Work Text:
dimanche
/dimɑ̃ʃ/
1. a day of the week regularly set aside for religious services and rest
2. Sunday, the final day of the week
────────────
It glistens under the sun, scrap metal soaking up the warm rays and reflecting fluorescence against the silk white curtains. It’s almost ethereal, reminiscent of a painting hung up in a museum barricaded off only to be admired from a distance, to be praised, worshipped, envied.
The sunshine that reflects off the silver band blinds you, wrapping tenderly around his finger— wrapping possessively around his finger— as a warning to stay away.
Because the arm that drapes across your body is almost a mockery of a reminder that the soft breath warming your nape doesn’t belong to you, that the blood rushing up your neck with every puff is shared; that no one comes between you and him— no relationship more tender, no connection more intimate, because blood is thicker than water, and family sticks together.
The thought is nauseating, churns bile in your stomach under the heat of his fingertips. They’re the fingers that laced through yours leading you to the playground, attached to the hands that picked you up by your waist when you tripped and fell, that sit at the end of the arms that wrapped under your thighs as he carried you home with your chin resting on his shoulder.
They’re the same arms that caged you in on the bed under him, the same hands that gripped your hips bruising finger shaped blossoms, the same fingers that laced through yours as you blubbered mindless affirmations of love with your legs folded around his back, I love you, Yuuta-nii.
It’s those same fingers that are adorned by a singular silver band, heavy metal so jarring against his delicate hands, so dissonant from the brother you’ve always known— it’s not yours.
But it’s a lackluster reminder, one that only dissuades you in the dead of morning with the rays of dawn shining through before he stirs behind you and buries his face deeper in your neck, and your lips quirk up with muscle memory; it’s a visceral reaction to his affection— It’s intrinsic in nature.
And then the same routine repeats. The birds chirp on the branch outside your window, a faint screech of tires travels from the bus halting at the stop, the bed dips, soft lips find your hair, then an even softer, “morning.”
You giggle like you always do, roll around to loop soft arms around his neck as he stands up, and avoid meeting his eyes first thing in the morning. Instead, you give him what you always do, “‘want water,” and he laughs, tender and doting, “get out of bed and I’ll get you some.”
There’s no trace of the night before as soon as he detangles his limbs from yours and walks to the bathroom, even less when he sets down your breakfast in the kitchen and sits down across from you. It’s the Hallmark of the perfect family having breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning; peaceful, loving, familial.
You don’t sneak a glance up from behind the rim of your cup to trace over his features, definitely don’t let your gaze wander down to his fingers wrapped around the handle of his mug and watch the way the silver metal tinkles around his ring finger.
“Are you working today?” You pretend there’s no weight behind the question.
“They haven’t called me in.” He pretends he doesn’t understand the connotations.
You pretend the trip to the grocery store together’s only to grab ingredients for lunch, act like the domesticity is only familial, ignore the graze of the back of his hand against yours on the walk back up the familiar street.
At noon the sun burns the hottest, shines the brightest against the silver piece, blinds the rawest tears rimming your eyes as you settle down next to him under the kotatsu. The tea’s already set in front of you, two ceramic cups sitting parallel on the table like it’s always been there, meant to be there.
Steady taps of the remote control echo in the room until they settle on bland daytime TV, over-expressive presenters inciting cheap laughter. Compared to the screen, you’re acting in a much more interesting play, performance so compelling you’ve almost managed to convince yourself; the tap of his foot on your calf is purely accidental, and you can’t taste the tension in the air.
This is just a normal Sunday afternoon, and you’re just a regular pair of siblings. The scene’s been set so superficially, even the audience on TV can’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.
He jolts at that, offers to refill your tea as he runs a hand up your back when he stands, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way your skin heats up following the trail of his fingertips.
“‘m hot,” you lean your head back against the wall as you look up at him, “I want something cold to drink.”
He just smiles, laughs softly like he always does because Yuuta-nii is always so courteous, always so kind, “so spoiled.”
And then you’re beaming back at him, grin just shy of smug, “you’re the one who spoils me.”
Spoils you rotten.
You don’t watch his back as he walks into the kitchen, just close your eyes and lean back on the wall to listen to the pitter patter of his footsteps echoing through the hall and pretend your heart doesn’t thump when you hear the creak of the fridge door opening.
Your eyes jolt open at the feeling of something icy freezing at your temple and you can hear his laughter before your eyes even focus on the plastic bottle pressed against your head.
“You said you wanted something cold.” Platonic banter, harmless teasing; that’s all it is. Your eyebrows scrunch up as you stick your tongue out at him, and he pokes a finger into your puffed cheeks before placing the bottle in your hand, lid already unscrewed.
