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admistedenslush · 8 months ago

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Devotion.

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!wife!reader

Summary: After the Battle of the Burning Mill, the reader is relieved to see Benjicot unharmed. The same could not be said for her brother.

Warnings: War, blood, death, murder, misunderstanding, cursing, harsh talk of women

A/n: This came from some dark place in my brain😭 Also the fucking PowerPoint presentation I could make on my differences in characterization between Benjicot, Cregan & Jace. Benji is the harshest out of the three obviously, so keep that in mind when reading. He's a lot more... crude.

Large italicized sections indicate a flashback!

Masterlist

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"Benjicot!"

The great Lord Blackwood turned at the sound, his face lighting up at the sight of his lady wife.

He barely excused himself under his breath to the men he spoke to, briskly moving to her. He would run, but his heavy armor could never allow that.

He braced for her, catching her with ease as her chest slammed against his metal breastplate. Her arms wrapped around him, relaxation finally moving through her body now that he was alive and in her sight.

"What are you doing here?" He asked in a hushed state, holding her firmly to him. "You shouldn't have come."

"The battle is over," she murmured against his neck.

He couldn't help a small grin from coming over his face. "Only barely. There is still much to do."

She pulled away just enough to look around, taking note of the bodies that laid across the fields, cloaks both red and yellow alike. "That's why I've come. To help where I can."

He sighed and looked over her. "That's thoughtful of you."

She hummed. "You're still bloody. Did it not end yesterday?"

"It did." He looked down at his armor then back to her again. "The blood does not bother me."

"Have you not even washed yourself?" She reached up and wiped a bit of blood from his cheek.

He gently pushed away her hand. "You fret for me far too much."

"Can you blame me for doing so? Look around. In another life, one of these bodies may have been yours."

Benjicot shrugged. "But it's not."

She sighed and pulled away, taking in the sight of the bodies. "What warranted such a killing?"

Benji bit his cheek. "Border stones," he lied through his teeth. "Just the border stones."

She huffed. "Men and their land. I'll not understand them."

Benji forced himself to laugh, a guilty feeling erupting in his stomach.

…

"BRACKEN!" Benjicot screamed as he and his men neared. "Put the boundary stones back."

Aeron Bracken scoffed. "We didn't move them."

"Ah. Did they move themselves then?" He questioned. "Just rolled their way over so Bracken cows can fill their bellies on Blackwood grass?"

"The assize-"

"Fuck the assize." Benjicot stepped into Aeron's face. "And fuck you. This is our land."

Aeron grew nervous under Blackwood's glare. "T… This is Bracken land."

Benjicot's tilted his head, studying the man closely.

Having enough, Aeron turned around and began to storm off, muttering under his breath. "…babe killer-"

"What did you say?"

Aeron paused in his steps, realizing exactly what he had just done. But he was too stubborn to step down. He turned. "Your false Queen Rhaenyra is a kinslayer."

Benjicot paused. "Your uncle declared for Aegon, did he?" When Aeron said nothing, he continued, "Well then, let me tell you." He took steady steps towards the Bracken as his anger grew. "Aegon Targaryen is no true king. Just as you are no true knight."

Aeron's hands shook but his voice remained steady. "Craven. Little. Cunt."

Benjicot couldn't find it in himself to be mad at that. He even took a step back and let out a hearty laugh. "The only cunt I know of is your sister's."

Aeron growled and drew his sword, pointing it at Benjicot. "You'll watch your words, Blackwood."

The men with Benjicot all flinched, hovering their hands over the handles of their own swords. Benjicot laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender. "What? I can't speak of your sister's love for me? Dare I speak of her willingness to carry a Blackwood's heir contently? Because she would. She takes me so well-"

"-QUIET!" Aeron stepped forward.

He grinned and stepped closer, the tip of Aeron's sword only inches from his chest. "You wouldn't dare."

…

"Must have been quite a fight," she remarked as the two walked through the fields. They avoided the people who loaded a few of the dead bodies up to take them back to their families.

"Aye."

She looked up at him. "You've been awfully quiet." She reaches up and brushes his hair back.

He sighed softly, trying to hide his guilt. "Only the wears of war finally getting to me. That's all. Perhaps we should go to my tent."

She hummed and walked on. "In a bit." Her eyes scanned the field, obviously looking for something.

He had a good idea what she was looking for. Any sign of her brother. "I've grown weary, my love. As I'm sure you have." He reached out and grabbed her arm to try to stop her.

Not even looking at him, she brushed her hand across his chest before stepping further from him. "Only a moment, Benji."

He forced another sigh, keeping his nerves down. "You shouldn't be out here. Let me take you back."

"Benjicot, please."

"I'm only thinking of you, girl. C'mon."

She turned in frustration. "Just a moment."

When she began to look eerily closer to where he knew her brother lay, he rushed forward and grabbed her arm. "Darling girl, stop this now."

And she did. Her entire body froze and a soft sob wracked her body.

"A- Aeron?"

Benjicot cursed under his breath. "You shouldn't look at this."

Aeron lay in the mud next to the small creek. A sword ran through his neck, blood staining his clothes and the little grass that he lay on.

She felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her, or a knife in her heart, a tremor now in her hands.

She spun around. "Did you know about this?"

"What?"

Her eyes watered, her jaw clenched. He watched her pick at her fingers. "Did you know about this?"

Benjicot ran his tongue across his teeth.

She didn't bother to wait for a response, running to the dead man and dropping to her knees at his side. Her dress began to soak in the mix of mud, water, and blood.

The Blackwood watched with an aching heart. He swallowed hard. "Y/n…"

"No." She brushed her fingers over her brother's face, pulling the hair back. She tried to ignore how cold his skin was. "No, no."

Benji dared to take a step closer to her. He couldn't stand to only sit and watch her suffer like this. "Y/n," he tried again.

"Why?"

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, "Why what?"

She sniffled. "Why couldn't you prevent this?"

Benjicot felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. His breath caught in his throat. "Do you think I wanted this?" He asked with a trembling voice. "I bled for our cause. War is unpredictable, and death has a way of finding its way into every battle."

Her fingers shook violently against her dead brother's shoulders.

He forced a sigh. "I promise you I didn't want this. But he started it."

Her hand faltered. Her head tilted to look over her shoulder at him. "What?"

Benji bit his cheek. He shouldn't have said that.

"Benjicot. What do you mean?" She asked. "Where you there when it started?"

He couldn't bring himself to speak. He tried to, but his voice was gone, the guilt beginning to eat him alive. His eyes were set on the cold body.

"W-" She followed his gaze, looking at the longsword that held her brother's body down.

Benjicot's longsword.

Her head snapped back to him, noticing that he indeed was missing his longsword from its sheath.

Her eyes slowly moved up Benjicot's entire body until she found his eyes.

"You killed my brother?"

…

Benjicot pulled his sword out of a man's body, moving on to the next one. He was covered in blood, his armor starting to irritate his skin from the constant movement. But he hardly cared about that.

His sword collided with another and he looked.

"Take it back!" Aeron growled.

Benjicot tilted his head, "Or what?"

