when she sees your face. But she still motions toward the edge of the bed. “Just for a minute,” she says. You climb out of the bed reluctantly while Joan starts stripping the sheets with quick, efficient movements.
The mattress springs creak softly as she pulls the fitted sheet loose. “You know,” she mutters under her breath as she gathers the damp fabric into a bundle. “I try to behave myself.” She tosses the sheet toward the laundry basket. Then she looks back at you standing there sleepily beside the bed. “And this is what happens.” But there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she pulls fresh sheets from the dresser.
Joan moves around the bed with quiet efficiency.
The old sheet is already bundled in her arms. She drops it into the laundry basket in the corner with a soft thump and comes back to the mattress, shaking out a clean one with a practiced snap of her wrists.
The fabric settles across the bed. You’re standing beside her, still a little unsteady, the sleep shirt gone somewhere on the floor. The room feels cooler now that you’re out from under the blankets.
Joan smooths one corner of the sheet over the mattress. Then she feels it. Your arms sliding slowly around her waist from behind. You press your cheek between her shoulder blades. Warm. Soft. Still a little sleepy. Joan exhales through her nose. “Sweetheart.”
Your hands rest loosely against her stomach while she tries to tuck the sheet under the mattress. “You are not helping.” But you don’t move. You just lean into her, your weight settling against her back while your arms tighten slightly around her middle.
Joan pauses. For a second she just stands there with the corner of the sheet still in her hand. Then she sighs. “You made the mess,” she murmurs, though there’s no real scolding in it now. Her free hand reaches back, covering one of yours where it rests against her stomach. “And now you’re clinging to me.”
You mumble something soft against her back. Joan doesn’t quite catch it. But she feels the way your nose brushes the back of her neck. Her shoulders relax. “Alright,” she says quietly. Then she goes back to making the bed. You stay wrapped around her the whole time.
Every time she moves to the other side of the mattress you shuffle along with her, arms still around her waist, cheek still pressed against her back like you might fall asleep standing up. Joan shakes the comforter out over the sheets. “You know,” she murmurs, “most people wait until the bed is finished before they start climbing on me.”
You squeeze her a little tighter. Joan smiles faintly to herself. She finishes smoothing the blanket down and turns around carefully inside your arms. Now you’re the one leaning into her. Your forehead presses lightly against her collarbone. Joan lifts one hand and smooths your hair back gently.
Joan finishes smoothing the blanket over the mattress. Everything is neat again. Fresh sheets tucked tight, the comforter pulled up evenly, the pillows fluffed the way she likes them.
You’re already swaying a little beside her, half-asleep on your feet. Joan notices. “Alright,” she murmurs softly. Her hand finds your arm and guides you gently back toward the bed. “Back in.” You climb under the covers immediately, curling into the warm space she left behind. The fresh sheets feel cool against your skin at first, but the mattress still holds the faint warmth from before.
Joan switches off the lamp. The room falls into darkness except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside the window. The mattress dips as she climbs in beside you. Before she can even settle, you move. Your arm slides across her waist and your leg drapes loosely over hers, pulling yourself close like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Joan exhales softly. “Of course,” she murmurs. Her hand comes up to rest against your back, fingers spreading slowly between your shoulder blades. You press your face against her chest. Joan settles deeper into the pillow, one arm wrapped around you now, holding you comfortably against her while the quiet of the house settles back in around you.
For a few moments neither of you speak. Your breathing is already evening out. Joan’s fingers move slowly through your hair. “You know,” she says quietly into the dark, “I have church at eight.” You make a sleepy sound. Joan smiles faintly even though you can’t see it. “Yes,” she murmurs. “That means you too.”
Your arm tightens around her waist. She sighs softly. “I don’t know why I bother telling you,” she adds under her breath. But her hand keeps moving gently through your hair. The room grows quieter. Your breathing deepens against her chest, your body going heavier as sleep finally pulls you under.
Joan stays awake a little longer. Her eyes drift toward the faint outline of the cross on the wall above the bed. She exhales slowly. “Lord,” she murmurs quietly. Her arm tightens slightly around you. “…I’ll explain in the morning.”
Then she presses a soft kiss into your hair. And eventually she falls asleep too. Morning will come early. And you will absolutely be sitting beside Joan Ramsey in the front pew, looking far too pleased with yourself while she tries very hard to focus on the sermon.
Hey so I’m lowkirkenuinley new here and was wondering if you do any fics on Liza Minnelli? I’m also a Patti fan but I was just wondering if there was anything about Liza here. 💔💔💔
Also your writing is awesome! :)
Hi new anon! I will write for pretty much anyone as long as I know who she is, so I can definitely write for Liza! You can send me another ask if you have a specific idea and I’ll add it to my list, if not I’ll just come up with something. And thank you so much!!!
Summary: Marjorie Merriweather Post has everything—money, power, Mar-a-Lago, and half of Washington in her pocket. What she enjoys most, however, is the girl on her arm.
Warnings: Older Woman/Younger Woman, kept girl, Sugar mommy, fingering, drug use, Dry Humping, Day drinking
AO3
AN: This isn’t the greatest, but I hope yall enjoy! And I went a little over board on the em dashes, oops
You’re in her bedroom again. Late afternoon light slipping through the gauzy curtains, warm and gold, settling over the carpet like dust you’re not supposed to notice. The air always smells faintly of her perfume—violet, powder, something expensive you could never name on your own.
She’s sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair in long, unhurried strokes. You’re on the edge of her bed in one of her slips—silk, pale peach, scandalously soft. She bought it for you last week. She buys you everything. Clothes, jewelry, a place to sleep. A life you couldn’t have imagined until she took your chin in her gloved hand that first night and told you she wanted to take care of you.
“Come here, darling,” she says, voice low but crisp, the way every woman in Palm Beach wishes she could sound.
You stand, the hem of the slip catching on your thigh as you cross the room. She watches your legs, the sway of your hips. She always watches. Her eyes linger like touch.
When you reach her, she sets the brush down and lets her fingertips graze the inside of your arm. Slow. Deliberate. She doesn’t have to rush—no one ever tells Marjorie Merriweather Post to hurry.
“You look lovely today,” she murmurs. “My little treasure.” Your breath snags, just a little. She knows what that nickname does to you. Maybe that’s why she uses it now.
Her hand drifts upward, smoothing the strap of your slip where it’s slipped off your shoulder. She fixes it carefully, like she’s dressing you for a gala instead of sitting you down to ruin you on her velvet chaise.
“Did you rest well?” she asks. She knows you slept in her bed this morning, curled against her while she read the society pages. You nod. She tilts her head, studying you. “Good. I want you soft when I touch you.”
You feel it then—a slow heat blooming low in your stomach, spreading through your hips. She never has to raise her voice to make you tremble. Her thumb strokes your jaw, gentle, intimate. “You know,” she says, “there are women in this town who would kill to be in your place. Under my roof. Wearing my things.” She leans in, lips brushing your cheek, your ear. “In my hands.”
The slip suddenly feels too thin, your skin too exposed. Her mouth skims your throat, not quite kissing, just close enough to make your knees weaken. “Marjorie…” you whisper. She smiles against your skin. “Lie back on the bed, sweetheart.”
Your body moves before your mind catches up. You sink onto the cool, perfectly made covers, the satin beneath you whispering as you settle. Marjorie rises from her seat with the grace of someone born into money—shoulders straight, steps assured. She doesn't look rushed or hungry. She looks like a woman who already owns what she’s about to take.
She stands at the foot of the bed, fingertips grazing the edge of the mattress. Her gaze sweeps over you slowly, appreciatively, claiming you inch by inch.
“Open your legs for me.” Your breath hitches. The room goes quiet except for the soft thrum of the ceiling fan. You part your thighs, heat pooling there, waiting for her. Her smile deepens—pleased, indulgent, a woman admiring something she purchased and cherishes.
“That’s it,” she says softly. “Let me see what’s mine.” You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on the way she’s leaning over you now, one hand braced beside your hip, the other smoothing down the inside of your thigh like she’s calming a skittish animal. Her perfume settles around you, warm and powdery, the kind that clings to sheets for days.
Then her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties—lace, delicate, something she bought on Worth Avenue. She tugs, slow enough to make your breath catch but firm enough that you know she isn’t asking. “Lift for me, darling.”
You do. You always do. The silk slip slides up your stomach as she pulls the panties down your legs, taking her time, watching every inch of skin she reveals. When they’re off, she doesn’t set them aside. She doesn’t even look like she might.
She brings them to her lips first, brushing a soft kiss against the fabric, eyes half-lidded like she’s savoring something she hasn’t eaten yet. You feel heat spark low in your belly. “Marjorie…” She hushes you with a finger against your knee. “Shh, sweetheart. Let me enjoy my spoils.” Then—she folds the panties once, twice, neat as a socialite laying out linen napkins, and slips them straight into her bra. Tucks them carefully against her breast like they belong there. Like you belong there.
“You always smell sweetest in the morning,” she says, fingertips grazing the outline of the fabric beneath her dress. “I like to keep a reminder close.” You swallow, the air suddenly thick. “You wear them all day?” you ask, voice small. Her smile is slow and wicked. “Of course I do. Through breakfast. Through charity meetings. Through luncheons with those insufferable women.” She taps her fingers lightly over her left cup, right where she placed you. “You sit right here while I smile at everyone else.”
Your thighs press together on instinct, but she catches them before they close. Her palms slide up the insides, urging you open again. “No,” she murmurs. “Not when I’ve just taken something from you. Not when you’ve made me this greedy.”
Her thumb strokes dangerously close to where you’re already warm, already aching. She looks down at you like she’s deciding what to take next. “Do you know what I think about,” she says softly, “every time I feel that little piece of lace against my skin?” You can barely breathe. “What?”
She leans in until her mouth is at your ear, her breath warm and deliberate. “I think about how wet you were when I pulled them off.” Her hand slides higher. “And how much wetter you’re going to get for me now.”
You can’t help it. Not with the way she’s looking at you. Not with your panties warm against her breast like a secret she plans to keep forever. Your legs are already parted for her, your hips lifting toward her hand every time she so much as grazes your skin.
“Margie…” You swallow hard, your voice thin with need. “Margie, please.” She hums, amused, trailing her knuckles up the soft inside of your thigh. She never rushes. Never gives anything before she hears exactly what she wants.
“Please what, darling?” Her hand is so close now it aches. “You’ll have to use your words.” Your breath shudders. She knows how hard it is for you to say it. That’s why she waits. “Please touch me,” you whisper. “Down there.”
She lifts her brows slightly, the faintest show of pleasure at your desperation. “Down where?” Heat blooms under your skin. Your hips tilt toward her again, helpless, needy. “My clit,” you say, the word trembling out of you. “Please rub my clit, Margie. I need you.”
Her smile is slow, indulgent—devastating. “There it is,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over the crease of your hip. “My sweet girl asking so nicely.” You feel the bed dip as she shifts closer. Her hand finally slips between your legs, fingers gliding through the warmth there, and she exhales like she’s been waiting all day for this. “Oh,” she breathes, almost to herself, “you’re already soaking.”
Your eyes flutter shut, your body arching into her touch. But she doesn’t rub yet. Not where you’re begging. She circles just below, just above, teasing the edges of the wanting she’s built in you. “Margie—”
“Hush,” she says gently, her free hand settling on your stomach to hold you still. “Let me enjoy you for a moment.” You whimper, hips shifting under her palm. “Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking. “Please, Margie, I need you to touch my clit. Please.”
Her thumb finally slides up—slow, deliberate—and presses exactly where you’ve been aching for her. Your breath breaks. “There,” she says softly, watching your face as she begins to stroke. “Is that what my girl wanted?” The rhythm is steady, confident, the kind of touch only a woman who has everything would dare to give—unhurried, sure of the effect she has on you. Your legs tremble. Your hands clutch the sheets.
“Good,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss your throat while her thumb circles you again. “Now don’t you dare look away from me while I make you cum.”
She’s touching you softly—slow, steady circles on your clit that make your whole body feel loose and hot—but when she leans down and catches your mouth with hers, everything in you goes weak. Her lips are soft but sure, tasting faintly of her afternoon cocktail, warm from the Florida sun that still clings to her skin. She kisses the way she touches—unhurried, deliberate, like she plans to savor every sound you make.
Your hands find her shoulders, fingers twisting in the silk of her dress as you kiss her back. She deepens it just a little, her tongue brushing yours, her breath mixing with yours as her fingers slide lower. She cups your whole pussy in her hand, palm warm, fingers parting you gently. Up and down, slow strokes that drag through every tender, sensitive place. Not rushed. Not even close. Just lazy, lavish motion that spreads you open for her and makes your hips rise toward her touch.
“Good girl,” she murmurs against your mouth, kissing you again before you can answer. Her thumb sweeps over your clit, soft and careful, while her fingers slip lower to stroke the soaked heat between your folds. “You always get so wet when I touch you like this.” You gasp into her kiss. She swallows the sound greedily.
Her hand moves again—up, down, circling, exploring. She covers every inch of you, rubbing slow and wide, not focusing on one spot so much as claiming all of you at once. It’s overwhelming in the way soft things can be. The way wanting can curl through you like heat rising in a room.
You break the kiss for air, but she chases your lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, then your mouth again. Her free hand comes up to cup your jaw, holding you steady while she kisses you deeper. “M-Margie…” Your voice trembles into her mouth.
She answers by sliding her middle finger through your slick heat, dragging it up over your clit in one long, perfect stroke that makes your back arch. “There it is,” she whispers, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring the way you melt. “That’s what I like. My girl getting so soft for me.”
Her hand keeps moving. Slow, deep pressure of her palm. Lazy circles with her thumb. Gentle strokes through your folds that leave you trembling and open and desperate for more. You kiss her harder, almost frantic, and she smiles into it—pleased, steady, in complete control as she keeps rubbing you exactly the way she wants.
“Let me feel you,” she murmurs against your lips. “All of you. Nice and slow.” Her fingers slide lower again, stroking the entrance of your tight, wet heat, teasing, barely dipping inside before gliding back up to rub your clit with the same maddening, perfect pace.
You can feel yourself shaking. You can feel her enjoying every second of it. Her mouth stays on yours, but the sweetness in her kiss shifts—sharpens—right as her fingers drag up through your slick and press down on your clit again. Slow, deliberate, but with an edge now. The Marjorie edge.
She pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. The kind of gaze that makes your stomach flip because you know she’s about to say something that’ll make you melt and burn at the same time. “Look at you,” she murmurs, her thumb circling lazily over your clit. “Already shaking. I’ve barely touched you.”
Heat rushes through your cheeks. She sees it. She enjoys it. She leans in, her lips brushing yours without giving you another kiss. “Are you really this easy, sweetheart? This desperate? I take your panties and suddenly you’re begging me to rub your little pussy?”
Your breath catches. She smiles—slow, triumphant, cruel in the softest, richest way. “Pathetic,” she says gently, like she’s complimenting your dress. “My pretty little thing falling apart the moment I lay a hand on her.” Her palm presses more firmly between your legs, rubbing you in slow, indulgent circles that make your hips lift off the bed. She clicks her tongue.
