At what point did you and Patti shoot your first sex scene together?
It was pretty early on. It’s funny. People ask, “How well did we know each other when we shot that scene?” We knew each other pretty well, because the week before, we had shot the scene from episode two, where there is no dialogue. I’m just, well, railing her on the bannister, on the stairs up to her cage of Oscars. So we had broken the ice at that point. It was somewhat tame, actually, then going to do this luxurious, three-page dialogue scene. x
Summary: Avis Amberg has everything—power, money, an entire studio hanging on her word. What she doesn’t have is the one thing she wants most: you.
Warnings: Pining, very bad pining, Scissoring, Masturbation, Oral Sex, sad avis, self-deprecating avis, slight angst
AO3
AN: I'm 100% missing tags and I did not beta read this at all
She lets you into the room without a word. She always does.
It’s early still. Pale light pushing through the curtains, dust floating in it like powder. Her ashtray’s full from last night—three long, lipstick-stamped butts stacked beside a half-drunk glass of scotch. Her robe’s slipped low on one shoulder, skin bare where the satin has folded away, but she doesn’t fix it. Just looks at you over like she’s been waiting all morning for the sound of your soft footsteps coming up the stairs.
You set her tray down on the nightstand. Juice, coffee, half a grapefruit. You always remember the spoon. “Did you sleep?” she asks. Her voice is still rough from dreaming, but her eyes are clear. Focused. On you. You nod. “A little.”
She hums. Takes the coffee from your hands like it’s something sacred. Like you are. Her fingers brush yours and linger. Just enough to make your stomach flip. Just enough to make your skin remember it. “I dreamt of you,” she says. You freeze.
She doesn’t explain it. Just says it like it’s nothing, like she might just be thinking out loud. But you know her better than that. You’ve been working here long enough to know when she means something. When she feels something. And Avis Amberg—powerhouse, producer, queen of the silver city—has been feeling things about you for a while now.
It’s in the way she says your name. The way she never lets anyone else touch her hair but you. The way she cancels meetings when she thinks you look too tired.
You were hired to pour her drinks and press her clothes and keep her schedule. But now she only drinks if you bring it, only wears what you’ve laid out for her. She lets you undress her after long nights, doesn’t flinch when your knuckles brush her ribs, her hip, her breast. You touch her like you’re scared to, and she takes it like she wants to be ruined.
She hasn’t kissed you. She hasn’t even tried. But god, sometimes you can feel her thinking about it. The way her gaze slips to your mouth. The way she watches you walk away like it aches to let you leave the room.
“I should run your bath,” you say softly, already moving toward the en suite. She doesn’t stop you. But her voice follows. Low. Dangerous. Barely above a whisper. “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”
She follows you in without saying anything. You hear the soft hush of her slippers on the marble tile. The faint clink as she sets her glass on the edge of the sink. And then nothing.
Just her breath behind you. Slow. Controlled. Careful.
You kneel by the tub, one hand adjusting the temperature, the other testing the water with your fingertips. The scent of rose oil hangs in the air. You always add a little extra for her in the mornings—she pretends not to notice, but you can tell she does. She sinks into the scent like she sinks into your presence. Slowly. Like warmth.
Behind you, Avis stands still. She watches the shape of your body through your thin uniform, the way your back curves as you reach forward. The way your fingers trail through the rising steam. She watches your profile when you glance over your shoulder to ask if it’s too hot.
“It’s perfect,” she murmurs. Her voice sounds far away. Like it’s moving through molasses. Like it’s coming from somewhere inside her ribcage.
You nod and turn back. Unclipping the little glass vial of bath oil. Pouring it slowly, gently, watching the liquid dissolve into the surface. You’re always so delicate with everything. Like the world might bruise if you’re not.
And Avis. She thinks about kissing you again. She tries not to. She always tries not to.
But here you are, bent over her tub in the morning light, hair pulled back with that satin ribbon she bought you last Christmas. Your neck so soft it glows. Your lips parted, tongue just barely visible as you concentrate. Kneeling like you’d do anything she asked, even though she never asks for the things she wants.
She imagines slipping a hand into your hair. Just resting it there. Feeling the warmth of your scalp, the softness of you. Imagines tilting your face up, thumb tracing your bottom lip before she leans down and finally—
No. She stops herself, like always. Tightens her arms around her waist, makes her voice even. “Did you eat this morning?” You glance up at her again. That sweet, unreadable expression you always wear when she tries to be gentle. “I had a little toast,” you say.
She exhales. Not because of the toast. Because of the you. “That’s not enough.” You smile, small and polite. “I’ll eat more after I get you settled.” She nods. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t trust herself to.
The water rises. The steam curls up between you. You reach for the towel, for the soap, for the silver-handled brush she likes best. And Avis thinks, One day. One day I’ll touch her the way I want to. But not yet. Not while you still look at her like that. Like she’s a woman to be respected. Not devoured.
The water’s gone still by the time you drain the tub. Rose oil clings to the tiles in a faint shimmer. Her robe hangs on the back of the door, towel still damp where you’d wrapped her in it, careful not to let her shiver.
She sits in front of the mirror now. The hem of her nightdress brushing her calves. One bare foot tucked under the other. She hasn’t spoken in minutes, just sipped her second cup of coffee and watched you move around the room like it’s something she needs.
You stand behind her with the brush in your hand. Her hair’s still warm from the bath, soft and heavy between your fingers. You start from the bottom, slow and gentle, letting the bristles glide through each section like you’re memorizing the strands. She exhales on your third stroke—low and steady, like your touch pulls something out of her she’s too proud to name.
You don’t say anything until the quiet feels thick with it. Then, soft: “Your color’s really pretty.” You catch her eye in the mirror. Her gaze snaps to yours like she didn’t think you meant to say it out loud.
She blinks once. Then again. And then—god. She beams. Not the way she smiles at parties. Not the closed-mouth, polite tilt she gives to board members and studio men who need reminding who she is. Not the condescending grin she gives her husband when he says something idiotic at dinner.
This is different. This smile makes her eyes crinkle. Makes the corners of her mouth curl slow and sweet and genuine. It makes her look younger. Softer.
Like she can’t quite believe you meant it. Like she’s trying not to read too far into it—but she already has. “Do you think so?” she asks, and her voice is lighter now. Almost breathless. You nod. Keep brushing. “Mhm. Always have.”
She watches you in the mirror. Watches the way your fingers move, the way your expression doesn’t change, like it really was that simple. Like you really meant it.
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Something like do you think about me when I’m not in the room? or what else do you think is pretty? or would you kiss me if I asked?
But she doesn’t say any of that. Just sits there glowing under your touch, hair falling soft around her shoulders, lips parted like she might still speak—And you keep brushing, gentle as ever. Like she’s yours to take care of. Like you want to be.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
She’s dressed now. Hair pinned. Lipstick on. You’re standing by the closet, smoothing the sleeves of her coat even though it’s seventy degrees out and she probably won’t need it. But you like busying your hands. She knows that.
She watches you from across the room. You don’t notice at first, or maybe you’re pretending not to. Your profile in the soft morning light, head tilted just enough to let that little ribbon slip loose at the base of your neck.
And she feels it again.
That stupid, unbearable flutter in her chest. That tightening just under her ribs. Like a girl. Like a teenager. Like someone who’s still dumb enough to believe in getting chosen back.
It hits her so hard she has to sit. She lowers herself slowly to the edge of the bed, eyes still on you, one hand pressed flat against the mattress like it might keep her grounded.
You glance over. “Are you feeling alright?” you ask. Voice low, warm. A touch of concern in it that she wants to bottle and drink. She nods. Too quickly. “I’m fine.”
You come over, kneel down to fix the buckle on her shoe—just one, the left. The same way you always do. It’s habit now. Intimate in the quietest way. The kind of gesture no one else ever gives her. The kind that makes her feel cared for.
When you look up at her, she’s already looking at you. That glassy, far-off shine in her eyes like she’s not even fully here. Like she’s lost in something.
You tilt your head. “You sure?” Her smile is slow. A little sad. But so full of you it almost hurts. “You make me feel like a girl again,” she says. Voice barely above a whisper.
You blink. Your hand stills on her ankle. “Like a giddy school girl,” she adds, softer now. “It’s ridiculous.” You don’t know what to say. Not at first. But your fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against her skin.
She exhales like it’s been sitting in her chest for hours. Like it’s relief and fear all tangled up together. She lifts a hand, hesitates, then brushes your hair back from your forehead—slowly, reverently, like she’s memorizing the shape of you.
Her thumb lingers at your temple. You don’t move. And neither does she. Not yet. Because she’s a widow almost sixty, and she’s too proud to beg—but god, she wants you to kiss her first. Just once. Just to see if the ache in her chest finally goes quiet when your mouth touches hers.
The coat’s over her shoulders now, perfume soft in the air between you—something musky and floral, expensive but warm. You’ve memorized it. You always do.
She smooths her hands down the lapels. You reach for the clasp. She lets you. “You’ve got meetings all morning,” you say quietly. “One with Mr. Gold about the rewrite. Then that radio interview at one-thirty.”
“I know,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t sound like she cares. She’s looking at you again. That long, level gaze she saves for private moments. The kind that makes your pulse skip, like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t be allowed to touch.
You straighten her collar. Fingertips brushing against the fine wool. Careful not to linger, though you want to. “You’ll need the Pearson script too,” you add, stepping back. “I slipped it into your bag.”
She nods once, slow. “Good girl.” Your stomach flips. You don’t let it show. She doesn’t always say things like that. But sometimes—sometimes—they slip. Soft and dangerous, dropped into the morning like they mean nothing.
