I Shall Leave You in Ruins - NC-17, Luigi/Amber, implied Graverobber/Amber
I was originally going to write this for the kink meme, but the ending took a wild left turn and I decided it didn't really fill the prompt. The original prompt was, "Luigi sees Amber with Graverobber, gets jealous, and decides to voice his displeasure by taking it out on her. Can be done with or without a zydrate high."
Title: I Shall Leave You in Ruins
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Luigi/Amber, implied Graverobber/Amber
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1190
Summary: "'Do you fuck him?' he demands. 'That fucking disgusting graverobber, you fuck him? For goddamned Zydrate? For fuck's sake, Amber, I thought you had standards.'"
Warnings: Dubcon incest
It's still dark when he wakes, and the alarm is silent. Luigi blinks at the clock until the numbers focus - 4:57 AM. The noise in the hallway gradually penetrates his conscious mind, explaining his sudden wakefulness. One set of footsteps, staccato and staggering. Amber, then. Pavi walks softer and is never alone.
What the hell was she doing out so late? he wonders, shoving to his feet and yanking the door open. Amber is paused halfway down the corridor, leaning against the wall. "Where the fuck have you been?" he asks.
"Why the hell do you care?" she snaps, looking up at him. She is tousled - wig askew, makeup smudged, straps on her corset twisted.
He leans against the doorjamb. "Whoring yourself out again?"
The red creeps across her pale cheeks and down her creamy throat. "Shut up."
"You've got to be shitting me."
"Shut up, Luigi." She staggers to her feet, stumbling toward him. "Go back to bed."
"Do you fuck him?" he demands. "That fucking disgusting graverobber, you fuck him? For goddamned Zydrate? For fuck's sake, Amber, I thought you had standards."
"I have standards!" she protests, voice cracking. "He's hot. And he's good at it. So leave me alone."
His hand snaps out and grabs her upper arm. "No fucking way. You little slut."
"Jealous?" she croons.
There is no knife in range. He jerks his sister closer, instead, shoving her through his door and letting go. She stumbles in her ridiculous heels and falls, too fucked up to navigate the plush carpet. Luigi kicks the door closed, reaching back to lock it. Amber can scream all she wants, but no one will come to help her. She needs to scream for him, to be reminded who she is and what that means, and why rutting in an alley with an animal is totally unacceptable.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she demands, sitting back on her feet and pushing heavy strands of hair away from her face.
"What's wrong with me? What's fucking wrong with you? Jesus fuck, Amber, I knew you were a filthy slut, but I never figured you for a whore."
"What business is it of yours?" She pushes herself to hands and knees and then upright, stumbling again but managing to remain erect.
He growls and yanks her toward him. "What you do is always my fucking business. Take your clothes off." He lets her go long enough to storm into the bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as it would go.
"What?"
"I'm putting you in the fucking shower; you're filthy." Metaphorically more than literally, but maybe fixing one would help the other.
She's struggling with the buckles of her corset when he comes back into the bedroom. He slaps her hands aside and unfastens them for her, dropping it to the floor. Out of her clothes, she is too thin, angular bones poking out, curving ribs visible. She is otherwise unmarked, recent surgery scars the only blemish on her perfection. It irritates him more that she can stoop to such behavior and not appear to be touched by it. The graverobber hadn't even bruised her, and Luigi knows how easy that soft, fair skin is to mottle. She has angry red marks on her arm where he'd grabbed her.
He shoves her toward the bathroom, taking an irrational pleasure in watching her stumble into the doorjamb. The graverobber might have left her untouched, but he will mark her as his own.
She tugs the wig off, dropping it to the white tile floor without a second look. "Coming?" she asks, a hand on the shower door and the words thrown over her shoulder. "Better make sure I'm clean enough for you." He takes it as a challenge and undresses, though he hadn't been planning to.