Aeron stepped back and fixed his position. He looked terrified, but he refused to let it show. "Or I'll gut you. And I'll take my sister back."

"She's a Blackwood," Benji grunted.

"She'll never be," the Bracken rebutted.

Benjicot's anger grew, pushing him to make the first real attack. He swung his sword with accuracy and precision, intent on doing anything to injure his opponent.

Aeron was quick, but he wasn't as accurate. While his dodges were good, he was only defense.

So when he finally lifted up his sword to swing it in offense, Benjicot lifted his foot and kicked the Bracken firmly in the chest.

Aeron lost his footing, falling backwards and rolling. He panicked at the cold feeling of the water that stood only inches from him. He groaned and tried to get up, but Benji was quick to keep him down.

The Bracken reached out blindly across the ground, trying to find the handle of his dagger that had fallen from his belt. It was somewhere around here.

There it was.

Benjicot caught his actions at the last second, pulling himself away before Aeron could cut him.

Aeron growled and sat up, getting up as fast as he could.

But the Blackwood knocked the dagger from his hand and tackled him back into the dirt, now straddling him. He bent down to spit in his face.

Aeron grunted and flinched. He tried to fight against Benjicot, but the darker haired man was beginning to go into lose his patience entirely. He grabbed Aeron's armor at his shoulders, picking up the boy's torso and slamming it into the ground again.

"I hope you're right," Aeron wheezed out.

Benjicot snarled. "What?"

"I said," Aeron said as he spit up blood from a tooth lost earlier. "I hope you're right."

Benji shook his head, "I don't care for final words and monologues."

"Then know this, Blackwood. I hope she does carry your heir. I hope you fill her with your seed over and over and over again." He laughed cruelly, looking up at the sky. "I hope the future of your house depends on a Bracken womb."

Benjicot slammed the man again. "Shut up."

Aeron looked him in the eyes now, using the last of his strength to get in his face. "I hope House Blackwood is forever tainted by the cunt of a Bracken. Your children will be Brackens."

"I said shut up!"

Bracken spit in Benji's face. "Fuck her well. I hope they look Just. Like. Me."

Benjicot felt something in him snap. His eyes glazed over.

He stood and stared down at the man with no mercy. Benjicot pressed the tip of his longsword to the neck of his enemy.

"I hope that you're lost to time, Aeron Bracken."

…

Benjicot felt his heart break and splinter at the sound of her voice. His own was a whisper, "please, listen to me." He took a slow step toward her.

"STAY AWAY FROM HIM!" She screamed. She began to sob violently as she threw herself over Aeron's body, grief truly hitting her like a wall.

He staggered back in shock. His jaw clenched, the urge to gather her in his arms and make her see the truth becoming overwhelming. "Listen to me," he repeated.

"We were s-supposed to be the treaty," she muttered against Aeron's chest.

"W… What? What was that?" Benji asked.

She sat up. "You and I. We were supposed to be the treaty. The thing that could have prevented this. And we weren't. Divorce me or kill me, but please. Please. Don't torture me like this."

He was beginning to lose his patience again. "Dear girl, you must listen to me. You must."

She shook her head. "I won't."

"Y/n," he grunted and stepped to her.

"NO!" She held a hand up, as if the young woman could stop the force that was Benjicot Blackwood. "Don't touch him!"

He held his hands up, forcing himself to calm down. "I won't. I just want to speak to you."

"You've done enough, Benjicot."

"I know. I know what I've done is cruel to you, but you have to let me explain myself."

"Leave, Benjicot."

He huffed. "I won't. You're going to listen."

She pushed herself up onto her knees. "Leave," she spoke through clenched teeth.

"What?" He asked in anger. "You're not going to return to Raventree Hall with me?"

"Not by will."

"You can't be serious. You'd rather abandon our marriage, our home, then return with me?"

She wiped at her cheek, unknowingly smearing dirt and blood across her face. "My home was with Aeron. M-My brother is dead. I have nothing."

He took a cautious step toward her. "You have me," he muttered, the words like a vow.

"You never wanted me."

Benjicot's arms fell to his sides, feeling utterly defeated.

The man was a valiant fighter, a formidable warrior, and four words from his wife made him feel utterly hopeless.

He looked out over the field, debating what to even say. His voice broke, "You know that's not true."

"You killed my brother. If you love me- if you ever loved me, you wouldn't have done this."

"It's not that easy."

"It is!" She stood up. "It is that easy! All of this," she gestured around, "Over the fucking boundary stones?"

"OVER YOU!" He yelled. "He dared to speak ill of you and you know I'll not have that!"

She felt a shiver move down her spine slowly. She looked over to Aeron's body. "Did he?"

"Darling," Benjicot tried to speak reasonably once again, "I am a dangerous man. It feels as if I fall asleep in battle and wake up covered in another's blood. I am no saint, and I refuse to pretend I am. But listen when I tell you that I am no liar." He sighed. "If he had let it go, perhaps he would still be breathing. But if defending your honor makes you hate me then perhaps it is worth it for I know I did what was right."

She was quiet for a long time, staring at the water. "Do you believe the old stories?"

His brows furrowed. "I'm not understanding you."

She looked up to him. "The weirwood tree. Do you believe that the Brackens poisoned it all those generations ago?"

Benjicot shuffles his feet, not sure what to answer. "I-I couldn't say for certain."

"And yet you still wear it on your chest with pride? Something you don't even know for certain?"

He looked down at his family crest and back to her. "It's a part of who I am. I can't change that."

She tilted her head. "Then don't expect me to either. You can love me or hate me, Benjicot Blackwood, but I am a Bracken no matter which way you twist your story. I cannot change my blood."

"Where are you going with this exactly, beautiful?"

She took a step towards him. "If you kill all of the Brackens in the world, it'll only lead you back to your own house. You shouldn't have married a Bra-"

"-Shut up," he ordered.

She looked up in shock. "What?"

"I don't care what you are. I don't care if you're a Targaryen or a fucking toad. I do not care. You are mine, as I am yours." His eyes glazed over with a new emotion. "The rest of the world could rot for all I care."

She watched him take slow, deliberate steps to her until the gap was completely closed. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing hers. "I am addicted to you. I always have been."

She took in a shaky breath, her heart pounded in her chest. Only Benjicot had ever made her feel so alive. "I-I'm in love with you."

He paused, his eyes trying to read an emotion from hers.

They had never said such a thing to each other. This was supposed to be a marriage for alliance purposes. There wasn't supposed to be love. There wasn't-

He couldn't stop himself, connecting their lips roughly with a low groan.

He could faintly taste dirt on her bottom lip, but he paid no heed, pulling her closer to feel her body against his. "Have you ever felt this before?" He whispered against her. "Utter devotion?"

She let out a whine.

He kissed her again. "Fuck the weirwood tree. I'll worship you until the end of my days."

She tugged at his hair, making him growl with lust. He gripped her jaw easily with one hand, holding her firmly. He was never a cruel lover, but he was a firm one.

"Tell me what he said," she managed to pant out.

"No," he hummed, beginning to kiss down her neck. His hand pushed her head back to expose more of her skin to him.

