#(promise)

“i know, kier, it’s okay.” you pat his cheek and start the shuffle-walk towards a surface he can rest on.

you barely make it a few steps before the weight is lifted off your shoulders and kieran is hoisted up and over sylus’s shoulder.

“sy—“

he grunts, lumbering into the living room and tossing kieran on a couch haphazardly. kieran groans but slumps like dirty laundry over the arm rest.

then sylus returns, a willow hovering over you with limp limbs and a head hung low. you reach up to touch his face, feverish against your palm, and frown. “you didn’t puke too, did yo—!”

his shoulder muffles the rest of what you have to say, smelling fruity and tangy from his choice of alcohol, as he presses his forehead to your neck. “just buzzed.”

his arms circle your frame, larger now with the little heartbeats growing stronger in you, and you’re enveloped in his warmth. slightly off, but just as meaningful.

“papa’s just buzzed.” he whispers to your ear, and it tickles.

“looks like papa doesn’t know how to hold his alcohol.” you tease. you should have warned the twins that sylus is a poor drinking buddy when it comes to the harder fun drinks the youths tend to order.

but you couldn’t crush their drinking with dad dreams, especially now— in this time of sylus’s life—he takes pride in the title more than ever.

sylus was reluctant, not because he didn’t want to indulge, but you’ve just entered your second trimester and he’s been loathe to leave you since… well, since the announcement.

you teased him about being clingy, he whined in the privacy of your bedroom to your baby bump. tattling to your child how mama is keeping him and them apart.

but eventually, he caved and brought the unmasked twins to one of his more private speakeasy’s. which then, maybe escalated into something more neon and bouncy, you aren’t sure. the state of kieran tells you so much and so little all at once.

“i can!” sylus protests.

“f—ck! i gotta fy-ook!” kieran hiccups behind you in distress.

when you start to rush to find something to catch it, sylus holds you in place. you hiss at him. “sy! it’s gonna get on the carpet.”

“luke will clean it.”

you push him away just enough for him to tube-man upright. but kieran has already found a vase and stuck his face into it, now hurling accordingly.

“see?” sylus slurs. “my kids are smart.”

kieran’s dry heaves echo into the hollow artifact and trigger your own reflexes. suddenly, your stomach isn’t feeling so well. you pry away the corded muscles around your waist and sprint to the bathroom.

outside, amidst the chaos, sylus is bellowing. “kieran, look what you’ve done!”

and kieran is wailing, “i’m sorry! i’m s—orry!”

“ohh, i’m going to kill you.” luke returns just in time to witness his twin’s mess into the vase.

sylus is there, standing like a stunned specter when you emerge from the bathroom door. he blinks a few times like he’s rebooting before he places both hands on your cheeks. “are you okay?”

“yes,” you say kindly, stroking his ring fingers with your thumbs. “don’t yell at them.”

“okay.” he nods, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing. “sorry.”

he turns his head and yells into the hallway. “sorry!”

“s’okay, dad.” luke calls back, tired.

“we love you, dad!” kieran cries, voice crackly and strained.

sylus grins, goofy and loopy, chuckling once and slowly turning back to you. “i like being dad.”

you smile at him. it’s been such a time since you’ve seen him drunk, and the last time wasn’t nearly as tame as this. tonight he’s just… happy and cute.

“do you hear me?” he asks, pressing his nose to your bump as he falls to his knees. “i love being your dad.”

“he isn’t even out yet.” you laugh, nails against his scalp that make him melt further onto you.

“doesn’t matter.” he murmurs, peppering kisses over what he believes is the little’s foot. “i’m dad. m’papa.”

he clings to you and snuggles his face into your belly when you sit among your boys in the living room. there, you laugh as luke paints you a picture of their night. how the speakeasy didn’t escalate into a full party, rather a case of your husband’s singing bug.

“boss sang like, seven songs.” luke says, and you laugh when sylus groans into your side. sedated only by your gentle caresses through his hair. “then, a gooey duet with kieran.”

“on the wings of love is a classic and you’re a—hic— pleb for not knowing it.” kieran interjects.

luke ignores him, still upset about cleaning up after his brother twice. “they sang through, like, three bottles of brandy.”

“and sum’beer.” adds kieran. “soo fun.”

“not fun.” grumps about luke.

sylus pouts against you. “you guys said you like it when i’m fun.”

