renyfisher

[renyfisher]

with pleasure 😇

[renyfisher]

Could I disappear from life for just half an hour? I'm so tired 🥱

[renyfisher]

Are you going to sell your Patti tarot in physical form?

Absolutely; I’ve been drawing these with the full intent to sell them as physical tarot cards. They’ll probably be ready in a month or so?

But I do need suggestions for an additional art thing to go with the tarot cards, so I would love, love if y’all could comment on this post or inbox me or DM me with the links to your favourite Patti photoshoot. Not Patti in character, but Patti as Patti.

I need help narrowing down my choices!

[renyfisher]

The fourth Patti tarot card, and I don’t think it needs any explanation why Lilia is the Queen of Cups, hehe. As always, for those new to these art posts, everything is drawn by hand with a pencil tool and an iPad; there is no AI or generative art, it’s just me, and there will be imperfect lines because of it

And here are the previous three card designs for added reference if you haven't seen them yet:

[renyfisher]

I just want to scream

[renyfisher]

I hate my mind, sometimes it’s telling me I’m too much. Then other times it’s telling me I’m not enough. Well, you know what I am? Tired of this nonsense 🤨

[renyfisher]

Say it again

Patti LuPone week day 7, religious guilt

Joan ramsey x reader

Summary - joan is afraid that her relationship with you is sinful but she can't take it upon herself to turn away

Warnings - smut, body worship, comfort, self doubt, praise kink, oral, kinda dom/sub dynamic, vulnerability, angst, aftercare

Taglist - @mgruiz @multixfan @angeliccss @renyfisher @ilovepattilupone @tinnisamy @thegoddamnfeels @p2pecleanerwitheyes @sapphic-girlss @womankissersworld @chrrypatti @delusionalforolderwomen @bravewithacapitalb @live-laugh-love-lupone @lemz378 @wifeofmanymilfs @p00ki3-m0nst3r

The knock on your door is barely audible. You almost think you imagined it—until it comes again, softer still. When you open it, Joan’s standing there in her long, pale nightgown, clutching the sleeves in her fists. Her eyes are red. Not from crying—she wouldn’t allow that—but from trying not to.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. You just step back and let her in.

She walks slowly, like she’s in a trance, and perches on the edge of your bed. Her hands rest stiff in her lap. Her lips part, then close again. You sit beside her, close enough that your knees brush.

Her voice is quiet. “Tell me I’m not going to hell.”

Your heart breaks.

You don’t try to reason with her theology. You know it wouldn’t matter. Joan has lived in fire and brimstone long before she ever met you. Instead, you reach for her hand. It's trembling.

“You’re not going to hell,” you say. “You’re—Joan, you’re not.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink. You try again.

“You’re a miracle,” you whisper, like a prayer.

She flinches.

You lean forward, trying to catch her eye. “A blessing.”

She exhales, unsteady. Her shoulders rise—then drop. Like she’s carrying a weight she’s not sure she’s allowed to put down.

“An angel,” you say, quieter this time.

This time, she doesn’t flinch. Her jaw tightens. You think she might cry.

Instead, she kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not patient. It’s months—years—of guilt and shame and longing bursting out of her all at once. Her hands rise to your shoulders, then to your face, then back down like she’s afraid she’ll set you on fire. You pull her in.

Her body trembles beneath your hands. You cradle her face and kiss her slowly now, trying to calm the storm, but she only clutches harder at you.

“Please,” she breathes. “I need—I just—”

You don’t need her to finish. You understand.

You rise, gently guiding her back against the pillows. Her breath hitches. You press your lips to her jaw, her neck, the soft slope of her collarbone.

“I’m going to show you,” you murmur, “how worthy you are.”

Her fingers twist in the sheets. “Don’t,” she whispers, almost begging. “Don’t worship me.”

But you see the way her thighs press together, the way her chest rises with every reverent word.

You kiss the space above her heart. “Too late.”

Your hands trail lower, reverent, slow. You kiss every inch of her skin like it’s sacred—like she’s sacred. She shivers under your touch, eyes wide, lips parted in something between awe and disbelief.

“No one’s ever…” she begins, but she can’t finish it. You hush her with a kiss.

“I know.”

You slip the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders, kissing each inch of newly bared skin. She gasps—soft, startled—like she didn’t think she’d be allowed to feel this. To want this.

“Tell me you want this, Joan,” you murmur against her chest.

“I—” she swallows. Her voice shakes. “I do. I do, I just—” She exhales, jaw clenched. “It feels like a sin.”