And then she’s moving again. Brushing past you with the click of heels, reaching for her purse on the dresser. The click of her lighter. The flare of a cigarette caught between painted lips. She inhales once and exhales through her nose, steady.
Then she glances back. “You’re coming with me.” You blink. “To the studio?” She nods. “Of course.” It’s not usual. Not for a day like this. Not when you’d normally stay behind, tidying the house, organizing her desk, fielding calls from the side line. “But—”
“I want you there.” Simple. Direct. You hesitate for a second too long, and she tilts her head. Her voice lowers. “I don’t like being away from you.”
And—she means it. She’s already slipped back into Avis Amberg, Studio Executive, the woman who makes grown men piss themselves in meetings. But that line? That need? That’s yours. Only yours. The car ride is quiet at first.
The city rolls by in warm tones—sunlight glinting off metal signs, a streetcar bell in the distance. She sits beside you in the backseat, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, cigarette resting in the crook of her fingers.
You’re holding her planner open in your lap, reading over her schedule one more time before you get there. “Lunch with Eleanor Randolph moved to Thursday,” you say softly. “Do you want me to cancel the dinner with the Cassidys or just move that too?”
Avis doesn’t answer right away. You glance up. She’s looking at you again. That unreadable expression. “I don’t care about the Cassidys,” she murmurs. “They only want to be seen with me. I’d rather have dinner with someone I actually like.”
You nod. Make a note. Don’t think too hard about it. She takes a drag. Lets the smoke drift out the half-cracked window. “You never ask me who I like,” she says after a moment. You glance up again, startled. “Sorry?” Her smile twitches. Tight. “Nothing.”
You watch her for a second longer. The set of her mouth. The tension in her jaw. Then you look back down at the planner, pretending not to feel the heaviness in the air. A beat passes. Then: “I’ve never been much for men,” she says casually. “Never really had the stomach for them.”
You glance up again. Her eyes are forward now, fixed on the street outside. “Oh,” you say, slow. Another beat. She exhales. Flicks ash into the tray. “They always assumed I was just too particular. Too headstrong. But really, I just prefer women.”
You nod like you understand. Like you’re filing it under something neutral. “That makes sense,” you say. “Women are beautiful.” She turns to look at you. You smile at her. Sweet. Earnest. Unaware.
She wants to scream. Instead, she takes another drag. Lets her head fall back against the seat, eyes closing briefly. “You especially,” she says quietly. You don’t catch it. Not fully. Maybe you think she means your work. Or your sweetness. Or that way you always remember her spoon. But you don’t get it. And it’s killing her.
The studio is already humming by the time the car pulls up. You open her door like always. Take her purse. Straighten the sleeve of her coat when the breeze catches it. She murmurs a thank you you barely hear, already distracted. Already scanning the lot.
You don’t see the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. You don’t see the way she clenches her jaw when you step politely behind her again instead of at her side.
Inside, it’s chaos—producers shouting over secretaries, a radio tech dropping a box of cables, the smell of hot lights and greasepaint already thick in the air. But Avis barely registers it. She’s moving with purpose.
Straight to Ellen’s office. “Close the door,” she says sharply once they’re inside. Ellen blinks. “Is something wrong?” Avis tosses her coat over the back of the chair. Runs a hand through her hair, careful not to ruin it. She’s pacing. Not like her at all. Ellen raises an eyebrow. “Avis.”
“She doesn’t get it.” Ellen frowns. “Who—?”
“Her.”
Ellen doesn’t need clarification. Her gaze shifts to the frosted glass, toward the shadow of you sitting sweetly at the desk outside, thumbing through call sheets with your legs tucked like a little secretary from a dream.
Avis exhales hard. “I’ve all but drawn her a map. I’ve told her I don’t like men. I told her she’s beautiful. I’ve asked her to stay for dinner, I’ve bought her silk, I—god, Ellen, I let her zip up my dress this morning and she looked at me like I was asking for a glass of milk.”
Ellen presses her lips together, fighting a smirk. “She’s young.”
“She’s not stupid.”
“No,” Ellen agrees, sitting back. “But she’s never had anyone like you look at her like this before.” Avis narrows her eyes. “Like what?”
“Like you want to take her apart piece by piece and keep her in your jewelry box.” Avis doesn’t respond. Just sinks into the chair opposite Ellen and takes a long drag from her cigarette. The kind that burns all the way down.
Ellen waits. Then, softer: “You love her.” Avis doesn’t answer right away. But her voice is quieter when it comes. Fragile in a way Ellen rarely hears. “I feel like I’m sixteen again. I feel like she brushes my hair and I forget how to speak.” She laughs once, bitter. “It’s pathetic.” Ellen’s voice is gentler now. “It’s not.”
“It is. I’ve produced films, won awards, out-negotiated every man on this lot—and I’m losing my mind because a twenty-two-year-old secretary doesn’t understand I want to die with my face between her thighs.” That earns a sharp laugh from Ellen. “Jesus Christ, Avis.” Avis exhales through her nose. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of the lot humming beyond the walls. Then Ellen leans forward, folding her hands. “So make it clear. No more metaphors. No more poetry. Just say it.”
Avis blinks. Ellen nods toward the door. “Tell her. Or someone else will.” Avis’s jaw clenches. Because that’s the fear, isn’t it? That someone younger, simpler, bolder will see what she sees in you. That someone will kiss you in the copy room, take you to dinner, hold your hand in public. That you’ll let them. That she’ll never get the chance to try. And worse—that you’ll never know what you meant to her at all.
“So what do I say?” Avis snaps, standing behind Ellen’s desk like it’s a lectern and she’s about to deliver closing arguments at a murder trial.
Ellen’s already uncapped the pen. “You tell her the truth.” Avis shoots her a glare. “I don’t tell twenty-two-year-old girls I want to make them cum until they cry, Ellen.”
“Then start with something else.” Avis huffs. But she sits. The stationery is cream. Expensive. Personalized. Avis Amberg embossed at the top in gold. Of course.
She stares at the blank page. Then glances toward the window. You’re still out there. Sitting sweetly with your clipboard. Crossed ankles. Soft blouse tucked into your skirt like you don’t even know what you do to her.
Ellen leans back. “Want me to start it for you?” Avis lights another cigarette. “God, please.” Ellen clears her throat, mock-formal.
“Dearest—”
“No.”
“Sweetest—”
“Christ, no.”
“Alright.” A pause. Then dryly: “You absolute little idiot—”
“Ellen—”
They both laugh, too sharp and tired. Then Avis closes her eyes. Lets her voice drop. “Just… say something like…” Her fingers twitch. “I think of you every morning. And every night. I think of your voice when you say my name. I think of the way you touch me without knowing you’re touching me.”
Ellen scribbles. “And?” she prompts. Avis exhales. “And… I want to show you how I feel. But I don’t want to scare you.” She swallows. “I want you to want it too.” Ellen’s writing slows.
Then Avis leans forward, elbow on the desk, voice quieter now. “I dream about your mouth,” she says. “I dream about the way you’d taste after a bath. I think about kissing your thighs. I think about you on your knees with your hands on my hips like you’re starving for me.”
Silence. Ellen doesn’t look up. “Want me to write that, too?” Avis lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “God, no,” she murmurs. “I’m trying to seduce her, not give her a heart attack.”
A beat. Then: “…Put just the first part. About the bath.” Ellen lifts a brow. “Just that part?” Avis’s lips twitch. “It’s poetic.” Ellen shrugs, dutiful. Writes it down. Even underlines your mouth.
They sit for a moment longer. Smoke curling between them. Gold-lettered stationery nearly full now. Avis bites the inside of her cheek. Stares at the page. Then: “Do you think she’ll understand?”
Ellen doesn’t answer right away. Just folds the letter carefully. Slides it into an envelope. Seals it with one long press of her palm. “She’d be a fool not to.”
She holds the letter all morning. Keeps it tucked inside her leather-bound planner, then transfers it to her purse. Then back to the planner. Then into the pocket of her coat. She fingers the edge of it obsessively, like a nervous tic.
Ellen watches with raised brows and says nothing. She knows better. By noon, the lipstick on Avis’s coffee cup is smudged from how many times she’s reapplied it. She’s re-perfumed her neck twice. Fixed her hair in the mirror outside the soundstage even though no one’s filming her. Not today.
You’re sitting just outside her office, typing quietly. The click of keys. The soft rustle of your skirt every time you shift. Avis stands in the doorway and watches you for a full minute. Then turns on her heel and marches back inside. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “I can’t do it.” Ellen doesn’t even look up. “Mm.”
“I’ll ruin it. I’ll make it awkward. She’ll never look at me the same.”
“She already looks at you like you put the stars in the sky, Avis.” Avis glares. “You’re not helping.” Ellen sighs. Holds out her hand. “Give it to me.” Avis hesitates. “You’ll be gentle?” Ellen snorts. “What am I, a suitor?”
“You’re delivering a confession. I want her to take it seriously.” Ellen raises a brow. “You wrote about licking her thighs. I think she’ll take it very seriously.” Avis flushes—actual color rising to her cheeks.
“That part’s poetic,” she says, grabbing her purse and fishing out the envelope. “You said so yourself.” Ellen just hums. Tucks it under her clipboard. Smooths the paper like it’s fragile. Then nods toward the door. “You want me to slip it under her coffee or walk over with fanfare?” Avis scowls. “Just give it to her.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” She sits, hand over her eyes. “I wait for her to leave. I burn the house down. I move to France.” Ellen’s already halfway out the door. “I’ll let you know if you need a passport.”
