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Flame can't say she's ever been a fan of the loud and eccentric.
Sure, she's gotten used to it; unfortunate byproducts of being a celebrity and all, but she doesn't actively seek it out. That's why she doesn't go to parties or galas. Unless required, of course. She doesn't particularly care for that kind of energy in people either, and unfortunately, those are often the very types who frequent such events.
So, when Spoke pleads with her, genuinely begging to attend a random party at some actor’s house whose name she doesn’t even bother to remember, she answers, "No."
Her dejected voice only makes her feel guilty for about a second. "Please? Flame, bro."
The striking red 'HANG UP' button beckons her. Resisting the urge to press it requires a substantial chunk of her willpower.
"Nope." Even though Spoke can't see it over the phone, she shakes her head. "I'm not going, bro. You know how I feel about—"
Spoke groans. Flame bites her lip to stifle a giggle. "I know. But like, I don't wanna be alone, you know?" Considering Mapicc and Parrot accompany her to most of her events, it's a lie. To avoid staying on this call for any longer, though, she'll play stupid.
She twists one of her locs around her finger as she coos, "I don't have the time." Lie. She most certainly does. Her manager had cleared her schedule for the whole week; something about overworking herself.
It's nonsense, really. Acting is all she's good for; she shouldn't be taking any breaks. "Sorry, I'm just so booked—"
Unsurprisingly, she's cut off before she gets the chance to finish. "Lomedy's gonna be there," Spoke volunteers. Flame can already imagine her sly smile on the other end at her silence. "Besides, you're so focused on acting and shit all the time. You deserve a break."
The words bounce right off her like raindrops on a metal roof. With a roll of the eyes, she retorts, "Dude, you don't even think that; you just want me to go."
Believe her; she's exhausted from hearing those words repeatedly—first from her sister Mane, then Lomedy, and now Spoke. It only drives her to push herself even harder. Also, what does Spoke know about maintaining a healthy work-life balance, anyway? In her own words, she's a 'natural' at what she does. Actor nepotism, or something.
Flame can sense her shrug through the line. "So?" she tuts. "Wemmbu's not gonna be there."
Admittedly, she perks up like a dog at that. For as long as she can remember, she and Wemmbu have always competed for the same role, no matter how big or small. Flame swears it's not intentional. At least, not on her part.
Even now, that conniving bitch auditioned for the same role as her. Which, mind you, she didn't tell anyone about. Seriously, what a stalker.
Plus, it'd be a first for her to not go to a party. Sometimes, Flame feels like she's being haunted by that obnoxious flash of purple whenever she's dragged out of the house.
It usually doesn’t end well, either. The last time she saw Wemmbu at a party, it ended up a mess. She had one too many drinks, said a few things she probably shouldn’t have, and maybe they fought. Just maybe.
The point is, since then, she's vowed never to attend another party. Until now, it seems.
Rising from her bed, she lifts her chin in consideration. "Ugh. It'd be so last-minute, though." She pulls back her curtains, revealing the afternoon sun. The last of its glow slants through the open window, collecting in a buttery smear on the hardwood floor.
Spoke's hum makes irritation flare to life behind her sinuses. "It's only in a couple of hours. I'll take care of it. Come on."
"Exactly, bro!" she cries. Spoke is being annoyingly nonchalant right now, but it's genuine, not in that feigned way she's learned to associate with Wemmbu. It doesn't matter how many times she rehearses the same lines to the press—how acting comes so easily to her, how it's nothing too complicated, that it's understandable how some people would envy her—Flame sees right through her facade.
By the way, that last one is completely false. Nobody envies Wemmbu. Let's be serious right now, please.
"I'm gonna take care of it," she echoes. There might be a twinge of irritation in her voice, but Flame can't tell. She's too bitter right now.
She lets out a resigned huff. "Fine."
Spoke chuckles and claps her hands in delight. "Finally. Took you long enough." Before Flame has the chance to ask what that means, she continues. "Okay, Parrot and I will pick you up in, like, three hours. Maybe four. Bye."
"I thought you'd be alone—"
Unfortunately, she can't even complain about how short-notice that is, or that she hasn't even been given an address before the line disconnects.
It's not long after the call that she's sat in a chair as Lomedy swivels her around, showcasing one of the many different dresses companies have lent her over the years.
There's about an hour till Spoke and Parrot drive over to Flame's penthouse to pick her up, and she's yet to do any makeup. Honestly, she's thinking about cutting it. It wouldn't make much of a difference, considering her blindfold covers a good amount of her face.
Lomedy wasn't having it, though. When she suggested the idea, she'd asked her if she had lost her mind, then continued to ransack her closet. She put everything back when she was done, though. How polite.
Eventually, they—well, more like Lomedy, because, to be honest, Flame couldn't care less about what she wears to parties—settle on a nice, sleeveless ruby red maxidress that'd been huddled up in the corner of her closet for a while, judging by the wrinkles plaguing it.
She picks out a nice blindfold to go along with it. Lomedy walks over to one of the many drawers, and she rummages around until she presents a small jewelry box to Flame. The contents are more or less what she had expected—shiny jewels and bands that glitter in the incandescent light of the room, each probably costing a fortune.
Somehow, Flame manages to get her way because she goes without any makeup. A lip combo, sure, but that's all. She puts on her dress, ties her blindfold, and clasps on a necklace, and they're good to go.
To waste time until Spoke, and probably Parrot, because that girl drags her around like a dog, show up, Flame lets Lomedy borrow a dress or two. Truth be told, she could take all of her stuff, and Flame wouldn't really care. All those things eventually get replaced when the next fad comes around anyway.