“Then let me make it feel like heaven.”

She looks at you then—really looks. There’s something desperate behind her eyes, something raw and undone. And then she nods.

Your kisses trail lower, hands sliding up her thighs. She opens to you slowly, nervously, like she’s never let herself be seen. You take your time. You kiss each stretch of skin like you’re memorizing her, like you’re promising you won’t look away.

She trembles when you finally touch her, when your fingers slide over soaked heat and she chokes out your name like it’s a prayer.

“You’re so good,” you whisper. “So good for me.”

Her hips buck.

You don’t tease. Not with her. Not when she’s baring herself like this—body and soul. You curl your fingers inside her as your mouth finds her breast, and her hands shoot to your shoulders, gripping like she’s falling.

She is falling. But this time, you’re here to catch her.

She moans into your neck, desperate, broken. “I—I can’t, I—”

“You can,” you whisper. “You deserve this.”

When she comes, it’s with a sob—your name muffled against your skin, her nails digging into your back. You hold her through it. Let her shake. Let her cry.

And when she’s still, when her body stops trembling and she’s panting against your collarbone, you don’t move. You stroke her hair. You kiss her temple.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur. “You’re not going to hell. You’re here. With me.”

Her voice is a whisper. “Still an angel?”

You smile, pressing your lips to her forehead. “Always.”

She lets out a breathless, exhausted laugh. “You’re going to make me believe it one day.”

“Good,” you say, wrapping her tightly in your arms. “Because it’s true.”

[renyfisher]

What I need is Patti right now.

[renyfisher]

Fighting the Urge to Kiss Her Forehead

Patti LuPone week day 6, height difference

Lilia calderu x reader

Summary - when she's angry, all you can think about is how cute and short she is as you look down to meet her eyes

Warnings - established relationship, soft domestic fluff, light teasing, gentle affection

Taglist - @mgruiz @multixfan @angeliccss @renyfisher @ilovepattilupone @tinnisamy @thegoddamnfeels @p2pecleanerwitheyes @sapphic-girlss @womankissersworld @chrrypatti @delusionalforolderwomen @lilia-calderus-pet-goat @bravewithacapitalb @live-laugh-love-lupone @lotus-ignis @lemz378 @emilynissangtr @wifeofmanymilfs @p00ki3-m0nst3r

Lilia was mad.

Not that kind of mad where she yelled or threw spells or got all theatrical. No—this was worse. This was cold anger. Tiny hands on her hips, head tilted up, fire blazing behind her eyes as she glared at you like you’d burned down her favorite library.

You stood there, trying very hard not to laugh.

She was standing on her toes to get eye-level. Correction: trying to get eye-level. You were tall enough that she still barely reached your collarbones. Her brow twitched. You smiled. Big mistake.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” she snapped, voice sharp and biting. Her accent curled around each word like smoke.

“No, darling,” you said with a half-smile, “not funny. Just… adorable.”

Lilia looked like you’d just cursed her bloodline.

“Adorable?” she echoed, stunned. “I am a powerful witch. The Divination Matriarch of the Calderu line. I have studied with Agatha Harkness and outlived gods. Adorable?”

You shrugged. “Can’t help it.”

She marched up to you, every bit of her five-foot-two stature crackling with intensity. “Say it again. Say it to my face.”

You leaned down just slightly, resting your hands on your knees to meet her gaze. “You’re adorable.”

The forehead was right there.

You stared at it—perfectly shaped, framed by glossy dark hair, scrunched in fury. You could hear her inhale sharply, no doubt preparing to rain down verbal hellfire.

And then you did it.

You kissed her forehead. Quick and light.

She froze. Utterly still. Like you’d turned her into stone. Her lips parted just a little, breath caught mid-sentence.

“I knew it,” she whispered.

“Knew what?”

“That you were mocking me. Patronizing me. Like I’m—”

“I kissed you because I love you,” you cut in, standing tall again. “Not because I don’t take you seriously.”

Silence.

Then—

“…It was a condescending kiss.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “You want a serious one, then?”

“No. I want you to suffer.”

Fair. You had teased her. But Lilia’s grudge didn’t last long. Not with you. Not when the sun set and the anger fizzled and the house went quiet.

That night, you found her curled up on your side of the bed. She always did that when she was sulking—claiming your pillow like a silent punishment. But she didn’t protest when you slid in behind her. You wrapped your arm around her waist, pulling her back into your chest.

