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Your sister is acting weird. She often does, but you notice this particular brand of weird when she comes home for winter break. After you've pulled her in for a big, long, tight hug, inhaling the flowery scent of her hair and the soft tickle of her breath on your jaw: you take her bag and her coat, hanging the latter on a hook by the door.
‘Jinx,’ you hear Silco say. ‘Is that a tattoo?’
By the time you turn back around, he’s holding her wrist, lifting it high enough that her sweater slips. You catch a glimpse of abstract blue shapes on her forearm before she laughs, pulling her hand free and shaking her sleeve back down.
’It’s nothing,’ she says. ‘Just some new ink.’
You catch her eye and smile. She smiles back, but her gaze moves away from yours too quickly.
‘New ink,’ Vander repeats. ‘You hear that, Silco? Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s her first ink.’
‘Ha, ha,’ she says. ‘I’ll show you later, okay? Right now I feel gross, need a shower—I hate taking the bus home.’
You pick up her suitcase, falling into step beside her as she walks upstairs.
‘You know I would have come to pick you up,’ you murmur.
’I’m not making you take an eight-hour round trip for me, Vi. You’d get so bored.’
But you wouldn’t. You’d do that eight-hour round trip in a heartbeat, just like you’d do anything for her. You can’t think of anything better than four hours in the car with your sister—other than the solid three weeks of her company that her winter break affords you.
‘I’d make it fun,’ you say. ‘Come up with some car games to play.’
‘Car games?’
‘Games to play in the car.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, brother. The bus is starting to sound better and better.’
‘You don't mean that,’ you say, confident. But maybe she does.
She giggles again, which doesn't necessarily make you feel better.
Her bedroom is the same as it was the day she left—mostly. You've been in here more often than you’d admit, flicked through the sketchbooks on her desk, picked up her stuffies and squeezed them way too tight. You put her case down next to her bed. She pulls her braids over her shoulder and starts unraveling them.
‘I need a shower,’ she tells you again.
You move closer and wrap your arms around her, pressing your mouth against her hair.
‘Yeah, you do. Wash that smartypants college stink off you. Glad you’re home, Pow-pow.’
She leans into your touch, tilting her head up a little until your mouth kisses her forehead instead.
‘Me too.’
As she moves to pull out of the hug, your hands find her wrist. ‘Hey,’ you murmur. ‘The tattoo. Can I see?’
‘Okay,’ she says after a beat. Do you sense a little hesitation from your sister?
You tug up her sleeve, eagerly poring over the pastel blue clouds floating across her pale skin. They drift up her arm, cute and colourful and fun—just like Powder herself—and disappear under her sweater.
‘Clouds,’ you murmur. ‘Kinda like mine, huh?’
‘I guess,’ she mutters. ‘Vi, seriously—shower.’
She brushes past you, en route to the bathroom. You follow her.
‘How far do they go?’ you ask.
‘I don't know, Vi,’ she says, holding the bathroom door halfway open. You can tell she wants to be done with the conversation and you’re not totally sure why. Since when has a shower been more important to her than you? ‘All over.’
All over? You puzzle over what that means, sitting in your bedroom with the door open so you can hear when Powder's done with her shower. Downstairs, Vander's making dinner and Claggor’s helping him, but you’re too distracted by all over to join them.
After an age, Powder comes out of the bathroom. Her hair is dripping wet, spread across her bare shoulders like blue seaweed from outer space. Underneath, you spy more of the clouds, edging up her neck and down under the towel wrapped around her chest.
‘When did you have it done?’ you ask.
‘Couple weeks ago.’
That stings like a slap to the face. You visited Powder just a few weeks ago, and talk to her every day. She never mentioned this—never told you she was saving up, that she had an appointment, that she wanted a tattoo at all.
‘You’re looking after it?’ you press. ‘You’ve got lotion and all that?’
‘Yes, Vi. I know what I’m doing.’
‘Okay. Just checking.’
At dinner, Powder’s hair is still damp and unbraided. Silco will help her with it later. He’s the only person with the patience for it. Sometimes you feel a pang of envy over it; spending an hour toying with Powder’s soft hair, slipping the gold cuffs into place over the braids. But your fingers start to cramp up after a few minutes, and your handiwork is never as neat and uniform as Powder’s or Silco’s.
Her oversized sweater slips off her shoulder as she’s eating, leaving you to trace the curls of a cloud on her neck, and another that dips down out of sight on her collarbone.
