#tw:pseudocest

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful. 

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt. 

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you. 

but this is the next best thing, he supposes. 

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own. 

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat. 

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.” 

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is. 

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this. 

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest. 

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either. 

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more. 

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass. 

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless. 

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers. 

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.” 

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin. 

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat. 

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart. 

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?” 

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest. 

yeah, he fucking did. 

and neither of you would have it any other way. 

[inkyclive]

⇀ tags + warnings!

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬

#𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬  ⋆ me chattering on to myself ehehe

#𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥 ⋆ any ask i answer!

#𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐲.𝐛𝐛 ⋆ anon asks!

#𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⋆ any post that updates you on what i’ve been doing!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

common triggering topics you may come across on my blog include (but are not limited to):

—𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬

dubcon/noncon ⋆ #tw:dubcon, tw:noncon

somnophilia ⋆ #tw:somnophilia

dacryphilia ⋆ #tw:dacryphilia

degradation/dumbification ⋆ #tw:degradation, #tw:dumbification

daddy kink (sometimes with a ddlg type dynamic (aka a condescending caregiver type vibe) ⋆ #tw:daddy kink

spanking ⋆ #tw:spanking

marking (bruises, hickeys, scratches, bites) ⋆ #tw:marking

size kink/size difference ⋆ #tw:size kink

rough sex ⋆ #tw:rough sex

minimal prep ⋆ #tw:minimal prep

—𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

murder ⋆ #tw:murder

yandere ⋆ #tw:yandere

toxic relationships (manipulation, possessiveness, jealousy, patronization/condescension, extreme control, etc) ⋆ #tw:toxic relationship

age gaps between consenting adults ⋆ #tw:age gap

pseudocest (aka incest between adopted siblings, big brother x little sister ONLY) ⋆ #tw:pseudocest

organized crime ⋆ #tw:organized crime

drugs/drug addiction ⋆ #tw:drugs

cheating ⋆ #tw:cheating

blood ⋆ #tw:blood

if any of the topics mentioned above make you uncomfortable or upset, please filter the appropriate tags or block me! your safety and enjoyment should be of utmost concern, and it is your responsibility to curate your online space and online experience accordingly. stay safe <3

with that being said, here is a list of 𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞:

anal | pegging | ass eating

femdom | mommy kink | dom reader

pedophilia | underage

beastiality

pet play | hybrids

age play

lactation

water sports | scat | vomit

eating disorders

vore

full blood incest | any incest that isn’t big bro x lil sis (dad x daughter, uncle x niece, etc)

[titan-fodder]

The Tiniest Notion - Reiner Braun x Reader

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Reader

Rating: E (explicit; mdni)

Word Count: 22.6k

Warnings: stepcest (reader is a young stepmom (30) & Reiner (24) is her stepson), female-bodied reader, short-coded reader, hurt/comfort/smut, infidelity, mentioned past suicide attempt, depression & anxiety, therapy, a lot of nipple and breast play, induced lactation and adult nursing, explicit sexual content, Rei is strong enough to lift you, sneaking around, handjobs, fingering, vaginal sex, mommy kink, mentioned breeding kink, general softness, bathing, heavy conversation, nobody gets caught, ending is happy but not resolved

A/N: this fic upturned my life for several days, and now it is here. big thank you’s to @whats-her-quirk and @ghost-party for reading and editing and being generally wonderful, and an extra big thank you to @itsleese​ for putting up with all my questions about milk and breastfeeding in general. you are a saint. every woman is different and blah blah blah but i definitely felt better having your perspective. 

anyway, everyone knows i adore reiner and just want him to be okay, and i, uh, really accessed that part of me while writing this fic or something. okay, enjoy~

If you’d asked Reiner when he was younger what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would have been able to give you a straight answer—a positive answer. When he was nine, he was going to be a pro football player with thousands of fans. When he was thirteen, he was going to be a rockstar with platinum albums and groupies across the world. When he was sixteen he was going to be a marine with countless medals and honors bestowed upon him. 

 He had dreams. Dumb as some of them may have been, they were still goals, ambitions. They were what kept him motivated. 

 Now, at twenty-four, all he wants is to be happy. That’s his new dream. One he isn’t sure will ever actually come true. 

 He’s taken meds, started healthy habits–meditates and journals and makes sure he isn’t putting utter shit in his body–and still, he just can’t seem to overcome this weight that’s been holding him down. It’s the weight that caused him to flunk his last semester of college, the weight that pushed his friends away, and ultimately, it’s the weight that landed him in the hospital after swallowing too many pills.

 And, now he’s here. 

 All grown up with nothing to show for it—no degree, no job, living with his dad despite their complicated relationship. They really don’t know each other at all, not after the fifteen years Roland had spent as something of a myth to Reiner. Then, he reached out on Facebook, and started at least trying to care, and now, after a handful of birthday cards and strained meet-ups over the last few years, it turns out Roland is the one most equipped to deal with Reiner as he is now. 

 “I don’t recommend you go back to living alone,” he can remember the hospital psychiatrist telling him. “Not for a while at least. Do you have anyone close you can stay with?”

 His first thought had naturally been his mother who he’d lived with up until college, but truth be told, now that she’s retired, she just doesn’t have the money to feed two mouths and help with his bills until he gets back on his feet. And, there’s no way he would ask any of the friends he neglected for the last couple years. Which left him with Roland. Leaves him with Roland. 

 And, of course, you–his new wife. 

 You are number four, if Reiner’s count is correct, the youngest so far, a whole six years older than himself and eighteen younger than his father.

 He’s in no place to judge, and it’s not like Roland is the worst guy on the planet, but Reiner still can’t help but cringe a little. Mostly because you’re just… sweet. You’ve been so incredibly kind to him since he arrived at your doorstep, always making sure he’s doing okay, that he’s had enough to eat at dinner, that he never leaves without some kind of jacket or flannel whenever it’s chilly outside. 

 And because of this, Reiner has taken a shine to you, perks up just a little bit when he’s around you. Some people (his therapist) might even say he’s forming an attachment. 

 “So, everyone is getting along okay at home?” Dr. Ral asks, gently pressing her pen to her clipboard where she sits across from him. 

 Reiner shrugs against the couch cushions he’s pressed himself into. “Yeah, no arguments or anything.”

 “Are you and Roland communicating well then?”

 He makes a face at the question, a little grimace as he thinks about the awkward meals the two share every morning when Roland first wakes up and Reiner still hasn’t gone to bed: just the two of them sitting in silence save for the occasional comment about an athlete or the weather. 

 “We’re not pouring our hearts out to each other or anything, but, like, we talk sometimes, I guess.”

 Dr. Ral keeps that soft expression on her face, totally impassive, but Reiner bets she wishes she could sigh and say something about men being emotionally stunted. While Roland might be, Reiner has been wearing his heart on his sleeve for the better part of his life, so he wouldn’t call himself stunted at all. He’s just fucking incapable of dealing with how he feels, hence trying to get rid of those feelings altogether. 

 “Okay, and what about your stepmom? Are you still talking to her?”

 For a moment, all he does is suck on the inside of his cheek. Then, “Some.”

 “And, what do you talk about?”

 Reiner looks down at his hands as he recalls the conversation he had with you before leaving for this appointment–nothing special, just you getting to pet a couple of dogs on your morning walk around the neighborhood. He likes dogs (more than he likes most people if he’s being honest), but the most interesting part of the story was the way you smiled thinking about them. You had Reiner’s rapt attention.

 It’s a potential problem but one he’s not looking to deal with any time soon. He has enough shit on his plate as it is. It’s not like he has a crush or anything. He just likes the way you look when your eyes light up and the way your soft voice sounds when you wake him up at three in the afternoon after he’s slept the day away once again. It’s a comfort thing. You’re comforting to him. 

 “She saw some dogs when she went walking this morning, and then I told her about when I used to run track in high school.”

 “Good,” Dr. Ral nods. “That’s good. I’m glad you two can engage comfortably. I was afraid that might be difficult considering who she is to you and how new she is in your life.”

 “I mean…” He lets his eyes wander as he mulls it over, supposes it was a valid fear, but, “I probably have more in common with her than I do with my dad since we’re, like, close in age and all.”

 “That’s very true. It may be hard for you to see her as a maternal figure, but at the very least, maybe she can be your friend.”

 Reiner forces a tight-lipped smile and nods, not really knowing what else to say on the matter. Luckily, the hour session is coming to an end, so after making sure he’s still free for his appointment next week, Dr. Ral lets him leave.

 He drives back to the house listening to the playlist he’s had on repeat basically since getting out of the hospital–a feel good mix that has all of his favorite songs on it, songs that make him bob his head and even sing along on the few days he actually has the energy to do so. 

 It’s a quarter past three when he gets home meaning Roland won’t be around for another few hours. Reiner makes a beeline for the fridge, having not eaten anything all day, and just like every Wednesday, he finds a sandwich inside a ziplock bag, his name scribbled on the plastic. 

 It’s a little routine you started for his sake. You know that he usually wakes up with barely enough time to shower, get dressed, and make the drive to the office (today being a slight anomaly), so you always have a sandwich waiting for him when he gets back. 

 And, that’s the shit he’s talking about. That’s what has him attached. This kindness from you he doesn’t deserve. 

 But, he still grabs the sandwich and a glass of tea, then shuffles out to the living room where you’re folding clothes on the couch, only half paying attention to the silly medical drama you watch nearly every day. 

 He mumbles his appreciation as he sits in the recliner, and you look up from the t-shirt you’re folding and flash a smile. 

 “Of course,” you tell him just like you do whenever he thanks you for anything you do for him. “I splurged and picked up some deli turkey earlier today, so it should be a nice little treat.”

 It is noticeably fresher than usual—not that the sandwiches you make him are ever bad by any means. Even if they were, Reiner would probably still eat them simply because you prepared them, but that’s irrelevant.

 “You went shopping today?” 

 His attempts at small talk are always dismal at best, but you humor him anyway, picking up a towel from your pile and folding it in half one way, then another, then tucking one end under your chin to make the last two creases. 

 “Mhmm. Not a big trip. Just what was on the list, stuff we were running out of.”

 Reiner hums and turns his attention to the TV, watching vaguely familiar characters perform surgery and whine about their love lives. It’s sappy shit, but you obviously like it, so he doesn’t mind it being on. 

 “Did your appointment go okay?” you speak up again.

 Reiner starts to chew a little faster so that he can answer, “Yeah,” but he doesn’t offer anything else and you don’t pry him for more. 

 He appreciates that. Appreciates being asked—checked on, really—but not pressured. He’s pretty sure you’re really wondering if there’s anything else he needs to talk about, making sure he knows that door is open for him if he ever decides he wants to take it, but so far Reiner has kept himself from crossing that threshold. 

 You shouldn’t worry about him the way you do. He’s glad that you care, but he isn’t your burden to bear. 

 The two of you sit in silence for several minutes, watching the drama and folding clothes. He stares pointedly at the screen when he sees you grab a couple pair of panties from the basket, quickly tucking them under a neat stack of shirts. 

 Reiner is in your space, he thinks, interrupting a task so mundane yet ritualistic, that you should be able to perform without worry, but he’s here and— 

He hurries to finish his sandwich, but when he gets up to leave, you stop and look at him. 

 “You don’t have to go. I was just gonna finish this episode, and then you can pick a movie or something.” He blinks at you, a little confused, and then you add, “I hate you staying cooped up in your room all the time,” and it makes sense why you want him to stick around. 

 Try to off yourself one time and suddenly no one’s comfortable with you being by yourself. Imagine that. 

 “Oh, um…”

 “There’s maybe ten minutes left, and while I’m putting these up, you can decide on something, yeah?”

 “I, uh… Yeah, sure…”

 He still gets up to throw away his napkin and refill his tea but returns, finishing out the episode and taking the remote from you when you hand it to him. You make a few trips to the bedroom you share with Roland, arms full of clothes every time, and Reiner just clicks through the different lists on Netflix until settling on Starship Troopers which has been known to make him crack a smile here and there. Plus, all the action should keep his attention well enough. 

 When you take your place on the couch again, you tuck your legs up underneath you, leaning on the armrest as you mumble, “Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve watched this.”

 He glances over at the way you’re curled, humming in acknowledgement as he does his best to ignore the way your thighs look pressed tightly together, outlined in leggings that cut off mid-calf so that he has view of cute, bony ankles poking out over slipper socks. Even worse is the way your arms are framing your chest. You’re not wearing a revealing top or anything, just a thin little t-shirt, but this reposed position has your tits all pushed up, and Reiner has to swallow and look back at the TV screen. 

 He used to flirt with girls similar to you back in college–his first couple semesters anyway, before it all went to shit–and it’s strange to think that if one were to knock a couple years off the gap between the two of you, he could have easily been picking you up instead of Stacey and Maggie and Ann and so on. 

 Is it strange for you too, or does it not even cross your mind? It shouldn’t be crossing Reiner’s, that’s for sure, but… Sweet. And, cute. And, soft. He imagines you’re so, so soft.

 “I know you just ate, but are you okay with Thai later?” 

 Reiner tears himself from his thoughts and clears his throat. “Whatever you and Roland want I’m fine with.”

 “Mm,” you nod. “Been cleaning and running errands all day, and I just do not feel like cooking.”

 “I don’t blame you.” He tries for a small smile, but it probably just comes off as pained. 

 Still, it makes you grin back at him, worn out and relieved, as if you thought he might demand a home-cooked meal from you or something. 

 “Alright, I’ll text your dad and order it in a couple hours. Just…” you let out a quiet laugh and rest your cheek in your hand, “You might have to wake me up.”

 “If you’re tired, I can let you nap,” Reiner is quick to tell you, not because he wants to be away from you. He just doesn’t want to be in the way of your routine. 

 “No, no, I sleep better with the TV on anyway. Just… Just stay and watch the movie. Relax, sweetie.”

 Something warm and soothing licks at the base of his spine at those words, that name. It’s stupid because you don’t mean anything by it, but it sounds fond, and that is his weakness right now. Just someone being fond of him. You being–

 He stays quiet, sitting very still for about ten minutes until he chances one more glance over at you to find your eyes shut and lips parted as you breathe too deeply to be awake. He stares, admires the way your eyelashes fan over your cheeks, the subtle twitches of your face and hand, and then he decides that’s enough and gets up, grabbing the throw blanket that hangs off the back of the couch and laying it over you as gently as he can. It doesn’t wake you which he’s grateful for, one because you obviously need a bit of rest, and two, it’s less likely you’ll catch him looking at you every ten seconds if you’re asleep. So, this is how he spends the rest of the movie. Watching his favorite scenes only to turn back to you and fixate on the way the shoulder you’re not laying on rises and falls in time with each breath and how the wind of the fan is making little flyaway hairs dance around your face. You only wake up toward the end of the movie’s climax, rubbing sleepy eyes then checking the time on your phone. It isn’t until you snuggle a little deeper under the blanket that you ask, “Did you cover me up?”

Reiner just motions to the spinning blades above and says, “Didn’t want you to get cold.”

 You tap away on your phone for a bit, about dinner, Reiner guesses, considering a few minutes later you’re calling the Thai place in the nearby shopping strip, placing orders you know by heart now. Reiner gets the same curry dish every time you order in from there, only this time he has the pleasure of listening to you try to pronounce everything over the phone, stuttering little um’s and sorry’s in between until you finally tell them you’ll be paying in cash once it arrives. 

 It gets to the house a few minutes before Roland does, and the three of you spend about half an hour eating while listening to the man decompress. Restaurant work is hard–Reiner remembers working at one for a couple years in high school–but damn, some of the shit his dad has to put up with is unreal. That said, Reiner definitely wouldn’t want to work under him. Apparently, it had been Roland’s dream to open up one of his own for as long as he can remember, but… things aren’t quite as bright and shiny as he wanted them to be. 

 “–and if that wasn’t bad enough, fucking Jacob put in the damn liquor order wrong, so we’re missing four of our usual kegs.”

 “Well, that’s not gonna work,” you comment. “Will you be able to get more in time for this weekend?”

 Roland grunts as he sits back, his chair creaking underneath him as he does. “Yeah, but they’ll be more expensive that way.”

 “Still make more money with them than without, I assume.”

 “You’re right about that, but anyway,” he pats his stomach before pushing himself from the table and asking, “Reiner, you mind doin’ the dishes tonight?”

 “Oh, no he doesn’t have to–” you try.

 Reiner cuts you off with a nod, though, “Sure,” then glances at you. “You’ve done enough today. I can handle it.”

 You look like you want to argue, but Roland puts a hand on the back of your neck before you can say anything else. “Need to shower to get the day’s grime off me, but once I’m done, you wanna catch up on a few episodes of Yellowstone?”

 “Of course, love.”

 Reiner’s stomach feels squirmy, and it’s not from the Thai. He shoves that feeling down as deep as possible, gathers everyone’s plates, then takes them to the sink to get started on rinsing them and loading the dishwasher as the two of you retreat to the bedroom. 

 Another long night he’ll spend upstairs.

 Another long night alone with his thoughts.

 He recognizes that they’re spiraling again. Just not in the way they used to. 

 ~ ~ ~

You were late to marry. Or, you felt like you were. 

 As you watched friends from high school get engaged one after another, the same happening during and after college, you stayed stagnant. It was strange considering you were usually who they would go to for advice back in those days–despite your record of failed relationships, they still seemed to trust your judgment.

 Emotionally intelligent, they’d call you. Sympathetic yet unbiased. You picked your girlfriends up after bad dates and, in a couple cases, drove cities over to rescue them from big fights with shitty partners.

 They relied on you. And, you were happy to help and give your perspective, but… it’s not like you had a ton of experience in the area yourself.

 A mixture of being focused on your studies as well as a slew of personal issues, you just couldn’t ever seem to hold a man down. They gave up. You were too distant, too guarded.

 And then, at twenty-nine, you met Roland Braun in his newly opened restaurant. You went frequently enough to secure your own table, usually around lunchtime. You would eat while going over your graduate material, and you don’t know if it was because he appreciated your regular patronage or enjoyed the short conversations you’d have with him, but somehow over the course of a few months, he formed an interest in you.

 You didn’t mind. Much older than you, he seemed stable–safe. You were more than happy to go on a date with him when he asked, and you found that despite there being an obvious gap in age and therefore life experience, Roland was still charming. 

 You knew his history–the first wife he left and the two to follow in her wake, but there was no denying his attraction to you, very flattering to say the least. He had–has–his own appeal. Confidence as well as a certain wisdom you still lack, and though he’s not the type you’d usually go for physically, there’s something nice about the lines around his eyes and the gray that grows in with his stubble. Plus, while he’s brawny, he isn’t entirely fit–decades of experimenting and eating his own food. It makes him nice to cuddle with.

 Not to mention, he’s a pretty decent fuck. Doesn’t have the energy or libido that younger men do, but he does care about your pleasure which is a pretty big checkmark in your book. 

 Six months into your marriage, and there’s still a bit of a wall between the two of you–a disconnect–but it’s to be expected considering you dated for less than a year before tying the knot. 

 You’re very thankful to have found him, and though you’re not quite sure if you love him, you do have a deep affection for him. Besides, it’s not his fault; you just have some hangups. 

 The conversation regarding Reiner had come as a bit of a shock. You knew about Roland’s son, that their relationship was strained, but your husband was extremely concerned about him when he got news of the suicide attempt (as he should have been), and that care multiplied tenfold when Reiner actually reached out to him personally asking for a place to say.

 “I haven’t been able to be there for him his whole life,” he had told you, “... and I’d really like to start now. If you’re okay with it.”

 He made it seem like you had the final say, but it was a request you couldn’t turn down even if it did have the potential to put a strain on the fresh marriage. How could anyone ever say no to something like that?

 “Of course, Roland. Of course he can come stay.”

 And, then he’d arrived a few days later, packed bags and sad eyes, and you knew you’d responded to your husband the right way. You knew you wanted to help Reiner in any way you could. 

 Living with him even now, two months after he first stepped foot in the house, is something you’re still getting used to. It’s a little jarring having him here, mostly because it’s a constant reminder of your age. You’re the same generation as Reiner, able to share pop culture references, familiar with the music each of you listen to and shows you both grew up watching. You can remember a few things he can’t, but mostly the two of you are able to relate to each other. Meanwhile, poor Roland is left out of the loop, and the fact that he wasn’t present for Reiner’s childhood and adolescence only makes it harder for him. 

 There’s also one more thing you have in common with your new stepson–and God, isn’t that weird to say?--and it’s that you have been very close to where he is now. Family expectations paired with college pressure and a simple lack of certain chemicals in your brain landed you in a hospital ward once upon a time. The only difference was that you were placed there as a preventative measure rather than after a failed attempt. 

 You had been so close at one point, though. Fuck, you’d been so close. 

 It isn’t something you talk about. Roland doesn’t even know about it, and you have no plans of telling him. 

 But, sometimes… sometimes when Reiner trudges downstairs from another sleepless night or returns home after a therapy appointment with puffy eyes, you have the urge to sit him down and open up. Let him know that he is not alone. That he can talk to you if he ever needs to. No judgment. No pity. Just understanding. 

 You want to be there for him. You want to help get rid of those dark circles and chronic fatigue. You want to lift his shoulders instead of letting them sag in defeat. But, he has to be the one to make the first move. You refuse to overstep. You refuse to make him uncomfortable. 

 These are the thoughts running through your mind as you stand at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. It’s nearly two in the afternoon, but Reiner should be getting up soon, and you know he likes to start his day with caffeine whenever he can (you also know his psychiatrist has likely warned him that it’s not good for his anxiety, but you can be an enabler in this one instance).

 You only have a few things on your to-do list today, and you already worked on your thesis for the time you allotted for it, so that’s out of the way. Now, you just need to run and pick up a gift for a friend’s baby shower that’s coming up, then get started on dinner. 

 Reiner ends up padding downstairs just as you’re grabbing your purse to leave, and he stops on the bottom step, looking at you in question. Blond hair is sticking up haphazardly, and he has a few days worth of stubble casting a light shadow on his jaw. Just on the border of rugged and unkempt–a look only few can pull off, not that Reiner is really trying.

 “Goin’ out?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep. 

 “Yeah, I need to run to Buy Buy Baby. Coffee’s ready, though.”

 “Thanks.” He rubs his eyes for a second, then, to your surprise, adds, “Mind if I come with you?”

 You’re stunned that he wants to, at a complete loss for words because why…

 Apparently, he can read your expression because he explains, “Kinda wanna get out of the house today, but if you’d rather go alone–”

 “No, no, you can definitely come! I can wait for you to wake up a little more if you need.”

 He waves you off then makes his way into the kitchen, sniffing the air like the mere smell of coffee will do the job. 

 “I can just take a thermos, but I probably need to hop in the shower real quick.”

 “That’s totally fine. Take your time.”

 He makes quick work of pouring his coffee into an insulated cup, leaving it on the counter so that he can just grab it and go, then disappears back upstairs. Ten minutes later, he’s standing in front of you again, fully dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a plaid button-down rolled up to his elbows and left open. A dark beanie is pressing still-damp hair to his forehead, and as he clasps a smart watch around his wrist, you have the stray thought that this is the type of guy you used to go for. This is what you used to find attractive, still kinda do, but the notion is quickly shaken from your head because it’s too disturbing considering this is Reiner. 

 “Ready?” he asks after retrieving his coffee, and you nod.

 The car ride isn’t long, and it’s mostly spent in silence save for your playlist quietly filtering through the speakers. Reiner gently bobs his head to each of the songs which is satisfying in an odd way, and you restrain yourself from humming or singing along so that he can enjoy the music.

 When you step into the store, his eyes go wide, and you have to stifle a laugh. 

 “This place is like a damn Walmart, what the hell?”

 “Baby stuff will stay high in demand s’long as people keep makin’ ‘em,” you tell him.

 “True. What are we here for exactly?” he questions, and then, as if it’s only just occurred to him, he suddenly asks, “Wait, are you–”

 “Jesus Christ, no,” you cringe with a vehement shake of your head. 

 “Oh, then why…”

 “My friend is having a baby shower next week. Need to get her a gift.”

 “Ah, okay.”

 “You sound relieved,” you snicker as you grab a handbasket. 

 Reiner makes a noncommittal noise, tells you, “Just surprised for a second. Thought the old bastard knocked you up. Didn’t know how to handle it.”

 You laugh as you start toward the many aisles, passing baby room displays and some of the larger toys to get to the clothes. 

 “I don’t see that happening,” you tell him, and when he glances at you curiously, you segue away from the topic of Roland getting you pregnant because he really shouldn’t be thinking about that. “Also, your dad’s not an old bastard.”

 Shrugging, Reiner cracks a smile–the rare kind where his teeth show–then jokes, “Okay, maybe not a bastard, but he is old.”

 “He’s not–” you clear your throat for a moment, voice dropping in very slight embarrassment, “--he’s not that old.”

 The quiet, “Mm,” of a response sounds strangely smug, but that can’t be right. That would make it seem like Reiner is teasing you, and that is… unlike him. You wouldn’t mind if he was, even if your face is a little warm, but it’s out of character for him, too relaxed. 

 Maybe getting out of the house is already doing him some good, though. Lifting his spirits a bit. 

 “Anyway,” you press on with a click of your tongue. “I’m looking for cute baby clothes and diapers. Maybe some of those bottles that keep air bubbles from forming.”

 “They make those?”

 “They make so much shit for babies now, it’s unreal,” you snort. 

 The two of you make some small talk as you walk around the store. You tell him a little about the friend whose shower you’re going to, and he tells you about the one time he ever babysat, or really helped babysit–an ex-girlfriend’s baby sister. 

 “It was honestly a fucking nightmare. Just… noisy and kinda gross…”

 “Yeah, I am not a huge fan myself.”

 You grab a couple little onesies then find the section full of pacifiers and bottles and nursing covers. Reiner seems quizzical of almost all of it, maybe even a little fascinated, but you don’t comment on it, figure he’s probably never even been in a store like this. 

 The specific bottles you’re looking for are easy enough to locate, and you take a two-pack from the shelf, drop them in your basket, then walk back over to Reiner who has his head tilted to the side as he examines a medium sized box. 

 You recognize the product only when you peer around him, eyes falling on two clear cups connected to what you know to be electric pumps. 

 Reiner doesn’t look at you but clearly senses your presence because he speaks up like he knows you’re there beside him. “These look like they hurt.”

 “From what I’ve heard, pumping isn’t exactly enjoyable,” you tell him, recalling the stories your mother has told you about all the discomfort that comes along with breastfeeding in general. 

 “Then why do women do it?”

 You shrug. “Some doctors say it helps babies’ development better than formula does, but I don’t know about that. There’s also, like, the bonding nature of it, though. Hormones and skin on skin. Forms a better emotional connection between mother and child. Supposedly.”

 “That’s… interesting,” Reiner says, a somewhat odd reaction, you think.

 He puts the box back on the shelf then looks at you and asks, “Okay, ready to go?”

 “Lemme grab a pack of diapers, and I will be.”

 Once you have everything, you check out, and soon you’re back in the car on your way home. For some reason you’re not surprised when Reiner pipes up over the music to ask the same personal question you’ve been asked so many times before: “How come you never had kids?” 

 Most of the time, you get a little snippy with whoever is prodding into your life in such a way, but you suppose it’s natural to be curious about after being in a baby store with you. 

 Still, you feel the need to remind him, “I could still have them if I wanted. I’m only thirty,” and Reiner chuckles.

 “I am all too aware of that fact.”

 “But no, uh, I just never wanted any. I didn’t have the same urge a lot of women do, and honestly, I never thought I’d be a good mom.”