She fit there perfectly. Like she was made for that exact place.

“You’re made for this spot,” you mumbled into her hair.

She let out a soft, tired sigh. “You’re a menace.”

You smiled. “Your menace.”

You felt her smile, even if you couldn’t see it.

A few minutes passed like that. Just her breathing soft against you, your chin resting gently on top of her head.

Then her voice, quiet and fond:

“Next time I yell at you, don’t kiss me mid-rage.”

“But it works so well.”

“I hate that it does.”

You pressed another kiss to her hairline. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better next time.”

“You won’t.”

“No. I won’t.”

She laughed into your chest. You held her tighter.

“You really do love me, don’t you?” she asked softly, almost like it was a secret.

“I do. Every inch. Every snarl. Every glare. Every storm you summon with your eyes.”

She tucked her face into your neck, hiding. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”

You didn’t need divination to know that was the truth.

[renyfisher]

Life Goes On videos are all gone from YouTube. The videos are hidden, so I'm assuming someone flagged them for copyright?

[renyfisher]

She is so 🫦 fine

I am so easily assimilated

[renyfisher]

Mine.

Patti LuPone week day 5, virginity

Mafia!avis amberg x reader

Summary - mafia!avis takes you in, but once she does it becomes harder for you to feel like she's doing so innocently

Warnings - possessive behavior, obsession, virginity loss, dom/sub, emotional manipulation, jealousy, rough sex, crying during sex, aftercare, slow burn, dark romance, soft!avis moments, desperate intimacy, manipulative affection, eventual softness

Taglist - @mgruiz @multixfan @angeliccss @renyfisher @ilovepattilupone @tinnisamy @thegoddamnfeels @p2pecleanerwitheyes @sapphic-girlss @womankissersworld @chrrypatti @delusionalforolderwomen @bravewithacapitalb @lilia-calderus-pet-goat @live-laugh-love-lupone @lemz378 @emilynissangtr @wifeofmanymilfs @p00ki3-m0nst3r

You’d only been in Los Angeles for six months when she found you.

At the time, you were working late nights at a forgettable Italian restaurant just east of Koreatown, the kind of place that smelled like burned oregano and desperation. You were new, quiet, polite—things that didn’t go unnoticed. Especially not by someone like Avis Amberg.

You first saw her during a lull between the dinner and bar crowds, her frame emerging from a black car like a storm spilling out of the sky. She walked in without waiting to be seated, without looking at a menu. Her heels clicked on the linoleum, her gloves were still on.

Her eyes—sharp, dark, unreadable—found you at the counter. And something in you…paused.

You don’t know what she saw in you. You never dared to ask. But two nights later, she was back.

After the fourth visit, she started asking for you by name.

By the sixth, you weren’t working there anymore. She’d bought the restaurant and shut it down, the same night she left you a note tucked into your apron pocket:

“You shouldn’t have to work so hard. Let me take care of it.”

You live in her penthouse now.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. You tell yourself you’re safe.

But the locks only open from her side.

She never hurts you. Not once. Not even when she’s furious—at her crew, at a deal gone bad, at the world. When she speaks to you, her voice drops low, velvet-soft, laced with something sweet and dangerous.

“A doll like you shouldn’t be anywhere near blood,” she said once, when you accidentally walked in on her cleaning a gun.

And still, every day, you see the blood on her. Not literal. Not always. But in the way her hands linger on your shoulders. The way she touches your face like it’s made of something holy. The way she looks at anyone who gets too close to you.

You’ve seen that look just before someone disappears. She wants you.

You’re not stupid. You feel it when she passes behind you, a hand grazing your waist just enough to make you shiver. You hear it in the catch of her breath when you wear anything even remotely tight. You notice the way her jaw tenses when someone else makes you laugh.

But she won’t touch you. Not like that.

She waits. She watches. She tells you she’ll never do anything unless you ask. Beg, she once whispered, brushing a curl from your cheek, her lips so close to yours you stopped breathing. “I want you desperate for it, sweetheart. Not afraid. Not unsure. Just mine.”

That’s the part that scares you.

Because you’re starting to want it.

And you don’t know if it’s you wanting her, or fear laced with fascination, longing twisted with survival. You lie awake most nights, heart pounding, heat curling low in your stomach, wondering what it would feel like to finally break.

And every time, you imagine her voice in your ear, saying:

“Good girl. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

It starts with the dress.