“Oh, don’t do that. You look ridiculous,” she scolds softly, pushing your hips back down with her other hand. “Let me control it.” You whimper, and she gives a breathy, amused laugh. “There she is. My spoiled little girl.” Her fingers glide lower, stroking through your folds, teasing the opening before sweeping back up. “Living under my roof, wearing my clothes, eating my food… and spreading her legs anytime I want.”
She tilts your chin up with two fingers, her eyes narrowing with pleasure at how quickly you obey. “You know why I keep you, don’t you?” Her hand slides up again—slow, indulgent pressure on every sensitive place—and your body arches helplessly. “That’s right,” she purrs. “Because you’re useful to me. Because you make those pathetic little sounds when I touch you right here…”
She presses her thumb down on your clit again, slower, deeper, and your breath breaks. “Good girl.” Her voice drops, silk over steel. “Now open your mouth and kiss me like you understand who you belong to.”
Her thumb is still circling your clit—too slow, too careful, just enough to keep your breath hitching without giving your body anything real to hold on to. She watches every twitch in your thighs, every shaky inhale, amused like she’s studying a toy she’s already grown tired of.
Then she slides her hand lower. Just one finger. She presses it against your entrance, slick and warm, and pushes in with a single smooth, unhurried motion. Not deep. Not hard. Just enough. You gasp, hips lifting, desperate for her to give you more, but she immediately plants her other hand on your stomach, pinning you to the mattress.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to fuck yourself on my hand.” You freeze, trembling. She smiles—slow, cruel, satisfied. “That’s better.” Her finger moves—barely. A shallow, teasing curl inside you, just enough pressure to make you whimper. Just enough to send heat pooling low in your belly. But nothing close to what your body needs.
“You’re so easy,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth. Her finger pushes in a tiny bit deeper, then retreats, then slides in again with that same maddening gentleness. “One finger and you’re already falling apart.”
“Margie, please—”
“Don’t beg,” she says, cutting you off like she’s bored. “It’s unbecoming.” Her thumb finds your clit again, slow circles that are just wrong enough—too soft, too steady—that you feel your body tightening helplessly around her finger, the pleasure building without direction, without relief. “Oh? Feeling close already?” She tilts her head, pretending to care. “How embarrassing for you.”
Your hips try to chase her again, instinctive, frantic, and she pushes you down harder. “No,” she repeats. “You’ll cum exactly the way I decide.” Her finger keeps moving—shallow pushes, barely curling, rhythm just steady enough to drag your body toward climax but never enough to let you fall cleanly into it. Her thumb keeps circling, slow and deliberate, building pressure that has nowhere to go.
Your stomach tightens. Your breath breaks. “Mar—Margie…”
“Oh, look at you,” she coos, watching your face as your body tenses. “You’re going to come like this? On one finger and a half-hearted rub?” You whimper, right at the edge—right there—and she doesn’t speed up. She doesn’t deepen it. She doesn’t give you anything more than those infuriating, lazy circles and that barely-there finger.
“Go on,” she whispers. “Make a mess for me.” You cum—hard but hollow, pleasure snapping through you with nowhere to land. Your hips jolt, your breath stutters, your body clenches around her finger, but it’s thin, unsatisfying, leaving you shaking with frustration even as your orgasm spills through you.
She watches the whole thing with a smug, indulgent smile. “That’s all you get,” she says softly, slipping her finger out and tapping your overstimulated clit once—sharp enough to make you gasp. “A pretty little ruined orgasm for my pretty little pet.” She strokes your thigh dismissively and stands. “If you want something better,” she adds, adjusting her dress, “you’ll have to earn it next time.”
You try to slip away. Just enough to stand, just enough to make it to the dresser where your fresh panties are folded—because she ruined the last pair and then stole them, and now your thighs are damp, your body still twitching with the ghost of that hollow climax she forced out of you.
You barely get two steps before you feel her behind you. Her presence first. Then her hands. Both palms slide over your hips, pulling you back against her with a soft, greedy sound in her throat. Her body fits against yours like she’s molding you into place, her breath warm against the back of your neck. “Where,” she murmurs, lips brushing your skin, “do you think you’re going?”
“I—I need a new pair,” you breathe. “Panties.” She laughs under her breath. You feel it against your spine. “No, you don’t.” Her hands glide lower, over the curve of your ass, squeezing like she’s been waiting all afternoon to touch you there. Her rings press lightly into your skin, cool and deliberate.
You try to step forward anyway. Her grip tightens. “Don’t you dare walk away from me,” she says, voice shifting into that sharp, spoiled drawl she uses when the maid gets the luncheon table setting wrong. “Not when you’re still this warm.” She ruts against you then—slow, controlled, her hips grinding into your backside like she isn’t even aware she’s doing it. But she is. She’s very aware. The soft fabric of her dress drags over your skin, the pressure of her body rocking into you with hungry insistence. “Margie—”
“I should’ve taken these off you myself,” she says, squeezing your ass again. “Look at you. Can’t even walk straight after one pathetic orgasm.” You grip the edge of the dresser to steady yourself as she keeps grinding, her breath growing a little uneven, her hands spreading your cheeks wider so she can press herself harder against you.
“You were going to cover this up?” she says, voice dropping, almost offended. “Hide this perfect little ass from me?”
“I just—I needed—” She cuts you off by pulling your hips back sharply into hers, dragging a soft moan out of your mouth before you can bite it back. “That’s what you need,” she says against your neck. “My hands. My body. Not another pair of panties you’re just going to soak through for me.”
Her hips keep moving—slow, rhythmic, entirely in control—dry-humping you like she’s taking something from you with every roll forward. Her breath gets heavier, the hand on your waist holding you still while the other wanders lower, slipping between your thighs again just to feel how messy you already are.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, her lips brushing your ear. “You’re dripping. And you thought I was going to let you cover this up?” You try again to reach for the drawer, fingers trembling on the handle. She grabs your wrist and presses it flat to the dresser. “No panties,” she says, her hips grinding deeper. “Not today.” Her voice lowers, wicked and sure. “I want you bare for me. All afternoon.”
Her grinding changes—barely, but you feel it. A tighter pull in her hips, a sharper roll forward, her breath catching just a little against your neck. It’s the first sign she’s losing her composure, and it hits you like a jolt.
Because Marjorie Merriweather Post doesn’t lose anything. Not control. Not poise. Not a single inch of herself. Except now—against your ass—she’s trembling.
“God…” she mutters, almost under her breath, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Her hips press harder, the smooth fabric of her dress dragging between your bodies, her panties catching on the curve of you as she ruts again. And again. Slow, needy, almost frantic beneath all that polish.
You feel her chest rise behind you—sharp, shallow breaths she can’t hide. Her hand claws at your waist, pulling you flush against her like she’s trying to grind deeper than physics will allow. Her other hand slips higher, gripping your shoulder, steadying herself because her legs are starting to shake.
“Don’t move,” she commands, but her voice is thin, breathless. “Stay right there—God, stay still—”
You feel how wet she is even through the layers of silk and lace, the heat of her pressed tight to you as she pushes her hips forward in short, desperate rolls. She’s not doing her usual slow, orchestrated teasing—it’s instinct now, hunger, her body chasing friction with embarrassing need. And she knows it. She buries her face in your neck, breath hot and shaky. “I don’t—” She grinds down harder, a helpless little moan slipping out of her throat. “I don’t usually—lose myself like this—”
Her fingers dig into your hips as she thrusts again, a shudder running all the way up her spine. “Your ass,” she breathes, half moan, half accusation. “You have no idea what you do to me.” You open your mouth to speak, but she cuts you off with a broken sound—her hips stuttering, her whole body going taut behind you.
“Don’t—don’t say a word,” she gasps. “Just let me—let me—” She ruts against you one last time, harder than before, her thighs tightening around you as she cums in her panties. A sharp, shaky cry catches in her throat as she clutches you, grinding through it, soaking the expensive lace she’s pressed so desperately against your body.
Her forehead rests on your shoulder, her breath warm and trembling, her hips giving one final slow roll as she rides the last wave of it out. A quiet, shaky laugh slips from her lips—humiliated, triumphant, breathless. “Oh, sweetheart…” she murmurs, kissing the back of your neck with a ruined kind of affection. “You just made me cum in a pair of French silk panties I imported from Paris.”
Her hand slides down your hip, possessive, still trembling slightly. She stays slumped against you for a moment, catching her breath—her body still giving those tiny aftershocks she’d never admit to. Then she straightens, smoothing her dress as if she hadn’t just rutted against you like a woman starved.
Her panties are visibly damp through the silk, clinging to her. She doesn’t bother hiding it. Instead, she smiles—a lazy, satisfied, wicked little smile—and pats your hip like you’re a good pet who’s just performed a trick. “Well,” she drawls, voice still trembling at the edges, “I certainly needed that.”
She steps away from you, crossing the room with the loose, languid gait of a woman freshly relieved. Her hand goes straight to the cigarette case on her vanity—mother-of-pearl, gold trim—one she only uses after sex or stress, and the former is clearly the case now.
She plucks a cigarette from the case, balances it between her lips, and lights it with the practiced flick of her wrist. The first inhale is deep, greedy. She tilts her head back, exhaling a slow ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. “God,” she sighs, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You really do make my afternoons worth living.”
Her free hand slips to her hip, then lower—absently pressing the damp fabric of her ruined panties against herself. Her fingers dip briefly along the soaked seam, and she smiles again, smug and pleased with the mess she’s made.
“You should see yourself,” she murmurs, cigarette dangling elegantly between two fingers as she reaches for the liquor tray on her dresser. “Standing there like you’re still catching up to me.” She pours herself a drink—bourbon, just a finger or two—and knocks back the first sip with the softest moan of satisfaction.
“Mm.” Another drag of her cigarette. Another slow exhale. “That’s better.” She looks you over as she drinks, her gaze lazy and predatory at the same time. Her cheeks are still flushed; her hair slightly mussed. She looks decadent. Ruined. Beautiful.
And then she smirks. “Come here.” She crooks a finger at you. “I want you close while I enjoy myself.” You step toward her, and she pulls you between her knees as she sits on the vanity stool. One hand settles on the back of your thigh. The other holds her drink.
She takes another sip, eyes half-lidded. “You know,” she murmurs, her thumb idly stroking the inside of your leg, “a woman like me should not be coming in her panties like some lovesick schoolgirl.”
She takes one more drag, blowing smoke out slow—right against your bare stomach. “But you make me very… undignified.” Her hand drifts higher on your thigh. “Finish my drink with me,” she says softly. “Then I’ll decide what I want from you next.”
She finishes the last sip of her bourbon, presses the rim of the glass to her bottom lip like she’s thinking, then stands—slow, elegant, still flushed from coming in her panties.
“Get dressed,” she says, reaching for her purse and cigarette holder. “We’re going out. I want a drink that isn’t from my own damn tray.” You blink. “Out… drinking?”
“Day drinking,” she corrects, fastening a bracelet at her wrist. “The only kind worth doing. Palm Beach is dreadful in the afternoons unless you’re pleasantly drunk.”
She moves through the room with purpose—fixing her hair in the mirror, sliding on her sunglasses, adjusting the fall of her dress even though it still clings damp between her thighs. She doesn’t seem bothered. She’s almost proud of it.
Then she turns. Her gaze sweeps over you. No softness. Just pure, imperious heat. “Before we go,” she says lightly, “show me your tits.” Your breath catches. “Margie—”
“Don’t stall.” She walks toward you, heels clicking, voice soft but cutting. “I want a good look before I take you into public. I need to know what I’m protecting from the other vultures.” You hesitate for half a second—just half—and she sees it. Her eyebrows lift, amused, knowing.
“What,” she murmurs, stepping close enough that her perfume envelops you, “are you shy all of a sudden? After you begged me to touch your pussy on my bed?” Her fingers trail down your arm, slow, taunting. “After you let me rut myself to climax all over you like a woman starved?”
You swallow hard. “That’s what I thought,” she says with a little smirk. You reach for the straps of your slip. She stops you with a single, sharp gesture of her hand. “No. Let me.” She steps behind you, her hands sliding over your shoulders, fingertips brushing the straps before easing them down your arms. The silk pools at your waist, cool air washing over your bare chest.
She inhales softly. “There they are.” Her hands come around to cup you, lifting gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they stiffen under the attention. “My beautiful girl.”
Your breath shivers out. “Do you know,” she murmurs, leaning close to kiss your shoulder, “how many men on Worth Avenue would throw themselves into traffic for half a glance at these?”
Her thumbs circle again, slower. “And they belong to me.” A small, pleased sigh leaves her—almost as if this is the part she needed more than the drink. She squeezes once, firm, indulgent, then steps back to admire you.
“That’s enough,” she says, slipping her sunglasses back on. “Put yourself together. We’re late for cocktails.” She’s already walking toward the door when she adds, without turning: “And don’t bother with panties. I want you remembering the way I touched you every time you take a step.”
You change quickly—something tasteful, something she’d approve of. A soft summer dress, pale and airy, the hem brushing your thighs with every step. No panties, because she said so. Every movement sends a quiet shiver through you as the fabric slides against your bare skin.
When you step out of her bedroom, Marjorie is already waiting in the hallway—sunglasses on, lipstick fresh, posture perfect, the picture of obscene American wealth. She softens the second she looks at you.
“There’s my girl,” she says, and for you—only for you—her voice warms. She offers her hand. You take it. Her fingers lace with yours, firm and possessive, the way a woman who owns the coastline and half the government would hold something she refuses to lose.
The walk to the grand staircase is long; Mar-a-Lago wasn’t built for short distances. Every corridor is marble and chandeliers, sunlight glinting through arched windows that overlook the ocean. The air smells faintly of salt and orchids from the arrangements she has replaced daily.
Staff move quietly along the edges—maids, butlers, groundskeepers—keeping their heads down as the two of you pass. Not because they’re afraid of you. Because they’re terrified of her.
She ignores all of them. Except when someone gets too close. A maid steps out with a tray, nearly blocking your path. Without breaking stride, Marjorie squeezes your hand and snaps, “Eyes down, dear.” Her tone sharpens on the next sentence, a blade wrapped in silk. “And for God’s sake, don’t shuffle in my halls.”
The girl bows her head so quickly you hear her necklace click against the tray. Marjorie’s hand returns to yours, gentle again. “People really must learn their place,” she mutters, calm as ever. When the two of you reach the top of the sweeping staircase—marble edges worn slightly from decades of galas and political dinners—she stops and turns to you.
Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, soft and slow. “You look beautiful today,” she says quietly. Reserved, earnest. “I like when you dress for me.” Your chest tightens. She doesn’t say things like that to anyone else. Not the senators who dine here. Not the president, who owes her half a dozen favors. Only you.
The walk continues—down the stairs, past gilded mirrors and portraits of herself painted with almost reverent detail. Her hand never leaves yours. She swings it slightly, small, private, almost girlish in a way no one else would ever believe. But she indulges that softness with you.
You reach the grand foyer. Sunlight pours through stained-glass windows, bathing the room in warm gold. The front doors are open, sea breeze fluttering the edge of your dress.
Marjorie looks at you again—at your bare legs, at the flush in your cheeks from walking without panties, at the way you cling to her hand without thinking.
