#phila writes

[philadelphoi]

Hallmark holiday movie but it’s about siblings: sister has a great career in the big city and recently became engaged, but she has to go back to her hometown to save the family business or whatever… She reunites with her grumpy, estranged brother and sparks fly… also Santa is involved somehow and he’s into it…

[philadelphoi]

Preacher's sister

Cesare x Lucrezia. Southern Gothic AU. Bingo square: masturbating during sermon (need I say more?) 1K words | Rated E Inspired by @dullpearl's moodboard. For @macrocest bingo

He’s not as good as papa, Cesare is. He can emulate, he can raise his voice to shake the rafters of the crumbling church and pound his fist against the unsteady lectern, but it’s not the same as papa. “Blood begets blood,” he warns against the use of violence, but there’s no real faith behind it and barely any fear. He’s quoting Shakespeare instead of the Bible. They’re way past fear.

There is a small brown spot on Lucrezia’s white gloves, old blood. She brings it to her mouth. Sucks on the cotton.  

Cesare is at his best when he talks of sin and of the devil, of temptation, when he decries the stains, the marks they were born with. Sweat curls the hair on his forehead and temples. He watches her, his eyes dark despite the hazy light in the church. A smile that shouldn’t be there tugs at the corners of his mouth.

That’s when she feels it, it slithers down her breast bone like a grass snake and coils deep in her belly. She cants her hips against the edge of the pew, pelvis to wood, a pressure more kindling than relief. Mama’s looking at Cesare and Joffrey is too young to understand. Juan scoffs. She always sits right here for a reason: the vertical piece of wood holding the back of the pew. And if anyone were to look, they’d see the dent in her floral dress where the oak presses against her mound. It takes some wiggling, some pushing on her tip toes to get it where she wants. And there’s that good pressure, the deep, delicious shivers. Lips parted, she looks at her brother and moves her hips just at the right angle. It’s not comfortable, despite the curved and smooth tip, it’s hard as bones, but she thinks it shouldn’t be comfortable.

“Can you feel the Holy Spirit move?” Cesare asks the congregation.

And the slither is there anew, wrapping around her thighs, invisible yet solid. It nudges upwards, past the barrier of damp white cotton. Sweat beads between her breasts. She bites her bottom lip raw.

“Let Him fill your body,” Cesare says. 

Lucrezia’s chin drops to her chest and she grabs onto the ridge of the pew. It’s inside of her, filling, stretching, throbbing. Sickening. As Cesare’s sermon grows in intensity so does her anguish. She clutches the cross at her neck and grinds against the wood faster.

Some people raise their hands, some shout “hallelujah!”, some speak in tongues, Lucrezia seizes and faints— slain by the Spirit.

*

No painting or scrubbing will ever restore the house to its former whiteness. There’s corruption in its bones and it comes out in dark splotches of mold. The Borgias traded their souls for fortune when they traded people like cattle. 

On the back porch, Lucrezia sips sweet tea, eyes on the horizon. Beyond the fields that once made them rich, a shimmer, an insolent wink, sunlight on water, recalls the presence of the swamp. They should have dumped her husbands’ bodies elsewhere, they wouldn’t haunt her so. 

Sometimes she wishes her hands were stained like her gloves.

Paolo is in there too, lynched for touching her, for loving a Borgia. Narcissus reborn as pickerelweed. And if Juan has his way, her tawny-skinned son will suffer the same fate.

Cesare joins her outside. He’s out of his cassock, never likes wearing it for longer than he needs to. The collar of his white shirt is open, displays his throat. She squeezes there sometimes, but he doesn’t think she can go through with it. She prefers poison anyway. Cantarella lemonade. Hemlock sweet tea. Angel’s trumpets steeped in Grapico.

His eyes are that unresolved hazel again, shifting light greens and browns and, she likes to think, a speck of blue from looking into her own eyes so much.

Without a word, he lays his large hand on the nape of her neck, and God comes rushing back. She’s soothed, glowing. Her eyes flutter close, her lips part with a sigh. She needs him. He knows that.

He sits in the rocking chair and invites her to sit on his knees. He asks if she liked his sermon with his lips at her jaw and his hand underneath her skirt, his breath loud in her ear. She doesn’t have to say, he can feel the treacherous liquid love, and his fingers slip in, finish what his words started. He likes the violence of it, her climaxes, clenching and shivering like a possessed woman. He likes it better with his cock buried inside her, but he’ll take what he can for now. She has no shortage of orgasms for her brother.

She’s limp with satisfaction. Cesare rocks her sweetly like he’s not painfully hard underneath her. 

Juan comes out with that kicked puppy dog look on his face and his too-long hair over bloodshot eyes. He wants in. If she were to spread her legs, he would get on his knees for her, apologize with his tongue. And at one time that might have been tempting, to have her two brothers like dogs on leashes, drooling at the scent of her cunt, but he killed Paolo. So she burrows further into Cesare’s safe embrace. He rubs her stomach and ribs, too close to her breasts, and whispers something funny in her ear. She looks at Juan as she laughs. 

He spits on the ground, “Whore,” then he’s gone.  

Come nightfall, when the cicadas holler, Cesare and Lucrezia meet among the moss-covered trees and the choking kudzu. She’s on her belly, and he’s inside her. Hands clawing at the moist soil like they’re digging their own grave. He calls her “my love” as his hips slap against her behind. “Brother,” she answers, and his hips move faster, a punishing pace for the sinners they are. And it’s good, it's so goddamn good. Blood begets blood. He took her virginity and now he bites. She howls at the full moon. And he spills in her, branding hot. But then he’s soft as a lamb, apologetic and worshipful, taking her to ecstasy, once, twice. Absolved by her love and pleasure.

Tomorrow he will say it shouldn’t happen again, but come next Sunday he will be back between her legs.

[philadelphoi]

❢car sex ❢Dom/sub undertones ❢brother/sister

“Sarah, your brother is such a sleazeball,” Maddie says.

“I thought you said he was a chef, why does he look so… dirty?” Regis adds.

Niko is not dirty, but he does look unkempt— he’s been working long hours at the restaurant. Leaning against the hood of his car, sunglasses on, my brother is smoking. There’s a hole in his t-shirt, along the crew neck, and the pushed up sleeves display his tattooed arms. 

When he sees me, he beckons me over with two fingers.

My heart thuds so loud, I feel it between my legs. 

“Yeah, he’s a creep,” I say, fighting a blush rising in my cheeks.

Niko had said he might be able to pick me up after class, and I’d tried not to get my hopes up, but he’s here, blasting punk music from his shitty car speakers like the anti-social asshole he is.

“Why are straight men like this?” Regis rolls his eyes.

I wave at Niko.

“Don’t tell me you’re ditching us for you brother,” Regis says. 

“He hasn’t seen me in a while…” I explain.

“It’s weird how much time he wants to spend with his little sister,” Maddie adds. “My brother couldn’t care less about me.”

I want to run down the stairs and jump into Niko’s arms, but I pace myself. For the sake of appearances, but also to make him sweat. I can’t see his eyes behind the wayfarer frames, but I know he’s watching me, and I’m proven right when I sway my hips a little more, and he smirks.

He greets me with a curt nod and opens the passenger door for me. We get in the car without so much as a hug. He turns down the music before sliding out of the no-parking space. I watch the cherry trees in bloom go by. Once we are a good distance away from the campus, Niko links our fingers and brings my hand to his mouth to kiss it. One touch and warmth drips between my legs. It’s been too long.

“Hey, baby.”

The secret term of endearment stirs butterflies in my stomach.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“Better now.”

He smiles at me, and the butterflies riot. He’s not conventionally handsome with his ever messy hair and deep-set eyes, his face all sharp angles and generally forbidding, but when he smiles at me… it’s everything.

I look away and tell him about the disappointing A- I received on an assignment.

“In orgo?” he asks. “With that bastard Lindberg? I bet he was pissed off he couldn’t give you a lower grade.”

“If only I could make Dr. Lindberg like me…”

“Hey, that’s not on you.” He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. “Want me to talk to him?” 

I laugh. “Like you talked to my fifth grade bully? I’d rather you were not charged with assault. Then I’d see even less of you.”

“I’ve heard great things about the conjugal visit trailer at the local prison.”

“You think they’d let your sister in there with you?”

“It’s not illegal in our state,” he says, and I have no doubt he’s looked it up.

Niko moved out after a huge fight with our parents over his career choice. You’d think him having his own place would make meeting up easier, but Dad has forbidden me from visiting him, claiming he and his roommates are a bad influence. I’m only ever allowed to see him when he comes over for Sunday dinners. Nevertheless, when our schedules align, Niko picks me up from uni, and we steal a little time together in his car. I still live in the suburbs with our parents, but the university is in the city, so I take the train every day. It allows me to catch up on the reading material, instead of being stuck in traffic, worrying about all the reading I’m not doing. Being stuck in traffic with Niko, however, that’s much more pleasant.

“Did you miss me?” he asks.

I shrug as if I’m not constantly thinking about him.

“How much?” he insists.

“As much as you missed me,” I reply, sassy.

“Clever.” He smirks. “Must be a whole lot, then.”

At a red light, Niko’s fingers curl around my chin, and he brings my mouth to his over the centre console. I think of Lichtenberg scars, the fractal ones from lightning strikes, and how my body should be covered in them from the way my brother’s touch blazes through me. His mouth swallows mine, hungry and impatient. His tongue reaches inside, leaving no place untouched, touring his territory. A needy sound crawls up my throat. It feels so good to be wanted. 