 Reiner frowns. “Why’s that?”

 “Just don’t think I have that maternal nature that comes naturally to others. I care about other people and their well-being, but… I don’t think I have the right head to be a parent.”

 “I’d say you’re dead fucking wrong,” he tells you, and the assuredness in his voice makes you glance over at him in something close to alarm. Reiner is staring at you, then breaks line of sight and sighs, “You’ve been taking care of me since day one. I dropped in out of nowhere, and you just… I just think you’re wrong about not having the instinct. Not saying you should, like, have kids—not wanting them is valid—but… you’d be a good mom. I guess you are a good mom technically.”

 It is a very sweet sentiment, actually makes your throat tighten up a bit, but you think the story might be a little different had Reiner come into your life at a younger age.

 “I’m… glad you think so,” you’re slow to say, touched by the thought but also a little befuddled at the idea that he does see you as somewhat of a mother figure. “I just want you to be comfortable with us.”

 “I am mostly.”

 “Mostly?” 

 “Like, aside from feeling like a burden twenty-four-seven, but that’s not your fault. Or, Roland’s.”

 “You are not a burden,” you almost yell, but even as you say it, you know there’s no way to convince him because you remember feeling the exact same way. Useless, taking up space, pulling others down with you, but the reality has always been that people want to help. It took you a while to catch on, but that had always been the truth. And, it’s the truth now as you pull into the driveway. 

 “Reiner, look at me,” you command after too long of a silence, and he very slowly raises amber eyes to meet yours. “I promise, you’re not ruining anything by being here. We’re happy to have you and happy to help you get back where you need to be.” His mouth twists as he starts to chew on the side of his lip, obviously unsure of how to respond, so you just continue. “Brains are weird, and sometimes they don’t work the way they should, but that doesn’t make you useless or less human. It just means… sometimes you need help. And, that’s okay. You can ask for help.”

 He nods, looking a little dazed now as if his mind is getting away from him, but you think you got your point across well enough because he forces his lips into an almost-smile and utters a barely audible, “Thanks.”

 “Just remember that. On the bad days, remember we’re here. I’m here.”

 You turn the car off and reach into the back to grab the shopping bags, and the two of you head inside, the conversation having come to a close. Reiner heads upstairs, and you start on dinner just like you’d planned, nothing fancy, just turkey spaghetti. At half past six, Roland gets home, and the three of you eat in front of the TV so that he can watch his favorite crime show. 

 Afterwards, you gather dishes and take them to the sink, scrubbing sauce and food particles from each before loading them in the dishwasher. The counter still needs to be wiped down, but as you turn to the separate set of drawers and cabinets to get a fresh rag, you find Reiner leaning against them.

 “Dinner was good,” he says, then, “I’m glad I went with you today. It felt good going somewhere that wasn’t a doctor’s office.”

 You can feel your face soften, have the urge to grab his hand or hug him or something, but you control yourself. 

 “Sweetie, you can run errands with me anytime you want.”

 Reiner’s cheeks turn a little pink at that, and it takes you a second to figure out why, but then you feel your own face heat and stumble over a clumsy apology, “I didn’t mean to–just a habit I picked up in college, I usually don’t even realize–”

 “It’s okay–”

 “The names just sorta slip out. I’m not trying to be condescending or anything–”

 “It’s not condescending,” he’s quick to correct, then, “... It’s kinda comforting, honestly. Just catches me off guard, is all.”

 You stop and take a breath, relieved you didn’t offend him but still embarrassed for it happening in the first place. It started in college, all your silly little girlfriends calling everyone ‘sweetie’ and ‘honey’ and ‘love’, and it just stuck with you, and anyway, it seems like a natural name to call your son, but maybe not your twenty-four year old son who’s staring at you a little too closely now. 

 “Okay, I will…” You’re wringing your hands now, unable to look him in the eye, but, “I will keep that in mind.”

 He nods, still not blinking, and a tingly feeling settles in your spine, one you can’t tell if you like or not. 

 “Um, anyway, yeah, thanks for letting me… come with you… uh…” 

 “Like I said, any time. I know what it’s like just… needing something to do. Sometimes just leaving the house feels like being productive, so.”

 “Yeah, exactly. It felt like I didn’t just do nothing all day.”

 The cop show must end because Roland comes walking into the kitchen then which signals the end of the awkward chat, Reiner dismissing himself to his room while you follow your husband into yours. 

 Not a bad day all things considered. It was nice spending time with Reiner, getting to know him more and learning how to better help him. You think you’re getting an idea of what he responds to best, and as you settle into bed that night, a very small plan forms in your brain about what else you can do for him. 

 ~ ~ ~

It starts off very simple. Reiner finds a note taped to the refrigerator asking him to dust the fans and high shelves in the house. He does without question, and when you get home from being out and about, you gift him a sugary, “Thank you, sweetie,” that he’s quickly grown to like too much. 

 A couple days pass and then, as you’re working on something for your classes, you ask him, “Could you do me a big favor and run to the store to get an onion? I need it for dinner tonight and completely blanked.”

 So, he does, and you thank him, then ask him to do something else the next day and the next day and the next. They’re all very small tasks–household chores, running short errands. It’s not much, and he knows that you’re doing it on purpose, but it gets him moving, gives him something to do, a very small goal. And, when he reaches it, you reward him with basic appreciation that should not make Reiner feel the way it does. 

 But, it does make him feel. Makes his head go a little fuzzy, warmth pooling in his gut.

 For a while, Reiner convinces himself it’s nothing or maybe some distant cousin of anxiety. That would account for the fluttery sensation in his stomach, right? Then, after an accidental touch while passing in the kitchen–nothing obvious or provocative, just your body grazing against him as you slide past to get to the stove–Reiner realizes it’s not nothing, and it’s not anxiety. It’s that attachment he had been so quick to form, and it’s morphing into something else. 

 His brain is wired against him. Now, instead of all of his intrusive thoughts being about putting a fucking gun in his mouth, they’re about what it might feel like to have your arms around him or his around you, his nose pressed into your neck, tracing collarbones with lips and—

 It’s gross. He shouldn’t be thinking these things. You’ve been nothing but kind to him, and all Reiner can do in return is complete all the little to-dos that you give him and fantasize about how soft your skin might feel against his. 

 The best course of action is to distract himself somehow. At first he just binge-watches some TV shows in an attempt to numb his brain, but then he takes inspiration from you and starts assigning himself daily tasks. 

 Reiner creates a new schedule out in his journal, making sure to leave himself ample downtime since he gets burnt out so much quicker these days. He plots it around his current sleep schedule with the intention of slowly making adjustments to get his circadian rhythm back on track, but right now he’s most comfortable at night, and his therapist told him to prioritize himself, though she still makes sure he is getting up and partaking in human interaction when he can. 

 His days start around two, and the first item on his list is some stretching, then a small breakfast that sometimes consists of lunch foods instead. Therapy if he has it, a break afterward to recuperate–either a nap, TV, or some calming video games. Then, he ventures downstairs to maybe (hopefully) spend time or run errands with you. Sometimes he even helps with dinner. Roland will get home around the time, and all of you eat together and usually watch something, and Reiner spends most of that time trying not to glance at the two of you in an attempt to keep that ugly feeling from blossoming in his stomach–a newer development but… familiar. 

 He experienced the same feeling when two of his friends got together despite Reiner having a crush on one of them for a few months, but he got over that just like he’ll get over this. 

 You’re making it extremely difficult, though–not that you’re meaning to, of course. It’s just the way you take care of him and the subtle ways you’re helping him, a little unsure when you tell him one day, “I don’t mean for this to come off as condescending–” 

 You’re always so worried about that, and Reiner doesn’t understand entirely, but he assumes it might be because of the way you’re only a few years older than him yet in a parental position. 

 “—but I’ve seen the way you’ve been pushing yourself more, and I’m… I’m proud of you. I know it’s hard. My old psychiatrist once told me that my antidepressants would only do so much in terms of getting better and half the battle is actually wanting to get better.”

 And, that opens up the floodgates. 

 Alone in the house one afternoon, the two of you sit on the couch just a little closer than normal, and Reiner pries, “You were on antidepressants at one point?” 

 It shouldn’t come as a surprise, a lot more common these days considering how shit the world is, but you’re so… he wouldn’t say bubbly, but you’re light, content, and that’s way more than he can say for himself.

 You nod, “Not just at one point. I’ve been put on them a couple times in the last few years, and then once I think I can handle things on my own again, I get weaned off them.” You look at him very seriously and add, “But, a lot of people stay on them indefinitely, and that’s also okay. Mood stabilizers are… pretty fucking great.”

 “Is that possible? To even get to the point of thinking you can do it on your own?”

 You sigh, sinking back into the cushions, and it causes your arm to brush against Reiner’s. 

 “Sometimes. Like I said, my psychiatrist told me you have to want to, but that’s a fight all on its own. Eventually, that sadness or numbness you get so used to feeling starts feeling safe. Like, you can guard yourself with it.”

 Reiner’s eyes widen, your words hitting him straight in the chest because yes. Yes, absolutely, it feels so much safer than pulling himself out of that darkness. The fear of failure is just too strong to wrestle sometimes. 

 “But, life will keep going on with or without you, and I think, in my case, I got more scared of being left behind. The gap between semesters in college just kept widening–all my friends graduated and settled into their careers and families, and I just felt like there was no way I would catch up, and that started to motivate me more.”

 That makes sense. Reiner is all too aware of his friends who graduated while he was struggling, all the people he still hasn’t congratulated due to his bitterness. 

 The world carried on as he stagnated, and it hurt. It hurt to watch them help as much as they could until they had no choice but to focus on themselves, their own studies and goals. He couldn’t blame them, but it added fuel to the fucking dumpster fire that was his life at the time, and for that, there’s a small part of him that remains a little upset about it. 

 If they had just stayed a little longer, would that have helped? Would he have been able to hold out long enough to join them in walking across that stage?

 Dr. Ral had offered one of those sympathetic smiles when he’d brought it up in therapy a while back, voice level when she’d told him, “I think it was a long time coming. Based on what you’ve told me about your childhood and school history, I think it was a matter of time before you buckled, and that’s okay. You’ve probably been showing signs of depression since grade school, but it’s hard to diagnose at a young age, and it only gets harder with the onset of puberty. The fact that you held out for as long as you did is impressive, Reiner. You’ve been strong for so long.”

 That was one of the sessions that resulted in him coming home with a red nose and swollen eyes, the kind that led you to cook his favorite meal without saying anything about it. 

 Now, he sits next to you, slumping forward with his chin resting in the palms of his hands as he stares blankly at the black TV screen. 

 “You think I’ll ever get motivated like you did?” he mumbles, and when your hand settles right between his shoulder blades, Reiner feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. 

 “I think you’re well on your way. I’ve seen you carrying around your notebook. It has lists in there, yeah? Schedules and reminders?”

 He nods, turning just enough to look at you, and his mouth pulls up on one side at the sight of you smiling softly at him. 

 “Got the idea from you. Leaving me those little chores helped get me started… helped a lot.”

 “I thought they might,” you tell him with a little twinkle in your eyes.

 Reiner wants so much to reach over and cup your cheek because he is so, so grateful you came into his life when you did. He understands the kindness now. He understands why you’ve been looking after him the way you have, and it’s making his throat a little tight. 

 Then, in a strained voice, he tells you just that, how much he appreciates you, eyes beginning to sting, and it seems he passes his emotion onto you. Suddenly, you’re the one with misty eyes, swallowing thickly and looking away before basically whispering, “Kindred spirits or whatever.”

 “Yeah,” he says, huffing out a laugh. “Something like that.”

 Reiner isn’t sure who initiates it that night, but someone is hugging someone, and then you’re leaning back into the couch’s throw pillows, and he’s leaning with you, legs stretched out, hands tucked under the small of your back. You guide his head so that it’s just pillowed enough on the bottom swell of your breast but not buried in them, and he gets it, the hesitance and censorship (for lack of a better word), but fuck, being this close and this vulnerable, Reiner wants–he wants–

 But, he doesn’t move, just reaches for the remote and turns on the doctor show he’s been watching even without you. 

 At some point, maybe halfway through the episode, you start carding a hand through his hair. Reiner thinks it seems natural, like an impulse for you. It threatens to put him to sleep, but he knows Roland will be getting home soon, and he’ll need to move before that happens.

 Just a little longer, though. He wants a little more time like this, lying on top of you, your scent dancing in his nose, supple skin as close as can be yet too far away. He’d be lying if he said his mouth wasn’t watering some, those intrusive thoughts running wild in his brain, but this time Reiner doesn’t bother trying to block them out. 

 Wanna snuggle deeper, wanna kiss her stomach, lift the shirt, leave a mark, bite, lick, suck–then the mental image of his lips wrapped around your nipple, tugging it into his mouth, fingers digging into your plushness and massaging. He wants to taste you, wants lap at you, drool and slurp and suckle–

 Nurse, he realizes with a deep inhale, and it’s that epiphany that makes him sit back up. He doesn’t just want you to care for him, he wants you to nurture him, wants you to nurse him like a god damn–fuck, it’s weird. It’s–it’s–

 Reiner thinks back to the conversation in the baby store when he was holding the breast pump. That’s probably where it all started. Helps development but also helps the bond between mother and child. Is that it? Does he want the emotional bond? Is it some primal part of his brain wanting to be fed in the most basic, human way?

 Or, is he just horny?

 It’s very likely the latter, but… he can’t help but think about the way it would make him feel—safe. Smothered in the best of ways.

 Reiner knows he should make his exit upstairs, half hard in his jeans, so he feigns drowsiness and thanks you for listening, talking, and telling your story (or part of it, he guesses), then tells you he’ll be down for dinner in a bit. 

 “I should get started on that,” you nod, lazily pushing yourself from the couch, and fuck, shit, he’s zeroed in on your tits again, lips parting, hand flexing at his side until he swiftly turns and jogs upstairs before you can notice how his cock is straining against the zipper of his pants. 

 Okay, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, just stop thinking. Forget about it. It’s weird, why are you so fucking weird, Reiner, the fuck is actually wrong with you? She’s your stepmom. She’s married to your literal father–

 That evening after dinner, Reiner overhears you and Roland in the bedroom, the creaking of a bedframe and squeaking of springs. Every once in a while, he can make out the sound of a muffled, high-pitched moan, and no matter how hard he tries, all Reiner can think about is how desperate he is for you to make those noises for him. 

 Stepmom or not, he wants you. He isn’t sure how exactly, but the desire is there, and it’s burning him up.  

~ ~ ~ 

  You end up picking up a part time job to help out a bit–nothing particularly demanding, just a few hours spent tutoring at the local community college every other week day. Roland insists it’s not necessary, that the restaurant is bringing in enough money, and he’s fine with supporting you and his son, but it really just comes down to wanting to pay a bill or two on your own, be a little more independent. 

 When you and Roland were dating, he told you up front that he wanted something of a housewife in terms of spouses, and honestly, you had no problem with it. Staying at home meant time to complete your masters online, maybe even a PhD if you stayed motivated. Of course, you told him that eventually you would have to move forward and into a real career, but for the next few years, you’d be content being his young trophy wife. The two of you still joke about it. 

 But, asking him for money is hard, like a kid asking for allowance, and even though he gives you basically anything you want (within reason), you can’t help but feel like you’re in a position of helplessness. 

 Tutoring will give you some pocket money, “Just enough to, you know, get my nails done and put gas in the car and stuff… pay the phone bill maybe.”

 Roland argued for a while but eventually gave in, backing down as he came to the conclusion that, “Spending time with people other than me n’ Reiner will probably do you some good.”

 And, he was not wrong—hit the nail on the head without even trying. Part of the reason you want the job is to put some distance between you and Reiner. You aren’t upset with him or uneasy, but you do think that he could benefit from a bit more independence just like you.

 The two of you are only getting closer, and it’s… slightly troubling. There’s been a natural progression of getting more comfortable and opening up to one another, but you wonder if maybe you’ve gotten too comfortable. 

 Because… he touches you now. 

 It’s never inappropriate, but it’s a huge difference from the way he used to keep his hands shoved in his pockets at all times. Gentle fingers skimming your waist as he maneuvers past you in the kitchen, splaying across the small of your back when you walk into a store together. At first you think he’s trying to guide you like so many men do, then you have the idea that maybe it’s his way of holding onto you, the way children hold onto their parents’ hand or shirt. Once that crosses your mind, you find that you’re more than willing to let him continue. He needs an anchor, especially in public, and if he’s chosen you as his grounding point, you can live with it. 

 Reiner has told you more than once that he finds you comforting, and that’s fine. You’re glad to be here for him in any capacity. It’s why you let him cuddle up to you on the couch, why you let him weave his long legs with yours and rest his head on your chest. It’s intimate, yes, but it all comes down to giving him a safe space. 

 You’re just a little concerned at the fact that you feel the need to hide it. You both seem to think this is something Roland should not know about, and that is definitely a red flag. 

 Reiner is an adult after all—an adult male with needs and urges, and it’d be a shame if he ever acted on any of those with you, not only because it would change the nature of your relationship but because you don’t know… if you’d be able to tell him no. The second red flag. 

 So, the job is necessary. The distance is necessary. And, when you see the hurt in Reiner’s eyes as you tell him, you know you’re making the right decision. You still feel the need to reassure him, though, coddle him. 

 “It’s just a few hours in the afternoon, and it’s only Monday, Wednesday, Friday.”

 That seems to ease most of his worries, a deep breath leaving him where he lies over you. “Prob’ly for the best,” he mutters, words slightly muffled from the way his cheek is pressed into his teeth. “Maybe I’ll finally nut up ‘nd text Bertl or somethin’. Won’t have anything better to do.”

 Your hand settles on his head, just above the shell of his ear as you stroke his hair. It makes him shiver, and you stop only for him to protest with a soft, “No, feels good,” so you pick up the idle motion again.

 “How long’s it been since you talked to him?”

 Reiner shrugs as best he can and answers, “Few months–probably close to six at this point.”

 “Are you scared of reaching out to him?”

 “A little. He’s been my best friend since freshman year, though, so… hopefully he wants to talk to me.”

 “If y’all were that close, I’m sure he does. If he hasn’t tried to get in touch with you yet, he’s probably just worried about being pushy or overbearing or something.”

 “Maybe,” Reiner sighs. “Wouldn’t blame him if he just gave up on me, though. I… may have told him to fuck off last time we talked.”

 You snort, gently scratching the back of his head and smiling at the way he seems to melt against you a little bit more. “Best friends understand stuff like that. And, he’ll understand even better if you decide to tell him what all happened.”

 The two of you go quiet as a particularly dramatic scene plays on the TV, an episode you’ve seen countless times, yet it still manages to get your attention even now. You can feel each of Reiner’s breaths as he inhales and exhales, the steady thump of his heart, how he nuzzles into you in a way he probably thinks is subtle but is absolutely not, especially when his nose brushes along the curve of one of your breasts. You give him the benefit of the doubt for about two seconds, think to yourself he probably doesn’t even realize, and then you remember that mental illness aside, Reiner is still a hot-blooded male and probably knows exactly what he’s doing. 

 “Heart’s beating fast,” he comments, and it makes you roll your eyes.

 You try to sound casual as you tell him in an airy voice, “Yeah, ‘cause your face is basically in my boob.” 

 Embarrassing him isn’t the goal here, but he should know that you are very aware of his current position.

 Reiner snorts quietly, a short, “Sorry,” falling from his lips as he scoots back down just a bit. “Didn’t even notice.”

 He’s probably lying, but you tell him, “It’s fine,” and just focus on the show again. 

 It’s not something you want to worry yourself over because Reiner has been nothing but respectful toward you and maybe he really didn’t notice. Maybe his head is so full of the thoughts he’s constantly trying to fight that tits and sex are the last thing on his mind. You remember your libido being completely shot when you were struggling, so maybe…

 But, when the two of you sit up and break apart, you catch his eyes lingering on you, staring just a beat too long as you stretch your arms above your head and arch your back in a deep stretch. It’s natural, you tell yourself. You were pushing your chest out, so of course his eyes were drawn there. He doesn’t actually find you attractive, you don’t think. You’re just here, probably the only woman he sees outside of his therapist. It’s not like he wants you. 

 There’s that tiny voice in your head that questions it, though, wonders just what you are to him, and it’s the only thing that justifies the decision to perform… a test of sorts. By the end of it, you think you’ll have your answer, and based on that, you can gauge just how much distance you should put between yourself and your stepson.

 As the weekend passes and you’re able to spend a bit more time with Roland during the evenings, you second guess yourself. This new idea of yours could very well just fan the flames of whatever might be brewing within Reiner. But, it could also prove that there’s nothing there or that, even if there is, he’s more than capable of ignoring it. 

 It’s just that… it’s not lewd, but you’ll be crossing a line. 

 Monday you have tutoring sessions from eleven to four, so you only have a couple hours at the house where it’s just you and Reiner, but Tuesday, your schedule is free. You get up at around nine, take your shower and get ready for the day, then slip into a pair of leggings and a light pink t-shirt that your darker bra definitely shows through. You’re covered up, still modest, something you can pass off as oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even look in the mirror today. Just laugh it away.

 You spend the morning tidying the house and working on the paper that’s been looming over you since the semester started, and when Reiner ambles downstairs, all he offers is a gruff greeting, eyes flicking to your chest for a flash before he makes his way into the kitchen. That’s good. 

 He goes through his own daily routine, doesn’t talk to you until he eventually pokes his head into the makeshift office which is actually the dining room and asks, “Wanna watch a few episodes of Grey’s?”

 “Yeah,” you nod with a grin. “Always.”

 So, you both get into your usual positions on the couch, first sitting too close until lying back feels better, and that’s that. One day down. He passed with flying colors.

 Wednesday you have tutoring again, but Thursday is laundry day. You actually ask Reiner to help out with it, tell him to just bring his dirty clothes downstairs, and the two of you can knock it out in one afternoon. Today you’re in track shorts and a scoop neck t-shirt that dips low enough to show a bit of cleavage, and Reiner has a bit more trouble keeping his eyes to himself. He’s not blatantly drooling, but you see the way his gaze flits back and forth too often to be passed off as casual. 

 It just so happens that he is in a particularly good mood today, though, so you don’t mind the hurried glances–not when he’s smiling and teasing and bumping his hip into yours. It’s not often you see him like this, and it troubles you just how much you enjoy it. 

 “Polka dots, eh?” he says, and when you look over at him, your face heats as you see him folding a pair of your panties. 

 All the loads got thrown in together, so you figured he’d see a few pairs, but this whole time, you’ve been sliding boxer briefs over to him to fold, not wanting to make him uncomfortable by touching all over his unmentionables.

 But, here he is, mouth curling into a smirk, and when he sets the panties on top of one of your stacks, he tacks on a playful, “Cute,” before picking up a towel.

 “Reiner,” you say, hoping it comes out as more of an admonishment rather than the whine that echoes in your head. “You don’t have–let me fold those!”

 “I don’t mind,” he snickers. “Doesn’t bother me or anything.”

 “Maybe it should.”

 He looks at you, something on the tip of his tongue, but instead of saying anything, he just searches through the laundry for a couple seconds before finding the little purple thong you were so hoping you’d get to before him. 

 Light brown irises look a shade darker than usual as he stares at you, folding the skimpy article as best he can given the lack of material there. Then, he plops it on top of the last pair and says, “I don’t care.” 

 The ambiguity of the statement has you warm all over. You want to glare at him or at least squint like you’re skeptical, but all you can do is look up at him with–with–god, you hope they aren’t those big doe eyes Roland pokes fun at you for.

 You decide water is what you need. Go into the kitchen, cool off with a glass, then come back and finish the rest of the clothes and act like what just happened wasn’t fucking strange. 

 And, you do just that. Act like there’s no tension whatsoever between you and Reiner. Keep laughing, keep teasing, and end up on the couch again.

 You can feel every outward breath, hot as it reaches bare skin, and you try not to move at all because you’re not sure how you want to move, how your body wants to respond. Reiner’s stubble is scratching over the place where t-shirt meets flesh, and his fingertips are digging into the small of your back just a little harder than usual, and you are quickly realizing that you may have gotten yourself into trouble. 

 You have the weekend to think about it. The things you were trying to blow off before are suddenly impossible to ignore, but it’s not because of Reiner or that dark look he had in his eyes for those few moments. It’s because of you and your reaction to him. Because of how much you enjoy not only being around him, but pressed against him.

 Monday passes, and you’ve made up your mind. You’re going to back away, put up new boundaries, encourage him to depend more on his therapist and maybe get in touch with his friends again. That’s the plan.

 Then, Tuesday morning rolls around, and you’re in the kitchen at your usual nine AM wake up hour, still clad in pajamas as you wait for your bagel to finish toasting. Footsteps on the stairs make you reel around, surprised to see Reiner up this early (or late in his case). 

 He pauses at the bottom step, and even from here you can see the dark circles under his eyes, assume he hasn’t actually slept yet, and fuck, that soft feeling washes over you, the one you simply cannot fight when it comes to him because you worry. 

 “Why haven’t you been to bed yet?”

 He grunts, making his way into the kitchen and tells you, “Just couldn’t sleep.” 

 Personal space doesn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities this morning because he crowds you against the counter just to reach over your head and grab a coffee mug from the cabinet. When he steps back, he looks down to see your expression–wide eyes, lips parted in bewilderment.

 It must look like concern to him, because he puts a hand on the top of your head and assures, “I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just crash early tonight.”

 You shake him off with a little pout, but when he drops his arm, his fingers graze over your chest, just the right angle to catch one of your nipples on the way down, and it makes you suck in a sharp breath and push yourself into the edge of the counter.

 Reiner’s gaze is locked on your face but not for long. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s the pressure that’s been building between the two of you, but now he doesn’t bother to hide his gaze as it travels to your chest, no doubt taking in the pebbled buds poking against the baggy t-shirt you’re wearing. 

 Your body pulses under the attention, blood rushing and thoughts racing as you think the worst just might happen… any second now…

 But, Reiner just clears his throat, apologizes, and steps over to the coffee maker. You squeeze your eyes shut, let out a slow breath, then straighten up and start walking toward the bedroom just in time to hear the click and pop of the toaster. 

 “Bagel’s ready,” Reiner calls.

 Not interested in eating anymore, you tell him, “You can have it,” wanting nothing more than a quick shower to rinse off your confusion as well as Reiner’s touch.

 It was an accident. It was an accident. He didn’t do it on purpose. It was just an accident. 

 You have no intention of watching TV on the couch with him later today–time to break the routine–but then hours pass, and Roland texts you that one of his assistant managers left for a family emergency which means he’ll have to stay to help close. It will be another several hours until he’s home, and when you tell Reiner this, he looks at you with that exhausted expression and asks, “Grey’s?”

 It takes maybe three seconds of contemplation before you cave. He’s probably having a rough day. You know he hasn’t taken a nap because you’ve been able to hear him shuffling around up in his room all afternoon, so it’s likely he’s unfocused, having a harder time wrestling with his own thought processes. Being overly tired always seems to make you sad, like you’re about to get sick but are helpless to stop it. 

 You don’t want Reiner feeling helpless, and maybe, if he relaxes next to you for a while, he’ll end up drifting off. That’s the best case scenario. 

 You’re not entirely sure what the worst case is, though.

 It’s been a while since you sat on opposite ends of the couch, but tonight, that’s exactly what you do. You lean against one armrest as Reiner takes the other, chin resting in his hand as he blinks slowly at the screen. You can tell he’s drowsy, but he’s fighting it, glancing over at you every once in a while until you finally sigh and hold a hand out to him. 

