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"I'm out," Infernus says, palms biting into the table's edge, chair already scraping along the green, abused carpet of the seedy backroom.
A chorus of protests greets him; Abrams' don't you ditch me here, heckling from Vyper and Krill. Wraith's voice is the one that cuts through it though, rising above the din with, "'Fern, c'mon. You're going to leave Abe high and dry like this?"
Abrams being the other loser of the night. Above his head looms the sad clown painting Wraith is so fond of, its expression near identical to the chronically luckless detective it halos. Usually, he's pretty good about keeping himself from bleeding money — the ones who tend to foot the bill are the Tunnel Rats, but they've both had decent runs tonight — but today he and Infernus are the ones who've matched and been slightly beat by Wraith's hand every time. If Infernus leaves, Abrams immediately becomes the butt monkey.
"I'm out," Infernus repeats, "got a dime for the car home, and you all ain't makin' me walk all the way to East Harlem. Thanks for the games fellas, but 'less you want the shirt off my back I don't got anything for the pot."
"Hey-hey, why not?" Vyper suggests. "I always wanted to get a round 'a strip poker going!"
"I don't believe for a second, you've never played strip poker before," Krill says, and Mo concurs.
"I haven't!" Vyper splays palms. "I'm saying it all the time, but no one ever wants to get a game going-"
"Can't imagine why," Abrams mutters.
"Well," Wraith says, cutting through the bullshit once again. As is her prerogative. "Sounds reasonable to me. 'Fern, you heard the lady."
"Hear her a lot, unfortunately." Infernus raises a brow. "On what exactly?"
"Shirt off your back."
Two of her chair's legs lift off the ground, reclining her until she can eye Infernus under her brim. His glasses only reflect in the low light of the backroom, the Tiffany lamp overhead leaving the whole den in a smog of glassy green.
"You offered," she says.
"Heh. Did," he concedes, as faintly amused as he always is when he recognizes a game she's playing. He beseeches the table, "We seriously gotten to the point of stripping in the back of her shady casino?"
Mo shrugs. Krill says, "Eh, sure, why not?" Before Abram's open mouth can voice its unneeded two cents, Wraith says, "Poker's poker."
Infernus rolls his eyes, settles back down, and says, "Alright, 'spose the votes are in." He tosses his hat into the pool.
"Starting with the hat?" Vyper's appalled. "In strip poker? You a fuckin' virgin or what? Something with buttons or go home, loser behavior right there."
"Says the loser."
"Not tonight I'm not! Drop the pants 'Fern or you're a pussy."
"Much as I hate to agree with Vyper…" Krill drones in a way that says he very much does not hate this. Whether that's because he's enjoying a little shit stirring or has the same inkling as Wraith is yet to be seen.
Two fingers rap hard on the table as Infernus bargains with all the gravity of a weapons deal, "Shirt can't come off without the suspenders. Hangman rules."
Mo huffs a fair point.
Wraith considers. "Fine," she says. "But both suspenders. You're not going to squeeze by on one sock at a time."
The glasses turn to her. He, in a voice that is either meaningful or disaffected in a way that's kept kept her on the hook for years, says, "Wouldn't dream of it, sister."
Leather flits from buttonholes, and the straps land in the center of the table with a clatter. Mo tosses in his hat, and Krill empties and bets his satchel with remarkable speed.
"Whoa, hey-" Abrams barks, "why the hell's everyone-?"
"You forget how poker works, Abe?" Vyper's own suspenders slap down. "Or you were too distracted on the strip part? Heh. Buddy thought we were all going to sit and watch sparkler put on a show for us."
"No I-" Abrams stammers, doing a bad job hiding that he had absolutely forgotten about poker.
He thrusts his glasses into the growing pool before anyone can shake him down further. This act of thoughtless stinginess happens before before the table has time to call him out, but karma gets him anyway; he immediately squints.
