Another piece in my "this meeting could have been an email but instead we're all stuck here for an hour so I'm getting something done" fanart series.
I absolutely adore House Mouse Spouse by @bullrunpicnicker - the comedic parts are hilarious, and the characterization is so on point that it's baffling. (How do you make ALL the characters sound EXACTLY like they should? It's like witchcraft...) The story is wonderful, and I love it. Please read it if you haven't - it's utterly delightful.
With the club's future decided, Natasha and Wanda perform together. On stage, they're captivating and perfect together. Backstage? They're even better.
Chapter 6 (final chapter) of Welcome to Burlesque
18+, NSFW | 7.4k words
ao3
Wanda adjusted the crown-like headdress for what had to be the tenth time, fingers checking that each point sat exactly right.
The thing was stunning—deep scarlet fabric formed into sharp, angular points that swept back from her forehead like a modernized crown. At the center, a stylized shape reminiscent of an ‘M’ created the focal point, the burgundy shading darker at the edges. Tiny crystals along each point caught the light and threw it back in scattered ruby flashes. It sat on her head like something between royal regalia and a weapon, secured into her elaborately pinned hair with what felt like a thousand bobby pins.
Her costume was equally dramatic. The red bustier hugged her torso with structured precision, the fabric a deep crimson that looked almost burgundy under certain lights. Black lace overlay created intricate patterns across the cups and down the sides, with delicate details that swirled and branched like organic shapes—almost like vines or magical sigils if you looked close enough. The edging gave the piece vintage elegance while maintaining an otherworldly quality. The bottom was cut high on her thighs in true burlesque style, showing the full length of her legs. Black fishnets with a back seam ran from her toes to the lace edge of the attached garter belt, and she wore fingerless gloves that matched the lace pattern of the bustier, extending from her wrists to mid-forearm. Her heels were black and strappy, five inches tall, the kind that made her legs look endless under stage lights.
"If you touch that thing one more time, I'm going to tie your hands behind your back," Natasha said from across the dressing room, catching Wanda's reflection in the mirror.
Wanda met her eyes, grinning. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Depends on if you stop fidgeting."
Natasha crossed the space between them with easy grace, moving to stand behind Wanda at the vanity. Her hands settled on Wanda's waist, warm through the thin fabric of the bustier. Her own costume was equally stunning—a black bodysuit that looked like it had been painted on, the fabric so sleek it caught the light with every movement and showed every line of her body. A red hourglass-shaped design sat prominently at her waist, the deep crimson creating stark contrast against the black. The shape was bold and unmistakable, positioned exactly where it would draw the eye during performance. Her legs were covered in sheer black stockings with a hint of shimmer, and instead of delicate heels, she wore black leather boots with a heel—sleek and dangerous, the kind that looked equally suited for dancing and combat.
"It looks perfect," Natasha said, her fingers coming up to adjust one of the scarlet points with gentle precision. "Stop fussing."
"There's a curl coming loose," Wanda observed, reaching up to tuck a red strand back into Natasha's elaborate updo. The hair had been curled and then intricately braided, the braids wrapped and pinned to create a complex style that managed to look both elegant and battle-ready, but one piece near her temple was threatening to escape.
Natasha caught her wrist gently. "Leave it. Makes it look less uptight."
"You mean makes you look like you've already been thoroughly fucked?"
"Exactly." Natasha grinned at her in the mirror, releasing her wrist to smooth down the supposedly rebellious curl anyway. "Sets expectations."
Three weeks had passed since Wanda had crashed rehearsal and weaponized homophobia to save the club. Three weeks of being the poster couple for LGBTQ+ spaces in LA, of giving carefully curated interviews to queer publications about historic preservation and found family. Three weeks of social media posts showing them at the club, backstage moments captured in soft lighting that made everything look romantic and intentional.
The developers had backed off completely. Their PR team had run the numbers and decided that tearing down a self-proclaimed queer landmark wasn't worth the potential backlash. Burlesque would stand. The building was safe. Agatha had secured a new lease with terms that actually favored the club for once.
And Wanda and Natasha had spent those three weeks having the time of their lives.
The frantic desperation from those first encounters mellowed into something easier. More fun. They knew each other now—really knew each other. Wanda had a toothbrush at Natasha's apartment that lived in the cup next to Natasha's. They'd figured out coffee orders and what takeout places delivered to which neighborhoods. Wanda had learned that Natasha made a specific sound right before she came, this little caught breath that meant you had maybe ten seconds to decide if you wanted to speed up or slow down depending on what kind of orgasm you were aiming for.
They'd also had sex in every semi-private space in Burlesque at least once. The storage closet remained a favorite—quick and dirty during lunch breaks when the adrenaline of sneaking around made everything more intense. A dressing room after everyone had left one night, Natasha pressing her against the makeup vanity hard enough to send bottles scattering. The stage itself (again) at two in the morning when Wanda had stopped by to grab something she'd forgotten and found Natasha running through choreography alone in the ghost lights.
That one had been particularly memorable. Natasha pinning her against the proscenium arch, hand sliding down the front of Wanda's jeans while she whispered about how she'd been thinking about this since that very first night. Wanda had cum with empty seats bearing witness and shadows stretching long across the polished wood floor.
Tonight though? Tonight was different.
The celebration show had been running for over two hours and it was going spectacularly. The club was packed beyond capacity, people standing three-deep at the bar, every table occupied. The energy was electric in a way Wanda had never experienced before—pure relief and victory flowing between performers and audience.
Wanda watched in the mirror as Natasha's fingers worked carefully at the headdress, adjusting angles and checking stability. Her touch was gentle, practiced from weeks of helping Wanda with costumes and hair and makeup. Small intimacies that had become routine.
"Your lipstick is smudged," Wanda observed, noticing the edge of Natasha's dark red lip color bleeding slightly past the line on one side.
"From kissing you five minutes ago," Natasha pointed out, but she was already reaching for a tissue and makeup remover. "You ruined it."
"You started it."
"I finished it too, if I remember correctly." Natasha wiped away the smudge with careful precision, then reapplied the lipstick with steady hands. When she was done, she turned Wanda's face toward her with gentle fingers and examined her own work. "Yours is fine. Surprisingly."
"I have skills."
"You have a very specific skill set that mostly involves being impossible to resist."
Wanda laughed, the sound bright and easy in the dressing room that smelled like too much hairspray. Around them, the controlled chaos of pre-show preparation continued—Maria touching up her eyeliner, Carol stretching in a corner, Jen doing vocal warmups even though they'd all be lip-syncing anyway.
"Two minutes to places!" Maria called out, checking her phone. "Natasha, Wanda, you're closing the show. Don't fuck it up."
"We never fuck anything up," Natasha called back, which got several pointed looks from dancers who'd witnessed them destroy many a costume rack.
"Two minutes," Wanda repeated, feeling nerves flutter in her stomach. They'd rehearsed this routine for a week straight. Every movement was choreographed, every beat accounted for. She knew exactly what she was supposed to do and when.
Natasha squeezed her waist once, then released her to go finish her own preparation. Wanda watched her in the mirror, admiring the way the black bodysuit hugged every line of her body, how the accents drew the eye up from her legs to her face. She was beautiful in a way that still made Wanda's breath catch sometimes, even after three weeks of waking up next to her.
"Stop staring," Natasha said without turning around, somehow knowing anyway. "You'll make me self-conscious."
"Impossible. You've never been self-conscious a day in your life."
"I'm self-conscious right now about whether I remembered to shave my—"
"You did," Wanda interrupted, laughing. "Trust me, I checked thoroughly this morning."
The energy in the dressing room shifted as showtime approached. Conversations quieted, dancers making final adjustments and running through mental checklists. The kind of focused preparation that came from years of professional performance.
Agatha appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand, her expression somewhere between exhausted and satisfied. The show had been flawless so far, every number hitting exactly right, the audience response beyond what they'd hoped for.
She scanned the room and her eyes landed on Wanda and Natasha. "You two. Come here."
They exchanged glances and crossed the dressing room to where Agatha stood near the door, slightly removed from the other dancers. Agatha waited until they were close enough that her voice wouldn't carry across the room.
"That choreography I gave you?" Agatha said without preamble, her voice low and firm. "I want you to fuck each other on that stage."
Natasha's lips curved into a slow smile. "We can do that."
"I mean, we'd actually fuck on stage if you asked," Wanda said honestly, because she'd given up watching her mouth around Agatha. "But this seems easier."
