I&#x27;ll Be Your Sweet Disaster

Ohhh, a party! Where? You know how much I love to dance.

At-- some hotel. I’ll ask Charlie. It’s one of those fancy gala things. I don’t know how fun it’ll be, but I’m supposed to wear a really nice dress, and there’ll be lots of champagne.

Being single means fucking three guys on Christmas eve and still getting to sleep in the next day.

By the way, what are you doing on New Year’s Eve?

Honey, if you think the morning after three guys will be pretty, think again. I’ll have to loan you my yoga membership.

I thought you’d never ask! You won’t believe the party Charlie invited me to.

See, that’s why you should always end it before the holidays start. Before they have time to fuck up your Christmas break.

What’s more depressing than being single for the holidays? I’ll take the book if that means having a rich date.

Oh my god. Bubbles, you’re terrible. I’m sure you made up for it giving him your xmas gift.

My gift? He’s lucky to get a handjob at this rate.

Wait? What did he get you for Christmas?

This fashion photography book-- or something. I was confused, because it wasn’t sparkly and it didn’t look gold or silver, so.... He said something about ‘limited edition’. Whatever that means.

Plans and Pleas At Whitley Estate || Kimi, Russel, & Tamsin

russel-whitley

Russel had been in a foul mood of sorts. Though he did adore the holidays—an excuse for overspending, overindulging, and time off from the minimal work it was he did, anyway—they often awoke his darker hungers. He’d admit, it had gotten worse in New York than it had been in Fontana. There had been times in the past, where Russel Whitley had rested on the brink of his sanity, fingers curled around a delicate throat, else fists pummeling against flesh and bone. He’d schooled it, mostly; created an outlet for himself that had social and, therefore, economic value.

And yet even with this, his violence and temper had been red-hot for days; even the slightest of disturbances had set him off, often leaving his sweet, blonde companion on the receiving end of his rage. She took it dutifully, as always, but he was beginning to notice a wariness in her, as if she might possibly be realizing his true capabilities and incapabilities. Breaking bones, for example, could be characterized as the first; empathy, the latter.

He smoked a cigar, plumes of grey wafting high in the billiard room as he set up on the antique Brunswick billiard table with the classic green felt. He’d been swayed, almost, to opt for the dark red felt instead; an understated and elegant look, his interior decorator had said, that gave him the look of a modern man deeply impacted by trends of the past, and yet unafraid of change and the duty to remain current. Russel was a traditionalist, however, and had stated that a modern setting with a classic item at the heart of it could very well give off the same impression. Besides, at the time his dealer could only find a Mackenzie and a Bridgeport; the decision had been practically made up for him based on this information alone. A billiard table worth less than seven thousand wasn’t really a billiard table, ultimately worthless, in fact.

Russel had devised a game by which he and Tamsin would do a line for every billiard ball he sunk. He’d instructed her to sit on the brown, leather loveseat while he played, explaining that he wasn’t in the mood for a distraction. In truth, Russel was more interested in practising his pool skills and ensuring that he was at the top of his game. He feels a burst of annoyance when he takes an unimpressive shot, then does a line despite the rules of the game and insists Tamsin does one, too. His mind moves faster now, he feels better, and he barks at Tamsin to take a seat again as he prepares for his next shot.

The maid brings in none other than Kimi Olverez, who somehow looks more slight than usual. Her alarmingly red hair is fanned around her, but not well enough to hide the hideous bruise healing on her cheek. Russel’s eyes linger on it long enough to be considered rude, and he smirks, saying sarcastically, ” Miss Olverez. Guess V finally got sick of you.”

Kimi doesn’t respond, only winces and lowers her eyes to the ground. Russel raises his brows at her, straightening up and placing the bottom of the cue against the hardwood. He’d made the comment in jest, not truly believing Verne to be capable of inflicting real pain on his prized possession. The look on her face told him otherwise. Russel deduced that this must’ve been why Verne had showed up to the auction alone on Thanksgiving, why he’d only been half as amused by Russel as he ought to have been.

"Well, well, well," Russel says with a bemused smirk, raising his cigar and puffing on it. "Tamsin, get the scotch."

#ch; russel #ch; kimi #para: plans and pleas at whitley estate #like none of us are okay #the kids are naht alright #also i apologize for deleting kimi's part #i fucked uppp

Shifting in a comfortable haze against the leather sofa, she adjust herself in the most provocative manner her lithe body could manage given it's restrictions. Breasts nearly pouring out of her dress, material hiked up significantly against her hips as she sat. She tossed her head this way and that, blonde hair spilling over milky skin. And she didn't even want the attention-- she'd had enough of that in days past to sate her nearly insatiable appetite for being thoroughly ravaged. No-- her actions were a combination of both boredom and buzz. She'd done too many lines in rapid succession. And it had been far too long since she had the quality stuff on a regular basis. She wanted to be in a flurry of activity-- maybe to dance, or to at least be thrown over the pool table and used properly. Anything but to be forced to sit as Russel played his game. Wasn't he over it already? It seemed so dull. She pouted, but said nothing.

