angeliccss

[angeliccss]

I am so achingly desperate for love. I want to be held, I want to be kissed, I want to be someone’s. I want to wake up to someone in the morning and fall asleep next to them at night. But I’m just a delusional teenage girl who fawns over women older than her mother. That’s not love—it’s obsession. I ache for someone I can never have and it breaks me. I have so much to give but no one to give it to.

[angeliccss]

There’s nothing I love more than scrolling through Pinterest, seeing a picture of Barbra Streisand and thinking: ‘Damn, she’s got a rack’ or ‘I want to stuff her down my pants’

[angeliccss]

Take the Lead, Mama

Pairing: Mama Rose/Reader

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Backstage after a show, Rose finds you exactly where she wants—eager, trembling, and looking at her like she hung the moon. She decides to put on a different kind of performance. One just for the two of you.

Warnings: Older Woman/Younger Woman, Rough Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Hair-pulling, Thigh riding, Rough make out sesh, Dom/sub Undertones, Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink

AO3

AN: This is inspired by one of @anthewitch beautiful drawings.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not backstage. Not alone with her. Not pressed up against the vanity, legs shaking, lip bitten raw.

But ever since that night—when she’d stepped between you and your no-good boyfriend like she’d been waiting for the excuse—you hadn’t left her side.

He’d grabbed your wrist too hard outside the stage door. Thought no one would notice. Thought you wouldn’t scream. You didn’t have to. Because she was there. And Rose doesn’t wait for permission.

He ended up on the pavement with her heel in his gut and her voice like a whip through the air—“Touch her again, and I’ll feed you your own teeth, you little son of a bitch.”

After that you hadn’t left her side. You trailed her like a second shadow, clutching her coat, carrying her purse, fetching her smokes, falling asleep curled on her couch with one of her girls draped over you like a cat. She never told you to leave.

And tonight? She made sure you stayed. The show had ended. The theater emptied. And the second June and Louise were gone, she’d turned the dressing room bolt with a click that sounded final.

Now, she was in front of you, taking her time as she rolled her sleeves up to the elbow, fingers flexing. Her lipstick was half-faded, but her smirk wasn’t. You could smell the stage on her—powder, sweat, the heat of lights—and beneath that, something darker. Something hungry.

"You were watchin’ me like a girl starvin’ through a bakery window,” she said, voice a rasp that scraped down your spine. “So here I am. Eat.” Your breath caught. She stepped closer.

“I see everything,” she murmured, running one hand up your thigh, her nails rough like she didn’t care if she left marks. “You think I didn’t notice you starin’? You think I didn’t know what you were beggin’ for every time you said ‘thank you, Miss Rose’ like your knees were already halfway to the floor? You think I didn’t hear how you moaned my name when you thought I was asleep on the couch?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, honey.” Her smirk curved like a dagger. “You’re not subtle. Not with me.” She grabbed your chin, made you look at her. Those eyes—so hard behind the stage, so blazing right now. “Say it.”

“Say...what?” Her grin widened. Cruel. Pleased.

“What you want, sweetheart. You think I’m here to be sweet?” A laugh, bitter and low. “No. You want sweet, you go find yourself a boyfriend who won’t raise his hand. But you came to me. You want somethin’ real? You get rough. You get Mama.”

She gripped your chin, hard enough to make you gasp, and tilted your head back.

“I know what he did to you. I saw it in the way you flinched, the way you waited for me to get mad when you spilled coffee on my script.” Her voice dipped low, dark with steel. “He taught you to be small.”

Her thumb brushed your lip, then pressed in hard, claiming, cruel, perfect. “Well. I don’t do small. I don’t do scared. You want Mama? Then you stand up, you take it, and you don’t make me ask twice.”

You nodded, quick, eager, but she grabbed your hair, twisted it until your scalp prickled. “Words, baby.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“…Yes, Mama.” Her hand fisted in your hair and she shoved you gently—but firmly—down to your knees.

“There. That’s where you belong.” She stepped in front of you, pulling her blouse open, exposing her sharp hourglass silhouette like it was a reward she’d earned by surviving. “You don’t get anything 'til I say. You don’t touch ‘til I say.”

She leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching. “You don’t get to beg. Not yet. You don’t get to touch. Not until I say. That mouth of yours?” She tapped your lips twice. “That belongs to me tonight.”

Then she leaned down and bit your neck—sharp, fast, marking you like a signature on a contract. You cried out, and she laughed under her breath like you were the best damn encore she’d ever earned. “Oh, honey,” she said, cupping your jaw, dragging her thumb over your cheek like she was marking you. “You got no idea what you’ve signed up for.”

She dragged you back to your feet just to slam you down into her vanity chair. The bulbs above your head cast a golden halo on her curls as she straddled you, all thigh and intent, corset spilling open, tits pushed high. The edge of a garter caught the light.

You looked up at her, breathless, already undone. “I don’t care what he told you,” she growled. “You don’t belong to him anymore.” Her hand slid between your legs—slow, then hard, just to hear the whimper punch out of your throat.

“You belong to Mama now.”

She watched you fall apart under her grip with a smile that wasn’t sweet, it was satisfied. Like this was the payoff of something she’d earned, fought for, bled through.

Her fingers were rough through the fabric, not teasing—claiming. You whimpered under her touch and she grinned, broad and vicious.

“Mm. That’s it, baby. Let it out. He made you quiet, didn’t he?” Her hand tightened on your thigh. “Well, I don’t want quiet. I want the whole damn orchestra.”

You gasped as she shoved your skirt up and leaned back in your lap, taking you in with narrowed eyes. She looked good like that, sprawled over you like a queen, corset half-undone, smirk sharp enough to draw blood.

Her expression flickered then—just for a second. Not soft. But raw. “Goddamn,” she muttered. “All my life, I put the wrong people on stage.” You blinked up at her, confused. She met your eyes—dark, burning. Her voice dropped.

“I could’ve done it, you know. I should’ve. Every time I dressed those girls, every goddamn song they sang... that should’ve been me.” She sat back further, legs spread, corset undone just enough to make your mouth go dry. “But nobody ever wanted to see Mama. Just wanted what she could make.”

The silence that followed cracked with tension. She wasn’t asking for sympathy. She was daring you to look away. You didn’t.

And that was when she smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Get on the floor.” You slid off the chair before she’d finished the sentence. Knees hitting the worn dressing room rug.

“That’s better,” she purred, spreading her legs wider. “Mama’s the star tonight.” Your hands trembled as you reached for her garters—she slapped them away.

“Did I say you could touch?” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Look up at me.” You obeyed. Her thighs framed your face now, and her eyes were molten.

“You’re gonna keep your hands behind your back. Mouth only. That pretty little thing is gonna sing for me. And you’re gonna make me feel like I belong on that damn stage.”

You nodded—breathless, shaking, ruined. “Words, baby.”

“Yes, Mama.” And then she pulled her panties aside like a curtain. You buried your face between her thighs like it was prayer, and she let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. The vanity lights caught her flushed skin, the curve of her breasts spilling from the corset, the wild fire in her eyes.

You couldn’t see yourself, but you felt the picture she made of you: on your knees, obedient, worshipful. A little star-struck.

It was her show now.

She gripped your hair in both hands, grinding against your mouth, controlling every motion. You licked, sucked, gasped for air—and she didn’t slow down.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she groaned, hips rocking forward. “Louder. I want the whole goddamn theater to know who owns you now.”

You moaned into her and she shuddered, thighs closing around your head like a curtain on opening night. “That’s it. That’s Mama’s encore.”

When she came, she didn’t cry out—she roared, one hand flying to the vanity table as the other fisted in your hair and held.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was earned. And when she came down, chest heaving, she looked down at you, lip curled, smug, victorious.

She cupped your chin and tilted your face up to hers. “Well,” she said, grinning, breath still shaky, “I guess I can be the star of the show after all.”

Your knees ached. Your lips were wet with her. You stayed where she left you, kneeling, hands behind your back, chest rising and falling like you’d just come off a five-minute number.

She didn’t speak for a while. Just leaned back in the vanity chair and let her thighs fall open, savoring the afterglow with the same smugness she’d wear if she’d just closed a deal or sold out a house.

And then, slowly, like you weren’t even there, she turned towards the mirror. She pulled open a little compact with a cracked lid, still sitting spread in her open corset like she had all the time in the world. Her lipstick case clicked open. She applied it without needing to check her lines.

She smeared, blotted, smoothed. Rubbed a thumb under her eye. Dusted powder along her jaw. Re-pinned a loose curl. One heel still dangled from her foot like an afterthought.

The room smelled like her: hot skin, sweat, expensive powder and lust. You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. She liked it that way. You watched her like a sinner in church.

When she was finished—lipstick redone, hair fluffed, corset laced tighter than ever—she looked down at you through the mirror.

The corner of her mouth curled. “Well,” she said, in that same dry, rasping drawl. “Would ya look at that.” She turned in the chair, legs crossed now, one hand cupping her chin like she was judging a contest.

“You down there all quiet… all messy…” She tilted her head. “That’s a better sight than anything I’ve seen onstage in twenty years.”

You felt the flush crawl up your neck. She leaned forward, hand reaching out to trace the edge of your jaw, rough but not cruel, just appraising.

“You did real good tonight, sweetheart.” Her thumb slid across your bottom lip. “Real obedient. Real pretty.” Then, a pause—long enough to sting. “Maybe you deserve a reward.”

You swallowed hard. Her grin widened, slow and knowing. “Get up.” You obeyed, legs trembling as you stood. She watched every inch of you rise like she was deciding what to do with you.

When you were fully upright, standing in front of her, she reached out and grabbed your waist. Pulled you between her knees. Tilted her chin up and locked eyes.

