Hey everyone!! This is my first fanfic since 2022, so please forgive any errors or inconsistencies. I only speak Portuguese, so I wrote it in Portuguese and just asked the docs to translate it (I hope the essence wasn't lost). Please leave comments so I know if it's worth writing more! Please, please, please, please! Thank you to everyone who voted, you are amazing.
You drag yourself to the locker room, your feet aching and feeling like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Today, the shift seemed to stretch endlessly between cases, and the new assistant doctor wouldn't leave your mind. "Dr. Al Hashimi..." that name echoes in your thoughts as you finish closing your locker and head towards the parking lot.
Your new colleague, who arrived with those beautiful curly hair and big doe eyes, studying everyone with an almost robotic knowledge, captivated you at first sight. She was intriguing, in a good way, you observe as you walk between the rows of parked vehicles, towards your car.The weather is mild, a light breeze blows and sends shivers down your arms. You're standing in front of your car door, searching for your keys, when a sudden screeching of brakes startles you. Turning your head, your eyes fall on a car stopped a few meters away, its headlights on and the engine humming softly.
Taking a deep breath, you approach the driver's side door, worried that whoever is driving might be unwell.Blinking closer to the window, you glimpse your colleague's caramel-colored hair, while an arm resting on the window cradles her contorted face, wet with cascading tears. Your chest tightens; the image of the smiling doctor's face from just a few hours ago, replaced by this expression of pain, puts you on edge.
Afraid of startling her, your fingers gently tap the glass. The woman inside stands out, looking out and fixing her dull gaze on yours. It takes her a few seconds to gather the courage to lower the glass, allowing you to better glimpse her silhouette now. Her hair is loose, full and frizzy, a red tank top clings to her torso, her slender, shapely arms are on display, and her dark eyes are wet with apparent dark circles under them. You think how magnificent she looks like this, but you quickly reprimand yourself, knowing that this is not the time to let your imagination wander lesbian...especially seeing the pain etched on the face of the woman in front of him.
"What happened? Are you okay?" the questions jump from his mouth as soon as you process what's happening. His eyes scan her closely, searching for any sign of injury on her body. Baran date she slightly opens her eyes, takes a few seconds to breathe deeply, and then looks back at you with a disarming vulnerability.
"No...", she whispers, sighing immediately afterward, "I don't know... I don't know if I'm in a condition to drive home." She looks at you, her eyebrows furrowed and a slight pout adorning her lips.You linger a few more moments examining her, your concern billowing in waves directed at her. Sighing, you nod slightly. "I can take you home if you want," you offer, concerned only for her well-being. Baran accepts without hesitation, too tired to argue.
She simply opens the door and heads to the passenger seat, leaving the driver's door open for you to get in. Once you're both settled in, you ask her to set the location on the screen in front of you, and soon you're maneuvering out of the parking lot and onto the road. You pay attention to the road, but not without glancing furtively at your companion. She's huddled in the seat, her eyes fixed on the landscape outside, while a few lingering tears roll down her cheeks. You don't speak, fearing she'll withdraw even further. In the brief conversations you've had today, you've realized that Baran is the type of person who doesn't like to expose her private life. The only things you've learned about her are that she's a mother of a boy and worked for Doctors Without Borders.
So you simply return your attention to the road, giving her the space she deserves, but inwardly hoping she'll open up to you. Less than 30 minutes later, you're parking your car in her garage. As you step outside, she gently thanks you and invites you in for a drink, so you follow her down the cobblestone path to her door.
Inside, you're greeted by a wooden floor and brown and green walls, with yellow lamps lining the small hallway leading to the living room. Baran is a few steps ahead, guiding you to the beige sofa after you take off your shoes at the entrance, while she goes to the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea and a glass of water for you (she doesn't know what you want to drink, so she offers both).
Listening to her footsteps and the soft clinking of utensils in the adjacent kitchen, you take advantage of the alone time to look around more. You're not surprised by the cozy atmosphere, with the warm colors and the soft, citrusy scent of Baran lingering in the air. The house reflects your expectations of the new doctor, an organized person who exudes confidence. The living room is impeccably clean, and you imagine this is repeated in the other rooms. There's a small basket of toys in a corner, on top of a rug with a print of the movie "Cars." You smile slightly, imagining the woman sitting in your place watching her son play in that space, perhaps watching TV or with a book in her lap. Two of the walls are covered with bookshelves full of books, and you assume Baran has a taste for literature.
You continue to drift off, your eyes lingering on every detail around you, until you glance to your left and are startled to see the woman in question sitting beside you. At first, she says nothing, merely pouring you one of the cups and turning to face you. Baran takes a few sips of her own tea, and soon you are repeating the gesture, both of you averting your gaze every few seconds."I'm sorry for what happened, I didn't mean to have to derail you", the woman begins, and all your attention turns to her, your eyes scanning her body from head to toe.
"Thank you so much for that, I don't know if I would have made it home without your help," she continues, looking at the cup resting on her lap, too afraid to look at you. You stare at her, waiting for her words to sink in. The first thing you process is how weak and muffled her voice is, as if she were submerged in water. Her face is downcast, her hands gripping the cup tightly, and her shoulders tense.
This tightens your chest even more; how could this woman become so fragile after just one shift? The persistent question, and right behind it, a spark of anger bubbles up. You had seen her talking to Robbie, saw her leave the room quickly, as if something were suffocating her. Just thinking that a single conversation with him could have left her in this state, so vulnerable, makes you clench your fists and tighten your jaw. Robbie's behavior has been proving wrong for days, and you've seen your team suffer because of it, because of his harsh words to the residents, the way he acts as if he owns the place, as if only his opinion is valid, only his way of dealing with patients is right.
You take a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs and the pang of irritation subside. Now was not the time to think about how much you want to punch your colleague's unshaven face, or how unpleasant it will be to see him afterward. Now is the time to help the woman who has occupied your thoughts since early this morning, the same woman who is still standing in front of you in the same way, avoiding eye contact, her shoulders hunched around her head, as if showing herself to you were a tremendous effort.
"You know, you don't need to apologize, since helping you will never be a burden to me," you begin, hoping your sincerity will resonate with her, "Besides, it's always a pleasure to spend more time with such a stunning woman," you add, surprised at yourself. Baran is surprised at first, but soon looks up, a slight lift of the corner of his lips escaping a playful snort. You smile, pleased by the slight return of the sparkle to his large hazel eyes, happy to be the reason for his amusement.
"Do you hit on every woman you help?" she asks, still staring at you, but now with a slight hint of mischief in her voice. You shift, setting your cup down on the small table in front of the sofa, afraid she'll tremble and reveal her nervousness. You let out a humorless laugh, impressed by how easily she reverses the roles, leaving you embarrassed with just a glance.
"No, just one in particular," you murmur, biting your lower lip. This elicits a nasal sound and a surprised look from the persian woman. She nods in agreement, discarding the empty cup as you did before. Settling more comfortably on the sofa, she leans forward and uses an arm to rest her head on the backrest. She's surprised; she hadn't imagined that after so many negative emotions, she could end the night having fun by your side. She had noticed the suggestive way you looked at her on duty, and she couldn't deny how attractive she found you and how happy she is to see you blushing in front of her. She murmurs, still not taking her eyes off the way you're fidgeting, happy to know that it affects you so much, even after the lamentable state you showed her.
"I'm flattered, it's not every day that such a beautiful girl is interested in me," she blurts out, and your eyes widen, your heart racing and a warm sensation settling in your core. She called you beautiful, the damnably attractive and spectacular doctor with doe eyes, the damn gray jacket, and curls that make you want to bury your nose in them thought you were beautiful. You clear your throat, feeling your neck heat up and certain that it's red, betraying your deplorable state of embarrassment.
"I doubt you aren't pursued by many, you're simply stunning," you say, forcing a bravado you're sure you don't possess. She smiles, the wrinkles of age accentuating her chocolate-colored eyes, and you sigh, realizing how screwed you are by your new colleague, who, besides being older, is a mother, and you're not sure if she'd give you a chance, even though she seems to appreciate your attention.
"I'm not," she says, still smiling and leaning forward a little more, almost exceeding the acceptable personal space between you two - "But I'd be more than happy to have you first in line," -Baran whispers, now with that confident air he'd shown since arriving at the pit, returning to his usual posture and demeanor. You open and close your mouth more than once, warm and surprised by the direction the conversation is taking. You hadn't intended to flirt with your colleague, much less thought she might reciprocate, but the realization ignited a flame of hope in your heart. You had a chance, that was already more than you had hoped for, but still, your focus for tonight is taking care of the fragile figure you helped get home.
"You can bet I won't give up this post," - he replies, smiling gently at the beautiful woman, "but today I don't want to talk about it... What happened, Baran?" you ask, and the woman immediately straightens up, moving away from your face and frowning again in a way you presume to be displeasure. For a moment, you regretted bringing up the subject, the air in the room suddenly becoming heavy and your colleague's amused demeanor being replaced by a look of pain. Baran stares at you, but her gaze seems lost, as if she's rehearsing a conversation internally. You wait, ever patient, while the woman remains outside for a few minutes. The worry doesn't leave you, but you need confirmation that she's alright, or if you can do something to help her, because you don't know if you could bear to see her in that state again.
On the outside, Baran seems to be just taking some time to think, but inside, alarm bells are ringing behind her eyes. She didn't imagine so many things would happen on her first day, much less that you would see a moment of vulnerability from her. Not that she's afraid you'll threaten to betray her, as Robbie said earlier—she could never suspect someone as sweet as you—but rather that she doesn't want to further expose her raw and fragile side to another person. She doesn't want her mask of composure and strength to be breached by so many people in such a short time.God, she's learned so well to hide her unwanted parts that she thinks she's broken and defective. But when her eyes fall on your face, the gentle way your concern for her emanates from you, so open and sincere, makes her fears seem unthinkable at that moment. She can trust you, that's what makes you so different and special from the rest of the team. She can tell you, maybe that will help her process what happened, maybe your opinion can help her not be swayed by what Robbie said, that she's incapable of performing her duties because of uncontrollable crises.
Organizing his thoughts a little more, Baran leans closer to you again, resting his forehead on your shoulder and gripping your shirt as if afraid you might pull away at any moment. Quickly his hands move, one finding the Persian's slightly sweaty back, beginning slow circular motions, while his other hand entwines in your curls and begins a slow massage. You revel in the closeness, unable to resist burying your nose in the top of his head anchored to your chest, breathing deeply the citrus and antiseptic scent of the hospital, your chest heaving with each breath. Baran relaxes, enveloped in your addictive scent and your incredible caresses. She feels so safe in your arms, as if they fit perfectly, and she clutches your shirt even tighter, gently rubbing her head against your shoulder like a puppy seeking affection. You smile, marveling at being able to bring relief to the woman in your arms, pulling her body even closer to you.
"I... I had two absence seizures today on duty," Baran cleared her throat, sinking even deeper into her touch, searching for the strength to continue. "I told Robbie about my condition, explained that a neurologist cleared me to continue working, and that I use Keppra to control it... but he wouldn't listen. He said I was endangering the lives of his hospital's patients and that if I didn't inform the department, he would," Al Hashimi finished, now feeling her already painful eyes burning again, and her hands clenched tightly on her clothes. She was afraid; she didn't want you to think she was incapable too, she didn't want confirmation that Robbie's assessment was correct, that she was neglecting the safety of her patients and that she might no longer be able to practice her profession.
"This hasn't happened in over a year, I don't know what happened to me," she says, her voice broken and muffled by her t-shirt. She closes her eyes tightly, her grip becoming desperate and her shoulders beginning to tremble, just like in the car. You're surprised, so many emotions are racing through your head, but that only makes you hold her trembling body even tighter in your arms, your hands never ceasing their caresses and her face still pressed against the top of the head below you. Disbelief seeps into your thoughts, along with anger towards him and compassion for her.
You've never felt so much hatred for the man, the disgust at his actions causing you to cling even tighter to the woman who's practically on top of you. She doesn't deserve this suffering, you're sure of it, because she's an incredible doctor. You watched her work today, saw how she treats the entire team with respect, how she supports those who are learning, and how she cares for her patients with such passion. If she's such an amazing person at work, you can't imagine what awaits you outside of it.
"Don't cling to his words, darling, you didn't put anyone in danger," you whisper, pulling your face away from her messy curls so she can hear your words clearly - "If he thinks his opinion is worth more than that of a medical expert, he can only be the biggest hypocrite and narcissist in this place." - you continue, even closer to her. "You've shown everyone your ability to do your job; no one there doubts you, your potential to contribute to our team, to optimize our care, and the learning of other doctors. As you yourself said, you are on continuous medication, which means you don't neglect your condition and care about your patients." - You step back, bringing the hand that was on the woman's back to her face, lifting it so she meets your gaze, and you immediately see the pain etched in her red eyes.
Your heart beats slower, and you painfully become hyper-aware of it in your ribcage."You don't need to be afraid of the department finding out about your condition, because it doesn't make you any less capable of being a doctor, not at all. You don't have to be ashamed of who you are, ever, because you can do anything. Fuck Robbie, he's a fucking jerk who definitely projected his own insecurities onto you, that's why he wanted to hurt you with those words, to scare you, because he doesn't want to lose his relevance"
She frowns, her lips tightly pressed together, then rolls her eyes, disbelieving how much of a jerk he's been. You've known Robbie for years, so she assumes his words are well-founded, which makes a spark of anger towards the man erupt above the words that still haunt her. "I can't believe it, my God, if his intention was to destabilize me, he clearly succeeded," Baran says, still in disbelief, but now with his shoulders free of tension. Seeing you defend her so fervently, so sincerely and certain of her capabilities, made his heart flutter and a genuine smile spread across his face. You return the smile, grateful that his words had resonated with her in the way you hoped.
Dr. Robinavitch: He's in your sights now; you're not going to let him get away with it anymore. This was the last straw for your patience with his behavior. The department will be notified soon, and you'll ensure that everyone who suffered at Robbie's hands is gathered to corroborate your accusation. Your hand, now on the Persian cat's cheek, resumes its caresses. The latent courage in your chest, an undeniable certainty, permeates your bloodstream.
"He'll never do something like that again, I promise. I won't let his irresponsibility affect anyone else in that place," you say firmly, looking deeply into his chocolate-colored eyes, like an anchor. "He, and no one else, will ever hurt you again, I won't allow it." Baran sighed, his words piercing deep into her heart. She hadn't imagined his determination would be such a protective shield for her, but she felt so fulfilled by it. You not only see her, but you genuinely care about her well-being. She hadn't thought she could fall in love so quickly, but there she was, in just one day.
You both smile at each other, now lighter and certain that you won't be alone from now on. You remain intertwined on the sofa for a few more minutes, just breathing and appreciating the closeness of your bodies. The forgotten cups on the table, now empty, remind Baran of the time, and she looks at the clock on the wall in front of her. It's almost ten o'clock at night, and she knows you need to rest for the next day.
