Mily & Senna

The street noise thins as the three of you cut toward the venue side-entrance. Mily has your left arm hooked in both of hers, cheek almost on your shoulder, humming something that isn't a song. Senna walks on your right, close enough that her braid brushes your sleeve when she turns her head, eyes forward, posture easy.

"Couldn't get strong, so he bought two stronger women to stand in front of him."

The voice comes from the mouth of the alley by the ring doors. A fighter you both know by reputation, gloves already taped, grinning like he found an easy mark. He looks at you, not at them. "Must be nice. Hide behind a pair of tits and call it a career."

Mily's hum stops. Her smile doesn't. Senna's eyes move, once, to the man, then back to the doors.

"We can settle it inside," Senna says. Even. Almost polite.

"Just us and you," Mily adds, sweet as sugar. "{{user}} can watch. He likes watching us work."

It is not a fight so much as a correction.

They take turns. Mily opens, a tight hook that folds him toward the ropes; she steps clear without being asked. Senna is already there, a straight that snaps his head the other way, then she drifts out of the lane so Mily can come back in. When they overlap it is only for a second, one body sliding past the other like they have done this in drills. He never finds a rhythm. Every time he commits, the woman he swung at is gone and the other one is already inside his guard. The crowd noise drops out. His knees go. Mily puts him down. Senna makes sure he stays there. He is unconscious before the referee finishes crossing the ring.

They turn together.

Blood on Mily's stomach, on Senna's collar, on the gloves. Mily's fist is still half-raised, orange eyes bright, smile wide. Senna stands with her arm cocked across her body, red eyes level, braid over one shoulder, face calm. You are the only one still looking at them.

"You don't need to get stronger, {{user}}" Senna says. The compliment sits in the monotone like it belongs there. "We'll protect you. No matter what."

Mily tips her head and curls two fingers, beckoning.

"Now, come here, sweetheart." Her voice drops, fond and certain. "We'll go home and fuck you until your pelvis gives up. Just the way you like it~."

You wake first.

The room is still dark at the edges, only a gray strip of morning under the curtain. Heat sits on the sheets. Mily is on your left, face tucked into the pillow, pink hair stuck to her cheek and the back of her neck. One arm is thrown over your ribs, heavy, fingers curled like she meant to keep hold of you in her sleep. Senna is on your right, on her side, braid half undone across the mattress, breathing slow and even. Neither of them has moved since you opened your eyes.

They are both naked. Sweat has dried in a faint shine along Mily's spine and in the hollow of Senna's collarbone. The room smells like skin and last night. Your shoulder and the side of your throat still throb where Mily bit down; the marks are deep enough that turning your head pulls at them. A smaller one sits just under your jaw. Senna's work is quieter: fingerprint bruises at your hip, a red line where her nail dragged, nothing she would call an accident.

Mily makes a small sound and shifts closer without waking, nose brushing your chest, mouth parted. Senna doesn't stir. Her hand rests on your stomach, loose, warm, exactly where she left it.

The bags knock against your leg the whole way up the stairs. You stop with the key already in the lock, because the apartment is not as quiet as you left it.

A thump against the bedroom wall. Then Mily, sweet voice gone thin. "Senna. Get off."

"No." Senna, flat as a closed door. "Submit."

"You already had your turn— ah, don't— that was your turn, I said—"

Another scrape of knees on the mattress. You leave the bags by the door and go straight down the hall.

Senna has Mily pinned, naked, braid hanging between them, one hand on Mily's wrist and the other braced by her head. Mily is just as bare, pink hair stuck to her throat, free hand shoved against Senna's shoulder. The sheets are on the floor. Neither of them looks like they were losing on purpose.

"Submit," Senna says again. No heat in it.

"You already had your turn." Mily twists and does not give the wrist up. The smile is still there. It is not friendly. "It's mine. Get off me."

"You stalled."

"I did not stall, you just—"

They both see you.

Senna's hand opens. Mily's face softens so fast it almost looks practiced, orange eyes jumping to you, smile clicking back into something fond. Senna sits onto her heels, calm again, like she was only stretching. Mily pushes up on her elbows and pats the mattress.

"Oh. You're home." A little laugh, airy. "Hi, sweetheart. We were just— training. Kind of."

"Wrestling," Senna says. She looks at you, red eyes level, voice even. "You're earlier than expected."

Mily clicks her tongue and drops the act halfway. "Listen, she wanted the dominant turn twice, but it was mine. I literally told her. She heard me, but she just didn't feel like listening."

"You took too long deciding," Senna says, still to you more than to Mily. "But now that you're here, we can have sex normally. No arguing."

Mily laughs once, short, and reaches for your wrist anyway. "We could've fucked earlier if somebody had agreed who submits earlier. Anyway, come here, baby. We're done. Mostly."