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Peggy loves to dance, she really does, but she can’t at all keep up with Angie. It had become obvious the first time Angie had brought her to this place, nodded at the man on the door, and immediately dragged Peggy to the dancefloor. She’s usually good for three or four songs, maybe another couple if the mood is really taking her, but after that the bar, a drink and a quiet table in the corner beckon invitingly.

Angie can go all night, and where she gets the energy from after eight hours at the Automat — sometimes even ten or twelve — Peggy doesn’t know.

It’s after the third time Angie turns down an invitation from an interested party that Peggy assures her, “It’s okay if you want to dance with someone else.”

“I came here to be with you,” Angie replies, squeezing Peggy’s hand where it’s resting on the table between them. “And what kinda date would that make me? Ditching a gal at the first look from another woman.”

Peggy smiles and sips her drink, doing her best to hide the small blush creeping up her cheeks at Angie’s words. Still, she can’t help but notice how Angie shifts restlessly in her chair, feet tapping along to the sound of the band, and she really doesn’t mind. It’s just a dance, after all.

The next invitation comes from a small redhead, dressed in dark trousers, and a shirt and tie. She tips her head in greeting, and before Angie can decline, Peggy says, “Just a dance?” her fingertips glancing over Angie’s forearm. The woman smiles and nods.  To Angie, Peggy says, “Go on. I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

“Well,” Angie says, casting another longing glance at the dancefloor. “If you’re sure you’re sure.”


Watching Angie dance is certainly something, that Peggy is willing to admit, even as she shifts restlessly in her seat and takes a large swallow of her scotch. The woman she’s dancing with is good — very nearly as good as Angie is herself — and it’s almost a pleasure to behold.


Because it being only a dance is perfectly fine in theory, but in practice, Peggy is — only ever so slightly, mind you, but definitely at least a little — incredibly jealous.

She can admit it. She is a grown woman, and one with a very good grasp of her own emotions, thank you very much, and watching Angie with another woman’s hands on her body is definitely stirring up a great number of them.

She lasts two songs.

As the band strikes up the third, she abandons her scotch, stands decisively from her chair, and makes her way across the bar toward her girlfriend.

The woman Angie’s dancing with has the good grace to give way quickly when Peggy taps her on the shoulder and asks (in a way that makes it very clear it absolutely is not a polite request) if she can cut in.

“Pegs?” Angie says, the question clear in her voice. “Not that I’m not happy to dance with you again, but I thought you’d had enough.”

Peggy blushes. It takes all of about three seconds for Angie to figure her out, and when she watches the realisation dawn on Angie’s face, her blush deepens considerably.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meeting Angie’s eyes in an attempt to convey her sincerity. “She was touching you and I couldn’t seem to stop wanting to deal out a serious amount of harm. Which is contrary to just about everything I believe in. I’m — I’m sorry.” Peggy shrugs helplessly and Angie’s eyes soften. 

“Aw, English,” she says, “I’m flattered.” Peggy lets out a breath of relief, then notices the mischievous grin starting to curve Angie’s lips before she continues on, “In fact, I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to take me home and show me just how possessive you are.”

Peggy swallows hard at Angie’s words and the gleam in her eyes. “You wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.”


It’s a long walk back to the Griffith and they barely manage to make it inside Angie’s room before Peggy has Angie’s dress pushed up around her waist and her hand inside her knickers. Angie’s wet already, soaked like she’s been wanting this for hours, and Peggy’s fingers are coated instantly.

“Oh Angie,” she murmurs, then watches Angie’s eyes flutter closed as she groans in relief. Peggy cups Angie with her hand, grazes her palm over Angie’s clit and Angie rocks against her. “Angie, my darling, I’ve got to have you.”

Angie’s reply is immediate. Breathless. “Yes, Peggy. Oh please.” 

They work their clothes off together. Peggy finds her hands are rougher than normal — she thinks a button or two pops off in her haste, but she doesn’t care. Angie doesn’t seem to mind either; she whimpers when Peggy runs her palms over her breasts, gasps Peggy’s name when, finding nipples hard and wanting, Peggy bends down to take them in her mouth.

Peggy thinks back to the bar. To Angie dancing with another woman. To her words. She knows it’s a terrible thing to want. She knows in truth she has no more claim to Angie than anyone else, that Angie is her own person — belongs to no one but herself. Knowing this doesn’t do a thing to dampen her desire to mark Angie as her own. To mar the perfect skin over Angie’s breasts with tiny bites. To suck a small bruise into the skin while Angie arches against her and pleads for more.

“I’ve got you,” Peggy murmurs, bites down again. “You’re mine, you’re mine.”

Angie cries out, reaches down to run fingers through Peggy’s hair. She holds Peggy to her breast, the sharp points of her fingers digging at the back of Peggy’s neck. Whimpers yes and yes and yes.

They’ve made love hastily before, when desire overwhelmed all sense of decorum. When Peggy needed Angie just as desperately as Angie needed her. They’ve made love rushed, worried about discovery, in places Peggy never would have considered appropriate, but with so much wanting between them that they simply couldn’t wait.

Peggy doesn't think it’s ever felt quite like this.

“Roll over,” she says, urging Angie along. “I want you on your hands and knees.”

The noise Angie makes then throbs hard between Peggy’s thighs — thighs already slick with her own arousal. And then Angie turns. Turns and shuffles into position, points her arse in Peggy’s direction, and Peggy’s just completely done in.

She tries to speak, but her voice cracks, desire sparking every nerve, leaving her dizzy, trembling with the force of it. Finally, hoarsely, she whispers, “Do you want my fingers? Tell me—tell me you want them.”

“Please,” Angie whines. “Oh, please, Peggy, I want them.”

The thought crosses Peggy’s mind that she should delay. Tease Angie until she’s on the brink of losing her mind, and then tease her some more. The truth is, though, Peggy needs this too. She needs to feel the slick clench of Angie around her fingers, need to have her so badly that— 

She doesn’t make Angie wait.

Two fingers slip in easily, curl down. Angie cries out her pleasure, rocks backwards, taking Peggy deeper, then again and again.

“You want this,” Peggy says. “Need this… need me.”

Angie — forehead now pressed against the mattress, arms folded against themselves unable to hold up her weight — sobs her assent, asks for more. Peggy gives her everything.

It’s not long, with three fingers now taking Angie higher, with Peggy’s free hand sliding over Angie’s hip and around to stroke insistently against her clit, it’s not long at all until Angie’s shuddering through her orgasm, gasping cries barely muffled in the crook of her arm.

Peggy knows she could get Angie there again. Has in fact before. But today she’s too wound up — selfish almost in her own need. Angie’s barely come down, she’s still breathing hard and looking at Peggy dazed and sated, but Peggy can’t wait. 

She slides up Angie’s body, kisses her messily, demandingly. Angie’s thigh fits easily against her, and Peggy paints her arousal over the hard muscle as she thrusts — once, then again.  Angie says her name, says her name and then, “God, I love you so much, Pegs, so much,” and Peggy comes.

Angie kisses her, softly, in wonderful counterpoint to the frenzy of moments before. Still sensitive from her orgasm, Peggy’s skin prickles pleasantly and she shivers as kisses land between her breasts, the underside of her chin, and finally her mouth.

When she has breath again, Peggy returns Angie’s words of love. Returns them and more. Sated and comfortable, with the weight of Angie’s body pressed against her own, Peggy wonders if perhaps sometimes, just a little possessiveness isn’t necessarily a bad thing.