Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3997573.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Keeping_Up_with_the_Kardashians_RPF
  Relationship:
      kylie_jenner/scott_disick
  Character:
      Kylie_Jenner, Scott_Disick
  Additional Tags:
      Pseudo-Incest, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-05-26 Words: 4288
****** topics in a gossip column ******
by parishilton
Summary
     he wants to bury his head between her thighs and thinks she would
     smell only of suntan lotion, doesn’t want to admit that kourtney’s
     smell of baby powder and kale juice hasn’t inspired his libido much
     lately, not that she would let him fuck her even if he was inspired
     to.
Notes
     tyler, the creator / "slater"
seeing kylie with tyga makes scott long for the days of seeing jaden in a music
video rapping baby you should try and drive slow in his drawstring sweatshirt
and with a dusting of hair above his lip, only a few months after kylie’s
second car accident, this time in her shiny new range rover in san fernando
valley. 
scott lays out in the sun with kendall and kylie at his and kourtney’s house in
calabasas and photobombs kylie’s vines. he ducks his head into the frame
obnoxiously, full beard tickling the tops of kendall and kylie’s heads, making
them burst into laughter. 
if he closes his eyes and listens to the feminine lilt to their voices, they
are fifteen and thirteen again, kendall with acne blooming over her forehead,
putting together a binder full of pictures of herself to convince her mother to
let her model. scott remembers kylie being asked by khloe if she's ever had the
sex talk and kylie demonstrating how tampons worked so kendall wouldn't be
afraid. 
if he closes his eyes, they are sixteen and fourteen again, kendall is sending
bruce off to pick up her birth control at the pharmacy and kylie is hiring
scott to be her and kendall’s manager because she wants to break out into the
industry like her four older sisters. 
now, kylie is seventeen and has her own hair extension line, her own teen vogue
cover shoot, her own two point seven million dollar house, and her own twenty-
five year old rapper boyfriend, who everyone in the music industry seems to
hate, from drake to nicki minaj to tyler, the creator, but it wasn't always
this way. 
===============================================================================
 "jaden is really cool," kylie offers one day. the implied cooler than you
scott hears in his head makes him snort aloud. kylie throws one leg over the
other, one bare foot rubbing up and down her shin. she's fifteen. this is
before the lip fillers and before she cared if her hair looked mangy and
unwashed. she would walk around with plaid men's shirts tied around her waist
and was a fan of muscle tees, high-waisted denim shorts, and yeezus
sweatshirts. 
"he's a cute kid," scott shrugs, then looks back down at his phone. his gold
watch glimmers in the sun that's filtering through the windows of his and
kourtney's house, and it should for fifty thousand dollars. 
kylie sighs heavily, tapping her black and white patterned acrylic nails on the
table. "i mean, he's not really a kid." 
scott looks up, eyebrows cinched. "isn't he, like, twelve?" 
"he's fourteen," kylie corrects. 
scott laughs. "so, you're a cougar now?" 
"ugh, grow up." kylie moves her fingernails down to the fringed hem of her cut-
off shorts, picking at the strings. 
scott pretends he's scrolling through twitter on his phone, but he really has
camera on and is using it to stare idly at kylie's tanned thighs. 
===============================================================================
there's something so strange and sitcom about all the girls coming over
whenever they want, without ever calling first. for the first few years he was
dating kourtney, he thought he would never get over how much they all pried,
but now he likes living in the pocket of a group of protective people. he
wasn't born into this family, but he's been a part of it for so long that he
can no longer stand being alone in a room for more than an hour. 
he drives kourtney crazy sometimes, just following her around the house,
especially after his parents have died. he has khloe on speed dial and probably
calls her twice a day, though she's officially listed as kokoin his phone. he
starts trying to invite rob out to places, anyplaces, just so he has an excuse
not to be alone. scott misses his trips with rob to vegas when they’d cuddle in
hotel beds with porn playing off rob’s laptop, misses how rob used to call
every day just to ask “what’s up, dickie?” and scott would boastfully reply,
“getting my dick wet”,with no thought for how weird it was of him to be telling
rob about his sex life with rob’s oldest sister. 
everybody starts avoiding scott when his parents die, except kylie. he wakes up
most mornings alone in bed, with kourtney already gone out with khloe
somewhere. he wakes up most mornings with the same texts from kylie. how r u?
then when he hadn't answered after twenty minutes, SCOTT???
what, he answers, thumbs moving over the screen of his iphone. 
come pick me up let's go shopping
scott wants to say no. he needs to stop relying on other people to make him
happy, especially his sixteen year old sister-in-law. 
give me 20 he types.
===============================================================================
kylie is not dating will smith's kid son anymore. or, maybe never was. when
scott was in high school, people said hooking up too, but then it had meant we
go on group dates to the movies, not we fool around in my bedroom whenever my
mom's not home.
kylie doesn't do relationships and that confuses scott. scott has always been a
relationship type of guy. he likes being married and having kids more than he
thought he ever would.  
"i don't think i'll have kids," kylie says one day, her back to scott as she
stares into her own reflection in a mirror, re-applying a mac lip liner. 
"why not?" scott asks, surprised. 
she shrugs. "our family will already be so big between your kids and kim's." 
scott grins. "what does kris think about this?" 
"she thinks that i'll change my mind if i spend more time with mason and
penelope." kylie laughs and sits back down on the white leather sofa next to
scott, the bottom of her high heel accidentally swiping scott's ankle. 