“You wanna know what it is?” she asked. “Your reward?” You nodded. She smiled. Then she yanked you down into her lap, hard, until you were straddling her, hips flush. Her hands slid up your back—possessive, rough. “You get to cum on Mama’s thigh.”

“Alright,” she said, voice like the flick of a match. “Go on, then. Show me how bad you want it.”

You moved like you couldn’t help it—dragging your hips forward, then back, slow and shaky, pressure blooming sharp between your legs. Her thigh, warm and strong beneath you, was unyielding. You tried to breathe but it came out broken.

She didn’t move to help. Just leaned back in the chair, one leg still propped under you, watching with a hunger that made your skin flush.

“That’s it,” she murmured, eyes fixed on your face. “God, look at you. Already wrecked and I’ve barely touched you.”

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing under your shirt, not guiding—just there. Just reminding you who put you there.

“You’ve been chasing this, haven’t you?” she said. “All that time you looked at me like I was something you weren’t allowed to want. And now?”

Her thigh tensed, just slightly, and you gasped, hips stuttering. “Now you’re gonna lose it right here.” You bit your lip, struggling to stay quiet, but she caught your chin in two fingers and tilted your face toward hers.

“No. Don’t hide from Mama.” Her eyes were molten. Her voice dropped to a rasp. “I want to see every second of you coming apart.”

Your hips ground down harder now, friction just right, sharp and overwhelming. She didn’t stop you, but didn’t speed you up either. She let you work for it, let you struggle.

“You’re not even thinking anymore, are you?” she breathed. “Just feeling. Just chasing. Like you’re starving.” You nodded, dazed.

Her thumb traced the corner of your mouth. “You wanna finish?” You nodded again, desperate. She leaned in until her breath brushed your cheek. “Then show Mama you can earn it.” That broke something in you.

You moved faster now, more ragged, rhythm dissolving into need. She kept her eyes on you the whole time—sharp, steady, ravenous. Her leg tensed just enough to keep the pressure constant, every roll of your hips a plea.

“Good,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “That’s good. Just like that.” And when you came, body trembling, gasping into her shoulder like a confession, she didn’t soften. She just held you there, one hand gripping your waist, the other brushing your hair back, slow and possessive.

You collapsed against her, still straddling her lap, boneless and wrecked. She exhaled—long and low—and let the silence stretch for a beat. Then she murmured, with a smirk you could feel against your cheek: “Now that was a performance worth watching.”

She let you collapse against her, your breath still catching in your throat, body trembling from the effort of holding back and then giving in so completely. Her hand slid slowly up your spine, smoothing the sweat-soaked fabric of your shirt, grounding you. And when your head tipped forward—dazed, breathless—she caught your chin.

Tilted it up. “Look at me.” You did. Your eyes met hers, and something in her face had changed, not softer, exactly, but clearer. Focused. Like she was done watching now. Ready to do something about what she saw.

And then she kissed you. Firm. Claiming. A kiss like a stamp: mine. She tasted like lipstick and heat and salt. She didn’t rush it. Didn’t let you lead. She took your mouth like she’d already decided you belonged to her.

And when she finally pulled back, just enough to speak, her voice was low and steady. “I want more.” Your breath hitched.

“I want to feel you,” she said, thumb brushing your cheek like a brand. “Not just like this.” Her hand slid down, across your waist, lower. “I want to feel you from the inside.” She paused, watching your face, eyes glittering. “I want to take you apart properly this time.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body already starting to respond again, twitching to life under her touch. She smiled—slow and sure—and stood, keeping you steady with a hand at your waist.

“Come on.” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rasp. “Get on the couch.”

She didn’t give you time to answer. Just took your wrist and guided you toward the velvet couch against the far wall. Worn, narrow, and still warm from her sitting there earlier. She sat first, legs spread, corset pressing tight against her ribs, then pulled you down on top of her like she’d rehearsed it.

Her hands were everywhere—spreading over your hips, dragging your skirt up, fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass. “Straddle me.” You did, heart thudding, thighs still trembling as you settled over her again—this time, with nothing between you but breath and heat and the ache of want.

She looked up at you, something fierce in her eyes. “Take your damn time,” she said. “I want to feel every inch of it.”

Your breath caught as you rocked your hips forward, positioning yourself just right. She guided you. Not roughly, but firmly, like she owned every second of this. Like she’d been waiting to claim you proper.

And then—slow, aching—you sank down onto her fingers. She let out a breath through her teeth, head tipping back just a little, eyes closing as you took her in. “There you go,” she muttered, low and ragged. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You gasped, muscles tightening around her as she pressed deeper, the stretch intense after the tease of before, but her voice kept you grounded. “You feel that, baby?” she whispered. “That’s me. Inside you. Right where I belong.”

Her other hand gripped your waist, steadying you, while her fingers inside you curled just right, slow and deliberate, like she was reading you—learning how you worked, what made you writhe.

You moved with her, hips rocking slow, mouth falling open with each pulse of pressure. Her eyes drank you in. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” she said. “Dripping for me. Shaking for it.”

Her thumb brushed against your clit, cruel and perfect, and you cried out—not loud, but sharp. She hushed you with a kiss, hand still working between your legs. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” she said, voice rough. “And this time, I want to feel every second of it.”

You buried your face in her neck, your breath stuttering, and she held you—tight and focused—every thrust of her fingers pushing you closer, deeper, until it was all heat and pressure and her voice in your ear: “Let go, sweetheart. Give it to me.” And you did.

You came with a gasp, full-body, thighs clenching around her, hips jerking helplessly as her hand kept you steady through the waves. She didn’t stop until you collapsed against her, breathless and boneless, your body trembling from how thoroughly she’d taken you apart.

You were still sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in your skirt, body loose and twitching from aftershocks, when she finally pulled her hand from between your thighs and exhaled. Not breathless. Not disheveled. Just satisfied.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then stood. You barely managed to look up as she turned toward the vanity and began fixing her makeup again, cool as you’d ever seen her. Red lipstick reapplied. Powder patted smooth. A hand through her curls, fluffing them back into place.

Like she hadn’t just pulled you apart with her fingers. Like you weren’t still dripping, legs spread on the couch, barely breathing.

“You looked real good like that,” she said, catching your eyes in the mirror. “Didn’t think you could be even prettier when you’re beggin’, but I stand corrected.”

She smirked as she adjusted the collar of her coat—black, structured, tailored within an inch of its life. Then she stepped back over to you, still collapsed, dazed, your thighs trembling.

Her hand came down, brushing back a sweat-damp strand of hair from your face. “Good girl.” You shivered. “C’mon,” she said, voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Let’s get you home.”

You tried to move. Your knees buckled. She caught you before you could fall, steady hands at your waist. “You’re gonna feel that for a while,” she murmured, not even pretending to hide her pride. “Hope you didn’t have plans to walk straight tomorrow.”

You managed a breathless laugh against her shoulder, and she let you lean into her as she guided you out of the dressing room. One hand stayed tight at your waist.

Her coat was warm against your side. She didn’t wait for you to adjust your skirt or fix your hair before she tugged you toward the alley entrance behind the theater.

A cab was already waiting—she must’ve called it somewhere between kissing you and wrecking you. The moment the door shut behind you, she dragged you across the seat and onto her lap, coat parting, your thigh sliding over hers again like instinct.

“You think I’m finished with you?” she whispered, mouth already at your neck. You gasped, your hands bracing against her chest, but she caught your wrist and held it down.

“Driver doesn’t need to see a thing. Sit still.” Then she kissed you. Hot, deep, and full of intent. Her hand slipped behind your neck, angling you just how she liked, and you moaned into her mouth, thighs clenched tight, breath already picking up again.

Her tongue teased yours—slow, possessive, her hand gripping your thigh through your skirt like she was still thinking about the dressing room. Like she was already planning what she’d do when she got you inside.

“You taste like sweat and desperation,” she said, lips grazing your jaw. “I could keep you like this all night.”

The cab jolted to a stop. She smoothed her coat, fixed your collar, then opened the door without a word, like she hadn’t just kissed you within an inch of coherence.

You followed, legs barely steady, breath still catching. She didn’t wait—just took your hand, led you up the steps to the front door, and said with a wicked grin: “You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

[angeliccss]

hii! i love your madeline ashton fic <3 i wanna ask if you would ever write for helen? been obsessed with jennifer lately (´ 3｀)

Yesss, I definitely would! I’ll write for basically anyone if I know who they are! If you have anything specific in mind just send me another ask and I’ll add it to my list, if not I’ll come up with a few ideas on my own :) Xx

[angeliccss]

My period really likes to keep things balanced: either I want someone to fold me like a pretzel, or I want to commit a felony. No gray area. Just blood and rage.

[angeliccss]

Mommy Knows Best

Pairing: Patti LuPone/Reader

Words: 2.6k

Summary: Her teasing starts the moment she pulls you into the dressing room—slow, deliberate, relentless. Patti makes you wait, hungry and desperate, before finally claiming you with a fierce, unapologetic hunger that leaves no doubt who’s in control.

Warnings: Established Relationship, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Rough Sex, Teasing, Praise Kink, Hair-pulling, Strap-Ons, BIG mommy kink, Degradation Kink, Dirty Talk

AO3

AN: I feel like a whore

It started in the dressing room.

You were perched on the edge of her vanity, legs swinging nervously, trying not to stare too hard as Patti adjusted her stockings in the mirror. She caught your reflection—your parted lips, the flush already creeping up your neck—and smirked like she’d won something.

“Sweetheart,” she said lightly, “you keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to think you want something.”

You did. God, you did. “Please,” you whispered. “Patti, please, just—”

But she was already crossing the room, silk robe slinking open at the collar as she came closer. She tipped your chin up with two fingers, nails cold against your skin.

