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The first time Ianthe touches her—really touches her—Coronabeth very nearly weeps aloud. Ianthe is the younger between the two of them (by mere minutes, but still) but she has always seemed so much older, and Coronabeth will never tell a soul, but she has always felt just a bit inferior, a glittering fraud. Ianthe teases her about it, but Coronabeth knows she never means any of the things she says: she knows that Ianthe will never truly hurt her. She’d rather die than do that, but still—
Ianthe never touches her anymore. She hasn’t, not in one month, three weeks and four days, and Coronabeth is acutely aware of how long it’s been, and even that is mostly because Ianthe makes it so obvious that she’s trying not to touch her. She actually leans away from her now, purses her lips like she wants to say something vicious, and it stings. It hurts, and Coronabeth wants to beg and plead and demand Ianthe touch her again, but she can’t say it, and so.
It has been one month, three weeks and four days since they last touched, and it’s really starting to get to her now. So Coronabeth does what she does best, and she makes Ianthe want to touch her. She lets her curls spill out of flimsy ribbons and fall in her face, she lets thin straps slide off the curve of her shoulders, she pretends not to notice how dangerously low her nightdress dips in the front and how high up it rises when she stretches up on her toes or bends over.
She can feel Ianthe’s gaze on her, and when she glances at her through her lashes, she sees that irritated expression on her face, that familiar frown that says she’s aching to fix all of her twin’s imperfections. But she does not take the bait, and Coronabeth aches .
As the days wear on, and Coronabeth grows increasingly desperate, Ianthe pulls away even more. One month, three weeks and six days, and Ianthe’s tone grows sharper as she stares so blatantly at Coronabeth’s breasts all but spilling out of her corset. One month, four weeks and one day, and Ianthe hardly even looks up when Coronabeth enters a room. One month, four weeks and five days, and Coronabeth breaks.
She bids Ianthe goodnight as usual (Ianthe ignores her, and Coronabeth should be used to it, but it still stings ) and watches her through lidded eyes as she sweeps from the library without a word. She waits forty-five minutes, then slips from the room and down the halls to her own room. She’s got Ianthe’s night routine down to a science, knows that by now she has showered and is just finishing up her nine step skincare routine. In another few minutes, she will undress and get into bed, and that is when Coronabeth will make her move.
She’s not nervous, though she knows she probably should be; honestly she’s just excited, and her hands tremble as she applies a light, lavender-scented cream all over her body. It’s Ianthe’s favorite scent on her, and it makes her skin so very soft, and she needs to be perfect tonight. Coronabeth ties her hair back, slips out of her clothes and into her silk nightgown and robe, and after waiting another five minutes, pads out of her room and to Ianthe’s closed door.
The light is off, and now that she’s here, Coronabeth is starting to feel nervous, but she needs more than she fears and she knows if Ianthe refuses her, she will simply make herself cry. Ianthe loves when she cries, and Coronabeth loves the feeling of her hands on her cheeks, wiping away every tear so lovingly.
So Coronabeth takes a deep breath, turns the knob and steps inside. She breathes in deep: the room smells so much like Ianthe that tears spring to her eyes unbidden. Her sister smells like myrrh and musk, and Coronabeth has always loved the scent of her just a bit too much.
“What are you doing?”
Coronabeth flinches back at the sound of her sister’s voice, but she takes a step forward as she hears the rustle of her blankets. As her vision adjusts, she realizes that Ianthe is sitting up now, and she bites her lip as she steps forward again.
“I just missed you,” she breathes, and it is the truth, even if it’s not what Ianthe asked.
Ianthe laughs, a little cruel and so very fond, and Coronabeth wants. She keeps walking forward, drawn like a moth to the flame, and soon she has reached the edge of Ianthe’s bed. She hangs there like she’s lost in limbo; she’s sat here before, slept here before, but only ever when Ianthe said she could, and she has not said anything now.
“Oh, you silly baby,” Ianthe says, and Coronabeth’s legs actually buckle, but she does not move, not until Ianthe sighs and gives in. “Come here.”