You’re getting ready for one of her “business dinners.” That’s what she calls them—euphemisms for blood-and-smoke deals in candlelit lounges, where men try to act unbothered under her gaze and women try not to look too long at her red mouth.

She leaves a box on your bed.

It’s black satin. Backless. Tight.

When you pull it out, your breath hitches in your throat. It looks like something meant to be torn off.

You hesitate.

Then you hear her heels clicking toward your room, unhurried. You don’t have time to overthink it—just enough to slip it on and smooth it down over your hips as the door opens.

She stops in the doorway.

Stares.

Something inside her stills, goes quiet, like a lion watching prey that’s too beautiful to eat—yet.

“You look…” Her voice is hoarse, low. “Fuck. Turn around.”

You do.

She crosses the room slowly. Her hand skims your side. Not enough to satisfy—never enough. Just enough to make your stomach twist.

“You know what that dress does to me?” she asks, quiet, close.

“I didn’t pick it,” you murmur.

“I know. But you wore it anyway.”

Her knuckles ghost down your spine. You shiver.

She smiles—tight, unreadable—and steps back. “Let’s go.”

The dinner is at a rooftop club in West Hollywood. The kind of place where every laugh feels fake, every drink costs a fortune, and every powerful person is either owned by someone—or owns someone.

Avis owns everyone in the room.

Including you.

You sit beside her, quiet, letting her hand rest on your knee while she negotiates in low tones with men who’ve killed for less than what they’re offering tonight.

And then she disappears.

Just for a second. Bathroom, probably.

That’s when he sits beside you.

You don’t know his name. Just that he’s tall, grinning, probably drunk. He says something about your dress. Then something about your face. He leans in too close.

You stiffen.

You don’t have time to tell him off before she returns.

The silence that follows is violent.

Avis says nothing. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t acknowledge him. Just looks. Her eyes flick from his hand near your hip to your face—and then back to him.

“Move,” she says softly.

He doesn’t.

She laughs. It’s cold.

“I said move.” Her tone sharpens. No anger. Just steel.

He’s gone in seconds.

She sits. Leans in. Her voice brushes your ear like a razor wrapped in velvet.

“I told you, sweetheart. You’re not theirs. You’re mine.”

That night, in the elevator, she doesn’t speak. You lean against the mirrored wall, heart racing. She’s standing beside you like a storm held in a wineglass—tight, controlled, on the verge of shattering.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say quietly.

“I know.” Her eyes don’t leave your reflection.

“I didn’t flirt.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want him.”

Now she looks at you.

There’s something hungry in her stare. Something unholy. “Then why didn’t you stop him touching you?”

You falter. You don’t know. Or maybe you do. Maybe you wanted her to see. Her jaw clenches. “Go to bed.”

You step out of the elevator. She doesn’t follow.

But later—hours later—you wake to the sound of the door creaking open.

You don’t turn. Just lie still.

She’s in the room. You feel it in your bones. Her steps are soft, slow.

You don’t hear her undress. But when she slips into the bed beside you, the silk of her nightgown brushes your arm.

You don’t move. Then you feel it. Her hand—just barely—on your waist. A breath. Not yours. And then her whisper, right against your ear:

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You don’t sleep after she whispers it.

You just lie there, your breath held hostage in your throat, her hand still a ghost on your waist.

She doesn’t move either.

You feel her heat behind you. The tight, restless stillness of a woman on the edge of a decision she knows she can’t undo.

“Avis…” you breathe.

That’s all it takes.

Suddenly, she’s on you—pressing you down into the sheets, her body flush to yours, her mouth hovering a whisper from your lips.

“Say it again.”

You do. Softer this time.

Her lips crush yours like a punishment. Like she’s angry she waited this long. Her kiss tastes like wine and violence, like every bit of control she’s been holding back is gone now, finally gone.

She moans into your mouth like it hurts. Like she’s starving.

“I tried to be gentle,” she rasps. Her hands are on your hips, holding you in place. “I tried to wait for you to be ready. I didn’t want to break you—”

“Then do it,” you whisper. “Break me.”

That’s when she snaps.

She flips you under her like it costs her something. Like she’s been dying to ruin you and can’t wait another second.

Her mouth drags down your throat, your chest, leaving marks. Claiming. Worshipping. Her hands are everywhere, pinning your thighs, sliding beneath your clothes, tearing at fabric like it’s in her way.

She’s frantic. But deliberate. Every move is designed to make you beg—and you do.

You beg her.

