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coupleofhacks · 3 days ago

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BETWEEN NEED AND RUIN.

SUMMARY: a late-night sleepover turns into something neither of them can pretend away. in the hush of tangled limbs and whispered praise, ava learns just how much deborah can give—and take.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is more of just a drabble/oneshot. it's not in any way linked to my ongoing avorah fic (latest chapter here). anyway, enjoy, lol.

WC: 4k (4084) words CW: explicit sexual content, oral sex, digital penetration, neck biting/marking, orgasm control, edging, light(ish?) d/s dynamic (dom!deb), praise kink, multiple orgasms, use of "ma'am" honorific, AU established (sexual) relationship, queer sex, older woman/younger woman.

She turned in the sheets like she always did—half-conscious, tangled in warmth, still chasing the edge of sleep. Only this time, the fabric she was tangled in wasn’t hers. The mattress had more give, the air was scented with something expensive, and the quiet was heavier, more deliberate. Ava blinked, slowly. She was in Deborah’s bed.

Deborah was awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. Hair undone, the faintest shadows under her eyes softening the sharpness of her features. There was no smirk, no punchline ready on her tongue—just stillness, and something almost careful in her gaze, like she didn’t want to startle the moment.

“Hey,” Deborah said, voice low and unguarded, like it hadn’t been used yet this morning.

“Hey,” Ava murmured, a breath behind her own heartbeat. She could feel it already—something unspooling, dragging her somewhere she’d been before.

It was too familiar. The hush. The angle of light. The way Deborah’s lips were just slightly parted, like she was about to speak but hadn’t decided what to say. Ava knew this. Not from memory, exactly—but from a dream. One she’d had long ago, maybe more than once, always waking up too soon, pulse racing, lips tingling with phantom touch.

“I thought I was dreaming again,” she said, quieter than before, like if she was too loud it would all vanish.

Deborah tilted her head. “You dream about me?”

“Just… sometimes.”

She didn’t look away. Neither did Deborah. And when Deborah reached for her, fingertips brushing the line of her jaw, Ava felt everything stutter. Time, breath, thought. Her skin flushed red under the touch, out of recognition.

Deborah let her fingers move—along Ava’s jaw, the slope of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Like she was learning her face by touch alone, like memory wasn’t enough anymore. Her eyes were wide and unreadable, but her gaze didn’t waver, didn’t shy away. She looked at Ava the way someone might look at a painting they weren’t ready to leave behind.

Ava couldn’t move. She didn’t want to.

Then Deborah leaned in, slow and certain, and kissed her. A quiet inevitability, like a thought finally spoken aloud. Their mouths found each other with practiced ease, as if some part of them already knew the rhythm.

Deborah deepened the kiss the moment Ava sighed—soft at first, then breathier, edged with something that trembled on the verge of a moan. It pulled something from Deborah, something instinctive and hungry, and her hand slid into Ava’s hair, fingers threading through the strands until she had a firm hold near the roots. She tugged—not rough, just enough to tilt Ava’s head back, to expose the long stretch of her throat.

This elicited a louder gasp from Ava.

It urged Deborah on to move without hesitation, mouth trailing down to kiss beneath her jaw, to map the pulse beating fast under skin. Each kiss grew bolder, wetter, her lips parting to leave faint marks, each one a possession, a confession, a hunger she could no longer disguise. She marked her slowly, deliberately, until Ava was gasping, hands clutching the sheets, a flush creeping up her chest like something blooming open.

Still, Deborah didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Not when her mouth was already writing everything she couldn’t say across Ava’s skin.

Deborah paused, lifting her head just enough to look down at her. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, mouth parted, breath grazing Ava’s cheek in warm bursts. For a moment, neither of them moved. Just the sound of their breathing, the weight of it all between them.

Ava looked back, her own expression soft, wide open. She could feel the hesitation in Deborah’s touch now—not uncertainty about wanting her, but about where to go next. She was poised on the edge, trying not to do too much, trying not to ruin it.

Ava almost said something—something small, soothing, warm, to break the tension. But Deborah beat her to it.

“Show me what feels good, honey.”