“bossss,” kieran sings. “you were awesome. i will never—hic— ever—hic— ever forget tonight.”

luke watches his brother warily, but then softens when he looks back at sylus. “he’s right. tonight was pretty sick, boss.”

“dad.” sylus corrects, his voice now a grumble teetering towards unconsciousness. “i’m a dad—a’papa.”

“a’papa!” kieran responds enthusiastically, as if sylus had just recited a psalm. he closes his eyes and murmurs it to himself happily over and over.

“i think a’papa needs to go to bed.” you say, brushing back sylus’s hair from his eyes to see them closed. his mouth now slightly ajar too as his breathing steadies.

kieran’s echos fade too shortly after, and soon turn to soft snores.

only you and luke are left awake to witness the crackle of the dying fire in its hearth.

quietly, you ask. “why didn’t you drink?”

luke clicked his tongue and took a while. “i did.”

“but?”

he twists to retrieve a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. its crinkles sounding solemn as it is placed gently into your hands.

you give him a curious look as he sits back and waves for you to open it.

in big, bold, elegant font, it reads:

CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH

秦薛明 — Lucas Qin

luke turns shy when you look back at him. suddenly, his fingernails have turned interesting that it needs all of his attention.

“i hope you don’t mind.” is the first thing he utters and you are appalled at his words. “or he discussed it with you. we don’t expect you to think of us as yours, but we—we’d love to be part of the fa…”

his voice trails away when you plop yourself beside him and wrap him in a tender embrace. “of course you’re mine.”

he sniffles for the first time since you’ve known him. you don’t dare to look. but he leans his head towards you and swallows. “i didn’t want to forget.

“i didn’t want to wake up and maybe think… it was all a dream.”

all their lives— such hard and painful ones— they never had more than the other. never been wanted. never belonged.

at the gift presented to them, once pristine in the folders sylus had meticulously placed the parchment in, luke and kieran felt as if they had been killed, burned and reborn anew.

unmasked. with a face. with a name.

after years of always pausing by the door and waiting by the barrier, never did they think that they would be invited in.

and that will always be there to haunt them, the idea of being impostors in places they aren’t supposed to be in. where they think they fit, but their reality is bathed in delusion they would blame on their nonexistent childhood.

but now written, they will have something to tell them it’s all true.

“happy birthday.” you kiss his temple. he freezes at the affection, at the difference it makes coming from someone other than his brother. from another member of the family.

and as if you knew what he needed to hear, you swear.

you swear as if it is known, written in the stars eons ago. indisputable by fate or anything brutal that makes its demands. a truth you have lived and remembered and etched into your bones. you swear,

“you’ve always been our sons.”

a kick against his elbow that rests just by your belly is all is needed for him to believe it.

thank you for reading! ❀(*´◡`*)❀

You were going heads up to the river, one-on-one to the last card; at least that's what you’ve gathered based on off-handed commentary made by one of her friends. Your eyes squinted, an indicator of the jargon escaping you, and the brimming volume of thoughts crowding your head. 

“Small blinds to your right, baby,” Natasha said patronisingly, her hand smoothing over your thigh and pulling your focus back to the table. You bit your lip in acknowledgement, racking your brain for what she could’ve meant. You could barely think about the game at hand, mind occupied elsewhere. 

“It means you act first,” Wanda giggled to your right, noticing the furrow between your brows. You’ve always been fond of Wanda, she was helpful and kind—you needed that comfort, especially when your girlfriend was in one of her teasing moods. Like today. Your left eye twitched a little when you recalled why she had cornered you in the bathroom before the company arrived. 

You had complained about being good hosts, and not leaving people to wait at the door; Natasha promptly shut you up with a kiss, and tugged your underwear aside to slide a little pink bullet in you. She led you out the room, not before leaving a small pat on your cheek and reminding you to “keep up that poker face” during the game. It had annoyed you, particularly because she had blueballed you the prior night, mentioning something about having to get a good night’s rest for her mind to stay sharp. To make matters worse, she had strung you along the whole morning and day, wearing rings that wrapped beautifully along her fingers that she knew you adored, groping your ass in passing and claiming it was accidental, and hugging you from behind with her strap purposefully prodding at your back. You just about had enough of her teasing. The fact that your girlfriend was an avid gym-goer, working out 7 days a week, evaded you and she jumped when you practically tackled her in your attempt to unzip her jeans. You didn’t get very far, to be frank. At least Natasha consolidated you with a kiss and a promise. “Later, baby,” she had told you, peppering your face with little pecks. You glared at her now, receiving a raised eyebrow in response. 