“Avis, please—”

“I know, baby. I know.” Her voice cracks. Her hands tremble as they slip between your legs, finally touching you like you’re something holy. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, do you?”

You whimper.

She kisses you again, slower this time, possessive, as her fingers slide inside and your whole body arches.

“Mine,” she growls against your mouth. “No one else gets to have you. Say it.”

“I’m yours—” You’re already shaking.

“Say my name.”

“Avis.”

Her pace quickens. She kisses your throat, your collar, your jaw, working you open like she’s memorizing the sound of you falling apart for her.

“I’m never letting you go,” she whispers. “Even if it kills us.”

You come apart gasping her name.

And when you collapse back into her arms, trembling and dazed, she wraps herself around you like armor. Like she’s trying to keep you safe from the world—or herself.

She doesn’t sleep.

You do, eventually—exhausted, tangled in her sheets, breath still uneven from what she did to you. But Avis just watches. One hand under her cheek, the other splayed across your bare waist, fingers twitching every time you shift in your sleep like she’s terrified you’ll disappear.

She memorizes everything. The rise and fall of your chest. The curve of your mouth, still swollen. The marks on your skin that she left—her initials, almost, if you squint. Her claim.

You belong to her now.

She’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

By morning, you wake up to her still watching. Her stare is unreadable, but heavy—obsessive in a way that should unsettle you, but doesn’t. Not really.

“Did I hurt you?” she murmurs, voice rough from lack of sleep.

“No.” You stretch, and the soreness between your legs makes you wince—she sees it, flinches like it stabs her. “You didn’t.”

Avis exhales slowly. You can tell she doesn’t believe you.

But she leans forward anyway, brushes her lips over the bruise on your neck like an apology. “Next time,” she says lowly, “I’ll go slower. If you let me.”

Your heart stutters. Next time. There’s going to be a next time.

She doesn’t let you out of her sight that day.

You try to get dressed, but she stops you—her arms wrapping around your middle from behind, chin on your shoulder, bare chest pressed to your back.

“Stay,” she whispers. “Just a little longer.”

You nod. You don’t even hesitate.

When you finally do leave the bedroom, it’s like stepping into another life.

Avis calls off every meeting she has. Sends men away with a wave of her hand and a bite to her voice that tells them not to ask questions. You sit at her breakfast table in her oversized shirt while she takes a call with a gun on the counter and her hand resting on your thigh.

She doesn’t care if they notice. In fact—she wants them to. Let them know who you belong to. Let them see who Avis Amberg would burn the whole world for.

Later that evening, she shows you a drawer.

Full of things you hadn’t expected.

A necklace with your birthstone. An envelope with photos of you—old ones, some you didn’t know existed. A sheet of paper with your signature traced over and over again in her handwriting. Your handwriting.

You look up at her, heart in your throat.

“I’ve loved you,” she confesses, voice hoarse, “since before I knew how to say it. I used to dream of keeping you in here. In this house. In that bed.”

Her jaw clenches.

“I still do.”

The silence was heavy when she told you.

Just a whisper, barely above a breath, but it was enough to cut through the air like a blade.

“I think I need space.”

Avis didn’t respond at first. Her jaw clenched. You watched the faintest tremble travel through her hand where it gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. The tension in her shoulders gave her away more than any words would. And when she finally turned around, her eyes weren’t soft like they’d been last night.

They were wild.

“Space?” she echoed, voice brittle. “From me?”

You nodded, arms crossed, trying to ground yourself. You weren’t sure what had changed—but the weight of her presence had been unbearable lately. She was always watching. Always planning. Always there.

“Yes. Just… a few days to think. To breathe.”

She took a slow step toward you. “Is this because of what happened with that idiot guy?” she asked. Her voice had that dangerous stillness to it.

You blinked. “No. Avis, I just—”

Her hand slammed against the wall beside your head. Not touching you. Not hurting you. Just close. Too close.

“You belong to me,” she hissed. “You think I don’t see the way you’re slipping away? Every second you’re not in my arms, my mind goes places—ugly places. And now you want to leave?”

“Avis—”

“I gave you everything.” Her voice cracked. “I killed for you. I burned men alive for looking at you too long. I cleaned the blood off your hands before it could even dry. And now you’re what—done with me?”

You stared at her, stunned.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered. She flinched like you’d slapped her.

“No,” she murmured. “No, baby. Don’t say that. I just—I can’t—” Her breath hitched. “I can’t lose you.”

When she kissed you, it was a collision.

