Work Text:
They didn’t know how it started. Rivals, yes. For the affection of one man.
And Tōga certainly did not make it simple to walk away.
His touch always found the delicate places along Izayoi’s skin, the places that lit fires inside of her and abandoned her of her reason, leaving her with nothing more than insatiable lust.
She gave in, oh how she gave in.
His kisses, like honeyed ginger. One taste was never enough.
But he always said goodbye, always made clear that it was time for him—for them—to return to the real world, and for Tōga, that meant to his wife.
His wife.
The woman whose blank smile graced the wealth and fashion magazines, serene and sharp in a single curl of the lips. She was dog demon like Tōga, tall and proud and statuesque and… beautiful. Her long silver hair a moonlit waterfall cascading down her back, swaying to and fro as her hips.
She was never seen without donning the most splendid of fashion, only from the names that graced the celebrities of the Met Gala. Always perfectly fit to her body, as if all of those clothes were made with her in mind.
But InuKimi never modeled those fashions, never whispered words to those designers, never graced the steps of the Metropolitan Museum with a sparkle to her eye as photographers raced toward her to take her picture.
Even as her husband sponsored such events, even as the checks written that night were nothing compared to the Taisho largesse.
Izayoi always wondered why. She would have stepped into the spotlight and smiled at the cameras and luxuriated in the fineries that InuKimi wore. She would have whispered sweet sexy nothings demurely into Tōga’s ear as he showed her off. Izayoi, muse to designers, Tōga’s lover and one and only. The warmth to finally shoo away the cold.
It would have been so easy, to speak to the press. To show everyone the text messages and photos and promises and gifts. To stomp upon InuKimi’s fragile image as one stomps upon a delicate piece of glass. And there were days—so many days—that Izayoi wanted to, that she almost hit the button. Every time Tōga waved his casual goodbye, lipstick still on his collar. Everytime Izayoi said she was lonely and Tōga rasped deal with it into the phone.
Every time she…
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Golden eyes, and long lashes. Perfectly coiffed— no.
Black streaks trickled down her cheeks, a sign of the tears that were there so recently.
The ballerina bun that suited her high cheekbones and shimmering moon was half-undone, as if sloppily thrown up on her way to this clandestine place. Those eyes, usually so bright and yet demure were ringed red and puffy, signs of one who had been crying so recently.
And her clothes, no longer the lavish couture that could leave high fashion blogs squealing but instead sweats and a plain white t-shirt.
Izayoi wanted to walk away, to run. To deny whatever it was that InuKimi would say, to feign ignorance and tell her of the reassurances: words Tōga used to soothe the black guilt of the affair. “We have an understanding. We’re so close to divorcing, I promise. Just give me a little more time. Just until our son is out of the house.”
Izayoi knew not to listen to such foolish words, and yet, every time she took Tōga’s hand and let him lead her into the bedroom. Every time she knew herself to be the fool, but the addiction to his lips, to his hands, to his everything was one she could not break free of.
Now here was the aftermath. The truth unclouded by sex and denial. The beautiful portrait, the flawless statue, standing in Izayoi’s doorway, flawed.
Izayoi thought to lie, to claim that she was not the other woman. That the scent of her left on Tōga’s clothing and body was coincidental, that the farthest it had ever gone was a massage to his shoulders on a stressful day at work.
But disheveled hair and streaked cheeks stared back at her. Pleading with her, begging her to stop clawing for honeyed lies.
“Yes.” Izayoi felt the gravity of the answer, pulling her down toward the black of her shame, her time floating on the bliss of denial was over.
How had she been so ignorant? Turning away every time the guilt lashed at her, reminding herself of those words: on the verge of divorce, a little more time… but all it took was a single glance at the shattered woman in front of her and Izayoi knew. There was no verge, there was no “a little more time,” there would be no fairy tale in which the mistress became the queen.
She had to call it off. She had to apologize. She had to slink away with her black shame and devote herself to making amends with the hearts she broke. If Izayoi could only find the right words, if only she could reassure InuKimi that she knew that she lived inside of a counterfeit daydream maybe—just maybe—she could be forgiv—
“That bastard…” What was this? The shattered heart and broken woman stood in front of her… Right? Then why could Izayoi not look away from those golden eyes, no longer made of glass, but fire? How come Izayoi’s eyes kept being dragged to those full and rosy lips, baring fangs so like her husband’s? “I told him if he ever pulled a stunt like this again that I would take his balls and everything else.” Then her eyes changed again, fire splashed with sunlight, taking in Izayoi’s form. “He should know better than to entrap a woman like you. He should know what would happen if I found you.”
Why was Izayoi now breathing so rapidly, cheeks burning with—with… desire?
This was a threat. From a dog demoness so much stronger and more powerful and more—more beautiful than Izayoi could ever hope to be. InuKimi’s words were not ones that should be making her heart palpitate and her legs go weak. Izayoi was in danger right now so why—why…
“Tell me, little bunny.” InuKimi stepped further into the house, her hips swaying to some unheard and intoxicating melody. “How would you like to handle this?” With one swipe of her finger and the streaks were gone from InuKimi’s cheeks. “I could tell you to stay away from my worthless husband. I could threaten to ruin you with my wealth and power.” InuKimi’s manicured finger tipped up Izayoi’s chin, forcing Izayoi to see nothing else but golden eyes. “Or we could have a little fun. At my husband’s expense.”
InuKimi licked her lips, and she took one more step forward, the curves of her body now pressed against Izayoi’s.
Beautiful. Goddess. Perfect. The embodiment of desire. Izayoi’s mind flooded with images of that disheveled hair between her legs. She thought of those ruby lips pressed against hers. Of the carefully polished claws scratching at her skin.
Of a smile that the camera could never capture on the face of a woman whose lust for sex and revenge had been satisfied.
And Izayoi wanted that.
“I choose…” Izayoi breathed, but she decided the best answer she could provide was not one of words, but instead of lust. Up on her tiptoes, Izayoi leaned forward, and she let her lips sample perfection, kissing greedily.
This would not evaporate her shame. It was not a step toward repentance.
But it was what she wanted, maybe what she had always wanted.
She had been mistress to the wrong Taisho.
As they stumbled backward, toward Izayoi’s bed, InuKimi smiled, sharp, predatory, one whom had found prey worthy of consuming.
“It is a good thing that my husband and I have the same taste in women,” she purred.
Izayoi could not agree more.
Artwork by kalcia