diagnosis: brujay brainrot (terminal)

There is nothing Camille will deny her now that they’ve 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 Adora’s fucked up upbringing, or maybe, they were always going to end up like this. She likes to think that’s the case. She doesn’t want to entertain the possibility of an Amma without Camille by her side; it’s too bleak to consider otherwise. They belong together, and that was that.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that they don’t 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 they’re making out in the bath, her fingers curled up as they stroked the walls of Camille’s cunt. When her sister lets her inhibitions go, she babbles quietly, pleading for more or just a litany of Amma’s name, desperate for release. It’s so cute, and Amma is obsessed enough with that specific reaction that she always attempts to pull it from Amma, though it’s similar to pulling teeth. However, the closer Camille is to her peak, Amma notices that her babbling isn’t 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 Camille’s walls for her to admit what Amma already knows.

When she does, Camille’s 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 Amma’s disgust. She’ll never get it, though. Amma understands what it is to crave Adora’s care. She had it for years, while Camille never did.

Amma pries her sister’s hands free, interlocking them tenderly. With a smile, she says, “I don’t mind.”

Camille’s face twitches before she hangs her head and rests it on Amma’s shoulder. “That’s part of the problem, Amma.”

“I don’t see a problem here, Camille, but if you insist, I may have a solution,” Amma replies.

“I don’t want it,” Camille denies immediately, head whipping up to meet her gaze.

Amma hums, rocking on her heels. “If you say so.”

Her sister frowns. “I mean it, Amma. Let’s just forget all about this.”

She rolls her eyes before pulling her sister closer, chest to chest. “Camille, why won’t you let me do this for you?”

“It’s wrong,” Camille spits out, face twisting with shame.

“Are we wrong?”

This seems to throw her sister. “No,” 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; it’s all teeth. “Then, this wouldn’t be either. It’s not so different.” She untwines their fingers so she can cup her sister’s flushed face. “I love you. Let me do this for you, just like you’d do it for me.”

Her sister shakes her head, looking everywhere but at her. “No, Amma. Leave it alone.”

“Just like I left alone when it came to you?”

“Amma!” Camille huffs, as if not even half an hour ago, her face was not between Amma’s thighs. “It’s not the same. You’re… you.”

She sighs dramatically, dropping her hand and taking a step back. “Fine. I understand.”

Camille lets out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

She changes the conversation quickly thereafter, but the perverse notion still preoccupies Amma’s mind.

Unfortunately for Camille, Amma won’t be leaving it alone. She’s doing it for her sister’s good.

Camille will see it her way.

In the end, she always does.

—

It begins much earlier than Camille would suspect.

After all, Amma wouldn’t make a proper Adora if she didn’t fully commit. Her sister deserves only the best, which she will happily provide—even if the best means that it’ll hurt her. Besides, it’ll 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 that’ll 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 she’s 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 Amma’s culinary mistakes conceal the concoction of drugs she’s 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 doesn’t crave it like she expected she would. Besides, Camille keeps her busy, and her love doesn’t 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 can—no one who can understand Camille the way Amma can. Camille knows this, accepting Amma’s 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 Amma’s gentle guidance. Amma had never felt so accomplished in her life—had 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 doesn’t 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 Amma’s overbearing need to have skin against skin. It’s a sensation unlike anything she’s ever felt, gliding her unmarred flesh against Camille’s raised, scarred own. She knows intimately how soft girls can be, and Camille is anything but. Amma likes that—likes 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.

—

On an innocuous Friday night, when their vacations align, Amma ups Camille’s dosage dramatically, and it’s not long before she’s slumping headfirst into their dining table and the remains of her drugged meal. Her sister is heavy in her arms, but Amma’s 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 it’s 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. She’ll wake up soon because she’ll 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 sister’s 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 didn’t confiscate. She hadn’t known why she felt drawn to collect these items at the time, but perhaps, somewhere deep in her subconscious, Amma knew that she wouldn’t 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 isn’t the same.