And Coronabeth comes, she scrambles forward onto the bed and nestles herself in Ianthe’s arms, greedily breathing the scent of her in. She has goosebumps all along her arms and legs, and Ianthe almost, almost touches her when she pulls the blankets over her—and that is somehow worse.
“Touch me,” Coronabeth pleads, “it’s been so long— please touch me. I need you.”
Ianthe still does not speak, but Coronabeth feels how her chest expands as she breathes in deep. Coronabeth opens her mouth to beg again, to grovel if that’s what her sister wants, but Ianthe raises both of her hands and places them on Coronabeth’s hips, and something in her snaps.
“ Touch me,” she says again, but it is a demand now, and she covers Ianthe’s hands with her own to press them in harder. “Touch me like you want me.”
At that, Ianthe actually laughs, and when she finally speaks, her voice comes out low and strained. “Darling, I don’t just want you.”
Her hands travel up, and Coronabeth arches into it, but Ianthe merely ghosts her touch along the curve of her breasts and keeps rising until her palms cover her shoulders. Coronabeth realizes a moment too late that she’s searching for the straps on her dress, and she freezes when Ianthe eases the dress down, down, down until it pools around her waist. It’s cold, and Coronabeth would protest if she had the voice to do so—as it is, she just whines (actually whines ) when Ianthe cups her breasts with her hands. Her nails scrape idle circles around her nipples, already pebbled from both the cold and her want, and Coronabeth would do absolutely fucking anything Ianthe told her to, just to keep this touch against her body.
Ianthe curses under her breath and Coronabeth leans her head against her shoulder, tips her head back and up and presses a trembling kiss against her jawline. Ianthe stiffens again (and her hands squeeze, perhaps involuntary but so good ) and as her hands fall lower, she tilts her head down, and Coronabeth feels like it all happens in slow motion. First is the brush of their noses as they slot together in the dark, then is the ghost of breath against her lips, and finally, the press of Ianthe’s lips to hers. It’s urgent from the start, desperate as Coronabeth grabs her sister’s hand and pulls it towards her aching cunt. She knows she’s wet, knows that Ianthe will tease her for it, but she doesn’t care, she needs to be touched.
“ Touch me,” she demands against Ianthe’s lips, gasps as she feels searching fingers dipping in deep, dragging through all of her slick and brushing against her clit. Ianthe plays her body so easily, and it’s not fucking fair how easy she does it, how much every touch affects her so. Coronabeth loves it.
“Fuck you, you mean,” Ianthe says, and. Yeah. Coronabeth is half expecting her to say that she won’t, or at least to be a little cruel about it, but her sister just presses her sharpest smile against her lips as she slides one finger inside, and as Coronabeth gasps her praise into empty air, Ianthe murmurs, “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about fucking you. I’ll ruin you, sweetheart. You’re so wet, so easy, and you’re all mine, aren’t you?”
Coronabeth doesn’t answer at first—how could she—and a gasp punches from her chest as Ianthe twists her nipple, just a bit too harsh. “Yes! I’m yours—oh, please give me more.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ianthe says, which is a lie, because her nails scrape against Coronabeth’s thighs like she’s trying to leave marks, like she wants her to bleed. It sounds like she’s just searching, so Coronabeth kisses her jawline again and accepts the biting kiss Ianthe offers.
When Ianthe pulls away, Coronabeth is breathless, and gulps in just enough air to rush out, “I won’t be hurt, I’ve—I’ve thought about you before, I’ve stretched myself thinking about you. I can take it, so please. ”
At that, Ianthe laughs again, and her free hand wraps around Coronabeth’s neck. She doesn’t squeeze, and Coronabeth’s never thought about being choked before, but she thinks she’ll like it if it’s Ianthe. She’d take anything and everything she has to give. “Tell me if it’s too much, darling.”
That is all the warning Coronabeth gets before Ianthe drives two fingers in deep, and it feels deeper than she’s ever gotten before. There is a spark of heat deep in her gut and Coronabeth dimly realizes that Ianthe must be using flesh magic on her. The thought just makes her ache more, and she brings her hand down to rub at her clit in time to the movement of her sister’s fingers and magic deep inside of her. With her other hand, she reaches around her and fumbles between Ianthe’s thighs; she is met with no resistance, and she clenches around Ianthe’s fingers as she realizes how wet she is too.
