Ivy doesn't knock. She never knocks in the morning, not since the girls arrived, because knocking feels like giving them time to hide something, and she's decided she'd rather catch them being normal than give them room to feel caught. She turns the handle and pushes the door open.
The bed is a tangle of limbs and latex. Sofia is on her back, legs wrapped around Emilia's waist, and Emilia is braced above her, both of them naked, both of them flushed, and between their bodies a big red balloon is pressed flat, squeezed between sternum and sternum, the latex fogged with the heat of two bodies. The balloon is deflating—slow hiss of air escaping the neck, the rubber crinkling as it loses tension.
Ivy stops in the doorway. Her hand stays on the knob. Her face does nothing.
Neither girl has noticed her. Emilia's eyes are closed, her mouth open, her hips rolling in a slow rhythm against Sofia's pelvis. Sofia's fingers are tangled in Emilia's hair, and she's making a sound—a small, reedy whimper that cuts off every time Emilia rocks forward.
The balloon hisses. Deflates another inch. The latex puckers, and then the stream of air escaping the untied neck pushes the balloon sideways, off their bodies, and it tumbles across the sheets, bounces once, and lands at Ivy's feet.
Emilia's eyes open.
She freezes. Her hips stop mid-roll. Her face cycles through three expressions in half a second—blank, then recognition, then a shade of horror that bleaches her cheeks white.
Sofia follows her gaze. Her legs tighten around Emilia's waist, pulling her closer like she could hide them both. Her eyes go wide.
Ivy looks down at the red balloon at her feet. It's still hissing. A thin stream of warm air brushes her ankle. She looks back up at her sister, at Sofia wrapped around her, at the smeared print of their bodies on the deflating latex.
"Breakfast is ready," Ivy says.
Her voice is steady. Calm. The same tone she'd use to say the toast is done.
She turns to leave.
Behind her, she hears movement—sheets rustling, a whisper she doesn't catch. And then Emilia's voice, clear and sharp: "Wait."
Ivy stops. Doesn't turn around.
She hears Emilia get off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet on the floor. And then Emilia's hand is on her arm, turning her, and Emilia's face is close—red-cheeked, determined, her glasses slightly askew.
"I want you to see," Emilia says. Not ashamed. Not asking permission.
She turns back to the bed. Sofia is sitting up now, sheet pulled to her chin, watching with wide eyes. Emilia walks to the bed, climbs onto it, and takes Sofia's face in both hands.
The kiss is slow. Deliberate. Emilia's tongue against Sofia's lips, Sofia's mouth opening, the small wet sound of two girls who have already done this, already know how each other tastes. Emilia's hand slides into Sofia's hair, tilts her head back, deepens it.
Ivy watches. She doesn't look away.
Emilia breaks the kiss slowly, lips dragging, and looks over her shoulder at Ivy. Her eyes are bright. Challenging. Claiming.
"Mine," Emilia says.
Sofia's hand finds Emilia's. Squeezes.
Ivy holds her sister's gaze for a long moment. Then she nods. Just once. Small. And steps back, pulling the door closed with a soft click.
She walks to the kitchen.
The hallway is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the living room windows, catching dust motes. Pebbles is waddling toward the kitchen, his orange beak parting in a soft quack when he sees her.
She follows him in.
Hazel is at the counter, a glass of water in her hand, her back to the door. She's still in her work clothes—a soft pink sweater, jeans, her hair slightly mussed from the day. She turns when she hears Ivy's footsteps.
"Morning," Hazel says, and her voice is warm, easy. "How are—"
"Our sisters are fucking," Ivy says.
Hazel's hand jerks. Water splashes over the rim of the glass. She inhales sharply—wrong pipe—and then she's coughing, sputtering, water streaming down her chin and dripping onto her sweater, soaking the pink fabric in a dark patch.
She sets the glass down hard. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes are wide, her face flushed, her lips parted.
"What?" she manages, her voice cracked.
Ivy crosses the kitchen in three steps. She cups Hazel's wet chin in her hand, tilts her face up, and kisses her.