Every head turns to Wraith. She eyes the ceiling, seeing where the plaster has begun to spiderweb, her empire in minor decline, smoke sticking to its underbelly like a layer of winter fur. Abrams' cigar rarely leaves his mouth when he plays, Wraith always savors hers. Between them, their ashtray is lightly coated; it's the other side of the table, where Krill smokes enough for everyone else combined, that the grey dust piles high. That's the true source of her casino's scuzz. Ironically, it’s the side of the room where the higher class paintings hang, high rises and city landscapes. One of a windmill Mo and Krill once liberated from an otherwise unappreciated collection.
"Hangman rules?" she pretends to muse.
They let her have her dramatics. It's her casino. The house holds priority.
She shucks off her jacket, settles back down in her seat.
"Let's deal," she says.
It's funny, when the currency changes from bills to dignity, who gets less intense and who gets more. Vyper institutes a rule halfway through the second round that 'stripping' involves at the very least making a show of it, even if she's overruled on her initial stipulation of 'doing a lil dance'. Krill, winner of the first round and deciding to exhibit his spoils, humors her, Mo's hat and Abrams' glasses donned in comical overlargeness. The vote goes through. Funny what sort of hubris a few good hands will lull you into.
It's not so funny when he loses the next two, and another fact becomes obvious, just as relevant as the winner's fallacy; those with more clothes at the start are at advantage. Something that seems very obvious, but so does the heat of the water to everyone but the frog.
Vyper starts a round by tugging her A-shirt over her head, swinging it around a few times, and making accompanying whoops. Wraith is the only one entertained by this. The boys are either too embarrassed, too anxious, or too used to seeing her with her shirt off anyway. The tension is rising, just like the smoke making its lazy voyage to the ceiling. Any slight shift will tip the hand. The scale shifts when Mo tries to bet a singular glove.
"Booooo," Vyper says. "The pants, moleman. Don't think you're getting out of this one."
"You really wanna see him naked that bad, huh?" Abrams says, dryness hanging on every word.
Mo looks at him. Wraith raises her eyebrows without moving her smirk. Vyper leers.
"…What?" Abrams asks.
"Oh come on," Vyper says. "Quit the act. Like this isn't gonna turn into an orgy by the end of the night."
Abrams snorts. It peters out quickly as he looks around the table and realizes no one is laughing with him.
"My friend," Krill asks, "how could you not notice?"
"Hey if we're dropping the charade and kicking this thing off-" Vyper says to the tune of Abrams' sputtering, "I call dibs on Krill."
"Dibs?" Krill says at the same time Mo grunts with equal indignation. "In what universe have you earned the right to call dibs?"
"That's the thing about dibs, Krilliam, you do dibs by calling dibs, evident of itself, izzo fago."
"Ipso facto." Wraith stretches her upper arms above her head. Abrams' eyes plead for backup here. She ignores him.
"And you," Vyper turns a finger on Mo. "Don't get cranky with me. Orgy means you boink people you don't already boink on the daily, otherwise what's the point?"
"You guys are nuts." Abrams stands.
One forgets, when he's sitting down like that, how big of a guy he is. He's down to his undershirt and garters; belt, pants, and jacket long gone. Still, even standing there in his boxers, he cuts an imposing figure.
Obviously Abrams doesn't agree, the self consciousness crashing over him as apparent as the blood rushing to his cheeks. Becoming aware of not just how naked he is, but how everyone is, even Wraith who's played the cleanest game of poker she's had in the last ten years. When you win, you don't put articles of clothing back on. It's against the spirit of the strip.
"Psh, fine," Vyper jeers at his nascent retreat. "Chicken out if you're going to be like that. Me? I'm going to suck off more than the rest of you combined. By the end of the night you're going to be lifting me up on your shoulders, chanting my name and everything. Vyper yeahh, yeah V whooo."
"Want to put money on it?"
"Wraith, you're a girl after my own heart. I'm going to slurp your brain outta your cooze for that. However, promised Krill here something first."