She smiles. “Ready to be seen on my arm?” There’s pride in her voice. And possession. And something tender beneath both.
The chauffeur has just closed the door behind the two of you, sealing you inside the cool, plush interior of Marjorie’s Rolls-Royce. The leather smells rich and clean, the ocean visible through tinted windows as the car begins the slow glide down Mar-a-Lago’s long driveway.
Marjorie settles back with a sigh, crossing one elegant leg over the other. Her dress shifts, silk brushing her thighs. She reaches into her purse with that familiar impatience—her rings clicking lightly against the clasp—pulling out a tiny, absurdly ornate pill container. Gold filigree. Mother-of-pearl inlay. Something that probably belonged to Catherine the Great before she “acquired” it.
She turns it in her fingers, trying to find the seam.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she mutters, pressing her thumb to the tiny latch. It doesn’t budge. “Why do they make these things so impossible? It’s a pill box, not Fort Knox.” You bite your lip. “Do you want me to—?”
“No. If I can run this country better than the man in the Oval Office, I can certainly open my own pills.” She tries again. It doesn’t open. She tries harder. It still doesn’t open. A little twitch starts at the corner of her mouth—the one that appears right before she fires a house manager or rewrites federal regulations by making a single phone call.
Then she growls under her breath and snaps the lid too hard. And the whole thing springs open. Pills—tiny, white, expensive ones—cascade out like confetti, bouncing off the seat, the floorboards, even your calf.
“Oh. Fabulous.” She slumps back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Perfect. This is exactly how I wanted to begin my afternoon: crawling around on the floor of my own car for my own drugs.” You blink. “Do you want me to pick them up?”
“Well, I certainly can’t, darling.” She gestures at her dress, at her dignity in general. “Do you know how undignified it would be for the richest woman in America to get on her knees in the back seat like she’s searching for spare change?”
You lean down to gather them, but she grabs your wrist abruptly. “Careful with those,” she warns, leaning forward. “Those little pills cost more per ounce than diamonds. And I fully intend to swallow at least two of them the moment you put them in my hand.” You nod and reach again.
She watches you—intently. Her elbows on her knees, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, breathing a touch faster than normal. There’s something hungry in her eyes. “God, you’re sweet,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Doing that for me.” Her legs part slightly, her voice lowering. “You look pretty down there.” Your stomach flips. You collect the last few pills, placing them carefully in her palm.
She closes her fist around them, looking pleased—then tips her head back and swallows two dry, with a dramatic exhale. “You’d think after the morning I’ve had,” she says, brushing a hand lazily down your thigh, “I’d be allowed to get wonderfully, irresponsibly high on the way to lunch.”
Her fingers slide a little higher. And higher. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks softly, nails grazing the bare skin beneath your dress. “Your Margie taking the edge off?” Your breath tightens. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t mind.”
“Good girl.” She slips her arm around your waist, pulling you closer on the leather seat. Her hand drifts higher still, fingertips teasing the inside of your thigh. “And while these kick in,” she says, her tone warm and spoiled and wicked, “I think I’d like something else to take the edge off.”
You end up tucked into her side the way she likes you—your thigh pressed against hers, your cheek brushing the expensive fabric of her dress, your whole body fitting neatly under her arm like she had you measured and tailored to her shape.
Marjorie doesn’t even look at you at first. She just slides her hand—warm, confident—up the inside of your bare thigh. Slow. Possessive. Her nails scratch lightly as she goes, leaving little trails of heat in their wake.
You can’t stop staring at her. You don’t even try. Her profile is sharp and perfect, sunglasses perched in her hair, lipstick slightly smudged from earlier, pearls resting against her throat. The richest woman in America. The woman who built Mar-a-Lago out of stubbornness and spite. The woman who has senators kissing the diamond rings on her fingers and the president terrified of disappointing her.
And she’s groping you openly in the back seat of her Rolls like she owns you. Because she does. Her hand cups your inner thigh, fingers spreading you just a little, just enough to make your breath hitch. She glances down at that sound—only a flick of her eyes—but she catches you staring at her with that dazed, hungry look.
She smirks. “Oh sweetheart,” she murmurs, squeezing your thigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll get distracted.” You keep staring. She groans softly, exasperated but delighted, the sound curling low in her throat. Her hand moves higher, thumb brushing the tender heat between your legs through your dress.
“Honestly,” she huffs, tightening her arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer until your body is plastered against her side. “Do you ever stop looking at me like you’re about to fall to pieces?”
You shake your head. She lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-want. “You are going to be the death of me,” she mutters, her hand slipping beneath the hem of your dress now, palm gliding over the soft skin of your inner thigh until she’s touching you exactly where she shouldn’t.
You gasp, burying your face against her shoulder, but your eyes lift again—up her throat, up her jawline, up to the corner of her mouth. Still staring. She notices. Of course she does.
She turns her head slowly, meeting your gaze, her fingers stroking between your legs with lazy, practiced confidence. “You’re obsessed with me,” she says, not a question. She bends down and kisses your forehead, slow and condescending. “My poor little pet. You can’t even pretend otherwise.”
Her touch grows firmer. Her fingers trace the slick warmth of you, circling lightly. Your breath catches and you cling to her waist, thighs trembling. She smiles like she’s won something. “You’re not even wearing panties,” she purrs. “No wonder you keep staring. You’re waiting to see what I’ll do next.”
Your hips shift helplessly under her hand. She squeezes your thigh again, hard enough to make your eyes flutter. “Look at me all you want,” she murmurs. “Touch me if you need to. But don’t you dare come before I say so.”
Her hand slides even higher, fingers pressing right where you’re aching for her. “And keep your eyes on me,” she adds softly. “I like it.”
Her hand doesn’t rush. It settles first. Warm, heavy, possessive between your thighs while you stay tucked into her side, your cheek brushing the silk at her shoulder.
The car hums softly beneath you. Palm trees slip past the window in green blurs. Somewhere up front the chauffeur clears his throat and very pointedly does not look in the rearview mirror.
Marjorie’s thumb moves. Just a slow glide through the slick warmth of you, testing, spreading. She exhales through her nose when she feels how wet you are. “Of course,” she murmurs, almost amused. “You’re soaked already.” You keep staring at her.
Her jawline. The faint flush still high on her cheeks. The way her pearls rise and fall with each breath. The most powerful woman in the country with her hand up your dress like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her thumb finds your clit and circles once. Light. Almost absent. Your breath breaks. She turns her head slightly, catching you staring again, and a small smile curves her mouth. “Keep your eyes up,” she says softly. “If you’re going to look at me like that, at least be brave about it.” You don’t look away.
Her thumb presses a little more firmly now, slow, deliberate circles that drag sensation through you without any mercy in the speed. She keeps the pace steady. Unchanging. A rhythm meant to stretch you thin.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric of her dress near her waist. She notices that too. “Easy,” she murmurs, her arm tightening around your shoulders, keeping you wedged against her ribs. “We’re in public, darling. Try to behave.” But her thumb doesn’t stop.
It keeps circling. Slow. Controlled. The pad of it warm and exact over your clit while her other fingers slide lower, teasing the entrance of you without entering. Just brushing. Just enough to make your hips twitch.
She still hasn’t broken eye contact. “You stare at me like I hung the sun,” she says quietly, her voice low and almost thoughtful. “And yet you fall apart so easily.”
Your breathing turns shallow. You try to keep still like she told you. Try not to grind into her hand. Her thumb drags down once, then back up, pressing just a little harder. “There,” she whispers. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?”
Your thighs tremble. You nod before you can stop yourself. She hums in satisfaction. The pills are starting to soften her edges. You can see it in the way her gaze lingers, heavier now. The way her lips part slightly as she watches your face change.
Her thumb keeps moving in those slow, relentless circles. Not faster. Not harder. Just consistent. Drawing you tighter and tighter with no promise of relief.
“Don’t you dare look away,” she murmurs again, almost tender. “I want to see exactly when it starts to overwhelm you.” Your mouth opens on a shaky breath. Your whole body is angled toward her, pinned by her arm and her hand and the weight of her attention. And she keeps rubbing. Slow. Unhurried. Like she has all the time in the world.
You’re already close. She knows it.
She can feel it in the way your thighs tremble around her hand, in the way your fingers clutch weakly at the side of her dress like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Her thumb hasn’t sped up at all. If anything, it’s still maddeningly slow—steady circles that keep pulling the tension tighter and tighter inside you.
The car glides over a small bump in the road.
Marjorie shifts slightly, adjusting her posture in the seat. Her arm tightens around your shoulders to keep you tucked into her side while her hand continues moving between your legs without missing a beat.
And that’s when it happens. The elegant twist she pinned her hair into earlier loosens just a little. One yellow-white strand slips free near her temple, curling softly against her cheek.
Another follows, sliding across her forehead. It’s small. Anyone else might not even notice. But you do. Marjorie Merriweather Post—perfect, immaculate, terrifyingly composed in every room she enters—sitting in the back seat of her Rolls-Royce with her white hair coming loose and her hand under your dress.
Your breath catches. She notices the shift immediately. “What?” she murmurs, glancing down at you, her thumb still circling your clit with calm precision. “Why are you looking at me like—” Another slow bump in the road. Her hair slips further from the twist, soft white waves falling a little messily around her face now.
Your body gives a helpless shudder. “Oh,” she breathes, understanding dawning in her eyes. Her smile turns wicked. “This is what does it for you?” Her thumb presses down more firmly now, just once. “You like seeing me undone.” Your hips jerk despite yourself. Her laugh is low and delighted.
“God, you’re ridiculous,” she murmurs, leaning down so her lips brush the top of your head. “You’re going to come because my hair fell down?” Another slow circle of her thumb. Your breath stutters. She watches your face closely now, fascinated, the loosened strands of white hair brushing her cheeks every time the car turns.
“Well go on then,” she says softly, almost indulgent. “If that’s all it takes.” Your body tightens all at once. The tension she’s been building finally snaps through you, your thighs clenching around her hand as the orgasm rushes through you before you can even try to hold it back.
Your forehead drops against her shoulder, a broken sound leaving your throat. Her thumb doesn’t stop right away. She keeps the circles going gently through the aftershocks, watching the way your body trembles with open satisfaction.
“There it is,” she murmurs, smoothing her hand over your thigh when the worst of it fades. “All because my hair came loose.” She lifts her free hand and lazily tucks one of the strands behind her ear, still smiling down at you.
“You’re an odd little thing,” she says fondly. Her arm pulls you closer against her side again, kissing the top of your head while the car continues toward town. “But you’re mine.”
Marjorie flips open her little mirror again once the car slows, the movement calm and practiced like she’s done it a thousand times between cocktails and charity galas. A few silver strands are still loose around her face. She studies them for a moment, lips pursed. “Well,” she murmurs, “that simply won’t do.”
Her fingers move through her hair, gathering the soft waves and twisting them back up. She works slowly, sliding a pin into place, smoothing the side with her palm. The elegant coil reforms piece by piece until she looks exactly like the Marjorie everyone in Palm Beach expects again—perfect, controlled, untouchable.
Except you know better now. You’re still pressed against her side, a little limp, still warm and shaky from the orgasm she dragged out of you minutes ago. Your dress is rumpled. Your breathing hasn’t fully steadied. And you’re staring at her again. She catches you in the mirror. Her mouth curves immediately.
“Oh sweetheart,” she sighs, amused. “You’re still recovering?” Your face heats. She snaps the mirror shut and turns toward you fully, one brow lifting as she studies the way your thighs are still pressed together. “Goodness,” she says lightly. “I hardly even tried.”
Her hand drifts down your leg again, slow and absentminded, fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh where your dress has ridden up. “You came the second my hair fell out of place,” she continues, tone almost teasing. “That’s terribly fast.”
Her fingers slide a little higher, brushing the sensitive skin there just enough to make your breath hitch again. “Do you always finish that quickly,” she murmurs, voice lowering, “or is that a special talent reserved just for me?”
You squirm closer without thinking. She laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.” Her thumb presses lightly against your thigh, dangerously close to where she’d been touching you before. “My poor girl. One slow rub and suddenly you’re shaking all over my seat.”
Your face ends up buried near her shoulder again, embarrassed, and she hums in quiet satisfaction. “Don’t be shy now,” she says, tilting your chin up so you have to look at her. “You seemed perfectly happy a moment ago.”
Her thumb traces a slow line along your inner thigh again, lingering. “You’re lucky I stopped,” she adds with a small smirk. “Another minute and you would’ve soaked my Rolls-Royce.” You gasp softly. She chuckles, pleased with herself, then pats your leg like she’s rewarding a well-trained pet.
“Honestly,” she murmurs, sliding her sunglasses back into place, “I don’t know whether to take pride in that or tease you about it all afternoon.” The car rolls to a gentle stop. The chauffeur steps out front. Marjorie smooths her dress once more, utterly composed again, then reaches for your hand.
But before the door opens, she leans close to your ear. “If my hair falling down makes you come that easily,” she whispers, voice warm and wicked, “just imagine what I’ll do to you once we’ve had a few drinks.” Then she squeezes your hand and smiles like the most powerful woman in America again. “Come along, darling.”
Then the Rolls-Royce door opens and the warm Florida air spills in.You’re still a little unsteady when you step out. The pavement feels too bright, the afternoon sun reflecting off white stone and polished cars lined along the curb. The terrace of the club is busy—linen suits, big sunglasses, women with cigarettes and tall drinks sweating in the heat.
Palm Beach people. People who all know exactly who she is. Marjorie steps out after you like she’s stepping onto a stage she built herself. Sunglasses on. Pearls straight. Hair once again pinned into its perfect white twist. Not a single hint of what she was doing ten minutes ago in the back seat.
The chauffeur shuts the door behind her. Conversations around the terrace quiet just slightly. Not silence—never that—but the subtle shift that happens when the most powerful woman in the country walks into a room. Marjorie doesn’t acknowledge any of them. Her attention goes straight to you.
You’re still standing close to the car, dress a little rumpled, eyes soft and unfocused from the way she had you melting against her a few minutes ago. She notices immediately. Her expression softens in a way no one else ever gets to see. “Well,” she says quietly, stepping closer, “you look thoroughly ruined.”
You huff a little breath, embarrassed, glancing at the people sitting nearby with their cocktails and little plates of olives. “They’re all looking,” you whisper. “They always look,” she replies calmly. Her hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours like they’ve done it a thousand times. She squeezes gently, grounding you.
Then she tilts your chin up with her free hand. Right there. In full view of the terrace. “Margie—” Too late. She kisses you. Not rushed. Not secret. A slow, warm press of her mouth to yours like she doesn’t care in the slightest who sees it. Like the entire world can wait while she takes her time.
A few people on the terrace go quiet. Someone drops a fork. Marjorie doesn’t break the kiss until she wants to. When she finally pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek where your skin has gone warm. “There,” she murmurs, satisfied.
Your heart is racing. “You’re impossible,” you whisper. She smiles—soft and pleased and a little smug. “My dear,” she says, taking your hand again and guiding you toward the entrance, “I built this place.” Her fingers tighten around yours as you walk past the staring tables.
“If they have a problem with how I kiss my girl,” she adds lightly, “they’re welcome to leave.” She doesn’t look back at them once. Her attention stays exactly where it’s been all afternoon. On you.