Niko doesn’t relent until the driver behind us honks.

Instead of returning to the steering wheel, his hand drops to my bare thigh. Its weight and warmth travels straight to my blood. It’s not just resting on my thigh, it’s squeezing and gripping in a possessive way. Ever since he started culinary school, bandages have adorned his hands and fingers, they’ve grown calloused from handling a chef knife and burning himself on pots and pans, but they’re still the hands that have always taken care of me. The same long, slender fingers that have wiped away my tears and tried to braid my hair, have given me more twisted bliss and ecstatic pain than I thought possible.

As we hit the highway, I slide down in the car seat and spread my legs.

“So well trained,” Niko comments.

His words should infuriate me, instead I welcome his wandering hand. I’m all aflame already.

“Did you wear that pretty skirt for me?” He fingers the lacy hem. “Want me to fuck you in it, Baby?”

My nod must not have been enthusiastic enough, because he asks, “you sure, Sarah?”

If I told him I only wanted to talk, he’d swing by the closest Starbucks drive-through, get me something far sweeter than what I usually allow myself to drink, and we’d chew the fat like best friends. But I do want him to fuck me silly in that flirty ruffled skirt I wore for him, I just have a hard time saying it; so, I show him instead.

I take his hand and drag it up between my legs until he can feel the evidence of my arousal. Grinning, he presses his middle finger against my damp panties, making me gasp.

“All for me?” His fingers snake under the leg hole where I’m wet and warm and swollen with need. There’s no aim to his exploration, he just likes to feel all of me, coat his fingers in my juices. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Getting worked up in class, instead of taking notes. Tell me what filthy things did that beautiful brain of yours conjure?”

I bite my lower lip and roll my hips against his fingers. On days I know we will meet, focus truly is a challenge.

“I… I’ve been thinking about that time… in the pool.”

“In Hawaii?”

We were on a trip with our parents at a five-star resort, the four of us in the same hotel suite, in close proximity without a chance to get off.

“What happened in the pool, Sarah?”

I much prefer when he does the dirty talk, the way his voice turns deeper with want makes me weak in the knees, but he’s busy driving and fingering me at the same time, so I give him a pass. 

“It was full of people and we ended up in a corner of the deep end to sip our drinks. Someone pushed me against you by accident, and I felt…”

Niko rubs my clit lazily, I wiggle in the seat hoping for more friction. It’s not the best angle, but I’ll take what I can get. My knuckles clench white around the seat belt. Traffic slows down. The man in the car next to ours glances over. I school my features, but Niko is doing his damnedest to make me lose my composure.

“What did you feel?” he insists. His index circles my hole, promising fulfillment.

“Your cock. You were hard.”

“Yeah, I was, ‘cause you were wearing that pink bikini with half your tits hanging out, and you know I can’t resist your tits, baby.” His hand leaves my cunt to fondle my breast, leaving wet traces on my heather grey t-shirt. He pinches my nipples hard enough to send sparks across my skin.

I admit I had been teasing him with that bikini. As much as I like when he’s in control, it’s fun to see him lose control once in a while.

“I let you rub against me. With all those people around,” I continue with a panting breath.

His hand returns between my legs, three fingers sliding over my lips like he had done in the pool.

It had started with Niko grinding against my ass, but had escalated to his cock sliding in the space between my cunt and the gusset of my bikini bottoms, hitting my clit with his tip on every thrust. Back then we still clung to the belief that it didn’t count as incest as long as he wasn’t inside of me. And I desperately wanted him inside me. I’d held on to a neon green pool noodle as he moved my hips to his preferred rhythm. Teeth marks were left on that pool noodle. I still cringe at the thought of his cum in the swimming pool, but at the time I couldn’t care less.

“I made it up to you in the cabana, after,” he says. 

He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, hums around them, the taste bringing back memories of eating me out on the beach after sunset. We’d been reckless. That trip could have ended horribly if we’d been discovered. 

“You love being so horny you stop worrying about other people, don’t you?”

“God, yeah.”

“Take off your panties, baby.”

I don’t even question it. I chuck them onto the car floor. That way, his fingers have more room to move. Niko takes a random exit and stops on the side of the road. He flips up my skirt, baring me to his eyes, and he groans at the lovely sight. 

“Niko, I’m close,” I whine.

“Just let me look at you a little.” He spreads my lower lips and flicks my clit once, watches me clench around nothing. I can feel myself grow wetter. A furious blush creeps up my cheeks. “So sensitive.”

“Please.”

Biting my heated cheek, his fingers return inside me and he pumps them in and out quickly. 

“There you go. Come for me, sis,” he says against my jaw.

Pleasure has been coiling in my abdomen for the whole ride— for the whole day, if not more— and it unfurls all at once, shaking my whole body. I hold onto his wrist and seize around his fingers. My mind goes blank.

Niko kisses the tears on my cheek, and caresses me through the last blissful tremors.

“Oh, baby, that was a good one, eh? You really needed your big brother.”

I did, I really did. He’s my only escape from the constant pressure from our parents, from pre-med school, from research projects and extracurriculars, and yet feeling like I’m never doing enough. There’s an emptiness inside my chest I cannot close. He’s the only escape from the noise in my brain and the dread in my heart. I can’t say it in so many words, but he knows. He just knows.

“I love you so much,” he whispers against my temple.

His fingers leave me with a squelching noise. There’s a wet stain on the upholstery under me. “Shit, sorry, I’ll clean it up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Worry about this,” he says, squeezing the large erection tenting his jeans. 

I look at the dashboard clock, I have to be home soon or Dad will know I didn’t take the train. I can’t even lie to him about a delay, he will check the transit website. Sometimes I worry he’ll put a GPS tracker in my bag.

“I’m about to burst,” Niko says, reading my worry, “I want to be inside you. Come over here.”

I want it too. I need him close. I want to keep his cum inside me all night and feel it when I’ll touch myself in the shower.

He pushes the seat back as far as it will go and I straddle his legs. The skirt stays on. 

Face buried in my neck, Niko inhales deeply and a groan vibrates between our chests. 

It’s been too long and he’s big, but I splay my legs farther until my hipbones protest. 

“Niko…” A frustrated moan escapes from my throat.

“Shh, I know, it’s fine,” he coos and caresses my hair, and I realize I’m crying. “It’s all in, baby, you did so well. I’m as deep as can be. All the way up inside of you, no more room, just your big brother’s cock.”

And I don’t know why it’s such a relief to be full of him, but I can let my mind drift off. I slouch, boneless, against him and let him fuck me as he pleases. Waves of pleasure lap at my womb with each thrust.

He holds me close, crushingly close, hands under my shirt, blunt nails in my skin. Sweat slithers between my breasts form the warmth between us.

“I wish I could take you— ah!— somewhere far and warm,” he says, “where no one knows us.”

“For a holiday?” I mumble.

“Or forever. You’d be all mine, all the time.” His words are uttered through clenched teeth as he moves faster within me. His breath comes hot and fast against my ear. “Fuck, Sarah.” And he floods me with his cum.

Our time alone together is running out, still we take a moment to catch our breaths.

I put my panties back on quickly. The car smells of sex, and Niko opens the windows. Cigarette hanging between his lips, he drives us back onto the highway, towards the suburb where we grew up.

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

“Golden,” I say, still slumped in the seat, completely relaxed. There’s a pleasant soreness between my legs.

Niko will drop me off at the train station, we won’t kiss in case someone recognizes us, and I’ll take the bus home from there. I will see him again on Sunday for a tense dinner with our parents. We’ll act like normal siblings, and, if we’re lucky, Dad won’t yell. 

“My roommates are going to New York this weekend,” he says all of a sudden. “I’ll have the whole place to myself. Any way you could come over? Spend the night? I’d cook your favourite.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

He’s dating a waitress, I’m dating a quarterback— an attempt at normalcy, doomed to fail.

“C’mon, Sarah, you know I want you over more.”

Sleeping in the same bed all night, morning sex and cuddles on the couch, be as loud as we want, sharing meals… It makes my heart soar. But— 

“I have a volley ball tourney, out of town.”

He has a small puckered scar on his jaw that becomes more apparent when he clenches his teeth in displeasure. Then Niko perks up, and the hope in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings. He just lets me see everything he feels, I don’t know how he can stand it.

“You could pretend you’re going to the tournament, but come to mine instead.”

I think about it. Maddie would have to pick me up early in the morning as usual, and I’d have to find an excuse once we’re in the parking lot, before boarding the team bus. I’d have to lie to my coach, my friends and my parents. The ways in which this could go wrong twist my stomach in a knot. 

“I don’t know,” I say, which is the best I can do.

He sighs and we stay in silence the rest of the way. His disappointment weighs heavy on my chest. I know lying to a couple of people seems easy to him, but not to me. I’d worry for the whole weekend. Then again, he’s very good at making me stop worrying.

At the train station, I squeeze his hand in lieu of a kiss, then open the car door.

“Think about it,” he says.

“I will.” I hesitate, drum my fingers on the door handle. “I— you know it’s not because I don’t want to spend the weekend with you. It’s not that.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know, Sarah.”