She can’t sit. Her legs won’t let her. So she stands just to the side of the office door, body rigid, one hand braced against the wall for balance. The door’s cracked an inch. Just enough to see the outside desk. Just enough to see you.
You’re sitting in the golden spill of afternoon light. Fingers curled around a pencil. Soft curls pinned back with a silver clip she gave you last month—said it didn’t suit her, but the truth is, it looked better in your hair.
Ellen walks out like it’s nothing. Clipboard in one hand. Envelope in the other. She doesn’t say anything. Just sets the letter gently down on the desk beside your papers, gives you one look—steady, unreadable—and walks away.
You blink down at it. She watches as your fingers reach for it. Slow. Curious. Her initials glint in gold at the top. You pause. Frown. Then slip a finger under the flap and open it.
And Avis’s heart stops. She can’t see your eyes from here. Not fully. But she sees the change. The way your mouth softens. The way your fingers still.
You read slowly. Lips moving just slightly over the words. The long pause after the second paragraph—the one about the bath—makes her knees nearly buckle.
She can’t breathe. Not while you’re holding her in your hands like that. Not while her heart is sitting on your desk, trembling in twelve lines of linen stationery.
She thinks about closing the door. Walking away. Pretending she never sent it. But then—You read the last line. The one Ellen made her keep. The most honest one.
I don’t want to scare you. I only want you to know.
And you bring your fingers to your lips. Not in shock. In something else. Something she can’t name—but it burns. You fold the letter carefully. As if it’s precious. As if it means something.
And Avis—still frozen behind the door—presses her palm hard to her chest. She doesn’t cry. But god, she could.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It starts the next day. You come into her office with her tea and she’s already halfway out the other door. “Oh—sorry, I just—I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t come back. You see her at the lot entrance, talking to a sound engineer—until she spots you and suddenly remembers she has a phone call.
You wait by the car after lunch with her scarf over your arm, ready to wrap it around her shoulders like you always do. But she never shows.
By the third day, it’s undeniable. She’s avoiding you. Not subtly. Not gracefully. Not like Avis Amberg. But like a woman undone. A woman terrified of having said too much. A woman who hasn’t been vulnerable in decades and now doesn’t know how to look you in the eye without falling apart.
And the worst part is—she was doing fine.
Keeping it together. Living with the ache of wanting you and never having you. But writing it down? Watching you read it? That ruined her.
Because now the wanting has weight. Now she can’t pretend you don’t know. And in the quiet moments—alone in her dressing room, fingers trembling against the edge of her vanity—she thinks:
What the hell was I thinking?
I’m an old woman.I’m a widow.And she’s—young.Sweet.Beautiful.Soft where I’m sharp. Hopeful where I’m tired. And she’s never going to want me like that.
You’re so much younger. Lovely. Gentle. The kind of girl who offers to fix a button with a sewing kit in your purse. The kind of girl who makes people feel good about themselves just by walking in the room.
She’s fifty-eight. She’s exhausted. She’s got old scars she won’t let anyone see, stretch marks and half a mastectomy scar under her blouse, and grief clinging to her ribs like it never learned to let go.
She’s nothing like the girls you should be falling in love with. So now she hides. Because if she talks to you, she’ll apologize. And if she apologizes, she’ll lose even the ache. And she’s not ready to lose that. Not yet.
Ellen finds Avis alone in her dressing room. The lights are off. Just the dim flicker of afternoon bleeding in through the blinds, casting long shadows across the vanity. Avis is sitting stiff in her chair, cigarette burning low between two fingers, untouched coffee growing cold beside her.
Ellen doesn’t knock. “You’re a coward.” Avis doesn’t flinch. Just closes her eyes. “Hello, Ellen.”
“Don’t ‘hello’ me. I’m not in the mood.” Avis exhales. Takes a slow drag. “What now?” Ellen folds her arms. “She’s walking around like someone kicked her cat, and you’re skulking around like a spinster. All because you couldn’t stomach the idea that she might actually want you back.”
Avis stares straight ahead. At her reflection. At the tired corners of her mouth. The gray threaded through her roots. The way her blouse doesn’t button quite the way it used to.
“She shouldn’t want me back,” she says quietly. Ellen’s mouth tightens. “I’m old,” Avis goes on, voice low, almost clinical. “I’m a widow. I spend half my nights taking melatonin and the other half staring at the ceiling wondering when my hands started looking like my mother’s.”
She flicks ash into the tray. “She’s young. Soft. Lovely. She could have anyone.” Ellen walks over and grabs the cigarette out of her hand. “You’re full of shit.” Avis blinks.
“You’re not scared she won’t want you. You’re scared she does.” Ellen leans in, voice sharp and soft all at once. “You’re terrified of being seen by someone who actually matters. Who might look at you and see more than just the studio head or the widow or the woman with the sharp tongue.”
Avis doesn’t respond. Ellen lowers her voice. “But she read that letter, Avis. She touched it like it was holy. She smiled.” “She didn’t come to me.”
“She’s young. You think she knows what to do with a love letter from Avis Amberg? She probably spent three hours writing her reply and burned it in the sink.”
Avis lets out a soft, broken laugh. Covers her mouth. Ellen straightens. “So. Are you gonna fix it?” Avis stares at her reflection again. At the deep lines. The painted lips. The fear still simmering behind her eyes. She swallows. “I don’t know how.” Ellen’s voice gentles. “Go to her Avis.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The house is dark. Only the hall light glows faintly, a single bulb left burning in case you need to get up for something in the night. She told you once it was for her—just in case—but you never questioned it. You’re thoughtful like that.
And now she’s standing outside your door. Again. She doesn’t knock. She’s been here for nearly thirty minutes. Just… standing. Bare feet sinking into the rug. Arms crossed tight over her silk robe. One hand clutching the hem of her sleeve like it might keep her together.
She’s not sure what she wants. To apologize? To explain? To pretend none of it ever happened? No. That’s not true. She knows what she wants. She wants to see you. Wants to ask if you kept the letter. Wants to hear you say her name like you did before she went running scared. Wants—just once—to let herself feel the thing she wrote down in ink and perfume and fear.
But her throat’s tight. Her chest hurts. And every time she raises her hand to knock, it falls right back down again. What if she’s asleep? What if she’s awake? What if she opens the door and looks at me like I’m disgusting? Like I’ve overstepped? Like I’ve taken something gentle and ruined it?
She swallows. Looks at the wood grain. The little brass knob. She could open it. She could step inside, say your name, sit on the edge of your bed like she used to when you first moved in and were too nervous to sleep.
But that was before the letter. Before Ellen called her a coward. Before she realized just how badly she wants this. She exhales, silent. Lifts her hand. Hovers. Lowers it again. Her lips move. Almost your name. Almost a whisper. But nothing comes out.
She presses her palm to the doorframe. Lets her forehead rest against the cool wood. You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch at their own feelings. But god, she wants to try.
She stays there until her legs start to ache. Until her fingers go numb from holding her sleeves too tight. Until the silence around her feels like it’s mocking her—reminding her, gently and without mercy, that she’s not that girl anymore.
She’s not brave. Not beautiful in the way you deserve. Not someone you write poems about, not someone you fantasize about kissing in the dark. She’s tired. She’s older. She’s lived too many lives and loved too few people.
And she is terrified of ruining the one good, golden, sweet thing she has left. So she steps back. One slow, reluctant step. Then another. Turns away from your door without a sound. Walks barefoot back down the hallway—slow, silent, robe brushing her calves, eyes on the floor. Doesn’t look back.
Her bedroom feels cold when she opens the door. The sheets are smooth, the pillows untouched. It still smells faintly of her bathwater, the rose oil you added this morning. She slips beneath the covers and lays still, arms crossed over her stomach, staring up at the ceiling like it might answer for her cowardice.
The light stays off. She doesn't need to see the emptiness to feel it. She should’ve knocked. She should’ve told you. She should’ve done something. But she didn’t.
And now the silence is back. Heavy. Familiar. Safer than the unknown of your touch, but so much lonelier than she remembered. Her fingers drift to the hem of her sleeve. She presses her knuckles to her lips. Breathes deep. And lays there, in the dark, aching for you.
She can’t sleep.
She’s been lying in the dark for nearly an hour, staring at the ceiling like it might take the edge off. It doesn’t. Her robe’s twisted around her waist, one leg bare to the thigh, sweat cooling where it shouldn't be.
She rolls to her side. Then her back. Then buries her face in the pillow, breath hitching as she exhales slow and sharp. It’s no use. You’re in her head. Like always.
She tries not to imagine it—your fingers on her wrist, your voice in the dark, that look on your face when you read her letter and didn’t run. But it clings to her. Twines around her ribs. Gathers low in her belly until she’s aching for it.
Her nipples ache under the silk, painfully tight. Her thighs won’t stay still. She presses them together again. It helps. A little.
She swallows. Closes her eyes. Lets her hand drift down slowly—over the curve of her stomach, the soft flesh there, the line of her hip. Her fingers slip between her thighs, trembling. She’s soaked already. Of course she is. She always is, when it’s you.
She strokes herself gently, dragging her middle finger through the slick heat. Circling her clit once. Twice. Her breath catches. She bites her lip and thinks of your mouth.
The way your lips move when you’re nervous. The way your voice gets quiet when you say her name. The way you look at her when you think she’s not watching—soft, open, curious.
She fucks herself slowly. Just two fingers, shallow, enough to push the tension higher. Enough to imagine it’s your hand instead.
Your fingers. Careful. Eager. A little clumsy, maybe, but willing. Sweet. So fucking sweet. She spreads her legs wider. Presses her palm to her clit. Gasps once, quietly.
