You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant.
Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.
Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.
But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity.
He's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.
OR: two people who were probably lovers in a past life end up as siblings in this one. except. it doesn't really change much.
DDDNE—incest. smut. dirty talk. shame. slight bully!Simon. slight breeding. size difference. slight coersion. dubcon. mean dom Simon and the lil sister he bullies
You've always been close.
Something that strikes people as odd considering he's been gone for the majority of your life—military dog that he is—but despite the distance, the age gap, it's easy to wrap yourself up in him. Copper sutures over open wounds.
And that's what you are. Wounds. Gaps, gashes. Deep canyons of cleaved flesh, severing muscles and tendons, chipping off bone.
He wears his as scars, an eerie blankness in his eyes—flat, stagnant water. Crocodilian. Predatory. Black humour. Vile jokes whispered in your ear—what d'you call a dead dad? anything you like, he can't 'ear you. Disappearing when things got too real. Too serious. Not running. Not Simon, no. But a strange, untameable thing—becoming a ghost again. Drenching himself in mission after mission. Icecold distance in his eyes. Polynyas. Arm's length is too close. He needs an ocean of space to sew himself back together. Lap at old, aching lesions until the taste of iron subsides into peatsalt flesh.
It's something you have to wait out. Return to some sense of normalcy without him—because even when he's gone, he's always watching—and struggle through the loneliness until whatever is metastasizing inside of his head is clawed out with the tips of his fingers, and he crawls home to you, bloodstained and hungry—
And you patch him up. Feed him. It's what you do best. How you wear your hurt—becoming the caregiver you wish you had. Taking on roles too big for yourself, for your trembling knees. Hefting him up on the shaking legs of a girl in over her head. Treading water even when you know the person clinging to you is going to be the reason you drown.
You just can't let go.
And you wonder, sometimes, if he knows that.
Simon is a lot of things, and almost none of them are good. A part of you does lay awake at night wondering if he's purposefully pulling you down.
The sea, you know, is a hungry, untenable thing. Voracious is her appetite. She's greedy with her dead, clinging to old bones even when they turn into vapour under her daunting weight. Smothered by a mother's everlasting love.
You can't blame her, though. She let you go, crawling out of her womb until your feet touched soil, leaving her empty and aching. Mother without a child to feed. And when she pulls you back, it's only because she doesn't know any better. Can't, in her unerring elation, understand that your time apart from her arms has turned gills into lungs, and when she tries to nurse you, it's a smothering, deadly thing. Too big is her bosom. Too tiny are you. Choking on the milk she offers until your ghost glides inside her waves.
And Ghost—
Sometimes you wonder if he ever left her womb at all.
Even if he was, though—you made your bed when you were eighteen. When he came back from deployment and met you as an adult, not a small, impish little child who hid behind Tommy's legs. Too afraid of your own shadow to even say hi. He was too big. Too intimidating. A monster of a man—something that made his marred lips curl up in an ugly smirk when he heard you whisper this into Tommy's ear.
But like most things in your life, it started with a cut.
Thirteen and tiptoeing through the grass to sneak back into your bedroom window. A rusted nail sliced the bottom wide open. Tommy was at work. His wife sleeping after staying up all night with their baby. You sat on the porch and clutched the bottom, holding the skin together until he happened to find you. Curled over yourself, biting back whimpers.
It wasn't bad. Not really. But he just crouched down, grabbed your ankle in his massive hand, and grunted. Seen worse, pup. Ain't gonna kill you.
You didn't ask about the wounds no one could see. The ones that ached in the middle of the night when you heard Tommy yelling from behind closed doors. Body tensing for something you can't remember—muscle memory, maybe. You escaped the worst of it. It's something everyone around you is so quick to say.
But he doesn't. Not even when you sink your teeth into your knuckle as he prods at the torn skin. He just looks at you, impassive and distant—this massive man folding his body into a curled fist held low to the ground, accommodating—and hums.
"don't ruin your pretty skin, pup. Got enough scars f'the both of us."
Your fingers were pulled from your lips. His own slipped between the gap of your teeth, too thick for the split of your mouth. Tasting bitter—saltpetre, ash. Sweat. Iron. Works with his hands. Smokes reds at the dinner table with Tommy until the scent of smoke, cheap tobacco, is heavy in the air. Had to breathe.
"Go on, chew on me if y'need to. Must be teethin'."
When most people spoke down about your age, it made you bristle. Made you sneak out at night and hang around bars you shouldn't have been. Talking old men into giving you and your friends sips. A drag of their cigarette. Got anything stronger? I'm not a kid—I can handle it.
Still. You haven't learned to hold your tongue yet and as he lays your heel on his thick, hard thigh, and pinches the sore, swollen skin between his thumb and forefinger, rifling around in his pack pocket for a needle and thread, you can't help the petulant huff that spills out, reedy around the bulk of his knuckles.
They slip free when you move back, but he chases. Hand twitching back towards you, like a babe seeking warmth.
"I was out,” you bluster, swallowing down the tang of seawater and loam that clings to your tongue. “Partying."
Tommy would have been stupefied. Mad. His face turning blotchy red, purple. Listen 'ere, I might not be the best goddamn guardian f'ya, but y'can't jus' do what y'want—y'grounded, alright? Grounded!