The water is almost hot enough to burn. She is shuddering under it, her skin pinking in the heat, and he reaches around her to reduce the temperature. He is having second thoughts about being in the shower with her, because part and parcel of teaching her a lesson is remaining in control of the situation and she is flushed and naked and control seems a very long way off. Filthy, he repeats to himself, trying to bring the disgust back, but all he can envision is her shoved against a wall and moaning while the long-haired graverobber has his way with her, and the thing that offends him the most about it is that it's not him. He shoves her away, and she slips and there is a dull crack as she hits her head against the tile. He reaches out to catch her without thinking about it, and she slides into his arms, pressing up against him. The noise she makes, low in her throat, is almost a purr, and his erection is bordering on painful. "That's not a very brotherly thought," she says, reaching down to touch it, smirking.
He starts to protest, to call her names, a gash across her self-esteem easier than any physical cut he could make, but she leans in and covers his mouth with her own. He is drowning in her, in the water, but mostly the scent and feel of her, the taste of her mouth against his, their bodies pressed together in an aching urgency. He needs her, to be inside her, and he can't explain it but he manages to shut off the water with an elbow and carries her, dripping and slippery and still kissing him, back to his bed. Tonight he doesn't care about his carpet or his sheets or anything but the sounds she is making and the way she spreads her legs, wrapping around his hips and arching up to accept him. He has a moment when he wonders whether she's aware of what she's doing, or if she's so lost in the fucking Zydrate high that she'd fuck anyone, but then, "Luigi," she whispers, and he thrusts into her. Her nails dig into his shoulders, sharp flares of pain grounding him against the pleasure, and she is moaning already, high whimpering noises in the back of her throat, her head thrown back to expose her smooth neck, and he tightens his fingers in her short curling hair and she screams with it and the world goes white for a second.
It seems like a long time before he can make his eyes focus together again. She is blinking up at him, looking more like a sleepy child than a satisfied lover, and he has a guilty flash of toddler Carmela, thumb in mouth, climbing into bed beside him because of a bad dream. He was the only one who could chase away the monsters under her bed, he remembers; fourteen years old and already furious at the world, his baby sister's trusting smile the only thing that could calm him in his rages. Somehow it had changed. He pulls her tight against him, stroking the thick dark locks, rejecting the world and everything in it, and allowing himself to pretend, for a moment, that he can still protect her.
Title: I Shall Leave You in Ruins
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Luigi/Amber, implied Graverobber/Amber
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1190
Summary: "'Do you fuck him?' he demands. 'That fucking disgusting graverobber, you fuck him? For goddamned Zydrate? For fuck's sake, Amber, I thought you had standards.'"
Warnings: Dubcon incest
It's still dark when he wakes, and the alarm is silent. Luigi blinks at the clock until the numbers focus - 4:57 AM. The noise in the hallway gradually penetrates his conscious mind, explaining his sudden wakefulness. One set of footsteps, staccato and staggering. Amber, then. Pavi walks softer and is never alone.
What the hell was she doing out so late? he wonders, shoving to his feet and yanking the door open. Amber is paused halfway down the corridor, leaning against the wall. "Where the fuck have you been?" he asks.
"Why the hell do you care?" she snaps, looking up at him. She is tousled - wig askew, makeup smudged, straps on her corset twisted.
He leans against the doorjamb. "Whoring yourself out again?"
The red creeps across her pale cheeks and down her creamy throat. "Shut up."
"You've got to be shitting me."
"Shut up, Luigi." She staggers to her feet, stumbling toward him. "Go back to bed."
"Do you fuck him?" he demands. "That fucking disgusting graverobber, you fuck him? For goddamned Zydrate? For fuck's sake, Amber, I thought you had standards."
"I have standards!" she protests, voice cracking. "He's hot. And he's good at it. So leave me alone."
His hand snaps out and grabs her upper arm. "No fucking way. You little slut."
"Jealous?" she croons.
There is no knife in range. He jerks his sister closer, instead, shoving her through his door and letting go. She stumbles in her ridiculous heels and falls, too fucked up to navigate the plush carpet. Luigi kicks the door closed, reaching back to lock it. Amber can scream all she wants, but no one will come to help her. She needs to scream for him, to be reminded who she is and what that means, and why rutting in an alley with an animal is totally unacceptable.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she demands, sitting back on her feet and pushing heavy strands of hair away from her face.