Her voice was low, husky, heavy at the edges, like she was letting herself be led for once. Like she wanted to learn Ava, not just touch her.

Ava’s breath caught. She reached down, took Deborah’s hand, and slowly brought it beneath the hem of her shirt, down over the flat of her stomach, past the elastic waistband of her underwear. Her own fingers trembled as she guided Deborah’s inward, pressing her palm where the heat had gathered—where she ached.

Their eyes never left each other.

Ava moaned the moment Deborah’s fingers found her—wet, aching, ready in a way that made her hips jerk forward instinctively.

Her eyes rolled back slightly before she dragged them open again, locking onto Deborah with a look that was part awe, part plea. She ground against her fingertips, slow and aching, needing more but not asking for it aloud. She chased the high with a quiet desperation, chasing the friction, the pressure of fingertips that lingered but didn’t yet push.

Deborah swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat as she adjusted them both—lifting Ava’s thigh and draping it over her own, angling her body for better access. She stayed close, face hovering just above, their mouths nearly brushing. Her hand never faltered, cupping Ava with reverence, her fingers gliding through slick heat, slow and steady while her others remained threaded in Ava’s hair at the root.

Ava’s breath hitched. Her leg tightened around Deborah’s hip, her hand curling into the sheets, but her eyes stayed locked on Deborah’s.

Deborah watched her. Every shift in expression, every flutter of her lashes, every soft sound that left her mouth. Her fingers moved in delicate, deliberate circles, just enough to keep Ava chasing the sensation, hips rolling in rhythm, drawn toward something building and hot and intimate.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need. Ava was unraveling in her hands, and Deborah was watching her fall apart like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Deborah shifted subtly, her fingers slick with Ava’s arousal, moving with more certainty now—steadier, more assured. She found her rhythm like it was second nature, as if the sounds Ava made were guiding her. Slow, deliberate strokes over where Ava was pulsing, the exact right pressure that made her thighs tremble, her moans stretch longer, higher.

Then—without breaking eye contact—Deborah slipped two fingers inside. Middle and ring, slow at first, just enough to feel Ava gasp, her body tightening around the intrusion.

And then she curled them.

Ava jolted—back arching, eyes wide, lips parting in a broken moan that caught at the edge of a cry.

Deborah grinned—low and warm, the kind of smile that pulled from something older than confidence. Something deeper. She chuckled, a quiet, dark sound that vibrated against Ava’s throat as she leaned in closer, still moving her fingers in slow curls, dragging across the spot that made Ava writhe.

“Right there, huh?” she murmured, not waiting for an answer, already coaxing her toward it again.

A broken “yes” slipped out of Ava—barely a breath, more tremble than word, her body arching again as Deborah’s fingers curled just right.

Deborah stilled, just for a beat, eyes flicking up to catch Ava’s, sharp and wanting.

“Yes what?” she asked, voice like velvet over steel, low and coaxing, every syllable dipped in heat.

Ava blinked up at her, dazed, lips parted around a gasp. She hesitated just a moment, and then—softly, but clear enough to pierce straight through both of them—

“Yes, ma’am.”

Deborah’s smile bloomed slow and wicked, pleasure crackling just beneath the surface of her restraint. Her eyes sparkled with it.

“There’s my good girl,” she murmured, dragging the words out like a reward, like a promise.

And she kept going. Fingers moving again, deeper, more deliberate, pulling Ava apart with every curl and thrust, her voice warm and praising in her ear while her body did the rest. Ava clung to her, hips rolling helplessly, lips trembling, completely undone beneath Deborah’s reverent hands and that voice calling her good.

The sounds between them grew obscene—slick and wet and desperate, echoing in the quiet of the room like they meant to be heard. Ava clung to her now, arms tight around Deborah’s shoulders, fingers grasping at bare skin and silk, anything she could hold. Her lips found Deborah’s in a fevered kiss—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth grazing, breath caught between them like a dense fog at midnight.

Deborah fucked her harder, her hand working with steady, relentless rhythm—fingers thrusting deep, curling just right, dragging across that spot that made Ava gasp into her mouth.

