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nsfw: smut, explicit language
content/warnings: stepbrother!xiaojun x fem!reader, stepcest, dubcon, some parts could read as noncon tbh, angst, toxicity, codependency, possessiveness, satirical mention of murder/suicide/death, groping, pervy nasty behaviors, vague intention to kidnap (!?!), abusive tendencies, one hard slap, crying, mouth-covering, pnv sex, almost a plot?, there’s something deeply wrong w this man (he's in love)
w.c. 3.6k
these last days of december have been long awaited. apart from christmas holidays, your family rarely gets together anymore. everyone has grown and scattered in different directions in life, although xiaojun has always been careful not to let you stray too far from him.
on christmas eve, you arrive at your family’s house earlier than xiaojun does. it’s best that way, to get a few hours to settle in and catch up with everyone, knowing that the moment he comes through the door you’ll feel the air pressure in the entire home change.
lately, you’ve made yourself a bit harder for him to get in touch with; returning texts slower, not picking up calls like you used to. his birthday was the last time you saw him. august. you’ve been working, he’s been travelling, and there’s just not enough spare time to make ends meet — that’s what you’ve been claiming, anyway. it’s sort of a shitty excuse, considering his repeated offers to buy you a round-trip ticket to see him anywhere, any day, even if it’s just for an hour in the train station.
you tell him, “sorry, it’s hard, i know.” and that’s where you try to leave it most days. your apologies have gotten less and less elaborate, but you do mean them.
distancing yourself from him is sort of in the experimental phase. you don’t know what you’re doing, how to walk away, or where you’d even walk to if you did. it doesn’t feel good. maybe that’s the point? you have to stop doing things just because they feel good.
when you think about years gone by, xiaojun is at the center of all of your best memories. he’s looking at you and you feel like the prettiest person alive. he’s laughing at your jokes and you feel funny and smart. he’s between your legs, inside you, on top of you, it’s like you’re made for him, and it feels good.
you really have to stop doing things just because they feel good.
that kind of relationship — the kind where a whole person is your secret vice — isn’t as easy to justify as it was when it began. back then, xiaojun was all about immediate gratification, and you were letting yourself be young, corrupt, impractical. you thought: yeah, your step-brother fucks you and makes you come — so what? it’s not hurting anyone. he’s not trying to be your boyfriend. he doesn’t even kiss you. why would he kiss you? it isn’t like that. don’t be weird.
sometimes you dream he’s kissing you, and you wake up crying. it’s so weird.
anyway.
at home, you linger near the front door like a puppy with its tail between its legs, waiting for his car to shine headlights up the driveway, casting shadows through the window and across the room. your stomach is in knots, years worth of knots, and you can’t find that loose end to begin unravelling anything.
you’re prepared for him to be upset, give you the cold shoulder for the way you’ve tried to sideline him, but what ends up getting to you worse is that he’s happier than ever to drop his bags and pull you into a hug.
“good to see you,” he says, smiling, his elbow still bent around the back of your neck, “why are you such a shithead about texting back these days, hm?”
is he being cruel or is he oblivious? is he stupid? it’s impossible to tell. you force out a laugh, he gets told to watch his language, and that’s that. no hard feelings. he throws his stuff into his old room, rummages through the fridge, gets kicked out of the kitchen. everything is so normal.
paranoid, or maybe just guilt-ridden, you continue waiting for the other shoe to drop.
you’re still waiting late at night, even as he’s lifting up the blanket on his bed, wordlessly inviting you to join him. still waiting while he’s spooning you, grinding against your lower back, helping you kick your pajama pants off under the covers.
“missed this so bad,” he mumbles at the back of your head, touching you everywhere he can reach, checking in the dark that you’re all accounted for. no missing pieces. just like he left you. “hope you missed me too.”
you only nod; it doesn’t feel honest to say it outloud.
the way he fucks you tonight is half-awake and sloppy. he doesn’t last long, doesn’t pull out, rolls your clit between his fingers to get you off while grumbling about how hard you’re clenching around his sensitive girth. if he knew that was supposed to be the last time it ever happened, you figure everything wouldn’t be so lazy, comfortable, unashamed. so, it can’t be the last time, you decide. it’d be unfair.
xiaojun falls asleep with his chin digging into your shoulder, his arms cocooned around you, snoring every few breaths. when he tosses and turns, he hauls you along with him like you’re his own extra limb.
it’s inevitable; you make the age-old mistake of letting yourself be swallowed up in the moment. forget about that other shoe you were waiting to drop; what shoe? there is no shoe. you’re in the safest place you’ve ever known.
christmas, as well as the days following, are spent between the living room, the kitchen table, and the few times you can get away with it, in bed. sometimes yours, sometimes xiaojun’s — it really comes down to whose sheets have fewer wet spots at any given moment.
at six o’clock in the morning he’s standing in the doorway of your room, shirtless, brushing his teeth, watching you put your sweatpants back on without any underwear. he looks kind of lost. freshly fucked.
