Carol Aird x Fem!Reader — Oneshot.
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word count: ~1200
A/N: heyyyy yalll, i'm back (temporarily), had an urge to write 🫶🏻 i appreciate comments, likes, CRITICISM!!! please, teach me more so i can grow as a writer !!!
It was the kind of evening that made Manhattan feel smaller than it was. The clinking of glasses, and murmurs of praise for various brush strokes, all blurred into a single muted current of polite enthusiasm. But then there was her, the beautiful woman with blonde hair and bright red lipstick, standing in front of a beautiful, sensual painting.
You hadn’t seen her in over 2 years ..
Does she even remember you? You weren't sure .. it was a brief meeting at a mutual friend's dinner party that had turned into a slow and magnetic conversation over drinks and cigarettes on the terrace of her house. But it ended with nothing more than a soft goodbye.
Now, she turned slightly, head tilting just enough to catch you watching. Her lips curved into a small smile of recognition. She saw you.
She approached slowly, with the kind of composure that made your nerves feel like exposed wires. Your breath got caught in your throat, a soft chill running down your spine.
She is divive.
“Still watching people more than the art, I see,” she murmured, a teasing smile on her face.
You smiled, a shy, small smile.
“Some things are more captivating than paintings.."
Her eyes glittered with the same unspoken amusement she wore that night, 2 years ago, on the terrace. “Are you here for the art, or someone, Darling?"
“Does it matter?” You countered, although your heart was beating 150 beats per minutes.
There was a pause. Measured and calm. Tense in its own thrilling way.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said and sipped from her glass of red wine, not breaking eye contact. Gosh, her eyes are captivating.
The gallery suddenly felt warm. Too warm. Or maybe it was just her presence—Carol Aird had that effect, after all... Immaculate in cream silk and a cigarette case nestled in her black clutch, she looked like she had stepped out of time and into your evening just to tease you.
“Walk with me,” she said, like it was a demand and not a question.
You followed her through the winding halls of the gallery, away from the noise and into a quiet back corridor where no one was to bother you.
“Funny,” she said softly, glancing at a sculpture to your right, “how modern art always makes me feel like I’ve missed the point. But I enjoy the act of pretending I haven’t.”
You chuckled and teased. “You’re very good at pretending, Ms. Aird."
She stopped walking and looked at you. "Miss Aird? Oh, Darling, you .. amuse me."
Your breath hitched slightly. She's so ..
The silence that followed was heavier than any words. It stretched between you, thick with memory and possibility.
“Have you been well?” she asked finally, voice gentle.
“I’ve been... working. Traveling. Photographing.. The usual."
Carol studied you as if she could see through every careful layer you had put on before stepping out tonight.
“Some people haunt,” she said. “Even when they barely touch you.”
You weren’t sure if she meant herself or you. Maybe both.
“I-I don’t think I’ve stopped thinking about you since that night,” you admitted. Stuttering. It came out too fast, too real .. but you didn’t take it back. Not today.
Carol’s breath caught just enough for you to notice. “Then why didn’t you write me, Sweetheart?"
“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” You admitted.
Her laugh was low and short, as if sad.
“You were wrong.. So, so wrong."
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Her gaze flicked to your lips, then away again, subtle and practised. Calculated.
“I’ve thought about you, too,” she said, almost like it hurt. “More than I should’ve.” Her voice trailed down.
There it was again—the edge of something neither of you had touched fully, but circled around like moths.
“Come with me,” she said again, this time quieter.
You followed.
The ride to her apartment was mostly quiet, except for her occasional hum of thought or glances in your direction.
Her place was elegant, dimly lit, wrapped in soft light and jazz filtering in from an old record. The walls were a warm ivory colour, and the furniture was classic and clean, like her — timeless.
She poured two glasses of wine, handed you one, and sat beside you on the sofa, her knees brushing yours faintly.
“This feels...” You started;
“Dangerous?” she offered, voice like velvet.
“Familiar,” you said. Looking up at her.
Her fingers played along the stem of her glass. Her nails the same bright, delicious color of red just like her nails.
"I don’t often do familiar.”
“I know.”
She looked at you then—not with restraint, but with quiet hunger. Desire. It was there in the way her eyes dropped to your mouth, in the way her hand inched just a little closer, in the way how she scooted closer just to feel your body heat.
You reached over, your fingertips grazing hers.
“I don’t want to ruin anything,” you whispered, “but I don’t want to leave this undone again.” your voice broke.
“Neither do I,” she murmured, setting her glass down.
Your mouths met slowly with no urgency. Just warmth, pressure, and breath. Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin as if memorizing its softness. As if it was the last time for you two.
When she pulled back, her lipstick had smudged faintly onto your bottom lip. Her eyes searched your face, as though trying to decide if she was brave enough to keep going.
“I want you to stay,” she said. “But not just for tonight...
Please.."
You nodded, heart pounding, lips tingling, heart racing. “Then I’ll stay.”
Her fingers brushed over your collarbone, dipped under the edge of your dress. Not hurried, but with clear intention.
“And if I told you I’ve imagined this more than once?” she asked, her blue eyes darting to look into yours.
“Then I’d say you weren’t alone, Carol."
Carol leaned in again, her kiss deeper now, slower.
You sighed into her touch, and she smiled against your lips.
Outside, the city kept its rhythm.
But inside, it was all stillness: Two women on the edge of something not entirely defined, but unmistakably real, deep, emotional.
The night stretched long ahead of you, full of heat and whispered promises, and for once, neither of you looked away.
"My angel.." The older woman whispered;
Flung out of space.
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