But he isn't Tommy. The look he levels you with is flat. Even. But something sparks in those murky depths. Humour, you think. Leonine pleasure. A well-fed lion pawing at a gazelle just to see it kick.
"I know, pup."
You don't ask how. You think, even then, that you knew.
Simon’s hand moves again, pressing cold, spit-slicked fingertips against the soft give of your lips. You part for him easily, the bravado cracking under the pressure of his deep, unfathomable insouciance.
Cowed. Docile. Or maybe—
Absumed. The tension inside of you—this near constant state of hyperarousal, innate; congenital—is dimmed, snuffed out, under his big, warm hands. A lonely child lulled into a latibule. This clawing, aching thing inside of you, hunger, is a lacuna. Filled, suddenly, by his ferric touch.
The silence that lapsed between you became a staple, a constant, in your evolving relationship. Neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it just is. Quiet. Words unsaid. Actions learned. Understood.
You communicate better in silence. Shared looks. Touches. And when he brushed his thumb over the tender slit in your heel, you hear the things he won't say. Sewn up with spare wire, a needle. Sterilized with the worn, red Zippo he kept in his back pocket.
Wound knitted back together.
A trick he taught you with fishing wire and a needle (—burn the tip jus' like tha' and thread it in deep, birdie—)
Something about you both just clicks.
You were seventeen when you moved into his lonely apartment (one o' many, he grunts; but the safest one he has). It's closer to your school. You're older, mature. You've been making your own decisions since you were thirteen—things like therapy and custody, and signing off on restraining orders to keep your parents away. Not that they bothered about that much anymore—not when Simon came around and threatened them. Dad dead, but mum—she hovers. Floats in and out of your life; a poltergeist that slams doors and kicks over furniture, sews discord just because it's the only measure of control she ever had.
("'nore her," he grunts into your ear when he finally calls after disappearing two weeks ago. Mexico, he rasps. Need'ta know. "She ain't gonna touch you if she knows what's good f'her."
"I know," you murmur, shivering at the brittle char in his voice. You miss him but you won't tell him because he already knows. "Bring me back something from Mexico. A souvenir."
"'ow 'bout a muzzle? For that smart mouth o'yours."
"only if it's pretty."
"fuckin' hell, pup. Gonna start makin' me wish I never left.")
You take care of yourself. Always have. And he—
He takes care of you.
It's easy to slip into these roles. Shedding skin. Dutiful college student, diligently studying away to careening headfirst into a proper, working adult meandering through life that passes too quickly now that you're older. Happy little sister. Dedicated auntie. You know how to contort yourself into these shapes. Let them live and breathe around you, through you, until you both stumble into his dark, quiet apartment. Your feet ache from wearing heels all day. His hands itch from holding himself back.
But here, in this quiet space, nothing matters.
And when he presses your back against the door, chest heaving from the pent-up desire brimming in his dark, unflinching gaze, you know nothing ever will. Nothing ever could.
Except—his eyes on you at dinner. Rapacious. Unnerring. Even as Tommy nudged his arm, brows furrowing as if to say, whatcha starin' at, mate? Almost did, too, when the topic of your boyfriend (this mysterious, phantom figure you spun lies about since you were eighteen) came up and he growled, deep and dark over the idea of you moving in, sometime soon, with another man.
(Something has come between you, you suppose—)
And it leads you here.
Dot, dot, dot.
But his face is a perfect mask of neutrality. Carefully blank. Marred skin carved into marble—impenetrable. Unknowable. But you can feel his anger humming through the whipcord spooling between you. Moonglade you trace with the tips of your fingers, feeling the taut pull of his shoulders when you rest your hands on corded muscle.
In typical fashion, he doesn't say anything about it. Leaves it to rot as he bends down, lips fastening against the heated apple of your cheek—more teeth than affection; nips flesh, and groans.
His hand is big and broad when it slips up your thigh, chest rumbling with a quiet purr when he finds your skin already slick, slippery.
"all f'me?" He grunts, dropping down onto his knees in the foyer, rucking your skirt up to your belly button, a harassed 'old it, pup, tha's a good girl tumbling out. Eyes drilling into the apex of your split thighs, darkening with a desire so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. "Been like this all night, 'ave you?"
Huh? He demands, angry now. All fuckin' wet thinkin' 'bout my cock, pup?
"Simon, please—"
His fingers slip into the hem of your panties. Yours tighten around the bunched fabric of your skirt. It's always so electric when he touches you. Illicit—
But that's just wishful thinking, isn't it? Because nothing about the way Simon feels is wrong. Verboten.
It was there long before you were aware of it.
(—skin of mischmetal just waiting for the oxidized iron and magnesium of his touch to ignite. Little pyrophoric heart stuffed inside a tinderbox.
Inevitable.)
You've always belonged to each other even when you weren't sure what it meant. Back when you'd shove clumsy fingers into your panties after he'd call, uttering awful, terrible, heart-aching things like been thinkin' 'bout you, pup and fuck, can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, pup.
Words meant for the ears of a lover, not you.
But the lines between the two have never been parallel, have they? Even when he was just an idea tucked inside gyri. A stranger that weaved in and out of your life: a haunting spectre on the edges of your periphery. Intangible. Each one an inchoate pin added along a growing, nebulous surface; pointillism in hindsight. The evolution of semelparity.