“you should quit your job,” he says out of the blue, talking through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“uh–” your brows scrunch at him, so he scrunches his own, imitating you. “i can’t. why would i– what?”
once again, you’re wondering, is he stupid? his hand waves in a be-right-back sort of gesture, and he goes to spit in the bathroom sink.
upon return, he clarifies, “they’re working you too hard.”
in the awkward, vaguely accusatory silence that falls in the room, it’s quite obvious what he means to point out is how you’re too busy for him.
“working hard is fine.” you shrug. “i spend a lot of money. high-maintenence, you know?”
high-maintenance, in the sense that it takes a certain amount of work and retail therapy to distract you from a mental spiral that he sits indefinitely at the bottom of.
maybe he understands that, maybe not. he’s quick to drop the conversation, come to where you sit on the edge of the bed and palm the crown of your head, much like he’d pat a faithful old dog.
“i’m going to the gym,” he says. “love you.”
you hug him tight around his legs, pressing your nose into the hairs below his bellybutton, and nod. you don’t say it back even though he stays a long time waiting for you to before walking off.
so there is a shoe to drop, but the two of you are just passing it back and forth like a game of hot potato. great. a play-to-lose scenario.
when he gets home, xiaojun fucks you like he’s trying to impress you, and a little bit like he hopes someone overhears.
he keeps saying so terribly out loud, "look at me when you cum, look at your brother, show me how much you like it." and you do like it, he’s right, but would it kill him to shut up? you beg him to the whole time, which makes him very happy, but not quieter.
afterwards, he lays out on his back, rubbing at the film of sweat on his chest and stares at the ceiling. eventually, his head rolls to the side towards you, and when he talks, his voice seems distant.
“you wouldn’t know how to fuck it weren’t for me. ever thought about that?”
no, you haven’t. and you don’t think you like that scathing look in eyes.
“well, you don’t need to know how to fuck anybody but me,” he adds. “don’t waste your time.”
okay, you weren’t planning to. you never go past first base with other men. they put their tongue in your mouth and grope at you over your clothes and it’s gross. you feel like a whore.
sometimes xiaojun backs you into a corner, grabs the waistband of whatever you’re wearing, and stretches it open so he can spit straight down the front of your panties. “i want it extra wet for me later,” is what he cites as his reason. it’s nice, you feel well-kept. and you’re always so wet for him later.
on new year’s eve, more friends and family come over to celebrate. you pray it goes unnoticed how your posture changes when xiaojun’s in the same room. how you walk differently when you know he’s watching. the amount of times you disappear to the bathroom to fuss with your hair, straighten your clothes, and reassure yourself in the mirror.
the concept of someone taking you aside and asking, ‘what’s up with you? who are you trying to act pretty for?’ makes you so anxious you’re scared to think about it.
most people swoon over how kind and attentive xiaojun is with you. they say, you’re so lucky you got a step sibling who cares to treat you like family. you got a protective brother, a friend, a confidant. you must be so grateful.
that’s really the shame of it all; the fact that you let people believe they’re seeing the whole perfect picture, let them praise you for it, even let them envy you. there’s an entire reputation surrounding you and it’s built on a big fat lie. of course, you are lucky and grateful, but never in the way anyone assumes.
a friend mentions, “hey, you smell nice” and you say “thanks, new shampoo” but you’re thinking about how it was xiaojun who washed your hair that afternoon, silently slipping into the bathroom after you. and it was you who purposely left the door ajar, because it’s annoying when the mirror steams up. and because it’s annoying to wash his semen out of your hair when it was supposed to stay on your tits. brothers are so annoying.
someone tells you, “i love your sweater” and you say “thank you, the neckline suits me, i think?” forgoing the part about your collarbones hidden underneath, how xiaojun clings to them from behind like handlebars, and leaves them bruise-dappled with his fingerprints all the way from jugular notch to shoulder.
“you’re thin-skinned,” he always says, “you’re easy to decorate.” and he’s right; the marks scallop along your frame like pine bows, like christmas garland.
too many people for your liking ask things along the lines of “are you dating? bring anyone home for the holidays to meet the family? no? well, it’s good to see you’re making yourself happy.” and to that, you say...not much, or “thanks” but with a massive, trembling question mark. internally, you’re shouting hell no. that’s your worst nightmare. it’d be mortifying. a blood bath.
just imagine it: you and xiaojun and another, cozied around the fire. how could that work? it couldn’t. anyone worth introducing to your family would spend five minutes with your step-brother and they’d know. xiaojun would make sure of it. you’d all end up arguing over who kills who, or gets to kill themselves first. whether it’s fucking, murder, or suicide, someone would end up watching the other two get finished off. you’ve never had much interest in a threesome.
at the dinner table, xiaojun sits beside you — he always does — and he’s speaking with a neighbor who joined for the meal.
