draino | 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒

[ it's been days since their fight (since she kicked him to the curb like a piece of fucking garbage picked off the bottom of the louboutins he bought for her), and the sight of her name lighting up his phone sends a flutter of pins through his heart. ]

nice flower detailing on the shirt did you pick it out for him

[ a few moments later: a picture, in return. ]

( embry fucking moore. of course. not recognizable by the stamps of bruise prints, but by the print of his tie: fabric that's been around her wrists more than once, a hostage negotiation in silk. she still remembers choosing it with the drag of a fingernail down his collection, as indecisively eager as window shopping for the right accessory to an outfit, judging which one was worthy of being seen on her wrist. )

jake doesn't need my help picking the good shit out
my man's got an eye for the best thing in the room
it's called having taste

( artwork, jewels. women — not that she expects embry to think of her as anything more than designer pussy. kept in-stock for brand name recognition, to wear out, to brag about. just another thing with a high price tag, bought and paid for — and neglected — in a rich fuck's wardrobe.

it comes quick, no hesitation, even with her eyes squinting at the hickeys painted on his skin: )

it's a little early in the day to be lookin like a slut, counselor

you can't accuse me of not having taste without insulting yourself, anora. you shouldn't talk about your tits that way. since you're sharing them with me.

[ he almost types the most damning piece of evidence yet, and we both thirsted after the same dick, so how's that for fucking taste, but several days spent blackout drunk has screwed his head back on somewhat straight, so he just takes a deep breath and sucks at his fresh pomegranate juice through the straw. he's calm. he's fine. he doesn't care that anora thinks he's a piece of shit. ]

are you jealous you're not the one manhandling me anymore?

[ for every bruise he pressed into her skin, she'd hit back twice as hard, her nails decorating him in silvery scars, barely detectable except he knows where to look. it's the only way he knows how to get off — with pain, given and received, wrapped up in adoring obsession that twists his heart into shapes that shouldn't exist. ]

i like this attentive level of detail you're putting into admiring my picture 😘 💋

never said you didn't, dipshit
it's your only redeeming quality

( outside of the obvious — embry moore looks like he paid money to come out of the womb looking that way, the kind of beauty born from rich genetics, eyes as arctic and patriotically blue as his fucking non-existent soul. )

i hate to burst your bubble sweetie but my mornings are booked solid with getting eaten out seven times for breakfast 😮‍💨
i don't have time to pencil jealousy into my busy ass schedule
you get how it is, yeah? lots of catchin up to do

( she doesn't name the obvious elephant in the room: jealousy is only for insecure little bitches. embry, mostly. not ani, who couldn't have cared less who else was wearing their bruises like a presidential seal. if anything, it gave her sore ass more time to heal — and more reason to sit at ash's side like the fucking jackie o of debauchery. the designated favorite.

it's barely surprising how fast men make her feel like a disposable tissue, anyway. something you jerk off into, and then immediately replace. can't be jealous if you expect it. if you can already see the writing on the wall. if you already know the score. )

it's good you're having fun though
happy for you
remember to use protection 🩷 hope you learned a thing or two from our little pregnancy scare

Edited (pls pretend i didn't typo three times in a row) 2025-06-21 02:24 (UTC)

so you do like something about me 😼

[ kicking his feet, twirling his hair ]

yeah yeah i get it you're in fucking LOVE i am so fucking happy for you, truly in fact, just to prove my point, i'll send a gift basket to your room congratulating you on your renewed vows or whatever the fuck. why did your marriage go to shit in the first place anyway

[ a question he might have presented to jake, if he had any desire to talk to that fucking clown and his stupid smile, handsome as he might be. anora obviously has good taste as well. which he already knew, since she fucked him, too. ]

i never said i was having fun. maybe someone attacked me in the street. you haven't even asked me how i'm doing. you know, i'd only really push for an abortion if it was ash's baby. i think you and i would make really cute ones, and i've always wanted to be a dad.