As she clips back her curls, Lomedy pierces the comfortable silence. "I thought you didn't go to parties."
Drumming her fingers against the polished wood of her dresser, she shrugs. "I don't. Well, I guess I do now. I'm only really going cause Spoke kept asking me to."
She chuckles. "Really?"
Flame nods. "Yeah," she hums. "Bro, I wanted to hang up so bad, but like, I guess it's been a while since I've been out 'n stuff."
Rising to her feet, Lomedy leans forward to inspect her reflection in the mirror. "Did she tell you that?" she asks while tucking a loose hair behind her ear.
"Yup." She can already predict the words that are about to come out of her mouth.
"She's not wrong, I think." Here we go. "You know, your acting is just fine. You don't need to work so hard all of the ti—"
Before she can finish that dreaded sentence, she's interrupted by a loud honk. She looks through the blinds, and yeah, it's Spoke. Expectedly, Parrot's right there with her. Mapicc couldn't make it this time, then.
Flame can't help the smug smile that creeps on her face, even if it immediately drops once she remembers where they're going. "Huh. Well, I guess you'll have to save it for the party, then."
Lomedy gives her a look as they descend the stairs. Flame squirms a little under it. Not necessarily because it's threatening, but more because she doesn't like it when Lomedy's mad at her. She mutters an apology as they hop in the backseat.
Parrot stares out the window as Spoke cranes her neck around to face them both. "Heeeeeeeyyy," she drawls. "What's good?"
"Nothing much." Flame places her hands in her lap. "Just, uh—"
"It's good!" Lomedy beams. "Things have been good. Flame and I picked our outfits together, and everything."
The smile Spoke gives doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lomedy doesn't seem to understand or mind. "Cool. I wasn't really asking literally, but like, that's nice to know."
And with that very much unnecessary comment, they're off. Unsurprisingly, when they get there, Spoke abandons her the moment they walk through the door.
She's not offended or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. She and Parrot can do whatever they'd like without Flame being subjected to any of it this way, and isn't that a joy?
What worries her is that Lomedy has somehow slipped out of her sight. They had stuck together for a good thirty minutes, mostly because Flame didn’t want to talk to the array of hollow faces infesting the room. But once Lomedy had politely excused herself to the bathroom, she'd vanished entirely, like a wisp of smoke.
Maybe Flame shouldn’t stress about it too much. Lomedy is a grown woman; she’s probably dancing with some new hit celebrity or something. Maybe Flame should relax. Live a little.
Ugh, she grimaces at the thought—she’s starting to sound like everyone she’s ever met. Whatever.
It works for a bit. Not nearly enough to justify all the times she's heard the phrase "You need to loosen up," but it eases her nerves for, what, ten minutes maximum? Good enough.
Currently, she's sitting at a table eating nachos that taste like cardboard sprinkled with salt. Rich people's food is shit; that much she's learned. Their conversations aren't any better. In fact, Flame would say it's worse.
That’s the mantra playing on repeat as she spots a man in the corner of her eye, approaching her. A shame, because she was somewhat enjoying the solitude. Now she's got to prepare for another dull, numbing conversation. With a man, no less.
Not that it would be any different if it were with a woman, of course. Sure, she tends to giggle a bit more with them, and if someone were to ask whether she’s ever felt flustered, she might struggle to give a straight (Hah.) answer, but the topics hit the same beats.
She goes through her entire routine as he sits down: she sits up straight, puts on a smile, and stretches out her hand for him to take.
They shake hands, a brief up and down, just as her agents have taught her. He's got a Martini in his left hand, and judging by the hint of gin on his breath, he's definitely had a drink or two.
The man brightens as he sits down. Flame wonders which of the holy trinity of conceity she'll get this time. Rambles about his newest award, something about their most recent vacation in Hawaii, or some other poor country plagued by tourism. An arid compliment, maybe?
"I must say, you look absolutely radiant in that dress, Miss Frags." Ah, the last one, then. Fun.
Shifting her position in her seat, she clasps her hands together. "Flame is fine," she says simply. "Thank you, by the way. Have I seen you around? You look quite familiar."
He brightens at that. "Ah, no worries. Oh, and I'm sure you have. Beauties like you can't ever keep their eyes off men, right?" he jokes with a burly laugh. Flame indulges him with one of her own. It's about as fake as plastic. "Or maybe you've seen me at the Oscars?"
She tilts her head in faux consideration. "Maybe."
"Have you watched any of the movies that've come out this year? I've written a bunch. Even starred in a few, you know? A tragedy we haven't crossed paths till now."
Truth be told, she's got no idea who this man is. Flame was only trying to be polite—but now she's got to rack her brain to figure out his identity. The problem is, there are a lot of directors out there, none of whom mean anything to her.
Oh well. She's famous enough to have a dozen excuses in her back pocket when it comes to forgetting industry names. "Kinda bad for me to watch films when I'm acting and stuff. Ruins my performance."
It works perfectly. Hook, line, and sinker. "I see." He takes a swig of his cocktail, and it gets a little bit awkward after that.
Rising to her feet, she adjusts the neckline of her dress. She can feel the man staring. "Well, I might go get something to drink. I hope I'll see you around, though."
The man blinks, but grins. She hopes he didn't take that last part the wrong way. "Thank you, Flame."
Her smile drops the moment she turns around. Her shoulders, too. "No problem."
