"Please watch your step."
You're a first-time solo flyer, you step off Skymark Airlines Flight 657, sidestepping a gasping, teary-eyed couple who are reuniting directly in front of the gate, you quickly throw your disheveled hair into two messy buns, check your watch for the third time—and frown.
Maybe it was the altitude, or perhaps it was the enormous man who practically hip-checked you into your economy seat as you were boarding, but at some point while you were in the air, your watch stopped working.
That's the only explanation. It occasionally moves, but it is slow now—far too slow. At least that's what it looks like to you. The small, black hands are pointing to six-thirty, which would mean your flight landed forty-five minutes early.
It might be your first time flying unaccompanied—but you're not naive enough to assume air travel works on a dependable schedule. Early? Ah, no, that never happens.
Besides, if you're early, that means no one will be waiting for you in the pick-up lane outside your terminal. The thought strikes you with a sharp spike of fear, which is quickly followed by annoyance. What are you supposed to do, stand around outside like a moron? Clutch your bag to your chest and wait for someone to notice and ask if you need help? You're an adult, you should be better, more capable than that.
As you descend to the ground level, you absently press a hand to your stomach. Despite the situation, which has worked out nicely so far, anxiety still pools in your abdomen. The time is accurate—six-thirty-seven now. Way, way too early.
You don't think your brother will be waiting to pick you up yet. You told him to come half an hour after the designated landing time, since it usually takes forever to not only disembark but race to the closest bathroom to pee (because you avoid the plane toilets at all costs) and grab your suitcase off the mind-numbingly slow-moving carousels in baggage claim.
Flights are never reliable. Public transportation is in short supply. Years of traveling overseas on with Izana have taught you that much. So why, the very first time you fly alone, does your plane have to arrive so early that everyone's actually kind of freaked out about it? Like, that's pretty messed up.
Unfortunately, baggage claim is always chaotic, and so is the long, ever-shifting line of cars in the pick-up lane outside the terminal. Swallowing, you tighten your arms around yourself and settle into an empty corner near the wide plate-glass windows. You keep your suitcase in your line of sight, wary of would-be thieves.
Then there's nothing to do but wait, and if there's one thing in life you absolutely loathe, it's waiting . Your brain usually manages to drum up a thousand different horrible scenarios with nightmarish outcomes. You stare at your phone screen, debating your next course of action. Call Manjiro, or just hold out until he shows up at the time discussed.
Your fingers tap an unsteady rhythm on the glass arm of your chair. You genuinely don't want to be annoying, but big spaces and large crowds have always terrified you, and you've suffered more than one panic attack when left unattended.
Seated out in the open, surrounded by so much movement, so many unknown factors, it makes you feel horribly exposed. It makes you feel vulnerable.
Your awareness becomes heightened whenever you find yourself stuck in such a situation—although they've thankfully become less frequent as you've gotten older and wiser.
You shift back in your seat, itching your neck anxiously. It's nearly the holidays—all the earlier flights were sold out months ago—and although the airport isn't the busiest, it could and will get. The terminal is still swarming with people doing their best to get home before the holiday.
Your flight was packed too; every seat was filled, and all the lines in the food concourse back were at least ten people deep.
The chaos of both airports, the loud noises and constant movement, was too much six hours ago, and it's too much now. You're wildly uncomfortable, and you're fast approaching your tipping point. You're technically an adult, but that doesn't mean you like it. Truthfully, you just want to go home, back to Izana's as soon as possible, lock your bedroom door, jump into bed fully-clothed and burrow under the covers until your heart settles back to its normal speed.
But no. Instead, you have no choice but to wait.
Ten minutes pass as you struggle with your indecision. You don't want to annoy Manjiro, but neither do you want to cause any panic. Your stepbrother is well aware of your anxiety and strange phobias. He does the best he can to help you manage your fears, and even though he sometimes miss the mark, you've always been thankful for his support and understanding.
Enough is enough, you finally tell yourself, narrowly avoiding a heavy bag as it swings in front of your face. You can't sit here forever, you know. Just call.
But right as you hesitantly lift the phone to your face, you catch a sudden, frantic movement in your peripheral vision and glance over without thinking.
And just like that, your heart lightens, and a relieved smile breaks across your face. You lower the phone to your lap.
"Y/N!" Your estranged stepbrother stands on the far side of the terminal, waving one arm in great, swooping arcs.
Quickly, nerves were already beginning to settle at the sight of a familiar face. You gather your scarf, backpack, and phone in one hand and grab the handle of your suitcase with the other before hurrying across the busy terminal. Your eyes lock on your brother, and everything around you fades into the background.
Safe, safe, safe.
Your legs nearly collapse under a tidal wave of relief as you throw yourself into Manjiro’s waiting arms. Safe.
"You're here," you gasp, pressing your nose into his broad shoulder. A familiar scent floods your senses. Subtle but instantly recognizable. It brings a teary smile to your face—a reminder of the past.
"On the off-chance you did too, Izana called me and insisted I get here early." Grinning, he flicks the ends of your sagging buns, then squeezes your upper arms reassuringly. God, has it really been years since you last visited him? "I swear, that man has a sixth sense when it comes to you."
Warmth spreads through your limbs, thick and slow like molasses. Of course, your only biological brother, Izana Kurokawa would go the extra mile to ensure you wouldn't be alone for long should your flight land early.
Nobody else has that kind of foresight, but then, he's always been so careful with your safety, so in-tune with your emotions and thoughts.
"Well, I'm glad he did," you say, shuffling your suitcase into the trunk of Mikey’s SUV
Mikey trails in your wake, lips pushed into a comical pout, arms still extended as if for another hug. You immediately wrap yourself around your brother, grinning so hard your face twitches.
"I was getting kind of anxious, you know," you continue "I hate this kind of place."
"That's exactly what Izana said," Finally, reluctantly, you part, and together, you and him shove your bulging suitcase as far back into the trunk as the space allows and slam the door down.
He drive through the busy terminal and merge onto the expressway. Humming along to the radio, you kick your feet under the dash, you hated Japan but this will be your home for the holidays.
As you cruise down the expressway, you cast a sidelong look at your brother. It goes without saying that he's been lonely for so long. Since Shinichiro’s death, (a.k.a. the guy who you can recall as your savior from the hellhole called orphanage,) you and Izana left the Sano Household for your own good. When Emma died, you couldn't even fathom the pain Mikey must've went through.
Your contact with him went very limited; however occasional visits with each other especially during special events and holidays, is as normal as breathing.
Your brother is currently the leader of a notorious gang in Japan—you're very well aware of that. Despite being surrounded and admired by so many, your brother always looked so lonely.
Loneliness is a sickness, and he's been infected for months.
"What are you thinking?" He squeezes your hand, tearing you from your thoughts. You flinched slightly at his sudden intimacy.
"I'm just happy to see you again, Manjiro." The radio is tuned to a local station, and Christmas tunes seem to be occupying most of the airtime. Michael Bublé's "I'll Be Home For Christmas" plays softly in the background, overwhelmed now and then by the noisy sounds of traffic passing outside your window, "Izana-Niisan wasn't able to make it this year, he says he's got very important matters."
Mikey smiles sadly. "I've missed you. The house has been so quiet. "
You snort, not hiding a disbelieving eye roll. "I bet."
"I'm serious." There's a long pause, and you quickly glance at Mikey, who's staring out of the windshield.
That might explain the unusual number of texts and emails you've been getting from him since week one. You just assumed Izana was forcing him to keep in contact with you in the name ofmaintaining your healthy sibling relationshipor whatever. They've never been particularly super close, but neither have they ever been at odds with one another.
When you arrive at his pretty gray house in the suburbs of Tokyo, the farthest one at the end of a hidden cul-de-sac, your legs are unforgivingly stiff from the hours and hours of sitting. The digital clock on the dash shows it's nearing eight o'clock, and after roughly nine hours of travel, you're more than ready to curl up in bed.
Exhausted, you stumble from the car, tugging your overloaded backpack after your with arms too limp to hold any substantial weight. The night sky is cloudless and dotted with stars, and you tilts your head back to breathe in the fresh, late autumn air. Your eyes are unbearably heavy, and there's a slight throbbing in both your temples.
It's no surprise, really. Airplanes seem to have their own special scent—eau de stale coffee—with an almost medicinal underlayer, and that mixture tends to give your a faint but persistent headache for hours afterward.
Rounding the car, Mikey drags your suitcase from the trunk and shuts the door with a loud thud. You both head towards the front door, staggering under the weight of your belongings. "Are you hungry? I ordered some tonkatsu before I left to get you. I figured you—"
"I actually just ate a sandwich," you interrupt, somewhat guiltily. Manjiro, (who you can recall, likes food a lot) loves to ply you with heaps and heaps of food.
But there's just no way you could've made it through lunch and dinner in the airport and on the plane without eating something substantial.
Attempting to explain yourself, you add quickly, "It was decent, I guess, though I really wanted to wait, but...I was starving." You look up and offers a timid smile. "Sorry, Manjiro."
Of course your brother smiles and shrugs it off, like any good big brother who's welcoming his sister for a holiday vacation would, but you can tell he's still disappointed.
You're thinking he's probably envisioned eating a big welcome home meal, with all three of you in one place, clustered around the table, utensils in hand, the kitchen infused with a mix of spice and sweetness. He could regale you and Izana with funny stories about Toman, and how they climbed their way to power, update you on how his life is going. You know, normal Sano family stuff.
But that's clearly not going to happen now. You might've been more upset about it if you weren't so tired you actually fear there's a high chance you might collapse on the front steps, the comfort and safety of your own bed be damned.
All the lights are on in the house, and when you twist the knob and push open the front door, the very first thing your eyes fix on is the familiar interior. It's true you visit him on special occasions but recently you've stopped visiting Japan due to circ*mstances. You're glad his house never really changed that much. Finally, after so long, you're back again in this home.
Mikey bends down to wrap his arms around you.
"I missed you," he murmurs, his voice a reassuring rumble against your cheek. His arms tighten suddenly, as if he means to violently crush you to him. "Welcome home."
Those words sing through your veins like a shot of pure novocaine. You cling tightly to the back of his shirt, sniffling again— god , you missed his hugs—but he pulls away far too soon, almost jerking back in his haste to separate
You blink, cheeks burning with sudden embarrassment—the two of you have never been especially affectionate. Time perhaps distanced you from him. You carefully disentangle yourself from him. Then he disappeared into the kitchen after waving to you to excuse himself.
You set your luggage out of the way by the sofa in the adjoining living room, you rub your cheeks with the sleeves of your hoodie and stares after him.
Initially, he seemed happy to see you again—you definitely didn't imagine that—but then he just seemed to... withdraw . You try to ignore the growing hurt in your chest as you slip out of your sneakers and shuffles into the kitchen, yanking the sleeves down over your hands. Manjiro's not used to showing his emotions like that, you tell yourself, anxiety simmering low in your stomach. It's a man thing, okay? It has nothing to do with you.
You're not exactly reassured though. Your brother's standing by the sink, his back to the room. His posture's not friendly or welcoming like it was a second ago. Noticing a martini glass on the counter, you shrug and reaches for it, intent on taking a small sip. No big deal—your brothers have always allowed you a taste of whatever liquor's on hand, but Mikey quickly brushes your hand aside, as if he was anticipating it. You flinch.
"No Y/N, go to sleep," he says tersely, not looking at you, jaw tight and shoulders tensed as if braced to take a hit.
That's when you realize something's wrong.
Aside from his joyful initial reaction to seeing you in the airport, he hasn't deigned to acknowledge your presence or even attempted to make conversation now.
Up to this point in your life, he's never once acted like he's annoyed with you or angry, or you don't know what, exactly, like he is right now, but it's obvious that Mikey's not happy. Your anxiety doesn't just spike this time—it shoots straight into the hollow place in your chest and ignites like a firework.
Have you done something to upset him? You haven't been in his place long enough to do. Your stomach sinks with a new worry.
Frowning, you stuff your hands into the pockets of your hoodie, swaying back and forth on the balls of your feet, and tentatively asks, "Manjiro, are you—okay?"
Your brother finally glances over his shoulder, martini now in hand, and when your eyes meet, you shrink in on yourself a little.
This close, you see the faint but permanent bruises under his eyes. He's exhausted, you realize with shock. It's obvious in the way he holds his shoulders so stiffly, in the deep furrows and grooves between his eyebrows and in the corners of his mouth.
Those shadows are dark, hinting at more than just a few days of lost sleep. They're a clear sign that he's been struggling for weeks now, if not months. You think it was his gang taking a toll on his health.
"All good. You had a long day. You should head off to bed, Y/N" he says donning an oh-so-familiar closed-eye smile, that is less like a smile but more like a grimace laced with forced mirth, "Worry about unpacking tomorrow, okay? You need to get some rest."
"Okay," you agree softly, staring at Mikey like you’ve never seen him before. It's unmistakable now—he's angry or sad with you.
Why is he so angry suddenly? you fret, wounded by his distant behavior. We were fine when I talked to him on the airport. I don't get it.
Whatever the reason, you know it'll have to wait until tomorrow to be addressed. It's a few days before Christmas, and that means you get to start cooking a lavish meal.
Your shoulders sag. That's how it is every year, except in the last four years where Izana and you had completely halted your reunions with your other brother.
Yawning, you flip open the lid of your suitcase, wincing when some of your stuff tumbles to the floor, and starts rummaging through your folded clothes for some PJs. But then your thoughts snag on a memory, and you rise off the floor to cross the room.
Chewing on your lip, you stare at your bureau. Second column, third drawer down. Slowly, you pull it open to reveal a single article of clothing. Just where you left it. Your chin wobbles but you swallow down your uncertainty.
You yank out an old t-shirt. It's black with a white collar, and it's a bit frayed at the hem. When you pin the short sleeves to your shoulders, it falls nearly to your knees. This shirt technically belongs to Mikey, but you secretly stole it one night when you realized your remaining pair of pajamas were dirty and you were out of options.
Now, you're thankful for that little act of thievery.
Ripping off your clothes, you scramble into the enormous shirt and hugs yourself tightly. The worn cotton's soft and gentle on your skin. If this is the only way to feel close to Mikey tonight, then so be it. The garment still smells like him too, which brings a small smile to your face. In your socked feet, wearing nothing under his shirt but a pair of white panties, you peek into the hall just in time to intercept your brother.
"Manjiro!" you exclaim, and throw yourself forward.
Your palms are cold and clammy, and anxiety blooms anew in your stomach.
"....Night, Manjiro" It's on the very tip of your tongue to add, " I love you ," but since you're still not sure what the problem is, you don't know how that will be received.
Instead, you wring your hands nervously and says nothing.
Which, it turns out, is just as well because he doesn't say it, either. The absence of his "I love you" is like a dart to the chest. Mikey casts you a single disinterested look before grunting and proceeding into his bedroom.
You hear the door close with a loud click and think, he didn't even notice I'm wearing his shirt.
Wondering what you could've possibly done wrong to make him act like a complete stranger, you withdraw to your own room and slowly tuck yourself into bed. Your thoughts spiral until he hates me he hates me he hates me runs on a loop in your mind.
When you drift off into a fitful sleep an hour later, the tears on your cheeks still haven't dried.
__
It's the dead of night when you suddenly jerk awake, a scream trapped in your throat. But this isn't your first time, so you curl yourself into a tight ball in an effort to block out the rest of the world and press a hand to your neck to force it down.
Nightmare, you think wearily, rubbing the gritty remnants of sleep from your eyes. Just another nightmare.