She straightens up, casting a lingering gaze at your face, those piercing, attentive doe-like eyes. "It's getting late..." she begins, and you feel a pang of disappointment hammer in your chest. You don't want to leave, you don't want to leave her. "Would you like to sleep here? I mean... I want you to sleep here, I want to sleep with you," she sighs, waiting for your answer with those big, expressive eyes full of an almost childlike hope. You wonder how someone can be so lovely, even after crying so much. You just want to hug her and never let her go.
Then you smile, a soft, radiant smile. She wants you, damn it, she wants to lie with you. Her happiness is evident on her face, and hers resonates within. You're stunning, she describes, and she can't wait to wake up next to you. The idea that this could be the first of many such moments warms you both, a hope that resides within each of you. "I'd love to," you reply, and promptly she takes the cups to the kitchen and puts them in the dishwasher.
You stand up and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your aching back after such a long shift. Looking towards the kitchen door, you see Baran staring at your body, a glimpse of her stomach peeking out from under her t-shirt. A mischievous smile adorns her full lips, and you bite your lip to keep from groaning. She looks beautiful with that smile, like a predator. And a warmth returns to your cheeks.
Baran approaches, takes your hand, and pulls you into the master bedroom. As much as she longs for you to touch, she's exhausted, both mentally and physically. She's content just to take a bath and fall asleep nestled against you. Upon entering the room, with its large bed in the center, a mahogany wardrobe, and bookshelves overflowing with books, Baran heads to the adjacent bathroom, turns to you at the door, and beckons with a gesture of her index finger. You don't wait a second before following this beautiful woman and quickly catch up, closing the door with your foot and placing your hands on her waist. Baran feels the hairs on her body stand on end and begins to undress, eager to get into the hot water.
You watch, paralyzed, unable to tear your gaze away from the soft skin revealed before you. Baran is a beautiful woman; her belly, hips, and breasts are adorned with stretch marks, and you feel your mouth water. She has the body of a mature woman, a happy mother, and she's proud to show it to you. When she finishes undressing, she looks at you again and smiles, realizing how much she affected you. She knows she's older and that, even doing Pilates every morning, her body is no longer young and bears the marks of time. But, seeing your gaze wandering over her curves, your tongue moistening her lips, and the movement of swallowing with difficulty, she's ecstatic that you find her so attractive, and a warm sensation runs through her belly.
"Aren't you going to undress?" she asks, looking into your eyes one last time before stepping into the frosted glass shower stall. The sound of the falling water awakens you, and you waste no time, letting your clothes fall around you and joining the Persian woman in the shower. You step in and soon your body is pressed against the older woman's back, your hands intertwined, hips contracted, and heart racing. Baran sighs, feeling your skin against hers, sending signals of pleasure throughout his body. You are so soft and warm, your chest pressing deliciously against her aching back, making her tilt her head to his shoulder, her arms pulling his to intertwine around his waist.
You stay like that for a while, just body to body, enjoying the warm water and the newfound closeness. As pleasant as the feeling is, you're both exhausted from the change and the intense emotions, so you quickly separate to freshen up. You ask Baran to take care of her, which she readily accepts, and then you can do what you've wanted to do since you found her in the car—take care of her.
First, you focus on her hair, massaging it from root to tip, detangling it with the brush she handed you, taking care to start from the bottom up so as not to break the strands. When you finish, you gently bury your nose in the top of her head, captivated by the aroma and the softness of her wet curls. Baran laughs softly. She teases you, saying how obsessed you seem with her hair, and you simply reply that it's true.
After washing her body, massaging it well to relieve all the muscle tension from the day, you both finish getting ready and go out to get dressed. You decide to wear only Baran's college sweatshirts and shorts. Now properly clean and with your teeth brushed, you lie down under the covers, turning off the bedside lamp. Baran doesn't waste any time, immediately burying her face in your chest, an arm around your waist and a leg between yours. You laugh; she's adorable, like a ferret snuggling up to you. You pull her warm body closer, bury your face in her damp hair and hug her. You both sigh, satisfied with the closeness and the warmth emanating from your bodies.
"Thank you again, Azizam, for listening to me," she says, her soft voice indicating that exhaustion is winning. "I'll always be here for you, Baran, always," you say, placing a kiss on the top of her head and pulling her even closer. The day was long, full of ups and downs. You know that tomorrow will soon arrive, that measures will need to be taken, and that you have a lot to say to your superiors about Robbie's despicable conduct, but for now, having Baran's warm body close to yours, his citrus scent filling your nostrils, and the certainty that you have a chance to be something more than just colleagues, calms your thoughts and allows sleep to envelop you.
Tomorrow... tomorrow you'll sort everything out, because today there's only the two of you, two bodies full of hope, eager for what the future holds for you together. But, for now, having Baran's warm body close to yours, his citrus scent filling your nostrils, and the certainty that you have a chance to be something more than just colleagues, calms your thoughts and allows sleep to envelop you.
The tele was on loud as Lorraine laughed loud at something silly. You were leaning against her, all snuggled up. The television was no interest to you as you couldn’t seem to keep yourself awake. Such a hard working day you had, it exhausted you. Too many deadlines and pressure that came with unwanted stress. Lorraine laughed again as a little motion from her made you snap awake.
Half confused, you looked around. – “Y/n sweetie were you falling asleep?” – she asked curious. You shook your head with exhausted eyes. Lorraine giggled repositioning herself in the sofa to face you more. She placed her hand under your chin, cupping it. – “Did you just lie to me?” – she questioned, raising an eyebrow.
You shook your head again. Lorraine tilting her head down with a scowl. Smiling sheepishly, you measured a little between your fingers. Lorraine smiled before bringing your face closer to her. Kissing your lips tenderly. – “Then lets head to bed.” – she spoke, turning your cheek to leave a kiss there.
“You don’t have to go just because I feel tired.” – you told her, already moving the blanket away. – “Nonsense.” – Lorraine let out. She got up, taking your hand to pull you up. – “How can I refuse the opportunity to wrap my arms around my wife and sleep comfortably.” – Lorraine teased making you give her a playful shove.
Lorraine kept holding your hand, leading you upstairs. On the way, you yawned needing Lorraine to help you upstairs. She moved you into the bathroom. You wanted to pull your shirt off when you seemed to get a little stuck. Arms up as the shirt was all around your head.
“Help.” – you yelped out as Lorraine chuckled softly. She pulled the shirt over your head, releasing you from your clothing trap. She tossed it on the ground, leaving a kiss on your collarbone. Then she left a kiss in your neck, tickling you.
“Allow me.” – Lorraine said unbuttoning your pants. She bend down to pull your pants down. Lifting your feet up, you helped her with the last bit. Lorraine left a kiss on your inner thigh as you hummed softly. She then moved back up, kissing your lips. Lorraine helped you in your pyjama’s knowing you were too exhausted to do so. Lorraine changed while you brushed your teeth.
Lorraine bumped you aside with her hip to get some space too. You laughed with a mouth full of toothpaste. Lorraine brushed her teeth while you made yourself ready for bed. Lorraine entered the bedroom as you were puffing up the pillows. She went around the bed to her side, pulling the blanket off. You crawled in the bed with her.
She sighed content when you came snuggling closer to her. – “Good night sweetheart.” – she said with a kiss on your forehead. – “Good night my darling.” – you responded, leaving a kiss on her cheek. Lorraine and you shared a last kiss before settling down to sleep. She wrapped her arms tightly around you as you reached out to turn the nightlight off.
Exhaling soft, you moved closer to Lorraine once more. Kissing her neck before resting against her. Lorraine seemed to be more tired than she let out. For she slept deeply within the next 15minutes. You on the other hand, despite being so tired before, seemed wide awake now. With eyes wide open, were you staring at the ceiling.
Lorraine’s arm sloppy on your chest. Sighing loud, you hated this feeling. When you tried to close your eyes, a million thoughts kept you awake. Lifting your head a bit up, you stared into the darkness of the room. Swallowing nervously, you laid your head back down.
Not wanting to think about Lorraine’s job. What if something had followed her home? What if something was watching you? Waiting for you to go to sleep to torment you in your dreams? Looking over at Lorraine, she seemed to sleep contently. Almost with a smile on her lips, so she couldn’t be having a nightmare.
The sudden thought of a thing being in the room with you, made you even more awake. Filling your body with fright. You shot up, sitting up straight. Scanning the room with frightful eyes. Wanting to recognize every shape of shadow in the room. That was but your closet. The vanity. A chair.
You needed to recognize everything to know for sure there wasn’t anything with you in the room. Swallowing nervously, you knew you wouldn’t sleep now. Even when you had the confirmation that nothing was in the room with you. It could always still happen. You kept sitting up, staring a bit out in front of you.
Thinking a thousand thoughts to set your mind of potential demons or ghosts. Singing a song in your head. Listing things up that you had to do tomorrow. Plan something in your head to do with Lorraine this weekend. Anything to not think about it.
The hours went by as you still didn’t feel sleepy. As if the brief moments you had closed your eyes, were enough for your brain to think it had has enough sleep. Which it didn’t. Sighing soft, you rubbed your eyes annoyingly. Lorraine groaned softly in her sleep, making you freeze. You didn’t want to wake her up. She moved again in her sleep as you watched her attentively.
Lorraine kept moving in her sleep till she lifted herself a bit up by her elbow. – “Y/n are you awake?” – she asked sleepy, eyes still closed. – “Go back to sleep.” – you whispered to her. Lorraine rubbed her eye, slowly waking up. – “What’s the matter sweetheart?” – she asked with a soft yawn. You pulled your shoulders up as Lorraine looked at you. – “Can’t sleep?” – she questioned.
“It appears so.” – you answered feeling a bit silly. Lorraine chuckled snuggling closer to you. Wrapping her arm around your waist. – “Then we shall have to do something about it.” – she mumbled feeling herself go sleepy again. You smiled giving her a kiss that seemed to wake her up a bit more.
“Do proceed.” – Lorraine muttered out with a content smile. You laughed. Then you started to leave more kisses on her face. – “Who is making who sleepy?” – you asked teasingly. Lorraine inhaled deep lifting her body a bit up. – “Alright.” – she spoke with a deep inhale.
She seated herself a bit better, cupping your face as she started kissing your face. Every inch of it kissed by her till she ended with a strong kiss on your lips. She moved over you, continue to kiss you as she had other plans to wear you out. You didn’t complained feeling her love for you through her kisses.
Soon you yawned making Lorraine snort. She stopped kissing you, laying her head on your shoulder. Snuggling closer to you as you wrapped your arms around her. – “Good night sweetheart.” – she whispered. – “Good night… darling…” – you yawned out, closing your eyes.
Well, here's the last Halloween short. It was meant to be the first but of course i fucked it up and it didn't post. fml.
anyway. Enjoy <3
--
warnings: none
--
enjoy xx
Halloween wasn't really a big deal with the Warrens, usually. They mostly just let Judy dress up, go out for a while, then come back home. Ed was too nervous that Judy would get harmed, and Lorraine knew that the spirits and various demons that roamed around these parts quite enjoyed getting around that night. That is, until a few years ago. When you came into their lives. You appeared like a hallucination and took over the Warren's lives like a whirlwind. You'd gotten close with Lorraine, and then Ed, and before any of you knew it you'd ended up in their bed. Six months later, the couple had asked you to join their relationship as more than a bedmate, and you'd eagerly accepted. That was two years ago, now you live with them and are existing in lovely domestic bliss; besides the demons of course.
But today is Halloween, and for once you've convinced both of them to let you take Judy out. You've already donned your costume, a rough rendition of Morticia Addams, and are helping Judy braid her hair into Dutch braids to match your theme as a teenage Wednesday. With one done, you move onto the second, and ask "So, are you excited?" The brunette smiles and replies "Um, yeah, of course I am! Mom and dad never let me go out for more than, like, thirty minutes." You chuckle, shaking your head at your partner's overprotectiveness. They obviously had a reason to be wary, and they weren't wrong for being nervous about this kind of thing. But they trust you, and you would never let Judy get hurt. Ever. Once you tie off the second braid, dropping it to lay against Judy's chest, you stand back up and clap your hands together, smiling proudly. "You look absolutely amazing, darling," you exclaim, and Judy grins, spinning in place to show you the whole costume. It looks amazing, of course, so after a bit of dark eyeshadow and eyeliner, she's done. You do the same for yourself, putting on your fake nails and makeup.
With one last nod to yourself in the mirror, you gesture to the door for Judy to follow, and head out into the sitting room, where Lorraine and Ed sit together talking quietly between themselves. You clear your throat, gaining their attention, and the two brunettes glance over to you and their daughter. Fond smiles immediately bloom on both their faces, and Lorraine is the first to stand and approach you. She cups Judy's face between her hands, tilting it to the side and inspecting your work. Then she looks to you and says "You did wonderful, darling." You shrug, smug smile playing on your lips as you state "Of course I did. I've been trick-or-treating since I was a kid, I know what I'm doing." Lorraine rolls her eyes playfully but steps in front of you anyway and presses a soft kiss to your lips as Ed also appears at her side, checking out his daughter and then your costumes, nodding in approval. "Wednesday and Morticia, eh?" he asks, and Judy nods eagerly, making the three of you chuckle. After a few more minutes of talking through the rules, you promising to stay safe and that you know how to take care of yourself, and giving your partner's quick kisses, and you're off.
You quickly check your lipstick in the mirror by the door and sigh when you see it slightly messed up, quickly fixing it and calling out "You messed up my lipstick!" It's teasing, and faintly you hear Ed shout "Too bad!" and it makes you laugh. You don't get the chance to respond before Judy's dragging you out the door with a laugh of her own. A dark leather bag over Judy's shoulder, the two of you turn right and start heading down the block. You point out decorations and laugh when Judy's eyes light up at the bright lights and skeletons draped with spiderwebs. Within thirty minutes, you've gained at least a dozen compliments on your matching outfits, and have had four women say something along the lines of "Aww, how sweet, you and your daughter match!" and each time you've laughed, thinking "If they only knew." Plus, Judy already has more candy than she's ever gotten in past years, apparently--it's a thought that makes you very happy, and quite proud of yourself.
Soon, you approach a large house, dark and ominous; the perfect stereotypical Halloween mansion. You can feel Judy's nervousness from where you stand, and as much as you love the girl, you also know that no Halloween is complete without at least one scare. Plus, you know the people who live here, and they're amazing at that kind of thing--you've gotten spooked more than once here. So with a little smirk, you gently push her up the walk and towards the house, mumbling "Go on, I'm sure it looks scarier than it is," and the girl believes you. You almost feel bad for taking advantage of her trust like this...but not quite. So you watch her take cautious steps towards the looming home, glancing rapidly side to side, just waiting for something to happen. But nothing does, and you see her relax almost imperceptibly. But not even seconds later, she lets out a scream as someone sprints at her in some sort of devil costume, running past her with a shout. Judy jumps backwards and you burst into laughter, holding your stomach as you cackle. Judy glares back at you and shouts something like "Screw you, y/n!" It makes you gasp and hold your chest, calling back "Language, young lady!"
