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Sciurus was drunk again, but not so drunk she didn’t recognize the strangeness or the wrongness of her older sister’s fingers stirring up her pussy.
The realization landed blunt, sick and clear, cutting through her particular fog like a branch snapping underfoot. She tasted gin, sour and burning. She tasted her own heat, slick and sharp and embarrassing, unwound by the hard push between her thighs.
“You’re soaking wet down here,” Ratatos whispered, smug as ever. “I wonder… did I do this?”
Some part of Sciurus—bright, animal, furious—wanted to shove the other woman away, but her body wouldn’t listen, her limbs heavy, her head too loose on her shoulders. All she could do was blink, mouth dry, pulse fluttering wild in her throat. The room spun. The world shrank to the rhythm of that hand, the curling press, the wet drag of skin against skin.
Sciurus made a noise, some half-swallowed protest, but it fizzled out on her tongue. She tried again, words guttering in the space between need and decency.
“Ratatos, we h-have to… Yucatan, he’s going to be back, you can’t—!”
Ratatos didn’t slow. If anything, the matriarch pressed in deeper, two fingers now working the sodden heat beneath Sciurus’ dress, the pace patient and predatory. She looked like someone winding up a music box, intent on drawing out the next trembling note.
Ratatos’ voice was close, breath fogging between Sciurus’ ears. “Yucatan will be gone a long time, little sister. I made sure of it.”
A flush crept up Sciurus’ neck, prickling hot above her too-hot collar. She squirmed, tail thumping an uneven staccato on the soft winter blanket. The room spun tighter, the world reduced to the scent of wool, the hush of old Kjerag stone walls, and the relentless slip of Ratatos’ clever hand.
She tried a third time. “We… we really shouldn’t… h-he’s my husband, you know that…!”
That was as far as she got. Ratatos’ other hand framed Sciurus’ jaw, fingers slipping under her chin, tilting her head up. The kiss came down hard. There was nothing sisterly in it. Ratatos’ lips pried hers open, tongue a velvet spear, and Sciurus whimpered in spite of herself. Her mouth filled with the taste of gin and something rich and dark, like burnt caramel or the memory of old, forbidden things.
Ratatos kissed as if she meant to erase all possibility of refusal. Slow at first, then deeper, until Sciurus’ protests were nothing but a muffled gasp. The older woman’s hips pressed into the mattress, pinning her there, the two of them sliding in a tangle of orange wool and black silk. Rings flashed at the edge of Sciurus’ vision, catching the weak lampshine, each touch a reminder: you belong to me, you always have.
Ratatos broke the kiss with a low, regal hum. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then brushed a stray curl from Sciurus’ brow, all affection and no apology. “You worry too much,” she purred, amusement curling in her throat. “Your husband is running errands for me. I gave him a list so long it would take a Silverash accountant to tally it. He won’t be back before sunset. And by then…”
She trailed off, letting the implication hang. Her hand never left Sciurus’ cunt. If anything, she seemed newly fascinated with the way her little sister shivered at every twist and flick.
Sciurus’ pupils were blown wide, skin dewed with sweat, lips red and swollen. She tried to summon a glare. It came out shaky, uncertain, more plea than threat. “That’s not f-fair. You always cheat…”
Ratatos smiled, sharp and luminous, a predator perfectly at home in the velvet hush of her family’s den. “Of course I do,” she said, and curled her fingers again, drawing a fresh, helpless moan from the girl pinned beneath her.
Ratatos drank it in with a kind of clinical pleasure—not cold, exactly, but measured, as though she were sampling a rare fruit just to see which flavors lived beneath the skin. She pressed her mouth back to Sciurus’, stealing her protests and her breath in a single, hard kiss. Not just a kiss. It was an invasion, a conquest; her tongue slid between her little sister’s lips, hunting, curling, insistent. Ratatos kissed like she wanted to unmake something, to dissolve the fragile line between family and forbidden, to taste every scrap of resistance and grind it to powder.