When the fear dissipates, you flop back on your mattress and grind your teeth. You'll never admit this, even with a gun to your head, but you've been having an endless stream of these same nightmares since Shinichiro's death, since leaving Mikey and Emma.
Most of the time you can manage your loneliness, but at night, when you're most vulnerable, those fears tend to sneak up and sink their teeth into your brain.
Swallowing past the tight knot in your throat, you hesitantly slip out from under the covers and tip-toe down the hall to the bathroom. You flick on the light, keeping it dim to avoid searing your corneas, and rub your eyes with your fists, yawning. The analog clock beside the mirror reads ten past two in the morning.
So much for a good night's sleep, you think wryly, splashing cold water on your face.
Back in the hall, you slow to a halt outside the closed door of your brother’s bedroom. Part of you feels pathetic for even considering it, but when you were small and woke prematurely from a nightmare, you would scramble into either of your big brother’s bed, nuzzling under the covers between their warm bodies, and eventually fall back into dreamland. Knowing that they were surrounding you, protecting you, would set your mind at ease and allowed you a second attempt at sleep.
Biting your bottom lip, you approach the door and quietly eases it open. You stick your head inside the room and listen for a long minute. There's no sound but the faint occasional snore from Mikey’s side of the bed. Deciding the coast is clear, and that the night likely won't improve should you just return to your own bed, you slip into the room and round his bed.
"Manjiro?" you whisper, gently poking his arm where it's exposed above the covers.
He grumbles and twists to your back but doesn't open his eyes.
"Manjiro," You try again, panic climbing up your throat at the memory of your nightmare. "I had a bad dream. And uh—this place ticks me off. C-Can I sleep here just today? I know I can adjust eventually—"
Your brother grunts and immediately falls back into what seems to be a very deep sleep. You poke your arm twice more but doesn't get a response. With a sigh, you consider just leaving, but your hands are still shaking, and there are goosebumps dotting your arms, and the thought of enduring yet another nightmare tonight fills you with dread.
I'll just pretend you said yes. Moving closer to the bed, you try not to stare guiltily down at him. In the morning, if he asks, you'll tell him that he gave you the okay.
Decision made, you carefully climb over your brother's limp body and slide beneath the heavy duvet. Immediately, the panic retreats, and warmth suffuses your entire body like you’ve just dipped yourself into a bubbling jacuzzi. With a tiny, relieved sigh, you rest your head on one of the pillows and close your eyes.
It might be only minutes later, or perhaps it's already been hours, but you eventually awaken again. Your return to consciousness is just as abrupt the second time around. Blinking through the sleep-haze, you gaze at the blank ceiling, not sure what's woken you up. No nightmares, thankfully. But it's still pitch black outside, which means it hasn't been very long since you invited yourself into your brother's bed.
Listening for any suspicious sounds, you shift on the mattress, stretching out your legs, and that's when you register the weight on your stomach. An arm, you know at once. Twisting your head on the pillow, you glance over your shoulder to find Mikey already awake and watching you with eyes just as black as the sky beyond the windows.
"Manjiro, what’s wrong?" you whisper, feeling his fingers flex on your waist. Hopefully he understands you don't just mean right now but since you got back from the airport. "What did I do wrong?"
His expression shifts from one of intense study to something vague—something you can't tell because it's hard to see in the shadows on what he's feeling. Tugging you closer to his side of the bed, your stepbrother presses his mouth to your shoulder.
Wordlessly, he turns you on your side so you're facing one another. Your breath mingles, and you maintain eye contact for several long seconds without speaking.
"Manjiro?" you try again in a hushed voice, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. Then, because the memory of his recent dismissal is front and center in your mind, you whisper, "Are you...mad...at me?" Your voice shakes, but you keep your eyes locked on his for signs of a reaction.
His jaw flexes, and finally, after another tense pause, he says, "Yes."
Your mouth forms the question—" But why ?"—but before you can even suck in a breath to ask, he's rolling on top of you with a heavy grunt. You squeak under the sudden weight, a soft yet audible protest, but he doesn't shift off at your small sound of pain. Instead, he braces his forearms on either side of your head and stares down at you, notching your hips together as if you've done this a thousand times before.
"Yeah, Y/N, I'm angry." His voice is a low, rolling growl. He's unsmiling, unfriendly, and wholly serious. "In fact, I'm f*cking furious."
An unexpected sob catches in your throat. "What did I do?" Then, because it doesn't really matter, "I'm really sorry, Manjiro. Really sorry.”
"I thought I could do it," he continues, clearly not listening. His hips force yours into the mattress, and you gasp a little at the pressure. He is strangely hard, and it throbs insistently against your core. "I thought I could let you go, but—" He shakes his head, breathing heavily. "It's not working out like I thought it would."
"I'm sorry," you whisper again, not really caring at this point what you did wrong. You just want to make it all better. Just want him to accept you again, to forgive you for having failed visiting him these past few years, "I'm sorry, Manjiro, please don't be mad."
"Hush." He hushes you harshly, gripping your hair to keep your head on the mattress, your neck arched and exposed. "I didn't ask for an explanation, did I?"
"No," you whisper, ashamed and upset with yourself. A little confused, too. Why is he lying on top of you like this? Why does it feel like there's a steady stream of liquid pooling between your thighs? It's an odd sensation, one you've never felt before, especially with him.
"No," he repeats calmly, nodding. Mikey shifts to his side, allowing you to suck in a lungful of arm, and slides one arm beneath the covers. "This is my fault, Y/N. All my fault."
"You didn't do anything wrong—"
"You had to go so far away," he murmurs huskily, "Did you consider what that would do to me, Y/N?"
You don't know if he expects a response.
Your brother cups the back of your neck with his free hand. His breath is hot on your mouth as he hovers above you like a looming shadow, close enough to kiss. "That was my mistake. Allowing it to happen, allowing you to leave...But I've fixed it. For you. For us."
None of these words make sense to you, but it hardly matters. You're more concerned with what's going on between this compromising position.
Your hands press against his chest, but the action carries no weight behind it.
"Stop." Your voice is a rasp, but you pushes it out anyway. "Stop."
Your thoughts swim, disconnected, and you don't ask what he means or why he wants your to speak now. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop—No, no, no.
He crossed the line. Siblings aren't supposed to be this intimate.
He kisses the tender spot beneath your ear, and the curve of your neck.
"You're not going anywhere," he gasps into your ear, obviously desperate for your understanding. "Not anywhere. Won't allow it. f*cking won't allow it."
Drawing you in against his chest, Mikey lies down behind you and breathes in the scent of your hair, whispering, "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you." His co*ck throbs against your backside, and he drapes a possessive arm over your hips, absently rubbing your lower stomach in one large palm.
Then he's kissing your neck and shoulders, and slowly grinding on your ass, all the while mumbling slurred promises, but these movements soon cease as he finally fades into a deep, contented sleep.
You stay completely still, eyes wide and unblinking and full of agony, until the muted light of a new dawn illuminates the far horizon.
__
"Y/N, can you grab me a spoon?" Through a mouthful of dorayaki, Mikey grins and raises both eyebrows. He's already dressed for the day—jeans and a green flannel. Black hair neatly combed. It seems his bad mood is now gone, his apparent anger at you completely disappeared.
You still cannot shake off the events that transpired last night, or earlier this day. It may seem unsettling because he's your brother and you literally grew up together, but it probably meant absolutely nothing. He's a touch starved man and his body doesn't know that you're only his sister.
It's not like it meant he is sexually attracted to you. It's like when someone tickles you— you laugh even if you aren't enjoying it. You decided to just forget that he got a boner last night after purging his suppressed feelings on how he really missed you.
You roll your eyes good-naturedly and reopen the silverware drawer. It's not a big deal, obviously. You haven't sat down to eat yet. But still—he's a grown man. It wouldn't hurt for him to get his own stuff every once in a while instead of asking you to do it for him.
"Sure, Manjiro," you say, agreeable as always. It is never your intention to take on the mantle of perfect sister , but now that your last living legitimate guardian and biological brother Izana who is far away from you now, hold you to this standard, there's no escaping it.
You hand over the spoon, sticking your tongue out playfully, and sit across from your brother. Sometimes you forget the parameters of your relationship, but you openly show your love and affection for your family.
It's been so long since you were last here in Japan that you're just as likely to call him Manjiro instead of Jiro-nii. This knowledge would likely upset him—using his first name creates distance between you two, intentionally or not—but the distinction is necessary.
Jiro-nii is the past. Jiro-nii is pre-adolescence when you played board games and went out for ice cream. Manjiro is the uncomfortable present—a strange man who only vaguely resembles your childhood hero. But you deeply care for your brother. You love him so much as you love Izana.
When you glance up from the table, Mikey's staring at you with an unwavering sort of intensity that raises goosebumps on your arms.
"There's something stuck to your jeans."
Something on —? You tilt your head, as if a better angle might make it easier to understand. This statement is so incongruous with everything going on in your head that it takes half a minute for the words to register.
"Where?" you ask finally, blinking hard. You did a load of laundry before coming here. The jeans can't be stained already.
"It's—" Mikey waves a hand in your direction, exasperated, before jerking his head in a come hither gesture. "Let me."
The note of command in his voice is unmistakable. You've been privy to that voice more times than you can count. It's a combination of your Jiro-nii and the Toman President. Infuriating but inevitable. Izana is also a gang commander and never treated you apathetically, but maybe all these years on his own have warped Mikey's sense of who's who in his life.
With a quiet sigh, you round the table and stand in front of your brother. You hold out your hands, palms up. Okay now Manjiro , what's the issue? You thought silently.
Mikey stares at your thighs for so long that you glance down too, unnerved by his silent inspection. Did you suddenly get your period ? Your flow is light; sometimes you don't even notice until you go to the bathroom. Is there blood seeping through the seat of your pants? You cringe, anticipating his awkward, fumbling realization.
But a glance is all it takes to determine there's nothing out-of-sorts. No sign of your period, which is good news for a different reason—you finished menstruating just last week.
Bewildered, you look back at your brother. "Manjiro, what's—"
"Turn around," he instructs gruffly, cutting you off without a thought. He plants a heavy hand on your hip and pushes insistently. "I noticed it while you were getting my spoon."
It ? Frowning, you allow yourself to be swiveled around like a chair until you're facing the kitchen sink. So, it's not period blood, but then what's the problem? Maybe you sat in gum? Mikey’s been known to gobble a pack or two a week, which you have repeatedly informed him is downright terrible for his actual gums.
Your eyes stray to your own chair across the table, but the angle is bad. You can't make out if there's anything sticky on the seat. Well, regardless, it's a good thing Christmas is only a couple days away. If necessary, Mikey can buy you a gift card to Uniqlo or some other department store for new jeans. These ones are old anyway.
He hums in the back of his throat, a thoughtful noise, and you hear his chair scrap back a few inches. You toss a curious look over your shoulder. "Find it?"
Instead of answering, Mikey's hands carefully clamp down on your hips and guide you back a step. A startled laugh bursts free from your mouth, and when you steady yourself on the table, you catch a glimpse of his face. Mikey's eyes seem to be—
You laugh again, a nervous sound now. Why is he staring at your ass? If there's something there, why doesn't he just wipe it off? And if he noticed gum or a stain while you were standing at the counter earlier, that must mean he was—well, looking . Why would he.
Mikey suddenly cups one ass cheek, his fingers fanning across your backside. A birdlike chirp releases from your mouth you're so surprised, one that rivals the noise from the finch still outside the window. His hand is very warm, even through the denim, and large. The pad of his thumb brushes your tailbone.
"Um, Manjiro—"
"Y/N." He smooths his palm over your backside, slow and deliberate. "I'm jusy checking."
Checking what? you wonder uneasily. But you don't move, and you don't complain when he begins to knead your ass cheeks, digging his thick fingers into your ass. The massage—and that's what it feels like, is effective, even through the thick denim.
Your body goes limp and malleable, like he's lit a fire deep in your very bones. You catch yourself just before a moan slips free, then—incredibly—blushes and squirms in place.
What the hell?
You've never been touched with any kind of romantic intimacy before, and the thought of this—your brother's hands holding your hips and rubbing your ass and generally being creepy as hell—being your very first time with intimacy in any capacity is revolting.
But you've always obeyed your brothers, always been the good little sister, so you squeeze your eyes shut and endure it.
After another excruciating minute, Mikey removes his hands, lightly tapping your ass as he goes, and returns to his breakfast. Honey Nut Cheerios with fat-free milk.
Who cares about milk? your mind demands, disgusted by this distraction. Your brother just fondled your ass!
Now this is weird because Mikey's never been like this before. Events last night still gave you shivers, but you shook it off thinking it was only his brotherly instincts taking over on how badly he missed his last living sister, albeit the nonbiological one.
Today's the second time in a row.
Fondled . God, you hate that word, especially in context with your brother. There are certain words that don't belong to siblings, and that's one of them. You stand awkwardly by the table. A deep, low horn sounds from the nearest busy road, miles away.
You swallow and fiddle nervously, smoothing down the hem of your shirt, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting the collar of your shirt. Are you allowed to go now?
Mikey doesn't acknowledge you, not at all, so you hesitantly retake your seat as he shovels cereal into his mouth. Your hands shake, and maybe it's the thermostat, but you feel unbearably warm all of a sudden. Your cheeks are still flushed, and your chest is scorching hot. You're no longer pleasantly warm but burning up.
"I'm going out today," he says gruffly, interrupting the suffocating silence. Your breath releases in a sharp gasp.
"I—um, alright." You smile awkwardly, eyes on the table. Your toast lies forgotten, cold and hard. "I'm going to finish unpacking."
"If you need any help—"
"I know," you say quickly, then wince. Too abrupt.
Thankfully, Mikey is oblivious. He grunts as he rises from his chair, hands braced on the wood table. Your throat goes dry at the sight of those hands—the many callouses, the ridged veins. You remember how they felt on your backside—warm and somehow full. Heavy, too, like he was pressing them firm against you, molding them to your curves.
Behind you, Mikey dumps his bowl in the sink. The spoon clatters next, and he pauses to wet his hands. Not wash, of course—he detests fragranced soaps. Even ones that are apparently scentless bother him. You don't have to be watching to know that he shakes his hands a few times to dry them instead of using a paper towel.
He drops a kiss on the crown of your head and his breath puffs against your hair. You stiffen.
"See you, Y/N. Be good."
"Bye," you say weakly.
Only when the front door closes behind him and the revving of his CB250T fills the quiet morning do you rise on shaky legs and head for the sink.
You cannot recall the time since he started being this intimate with you. He displays his affection and so do you, but not like this . You are certainly having a bad feeling regarding this matter. Really bad .
-
Hours later, in the late evening, you're sitting on the sofa with a bowl of buttered popcorn in your lap, watching a poorly executed action movie starring Bruce Willis, when the front door bangs open.
You startle, spilling kernels all over the carpet. Your thoughts swim towards the worst-case scenario: home invasion . One of your most feared nightmares. You swallow down a ball of dread and force your thoughts in line. There's not a lot you can do, but you do know where the knives are kept .
"Y/N!"
You deflate into the sofa. It's Mikey, of course. Crisis averted. Ever since this morning at breakfast you've been extremely on edge. Which is ridiculous. But your mind screams that your brother was just making sure you didn't have anything gross or embarrassing stuck to your ass. Totally normal . Nothing weird about that.
"Y/N!?"
"I'm right here!" you call a note of annoyance in your tone. Why is he yelling like that? The distance from the front door to the living room is a dozen feet at most. Besides, where else would you be on a Saturday night two days before Christmas?