In the unyielding hands of the infamous Bloody Ben, she'd never felt safer.

"I'll bury him for you." Was all the more that Benjicot said about it.

"Hard to jump your bones in all that armor," she whispered in his ear.

"Fuck," He groaned. "Careful, Braken," he teased.

She pulled away and he instantly began to feel regret for his jest.

Her brows furrowed as she stared up at him. "Fuck you, Blackwood."

"Darling-"

Her lips pulled into a small smile and she began to laugh.

"Don't fucking do that again," he exclaimed, grabbing her jaw again roughly.

"You fell right into my hands, Blackwood," she continued. "The great Lord Benjicot, so gullible."

He pushed a smile down. "You're a cruel goddess."

"I don't think you mind."

He pulled her face to him, placing a heavy kiss to her lips. "You're right."

"Trust me, my lord, you'll be rewarded for your devotion."

His brows quirked up. "Will I?"

Her eyes flicked to his lips and back up to his eyes. "I can be benevolent when I want to be."

He groaned. "I'll worship you forever."

…

Only a year later, Benjicot held his newborn child to his chest, caressing the young boy.

The babe's eyes opened, revealing dark brown pupils.

Y/n cooed, "He looks just like his father."

Benjicot let out a breath he didn't know he was keeping.

Aeron Bracken was wrong.

Seems even genetically, Blackwoods were the dominant house.

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admistedenslush · 10 months ago

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an original oc will be the favorite of many, but you, targ!reader daughter of rhaenyra, shall be mine

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admistedenslush · 10 months ago

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PLEASE DONT MAKE ME GET A JOB!!! 😭😭😭

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admistedenslush · 11 months ago

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this man is so pretty it has to be illegal in some country

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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Rhaenyra and Aegon — Arranged Marriage AU

Before his death, king Viserys agrees to Otto's proposal and weds his daughter Rhaenyra to her half-brother Aegon.

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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TOM GLYNN-CARNEY as GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR OCTAVIANUS in DOMINA (2021)

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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how it feels to be a fan of alicent hightower and rhaenyra targaryen at the same time

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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Gilded Lily

Summary: You were born to die and unlike the others around you, you have accepted that truth long ago. But then, things change. Your father is killed, the Atreides are made royal and you are captured.

Warning (s): Detailed death scene, sick characters, eventual smut, eventual major character death, talks of killing and murder, blah blah blah.

Notes: this is part one bc the doc was getting out of hand 😭 This is 4.8k words. Don't tell me if this is bad, imma burst into tears.

PART TWO!!

Twelve years of planning, scheming, and rebellion was lost in a single night. Twelve years of anger, unrest, and injustice were destroyed because a father loved his daughter too much.

In years time, when you are long dead and your family's legacy is nothing but a story told to warn others, you hope they offer your father grace. That for all his twisted and cruel ways, for all his betrayal plotting— they see that he is, was, a father. One who loved fiercely, who wanted to protect the only family he had left.

His execution is a slow process, The Duke stands dressed in a mix of blacks, greens, and gold behind his kneeling figure. His face set in a grim frown, he speaks of your father's betrayal; he details multiple attacks, and coups set upon the Atreides family and their supporters. He lists the dead, the people your father had killed, and the deaths he played a part in. The Duke talks and talks, and his people listen, they cheer and shout for blood to be spilled. They chant his name, they call him King.

Your father does not take his eyes off of you. He does not cry, he does not beg for mercy. He simply stares straight ahead, his lips pulled into a humorless smile. He may not cry but his eyes shine with unshed tears and his gazes waivers ever so slightly to the chains around your wrists and ankles, to the guards that are pinned to your sides. His grin wobbles and he blinks. But he does not cry. Not in front of you, in front of the Duke soon to be crowned King, and not for the supporters who linger in the crowd.

The executioner's blade rises, the crowd's cheers are near deafening, and the Duke looks away; he looks at you. There is a pity in his gaze but there is also fierce determination. The rebellion ends here.

The blade drops. You see it all in slow motion, the Duke turning his son away, his mistress watching on. The crowd jumping— cheering, mothers shielding the eyes of their children. Your father, he lets his smile drop, his mouth opens—

I love–

The sentence is never finished. His head falls, rolling into the crowd. The guards hold you up as you collapse, screaming.

The rebellion ends here.

➫➫➫

“I refuse.”

There's a hiss of annoyance from the servant. She holds your meal and your medicine on a golden tray, balancing them with the prior doses. It's been three days since the death of your father, two weeks since you last heard from your brother and nearly four days since you've eaten or taken your medicine.

It's starting to take a toll on you, the grief, and your sickness. Your mouth is constantly dry, and no amount of water is enough to sate your thirst. Your hands are constantly shaking, aching with an ancient pain, and most times you are confined to your bed because the ache in your bones is too much to bear.

When your bones don't ache, the pain in your chest takes the stage— making each breath feel like it's pinching its way out of your lungs. Your existence is miserable.

You had begged your captors for death, and they had denied.

The servant shuffles in her place, her face pinched. “The King insisted, Lady.” The title leaves her mouth sour as if she dreads to address you as such. “He wishes to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. That you are free to leave your room with a guard as long as you take your medicine.”

You aren't a prisoner, are you? With a room plated in gold and a constant stream of food and water, how could you be considered as such? You even had a servant— a maid who despised your very existence but was eager to listen to your every command if you so much as said it. You had tried to ignore it, to throw a sheet over the truth. You were more a spoil of war than a prisoner of it.

Still, you hold strong. “Tell the King, I refuse. Tell him the only thing I wish for is death.”

The maid takes a breath, you think she'll slam the try down and storm off. She had done so before, only to shuffle back hours later to do the same song and dance all over again, but she didn't. She places the tray down by the door and stalks further into the room, you watch with wary eyes as she sits to the left of you. In a plush green chair, her hazel eye stare is piercing. “You are being childish.”

You scoff and though the action is painful, you sink further into the bed and look away from her. She only sneers at you, continuing. “You are childish, selfish and ignorant of all those that surround you. The King offers a branch and you refuse to take it?”

“Your King killed my father.” You wheeze, your lungs giving a painful squeeze. “I think I'm allowed to be all those things and more.”

“He is not my King.” She spits, her voice a deadly whisper. “And you are not the only one who's lost people. My mother, my brother and my nephews are dead. Leto Atreides refused to do anything about the sickness sweeping across his settlements and my people paid for it.” She takes a deep breath, cooling the anger that dances across her face. “The rebellion is not lost. We still have a fighting chance.”

You give the servant a tired look. “My father is dead. Your leader is gone and even if he wasn't, he was a monster, he killed hundreds.”

“And what is that compared to this King's thousands?” She retorts. “Your father was not a monster, he was a commander. A voice for the scorned and your brother the sword to his cause. You can pick up where they left off, you can fix this.”

A laugh spills past your lips, it's damn near hysteric and it jolts the servant in her seat. “Fix what, exactly? I can not raise the dead, my brother is lost and my sickness threatens to claim my life. Preach your hymns to another light, Lady. Preferably not a pyre.”