So she lunges across the table, grabs a fistful of Krill's shirt, and collides their mouths into the most improbable snout-based makeout possible. The game is cut down in its prime, cards flying everywhere, long forgotten chips clattering to the floor. Krill can't be absolved of the destruction either, giving back as good as he gets, one knee on the table before Vyper can pull him fully up. Infernus watches it all with all the serenity of observed property destruction that, for once, isn't his problem.
At the attack, Mo rose from his chair, but takes no action besides that, watching the action with interest. Vyper meets his eyes smugly, the like what you see? clear across her face. The pair clamber onto the table, Vyper assailing Krill's pants and sliding them free with practiced ease, and Wraith has no doubt she'll rack up that first tally in a matter of minutes.
It truly is a sight to behold, and Wraith weighs that this will be the turning point of whether they lose Abrams. The detective is watching unfolding coitus, too stunned to move in his bafflement. Or too enthralled. One in the same maybe.
Mo, having determined Krill is in safe claws, lumbers over to Abrams' side of the table. Vyper smacks his ass with the end of her tail as he goes. He grunts, rolls his eyes, and plants a consoling mitt on Abrams' shoulder
Slowly, the comforting weight presses Abrams back into his chair. Wraith's grateful for his initiative. It's probably for the best the two guys least at ease in a situation like this take solace in each other. They'll take things slow, treat each other right. Wraith resolves to give them a little privacy — as much as an unfolding sex party can be expected to allow, anyway — and casually lets her attention land elsewhere.
But there's really only one way for the cards to fall now. On 'Fern, leaned against the table, casually observing the teratophilic pile of limbs unfurling mere inches from his pressed hip. He bends over Krill, doubtless saying something smarmy, something that when he leans in for a kiss Krill shoves his grinning face away with both hands. He rears back laughing, catches her gaze. Smirks. His eyes, no longer concealed behind glasses he lost two rounds ago, size up her approach.
"Need some help with that?" he asks instead of greeting.
"Sure, why not?"
Nothing loaded about that. The most scrupulous pair of dice there's ever been.
He helps her unbutton. She lets her back face him so he can slip her shirt from her shoulders, its destiny to drape over his arm like a bar towel. His hands never touch her skin. It's almost chaste. Or, chaste as it can be with Krill mere inches away, covering his face with his palm while Vyper makes sounds that would put a draining bathtub to shame. She idly reaches and tousles Krill's hair. He needs the support.
The temptation is there, for Infernus as well as for her, despite how often he denies it. It's an old song and dance now, he says he doesn't miss her, she doesn't believe him, and they go round and round. His hands find her buckle. She unspools his tie. It's ironic that the guy in the room who wants her the least is the one she knows like the back of her hand.
Krill makes a wordless cry of release.
"Looks like we ain't pacing ourselves," Infernus notes.
The room is no longer heady with just smoke, but sex too, turning Wraith's attention lethargic, her guard lower. Normally, that'd be about the least sexy thing she can imagine, but something about the array of teeth and claws glittering in the low light feels invitational, and she, maybe arrogantly, feels that anyone dumb enough to attack a room with all the deadliest people she knows is going to be the one to regret it. She allows Abrams and Mo to come back into her awareness, Abrams not scared off after all, his dick threaded through his boxers and his eyes rolled back in his head. He's got a cock that could really only fit comfortably in hands of Mo's size, and Maurice mumbles something in his ear as he fulfills that uniquely suited duty.
Her braid is surrendered to Infernus' undoing fingers. She's always loved the feeling of his knuckles in her hair, the care he takes to pick free each strand. A gasp, which is nothing to anyone else and everything to Wraith who never allows otherwise, escapes her. Facing away from him, watching Vyper lick her lips and Krill criticize her technique, she allows herself to wonder if this could be the thing that lets them fall back into each other.
His hands rest on her hips for a beat. She has too much dignity to wait for an invitation that may or not come. Before the silence can stretch into the implicative, the shamefully imploring, she breaks the connection, stepping into the clown painting's field of vision with only a cursory glance over her shoulder. Infernus is impassive.
"Hey buddy," she drapes over Mo's broad back, encircling his neck with her organic arms. "Looks like you could you some attention."