Belatedly, you realize there's popcorn scattered at the foot of the sofa. Crap ! You hastily shove the bowl aside, making sure it's balanced on a cushion before dropping to your knees.
Clumsy footsteps stumble down the hallway, and you pause. It's only seven. Manjiro's not—drunk, is he? As far as you know, he'll have a beer every now and again, especially during holiday season, but never enough to become a full-on drunk.
Kernels slip through your fingers, and you settle back on your knees with a frown as Mikey comes into view. He pauses on the threshold, blinking rapidly like there's dirt in his eye. But his gaze finally focuses on you, and a chill worm its way down your spine.
"Y/N!" he sings in a croaky baritone, pointing a finger in your general direction. "There you are! There's my bru—bew—beautiful sister!"
He is drunk , you realize, immediately aghast. Popcorn all but forgotten, you whisper, "You didn't—ride home like this, did you?"
He hiccups a laugh and runs a hand over his taut stomach. "Hey, you worry too much." Then he squints. "What're you doing on the floor?"
Before you have time to respond, Manjiro lurches forward, arms extended. He reaches for your hands so you reluctantly allow him to hold them. You wince at his too tight grip.
"Manjiro—"
"Here we go," he mutters and with a grunt and yanks you straight to your feet. You're surprised—despite his obvious inebriation, he's still as strong as ever. This should reassure you but strangely does the opposite. "Up and at 'em."
"Oh, tell me you didn't ride drunk." You scowl and tug on your hands, but he doesn't release them. Instead, he swings them lightly back and forth.
"I won't tell you, then," he says, grinning sloppily. His jubilation fades when his onyx eyes snag on the TV. "Whatcha watching?"
Oh jeez. He obviously doesn't want an interrogation , so you relent. He's too drunk to remember anything important, anyway. You'll let him have it in the morning when he's nice and sober and in his right mind.
Still. "Did that Kisaki advisor of yours do this?"
Mikey never used to drink, but it's been quite a long time. Maybe things have changed. Maybe he imbibes more than you or Izana knows.
He swats a hand through the air. "Ha! Tetta. I wash—was in the mood."
Oh brother, to get sh*tfaced? you think worriedly. But again, you don't attack or nag him about it like Izana would. Instead, you guide him to the sofa, and he sinks gratefully into one corner with a deep sigh. Stale beer breath wafts over you, and you wrinkle your nose as you sit next to him.
"Hey." Mikey grins, his angelic face you adored so much flushed, and bops your nose. "T'asso cute."
You're perched on the edge of the sofa, wondering if you should fetch a puke bucket, but at this familiar gesture, you shuffle back and cross your legs. A sense of calm descends over you, and you shake your head. You can count on one hand the number of times you've seen your brother crazy drunk. His delinquency is stressful, though, so you shouldn't judge him for letting loose for a night.
The house is toasty warm, and you pull the sleeves of your big sweater past your wrists, getting comfortable. It's the perfect time of year for snow and hot chocolate and cozy movies. A quick glance at the TV screen and the half a dozen bloodied, burning bodies as a building explodes tells you that maybe an action movie isn't exactly festive, but at least it's entertaining.
Mikey mutters under his breath, and you turn your attention back to him. His eyes are heavy-lidded with fatigue. It must've been a busy day at Toman—which is now the most feared gang organization in Japan. He's totally worn out.
You smile. You and your brother are a lot alike. Both quiet, observant and serene. Both love to be alone but also indulge in a crowd. You love to read, and he enjoys watching motorbike races. Aside from occasional visits of Toman especially Tetta Kisaki, his advisor, Mikey is by himself in this house most of the year. It's probably a good thing you moved here temporarily this holiday season when you did. Prolonged isolation can really get to a person, even one as easygoing and naturally solitary as your brother.
You gently push his shoulder. "Manjiro."
He snorts.
"You should go to bed."
He blindly swats your hand away. "Not yet."
You suppress a giggle. "You're already half asleep! Come on, go upstairs."
"Noooo," he grumbles stubbornly, and now you do laugh. Like a little kid on the verge of a sleep-deprived tantrum, he nuzzles into the side of the sofa, a slight scowl marring his gorgeous face.
"Please?"
Mikey cracks an eye. They're eerily dark in the yellow light of the table lamp. He seems to mull over some sort of decision. Maybe he's going to listen to you for once. Encouraged, you reach forward again to poke his arm, and with a sly quickness, he snatches your hand out of the air and pulls you against him.
You let out a yelp, and your hands shoot out for balance. They meet the solid wall of his chest, and his arm slides around and under you. With considerable ease, he cups your bottom and holds you tightly to his side, cradling you like a small child. You experience a momentary flash of fear, but it fades when he kisses your forehead, mumbling about safety and bedtimes.
"You should really get some sleep," you try again. But when you shift, intending to rise off the sofa, his arms tighten. It's a motion that says, Absolutely not. You'll stay right where I want you.
For what might very well be the first time, you realize that Mikey is a big man now. He's tough by nature and not easily intimidated—that's pretty much natural for a gang leader.
Mikey kisses your forehead again. "Missed you. Missed you s'much, Y/N."
Your throat tightens, and you hug him back. "I know. I missed you too."
All those missing years, and now look at you. You don't know how to act around one another, and you imagine it'll be a while yet until you're comfortable together.
He grumbles to himself, and you catch the words unfair and mine . When he rolls to his side, you abruptly find yourself sunk into the saggy arm of the sofa, Mikey herding you into a corner. He slumps a little, leaning some of his prodigious weight on your body. Not enough to crush or suffocate, but definitely more than needed to keep you pinned in place.
He nuzzles your temple, lips hot and dry. "I Told Izana—"You're my sister too. Can't just—can't just take 'er away from me" —
You and Izana always had each other in good times and bad. He left the Sano Household after Shinichiro's death bringing you alongside him. Since then, you only do occasional visits to the Sanos.
Time passed, and the Sano Household now is empty and deserted—your heart swells with emotions. Multiple memories of your mirthful childhood flashed in your head. Now, Toman rose to power, Mikey moved in the suburbs. And despite being surrounded by so many, your brother was actually, all alone, for years and years. All alone in this house of his. You can't even imagine that sort of loneliness. It's a wonder why he never married despite the multiple women chasing him.
"Wish I didn't care for you s'much," he continues, "Would make the pain easier to bear if I didn't."
You swallow the lump in your throat and pats his chest reassuringly. "Well, I'm here now. Why don't we get you upstairs so you can settle down in bed?"
"Not yet," he insists, dipping low until his mouth skims your throat. He makes a strange sound deep in his chest—what might amount to a purr if he were an animal, which is a scary comparison—and clumsily presses his lips to your skin.
A gasp rises from your mouth, and you instinctively grip both sides of his head. Mikey seems to consider this an invitation and kisses the tender skin at the hollow of your throat. You let loose a small, distressed whine and try to turn away, but he's not having it. Your mind short circuits. Your brother's lips are on your skin. He's kissing your neck! Nausea does a slow roll in the depths of your stomach.
His tongue drags along the curve of your neck, so slick and rough that you desperately arch away from him. The feel of it is incredibly intimate. Less like the affectionate lick of a puppy and more like a man desperate for the taste of a woman. Stop it! you demand, but only in your head. Your voice has frozen solid in your chest like a block of ice. Stop doing that, stop it stop it stop.
Mikey works his way up your throat, mumbling incoherently. His teeth nip at your jaw, bruising the skin, scraping and sucking and tearing at you until you're frayed into little tiny pieces. A small part of you demands that you just give in. Let it happen. If you close your eyes and visualize a different face—a face with dark hair and yellow highlights, beauty mark under the right side of sandy-colored eyes, tiger tattoo, perhaps—you can imagine this is actually kind of pleasurable.
"My li'l treasure," he slurs, hugging you snuggly around the waist. "My beloved sister, Y/N."
Mikey repeats your name as he moves over your face, lips and tongue tasting every inch of your skin. You move frantically under him, struggling, but between the back of the sofa and his body you're squarely trapped. Both are immovable. You tilt up your chin, so Mikey won't lick across your mouth, and—not one to be deterred—he instead dives low, sucking on your neck like a man deprived too long of water. He makes greedy little moans as he laves at your skin, and tears started to drip from your lashes.
Why is he doing this? you cry silently, even as a small voice reassures you, He's drunk . Clearly he's not in his right mind.
You push on his chest, but Mikey harrumphs and bites down on the curve of your shoulder, harder and harder until you go limp. The pain is exquisite. Too sharp, too real, like you're experiencing it ten times over. Your mouth falls open, and you're gasping uncontrollably—you figure it's only a matter of time until it ticks over to hyperventilation.
Please don't, you think again and again. Please don't, please don't, please don't.
But Mikey can't hear your thoughts, and even if he could, you doubt he'd care. There's something desperate in the way he clutches you, like he's holding himself back even now. It's a terrifying thought. Surely this is just a drunken miscalculation. There's nothing intentional happening here.
Mikey is your stepbrother—a family! for Christ's sake. You grew up with him.
He pushes his face into your neck, sighing nonsense and sucking your skin into his mouth hard enough to leave bruises. Since resistance is useless, your attention wanders over his head and across the room to the Christmas tree. It's real pine and decorated with red and gold garlands.
Tomorrow's Christmas Eve,you tell yourself blankly. I still have to wrap Manjiro's gifts.
One big hand clamp down on your upper thigh. His thumb brushes between your legs, an absent movement, and you instinctively push your thighs together. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck.
Mikey squeezes your thigh and mumbles, "Open up, Y/N. Come on now, open up for your big brother."
You moan quietly with fear, a train of thoughts ran in your mind: He doesn't mean that. Of course not. He's just drunk, that's all. Too much beer. Damn Toman for letting their leader go all out. Mikey never used to drink like this when you visited many years ago. Never.
Your voice is still trapped in your throat, vocal cords caught in a messy tangle. You try to swallow, alleviate some of the tension building in your neck, but even that small motion is beyond you. Mikey is glued to your body, pressed so close you can scarcely breathe without inhaling his smell—beer, a faint whiff of a citrusy cologne, and what might be the faded tang of cigar smoke.
"Manjiro!" you manage between gasps, "I'm t-tired. Let me go to bed, please!"
All at once, like a tire jabbed by a sharp nail, Mikey slumps, his mouth disappearing from your neck. He doesn't attempt to catch himself, and you release a short cry when your brother's heavy body crushes you into the sofa cushions.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, speaking into your shirt. His mouth is pressed to your collarbone. "You're all I h-have."
You force yourself to speak softly and without anger. Mikey still has you pinned. If he wanted to continue his assault, there's simply no way you could stop him. "That's fine. But I don't—"
I don't want this!
But the words won't come. You don't want to hurt his feelings. Not like this, when he's already so— so sad.
There it is again. Your Perfect sister syndrome.
With a groan, Mikey staggers to his feet. He looms over you, swaying drunkenly. You scrunch into the couch, terrified he'll fall and hurt himself, or fall and crush you a second time.
He takes in your wide eyes and trembling lower lip, then he sighs, running a hand down his face. Exhaustion seeps from him like steam.
"Get some sleep, Y/N." He offers you a tight smile and stumbles away, heading for the stairs. His footsteps falter as he collides with a piece of furniture (maybe the kitchen table) and curses low and vicious.
You don't move until the floorboards in his bedroom creak.
For the first time since moving back to Japan, you lock your door before climbing into bed.
-
You wake up in your bedroom quite early in the morning, and your first thought is about the Christmas tree.
You surge upright in your bed, but your eyes went eyes wide and panicked.
Did you remember to switch off the colored lights?
Even though there's little danger, the lights are still a safety hazard, and the last thing you want is for the house to burn down because of your carelessness. Your years together with Izana has taught you that if you don't double and triple check something, no one will.
But then you remember and slump back into your mattress—you never turned on the lights in the first place.
Relieved now, you stretch, your back arching off the mattress. Several muscles in your arms crack, and you sigh happily. Muted sunlight filters through the flimsy curtains over your window.
You smile to yourself. It's Christmas Eve. One of the best days of the year. Maybe you and Manjiro will—
Your thoughts stall. Manjiro.
With a choked gasp, you sit up again. Your eyes go right to your bedroom door. Still closed.
What happened last night? Was it all a dream? You clutch the covers to your chest, peering through the gloom. It doesn't feel like a dream. But maybe you misunderstood. You've never been a particularly affectionate family, and as far as you know, Mikey's lived alone since you and Izana left him high and dry. The two of you are clumsy when it comes to expressing emotions. So yeah, the neck kissing was weird, but he probably meant it to be familial—loving but not intimate.
You supress a mirthless laugh. How f*cked is that? To believe your brother has... plans for you—Oh, he would be absolutely disgusted by these thoughts if he knew. It's your own fault for thinking they might mean something else.
As you start to move your legs off the bed, you scream.
Your brother is sitting in the rocking chair across your room, fully dressed. Another pair of dark jeans, another one of his off-white loose sweatshirt, black tanktops within. He's reclined in the chair, his wrists hanging loosely off the wooden arms.
Your pulse maintains a staccato rhythm for several seconds. So long as you're afraid it might be stuck like that. Mikey smiles sleepily, his features are ever so beautiful it always makes your heart warm. You wonder just how long he's been sitting there. He looks comfortable. The door—
You locked the door.
"How—" Your voice is low and croaky, so you start again. "How did you get in here?"
He shrugs and absently toes a run in the carpet donning his usual calm smile, "I've lived in this house most of my life. It wasn't hard."
"What—why are you doing-" But that's not right.
What you really want to ask is, "Why are you here?"
In fact, you open your mouth, intent on demanding an answer. Why are you here in my bedroom first thing in the morning? Don't you have stuff to do?
Something interrupts your train of thought. It's the expression on Mikey’s face. He blinks slowly, still smiling, like it's perfectly natural for him to have broken into his stepsister's room to watch her sleep. There's something incredibly sinister about him being there while you are so vulnerable. Unaware
"Have you been awake long?" you ask with forced joviality. For whatever reason, you don't want him to see how upset you are by his intrusion. The last thing you want to do is drive him away.
"An hour or so," he admits, tapping his fingers against his lips. The chair creaks faintly as he relaxes his body, and his dark hair cast shadows that obscure the fine details of his face.
You peer at your bedside clock. A quarter after six. It is far too early for anyone to be awake, especially on Christmas Eve. The only reason you should be up at this time is to bake cinnamon rolls or cook breakfast. Omelets and sausage, miso soup, or something. You can sometimes take hours to cook, depending on the method and ingredients.
But you're not feeling particularly hungry at the moment.
"Well," you say eventually, when it's clear he's not going to speak, "Merry Christmas Eve."
Mikey’s face brightens, casting aside those ominous shadows. "Check outside."
Check? Suspicious now, you clamber off the bed and tip-toe to the window. You glance over your shoulder to see Mikey unmoved, still smiling. You shudder, cautiously pry back the curtain, and gasp.
"It's snowing!" you exclaim, totally blindsided by the pristine white landscape sprawled before the house.
Back there in your place with Izana, you were lucky if the temperature ever dipped below 90 degrees. It's always abnormally warm there. Sure, the rain in Japan sucks, but it's different with snow. You don't mind it so much. There's something magical about a snowstorm at Christmastime. As long as you don't have to drive around in it.
