Work Text:
Lara didn’t enjoy needlepoint.
She often stuck her fingers. Her eyes were fixated on the pad of her thumb. A red bead. She watched a wild snap of electricity leap from the wound. Brought the sore thing to her mouth and sucked, the taste of iron and Godhood sticking to her tongue. It was noon. There was a funeral her family needed to attend. Her heart ached. She tried not to think of the taste of pork. She did not look to the doors to her chambers (swinging open, Willy and mother and her wooden ruler), but instead studied her canvas. The fabric straightened and held in place. A would-be pond, a would-be cluster of lily pads. A serene setting. There was something clumsy about it. Something candid about it. A confession.
She drew her healed thumb from her mouth and set her work aside.
Flicked her eyes up as mother shut the doors and Willy sat upon the edge of the bed. Gripped at it and grimaced down at his stocking clad feet and didn’t look at his sister. He had reached sixteen only yesterday, but that fact was irrelevant to most. Lara was younger, and yet felt she could not depend on her brother for guidance of any kind, ever. Their mother stood there solemn, face a powdered blur. Nose sharp and pointed, head ever so slightly held back (proud) and hair pulled into that severe black bun. Her hairline seemed to be thinning but not quite receding.
Lara drifted from her chair and across the room. Settled onto her knees before her older brother, dark dress fanning out about her. She didn’t remove her fascinator, the net falling from it and just across her eyes. It served as a kind of barrier between her and her hands and her hands undoing the buttons to Willy’s trousers and her nude, bloodless lips wrapping around the head of his cock.
She was able to fit it entirely in her mouth, soft and unimposing as it was. Limp. Her nose buried itself into his dirty blonde pubic hair and her right hand settled upon his thigh, pushing it further from the other (as they were trembling and attempting to close).
“Look at your sister, William.”
He must not have- the girl flinched at the sound of a smack but did not raise her eyes.
When she could feel that he finally had, she sucked to reward him. Felt the soft mass twitch against her tongue. She massaged his thigh and disregarded the whimper from the boy that quickly followed. She often wished Willy wouldn’t make these sorts of things difficult. Lara’s left hand remained fisted upon the floor, resting upon the carpet. She pricked her little finger with the needle still clenched in her hand and told herself she was powerful while knowing that she was not. She did not raise her eyes to look at Willy, but instead looked to her mother. The woman had the visage of a memory and looked as though she were constantly in the process of fading. A face like saran wrapped fog.
Blink and she’s gone.
“And so the children wandered further into the forest...”
Willy was standing tall, blocking out the sun, outline burning, eclipsed, light blooming from his edges. He was divine. Wingless. Lara sat in the grass, legs tucked beneath her. Dress black, corset tight beneath it, a tea-stained script clutched in her hands. Hands that were not nearly as delicate as her brother’s, and she rose her eyes to watch him snap two thin, pale fingers. “If only we could get mother near an oven. Sorry to spoil the whole story, but they-!”
“-Push her in.” The girl murmured, turning a page and letting her passionless eyes fall from her brother’s impassioned ones. “Willy, hasn’t this story already been written? In fact, I’m certain it has been.”
“My dearest Lara.” Willy crouched down, tucking dark tendrils of hair behind her ear. Her hair was kept in a severe bun just like mother’s, but unruly strands escaped throughout days spent with Willy. “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. What matters is who perfected it.”
“It’s plagiarism.”
He tutted and lightly smacked the top of her head with his script, his wedding band flashing in the sun. “You’ll never be an artist with a temperament like that.”
They were in the rose maze mother had constructed shortly after father’s death. It had an entrance, but no exit. They hid near the very furthest dead end, pretending they were free. As if there was real and actual privacy anywhere on the estate. It would only take a few moments for a servant, a guard, or mother to find them. “An artist? You’re deluding yourself with fantasies of killing and eating mother.”
Lara’s tone was somber. She’d given up years ago.
Willy laughed humorlessly. He said, “If only she’d been the Warhammer.”
But she hadn’t been. There wasn’t any point in wishing for the impossible. Lara supposed Willy’s problem was that he dreamed. If he was obedient, it was only because he was quietly biding his time. He possessed clever, sharp eyes, and Lara always got the suspicion that he was on the verge of finalizing a scheme he hadn’t and wouldn’t ever reveal to her.