Ava moaned against her lips, the sound high and breaking, her hips grinding down in time, chasing it, riding it.

Deborah’s free hand cradled the back of her neck, anchoring her there, holding her close as she kissed her back—hungry, claiming, coaxing. Every thrust was deliberate, every movement edged with intention. She wanted to feel Ava shatter in her arms.

And Ava was close—body taut, mouth parting in a choked-off cry, clinging to Deborah like she was the only thing tethering her to the world.

Deborah felt it—every pulse, every shudder, the way Ava’s body tightened around her fingers with frantic, trembling rhythm. She was close. Right there on the edge, breath hitching, lips dragging broken pleas against Deborah’s mouth.

And then—Deborah eased off.

She slowed her thrusts, softened the pressure, barely moved at all. Just enough to keep Ava hovering in it, suspended in the ache, in her neediness. Ava whined—a breathless, devastated sound—and her hips jerked forward, chasing more, chasing what had been so close.

“Deborah—” she gasped, voice trembling.

Deborah only chuckled. Low, dark, knowing, and leaned in. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against Ava’s cheek, the corner of her jaw, near her ear. “You like that, don’t you?”

Ava couldn’t answer—not properly. Her eyes fluttered, her thighs trembled, and she clung harder to Deborah’s shoulders like she might fall apart otherwise. Her body said everything her mouth couldn’t: the way she ground against her hand despite the slowed pace, the flush creeping up her chest, the way her breath hitched at every teasing motion.

“You like being kept right there,” Deborah whispered, lips ghosting her ear now. “Begging me for it. Don’t you?”

Ava whimpered—humiliated and turned on and dizzy with it. “Yes ma’am.”

Deborah’s breath caught, a flicker of something primal behind her eyes, but she didn’t lunge back into it. She started slow. Fingers sliding deep again, steady and unhurried, the same two curling inside her with sinful precision.

Ava gasped, thighs tensing, and Deborah watched every reaction like a secret she’d been dying to unlock. Her pace was patient, methodical—each thrust a promise, a caress, a reclaiming. She savoured the way Ava writhed, how her body opened up to her again, greedy and flushed and aching.

She fucked her like she had all the time in the world. Slow, deep strokes that dragged against the spot that made Ava cry out and cling tighter, and still—Deborah kept her close, pressing soft kisses to her jaw, her collarbone, murmuring low praise between each one.

“I could stay here all night,” she said, slow and deliberate, “just fucking you like this, watching you fall apart.”

Ava let out a choked sound—half-moan, half-sob—and her hips bucked against Deborah’s hand, desperate now, her body begging in every movement. She clung tighter, arms locked around Deborah’s shoulders, nails digging into skin, dragging her closer, needing to feel every inch of her.

Her lips found Deborah’s again—messy, breathless, all tongue and open want—and she kissed her like she was drowning, like it was the only thing keeping her anchored while her body unraveled under the rhythm Deborah refused to break. And Deborah kissed her back, grinning against her mouth, impossibly thrilled.

“There you go,” she murmured, voice dark and low, her breath hot against Ava’s cheek. “Let me feel how much you need it.”

Ava whimpered in response, her whole body trembling as she ground harder against Deborah’s fingers—slick and throbbing, the ache sharpening with every curl, every stroke. Her mouth hung open, panting, the sound of her need spilling out in half-formed moans, too far gone for language.

She didn’t need words. Deborah felt every pulse, every clench. Her hand moved with purpose now, fucking her deeper, rougher, dragging more of those desperate little sounds from Ava’s throat, like music only she was meant to hear.

And Deborah, satisfied, began to quicken the pace—just slightly at first. Building it like a symphony, slow and lush, letting the tension coil back inside Ava like a wire pulled taut, waiting to snap. Ava couldn’t answer—just nodded frantically, breath caught on every moan. Her hips moved with the rhythm now, meeting each thrust, her body a trembling plea.

Never breaking rhythm, Deborah’s fingers still buried deep as she moved—slow and steady, she guided Ava with her. Ava followed without protest, pliant and dazed, obedient, letting Deborah draw her upright until they were both kneeling, bodies pressed close, Ava’s back flush against Deborah’s chest.