 Reiner’s face breaks out into one of his softer smiles–grateful–as he grabs your hand and lets you guide him to your chest. He gets situated the way he likes, hands underneath you, legs twined, and you can feel the coarse hair on his calves, Reiner having opted for the comfortable athletic shorts he wears when he’s feeling especially shitty, you’ve noticed. He’s warm and heavy. You think he’s gained a little bit of weight over the last month which is fantastic considering how thin he was when he’d first come to the house. 

 All awkwardness aside, you’re glad he’s here. You’re glad he trusts you. You’re glad you can care for him.

 The drama plays out on TV, and Reiner’s breath falls in and out of rhythm as he dozes for a few minutes only to wake back up. You stroke down his back with one hand, fingers trailing down his spine, and with the other you lightly scratch his scalp.

 “Just go to sleep, sweetie,” you coo when he pushes his face against you. “Still have a couple hours before your dad gets home.”

 He hums, but you can tell he’s blinked himself awake by the way his shoulders draw up higher once again. You breathe out, more disappointed than exasperated. You just want him to relax. If you could only soothe him enough–

 The scene on screen catches your attention, one of your favorite characters crying loudly, feet in stirrups as another doctor examines her, and despite knowing what’s coming, your stomach still flips when you watch the material of a pink shirt dampen in such a particular way, there’s no mistaking what it could be. It isn’t the image itself that makes you nervous, and honestly, you wouldn’t even call it being nervous–more like… anticipatory. 

 It’s the way Reiner’s fingers twitch, the way the warm air seeps through your top only gets hotter as he turns his face into you, nose prodding the very bottom of your sternum. Then hands are moving, sliding between you and the couch cushion, dancing at the hem of your shirt.

 The, “Rei,” that falls from your lips in a murmur serves no real purpose. You’re not telling him to stop or start. You’re not telling him anything.

 The pads of his fingers are scorching against the small of your back, every unique print burning against your skin, leaving trails as he moves just a little higher… then a little more… a little more… 

 Thumbs brush over your ribs, hands curling around your front, catching on your shirt and tugging it upward until Reiner can push it up over your bra, croaking out a desperate, “Please,” as he goes.

 You’re nodding before you realize, eyes shut so tightly they’re beginning to hurt, but your own hand is still holding the back of his head, encouraging him further as he hooks fingers into the bottom of your bra and stretches elastic just enough to push it up over your tits. 

 The deep groan that sounds from Reiner’s chest makes your mouth run dry, a huff of air pushed from your lungs when he settles more of his weight on you. He wastes absolutely no time in lowering his face to you, one kiss placed on the swell of your breast before he latches onto a nipple, and something about it causes him to make another noise, though this one isn’t as much a groan as it is a whimper. 

 Your mind is a mess, no way to pick out even a single coherent thought, but it seems your subconscious takes over, a quiet, “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” sounding from you without your consent.

 Reiner breathes in deeply, sucking on the bud in a way that’s just shy of painful, but stroking his hair seems to calm him down some, and he falls into something gentler, the flick of his tongue making you hold back little moans you don’t want him hearing. 

 This isn’t about pleasure. This is about comfort. Nothing more, right?

 He massages both of your tits, large hands kneading plumpness like he’s guiding it to his mouth. When he releases the nipple he’s been working, you watch as a string of spit spans from the bud to his lower lip. Reiner doesn’t seem to care about any messes, though, as he just leans back down to lick at the other. 

 You do your best to remain calm, to think of this in a non-explicit way. He doesn’t seem to be taking things any further, his hands staying on your chest, and while there is a subtle rock to his body, you can’t tell if it’s because he’s pressing his hips into the couch or just due to the way he keeps dipping and tugging and pushing against you. 

 Honestly, you don’t think he’s actually trying to get off. It’s more like—

 “So soft,” he mumbles, nibbling sensitive skin then circling it with his tongue. “Knew you’d be so…”

 But, he doesn’t finish, just pulls you back into his mouth with a content sigh. 

 You move in a way that leaves both of you on your sides, Reiner’s head lower than yours so that he can bury his face in your chest. Despite the tingle in your spine (and between your legs) Reiner seems… calm. Sinking into the couch, lazily suckling on you like he could do it forever. 

 His hands stop moving so much, the pattern of his tongue growing slower and slower, and you don’t know how much time has passed, but you hear familiar credit music playing from the TV. 

 By the time the next episode starts, Reiner has stilled, Your nipples are wet and now cold, one of them brushing against his lips as he breathes steadily. He’s out—face in your tits, sleeping soundly. It’d be cute if… 

 No. No, it’s still cute in a strange way. You don’t know why, but it is. He is. 

 Another episode comes and goes, and when your phone chimes with a text, it jolts Reiner awake. You can feel him blinking, eyelashes brushing over your skin, and for a moment, you think he might panic, like this short nap would bring him back to his senses. 

 That is obviously not the case, however, as he buries himself in you all over again, murmuring into your skin, words you can’t make out as you text your husband back that no, you don’t need anything from the 24 hour fast food place, just get home safely. 

 You let Reiner take what he needs for just a little bit longer, glad you didn’t decide to resituate your clothes the way you’d considered earlier. It probably would have woken him up anyway. 

 He sucks and gropes and covers both of your nipples with gossamer spit until you scratch at his head a little harder than before and tell him, “Roland’ll be home soon.”

 A mournful groan vibrates against your flesh, ricocheting in your chest cavity, but Reiner still pushes himself up on one arm, pausing only to kiss right between your breasts before sitting up fully and rubbing his eyes. 

 You don’t say anything about what just transpired between the two of you, just pull your bra and shirt back down then stand up. 

 Reiner looks up at you, questions dancing in his eyes, insecurities and fears, and though you are also full of absolute confusion, you still bend over and kiss the top of his head, softly telling him, “Go get some sleep, sweetie.”

 He forces a smile, so so tired, then gets up and trudges upstairs. 

 Watching as he goes, you wonder how it is that you can feel like everything has changed between the two of you while also getting the impression that nothing’s changed at all. 

 ~ ~ ~

 Reiner is a pretty big fucking fan of routines these days. The predictability is nice, keeps him on track and on a schedule even if said schedule is fairly basic. He has a wake up routine—simple stretches, teeth brushing, showering. A specific Wednesday routine when therapy threatens to throw him off. An eating routine that took a while to get used to considering how screwed up his hours are. And then, he has a bedtime routine. 

 That one is probably his favorite (is definitely his favorite). 

 At around seven AM, Reiner sits at the kitchen table and eats a bowl of cereal across from Roland who is still waking up with his coffee, then once his father leaves and that front door is locked into place, Reiner rinses out his bowl and the sugar from his mouth and shuffles into the downstairs bedroom, the one you’re still asleep in. 

 It was probably extremely fucking weird for you the first time—it was weird for him too—but now after a few weeks, you’re familiar with it. Reiner slides under covers next to you, slinging one arm over your hips and resting his head on your shoulder. You’re slowly stirring, just awake enough to hum in acknowledgement, awake enough to shift, awake enough to lazily pull up whatever big t-shirt you chose the night before.

 That’s what he waits for every time. The permission. You have to be the one to say okay, go ahead, otherwise Reiner will just lay and wait and possibly fall into a restless sleep. 

 But, he much prefers this. Not only because he enjoys it more but also because it makes him drift off even faster. He’s already tired, hands moving over your tits slowly, lowering himself to one and sucking in a way that isn’t even a little hurried or frantic.

 Reiner sighs happily, nibbling for a moment before pulling your hardened nipple further into his mouth, and he can feel himself stiffening in his joggers, but it’s not something he’s about to take care of. He’s not here to get his dick wet. He’s here to come down, to relax and be cared for, and as you sleepily card fingers through his hair, he is just that. 

 A puddle next to you, Reiner licks and suckles, trying not to pay attention to the way your hips twitch every now and again. You seem so casual about it, he doubts you’re actually aroused by this frankly pathetic display of need, but he does have to keep in mind this is an erogenous zone for you, so maybe…

 Doesn’t matter. He’s fantasized about you enough, and if he lets his mind get away from him here and now, it’ll only lead to disaster. 

 So, he just lays and grunts and sucks on you as if he were made to. Kinda feels like he was. 

 That’s how it goes almost every morning. Both of you usually end up dozing again until your alarm goes off at nine, and you either leave Reiner to sleep as you get ready for work at the college or you leave him to sleep as you putter around the house, saving errands for later so that he can come with you if he wants to. Newsflash: he always wants to. 

 You still watch TV together, still let him mouth over you as he pleases, running a hand over his scalp or down his spine, and he wonders how you justify it. What’s going through your mind while he takes and takes and takes from you? 

 Reiner feels genuinely bad about it, well aware that this is not normal, but he can’t deny that his mood has been better since you started doing this—whatever this is. 

 In the past four and a half weeks, he’s gotten in contact with Bertholdt and Annie, come up with a new workout regimen that is slightly more than just yoga poses, and has started opening up more in therapy. He’s obviously keeping specific details to himself, but Dr. Ral is aware that he’s found a haven within you, and that his sex drive is back. She just doesn’t know that the two are related, and he’s definitely not about to tell her about how often he jerks off in the shower while thinking about suffocating in your tits, the frequency of which only increasing since he’s pretty sure they’ve grown a little. Maybe you’ve gained a bit of weight he hasn’t noticed anywhere else. Maybe it’s Reiner’s lizard brain playing tricks on him. 

 Anyway, he’s getting distracted now. The original point is that things are changing and for the better. ‘Happiness’ isn’t the right word. Reiner knows he’s far from that, but he’s… adjusting. In his own way. He’s been living with you and Roland for almost five months now, and he can honestly say that it’s gotten easier, that his brain isn’t quite as mean to him as it was before. The ideation is most certainly still present, but it’s not as loud as it was before. 

 His doctors are impressed in a hesitant sort of way, like they’re expecting this very mild high to come crashing down, and he gets it. He isn’t exactly stable just yet. But, they also don’t understand the kind of support he’s getting at home. 

 “What would you say is, like… the correlation between how I grew up and how I ended up here?” Reiner asks Dr. Ral during session, picking at the string hanging from the hole in his jeans. “Like all that nature versus nurture bullshit.”

 “It’s not bullshit,” she laughs. “It’s a widely respected theory. Though, I will admit it’s a little harder to differentiate these days since home lives aren’t the only difficult part of childhood. The world itself is hard to live in, so a lot of anxiety and feelings of hopelessness stem from our environment today. A kid could grow up with doting parents, good friends, and the best dog ever, and still end up struggling.”

 “But, how much of that is the world, and how much of that is just your shitty brain not making the right chemicals?” 

 “Reiner,” she sighs with a little smile. “It could be that your brain has always functioned differently, and it’s only recently become obvious. Or, it could be because you were born into a crappy world full of war and recession and tragedy. Or, it could be the way you were raised at home.”

 “You think my parents have something to do with it, don’t you?” Reiner asks with a bitter smile. 

 Dr. Ral shrugs, “They play an integral role in a person’s life, but I don’t like placing blame unless the fault is obvious.” 

 Abuse, Reiner can assume. He didn’t grow up dealing with anything like that, thank goodness. Probably wouldn’t have made it anywhere near this far if he had, but he did spend a lot of time alone, and he’s not surprised when the doctor across from him highlights that. 

 “We haven’t talked about your childhood in length, but we’ve touched on the missing father and the overworked mother.”

 “You make them sound like self-help books,” he snorts. “For real, though, I was fine. I learned how to take care of myself.”

 “That’s it, though, you shouldn’t have had to. Not at the young age of…?” She lifts an eyebrow in question, and Reiner ruffles his hair out of place as he thinks. 

 “I don’t know, like, four or something? When Mom had money, she’d pay the neighbors to take care of me, but that was… not the case most of the time.” He looks at her seriously, probably pleadingly as he tells her, “She did her best. It wasn’t her fault.”

 “I’m not trying to imply anything was her fault, Reiner. I’m sure she did everything she could to make sure you were okay. I’m just saying that when you grow up like that, without a strong parental figure, it means you haven’t been nurtured the way that most humans need to be.”

 Reiner sucks his teeth, tries to fight the smile that’s threatening to split his face. If she only knew. 

 “Haven’t been nurtured, huh?”

 Her expression is sympathetic. “It could be a contributing factor. You’ve had to take care of yourself for such a long time. Neurochemistry on your side or not–eventually, you were going to hit a breaking point.”

 He drives home mulling it over, tuning out his music and apparently the rest of his surroundings as someone behind him honks when he sits too long after a light has turned green. 

 There’s not even a tiny part of Reiner that’s angry at his mother for the way he was brought up. There were many lonely evenings and weekends, a lot of cheese sandwiches and juice spills, but it always seemed like she was doing what she could to make ends meet after her shitty husband left her. 

 It almost felt like betraying her, coming to live with Roland, but Reiner knows his dad has means of supporting him that his mother does not. Besides, irritated as she would get when Roland would come take him to lunch (the few times that he did), she still seemed to support it, happy that Reiner was getting to know the other person responsible for his being put on this earth. 

 His usual Wednesday sandwich is waiting for him in the fridge when he opens the stainless steel doors, and even though he was fully expecting it to be there as always, Reiner still finds himself chuckling given the subject of his last conversation with the therapist. 

 You won’t be home for another half an hour, so Reiner finishes eating then switches out the laundry you left earlier, thinking too hard about that one afternoon he spent folding clothes with you, the way you’d looked so flustered… 

 Before he can get too lost in the fantasy of what you might look like in nothing but those polka dot panties or that skimpy purple thong, the front door opens and you walk in–bag slung over one shoulder, thermos in hand, flashing a bright smile at Reiner when you see him.

 “Hey, you,” you greet easily. “How was your appointment?”

 Reiner makes a non-committal noise, striding over and taking your bag, putting it on one of the dining room chairs then following you into the kitchen where you rinse out your cup.

 “Same as always. Talk about feelings and plans and progress and shit.” He pauses, feels his lips begin to curl again as he leans against the counter and utters, “Doctor Ral thinks I wasn’t nurtured enough as a kid.”

 The laugh you let out is a little startling but so, so genuine as you grin widely and nod, “Yeah, I, uh–I think I could’ve told you that, baby.”

 Sparks–from the crown of his head all the way to his toes. Reiner watches you wash your dish for a few moments before stepping up behind you, arms locking around your waist as he lowers his head to rest on your shoulder.

 “That why you let me get away with so much shit?” he asks, only half joking.

 You scoff, wiggling a bit and claiming, “I do not–” but stop when you’ve turned all the way to face him. “Okay, maybe,” you concede, features softening when you raise a hand to touch his face. “I just like knowing you’re okay, and the only time I know you are is when… I’m with you, so…”

 He’s too close. He knows it, and you know it, nearly touching, and fuck, you’ve gone this far, so–

 Your body goes stiff when he kisses you, no movement but no objection either, and once Reiner presses just a little harder, you give in and let your lips move against his. 

 It doesn’t take him long to get light-headed, blood rushing south as he pushes you against the cabinets and grinds his hips into yours. A small sound of discomfort rings loud and clear in his ears, though, and he can assume a knob or corner is digging into you, so he leans back enough to give himself the room to lift you off the tile and sit you on the lip of the counter. 

 Your thighs squeeze his sides as he stands between them, his hands roaming until they find what he always seems to be looking for. You mewl when he paws at your tits–soft and plump, so pretty when they glisten with his spit–and Reiner makes quick work of your shirt, only breaking away from your kiss when he has to pull the material over your head. 

 He meets your wide eyes, his own probably looking a little wild as he unclasps your bra, but he does manage to croak out an almost painful, “Tell me to stop–”

 “No,” you breathe, straps sliding down your arms until you drop your bra on the floor.

 Reiner holds your head in both hands as he kisses you again–deeper than the last time, teeth pressing against lips and tongues burning one another, and only when you start to pant does he let go and move downward. 

 The rush of emotion that always comes with latching onto you floods his system–the closeness, the connection, the intimacy of it, and Reiner groans as he sucks you into his mouth, fuck, he loves the feeling, loves the way your little bud hardens against his tongue, how you shudder when he licks at the velvety ring around it, and you’re arching your back and wrapping your legs around him as he sucks and sucks and sucks.

 “Reiner–I–” 

 Something in your voice is a little off, but he doesn’t stop–couldn’t if he wanted to at this point. His cock is throbbing in his pants, and he can feel that his neck and face are flushed with want. He’s so lost, so lost, and doesn’t want to come back, half-crazed and delirious and– 

 The first taste is a shock. A tiny drop of what could be sweet cream, but it’s gone so fast–nothing more than the ghost of flavor–that Reiner thinks he may have hallucinated it. 

 Then, there’s another, and Reiner knows that something new is definitely hitting his tongue. When he pulls back, his eyes go wide, taking in the thick droplets beading around your nipples, and as he gently tugs on the bud he hasn’t been sucking on, a couple more pale dots leak out.

 “Holy fuck,” he huffs, absolute reverence lacing his words, because you’re–this is–he did this to you. He’s no master of anatomy, but Reiner is pretty sure that it’s because of him that your body thinks–

 You whimper a shameful, “Oh, god, I–” but he’s already lapping at your tits again, gathering anything he can and moaning at the saccharinity. 

 Sweet, so sweet, so sweet, Reiner repeats to himself, hips rocking into nothing as he grows impossibly harder, and he thinks if he can drink just a little bit more from you, he might be able to come untouched. This is his secret fantasy come to life. He doesn’t fully understand it, but it doesn’t matter because he is in ecstasy, trying so hard not to hurt you while doing his best to pull every drop of ambrosia from your perfect fucking body.

 It doesn’t take long at all for your dripping to cease, your savory taste on his tongue now only in essence as Reiner raises enough to look you in the eye. Your chest is heaving, smaller hands coming up to cup your breasts as you gaze down at them, then back at him, concern morphing your expression, and for the first time since he met you, Reiner gets to comfort you.

 “I’ve got you, okay?” he tells you with a certainty he has no right to claim. 

 It feels like his head is swimming, and his words are too thick in his mouth, but you still nod, allowing Reiner to tilt your chin up and kiss you softly. It’s only when he braces himself on the countertop that he realizes he’s shaking, affection swelling inside of him, and he can’t help the next string of clumsy words that tumble from his mouth straight into yours, “I’ve got you, okay? You’re so good to me, you know that, so perfect, just let me–”

 You pull him closer to you, press against him, and when Reiner grunts at the way it makes his trapped cock rub over the lip of the counter, you trail shy fingers down his chest and to his waist.

 “One touch from you, and I will come,” he warns you shamelessly.

 It makes you giggle against his lips but does not deter you, so Reiner unbuttons and unzips his pants, pulling himself free and hissing at the cool air that hits him. He isn’t sure he’s ever been this hard before, his tip an alarming shade of red, a string of precum stretching from his swollen head down into his boxers where a small puddle has been left. 

 He’s a fucking mess, and when your fingers close around him, his eyes immediately roll to the back of his head. It’s an awkward angle for you, and he knows this, but he also knows you won’t have to be in this position for long. 

 Pleasure builds in his gut, his balls lifting and tightening, and when you swipe a thumb over his leaking tip, Reiner’s voice breaks on a swear, and he comes on the spot. Lines of white splatter over the cabinets and your legs where they’re hanging over the counter, and he twitches in your grasp, the blood pounding in his head waning just enough for him to focus on your face again. 

 You’re watching him intently, lips parted and tilted upward as you keep stroking him softly. Reiner shudders, grunting when you give him a light squeeze, then covers your hand with his. 

 “Fucking Christ.”

 A few more full-body shivers, and he’s able to tuck himself back into his pants and walk backward on weak legs to help you slide off the counter. You’re quick to wet a paper towel and wipe both yourself and the cabinets down, making sure nothing is left behind, and once that’s taken care of, you pull your shirt back on. 

 Reiner tracks your movements the whole time, still in his post-orgasm high as he admires the way you look bending over, thinks he can see the folds of your pussy through skin tight leggings and wonders if you’re wet right now. God, he hopes you are.

 “You know, I can–I mean, you should let me–”

 You turn to him and shake your head. “No, it’s okay. I just…” You must see the way his face falls a bit. It isn’t just that he wants to return the favor; it’s that he wants to make you feel good. He wants to take care of you. Fuck, he wants to watch you come, knows you will be beautiful letting go like that.

 “Rei, I just need to think for a second, okay?” you try, then as if you’ve just remembered, you raise your hands to your chest again and add, “And, I need to do some fucking research apparently.”

 “I can help,” he’s too quick to offer. “I mean, I can also… it’s my fault, and I don’t–” he chews on his bottom lip, glancing from you to the floor then back to you at lightning speed. “I don’t want you to do anything to stop it. Please.”

 “You…” Eyes narrowing in skepticism, you look at him curiously. “You don’t mind that? Like, you want it? The mil–”

 “You have no fucking idea how much I want it.” The confession makes him blush furiously, but Reiner doesn’t regret making it. 

 “Why?”

 He holds his arms out like he doesn’t know. And, he truly doesn’t, but he is getting a vague idea of where some of his motivations may lie. 

 “All I know is that it feels good. Physically and… emotionally, or whatever.” You stare at him like you’re waiting for him to elaborate, but all he gives you is a casual, “Plus, it tasted good. Wasn’t expecting it to taste that good.”

 You keep watching for a while, gears turning in your head, hands still on your own tits, then nod and relax some. 

 “I’ll, um… I’ll look into it, but if my mom friends are anything to go by then I will probably need assistance with, um–”

 “Anything,” he cuts you off. “I’ll help you with anything, just ask, I’m right here, I promise.”

 That deer-in-the-headlights expression doesn’t leave your face entirely, and Reiner guesses you’re going over all the ways this can go wrong, but he’s past that point. He knows what the two of you have been doing for the last several weeks is wrong, or at the very least, frowned upon, but his default state is untempered anxiety, so this is nothing new. You, however…

 He paces over to you, takes your hands from your chest, and stoops to look at you. 

 “If this is a hard no, if you wanna just stop and pretend nothing’s happened or happening, that’s fine. I’ll understand,” then he adds a purposeful, “I will live,” because that’s what this really comes down to, isn’t it? You don’t want to hurt him and leave him teetering again. 

 “I’m…” you swallow. “I’m not saying no. I’m just saying I need to… prepare.”

 Reiner gathers you to his chest and hugs you tightly, relieved when you wrap your arms around him. You stand like that for too long, and when you peel yourself away, he grins at the way you rise onto your tiptoes and kiss him. 

 “I need you to recognize, though, like…” You pull back from his lips to look at him and finish, “This is fucked up. You know what we’re doing is–”

 “It’s weird as shit, I know,” he confirms with a nervous chuckle. “Had no fucking intention of anything like this happening when I moved in.”

 “Okay, just as long as… we both feel guilty.”

 Reiner snorts. “Is that supposed to stop us or something?”

 “No, but at least I know we each have a moral compass.”

 Reiner leans down again, slotting his lips against yours and grumbling, “A moral compass doesn’t mean shit if it’s busted.”

 You laugh, a little melody muffled by his kiss, and Reiner does everything he can to memorize the way your smile feels. 

 ~ ~ ~

Never in a million years did you think you would find yourself in this predicament–standing in your bathroom, grimacing as you look at yourself in the mirror, massaging your breasts. You had noticed they’ve been particularly tender, but you figured it had something to do with your cycle, possibly hormone changes that are coming with age.

 But no, it’s… induced lactation, as Google explained, and you brought it on yourself completely by accident. 

 One of the biggest reasons you never wanted to have children is the stress it would put on your body, and though you won’t get the full fucking effect of pregnancy, this development is alarming to say the least. 

 You aren’t angry, especially not after the way Reiner had reacted to it, but you’re not exactly thrilled. The whole situation is unprecedented, absolutely did not see this coming, but you suppose you may as well make the best of it. You could stop the process if you really wanted to, but you’re not sure you’d be able to bear the disappointment Reiner would no doubt try and fail to hide. 

 So, you decide you’ll give it a trial period, at least try for his sake, and who knows—maybe you’ll grow to like it and fall deeper into the mess the two of you have made.

 For now, though, there’s definitely a level of discomfort, much of which being a direct result of your breasts. You had to pump several times since this started yesterday, but after an almost full night of not, you aren’t feeling great.

 As soon as Roland had left the room this morning you’d rolled out of bed and into the bathroom to examine yourself. He should be finishing up his breakfast soon, and you consider just getting in the shower to have an extra private space to relieve some pressure, but before you can do that, the bedroom door is opening, and Reiner is calling your name.

 “In here,” you respond, and when he peeks around the corner, you try not to look as uncomfortable as you feel.

 To no avail, apparently, because Reiner frowns immediately, taking in your expression and the way you’re holding yourself.

 “Sore?”

 You make an unsure noise, chewing on your bottom lip.

 “Maybe? I’m not sure if it’s all in my head or not. Like, I’m thinking too hard about it.” 

 “Couldn’t hurt to squeeze some out,” he shrugs in an attempt to look casual, but his mouth is twisting a certain way as he fights a smile. 

 “No,” you sigh, “Definitely couldn’t hurt.”

 He paces into the bathroom, guiding you by the hip to turn you around then lifting you onto the counter like he did the day before. 

 You thought you might get used to this tingling considering how many times you had to do this yesterday, but Reiner was only able to help a few of those times before his father got home, so the pull of his mouth and swirl of his tongue still makes you gasp. He makes a little noise in the back of his throat as he sucks, hands careful as he massages your tits, and it makes you let out a whimper.

 Like the day before, not much comes out of either one, but Reiner acts like every drop is precious, eyes hazy when he eventually pulls away and looks at you. 

 You’re tender and assume you’ll remain so for a while, and when Reiner cups the swell of your breasts, you have to admit his warm hands feel very nice. It does leave you feeling extremely vulnerable, though–a position you’re still not used to being in when around him. 

 Just these past twenty-four hours have shown you how strong he is, how large his presence can feel even if he doesn’t mean it to be. He can lift you with ease, steady hands either wrapping around your thighs or settling under your arms to move you wherever he sees fit. There’s no shyness in the way he presses his hips against yours, and the only question he seems to have is something along the lines of ‘are you okay with this?’ 

 He’s kind and respectful and very concerned with what you’re feeling, but… he obviously knows what he wants. 

 “So, I read a lot last night,” he starts, looking toward the ceiling like it has a script written on it, and you have to laugh because you also read last night–more than your brain could even hold. “Apparently, what you’re producing right now is, like, not exactly milk? It’s–”

 “Colostrum, yeah. It’s really important for newborns. Give it a few more days and my–” you pause and glance downward, stuttering as you finish, “–my milk will… come in.”

 “Exactly. And, there will be… more of that?”

 “A lot more if Google is to be trusted. It’ll, um… It’ll take a little longer for you to… But, they need to be, like, drained, or they’ll start to hurt.”

 “I can set alarms on my phone, or–” Another giggle stops him, and Reiner smiles and asks, “What?”

 “Nothing,” you shake your head. “You’re just really gung-ho about this.”

 “I’m stoked,” he tells you, grin widening before he places a quick kiss on your lips. “I’ve maybe thought about it before. There’s just so many–like, I can’t even explain—it’s sexy and soothing and just fucking triggers something in my brain that…” He exhales heavily, has that look about him that means he’s about to say something that’ll knock the wind out of you, and you’re absolutely correct. 

 Leveling big, amber eyes at you–so deep and painfully earnest–Reiner breathes, “I am so ready to worship you.”

 Your body heats, a familiar stinging sensation making you blink frantically and try to look away, but he catches you with a finger under your chin, the sudden bounce of your abandoned tits making you wince, and Reiner mutters a quiet, “Sorry,” as he kisses you again and again and again.