Luckily, Amma’s found that the ache lessens when she’s with Camille. She is not a replacement; she could never be, but she is something better. Her sister’s love isn’t conditional, not like Mama’s is, so while Amma loves Mama, she is devoted to Camille.

There is no one above Camille. She knows this now—knew 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 it—miss Adora if this is what she wants from Amma.

With that in mind, she begins to get ready accordingly. She slips on her mother’s 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 Mama’s. 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 she’s 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 sister’s room and maneuvers her slumbering body into it, caressing each delicate curve as she does so. Her sister has gained some weight now that she’s 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 Camille’s underarms for the sickly sweet aroma and taste she’s exuding, then that is strictly her business.

She’s 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.

“What…” Camille murmurs, eyes squinting up at her. “Mama, is that you?”

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, “Of course it is. Who else would it be?”

Camille shakes her head leadenly. “No, that can’t be right. Mama’s—Mama’s locked up.”

She tuts. “Well, that’s rude, Camille, but that’s no surprise. You never think before you act, and it always gets you in trouble, doesn’t it?” Amma skims the scars on the open skin of her sister’s chest, and Camille flinches. She nearly rubs her thighs together at the reaction. She must have patience. “Well, it always gets someone in trouble.” Amma taps her cheek where her molars are, eyes crinkling to match the curve of her smile. “Enough about that, though. It seems you’ve fallen under the weather.”

“I’m fine,” Camille slurs, proving Amma correct. It catches her sister off guard, a scowl forming on her face before it slips right off in confusion. “What—what did you do?”

Amma reaches out to tuck a stray lock of her sister’s hair behind her ear to join the rest, stroking her damp temple as she does so. She’s sticky with sweat, and Amma pushes down every impulse to get another quick taste; Adora would never be so hasty. She doesn’t 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.

“I did nothing. It's you who hasn’t been taking care of yourself, Camille,” Amma scolds lightly as she strokes her sister’s cheek with the back of her hand, admiring the warmth of her skin. “But don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything will be fine.”

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 sister’s lips and instructs, “Open.”

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 Camille’s temple, lingering to whisper, “You are such a good girl, Camille, letting me take care of you like this.”

Camille, the sweet girl she is, mumbles, “I‘ve missed you, Mama.”

Amma coos in delight, reclining to gaze at Camille in all her sickly glory. “I know. I’ve been gone far too long, haven’t I?”

Camille merely hums in agreement, nuzzling into Amma’s cupped hand on her cheek with her eyes closed. While it’s nice to know that she’s emulating Adora’s 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. It’s 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 Camille’s 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 doesn’t 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 Adora’s nature to seek the faults in her eldest daughter, so Amma simply tsks as she trails over Camille’s scarred skin. There haven’t 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 Camille’s heart.

There’s still time to add it, even if not in that particular spot; a spacious area in the middle of Camille’s back remains blank. She’s already marked it out in her mind. It’ll be the prettiest of Camille’s 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 Amma’s neck. She succeeds in jolting Camille awake. Her sister’s eyes open quicker than before as she lets out a gasp of pain. Camille appears more alert because she squints at her.

“Amma, is that you?” Camille asks tentatively.

Amma chuckles, as if what she’s asking is absurd, the kind Mama used to give to those who were too slow for her taste. “In what world am I Amma?”

Her sister’s face scrunches up. “Why are you dressed up like—like Mama? What kind of game are you playing at, Amma?”

She scowls, grabbing her sister’s face roughly to angle it towards her. “Amma isn’t here, Camille. I don’t know what nonsense you’re speaking, but this is no game. I just want to help you. Why must you always be so resistant, Camille?”

Camille attempts to jerk out of her hold, but Amma merely tightens her grip in return.

“Stop this, Amma. I don’t want this,” Camille pleads with teary eyes.

“It’s not about what you want. It’s about what you need, Camille,” Amma says as she reaches for the blue once more. Camille’s 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 she’s used to, but it will be authentic. Camille deserves that much since Amma’s taken away the real thing.