Sciurus bucked under her, a jolt of panic, but it went nowhere. Her back arched, black dress riding up over her hips, thighs slick and trembling as Ratatos’ fingers dug in, relentless. Gin and guilt mixed on her tongue, her head spinning, ears flattening back. She wanted. She wanted so badly it felt like a fever, a consequence, a curse. The taste of her sister’s mouth was heat and salt and a little bit of shame, the afterburn of something she should never have started. She whimpered into the kiss, letting Ratatos swallow it, tail thumping a frantic tattoo on the wool blanket.
Ratatos shifted, never breaking the seal between their mouths. Her hand stilled for a second, just long enough to trail up and cup one of Sciurus’ breasts through the sheer, clinging fabric. The touch was exploratory at first, almost gentle, as if weighing the worth of what she held. Then her thumb flicked over the nipple, teasing, pulling at it, slow and inexorable. Sciurus’ gasp vibrated between their lips, a plaintive, wounded sound. There was nothing for her to do but clutch at Ratatos’ shoulders, fingers tangling in the heavy fur collar and the matriarch’s perfume—a chemical, sharp scent, like autumn leaves crushed underfoot and a hint of metallic cold.
Breathless, Sciurus tried again. “Ratatos, please…” But it sounded thin, childlike, the plea of someone already halfway gone.
Ratatos ignored her. She deepened the kiss, tongue twisting, teeth grazing, sucking the air out of Sciurus’ lungs. Her hand kneaded the curves of her little sister’s chest, squeezing just hard enough to make her whimper, to make the shame bloom brighter behind her eyelids. The other hand pressed on, unrelenting, working slow circles in the soaked heat between Sciurus’ legs, every movement calculated for maximum effect. She was good at this. Too good. Like she’d mapped every weak spot ahead of time, memorized every nerve ending.
All the while, Ratatos watched her, eyes dark and intent, hungry. When she finally broke the kiss, Sciurus was left gasping, mouth shining wet, cheeks burning with a guilty flush. Ratatos licked her own lips, savoring, wiping a smear of spit from Sciurus’ jaw with her thumb.
“Look at you,” Ratatos murmured, voice a velvet blade, “all soft and desperate… I think you like this even more than I do, little sister.”
Sciurus shook her head, mouthing silent denials, but her hips told a different story, rocking up wantonly as Ratatos’ fingers curled inside her. It shouldn’t have felt this good. It shouldn’t have felt like a secret she’d been waiting to confess since childhood, since before Yucatan, before she knew what it meant to be loved by anyone but Ratatos. Tears stung at her lashes—not sadness, not exactly. Overwhelmed. Overwritten. Her body was a traitorous thing, and her heart was worse.
Ratatos seized both wrists and pinned them above Sciurus’ head, holding her in place with just one hand. The other continued its lazy assault, fingers slick, palm grinding down. Sciurus bucked again, helpless, breath coming in wild little sobs. Black gloves scrambled for purchase, but there was nowhere to go. Her legs were spread, orange cloak bunched around her waist, stockings torn at the seam where Ratatos had gotten impatient.
“You’re making such a mess,” Ratatos said, a note of amusement in her voice. “I always knew you’d be a handful, someday.”
It was cruel, how much Sciurus wanted her. Even now, her mind kept cycling back to Yucatan, his clumsy, adoring hands, the promises they’d made. He was good to her. He was hers. But this was different. This was dangerous, dizzying, like drinking too much and being spun around by a storm. She pressed her face into the pillow, muffling a scream, and came apart around her sister’s fingers, hips jerking, whole body locked in a shudder.
Ratatos held her through it, hand gentle suddenly, soothing, stroking up and down the length of Sciurus’ trembling thigh. She watched her little sister ride the aftershocks, every ripple and whimper. Her expression was complicated: part affection, part appetite, part smug satisfaction.
“Shh,” she whispered, nuzzling close. “You did so well. Still so sensitive?”
She let go of Sciurus’ wrists, but only to slide down, cradling the smaller Zalak against her chest. Ratatos’ hands were everywhere at once, stroking along the curve of Sciurus’ ribs, kneading the soft give of her breasts. She nipped at a bare shoulder, then tugged the black dress down to expose one perfect, trembling nipple. Her mouth found it in a heartbeat.