“Just what?” she asked sweetly. “Just ruin that pretty little body before curtain? Hm?” You nodded fast, desperate. She laughed.

“You think you’re so irresistible. My poor needy baby,” she cooed. Her hand slid between your thighs, over your clothes, just enough pressure to make your hips buck. “But no. I’ve got a show to do, and you’ve got a front-row seat.”

Then she kissed you, deep, slow, open-mouthed, and walked out without another word, leaving you wrecked and wet and dizzy before the curtain even went up.

You barely made it through Act I.

Every time Patti sang, she found you with her eyes. Her hands swept her waist, her throat, her hips. All deliberate, slow, cruel in how she knew you’d be watching. During her monologue, she smiled at the crowd, but that smirk? That was for you.

By intermission, you were in the wings, clutching the side wall like it might anchor you. “Patti,” you whispered as she passed, grabbing her wrist. “Please. Please, I need you—”

She turned slowly. Her makeup was perfect. Her voice, quiet and low: “You’ll wait. Good girls wait.”

Then she leaned in and whispered right against your ear, warm breath trailing goosebumps down your spine: “Second act’s just starting. I want you soaking through that seat by the end of it.” You gasped. She kissed the corner of your mouth, smug and soft, and left you again.

Now she’s on stage, and you’re trying so hard to hold it together.

Your legs are crossed tight. Every time she hits a high note, you swear your heart skips. Her hips move, and all you can think about is her pinning you down. Her voice drops an octave, and you feel it between your legs.

You’re shaking. You know she knows. The man sitting next to you gives you a weird look. You pretend to cough, to watch the show, to be normal.

But nothing about this feels normal. You’re Patti LuPone’s girl. And she’s breaking you—on purpose, in public, like it’s just another performance.

You barely remember the curtain call. You clapped on autopilot, eyes locked on her silhouette as she took her bows. That smirk was still there, satisfied, knowing. She blew a kiss toward the audience, but her gaze cut to you just before the lights dropped.

You’d expected her to grab your hand the second she was offstage. Drag you into a dark corner, maybe into her dressing room again, finally do something about the way your thighs were pressed tight together.

But no. She took her time.

Back in the dressing room, she peeled off her costume piece by piece. Slowly. A button at a time. Her eyes met yours in the mirror as she slid the zipper of her dress down her back, revealing smooth skin, the edge of her bra. You thought she’d finally touch you when you reached for her.

Instead she turned away, humming, and reached for her makeup wipes. “You’re quiet,” she said, wiping away her lipstick with slow, practiced motions. “Not so chatty now that the show’s over.”

You clenched your hands in your lap. “Patti…”

“Mm?” she murmured, dabbing at her eyeliner. “Use your words, sweetheart.” You bit your lip. “I—I need you.” She smiled at you in the mirror. “I know you do. And I love watching you fall apart over it.”

The ride home was unbearable. Her hand stayed on your thigh the whole drive, casually stroking just a bit too high. You squirmed in your seat. She never looked away from the road.

At a red light, she leaned over, voice like silk. “You’re soaked through, aren’t you?” You nodded, breath catching. “Oh, my poor baby,” she murmured. “What kind of woman gets this desperate just from a little teasing?”

She grinned when you couldn’t answer. Once you got inside, you thought—finally.

But she sat down on the couch, legs spread just enough to make your mouth go dry. She patted her thigh. “Come here.”

You crawled into her lap without hesitation, straddling her, your hands on her shoulders. Her hands settled on your hips—strong, possessive. She leaned in, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“You’ve been such a good girl,” she said softly, “letting me play with you all night.” You whimpered. Ground your hips against her. “Shhh,” she cooed, pressing your body flush to hers. “You can wait just a little longer, can’t you?”

“No,” you whispered. “Please—Patti, I need you. Please touch me.” She laughed softly. “That’s not begging. You know what I want to hear.” You swallowed your pride. “I need you to fuck me. Please. I can’t take it anymore. I’ll do anything, just—please.”

There. That broke something in her. Her fingers gripped your chin, pulled you into a kiss that left your head spinning. Deep and dirty and finally.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “Now take your clothes off and get on your knees. You’ve earned it.”

You scrambled out of her lap, stripping clumsily as you went. Patti sat back, watching you with lazy satisfaction, like she had all the time in the world and already knew how this would end. You, on your knees, ruined for her.

“Go get mommy’s cock,” Patti said, voice cool and steady. “Top drawer. You know which one.”

You hesitated only a second before bolting, naked and flushed, practically tripping over your own feet in your rush. The drawer slid open with a soft creak. There it was—her harness, the thick strap-on attached, black and intimidating and exactly what you needed.

You brought it to her with both hands, like an offering. Patti didn’t move from the couch. She took it from you slowly, letting her fingers brush over yours, and smiled. “Good girl,” she said, soft and pleased. “That’s my sweet, obedient thing.”

She stood to slip it on, graceful, unhurried, and all the more maddening for it. The leather buckles snapped into place with practiced ease. The sight of her like this, strong and solid and ready, made your knees wobble.

“Up,” she said, sinking back into the couch. She patted her lap again. “Straddle me.”

You climbed into her lap, already trembling, body aching with need. Her hands settled on your hips and held you there, the strap brushing hot and hard between your legs. She didn’t move to do anything yet. Just watched you squirm.

“You gonna be a good girl for mommy? You whimpered, nodded furiously. “Use your words.”

“Yes, mommy. I’ll be good, I promise, just—please—” She grinned, fingers tangling in your hair and yanking your head back, exposing your throat. “That’s better.”

You moaned, the sharp pull grounding you, making you wetter, needier—your whole body buzzing under her control. Patti leaned in, tongue flicking at your pulse point, slow and deliberate, before sinking her teeth in just enough to make your breath catch.

“Oh, you like that,” she purred against your skin. “My messy little baby—so easy to ruin.”

Her free hand trailed down between your bodies, sliding through the slick heat between your thighs. She didn’t even bother teasing this time—just pressed two fingers against your clit and rubbed slow, lazy circles that had your hips jerking.

“Look at you,” she said, voice a husky croon, “dripping all over mommy’s cock, making a mess on my thighs like you don’t have a shred of self-control left.”

You whimpered, hips rolling without rhythm now, your body caught somewhere between desperate and overwhelmed.

“I should make you beg longer,” she mused, fingers dragging up your belly, stopping just beneath your breast. “But you’re already falling apart, aren’t you?”

You nodded, mouth open but no sound coming out except a strangled, desperate whine. “I said tell me, baby. Use that pretty mouth.”

“I—I’m yours, mommy,” you gasped. “Please, I need it so bad, I can’t think, I just want you to fuck me—please.”

That finally earned you a kiss—deep, hot, claiming. Her hand on your ass guided you, hips lifted just enough for her to line the strap up perfectly before she sank you down on it in one long, slow thrust.

You cried out. She groaned softly at the sound. “There you go,” she whispered, holding you still, the strap-on stretching you, filling you, owning you. “That’s what you were made for, sweetheart. To sit right here and take every inch like a good little cock-drunk girl.”

You tried to move—just a little—but she tightened her grip in your hair and stilled you. “Nuh-uh,” she warned. “You don’t fuck yourself on mommy’s cock. I decide when you get to move.”

Your body trembled with need, your breath ragged, and all you could focus on was her—her hands on you, the strength of her presence, the way she made you feel like nothing else mattered in this moment.

You whimpered, your hands gripping her shoulders in an attempt to steady yourself, but she didn’t let you. She held you exactly where she wanted you.

“Just relax, baby,” Patti murmured, her fingers trailing over your skin, soothing the tension in your muscles. “Let mommy take care of you. You don’t need to rush this. It’s all in my hands now.”

“Breathe for me,” she whispered, guiding you through each breath. “Let mommy do all the work. All you need to do is enjoy it, baby.”

You tried to move—just a little—but she tightened her grip in your hair and stilled you. “Stop,” she warned. “I already told you, you don’t fuck yourself on my cock. I decide when you get to move.”

You froze in her lap, held there by the firm tug of her hand in your hair and the weight of her voice—low, calm, commanding. Your breathing was shallow, every nerve in your body straining toward her, aching for motion, friction, anything. But she held you still.

Her free hand drifted to your hip, possessive. Her mouth ghosted along your jawline, her lips brushing just enough to tease, just enough to keep you on edge.

“You’ve been so impatient tonight,” she murmured. “So noisy. So worked up. And now you want to rush the one thing you’ve been begging for all evening?”

You whimpered, head tipping back as much as her grip allowed. Her words hit just as hard as her hands—sharp, precise, designed to undo you one slow piece at a time.

“Not yet,” she said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’ll take me when I’m ready for you to take me. Until then, you sit still and let it build.”

Her hips rolled—just once. One smooth, slow motion that let you feel every inch of her, and then she stopped again, leaving you twitching in her lap, gasping.

You let out something between a sob and a plea. Her hand slipped from your hair, trailing down your back to grip your waist, holding you steady.

“Good,” she breathed. “Now stay just like that.” Another slow thrust. This one a little deeper. Still controlled. Still maddening.

“I want you trembling when I finally fuck you properly,” she said. “I want you to fall apart so hard you forget how to say my name.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath, trying not to move—but the tension was unbearable. Her mouth pressed to your neck again, warm and open, her voice a low rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“And you will say it,” she whispered. “Loud. Over and over. Until it’s the only thing left in that pretty little head of yours.”

And then she started moving—slow at first, then harder. Her hands anchoring you, guiding you. Her body pressed close, her breath ragged now too.

You gripped her shoulders like a lifeline, the rhythm building, building, until it hit like a wave. “Say it,” she growled, voice rough against your ear. “Patti—Mommy, please—”

You said it again, and again, the name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a surrender. She held you tighter, thrust deeper, her rhythm never faltering, each motion perfectly aimed to knock the breath out of you.