She squeezes through as many people as she can. It’s growing much tighter in the venue now that it’s nearing midnight, when all the fashionably late elites have begun to make an appearance because they think it makes them look chic, or whatever the fuck. In reality, they just come off as assholes. Most of the time, they are.
The air is thick with the smell of perfume and cologne—sickly sweet in some cases. Luxury scents don’t blend well together, and the combination makes her gag each time as she mumbles apologies, shoving her way through the throng to get to the bar.
She’s hoping they still have the strongest drink left; after that last conversation, she might have lost a few brain cells. Even if she'll end up forgetting without the help of alcohol, she still wants that drink.
Flame curses under her breath when a burly man backs into her, completely oblivious. He doesn't bother to apologize either, the prick. Another person lets out an opulent cackle right into her ear. Glasses clink as a nearby pair toasts to some business venture. All black suits. Black dresses. Does anyone wear anything but black in here? It's starting to look like a funeral—
She bumps someone's shoulder, nearly tripping on the polished tile floor.
"Shit, I'm so sorry, bro. I didn't see—" she exclaims, craning her neck around.
The rest of her words die in her mouth when she realizes who she's talking to.
For a moment, Wemmbu blinks and stares. Then, she snorts. "Look who finally decided to show up."
She says it in that snarky, biting tone of hers—the kind that makes Flame want to ball up her fist and strike her across the face.
But she won’t. She promised Lomedy not to fight at another party again, especially not with Wemmbu, of all people. Thank goodness her team cleared all evidence of that last party. Those two weeks spent being harassed by Wemmbu's fans, who couldn't handle their favorite star being a whiny sore loser, were hell.
Then again, Flame left her with a broken nose, so maybe it was worth it.
Taking a deep breath, she retorts, "I've been training. Some of us have to work for our talent, bro. Hard for you to get, I know."
She just adores the way Wemmbu's face scrunches up in offense. "Actually, I get it just fine," she hisses. It's so exhilarating to get her like this. Watching Wemmbu's composed facade fall apart might be one of the few things she enjoys more than acting. "What's hard for me to get is how someone managed to drag you out of the house."
Flame straightens. "I came here because I wanted to." She can feel the way her fists shake at her sides.
She doesn't mind telling a few white lies if it means Wemmbu won't earn the satisfaction of knowing she's right. "But not all of us spend our time getting wasted at parties, Wemmbu. Some people have—"
Wemmbu stalks closer, her lips curling inward as she interrupts with, "Are you including yourself in that?" Her eyes narrow, and she looks up at Flame through her eyelashes. It makes Flame’s breath catch only momentarily. "You get more than shitfaced at parties."
Her breath ghosts her lips when they're this close. Suddenly, she's all too grateful for the fact that her melanin helps conceal her blushing.
Really, she doesn't mean to, but maybe her eyes flick downward to where their chests are pressed together.
Wemmbu's, er, bust size is nothing to write home about, but they definitely sit pretty with that bodycon dress she's got on. The fabric clings to her curves perfectly, highlighting her figure in all the right places. For a moment, Flame almost understands all the thirst trap edits she's seen of her.
Her gaze must linger for a bit too long, because Wemmbu dips her chin to peer down at the same spot. Hints of scarlet paint her cheeks when she looks up. With hesitation, she steps back.
She relishes in the way that her arrogant grin falls off of her face, the way her gaze falters afterwards. Finally managed to knock her down a peg. Flame just wishes she could grab Wemmbu right there and—
…And what? She doesn't know what her line of thought is there. Oh well.
Just as she's racking her brain for some witty comeback, she hears footsteps from behind her. Flame doesn't need to look back to discern who it is. She'd recognize Lomedy anywhere.
Especially her chiding. "Flame, what are you—I told you to stop arguing with her."
"Wasn't arguing," Wemmbu scoffs. With a swift twist of her body, she spins on her heel, tossing her hair into Flame’s face. Some of it gets in her mouth. What a bitch.
Flame growls under her breath. "Whatever, bruh." She wraps an arm around Lomedy, pulling her along until she can find the nearest room that isn’t filled with snarky A-list celebrities in long hair and tight dresses who think they're all that and a bag of chips—
Ugh. She shouldn't be letting Wemmbu affect her like this. She's beyond that.
Eventually, they come to a stop in the corner of some random room. It's not exactly empty, per se; people are meandering about, but it's much quieter. From that, she assumes this is where all the businessmen are.
While the quiet eases her headache, it doesn't make her want to stay any longer at this stupid fucking party.
She doesn't care about interrupting the affairs of men in suits whose names escape her, so she blurts out, "I'm gonna go. Can we go? I don't wanna be here, man. This place is full of the exact people I try to avoid."
Lomedy frowns. "Come on." Her hand gives reassuring strokes to Flame's forearm. "Don't let Wemmbu ruin your night."
"She shouldn't even be here!" Flame cries. In hindsight, she should've known to take Spoke's words as anything but legitimate, but maybe some part of deep, deep inside of her wanted to take a break. Or she's just stupid.
"Yeah, I know," she tuts. "Do you want me to go get Spoke? She promised you she wouldn't be here. If you really want to, then we can—"
"No," Flame interjects. Lomedy's having so much fun. It'd be selfish of her to cut it short because of a bitter rivalry. "Just enjoy yourself, I'll… I'll be fine," she says with a sigh.
From the way her nails dig into her crossed arms, the words aren't any comfort. Still, she offers a smile. "Okay," she breathes. "Maybe find a room to stay in for the rest of the night? I don't really have a ride home, so…"
Flame links their fingers together and tugs Lomedy towards the door. Most of the men in the room are staring at them now, but she doesn't care to know why.