Teeth. Tongue. Desperation.

Her hands gripped your hips, tight enough to bruise, and when you gasped into her mouth, she pulled back only a moment to stare at you.

“I know I said the next time would be softer,” she growled. “But with the way you’ve acted…”

Her eyes burned.

“I’m not sure you deserve it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. You should have been afraid—but your heart was already pounding for a different reason. You were soaked with tension, aching in places you didn’t want to admit.

Avis smirked as she felt your body tremble.

“That’s what I thought.”

Your back hit the bedroom wall before you even realized she’d pulled you there. You weren’t sure whether you’d walked or been dragged, but now her mouth was on yours again—urgent, punishing.

Her hands roamed fast, rough, grabbing at your thighs and ass like she owned them. And in her mind, she did.

“I need to see you,” Avis growled against your lips. “All of you. Now.”

She yanked your shirt up and off before you could respond, her hands already tugging down your pants. Her eyes drank you in like something holy and dangerous.

“You think you get to say ‘space’ and then hide this from me?” She cupped between your legs—right there—over your panties, and you gasped at the pressure. “No, sweetheart. That’s not how this works.”

She pushed her hand beneath the fabric, and her fingers were already sliding between your folds, spreading the wetness with a quiet, sinful sound.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “You’re soaked.”

Your legs nearly buckled.

“Avis—”

“What?” She pressed two fingers inside, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. “What do you need, baby? You wanna tell me you hate me now?”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers curled just right.

“You don’t want space. You want this. You want me.”

Her other hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding you of who was in control. Her grip was possessive, but her eyes—her eyes were something else. Desperate. Unhinged. Worshipful.

She fucked you slow at first, fingers pumping deep while she kissed your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—leaving marks like a brand. Then she sped up. You were gasping, trembling, holding onto her shoulders like a lifeline.

And when she pulled back, just to see your face—ruined, flushed, begging—she lost what little restraint she had.

Avis lifted you.

One fluid motion, throwing you onto the bed and crawling over you, yanking your panties off and tossing them somewhere forgotten.

She slid her fingers back inside you before you could even catch your breath, her thumb now circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

“You’re mine,” she hissed. “You hear me? I don’t care if I have to break you open every night to remind you. You belong to me.”

Your orgasm hit hard. Too hard. You cried out as you came on her fingers, thighs shaking, vision white at the edges.

But Avis wasn’t done.

She leaned over you, kissed your tear-streaked cheeks, and whispered against your ear:

“Again.”

You were still catching your breath—your chest rising and falling fast, skin slick with sweat, thighs trembling. But Avis hadn’t moved.

She hovered over you, braced on her forearms, lips ghosting across your collarbone. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with want, but there was a crack beneath them. A tremor. A fault line.

“I should ruin you,” she whispered, almost tender. “I want to. But not this time.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but she cut you off, sliding two fingers along your jaw and turning your face to hers.

“No,” she said lowly, “this time, you’re going to take care of me.”

Her hand trailed down your body, slow and commanding. Then she moved, shifting onto her back beside you, spreading her legs with a shamelessness that made your pulse trip.

“Show me you still want this,” she said. “Show me you still want me.”

And you did.

You moved over her, kissing down her neck, taking your time with each new inch of skin. She was warm and firm beneath you, her body humming with the tension of someone always poised to snap.

But not now.

Now she let you touch her. Let you worship her.

When you slid your tongue along her—soft, slow, savoring her taste—her breath hitched. Her fingers tangled in your hair but didn’t pull. She was letting go. Unraveling.

“Oh, baby,” she moaned, arching up into your mouth. “Fuck— just like that—”

You held her thighs apart, steady, watching her fall apart just for you. And when she came, shaking, swearing, her voice breaking on your name—you didn’t stop until she was limp, blissed-out, completely undone.

You moved back up to her side, her arm pulling you in without hesitation.

The silence after was thick. Warm. Real.

Her breath still stuttered, but her hands were gentle now—stroking your back, brushing hair from your face.

“I thought I’d lose you,” she said quietly. “And I know I don’t deserve to keep you. But I want to. I need to.”

You nestled closer to her chest, lips brushing the curve of her shoulder. “You scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

Avis tensed—but didn’t pull away.

“But I still choose you.”

That cracked her.

She kissed your temple, then your forehead, cradling you like you might disappear if she let go.

“I’ll try to be softer,” she murmured. “Even if I never really learn how. You’re the only thing that makes me want to try.”