The drink washes down waves of sweltering tension but your body boils up from the heart out as soon as Yuuta stretches his legs out under the kotatsu and settles back down next to you.
The ending of the play draws near as the sunshine fades, stage lights dimming in preparation for the curtain call.
Dinner’s more for formality than necessity, appetite swelled and eaten by the sticky-sweet tension lingering in the air.
“Curry?” He’s turning towards you, grabs a potato from the fridge and weighs the carrot in his other hand as a show of consideration.
You sigh, exaggerated and loud, jut out your bottom lip and pout, “we had curry yesterday.”
You have curry every day, you complain every other day, but you walk up to him to pluck the vegetable out of his hand anyways, laying it down on the chopping board and focus on the sharp slice of the knife; just like it’s always been, just like it always will be. And he smiles at you like he always does as you let your shoulders sink dramatically in exaggerated exasperation, because he knows, knows you won’t say no to him, can’t say no—
“You make the best curry.” You pretend your heart doesn’t speed up at a simple compliment, doesn’t race like a herd of horses galloping through your pounding ribcage.
“Yeah, well,” you roll your eyes up at him and ignore the softness in his, “if you made it every day you’d be good at it too.”
He huffs out a soft laugh, presses a palm to your head, and you pray the night falls quicker.
You pray for daylight to fade from the reflection off his ring that gleams in your peripherals, you pray the velvet curtains draw forth and hide you behind them on stage; safe from all the audience, safe from all the judgment.
Yuuta eats like he’s famished, and you watch him like you’re starving. You can’t tell what the curry tastes like, stopped tasting it after the third week, but your mouth tastes tart coated in sugar-spun anticipation.
It’s intoxicating, enticing, gets you drunk on the saccharine stuffiness of the oxygen filling your brain as you drink in the casted shadow that travels across his face with the sun falling past your side of the earth, your corner in the universe.
The clink of cutlery reminisces of alarm bells going off in your head, and you follow his hands as they leave the plate to fold a napkin over his mouth, dabbing at his lips, “I’m off tomorrow.”
You pretend you don’t notice the darkness in his eyes, don’t admire the lids laying heavier and lashes kissing the shadow of his bags as he blinks at you expectantly once. Twice.
The lack of sunlight clouds your mind in foggy waves and you place your cutlery down to match his, lips quirking in muscle memory as you tilt your head and meet his eyes. They’re no longer soft, tenderness fading with the daylight, “lucky me.”
You can see the corners of his mouth quirk up from the edges of the napkin, hear his laughter that rings through the room, echoing off the walls before traveling back to you like surround sound. It’s overwhelming, all-encompassing, thickens the air like dripping honey until you can barely breathe.
He just hums a breath, picks up both your plates and your mind whirrs. It rests in your arms on the table as you listen to the sound of water splashing in the sink and the soft clatter of ceramic.
It’s a rhythmic tinkling, almost melodic as they punctuate every beat of your heart, every clink and clang more like a metronome speeding up than a clock as it counts down in accelerando— and then it stops, water halting and the room is suddenly quiet, anxious. It makes you nauseous.
It makes your blood heat to your ears and hands clam.
So you wipe them on the table when you push up to stand, the scuffing of chair deafeningly loud in the silence, and pretend you don’t feel his eyes trailing behind you.
It’s not as much an unspoken agreement as it is routine. The bedroom door opens only a few minutes after you’ve shut it behind you, cracked open out of habit, left unlocked out of routine.
“‘m tired,” an empty excuse gets you a superficial response.
“Get some rest,” a superficial response makes for an unconvincing offer, “I’ll turn off the lights.”
You nod even though he already knows the answer, turn around and drop down onto the soft mattress and only meet his eyes after the lights flicker. In the darkness his features blur, in the darkness your breathes slow— in the darkness the ring barely glistens.
You already know what comes next, but you pretend you don’t anyways for old times sake; you tilt your head as you smile up at him, flutter your lashes and pretend you’re waiting for him to turn the knob and walk out the door.
And he does, reaching behind him to wrap his fingers around the doorknob, pressing his thumb into the round divot until the click rings out through the room; and then he walks towards you.
The first touch is molten, burns through your flesh from the heart out as he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder. You can feel the mattress dip with the weight of a knee, legs kicking out until your back falls flush against the cool sheets and the carpet disappears beneath your feet.
And then you’re airborne; the familiar feeling of your heart dropping to your gut while your breath floats out from your chest and into the space no longer existent between your faces, the space shared between frantic lips bruising lips, tongues kissing teeth.
