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I want a Duke Thomas solo run that's like an anthology series of the cases he works during the day; and like tma the more the run goes one you discover there is an over arching plot. I think that would be neat
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One must imagine Commissioner Gordon fucking Babs in the Batgirl suit before he finds out who Batgirl really is
đ¤¤đ¤¤đ¤¤ ouugh my gosh hes frustrated with all this vigilantes business but he can't argue with results, he respects her competence and she fills out the suit nicely 𤤠and babs has the opportunity to truly honest with her father.. in many ways... and shes confident enough to think she can get away with it too <333
logically, i know butchlander is a shipname but i always get so excited when i see it bc i think i'm about to see butch!homelander and then am inevitably disappointed when it's not that.
Okay but where can I find the homelander fics? đ
they've long since been scrubbed from my ao3 LOL. they were so terribly written (considering i wrote them in 2020/2021) that i couldn't have them up anymore
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a fever you can't sweat out | amma crellin x camille preaker
Summary: Camille is usually quiet in bed, so Amma thinks it's understandable that it takes her a minute to process the fact that her babbling isnât the nonsensical repetition of her name, but of Mama.
A slip of the tongue, during the throes of passion, but a telling one nonetheless.
If Camille wants her to fulfill the role of their mother, Amma will gladly do so.
For Camille, there is nothing she will not do.
Rating: Explicit
Contains: incest, dubious consent, nonconsensual somnophilia/drug use, and mentions of csa.
AO3
â
Camille is quiet in bed. Amma isnât surprised by this discovery, not when itâs what she expected. Her sister is many things, but loud is not one of them; that is more Ammaâs department. Maybe once Camille was a bold little thing, but that was before Ammaâs time. It stings to know that there are versions of her sister she will never know, but she must be content with being her sisterâs present and future, for her past belongs to Marian and Mama, and she is, for the most part.
There is nothing Camille will deny her now that theyâve finally crossed over the boundary of a romantic relationship to a sexual one. It would be foolish to ever classify their relationship as platonic when their feelings never have been, a result of Adoraâs fucked up upbringing, or maybe, they were always going to end up like this. She likes to think thatâs the case. She doesnât want to entertain the possibility of an Amma without Camille by her side; itâs too bleak to consider otherwise. They belong together, and that was that.
Of course, that doesnât mean that they donât have problems. It is only natural for any relationship to have its ups and downs. Admittedly, Amma is not so out of touch as to recognize that the majority stems from her possessiveness and jealousy, but Camille is just at fault with how she keeps her desires tucked away. She lets Amma do whatever she wants, and while she may like what Amma likes too, she knows that Camille has her own perversions.
Amma discovers one during a normal evening while theyâre making out in the bath, her fingers curled up as they stroked the walls of Camilleâs cunt. When her sister lets her inhibitions go, she babbles quietly, pleading for more or just a litany of Ammaâs name, desperate for release. Itâs so cute, and Amma is obsessed enough with that specific reaction that she always attempts to pull it from Amma, though itâs similar to pulling teeth. However, the closer Camille is to her peak, Amma notices that her babbling isnât the nonsensical repetition of her name, but of Mama.
A slip of the tongue, during the throes of passion, but a telling one nonetheless. It takes weeks of wearing down Camilleâs walls for her to admit what Amma already knows.
When she does, Camilleâs never looked prettier. She is red in the face, breath erratic, as her nails bite into the meat of her forearms from their crossed position, waiting for Ammaâs disgust. Sheâll never get it, though. Amma understands what it is to crave Adoraâs care. She had it for years, while Camille never did.
Amma pries her sisterâs hands free, interlocking them tenderly. With a smile, she says, âI donât mind.â
Camilleâs face twitches before she hangs her head and rests it on Ammaâs shoulder. âThatâs part of the problem, Amma.â
âI donât see a problem here, Camille, but if you insist, I may have a solution,â Amma replies.
âI donât want it,â Camille denies immediately, head whipping up to meet her gaze.