▷▷▷more Niko and Sarah on Ao3

[philadelphoi]

For @microcest Prompt No. 106 - getting off to their voice

❢Niko x Sarah (sibling OCs) ❢ Phone sex

"What do you need, baby?" he asks again. It's not fair how that simple word, in that voice, sends such delicious shivers through me. I call it his "big brother voice", perhaps not the best name for something that arouses me so. It's deep and caring, and he talks like he can make all my problems go away. I swear it does something to my brain, like hypnosis. I just want to listen to him and do what he tells me to, knowing everything will be alright.

I can't come. The pleasure is there, but it has plateaued. My cunt is wet, my fingers are wet, my panties are wet. I have plenty of filthy scenarios to occupy my mind. My muscles are taut, on the edge, but the edge just stretches on and on. What was supposed to be a quick orgasm, to help me fall asleep, get some much needed rest before my shift in the ED tomorrow, has turned into the utmost frustrating experience. I'm now more awake than I was an hour ago.

From my seat on the couch, I glance at the closed bedroom door beyond which my boyfriend is sleeping. I could wake him up, ask for his help, and hope he will actually make me come and not prolong my frustration. That seems like a lot of work.

I sigh heavily and pull my fingers out of my pj shorts.

12:13

Niko must have finished working at the restaurant by now— No.

I try again, find my clit, picture a faceless couple in the back of a car. In my mind's eye, Niko is behind me and— No.

12: 20

Fuck. Why him? Of all the men on Earth, why is brother the only who could put an end to my torment?

It takes a couple of rings before Niko answers, it sounds like he’s in his car. He must have stopped on the side of the road to take my call. "Hey, sis. What's up?"

"Nothing much," I reply.

"Sarah, is something wrong? It’s late."

"No. Sorry for bothering you, I shouldn't have called."

"No worries. Do you need anything?" I swear there's a smirk in his voice, like he knows why I'm calling.

My throat feels tight. "I don't know."

"You don’t know what you need or you don't know how to tell me?"

I sigh and close my eyes. He knows, so why does he make me say it?

"What do you need, baby?" he asks again.

It's not fair how that simple word, in that voice, sends such delicious shivers slithering through me. I call it his "big brother voice", perhaps not the best name for something that arouses me so. It's deep and caring, and he talks like he can make all my problems go away. I swear it does something to my brain, like hypnosis. I just want to listen to him and do what he tells me to, knowing everything will be alright.

"I need… " I glance at the bedroom door again. My cheeks are heating up. I keep my voice low. "I can’t get myself off. And I can't sleep, I thought it would help but I'm just…" I groan.

"Good girl, telling me. Want me to come over?"

"No, Josh is here. I want you to talk to me."

"Sure thing, baby. I’d love to make you come from my voice alone."

"You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?" I say.

He chuckles. "Perhaps. Are you willing to risk it?"

"… yeah."

"You're desperate for me, aren't you? You deny yourself, but in the end you always need your big brother."

"I do."

"Is your hand on your pretty pussy yet?"

It is. Has returned there of its volition when the call started. Pleasure is slowly rising in me again.

"I'll make myself comfortable too, if you don't mind."

I hear the jiggle of a belt buckle and it makes me squirm with want; that sound has become so associated with seeing his cock. I picture it now, thick and veiny, and I plunge a finger inside me. I moan.

"I was half hard already just from seeing the caller ID. That's what you do to me. But now that I can hear you pretty noises… I'm so hard for you, baby. If I were there with you, I'd just push your panties and shorts aside and make you take it."

My cunt clenches around my finger and I add a second one. Not much is required of me. I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder as Niko describes in filthy details everything he would do to me. My fingers move faster as his voice grows huskier and more strained. Pleasure coils in my stomach. My hips rise from the seat cushion. As desperate as I was to come before, now I don't want it to stop. I want my brother to keep telling me how much he wants me, that he can't help himself and longs to touch me all the time. He wants to finger me under the table at a restaurant, to fuck me in the shower, to eat me out at the family BBQ on the Fourth of July. He's getting incoherent.

"Are you close, baby?"

"Yes."

I curl in on myself. I can feel it growing, tremors starting in my thighs.

"Come for me," he commands. "Make yourself come thinking about your big brother. Let me hear you, baby."

I bite my lip, aware of Josh in the next room, but moans and sighs still escape my throat.

"I wish I could feel you around my cock and come inside you."

The pressure that had been building in my core, finally bursts in an exquisite flood of sensations. It leaves my body feeling heavy and wrung out.

At the other end of the line, Niko is breathing heavily.

"Thank you," I say.

"Any time. When can I see you?”

“Fourth of July?” I mumble, I can’t keep my eyes open.

“That’s months away.”

I don’t reply. My brain is shutting down.

“Good night, Sarah."

The phone falls from my hand, and I drift off to sleep.

▷▷▷more Niko and Sarah on Ao3

[philadelphoi]

meet me where you break chap. 3/5

Pairing: chef!brother x ER doctor!sister

For @macrocest bingo square "clothing disparity"

"Sarah, do I ever insult your intelligence? Belittle you? Disrespect you?" His hand wraps around the nape of my neck. It’s a rhetorical question, he’s reminding me he only ever handles me with care. And yet, I detect a hint of worry, an inflection on the last word. "No, you don't." "I don't," he repeats. He squeezes my nape for a second to emphasize his words, and it has no right to make me feel so... cradled.

Read on Ao3

[philadelphoi]

Meet me where you break

Summary: Original work Inspired by The Bear and The Pitt (not a crossover) Sarah is an ER resident, her brother Niko, a chef at a Michelin-star restaurant. Both have bad coping mechanisms and deal with their trauma and burnout by fucking in an alley after their difficult shifts. Codependency, forbidden love, angst, dom/sub undertones

Rated E \ 4.6k words \ Ao3

For @macrocest bingo- square "I shouldn't have come" (is this event still going on?)

I wasn’t always called Sarah. I remember little about my life before the adoption, but I remember a name: Ludmila. It’s… useful to think of myself as two people. Sarah: the perfect daughter, the high-achieving resident, the cool girlfriend and the good sister. All my flaws and failures, I can blame on Ludmila, a girl not good enough to keep. It’s Ludmila who seeks her brother out after a hard shift, who follows him into a dark alley and gives herself to him. 

I blow my fringe out of my eyes as I push the heels of my palms between the young woman’s breast where her bra was cut in two. Her sternum bends under the pressure, two inches deep. Aches strain my arms and shoulders. Elbows locked, I count compressions. Her head lolls to the side.

"Three minutes since the last epi," the nurse says.

"Hold compressions," says Dr. Thakur, my attending.

A sustained beep shrieks in the too-bright, white room. 

"Asystole," Dr. Thakur declares.

"Resume CPR. Another amp of epi," I call.

The nurse glances at my attending. They both think it's over already, but, after I shoot her a glare, the nurse pushes in a second dose of epinephrine.

Sweat slithers down my temples and stings my eyes. I barely register Dr. Thakur leaving the room. A younger resident offers to take over, but I refuse. I picture her blood moving— right atrium, right ventricle, lungs for oxygen, left atrium, left ventricle, aorta— as if I can will it to move on its own.

"Hold compressions," Dr. Parker calls, having returned without my noticing.

"Still no rhythm," the nurse declares.

"I think it's time to let go." 

"One more minute," I insist. "It's only been three since the last epi." 

"Vanderbilt," Dr. Thakur's usual gentle voice turns to ice, "you have other patients. Living ones."

Fuck.

I stare at the pale young woman. She doesn’t stir. 

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Dr. Thakur, the nurse, the residents, they look at me with pity in their eyes. 

I plaster on a smile, clear my throat, clutch the stethoscope hanging around my neck. "You win some, you lose some." I shrug. "We did the best we could for her. Solid work, everyone."

The charge nurse, an older Southern woman, puts her arm around my shoulders. "Why don't you take five, hun."

I shrug her off, annoyed by her solicitous tone. 

“I’m fine, my shift’s almost over.”

There’s a question, lurking in the back of my mind about whether this is what happened to my biological mother, but I avoid it, much like I avoid eye-contact with the young boy waiting on a chair outside the room. The one who rode in the ambulance with his mother after she fainted in the grocery store. The one to whom I'd promised to do everything I could to make his mom feel better. His hair is as dark as Niko’s. He didn’t have any other family members to call. The social worker will take care of him.

I add my notes to the patient’s chart, cursing my shaky hands— probably the strain of performing CPR for long. My legs are wobbly but I won’t sit. In my peripheral vision, I catch Dr. Thakur coming my way, to debrief, most likely. I can’t talk now about all I should have done differently. My cell buzzes in my pocket— thank God.

“Good evening, sweetheart.”

Shit. I should’ve checked the caller ID. I walk away to a quieter corner as my mother lays out her plans for a birthday lunch on Saturday.

“A bit unconventional but the Feigels have something in the evening. Come over at eleven and wear a dress, please. Some lipstick too. You look pale these days, you need to get out of the house more. Please tell Nicholas to behave himself. You should pick him up to make sure he’s on time.”

“Mom, I can’t this Saturday, I’m working.”

“Take a day off, it’s your birthday. Everyone will be here.”

If my parents wanted me at their beck and call, they shouldn't have pushed me towards such a demanding career. Granted, emergency medicine is probably not what they had in mind. They had imagined something more noble like general dermatology or family practise, a field that would benefit them and their rich friends. The ER is messy and intense, not a moment to rest or think, most of my patients I will never see again, and that’s how I like it.