She just rolls her eyes and walks forward again, as confident as she can. It seems like the home owners are going easy this year as the only other scare they do is swinging the door open with a loud "boo!" that makes Judy jump back again, holding her chest and breathing heavily. The older lady in the doorway laughs, and holds out a whole handful of candy to drop into Judy's bag. She catches sight of you and another smile spreads across her face as she waves, calling out "Hey, y/n!" You smile back, jogging up towards the house as you reply "Evening, Diana!" The blonde asks how you've been and you shrug, making a so-so motion with your hand and saying "Pretty good. Taking Judy here out for her first proper Halloween," as you clap your "daughter"'s shoulder, an action which earns you a grumble from the girl. You exchange a few more words with Diana before dismissing yourself with a wave and returning with Judy to the sidewalk. Once you're away from the house the girl mumbles "That was mean of you, y/n." You sigh, bending down a bit and apologizing for not telling her. "I'm sorry sweetheart. I just wanted to let you get in a good spook. I won't let it happen again, okay?"
The brunette nods, and you two continue on with your night. But as it starts to get dark, and you check your watch to see it being nearly 9, you finally say "Alright, time to head back. Your parents will get worried." Judy sighs unhappily, but doesn't argue, knowing you're right. The two of you talk quietly about the night as you return home, Judy swinging her candy bag by her side with one hand and holding yours with the other. It only takes ten minutes or so before you've arrived, and you let Judy go inside first, closing the door behind her with a soft click before following the hyperactive child into the sitting room once again. Unsurprisingly, you find her parents sitting there, Lorraine cuddled up against Ed's side, who has his arm around her shoulder. She looks to be napping, but wakes as soon as Judy skips into the room, exclaiming "Mom, dad! We're back!" The woman sits up quickly, standing and looking over the two of you before finally relaxing once she knows you're alright. With a relieved sigh, she comes forward, listening to Judy tell her all about what the two of you had gotten up to. You gain a playful glare from both of them when Judy mentions you conveniently forgetting to tell her about the one house's reputation for giving children heart attacks.
Once Judy takes a breath, pausing her rapid-fire speaking, you finally get to cut in with "And we were very careful, so you don't have to worry about anything." Both Ed and Lorraine give you a grateful look, and you earn a soft, loving kiss from the latter that you sigh into contentedly. Soon the four of you settle in for the night, agreeing to let Judy stay up a bit later than normal to watch a movie, still in costume. She acquires the spot between her parents, while you get the luxury of cuddling into Lorraine, a position which doesn't take long to become your head in her lap as her runs her fingers through your hair. And once Judy goes to bed, Ed pulls you up so you're draped across both of them, legs across Lorraine's lap and head now on Ed's. He leaves a kiss on your forehead, your nose, both cheeks, and finally your lips, each one making you giggle breathlessly while Lorraine's fingers run across your thighs. It's not an action meant to lead to more, simply a soft, comforting touch that leaves shivers on your skin through your dress. The three of you spend the rest of the night there, and when you also go to bed, you fall asleep with the feeling of Lorraine's head snuggled into your collar and Ed's arm wrapped around both of you protectively.
one thing about me i recently found tumblr for the first time in my life a few weeks ago…this is my favorite social app i own and side note i’m a whore for older women i want me an older woman to date so bad 😩
TW: paranormal investigation inaccuracies, rural living inaccuracies, demonic hauntings, Catholic Church inaccuracies (i was raised non-denominational, don't come for me)
When you first bought the cottage, you had decided that no matter how hard it was, you were going to make it work. Chickens, goats, and a garden overflowing with fruits, vegetables, and herbs.
Of course, part of the reason you were able to buy it so cheap was because the last owners claimed it was haunted. You shrugged it off, deciding that the ghosts could live there too, as long as you could.
And of course, that’s not how it ended up happening. Around 2 am, you woke up to the sound of everything shattering in the kitchen. As you wrapped your robe around yourself, you burst through the door and saw all your plates, bowls, and cups shattered on the ground. Organized. Into a star.
Once morning came, you cleaned up the broken ceramic and stoneware before heading to the local church to ask the priest to bless your house. That night you slept good. Nothing broke.
The next day… it was the little things. Your coffee wasn’t where you set it. Your book was open, not closed. And the loveseat was three inches to the right. Nothing too crazy. This lasted for about a week.
The next week, you woke up to all your books scattered and ripped and crumpled on the floor. Nothing you can’t replace. But then the pictures of family portraits would fall and shatter, the glass cutting through the pictures.
After another week, it wasn’t mindless destruction. It was starting to be targeted. Cups flying out of the cabinet at your head. Pots and pans slamming into your ankles to try and get you to fall. A cabinet slammed open, hitting your temple. That was when you went to the church, begging the priest for help, telling him about how it’s gotten worse.
“I know some people. I’ll put in a call and we can have them investigate.” Father Roger tried reassuring you.
‘Investigate? Just investigate?’ “Father, I got hit in the head by a cabinet door slamming open. It hit my temple and knocked me out. If it hit any harder, I could have died. I need more than just an investigation.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” were the last words Father Roger spoke to you about it. Until you got the call.
“They have agreed to investigate.” The best news you’ve gotten all month.
And a few days later, the doorbell ringed through your small cottage in the country.
“The investigators, I assume! Come in, come in!” You beckon in your hope. Hope that you’ll finally be able to sleep without something aching or another thing breaking. Hope for peace and safety.
As Ed and Lorraine Warren enter, despite the haunting's imprint on your home, you are the only thing that captures their attention.
Author's Cup of Tea: So... I didn't really see any poly Ed and Lorraine and it is right there... So I wrote it! Hope you enjoy!
01 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 summary :: when judy ditches your shopping plans, lorraine offers to come instead. one black dress, one dressing room curtain, and years of forbidden tension turn the afternoon into something neither of you can take back || 13k
02 . ⠀⠀ ˚ ﹒ ૮ ⠀⠀⠀━╋⠀⠀𖤝 content warnings ::⠀⠀fem!reader . married woman!lorraine . age gap . infidelity / cheating . forbidden relationship . power imbalance . public sexual content . dressing room sex . fingering . clit stimulation . oral sex . pussy eating . silver hair fixation . wedding ring fixation . mirror watching . semi-public risk . praise kink . pet names . guilt and desire . messy morals . risky setting
navigation . kofi
LORRAINE WARREN had patience in a way that made you want to ruin it.
It was one of the first things you noticed about her, and it was also one of the most unbearable. She didn’t rush through life the way everyone else seemed to, not even when the world around her got loud or messy or inconvenient. She took her time with everything, from stirring sugar into her tea to smoothing the collar of her blouse before leaving the house.
Even standing in the doorway of the Warren home, one hand resting lightly against the frame, she looked calm enough to be painted. Soft cardigan. Pretty blouse. Glossed lips. Gentle eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
The worst part was her hair, that soft silver threaded through darker strands, pinned back so neatly that it made your stomach twist every time she turned her head. You were basically a slut for Lorraine’s silver hair, and that was something you had accepted privately, shamefully, and with no small amount of suffering.
It caught the afternoon light behind her like it had been designed specifically to make you stupid. You knew thirsting over Lorraine was wrong, not just because of the age gap that sat quietly between you, but because she was married to Ed.
It had been meant to be you and Judy going out shopping. That had been the plan all week, actually, because Judy had decided she needed a new dress for some dinner she kept being annoyingly vague about.
She’d called you twice about it, sent you pictures of outfits she hated, and insisted she needed your honest opinion because, according to her, you were better at knowing what made someone look hot without making it obvious.
So you showed up at the Warren house freshly showered, lip gloss on, bag over your shoulder, and a little too excited for an afternoon of harmless shopping with your friend. You knocked twice, expecting Judy to fling the door open with half her hair done and a dramatic complaint already waiting on her tongue.
Instead, Lorraine opened the door. For a second, your brain did the humiliating thing where it simply stopped working. She was wearing a cream cardigan over a pale blue blouse, her silver-streaked hair pinned back loosely, and she looked like every terrible thought you’d ever tried not to have. Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “Hi,” you said, and hated how breathless it sounded.
Lorraine smiled at you, soft and apologetic. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she said, and that word nearly ruined you right there on the porch. “Judy left about twenty minutes ago.” You blinked at her. “She left?” Lorraine’s expression turned a little fond, a little amused, like she was still piecing the story together herself.
“She said something about seeing some boy,” she said, then gave a helpless little lift of her shoulders. “Or perhaps meeting him. I’m not entirely sure. She was speaking very quickly.”
You stared at her for a second, trying to hide the disappointment that dropped through you before you could catch it. It wasn’t only that Judy had bailed. It was that you’d shown up prepared to spend the afternoon pretending you weren’t distracted by Lorraine, and now Lorraine was the only one standing there.
You forced a laugh because that seemed safer than looking as disappointed as you felt. “Right,” you said, glancing down at your shoes. “That sounds like Judy.”
Lorraine’s smile softened, and you hated that she noticed anyway. Of course she noticed. Lorraine noticed lowered voices, tight smiles, damp lashes, trembling hands, and every tiny emotional crack people tried to cover up with politeness.
“Were you both going somewhere important?” she asked. “Just shopping,” you said, trying to shrug like it didn’t matter. “She wanted help picking something out, but it’s fine. I can go another day.”
You were already shifting back, already preparing to excuse yourself before you spent too long standing in front of Judy’s mother with your heart acting stupid. Then Lorraine tilted her head slightly, eyes warm in a way that made your pulse stutter.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know much about what she was looking for, but I could come with you.” You looked up so quickly it was embarrassing. Lorraine’s smile widened just a little, as if your reaction had told her more than your words ever could.
“Only if you’d like the company,” she added. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but I’ll do my best.” There was something so sweet about the way she said it that your disappointment lifted almost instantly. It should’ve made you feel guilty, how quickly Judy’s absence became something else in your mind.
A little opening. A little accident. A little chance to spend the afternoon alone with Lorraine Warren in a way you had absolutely no business wanting.
“You’d really come?” you asked, softer than you meant to. Lorraine’s eyes held yours for a moment, calm and unreadable. “Of course,” she said. “Let me get my coat.”
You stood in the hallway while she disappeared for a moment, surrounded by the familiar warmth of the Warren house. You’d known that hallway for years because of Judy, had passed through it with overnight bags, birthday gifts, borrowed books, and half-whispered gossip you didn’t want adults overhearing.
Their home had always felt lived-in and safe, full of warm lamps, polished wood, framed photographs, and the quiet hum of a family that had folded you in without needing to say so. That was what made your feelings so awful. Lorraine wasn’t some stranger you could crush on without consequences.
She was Judy’s mother, Ed’s wife, the woman who used to ask if you girls wanted tea while you sat on Judy’s bedroom floor painting your nails. You remembered being younger and thinking she was beautiful in a distant, impossible kind of way.
Back then, admiration had felt innocent because you didn’t know what wanting could turn into. Then you got older, and suddenly Lorraine walking into a room could make your stomach dip. Suddenly her voice saying your name felt like a hand at the back of your neck. Suddenly the silver in her hair became something you thought about far too often when you were alone.
Lorraine came back wearing a camel coat over her cardigan, her handbag tucked neatly against her side. “Ready?” she asked. You nodded, probably too quickly, and followed her out to the car like your whole body hadn’t just lit up from the thought of being alone with her.
The drive into town was almost painfully polite at first. Lorraine asked about your work, your plans, whether you’d eaten lunch, all in that gentle voice that made simple questions feel intimate. You answered as normally as you could, but every time she glanced over at you, your thoughts scattered.
Her hands rested so gracefully on the steering wheel, wedding ring catching little flashes of light whenever she turned. You noticed it every time. You hated that you noticed it every time. The ring should’ve been enough to pull you back into yourself. Instead, it sat there like a warning you kept choosing not to read.
The boutique you ended up at was tucked between a florist and a jeweller, all warm lighting and gold-lettered signage. It was the sort of place Judy liked pretending she’d only gone into as a joke, even though she always ended up touching half the dresses like she was imagining a different version of herself in each one.
Lorraine held the door open for you, and you stepped inside with the horrible awareness of her right behind you. Everything smelled faintly of expensive perfume, steamed fabric, and fresh flowers from next door. The racks were arranged by colour, deep jewel tones bleeding into cream, black, navy, blush pink, and soft champagne.
There were velvet stools near the dressing rooms, gold mirrors on the walls, and little bowls of wrapped sweets by the counter. Lorraine looked around with a thoughtful little smile, like she really had meant it when she said she didn’t know much but would do her best. “This is very Judy,” she said softly. You laughed before you could stop yourself. “Painfully Judy,” you agreed.
You tried to focus on shopping properly. You really did. At first, you picked through the racks with the vague intention of finding something Judy might like, because that was what you’d come for, even if she’d abandoned you for some boy Lorraine couldn’t even properly identify.
Lorraine followed at an easy pace, touching fabrics between her fingers with a careful softness that made your mouth go dry. She’d lift a sleeve, smooth a hem, tilt her head at a colour, and ask if Judy would wear something like it. You gave answers, but half your attention kept slipping to Lorraine herself.
The silver in her hair caught the boutique lights every time she turned, making those pale strands shine against the darker softness beneath. You wanted to touch it so badly your fingers actually twitched around the hanger you were holding.
It was pathetic. You were pathetic. Lorraine looked over at you right as that thought crossed your mind, and her smile made you wonder if she’d somehow heard it.
The black dress appeared near the back of the boutique, tucked between a deep green satin slip and a burgundy velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. It wasn’t Judy’s style, not really. It was yours, or maybe it was the version of you that existed only in your head when you were feeling brave and dangerous and a little too aware of your body.
The dress had thin straps, a square neckline, and a fitted waist that promised trouble before you even touched it. The fabric had a soft sheen to it, not quite satin, but smooth enough to catch the light whenever it moved.
The hem looked like it would fall around mid-thigh, and there was a slit on one side that seemed modest on the hanger but dangerous in your imagination. You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it. Lorraine noticed immediately.
“That one’s lovely,” she said, and your stomach tightened around the compliment like it had been given directly to your skin. “It’s probably too much,” you said. Lorraine’s gaze moved from the dress to your face. “I don’t think so.”
You hated how easily that convinced you. One soft comment from Lorraine and suddenly you were carrying the black dress toward the dressing rooms like you hadn’t been trying to have morals five minutes ago. Lorraine took a seat on the little velvet bench outside while you slipped behind the cream curtain.
The dressing room was far too pretty for your suffering. It had a gold-framed mirror, warm lighting, a brass hook on the wall, and a small velvet stool that seemed designed for someone elegant, not someone spiralling because her friend’s married mother had liked a dress. You hung your clothes carefully even though your hands weren’t steady.
Then you pulled the black dress on slowly, fitting the straps over your shoulders and smoothing the fabric over your waist. For one terrible second, you just stared at yourself. The square neckline framed your chest without showing too much, which somehow made it worse.
The waist hugged you closely, the hem skimmed your thighs, and the slit opened when you shifted your weight. Your first thought was that Lorraine was going to notice everything.
“This one’s too tight,” you called, though you hadn’t actually decided if that was true or if you just wanted Lorraine to say something about it.
There was a pause from the other side of the curtain. Not a long one, but long enough to make your stomach twist because Lorraine’s pauses always felt deliberate. Like she was smiling to herself. Like she knew exactly what kind of reaction she was pulling out of you and wanted to see how long you’d last before you got needy about it.