The pressure had been building for so long—through the dressing room, through the entire first act, through every aching second she made you wait. Now it was white-hot and unbearable, every nerve in your body drawn tight.

Your fingers curled against her shoulders, your whole body tightening as the wave crested. “Let go,” Patti said, and that was all it took.

You came hard—shaking, crying out her name, every muscle tensing as pleasure ripped through you like lightning. She didn’t stop moving, didn’t let up until you slumped forward in her arms, boneless and dazed.

She held you.

Arms wrapped tight around your back, her body solid and steady beneath you. You felt her shift, slow and careful, easing out of you, her hand cradling the back of your head as she pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing your damp hair back. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” You nodded into her shoulder, your face buried in the curve of her neck, still trying to catch your breath.

“You did so well,” she whispered. “So damn good for Mommy.”

She helped you off her lap, gently guiding you to lie on the couch, then stripped off the harness and set it aside. When she came back, it was with a soft towel, a glass of water, and the kind of quiet care that made your chest ache in a different way.

She cleaned you up gently, murmuring soothing things under her breath—things she probably didn’t even realize she was saying. Then she sat beside you and pulled you into her arms, draping a blanket over both of you.

You pressed your face into her chest, heart still fluttering, nerves still buzzing, but everything else had gone quiet.

“I love you,” you said before you could stop yourself. Quiet. Breathless. Honest. She didn’t hesitate. “I love you too, baby.” A kiss to your forehead. “More than you know.”

You were still sprawled across her chest, catching your breath, your body trembling in that post-release haze—when Patti shifted just slightly, nudging your hair out of her face.

“Hey,” she said, all casual, like she hadn’t just rearranged your insides and your sense of reality. “What do you want for dinner?”

You blinked. “What?” She looked down at you, completely unfazed. “Dinner. I’m starving. And you didn’t eat much before the show.”

You stared at her, still dazed, brain lagging behind. “You—Patti, I—did you not just—?”

She smiled lazily, like she knew exactly what she was doing. “What? You think a good fuck gets you out of eating something with protein?”

You made a small, strangled sound and buried your face in her collarbone. She chuckled and rubbed your back.

“I’ll order something,” she added. “Unless you want to crawl to the kitchen and make me pasta. But I figured you’d be a little wobbly.”

You let out something between a groan and a laugh. “I hate you,” you mumbled, clinging to her tighter.

“No you don’t.” Her voice was warm, smug, and utterly infuriating. “Now come on. Chinese or Italian?”

[angeliccss]

10 songs, 10 mutuals

Tagged by: @old-women-can-peg-me, @yourbasicqueerie, @luvpone

List ten songs that have been in my head or ive been listening to a lot lately, then tag ten mutuals to do the same.

1) Dark Lady - Cher

2) Sweet - Lana Del Rey

3) They Just Keep Moving the Line - Megan Hilty (Smash TV show)

4) I'd Rather Be Blue Over You (Than Happy With Somebody Else) - Barbra Streisand

5) A Mistake - Fiona Apple

6) Cry, Cry, Again - Tammy Wynette

7) Crazy- Patsy Cline

8) Killah - Lady Gaga

9) Crush- Ethel Cain

10) Burning Desire - Lana Del Rey

@awlwgeneraldinosaur, @chiefofmilfs, @renyfisher, @arclic-stuff, @grifffins, @anthewitch, @nutritionat, @jubshead, @ahsfan05 no clue who’s done this already btw

[angeliccss]

I’m gonna bust good lord in heaven

I need her

I love being a homo

[angeliccss]

A Million Questions

Pairing: Barbra Streisand/Reader

Words: 2.6k

Summary: Barbra sings. You swoon. Somewhere between lemon tea, floppy hats, and backstitch lessons, you call it a perfect day.

Warnings: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Touch-Starved, Teaching, Lesbians in love, Rich lesbian life, Lots of pet names

AO3

AN: Reader is basically just me so sorry abt that lol. Oh and the nickname bubbles came to me in a dream, and I couldn’t not use it.

The sun was warm, the breeze smelled like rosemary and fresh dirt, and Barbra’s floppy straw hat had slowly started slipping down her silver hair and over one eye. She didn’t care. Not when you were curled up beside her on the garden lounger, draped in one of her oversized robes, your head nestled beneath her shirt like it belonged there. (Which, by now, it did.)

“Mmm,” you hummed against her stomach, pressing your cheek to the soft skin just above the waistband of her linen trousers. “I think I could live here forever.”

“You already do, baby,” Barbra said, smiling lazily. Her voice had that honeyed, amused warmth it always got when you were being especially adorable. She curled a hand behind your neck and gently combed her fingers through your hair. “You’re my darling little barnacle. Latched right onto me.” You snorted softly, but didn’t move.

She shifted slightly to make you more comfortable, lifting the hem of her shirt a little higher to let you burrow closer. “You’re such a touch-starved little thing, aren’t you?” she murmured, kissing the top of your head. “My poor sweet girl. You just wanna be held all day.”

You nodded into her skin. “Can’t help it,” you mumbled. “You’re so soft, Bubbles.” Barbra laughed, a full belly sound that vibrated gently beneath your cheek. “God, I love rich lesbian life with my clingy little wife,” she said, throwing her head back. “Robes. Tomatoes in raised beds. Handsy twenty-something in my lap. Heaven.”

You pouted against her, but she rubbed your back through the robe and added softly, “Don’t ever stop needing me like this, okay?”

You peeked up at her from under her shirt, all sleepy eyes and soft affection. “Never. You’re my whole world, B.” Her smile went a little crooked, her expression turning indulgent, proud, and just the tiniest bit overwhelmed. “I know, sweetheart. And you’re mine.”

Barbra’s floppy hat had made its triumphant return, this time pinned just-so with a pearl hair stick that somehow made it high fashion. She knelt beside the raised garden bed with her sleeves rolled up, her gloved hands buried wrist-deep in rich, dark soil.

You, meanwhile, were sprawled on a nearby lawn cushion like a lazy cat in her shadow, robe slipping off one shoulder, iced tea sweating on the ground beside you. You’d tried to help once and had nearly drowned her basil in a misguided fit of enthusiasm.

Now, your gardening duties were mostly moral support and throwing out relentless questions from your perch. “What’s that one called again?” Barbra didn’t even look up. “The lavender. You’ve asked me five times today, darling.”

“I like the way you say it,” you said with a grin, sipping your tea. She tsked, half fond, half exasperated. “You like making me say everything five times.”

“Well, yeah. Your voice makes everything sound like a secret I wanna keep.” That earned you a look. That smirky, pink-lipped, silver-haired glance that always managed to hit you right in the chest. “You are hopeless,” she muttered, adjusting the floppy brim of her hat and reaching for the hand shovel.

“What does lavender mean? Like, symbolically?”

“In the language of flowers?” Barbra asked, already indulging you, because she always did. “Devotion. Serenity. Sometimes suspicion, depending on the era. Why?”

“Just wanna know everything you know,” you said, laying your cheek against your forearm, watching her. “You’re like a sexy garden witch.” Barbra snorted. “God, you’re ridiculous. Devoted and ridiculous.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is when I say it.” A pause. Then—“what happens if I eat a marigold?” Barbra didn’t miss a beat. “You’ll be fine. But I’ll be furious. Those are for the border.”

“Okay, what about—wait, what if we had chickens? Do you think we’d be good chicken moms?” Barbra finally glanced over, eyes twinkling behind her sunglasses. “You’d name them after the golden girls and forget to feed them unless I reminded you.”

“That’s fair. But you’d spoil them. Give them little woven bonnets.”

“Only if you made them.” You grinned wide and leaned back, basking in the sunlight and her voice. “Okay, but be honest, am I at all helpful right now?”

Barbra set down her trowel and peeled off one glove with a snap. She came over, still crouched low, and took your chin gently in her dirt-smudged fingers. “You, my love, are the most delightful distraction I’ve ever had in my garden.”

Your cheeks flushed under her touch. “And that,” she added, brushing a thumb over your lip, “is infinitely more useful than overwatering my tomatoes again.” You beamed and nuzzled into her hand, humming. “I love you, Bubbles.”

“I know you do, baby. That’s why I let you laze around like a spoiled little wife while I work my ass off.” You reached up and tugged her down into a kiss, dirt and sweat and all. “Rich lesbian life,” you whispered against her mouth. She laughed. “The very best.”

After the garden had been watered, weeded, and cooed at, Barbra pulled off her other glove and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She stood, joints clicking ever so slightly, and you immediately sprang up after her, padding barefoot behind her like a loyal puppy in a borrowed robe two sizes too big.

“Are we going inside?” you asked, bumping her hip with yours as she stepped up onto the patio. “What’s next? Lemonade? Croquet? Rich lesbian nap time?”

Barbra chuckled, untying her sunhat and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I’m thinking a shower, then lounging. Maybe I’ll make that zucchini tart.” You gasped. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You adore me.”

“I do,” she said, glancing at you sideways with that signature, secret smile. “Shower with me, sticky fingers.” You followed her up the stairs, trailing one step behind like always, firing off questions before the bathroom door had even closed. “What were the sixties like?”

Barbra raised a brow as she adjusted the water temperature. “Loud. Fast. Free. Dangerous. You would’ve lost your mind.”

“I wanna time travel.”

“You’d have hated the bras.”

“Fair.”

Steam began to fill the room. You leaned on the counter, watching her pin her silver-streaked hair up, utterly mesmerized.

“When did you know you wanted to marry me?” Barbra paused. She turned slightly, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Second date,” she said, simple as anything. Your breath hitched. “Wait, really?”