Deborah’s arms wrapped around her, one hand still working between her legs, the other coming to brace across her stomach, holding her there, anchoring her as she began to fuck her harder—deep, curling thrusts that made Ava cry out, her head falling back onto Deborah’s shoulder.

Her hands grasped at Deborah’s thighs, her mouth parted, helpless and gasping as she trembled now. She tried to grind down, to meet the rhythm, but Deborah was in full control, her body pressed firm behind her, her breath heavy in Ava’s ear.

Then Deborah gripped her hair and yanked—just enough to tilt her head, just enough to bare her neck.

“God, look at you,” she growled, voice thick and reverent.

And she sank her mouth into Ava’s neck, marking her, again and again—open-mouthed kisses, tongue, teeth, claiming her, fucking her deep all the while, until Ava was shaking so hard she could barely stay upright.

Her hand slid upward, slow and deliberate, tracing the slope of Ava’s stomach, the rise of her chest, until fingers curled gently around her throat. They laid there, possessive—firm without choking. A touch that spoke mine without ever saying it.

A sharp breath caught in Ava’s chest, lashes fluttering shut, body tightening around the rhythm still pulsing inside her. That pressure at her throat sent something electric tearing down her spine, tangled into the heat of breath against her ear, the sting of fresh marks pressed into her skin. She felt electrified under Deborah’s touch.

Too much—and still, somehow, not enough.

Every inch of her was lit, consumed. The grip at her neck, the curl of fingers fucking her deeper, the weight of a body pressed flush to hers—chest to back—made her feel worshipped and ruined all at once. Moans turned ragged, head dropping back, mouth open and empty of words.

She was held there—firm, reverent, taken. Fucked with a rhythm that bordered on brutal, pushed past the edge and kept there, high and trembling. Nothing else existed. Only this. Only her and Deborah—inextricably linked.

The pace built—relentless now, precise, dragging Ava higher with each thrust, every curl of Deborah’s fingers hitting deep, exact, devastating. Her body trembled violently, slick and undone in her arms, mouth spilling frantic, incoherent sounds as she clung tighter to whatever she could reach—Deborah’s forearm, her thigh, the sheets slipping out of her grasp.

“Be a good girl for me,” she murmured, voice thick with control—the command, low and rough, spoken directly into the shell of her ear. “Ask nicely when you’re ready to come.”

The words crashed into her like heat, her whole body jerking, thighs quaking with restraint. Every breath felt stolen, every pulse a warning.

Still, she nodded—barely—but it was enough. And Deborah didn’t stop. She fucked her harder, deeper, one arm keeping Ava steady against her chest while the other stayed buried inside, dragging her right to the brink and holding her there, teetering.

Her summit crested all at once—white-hot and unbearable, fire tearing through her, ripping a gasp from deep in her chest. Muscles seized, thighs locked around Deborah’s, every part of her straining toward that final release.

She finally whimpered, voice cracking. “Please, please, Deborah—please let me—”

Deborah held her tighter, fingers thrusting hard and deep, relentless, curling just right. Her mouth brushed Ava’s ear, breath hot, voice like sin, as she sank in deeper.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Let go.”

Her climax shattered through her, body jerking violently, a cry ripped raw from her throat as she came undone on Deborah’s fingers—shaking, writhing, trembling, moaning, unraveling in her arms. Nothing left but sensation, and Deborah, and the dizzy, exquisite fall.

She collapsed back into Deborah, boneless, trembling, chest heaving with every ragged breath. The world narrowed to heat and skin and breath—hers and Deborah’s, tangled together, both of them panting like they’d just been dragged through something holy.

Deborah pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, slow and warm, lips lingering against flushed skin. Then another, just beneath the ear. Soft, but claiming.

And just like that, the ache started again—low and pulsing, a familiar throb blooming deep in her belly. Ava shivered, still trembling from release, and yet wanting more already, pulled back under by the way Deborah’s mouth moved against her like a promise not yet finished.