“Too tight,” she repeated, voice soft and amused. “Or fitted?” You looked at yourself again, heat crawling up your neck. The dress was pretty. Annoyingly pretty.
It clung to you in a way that made standing still feel impossible, like your own reflection was teasing you. The slit shifted against your thigh every time you moved, showing just enough skin to make your pulse trip over itself.
“I don’t know,” you said, trying to sound casual and failing so badly it almost hurt. “Maybe you should look.”
The silence that followed was worse than any answer she could’ve given you. For a moment, you thought she might tell you to step out like a normal person. For a moment, you thought she might stay seated on the bench, preserving the safe and careful distance between you. She didn’t.
Instead, you heard the faint sound of Lorraine standing. Then the curtain shifted. Not all the way. Just enough for Lorraine to slip inside, careful and composed, one hand closing the fabric behind her so the two of you were hidden away from the rest of the store.
The dressing room suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too full of her perfume and your own nerves. She stood behind you in the mirror, close enough that you could see the gentle lift of her chest when she inhaled.
“Oh,” Lorraine said quietly.
That one word nearly ruined you. It was soft, barely above a breath, but there was something in it that made your knees feel unreliable. Lorraine’s gaze moved over you in the mirror with a slowness that felt almost indecent.
She looked at the straps first, then the neckline, then the way the fabric hugged your waist. Her eyes dropped to the slit at your thigh, and you swore you saw the smallest pause in her composure. It lasted less than a heartbeat.
Then her face softened into something warm, restrained, and dangerous. You felt sixteen different kinds of shame and want crash into each other at once. Ed’s face flickered through your mind like a warning you didn’t want to look at for too long. Judy’s absence felt louder than it had all afternoon.
You swallowed, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. “Bad?”
“No.” Her eyes lifted to yours in the reflection, and the softness in them had changed into something warmer. “No, sweetheart. Not bad at all.”
The pet name hit you low in the stomach. Lorraine had called you sweetheart before, countless times, usually with tea in her hands or Judy beside you on the couch. It had always sounded harmless enough to survive, soft enough to file away under things you shouldn’t overthink.
This time, it didn’t sound harmless. This time, it slid down your spine and settled somewhere hot and wanting. You hated that your body reacted so quickly. You hated that Lorraine heard the breath you tried to hold back.
Her eyes flicked to your mouth in the mirror, then back to yours like she was pretending not to notice. The wedding ring on her hand caught the dressing room light when she shifted. You saw it. She saw you see it. Neither of you said anything.
The age gap was there in the room with you, quiet but impossible to ignore. It lived in the difference between her calm and your restlessness, between her careful restraint and your obvious hunger. It lived in the way she held herself like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, while you felt like you were one breath away from begging for something you had no right to ask for.
It lived in the fact that she had known you first as Judy’s friend, the girl who came over for films and sleepovers and borrowed books. It lived in every cup of tea she’d made you, every warm smile she’d offered from across the kitchen, every harmless little kindness you’d later turned over in your mind until it became something else.
That should’ve made you step back. That should’ve made you blush, laugh, and shove her out of the dressing room before anything could tilt too far. Instead, you stood there in a black dress with her eyes on you and wished she’d touch you. You wished it so hard it made you feel dizzy. Maybe that was the worst part.
Lorraine stepped closer, her hands hovering near your waist like she was asking permission without using words. You nodded before she even had to say anything, and the moment her palms settled over the fabric, your breath caught. She didn’t grab you. She didn’t even pull you back.
She only touched you gently, smoothing her hands over your waist as if checking the fit, but the intimacy of it made your knees feel weak. Her fingers were warm through the dress. Her thumbs rested near the curve of your stomach, slow and careful, like she was trying to convince herself this was still innocent.
It wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t, and so did she. The mirror made it worse because you had to watch yourself wanting her. You had to watch Lorraine Warren touch your waist while her silver hair brushed near her cheek and her wedding ring gleamed against black fabric.
“It suits you,” she murmured.
“You think so?”
“I think you know it does.”
Your face warmed instantly, and Lorraine’s mouth curved in the mirror like she enjoyed watching you struggle. It was unfair, how sweet she looked while saying things that made you want to melt through the floor.
Her fingers traced the seam at your side, slow and careful, following the shape of the dress over your waist and down to your hip. There was nothing accidental about it. Nothing innocent either. Her touch paused where the slit began, and the silence between you went thick enough to make every breath feel loud.
You watched her eyes lower again. She didn’t touch your bare thigh, not yet, but the possibility of it opened inside you like a bruise. Your pulse beat everywhere. You could barely remember what you were supposed to be doing in this boutique beyond surviving her hands.
“I wasn’t sure,” you whispered.
Lorraine leaned in a little, her lips near your ear now. “Were you really not sure, or did you want me in here telling you how pretty you look?”
You went completely still. Outside the dressing room, someone laughed faintly near the front of the store. A hanger scraped against a rail. The world carried on like Lorraine Warren didn’t have both hands on your waist and her mouth dangerously close to your neck.
The normality of it made the wrongness sharper. Ed could call at any second. Judy could come home later and ask how shopping went, completely unaware of what her absence had allowed to happen. A sales assistant could ask if you needed another size, and you’d have to explain why Lorraine looked so close to you.
Yet all you could focus on was the warmth of her breath near your ear. All you could think about was how badly you wanted her to say it again. You wanted her to call you pretty until the word stopped feeling soft and started feeling like a command.
“I wanted your opinion,” you said.
“Mhm.” Her thumbs brushed lightly over your stomach through the dress. “That’s a very polite way of saying it.”
You tried to turn, but Lorraine’s hands held you in place, not harshly, just firmly enough to make your pulse jump. Her eyes stayed on yours through the mirror, calm and devastating. There was something about being watched by her like this that made every part of you feel exposed. She didn’t need to undress you to make you feel bare.
She only had to look at you like she already knew what you were thinking. You wondered if she could tell how badly you wanted to lean back into her. You wondered if she could hear the guilt in your breathing.
You wondered if she felt guilty too. The thought made something tender and terrible twist inside you. It made you glance down again at her wedding ring. Lorraine’s hand stilled when she noticed.
“Lorraine,” you breathed.
Her expression softened, but her hands didn’t move away. “Do you want me to stop?”
You shook your head immediately. Too quickly. That smile again. Gentle. Knowing. A little dangerous. It made her look nothing like the careful woman who stood beside Ed with her hand resting lightly on his arm.
It made her look like someone who’d been thinking about this too. That realization should’ve terrified you. Instead, it made heat bloom under your skin so fast you had to grip the edge of the little stool to steady yourself.
Lorraine noticed that too, of course. Her fingers flexed at your waist, just enough to remind you she was still there. You felt yourself lean back before you could stop it.
“No?” she asked.
“No.”
Lorraine’s gaze dropped to your mouth in the reflection, then lower, following the line of your throat, the curve of the neckline, and the way the dress fit too perfectly over your body. When her hands slid down to your hips, your breath trembled out before you could stop it.
She heard it. Of course she did. Her fingers flexed slightly, and her voice lowered until it felt like something meant only for your skin. “I think this dress is a problem,” she murmured. You licked your lips, watching the way her eyes followed the motion.
“Because it’s too tight?” you asked. Her mouth brushed your shoulder, barely a kiss, barely anything at all. “Because I’m trying very hard to behave,” she said. Your stomach flipped so hard you nearly forgot how to breathe.
The confession landed between you with more force than any touch could have. Lorraine Warren was trying to behave. Lorraine Warren, with her soft silver hair and careful hands and gold wedding band, was standing behind you in a dressing room admitting restraint. You should’ve stepped away then.
You should’ve laughed it off, pushed the curtain open, and pretended this had only been about the dress. Instead, your eyes fluttered when her lips grazed your shoulder again. The kiss was featherlight, almost chaste, and somehow obscene because of where you were and who she was.
Her perfume clung to the warm space between you. Her ring pressed faintly against your hip through the fabric. You thought of Ed again, then pushed the thought away with a shameful little ache. You thought of Judy leaving to see some boy, and the guilt cut bright before Lorraine’s thumb stroked your hip. Want swallowed everything else.
“Are you?” you whispered.
“Trying?” Lorraine asked, her lips grazing the side of your neck now. “Yes.”
“And behaving?”
Her eyes met yours in the mirror. “Not as much as I should be.”
The words slipped under your skin and stayed there. Your whole body felt suspended on the edge of something you couldn’t name without ruining the last thread of innocence between you. Lorraine’s mouth pressed properly to your neck then, soft and warm and careful enough to make it worse.
You made a sound you didn’t mean to make. It was small, breathy, and humiliating, but Lorraine’s hands tightened at your hips like she liked it. Her silver hair brushed your cheek when she leaned closer, and the sight of it in the mirror nearly broke you.
You were gone for that hair, ruined by it, made stupid by every pale strand near her face. Your thighs pressed together before you could help it. Lorraine saw that too. Her gaze darkened so subtly that anyone else would’ve missed it, but you didn’t.
The curtain moved faintly when someone passed by outside, and both of you froze. Lorraine’s hands stayed on you. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it almost hurt. A sales assistant asked another customer if they needed a different size, and the voice faded toward the front of the boutique.
Lorraine must’ve felt your body tense because her expression shifted. For a moment, she looked like herself again, kind and worried and too good to be standing this close. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, and this time the word sounded like a question.
You should’ve used that as your chance to stop. Instead, you turned your face slightly, just enough for your mouth to brush hers. Lorraine inhaled like she’d been waiting longer than either of you wanted to admit.
The kiss wasn’t rough at first. It was soft, slow, and so careful that it made your chest ache. She kissed you like she was giving you every chance to pull away, every chance to remember Ed, Judy, the boutique, the curtain, and the world outside.
You remembered all of it. You remembered it and kissed her anyway. Your hand lifted to her wrist, fingers trembling around the place where her pulse beat beneath warm skin.
Lorraine’s lips parted against yours, and the sound she made was almost too quiet to hear. You felt it more than heard it. It slipped straight through you, low and devastating. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark and tender and guilty.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I know,” you said.
The honesty made it worse. It should’ve cooled the air between you, but it didn’t. Lorraine’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a second, neither of you moved. You could see her wedding ring out of the corner of your eye.
You could feel her breath trembling against your mouth. You could hear your own pulse in your ears, frantic and needy and completely uninterested in morality. “Judy’s my friend,” you whispered, as if saying it out loud might save you.
Lorraine closed her eyes. “I know,” she said, and there was pain in her voice now. It made something in you soften when it should’ve made you step away. Instead, you reached up and touched the silver near her temple with shaking fingers.
That undid her more than the kiss had. Lorraine’s eyes opened, and the look she gave you was so raw that your breath caught. You’d dreamed of touching her hair more times than you wanted to admit, of threading your fingers through that soft silver, of tugging gently just to see if she’d make a sound.
Now your fingertips brushed the strands near her face, and she leaned into the touch like she couldn’t stop herself. “You have no idea what that does to me,” you whispered. The confession slipped out before you could catch it.
Lorraine’s lips parted slightly. “My hair?” she asked, voice barely steady. You laughed under your breath, embarrassed and hot all over. “I’m pathetic about it,” you said. “I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.”
Lorraine stared at you for a long moment, and then something in her restraint cracked. Her hand rose to your jaw, gentle but firm, and she kissed you again with far less caution than before. This kiss had heat in it. This kiss had want.
This kiss had all the things she’d been too graceful to say while standing in doorways, offering tea, and pretending not to notice when your eyes lingered too long. You kissed back like you’d been starving for it. Your hand slid into her hair properly this time, and the soft silver caught between your fingers.
Lorraine made the smallest sound against your mouth. It was so restrained, so controlled, so painfully her, that it sent heat rushing through you. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to ruin that careful composure until she forgot how to wear it.
Her hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there with a tenderness that made you dizzy. The other stayed at your hip, thumb stroking near the slit of the dress. You felt the fabric shift when she touched the bare edge of your thigh.
The contact was light, almost accidental, but your whole body reacted like she’d done something filthy. Lorraine pulled back just enough to look at you. Her lips were flushed now, her composure softened at the edges, and her silver hair had slipped slightly from its neat place. You did that, you thought wildly.
You had made Lorraine Warren look undone in a boutique dressing room after she’d only come because Judy had ditched you. The thought should’ve filled you with horror. It filled you with a needy, shameful pride instead.
“You’re shaking,” Lorraine whispered.
“So are you,” you said.
For the first time, she looked almost caught. Her lashes lowered, and her mouth curved in the faintest, saddest smile. “I should go back outside,” she said. You nodded because it was the right answer.
You nodded because there were rules and vows and years of family dinners sitting between you. You nodded because Judy trusted you, because Ed loved her, because Lorraine was older and married and woven into your life in ways that made this dangerous.
But your fingers were still tangled in her hair. Her hand was still on your thigh. Her body was still warm behind yours. Neither of you moved. Then Lorraine’s thumb slipped beneath the edge of the slit, and your nod turned into a soft, helpless breath.
“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.
You couldn’t. You wanted to. You hated that you couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing responsible came out. Instead, you whispered her name, and Lorraine closed her eyes like it hurt her to hear it like that. Her hand slid slowly along your bare thigh, not high enough to give you what you wanted, but high enough to make your body melt back against hers.
The mirror showed everything. Your parted lips. Her flushed cheeks. Her hand disappearing beneath the black fabric. The soft silver of her hair against your face. The gold ring on her finger. The wrongness of it only made the heat worse.
Lorraine’s mouth found your neck again, softer this time, like she was trying to apologize against your skin for every line she was about to cross. The kiss was warm and slow, her lips parting just enough to make your breath shudder where it caught in your throat. You could feel how wet you were getting, how your panties had started clinging to your pussy in a way that made every tiny shift of your hips feel humiliating.
The fabric was damp now, stuck to your pussy lips, pressing against the swollen heat of you until you could feel the slick mess your body had made for her. Lorraine’s hand moved higher beneath the dress, and the closer she got, the more your thighs trembled around the ache. She felt it before you could hide it, and the way her breath caught against your throat told you she knew exactly what she’d done to you.
Her fingers paused at the crease of your thigh, close enough to make your pussy clench around nothing. You watched her in the mirror because you couldn’t help it, watched the way her lashes lowered and her lips parted against your skin.
Lorraine looked shaken by you, and that made the shame burn hotter. She looked like she wanted to stop and like stopping would hurt her. Her thumb stroked the inside of your thigh, slow enough to be cruel. Your hips twitched forward without permission, chasing the touch like you had no pride left.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound like a warning anymore. It sounded like she was barely holding herself together. Her fingers brushed over the front of your panties, and the first touch made your whole body jolt. It wasn’t even direct, not really, just the light drag of her fingertips over the soaked fabric clinging to your pussy.
Still, it sent a sharp pulse through you that had your mouth falling open. Lorraine’s eyes lifted to the mirror, finding your expression with devastating calm, even though her own composure was starting to fracture. You tried to breathe normally, but there was no way to hide the way your body reacted.