"I'm not going to unpack that statement," Agatha said, already checking her watch. "You have ninety seconds. The tables are set. The lights are programmed. Go out there and make it count. Make them remember this show."
She was already moving away, calling out corrections to someone about music cues, her attention shifting to the next crisis before Wanda could formulate a response.
Natasha grabbed Wanda's hand and pulled her toward the stage entrance. "You ready?"
"To pretend to fuck you on stage in front of hundreds of people?" Wanda asked, her heart already starting to race with performance adrenaline.
"Yeah."
"Absolutely."
They took their positions on opposite sides of the backstage area, the stage between them still hidden by the closed curtain. Wanda could hear the audience on the other side—restless energy, the buzz of conversation and laughter, glasses clinking at the bar. The packed house was loud even before the music started, feeding off the victory high that permeated the entire club.
The house lights began to dim and the audience noise shifted, anticipation building. Wanda took a breath and found her starting position, the muscle memory of a week of rehearsals settling into her body.
Across the darkness, she could just barely make out Natasha's silhouette in the wings opposite her. Even from this distance, even in near-total darkness, Wanda could feel the connection between them. The chemistry that had been there from the very beginning, from that first night when Natasha had touched her jaw and taught her about space and distance and tension.
Natasha caught her eye across the darkness and winked.
The intro music started—a slow, sultry beat that rumbled through the stage floor. The curtain began to rise with mechanical smoothness, revealing them to the packed house.
Wanda walked onto the stage from stage left on count one. Natasha entered from stage right simultaneously, their movements mirroring each other with flawless precision. Each step hit exactly on the beat, heels clicking against the polished wood floor in synchronization with the bass drum. Their hips swayed with the deliberate sensuality that Agatha had drilled into them over endless rehearsals, every movement calculated to draw the eye and hold attention.
The audience noise swelled immediately. Whistles and cheers erupted from various sections of the crowd, the energy building with each step they took toward center stage.
Wanda kept her eyes forward, her face arranged in the sultry expression they'd practiced—not quite a smile, but something inviting. Something that promised. She could feel the heat of the stage lights on her skin, could sense the weight of all those eyes watching her move.
They met at center stage on count eight, stopping with maybe two feet of space between them. Close enough to feel each other's presence but not quite touching. The tension in that small gap was intentional, carefully calculated.
The choreography had them circling each other for the next eight counts. Slow, predatory movements where they never quite looked away from each other. Wanda moved clockwise while Natasha moved counterclockwise, their bodies describing a tight circle as they assessed each other like fighters looking for an opening.
Natasha took the first verse, her lips moving to the sultry lyrics while her hands began tracing up her own body. The movement was controlled and deliberate, her palms skimming over her thighs, her hips, up her waist to her ribs. When her hands reached her chest, she let them hover there for a beat before continuing up to her neck, her throat. The gesture was openly sexual, completely shameless, executed with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good she looked doing it.
The audience reaction was immediate.
Wanda waited for her cue, counting beats in her head. On count sixteen she executed her response—turning away from Natasha and looking back over her shoulder with that practiced smile. The one that was inviting without being desperate, playful without losing the underlying heat. Her own hands came up to her hair, fingers threading through in a gesture that managed to be both casual and intensely sexual.
The choreography built through the verse with increasing intensity. Natasha moved toward Wanda on a series of slow, purposeful steps that ate up the space between them. On count thirty-two, she reached Wanda. Her hands settled on Wanda's hips from behind, pulling her back against her body.
They moved together through a body roll that had been timed to perfection during rehearsals. Down for four counts, their bodies moving in synchronized waves. At the lowest point, Natasha's hips were pressed against Wanda's ass, their spines both curved forward. Then up for four counts, rising slowly with control that showcased their strength. At the top of the movement, they were standing upright again, pressed together from shoulder to hip.
The position held for two beats before they separated on the choreography's next transition.
Natasha spun Wanda to face her with a hand at her waist, the turn executed on count forty. They came together chest to chest, faces inches apart, and the audience's reaction climbed even higher.
For the next eight counts they swayed together, hips moving in counterpoint. When Wanda's hips rolled left, Natasha's rolled right. When Natasha dropped low, Wanda stayed high. The opposition created visual interest while maintaining the illusion of synchronization, their bodies moving together but never quite the same way.
Natasha's hand came up on count forty-eight, her palm cupping Wanda's jaw with gentle weight. Her thumb brushed across Wanda's bottom lip slowly, the touch feather-light but completely deliberate. They held there for four full counts while the music swelled, the moment stretched out for maximum impact.
Then they broke apart again for the next section.
The table sequence came next and Wanda moved to her designated spot with purposeful steps. Two small platforms had been set upstage left and right, each one about two feet tall with a flat surface barely large enough for a person to stand on. Not quite tables, not quite pedestals—something in between that read as furniture from the audience while being stable enough for choreography.
Wanda climbed onto hers and found her balance, her heels clicking against the platform surface. She could see Natasha doing the same on the opposite side of the stage, both of them now elevated above the main stage floor.
The choreography for this section was individual work—each of them had their own movement while maintaining visual connection across the space. Wanda's hands moved to her hair first, pulling at pins to release one side of the elaborate updo. Red waves tumbled down over her shoulder as she shook her head slightly, the movement making the headdress catch the light and throw ruby sparks across the stage.
Her hands then traced down her own body following the pathway they'd rehearsed. From her neck to her collarbone, fingertips dragging across skin. Down over the swell of her breasts where the bustier pushed them up, following the line where fabric met flesh. Along her ribs and waist, hands moving with calculated slowness. Over her hips to her thighs, then back up along the outside of her legs.
The entire sequence took sixteen counts and she maintained eye contact with Natasha across the stage the whole time, never looking away. The connection between them was visible even from the audience's perspective, the way they moved for each other rather than for the crowd.
Natasha's individual choreography mirrored Wanda's in structure but differed in specifics. Her hands moved through her own hair first, pulling some of the braids free. Then her hands traced her body with that same deliberate sensuality, but her path went from shoulders down to breasts, lingering there with a squeeze that was completely shameless. Down her stomach to her hips, then sliding around to her ass where she gripped with clear possession before bringing her hands back to the front.
The audience was losing their minds. Wanda could hear it building.
On count sixteen they both dropped into deep squats simultaneously. Wanda descended with control, her thighs burning with the effort of staying balanced on the small platform in five-inch heels. She held at the bottom for two counts, her knees fully bent, before rolling her body up vertebra by vertebra over the next eight counts.
The rise was the hardest part technically. Keeping balance while moving that slowly, making every section of spine visible as it straightened, maintaining enough control that the movement looked effortless rather than like the serious athletic feat it actually was.
When she reached the top, Natasha was already standing again across the stage, both of them breathing slightly harder from exertion.
They stepped down from their platforms in unison on count one of the next phrase and met center stage by count eight, the space between them closing with purposeful steps.
This time the choreography had Natasha behind Wanda again, but the positioning was different. More intimate. Natasha's hands settled on Wanda's hips and pulled her back, their bodies aligning from shoulder to hip. Both of them dropped into synchronized squats again, but this time they were moving as one unit rather than individually.
Down together for four counts, their bodies moving in complete unison. Wanda could feel every point of contact—Natasha's chest against her back, Natasha's hips pressed against her ass, Natasha's breath warm on her neck.
Up together for four counts, rising slowly with the kind of control that only came from serious training. At the top of the movement, Natasha's hands slid from Wanda's hips up her sides in a path that looked possessive and hungry. When her palms briefly cupped Wanda's breasts through the bustier, the touch was perfectly timed to look like part of the body roll rather than gratuitous groping.
The move got massive reaction from the audience—hollers and whistles, someone shouting "yes!" loud enough to carry over the music.
They separated again for the next section, this time moving into the floor work that was simultaneously the most technically challenging and the most intensely suggestive part of the entire routine.
Wanda dropped to her back on the stage floor on count one, the movement controlled despite the speed. Natasha followed immediately, positioning herself above Wanda on hands and knees, their faces close enough that Wanda could see the exact shade of green in her eyes even through the heavy stage makeup.
Natasha's hand began at Wanda's hip, her palm pressing firmly against the fabric of the bustier. On count one her hand was on Wanda's hip. Count two it slid up to her waist. Count three to her ribs. Count four to her sternum, stopping just below where the bustier's cups began.
The path was completely deliberate, choreographed down to the exact placement of Natasha's fingers. But from the audience's perspective it read as Natasha taking her time, savoring the touch, enjoying Wanda's body with clear intent.