‘Vi?’ Claggor says. ‘Anybody home in there?’
You blink, dragging your gaze to Vander. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Mylo snickers. ‘Looking at Jinx’s new ink?’
Powder pokes her tongue out at him.
‘Ah, yes,’ Silco says. ‘This famous new tattoo.’
Powder laughs, rolling her eyes, and pushes her sleeve up to show them the clouds on her arm. Then she tugs the neckline of her sweater aside so they can see the one on her neck. These are all parts you’ve seen already, and though your parents are satisfied with an incomplete picture, you’re not. Do those clouds cover her chest? All the way down her stomach? Do they spread across her hips, her thighs? Did your baby sister let someone see—and tattoo—her ass ? You want to know. You need to know.
You’ve got a late shift after dinner, which excuses you from clean-up duty. You slip your shoes on as your siblings stack dishes and take them to the kitchen.
‘Don’t wait up,’ you tell Powder.
She lifts a hand to blow you a kiss and her sweater rides up. On her slender stomach are more clouds, disappearing into the waistband of her pants. So now, at least, you know that they span from chest to hip. Maybe even lower.
At work, the thought of her toned, tatted stomach keeps your mind occupied. You fuck up at least three orders and spill twice as many drinks.
Thanks to the cold weather, you don’t see much more of Powder’s tattoo in the following days. When you do, it’s always just a glimpse before Powder pulls her sleeve back down, or fixes the hem of her shirt after it rides up. You offer to help her put lotion on, but she laughs it off, promising that she’s old enough to know how to moisturise. You can’t think of an excuse to get Powder into her bathing suit or down to her underwear—at least not an excuse that doesn’t sound perverted. And on the topic of perversions you should never expose your sister to, you even consider accidentally walking in on her when she’s changing or in the shower. You toss that idea out fast . Catching Powder naked, picturing her slender limbs and trim, tiny little body and freshly-tattooed back, hips, chest, thigh on display… the thought of that makes your palms sweaty and your heart race with guilt. You’re never ever going to put your baby sister through that: a betrayal of trust; an invasion of privacy.
But eventually, you can’t stand it—the not knowing. So that afternoon, you catch her elbow on the upstairs landing and you murmur: ‘Hey. Sleepover tonight, okay? My room.’
She looks at you with those big baby blue eyes that sometimes make your heart hurt, and she nods. And that’s that.
You leave your bedside lamp on so that when she slips into your room you can see her—and her tattoo. Frustratingly, she's wearing a pair of pajamas. The winter cold strikes again, forcing Powder to don a long-sleeved top and full-length pants, as opposed to her typical nightwear of a tank top and shorts. The pajamas are decorated with kittens wearing santa hats, so at the very least, she looks fucking adorable.
‘Finally,’ you say, pulling back the comforter for her. ‘Kept me waiting long enough.’
She grins, diving into your bed and pressing her body up close to yours. ‘Sorry.’
‘S’okay.’ You wrap your arms around her, nuzzling your face into the crook of her neck until she squirms. She’s always been ticklish there and you’ve always used it to your advantage. ‘ Super cute pjs, Pow-pow.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, breathy from the tickling. ‘Silco got them for me.’
‘He didn’t get any for me .’
‘You wouldn’t wear them,’ she says.
You chuckle. ‘Damn right, I wouldn’t. Boxers and band tees all night, baby.’
Honestly, though, you’re more of a clothing optional sleeper when Powder’s not around. You rub your thumb over the soft fabric of Powder’s shirt.
‘You sure you’re not gonna get too hot in this?’
‘Nuh uh. It’s freezing.’
You slide your hands under her shirt to hold her waist. You’re always hot and she’s a little freeze-baby; you feel her cold toes curling against your shins as your palm glides over her soft stomach.
‘I’ll keep you warm, Pow,’ you murmur against her ear.
She shivers.
‘Are you ever gonna call me Jinx?’ she asks.
You knock your forehead gently against her temple. You’re all for your sister experimenting, finding herself… but did she really have to find herself with a new name that reminds you of your most painful fight and the worst thing you’ve ever said? She’s reclaiming it, but every time Silco—the first and only person in your family to truly embrace Jinx —says her name, you’re left wishing you’d never said it.
‘Dunno.’ You roll onto your back, away from her. ‘Do you want me to?’
She rolls with you, draping her body over yours on cupping your jaw so you can’t avoid her gaze.