Mikey joins you at the window, brushing aside the curtain. "It started around five. Supposed to be a big one. "
(You frown and peek at his face. That's not a big deal for you—your job's out until the new year—but the gang leader rarely gets time off. What if there's an emergency in the organization? Drama of any kind is rare in Japan, you've learned that much in your previous visits—but still, anything can happen. Even with snow chains on his babu, he'll be putting his life at risk.)
But Mikey is unbothered. He taps the window glass. "Your very first white Christmas."
You laugh, overjoyed with this early morning surprise, and nudge his shoulder. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
Mikey wraps an arm around your waist and draws you in for a hug. You inhale the clean laundry scent of his clothing. It comes as a mild surprise that there's no sign of his hungover anywhere in the room.
"Cold?" Mikey rubs your bare arms. You're wearing soft cotton PJs, but the material is thin and worn after so many years of use. You should add some new pajamas to your Christmas list, preferably ones with long sleeves.
"A little," you admit as you rubbed your neck. An image of Mikey fiddling with the lock on your door flashes through your mind.
He grunts, displeased. "Why don't you join me downstairs?"
"Manjiro, I'm not really awake yet."
"Even better," he says, a warm smile on his face, stepping towards the bed, "I'll stay here with you. Just until you fall asleep."
Had it been in a different circ*mstance it would've make your heart melt. Had it been not for your brother's strange and sudden intimacy, you would've jumped in joy for his offer. A tremor of unease rolls down your spine. You have sleep problems and it always takes a while for you to settle down. What if he refuses to leave, but you refuse to sleep? Will he be angry? Will he think you're doing it on purpose?
Once again, you are struck by the strangeness between you. You stopped visiting Japan when you turned twenty because it became obvious to everyone—even your normally oblivious brother—that you hated his place: confining, and cold.
For the last few years, he'd been solitary all his life, and you felt bad because of it.
You don't know each other anymore. The realization penetrates deep, slicing through your uncertainty. Mikey was the only Sano remaining, and he never had kids. Moreover, he grew distant to the others as Toman rose to power. Social interaction is weird for him considering how feared he is. That probably explains why he touched you the way he did. He has no idea how to deal with an adult woman other than to treat you like a child, a kid sister, with kisses and cuddles and general overprotection.
That's all it is.
Now that you've rationalized things, you smile widely at Mikey and slide back under the covers, snuggling deep into your pile of pillows. "Oh okay, Manjiro. Really. Give me an hour or two and I'll be down to cooking breakfast. "
He nods his head and motions for you to move over to the side of the bed, "I don't mind, Y/N. Let's sleep then."
For Pete's sake, this is your brother. You know now that you're the only one making things weird.
But hasn't it already been weird since your first night here?
Before you and Izana decided to temporarily halt your visits to Japan, Mikey would tuck you in at night and sometimes, not always, not even every week, but sometimes—just like what he did when you were kids. He even tells you fun stories about his adventures with Toman.
Against your better judgement, you shift to the opposite side of the bed and flip up the covers. "Well, if you insist."
He offers you a grin, obviously surprised by your sudden agreement, and climbs onto the mattress, which dips and sways under the added weight. You stifle a laugh as he gets settled, bunching the blankets in his lap. It's a tight fit, but you have enough room to lay down flat and nuzzle your head on a pillow.
"Sleep tight," he mumbles, stroking a loose piece of hair off your cheek.
"I'll try," you sigh, even as your eyelids droop. Maybe slipping back under won't be as hard as you thought.
Mikey hums a familiar Christmas tune under his breath, and before long, you sink deep into a quiet warmth.
__
At first, your sleep is dreamless. Free of nightmarish shadows and that dread that's so particular to the dead of night: that unsettling, heavy horror. For years, you've grappled with these terrors. They often come and go, but not with any regularity. Neither do you normally have pleasant dreams. Your mind at night is pleasantly blank.
But this time, in your dream, something changes.
You are standing outside a Petshop, nearby the gloomy parking lot. It's one sunny day, and sunlight bounces off the rows of neatly parked cars in the small customer's parking lot. Students from a nearby school just released from class swarm the sidewalks in short-sleeved shirts, laughing and calling out for friends. There's excitement in the air, as if something exciting is about to happen.
Something collides with you from behind, and you stumble into the wall of the nearest building. Your hands come up instinctively to prevent an impact, but the tip of your nose still scratches the wall cement. Your face flushes red with a prickling pain.
"Hey." The voice is deep and velvety smooth, confident. A familiar voice in the past, though one seldom used in your presence. Still, you would know it anywhere.
Kazutora Hanemiya presses you up against the wall. His breath is hot on your neck. "I've been looking for you."
You swallow hard and stare unseeing at the wall where he pressed you.
"Hi, Hanemiya-san," you manage to say, holding yourself stiffly. What's this all about?
His big hands slide over your hips and meet around your waist. He squeezes experimentally. "You're so soft."
"I'm—I'm." You're nervous but somehow not scared. In fact, an excited little thrill shoots through your coils in your stomach. You've often fantasized about how it might feel to touch him, your long-time childhood crush.
Kazutora presses himself into you from behind, his crotch bumping against your ass. You breathe out shakily but don't move when his hands draw low, lower, and unbutton your jeans. He moves slowly—not cautiously, just unconcerned. As if this is unavoidable. His lips brush the back of your neck.
"I've waited so long—" He groans into your shoulder as his hand dips under the waistband of your jeans, into your panties. Your thighs tremble, but you keep your legs where they are and make no attempt to ward him off. He trails a blunt finger over your wet folds, and you release a pent-up whine.
Kazutora shushes you and rubs your cl*t with an experimental stroke of his thumb. Your knees go weak, and you have to press your hands firmly into the wall to keep yourself standing.
"Wet," he mumbles, nipping at your earlobe. "Your puss*'s dripping."
You squeak a half-hearted protest as he slicks his fingers up and down, pushing harder and deeper, until you clench desperately and beg him to touch you. No more teasing.
Kazutora acquiesces. His fingers slip inside with ease, helped along by the puddle of arousal between your legs, and he adjusts your hips to a position more to his liking before he begins to pump.
"Oh" You cry out and push your hips back. Kazutora's moving behind you, thrusting and grinding on your ass, making guttural noises in the back of his throat like a wild animal, unhinged and a little rough.
" More ," you murmur, your face pressed against the wall, grit in your cheek, " More, I need more ."
He kisses the back of your neck, huffing excitedly, his fingers squelching now as your arousal leaks in small squirts from your puss*. You're already close—you're still a virgin, but your fingers have always done good work—and you moan your excitement.
Kazutora lets out a gasp, as he thrusts into you from behind, jolting you up against the wall. Your thighs shake, and you grind on him too, meeting him thrust for thrust. A little more, just a little closer... A wail rises from the back of your throat, and your vision flashes an ecstatic red and white—
You jerk awake and wake up in your own bed. Your throat is sore—you usually keep a glass of water by your bedside for this very reason—but when you turn your head, a calloused hand cups your cheek and guides it until you're facing forward again.
"What—Manjiro?"
"Hush, Y/N, settle down a minute." He kisses the side of your head with a tenderness that borders on possessive.
You blink away the last remnants of sleep, still disoriented. Your thoughts are fuzzy, but you do remember Mikey promising to stay by your side until you fell back asleep. But he's behind you now—somehow he maneuvered you so that you were laying between his legs, your head on his chest, the covers pooled at your waist.
Then you become aware of a familiar wetness between your legs.
It must've been because of that wet dream you've had with your crush. The last time you've seen him was so long ago too, inside a pet shop with a cute guy you hope was not his boyfriend.
You gasp and attempt to sit up, but Mikey's thighs clench around you, and his arm locks around your shoulders. You make a sound of protest, bewildered, and his other hand begins to move between your legs again, frantic and too rough.
You yelp and twist, he started to move, opening your legs wider, and Mikey grunts and bites your neck. He's not delicate about it; his teeth sink so deep into your skin that tears immediately smart in your eyes, and your spine arcs against the pain. At the same time, your hips are moving because even as some part of you know how wrong it is—even as that same part wants to vomit until there's nothing left—the pleasure is too immediate.
You writhe, fighting against the looming tide, your fingers and nails scrabbling at the forearm locked across your chest. You try to close your thighs, forcing him to release his hold, but that only creates a mind-blowing friction that makes your eyes roll.
"Manjiro" you sob, swaying your head from side to side."P-please stop—"
But he doesn't. His breathing grows increasingly shallow, and his own hips bump your ass like he's desperately trying to find a way inside. His hand cups your sex, two fingers plunging deep into your puss*, and it's all you can do to keep from screaming. There's nowhere to go, nothing to make him stop.
"C'mon, Y/N," Mikey growls, kissing your throat, his free hand dipping below the neckline of your pajama top to knead your breasts. "Almost there, baby."
You sit there, terror-stricken, as he brings you to climax. With a tortured scream, you cumulate in a fast gush all over his hand. He keeps pumping, groaning at the sloppy wet sound his fingers make, and minutes pass, and your panties and thighs are drenched, and in no time at all, you're cumming a second time, helplessly, explosively, your mouth open in a soundless shriek.
"Christ." Mikey expels a heavy breath, and when you slump down, exhausted and horrified, he uses your weight to get himself off. He dry-humps you, knees bent to either side, hips pistoning forward and up. His co*ck digs into your lower back, and when he c*ms, the bed shakes.
He moves out from behind you, still panting, and clumsily kisses you on the mouth, his lips rough and wet. "Good job, Y/N. That was really great. "
Mikey clears his throat and stands, surreptitiously adjusting his crotch, which is still somewhat tented. The sight strikes you with a sudden, overwhelming fear. Isn't he done? Didn't he get what he wanted? Will he try again? But calm washes over you in the next second because even if that's what he intended, it's not like you have a choice in the matter.
You stare limply up at him. Your body feels light and heavy. It's like you've lost all control over yourself. Your brother gazes down at you for a long moment, apparently lost in thought. Cum trickles down your thighs, and his eyes stay rooted between your legs for several minutes. With an odd, secretive smile, he leans forward and tugs at the neckline of your top. He licks one nipple with a broad sweep of his tongue and then, after another contemplative pause, licks the other.
"Need to stop," he mutters to himself. But he licks them both a second time before leaning back, swiping a hand across his forehead. The licking, you see, is a type of claim. Marking what's his,what belongs to him.
There's nothing to be done about it, is there? If he decides to violate your right here and now, there is not a single thing you can do to stop him. He has all the power. So you stare at him blankly, wondering what's next.
Mikey sighs at the ceiling. "Well, Y/N. You might want to get yourself cleaned up." He gestures vaguely at your legs. "I don't want to leave it messy for too long." Then, in a darker voice, "I might get some ideas."
You swallow and sit up, your hand on your stomach. You feel weird.
Mikey seems pleased, "Go get a shower, get dressed, then come on downstairs. I'll help you make lunch."
He tries to kiss you before leaving the room, but you turn your head away with the last of your energy. His lips meet your cheek instead, but he rolls with it, guiding them down your neck. His mouth slides wetly across your skin, sucking and licking, before abruptly parting. Mikey rubs your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, muttering under his breath.
This goes on for several minutes, and you fade away until you're barely conscious. It's easier to just let it happen. If you give him what he wants, it'll be over quickly and he'll leave. You gaze at the ceiling, and at some point, his touch disappears. When you peek over the side of the bed a few minutes, or hours later, trembling, he's nowhere in sight.
Strange. You didn't hear him go.
In the shower, you make a decision. It's an impulsive one, and not without major room for error, but you don't care.
With the mirror glass still fogged with steam, you slip into a fresh pair of jeans and a holiday sweater—red and white stripes with dancing reindeer on the front. It's Christmas Eve, after all. Despite everything—and you don't allow yourself to analyze what everything means—it's still the day before your favorite holiday. That has to mean something. You'll cling to that hopeful promise of tomorrow—to gifts and silly holiday movies—as long as you can.
As you expertly navigate the stairs, avoiding all the creaky spots, you regret now more than ever for refusing a cell phone.
Your resistance to owning a device that can connect you to anyone, anywhere, at any time has only ever seemed beneficial though. It's never been a problem before. No phone means that your only means of communication is face-to-face, and for a loner, it narrows down your chances of forced social interaction to none.
Mikey is in the kitchen. He's humming another Christmas tune, and the cabinets rattle; the fridge door opens and closes as he gathers ingredients for lunch. Your stomach roils at the thought of food. You press the back of your hand to your mouth and step cautiously to the front of the house.
The big TV screen in the living room is playing How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Something about that unsettles you deeply. He's acting like this is all normal, you realize, gently pulling your coat from the rack by the door. Nothing bizarre is going on here. You can't fathom it. In fact, if you keep mulling over what this means, you might lose what's left of your mind.
So you decide not to think, only to act. You yank open the door, wincing when the wood creaks, and step outside into the brisk winter air. There's a thin layer of frost on the sidewalk and several inches on the ground. Snow is still falling—with flurries, not a blizzard—and the sky is a smooth sheet of unrelenting gray.
You suck in air through your nose and push forward. Your eyes are on his SUV, and you're considering all the possible avenues you'll take to get out of this place, but a realization hits you in the chest with such force it's almost physical. Horrorstruck, you slow to a stop on the front lawn. Snow eddies around you, and a light breeze ruffles the ends of your hair, but otherwise nothing moves.
I can’t use his bike.
I can't use the car. He’ll be out the door before I even clear the driveway.
No, no, no.
Your throat tightens, but you can't cry. No, you refuse. Your most promising means of escape are suddenly impracticable.
Fine. Okay, you zip up your coat and start down the road. You'll just walk until you come across someone. Maybe another car will drive by. You're doubtful, and not just because of the weather—this road in the outskirts of Tokyo is lucky to see five cars on a normal day, and this day isn't normal. Nobody wants to venture out on Christmas Eve. It's all about staying indoors and spending time with family and friends.
Which is the very last thing you want.
Still, despite the overwhelming odds, you are not deterred. The closest neighbor is at least two miles down the road.
"Y/N."
You stand still at the end of the driveway, and your shoulders hunch as if anticipating a blow. Oh no, oh no, oh no.The words run on a loop inside your head. Fear threatens to bring you tumbling to your knees.
I can't go back,you think desperately, curling your hands into fists. Please, I can't.
But you know that it's over. You have never been particularly devious when it comes to subterfuge, escape, sneaking around—whatever you want to call it. Your mind doesn't think that way.
You're good and caught.
But maybe there's a way to salvage this. You just have to be convinced.
Swiveling on your heels, you dangle a smile on your face and wave. "Hey, Manjiro."
Your voice falters when you see him, but you might be far enough away that he doesn't notice. Mikey is standing on the front porch, hip co*cked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glock at his side. Your heart jams its way into your throat.
Jesus Christ, is he really going to use that?
"What'cha doing?" he calls, casually feeling the gun on his side pocket.
You swallow. "I—I was just, uh, I was getting some fresh air. to clear my head. "
"Is that right?" Mikey saunters forward.
"Yeah," you say brightly, forcing yourself not to take a step back. His approach is tauntingly slow, and you can't help but feel like a deer in headlights. Like prey.
Mikey comes to a halt, much too close. He's a bit taller than you are and his presence looms like a monolith, intimidatingly broad. His chest blocks out the length of the house, and with nothing else to distract you, you find your eyes drawn again and again to the gun.
"Are you sure, Y/N?"
You nod quickly, your head bobbing like a puppet on strings. Your hands are ice cold. "Yeah. I just wanted to feel the snow. It's pretty.
He grunts and eyes you up and down. Mikey's eyes rove around the lawn, down the street, his bike, and finally to the SUV. Searching. You're not sure of what. There's no one coming.