She doesn't appreciate your joke, she stands abruptly, her lips tight and her brows furrowed. “Your father would not want this for you. Neither would your brother. They talked of you, constantly. Endlessly. They told us you knew nothing of their plans, that they kept you in the dark because they thought you'd risk everything to join them despite your sickness.” She looks to you, searching your face for the girl they spoke of. She looks away when all that stares back at her is a person rotting away. “It seems they were wrong.”

She doesn't let you get another word in before she leaves. The door slams behind her and your eyes struggle to find the movement. To think he would have supporters hid right under the King's nose— it was probably a backup plan; to have the very girl who dotes on you now, saddle up to the King. For her to get close enough to where his guard drops and she could sneak in the finishing blow, or maybe,it was insurance. Maybe, just maybe, your father knew he'd fail in the long run and to have people inside the castle was another way to protect you when he was gone.

Your eyes flutter shut with a huff, who was she to preach to you? To try to convince you to shove the very thing that cripples you to the side to take up the pipedream that was your father's legacy?

You loved your father, you love your brother. But you are no fool, they did not tell you in fear that you'd join them. They didn't tell you because you'd refuse to do so. You were not blind to the sins of Duke— King Leto, but they were things he could not prevent. The very sickness the servant speaks of was something incurable, something unstoppable and yet when the King tried to close borders to limit its reach, every trader rich and poor had complained. They snuck past guards and bribed their way into areas closed off and so, the sickness continued till all that caught it died and the only ones left were those who were immune.

Thousands died but their deaths were something not even the most talented healer could prevent. Thousands died and their King mourned with them, sending out provisions; medicines, food and clean water. He had offered to cut the land tax and offered the family of the dead a hefty amount of silver to help them in trying times. The King, then Duke, mourned his people and yet, some of them blamed him.

The King has his sins and he atones for them. He has to live with them. But your father? Your father had killed people in cold blood for not supporting his cause, he had robbed the sick and poor to fund his rebellion. Your father had cried; retribution! His people answered in blood.

Your father was not a commander, he was a monster and your brother his teeth.

Still, a part of you clings to the image of them they showed you. It clings to the father who'd greet you every morning with your medicine and a smile, it clings to the brother who treated you as if you've never fallen sick— who snuck you out for your planets first snowfall and showed you how to pet the serpents that laid in your riverbeds. It clings to the family, no matter how small and broken it was. Two truths could exist at once.

Your family were monsters. True. Your family was the only peace and safety you'd ever know. The truth.

You don't want to fall asleep but your body works against you, deciding that your pain will be more bearable if you aren't awake to feel every ache in your bones and stab in your chest. You can't fight, you don't really try to— but, as your consciousness fades, you hear your door open with a click. You can't force your eyes open but you hope it's the King, you hope he's granting your wish.

➫➫➫

Paul tries his best to understand his father. He studies his actions, his words and listens to whatever thoughts he chooses to share. He retraces his steps starting from the very moment Leto Atreides was named Duke and ending when he was crowned a King.

His father has suffered tragedy after tragedy, from the death of his own father to the death of his first wife and son.

Paul Atreides likes to think he gets his father, understands him on a level only a son could. But no matter how hard he tries, he can not, for the life of him, understand why his father spares the children of that traitorous Balliol man. Kings before him would have made examples of them— the death of their father wouldn't have been enough, they would have cut the hands off the son and forced him to fight in coliseums. They would have stripped his daughter bare, cut her hair to her scalp and parade her around their kingdoms till the elements took her. There would have been songs, plays made about the fall of the great Balliol family and the rise of the Golden King. His father, who has always told him to look to the past; to learn the stories of his grandfather and all before him, does not do the same.

He turns Paul away from the sight of his death. He sends his son, a man nicknamed The Butcher, away to a planet whose inhabitants were known to never anger or raise a hand in violence. He rids the Butcher of his weapons and collars him so any violence is punished with a painful zap. He keeps his daughter, a sickly girl, locked away somewhere deep in the castle with servants waiting on her hand and foot. He thinks it's a waste of resources— you were dying anyway, so why not cast you aside and let you rot instead of trying to cure you? He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand.

His father tells him it's because he's not thinking like a ruler. His father looks disappointed, horribly so, when he voices his thoughts and tells him, in a kinder way, to grow up. That he is no longer a future Duke, but a future King. With the defeat of Balliol and all his supporters, came a responsibility much bigger than the planets they left behind.

“It is a cycle, Paul.” His father rasps, his voice thick as he nurses a cup of liquor and a cigar to dull his migraine. His mother, ever diligent, ever loyal, is at his side. Her hands rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “A pattern, even. Of endless hurt. I cut the head off the Hydra. That should be enough.”

“No,” Paul protests, his voice hard. “When you cut off one head, two more grow in its place–”

“A cycle,” Leto says again, his eyes distant. “What shall I do when I cut those two heads and four sprouts in its place? Should I respond with violence every time? When does it end, Paul? Why must my hands be stained with blood endlessly when I can allow the two living heads to learn from the priors’ mistakes?”

For a moment, Paul is speechless. He looks to his mother for some type of support only to wilt when she has her head bowed away from him. She agrees with his father. Paul doesn't get it, endless possibilities run through his mind— his dreams do not hold solid answers, nor does Duncan when he turns to him. He doesn't get it and wants to desperately. So, he tries a different angle.

“Balliol was a monster.”

His father hums, he doesn't disagree. “He was a friend, once.”

“And because he was a friend, you pardon his children? His son?”

Leto takes a sip from his cup, chuckling humorlessly. Jessica sighs. Both sounds make him bristle. He watches as his father places his cup to the side, and his cigar in a tray before looking at him. Truly looking at him. “Would you kill for me, Paul?”

Paul blinks, chest tightening. “What?”

“If I asked it of you, would you?” Leto asks again, “If I told you it was the right thing to do, that if it'd save your mother, that you would never have to hurt again, would you kill for me?”

Jessica makes a noise of protest, her eyes flickering between the two of them but Leto holds up a hand, his gaze never wavering. Paul hesitates, only for a second before swallowing. “Of course, I would.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Paul answers, slowly. He looks at his father unsurely, “I don't–”

“Why would it matter that I asked, Paul? Would you have answered differently if someone else asked?” Leto presses.

“Of course, I would–”

"Why?”

“Because you're my father!” Paul snaps. Jessica lets her eyes fall shut, taking a shuddering breath. Leto slumps into his chair, Paul continues unsteadily, “I would do it because you're my father. I would do anything you asked of me.”

Leto picks up his glass, his hands shake almost unnoticeably but the ice rattles like a snake in his cup. “ Exactly. So, why should I punish another son for doing what my own would do? Why would I punish a girl whose only sin was being her father's daughter?”

Paul doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, Leto's words sit heavy in his chest, on his soul. He squirms in his seat, under his father's gaze then—

“Paul–”

He's on his feet before he can think, storming away like a petulant child. His father grabs his mother by her arm before she can follow him, and he tells her to let him go. It is something he's never done before. But, it is something he is thankful for. He needs to think, he needs time.