You’d be so gentle with her. You’d kiss her chest, her stomach, the insides of her thighs.
You’d ask if this feels good. You’d whimper when she praised you. You’d want to be taught.
That thought nearly breaks her. Her pace quickens. She can’t help it. Slick sounds filling the dark, soft and obscene. She arches off the bed, muscles trembling.
Thinks about guiding your head between her legs. Holding your mouth against her cunt. Letting you learn by feel, by instinct. Letting you make a mess of her. “Fuck,” she whispers, barely a sound.
Her orgasm hits hard—shallow and fast and frustrating. It leaves her panting, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing around nothing.
But it’s not enough. It never is. Not without you. She lays there after, hand still between her legs, wrist damp, breath coming slow and jagged. The silk robe’s twisted tight around her waist, wet now where it clings to her.
And all she can think is how you’re just down the hall. You have no idea what you’re doing to her. And if she doesn't find a way to tell you soon—really tell you—she’s going to die like this. Wanting you.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You knock gently, like always. She doesn’t answer. “Miss Amberg?” you murmur, easing the door open with one hand.
It’s quiet inside. Dim. The curtains are still drawn, and the air smells faintly of her perfume, warm and powdered from the night before. You take one step in. Then another.
And stop.
She’s there—splayed across the top of the covers, naked. Completely. The silk robe is tangled beneath her, useless. Her skin bare in the morning light, legs parted, one soft thigh bent over the other like she moved in her sleep. Her red hair is loose, wild across the pillow and spilling down her shoulder. Her lips parted. Eyes closed.
You freeze. Staring. You’ve never seen her like this. You’ve seen her undressed, yes—pulling stockings up in the dressing room, slipping into a bath, letting you zip the back of her evening gown—but never like this. Never ruined. Never flushed and open and tangled in her sheets like a woman who’d been dreaming hard.
Your breath stutters. You take a careful step forward. Half to make sure she’s alright. Half because you can’t help yourself. There’s a sheen between her thighs. Faint. Lingering.
Her nipples are still hard. One hand rests just above her hip, the other curled loosely near her stomach, like she hadn’t quite finished what she started.
Your cheeks burn. Your stomach twists. You swallow, hard. "Miss Amberg…?" Her eyes flutter open. She sees you. Blinks once. Then again. And freezes. A second passes. Then two. Then she bolts upright, dragging the silk robe over herself in a panic, breathing too fast, too sharp. Her face is red. Her hands shake.
“Jesus Christ—” she breathes. “I—I thought I locked the door.” You turn away instantly, heart racing. “I—I’m sorry—! I didn’t mean—” She pulls the robe tighter. Says nothing. You stand frozen, one hand still on the doorknob, staring hard at the floor. “I just—I came to wake you. Like usual. I didn’t know—”
“I know,” she says quietly. Silence. You risk a glance back. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, robe clutched to her chest, red hair falling in her eyes. She looks wrecked. Embarrassed. Furious with herself. But not with you. Never with you.
You swallow again. “Do you want me to go?” She looks at you for a long time. Then, quietly: “No.”
She pulls the robe around herself carefully, fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. She rises to her feet, slow, bare legs brushing the hem of the fabric. Her hair is still a mess—red curls falling over her face, wild from sleep—but she doesn’t try to fix it.
She just looks at you. Quiet. Assessing. Trying to be brave. Her voice is low when she speaks. “You saw me.” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t.” A beat. Her eyes travel over your face. Not hungrily, not yet—but like she’s learning you. Weighing something in her chest. She takes a step closer. “You read my letter,” she says. You nod. She takes another step. “And you didn’t run.” You shake your head. “No.”
Something shifts behind her eyes. Not relief. Not yet. But something dangerous. She lets the robe slip from one shoulder. Just slightly. Just enough. “You liked it,” she says, and it’s not quite a question. You open your mouth. Close it. Then, quietly: “Yes.”
She exhales. Steps closer. Close enough now that you can smell the sleep-warm perfume still clinging to her collarbone. Close enough that if you reached out, you could touch her wrist.
“I’ve tried to be patient,” she says, voice soft and even. “I’ve tried to be… decent.” You look up at her. She’s watching you like she might fall apart. Or catch fire. “I want you,” she says. Simple. Honest. Not a performance. Just truth.
“I want you in my bed. I want your mouth on me. I want to wake up with your face on my pillow and your hands on my chest. I want to see what you’d do to me if I let you try.”
Your breath catches. She sees it. She takes your hand. Brings it to her waist. Presses it to bare skin just above the tie of her robe. “You can still say no,” she whispers. “But if you say yes—” She leans in. Her mouth brushes your ear. “—I’ll let you take my robe off.”
She pulls away first. Just a step. Just enough to break the spell. You hadn’t said no. You hadn’t said anything. You just stood there, quiet, breath shallow, hand still warm where it had touched her waist.
And that silence—it’s too much. Too gentle. Too uncertain. Too kind. She can’t stand it. Her robe slips back over her shoulder as she steps away. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… quiet. Controlled. As if she can still salvage this somehow, if she can just get herself back behind her walls fast enough.
“Forget I said anything,” she says. You blink. “What?” Her back is to you now. She reaches for her cigarette case on the vanity. Her hands shake. “I overstepped.” The words come out brittle. Measured. “It was late. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“But—”
“You should go.”
You take a step forward. “Avis—”
“I said go.” It’s sharp. The edge in her voice is thin, not cruel—but it cuts all the same. You hesitate. Then nod, small, and step out into the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind you.
And just like that—she’s alone again. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, robe clutched tight across her chest, hair falling in her face. She wanted to be bold. To seduce. To finally reach for the thing she’s been starving for. Instead, she’s humiliated.
You looked at her like she was something fragile. Not something you wanted. Not something to devour. Just… soft. Sad. A woman past her prime fumbling in the dark.
She lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. Takes a long drag. Then buries her face in her hands. “Goddamn it.”
Within the hour the entire house feels different. The warmth is gone. The roses on the table have been thrown out. The linen napkins folded too sharply. She doesn’t look at you when you bring her breakfast—just flips through the paper, eyes hard, lips tight. She doesn’t thank you. She doesn’t speak at all.
Ellen notices it first at the studio. “Jesus,” she mutters after one of the producers leaves her office looking pale, “Who pissed in your tea?” Avis doesn’t answer. She’s already lighting another cigarette, jaw clenched tight. Her fingers are trembling, and she’s furious about that, too.
Because she asked for something. She opened her robe—opened her heart—and she wasn’t met with passion or want or even refusal. Just… silence.
And now you’re still here. Still kind. Still doing her laundry, brushing her hair, folding her silk like you didn’t see her completely undone.
She can't take it. So by the time you come into her office that afternoon with your clipboard in hand and that soft little smile, she doesn’t even let you speak. “You’re dismissed,” she says. You blink. “I—sorry?”
“You’re fired.” The word lands like a slap. You stand there, stunned. Hurt flickering across your face before you catch it and bury it. But she sees it. God, she sees it. She looks away.
“I’ll have your final payment sent to the house,” she says, voice flat. “You can collect your things this evening. I want you gone before dinner.”
You open your mouth. Then close it again. She won’t meet your eyes. And you—your throat tight, your hands trembling just slightly—you leave. Because what else can you do? Behind the closed door, Avis drops her cigarette into the tray with a sharp hiss. She doesn’t cry. But she wants to. God, she wants to.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there. The back side of Soundstage Four is always in shadow. Cool concrete. The hum of distant lights. A dented metal staircase no one uses unless they’re sneaking cigarettes or crying where no one’s supposed to see.
Your suitcase is beside you. Half-zipped. Your shoes are scuffed from the walk. You thought—maybe—she’d change her mind.
Maybe she’d say it was a mistake. That she didn’t mean it. But she didn’t come. And now you’re here. With nowhere else to go.
You wrap your arms around your knees and press your face down into your sleeves. Try not to make a sound. That’s how Ellen finds you.
There’s a moment before she says anything. Just the click of her heels on the stairs. Then silence. Then her voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Sweetheart.” You don’t look up. But she crouches anyway. And she waits.
When you finally lift your head, your eyes are wet, your nose pink, and you hate how young you must look. How pitiful. But she doesn’t flinch. She just sighs. Then gently: “She fired you.”
You nod. “She didn’t mean it,” Ellen adds. “But she did it anyway. Because she’s a fucking idiot.” Your lip trembles. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“But I—I must have. She looked at me like she hated me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Ellen says. “She hates herself.”
You sniff. “That’s not helpful.”
“No. But it’s true.” She rises to her feet. Smooths her skirt. “You’re coming with me.” You blink. “What?”
“I need an assistant,” she says, like it’s already decided. “You’re good. Organized. Discreet. You’ll do fine.” You just stare at her. “And I’ve got a little house up in the hills,” she adds, more gently. “Guest room’s yours. I make my own coffee but you can file my memos and tell me when I’ve double-booked lunch. Fair deal?”
Your voice is hoarse. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she says. Then, gently: “But I want to.” And something in your chest cracks. Because no one’s ever said that to you like that before. Not until now.
By the next morning, Avis is debating murder. She slams the door to her office so hard the glass rattles. The production assistant outside flinches. Someone drops a tray. Avis doesn’t care.
She throws her gloves on the desk, rips her sunglasses off, and marches straight to the cabinet to pour herself a scotch—even though it’s ten in the morning. Her lipstick’s too perfect, her blouse too crisp, and her hands are shaking. Again.