Besides, it’s not really mine and Niko’s birthdays— we don’t know when they are— but the anniversary of our adoption. On that occasion, Ruth and Albert love to tell their guests the story of their trip to the Ex-USSR to adopt, making it sound like they were heroes delivering children from communism. I suspect they were motivated by wanting to adopt white children. We play our part by expressing our gratitude and admiration. For the longest time, I believed Ruth and Albert had chosen me because they’d felt a connection upon seeing baby Ludmila, I’d imagined they felt like I was meant to be their daughter. A fairy tale sort of adoption. Later, I learned through my aunt that a pediatrician and a child psychologist came with them to assess the children of the orphanage. “You were their first choice,” my aunt had said as if that was supposed to make me happy. My aunt didn’t say, but I guessed that Niko wasn’t their first choice among the boys, especially because he was older, but the orphanage had convinced them keeping us together was in our best interest. 

“It’s one birthday lunch, and it’s for you, is it too much to ask?” Ruth adds. ”After all I’ve done for you.” 

There it is, the guilt trip. It works, twists my stomach, makes me hang my head, hunch my shoulders. I owe Ruth my life. And I am grateful, truly, for everything she has given me, and for keeping my brother. So I’ve spent my life trying to live up to my adoptive parents’ expectations and making up for Niko’s flaws, but it’s never enough. 

I’m never enough.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I finally say. 

I’m glad when the charge nurse announces five traumas incoming, maybe more, a pileup on the highway. It will be hours before I have to go home, before I have to be alone with my thoughts.

--

“What?”

“Nicholas, that is no way to answer the phone. I’ve raised you better than this.”

“What does her ladyship want?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, it’s second nature, and not the best way to start a call with my mother.

Cell phone tucked between my shoulder and cheek, I grab butter from the walk-in fridge. Ruth talks about a birthday lunch— the annual celebration of our saviours. 

“You can make a cake, show us what all the fuss is about.”

“I’m not a pastry chef,” I retort. “Anyway, Sarah will be working.”

“She’s taking a day off.”

And who’s idea was that? 

These parties with our parents, extended family and friends (their friends, not ours) are always harder on my sister— panic attack-levels of harder— and that’s why I have to attend the lunch too. It’s not all knight in shining armour though, there’s a nonzero chance that we’ll sneak away from the party to fuck in her childhood bed (or bathroom or wine cellar, I’m not picky) and I can’t deny the appeal. I haven’t seen her in too long and it gnaws at me. She avoids me when she needs me the most, until she reaches a breaking point. I wish she didn’t do that to herself, but I’ll be there to pick up the pieces and put her back together in my own fucked up way.

“I’ll be there,” I tell Ruth, and I hang up before she can preemptively berate me for my outfit and general improper behaviour in front of her guests.

People think because I went to culinary school instead of university to become a lawyer or CEO, I’ve escaped my parents’ oppression, that I’m out from under their thumb. A rebel. I used to think so too. In truth, there’s no escaping that ingrained compulsion to make up for some original sin. It’s the same drive for perfection, for the top spot, the same anxious need for intensity and precision that Sarah feels in medicine. It’s a way to care for others without forming actual attachment, transactional care, short-term, only showing our better side. The stakes are different, but they drive me mad regardless. I get yelled at daily by an asshole with impossible standards whom I still strive to impress. I’ve traded one harsh father figure for another, but it took me years to realize it.

A palpable tension fills the kitchen when the head chef walks in. The whole brigade grows silent. A corpulent man in a pristine double-breasted chef coat walks from station to station, arms behind his back like a general. He’s making the rounds as we prep before clients arrive.

“Boris!” he yells.

Upon hiring me, he’d taken one look at my Eastern European facial features and had renamed me Boris. Honestly, it bothers me less than my parents changing my given name from Nikolai to Nicholas.

“Yes, chef.”

“The fuck is this?” 

He grabs me by the neck to bend me over the pot of boiling miso caramel at my station. I grab the edge of the stove for balance, fingers too close to the flames. He points at tiny crystals forming along the rim. I’ve been distracted, thinking about Saturday and worrying about Sarah. The caramel is not unsalvageable, but my mistake is unacceptable. 

“You left this unattended.”

“Yes, chef.”

“Are you a fucking moron, Boris? Chernobyl fried your brain cells?”

I don’t correct him on the impossibility of that timeline.

“Is that a rhetorical question, chef?”

He shoves my head lower. I close my eyes against the hot steam. I’m one large caramel bubble away from a second-degree burn on my nose. My fists clench, but I stay still.

“Don’t be a smart ass, Chernobyl. Start over.”

“Yes, chef.”

By the time he lets go of me, the miso caramel has burned. I make a second pot, watching for crystals like a PTSD war vet watches for snipers.

The head chef’s abuse pivots to the sous chef, as it most often does, less physical but more misogynistic, and all I can think is that it will make her quit sooner than later, and I’ll have a chance at a promotion.

--

The moment I get in my car, the lump I’ve been carrying in my throat for hours swells and bursts. Tears spill from my eyes and blur my vision as I pull out of the hospital parking lot. It’s just the adrenaline crash. Fatigue drenches my mind in fog and weighs down my bones, makes me sluggish. I’m a safety hazard on the road, but I keep driving despite the gnarly car crash injuries I’ve just tended to. I drive past my home, where my boyfriend is waiting, keep rolling towards downtown. 

Ursa Major, a Michelin-star restaurant on the ground floor of a fancy hotel, isn’t the kind of place where you show up still in your work wear and only order drinks, but that is exactly what I’m doing.

I shouldn’t have come. Still, I push the door open.

I remove my zip-up sweatshirt, revealing black hospital scrubs, and sit on a green velvet stool at the marble counter. The barman mixes me a Manhattan like he can win an Olympic medal for it and barely gets a smile in return. I’m tired of smiling, have done it all day to instill trust in my patients and so my coworkers wouldn’t ask “what’s wrong?” and “are you okay, hon?” I’ll be fucking okay when they’ll let me be.

I spot Niko through a long, narrow window. Tattoos cover his arms, my name among them, somewhere along the bicep— the first one he got inked. “Did you do it just to piss off mom and dad,” I’d asked back then. “They can’t get mad at me for loving my sister,” he’d said. But they would be mad if they found out all the ways in which he loves me.

The lethargy in my bones turns to restlessness. 

I shake my light brown hair out of its practical ponytail and apply tinted lip balm, and I feel silly for it. I drink too fast, order a second Manhattan just as a plate is slid before me.

“Eat,” Niko says.

He knows better than to ask what’s wrong. There’s concern in his squinting eyes as he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. I put on a smile that doesn’t fool him, and he kisses my forehead. He must rush back to the kitchen.

He brought me a grilled-cheese, and of course it’s fucking delicious. Probably cooked with black truffle oil or some other expensive shit. He never does anything halfway, especially not with food, especially not for me.

Only a few clients remain, sipping coffee or dragging a spoon through dessert crumbs. Waiters are standing by and, in the kitchen, things seem to be winding down.

Niko leaves the kitchen once more, a cigarette balanced behind his ear. There’s a reason why he goes out through the main entrance instead of the back door. He glances at me over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitches up. It means: I know why you’re here, come and get it. 

I’m very aware of my escalating heart rate and dry mouth.

I leave my things behind, my bill unpaid. Heart in my throat, I follow him. I could turn around any time I want. I don’t have to cheat on my boyfriend or commit incest, and yet it feels inevitable. Ludmila’s fault. It’s been seven months since we last met like this, and I’ve thought about it every day since, fought the urge to crawl back to my brother, prided myself on not needing anyone, all the while knowing it would happen again.

In an alley beside the restaurant, sitting on a  stack of palettes, Niko is smoking. The blue and pink neon sign of a dodgy night club bathes him in magenta light. It darkens his deep-set eyes and casts shadows under his sharp cheekbones. My breath catches in my throat. My skin prickles.

I keep my distance.

"Ruth called you too?" he asks.

"It’s fine. Just thought I'd drop by, I was hungry."

I scuff my shoe over the rough asphalt. Niko takes a drag on the cigarette. A stray cat darts behind the dumpster.

"Come here." He stands up and catches the undone laces of my pants, wraps them around his fingers and draws me close until we're standing toe-to-toe.  

Warmth drips low in my stomach.

When he gathers me in his arms, I don’t resist. I melt. It’s familiar and comforting, exactly what a need. His arms are strong from manual labour in the kitchen and from boxing— gotta channel those anger issues. I hide my face in the crook of his neck. He smells like caramel, burnt and sweet. 

“I like when your hair is down,” he says, running his hand through it.

He holds me tight, tighter than necessary. I pull away before I’ve had my fill, otherwise I could spend all night holding him. 

"Did you like the grilled-cheese?"

"Yeah. It was really good."

Niko cups my cheek, seeking my gaze, but I’m looking sideways at the graffiti on the wall. There's a band aid on his thumb that scratches my skin when he caresses my jaw. I feel frail under his touch and inquisitive gaze, like I'll unravel any minute, start crying if he's too nice to me.

He kisses me, tobacco breath and chapped lips.

I turn my face away, just a little. "I didn't come here for this.”

"Bullshit." His hand slips from my cheek to my chin, grabs it to make me look at him, his tattooed fingers dig in my cheeks. They smell of soap. "Do you think you can hide things from me? After all this time, Sarah? I know you."

I swallow with some difficulty.

Of course I can’t hide things from him. Our feelings echo in each other’s chests.

I don’t deny it, but I don’t admit it either. Showing up at his place of work, late at night, right after my shift, is different from meeting up to go on a hike or see a movie. I came here, seeking comfort and oblivion in my brother's embrace.

