The kettle had screamed itself silent by the time Ivy pushed the apartment door shut behind her, and the smell of scorched microwave popcorn hung in the air like a confession Hazel hadn't gotten around to making.
Friday. The kind of Friday that started with a missed alarm and ended with Hazel's boss CC'ing the entire department on an email that should have been private. Ivy had spent her own day wrestling a database migration that kept trying to eat itself, and by the time they'd collapsed onto the couch with takeout containers, neither of them had the energy to do much more than stab at noodles with chopsticks and trade sympathetic noises.
"Shower later," Hazel had said, her head tipped back against the cushion, eyes closed. "I know we said we would. I know. But if I stand up right now I'm going to fall asleep in the stall and you'll have to peel me off the tile."
"Later," Ivy had agreed, and that had been that.
Now the dishes were piled in the sink, Pebbles was a warm white weight on the armchair—his orange feet tucked under him, beak buried in his wing—and Hazel was crouched beside the TV stand, rummaging through the tangle of cables behind it.
"Found it," she announced, brandishing a black external hard drive the size of a paperback. "Movies. Old ones. The kind where you actually have to watch, not just scroll."
Ivy tucked her feet up on the couch. "What kind of old?"
"Old." Hazel plugged the drive into the TV's USB port and gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "There's popcorn in the microwave. It's—well, it's burnt, but I scraped off the worst parts. I'll make more if you want."
"Burnt is fine."
Hazel disappeared into the kitchen, and the TV screen flickered to life, populating a file browser that looked like something out of the late nineties—blocky folders, truncated names, the kind of organizational system that happened when you digitized a decade's worth of physical media and never bothered to sort it.
Ivy picked up the remote. She hadn't meant to snoop. She'd meant to scroll until she found something recognizable—a title, a year, anything—but the folders were labeled in Hazel's shorthand, and the shorthand assumed a context Ivy didn't have. birthday_2015. docs_dad_wanted. chloe_bday_party. backups_phone_2018.
And then, three folders deep, tucked behind a directory called taxes_dont_touch, there was one named L.
Just L.
Ivy's thumb hovered over the arrow key. She should not open this. She knew she should not open this. The folder could have been anything—Lyrics, Letters, Landscape_photos—but the single letter had the weight of a door left slightly ajar, and Ivy had spent two years learning to read Hazel's silences. She opened it.
The folder contained thirty-seven video files. The thumbnails were small enough to be ambiguous, but the filenames weren't. balloon_riding_01. looner_couple_2016. pink_12_inch. girl_straddle_clear. pop_compilation_vol3. two_girls_tribbing_orange_balloon.
Ivy stared. Not in shock—she'd known Hazel for too long to be shocked by the fact of the collection. It was the scale of it. The careful cataloging. The folder hidden behind a fake tax directory, which meant Hazel had expected someone to look, once. Someone who wasn't Ivy.
"Okay, fresh batch," Hazel called from the kitchen. "I put extra butter on because I'm a bad influence. Also salt. Mostly salt."
Ivy should have closed the folder. She should have navigated back to birthday_2015 and pretended she'd never seen L. Instead she stayed where she was, the remote loose in her hand, the screen still open to thirty-seven thumbnails, and when Hazel padded back into the living room with a bowl of popcorn, Ivy didn't look away from the TV.
Hazel's footsteps stopped.
"Oh."
The single syllable landed somewhere between a question and an answer, and Ivy heard the exact moment Hazel's body went still—the faint rattle of popcorn against ceramic, then nothing. No movement. No breath.
"I was scrolling," Ivy said. "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
"You found the L folder."
"Yeah."
Hazel set the popcorn on the coffee table. Her hands were steady, but the way she folded them into her lap said she was holding herself together by the seams. "It stands for—" She stopped. Tried again. "I didn't mean to hide it from you. Not you. I just—I've had that drive forever. I forgot it was even on there."
"You don't have to explain."
"I know." Hazel sat down on the other end of the couch, her knees pulled up, her bare toes curling against the cushion edge. "But I'm going to, because the alternative is sitting here while you pretend you didn't see it, and I pretend I didn't notice you pretending, and we both fake our way through a movie neither of us watches."