She sucked hard, greedy, letting her tongue flick rapid circles over the peak before clamping down again. It was possessive, almost brutal, leaving a ring of red around the swollen bud. Her rings flashed in the lamplight as she squeezed the other breast, rolling the tip between thumb and forefinger until both nipples were flushed and glistening.
Sciurus moaned, louder now, her head thrown back. One hand went to Ratatos’ hair, clutching at the long, silken strands, desperate for something solid in the spinning world. The other fluttered uselessly over the blanket, searching for a rule, a lifeline, a reason to stop.
She found none. Only the heat of Ratatos’ mouth, suckling and biting, and the feeling of being devoured, hollowed out, cored like a fruit and left trembling for more. It was humiliating, how fast Sciurus’ body responded. Her nipples peaked under Ratatos’ tongue, stiff with shock, her hips seeking friction despite every scrap of shame. The logic center of her brain told her to run, to fight, to say something sharp and decisive—but all she could do was whimper and squirm beneath the weight of her sister’s attention.
Ratatos drank it all in, savoring the way power shifted in the small, overheated room. She moved with a kind of lazy certainty, as if she’d already run every possible permutation of this encounter in her mind and knew exactly when and where each moan would land. Her tail curled, twitching with satisfaction, brushing against Sciurus’ thigh and leaving a trail of static heat in its wake.
As soon as she was done leaving her mark on the soft flesh of Sciurus’ chest, Ratatos shifted higher, looming, letting her shadow swallow the younger woman whole. Her hands were efficient. She gathered up the black dress, yanked it over Sciurus’ head with a single, decisive tug, leaving her bare but for the torn stockings and the orange cloak bunched around her waist. The air was cold against Sciurus’ skin, but Ratatos was warmer. Too warm.
For a moment, it looked like Ratatos was just going to gloat. She ran her hands down Sciurus’ sides, mapping her spine, her ribs, the fluttery tension in her belly. Then Ratatos’ own shirt came off in a practiced yank, orange fabric flaring like a signal flag before it joined the heap of discarded clothing. She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts were smaller than Sciurus’, but proud and high, her skin dusted with shivers and old scars and the faintest lines where her own coat had dug in.
They stared at each other, chests heaving in sync, Zalak ears pinned back in mirrored arcs of anticipation. Only a few inches separated them. Less, once Ratatos hooked a knee around her sister’s hip and dragged their bodies together.
When their cunts touched, there was a static shock—a jolt, bright and undeniable, like the snap of a live wire between their thighs. Sciurus gasped. She tried to jerk away, but Ratatos only grinned, a thief caught in the act and unrepentant. She used her grip on Sciurus’ hip to grind down, slow and deliberate, pressing hot flesh to hot flesh.
It was obscene the way they fit together. Each movement sent a wave of wetness slicking between them, a sound like a secret being whispered, the kind of secret only sisters could share. Ratatos was relentless, rutting against Sciurus as if she meant to leave a bruise. The rhythm started slow, exploratory, but her confidence was a weapon, and soon she was setting the pace, hips rolling in lazy, devastating arcs.
Sciurus couldn’t look away. Her mind fuzzed out, all language scattering under the onslaught. She clung to her sister’s shoulders, nails digging in, legs falling open wider with every thrust. She could feel every detail—the sharp edge of ring against her thigh, the quickening pulse in Ratatos’ neck, the way their tails tangled on the blankets like desperate, grasping roots.
Ratatos pressed their foreheads together, breath coming in sharp, shared pants. “See how perfect you are?” she murmured, voice thick with something between affection and hunger. “You should never have settled for less. Yucatan… he’s sweet, but he doesn’t deserve you. He can’t do this to you, can he? Can he make you shake like this?”
The words landed like a slap. Sciurus’ ears flattened harder. She bared her teeth—not in anger, but in a kind of wounded pride. “Don’t say his name.” Her voice was brittle, raw. “Not now. Not when you’re… when you’re inside me like this! You have to shut up, Ratatos. Just shut up and… and fuck me!”
Ratatos’ answering smile was all fangs. For a second, she looked more fox than woman. “As you wish, little sister.” And with that, she hooked both arms under Sciurus’ knees and hauled her higher, grinding their pussies together with a new, bruising intensity.