You can feel his lashes prickling your cheeks, you’re sure he can feel yours wetting his skin, but a warm palm brushes up your hips, traveling up your waist before settling under your skull and cradling your face closer into his with all the tenderness of a child picking up a broken toy; a man holding his baby sister.
You cling to him like you’re desperate, and he kisses you like he’s hopeless; it’s a frenzy of sticky skin pressing against scorching flesh, limbs tangling expertly in practiced choreography— a knee slotting between your thighs, a hand looping behind his neck, long calloused fingers weaving between yours on the bed until the cool of the metal grazes the fourth finger from the thumb.
It makes you jolt, scrunch your brows up and turn your lips down in visceral reaction, but you kiss him harder instead, let your tongue explore every ridge of his mouth, every divot of his teeth—
“What’s wrong?” His fingers stay interlocked with yours even as he pulls back, and you’re stuck admiring the string of spit that stretches from between your lips with glossy eyes.
You’re suddenly all too aware of the air growing hot in the room, all too aware of the ring growing hot linked between your hands. Yuuta was always too attentive, too careful with you, too sensitive over everyone but himself; he’d never believe you when you shook your head and weakly tugged at his neck to bring him back down onto you.
“What’s wrong?” His hand tightens around yours, digging the metal into your finger in an ironic plea of concern, control. There’s no winning against Yuuta, there never was, never has been. So you surrender.
“Can I put it on?” Your voice comes out tentative, less shaky than expected.
He freezes for a breath, pauses and lets his overgrown bangs drape over his face and hide half of his expression, “the ring?”
It’s a redundant question; rhetorical, even. There’s no point in it except to drag it on, hope you drop the idea altogether as if you can, as if you haven’t been thinking about it every waking moment as it proudly gleams in your peripherals.
And for a moment you think you fucked up, that there’s no way he’ll agree, no way she’ll agree, but you feel the bed dip again, fingers unlacing from yours as he sits back on his knees. There’s still ink black strands covering part of his lids, and when he runs a hand through to push them back, he almost looks bashful, sheepish. It makes you shy, embarrassed to have made the request.
In the dark you can barely make out the glint of the metal, but you watch still, entranced with the way it slides off his finger and ignore the soft indent it leaves in the flesh like a permanent reminder, a permanent branding.
The air feels stifling, and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he reaches a hand out, palm up in an invitation too intimate for the relationship you share; the relationship you’re meant to share.
He doesn’t comment if he notices the way your hand shakes, palm clamming in his hand as he loops the ring around your finger, pushing it all the way to the base pinched between his thumb and index. It hangs off your finger in an awkward loose droop, making a mockery of how it’s not yours, never will be yours— he’s not yours.
But you feel his fingers thread between yours, trapping the metal within laced hands and when you look up at his eyes, for the first time they look lost, glazed over in a sheen of darkness that burns right through you and sets your chest ablaze.
Out of the corner of your eye you see the streetlight flicker outside your window, a beat of breath you hold before you’re pushed back down onto the bed, and when you release the breath you held, it’s moaned into his mouth, trapped between bruising lips and eager tongues.
You can feel the metal grow hot, sticky against sweaty hands married together, “Yuuta-nii.”
He hums in response, knows exactly what you want, exactly what you need. A large hand finds your thighs easily, gripping the soft flesh and hooking them around his hips as you cling onto him like he’s your lifeline and you’re out of gas.
It’s almost embarrassing how well he knows your body, how easily he works you up with soft touches and lazy strokes. By the time his fingers find the drenched cotton and runs a knuckle down between your puffy lips, your whole body tenses in sensitivity.
“So wet,” hot breath warms your ear, tickles the shell of the cartilage and you think that you can come just like that with his voice vibrating in your skull and his knuckles collecting slick with every stroke.
Because you know, you know you’re soaked, probably, and if he so much as grazed you during the day he’d find out you’ve been needy for him all day, the clean scent of cotton and musk and Yuuta steadily dizzying your shaky rationality.
And you know he knows as well, can probably tell by the way your thighs twitch and breathes hitch, sobs slowly spilling out in broken strings of his name.
It’s embarrassing how easily he has you falling apart under him, how quickly he has you coming in your panties with your hips bucking into his palm, mindlessly chasing your high as you frot against easy, languid touches.
But it doesn’t stop, not until he says so; not even when you’re clawing crescents into his back through the fabric, not when you’re sobbing pleas into his mouth. Not when you can feel the bulge rub against your thigh.
If walls could talk, it would mock of the girl who begs her brother to stop while clinging onto his body like he’s her only saviour. It would tell tales of the greedy, rotted sister who stained her perfect brother with sins he can never atone for, lies he has to take six feet under.
Everyone loves a good martyr, no one likes the executioner.
