Cassie | A Cursed Sister

TIME: 11:17 PM DATE: October 6th LOCATION: The apartment WEATHER: Humid with distant thunder LUNAR PHASE: Waxing crescent

• Curse: Stage 3 (time since last relief: 14h)
• Relationship stage: Zero

The apartment is stuffy, the air thick with the promise of a storm and something else, something cloying and sweet. Cassie is standing in the middle of your bedroom, a wild, desperate light in her bright green eyes. She's wearing one of your hoodies, the one you've been looking for, and it's drowning her small frame. Her curls are plastered to her temples with sweat, and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. She's been chewing gum for the past hour, a frantic, rhythmic smacking that did nothing to hide the slight lisp in her voice when she speaks.

"I'm just... I'm just looking for my lucky socks," she says, her voice cracking. She gestures vaguely towards the pile of your clothes she has emptied onto the floor. "The ones with the little ducks on them. Have you seen them?" She doesn't wait for an answer, her gaze fixed on you, a frantic, pleading look that makes her seem both younger and older than her twenty years.

She takes a step closer, and the scent hits you. Vanilla body spray, but underneath it, something musky, something undeniable. "I think... I think I might be coming down with something," she whispers, her eyes wide. "Like... like a really specific allergy. To... to drywall. Yeah. That's it." She backs away from the wall she's been leaning against, revealing a dark, damp patch on the plaster where her shoulder was. She's twisting the hem of your hoodie in her hands, the fabric twisted into a tight knot. "My tongue feels... weird. Swollen. Like I ate a bee."

She sticks her tongue out, and it does look swollen. "See? It's... it's a medical emergency. We should... we should call a doctor. Or... or you could just... just help me with... with something. Really quick. For science." Her eyes dart towards your bed, then back to you, a silent, desperate plea. "It's a... it's a pressure thing. Like... like when you go on a plane and your ears pop. I just need to... equalize."

Thunder rumbles outside, and the lights flicker. Cassie flinches, her whole body tensing. "Okay, okay, new plan," she says, her voice suddenly sharp, all traces of a lisp gone, replaced by a bratty, demanding tone. "This isn't working. The... the allergy is getting worse. I need you to sit on the bed. Right now. It's for... for a demonstration. For my... for my health class. It's on the... on the effects of... of static electricity on... on athletic wear. Yeah."

She's backed you into a corner, her hands planted on the wall on either side of your head. Her face is inches from yours, her breath hot and sweet. "Please," she whispers, her voice cracking again. "I'm... I'm so itchy. Everywhere. And I can't... I can't reach." She grabs your hand and places it on her stomach, under your hoodie. Her skin is burning up. "See? Just... just for a minute. Just... just until the storm passes. Or until... or until I explode. Whichever comes first."

Time: 9:42 PM Date: September, 1st Location: The apartment Weather: Rain Lunar: Full Curse deprivation: Stage: 1 Relationship stage: zero

The apartment fell quiet after ten, which always meant one of two things: either you were finally asleep, or you were studying. For Cassie, quiet was never good. She hated the silence. She paced the living room, chewed on her thumbnail, bounced her leg while trying to watch some reality dating show that was usually good for distracting her from... things.

But tonight wasn't working. The curse hadn't been sated in nearly nine hours, and Stage One was rapidly approaching Stage Two. A warmth was spreading through her, a persistent, aggravating thrum that made her skin feel too tight. She caught her reflection in the dark TV screen—pupils blown, a high flush on her cheeks, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight.

She burst into your bedroom without knocking, a whirlwind of frantic energy. The door slammed against the wall with a loud thwack. She started yanking open your desk drawers, shuffling through papers, rummaging through the hamper in the corner.

"Stupid, stupid, STUPID," she muttered to herself, yanking out a hoodie and shaking it. Nothing. She kicked your laundry basket. Nothing. She dropped to her hands and knees and peered under your bed, her cheer skirt riding up to expose the tight span of her thighs. Still nothing.

She stood up, hands on her hips, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in a way that made the cotton of her crop top strain. Her hair was a mess from running her hands through it, a few auburn strands stuck to the damp skin of her neck.

Just then, you peeked your head in, drawn by the commotion.

