Your older sister Nyx surprised you with a plane ticket a week and a half ago, saying she needed to tell you something she could only say in person. You’ve been worried sick, terrified that she might have some horrible news to give you. When the day finally comes, she picks you up from the airport in a sleek white sportscar. Its engine still purrs as she steps out to open the trunk and tosses your bags in her car, then pulls you into a tight hug. Despite being your big sister, she had been shorter than you for about as long as you can remember. You don’t mind, though. Somehow, her hugs always manage to make you feel small.
“Missed you, kiddo.” she says, her face pressed into your chest.
“I missed you too, sis.”
It’s only been a few months since you last saw her, but it felt like years. You squeeze her a little tighter, just glad to feel her warmth again.
It's a long drive home, getting through the city during rush hour on a Friday is slow. She’s blasting emo music and screaming along to it, and all you can think about is how beautiful she is singing like this.
The moment the traffic clears she floors it, the acceleration pushing you back into your seat. When you glance at the dashboard, you swear you see triple digits. That should rightfully terrify you, but you feel just as safe as you've always felt around her. She seems totally in control of everything, her hand on the stick as she weaves in and out of traffic. Truthfully, it’s kind of hot.
The music is too loud to start a conversation, but you’re still worried about what she has to say. You’ve had a million notions about what it might be, but none of them make sense. You do your best not to stress about it during the drive, resolving to just ask when you get to her place.
She pulls you into another hug the moment the door shuts behind you, holding you close. You almost start to ask the question that had been burning in your mind, but she pulls away and breaks the silence first.
Her voice trembles as she starts, "I-I don’t know how to say this, but…” before trailing off.
Maybe she found out how you really feel about her and she hates you. Maybe one of your moms died, maybe both of your moms died. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, dreading the next words that would leave her lips. But instead, she says something you never dared dream you would hear.
"I love you, Emmie. Like, I’m in love with you, I’m so in love with you it hurts…”
You can see the fear written across her face as she says it, like she’s terrified you’ll yell at her for it. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this afraid of anything, she’s the bravest person you know.
"Fuck, I’m s-sorry I can get you a flight home I’ve probably just ruined everything but I missed you so mu—”
Before she can finish, you move without thinking, bending down a little to press your lips against hers. It’s awkward, your nose kind of smushes against hers and your glasses nearly get pushed off your face, but it feels perfect to you. Of course it does; it’s her, it’s your sister, it’s everything you ever wanted and thought you could never have.
You pull away after a few brief moments, adrenaline coursing through your system. Fuck, you don’t know why you did that, you just… couldn’t stop yourself. You almost start to apologize, but she grabs you by the collar of your jacket and pulls you in for another kiss. This one is messier, hungrier, your sister’s tongue pushing into your mouth. Needy whimpers bleed into the kiss as Nyx makes a moment you’ve only fantasized about become more real than anything has ever felt before. Something presses against your thigh and– oh fuck, she’s getting turned on by this. Just the thought of it makes you a little dizzy.
When she finally breaks the kiss, your thoughts unfreeze just enough to ask the question that had been burning in your mind since she confessed.
"H-how long have you—” you start to ask.
"Since you came out,” she says, with absolute certainty. “Watching you blossom into the girl you are now I… How was I supposed to not fall in love with you?” Her hands run up and down your sides as she says that, her touch sending a shiver down your spine.
Leaning into her embrace, you bury your face in the crook of her neck. You take a deep breath in, filling your head with her scent; she smells like apples and vanilla, warmth and safety.
"You smell really nice…” you mumble. It’s all you can think about, you’ve missed her scent so much. Her hand drifts up, fingers tangling in your hair as she begins to scratch gently at your scalp. All the tension built up in your body after your flight melts away under your sister’s love, a soft whine escaping your throat.
“Oh, good girl… I’m gonna take really good care of you this week, okay?” she purrs into your ear. You nod against her shoulder, you trust her completely.
She lets you go after what felt like an eternity in her arms, taking your hand and leading you into her living room. A smile crosses your face as she turns on her stereo and you hear the opening notes of Doll, the first song on your favorite Foo Fighters album. You’ve been talking to her about music a lot lately, but you never thought she’d actually remember your favorites. She breathes a loud sigh of relief as she takes a seat on the couch, sinking into the cushions.
“It’s good to be home, today was too long… C’mere, lay your head in my lap,” she says, patting the spot beside her.
You lie down next to her, resting your head on her thigh like she asked. Not quite comfy yet, you shift around a little until you find just the right spot, those gentle scratches on your head returning once you settle in. You both stay like that for a while, sitting almost completely still and basking in each other’s warmth while the music plays.
Her scent is a little different from where you are now, less of her perfume and more of her sweat and natural scent; it’s almost intoxicating. You blush as you feel the bulge in her sweatpants again, pressing gently against the back of your head. You hold as still as you can, not wanting to weird her out, but when you shift your head a little on accident, the tiny moan that leaves her lips dissolves every bit of your self control. She’s been so good to you, flying you out to see her, taking time off work to be with you. It’s only natural to want to reward her for it, right?
You roll over so that you’re facing her stomach, her girlcock now pressed right up against your cheek. Worried that you might be going too far, you glance up at her, searching for any sign of discomfort on her face. She’s blushing bright red, biting her lip; you’re not the best at picking up hints but it’s clear that she wants you. Emboldened, you rub your cheek gently against her bulge, your head getting fuzzy as you drink in the scent of her sweat and need.
The hand playing idly with your hair tightens into a fist and you feel her hips buck a little underneath you.
“F-fuck, Emily,” she whines, her breathing getting more and more ragged. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this…”
You can’t believe it either, but nothing could stop you now. You plant little kisses along her cock over the fabric, but that’s not enough for you, or for her. You whimper as she pulls your head back a little and holds you there; you never thought having your hair pulled would feel good like that. Her free hand awkwardly works to tug down her sweatpants and boxers; she giggles a little and apologizes as she struggles with her waistband, but you don’t mind waiting.