They held that position for eight full counts. Foreheads nearly touching, close enough that their breath mingled. Wanda's back was arched off the floor, supported by her shoulders and heels. Natasha was suspended above her on one hand and her knees, the other hand still pressed to Wanda's chest.
The position looked unstable, like they might tumble into each other at any moment. Like the barely-maintained distance was taking every ounce of restraint they possessed. In reality, the position was carefully balanced and they could hold it for much longer than eight counts if needed, but the audience didn't know that.
The music built toward a transition and they moved into the next phrase. Wanda rolled to her side and Natasha moved with her, following her movement. They ended up facing each other on the floor, both on their sides, close enough to kiss.
Natasha's hand came up to Wanda's face, fingers trailing along her jaw. The touch was gentle compared to the earlier intensity, almost tender. For four counts they just looked at each other while Natasha's fingers traced Wanda's cheekbone, her temple, back down to her jaw.
Then Natasha's hand moved lower, trailing down Wanda's neck to her collarbone. Her fingers spread wide as her palm pressed over Wanda's heart, and they held there for another four counts with their eyes locked together.
The intimacy of the moment was different from the overt sexuality earlier. This felt more real, more vulnerable, even though it was just as choreographed as everything else.
They rose together from the floor on the next transition, coming up to standing in one fluid movement that took eight counts to complete. By the final count they were on their feet, standing close, both slightly breathless from the floor work.
The final section took them to the same platform. They climbed up together with practiced synchronization, both finding their balance on the small surface. The platform was really only meant for one person, so sharing it required them to stand very close, their bodies nearly touching.
Face to face with maybe two inches of space between them, they moved into the closing choreography. Both of their hands came to each other's waists, gripping firmly. The touch was the first time in the entire routine where they were both actively holding each other rather than one person touching while the other received.
They executed the slowest body roll of the entire performance together. Down for eight counts, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. Wanda could feel every small adjustment Natasha made for balance, could feel the flex and release of muscles as they descended together.
When Natasha's thigh pressed between Wanda's legs on the downward movement, it was exactly where the choreography put it. The positioning was deliberate, designed to read as intensely intimate from every angle in the audience.
Up for eight counts, their bodies rising together with the same controlled precision. The grind of Natasha's thigh against her was impossible to ignore, sending sensation shooting through Wanda's nervous system that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with three weeks of knowing exactly what Natasha could do to her body.
At the top of the movement they were standing fully upright again, still gripping each other's waists. The music hit its final note and they moved into the ending tableau—foreheads pressed together, lips a breath apart, close enough to kiss but holding back with visible restraint.
The lights cut to black on count four.
The audience absolutely erupted. The sound was deafening—applause and cheers and whistles, people on their feet, the energy in the room hitting levels that felt almost dangerous.
The curtain came down fast and they stumbled into the wings together, both flushed and breathing hard. The performance high was immediate and intense, adrenaline flooding Wanda's system and making everything feel sharp and bright.
"Holy shit," Wanda gasped, her hands coming up to brace on Natasha's shoulders for balance. Her legs felt shaky, heart hammering hard enough that she could feel it in her throat.
Natasha grabbed her hand without warning and pulled her away from the wings, away from the other dancers who were starting to gather for final bows. They moved quickly through the backstage area, both of them grinning breathlessly.
They half-ran down the corridor toward Agatha's office, their heels clicking against the floor in rapid staccato. Behind them they could hear the muffled sounds of final bows happening, the sustained applause from the audience.
Natasha pushed open the office door and pulled Wanda inside. The lock clicked with satisfying finality, then she backed Wanda against the door hard enough to make it rattle in its frame. Her mouth found Wanda's immediately, the kiss demanding and hungry.
Wanda kissed back with equal intensity, her hands tangling in Natasha's hair and destroying the braids completely. Pins scattered, hitting the floor with tiny clicking sounds as red waves tumbled free.
They broke apart to breathe, both panting hard. Natasha's lipstick was completely smeared, dark red transferred to Wanda's mouth and probably her face.
"This fucking costume," Natasha muttered, her fingers already working at the hooks on Wanda's bustier. The fastenings were designed to stay closed during vigorous performance, which meant they fought back against being removed.
Natasha made a frustrated sound and just pulled harder. Something popped—a hook giving way under pressure. Then another. The bustier opened in a rush and Natasha shoved it off Wanda's shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
Wanda found the hidden zipper on Natasha's bodysuit, dragging it down with impatient fingers. The black fabric peeled away slowly, clinging with sweat from the performance. She helped strip it down Natasha's arms, over her hips, until Natasha could step out of it completely. The stockings stayed on, for now.
Natasha's hands moved to the high-cut bottom of Wanda's costume, hooking fingers into the waistband. She dragged it down in one rough motion, taking Wanda's underwear with it. Wanda kicked out of both, her heels staying on.
Now they were both essentially naked except for shoes and Natasha's stockings. They stood there for a beat, just looking at each other under the office's fluorescent lights.
They were both flushed, makeup destroyed, hair a complete mess. The ridiculous scarlet headdress was still somehow attached to Wanda's head, hanging slightly crooked now.
Natasha pushed her toward the leather couch that had seen so much action it probably needed to be replaced entirely. Wanda sat down, looking up at Natasha standing over her. Her heart was still racing from the performance, from the anticipation, from three weeks of knowing exactly what was about to happen and being excited for it anyway.
Natasha dropped to her knees between Wanda's spread legs with graceful ease. She leaned forward without preamble and dragged her tongue through Wanda's folds in one long, slow stroke.
Wanda's back arched sharply, a gasp tearing from her throat. Her hands flew to Natasha's hair automatically, fingers tangling in the red waves that were still half-pinned in places.
Natasha went straight for Wanda's clit, her tongue circling with firm, deliberate pressure. The pattern was familiar now, perfected over three weeks of learning exactly what Wanda's body responded to. She knew the precise spots to focus on, the exact amount of pressure that made Wanda's thighs tremble.
Her hands gripped Wanda's thighs hard, fingertips pressing into muscle with bruising force. The hold was possessive, anchoring Wanda exactly where Natasha wanted her.
"Fuck," Wanda gasped, her hips rolling up involuntarily. "That's—god—yes—"
Natasha hummed against her and the vibration sent shockwaves through Wanda's entire nervous system. Her grip in Natasha's hair tightened reflexively.
Natasha increased her pace, tongue moving faster. Her movements alternated between focused circles directly on Wanda's clit and broader strokes that covered more area. The variation kept Wanda constantly responding, never able to predict what was coming next.
One hand released its grip on Wanda's thigh and moved lower. Natasha's fingers teased at Wanda's entrance, pressing just barely inside before pulling back. The promise without the delivery, building anticipation that made Wanda's breathing speed up even more.
"Please," Wanda heard herself say, the word coming out rough and desperate. "Natasha, please—"
Natasha pushed two fingers inside in one smooth thrust and Wanda cried out, the sound echoing off the office walls. The stretch was immediate, Natasha's fingers curling to find that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids.
She worked Wanda ruthlessly. Fingers thrusting with increasing speed, tongue maintaining steady force on her clit. Her free hand pressed against Wanda's lower belly, adding weight from the outside that made everything feel more intense.
"Don't stop," Wanda gasped, her head falling back against the couch. "Please—right there—just like that—"
Natasha increased the pace of both her fingers and tongue, her movements becoming almost frantic. Wanda could feel the coil of tension building low in her belly, could feel her inner muscles starting to flutter around Natasha's fingers.
Natasha added a third finger without warning and Wanda's vision actually blurred. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but Natasha's tongue maintained that perfect pressure on her clit and the combination was devastating.
The orgasm hit fast and hard. Wanda came with a broken cry, back arching off the couch, hands clutching desperately at Natasha's hair. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around Natasha's fingers, pulsing with each wave of sensation that rolled through her.
Natasha worked her through it with clear expertise, her movements slowing but not stopping. Drawing it out until Wanda was gasping and trembling, oversensitivity starting to creep in at the edges.
When Wanda started to come down, her body relaxing back into the couch cushions, she expected Natasha to pull away. To give her time to catch her breath before round two.
But Natasha didn't pull away.
Her fingers slid out slowly, carefully, but her mouth stayed exactly where it was. Her tongue returned to Wanda's clit with renewed purpose, circling with the same firm pressure as before.
"Wait," Wanda gasped, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I just—"
Natasha's hands tightened on her thighs, holding her in place. Her tongue circled and flicked, working Wanda's oversensitive clit with clear intent.