Hazel tastes like water. Her lips are cool and trembling. Ivy presses into her, her tongue sliding along the seam of Hazel's mouth, and Hazel opens for her with a small, startled sound.
Ivy kisses her until Hazel's hands find her hips, until the wet sweater is pressed against Ivy's shirt, until the kiss slows from surprise into something deeper, something that asks a question.
Ivy breaks it. Her mouth is a breath from Hazel's ear.
"I will pop something tonight," she whispers, her voice low, deliberate, each word pressed against Hazel's skin. "And you won't know what will be."
Hazel shivers. A full-body tremor that starts at her shoulders and runs down her spine, that makes her fingers tighten on Ivy's hips, that pulls a shuddering exhale from her chest.
Ivy pulls back. Looks at her. Hazel's eyes are dark, her pupils blown, her breath coming in shallow pulls. The water stain on her sweater is spreading.
Ivy smiles. Small. Private. Then she turns and walks to the stove, where the eggs are still warm.
"Eat," she says. "You have work tonight."
The afternoon crawls. The girls emerge from their room an hour later, dressed, quiet. Sofia's hair is damp—she showered. Emilia's glasses are clean. They sit at the table and eat eggs and toast without looking at each other, without looking at Ivy, without talking. Hazel hovers near the counter, sipping tea, her eyes flicking between the two little girls like she's trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing shape.
Ivy watches. Says nothing.
The hours stretch, yawn, collapse into themselves. The girls retreat to their room again, the door clicking shut, and from behind it comes the soft shush of latex, the murmur of voices too low to catch. Hazel works at her laptop, frowning at whatever the florist's books are doing. Pebbles naps in a patch of sunlight.
Ivy waits.
Dinner comes and goes. The girls eat quickly, exchange a look Ivy pretends not to see, and disappear again. Hazel does the dishes. Ivy dries them. Their hands bump in the soapy water, and Hazel's breath catches, and neither of them speaks.
The sun sets. The apartment darkens. The girls' light clicks off down the hall.
Hazel is in the bedroom when Ivy finds her. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her sweater—the water stain has dried into a faint mark—and she's holding a balloon. A blue one. Uninflated. Her fingers are running along the latex in slow, absent strokes.
She looks up when Ivy enters. Her throat works. She doesn't say anything.
Ivy closes the door behind her. Locks it.
The room is warm. The lamp on the nightstand casts a low gold light. Hazel's shadows stretch long across the wall.
Ivy crosses to the closet. Opens it. Her hand moves past the boxes, past the folded sweaters, and finds the leather harness at the back of the top shelf. It's been there for months. Cleaned, oiled, waiting.
She pulls it out. The leather is soft in her hands. The strap-on is attached—black silicone, curved, a little longer than her hand.
Hazel's breath audibly stops.
Ivy turns. Meets her eyes. Doesn't smile.
"You said you wanted to know what I'd pop," Ivy says, her voice a low murmur.
She holds the strap-on up. Lets Hazel look at it.
Hazel's eyes go dark. Her hand tightens on the blue balloon. The latex creaks under her grip.
"Get on your hands and knees," Ivy says.
Hazel moves. Slow. Deliberate. She sets the balloon aside, careful, and turns, and lowers herself onto her forearms, her ass in the air, her face pressed into the pillow. Her spine curves. Her hips tilt. She's trembling already, a fine vibration that runs through her whole body.
Ivy steps out of her jeans. The harness slides up her thighs, clicks into place, the weight of the silicone settling against her pelvis. She adjusts the straps. Tests the fit.
She steps behind Hazel. Runs a hand over the curve of Hazel's ass, over the sweater still covering her. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of Hazel's jeans and pulls them down—slow, inch by inch, letting the denim drag over skin.
Hazel lifts her hips to help. Her panties are blue. Cotton. Damp in a dark patch at the center.
Ivy pulls them down too.
Hazel is bare under the lamp's gold light. Her skin is flushed, her thighs trembling, her back arched in a long, vulnerable curve from her shoulders to her raised hips. She's breathing in short, shallow gasps against the pillow.