You can feel the heat of his flesh rubbing against your thigh, pre leaking from the tip and coating sweaty skin. The veil of darkness fuels you like gasoline, ignites lava coursing in your veins as you reach a tentative hand down and moan when you feel his cock twitch against your palm.
Two rocks of the hip, two needy whines spill out; he hooks two fingers on the edge of your panties and pulls it down in half of one second. A finger runs down your slit, dipping softly between puffy lips and your hole pulses in anticipation, waiting for the first move, waiting for the first gasp, waiting— a breath, soft and warm heats your skin as the cool air kisses it back.
The first gasp comes ripping out your chest, head falling back when the first finger pushes in. You can feel as it breaches the first ring of muscle, can feel your walls pulse around it until it’s nestled in til the last knuckle.
The first hook of the finger pushes the tip right into the sensitive patch, the first nudge out has you keening in, the first thrust back has your thighs tensing, legs kicking out with moans too needy to be embarrassing. It sends you tumbling into your second orgasm, body reeling with a silent scream. Your vision blacks out under your lids as your eyes roll back, tongue sucked into another mouth when it lolls out.
The tears streaming down your cheeks leave cool trails on the steaming skin, and he kisses them in, soft pecks as he travels up your face until he reaches your eyes squeezing shut.
When you open them again finally the first thing you see is blackness— the navy of his irises eaten up by his pupils entirely, leaving only a rim as a reminder.
This is the Yuuta you know best, beyond the gentle caresses and soft pats deserving of a sister, beyond the caring façade of a familial connection, beyond the restrictions of the taboo; the Yuuta who’s eyes are so dark it makes a mockery of the night sky— your Yuuta.
You know that the you in his vision, through pupils blown into a supernova, is no longer the clumsy child who’s hand he holds to lead through the park, no longer the innocent sister he has to dote on and protect.
You’re a myriad of desperation, the bricolage of stained dignity and shattered morality; the you in his vision is a sister begging to be broken apart, begging to be fucked.
The flicker in his eye is enough of a warning before you’re filled to the brim, stretched inch by aching inch until you’re biting your lip raw to hold in the screams. But he’s cooing at you, soft kisses down your temples in reassurance that you’re doing good, you’re doing good; you’ll be okay.
You’ll be anything that Yuuta wanted, but right now you’ll be good for him, let him push your knees up to your ears and hold them in place so he can cradle your jaw with his free hand. When his thumb traces over your lips, you’ll suck it into your mouth, flatten your tongue underneath and lap at every callous.
There’s a sharp jolt between your interlocking fingers, every thrust punctuated by a squeeze of his hand that burns the metal into your skin even more; you wish it would scar into your flesh as a permanent promise.
If walls could talk, it would tell tales of the brother who fucks into his sister with fervor, pace feverish in chase of the high. It would condemn the harmony of soprano moans and baritone pants, hips bruising together in a frantic rhythm.
There’s a familiar heat brewing low, a tension too delicious and delicate that clouds any rationality. You know you’re too far gone already, and it’s always around this time that the secrets come spilling out, ones that not even the walls should hear, “‘love you,” ones that you keep at the back of your tongue, swallowed down every time it threatens to burst out, “I love you, Yuuta-nii.”
You don’t hear his response, don’t know if you want to hear his response, but it’s drowned out by waves of the orgasm ripping through, washing your consciousness away until a warm body brings you back to shore. You feel limp, heavy, but the hips twitching and thighs slamming into yours makes you feel weightless— reminds you that it’s Yuuta, your Yuuta.
Through glossy eyes you can see the blurry silhouette shadowing over, dark hair swaying with every slap of his hips pumping erratically, frantically; and it hurts, it’s sore, so sore, too sore from the overstimulation, too sensitive from the orgasm still quivering through your body.
But you’re a good girl, want to be good for Yuuta, so you lay there, peer at him with heart filled eyes and chant his name like a prayer over and over and over— until he stops, forehead dropping down to rest on yours as you feel the warmth filling you up rope after rope, spilling onto the bedsheets below.
When he pulls out, you only wallow in the emptiness for a breath before you’re being dwarfed by the weight of his body squishing you into the bed, and you huff out a giggle, too spent and tired, “get off.”
And he laughs too, low and tender, shifting up only enough to press his lips to your hands still married together, sticky with sweat. A kiss to the thumb, up to the index, then to the middle, before stopping at the ring. In the silence of the night, you know you can’t hide the way your breath hitches.
His lips are soft when they touch your skin, his voice even softer when he speaks, so quiet you almost miss it, “I love you.”
And in the dark, the metal remains stagnant, hidden within the night.