"Hm," Mo says.
"I don't think the Detective's ready to come just yet," she counters.
"Huh," Abrams says, chin lifting. "What um…? I wasn't uh…"
He boggles like it's first time seeing a naked woman, which she knows for a fact isn't true. Maybe just not Wraith, or not her with her hair down.
"Don't worry about it, Abe." A mechanical palm pats his knee while a whirring mind creates a new checklist with 'make sure Abe has the orgasm of his life before the end of the night' as the only current item.
She slips around Mo's side, planting a kiss to his cheek as she goes. The pink, tapered cock that slides from his boxers isn't quite as large as Abrams', but that's like saying the Eiffel Tower isn't as tall the Empire State. Kinda six of one, half dozen of the other.
Though, to reject that particular phrase, it's far more than six.
She works herself open, shimmying Mo's balls free too because the sight of just his dick poking out is almost too comical to stand, and still has to reign in laughter when they swing free. That he certainly has over the detective. She fondles each, scritching the soft, white fuzz covering them, distinctly aware that Abrams' gaze is fixed on where mechanical knuckles disappear into her body.
It's not been so long that she needs much prep. Sure, nothing lately compares to the sheer girth of Mo's, but Wraith knows when to match a bet. She drags Mo's chair underneath him.
Bracing one hand against Abe's shoulder — he seems to be the under the impression he'll break some orgy taboo if he dares to move without being told — she faces away from Mo, sinking onto him with a satisfying sense of devoration. An old flame once told her that she had a tendency to chew people up and spit them back out in a particularly venomous end to that relationship. True, maybe. But the turn of phrase doesn't properly emphasize the act of savoring, lingering on every novel moment she has. Mo's hand creeps up, gripping her breast, absentmindedly tugging her down further onto him. She hums encouragement. Abrams' mouth forgets to close itself. The chairs are so close together she can smell the whiskey on his breath.
"See Mo, need to let someone do something nice for you for a change."
Mo mutters something about his marriage being plenty nice, thank you very much.
She rolls her eyes, up then over, landing them not at their starting position but on the unwatched pot she's let boil. The city-side of the room has gone farcical hilariously fast; Krill's stolen Abe's cigar out of the ash tray, lounging on his side as he observes the nearby show from atop the pitiful former poker game. The tangle of limbs are…
Well, by process of elimination, they're Vyper and Infernus.
"I know, right?" Krill says to her expression.
He crawls to the edge of the table, resting his arm on Mo's, not attempting to initiate, simply being present while Mo fucks. They don't need to rehash the tried and true. These sorts of games about trying new configurations, going crazy with the people you rub elbows with but nothing more.
But, fucking hell, V and 'Fern?
Those two can barely stand each other, and here they are, rolling around on the floor like a couple of wolves trying to claw each other to death. Actually, maybe they are trying to kill each other-
Ah, no, nope definitely not fighting. Infernus, somehow in just his vest and hat (did he put those back on after stripping?) pins Vyper to the floor the wrong way around, holding her hips so he's face to face with her tail.
Though the 'wrong way around' is clearly bull because as soon as he has her in place he's diving into Vyper's pussy mouth first. Vyper writhes, tail lashing upwards before crashing back down and fumbling around Infernus' back. She arches against Wraith's old, chair-scuffed floor and growls out a sound neither humanoid nor serpentine. It's almost chilling. Her revenge, while not exactly swift — she takes a few minutes to say Christ 'Fern, what the hell are they teaching you at that bar? — is enacted in short order, gripping the ceiling-pointed ass with brandished claws and skewering it in place. If Wraith didn't already know that the gorgon gag reflex was like a drop bear’s bite, she would have learned it right then when she took Infernus to the hilt with barely a gasp. Infernus does not mimic her silence. He moans, jolting further into Vyper's cunt, lips slack around the slit for several breathless seconds in a way that goes straight to Wraith's clit.
Wraith's heard some colorful language from 'Fern, but the detail with which he cusses Vyper out in that moment is worthy of poetry.