“I check,” you spluttered, squirming around the swelling pleasure, then turning to glance at Maria, who was the last to still hold cards. She sat between Agatha, whom you were unfamiliar with, and the fiery redhead who vexingly haunted your last hours without mercy. Maria held your gaze with an imperceptible smirk, held a pause, then broke it by pushing a few stacks of red discs into the center pot. The “chips,” as Natasha had referred to them as, tallied up to be around $10k. How they pulled crazy amounts of money out just to play around with eluded you. 

“Gonna check-raise me, sweetie?” Maria teased, poking fun at your weak faux strategy. Heat crept up your face, though not because of what she'd said. Natasha had pulled out her phone, a seemingly innocent front to the others. Not for you. You had known what she was planning the moment that smug look flashed on her face. Her thumb strummed the waves that appeared on the app she had pulled up on her phone, and your posture straightened. You tried to camouflage your haggard breathing as appraising interest in Maria’s raise—it was a terrible guise, and if your eyes didn’t shut from the inexorably increasing buzz, you would’ve realized how perversely all the women’s gazes settled on you. 

“F-fold,” you squeaked out, not willing to accidentally lose ten grand because your rationale was clouded by Natasha’s infuriatingly arousing distraction. Maria pumped her fist in the air, cheekily, and collected the compounded stack of chips. She splayed her cards out: a bluff. You huffed in exasperation, knowing that if you had called her raise, your hand would’ve won the pot. 

“Romanoff, you can’t invite me here just to let your girl lose all your money,” she teased, patting Natasha’s shoulder. The redhead shrugged her off, smirking at her jab. She pinched your cheek in playful irritation, shooting a sense of pleasure down to your core. Your senses were heightened and easily stimulated from the toy between your legs, and any minor touch from her sent tantalizing shivers down your spine. It was irritating how intensely Natasha observed your struggle; you hated how much you needed her. The entire game, all you’ve been imagining is her taking you, bending you over the table, scattering all the poker chips, ruining the cards with your mess; you especially hated that she knew you’d let her. The second the cards were dealt for the next game, you folded your hand; it’s not like you could’ve played any decent bluff with a seven-duce, because the need in your center clouded all judgement for the game—and the awareness you held for the volume of your sounds. 

“Careful, baby,” Natasha whispered, condescension brimming from her tone, “do you want daddy’s friends to ask what’s wrong with her sweet girl—why she’s trembling, whining, and can’t focus on the game?” You inconspicuously shook your head, not wanting to draw anymore attention towards yourself. Poor girl. If only you knew how perverse your daddy could be and the real reason she invited company over. 

After a few rounds, the big blind circled the table to you, encouraging you to play another hand. You hadn’t won anything at this point, practically feeding your buy-in to each pot. With the smallest stack at the table, you felt like a fish darting around the ocean, just waiting to feel the inevitable jaws of death close around you. A part of you blamed Natasha and her cruel distraction, although you knew you’d play terribly even without it. Agatha, Maria, and Wanda were so hard to read, individually, and even more so when it felt like they were collectively colluding against you; Natasha as well, but you had managed to avoid playing into her. Unfortunately, you couldn’t run from the “shark” for much longer. Somehow, Natasha had managed to clean you out, baiting call after call for her raises that forced you all-in, ending in your loss. You rolled your eyes when she laughed at your clear displeasure; even though you were an awful player, competitiveness wrapped around your heart.

“Sorry, princess,” she teased, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you into her lap, “Guess you’re just gonna have to play with me for the rest of the night.” Your cheeks glowed at her boldness, embarrassed at the obvious voyeurism Natasha was apparently unaware of. A few smirks could be seen around the table, but your vision was obscured by your hands, covering your humiliation. Natasha nudged you with the deck of cards, and you shuffled it sloppily, causing a few to slip onto the ground. You could hear a small ‘tsk’ from behind you, and she turned up the vibrations in punishment. A lewd moan escaped your lips, adding fuel to the burning heat rising in your face. 