Amma hums, rocking on her heels. âIf you say so.â
Her sister frowns. âI mean it, Amma. Letâs just forget all about this.â
She rolls her eyes before pulling her sister closer, chest to chest. âCamille, why wonât you let me do this for you?â
âItâs wrong,â Camille spits out, face twisting with shame.
âAre we wrong?â
This seems to throw her sister. âNo,â she answers hesitantly, hunching in on herself the way prey does before a predator. Such a shame that no amount of posturing will let her escape this trap.
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles; itâs all teeth. âThen, this wouldnât be either. Itâs not so different.â She untwines their fingers so she can cup her sisterâs flushed face. âI love you. Let me do this for you, just like youâd do it for me.â
Her sister shakes her head, looking everywhere but at her. âNo, Amma. Leave it alone.â
âJust like I left alone when it came to you?â
âAmma!â Camille huffs, as if not even half an hour ago, her face was not between Ammaâs thighs. âItâs not the same. Youâre⌠you.â
She sighs dramatically, dropping her hand and taking a step back. âFine. I understand.â
Camille lets out a breath of relief. âThank you.â
She changes the conversation quickly thereafter, but the perverse notion still preoccupies Ammaâs mind.
Unfortunately for Camille, Amma wonât be leaving it alone. Sheâs doing it for her sisterâs good.
Camille will see it her way.
In the end, she always does.
â
It begins much earlier than Camille would suspect.
After all, Amma wouldnât make a proper Adora if she didnât fully commit. Her sister deserves only the best, which she will happily provideâeven if the best means that itâll hurt her. Besides, itâll be coming from a place of love. Camille will understand, just as Amma once did when she was still under the tender care of their loving mother.
Collecting what she needs in a new place is a bit cumbersome, especially in a big city like St. Louis, but Amma is a pretty girl. She need only bat her eyes and give a few strategic touches to get the things thatâll make Camille go docile, and once she has everything, she makes a concoction similar to the blue she was once spoonfed. Of course, Amma only gives Camille the smallest amount possible, as if she were a babe, because she never had the chance to build a tolerance like Amma did.
During her free time, she attends the gym and takes home economics classes. The skills sheâs learned from her biweekly lessons are useful for this endeavor. In the beginning, she burns many of her meals and seasons the food too much or too little, but Camille just smiles at her and eats it anyway, completely ignorant of the fact that Ammaâs culinary mistakes conceal the concoction of drugs sheâs put together.
Years of watching and listening diligently as her mother made the blue have made Amma efficient in her ability to recreate it successfully, or something close to it at least. She had to learn its components if she ever decided to leave her mother and needed to wean herself off the poisonous mixture. Surprisingly, Amma doesnât crave it like she expected she would. Besides, Camille keeps her busy, and her love doesnât come at a price, not really.
The so-called price Amma must pay is that she must not kill again, but Amma has no current plans to do so. Camille only has eyes for her, and no one in the world can love Camille better than Amma canâno one who can understand Camille the way Amma can. Camille knows this, accepting Ammaâs advances quicker than Amma originally estimated. She barely even put up a fight when Amma first kissed her without the excuse of LSD, or any other mind-altering substances for that matter.
After that, it was like a dam had broken open because Camille had blossomed like a flower under Ammaâs gentle guidance. Amma had never felt so accomplished in her lifeâhad never felt so loved. Unsurprisingly, her sister is touch-starved, and Amma revels in that fact. She may even take advantage of it, but Camille doesnât complain, just smiles at her in a way that reminds her of Adora at her kindest.
There is something incredibly endearing to how Camille barely shies away from her anymore, as she begins to expect Ammaâs overbearing need to have skin against skin. Itâs a sensation unlike anything sheâs ever felt, gliding her unmarred flesh against Camilleâs raised, scarred own. She knows intimately how soft girls can be, and Camille is anything but. Amma likes thatâlikes that the only soft spots Camille has are the ones within her that only Amma can exploit.
As Adora, Amma will be able to prod those soft spots even further because their mother has always had a knack for taking a look at someone, especially those dear to her, and stripping them down until all that they ever were and currently are was bare to her. Amma is more than capable of slipping into the role of Adora after spending years being the only daughter her mother focused her sole attention on.