“You were wearing those hideous red sneakers and that oversized coat. You said I looked like expensive dishware. And then you licked powdered sugar off my thumb like it was normal.” She smirked. “I was done for.” You giggled, warm and giddy. “That was very early to fall in love.”

“Some of us don’t need a whole novel. Just a sentence.” You stood there, beaming, while she stepped into the shower. A beat passed. Then— “How are you such a good singer?”

She poked her head out, already damp, soap in her hair. “Practice. Jewish guilt. Control issues.” You snorted out a laugh. Another pause. “How do you remember all your lyrics?”

“I don’t. Teleprompters. Muscle memory. Fear of embarrassment.” You leaned your head against the wall. “Are you tired of me asking a million things?”

“Never,” Barbra said, without a trace of sarcasm. “I love that your brain is always moving. And I love that you ask me everything. Makes me feel like I’m still… interesting. Still someone worth knowing.”

You blinked fast. Your heart squeezed. She was silhouetted in steam, half-luminous and so calm in her skin it made you ache.

You pushed off the wall, dropped your robe to the floor, and climbed in behind her, arms instantly winding around her waist from behind.

“I want to know you forever,” you whispered into the slope of her back. “Every version of you.” Barbra’s hand came to rest over yours, warm and steady. “You already do, my love. You already do.”

After the shower, you trailed behind her again like a sleepy duckling, this time swaddled in a towel that nearly reached your ankles. Barbra had blow-dried just the ends of her silver-streaked hair and now wandered barefoot into the living room in silk lounge pants and a loose linen shirt, her sleeves rolled up, humming something softly under her breath. You flopped onto the floor dramatically, limbs splayed like a starfish. “I’m bored.”

Barbra didn’t look up from where she was rifling through a drawer. “You were just in the garden. Then we showered. I gave you like ten kisses.”

“I need to be entertained. I’m a delicate Victorian wife.”

“You’re a menace,” she said fondly.

You rolled onto your side to watch her, still pouting. That’s when you noticed her pull out something small, familiar, and unexpected—a smooth bundle of embroidery floss and an almost-finished hoop, tucked with neat stitches in deep blue and soft rose.

“Wait,” you sat up, eyes wide. “You embroider?” Barbra glanced at you over her shoulder, casual as anything. “Mm-hm. Since I was a teenager.”

“What the hell? We’ve been together for four years and you’ve never mentioned this!” She lifted the hoop and gave you a look. “I make soup from scratch, reupholstered that ottoman you stained with curry, and keep you from walking into screen doors. You really think I don’t have hidden skills?”

“But this is, like… adorable cottagecore old lady behavior. I should’ve known.” Barbra just smirked and sat down in her armchair, slipping on her reading glasses as she threaded her needle. “You never asked.”

“I ask everything!”

“You didn’t ask about textiles.” You climbed onto the couch knees-first and leaned toward her dramatically. “Teach me. Right now.” Barbra snorted. “Sweetheart, you can barely hold a pencil without chewing it.”

“I am an excellent student when properly incentivized.” She peered at you over the rim of her glasses, all dry affection. “And what, exactly, is my incentive?”

“I’ll stop asking how many octaves you can sing in.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’ll make you tea.”

“Tempting.”

“I’ll kiss your wrist every time I mess up.” That made her pause. “…You’re learning backstitch,” she said, reaching for a spare hoop. “It’s easy, and you’ll still have to concentrate.”

“Yes!” You pumped your fist, bouncing in your seat. “Bubbles, you are my favorite person.”

“I’d better be,” she muttered, carefully threading a new needle for you. “You’re hopeless without me.” You grinned and scooted close—knee against hers, towel slowly loosening, hair still damp and curling. You watched her nimble fingers guide the thread through the hoop, her voice soft and steady as she explained the rhythm of the stitch.

And even though you poked yourself three times and groaned like a child after ten minutes, you were glowing. Not just from learning something new, but from learning it from her. This quiet thing she’d kept to herself, now passed from her hands into yours like it meant something.

“Barbra?” She looked up, already knowing you were about to get sappy. “I wanna learn everything about you. Every last weird little thing.” She smiled, so soft and slow and full of love

The sun had started to dip low behind the hills, casting the living room in warm gold and long shadows. The record player hummed quietly in the background—instrumental something or other—but it might as well have been silent, because you weren’t paying it any mind.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the armchair, elbows on your knees, chin in your hands, just… staring.

Barbra, curled up with a book and a glass of elderflower soda, glanced up once. Then again. Then lowered her book just slightly. “Sweetheart.” No response. She cleared her throat. “Baby. Why are you looking at me like I’m about to combust?” You blinked slowly, dreamy and distant. “Why are your eyes so pretty?” Barbra stared. “What?”

“Your eyes. They’re like… I dunno. Sea glass. Or that green-blue glaze on fancy ceramic bowls. I just—” You gestured vaguely. “I don’t understand how anyone’s allowed to walk around with those in their skull.”

Barbra blinked, caught between confusion and amusement. “You are so strange.” You smiled up at her, lovesick and adoring. “I love you.”

“I gathered.” She closed her book and set it aside, arching a brow at you. “You’ve seen my eyes every day for years, darling.”

“Exactly. And I still can’t get over them.”

“Well.” Barbra tilted her head, pretending to consider. “You’ll have to ask my mother, they’re her eyes.”

“Too late. She made you too pretty and I’m stuck with the consequences.” Barbra laughed, that soft, breathy sound you lived for. You kept staring, now curled on your side like a cat, cheek pressed to the carpet. “Sing to me.” She raised her brows. “Now?”

“Mm-hmm. You haven’t sung all day.”

“You got enough of me in the shower, didn’t you?” You shook your head, hair flopping over your face. “That doesn’t count. That was shampoo vocals. I want real Barbra.” Barbra sighed through her nose, already giving in. “You’re relentless.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” She took a breath, long and low, and let her eyes drift half-closed. And then, as natural as breathing, she began: “Funny… did you hear that? Funny… yeah, the guy said ‘honey, you’re a funny girl…’”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Her voice—velvety, precise, unmistakable—wrapped around you like warm silk. You knew every note, every breath, every little flicker in her tone. And still, it made you melt.

Barbra glanced down mid-song and saw the way you were watching her again, completely undone, like her voice was oxygen. “You’re hopeless,” she murmured, voice still singing, eyes still soft. “Utterly hopeless for me.” You nodded, limp against the carpet, in full dramatic worship pose.

“I’m your biggest fan,” you whispered, reaching for her hand, resting it on your cheek. “And your wife. Which is very efficient of me.” She smiled, brushing her thumb over your skin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But I make a very good audience.”

“The best.” And she kept singing. Just for you. Always for you.

Later that night, the house had gone quiet except for the low hum of the kitchen fan and the occasional creak of wood settling. You were curled into Barbra’s side on the bed, draped in yet another one of her oversized robes, your head tucked under her arm, right where her heartbeat was strongest.

You’d fallen mostly quiet now—your usual barrage of questions replaced by lazy fingertip tracing along her ribs beneath the cotton of her shirt. Every now and then, you’d press a kiss to her side or shift closer, as if you could never get quite close enough.

Barbra was reading again, her fingers rhythmically combing through your hair like it was second nature. She didn’t even need to look anymore. She just knew where you were, always.

“Are you gonna sing me to sleep, or not?” you murmured into her stomach. She glanced down, already smiling. “You just want to hear my voice again.”

“It makes my brain stop buzzing,” you whispered. “And I like falling asleep to something that loves me.”

Barbra swallowed once, her expression softening in that way it only did when you were half-asleep and saying things that made her heart ache. She closed her book, kissed the crown of your head, and said, “Alright, little moth. Just this once.”

She sang something low and old, a lullaby from a time before you, her voice rich and round in the quiet of the room. You melted fully into her, a sleepy hum escaping your throat as your eyes began to slip closed.

Barbra tucked the blanket tighter around you both, still singing, still stroking your hair. And when you finally drifted off, lips parted, your breath warm against her side, she whispered: “I love you, baby.”

Then she turned off the lamp, held you close, and let the stillness wrap around you both like something sacred.

[angeliccss]

Babies music taste is expanding

This is a great achievement for a girl who only listened to Lana Del Rey for a year straight

[angeliccss]

‘Lost Queen’ by Emma Farrow

Tracks:

1: Say Something Sweet

2: No belivin’

3: Everyone’s a winner (but me)

4: Broken Promises

5: Sweet Love

6: Older Women (mostly goes like: “pattiiiiiiii you’re so hotttttt pleaseeee let me eat you outttt can i sit on ur noooooseeee” over and over again)

7: Lost Queen

8: Before I’m Gone (Interlude)

9: Not a Waste Of Space (!)

This is satire if you couldn’t tell

@yourbasicqueerie made this for me with the help of @jubshead

[angeliccss]

Send me fic requests

On an unrelated note, and as many of you probably already know, I am madly in love with Barbra Streisand.

[angeliccss]

AHHHHHHH

[angeliccss]

hi I have a request it’s for your number- /j

Your writing is driving me insane how am I meant to pretend to be normal after reading such a MASTERPIECE. Madeline Ashton the woman you are. Now excuse me while I read every single one of your pieces.

Sincerely losing my mind 💙💙

Omgggg. Thank you so much lovely!! I normally only write Patti LuPone characters but I am madly in love with Megan Hilty so I have a bunch of short little fics I wrote for myself that I might post. I will definitely write more Madeline tho!

[angeliccss]

Dark Paradise

Pairing: Fosca/Reader

Words: 2.2k

Summary: In a crumbling Italian outpost, you tend to a woman who cannot sleep, cannot let go, and cannot stop loving you. Fosca calls you her beloved and leaves flowers at your door like offerings. You try not to fall. But love is a sickness—and by the time you notice the fever, it’s far too late to be cured.