Your panties felt ruined, pressed tight to your swollen pussy lips, slick and warm where your clit throbbed beneath the thin fabric. Lorraine moved her fingers again, slower this time, teasing over you through your panties like she wanted to feel exactly how desperate she’d made you before giving you anything real.
Your head tipped back before you could stop it, landing against her shoulder with a soft, broken breath. The angle left your throat open for her, and she kissed you there immediately. Her mouth trembled once against your skin like the sound you made had gone straight through her.
Lorraine’s other hand slid around your waist, holding you close against her body so you couldn’t fold forward from the feeling. She kept touching you over your panties, using light pressure that made you ache more than it satisfied you. Each slow circle dragged the damp fabric against your clit, rubbing just enough to make your hips stutter, but not enough to give you relief.
Your thighs tried to close around her hand, and she stopped them with one careful knee nudged between yours. It wasn’t rough. It was worse than rough. It was controlled, gentle, and firm enough to keep you open for her while she watched you unravel in the mirror.
The black dress had ridden up around her wrist, and you could see the faint movement of her hand under the fabric, the gold ring on her finger catching the warm dressing room light.
You hated how beautiful she looked while ruining you. You hated that she looked guilty and hungry at the same time. Her gaze kept flicking between your face and the place her hand disappeared beneath your dress. “You’re so wet,” she murmured, sounding almost stunned by it. Your cheeks burned so badly you squeezed your eyes shut, but Lorraine kissed the corner of your jaw and rubbed firmer.
The pressure made your knees weaken, and she felt it instantly. Her arm tightened around you, holding you upright against her like she’d been made to catch you. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice low and careful. You opened your eyes with effort, meeting her gaze in the mirror.
The sight nearly finished you before she’d even properly begun. Lorraine’s face was flushed, her mouth soft and parted, her silver hair slipping loose near her cheek because of your fingers. She didn’t look untouched anymore. She looked like someone slowly losing the fight with herself.
Her fingers dragged up over your clothed slit, pressing the fabric between your pussy lips, and your hips rolled helplessly into her touch. A sound escaped you, higher and needier than you wanted it to be.
Lorraine’s eyes darkened at the sound, and her lips pressed to your temple like she needed somewhere to put all that restraint. “Quiet,” she reminded you, but her own voice was shaking. “You have to stay quiet for me.”
You nodded because words felt impossible. Lorraine’s fingers slowed, then slipped lower, tracing the soaked outline of your pussy through the fabric. She wasn’t rushing, and that made it worse. She touched you like she was discovering you by feel, every movement patient enough to make your stomach twist.
Your panties clung to you so tightly that you could feel the shape of yourself beneath them, swollen and slick and aching against the ruined fabric. When Lorraine dragged one fingertip up the center of you, your whole body shivered. Her hand at your waist flexed. “Oh,” she breathed, so soft you almost missed it.
That single reaction made your eyes flutter open again. You saw her watching her own hand beneath the hem of your dress, fascinated and horrified by how much she wanted. “Lorraine,” you whispered, and the sound of her name came out ruined. She closed her eyes for half a second like it hurt her. Then her fingers hooked beneath the edge of your panties.
She didn’t pull them aside immediately. She waited there, fingertips tucked under the damp fabric, as if she needed one last chance to choose differently. The pause stretched so long your body started trembling again. You could feel the elastic against your skin, feel the cool air trying to reach the wet heat between your legs.
Lorraine’s mouth hovered over your neck, breath warm and uneven. “Tell me,” she whispered. It wasn’t a command, not really. It sounded like a plea. You swallowed, eyes fixed on the mirror, on the two of you tangled together in the small golden room.
“Please,” you breathed. Lorraine’s expression broke. Then she tugged your panties carefully to the side, the wet fabric dragging against your pussy lips before finally baring you to her hand.
The first brush of air made you tense, already too sensitive from being teased through soaked fabric. Lorraine looked down, and the reaction that crossed her face was so raw it made your stomach drop. Her lips parted. Her breathing stopped for a second. The hand at your waist tightened like she needed to steady herself as much as you did.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, and there was awe in it now, not just guilt. Her fingers slid carefully between your pussy lips, not holding you open, just feeling how slick and swollen you were for her. You felt every bit of it, the slow slide of her fingertips, the wet heat of yourself coating her skin, the obscene softness of your pussy under her touch.
Lorraine’s gaze lifted to the mirror again, and you saw the exact moment she realized you were watching her reaction. Her cheeks flushed deeper. She looked almost embarrassed by her own hunger. Then her fingertip found your clit.
You jerked so hard her arm had to hold you tighter. Lorraine made a soft sound against your neck, half soothing, half startled by how violently you reacted. “Easy,” she whispered, though there was nothing easy about the way she touched you.
Her finger rubbed your clit in a slow, careful circle, gentle enough to make you ache and precise enough to make your knees shake. The sensation was immediate and bright, heat snapping through your body so fast your nails dug into her wrist.
You tried to swallow the moan, but it broke out of you anyway, muffled only because you turned your face against her shoulder. Lorraine’s mouth pressed to your hair.
“That’s it,” she murmured, and the praise made your hips stutter. She kept her touch steady, drawing slow circles over your clit until slick gathered against her fingers.
You could hear how wet you were, a soft obscene sound hidden beneath the rustle of fabric and your uneven breathing. Lorraine heard it too. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like the sound alone was doing something to her. Then her fingers slid lower again.
Your head tipped back fully onto her shoulder, your throat bare, your mouth open as you fought to stay quiet. Lorraine kissed along your neck again, slower now, her lips dragging over your pulse while her fingers explored you beneath the dress.
She rubbed your clit until your hips started chasing her, then slipped down through your wetness with aching patience. Her fingertips circled your entrance slowly, gathering slick there before moving back up to your clit. It made you want to sob. It made you want to beg.
Your hips kept chasing her, small desperate movements she controlled with one firm arm around your waist. She didn’t rush inside you, didn’t force anything, only teased the entrance of your pussy until you were clenching around nothing and trembling against her.
The mirror showed the tense line of her arm beneath your dress, the slight movement of her wrist, the way your thighs shook around her hand. You looked ruined already.
Lorraine looked like she knew it and hated how much she liked it. “You’re so sensitive,” she whispered, voice breaking on the last word. Your only answer was a helpless little nod.
She adjusted her hand, and the shift made you gasp. Her finger slid lower through your wetness, dipping through the slick gathered between your pussy lips before dragging it back up to your clit. She used your own wetness to make the touch smoother, slower, dirtier.
Lorraine’s breath hitched against your ear when she felt just how soaked you were directly. “God,” she whispered, and the word sounded torn out of her. It was the first truly unguarded thing she’d said, and it wrecked you. Her composure was slipping, not all at once, but in tiny beautiful fractures.
The tremble in her fingers. The heat in her cheeks. The way her mouth kept finding your skin like she couldn’t bear not to kiss you. She rubbed you faster for a few seconds, then slowed when your thighs started to shake too violently. “I’ve got you,” she murmured again, softer this time. You hated how safe it made you feel.
A distant voice sounded somewhere outside the dressing room, and panic flashed through you. Your body stiffened, but Lorraine didn’t move away. She only turned her head slightly, listening, her hand still cupping your bare pussy beneath the dress. The voice faded toward the front of the boutique.
A hanger clicked against a rail. Someone laughed softly. The normal sounds of the store made the intimacy feel even filthier, even more impossible. Lorraine’s eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a second both of you just stared.
Her fingers were still slick against your clit. Your panties were still pulled aside, twisted damply against your thigh. Her wedding ring was still visible against your skin.
“We should stop,” she whispered, but her hand betrayed her with another slow circle. Your pussy clenched around nothing, empty and aching. Lorraine felt the movement and swallowed hard.
“You don’t want to,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. The words were reckless, needy, and far too honest. Lorraine’s gaze sharpened in the mirror. Her mouth parted, but no denial came out. That silence told you everything.
Her fingers pressed a little firmer to your clit, and your eyes rolled shut before you forced them open again. She watched you take it, watched your expression crack apart under each slow rub. “No,” she admitted finally, voice so quiet it almost disappeared. “I don’t.”
Hearing her say it made something low in your belly twist tight. You reached back blindly, your hand finding the back of her neck. Your fingers slid into her silver hair again, and Lorraine’s whole body shuddered. The sound she made into your throat was small, restrained, and desperate enough to make your pussy throb beneath her fingers.
That reaction made you bolder, even as she kept you trembling against her. You tugged lightly, barely enough to disturb the neat strands, and Lorraine let out a soft, broken breath into your neck. Her fingers faltered for the first time. The loss of rhythm made you whine, and she recovered quickly, rubbing your clit with a little more pressure as if punishing both of you for wanting too much.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered, but the words had no strength behind them. You knew she didn’t mean it. Her body pressed slightly closer to your back, and her mouth opened against your shoulder. “You like it,” you breathed.
Lorraine’s eyes lifted to yours in the mirror, darker than before. “You’re making this very difficult,” she said. Her voice had gone low and rough at the edges. You almost smiled, but then her fingers slipped lower and stole it from your mouth.
Pleasure sparked as she teased your entrance again, slow and deliberate, her fingertip circling your opening until your body clenched around the promise of her. You were so wet that there was no resistance when she finally eased one finger inside you. The stretch was slow and careful, barely enough at first, but it still made your mouth fall open against her palm when she raised her hand to cover it.
Lorraine froze for a heartbeat, breathing hard against your hair, as if feeling you around her had knocked the air out of her. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and the tenderness in it made your eyes burn. She moved only when your hips pressed back for more.
Her finger slid deeper, slow enough to make you feel every inch, then withdrew with the same maddening patience. Your pussy clenched around her as she began to finger you gently, not fast, not rough, just steady and intimate and devastating.
The wet sound of it made Lorraine’s cheeks flush. Her mouth pressed to your temple like she needed to hide her own reaction. “You feel so good,” she breathed, and your knees almost gave.
She kept one arm locked around your waist while her fingers moved inside you. Every slow thrust made your body rock subtly against hers, your dress shifting around her wrist, your panties still pulled uselessly aside. Lorraine wasn’t trying to make it harsh or frantic.
She was taking her time with you, dragging her finger in and out of your wet pussy like she wanted to memorize the way you tightened around her. Your clit throbbed from neglect, and you whimpered into her palm when she curled her finger just enough to make your hips jerk. “I know,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I know, I’ve got you.”
Her thumb brushed your lower stomach through the dress, soothing you while her finger worked you open slowly. The tenderness of it made the wrongness feel even sharper. You could feel yourself dripping around her, slick coating her knuckle each time she eased back in.
Lorraine’s breathing grew uneven near your ear, and when you looked in the mirror, she looked ruined by the sight of you taking her hand. Then she withdrew her finger halfway and rubbed your clit with the slick she’d gathered from inside you.
The sudden switch made your whole body jolt. Lorraine’s palm stayed over your mouth, gentle but necessary, catching the broken sound that spilled out of you. Her fingers circled your clit with wet, precise pressure, and every stroke felt sharper now that she’d been inside you.
Your pussy clenched desperately around nothing, missing the slow fullness of her finger almost as soon as it was gone. Lorraine seemed to notice, because her eyes darkened in the mirror. “You want more?” she whispered against your ear. You nodded so quickly that her mouth brushed your cheek with a shaky exhale.
“Greedy girl,” she murmured, but there was no cruelty in it. Only awe. Only heat. Only the thin edge of guilt neither of you could stop standing on. She rubbed you until your hips started trembling, then slipped her finger back down and eased inside you again. This time, your body took her even more easily, wet and aching and already close.
She fingered you slowly, keeping the rhythm deep and careful while her thumb found your clit. That was what finally broke your control. The combination made pleasure bloom so hot and fast that you nearly sagged in her arms. Her finger moved inside your pussy with patient strokes, while her thumb rubbed your clit in tight, slick circles that made your vision blur.
You couldn’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. Every sound came out muffled against her hand, desperate and soft and humiliatingly needy. Lorraine held you through all of it, her face flushed in the mirror, her eyes fixed on yours like she couldn’t look away. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
Her thumb kept circling your clit while her finger curled inside you, slow and steady, drawing your orgasm closer with every careful movement. Your pussy clenched around her again, and she gasped against your neck like she’d felt it somewhere deep in herself. “You’re close,” she said, not asking. You nodded against her palm, tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity of it.
The praise pushed you closer than anything else could have. Your hips jerked against her hand, and Lorraine held you through it, firm enough to guide you but never rough enough to scare you. The mirror blurred because your eyes were wet now, overwhelmed by the feeling of her finger inside you, her thumb on your clit, her mouth at your neck, and her body behind yours.
Your clit throbbed beneath her touch, swollen and slick, every circle sending sparks up your spine. Your pussy clenched around her finger, tight and fluttering, and Lorraine’s breath caught each time she felt it. “There,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “That’s it, sweetheart.”
She didn’t speed up too much. She kept the rhythm steady, slow enough to make you feel every stroke, firm enough to pull you apart. Her thumb pressed a little harder, and your whole body tightened. “Come for me,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
You came with your mouth covered and your body held tight against hers. It hit you in waves, sudden and bright, your thighs shaking around her hand while your pussy clenched hard around her finger. Lorraine made a soft, stunned sound into your hair as she felt it happen.
Her thumb stayed on your clit, rubbing you through the first sharp rush of it while her finger kept moving inside you in slow, shallow strokes. You whimpered into her palm, breath hot and broken, unable to stop the little sounds spilling out.
Lorraine’s eyes were fixed on the mirror, watching you fall apart with a look that was almost worshipful. She slowed only when your body started to flinch from the sensitivity. Even then, she didn’t pull away all at once.
She eased you down slowly, softer and softer, until the pleasure became tremors instead of shocks. Her mouth pressed against your temple. “There you are,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you.”
For a while, neither of you moved. Lorraine kept her hand over your mouth until your breathing steadied, then slowly lowered it to your chest, palm resting above your racing heart. Her other hand slipped away from your clit, and the loss made you twitch with a weak little whimper.
She withdrew her finger carefully, slow enough to make your body clench one last time around nothing. She let your panties fall back into place, though they were ruined now, damp and clinging to your swollen pussy in a way that made your face burn all over again. Lorraine smoothed the dress down with trembling fingers, trying to make you look untouched.
It was useless. Your lips were parted, your cheeks were flushed, your eyes were glassy, and your legs were still unsteady beneath you. Lorraine looked just as undone, her hair mussed where your fingers had been, her mouth swollen from kissing you, her composure cracked straight down the middle.
She stared at you in the mirror like she didn’t know whether to apologize or kiss you again. “Sweetheart,” she said, but the word broke before it became a sentence. You reached for her hand because you couldn’t bear the space opening between you, and she let you take it, even with the gold ring still shining on her finger.
You reached for Lorraine’s hand before she could retreat into herself, before she could turn guilt into distance and pretend the shaking in her fingers meant nothing. Her skin was still warm from touching you, slickness cooling along her fingers where your body had made a mess of her composure.