He had been demanding of her, as of late. Not in terms of her 'job', either. She was beginning to realize that Russel Whitley didn't real work-- he spoke about working, and had the finances to prove it, but there wasn't much substance to it. Not that she minded-- less things for her to keep track of. But it had made her utterly exposed to the full personal effects of their relationship. Personal effects that she thoroughly enjoyed-- but admittedly she was sore, a rarity with her expertise and bend-ability. Yet, he had nearly worn her out. Something must have been on his mind. But she didn't dare to ask, and she didn't truly care to know. She could handle a few bruises and kinks. All part of the job. But she was getting restless. And a restless Tamsin could only remain a good girl for so long.

Perfect timing. Tamsin is momentarily confused, not sure why they had company, or what kind of state she was in, her fingers rubbing at her nose instinctively. But was Kimi. Kimi!? She stands, nearly pounces up, running towards her friend, heels clattering against the floor. Arms thrown around her, she squeals. "Peaches!" Pulling back she takes one look at her, ready to say you look fabulous, but "You look-- terrible" comes out instead. Tamsin's eyes haze over momentarily, before focusing on her friend's face, and the bruise marking it. Pink lipsticked lips open wide. Her fingers brush over the bruise. "Please tell me you got in a fight with Mallory over whatever the hell she did to your hair, and you lost." She coos, brows knitting together, frowning. Russel was saying something in the background, and she didn't quite catch it. "Mhm?" She asks, not turning back. She gives Kimi another long, sad look, the kind of look you give yourself in the mirror, knowingly.

"Oh-- scotch, right." She says distantly, finally. Taking Kimi by the hand, she pulls her along to the table of glass bottles and decanters. "Sit, sit." She ushers. Pouring Russel another scotch, she hands it to him absentmindedly. "What would you like, P?" She asks, a forced cheer in her voice.

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Visit Original Link

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I left my girl back home I don’t love her no more

#t: ipod

Tamsin had a sort of catching personality. Despite what she saw as a bit of a unlikely thing, Sawyer was able to return the smile. “And Verne is alright with that?” Despite her smile, it was a serious question.

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She purses her lips at the thought of her employer-- former employer. "For him to approve, he'd have to know, and well..." She gives Sawyer a knowing look, and shrugs. "...oops."

#ch; sawyer

#t: pleasures

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Gooey | Glass Animals

#t: ipod #tamsin jamming very drunk and in very little clothing

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#t: photograph

Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Gallagher. A little reward for your good behaviour and the way you look in a skirt. Keep up the good work. And feel free to thank me the next time you see me. I can think of many, many ways… -Russel

Her squealing had matched that of her newest companion; rightfully named Sparkles. She had always wanted a dog, but no one had ever lacked enough sense to actually entrust her with another life. But she knew she would be the perfect parent; she insisted she would be, repeatedly. She'd already planned a dozens outfits and which shades of collar would go best with his off-white fur. And food- she'd have to get food of course. Organic, to keep him lean and healthy. Oh-- and he'd need an Instagram, of course. To keep up with his many adventures out and about.

And Russel-- yes, she would need to thank Russel. In a very special way. Many different, special ways.

#ch; russel #t: sparkles #like he gets a taaaag bless #:3 #also this is late #but important #submission

russel-whitley

Her response was immediate and it was that kind of simple obedience that he really looked for in a woman. She would do what he wanted and she would not complain. His gift to her, in response, was not to leave any marks on that painted face of hers, or break anything important. It wasn’t as empty an offer as it seemed; Russel had long since had a predilection for breaking beauty, for feeling his own hands contort it into something of his own design. Things had gotten rather severe when, at seventeen, he’d become taken with Abigail’s Persian White. He’d then, in somewhat of a trance, taken the fluffy ball of snow white fur and drowned her in the marble tub in his en-suite. Though, could he truly be blamed for that? Abigail had named the cat Ella. It was ridiculous.

Regardless, Tamsin’s fate would not match that of the cat’s. She was far more useful to him, her beauty easing some of the sourceless chaos that had been born long ago in his flesh and bone. It never seized to amaze him how placating a thing of beauty could be, how quiet the roar of bloodlust in him could be on occasion. He followed her motions with his eyes, cold blue orbs that hardened in pointed desire.

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Her nails dig into his thighs, the grip in her hair painful enough to trigger discomfort, but perfectly timed to invoke something far different in her. She was no longer the one in control-- was she ever really? Her mouth, her lips, her tongue, no longer her own, but only a means to an end-- his end. It simplified things. She didn't have to think, or even feel. She could just be. The notion was beautiful and all encompassing. She moans, mouth full, lips pressed tight around him, eyes closed to keep from watering and ruining her pristine features. She had perfected her skills to the point where her breathing easily changed, no more awful gagging to disturb the immaculate process.

He was close to finishing, and she was momentarily disappointed at the realization, but prepared herself appropriately, mouth waiting for her present. Tongue licks at any excess, and she's left with a smile, her lipstick wiped away but for a good cause. She remains on her knees, momentarily swooning from her own lightheadedness, her gaze looking up at him, lashes batting.

"Feeling better?

#ch; russel

Sawyer looked back as the door opened, more out of habit than necessity, watching quietly as the other woman moved with a purpose. “Are you going somewhere?” She asked, watching as the blonde packed her bag.