Quietly, Camille asks, “Why are you doing this?”

What a silly question, Amma thinks fondly.

“For you, of course. You deserve to be taken care of.”

A single tear falls down Camille’s cheek.

She smiles at her sister, kissing the tear and barely missing the corner of her mouth as she does so.

“Thank you… Mama.”

Amma nearly shivers in delight.

While Amma likes it when her sister fights her, she loves it when Camille submits to her this easily.

“You’re welcome,” Amma preens. “Now, let’s see how your temperature fares.”

She begins with the stereotypical check, brushing the back of her hand against her sister’s 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!

“You’ll sweat this fever out in no time, Camille, but until you do, I’ll keep a close eye on you. I wouldn’t want you to get worse,” 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.

Camille’s skin is burning to the touch, and oh, how it must make her miserable, especially in this frail state where she’s unable to even lift a limb. She must rely on Amma for her needs and wants. She is completely under Amma’s thumb, just as she prefers.

Amma strokes her sister’s thigh absentmindedly, and Camille’s 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 hasn’t been unaffected by her actions.

Camille is soaking, and Amille wants nothing more than to feast upon her, but Adora has class.

Mama didn’t 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.

“You’re filthy, Camille,” Amma scoffs out when her fingers come up sticky with slick. “If this is how you react the moment anyone gives you the slightest bit of care. I’m only trying to tend to you, and here you are, acting like a needy whore.”

“Mama, no—it’s not what you think—” Camille immediately denies, face a flaming red, but Amma cuts her off. “Then what is this?” She raises her wet fingers to Camille’s 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 sister’s chin with her tacky fingers to force her to look at her. “Answer me, Camille. It’s the least you can do.”

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 she’s ever been. She can understand why Mama kept her like this, why Mama didn’t even think to question Camille’s 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 Camille’s vulnerability, so it wasn’t 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.

“You’re not going to defend yourself?” Amma questions, raising an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised? Of all my girls, you were always the worst.”

Amma scrunches Camille’s nightgown up to her belly and pushes Amma’s thighs open. She glides her fingers down her little slit and spreads her folds, so that she’s truly bare before her. She leans down and admires Camille’s 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, “Stop. Please, no more.”

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 Camille’s cunt giving way easily.

“So loose,” Amma berates, clicking her tongue. “You’re just begging for someone to fill you up with such a greedy kitty.” She curls her fingers up, and Camille moans quietly, her back arching lightly. “I do have to wonder how many you’ve 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 you’ve done to ruin your body when you left Wind Gap.”

Camille clenches her eyes shut and cries, “That’s not true.” Her voice breaks as she asks, “Why are you saying all this?”

Amma leans over Camille to whisper in her ear, “When 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 who’s aching for her mother’s touch.” She bends back and, with her free hand, traces the scar across her sister’s 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.

Camille’s 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 doesn’t matter which one, only that she says it aloud as she touches it gently.

“You’re right, Mama. You’re right. I’m sorry, Mama. I’m a wicked girl,” Camille weeps, and Amma allows a smile to grace her face once more, her hand gliding up her neck to cup her cheek tenderly.

“I always am, Camille. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be. Don’t you like being taken care of by Mama?”

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 depth’s of Camille’s cunt, letting the pads of them rubs across the ridged patch within her. Her sister’s 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 she’s close. No matter how much she wishes to straddle her sister’s hips so that they’re skin-to-skin to feel the heat up close and personal, it simply isn’t in the cards for the night.

“You’re sick, Camille,” Amma croons condescendingly, continuing her ministrations. “But I’ll take care of you so long as you stay Mama’s good girl. You can do that, can’t you?”

Camille bobs her head and cries, “I can be good. Please, please, please.”

Her sister’s desperation is enough for Amma to relent a little. She maneuvers herself so that her mouth is level to her sister’s cunt. With her tongue, Amma circles her sister’s aching, red clit, and Camille’s thighs shakes and her eyes roll back into her head as she cums around her fingers.