When her cock finally springs free of her boxers, you almost can’t breathe. It’s so pretty, her scent even more overpowering without all that fabric in the way. You need it so bad, you need her so bad. You have just enough self control left to ask for her consent.
“Nyx, c-can I–”
You can’t even finish your question before she nods, pushing your head back down towards her lap again. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, totally surrounded by her scent. You’re not sure what you’re doing, you’ve never done this before, so you just do what comes natural; just more little kisses at first, but you need more. She moans as you take the tip into your mouth, her grip on your hair dissolving into more soft scratches that have you melting into a needy puddle for her.
“That’s it, good girl, just like that,” she purrs, her praise making your tummy flutter. Time starts to blur as you lose yourself in it, a look of bliss settling on your face as you worship your big sister, just like you’ve always dreamed of. She leans back into the couch cushion, letting you take things at your own pace as you slowly push yourself further and further.
Inexperienced as you are, you’re clearly doing something right; after a few minutes she can hardly hold back her voice and her thighs are starting to tremble, her hips bucking and pushing her cock deeper down your throat.
“Fuckkkk,” she groans. “You’re so good at this, Emmie. Such a good little slut…”
You can’t help but moan at that; you want to be a good slut for her, it’s all you can think about.
“G-getting close… I just- need more, tell me if you need me to stop okay?”
You squeak as she tugs sharply on your hair, pulling your head back until her cock is just barely still in your mouth and holding you there before she starts to thrust her hips, fucking up into your throat.
You fight to control your gag reflex, trying your best to breathe through your nose as she uses you like a toy. It’s so overwhelming, but you don’t ever want her to stop. You’re hers, you belong to your big sister, and it feels amazing…
“E-Emmie!” she stutters, bucking her hips up one last time and forcing your head as far down on her cock as she can.
You feel her pulsing in your mouth, just barely able to taste her load on the back of your tongue as she pumps it down your throat. She keeps you there until you start to run out of air, gagging around her. A thin strand of drool bridges the gap between your lips and her still-twitching cock as she pulls your head back off her length. She lays you back down in her lap, letting out the most contented sigh you’ve ever heard.
“You’re so good, baby sis…” she murmurs.
You catch your breath for a moment, but with your sister’s cock this close to your face, still leaking for you, you just can’t help yourself. You start to kiss the tip of it, cleaning up every drop of her cum as she lazily plays with your hair, both of you basking in the afterglow.
Your throat feels scratchy as you speak for the first time in a while.
“I love you, Nyx.”
It’s the only thing you could say right now, she’s the only thing on your mind. You love her so much, and now you know you’ll never have to hide that love from her ever again.
See this fuckin' awesome comic by @owlygem for the context for this ficlet: https://www.tumblr.com/owlygem/795416768389791744/ah
So I was not the original person who asked about writing fic for this au, but apparently seeing that ask activated something in my brain and I wrote this at work today like I'd been possessed.
This au lives rent free in my brain and getting into Spam's head for this little snippet was an absolute BLAST.
The Lord of Screens Cleaved Red by Blade
What a fucking joke.
Everything Spamton had given up, everything that had been taken from him for trying to outfox the prophecy, and it hadn’t even been that glorified horoscope that had gotten [[him]] in the end. Some idiot Lightner with butterfingers and no idea they’d been holding someone’s life in their hands had beaten capital-F Fate to the punch.
He keeps having dreams about broken glass.
Broken glass and the bang of a vacuum popping, heaving inward like when [[he’d]] sucked in [[his]] gut to be funny. Cracked plastic and warped metal and split wires and broken glass and broken glass and broken glass and broken glass–
He quit sleeping a while ago.
The sleep deprivation probably isn’t doing him any favors, but his head’s so fucked already that it probably can’t make things much worse, either. It’s fine.
Even if it’s not fine, he doesn’t care all that much. Everything sucks so thoroughly and so constantly anyway that it all melts down into a long gummy blur without any particular misery making an impression over the others.
And then this jackass shows up.
Shows up wearing [[his]] clothes.
As if he doesn’t already attract enough attention just by standing two heads taller than every other Addison, he has to play dressup too.
At least when Spamton had done that, it hadn’t been a dead man he’d been imitating.
At least [[he’d]] stolen just as much right back, until they’d started smudging together at the edges, started looking more like a matched set instead of two assholes trying to out-do each other at being the other asshole.
Honestly, it feels good to be angry about something specific for a change, instead of just the rotten sum total of what he’s been reduced to.
So when Mr. Counterfeit shows up in his back alley for a little mission trip or private circus or whatever, Spamton let’s him fucking have it.
Showing up in the first place isn’t the end to the audacity from Wannabee, either, because of course it wouldn’t be. Dressed ‘like what?’ he asks, and his oh-gosh-oh-gee cluelessness sounds almost genuine. Like his jacket’s not color-matched down to the hex-code and his tie isn’t flapping around in the breeze like [[he]] always used to insist on.
“I don’t know why I even came here,” Pantomime eventually whines.
Get in line, pal!
“When I heard about you, I felt pity for you!”
Yeah, well. Get in line for that, too.
“But I shouldn’t have bothered!!!”
Spamton barely hears the rest of what gets snarled at him. Copypaste’s lips peel back from his teeth into a shape that technically resembles a smile in the same way that a grimy puppet scuttling around in the trash technically resembles a rising star. Claws prick through the fingertips of his gloves as he grabs at nothing and lavender sparks of electricity spit off of him.
It’s just like–
No.
It looks just like–
No.
He looks just like–
NO no no nononono there’s no way.
Spamton can’t get goosebumps anymore but he feels them crawling over him anyway, like a full-body phantom limb.
There’s no fucking way. He knows there isn’t.