His sour little smile slipped into nothing and he slumped his shoulders. Kissed her cheek once before pushing himself to stand once more. He flipped to the next page of his typewritten script. “Yes, I think I’ll have the children eat her after all. Cannibalism is wicked good fun. Make a note on page fifteen, please.”
Often, it was Willy's fault.
He had what mother called a wandering eye. Caught in the servant quarters with boys only a few months, a year or two, younger than himself. Lara thought that maybe if Willy did not insist upon that odd habit (one that was said to need correcting), mother would not get the ruler. Mother would not drag them back to this unbearable place. It was all so very... Normal. Lara taking her brother into her mouth, rolling her tongue along the underside and ignoring that all consuming desire to choke, puke, to jerk back and away from him. Sometimes, Lara did glance up at him without meaning to. She did now. He was covered in welts. Body wracked with tremors. He looked like he'd cried, face damp. Sticky with old tears. He watched her because he had to. Mouth falling open, reluctant moans being dragged out of him with every bob of her head. Their gazes locked. He gripped at the silk sheet beneath him, strands of his shining hair sticking to his wet, flushed cheeks.
Lara tried not to blame him for this. Even if he'd done nothing to irritate mother, even then- they eventually would've been made to fall into bed together, all in the name of keeping their bloodline untainted by outsiders.
She choked on his cum and he grunted, eyelids clenching shut. There was never any warning, just a quick and brutal upwards snap of his hips, gagging her with his pulsing cock. Then nothing else. She peeled her mouth away from him and opened it to show her mother the viscous fluid sliming its way down her tongue. Lips filthy with smeared lipstick, expression plain. Her mother's ruler found her chin. Lifted it for an inspection of the contents of her mouth.
"Very good. Swallow."
Mother spoke in low frequency suggestions. Barely there, really. Lara bowed her head and swallowed her brother's cum thickly. Their mother's heels clicked quickly across floorboards, towards the doors. She needn't give the lesson in words by now, both her children well versed in all things that happened when the three of them were alone together. The doors opened. Shut.
Her brother's sobbing was quiet and surprisingly tame for a boy obsessed with all things drama. She crept up onto the bed beside him and let him cling to her. Let him grip at the skirts to her dress, let him sob into her shoulder. "Shh." She preoccupied herself with smoothing down his fine yellow hair, just as long as hers. But- prettier, lighter, softer.
Her brother was beautiful.
In these times without mother, things felt so much closer to what it might be like to have a commoner as a brother. One she wouldn't be destined to marry, to screw. “What happens after the children eat the witch, Willy?” And he croaked, voice clawing its way from the tight squeeze of his contracting throat:
“H-Happily ever after.”
“After starvation? After cannibalism? The memories don’t… Follow them?”
Willy gripped at the back of her gown. Her wedding ring shined on her finger as she scratched at his scalp.
He didn't answer her.
Willy and Lara had spent their whole childhood expecting this. Knowing they were fated to be forever bound to one another. Mother was often present at night, had been present on the very first of many. Only for a time, just long enough to ensure that they’d fulfilled their duties as man and wife. Neither sibling was undressed entirely, modest in their pajamas, and Lara was not sure if Willy even knew what her sex looked like as he’d never bothered to look. An oil lamp sat on the bedside table, casting strange yellow light on all three people in the room.
Her nightgown was raised only enough for him to have access. His pajama bottoms were lowered just-so and clung to his thighs. His face was buried in one of a dozen pillows upon Lara’s bed, and their mother’s hand was resting just on his lower back, bony fingers petting the jutting sections of his spine. Lara stared at the canopy of her bed, legs spread for her brother and eyes blinking slowly. She was bleeding onto the sheets. He’d entered her dry. Had carried on to fuck her dry as well. Her titan lightning leapt around them. She clutched at the sheets and he groaned that he was sorry, as he seemed to be high from the sensation of her cunt healing and tightening around his shaft. He sped his pace, and she bit her tongue, willing herself not to make a sound. She could feel it- spurt after spurt filling her.
Mother bid them goodnight soon after a thorough inspection.
The siblings hid beneath the blankets, wrapped in each other’s arms. They breathed heavy in the dark, as mother had taken the light of the lamp with her. Lara could feel her brother’s seed inside of her. Drooling out and creeping down one of her thighs. She shuddered.
“Does it really not hurt?” Willy whispered against her shoulder. She shook her head.