It takes incredible effort to push himself up again, and suck at Vyper's slit with renewed strength. When he does, it's clear that if this was ever not about one-upmanship, that's all gone out the window. He attacks her pussy like it's his last meal on Earth.
"…Glad they're doing something constructive," Wraith notes. The sentence barely stays within her control until its end, before Mo's concentration hones in, delivering a few sharp thrusts into her deepest cavities. "Guh," she grunts. "Gettin' close I see. So soon big guy?"
"Sorry…"
She casts a glance over her shoulder; Mo's eyes, already so small in his big head, look particularly watery. Any more pressure from his claws, and the skin along her breasts is likely to split.
"It's alright." Abrams' voice is gravel, his attempts at reciprocal comfort artless. They mostly involve stroking Mo's furred shoulder lightly while making a weary expression. "Happens, lotta stuff going on-"
The assurances are drowned out in snuffling, Mo pulling her down onto his cock so roughly her vision goes blurry. Through half-lidded eyes, Krill's face swims into view, smirking. He toasts his cigar in her direction. A rush of cum fills her.
When she eventually slips free and drops to her feet, she has to soothe, "You're fine Mo, no worries." Though maybe she should find something to disinfect the claw marks before doing anything more extraneous.
Eh. Not like she hasn't fucked her way through worse.
And compared to some other folks in their long forgotten game, she's certainly not the worst for wear. Vyper has left Infernus just as she left Krill; depleted and boneless where finished. His normally vibrant flames simmer like gas off coals. He groans something about the relative hours of streetcars.
"Someone grab 'Fern a glass off water?" Wraith asks.
"Probably should, yeah." Vyper, rising, licks cum off her snout and stretches. "Not you though." Her tail chivalrously encircles Wraith's waist, encouraging her forward. "You're next in line baby, I'm keeping good to my word tonight."
"Instead of her usual modus operendi of forgetting where she is halfway through, and trying to romance the people who've been shooting at us that day," Krill lampoons. "Or the bellhop."
"Hey, I only did that once, and, you know, I kinda think he was into it-"
"He wasn't."
"Well, Wraith here is going to be very into it." This is stated with the energy of an eight-year-old barely holding back from sticking her tongue out. She pulls Wraith firmly to her side. "Hear that Boss?"
"Hearing a lot of chatter, and not seeing my brain get sucked out through my cooze."
Vyper grins, and drops to hip-height.
The loose flesh of Wraith's back is sieved between claws, ones that seem just as desperate to rip her open the way Mo's have. It must be a point of pride that they don't, evidenced by Vyper leaning into not her sex but her stomach, where blood has gathered in dribbles; a long blue tongue flicks up to clean the gashes on her breasts. Wraith hisses, twists in Vyper's grip, but doesn't protest. She heard once gorgon spit has antibacterial properties.
But — the thought comes upon her as Vyper presses her muzzle between Wraith's loosened folds — it might have been Vyper who told her that, which brings the reliability down from a good 3:1 to barely 2:3. She groans, letting her hair wash her shoulders as she tilts her head and blinds herself on the Tiffany. It's excruciating to have the ribbon-thin tongue teasing her after taking something as gargantuan as Mo, taunting her through fits and spurts. She bucks forward, chasing what's not enough.
Vyper feasts. With no warning, the slender tongue dives impossibly deep, up through crevices Wraith didn't know she had. By her thoroughness, you'd think Vyper's sole desire in life was the taste of Mo's cum; or, barring that, territorial assertion that it'd find no purchase in Wraith, if she has to guzzle up every last drop herself.
Unable to hold back any longer, a moan and feeble thrust forward escape Wraith simultaneously. The tongue jams all the way back to her cervix. A much less dignifiedly contained moan escapes her this time.
"You know," Infernus says, "she ain't a half-bad lay when she's too occupied to mouth off."
Wraith releases fluid into Vyper's jaws.