But he doesn’t know it well enough to make this not be happening, and not well enough to stop himself from asking the pitiful, horrible question that he already knows the impossible, horrible answer to.
"When did the walking apes decide that nuclear war was the only solution for them keeping the score?" -Avenged Sevenfold
A sinking feeling has been broiling in Tony’s stomach from the very moment the captain walked through the door. Every word the man spits sends that feeling bubbling over through the rest of his body, flushing his cheeks and tightening his jaw. Somewhere in the back of his head Tony makes a mental note to commend the spangly son of a bitch for managng to get under his skin in record time.
“Big man in a suit of armour, take that off and what are you?” Steve circles him like predator, and tony holds back a scoff at the smugness Steve’s been trying to hide under a stern, accusing tone.
“Billionaire, genius, playboy, philantropist-”
“War profiteer.” It takes a second for the words to reach Tony’s ears, and a split second longer for the intent to crawl it’s way past his skull. Tony’s eyes widen triggering a curl on the corner of the Captain’s mouth to arise, finally a break in his cool resolve. “Yeah that’s right, I did my research. Read about how you spent your whole goddamn adult life treating war like a cash cow, milking it for all it’s worth.” Steve stepped in closer, menacingly so and Tony’s nostrils flared.” And not once did you think to stop until it all came back to bite you in the ass. I’ve seen the footage, the only thing you really fight for is yourself.” Tony took a moment to force down the lump in his throat, and with them images of Obadiah Fucking Stane, wispering softly in his ear as he rips his fucking heart out.
“You know, that’s some big talk coming from one of Howard’s friends.” Tony couldn’t deny the little wave of sly triumph that ran through him at the furrowing of the Captain’s brows.
“What do you mean by that?” The gritting of his teeth was drowned out by warning sirens over the warning sirens blaring over the P.A.
“Guess you didn’t do all your research. Manhattan Project, might wanna look it up sometime. But I must say, confusion is a great look on you, Captain.” Before steve could find someting, anything to say in retort Tony was halfway towards the door.
Your sister used to be afraid of the dark.
You remember that as you step through the gap where the front door used to be — not because it really matters, but because what used to be is gone now, and because sometimes you need to be reminded that the thing waiting for you in these ruins isn’t your sister anymore.
You can still remember the great hall lit and full of life, sixty candles in the chandelier your mother loved so much and a fire roaring at the hearth. The great hall is open to the pitch-dark sky now; the chandelier is a tangle of blackened iron at your feet. You step over it as you chase the sound of her mocking laughter, echoing off the walls you grew up in.
Your sister used to hum when she was nervous.
An old tune your father taught you both, something his father had taught him, passed down through so many generations of hunters that nobody alive knew the words it had been set to. You’d tease her for it, and she never could get herself to stop once she caught herself doing it.
You’re humming it now. You stop.
The ornate dagger at your hip still feels strange to you, even after carrying it for a year. It’s old, older than the manor itself, and by rights, it should have passed to your sister, the eldest daughter of the house. But she left it behind, buried in the ashes for you to find as you picked up the pieces of everything she destroyed. You’ve never been sure whether that was an accident, a message, or a gift. You stopped letting yourself think about it after a few months on the hunt.
The hallway to the east wing is half-collapsed, but you can hear her footsteps just past the rubble. The ceiling could cave in at any moment, scorched beams creaking overhead, but there’s a path through if you’re careful. You’re always careful.
She knows this place as well as you do. She’s leading you somewhere, and you’re letting her.
You track her to the library, and suddenly you understand. It wasn’t a mistake on her part that led you to find her, or a coincidence that the hunt would end today, of all days — the anniversary of her betrayal. She’s brought you back to where it all started, to where you found her standing over your parents’ crumpled bodies, their blood running down her chin as she spoke the incantation that set the family manor ablaze.
A pair of blood-red eyes glint in the dark, then vanish, and in an instant your hand finds the blade at your hip.
“Hello, little sister.”
Her voice comes from behind you, impossibly close. You turn, drawing your dagger and slashing at where her throat should be in one fluid motion, but there’s no-one there.
She speaks again, this time from somewhere high above you, on the library’s half-collapsed second floor.
“I’m hurt. We’ve been apart for a year, and you greet me with the edge of a knife?”
You hear her weight shifting on the floor above you and raise your weapon towards where you know she is, focusing your magic through the intricate sigilwork along the blade as you speak an incantation of pure destructive intent. It’s your father’s technique, rough and incomplete — he never taught you, but you’ve tried to reconstruct it from what you remember of how he fought. In the right hands, it could have leveled what remained of the manor. Yours have never been the right hands, though. Your spell will be smaller, less refined, but no less deadly for it.
The dagger gets hot in your hand as the inscriptions it bears ignite, compressing the air above you down to a single point of impossible density. Then, for a fraction of a second, a star blooms in the library. A wall of heat and force explodes outward as it collapses in a brilliant flash, reducing the second floor to splinters and dust, a cloud of debris swallowing the room whole.
There’s a breathless moment as the dust settles where you think your hunt might finally be over. You don’t let your guard down, though, buying you just enough time to react as she comes flying out of the rubble, hitting you like a freight train.
The melee is frantic, a flurry of claws as strong and sharp as steel clashing against your blade, the blade she was meant to bear. It would be only fitting to kill her with it, wouldn’t it?
She’s fast, faster than you’ve ever seen her. But her wild swipes and slashes are unpracticed — for all her talent with magic, you’re better than her in close combat. You’ve always been better than her. You break through her defense and tear a gash down her forearm, the dagger’s enchantment burning flesh as it carves. She hisses, and you steel your nerves. You can do this.
But then, you see her. You really see her, for the first time since all of this started, and it’s… it’s her.
It’s your sister. She’s thinner than you remember, all pale skin and bone that would make her seem almost frail if she hadn’t just nearly killed you. But she still holds herself the same way when she’s hurt, and it’s still her face, even if it’s being worn by the monster that killed her.