Summary: Avis Amberg has everything—power, money, an entire studio hanging on her word. What she doesn’t have is the one thing she wants most: you.
Warnings: Pining, very bad pining, Scissoring, Masturbation, Oral Sex, sad avis, self-deprecating avis, slight angst
AO3
AN: I'm 100% missing tags and I did not beta read this at all
She lets you into the room without a word. She always does.
It’s early still. Pale light pushing through the curtains, dust floating in it like powder. Her ashtray’s full from last night—three long, lipstick-stamped butts stacked beside a half-drunk glass of scotch. Her robe’s slipped low on one shoulder, skin bare where the satin has folded away, but she doesn’t fix it. Just looks at you over like she’s been waiting all morning for the sound of your soft footsteps coming up the stairs.
You set her tray down on the nightstand. Juice, coffee, half a grapefruit. You always remember the spoon. “Did you sleep?” she asks. Her voice is still rough from dreaming, but her eyes are clear. Focused. On you. You nod. “A little.”
She hums. Takes the coffee from your hands like it’s something sacred. Like you are. Her fingers brush yours and linger. Just enough to make your stomach flip. Just enough to make your skin remember it. “I dreamt of you,” she says. You freeze.
She doesn’t explain it. Just says it like it’s nothing, like she might just be thinking out loud. But you know her better than that. You’ve been working here long enough to know when she means something. When she feels something. And Avis Amberg—powerhouse, producer, queen of the silver city—has been feeling things about you for a while now.
It’s in the way she says your name. The way she never lets anyone else touch her hair but you. The way she cancels meetings when she thinks you look too tired.
You were hired to pour her drinks and press her clothes and keep her schedule. But now she only drinks if you bring it, only wears what you’ve laid out for her. She lets you undress her after long nights, doesn’t flinch when your knuckles brush her ribs, her hip, her breast. You touch her like you’re scared to, and she takes it like she wants to be ruined.
She hasn’t kissed you. She hasn’t even tried. But god, sometimes you can feel her thinking about it. The way her gaze slips to your mouth. The way she watches you walk away like it aches to let you leave the room.
“I should run your bath,” you say softly, already moving toward the en suite. She doesn’t stop you. But her voice follows. Low. Dangerous. Barely above a whisper. “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”
She follows you in without saying anything. You hear the soft hush of her slippers on the marble tile. The faint clink as she sets her glass on the edge of the sink. And then nothing.
Just her breath behind you. Slow. Controlled. Careful.
You kneel by the tub, one hand adjusting the temperature, the other testing the water with your fingertips. The scent of rose oil hangs in the air. You always add a little extra for her in the mornings—she pretends not to notice, but you can tell she does. She sinks into the scent like she sinks into your presence. Slowly. Like warmth.
Behind you, Avis stands still. She watches the shape of your body through your thin uniform, the way your back curves as you reach forward. The way your fingers trail through the rising steam. She watches your profile when you glance over your shoulder to ask if it’s too hot.
“It’s perfect,” she murmurs. Her voice sounds far away. Like it’s moving through molasses. Like it’s coming from somewhere inside her ribcage.
You nod and turn back. Unclipping the little glass vial of bath oil. Pouring it slowly, gently, watching the liquid dissolve into the surface. You’re always so delicate with everything. Like the world might bruise if you’re not.
And Avis. She thinks about kissing you again. She tries not to. She always tries not to.
But here you are, bent over her tub in the morning light, hair pulled back with that satin ribbon she bought you last Christmas. Your neck so soft it glows. Your lips parted, tongue just barely visible as you concentrate. Kneeling like you’d do anything she asked, even though she never asks for the things she wants.
She imagines slipping a hand into your hair. Just resting it there. Feeling the warmth of your scalp, the softness of you. Imagines tilting your face up, thumb tracing your bottom lip before she leans down and finally—
No. She stops herself, like always. Tightens her arms around her waist, makes her voice even. “Did you eat this morning?” You glance up at her again. That sweet, unreadable expression you always wear when she tries to be gentle. “I had a little toast,” you say.
She exhales. Not because of the toast. Because of the you. “That’s not enough.” You smile, small and polite. “I’ll eat more after I get you settled.” She nods. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t trust herself to.
The water rises. The steam curls up between you. You reach for the towel, for the soap, for the silver-handled brush she likes best. And Avis thinks, One day. One day I’ll touch her the way I want to. But not yet. Not while you still look at her like that. Like she’s a woman to be respected. Not devoured.
The water’s gone still by the time you drain the tub. Rose oil clings to the tiles in a faint shimmer. Her robe hangs on the back of the door, towel still damp where you’d wrapped her in it, careful not to let her shiver.
She sits in front of the mirror now. The hem of her nightdress brushing her calves. One bare foot tucked under the other. She hasn’t spoken in minutes, just sipped her second cup of coffee and watched you move around the room like it’s something she needs.
You stand behind her with the brush in your hand. Her hair’s still warm from the bath, soft and heavy between your fingers. You start from the bottom, slow and gentle, letting the bristles glide through each section like you’re memorizing the strands. She exhales on your third stroke—low and steady, like your touch pulls something out of her she’s too proud to name.
You don’t say anything until the quiet feels thick with it. Then, soft: “Your color’s really pretty.” You catch her eye in the mirror. Her gaze snaps to yours like she didn’t think you meant to say it out loud.
She blinks once. Then again. And then—god. She beams. Not the way she smiles at parties. Not the closed-mouth, polite tilt she gives to board members and studio men who need reminding who she is. Not the condescending grin she gives her husband when he says something idiotic at dinner.
This is different. This smile makes her eyes crinkle. Makes the corners of her mouth curl slow and sweet and genuine. It makes her look younger. Softer.
Like she can’t quite believe you meant it. Like she’s trying not to read too far into it—but she already has. “Do you think so?” she asks, and her voice is lighter now. Almost breathless. You nod. Keep brushing. “Mhm. Always have.”
She watches you in the mirror. Watches the way your fingers move, the way your expression doesn’t change, like it really was that simple. Like you really meant it.
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Something like do you think about me when I’m not in the room? or what else do you think is pretty? or would you kiss me if I asked?
But she doesn’t say any of that. Just sits there glowing under your touch, hair falling soft around her shoulders, lips parted like she might still speak—And you keep brushing, gentle as ever. Like she’s yours to take care of. Like you want to be.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
She’s dressed now. Hair pinned. Lipstick on. You’re standing by the closet, smoothing the sleeves of her coat even though it’s seventy degrees out and she probably won’t need it. But you like busying your hands. She knows that.
She watches you from across the room. You don’t notice at first, or maybe you’re pretending not to. Your profile in the soft morning light, head tilted just enough to let that little ribbon slip loose at the base of your neck.
And she feels it again.
That stupid, unbearable flutter in her chest. That tightening just under her ribs. Like a girl. Like a teenager. Like someone who’s still dumb enough to believe in getting chosen back.
It hits her so hard she has to sit. She lowers herself slowly to the edge of the bed, eyes still on you, one hand pressed flat against the mattress like it might keep her grounded.
You glance over. “Are you feeling alright?” you ask. Voice low, warm. A touch of concern in it that she wants to bottle and drink. She nods. Too quickly. “I’m fine.”
You come over, kneel down to fix the buckle on her shoe—just one, the left. The same way you always do. It’s habit now. Intimate in the quietest way. The kind of gesture no one else ever gives her. The kind that makes her feel cared for.
When you look up at her, she’s already looking at you. That glassy, far-off shine in her eyes like she’s not even fully here. Like she’s lost in something.
You tilt your head. “You sure?” Her smile is slow. A little sad. But so full of you it almost hurts. “You make me feel like a girl again,” she says. Voice barely above a whisper.
You blink. Your hand stills on her ankle. “Like a giddy school girl,” she adds, softer now. “It’s ridiculous.” You don’t know what to say. Not at first. But your fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against her skin.
She exhales like it’s been sitting in her chest for hours. Like it’s relief and fear all tangled up together. She lifts a hand, hesitates, then brushes your hair back from your forehead—slowly, reverently, like she’s memorizing the shape of you.
Her thumb lingers at your temple. You don’t move. And neither does she. Not yet. Because she’s a widow almost sixty, and she’s too proud to beg—but god, she wants you to kiss her first. Just once. Just to see if the ache in her chest finally goes quiet when your mouth touches hers.
The coat’s over her shoulders now, perfume soft in the air between you—something musky and floral, expensive but warm. You’ve memorized it. You always do.
She smooths her hands down the lapels. You reach for the clasp. She lets you. “You’ve got meetings all morning,” you say quietly. “One with Mr. Gold about the rewrite. Then that radio interview at one-thirty.”
“I know,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t sound like she cares. She’s looking at you again. That long, level gaze she saves for private moments. The kind that makes your pulse skip, like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t be allowed to touch.
You straighten her collar. Fingertips brushing against the fine wool. Careful not to linger, though you want to. “You’ll need the Pearson script too,” you add, stepping back. “I slipped it into your bag.”
She nods once, slow. “Good girl.” Your stomach flips. You don’t let it show. She doesn’t always say things like that. But sometimes—sometimes—they slip. Soft and dangerous, dropped into the morning like they mean nothing.
And then she’s moving again. Brushing past you with the click of heels, reaching for her purse on the dresser. The click of her lighter. The flare of a cigarette caught between painted lips. She inhales once and exhales through her nose, steady.
Then she glances back. “You’re coming with me.” You blink. “To the studio?” She nods. “Of course.” It’s not usual. Not for a day like this. Not when you’d normally stay behind, tidying the house, organizing her desk, fielding calls from the side line. “But—”
“I want you there.” Simple. Direct. You hesitate for a second too long, and she tilts her head. Her voice lowers. “I don’t like being away from you.”
And—she means it. She’s already slipped back into Avis Amberg, Studio Executive, the woman who makes grown men piss themselves in meetings. But that line? That need? That’s yours. Only yours. The car ride is quiet at first.
The city rolls by in warm tones—sunlight glinting off metal signs, a streetcar bell in the distance. She sits beside you in the backseat, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, cigarette resting in the crook of her fingers.
You’re holding her planner open in your lap, reading over her schedule one more time before you get there. “Lunch with Eleanor Randolph moved to Thursday,” you say softly. “Do you want me to cancel the dinner with the Cassidys or just move that too?”
Avis doesn’t answer right away. You glance up. She’s looking at you again. That unreadable expression. “I don’t care about the Cassidys,” she murmurs. “They only want to be seen with me. I’d rather have dinner with someone I actually like.”
You nod. Make a note. Don’t think too hard about it. She takes a drag. Lets the smoke drift out the half-cracked window. “You never ask me who I like,” she says after a moment. You glance up again, startled. “Sorry?” Her smile twitches. Tight. “Nothing.”
You watch her for a second longer. The set of her mouth. The tension in her jaw. Then you look back down at the planner, pretending not to feel the heaviness in the air. A beat passes. Then: “I’ve never been much for men,” she says casually. “Never really had the stomach for them.”
You glance up again. Her eyes are forward now, fixed on the street outside. “Oh,” you say, slow. Another beat. She exhales. Flicks ash into the tray. “They always assumed I was just too particular. Too headstrong. But really, I just prefer women.”
You nod like you understand. Like you’re filing it under something neutral. “That makes sense,” you say. “Women are beautiful.” She turns to look at you. You smile at her. Sweet. Earnest. Unaware.
She wants to scream. Instead, she takes another drag. Lets her head fall back against the seat, eyes closing briefly. “You especially,” she says quietly. You don’t catch it. Not fully. Maybe you think she means your work. Or your sweetness. Or that way you always remember her spoon. But you don’t get it. And it’s killing her.
The studio is already humming by the time the car pulls up. You open her door like always. Take her purse. Straighten the sleeve of her coat when the breeze catches it. She murmurs a thank you you barely hear, already distracted. Already scanning the lot.
You don’t see the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. You don’t see the way she clenches her jaw when you step politely behind her again instead of at her side.
Inside, it’s chaos—producers shouting over secretaries, a radio tech dropping a box of cables, the smell of hot lights and greasepaint already thick in the air. But Avis barely registers it. She’s moving with purpose.
Straight to Ellen’s office. “Close the door,” she says sharply once they’re inside. Ellen blinks. “Is something wrong?” Avis tosses her coat over the back of the chair. Runs a hand through her hair, careful not to ruin it. She’s pacing. Not like her at all. Ellen raises an eyebrow. “Avis.”
“She doesn’t get it.” Ellen frowns. “Who—?”
“Her.”
Ellen doesn’t need clarification. Her gaze shifts to the frosted glass, toward the shadow of you sitting sweetly at the desk outside, thumbing through call sheets with your legs tucked like a little secretary from a dream.
Avis exhales hard. “I’ve all but drawn her a map. I’ve told her I don’t like men. I told her she’s beautiful. I’ve asked her to stay for dinner, I’ve bought her silk, I—god, Ellen, I let her zip up my dress this morning and she looked at me like I was asking for a glass of milk.”
Ellen presses her lips together, fighting a smirk. “She’s young.”
“She’s not stupid.”
“No,” Ellen agrees, sitting back. “But she’s never had anyone like you look at her like this before.” Avis narrows her eyes. “Like what?”
“Like you want to take her apart piece by piece and keep her in your jewelry box.” Avis doesn’t respond. Just sinks into the chair opposite Ellen and takes a long drag from her cigarette. The kind that burns all the way down.
Ellen waits. Then, softer: “You love her.” Avis doesn’t answer right away. But her voice is quieter when it comes. Fragile in a way Ellen rarely hears. “I feel like I’m sixteen again. I feel like she brushes my hair and I forget how to speak.” She laughs once, bitter. “It’s pathetic.” Ellen’s voice is gentler now. “It’s not.”
“It is. I’ve produced films, won awards, out-negotiated every man on this lot—and I’m losing my mind because a twenty-two-year-old secretary doesn’t understand I want to die with my face between her thighs.” That earns a sharp laugh from Ellen. “Jesus Christ, Avis.” Avis exhales through her nose. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of the lot humming beyond the walls. Then Ellen leans forward, folding her hands. “So make it clear. No more metaphors. No more poetry. Just say it.”
Avis blinks. Ellen nods toward the door. “Tell her. Or someone else will.” Avis’s jaw clenches. Because that’s the fear, isn’t it? That someone younger, simpler, bolder will see what she sees in you. That someone will kiss you in the copy room, take you to dinner, hold your hand in public. That you’ll let them. That she’ll never get the chance to try. And worse—that you’ll never know what you meant to her at all.
“So what do I say?” Avis snaps, standing behind Ellen’s desk like it’s a lectern and she’s about to deliver closing arguments at a murder trial.
Ellen’s already uncapped the pen. “You tell her the truth.” Avis shoots her a glare. “I don’t tell twenty-two-year-old girls I want to make them cum until they cry, Ellen.”
“Then start with something else.” Avis huffs. But she sits. The stationery is cream. Expensive. Personalized. Avis Amberg embossed at the top in gold. Of course.
She stares at the blank page. Then glances toward the window. You’re still out there. Sitting sweetly with your clipboard. Crossed ankles. Soft blouse tucked into your skirt like you don’t even know what you do to her.