“Are you doing it just to piss off mom and dad?” I’d asked again the first time we kissed. “No, that’s just for us,” he’d said. And I liked that, something that was ours and ours alone, when so much of our lives were controlled by our parents. Freedom in the forbidden.

Still holding my chin, he bends his head to mine again. I let him kiss me. It makes something twist and pinch in my chest. Like melancholy. Like yearning. Like impossible love.

He coaxes me to step back until I’m trapped against the cool brick wall, away from the stench of the dumpster.

“Not here,” I say without trying to escape.

“Yes, here. Now.”

We’re hidden from the street and the back door, but I can still hear conversations, clashing dishes and cars.

He takes a last drag then throws the half-smoked cigarette in a puddle where it sizzles.

He trails his lips across my jaw and cheek. I focus on the scratch of his light end-of-day stubble, will myself to remain stiff. He's like a cat, nuzzling, rubbing his face against mine.

“It's okay, no one will see us. Everything’s going to be alright, your big brother’s here," he murmurs against my pulse. 

Niko is the only one I allow to speak to me like that. I hate being talked down to, but my brother’s tone isn’t condescending, it’s reassuring. It pulls at something old and buried inside my chest. Despite myself, his voice soothes, makes me more pliant, like warm hands kneading dough.

I sigh and wrap my arms around his waist.

“See? Better already,” he says.

He smiles, soft as anything, caring, it makes my heart swell and my defences go up. It's too much. Niko has great wealths of love inside of him and only one person to give it to. It will break me. I’ll burst like an overfill balloon— anatomically impossible, I know, but scary nonetheless.

"You came to me, instead of going to your boyfriend's. Good girl."

"Don't read too much into it.”

"Oh, but I will."

I laugh at last, a release, a door opening. He rubs his nose against mine, I smile again. His lips brush across mine, and I follow, just a little bit, a reflex, not a surrender, not yet. He kisses me the way he eats great food, savouring with a hint of impatience, too gluttonous. But I require convincing. That’s how he likes it; he’s suspicious of anything good that comes too easily. 

His other hand slides under my t-shirt, splays wide against my lower back. He drags his blunt nails across my skin, still damp from running around the ER, makes me shiver. 

He moves his mouth faster, runs his tongue between my lips, seeking entrance. I grant it. Moan. It’s a claiming kiss, open-mouthed, messy, unrelenting.

Arousal settles low in my belly, heavy, the kind that numbs my legs.

"I could kiss you all night," he says, "but that's not what you came here for. Is it?"

Finally I meet his gaze, brushing a greasy strand of dark hair away from his eyes. His pupils are not as dilated as they should be in the dim light.

"What did you take?" 

I pull gently on the skin under his eye, examining his pupil.

“I’m high on you,” he says.

“Bullshit, Niko.”

"It's nothing," he says, pushing my hand away. "You don't have to care anymore. Leave it to me." 

He rests his forehead against mine. 

I don’t have to care. 

Tension phases out of my stiff shoulders.

“Here’s all you need to take care of.”

He presses my hand over the hard-on in his joggers.

I’m not proud of the tiny noise, almost a whine, keening, pathetic, that comes from the back of my throat. He echoes it, a shameless moan. I don't need instructions to move my hand slowly up and down his length. I relish the thickness of it, how it reacts to my touch with little twitches. My cunt slickens in response.

"Tell me what you need," he says.

"I thought you already knew."

"Say it." Soft, but demanding.

His hand trails from my lower back to my hip, dipping just a little under the elastic waistband of my black scrubs. A touch like an electric shock that makes my hips buck. 

"C'mon," he whispers in my ear then kisses the spot below. 

It's a safeword of sorts, a confirmation I’m willing to continue— and he gets off on it.

"I need my big brother's cock," I whisper, rolling my eyes, as if I’m not soaking my panties at the moment.

His cock jerks against my palm.

"You're such a perv'," I say.

"But I'm your perv'." His fingers slide over my panties, and a delicious shiver spreads throughout my body. 

I laugh, but I’m more focused on rubbing the head of his cock, a damp spot spreads across the fabric under my thumb.

"You should try it some time," he says.

"Being a pervert?" 

"Being unapologetic." 

He leans on the wall with a hand beside my head, the other still moving too slowly, but more intently, outside my underwear. It’s not enough, but it’s good. He drinks in the signs of pleasure on my face: the light furrow between my brows, the parting of my lips, my heaving chest. 

"Give in, sis. Embrace it… No matter how fucking hard you try, we’ll never be normal."

At his words, tears well up in my eyes. I’m trying so hard to be good. He kisses my cheek, tongue peeking out where it's wet and salty. I should be disgusted. The ache between my legs is a welcomed reprieve from the ache in my heart. 

"It's alright, I'm here," he whispers. “You’re so wet for me. Your boyfriend’s been neglecting you.”

He hasn’t, but, with my boyfriend, I’m too busy performing instead of enjoying. With Niko, I only have to surrender.

I bare my neck to his trailing lips.

"Come out and play, Ludmila. Darling Lu."

I grasp his wrist, nails digging in his skin as I grind harder against his fingers. 

“Fuck.”

"Yes, there you are," Niko says, smiling. “I love you so fucking much, sis.”

I expect another kiss, instead he pulls my lower lip between his teeth, makes me groan and triggers something feral in the pit of my stomach.

I’m rewarded with his thumb slipping under the gusset and pressing to my clit. This time my moans are raw and unhampered. I arch off the wall as his fingers enter me. Long fingers. Agile fingers. He knows me so well. He finds the right spots and the right rhythm in no time. I grab fistfuls of his white chef coat and meet his fingers with faster and faster thrusts of my hips. 

Niko grins, devilish in the magenta neon light.

“You’re close already,” he says. “Can you take another finger for me? Gotta make room for my cock.”

My assent comes out garbled. I squeal when Niko pushes a third finger inside my cunt. 

I come stupidly fast, clenching my thighs around his hand, my teeth at his clavicle. It's not enough, just an appetizer, I keep grinding against his wet hand, chasing little sparks of pleasure, and feeling his hard cock against my thigh.

"Turn around, let me do all the work, alright?" he says.

When I don't respond, he pushes the hair away from my temple, presses his lips there and asks again, "Sarah? Alright?" Concerned. Careful.

I nod. "Fuck me hard, Niko."

"I know, baby."

He kisses me one last time, as hard as he wants, his hand squeezing the back of my neck.

He turns me to face the wall. Palms against the brick, head hanging between my arms, panting with need. He pushes my pants down just low enough to enter me. One forceful thrust that knocks the breath out my lungs, and it’s exactly what I wanted. My jaw drops and my eyes roll back. He’s not all the way in yet. Shallow thrusts, then another inch. He’s big, but he knows what I can take. What I’ve learnt to take. Rearranged my body to make space for him.

His hand sneaks inside my shirt to squeeze my breast, pinch my nipple, hard enough to hurt, for little zaps of pain to mix with my pleasure.

He’s groaning against my neck. Fucking perfect. So good. Made for me. 

"Harder, Niko," I beg.

I want to be annihilated.

He pulls my arms behind my back in his large hands, using them as leverage to pound into me. I’m off-balanced, entirely at his mercy, but I trust he won't drop me. I go limp like a rag doll, focusing only on the pleasure, letting my big brother take control. And it's good, it's so good. There's that sweet oblivion, all thoughts turning to white noise in my brain. Overlapping bursts of pleasure, like the end of a firework show, until I can't take it anymore.

"One more for me, baby," his voice ragged at my ear. "Then I'll come in you. You want that?"

"Please, please… Oh, ffffuck."

One more. It's raw and ripped from my spine, and I’m floating, wrung out, hollow. Better than morphine.

He hauls me up against his chest. Bites my neck with a grunt. His cock throbs, swelling in my oversensitive cunt and his warmth fills me. 

--

Sarah leans all her weight on me as I fix her pants, then mine. She’s sobbing against my shoulder. Her whole body quakes. Not because of what we did— or rather because what we did allows her different kinds of relief. I hate to see her this sad, but I love being the one she turns to. I kiss her wrists and forearms where my fingers will have left bruises. I make soothing sounds and rub her back like I’ve been doing for her for as long as I can remember. When we were just kids and didn’t understand English yet. When she was bullied. When her grades were less than perfect. When she was tired of trying to be what everyone else wanted her to be.

“Boris, where the hell are you?” my coworker interrupts. Reality comes rushing back. “Oh, shit, sorry.”

“Family emergency. Fuck off.”

Sarah pulls away from me, wiping her cheeks. No, no, it’s too soon.

“Stay,” I tell her, “book a room upstairs, I’ll join you after my shift.”

I want to fall asleep with her, wake up with her. Keep her.

“I don’t know…”

“Please, Sarah.”

My fingers seek purchase at her waist like I’m hanging off a cliff.

She kisses me, slow and lingering, and I know what it means. My heart breaks.

“I’ll see you this weekend, for the birthday lunch,” she says. “We’ll pick you up.”

I don’t let go of her.

“I love you too, you know,” she adds.

It sounds like pity, I hate it.

“Yeah, I’ll see you.”

I watch her walk away then kick a trash can as hard as I can.

[philadelphoi]

you need me, you burn me

part 1 | Ao3

Summary: Flashback to when Sarah was pre-med in college. She's running herself ragged studying for a very important test, Niko helps her study and relax in his own way. But accepting help, admiting she needs it, is never easy for Sarah. Angst, hurt/comfort, dom/sum undertones, oral sex.

