Fic: Wednesday's Child (Mary-Kate/Ashley Olsen. R.)
Title: Wednesday's child
Pairing: Mary Kate/Ashley Olsen
Rating: R?
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, incest, violence and issues of consent. If any of those things are likely to offend you, please don't read it.
Feedback: Please!
Disclaimer: This never happened anywhere outside of my imagination.
Summary: Ashley is looking at her with horror and remembering last night in an uncharacteristic moment of softness when Mary Kate crawled between her legs for a bit before passing out on her chest drunkenly. She couldn't breathe from her weight - it seemed strangely apt.
Ashley has a bruise for every day of the week - Monday (fair of face) is on her cheekbone and she'd been so fucking pissed when MK did it, but really, what could she do? Their publicist had looked from it to Mary Kate - massaging her feet as she slid them out of her stilettoes - and fixed Ashley with a look that left her squirming, sliding her eyes away and blithely lying that she'd walked into a door.
When she sees those adverts that say 'DOMESTIC ABUSE? SPEAK OUT' with the phone number underneath she almost wants to call them and tell them that she's trapped in an abusive relationship. She can't get out. She's claustrophobic and she can't FUCKING get out.
Instead she returns home to their shared room, always a shared room - MK told an interviewer that they'd share a room at NYU as well and Ashley felt herself inwardly crumble even as she laughed and squeezed Mary Kate's hand, who squeezed it back tight. Tighter. Tightest.
Mary Kate calls her from where she's out shopping with David and tells her she has big plans for the weekend - got some 'FUCKIN A' draw and she wants to share it with her favourite sister. After she hangs up Ashley thinks that maybe they're going to give blowbacks and kiss and lie round each other all comfortable, like it used to be, mainly, apart from even when they were small Mary Kate would pull her pigtails and kick her shins. She can't even remember the last time they kissed.
When Mary Kate fucks her boyfriend she does it in Ashley's bed - never in her own. Like she's distancing herself from who she's become, or maybe just cus she likes to piss Ashley the fuck off.
'Ashleeeey,' she'll whine - beautiful and fragile with dark rings under her eyes like smudges in snow - 'he fucked me soooo hard, it hurts.'
Then she'll tell Ashley to go over there and she'll pull her down to the bed and slide Ashley's fingers inside her to where she's still wet from his come and Ashley will die on the inside even as Mary Kate moans. Every breath a tiny surrender to what MK is - like she's being conquered and stifled even as she watches her sister come so hard she feels as if her fingers are bruising. Maybe that way they can match her face, her arms, her shins, her hipbones.
'You're such a fucking whore,' Mary Kate sighs as she comes, and the thought seems to satisfy her because she'll roll over right afterwards and go to sleep.
And that's it - Ashley thinks - that's exactly it - she is such a fucking whore. She doesn't even like her sister and she still lets her use her and still sometimes even likes it. Trying to remember loving her sister seems elusive these days and whenever she tries to remember a time when it was okay it's like she's chasing a ghost - fragile and shaky like the way she feels inside whenever Mary Kate lays her head on her stomach, relaxed and gentle, before sinking her teeth into the flesh. She'll lift her face up and flick her hair out of her eyes - 'putting on a bit of weight, eh Ash?' - before asking Ashley to count the vertebrae in her spine.
Tuesday's bruise is on her inner thigh and it's shaped like a secret - shadowy and kissable like the way Mary Kate looks when she's sprawled naked in their room. In their bed. Her bed. Ashley's bed. Whatever.
'Hey David, wanna know a secret?' sly and teasing, like always, and everyone laughs like it's SO CUTE that she's such a little princess but Ashley's burning up inside - can feel her insides almost igniting and this strange strangled feeling inside her chest.
'It's about our little Ash here... you know she acts like such a princess, so pure and stuff?' and Ashley is looking at her with horror and remembering last night in an uncharacteristic moment of softness when Mary Kate crawled between her legs for a bit before passing out on her chest drunkenly. She couldn't breathe from her weight - it seemed strangely apt.
'Well, I heard she got it on with two guys at the same party last week!' she hoots with laughter and digs Ashley in the ribs with laughter. Hard. Too hard. And Ashley suddenly feels grateful to her for not telling even as she realises just how fucked up that is.