He's yours and that's all you've ever known.
But at the time—it was just that. Words. Needles in skin. Thread closing the wound.
You're not sure when it, when this, started. When it changed.
Gone half of your life, and then blinking in and out like a phantom. A spectre. An idea. Half-formed in childish nightmares. In glossy, wet teenage dreams. Fingers slipping over your mound, his voice in your ear. A needy ache in the pit of your chest whenever he had to leave. Goodbye to don't go. Don't go to come home quick.
The lines didn't really blur because they were always there to begin with. Innate. Congenital. The first brush of your lips against his—him, stiff and unmoving; watching you with those flat, predatory eyes as you shuffled closer, peeled back the balaclava he sometimes forgets to take off, and pressed your mouth to his. Chaste. Damning. To this.
Him on his knees, pulling your damp panties down. Rocking on his haunches to shove his face into the seam of your cunt, breathing in deep. Gulping down the scent of you. Nuzzling his chin into your flesh, all hot and tender and aching for him.
"gonna eat this pretty cunt, pup," slurred into the wet, slick folds he parts with the crooked, hooked tip of his nose. "been starvin' for it all night."
At one point, you think you tried to stop it.
This morbid, twisting thing growing inside of you. Swallowed down anything to kill the mass that tightened up in a needy, aching knot whenever he was around. Poison. Medicine. Carving it out yourself. But it was all palliative. Quick remedies to soothe the burn, but nothing healed the damaged skin.
Holy places, prayers. Men, boys. Ethanol. Bad choices.
But he never let you go too far.
(how'd you know?
m'always watchin' you, pup. remember tha'.)
Tidied up the mess you made. Helped you into bed. Lied to Tommy about where you've been and what you've done. Scoured the blood from your nails, the viscera from your skin. Listened to you bable about shame and disgust like it was a phantom limb. A third man. Never you—just a friend of a friend. Said nothing as you curled around the mass, shaking in your bed. Just set his hand on your head, and let you heave it out. Expelling all from within.
"go t'bed," he'd say whenever you tried to bring it up, talk around this thing eating you alive. "Talk in the mornin'."
But that never happened. He was gone when you woke. A ghost seen only in the middle of the night. The corner of your room. He had to have known, though—
"s'wrong, pup," he'd said after the kiss, but he still let you pull him down into the sheets. Let you push his hand under the hem of your panties, groaning in your ear when you urged him on so sweetly touch me, touch me—
Somewhere in the tangled, muddled mess of feelings and silence and touch, it just started to make sense. To fit. He belonged to you, and you—got my goddamn blood, don't you? 'course you're mine.
Wounded beings bleeding out, riddled with coagulopathy. It just makes sense to suture them together. And that's what you do—just like he taught you. Copper wire. Golden needle. Dress the wound. Hide it.
But here, in this dark apartment that smells like you, like him, home, you rip the bandage off and let the wound breathe.
Your hand sinks down, nails raking over his shorn scalp. "Then do it," you whine, curling your palm over his crown. "Eat me up, Simon."
"Fuck, pup—tryna make me pop in my goddamn trousers?"
It startles a giggle out of you, breathless. Wanting. "You said you were hungry."
Simon buries his face into your inner thigh, groaning low in his throat. Humid breath ghosting over your heated flesh, dampening skin. "Cheeky fuckin' thing," he drawls, teeth shaping the words against your twitching muscle.
It's little nips, beestings, just enough until the playful laughter in your throat is smothered under the weight of desire. Burning kindling in your belly that pops, crackling sap blistering in the heat each time his marred, mangled lips brush closer to the slick, sensitive crook where leg meets groin. A sliver of flesh the width of a thumb. A hidden valley between tendon and the sloped fold of your cunt. He licks there. Scorching. Wet. Tongue soft as he laps the slick from your skin.
Moans, a little, at the taste. A mangled noise echoing in the broad expanse of his chest. Throaty. Wanting. He nips there too, sinks his teeth into the skin until you whimper, hand grasping futilely against his buzzed scalp, sliding over welts of raised skin, scars.
"Simon—" it comes out reedy. Petulant. "Stop teasing me or—"
"or what, pup?" Huh? He adds, mocking. Mean. Nose scraping over the shape of your sticky, wet fold. His eyes are bedrock. Solid obsidian. So dark, so deep, you think one slip and they might just swallow you whole. "What are you gonna do?"
"I'll—ah—" he sucks your labia into his mouth, sawing softly teeth jagged teeth. "Ah, Simon—I'll go back to Tommy's."
It's a hollow threat, empty words, but his eyes narrow like you uttered a promise. Held a knife to his throat. A gun to the back of his head.
"That so?"
It isn't jealousy that strips his tone raw, has greed dripping down glazed charcoal, staining midnight black green, but something far hungrier. Even though it's his younger brother, even though Tommy is nothing to you except kin—older brother, guardian, the man who gave up his life to raise you after your father was killed and Simon barely made it home in time to save your mother; all things that Simon knows very well—Simon has always been a selfish, possessive bastard. Hackles rising at anything that even hints at taking you away.
This, you know, is no different.