Ellen leans back. “Want me to start it for you?” Avis lights another cigarette. “God, please.” Ellen clears her throat, mock-formal.
“Dearest—”
“No.”
“Sweetest—”
“Christ, no.”
“Alright.” A pause. Then dryly: “You absolute little idiot—”
“Ellen—”
They both laugh, too sharp and tired. Then Avis closes her eyes. Lets her voice drop. “Just… say something like…” Her fingers twitch. “I think of you every morning. And every night. I think of your voice when you say my name. I think of the way you touch me without knowing you’re touching me.”
Ellen scribbles. “And?” she prompts. Avis exhales. “And… I want to show you how I feel. But I don’t want to scare you.” She swallows. “I want you to want it too.” Ellen’s writing slows.
Then Avis leans forward, elbow on the desk, voice quieter now. “I dream about your mouth,” she says. “I dream about the way you’d taste after a bath. I think about kissing your thighs. I think about you on your knees with your hands on my hips like you’re starving for me.”
Silence. Ellen doesn’t look up. “Want me to write that, too?” Avis lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “God, no,” she murmurs. “I’m trying to seduce her, not give her a heart attack.”
A beat. Then: “…Put just the first part. About the bath.” Ellen lifts a brow. “Just that part?” Avis’s lips twitch. “It’s poetic.” Ellen shrugs, dutiful. Writes it down. Even underlines your mouth.
They sit for a moment longer. Smoke curling between them. Gold-lettered stationery nearly full now. Avis bites the inside of her cheek. Stares at the page. Then: “Do you think she’ll understand?”
Ellen doesn’t answer right away. Just folds the letter carefully. Slides it into an envelope. Seals it with one long press of her palm. “She’d be a fool not to.”
She holds the letter all morning. Keeps it tucked inside her leather-bound planner, then transfers it to her purse. Then back to the planner. Then into the pocket of her coat. She fingers the edge of it obsessively, like a nervous tic.
Ellen watches with raised brows and says nothing. She knows better. By noon, the lipstick on Avis’s coffee cup is smudged from how many times she’s reapplied it. She’s re-perfumed her neck twice. Fixed her hair in the mirror outside the soundstage even though no one’s filming her. Not today.
You’re sitting just outside her office, typing quietly. The click of keys. The soft rustle of your skirt every time you shift. Avis stands in the doorway and watches you for a full minute. Then turns on her heel and marches back inside. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “I can’t do it.” Ellen doesn’t even look up. “Mm.”
“I’ll ruin it. I’ll make it awkward. She’ll never look at me the same.”
“She already looks at you like you put the stars in the sky, Avis.” Avis glares. “You’re not helping.” Ellen sighs. Holds out her hand. “Give it to me.” Avis hesitates. “You’ll be gentle?” Ellen snorts. “What am I, a suitor?”
“You’re delivering a confession. I want her to take it seriously.” Ellen raises a brow. “You wrote about licking her thighs. I think she’ll take it very seriously.” Avis flushes—actual color rising to her cheeks.
“That part’s poetic,” she says, grabbing her purse and fishing out the envelope. “You said so yourself.” Ellen just hums. Tucks it under her clipboard. Smooths the paper like it’s fragile. Then nods toward the door. “You want me to slip it under her coffee or walk over with fanfare?” Avis scowls. “Just give it to her.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” She sits, hand over her eyes. “I wait for her to leave. I burn the house down. I move to France.” Ellen’s already halfway out the door. “I’ll let you know if you need a passport.”
She can’t sit. Her legs won’t let her. So she stands just to the side of the office door, body rigid, one hand braced against the wall for balance. The door’s cracked an inch. Just enough to see the outside desk. Just enough to see you.
You’re sitting in the golden spill of afternoon light. Fingers curled around a pencil. Soft curls pinned back with a silver clip she gave you last month—said it didn’t suit her, but the truth is, it looked better in your hair.
Ellen walks out like it’s nothing. Clipboard in one hand. Envelope in the other. She doesn’t say anything. Just sets the letter gently down on the desk beside your papers, gives you one look—steady, unreadable—and walks away.
You blink down at it. She watches as your fingers reach for it. Slow. Curious. Her initials glint in gold at the top. You pause. Frown. Then slip a finger under the flap and open it.
And Avis’s heart stops. She can’t see your eyes from here. Not fully. But she sees the change. The way your mouth softens. The way your fingers still.
You read slowly. Lips moving just slightly over the words. The long pause after the second paragraph—the one about the bath—makes her knees nearly buckle.
She can’t breathe. Not while you’re holding her in your hands like that. Not while her heart is sitting on your desk, trembling in twelve lines of linen stationery.
She thinks about closing the door. Walking away. Pretending she never sent it. But then—You read the last line. The one Ellen made her keep. The most honest one.
I don’t want to scare you. I only want you to know.
And you bring your fingers to your lips. Not in shock. In something else. Something she can’t name—but it burns. You fold the letter carefully. As if it’s precious. As if it means something.
And Avis—still frozen behind the door—presses her palm hard to her chest. She doesn’t cry. But god, she could.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
It starts the next day. You come into her office with her tea and she’s already halfway out the other door. “Oh—sorry, I just—I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t come back. You see her at the lot entrance, talking to a sound engineer—until she spots you and suddenly remembers she has a phone call.
You wait by the car after lunch with her scarf over your arm, ready to wrap it around her shoulders like you always do. But she never shows.
By the third day, it’s undeniable. She’s avoiding you. Not subtly. Not gracefully. Not like Avis Amberg. But like a woman undone. A woman terrified of having said too much. A woman who hasn’t been vulnerable in decades and now doesn’t know how to look you in the eye without falling apart.
And the worst part is—she was doing fine.
Keeping it together. Living with the ache of wanting you and never having you. But writing it down? Watching you read it? That ruined her.
Because now the wanting has weight. Now she can’t pretend you don’t know. And in the quiet moments—alone in her dressing room, fingers trembling against the edge of her vanity—she thinks:
What the hell was I thinking?
I’m an old woman.I’m a widow.And she’s—young.Sweet.Beautiful.Soft where I’m sharp. Hopeful where I’m tired. And she’s never going to want me like that.
You’re so much younger. Lovely. Gentle. The kind of girl who offers to fix a button with a sewing kit in your purse. The kind of girl who makes people feel good about themselves just by walking in the room.
She’s fifty-eight. She’s exhausted. She’s got old scars she won’t let anyone see, stretch marks and half a mastectomy scar under her blouse, and grief clinging to her ribs like it never learned to let go.
She’s nothing like the girls you should be falling in love with. So now she hides. Because if she talks to you, she’ll apologize. And if she apologizes, she’ll lose even the ache. And she’s not ready to lose that. Not yet.
Ellen finds Avis alone in her dressing room. The lights are off. Just the dim flicker of afternoon bleeding in through the blinds, casting long shadows across the vanity. Avis is sitting stiff in her chair, cigarette burning low between two fingers, untouched coffee growing cold beside her.
Ellen doesn’t knock. “You’re a coward.” Avis doesn’t flinch. Just closes her eyes. “Hello, Ellen.”
“Don’t ‘hello’ me. I’m not in the mood.” Avis exhales. Takes a slow drag. “What now?” Ellen folds her arms. “She’s walking around like someone kicked her cat, and you’re skulking around like a spinster. All because you couldn’t stomach the idea that she might actually want you back.”
Avis stares straight ahead. At her reflection. At the tired corners of her mouth. The gray threaded through her roots. The way her blouse doesn’t button quite the way it used to.
“She shouldn’t want me back,” she says quietly. Ellen’s mouth tightens. “I’m old,” Avis goes on, voice low, almost clinical. “I’m a widow. I spend half my nights taking melatonin and the other half staring at the ceiling wondering when my hands started looking like my mother’s.”
She flicks ash into the tray. “She’s young. Soft. Lovely. She could have anyone.” Ellen walks over and grabs the cigarette out of her hand. “You’re full of shit.” Avis blinks.
“You’re not scared she won’t want you. You’re scared she does.” Ellen leans in, voice sharp and soft all at once. “You’re terrified of being seen by someone who actually matters. Who might look at you and see more than just the studio head or the widow or the woman with the sharp tongue.”
Avis doesn’t respond. Ellen lowers her voice. “But she read that letter, Avis. She touched it like it was holy. She smiled.” “She didn’t come to me.”
“She’s young. You think she knows what to do with a love letter from Avis Amberg? She probably spent three hours writing her reply and burned it in the sink.”
Avis lets out a soft, broken laugh. Covers her mouth. Ellen straightens. “So. Are you gonna fix it?” Avis stares at her reflection again. At the deep lines. The painted lips. The fear still simmering behind her eyes. She swallows. “I don’t know how.” Ellen’s voice gentles. “Go to her Avis.”
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
The house is dark. Only the hall light glows faintly, a single bulb left burning in case you need to get up for something in the night. She told you once it was for her—just in case—but you never questioned it. You’re thoughtful like that.
And now she’s standing outside your door. Again. She doesn’t knock. She’s been here for nearly thirty minutes. Just… standing. Bare feet sinking into the rug. Arms crossed tight over her silk robe. One hand clutching the hem of her sleeve like it might keep her together.
She’s not sure what she wants. To apologize? To explain? To pretend none of it ever happened? No. That’s not true. She knows what she wants. She wants to see you. Wants to ask if you kept the letter. Wants to hear you say her name like you did before she went running scared. Wants—just once—to let herself feel the thing she wrote down in ink and perfume and fear.
But her throat’s tight. Her chest hurts. And every time she raises her hand to knock, it falls right back down again. What if she’s asleep? What if she’s awake? What if she opens the door and looks at me like I’m disgusting? Like I’ve overstepped? Like I’ve taken something gentle and ruined it?
She swallows. Looks at the wood grain. The little brass knob. She could open it. She could step inside, say your name, sit on the edge of your bed like she used to when you first moved in and were too nervous to sleep.
But that was before the letter. Before Ellen called her a coward. Before she realized just how badly she wants this. She exhales, silent. Lifts her hand. Hovers. Lowers it again. Her lips move. Almost your name. Almost a whisper. But nothing comes out.
She presses her palm to the doorframe. Lets her forehead rest against the cool wood. You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch at their own feelings. But god, she wants to try.
She stays there until her legs start to ache. Until her fingers go numb from holding her sleeves too tight. Until the silence around her feels like it’s mocking her—reminding her, gently and without mercy, that she’s not that girl anymore.
She’s not brave. Not beautiful in the way you deserve. Not someone you write poems about, not someone you fantasize about kissing in the dark. She’s tired. She’s older. She’s lived too many lives and loved too few people.
And she is terrified of ruining the one good, golden, sweet thing she has left. So she steps back. One slow, reluctant step. Then another. Turns away from your door without a sound. Walks barefoot back down the hallway—slow, silent, robe brushing her calves, eyes on the floor. Doesn’t look back.
Her bedroom feels cold when she opens the door. The sheets are smooth, the pillows untouched. It still smells faintly of her bathwater, the rose oil you added this morning. She slips beneath the covers and lays still, arms crossed over her stomach, staring up at the ceiling like it might answer for her cowardice.
The light stays off. She doesn't need to see the emptiness to feel it. She should’ve knocked. She should’ve told you. She should’ve done something. But she didn’t.
And now the silence is back. Heavy. Familiar. Safer than the unknown of your touch, but so much lonelier than she remembered. Her fingers drift to the hem of her sleeve. She presses her knuckles to her lips. Breathes deep. And lays there, in the dark, aching for you.
She can’t sleep.
She’s been lying in the dark for nearly an hour, staring at the ceiling like it might take the edge off. It doesn’t. Her robe’s twisted around her waist, one leg bare to the thigh, sweat cooling where it shouldn't be.
She rolls to her side. Then her back. Then buries her face in the pillow, breath hitching as she exhales slow and sharp. It’s no use. You’re in her head. Like always.
She tries not to imagine it—your fingers on her wrist, your voice in the dark, that look on your face when you read her letter and didn’t run. But it clings to her. Twines around her ribs. Gathers low in her belly until she’s aching for it.
Her nipples ache under the silk, painfully tight. Her thighs won’t stay still. She presses them together again. It helps. A little.
She swallows. Closes her eyes. Lets her hand drift down slowly—over the curve of her stomach, the soft flesh there, the line of her hip. Her fingers slip between her thighs, trembling. She’s soaked already. Of course she is. She always is, when it’s you.
She strokes herself gently, dragging her middle finger through the slick heat. Circling her clit once. Twice. Her breath catches. She bites her lip and thinks of your mouth.
The way your lips move when you’re nervous. The way your voice gets quiet when you say her name. The way you look at her when you think she’s not watching—soft, open, curious.
She fucks herself slowly. Just two fingers, shallow, enough to push the tension higher. Enough to imagine it’s your hand instead.
Your fingers. Careful. Eager. A little clumsy, maybe, but willing. Sweet. So fucking sweet. She spreads her legs wider. Presses her palm to her clit. Gasps once, quietly.
You’d be so gentle with her. You’d kiss her chest, her stomach, the insides of her thighs.
You’d ask if this feels good. You’d whimper when she praised you. You’d want to be taught.
That thought nearly breaks her. Her pace quickens. She can’t help it. Slick sounds filling the dark, soft and obscene. She arches off the bed, muscles trembling.
Thinks about guiding your head between her legs. Holding your mouth against her cunt. Letting you learn by feel, by instinct. Letting you make a mess of her. “Fuck,” she whispers, barely a sound.
Her orgasm hits hard—shallow and fast and frustrating. It leaves her panting, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing around nothing.
But it’s not enough. It never is. Not without you. She lays there after, hand still between her legs, wrist damp, breath coming slow and jagged. The silk robe’s twisted tight around her waist, wet now where it clings to her.
And all she can think is how you’re just down the hall. You have no idea what you’re doing to her. And if she doesn't find a way to tell you soon—really tell you—she’s going to die like this. Wanting you.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
You knock gently, like always. She doesn’t answer. “Miss Amberg?” you murmur, easing the door open with one hand.
It’s quiet inside. Dim. The curtains are still drawn, and the air smells faintly of her perfume, warm and powdered from the night before. You take one step in. Then another.
And stop.
She’s there—splayed across the top of the covers, naked. Completely. The silk robe is tangled beneath her, useless. Her skin bare in the morning light, legs parted, one soft thigh bent over the other like she moved in her sleep. Her red hair is loose, wild across the pillow and spilling down her shoulder. Her lips parted. Eyes closed.
You freeze. Staring. You’ve never seen her like this. You’ve seen her undressed, yes—pulling stockings up in the dressing room, slipping into a bath, letting you zip the back of her evening gown—but never like this. Never ruined. Never flushed and open and tangled in her sheets like a woman who’d been dreaming hard.
Your breath stutters. You take a careful step forward. Half to make sure she’s alright. Half because you can’t help yourself. There’s a sheen between her thighs. Faint. Lingering.
Her nipples are still hard. One hand rests just above her hip, the other curled loosely near her stomach, like she hadn’t quite finished what she started.
