Margot Gives In

Margot surrendered. A quiet sigh escaped her as she hesitated only for a moment before lowering herself onto Helen’s lap, her ethereal form settling into the warmth of the living woman beneath her. Tentatively, she let her head rest against Helen’s shoulder, her weight featherlight, as if she might vanish at any moment.

Helen’s arms came around her instinctively, encircling her in a slow, steady embrace. At first, Margot’s form was cool, almost insubstantial, like mist in the morning. But as the seconds passed, she warmed, solidified, became somehow real. The longer Helen held her, the more she felt like a living woman—one who could be touched, comforted, and owned.

Helen’s fingers threaded gently through Margot’s dark hair, soothing, steady. It should have been strange—should have been impossible—to cradle a ghost in her arms. But at that moment, it felt as natural as breathing, as effortless as drawing a lost child close, or as intimate as pulling a lover into her embrace.

Margot let out a small, breathless laugh, an echo of her usual bravado, but there was no real humor in it. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, as if trying to convince herself.

Helen hummed, the sound soft, knowing. “You’re the one who climbed into my lap, dear.”

Margot tensed, only for a moment, before she exhaled and let herself sink further into Helen’s warmth. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” she admitted, her voice hushed, uncertain—so unlike the teasing, confident specter she had always been.

Helen tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss to Margot’s temple—a motherly gesture, yet laced with something deeper, something unspoken. “Maybe you don’t always have to understand,” she murmured, her breath warm against Margot’s skin. "Let go. Just listen into yourself."

Margot’s eyes fluttered. Instinct rebelled against her surrender, urged her to reclaim control, to twist this moment into something else—something wicked, something rowdy. Seduction came easily to her, possession even more so. She had spent her lifetime—no, that and her after-life—playing those games.

But for the first time, she could not.

From where her head rested against Helen’s shoulder, her gaze drifted downward. The front of Helen’s dressing gown had slipped open just enough to reveal soft curves, the bare slope of her chest, and the faintest glimpse of dusky pink at the edge of her areolas.

Margot’s breath hitched. The warmth and comfort she had felt only moments ago mixed with something sharper, something stronger. A longing, deep and violent. It coiled inside her, making her fingers tremble with the urge to reach out, to trace the lines of Helen’s body with something more than a ghost’s touch.

She had possessed countless bodies before, bent them to her will, played puppeteer to flesh and desire. But this was different.

She yearned for the other woman. And she wanted to give herself to her, completely, unconditionally.

“Helen?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, stripped of its usual arrogance, naked in its need.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Helen was watching her, her blue eyes impossibly deep, steady, knowing. Margot felt herself drowning in these blue fountains.