"Always glad to hear the good reviews." Vyper wipes nonexistent dust off her shoulders, her full height resumed with little fanfare as she rolls back onto her tail. "That's three for V now! Where's the score, we had a chalkboard around here right? For that one time we were making diagrams about how many times Abe bashed his own tail in a door-"
"Alright," Wraith says, catching her breath before Vyper can fully wind up, "your turn."
A full-height Vyper isn't exactly a stable thing. When Wraith pushes her by the shoulders, she goes sprawling back, landing on the table gracelessly and with a chirp of displeased indignation. That complaint is quickly dispensed with when Wraith's mouth descends on her cunt.
"Ffffffffuuuuck-" is what Vyper has to say on the subject.
Wraith may not have a tongue as long as her forearm or a cock to make an Ixian blush, but she has one thing in absolute spades: experience.
She goes to town like the feds themselves are circling the casino, and the only way out is an escape portal in Vyper's cloaca. Within a minute Vyper is screaming that she'll kill whoever Wraith wants, no charge so long as she doesn't stop chowing down. Within four, the massive tail has wrapped around Wraith's waist and might legitimately be trying to crush her to death.
When Vyper begins to thrash, a pair of solid, wooden arms hold her in place. A seven of diamonds flutters past Wraith's ear.
It only takes six minutes for Vyper to come, and Wraith leans back to kneel, fairly confident she kept that score even. She swears she can see greenish soul leaving Vyper's body.
"Still got all your brains?"
"Gmmm… uhhhmmthink'm inlove…"
"Didn't quite catch that, V."
This time, Vyper fails entirely to formulate a response.
"Wow," Infernus says, "you actually got her to shut up."
He's gotten himself and Krill some chairs, looking a little woozy but no worse for wear beyond that, his flames now back to a healthy, rolling glow. She props a chin on Vyper's hip bone. Long ago, she realized she had not the talent for smiling serenely; her attempts are always too ferocious, have too much intensity lurking below the surface. A mark had once said she felt like a mouse under the eyes of a cat who hadn't quite decided if she was dinner or the show; so, Wraith doesn't try at serenity as she rests a cheek in the crook of her arm. Infernus, despite that, grins toothily back at her, knowing exactly what her quirked lips mean.
They linger, Mo and Krill having found their way to each other in the absence of another invitation, and the sound of their playful whispers and frisky touches provides the backdrop for Wraith to catch her breath. She doubts either of them are intending to go again, but they seem content with laughing and teasing, enough that when Infernus rises it doesn't surprise her to see him draw a chair to join them. Her own need isn't so easily cowed, though. It's slithering inside her again, making her consider rousing Vyper and telling her the lunch break's over and it's time for the next shift, but the instincts of a gracious hostess remind her to check her peripherals. Abrams is still in his chair, ramrod straight, cock doing an excellent impression of his owner. As far as Wraith is aware, he hasn't moved from that spot since Vyper slammed Krill to the table.
"Solve the case yet?"
He jumps, not having noticed her during her entire saunter across the room. He fumbles his glasses off the table, slips them on just in time to see her slide onto his lap. If it were possible for Detective Abrams to stiffen more, he certainly would as she starts to nibble at his neck, every muscle hard as stone under her touch. She toys the length of solid blue in the crease of her thigh.
Abrams is a smart guy. All he manages to say is, "…Huh?"
"You're thinking about something real hard," Wraith continues lazily. "And it honestly can't be any of this, otherwise you wouldn't be so blue."
"Right...right."
That fact that she can never quite get herself to tease is a hindrance sometimes. Her voice never comes out out as anything other than commanding, but even with that as her starting point she tries to shift it into something softer, more serious.
"Hey," she says. "You alright, detective?"
"I…" He casts his gaze to where the others are. Not fucking, not groping, just laughing at some unheard joke just like before all this started. "…I'm alright," he sighs, the exhale containing within it the power to make that true.
A massive hand rests against her back, only the lightest pressure needed to pull her into him. He allows the kiss she spears into his mouth, and the much more presumptuous motion she does to the head of his cock, letting it disappear into her.