“Baby—” Ianthe gasps, but she doesn’t finish her thought, only groans and squeezes around Coronabeth’s neck, just a bit, too little to really do anything.
“I want to touch you too,” Coronabeth says. She means for it to come out strong, but her voice trembles, and she’s not sure if it’s because of how nervous she is, or because of how turned on she is. Maybe both. “I want to make you feel good.”
Ianthe withdraws again, completely now, and Coronabeth opens her mouth to beg again, but Ianthe just tugs until Coronabeth gets the hint and turns around so she’s straddling her sister’s lap now. Ianthe fumbles at her own dress and lets it drop unceremoniously around her waist, and when Coronabeth leans forward, their breasts touch. It makes her feel simultaneously giddy and shy, and she hunches down just enough to take one nipple into her mouth, worshiping it like she’s dreamed of so many times before.
Ianthe gasps into the dark, lets Coronabeth do as she pleases for a long few moments before she yanks her back up and kisses her deep and sharp. Coronabeth feels delirious in the best possible way, every sense honed and fine-tuned to her sister, her twin, her everything. It physically pains her to lean back, but she has to, to do what she wants, what she’s ached for and dreamed about—Ianthe lets her, and chuckles a little when she figures out what Coronabeth is trying to do.
She doesn’t offer any help whatsoever (which is typical, and honestly turns Coronabeth on even more ) and when they are finally slotted together, Ianthe’s hand fists in her hair and drags her back in for another kiss as Coronabeth’s hips pick up a slow rock. The feeling of Ianthe’s slick and clit and cunt against hers very nearly makes her come, but she holds it in just to hear how Ianthe gasps and curses and groans out her name like she’s trying to worship her.
And Coronabeth has always been greedy when it comes to Ianthe. She wants to watch her, wants to feel her, wants to taste her. She wants to see what her sister’s face looks like when she comes, wants to feel her body twitch and her hips roll with the aftershocks, she wants to lick the come from her pussy and kiss her so she tastes it too.
And she’s going to get what she wants, because Ianthe always gives in to every one of her whims and fancies. When Coronabeth says this, Ianthe just laughs, breathless and trembling, and gasps out, “We’re going to come together, angel.”
Which is honestly not something that Coronabeth had even thought about, but fuck. She wants that, she needs that. She wants to be tangled up and pressed together, wants to kiss Ianthe as they both shudder apart, wants to drag her finger between their pussies and see how their come will taste all mixed together. She wants to be a part of Ianthe, now and forever, and Coronabeth always gets what she wants.
It doesn’t take long, honestly. Coronabeth knows she could go longer, but she’s been so pent up for the past…however long it’d been since Ianthe touched her last. She can’t remember, and she knows she won’t have to remember ever again, because Ianthe wants her, Ianthe needs her. Ianthe is touching her from head to toe, and she will forevermore.
It doesn’t take long, and true to Ianthe’s word, they fall over the edge together, calling out for each other into the empty inches between their lips. Coronabeth feels it, even feels how Ianthe’s body twitches and her cunt contracts as she milks herself through it. She’s addicted to the smell and feel and taste of her, and she hopes to god that Ianthe feels the same.
In the end, they don’t even disentangle—Ianthe just flops down and drags Coronabeth with her, and they breathe in the dark as they hold each other close. Their thighs are still tangled and honestly, Coronabeth could go again (and again and again ) but she can tell that Ianthe is tired by how loose her sister’s grip is now.
She doesn’t quite know what to say, but Ianthe just kisses her forehead, and Coronabeth knows that she gets it, that they feel the same. Whatever it is that’s bloomed in her heart has blossomed in Ianthe’s chest as well, and that is enough for now.
(At least, it is enough until Coronabeth wakes, and remembers all that they’d done, and wakes her sister with a demand on her lips: “Touch me again.”)