And when he sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh, eyes narrowed at you the whole time, you suppose you deserve it.
Comeuppance doesn't stop you from keening at the fresh, hot spread of pain when his canines pierce flesh, draw blood. From digging your claws into his scalp, dragging them over his skin until he groans, eyes fluttering at the taste of your blood on his tongue, the feel of your nails scratching his head.
His maw drips with it when it peels back, rocking on his haunches to stare up at you with a renewed fever in his eyes. A sharp want that cuts a jagged line down the middle, bleeds black when he tips his head back, exposing the thick of his throat, and hums when he swallows the taste down. Letting you see for yourself the shift and pull of his muscles as he drinks you down. Blood—inside and out.
"s'tha' what you're gonna do?" He mutters, head still tilted back. "Gonna run from me, pup?"
The look in his eyes makes a shiver drip like hot oil down your spine. "N-not if you touch me—"
It's waging a deal with the devil. Taunting a basking saltwater crocodile. Sticking your hand in the maw of a lion. Danger. But in that—
A thrill.
"Jus' want me to touch you, huh?" He coos, mockingly plangent as he tightens his hands around your hips, holding you steady as he rocks forward until his mouth is a sliver away from your slick, throbbing flesh. His hot breath ghosting over your wet slit makes you keen, all low and pitiful. Whining in the back of your throat. "Need my mouth on ya? Wanna hump your needy little cunt all over your big brother's face?"
His name stutters out in a warbling cry—the coalescence of shock and shame that bubble inside your chest, frothing over at the hideousness of it all, but cowed (and secretly pleased) at how easily he can say something like that. Rough and gritty. Scree raining down—sharp stings. Little bites. Embarrassment and elation an ugly, mouldering thing in your belly.
"Don't—don't be crude," you hiss out instead, catching his crown once more in your hand to give a warning squeeze. Mouse nibbling on the toe of a lion, all he does is huff, blowing warm air over your drenched cunt.
"Crude," he mocks, but lets you lead his head to where you want it most. Buried between your thighs. Long, thick nose pressed tight against your pebbled clit. But you should have known better—his compliance always comes with a cost. He carves his pound of flesh with the sharpened edge of a mean smirk, dropping his mangled maw to let his tongue snake out. Just a taste, a tease. His tongue flattens against your parted seam long enough to coat the tip before he pulls back, your wetness glistening on his lips. "Ain't nothin' crude 'bout eatin' my baby sisters, pussy. 'pecially when she's beggin' for it so bad."
"Simon—!"
"s'where 'er big brother belongs, ain't it? Buried between these sweet thighs."
He cleaves his tongue up your slit—aching, drenched hole to swollen clit—and huffs when you yowl, back arching against the door. His mouth has always been an awful, awful thing. This is no different. Sawing it roughly between your folds, groaning at the taste of you. Peeling back long enough to dart his gaze upward, cutting, until you meet his stare. See the wetness around his chin, covering his lips. Pale pink lips turning blood red with how eager he devours you, eats you up.
Simon swallows again. Tongue flicking out to catch the drying droplets of your blood still tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"Want my mouth, pup?" He demands, words mangled in his throat. Raked over coals. "Want your big brother to eat your sweet pussy?"
You're not sure how he says these things so shamelessly—and that's exactly what they are: without shame. Drenched in desire. Want. He glares up at you, heaving, hands flexing around your hips as you war with the part of you that still likes to pretend he's a stranger sometimes. Waiting.
He won't touch you again until you give him what he wants.
But what he wants—
Well.
You're not sure there's enough of you left to give away.
"Simon," you try, angling for needy because that's exactly what you are: wanting. Hungry. Sick with the same fever that burns through the palm of his hand. Desperate. "Simon, come on, please—"
You try tugging him. Pulling his head back to your aching, empty cunt. Arching your back. Rolling your hips. But he stays, impassive and immovable as ever despite everything you try.
"Please, just—"
"Thought you wanted to go back to Tommy's?"
"Simon—"
"Tha's what you said," he trails his fingers down your hip, dragging the tips through the slick smeared over your mound. Featherlight touches. Chaste kisses. Slides his hand over your cunt until it's cupped in his palm, long, thick fingers pressed against your rim. Heel on your clit.
It's torture. It isn't enough—
"I won't go," you heave, panting when he starts to stroke his fingers over your fluttering, empty hold. The movement pushing the ball of palm into your clit that sends little frissons of pleasure down your spine. "I won't leave—"
"Wha'd'ya want, pup?"
"You—"
His hand on your hip flattens over your belly, stopping the desperate rolls you make with each brief, not enough touch. It's mean. You whine that to him, pouting when his lips pull up in a vicious smirk.
"Can stay here all night, pup."
You don't doubt him for a second—awful, awful man—but it's hard to breathe around the shame sometimes. This polluted feeling in your chest. Tarlike. Oozing from the wound you left to rot. Infectious. Greedy.
He knows it, too. Listens to you bable out your worries to him in the dead of night, and only ever when he's gone. Spitting up the ugliness that festers in your chest is easier to do when there's an ocean between you. Words that are swept up in the morning—forgotten. Bad dreams.
Finite maladies. Bloodletting. Something that recedes when he's here, holding the fraying sutures closed with his hands. Keeping you together.
