thetitania
in
iruin
→ I just want (you here with me/my privacy) [complete]
Author: limitbreaks
Pairing/Characters: Erza K./Erza S.
Summary: They are two halves of one whole. This is a cardinal truth, and one that must be taught via force, if necessary. Squarewarts!verse.
Rating: M. Warnings: Non-con, dubcon, BDSM, incest/narcissism.
She meets her sister and immediately feels a balance restore itself. Gone are the days of feeling too tight and crumbled in her own skin, torn to pieces before she was properly born. Her sister is the piece of her that fell away thanks to the folly of her useless parents.
Her rage is a cold and hard thing when she speaks to them, to anyone, but it burns like the flame-red of their hair when her sister rejects her, when she finds her in the company of filthy mudbloods and blood traitors. How could she? This thought echoes, as if down an empty hall. How could she? How could she? They are as one, blood and blood and flesh and flesh. Surely she feels it. Surely she knows what it means to have a bloody chunk torn from her side, a missing rib yanked away as she slept to make the other side of her. They shared a womb and breath and heartbeat. They share life and death too, they are two pieces of one perfect whole.
When her sister was branded by the lash and starved near to death, she swears she felt it too. There are invisible, ugly marks that scrape along the path of her soul like angry cat scratches.
She makes it so they are always together, insomuch as she can manage it, and she sits as close as she can as if to pull her back in through touch. She is always touching: the brilliant scarlet of her hair and the soft curve of her cheek. She traces old scratches on her hands and runs her fingertips in lingering, possessive paths along her thigh. She feels her sister breathe in angry, frustrated bursts of air and it excites her, to know she is noticed and felt and heard, despite all effort toward the contrary. She hugs her once, overlong. Presses the pads of her fingers into the most vulnerable part of her spine. Her breath shudders unevenly along the delicate curve of her throat. She wants to bite the skin there, to draw blood, her blood, their blood.
When she is too frustrated, too angry, too impatient, she runs her hands over herself and pretends they are her sister's hands. She touches her full breasts and imagines the fingers stroking and tugging and squeezing are rougher, made calloused from laboring. When she moves inside herself, she knows her sister would be gentler, slower, but the part of her that she cannot temper and mold to fit into the empty places that her sister shares with her is always sharp and hard and takes so ruthlessly that she bites at her pillow to stifle her throaty screams.
She decides she will teach her sister to be rough, to take what belongs to her and destroy what does not. She will submit to her, and be submitted to in turn, because they are one and the same, and when one yields, the other must as well.
It's not enough. Not enough to have her so close and unable to touch, to feel. To have what rightfully belongs to her. They are equals, in every way and form. It is their birthright, to have one another. And she will teach her sister that blood runs thicker than the false bonds of the mudbloods that took her in. She will be a difficult student, at first. But she will break, and surrender. Things will be as they were at the beginning, when they were still fragments of a thought, two pinpricks of light in an organic, soupy darkness.
She orchestrates a plan, one day. All it takes some confused posturing, a switch in ties, and a dogfaced little mudblood girl gives her the password to the Hufflepuff dormitory. She steals up to her sister's room and casts a spell to shroud the room in shadows.
She waits. Hears the footsteps she has memorized from her careful vigilance. A smile breaks out across her face, wide and radiant. Her sister scarcely has time to adjust her eyes to the unusual darkness before she has pounced. It is a valiant fight, and it involves tremendous effort to get her pinned. Her sister jerks an elbow back with such vicious force into her throat that she sees stars light up her vision. Her teeth snap together once, twice. She retaliates by pressing her knee down into the small of her back, using her discarded tie to restrain her wrists. Before she has a chance to scream, to cry out for help, there's a wand pressed to the pulse point at her neck. She freezes. Her breath escapes in short, angry bursts. She's like a frightened animal. A butterfly caught and pinned to a board.
"Don't move. I don't want to hurt you, sister." Her voice is throaty. Hoarse from pain and excitement and her arousal. "But you have to be a good girl for me and stay quiet." She feels a shudder beneath her, one of pure disgust and loathing. But her sister is obediently quiet. She whispers other spells now, spells to bind her further, and shifts their positions as she does so. She straddles her hips. Watches as a fine bead of sweat trails down her cheek and dips into her clavicle. Her eyes are bright with rage and indignation. She's so beautiful. It's different, somehow, from looking at her own face in the mirror: there's a softness to the features that she lacks, a gentleness in her eyes even now, hidden beneath her anger. She knows her sister loves her. Knows she must love her, that she woke up too in the middle of the night, reaching for something that wasn't there. She needs to hear her say it.
"You love me, don't you?" She murmurs this, low, close to her ear. She forces her legs apart with her knee, watches her strain against the bindings. A lesser woman would have realized the futility. A lesser woman would have dissolved into tears. But not her.
"You're sick," is her response. Her voice doesn't waver, or shake, but it is worn thin with frustration and the beginnings of panic.