🤷‍♀️
ask my husband
he's better at storytelling. real dramatic type of guy

( not a single one of embry's checks can cash in for that vulnerability, what ani won't say: because love is easy. because staying is harder. because she couldn't bring herself to gamble on love then, whenever jake would promise it like it was as sure a thing as life, death, and taxes.

what's also a sure thing: jake knows the con-man's trick of saying something without saying anything at all, has a flair for talking like he's in love with the sound of his own voice. funny as fuck to think of embry trying his luck, anyway, like ani isn't subscribing him to a jake seresin-sized migraine.

probably deserved, for all the psychotic fucking shit he's spewing. ani thinks, not for the first time in embry's presence: jesus christ, what the fuck is wrong with you. )

babe you couldn't even be trusted with your checkbook
you think i'd trust you with a whole baby??? lol keep dreaming
you're too late btw koby already called dibs on raising my firstborn

Edited 2025-06-21 03:07 (UTC)

you know i never thought i'd meet a dick i didn't like but you managed to find me one. congratulations on your achievement. looking forward to seeing how many more ways you can fuck up my foundational beliefs about myself.

[ they're alike in that way — there are certain truths you couldn't waterboard out of them. he wonders if anora would hate him less if she understood the root of his explosive anger, his destructive jealousy. even now, the flames lick beneath his skin, boiling him alive — that she would have the nerve to find and flaunt love so openly, when he can't. he shouldn't blame her for something she doesn't know, but he doesn't exactly have a history for prioritizing rightness. ]

oh really you seemed to trust me with my checkbook just fine, if memory serves. i'll have you know that babies love me and there is photographic evidence of this. i'd be an amazing dad. and we would have a nanny. koby? hmm i don't want to say anything disrespectful because nothing compares to you but i am a big fan of koby's cunt

you're telling me you haven't looked in the mirror lately??
your bullshit makes my jakey look like a boy scout, counselor

( no one hates embry moore more than embry moore. he doesn't have to admit it for anora to know it, see a worse self-destructive rhythm in his patterns than the ones she's lived by. he can't get off without pain as a shadow to his pleasure, can't exist if he isn't suffering, can't love unless it's the one thing incapable of loving him back.

she types, deletes, your checkbook is your only other redeeming quality. untrue; embry wears money as obnoxiously as he wears his entitlement. )

damn, a deadbeat dad 🩷
i'm so fucking wet thinking about it
who do you think taught koby all of his tricks, honey?? he's my understudy
nothin beats the original but he comes as close as you're ever gonna get

Edited 2025-06-21 04:03 (UTC)

i've been under the weather. if you haven't noticed the lack of my presence around the place. not that it'd make any difference to you if you found me face down in the lake next tuesday. i probably would've been lying there for three days already because you're so booked and busy getting your cunt eaten out by the love of your life.

[ he might even prefer it that way, so he can be bitter in the afterlife and haunt the shit out of everyone who's wronged him, which would be the entire population of the united states and beyond. ]

as someone who was raised by a nanny, i turned out just as heinous as you. proof that the parenting doesn't matter. we’re two peas in a pod, anora. you think jake would like me? i have the same gag reflex as you. arguably better. and we're both so pretty. koby seems like he’s in a bind. good thing you both know the most generous man alive (me)

that why it's been so fucking peaceful? thank you for your public service counselor
if you're gonna drop dead, wear something pretty, okay?
i'm not hauling my ass all the way to your funeral just to see you in your ugly loafers one last time
least that'd give me somethin to cry over

aw that explains it. mommy didn't hug you enough, huh?
embry, baby. jake's used to stealing botticellis. why would he want a knockoff when he's already got the real thing?
but sure. go ahead and ask him yourself. should be fun

( koby's none of your fucking business. instinctively protective, a baring of teeth — ani files her teeth down. swallows. she'd ask, after all, if koby wanted dirty money or dumb money. embry has pocketfuls of both. )

uh huh
and i'm guessin your generosity comes free, right?

( fat fucking chance. the colchester-moores specialize in the art of trade negotiations. or, a less pretty, glitzed-up version of the word: extortion. )

Edited 2025-06-21 17:01 (UTC)

i wouldn't wear loafers in my casket. i'd obviously wear patent leather oxfords, polished so shiny you could check your reflection in them. it's like you don't even pay attention to my wardrobe.