Besides, the drinks in their hands will help them forget the sight by tomorrow.
"Don't worry about me," she assures. "Have fun, bro. Don't let me stop you; I'll just beat Wemmbu up when I see her," she jests.
That earns a punch to the shoulder. Lomedy laughs, fond. "Stop! Seriously, don't fight. I'll kill you if you do."
Considering she's already soured the mood, the least Flame can do is help Lomedy find someone to dance with. Her hand twists the knob. She lets Lomedy walk out first.
Once they return to the main floor, Flame scans the crowd. None of these people look nice enough for Lomedy. There are too many drunkards, even though it’s only been about an hour since the party began, and far too many people who she knows would sell their own mother for a headline.
Still, she tugs Lomedy toward the dance floor. You miss all of the shots you don't take, or something like that.
Lomedy tries to hype her up, pointing out potential dance partners—mostly men—but Flame vetoes each one. After all, she doesn't plan to stick around.
Eventually, Flame spots a cluster of people whose faces she can't make out from this distance, but they seem to be having good fun. She gently nudges Lomedy toward them. "They look normal enough. You should go."
Once Lomedy is swept into the group, Flame backs away, relieved to have bought her friend a good time. Oh, and for an excuse to escape the noise. She slips out of the main hall, following the first hallway she sees, letting the thumping bass fade behind her.
The mansion’s corridors grow progressively quieter, but they feel no less soulless. The lights remain an unwelcoming beige; it reminds Flame of the rubber rooms in psychiatric wards she's heard about.
She randomly pushes open a door, stepping into a side room filled with people doing various substances and the sound of clinking glasses. Still not empty, but whatever. She'll take what she can get.
Flame lingers near the wall, arms crossed, trying to breathe through the headache and the irritation clawing at her ribs.
For a party that seems to have invited just about everyone in the world, it’s all so dull. She doesn't know how Spoke enjoys these so much. It'd probably be more entertaining to watch paint dry.
After just a few minutes, the room starts to fill up more. Whether they’re junkies or alcoholics, they file in one by one, huddling in the corner. The smell is horrible. Not even the ocean of cologne and perfume can disguise the odor. It's too much for her poor nostrils.
So she slips out again, wandering deeper into the mansion. Another hallway, another door. The one lingering at the end of this corridor is slightly cracked open, with light spilling out.
Weird. Checking over her shoulder, she confirms there’s nobody around. While she can still hear the music booming over the speakers, it's fainter here.
Her feet are already starting to ache from all the adventuring she's been doing, so Flame decides to settle on this one. Hopefully she doesn't walk in on someone. Unfortunately, if she did, it wouldn't be the first time.
She nudges the door wider, and oh no.
Actually, this might be worse than walking in on someone having sex, or making out, or anything. Literally anything would be better.
God must hate her today because sitting in the center of the bed is Wemmbu. Fucking Wemmbu.
Judging by the way she continues to tap on her phone mindlessly, she doesn't notice. Or she's pretending not to. Knowing her, that shtick will only last about thirty seconds—thirty-five if she's lucky.
Really, Flame doesn't know how she even got here. They were arguing up on the main floor, what, a couple of minutes ago? She should add teleportation to her obnoxiously long list of capabilities, too.
Wemmbu lifts her head. "Oh, what the hell?"
Flame, standing a few feet away, stares with wide eyes. "Why are you here? You were just upstairs!" she exclaims, confusion spilling over into irritation.
She reels back, dropping her phone onto the mattress. It bounces as it hits the fabric. "When I got here? Dude, you’re the one who followed me. You’re such a stalker."
With a few quick strides, Flame crosses the distance between them. "Bro, I'd never stalk you. Nobody wants to stalk you, okay? Get that through your head." She punctuates her words with a jab to Wemmbu's chest.
Wemmbu slaps her hand away. It leaves a sting, but the frustration coursing through her veins makes it a faint buzz in the back of her mind. "Really? You being here suggests otherwise."
"Are you dumb?" Flame retorts, hackles raised. "I just said I'm not here to stalk you." She inches closer to Wemmbu, almost as if she's drawing her in.
"Right, because you definitely never lie about anything." Wemmbu’s tone drips with sarcasm, and in that moment, Flame considers giving her a nasty right hook to the face.
"Name one time I've lied," Flame demands.
She cocks a brow. "When you told me you came here of your own free will."
Flame shakes her head vehemently. "That wasn't a lie."
"Oh, please! Everyone saw you talking to that director." Wemmbu rolls her eyes. "You looked like you wanted to die right then and there."
Flame's cheeks burn with embarrassment. Wemmbu was looking, then. God, she probably looked so stupid. To make matters worse, she’s even given this woman an unnecessary boost to her already inflated ego, simply by sharing the same space as her.
That's all Wemmbu is, she thinks. A self-absorbed prima donna who thinks she's the people's princess. So what if she has thirst-trap edits? Flame has enough of those to make Brad Pitt jealous. And sure, her agents have managed to clean up all her scandals, spitting on her record till it shines. Well, hers can do that too—and do it even better.
Who cares about all the boyfriends Wemmbu has had over the years? The ones who rave about how amazing she is in bed, claiming that her acting skills really come into play there? Flame would make an awesome boyfriend… girlfriend? Especially for Wemmbu.
…What?
Oh, whatever. The point is, anything Wemmbu can do, Flame can do better. Yet, you don't see her striding around like some narcissist.