She smiles, wicked and sharp. Triumphant. "But you love me." She doesn't dare kiss her, not yet, but she does trace her tongue along her jawline, the elegant curve of her throat. Her sister jerks beneath her, her struggling becomes more pronounced. Frantic. But it's no use, really. She will have her this evening and all the evenings afterward, break her and rebuild her again -- pure, perfect. She bites the space between her neck and clavicle. The strangled gasp she receives in response excites her, makes her bolder. She inches up her sister's robes with one hand and places the other on her breast. Feels the wild heartbeat, like the desperate flapping of a birds' wings. Her sister is tense. She notes the stiffness of her muscles, the way she jumps when her hand creeps higher. She watches her face carefully, waits for the moment when her eyes will widen and then flutter shut.
She is fully engulfed in the feeling of her sister. She's so tight inside that she has to force herself to be patient, slow. There's no need to hurt her. She wants her to enjoy herself, despite all her protests. Wants her to understand that this is the right thing, that this needs to happen for them. She's already wet from shamed arousal, and she's tilted her face away, the bright scarlet of her hair matching the brilliant blush across her face. Her chest heaves, her teeth grit together.
Her fingers move in deep, slow strokes. Her sister whimpers, low and pained. She moves closer so that their bodies are pressed together, and thrusts her hand in between them. She kisses her cheek, her forehead. When she kisses her mouth, they fight for dominance, all teeth and blood and bruised lips. Her fingers move deeper in response, and her sister makes a strangled noise, something between a sob and a moan. Her body betrays her though; her hips jerk in response, beckoning. This is how it should be, this is everything that is right and good in the world. Her sister arches into her hand, wanting her to stop but unwilling to say it. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but do not fall. Her own breathing is strained and heavy, staccato. She pants, rocks against her knee, wrapped in the feeling of her, of her equal. Her love. No one, nothing has ever made her feel this way. Nothing else ever will.
They climax within moments of one another. She kisses her neck and murmurs soft, sweet words, taking in the feel of it, the trembling of her shoulders as she shakes with silent, bitter sobs. She licks her fingers clean, slowly. Her sister is turned away from her, defeated but not broken. Her eyes are closed.
She knows she will not stand to fight this time. She breaks the spell, lovingly unties her bound wrists, brushes away the damp hair plastered to her forehead. She slips out of the room without bothering to straighten her clothing. The shadows clear as soon as the door closes behind her.
---
The next day, she is unsurprised when she feels hands wrap around her neck during breakfast. It takes five full-grown men to pull her sister off of her. The last thing she sees before she blacks out is her eyes, bright and lovely and full of disgust.
She smiles. This must be what it feels like, to be wanted.
To be loved.
Pairing/Characters: Erza K./Erza S.
Summary: They are two halves of one whole. This is a cardinal truth, and one that must be taught via force, if necessary. Squarewarts!verse.
Rating: M. Warnings: Non-con, dubcon, BDSM, incest/narcissism.
She meets her sister and immediately feels a balance restore itself. Gone are the days of feeling too tight and crumbled in her own skin, torn to pieces before she was properly born. Her sister is the piece of her that fell away thanks to the folly of her useless parents.
Her rage is a cold and hard thing when she speaks to them, to anyone, but it burns like the flame-red of their hair when her sister rejects her, when she finds her in the company of filthy mudbloods and blood traitors. How could she? This thought echoes, as if down an empty hall. How could she? How could she? They are as one, blood and blood and flesh and flesh. Surely she feels it. Surely she knows what it means to have a bloody chunk torn from her side, a missing rib yanked away as she slept to make the other side of her. They shared a womb and breath and heartbeat. They share life and death too, they are two pieces of one perfect whole.
When her sister was branded by the lash and starved near to death, she swears she felt it too. There are invisible, ugly marks that scrape along the path of her soul like angry cat scratches.
She makes it so they are always together, insomuch as she can manage it, and she sits as close as she can as if to pull her back in through touch. She is always touching: the brilliant scarlet of her hair and the soft curve of her cheek. She traces old scratches on her hands and runs her fingertips in lingering, possessive paths along her thigh. She feels her sister breathe in angry, frustrated bursts of air and it excites her, to know she is noticed and felt and heard, despite all effort toward the contrary. She hugs her once, overlong. Presses the pads of her fingers into the most vulnerable part of her spine. Her breath shudders unevenly along the delicate curve of her throat. She wants to bite the skin there, to draw blood, her blood, their blood.
When she is too frustrated, too angry, too impatient, she runs her hands over herself and pretends they are her sister's hands. She touches her full breasts and imagines the fingers stroking and tugging and squeezing are rougher, made calloused from laboring. When she moves inside herself, she knows her sister would be gentler, slower, but the part of her that she cannot temper and mold to fit into the empty places that her sister shares with her is always sharp and hard and takes so ruthlessly that she bites at her pillow to stifle her throaty screams.
She decides she will teach her sister to be rough, to take what belongs to her and destroy what does not. She will submit to her, and be submitted to in turn, because they are one and the same, and when one yields, the other must as well.