“It’s like you’re fretting over broken bits of a rifle or a dull blade. Everything’s fixed in the end, Willy. Burned, shot, chopped into pieces- I'm fine.”
She could feel Willy’s mouth drawing into a frown. “…Yes, you heal, I’m very aware. But the initial wound still bleeds, doesn't it? Surely you feel pain just like anyone else?” He trailed off. She didn’t answer his question and so he sighed, saying instead, “Mother says you should’ve been pregnant ten times over now.”
“Maybe I’m barren. Maybe you're sterile.”
There was an awful silence followed by horrified, unhinged giggling.
Fast asleep, the first few buttons to his flannel undone. Lara dragged a finger down the strip of bare flesh revealed to her. Sunlight fell upon his still eyelids and his lips were parted, not quite shut. His face was composed of such soft, smooth skin. She was in his bed, and she could still feel his sticky mess between her legs. Lara was not so childish that she envied her brother for being lovelier than her. She thought that maybe were their roles reversed however, Willy would never stop howling, complaining about the unfairness of it.
Her brother was always whining.
Her lips twitched with a small smile. She drew her hand away and slipped out of his bed. Settled herself down at his vanity. With his skin creams and his powders and his-
Her eyes fixed upon the edge of an envelope peeking out from between two stacked books. She tugged it free. Peered at it blankly for only a minute, maybe two. Wondering maybe who Willy would write to. Wondering maybe why he hadn’t read out his thoughts to her, as he always felt the need to announce any and every story, letter, article. She knelt and listened to him, nodding stiffly all the while, and here was some offensive little secret sealed in wax. She returned it to its hiding place, as if it’d never been moved. She took up her brother’s silver brush, and began on her unruly hair.
The girl paused mid-stroke to focus upon her eyes. An odd chill, a creeping along her spine, time brought to a standstill.
Willy’s reflection snapped her from her daze. She watched him yawn. Watched him grind his fists against his eyes. “Come back to bed, Lara. It’s cold without you.” Whining. Playfully pouting. And as he turned his back to her, expecting to be followed, she pressed the curiously protruding corner of his letter further between the books, effectively hiding it better for him.
"What should we... Name it?"
Willy's hand was on her stomach.
He flinched, maybe feeling a kick.
Maybe he would've recoiled entirely had Lara not settled a hand on top of his.
"Does it matter?"
Lara’s arm was heavy with a fat toddler that sat on her hip. Clung to her and sucked at the strung-up pearls hanging from her neck. A child stood at her side, holding her hand. Willy’s theatre company glowed on an otherwise dimly lit street, and she waited there by the running car, in the snow, fur shawl wrapped about her. A tendril of hair slipped from her bun. Settled upon her forehead, along the bridge of her beak nose. Willy had insisted for years that she was not ugly, only plain, which in his horrid little opinion was worse than being ugly.
And so tonight, she wore lipstick.
Red.
Willy exited those grand doors and took the stairs down, fine leather shoes crunching through the thin snow. Older now, a learned grace in his gait. He held an umbrella over his head. As red as her lips and catching snowflakes on the top of it. He was followed by a young man who held stacks of documents, hair tousled and the buttons to his waistcoat not quite done up right. The way his body hunched forward, he made Willy look so much taller. Nearly monstrous. He murmured a quiet goodbye to Willy and rushed into the direction of a side street. Disappearing with a blur of snow spotted wind.
“Oh, dear.” Willy was close enough now that they were under his umbrella together. “You waited in the cold?”
“I told her she shouldn’t.” The boy at her side snapped, irritable, nose running, eyes downcast and fixed on his snow boots. “And I told her you wouldn’t like it, but she did it anyway.”
Willy tutted, patting the top of the boy’s blonde head. He leant in to kiss his sister’s cheek- always her cheek, in public. “The most reasonable person in our family is seven years old. I’m utterly humiliated, sister.” Willy muttered against her skin. His breath made her shiver. She opened her red mouth, the snow blurring the scene fast. A television channel losing picture.
“Mother’s dead, Lara.”
They were in their marital bedroom. The hearth was burning. Willy was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Having a cigarette, staring into the fire and maybe contemplating throwing himself into it. Stiff, his sister’s arms thrown around his shoulders and her mouth at his unmarred neck. Pretty and pale, untouched by the sun. “She is.” Lara hummed in agreement, fingers dragging down his bare chest, tangling in the few wispy locks of hair that grew there.