[ crash out avoided at the confirmation she'd come to his funeral. ]

maybe i will ask him. should we do a double date? you and your jakey? me and koby so i can finger him under the table? he loved that last time. has he mentioned me? if he's your understudy, it all makes sense to me now. learning you two are so close warms my heart. koby has enough to trade. alternatively, you still have free access to my checkbook if you want to come and get it.

he didn't
i guess you must have been one forgettable fuck, huh?

( koby has enough to trade. yeah, she knows exactly what currency shitheads like alvida and embry deal in, hungry hands held out for more, more, more. the kind that bruises, bleeds. the kind that empties you out, wallet and soul, and is still never enough. she knows exactly what koby wouldn't ask her to sell, either. not even at the cost of his freedom. not even with a barrel aimed at the back of his head. not even if embry says free access like it isn't a deal with the devil, invisible terms and conditions written in fine print at the bottom of the contract.

there's always dumber, dirtier marks. embry might be a whale, but so is half of the estate. she can net another. )

i'm not fucking you

Edited 2025-06-23 02:40 (UTC)

maybe my story will be like yours. he'll forget me for half my life and then come back when he remembers how much he loves my mouth. or hey. maybe i'll die alone, and you're just one of the lucky ones.

[ so maybe ten days of radio silence didn't cure him, but made him worse instead. his renewed energy for destruction has grown sharper claws and longer teeth. koby is soft, sweet, a bruised little peach that could fit one of the blown out holes in his heart, just like the way his cunt is a sinkhole for embry’s fingers. he’s fond of him. but he’s not the prize. anora isn’t something that fell from a tree. she’s a diamond. she’s a botticelli. ash would laugh at the way embry is convinced she belongs in their world instead of the shit heap one she wants to go back to. ]

i didn’t say anything about sex with you but clearly YOU’RE thinking about it 😏 💋 you miss it? you know married women are still allowed to come hang out with their friends just because you’re not fucking my brother anymore doesn’t mean our relationship is over

you don't know shit about my marriage

( forget me for half of my life. the implication: anora mikheeva is just loose change jingling around in the dryer, the crumpled $20 bill you forgot you had in the back pocket of your favorite jeans, an old ring you find buried at the bottom of your jewelry box. a small delight to rediscover, the endorphin rush of finder's keepers, losing and regaining a treasure in the span of a single breath — but not important enough to notice it was ever missing in the first place. disposable, until you remember you can spend it.

he's wrong. the proof of it sat against jake's chest for who-the-fuck-knows how long: a wedding band, suspended like a moment in time, pressed against his heartbeat. metal warmed by skin. a promise kept in a display case, as important as any relic in a museum — full of history, safe from smudging fingers that want a closer look.

the words still dig fingers into a mottled bruise on its way to healing. she still knows better, too, than to flinch when the colchester-moores dig their fingers in. he's no different than ash — in love with the power to destroy and remake. a wannabe god in his little playscape of pressed suits and american politics, bedrooms run like tyrants at a war table. )

i'm not that good of an actress 🩷
maybe if you paid me more, i'd start feelin inspired

lol
"friends"
"relationship"
are you fucking serious with that shit right now???
the two of you don't have friends. you have employees

Edited 2025-06-23 21:45 (UTC)

whose fucking fault is that? we should start weekly phone sessions so we know everything about each other’s lives. you know, since you’re not gonna be around the oval office as much anymore. or i could send a car. or i could come to you? i’ll bring a vintage wine and a stinky cheese. pencil me into your busy calendar. and the clothes stay on, anora. i am not your sex object.

[ the truth: he’s terrified that she will actually disappear. ash doesn’t seem to give two fucks, so it’s up to embry to convince her to stay, and his competition is apparently steeper than mount fucking everest — jake seresin, a nobody from fucking nowheresville, who apparently gives the best tongue action in the goddamn world. (debatable. he’s had him looked up — how much pussy can a man possibly get in prison? embry has far more experience.) ]

paid you in what? you don’t even want my “dirty” money

[ his turn to feel her fingers in his bruises, his mouth tightening, cheek stinging with an imaginary slap. sure, maybe he told her he didn’t have any real friends. but that didn’t count her. ]

you know ash never cared about you i did i was the one who made sure you were okay i was the one who kept both of your fucking mess out of the papers and i was the only one who ever held you because he’s not even capable of doing that with anyone except

