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cupidsworstcrime · 2 months ago

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[...fauxcest (brother/sister) , (the illusion of) non/dubcon , catfishing as foreplay]

step brother!johnny x f!reader

smut , obviously

the words "inbred" & "incestuous" used in a kink sense but not in a literal way , consenting & non-blood-related adults being unhinged little freaks

AN: they were not raised together, despite somethings johnny says , thats just him being on some absolute FREAK shit

He tells himself it's harmless.

A fake account. A few messages. Maybe a picture or two. You’re a tease anyway—you always have been, even if you don’t mean to be. Walking around the house in those soft little shorts, brushing past him in the hallway with your sleepy voice and your stupid pet names. Johnny. J. Big bro.

You’re not his sister. Not really. Just a few years of living together and suddenly everyone thinks he’s supposed to be your guardian angel or some shit. Nah. Not when you look at him like that. Not when you curl your legs up on the sofa and sigh his name like it means something.

The first time you sent a picture—half-joking, half-daring—he had to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning. Almost came in his fucking joggers. And when he messaged back from his burner, pretending to be some online boyfriend of yours?

You didn’t hesitate.

He jerks off to you every night now. In the garage. In the shower. Face down in his mattress, biting the pillow, moaning into the sheets like some pathetic bastard. He can’t stop. Can’t look at you without imagining your cunt wrapped around his cock, your throat filled with his name.

You're so good for him. So eager. So trusting.

And so fucking stupid. God, you’re stupid, aren’t you? You think you’re safe in this house. That "Johnny" would never. That your step-brother's just some dumb soldier with a big mouth and a soft spot for you. You don’t see the way his hands shake when you bend over. You don’t see how he stalks your bedroom door some nights like a wolf.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

Because if you did—if you even guessed—you��d stop. And he’d go mad.

So he keeps the lie alive. Keeps messaging you while you sit in the same house. Asks for more. Coaxes it out with filth. Tells you what he wants to do and laughs when you send it like a gift.

Tonight you sent him a video. Slow fingers. Wet sounds. Whispering the name of someone you don’t even know. Someone who doesn’t exist.

And Johnny came in his hand so hard he nearly blacked out.

He’s in his bed now. Phone open. Staring at the freeze-frame of you spread open for him, lip caught in your teeth.

He types:

"Wish I could taste you. I’d ruin you for anyone else."

Sends it. Watches the little "Seen" icon appear.

Then you type back.

"I should invite you over next time J deploys... <3"

His blood freezes. Every molecule in his body goes silent.

He stares at the screen like it’s cursed. Like it’s bleeding. Like it just cracked open and called him out.

His cock twitches. Almost types: Just come to my room.

No. No no no no—he closes the app. Paces. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. You can’t know. You can’t. You’d hate him. You’d scream. You’d run.

Unless—

He sinks into the bed.

And starts getting hard all over again.

It starts with a dare.

“No bra today. Bet it’d make it easier to take pics for me, sweetheart.”

He’s already sweating when he types it. Heart thudding like a drum. He adds a little emoji to soften it—just in case. Just in case you hesitate. Just in case the guilt dares to wake up in him again.

But you don’t hesitate.

You send a photo from the kitchen. From his kitchen. Arm pressed across your chest, nipples barely covered, shirt so thin it’s basically see-through in the morning sun.

“Like this?”

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. Just fumbles his joggers down in the hallway, cock hard and aching, jerking himself raw while staring at the screen like it’s a shrine. Like you’re a shrine.

He tells himself he’s doing you a favor. Teaching you how to be sexy. Making you feel wanted. That someone should.

But he’s not that clean. Not that noble.

He’s a fucking freak, and he knows it.

So he keeps going.

“Tiny shorts. No panties. Need to know you're a good girl for me.”

“Sit on the couch like before, love. Snap a pic while someone’s around.”

“Touch yourself in the hallway. Just a little. Think about me.”

You do it all.

And it breaks him.

Because sometimes you do it even before he asks. Wearing those little cotton things that ride up your ass, leaning over the counter like you don’t know he’s watching from the doorway, chest braless, thighs soft and spread on the leather cushions.

He can smell you on the sofa.

And the worst part? He swears you're getting bolder.

