#joanne (company) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

angeliccss · 6 days ago

Text

Signed, Sealed, Yours

Pairing: Joanne x Fem!Reader

Words: 6.7k

Summary: A smoky bar, a lingering gaze, an offer too tempting to refuse. What starts as a fleeting encounter becomes something neither of you expected—but exactly what you both needed.

Read on AO3

AN: I've read this over once and I'm extremely sleep-deprived, so tell me if there's any mistakes!

Dividers: @cafekitsune

The first thing you notice about her is the cigarette. The way she holds it between her fingers—casual, effortless, like a prop in a play she’s already bored of. Smoke curls from her lips in lazy ribbons, trailing toward the dim bar lights. She doesn’t look at you at first, but when she does, it’s slow. Intentional. It's like she’s already decided how the night will end.

She exhales, and flicks ash into a crystal tray. “Well?” The single word hangs in the air, cutting through the jazz humming from the speakers. “Are you going to say something interesting, or should I just order another drink and pretend you don’t exist?”

It’s not a question—it’s a challenge. And judging by the sharp gleam in her eyes, she’s already made up her mind about you.

It takes you a moment to realize the alluring woman is talking to you and not some invisible person next to you. “Oh– uhm…” you barely manage before she cuts you off with a sly smirk. “C’mon, you can do better than that sweetheart,” she says, her voice like velvet and rich with amusement as she takes a slow drag, the tip of her cigarette burning red-hot before dimming again. Smoke spills from her lips, curling lazily between you.

Oh God, why did that have to be so hot?

You sit there mouth agape, looking like a fool. The mysterious woman's smirk deepens. “Cat got your tongue?” Her words are like a slow purr, laced with mock sympathy. She tilts her head, studying you, learning you, like she's deciding whether you're worth her time. “No.” the word barely scrapes past your throat. You can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Utterly enthralled by the woman beside you.

“What’s your name, baby?” she’s not asking, she’s demanding. She takes another slow, deliberate drag of her mostly gone cigarette. The exhale is intentional, a slow roll of smoke curling toward your face. She watches—amused, waiting—as you fight the urge to cough. The thick, bitter scent clings to the air between you, wrapping around her like a halo, a saint with a sinner’s grin. “[Y/n], my name’s [Y/n],” Your voice barely feels like your own, why is she making you so nervous?

She shifts closer, close enough that the heat of her body seeps into yours. The scent of her perfume, her cigarette, her whiskey-roughened breath—it’s all-consuming.

"Tell me, [Y/n]... are you always this shy, or just for me?" Your name rolls off her tongue like velvet-dipped sin, slow and deliberate, a siren’s song luring you deeper. And Joanne? She’s the ocean—vast, untamed, waiting to pull you under.

She chuckles, shaking her head. "Poor thing. Do you need a drink to loosen up, or should I just keep sweet-talking you?" Before you can answer, she flags down the bartender with a lazy flick of her wrist. "Get my darling here whatever she wants. And put it on my tab."

You wrack your brain for any drink you can think of but come up empty. “Let me guess—you have no idea what you want. How about I pick for you, sweet thing?" the woman mocks, you really need to learn her name.

She doesn’t even look at you when she says it. "Two gin martinis. Dirty." Only after the bartender nods does she glance back at you, amused. "I hope you like gin, baby. If not... well, you'll learn."

“I’ve never had gin before.” you retort, a sweet smile pulling at your lips. “You didn't have to buy me a drink…” you trail off, waiting–expecting– for the enthralling woman to tell you her name. She pauses, head tilting as if measuring your worth. “Joanne,” she says, smooth as silk, the name rolling off her tongue like an afterthought. Confidence drapes over her like a second skin.

Before you can get another word in, the bartender slides a glass toward you. The woman—Joanne—nudges it closer, her perfectly manicured nail tapping against the cool surface, slow and deliberate. "Drink up, baby," she purrs, watching you like a cat watches a mouse. The glass is cool to the touch, condensation beading along the sides before rolling over your fingers. You swallow hard and lift it to your lips, feeling her gaze settle on you, expectant.