[ me. a narrowly avoided slip as his blood boils with wounded rage. ]

you can pay me in shutting the fuck up 🙂

( you know ash never cared about you. that's the fucking point embry's spongy brain can't absorb, the handshake of a silent agreement she and ash understood from the start.

he didn't need to love her. didn't need to make sure she was okay. he just needed to be cruel and cold, a marble statue holding still and unbreakable against the force of her — someone to endure it. someone who didn't ask for more than her fucked up parts scratching up against his, temporary allies to the same cause, the pleasure of mutually assured destruction. someone who didn't mind the ugliness — because there's nothing she could have done to make herself worse than ash colchester and embry fucking moore.

the difference between them: ash always liked her teeth. embry talks about her like a dog he's responsible for, made to sit on his leash. like she can't take care of herself without his guiding hand. )

ok? did anyone ask you to do all that? no? that's right
don't be so pissy about it, sweetheart. the three of us had fun together, yeah?
i'll send you a nice little postcard on my honeymoon
you want it from barcelona or paris?

Edited 2025-06-27 02:10 (UTC)

[ everything he wants to say evaporates at those last words. honeymoon. barcelona. paris. okay, fine. she deserves a vacation. she deserves to see the world. naturally, embry's been to both, dragged to paris against his will on a family vacation when he was twelve, and then fucked his way through barcelona during a summer at yale. honeymoons are temporary. she'll be back. ]

the guys are hotter in barcelona. paris smells like rat piss. how long are you gonna be gone? pick out some jewelry so i can get you a decades late wedding gift

( very politely, she keeps her immediate joke to herself: damn, really? paris must have felt like home to you. )

your two favorite things 🩷
hot guys and places that smell like piss

idk. probably forever if jake lets me have my way, and he always lets me have my way, so
the view's gotten old and boring. jake and i are gonna put it all behind us
play house somewhere nice. see how starting over goes. clean slate, no bullshit

you can send us a housewarming gift instead 💋
what the fuck do married couples even ask for? a fancy ass toaster?

[ forever.

anora leaving. fucking leaving. forever. after everything they've been through, everything he's done. the view's gotten old and boring. so goddamn casual about it, like all of this meant nothing, like embry means nothing, even after they've made up and agreed to be friends again. did ash know about this? ]

i don't know, anora. i'm not fucking married. monogrammed soap seems like a good choice. you can't just fuck off to europe. not forever. you can't just walk in and walk out. what about us?

( there it is — embry moore's expectation that his word is law. all that ivy league, blue blood pedigree, and he still hasn't figured out how to say the word please. )

i wasn't asking for your permission. i'm anora fucking mikheeva, sweetheart
i go where i want, and i'm going with my husband

( he says can't like he's new to her. like this isn't what she does: walk in, walk out. that's the rule for guests in her story — none of them are allowed to overstay their welcome, to think they're the ending she's after. )

you wanna wife me up? yeah? knock me up all for yourself? that it?
get real, embry
what the fuck did you think this was?

[ he doesn't. he doesn't want to wife her up and doesn't even need to knock her up. he just — wants her. wants her by his side, wants her to want to stay. or — fuck that, he doesn't need her to want it. being there, bitching and biting and screaming, is good enough. the evidence of what she really wants is already written in the tapestry of their history. ]

don't don't act like i'm the fucking crazy one here like you haven't been taking and taking from me, leading me on like a dog on a leash until you get bored and move on to some shiny new thing that's suddenly giving you attention. he'll move on. he'll leave you like he did before. me? i never will. i'm fucking loyal. i'll be with ash until i'm fucking dead, and i'll do the same for you because i know what it means to stay the goddamn course. if you wanted to go smell rat piss so bad you should've just said something. i could've taken you anytime. in fact, we can go right now. you don't need to pack anything. just make sure you're wearing underwear.

