Hi! I love your writing, you capture the characters' personalities very well. I'd like to ask if it's possible, to have a NSFW one-shot of a fem!reader having a threesome with Mariah and Midler?
Basically the synopsis would be that Reader is being pampered by DIO, so Mariah and Midler wonder what is so special about Reader that it attracts so much attention from their lord, so they go and test Reader in the bedroom. (that sounds kinky, I'm sorry đ)
YES!! I'M DOING BACKFLIPS AND HANDSTANDS!! MY TWO FAVORITE WOMEN AHHHHHH. I actually wrote a little too much, so it's longer than usual...
Contents: Body worshiping, Fingering, Threesome, WLW smut
DIO's mansion rarely sleeps but tonight, the halls are hushed, velvet-draped and candlelit. Some of them walk in silence. Some of them laugh too loudly. And some, like you, haunt the place even when you're not in the room.
You glide down the corridor barefoot, silk robe trailing like smoke. DIO had gifted you this particular piece after one of your "conversations." Gold-threaded, impossibly soft, the color of spiced wine. You wear it like a second skin. Like armor.Â
No one really knows where you came from. You appeared one day like a rumor made flesh. No Stand, no need to fight and yet, Dio gave you everything. A private wing. Velvet-lined rooms. Wine. Dresses. His ear. His time.
You don't flinch when you see them, Mariah and Midler, waiting for you in the hallway like two lions in perfume and heels. Mariah is all languid smirks and low-cut silk, arms crossed beneath her chest. Midler, sharper, like a dagger disguised as a cigarette holder, watches you with her chin tilted high, as if daring you to blink first.
It's what draws Mariah and Midler to your door tonight, curiosity sharp enough to bleed into jealousy. They don't knock. They don't need to. You left the door open, just a crack, An invitation.
Mariah speaks first, she always does. Her voice is sultry, playful but her eyes are anything but soft. "So," she says, letting her fingers drag over the golden trim of your doorway, "we've been talking."
Midler follows just behind her, dressed like a threat and holding a glass of something dark. Her heels click like punctuation marks. "About you." You don't answer right away. You're lounging on a chaise, silk robe clinging to your figure like a secret.
There's a half-eaten fig between your fingers, and when you finally look up, slowly, deliberately; it's like you're sizing them up, not the other way around. "Oh?" you murmur. "Should I be flattered, or concerned?"
Mariah smiles. "Both." Midler nodded before stepping next to Mariah âWhat exactly have you done to make Dio so... generous with his time?" You smile, not because you're flattered, but because you've already won. Mariah clicks her tongue. "We've all seen the way he looks at you. Like he's starving."
"And yet," you murmur, stepping forward, "I'm not the one begging." They pause. TouchĂŠ. But it doesn't end there. They follow you into the quiet depths of your chambers, where incense coils in the air and the bed is still unmade from earlier.Â
Neither of them expected to stay but here they are, crossing the threshold like moths drawn to your flame. Midler touches a bottle of perfume on your vanity. "Jasmine, cardamom... and something darker."
"It's you, isn't it?" Mariah murmurs behind you. "There's something about you." You turn slowly, three femme fatales now caught in the same mirror. "I don't seduce," you say, voice a breath, a promise. "I invite. There's a difference." Mariah steps closer, her lips just grazing your ear. "Then invite us."
Midler raises an eyebrow, mouth curling. "We'll see if you're worth the obsession." Mariah is the first to sink onto the bed beside you, her touch warm and confident, not rushed, but guided by something deeper than lust. She's curious, yes, but there's reverence in her fingers as they trace your jaw, your throat, the line of your collarbone. Like she's mapping a temple.
Midler watches with sharp, glittering eyes, but there's something softer beneath her smirk. She joins on your other side, her movements deliberate. Where Mariah is heat, Midler is shadow, cooler, slower, but no less intense.
They don't compete. They complement. When Mariah leans in to kiss you open, hungry, but careful. Midler's hand finds your thigh beneath the silk, her nails grazing lightly, as if writing poetry in your skin. Mariah's mouth trails lower, across your shoulder, while Midler steadies you with a hand at your waist, grounding you.
They move in tandem, like dancers who know the steps but still improvise. One mouth, one hand, one breath, always touching, never overwhelming. They read each other in glances. A nod. A pause.
Mariah parts your legs gently, not with force but invitation. Midler meets your eyes, asking without words and when you give her a soft nod, she leans in, her breath a whisper against your thigh. They take their time.
Mariah kisses up your inner leg while Midler's fingers stroke languid circles just above the bone, teasing, not claiming. Their pace is maddening, intentional. It's not about taking. It's about worship. Collaboration. Careful, choreographed indulgence.
You feel seen, not devoured, but adored. They explore you like art. One presses kisses into the curve of your stomach, the other strokes along your hipbone like it's sacred. And when they finally reach where you want them most, it's not aggressive. It's intimate. Curious.Â
Mariah hums softly as she trails her tongue along sensitive skin, and Midler, now behind you, wraps her arms around your torso, kissing your neck, whispering praise into your ear like spells.
Their hands move in perfect rhythm, one lifting your leg, the other cupping your breast, their breath syncing with yours. Mariahâs digits curled within your soaked cunt, the tension builds not through speed, but through slow, delicious pressure.
You can't tell where one touch ends and the other begins, their hands are everywhere, but never rushed, their mouths trade places. Their tongues alternate. Their attention is total. When your body arches and the breath leaves your lungs in a stuttering cry, they don't stop, they adjust. They hold you through it.
Mariah's lips are soft against your shoulder, trailing kisses like petals. She speaks between them, slow, honey-dripped words that sink into your skin. "You're unreal," she murmurs. "Like something made to be adored..."
You turn your head, and her mouth meets yours again, slower this time. She kisses you like she wants to memorize it. Her fingertips trace the edge of your breast, just enough to make you breathe in sharply, and she smiles into the kiss.
"Look at you," she whispers, voice full of awe. "So good for us. So soft..." Midler, now pressed behind you, wraps her arms around your waist, grounding you in the moment. Her fingers draw circles against your bud as her lips ghost along your neck. There's warmth in her tone, rare, even fragile.
"You're everything he wants, but you let us have you," she says. "Do you know what that does to me?" You shiver in her arms. Her free hand reaches up to cup your breast gently, reverently, while the other soaked in between your folds. "You're not just beautiful," Midler breathes.
"You're brave. Letting go like this.."
You melt into them, hands clutching silk and skin, your breath trembling. They don't overwhelm you, they cradle you. Mariah tilts your chin gently, eyes locking with yours. "Tell us what you need," she says. "Anything. We'll give it to you."
"You deserve to be worshipped," Midler adds, voice lower now, lips brushing your ear. "And we want to. Let us." Your lips part, but no sound comes, only a sigh as they both descend again, their mouths pressing warm kisses against your throat, your chest, your stomach. They rode the waves with you as the pleasure of their hands soon overflowed, and when it's over, they don't pull away. They linger.
The room hums with heat and perfume, jasmine, skin, and the faint sweetness of wine left untouched on the nightstand. The three of you move as one now, a constellation of touch and breath and whisper-soft lips.
You're not sure whose hand is brushing through your hair, or whose thigh your fingers are resting against. But you know the feeling in your chest, weightless, anchored, overwhelmed, seen.
DIO will wonder why Mariah and Midler seem different today. Why they watch you a little too long. Why they're quieter when you speak. He'll never ask but he'll know. And so will they.