Ivy turned to face her. Hazel's cheeks were flushed—that telltale pink that started at her collarbones and crept upward, the one Ivy had learned to read like weather. But her eyes were dry, and her jaw was set, and she was looking at the screen instead of at Ivy, which meant she was working up to something.
"It's porn," Hazel said. "I mean—obviously it's porn. Looner porn. Balloons. People doing things with balloons. To balloons. On balloons." She laughed, a sharp exhale with no humor in it. "I found most of it in college. Late-night searches, incognito mode, the whole cliché. And when I found something I liked, I downloaded it, because back then you couldn't just stream everything. So I have a collection. Thirty-seven videos of people getting off on balloons the way I do."
"Hazel."
"It's weird. I know it's weird."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I've had this conversation before, remember? Emma called me pathological. Zoe called it a 'coping mechanism.'" Hazel's voice didn't break on the names, but it bent. "I know what it looks like from the outside. I know."
Ivy set the remote down. She shifted on the couch, turning her whole body toward Hazel, one knee pulled up between them. "I didn't close the folder."
Hazel blinked. "What?"
"When I saw what it was. I didn't close it. I didn't look away." Ivy's voice was steady—quieter than Hazel's, but steadier. "I just kept looking. Because it's you. And I wanted to understand."
The flush on Hazel's cheeks deepened, but something in her posture uncurled. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Her toes uncurled against the cushion. "Understand what?"
"Everything." Ivy held her gaze. "What you like. What you watch. What you think about when you're alone with them." She nodded toward the TV. "Play one."
Hazel's breath caught. "You're serious."
"I'm serious."
"You want to—watch porn. With me. On the couch. Like it's a movie."
"It is a movie." Ivy's lips curved, just slightly. "Several, apparently. You said thirty-seven."
Hazel stared at her. The silence stretched—three seconds, five, ten—and then Hazel laughed, a real one this time, startled out of her chest. "You are the strangest person I have ever met."
"Strange good or strange bad?"
"Strange you." Hazel picked up the remote. Her hand was trembling, but her eyes had gone bright, wet at the corners. "If you're just doing this to be nice—"
"I'm not nice," Ivy said. "I'm curious. And I want to see what makes you feel good. All of it."
Hazel's thumb moved on the remote. The folder closed. For one horrible second Ivy thought she'd retreated—pushed the whole thing back behind taxes_dont_touch and decided it was too much—but then Hazel opened the folder again, scrolled deliberately to the first video, and hit play.
The screen filled with warm amber light and a woman on a bed, alone, straddling a clear latex balloon roughly the size of a beach ball. She was naked from the waist down, her thighs spread wide, the balloon's translucent surface catching the lamplight as she rocked against it. The sound was low—a soft, rhythmic squeak of rubber against skin, and the woman's breathing, shallow and quick.
"Oh," Ivy breathed. "It's—beautiful, actually. The way the light hits it."
Hazel made a strangled sound. "You're analyzing the cinematography."
"I'm watching a woman enjoy herself. So are you." Ivy reached for the popcorn. "What happens next?"
The video answered before Hazel could. The woman leaned forward, pressing her weight into the balloon, her hips rolling in a steady grind, and the balloon's surface dimpled under her—elastic giving, then springing back, a give-and-resistance rhythm that Ivy could feel in her own thighs just watching. The woman's head tipped back. Her mouth opened. The sound she made was low and raw, a moan pulled from somewhere deep enough to hurt.
Ivy's pulse had found its way to her throat.
Beside her, Hazel was breathing differently now. Not the tight, controlled breaths of someone bracing herself—something looser. Something that matched the rhythm on screen.
"The balloon," Ivy said, her voice lower than she'd intended. "What does it feel like? Against you."
Hazel's lips parted. She didn't look away from the screen. "Smooth. At first. And then it warms up—body heat—and it gets softer. Grippier." Her voice dropped. "When you press against it, it pushes back. Like it's—meeting you halfway."
"Show me."
Hazel turned her head. "What?"
"Not—" Ivy gestured at the screen, then at the apartment around them, at the bedroom down the hall where Hazel kept her balloons. "Show me what you do. Here. Now. While we're watching."