Mary Kate is trying to set her up with David's best friend so they can 'double date an' stuff' and Ashley searches her eyes for some sign of a hidden agenda but there seems not to be one. He's a playboy oil-rich Daddy's boy and Ashley knows that's why Mary Kate's done this but there seems to be a hardness in his eyes and she thinks that maybe it'd be better to be His than Hers.
Maybe.
Wednesday's bruise is on her collarbone - Mary Kate cried after doing it - so high and wired that it was impossible to touch her to calm her down. Ashley tried.
'I'm so sorry,' she'd wept brokenly 'so-so sorry,' and Ashley had comforted her like she always did and put her back together like she always did and it didn't even strike her as odd that Mary Kate was the one crying or that Ashley was comforting her even after all she'd done. She thinks afterwards, rationally, that it's probably a sign of how in their relationship Mary Kate is the one with the power whilst she has none.
Mary Kate dyes her hair almost black the day after she's cried in Ashley's presence over what she did. The newspapers have a field day as they photograph her at the game with her boyfriend - she looks stoned and she has a promise ring on, which is enough to set them off but it's the articles writing about her need to separate herself from Ashley, to be different to Ashley that Ashley reads, keeps, hides underneath her mattress in the shallow hope that Mary Kate won't find them.
Mary Kate goes through phases where she won't eat a thing. Dark glasses in a restaurant and a stick of celery counts as a meal as she dissects it casually with sharp, glinting cutlery. Look at me, she seems to say, not her, me, and Ashley counts every lack of a mouthful as another bruise encircling her insides. Envisages it as a band that tightens round her heart like the promise ring that Mary Kate wears - 'look how far we've come, baby, and look how far we've got to go' - and silently screams as Mary Kate slyly checks to see whether she's noticed she's left half a fucking celery stick on her plate and offers it to her with a smirk. Friday's child is loving and giving.
Rehab is a blessing and she uses caller ID every day for the first fortnight. Wears a cowboy hat and goes on a publicity tour alone. Switches the ID off when she realises Mary Kate hasn't, won't, can't call her and calls her instead. Hangs up when she hears her sister's voice - cracked, unhealthy, dry and goes out and buys herself what seems like thousands of magazines with her face in as the sensible, clever, stable one.
Suddenly it feels like Sunday.
--end
Pairing: Mary Kate/Ashley Olsen
Rating: R?
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, incest, violence and issues of consent. If any of those things are likely to offend you, please don't read it.
Feedback: Please!
Disclaimer: This never happened anywhere outside of my imagination.
Summary: Ashley is looking at her with horror and remembering last night in an uncharacteristic moment of softness when Mary Kate crawled between her legs for a bit before passing out on her chest drunkenly. She couldn't breathe from her weight - it seemed strangely apt.
Ashley has a bruise for every day of the week - Monday (fair of face) is on her cheekbone and she'd been so fucking pissed when MK did it, but really, what could she do? Their publicist had looked from it to Mary Kate - massaging her feet as she slid them out of her stilettoes - and fixed Ashley with a look that left her squirming, sliding her eyes away and blithely lying that she'd walked into a door.
When she sees those adverts that say 'DOMESTIC ABUSE? SPEAK OUT' with the phone number underneath she almost wants to call them and tell them that she's trapped in an abusive relationship. She can't get out. She's claustrophobic and she can't FUCKING get out.
Instead she returns home to their shared room, always a shared room - MK told an interviewer that they'd share a room at NYU as well and Ashley felt herself inwardly crumble even as she laughed and squeezed Mary Kate's hand, who squeezed it back tight. Tighter. Tightest.
Mary Kate calls her from where she's out shopping with David and tells her she has big plans for the weekend - got some 'FUCKIN A' draw and she wants to share it with her favourite sister. After she hangs up Ashley thinks that maybe they're going to give blowbacks and kiss and lie round each other all comfortable, like it used to be, mainly, apart from even when they were small Mary Kate would pull her pigtails and kick her shins. She can't even remember the last time they kissed.
When Mary Kate fucks her boyfriend she does it in Ashley's bed - never in her own. Like she's distancing herself from who she's become, or maybe just cus she likes to piss Ashley the fuck off.
'Ashleeeey,' she'll whine - beautiful and fragile with dark rings under her eyes like smudges in snow - 'he fucked me soooo hard, it hurts.'