And it's fine. You need him. Can't separate yourself from living inside the heat of his hands. But it's easy when he lets you pretend. Let's you act like the stranger, the girl he picked up off the street and brought home. Little stray out in the rain that no one wanted tucked inside the pocket of his coat. Live inside the parallels where he's just a man. Flesh and bone. And not—
Blisters on your fingers. Gonna teach you 'ow t'fight back, pup. Get some claws on you yet. A gash on your foot. Too clumsy f'your own good. Skinned knees. Bruises on the apples of your cheeks. This is Simon. You remember 'im, don't you? 'course you do. He's—he's family. Dancing around the behemoth in the kitchen bent over a warm beer. Eyes sliding in every direction until they landed on you. 'smatter? Scared of your older brother? Don't worry—red eyes, indents in your bottom lip; he never asks who did it, just says—I'll hurt anyone who touches you, pup.
And it's a fact. Truism.
The next morning: coffee instead of a beer (s'not black, Tommy whispers in stages, half conspiratorial, half pleading please, please love him back: "he takes wif' three sugars. Gots a sweet tooth;") but still hunched over the table, eyes gliding around the room—the exits. Muscle memory, he'll bite out three years later when you finally gather the courage to ask. Habit. Normal—
His knuckles are bruised. Bloodied. His hand stiff around the mug, fingers too swollen, cut up, to close. Catches your gaze over the rim, but you don't bother pretending that he hadn't known you were there the moment you walked in. Gives you a wink.
You think about that time in the kitchen and wonder if that was when these parallel lines started to collapse. Cave in.
Run into the ground. Into this.
Or was it this inevitable. A statement of fact. Something meant to happen regardless of blood.
"Simon."
"don't keep me waitin'," he says your name then. Not pup. Not birdie. Your name. "Tell me what you want."
Words unsaid, you think. Tell me what this is.
"I want you." It comes out shakier than you want it to. Your nails rake over his crown. Hips twitching futilely in his iron hold. "I want you, Simon."
"Gotta be more specific than tha'. What do you want me t'do?"
It feels like dancing along the edge of a precipice. The canyon floor is a vertiginous drop some several hundred feet below, stopped only by jagged rock. Exposed travertine. Rocky terraces. Stepping off the ledge and into the chasm is a daunting task even though you've been flirting with the abyss long before you even knew what the fear of falling was.
Words well, swelling over your tongue. It's easy to whisper them in secrecy, in cloaked darkness. Buried beneath blankets of a Stygian night. Tenebrous folding hands over your eyes. Make-believe on worn, cotton sheets that smell like heady musk—animalic. Arctic Angelica. Geosmin. Wet copper. An old, dirty cloth stained with guncotton. Sex. Loam. Stale sweat. Simon.
Your tongue is looser when he's been gone for a while. Willing to give in to his whims, the ugly shape of his mishappen desire.
And you know it's not about the substance. Not at all. The taboo doesn't rankle down his spine the same way you—just you—do.
This is a manifestation of his greed.
Like your loving seamother, he isn't content with halves or quarters. It's bones, blood, and viscera: all or nothing. Life or death. You can't cleave the limb to save the body with him.
Just like you can't pretend he's something he is not. Flesh and bone. Blood.
All or nothing.
But there's a difference between uttering those words when he lets you hide your sins from the world, tucked under the bulk of his body. Protectively cradled in the dark. And this—
You still smell Tommy's cologne in your nose when he went in for a tight, consuming hug only hours before. The taste of gin and pot roast on your tongue. Wapish barbs thrown back and forth like darts when Tommy's wife pried into your life—when are you movin' out on your own? Si must be tired of ya, ain't he?—and how it felt like the floor was dropping out from under your feet when he kicked his foot against your ankle, eyes prairie fire, feverish, and waited to see what you'd do.
Simon doesn't seem to care much for decorum.
"clawed my way outta the dirt to get back 'ome, t'get back t'you. This," he stamps his finger into your chest, laying claim over the thudthudthud of your trembling heart. "Ain't gonna change nothin'."
You thought of that then when you glanced down at the overcooked potatoes leaking a river of golden butter into the marshy peas, and rolled your shoulder. "I pay rent. It's cheaper. It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?" He'd said, dangerously low. Thick arms folded over his broad chest.
You should have known then that this was the inevitable conclusion. But—
Wounds. Sutures. Second skin. Copper solder.
Your head thrums with the aching pulse of a low-grade fever. Thoughts sluggish through the want.
And god, do you want.
Tactile: his hands, his mouth, on you. The way he pushes into you, filling you so perfectly that you always weep. Body on yours, crushing. All heat. The way he kisses you when he's about to cum, teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. Chest rumbling with the groans he smothers against your lips. Hips working, pounding into you. Filling you up. Pulling on the threads, the seams, keeping you together. His rough voice in your ear (gonna cum, pup and—lips glued to yours, eyes burning in the dark—beg me not to do it inside o' you, not to cum in this sweet pussy). The pulse of his cock when you try to push him off, hands shoving against his broad, thick shoulders as you whimper beneath him, pleading just like he asked. Don't Simon, don't—not, not inside and, tears in your eyes, please don't cum inside me, Simon, please—
His groan in your ear when he does just that because nothing—not even you, pup—will ever tear him away from this perfect little cunt.