You drifted off like that—wrapped in her arms, wrapped in her ruin—and for once, it didn’t feel like a trap.

It felt like the safest place on earth.

[renyfisher]

wifey

[renyfisher]

Do it again

A/N: I was going to post this for Patti LuPone week, but work got to me.

Summary: Lilia Calderu, the season's most awarded actress, finds herself embroiled in a strange tension with the biggest name in Hollywood; Avis Amberg.

It was a hectic night, with everyone either excited or nervous, and everyone extremely dressed up because they knew that simply being there meant their name would forever go down in film history. It was Oscar night. Fights, controversies, and opinions took center stage, but everyone was interested in one in particular; the rivalry between Avis Amberg and Lilia Calderu, a renowned Broadway actress who was now in the film world, sweeping awards and jeopardizing the popularity of the actors who worked for Ace studio.

The Snakes say it all started before Hollywood, when they were both doing theater, that it began as a friendship and ended up becoming something more. Others say Lilia is Jack's mother and that's why they don't get along, and many others say that Avis, like any other producer, is afraid of Lilia because of the rumors of witchcraft. But in reality, no one knows the truth. It's a mystery that entertains them.

The camera flashes focused solely on the redhead in the black dress and gloves, whose lips were a deep red, her face sporting the expression of a winner. She was sure the film she had authorized would win her multiple awards, even though the favorite of the night was another one. She wanted to maintain a positive attitude, a true reflection of her own. It was a lie. The mere thought of doubting her victory infuriated her.

She was pulled from her thoughts when flashbulbs flashed in another direction; someone important enough to steal her attention had arrived. Those expressive eyes that that had made her lose millions of dollars appeared on the red carpet, accompanied by a plunging neckline that made it impossible to look at "The Witch," as she was nicknamed, in the eye. She had the same confident expression Avis had had seconds before. She was sure she was going to win. Sunset Blvd. had been a damn success.

Smiling, she walked past her opponent, when the latter, in a fit of rage—or jealousy?—took advantage of the fact that her dress was long enough to keep her feet from slipping, and extended her heel as the actress approached, making her tumbling.

"I'm sorry," she apologized with a smile, unaware that her support was the same person who had caused her to fall, as she stared into the eyes of her opponent, who was holding her with both hands on her hips, so as not to alarm the press that she was the one who had caused her to stumble.

"Save those apologies for your film director, who's sure you're going to win. But the reality will be different. Poor guy," Avis says with a big smile on her face, savoring her words as her breath made contact with the other woman's skin.

"When I win, you'll see who's really in charge, darling, and the last time we met, you were under me, so don't flatter yourself," Calderu replies, slowly walking away and waving to her acquaintances.

And she did. She won that damn Oscar.

When Lilia went to collect her well-deserved award, her speech, probably the most important words of her life, was delivered with a challenging look at Amberg.

"First of all, I want to thank everyone who has accompanied me on this uncertain path. Don't ever let anyone tell you what you can or can't do and to to hell, all you hypocrites who say you hate me, because I know how difficult it is not to love me. This is proof that witches can do more than witchcraft."

"And you're coming with me" Avis murmured. She accepted the challenge.

After the ceremony, amidst photos and fake smiles, the women's eyes met.

Avis went to the bathroom. Lilia followed her without asking, just to annoy her.

"Don't you get tired of bothering me?" the redhead asked, touching up her lipstick.

"No, honey. It's funny to see your face when you get upset."

"It's funnier when I don't see your face."

"When you kiss me, you don't see My face, darling" the witch replied, approaching her slowly, stalking her.

"I don't even know what I'm doing talking to you." She said without moving an inch.

"You talk to me and watch me because you want me," Avis laughed. "Admit it."

"I think you're reflecting on me, Lilia."

"I've asked about you, darling. Behind all those calls you've made to sabotage me, there's something else. I know it, you know it, and everyone's already realizing it. I didn't just walk past you by chance."

Avis looked at her, penetrating her soul.

"I hate you."

"The feeling is mutual, amore mio" the Sicilian replied.

The redhead approached the actress dangerously, wanting to strangle her, wanting to leave her breathless. Her hands moved to her neck and, with an inner strength that was fighting against her conscience, she kissed her.

The kiss was intense, worthy of recognition. The feeling that united them made them bite their lips until blood flowed from them, and passion wouldn't let them separate. Their hands ran over each other's bodies, wanting to capture the moment. The only reason they broke away was because a paparazzi had entered the bathroom, camera in hand.