"Natasha, I can't—" Wanda protested weakly, even as her body was already responding. The oversensitivity was fading quickly, replaced by renewed arousal that shouldn't have been possible so soon after coming.
Natasha pulled back just enough to push her fingers inside again. Three once more, the slide easy with how wet Wanda was. The stretch felt different this time—more intense on sensitized nerves, every sensation amplified.
Natasha's wrist angled and she started thrusting properly. Slow at first, then faster. Her tongue returned to Wanda's clit and the combination of both sensations made Wanda's hands leave Natasha's hair to grip the back of the couch instead, needing better purchase.
The second orgasm built differently. Deeper, more overwhelming. It pulled from somewhere low in Wanda's belly, the sensation spreading outward rather than building to a point.
"I can't," Wanda gasped again, but her hips were rolling up to meet Natasha's thrusts. "Too much—it's too much—"
Natasha curled her fingers hard, hitting that spot inside her, and sucked on her clit at the same time. She knew exactly how to make Wanda see stars.
Wanda came with a cry that was definitely loud enough for people to hear outside the office. Her body seized, back arching so sharply that only her shoulders and heels remained on the couch. Her inner muscles clenched with those same rhythmic pulses, but this time they felt deeper, more intense.
Her hands gripped the back of the couch hard enough to make the leather creak under the pressure. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave rolling through her until she was making broken, helpless sounds.
Natasha worked her through it without mercy, drawing it out until Wanda was genuinely sobbing with the intensity.
When Wanda started to come down this time, muscles going limp and body collapsing into the couch, Natasha pulled her fingers out but kept her mouth working. Gentle now, soft licks that shouldn't have been building toward anything.
"No more," Wanda gasped, meaning it. "I'm done—I can't—"
But Natasha's tongue was already doing something different. Her fingers moved back to Wanda's entrance, but instead of pushing deep, they pressed against that spot just inside. That slightly rougher patch of tissue on the front wall.
She rubbed with firm, focused intensity. Small circular motions, constant and precise. Her tongue maintained steady circles around Wanda's clit, never quite touching it directly but working the surrounding area.
The sensation was completely different from before. More focused. Building toward something that felt wrong somehow, like too much intensity in the wrong place. Like something building that shouldn't be building.
"Natasha, stop," Wanda said, genuine panic creeping into her voice. "Something's wrong—that doesn't feel right—"
But Natasha didn't stop. Her fingers maintained that firm pressure, rubbing in those small, precise circles. Her tongue kept working, patient and steady.
The uncomfortable sensation started shifting slowly. The weight that felt wrong was becoming something overwhelming, something huge that Wanda's body didn't know how to process. Different from the building tension of orgasm, more intense and frightening in its unfamiliarity.
Natasha's free hand pressed against Wanda's lower belly, adding pressure from above. The sensation of being pressed from both sides made everything more intense, more focused.
Wanda's teeth bit down on the couch cushion, trying to muffle the sounds coming from her throat. Her hands gripped the back of the couch with white-knuckled force, leather creaking under the strain.
The intensity kept building. Higher and more overwhelming than any orgasm she'd ever had. Her entire body was drawn tight, every muscle tensed and trembling. It felt like something was about to break, like her body was approaching some kind of limit it had never reached before.
Natasha increased the pressure of her fingers slightly, the pace of her tongue, and something inside Wanda shattered.
The orgasm was completely different from anything she'd ever experienced. Not a peak and gradual descent, but something that exploded outward through her entire body. She felt wetness gush from her, soaking Natasha's hand and face. The sensation was shocking and overwhelming and completely beyond her control.
She cried out against the couch cushion, the sound muffled but still desperate and raw. Her body convulsed—not just the rhythmic pulsing of muscles but actual full-body convulsions she had no control over. Her back arched and released repeatedly, her legs jerked, her entire body seized by waves of sensation that just kept coming.
It kept going. Wave after wave, wetness continuing to gush with each one. She was sobbing into the couch cushion now, the intensity too much to process, too overwhelming to do anything but surrender to completely.
Natasha worked her through it with obvious enthusiasm, her fingers maintaining that pressure, her tongue still circling. Drawing it out and out until Wanda was crying, until she had nothing left, until her body was just a trembling mess of overstimulated nerves.
When Natasha finally pulled back, she was completely soaked. Her face glistened with wetness, liquid running down her chin and neck. Her makeup was utterly destroyed, mascara smeared and lipstick gone.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand but it barely helped. She was still dripping, still thoroughly drenched.
"You squirted," Natasha said, her voice rough with satisfaction and arousal. "Completely soaked me."
"I didn't—" Wanda couldn't form complete sentences. Her brain was still offline, overwhelmed by what had just happened. "I've never—"
"I know." Natasha was grinning despite being thoroughly soaked, her expression one of pure delight. "That was incredible. Now I want to see if I can do it again."
"What?" Wanda's brain finally caught up to what Natasha had said. "No. No way. I can't—there's no way I can—"
"You definitely can." Natasha positioned herself between Wanda's legs again, still grinning like this was the best game she'd ever played. "Come on. Let's see if your body can do it twice in a row."
"You're insane," Wanda said, but she was laughing through the exhaustion and tears. This was ridiculous. This was impossible. This was Natasha.
"You love it."
Natasha's tongue returned to Wanda's clit and the sensation was almost painful at first. Everything was so oversensitized that even gentle touches felt like too much. But Natasha was patient this time, her movements soft and careful. Not trying to build toward anything immediately, just maintaining steady sensation.
Slowly, impossibly, the oversensitivity faded. Replaced by renewed arousal that made absolutely no sense. Wanda's body shouldn't be capable of responding again this quickly, but apparently Natasha had unlocked something new.
Natasha's fingers pressed against that spot inside her again. The same firm, circular pressure. Her tongue maintained steady work around Wanda's clit, still avoiding direct contact but working the surrounding area with clear purpose.
"It's not possible," Wanda gasped, even as she could feel her body beginning to respond. The pressure building again in that same way, that same overwhelming sensation.
"Your body knows what to do now," Natasha said, pulling back just enough to speak before returning to her work. "It'll be faster this time."
She was right. The sensation built frighteningly fast. The pressure that had taken minutes to develop before was climbing in what felt like seconds. Her body recognized the pattern, understood what was being asked of it, responded with eager compliance.
Natasha sucked hard on Wanda's clit while maintaining that perfect pressure inside and Wanda shattered again.
She came with a scream that was barely muffled by the couch cushion, wetness gushing for the second time. Her body convulsed violently, completely beyond her control. The intensity was just as overwhelming as the first time, maybe more so because now she knew what was happening and it still felt impossible.
Natasha worked her through it with clear satisfaction, making pleased sounds against Wanda's skin. When Wanda came down this time, she was genuinely crying, laughing through the tears because this was absurd and amazing and completely unbelievable.
Natasha looked up at her with that grin, her face still dripping. "One more. I want to see if I can make you do it three times in a row."
"You'll actually kill me," Wanda gasped, but she was laughing harder now.
"What a way to go though."
The fifth orgasm—the third time squirting—built even faster than the second. Wanda's body was so sensitive now that every touch felt amplified to impossible levels. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time, overwhelmed but also kind of amazed that this was happening, that her body could do this.
When she came the third time, wetness gushing again, she screamed into the couch cushion with a sound that was completely raw and uncontrolled. No thought, no performance, just pure sensation translated directly into noise.
Natasha finally pulled back after working her through the third one, looking immensely pleased with herself despite being absolutely soaked. "Three times! I made you squirt three times in a row!"
She climbed onto the couch and straddled Wanda's lap with easy grace, positioning herself so her thighs were spread wide over Wanda's hips. Her hand immediately moved between her own legs, fingers finding her clit with practiced efficiency. She was completely soaked, arousal coating her inner thighs and making her fingers slide with ease.
"Need to—" Natasha gasped, her fingers working frantically at her own clit in tight, rapid circles. Her other hand braced on Wanda's shoulder for balance. "So close—watching you was—fuck—"
Her hips rolled forward into her own touch, chasing the sensation with single-minded focus. Wanda could see the flex of muscles in Natasha's thighs, the way her stomach tensed with each roll of her hips. Her breasts moved with her breathing, nipples hard and flushed pink.
Wanda's hands moved to Natasha's hips with effort, her muscles still trembling from her own multiple orgasms. "Cum for me, baby," she breathed, fingers digging into Natasha's skin to help guide her movements.
