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Deborah is on top of the world. Ava doesn’t think she’s ever seen her like this—radiant, triumphant, untouchable. There’s a lightness to her that Ava’s never witnessed before, as if all the years of grit and grind have finally crystallized into something golden. The two of them are actually working together seamlessly. For once, it doesn’t feel like a battle. It feels like alchemy.
Ava is happy, genuinely happy, because Deborah makes her that way. It’s almost disturbing, how much her mood hinges on this woman. A month ago, they were practically sharpening knives behind each other’s backs. Now, Ava finds herself stealing glances when she thinks Deborah won’t notice, biting back smiles at things that wouldn’t be funny coming from anyone else.
Deborah is the first female late night host. She’s rewriting history with every monologue, every show. She’s number one. Not just on the charts. Deborah Vance is a cultural event. Ava never once doubted she’d make it, but she can’t lie to herself that there was a whisper of a wish, back when things were messy, when they were clawing at each other’s egos. A selfish, quiet hope that Deborah might stumble. Just once. Just enough to prove that Ava wasn’t alone in her chaos.
But she didn’t stumble. She soared.
Deborah Vance is, and probably always will be, the greatest of all time. Ava can barely keep it together when they’re in the same room. Her skin hums when Deborah brushes past her, like she’s been caught in a low-grade electrical storm. Her thoughts trip over themselves, spiraling into places she shouldn’t go. Not with her boss, who’s a bitch that sued her, technically caused her and Ruby’s break up, and still puts her through hell with all the mockery and constant nagging.
She has to do something. Say, change anything. Or she’s going to implode from the longing alone.
The car ride is smooth, a balm after a long night. They talk, and talk. Until Ava’s tongue feels swollen and stupid in her mouth. Maybe she drank too much—definitely more than Deborah, who remains irritatingly composed, always. Ava’s buzz is warm and dizzying, and if she were driving, they’d be a headline by now.
But she’s not. She’s just staring at Deborah’s profile like it holds the answers to every question she’s too afraid to ask.
Death by gorgeous, mean old lady. Could be worse, Ava thinks, half a breath away from a wreck.
Ava can’t hold it in any longer. The heat, the want, the unbearable tightness in her chest—it’s all too much. The buzz in her veins is just numbing enough to drown out her fear, to push her over the edge of caution. Her voice is shakier than it should be as she says, “Pull over.”
“What?” Deborah glances at her, brows furrowed. “We’re ten minutes from the house.”
“Please,” Ava says again, softer this time. Her hand trembles slightly in her lap. “Just… pull over.”
Giving her a strange look—half suspicion, half curiosity—Deborah sighs. But complies, guiding the car into a mostly empty parking lot under the quiet hush of streetlights. The engine hums for a moment before she cuts it.
Ava unbuckles her seatbelt with a snap. She shifts in her seat to face Deborah fully, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape. “Please don’t hit me,” she says, voice trembling.
Deborah blinks. “What the hell are you–?”
But Ava doesn’t let her finish. Reckless and desperate, she surges forward and kisses her. It’s clumsy—the center console jamming into her side, bad timing, too much adrenaline and the faint taste of tequila on her breath—but it’s real. Honest in a way Ava rarely lets herself be.
Her lips press insistently against Deborah’s, even as the older woman sits frozen in place, not returning it. Ava feels it like a slap. Still, she holds on for a few more heartbeats, hoping something might shift, that Deborah will meet her halfway. But she doesn’t.
Mortified after a few seconds that feel like a small eternity, Ava pulls back, heat blooming in her face, stomach lurching. Her voice cracks with shame. “Shit. I’m sorry. Fuck, that was– I shouldn’t have–”
Deborah doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares at her with a look Ava can’t read.
Panic floods Ava. She starts to ramble, the way she always does when she’s drowning. “I’m drunk and I’ve been so, so lonely since that poly situation exploded. And this is weird, it’s so weird. I’m sorry, seriously. I can walk home or Uber or–”
But then Deborah speaks, her voice contemplative. “Do it again.”
Ava blinks. “I know, I’m going– wait. What?”
Deborah meets her eyes, gaze steady now, serious and decisive. “Kiss me. Before I change my mind.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then Ava obeys. Their lips meet again, and everything slots into place. Crossing a line she’s already accepted she can’t uncross, this time she moves slower. Softer. Surer. The hunger’s still there, but now there’s space to feel it and to savor it.
Ava feels like she’s being unmade in the best possible way, melting away weightless and free and suddenly everything she’s been bottling up comes pouring out: longing, awe, fear, craving, anger. Her fingers twitch against the seat like they don’t know what to do with themselves.
Deborah exhales through her nose, then lifts a hand, threading it through Ava’s short hair. She tugs, just enough to pull a moan from Ava’s throat. The sound vibrates between their mouths, and Deborah swallows it down like a secret with surprising hunger.
Ava feels like she’s floating, drunk on Deborah Vance, on the thrill of being wanted back. Her skin sings, her heart stutters, and all she can think is thank God I asked her to pull over.
For a moment, Ava forgets everything else—her loneliness, her fear, the power imbalance, the years between them. All she knows is Deborah. The sharp taste of mint and lipstick, the soft heat of her mouth, the hand in her hair holding her still like she might otherwise drift away.
And maybe she would. Maybe she already has.
“Touch me,” Deborah sighs into her lips, the words almost a breath, like they escaped before she could second-guess them.
Ava’s heart skips, stumbles, then kicks back in at double-time. Her hands hover, unsure, like she’s afraid she’ll break something sacred.