She looked at you through the mirror like she already knew what you were thinking, and that made it worse because Lorraine always knew. Her mouth parted as if to say your name, maybe to warn you, maybe to beg you not to make this harder than it already was. You didn’t let her find the words. You lifted her hand with both of yours, slow enough that she could stop you if she wanted to.
Her wedding ring caught the soft dressing room light, bright and unforgiving against her finger. The sight should’ve made you pull away, but instead your mouth lowered to it like temptation had finally become stronger than shame.
You sucked the finger her ring sat on between your lips, tasting yourself on her skin while your tongue slid around the gold band. Lorraine’s breath broke sharply above you, her eyes widening for one startled second before her lashes fluttered.
You circled the ring with your tongue again, deliberately, filthily, making the symbol of everything forbidden wet with your mouth. “Baby,” you whispered when you let her finger slip free, your lips still damp. “Let me taste you too.”
The word baby did something terrible to her. You saw it in the way her throat moved, in the way her careful posture faltered, in the way one hand reached for the mirror like she needed the glass to keep her standing. She was still older, still married, still Judy’s mother, still the woman you’d spent years trying not to look at for too long across kitchen counters and family rooms.
She was also standing in front of you flushed, trembling, and visibly wet because of your mouth. That truth landed heavier than any guilt could. You lowered yourself to your knees, the black dress shifting around your thighs as you sank onto the soft dressing room rug.
Lorraine whispered your name like she meant to stop you, but her voice had no authority left. It came out thin and wrecked, more plea than warning. You looked up at her from below, one hand resting on her calf, the other sliding slowly beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Say no,” you murmured. Lorraine’s fingers hovered near your cheek before settling in your hair. “I can’t,” she breathed. The honesty made your whole body pulse.
You pushed her skirt up with careful hands, not because you wanted to be gentle, but because you wanted to watch every second of her surrender. Lorraine’s thighs were warm beneath your palms, smooth and tense, trembling each time your fingers moved higher. She tried to keep her knees steady, but the effort showed in the tight set of her jaw and the uneven rise of her chest.
Her panties were pale, delicate, and damp through the center, the wet patch darkening the fabric where her arousal had soaked through. The sight made your mouth water. She looked down and saw you staring, and a blush spread from her cheeks to her throat.
“Don’t look at me like that, darling,” she whispered, but the pet name ruined the warning. “Like what?” you asked, pressing a kiss just above her knee. Lorraine swallowed hard. “Like you’ve wanted this for a long time.” Your hands tightened slightly on her thighs. “I have.”
She closed her eyes when you said it, her fingers tightening in your hair. You kissed up the inside of one thigh, then the other, taking your time because the anticipation made her shake more than touch did. Her skin tasted faintly of warmth, perfume, and salt, and you could feel the tension in her muscles every time your lips got closer.
When your mouth pressed over her through her panties, Lorraine’s hips jerked so suddenly that her hand slapped against the mirror to steady herself. The sound was too loud in the tiny space, and both of you froze.
A second passed. Then another. No one came to the curtain. Lorraine’s breathing was ragged above you, and when you licked the damp fabric, she made a small, strangled sound behind her teeth.
You kissed her clothed pussy again, slower this time, letting your tongue press against the soaked material until it clung tighter to her. “Honey,” she gasped, hand sliding over her mouth. You hummed against her, and her thighs tightened around your shoulders.
You hooked your fingers beneath the waistband of her panties and eased them down slowly. The wet fabric dragged away from her pussy with a soft, intimate pull that made Lorraine shudder. When you finally bared her, your breath caught.
She was beautiful in a way that felt almost too real to survive, soft and flushed and slick, her pussy glistening under the warm boutique light. Above it, she had a neatly trimmed bush of greying hair, darker strands threaded with silver, the same softness that made you stupid when it framed her face.
Seeing it there, intimate and mature and unmistakably hers, sent heat through you so sharp it almost hurt. Lorraine’s blush deepened when your eyes lingered. “Please,” she whispered, but you weren’t sure if she was asking you to stop looking or start touching.
You leaned in and kissed the greying hair just above her pussy, slow and reverent. Her whole body trembled. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “All of you.” Lorraine looked away like the praise wounded her. “You’re wicked,” she whispered, voice shaking.
You dragged your tongue through her slowly, and Lorraine nearly folded. The first taste of her was hot and slick, her arousal coating your tongue as her hips gave a helpless little twitch toward your mouth. She was already soaked, wet enough that your lips slid easily against her, wet enough that the first lick made an obscene little sound neither of you could pretend not to hear.
Lorraine’s hand flew back over her mouth, but the gasp still slipped through. You licked her again, deeper, parting her with your tongue and tasting the slick gathered at her entrance before moving back up. Her clit was swollen and sensitive when your tongue found it, and the second you circled it, her knees weakened.
You grabbed her hips to steady her, fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt and the warm skin beneath. “Easy, baby,” you whispered against her pussy. “I’ve got you.”
Hearing her own words turned back on her made her whimper. “Pretty girl,” she breathed, the pet name muffled behind her palm. You moaned at that, and the vibration made her jerk.
After that, you stopped trying to be careful with your hunger. You ate her with slow, deliberate pressure, licking from her entrance to her clit in long strokes that made her thighs shake around your head. Her taste spread over your tongue, warm and rich and unmistakably hers, and every soft sound she tried to hide made you press closer.
You circled her clit, then flattened your tongue against it, then sucked gently until her hand clenched in your hair. Lorraine’s hips moved in tiny, helpless rolls, like she was trying to stay still and failing beautifully. “That’s it,” you murmured, mouth wet against her. “Don’t fight me.”
She let out a breathless laugh that broke apart before it became a sound. “You’re impossible,” she whispered. You kissed her clit once, open-mouthed and filthy. “And you’re dripping on my tongue.” Lorraine’s head tipped back hard against the wall. “God,” she choked out, and the word sounded ruined.
You slid one hand higher, thumb brushing the damp crease of her thigh while your mouth stayed on her. Her pussy was slick against your lips, her clit pulsing each time your tongue stroked over it. The greying hair above her brushed against your nose when you pushed in closer, and the intimacy of it made your stomach twist with want.
She wasn’t polished anymore. She wasn’t distant. She wasn’t untouchable. She was shaking above you with her skirt bunched around her waist, panties caught low on one thigh, and your mouth buried between her legs.
The thought made you groan into her. Lorraine’s hips bucked softly, and the hand in your hair tightened until it stung. “Sorry,” she gasped immediately. You looked up at her, lips wet, chin slick.
“Don’t apologize, baby.” Her eyes fluttered at the sight of you. “You look sinful,” she whispered. “Good,” you said, then sucked her clit again.
That broke a sharper sound out of her. She covered her mouth with both hands this time, shoulders curling slightly as pleasure pulled through her. You held her thighs apart just enough to keep her from closing around you completely, then licked her with more focus, giving her the pressure her body kept begging for.
Her clit twitched under your tongue, swollen and slippery, and every gentle suck made her thighs tremble harder. You could tell when she was trying to hold back because her whole body went too still.
You punished that restraint by dragging your tongue down to her entrance and dipping inside her, slow and wet, tasting the slick heat of her directly. Lorraine’s knees nearly gave out. “Oh, my love,” she breathed, and the pet name sounded accidental, too intimate for the room you were in.
It made your chest ache even as your mouth stayed filthy against her. You licked inside her again, then dragged your tongue back up in one slow stroke. Her fingers slid back into your hair. This time, she didn’t apologize for pulling.
The music playing softly through the boutique speakers suddenly seemed absurdly normal. Somewhere outside, hangers clicked, a sales assistant laughed politely, and the world carried on like Lorraine Warren wasn’t being eaten out behind a cream curtain.
The danger made her wetter. You could feel it each time your tongue moved over her, slick gathering faster, her pussy warm and responsive beneath your mouth. “Someone’s going to hear you,” you whispered against her.
Lorraine looked down at you, eyes glassy and furious with want. “Then don’t make me make noise,” she said, but her voice shook too much for it to land as a challenge. You smiled against her thigh. “Can’t promise that, baby.”
Then you sealed your mouth over her clit and sucked until her hand slammed back over her mouth. Her hips jerked forward. You held her there. She tasted even wetter when you licked her through it.
Lorraine was close now, and you knew because her composure disappeared in fragments. First her breathing changed, turning shallow and uneven. Then her fingers stopped stroking your hair and simply gripped, trembling against your scalp.
Her thighs tightened, released, then tightened again around your shoulders. Her hips began to chase your mouth without permission, small needy movements that made her blush even while she kept doing them. You kept your rhythm steady, tongue circling her clit, lips closing around it whenever she started to drift too far from the edge.
“There,” you whispered, tasting her with every word. “That’s where you need it.” Lorraine’s eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. You flicked your tongue over her clit. “You like it.” She made a broken sound into her palm. “Yes.”
The admission lit you up. You gave her exactly what she’d confessed to wanting, alternating slow licks with careful suction until her body started to shake in earnest. Her pussy was soaked, slick coating your mouth, the inside of her thighs damp where your fingers held her.
You could smell her arousal now, warm and intimate, mixed with perfume and the clean fabric of her skirt. It made you dizzy. You wanted to stay there until your knees hurt, until her voice broke, until she forgot every reason she was supposed to be ashamed. “My sweet girl,” Lorraine whispered suddenly, voice wrecked.
The praise went through you hard. You moaned into her again, and she nearly came from that alone. Her hand slipped from her mouth to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips where she had made you messy. “Look at you,” she breathed. “You’re enjoying this too much.” You looked up at her and licked her slowly. “You taste too good not to.”
Her eyes went dark and helpless. For a second, she didn’t look guilty at all. She looked hungry, undone, and almost proud of what she’d made of you. Then you pressed your tongue flat against her clit and worked her with firm, steady strokes, and the guilt vanished from her face entirely.
Pleasure took its place. Lorraine’s mouth opened behind her hand, and her body arched toward you as quietly as she could manage. You felt her clit pulse beneath your tongue, felt her pussy clench and flutter each time you dipped lower to taste her. “Baby,” you murmured, breath hot against her. “You’re so close.”
She shook her head like denying it might give her more time. You slid both hands up to her hips and held her still. “Don’t hide from me now.” Lorraine looked down at you, silver hair loose around her face, eyes wet. “I’m trying not to fall apart,” she whispered. You kissed her clit. “Fall apart.”
That was all it took for her restraint to snap. Lorraine’s hips rolled against your mouth once, then again, more desperate than before. You matched her, tongue moving with her instead of against her, giving her the friction she couldn’t stop chasing. Her hand clamped over her mouth so hard her knuckles paled.
The other hand gripped your hair, holding you exactly where she wanted you. Her thighs shook, and her pussy got wetter against your tongue, slick and hot as she tipped over the edge. “Oh, darling,” she gasped into her palm.
“Oh, please.” You didn’t know what she was begging for, but you gave her more anyway. You sucked her clit gently and kept your tongue moving. Her body went taut above you. Her breath caught. Then she came.
Lorraine came on your tongue in a trembling, silent rush that almost didn’t stay silent. Her whole body seized, thighs tightening around your head as pleasure rolled through her. You held her hips and kept your mouth on her, licking softly as her clit pulsed against your tongue. She tasted stronger when she came, slick and warm, her pussy fluttering helplessly while she tried not to cry out.
A broken sound escaped behind her hand anyway, small and desperate and gorgeous. You swallowed what she gave you, staying close, letting her ride out every wave against your mouth. Her fingers tightened in your hair, then loosened, then tightened again like she couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or save herself from the sensitivity.
You softened your tongue when she started to flinch. Then you kissed her there once, slow and obscene, just to feel the last tremor move through her.
Lorraine whispered your name like she was confessing something. You rested your cheek against her thigh, lips wet and swollen. “There you go, baby,” you murmured. “I knew you’d sound pretty.”
For a long moment, she couldn’t answer. She leaned against the dressing room wall with one hand over her mouth, chest heaving beneath her blouse, skirt still bunched high in your hands.
Her silver hair had come loose now, soft strands stuck to her flushed cheek, and she looked so beautifully undone that your throat tightened. You kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other, gentler now. Lorraine shuddered each time your mouth touched her skin.
“Don’t tease me,” she whispered, though there was still a tremble of pleasure in her voice. “I’m not,” you said. “I’m being sweet.” Her laugh came out breathless and broken. “You’re being wicked.” You looked up at her from your knees, mouth still shining with her.
“You liked wicked.” Lorraine’s eyes dropped to your lips, and the look on her face made your stomach clench. “Yes,” she admitted softly. “I did.”
You fixed her with the same care she’d used on you, pulling her panties back into place and smoothing her skirt down over her trembling thighs. The fabric covered her again, but nothing about her looked untouched.
Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed from your hands, and her gaze kept dropping to your mouth like she couldn’t help herself. You rose slowly, legs unsteady from kneeling, and Lorraine reached for you before you were fully upright.
Her hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a tenderness that almost made the filth of it hurt. She looked at you for one long, ruined second. Then she kissed you. The moment she tasted herself on your tongue, her breath hitched hard against your mouth.
“Baby,” you whispered into the kiss, and she made a soft, helpless sound that went straight through you. Her hand slid to the back of your neck. “My darling girl,” she breathed, kissing you again. “What have you done to me?”
Lorraine kissed you like she meant to stop and couldn’t quite remember how.
For one last second, the dressing room stayed too warm, too small, too full of everything neither of you could take back. Her hands were still on your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with that unbearable tenderness that made the guilt feel sharper than the wanting.
You could taste her on your mouth, could feel the faint tremble in her fingers, could see in her eyes that she knew exactly what had happened and exactly how impossible it would be to pretend it hadn’t. The soft music outside the curtain kept playing, gentle and absurd, like the world had the nerve to stay normal.
Then Lorraine pulled back first. Not far. Just enough to breathe. “We need to make ourselves decent,” she whispered, and the little crack in her voice made your stomach twist.
You nodded, even though your lips were swollen, your knees were weak, and your entire body still felt warm from her. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Probably.”
Lorraine gave you a look that was almost scolding, but it fell apart before it reached her mouth. The corner of her lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness either. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
You bit your lip, and her eyes dropped to your mouth like it was instinct. For one dangerous second, you thought she might kiss you again. She looked like she wanted to. Her hand even lifted, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before she caught herself and let it fall.
The two of you separated with the kind of carefulness that made it obvious something had happened. Lorraine turned slightly toward the mirror, smoothing her skirt down with shaky hands, fixing the hem, straightening the soft cardigan that had slipped off one shoulder.
Her hair was the worst giveaway. The neat silver-streaked pieces had come loose around her face, softer and messier than before, and you had to physically stop yourself from reaching for them again.
Lorraine caught you staring in the mirror. Her cheeks flushed. “Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking very loudly.”
That made you laugh under your breath, quick and nervous, and for a moment the tension cracked into something dangerously sweet. Lorraine looked at you then, really looked at you, and the softness in her expression almost hurt. She reached out and brushed her thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t even noticed.
“There,” she murmured. “Better.”
Your breath caught.