“God, Romanoff, shut her up will you,” Agatha taunted, egging on Natasha’s exhibition of you. At Agatha’s comment, Natasha slid her chair, and subsequently you, out from the table. 

“Go fetch, baby,” she purred, forcing you onto your knees to grab the cards. Shrinking down, you reached for the loose rectangles, slipping them over to her. You picked up the retriever cards, making a move to stand up, but Natasha's hand stopped you. Your eyes widened at her insinuation, and further more at the unbuckling sound of her belt and the unzipping of her jeans. You shook your head, whispering your humiliated objection, “There’s other people here, Natty.” 

“Oh we don’t mind, bunny,” Wanda cooed, her voice coming from above the table, responding to your shameful worry. You shrunk even more, and Natasha chuckled at her assistance, patting the side of your cheek.

“Did you hear that, sweet girl?” She mocked, cupping the back of your head and driving it to her crotch. “Go on, baby.”

You pulled back hesitantly, looking up at her through the gap between the table and the ground. The strap she wore was big on purpose, the one you knew made you gag the most; it’s almost like Natasha wanted all her friends to hear you make a mess on her strap. 

“You look so cute, honey,” Maria encouraged, breaking the wavering silence, “give us a show?” 

You blushed at her compliment, and then even more at her innuendo. Slowly, you opened your mouth to press your tongue against the tip. The silicone felt heavy in your mouth, but you hollowed your cheeks and began bobbing your head, repressing your moans. The angle of Natasha’s strap pressed the base of her harness into her, pulling a groan from her throat. You could hear a small thud above you, as if someone had dropped something down. 

“My blind for the next round,” Natasha told the table, garnering a few antsy shuffles from your perspective. It wasn’t until they ended the round, the pot going to Agatha, that you realized the little thud was Natasha’s phone, and her bet was your pleasure; you could hear a snarky comment coming from Agatha, followed by an intensity that rivaled the high you received from winning a hand. The deceivingly small toy inside you buzzed to life and hummed almost louder than the wanton moans it elicited from you. Heat flooded your chest and face as a result of the utter mortification you felt. 

“Fuck, baby, your lips look so pretty wrapped around my cock,” Natasha mocked, loosing her fingers in your hair. She moaned at the pleasure caused by your attentive movement; her melodic sounds entranced you, embarrassment fading away. At this moment, you wanted nothing more than to please your daddy. Your needy whines, muffled by her strap, escape your throat and draw out groans from above, reminding you of your current position. The palpable feeling of hunger settled in the balmy silence, save for the clink of chips being moved or cards folded—you, or your sounds in this case, held the attention of every woman seated. 

“Look at me, baby,” Natasha muttered, stealing the focus of your thoughts. She moans as you meet her heavy gaze, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you’re swallowing her cock. “Such a cute girl, aren’t you?”

If your lips weren’t so extensively occupied, you’d smile at her praise. The warmth of it melted the humiliating atmosphere, prodding at you, urging you on. With her right hand fixed on the top of your head, she pulled you to her hilt, until your nose was pressed against her. In your peripheral, you could just about make out Wanda watching your lewd intake of Natasha’s cock, her gaze frozen on the way it disappeared then reappeared. 

“Aren’t you pathetic?” Agatha jeered, her annoyance at losing a hefty sum evident in her remark. “Sucking your daddy off with no shame in front of all her friends?” You reflexively whimpered at her comment, the vulgarity of it sending licks of flame to your face—and to your core, causing your thighs to tighten in an attempt to quell the fire. Natasha notices your abashment, guiding your head down again, this time firmly holding you there. Instinctively, you fight it, throat spamming around the sudden sharp intrusion, but her grip is inert on your skull. 

“Keep at it, princess,” Natasha says, shushing your audible complaints, “Daddy will tell you when you can stop.” Though striking redness remained at your ears, the careful encouragement and steering of Natasha’s hand absorbed your consciousness. Your little gags and whimpers filled the room for minutes that felt like decades, clinging onto the ends of every shallow conversation. Natasha interrupted your worship of her by gently grasping the back of your head, pulling you off her strap with a ‘pop’ from your lips.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” she muttered, sliding her hands beneath your arms to haul you onto her lap. You straddled her with her cock between your legs, sloppy from your prior work. Natasha took in the view, the game fading into the background; you looked delicious, eyes glassy, face peppered with light color, and lips swollen from use. She leaned in for a moment, gaze swiping over your mouth in foreshadow, and then kissed you. You melted into her, steadying yourself with your hands on her shoulders. 