Once, you dropped your phone in front of him and bent down without thinking. He saw everything. No panties. Just skin and a little string of slick, catching the light. He nearly groaned out loud. Had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled.

You smiled at him after. Sweet. Innocent.

He had to go jerk off in the garage like a fucking feral animal, fist pounding against the wall after he came, panting your name like a curse.

He’s not sleeping anymore. Just watching. Wanting. Messaging you from the other side of the wall.

He dares you to go further. Pushes it. Tests you.

“Rub your thighs together at dinner.”

“Don’t close your door when you change.”

“Sit on John's bed when he's not home.”

He can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or playing along.

And part of him doesn’t want to know.

Because if you’re doing it for him—if you know it’s him, and you’re still teasing him like this—then that means you’re just as fucked up as he is.

And that?

That makes it so much worse.

So much better.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Dinner. Dishes. You laughing at something on your phone, his messages, the ones he sent to ruin you. The ones you think belong to some random guy you met online, the one you've been showing your tits to for weeks like it’s a normal thing.

But tonight?

Tonight you walk into the living room in those tiny shorts—the ones. The ones he told you to wear when you're "feeling needy." No bra. Hair messy. And no shame. None.

You bend over the couch, reaching for something on the floor. Phone in one hand. Face down. Casual. Oblivious.

And he sees it.

The curve of your back. The way the shorts ride up—completely split you open. You didn’t even pretend to wear underwear. Your cunt is right there. Soft, glistening. Inviting.

His throat goes dry. His cock’s already stiff in his jeans. Blood roars in his ears. He takes a step forward before he even thinks.

And then he sees it.

Your phone screen. Camera on. Recording.

You’re recording yourself—facedown on his couch, ass arched up, cunt peeking out beneath those shorts—and you’re doing it for him. For your “online boyfriend.”

For him.

As if your fucking step-brother cant fucking smell the sin leaking out of you.

"His" name leaves your lips, the one on that stupid fucking account, whispered low for the camera. "Hope you like the view..."

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he breaks.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Just the burn in his chest. The ache in his cock. The rage and the desire crashing together in a single molten scream behind his teeth.

Your body jerks as he grabs the phone from your hand, slamming it onto the coffee table. You whip your head around, eyes wide—but not scared. Never scared.

You’re smiling.

“Johnny,” you breathe, sweet as sin. “You finally gonna stop pretending?”

He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hips with both hands and pushes your back down, until your chest is pressed to the cushion and your ass is tipped up just the way he likes.

He palms your cheeks, spreads you open, and growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt glistening for him.

“Fuckin’ little minx,” he hisses, voice shredded. “You knew. You’ve known this whole time.”

You nod. Gasp. Wiggle your hips. “Wanted to see how long you’d last…”

He bites your shoulder. Not gently.

“You think this is a game?” he snarls into your skin. “You’ve been walking ‘round my house—my fuckin’ house—like this, for me? For my cock?”

You nod again. “Who else would I do it for?”

That’s when he loses it.

One hand pins your wrists to the small of your back. The other rips your shorts down, so fast the seams pop. You’re bare in seconds, cunt dripping, back arched, breath hitching.

And Johnny?

Johnny is feral.

“This what you wanted, baby?” he breathes, grinding his hard-on against your ass. “Wanted big brother to fuck the brat outta you?”

Your moan answers for you.

He kisses your spine like a man dying of thirst. Bites your hips. Tells you you’re his now—always were.

And as he finally pushes inside, sinking into you with a guttural moan, one thought tears through him louder than the rest:

She knew. She let me. And she still wants more.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, hilting inside you with a sharp snap of his hips, “tightest fuckin’ cunt I’ve ever had—‘course my little sis would be the one to ruin me.”

Your breath hitches. He feels it.

The way your walls flutter around him, all soft and soaked, like you like hearing it.

You do.

You do, don’t you?

“Ohh, you fuckin’ freak,” he grits, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back just enough to hear you pant. “You like it when I call you that? Like bein’ bent over the couch by your big brother?”

You moan something that might be “yes” or “more”—doesn’t matter. He’s gone.

“Actin’ all sweet ‘n innocent ‘round me. Callin’ me Johnny like you don’t spend every night spreadin’ your legs for me behind a screen. Like you don’t love this sick fuckin’ game.”