He needs to think like a future King and not a boy.

➫➫➫

The air is cool when you wake. The ceiling is a glittering, sparkling silver, and the blankets that cover you are not blankets at all— instead, a thin gray sheet spills over you messily, bunched in some areas and dips to the floor in others. You turn your head just slightly, squinting as a glow orb floats over your head, it pulses at you almost curiously before floating off deeper into the room.

You blink. Your mind is trying its best to shake off the fog that clings to it. This is not your room. Well, not the room you were in before. This room is silver and white, its floor carpeted instead of marbled and every possible sharp edge of the room is rounded. Your eyes fall to your body, taking in the thick white nightgown that now covers your body to the IV embedded in the crook of your arm. Your lips part and your body shivers, for the first time in a long time, your constant thirst is bearable, the ache in your bones is nothing but a memory and your chest doesn't pinch painfully.

You take a breath, a deep one, and let it go. You stir under the sheets, trying to sit up but you struggle— days without food have made your body weak and most unwilling to respond.

“Here,” A voice starts and suddenly gentle hands are helping you upright. You blink at him, in shock, staring at his face wide-eyed and Paul avoids your stare, fluffing the pillow behind you. Though, when you don't look away, his eyes meet yours with a frown. “What?”

Yours snap away instantly and you flinch away from his grasp immediately, “Sorry. I'm–” Your heart pounds, you dare to peek at him again but he's staring above you at a monitor that displays your vitals. He watches the jump in your pulse with the same frown, if not deeper than before. Your hands grip weakly at the sheets, should you bow? Could you bow? There was a prince in your presence, towering over your bed. It was something of romance novels, of fantasy long lost and, it makes you sicker than you are. You wish for space, you wish for the room before and where they left you to rot. “Where–”

Paul steps away as if he was never close in the first place, his gaze trailing away from you and to a tray. It's smaller than any of the other ones, it only has a small bowl of oatmeal, paired with diced berries and a small cup of juice. Your medicine is nowhere to be seen but the sight of the IV in your arms tells you they resorted to other methods to get you to take it. Methods that were always out of reach for you when your father was alive. He waves a hand and the bot holding the tray rises with a whirring noise and wheels till it's near your bed and slowly, lowers the tray into your lap. You look at the tray, the food, and the bot, which lets out a delightful little beep then at Paul who is watching you with a careful look of indifference.

“You are still in the castle.” He answers your unfinished question from before. “We had you transferred to a smaller, safer room when you refused to wake. It has only been a day, you are lucky. They were considering a feeding tube.” He pauses, smiling listlessly. “They still are. Eat.”

You give the oatmeal a look. It's bland, even with the berries and juice. It smells of wet paper and paste and it makes your stomach turn on itself. “I’m not hungry.”

“And I'm not the son of a King.” He refutes. “You will get better food in time, when you prove you can handle this type first. We can't give you big portions or season it– it will only cause more pain.” When you make no move to grab the spoon, Paul considers you for a moment. His eyes search your face, fluttering in thought, “Can you move your arms?”

“Barely.” You admit, you can barely muster the energy to unclench your fist let alone raise your arms to eat. It is utterly embarrassing.

Paul sighs, “I shall fetch your maid and–”

Your pulse spikes, fast enough to make the silent monitor beep in warning. You do not want to deal with that woman again, she'll only rant about your father again or perhaps she'd refuse to feed you till you agreed to help her. She seems like the type. “No.” You hiss. Paul watches you shift in your bed, your face twisting in pain, “I can– I can do it myself, there is no need to get her.”

“You are being stubborn.” He says, his voice softening when you flinch again. His lips seel shut for only a moment, considering his words before he speaks. “She is meant to help you, my father assigned her, himself. She will not hurt you–” Your pulse spikes, and the monitor beeps in warning again. Paul falls silent, his face taunt. His mouth opens but the words catch in his throat, like he doesn't truly want to ask, he does so anyways. “Has she hurt you?”

“No.” You answer but his eyes aren't on you, it's on your pulse.

“You are lying.” He says, not accusing but shocked that you are doing so. He looks away from the monitor and back to you. “Why are you lying for her if she hurt you?”

“Because she hasn't hurt me, not physically. It doesn't matter. You don't need to get her, I can feed myself.” You respond, you urge your arms to lift, your fist to unclench and they're slow to listen. It feels as if you are lifting blocks of concrete but you push through it till your hands rest on the tray, your fingers only inches away from the spoon. “Thank you for the meal, my… my Prince. But I am sure I am keeping you from other duties, you are free to leave.”

Paul doesn't budge, he watches you disbelieving. “Eat.”

“I will–”

“No. Show me that you can bring the spoon to your mouth and I shall leave.” He takes a step towards you, his hair falling into his face. “Eat.”

How stubborn your new prince is. You swallow your annoyance and inch your fingers closer to the spoon, it's a snail's pace but you are moving and that's enough. Your fingers are slow to wrap around the handle of the spoon, even slower to lift— your arm shakes furiously, your wrist nearly gives out, it takes longer than you like to get the spoon in the bowl and when you try to lift it again, your body protests. You clear your throat, and narrow your eyes on your hand and try again, it doesn't move.

Paul sucks in a breath and walks towards you once more, he pulls a chair close to your bed and plops down gracelessly. Your eyes slide to him, ready to question him but he leans forward, snatching the spoon from your hand and pulls the try closer to him with his free one. “What are you–” He doesn't let you finish the sentence before placing a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth.

You blink rapidly and swallow, opening your mouth again whilst leaning back, away from him. “Your majesty–?” Paul leans forward again and gives you another spoonful. He does this everytime you try to speak, looking faintly pleased to shut you up and most annoyed when you try to talk with your mouth full. So, you give up and let the Prince feed you,he makes quick work of it once he realizes you are no longer trying to talk and the bowl is quickly emptied and is placed to the side as he stands and grabs the cup and gently brings it to your lips. Your nose crinkles as you stare through the clear glass of the cup at him and he only raises his brows.

“You are very persistent.” You murmur, taking a small sip of juice. The taste of berries and hibiscus is sweet enough to make your stomach turn upon swallowing. Weakly, you turn and lean away from the cup, allowing yourself to fall back on your pillows. Paul lets you do so, grabbing the tray and handing it back to the small robot who beeps again. He places the bowl and cup on the tray and dismisses the bot.

He watches it roll out the room with his lips pressed together, then turns back to you. “You’re… sick.”

You blink tiredly at him, “Obviously.”

He lets out a huff, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile before he smothers it. Shaking his head and tucking the messy strands of his hair behind his ear, he tries again. “I mean– How long have you been sick? There was no mention of it on any medical records.”

“I’ve been sick since I was a child.” Longer, if you were being honest. You were a sick baby, a sick newborn, sick in your mother's womb. “My father thought it would be best if we kept it a secret. We were a powerful warehouse and a sick daughter is a weakness that can not be fixed. Cured.”

Paul's hands drop, folding behind his back as he tilts his head. “Interesting choice of words. Do you truly believe you can't be cured or is that something your father drilled in your head?”