"You haven't gotten any attention yet," Wraith says.
"Mo was helping."
"You haven't gotten to come yet." She descends another inch on the word. "You're nervous, detective."
"This is all just a… real big change."
"Sure is," she says. No use denying it. No use denying things are going to be different around the table after this. "Sorry, no helping it."
"Yeah."
She searches for a comforting thought. Rustles up, "Would you feel better with Silver here? She’d be just as out of her depth as you, and just as likely to lose all her worldly possessions. Again."
Abrams whimpers as she sinks the rest of the way onto him.
"Though," she muses, voice tinging with the slightest strain, "this time, all that would've left her the first one without a shirt, instead just of just out of pocket. She why you're so flighty?"
"Lilah and I don't fuck," Abrams grunts.
"No?" Disinterest flattens her words, even though that comes as a genuine surprise.
"I'm not her type."
"Bullshit."
"I'm not… up for the sort of things she'd want out of the arrangement," he amends. Wraith files that little nugget away for later.
So it's not someone who's not here that has Abe acting on edge. A cool, detached survey of the room returns inconclusive results: they're all spectacularly hot. Wraith, over her own personal musings, has found something desirable about every regular of her weekly game, and lets her gaze linger over the configuration that's newly formed beside the table. 'Fern's resting a hand on Krill's inner thigh, sneaking Mo a kiss. To her, he's all heat and desire, next to Krill's charm and dexterity. Vyper's sleek muscle, Mo's just a plain tank.
No, no she has to look with Abrams' eyes, see what he sees. Watch where he's looking. It takes a minute to track where his gaze lingers most.
"'Fern?" she laughs.
Abrams ears turn purple.
"How do you want him?" she asks before Abrams can bluster out a denial.
"Christ, Wraith," he says.
"You wanna take him, don't you? That why you're so uptight? You — what? — think he'd be offended if you asked?"
"He might be. But I- Look," he says. "Fuck Wraith. It ain't about that."
A moment. "Ahhhh. Feelings huh."
The purple's in his cheeks now too. She casts a look over her shoulder, watching 'Fern as he is, lounging and happily stretched between two chairs with a new toothpick in his mouth. She understands completely.
"It's been a long time, right? That you've been looking at him like that?"
"…Yeah."
"...Alright Abe. I'm going to do you a solid."
"What-"
At moderately-above speaking volume, she interjects, "If you finish inside me Detective, I'll kill you."
The absolute panic that floods Abrams' face is wonderfully charming.
It draws the desired attention from the windmill's half of the room, lazy and curious. Vyper, now curled in a pitiful little coil, asks drowsily, "Didn't Mo already drop some mayo in your egg salad? Little late now."
"I think the cross-species divide will save us," Wraith says. "Abe on the other hand…"
A few good strokes has Abrams gripping her hips in open terror.
"He's really towing the line." The loll of her head is so casual, no one would suspect that it's eventual stopping point isn't picked at random. "'Fern. Mind coming over here and helping us out?"
"What are you doing?" Abrams panic whispers.
Infernus, god bless him, saunters over without so much as a quibble.
"Doin' okay, Big Guy?" He slaps a hand on Abrams' shoulder. "I get it. She makes it hard to hold back."
Abrams makes a sounds like air coming out of a bullet-popped tire.
To Wraith, "What can I do for you?"
"Mind takin' over?"
"Not a bit."
"Vyper," she calls without turning around. "Lube me". With no hesitation, the lube flies through the air and smacks into her open palm. A swell of affection for the gorgon rises in her chest. Definitely going to have to reward her with that round two later.
Wraith is obviously the one most suited to work Infernus open; she's got plenty of hands to spare, and while two marionette fingers scissor their way inside, she winds arms around Abrams' neck and nips his jawline. Infernus gets one knee up next to her, Abrams' lap so expansive it fits them both, his body flush to her side, ribcage to ribcage. It's warm. He's always warm. She's drunk on warmth and nostalgia as he drops his head onto her shoulder and watches Abrams' unraveling with curious attention, one arm around her waist, the other becoming more exploratory. Feeling across Abrams' chest, grabbing a pectoral brushed with black curls and squeezing it experimentally.