Bodies locked, they wrestled for dominance, twisting and rolling on the tangled sheets. There was no decorum, no pretense of gentleness; Ratatos was determined to win, and her advantage was absolute. She moved with the inexorable patience of glaciers and the violence of an avalanche. Every thrust sent sparks ricocheting up Sciurus’ spine, every slip and slide of slick skin a reminder of how hopeless resistance truly was.
Their faces were so close that every gasp became a kiss, every whimper a shared vice. Ratatos sucked at Sciurus’ lower lip, bit it, then dove back in for another taste. Her hands wandered, greedy, learning every curve, every fracture line of her sister’s resolve.
“You don’t even miss him, do you?” Ratatos’ voice was a velvet lash, snapping tight between them. “All you want is this. You just want me to ruin you, over and over, until you can’t even remember his name.”
Sciurus shook her head, but the lie rang hollow. Her knees came up, locking around Ratatos’ hips, holding her close, refusing to let go. Every time their clits caught, a flashbulb of sensation lit up the darkness behind Sciurus’ eyes. Her heels drummed on the blanket, her voice reduced to high, helpless noises. The smell of sweat and sex hung dense in the air, clinging to the stone walls like a scandal.
Ratatos pressed harder. The room shuddered with their rhythm, a dirty lullaby crooned by the click of rings and the slap of skin. Sciurus arched up, desperate to meet her, to grind even closer, as if she could crawl inside her sister’s shadow and disappear. Her head lolled back, throat bared. She gasped for air, tears leaking down her cheeks, the pleasure too much and not enough.
Ratatos licked the tears away. Not tenderly, but with a predator’s satisfaction, teeth grazing the soft skin just below Sciurus’ jaw. Sciurus tried to twist away, but there was nowhere to go. Her world had collapsed to the pressure of Ratatos’ thighs, the grind of cunt on cunt, the blur and crash of sensation rolling through her body in punches and waves. She shuddered. Every nerve ending felt raw, stripped down to the wire, as if Ratatos had peeled her open and left her to spark in the cold air.
Ratatos pressed her lips to Sciurus’ throat, sucking a bruise into the delicate skin just above the collarbone. “You’re close, aren’t you,” she whispered, voice all gravel and honey, as if it wasn’t obvious. As if it wasn’t written in the frantic way Sciurus’ hips bucked up to meet every movement, the way her hands clawed at the blankets, desperate for some anchor, some logic to cling to.
Sciurus sobbed, half-choked, the sound muffled as Ratatos bit her again, then again, working down toward the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck. She wanted to say something, anything, but words evaporated instantly, burnt off by the white-hot wash of pleasure. She had never wanted anything this much, not even Yucatan, not even when she thought love was a thing with rules and history and a point. All that mattered was this. The friction, the heat, the way Ratatos ground down against her with a confidence that was almost mathematical.
The bed creaked, groaned under them, the sound echoing off the old stone walls. This room was supposed to be a place of power, of negotiation and family tradition, but now it just smelled like sweat and desperation and the tang of girl-heat. A mark on the history of the Browntails, smeared across the blankets and the inside of Sciurus’ thighs.
Ratatos let her weight do the work, pinning Sciurus flat. She shifted, adjusted, just enough to let their clits line up perfectly, pressed tight through the slick mess. The sensation was so sharp it hurt—a live wire, a cut, an accusation. Sciurus’ whole body jerked, ears flat, tail flaring out behind her like a warning flag.
“Come on, little sister,” Ratatos breathed, her own voice hoarse, almost trembling but never out of control. “I want you to give it to me. I want you to show me how you cum for me, not for him. Me. Only me.”
It was that last word that did it. Sciurus broke like a bone under a hammer. Her legs locked around Ratatos, dragging her closer, tighter, as if she could break the older woman open and crawl inside. She screamed, high and bright, the sound bouncing off the frosted windows. Her whole body spasmed. She could feel the slick heat flood out of her, pooling between their bodies, soaking the sheets, her chest heaving so hard she thought she might burst.