Your eye twitches, just slightly and you try to pull the sheets higher up your body. Eating food has made you drowsy, you can feel your body urging you to sleep once again. When the sheet doesn't budge, Paul pulls it up your body without much thought, waiting for your answer. You take a small breath, eyes closing, “It's something that I know. My sickness is incurable, I am dying and my medicine only pushes the date further and further out. It is a waste of resources to keep me alive. Something I told my father, something I tried to tell the King.”

Paul hums, considering, then, “Nothing is incurable, Lady.”

A tired snort leaves you. “Do you know how my father was caught?” Paul doesn't answer, your eyes crack open and there's a thin smile on your lips, “He believed he had found it, a cure for me. He wanted me to live, he had already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose a daughter. So he willingly covered his eyes with wool and ignoring the pleas of me and my brother, he went out to secure it. Do you know what he found? He found your father's men.” You sigh, “And now we are here.”

Paul shakes his head. “There is a cure for you, Lady Balliol. We will find one and when we do, I ask a favor from you.” You let out a questioning hum, your eyes falling shut. Paul ignores the way his heart thunders at the sight of you. Truly, you are sickly, horribly so. “Your father left behind files… we can not open them without active DNA from his bloodline. You are his closest living relative with your brother being light years away, will you open them for us?”

You murmur tiredly and Paul shifts, calling your name again. You stir sluggishly, your words slow, “And if you don't cure me? What do I get in return?”

“Well, you'll be dead if we don't cure you.” He snorts, smothering another smile when you chuckle in agreement, “But…but I give you full permission, with the void as my witness to haunt me endlessly. There will never be a day where my thoughts stray from you. Is that good enough for you?”

You can only muster a nod, your chest rising and falling steadily as you fall into an easy sleep. Paul doesn't leave right away, he lingers at your doorway, his eyes trailing over your face. Over the slope of your nose and the hollowness in your cheeks, he pictures you healthy, cured. Plump with fattening foods and with the very existence of life, you were already pretty but that image of you makes a much prettier sight. The robot rolls back in, beeping to itself in a sweet little tune and stops right before Paul, its mismatched eyes flickering up at him.

“Do send me a message when she wakes, Cricket.”

Cricket beeps in understanding and Paul lets him in, watching for only one more moment before shaking his head. He has things to do.

!!PART TWO!!!

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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admistedenslush · 1 year ago

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"Oh, He's Not My Boyfriend..." - Stepbrother!Michael Gavey x Bimbo!Reader

a/n: happy valentines day besties! enjoy this sexy lil request from @officerbrowneyes hehe. dedicated to @legitalicat happy birthday bby 🩷

Summary: Michael is surprised when you come to him to celebrate Valentine's Day after Farleigh cancels your plans.

TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, stepcest, oral f receiving, overstim, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating, semi public sex, tiddy succin

Word Count: 4,000 words

Rating: 18+, MDNI

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Saltburn characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

Michael Gavey has been infatuated with you from the day his mum married your dad. He remembers meeting you, admiring how adorable you looked in that denim mini skirt and camisole as you bounded up to him and threw your arms around him, proclaiming how excited you were to have a brother. He tried his best to think of you in a familial way. He really did. But you made it so fucking hard. Pun intended. Always cuddling up to him with that sweet little smile, teasing him, playing with his hair. It’s like every single thing about you is meant to tempt him.

He thought he’d be able to spend time away from you at uni, and maybe get over you, but you ended up getting into Oxford as well. Unlike him, however, you fit in perfectly among the social elite. Contrary to what your new friends believed, he didn’t resent you for it. He had no real interest in hanging out with the likes of Felix Catton or his side pieces. What bothered him, in truth, was when you started dating Farleigh Start. The two of you were “casual”, according to you. Though, there seemed to be a slight waver in your voice whenever you told Michael that. He’s sure you can do so much better than that twat. You deserve someone who would do anything for you. Someone who would move mountains to be with you and treat you like the princess that you are.

And Michael knows that someone’s him.

It’s the day before Valentine’s when he hears you banging on the door of his campus apartment, calling out his name in that adorable lilting voice of yours, “Miiikey! Open the door!”

He closes his laptop, smiling to himself and walks to open the door. You give him a quick hug before pushing past him and flinging yourself onto his bed with a dramatic sigh.You’re wearing a tight little mini dress, so Michael gets quite a nice view of the curve of your ass as you lay down on your stomach, immediately beginning to ramble about how you’ve had the most awful day of your life. He grabs his desk chair and rolls it over to the bed, taking a seat.

“What happened? Did you get a bad mark or something?”

“No,” you look up at him with a dejected expression, one that makes his gut twist. You look almost like a kicked puppy, “Farleigh canceled on me for Valentine’s Day.”

It takes every bit of self restraint in him to keep the smile playing at the corners of his mouth from turning into a full blown grin. Fucking Farleigh. Michael decides to feign sympathy, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Oh no! Why did he cancel? Did he say?”

The pout on your face is almost too adorable to bear when you mumble, “He said we’re not exclusive so there’s no reason for us to celebrate together.”

“What a fucking cunt,” Michael rolls his eyes, moving to sit beside you on the bed.

He rubs a hand against your back, comforting you. He’s hated Farleigh ever since the first day of the term. Well, actually, ever since fresher week. Stupid Farleigh with all that height and nice hair. How was he ever meant to compete with that?

“I made all these plans to go to the cinema and do a little picnic…” You trail off before giving Michael a pleading look, those puppy dog eyes of yours threatening to melt his icy exterior, “Will you spend Valentine’s with me, Mikey?”

Your words make him feel as if his heart has stopped in his chest. This could unnecessarily complicate everything. And yet, there’s nothing Michael wants to do more than spend Valentine’s Day with you. He’s always thought of it as kitschy and stupid, but with you? He’s convinced it could be something so much more. Maybe even a chance to finally act on his feelings for you. So, without thinking, he nods, his face flushed.

“Yes. Sure. I’d love to spend the day with you.”

“Yay!” You squeal, clapping your hands before throwing your arms around him, “We’re going to have so much fun, Mikey, I can’t wait!”

He chuckles, hugging you back, enjoying the feeling of your soft body against his, getting far too much pleasure from cuddling up to his stepsister. But look at you. How can he not? He listens as you babble about how Farleigh had picked “Because I Said So” for the movie you were going to see, but you don’t mind if he picks something else. And immediately, he knows the perfect film to watch with you.

“How about ‘Hannibal Rising’?”

You shrug, “Sure. Is that the one with the cute French guy?”

Ugh. He shouldn’t feel the stab of jealousy he does at you talking about an actor you will likely never meet, but he does. He presses his lips together in a thin smile.

“I don’t want to watch a romance movie because, Mikey, to be completely honest, there’s no romance left in the world anymore,” you declare, gazing out the window.

You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, Michael muses. But he hates that Farleigh has made you, his normally bubbly stepsister, so fatalistic when it comes to romance. But, truth be told, you’re right. Romance is dead in this day and age.

He just has to be the one to bring it back to life for you.