Warnings: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Illness, Based on a Lana Del Rey Song, Knockin on deaths door, Fosca doesn’t die, Soft angst, Flowers with meaning

AO3

“All my friends tell me I should move on. I’m lying in the ocean, singing your song…”

The first time you saw her, you thought she was a ghost.

She stood at the top of the staircase in a gown that hung off her like decay, black hair loose around her face, eyes sunken and enormous. There was no announcement, no greeting—just the flicker of her silhouette against the dying light, as though the house itself had conjured her.

Your bags were still at your feet. You’d barely crossed the threshold of the crumbling estate. The soldier who drove you up the winding mountain road had muttered something under his breath as he left—poor creature—but you hadn’t asked if he meant her, or you.

“I’m not what you were expecting,” Fosca said then, her voice soft as soot. Her lips barely moved. You didn’t know how to answer. She smiled anyway. It did not reach her eyes.

That was weeks ago.

The outpost is far from the city—too far. Time stretches strangely here, thin and brittle. The air always smells faintly of burnt sugar and something spoiled. You keep her room cool, keep the tea warm, keep the doctor’s orders posted on the wall, though you know she’s read them a hundred times already.

She doesn’t obey them.

Instead, she talks in riddles. Writes poems on the backs of medicine labels. Leaves wildflowers on your pillow—always the same three kinds: bleeding hearts, monkshood, and sweet alyssum. Always tied with red thread.

You tell yourself it’s just loneliness. A mind left to rot in isolation. You are her caretaker. Her companion. That is all. And yet—and yet, you don’t sleep.

You lie in your bed, half-dreaming, half-listening for the click of her door, the ghost-quiet brush of her bare feet on the stone floors. Sometimes she stands outside your room and whispers.

Sometimes she sings. “Every time I close my eyes. It’s like a dark paradise. No one compares to you. But there’s no you, except in my dreams tonight…”

You pretend not to hear her. You tell yourself you’re not listening. You keep the door locked. But tonight, the lock is open.

She’s burning with fever. Fragile, trembling, her nightdress soaked through with sweat. She clutches your wrist like she might fall apart without it.

“Stay,” she breathes, voice cracked and urgent. “Stay with me. I—I can’t sleep, not if you’re not beside me. Not if you leave me again.”

Your throat tightens. You never meant to become part of her illness. You never meant to make a home in the dark.

But when she pulls you down into the bed, into her, into the heat and desperation of her body—you realize the sickness isn’t just hers anymore. And you never want to get better.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Days pass. Or maybe weeks. Time moves even slower now, muddied and thick, like ink in water.

You still bring Fosca her tea. You still write down her symptoms, measure her pulse, smooth cool cloths over her forehead when the fevers rise. But she doesn’t call you “nurse” anymore. She never really did.

She calls you beloved. She says it like a secret. Or a prayer.

At first, it was a whisper before sleep—“Goodnight, my beloved”—murmured when she thought you’d already gone. Then, one morning, over breakfast, she said it aloud, unblinking, as though the word had always belonged to you.

You didn’t correct her. You couldn’t. Something had shifted. Something soft and strange and irreversible.

She no longer waited for the night to leave her offerings. Now she placed them directly into your hands: a single feather, a twist of black ribbon, a scrap of lace from her own sleeve.

“You looked sad today,” she said once, pressing the velvet scrap to your palm. “So I wanted you to have something beautiful. Something that had already touched me.”

She looked happier now. Not healthier. No, her body was still frail, her shoulders bird-boned and sharp beneath her shawl. But there was color in her cheeks. Light in her eyes.

Love had become her cure. And you?

You had stopped pretending you didn’t wait for her voice in the hall. That your breath didn’t hitch when she touched you, reverently, with the aching wonder of a saint before an altar.

She never asked for anything more than your nearness. But her eyes—God, her eyes—always asked the same question: Could you love something this broken? Would you stay, if I shattered?

“No one compares to you I’m scared that you won’t be waiting on the other side…” One night, she reached for your hand and didn’t let go.

You had just turned down the lamp. The room was bathed in amber light, soft and flickering, and she looked like a portrait: something sacred and sad, trembling in silk.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t sleep in the other room. I—I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I want to be alone with you.”

You lay beside her. At first, you did not touch. But her hand found your chest, fingers curling over your heart like she was trying to memorize the rhythm.

“Do you know what it feels like to love someone so deeply,” she said, “that the world seems to vanish without them? That your body forgets how to function unless they are near?”

You said nothing. But she smiled, as if you had answered. “It feels like this,” she said. And in that moment, you understood: she didn’t care whether you loved her back. She was already happy. Hopelessly, impossibly happy. Because she loved you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Some mornings, she’s radiant.

She wakes before you do, already dressed in layers of lace and tulle, hair pinned, eyes alight with some strange inner fire. She hums as she pours tea. She recites stanzas of forgotten poems, lips curled in delight, and tells you the names of birds that haven’t been seen in this part of Italy for a century.

She dances, sometimes. Barefoot across the cracked stone floor, shawl trailing behind her like a funeral veil caught in the wind.

You sit, watching, aching. Wondering if this is what resurrection looks like—brief, shining, and unsustainable.

Because the next day, she won’t be able to rise from bed. Her limbs will be leaden. Her eyes glassy. She won’t speak—not even in riddles.

Her skin will burn like fire and you’ll press cold compress after cold compress to her brow, whispering her name like a chant, like a desperate plea to whatever cruel god she answers to.

You’ll stay up all night watching her chest to be sure it still rises. You’ll feel her slipping through your fingers and there’s nothing—nothing—you can do to stop it.

“I wish I was dead. Dead like you…”

You try to ask the doctors for help. Letters go unanswered. The last telegram you sent was returned unopened. You begin to wonder if anyone remembers you’re still up here.

Even the birds have stopped coming to the windowsill.

And still, when Fosca can lift her head, she smiles at you like nothing’s wrong. Like she isn’t dying slowly and beautifully in your arms.

“You worry too much,” she whispers, her voice thinner than paper. “You should be glad to witness something so rare. Most people live and die without ever seeing a love like this.”

Your hands tremble as you refill her teacup. She can barely hold it now. “I don’t want to witness it,” you murmur, eyes burning. “I want you to live.”

She smiles. Not because she believes she will. But because you said want. That’s enough for her. But it’s not enough for you. Not anymore.

You don’t know how to care for her now. You don’t know how to love someone who is slowly eroding in your arms, who disappears a little more each time she touches you.

You’re afraid to sleep, because what if she’s not breathing when you wake?

And yet—when she looks at you like that, like you are the only tether she has to this earth—you cannot leave.

You’re not her caretaker anymore. You’re hers. Entirely, irrevocably. And if she dies—you’re not sure you’ll know how to go on being alive.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Fosca doesn’t speak for two days.

She lies still, eyes half-lidded, barely breathing. The doctors do not come. The world does not answer. The candle at her bedside burns down and is replaced. Burned down again. Replaced again.

You lose track of time.

You hold her hand. You whisper to her. You bathe her forehead in cool water and beg whatever god is listening not to take her—not yet—not when she’s only just started laughing again. Not when she just started living.

“Fosca,” you say, your voice raw. “Please. Don’t go. Please.” Her breathing hitches. Her fingers twitch in yours.

“I thought I could handle it,” you say, choking. “I thought I could just care for you, be near you, and not—fall. But I did. I have. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Her lips part, a soundless breath escaping. You lean closer. Your tears fall onto her pillow.

“I don’t want to live in a world where you aren’t,” you whisper. “You made it beautiful again. You made me feel seen. Needed. Holy. No one’s ever touched me like I was worth something until you.”

You press your forehead to hers. “If you die, I’m going with you. Do you hear me? I won’t stay here without you. I can’t.”

And there’s no remedy for memory. Your face is like a melody. It won’t leave my head…

Her hand—impossibly cold, feather-light—rises. It touches your face. Her eyes open. Not wide. Not bright. But open. She blinks once. Then again.

“Beloved,” she rasps, as though returning from another world. “You stayed.” You sob. You don’t remember the last time you cried like this.

“Of course I stayed,” you breathe, gathering her against your chest. “I always will.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Fosca’s fever breaks just before dawn.

You wake to the sound of her breathing—steady, fragile, but there. For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. The candle has burned down to a nub again. The room is cold. You’ve fallen asleep with your arms around her, face tucked into her hair.

And then she stirs. Her fingers twitch against your chest. Her lips part. A soft, cracked breath escapes her—followed by a single word: “Beloved.” You sit up too quickly. The light is gray and trembling, like the sky itself is holding its breath. Her eyes are open.

They find yours and do not waver. “I’m here,” you whisper, hand trembling as you cup her cheek. “I’m here. I never left.”

And she smiles. It’s faint, no more than a tremor at the corners of her mouth, but it’s real. A small, stunning miracle. She’s alive.

Recovery is slow. She’s weak, unsteady, but she starts to eat again. She leans against you when she walks, reads to you from books she’s long since memorized. Her voice grows stronger by the day. Sometimes, she sings.

You open the windows again. The house smells of wild lavender and sun-warmed stone. Birds begin to return to the sill, as if they too are watching over her.

You never go back to your room. There’s no need. Her bed becomes your bed. Her skin becomes your warmth. Your mornings begin with her fingers curled into your hair, her breath slow against your shoulder, her lips brushing your throat as she murmurs half-formed dreams.

“You saved me,” she tells you one night, her head resting in your lap. “You made the world bearable again.”

You kiss her temple. “You saved yourself,” you murmur. “I just stayed long enough to see it happen.”

Fosca smiles—not the manic, wild smile she used to wear like armor, but something softer. Something only you get to see. “I used to think love was a sickness,” she says. “But if it is—then let me be ill for the rest of my life.”