In comparison to the things Amma has done in the past, this is easy.
If Camille wants her to fulfill the role of their mother, Amma will gladly do so.
For Camille, there is nothing she will not do.
â
On an innocuous Friday night, when their vacations align, Amma ups Camilleâs dosage dramatically, and itâs not long before sheâs slumping headfirst into their dining table and the remains of her drugged meal. Her sister is heavy in her arms, but Ammaâs been training for this moment. She places her unconscious sister in the warm tub of water. She scrubs her body and washes her hair like a mother would her babe. She lets the sudsy water drain away as she pats Camille dry and rings her hair until itâs slightly damp. She picks her up from the tub and rests her sister on her queen-sized bed, covering her with a light sheet before kissing her forehead.
Camille is warm with a light fever, and Amma knows how it must feel for her sister: blistering hot. Sheâll wake up soon because sheâll feel too clammy, shedding her sheets and leading her to the shivers, and finally, plain malaise. Amma will distract her from the discomfort by replacing it with pleasure, just like Mama did for her.
She readies a tray with the blue, a spoon, and a glass of water, placing it on her sisterâs dresser.
Amma exits the room, looking back just once to find Camille still dozing peacefully, and enters her own. It is not enough to play the part, she must become Adora in all aspects.
When she left Wind Gap, Amma took a few things that belonged specifically to her mother. She took her rollers, an armful of her nightgowns, day dresses and their undergarments, the beauty products on her vanity, three pairs of her heels, a box filled with all her jewelry, and lastly, one of the empty blue bottles the police didnât confiscate. She hadnât known why she felt drawn to collect these items at the time, but perhaps, somewhere deep in her subconscious, Amma knew that she wouldnât be able to let go of her mother so easily. She misses her something fierce, and even though Camille takes her to visit their mother, it just isnât the same.
Luckily, Ammaâs found that the ache lessens when sheâs with Camille. She is not a replacement; she could never be, but she is something better. Her sisterâs love isnât conditional, not like Mamaâs is, so while Amma loves Mama, she is devoted to Camille.
There is no one above Camille. She knows this nowâknew it when Camille kept her secret, or maybe she knew it when they met, an instinctive recognition from one sister to another.
Here was the one person alive who could understand her best, someone who had experienced a similar life before escaping and being more fucked up for it. Camille had fought against it, Marion had died because of it, while Amma had willingly surrendered to it.
Only, Camille must miss itâmiss Adora if this is what she wants from Amma.
With that in mind, she begins to get ready accordingly. She slips on her motherâs undergarments, admiring the sleek sensation of them on her skin. On top of it goes a simple baby-pink dress and white cardigan. She steps into matching kitten heels and takes out the rollers, arranging her hair until it appears like Mamaâs. She applies the stolen makeup with a deft hand, just like she was taught when she grew from a girl to a young lady. She puts on a few bangles, tasteful jeweled earrings, and a single ring.
Once sheâs done, Amma stands in front of her full-length mirror and sees only her mother in her reflection.
Perfect.
Amma peruses her box of stolen things until she finds a plain nightgown that will fit Camille. She walks back to her sisterâs room and maneuvers her slumbering body into it, caressing each delicate curve as she does so. Her sister has gained some weight now that sheâs eating consistently again, and it shows in the softness of her belly, the swell of her breasts, and the thickness of her thighs. She likes these changes, mostly because she is the one to introduce them, to restore her sister to a healthy state.
Perhaps, there is some credence in this act, but unlike her mother, the only validation she wants is from Camille.
If Amma sticks her face in the crevices of Camilleâs underarms for the sickly sweet aroma and taste sheâs exuding, then that is strictly her business.
Sheâs unsure how long she sits beside her, only that her touches are enough to arouse her deeply sleeping sister awake.
Amma watches, rapt, as she wakes in stages. Her eyes twitch and remain closed as she smacks her lips, tongue flicking out to wet them. She struggles lifting her arm, and her face scrunches up in frustration. She opens her eyes, blinks wearily, and opens them again with much difficulty.
Camille is a vision in white, half confusion and half acceptance as her hazy eyes lock onto her figure.