 He has legitimate feelings, you think. Legitimate, big feelings. It’s worrisome, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have any in return. 

 It’s all the damn time spent alone. The bearing of souls and endless cuddling. You should have stopped it before it even got started, but it is far too late now. 

 After sniffling away tears you’re a little mortified by, you thank Reiner and tell him to go get some sleep.

 “I’ll try, but promise you’ll wake me up when you need me.”

 “I promise,” you nod, trying not to snort when he walks away awkwardly, a little stiff between the legs.

 Of course, keeping the promise is a little harder than making it. It’s somewhat humiliating asking for help with something so personal—doesn’t matter how much Reiner may enjoy it. After living life thinking you’d never once have to utter the question ‘hey, can you help me with my boobs?’, it’s extremely difficult working up the moxy, may as well be asking ‘would you mind milking me?’.

 There’s also the added stress of having to sneak around at night in order to do it. With Roland fast asleep in bed, you tiptoe out of the room as quietly as possible and make your way upstairs where Reiner pulls you into his lap and sucks on your tits until nothing comes out. Then, depending on his mood, he might keep going. 

 Nothing progresses past the quick handjob you gave him a few days ago, but… that changes. 

 After a six-hour day of going over essays with clueless freshmen, you shuffle into the house and drop your bag in the dining room, gnawing on your bottom lip as you glance around for Reiner. 

 When he’s not in your immediate view, you call for him and immediately hear a fumbling upstairs followed by the loud pounding of feet as he rushes to meet you.

 “Yeah, sweetness?” 

 The new pet name has made you blush and smile every time he’s used it the past few days, but today it does not, too bothered by the heaviness in your chest as you gaze at him in a silent plea. 

 “There’s too—something feels different,” you mumble. You’re not quite in pain, but you are sore and feeling a little swollen. 

 The look of sympathy Reiner gives you is enough to make your throat tighten. You still don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, and you’re embarrassed and overwhelmed, and when he murmurs an understanding, “Baby, come here,” you take his hand and let him lead you to the couch. 

 The dynamic is odd—definitely shifted within the last week. Instead of pampering him, he’s the one treating you like glass, cooing at you and holding you closely. You hadn’t foreseen this when he’d first moved in, truly viewed him as nothing more than Roland’s estranged son, a lost boy looking for a home. 

 He is so much more than that, though. 

 Reiner arranges you in his lap before ridding you of your shirt and bra, ogling your chest before biting his lip and palming your tits. That tingle you’ve only just recently gotten used to is ever present, but this firm pressure that seems to be stretching your skin is a new sensation. 

 So gentle when he latches onto your nipple, Reiner soothes you with his soft tongue first, slow to start sucking. When he does, though, his eyes shoot up to yours, wide and excited. 

 “It’s—”

 He squeezes both of your tits just hard enough for fluid—lighter than what you were producing before—to drip from you in a very slow, very thin stream. 

 Milk leaking from your own nipples is such a strange sight to behold, but Reiner is more than happy to lick away the tiny rivulets and pull you back into his mouth. His eyelids flutter as he laps and suckles, and you can feel his cock growing beneath you, pressing right between your legs and distracting you from any of your insecurities. 

 You rock your hips, dragging your covered pussy over his bulge and pushing his face further into your tits. Reiner groans deeply, lifting to meet the motion then releasing your nipple to tell you, “Keep moving like that, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

 It only makes you rub over him again, and Reiner stares at you with half-lidded eyes as he slides a hand under you to caress your aching cunt. 

 “You feelin’ needy, baby?” he questions, voice somehow playful and dark at the same time, and you nod. 

 There is an undeniable feeling of lopsidedness now that he’s partially drained one of your breasts, but as odd as the difference in weight is, you can’t be bothered by it when Reiner is grinding his cock up against you. 

 It’s hard to say what has you so desperate—the idea of relief possibly, or maybe just the fact that the two of you have been tiptoeing around this for what seems like fucking forever. Whatever it is has you trembling on top of him, begging, “Please, Rei, I wanna feel—”

 He shushes you, twisting to lay you on your back then grounding himself with one knee on the couch and a foot planted on the ground. It gives him more than enough access to pepper kisses down your naked torso while slowly pulling down your jeans and panties. You lift off the cushions to help, heart beating erratically as he spreads your legs and gazes at your bare cunt. 

 Fingertips trace down your thighs then in-between them, just barely brushing over your sensitive folds. The touch makes you jerk, knees falling further open, and Reiner watches your expression as he teases you again. 

 You make a pathetic noise of dissatisfaction, and Reiner grins in response, relenting with a low, “Okay, I know,” before he runs a finger down your slit and slowly pushes it into your quivering hole. 

 Every digit slides in with ease, but Reiner’s hands are large—fingers long and much thicker than your own—so there’s still a stretch that accompanies the intrusion. Even so, you moan his name and let your head fall back. 

 “You’re so fucking pretty, you know that?” he breathes, moving to hover over you while pumping in and out of your pussy. He bends to catch one of your nipples again, his grunt reverberating inside of you, and all you can do is whimper and move your hips to meet his shallow thrusts. 

 “Another?”

 “Please—yes, yes, Rei—”

 He pushes the second in even slower than the first, but once his palm is flush with you, Reiner strokes and presses into your walls in a way that has you arching into him. His stubble is rough against your tits, the complete opposite of his velvet tongue, and between his endless suckling and the thick fingers filling you up, you think you might cry. 

 “Reiner, oh my god, I’m—okay, I’m r-ready, just…”

 You feel him scissor his fingers apart for a moment, one last effort to prepare you, then he’s pulling away and tugging his clothes off, pausing momentarily to lick the slick from his hand. 

 It’s only been a week since you saw his cock for the first time, but now that it’s about to be inside of you, it looks bigger. The length makes your stomach flip, well above average with a pretty little curve, but it’s his girth that makes your mouth water. 

 He gives himself a few strokes, precum seeping from his flushed tip, and it’s only when he’s lined up with your entrance that he asks, “Wait, do you want me to wear a condom?”

 You should say yes—should absolutely take a breather and get protection because you’re not on birth control, no need since Roland had a vasectomy long before you came into the picture—but you’re already here, splayed out and boiling from the inside out, so you tell him, “Just pull out, please, it’s fi—”

 You’re cut off when he pushes in, breaching that ring of muscle and making you hiss saliva back from your teeth. You’re plenty wet and well-stretched—Reiner is just–there’s so much of him. 

 Fortunately for you, he knows it and stays still. Even as you shift your hips and squeeze the head of his cock, all he does is shut his eyes and run his fingers down your body. You rock into him, taking him by the centimeter, wondering how you’ll fit every inch, but then he starts rubbing circles into your clit and after the initial clench of every muscle in your fucking body, you open up for him in full. 

 Legs spread, arousal leaks out of you and coats his cock, and your jaw drops as Reiner pushes in as far as he can, panting heavily while you moan beneath him. 

 His first thrusts are torturously slow, dragging his hips back then pressing them forward at a pace that makes you want to scream, but you need it. You need to get used to him because Reiner is filling you up in ways you never have been before. 

 Your husband—Jesus fuck, his father—isn’t the smallest, but Reiner outclasses him in every possible measurement. Your hole stretches around him and your walls mold to his shape, and as he finally picks up speed, you can’t even think straight. 

 “Ohfuck—oh—”

 “Feel good?” he teases, breaking into a groan when he glances down at your bouncing tits, unable to keep himself from attaching himself to one of them again. 

 You lock your ankles behind his back, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to pull him closer—pull him deeper, and when he snaps forward at a particular angle, you cry out and beg him to, “Keep doing that, right there, right there…”

 “Fuck—okay, I’ve got you—”

 Reiner fucks into you so perfectly, making your eyes roll and your toes curl. A smile breaks out on your face, and he must be watching from where he’s sucking down milk because he lets your nipple pop out of his mouth just so he can tell you, “Keep smiling like that, baby, so sweet for me, fuck, so good to me.”

 He slides his hands under you and scoops you up only to fall back with you in his lap, and it forces him further inside of you, the fat head of his cock kissing your cervix and making you choke. Reiner bounces you like that for some time, reaching up and groping you, admiring the way white leaks from your hard nipples and over the curves of your breasts. 

 Then, he’s sitting up and running his tongue over you, lapping up everything he can and growling, “You sure you want me to pull out?”

 You whimper in response. The idea of Reiner coming inside of you makes you throb around him, and he must feel you clench tightly because he groans and keeps going, “Could fuck a baby right into this perfect pussy, make you a real mommy…”

 “Fuck, Reiner!” 

 Even out of your mind like you are, you know you don’t want to get pregnant, but god dammit, the way he says it makes your body ache for him.

 Reaching down, you play with your clit, the position causing your arms to push your chest up, and Reiner busies himself with draining the rest of the milk from your tits, his grip on your hips unforgiving as he moves you to his will. 

 He’s been slamming into your g-spot since he pulled you on top of him, and you can sense pressure building inside of you, a bloated sort of feeling. It isn’t until Reiner tosses you on your back once again and folds you in half that the seal bursts and you start to squirt, soaking his pelvis as well as your own, the fluid dripping down your ass.

 Reiner swears and leans over you, pressing into you further as he rests some of his weight on your bent legs. You’re pinned underneath him, so full of cock you might gag on it. Sweat is beading at his hairline, his cheeks pink, lips red from being bitten, and as you stare up at him, you’re overcome with more emotion than you can process—he’s so handsome and so sweet, and you can tell he adores you, can see it even now in his lustful eyes. 

 He makes a desperate sound when you pull him down into a kiss, sloppy and heated as he drives himself into you over and over. 

 “I can do it,” he pants. “Just tell me you want it. You’d be so pretty—a fucking goddess, my fucking goddess—just let me fill you up with cum, please—”

 “Rei, you can’t,” you try, words thick, eyes teary from so much stimulation. His fingers find your clit again and you whine only for him to muffle it with another kiss. “I want you s-so—mm—so bad, but—”

 He nods, and when you crack an eye open you can see he’s squeezing his shut, brow furrowed as his hips start to stutter. 

 He’s close—so close and fighting it, and you reach behind his head to scratch his scalp the way he likes so much. Amber eyes finding yours, you try to smile, distracted by the flick of his fingers over your swollen clit. 

 “You can come anywhere else you want,” you huff. “Wherever—just not—”

 “I know,” he nods. “I know, I know.” 

 A groan rumbles from his chest but quickly dies off when his mouth opens, jaw sliding, and for one, terrifying second, you think he’s actually going to ignore your plea, but he pulls out all at once, leaving you devastatingly empty as he tugs your legs back down and swings one of his own over your hips. 

 He aims for your tits, stroking his wet cock like his life depends on it until he comes. Thick, hot lines paint your chest and even catch your lips and chin, the sheer volume of cum giving you the impression that yes, Reiner absolutely has the ability to fuck a baby into you—probably many of them—and your body reacts by making your cunt pulse. 

 Once he’s finished, Reiner drops to his forearms and slots his lips against yours, his cum smearing between your mouths and tongues. It’s filthy—you both are—but you don’t want to stop, least of all when he slips his fingers into your hole and starts pumping them back and forth. 

 “You gonna come again, sweetness?” he asks, hovering just over you and licking the mess from your lips.

 You nod, eyebrows knit together as you dig your heels into the cushion. You can feel it building, heat spreading up your legs, but it all disappears when Reiner pulls out to resituate himself between your thighs. 

 You suck in a huge breath when he shoves his fingers back inside, then another when he pulls your clit into his mouth. A similar pattern to when he plays with your nipples, Reiner sucks on your clit until your muscles seize up and you moan his name, squirt dripping into his palm as he fucks you through your orgasm.

 You feel utterly wrecked. Thoroughly fucked and covered in sweat and cum. You’re probably gonna have to clean the couch or, at the very least, flip the cushions until you can get the proper supplies. 

 Catching your breath, you try to calm down, fingers carding through damp, blond hair as Reiner kisses all over your thighs and pelvis. You feel the tilt of his head as he looks up at you, then hear a whispered expletive before he starts crawling up your body, eyes zeroed in on your tits.

 Glancing down, you laugh quietly when you find the tiniest bit of milk dribbling from your nipples again. You reach up to guide Reiner’s face to your chest, smiling lazily when he latches on to one and lets out a satisfied sigh. So quick to fall back into a more vulnerable state, he suckles and squeezes, eyelids drooping as you drip into his mouth and stroke through his hair.

 “Sweet boy,” you hum, tracing around his ears and down his neck. “You’re so sweet.” 

 The two of you have a lot to talk about, but for now you’re happy to bask in your afterglow, high off of hormones as you gaze down at Reiner and feel your heart swell for him. 

 ~ ~ ~ The bathwater is so warm, soothing Reiner’s aching muscles as he sits with his back to the porcelain and you against his chest. He’s honestly still a little sore from a couple days ago–it has been a while since he’s participated in physical activity of that sort, and he can feel it in his abs and thighs. 

 The two of you have acted as heavy pendulums the last forty-eight hours, swinging back and forth between desperate touches and quiet processing. There is pleasure and there is guilt, and then there is Reiner making it even more confusing by drinking from you and triggering who knows what (he knows what–it’s oxytocin, and it’s making you impossibly soft for him). 

 He would feel bad if he wasn’t down so bad, but fuck, the way you watch him when he helps you, how you come into his room late at night all bleary-eyed and tender–he can’t stop, and he doesn’t want to. 

 Now, soaking in the tub, he brushes his lips over your shoulder and murmurs, “What’s on your mind?” You’ve been silent for too long, and Reiner wants to know what’s going on in your head, if it’s anything he can help with.

 “Not much,” you sigh, shifting against him. “I think this is about to get a little more complicated, though.”

 “How so?”

 “Scheduling conflicts,” you say with a little laugh, and Reiner frowns because he doesn’t understand until you explain, “Pumping. Milk production increasing means I’m gonna have to find the time–”

 “We are gonna find the time,” he corrects, slow as he draws his hands out of the water to cup your tits, lightly thumbing over your nipples. 

 Reiner grins when you let out a tiny squeak, your hips jerking and causing ripples. He knows you’re trying to be serious, though, so he doesn’t tease any further, gently massaging your swollen breasts as you relax into him and continue.

 “Rei, you can’t be everywhere I am.”

 “Wanna bet?” he challenges with a snicker. “But, really, what are the alternatives besides stopping altogether?”

 “I guess just pumping at regular intervals like normal mothers do. It’s just like… do I just waste it?” Reiner’s stomach drops at the thought. “Can I give it away? Find some place to store it?”

 “Store it, please, for the love of god–”

 “What?” you giggle. “You just gonna, like, thaw it out and pour it in with your Raisin Bran? Fill a thermos and take it to your doctor appointments?”

 He retaliates by nipping at the shell of your ear and growling, “Maybe.”

 “You are…” You shake your head, laughing again when Reiner has to resituate the way his cock is pressing against your back. “So strange.”

 “It’s endearing, though, right?” 

 “Unfortunately,” you answer, feigning annoyance. 

 He sinks back into the ceramic, resuming the mindful kneading that pulls the occasional little moan from you. Reiner could do this all day. All day and night. Being this close, making you feel good in the most basic way. 

 A few minutes later, you speak up again, a meek, “Rei?”

 “Hm?”

 “Do you… the other day when we were–and you were about to… do you actually wanna get me pregnant?”

 “Oh, uh–” He was wondering when you might bring this up. Truth is, he doesn’t really know where that came from. “Short answer is no…?”

 You tilt your head to get an off-kilter view of his face and frown. “Why do you sound so unsure?”

 “‘Cause, like…” Reiner sighs, rests his head against the tile behind him and tries to get his thoughts in order. “I don’t want kids. Just–I don’t. They would be irreparably fucked up, like–... No.”

 “Okay, but?”

 “But…” He slides one of his hands down to lay on your stomach, stroking over it with his fingertips and quietly confessing, “The idea of not only getting to come inside you but then watching you get fat with my baby–”

 You inhale sharply, lips parted but unmoving, and despite the way he’s getting hard, Reiner feels the need to clarify, “I don’t want kids. But, the fantasy is nice.”

 “So, it’s just a sex thing. It’s not, like, you legitimately wanting–”

 “Yeah, no, I’m not gonna baby-trap you or anything,” he chuckles. “It’s just my fuckin’ lizard brain.”

 “Instinct to breed,” you joke, but it makes Reiner’s grip tighten on you, teeth scraping against your shoulder.

 “Can’t just say shit like that,” he grumbles. “I am a very simple, very stupid man, okay?”

 “You are not,” you laugh. “Everyone has their thing.” There’s a pause, and then your voice drops a bit when you add, “And, it’s sweet in a twisted sorta way.”

 “Hm?”

 “That you think I’d be… pretty like that.”

 “So fucking pretty,” he agrees, pressing his face into your neck. “And, I don’t care what you say, you’d be so good at it–” he mouths over your pulse point, whispers, “–such a good mommy.”

 Reiner hears you breathe deeply, pushing yourself into his hand, and he squeezes one of your nipples until a line of milk squirts from it.

 He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing it, white fluid dripping down into the water–your tits so full for him, fuck–

 “You about ready to pump?”

 You nod, and Reiner helps maneuver you until you’re facing him and straddling his thigh. It’s nearly ritualistic now, the way he wraps his lips around your hardened bud and sucks. There is no difficulty in pulling milk to the surface, sweetness hitting his tongue and rolling down his throat. He can feel some of it dripping from your other breast, running down his hand, and when he squeezes more out, you whine and rock your hips forward, rubbing your cunt over the muscle of his leg.

 Reiner grunts and flexes, doesn’t understand his own need to be taken care of while wanting nothing more than to take care of you instead. He wants you to feed him, wants you to coddle him, and stroke his hair, and at the same time, he wants to hold you close and dote on you, reassure you over and over that he’s got you, he loves–

 Once you’re drained on one side, Reiner moves to the other, breathing heavily, matching the way your hips are moving and making water slosh over the side of the tub. His cock is straining against his stomach, no friction to be found until you take pity on him and wrap your fingers around him. 

 Both of you growing desperate, Reiner fucks up into your hand while you rub against his thigh like an animal in heat, and the whole time, he remains attached to you, sucking you down until you come on his thigh and leak your last bit of milk straight into his mouth. A few more strokes and he’s bucking and spilling all over your hand, the two of you stilling save for the steady rise and fall of your chests as the water washes away the mess.

 It takes several minutes and a lot of effort, but eventually the two of you are able to drain the tub and stand up, the new spray of the shower getting rid of any excess suds or fluids. 

 Reiner watches you towel off, tries to keep his hands to himself as you bend over to dry your legs, and he does a good job doing so, but he breaks when you start to blow dry your hair–on full display, and he can’t help but press up against you. You don’t seem to mind, just smile at him in the mirror and occasionally blow hot air in his face. 

 You change into jean shorts and a soft v-neck, and Reiner guesses the padded bra you put on offers more support than the ones made of t-shirt material you used to wear. He could offer even more support, but that’s irrelevant. 

 “Hey, while you’re getting dressed, think about what you want for dinner,” you tell him as he makes his way to the staircase, towel wrapped around his waist. 

 “Why?” he looks over his shoulder at you. “I just ate.”

 The way you squint at him makes Reiner laugh loudly, your unimpressed, “Har har,” falling on deaf ears as he pats himself on the back for his awful joke. 

 “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

 He jogs up to his room and tugs on a shirt and some sweatpants, pauses to reply to a couple text messages, then gallops back down to help you cook a meal neither of you have decided on.

 “I have some shredded chicken ready to go, so what… pasta? Some kind of buffalo chicken dish?”

 “Oh, I’m down for buffalo chicken,” Reiner nods, opening the pantry and asking, “Sides?”

 He works with you like he has many times before, moving around each other, trading places, poking fun and laughing, and Reiner thinks that this is how it should be, isn’t it–this easy joy that just comes so natural to him when he’s around you. Is this what normal people feel all the time? Is life easier for them because they found what brings them this kind of happiness? Did he even have a chance before meeting you?

 “Alright, your dad should be home soon,” you say, washing your hands, “and until then we can just watch something.”

 Reiner is fine with that but not before tugging you close and kissing you. He needs to get it out of his system since, for the next few hours, he’ll have to act like he doesn’t want every part of you every minute.

 Your fingers curl in his shirt, and you stand on your tiptoes and press into him like it’s exactly where you want to be. It’s where you should be, Reiner thinks, and if he had the means he would make it so, convince you to pick up your life and run away with him like a couple of dumb kids.

 That’s not possible, though, so for now he’ll just have to do what he can to show you how much he cares for you–how much he loves you because fuck, it is a lot. 

 Roland gets home and goes about his evening routine of kicking off shoes and loosening his tie. When he bends to kiss you, Reiner looks away and runs his tongue over his teeth, waiting for the two of you to break apart before he gets up and helps you bring food to the table. 

 Chit-chat about the restaurant takes over, two cooks almost getting into a fight, how incompetent the hosts are, and Reiner wonders why his father does it if it’s all so tiresome, but then Roland begins talking about the birthday party that came in and the way everyone was laughing and cheering when the servers performed their little celebration song. 

 “Girl couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and you could see how embarrassed she was–” he chuckles.

 “At that age, having that many people looking at you is mortifying,” you add, and Reiner agrees. He doesn’t even know if he could handle a restaurant full of people staring at him at this age. 

 “Yeah, well, even with her hands covering her face, I could see her smiling, so… I think she had fun. Definitely seemed happy about the big slice of cake I brought out.”

 “As she should be, that cake is so good,” you say wistfully.

 Roland laughs, reminding you, “You can have it any time you want, honey, you’re the one who told me to stop bringing it home.”

 Reiner watches the two of you go back and forth, you claiming you had to stop because you were gaining weight and Roland insisting he didn’t care, and then Reiner watches as his dad’s gaze dips to your chest, and he has to bite his tongue. 

 “I mean, you look great now. I don’t know what it is, but your tits are–”

 “Roland!” you shout, going wide eyed and stiff, and even Reiner’s cheeks heat up.

 “What? I’m just trying to say they’re bigger, and if the cake will make them even–”

 “Would you–! Your son is right here!”

 Reiner just tries to hide his grin, gathering his empty plate and standing up. “Yeah, I’m just gonna…”

 “He doesn’t mind talking about it, do you, Reiner?” Roland calls out, voice airy with laughter.

 “I mean, I’m a guy–” who has spent an absolutely inordinate amount of time playing with those tits, “–so, no, I don’t mind, but uh…” 

 At the sink, he looks up and levels his gaze with yours, smiles at the way you’re crossing your arms over your chest and pouting. 

 “I don’t wanna embarrass you or anything,” he finishes, winking at you before turning the water on and rinsing his dishes. 

 Roland resumes his light-hearted teasing, making sure to tell you that he loves everything about your body and all kinds of bullshit Reiner has to tune out, but it’s easy to ignore.

 Because Roland doesn’t really know shit, does he? He doesn’t know exactly how perfect your body is. He hasn’t seen the way it can nurture someone, and he doesn’t know the way you taste. Not like Reiner does. 

 If you’d asked him when he was younger what he wanted to be when he grew up, Reiner would have given all stupid answers–athlete, musician, soldier. Dreams of a child.

 But, now he is grown, and if asked again, he would say that he just wants to be happy. He wants to be happy, and he wants to be happy with you. 

[hisoknen]

step daddy atsumu

w: somnophilia, noncon, infidelity, pseudo-cest, drinking

Atsumu wasn’t stupid. 

You knew what time your curfew was. Just because you were an adult now didn’t mean you weren’t still living by your mothers rules when you visited. For the most part you didn’t get into trouble like you used to. No longer arguing with her about how she was overbearing, knowing from experience that it did nothing other than have her crack down harder.

The only time you decided to test the waters was when she left for weekend conferences. You’d cozy up to him for the day and excuse yourself after dinner. Telling him not to wait up, that you would be home on time. 

You were going out to see the girls, you’d always say. You never were but that didn’t matter to him. He’d never tell her that you ignored her rules, if he did he wouldn’t get to have his fun anymore. 

He never hesitated to greet you when you snuck in late. He loved it when you showed up drunk out of your mind, giggling as you tried to tiptoe through the hallway quietly, stumbling as you made your way to your room. He’d listen from the master bedroom, waiting a few minutes for silence to envelope the house.

He loved walking in and seeing how you’d just barely made it onto your bed before passing out cold, booze still swirling heavily in your gut. He couldn’t help but free his cock at the sight of your skimpy little dress hiked up over your ass, body on full display for him. 

He loved how when he pulled your panties to the side, spreading your folds he could still see cum dripping out of your pretty little fucked out hole. Maybe it was from that boy you told him about. The one who never paid attention to you until you were three drinks in with your throat wrapped around his cock.

After the first time Atusmu no longer felt bad about sinking into your worn out cunt. You’d already been well fucked, there was no way you’d notice that he’d filled you up again before tucking you into bed. You wouldn’t be able to pick out the marks he’d left behind from the other ones littering your skin. You wouldn't notice the soreness in your jaw from when he’d stick his fingers down your throat while thrusting into you.

Only he knew the sounds you’d let out when you choked down his fingers. You never did seem to remember slurring his name while he pumped in and out of you, or the lewd sounds of your cunt filling the room as he humped into your limp body.

Any guilt he felt in the moment was washed away the next morning when you’d stumble into the kitchen and eat the meal he’d made for you with a lazy smile on your face, thanking him for not telling your mom you’d been out late again.

“It’ll be our little secret.”

[recareels]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ TAG INDEX!

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₊˚⊹ warnings and triggers

common triggering topics you may come across on my blog include (but are not limited to):

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬

dubcon ⋆ #tw:dubcon

somnophilia ⋆ #tw:somnophilia

dacryphilia ⋆ #tw:dacryphilia

degradation/dumbification ⋆ #tw:degradation, #tw:dumbification

daddy kink (sometimes with a ddlg type dynamic (aka a condescending caregiver type vibe) ⋆ #tw:daddy kink

spanking ⋆ #tw:spanking

marking (bruises, hickeys, scratches, bites) ⋆ #tw:marking

size kink/size difference ⋆ #tw:size kink

rough sex ⋆ #tw:rough sex

minimal prep ⋆ #tw:minimal prep

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

murder ⋆ #tw:murder

slight yandere ⋆ #tw:yandere

toxic relationships (manipulation, possessiveness, jealousy, patronization/condescension, extreme control, etc) ⋆ #tw:toxic relationship

age gaps between consenting adults ⋆ #tw:age gap

pseudocest (aka incest between adopted siblings, big brother x little sister ONLY) ⋆ #tw:pseudocest

organized crime ⋆ #tw:organized crime

drugs/drug addiction ⋆ #tw:drugs

cheating ⋆ #tw:cheating

blood ⋆ #tw:blood

if any of the topics mentioned above make you uncomfortable or upset, please filter the appropriate tags or block me! your safety and enjoyment should be of utmost concern, and it is your responsibility to curate your online space and online experience accordingly. stay safe <3

[inkykeiji]

are we having fun yet?

characters: todoroki touya, todoroki enji warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (adoptive siblings), rough sex, tw enji, fem!reader, toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy, touya’s just very mean) words: 1.7k

From the moment you stepped through the estate door, you’ve always been the princess of the family; babied to the point of patronization, pampered to the point of spoiled brat, rotten right to your sugary core.

The Todoroki family’s cherished little charity case, orphaned by a building Endeavor had failed to catch when you were only five years old, welcomed into his arms and his family and his big, big home. 

His.

Everyone loved you instantly, took to you like a swarm of maggots to a piece of fresh, ripe fruit—swathed you in adoration, gorged themselves on your sweet flesh, consumed your seeds and planted you in their hearts, let you take root, fester, grow.