You take a slow sip, refusing to break eye contact. The gin is cool against your lips, sharp as it slides down your throat, heat blooming in its wake. You fight the instinct to cough, swallowing smoothly—just for her. Joanne hums, pleased. "Good girl."

Her gaze drags down the slope of your neck, lingering on the way your throat moves. That smirk—wicked, knowing—pulls at her lips. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing at a bar like this?” Her voice is all silk and smoke, wrapping around you like a velvet ribbon, tightening just enough to make you squirm.

She pulls a cigarette from the carton in her no-doubt obscenely expensive purse, rolling it between two manicured fingers before bringing it to her lips. "Want one?" she asks, voice low, smoky in more ways than one. She doesn’t look at you right away—just a sideways glance, like she’s testing you, measuring your resolve.

"Tempting, but I think one of us should keep our lungs intact." You flash her a small smirk, watching for her reaction. Joanne exhales a slow stream of smoke, eyes flickering with amusement. "Oh, baby, you wound me."

In a flash Joanne stubs out her cigarette, looking you over like she’s already decided. "Come home with me, there’s no sense in drinking alone.” She reaches for her coat, movements effortless, elegant—but the way her wedding ring glints in the bar’s dim light makes your stomach twist.

"What about your husband—" You don’t even finish before she laughs, low and humorless. "Larry’s occupied." She downs what remains of her drink in one go, the ice clinking against the glass. Then her eyes are back on you—sharp, expectant. "So? Are you coming, or not?"

It happens before you can even think about it. Your lips part, and before you know it— "Ok." Joanne pauses, just for a moment, her smirk stretching into something almost satisfied. Like she already knew exactly what you’d say. Then she turns, hips swaying, confidence dripping from every step. She doesn’t check if you’re following. She doesn’t have to. You exhale sharply, grabbing your coat and purse with shaking hands before she disappears into the crowd. You don’t even know where she’s taking you—only that you want to go.

The cab is quiet, save for the sound of tires against wet pavement. You can hear your heartbeat thruming in your ears, embarrassingly loud in the stillness.

Joanne sits beside you, close but composed, one hand lazily tracing patterns on her knee, the other resting near the door. Not touching you, but near enough to make you aware of every inch between you. She hasn’t spoken since you got in the car. She doesn’t have to.

You shift in your seat, unsure if you should say something—fill the space—but before you can, she lets out a small, knowing hum. "Relax, sweet thing. You’ll enjoy yourself if you let yourself." She doesn’t look at you as she says it—just watches your reflection in the cab window, smirking.

"Where are we going?" you ask. Joanne lets out a low chuckle, running a hand through her perfectly styled hair. "That’s a good question." She doesn’t look at you when she speaks again, just out the window, watching the neon lights paint the cab’s interior in flashes of red and blue.

"Larry’s got his little plaything. I figure I deserve mine." The words should be biting, but there’s something in her voice—something almost sad. Your heart twists a little. You don’t know what to say, but somehow, you know that’s okay.

She turns to you, studying you, like she’s trying to figure something out. Then, she reaches out, running a single finger down your wrist. "You alright with that, sweet thing?" She’s testing you—but not in the way she was before. And you don’t hesitate before nodding.

The cab stops in front of one of the biggest apartment buildings you’ve ever seen—polished glass stretching endlessly toward the sky, with a doorman waiting in pristine uniform. You should’ve expected it; Joanne doesn’t settle for anything below absolute luxury. Before you can even fully take it in, a warm hand—her hand—wraps around yours, firm and assured. There’s no time to hesitate. You’re pulled out of the cab and into the gleaming lobby, marble floors cool beneath your feet, the air thick with the scent of wealth—fresh flowers, expensive cologne, and something unmistakably her.

"This is the most extravagant building I’ve ever seen," you say, pure awe lacing your voice as your eyes sweep over the grand piano, the gold ornaments, the well-dressed people moving about as if they belong here. It’s like stepping into another world—one you were never meant to touch.

Joanne hums, amused. "Well, you better get used to it. That is, if I decide to keep you." Her gaze is sharp, searching—waiting for you to flinch, to back away, to leave her like everyone else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of how easily she could chew you up and spit you out. And yet… you don’t pull away. “Guess I’ll just have to prove I’m worth keeping.”