âWhatâŚâ Camille murmurs, eyes squinting up at her. âMama, is that you?â
Amma smiles warmly, the one Mama used to give her when Amma was compliant with her whims. Her voice is nearly identical, only after weeks of practice, as she says, âOf course it is. Who else would it be?â
Camille shakes her head leadenly. âNo, that canât be right. MamaâsâMamaâs locked up.â
She tuts. âWell, thatâs rude, Camille, but thatâs no surprise. You never think before you act, and it always gets you in trouble, doesnât it?â Amma skims the scars on the open skin of her sisterâs chest, and Camille flinches. She nearly rubs her thighs together at the reaction. She must have patience. âWell, it always gets someone in trouble.â Amma taps her cheek where her molars are, eyes crinkling to match the curve of her smile. âEnough about that, though. It seems youâve fallen under the weather.â
âIâm fine,â Camille slurs, proving Amma correct. It catches her sister off guard, a scowl forming on her face before it slips right off in confusion. âWhatâwhat did you do?â
Amma reaches out to tuck a stray lock of her sisterâs hair behind her ear to join the rest, stroking her damp temple as she does so. Sheâs sticky with sweat, and Amma pushes down every impulse to get another quick taste; Adora would never be so hasty. She doesnât want to break the illusion this early, not when Camille still believes this to be a chimeric dream. She wants to do this right, to fulfill a decades-long fantasy for Camille. She had taken away any possibility of this ever happening when she allowed Mama to take the fall for her crimes, so she felt it only fair to take responsibility for this duty.
âIÂ did nothing. It's you who hasnât been taking care of yourself, Camille,â Amma scolds lightly as she strokes her sisterâs cheek with the back of her hand, admiring the warmth of her skin. âBut donât worry, Iâm here now. Everything will be fine.â
Amma stands up and brings the tray to the nightstand, diligently pouring a spoonful of the blue for Camille as she sits beside her. She brings it to her sisterâs lips and instructs, âOpen.â
Almost instinctively, Camille does, wincing as it goes down. Amma puts the spoon on the tray and leans down closer to press a kiss against Camilleâs temple, lingering to whisper, âYou are such a good girl, Camille, letting me take care of you like this.â
Camille, the sweet girl she is, mumbles, âIâve missed you, Mama.â
Amma coos in delight, reclining to gaze at Camille in all her sickly glory. âI know. Iâve been gone far too long, havenât I?â
Camille merely hums in agreement, nuzzling into Ammaâs cupped hand on her cheek with her eyes closed. While itâs nice to know that sheâs emulating Adoraâs caring aspect enough to fool Camille, Amma needs to continue with this charade. It would be a waste of a good opportunity otherwise. She has her sister right where she wants her. Itâs thrilling to be the one on the other side of the fence, the one inflicting harm, and the one to soothe it moments later.
Amma lets her hands roam over Camilleâs body once more, appreciating the way she shivers at each sensual stroke. Arousing her sister is no arduous task in this dazed state because it doesnât take long for Camille to rub her thighs together and her head to toss back and forth as little puffs of air escape her.
It goes against her nature to insult Camille, but it is Adoraâs nature to seek the faults in her eldest daughter, so Amma simply tsks as she trails over Camilleâs scarred skin. There havenât been any new additions, but there are plenty enough to last a lifetime. She can see where Camille sliced herself open repeatedly, cutting deeper and harsher. She wishes she had been there to witness the fresh wounds. She would have lapped at the sluggish blood seeping from them. She would have cleaned and bandaged each one with meticulous care. She would have carved her name over Camilleâs heart.
Thereâs still time to add it, even if not in that particular spot; a spacious area in the middle of Camilleâs back remains blank. Sheâs already marked it out in her mind. Itâll be the prettiest of Camilleâs scars; she has a deft hand and enough determination to see this fantasy through. The only obstacle will be Camille herself, but Amma has a plan. She always does, but alas, these are thoughts for another night. She must focus on her current task.
Amma digs into the tender flesh of Ammaâs neck. She succeeds in jolting Camille awake. Her sisterâs eyes open quicker than before as she lets out a gasp of pain. Camille appears more alert because she squints at her.