“we’ve been close for years,” xiaojun says, referring to you, “like partners in crime.”
the neighbor laughs because it’s such an endearing, familial thing for someone to call their sister.
you laugh because you have no idea the context of his comment; you haven’t been able to focus or listen.
xiaojun laughs because, beyond the curtain of the tablecloth, his hand is in your lap, under your skirt, kneading the inside of your bare thigh, grazing his knuckles along the fabric of your underwear.
if you get any wetter, you might slide out of your seat. actually, you think you could faint. in your peripheral, you watch as he retracts his hand, and casually passes his finger by his mouth, pausing mid-sentence to lick off a shiny smudge as though it were nothing more than oil from the food.
the fear that anyone could be watching a little too closely takes over, and you swear off all eye contact for at least ten minutes. no talking either. you stare at your plate until xiaojun asks you if you’re alright.
“i’m not feeling too good,” you say, looking him in the bridge of the nose, and then his mouth when he smiles. it’s a dirty smile that you’re very familiar with and you hate that he’s doing it in front of everyone. “i don’t mean it like–” you try to backpedal and get tongue tied. “my chest, i mean it hurts.”
“oh.” his expression wilts. “want some water?”
“no.”
“we could step outside, get some fresh air?”
“that’s okay, just–” you sigh, rub your clammy hands on the napkin in your lap, then shuffle to stand up. “i’ll be back.”
it’s a lie, and you know he knows it’s a lie. you’ve never ran from him like that before.
on one hand, you left because he was touching you, then talking so close, so softly, fussing over you in such an obvious way. a few more seconds and he’d be pulling you into his lap, asking in baby-talk, “do you wanna fuck? wanna come?”
on the other hand, you left because you would’ve been nodding “yes. yes, please.”
sex always seems like it’ll fix everything. it even seems like that now, as you lay on your bed with the door shut. not locked, but shut. it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest when xiaojun knocks and enters simultaneously. you heard his footsteps coming, you know their exact pace and weight, you can often tell what shoes he’s wearing. right now, he’s in socks that he got for christmas.
he asks if you need to be alone, and you say yes, but when he says ‘alone’ he means ‘alone, together.’
that’s fine too, you guess. you’re not in the right state of mind to put up any kind of meaningful fight. and you like how he scoops you up and curls you around him too.
“it’s better like this, isn’t it?” he asks you, and you’re not exactly sure what he means. “we could go away together, you know, just you and me.”
“sounds like a fairytale.” there’s a sarcastic laugh with your response, but it’s weak. “i think we’re too old for that.”
“i could make something work.”
since your head is on his chest, you don’t see the way he’s looking around the room at your clothes exploded out of your duffel bag, your phone charger in the wall, taking mental inventory of what things you have in the bathroom, how many coats are on the rack upstairs. he’s wondering how long it’d take to shove it all in the back of his car and just…leave. somewhere new and far. you might be hesitant at first, but you’d come around, he’s certain. you’d have to. could you even blame him if he forced it a little? after all, everything that’s wrong with him is wrong with you too. you’re inseparable, in that way. irreplaceable.
“i love you,” he says, and plants a kiss on your head, which makes you want to dissolve into thin air.
your hands are in cold little fists, you’re practically blind with anxiety, but you pick your head up and turn to face him. your mouth opens to tell him enough is enough, you mean it, for real—
but he’s kissing you. why would he kiss you? it’s weird. his mouth is so warm and supple, and his fingers curve around your cheeks like parenthesis as he steers you underneath him. laying in your pillows, you’re absolutely rigid. you could cry.
“why are you being like this?” he huffs out a slight scoff. you wonder if he means prudish, withdrawn, or just a bitch. his voice is stern. “kiss me back.”
“everyone’s gonna notice we’re missing, dejun,” you gripe, giving a longing glance to the door “they’ll know if–”
“nobody gives a fuck, they don’t care about you, baby, i’m sorry, but they don’t,” xiaojun breaks this news to you quietly, but still very harsh. “you left dinner looking all messed up, and who’s the only one that came to fix it?”
“you.” it’s true. he’s the only one you wanted and the only one you expected, too.
“and why would i do that?”
“you love me.”