‘Yeah,’ she says.
‘I prefer Powder,’ you say weakly.
‘You can call me Powder,’ she says, and relief rocks through you. So long as she doesn’t take Powder from you. ‘ And you can call me Jinx. I promise it doesn’t hurt.’
But she would say that. Sometimes you wonder if part of the reason she chose Jinx is because it hurts. Some kind of self-punishment, like poking at a bruise.
‘God,’ you mutter. ‘Okay.’ You lick your lips. ‘Jinx.’
She smiles. ‘Was that so hard?’
‘Honestly? Yes.’
‘Well, you did it. Good job.’ She kisses your cheek.
You wrap your arms around her again, letting one hand slide under her shirt again to rub her back. Your other hand grips her thigh, pulling it over your body so she’s settled more comfortably between your hips.
‘Yeah. Going back to Powder for the next ninety million years now.’
‘Sure,’ she says. She’s all shivery again; she must be cold. You pull the sheets over her shoulders.
‘Okay, my turn for a question now.’
‘Vi.’
It’s obvious she thinks you’re a dumbass. She’s correct, but still.
‘Powder. Can I see your tattoo?’
‘You’ve already seen it,’ she says, but she rolls up her sleeve for you.
You trace the outline of the cloud on her wrist; then the one a couple of inches up her arm. You run the pad of your thumb across the one that’s behind her elbow; the one winding up around her bicep. The big one on her shoulder is hidden by her rolled sleeve, but the clouds reappear again out of the neckline of the kitty pajamas.
‘Feel like you’ve been hiding it from me,’ you murmur as you pore over every line, every curve, every shade. It’s perfect— Powder is perfect, always has been—and unfamiliar. The knowledge that your sister has changed and you don’t know all the details of the differences is torture .
‘I’m not,’ she whispers, but you’re pretty sure she’s lying.
‘Powder, come on. You haven’t let me see it for more than five seconds.’
‘I am right now,’ she says.
‘Yeah, and it’s not so bad. So why all the hiding, huh?’
She covers her face with her free hand.
‘I was worried you’d think I was copying you.’
‘Copying me?’ You sit up a little, leaning on your elbow. ‘What, cause of the clouds? The smoke?’
She nods. Your heart swells; she’s so cute , worrying that you’d be mad at her, that it hurts .
‘No way. I like it; we match.’
‘That’s what I wanted when I got it,’ she says. ‘And then after, I realised… if we didn’t talk about it, it’s not matching . It’s just copying.’
‘Post-tat clarity,’ you say. ‘I get it. But it’s cool, Pow. They’re matching tattoos if we want them to be.’
She lowers her hand. ‘You sure?’
‘Yup. And next time? We’ll go together. Pick something out for both of us.’
She beams. You know a real matching tattoo with you will have her grinning for days. It’ll be so worth it.
‘Okay, another question,’ you murmur, gripping her bicep. ‘How far do the clouds go?’
Her eyelashes flutter as she considers the question. ‘Huh?’
‘I already know they don’t reach your face. Good thing, too, ‘cause that’s already perfect.’ You lean in to kiss her cheek and, up close, hear her breath catch. ‘But—’ Using your grip on her bicep and your other hand on her waist, you push her off you, onto her back on the mattress. You move fast to kneel between her legs, leaning over her. ‘What about the other direction? Do they go all the way to your feet?’
You grab her ankle, lifting it and pushing her pant leg up an inch or so. No clouds.
‘I guess not,’ you say.
‘Vi,’ Powder gasps. Her face is very pink. She’s covered in goosebumps. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s okay. I just wanna know. Are there clouds on your leg?’
She hesitates for a second, and then she nods.
You push the fabric up her leg to expose her bony knee. Bony and bare: no tattoo. You hum, disappointed. Powder squirms, but she can’t escape your firm grip on her calf. You keep going. The fabric of her pants is loose enough that you can push it all the way until it’s rucked up around the top of her thigh.
Aha. A stream of clouds banded around her mid-thigh. You wrap your hand around them, around her leg. Your forefinger and thumb are an inch from meeting on her inner thigh. She’s way too skinny.
‘You know, most people gain the freshman fifteen, they don’t lose it,’ you tell her. You know Powder’s a sparse eater at the best of times and with college classes, new friends, and an entire robotics lab at her disposal, you’re willing to bet she’s forgetting to eat more than breakfast.
‘Huh?