âAmma, is that you?â Camille asks tentatively.
Amma chuckles, as if what sheâs asking is absurd, the kind Mama used to give to those who were too slow for her taste. âIn what world am I Amma?â
Her sisterâs face scrunches up. âWhy are you dressed up likeâlike Mama? What kind of game are you playing at, Amma?â
She scowls, grabbing her sisterâs face roughly to angle it towards her. âAmma isnât here, Camille. I donât know what nonsense youâre speaking, but this is no game. I just want to help you. Why must you always be so resistant, Camille?â
Camille attempts to jerk out of her hold, but Amma merely tightens her grip in return.
âStop this, Amma. I donât want this,â Camille pleads with teary eyes.
âItâs not about what you want. Itâs about what you need, Camille,â Amma says as she reaches for the blue once more. Camilleâs eyes widen, but there is nothing she can do in her current weakened state. She barely thrashes in her hold as Amma shoves another spoonful down her throat, holding her mouth shut until Camille willingly swallows.
Amma can feel slick gather between her thighs at the sight of her compliance, but ignores it because tonight is not about her pleasure. In a few days, when Camille is feeling better, Amma plans to have her sister on her knees before her as Adora. It will be different from what sheâs used to, but it will be authentic. Camille deserves that much since Ammaâs taken away the real thing.
Quietly, Camille asks, âWhy are you doing this?â
What a silly question, Amma thinks fondly.
âFor you, of course. You deserve to be taken care of.â
A single tear falls down Camilleâs cheek.
She smiles at her sister, kissing the tear and barely missing the corner of her mouth as she does so.
âThank you⌠Mama.â
Amma nearly shivers in delight.
While Amma likes it when her sister fights her, she loves it when Camille submits to her this easily.
âYouâre welcome,â Amma preens. âNow, letâs see how your temperature fares.â
She begins with the stereotypical check, brushing the back of her hand against her sisterâs forehead, then to her chest, before pulling away to creep up leg beneath her nightgown and press her hands between her thighs, the way Mama used to do to her, the way she did to all her feverish girls.
Hot!
âYouâll sweat this fever out in no time, Camille, but until you do, Iâll keep a close eye on you. I wouldnât want you to get worse,â Amma lies, knowing that she plans to keep her sister like this for at least a week.
Camille will know all facets of their mother when Amma decides to put an end to this little act.
Camilleâs skin is burning to the touch, and oh, how it must make her miserable, especially in this frail state where sheâs unable to even lift a limb. She must rely on Amma for her needs and wants. She is completely under Ammaâs thumb, just as she prefers.
Amma strokes her sisterâs thigh absentmindedly, and Camilleâs thighs tremble at the stimulation, heedlessly closing them around her hand and allowing Amma to feel what lies between them finally. She swallows the excess saliva in her mouth at the knowledge that her sister hasnât been unaffected by her actions.
Camille is soaking, and Amille wants nothing more than to feast upon her, but Adora has class.
Mama didnât just dive right in like the impatient brat Amma knows she usually is; she always set the mood, which is what Amma must do.
Camille responds better to degradation before pleasure, so Amma will be mean before she is kind.
âYouâre filthy, Camille,â Amma scoffs out when her fingers come up sticky with slick. âIf this is how you react the moment anyone gives you the slightest bit of care. Iâm only trying to tend to you, and here you are, acting like a needy whore.â
âMama, noâitâs not what you thinkââ Camille immediately denies, face a flaming red, but Amma cuts her off. âThen what is this?â She raises her wet fingers to Camilleâs face and spreads them, a glossy string of her arousal connects them. Camille turns her head away, her face twisted in shame. Amma grabs her sisterâs chin with her tacky fingers to force her to look at her. âAnswer me, Camille. Itâs the least you can do.â
Camille shudders, eyes hazy, chest heaving with labored breaths, and sweat clinging to her like a second skin. She really is a vision like this, the prettiest sheâs ever been. She can understand why Mama kept her like this, why Mama didnât even think to question Camilleâs peculiar decision to submit herself to her unique brand of care. It had been years since Adora had had the last opportunity to indulge in Camilleâs vulnerability, so it wasnât surprising to Amma that the moment she did, she threw all caution to the wind. What need did she have to be worried when none of her girls had ever done anything about her care? Such a willful girl, a bad girl for tattling.
