#hatesex

You're think your twin brother's a little fucked in the head.

The two of you share a wall, and he's been getting a lot less subtle recently. You've mostly just been putting your headphones on and trying to ignore it when he starts making noise, but you still have to hear it for that little snippet before you can get them on every single time. It makes your skin crawl in a very different way than the annoyance does when he starts shouting at people over the internet.

You're trying to distract yourself with your art this time. Your dad tried to give your brother a pocketknife for your birthday, and obviously he didn't care. So, naturally, you took it when he wasn't looking. Now it's on your desk, and you're slowly sketching out a design on paper to paint onto the handle later.

A particularly loud moan from the asshole the next room over makes it through the music you're blasting, and something snaps. You stand up, walk over to the wall you share, and bang on it with your fist a few times on a spot that doesnt have any art up on it. You don't realize you're angry enough to shout until you do.

"Shut the fuck up!" You scream at the wall, and he shuts up. Good. Good!

You sigh angrily, turning around, and the glint of something catches your eye on your dresser behind all the things you've got put up there. Projects from years ago, stuff you made in school, loose clothing and unmatched socks.

Walking over, still annoyed and disgusted, you move a few of the things aside and pick up a camera you definitely did not put there.

Your stomach drops, and when it comes back up, it's burning with an inky, black feeling almost like flaming tar.

No. There's no fucking way. Is he really-

Your thought is interrupted by a couple heavy knocks on your door, the same way that fucking pervert always knocks. Blood coming to a boil, you walk over, open the door and thrust the camera in his face before he can open his mouth.

"What the fuck is this!?" You hiss as he jerks away instinctively from the motion. The recognition, then surprise, then fear that blooms on his face is sickeningly satisfying.

Like he always does when you call him on his shit, he ignores it, trying to school his face back into the anger that was initially painted there.

"Bitch. Why did you have to shout at me? I was having a nice time and you ruined it." He attempts, clearly trying not to look at the camera.

"Don't change the subject. Did you put a fucking camera in my room? Pointed at my bed!?" You know how this looks, right?"

The immediate reaction on his face isn't denial- there's a very brief flash of consideration, like he's trying to remember something, before he refocuses. "What the fuck? No, I didn't put a camera in your room, you cunt," he lies, slowly regaining his confidence as he denies you outright. "Step off. I'm going back to my room. Maybe try not to listen in while I jack off this time."

As he starts to step back, then stops, it takes a moment for you to register that you just slapped him across the face. He brings a hand up to his face, then looks at you with almost as much disdain as you have for him. Almost. Unfortunately, he's bigger than you.

You bolt back into your room just in time to avoid getting punched in the face, going for the pocket knife left on your desk on the other side of the room. But you don't make it that far- you can't help but let out a yelp as he tackles you from behind, knocking you to the floor.

"You fucking bitch!" He snarls, putting his hand on your head and pressing it to the floor. You end up with your left temple against the carpet, facing towards the wall and able to look up at him just a little. You're not scared yet, though. He's never had any courage, not really. And you're just getting more and more angry.

He leans in, breath hot on your face as he pants, glaring. You can see a bruise slowly starting to bloom around his eye socket; you realize with sick satisfaction that you may have given him a black eye.

He growls, "Hormones turned you into a fucking tease, sis. You used to be normal. But you started dressing like a slut and expected me not to fucking notice? Don't make me laugh." His fist clenches around your hair. "I don't think I care that you found that stupid camera, actually. You're right here."

You realize what he means with a new surge of disgust, and a tinge of fear that you immediately stomp on and crush. The anger goes from a burning flame to a cold, calculating, grinding thing. You spit on the carpet of your room, knowing he'll react, and sure enough his expression sours.

"You cunt." He yanks you up by your hair without warning, and you growl with the pain, but he doesn't let you go. Instead, he shoves his other arm around you, pressing his hand to your chest and squeezing at it as you writhe and buck in his grip. Not too hard, yet, you want him to think you can't escape.

He sighs with a slightly manic satisfaction as he gropes at you through your shirt and bra, then pulls his hand down to slide it up your shirt. You let him, biding your time.

"God, what a fucking slut," he purrs, pressing his hand under your bra and immediately pinching at one of your nipples. You bite back the noise you would have made, not giving him the satisfaction. He'll slip up. He fucks up everything when it matters, and you just have to seize the opportunity to turn things around.

He keeps groping you, letting go of your hair to put his hand over your mouth, slowly letting his guard down. Then, he leans forward and starts kissing at your neck. You keep putting on a show of struggling as hard as he thinks you can even as he gropes you, trying your hardest to ignore the feeling of his hands on you and his lips on your skin.

After about a minute of that, calling you 'slut' and 'whore' and any number of slurs, he takes his hand out of your shirt and undoes the button of his pants, then the zipper. He starts grinding against your ass, cooing things into your ear you just tune out. You'll get your chance soon.