“Fucking Ellen,” she mutters, downing the first half of the glass. She was supposed to be done with this. She was supposed to suffer alone, privately, like a civilized adult. Not be reminded of you every time she walked into her own goddamn studio.
And yet—there you are. Every day. Smiling at Ellen. Fixing Ellen’s coffee. Calling her Ms. Kincaid in that same sweet voice that used to say Miss Amberg like it meant something.
And now Ellen’s the one you run after in your little heels. She drops into her chair, breathing hard. “I haven’t been this mad since Ace knocked me up,” she mutters, lighting a cigarette with more force than necessary. “And at least he had the decency to apologize after.”
She doesn’t even like thinking about him. Ace. The dumbass with the car and the smile and the cowardice it took to marry her and disappear the second she got difficult.
She remembers the day they signed the license. White gloves. Fake pearls. Her mother crying in the car. She remembers thinking: this is what happens when you’re not careful with your heart.
And now here she is again. Alone. Bitter. Furious. Because she let herself want you. She let herself reach. And then she punished you when you didn’t reach back fast enough. And now—goddamn it—you’re happier with Ellen.
“Of course she took her,” Avis snaps to no one. “Of course. She’s always been better at keeping things.” The phone rings. She doesn’t answer it. She just sits there, furious and half-drunk, glaring at the door like if you walk past again, she might shatter.
By noon, she’s drunk. Not tipsy. Not flushed. Drunk. Her lipstick’s smeared from the rim of the glass. Her blouse is half untucked where she’d slouched in her chair too long. One of her earrings is missing. Her voice is raw from chain-smoking, and there’s a tremble in her hand every time she pours another two fingers of scotch. She hasn’t touched her lunch.
The studio keeps knocking. Her secretary keeps apologizing for canceling meetings she never intended to attend. Because all Avis can think about—all she’s been thinking about—is you. The sight of you curled up on Ellen’s office couch this morning, flipping through memos like you belong to her. The way you smiled when Ellen said something dry and clever. The soft sound of your laugh.
She’d thrown you out like trash. And now Ellen’s scooped you up like treasure. And she can’t fucking stand it. So by the time she stumbles out of her office, heels loud on the marble, she’s made up her mind. She’s going to find you. And this time, she’s going to make you understand.
Ellen’s not in her office when Avis stumbles in. But you are. You look up from the desk, startled. “Miss Amberg—”
“Where’s Ellen?” she asks, voice low and frayed. You rise from your seat. “She’s at lunch. I can leave if—”
“No,” she says, too fast. You pause. She closes the door behind her. Firmly. Then turns to look at you. There’s something unsteady in her gaze—something sharp and ruined and burning. Her lipstick’s smudged at the corner. Her blouse is wrinkled at the waist. Her pearls are slightly askew.
You’ve never seen her like this. Not even the morning she woke tangled in her sheets, skin flushed and hair undone. “Are you alright?” you ask softly.
“No,” she says. She steps closer. One hand braced on the desk. The other slipping her purse off her shoulder like it suddenly weighs too much. “I made a mistake,” she says. “Firing you. Letting you go. All of it.”
You’re too stunned to speak. “I couldn’t take it,” she murmurs. “Wanting you. Needing you. Watching you look at me like I was something fragile.” You blink. “Avis—”
“I’m not fragile,” she says. “I’m in love with you.” Silence. She closes the distance. “And I’m going to seduce you now,” she says quietly, almost matter-of-fact, like it’s her only option left. “Unless you tell me to stop.” She lifts her hand to your face. Trembling. “Please don’t tell me to stop.”
You’re frozen. Her hand is on your cheek, soft but shaking. Her perfume is thick in the air—roses and smoke and something sour underneath. You can smell the scotch on her breath.
She’s looking at you like you’re oxygen. Like if you don’t kiss her, she might stop breathing. But you don’t move. Not yet. And that’s when it shifts. Her expression twitches—just slightly. Just enough. And then she laughs. Short. Sharp. Bitter. “Of course,” she says, voice suddenly cold. “Of course you don’t want me.”
You blink. “Avis—” She pulls away. “You never did. You just liked the attention. The fantasy of it. Letting the old woman fall in love with you while you played house in her kitchen and fluttered around the studio like a little dove.”
Her voice rises with every word. She’s swaying slightly. Her eyes are glassy. Her hands clench at her sides. “I wrote you a goddamn love letter,” she snaps. “Do you know how pathetic that is? I haven’t written one of those since I was seventeen and drunk on gin in a theater in Pasadena.” You step toward her. “I did want it. I just—”
“No, don’t lie now.” She laughs again, louder this time, one hand dragging down her face. “You looked at me like I was your fucking grandmother.” You flinch. “That’s not fair.” She throws her purse onto the chair like she wants it to break. “None of it’s fair. You think I wanted to want you? Think I planned this? You ruined me.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
She sinks down into the chair. Burying her face in one hand, the other pressed over her mouth like she’s trying to shove the sobs back inside before they reach the surface. But one slips through. And then another. And then she’s crying. Openly. Sloppily. Shoulders shaking, mouth open, robe slipping from her shoulder like she doesn’t even notice. She looks ten years older and impossibly young all at once.
She doesn’t look like herself. She’s curled in Ellen’s chair, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched like she’s trying to disappear into her own skin. Her hand’s still covering her mouth, but the crying’s already past hiding. It’s real now. Gut-deep, gasping, awful.
You’re just standing there. Frozen. You’ve never seen her like this. Not when she was tired. Not when she was angry. Not even that morning in her bed, naked under the covers, heartbreak clinging to her skin like sweat. This is something else. This is raw.
You take a step forward. Then stop. You don’t know what to say. You’ve never dealt with someone like her in this state. Someone who usually holds the world in her palm and now can’t even hold herself upright. You didn’t know she could break like this. You didn’t know someone like Avis Amberg could cry like a girl.
She mutters something under her breath. You don’t catch it. It sounds like fuck or I’m sorry or don’t look at me. Maybe all three. Her lipstick’s smeared. Her hair’s coming loose from the pins. One pearl’s fallen onto the floor and rolled beneath the desk.
You open your mouth. Close it. “Do you…” you try, voice small, hoarse, “do you want me to get Ellen?” She flinches. Then shakes her head. Just once. You take another step closer. Careful. Slow. Like approaching a wounded animal. Like she might snap her teeth at you if you reach too quickly. “I don’t know what to do,” you say quietly.
Her breath hitches. “I know,” she whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.” You swallow. Then—soft, cautious—you crouch beside the chair. Not touching her. Just there. “I’m not leaving,” you say. A long silence. Then: “Why not?” Her voice is ruined. “Everyone else does.” You don’t have an answer. You just stay there.
“I don’t know what you ever saw in me,” she mutters. You look up, startled. She’s staring down at her hands—trembling, pale, the rings on her fingers catching the light. Her voice is thick. Slurred around the edges, but the words are clear.
“I’m old,” she says. “I’m tired. I’m mean, and I drink too much, and I haven’t liked my body since 1934.” You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Her lip curls. A bitter smile. “And I’m a Jew. Did you know that?” She laughs, low and sharp. “Not that anyone ever lets me forget.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t,” she cuts in. “You’re young. You didn’t grow up hearing the way they said my name in this town. Amberg. Like it was dirty. Like it was some goddamn smear they had to scrub off the studio lot.” Her voice cracks.
She leans back in the chair, eyes wet, lashes clumped together from crying. “They used to call me the kike with the good tits behind my back,” she says softly. “Ace used to laugh about it. Said at least they weren’t calling me ugly.”
You stare at her. She exhales. Long. Shaking. “I was a joke,” she whispers. “A walking contradiction. Too sharp, too loud, too Jewish, too old. And now look at me.” She gestures to herself. Wrinkled silk. Smudged lipstick. Pearls askew. “I’m disgusting.”
You don’t think. You just speak. “You’re not.” She looks at you then. Really looks. And something in her face breaks open. She doesn’t say anything else after that. Just “Take me home.”
So you nod. Quietly. And you help her up—one hand beneath her elbow, the other steady at her waist. She leans into you more than she means to. She’s warm and unsteady, breath thick with scotch and something softer underneath.
The hallway’s quiet as you lead her out. The lot mostly empty. Her Cadillac’s already waiting in the sun, paint gleaming, driver standing patiently by the door like he hasn’t heard a word of the gossip yet.
You open the back door and help her in. She sinks into the leather with a sigh, one hand to her temple like the light’s too much. Her blouse is still undone at the collar. Her hair’s falling from its pins.
You reach for the door. “Miss Amberg,” you say gently. “You’ll be alright. I’ll call Ellen, let her—” Her hand snaps out. Grabs your wrist. You freeze. Her fingers are soft, but the grip is sure. She looks up at you, eyes glassy, dark with something deeper than just drink. “Don’t shut the door.” You blink. “I—” And then she pulls.
It’s not graceful. You stumble forward, catch yourself on the edge of the seat. Her hand slides up your arm as you fall into the car, the door swinging shut behind you with a solid click. The driver doesn’t say a word.
Now you’re inside. In the backseat of her Cadillac. The windows tinted. Her thigh against yours. Her lipstick faded to a smear of red at the corner of her mouth. She leans in. Close enough that her breath warms your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The car hums beneath you. The city slides past in gold light and shadows.
You’re still half folded into the seat, her hand warm on your wrist, her body close—too close. Her thigh pressed against yours, her breath sticky with scotch and want. You haven’t moved. Haven’t breathed, not really.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she says again. Lower this time. More like confession than command.
You look at her. You should say something. Something rational. Something steady. But she’s looking at your mouth now. Her thumb lifts, swipes just under your lip like she’s checking for a bruise. “You always look so pretty when you’re nervous,” she murmurs. “Like you want to be touched but don’t know where to start.”