“Yeah,” she whispers, nodding, voice suddenly hoarse. “Yeah, I can do that.”
She reaches for Deborah, carefully aware of the precious and dangerous being that she is. Ava’s fingertips trace the line of Deborah’s jaw, the slope of her neck, trailing down to where her pulse thrums wildly beneath her skin. Ava lingers there for a moment, marveling at the warmth, the invitation.
Deborah leans into the touch, just slightly, but it’s enough to undo Ava. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she breathes, half-laughing, half-dazed.
Deborah smirks a wicked, breathless thing. “Then shut up and make sure it keeps happening.”
Ava does.
Her heart races as she complies with Deborah’s breathless plea, the desperation in her voice igniting a flame within her. With a whine of pure, unadulterated desire, she crashes her lips against Deborah’s in another bruising kiss, tongue delving inside to claim her. Ava’s bold fingers make quick work of Deborah’s belt, eager to take control.
Ava’s hand slips beneath the waistband of Deborah’s panties fingers immediately seeking out her most sensitive places. She can feel the heat emanating from her core, the dampness that betrays the arousal.
Mapping out every inch of Deborah’s body’s responses, a shudder of anticipation runs through Ava as she cups her pussy, applying a firm pressure that has her arching into the touch.
Her other hand, warm and curious, slides under Deborah’s shirt, her palm caressing the soft skin of her stomach. She can feel the way the skin quivers beneath the touch, the way her body responds. Ava’s fingers dance upwards, brushing the underside of Deborah’s breasts through her bra, teasing her with the promise of more.
Ava’s thumb finds her clit, circling the sensitive nub with practiced precision. At the same time, two of her long, agile fingers delve into Deborah’s slick, heated folds without preamble. Deborah gasps as Ava pumps her digits in and out at a teasing pace, involuntarily clenching around the intrusion, drawing them in deeper. The sensation of power is overwhelming as Ava fucks Deborah with her hand, determined to make her come undone.
“Fuck, you’re so–” Ava rasps against Deborah’s lips. She wants to say, Easy. Brain hasn’t fully processed that Deborah is allowing her to do this. Maybe they did crash and this is heaven.
Her palm grinds against Deborah’s clit with every thrust, sending bolts of electric pleasure shooting through her. Ava can feel her climax building, the coil of tension in Deborah’s belly winding tighter and tighter with each thrust of her skilled fingers—Ava might be an awkward little thing, but this she knows.
Hips buck wildly, grinding against her hand as Deborah chase her release, the pleasure consuming her being entirely, even if she tries to remain unfazed.
Body wound tight with pent-up desire, Ava can feel Deborah teetering on the edge, her walls fluttering around the invading fingers. She doubles her efforts, curling them just right to hit that divine spot that makes stars explode behind Deborah’s eyelids.
Deborah moans something inaudible, and Ava hopes that it was her name. Her eyes glow with a pathetic intensity as she hears it, a grin spreading across her face. “That's what I like to hear.”
Ava’s fingers plunge into her even harder, faster, the obscene sound of her wetness filling the car’s interior as she fucks Deborah with abandon.
Thumb rubs merciless circles around hee clit, the rough pad stimulating the nerves to their breaking point. Then, Ava curls her fingers inside Deborah, stroking against that spot with every thrust, sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through her core.
Ready to snap at any moment, Deborah’s hips buck into Ava’s touch, fucking herself back onto her fingers with wanton desperation.
“That’s it, fuck, come for me,” Ava says before she bites down on Deborah pulse point, sucking hard, as if she wants to mark and claim her as her own—in the back of her mind, though, Ava reminds herself she has no right to feel this way.
And then, with a small cry of bliss, Deborah shatters. Her climax crashes over like a tidal wave, inner walls clamping down viciously around Ava’s fingers as she comes. Body convulsing slightly with the force of the release as wave after wave of glory consumes her.
Ava lets Deborah linger in the organs for a moment longer, savoring the warmth and impossible realness of it, before gently pulling her fingers out. Her lips are swollen, breath unsteady, but the grin on her face is pure, glowing disbelief.
“Wow,” she says, half-laughing, eyes wide. “I mean– wow.”
Deborah looks at her, and for once, she’s not composed or guarded. There’s a flush on her cheeks, a softness in her eyes. And then, almost unbelievably, she smiles back. Sheepishly. Like an innocent teenager caught kissing behind the bleachers.
“Deborah Vance,” Ava says, voice playful but filled with wonder. “Gay at seventy-three. Who would’ve thought?”
“Shut up, Ava,” Deborah groans, rolling her eyes. But there’s no real bite to it. Just that familiar, exasperated affection. She leans back in her seat, lips twitching, like she’s trying not to smile but failing.
For a second, she looks like she might regret it—brows drawn, eyes distant—but then something softens in her. She exhales slowly and lets the smile return, small and real.
Clear as day, Ava sees it: everything has changed. For once, maybe it will be for the better.
“Should I…?” Deborah gestures vaguely, the rare uncertainty in her voice almost endearing.
Ava snorts, waving her off. “No, no– I’m good. I mean, I’ll finish myself off later, don’t you worry.”
Deborah lets out a laugh, dry and incredulous. “Classy.”
“I contain multitudes,” Ava quips, grinning like the devil. “Horny, respectful, independent…”
“God help me,” Deborah mutters, but there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes—maybe even admiration.
Something hums in Ava’s ears, might just be the car starting, but it feels like it might just be the start of a very complicated new chapter. She can hardly wait.