Fingers slipped free, wet and trembling, and without a word, Ava took them into her mouth. Her lips closed around them, tongue swirling slow, deliberate, reverent. She moaned quietly as she sucked, tasting herself, eyes fixed on Deborah’s, dark with want.

Deborah didn’t look away. Breath shallow, lips parted, she watched Ava with a hunger that flickered like flame—barely contained, aching.

The moment the fingers slipped from her mouth, Ava kissed her—deep and hungry, no hesitation now, the heat between them shifting, swelling again.

Then, gently, she guided Deborah down, easing her back into the bedding. Her hands were soft, steady, worshipful as she reached for her waistband. She pulled Deborah’s bottoms down slowly, along with her underwear, revealing inch by inch, never rushing.

Deborah’s legs parted beneath her, willingly, and Ava settled between them like she’d always belonged there.

Ava started with a kiss—just one, pressed to the inside of Deborah’s thigh. Then another. And another. Each one closer, deeper, slower. Her mouth was soft, her breath warm, her tongue trailing faint lines over sensitive skin, never quite reaching where Deborah wanted her most.

She took her time. Teasing. Reverent. Letting her lips wander, letting her tongue linger just long enough to make it maddening.

Deborah’s breath hitched. Her hips shifted, almost involuntarily, and her hands found Ava’s hair, fingers curling in tight, not pulling, not guiding—just holding. Desperate for more without asking for it.

Ava smiled against her skin, mouth ghosting closer now, hovering over heat and slickness, her breath making Deborah gasp.

Still, she didn’t dive in.

Instead, she gave her a single, deliberate lick—slow and shallow—and felt the tremor ripple through Deborah’s thighs. Then another, just as slow, tongue moving in lazy circles that barely pressed in, every motion precise, maddening.

Deborah moaned low in her throat, her grip tightening in Ava’s hair, hips twitching toward her mouth. But Ava stayed patient. Devoted. Drawing it out, drawing her open, inch by inch.

At last, Ava dove in.

Her mouth sealed around Deborah’s clit with practiced hunger, tongue stroking firm and slow, fingers slipping inside her in the same breath—slick and sure, curling deep. The sound Deborah made wasn’t even a moan; it was something raw, breathless, caught somewhere between disbelief and pleasure.

Ava worked her like she knew every secret she’d never told—her rhythm relentless, tongue coaxing in tandem with her fingers, building heat fast and hard. Deborah’s body arched, thighs tensing, the pleasure cresting quick, brilliant, overwhelming.

Then—just as she began to tremble, just as the edge came into reach, Ava pulled back.

Her fingers stayed inside, but her mouth slowed, softened, lips pressing featherlight kisses instead of pressure. Letting her hover—letting her burn.

Deborah’s eyes flew open, shocked, flushed, half-wild. “What the—?”

Ava chuckled, warm breath teasing her all over again. “Payback, baby.”

Deborah blinked, flabbergasted, her chest rising and falling with frantic need. “Careful, honey,” she warned, sharp, “don’t start what you can’t—”

Ava cut her off with a long, slow lick, tongue flattening against her with intention, fingers curling just right. Deborah’s words dissolved into air. Her breath caught, her head fell back, a moan breaking free like it had been torn from her.

And Ava kept going. Merciless. Working her back up, faster this time, with a grin against her that said she’d finish it when she was good and ready.

Ava teased her again—just a whisper of retreat, the faintest slowing of her tongue, a soft easing of her fingers. Subtle. Gentle. Not enough to frustrate, not enough to be noticed for what it was. Just enough to hold Deborah suspended in that ache a little longer.

She did it once. Then again. Each time letting Deborah teeter, letting her body strain closer, her breath hitch harder, her thighs clench tighter.

But Deborah didn’t notice. Not fully. Not consciously. She was too far gone—lost in the rhythm, the heat, the way Ava’s mouth moved like devotion and sin combined. Every flutter of tongue, every curl of fingers worshipped her, coaxed her open like a secret only Ava could read.

And then—when Ava felt her start to break apart again, when the pressure trembled on the verge of shattering—she let go.

She gave everything. Her mouth, her fingers, the moans she let spill against her, the way her hand gripped Deborah’s thigh to hold her steady as she finally let her fall.