“Come here,” I tell her. “Not now, Niko.” “Come here,” I repeat in that voice that makes her a little wet. She sits on my lap. My arm winds around her torso and arms, restraining her, so she’ll stop fidgeting. I put my chin on her shoulder and tell her, "I'm going to keep asking you questions, and I know you’ll answer most of them correctly, because you're so smart. But it's okay if you get something wrong, you're learning, and you'll still be smart." She sinks a little more against me. "And I will touch you because I want to make you feel good. You tell me if it’s not helping. Can you do that for me?" She nods vigorously. "Good girl, letting your big brother take care of you." A small whimper escapes her lips.

for @macrocest bingo night edition - square "late nights"

From the shadows, I watch my parents get into their car and leave for their weekly bridge club meeting. As soon as they’re out of sight, I sneak around the house to Sarah’s window. I moved out three years ago when they disagreed with my decision to go to culinary school. It’s not that I’m prohibited from visiting but I’d rather they didn’t know I came here tonight. I was genuinely surprised they still wanted to have a relationship with me after I went against their will, truth is it feels more like a punishment than love sometimes, and I wish they’d let me go entirely.

Sarah is pacing her bedroom, biting her nails raw, with obviously no plans to go out on this Friday night: no makeup, old pj shorts, an oversized Green Day t-shirt (mine) and a messy bun atop her head. I knock on the glass pane, startling her. I have enough experience to make it inside with some grace. I used to sneak out of my own window and into Sarah’s room whenever our parents grounded me.

“I don’t have time for this,” she tells me right away. “The MCAT’s coming up, I can’t be distracted by—” she gestures vaguely between me and her— “this, and guilt and wondering what the hell is wrong with me. And you stink of weed.”

I should have changed out of this henley before coming.

I reach out for her, wanting to soothe the anxiety coming off her in waves. She recoils from my touch, and it’s like a punch to the stomach. 

My sister and I haven’t been alone together in too long. Unlike me, she has yet to come to terms with her attraction and feelings for her sibling. I don’t blame her. The scandalous things I do to her, that she submits to and enjoys, are antithetical to the Sarah she wants to be: independent, strong, in control. But my absence causes her as much relief as it does distress. There is no one else she can be herself with so entirely. No one she trusts enough to give her what she needs. No one knows her as well as I do. In lieu of meetings that lead to dirty sex she might regret, we text and talk on the phone regularly. It’s how I know she’s taking the medical college admission test in two weeks. On top of her biochemistry major with a perfect GPA and extracurriculars, she’s been preparing for a 7.5-hour, 230-question exam on which hinges her future. Brutal by all accounts. I had to look it up to learn what it consists of. Admission in a medical college requires an MCAT score of at least 509 out of 528, but I’m certain she aims higher. It’s everything she doesn’t say about it that tells me she must be running herself ragged studying for it.

“That’s why I’m here, sis,” I tell her, carding a hand through my messy dark hair.

“To distract me? I just told you—”

“No. To help. With the test.”

She crosses her arms on her chest, digs her nails in her bicep.

“When was the last time you had a proper meal?” I ask. It seems to me she has lost weight.

“I’m fine, Niko. I have it under control. I just need to focus.”

I take a container out of the plastic bag I’ve been carrying and put it on her desk, among the empty energy drink cans.

“I’ve looked into what food is best for the brain and made you a salad. Omega 3, B12, iron, all that good shit.”

“You know most of that is hype. There’s no such thing as a super food. Nutrition studies are famously flawed.”

“Right.”

She uncrosses her arms, fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt.

“But thank you. I’ll eat it later.”

I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “Where are your flashcards?”

“How do you know I have flashcards?”

“We’ve shared a wall for years, I’ve heard you talk to yourself, I know how you study, Sarah.”

“I have an app for the MCAT.” 

“You eat and I’ll ask you questions; no time lost, alright?”

She presses her lips together, unhappy that I’ve suggested a rational plan that allows her to receive my help. She hands me her phone in its sea-green case.

"Which of the following organelles plays a key role in apoptosis: lysozome, mithochondrion, golgi apparatus, or endoplasmic reticulum?"

My tongue stumbles on most of the words. Sarah corrects my pronunciation, gives the right answer and explains to me what each term means. I beam at her, and she smiles back. She has cute teeth, small and slightly shortened by years of grinding before she got a bite guard. Doesn’t stop her from leaving bite marks on me.

She’s not really tasting the salad at first, but I can tell the moment the flavours register and her appetite grows. She makes that face, eyes turning heavenward, when she gets to the caramelized pecans seasoned with garam masala. It would be an exaggeration to say I enjoy watching her eat something I cooked as much as I enjoy making her come, but it’s a close second.

I keep asking questions, sitting away from her in a low, stylish armchair.

Ruth had the bedroom remodelled when Sarah started university, turned it into a room fit for a serious young woman, all soothing beiges and exotic wood furniture. 

A corkboard is decorated with aspirational quotes, pictures of countries she dreams of visiting and brochures of prestigious medical schools. There are photos of her friends too, and of her boyfriend (a quarterback, of all things) and a recent selfie of us from the top of a mountain we hiked last summer. A normal brother-sister pic, unlike some others that get deleted fast from her phone. She likes to take pictures of us in mirrors, hugs, kisses, hands in places they shouldn’t be. Almost as if she needs to see what others would see if we didn't have to hide.

“Which of the following accurately describes the direction of an impulse moving through a neuron that carries information to the central nervous system from the peripheral nervous system?”

None of these words made sense to me, nor do the answer options, but Sarah answers without missing a beat, “An afferent neuron, impulse moving proximally.”

“You’re nailing this. You’ll do great. Nothing to worry about.”

I know I’ve said the wrong thing the moment her glare settles on me.

“Nothing to worry about?” she repeats in a shrill tone.

She stands up, salad forgotten, and paces the room. Her laughter sounds slightly manic. She doesn’t say anything but her eyes go unfocused as worst-case scenarios overtake her mind. It’s not her dream of becoming a doctor that is at stakes, but her whole future and our parents’ conditional love. She scratches her arm, below the elbow where there’s already a scab. She’ll scratch herself to the blood if I let her or start plucking out her eyelashes, I’ve seen it before.

“That’s Ludmila talking,” I say. “Don’t listen. 

“What?”

“She’s the one who’s afraid of everything. Who’s weak. Not you.”

I think I’m getting through to her.

“Come here,” I tell her.

“Not now, Niko.”

“Come here,” I repeat in that voice that makes her a little wet.

She sits on my lap, stiff and jittery. My arm winds around her torso and arms, restraining her, so she’ll stop fidgeting to the point of hurting herself. A human weighted blanket of sorts. 

I put my chin on her shoulder and tell her, "I'm going to keep asking you questions, and I know you’ll answer most of them correctly, because you're so smart. But it's okay if you get something wrong, you're learning, and you'll still be smart." She sinks a little more against me. "And I will touch you because I want to make you feel good. You tell me if it’s not helping. Can you do that for me?"

She nods vigorously.

"Good girl, letting your big brother take care of you."

A small whimper escapes her lips.

Her floral perfume wafts to my nose, more meadow flowers than pungent roses. Underneath, the scent of her skin I would recognize anywhere. I want to lick it, but that would be too much for now.

“Ready? Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus can cause deadly infections in humans. What would these Gram-positive bacteria look like under a microscope?”

“Purple spirals— no, spheres, purple spheres.”

“Well done.”

I punctuate each answer, whether wrong or right, with a small touch: a stroke of my thumb against the skin of her arm, a light kiss on the top of her head, a brush of my nose along the nape of her neck. Sarah's frantic breathing slows. She gradually rests more of her weight against me until I'm supporting her instead of restraining her. 

“Kearns-Sayre syndrome is a disease caused by deletions in circular DNA that codes for proteins of the electron transport chain. What is its inheritance pattern?”

“Through the maternal line.”

I tickle her waist. She wiggles and laughs, and a sunshine sort of warmth spreads through my chest.

“Correct. Drink some water. Keep that beautiful brain hydrated.”

She obeys, then she’s the one to put my arm back around her, like draping a blanket over her shoulders. I hope she’s feeling half as at peace as I am right now, with my sister safe and soft against me. 

I resume quizzing her, but my touches move closer to the spots she likes. I kiss her jaw, I graze her earlobe with my teeth, I stroke the underside of her breast. My cock hardens against her ass, turned on by the slow process of teasing her. Even aroused, she can still focus on the questions and answers most of them right. I put my hand on her bare thigh. She has sloped against me, making her dainty floral shorts ride up. She squirms in my lap, not with anxious energy, but with want. My cock twitches in reaction to the sudden friction. I drag my blunt fingernails along the inside of her thigh, a little higher with every answer. 

"Wrong, try again."

"Cyanobacteria?"

"Yes. Well done."

I pinch the fat of her thigh and a short, aborted moan comes out of her throat. When I skim the edge of her underwear, she spreads her legs wider. I can practically smell her arousal. I select a question she has repeatedly failed. I read it as only the very tip of my middle finger slips under the edge of her panties. She cants her hips up, trying to get me to slip farther in, where she needs me. I repeat the question.

"I don't know," she whines.

"Yes, you do."

"You're mean."

I pinch her nipple, hard. The sudden shock of pain helps clear her mind even though she likes it when I play rough.