Her warm hand finds yours again, guiding you toward the exquisitely designed elevator. The doors glide shut with a whisper-soft sigh, sealing you inside, cutting you off from the world beyond. Without thinking, you ask, “Why me? Out of everyone you could’ve chosen, why me?”

Joanne holds your gaze, unreadable for a long moment. Then, simply: “Because I wanted to.” She shrugs, casual as ever, but there’s something unspoken in her voice, something lingering. "And I always get what I want."

The elevator hums as it ascends, the city shrinking below. Joanne stands beside you, impossibly poised, her presence filling every inch of the enclosed space. Her perfume—something rich and expensive—lingers in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.

She turns her head slightly, watching you with that sharp, knowing gaze. “You still haven’t answered me, you know.” You blink, feeling the weight of her attention. “What?”

Joanne smirks, taking a slow step closer, close enough that the heat of her body brushes against yours. “Are you always this shy, or just for me?” Her voice is smooth, and teasing, but there’s something else lurking beneath it.

Your throat feels dry. “I’m not—” You swallow, clearing it. “I’m not shy.”

Joanne lets out a low, amused hum. “Oh, honey… that’s adorable.” She lifts a perfectly manicured hand and, without breaking eye contact, reaches past you to press the button for her floor—though you could’ve sworn she already hit it. Just an excuse to get closer.

The soft chime of the elevator fills the silence between you, the doors gliding open. Joanne steps out first, throwing a glance over her shoulder, her smirk still lingering. “Coming?” And just like that, you’re following her, heart pounding, wondering if she already knows she has you wrapped around her finger.

You follow Joanne down the hushed, carpeted hallway, the air thick with the quiet luxury of the building. Every step she takes is confident, effortless—like she owns every space she walks into. Maybe she does.

She stops in front of a sleek black door, pulling a key from her coat pocket. The lock clicks, and she pushes it open with ease, stepping inside without looking back. You hesitate for only a second before following her in.

The apartment is stunning, just like you expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city skyline, lights twinkling like stars below. The decor is modern and elegant—but it feels… untouched. Like a showroom rather than a home.

Joanne tosses her keys onto a glass table near the door and shrugs off her coat, draping it over a pristine leather chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, already heading toward the bar cart. “Do you want another drink?”

You glance around the apartment, taking in the polished surfaces, and the lack of personal touches. It’s beautiful, but cold—like no one lives here. "It's beautiful," you murmur, running your fingers lightly over the back of the sofa. "But it doesn't feel like… you."

Joanne pauses, pouring herself a drink. She doesn’t turn around when she replies. “No?” Her tone is unreadable. You shake your head. "It feels... empty." That makes her chuckle, low and dry. She finally turns to face you, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Well, sweetheart, that’s because it is."

For the first time since you met her, she looks almost… tired. The mask slipping, just a little. Maybe that’s why she brought you here.

You don’t know what compels you to move closer, but you do. Maybe it’s the way her voice wavers, just slightly. Maybe it’s the way she looks at her drink like it holds answers she’ll never find.

Either way, you cross the room, stepping into her space. "That sounds lonely," you say softly. Joanne exhales through her nose, a small, humorless smile tugging at her lips. "Lonely?" She repeats the word like it's foreign, rolling it over in her mouth. "Darling, loneliness is for people who expect something different." She lifts her glass in mock toast before taking a sip.

You hesitate, then reach out, your fingers ghosting over her wrist. She stills at the touch, sharp blue eyes flicking down to where your skin meets hers. “You don’t have to be lonely,” you murmur.

For a moment, she doesn’t speak. The air between you shifts, something unspoken passing between you. Joanne isn’t the type to admit to anything, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she huffs a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Aren't you just the sweetest thing?" She sets down her glass, turning her hand so she can take yours properly, running her thumb over your knuckles. Her touch is warm and steady.

"Stay," she says at last, and it isn’t a command or a tease. It’s quiet. Almost vulnerable. And how could you possibly say no?

The night blurs together, softened by the haze of expensive liquor and lazy conversation. At some point, you stop keeping track of how many drinks you've had. Joanne, for all her usual composure, is just as flushed, her laughter looser, eyes half-lidded as she watches you over the rim of her glass.