Your stomach twists. “Avis—” She cuts you off. “Come here, sweetheart.” Your breath catches. “I—” Her hand slides to your cheek. Her palm is warm. Her fingertips tremble just slightly where they press against your skin.
“Baby,” she whispers. “Come on. Let me kiss you.” And god, when she says baby like that—like it’s not the first time she’s thought it, just the first time she let it slip—you lose something in yourself.
She leans in before you can answer. And you let her. Her mouth finds yours like she’s starved for it—soft at first, then fuller, more insistent. Her lips taste like scotch and smeared lipstick and the salt of old tears. Her hands find your waist, your jaw, your thigh. She kisses like a woman trying to burn the memory into her mouth. Like she’s terrified you’ll pull away.
But you don’t. You kiss her back. Tentative. Breathless. Scared. But hungry. She hums into it. A low, broken sound. Her nails skim your hip. “There’s my good girl,” she murmurs against your lips. You whimper. “Oh, you like that,” she breathes. “Of course you do.”
Her mouth moves to your neck. Your jaw. Her breath hot and desperate. “You’re such a sweet thing. Always doing what you’re told. Always looking at me like you want something you’re too shy to ask for.” Your eyes flutter shut. Your fingers curl into her blouse.
Her mouth is still on yours when her hands start wandering—not careful anymore, not teasing. Just hungry. She drags you closer by the hips, practically hauling you into her lap, her breath hot and frantic against your cheek.
“God—sweetheart—” she whispers, voice wrecked. “I need you. I need to taste you.” Your breath catches. “Avis—”
“No.” She cuts you off, kissing you again, harder this time, her lipstick smearing against your mouth, your chin. “Don’t tell me no. Not now. Not when you kissed me back.” Her hands slide down your thighs, squeezing, urging them apart. She’s shaking. She’s desperate. She’s not thinking with anything but want.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” she murmurs, nose brushing your jaw. “About having you under me… over me… anywhere I can get my mouth on that pretty cunt.” You gasp. She hears it. Smiles, slow and feral. “Oh you like that,” she breathes. “You like hearing me say it.”
She shifts suddenly, pushing gently at your hips like she’s guiding you back against the leather seat. It’s clumsy, drunk, all raw instinct—but the intent is clear. She wants to get lower. Wants her head between your thighs.
“Avis— wait—” She ignores the warning. She’s already sliding down the seat, one hand gripping your knee, thumb stroking the inside like she’s coaxing you open.
“Let me,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Baby, let me taste you. Just once. I swear to God I’ll be good to you—” She tries to sink to the floor of the car, tries to kneel between your legs. And that’s when you catch her.
You grab her face—gently, but firm—holding her cheeks between your palms because she’s about to fall apart on the carpet of her own Cadillac. She freezes. Her breath is hitching. Her lipstick smeared. Her pupils blown wide with heat and alcohol and heartbreak.
“Not like this,” you whisper. For a second she just stares at you—confused, raw, wounded. Then her expression cracks straight down the center. Her voice comes out small. “Please…” Your thumb brushes her cheekbone. “You’re drunk.”
“I don’t care,” she murmurs. “I want you.”
“And I want you,” you whisper back, steady, soft. “But not like this.” She lets out a soft, frustrated sound—half cry, half growl—and collapses forward, forehead pressing into your stomach, hands gripping your waist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.
“Sweet girl…” she breathes against the fabric of your skirt, voice trembling. “I’m so stupid for you. I would do anything if you asked. Anything.” You thread your fingers through her beautiful red hair—messy, soft, falling out of its pins—and she shudders under the touch.
She still wants you. she wants you so badly she’s shaking with it. But she can’t have you tonight. Not like this. Not while she’s coming undone in your lap. “Avis,” you whisper, stroking her hair. “Look at me.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes are wet. Her lipstick smeared. Her cheeks flushed. She looks wrecked. And beautiful. And heartbreakingly vulnerable. You cup her face again. “I’m not leaving you,” you say. “But I’m not letting you do something you’ll regret.”
Her throat works. She swallows. “I wouldn’t regret you,” she whispers. “Never you.” Your chest tightens. “I know,” you say softly. “That’s why we’re stopping.” She leans into your touch like she’s starving for it. And for the first time all night, she goes still.
She goes quiet so suddenly that, for a moment, you think she’s collecting herself.
Breathing. Trying to steady the tremor in her hands. Trying not to cry again. But her weight shifts—heavy, slack—and her head sinks a little further into your stomach, her cheek pressing into the soft fabric of your skirt. Her fingers loosen on your waist. The tension in her shoulders melts.
“Avis…?” you whisper, brushing her hair back from her forehead. Nothing. No muttered plea. No drunken protest. Not even a shaky breath through her teeth. You run your fingers through her hair again, softer this time. “Avis?” Still nothing.
That’s when you realize—She’s asleep. Not peacefully. Not prettily. But out. Completely exhausted, tear-stained, drunk out of her mind, passed out in your lap in the backseat of her Cadillac. Her breath is warm against your stomach. Slow. Heavy. Her mouth is slightly open. A smudge of red lipstick marks your blouse. Her hand is still curled loosely at your hip like she fell asleep mid-reaching for you.
You sit there for a long moment, stunned. This woman—this powerful, terrifying, impossibly composed woman—has unravelled into you like you’re the only safe place she had left to fall. You swallow, easing a hand under her cheek to keep her from sliding further down the seat. Her hair fans across your thigh, soft and warm. She doesn’t stir.
You glance toward the driver. He’s facing forward, stoic, pretending he hears nothing, sees nothing. Years of Amberg House service trained into silence. Quietly, you whisper: “She’s asleep.” He nods once. “Yes, miss.”
You keep stroking her hair. Slowly. Gently. Not because she asked. Because she’s vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen her.
Because she trusted you enough to break.
Because you love her—you do, even if you don’t know how to say it.
Her lips brush your stomach as she exhales. And something deep in your chest aches. The Cadillac hums down the road, the city lights flickering across her sleeping face. Her mascara is smudged. Her hair undone. Her breath warm and steady.
You whisper her name again. Not to wake her. Just because you want to say it softly. “Avis…” She doesn't move. And you sit there—her girl, her comfort, her heartbreak—holding her until the car pulls up to the house.
The Cadillac rolls to a stop in front of the house. You shift gently beneath her, murmuring her name, trying to coax her upright. “Avis… we’re home.” She makes a soft sound. Something like a sigh. Something like don’t make me go.
When you try to ease her off your lap, she slumps sideways, arm flopping uselessly over the seat. The driver opens the door, waiting for instructions, but you already know—She’s not going to get out on her own.
You slip an arm around her back. “Avis, come on… I need you to help me just a little.” Nothing. Her body is warm and heavy and limp, head lolling against your shoulder. She smells like scotch and perfume and lipstick and the faint sweetness of your blouse where her mouth had been pressed.
You try again. “Avis… please—just sit up.” She mumbles something you can’t understand. Her hand twitches at your waist, like she’s reaching for you even in sleep. And that’s when you know: She’s not walking. You’re doing this yourself.
The driver steps back to give you space as you brace your feet on the ground and begin to haul her upright. Her weight collapses into you immediately—soft, hot, uncoordinated. Her cheek lands against your shoulder. Her hair tickles your throat.
“Okay,” you whisper breathlessly. “Okay, I’ve got you.” It’s not elegant. You half-lift, half-drag her out of the car, one arm slung over your shoulder, your hand gripping her waist, her legs stumbling uselessly beneath her. She leans her entire body into yours, head tucked against your neck like she belongs there.
The driver closes the door behind you. You tug her forward step by step across the gravel path. Her heel catches, and you catch her before she goes down completely. She lets out a groggy, frustrated whine. “Avis, please—just try to stand.”
She doesn’t. She just buries her face into your shoulder and breathes you in like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world. Your heart squeezes painfully. You adjust your grip, one hand gripping the back of her thighs, and essentially haul her the last several feet up the stairs.
By the time you reach the front door, you’re panting softly, your clothes twisted, your hair falling out of its clip. “Avis,” you murmur, pushing the door open with your hip. “You’re supposed to be helping.”
“I am helping,” she slurs into your neck. “M’letting you… take care of me.” Your breath catches. Her weight shifts again, nearly taking you both down, and you stumble with her across the threshold into the dim foyer. “Jesus—Avis—” But she just clings tighter, arms looping around your shoulders now, her whole body pressed to yours. “Don’t… let go,” she whispers, barely awake. You hold her even tighter. “I won’t.” And you drag her—slowly, clumsily, lovingly—into the house.
You’d barely gotten her through the front door before she started to sag again. You’d tried to reason with her. “Avis, please. We just need to get up the stairs.” Nothing. You adjusted your grip under her arm. Her shoulder slipped. Her weight dragged down into your side like dead heat. “Avis,” you groaned, “you have to help me, I can’t carry you.” Still nothing.
Her cheek was pressed against your collarbone, breath slow and shallow. She smelled like sweat and perfume and the ghost of her old soap, and her body—elegant, always upright and proud—had gone completely limp. Like she’d finally given up. Like the fight was over and you were the only thing left keeping her upright.
You made it to the base of the stairs. Braced her against the wall. Took a breath. “Alright. One step. Just try one—” You lifted her foot. She sagged harder. Her heel slipped. Your back wrenched. You almost fell backwards into the banister. That was it.
