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A dance of three is usually trouble at best. But strings of fate tightened and brought them together. It was only natural, wasn’t it? She’d already adored one man, cared for him, held his heart as readily as she’d held him in her arms. What was the addition of another, especially this other? How other was he, really?

Vladimir loved mirrors, loved his own reflection. How fitting then that he should want to admire his distorted, pallid double making love to him? There was no greater expression of self-love, of egotistical bliss. He could watch in any gilded surface, watch the pale mean lean over the back of the settee and place kisses up his neck. Whenever he wanted. Whatever he wanted. He could look into his own eyes, smile to himself as if he shared a secret with his reflection and admire the picture they made together as he rode him, taking his time, flexing, undulating. They had all the time in the world to meld with one another.

Lux was a delicious complication, a delightful compliment. A contrast.

She knew magic. She knew how there could be two of them, but she’d never thought they would come to her in such a way, never thought that they could make such a crude suggestion.

But no, she would correct herself. No, she knew Vladimir well enough that she should not be surprised.

Still. She knows hers so well, and the other is a dream. A mismade version of the man she loves, as alarming and intriguing as a song she knows in her heart changing mid-bar. She can feel him pull at her, forward, far too forward, pulling her heartstrings and pushing the pulse down within her like a lewd tide. He’s different than her Vladimir but oh so indulgent with her, and indulgent with this other self.

Fascinating danger is at one side, complex adoration at the other, and both leave the finest, sweetest kisses on her skin- her wrists, her jaw, her cheek, her neck. Masterful lovers, determined to outdo one another. Greed and ego are her faithful dogs, slavering at one another, envious and vain and yet at once there is light between their eyes that she cannot quite fathom. Is it their own lust for one another as well? Are they mercury, like drawn to like? Do they long to be one? she can’t help but wonder and wonder as she half drowns in their affection, their smothering insistent kisses, their hands everywhere at once. But she scolds herself, it was a jealous thought. She loves the feeling of being pressed between them, she adores them. Why should she begrudge them admiring eachother?

Perhaps, if she is brave and had more wine another night, she’d ask to watch them, ask to see what they do when she’s not caught between them. Self indulgence in self indulgence.

Then she can’t think much more- it’s impossible to concentrate. She has to ask for air, ask for a moment to be free from their kisses, their invasive tongues and she can lean her head against the familiar chest of the one she thinks of as Her Vlad. She can try to catch her breath while she feels this strangely unfamiliar Vladimir against her back, pressing between her thighs, beautifully dangerous hands cupping her breasts, squeezing her almost too hard, almost. She can hear them kissing just above her head, the click of teeth, wet predator tongues and the sharp intake of breath.

Her hands rove, bolder and bolder, over the hips of her lover, down, down. This is a feeling she knows, his pulse jumping against her palms. Comforting. Hard. Exciting. Color flickers in her eyes, as rapid as a zoetrope.

She presses forward against her love, lust at her back and takes a breath like a diver, craning up to be welcomed back, kissing their smooth, white, beautiful faces.

They pour greed and indulgence into her- she keeps the dark corners of herself satiated, at bay- and she turns the leaden dark to gold. Spinning it, more clever than any king’s daughter ever locked in a tower with a spindle.