"5’ methyl-G capping."

As soon as the right answer leaves her mouth, I invade her panties, pressing four fingers against her hot, wet cunt. We groan in unison. 

I press my mouth to her ear. "Do you want me to keep asking questions or do you want me to make you come?"

"Make me come."

"Ask nicely," I say, just to torture her a little bit longer.

"Please make me come, brother."

"Good answer."

It takes less than a minute, fast broad strokes from her hole to her clit, and her thighs are shaking.

I wrap my arms under her knees to stand up, and I toss her on the bed.

"Wha—”

In one swift motion, I strip her of her shorts and panties, and before she knows what's happening, my mouth is between her legs.

"Fuck, you taste so good, baby."

It's messy and hungry. I eat her out, unrelenting, feeling her explode on my tongue and clench around my fingers, again and again. I sweat through my shirt and smear precum in my underwear, but I don’t stop to make myself comfortable. She tries to push my head away. I grab her wrists with one hand and hold them tight to her stomach as I suck on her clit without mercy.

"Niko, it's too much."

"Shh, you’ll take it for me."

I almost miss the whirr of the garage door opening; our parents are back. I spare a few seconds to turn off the light so they'll think she's asleep. Only a string of fairy lights remains along the headboard. Footsteps in the hall. Sarah tenses, but stays in the same position. The mess I've made of her pretty pussy on full display, lips swollen red and dripping with saliva and girl cum. 

We exchange glances. The risk of getting caught is such a turn on for me, I squeeze my dick, but I know it would destroy her. I make to get off the bed, just as the footsteps recede, and Sarah stops me. Their bedroom is on the opposite side of the house and they knock themselves out with benzos to sleep. 

Once they seem far enough away, I flip Sarah on her belly, prop her ass up in the air, and when I resume fingering her and biting into her bubble butt, she knows to smother her moans and pleas against her pillow.

I might have overdone it. 

After another intense orgasm, she collapses on the bed. I wanted her relaxed before fucking her, but now she's dozing off. Knowing how little sleep she must be getting these days, I don't have the heart to wake her up. I kneel beside her and jerk off. She looks so ravished and happy. I did that to her. God, I love her so much. I shoot thick ropes of cum all over her ass and thighs.

I take a minute to catch my breath, then I clean her up with tissues and remove the scrunchy somehow still clinging to her hair. It would be safest to sneak out and go back to my shitty apartment, but I don’t have the strength to do what’s right. I pull the covers over both of us, and I know I made the right decision when she snuggles up to me. 

I smile with my eyes still closed because Niko's arms surround me. He's still here. I’m safe. He will have to leave before our parents wake up and I have to go to uni, but for now the sky is ink-black and I can pretend it will last forever.

I feel rested, but sore, pleasantly so. I press into the tender bruises at my hips, remembering the way he held me to the mattress to torture me with his mouth. It beats waking up with a crick in my neck or a throbbing headache from lack of sleep. 

"Hey beautiful." His voice is so soft and husky with sleep. 

I realize we haven't kissed at all since he sneaked in, and I remedy the situation. He smiles into the kiss. He likes when I initiate things, but he knows it's hard for me, even if I want it, especially if I really want it.

We stay in silence, our legs entwined, our hearts answering each other. I glide my fingers over his tattooed arm, starting with my name inked along the bicep brachii. He took up boxing after high school and it's really paying off. He's not the gangly teenager he used to be. He's all lean muscles now, and I wonder if part of his motivation was to be able to lift me, flip me and generally manhandle me the way he does. The way I love.

"I have an idea," I whisper, "don't move."

He tries to keep me in his arms anyway, but I slip off. I come back with my makeup bag and straddle his legs. He raises his eyebrows, puzzled. I seek his heartbeat in his chest and, with a red lipliner, I draw a heart over it. From there, I trace a line up his pectoral, across to his right arm and all the way down to his hand. As I draw, I whisper the words: “subclavian artery, axillary artery, radial, ulnar and the deep palmar arch.”

Niko lets me do it, patient and amused.

On the left side of his body, I use a blue eyeliner to connect the places where his veins appear under the surface, bulging in his bicep, visible in the crook of his elbow and under the thin skin of his inner wrist. Cephalic, axillary, cubital, radial, basilic. 

I trace the jugular and carotid up his neck. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. I kiss his jaw and he turns his head to catch my lips. 

"Not done yet," I murmur when he tries to deepen the kiss.

I move down his torso: the aorta, the celiac trunk. I add organs with a brow pencil where I think his own are. It’s oddly intimate to think about what lays under his skin, but I’ve also spent a lot of time deciphering the inner workings of his mind. 

He inhales sharply as I slide lower down his body. The abdominal aorta becomes the inferior mesenteric artery and I need to push his black boxers out of the way. My pencil glides over his pelvis, beside his half-hard cock.

"The femoral artery," I inform him as I trace a red line along the inside of his thigh. 

"Good to know."

He brushes my hair away from my face. There's a twitch in his fingers, and almost-grasp, an urge to push me down and fill my mouth. It sends a thrill up my spine, I squeeze my thighs together, but persevere in my endeavour. I draw the muscles of his thigh, naming them as I do, very aware of my breath brushing his erection. 

He rises on his elbows.

"Sarah," there's a warning in his voice. 

I meet his gaze, gone is the patience and amusement. The next second, he's on top of me, holding my wrists above my head, his cock heavy and leaking between us.

"Wait, wait," I protest, "just one more thing."

He kisses me hard, but releases my hands. This time I draw on myself, trying to be as precise as possible as I trace lines over my pubis and pelvis. 

"What is that, baby?" he asks, running his fingers over the drawing.

"That's where you belong, Niko."

His hand stills. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sarah." He stares, bewildered, already panting. He fists the sheets each side of me, trying to regain control. 

I feel giddy with pride. 

"You want me to wreck you, baby?"

Those crude words in that soft voice, makes me hum so deliciously. I have no self-preservation instinct when it comes to my brother. I arch under him, offering my body. I'm not ready to start worrying about the MCAT and my whole damn future all over again. I crave what only Niko can give me.

"I need my big brother's cock," I add, just to make him go crazy a little more.

He sits on his heels and hoists me up over his lap, so my hips are higher than my head. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch. At that angle, when he enters me, it drags along my G-spot, makes me feel like a live wire. Usually, he would start thrusting before he's all the way in, for pleasure and to give me time to adjust, but he has something else in mind. Patiently, he sinks in to the hilt, and I can almost feel it in my throat. He stares at our joined bodies, he throbs in me and shivers all over. He runs his hand over the lines I drew, and that's when I see it: a small swell, his cock under my skin, distorting my belly. 

It’s monstrous, like our love. 

I stop breathing. 

Niko seeks my hands, twines our fingers, and the wrecking begins. He’s carving a space for himself inside my body, and I want to let him, it would be so much easier. He fucks me with greed and voracity, and more love than I can take. We cling to each other with teeth and nails. Each thrust pushes thoughts out of my head and tears out of my eyes until I’m all skin and primal urges. In a cacophony of bed creaks and groans and mine, we fall over the edge together.

He collapses on me, breathing ragged. We stay like that for a long time as the sweat cools on our bodies. His cock remains buried in me and I keep him there with my legs around his waist. I dread the moment we will have to part.  

“You okay?” he asks.

“Are you?” My throat is raw when I speak.

He lifts his head to look at me. 

“That was…” He exhales a shaky breath.

Intense. Overwhelming. A mindfuck.

“Yeah.”

Morning sunlight streams in through the window, turning his eyes a clear sea green. I don’t know if we ever lived close to the sea before the orphanage, but that color is home to me. I want to get lost in his eyes. Never come back.

My alarm rings. The upbeat pop song jarring  like a sudden ice-cold shower.

“You have the worst music taste,” Niko complains, dropping his head to my shoulder. “Don’t go to school today. Stay with me.”

“Not a chance.”

“It was worth a try.”

We both wince when he pulls out. My drawings are smudged across his skin and mine.

I only just manage to stand up on shaky legs. How will I get through the day? How will I focus in class with so many reminders of our night embedded in my muscles? And I have a date tonight. My stomach ties itself into a knot. Something will go wrong, I just know it. I scratch the skin under my navel. The pain from my nails grounds me and punishes me for the pleasure I had. I’m not religious, yet I fully expect karmic retribution for my sins.

Niko puts his clothes back on. I walk with him to the window.

“Please, don’t come back…”

“How— how can you ask me that after… that?” He gestures towards the messy bed.

I don’t answer.

“Baby…” he says, and I can’t look at him.

“At least not before I’ve taken the test,” I amend. “You’re… disruptive.”

He looks down at the white tips of his all-stars. His jaw twitches.

I wonder how many times I can hurt him before he disappears from my life.

I will never have the strength to disappear from his. 

“Then don’t make me come back,” he says with an edge of anger. He pats his pockets in search of cigarettes. “Fucking be kind to yourself, Sarah. And stop scratching.”

“I will.”

I stand there, naked and hugging myself. I’m shivering, but not from the cold.

“I’ll take you out to celebrate when you get your results.”

“You’re sure we’ll have cause to celebrate?”

He cocks his head to look at me, on the verge of exasperation. “C’mon, Sarah. I’d bet my life on it.”

He kisses my forehead, lips lingering with a sigh, then he sneaks back out the window.