Except for Touya, who, despite his big age at eleven years old—a whole six years older than you—developed a lifelong penchant for yanking on your pigtails or braids just to hear you yelp out that pretty Touya-nii!, filtered through a cutely scrunched pout. 

Everyone still loves you, even well into adulthood, desperate to aid you, to wait on you hand and foot, to take care of the poor little orphaned girl. 

Except for Touya.

Because Touya loves you even more than everyone else. Touya loves you the most. 

He wouldn’t be so goddamn mean if he didn’t. 

But regardless of how precious you are to all of the Todorokis, you are not perfect. 

And there is one teensy, tiny, slightly distasteful habit you just can’t seem to kick. 

It’s a habit you developed when you were just a child, only a few months into officially being a Todoroki.

It’s a habit you should’ve grown out of by now—any respectable young woman would have, at this point. 

It’s a habit you’ve been spoken to about several times—but, evidently, nothing quite seems to stick. 

It isn’t normal for a fully grown adult to jump into her father’s arms like that, Fuyumi had tried to explain gently, eyes brimming with sympathetic pity. It isn’t entirely appropriate. 

Maybe not. But you’re not entirely sure you care. 

Because you just can’t help it, legs taking off the moment you hear Daddy’s engine cut, bare feet padding down the hallway as Daddy’s boots collide with the cobblestone walkway, rounding the foyer corner just as he’s stepping through the front door, barrelling into his waiting arms with a syrupy sweet squeal of Daddy! sounding in your throat.

“Hey, princess,” he’s saying as he catches you, hoists you up by your armpits and cradles you to his body, large hands strong and secure beneath your bum. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” 

A routine procedure, question murmured out like clockwork, but you never tire of it.

“Better, now that you’re home,” you sigh into him, legs wrapped around his waist and arms twined around his neck, resting your head on his broad shoulder as you stare up at him. 

The familiar scent of sandalwood tickles your nose, infused with notes of dirt and rubble and a hint of sweat, and you breathe it in deeply, desperate to fill your lungs with it, that Dad Aftershave that never seems to fade, no matter how long or ruthless his shift was. 

Your ribs stretch, strain, press into Daddy’s strong chest, and he chuckles, the sound rumbling warmly against you. 

He knows what you’re doing. 

“Trying to inhale me?” he asks, but amusement streaks his tone, crystal eyes melty and lidded as they stare down at you, a small smile on his lips. 

With an embarrassed little squeak, you nod, burrowing your burning face into his shoulder, Enji laughing again; gentle, soft, full of love. 

“Y’jus smell really good, s’all,” you mumble into him. “You smell like home, Daddy.” 

“Even all sweaty and icky from work?”

“Even all sweaty and icky from work,” you confirm with a lethargic nod, thighs tightening around his thick waist, desperate to hug him closer. 

Droplets of exertion still adorn his neck, little beads glittering delicately in the setting sunlight spilling through the front windows in large beams of gold. With content humming in your throat, you nuzzle your cheek into his damp skin, smearing his sweat across your flesh, letting it seep into your tissues, forcefully marking yourself with his scent. 

“That’s gross, dad. I don’t know why you let her do that to you.” A smooth, dark voice sounds behind you, two pairs of eyes snapping to the source. 

Touya.

Leaning against the cased opening, he smirks—a cruel little curl up of his lips, sharp and void of mirth—his arms crossed loosely over his chest in practiced apathy.  

Sapphire eyes skim down your knotted bodies slow and languid, appraising, degrading, before climbing back up to meet your own stare, blue flames licking around his pupils.

“It’s not right,” he continues. He’s talking to Daddy, but his eyes haven’t left your own, the inferno blazing in his irises so bright you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blooming in your vision.

It hurts, but you won’t bow, you won’t break—not here, not now, not for him. 

With decided defiance, you trail the tip of your nose along the sharp edge of your father’s jaw—slow, soft, sensual—planting a chaste kiss to the strong, defined hinge, steadily holding your eldest brother’s unblinking gaze. 

Oh, Touya knows what you’re doing. 

And, oh, Touya fucking hates it. 

Something sours his face, twists his features into a bitter wince—anger, or heartache, or both, morphing his handsomeness into something ugly, stained with envy.

“Oh, Touya,” Enji dismisses with a grumble and a roll of his eyes. “Can’t a father hug his little girl when he comes home? What’s the issue with that?” 

“Jesus Christ, you can’t be serious,” Touya snorts, and it’s caustic, gnawing through the heavy atmosphere. “Your ‘little girl’ is a grown fucking woman. It’s weird.” 

It’s wrong.  

“Touya’s got a point, Enji,” Rei says as she rounds the corner, lips pressed in a flat, thin line. “Sweetheart,” her eyes find yours, mouth stretching into a small, tight smile, straining beneath the pressure of contrived cordiality. “We talked about this.” 

Brow furrowing, your eyes swap between their faces. “But I’m—I was just—”

But it’s no use trying to explain; they’ve already made up their minds, already sentenced you to damnation, ice and slate scrutinizing, suffocating as their combined stares weigh down on you.

A garbled noise hitches in your throat, something that sounds suspiciously similar to unfair as you untangle yourself from your Daddy, Enji’s large hands aiding in the task, setting you down onto the hardwood floor gently.

A precious moment, smashed to bits by hard jealousy. 

An apologetic ruffle of your hair, his palm so massive it practically encases the entire top of your head—sorry, kiddo—and then he’s off, stalking down the hallway for a much-anticipated shower to wash the grime of the day from his skin, his wife following close to his side, hissing out reproaches, fragments of their conversation—discourage and indulge and shouldn’t—slicing your ears.

“You always ruin everything,” you spit at your brother, the moment both of your parents are out of view.  

“That so?” he gazes down at you with polished impassivity, sapphire lidded but scorching—but you know him better than that, you know him the best. 

“Yeah, that is so,” you seethe. “It’s so unfair that you get to fuck anything that moves but I’m not even allowed to give our father a simple hug.”

Disgust screws up his face, but it’s tinged with desolation, the implication sewn into your words loud and clear—if you could, if Daddy would let you, you’d fuck him, too.

Whether or not that’s true, whether or not it’s just a tactic to hurt him, doesn’t matter. The fact that you’re even making the implication itself is enough. 

And Touya knows better than most that these little quips, razored little insults spit between siblings, always have a glimmer of truth to them. 

“There’s nothing simple about that ‘hug’—if that’s what you want to call it.” The words are acrid, stinging his tongue, but his voice cracks, eroded by emotion. 

“What would you call it?” 

“You should be ashamed,” he continues, ignoring your question. 

“Why? It’s just an innocent—”

“Innocent?” he scoffs, eyebrows raising with sardonic surprise. “It’s indecent. Winding around our father like that, climbing him like he’s a fucking tree—” His face puckers, the thought venom in his mouth, head shaking in disapproval.

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” you say, lifting your nose with a haughty air of superiority, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the kill. “Huh? Jealous that I touch Daddy like that so freely, jealous that I like Daddy better than I like you.” 

Poor Daddy, used as a toy, a tool to wield against your big brother—the only foolproof weapon in your arsenal, the only surefire way to hurt Touya, to guarantee you get what you’re so desperately vying for.

Daddy’s Little Girl always gets what she wants—consciously or not, Daddy makes sure of that. 

Touya smirks in response; nothing more than a lopsided twitching of his lips, the hellfire in his eyes flaring, a spark of terror zipping through your veins. Huffing out the ghost of a laugh through his nostrils—humourless, bleak—his tongue runs along his front teeth, sucking hard, eyes narrowed.

You know what that means, too.

You’ll pay for that remark later tonight, face shoved into your eldest brother’s pillows, cotton wedged between your teeth as his hips smack your ass and his cock pounds your cervix and his fingers tighten around your wrists, yanking back with every plunging thrust forward, using them as leverage, your muscles pulled taut and aching. 

And that’ll just be the start. He won’t stop until his pillow is thoroughly soaked with you—your tears, your spit, your sweat, drying in hard crusts of salt—until you’re sobbing out his honorific, twined so beautifully with messy apologies, the only words your stupid little brain can comprehend, until your cute little cunt has been fucked raw, split open by his thick cock over and over and over again, stuffed so full of your big brother’s cum that it’s oozing past his shaft in dribbles of cream.

He won’t stop until your body is mangled and marred with him, dark splotches of broken blood vessels and scabby molds of his teeth reminding you of who you truly belong to.

And then, he’ll fuck you some more. 

Your Welcome Home ritual won’t be the only thing your big brother is ruining tonight. 

[inkykeiji]

you be my revolver, i got you in my hands

character: choso kamo x fem!reader

genre: curseless!au, smut

notes: eeee first choso piece ever!!! i had such a blast writing this and i wish i could’ve gotten it finished in time for christmas but alas! anyway, please enjoy this and as always please heed the warnings below and stay safe! | title credit: girl like me by dove cameron

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (reader + choso are family friends), age gap, bratty reader, rough sex, minimal prep, teasing, hints of manipulation, hints of dubcon, size kink, pet names

words: 6k

synopsis:

“Maybe you should stop calling me that.” “What? Why?” you pout, blinking up at him, sugared innocence coating your tone. “I thought you wanted me to call you big brother…I thought I was allowed to…”  “Bi-Big brothers don’t do stuff like this with their little sisters—” “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not actually related then, isn’t it, onii-chan.” 

Choso can’t remember the last time he saw you.

You’ve known each other for a long time—so long Choso’s lost count of the years, now, having met you when Yuuji was just a toddler (and you were, too) at the bus stop on Yuuji’s first day of Pre-K, only to discover you lived a mere few houses from each other—but you haven’t seen each other in a long time, too. 

It’s not through fault of either of you; life had gotten in the way, as it has a tendency to do so, had grown busy with intricacies and obligations that demanded time and attention, tangling around you and keeping you apart. 

You had both embarked on university endeavours; him pursuing his PhD, you continuing your undergrad, had both stuffed more and more into your lives—art shows and book readings and music festivals and tropical trips—and lost space for each other in the process.

Choso can’t remember the last time he saw you, but it feels as though no time has passed at all, as it normally does with family—you’re still just as bratty as you’ve always been (some things never change, he guesses; some things you’ll never grow out of, he supposes). 

Family.

Family is not a word he uses lightly, but you and yours had quickly become his and theirs, had quickly become ours, morphing from neighbours to friends to practically kin, members mixing to form something special, a hybrid of some sort, stuck somewhere between long-standing family friends and blood relatives. 

Which is why how you’re acting—how you’ve been acting, this entire winter break—is so undeniably inappropriate. 

And although he’s lost track of the years, everything beginning to blur together, to melt and flow and shift and breathe, he still remembers the day he told you to call him onii-chan. 

That he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

Yuuji’s so lucky, you had pouted, kicking at the sandy ground with the toe of your shoe and swaying a little on the swing. He has a big brother. I don’t. I’ve always wished I had one. Sighing, you looked away, fingers tangling in the chain. But I’ll never get one; it’s impossible. 

It’s not impossible, Choso had responded gently, nudging his swing against your own. I’ll be your big brother, if you want. 

And you—well, you had been so incredibly happy, all bright smiles and sunshine eyes and breathless giggles, to have a big brother to call your own.

Never in his life did he think he’d come to regret such a decision.

But you seem to be on a mission to make him, this Christmas.

Because you’re really testing his fucking patience, this Christmas.

The term of endearment oozes from your lips as if it’s melted in the wet heat of your mouth every single time, always paired with your worst behaviour: bending over in those short, sweet, slutty skirts and flashing cute Christmas panties at him; placing a hand much too high to be appropriate on his thigh as you watch a film together, leaning close to his ear to murmur out a silky question you already know the answer to; twining your ankles with his beneath the dinner table and gazing at him with eyes full of sin, leaning so far forward on the table that your tits swell, nearly spilling from the too-low neckline of your dress, then giggling when you catch him ogling. 

As a result, he’s been meticulous about avoiding being alone in a room with you—he doesn’t trust himself, doesn’t trust what he might do, especially if you start playing your little games—but he should’ve known it would only be a matter of time until you get want you want. 

Because it always is. 

And on Christmas Eve, you finally succeed. 

Somehow, you’ve managed to get him alone in his childhood bedroom—something about wanting to flip through his old sketchbooks, to search for some doodles he had drawn for you many years ago, to rip the pages from the spiral-bound spine and stuff them in your back pocket, for safekeeping, you had claimed. 

Tugging at his heartstrings, that’s how you succeeded. 

Sitting on the edge of his small twin bed, thighs slotted up against one another and both of your arms looped around one of his, he flips through the curling pages of his drawings, smudged with graphite and pastels. 

“Oh, I remember this one!” 

A dainty finger points to a cute kitten sketched out in astonishing detail, with a pink nose and a satin ribbon tied in a bow around its neck. 

“It’s you,” he smirks. “You asked me what animal you’d be, and then demanded I draw you as a kitten when I responded with a cat.” 

“You drew a lot of me,” you lean forward, swelling breasts pressed flush to his bicep, a palm sitting high on his thigh as avid eyes scan over the spread, gaze stuttering as it sweeps from doodle to doodle. 

“I drew a lot for you,” he says, the observation entirely unthinking. “You wanted a specific page, but I might as well give you this whole sketchbook. More than half the pieces in here are for you.” 

It’s a fact that shocks him in its authenticity, a realization that sends a painful, sick thrill searing through his body, saliva beginning to collect in the dips beneath his tongue.

“I’m such a lucky girl,” you hum out in a sigh, nuzzling your cheek into his arm and looking up at him with shimmering eyes. “I have such a good big brother.” 

“You’re spoiled,” he says, but his voice holds no malice, eyes softening as he stares down at you, a small smile on his lips. 

“I dunno about that,” you frown, but mischief glints in your eye. “You haven’t really given me what I’ve wanted all holiday…” 

Blood turns to shards of ice in his veins, whole body going rigid as his breath stalls in his throat, pounding heartbeat reverberating in his ears. 

“Wh-What’s that?”

He doesn’t want to ask it, doesn’t mean to ask it, but the question claws at his tongue, pries past his teeth and tumbles from his lips in a ragged, tangled heap.

And the smile that spreads across your face is nothing short of sinister, that glint flaring to a sharp shine as your pupils breathe, pulse, swallow him whole. 

“A Christmas kiss,” you say, stare unblinking and intense as your hand slips between his legs, rubbing little circles into his inner thigh, a mere centimetre or two away from his cock. 

The motion makes him jolt, hips involuntarily twitching toward your touch, brushing his half-hard cock against your knuckles.

“That’s all I want,” you sigh almost dreamily, tits pressed harder into his bicep as you lean closer, so tight they’re practically being squeezed from your sweetheart neckline. “A kiss from my onii-chan. Though…” 

Trailing off, your hand slides up a little further, pinky and ring finger tiptoeing along the rapidly hardening lump in his jeans, squealing out a short giggle as it jumps beneath your touch.

“I’m not sure that’s all onii-chan wants.”

“Onii-chan doesn’t want anything from you,” he breathes out, but his voice is rough, unconvincing, his hands curled into firm fists on his bedspread, trembling slightly, skin stretched taut across pointed knuckles.

“Another lie,” your lips tug down, voice saturated with disappointment. “You know, good big brothers don’t lie to their siblings,” you fix him with a look, glaring through feathery lashes, expression teetering dangerously on the edges of a pout.

A shiver skitters through his bones, whole body stiffening. His jaw flexes as he grinds his molars, a slow, controlled breath exhaled out his nose, his eyes flicking down. You’re still touching him, two fingertips rubbing gentle circles into his clothed cock.

“Maybe you should stop calling me that.”

“What? Why?” you pout, blinking up at him, sugared innocence coating your tone. “I thought you wanted me to call you big brother…I thought I was allowed to…” 

“Bi-Big brothers don’t do stuff like this with their little sisters—”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not actually related then, isn’t it, onii-chan.” 

“That—That—” he swallows hard, dense saliva pooling at the back of his tongue. “That doesn’t matter—We shouldn’t—”

“But—” your lip juts out further, forehead crinkling. “But I want to.” 

You can’t always get what you want. 

That’s what he wants to tell you. That’s what he wishes he could tell you. But it just isn’t fucking true, when it comes to you. 

“Stop,” he says instead, and although it’s supposed to be an order, it comes out as a plead, his voice hoarse, strained, thin, the proclamation high and false and tinny. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” the tip of your index finger traces the head, looking up at him through your lashes. “Did you know that?” 

He does, he does know that. He’s a terrible liar, eyes too honest, voice too sincere, expressions too candid, always giving away his true intentions and forthright thoughts.

He’s a terrible discipliner, too, incapable of saying no, of refusing his siblings anything. You know this, too. 

“St—” he tries to force the word from his tongue again, protest sticking in his throat. Stop, stop, he wants you to stop, he needs you to stop, please. 

But that’s a lie, too, the rejection refusing to take shape, to mold into something audible, something tangible, something worthwhile. 

No matter how much he wishes it were true, he can’t will it to become true—not when he wants this just as badly as you do, his straining cock exposing his real desires to you.

You’ve already taken full notice of it, yearning for you through rough denim, hot and hard and throbbing. The pad of your finger rubs over the slit in rhythmic motions, smooth and gliding, aided by the copious amount of pre-cum oozing through the material, and it jerks beneath your touch, eager for more attention. 

“It’s so hard, onii-chan,” your hand cups the impressive bulge, rolling it in your palm, a girlish giggle tickling your tongue. “It—It’s throbbing, onii-chan.” 

“Yeah? And who’s fault is that?” he breathes, attempting to keep his tone stern and his eyes stony. 

“It’s making me want to ride it,” you whimper loudly, squeezing your thighs together, completely ignoring his question. “Oh, please, onii-chan, can I ride your cock?” 

“Fu-fuck,” the curse breaks on his tongue, eyes shut tightly, breaking away from your invasive stare. “Fuck, fuck, f-fuck.” 

No. 

“I’d really like to ride it, onii-chan.”

No. 

“Can I? Pretty please?”

No-no-no-no-no! 

He wants to say no. He should say no. It’s the right thing to do. 

He’s the older brother, the eldest brother, it’s his duty to say no, to mentor, to lead by example. 

But he can’t. 

He can’t form the word in his throat, can’t mold it into a sound and push it from his mouth. 

He’s never truly been able to, when it comes to you—and he was so fucking stupid to think he would.

Because, as always, you are making it exceptionally difficult to deny, gazing up at him with shimmering eyes like that, mouth licked raw in anticipation, bottom lip bitten puffy from the front teeth constantly sinking into it.

“I—It isn’t right—” he attempts, swallowing thickly, cords in his neck straining, desperately attempting to quell the tremor in his voice.

He knows you don’t care. If he’s being entirely honest with himself, he doesn’t, either, his morality eroded to nothing more than a farce, a thin façade, not nearly strong enough to force him into doing the right thing, not nearly strong enough to fortify his rapidly waning self-discipline.

“I—I won’t tell,” you whimper, and he can see the fine film of tears lacquering your eyes, shielding lust-blown pupils. “Pinky promise! I just—I just want you so badly,” your nose twitches cutely with a sniffle, your bottom lip beginning to waver with infinitesimal quivers, soft palm caressing his cock like you love it. “Please, onii-chan?”

And Christ, you’re so pretty, so pouty, with your glistening puppy-dog eyes and pleads dripping from your lips like thick syrup. 

How could he possibly say no to something so precious? How could anyone?

“Alright,” he whispers, defeated, eyes squeezing shut as he nods. “If it’ll make you happy.”

“Really?”

And just like that, the tears are incinerated from your eyes, gaze bright and blazing with excitement, lips molded into a brilliant smile. 

You look so sickeningly beautiful when you get what you want. 

“Yes,” he nearly whimpers, and it’s pathetic, his hips twitching up into your touch, craving, desperate. “Yes, yes, ride my cock.” 

The affirmative is all you need, squealing a little with happiness as you climb into his lap, fingers up your own skirt to push your soaked panties to the side, other hand pawing clumsily at his waistband.

“Thank you,” you breathe, the words soaking into his neck, sealed with a sloppy kiss. “Oh, thank you, onii-chan.” 

He can’t help but chuckle a little as his hands find your waist, instinctive, steadying you. 

“Eager little thing, aren’t you.”

“This is all I want,” you tell him, pulling back a little to search his face. “S’all I’ve wanted for a long time.” 

He wants to ask you to elaborate on that, confusion warping his brow, but then you’re yanking at his belt loops and pulling at his zipper and wrapping a soft palm around the base of his cock, a heavy groan vibrating in his throat. 

“Wait, wait!” he chokes on a gasp as you hover over his cock, head bumping against your hole. “Let me—”

“I don’t wanna wait,” you whine out, petulant and stringy, whole face scrunched in frustration. “I’ve been waiting! I want your cock in me now!”

Fuck, you’re such a fucking brat, he’s growling as he forces you down on his cock in one swift motion, the sudden intrusion pushing a yelp from your lips. Your forehead knocks against his, sugar-stained breath wafting across his face, his tongue darting out to mop up remnants from his mouth. 

It’s really cute, the way your little cunt spasms around his shaft as he bottoms out, pressed snug and tight against your cervix, desperate in its attempt to adjust to his girth. It’s really sweet, the way your body splits itself open for him, cracking at the core and struggling to swallow him down.

“Oh, it’s so big, onii-chan!” 

“God,” he nearly sobs. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know that?” 

Giggling, you wind your arms around his neck tighter, nuzzling your cheek into his skin, then stringing a garland of wet kisses along the line of his jaw. 

“S’really thick, Choso-nii,” you tell him honestly, nodding in lethargic little motions. “I feel so full, onii-chan.” 

A laugh falls from his lips, breathy and exalted. 

“I don’t know if it’s that I’m big, or if it’s just that your cunt is so fucking small,” his voice tapers off into a whine, raspy and gruff. 

“H-Hurts a little, onii-chan,” you admit in a whimper, hips shifting in experimental little movements, conjuring a groan from deep within his chest.��

“Yeah? And who’s fault is that, huh?” he asks for the second time in fifteen minutes. “Who was too impatient to let onii-chan prep her?”

“Don’t care,” you mumble. “Wanted you s’bad.” 

He laughs again, warm and gentle and full of love, his hands squeezing your hips just enough to make you gasp, fingertips pressing his name into your flesh in blotchy little ovals of purple. 

“You have me,” he says, his words ringing clear and true with a painful sincerity. 

The vibrations of your responding hum seep from your chest into his, and he sighs, body deflating against yours, pleasant little tingles snuggling between his ribs. 

You stay like that for a moment to two, wound up in one another, chests pressed flush, breathing as one. Your auras ebb and flow, presences bleeding, tangling together and creating something that is neither one nor the other but both, a single shared entity. 

And it’s nice, it’s real, it’s natural.

But then you become impatient, as you normally do, as he knew you would, wiggling a little in his lap, fingers twining in the strands at the base of his neck. 

“Go on, sweetheart,” he urges gently. “Ride onii-chan’s cock.” 

And so you do, hips beginning to roll in slow, languid circles, fingers still laced at the back of his skull, half-buried in messy ink.

He allows you to set the pace, allows you to take your time, allows you to enjoy and savour every rock and grind and bounce, staring at you through heavily lidded eyes, hands on your waist merely guiding you—keeping you stable, just like a big brother should. 

He’s absolutely breathtaking; gaze glittering in the dim light overflowing with awe, spit-slicked lips licked raw and shimmering as his tongue glides over them again, swollen and bitten cherry red.

You can’t help but reach out to trace his features; the strong line of his brow, the delicate curve of his cheek, the enticing bow of his lips, hips slowing to uneven little ruts as you hone your focus, his eyes observing you with a sick sort of fascination.

“Did you—Have you—Have you thought about this before?” 

The question stings his tongue, revulsion flushing through his blood as guilt pricks his flesh, his cock throbbing eagerly.

“Course I have,” you breathe out with a little laugh, as if he’s so silly for thinking you might not have. “Actually, I—I—”

A sudden shyness overtakes you, an unsure giggle on your lips fading into a soft squeal as you hide in his shoulder, shaking your head a little. 

“What? Huh?” he shrugs, nudging your face up gently, curiosity clawing at his irises as they search your face, voracious. “What?” 

“Well, sometimes I…” 

The words tangle in your throat and you choke on them, gaze fleeing his own, and you shake your head again, chest beginning to stammer.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, rubbing reassuring circles into your flesh. “You can tell onii-chan, go on.” 

There are tears in your eyes now, mouth wobbling a little with the verging confession, and God, that’s so hot, why is that so fucking hot? 

“Where’s my brave little sister gone now? Hmm?”

“M’right here, onii-chan,” you whisper, face teetering on a wince, as if you’re bracing for a blow, terrified to admit to him, fearing reprimand. “It’s just that—Sometimes I do, um, really bad things with my stuffies while—while thinking about you…” 

Dewdrops of shame glitter in your lashes as your lids flutter, nose scrunching with a soft sniffle, tears breaking free of their wispy confines to roll down your cheeks in fat, glimmering streams—so fucking beautiful in the dim light of his bedroom—but you don’t dare break his stare, gazing at him through a thick shield of water. 

“Oh, Christ,” he coughs on the curse, hands flexing on your waist, blunt nails digging into your skin. “And what—what do you think about?” 

“Um,” your gaze flits from his own, to his wrinkled bedspread, then back to his face, wide and honest. “Riding you, like this. And—And riding your thighs, makin’ a real mess all over them, and your thick fingers too, filling me up…” 

Bolts of dizziness sear his brain as his lungs deflate, oxygen eaten up by pure lust and leaving his chest buzzing, burning, some sort of response mangling itself in his throat, escaping his lips as nothing more than a cracked moan.

“Do you think about me, onii-chan?” 

Your question pulls him from the depths of his hedonism and he blinks, your face swimming into view, a peculiar mix of hope and cognizance infusing your expression, eyebrows raised with false curiosity, a smirk twitching on your lips.

Ah, there she is, that brat he knows so well, that brat he’s come to crave, every ounce of uncertainty eradicated from your face, replaced with assured confidence, contradicting the tears still staining your cheeks.

You fucking know he does. 

And, oh, how he wishes he was stronger, how he wishes he could lie, how he wishes he could devour the smugness in your eyes and complacency in your smile, to humble you, to knock you from your high throne.

He settles for a kiss instead, mouth crushed to yours as a large hand cups your head, thumb pressing into your ear, fingertips dragging across your scalp as he yanks you closer. 

It hurts, his front teeth scraping against your lip as he practically gnaws his way to your tongue, his own big and thick and so fucking strong as it overwhelms yours, shoving it further into the cavern of your mouth and forcing it to stay put as he explores. 

He’s making a real mess as he slathers over your molars, over the inside of your cheeks and the backs of your teeth, drenching your mouth in him. Drool oozes steadily from the corners, collecting along the underside of his bottom lip and leaving his chin sticky and slick. 

“Yes,” he whispers, eyes shut so tightly his whole forehead crinkles, mouth wet and sliding against your own. “Yes, yes, I think about you—much too often.”

Nose nudging yours, he nuzzles into your face a little, planting a chaste kiss to your lips, then peppering a few more, quick and sloppy, around your mouth.

“But right now, I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to feel you creaming all over my cock—you think you can do that for me, princess?” His palms cushion your cheeks, thumbs swiping across your cheekbones, then brushing strands of damp hair from your temples. “You think you can do that for your onii-chan?” 

Yes you can, of course you can, you’re nodding, blinking the last remnants of tears from your eyes, rapid movement eliminating the final stubborn drops, clinging delicately to your outer lashes. 