"You know," she says, swirling the last of her drink, "I used to think I had everything. The perfect life. The perfect marriage. A goddamn dream." She exhales, a slow, bitter thing. "And then I woke up one day and realized—I built my whole life around men who never really saw me." She tilts her head, a wry smirk tugging at her lips, but her eyes—her eyes are tired. “Tell me, sweetheart… what kind of fool does that make me?”

"You're not a fool, just a woman in love," you retort. "And love makes you blind."

Joanne huffs out a laugh, low and humorless. She leans back against the couch, tipping her head up toward the ceiling as if there's an answer hidden somewhere in the plaster. "Blind, deaf, and downright stupid," she muses, downing the rest of her glass.

The room is dimly lit, the golden glow of the city filtering through the massive windows. You watch as Joanne's expression shifts—her usual sharpness dulling, something unspoken weighing on her.

"I wasted years on him, on the two before him," she admits, voice softer now, tinged with something almost like regret. "Gave him my best years, and for what? So he could run off with some—some little thing who probably giggles at his jokes and thinks he's goddamn charming?" She scoffs, shaking her head. "Christ, listen to me. I sound pathetic."

"You don't," you say, the words coming easy. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just the truth. "You're allowed to be hurt. You're allowed to be angry."

Joanne turns her head to look at you then, really looks at you, like she's searching for something in your face. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, with a sigh, she sets her glass down and leans in just a fraction closer. "And what about you?" she murmurs, voice lower now, more intimate. "What kind of foolish things have you done for love?"

A dry laugh escapes you before you even realize it. You shake your head, staring down at the rim of your glass. “I made one of the biggest mistakes in my life.” She hums, tilting her head. “Oh?” There’s intrigue in her voice, but she doesn’t press. Not yet.

You exhale, rolling the cool glass between your palms. “I fell for someone I couldn’t have. A married woman.” The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken for a moment too long. Joanne doesn’t look surprised. If anything, her smirk fades into something unreadable. She studies you, head tilted. “And?” she finally prompts.

You scoff, shaking your head. “And I was a fool. I let myself believe I meant something to her. That she’d leave him for me.” You let out a humorless laugh. “She didn’t.” Joanne watches you closely. There’s no pity in her gaze, just understanding. A quiet knowing. She sighs, takes another sip of her drink, then places it down with a soft clink.

“You’re not a fool,” she murmurs, her voice softer than before. “Just a woman in love.” You glance at her, meeting her gaze. “And love makes you blind.”

Joanne is silent for a moment. Then, she leans back, stretching one arm over the back of the couch, her fingers barely brushing your shoulder. “That it does, sweetheart. That it does.” There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—maybe regret, maybe relief that you understand. Maybe both.

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that only forms when two people understand each other without needing to say another word.

Joanne exhales slowly, watching you over the rim of her glass–no–your glass. But then, as if suddenly making up her mind, she leans forward and sets the tumbler down with a quiet clink against the glass table. Her other hand moves with practiced ease, plucking the cigarette carton from the table in front of her, lighting it with practiced ease. She places it between her lips, taking a long, slow drag. She looks at you, tapping the ash into the crystal ashtray beside her, letting soft plumes of smoke out through her nose.

Then, she turns to you. “Open your mouth.” You blink at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She smirks, tilting her head as if amused by your hesitation. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before.” Her voice is low, teasing, but there’s something else there, something unreadable. She shifts closer, knees nearly brushing yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me show you.”

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips just slightly. Joanne lifts the cigarette again, taking a deliberate drag, the embers flaring bright in the soft light. Then, she plucks it from her lips, fingers curled delicately around the filter, and exhales��slow, controlled—directly into your waiting mouth.

The smoke is warm, curling past your lips, sliding down your throat like silk. You inhale instinctively, letting it settle deep in your lungs before finally exhaling with a fit of coughs, your breath mingling with hers in the space between you.

Joanne watches you the whole time, her expression amused, her eyes—dark, knowing—never leave yours. She hums, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Good girl.” Your stomach flips.