Natasha's fingers moved faster, her breath coming in short gasps now. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat. The hand on Wanda's shoulder gripped tighter, nails biting into skin.
"That's it," Wanda encouraged, watching Natasha chase her release with desperate intensity. "Let me see you. Please, baby, give it to me.”
Natasha came with a sharp cry, her entire body going rigid. Her thighs clenched around Wanda's hips, her back arching, her hand still working herself through the waves of orgasm. Then she dissolved into trembling, her body going limp as she collapsed forward onto Wanda's chest with a broken moan.
They stayed like that while both of them caught their breath, Natasha's weight warm and solid on top of her. After a moment, Natasha started giggling breathlessly against Wanda's shoulder.
"Three times," she said, her voice muffled. "I made you squirt three times in a row."
"You've already said that," Wanda said, but she was laughing too. The ridiculous scarlet headdress was still somehow attached to her head, hanging at a completely absurd angle now.
"We destroyed this couch," Wanda added when she could form coherent thoughts again. There was definitely a wet spot—several wet spots, actually—that would never come out.
"So destroyed," Natasha agreed, still laughing against her skin. "Agatha's going to be furious."
"Worth it."
"So worth it."
They lay there catching their breath, still tangled together, both feeling the satisfied exhaustion of thoroughly good sex.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Natasha shifted slightly, her hand trailing down Wanda's side with renewed interest.
"Again?" Wanda asked, laughing breathlessly.
Natasha grinned against her shoulder.
“Again.”
(-)
Outside the office, Maria stood with her ear near the door, her eyes progressively widening with each sound that filtered through. Agatha stood beside her with her clipboard, looking thoroughly exhausted in a way that went beyond just tonight's show.
"Are they—" Maria started, genuine concern in her voice. "Should we—I mean, that sounded—"
"They're fine," Agatha said flatly, her tone suggesting this was the least surprising thing that had happened today. "They're having the time of their lives in there."
"But the sounds—" Maria's face was flushed, clearly embarrassed to be overhearing this. "And I'm pretty sure I heard—did she just—"
"Yes," Agatha interrupted, not needing Maria to finish that sentence. "Three times, if I was counting correctly. Which I wasn't, because I'm trying very hard not to pay attention."
She pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand, the gesture one of deep resignation. "That couch is ruined. Again. I just had it cleaned last week after their previous incident."
"Should we stop them?" Maria asked, looking genuinely uncertain about the right course of action here.
"And go in there? Absolutely not. I value my eyesight and my sanity." Agatha checked her watch with deliberate movements. "If they're still at it in an hour, I'm sending Carol in with a hose."
"A hose?" Maria's voice went up an octave. "You can't actually—"
"Watch me," Agatha said grimly. She made a note on her clipboard, probably something about furniture replacement costs. "I'm billing them for the couch this time. And possibly for therapy to deal with having heard that."
She turned and started walking away from the office door, gesturing for Maria to follow. "Come on. Let's go coordinate teardown and let them have their victory celebration. They've earned it, even if they are traumatizing my furniture in the process."
"Should we warn the others?" Maria asked, falling into step beside her. "Carol and Jen are still around helping with cleanup."
"Oh, they already know," Agatha said dryly. "The entire building knows. Those two are not quiet."
Behind them, a burst of laughter filtered through the office door, followed by Natasha's voice saying something that made Wanda laugh even harder. The sound was joyful and unrestrained, the kind of happiness that was impossible to fake.
Agatha shook her head but there was a smile pulling at her lips now. "Lesbianic lesbians," she muttered under her breath. "Of all the ridiculous ways to save my club."
Another muffled sound came through the door, more laughter.
Agatha sighed deeply. "They're not even pretending to be sorry."
"Would you be?" Maria asked, a smile tugging at her lips despite the embarrassment. "If you'd just saved the club and had someone who looked at you like that?"
Agatha's expression softened slightly, something almost fond creeping in around the edges of her exasperation.
TROPE: Grumpy healer, slow burn dislike to neutral to tolerance to love, "I don’t do attachments", morally grey protector, (possible) grumpy x grumpy, mutual healing
Pale skin. Darker soul. Piercing grey eyes that assess damage—both physical and moral—with surgical precision. They've seen too much, stitched too many wounds, buried too many patients to waste time on pleasantries. No one knows their real name. Everyone just calls them Arden. Doctor to those smart enough to show respect.
Black hair falls in messy waves around sharp, angular features. Male Arden tries to keep it somewhat controlled (and failing miserably), even when exhausted. Female Arden has given up entirely and just keeps her hair most of the time in some kind of bun, wild strands framing a face that's forgotten how to smile genuinely.
They move through their clinic like death itself: efficient, inevitable, and completely without mercy for stupidity. Lean frame draped in pristine white lab coats that they regularly clean because of the blood and chaos. Underneath they wear dark or blue shirts with a tie or turtlenecks and fitted pants.
Arden's hands tell stories their mouth won't. Scars wind up their hands and arms, disappearing beneath sleeves that never roll up in public. Black nail polish chips away like their patience with Sordia's endless parade of violence. Male Arden maintains surgical sterility in everything. Tools, workspace, emotional distance. Female Arden operates in controlled chaos, knowing exactly where every instrument lies in the disaster of her domain.
They patch up gang members and cops with equal disdain. Stitch closed knife wounds and bullet holes without asking which side pulled the trigger. Blood is blood. Pain is pain. Politics are irrelevant when you're bleeding out on their table. But their billing? That tells a different story. Rich folks and gang members/leaders pay full price. Broken people, poor kids, the truly desperate? Treatment comes free, though they'll grumble about it.
Also word is they can speak with the dead. Manitou bloodline services for those desperate enough to pay. They're as blunt about spiritual consultations as they are about medical ones. Death doesn't make people less stupid, apparently. But they’ll take the extra cash anyway.
The underground doctor who saves lives not because they care about people(?), but because death offends their professional pride.
The clinic is neutral ground. They don't take sides. Don't make friends. Don't ask names. Just patch you up and send you back to whatever hell you crawled out of.
Good luck getting them to care about anything beyond keeping you breathing.
Quick question, What the kibbe type for a tall guy that doesn’t have width, but doesn’t have the sharpness of a pure D, but doesn’t have much softness like a SD either? I see this body type often.
those guys are dramatic classics: no extreme kibbe width, primary visual feature is balance (not extreme geometry or curve), no full yin softness. a C type is based on the in-between, the oval shapes.
DC has some yang definition added, but it doesn't jump out like crazy, where you would already spot a D type by their cheekbones, defined nose, longer face. taehyung (DC) is a dead-on example there: classics are hard to pin-point by default. it's no surprise they are neighbors of gamines, it's "a bit of everything, in tiny doses".
and with that, DC men are extremely common much like the natural family, while kibbe's two dramatic IDs are few and far between in most places. i myself was the only D type in my class at school, other body types occurred frequently. globally, only 5-14% of guys are tall, while yang men are overrepresented in media, making it look like the norm.
maybe that causes the model industry's obsession with sharp yang, as unachievable rarity is often equated with "beautiful", among the supposed ideal to be skinny. which D can represent, but not necessarily. D types are not exclusively thin, they just have to be squarish, angular, and chiseled in the face to qualify as Ds.
meanwhile, classics are the perfectly ubiquitous 'average' after all, and are thus undertyped. among models as well. symmetry is still highly en vogue culturally. i guess many DC models have surgery to become sharper, narrower. and vice versa, D types want symmetry, and have work done. ironically, that's when the yang types are the ones that become cookie-cutter, boring (the stereotype classics face).
and even off the runway, IRL: DC, next to FN, is the only type that blends yin and yang while being able to be quite tall. FN and DC have an already moderately tall base height plus a dramatic undercurrent which can reach 6´0+ in the latter case. joe alwyn (DC) is a good example. tall, but still fits the tuxedo measurements without having to accommodate width, height, softness.
for flamboyant natural, sky's the limit. but if a guy is above 6'2, he's automatically in the big 3, SD/D/FN. if such a guy doesn't have width or sharpness, he's an SD type that blends D and R in such a way that neither R extreme softness nor D extreme sharpness are pronounced at first sight (or maybe he wears loose clothing that hides the SD's T-Shape and waist emphasis, remember that clothes shape how we type someone, sometimes incorrectly, as an outfit can create new silhouettes that weren't visible before).