He thrusts hard—cruel and deep—and your whole body jerks. Couch cushions shift beneath you, muffling your whines. He keeps your wrists pinned behind your back, your ass tipped perfectly for him, so he can watch your hole suck him in again and again.

“You liked knowing I was watchin’, didn’t you?” he growls. “When you wore those fuckin’ shorts—no panties, tits bouncin’—you knew it was me. You wanted to tease big brother ‘til he lost his fuckin’ mind.”

He leans down, voice a snarl in your ear.

“Well, congrats, baby. You broke me.”

His free hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles just to hear the way you whimper. You clamp down around him like you’re gonna cum soon.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, half-lost in his own filth. “Take big brother’s cock. So proud of my little slut—makin’ me come in my hand every night. Leavin’ your scent on my fuckin’ pillows. I should’ve known you knew.”

Your legs start to shake.

“Oh, you gonna cum?” he taunts, hips slapping into your soaked thighs. “Gonna cum on your brother’s cock like a dirty little inbred whore?”

You sob out a yes.

He grabs your throat, pulls you up so your back arches, so he can whisper filth straight into your ear:

“Cum for me, little sis. Cream on big brother’s cock so I know you’re mine.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking and gasping, cunt pulsing around him like you were made for this.

And Johnny?

Johnny’s not far behind.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he growls as his hips slam forward, burying himself to the root, balls tight, cock twitching. “Fill you up right here on the fuckin’ couch—where anyone could walk in, where Mum used to make us sit for family photos—fuck—”

He groans low and ragged as he spills inside you, hot and filthy, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud.

After, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t let you up.

Just lays there over you, breathing hard, chest heaving against your back, cock still twitching inside.

“You’re never gettin’ away from me now,” he murmurs, voice thick with sweat and come and obsession. “Not after this.”

Not after you made big brother your personal ruin.

You're still face down on the couch, twitching under him, his cum leaking down your thighs.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

His fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move again—slow at first, then harder, meaner. His cock’s still thick, still buried deep inside you, and now it’s soaked in slick and his own mess.

And he leans in, whispering filth right into your ear.

“You ain’t even my real sister,” he mutters, kissing the side of your throat like it’s a confession, “but fuck if I don’t wanna pretend you are.”

Your breath catches.

“You like it when I say that, yeah?” His hips grind against your ass, cock hitting the deepest spots. “Like hearin’ your big brother call you a fuckin’ incestuous little whore?”

You moan. You hate that you moan.

But God, it ruins you.

“You’re not even blood,” he growls, voice shaking, “but I think about it all the fuckin’ time. Pretend you are. Pretend I watched you grow up, used to sneak into your room just to see what kinda panties my little sis wore—used to jerk off with your name in my mouth.”

You whimper under him, thighs trembling again.

“Dirty little thing,” he hisses, hand wrapping around your throat. “Would it be worse if you were mine? If we had the same mum and da? Same blood? Still wouldn’t stop me. I’d still fuck you just like this.”

He pulls back just to watch—watch the way your body stretches around him, how you drip for him. How you’d let him do anything.

“I’d still bend you over the couch. Still ruin you. Still fill your womb every night like it’s my fuckin’ right. Like you were born for me.”

His breath is hot against your back. His thrusts start to shudder—harder, deeper, sloppier.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re my little sister. Say you like it.”

Your voice is shaking, raw, almost crying—but not from pain.

“I’m your little sister, Johnny,” you whisper.

His hand tightens on your throat.

“Say you need your big brother’s cock.”

You sob it—needy, wrecked. “Need it—need my brother to fuck me—always have—”

That’s all it takes.

He cums again, burying himself so deep you swear you feel him in your gut. Hot, filthy, possessive. And he doesn’t pull out. He won’t.

Even if you’re not blood, even if it’s pretend—he’ll keep fucking you like you are. Keep whispering filth into your ears until you forget what’s real.

Because it’s his fantasy now.

And you’re never getting out of it.

#ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ cupids fauxcest au #tw fauxcest #tw stepcest #like seriously its gonna get weird #tw dubcon #tw catfishing #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #johnny mactavish smut #johnny mactavish #soap cod #soap x you #soap x reader #i hate tagging so much #find my fics via vibe instead #once again i dont really like fauxcest that much i just like him a little fucked up and unhinged and its so him... cant explain it

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