The moment stretches, heavy with something unspoken. You’re still close, her perfume and whiskey-laced breath wrapping around you like a slow-burning fuse. She doesn’t pull away. And, God help you, neither do you.

Joanne’s eyes flick down to your lips—just for a moment, just enough for you to notice. The smirk she’s been wearing softens, but the hunger behind it remains. She reaches for the cigarette again, but instead of bringing it to her lips, she presses it out into the ashtray beside her.

And then, she’s leaning in. It’s slow, deliberate, like she’s giving you the chance to stop her. Like she’s waiting for you to come to your senses, to pull away before it’s too late. But you don’t move.

Your breath hitches when her fingers graze your jaw, her touch is featherlight but certain. The moment stretches between you, heavy with something neither of you name, something that tastes like whiskey and smoke and the kind of longing that creeps up when the night is too quiet.

“Tell me to stop,” she murmurs, her lips barely an inch from yours. It’s not a warning—it’s a test. You don’t. And that’s all she needs.

The first press of her lips is soft, almost careful. But Joanne isn’t careful, not really. The hesitation lasts only a second before she deepens it, her hand sliding into your hair, her nails grazing against your scalp.

She kisses like she drinks—slow, savoring, as if she’s trying to consume you one taste at a time, and you don't want her to stop.

She kisses you like she needs to, like she’s been starved for something she can’t name. But then, just as quickly as she leaned in, she pulls away. A sharp breath. A tremor in her fingers as they hover near your cheek before she drops them to her lap.

You barely have time to process before she lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “God, what am I doing?” She tilts her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold the answer. The confidence, the control—it all unravels in an instant. “I’ve made a goddamn fool of myself.”

You can see it now, the cracks beneath the surface. The exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. The hurt buried under the sharp edges of her wit. You hesitate for only a second before reaching for her hand. “You’re not a fool, Joanne,” you retort softly. “You never were.”

Her throat bobs like she’s swallowing down something thick, something she doesn’t want to admit. She squeezes her eyes shut. “I loved him, utterly loved him.” Her voice wavers. “I knew he didn’t love me, but I still stayed.”

Her walls are down now, her composure slipping. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t pull away from your touch either. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside.

You squeeze her hand, grounding her. “Why did you stay?” Joanne exhales shakily, finally turning to you. “Because I thought it was easier to be miserable with him than be alone.”

It’s the most honest thing she’s said all night. For a long moment, neither of you speak. And then, slowly, you shift closer, letting her lean into you. It’s not about seduction anymore—it’s about something softer, something fragile.

Joanne lets out a shuddering breath as she rests her head against your shoulder, her fingers tangling with yours. “You’re too sweet for me,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t let go. You press a kiss to her hair. “I think you need a little sweetness.”

Joanne hums, her head still resting against your shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing the back of your hand. “Stay with me.” It’s barely a request. You don’t answer right away, not because you’re planning on leaving, but because you can feel her thinking—her mind working its way around the vulnerability of asking.

Then, with a slow exhale, she shifts, turning to you with a lazy smirk, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "You could have anything you want, you know. Clothes, jewelry—Paris, even. All you'd have to do is stay."

It’s not a question. It’s an offer. And maybe it's meant to make it easier for her—like if she wraps this in luxury, in things, it won't be so obvious that she just doesn't want to be alone. You hesitate, lips parting, but the words don’t come right away. The offer hangs between you, rich and heavy, laced with promises you don’t know if Joanne intends to keep.

"That’s..." You trail off, eyes flickering to hers, searching for some kind of catch, some indication that this is a joke at your expense. But Joanne only watches you, her expression unreadable. You swallow. "That’s a big offer to make to someone you just met in a bar."

Joanne hums, tilting her head as she studies you, fingers toying with her freshly lit cigarette. "Maybe. Or maybe I knew the second I saw you that you were exactly what I wanted."

Your breath catches. There’s something so intense about the way she’s looking at you—like you’ve already belonged to her for far longer than a few stolen hours. "And what if I say no?" you ask, testing her, testing yourself. Joanne smirks, slow and knowing. "Then I’ll take you home, let you sleep it off, and tomorrow, you’ll come crawling back to me anyway."