The minute he’s gone, I collapse on my bed and, in a moment of weakness, I hug the pillow he slept on, burying my nose into his scent.

The next time I see my brother, he has new ink: red and blue lines marble his left arm, between other tattoos. 

[philadelphoi]

Summary: PWP / messy socialites AU. Cesare and Lucrezia are not being as subtle as they think they are. At the Prime Minister's Christmas gala, Lucrezia "helps" her brother through a boring conversation and later he "saves" her from an inept boyfriend. Inspired by @jagdstaffels AU post. For @macrocest bingo - Night edition (my card) : handjob under the dinner table Fandom: The Borgias Pairing: Cesare x Lucrezia Rating : E Word count: 1.7k

Lucrezia’s latest boy toy, Raffaello, supplied the drugs. In the limo, on the way to the Christmas gala, he offered a flask of rum spiked with a small dose of GHB. Without hesitation, Juan and Lucrezia took a swig. Cesare told himself he would keep an eye on this boyfriend. If he expected to take advantage of his sister, he would regret it. Then again, Lucrezia didn’t need to be drugged to have sex. For the longest time, she had maintained a reputation of innocence and purity, until a bitter ex leaked an outrageous sex tape.

Cesare for his part skipped the flask and snorted a crushed Valium instead. All of his family's political enemies gathered in one place put him on edge. More than once he’d spoken harshly to someone important or had ended up in a fight. He had to sedate himself to avoid any embarrassing incidents.

"Can I have some too?" Joffre asked.

“No!” his siblings answered in chorus.

“Behave yourselves, children,” was all Rodrigo had to say on the matter.

Flashing cameras awaited them outside the limo. They posed only briefly, except for Lucrezia; her white fur mantle and red satin dress attracted the paparazzi as much as her love life. 

The reception room of the palazzo sparkled with silver decorations and Italian flags covered in red, white and green glitter. On the stage, automatons of the Virgin Mary and Joseph moved baby Jesus in and out of the manger with fits and starts. 

“Creepy,” Lucrezia said.

She smelled of candied apples and her fur mantle was soft against his cheek. He couldn’t wait for the pleasantries to end and the real party to begin. Which is usually when he had the most fun with his sister.

Vanozza complimented the Prime Minister on the “interesting” decor.

Cesare, Juan and Lucrezia snickered at that, but Raffaello missed the snark in their mother’s words.

"The theme is patriotism," the right-wing Prime Minister explained. "To celebrate our great Catholic nation. Italy for Italians."

Cesare couldn't help but feel this was a jab at their Spanish origins.

"Which is why you have Jewish and Arab characters on the stage," he said.

The Prime Minister glared at him, Lucrezia guffawed, and Rodrigo pulled his son away by the arm.

"We've been here less than a minute, Son. Control yourself."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"And stay away from Catarina Sforza, we don't need another cage incident."

The family members mingled, business as usual. Rodrigo was charming, and possibly bribing, half the politicians in the place. Joffre was dancing with an older girl, Sancia, daughter of a fearsome general. Juan was showing a rude video on his phone to his friends. Lucrezia was flashing her tits to her boyfriend. She wore one of those deep V-neck gown that made it easy to slide the fabric aside. She winked at Raffaello, but she glanced at Cesare too. 

They sat down for supper, and Cesare found himself wedged between Lucrezia and the Minister of Industry. The Minister was inoffensive, reducing the risks of Cesare clashing with him, but he was unaware of his own utter dullness. Given the Borgias’ multinational empire, he talked Cesare's ears off through the first two courses of the meal.

"Save me," he whispered to Lucrezia who had until now been chatting with her boyfriend and other rich girls at the table.

She smiled, but returned her attention to her friends. Just as he was inwardly cursing her for being no help, she laid her hand upon his thigh. The white tablecloth covered his lap and hid her hand. It’s only when said hand travelled towards his crotch that Cesare began to suspect she may have meant to touch her boyfriend sitting on the other side. As he spoke to the Minister, he tried to ignore the swelling in his trousers. Lucrezia’s hand reached his cock. Cesare coughed to hide his surprise. He scooted closer to the table and put his elbows on it. Instead of realizing her mistake, she began to stroke. Lightly, up and down the rapidly growing member.

"I think you have the wrong person," he whispered in her ear.

"Or do I?"

She squeezed his cock intentionally. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and he knew he was done for.

"Crezia," he warned.

"Should I do it to Juan instead?"

"Do what?" Juan asked, mouth full of bread.

Trust him to only pay attention when his name was spoken.

"Torture you," she answered.

"Weirdo," he said and returned to his meal.

She kicked Juan in the legs under the table, without taking her hand off Cesare.

"I'm feeling naughty," she whispered to Cesare.

"Aren't you always?"

She shrugged and continued to stroke him lazily. 

"Maybe."

"You’re the only thing that makes these galas tolerable," he admitted to her.

The Minister resumed the discussion exactly where it had ended ten minutes ago. To say Cesare had some difficulty holding up his side of the conversation would be a euphemism. Lucrezia didn't relent as he tried to understand the minutia of trade agreements with Corsica. If not for the Valium in his system, he might have been more alarmed by the situation. Everything was fuzzy around the edges.

At last, the man had to go talk to someone else. Cesare took the opportunity to open his trousers, making sure the tablecloth was well in place to hide everything. Lucrezia wrapped her hand around his cock, swiping her palm over the leaking tip to ease the strokes. His face screwed up as he struggled to hide his pleasure.

"Cesare, are you alright?" Vanozza asked.

Lucrezia slowed her ministrations.

"Stomach pain," he said, "I ate too much."

He had barely touched his plate.

He wished she would wank him faster, but that would not be subtle. He ran his pinkie finger along the neck of her dress and pushed the red satin aside just enough to peek at her rosy nipple. He brushed his thumb over it and it tented the fabric. 

“Maybe I should go under the table," she whispered, "use my mouth and tits instead.”

The mental image made his cock twitch in her palm. 

Dessert was announced, and the lights dimmed to roll in a large cake covered with sparkles. Guests applauded, and Lucrezia sped up her movement. He put his hand over hers and squeezed tighter. With his free hand, he grabbed a cloth napkin and brought it to his cock, just in time to spill inside, groaning through clenched teeth.

When the lights came back on, Lucrezia made a show of sucking on her fingertips. She kissed his cheek and stood up, announcing she had to powder her nose. A couple of girls followed her to the restroom.

Now, in a much better mood, Cesare had a pleasant evening, talking, dancing and doing shots with several acquaintances. Still, he could only endure small talk and feign interest for so long. He scanned the room for Lucrezia but couldn’t find her.

He headed outside for a cigarette and some peace and quiet. The cool December air cleared his mind. He exhaled smoke into the darkness of the night. 

He made his way around the building, and in the alley at the back, heard the tell-tale sounds of a lover’s meeting. Out of curiosity, he checked on them: his sister and her boyfriend were feeling each other up against the brick wall.

"Hey," Cesare said, strolling into view under the streetlamp.

"Oh, shit!" Raffaello jumped away from Lucrezia.

"Everything alright?" Cesare asked her.

He handed the cigarette to his sister, and she took a puff.

"Yeah, but he’s nowhere close to making me come," she said.

Cesare turned to Raffaello and looked him up and down with a disapproving gaze.

"Watch and learn, mate. Or fuck off. I don’t care."

Cigarette between his teeth, Cesare pushed up his sleeves. He gathered Lucrezia's dress up her thigh and slipped his hand between her legs. She gasped and bit her bottom lip.

Raffaello was rooted on the spot.

"Alright?" he asked her, making sure she wanted this.

"Wonderful." 

She nudged his nose with hers. He kissed her forehead as his fingers glided between her wet folds.

"Prettiest pussy in all of Italy. I know you’re eager to get in there, but you must focus on her clit first," he said casually over his shoulder to Raffaello.

He tucked his thumb between her pussy lips, and Lucrezia arched off the wall with a sigh of pleasure.

"There?" he asked her.

She nodded yes. He needn’t have asked, her heavy-lidded eyes and beatific smile spoke for themselves. She was putty in his hand, much like himself earlier at the dinner table.

Even though he had talked as if teaching Raffaello, he obscured his view of his technique. The boy had seen enough of Lucrezia. This was about humiliation more than instruction.

Cesare threw the cigarette away, exhaled the smoke into the night air then kissed his sister. His voracious kisses messed up her red lipstick. She tasted of vodka and bubble gum. She grew slicker and held onto him for support.

"When you've got her nice and wet, and going cross-eyed—"

"Oi! I’m not," she protested.

"Then you go for the kill."

He rammed three fingers inside her.

"Fuck," she cried.

"But you have to be quick about it."

He finger-fucked her fast, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit. Lucrezia's eyes rolled back, and she grabbed his forearm, red nails digging in his sleeve.

"Yes! Yes! Fuck, I'm close."

Her legs trembled, and her inner muscles squeezed his fingers repeatedly.

“God, you’re gorgeous when you cum,” he said.

She moaned softly as she nuzzled his neck, still rolling her hips against his hand to extract a few more blissful tremors.

Cesare shook her wetness off his hand, droplets sprinkled across a puddle. Lucrezia slumped against the brick wall, breathing hard and laughing lazily.

"You're her brother," Raffaello protested despite the visible hard-on in his trousers.

Cesare ignored him and turned to his sister, putting a hand on the back of her neck.

"Let's go home."

"Yeah." She leaned against him. "Can we fuck in the limo?"

"Anything you want, baby."