Page 11 of Deviant Need

“No, I won’t. I promise.” I try to pull him on top of me. “Please? I need you.”

He sighs. “Fine. But when you can’t breathe, that’s on you.”

Then he shifts and carefully settles on top of me, trying to spread his weight out. My arms immediately lock around him, holding him there.

“See? Perfect.”

He grunts. “I’m going to suffocate you.”

“Worth it. You’re like a weighted blanket.”

“A weighted blanket that can kill you.”

I grin. “The best kind.”

He shakes his head against me but doesn’t move. Something that sounds like “you have no idea” comes out muffled against my skin, so quiet I almost miss it.

His hand comes up to my buzzcut, and his fingers run back and forth over the short hair, the repetitive motion calming him down the way it always does. He doesn’t know I only keep it this short because he does this, because he needs the texture when he’s anxious or can’t sleep.

“It’s not weird,” I say again.

We both know this isn’t normal brother behavior, but neither of us says it out loud.

I’m sure as hell not bringing it up because if I name it, he might see us differently and realize how messed up this is, then pull away. I can’t handle that. I need him to keep letting me crawl into his bed, keep letting me wrap around him this way. I crave this more than I should because I can’t get it from anyone else, so yeah, I’ll keep my mouth shut forever if that’s what it takes.

His breathing slows on top of me, evening out as sleep pulls him back under. I close my eyes and hold him there, hand pressed flat against his back.

I’m so fucking proud of him for going through with the DNA test. I don’t know what they’re hiding about where he came from, but he deserves the truth.

Obviously I pushed him into it. What was I going to do, let him spend his whole life wondering? They act like this is some massive danger, but our entire existence is dangerous. At least this might actually tell him something real.

Even with the exhaustion dragging at me, I can’t sleep. Just have to wait for the pill to kick in, and then maybe I can get some rest.

I wanted to do better, I really did. I work my ass off, keep my head down, eat clean, train hard. Even fought for that business degree, and it actually comes in handy now. Running three clubs isn’t easy, especially when they’re laundering money and passing intel between our allies. I handle the books, the staff, the security, the bribes, making sure everything runs smoothly so nobody looks too closely.

None of us have lives outside this family. All we do is manage whatever piece of the empire Father handed us, whether it’s ports, clubs, escorts, or shipping routes. We’re spread thin across the city, each holding down our territory.

Sometimes I think about what life would’ve been like if I wasn’t born into this, if I’d grown up normal without the expectations and constant pressure to be something I’m not. I think I would’ve been happier. Maybe found some quiet farm somewhere.

I’ve always liked animals. Would’ve been nice to work with my hands on something that didn’t end in blood or broken bones, something simple. Wake up early, feed animals, fix things, come home tired but the good kind of tired. Pop open a beer and watch the sun set from the porch.

It’s stupid, a fantasy that’ll never happen. I’m an Avrorin, which means this life, this city, no getting out no matter how much I might want to. But sometimes I let myself think about it anyway, just for a little while before reality drags me back and reminds me what I am and what I’ll always be.

The bed’s empty when I wake up, and I roll over, immediately pissed off that he’s already gone. I was really hoping for morning cuddles, which I can’t get from anyone else, only from Daniil, and I’m fully aware it’s fucked up that I’m trying to get cuddles from my own brother, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

No one knows we do this. The cuddling, the way I crawl into his bed at night, how much I need physical contact with him specifically. Our family sees us together constantly and thinks we’re close, best friends or whatever, but they don’t know what happens behind closed doors.

Groaning, I force myself off the mattress and leave the bedroom. The smell of cooking hits me in the hall, something sizzling in a pan that makes my stomach growl.

My room’s a disaster compared to his. I’m not organized, never have been.

Clothes are scattered across every surface and draped over furniture he picked out because I couldn’t be bothered to choose anything. Even the wall colors were his decision. I just told him to do whatever and he did, filling the space with color while I contributed nothing but the mess.

The pictures are the only part of this room I actually care about, plastered across every wall.

He gave me a camera for Christmas when I turned eighteen, one of those instant-print ones, and I’ve been obsessed ever since. Snapshots from the last few years cover every available inch, every trip we’ve taken, stupid moments and important ones all mixed together. Most of them are of him, if I’m being honest. Him laughing, him annoyed, him asleep on the couch, him existing in ways no one else gets to see. Those pictures are worth more to me than anything else I own.

I tap out some coke onto the counter and do two quick lines, then roll my neck to try and loosen the tension sitting heavy in my shoulders. The burn tears through my nose and the drip slides down my throat, numbing everything it touches. I shove the bag back into the dresser and close it.