It’s arrogant. Infuriating. But the worst part is, you’re not sure she’s wrong. You exhale slowly, staring into the soft light of the city outside, as if it holds the answer you’re searching for. It doesn’t. "You’re awfully sure of yourself," you murmur, forcing a smirk that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Joanne chuckles, low and indulgent. "Darling, I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on." She leans forward, resting her chin in her palm, watching you with a mix of amusement and something deeper. Something unreadable. "You’re hesitating. Why?"

"Because I don’t know you." The words slip out before you can stop them. It’s not entirely true—you know what she’s let you see. The sharp, smirking woman with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, dripping in wealth and confidence, like nothing in the world could touch her. But you’ve also seen the cracks, the way she downs her drink a little too fast, the way she avoids talking about her husband as if the mere mention of him might break the illusion she’s carefully maintaining.

Joanne tilts her head, lips curling in amusement, but her eyes—God, her eyes—search yours like she’s trying to decide whether to let you in or push you away. "Then get to know me," she says, voice dipping into something softer. "Stay."

Your stomach twists. It would be so easy to say yes, to let yourself sink into whatever this is, to let her pull you under like the tide. But your voice is quiet when you ask, "And if I do? What then?" Joanne doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifts, sitting back with a slow sigh, as if she’s deciding how much to give away.

Finally, she says, "Then you get whatever you want, sweet thing. A life most people can only dream of. But most importantly—" She lifts her glass to her lips, watching you over the rim. "You get me." The words shouldn’t make your heart stutter the way they do. But they do.

Joanne takes another slow drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light. She exhales through pursed lips, watching as the smoke curls between you. Then she laughs—low, knowing, utterly amused. “You like watching me, don’t you?”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

She tilts her head, studying you with a lazy smirk. “Don’t play coy, baby. I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me all night—like you’d let me do just about anything and still thank me for it.” She takes another drag, this time holding your gaze as she inhales, her lips parting just enough to let the smoke swirl between you. “And this?” she gestures with the cigarette between her fingers. “You think it’s sexy, don’t you?”

You don’t answer right away, but you don’t look away either. That’s all the confirmation Joanne needs. She leans in, exhaling the smoke directly between your parted lips. “Breathe me in, sweetheart.”

You do—God help you, you do. The warmth of it sinks into your lungs, heady and intoxicating. Before you can react, Joanne’s lips brush against yours, tasting of gin and smoke, of something dangerous and consuming. It’s not a soft kiss—it’s claiming, teasing, all the things she’s already promised without words.

When she finally pulls back, she hums, looking more than pleased with herself. “You really are easy to read.” You open your mouth to protest, but she just shakes her head, amusement dancing in her eyes as she taps the cigarette against the tray. “Don’t worry, sweet thing. I like that about you.”

She leans back. "Stay?" It’s not a question. But it’s not quite a command, either. And God help you, you don’t even think of saying no. Now you don’t even hesitate. "Okay."

Joanne exhales a breath of laughter, shaking her head like she can’t believe how easy you are. Or maybe, how easy you were always going to be for her. “That’s my girl.”

She leans forward, picking up her cigarette again and taking a long, slow drag before tapping the ashes into a tray. The silence stretches, thick with something unspoken. Then, with a lazy sort of curiosity, she muses, “You know, I’ve never had a sugar baby before.”

Your stomach flips, and it’s not from the alcohol. "Excuse me?" Joanne chuckles, reaching for her glass before remembering it’s empty. She tilts her head, watching you in the way she always does—now you realize it’s adoration.

“Don’t act so scandalized, sweetheart. You’re young, beautiful, and—” she gestures vaguely in your direction, “—naïve enough to follow a married woman home after knowing her for what? An hour?” You open your mouth, but she just smirks. "Exactly."

She taps the cigarette against the tray again, then gestures toward you with it. "Be honest, wouldn’t it be nice? Not having to worry about a thing? Letting me take care of you?" Your throat feels dry. "You’re joking."

“Am I?” she counters smoothly. “Think about it, baby. No more worrying about bills, rent, or whatever cheap drinks you were sipping before I introduced you to real liquor.” She leans in, voice dropping to something almost sultry. “You’d look so pretty draped in diamonds, don’t you think?”