Your cheeks burn. Your stomach twists. You swallow, hard. "Miss Amberg…?" Her eyes flutter open. She sees you. Blinks once. Then again. And freezes. A second passes. Then two. Then she bolts upright, dragging the silk robe over herself in a panic, breathing too fast, too sharp. Her face is red. Her hands shake.
“Jesus Christ—” she breathes. “I—I thought I locked the door.” You turn away instantly, heart racing. “I—I’m sorry—! I didn’t mean—” She pulls the robe tighter. Says nothing. You stand frozen, one hand still on the doorknob, staring hard at the floor. “I just—I came to wake you. Like usual. I didn’t know—”
“I know,” she says quietly. Silence. You risk a glance back. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, robe clutched to her chest, red hair falling in her eyes. She looks wrecked. Embarrassed. Furious with herself. But not with you. Never with you.
You swallow again. “Do you want me to go?” She looks at you for a long time. Then, quietly: “No.”
She pulls the robe around herself carefully, fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. She rises to her feet, slow, bare legs brushing the hem of the fabric. Her hair is still a mess—red curls falling over her face, wild from sleep—but she doesn’t try to fix it.
She just looks at you. Quiet. Assessing. Trying to be brave. Her voice is low when she speaks. “You saw me.” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t.” A beat. Her eyes travel over your face. Not hungrily, not yet—but like she’s learning you. Weighing something in her chest. She takes a step closer. “You read my letter,” she says. You nod. She takes another step. “And you didn’t run.” You shake your head. “No.”
Something shifts behind her eyes. Not relief. Not yet. But something dangerous. She lets the robe slip from one shoulder. Just slightly. Just enough. “You liked it,” she says, and it’s not quite a question. You open your mouth. Close it. Then, quietly: “Yes.”
She exhales. Steps closer. Close enough now that you can smell the sleep-warm perfume still clinging to her collarbone. Close enough that if you reached out, you could touch her wrist.
“I’ve tried to be patient,” she says, voice soft and even. “I’ve tried to be… decent.” You look up at her. She’s watching you like she might fall apart. Or catch fire. “I want you,” she says. Simple. Honest. Not a performance. Just truth.
“I want you in my bed. I want your mouth on me. I want to wake up with your face on my pillow and your hands on my chest. I want to see what you’d do to me if I let you try.”
Your breath catches. She sees it. She takes your hand. Brings it to her waist. Presses it to bare skin just above the tie of her robe. “You can still say no,” she whispers. “But if you say yes—” She leans in. Her mouth brushes your ear. “—I’ll let you take my robe off.”
She pulls away first. Just a step. Just enough to break the spell. You hadn’t said no. You hadn’t said anything. You just stood there, quiet, breath shallow, hand still warm where it had touched her waist.
And that silence—it’s too much. Too gentle. Too uncertain. Too kind. She can’t stand it. Her robe slips back over her shoulder as she steps away. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… quiet. Controlled. As if she can still salvage this somehow, if she can just get herself back behind her walls fast enough.
“Forget I said anything,” she says. You blink. “What?” Her back is to you now. She reaches for her cigarette case on the vanity. Her hands shake. “I overstepped.” The words come out brittle. Measured. “It was late. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“But—”
“You should go.”
You take a step forward. “Avis—”
“I said go.” It’s sharp. The edge in her voice is thin, not cruel—but it cuts all the same. You hesitate. Then nod, small, and step out into the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind you.
And just like that—she’s alone again. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, robe clutched tight across her chest, hair falling in her face. She wanted to be bold. To seduce. To finally reach for the thing she’s been starving for. Instead, she’s humiliated.
You looked at her like she was something fragile. Not something you wanted. Not something to devour. Just… soft. Sad. A woman past her prime fumbling in the dark.
She lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. Takes a long drag. Then buries her face in her hands. “Goddamn it.”
Within the hour the entire house feels different. The warmth is gone. The roses on the table have been thrown out. The linen napkins folded too sharply. She doesn’t look at you when you bring her breakfast—just flips through the paper, eyes hard, lips tight. She doesn’t thank you. She doesn’t speak at all.
Ellen notices it first at the studio. “Jesus,” she mutters after one of the producers leaves her office looking pale, “Who pissed in your tea?” Avis doesn’t answer. She’s already lighting another cigarette, jaw clenched tight. Her fingers are trembling, and she’s furious about that, too.
Because she asked for something. She opened her robe—opened her heart—and she wasn’t met with passion or want or even refusal. Just… silence.
And now you’re still here. Still kind. Still doing her laundry, brushing her hair, folding her silk like you didn’t see her completely undone.
She can't take it. So by the time you come into her office that afternoon with your clipboard in hand and that soft little smile, she doesn’t even let you speak. “You’re dismissed,” she says. You blink. “I—sorry?”
“You’re fired.” The word lands like a slap. You stand there, stunned. Hurt flickering across your face before you catch it and bury it. But she sees it. God, she sees it. She looks away.
“I’ll have your final payment sent to the house,” she says, voice flat. “You can collect your things this evening. I want you gone before dinner.”
You open your mouth. Then close it again. She won’t meet your eyes. And you—your throat tight, your hands trembling just slightly—you leave. Because what else can you do? Behind the closed door, Avis drops her cigarette into the tray with a sharp hiss. She doesn’t cry. But she wants to. God, she wants to.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there. The back side of Soundstage Four is always in shadow. Cool concrete. The hum of distant lights. A dented metal staircase no one uses unless they’re sneaking cigarettes or crying where no one’s supposed to see.
Your suitcase is beside you. Half-zipped. Your shoes are scuffed from the walk. You thought—maybe—she’d change her mind.
Maybe she’d say it was a mistake. That she didn’t mean it. But she didn’t come. And now you’re here. With nowhere else to go.
You wrap your arms around your knees and press your face down into your sleeves. Try not to make a sound. That’s how Ellen finds you.
There’s a moment before she says anything. Just the click of her heels on the stairs. Then silence. Then her voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Sweetheart.” You don’t look up. But she crouches anyway. And she waits.
When you finally lift your head, your eyes are wet, your nose pink, and you hate how young you must look. How pitiful. But she doesn’t flinch. She just sighs. Then gently: “She fired you.”
You nod. “She didn’t mean it,” Ellen adds. “But she did it anyway. Because she’s a fucking idiot.” Your lip trembles. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“But I—I must have. She looked at me like she hated me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Ellen says. “She hates herself.”
You sniff. “That’s not helpful.”
“No. But it’s true.” She rises to her feet. Smooths her skirt. “You’re coming with me.” You blink. “What?”
“I need an assistant,” she says, like it’s already decided. “You’re good. Organized. Discreet. You’ll do fine.” You just stare at her. “And I’ve got a little house up in the hills,” she adds, more gently. “Guest room’s yours. I make my own coffee but you can file my memos and tell me when I’ve double-booked lunch. Fair deal?”
Your voice is hoarse. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she says. Then, gently: “But I want to.” And something in your chest cracks. Because no one’s ever said that to you like that before. Not until now.
By the next morning, Avis is debating murder. She slams the door to her office so hard the glass rattles. The production assistant outside flinches. Someone drops a tray. Avis doesn’t care.
She throws her gloves on the desk, rips her sunglasses off, and marches straight to the cabinet to pour herself a scotch—even though it’s ten in the morning. Her lipstick’s too perfect, her blouse too crisp, and her hands are shaking. Again.
“Fucking Ellen,” she mutters, downing the first half of the glass. She was supposed to be done with this. She was supposed to suffer alone, privately, like a civilized adult. Not be reminded of you every time she walked into her own goddamn studio.
And yet—there you are. Every day. Smiling at Ellen. Fixing Ellen’s coffee. Calling her Ms. Kincaid in that same sweet voice that used to say Miss Amberg like it meant something.
And now Ellen’s the one you run after in your little heels. She drops into her chair, breathing hard. “I haven’t been this mad since Ace knocked me up,” she mutters, lighting a cigarette with more force than necessary. “And at least he had the decency to apologize after.”
She doesn’t even like thinking about him. Ace. The dumbass with the car and the smile and the cowardice it took to marry her and disappear the second she got difficult.
She remembers the day they signed the license. White gloves. Fake pearls. Her mother crying in the car. She remembers thinking: this is what happens when you’re not careful with your heart.
And now here she is again. Alone. Bitter. Furious. Because she let herself want you. She let herself reach. And then she punished you when you didn’t reach back fast enough. And now—goddamn it—you’re happier with Ellen.
“Of course she took her,” Avis snaps to no one. “Of course. She’s always been better at keeping things.” The phone rings. She doesn’t answer it. She just sits there, furious and half-drunk, glaring at the door like if you walk past again, she might shatter.
By noon, she’s drunk. Not tipsy. Not flushed. Drunk. Her lipstick’s smeared from the rim of the glass. Her blouse is half untucked where she’d slouched in her chair too long. One of her earrings is missing. Her voice is raw from chain-smoking, and there’s a tremble in her hand every time she pours another two fingers of scotch. She hasn’t touched her lunch.
The studio keeps knocking. Her secretary keeps apologizing for canceling meetings she never intended to attend. Because all Avis can think about—all she’s been thinking about—is you. The sight of you curled up on Ellen’s office couch this morning, flipping through memos like you belong to her. The way you smiled when Ellen said something dry and clever. The soft sound of your laugh.
She’d thrown you out like trash. And now Ellen’s scooped you up like treasure. And she can’t fucking stand it. So by the time she stumbles out of her office, heels loud on the marble, she’s made up her mind. She’s going to find you. And this time, she’s going to make you understand.
Ellen’s not in her office when Avis stumbles in. But you are. You look up from the desk, startled. “Miss Amberg—”
“Where’s Ellen?” she asks, voice low and frayed. You rise from your seat. “She’s at lunch. I can leave if—”
“No,” she says, too fast. You pause. She closes the door behind her. Firmly. Then turns to look at you. There’s something unsteady in her gaze—something sharp and ruined and burning. Her lipstick’s smudged at the corner. Her blouse is wrinkled at the waist. Her pearls are slightly askew.
You’ve never seen her like this. Not even the morning she woke tangled in her sheets, skin flushed and hair undone. “Are you alright?” you ask softly.
“No,” she says. She steps closer. One hand braced on the desk. The other slipping her purse off her shoulder like it suddenly weighs too much. “I made a mistake,” she says. “Firing you. Letting you go. All of it.”
You’re too stunned to speak. “I couldn’t take it,” she murmurs. “Wanting you. Needing you. Watching you look at me like I was something fragile.” You blink. “Avis—”
“I’m not fragile,” she says. “I’m in love with you.” Silence. She closes the distance. “And I’m going to seduce you now,” she says quietly, almost matter-of-fact, like it’s her only option left. “Unless you tell me to stop.” She lifts her hand to your face. Trembling. “Please don’t tell me to stop.”
You’re frozen. Her hand is on your cheek, soft but shaking. Her perfume is thick in the air—roses and smoke and something sour underneath. You can smell the scotch on her breath.
She’s looking at you like you’re oxygen. Like if you don’t kiss her, she might stop breathing. But you don’t move. Not yet. And that’s when it shifts. Her expression twitches—just slightly. Just enough. And then she laughs. Short. Sharp. Bitter. “Of course,” she says, voice suddenly cold. “Of course you don’t want me.”
You blink. “Avis—” She pulls away. “You never did. You just liked the attention. The fantasy of it. Letting the old woman fall in love with you while you played house in her kitchen and fluttered around the studio like a little dove.”
Her voice rises with every word. She’s swaying slightly. Her eyes are glassy. Her hands clench at her sides. “I wrote you a goddamn love letter,” she snaps. “Do you know how pathetic that is? I haven’t written one of those since I was seventeen and drunk on gin in a theater in Pasadena.” You step toward her. “I did want it. I just—”
“No, don’t lie now.” She laughs again, louder this time, one hand dragging down her face. “You looked at me like I was your fucking grandmother.” You flinch. “That’s not fair.” She throws her purse onto the chair like she wants it to break. “None of it’s fair. You think I wanted to want you? Think I planned this? You ruined me.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
She sinks down into the chair. Burying her face in one hand, the other pressed over her mouth like she’s trying to shove the sobs back inside before they reach the surface. But one slips through. And then another. And then she’s crying. Openly. Sloppily. Shoulders shaking, mouth open, robe slipping from her shoulder like she doesn’t even notice. She looks ten years older and impossibly young all at once.
She doesn’t look like herself. She’s curled in Ellen’s chair, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched like she’s trying to disappear into her own skin. Her hand’s still covering her mouth, but the crying’s already past hiding. It’s real now. Gut-deep, gasping, awful.
You’re just standing there. Frozen. You’ve never seen her like this. Not when she was tired. Not when she was angry. Not even that morning in her bed, naked under the covers, heartbreak clinging to her skin like sweat. This is something else. This is raw.
You take a step forward. Then stop. You don’t know what to say. You’ve never dealt with someone like her in this state. Someone who usually holds the world in her palm and now can’t even hold herself upright. You didn’t know she could break like this. You didn’t know someone like Avis Amberg could cry like a girl.
She mutters something under her breath. You don’t catch it. It sounds like fuck or I’m sorry or don’t look at me. Maybe all three. Her lipstick’s smeared. Her hair’s coming loose from the pins. One pearl’s fallen onto the floor and rolled beneath the desk.
You open your mouth. Close it. “Do you…” you try, voice small, hoarse, “do you want me to get Ellen?” She flinches. Then shakes her head. Just once. You take another step closer. Careful. Slow. Like approaching a wounded animal. Like she might snap her teeth at you if you reach too quickly. “I don’t know what to do,” you say quietly.
Her breath hitches. “I know,” she whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” You swallow. Then—soft, cautious—you crouch beside the chair. Not touching her. Just there. “I’m not leaving,” you say. A long silence. Then: “Why not?” Her voice is ruined. “Everyone else does.” You don’t have an answer. You just stay there.
“I don’t know what you ever saw in me,” she mutters. You look up, startled. She’s staring down at her hands—trembling, pale, the rings on her fingers catching the light. Her voice is thick. Slurred around the edges, but the words are clear.
“I’m old,” she says. “I’m tired. I’m mean, and I drink too much, and I haven’t liked my body since 1934.” You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Her lip curls. A bitter smile. “And I’m a Jew. Did you know that?” She laughs, low and sharp. “Not that anyone ever lets me forget.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t,” she cuts in. “You’re young. You didn’t grow up hearing the way they said my name in this town. Amberg. Like it was dirty. Like it was some goddamn smear they had to scrub off the studio lot.” Her voice cracks.
She leans back in the chair, eyes wet, lashes clumped together from crying. “They used to call me the kike with the good tits behind my back,” she says softly. “Ace used to laugh about it. Said at least they weren’t calling me ugly.”
You stare at her. She exhales. Long. Shaking. “I was a joke,” she whispers. “A walking contradiction. Too sharp, too loud, too Jewish, too old. And now look at me.” She gestures to herself. Wrinkled silk. Smudged lipstick. Pearls askew. “I’m disgusting.”
You don’t think. You just speak. “You’re not.” She looks at you then. Really looks. And something in her face breaks open. She doesn’t say anything else after that. Just “Take me home.”