‘You’re not eating enough. Gotta send you home with a big ol’ care package, Pow.’
‘I’m eating plenty,’ she says, but you’re already distracted by another cloud. It’s peeking out from under the fabric bunched around the top of Powder’s leg, curving around her inner thigh right by her pelvis. Where the fuck does that go? You run your hand over the portion that’s visible, tucking your fingers under the fabric to follow where you think it leads, right up to the crease between her inner thigh and her—
‘Vi?’
You stop. Powder’s face is red, her chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths like a frightened prey animal. You recognise the familiar peaks of two pierced nipples under her shirt, but you file that away in the think about later pile because what the fuck are you doing?
‘Sorry,’ you say, sitting up and pulling your hands back down to her knee. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she breathes. She sits up, leaning on her elbows to gaze at you. ‘Really.’
‘Yeah, not really,’ you say. ‘I didn’t even ask if I could touch you—’
‘You can,’ she interrupts. ‘You can touch me. It feels nice. And you don’t have to ask.’
The faint stress on the word you reassures you; makes you hopeful that at the very least, she’ll be holding any future boyfriends to higher standards than her sister. You really don’t want some ugly, inexperienced freshman touching her thighs like that without her permission.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ She lays back down with an expectant air. But this time you’re not sure what to do or where to go. Suddenly you’re the one feeling like an inexperienced freshman. ‘You wanna see all of it, right?’ Powder says. She lifts the hem of her shirt, tucking it under her chest and exposing acres of Powder stomach, Powder ribcage, Powder hips and the hollow between them which feels absolutely fucking sinful for you to look at. But you look anyway.
Your hands creep back up her thigh as you take in the details. Clouds on her ribcage, partially hidden by her shirt; you can tell these spread across to her chest. You actually can’t believe Powder let some stranger see her tits, touch them, tattoo them. You pray Powder felt comfortable with them and that nothing shady happened, cause if it did you’re about to catch a murder charge.
Cute powderpuffs of cloud drift down her stomach. You find these little ones weirdly endearing and you can’t help smiling, even as your hands keep moving over her body. You smooth your palms over the front of her pants to her waist, ignoring the small noise Powder makes. You have permission, right? A much larger design spreads across her stomach and hip here. You can tell it takes up a lot of real estate under her clothes.
When you rest both your hands on her stomach they cover almost her entire torso. Powder shivers, squirming under your hands for a moment before she relaxes, flattening out into a sleepy pancake beneath you.
‘I really like it, Pow,’ you say softly.
‘Yeah?’ She peeks at you, pleasantly surprised. As if you’d tell her anything else.
‘Yeah. It’s fucking cute, and it suits you.’
‘Good. I was worried.’
‘Come on. I love everything you do.’
Her tummy moves under your hand, taut and soft and delicate. You’re thinking about that hypothetical future boyfriend again. On reflection, you don’t think anyone should be allowed to get this close to your sister—you don’t trust anyone to touch her the way she deserves. Except you, obviously.
‘Yeah, well. You’re weird like that.’
‘It’s not weird to think you’re cool.’
She laughs, breathy and disbelieving.
You move backwards so you’re no longer filling the space between her thighs.
‘Now roll over.’
‘Why?’ she says, but she’s already obeying: shifting onto her front to cuddle your pillow, legs splayed comfortably across the mattress. You settle between them again.
‘So I can see your back,’ you say. ‘You know back tats are the hottest kind.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she says.
You shove her shirt up as high as it’ll go, hungry to see more.
‘Vi!’ she squeaks.
‘It’s okay, I can’t see,’ you tell her, because you know she’s stressing about the fact that her shirt’s been yanked up above her chest. But her front is pressed firmly against the bed and you can’t see anything aside from a sly glimpse of sideboob—the right side adorned by another cloud that frankly you’re desperate to see. You’re worried Powder’s hitting her limit, though: she lets out a high-pitched whine when you let your fingers graze the tattoo there, so you pull away, focussing on the clouds dotted across her shoulder-blade. You knead your fingers into her skin, working your way down her slender back to the big cloud on her hip, still hidden under her clothes. You toy with the waistband of her pants. Powder makes another sound, lifting her hips and pushing back towards you for a moment before dropping against the bed again. She’s breathing hard as you drag her pants down an inch or so, exposing her pretty lower back.
‘Can I?’ you murmur.