Ratatos was right behind her. Her head went back, mouth open in a silent snarl. She rutted through the aftershocks, every motion determined to wring the last drop of pleasure from Sciurus’ spasming cunt. For a moment, they were just two animals, tangled and sweating, no past, no names, just the shared violence of sensation.
When Ratatos came, it was quieter, but no less intense. Her body locked up, muscles trembling, hands clawing down Sciurus’ hips hard enough to leave red stripes. She ground down, slow and deep, riding out the pulses, letting the mess soak her thighs and the inside of her tail. For a second, her face was unguarded: eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks streaked with spit and tears she’d never admit to.
They hung there, suspended in a haze of ruined dignity and perverse satisfaction. The room stank of sex. The sheets beneath them were a disaster, sticky and shining in the lamplight, a Rorschach blot of everything forbidden.
Ratatos collapsed forward, pinning Sciurus under her. Their chests heaved together, hearts racing, sweat slick on every inch of exposed skin. For a moment, all conflict was gone. Nothing left but the sound of breath, and the occasional wet squelch as they shifted, still tangled together.
Sciurus blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, lips parted. She looked stunned, as if a bomb had gone off in the center of her skull and she hadn’t yet measured the damage. Her arms flopped uselessly at her sides. She swallowed, pulse a frantic stutter in her throat.
Ratatos let her savor the silence. She stroked a hand down Sciurus’ ribcage, almost gentle in the aftermath, and rested her chin on the younger woman’s bare shoulder. She closed her eyes, just for a second, greedy for the feeling of her little sister’s body still twitching underneath her, so sensitive she could barely stand to be touched.
But patience was never Ratatos’ strong suit, not when it came to things she wanted.
She rolled off Sciurus in a single, practiced motion, swinging one leg over and straddling her younger sister’s head. It was almost theatrical—the way she sat up straight, spine rod-stiff, hips wide, her tail arcing behind her like a royal banner. She didn’t bother to hide the way her cunt glistened, the mess of arousal painting her inner thighs, dripping down to smear the fur at the base of her tail.
She looked down at Sciurus, looming, smirking. “You remember how to use that pretty mouth, don’t you?” Her voice was low, a conspirator’s whisper, thick with old memory. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten… all those nights in the dark, when we were supposed to be asleep.”
Sciurus’ face went red, then almost purple. She tried to turn away, but Ratatos caught her by the ears, not rough, but insistent. She lowered herself, slow and taunting, until the heat of her pussy hovered just above Sciurus’ lips.
“You used to beg for this,” Ratatos teased. “Every time you got scared at night, you’d crawl into my bed. Said you didn’t want to be alone. And then you’d whimper until I let you taste me. You remember, don’t you?”
Sciurus shivered, a visible tremor beneath the matriarch’s fingers, as if the memory itself had teeth. She wanted to deny it, to spit out the taste of history, but Ratatos was already lowering herself, thighs tensing, cunt slick and glistening in the lamplight as she pressed it to Sciurus’ mouth.
“C’mon,” Ratatos purred, voice a razor dragged through velvet. “Open up. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten what to do. You used to whimper for it. Beg me to let you taste me, even when you knew you shouldn’t…”
The scent of her filled Sciurus’ head, sharp and wild, like the inside of a fox’s den: sweat, musk, and the thick, dizzying sweetness of cunt, so close it drowned out every other sense. She tried to turn away, but Ratatos caught her ears in both hands, cradling them like fragile glass, not cruel but unyielding. She angled her hips, grinding down, the heat of her pussy smearing across Sciurus’ lips.
“Good girl. That’s it.” Ratatos let out a shaky sigh, eyes half-lidded, tail curling like a flag of conquest behind her. “You always were my favorite student. All those nights, all that practice… you should be perfect at this by now.”
She rolled her hips, slow and inexorable, painting Sciurus’ mouth and chin in her juices. The first taste was a punch, a shock of salt and copper, the flavor of forbidden things. Sciurus whimpered, more memory than protest, but her tongue flicked out anyway, helpless, seeking. Old muscle memory. Old need. She licked, slow and tentative at first, but Ratatos just laughed—a low, delighted sound, the kind of laugh that could get a girl in trouble.