By summer, she walks alone. By autumn, she dances again. She pulls you into her arms one crisp, golden morning and kisses you beneath the stone archway, her hair loose, her laugh low and luminous in the air.

You stay. Not because you have to. Because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. The world beyond the hills can go on without you. Let it.

You have everything you need here: the crumbling walls, the firelight, the silence at night. And her. Fosca, in all her frailty, in all her impossible strength.

She once made you feel holy. Now she makes you feel whole. And for the first time since you arrived at this forgotten outpost, you begin to believe in a future.

One where she wakes beside you each morning. One where love isn’t a curse. One where the dark is no longer a paradise—because the real one is here. In her eyes. In her hands. In every day you get to stay.

[angeliccss]

@yourbasicqueerie says I’m a blond and I don’t agree. I am 100% a brunette.

Also face reveal on here ig

[angeliccss]

The Quite Ones

Pairing: Mona Wassermann/Reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: She said it was love when she asked you to move in. You didn’t notice the walls closing in until they felt like home. Now there’s another girl wearing your old fear—and you, draped in silk and power, wouldn’t have it any other

Warnings: Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Moral Corruption, Being Controlled But You Like It, Suicide (not reader), kidnapping

AO3

AN: This did a complete 180 from what I expected it to be, Oopsies. Enjoy Xx (Requested by: @luvpone)

The eggs are already plated when you wake.

Soft-scrambled, just the way Mona likes them—creamy, a hint of chive, barely touched by heat. The toast is dry, cut diagonally. The grapefruit has been halved, segmented, dusted with sugar.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, like you’re afraid to shift the balance of the morning. The sheets are still warm beside you, though she’s long gone. You smell her perfume before you see the tray. Sharp. Floral. Unmistakably hers.

A folded note rests beside your water glass.

Remember your pills. Wear the blue sweater today. I’ll be home at six. Don’t make me come looking.

– M

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment. Neat. Severe. Looped just slightly at the tail ends, like she wants to seem softer than she is.

You do exactly as she says. Not because you’re hungry, but because she’ll ask. And if she finds the plate cold and untouched when she gets home—no. Better not to find out.

You chew mechanically, gaze drifting across the apartment. Her apartment. All clean lines and pale marble, glass so spotless it reflects the sky, not the city. Everything in its place. Just like you.

There’s a faint hum of music playing through the built-in speakers—one of her old jazz records. Mona likes music in the mornings. She says silence makes you brood.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. You already know who it is.

Have you eaten? Send me a photo.

You don’t hesitate. You snap a picture of the empty plate and send it without comment. The read receipt pops up within seconds.

Good girl. Now the sweater.

You rise, dutiful, and make your way to the closet. Not yours—hers. Everything you own now fits into a curated space of her choosing. The blue sweater is already laid out on the ottoman. You didn’t put it there.

It still smells like her. You slip the sweater on. It’s soft, expensive. Cashmere, probably. Mona doesn’t buy anything that isn’t the best.

It still fits perfectly, even though you’re sure you’ve lost weight. She says that’s good. Says it makes you look “kept.” Like you’re being taken care of.

You sit on the edge of the bed, sweater clutched around yourself like armor, and let your thoughts drift—just for a moment—back to before.

Back to the beginning.

Mona had been kind, then. Overwhelming, yes—she swept into your life like a storm with perfect posture—but kind. She asked questions no one else thought to ask. Remembered the name of your cat, your mother, your favorite wine. She touched your arm when you were nervous and said things like: “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

And you believed her.

When she offered her guest suite, just for a while, just until things “settled”, you didn’t think twice. You were out of work. The lease was ending. She looked at you like she couldn’t bear the thought of you struggling.

You told yourself it was temporary. She told you, gently: “I want you safe. That’s all. Let me give you that.”

You never even noticed the moment your keys stopped working. Or when she started answering your phone. Or when your old clothes vanished, replaced with carefully chosen alternatives. Mona said they “didn’t suit you.” She said this with a smile, holding a silk blouse to your chest like a gift.

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s what’s so confusing.

She loves you. She tells you so every day. She holds your face in both hands like it’s precious. She kisses your temple when you’re quiet too long and murmurs things like: “You’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you?”

The worst part is—she might be right.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The lock clicks at exactly 5:58 PM. She never rings. Never knocks. This is her home. Her space. Her rules.

You’re already sitting on the couch, sweater smoothed over your lap, a book open but unread in your hands. You’ve been in that position for twenty minutes, heart fluttering with anticipation you’d never call fear.

She walks in without hesitation. A black coat draped over her shoulders. Lips painted like blood and wine. Hair perfectly set, not a strand out of place.

Mona Wassermann doesn’t rush. She arrives. “Darling.” Her voice is warm, velvet-thick. “You wore the sweater.” You nod, managing a smile. “You said to.”

She hums, low and pleased, and crosses the room in heels that echo like punctuation. “You listen so well,” she murmurs, and cups your jaw in one hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, her touch feather-light. “That’s what I love about you. You know how to be cared for.”

You swallow. “I made tea.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she says, still smiling, still touching. “But I’ll sit with you.” She takes the book from your lap and sets it aside—delicately, like it’s fragile. Like you’re fragile. Then she sits beside you and pulls you into her side, your body folding against hers out of habit more than choice.

Her arm curls around your shoulders. Her lips brush your temple. “There,” she whispers. “Isn’t that better?”

You nod again. Because it is. It’s easier than questioning. Safer than pushing back. And besides, Mona’s warmth is real. Her grip, firm but comforting. Her attention, intoxicating.

If this is what love looks like, you think, maybe you can learn to want it this way. You close your eyes and let her hold you. And you don’t ask why the door locks behind her with a soft mechanical click.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t notice when you stop checking the time.

Mona keeps the clocks set fast by exactly six minutes, she says it keeps you sharp, but you don’t need them. You know her rhythms better than your own now. You wake when she tells you. Eat when she expects you to. Breathe easier when she walks through the door.

You used to wonder if this was normal. If it was healthy. Now you just want to make her proud.

She’s sitting at the dining table with her glasses perched low on her nose, reading something dense and contractual. You curl up beside her on the floor, rest your head against her hip. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Her hand slips into your hair like it belongs there. “I could get used to this,” she says absently, still reading. You tilt your head up. “To what?”

“This. You. Obedient. Quiet. Sweet.” You beam like it’s praise. Because it is. “I just want to make you happy,” you say. She sets her papers down and looks at you fully, her expression unreadable.

“You do,” she says. Then softer, almost to herself, “You really do.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She still tells you you’re beautiful, but now it’s in the same tone she uses when approving a purchase order—decisive, possessive. Her hands roam absently when she walks past you: a hand at your waist, a gentle grip at your nape, a brush down your spine that makes you shiver in ways you pretend not to understand.

And when she kisses you, it’s with a kind of ownership that leaves no room for doubt.

One night, you whisper to her in the dark, just as sleep starts to take you both: “I love you.” You feel her go still behind you, just for a second.

Then her hand curls around your middle, pulling you closer. Her mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I love you too.”You smile, eyes fluttering closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You meet for coffee because Mona said you could.

She picked the café. Chose your outfit. Had the driver wait half a block away. “Let her feel free,” she’d said with a smirk, lips brushing your cheek. “It’ll make her easier to ignore.” You’d laughed. She kissed you again.

Now you sit at a small table by the window, sweater sleeves neatly pushed to your wrists, hands folded in your lap the way Mona likes. You’re early, of course. You always are.

When your friend arrives, she looks different. Or maybe you do. She hugs you too tightly, too long. She smells like a life you used to have—street food and secondhand bookstores, not rose oil and Mona’s Chanel.

“You look…” She hesitates. “Good.” You smile. “She takes care of me.”

“Yeah,” your friend says, pulling off her coat. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” It starts softly. Little questions. How have you been? Are you still painting? Do you see anyone else? Do you ever go anywhere alone?

You answer like you’ve been coached—because you have. “She just wants what’s best for me,” you say. “She’s protective.”

“Protective,” your friend echoes. “Or controlling?” You blink. “What’s the difference?” She stares at you. Her expression shifts—fear, maybe. Or pity. You hate it.

“She’s cut you off from everyone,” she says quietly. “You used to call me when you couldn’t sleep. You used to laugh more. You used to talk about leaving.” You stiffen. “I don’t want to leave.”

“She doesn’t love you,” your friend says, voice flat. “She owns you.” You flinch like she slapped you. “No,” you say. “No, she does. You don’t understand her.”

“I understand you,” she says, leaning forward. “And I know when you’re not okay.”

You push back your chair, carefully. Not angrily—Mona taught you better than that. You gather your coat, your phone, your bag. Everything Mona picked out for you.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice even. “I love her. And she loves me.” She grabs your wrist. “She’s conditioning you.” You yank free.

“She saved me,” you say, quieter now. “When no one else did. I’m not going to apologize for being loved.”

Your phone buzzes. A single text: Time’s up. Car is waiting. You don’t look back. You leave with your head high, pride stiff in your spine.

That night, you curl against Mona in bed. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. “She’s worried about you,” she murmurs.

You nod against her chest. “She doesn’t know what we have.” Mona hums. “No,” she agrees, stroking your back. “She doesn’t.” She holds you closer. You don’t see the way her eyes stay open long after yours have closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend doesn’t stop.

She starts texting. Calling. Leaving voicemails that pile up unheard in your phone’s hidden folder—Mona showed you how to mute her without blocking. “Cruelty,” she’d said, “is giving them hope.”

At first, you ignore it. Then, you listen. She sounds tired. Worried. Pleading.

This isn’t you. You used to fight. You used to have your own mind. I’m not going away.

You play the last message twice. It ends with silence, then a quiet, broken whisper: Please come back. You delete it.