(his perfect little cunt—)
And impossibly: him. His hand in yours. Leaning over to steal kisses from you when Tommy isn't looking. A house you together without questions like when are you going to stop depending on your older brother, grow up, settle down—
You just want him.
The rest—
Doesn't matter.
But it can't stay like that, like this, whispers in the dark. Vespertine. Not with the sheer vastitude of his unerring appetite for you.
You huff, hand curling in the damp fistful of your skirt. Gripping tight. All of nothing.
"I want you, Simon," you plead, and a liquid heat fills you when his eyes flash, widening a touch before his kids droop down, half-mast. Listening. Waiting. Bringing out a shiver when the hand cupping your pussy possessively twitches, the tip of his finger dipping inside just a sliver. "I want—" you swallow down the shame that prickles in the back of your throat, keeping your gaze fixed on him as you tremble through the unease and let the feverish pin of his stare pull you in deeper. Flay you alive just to stitch you back together again. "I want my—my big brother to eat, eat my pussy—"
When he groans, it sounds like you've gutted him. Vivisection in the dim foyer where you can still smell reality on your skin. Tommy's looming disgust, his anger, that snakes around your neck because Simon doesn't do quarters or halves. Flesh, blood, bones. All or nothing. And the next time the shadowed lover comes up, he'll pounce. Staking his claim on you. Laying ownership down in the shape of his spare dogtag he makes you keep around your neck. The next best thing to a ring.
(already go' my last name—)
Awful man.
He lurches forward. Springing like a tiger in the underbrush, all thick, corded grace. Muscled agility. Snatches his jaws around you, canines digging in. His face against your mound, breathing in deep. Fingers pushing, pressing into you. Tongue laving over salt-slick skin.
The thick line of his cock lays flat against his thigh. A terrible sight, really, considering you've only just learned how to take him to the root without clawing at him to get away. An impossible stretch that leaves you feeling achy and sore—the onset of a fever. Waking up with a bellyache and soaked in sweat. Him behind you, pushing his cock inside again, desperate for you ("go back sleep, pup—I jus' need your cunt—") despite the burn. Making room in a place that begs for clemency, crying out: he just doesn't fit.
Pleasure and pain are tetherbound with Simon. Tidally locked. You can't have one without the other, and slowly, slowly, he's teaching you how live around this paradox. And that's what it is
Two fingers stretching you. His mouth sealing over your clit. The sting soothed by the wash of his tongue. The hard, tight suck quelled with the graze of his knuckle over a cluster of nerves inside of you that make your vision blur.
Quiddity: hurt and bliss weaving together, sinking deep into bathic depths; becoming this ineffable thing shared between the two of you. Demersal. Subsumed deep in your marrow. Mother's embrace. Your own special temenos.
You wonder if he knows. If he feels it when he grips your hip tight, feasting on your cunt. This urgency. This need. This gnawing ache in your belly that wants, wants, wants—
"c'mon, pup," he grunts against you, brontide. "Ride my face 'til you cum."
He rives his tongue through your folds until your knees quake, threatening to buckle. Pulls your clit into his mouth, laving it with the flat of his tongue in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. He knows your body perfectly. Renders it into a finely tuned instrument, strumming between his fingers and tongue. That mangled, awful mouth.
Pleasure thrums down your spine.
You can't do much, can't even move, when he lifts his hand and curls it under your thigh. Wrenched it up, hefting your leg over his shoulder. Opening you up wider for him.
His name spills out. A choked whisper, distant and ignored, under the noises he pulls from your body. The squelch of your cunt swallowing his fingers to the knuckle. So wet, so wanting, it puddles on the floor between his knees—
Makin' a fuckin' mess, pup—
And you are. His face is soaked. Covered in you. It drips down his chin, but he just licks his marled mouth and dives back in for more. Stroking against that spot inside, a lacuna he carved out himself, until you see stars.
Deliquesce in his hands. A pretty ringdove with his fingerprints around your neck, cooing for him as he tugs on your seams. Unravels you with too much teeth and tongue, fingers pistoning inside of you as you break into pieces in the foyer. The lights are still on.
There's no hiding in the shadows. No playing pretend.
It's Simon on knees opening you up. Glaring at you through cracked obsidian, naked hunger spuming in the ink-filled depths: heavy drapes of amorphous clouds, nimbostratus, that rumble through the room, closing in around you. Inescapable. Tangled in this nebulous web that spools around you—
Copper wire.
His tongue feels electric when it rakes through your folds again—from rim, stretched around two thick, long fingers, to your pebbled clit—and the hot, clenching pulse behind your navel intensifies, coiling into a tight knot. A balled fist.
Simon groans into your swollen cunt, jabbing the tips of his fingers cruelly into that spot inside that makes your knees feel weak, liquid. Over and over and over—
“Come on,” it's barked out between sloppy licks over your clit, fingers rubbing, rubbing. “Be a good little sister and cum all over your brother's face—”
The knot breaks. Bursts into a series of gut-wrenching, bellyaching throbs. Pulsing molten as your nails dig into his scalp, body tensing with the viciousness of your release. Less unrelenting pleasure and more relief because when it rips through you, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat, a bellyache, there's a thread of pain woven in. Hewn against the clench of your muscles, the spasms that burst behind your navel.