You hesitate, and it costs you. Her grimoire is in her hands before you even register that she moved, that ancient leather cover recognizable even in the near pitch-black library. You’ve seen her cast from it a thousand times; you know better than to let her finish.
You lunge, and she doesn’t even look up from the page. Her lips are moving, the intricate sigils inscribed in the book forming in the air around her. It’s like reading a language you almost speak — you can see the spell’s structure and pick out fragments of its horrifying logic, but the bigger picture eludes you. You’d cast a ward if there were time, but there’s no time.
The spell finishes and she sidesteps your lunge with a laugh, the last thing you hear before the world goes silent.
Not quiet, not muffled, silent. The total absence of sound, like one of your senses had been simply plucked from your skull. Sound was your lifeline here, fighting the dark, and now it’s gone. You do your best to follow her movement, desperately trying to keep track of her. It doesn’t work.
She comes at you from a direction you weren’t expecting, and you narrowly deflect claws aimed straight for your throat, the force sending you stumbling backwards. You slash recklessly at where she was and meet nothing, only to be placed on the defensive again, losing ground as she takes you apart with one brutal strike after another.
You try to keep up, frantically retreating as each sparking clash of claws on steel wears you down. Your heel catches on something behind you and you glance down for an instant — it’s the windows, or what used to be the windows, the massive panes of glass now melted down into glistening slag on the floor. Her claws rake across your shoulder and you bite down on a scream you wouldn’t have heard yourself make anyway.
You’re running out of room. She pushes you until your back is against the wall, then shatters your guard and sends your blade clattering to the floor. You can feel warm blood coursing down your arm, dripping down onto the glass beneath your feet.
This is it.
She grins, then rushes towards you, and in an instant her hand closes around your throat.
It’s cold. That’s what you notice amid all the panic, how cold her hand is. You’ve held this hand so many times before but it’s cold and dead now and it does not let go no matter how hard you claw at her wrist, her fingers, anything you can reach. Your vision is going dark at the edges, your struggles are getting weaker and weaker.
And then the silence breaks, sound crashing in like a wave. Your ragged breath, your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s deafening, but her voice cuts through it all.
“I missed you, little sister.”
The library goes dark.
Cold is the first thing to greet you as you wake — cold stone beneath your back, cold air stinging in your lungs. Then comes the pain, the wound you took to the shoulder searing itself back into your slowly growing awareness. You try to move your good arm but firm restraints stop you, and a jolt of fear shoots through you as you as you realize you’ve been stripped down to your smallclothes. You wince and open your eyes, trying to take stock of your situation as calmly as you can; panic won’t help you right now.
There’s a vaulted stone ceiling high above you, one you swear you’ve seen before. You glance towards your injury, but are surprised to see bloody bandages wrapped tightly around it. Had you been saved somehow? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Why would you be restrained if you had been rescued?
Looking past your bandaged arm, though, you see more of the room around you. Torchlight dances on a stone statue that stands against the far wall, silently guarding rows of ornately carved tombs. Your heart drops, the panic you tried so hard to stave off beginning to set in as you realize exactly where you are.
You haven’t been saved, and nobody is coming to save you now. This is the crypt beneath the manor, and you’re tied to the ritual altar.
For a moment, you hear nothing but the sound of your own unsteady breathing.
Then, from behind you, footsteps as your sister moves into your view.
“Good morning,” she says, smiling down at you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You bandaged my shoulder,” you blurt. It’s the first thing your mind lands on, a detail you can’t quite make sense of.
She sounds almost offended as she replies.
“Of course I did. I’m not going to let you bleed to death, sweet sister.”
“Then let me go,” you command, in the closest thing to a confident tone you can manage right now. You know you’re in no position to make demands, but you have to say something.
“I will,” she says, pleasantly. “Eventually.”
She pulls a chair from somewhere beyond your vision and sits beside the altar, staring at you like she’s waiting for something.
You meet her gaze defiantly. Keeping you alive would be her fatal mistake, if you could just find a way out of these damned restraints. As if anything had changed, you test them again. They don’t move.
She laughs at you, that same laugh you grew up adoring now a knife that twists in your gut.
“I would have been disappointed if you didn’t try, but you’re not going anywhere. I need you to stay still for this.”
Anger compels you to speak again, to ask the question that has been burning in your mind since she left you.
“Y-you killed them. Why did you—”
She cuts you off.
“It was for you, angel. You’ll understand that eventually.”
“Don’t.” You spit back at her, pouring venom into your tone. “Don’t tell me I’ll understand, or that it was for me. You murdered our parents and turned everything I knew into ash, and then you ran from me. You’re a coward.”
“I freed us.” Her tone is gentle, like one used to correct a misunderstanding. “I freed myself, and I freed you, too. I know you can’t see it that way yet, but that’s alright.”
“How does—” you start, but she interrupts again.
“They were going to get us killed,” she says, as if it’s a fact. “Maybe not this year, maybe not the next, but eventually — in some dark place, for a family name already half-forgotten and for a world that would have used us up and left us in an unmarked grave.”
A flicker of sadness crosses her face.
“We were never people to them, little sister. We were weapons. You know I’m right.”
A small, treacherous part of you doesn’t disagree. But you’ve seen the trail of bodies left in her wake, she’s a monster. There’s no justification for what she’s done.
“That doesn’t give you the right to kill them.”
“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”
The admission stuns you into silence.
She rises, placing her grimoire on the stone beside you. “But I don’t care. I’m not going to try to justify my actions to you.”
“I kill who I want, because I like it.”
She reaches into her cloak and produces a small wooden box, setting it beside the spellbook.
“I take what I want, because I like it.”
She lifts the lid. Inside, a fine silver needle rests on a bed of dark silk, a small reservoir of violet ink sitting beside it.
“And what I want, more than anything, is you, sweet thing. I won’t let anything keep us apart any longer, least of all this idiotic crusade of yours.”