Later, you tell Mona. She’s in her study, barefoot, swirling a glass of red wine. You sit on the arm of her chair, your hand resting gently on her shoulder. “She won’t stop.” Mona doesn’t look up from her book. “Then block her.”

“She was my friend.” Mona hums. “And I’m your future.” You hesitate. Then: “She said I’m not myself anymore.” That gets her attention. She closes the book. Turns to face you fully.

“And what self would you rather be, hm?” Her voice is soft, slow. Seductive in its certainty. “The one who cried herself to sleep in an empty apartment? The one who begged for scraps of affection from people who couldn’t give a damn?”

You’re quiet. She leans closer, brushing her lips over your jaw. “Or this version? The one who’s loved. Protected. Chosen.” You nod. But something cold settles in your chest anyway. It starts to show.

At lunch with Mona’s acquaintances—never your friends—you speak less. But when you do, it’s with precision. You echo Mona’s cadence, her sharpness, her subtle threats wrapped in silk.

Someone makes a joke at your expense. You smile, cool and unbothered, and say: “Careful. Mona doesn’t like people touching her things.”

Their laugh falters. You finish your drink. Mona beams.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You dream about locking the doors behind her. You dream about telling someone they’re not allowed to leave. You wake with a sick flush of guilt—and something else. Something hotter. Thicker.

You bury your face in Mona’s shoulder. She strokes your hair and doesn’t ask what the dream was. She knows.

Your friend corners you outside the florist’s. You don’t know how she found you. “You’re scaring me,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

You look at her—really look—and realize she’s smaller than you remember. Not physically. Just… less. You tilt your head. “She’s not hurting me,” you say calmly. “She’s making me better.”

“She’s changing you.” You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says it all.

That night, Mona kisses your neck and murmurs, “My sweet girl. You’re learning.” And you are. You just don’t know if you’re becoming what she wants—or something even she should be afraid of.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend comes back. She looks worse now—drawn, desperate, tired of begging but still clinging to the idea that somewhere beneath all this, you’re still you.

You open the door without hesitation. “Come in,” you say smoothly. She hesitates, but steps over the threshold. The lock clicks behind her.

You lead her to the sitting room, where the lights are low and the air smells faintly of Mona’s perfume, amber, spice, smoke.

She doesn’t sit. “I just want to talk.” You nod. “We will. But not yet.” You cross the room and pour a glass of wine, watching her in the reflection of the cabinet mirror. She’s uneasy already. Good.

You hand her the glass. She doesn’t take it.

“Mona will be home soon,” you say softly, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. “You should stay. Since you want me so badly.” Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You keep saying you want the real me back.” You smile, all teeth. “She’ll want to see that.” She takes a step back. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I’m not joking.” You move closer. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present. “You chased me down. You barged into my life. You said you weren’t leaving until I came back.”

You lower your voice. “So stay.” You motion toward the couch. She doesn’t move. You don’t force her. You just watch. “Let’s see what Mona thinks of your loyalty.”

When Mona arrives, the energy in the room shifts instantly. She closes the door, tosses her keys on the side table, and pauses when she sees the two of you.

Her eyes land on your friend. Then flick to you with a slow, dangerous smile. You stand and walk to her, all grace and control, and press a kiss to her cheek.

“She wants to save me,” you murmur, just loud enough for your friend to hear. “Tried again.” Mona’s eye glint. “How sweet.”

“She’s staying,” you add. “For now. Since she misses me so much.” Mona looks at your friend like one might look at something pitiful on the street.

“How generous,” she says, curling an arm around your waist. You lean into her easily, effortlessly. Your voice is silk. “She doesn’t understand yet. But she will.” Mona kisses your temple. “She won’t like what she sees.”

“She never does,” you reply. “But that’s not our problem, is it?” Your friend stands frozen, uncertain if she’s still here to help—or if she’s already become part of the performance.

You smile, slow and cruel. “Don’t worry,” you say gently. “You wanted to see the real me.” You lace your fingers with Mona’s, lift them to your lips. “Well. Here I am.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She stayed. Not by choice. But she stayed.

It was supposed to be a confrontation. A rescue. But one look at Mona, one long, bone-deep silence between the two of you, and your friend lost her footing. You saw it in her eyes—the moment her resolve cracked.

Now she sleeps in the servant’s room. You didn’t even know the house had one. Mona called it “practical.” She doesn’t call her by name anymore. Just “the girl.”

“She’s useful,” Mona says with a wave of her hand. “Good hands. Quiet. Mostly.” You don’t ask her to leave. You don’t apologize.

Instead, you hand her empty teacups. You set your shoes by the door and let her clean them. You watch her as she dusts the shelves you used to daydream beside, and you feel…

Nothing. No guilt. No ache. Only power.

Mona sees it in you. The way your shoulders don’t hunch anymore. The way you speak with weight. The way you look at her like you’ve finally earned her.

And when she fastens your necklace in the mirror, she speaks low against your ear: “I’m proud of you.” Your eyes flutter shut. You lean into her touch. You’re warm all over.

She still tells you when to sleep. What to wear. Where to sit. And you let her. You want to. Because every time she buttons your collar closed or brushes her thumb over your lip to wipe away a crumb, your body reacts before your mind does.

Heat. Obedience. Desire. You used to wonder if it was wrong. Now you just want more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One evening, you catch your reflection as you pass the mirror in the foyer. You pause. Step closer. Study yourself. The posture. The lipstick. The velvet around your throat.

You turn, slowly, admiring. Behind you, the girl—your friend—sets a tray on the table. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You watch her in the mirror, then shift your gaze back to yourself. “Mona,” you say casually as she enters the room, “do you think she’s in love with me?”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “She’s afraid of yoi.” You smile. “Same thing.”

Mona laughs, low and delighted, and crosses to you. She kisses you slowly, possessively, not caring that the girl can see.

And you melt into her, fingertips grazing the curve of her waist. Because fear isn’t love. But it keeps people close. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s raining the day the girl tries to leave.

You find her in the foyer with her old coat and a canvas bag that still smells like the life she used to have. She’s trembling, soaked from the open door. Eyes darting, frantic.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like she’s begging without words. You don’t say anything either. You just close the door. Quietly. Then you call for Mona.

The aftermath is silent. No shouting. No threats. Just the door locking. The coat taken. The bag burned.

Later, Mona wraps an arm around your waist as you sip wine by the fireplace. The girl kneels at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You handled that well,” Mona murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I knew you would.” You smile. You should feel triumphant. But what you feel is settled. Like the final piece of something has clicked into place.

That night, you lie in bed with Mona’s hand at your throat and her breath in your ear, and it hits you: You’re not afraid anymore. Not of her. Not of what you’ve become. Not even of what you’re capable of.

You want her power. You want to share it. And you know now—you were never her victim. You were her creation.

The rain has stopped. There’s a stillness in the house that’s almost sacred. No birds, no wind—just the faint hum of quiet obedience in every room.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen the next morning, Mona’s silk robe wrapped around you like armor. It still smells like her—amber, smoke, power. You don’t bother tying it.

The girl is already there.

Kneeling by the oven, scrubbing the tile. Her movements are too fast, too frantic, like if she works hard enough she might disappear.

You stand in the doorway for a moment and just watch her. The tremble in her spine. The quick glance over her shoulder. The way she immediately ducks her head again.

You love it. Not in the way you used to love. Not the soft, giving kind. This is something deeper. Sharper. Almost holy.

You walk to the counter and sit. She stiffens when she hears the stool scrape the floor. You let the silence stretch. Then: “Coffee.” Your voice is low. Even. Calm. But it cuts through her like a blade.

She stumbles to her feet and obeys. Hands shaking. You don’t help. You don’t thank her. You just watch.

When she sets the cup in front of you, you reach out—slowly, deliberately—and take her wrist. She freezes. You don’t squeeze. You don’t threaten. You just hold her there. Make her look at you.

And when she does—when her eyes meet yours, wide and frightened, pleading—you smile. “I could’ve been you,” you say softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You release her. Take a sip. It’s perfect. Behind you, you hear the soft click of Mona’s heels approaching.

She enters without a word and leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. You meet her eyes. She’s beaming.

There’s something almost tender in the way she looks at you now. Something reverent. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’ve found your footing.”

You glance back at the girl, who has quietly returned to her corner. Head down. Knees bruised. “Fear,” you say, swirling your coffee, “is a kind of worship.”

Mona crosses the room and kisses your forehead. “I knew you’d understand,” she whispers. You rest your head against her shoulder, looking out at your kingdom. The kitchen, the house, the girl. All of it. Yours. Hers. Forever.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It happens on a Tuesday.

You find her slumped in the servant’s room—wrist pale and open, sheets stained a dull brown. She must’ve done it hours ago. No note. No drama. Just quiet defiance. Or maybe desperation.

You stand in the doorway and look at her for a long time. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sigh.

“She couldn’t even finish the floors,” you say that evening, curled in Mona’s lap, her fingers idly combing through your hair.

Mona hums in mild irritation, swirling a spoon through her espresso. “I told you she wasn’t built for longevity. All that conviction—useless without structure.”

You stretch, slow and catlike, lips brushing the underside of her jaw. “We’ll have to place an ad.” Mona groans dramatically. “Ugh. Interviews.” You laugh softly. “Can we get one that doesn’t cry?”

“Or pray.”

“Or try to save me?” Mona tightens her grip around your waist. “You’re not in need of saving,” she murmurs. “You’re perfect.” You smile into her throat.

Later that week, a new girl arrives. Young. Eager. Nervous. She calls you “Miss.” You offer her a drink. Something calming. She takes it with both hands.

And from the top of the stairs, Mona watches you with pride gleaming in her eyes. You’ve learned to play her game. No—your game now.

And the house? The house remains hungry. Always hungry.