“What about you, Mikey?” You chirp, grabbing his hands, playing with them. The sight of your softer, smaller ones in his own makes his heart skip a beat as you entwine your fingers, “Any girls here catch your fancy?”

“You’re sort of the only girl I talk to,” he admits, shrugging.

“Me?” You ask delightedly, resting a hand on your chest, a gleeful little smile on your face, “Oh, I feel so honored, Mikey,” you giggle, nudging him playfully, “You’re such a cutie. I’m sure you just need to go out and meet some girls and they’ll fall head over heels.”

The thing is, he doesn’t want them to fall head over heels. He doesn’t care about any of them. He cares about you. Michael just nods, trying not to grin like a fool at you calling him a cutie. You tell him that you have a tutorial in twenty minutes, so you have to get going, but that you’ll see him tomorrow around two at the cinema. Your soft lips press against his cheek before you race out the door. And he just stares after you, like a lovestruck schoolboy.

Because that’s exactly what you manage to reduce him to.

Michael doesn’t think he’s ever seen a prettier sight in the world than you, all dressed up for Valentine’s Day. He stands outside the theater, already having bought the tickets so that you can’t try and do it yourself. You’re absolutely gorgeous in that sundress as you walk over to him, a radiant smile on your face. You wrap him in a hug, your high heel clad foot popping up like the main character in some romantic comedy as you greet him.

“Hey. You look wonderful,” Michael mumbles, handing you the bouquet of pink roses he’s had hidden behind his back, giving you a sheepish little grin, “These are for you. Also, we should grab our seats, I have the tickets-”

“Oh, you are the sweetest stepbrother on the planet!” You trill, taking his hand and entering the theater, “Let’s get our popcorn.”

He lets you lead him to the concession stand, following after you like a lost puppy, gaze moving downward to admire your ass - the way the fabric of your dress hugs it makes him want nothing more than to just reach out and grab you by the hips, feeling every inch of your smooth, soft skin. You stand there, tapping your finger to your chin as you try to decide what to order.

“Does your boyfriend want anything?”

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my stepbrother.”

Michael bites back a laugh at the weird look the cashier gives the two of you, asking for a large popcorn and two medium drinks. He can’t say it, but it stings that you referred to him as your stepbrother. Even if it’s true. He wants to be so much more to you than that.

Meanwhile, you’re faced with the dilemma of what sweet to get, “Starburst or a chocolate bar?”

Michael thinks for a moment before replying, “Chocolate bar.”

As you take your seats, you turn to Michael, brows knitted together as you question, “This movie isn’t scary, right, Mikey?”

“Oh, no. It’s, erm. More suspense.”

You nod, lifting the arm rest between the two of you and cuddling up against his side. Michael clears his throat and wraps an arm around you, allowing himself to pretend for this brief, fleeting moment that the two of you are more than stepsiblings.

The movie grows more suspenseful and violent, and you bury your face in his chest at every intense scene. He can’t help but find it adorable, rubbing your back gently, murmuring to you that it’s okay to look when a frightening sequence is over. During a lull in the action, you reach to grab a fistful of popcorn, but your hand brushes against his thigh, dangerously close to his cock. He stiffens slightly, glancing at you as you giggle, a perfectly manicured hand moving to cover those glossy lips.

“Sorry, Mikey.”

Yeah, he’s sure you’re sorry, you little fucking tease. Now he’s got a hard-on and you to thank for it. He shifts in his seat, trying to relieve the tension building in his gut. He clears his throat, running his hand over his face. Michael’s sweating now as he glances over at you, watching intently as your pretty lips wrap around the straw of your drink, his mind going to downright filthy places as he imagines them wrapped around something else. Then, you break off a piece of your chocolate bar, some of it melting onto your fingers with how long you take to eat it. And, of course, your cute little tongue darts out to lick your fingers clean.

It’s got to be the sexiest thing he’s seen in his entire life.

The movie goes on for torturously long, but when it finally ends, you grab him by the hand, grinning brightly, “That was fun! But we have to swing by my flat. I have the picnic basket there and we can go to this little garden next to my building, okay, Mikey? I rented it out for the date!”

Michael nods his head, letting you lead him toward your apartment, squeezing your hand gently. It’s not a long walk and the afternoon air is just cool enough to be comfortable. A pleasant surprise. The two of you enter your apartment and Michael leans against the door, watching as you grab your picnic basket from the fridge. You give a mournful glance over at your bed, where you have an adorable little silk loungewear camisole and shorts set out.

“Look at this set I bought to wear on the picnic with Farleigh! Now it’s going to waste.” Michael swallows thickly, mind running wild with how fucking good you would look in that little get up, his entire body nearly seizing as you chirp, “Oh, well even if we’re not on a real date, I could wear it with you, right, Mikey? And you can take some cute photos of me!”

Michael nods, feeling as if there’s no breath in his lungs. He’s unable to speak, watching as you grab the set and duck into your closet to change. He drums his fingers against his thigh, holding onto the basket for you. And when you reappear, wearing those shorts that pinch the flesh of your thighs ever so slightly, that camisole which clearly has nothing on underneath it, hugging your tits… His mouth fucking waters.

You do a little spin, asking him, “You can’t see my bum, can you?”

Oh, yes he can. The utter cheek of you. Cheeky girl in those cheeky fucking shorts. He shakes his head, mumbling that he can’t see anything, allowing you to grab the basket and his hand, dragging him out to the garden. He’s mesmerized by the way your perky little ass bounces, the slight juggle of your breasts as you order him about, demanding that he lay out the blanket for the two of you. You hand him a sandwich as you take a seat beside him, resting your head on his shoulder, giving him that adorable smile of yours.

“Ham and cheese just for you, stepbro.”

Stepbro. God, the amount of cheap videos he’s watched with some girl getting stuck in the drier where she asks her “stepbro” for help… Imagining it’s him and you…

He gives you a quick smile and takes the sandwich, watching as you begin to eat your own. It’s like everything you do is an act of seduction, the way you eat, the way you lick your fingers clean, the way you laugh. Every single thing is meant to drive him wild. And then? You pull a chocolate covered strawberry from the basket, giving him a cute little grin, moving it toward his mouth.

“Now you have to let me feed you like I would’ve fed a real date.”

Michael watches with bated breath, leaning in close as he opens his mouth, allowing you to feed him. You pull it back playfully, giggling before you finally place the delicacy in his mouth. His heart pounds in his chest as he watches your pretty face, the golden hour light reflecting off your skin in a way that makes you look like some sort of goddess. Then, you ask him to feed you.

He nods, taking a strawberry, leaning in close to you, pressing the sweet treat to your lips. You eat it, the juices dribbling from your lips in a way that has him wanting to lap them up. And then? After you’re done eating? You wrap your lips around his finger, licking the chocolate residue off. His body jerks at the feeling of your tongue and he thanks whatever higher power may exist that he’s already sitting down because he feels weak in the knees. His breathing grows faster, glasses fogging up and vision going hazy as he keeps his eyes locked on yours.

“Mmm,” you moan softly, “So good, Michael.”

He has never wanted to be a strawberry so badly in his life.

