Work Text:
Tina skidded through the reception, boots clattering against the polished marble, rag swinging from her leather jacket pocket, paint-streaked fingers clutching her satchel bag. She was late. Again. Her canvas-strewn studio, half a block away, had swallowed hours while she fussed over the final swatches for Ms. Schecter’s penthouse mural, and now the clock was mocking her with every tick.
She darted past the security desk, muttering apologies, fumbling for her access card, pulse beating too loud in her ears.
“Hold it!”
The doors almost sealed shut, but Tina lunged forward, bag swinging, boots skidding across marble. She squeezed in just before the steel closed her out.
Inside stood Bette Porter.
Tina froze, boots half-lifted, rag swinging loosely from her pocket, paint-streaked fingers tightening around her satchel.
Everyone in the building knew the rule—when Bette was in the elevator, you waited for the next one. No small talk, no casual chatter, no eye contact if you valued your skin. Her silence was armor, her reputation a blade. And yet, standing there, in her perfectly tailored black skirt suit, crisp white blouse, stilettos clicking faintly against the marble, hair pulled into a tight bun, luxury bag in hand, Bette radiated more than authority. She radiated control, and it pressed into Tina like a physical weight, leaving her breath shallow, her chest tight.
Even the air seemed to hum with expectation, waiting for Bette to speak—or to dismiss her entirely. Tina could feel the sharp precision of her gaze cutting across the elevator, measuring her, cataloging every paint streak, every messy strand of hair, every small tremor in her hands.
Bette didn’t turn. She watched Tina’s reflection in the mirrored doors, eyes running slowly over the messy bun perched atop her head, loose strands escaping to frame her paint-streaked face, over cargo pants, worn brown leather jacket, boyish boots, the tight clinging shirt, a streak of red on her cheek like war paint. The scrutiny was so precise, so measured, that Tina felt stripped down to the bone. Heat crawled beneath her skin, rising in her neck, her chest, making her suddenly aware of every breath and heartbeat.
“You don’t belong here,” Bette said finally, low and precise, a judgment disguised as fact.
Tina’s grin came quick, a shield she didn’t quite feel. “I hope not. That would make me boring.”
A small curve tugged at Bette’s lip, but her gaze didn’t soften.
“I was commissioned,” Tina added, lifting her paint-streaked hand as if that excused the mess of her. “Ms. Schecter wants a mural for her penthouse. So, I will be here… maybe more than you would welcome.”
Bette turned her head, eyes steady, sharp as a blade. “Next time,” she said, “you wait for the next one.”
Tina dipped her chin in mock solemnity. “For sure.” She shoved her hands into her pockets, trying to steady her trembling fingers, the adrenaline still thrumming from the brief exchange.
—but as she shifted her weight, a tube of crimson paint, slick from earlier handling, wobbled free. Her heart skipped a beat as it tumbled from her pocket, landing squarely in Bette’s polished shoe. The tube burst on impact, splattering a vivid streak of red across the leather like a deliberate mark.
Tina froze, a sharp gasp catching in her throat. Her fingers hovered, useless, as the vibrant stain spread, mocking her clumsiness—and somehow, the heat still coursing through her made the moment feel even more intimate, more charged than she could explain.
“Oh, fuck.” Tina was down on her knees instantly, rag in hand, dabbing frantically, heart thundering like she’d just committed a crime.
Bette’s voice cut through the silence, deep and deliberate, a thread pulled tight between them.
“Can’t say I’d object to a woman on her knees for me in this elevator.”
Tina froze. Her breath stuttered out of her, heart slamming against her ribs so hard she thought Bette could hear it.
Slowly, she looked up.
Bette was already biting her bottom lip, gaze locked down on her like a dare, like she wanted to see just how far Tina would go.
The air between them burned, thick with something Tina had no name for but felt everywhere.
The elevator jolted, then chimed. It stopped on Bette’s floor.
Before Tina could move, a hand curled into the collar of her leather jacket, yanking her effortlessly to her feet.
“Wait—” she started, breathless—
But Bette’s grip was unyielding. She dragged Tina across the threshold, supplies scattering behind them as the elevator doors whispered shut.
Her back hit the cool wall of the hallway with a dull thud, shock rippling down her spine.
“I’ll pay for the shoes, I swear—” Tina blurted, voice cracking somewhere between apology and plea.
“You definitely will and…” Bette murmured, her mouth so close her words grazed Tina’s lips. “I know a perfect way you can.”
Without a second thought, she dropped her luxury bag onto the floor, letting it hit with a soft thud, carelessly—her focus entirely on Tina. The weightless disregard for her things only made the moment sharper, more urgent.