She raises her fist, but remembering Lomedy's words, lets it fall limp at her side.
Catching the smug look on Wemmbu's face, she immediately regrets it. "Your silence speaks volumes, see?" She crosses her arms. "I never took the Flame Frags to be so submissive. Finally gonna admit defeat—"
Wemmbu isn't granted the grace of finishing her sentence.
Flame lurches forward, aiming for anywhere on Wemmbu's face. As long as she shuts the fuck up, there's no preference. Unfortunately, she manages to duck at the last minute.
It makes sense. According to her, she's always been good at doing things last minute. Whether it be scenes, scripts, or recordings, it won't ever be done on time. She'll always show up late and do what she's best at—being an inconvenience.
That's not praise of her talent, by the way. Lord knows she hasn't got a drop of that. Directors only really like her because she's hot, and while Flame doesn't care for gossip, there are whispers claiming she slept her way to the top. Sounds just like her, honestly.
Perfectly manicured nails dig into the fabric of Flame’s dress. Suddenly, her head bangs against the door behind her. Pain shoots through her veins, but it’s practically nothing compared to the adrenaline coursing through her.
She's been waiting for an excuse to fuck Wemmbu up. For once, she won't let Wemmbu take something she wants away from her.
Wemmbu's hands travel up, up, and up her collarbone. Her claws sink into the skin of her neck, leaving small crescent marks behind. It's bound to bruise. A weird, sick part of her hopes it does, even though it'd end up being covered by foundation sooner or later.
From here, she can smell the liquor on Wemmbu's breath. Somehow, she didn't notice it before. Maybe she was just too busy yelling and keeping from losing her shit.
Flame snatches Wemmbu's wrists, yanking her off her. It sends her staggering backwards till she falls onto the bed. Her lips curl into a frown. Flame is more than happy to give her one right back.
The curtain has dropped. That pretty-and-perfect facade is gone, and all that's left of it is the way her eyes are blown so wide that Flame can only see black. She can almost see the reflection of herself in Wemmbu's hateful snarl, the way that she looks at her like she wants to rip her apart.
"Come on," Flame says, a little breathless. "You're good at everything you do, aren't you? Man, you still can't even beat me in a fight."
Wemmbu's laugh is humorless. "I can absolutely rock your shit, actually," she spits through her gritted, unhappy teeth.
She jumps to her feet, practically leaping towards Flame.
Her movements are sloppy. If it's from the alcohol or blinding hatred, Flame doesn't know. She'd prefer the latter, though.
Even her hands mirror her livid state, with the way they shake while trying to get a hold of Flame. She doesn't let them. Pivoting to the left, she leaves Wemmbu crashing against the doorframe. A sickening crack follows. Wonder what story she'll tell the press for that one.
Taking advantage of her distraction, Flame throws herself at her waist. However, fate, whimsical as ever, seems determined to intervene. That, or maybe Wemmbu isn't that shitty of a fighter. Wemmbu sprawls her legs and drops her weight, thwarting her attempt to take her down.
In some ways, it works, though, because now they’re tumbling onto the mattress.
And for the first time, Flame finds herself on top of Wemmbu.
Locking their ankles together and pinning her wrists against the headboard so she can’t try anything funny, Flame laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs.
"Look who's weak now," she chuckles.
Wemmbu breathes out hard. Fast. The wind has been knocked clean out of her, it seems. Her gaze softens, and had Flame not known any better, she'd swear all that hatred in her eyes melts.
It’s certainly not familiar. In all of Wemmbu’s advertisements, her face is perfectly sculpted by her adept makeup team and proficient photographers to make her appear as seductive as possible. Her social media posts, rare as they may be, paint her as the perfect girl.
Men would kill to have her. Women would die to be her. Sometimes, Flame finds it hard to decipher which category she belongs to.
The adrenaline is beginning to fade. She can feel it in the tightness of her chest. It feels good. She's not quite sure why that is.
Rather than pull away, or maybe rack that smart brain of hers for a way to pull some shit to get out of her hold, Wemmbu pulls her closer. As close as she can get her without using her hands or feet, that is.
"Flame," she says quietly. Awed. The fuck is her problem? "You're pretty."
Oh. Oh.
It comes out soft, as if she meant it. Knowing Wemmbu, there's no way it could.
She’s heard those words so many times before, but this is the first time that she lets herself hold it. Lets it mean something.
In fact, she's so lost in feeling the weight of the phrase under her fingertips that her grip falters. Wemmbu grins. Before Flame can correct it, she's suddenly flipped over.
Faint wisps of Wemmbu's perfume linger on the mattress. It's amazing how it's managed to last for so long. Even after hours of rehearsal, pink peppers and a trace of sweat can still be picked up on set.
"Fuck you," Flame mumbles. It's muffled against the mattress. "Dude, what the fuck is your problem? What's—what's your problem, bro?"
The reverent look in her eyes doesn't fade. She squirms under it. Their ceaseless bickering would be much more preferable than whatever this is; at least that's something she can predict. A punch or two might be thrown, but nothing more.
Wemmbu leans back. Flame hoists herself up on her elbows and leans against the pillow. Fingers, the tips of them decorated with various shades of purple, slide along her collarbone, resting at the nape of her neck.
"It's true." A hand cups her cheek. Had it been anyone else, she would've smacked it away. "Do you not think you're pretty, Flame?"
Flame's jaw works tightly. "What?" she mumbles. Her brows knit together. "I—Bro, you're—Of course. I'm gorgeous, man. Of—of course I think I'm pretty," she spits.