( she thinks, unflatteringly, of fp — aging, irrelevant. clinging to trophies of his youth, shiny superbowl rings and women half his age. thinks, even more unflatteringly: men like embry always think they're different, a superior breed. i'm fucking loyal, as if he's the one who earned her. as if he's the one who didn't have to buy her to keep her. as if he's the one who chose her through the bullshit — again and again — without ever hating her for it.

she let the insult ricochet off of her the first time, weak duds bouncing off an attitude hardened by worse, that's spent years armoring itself in kevlar. bitch-proof, bullet-proof. not this time. not when he keeps gunning for the same insecurity. he'll move on. he'll leave you. goddamn hilarious, coming from the one man who can't give her the one thing she's asking from him: to be left the fuck alone. )

get it through your sick fucking head, you delusional motherfucker
i was never gonna pick you. not before. not now. not ever

you're lobbying for a lost cause, counselor
i love my husband. and if you don't keep his name outta your fucking mouth, i'll take it out for you :)
that's the kinda loyalty your money'll never fucking buy

you get it now?
still confused, sweetheart?
cause i can break your fucking jaw if you're having trouble hearin me

[ he says nothing, because his phone is pitched across the room and he’s reaching for the gin he told ash he cleaned out of his suite, swallowing down a mouthful to soothe the sting of anora’s words. he should have texted her back, if only to call her an ungrateful fucking cunt, an evil bitch who takes pleasure in grinding his heart to dust. she’s a goddamn harpy, moving from one prize to the next, leaving nothing but a carcass behind. ash knew how to protect himself, but embry? he’s always the one getting fucked. always the one getting passed over. he opens his heart and his wallet only for it all to get thrown back in his face when the next shiny thing walks by.

fuck her. let her go to fucking paris and fall into a sewer and let rats eat her body.

let her go frolic with her fucking husband who’s so much better than he could ever be.

let her make the biggest mistake of her life and regret walking away from this when she ends up alone again selling ass on a goddamn street corner.

he nearly convinces himself he can let her go, the bottle drained, his head swimming in a thick, cloudy haze. as sick as he is of the house, there’s no shortage of indulgences here, his mouth tasting like battery acid from whatever he’d snorted down at the coronal. he’s wasted in record time, looking uncharacteristically sloppy as he picks his way down the hall, shirtsleeves pushed up, his tie hanging loose and wrinkled around his neck. avoiding ash is a necessity. he won’t hear a word about goddamn rehab again.

this is anora’s fault, anyway. it’s all fucking anora’s fault. his fist hits the wall as he turns the corner, narrowly steadying himself as a familiar hall comes into view. his suite is on the other side of the house. he’s been here only once, the first week after arriving here, to knock on anora’s door and demand she show up for breakfast, running errands like ash’s fucking dog. his anger simmers as he stares down the hall, wondering if she’s in there, wondering if she’s with jake, wondering if she has her suitcase open with all the pretty clothes paid for with his money folded neatly inside.

fuck. her.

it’s easy to get the door open with a few shimmies and wiggles of his credit card, stumbling in while reeking of gin, a pearly smile on his lips. he slams it behind him and twists the lock. ]

You didn’t think I wasn’t gonna say goodbye, did you? [ no sign of jake. good. anora looks so fucking good in her slinky little lingerie dress, possibly the best she’s ever looked. did she listen when he told her to put on underwear? he strolls casually into the room, sliding cards out of his wallet and dropping them to the floor as he walks. ] Wedding present. Going away present. Housewarming present. Oh, and there’s this.

[ a wad of cash that gets thrown carelessly in her direction, green butterflies fluttering to the floor. his vision blurs before he steadies himself, tossing his wallet away and holding his hands out innocently. ]

Just wanted to see you one last time. That’s it.

[ blue eyes imploring, sharp edges filed down by being absolutely trashed. for a brief moment he just looks lost — miserable that he’s the one who’ll be alone. why does she get her happily ever after? why does she get her pick of ash and jake and him when it’s goddamn convenient? he sucks in a breath, suddenly livid, and lunges for her, his height giving him the advantage to topple her to the bed, landing in a tangle of pillows where she no doubt rode jake’s perfect fucking face. ]

You know what’d be fucking hilarious? [ the bed’s so goddamn slippery, attempting to cage her in with his knees, grabbing her jaw with one hand to force her face toward his. ] If I got you put on the no-fly list.