It's not enough. Not enough to have her so close and unable to touch, to feel. To have what rightfully belongs to her. They are equals, in every way and form. It is their birthright, to have one another. And she will teach her sister that blood runs thicker than the false bonds of the mudbloods that took her in. She will be a difficult student, at first. But she will break, and surrender. Things will be as they were at the beginning, when they were still fragments of a thought, two pinpricks of light in an organic, soupy darkness.
She orchestrates a plan, one day. All it takes some confused posturing, a switch in ties, and a dogfaced little mudblood girl gives her the password to the Hufflepuff dormitory. She steals up to her sister's room and casts a spell to shroud the room in shadows.
She waits. Hears the footsteps she has memorized from her careful vigilance. A smile breaks out across her face, wide and radiant. Her sister scarcely has time to adjust her eyes to the unusual darkness before she has pounced. It is a valiant fight, and it involves tremendous effort to get her pinned. Her sister jerks an elbow back with such vicious force into her throat that she sees stars light up her vision. Her teeth snap together once, twice. She retaliates by pressing her knee down into the small of her back, using her discarded tie to restrain her wrists. Before she has a chance to scream, to cry out for help, there's a wand pressed to the pulse point at her neck. She freezes. Her breath escapes in short, angry bursts. She's like a frightened animal. A butterfly caught and pinned to a board.
"Don't move. I don't want to hurt you, sister." Her voice is throaty. Hoarse from pain and excitement and her arousal. "But you have to be a good girl for me and stay quiet." She feels a shudder beneath her, one of pure disgust and loathing. But her sister is obediently quiet. She whispers other spells now, spells to bind her further, and shifts their positions as she does so. She straddles her hips. Watches as a fine bead of sweat trails down her cheek and dips into her clavicle. Her eyes are bright with rage and indignation. She's so beautiful. It's different, somehow, from looking at her own face in the mirror: there's a softness to the features that she lacks, a gentleness in her eyes even now, hidden beneath her anger. She knows her sister loves her. Knows she must love her, that she woke up too in the middle of the night, reaching for something that wasn't there. She needs to hear her say it.
"You love me, don't you?" She murmurs this, low, close to her ear. She forces her legs apart with her knee, watches her strain against the bindings. A lesser woman would have realized the futility. A lesser woman would have dissolved into tears. But not her.
"You're sick," is her response. Her voice doesn't waver, or shake, but it is worn thin with frustration and the beginnings of panic.
She smiles, wicked and sharp. Triumphant. "But you love me." She doesn't dare kiss her, not yet, but she does trace her tongue along her jawline, the elegant curve of her throat. Her sister jerks beneath her, her struggling becomes more pronounced. Frantic. But it's no use, really. She will have her this evening and all the evenings afterward, break her and rebuild her again -- pure, perfect. She bites the space between her neck and clavicle. The strangled gasp she receives in response excites her, makes her bolder. She inches up her sister's robes with one hand and places the other on her breast. Feels the wild heartbeat, like the desperate flapping of a birds' wings. Her sister is tense. She notes the stiffness of her muscles, the way she jumps when her hand creeps higher. She watches her face carefully, waits for the moment when her eyes will widen and then flutter shut.
She is fully engulfed in the feeling of her sister. She's so tight inside that she has to force herself to be patient, slow. There's no need to hurt her. She wants her to enjoy herself, despite all her protests. Wants her to understand that this is the right thing, that this needs to happen for them. She's already wet from shamed arousal, and she's tilted her face away, the bright scarlet of her hair matching the brilliant blush across her face. Her chest heaves, her teeth grit together.
Her fingers move in deep, slow strokes. Her sister whimpers, low and pained. She moves closer so that their bodies are pressed together, and thrusts her hand in between them. She kisses her cheek, her forehead. When she kisses her mouth, they fight for dominance, all teeth and blood and bruised lips. Her fingers move deeper in response, and her sister makes a strangled noise, something between a sob and a moan. Her body betrays her though; her hips jerk in response, beckoning. This is how it should be, this is everything that is right and good in the world. Her sister arches into her hand, wanting her to stop but unwilling to say it. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but do not fall. Her own breathing is strained and heavy, staccato. She pants, rocks against her knee, wrapped in the feeling of her, of her equal. Her love. No one, nothing has ever made her feel this way. Nothing else ever will.
They climax within moments of one another. She kisses her neck and murmurs soft, sweet words, taking in the feel of it, the trembling of her shoulders as she shakes with silent, bitter sobs. She licks her fingers clean, slowly. Her sister is turned away from her, defeated but not broken. Her eyes are closed.
She knows she will not stand to fight this time. She breaks the spell, lovingly unties her bound wrists, brushes away the damp hair plastered to her forehead. She slips out of the room without bothering to straighten her clothing. The shadows clear as soon as the door closes behind her.
---
The next day, she is unsurprised when she feels hands wrap around her neck during breakfast. It takes five full-grown men to pull her sister off of her. The last thing she sees before she blacks out is her eyes, bright and lovely and full of disgust.
She smiles. This must be what it feels like, to be wanted.
To be loved.