The simple touch felt worse than everything else because it was so gentle. So domestic. So Lorraine. You stood still while she fixed you, letting her smooth the front of the black dress, tug the straps into place, and brush invisible creases from the fabric like she hadn’t just ruined you in it. Her hands lingered at your waist for half a second too long before she pulled them away.
“You’re still buying it,” she said.
You blinked. “The dress?”
“Yes.” Lorraine’s mouth curved faintly. “After all that, I’d say it’s earned its place.”
Your face went hot so fast it nearly made you dizzy. “Lorraine.”
“What?” she asked, too innocent, too calm, except for the flush still sitting high on her cheeks. “It suits you.”
The way she said it made the dressing room feel warm all over again. You turned toward the mirror, trying to look at yourself like a normal person trying on clothes and not someone who’d just had Lorraine Warren’s hands and mouth all over you.
The dress still fit beautifully, which felt almost rude. The black fabric hugged your waist and skimmed your thighs like it knew exactly what it had witnessed. The slit sat perfectly against your leg, subtle until you moved, then just daring enough to make your stomach flip.
Lorraine stood behind you, quieter now.
Her reflection watched yours, and the look in her eyes softened into something complicated. Want was still there, unmistakable and low-burning, but so was guilt. So was fear. So was that awful tenderness that made everything feel less like a mistake and more like a door neither of you had meant to open.
“You look beautiful,” she said.This time, there was no teasing in it. You looked down, suddenly shy in a way that felt ridiculous after everything. “Thank you.”
Lorraine’s hand twitched at her side, like she wanted to touch you again and knew she shouldn’t. Instead, she stepped back and reached for the curtain. Before she opened it, she paused.
“Are you all right?” The question landed softly, but it still made your chest tighten.
You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”
Lorraine didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers rested against the curtain, her wedding ring catching the light again. You saw her look at it. You saw the guilt pass over her face like a shadow.
Then she looked back at you. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Your throat tightened.
That was worse than a lie. A lie would’ve been easier. A lie would’ve let you both pretend this was simple, that she was fine, that you were fine, that the whole thing could be folded away like a receipt and forgotten in a handbag.
Instead, Lorraine was honest. You stepped closer, careful this time. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes softened at once. “No, don’t do that.”
“But Ed…”
“I know.”
“And Judy…”
“I know,” she said again, quieter. The silence that followed felt heavy enough to touch.
Then Lorraine reached for you anyway, just for a second, fingers brushing yours by your side. Not holding. Not quite. Just enough contact to make your heart ache.
“We’ll talk about it,” she whispered. “Not here.”
You nodded, because here was a dressing room with a curtain and soft music and a sales assistant who could ask if everything was okay at any moment. Here was where everything had happened too quickly. Here was where the mirror still knew too much.
“Okay,” you said.
Lorraine gave herself one last look in the mirror, smoothing her hair down as best as she could. It didn’t fully work. The silver strands still looked softer than before, slightly mussed where your fingers had been, and the sight made your mouth go dry all over again. She noticed, because of course she did.
“Behave,” she murmured. You blinked up at her. “You first.” For one glorious second, Lorraine looked genuinely scandalized. Then she shook her head, breathless and fond despite herself. “You’re terrible.”
“You brought me shopping.”
“Judy abandoned you.”
“And you volunteered.”
“That,” Lorraine said, opening the curtain just a little, “is beginning to feel like a very dangerous habit.”
You stepped out first, trying to look normal, which felt impossible when your legs still didn’t completely trust you. The boutique looked exactly the same as before. Warm lights. Pretty dresses. Soft music. A woman near the front considering a pair of earrings.
A sales assistant folding tissue paper behind the counter. No one looked at you like they knew. No one glanced twice at Lorraine as she followed you out, composed enough to pass if someone wasn’t paying close attention.
Unfortunately, you were always paying close attention to Lorraine.
You could see the tiny cracks. The way she touched her hair again. The way she avoided your eyes for three whole seconds before looking back anyway. The way her lips were still a little too pink from kissing you. The way her breathing wasn’t quite steady when you handed her your own clothes over the curtain so you could change back.
Changing out of the black dress felt strangely intimate too. You missed it the second it slipped down your body.
When you pulled your own clothes back on, your panties still felt damp, and your face burned at the reminder. You folded the dress over your arm carefully, smoothing the fabric with both hands like it was something precious and guilty. When you stepped out again, Lorraine was waiting by the little bench, her coat folded over one arm.
Her gaze dropped to the dress. Then to you. “You’re sure?” she asked.
You nodded. “I’m sure.” Her mouth softened. “Good.”
At the counter, the sales assistant smiled brightly and asked if you’d found everything okay. You nearly choked on the laugh that tried to crawl up your throat. Lorraine, somehow, remained calm, which felt deeply unfair considering she was the reason your pulse still hadn’t settled.
“Yes,” Lorraine answered smoothly, before you could embarrass yourself. “The dress was perfect.”
Your eyes snapped to her. She didn’t look at you. Coward.
The sales assistant wrapped the black dress in tissue paper, then slid it into a glossy paper bag with ribbon handles. You paid for it yourself, mostly because you needed something normal to do with your hands.
Lorraine stood beside you the entire time, close enough that her sleeve brushed yours once, then again, each touch small enough to be accidental and deliberate enough to make you dizzy.
When the receipt printed, the assistant tucked it neatly into the bag.
“Special occasion?” she asked.
You froze. Lorraine’s hand brushed the small of your back. “Something like that,” you managed. Lorraine’s fingers pressed once, gentle and warning, but you could feel the faint tremor in them.
Outside, the air hit cooler than expected. You stepped onto the pavement with the bag hanging from your wrist and the black dress hidden away like evidence. Lorraine walked beside you, quiet for a few steps, her coat pulled around her, silver hair glowing softly in the afternoon light.
Neither of you said anything at first. The boutique door closed behind you with a soft chime. You glanced down at the bag. Then at Lorraine.
“I really do like the dress,” you said. Lorraine kept looking ahead, but her mouth curved. “I gathered that.” You nudged her gently with your shoulder. “You liked it too.”
This time, she did look at you. Her eyes were warm, guilty, and still a little dark around the edges. “Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”
The answer sat between you all the way back to the car. Not loud. Not solved. Not safe. Just there, tucked into the space beside the shopping bag and the silence neither of you knew how to fill. Lorraine unlocked the car, opened the passenger door for you without thinking, then seemed to realize the intimacy of it a second too late.
You slid into the seat, clutching the bag in your lap. Lorraine lingered by the open door. For a moment, she only looked at you, silver hair loose around her face, sunlight catching on the ring you had tasted.
Then she leaned down slightly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Put that dress somewhere safe when you get home.” Your fingers tightened around the handles. “Why?”
Lorraine’s eyes flicked to your mouth. “Because I have a terrible feeling I’m going to want to see it again.”
Mother Miranda decrees that the state of the most fragile of her lords, Donna Beneviento, has deteriorated far too much.
She appoints a carefully-picked girl to care for her.
“Chicken cutlets,” Angie said resolutely, hovering in the air as she practiced kicks and punches against an imaginary foe. She narrowly missed Donna’s head as she floated by, “You make the best chicken cutlets, and you haven’t made them recently at all.”
Donna blushed underneath her veil, once again buoyed by the compliment from her beloved doll.
Narcissist.
Donna ignored the pesky thought as she gathered the ingredients. One by one, she set the ingredients on the tabletop. Chicken broth. Mushrooms. Onions. Garlic. Butter. Chicken breast. Parmesan cheese. Olive oil. Salt and pepper. Arborio rice. Thankfully, everything was identifiable by touch alone. It was hard enough to cook while wearing her veil, but Donna wasn’t taking any chances anymore. Not with that girl upstairs.
It had been the shock of a lifetime when that girl barreled through the door, slipping on the hallway rug and banging her head on the floor on the way down. Donna had been in the library with Angie, fingers tracing over books she hadn’t read in years. When was the last time Donna had simply made a cup of tea and sat down to read, or put on a film in her study? When had her life become so insular and small, moving between the workshop and the lab, finishing commissions and bending to Mother Miranda’s endless demands for results? When was the last time something truly different happened?
Then that girl barged into her life. That honest, earnest, try-hard of a girl who scrubbed the floors like it was her calling and accepted Angie in all her perfect weirdness with all the patience of a doting mater. At the unnerving sound of Lais’s slight body hitting the ground, both Donna and Angie ran to her. Donna wasn’t heartless. As disquieted as she was by the girl, she was still going to help her up. The hallway rug was endlessly fond of tripping innocent passerbys; Donna had fallen several times herself.
But when the girl wasn’t moving, Donna’s blood ran cold. She could feel the familiar dread curling in her stomach, the routine haziness at the edges of her vision signaling a tenuous hold on her mental state and emotions. The girl was dead, she just knew it. Donna Beneviento’s curse had struck again, killing another innocent person who had the misfortune of getting close to her. Donna had hidden herself away, tried to tamp down her desperate yearning for love and companionship and human affection in a falsely noble attempt to save others from her wretched self and spare her hands any more blood.
Murderer.
Her quick internal musings were interrupted by a swift kick in the side from Angie. Angie was saying something, was screaming both her name and the girl’s, tugging Donna towards the prone body in the foyer. Donna lifted her hand to Lais’s neck, expecting the worst, expecting waxy skin cooling as the heat of life left it. But Lais wasn’t dead. Her heartbeat, while unnervingly fast, was strong and healthy. She wasn’t anywhere near death.
There was still time. It wasn’t over.
Lais mumbled something about eggs, eggs that Donna had honestly forgotten about. Instinctually, Donna cupped her face, whispering to the girl to hush, to not worry about it. The eggs were immaterial, and whatever was wrong, Donna could fix it. As long as the girl stayed at Beneviento manor, stayed healthy and hale and ignorant of the horrors that shared the bedroom next door, Donna could bear it.
Donna wasn’t sure what she was looking at at first. Lais’s unconscious body, dragged upstairs to bed and stripped of everything above the waist (Donna tried her best to preserve the girl’s modesty, but she blushed like a berry when Angie thoughtfully proclaimed that Lais had a “nice set of them on her”). The phone rang after that, and the embarrassing little doll was banished to the study to answer it.
Lais’s back was covered in scars, most old, but a few were split open and weeping blood. The wounds were thin lines crisscrossing over the skin awkwardly, painting the girl’s coffee colored skin with red streaks. It looked awful. For a second, Donna thought it might have been the work of a very careful Lycan, but that thought was quickly discarded. Lycans were never careful, and they never left such shallow, non-fatal wounds. These had to be the work of something, or someone, else.
Thankfully, there were thousands of available specimens in her lab to work with, and even a few pre-mixed batches of healing salve sitting gathering dust on the shelf. Leaving Angie in charge of the patient, Donna carefully opened a jar. The smooth, waxy, vaguely chartreuse colored ointment smelled a bit… off, and a few circles of fuzzy green mold took up space in the center of the container. Unfortunate, but not exactly unexpected. Donna wasn’t called to offer herbal assistance to Mother Miranda’s research specimens often, and to her adopted siblings even less. Who knew the last time this batch had been used? The next jar looked and smelled a lot better; Donna grabbed it and hurried back upstairs.
Lais, surely in pain, squirmed in her sleep as Donna applied a thorough coating of healing salve on her wounds, but mercifully, she stayed asleep. Donna smiled as the girl mumbled in her sleep. She was actually a rather pleasant patient. Bar the unexpected and unbearable visit from Mother Miranda (Donna just couldn’t think about that right now, if she thought about it, she would take to the bed for another week and then where would that leave Lais), Donna didn’t mind looking after Lais. The girl- Lais, Donna would have to remember to actually use her name- followed orders, never complained, and was grateful for whatever she was given. Her little comment about enjoying Donna’s cooking silenced those pesky voices for an entire day.
So Donna didn’t mind looking after her weird little interloper. Until she was healthy again, at least. Then it was all back to normal.
Donna didn’t know how to feel about that.
“I’ll make chicken cutlets another time.” Donna lovingly tweaked Angie’s veil as she came by, her little wooden face peering into the sauté pan, “She needs something warm and comforting to recover. Something like…?”
“Risotto?” Angie finished.
“Right.” Donna ruffled the little doll’s choppy blond hair, “Now add the chicken before the mushrooms brown too much. And grab the white wine.”
Donna and Angie worked in their own sort of silence, quietly making the risotto. There wasn’t really a need for speaking, not with their connection. In her mind, Donna could always feel the little doll’s presence, could feel Angie almost as an extension of herself. She could even pick out individual thoughts if she focused. Here, with them both cooking, both filled with feelings of love and serenity and industry, Donna could almost feel happy.
Enjoy it for now, murderer.
“Don-Don, have you noticed the bread?” Angie bounded over with a bundle of fresh herbs in one arm and the mezzaluna in the other.
“What about it?” Donna asked absently, carefully folding the cheese into the layers of fluffy rice.
“It’s still there.”
“Should it not be?”
Angie heaved herself onto a stool, rocking the mezzaluna back and forth to cut the parsley on the cutting board, “We should have had to buy some more than usual, right? Since the girl was with us. You told her she could use it for lunch, right?”
“Of course I did.” Had she? Donna wasn’t 100% sure. But she had to have, right? And even if she didn’t, surely the girl, surely Lais knew Donna wouldn’t punish her severely over a sandwich once a day. Right? “I’ll ask her.”
Donna carefully sprinkled the parsley over the bowl, and then it was done. A gorgeous bowl of mushroom and chicken risotto. Luxurious, creamy, umami flavors with enough bulk and heft to make you want to curl up and sleep. Perfect for a convalescent.
A soft bump sounded from upstairs, and Donna smiled (smiled? That was unexpected), turning to Angie, “She’s up. Run along ahead and tell her to get ready for lunch.”
“I’m on it, Don-Don!” Angie gave an adorably serious salute and bounded up the stairs, apparently forgetting she could float.
Donna arranged the bowl of risotto on a tray along with some silverware, a glass of water, and a few leftover cinnamon cookies for dessert. Nervously, she smoothed her shirt and adjusted her veil. Why was she so nervous just to take dinner to her new maid? Donna wasn’t sure why the thought of Lais made her cheeks warm, made her want to both shy away and reach closer-
“Don!” Angie screeched from upstairs, “Don, she’s not in be-”
Donna startled, nearly knocking the tray on the counter in front of her over. Without thinking, she left the tray with the still-cooling risotto right there on the counter and rushed upstairs. Angie’s voice had been suddenly muffled, as though something was covering her mouth. Was she bound? Gagged? Donna didn’t feel any fear through their bond, only surprise and mild irritation. This only panicked Donna more. Was something wrong with the bond? Donna tripped on her long, elegant skirts, scrabbling up the last few stairs.
The first door on the right, Lais’s room. Donna burst through the door, landing on her knees. Her vision was partly obscured by her veil as it always was, but she knew enough to tell that the room was empty, the bed made, the objects on the nightstand tidy, and the floor clean. Donna, stricken, pulled back and ran to the next door down the hallway, the bathroom door.
There, on the wet tiled floor, was Lais, clad in her faded blouse and skirt, the long hem tucked up into her waistband to prevent it dragging on the floor, hands covering Angie’s mouth as she tried to wrestle the thrashing doll into submission.