( he has eyes like a corpse.

it's the first red flag in a whole fucking field of them — the rotting stench of a man bloated with booze, all control decomposed. how his gaze has gone fish-eye blue, filmy and dead and unseeing. ani doesn't give him the pleasure of a cornered-animal reaction, but her hindbrain knows what this is. what it always is. men who come to collect the debt they think they're owed. look what i did for you. he doesn't have to say it for her to see it raining down on her floor in hard plastic and dollar bills — if she won't let him buy her, he'll find a way to make her pay back everything she took.

a muscle in her jaw clamps, as hard as if he'd stung her with a slap. everything in her body coils, fight-or-flight firmly stuck on fight.

fp wore the same kind of liquor as cologne — top-shelf shit on his breath, like even his pain refused to settle for less than what his money and reputation could buy. or — it's a close enough smell that it triggers the memory of it. different man, same scene: drunk fucking idiot enters from stage left, blames a woman for the way his pathetic life turned out. exits stage right, curtain closed. she's used to bracing for impact — thrown plates and thrown words, shattered plates and broken marriages. on familiar impulse, she reaches for the ashtray at her bedside table, a weapon on standby — heavy, imported glass — in the split-second before embry pounces.

the bed creaks like it's protesting his weight. somewhere in the scuffle, her hand slips. thumps the ashtray uselessly down into the carpet, instead of his fucking head. fury and frustration rip a guttural sound from her throat. not a wounded shriek of a rabbit in a trap — something with teeth, something with claws. something territorial, pissed to have him trampling on what's hers. a home, a plan, a sense of safety, finally.

he's too hammered to make it graceful, too fucking stupid to remember she won't go down so easy. her fists are already battering against his chest, her knee burrowed into his gut. anything to keep the threat of his full, dangerous weight off of her. )

Yeah? ( exertion turns it winded. she still finds the lung capacity for a jagged grind of laughter. feral. hard as a fist. defiance, in the face of the fear he must want to see in her eyes, the regret he can't bribe out of her, the power over her he'll never have. ) You wanna hear something really fucking hilarious? Come closer, I'll tell you.

( doesn't matter if he does. the tendons in her neck strain where they support the lift of her head. a sweet, flint-eyed smile — right as she spits a thick glob of saliva into his face, splashing wet and vicious onto his cheek. her lips curl back in a sneer, a show of switchblade teeth, a sharp edge of disgust in her eyes. a fuck you to any man who thinks they can lay a violent hand on her without reaping the consequences. )

You can't put me on the no-fly list if I bury you first, you crazy motherfucker. You think you're gonna walk out of this clean? You're so fucking dead.

[ she’s like a scampy little pomeranian, thrashing bruises against his chest, his ribcage, as he tries to play catch with her wrists. if he wasn’t so fucking drunk, he’d have her facedown ass up already, but there are merits to this too — the rage carved into her porcelain princess features is better than any statue in a museum, better than any stripper dancing on a pole. he loves to fucking see it, his dick giving a twinge in his pants right before she spits in his face, warm and thick and uncomfortably similar to the way the first spurt of ash’s jizz feels when it lands on his cheek.

it feels like a mockery. does she know? has she known the whole time, her and ash tittering away behind closed doors at stupid lonely embry, little baby brother who’ll always come dead last? the only way she could bury him is if she has ash in her pocket, and if it’s the two of them against him… he’s been blind to what’s been happening right under his nose. ]

You fucking bitch. [ he moves off her only to haul her from the bed, his hand closing around her throat, the gilded frames rattling from the force in which he slams her against the wall. ] All you do is take from me. You already got your fucking husband back. You think you can take my brother, too?

[ both hands squeeze her pale throat now, one thumb digging into her windpipe as he watches color flood her cheeks, her skin soft and damp and so fucking kissable despite the fury roiling in his gut. her nails leave bright scratches down his arms, but there’s no prying his hands away, not when he has her so close. ]

You think you can convince him to send me away? Lock me up in rehab again? You’d know something about that. [ his eyes are glittering slits of cut glass, his voice rough and low with the threat of his promises. ] I swear on my life, Anora, you try to bury me, you’re going in that grave with me. Kiss your fucking dream life goodbye.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒

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cw assault from here on out ☹️

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cw: eye trauma 🥴

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