“S’it, baby,” he encourages as your hips start moving again, working up a steady rhythm. “Just like that, good girl.”

A mewl slips from your lips, burrowing your scalding face in his sticky neck again, his undivided attention almost too much to bear. 

“Like it when you call me a good girl,” you murmur, lips dragging across his skin with the confession, streaking him with thick glimmers of spit. 

“Is that so?” he laughs a little, pressing a few kisses to the crown of your head. “That’s because you don’t hear it often.” 

Lifting your head, you scowl at him, though there’s no heat to your glare, fury dimmed by fondness, unable to smother the smile playing with your lips.

A dazzling smile spreads across his own face in response, and he laughs again, his eyes so bright, so brilliant they almost hurt, blazing like two small suns, scorching your skin as his gaze glides over it.

He watches you like a man possessed, a man obsessed, entirely entranced by the way pleasure passes over your face, twisting your features into the cutest little winces as you grind the head of his cock against your cervix, then smoothing them out with bliss as his shaft drags along your favourite spot, bouncing in shallow little motions to rub over that fleshy patch hard and fast, a stream of mewls spilling from your lips, stitched together with his honorific. 

“You’re so pretty when you ride my cock,” he groans, words tapering off into a hoarse whimper, as if it pains him to admit it. 

His palms run up your sides, fingers counting over each rib, hands committing every dip and curve and bulge to memory, marvelled by the way you fill his grip, as if he can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re his—even if just for tonight.

“Yeah, yeah, keep going, use onii-chan like a toy, sweetheart.” 

And he tries to be patient, he swears he does—tries not to rush you, tries to relish in the moment, in each swirl of your hips and every puff of his name—except your pace never accelerates, never moves past anything but teasing as you use his now aching cock to continually edge yourself; moans building higher and higher, louder and louder, on the cusp of the crest before they disintegrate into nothing and you start the process all over again, the delicate fluttering of your cunt enough to drive him fucking insane with desire.

It has his entire form trembling with such vigour it’s quivering the mattress, muscles locked stiff and tight as he tries to keep from moving, from bucking up wildly, from forcing you to speed the hell up. Rough fingers sink into your flesh so deep it dimples, a pathetic attempt to ground himself, rapidly blooming bruises staining your flesh.

But he’s powerless to stifle the whines leaking through the gaps of his gritted teeth, hands flexing on your hips, whole body pulled taut with restraint. 

He’s sure you can feel his cock twitching inside of you, eager and impatient, begging you to move faster, to fuck him harder. 

But you aren’t going to do any of that—not unless he asks for it, he realizes dimly, after you bring yourself to near orgasm for the third time in a row, giggling a little at his crestfallen expression, his hair having fallen almost completely from its trademark spiky buns, braided fishermen sweater soaked with sweat and sticking to his now heaving chest.

He really thought it was real this time. He really thought you were finally going to cream all over him, so he could finally flip you over and fuck you properly, pound you into the mattress and stuff that pretty, cute little cunt to the goddamn brim with his seed.

He’d been trying so hard to be nice, to be the loving, doting, good big brother he is—but he’s also only human, and there’s only so much misbehaviour he can bear before, finally, he snaps. 

Because, sure, big brothers are meant to care for, to lead and to nurture, but they’re also meant to teach, to punish, to put bratty little sisters back in their fucking place. 

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Huh?” his grip on your hips tightens, halting you from moving. “You think I’m fucking stupid?” 

“Never, Choso-nii,” you gasp, astonished. “I would never—” 

Sincerity rings in your voice, but he can see it, the mischief tugging at the corners of your mouth, barely suppressed by your façade of innocence.

Anyone else would’ve been fooled—enchanted by your doe eyes and your dainty voice. 

But not him.

No, he knows better now. 

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off, eyes narrowed sharply. “You wanted to ride my cock, but you’re clearly incapable of it—”

“No I’m not!”

“—So it looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

“No! I—I can do it!” you cry, face crumpled in fury, nails scrabbling at his shoulders.

“You lost your chance to prove it to me,” he growls. 

The world flips suddenly, momentarily a blur of inks and ivories, a breath of surprise punched from your ribs as your back slams against the mattress, trapped between the bedspread and your big brother’s heaving chest.

“You have been testing me all fucking holiday,” he snarls, specks of spit splattering across your cheeks. “Onii-chan shouldn’t give you his cum—onii-chan shouldn’t have given you his cock at all!” 

A certain type of haughtiness corrodes your shock, lips spreading into a pompous smirk.

“Oh, but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you, onii-chan.” 

“You little bitch!” 

His hips shove forward, forcing you further into the plush of the mattress, cockhead ramming against your cervix. A little noise of pain vibrates on the back of your tongue, shattering your arrogance, and a grin smears across his face, glinting in the moonlight. 

“I think it’s time your big brother teach you a lesson in respect.”

“Y-Yeah? And how are you gonna do that?”

“You’re going to take what onii-chan gives you, and you’re going to fucking like it. And then, at the end, when you’ve gone stupid from the cock you don’t deserve, you’re going to thank me for giving it to you at all. Do you understand me?” 

Defiance shines in your eyes, lacquered by a thin coating of tears, nose scrunching up in a glower. 

A rough thumb and forefinger, hardened by charcoals, clamps around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks with such force that your mouth puckers, a sticky little whine squealing in your throat.

“Do you understand me?” he asks again, each word said slow with purpose, each word annunciated with intent, his eyes boring into yours, sharp and painful. 

Finally, those tears push past your bloated lashes, shoved from your eyes by rapid blinking and rolling down your cheeks in glistening pairs, a half-stifled hiccup stuttering your chest. 

“Y-Yes,” you whisper, nose twitching. 

“What was that? Onii-chan couldn’t hear you.” 

“Yes, onii-chan.” 

“Good girl.”

And then his hips are snapping, hard and fast and immediate, fucking into you with such ruthlessness that it jostles your body up the bed, sheets collecting in little wrinkled bunches beneath you. Your nails sink into his shoulders, piercing flesh through the knit of his sweater, the muscles in your thighs tensing as your ankles hook around his waist, his shirt riding up, your heels digging into the those cute little dimples that cushion the base of his spine. 

It hurts, every pound of his cock producing a dull, throbbing ache low and deep in your gut, another torrent of tears rushing to flood your vision.

“Ch-Choso-nii, Ch-Choso-nii,” you whimper, face screwed up in pain, his name stuttered by his rapid thrusts.

“What’s the matter?” he pouts, and it’s so condescending, dripping from his lips in an over-exaggerated coo. “Can’t take onii-chan’s cock?”

The question wafts across your face in a panted breath and you lick at your lips, sopping it up with your tongue.

“N-No,” you say, and that telltale brattiness is back, watered down by his viciousness. “I can do it—I-I can do it for you, onii-chan.” 

A throaty curse escapes his lips, thrusts stammering out of rhythm for a moment as his cock twitches, and a helpless giggle bubbles up in your throat.

Even angry, he’s still so fucking easy. 

He regains his composure quickly, though, face hardened to stone but beginning to splinter with pleasure. 

“Brat,” he breathes out, though there’s mirth shining in his eyes, pure and fond and full of love. “You better.”

And even angry, he still sounds so fucking pretty; cracked moans and dense groans and choked gasps, all flowing from his mouth in a single stream, fractured by the piston of his hips.

The pain doesn’t fade, of course—it barely diminishes at all, the sheer massiveness of his cock making it near impossible to be dispelled, keeping the cramping pang in the pit of your belly steady and constant—but it does amplify the pleasure, nerves gnawed raw by the agony, left hypersensitive to the sparks of ecstasy that blaze through your veins with every quick, rough pump of his hips, every deep, hard slam against your bruised cervix, every rapid drag over that engorged spot.

It leaves you feeling high, leaves you feeling stupid, brain melting in a hot haze of lust and rendering you incapable of forming a single coherent thought beyond how incredible his cock is, his name and his title the only two things your sloppy, numb tongue can fully scrape together.

It’s all so much, too much, but it all feels so fucking good—s’good, Choso-nii, y’r so-so good—sentiment vibrating indistinctly in your chest.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, words gone wispy, fading into a whine. “Does your onii-chan’s cock make you feel good?”

Yes, yes, yes, onii-chan, it’s so good, you’re so good! 

Your head nods frantically, fingers curling in the collar of his sweater, a mess of affirmatives fucked from your mouth. 

“Y’know, you’re kinda cute when you’re too cockdrunk to misbehave,” he chuckles a little, biting back a moan as your cunt clenches at the compliment. “May-Maybe onii-chan should fuck you stupid more often, huh?” 

Oh, God, yes, onii-chan; oh, please, onii-chan! 

“Yeah, you’d like that a bit too much, though, wouldn’t you, you little sl—ah—slut.”

Drool dribbles from the sides of your mouth as you continue nodding, eyes wide and unblinking, encrusted with stars. 

“Y’so pretty, onii-chan,” you manage to mumble out, sentiment tangled in threads of spit, fingers flexing in the fabric of his sweater, as if they yearn to touch but can’t find the strength to carry out the action.

And he is, so beautiful it’s borderline sickening, strands of onyx plastered to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, strung together in clumps and saturated in sweat; damp skin glittering in the waning moonlight spilling through the slits of his window, dewdrops catching delicately in the beams as he pounds into you, every drive of his cock accelerating his pace.

“W-Wan’your cum now,” you slur the demand through a lax pout, lids beginning to weight with exhaustion, heavy as they frame dopey eyes.

“Yeah?” he laughs a little, gaze shining with adoration, and it’s breathless, it’s beautiful, his affection wafting over your scalding face. “Onii-chan needs you to cream all over his cock first. Can you—” a grunt cuts him off, and he whimpers, pushing through his sentence, his voice strained. “Can y’do that for me, angel?” 

“Uh-huh, uh—uh-huh,” your head begins nodding more fervently again, pushing your lids open with some effort to stare up at him, pupils swelling with devotion and determination.

“Then show me—Show me how gorgeous my good girl looks when she’s making a mess all over her big brother’s cock.” 

Three more thrusts and your cunt is obeying, convulsing on his thick shaft as heat gushes around him, so much that you can hear it—a sick, slick squelching as he jackhammers into you, your essence coating his thighs in a shiny layer of arousal. 

“Oh, fuck,” his eyes shut tightly before springing open again, suddenly rabid, ravenous. 

The bed creaks as his hips speed up, skin sticky with arousal as it slaps against your own, the sharp sound mingling with his ragged pants and your hitched mewls.

“Onii—Nii-chan,” you nearly wail, fingers tangling weakly in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping against his flesh. “Please, please, cum, gimme—gimme y’r cum!” 

“Greedy little thing,” he rasps out, voice cracking into a whine. 

But you don’t care, you can’t care, pleads spilling from your lips as your thighs tense around his waist, hips twitching in erratic little motions, crudely trying to fuck yourself on him.  

“Need it, need it, onii-chan, fill my belly with it, onii-chan, please!” 

“Christ,” he chokes on the curse, pace faltering as he finally gives his baby sister what she wants, cock throbbing almost violently while it fills you with hot, thick cum, so much you swear you really can feel it, stuffing your belly as full as it can be, tummy bulging cutely with his seed.

You must tell him that, sentiment slipping from your lips without your permission, because he moans again, his cock giving another weak spurt, hips stuttering as he tries to fuck further into you, grinding the head into your sore cervix. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you’re murmuring, hips rolling up to meet his own. “Push it into me, onii-chan, push it into my cunt nice n deep, do-don’t waste a single drop!” 

“You really are gonna be the death of me,” he whines, face buried in your hair as he collapses on top of you, hips still moving in lazy little circles, shudders of overstimulation rippling through his form. 

“Mm,” you hum, on the cusp of unconsciousness, nuzzling your face into his neck like a kitten, then lapping at a few droplets of sweat streaming down the column. “What are lil sisters for?” 

[inkykeiji]

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ sorry i can’t come out i’m busy decorating touya-nii’s guns and switchblades with glittery rhinestones and cute kitty stickers ⋆₊˚⊹♡

he thinks it’s real cute, the way your nose scrunches and your brow furrows and your tongue plays with the point of your right canine, curling around the tooth as you hum in concentration.

he thinks it’s real sweet, how hellbent you are on making it perfect for him, squealing about how he’s messing up your focus! when he nuzzles his nose into the curve of your neck and strings a garland of kisses along the edge of your jaw.

he thinks it’s real special, how you’ve scrupulously arranged the tiny gems into pretty little hearts that shimmer delicately when he pulls his gun from his belt or his blade from his pocket, that twinkle up at him almost as beautifully as your eyes do when he’s buried deep inside of your cunt, that never fail to remind him why he does what he does, and who he does it for, as he splatters brains across concrete and spills blood from throats.

[inkykeiji]

begging touya-nii to buy you pretty pink brass knuckles, with heart-shaped holes and a shimmering coat of magenta chrome, plus a matching pretty pink switchblade, with a razored prismatic blade and a handle encrusted with corresponding iridescent crystals—pearlescent, almost, so it matches yours, niichan!

he won’t, because little girls shouldn’t have such dangerous weapons—nor should they need them, not when they’ve got their big brothers with them, wary sapphire eyes watchful and protective, obsessive and excessive.

he won’t, because little girls shouldn’t sully their soft, sweet palms with such dirty defences—not when they’ve got their big brothers to do it for them, cuticles stained with blood and calluses tarnished with gunpowder, filthy hands strong and rough as they wrap around handles and wrists and triggers, as they push soft, sweet things behind their broad shoulders, against their hard chests, into their childhood beds.

he won’t, because even if he did, little girls wouldn’t know how to use them properly, little girls might hurt themselves—or worse, little girls might hurt their big brothers, might smash bones and split skin and slash hearts, might scratch and claw and gnaw their way loose (all by accident, of course; he knows you’d never do such blasphemous things on purpose, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less).

no, he won’t, but dabi might.

[inkykeiji]

say you’ll love me to death, cause i will

character: todoroki touya | dabi x fem!reader

genre: smut

notes: alright, so we’ve discussed how touya-nii would react to encountering the man who took your virginity, but let's talk about how you would respond to running into the woman who took touya’s. set in my touya-nii au! as always please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: RUNRUNRUN by dutch melrose

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (stepcest), public sex, minimal prep, extreme jealousy, toxic relationship

words: 4.7k

synopsis:

“Well, that’s alright! How long have you two been together?”  And, oh, the giggle that bubbles past your lips is downright sinister, fucking caustic, burning your tongue and eroding your teeth.  No, you’re not his girlfriend, or his partner, or his significant other.  You’re something so much better. 

You’re off minding your own business, legs swinging idly on a bar stool as you wait for your designated reservation time, when it happens, when she appears. 

“Touya?”

The name cuts through the blurred noise of the restaurant, both yours and Touya’s attention snapping to the source: a woman, late twenties or so, waving a little in indication on the other side of the bar. 

She’s snaking through the patchy crowd, busy unfastening her hair from the intricate bun its been woven into—a requisite for all the waitresses at this establishment—eyes bright, smile brighter. 

You don’t even know who she is; not technically, anyway, had never thought to press the issue any further than a simple how’d it happen, had never cared enough to try—especially not when he had been sleeping with so many others right in front of you. 

It hadn’t seemed to matter much then. Not the way it matters now.

But she exists, because she must, because somebody would’ve had to take it, would’ve had to be the first, one way or another.

Doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

She’s pretty, but you wouldn’t expect any less. Touya stands as she reaches the two of you, pulling your body up with him.

But then Touya greets her, a name you’ve heard kicked around every now and then, and it all fully, finally clicks. 

Touya’s first. 

“Oh my God,” she’s gushing, “I haven’t seen you in—What’s it been now? Over ten years?” 

“Just about,” he responds easily, readjusting his grasp reassuringly on your hip as you cling to him, large palm flattening against your abdomen and hugging you closer to his side, tucked protectively beneath his arm.

“What are the chances! You look...” her eyes scan his body once, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, then back up again, and your fingers flex, coiled and rigid in the material of his shirt, stiff joints already aching. “Wow, incredible!”

“Thanks,” Touya says, an awkward lull in the conversation when he doesn’t repay the compliment. 

Their discussion meanders for a little bit—how have you been, what are you doing now, remember when...?—most of it muddled by the blood roaring in your ears and jealousy burning in your throat. 

But then her fingertip is just barely grazing his forearm as she points in indication at the ink etched into his skin, and your ears tune into their frequency again, white-hot fury slicing through hazy envy.

“I remember when you started this one,” she’s reminiscing. “You finally finished all of the pieces,” she says with another appreciative glance, and you grip him tighter, the skin of your knuckles pulled so taut it’s starting to hurt. “It’s so breathtaking to see them all come together.”

And you hate the way she speaks to him with a certain type of familiarity; an old friend, effortless and full of laughs, someone who knew him long before you did, when you were only in grade school.  

God, how rude of her not to introduce herself, she’s telling you as she finally turns toward you, finally takes notice of you, rooted in Touya’s side; a growth he planted there himself, shoved between his ribs and engrained in his soul, roots so tangled you’re both irremovable, inseparable, now.

She holds out her hand in greeting, but you only clutch Touya more firmly, nails scraping against starched cashmere, face half-hidden in his chest, childish and petulant. 

The woman’s smile drops from her face, a slow drooping of her mouth as her forehead crinkles, confusion bleeding through her features.

“She’s shy,” Touya says as way of explanation, but that wolfish smile is stretched sharply across his cheeks, teeth gleaming in the dim light.

“I see,” she says, almost hesitantly, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before they flit back to Touya’s face, expression brightening again. “Well, that’s alright! How long have you two been together?” 

And, oh, the giggle that bubbles past your lips is downright sinister, fucking caustic, burning your tongue and eroding your teeth. 

No, you’re not his girlfriend, or his partner, or his significant other. 

You’re something so much better. 

“Oh, we’re not a couple. This is my little sister.” 

And, oh, how this is always your favourite part.  

You know that it’s his favourite part, too. 

Because the way that shock and disgust eats through their confusion, fucking devours any other emotion on their face, is better than anything else in the entire world. The way their expression churns into something twisted and repulsed sends sordid little thrills racing through your veins, blood buzzing with adrenaline.

The two of you must be such a fucking sight, expressions handcrafted by the Devil himself,  with glowing eyes—gluttonous gazes gobbling up every little expression, two pairs wide and  frantic as they glide across her face—and smug little smirks, points of your mouths so sharp they could pierce the flesh of a fingertip if touched. 

Her voice sputters a little, snagging in her throat as she struggles to find the proper words, blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear the scene in front of her. 

“I—Uh, I didn’t know you had another little sister?” 

It’s phrased as a question, her voice beginning to tremble, unnerved as her stare swaps between your faces.

“My mom remarried,” Touya says simply. “This one came packaged with the deal.” 

He jostles you in his arms a little—showing off his favourite, precious, most coveted prize—and you cuddle into him, burrowing into his chest a little, fingers flexing in his dress shirt as you clutch him tighter, gathering healthy handfuls of cashmere in your scrunched palms, buttons beginning to strain beneath the strength of your grip. 

And he states it proudly, as if he’s glad to own you, to be your big brother, to call you his, staring down at you with so much fondness it melts his hard eyes, sapphire turned to something thick and gooey.

“Oh,” the woman responds, but her voice wavers through a wobbly smile on her face, lips unsure if they want to grin or grimace. “That’s cool.” 

“Yeah,” Touya responds, though his eyes do not leave yours, voice softening. “I got pretty fuckin’ lucky. Don’t think I could’ve asked for anything better.” 

You can feel the sick, sadistic glee radiating off of him in dense waves—something heavy, something intoxicating—and, if this girl knows him well enough, you’re sure she can, too. 

It’s so thick it’s nearly suffocating, but you breathe it in readily, greedily, draw it into your lungs and let it marinate in your tissues—infect, consume, decay. 

“We should go for drinks sometime!” her unnaturally chipper tone snaps the trance, draws both of your gazes back to her. “You know, to catch up and all that.”  

A noise shudders your ribs, something between a growl and a whine, and Touya laughs as if it’s so fucking cute, looking back down at you with so much adoration in his eyes it’s nearly spilling past his lashes.  

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, but his stare never breaks yours. “Thanks for the offer, though.” 

“Mr. Todoroki?” a smooth voice floats above the indistinct murmur of the venue. “Your table is ready.” 

“Ah, that’s us,” Touya says to you. 

“It was nice—”

But you’re already turning away, a single entity in the way you move, think, breathe, be. 

“I don’t like her,” you’re grumbling as Touya guides you toward the hostess, not caring that she’s still very clearly in earshot, the confession spilling from your mouth almost subconsciously, having pried past your lips, desperate to be heard. 

“I can tell, baby,” Touya snorts, though the smile on his face is soft. 

“I—I don’t even wanna eat here anymore,” you sulk, feet starting to drag, words filtered through a deep pout. “And I don’t ever want to see her again!” 

It comes out as a demand, a little harsher and firmer than you had intended, uncharacteristically surly, and Touya stops. 

Blinking down at you, Touya’s face falls, features suddenly serious, all mirth evaporated from his expression in an instant. 

His head dips, voice dropped to a low, dire murmur—something secret, something just for you.

“You want me to kill her for you? Huh, princess? Does niichan need to get rid of her?” 

And, oh, how your heart soars, swells, swoops then nearly bursts from your ribs, desperate to claw its way from your chest and into the palms of its owner. Tears rush to cloud your eyes, vision thick and bleary, and two large hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his.

“I’ll do it, baby, I swear to God. All you gotta do is say the word.” 

He will. You know he will. You love that he will.

“I love you,” you nearly whimper, hands pawing at him urgently, the words a garbled mess in your mouth, weighted with spit and tears. “I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he laughs a little, but concern is warping his features, eyes sweeping across your face in search of an answer.

His hand squeezes your jaw gently, callouses decorating the pad of his palm scuffing your soft skin as he holds you in place. 

“Just tell niichan what he needs to do to make this better.”

Your gaze holds his for a moment, heavy and unblinking.

“Fuck me,” you finally say. “Remind me who I belong to, remind me who you belong to, remind the whole fucking world who we belong to.”

Sapphire turns to navy, lips spreading into something sinful. 

He can do that.

The parking lot is sparsely populated, rows of cars jagged and gapped like knocked out teeth. A small cluster of people hover outside the restaurant’s golden doors, encased in a hazy cloud of smoke and murmuring quietly amongst themselves, and a few people are scattered throughout the lot, just arriving or preparing to leave, but for the most part, you are alone. 

The Audi is parked near the back, narrowly missing a pool of white light from one of the tall lampposts. 

A chuckle is huffed from tattooed lips, shining eyes trained on your profile as you march toward the car, his long legs easily keeping up with your own. 

His baby is on a mission tonight. 

“You know, it’s really cute,” he’s saying as he presses you up against the driver’s door, “to see to see you so fucking determined.”

“Want everyone to know you belong to me,” you whine a little, forehead scrunching as your pout deepens. 

“Is that so?” 

“That is so.” 

“And how would you like to show everyone that niichan is yours?” he murmurs into your flesh, lips tracing the curve of your neck.

“Want—Want you to fuck me, right here.” 

“Right here?” his hips shove against yours in emphasis. “In the car?” 

“No,” your hips push back into his, back arching, already so needy for him. “Right here, in the parking lot. I want that bitch to see.”

And for once, you do not get scolded for such foul language. 

“Yeah?” Touya’s breathing into your mouth, hands already rucking up your little cocktail dress. “All out in the open where everyone can see how much of a little whore you are for your big brother?” 

“Right here, right here,” you’re nodding, words cracking with desperation. “Right now.” 

“So greedy, my little sister is.” 

“I don’t care,” you gasp. “Show them, Touya-nii, show them all.” 

And he’s so fucking hard you swear you can feel his cock throbbing with each rush of blood, each of your little pleads and dirty words sending another bout of it southward, swear you can feel it twitching and gorging with lust. 

“You don’t care, huh?” Hardened fingertips sink into the plush flesh of your ass, kneading a little as his hips gyrate in pitiful little circles, more teasing than anything else.

“No, no,” you’re shaking your head. “I want it now!” 

A palm collides with your flesh, hard and sharp, the sound echoing out among the space, chased by your resounding yelp. It draws a handful of glances from the throngs of people loitering around the restaurant’s entrance, but doesn’t keep their attention for long.

“Don’t be impatient, now,” Touya warns, but the glint in his eyes begs you to keep misbehaving. “Get my cock wet first.”

Your face falls as your fight fades, a small frown on your lips. 

“Wh-What?”

“You want my cock so badly, baby? Get it fucking wet, then.”

He pauses, watching you closely, smirk growing into something sinister when you freeze in hesitation.

“Aw, what’s wrong?” he pouts, and it’s so condescending it scathes your cheeks. “Not so bold and brave now? I thought you wanted everyone to know; I thought you wanted to show everyone who I belong to,” his tongue tuts, head shaking in mock disappointment, “and you can’t even take my cock down your throat?”

“I do,” you nearly growl, eyes flashing with sudden jealousy, uncharacteristically fierce. 

His expression softens, that sharp glint in his eye dulled to a smoldering glow, full of fondness. 

“Then get niichan’s cock wet,” he says, hips shoving against yours in emphasis again, “so he can fuck you properly.”

And although it is still very much a demand, a direct order, his voice is tender, his edges worn down by years of affection.

Sliding down his body, your fingers furl in the waistband of his suit pants and tug a little, pulling his hips closer to your face. The buckle of his belt clanks heavily as you tug it undone, the button on his trousers pops easily, and then you’re yanking them halfway down his thighs, freeing his cock.

It’s so fucking pretty, dusty pink from base to tip and smoother than the most expensive velvet, and you just can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into the head with a cute little hum, smearing a thick stroke of pearlescent pre-cum across your skin. 

But you know that Touya doesn’t like that, no matter how beautiful you look with his pre-cum slathered all over your face, that Touya can’t stand anything he deems even remotely teasing, and you’re quick to wrap a hand around the shaft as the beginnings of a growl rumble against his ribs, feeding him to yourself. 

“S’it, there you go,” he praises as you gorge on him, stuffing him down your throat in a single swallow, reflexive tears burning your eyes. 

Lashes flutter quickly, desperate to clear your vision, little drops of crystal collecting in the wispy strands. 

It’s pathetic, really, how much your heart soars with such bland praise. But it doesn’t matter, you don’t care, willing to soak up any scraps he’ll afford you, an addict endlessly chasing a fix.

You force your mouth open wider, hinges of your jaw stretching, straining, your tongue curling around the underside as you suck him in further, viscous globs of drool already beginning to collect at the corners of your lips. 

“Yeah, yeah, swallow me whole, baby,” he breathes, gaping pupils glittering with a thin ring of cobalt. “God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this.”

A choked little whine, muted by his cockhead grinding itself into your throat, vibrates, evoking a cracked little moan of his own, hips twitching involuntarily, an instinctual reaction, searching for more.

The asphalt is rough against your knees, skinning them with superficial little scrapes as Touya fucks your mouth a few times; first slowly, breath huffed out through spit-slicked lips as he glides in steadily, inch by inch, voracious eyes watching as your wet mouth puckers around his shaft, coating it in thick, gleaming saliva.

He whimpers a little as the tip of your nose scrunches so cutely as he presses it to his pubic bone, holds it for a breath and savours the way your throat flutters with hiccups and gags before pulling nearly all the way from your mouth, repeating the process as he gains momentum; then faster, harder, cockhead rubbing against the back of your tongue, each quick stroke leaving bitter streaks of pre-cum.