Made worse when he doesn't stop—
Fingers pushing, shoving. Mouth sloppy against your cunt, grunting into your wet slit about how he can feel your pussy squeezing around him. S’tight, pup. Feels like you're tryin’ t’strangle my fingers, but he keeps forcing them into you, bullying through the vice-like clench to rub over your spasming flesh, merciless and cruel. Tongue laving over your clit, sucking it into his too hot, too sharp mouth. All jagged teeth, and—
Too much, too much—
Giving a messy, slurping suck, then ducking down to shove his tongue into you, sliding it between his spreading fingers, drinking down the thick, syrupy taste of you until it aches. Burns—
“S–Simon, please—can’t—”
He peels away with a grunt, ugly and bullish, and the relief is so sweet, you nearly weep. Whining in the back of your throat when he blows over your heated, swollen cunt. The tears spill when he leans over, rubbing his wet, sticky face into your inner thigh before opening his maw and sinking his teeth into your skin. Claiming. Branding.
It's different from the times before even though you know it's the same—same shape, same teeth, same spot. Something about it sits on your skin, digs into your flesh, differently than before. Less subtle. Less—
Restrained.
Carnivorous. Possessive. Even if the press of his jowls fits like it always has—a tattoo you'll keep for a few weeks before it heals; open wound, scab, shiny new skin. Ephemeral.
But maybe it doesn't have to be.
In the malformed face of this engineered, coerced epiphany, he stands in a fluid motion.
Your thigh slips down his shoulder before getting caught by hand, trapping it against his waist as he pushes against you, fingers locking in a bruising grip on the meat of your thigh.
Simon cages you between his body and the door. His other hand trails wet fingers over the column of your throat, wrapping around the vulnerable slope until the heat of his palm is pressed tight against your jugular. Holding firm.
Possessive.
It's a reflection of the look in his eyes as he gazes down at you, mouth wet. Pinked from heat, from the smothering clench of your thighs as he buried his face between them. The sight blisters. You want to taste yourself on his scars.
"want all o'you," he rumbles, timber low and fried. A brassy rasp that tickles your ears, and blooms fresh heat in your belly. Leaves scorch marks over your skin. "Get that, pup? All o' nothin'."
All or nothing.
Your legs are shaking. Natant. It feels like being eaten alive. Swallowed whole by the sea, dragged down, down—
“Got it,” you breathe when he gives a little shake of his hand. A pinching squeeze. Eyes on me, birdie. Don’t you ever fuckin’ look away. “All or—”
His mouth is on yours, stealing the words out from between your teeth. Half-formed, inbred. A hitching gasp, a quiver. He eats it whole.
And that’s how he kisses you, too:
but it's never really a kiss so much as it is being devoured. Eaten alive. The same way he gorges himself on you whenever he's between your thighs. Hunger. Famine. All consuming. Immutable want.
It’s in this kiss—sharing spit, sharing blood—(or this mockery of it) that the tendrils of his ravenous desire manifest, growing limbs. Teeth. Bites the hand that feeds it.
Hindsight blooms in the black clots of hypoxia, screaming this:
Tommy’s approval (and surefire lack thereof) doesn’t matter, has never mattered, because in Simon’s head, his family is dead. Died in a massacre some eighteen years ago. Living ghost—
(Ghost, is that what they call you?
Why are you so curious, pup? Wanna try screamin’ that out tonight instead, huh? Call me Ghost when I go’ my cock buried deep inside that pretty little cunt. Go on, then. Let’s give ‘er a go—)
—and out of that, the ashes, the blood on the cigarette-burned carpet, you were the one he reached for, grabbed onto. C’mon, pup, ain't gonna lose you too.
The you too in that has always been a mystery, the misshapen shape of a bad dream because the reality is that it’s impossible for you to remember, isn’t it?
And yet—
You have the most vivid memory of him pulling you into his arms, tucking your face into his chest. Breathe, birdie. Ain’t done with you yet.
Like now, when he slips his fingers over the curve of your asscheek, following the slick seam until his knuckle is pushing against your sore, tender hole, slipping inside with a groan that tickles along your tongue where it’s trapped tight between his teeth. Ain’t done. Two fingers, knuckle deep. Swallowing the whimper you make, canines digging into the soft give of your flesh until the kiss turns from loam—the salt-soaked, algae-like tang of your pussy on his lips—to iron. Blood.
(But really—
A little more between you never hurts.)
He holds you to his chest, smothering. Suffocating. Playing god, tempting death, with just a kiss. Eyes open. Staring at you.
And you:
Eyes open, staring back at him.
He sinks his fingers deeper, hooking them into your abused flesh until you whimper into his mouth, pulling away with a sharp cry. Don't and stop on your tongue, leaden, but he follows you, breaking them between his crooked teeth before they form.
“Come on, pup. Gimme one more.”
But it's never just one more with him. Never sated. Never full. He groans into the soft skin under your lip, nipping there when you drop your head back against the door, panting. Breathless. Dizzy. So full of him, you don't remember what it's like to be empty anymore.