âYouâre not going to defend yourself?â Amma questions, raising an eyebrow. âWhy am I not surprised? Of all my girls, you were always the worst.â
Amma scrunches Camilleâs nightgown up to her belly and pushes Ammaâs thighs open. She glides her fingers down her little slit and spreads her folds, so that sheâs truly bare before her. She leans down and admires Camilleâs pretty kitty, which is fluttering in anticipation. Her curls are glistening obscenely, and Amma wants nothing more than to nuzzle in them as she eats her out.
Patience, she reminds herself for the umpteenth time.
Amma looks down at Camille in contempt and disgust, just like she imagined Mama would. She must succeed because her sister starts shaking her head and repeatedly pleading, âStop. Please, no more.â
Or something along those lines.
Amma ignores her begging in favor of inserting two fingers inside of her. They slide in effortlessly with how wet Camille is. She shoves them in further and stretches them open, the walls of Camilleâs cunt giving way easily.
âSo loose,â Amma berates, clicking her tongue. âYouâre just begging for someone to fill you up with such a greedy kitty.â She curls her fingers up, and Camille moans quietly, her back arching lightly. âI do have to wonder how many youâve let in to be this way, though. Certainly, every boy who paid you attention during your school years and any man drunk enough to ignore the horrid things youâve done to ruin your body when you left Wind Gap.â
Camille clenches her eyes shut and cries, âThatâs not true.â Her voice breaks as she asks, âWhy are you saying all this?â
Amma leans over Camille to whisper in her ear, âWhen you were born, I knew there was something wrong with you. You were a bad seed, but still, I decided to let you grow, and now I look upon the fruit of my labor and am greeted with nothing but a filthy girl whoâs aching for her motherâs touch.â She bends back and, with her free hand, traces the scar across her sisterâs chest that spells WRONG. It is in the spot Amma wishes her name resided, and for that, it is one of her least favorite words Camille has carved into her flesh.
Camilleâs lips quiver and tears well in her eyes as she finally breaks; she always does when Amma pays special attention to one of her scars. It doesnât matter which one, only that she says it aloud as she touches it gently.
âYouâre right, Mama. Youâre right. Iâm sorry, Mama. Iâm a wicked girl,â Camille weeps, and Amma allows a smile to grace her face once more, her hand gliding up her neck to cup her cheek tenderly.
âI always am, Camille. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be. Donât you like being taken care of by Mama?â
Camille keens in response, attempting to hide her face in the pillow.
So cute.
Her sister is so ashamed of her own depravity, and it only provokes Amma to stoke the flames of desire within her sister more.
Amma sinks her fingers back into the depthâs of Camilleâs cunt, letting the pads of them rubs across the ridged patch within her. Her sisterâs whines grow louder when she presses too long, and she resumes her curling pattern so as not to overstimulate her so early.
When Camille cums, she prefers to be kissing Amma, so when Camille attempts to raise her arm but gives up soon after to clench the sheets as tightly as she can, Amma knows sheâs close. No matter how much she wishes to straddle her sisterâs hips so that theyâre skin-to-skin to feel the heat up close and personal, it simply isnât in the cards for the night.
âYouâre sick, Camille,â Amma croons condescendingly, continuing her ministrations. âBut Iâll take care of you so long as you stay Mamaâs good girl. You can do that, canât you?â
Camille bobs her head and cries, âI can be good. Please, please, please.â
Her sisterâs desperation is enough for Amma to relent a little. She maneuvers herself so that her mouth is level to her sisterâs cunt. With her tongue, Amma circles her sisterâs aching, red clit, and Camilleâs thighs shakes and her eyes roll back into her head as she cums around her fingers.
âMama, Mama, Mama,â Camille moans unrepentantly, the very same litany that began all this, and Amma smiles, satisfied to reap the benefits of this particular endeavor at last.Â