SDs are still dramatic first, so romantic features are only secondary. but still prominent enough to obfuscate what a pure D would look like I guess. still, they also have prominent shoulder lines, and all D types have features that are hard to overlook. the classics are more "nothing sticks out", which seems to be what you're observing. they're not "eh, nothing of anything", just between the very extreme types.
you can spot the classic by how you cannot spot them. giorgio armani (soft gamine type i guess?), see below - very DC brand - has made an entire philosophy out of that. only the fine stitches up close matter, but at a distance, classic means "blank slate". note how the models are still pretty tall, but nothing jumps out in the world of dramatic classic.
Homie. Darling. Muchaco. Please help me. You're an animator. You've worked in the video game industry. When you get to That One Memory in TOTK (you know which one I mean and if you don't, you will),
Please help me figure out what the fuck is going on with Ganondorf's face rigging
Man, I didn't even need to look anything up: I knew EXACTLY what you were talking about as soon as you said it.
Short Answer: Need more polys.
Long Answer: It's simultaneously a case of limited model structure and potentially some degree of intentional design choice specific to Ganondorf's presentation in this particular game.
Discussion below the jump, just for the sake of not stretching out people's dashboards. No worries about spoilers: none of this is story-relevant.
So! To give a very broad strokes bit of coverage on the wide and varied nonsense that is 3D modeling, this is a case of Topology. The basic thrust is that topology is the overall structure and layout of the mesh that makes up the 3D model's various shapes. The lower the polygon count on that mesh, the more angular its structure and the less capacity for deformation it has. The higher the polygon count, the smoother its structure and the greater its capacity for deformation. The trade-off, however, is that low-poly models are easier for a game engine to render. High-poly models are a massive drain on processing power, to say nothing if they're built inefficiently with a bunch of wasted geometry bogging things down.
Here's an example of a low-poly model on the left and a high-poly model on the right.
So when you want to make a character emote, you're basically grabbing a bunch of those polygons around the face and moving them around to shape the face into the desired expression. If you don't have a lot of polys to play with, it causes folding and tearing issues where the model and its textures do some pretty wonky shit.
Something both BoTW and ToTK have going for them is that they're actually very low-poly games, which is extremely helpful in making the games run as smoothly as they do given the world size and seamless loading. The lighting and texture work do A TON of heavy lifting to make the game look as good as it does. Really look at these models closely and you can see how angular they are. Look at Zelda's outstretched hand or how sharply light falls across the character's features. In the bottom right, notice how you can see the sharp points that make up Zelda's shoulders? They're not rounded; they're angled just enough to give the general illusion of a curve at a glance. Same goes for her eyes; you can count the angles that make up the shape of her eye but, at a distance and at a glance, they look big, round, and doleful.
Something you can also notice is when characters talk, a lot of them have little to no facial deformation. Mineru, for example, basically has a one-hinge Muppet mouth outside of pre-rendered cutscenes. A lot of characters' eyes are basically painted onto their faces and switch between static texture shapes as opposed to being fully rendered and animated orbs modeled into their heads.
Ganondorf actually has a fairly complex character model, especially compared to Link or Zelda, but he doesn't have a lot of model deformation. Basically the only parts of his head that move are his eyes/brows and mouth/jaw. If you look closely around his eyes you can see they're rendered basically as triangles. There's only two or three points along their shape the model can deform at. Further, since the rest of his face doesn't really deform when he emotes, it means the only thing that really moves are those small key elements. Which yields moments like this:
The animators are basically pushing his expression as much as they are actually capable of with this model's limited structure. See the hard fold in the lower eyelid, or the fact that his teeth aren't attached to anything inside his jaw? It does the job though; it overall looks good and, in the moment this scene happens, really adds something to the unsettling nature of what's going down.
I mentioned before that there may be a certain intent as well. Something specific to Ganondorf in this iteration is that, more than ever, he's become an Oni. Ganondorf's character design has slowly been leaning toward more Japanese-specific visual concepts over the past few appearances but he's gone full yokai for ToTK. Not just in his build, but in his clothing and weaponry. Dude is swinging around a kanabo for the first time ever in the franchise.
In Japanese mythology and Noh theater, a Red Oni basically functions as the embodiment of all the worst parts of mankind. They're greedy, brutal, cruel monsters who revel in causing destruction. If you want to look at their good aspects, it's traits like passion, ambition, and a wild spirit. But, overall, they're the bad guys. Ganondorf is 100% depicted as a Red Oni in ToTK. So when you keep that in mind, add in the implications of what Ganondorf just did in that scene, and consider the traditional appearances of a Red Oni...
...then that face-breaking grin makes a lot more sense.
There is always a storm in Arthur’s eyes. The blue seems to go from a serene sea to a greyish cloud. It's only sorrow that makes them cloudy.
Anger makes them icy, blazing a cold fire. Merlin would love to say it was always righteous anger, but it would be a lie. Arthur has a temper, an echo of his father.
Where he differs though, is in making amends, admitting his follies. His eyes simmer, unsure, a slow-rolling wave just off the shore. As if he fears rebuke. Another mark of Uther.
It's not only his eyes that Merlin watches. When Arthur is at his desk, working on the humdrum everyday tasks of ruling; reading missives and pleas, drafting reports—though Merlin writes them; even with his royal education Arthur struggles to spell and his handwriting is shaky—Merlin watches his brow wrinkle in concentration. In the years that have passed since he was appointed manservant, lines have begun to settle on Arthur's face, faint crow's feet around those tempestuous eyes, a wrinkle to his forehead that doesn't leave when he relaxes. Merlin thinks, privately, they only accentuate Arthur's noble features.
His profile is something to behold. Bathed in firelight, Arthur’s face is thrown into sharp relief, the angles and planes of it highlighted in red and gold. Arthur’s jaw is angular, though it's tempered by a boyish roundness his face never lost. His cheekbones aren't as prominent as Merlin’s own, but they are still noticeable, there to admire.
Merlin admires Arthur's nose, too. The regal curve, the crookedness setting him apart from any other ten-a-penny beauty. Arthur calls it imperfect, but Merlin has heated disagreements with him on that subject. It is not the nose a simpering portrait artist would draw, that much is true. It suits Arthur, makes him real and unique. Merlin adores it.
Arthur's lips draw Merlin’s eye most. They're delicate, almost feminine, although Arthur’s visage is all male. They're plush, soft-looking, though Merlin is close enough to see they are often chapped and bitten through being out in all weathers, and from the way he chews his bottom lip when he's unsure.
The storm carries through Arthur’s body. His hands, broad and calloused from years of swordplay gesticulate wildly when he speaks, though never when he's in the council chambers. He stays stiff, measured. He must, for the older councillors will not hold with displays of passion.
Passion, though, is what Arthur knows. He has never followed any cause without loud and unselfconscious dedication.
He squares broad shoulders in the face of anything, straightens his impressive stature, and faces anything head-on—for better or worse.
Arthur trusts Merlin to weather his storms. He no longer dismisses him when guilt and disappointment eat at him and he does naught but pace like a caged bear.
He allows, now and then, Merlin’s long fingers to stroke his golden locks, to soothe the squall within him.
When Arthur sleeps, Merlin perched on the bed beside him, the sea is calm.
This is based on the 1985 Belgian film Istanbul, directed by Marc Didden and starring Brad Dourif and Dominique Deruddere. Like a lot of people, I watched it for Dourif and was spellbound by how strange and attractive he was... Until the big plot twist when I felt sick to my stomach.
Watching it again recently made me wonder what would happen if another woman (besides the one who shows up at the beginning and towards the end) joined Martin (Brad Dourif) and Willy (Dominique Deruddere) on their road trip. How would the dynamics change? How would she respond to the dark revelation towards the end? What would she do? How would the two men treat her in response?
This is what I came up with.
It was a cold Tuesday night in Ostend.
Alice was working her usual late night shift at the dive bar - one of two jobs she held in a desperate attempt to scrape by on what little she had. With each meagre paycheck, her plans for a grand, illustrious future continued to elude her.
It was the younger man who spoke first. He was the smaller of the two, with thinning black hair, a boyish face, and that mischievous gleam Alice had seen in the eyes of many patrons after their fourth or fifth round of drinks.
"So, what are you doing tonight?" he slurred, a silly grin plastered across his impish face as he leaned against the bar.
Alice rolled her eyes. "Babysitting," she replied sardonically, wiping the inside of an empty pint glass.
"Bit late now, eh?" the man giggled.