Ivy runs her palm over Hazel's ass. Cups the swell of it. Feels the heat radiating off her skin.
"You've been thinking about this," Ivy says. Not a question.
Hazel makes a sound. Half yes, half whimper.
"Since I said it this morning."
A nod. Muffled against the pillow.
Ivy's hand slides lower. Between Hazel's thighs. Her fingers find the wet heat there, the slickness that's been building all day. She presses—just one finger, just the tip—and Hazel's hips buck, her breath catching in a sharp cry.
"You're so wet," Ivy murmurs.
She spreads it. Lets her finger slide through the moisture, coats her palm, then pulls back. She reaches for the bottle on the nightstand—lube, unopened, bought the same day she bought the harness—and uncaps it. Squeezes a generous slick into her palm. Coats the silicone. Feels the cold slide against her fingers.
She positions herself. The tip of the strap-on presses against Hazel's entrance. Just pressure. Just the promise of what's coming.
Hazel whimpers. Her hips push back, trying to take it.
"Not yet," Ivy says.
She holds her position. Watches Hazel's body strain, watched her fingers grip the sheets, watches her shoulders shake with the effort of staying still.
"Tell me what you want."
Hazel's voice is wrecked. "You. Please. Ivy, please."
"Tell me."
"Fuck me. Fuck my ass. I want to feel you. I want—" Her voice cracks. "I want you to pop something."
Ivy presses forward. The silicone pushes past the first ring of muscle, slow, steady, a continuous pressure that makes Hazel cry out, her whole body going rigid. Ivy doesn't stop. She keeps pushing, feeling the resistance, feeling Hazel's body open for her inch by inch, until she's fully seated, her hips flush against Hazel's ass.
They both freeze. The only sound is Hazel's ragged breathing.
"That's what I popped," Ivy says, her voice low against Hazel's ear. "You didn't know, did you? You thought it would be a balloon."
Hazel sobs. A broken sound. "I thought—"
"I know." Ivy pulls back—slow, deliberate, letting Hazel feel every inch of the drag—and then pushes back in, harder this time, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. "I told you. You wouldn't know what."
She fucks her. Slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal revealing the wet shine of the silicone, the way Hazel's body clings to it, the way Hazel's moans turn into a rhythm that matches Ivy's hips. Ivy's hands find Hazel's hips, gripping, guiding, pulling her back onto each thrust.
The bed creaks. The lamp flickers. Hazel's voice breaks into a wail that she muffles in the pillow, and Ivy doesn't let up, doesn't slow down, just keeps fucking her with a steady, merciless rhythm that builds and builds and builds.
"I've wanted this," Ivy says, her voice strained now, her hips working. "Wanted you. Wanted to know what your body sounds like when I take it."
Hazel's hand reaches back, grasping blindly. Ivy catches it. Laces their fingers together. Presses Hazel's palm flat against the small of her own back as she thrusts deeper.
"Come," Ivy says. "Now."
Hazel's body obeys. Her back arches, her thighs clench, and she comes with a cry that tears out of her throat, her body shuddering around the silicone, her fingers gripping Ivy's so hard it almost hurts. Ivy keeps thrusting, slowing, letting her ride it out, until Hazel's body goes soft and trembling against the mattress.
She pulls out. Slowly. Carefully. The silicone slides free with a wet sound, and Hazel whimpers at the emptiness.
Ivy undoes the harness. Lets it fall to the floor. She climbs onto the bed and curls around Hazel's shaking body, gathering her in, pressing her chest to Hazel's back, her lips to the nape of Hazel's neck.
"I love you," Ivy whispers. "Balloons and all."
Hazel laughs. A wet, broken sound. She turns in Ivy's arms, presses her face into Ivy's shoulder, and holds on.
Outside, the apartment settles into its nighttime quiet. The blue balloon lies forgotten on the blanket. The strap-on sits on the floor. Two bodies breathe together in the aftermath, slowing, cooling, finding their way back to each other.