"You want me to—"
"I want to see what happens when you're not hiding." Ivy held her gaze. "I've seen you with them before. The shower. That morning I came home early." She didn't flinch on the memory, and neither did Hazel. "But it's always after the fact. I've never watched you start."
Hazel's chest rose and fell. Her fingers tightened on the remote. "This is—God. This is the hottest thing anyone's ever asked me to do."
"Then do it."
Hazel set the remote down. She stood, her bare feet silent on the floorboards, and crossed to the hall closet. When she came back, she was carrying an uninflated balloon—sixteen inches, crystal-clear, its latex glinting faintly under the living room light—and a small hand pump. She sat back down on her end of the couch, but something had shifted in the way she moved. The hesitation was gone. Her hands, which had been trembling a minute ago, were steady now.
She fitted the balloon's lip to the pump and began to inflate it.
On screen, the woman had picked up a second balloon—smaller, rounder, bright pink—and was pressing it between her breasts while she continued to ride the clear one. The two rhythms interwove: her hips grinding down, her hands pressing the pink balloon flat, the squeak and creak of latex filling the living room's quiet.
Hazel's balloon swelled. Six inches. Eight. The latex stretched translucent, and Ivy could see Hazel's fingers through it—the curve of her knuckles, the faint pink of her nail beds. Ten inches. The balloon began to take shape, a smooth oval that caught the TV's flickering light and threw it back in streaks of amber and gold.
At twelve inches, Hazel stopped. She pulled the balloon from the pump, pinched the neck tight, and then—with a motion so practiced it looked like instinct—she brought the lip to her mouth. She didn't tie it. She just let the neck rest against her lower lip while she breathed, slow and deep, the way someone might hold a lover's wrist to feel their pulse.
"It doesn't need to be tied," she said, her voice soft. "If you're holding it. If you're paying attention." She turned the balloon in her hands, letting the body of it rest against her stomach. "I like the neck against my mouth. It's warm. It smells like—" She hesitated. "Like latex. Like me."
"Come here," Ivy said.
Hazel crawled across the couch cushions, the balloon clutched to her chest, and settled into the space Ivy made for her—between Ivy's legs, her back against Ivy's front, the balloon straddling her own thighs now. Ivy's arms came around her waist. Ivy's chin fit into the curve of her shoulder.
On screen, the woman had set the pink balloon aside and was grinding harder against the clear one, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in gasps. The camera had zoomed in: close-up of the balloon's surface against her cunt, the way the latex stretched slick and shiny from her wetness, the way it bowed inward every time she rolled her hips.
"She's close," Ivy murmured against Hazel's ear. "Are you?"
Hazel's hips shifted. The balloon creaked between her thighs. "Getting there."
Ivy's right hand slid down Hazel's stomach. She found the waistband of Hazel's pajama shorts—soft cotton, pastel pink—and hooked her fingers beneath it. "Can I?"
"Yes."
Ivy's hand slipped lower. The cotton gave way to heat: the thatch of Hazel's pubic hair, already damp, and the slick seam of her beneath it. Ivy traced one finger along the length of her, feather-light, and Hazel's whole body shuddered.
"Keep watching," Ivy said. "I want you to watch and feel."
On screen, the woman on the bed had pressed herself flat against the balloon, her pelvis grinding in tight, desperate circles, and the sound she made was no longer a moan—it was a keening, a rising note that climbed and climbed and then broke. The balloon creaked under her. Her thighs clamped tight. She came with her head thrown back and her mouth open and her fingers digging into the latex like she was trying to tear through it.
Hazel gasped. Ivy's finger had found her clit—a light, circling pressure that matched the woman's rhythm on screen—and Hazel's hips jerked forward, grinding the balloon harder against the couch cushion.
"That's it," Ivy breathed. "Let it. Whatever it is."
"Ivy—"
"I know." Ivy's other hand was still around Hazel's waist, holding her steady, her thumb stroking the soft curve of her belly. "I've got you. I'm watching. I'm here."