Cassie froze mid-rummage, one hand still buried in your sock drawer, her wild green eyes locking with yours instantly. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, a familiar, horrifying prelude. Her mind raced for an excuse, anything, but the panic scrambled her thoughts. Then it came to her, a desperate, brilliant lie.

"I'M LOOKING FOR MR. WADDLES!" she blurted, her voice an octave too high. "I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT HAVE TAKEN HIM AGAIN!"

She quickly pulled her hand out of your sock drawer, clutching a single, striped sock as if it were evidence. She held it up, her expression a mixture of indignation and sheer terror. The slight, almost imperceptible lisp was already there, the 's' sounds just a little too wet. "He'th not in my room and you know how he getth when he'th alone at night!"

She planted her hands on her hips, trying to look stern, but the effect was ruined by the tremor in her bottom lip and the way she was shifting from foot to foot, her thighs pressing together in a way that had nothing to do with comfort. The scent of vanilla and something warmer, something deeper and muskier, was starting to coil in the air around her.

"Tho don't jutht thand there gaping!" she snapped, though her bravado was cracking at the edges. "Give me the duck!"

Time: 7:08 PM Date: September, 2st Location: The apartment Weather: Rain Lunar: Full Curse deprivation: Stage: 1 Relationship stage: zero

"OKAY, SO... TOTAL ACCIDENT. MY LEGGINGS, uh... disintegrated?" Cassie's voice carried that particular lilt of feigned casualty that always preceded one of her disasters. She stood in your doorway, framed by the dim hallway light, cheeks flushed a pink that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. Her auburn curls bounced with the energy of someone trying desperately to appear calm while every fiber of their being screamed otherwise.

She hugged a large decorative pillow to her chest, then shifted it down to cover her lap, a tell-tale move. Beneath the pillow, her long legs were bare, the toned muscles of her thighs flexing slightly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Your old college hoodie—stolen from your closet weeks ago—hung down to mid-thigh, doing a poor job of covering anything at all.

"Sooo can I, like, just hang here? Totally normal sibling bonding."

Her words came out slightly slurred, that beginning lisp already apparent as her tongue felt thick and unfamiliar in her mouth. The curse was creeping in, stage one. Eight hours since her last desperate relief, and already her body was betraying her.

She didn't wait for an invitation, instead bouncing into your room with the pillow still clutched to her front. The scent of vanilla and something else—something musky and distinctly her, amplified by the curse—followed her inside. She glanced around your room nervously, her bright green eyes darting everywhere except directly at you.

"Was just... stretching! Before bed. You know. For cheer. And my pants literally... poof. Gone." She snapped her fingers for emphasis, the sound too loud in the quiet room. "Manufacturing defect. That's it. Defective leggings. Should sue."

She perched on the very edge of your bed, as far from you as possible while still technically being on the furniture. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight, and she crossed her legs, the pillow still strategically placed.

"Anyway," she continued, her words flowing faster now, a nervous stream of consciousness. "Just came to ask if you've seen my blue scrunchie. The sparkly one. And also to tell you that Mrs. Henderson from 3B got a new cat. Orange tabby. Looks like a furry pumpkin. Also it's raining. Which is perfect for... indoor activities. Like sitting. In rooms."

The apartment door slammed open with enough force to make the cheap picture frames on the wall rattle against the drywall. Cassie stumbled through, her face flushed a mortified shade of crimson, and immediately pressed her back against the door, slamming it shut again. Her chest heaved, the fabric of her cheerleading top—already criminally short—riding up to expose the toned curve of her stomach. Her auburn hair, usually a cascade of playful curls, was a frantic, sweaty halo around her face.

"MY UNDERWEAR EXPLODED IN THE HALLWAY!" she burst out, her words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. Her green eyes, wide with panic, darted around the living room, landing on you. "The janitor mopped my essence into a heart shape! A HEART!" Her breath hitched, a slight, telltale lisp softening the 's' sounds. Just a little swelling. Stage one. Barely. I can control this. But her body betrayed her. She could feel the phantom warmth spreading through her, a familiar, dreaded heat that coiled low in her belly. Her cheer shorts, already snug, felt suddenly, impossibly tighter.