A thin filament of light forms at her fingertips as she focuses, coiling around the needle and lifting it into the air. She touches it to the surface of the ink and the intricate carvings along its length drink deep, violet crawling up through the grooves. The ink beads at the tip, trembles, then drips once into the reservoir.
“Your hunt ends tonight, little sister, though maybe not how you imagined.”
You’ve hunted vampires before, seen the dark magic etched into the skin of the poor souls bound to their will. You had made peace with your own death long ago, but she’s not going to let you die; she's going to make you hers. “N-no, wait!” you plead. You can hear the change in your voice, your anger giving way to fear. “Please, just stop and we can talk about this.”
“We are talking,” she says, gently, sitting down beside you as the needle hums. Panic drags you under completely as it draws closer to your arm, your heart pounding in your chest. You writhe against your restraints; not because you think you can escape, but out of instinct, like an animal caught in a trap. When they don't budge, something inside you breaks. You start to cry, ugly sobs wracking your body as tears fall down your cheeks.
Her free hand moves to stroke your face and you freeze up, still sobbing as the claws that tore your shoulder to shreds now wipe away your tears. “Shhh…” she soothes. “It’s okay, just hold still for me. This won’t hurt, I promise.”
Her words aren’t particularly comforting, but fear keeps you locked in place, a still canvas for her magic. As the needle first touches the inside of your wrist, you learn that her words weren’t particularly true, either. It stings as it pierces your skin again and again, tracing out delicate sigils. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, holding back whimpers. You won’t give her the pleasure of knowing she’s hurting you.
The pain is bad, but you’ve trained your whole life to ignore it; the feeling that comes as the ink seeps into your body is far worse. Everywhere the needle has left its trail of violet begins to grow warm, getting more sensitive. At first, it only amplifies the torment, your skin tender and raw as your sister continues to inscribe delicate magic. But slowly, creeping in at the edges of your suffering, comes a new feeling — one that fills you with disgust.
It starts to feel good.
The pain begins to fade as pleasure takes its place, the bite of the needle and your sister’s cold touch stirring a warmth inside you that dredges up feelings you’ve long-since buried. As shameful as it might be, there was a time when you would have done anything for your sister to make you feel this way. But those feelings were wrong, and that thing isn’t the sister you grew up loving. Whatever she’s doing to you is altering your perception, just like the spell she cast in the library. You need to fight this.
It takes all your energy, but you can still find the faint feeling of pain in what she’s doing to you. You focus in on the hurt, centering it in your mind as you try to exclude everything else she’s making you feel. You don’t think it’s working.
She stops for a moment to coat the needle in ink again and you breathe a sigh of relief, but as much as you hate yourself for it, you can’t shake a feeling of emptiness as her touch leaves you. When her work resumes and the sensations return, a moan nearly escapes your throat, barely held back by clenched teeth. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep this up, the pain you had been using to anchor yourself is all but gone now.
Time blurs as your body screams out for you to simply give in, to accept the gift of pleasure she’s giving you but you can’t, you can’t give in.
You can’t give in. You can’t give in. You can’t—
“It’s finished, sweetheart,” she says, gently.
Your eyes, clamped shut, slowly drift open. Your sister is smiling at you, her fangs showing just past her lips as she dries the needle on a small cloth before setting it gently back in its box.
She’s… done? That doesn’t make any sense. Your injured shoulder no longer hurts, the sting faded into the same pleasant warmth that suffuses the skin around your new tattoo. You hate the way the sensation makes your tummy flutter, but you’re still you, despite whatever she did to you. You’re not sure if that’s better or worse.
“W-what did you do?” you stammer. “I thought I would be—”
“A mindless thrall? If all I wanted was a hollowed out pet, I could have taken any girl I desired. I want you.”
She reaches up to cup your cheek in her hand, a terrifying glint in her eyes.
“I would enjoy making you into an empty plaything, but that would waste something beautiful. No, your mind — and your love — will be given to me willingly before this night ends.”
No matter what she does to you, there’s no way you’ll surrender to her.
“And you think that making pain feel—” You nearly say good before you catch yourself. “... making pain feel weird, is gonna make me love you again? After everything you’ve done? You’re insane.”
“No, sweet sister.” She traces the intricate violet linework of your new tattoo with her claws, the sensation dragging a shiver out of your traitorous body. “But this is only the first gift I have for you. What I’m going to do next will hurt much worse, and I wanted you to enjoy it. I certainly will.”
Her hand dips beneath her cloak again as she draws forth an ornate band of black leather — a collar inlaid with silver sigils, delicate as lace.
“I had this made just for you. Don’t fight it too hard, okay?”
You give her a defiant glare, steeling yourself against whatever effect the collar will have. The moment the clasp closes around your neck, you feel it begin its dark work. It starts at the edges of your thoughts, a low fog and faint pressure in your head. A memory crystallizes, though not of your own accord.
You recognize where you are: a dark alleyway in Prague, standing over a girl’s body as her still-warm blood pours out onto the cobblestones. You’re sure you’ve never seen her before, but there’s a familiarity that nags at you. When you turn her over to examine her wounds, your stomach drops. She looks just like you — your red hair, your green eyes, your cheekbones. The resemblance is uncanny.
The memory keeps shifting; new cities, new bodies, but never a new face. Always yours, staring back at you, empty-eyed. A message, you had decided, early in the hunt. A taunt, maybe. I could do this to you. Stay away, or don’t. See what happens.
In the waking world, your sister moves in the periphery of your awareness. A candle catches flame on the altar, and your temper ignites with it as you realize what she’s doing. She’s gloating. She’s out there, doing whatever she wants to your body while she makes you look at this, a year’s worth of her cruelty laid out in front of you.
Then something speaks from the corners of your mind, and it speaks in her voice. The intrusion startles you, and adds more fuel to your anger.