"Pretty," he says quietly, squinting up at the falling flakes.
"Yeah," you whisper.
He gently picks a snowflake from your hair, and you both watch it melt on the tip of his finger. Then he casually cups the back of your head, guides your chin up, and kisses you on the mouth with such force you nearly stumble. His tongue pokes past your lips and scours your mouth, flicking across your teeth and gums.
Mikey breaks the kiss and runs his lips across your forehead, back and forth. "I don't want you to go off on your own. I'll take good care of you here, you know that. "
You nod mutely and allow him to shepherd you back to the house. On the front stoop, you glance over your shoulder to find him inches away, smiling. The gun's still perched casually on his jeans, like he's just waiting for a reason to use it.
"Inside," he prompts, affectionately patting your back.
"Okay. "
You cross the threshold and didn't look back again.
_
You slowly drape your snow-dusted coat over the back of a chair and sit. You put your hands in your lap and stare at the textured wood grain.
Whistling, Mikey sets a plate before you on the kitchen table. It's a ceramic plate, chipped on one side. All of his dining and silverware are dull and cracked. Decades of overuse. A man like him sees no sense in spending money on new kitchenware when the old ones work just fine.
The sandwich is clumsily made. It's obvious Mikey doesn't cook for himself very often. Ham and cheese on rye. A small bowl of egg and miso soup, some tsukemono, fresh from the jar, and a glass of iced water.
You twist your fingers nervously. You're not hungry. You're not thirsty. If you take even a single bite of this food, there's a good chance it will come right back up. Mikey will probably think you've done it on purpose.
Your brother sits down with a relieved grunt. "Eat up, Y/N." He slaps the table, and you jump. "I need your strength for later."
What are we doing later? The question is on the tip of your tongue. But to answer him is to feed into it, and that's not what you want to do. Maybe he means shoveling snow. The wind outside whistles past the kitchen windows, and the TV blares a daunting weather update.
Your very first white Christmas.
You hesitantly pick up your fork and stab your food. It doesn't smell appetizing, but in the course of a day, your brother has become an unpredictable variable, and you don't want to test him further.
He is a gang leader. He might be capable of so much more—so much worse. So you nibble at one end of the tsukemono, your expression carefully blank.
"Good?"
You nod and concentrate on staring at the holes in your sandwich. Maybe you can make it disappear through sheer force of will. Worth a try.
"I was thinking," he says, conversationally. "It's a good thing I caught you when I did."
Your face goes pale. He knows I was trying to escape, you think despairingly. Of course he does—Mikey's sometimes oblivious, but he's not dumb.
"Oh?"
He hums affirmatively. "Yes, that's correct—I just... I can't let you go, Y/N. I won't." A laugh, and then, quietly, "I won't."
"Why not?" you whisper, shrinking into your seat.
Mikey smiles grimly and shakes his head. "I can't let you leave me, like everyone else."
He pushes back from the table, and you flinch violently, anticipating another unwelcome touch. But he simply crosses the kitchen to the fridge and extracts a bottle of red wine. Then two glasses from a cabinet. A bottle opener from a drawer
In a well-practiced motion, he pours you both a glass and gestures for you to take one. You're not sure what to think. You rarely drink alcohol. It's not like you're not legal, but on the few occasions, it reminded you of cough syrup, gave you headaches too.
Mikey downs his glass in three gulps. He immediately reaches for the bottle again to pour more. You shift uncomfortably in your seat. The wine touches your lips, and you wrinkle your nose at the potent scent and set the glass on the edge of the table. Nothing's changed, apparently. It still smells and tastes terrible. Like alcohol swabs from a medical office.
Your brother gestures with his empty glass. "Drink up."
"You know, I don't like alcohol, Manjiro." You smile nervously. "Can't I just have some water?"
He tilts his head and frowns. "You say that like I'm giving you a choice."
You stiffen as he meanders over. His rough fingers brush your jaw, and he exchanges his near-empty glass for yours. Wine sloshes perilously close to the rim as he bends down.
"C'mon, Y/N." He rests the cold glass on your bottom lip and nudges. "A few more sips for your big brother."
You don't want a few more sips. You don't want any sips. It tastes bad and gives you a strange, light-headed feeling. But a stark image of Mikey’s loaded gun flickers through your head, and you reluctantly open your mouth.
At this point, it's probably just best to do what he wants.
"Good," he sighs, cradling the back of your head. You swallow meekly, avoiding his gaze. "That's my good little sister."
You wince and squeeze your eyes shut. The sour taste makes you want to gag. He doesn't pull the glass away until you've managed to drink a little more than half, and with a pleased smile, he brings it to his own lips and downs the rest. The sight fills you with unease.
For the second time, you wonder if Mikey has developed a bit of a drinking habit since you last saw him. The fridge is stocked with half a dozen bottles of wine and two six-packs, and yesterday you noticed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of scotch in the cabinet above the stove. They are all open and in varying states of use.
"Alright." Mikey smacks his chest and lets out a low belch. He gestures at the table. "Clean this up for me, Y/N."
You slowly climb to your feet, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He doesn't sit down again or make a move for the living room. He simply stands there, hands braced on the countertop behind him, and offers you his signature smile.
You gather the dirty dishes and silverware, stacking them neatly, because you don't know what else to do. You dump the load into the sink and begin hand-washing each one, determined to ignore your brother.
"I can't believe it's Christmas already," he says with a sigh. "The years go by too fast."
You hum noncommittally, scrubbing a plate.
"It's been so long since I had someone else here to celebrate it." He taps his fingers on the granite.
You quietly stack the clean plates in the small dish rack by the sink. You can tell it's rarely used. On one end, there's even a cobweb. A quick glance through the drawers tells you your brother is keen on plasticware.
He edges closer. "It gets kind of lonely out here sometimes."
You train your eyes on the spoon in your hand. That's the cost of refusing to live anywhere but in the countryside —little to no friends or family or neighbors. Just a quiet forest. Open road. Quite understandable for a feared yakuza though.
Mikey sidles up behind you. He gathers your hair over one shoulder and leans in. His breath is hot on your neck. "I'm happy you're here, Y/N."
"Yeah," you say, your voice a little shaky. "I am too."
His hands slide over your hips. You shudder at the feeling and press your lower body into the cabinets under the sink. Your thighs tremble from the strain.
Mikey’s lips touch the back of your neck. It's a barely-there sensation, more like the ghost of a kiss. You swallow and pretend that everything's fine. Nothing to worry about. But his mouth moves to your throat, and he sucks hard on your skin. You flinch, but he keeps going, mouthing at the tender flesh like a man starving. He groans a little and shifts, his crotch nestled between your ass cheeks. You feel him there, feel the hard ridges of something forbidden.
"Sweet," he mumbles, licking up the column of your throat. "My sweet sister."
You make a small sound of protest in the back of your throat. It goes unnoticed. He's groaning, his hands roving over your hips and up to your breasts. The cabinets by your knees creak and rattle as he sways into you, forward and back, his hips flush against your ass.
"I'm—" Your voice is a whisper. insubstantial. He doesn't hear it, or pretends not to.
Mikey snakes a hand up your throat and nudges your jaw to the side. He kisses the corner of your mouth and strains closer, but you manage to turn just enough to avoid full contact. Unperturbed by this small rejection, his lips coast along your jaw and across your cheeks.
You twist suddenly in his arms, trying to catch him by surprise, but he cups your hips and pulls you back.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks gruffly, nipping at your throat. The pain is minor, but it still surprises you each and every time. You've never considered that biting might be a form of affection, and why would you? It hurts.
"I want to-" You fumble for an excuse.
He tries again to kiss your mouth, but you squirm out of reach.
"-Get dressed," you blurt, pulling on his fingers. "I need to."
"You already did," he mumbles, pawing at your breasts. The wool prevents him from pinching your nipples like he did earlier to get you off.
Tears stick in the corners of your eyes. No matter how insistently you push and pull, he won't stop. "This sweater, it's too small. I want to change. "
"Y/N," he groans, exasperated; which nearly makes you giggle with terror. Is he exasperated? He's upset with you? Well, that's fine. You're out of your mind with fear, but at least you're not exasperated like him.
"I'll be back," you stammer, wearing a rictus grin as you shove out of his hold. His arms tighten briefly, like maybe he won't let you go, but you drive forward until they fall away.
Gulping in air, you race up the stairs. You didn't look behind you, not once. You don't listen to the sounds of pursuit. The only thought in your mind is to get away! Get away! get away! You trip and stumble on the landing, banging your shoulder into the wall. A sob catches in your throat, and you shoot into your room.
The door swings closed, and it's all you can do not to fall to your knees. Out . You need a way out. Right now, It doesn't matter that the nearest neighbor is two miles down the road. You'll sprint the distance. You'll run as far and as fast as your body will endure, as long as it means you won't have to spend another minute, another second, in this house.
"Y/N?" The doorknob twists, and your heart lurches like a stalled engine. "You alright?"
You sob again and cast wildly about your room for protection against the cold. There's a scarf and mittens on the floor by your closet, but no winter coat. Well, that'll have to do. You scramble over, but the doorknob twists again, back and forth, with increasing urgency. The noise suddenly stops, and you stare at the door, terrified. Silence is worse. Silence means something's going on you can't see, and if you can't see, you won't know how to—
The knob twists again, and the lock clicks back in. The door begins to open.
You surge to your feet and crash into it, babbling, "Not ready, I'm not ready, Manjiro!" But he's stronger—even with the weight of your entire body pressed against the door, he's far, far stronger—and the crack widens.
"Open up now," Mikey orders, and you stumble back before the door shoves you into the wall.
You fall on your bed, weeping. Your shoulder aches where you banged it. Your legs won't support you, and so you sag on the mattress, gasping through tears.
Mikey steps over the threshold, eyeing you curiously. The door settled against the wall, the keyhole warped where he forced it open. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares down at you, unaffected by your hysterics.
"That's enough," he says mildly, working his jaw.
You shake your head and sob. This can't be happening. Whatever this is, it can't be—it just can't be—
"I want to go home," you manage, clutching your hands tight to your chest.
Oh, Y/N, c'mon now. You are home. " His voice slides over your skin like a rash.
"No—no," you protest. "Nii-san, Izana nii-san."
His face darkens. "You can't. You belong to me now. I know you hate this place a lot, do you hate me too? Yeah of course you do."
"That's not true— that's not true! "
Mikey sighs, tilting his head back. "You know, I love our family so much. Years after you two left me, I still cared for you with my whole heart, more than anyone." His dark eyes graze your face, lingering on your mouth. " Stay . You promised you'd spend your holidays with me."
Heart pounding, you scoot across the mattress until your back hits the headboard. Mikey’s mouth moves, but the words are garbled. What is he saying? Why can't you understand? For a long moment, you are completely lost in a wave of panic.
I need to get out of here, I need to get away, because if I don't, he's going to do something, he's going to... force something, and when that happens, everything will change, I'll lose my mind, I'll—
When you resurface, Mikey has stopped talking. He saunters closer, his frame blocking out the open doorway. "Never thought I'd love someone like... like that again." He chuckles and runs a hand over his raven hair. "But I do. And I never thought I'd love you so f*ckin' much my chest hurts either. "
"Wh—who?" you blurt out, desperate to redirect. Confusion blunts the obvious. "Who is it, Manjiro? Did you—did you meet someone? "
Mikey dips his chin and gives you a look of vague disapproval. "Now, you hear, no more games?"
The tension breaks. He lunges forward, closing the distance between you, and snags an ankle. You shriek as he drags you across the mattress, the sheets and covers bunching under you, making it difficult to resist. Your other foot lashes out, but it's at a bad angle, and Mikey simply tightens his grip on your ankle until you squeal from the pain and settle down.
"Are you going to listen to me now?"
You shake your head again and close your eyes. What the hell is going on? You just want to go back downstairs, bake cookies, turn on some silly Hallmark movie, and admire the Christmas tree lights. That's all. That's all you want. To spend the holiday season with your beloved brother.
His hands crawl up your legs and yank on the waistband of your jeans. With a soft curse, he fumbles with the top button and flicks down the zipper. You bat wildly at his hands, digging your nails into his wrists.
Mikey sighs heavily. "Alright, then."
He reaches into his back pocket and brings out a pair of metal handcuffs.
"What?" Your voice rises to a screech. The sight of those cuffs—used on bad guys and criminals alike—sends you into a full-blown panic. You claw at the bedsheets, trying to get away, to break free of his iron grip.
But Mikey simply grunts and jams a knee into your stomach. All the air leaves you with a great wheeze, and you gape soundlessly, eyes ringed in white, as your brother drags your hands to the headboard and snaps the cuffs around your wrists. He secures them to a thick wooden rod at the base of the headboard, the wrists stacked one atop the other. He gives an experimental yank and hums his approval.
"Much better." Mikey puts his hands on his hips, looking very pleased with himself. "No more struggling, you hear?"
You stare up at him, trembling. Your hands lie limply above your head now, useless, and you look away as he finishes dragging your jeans and panties off. He leaves your socks on but tears through your sweater. The coarse, cruel ripping of heavy fabric brings tears to your eyes, and you blink rapidly as the embroidered reindeer dissolves into a puddle of torn strips on the floor. That one was your favorite.
Mikey maneuvers you to the middle of the bed. The mattress is old, and it creaks with movement. You breathe through your nose, twisting fruitlessly at the cuffs. The heater hums through the floorboards, but you shiver against a sudden wave of cold, your skin prickling with goosebumps.
"Been so long," he mutters, staring at your pert nipples. "So long since I had a woman."
You start to cry in earnest now, and he lets you. There's nobody else around, after all. No one to stop him.
Mikey unbuttons his white sweatshirt and shrugs it off. He's not wearing anything underneath—not his usual black tanktop—which convinces you that he's been planning this since a few hours ago.
Your brother is lean but barrel-chested, pale skin with a some scars from his past battles. There are several ugly-looking scars on his ribs from attacks on his gang life—knife marks, bullet wounds, and disease-ridden fingernails. You shudder. This is the body of a hardened man, one who knows precisely how to deal with mafias and gangsters alike.
He drops heavily on top of you with no warning, bracing his arms on the mattress, and sets to licking your nipples in a wild, desperate frenzy. They went hard and pebbled at the sandpaper feel of his tongue. Revolted, you squeeze your thighs together, pushing against him. But Mikey pries them apart with his knee and rubs his thigh between your legs. Arousal dampens his jeans, and he ducks his head to watch as you gradually soak the denim.
"Easier than I thought," he mutters, surprised. He sucks on a nipple, his cheeks hollowing as he devours your breasts. "Must've been goin' out of your mind, huh, Y/N? Don't worry, I'll be really careful."
You have no idea what he's talking about. The friction between your legs is growing unbearable, and it's hard to think past the immediate pleasure. You hate yourself for it too, for feeling " good " even though you know it's just your body's natural response. Any minute now, you're going to let go, and the thought of what he'll do in response terrifies you.
He nuzzles your breasts, leaving sloppy wet kisses behind, and makes his way over your ribs and down to your stomach. He nibbles at your hip bones, scraping them with his teeth. His fingers dip between your legs and stroke your slit. You whine and buck, and he lets out a low laugh.
"You can't hide it from your brother." He pushes in, parting your folds. "Big brother always knows what his little sister needs."
You huff, cringing into the mattress. Your breasts are sore from his attentions, and there's a throbbing ache between your legs that repulses you on every level. Stop , you tell yourself. You don't want this. Mikey shuffles off his jeans and boxers, revealing meaty thighs and a red, fully erect penis. He's an average sized man but he's long and horrifyingly thick, down below. Wonders.