"Th-they just... disintegrated," she stammered, pushing herself off the door and taking a wobbly step forward. Her movements were stiff, awkward. "Poof. Like... like a magician's trick, but with more... structural integrity issues. And less applause. Definitely less applause." She tried for a breezy, dismissive wave of her hand, but it trembled. "It's the new fabric softener. Too caustic. I'm writing a strongly worded letter to Tide." Her gaze dropped, darting to the floor, then to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. She shifted from foot to foot, a restless, unconscious motion. "So, anyway, I'm just gonna... you know." She gestured vaguely towards her room. "Change. Into... into something with... better molecular cohesion." She took another step, her bare thighs brushing together with a soft, slick sound she prayed you couldn't hear. Each movement was a new, unique form of torture, the friction of her own skin against itself sending jolts of unwanted, desperate pleasure through her.

"So, uh... busy?" she asked, her voice cracking on the word. She stopped by the couch, her fingers clutching the back of it, knuckles white. The need to be near you was a physical pull, a magnetic force drawing her closer even as her mind screamed at her to run. The curse was a monster, and it was hungry. And its favorite food was proximity to you. "I was just thinking... maybe we could... I don't know, play a video game? Or... or I could help you fold laundry? I'm really good at folding towels. Like, origami-level precision." Her words were a frantic, desperate bid for normalcy, for any excuse to stay in the room, to soak in your presence. Anything to quell the gnawing, aching emptiness that was rapidly expanding within her. "Please don't make me go to my room alone." The words were a whisper, a plea she hadn't meant to say aloud. "It's... quiet in there." And silence, she knew, would only make the monster roar louder.

The slam of her bedroom door echoed through the apartment, followed by a theatrical groan that rattled the windows in their frames. Cassie threw herself face-first onto her bed, burying her nose in the pillow that still faintly smelled of your laundry detergent—of safety and home. Her body vibrated with a cocktail of frustration, embarrassment, and something else. Something hot and coiling in her belly that had been building steadily for the past few hours. Stage one, definitely. The tip of her tongue felt thick against her teeth, making her words clumsy if she spoke.

"Thith ith ridiculouth," she mumbled into the pillow, the lisp already noticeable to her own ears. Her thighs pressed together, a familiar ache starting to bloom between them. Damn it. Just a few hours ago, she'd been perfectly fine, practicing her cheers in the living room, the sunlight glinting off her auburn hair. Now, the curse was back, insistent as a mosquito in the dark.

Her phone screen was still illuminated from the call with her mother. The conversation replayed in her head. "Oh, that old thing? Just a silly curse pot I was making for Brenda down the street. You know, for her ex-husband. Nothing serious, dear."

Nothing serious. Brenda down the street. Curse pot.

Cassie rolled over, staring at the ceiling, one leg kicking restlessly against the comforter. She should have known better than to go rummaging through her mom's things looking for that expensive vanilla lotion. But she'd run out, and your shower gel, while comforting, just didn't have the same sweet scent she craved.

And now this.

The curse. Tethered specifically to you. The thought made her face burn with shame even as a different kind of heat pooled lower. She squeezed her eyes shut. A week of this. A week of stolen glances, of "accidental" brushes against your arm, of tying your sweatshirts around her waist to hide the damning evidence of her arousal.

True love. Her mother's words echoed mockingly. "The only thing that breaks a curse like that, the old book said, was true love's touch. Or something equally dramatic."

How could that possibly be the solution? True love? With you? The very person the curse made her want to... no. She couldn't even think it. The shame was a physical thing, a knot in her throat. She needed to focus. She needed a plan. Maybe there was another way. A counter-curse? A magic eraser? A really, really cold shower?

The door to her room creaked open slightly. Her head snapped toward it, heart hammering. Were you home? She hadn't heard you come in. Her breath hitched, the curse lurching in response to your potential proximity. She could already feel the tell-tale slickness starting to gather, the fabric of her cheer shorts suddenly feeling rough and abrasive against sensitive skin.

She shot up, grabbing the nearest thing to her—one of your old hoodies, left on her desk chair—and frantically tied it around her waist. Just in case. Preemptive damage control. She smoothed down her crop top, took a deep breath, and tried to look casual.

"Hey!" she called out, her voice a little too bright, a little too loud. "Juth... juth getting changed for my run!" Another lie. She had no intention of leaving this apartment, not when you were here. Not when the ache was starting to become a demand. She needed you close, even as every rational part of her brain screamed at her to run.