“Simon, Simon, please, just—”
“Gonna gimme this pretty cunt instead, birdie?” Gonna ride your older brother, huh? Make ‘im cum inside you. He slips is other hand between your bodies, fingers dancing cruelly over your belly. Little circles. An oval. Some macabre pastiche of a heart. “Ain't safe,” he drawls, all bark, bite. “Could knock you up—”
All or nothing, you think suddenly, something whitehot burning behind your navel. Promise me that, pup. All or nothing, yeah?
Sometimes, he really makes you sick.
“What?” He taunts, breath rolling over your cheek as he digs his fingers into that spot inside that makes your knees turn liquid. The space below your hips melting. Natant. “Cat go’ your tongue o’ somethin’? Gone all quiet on me. Gonna make me think you don’t want me, pup.”
“Want you Simon,” you slur, dizzy. Delirious. As long as he keeps petting that place that makes everything sound a little fuzzy around the edges, that makes the space between your thighs feel syrupy with heat. Pleasure. “Want you so bad—”
“Then beg.”
It’s cruel. Mean. But even so—
You think of his hand on your foot, pinching the wound closed. Copper sutures. Jus’ like that pup. Jus’ me an’ you.
“Go on an’ beg your older brother not to knock you up.”
The words form, moulding on your lips. They taste of seawater when you flick your tongue across their shape; ichor and salt. Blood, maybe. You remember the adage, fill the rest in: thicker than water. It comes out like a plea in the back of your head.
You make it around please and Simon, before he bucks into you. Cock hard—a mallet. Battering ram. Inescapable.
“Oh, pup,” he coos, strumming against that dizzying spot until you clench tight, unravelling around his fingers. Awash in pure white. Fuzzy around the edges. Cotton in your ears—
Sinking deep below the surface. Back in mother’s arms
But it’s just his lips against your skin, teeth nipping at your cheek, mocking and mean. “Gonna have to beg me better ‘in tha’—”
Tommy will be so disappointed, is the passing the thought as he pulls you down, down.
The other—
But he's yours and that's all you've ever known. The rest just doesn't matter.
imagine you’re dating ghost and no one knows. the two of you have kept it a secret on your end and his just for your protection— because ghost knows what could happen if someone finds out, how someone might try and target you to get to him, or worse, given his line of work.
but then imagine that he’s on a mission, interrogating some piece of filth ready to decorate the fucking wall with his brain matter when the guy says “you know what, simon, killing me would be the biggest mistake of your life.”
immediately ghost would pause, eyes narrowed, though his hardened demeanour wouldn’t fade much, he’d just blankly stare at the prick like “oh yea? n’ why don’ you tell m’ why.”
the shit-eating grin that would crawl across that fuckers lips would have ghost ready to kill him right then and there, but then he’d say “reach in my pocket. pull out my phone.”
id like to think ghost would have absolutely none of this assholes bullshit, not at all entertained by his theatrics. i’d like to think he’d just press the muzzle of his gun to the fuckers temple within an instant, all teeth barred and ready to get it over with when the guy would add,
“your girlfriend is a fucking beauty, isn’t she?”
everything would pause. ghost, time, the world, air, the universe itself—the life that would drain from ghosts face would almost be enough to make his alias a reality. his heart pounding in his throat, his fingers fucking trembling as he immediately reached into the assholes pocket to find his phone—a picture of a woman tied up (face not in view however) lighting up on the home screen. there’d be no thinking rationally, no thoughts in ghosts head except for making sure you were fucking okay. he’d do whatever he’d have to do, kill the guy, leave him strapped there, whatever—he’d be out of that room in two seconds flat and personally flying the helicopter back to your house calling you nonstop every fucking second until you answered.
“hello? si?”
he’d wait a second before answering. taking everything in. background noises, the inflection of your voice. it sounds calm, maybe too calm? he’s grasping his phone so fucking hard it’s a miracle it hasn’t shattered between his fingers.
“princess,” he breathes, fighting with everything in him to keep his voice steady. “see any birds today?”
though it was a genuine question, it also was an established one. ghost had set up a series of questions for a situation precisely like this. if you said blue jay, it meant you were fine, at home, as usual. if you said crows, it meant you weren’t.
“oh just the usual blue jays, si.” he could almost hear the smile on your lips. “everything okay? i miss you.”
ghost would exhale a shattered breath. “i’m coming home.”
and then he’d show up, not all but a few hours later, hands still trembling slightly, heart rate still struggling to regulate. it was too much, reminding him too much of his past traumas, he knew he needed to find better protection for you, but that was a conversation for another time.
he’d come in the house, barely even taking the time to shut the door behind him, almost frenzied again, relentless, unable to relax until he could finally lay eyes on you. and then, the second he did, he’d just pause and look at you, all messy hair and pyjamas still on, in the kitchen cooking breakfast for you both since you knew he was on his way.
and he wouldn’t say a goddamn word, he’d just come up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist, hugging you so tight you’d hardly be able to breathe, his face buried in your hair and his heart thumping at your back. you’d feel the pain the fear the anxiety radiating off him and you wouldn’t try to say anything because you knew he needed this, you knew he needed to see you, hold you, feel your pulse stable and alive. you knew he just needed a moment to breathe.
and so the two of you would stand there like that for a while, and then he’d take a big inhale and spin you around to face him, pulling up his mask to plant soft kisses on your jaw.
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