Deborah came with a cry, sharp and stunned, her whole body tensing before unraveling in waves. Ava didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just held her through it—kissed her through it—until she softened, until the tremors eased, until there was nothing left but breath and sweat and the weight of pleasure still echoing in her limbs.

Ava slid her fingers out slowly, savoring the way Deborah trembled around them even in the aftermath. Her hand glistened in the low light, slick with the evidence of everything she’d just coaxed from her.

Without looking away, she brought those fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean—slow, decadent, tongue curling around each one with practiced ease.

Deborah watched, eyes dark, lips parted, still breathless. The flush across her chest hadn’t faded, and now it deepened. She couldn’t tear her gaze away, transfixed by the sight of Ava tasting her like that, like she was dessert, ritual, worship.

The arousal flared all over again, heavy and low, even in the haze of afterglow.

“Jesus,” she whispered, voice hoarse and ragged.

Ava just smiled, licking the last of her from her knuckle, eyes glinting with something wicked and tender all at once.

They crashed into each other, breathless and tangled, mouths finding mouths with the urgency of something rediscovered, reignited. The kiss was all lips and teeth and heat, bodies pressing close, bare skin sliding against bare skin—and only then did the realization hit them both.

Limbs knotted, hands wandering, breaths stuttering as the kiss deepened, sharpened. Deborah’s fingers found Ava’s hair again, fisting it tight and yanking her head back mid-kiss—not harsh, just enough to drag a gasp from her throat.

Ava moaned—soft, breathy, involuntary—and the sound made something in Deborah flicker and spark anew.

“Well, would you look at that,” she murmured against her mouth, grinning into the kiss. “You’re already wet again, aren’t you?”

Ava moaned, hips twitching forward. “I am,” she whispered, flushed and grinning slightly, voice already thick with want. “I can go as many times as you want.”

Deborah blinked, pulled back just far enough to look at her. “You’re serious?”

Ava nodded, biting her lip. “Mmhmm. That’s the best part.”

For a moment Deborah just stared, lips parted, chest still rising and falling from the last time, shocked at how different this would be with Ava than anyone else. “Fuck,” she said under her breath, almost reverent. “It’s not like—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just shook her head a little, marveling, breathless and turned on all over again. Ava kissed her—slow, deep, curling her fingers behind Deborah’s neck.

“I’m not even close to done with you,” Deborah murmured against Ava’s lips. And Ava, still stunned and already wet again, just laughed low and giddy, pulling her back in.

“Then don’t stop.”

#looooove this #thank youuu

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coupleofhacks · 5 days ago

Note

Something that’s been rattling in my noggin during the Hacks hiatus:

In s4e2, Deborah is still so fiercely protective of Ava even when she absolutely loathes her for besting her at her own game.

“You only get one glass of wine, and why aren’t you wearing makeup? You’re not going to a library for fuck’s sake!”

She’s so worried that Ava will approach the meeting with a carefree attitude which will cost her the job, even though Deborah was DELIBERATELY trying to get Ava fired through her pranks. Then when Winnie pointed out that Ava was in the public eye now:

“I know… she’s not used to it.”

Almost like she was trying to get Winnie off her back when she could’ve used Winnie as a gambit to get Ava fired.

Like Deborah’s behavior during the dinner scene makes NO SENSE if you don’t believe she doesn’t fiercely love Ava like how do you justify this if that’s not canon.

you’re correct—it only makes sense through the lens of deborah loving ava back just as fiercely. and when you frame it within deborah’s long-standing hunger to be challenged, the entire dynamic refracts. it redefines her protectiveness, her anger, her attraction. because for deborah, being challenged is rare. it’s uncomfortable, destabilizing, but it’s also the most alive she ever feels.

the creators have been explicit about this:

Interviewer: It recalled the Season 2 finale of “Succession,” when Kendall blows his father up on live TV and his father watches with a smile. It’s like he has a newfound respect for his son — and the same felt true of Deborah. Downs: We definitely will take “Succession.” But we’ve been trying to bake that in. They are mirror images of each other. They found the other half of the coin in each other. While it is infuriating and really scary — because what will this do to the foundation of the relationship? — Deborah is lit up by it. Jen Statsky: She didn’t know Ava had it in her until that very moment. It’s a shock, and for lack of a better term, it’s a turn-on for Deborah. Aniello: I was going to say — it’s arousing! Statsky: It’s arousing that she has a worthy opponent. I don’t think Deborah ever feels like she has a worthy opponent.

so when ava does what she does, what we see in 4.02 is deborah still high from it—still reeling, still angry, still thrilled. because ava surprised her. and for someone like deborah, surprise is rare.

in s2, ava rarely would’ve pushed back like this. but the separation sharpened ava, pushed her into her own power, and deborah can see that. it's part of why she let ava go in s2. she knew if ava stayed, she’d fold herself around deborah forever. and if deborah let herself want her back, she wouldn’t be able to stop. she'd reach a point where she wouldn't be able to live without ava.

and that dependence on someone only led to earthshattering betrayal (frank sleeping with kathy, marrying her, custody battle over DJ, frank lying about deb burning down his house, deb's awful therapy with the creep, deb losing late night, and ultimately deb having to fight to rebuild her image.) so it's terrifying.

but now ava has edge. clarity. she’s not afraid to go head-to-head. and deborah, for all her fury, loves that. always has. their worst fights are the same moments where deborah sees ava most clearly—where the balance of power finally evens out. she doesn’t want docility. she wants friction. and ava gives her that—intellectually, emotionally, creatively. but she also sees, now, that it's not ava doing it for ava. it's much like the salt and pepper shakers. ava didn't have to do that. and deborah found her perfect match in both ava and those salt shakers.

so of course she defends her at dinner. of course she cuts off winnie before she can press in. she can’t help it. her protection over ava is instinctual. the line—“i know… she’s not used to it”—isn’t just strategic. it’s intimate. affectionate. mentorship, yes, but more.

honestly, i’m a little shocked winnie didn’t outright ask if they were sleeping together—because the energy between them at that dinner is ridiculous. they’re both overcorrecting, pretending nothing’s wrong, leaning into this exaggerated casualness, all forced grins and offhand jokes. the whole thing plays like a sketch they’re barely holding together. it’s the kind of strained levity people perform when they’re trying to pretend they’re not still wrecked over each other. if you’ve ever sat between two exes who think they’re fooling everyone—you know that vibe. so for winnie, who is observant and blunt, to not just come out and ask? serious restraint, imo.

anyway, for deborah, the entire thing with ava is a game of tension and release. she’s indulging in the flirtation of it—the chase, the bickering, the push and pull of two people who know exactly how to get under each other’s skin. the spark isn’t dulled by the betrayal; it’s heightened by it. and that rhythm—snide remark, hostility, soft correction—it's how they’ve always spoken. it’s the cadence of something more than rivalry. it’s the language of closeness neither of them can name without risking everything. it's their language—the one deborah spoke of in 1.09 (after ava's first betrayal):

“when you share a sense of humor with someone, it’s like finding someone who speaks your own private little language, and you make each other better. but his ambition got in the way, and he left me, and i was so scared—because i thought i needed somebody else, and that i would never find anybody like him ever again. and then i found standup, thank god. you know, everyone thinks that stand-up is so scary because you're up there all alone, but it is the least scary thing in the world—'cause no one can disappoint you.

but under all of it, there’s a line deborah won’t cross, now.

she can mock. she can snap. she can be cruel in moments. but she can’t truly hurt ava. not in a way that lasts. because this isn’t just a creative partnership. it isn’t just the thrill of being matched. it’s love. unspoken, still unclaimed—but there, saturating everything.

and deborah won’t let anyone else touch it. not winnie. not the studio. not even ava, when she does something stupid and/or accidentally self-sabotages.

because that’s her girl.

the only one who ever stood across from her and didn’t back down. the only one who matched her not just in talent, but in fire. and for all her anger, that’s what anchors her. that’s what she defends. even when she’s furious. even when she’s brokenhearted. even when she hasn’t figured out how to say it aloud. her actions already have.

#love this so much

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