You exhaled, lips tight, hair sticking to your neck from the heat. “I love you,” you whispered to her barely-conscious body, “but you are absolutely impossible.” And you turned. Half-dragged, half-carried her to the living room. The couch was already there. Safe. Soft. Level. Close.
You lowered her down onto it one inch at a time, palms splayed to keep her from sliding, your knee braced against the side to catch her. She let out a low, unintelligible sigh when her head hit the cushion.
You pushed her hair back from her face. Her lipstick had faded entirely now, leaving just a faint pink smudge at the corner of her mouth. Her blouse had twisted under her arm. One stocking was starting to slip.
You sat beside her for a minute. Breathing. Watching her chest rise and fall. She looked peaceful like this. Or at least like she wasn’t trying so hard to pretend. You rose, slowly. Got a blanket from the hall closet. A glass of water. One of the silk pillows from the upstairs guest bed she never used.
You knelt beside her again. Laid the blanket over her legs. Tucked the pillow under her head. You didn’t expect her to speak. You thought she was fully out. But just as you turned to go, her hand brushed your wrist. “…stay,” she slurred, barely audible.
You looked back. Her eyes were still shut. Her voice was a whisper. But her fingers curled, just slightly, around your sleeve. “…please.” You hesitated. Then nodded. You pulled your shoes off. Lowered yourself to the floor beside the couch. Sat with your back against it, her hand still barely hooked through the edge of your shirt. You whispered, “I’m here.” And when she didn’t answer, you let the silence stretch.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You wake to the sound of her breath. Not loud. Not ragged. Just there—warm and measured, close. Your neck is stiff. Your back aches. The floor beneath you is unforgiving, even with the blanket you’d half-curled into sometime around 3 a.m.
You shift slightly. That’s when you feel it—Her gaze. You blink awake. And there she is. Avis, standing over you, barefoot, wrapped in her robe. Her hair is pinned up again—loosely this time, one strand falling at her temple. Her lipstick’s fresh. Her posture straighter than it has any right to be after a night like the one she had.
She’s holding a cigarette she hasn’t lit. And she’s watching you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then her voice breaks the silence. “You stayed.” You nod, slow. “You asked me to.” Her eyes flicker. She looks down at you for another long moment. Then: “I remember everything.” Your pulse stutters.
She steps around the couch. Lowers herself into it. Not sprawled this time. Composed. Poised. Bare knees just visible beneath the robe, the curve of her collarbone peeking through the low fold of silk.
She rests her cigarette on the ashtray. And then she looks at you again—really looks. “You still want me.” Your throat goes dry. “Avis—”
“Don’t lie,” she says. Not harsh. Just quiet. Certain. You look at her. And there’s no laughter in her eyes now. No drunken slur. No sharp edge of panic. Just that same low, slow burn that’s been simmering for weeks.
She leans forward. One hand reaches down—curls gently around your wrist. Her thumb brushes the inside of it. “I’m not drunk anymore,” she says. “I know what I’m asking.” Your breath catches.
“I want to take you upstairs,” she murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “I want to undress you slowly. I want you to let me touch you, and kiss you, and make you come with my mouth until you forget every goddamn thing that’s ever made you afraid of me.”
You can barely breathe. “And if you say no,” she adds, softer now, “I’ll get up. I’ll make us tea. I’ll pretend this never happened.” A pause. “But if you say yes…” She leans down. Presses her forehead gently to yours. “…I’ll show you what it means to be wanted by someone who knows how to want.”
“Yes.” You don’t realize you’ve said it until you hear your own voice—quiet, steady, a little breathless. Avis goes still.nCompletely still.nLike she’s afraid the moment will shatter if she moves too quickly.
Then something breaks across her face—relief, hunger, disbelief, all tangled together—and she exhales a shaky groan that sounds like she’s been holding her breath for a week. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “You shouldn’t have said that unless you meant it.”
“I meant it.” You swear you see her knees weaken. She stands so fast the robe slips open a little at her thigh. Her hand closes around your wrist before you can think, warm and insistent. “Up,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked and full of heat. “Come upstairs with me. Right now.”
You rise. She pulls you with her so fast you nearly stumble, and then—She’s dragging you. Not roughly. Not carelessly.
Just desperate. One hand locked around yours, the other braced on the banister as she practically hauls you up the first few steps, her breath shaky, her hair coming loose, her robe slipping off one shoulder.
“Avis—” you gasp, trying to keep up. She looks back at you with eyes that are almost fever-bright. “I’ve been waiting weeks, darling,” she says. “You have no idea—no idea—what you’ve done to me.”
She takes the next step too fast in her excitement and you catch her elbow, steadying her. She lets out a shaky laugh, presses a quick, hot kiss to your jaw, and then keeps pulling you upward.
Her body is trembling. Not with fear. With want. By the time you both reach the landing, she’s panting, robe half-open, cheeks flushed deep red. She pushes you gently against the wall, just for a moment, just long enough to cradle your face with both hands.
She looks at you like she’s memorizing you. “Say it again,” she whispers. “Say you want me.” You swallow. Your voice shakes. “I want you.” She shudders—an actual shudder—her forehead dropping to yours as a soft, broken sound escapes her. “Good girl.” Your breath stumbles.
She grabs your hips and nudges you toward the bedroom door, barely able to contain herself. “We’re not stopping,” she murmurs, half laughing, half breathless as she pushes the door open with her shoulder. “Not this time. I’m not letting you run from me again.”
“I’m not running,” you whisper back. Her eyes go dark. “Then get in my bed.” She barely gets the door shut behind you before something in her finally snaps. Not in anger. In relief.
She turns, eyes wide, breath shaking, and for a second she just stares at you like she can’t believe you’re real. Like she’s spent months imagining this and now she’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Then she moves. “Avis—” She doesn’t let you finish. Her fingers hook into the tie of her robe, and with one sharp pull she tears it open and lets it fall to the floor in a pool of silk. You gasp.
She’s not wearing anything underneath except a thin champagne-colored slip—already sliding off her shoulder from the force of her movements. Her nipples are hard under the fabric, the outline of her breasts soft and full. The slip clings to her waist, her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips.
She doesn’t pause. She grabs the hem of the slip, breathless, almost laughing with disbelief. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she says, voice thick, low, hungry. “I can’t—god, I can’t wait anymore.”
She pulls it over her head in one desperate motion. And suddenly—she’s bare. Completely. Gloriously. Unashamed.
Her breasts fall softly with the movement, full and warm, pink nipples tightening in the cool air. The lines of age, of life, of her softness—they’re all there, and she stands in them proudly. Her stomach is soft, her hips wide, her thighs thick and trembling with excitement.
“You’re staring,” she whispers, flushed. You swallow hard. “I can’t help it.” That does something to her. Her knees flex. Her breath stutters. Color blooms across her chest. She steps closer—slow now, controlled, even though excitement radiates off her in waves. “Come here, sweetheart.” You do.
Her hands slide up your arms, over your shoulders, down your sides, learning you, mapping you. Skin to skin, warm and real. She presses you back onto the bed—gently but firmly—her naked body sliding over yours, her thigh nudging between your legs with unhidden purpose.
She kisses you hard, hungry, open-mouthed, her tongue slipping against yours like she’s been dreaming of this exact moment. When she pulls back, she’s panting. “I want to taste you,” she whispers. “Not drunken wanting. Not a fantasy. I want your pussy on my tongue. I want to feel you shake for me.”
Your breath catches. You grab the sheets. Her hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your clothes, fingers pressing just enough to make your hips lift. “Oh,” she breathes, eyes darkening. “You’re already wet for me.”
You whimper. “And you’re going to let me have it,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Every drop. You’re going to come for me like a good girl.”
Her teeth graze your skin. Her body moves lower. Her mouth is headed exactly where you’ve dreamed about having her. “Avis—”
“No,” she whispers against your stomach, kissing lower and lower, “don’t say my name right now unless you want me to come apart before I even get there.”
She hooks her fingers into your waistband. “Lift your hips, sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice deep with need. “Let me see you.” She has your clothes halfway down your thighs when she pauses suddenly. Not because she’s uncertain. Because she’s thinking.
You feel her breath on your skin, warm against your stomach, and then she leans back on her heels, completely naked, hair falling loose, lips swollen from kissing you. “Wait,” she murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “I… want something.” Your pulse trips. “What?”
She swallows hard, cheeks flushed like she’s embarrassed and turned on all at once. “I read about it,” she admits softly. “In one of those filthy magazines men keep hidden in cigar boxes. Years ago.” She crawls up over you, thighs bracketing yours, her breasts brushing your chest, her breath hot against your mouth.
“Girls,” she whispers, “fucking each other with their thighs… rubbing their cunts together until they can’t breathe.” Your entire body shivers. Her hand trails down your stomach, slow, teasing, stopping just above your pussy. “I used to picture it,” she confesses, voice trembling with desire. “Before Ace. Before all of this. Two women… warm and slick and grinding until they soaked each other.”
Your breath catches. “Avis…”
“I want it,” she says, more urgently now. “I want you. I want to feel your pussy against mine.” She presses her forehead to yours. “Let me,” she whispers. “Please.” You nod. That’s all she needs. She lets out a shaky groan and immediately shifts down your body, tugging your clothes off with trembling, eager hands until you’re completely bare beneath her.
Then she climbs into position. Her thigh slips between yours. Then she lowers herself—slowly, carefully—until her pussy rests directly against yours. You inhale sharply. She exhales like she’s been punched. “Oh—god—” she whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “Sweetheart… you’re so warm…”
She rocks her hips once—just a small movement—and both of you gasp. The slick heat, the pressure, the wet slide of your bodies meeting. It’s overwhelming. She grabs your hips, steadying herself.