"Please," Abrams' gurgles.
"Sounds like he can't take much more," Wraith drawls, rising for the switch. "Do the honors?"
Abrams practically sobs when Infernus sinks down. It may be Wraith's favor to him, but she doesn't let him enjoy it long — after only a few meek thrusts and his guard is lowered enough for her to seize the back of his chair.
He yelps. It's not a light load with 'Fern and Abe both, but her web of arms cushion the fall just fine, and the chair drops Abrams onto his back with both Ixians still mounted. That's her only mercy though. She swings a leg over his head, smearing slick across his glasses as she gets into position.
"Said you couldn't come in me Abe," she says. "Didn't say you weren't going to finish me."
He gasps underneath her, but then Infernus starts riding him again and his string of syllables become a new and beautiful language. Infernus clearly thinks this the funniest thing in the universe, chuckling coming from deep in his chest that Wraith swears she can feel through the shared medium of Abrams' body. It lasts right up until 'Fern slides down just so and suddenly he's someone new, biting his lip, watching her practically suffocate Abrams with unrestrained desire. He's lost his toothpick again. He's everything she fell in love with and then some.
And it's him who lunges forward, connects their mouths, sinks near-burning fingers into her neck. That's how she comes: with Abrams' tongue in her cunt and Infernus' tongue down her throat.
It's a little bit of something she's been missing for a long time.
She lets Abe breathe enough so he can really start hollering when he does finally come. She leaves them to it shortly after though, already thinking of the next steps, the fold, the cleanup.
Winding down's a lot different than the usual Friday night wrap-up. No one's collecting their winnings, trying to beat a hasty retreat before someone tries to sucker them into another round; though, this time, that's because most of the bills are stuck to various players backs and other fleshy areas. Everyone downs the melted ice at the bottom of whiskey glasses in lieu of real water, and wipes sweat with whatever's on hand. Abrams' discarded undershirt gets the worst of this. Wraith and Infernus used him up to the point that he'll be the last to notice.
"Our local felon does have a good idea on occasion," Krill says to Wraith while Vyper fails to find the correct armhole in her shirt.
"You encourage her."
"I can be a force of good on occasion."
Bravado does not suppress his yawn, however. He clambers onto Maurice's back, the truest sign that the night is actually over, a routine repeated a thousand times and will repeat a thousand more. Though, this is the first Wraith has felt a stirring of pity; Mo looks at least as tired as Krill at this point.
Vyper slips off the table and out the door with barely a word, a strange thing for her. Abrams and Infernus, Wraith notes with satisfaction, leave together.
Or at least, 'Fern leaves, and Abrams follows close behind, a desperate-puppy quiver in his lip. She wonders if they'll work something out, wonders if maybe this only made things worse. Anything's possible when Abrams' life is strewn across the floor like leftover clothes. He's gotta be the one to figure out who he wants and sort it from there.
She thinks it's her alone, then. The gracious hostess left to lock up, and disappear through the side entrance she keeps for nights like these and in case the casino's main defenses fall to some unforeseen raid. But her solitude is a presumption overturned, because waiting for her just outside the grimy sheet-metal awning is Vyper, hands in her pockets, flicking a stone with the tip of her tail.
"Hey uh," she squeezes out, sounding every inch the words take to make it up her terribly long windpipe. "Mind if I walk you home?"
Wraith stares at her. Vyper sucks in her cheeks and stares back, somehow managing to hold her gaze through the entirety of Wraith checking that she heard right, double-checking that that is what Vyper wanted to say, and then waiting to see if the gorgon's going to chicken out.
She doesn't. Without exactly smiling, but not exactly not smiling either, she raises a brow. "Sure. Why not?"
Vyper's shoulders sag, grinning relief as she sidles up to Wraith's departing form, abandoning the smell of smoke and sex for the cool city air.