It's when he adjusts both hands to try and pull your shirt off when you strike: you buck your head backward as hard as you can and slam the back of your skull into his nose. There's an extremely satisfying crunch as his nose breaks. He reels back and shouts from the pain, hands going to his face, and you use the window of freedom under his upward momentum to get your knees under you and push him off your back. You sprint for your desk, grab the knife, then reverse course and tackle him in turn as he tries to recover his balance.

He lands heavily on his back, grunting, his face a mess, as you get on top of him and straddle his chest. You put your knees on his biceps, just like you've practiced, and punch him hard in the face.

"You're fucking insane, you know that?" You taunt, a roiling, freezing satisfaction bubbling in your gut. "You think you can do what you want now that I'm a girl, huh? Is that it?"

He doesn't respond besides mewling in pain.

"You're the reason I waited so fucking long, you know that?" You spit at him, all the accumulated anger and hatred and jealousy over him being the popular twin bubbling out. You flick out your pocket knife and his eyes widen. "You and your stupid friends, crowing about how stupid all the girls in school were, how easy we were. Making fun of me for looking like a trap, a faggot, a tranny. And the second I was one you just got worse! You were probably jacking it to me while I was in recovery from my surgery!"

Your brother's eyes are wide as he stares at the blade you're holding over him. "Y-y-you-"

"Shut UP!" You shriek. He shuts up. "You put a fucking camera in my room, you pin me down and start groping me, you take your cock out and start grinding on my ass, and you expect me to just lie there and take it like a good little tranny? No! I'm not yours to take. You are mine."

He's crying now, blubbering apologies and 'I-didn't-mean-it'-s as if you're still kids and you're mom. You know he won't fight back, and he doesn't as you reach over under your bed and grab the rope you keep there.

You start with his arms, flipping him over and tying them together behind his back. Then you take his pants off all the way and do his legs while he trembles under you, as pathetic as you've always known he is. You can't help but smile.

"You want me? Fine. But we're doing it my way." You stand, using your foot to flip him onto his back again. A brief look of hope flashes over his features, and that's enough to sour the satisfaction. Only a little bit, though.

You sit down on him again, straddling his legs and seeing how far up your stomach his cock reaches. It's not even as big as yours was, actually, and that makes you smirk with satisfaction. You lean forward, his dick folding upward as you do, and put one hand on his neck. With the other, you pick up the knife you set aside, and press the spine of it against his stomach so he can feel the cold metal. His eyes widen with fear.

"W-w-wait-"

You ignore him, enjoying watching the idiot squirm. "You feel that? It's only going to get worse."

On that ominous note, you adjust your hand, pressing down on his neck in just the right spots, so that he'll choke, but not suffocate. You want him conscious for this. You flip the knife over so that the edge is against his skin, and cut. Shallowly, for now. You watch the blade as he whimpers and chokes, blood beading up along the line you draw across his skin. It's so, so fucking satisfying, and you can't help but start grinding against him yourself.

You can't help it anymore, the satisfaction, the power, the giddiness starting to overwhelm you. You start laughing. It's not your normal laugh; it's stilted and off-balance, manic. But it gets louder as you see your piece-of-work brother squirm and lurch beneath you, see him choke, hear him whimper, see him bleed. You want more.

You cut him again, much less carefully now. It's so much different from when you've cut yourself- there's no feedback, nothing pushing you to stop, no pain. It's just the bliss. Another cut crosses the first two and your victim groans in pain. You laugh harder, finally pulling your hand away as he gasps for breath, his tears and blood mixing into a slurry on his ruined face. It's all you've wanted for so long.

You ignore him as he starts pleading for you to stop, pushing the knife deeper on your fourth cut, cutting into the first layer of fat. You know the anatomy of this from when you've done your art; you had a project you worked on for a month to get right- a girl being vivisected, torso being pared away layer by layer. Skin, then the fat, the layers of muscle. The abdominal lining. You're so, so tempted to do the same to him.

But you hold off. This should be a warning, not a death sentence. It would be so much more satisfying for now to see him cringe away from you in fear for a while, knowing what you're capable of. You can go all the way if he ever steps out of line.

You stand, then leave the room, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom. You return to find him sitting up, trying to squirm free, but he freezes when he hears you come in.

"F-fuck-" he squeaks, and you look down at him in disgust. It was so fucking easy to break him.

"Shut up. I'm patching you up. You will never, never say a single fucking bigoted thing about me, never perv on me, never touch me again. Got it?"

He nods, meekly, terrified. You notice he's still rock-hard, and scoff. Asshole.

"Good," you say, then kneel down to clean his wounds. He stays silent the whole time, only hissing in pain when you go over things with antiseptic wipes. You make sure the deepest cut is going to heal safely, bandage him, give him a dose of an over-the-counter painkiller, and untie the ropes. The second he's loose, he bolts out of the room, slamming his door behind him. You smile.

A few minutes later, he texts you.

there are three cameras, idk which one you found. one on your dresser, one on your desk, and one in your closet.

After another few seconds, he texts you again.

im sorry.

You smirk, take down the other two cameras, and settle back at your desk. You finally get to work in silence, idly wondering whether he left any out.