Please don't, you think weakly, staring at the ceiling. Please don't let him stick it in me.
Mikey settles in between your thighs, ignoring the tears coursing down your cheeks. He pushes them wider and cups your hips. You try one last time to tear the cuffs from where they're linked to the headboard, but it's like trying to drag an immobile train down the tracks. The mattress creaks, but the frame itself doesn't move an inch.
"Y/N."
You breathe through your nose. It's Christmas Eve. Soon you're going to cook chicken cream stewand you'll bake cookies while he guzzles beer and laughs at some outrageous holiday movie.
"Y/N, look at me."
Not at all. Your mind screams it, every bone in your body screams it, and a tiny little voice in the back of your head wonders if you'll go insane. Will you lose your mind when he touches you, when he forces himself on you? Will your thoughts scatter like confetti, and will you be unable to piece them back together?
Mikey gently holds your jaw and pushes your head back into the pillow until you have no choice but to look him in the face. His eyes are dark, his face tense and focused. His chest heaves with heavy, panting breaths. He's flushed, excited. You firm your lips together until they're nothing but a thin white line.
"Y/N." He sighs your name, his eyelids falling to half-mast. "Look at you."
You whimper when his index finger nudges your bottom lip. With a little more coaxing, he manages to slip it into your mouth.
"Suck, sister."
You watch his face as your lips and tongue move over his finger. His mouth is open, his eyes riveted to the small O of your lips.
"Oh, you. My Y/N." His hips sway forward, and the head of his dick glides through your folds. He grasps the base and slaps your c*nt with it, coating his shaft with your arousal. You jerk, eyes widening, but Mikey shushes you and gently strokes your hair.
"You know," he murmurs conversationally, "I haven't been with a woman for so long."
Quiet now, your eyes shift to the side. The sucking isn't so bad. He could make you blow him, after all. Over your shoulder, you catch steady motion. It's still snowing—snowflakes fall so fast that it's a straight sheet of white beyond the window.
He hisses and rolls his hips, sinking the tip of his co*ck inside your puss*. When he tilts his head back with a groan, the muscles in his neck stand out in stark, veined lines. "But then you walk through my door, and suddenly all I can think about is f*cking." He laughs huskily and tenderly kneads your breasts.
You mumble, " brother " around his finger, but it's garbled and too low. His hand slides from your breast to your stomach. He spends a long time stroking the skin there, as if marveling at the tautness. He caresses your hips next, looking thoughtful.
"I love your belly," he muses. "You have nice hips. Wide."
Something unnameable roils in your gut. You choke around his finger, whining and twisting. Reluctantly, he withdraws his hand.
You suck in a huge breath and whisper, "Please don't."
He clucks, moving his hands up and down your sides, pausing on your ribs. His co*ck slips free. "Look, your skin's getting all red."
Sure enough, when you arch your neck to glance above you, you see bright red rings encircling both wrists. Your struggling hasn't torn skin or drawn blood—not yet.
Mikey’s hand dips between your legs and strokes your slit again, teasing you with two fingers this time. Your eyes roll and you cry out, sinking your hips into the mattress, desperate to avoid his touch. He brings a finger glistening with your arousal to his mouth and licks it. "Ah, sh*t. You made it so sweet for me. "
No, no, no. You toss your head wildly back and forth, senseless with fear. "Ma—Manjiro," you exclaim, "don't touch me, I—this— please —"
His lips firmed into an unforgiving line. "You'll call me onii-chan when I have you flat on your back like this, understand?"
A sob bursts free, but you nod anyway. He grips his co*ck in a fist. Stroking leisurely, he watches as you cry and thrash. His eyes catch on your jiggling breasts, then dip to the wet hole between your legs. He licks his lips. The tip of his co*ck glistens as pre-cum dribbles out.
The handcuffs dig into your wrists, but you no longer care. The pain is a welcome distraction.
Mikey pumps up and down his length, shuddering every time your eyes catch and hold, then shifts closer. Probing your folds with the head of his co*ck, he sinks in a few inches, gritting his teeth and watching avidly like he would a race game.
"Steady, Y/N. Your big brother doesn't want to hurt you."
Your breath catches in surprise, and you muffle another cry when his co*ck sinks deeper. What he just said sounds like a threat. Doesn't it? Maybe he doesn't mean it like one, but you sense a dark undercurrent that promises punishment should you keep resisting.
He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will if you fight. This thought rang in your mind
All at once, Mikey sinks all the way to the hilt, plunging so deep that a faint outline appears in your stomach. He releases a full-throated groan that echoes in the quiet bedroom.
"I can't believe it," he said, his eyes glazed. You're not sure if he realizes he's speaking aloud. "All snug inside my little sister's puss*. You've been waiting for me, haven't you? been waiting for a real man to take you."
You stare at the ceiling, your lips trembling. It's so strange to have a foreign thing inside you. Something that's big and warm, throbbing, stretching your inner walls uncomfortably. You're too full—the sensation makes you ache in a place you didn't know was even there.
”f*ck,” Mikey moves over you until your hips are flush. His co*ck pulses, and you feel it everywhere. In your chest and stomach, behind your eyes, and between your legs. He's everywhere. He braces his forearms beside your head, caging you in. You have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"You've been saving this virgin puss* for me, Y/N? Waiting for me to stuff you full?”
You sniffle and don't speak. He's unbothered and sets to kissing and sucking on your neck again, like an addict, drawn again and again to that part of your body. You wince each time his teeth graze your skin—he's leaving a trail of bruises as he dips low, mouthing at your nipples again. Suddenly, a memory rises out of the black depths of your mind: sunrise in the Philippines, a hot breakfast at the kitchen table, Izana smiling. God, you wanna go home so bad right now.
Mikey shifts back and withdraws a little, dragging his co*ck along your inner walls. Your mouth opens soundlessly. He smiles, pleased by your reaction, and hesitates, his tip still buried in your warmth.
"Feels nice, huh?" He kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and tender. "God, it's been a while. I can't tell you how this feels for me."
He thrusts back in with a savage twist of his lips, and your body jolts at the impact. "Oh!"
"A little wider," he growls, grasping the back of one knee and pulling it over his hip.
You dig your heel into the small of his back, swallowing down a moan. This new angle feels incredible, and you hate it. You hate it so much. What do you believe you are doing? It's disgusting—vile. But as Mikey sets a lazy pace, thrusting with long, slow strokes, you find yourself quickly approaching org*sm.
Your head tips back, and you gaze at your cuffed hands. The bed springs squeak quietly, and from outside comes the susurrating murmur of fresh snowfall. You gasp when Mikey's finger touches your cl*t—way, way too sensitive. But that must be what he wants because he starts to rub the small nub in tight, practiced circles.
" O-oh " you stammer, fighting the pressure building in your lower stomach. "Oh no—no!"
Mikey presses his forehead to the sheets beside your head and strokes deep inside your body. Each thrust sets your nerves on fire, and you grunt every time he buries himself. The feeling isn't bad, exactly—there's just a lot of pressure, a lot of him touching all of you. Sweat rolls down the side of his neck, and you hiss through your teeth at a particularly rough thrust.
"There we go," he growls, pumping his hips. You feel the heavy weight of his balls smacking your puss*—again, again, again—and each wet impact forces you closer to implosion. The room echoes with it. "Keep those legs open. Keep that puss* wet."
You cry soundlessly, staring at the ceiling like you might somehow break through it, disappear into the white void of the blizzard. For a minute, or maybe two or three, you fade away, lost in memories of Christmases past. Opening prettily wrapped presents at seven in the morning, grinning into the camera your Grandpa Mansaku inexpertly wielded, you may remember playing board games with Shin and Emma and Izana while you waited for dinner.
Mikey moans, interrupting these reveries, and slides his strong and lean arms beneath your thighs. He yanks your legs up and up, knees bent nearly to your ears, and loops them over his shoulders. All the while, he pumps, a feverish glow in his onyx eyes, jaw slack, lips red and wet. Contorted and pinned, you whine through your teeth as Mikey hammers into you, rough and reckless now with a feral sort of energy you've never seen in him before.
"f*ck, baby," he snarls, kissing and licking the seam of your mouth, twining his tongue with yours. "Gonna cum inside you. Cum inside my little sis."
With a final thrust that leaves trails of fire in its wake, Mikey throws his head back and bellows his release. Your own org*sm slams into you a second later, and you scream. Your vocal cords will ripple at the intensity. Toes curling, hands bent into fists above your head, you cum on your brother's co*ck in a breathless, mind-numbing gush.
You zone out again. Your arms go slack, and somewhere deep inside your head, you imagine sitting in the green-patterned armchair in Izana's safe living room in the Philippines, the one you got for a bargain at a last-minute estate sale. You have a book open in your lap, your legs curled beneath you on the cushion, and a glass of chocolate milk close at hand on the end table. Your beloved brother laughs at something, chattering a mile a minute on the phone. Jose Mari Chan's latest Christmas album plays at a low volume on the flat screen.
But like all fantasies, it fades.
When you finally come to, Mikey, your other brother, is carefully maneuvering you onto your stomach. His hands stroke your flushed skin, gentle and caressing. The slim chain between the handcuffs tinkles, and your wrists protest at the strange angle, but he manages to get you flat again.
"I need to keep going," he mumbles under his breath, kissing your backside.
You exhale a tortured, "No," but it's little more than a puff of escaped air.
Mikey pushes on the backs of your knees until they're bunched up beneath you, and then he mounts you from behind. The swollen tip of his co*ck slides through the mixed juices dribbling from your puss* lips, and he guides himself back inside with ease, sighing loudly.
"That's it," he declares, thrusting twice—hard. "Right there, that's it. f*ck . "
" No ," you repeat, louder this time. You shake with the force of his thrusts, each one a brutal snap of his hips, and still, he doesn't hear. You moan into the mattress, terrified that this will never end. This is your forever now—pinned down like an animal and f*cked like a whor*. On and on and on. He can spread you out and use you however he wants.
Mikey runs his tongue down the curve of your spine, groaning and spitting curses under his breath.
You push yourself up the mattress, wiggling and bucking in the hopes of putting some distance between you and him, but he follows, smacking your ass with the flat of his palm. You scream into the covers.
Mikey seems to like that. There's a smile in his voice when he says, "You listen to your big brother now. Ain't got to worry about a thing. "
He spanks you again, once on each cheek, then grips your ass, digging his fingers into the rounded flesh to hold you still. Mikey groans and works his hips faster, driving you up against the headboard. You squeal, and he laughs again.
"We'll tell Izana," he repeats thickly, draping himself across your back. "We'll tell him some strange boy from out of town put a baby in you. We'll tell him you barely remember a thing from that night. Not his name, not what he looked like," Manjiro grunts and pinches a reddened nipple. "Not how hard he f*cked you."
Realization strikes, and this time you can't stifle your cry of despair. Put a baby in you. Not at all. You have to finish a master's degree, get your dream job, travel the world, you have to—
"No—no!"
You don't realize you're screaming it until Mikey bites the back of your neck again. It's vicious, and it hurts, and you keep screaming because this is just a nightmare, that's all, and any second now you'll wake up and it'll be Christmas Day, and there'll be snow on the ground and food on the table, not your stepbrother's co*ck rammed into your puss* again and again like it belongs there.
You twist and thrash, even as pain flares up in your bound wrists and bent knees. "No! No—no—no!"
Mikey bites you again, harder and somehow even deeper, and you go silent all at once, stunned by the pain. It's blinding. It's all-consuming.
"It doesn't matter," he rumbles, rubbing furiously at your oversensitive cl*t. "Scream all you like, Y/N. Nobody's around to hear it. Nobody’s going to interrupt."
He yanks your hips up high and holds them there until, with a hoarse cry, he dumps another load of cum inside your abused c*nt. His body keeps moving, burying his hot seed as deep as his co*ck can penetrate. You feel it settle, and even more of it streaks the insides of your thighs in sticky white lines. Moaning like an injured animal, too tired to scream, you hold yourself still and wait for your own shaking org*sm to pass.
Mikey pulls out, flicking his co*ck so ropes of cum dribble all over your ass. He sticks a blunt finger between your legs and rubs your combined cream on your puss* folds before sucking it into his mouth. You collapse, exhausted.
"Mm," he says, his eyes sliding closed. "Damn it. I missed the taste of good puss*. "
You whimper, but don't try to move. It's an awkward angle with the handcuffs in place, but all the fight has left you now that he's finished, now that it's done. You sense him edging over you again, and a second later, he's wrapping his arms around your middle, cooing reassurances into your ear. His dark hair tickled against your bruised neck.
"Don't have to worry," he whispers, kissing a tender spot on your jaw. His co*ck bobs between your spread-open thighs, flaccid now but still pulsing. "By the time Izana catches on, we'll be three kids along."
You didn't answer. Your cheek is pressed to the rumpled bedsheets, and your ass is still in the air, Mikey’s thighs clenched confiningly around your hips. You gaze out of your bedroom window as he murmurs soothingly and strokes your sides, kissing and sighing into your sweaty skin. It's still snowing.
A full-scale blizzard.
__
Since that afternoon, he's never stopped f*cking you. It's like drugs— and he can never get enough.
You ask him to stop
But he's deaf to your pleas. You sense that he's too far gone to respond to rational thought. His fingers are moving in and out, in and out while his mouth covers your nipples, sucking on them through the cotton you're wearing, and then he's twisting those fingers in a new way, a way that makes your mouth gape open soundlessly. Your toes curl, legs falling wide open, but just as you're cresting the peak.
Then his fingers stopped.
Desperate for relief, your hips hump the air for an extra second or two before it registers that his hand is no longer between your legs. Your eyes snap open, and you let out a pained exhale.
Mikey's still poised above you, and he's watching you struggle with a dark sort of amusem*nt. Disgusted with yourself, and recognizing a chance to escape and rest your overused body, you try to scramble towards the headboard, but he's having none of that.
Clamping a hand around your upper thigh, fingers nearly overlapping, he hisses, "I didn't tell you to f*cking move, Y/N."
You whimper and push pathetically against his chest, your nails scoring red lines down to his stomach. He seems to relish the pain and offers you another fierce smile. Definitely not a nice one. No more , you think tears squeezing from the corners of your eyes. You don't want it.
Noticing your tears, your brother's smile falls, and in one quick motion, he grabs you by the throat, lifting your head from the mattress, only to slam it back down. He repeats this action twice more. Sparks shoot across your vision.
"Stay still," he demands through his teeth, and you, too terrified to even blink, don't move an inch while he kneels between your open thighs and drapes your legs to either side of his hips, leaving your core hideously exposed to him.
Your bedroom is bitingly cold now, Christmas is approaching, and you shiver violently as he lifts you over your head. You comply limply, too shocked to follow what he's doing. Your skin's covered in raised goosebumps, and your nipples are painfully hard.
You ache all over, especially between your legs and deep inside your chest, where your heart trembles, but you do not protest when Mikey palms his thick co*ck and rubs the swollen tip through your soaked folds.
"You're going to take me in," he says calmly, stroking his length, "every inch of me, Y/N, like the good sister I know you are."
You're too numb to even cry. Your eyes are locked on his erect co*ck, which looks frighteningly large and red, and a frisson of pure, undiluted fear passes through you with such force your teeth chatter.
Maneuvering you into position, Mikey carefully braces himself over your limp body and guides his co*ck into your open hole. Your dripping folds and slick channel allow him instant access, and your velvet walls suck him in greedily, as if all this time they've been starved for co*ck.