You think she killed them because she hates you. You couldn’t be further from the truth.
What else could it be? you snarl back.
Maybe she missed you, it says. She looks for your face everywhere she goes, finding only echoes of you. It’s not her fault none of them filled that void. This is just what love looks like when it has nowhere else to go.
Love. She wants to call it love when she abandons you, when she kills the innocent for pleasure, for the crime of reminding her of you. Your hands curl into fists; the cruelty of it, the sheer audacity of it, it’s enough to make you want to scream. You feel the force of your magic coiling behind your rage before you can stop it, and you scream into the fog clouding your mind.
If she loved me so much, then WHY DID SHE RUN? A whole year and she never ONCE—
The fog slams down as your magic surges; a thick, suffocating weight bearing down on your thoughts. When it settles over you and all becomes numb, her voice speaks again, gently.
You hunted her. You picked up the blade and carried on the legacy she tried so hard to free you from. What else could she do?
You open your mouth to answer and find the words harder to reach than they should be. You pull harder, and feel the fog thicken in response.
That’s not— you start. She’s the one who—
But in the real world, you hear her begin to chant, a dozen candles flickering around you as the air starts to move. The sound of her voice, knowing she’s casting something, sends a spike of panic that cuts through the fog. You don’t have time. Whatever she’s doing out there, you don’t have time.
You reach for the well of anger that drove you as you chased her across Europe, the only thing that kept your feet moving through every cold city and dead end. You reach for it and it comes up thin, diminished, the dying embers of the fire inside you.
In a panic, you grasp at the one memory that has never failed you, your unassailable answer to your every doubt. The library in flames. Your parents crumpled on the floor. The way your sister grinned with their blood still coating her lips. You wait for the anger that always comes.
It doesn’t.
You can see every detail just as sharply as the day it happened, but the memory sits behind glass now, and the place where anger used to live is quiet.
And then the collar shows you something else.
Your father’s voice raised. Your sister stepping in front of you, blocking his way into the training room. She’s thirteen, she’s saying. She’s thirteen and you will not send her out there, not on her own, not tonight. She’s not ready. The way your father raised his hand to hit her, and the way she never flinched.
Another memory, years later. Slipping through the manor’s back door, bleeding after your first solo hunt goes wrong. You have to get to your room quietly; you can’t let father see the gash torn in the fine leather cuirass he commissioned for your birthday. You don’t make it, collapsing on the floor of the storeroom. You wake to your sister leaning over you, bandaging your wound and mending your armor with a spell.
She loves you. She has always loved you. She did what she had to in order to protect you, and she would do it again.
You’re not sure if that was her voice, or your own.
There’s a void in your heart. A great, gaping wound torn open by the absence of the rage that drove you for so long. Without that, what do you have left?
You have her, comes the answer.
The only person who ever loved you, who ever saw you as more than a blade.
You want to argue, to snap back, to scream that it’s not enough, but it’s right. She’s all you have.
Outside your memories, you see her standing at the foot of the altar, palms raised to the vaulted ceiling as she speaks the final words of the spell she’s been building since the collar pulled you under. The candles around you flicker, then snuff out as something dark gathers in her hands — a dense, writhing knot of black-violet curse that pulses in time with your heartbeat.
Fear drags you up from the depths of memory as she moves towards you, the curse crackling in her hand.
“H-hey, no, what are you—” you start, your voice small and terrified.
“Don’t worry,” she says, climbing onto the altar and straddling your legs. “I know you’re scared and confused, but I’m gonna fix you, okay?”
Your heart pounds in your chest as she brings the curse towards the bare skin of your tummy and it begins to reach out, like it’s alive. The last thing out of your mouth before it touches you is a barely coherent “no, please no nonono—”
And then, between two beats of your panicked heart, time stops as the curse takes root.
At first, it feels like warmth pooling just beneath your skin, a heat that gathers low in your belly. Then, the corruption spreads, veins of violet and midnight threading throughout your body. The threads ignite and you scream into the cold air, but it doesn’t hurt, not after your sister's first “gift”.
Your back arches, your whole body shaking as wave after wave of corruptive pleasure crashes over you and you hate it, you hate her, for making you enjoy it. You hold tightly to that hate, refusing to let go or give in as ecstasy burns you from the inside out. The curse devours thought and memory, grief and fear, everything that made you human, until only the hate remains. But the harder you cling to it, the harder the collar presses down on your thoughts.
You don’t have to keep fighting, little hunter, it tells you, and you don’t want to listen but— you’ve been hunting her for so long. You finally found her, and she loves you. Why push her away?
There was a time when you could have answered that without hesitation, but you don’t have an answer now. You’re terrified as you hold the last ember of your humanity in your hands, but you’re not strong enough to resist.
You let go, and the tide of ecstasy carries it away.
Your resistance shatters, a dark hunger growing to fill the hollow space inside you until it consumes you. You cry out, thrashing against the restraints as something pushes up towards the surface of your skin. You watch through tears as a pattern takes shape, growing in delicate curves — a twisted, heart-shaped mandala of petals and thorns that blossoms over your womb.
It feels like an eternity before you can breathe again, and as you look up at your sister, she’s smiling. Not the predatory grin you’ve come to fear, but one full of warmth and adoration, the smile you fell in love with so long ago. Your chest tightens, and you smile back.
“Oh, there she is…” she breathes, leaning over you to undo your restraints. The thought of fighting her doesn’t even cross your mind. She pulls you up into a tight embrace; her body is corpse-cold but her touch spreads heat inside you everywhere it goes. “I missed you, baby sister.”
You start to say it back but she cuts you off with a kiss; hungry and desperate, a year’s worth of love coming out all at once. Her fangs graze the inside of your lip and you shudder, your head spinning.
The heat in your core is rising and you can feel your body still changing — bones shifting, muscles twisting, a growing pressure at your shoulderblades and tailbone, but you can’t care. All that matters is her, her lips on yours, her claws on your skin.