"Oh, they're allowed to stay up late." She placed the now clean glass on the shelf beneath the bar. Glancing at her watch, she added, "But they'll have to go to bed soon, unless they want to spend the night in a dump."
The man smirked, peered over his shoulder and, to Alice's surprise, spoke in English. "Last orders!"
"How 'bout one for the road?"
Another man staggered clumsily to the bar. He looked to be in his mid thirties. Angular face, wavy hair that fell to his shoulders, and piercing blue eyes that were a little unfocused in his drunken state.
"Can you handle one more?" Alice asked in English, raising her eyebrows like a stern mother.
"Soon find out," he replied in a southern American drawl.
Alice cast him a sideways glance and poured the men their last drinks.
Maybe it was the validation she was receiving from the strange pair, or perhaps it was simply boredom. Whatever the reason, Alice left with the two men after closing time. They were both rather eccentric and seemed like the sort of guys who knew how to have a good time. What was waiting for Alice at her run-down apartment but shitty food, broken plumbing and other bitter reminders of the life she would rather leave behind?
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
Later, the trio set up camp on the beach. The men had sobered up somewhat. Contrary to Alice's assumption, they'd only just met that night. They all introduced themselves - the Belgian's name was Willy, the American's was Martin ("Sometimes John," he added).
As the night wore on, Alice found herself becoming drawn to Martin. There was a quiet intensity behind his eyes, and his cat-like features were sharp beneath the soft glow of the campfire. He seemed to have a similar effect on Willy; so much so that when he invited them to join him on his trip to Istanbul, they both accepted. It seemed they had valid reasons for doing so. Willy had lost his job; Alice was looking for excitement.
Though Martin spoke mainly to Willy, Alice did catch him stealing a few glances her way. She wondered what he thought of her. He was a foreigner, after all. Perhaps he saw in her the same kind of exotic allure she saw in him. But he was fascinating beyond the American drifter mystique; he had a certain je ne sais quoi that Alice found intriguing. She looked forward to travelling with him.
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
The trip had already taken an unexpected turn. Martin refused to take the train, so they spent hours at a roadside waiting for someone charitable enough to pick them up. After hitching a ride with Beatrice, a woman on her way to Ghent, they stopped at a hotel, which Alice had hoped would lead to a carnal encounter with Martin. Instead, she had a threesome with Willy and Beatrice; Martin made himself scarce.
During the act, Alice imagined it was Martin fucking her; pale skin damp with sweat, dark blond hair beautifully dishevelled as it had been last night on the beach, eyes dark with lust as she writhed against him. That fantasy alone made her come harder than Willy's efforts.
He's probably waiting to get me alone so he can have me to himself.
Afterwards, Alice left Willy and Beatrice lounging in bed while she slipped on a bathrobe and went into the bathroom to take a shower, only to be met with the sight of Martin lying on the floor and groaning. Feeling a sudden rush of panic, she knelt beside him and gently took his hand that was clutching his shirt.
Martin's eyes snapped open; he looked like he'd seen a ghost. The wild rogue from last night was gone. In his place, there lay a wan, fragile figure whose gaunt frame trembled as he hauled himself upright. He sat with his back against the side of the tub.
"Steady," soothed Alice, placing both hands on his tense shoulders. "What is it?"
He cast his eyes downward, raking a trembling hand through his hair.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled through his nose.
"Something you ate?" Alice reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
He recoiled sharply, as if she'd raised her fist at him, and turned to face away from her.
Martin's reaction to the gesture made Alice withdraw, a wave of guilt consuming her at the thought of upsetting him. She slowly got up and left him sitting there on the bathroom floor, hardly sure what else she could possibly do.
Alice sat on the edge of the bed, having a smoke while Willy and Beatrice were still entwined in each other's arms. A few minutes later, she heard the hiss of water as Martin turned on the shower. That haunted look in his eyes was seared into Alice's mind. It was the look of a man whose heart had been cruelly dashed to pieces. She wondered what previous lover had hurt him enough to cause such distress. Shit -- she was probably to blame for his breakdown earlier. She'd seen the stolen glances; he wanted her, and only her.
༻✦༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✦༺
Later, Beatrice paid for the room and departed, leaving Martin, Alice and Willy to continue their meandering journey. They ended up at a street festival that night in Ghent, where Martin surprised his two companions by getting onstage with an acoustic guitar and performing. Alice was bewitched by his haunting vocals as he sang of sorrowful roads and oceans full of tears. Martin hadn't spoken a word to her since the incident in the hotel bathroom, but as his willowy hand danced over the guitar strings and his voice drifted over the crowd, Alice felt as though he were telling her his life story of being an orphan in a storm, haunted by the highways.
When the song ended, Martin left the stage to thunderous applause and rejoined Alice and Willy. They were approached by an elderly ex-pilot named Albert, who took them to a bar and bought them cocktails.
Alice sipped her drink and smoked in silence while the men conversed. She was still hung up on what happened at the hotel; when Willy left the table, followed by Albert, she seized the opportunity as she sat opposite Martin.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly.
Martin leaned back in his chair and cocked his head.
"For earlier this evening," she added, taking another drag on her cigarette. "If you wanted... I mean, that is, if you're interested..."
Martin made a gesture for her to get to the point, but at that moment, there was a commotion followed by Willy storming back in while Albert was doubled over in pain. Alice barely had time to register what was going on. Several patrons at the bar tried to attack Martin and Willy, but they managed to fight them off; the trio made a lucky escape out the back door just as the barmaid got on the phone to the police. Adrenaline pulsed through Alice's veins as she and her companions disappeared into the night. She wondered if they'd always run into trouble like this.
| Day 12 | Uniform Kink / Roleplay: Authority figures, professional gear, or specific costumes. |
Today, our main man, is JICHANG KWAK!! honestly? The perfect man on this day tbh there's so much variety to write about him here lmao.
Also, no, I didn't use the wheel this time around... Actually, an irl friend requested me to write about him on this day. Yes. They see my NSFW posts. Yes, they also like LOOKISM. Brushing past that point.. This is 4 u M! Love ya! Even they don't have a tumblr account, and I have to show them this manually, and physically 😞😮💨
Context:
Ji-chang or Jichang and {reader} are currently married partners. They're just acting in roleplay, and nah, Jichang also is practically being begged by {reader} to roleplay as his job, but for kinkplay LMAO. He accepts it anyways because he'll do anything for his love (YOU!)
Jichang - blue lines
{Reader} - orange lines
♬ Everybody knows that I'm a good girl,
Officer: ♪♫ No, I wouldn't do a thing like that. Thats for sure. 💋
Jichang Kwak, the well-known and respected officer of the law in Chungcheong, stood directly behind you, his presence both imposing and strangely thrilling. The metallic click of handcuffs echoed in the confined space as he secured them around your wrists, the cold metal biting against your skin.
You were squished against the hard, unforgiving wall, his body pressed against yours; a deliberate act that sent a jolt of electricity through your veins. With a gnaw on your bottom lip, you suppressed a shiver, the anticipation building with each passing moment.
Straining your neck slightly against the rough texture of the concrete,you glanced back at him, your eyes meeting his in a silent challenge.
Shallow breaths escaped your lips, a subtle indication of the effect he was having on you. You could feel his authority, his power, radiating from him like a tangible force, enveloping you in its intoxicating grip.
"Hey, officer Kwak," you said, your voice a low murmur, laced with playful defiance.
"Real aggressive there, aren't we?"
Teasing, you let out a small chuckle, a sound that was both nervous and excited, as you watched him back off a little, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually stoic features. An apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a clear indication that this wasn't a genuine arrest. Instead, it was a role play, a fantasy you had begged him to indulge in, a testament to your shared desires.
At first, the idea had felt alien, even a little weird, to him. But now? Now, as he played the dominant role, exerting his control over you in this simulated scenario, it felt like a surge of superiority, a familiar rush that he had always associated with his profession.
But this was different, this was intimacy, this was power wielded with someone he cherished deeply. It aroused him in a way he hadn't anticipated, igniting a fire within him that he hadn't known existed.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat, struggling to regain his composure.
"Apologies, Ms/Mr. {reader}. Just trying to stay in character, you understand."
Then, without warning, a spontaneous laugh unexpectedly erupted from your lips, echoing softly in the quiet surroundings.
"Haha! Are you always this ruthless with your prisoners, officer?"
Snarling out a playful tease, your words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all rolled into one. It made him feel a little flustered, the heat rising in his cheeks despite his best efforts to maintain his professional demeanor.