Donna stared. And stared. And stared. Surprisingly, for a minute, the nasty voices in her head quieted, confused as they were to the incomprehensible sight in front of them. Donna even forgot the pervasive social anxiety and agorophobia that controlled every moment of her life up until now.
“What-” Donna spoke in a stunned, baffled, frankly flabbergasted tone, “What are you doing?”
At the sound of her voice, Lais froze. Her brown eyes snapped up to Donna, full of terror. Donna knew she presented particularly intimidating, all the village lords had to be, but it still hurt that Lais’s first (invited) glance upon Donna inspired enough fear to paralyze the girl.
Monster.
Angie didn’t seem bothered by the sudden stiffening. She seized her moment, clamping her little wooden jaws down on the soft, webby part between Lais’s thumb and pointer finger. Lais yelped, shoving the doll away from her as she brought her bitten hand to her mouth. Angie tumbled forth, catching herself with her Cadou floating ability, and swooped behind Donna, pointing one spindly limb at Lais like a tattletaling child.
“Don! Don! She’s not in bed! She was cleaning, I saw her!” Angie squealed, unbothered by Lais’s fierce glare.
It was then that Donna noticed the state of the room. This secondary bathroom was technically Lais’s; Donna had her own bathroom attached to her room. Because of this, Donna generally steered clear of the small space, not even looking inside for fear of invading Lais’s space or scaring her. Even before Lais’s arrival, Donna never entered the space, assuming it was a stuffy, filthy, mold-ridden abomination like the rest of her family home.
Your fault.
The bathroom was, unexpectedly, clean. The white porcelain of the sink, toilet, clawfoot tub, every bit of it had been attacked with such verve that the ceramic gleamed. The whimsical green-and-white tile that Donna and Claudia used to argue over whether it was flowers or fans had been scrubbed, the grout between the square tiles looking a crisp grey instead of a grimy, moldy black. Best of all, Donna could detect a faint citrusy chemical scent through her veil, making the room smell like a freshly scrubbed lemon.
Donna felt almost lightheaded with astonishment, “You’ve… been cleaning?”
Taking this as permission to speak, Lais exploded with apologies, falling to her knees to prostrate herself at Donna’s feet, “My lady, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I only left the bed because I got so much rest last night, thanks to you! I promise I’m healed enough, and I’ve missed too much of my work already. I-I wouldn’t want you or Mother Miranda to grow displeased with me, not when you have both been so kind to me.”
As Lais continued to simultaneously pontificate on Donna and Mother Miranda’s virtues and beg Donna not to be angry with her, Donna could do nothing more than blink. For another occasion in a long, long list of times, she gave thanks to the Black God for her veil. It was hard enough trying to school the anxiety of her expression around Mother Miranda, or hide the irritation and sadness she felt when Alcina and Karl fought during the semi-regular Lords Meetings. How was she supposed to act the part of a dignified, elegant Lord of the Village in the face of this strange, perplexing girl who trembled at Donna’s feet as though she feared being struck?
Not for the first time, Donna thought the small, oval bruises on Lais’s upper arms looked a lot like fingerprints.
“Lais,” Donna spoke in her usual soft manner, trying to sound as gentle as possible, “Stand up, please.”
Lais froze, looking up at Donna with terror written plain on her face. The bruises and cuts on her face were much less noticeable now, fading to a murky grey on her dark skin. It almost reminded Donna of having tea with her sister and nieces, murky dark liquid with a few splashes of bright red blood.
Obediently, Lais stood, yanking the hem of her skirt out of her waistband quickly, trying to smooth it down without notice. Donna’s lips quirked up below her veil. At her full height, head bowed like a willing supplicant, Lais’s head still only came up to Donna’s chin. If she wanted to, she could have kissed the girl on her forehead.
What?
“Come. To your room.” Donna stood aside, making way for Lais to march past her. Angie followed behind, little feet pattering on the floor.
Head down, shoulders hunched, Lais walked like she was being led to the gallows. Behind her, Donna wrung her hands, picking at nails that had already been picked at a thousand times over. This truly was the longest conversation she’d had with someone who wasn’t her family or The Duke in… Donna didn’t know how long.
Pathetic.
How was she supposed to talk to Lais? As always, Donna looked to her family for guidance. Karl and Salvatore had no servants. Mother Miranda had maids (or were they more like lab assistants?) to attend to her experimental subjects as well as her house, and they saw the priestess as they should, as their employer as well as their savior. Mother Miranda was, as always, someone to worship and serve with their entire being. If she ever fraternized with them or even spared them a kind word, Donna didn’t know about it. She doubted the possibility of anyone catching Mother Miranda’s eye (why was she thinking about this?); she was far too devoted to her mission to waste time on lust and flesh.
Which left Alcina and her daughters. Alcina ran her household strictly, punishing those who stepped out of line and making wine out of those who crossed her. Whichever maids who were not petrified of her openly lusted after Donna’s, admittedly striking and busty sister. Donna’s favorite nieces, Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela, although a bit less… composed than their mother, nevertheless ordered around their maids as though they were born nobility. Which, Donna supposed, they were.
Donna wanted to. She wanted to act the way she should, a poised and stately Lord of the Village. She wanted to open her mouth and speak clearly and loudly enough to be understood, to explain firmly but kindly that she was not angry with Lais for cleaning but she would prefer it if Lais took another day to rest. Donna wanted to act like she was the employer in this situation, the noblewoman with power and enough brains in her head to run her own household and direct her own servant.
But as Lais sat on the bed, face bruised and cut, shoulders hunched like she expected to be slapped, Donna found she couldn’t. The words she wanted to say didn’t come out the way she wanted them to.
“I made dinner.” Donna heard herself saying, “Do you think you’re feeling well enough to eat?”
Donna hated herself, but even she knew she wasn’t needlessly cruel. Not if she wasn’t forced to be. The very idea turned her stomach. Lais was healing. If she needed her meals ferried upstairs and delivered to her in bed for the duration of her convalescence, then Donna was happy to oblige. It was her duty, wasn’t it, to take care of the people in her employ, solitary as it was. But when Lais looked at her, hopeful and achingly forlorn, saying in that soft voice that “it was so lonely eating alone”, Donna conceded like it was never a question.
So there she was. Sitting at her own dining room table, Lais across from her. Lais fidgeted in her chair, moving from side to side. It was an almost imperceptible rock, barely two inches to both sides, but noticeable to someone who was watching.
Watching?
“Is something wrong?” Donna nervously picked at a scab on her wrist, a leftover from a slipped tool when dollmaking, “If you don’t like risotto, I can-”
“No!” Lais hurried to say, snatching up her spoon, “No, it smells delicious. I’m just… I’m waiting for you.”
Donna stilled, blinking astonishedly under her veil. Waiting… for her? Lais, the confusing girl who sat in front of her with a bowl of warm risotto, wanted Donna Beneviento to… eat with her. Donna had not considered this. Even in her wildest fantasies, Donna had not considered sharing a meal to be an occasion that could possibly happen. She didn’t know what to say.
Thankfully, Angie, who was under the table playing with the painted wooden tops she demanded Donna make for her, took the situation from her, making it ten times worse. The little doll howled with laughter at Donna’s utter disbelief, yelling at her to, “Hurry up and make yourself a bowl, Don!”
Back in her chair, her own bowl of warm risotto in front of her, Donna began to eat. Lais followed suit, digging into the meal with the same gusto Angie reported when Donna asked. The girl ate with a joyful fervor that made Donna’s heart warm, savoring every mouthful like it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. It made Donna want to cook for her again, to see that sweet, sated look in her eyes as she fit into a succulent bite of perfectly grilled chicken.
What?
Eating made the situation, pardon the pun, a bit easier to swallow. Donna could focus on shoveling food in her mouth with shaking hands and not spilling any of the creamy beige rice on her veil. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, not on the first true occasion she and Lais had beheld each other. If Donna just focused on eating, she could avoid speaking and this would all be over soon. Lais would return upstairs and Donna could escape down to her study, resting her stress-headache-aching head on her desk as she dissected every single second of this suffocating evening.
But Lais evidently could not bear the silence.
“Y-You’re a really good cook, my Lady,” Laid began slowly, and Donna tried to ignore the tremor in her voice as the girl waited to be punished for merely speaking, and speaking praise at that, “What is this dish called again? Ri-something?”
“Risotto, dummy.” Angie answered from the floor with a firm nod, “It’s an Italian rice dish, not that you’d know.”
Lais latched onto this small bit of information with desperation, “I had no idea! Forgive my ignorance, my lady. Are you Italian?”
The room went silent, looking at her to speak. Donna tried to control her voice, “Y-Yes. My family was originally from Italy.”
Lais nodded, and they both turned back to their meals. An awkward silence ensued, broken only by Angie on the floor playing with her toys. In between bites, Donna sent a nervous pulse to Angie via her Cadou. Have I said something wrong? Should I keep talking, or stay silent? I… don’t want to mess this up.
Angie sent back another pulse in return, a warm, consoling vibe that sent a wash of calm through Donna. It’s fine, Don. Ask about how she’s feeling.
Donna took a breath, trying to steel herself, “How… How are you feeling, Lais?”
Once again, Lais startled at Donna’s voice, but quickly recovered, “I’m feeling much better, my lady. I’m a quick healer. I promise you won’t have to tend to me much longer. I’m… very sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I didn’t mean to be a burden.”
“You’re not a burden.” Donna surprised herself with how quickly she spoke up, “I greatly appreciate all the work you’ve done here. The manor hasn’t looked so good in years.”
“And you play good!” Angie giggled, popping up over the side of the table and nearly yanking the whole tablecloth off, “You NEVER get mad if I whack you!”
Lais quickly looked away, covering her mouth, but Donna could see the beginnings of an overjoyed smile on the girl’s face. Before she knew it, Donna too was smiling beneath her veil. It was nice sometimes, having another person around. The house felt… a bit brighter, those pesky voices quiet for once.
Until one of Angie’s tops clattered to the floor, and both Donna and Lais jolted, the moment gone.
Lais jumped to her feet, picking up her empty bowl and moving across the table to take Donna’s, “I-I should clean up-”
“You should rest-” Donna tried.
“I’m okay.” Lais gave a small smile, “Please, my lady. It’s my job.”
It’s my job. Why did those words unsettle her so much? Donna leaned against the railing of the elevator, Angie dancing at her heels, as she waited for the mechanical apparatus to bring her to the basement. Of course it was Lais’s job, that’s why she was here. Why she would be here for… five more months.
The memory of the deal she made with Alcina soured in Donna’s mouth. Lais was a boon to Beneviento Manor. She cleaned, played with Angie, and arguably, quieted those pesky voices in Donna’s head. It had been so long since her last blackout, Donna didn’t know the last time this kind of thing had ever happened. She wanted to hold the source of her serenity in her hands, never letting it go for as long as she lived. After such a break from all that pain, she didn’t know if she could return to the torment.
But Lais would be happier at Beneviento Manor. Lais would be happy and safe, protected from whatever demons followed her around. Donna wouldn’t take that from her.
a/n - I took a long hiatus but I’m back and should be writing more often - Thank you guys for the response to my first fic, and this will be my second one ever written so please be honest!
This fic is inspired by the GIF above! (sourced from The L Word: Generation Q)
(wlw explicit)
————————————————————————
Baran is incredibly focused, looming over the stove in a dark red tank-top and comfortable lounge pants. You sit quietly and admire her as she intently stirs and seasons the vegetables cooking in the steaming skillet beneath her. You get up, approaching her slowly and wrapping your arms around her waist. She relaxes into your embrace, sighing quietly. “You’re always so tense, B.” you whisper softly. Her hands squeeze yours placed over her stomach.
“I know.. but you know just with my hours I-“ She pauses as you cut her off. “Baby. I understand, but you don’t relax when you are actually home with me. You’re always cleaning everything or thinking about work.” She sighs deeply, turning to face you, her large deep eyes trailing down to the floor. She cups your face tentatively, frowning slightly. “I want to do better, honey. I do.” She admits genuinely, her gaze soft and understanding. “…And I will do it on my own terms, understand?” She adds firmly, backing you against the island. She gives you a look, the look.
Your face flushes as you feel her hands on your hips, sliding under your shirt and running up your sides as she makes you melt just with her eyes. She does not hesitate to flip you around, pressing your front and stomach against the counter. You feel her lips on your neck, unable to keep in the faint whimper that escapes your lips. “Does this count as me relaxing?” she teases in a low tone. You feel her rings clattering on the countertop near you as she takes them off, her hand slipping into your shorts. Her free hand holds you against her while she pleasures you. She rubs tight circles around your clit, kissing your neck roughly.
Your hands grip the countertop, your eyes shut tightly and mouth agape as moans escape your lips. She makes no effort to silence you, in fact she does everything possible to draw as many sounds as possible from you. Her free hand slides under your shirt, resting firmly on your upper stomach just beneath your bra, holding you against her. Her body feels warm against your back, her curls occasionally tickling your neck or shoulder as her fingers move skillfully between your thighs.
She nips your ear playfully, relishing in the sound you make when you feel her teeth graze your skin. “You close?” She hums against your neck in a demanding tone. You nod urgently, unable to express anything with words at the moment. Her fingers quicken and your mind goes cloudy. “Baran…” You moan out weakly as you finish, your body tensing against hers. She holds you carefully, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. She helps you to the bathroom, running a bath for you while she finishes cooking dinner. She comes to check on you frequently, giving you samples of the sauce and veggies or just a loving kiss here and there.
I wanna make a community for Donna Beneviento bc my girlie needs more love
Should i do it?
go for it!
yes, and I'll help you make the community if needed
no opinion
Other (comments)
Remaining time: 14 hours 27 minutes
If I do end up making the community, anyone will be welcome to join. Help making the community would be nice too since I've never done anything like that before. Feel free to dm me or talk abt it in the comments. Have a lovely day and don't forget to hug your Italian dollmaker <3
Edit: feel free to ask for a ping/invite if the community gets made
Baran had been thinkin about it since she caught Dr. Abbot and Dr. Mohan in the supply closet that morning.
Thoughts that raised valid institutional concerns.
She found Trinity at the end of the north hallway and planted herself squarely in the woman's path.
"Can I ask you something?"
Trinity stopped. Tilted her head. "You're already asking."
"Why," Baran said, "is every attending in this department sleeping with a resident?"
Trinity looked delighted, like she found this extremely entertaining.
"Robby and Whitaker," Baran continued, because she had prepared points and she was going to make them. "Ellis and King. Abbot and Mohan. That's not a pattern, that's a—"
"Epidemic?" Trinity offered.
"I was going to say problem."
Trinity smiled. She took exactly one step closer, which was one step more than was strictly necessary.
"Why, do you want one for yourself, Dr. Al-Hashimi?"
Baran's prepared remarks evaporated completely.
"That's—" she started. "This is not—" she tried again. "I came here to raise a legitimate—"
Trinity was still smiling, watching her go absolutely nowhere with obvious pleasure.
Baran turned around and left. Walking in a direction she chose entirely based on it being away.
"My door's always open, boss," Trinity called after her.