Then she'll tell Ashley to go over there and she'll pull her down to the bed and slide Ashley's fingers inside her to where she's still wet from his come and Ashley will die on the inside even as Mary Kate moans. Every breath a tiny surrender to what MK is - like she's being conquered and stifled even as she watches her sister come so hard she feels as if her fingers are bruising. Maybe that way they can match her face, her arms, her shins, her hipbones.
'You're such a fucking whore,' Mary Kate sighs as she comes, and the thought seems to satisfy her because she'll roll over right afterwards and go to sleep.
And that's it - Ashley thinks - that's exactly it - she is such a fucking whore. She doesn't even like her sister and she still lets her use her and still sometimes even likes it. Trying to remember loving her sister seems elusive these days and whenever she tries to remember a time when it was okay it's like she's chasing a ghost - fragile and shaky like the way she feels inside whenever Mary Kate lays her head on her stomach, relaxed and gentle, before sinking her teeth into the flesh. She'll lift her face up and flick her hair out of her eyes - 'putting on a bit of weight, eh Ash?' - before asking Ashley to count the vertebrae in her spine.
Tuesday's bruise is on her inner thigh and it's shaped like a secret - shadowy and kissable like the way Mary Kate looks when she's sprawled naked in their room. In their bed. Her bed. Ashley's bed. Whatever.
'Hey David, wanna know a secret?' sly and teasing, like always, and everyone laughs like it's SO CUTE that she's such a little princess but Ashley's burning up inside - can feel her insides almost igniting and this strange strangled feeling inside her chest.
'It's about our little Ash here... you know she acts like such a princess, so pure and stuff?' and Ashley is looking at her with horror and remembering last night in an uncharacteristic moment of softness when Mary Kate crawled between her legs for a bit before passing out on her chest drunkenly. She couldn't breathe from her weight - it seemed strangely apt.
'Well, I heard she got it on with two guys at the same party last week!' she hoots with laughter and digs Ashley in the ribs with laughter. Hard. Too hard. And Ashley suddenly feels grateful to her for not telling even as she realises just how fucked up that is.
Mary Kate is trying to set her up with David's best friend so they can 'double date an' stuff' and Ashley searches her eyes for some sign of a hidden agenda but there seems not to be one. He's a playboy oil-rich Daddy's boy and Ashley knows that's why Mary Kate's done this but there seems to be a hardness in his eyes and she thinks that maybe it'd be better to be His than Hers.
Maybe.
Wednesday's bruise is on her collarbone - Mary Kate cried after doing it - so high and wired that it was impossible to touch her to calm her down. Ashley tried.
'I'm so sorry,' she'd wept brokenly 'so-so sorry,' and Ashley had comforted her like she always did and put her back together like she always did and it didn't even strike her as odd that Mary Kate was the one crying or that Ashley was comforting her even after all she'd done. She thinks afterwards, rationally, that it's probably a sign of how in their relationship Mary Kate is the one with the power whilst she has none.
Mary Kate dyes her hair almost black the day after she's cried in Ashley's presence over what she did. The newspapers have a field day as they photograph her at the game with her boyfriend - she looks stoned and she has a promise ring on, which is enough to set them off but it's the articles writing about her need to separate herself from Ashley, to be different to Ashley that Ashley reads, keeps, hides underneath her mattress in the shallow hope that Mary Kate won't find them.
Mary Kate goes through phases where she won't eat a thing. Dark glasses in a restaurant and a stick of celery counts as a meal as she dissects it casually with sharp, glinting cutlery. Look at me, she seems to say, not her, me, and Ashley counts every lack of a mouthful as another bruise encircling her insides. Envisages it as a band that tightens round her heart like the promise ring that Mary Kate wears - 'look how far we've come, baby, and look how far we've got to go' - and silently screams as Mary Kate slyly checks to see whether she's noticed she's left half a fucking celery stick on her plate and offers it to her with a smirk. Friday's child is loving and giving.
Rehab is a blessing and she uses caller ID every day for the first fortnight. Wears a cowboy hat and goes on a publicity tour alone. Switches the ID off when she realises Mary Kate hasn't, won't, can't call her and calls her instead. Hangs up when she hears her sister's voice - cracked, unhealthy, dry and goes out and buys herself what seems like thousands of magazines with her face in as the sensible, clever, stable one.
Suddenly it feels like Sunday.
--end