“Don’t be shy. You know you love it.” A pause, then: “I want you to eat me, Sciurus. Like you mean it. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
Pressure. Command. Sciurus obeyed, jaw working, tongue flicking up between the wet, swollen folds. The taste was overwhelming: slick, dark, a little bitter, like burnt sugar and secrets. She lapped at her older sister’s cunt, desperate and compulsive, the way a child sucks honey from a broken comb. Ratatos moaned, loud and regal, shifting forward to smother Sciurus’ mouth completely.
“That’s it,” she purred, grinding harder, her cunt sealing over Sciurus’ nose and lips. “You make such a mess, but you always get every drop. Remember how you’d wriggle into my bed, pretend you were scared? I’d let you hide under the blankets, and you’d start licking, and you’d never stop, not until I pulled your hair and made you taste it all.”
She was rutting in earnest now, face flushed, breath coming fast. Her hands threaded through Sciurus’ hair, holding her steady, forcing her tongue deeper, harder, faster. The blankets bunched beneath them in a chaos of color and heat.
“You’re perfect like this,” Ratatos hissed. “On your back, mouth open, serving me. Your face has always been my favorite throne, sister dearest,” she whispered, giggling darkly.
The first grind down was almost sweet. Ratatos went slow, letting Sciurus breathe her in, letting the younger woman’s nose and mouth sink into the velvet heat of her pussy. It was the scent of things forbidden and familiar, the taste of home and hunger all at once. Sciurus’ tongue flicked out, a cautious scout, then licked deeper, greedier, as if she was searching for a lost memory at the bottom of a shot glass. It was desperate. It was practiced. It was perfect.
Ratatos shuddered, her thighs flexing tight around Sciurus’ head, ears twitching up and back, eyes hooded in satisfaction. She rolled her hips, deliberate, her cunt sliding wet and heavy across Sciurus’ lips and chin, every movement stamping ownership in bold, invisible ink. Her rings flashed. Her tail lashed the air behind her like a whip, soft and vulgar, marking every pulse and shiver.
“Good girl,” Ratatos breathed, voice unsteady but still thick with command. “Don’t stop now. Not when you’re so close…”
Sciurus didn’t need telling. Her mouth worked in a rhythm older than words, tongue plunging between folds, lapping, then sucking, then teasing a hot circle around the apex of her older sister’s clit. Her own face was a ruin, slick with Ratatos’ juices, nose buried so deep she could barely draw air. Which was the point. Ratatos wanted her drowning, suffocating, lost in it.
And she was. Sciurus clawed at the backs of Ratatos’ thighs for leverage, gloves slipping in the wet, holding her in place and pulling her down harder. Each time Ratatos ground forward, she moaned, the sound vibrating straight up through her tongue, into Ratatos’ cunt, making the matriarch shudder and mutter curses between clenched teeth.
It got wild fast. Ratatos’ composure lasted exactly as long as her self-control. Soon she was rutting on her little sister’s face, not soft or coy but frantic, like a beast with a feast. The room filled with the slap of skin, the squelch of slick, the music of desperate, hidden things. Her hands, always so steady, trembled as she held Sciurus’ Zalak ears, fingers digging in, rings biting the soft fur. There was no more teasing, no more patience. Only the need to finish, to brand her sister from the inside out.
When Ratatos came, it was a collapse and a detonation. Her whole body locked and shivered, then bucked, a raw animal jolt. She let go a scream that belonged in the history books, echoing off the old stone and the thick winter glass. Wetness flooded out of her, splattering across Sciurus’ cheeks, nose, mouth, chin. More than a mouthful, more than anyone could politely swallow. But Sciurus tried anyway, desperate, jaw working, lips clamped tight around the twitching muscle that fed her every secret.
Ratatos rode it out, hips jerking forward, smearing the mess into every angle of Sciurus’ face. She wanted her marked, ruined, unmistakable. When the aftershocks hit, she ground down in slow, greedy spasms, making sure her little sister got every drop. The air between their bodies was wet and hot and cloying, the taste of cunt and sweat and old, sticky sins.