“Up,” Natasha ordered, tapping your thighs. A look of mortification overtook your expression. Sucking her off was one thing, at least you had the table to hide away your shame, but here? Above the cover of safety, where everyone has a full view of your indecency? Your fingers clenched around Natasha, pupils dilating in fear and embarrassment. You shook your head again for the second time tonight, a pleading look filling your face. Natasha tsked, grabbing you by your waist in spite of your refusal. With one hand, she slipped you out of your shorts, lining herself up with your soaking entrance. When you sank down onto her, you could feel every ridge and texture of her strap, consuming your senses. The fullness it forced into you pried a shuttering gasp from the deepest part of your need, and you slammed your eyes shut. You moaned when your ass met her clothed thighs, signifying the depth she had reached. The little toy she slid in you prior to the arrival of her company kissed your cervix, still vibrating on the cruel setting Agatha had left it. Your whines grew, and you had to lean your weight onto her front to find your footing. Natasha wrapped herself around you, arms caressing your backside. 

“Sit like this, all pretty and warming my cock, ‘kay?” Natasha cooed, patting your ass from behind. You nodded, because that was the only thing you could do, and thanked her silently for granting you the grace of your front facing her instead of the others, though your embarrassment was evident in your ears. 

The night continued like normal, save for the wanton moans you muffled in Natasha’s neck caused by her abrupt movements. You thought she was doing it on purpose, but with no real way to prove it, you were left to the mercy of her will. At one point, she passed around her phone again, letting her friends control the moment of your orgasm. Natasha could feel you clenching around her strap at every tantalizing increase or teasing decrease of the toy. You were trembling, and you would’ve crumpled onto the ground if she were not supporting your full weight. Natasha’s hips didn’t jump enough for you to get off, and you made your need very clear.

“Please, please, daddy,” you choked out pleas, clinging to Natasha’s shirt. 

“You’re asking the wrong person, baby,” Natasha smirked, kissing your cheek and nodding pointedly at Wanda, who was currently in possession of her phone. You hid your face in her neck which your arms wrapped around. 

“W-Wanda,” you squeaked out hesitantly, “please, I want more, please.” She smirked at your humiliation, but nonetheless, she enhanced the waves of pleasure.

“Greedy girl,” she teased, moving her thumb up and down, controlling the intensity of the vibrations in your core. You let out tiny gasps in response, hips bucking up, chasing relief.

“P-Please.” The strangled plea narrowly escaped your throat. Your begging had only incited more trouble, and the women watched you hang on the edge for the entire night, poker chips used as betting power towards who had control of your high. Humiliation had long since been forgotten, the haze of chasing your orgasm stealing your focus. You would’ve done anything for them to let you fall apart, as Natasha made it clear she would not be assisting in that department. 

“Aggie, can I please cum,” you whined, now directing your requests toward the current holder of your fate. 

“I don’t know, can you? You seem very able, pet,” she mocked, bringing the intensity as high as the app would let her. You choked on your next breath, and let little ‘ahh’s escape you. 

“May, I- fuck-, may I please cum,” you begged, your grip turning Natasha’s skin an iron white. Agatha chuckled at your desperation.

“Mmm, I think that’s a question for your daddy, don’t you?” You let out an agonizing wail, annoyance at the game the women were forcing you to play. 

“Daddy, daddy, please, daddy,” you spluttered out, the intensity of the toy affecting your ability to form any other word. Natasha grinned devilishly, heartlessly withholding her permission. Instead, she left little kisses on your sweat-lined forehead, pulling your hair out of your face.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” she murmured against your skin, finally granting you the ability to freefall. You felt as if the world had folded in on itself, outside becoming in, and then suddenly, nothing. Natasha could feel the spasms of your walls and thighs, your fluids coating her cock and ruining her jeans. She soothed over your skin as you came down, whispering sweet praises into you. 

You laid motionlessly, slumped against her, blinking in slow recovery. The others had resorted to cleaning up, putting away the chips, or bringing you a glass of water. Natasha thanked Maria for you, as you held yourself up to drink with all the strength that remained. As everyone funneled out for the night, Agatha winked at you as she slid out the door, leaving you with one last remark. 

“Thanks for the entertainment, pet.”