She’s teasing. But she’s also not. You swallow, suddenly unsure of where to look. This is insane. This whole night has been insane. And yet—you’re still here. Joanne watches you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s memorizing the exact moment you start to consider it.

Joanne watches you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s memorizing the exact moment you start to consider it.

She takes another slow drag, then exhales, letting the smoke curl between you. "You don’t have to decide tonight," she murmurs, voice smooth as velvet. "But something tells me you’re not the type to say no to a good thing."

She smirks, tapping ash into the tray, eyes gleaming with certainty. "And trust me, sweetheart—I’m a very good thing."

You’ve never even dreamt of leading a life like hers, glittering and glamorous filled with expensive jewelry and everything you could ever dream of. The more you think about it–about her–the more you want it.

Joanne tilts her head, watching you with that ever-present smirk, like she already knows what you’re thinking. She takes another slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling as she speaks. “Careful, darling,” she murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “That look in your eyes? That’s how it starts.”

She reaches out, her fingers tracing an absentminded pattern along the inside of your wrist, featherlight but purposeful. “First, it’s just a thought. A little indulgence. Then, before you know it, you can’t imagine living any other way.”

The weight of her words settles over you, heavy and intoxicating. Would it be so bad? To let yourself sink into the luxury, the ease? To let her spoil you? Joanne leans in just a little closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “Tell me, sweet thing… are you ready for that?”

“Ok,” you say, turning to fully look at her. Joanne’s smirk deepens, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes as she takes one last slow drag of her cigarette. She exhales, the smoke curling between you like a promise, like a trap you’re already caught in. “Good girl.”

She taps the cigarette into the ashtray, then reaches for you, fingers grazing your chin, tilting your face toward hers. “You won’t regret it.” There’s something almost dangerous in the way she says it, like she dares you to prove her wrong.

You swallow hard, the weight of your decision settling in your chest—but instead of fear, you feel something else. Anticipation. Excitement. The thought of letting Joanne take care of you, of sinking into her world, of belonging to her… it makes your heart race. Joanne’s fingers trail lower, down your arm, her touch deliberate. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The thought lingers in your mind, heavy despite the haze of liquor and cigarette smoke. You can feel Joanne’s confidence pressing in around you, wrapping you in silk and sin, but something tugs at you—a quiet voice of reason, of self-preservation.

The weight of her words settles in your chest, heavy and intoxicating all at once. You should be questioning this more, hesitating more, but instead, you find yourself drawn further in. Still, a lingering thought itches at the back of your mind—Larry. Her husband. The reality of what she’s offering.

You wet your lips, voice cautious but steady. “But what about Larry? What happens with him?”

Joanne exhales smoke through her nose, a humorless little laugh slipping past her lips. “Larry has his distractions, I have mine.” She gestures vaguely with her cigarette, as if the specifics are unimportant. “He won’t care, and if he does, that’s his problem, not mine.”

You nod slowly, letting her words sink in. But there’s still one more thing. “And me?” you ask, meeting her gaze. “What exactly am I supposed to be to you?”

Joanne smirks, tipping her chin as she watches you, appraising. “Whatever you want to be, sweetheart.” She flicks ash from her cigarette, the motion effortless. “A kept woman, a lover, a secret—just say the word.”

Her confidence is dizzying, her offer dangerously tempting. Logic tells you to hesitate, to think this through—but logic has no place here, not with the way she’s looking at you. Not when every inch of you is already hers.

“I just want to be yours.” The words spill from your lips, weightless and certain. It feels good to admit it—to surrender. That you’ve fallen for a woman you’ve known for mere hours, and that, somehow, impossibly, she wants you just as much.

Joanne studies you, her gaze heavy, unreadable. The smirk playing on her lips deepens, but there’s something else lurking beneath it—something almost vulnerable, if you weren’t so intoxicated by her presence to see it clearly. She takes another slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling smoke in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere but at her.

“I thought you were a smart girl,” she murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “What do you think I want, baby?”

Your heart stutters in your chest. There are a million things she could say, a million possibilities wrapped up in silk sheets and whispered promises. But you force yourself to swallow down your nerves, to meet her gaze head-on.