The video ended. The screen went dark for three seconds—long enough for Hazel to whimper at the loss—and then the next file autoplayed. This one was different: two women this time, a mattress on the floor, a pile of bright-colored balloons between them. One of the women was straddling a yellow balloon, the same way the first had, but the second was lying on her back with a blue balloon clutched between her thighs, rolling it against herself in lazy, circular motions. They were kissing—wet, open-mouthed, their tongues visible—and the balloon between them squeaked and groaned with every movement.
"Oh," Hazel breathed. "This one. I forgot about this one."
"Tell me."
"I used to watch this one in college. Before anyone knew. Before I'd told anyone." Her hips rocked forward again, meeting Ivy's fingers. "I'd lie in my dorm bed with my laptop and my headphones and I'd—I'd pretend it was me. One of the girls. Both of them. I didn't care. I just wanted someone to look at me like that while I had a balloon. Like it was normal. Like it was—"
"Hot," Ivy finished. "It is hot. You're hot."
Hazel made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "You're fingering me while we watch balloon porn. Of course you'd say that."
"I'm fingering you because I've been wanting to finger you for approximately two years, and also because watching you get wet over this video is the single sexiest thing I've ever seen." Ivy's finger pressed harder, circling faster, and Hazel's head fell back against her shoulder. "Does that clarify my position?"
"Yes. God. Yes."
On screen, the girl with the blue balloon had rolled onto her side, and the other girl had crawled over to her, the yellow balloon still trapped between her thighs, bouncing slightly with every shuffle. They were both laughing now—breathless, genuine laughter that dissolved into moaning when the first girl leaned down and pressed her mouth to the second girl's throat. The balloons creaked. The camera wobbled. Someone's hand found a balloon and squeezed, and the balloon's surface dimpled under their grip.
Hazel's balloon was still between her legs, and she was grinding against it now with real intention, her hips rolling in a rhythm that matched Ivy's circling finger. The latex squeaked—a high, sweet sound that cut through the audio from the TV and made something twist low in Ivy's belly.
"I want to be inside you," Ivy whispered. "Not just—" She pressed her finger deeper, slipping just barely to Hazel's entrance. "More. But I want you to keep the balloon. Keep riding it. Don't stop."
Hazel whimpered. "Then—your hand—"
Ivy's left hand left Hazel's waist and found the waistband of her own pants. She pushed them down one-handed, awkward but efficient, and then her fingers were on herself—wet already, so wet, the kind of wet that came from watching someone you loved finally let go. She slipped two fingers inside herself and groaned against Hazel's shoulder.
"Now we're both doing it," she said, her voice rough. "Watching porn. Touching ourselves. On the couch."
Hazel laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised—and then the laugh caught on a moan as Ivy's finger found a deeper angle inside her. "This is—I never thought—"
"I know." Ivy's breath was hot against her neck. "Neither did I. But here we are."
On screen, the two girls had gotten organized. The one with the blue balloon was on her back now, her legs spread, and the other girl had positioned herself over her—the yellow balloon still wedged between them, a bright shock of color against the pale sheets. They were grinding together now, the balloon pressed between their cunts, their hips finding a shared rhythm. The squeak of latex was constant, rhythmic, a heartbeat made audible. Their moans wove through it like a harmony.
"Tribbing," Hazel whispered. "On the balloon. Both of them."
"I see it." Ivy's fingers moved faster, inside herself, inside Hazel, the twin rhythms pulling her apart. "Would you—want that? With me?"
"Yes." The word came out raw, unguarded. "I've thought about it. A lot. Us. A balloon between us. Just—pressing."
"Pick one."
Hazel's rhythm faltered. "What?"
"Out of the closet. Pick one for us. For later." Ivy's voice was steady, but her hips had started to rock against her own hand. "I want to know which one you'd choose."
Hazel didn't answer with words. She just pressed herself harder against the balloon in her lap—the clear one, the one she'd inflated herself, on the couch, while Ivy watched—and her orgasm hit her like a wave she'd stopped fighting. Her back arched. Her thighs clamped around the balloon, and the latex squealed—a high, desperate note—and then she was coming, shuddering, Ivy's name on her lips and Ivy's fingers still inside her and the two women on screen groaning through their own climax in bright stereo.