"What's wrong with me? What's fucking wrong with you? Jesus fuck, Amber, I knew you were a filthy slut, but I never figured you for a whore."
"What business is it of yours?" She pushes herself to hands and knees and then upright, stumbling again but managing to remain erect.
He growls and yanks her toward him. "What you do is always my fucking business. Take your clothes off." He lets her go long enough to storm into the bathroom and turn on the shower as hot as it would go.
"What?"
"I'm putting you in the fucking shower; you're filthy." Metaphorically more than literally, but maybe fixing one would help the other.
She's struggling with the buckles of her corset when he comes back into the bedroom. He slaps her hands aside and unfastens them for her, dropping it to the floor. Out of her clothes, she is too thin, angular bones poking out, curving ribs visible. She is otherwise unmarked, recent surgery scars the only blemish on her perfection. It irritates him more that she can stoop to such behavior and not appear to be touched by it. The graverobber hadn't even bruised her, and Luigi knows how easy that soft, fair skin is to mottle. She has angry red marks on her arm where he'd grabbed her.
He shoves her toward the bathroom, taking an irrational pleasure in watching her stumble into the doorjamb. The graverobber might have left her untouched, but he will mark her as his own.
She tugs the wig off, dropping it to the white tile floor without a second look. "Coming?" she asks, a hand on the shower door and the words thrown over her shoulder. "Better make sure I'm clean enough for you." He takes it as a challenge and undresses, though he hadn't been planning to.
The water is almost hot enough to burn. She is shuddering under it, her skin pinking in the heat, and he reaches around her to reduce the temperature. He is having second thoughts about being in the shower with her, because part and parcel of teaching her a lesson is remaining in control of the situation and she is flushed and naked and control seems a very long way off. Filthy, he repeats to himself, trying to bring the disgust back, but all he can envision is her shoved against a wall and moaning while the long-haired graverobber has his way with her, and the thing that offends him the most about it is that it's not him. He shoves her away, and she slips and there is a dull crack as she hits her head against the tile. He reaches out to catch her without thinking about it, and she slides into his arms, pressing up against him. The noise she makes, low in her throat, is almost a purr, and his erection is bordering on painful. "That's not a very brotherly thought," she says, reaching down to touch it, smirking.
He starts to protest, to call her names, a gash across her self-esteem easier than any physical cut he could make, but she leans in and covers his mouth with her own. He is drowning in her, in the water, but mostly the scent and feel of her, the taste of her mouth against his, their bodies pressed together in an aching urgency. He needs her, to be inside her, and he can't explain it but he manages to shut off the water with an elbow and carries her, dripping and slippery and still kissing him, back to his bed. Tonight he doesn't care about his carpet or his sheets or anything but the sounds she is making and the way she spreads her legs, wrapping around his hips and arching up to accept him. He has a moment when he wonders whether she's aware of what she's doing, or if she's so lost in the fucking Zydrate high that she'd fuck anyone, but then, "Luigi," she whispers, and he thrusts into her. Her nails dig into his shoulders, sharp flares of pain grounding him against the pleasure, and she is moaning already, high whimpering noises in the back of her throat, her head thrown back to expose her smooth neck, and he tightens his fingers in her short curling hair and she screams with it and the world goes white for a second.
It seems like a long time before he can make his eyes focus together again. She is blinking up at him, looking more like a sleepy child than a satisfied lover, and he has a guilty flash of toddler Carmela, thumb in mouth, climbing into bed beside him because of a bad dream. He was the only one who could chase away the monsters under her bed, he remembers; fourteen years old and already furious at the world, his baby sister's trusting smile the only thing that could calm him in his rages. Somehow it had changed. He pulls her tight against him, stroking the thick dark locks, rejecting the world and everything in it, and allowing himself to pretend, for a moment, that he can still protect her.