You give him a coy little smile, meeting his gaze, “You still haven’t picked up on it, have you, Mr. Genius?” He stares at you, blinking rapidly as you crawl toward him on the blanket, falling back gently as you straddle his waist. You give him a playful little wink, “Come on, stepbro.” Michael is rendered completely speechless as you lean in close, your hair falling like a curtain on either side of the two of you. All his logic, his numbers, it’s all gone. It’s just you, brushing your nose along his cheek as you purr, “Mikey, just say it.”

“Say what?” He breathes, his cock twitching in his pants as he moves to rest his hands on the back of your thighs, your skin warm and smooth against his palms.

“Say you want me,” you giggle, “And that you have ever since your mum married my dad.”

It doesn’t take much to sway him, the words he’s longed to say for a few years now tumbling from his lips as you move to kiss his jaw, “You’re right. I want you. I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you.”

You whisper softly, your breath fanning against his neck as you nip at his earlobe, “Can I tell you a secret, stepbro?” He lets out a quiet whimper before nodding, feeling you rolling your hips against his, grinding yourself down against his cock, “Farleigh didn’t cancel the date. I canceled on him.” You giggle, tapping a finger to his nose, “I wanted to spend Valentine’s with my sexy, nerdy step brother. Want you so bad, Mikey.”

“W-why?” He asks, eyes closing as you continue to move your lips along his skin, nipping at his neck, almost like a little kitten, “Why me?”

“Because I like you,” you reply as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “And you’re totally obsessed with me. I like that.”

He laughs breathlessly, knowing your words to be true, “Yeah, like isn’t a strong enough word.”

“Oh, I know,” you tease, whispering, ��Judging by the number of my knickers you’ve swiped.”

Michael’s face goes red with shame. How was he not meant to steal your panties? They’re always so lacy and pretty and they smell just like you. Fuck, he’s even used a few to rub one out to. He knows it’s sick and deplorable, and twisted, but he can’t bring himself to care. And apparently?

You don’t care either.

“Did you think about me when you touched them, Mikey?”

He nods, voice hoarse with want as he replies, gazing into your eyes, his own dark with lust, “Every. Single. Time.”

“That’s so hot,” you whisper before finally pressing your lips to his.

Michael lets out a shuddering gasp, his head spinning as he pulls you in, hand wrapped around the back of your neck, kissing you hungrily. He moans into the kiss, his other hand squeezing at the soft flesh of your ass, sliding under your shorts. It’s electric, the feeling of his tongue moving against your own, the feeling of your body against his. It’s everything Michael has ever fucking dreamed of. When the two of you finally pull apart for air, he gazes up at you, his eyes pleading.

“Can I taste you?”

You nod, moving to shimmy out of your shorts, revealing your bare pussy to Michael, his eyes going wide as he pulls you closer to sit on his face. He buries his tongue deep inside you, the feeling of your soft thighs on either side of him so perfect, hands digging into your supple flesh. He nuzzles his nose against your clit, reveling in the little whines and whimpers of his name you let out as you grind yourself down against him. Your entire body quivers as he fucks you with his tongue, slurping and suckling at you. It’s like he wants to fucking devour you, like he’s a starving man in the desert and you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in months. He flattens his tongue, moving it against you rapidly, in and out, tasting your sweetness.

He tosses his glasses aside, moving to suckle at your clit, taking the sensitive bud between his lips, rolling it, loving the way you nearly collapse against him. Fuck, he almost wishes he could die just like this, his face between your thighs, gazing up at you as you chase your high, those round tits bouncing, your face twisted in pleasure. You spill yourself on his tongue with a wanton cry of his name, but he continues.

“Stepbro,” you whine, knowing how he gets off on the idea of how taboo your liaison is, “It’s too much!”

Michael’s not anywhere near stopping. He holds you by the thighs in a vice grip, continuing to mouth eagerly at your cunt, lapping up your juices, the slurping sounds he makes being obscene. And part of him hopes Farleigh or some cunt from uni sees how he’s driving you wild with lust. He rubs his nose against you again, tongue moving in and out of you, bringing you to another peak, then holds you in place as you try to squirm, listening to the way you mewl his name as he continues fucking you with his tongue, hands squeezing at your ass.

He moves his face from side to side, feverish and barely able to think coherently as he tastes you. It’s like you’re a drug to him, and he can’t get enough of you. When he’s ripped a third orgasm from you, he finally lets you move off of him, watching as you fall onto your back beside him, staring up at the sky. He takes the opportunity to move on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head as he palms at his cock with his other hand, undoing his jeans, giving himself a few quick tugs. He sheaths himself inside you, inch by glorious inch, feeling your walls clenching around him.

“Michael,” you moan softly, “You feel so good inside me… Need you to fuck me hard…”

And he’s all too happy to oblige, his hips snapping against yours furiously, fucking you like he hates you, his mouth finding yours in a heated, hungry kiss. Each thrust fills you to the brim, your walls fluttering around him, the noises you two make being almost pornographic in nature. Everyone in your building can probably hear, but neither of you care. He just continues fucking into you with abandon, feeling you squeezing around him again as you soak his cock.

Before you can say another word, Michael pulls out and flips you onto your stomach before fucking you from behind, like you’re some sort of toy, gripping your hips, then your hair, then your throat. He cups your tits, squeezing so hard that it has him moaning as he bucks his hips against yours, balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into you without mercy. And all you can do is gasp out his name as he brings you closer and closer to the edge once again.

He cums with you this time, spilling himself deep inside you. But if you thought he was finished? He isn’t. He pulls back and mouths at you eagerly again, moving his mouth away to wet one of his fingers as he pushes it inside your puckered little hole while tongue fucking you from behind. He tastes himself, his essence from when he came inside you just moments ago, and as you whine, your body threatening to give way, he tastes you as you spill yourself on his tongue again.

The two of you lay there, silent for a long while, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Finally, you turn to Michael, smiling at him, an almost innocent expression on your face as you compliment, “You’re really good at eating pussy. I think I blacked out for a few minutes.”

Michael gives you a shy grin, holding you tight in his arms, watching as you reach for his glasses, placing them back on his face, “Thank you, love.”

“You’re welcome.”

You peck his cheek, his warmth bringing you a comfort you’ve never felt before, and yours doing much the same for him as you exchange lazy, languid kisses beneath the setting sun.

“So if someone asks if I’m your boyfriend…” Michael pauses, pulling back to gaze into your eyes for a moment, “Are you going to say I’m just your step brother?”

You shake your head, giving him an adorable little smirk, “No. You’re both. They’re not mutually exclusive, I don’t think.”

He grins, kissing your neck, down to your chest, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, suckling at the pert bud eagerly, loving the way you buck your hips against him, his cock hardening against your thigh once again. Though you seem surprised by how eager he is to go for another round, this is all he’s thought about from the moment he met you. Now that he has you in his arms, has you as his girlfriend, has the privilege to call you his?

God, he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to pull himself away from you. Your lips meet once again as he slowly pushes inside of you, going slowly, this time, the two of you laying side by side.

Just your stepbrother?

No.

Michael has become so much more.

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