Seeing your beautiful face, so close, so full of mischief, only intensified the sensation, causing his stomach to dance with an unsettling mix of nervousness and desire. Ironically enough, considering his snake-like looks, the sharp, angular features that were often enough to intimidate even the most hardened criminals.
But it did the opposite to you. Which, honestly, explained a lot about the dynamic of your relationship with him. You saw past the intimidating facade, recognizing the vulnerability and the genuine affection that lay beneath the surface. Upon hearing those words from your mouth, a gruff huff escaped his lips, a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
"...Silence..."
he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, even as you knew it was all part of the act.
Sticking your tongue out at him playfully, you giggled a little at the ridiculousness of the situation, the absurdity of playing out this fantasy with the stoic and respected Jichang Kwak.
"Hm..." you purred, your eyes sparkling with mischief.
"I guess I was right then. You do have a soft spot for me, office-" Then suddenly, his sharp voice came to cut you off momentarily.
"Do you wish for an early punishment, then, Ms/Mr. {reader}?"
The question hung in the air, a subtle threat veiled in a playful tone. His words had the desired effect, causing your lips to sour, your playful defiance momentarily extinguished. You clamped your mouth shut, stifling a soft grumble of protest.
"No...Officer Kwak..."
you conceded, your voice subdued, a stark contrast to your earlier teasing. The power dynamic had shifted,and you knew when to yield.
He cocked his head back slightly, a small smirk playing on his lips as he registered your submission. His large hand, which had been tightly bounding both your smaller wrists, now relaxed its grip, sliding down to grasp your fingers gently. The contrast between the earlier restraint and the current tenderness was jarring, yet undeniably thrilling.
"That's what I want to hear," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Now, are you ready to behave?"
A fresh hue of red bloomed across your cheeks, betraying your flustered state, before you hummed softly, a sound that vibrated through the close space between you.
"Yes, baby..."
you murmured, the endearment slipping out unbidden, a testament to the desire that simmered beneath the surface.
You paused, momentarily forgetting the pretense of the roleplay, before stifling a ragged exhale, catching yourself before the intimacy could completely unravel the scene.
"I meant... Officer..." you corrected, adding the title with a playful grin, a wink that promised more to come.
A dark glint flickered in his eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the slip-up, the brief glimpse into the raw desire that lay beneath the surface. He tightened his grip on your fingers, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin, sending shivers dancing across your flesh.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within you.
"Now, let's get back to business, shall we?"
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered,
"I believe you were resisting arrest, Ms/Mr.{reader}. And for that, you're going to need a proper punishment."
Letting out a dramatic huff, you puffed up your cheeks, exaggerating the gesture to emphasize your feigned innocence. Your eyes widened, batting your eyelashes in a display of practiced innocence. Playing the part of a captive who was unfairly accused,
you were fully committed to the roleplay. (😭)
"Hmph-! I would never, officer! I'm a law-abiding citizen! I wouldn't dream of resisting arrest!"
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in closer,his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched your performance.
"Is that so, Ms/Mr. {reader}?" he murmured, his voice dripping with skepticism.
"Because I seem to recall you putting up quite a fight earlier. Kicking, screaming... even biting, if I'm not mistaken."
He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air, savoring your reaction, trying to suppress a laugh as he saw the confusion written all over your face.
"And as for being a law-abiding citizen... well, let's just say I have my doubts. After all, you're currently handcuffed, aren't you? And last time I checked, that's not exactly a sign of good behavior." He leaned even closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered,
"But don't worry, Ms/Mr. {reader}. I'm sure we can find a way to jog your memory. And perhaps, teach you a little lesson about respecting the law... and respecting your officers."
You let out a sharp hitch of a gasp, the sound escaping your lips as his body pressed firmly against you, intensifying the already charged atmosphere.
You could feel every contour of his frame against yours, the heat radiating from him like a palpable force. Especially his 'length', pressed intimately against your rear, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.
"Hupp... How bold, officer..." you managed to murmur, your voice a husky whisper, laced with a mixture of surprise and excitement.
Leaning closer, he brought a free arm up to press his palm against the wall beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He relaxed into his position, his weight shifting against you, his muscles taut and flexed. His voice dropped to a low octave, a sensual rumble that brought you more jolts of arousal.
"It's only your punishment, Ms/Mr. {reader}," he murmured, his breath ghosting across your cheek.
"Can't have you misbehaving again, now can we? We need to maintain order, after all. And sometimes, order requires a little... discipline."
Now, in a swift, fluid motion that spoke of practiced control, he moved your arms above your head, securing them in a vice-like grip that held you firmly in place.
He stepped back slightly, creating a small pocket of space between you, before releasing his free arm from the wall. Instead, his hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, gripping the strands lightly, yet possessively.
He used the subtle leverage to pull you flush against his warm body, eliminating the space between you once more. Placing a small, tantalizing kiss on the nape of your neck, he boldly positioned you between his legs, letting you bend down to press against him, intimately and deliberately.
Still, despite being familiar with the sensation, the feel of his body against yours ignited something primal within you, a burning desire that threatened to consume you entirely. The heat, the pressure, the undeniable connection --- it was all too much, too tempting.
You spoke up with a slight pant, your voice laced with a mixture of breathless anticipation and playful challenge.
"Officer," you murmured, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.
"Can you really discipline me? Or are you just going to let me get away with whatever I want?"
A slow smirk spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and desire. He tightened his grip on your hair, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of your ear.
"Discipline," he said, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine,
"comes in many forms,Ms/Mr. {reader}. And I assure you, I am more than capable of delivering the kind of punishment you deserve. The question is... are you sure you're ready for it?"
Without wasting a moment's hesitation, your response was immediate, a testament to the desire that had taken root within you. There was no room for doubt, no space for second-guessing: You knew what you wanted, and you were more than willing to surrender to the intoxicating power that he wielded over you.
"More than ready, officer,"
You breathed, your voice a husky whisper that betrayed the longing that consumed you. Your eyes locked with his, conveying a silent invitation, a promise of the pleasure that awaited you both.
A satisfied smirk spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. He tightened his grip on your hair, tilting your head back to expose the delicate curve of your neck.
"Very well, Ms. {reader}," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within you.
"Then allow me to show you just how a proper punishment is delivered."
His lips descended upon your neck, his teeth gently nipping at your skin, sending shivers dancing down your spine.
He explored the sensitive flesh with a slow, deliberate intensity, teasing and tormenting you with each tantalizing touch.
He knew exactly what you wanted, exactly how to drive you wild. And he was more than happy to oblige. The game had begun, and you were both willing participants, eager to surrender to the delicious torment that awaited you.
He gave you a firm slap against your rear, the sound echoing in the small space, a shocking jolt that sent a wave of heat coursing through your veins. The sting was a delicious torment, a reminder of his dominance and your willing submission. Releasing your hair, his hand moved down to your wrists, his fingers deftly undoing the handcuffs. The cold metal fell away, freeing your hands, but you made no move to escape.
You were exactly where you wanted to be.
With gentle, practiced movements, he began to undo the zip of your pants and loosen your belt from behind. His fingers worked carefully, meticulously removing anything that was in the way, his touch both intimate and authoritative. The soft ruffle of fabric filled the silence as he eased your pants down, his hand sliding against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine.
Your pants fell down, pooling around your ankles, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, yet utterly exhilarated. You leaned back against him, surrendering to his touch, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and desire.
Seeing the sight of your red-hot underpants, a bold splash of color against your skin, he raised an eyebrow humorously, a smirk playing on his lips despite the overtly flirty ordeal.
The playful glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement, adding another layer of excitement to the already charged atmosphere.
"Oh, how colorful," he murmured, his voice laced with playful mockery.
"I must say, Ms/Mr. {reader}, you certainly know how to make an impression, even when you're being 'arrested'."
You sneered, a little embarrassed by the fact that he'd comment on something completely different with the roleplay. The playful taunt had caught you off guard, disrupting the carefully constructed facade of confidence you had been projecting.
"Oh, shut it, officer," you retorted, your voice a husky whisper, a mixture of annoyance and suppressed laughter.
"Just get on with the punishment, will you? Or are you going to keep making fun of my underwear all day?"
Hearing the words come out of your lips, the corners of his lips tug into a smirk, amused by it.
"You're so needy Ms/Mr. {Reader}"
Halt! A stop!
Yes, I know I'm the best writer ever, so... Use your imagination for the rest 😉, because I'm too tired to write the rest.
