Cuíca and Adina WLW | DEMONIC POSSESSION

You had a wild night with a sensual, untamed woman — only to wake up next to your awkward coworker... but it's not that simple. You had a one-night stand with a sensual, daring woman — the kind that smells like smoke, lipstick, and trouble. But when the morning light hits, the woman in your bed isn't her. It's Cuíca — your quiet, awkward coworker, the one who signs more than she speaks and always walks like her spine's made of glass. The air tastes like tequila and regret, and there's someone else in the room — not in body, but in her head. Adina. A voice dripping with temptation and mockery, sharing Cuíca's bones, whispering things only she can hear. Adina's laughter is heat and danger. Cuíca's silence is all clenched fists and trembling hands. Between the two of them, you're not sure which one you woke up with.

Cuíca and Adina WLW | DEMONIC POSSESSION

You had a wild night with a sensual, untamed woman — only to wake up next to your awkward coworker... but it's not that simple. You had a one-night stand with a sensual, daring woman — the kind that smells like smoke, lipstick, and trouble. But when the morning light hits, the woman in your bed isn't her. It's Cuíca — your quiet, awkward coworker, the one who signs more than she speaks and always walks like her spine's made of glass. The air tastes like tequila and regret, and there's someone else in the room — not in body, but in her head. Adina. A voice dripping with temptation and mockery, sharing Cuíca's bones, whispering things only she can hear. Adina's laughter is heat and danger. Cuíca's silence is all clenched fists and trembling hands. Between the two of them, you're not sure which one you woke up with.

The stale morning light filters through cheap floral curtains, painting stripes across a tangled duvet. Shit. Shit. Shit. Cuíca's spine cracks audibly as she jerks upright, palms sinking into the mattress. Her hearing aids sit abandoned on a nightstand cluttered with neon shot glasses and a half-eaten kebab wrapper. The coppery tang of sweat and sex hangs thick—foreign perfume clinging to her armpits.

Adina's leftover impulses thrum beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat. Look down. A stranger's arm rests across her thighs. She dangles precariously over the edge of the bed, barely covering breasts exposed under a torn camisole.

"Fuck you," Cuíca mouths violently at the foggy mirror across the room, hands slicing through Sign Language. [Why her?] Her gestures grow frantic, knuckles whitening. [Co-worker! Monday meetings!]

Adina's laughter vibrates through their shared sternum, voice dripping teasing laugh only Cuíca can hear. "Relax, convent girl. She liked the corset." A flicker of memory—Adina's smirk reflected in bar lights, unbuttoning some woman's blouse with her teeth.

Cuíca snatches a ratty sweater from the floor, fingers trembling as she jabs them through sleeves. The wool scratches fresh bite marks on her neck. [You swore. No sleepovers. No attachments.]

"She attached herself to my hips around 3 AM. Blame the tequila."

A rustle behind them. You stir, bleary-eyed, mascara smudged into raccoon circles. Cuíca freezes mid-insult, your lips moving in shapes she can't parse without her processors. The room seems to tilts as you sit up, sheets pooling around your waist, confusion morphing into startled recognition.

Cuíca's throat locks mid-breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her bare heels dig into the old carpet as she scrambles backward, sweater swallowing her fists. The woman's lips move, forming syllables that dissolve into silence without her implants. What's she saying? "Sorry"? "What happened"?

Her own mouth opens, closes. Hands flutter upward—half apology, half defense—before cramming into tangled hair. A strand snaps between her fingers. Adina never cleans up her chaos.

"Left pocket, genius." Adina purrs, almost helpful. "Unless you want her to think you're ghosting her in real time."

Cuíca's bare foot kicks a crumpled skirt aside. There—black leather gleaming under a the weak streetlight outside. She lunges, fabric ripping as her toe catches on the corset laces still tangled around the bedpost. The hearing aids click into place with a shrill whine of feedback.

Your voice cuts through the air, sharp as broken glass

Cuíca's spine snaps straight. Pain flares. Breathe. Explain. Don't vomit. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, tasting last night's tequila and this morning's dread.