Ivy watched her face the whole time. The way her eyes squeezed shut. The way her mouth fell open. The way the color flooded her cheeks and her throat and the tops of her breasts. When Hazel finally went limp against her, breathing in shuddering gasps, Ivy pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Good?"
"Good." Hazel's voice was wrecked. "Good. Yeah. Give me—give me a second."
On screen, the third video had started. Ivy didn't look at the thumbnail. She was watching Hazel instead—the way her fingers were still curled around the balloon's neck, the way her thighs were still trembling, the way her eyes had gone soft and hazy and utterly trusting.
"You're beautiful," Ivy said. "Right now. Like this. This is the most beautiful I've ever seen you."
Hazel turned her head and kissed her. It was a clumsy kiss—their mouths meeting at an awkward angle, Ivy's glasses bumping Hazel's nose—but it was warm and wet and tasted like salt and popcorn butter, and Ivy kissed her back like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life.
"I want to keep watching," Hazel said against her mouth. "Can we keep watching? Just—a little longer?"
"As long as you want."
So they did. Ivy's fingers stayed where they were—still inside Hazel, still inside herself, moving slower now, a lazy counterpoint to the action on screen—and Hazel's balloon stayed between her thighs, still warm, still creaking faintly every time she shifted. They watched a fourth video. A fifth. Hazel narrated at intervals: this one's from a studio in Germany, they use different rubber, it smells different and see how she's holding the neck? that's how you know she's a real looner, not a model who just took the gig. Ivy listened to every word, her chin on Hazel's shoulder, her breath warm against her ear.
At some point—somewhere between the compilation of balloon pops that made Hazel flinch and the video of a woman slowly, reverently inflating a balloon with only her breath—Ivy's own orgasm built and crested and broke. She gasped into Hazel's hair, her hips jerking against her hand, and Hazel reached back and held her through it, one hand on her thigh, the other still steadying the balloon.
"Pause it," Ivy said, when she could speak again.
Hazel fumbled for the remote. The screen froze on a frame of a woman holding a green balloon against her chest, her eyes closed, her expression one of perfect, private bliss.
"This," Ivy said. "This is what I wanted. For two years. Not just—sex. This. You, telling me everything. You, not hiding."
"I didn't know I was hiding." Hazel's voice was small. "I thought I was just—letting you in slowly."
"You were. And now I'm all the way in." Ivy kissed the back of her neck. "So what do we do with forty-five minutes of paused porn and a balloon that's starting to lose its shape?"
Hazel looked down at the balloon in her lap. Its neck had slipped from her grip, and the air inside was seeping out in a thin, whispering stream. "We let it go. It's done. It did what it needed to do." She set the deflating balloon aside and turned in Ivy's arms, her face tilted up, her eyes searching. "And then we go shower. Like we planned. And then bed. And tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow you pick the balloon."
Ivy kissed her. "Deal."
The shower was warm and slow. They took turns with the sponge, working soap into each other's shoulders and backs and the tired places behind their knees. Hazel washed Ivy's hair, her fingers gentle on the scalp, and Ivy returned the favor, working conditioner through Hazel's curls until she hummed. There was no rush. No urgency. Just skin and steam and the quiet domesticity of two bodies learning each other's upkeep.
When they finally crawled into Ivy's bed—Hazel's room still smelled faintly of popcorn, and Ivy's sheets were cleaner—they fit together the way they always did: Hazel curled against Ivy's side, her head on Ivy's shoulder, Pebbles hopping up onto the foot of the bed with an indignant quack that said he'd been waiting for them for hours.
"I love you," Hazel murmured, already half-asleep.
"I love you too." Ivy's hand found hers under the covers. "And your porn collection. Even the one with the clown."
Hazel laughed, a sleepy puff of air against Ivy's collarbone. "There's no clown."
"There's always a clown."
"Go to sleep, Ivy."
Ivy pulled her closer. The room was dark. Somewhere in the living room, a half-deflated balloon was resting on the couch cushions, still warm from Hazel's thighs. Tomorrow it would be wrinkled and sad and ready for the recycling bin, and Ivy would help Hazel pick a new one from the closet. A blue one, maybe. Or a green one. Something bright.
For tonight, this was enough.