He moans low in his throat, an animal in heat, as he sheaths himself, then rolls his hips a little until he's seated to the hilt. Panting, loose black tendrils of hair hanging in his eyes, your brother crams up to your cervix, and you cry out at the sudden pressure, your legs spasming around his massive thighs.
He immediately pins your to the mattress, teeth bared against your throat. "Make a noise," he warns darkly, "and I'll just f*ck you harder."
With that, he wraps himself around your body like a second skin and sets a punishing rhythm. His rage spills through in the way he thrusts fast and hard, his hips ramming into yours with bruising force, in the way he digs his fingers into your sides and devours your mouth with lips and teeth and tongue.
The bed trembles, the springs squeaking every time he strokes down.
His heavy balls clap loudly on your puss* with every thrust, the wet smacks repeating over and over until they merge into one long echo. Your fingers are twisted among the bed sheets as you hang on for dear life, your body jerking and convulsing at the whim of the man f*cking you like a madman.
Both Mikey and the mattress are heaving, sweat rolling off his body as he slams to you, but you keep your eyes on the ceiling beyond his shoulder.
You don't want to look into those abysmal eyes. There's something lurking in them that will rip your to shreds if you gaze too long.
"Are you...that desperate...to get away from me?" he pants, groaning as you shudders around him. "I know how...scared you are of being alone. I know how...much you need me."
"N-no," you sob quietly, eyes pinned to the ceiling. "No, no, no—"
Hissing through his teeth, he slaps you across the face and grips your jaw painfully tight between his fingers until you focus on him. "Be quiet, I said. Listen to your big brother."
Reeling from the pain, you sob again, unable to stop yourself, but he simply moans into your neck and rides you furiously, a man clearly on the edge of lunacy. His body is big and warm and heavy on your own, a terrible reminder of the comfort you once sought from him when he beat your bullies when you're younger.
But now you're unable to move more than a few inches in any direction, and if you shift even slightly out of alignment, your brother drags you back into place. Trapped, you think frantically, I'm trapped.
Your brother pounds into your puss*, punishing now, but you don't relent, not even when he bites your nipple.
Surging back to his knees, Mikey captures your wrists and pins them in the pillows above your head. Your flesh meets again and again, your joining is loud and wet and an endless, unforgiving mix of agony and pleasure. Your breasts heave, and his eyes drink in the sight of them bouncing in time with his thrusts.
You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to see that expression on his face—one that speaks of lust and depravity and utter obsession. Your thighs quiver, and small, breathless little whimpers fall from your lips.
"Good," he rasps, tightening his hold on your wrists. "Let me fill you with my seed."
You're barely ridden out the first org*sm when another one hits, triggered by the enormous pressure on your cl*t. The world shakes, and as you're writhing on the mattress, sobbing with shame and disgust. Groaning, Mikey swiftly pulls out, slaps your puss* with the flat of his palm, and slides down your body until his head disappears beneath the covers. Your inner walls clench, still seeking something to tighten around, but then you feel hot breath on your thighs and the wet swipe of a tongue across your hip bone.
Everything goes soft and hazy.
No longer frenzied, the world slows down, and your eyes roll lazily over your head. All this time, the bed's been shaking with the force of an earthquake, and neither of you have been particularly quiet. You wonder what time it is now. It must’ve been Christmas time already!
His hands have pushed your thighs apart as wide as they'll go, and he's licking up your slit, drinking in the constant drip of your arousal. His tongue rolls around your folds, no doubt coating his face with stickiness, and plunges it into your puss*. You whine and twist, pushing on his head, grabbing his dark hair in fistfuls and yanking, but he simply molds his mouth to your puss* and eats and eats and eats until you're org*sming so hard your limbs spasm wildly out of control.
Without another word, or even a pause to make sure you're okay, Mikey flips you over onto your stomach and pins you down again. His teeth skim your neck, and his co*ck wedges between your lower ass cheeks. You pull in a desperate breath, but it's strained now, the weight on your back too much. Your chest is tight like a fist, and your quiet panting quickly morphs into panicked gasps when you feel his co*ck dip inside your abused puss* for a second round.
Will it never end? Will it never ever end?
You feel him snug against your ass, his co*ck buried deep between your legs, and when he thrusts with a strained grunt, the bed trembles in its frame.
"I'm so proud of you, Y/N," he pants in your ear, lazily f*cking your into the mattress. "You're doing such a good job for me."
When he finally c*ms, the headboard slams repeatedly into the wall with the force of a battering ram. You scream into the pillow, unable to stop yourself from riding the wave with him. Your limbs twitch, your hips pushing back so you sink down on his co*ck, milking his cum even as you sob at the wrongness of it all.
He kisses the spot beneath your ear, the curve of your neck, between your shoulder blades, and at the very base of your spine as he slowly pulls out, leaving a line of creamy cum on the bedsheets. His hands massage your ass cheeks, thumbs digging into your bruised skin, roaming too close to the little puckered hole between them.
__
Six months later,
From the kitchen, a rhythmic clattering on the granite countertops—the landline. You hesitate, hands poised on a small stack of clothes piled on the dining room table, count to five under your breath, then heave yourself to your feet when the phone continues to ring uninterrupted.
The sound seems to pierce your ears, sharp enough to cut glass. You wince as you waddle into the kitchen, eyeing the sofa over the ledge that separates it from the living room. Your feet are swollen, and you are exhausted. It's only noon, but already bed sounds like a good idea.
Sure enough, Mikey's there watching a motorbike racing game on the flat screen. One arm is casually thrown across the back of the sofa, and you glare at the back of his head as he lifts a beer to his lips, a rough-knuckled hand gripping the neck. He's wearing jeans, a plain off-white loose sweater and black tanktops within, and his flipflops are still on his feet despite your daily reminder to take them off at the door.
"Phone's ringing," you say quickly, modulating your voice to avoid sounding accusatory.
"You're aware," Mikey turns his head sideways so you can see his profile but keeps his eyes glued to the TV. "Better get that. I can't hear the damn announcer. "
You press your lips together to suppress a snarling retort and grab the landline. As you bring the receiver to your ear, your brother laughs at some joke one of the announcers makes.
Your voice is tight. "Hello?"
"Y/N!" Izana's voice spears your chest, an arrow of warmth and brightness. You suck in a sharp breath at the ache that follows.
"Hi, Nii-san."
Mikey hasn't moved from the sofa; as usual, he's riveted to the game. Yet you suspect he's listening with one ear. Monitoring the conversation, piecing it together based on your responses, you tuck yourself into the corner of the kitchen, shoulders hunched, as if that'll prevent him from overhearing.
"Oh, Y/N." Your only biological brother is characteristically breathless with excitement. "I'm so glad you picked it up! Didn't you get my other messages? I've left you several voicemails, and I texted Mikey twice."
You swallow down your instinctive urge to tell the truth, "Ah, yeah! Yeah, Nii-san, sorry. I've just been busy, you know, with my part-time job here and everything, can't just laze around here, you know.
Mikey filters everything. Nothing from the outside gets into you without a thorough inspection by your brother first. Those voicemails were likely deleted minutes after he left them.
"Y/N." Izana sounds exasperated now. "How long are you going to make me wait? It's been months! I thought you'd only just spend the holiday season with him?" Then, in a small voice, like a child, he add quietly, "—I miss you."
Guilt lodges in your throat, a physical block that makes it difficult to speak. "I—miss you too, Nii-san."
"Mikey's not running you too ragged, is he?" Izana's voice suddenly comes through sharp and demanding, utterly un-Izana-like, and the vehemence catches you by surprise.
You stutter, "He's...w-what?"
"He's not on you about your job or his gang or anything, is he? I swear, that man—"
Your brother descends into a rant about the dangers of being involved with a gangster life, constantly on the run from enemies and cops alike, and you clutch the phone tightly to the side of your head, sweating now.
The past six months have been an endless agony of secrecy and reluctant obedience. Part time job during the week (well, before Mikey pulled you out of it), and constant rounds of rough, debilitating sex at night.
Sometimes you barely made it through the front door before he was tossing you to the floor and ripping your leggings down to your knees so he could take you right there in the foyer, your hands braced on the ancient side table, the chipped knickknack on top chattering like a pair of frozen teeth.
Then you would cook dinner while he watched TV. You two would eat at the table, Mikey's eyes on you like a hungry wolf's. You would wash the dishes and do the laundry, and before long he would surge to his feet, grab your hand, and lead you upstairs to a bedroom.
Lately, you've been sleeping in his room. The master bedroom, where—for years and years and years—his only safe space he can jack himself off to. The reason for the transition from your room to his was simple: bigger bed, more space to roll around in.
You still occasionally try to break away, especially during those rare, vulnerable moments when he sits on top of you, but not often. It excites him—the fight, the chase. He finds your resistance stimulating. When he catches you—and he always does—his erection presses, daggerlike, between your thighs.
Those nights are always the hardest, and although he never hits you, you are still thoroughly punished throughout the long, long night. From sunset to sunrise, you are incapacitated. He stopped using handcuffs on you pretty quickly, but his body has proved more than capable of restraint.
Mikey planted a baby in your womb a week after the first time. You woke the next morning, nauseous and bleary-eyed, and somehow knew, as you staggered to the bathroom, dried cum on your thighs and thumb-shaped bruises on your collarbones, that he had done what he set out to do.
A brief spark of hope flared then, as you sat on the toilet, hands dangling by your sides. Your body was an abstract painting of reds, blues, and blacks. Maybe he'll leave me alone now. Maybe it's all over. You thought
Wrong. so wrong.
The moment he found out you were pregnant, when you slowly descended the staircase and held out the positive pregnancy test, blocking his view of the game on the TV screen, your brother pressed pause on the remote, grabbed you by the hand, dragged you down to the cushion next to him, and f*cked you with the energy of as expected from the infamous Invincible Mikey.
This onslaught of sexual frenzy went on for several days. Mikey forced-fed you pain pills under the guise of helping you relax. You were barely conscious the entire week, and in retrospect, you are thankful for that small mercy. Now, when you sink to your knees at night and suck his dick, you return to those blank spots and burrow into them, letting them surround and envelope you like a hug.
Sometimes it's better not to remember. Sometimes memory is a curse.
Why haven't you tried to tell anyone? This voice often accosts you with this question in unexpected moments: when you're washing the dishes, or making the bed. Why don't you say , "My stepbrother is raping me? I need help," and see what happens? Why can't you just try it?
And then you'll laugh, startling the finches and sparrows from their perches hidden high above in the surrounding trees, and you'll shake your head and wonder at your audacity. Who would believe you?
Poor girl.
"Are you sure?"
You start guiltily and tune back into the conversation. Izana's been trying to set up a visit to Japan, but for the last six months, all his efforts have been clumsily fielded. Your heart aches every second of the day thinking about your Nii-san, but you're hesitant to make any promises at this point. Maybe in the beginning, in the first few weeks of your pregnancy, you could've gone to see Izana, but now—
Now it's too late. Now there's nowhere for you to hide.
Your hand cups the noticeable swell in your belly. The baby inside had grown now. The websites say the baby is a foot long and can recognize your voice. You imagine soft eyes and a fine layer of downy hair. Your emotions waver between love and a vague sense of disgust.
You breathe through your nose and inject happy energy into your voice. "I'm doing really well, Nii-san. "
The lies, the misdirection, are easy now, second nature. Izana only knows what he chooses to feed himself, and what he chooses to feed himself are platitudes.
Don't want you wandering around, he'll say, weaving strands of your hair between his slender fingers. Gotta know you're safe.
No job, no grocery stores, no friends, no hobbies, no free time. Everything is about him and the baby now.
In the mornings, you'll sometimes wake to find his lips on the shapely curve of your tummy, his mouth pressing sweet, delicate kisses to your skin, and he'll rest his ear over the baby, listening like the fate of the world depends on what he hears.
But then he'll lift his head from your stomach, meet your eyes with a dazed sort of incomprehension, and whisper huskily, "Look how full you are, you. Look how your big bro's filled you up. "
And then he smiles with his eyes closed, that oh-so-familiar serene smile you loved so much.
And you'll remember that it's not about creating. It's about taking, marking, and claiming. It's about belonging to him in every way—in all ways.
It's what he wants. The babies are just collateral.
Finally, Izana sighs, in the phone, defeated. Some of the tension leaks out of your chest. Your lungs expand again.
"Alright. I know you're a very busy adult now, take care of Mikey for me 'kay—"
"Yeah, very busy," You supply it helpfully, and squeeze your eyes tightly shut. Your brother has always been a pushover—it doesn't take much to convince him to go down a certain path, or to steer him from one to another. "Will do, Nii-san. I promise."
Mikey rises from the couch. You catch the movement in the reflection of the window above the sink. He stretches, arms straight above his head, back arching. His knuckles stretched, and his white sweatshirt flares around him.
He saunters into the kitchen, scratching his stomach. You watch him from the corner of your eye, careful not to make direct contact, like a deer warily regarding the slow approach of a lion. Izana, despite your obvious disappointment, is still chattering about his home right now about the Philippines and the intense climate there.
"They're having discount sales on all the household decor especially those mini fish tank aquariums now that it's summer. Isn't that wonderful? "
If nothing else, Izana can always be trusted to bounce back, "Also...We'll have a whole new set-up this year for Christmas, and in November, when the nice ornaments come out at—"
"—Nii-san, can you just..."
And then Mikey is behind you.
He closes the distance in a blink, like a hawk swooping down on unsuspecting prey. In your case, it's more about preparation than awareness. As he turns on the faucet, his arms encircle you and his body presses into yours from behind. You brace yourself on the edge of the sink, swallowing hard. He won't try anything with his stepbrother on the phone, he won't—
Mikey hums under his breath as he washes his hands. It's a familiar tune. An old lullaby, one Shinichiro used to hum to you four at bedtime. He sways, his chin nestled in the crook of your neck, and you trap your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress a scream.
"Sometime in August, I assume, but frankly.." Izana continues.
"Nii-san," you interrupt sharply. "I'm—I'm sorry, but I have to go."
"Oh." Somehow, your biological brother manages to inject every ounce of disappointment he must be feeling into that one word. His voice is small again. "Okay, Y/N."
Mikey shakes the water off his hands and, instead of reaching for a dish towel, slides them under your loose maternity shirt. You jump, the cold water prickling your skin, and his lips curve against your neck. His fingers massage your swollen belly, and you can't help it—a sigh escapes your lips.
"Oh, I know, I know," Izana says dolefully. "I talk too much. I promise not to call until—"
"You can call anytime, Nii-san." Mikey kisses your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin, and your toes curl against the tingling pain.
"—until you call me first." Izana appears to be depressed for the first time. "I just miss you, Y/N. This is the longest we've ever gone without seeing each other."
You soften your voice, even as Mikey tugs impatiently at the waistband of your cotton shorts, fingers inching up your thigh. "It'll happen, Nii-san. Of course, I'll come visit. Just…not now. "
"Ain't going anywhere," Mikey mutters darkly, stroking between your legs roughly.You don't wear underwear anymore, and ever since your second trimester, you are always wet. His hands slip in and out of your pants several times a day. At this point, you might as well stand around with your legs spread.
"What was that?" Izana asks, sounding perplexed. "Is there anyone?"
"No, Nii-san, it's nothing!" you say shrilly, pushing your hips into Mikey, trying to make him stop. What's wrong with him? Annoyed, Mikey grabs the collar of your shirt and rips it straight down the back. A small eep of surprise escapes. "I've gotta go—Love you, bye!"