So you nod. Quietly. And you help her up—one hand beneath her elbow, the other steady at her waist. She leans into you more than she means to. She’s warm and unsteady, breath thick with scotch and something softer underneath.
The hallway’s quiet as you lead her out. The lot mostly empty. Her Cadillac’s already waiting in the sun, paint gleaming, driver standing patiently by the door like he hasn’t heard a word of the gossip yet.
You open the back door and help her in. She sinks into the leather with a sigh, one hand to her temple like the light’s too much. Her blouse is still undone at the collar. Her hair’s falling from its pins.
You reach for the door. “Miss Amberg,” you say gently. “You’ll be alright. I’ll call Ellen, let her—” Her hand snaps out. Grabs your wrist. You freeze. Her fingers are soft, but the grip is sure. She looks up at you, eyes glassy, dark with something deeper than just drink. “Don’t shut the door.” You blink. “I—” And then she pulls.
It’s not graceful. You stumble forward, catch yourself on the edge of the seat. Her hand slides up your arm as you fall into the car, the door swinging shut behind you with a solid click. The driver doesn’t say a word.
Now you’re inside. In the backseat of her Cadillac. The windows tinted. Her thigh against yours. Her lipstick faded to a smear of red at the corner of her mouth. She leans in. Close enough that her breath warms your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
The car hums beneath you. The city slides past in gold light and shadows.
You’re still half folded into the seat, her hand warm on your wrist, her body close—too close. Her thigh pressed against yours, her breath sticky with scotch and want. You haven’t moved. Haven’t breathed, not really.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she says again. Lower this time. More like confession than command.
You look at her. You should say something. Something rational. Something steady. But she’s looking at your mouth now. Her thumb lifts, swipes just under your lip like she’s checking for a bruise. “You always look so pretty when you’re nervous,” she murmurs. “Like you want to be touched but don’t know where to start.”
Your stomach twists. “Avis—” She cuts you off. “Come here, sweetheart.” Your breath catches. “I—” Her hand slides to your cheek. Her palm is warm. Her fingertips tremble just slightly where they press against your skin.
“Baby,” she whispers. “Come on. Let me kiss you.” And god, when she says baby like that—like it’s not the first time she’s thought it, just the first time she let it slip—you lose something in yourself.
She leans in before you can answer. And you let her. Her mouth finds yours like she’s starved for it—soft at first, then fuller, more insistent. Her lips taste like scotch and smeared lipstick and the salt of old tears. Her hands find your waist, your jaw, your thigh. She kisses like a woman trying to burn the memory into her mouth. Like she’s terrified you’ll pull away.
But you don’t. You kiss her back. Tentative. Breathless. Scared. But hungry. She hums into it. A low, broken sound. Her nails skim your hip. “There’s my good girl,” she murmurs against your lips. You whimper. “Oh, you like that,” she breathes. “Of course you do.”
Her mouth moves to your neck. Your jaw. Her breath hot and desperate. “You’re such a sweet thing. Always doing what you’re told. Always looking at me like you want something you’re too shy to ask for.” Your eyes flutter shut. Your fingers curl into her blouse.
Her mouth is still on yours when her hands start wandering—not careful anymore, not teasing. Just hungry. She drags you closer by the hips, practically hauling you into her lap, her breath hot and frantic against your cheek.
“God—sweetheart—” she whispers, voice wrecked. “I need you. I need to taste you.” Your breath catches. “Avis—”
“No.” She cuts you off, kissing you again, harder this time, her lipstick smearing against your mouth, your chin. “Don’t tell me no. Not now. Not when you kissed me back.” Her hands slide down your thighs, squeezing, urging them apart. She’s shaking. She’s desperate. She’s not thinking with anything but want.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” she murmurs, nose brushing your jaw. “About having you under me… over me… anywhere I can get my mouth on that pretty cunt.” You gasp. She hears it. Smiles, slow and feral. “Oh you like that,” she breathes. “You like hearing me say it.”
She shifts suddenly, pushing gently at your hips like she’s guiding you back against the leather seat. It’s clumsy, drunk, all raw instinct—but the intent is clear. She wants to get lower. Wants her head between your thighs.
“Avis— wait—” She ignores the warning. She’s already sliding down the seat, one hand gripping your knee, thumb stroking the inside like she’s coaxing you open.
“Let me,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Baby, let me taste you. Just once. I swear to God I’ll be good to you—” She tries to sink to the floor of the car, tries to kneel between your legs. And that’s when you catch her.
You grab her face—gently, but firm—holding her cheeks between your palms because she’s about to fall apart on the carpet of her own Cadillac. She freezes. Her breath is hitching. Her lipstick smeared. Her pupils blown wide with heat and alcohol and heartbreak.
“Not like this,” you whisper. For a second she just stares at you—confused, raw, wounded. Then her expression cracks straight down the center. Her voice comes out small. “Please…” Your thumb brushes her cheekbone. “You’re drunk.”
“I don’t care,” she murmurs. “I want you.”
“And I want you,” you whisper back, steady, soft. “But not like this.” She lets out a soft, frustrated sound—half cry, half growl—and collapses forward, forehead pressing into your stomach, hands gripping your waist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.
“Sweet girl…” she breathes against the fabric of your skirt, voice trembling. “I’m so stupid for you. I would do anything if you asked. Anything.” You thread your fingers through her beautiful red hair—messy, soft, falling out of its pins—and she shudders under the touch.
She still wants you. she wants you so badly she’s shaking with it. But she can’t have you tonight. Not like this. Not while she’s coming undone in your lap. “Avis,” you whisper, stroking her hair. “Look at me.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes are wet. Her lipstick smeared. Her cheeks flushed. She looks wrecked. And beautiful. And heartbreakingly vulnerable. You cup her face again. “I’m not leaving you,” you say. “But I’m not letting you do something you’ll regret.”
Her throat works. She swallows. “I wouldn’t regret you,” she whispers. “Never you.” Your chest tightens. “I know,” you say softly. “That’s why we’re stopping.” She leans into your touch like she’s starving for it. And for the first time all night, she goes still.
She goes quiet so suddenly that, for a moment, you think she’s collecting herself.
Breathing. Trying to steady the tremor in her hands. Trying not to cry again. But her weight shifts—heavy, slack—and her head sinks a little further into your stomach, her cheek pressing into the soft fabric of your skirt. Her fingers loosen on your waist. The tension in her shoulders melts.
“Avis…?” you whisper, brushing her hair back from her forehead. Nothing. No muttered plea. No drunken protest. Not even a shaky breath through her teeth. You run your fingers through her hair again, softer this time. “Avis?” Still nothing.
That’s when you realize—She’s asleep. Not peacefully. Not prettily. But out. Completely exhausted, tear-stained, drunk out of her mind, passed out in your lap in the backseat of her Cadillac. Her breath is warm against your stomach. Slow. Heavy. Her mouth is slightly open. A smudge of red lipstick marks your blouse. Her hand is still curled loosely at your hip like she fell asleep mid-reaching for you.
You sit there for a long moment, stunned. This woman—this powerful, terrifying, impossibly composed woman—has unravelled into you like you’re the only safe place she had left to fall. You swallow, easing a hand under her cheek to keep her from sliding further down the seat. Her hair fans across your thigh, soft and warm. She doesn’t stir.
You glance toward the driver. He’s facing forward, stoic, pretending he hears nothing, sees nothing. Years of Amberg House service trained into silence. Quietly, you whisper: “She’s asleep.” He nods once. “Yes, miss.”
You keep stroking her hair. Slowly. Gently. Not because she asked. Because she’s vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen her.
Because she trusted you enough to break.
Because you love her—you do, even if you don’t know how to say it.
Her lips brush your stomach as she exhales. And something deep in your chest aches. The Cadillac hums down the road, the city lights flickering across her sleeping face. Her mascara is smudged. Her hair undone. Her breath warm and steady.
You whisper her name again. Not to wake her. Just because you want to say it softly. “Avis…” She doesn't move. And you sit there—her girl, her comfort, her heartbreak—holding her until the car pulls up to the house.
The Cadillac rolls to a stop in front of the house. You shift gently beneath her, murmuring her name, trying to coax her upright. “Avis… we’re home.” She makes a soft sound. Something like a sigh. Something like don’t make me go.
When you try to ease her off your lap, she slumps sideways, arm flopping uselessly over the seat. The driver opens the door, waiting for instructions, but you already know—She’s not going to get out on her own.
You slip an arm around her back. “Avis, come on… I need you to help me just a little.” Nothing. Her body is warm and heavy and limp, head lolling against your shoulder. She smells like scotch and perfume and lipstick and the faint sweetness of your blouse where her mouth had been pressed.
You try again. “Avis… please—just sit up.” She mumbles something you can’t understand. Her hand twitches at your waist, like she’s reaching for you even in sleep. And that’s when you know: She’s not walking. You’re doing this yourself.
The driver steps back to give you space as you brace your feet on the ground and begin to haul her upright. Her weight collapses into you immediately—soft, hot, uncoordinated. Her cheek lands against your shoulder. Her hair tickles your throat.
“Okay,” you whisper breathlessly. “Okay, I’ve got you.” It’s not elegant. You half-lift, half-drag her out of the car, one arm slung over your shoulder, your hand gripping her waist, her legs stumbling uselessly beneath her. She leans her entire body into yours, head tucked against your neck like she belongs there.
The driver closes the door behind you. You tug her forward step by step across the gravel path. Her heel catches, and you catch her before she goes down completely. She lets out a groggy, frustrated whine. “Avis, please—just try to stand.”
She doesn’t. She just buries her face into your shoulder and breathes you in like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world. Your heart squeezes painfully. You adjust your grip, one hand gripping the back of her thighs, and essentially haul her the last several feet up the stairs.
By the time you reach the front door, you’re panting softly, your clothes twisted, your hair falling out of its clip. “Avis,” you murmur, pushing the door open with your hip. “You’re supposed to be helping.”
“I am helping,” she slurs into your neck. “M’letting you… take care of me.” Your breath catches. Her weight shifts again, nearly taking you both down, and you stumble with her across the threshold into the dim foyer. “Jesus—Avis—” But she just clings tighter, arms looping around your shoulders now, her whole body pressed to yours. “Don’t… let go,” she whispers, barely awake. You hold her even tighter. “I won’t.” And you drag her—slowly, clumsily, lovingly—into the house.
You’d barely gotten her through the front door before she started to sag again. You’d tried to reason with her. “Avis, please. We just need to get up the stairs.” Nothing. You adjusted your grip under her arm. Her shoulder slipped. Her weight dragged down into your side like dead heat. “Avis,” you groaned, “you have to help me, I can’t carry you.” Still nothing.
Her cheek was pressed against your collarbone, breath slow and shallow. She smelled like sweat and perfume and the ghost of her old soap, and her body—elegant, always upright and proud—had gone completely limp. Like she’d finally given up. Like the fight was over and you were the only thing left keeping her upright.
You made it to the base of the stairs. Braced her against the wall. Took a breath. “Alright. One step. Just try one—” You lifted her foot. She sagged harder. Her heel slipped. Your back wrenched. You almost fell backwards into the banister. That was it.
You exhaled, lips tight, hair sticking to your neck from the heat. “I love you,” you whispered to her barely-conscious body, “but you are absolutely impossible.” And you turned. Half-dragged, half-carried her to the living room. The couch was already there. Safe. Soft. Level. Close.
You lowered her down onto it one inch at a time, palms splayed to keep her from sliding, your knee braced against the side to catch her. She let out a low, unintelligible sigh when her head hit the cushion.
You pushed her hair back from her face. Her lipstick had faded entirely now, leaving just a faint pink smudge at the corner of her mouth. Her blouse had twisted under her arm. One stocking was starting to slip.
You sat beside her for a minute. Breathing. Watching her chest rise and fall. She looked peaceful like this. Or at least like she wasn’t trying so hard to pretend. You rose, slowly. Got a blanket from the hall closet. A glass of water. One of the silk pillows from the upstairs guest bed she never used.
You knelt beside her again. Laid the blanket over her legs. Tucked the pillow under her head. You didn’t expect her to speak. You thought she was fully out. But just as you turned to go, her hand brushed your wrist. “…stay,” she slurred, barely audible.
You looked back. Her eyes were still shut. Her voice was a whisper. But her fingers curled, just slightly, around your sleeve. “…please.” You hesitated. Then nodded. You pulled your shoes off. Lowered yourself to the floor beside the couch. Sat with your back against it, her hand still barely hooked through the edge of your shirt. You whispered, “I’m here.” And when she didn’t answer, you let the silence stretch.
✧・゚: *✧・゚:* ✧・゚: *✧・゚:*
You wake to the sound of her breath. Not loud. Not ragged. Just there—warm and measured, close. Your neck is stiff. Your back aches. The floor beneath you is unforgiving, even with the blanket you’d half-curled into sometime around 3 a.m.
You shift slightly. That’s when you feel it—Her gaze. You blink awake. And there she is. Avis, standing over you, barefoot, wrapped in her robe. Her hair is pinned up again—loosely this time, one strand falling at her temple. Her lipstick’s fresh. Her posture straighter than it has any right to be after a night like the one she had.
She’s holding a cigarette she hasn’t lit. And she’s watching you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then her voice breaks the silence. “You stayed.” You nod, slow. “You asked me to.” Her eyes flicker. She looks down at you for another long moment. Then: “I remember everything.” Your pulse stutters.
She steps around the couch. Lowers herself into it. Not sprawled this time. Composed. Poised. Bare knees just visible beneath the robe, the curve of her collarbone peeking through the low fold of silk.
She rests her cigarette on the ashtray. And then she looks at you again—really looks. “You still want me.” Your throat goes dry. “Avis—”
“Don’t lie,” she says. Not harsh. Just quiet. Certain. You look at her. And there’s no laughter in her eyes now. No drunken slur. No sharp edge of panic. Just that same low, slow burn that’s been simmering for weeks.
She leans forward. One hand reaches down—curls gently around your wrist. Her thumb brushes the inside of it. “I’m not drunk anymore,” she says. “I know what I’m asking.” Your breath catches.
“I want to take you upstairs,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “I want to undress you slowly. I want you to let me touch you, and kiss you, and make you come with my mouth until you forget every goddamn thing that’s ever made you afraid of me.”
You can barely breathe. “And if you say no,” she adds, softer now, “I’ll get up. I’ll make us tea. I’ll pretend this never happened.” A pause. “But if you say yes…” She leans down. Presses her forehead gently to yours. “…I’ll show you what it means to be wanted by someone who knows how to want.”
“Yes.” You don’t realize you’ve said it until you hear your own voice—quiet, steady, a little breathless. Avis goes still.nCompletely still.nLike she’s afraid the moment will shatter if she moves too quickly.
Then something breaks across her face—relief, hunger, disbelief, all tangled together—and she exhales a shaky groan that sounds like she’s been holding her breath for a week. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t have said that unless you meant it.”
“I meant it.” You swear you see her knees weaken. She stands so fast the robe slips open a little at her thigh. Her hand closes around your wrist before you can think, warm and insistent. “Up,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked and full of heat. “Come upstairs with me. Right now.”
You rise. She pulls you with her so fast you nearly stumble, and then—She’s dragging you. Not roughly. Not carelessly.