And you hate how his palms are pressed against your ears, muffling every sweet sound you manage to elicit from him as he holds your head still, his thumbs pressing into your cheekbones, nails biting shallow crescents into the skin as they dig deeper, grasp tightening as your face becomes slippery with tears, cascading over his knuckles. 

Even so, his grip isn’t enough to keep the back of your skull from banging off the door of the Audi, each thrust procuring a dull thud of flesh against metal.

And, Christ, what a beautiful symphony it all creates; the rhythmic sound of your head thwacking against his car, the dainty jingle of his belt buckle, hanging heavy and undone and bouncing between your chin and his thigh, those precious gags and gurgles and sniffles and hiccups that he loves so much, choked off and snuffed out as his cock rams them back into your chest, the half-stifled sounds that keep shattering to pieces on his tongue, shards swallowed down with difficulty, scraping against the walls of his throat and leaving his voice ragged and raw. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” he’s panting as his fingers thread through your hair, fisting at the roots and dragging you off of him. “S’a shame, because you look so pretty,” a rough thumb skims over your swollen, glossy lip, his gaze following its trajectory. “But I wanna cum in your cunt, not your throat.” 

And then he’s pulling you back up from the ground, strong arms wedged beneath your own and hoisting you into the air, your legs instinctually wrapping around his waist, locked securely at the ankles as they hook together at the base of his spine, thighs squeezing around his hips in anticipation. 

He pins you to the metal of the Audi, one palm securely cupping your ass as the other wraps around the base of his cock, hips inching back just enough to find your hole.

The head, now slicked with your spit, glides over your clit twice—a cheeky little tease, just to hear you whine his name again, all stringy and petulant through a swollen pout—then down your slit until it catches on your hole. 

It stings as he forces himself into you, always does no matter how wet you are, no matter how much you’ve slobbered all over his shaft, because Touya routinely refuses to prep you at all—not that you would’ve let him, not tonight—because he loves it, too, he loves it just as much as you do. 

He loves the sharp little hiss pushed through the gaps of your teeth by your tongue, he loves the gentle fluttering of your cunt as your most delicate skin stretches, splits itself open for him, to suck him in and swallow him down, he loves that sweet sigh that melts from your mouth as he bottoms out, slathered over his own huff of breath, conjoined relief. 

“Touya-nii, Touya-nii,” you’re whimpering out, fingers curling against his shoulders.

“M’here, baby, m’here,” he pants out, forehead pushing against your own, eyes slipped shut. 

And for a moment everything is still, breath held stagnant in swelling lungs as you both savour this feeling—of fullness, of closeness, of wholeness—appreciation unhindered by noisy exhales or slapping skin.

Then his hips are moving, gyrating in little circles that gain speed with each completed motion, cockhead grinding into your cervix.

He can’t exactly fuck you properly like this, can’t exactly fuck you like he wants to, like he normally would, not all out in the open like this.

But he manages to make do, the pace quick right from the start, shallow fast snaps of his hips that have the buckle of his belt is clanging against his car, leaving superficial little scratches just below the door handle.

It’s all still so fucking hot, though, his forehead pressed tightly to yours as he exhales nicotine-tinged breath across your face, each one pushed from his chest with the rapid little ruts of his hips. 

It’s all so fucking naughty, fucking out in the open where anyone who’s paying more than a shred of attention can see, his movements just barely hidden by the flesh of your thighs, cushioning his hips. 

The thought that anyone could be watching, touching themselves, filming you has your muscles tightening and your stomachs fluttering, the dirty, illicit nature inspiring another rush of adrenaline to taint your blood.

Your mouth drops open, starved for more of him—never satisfied, are you, greedy lil thing—welcoming his huffs onto your tongue, spicy and sweet as hickory. Your tongue unfurls from your mouth, dumb and lazy and so fucking messy, licking at his lips in quick, uneven strokes, sopping up any remnants of his essence.

The tip slithers between his parted lips, kittenishly lapping at the edges of his teeth, tracing the sharp ridges one by one, and he laughs, warm and airy. 

His own tongue shoves against yours, pushing it from his mouth and back into it’s rightful home before he flattens the slick muscle against your face and drags it, slow and steady, from the point of you chin to the tip of your nose, leaving behind a thick, fat trail of cooling saliva painted across your face.

The action has you squealing, scrunching up your nose as you involuntarily suck your bottom lip between your teeth and suck it clean.

His scent is strong, now saturating your skin as it dries, tight and hard, on your face, sealed by the breathless little giggle he exhales across your cheeks. 

And, Christ, he’s so fucking gorgeous, strands of alabaster plastered to his forehead and stuck to his temples in scraggly strings, clumped into damp little tufts that curl up at the base of his neck, drops of sweat balancing precariously on the points. 

His rough, quick movements have them breaking free, glistening drops of sweat rolling down his puckered skin, tracing the curve of his neck, streaking ink and ivory with glimmering little trails. They pool in the dips of his collarbones and soak into the collar of his shirt, turning cashmere translucent. 

The sleek muscles in his forearms flex beneath inked skin, gliding as he readjusts his grip, holds you closer, hugs you tighter, fucks you harder. 

His whole body is covered in a sheen layer of sweat, urgently chasing that high that only his little sister can gift him, sharp pistons of his hips keeping you pinned to the car while he uses you as his personal little toy, his favourite little toy, forcing you to just take it. 

And yet, despite it all, his eyes are bright, his lips molded into a brilliant smile, a sick sort of love stained with exhilaration—the thrill of getting caught: fucking all out in the open, fucking your family—brimming in his gaze.

He’s such a fucking pro, knows you and your body better than anyone else ever has, ever could, ever will, angling his hips so they fuck you just right, each stroke of his cock an upward curve, dragging against that puffy spot buried deep within your cunt, head swiping against your cervix with each draw back.

Across the lot, that girl is fiddling with the keys to her shitty little car, rooting around for something in her bag, and Touya laughs—a loud, booming sound, heavy with deranged delight that echoes throughout the space, garnering the attention of a smattering of bystanders. 

“Look,” he nudges his head to the right, your gaze following his own, slippery cheeks pressed flush together. “She’s watching. She can see you, sweetheart—can see us, can see you’re mine and I’m yours.” 

Good. If she hadn’t already figured it out before, it should be abundantly fucking obvious now, who he belongs to. 

“She—She looks disgusted,” you snicker. 

Even from several meters away, she does, you can tell, face twisted up somewhere between horror and shock, eyes wide and unblinking as they scan your conjoined forms, brow scrunched and chest beginning to heave.

She looks like she’s going to be sick.

You hope she is.

“Oh, she doesn’t even know—fuck—the half of it, does she?” Touya keens, hips faltering for just a moment before regaining their momentum. “Why don’t we give her something to really be repulsed by?” 

Yes, yes, yes, you’re nodding your head, little mewls of affirmation spilling from your throat.

“Give your big brother a kiss, then.” 

And oh, how eager you are, ever his good girl, ever his best girl, arms tightening around his neck as you pull yourself closer, smashing your lips to his. Dainty fingers thread through the hair at the back of his scalp, soaked with salt, and tug harshly, enough to have a reactionary hiss slipping through his teeth. 

Using the opportunity, you suck his bottom lip into your mouth between your teeth, clamp down hard and yank backwards, so hard his lip stretches like shimmering, pink bubblegum, gums beginning to strain until it finally slides free of your hold, teeth scraping against flesh. He spits out a curse, muddled and chased by a laugh, tongue laving over the indents you left, now weeping copper.

“Niichan’s gonna get you back for that one,” he says, sadistic glee shimmering in his eyes almost as pretty as the crimson glazing his mouth. 

You’re sure he will, too, later tonight, with that cherished knife you gifted him last year.

The giggle that pours past your lips is fucking raucous, leaves your tongue sticky and tingling, so wicked it rivals your brother. 

“I wanna show her, niichan,” you’re panting out, voice fading into a whine. “I want to show her that you’re mine.” 

“Do it, baby,” he breathes. “Show the whole world how fucking gorgeous you look cumming for your big brother.”

Three more rapid pumps of his hips and you’re convulsing around him, cunt clenching almost viciously around his cock as your heat gushes down his shaft, sticky and messy and so much, so much it pools in the folds of his heavy balls, so much it streams down his taut thighs and soaks the waistband of his trousers, so much it dribbles down the metal of the Audi, smeared across the door in sloppy strokes.

“Mi-Mine,” you growl, thighs squeezing around him as if you’re attempting to milk more juices from yourself, trying to stain him with you and stake your claim. 

“Yeah,” he nearly moans, hips beginning to stutter. “Yours, baby, niichan’s yours. Tell him again.” 

“You’re mine!” you sob out, nails gripping the sleek muscle of his shoulders with such strength the joints of your fingers crack and ache, clawing at him as if you’re trying to gorge every part of you on him, eat up every piece of him you can, stuff every bit of you as full of him as physically possible. 

“Fu-Fuck,” he keens, the curse shattering in his throat. “That’sa—That’s my good girl.”

He’s close now, you can tell; can hear it in the way his words keep splintering on his tongue, can feel it in the way his thrusts have gone from precise and particular to loose and sloppy, an urgent, uneven rutting of his hips.

“Fill me, fill me, fill me with your cock, niichan,” you’re gasping out, scrabbling at his neck, scraping skin and sweat beneath your nails. “Fill me with your cum, fill me so much, fill me until I can’t take anymore and it starts le-leaking out, all—all over the place.” 

And, well, he’s never been one to deny his precious baby sister what she wants. 

Because then he’s complying, hips stammering to a halt and pressed flush to your ass as his cock throbs, stuffing you full of thick, burning cream. 

“More! More, more,” you’re gasping out as you try to fuck yourself on his twitching cock, desperate to pump him for everything he’s got to give, eliciting a breathless, broken little laugh falling from his lips. 

“S’all yours,” he manages to slur out, slumping a little against his car, knees beginning to quiver as his cock strives to please you, giving another weak spurt of cum. “S’all yours, princess, always.” 

[inkykeiji]

character: hanemiya kazutora x fem!reader

notes: anon asked for more tora-nii so!!! here he is!!! this ended up being way longer than i intended!!! but enjoy hehe! this is set within the same universe as this piece but works well as a standalone piece and can totally be read on it's own as well!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, stepcest/pseudocest (step siblings), rough sex, minimal prep, painful sex, both kazutora and reader are total virgins (unrealistic loss of virginity), dubcon/noncon, the tiniest hint of dacryphilia, cum eating/feeding, super messy kisses

words: 4k

synopsis:

And finally, finally, the stress of the past several years seeps from your pores and leaves you feeling light and floaty, no longer weighing you down now that he’s in your arms, now that he’s free, body gone boneless against him as it melts into his own, fusing, becoming one again, whole again. Your knees nearly give out, bones deliquesced in pure relief, but your big brother is right there to catch you, chuckling a little as he hoists you further up his body, leaning you against his chest and supporting most of your weight.  The tears are flowing steadily now, flooding  your cheeks in thick, ceaseless streams, whole body shuddering beneath the force of your sobs—a continuous torrent of Tora, Tora, Tora-nii weeped out in violent hiccups.  “M’here, m’here, shh, hush now,” he’s telling you as he cradles you to him, rocking your bodies slightly. “Nii-san’s here.”

It’s sunny, the day he’s finally released; a bright blue sky embroidered with thick puffs of cotton, sunbeams filtering through the clouds and bathing everything bright and gold.

You’re leaning against your car as you wait, idly swinging the keyring around your index finger in a nervous jitter, metal tinkering rhythmically. 

At long last he’s stepping through that big barred gate, so large it trembles beneath its own weight as it stutters to an open, steel creaking, halting with an ominous clank! as it catches on the latch, echoes mingling with an obnoxious, nasally beep. 

It takes him a moment to find your face, gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar location, with wide, unsure eyes, a hint of a frown toying with the corners of his lips. 

But then he spots you, and love splits his face wide open, a brilliant smile stretched across his cheeks so wide it must hurt—automatic, instinctual, uncontrollable—topaz irises glittering in the sunshine.

And you swear, you’ll never tire of the way his whole face brightens when he’s in your presence. 

Your breath stagnates in your lungs, and for a second everything is still, the moment pregnant with anticipation, your heart mutilating itself against your ribs as it tries to crawl through the gaps.

But then he’s taking off, rubber soles of his sneakers slapping against the warped concrete, barreling into your body a mere instant later, so hard he crushes you between your car and his chest.  

It shoves a yelp from your throat, sharp and high, and he only squeezes you harder, fingers digging into your skin as his hands fist in the material of your dress, bunching it up in his palms and tugging. 

The hem rides several inches up your thighs, his hips keeping your legs spread, your own arms wound tightly around his shoulders, clinging to him and burying your face in his neck, forehead pressed firmly to the tiger inked into his skin. 

And finally, finally, the stress of the past several years seeps from your pores and leaves you feeling light and floaty, no longer weighing you down now that he’s in your arms, now that he’s free, body gone boneless against him as it melts into his own, fusing, becoming one again, whole again.

Your knees nearly give out, bones deliquesced in pure relief, but your big brother is right there to catch you, chuckling a little as he hoists you further up his body, leaning you against his chest and supporting most of your weight. 

The tears are flowing steadily now, flooding  your cheeks in thick, ceaseless streams, whole body shuddering beneath the force of your sobs—a continuous torrent of Tora, Tora, Tora-nii weeped out in violent hiccups. 

“M’here, m’here, shh, hush now,” he’s telling you as he cradles you to him, rocking your bodies slightly. “Nii-san’s here.”

And although you can hear the tears in his voice, you can feel his cock, half hard and pressed tightly to your hip, throbbing keenly as his honorific spills from your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, punctuating his demand with a smattering of kisses, planted in your hair. 

Pulling back, you gaze up at him with a soft sound of inquiry. He bows his head, pushing his forehead against your own, noses nudging together. 

Eyes fluttering shut, his ribs expand into your own as he inhales you—your scent, your breath, your very aura itself—gulps you down and holds you in his lungs, lets you permeate his tissues and fester at his core before he’s surging forward, smashing his lips to yours, tongue breaking past your teeth and shoving the breath back down your throat, now infused with him. 

Shock leaves you stupid for a second before your body begins to respond—automatic, instinctual—delicate fingers slipping in the tufts of onyx curling up at the nape of his neck and twirling, wrapping the strands around your knuckles.

Your hands slide further, burying themselves in his hair, palms flattening against the back of his skull and pressing him close, closer, tongue greedily grinding against his own.

And it’s so sick, it’s so messy, mouths slick and sliding with each other’s drool as twin streams of tears cascade down your cheeks to pool in the seams of your lips, seeping through the cracks and staining your tongues with each other’s salt. 

It’s so sick, but it’s so good, too, hands pawing and gripping and tugging, the back of your heel arching around his lower calf, because too close is never close enough. Your nails scrape against his scalp and he moans into your mouth, the sound hot and heavy on your tongue, his hips twitching forward, gyrating in uneven little circles. 

Rough palms, decorated with cuts and callouses, are slinking up your soft thighs while your lips work, kneading flesh as they crawl beneath your dress, up, up, up until they reach your panties—lace, he can tell, fingertips tracing the trim with surprising delicacy, almost as if he’s committing the webbed pattern to memory, feeling every curve and crisscross of the knit. 

His fingertips tiptoe around your body, outlining the hem over your hips, following it all the way back to your ass where they slip beneath the thin fabric and grab, filling his palms with your flesh, nails biting superficial crescents into your bum.

He holds you there, holds you still, pulls you closer to him and forces you to stay stationary as his hips continue rocking, messily humping away at you. He’s panting out loud noises into your mouth in time with the movement of his hips, fragmented by his own breath, mewls that keep smothering your protests as they consume them. 

The straining head of his cock bumps against your inner thigh, the coarse material of his pants beginning to chafe your sensitive skin, and he sucks a hiss from your throat, swallows it down greedily and laps at your molars, slathering them in his foamy spit, hunting for more. 

It already feels so good, a dull heat beginning to amass deep in the pit of your belly—something that seeps through the floor of your stomach to the apex of your thighs, something that sends sparks and cinders racing through your veins, leaving your blood fizzing in their wake.

But as badly as you want him right here, right now, you know you can’t, the scrutinizing eyes of his discharging prison guard, still standing watch at the mouth of the massive gate, searing into your skin. 

“Tora-nii, Tora-nii,” you’re whimpering, and he groans, a deep sound reverberating within his ribcage. 

“I know, baby, I know,” And he sounds almost pained, voice hoarse and cracking, hands squeezing your flesh again. “I need you, too.” 

“N-Not here,” you mumble against his lips, the words drooping with reluctance.

A sound of annoyance vibrates in his throat, and he shakes his head, pulling back just enough to search your eyes, topaz frantic as it flies across your face. 

“I dunno how long I can wait,” he tells you seriously in a low whisper, confession straining beneath urgency, hips still rolling into yours. 

“But—But—Ah—”  

“Fuck,” he moans brokenly, curse shattered to shards in his throat, splintered and pitchy. 

“You—You just got released,” you force the words from your tongue, airy as he licks up the column of your neck, front teeth nipping at your skin. “Let’s not get arrested for public indecency on the same day.”

Another groan rumbles in his chest, this time borne of frustration, and he scrapes together his remaining scraps of self-restraint, stilling his hips. 

He has to admit, you have a point.

He hates that you have a point.

Because he genuinely does not know how he’s supposed to survive a twenty-five minute long car ride back to your sweet little apartment. 

He almost doesn’t, unable to keep his hands to himself, fingers wandering across your thighs, beneath your dress, hiking the hem up and revealing your panties to him. 

They’re cute, he moans, his cock still so hard it’s nearly painful as it throbs and yearns, leaking so much precum that it’s bled through his briefs and his trousers to leave a large, wet patch.

Ever-stubborn and lacking any sort of discipline, his palm wedges its way between your thighs, curious fingers stroking your slit, watching as the silk of those pretty panties dampens, darkens, becomes slick and slippery with your own arousal—the arousal he is causing, creating—eyes glittering with awe, breath exhaled through parted lips in little huffs. 

His other palm is busy grinding into his aching cock, his hips rutting up pathetically in his seat, the belt cutting into his flesh through his thin dress shirt. It’s nothing more than teasing, but it doesn’t matter, he can’t help it, he’ll take whatever he can get—whatever he can do to alleviate the scalding pressure building in his gut.

“Tora-nii,” you’re complaining in a sticky squeal when he finally tries to prod your hole, face scrunched up somewhere between aroused and annoyed. “Stop it!”

“Doesn’t feel like y’want me to stop,” he pants out, unable to tear his eyes from the apex of your thighs, groaning as your swollen little clit pulses against his thumb. “You—Y’fucking soaked, sweetheart.”

“Well I—I do—I don’t want to—Nii-san, please!” 

“Yeah, yeah, baby,” he mewls, nodding vigorously, eyes swapping almost frenetically between your clothed cunt, now perfectly outlined by the silk molded to your folds, and your face. 

“I don’t wanna lose my virginity on the side of the road!” you manage to squeak out in a single breath, shooting him the cutest little look of anger, brows pushed together so tightly it crinkles your forehead.

Alright, alright, he supposes that’s fair, though he’s still unable to keep his hands to himself—that’s asking a little too much, don’t you think? He’s been waiting five and a half years for this. 

He stops trying to fuck you, but just barely, making it an entire task to walk up the two short flights of stairs to reach your apartment, latching onto you like a leech as he stains blotches of grey and navy across your jaw, along your neck, over your collarbone.

It’s an insatiability, fingers griping and vying as they yank and knead, the hem of your dress pooling around his wrists as his palms slide up your thighs, fill his grasp with fistfuls of you as fingertips sink into plush flesh, digging bruises deep into the tissues and dimpling the skin. His hips rock against your ass in irresolute little motions, as if they’re unsure of how fast they want to thrust. 

“Tora,” your giggling as you fumble with your keys, faint notes of irritation negated by fondness. “I won’t be able to get the door open if you don’t quit it!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he’s mumbling noncommittally, dragging his tongue along the curve of your neck, then over the ridges of your shoulder, outfitting you in his spit. 

“You—You don’t sound sorry,” you huff, but there’s a smile on your face. 

“Can’t help it,” he whinges, nearly tripping over your ankles as the door finally swings open, the two of you stumbling into your apartment. 

He’s got you trapped between his body and the drywall before the door even clicks shut, a thigh wedged between your legs as he grinds his cock against your hip, a continuous stream of whines pouring from his throat into yours.

They vibrate as they spill onto your tongue, warm and buzzing, and you lick at his teeth, giggling a little at the way his hips jerk in response. 

“I—I—I—” he’s moaning into your mouth, needy and high, his hands already up your skirt again, index fingers dipping beneath the frilly waistband of your panties and curling. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna—fu-fuck—”

His words disintegrate as those keen little noises eat straight through them, hands almost vicious as they tear through dainty lace, threads and elastics snapping audibly as they tangle around his knuckles. 

The material flutters to the floor in a ruined heap of delicacy, both palms already shoved between your thighs as they poke and prod, hungry and hunting.

“T-Tora, no, wait—” you’re breathing out as his fingers clumsily find your hole. 

He cuts you off with a ferocious growl, two calloused fingertips pressing into your cunt while the heel of his free palm shoves urgently at the waistband of his pants, managing to push them down his thighs just enough to yank his cock free. 

And then he’s tearing you open in one quick, harsh thrust, forcing a sharp yelp from your chest as he buries himself in your cunt. 

There isn’t a single moment to get used to the sudden intrusion, cute little hole struggling to take his girth as your skin splits into tiny fissures, fluttering and stretched raw. It fucking stings, sending spears of pain searing through your gut as the head of his cock rams against your cervix, impatient and immediate. 

It hurts the entire time, but it’s over pathetically, embarrassingly quickly; only three swift, sharp snaps of his hips before they’re stuttering to a stop with a loud, broken whine, cock throbbing as he fills you with copious amounts of cum—so much cum, too much cum, thick and viscous as it seeps past his cock to drool down your inner thighs and pool in the folds of his balls.

But he doesn’t seem to care that he finishes so briefly; it doesn’t seem to matter to him at all as he drops to his knees and spreads your thighs, plush flesh dipping beneath his grip as he forces them to stay open, joints flexing in a silent warning not to squirm and tongue flattening against your skin as he drags it up, up, up, sopping up a syrupy dribble of cum.  

His face is buried in your cunt a mere moment later, groaning a little as his tongue pushes past your abused little hole still weeping little slivers of crimson, copper mixing with the bitter of his seed and creating something sick, something intoxicating, something entirely addictive. 

And it’s all so vicious, it’s all so voracious, the way he eats his cum from your cunt as if he’s a starved man, as if he can’t get enough of you, can’t get enough of him within you, tip of his tongue curling, scooping, cupping as he devours you, sucks you clean, obnoxious slurping and smacking echoing throughout your apartment. 

He swipes over every dip and crevice, lapping hard and thorough as he collects the substance from your folds hole and beings to hoard it beneath his tongue.

Your nails scrape against his scalp as your knuckles root in inky tufts, and he whines loudly, shoves his face further into your pussy and eats you with such vigour it’s a marvel he can breathe at all.

“Tora-nii, Tora-nii,” you’re chanting out, the name airy on your tongue, responding grunts reverberating against your clit as he grinds his nose against it. 

He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left, until he can no longer taste your blood or his cum, the pungent concoction stored safely within his cheeks. 

He looks like a fucking mess, lips and chin gleaming with slick and cum and blood—a shimmery, translucent pink varnishing the lower half of his face—but there’s a wide, toothless smile smeared across his cheeks, those topaz eyes so bright they’re nearly glowing, brimming with exhilaration and love.

Then he’s on his feet, a large hand wreathed around your jaw as he squeezes the hinges and pops your mouth open, tongue unfurling onto your own and shoving a mix of blood and spit and cum down your throat. 

It’s fucking filthy, thick threads of cum tangled with his saliva pouring from the corners of your lips while they slip and slide against one another, leaving shining streaks of pearlescent drool, tinged pink with blood, slathered across your jaws. It drips off your chin in slow, sticky drops, drizzling cool and slimy across your bosom. 

God, it’s all so much—you cum so much, Tora-nii!—his diligent tongue sweeping your mouth as he deposits the intoxicating mixture, laving over your teeth and dipping into your cheeks, staining your whole mouth with him. 

And he doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you jerk away or move a single centimeter until he’s emptied his mouth into your own, until you’ve sucked his tongue fucking clean with tight, puckered lips, until you’ve scraped all the contents from the muscle with your teeth and swallowed every last remnant, notes of salt and copper lingering on your tastebuds. 

Impossibly, he’s already hard again, the head of his cock bluntly bumping against your hole, awkward and uncoordinated as he pants out pleads into your mouth. 

“Please, please,” he’s whining hotly onto your tongue. “Please, let me fuck you again, I gotta—I’m gonna—I gotta—”

Sharp little keens keep shattering his sentences, his eyes closing tightly as his whole face scrunches in concentration, desperately attempting to quell the crude twitching of his hips.

“Pr-Promise I’ll fuck you properly this time,” he hurls the vow into your mouth, quick and sloppy. “Promise I’ll—I’ll make you cum this time, swear I will, baby, just let me fuck you again!” 

Yes, yes, you’re nodding against him, teeth clacking and lips catching on incisors. Yes, please, nii-san. 

The two of you barely make it to your bedroom, tripping over each others limbs as you stumble toward the bed and fall onto the mattress in a knotted heap, the balls of your feet shoving at the waistband of his pants, helping him kick them the rest of the way off. 

It’s nasty and primal and so fucking intimate, with your knees hooked over his shoulders and ankles linked behind his neck, thighs sandwiched between your chests and foreheads pressed firmly to one another. The tips of your noses nudge as he pounds into you, ruthless and relentless in his pursuit, hard enough to jostle your body up the mattress, hard enough to have the whole bed frame shuddering, brass headboard knocking against the wall.

“Like that, Tora-nii, like that,” you’re breathing, hips rolling up into his, clit catching on his slick pubic bone.  

“Y-Yeah?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you gasp out, eyes shut tightly, feet curling around the back of his neck, a pitiful attempt to pull him closer. 

“S’good?”

“S’good, s’good, it’s so good,” you’re nodding against him, front teeth chipping his. “Your cock feels so good, Tora-nii!”

A groan rattles his ribs and his hips drive forward harder, rougher, faster, spurred on by your praise, desperate to prove to you that he can make you cum, desperate to make good on his promise. 

Because you’re getting close now, he thinks he can tell. He thinks he can see it in the way your eyes keep fluttering shut with each swipe of his pelvis over your clit, with each drag of his cockhead against your cervix; thinks he can hear it in the way you can barely push that cherished nickname from your lips, the sweetest little huffs of Tor-Tor-Tora-nii! breaking on your tongue; thinks he can feel it in the way your thighs keep tightening, body going rigid as your hands grasp and claw, nails gorging themselves on his muscle, yearning for as much of him as physically possible. 

“G-Gonna—hah, fuck—gonna cum for your nii-san, sweetheart?” 

The question wafts across your face, strings of drool swaying with each of his panted breaths, splattering across your cheeks and cooling instantly. 

“Uh—Uh-huh, nii—nii-san,” you mewl out, stammered by the slamming of his hips.

“Look at me, please,” he begs, voice high and broken. “Wanna—Want you to look at me when you cum, look at your big brother.” 

And you do, because you’re such a good little sister, eyes springing open, lashes weighted with teardrops. 

His own eyes are wet, too, long lashes clumped together in thick little spikes, glittering drops balancing perilously on the points.  

Three more pistons of his hips and your cunt is clenching around him with such vigour it’s almost painful, whole body bowing off the bed as sparks zip up your spine, curving each vertebra as they pass.