She nods. Her hand drops from her cheek and joins her other, lingering near the nape of her neck instead.
With a tug, Wemmbu draws her closer. Her heart begins to thump like a rabbit’s foot in her chest. Some part of her, buried deep in the back of her mind, itches to run alongside it. "…How drunk are you right now?" she asks.
Time seems to drag slowly as she awaits an answer. It never comes.
Perhaps the closest thing to a response she gets is the way Wemmbu's eyes flick to her lips.
That's all the warning she gets before she feels Wemmbu's warm body against hers, flush with alcohol and desire, with one hand cradling the back of her head.
She’s melting, and maybe that’s why Wemmbu is holding her.
For a few seconds, she allows herself to be led by Wemmbu's soft lips. Just a few. Maybe it's the way she tastes. Now she's starting to understand all those songs her ex wrote about her.
Is this how kisses feel in general? Flame wouldn't know—she's never gotten far enough in her relationships to reach the kissing stage. But this one certainly sets the standards high.
Holy shit, she's already out of breath. Is that normal? Does that even matter right now, actually?
Fuck it, Flame lurches forward, much too eager, and attempts to kiss back. Their teeth grind together. It's incredibly obvious she doesn't have a damn clue what she's doing, driven by only desire and greed, but that's fine. If she learned how to act, she can learn this, too, no?
She'll learn how to kiss Wemmbu the exact way she likes. To fuck her the way she likes—or is that too much? She'll map all her tells with religious devotion.
Wemmbu pulls away, and Flame gasps embarrassingly loud. The deep breath she sucks in feels so good. Breathing has never felt this good before, but she doesn’t want to keep breathing right now. Might be the last thing.
A hand to her chest stops her when she surges forward. "Jesus," Wemmbu whispers.
The corners of her mouth are slick with spit. Flame feels some of it dribbling down her chin, too. She hardly cares. "Why do you kiss me like you're trying to eat my face?" she asks.
Flame blinks. "Oh. I don't—this is… kinda my first time."
There's an amused look on her face at that. "I can tell. It's cute, actually," she teases, and Flame'scheeks begin to feel warmer than normal.
She looks away, thumbing the mattress. "Fuck you," she repeats. There's no real bite to the words, and if there were, they fade away once a hand is put to her hip.
"So eager," Wemmbu chuckles, pressing and pressing until they’re practically molded together. "Do you want me to? I can if you do."
Her brain short-circuits at that.
They shouldn't really be doing this. Flame doesn't even know if she likes girls, and it's rather rude to fuck in some random person's house. If they got caught, she might kill herself. Probably take Wemmbu with her to the afterlife for getting them into this situation in the first place, too.
Oh, and to kiss her again, of course. No need to worry about oxygen if you're already dead, right?
Her hip bone presses gently against the pillows. "Uh, I guess, bro."
She hears the rustling of the mattress first.
Then, she feels soft lips moving against hers. This kiss is awfully sloppy, yet just as passionate, with Wemmbu's teeth nipping Flame's lower lip and her tongue languidly falling against the bite as an apology. She can feel the desperation begin to close around her throat, panic and desire all at once.
She can feel the space between her legs grow warmer with each kiss she presses against her lips. Flame clutches Wemmbu's hips like a lifeline. She thinks fabric might've torn, but she’s pretty sure opening her eyes while kissing is weird, so she won't look.
Not that it matters anyway. Wemmbu probably has a thousand more dresses like the one she's wearing at home.
She must think it's her turn to ruin Flame's dress, too, with the way her hands explore her body, left hand on her waist, roaming along the hipbone and ass, right hand coming all the way up near her breast and down to her thigh. She grips, and Flame gasps into their kiss.
When they pull apart, Flame tilts her head back and gasps.
A hand brushes across her stomach. "Guess it was good then, right?"
Oh, please. She can hardly think. "It was fine. I've had better."
"Right." She cocks a brow. "You just said you hadn't kissed anyone. Actually, if you did, you wouldn't be slobbering all over my lips," she murmurs, the graze of her lips infuriating.
Wemmbu hums, low and guttural in her throat. Flame inhales sharply when she draws back, only to dip into the crook of her neck. She doesn’t protest. All she does is stand there, frozen and a little stirred, as her breath tickles her collarbone.
"Bro, what—what are you doing?" she questions, a trembling quality to her voice.
The breath against her throat feels warm with amusement. She feels Wemmbu drag her nose down the throb of her pulse and over her collarbone, and she has to bite back a whimper.
She kisses her pulse point. "Say it. Say I'm a good kisser, Flame."
"Kiss me again," Flame demands. It's more of a plea considering how heady and desperate she sounds.
Wemmbu doesn't listen. When has she ever, after all?
Those succulent lips of hers choose to suck against her pulse instead. She grabs a fistful of her dress, uncaring for the way she hears that familiar sound of fabric ripping, and Flame gasps as she arches into her.
Fuck, she can hardly breathe. It feels really, really hard to remember to breathe, especially with the way Wemmbu's scent overrides her senses with how close they are. Sweet, unlike her touch.
The ache between her legs is practically a second heartbeat. She feels Wemmbu's knee fall flush between her legs. Gently pressing. Flame lets out a breathy whine. The sound of laughter echoes in her ears, mocking, and had she been lucid, she would've done something about it besides moaning.
God, she needs more. She doesn't even know what more is, just anything besides this.
Truthfully, Flame has never been the selfish type.
When it comes to dinners, she always lets those around her eat and sit down first, serving them before herself. She has consistently donated a portion of her earnings to charity. At every casting call, she makes it a point to let the newcomers go ahead of her, offering them a piece of advice or two along the way.