Just desperate. One hand locked around yours, the other braced on the banister as she practically hauls you up the first few steps, her breath shaky, her hair coming loose, her robe slipping off one shoulder.
“Avis—” you gasp, trying to keep up. She looks back at you with eyes that are almost fever-bright. “I’ve been waiting weeks, darling,” she says. “You have no idea—no idea—what you’ve done to me.”
She takes the next step too fast in her excitement and you catch her elbow, steadying her. She lets out a shaky laugh, presses a quick, hot kiss to your jaw, and then keeps pulling you upward.
Her body is trembling. Not with fear. With want. By the time you both reach the landing, she’s panting, robe half-open, cheeks flushed deep red. She pushes you gently against the wall, just for a moment, just long enough to cradle your face with both hands.
She looks at you like she’s memorizing you. “Say it again,” she whispers. “Say you want me.” You swallow. Your voice shakes. “I want you.” She shudders—an actual shudder—her forehead dropping to yours as a soft, broken sound escapes her. “Good girl.” Your breath stumbles.
She grabs your hips and nudges you toward the bedroom door, barely able to contain herself. “We’re not stopping,” she murmurs, half laughing, half breathless as she pushes the door open with her shoulder. “Not this time. I’m not letting you run from me again.”
“I’m not running,” you whisper back. Her eyes go dark. “Then get in my bed.” She barely gets the door shut behind you before something in her finally snaps. Not in anger. In relief.
She turns, eyes wide, breath shaking, and for a second she just stares at you like she can’t believe you’re real. Like she’s spent months imagining this and now she’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Then she moves. “Avis—” She doesn’t let you finish. Her fingers hook into the tie of her robe, and with one sharp pull she tears it open and lets it fall to the floor in a pool of silk. You gasp.
She’s not wearing anything underneath except a thin champagne-colored slip—already sliding off her shoulder from the force of her movements. Her nipples are hard under the fabric, the outline of her breasts soft and full. The slip clings to her waist, her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips.
She doesn’t pause. She grabs the hem of the slip, breathless, almost laughing with disbelief. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she says, voice thick, low, hungry. “I can’t—god, I can’t wait anymore.”
She pulls it over her head in one desperate motion. And suddenly—she’s bare. Completely. Gloriously. Unashamed.
Her breasts fall softly with the movement, full and warm, pink nipples tightening in the cool air. The lines of age, of life, of her softness—they’re all there, and she stands in them proudly. Her stomach is soft, her hips wide, her thighs thick and trembling with excitement.
“You’re staring,” she whispers, flushed. You swallow hard. “I can’t help it.” That does something to her. Her knees flex. Her breath stutters. Color blooms across her chest. She steps closer—slow now, controlled, even though excitement radiates off her in waves. “Come here, sweetheart.” You do.
Her hands slide up your arms, over your shoulders, down your sides, learning you, mapping you. Skin to skin, warm and real. She presses you back onto the bed—gently but firmly—her naked body sliding over yours, her thigh nudging between your legs with unhidden purpose.
She kisses you hard, hungry, open-mouthed, her tongue slipping against yours like she’s been dreaming of this exact moment. When she pulls back, she’s panting. “I want to taste you,” she whispers. “Not drunken wanting. Not a fantasy. I want your pussy on my tongue. I want to feel you shake for me.”
Your breath catches. You grab the sheets. Her hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your clothes, fingers pressing just enough to make your hips lift. “Oh,” she breathes, eyes darkening. “You’re already wet for me.”
You whimper. “And you’re going to let me have it,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Every drop. You’re going to come for me like a good girl.”
Her teeth graze your skin. Her body moves lower. Her mouth is headed exactly where you’ve dreamed about having her. “Avis—”
“No,” she whispers against your stomach, kissing lower and lower, “don’t say my name right now unless you want me to come apart before I even get there.”
She hooks her fingers into your waistband. “Lift your hips, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice deep with need. “Let me see you.” She has your clothes halfway down your thighs when she pauses suddenly. Not because she’s uncertain. Because she’s thinking.
You feel her breath on your skin, warm against your stomach, and then she leans back on her heels, completely naked, hair falling loose, lips swollen from kissing you. “Wait,” she murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “I… want something.” Your pulse trips. “What?”
She swallows hard, cheeks flushed like she’s embarrassed and turned on all at once. “I read about it,” she admits softly. “In one of those filthy magazines men keep hidden in cigar boxes. Years ago.” She crawls up over you, thighs bracketing yours, her breasts brushing your chest, her breath hot against your mouth.
“Girls,” she whispers, “fucking each other with their thighs… rubbing their cunts together until they can’t breathe.” Your entire body shivers. Her hand trails down your stomach, slow, teasing, stopping just above your pussy. “I used to picture it,” she confesses, voice trembling with desire. “Before Ace. Before all of this. Two women… warm and slick and grinding until they soaked each other.”
Your breath catches. “Avis…”
“I want it,” she says, more urgently now. “I want you. I want to feel your pussy against mine.” She presses her forehead to yours. “Let me,” she whispers. “Please.” You nod. That’s all she needs. She lets out a shaky groan and immediately shifts down your body, tugging your clothes off with trembling, eager hands until you’re completely bare beneath her.
Then she climbs into position. Her thigh slips between yours. Then she lowers herself—slowly, carefully—until her pussy rests directly against yours. You inhale sharply. She exhales like she’s been punched. “Oh—god—” she whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Sweetheart… you’re so warm…”
She rocks her hips once—just a small movement—and both of you gasp. The slick heat, the pressure, the wet slide of your bodies meeting. It’s overwhelming. She grabs your hips, steadying herself.
“I’m going to fuck you,” she says, voice shaking with want. “Right here. Like this. I’ve wanted to feel this since the moment I realized I loved you.” She grinds again—slow, deliberate—and your clit slides perfectly against hers, a hot, needy spark shooting through your whole body.
“Oh—Avis—” Her head falls back. Her thighs tremble. “Fuck, yes—say my name—say it while I’m on you—” She sets a rhythm: slow, heavy, deep, her hips rolling against yours with purpose, with hunger, with a kind of reverence you’ve never felt from anyone.
Your slicks mix. Her breath breaks. Her hands grip your body like she’s terrified you’ll disappear. “You feel so good,” she pants. “So—god—so perfect against me—keep going—keep going—don’t stop—”
Her pace quickens, messy now, needy. “I read about this,” she moans, “but nothing—nothing could have prepared me for you.” Your bodies slide together—wet, hot, desperate. She lowers her forehead to yours again, breathing hard. “Cum with me,” she whispers. “I want to feel you shake. I want to feel you fall apart on my cunt.”
Her hips grind harder. Your fingers grip her shoulders. Her breath stutters. You’re both close—so close. It happens so quickly it actually startles her. One moment she’s rocking against you—slow, deep, her breath hot against your mouth, and the next her entire body seizes, thighs trembling, a soft, broken cry escaping her throat. “A-ah—oh, sweetheart—”
She collapses forward, her hips jerking once, twice, helplessly, her pussy slick and clenching against yours. Her forehead hits your shoulder and she grabs fistfuls of the sheets as she rides the shockwave out. “My God,” she gasps, voice shaking. “My—God—what did you—” Another small tremor hits her, and she shudders through it, panting.
She lifts her head just enough to look at you. Her hair is stuck to her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen and parted.
She looks completely undone. And embarrassed. And hungry.
“I didn’t mean to—” she starts, breathless, “—that was so fast, I’m sorry, I—sweetheart, I haven’t come like that since I was twenty, I swear—”
You open your mouth to tell her it’s fine, it’s more than fine, but she's already moving. Fast. Urgent. She slides down your body like a woman possessed, kissing every inch of your stomach, her hands pushing your thighs apart with a trembling kind of reverence and need.
“No,” she murmurs against your skin, voice low and determined. “You’re not ending like that. I need to taste you. I need to make you come.” Your hips jerk. “Avis—” She looks up at you from between your thighs. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Mouth pink and swollen. Her hair wild around her face. Still flushed from cumming so fast she couldn’t even speak.
“I’m not done with you,” she says softly. “Lie back.” You do. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you toward her mouth as she settles onto her knees, spreading you open with careful, trembling fingers. “You were so good for me,” she whispers. “So perfect. Now let me be good for you.” Then she lowers her mouth to your pussy.
Her tongue is warm, slow at first, then firmer, more confident as she finds your clit and circles it gently, then again, then with purpose. You gasp. She moans—actually moans—into you, her hands gripping your hips to keep you from pulling away when your body arches.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, kissing your clit before sucking it lightly, “you taste better than I dreamed. And I have dreamed about you.” Your thighs tremble around her. She tightens her grip. “No,” she whispers, voice husky. “Don’t hold back. Let me take you over. Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
Her mouth closes around your clit, tongue stroking slow and deliberate, and you’re gone—heat curling tight in your stomach, your breath shuddering, your fingers buried in her hair. She groans again, the sound vibrating through you, and it pushes you right to the edge.
“That’s it,” she breathes between licks, “come for me—come on my mouth, darling—give it to me—” Her tongue flicks. Her mouth seals. Her hands pull you closer. You expect her to be hesitant. Shy, maybe. Clumsy in a tender, sweet way. She’s not.
The moment her mouth settles against you, something in her shifts. Her hands—still trembling from her fast orgasm—steady themselves on your hips. Her shoulders relax. Her breath deepens. She’s fully awake now, fully sober, fully present.
And when her tongue drags up your slit for the first time you gasp. Not because it’s new.
Because it’s perfect. She pauses just long enough to murmur against you: “There it is… that’s the sound I wanted.”
Then she does it again—slower, more deliberate, letting the flat of her tongue press into the sensitive flesh before curling upward in a way that makes your back arch off the mattress. “Oh—Avis—”
“Mhm…” she hums, the vibration shooting through your core. “Good, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” She finds your clit easily. Too easily. Like she’s known where it was all along. Her tongue circles it once—slow. Twice—firmer.
And then she draws a soft suction around it, lips closing over you with a practiced, instinctual hunger.
Your thighs clamp around her head. She groans. A deep, throaty sound that sends shockwaves into your body. “Oh my God—” you gasp. “Mmm,” she answers, not lifting her mouth, not slowing. Her hands push your legs open wider, her thumbs stroking your inner thighs in slow, soothing motions that contrast with the devastating, focused attention of her tongue.
She pulls back for just a moment—her lips wet, her chin slick. “It’s my first time,” she says, breathless, flushed. “But I know how to listen.” Then she goes back down. And listens. She pays attention to every tiny movement you make—the way your stomach tightens when she flattens her tongue. The way you gasp when she switches to quick flicks. The way you moan when she sucks gently and rolls her tongue beneath the hood. The way your hand tightens in her hair when she moves lower, tasting everywhere
She groans again when you tug her closer. “Oh sweetheart…” she murmurs, voice vibrating against you. “You’re so sensitive—so sweet—let me have all of it.” She slides a hand up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast as she licks you in slow, deliberate strokes.
You’re falling apart. She knows it. “You’re close,” she whispers, lifting her eyes to meet yours for one devastating second before sealing her mouth over your clit again. “Come for me. Come on my tongue. Let me taste you first.”
Her tongue moves faster—precise, hungry, knowing. And you realize: Of course she’s good at this. She’s been imagining it for months. She’s been studying you for longer than you ever knew. And she’s making you cum faster than anyone ever has.
Your breath stutters. Your hips jerk. And Avis feels it and she lifts one hand from your thigh, reaching up blindly until her fingers brush your wrist. You grab her hand immediately. Tight. She squeezes back. Hard.
Her mouth doesn’t leave your clit. Her tongue keeps moving in those long, devastating strokes that are going to ruin you for every other person on earth. “Oh—Avis—” Your voice breaks.
She moans into you, the sound vibrating in a way that pushes you right to the edge. Her other hand slides up your waist, holding you steady as your thighs begin to tremble around her shoulders.
“Come on,” she whispers against you, breath hot, lips brushing your clit in soft kisses between strokes. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Hold onto me.”
You squeeze her hand harder. Your knuckles go white. Her thumb rubs slow circles against the back of your palm—sweet, reassuring—while her tongue works you with obscene, perfect precision. Your whole body tightens. “Avis—oh my God—”
She hums, low and needy, her mouth sealing around your clit as she sucks gently and flicks her tongue in rapid pulses that send heat flooding through your stomach.
That’s all it takes. You break. Your back arches off the bed, thighs clamping around her ears, fingers digging into her hand like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. Her grip tightens. She doesn’t let go. She doesn’t lift her mouth, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop until you’re shaking so hard you can barely breathe.
Your orgasm hits you in waves—sharp, liquid, overwhelming—and she moans through it, drinking every sound you make, every twitch of your hips, every spill of slick against her tongue. “Oh—fuck—Avis—”
She squeezes your hand again, grounding you through the spiral of pleasure. “That’s it,” she murmurs, lifting her mouth only long enough to kiss your overstimulated clit once, reverently, before licking you through every aftershock. “That’s my girl. Let it happen. Let me feel you.”
You whimper, collapsing back onto the sheets, chest heaving, fingers still entwined with hers. She finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, cheeks flushed. She kisses the inside of your thigh. Then your hip. Then the back of your knuckles. “You’re beautiful when you come,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
And she lays her cheek on your stomach, still holding your hand as your breathing slowly steadies. After a long moment, Avis lifts her head from your stomach and looks up at you. Really looks. Her hair is mussed, her cheeks flushed, her lips still swollen from kissing every part of you she could reach. There’s something soft in her eyes now—softer than you’ve ever seen her. Sated. Vulnerable. A little overwhelmed.
You reach down and stroke her cheek. She leans into your hand like she’s been waiting to do it for months. Then she climbs up the bed—slowly this time, deliberately—her body settling over yours, her weight warm and comforting as she nudges your legs aside and tucks herself against your chest.
One arm drapes over your waist. Her thigh slides between yours. Her head rests just under your chin. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, breathing her in—perfume and sweat and the faint sweetness of your release still on her skin.
She sighs. Deep. Content. Almost disbelieving. “You stayed,” she whispers, voice soft like the morning sun. “I’ll always stay,” you murmur into her hair. She squeezes you just slightly. A small, gentle press of her fingers against your ribs like she’s afraid to hold too tightly. “I thought I scared you away,” she says.
“You didn’t,” you whisper back. “Not even a little.” She lifts her head, just enough to meet your eyes. There’s no hunger now. No desperation. Just that quiet, aching affection she’s been carrying alone for far too long. “I love you,” she says, like she’s finally allowed to say it out loud. You touch her cheek, brushing your thumb across her warm skin. “I love you too.”
She exhales a shaky breath—then settles fully into your arms, her body melting into yours in a way that feels safe and natural, like you were always meant to fit together like this. The room is warm. The sheets smell like both of you. Her heartbeat slows against your chest.
You press a kiss into her hair. Her fingers tangle with yours. And the last thing you hear before she drifts to sleep—bare, soft, and happy—is her voice, quiet as a secret: “My girl.”
I’m going to try to get the Avis fic out this weekend but I still need to edit it. I’ve been super busy with a research paper so I apologize for taking so long. I’ve also started a Marjorie merriweather post fic that will be out sometime soon hopefully! 🤞