“Fuck… aaahh… fuck! Mmm… hahhh… good girl… my dear sister… a-ahhh… ohhh, you’re so good to me…”
For a minute, nothing moved. Sciurus just panted, mouth slack, spit and cum smeared up to her eyes, every breath a sticky, shaky prayer. She didn’t dare wipe her face. Ratatos watched the aftermath like a queen beholding her flag planted on conquered soil. She stroked a lazy hand through her little sister’s hair, curling the strands behind an ear, then bent forward and kissed her, slow and deep, licking her own taste off Sciurus’ ruined lips.
“Still the best,” Ratatos murmured, voice gone soft and secretive. “No one even comes close to you, darling.”
She rolled off, finally, collapsing onto the wool blanket in a heap of limbs and shivering tails. For a while they just stared at the old ceiling, the cracks in the plaster, the way the lamp cast shadows like ancient wounds across the stone. Their bodies were ruined, leaking, sticky, but neither seemed in a hurry to fix it.
Eventually, Sciurus snuggled up, tucking herself under Ratatos’ arm, burying her face in the hollow of her sister’s shoulder. Her voice was small and shamed, barely more than a breath.
“You promise Yucatan will never find out? Ever?” she said. “You swear?”
Ratatos stroked her hair, all regal affection, and wrapped her tail around them both like a blanket. “I promise,” she said, without a hint of doubt. “He’ll never know. No one will. This is our secret, little sister. Just like it always was.”
Sciurus sighed, relieved and wrecked, and let herself be held. For a long time, they stayed that way: two Zalak girls tangled in a tangle of ruined sheets, the world outside faded to gray.
Hours later, the sun was just a smear of gold behind the snow clouds when Yucatan finally trudged home. He came in quietly, setting down packages with the desperate, apologetic care of a man who knew he’d failed his matriarch and his wife both. The door creaked. His footsteps were soft, almost tiptoeing, as though he expected to disturb something fragile in the den of the Browntails.
He found them by the parlor window, framed in late afternoon shadow.
It was almost picturesque. The two Browntail women stood neat and tidy in the amber spill of sunset, silhouettes cut from matching velvet: Ratatos in her ridiculous fur-collared coat, grinning like a wolf who’d eaten the shepherd, and Sciurus smaller, shoulders hunched, a nervous smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. They looked like sisters. They looked like a family. They looked like nothing had ever happened.
Yucatan paused, arms full of parcels, heart in his throat. He was used to this tableau—the women of his house arranged by the window, watching the world go by with that distant, conspiratorial look. Only today it prickled. Something was wrong. The air was too sharp, the sun too yellow, the scent of wool and dust undercut with a sweetness that made his ears twitch. Like sap in the snow, thick and cloying.
Ratatos rested one hand on her sister’s shoulder, the other hidden behind Sciurus’ back—a little cloak-and-dagger. Her fingers weren’t idle. Hidden by the curve of Sciurus’ orange cloak, her hand gripped the younger woman’s ass, squeezing, kneading, as if testing fruit for ripeness in the market. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even affectionate. It was a claim: this belongs to me, and I’ll bruise it if I want.
The parlor was caught in that long, sticky moment before the world remembers how to breathe. Ratatos’ rings glinted, catching the wan sunlight, each movement a silent threat as she watched her dear sister’s husband put his parcels and items away. She kept her grip on Sciurus’ rear, working her fingers under the hem of the black dress, pushing in until the younger woman’s thighs trembled with effort. The fabric bunched. The pressure increased. Sciurus’ knees knocked together, a silent stutter. She bit her lip.
Moisture welled up, heat bleeding through the torn stocking. It was obscene, the way it left a wet, dark mark spreading over the nylon. Ratatos felt it immediately. Her grin sharpened. She leaned down, lips brushing the shell of Sciurus’ ear, voice pitched low enough that only her little sister could hear.
“Still sensitive, aren’t we?” she whispered. Squeeze. Twist. The next grope was harder, a clear warning as Sciurus suppressed a squeak and watched her husband flit about the place. “You’re leaking, darling. Try not to get the carpet wet. Poor Yucatan’s already had a long day…”