Then the kiss landed like a strike—hot, hard, claiming. Bette’s lips crashed against hers, and Tina gasped into the heat, the sound breaking into a desperate moan that echoed off the marble. Every nerve fired at once, every thought of order, composure, and reason dissolving under the sheer force of Bette’s possession.
Bette’s hand slid from Tina’s collar up to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, gripping tight as though she could drag every ounce of surrender out of her. Her palm pressed firm at her nape, guiding her deeper into the kiss, keeping her exactly where she wanted her.
Tina’s back hit the wall hard, the chill of the marble searing through her leather jacket, her shoulder blades trapped. Bette’s body was unrelenting, pinning her in place, chest to chest, her breath ragged and hot against Tina’s cheek whenever their mouths broke for half a second.
Tina’s fingers twitched, her hands hovering uselessly in the air, desperate to anchor themselves in Bette’s jacket, her hips, anywhere. Instinct had her reaching and then Bette growled against her mouth, the sound vibrating through Tina’s chest.
“Don’t you dare touch me.”
The words hit harder than the kiss, a whip-crack command that froze Tina mid-reach. Her hands curled into fists, suspended like she was shackled by nothing more than Bette’s will.
But the ache didn’t go away—it intensified. The need to hold on, to pull her closer, to answer the kiss with all the hunger in her was a wildfire burning through her veins. She trembled with it, her restraint a thin line ready to snap.
Bette deepened the kiss again, slower now, deliberate, her tongue pushing past Tina’s lips, claiming, tasting, teasing. Her grip at the nape tightened, tilting Tina’s head, angling her just so, like she wanted to own even the way Tina breathed.
Tina whimpered against her, the sound half broken, half desperate, and it pulled a low, guttural noise from Bette’s throat. For a flicker of a second, Bette pressed harder, her hips pinning Tina more firmly into the wall, control fraying at the edges.
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back.
Her mouth hovered, breath hot, lips swollen, eyes dark and glittering like she could see straight through Tina’s trembling restraint.
“You smell like paint…” Bette murmured, her voice hoarse, “…and obedience.”
The words sank like teeth into Tina’s skin, making her shudder, making her press forward without meaning to, chasing that heat again.
But Bette was already smoothing her jacket, composure snapping back into place like armor. Her hand flicked down to retrieve her luxury bag from the floor, lifting it effortlessly in one smooth motion, cradling it in her arm as if nothing had happened, very movement measured, controlled, exuding the same unshakable authority she carried in her gaze.
“You need to go back down,” she said, her tone suddenly cool again. “Don’t forget to tap your card this time. Ms. Schecter’s floor is beneath this one.”
And with that, she turned, heels clicking in sharp precision against the marble, never once looking over her shoulder as she unlocked her penthouse door.
Tina stood there, jacket skewed off one shoulder, lips swollen, chest heaving as though she’d surfaced too fast from underwater. Her brushes and tubes lay scattered across the hallway tiles, rolling against the baseboards, a trail of her disorder in the pristine quiet of Bette Porter’s world. The streak of red paint staining Bette’s polished shoe burned in her mind, obscene and intimate, like she’d left a mark she could never erase.
Her knees trembled, traitorous, the muscles weak from restraint and the sheer force of wanting. She felt split in two—her body still vibrating from the heat of that kiss, the command that had scorched her into stillness, while her mind scrambled to make sense of how quickly she’d obeyed.
Her heart hadn’t slowed since Bette Porter first opened her mouth. It beat fast and reckless, like it wanted to follow the click of heels retreating down the corridor, through the locked door she hadn’t been invited past.
And yet, Tina stayed frozen, messy and undone, the weight of humiliation clashing with the raw pulse of arousal. She tried to will her body into stillness, but every breath betrayed her, shaking, shallow, restless—like she had been claimed, then dismissed, and wasn’t sure which left her trembling more.
Tina barely had time to process before the hum of the elevator started again. The doors slid open, bright light spilling onto the hallway, dragging her back to reality like a cold splash of water. Her bag lay on its side, brushes rolling, tubes scattered, as if the floor itself were staring at her—mocking, accusing, reminding her she was messy, exposed, still trembling from the fire Bette had left behind.
Her chest heaved, heat crawling through her veins in a way that had nothing to do with panic. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, tasting copper, tasting herself, and let out a low, ragged, frustrated curse.
“Fuck…” The word was sharp, almost a growl, trembling on the edge of her lips. A sigh, a moan, a confession. Her body still burned for Bette, every nerve alive and raw, and all she could do was stand there, frozen, clutching at her scattered supplies like they could anchor her while her mind—and her body—kept replaying the taste, the grip, the heat of that kiss.