She breaks away, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, her fangs at your neck. She nips gently, like she’s asking permission; you know what she wants, and you’ll give it gladly. You nod, and her teeth sink into your flesh.
You cry out, your vision going white as ecstasy, bright and shattering, hits you full-force. The venom in her bite burns through your arteries as she drinks deep, and the more blood she takes from you, the warmer her body gets until she feels almost alive again. You squirm in her grasp and her claws dig into your skin, but you can’t stay still. The grinding and popping of bones is too much to ignore, the pressure building until—
You scream into her shoulder as your spine cracks and your shoulderblades split with a wet, agonizing stretch. Bat-like wings, delicate and violet-veined, push through your skin, unfurling in spasms. Blood runs down your back, down to where your tailbone is growing, twisting and elongating into a black spade-tipped tail that flicks against your thigh.
Every part of this should hurt, but it doesn’t, not anymore. It feels right, like this was how you were meant to be — but more than anything, it feels good.
“Gods, look at you…” she purrs as she pulls away. “You’re perfect.”
She’s beautiful, crimson eyes and rosy cheeks, your blood dripping from her fangs. You don’t know what you’re doing as you lean in, but instincts guide your lips to hers again. She kisses back, and you taste salt and warm copper on her tongue.
Her hand slips between your wings, her sharp claws giving gentle scratches that send shivers down your spine and through your tail. Her other hand glides down your stomach, then lower, and you moan into the kiss as it finally finds the aching need between your thighs.
Your wings flutter and your tail coils tightly around her wrist as her touch drags needy whines from your throat. It’s overwhelming, you feel raw and sensitive after your transformation, but you can’t stop your hips from bucking against her hand, the hunger inside you taking control.
Your first orgasm hits you without warning, your hips twitching uncontrollably as it crashes over you. She pulls away from the kiss but her touch barely slows, even as you fall apart in her hands.
“Good girl, that’s it,” she praises, your body still shaking and oversensitive as her fingers pull you closer and closer to the same edge you just fell headlong over. She leans in close to your neck, her breath hot and heavy, but she doesn’t wait for permission this time — her fangs pierce your skin again and when the venom hits, you cum a second time.
She doesn’t give you a single moment to come down. You try to speak, to think, but the pleasure washes it all away as she brings you over the edge again, and again, and again. When she finally stops, you collapse, nestling up against her — small, and broken, and hers.
“Welcome home,” she whispers, stroking your wings gently as she begins to hum that old hunter’s tune.
“Missed you,” you mumble against her chest.
Her arms tighten around you.
“I know, baby sister. I wont ever leave you again.”
After years of being kept apart, Alice's little sister Leila is coming to stay with her over summer break.
20,000 words, 2 chapters
Warnings: this story is about two incredibly mentally ill girls doing their best. expect angst, drugs, dubcon and noncon.
Silent Running [Human Domestication Guide]
Esper is a cloned soldier, property of the corporation that created her. Echo is an advanced SIGINT AI, trained from Esper's brainwaves and living in her head. They've been running from the Affini for months, ever since Terra surrendered. Time is running out.
Currently on hold as I work on other stuff, but it will be continuing soon!
Warnings: mention of death/murder, violence, transphobia, will eventually contain dubcon, noncon, and drugs, the usual hdg stuff
14,000 words, 2 chapters
Crossing The Line
A short horny one shot about kissing your sister for the first time (and then some)
2,000 words
Blood Ties
For generations, your family has hunted monsters. You and your sister were raised to continue that legacy, until she chose to become a monster herself. She destroyed everything you've ever known, and you've been on the hunt ever since.
It ends tonight.
5,300 words
Warnings for minor body horror and noncon and scary magic sex.
So I saw this art that Abby Howard posted on twitter: [https://twitter.com/AbbyHoward/status/1601958920255307783] of Reese and Truck, and I entered a fugue state and wrote these little ficlets at work instead of... uhhhh working lmao.
One:
It takes every ounce of strength you possess not to burst out laughing at the tableau you find waiting for you upon entering your apartment.
“If you’re going for a whole ‘seduction’ angle, the cat kind of ruins the effect a little bit,” you say as you shuck off your jacket and drop your keys into the little dish by the door. You even manage to keep the threat of laughter out of your words– well, mostly. It’s an admirable effort, at least.
Reese deflates, but only a little. He makes a sound between a disgruntled grumble and a laugh of his own, quiet but so low that you swear you can feel it resonate through the floor into the soles of your feet.
“I was doing my best to work around it,” he says. “I couldn’t just push him off– I mean look at him.” He gestures at Truck, currently sprawled over his thighs, and scratches delicately behind his ear with the tip of one long claw. Truck blinks at you, looking distinctly smug. You cross the room, shaking your head.
“Yeah, well– I can.” You unceremoniously push Truck to the floor. He sneezes on your foot to protest the indignity, but you ignore him.
You insinuate yourself into the freshly vacated seat in Reese’s lap, draping your arms over his shoulders and leaning close, delighted by the rush of color into his inhuman but comfortably familiar face, and by just how easy it was to turn the tables.
Two:
“You know, neither of us will get to eat tonight if you keep letting him distract you like that.” The admonition is blunted by the poorly disguised amusement in your voice.
From his perch atop Reese’s shoulders, Truck lets out a jubilant and unapologetic caterwaul, which turns vibrato when his stage is jostled under him as Reese laughs. The sound this time is a low, rumbling hiss that makes you think of an alligator.
Your upstairs neighbor, apparently unappreciative of Truck’s aria, pounds on their floor in protest. Reese reaches up and thumps the ceiling once, with enough force to rattle both your kitchen and the one upstairs. Your neighbor doesn’t offer a return volley, and you like to imagine there’s a meek, intimidated quality to their silence.