You slam the receiver back into its cradle before Mikey can really rip into you. Since you started showing, his libido has gone into overdrive. Sex in the early morning, sex in the middle of the night, sex on the kitchen table, sex in the shower, sex on the sofa, against the living room wall, and in the doorway to the kitchen.
Whatever you do, no matter how much you relent and allow him to push you further, harder, faster, it's never enough. He's going to drown you in his need.
"Can we?" You're desperate to fend him off. Let yourself take a shower first. Let yourself use the toilet. Let yourself read a book or listen to a podcast. Let yourself fall asleep. In fact, you often encourage him to take you while you're unconscious because that way you don't have to be there. You don't have to look him in the eye and bear witness to his lunatic desire.
"Not now," he grumbles, guiding you by the elbow to the living room.
The TV's off, you notice. The game must be over. Surely there's another one? There's always another game. The wrinkled white blinds are drawn all the way up to the top, and the curtains have been neatly tied to either side of the window. There's a lovely blue sky beyond the tall trees ringing the backyard—puffy white clouds dot the horizon, sunny and hopeful.
"Right here, Y/N." Mikey makes you stand by the arm of the sofa as he pulls down your shorts and flings aside the torn remnants of your pricey maternity shirt. He graciously leaves your socks on because your feet get cold now.
Over your shoulder, Mikey breathes heavily as he slides a hairband from the back pocket of his jeans—he keeps random stashes around the house—and carefully collects your hair into a high ponytail. He tucks a few loose strands behind your ears before guiding you into position on the sofa.
"Can't we hold off?" Your voice wavers, but there's nothing you can do to remedy that. Even after all this time, you're still terrified.
He'll make you feel nice for a few minutes, but the rest of the time is hell—grunting and heaving and sweating and licking. His mouth on your breasts, neck, and mouth, his tongue in your ear, and between your legs. He'll force you to still as he pumps like a wild animal in heat, his eyes glazed and locked on yours with a dark fire that eats and absorbs everything it meets.
"Big brother has needs, baby." He lightly slaps your ass with the flat of his palm, and your entire body jiggles. You've gained twenty pounds already, but Mikey seems to appreciate your added girth. He likes to cling to the meat of your hips when he mounts you from behind.
You whimper through your clenched teeth. C'mon, you tell yourself angrily. You can do it.
"I..." No, no, no. You try again. "Please. I want to take a bath first."
Mikey rips off his clothes and spreads your thighs to either end of the sofa cushion. You're braced on your hands and knees, your head resting on the arm of the sofa. Your tummy hangs loose and heavy.
"We'll take a bath together later, baby. Right now, your big bro wants you."
You squeeze your eyes shut as his hands massage your ass. He's been experimental in his sexual exploits lately, and you know his patience for your whimpering and whining will soon run out. One day when he was in an emergency meeting with his gang in the living room, he forced you to attend it, seated on his lap, with a butt plug crammed in one hole and a cum plug stuffed in the other. You waddled down the hallways like an engorged tick.
Mikey presses close until his hips are flush against your ass, and then he drapes himself across your back. Muscles bunch and flex as he pins you as close to the sofa cushions as he can without smothering your belly. His hands come up to cradle your tit*, and then he's massaging them too, his thumbs rubbing circles on your pebbled nipples.
A low moan escapes, and you wish fervently, and not for the first time or the hundredth time, that you had never returned to Japan. You wish that the plane from the Philippines to Japan had crashed and burned your corpse to unidentifiable cinders.
"Mmph." Mikey grunts and scrapes his teeth along your shoulder blade until you're a shivering, squirming mess. "Allow me to work on those holes, Y/N. Those nice, tight holes. "
He crams himself into your puss*, and to your eternal humiliation, there's not a single second of resistance. Your body accepts him fluidly, greedily sucking him to the depths of your womb. A part of you, a part you acknowledge with disgust and revulsion and pure, unfiltered hatred, aches to be used by him, to be filled by him again and again. There's already a baby rooted inside your belly, yet you somehow, inexplicably, desire more.
You've always wanted kids. The fact that your brother will be the father to your babies fades to the recesses of your mind in these moments when pleasure dominates.
"f*ck." He leans back and pushes your thighs apart with his knees. The wet, rhythmic slap of your bodies meeting fills the quiet house—a sound now familiar to the paneled walls and creaky wooden stairs. "f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Move those hips, roll them— Yes . "
So, of course, you move your hips, rolling them and pushing into his every thrust, moaning as he hits your g-spot again and again. You're a weak-kneed, slobbering mess in no time, tears soaking your cheeks and bruises on the back of your neck where your brother bit and choked too hard.
In your mind, you open a secret compartment. Within it is a list of names—baby names. One list for girls, one for boys, and one for unisex. Technically, you know, all names can be gender neutral if you really want, but forgive yourself for this one fantasy.
Mikey snarls and with a few short, rapid thrusts, finishes inside you again. The familiar sensation of cum dribbling down your legs makes your skin prickle. He has never wasted his cum during your time together. Either you swallow it down in mouthfuls, or you suction it deep inside your c*nt as he pumps until the flow abates.
He collapses against the back of the sofa, cupping your cheek with a lazy, satisfied smile. A fine layer of sweat coats his chest, and his forehead is shiny with sweat, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. It's kind of longer now. He's months overdue for a haircut, but he refuses to leave you alone in the house.
"I could survive off your puss* for days," he slurs, coaxing you down for a long kiss. You let him sweep your mouth with his tongue. Another act of claiming. Another act of you-belong-to-me. You've learned to accept it as true.
You hesitantly rise from the sofa. He waits until you've risen to your knees to ask, with practiced nonchalance, "Where do you think you're goin' sweet thing?" He slaps the sofa cushion, now slick and stained with cum. "Not done. Not by a long shot."
You obey instantly, lumbering back into position despite your sore knees and trembling arms. He's never hit you—save for those special ones on the ass—but sometimes, especially after a particularly " pleasing " round of sex, he'll get a certain look in his eyes. This look will mean one of two things: I'm going to f*ck you into next week or I'm going to grab you by the hair and shove my co*ck down your throat until you choke on it.
Fortunately, he's only done the latter once. Your jaw was in agony for a week, and Mikey had to spoon-feed you soup for dinner every night.
You don't want to bring him to that point again—if that's a point that can be reached a second time, then there's no doubt in your mind it can. So you always do as he says, when he says it. It's better to know the devil than the other way around.
Back on your hands and knees, you rest your head on the sofa arm and count down from one hundred. This time, it will likely be faster. He's already used up a lot of energy today.
"You know," he starts conversationally, "that phone call with Izana got me thinking."
Your tummy tightens with an unknown dread. Where's he going with this?
"Mm." He rubs a firm hand over the globe of your ass. "Izana and I haven't seen each other for four years, I think. When Shin died, you and him left the Sano Household. Since then, our contact went very limited."
His hands drift lower. A blunt finger probes your folds. You feel him twisting his wrist, coating his hands in your slickness.
"Please don't leave me all alone again."
His fingers drift between your ass cheeks. The dread in your tummy becomes unbearable—an almost physical nausea. He's going to touch you there. The forbidden spot his fingers have jabbed deep before, so this time he'll probably just do the same—
"Stay still now," he grunts, and a moment later, you gasp as blunt pressure pries apart your hole. The wrong hole.
"Manjiro," you manage, tensely pacing your entire body. Your thighs quiver, and you draw away from him. His co*ck pulses in time with your heartbeat. It's a disturbing, horrifying feeling. He shouldn't be there. " No! "
Mikey’s fingers are tight on your hips, his nails digging furrows into your skin. He inches forward, closing the distance you so desperately tried to create between them. His co*ck burrows past the tension, the resistance. A low, unhappy keen rises from your throat.
" Holy —" He couldn't catch his breath. Pushing his knees into the backs of your thighs, he inches his way inside, his grip tightening when you attempt to move away. "Don't f*cking move."
A sob catches in your throat. The pain is exquisite, sharp in a way you've never felt before. The closest thing you can remember is when you broke your wrist in the past when you fell off the monkey bars after Baji accidentally pushed you. A single moment of pure shock, then sudden agony to replace the numbness. An avalanche of pain that completely wiped out all the other thoughts in your head.
Your brother spears you with his co*ck until your eyes bulge and there's no more room. A low, guttural groan climbs from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Don't," you whisper into the arm of the sofa. There's no heat behind the word, no expectation that it will make a difference. At this point, you know how this will go.
You're no longer wet, but that doesn't seem to matter. Mikey braces one arm against the sofa back and begins to thrust, his body swaying forward and back like he's at sea. The sofa rocks beneath you, the wooden frame creaking like a dilapidated little boat on its last leg.
You bite the scratchy material of the sofa, your face scrunched in pain. There's no easy glide this time, no smooth exit. Mikey refuses to use lube during your encounters; he believes your f*cking should be authentic and unaffected by false enhancements. It still bewilders you the idea that he finds this real.
His pace increases, he becomes frantic, overexcited. Your bloated stomach sways, your breasts droop painfully, and your nipples are sore and pointy. You close your eyes, your teeth sunk into the arm of the sofa, ignoring your brother's moans, timed with each jarring thrust. Anal is apparently tremendously pleasurable for men.
Somewhere, sometime, you're living another life. In this divergent timeline, you arrive at the small house in Japan to a fond smile and an awkward pat on the back from Mikey, who seems more interested in the taiyaki you bought at an airport specialty store than in your arrival. Your bedroom is unchanged from your childhood: no sex toys scattered across the hardwood floor, no empty beer bottles lining the windowsill, no collection of small, prenatal vitamin cannisters on the nightstand.
You make friends with the
locals there. You talked about your crushes all day long—about Kazutora Hanemiya, your long time crush, he of the sandy eyes and warm smiles. You're allowed to make plans to visit the mall with the girls there. You're allowed to eat whatever you want and speak to whomever you like.
You are allowed to leave the house.
Mikey’s hands smooth from your hips to your belly. They rub across your skin, massaging the baby like he wants to push it out. His strokes become short and rapid, impatiently seeking release.
"Up, Y/N," he barks, lifting one of his knees off the cushion, planting one foot instead. He's angled differently now, though it's no less painful.
You rise to your hands and knees again, but struggle to go any further. Your belly's just too big. It hampers your movement and prevents you from making that smooth transition from knees to feet.
Mikey grunts and slaps your ass. His hand is suddenly on your shoulder, and before you register his intention, he pulls out and yanks you around on the sofa. You flounder, your hands scrabbling at the cushions, one arm curved protectively over your belly.
Your knees slide sideways, and your legs hit the floor. The living room carpet blunts most of the impact, but the sensation is still jarring enough to keep you out-of-sorts for several long seconds. Mikey guides your head forward, and you meekly let him. The tip of his swollen co*ck brushes your lips, sticky and thick, and then he's cramming it down your throat.
You splutter and gag, but the resistance is nothing to him. Your throat clicks as he f*cks your mouth, and you struggle to draw in air each time his crotch meets your face. He buries your nose in the thatch of fine blonde pubic hair sprouting between his legs, and tears squirt into your eyes as you choke and choke and suffocate under him.
Enough, you think brokenly, slapping his meaty thigh that powers his nuclear kicks, with the flat of your palm. Please, please, enough, enough, enough!
You make a low moan, beseeching him with your eyes. But your tears make him blurry, obscuring the frightening intensity of his face, and that's probably for the best. You don't want to watch as he ignores your pleas.
This hell somehow only lasts for half a minute, and then, with hands braced on the back of your head to keep you still, Mikey gushes down your throat.
So much,you fret, swallowing thickly. Too much, I can't!
" Fu-uck ," he drawls, the veins in his tattoed neck standing out like live wires. "Drink it all, baby. Fill your tummy with your brother's seed."
You whimper, but suck him dry, because that's really your only option here. In this household, pleasure is paramount. Nobody's happy unless Mikey’s satisfied.
He slowly withdraws, inch by inch, until his tip is on your tongue. You lap weakly, cleaning him, and Mikey hums with approval. His fingers are tangled in your hair, massaging the soreness in your scalp. Your brain short-circuits, and you find yourself wishing there was more to drink. This part is the one you don't mind. Stroked and praised and coddled as you make him happy with your words. It could be worse.
You rest your head on his thigh and gaze up at him. Your brother, your lover and protector. Your Manjiro.
God, you are so tired.
"Look at you," he coos roughly, his face still red from exertion. He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. "My sweet sister."
You hum and tighten your lips around the head of his co*ck. When you're down here, you don't have to look him in the eye. You can pretend this is another man, one who has nothing to do with your childhood—with your birthdays, playtimes in the park, trips to the dentist, dojo trainings, learning to ride a bike, building sandcastles and occasional food shopping—
At this angle, he's not hurting you, and that's worth the humiliation.
Mikey releases a sigh and extends his arms high above his head. He's been doing that a lot lately. Maybe his joints are bothering him. Over the years, he's broken numerous bones—on the being a gangster and in his free time, and some of that wear and tear is starting to show. You realize that in a few years, your brother will be in his thirties.
You pull back and lick the cum from your lips. Mikey’s dick flops between his spread thighs, now utterly deflated. He's informed you many times that he doesn't bounce back like he used to. Yet he still manages twice a day. His stamina is what terrifies you the most.
You allow him to lift you to your feet. Already your ankles are swollen, and the day's only half over. You've been standing too much. Not good for the baby.
He tenderly kisses your forehead. You stare blankly at his neck while his hands wander across the broad expanse of your belly. You're not sure what he's checking, but when he does this casual... inspection... of your body, you feel like livestock. Sometimes, in your worst moments, you're tempted to moo.
"This is much better," he announces, running his fingers through your hair, untangling the twisted strands. He finds the base of your neck and squeezes, his eyes bright.
You offer a weak smile. "This?"
His gaze dips to your enlarged breasts, swollen stomach, and your thighs.
"Keep your clothes off," he orders, teeth bared in what's probably meant to be a lecherous grin. Instead, it's frightening, like a wolf's snarl. "We don't hide ourselves at home."
You swallow a whimper. He couldn't be serious. "What if someone—?" The hand on your neck tightens, and you quickly correct yourself. "Onii-chan, what if someone comes to the door?"
"They'll avert their eyes," he says simply, eyes on your stomach. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "You'll make a great mother, Y/N."
This isn't the first time he's said something like this, but you duck your head anyway, cheeks flushing.
"'Nuff of that," he says gruffly, and pinches your hip. "Get me a beer."
You waddle into the kitchen, face lachrymose. There's too much skin, far too many parts of yourself you no longer recognize. It all belongs to him now.
Everything belongs to him.
Back in the living room, you hand your stepbrother his drink. He grasps the neck absently, his eyes on the TV screen. Another game is on, just like you predicted.
He pats his knee. "Sit down, honey. I know you're eager, but I still need a few hours." A burp escapes, and he winces. "Gotta give the baby time to rest."
Your knees ache, and you have to place a hand on your lower back as you struggle to the floor. He likes you lower than him—low enough that you have to crane your head back to meet his abysmal eyes—and always in his line of sight. If he's in the kitchen, you're by the table. If he's in the shower, you should be soaping his back. Near to him, next to him, under him.
You stifle a yawn and rest your head on his knee. A hand instinctively cups your belly. Several times over the past week, you've felt the shadow of movement. Soon, the baby will kick.
Mikey cups the back of your head. His thumb works circles on your neck. In seconds, you're dozing. He mumbles some sweet nothings under his breath, and you sigh quietly.
This is it, then. This is it.
[end]