“For me to stay?” You ask, voice softer now, hesitant.

Joanne chuckles, amused but pleased. “That’s part of it.” She leans in, just close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath against your lips. “I want you on my arm, in my bed, at my beck and call. I want to spoil you, keep you, make sure no one else can have you.” Her grip tightens, just slightly. “I want you to be mine.”

It’s dizzying, intoxicating, reckless. You should run. You should say no. But instead, your lips part, and before you can stop yourself, you whisper,

“I already am.”

Joanne's smirk fades, just slightly, replaced by something softer—something almost like relief. She takes one last drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the crystal ashtray beside her. Then, without warning, she cups your face in her hands, her touch warmer than you expect.

"You say that now," she murmurs, her thumb grazing over your cheek. "But are you sure, sweet thing? Because once you're mine—" her lips ghost over yours, not quite kissing you, just close enough to steal your breath, "—you're mine."

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even hesitate. “I know,” you whisper, and you do.

Joanne searches your face for a moment longer, and then, as if finally accepting your answer, she pulls you in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s different from before—less teasing, less calculated. This time, she kisses you like she’s sealing a promise.

When she finally pulls away, her fingers stay on your jaw, keeping you close. “Come to bed,” she murmurs, and this time, it’s not a question. She knows you won’t leave. The uncertainty is gone now—Joanne has you, and she knows it.

She stands with the kind of effortless grace that only comes from years of moving through the world like she owns it. And maybe she does. Maybe she owns you now too. When she extends her hand, it isn’t a plea, but a promise. A silent declaration that this is only the beginning.

You take it without hesitation, letting her lead you through the dimly lit apartment. The bedroom is as grand as the rest of the place—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering city, and silk sheets that look untouched. Cold. Empty. But none of it matters. Not when Joanne is looking at you like she’s already decided you belong here.

She pulls you onto the bed with her, a smirk playing at her lips as she cups your face, brushing her thumb over your cheek. “You’re mine now, my sweet angel,” she muses, almost like she’s testing how the words feel on her tongue. You don’t argue. You don’t want to.

Joanne tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. “And I take very good care of what’s mine.” Her voice is rich, dripping with certainty, with satisfaction. She presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead before pulling you down beside her. “Get comfortable, baby,” she purrs, wrapping an arm around your waist. “You’re not going anywhere.”

And you don’t want to.

The penthouse isn’t just Joanne’s anymore—it’s yours. Gone are the cold, impersonal touches of a life built for someone else. The sterile, hotel-like decor has been softened, transformed into something warmer, something lived in.

Your favorite books sit on the coffee table, stacked neatly beside a glass of half-finished wine that neither of you remember setting down. A throw blanket, far too soft to be one of Joanne’s original choices, is draped over the couch, the scent of your shared perfume lingering on the fabric. In the kitchen, the remnants of breakfast—fresh fruit, a half-eaten croissant—still sit on the counter, evidence of slow mornings spent wrapped up in each other rather than rushing out the door.

Joanne never thought she could have a home that felt like one. The penthouse used to be just another gilded cage—luxurious, extravagant, but empty. Now, there’s laughter in the hallways, and warmth in the once-still air. She catches you humming in the kitchen, wearing her robe like it’s always belonged to you. She finds your perfume on her vanity, your jewelry tangled with hers. And every night, when she slides into bed, she reaches for you without hesitation, knowing you’ll be there.

“You’ve ruined me, you know,” Joanne murmurs one evening, watching as you curl up beside her on the couch, tucking yourself into her side like you belong there. You tilt your head, grinning. “Oh? How’s that?”

Joanne exhales a slow breath, fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip. “I used to like my space.” She gestures vaguely at the apartment, at the place that once felt too big for just one person. “Now I hate being in this place without you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Good thing you never have to be,” Joanne smirks, pulling you closer, her voice a satisfied purr. “Damn right.” Because this penthouse isn’t just hers anymore—it’s yours.

It’s home.

#patti lupone #joanne company #joanne x reader #company musical #patti lupone x reader #wlw #patti lupone fanfic

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