“that’s right, i love you” his lips slot softly between yours as he mutters, “nobody else will like i do.”
that’s a painful truth if you’ve ever heard one. love aside, nobody else will ever so much as know you like xiaojun does. often, you feel like a stranger to everyone except him.
you kiss him, but it’s not enough to get away with another nod as a reply.
“i can’t have you not saying it back, c’mon, give it up already,” he’s being snide, though deadly serious. “you’re hurting my feelings.”
“i’m sorry.”
“then say it.”
“obviously i do, you’re family.” you try to kiss him again, but he leans away.
“just say it,” he spits out. it’s a demand now, there’s offense in his eyes as he lifts himself more upright, putting even more space between your faces. “you used to tell me all the time, what’s so fucking difficult about–”
“dejun, why–”
without skipping a beat, he slaps you. hard. like he’d been aching for it, winding up in preparation since last week. maybe longer. the contact stings, and makes an ugly, flat echo.
for a fragile moment, both of you freeze, staring at each other like neither of you know whose fault it is or why it happened at all, just completely outside of yourselves. and then everything crumbles.
“i’m sorry, i– shit, i’m so sorry,” xiaojun is sincerely disgusted with himself. you can tell by how frantically he begins shushing your sobs and wiping the tears off your face, and how he jumps up quickly to lock the door.
when he returns to you, he’s wrestling your sweater over your head, because sex fixes everything — remember? isn’t that what’s happening here? you aren’t sure; he’s never hit you before. never kissed you on the mouth before. never taken your skirt off so hastily that the zipper breaks before. but he’ll buy you a new one, he says, he’ll buy you fifty, whatever you want, just please stop crying.
xiaojun fucks you scared. he’s scared that it’s going to be the last time you ever let him near you. whether he should make this sex good enough to tide him over for a lifetime, or make it so miserable he’ll never want it again, he can’t decide.
it ends up being sort of both. and sort of something else entirely. he finds himself all too willing to go rougher on you than usual and keep fucking you through the aches and pains.
unfortunately, it’s addicting how you’re telling him you love him now — every few minutes, actually — and in between he gets to soothe you when you cry out his name, or “ow!”, or “hurts”.
his hips are snapping against you, his wet, pink mouth groaning into yours, telling you, “i know...i know you love me, i believe you...you just forgot how good we are together, it’s okay.” there’s a pause for him to catch your hands that are pushing at his chest. he holds them instead, not unkindly, interlacing your fingers with his. “it’s my fault we spent too long apart...won’t let it happen again...i’m sorry...forgive me, okay? you’ll forgive me.”
this is good, he tells himself. cathartic. you’ll feel closer than ever to him once it’s over.
admittedly, it does break his heart to hear you ask him in your quiet, feeble voice, “how much longer?” but it’s made up for by your legs twitching at his sides, your stomach piquing then falling back to the mattress with a whine, your climax hitting you so hard that you quiver under him like a helpless animal while he coos at you.
“there you go, that’s good, right?” he lets go of your hands now, trusting that you’ll be pliant while he finishes. also, because he needs one of his own hands free to put over your mouth. "sorry, baby, it'll be quick." he whispers, "i can't get off while you're crying at me, i can't...fuck, it kills me."
does it? does it really kill him? you don't think he looks too torn up inside while he clamps his hand around half your face and uses it as leverage to slam into you. every time he bottoms out in you, muffled moans seep through the cracks between his fingers. when you breath through your nose, it's all sniffling. he doesn't like that either. he shakes his head at you, and you count yourself lucky he doesn't just smother you with a pillow.
xiaojun ruts himself deep inside of you and comes with his jaw hanging slack and a vein popping out on his temple. you're relieved to have him motionless again, above anything else. everything on you stings and there’s a hot mess sliding down your thighs.
having him undressed, laying all of his weight on you while his face is shoved into the damp crook of your neck feels so familiar, so reassuring that it lulls you half to sleep. you wonder if it’s the new year yet, and if his lips were on yours at midnight.
you also wonder how wrecked your face looks, and if there’s any chance you can walk back out of the room without someone asking (or knowing) who did that to you. xiaojun seems to think you should keep to yourselves for the remainder of the night, and possibly tomorrow too.
he suggests the two of you go for a drive in the morning, stating it’d be a good chance to talk, sort things out between the two of you. that conversation would make a very long drive, you think, but okay. fine. where are you driving to? oh, he doesn’t know yet. the plan is just to drive till it feels safe to stop.
an: like, rb, tell me if u want to hold hands w me, etc etc etc...i'm back on my bs posting wayv fics now that beat it up hyperfixation is over. my drafts are plentiful.
happy new year <3 ok. love u. bye.
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