“I’m going to fuck you,” she says, voice shaking with want. “Right here. Like this. I’ve wanted to feel this since the moment I realized I loved you.” She grinds again—slow, deliberate—and your clit slides perfectly against hers, a hot, needy spark shooting through your whole body.
“Oh—Avis—” Her head falls back. Her thighs tremble. “Fuck, yes—say my name—say it while I’m on you—” She sets a rhythm: slow, heavy, deep, her hips rolling against yours with purpose, with hunger, with a kind of reverence you’ve never felt from anyone.
Your slicks mix. Her breath breaks. Her hands grip your body like she’s terrified you’ll disappear. “You feel so good,” she pants. “So—god—so perfect against me—keep going—keep going—don’t stop—”
Her pace quickens, messy now, needy. “I read about this,” she moans, “but nothing—nothing could have prepared me for you.” Your bodies slide together—wet, hot, desperate. She lowers her forehead to yours again, breathing hard. “Cum with me,” she whispers. “I want to feel you shake. I want to feel you fall apart on my cunt.”
Her hips grind harder. Your fingers grip her shoulders. Her breath stutters. You’re both close—so close. It happens so quickly it actually startles her. One moment she’s rocking against you—slow, deep, her breath hot against your mouth, and the next her entire body seizes, thighs trembling, a soft, broken cry escaping her throat. “A-ah—oh, sweetheart—”
She collapses forward, her hips jerking once, twice, helplessly, her pussy slick and clenching against yours. Her forehead hits your shoulder and she grabs fistfuls of the sheets as she rides the shockwave out. “My God,” she gasps, voice shaking. “My—God—what did you—” Another small tremor hits her, and she shudders through it, panting.
She lifts her head just enough to look at you. Her hair is stuck to her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen and parted.
She looks completely undone. And embarrassed. And hungry.
“I didn’t mean to—” she starts, breathless, “—that was so fast, I’m sorry, I—sweetheart, I haven’t come like that since I was twenty, I swear—”
You open your mouth to tell her it’s fine, it’s more than fine, but she's already moving. Fast. Urgent. She slides down your body like a woman possessed, kissing every inch of your stomach, her hands pushing your thighs apart with a trembling kind of reverence and need.
“No,” she murmurs against your skin, voice low and determined. “You’re not ending like that. I need to taste you. I need to make you come.” Your hips jerk. “Avis—” She looks up at you from between your thighs. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide. Mouth pink and swollen. Her hair wild around her face. Still flushed from cumming so fast she couldn’t even speak.
“I’m not done with you,” she says softly. “Lie back.” You do. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you toward her mouth as she settles onto her knees, spreading you open with careful, trembling fingers. “You were so good for me,” she whispers. “So perfect. Now let me be good for you.” Then she lowers her mouth to your pussy.
Her tongue is warm, slow at first, then firmer, more confident as she finds your clit and circles it gently, then again, then with purpose. You gasp. She moans—actually moans—into you, her hands gripping your hips to keep you from pulling away when your body arches.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, kissing your clit before sucking it lightly, “you taste better than I dreamed. And I have dreamed about you.” Your thighs tremble around her. She tightens her grip. “No,” she whispers, voice husky. “Don’t hold back. Let me take you over. Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
Her mouth closes around your clit, tongue stroking slow and deliberate, and you’re gone—heat curling tight in your stomach, your breath shuddering, your fingers buried in her hair. She groans again, the sound vibrating through you, and it pushes you right to the edge.
“That’s it,” she breathes between licks, “come for me—come on my mouth, darling—give it to me—” Her tongue flicks. Her mouth seals. Her hands pull you closer. You expect her to be hesitant. Shy, maybe. Clumsy in a tender, sweet way. She’s not.
The moment her mouth settles against you, something in her shifts. Her hands—still trembling from her fast orgasm—steady themselves on your hips. Her shoulders relax. Her breath deepens. She’s fully awake now, fully sober, fully present.
And when her tongue drags up your slit for the first time you gasp. Not because it’s new.
Because it’s perfect. She pauses just long enough to murmur against you: “There it is… that’s the sound I wanted.”
Then she does it again—slower, more deliberate, letting the flat of her tongue press into the sensitive flesh before curling upward in a way that makes your back arch off the mattress. “Oh—Avis—”
“Mhm…” she hums, the vibration shooting through your core. “Good, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” She finds your clit easily. Too easily. Like she’s known where it was all along. Her tongue circles it once—slow. Twice—firmer.
And then she draws a soft suction around it, lips closing over you with a practiced, instinctual hunger.
Your thighs clamp around her head. She groans. A deep, throaty sound that sends shockwaves into your body. “Oh my God—” you gasp. “Mmm,” she answers, not lifting her mouth, not slowing. Her hands push your legs open wider, her thumbs stroking your inner thighs in slow, soothing motions that contrast with the devastating, focused attention of her tongue.
She pulls back for just a moment—her lips wet, her chin slick. “It’s my first time,” she says, breathless, flushed. “But I know how to listen.” Then she goes back down. And listens. She pays attention to every tiny movement you make—the way your stomach tightens when she flattens her tongue. The way you gasp when she switches to quick flicks. The way you moan when she sucks gently and rolls her tongue beneath the hood. The way your hand tightens in her hair when she moves lower, tasting everywhere
She groans again when you tug her closer. “Oh sweetheart…” she murmurs, voice vibrating against you. “You’re so sensitive—so sweet—let me have all of it.” She slides a hand up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast as she licks you in slow, deliberate strokes.
You’re falling apart. She knows it. “You’re close,” she whispers, lifting her eyes to meet yours for one devastating second before sealing her mouth over your clit again. “Come for me. Come on my tongue. Let me taste you first.”
Her tongue moves faster—precise, hungry, knowing. And you realize: Of course she’s good at this. She’s been imagining it for months. She’s been studying you for longer than you ever knew. And she’s making you cum faster than anyone ever has.
Your breath stutters. Your hips jerk. And Avis feels it and she lifts one hand from your thigh, reaching up blindly until her fingers brush your wrist. You grab her hand immediately. Tight. She squeezes back. Hard.
Her mouth doesn’t leave your clit. Her tongue keeps moving in those long, devastating strokes that are going to ruin you for every other person on earth. “Oh—Avis—” Your voice breaks.
She moans into you, the sound vibrating in a way that pushes you right to the edge. Her other hand slides up your waist, holding you steady as your thighs begin to tremble around her shoulders.
“Come on,” she whispers against you, breath hot, lips brushing your clit in soft kisses between strokes. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Hold onto me.”
You squeeze her hand harder. Your knuckles go white. Her thumb rubs slow circles against the back of your palm—sweet, reassuring—while her tongue works you with obscene, perfect precision. Your whole body tightens. “Avis—oh my God—”
She hums, low and needy, her mouth sealing around your clit as she sucks gently and flicks her tongue in rapid pulses that send heat flooding through your stomach.
That’s all it takes. You break. Your back arches off the bed, thighs clamping around her ears, fingers digging into her hand like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. Her grip tightens. She doesn’t let go. She doesn’t lift her mouth, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop until you’re shaking so hard you can barely breathe.
Your orgasm hits you in waves—sharp, liquid, overwhelming—and she moans through it, drinking every sound you make, every twitch of your hips, every spill of slick against her tongue. “Oh—fuck—Avis—”
She squeezes your hand again, grounding you through the spiral of pleasure. “That’s it,” she murmurs, lifting her mouth only long enough to kiss your overstimulated clit once, reverently, before licking you through every aftershock. “That’s my girl. Let it happen. Let me feel you.”
You whimper, collapsing back onto the sheets, chest heaving, fingers still entwined with hers. She finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, cheeks flushed. She kisses the inside of your thigh. Then your hip. Then the back of your knuckles. “You’re beautiful when you come,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
And she lays her cheek on your stomach, still holding your hand as your breathing slowly steadies. After a long moment, Avis lifts her head from your stomach and looks up at you. Really looks. Her hair is mussed, her cheeks flushed, her lips still swollen from kissing every part of you she could reach. There’s something soft in her eyes now—softer than you’ve ever seen her. Sated. Vulnerable. A little overwhelmed.
You reach down and stroke her cheek. She leans into your hand like she’s been waiting to do it for months. Then she climbs up the bed—slowly this time, deliberately—her body settling over yours, her weight warm and comforting as she nudges your legs aside and tucks herself against your chest.
One arm drapes over your waist. Her thigh slides between yours. Her head rests just under your chin. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, breathing her in—perfume and sweat and the faint sweetness of your release still on her skin.
She sighs. Deep. Content. Almost disbelieving. “You stayed,” she whispers, voice soft like the morning sun. “I’ll always stay,” you murmur into her hair. She squeezes you just slightly. A small, gentle press of her fingers against your ribs like she’s afraid to hold too tightly. “I thought I scared you away,” she says.
“You didn’t,” you whisper back. “Not even a little.” She lifts her head, just enough to meet your eyes. There’s no hunger now. No desperation. Just that quiet, aching affection she’s been carrying alone for far too long. “I love you,” she says, like she’s finally allowed to say it out loud. You touch her cheek, brushing your thumb across her warm skin. “I love you too.”
She exhales a shaky breath—then settles fully into your arms, her body melting into yours in a way that feels safe and natural, like you were always meant to fit together like this. The room is warm. The sheets smell like both of you. Her heartbeat slows against your chest.
You press a kiss into her hair. Her fingers tangle with yours. And the last thing you hear before she drifts to sleep—bare, soft, and happy—is her voice, quiet as a secret: “My girl.”