[renyfisher]

Dont turn around

Patti LuPone week day 4, one bed

Kitty duval x reader

Summary - you secretly loved kitty for years, and when a sleep confession tells you everything you've been hoping for and some less happy words, how do you react to the news ?

Warnings - confession, hurt/comfort, soft comfort, emotional vulnerability, friends to more, yearning, mutual pining

Taglist - @mgruiz @multixfan @angeliccss @renyfisher @ilovepattilupone @tinnisamy @thegoddamnfeels @p2pecleanerwitheyes @sapphic-girlss @womankissersworld @chrrypatti @bravewithacapitalb @wifeofmanymilfs @p00ki3-m0nst3r

The room was quieter than you expected for a boarding house this full. The single bed in the corner had a dent in the mattress and floral sheets that had seen better decades, but it was the only thing big enough for two. You’d both insisted it’d be fine. You’d sleep back-to-back. No big deal.

Now it was midnight. You hadn’t moved an inch.

Kitty’s back was warm against yours, curled slightly like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. Her hair smelled like old perfume and cheap hotel soap, and when she’d first slid under the covers beside you, you’d felt the muscles in her shoulders tense like wire.

Neither of you had said anything.

You should’ve fallen asleep by now—but Kitty Duval, always beautiful, always tired, always guarding something behind her eyes, was impossible to ignore when she was so close.

A few minutes passed.

Then you heard it.

Soft. Mumbled.

"Y’don’t even see me, do you?"

You froze.

Kitty was still asleep—her breath slow, mouth barely parted. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Not the real me. Just the face. That smile. ‘Course they like that... they don’t know what’s underneath.”

Your chest tightened.

Another pause. She shifted a little, her elbow brushing your back.

“I get so tired of bein’ someone else,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like she was on the edge of crying. “But I can't stop. ‘Cause what if the real me’s worse?”

You swallowed hard. Kitty Duval—so poised, so carefully polished with powder and a sharp tongue—sounded small. Raw.

You didn’t know if she was dreaming or confessing. But her words lanced through you like a knife.

“I wanna be soft with someone,” she breathed, voice barely audible now. “But I don’t know how... not anymore.”

Then silence.

It was unbearable.

You turned over.

Slowly, cautiously, you faced her back. She was still, like a statue, curls spread across the pillow, one arm tucked under her chin. Her lashes trembled in her sleep.

Without thinking, you reached out and brushed a knuckle along her shoulder.

She stirred—but didn’t wake.

So you whispered, “I see you, Kitty. Even the parts you think are too messy. I see them. And I still…”

You didn’t finish.

You didn’t have to.

Because suddenly, in the quiet, Kitty’s hand reached behind her—eyes still closed—and blindly searched for yours. Her fingers curled around yours under the blankets, slow and warm.

She didn’t say a word.

But she didn’t let go.

[renyfisher]

ᅟᅟ ♡ ‧ ₊˚ 𝑴𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑶𝑾𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 ✧ ˖ ° .☾

CHAPTER 4 of ??? : the start of the beginning ( 4,4k words )

click here to read chapter 4 !!!!

summary :

Rosella wakes up still with a hangover as Lilia makes breakfast. Some questions are answered as they spend the day together alone for the first time.

warnings — sexual content ( +18 )

Taggs — lilia calderu / original character, you can imagine this as Lilia Calderu/ Reader if you want, enemies to friends to lovers, sneaking around, alternative universe where all of them are alive, Billy is a matchmaker, protective Lilia Calderu, possessive behavior, old Lilia and ALSO young Lilia, she can change her appearance like in the comics, mommy issues, loser lesbian, phone sex, lots of teasing, fluff and angst, big age difference, Mirror Sex, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Lilia smokes weed, orgasm denial, magic fingers, smut, oral sex, Rio sees Lilia as her mom 🏷️

Tagglist (say if you want to be added) : @wifeofmanymilfs @litsunrose404

[renyfisher]

FOR ANYONE IN PORTUGAL OR THAT PLANS ON BEING IN PORTUGAL THE 13TH OF JULY!!!!!!! PATTI IS PERFORMING HEART TO HEART AT THE MUSIC THEATRE IN LISBON!!!! THE TICKETS ARE SUPER CHEAP!!!!!! I'm going to leave the link to the Tik tok and the website for you all to check if you want.

https://www.bol.pt/Comprar/Bilhetes/158773-patti_lupone_heart_to_heart-forum_lisboa/