“Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards.”
Oh, yeah, I got clothes. A full-length pant, if you will. Feel like a cheese toastie. - What colour is that? Hot orange, so I don't get shot by poachers.
You lot have obviously been too busy sitting around, licking your own fuckin' dickholes to see what's been happening here, so you need to tootle-fuck and let us run the case. Capisce? Or comprende?
Madeleine Sami as Eddie Redcliffe in DEADLOCH (Season 2)
Hi again! Erica here with this week’s Feel Good News — take a deep breath, relax, and enjoy these stories.
1. Mexico’s monarch butterfly population jumps 64%, offering hope for at-risk species
The population of monarch butterflies in Mexico has increased by 64% this winter compared to 2025, offering a glimmer of hope for this iconic insect that has been at risk of extinction. The area occupied by monarchs expanded to 2.93 hectares from 1.79 hectares the previous winter, the largest coverage since 2018. This recovery is attributed to conservation efforts that have helped reduce illegal logging in the monarch’s core habitat. However, the species still faces threats such as habitat loss from deforestation, climate change, and the use of herbicides that have decimated the milkweed plants monarchs rely on. While the recent population increase is encouraging, more work is needed to ensure the long-term survival of these magnificent migratory butterflies.
2. Woman who never stopped updating her lost dog’s chip reunites with him after 11 years
Jourdyn Koziak’s beloved pit bull, Forty-Cal, went missing 11 years ago from her backyard in Philadelphia. Despite the long time that had passed, Koziak never stopped updating Forty-Cal’s microchip information in the hopes that he would one day be found. This weekend, Koziak received a call from a man claiming that her long-lost dog had been found. To her disbelief, it turned out to be true - Forty-Cal had been found by a little girl in Philadelphia and taken to the local animal shelter, where his microchip was scanned. Overjoyed, Koziak drove to the shelter with her family to reunite with Forty-Cal. The reunion was an emotional one, as Koziak had not seen her dog in over a decade. Though she is saddened by the lost time, Koziak is thrilled to have her beloved pet back and says it feels like “Christmas morning every day” now that Forty-Cal is home.
3. United Airlines, flight attendants reach tentative labor deal for first top pay raises of $100 an hour at the end of the contract, pay for flight attendants during boarding and “a signing bonus for every flight attendant worth a total of $740 million,” since the Covid-19 pandemic
United Airlines and its flight attendant union have reached a tentative labor deal that will include their first raises in roughly six years. If ratified by flight attendants, the agreement will provide immediate raises and top pay of $100 an hour at the end of the contract, as well as pay for flight attendants during boarding and a signing bonus worth a total of $740 million. The deal also includes additional compensation for flight disruptions and new restrictions on overnight flight assignments. This agreement comes as United is planning an aggressive expansion of its higher-touch premium cabins, with new seats featuring elevated dining options and seats that convert into beds.
4. Wikipedia has banned AI-generated text, with two exceptions
Wikipedia, the popular online encyclopedia, has decided to ban the use of large language models (LLMs) in article content, with a few exceptions. Editors can use LLMs for writing assistance, such as suggesting refinements to their own writing, as long as they check the accuracy of the edits. They can also use AI tools for the initial translation of text, but they must still be proficient in both languages to catch errors. This policy applies only to the English Wikipedia, as other language versions may have different rules. While identifying LLM-generated text is still challenging, Wikipedia has provided guidelines for spotting such content. The goal is to maintain the quality and reliability of the information on the platform.
5. Scientists uncovered the nutrients bees were missing — Colonies surged 15-fold
- A team of researchers has developed a breakthrough food supplement that could help reverse the decline of honeybees. - The supplement mimics the key nutrients bees normally get from pollen, which are critical for their growth and development. - When tested, colonies fed this supplement produced up to 15 times more young compared to those on standard diets. - The supplement is made using engineered yeast that produces a precise mix of six essential sterols bees need. - This breakthrough could be a game-changer for beekeepers and help strengthen bee health without increasing competition for limited wildflowers. - Larger field trials are still needed, but if successful, the supplement could reach farmers within two years. - The same technology could also be adapted to support other pollinators or farmed insects, opening new paths for sustainable agriculture.
6. Scientists discover Alzheimer’s hidden “death switch” in the brain
A team of researchers led by Prof. Dr. Hilmar Bading at Heidelberg University has identified a key molecular process that drives the progression of Alzheimer’s disease. They found that a harmful interaction between the NMDA receptor and the TRPM4 ion channel, forming a “death complex,” can damage and kill nerve cells, leading to cognitive decline. The researchers used a compound called FP802 to disrupt this toxic protein interaction in a mouse model of Alzheimer’s, which slowed disease progression and preserved memory. This approach differs from traditional Alzheimer’s strategies by targeting a downstream cellular mechanism rather than amyloid formation. The researchers believe this inhibitor could represent a broadly applicable strategy for slowing or stopping neurodegenerative diseases, but clinical use is still far in the future, requiring further refinement and comprehensive testing.
———-
That’s it for last week :)
This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:
Buy me a coffee ❤️
Also don’t forget to share this post with your friends.
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.
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