She looks at you over her shoulder, eyes soft, brow furrowed. She sits up and turns around, pulling her shirt back down and drawing her knees to her chest. For a devastating second, you’re certain you’ve gone too far. She’s done.
Then she extends her legs toward you again, gripping her waistband and lifting her hips.
‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘Help me?’
Relief flushes your body. You realise for the first time just how hot you feel—and have been for some time if the sweat prickling across your skin is any indicator. As you pull the hem of her pants down, you gaze up at her body, holding your breath. Does Powder wear underwear to bed? The pants glide down her hips. And yes, she does. You’re relieved, not disappointed.
You work with your sister to remove her pants and then you fling them on the floor. Now you’re free to take in the whole picture of your little sister from her pink cheeks to her pink panties. They’re made of some semi-sheer fabric that means you can see the rest of her tattoo without her taking them off. So now you can see the extent of that big cloud on her hip. It swirls across the top of her thigh and over her pelvis to the middle of her body. And you know you shouldn’t look, but fuck , her panties are see through and her tattoo basically fucking signposts her crotch and—
You look. And now you know that your baby sister has a bush. A neat little blue one. And you are cursed with knowing that forever and ever. Even when Powder’s fully dressed in a dozen Mormon-ish layers, you’ll know. In fact, you might not be able to think about anything else, ever again. You lift your gaze to Powder’s face. She bites her lip.
‘You still like it?’
‘’Course I do,’ you rasp. You clear your throat. ‘It’s really cool.’
She smiles, looping her arms around your neck and dragging you down for a hug. You tuck your face against her neck, inhaling her familiar scent.
‘Good,’ she whispers, her breath tickling your ear. You wrap your arms around her waist, rolling both of you onto your sides.
And then… You’re not sure what you’re doing, but you let your hands keep moving over her body. Palms gliding across her stomach and her back. Reaching further down, grabbing her butt and dragging her closer against you. Powder moves with you like she’s anticipating what you’ll do next, like she enjoys it. You grip her thighs, dragging them apart and kneading the cloud on her upper thigh. You’re moving faster, feeling frantic, desperate, possessed. You’ve lost your mind, clearly, and from the soft noises Powder’s making she’s losing hers, too. You caress her ribcage, her back, her waist. Powder yelps, clinging to your neck as your hand slides up under her shirt between her breasts to press your fingers against her breastbone, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Your other hand dives down to her hip, fingers slipping under her panties to brand your palm against her tattoo. She’s so good, so precious, you and your sister are a perfect fucking fit and she feels so right—
‘Vi, wait, s-stop,’ she gasps.
You stop.
Abruptly you’re feeling stone-cold sober, forced back to reality after whatever out-of-body experience just possessed you. You’re in bed with your sister’s thighs locked around your waist and your hand in her panties. You pull away from her so fast you get a headrush.
‘I’m sorry, Pow,’ you say, running your hands over your face. ‘Fuck. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ she says, but her voice is shaky and she’s breathing hard.
‘No,’ you say. ‘No, it’s fucking not.’
What the hell is wrong with you? It’s like you forgot, for a second, that she’s your sister. Are you so sex-starved that you’ll try to get it from the first person who crawls into your bed, even if that happens to be your innocent sister? Maybe you need to get laid. By someone you’re not related to.
Powder touches your arm, excruciatingly tender when what you really deserve is a slap.
‘It’s not you, Vi,’ she murmurs. ‘I just—I got overwhelmed.’
‘My fault,’ you mutter.
‘No. I liked it, Vi, I really did. It was just a lot at once.’
You lower your hand, entwining your fingers with hers. She doesn’t realise that she shouldn’t like it, not when it’s between you and her.
‘I get that. Sorry, Pow. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ You lean back on the pillows, watching her carefully for any sign of distress.
‘You were thinking, wow, my sister is such a cutiepie,’ she says, keeping tight hold of your hand, stroking the back of it.
You chuckle. ‘I’m always thinking that.’
She lays down next to you, resting her head on your chest. You smooth your free hand over her hair. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I’m around, Pow. I’ve got you.
‘You can see my tattoo any time you like,’ she tells you.
‘Thanks,’ you say, though you think you need to keep a lid on that particular obsession.
Her breathing evens out, slow and sleepy and peaceful, as you pet her hair. You’re thinking you might both get some sleep now, until something slips out of your think about later pile.
‘Pow?’
‘Mm?’
‘You got nipple piercings too?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can I see?’