Slick gushes down his shaft, and it’s so much, it's so messy, coating his thighs in thick, shimmering smears, slippery and sticky and so Goddamn sick as they smack against your ass, the constant slap of skin against skin sharp as it echoes throughout your bedroom. 

It’s so intense it whites your vision and wipes your mind, wailing out his honorific like it’s a fucking prayer, over and over and over again.

And Christ, Kazutora swears you’ve never looked or sounded more beautiful than you do cumming all over your big brother’s cock. 

It has a loud whine spilling from his throat, topaz eyes wide and fluttering rapidly, desperate to clear the bleary shield of tears lacquering his vision, to burn every little micro-expression that transforms your pretty features into the tissues of his brain, forever. 

Because it’s all because of him.

The thought has his hips faltering, falling out of their rhythmic pace and bucking wildly as they chase whatever high you’re currently riding, avid to reach it with you. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh fuck,” he’s whimpering out, eyes shutting tightly before snapping open again. “I—I—Am I—Does it—Ah—”

“L-Love your cock, Tora-nii,” you’re slurring out beneath him, sloppy and stuffed with spit, gone stupid with pleasure. 

And it’s incredible, honestly, how you always know exactly what he needs, still, even now, even after so many years apart. 

“Again,” he rasps, thrusts turned dishevelled and careless. “Tell me again.”

“Love your cock so much, Tora-nii-san,” you keen, gazing up at him with fucked-out bliss all over your face, glazed eyes full of sick admiration. “Want your cock t’fill me up.”

“W-With what? Huh? Tell nii-san what you want him to f-fill your pretty little pussy up with.”

“Cum, cum, Tora-nii’s cum!” you sob, nails biting into the muscle of his shoulders as another ripple of overstimulation courses through your flesh. “Want Tora-nii-san to stuff my pussy full of his cum! S’much, s’much—!” 

“Oh, Jesus,” he nearly cries, voice cracking with the curse. “I—I’m gonna—Ah, fuck, fu-fuck!”

“Please, please, please, Tora-nii-san,” you’re still babbling on, half-delirious for his seed. “Please, gimme your cum, please, want your cum, Nii-san, please!” 

And it’s the pleading that does it, so fucking sordid, so fucking sincere, tears of disgust and desire decorating your cheeks in shimmering streams, that has his whole body shuddering with a loud, broken moan of your name, his cock pulsing viciously and pumping your cunt full of hot, thick cum. 

“Oh, thank you, Nii-san,” you’re weeping, weakly scrabbling at his shoulder blades. “Thank you, thank you.” 

You always were such a polite girl. Kazutora’s glad to see that nothing’s changed.

“So good, so good, y’such a good little sister for me,” the praises leak from his lips, languid and lazy as he collapses on top of you, dragging half-baked kisses across your jaw. 

His chest is heaving against yours, dress shirt turned translucent with sweat as it clings to his swelling ribs, outlining every bump and ridge. Your fingertips traverse across them, soft and gentle, almost as if you’re counting each rib, almost as if you’re making sure they’re all still there. 

“M’so happy you’re home,” you drool out against his skin, nuzzling into his neck a little as your arms wrap around him.

Yeah, he thinks as he squeezes you to his form. It’s good to be home. 

[inkykeiji]

how would touya nii react to reader calling him a pervert (playfully or not heheh)

okay i love that you added the (playful or not) AHAHA because his reaction definitely differs depending on your tone + the context and situation in which you say it!! 

tw: noncon, pseudocest

if it’s said playfully, giggled out with girlish swats at his shoulder and fluttery glances through thick lashes then he’s laughing with you, low and smooth and with twinkling eyes, murmuring out oh, yeah? pervert, huh? i’m gonna show you just how much of a pervert your niichan can be, between stringy saliva-streaked kisses and scrapes of his teeth along the curve of your neck. 

if it’s said in a serious way, spit with vitriol and sharply narrowed eyes and a screwed up face then he is just as venomous in response, features all puckered as if he’s disgusted you’d even say such a thing, thinly veiling the offence simmering beneath, the hurt. he hurls your words right back at you, says that if he’s a pervert then surely you must be one, too—after all, you do beg your big brother to fuck you so desperately, so pathetically, so goddamn obscenely, and maybe he should film you next time, hm? to show you just how perverted you are for your niichan, yeah? 

he doesn’t let up with it, either—he’s relentless, holding you down with both wrists collected in a single massive palm as he spits out insults—if he’s a pervert, then you’re a filthy little whore, aren’t you?—flecks of saliva splattering across your cheeks, his voice lacking any of it’s usual sugared condescension, mean and cruel and so, so sharp. he tells you he’ll give you a demonstration of just how disgusting and depraved you are—you both are—right here, right now, shoving your dress up and your panties down and his cock into you in three swift motions.

only nasty little perverted girls like their big brother defiling them, right? only deviant little girls beg their big brother to fill them up with cum, don’t they? you’re just as fucked up as he is, baby, don’t you forget it.

[inkykeiji]

would touya-nii ever let us get near him with one of those clone-a-willy dick molds or would that be a big no-no lol

omg please touya-nii would find this absolutely HILARIOUS (very much his brand of ‘stupid humour’) and he would absolutely allow you to make a dildo out of his cock—in fact, he prefers that if you’re going to use any toys at all while he’s gone (and the while he’s gone part is very important; he likes to use other sex toys but only when he is present to watch/control) that you ONLY use the clone of his cock. kinda warms his heart to think of his lil sister fucking herself with ‘his cock’ while he’s away on one of his business trips, calling him to pant in his ear about how it’s not the same! and she needs the real thing! hehe <33

and yes, you have to text him first asking for permission to use his cock before you start (*ﾉωﾉ)

[inkykeiji]

loved the chose fic! curious, would choso be open to a relationship with the mc? and if so, would he try to keep it secret? what happens if mc keeps calling him choso-nii? im obsessed with the bratty mcs

thank you so much sweetpea!!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i’m super happy to hear that you enjoyed it!! oooh good questions!!

would choso be open to a relationship with the mc?

i mean, probably, eventually, but it would take a ton of wearing him and his morals down, and he’d fight a lot of internal battles with himself before he finally allows that lust/love to overtake him and win. with each battle this potent desire would grow stronger and stronger until it’s finally just too overpowering, and he has no other choice to give in because it has consumed him, swallowed him whole, embraced him and made a home for him in the pit of it’s belly ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) the thing about choso, or how i personally interpret choso, is that he’s really strong in and holds steadfast to his own morals, values, and beliefs. pursuing a relationship with him when he sees himself as a brother figure to you would be difficult, and would challenge the very foundation of who he is, his whole identity and what he has built his whole identity around (being an older brother!). thus, for him this is like the ultimate sin—which is what makes it so fun to explore!!! it’d be tough to achieve, but it would be possible.

would he try to keep it secret?

yes!!! for a long while!! because he feels ashamed and guilty; if who he is at his core is a Big Brother, then how on earth could he do this to one of his siblings, even if she isn’t a blood relative or technically a sibling at all? he’d get way too in his head about this (i think the majority of his family probably wouldn’t make nearly as big of a deal out of it as he thinks himself into) but signs of their relationship would slip slowly but steadily until everyone knows, even if they aren’t being blatant about it or haven’t officially announced it. by that point, choso’s come to terms with it all and processed his shame and is ready to admit to it, only to discover that everyone already knows, and yeah, sure, it’s a little weird, but we don’t really care all that much.

what happens if mc keeps calling him choso-nii?

omg he would definitely try to discourage it as much as possible but there’s absolutely no way her bratty ass is giving that up, especially when she knows how much it gets under his skin and how much the taboo of it all gets him so hot and bothered. she’s a little manipulative; she knows how to work him to get exactly what she wants, even if he does ultimately end up putting her in her place (a place where she admittedly does not stay long). eventually he’d just give up and accept it, but for quite a while he would fight against it.

[inkykeiji]

all that panel has me thinking about is touya-nii coming home from work, the stench of copper clinging almost delicately to his skin, complemented by the gunpowder twined through the strands of his hair, and walking up to his momma, who’s busy stirring something in a pot on the stove.

his boots are heavy as they collide with the tile of the kitchen, and rei looks towards him, a peculiar grimace—a blend of exasperation and fondness—twisting her features as she scolds him for walking in the house with his shoes on.

he laughs in response, nothing more than a light huff of affection, gentle and sweet on his tongue, and wraps an arm around her head, large hand splayed wide on the side of her cheek holding her still as he murmurs a greeting and presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

his palm is filthy, his nail beds stained with dirt and grime and rusted blood, but rei doesn’t care, dainty hand flattening over his own and holding him close, tight, a soft sigh expelling the weight from her shoulders.

no, rei doesn’t care, because he’s here, he’s safe, he’s home, unharmed and all in one piece and in her arms, and that’s all that really matters.

“welcome home,” she says, giving his hand another little squeeze and leaning her other cheek on his shoulder, a poor imitation of a hug. “dinner will be ready soon.”

a whole head and a bit taller than her, he rests his chin on her scalp and nods, muttering something about showering and dropping another kiss to her hair before he’s gone, slipped from her grasp as easily as smoke and ash, spilling through the gaps of her fingers and wavering down the hallway towards your bedroom.

she pauses, holds her breath, waits for the telltale sound of the shower spray hitting glass and ceramic, and is met instead with your muted squeals and touya’s low rumbling, words too muffled to be legible.

but it doesn’t matter, rei doesn’t care, because he’s here, he’s safe, he’s home.

[inkykeiji]

feels good to be running from the devil

anonymous said: imagine natsuo holding you in his lap while ur watching a movie with touya-nii and he’s sitting rather close but u ignore it, until u feel a big hand on ur thigh, tracing and trailing up, up, and up until he’s tracing ur clit through ur panties and natsuo, already knowing where tonight was headed, leans in to whisper against ur ear, “you’re gonna let touya-nii have his fun right? you’re gonna be good for me and let him play with you?”

characters: todoroki touya, todoroki natsuo

genre: smut

notes: hehehe this was really fun!!! it’s set in my sugar daddy natsuo AU! reader’s a lil bit of a brat and Big Bad Brother touya is mean as always!! | title cred: high by sir sly

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudoincest, daddy kink, toxic/codependent relationships, degradation/dumbification, dacryphilia, frottage, pussy spanking

words: 3.4k

The large bay window that spans the far wall of the parlour is beautiful; pristine crystal and gilded wire that shimmers when the early golden beams of the rising sun stream through, the thin lace curtains casting intricate shadows across the ivory floor. You’ve come to know it intimately, that window, spending so much time cuddled up next to it, listlessly gazing out from it, that you know the way it rattles in its old metal frames when the wind rages, know the way it vibrates when plump droplets of rain drum and hiss against it, know the way the glass heats on those unusually sunny autumn days, or the way they fog with little clouds of condensation from your gentle breaths on especially chilly evenings.

 Out of the seemingly endless rooms in Daddy’s mansion, this room has always been your favourite; so much so that Natsuo had agreed to hang a massive 4K television above the marble fireplace, just so you could spend more time here while he’s off doing work. Touya had grumbled about having to watch a film in a room that isn’t the theatre, in a room that isn’t even meant for leisure and entertainment in the first place, huffing under his breath about what the point of having a theatre is if you don’t use it, but baby gets what baby wants, always.

 A deep pout has carved itself into your lips, glaring intermittently at the rain pelting against the crystal windowpanes you’ve grown so fond of.

 It isn’t fair. The weatherman had promised oceanic skies clear of fluff and full of gold, and Daddy had promised you a trip to your favourite amusement park—begrudgingly, with Touya-nii tagging along—today being the first time he’s had a full twenty-hours off in what feels like an eternity.

 But the weatherman was wrong, the weatherman had lied. Because the sky is draped in tumultuous strokes of dark greys that ripple and waver with each threatening growl of thunder, each sharp strike of veins of silver snaking through the mist.

 It’s how you ended up here, snuggled on Daddy’s lap with a thigh carelessly thrown over Touya’s legs, under your favourite fluffy blanket with a bowl of buttersalt popcorn in your hands.

 And Daddy has done everything in his power to keep that pout from souring your precious face, elegant coffee table sprouting anomalous pops of colour, ivory wood littered with piles of your favourite candies and chocolates, while large stacks of all of your favourite films and shows decorate the ornate rug blanketing the hardwood floor, his pretty platinum credit card thrown haphazardly on the couch cushion beside him, gleaming as it waits for your next request.

 He had even asked if there was anywhere else you wanted to go instead, to your favourite luxury mall, or for an extravagant day treatment at your favourite spa, or for a decadent dinner at your favourite hotel restaurant—but you had refused all of them with a jutted lip and bleary eyes, a stomped foot and clenched fists.

 It’s too bad he can’t bribe the weather. It appears money truly can’t buy everything.

 But Touya—Touya had laughed, swiping a rough thumb across your cheek as he affectionately murmured out that you’re a spoiled fucking brat, sapphire eyes glinting in the dim light as he promised that you’ll find some way to have fun, he just knows it.

 And maybe, he’s right.

 It’s halfway through the second Legally Blonde that you feel them, the calloused fingers crawling along your leg. It feels nice, the tender caress of hardened fingertips against your smooth skin, body melting back into Daddy leisurely while sleep begins to weight your lids, a sigh slipping from between parted lips as you stretch your leg out further, spread your thighs open wider, allowing him room to move, allowing him freedom.

 Yes, it feels nice, until those fingers begin slipping under the soft linen of your dress, climbing higher and higher with each rhythmic stroke until they’re just barely brushing the lacy trim of your silk panties.

 At first, you don’t say anything, pressing your lips together and sucking on your tongue; at first, you think it’s an accident, anxiously glancing at Touya’s face and finding his stare glued to the television, face passive and features relaxed, figuring he must be too engrossed in the movie to notice just how high his fingers have crept.

 Except then his fingers are sneaking between your thighs, up, up, up until his knuckle is scarcely skimming your clit, the unexpected motion forcing a sudden, vicious jolt of electricity through your veins, body trembling from the force of it.

 Brows knitted and chin puckered, you look over at him sharply and find him still staring at the television, the cockiest, most arrogant smirk gracing his tattooed lips, pinprick pupils engulfed in swirling, sparkling sapphire, so magnificent as it ebbs and flows with his amusement.

 He must feel your stare on his skin, because he glances at you from the corner of his eye a few moments later, gaze flicking down to your lap and then back up, tongue obnoxiously poking his cheek as he gives you a toothless grin.

 It’s difficult to work up the courage to say something, unsure of whether or not you’ll get in trouble for ratting Touya out, or if you’ll get in trouble for permitting him to do as he pleases—Daddy’s rules don’t ever seem to apply to his cherished Touya-nii, but does Touya want Daddy to know?

 This is the question that plagues your mind as his knuckle nudges your clit again, moving in the softest feather-light motions—up and down, back and forth—making it throb and pulse and want and need.

 Your tummy flutters as he adds more pressure, desire breeding dazzling butterflies as your hips squirm, inching forward infinitesimally, viscous guilt pouring over the flapping wings like thick tar half a second later, gluing their appendages together and drowning them in sinful remorse.

 “Daddy,” you whisper, voice wavering with uncertainty, wide eyes not leaving Touya’s.

 “Mm,” Natsuo hums in response, oblivious and unconcerned. Terror tugs at the curves of your lips, slow and hesitant as you turn to stare at your Daddy, heart mutilating itself as it rams against ivory bone.

 “Um—D-Da—Touya!”

 The name slashes through the honoured endearment with a sharp gasp as two fingers suddenly clamp down on the sensitive nub and twist, bewildered gaze flying to the eldest Todoroki’s face as your thighs snap shut around his hand, a futile effort to stop the pinching.

 It only takes Natsuo a moment to realize what’s going on, gunmetal eyes sweeping from your nails embedded in his forearm, to your trembling tight thighs, to Touya’s shit-eating grin, joining in on his brother’s snickering as large hands knot in the hem of your dress, tugging it up around your waist as he reprimands with a soft coax. “Open your legs, baby. Let Daddy see,”

 “B-But—”

 “It’s okay,” Natsuo hushes you in a sweet promise, thick fingers gentle as they pry your knees apart. “Let me see,”

 It’s downright mortifying, head turning to nuzzle your face into Daddy’s shoulder as best you can, tiny spikes of embarrassment blurring your vision, each one a small spear slicing into your stinging eyelids as they squeeze shut.

 “Oh,” Natsuo breathes, the word hot and heavy as it wafts over your bare skin. “Would you look at that,”

 “Pretty, isn’t it?”

 “I’ve never seen a more gorgeous sight in my life,” Daddy admits, and it sounds like a vow, an oath, a promise, his fingers digging into your supple flesh and tugging.

 “Look at how swollen it is,” Touya murmurs, almost as if he’s in awe, a rough hand embellished with cuts and callouses sliding over your bare knee, curling under your leg and hitching it higher on his strong thigh, your calf pressed tightly against his groin. “C’mon baby, spread your legs nice and wide, show Daddy how swollen your little clit is,”

 And, oh, it’s so embarrassing, vision clouding over with a pathetic film of tears as your heart shatters your ribs, sharp splinters of bone piercing your lungs, breath escaping in fractured wheezes.

 “Oh, hush,” Natsuo coos tenderly, grip on your flesh easing up as his palms begin rub soothing circles into your hips, the inevitable familiarity of Daddy’s touch bringing you shreds of comfort. “Don’t cry, princess, don’t cry, you’re so gorgeous,”

 “Such a fucking crybaby,” Touya breathes, but it comes out strained, clasp on your knee strengthening as he holds your leg in place, harsh denim beginning to chaff your skin as he ruts against your calf.

 A whimper hitches in your throat, smushing your face against your Daddy again as scalding tears melt through your clenched eyelids, escaping down your soft cheeks and depositing traces of glittering salt in their wake.

 You can’t bear to look, positive the humiliation of it all will embrace you in its fiery combustion, setting your entire body aflame as sharp sparks are sent sizzling through your veins.

 You don’t need to look—you can feel how disgustingly wet you are, dainty silk molding to your folds and outlining such a cute little pussy; you can feel how pathetically empty you are, little hole fluttering around nothing any time Touya so much as grazes it, any time Touya prods and pokes and pushes with a knuckle or two, nudging just enough for you to feel it—a vacant promise saturated in hopeful anticipation; just enough for your cunt to throb greedily as it tries in sheer desperation to suck him in.

 It has the most pitiful whines spilling from your lips, muffled by Daddy’s shoulder, hips twitching towards his touch as the pads of Touya’s fingers skim over your puffy clit in lopsided little patterns.

 “Go on,” Natsuo encourages, and his voice is so soft, so sweet, the gentle command murmured into your hair. “Tell Niisan how good he’s making you feel,”

 Your head is stuffed full of sensations—Touya’s hands on your clit and Daddy’s breath on your skin; the roaring thunder that competes with the rumbling in Daddy’s broad chest and the sharp flashes of lightning that catch on the thin ring of cobalt outlining Touya’s cavernous pupils—and it feels like so much, too much, an overwhelming overload of information and commands, brain finally short-circuiting as Daddy’s fingers hook in the plunging neckline of your sweet little dress and tug, baring your chest to them, a humble tell him, baby, hummed into your neck.

 “N-Niisan,” you gasp out, back arching into Daddy’s touch, hips pushing towards Touya’s hand again. “Niisan, i-it—ah,”

 And, really, it shouldn’t even be all that immense; but the teasing swipes of Touya’s fingertips against your swollen clit, and Daddy allowing it, endorsing it, as he grinds his hard cock against your ass and tweaks your nipples, makes it all feel so naughty, so forbidden, so incredibly illicit that it heightens everything—every flick and kiss and pet—hypersensitive body feeling like a strip of overexposed film.

 A groan catches in Touya’s throat, rattling against his ribs as he swallows it back down. “Niisan, huh? Do you wish I was your big brother, too?” A ghost of a chuckle escapes his lips, hot breath infused with condescension forcing chills to pebble your skin. “You’re a sick little girl, you know that?”

 The words curl around your ear in the wisp of a whisper, voice ridden with infinitesimal tremors—remnants of his laughter sewn into the sentence—as tattooed lips graze the cartilage in the gentlest caress, followed by a slick tongue tracing the dips and curves, sucking the appendage between gleaming ivory that bite hard enough to pierce.

 Your head nods, then shakes, then nods again, a half-baked sob stuttering in your chest.

 “Can’t make up your mind, sweetheart?” he purrs out with a soft tut of his tongue, fingers rubbing slow, hard circles into you, slick fabric aiding his gliding movements. “Doesn’t take much to make you dumb, does it, pretty baby? A little friction and you’ve gone fucking stupid,” a laugh pries past his lips, amusement caustic as it cuts through the thick atmosphere, concurrent with another strike of lightning twining through the dense clouds. “Wonder how fucking stupid you’d go from my cock, huh? Comatose, probably,”

 A loud wail lacerates your throat, so harsh it tears through the flesh and leaves it raw and bloody, steady streams of crystalline drops staining your cheeks as your clit throbs at his words.

  “Oh?” Touya snickers out breathlessly, two fingers rolling the sensitive bud between their fingertips. “You like that? Stupid little bitch,”

 Mewling, you nod lethargically, head lolling lazily with the loose motion, cheek resting against his shoulder as you gaze up at him with glittering eyes and bitten-raw lips, slick-sheened with saliva.

 “Touya-nii, Touya-nii,”

 “Yeah, baby?” he coos gently, the term of endearment soaked in mockery, head falling forward to knock his forehead against your own, your noses nudging together. Another bolt of lightning forks through the sky, bathing him in incandescence, bright and blue like the protruding veins in his slim hands, wound around lithe bones and snaking under his skin as skilled fingers work. “That feel good? Huh? You like it when Niisan plays with your pussy?”

 “Uh—Uh-huh,” you pant, still staring up at him through bleary, half-lidded eyes, head jerking a little in a poor imitation of a nod, clumsy and awkward as you babble senselessly, so close your lips nearly brush his. “Want Niisan to play with me all the time,”

 “I bet you do, little slut,”

 He finally releases the sensitive bud, pressing the coarse pads of his fingers to your clit and beginning to grind—up, down, left, right, repeat, gaining more and more speed with each loop through the routine.

 Your thighs are starting to ache from the stretch, muscles quivering as you force them further apart, bucking pathetically into Touya’s touch as Daddy murmurs praises into your neck, words painted in thick strokes of gleaming saliva, punctuated by ivory bone that scrapes against the slick flesh, carving the sentiments in dark, deep indents of crimson and violet.  

 And it’s intoxicating in the best way, their combined scents encompassing you in their heady embrace, a contradictory mix of fire and ice—sweet campfire and spicy Marlboros and burnt hickory, mingling with fresh mint and tangy lemon and frigid blue raspberry—wafting over your body in thick opaque clouds, swirling and strangling as they envelop you in the eye of their storm.

 They’re all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, feel, think; searing sapphire and guttural growls, sizzling sparks and frosty chills that shoot through your flesh with every touch and tease and twist, chasing the blood in your veins to scorch your stomach and glaciate your brain, organs encased in stifling soot and impeding ice.

 Muscles coiled and sore, your entire body quakes with each repeat of Touya’s graceful pattern, concurrent with the roiling of the clouds overhead as shocks of quicksilver whiz through them. The shield of tears cast across you eyes thickens with each swipe over your clit, blur distorting your vision to nothing but a mess of light and shapes as it begins to drift out of focus.

 “No, no, no,” Touya commands, voice sharp enough to slice through the thick ice that has glazed your mind. “Keep your eyes open, princess. Want you looking at me when you cum on my fingers,”

 “Niisan,” Natsuo nearly whimpers, a total subordinate in his brother’s presence, his humping become almost desperate, uneven and uncoordinated in his haste, in his need. “Niisan, make her do it, make her cum,”

 “Hear that, baby? Daddy wants me to make you cum,” he hums a little, irritatingly indifferent as he considers, like it makes no difference to him, like it doesn’t matter at all. “Do you think I should?”

 Your head’s nodding before he’s even finished speaking, legs straining as far open as they can, trying in vain to rut against his hand. “More, more, please, Niisan, more,”  

 A sharp slap, sticky and wet, echoes out among the room, tangling with the fragmented yelp clawing at the back of your tongue. Large hands—one rough, one soft—keep your legs from snapping shut, movements fluid and swift, almost as if they belong to one entity, almost as if they share a singular consciousness, strong fingers branding brilliant blotches of azure and periwinkle into supple skin, minuscule galaxies stuffed full of their essence, of their ownership.

 “Greedy girl,” Touya admonishes with a tutted tongue as if he’s disgusted, delivering another swift, harsh slap to your drenched pussy. “You’ll cum from whatever Niisan fucking gives you,”

 The words are slow, languid as they flow effortlessly from his mouth, paradoxic to the blazing in his eyes as he glares at you, each word punctuated with another smack to your sensitive skin, each spank sending infinitesimal spikes of agony lurching through your body to chase after thorns of pleasure.

 A wail shatters in your throat, lids blinking hard against the torrent of fresh tears, salty dewdrops garnishing spiked lashes, glistening daintily in the low light as they flutter.

 “Don’t you dare look away from me,”

 And he’s so fast, so smart, so scary in how accurately he can predict your motions, his soaked hand catching your chin before you can even turn away and yanking it back to face him.

 “You look away from me again and I won’t let you cum at all, you understand?” nimble fingers grip your cheeks with such force your lips pucker up, viscous drool beginning to ooze out the corners as you nod jerkily.

 “Don’t be a brat,” Natsuo joins in, but it almost sounds like he’s begging you not to be bad, not to ruin this for him, a needy whine woven into the words, thunder submitting to its luminescent leader. “Be a good girl and cum from Touya-nii’s fingers,”

 And you nod and whimper and agree, because you want to be good, because you are good, because the two of them are almost otherworldly in the way they prevail, as harmonious as the rain and the lightning and the thunder, coming together to create one massive, horrific, awe-inspiring storm, magnificent and malignant all at once.

 “You know, I really shouldn’t let you,” Touya muses, nonchalant and unbothered, entirely disregarding the fact that your Daddy just gave you explicit permission—since none of that ever really matters when Touya-nii is around. “Not with how much of a fucking brat you’ve been today,”

 Jumbled pleads begin instantly spilling from your throat, flowing so fast, so seamlessly they sound like one steady word, uninterrupted even as hiccups stammer in your chest and tears flow in thick streams down your cheeks.

 And, oh, you’re so disgustingly desirous, it’s precious, he tells you, the words stuffed full of an almost affectionate derision as his fingers find your clit again, resuming their previous practice at an alarmingly fast pace, a muddled hybrid of his name and his honorific fracturing in your throat.

 Flames as blue as his eyes flicker and flare in the pit of your tummy, blistering heat laving over your organs as it burns higher, stronger, brighter with each movement, remorseless as it consumes your body, your mind, your soul, as it engulfs you from the inside out, licking gracefully up your throat, cinders carrying burnt moans that wither into tendrils of thick smoke as they escape your lips. Three more drags of those calloused fingers—up, down, left—and you’re choking on a cry, body convulsing almost violently in their arms as your cunt clenches around nothing, hips sporadically bucking in a vain attempt to chase the after-sparks.

 They’re laughing then, you think, murmuring to each other over your head as you collapse, boneless and pliant, back against your Daddy’s chest. You can’t make out what they’re saying, mind evaporated into a pure fog of dim cinders and weak vibrations, their sentiments muddled and muffled, no longer discernible from the storm outside. Fingers thread through your hair as palms cup your jaw, a pair of scarred lips suddenly at your ear.

 “Told you we’d find a way to have fun,”