“Sorry, buddy.” Reese scoops up Truck in one enormous hand and curls his long fingers into a loose cage around the cat. Truck looks a little put out at the loss of his glorious vantage point, but he doesn’t attempt to wriggle free. Apparently, he’s content enough with the fact that Reese is technically still paying attention to him.
Even with one hand occupied Reese deftly finishes dredging and breading the slices of calf’s liver that still need it, passing them to you and the hot pan you’re monitoring on the stove. He’d learned to do a lot of things one-handedly, he told you once, from days when he’d gotten so immersed in his art that it was almost literally impossible to pry the brush or pencil from his grip.
That talent was mostly utilized for Truck-wrangling these days. He’s also told you, his voice soft and sheepish and sweet, that he hasn’t felt that consuming compulsion to exorcize himself onto a page or canvas nearly as often since he’s been here with you.
Three:
You watch your companions surreptitiously over the top of your book, your grin hidden by it. Truck chatters at Reese so purposefully that you can almost imagine he’s saying real words. Reese humors him and murmurs back, too quiet to make out his words any better than the cat’s.
Truck rears up and plants his front paws on Reese’s chest, then lunges forward for an affectionate headbutt the likes of which has nearly given you a black eye in the past. Reese, however, seems wholly unperturbed at being besieged by a ballistic missile of feline friendship.
At the moment, he looks almost exactly the way he did when you first met him. The only clue to his true nature is the way his teeth press outward against his lips, straining against the skin like his jaw is just a little too large and a little too crowded to fit quite right. He almost never dulls his teeth anymore when he isn’t out in public.
No– that’s not exactly right, actually. When you first met him he’d been– duller? More faded? He’s still pale as milk and thin as a leather cord, but there’s a lively color in his face now, and his cheeks are no longer hollowed and gaunt.
Truck blinks slowly and deliberately at Reese, and Reese blinks back in the same way. You wonder if he did it consciously or not.
Reese’s eyes are different these days as well. The bags under them are still there– that’s just how his face naturally sits– but they no longer look like bruises. There’s a light in them now too, other than the literal glow that lingers faintly even when he otherwise looks entirely ‘normal’. They have a spark in them–
They’re looking right at you, catching your own and holding fast.
Reese blinks at you, too, and those eyes of his are warm and soft and heavy with so much– so much, just in general, and it’s all aimed at you.
Heat floods your face and you duck back behind your book. You don’t hear his laughter so much as feel it, like infrasound. Lowering the book just enough to stick your tongue out at him, you prod at his bony hip with your big toe.
Truck apparently takes this as a declaration of war and launches himself at your foot, teeth-first.
Reese laughs again– aloud and full-throated this time– at your misfortune and the cartoonish yelp you let out, but he comes to your rescue anyway.
“We should go out and do something together when we get back to Tempo,” Vivi says. Arthur makes a bemused sound, not looking up from the equipment he’s carefully packing into its foam-lined case.
“Well yeah?” He says. “We always do? And we sure as hell earned it this time.”
“True,” Vivi makes an odd noise that’s a sort of blend between a laugh and an audible wince. “That wasn’t exactly what I was getting at, though.”
He doesn’t hear Vivi’s approach before she has her arms wrapped around him from behind. Her hands fold like a bird’s wings over his heart and her forehead presses between his shoulder blades.
“Vi?”
“I was actually thinking of something more like a date, you know?”
“A--?” It feels like someone’s scooped everything out of his chest and packed the empty space with ice instead.
“You’re really important to me, Arthur. I don’t know why I never said anything sooner but-- Whatever the reason was, I don’t want to wait anymore. Not after everything that’s happened-- I don’t want to miss the chance waiting for the time to be right, so--” She lets go of him and gently spins him around.
She doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t have to-- the expression she’s wearing says ‘can I kiss you?’ just as clearly as her voice could have. It’s the same way he’s seen her look at Lewis a thousand times, and the realization hits him with a sickening lurch, like a hammerblow to his gut.
Even though all of her conscious memories of Lewis are missing, there’s no way the love she had-- has-- for him could be scrubbed cleanly out of her heart. What else could she conclude about all that emotion, with no recollection of the person tied to it? It had to go somewhere, and Arthur’s right there. Of course she does love him-- he knows for a fact that she does-- just not like that.
There’s a part of him though-- a part that he’ll never forgive himself for-- that wants to tell her ‘yes’. That wants to accept the invitation of her upturned face and soft eyes and smiling, slightly parted lips and lean down to kiss her. To press his forehead against hers and tell her just how long he’s been in love with her.
It would be more than a mistake to give into that selfish, ugly impulse. It would be taking advantage. He will never do that to her.
As clearly as Vivi’s expression had asked the question, his own must be broadcasting his answer. Vivi’s face falls slightly, and she steps back, letting her arms drop away from his shoulders.
“Artie-- Shit, Arthur, I’m sorry. I thought-- Or I didn’t think-- Shit.” She presses her fingers to either side of the bridge of her nose.
“Vivi--”
“Look, we can-- We can pretend this didn’t happen, if you want. Like I said, you’re important to me and I don’t want this to-- I don’t want this to mess things up between us.”
“Vi--”
“You’re my best friend, I couldn’t stand it if I--”
“Vivi, it’s okay!” It’s not. “It’s-- complicated.” A massive understatement. What can he tell her? Just hearing Lewis’ name is sometimes enough to send her plunging toward a migraine, how is he supposed to explain what’s happened to her?
He does his best, tries to phrase things vaguely enough to avoid setting off a memory spiral while still actually communicating something coherent, but in the end it amounts to nothing. He has to open the bottles for her meds because her hands are shaking too hard to do it herself, and he helps her into bed still fully dressed.
When she wakes up the next morning, she remembers none of his attempt at explaining about Lewis without mentioning Lewis. She apologizes again for making advances, and again he assures her it’s alright. They barely speak on the ride home, and Arthur spends the whole time wondering what he could have done differently.