It’s simply how she was raised. She’s never sought out self-indulgence because, quite frankly, she doesn’t see the need for it.
Which is why it's a surprise, even to her, that when Wemmbu sucks a particularly red hickey on her neck, she pants, "Fuck me. I don't—I don't fucking care anymore. I don't. Just—just fuck me. Please."
Flame isn't meant to beg for anything, but for one night, she'll forget about the formalities or who dares to look and judge her for what she’s doing. For once, she'll take, take, and take without giving. Be greedy without apology. Human.
Wemmbu breathes out slowly against her neck, giving a chuckle, low and guttural in her throat. She glances up, eyes full of twinkling satisfaction, at the way she's managed to break her.
It's not enough. If Flame's learned one thing, nothing is ever enough for Wemmbu.
Her hand glides down her waist, tantalizingly slow, tracing the curve that rests beneath her dress. Paralyzed by desire, she sits there and takes her torture.
Those fingers never touch her where she wants. They linger above her abdomen, but never more. Flame lets out the most broken moan in frustration. If she were a better woman, she would have ripped her own dress off to give Wemmbu as much access as possible. Actually, scratch that. A better woman probably wouldn't even be in this situation.
Her arm straightens like an arrow, and she seizes her wrist, sliding it closer to the inside of her thigh. Her unhurried hand rushes to bunch up the gorgeous red fabric that currently couldn't be more inconvenient.
Wemmbu presses a gentle kiss to the side of her mouth. Gentle isn't what she wants. "You want this, right?"
What a stupid question. Flame is practically melting from under her. How could she not want this? The bitch is probably just asking to fuel her ego.
She grinds against Wemmbu’s thigh, frustrated and greedy. The noise that comes out of Flame is half a gasp, and half a whimper. It’s soft in her throat, but it’s exactly what seems to get Wemmbu off. Her fingernails are so deep into her hips that her forearms strain.
"Yes," she gasps. "I—I want—"
That's all she needs before capturing Flame's lips in another mind-numbing kiss.
She jolts upwards and lurches right into her chest when she feels Wemmbu's hand dip right between her legs and under her panties. Two fingers curl up inside her, beckoning. It doesn’t even feel like she's all the way inside. She just feels tingles. Excitement, probably, but she wants more. Flame thinks she's becoming delirious with want.
Suddenly, her fingers pull out of her, and Flame cries out, digging her nails into Wemmbu's back in displeasure. Unfortunately, her complaints die with a choked gasp as she's pushed further into the pillows, her spine contorted flat against the mattress.
Wemmbu climbs on top of her, and Flame truly hasn't been more turned on than she is now. Placing a fingertip under Flame's chin to keep her looking up, she chuckles. It's a beautiful sound.
"Mm," she hums, a smirk playing on her face. "You're pretty." Her hand reaches to touch Flame's collarbone, toying with the charm of her necklace. Somehow, it's stayed in place.
Flame retracts her hands from her hips, knuckles going taut over Wemmbu's. "You told me that. I know, bro."
Her hand travels north, tugging at the hem of her blindfold. Is she—?
"You'd be even prettier without this, I bet," she muses, thumb wiping the slick saliva off her chin.
Flame never goes without her blindfold; it's become an integral part of her image. Initially, her agents touted it as a defining feature, suggesting it made her stand out—as if her talent alone wasn’t impressive enough.
Now, they've grown a little impatient. Everyone tells her how big an "eye reveal" would get, whatever that means. Sure, she's used contact for acting roles before, but nobody really knows what's behind that fabric.
Every time they ask for it, she says no. Egg them on a bit, maybe, but nothing more than that.
If she’s being honest, it’s never really been about keeping up an image. It’s more about vulnerability. Eyes are said to be the windows to the soul, but she prefers not to be seen.
Until now, she guesses.
Wemmbu hooks two fingers under the fabric. They stay like that until Flame gives a faint nod, almost like she was waiting for permission.
The hand on her chin moves to cup her cheek, and Flame braces herself for Wemmbu to laugh in her face and mock her for how desperate she probably looks, but nothing comes. It's unnerving. She doesn't know which outcome is worse.
Her breath stutters. "Dude, come on. You're—you're scaring me."
"Holy shit," Wemmbu mumbles. Awed. "You're gorgeous."
She doesn't know what to make of that. Her heart is still pounding in her chest, and she doesn't reply in fear of her voice betraying her.
"I didn't know you had heterophobia."
That earns a laugh, albeit strained. "Bro, what? Heterochromia?" she corrects.
Wemmbu scoffs. This feels all too tender, all too gentle. "Oh, whatever. Gonna fuck you so good you'll forget which is which anyway," she declares, emphasizing her statement with a swipe of her folds. There we go.
The warmth in her abdomen ignites, acting as a pleasant deterrent against the tender emotions she’s uncertain whether to embrace or reject. A thumb over her clit, swiping to send shocks through her thighs, leaves her unable to think about it at all. Thank god.
They're breathing in tandem now, she thinks. Flame can't take another second without having Wemmbu's mouth on hers, so she lurches forward, moaning embarrassingly loud into their kiss when she feels the speed of her thrusts double.
Despite all the riches she's gained in her career, Flame can hardly afford the luxury of thinking. All she can feel is the way that her nerves are white-hot with pleasure, a lightning strike with each thrust of Wemmbu's fingers. It feels so good. So, so fucking good.