What he meant was that they'd already had children.
What he meant was that mother had been dead for years.
(Her cause of death still debated to this day.)
So without the woman’s thin wooden ruler, without her wrinkled hands gripping at his hips and forcing him to fuck into his sister, forcing him to breed her, he had little desire to carry on as they had been. But. He put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. Relent. His sister dragged him further onto the bed. Rumpled sheets and all those pillows. He shoved her nightgown up to her chest. Fumbled with the drawstrings to his pajama bottoms. Kissed her mouth near bloody. She didn’t wrap her arms around his neck. Only spread her legs, eyes flitting down to watch him touch himself. Stroking to half-mast.
Eventually, full.
Lara tossed her head back and grunted as he forced it inside of her. Never any preparation. She willed herself not to lose herself to the change from human to devil. Static snapped around her body as he lied his weight down entirely on top of her. Thrusting into her. Their chests expanded against one another with strained inhales followed by strained exhales. She focused on the feeling of being impaled. Healing that same tearing wound over and over again. Trembling thighs remaining open for him. Her hair undone, wild on the pillows, in her face.
She could not put a finger on why she wanted this. It wasn’t as if it felt good.
There was something about this unbearable place. She felt that she could not leave it.
She lay there sweating and writhing in the sheets, chanting under her breath, against his mouth, “Come, just come inside William. Don't you want to be a man?” She thought that maybe these were words said before, years ago. Beaten down and forcibly repressed and dragged back up in the heat of the moment. They were words that made him fuck her harder. A blunt, persistent pain.
Willy was panting. Dragged his face from hers and buried it in a pillow. Muffled, maybe sobbing, maybe groaning. Echoes floated about the room in the dying light. She smoothed his hair and he hiccupped. Trembled against her still, motionless body.
A third child.
She breastfed him alone by the window overlooking the maze.
The Warhammer had been passed down through the Tybur family for generations.
Their mother was as much their aunt and Lara was aware that outside of the circle of aristocracy, their incestuous affairs would be considered unusual, if not outright insane. No one knew that Lara Tybur was the most recently chosen Warhammer. No one knew that Lara Tybur’s children were her brother’s as well. It was believed she’d bedded a man in an ally nation. A commoner. Perhaps a private, secret marriage.
Her brother’s public image? Willy was a wild young bachelor. He fell in between pairs of legs often, caught with actors from his theatre company in compromising positions. The rumor was that-
“Gods Lara, do speak up if you plan to insinuate something.” Willy and his sister, they were in the furthest dead end of their shared maze. The woman sat in the grass as she always did. Wearing her black gown, hair tied back and expression somber. Willy was standing. There was a ripped script by his feet. Stomped.
“People say,” Lara ripped at the grass, “That they’re young men, Willy.”
“And so what if they are?”
“…People say that they’re boys, Willy.”
(There's a horror in facing certain truths about the people you love.)
Willy laughed, and the woman grimaced. Dismissive and blasé. Willy had grown into someone altogether strange and unfamiliar. “Oh, you’d believe strangers over your own brother? My dearest Lara.” He crouched and snaked a finger beneath her chin. Raised it so that she could look at him. He just barely had stubble. Clever, clear blue eyes narrowed and mouth in a loose, easy smile. If she squinted, she could make out the parts of him that still looked like her brother. “Tell me you’re teasing me and I’ll forgive you.”
The woman watched him with her hard boiled eyes. Whispered:
“I’m only teasing you.”
(There's a horror in it, so you decide not to.)
He pressed his mouth to hers. Lingered there, allowing her to breathe in the familiar scent of him. He smelled like a walking printing press.
She set her right hand on his cheek and he covered it with his own larger, softer hand. Squeezed hers hard enough to break it.
The burning hearth in Lara's room ate:
News articles.
Love letters.
Extortion letters.
Photographs.
Bloody handkerchiefs.
All of this reflecting off the surface of her wet, hollow eyes.
Blink and she's gone.
Eren wretched in the sink, gripping at the edges.
He shivered and stared down at the mess of vomit clinging to the porcelain basin. Chunks of prison food. Dizzy, delirious from other people's memories. He cut on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. There were footsteps leading down the stone steps into his personal, subterranean prison. He fixed his eyes upon his reflection and willed himself to disregard the foreign part of his heart that ached.