Of all the ways she'd anticipated her first time to go, she never would have imagined it to be something like this. Most of her fantasies involved men. That's what everyone told her it should be, after all.
She can say for certain not a single one of them had a woman in it, let alone a woman she'd sworn to be her worst enemy. But life has a way of surprising people, doesn't it?
Fingering had never really felt all that good in the past. She's never been one for penetration, anyway. Initially, she thought something was wrong with her—even considering she was asexual at one point. Why else would she gain no pleasure from it?
Now, she's definitely starting to understand the hype.
"Good, right?" Wemmbu pants against her lips. Why'd she pull away? She needs her, she needs her so bad. "I want you to tell me if it’s good."
"So good," she whimpers. It’s choked out like a sob. "It’s really fucking good. Oh—oh my god. Fuck. Oh—"
Her fingers pick up the pace, unyielding and harsh. Flame puts her hand on her wrist—but she doesn’t stop her from fucking her like this. Her slick is starting to stain the bedsheets below them. Judging by the faded stains, she isn't the first to do so.
Wemmbu swallows her moans into her mouth. She tastes like ambrosia from the gods themselves, but maybe she's biased from how good she's being fucked open right now.
She lets Flame keep moaning into her mouth while she hikes her leg up to her waist for better leverage. Those two curled fingers never seem to cramp. Clearly, the girl's done this before, and a pang of jealousy snaps against her chest at the thought. She doesn't know why. Wemmbu isn't hers, and never will be.
Flame keens high and loud, straight into her mouth, when Wemmbu tilts her fingers further up to fuck her even harder. What the fuck is her forearm made out of? Galvanized steel?
Regardless, she has no complaints. She puts all of her remaining strength, depleting it may be, into not cumming, just so she has Wemmbu's fingers inside her a second longer. Shaky arms hook around Wemmbu's pale neck, drawing her impossibly closer.
She grinds hard on her fingers, sinking deep into them until she bottoms out against her slick palm. A grin flickers to life on her face, knowing she's the culprit. She moans in delight and grinds on them again and again and again.
Being greedy has never felt so good. Why hasn't she tried this before?
Despite all her effort into not cumming, into having this last at least a minute longer, her resolve crumbles pathetically fast once Wemmbu pulls away from her and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek, whispering, "Wanna—I wanna feel you cum on my fingers. You can do that, yeah?"
Boy, can she.
Wemmbu slams her fingers inside of her hard, thrice in succession. Flame twists forward with a gasp, the pleasure in her stomach so painfully good that she can hardly feel herself gushing.
She throws her head, exposing her throat to Wemmbu, who immediately takes the opportunity to kiss her on the columns of her neck, almost vampiric. The pleasure rolls in waves with each twitch, and with each twitch Wemmbu lets her fingertip drag over her sensitive clit to make her squirt some more.
There’s a dark puddle on the mattress, large and ring-like. She hasn’t squirted that hard in a long time. Or at all, actually.
She practically screams Wemmbu's name: Wemmbu, Wemmbu, Wemmbu. Each louder than the last. It's all that's on her mind, anyway.
She leans away from Flame to give her breathing space, and she takes it greedily. Gulping down a lungful of air, she collapses. Goes limp and drapes herself over her rival's body. Somehow, her perfume still manages to smell so delicious, even with the stench of sweat clinging to it.
Once she's somehow lucid, no longer riding high on waves of pleasure, she pulls back. If she didn't know any better, she'd say the look in Wemmbu's eyes is one of disappointment. Hah.
"Okay, uh… So, what now?" she stammers. Is looking each other in the eye after mind-breaking sex normal? Or is that just a them thing?
She coughs weakly, then looks away.
Wemmbu dips her chin to look at the mess below them. "Didn’t know you were a squirter," she teases. "I would’ve guessed creamy from you."
Does… Does that mean she's thought about it before? Okay, then.
"I—" Flame pauses. Her voice sounds so distant and hoarse from what she’s used to. "I didn’t know either?"
She hums. "So I'm special, then?"
If they continue with this topic, Flame might die, so she pivots, "Aren't you meant to like, er, cum too? I don't wanna be rude."
Arching a brow, she chuckles. "Is that you asking for another round? Bro, if you want one, just say so—"
"I'm not asking for shit," she interrupts. There's no bite to it; mostly because it's all been fucked out of her. "Was just asking. Nevermind. Forget I said anything, bruh."
Dangling her shaky legs over the edge of the bed, she attempts to stand but nearly collapses. If the wall hadn't been there, she would have fallen in a heap. Wemmbu laughs from behind her. It's not the snarky one she's used to.
Silence stretches out between the two of them. Fumbling for a mirror Flame hadn't even realized was there in the corner of the room, she tries to fix her appearance as best as she can. Hopefully, Lomedy doesn't ask her about any of this. It'd be embarrassing as fuck.
"You have a nice afterglow." Flame nods, like she knows what that means. "Oh, by the way, it's obvious. Everyone can tell when you fuck at a party. Trust me."
Flame spins on her heel, patting the soaked mattress in search of her blindfold. "The hell do I do then?"
Wemmbu cocks her head in consideration. "Could take you home. I've got my chauffeur on speed dial and shit."
"Spoke would bother me about it. Can't." This is a one-time thing anyway. It shouldn't have gone this far in the first place, really.
Leaning back against the pillows, carefully avoiding the giant wet spot on the bed, her fingers fly over the screen. Flame can even hear the sounds of her TikTok For You page as she moves toward the door.
If all parties are like this, she might just let Spoke drag her to the next one.