"so kris is the one sending you over here every day?" he asks, snorting. "to
recondition your brain?" 
kylie shakes her head. "no, i just like hanging out with you." 
scott is in way over his head. 
he thinks it's a hero worship thing at first. like, when young girls have
crushes on their history teachers or soccer coaches or hot babysitters. he
almost relishes the idea that he could have some level of authority over kylie,
like a makeshift third parent, or maybe a makeshift brother to add to the ones
she already has. 
scott often thinks about what direction his life may have taken him if he had
stayed in new york, dividing time between clubs and his parents' place in
the hamptons, spending as much time with them through his twenties as he could
and not ever having met kourtney, but it’s not something he thinks about with
an ache for his days of boozing and fucking anonymously anymore. there is a
scared little boy inside of him who misses his parents, who longs for kourtney
to be his substitute mother, because his is dead and gone. 
but kourtney has two children to raise and soon there will be three. scott had
his kids young, too young, and he grows a full beard to rebel against his own
youth. he wants to be married already. he wants to be sleeping in the same bed
as kourtney every night, but kourtney doesn’t want that. 
kylie laughs every solitary time scott’s beard drags over her shoulder and neck
when he photobombs her and kendall outside of his and kourt's eight million
dollar calabasas mansion. when she moves out of her parents’ house, will kylie
still come over to lay out in the sun with him every day? scott craves the
normalcy. 
===============================================================================
vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram. vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram. 
two million followers on vine, eight million followers on twitter, twenty
million followers on instagram. 
online articles with titles like four hundred fifty-one selfies and counting.
online articles with titles like has she had lip injections? online articles
with titles like angry model gives scott disick and kylie jenner the finger
during a show. 
scott is not so sure he sees kylie holed up in calabasas for the rest of her
life, some ten minutes from him and kourtney, in the same gated community. it’s
shock he feels when he sees formerly always homesick kendall towing her louis
vuitton luggage off to the airport. kylie who was the free spirit who was
supposed to travel the world, kendall who was supposed to sit at home playing
frisbee with brody and his rottweilers, each now living how scott expected the
other to live. 
kourtney and khloe keep fucking off to new york together, khloe still mourning
her marriage, and kourtney mourning her once stretch mark-less skin. scott
doesn’t want to be back in new york because it reminds him of his parents, so
he stays in calabasas. kourt takes penelope away on her hip, telling scott in
her adorably nasally voice that she’ll call him when they get to the hotel.
scott is left to his own devices, dragging mason off to barney’s with him,
holding his little hand with all the fear he possesses being responsible for
another life. at night he doesn’t bother calling rob anymore, rob is a hermit
now, and scott can’t take rob’s misery when he’s missing kourtney. 
ten years later and he’s part of this family, fucking finally, but it’s
fractured. kris finally looks him in his eye over dinner and khloe hasn’t
forgotten his birthday in years, but it’s too late. 
it’s become the kardashians versus the jenners and scott feels like he belongs
in neither group. kendall sticks by bruce and brody, driving out to malibu to
surf and to tan, and that's only when she's not walking in a chanel or marc
jacobs show, and kris is managing kylie, and they want kylie to come out with a
clothing line like kim did. 
when bruce moves out to malibu, kylie tells scott she never sees her own dad
anymore. scott doesn’t pick up the phone to beg bruce to take him golfing
anymore either. the days of“what’s up, bruiser?” are long gone. he can’t
imagine what it’s like for kylie to not see her dad. scott looks at his little
mason and feels his heart breaking. the kids are their last hope of a
functional, happy family. mason, penelope, north. the future. 
at night scott scrolls through his instagram feed, and oh, kylie is in her
mirror again in a cleavage-baring dress in her mother's foyer with it’s black
and white tiled floor. he looks to his bedside table and the framed picture
there of himself and kourtney and jerks off to neither kylie’s nor kourtney’s
picture. 
===============================================================================
kylie wants to take pictures with scott nearly every day. she’s insatiable.
vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram. kylie always types lord disick, but calls
him scott when it's the two of them alone in a room, no matter who is in the
next room over. 
“you have to build your brand,” kylie says, “being a lord is, like, your
signature thing.” 
scott pumps his fist in the air. “fuck yeah, it is.” 
“you should write your memoir...with a foreword from kris jenner,” kylie says,
“mom could get you stamped with oprah's book club sticker.” then, her phone
vibrates and she looks down into her lap again.
vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram. 
scott remembers the handful of days when he was technically kylie’s manager.
now she’s the adult and he’s the child, forever trying to tug someone closer to
prevent them from leaving, while loudly maintaining to everyone within earshot,
camera crew and all, that he can’t fucking stand these people and doesn’t care
if they like him. 
sometimes scott looks at kylie and he sees a melting pot of kardashian genes.
kim’s competitiveness, khloe’s pension for dirty jokes, kourtney’s penetrating
glare. their respect and love is everything to him and when he’s alone it feels
like he has one hundred phantom limbs. 
he wakes up in the morning, some name beginning with a k on the tip of his
tongue. he doesn’t know what he’s trying to spit out, what name he’s about to
call out for, doesn’t know who he’s reaching out for under the covers. kim,
kourtney, khloe, kendall, kylie. k, k, k, k, k. 
===============================================================================
one bright mid-morning, scott gets a text from kylie. i’m coming over, it
reads. no preamble, no pussyfooting, no making sure scott doesn’t mind. he
supposes kourtney thinks he needs a babysitter even to this day, maybe called
kylie to suggest this so he doesn’t sneak off to vegas like he used to some ten
years ago, as if he had even entertained the idea.  
“what’s up, lord?” kylie jokingly calls out when she bangs open the front door,
neiman markus heels clacking all along the hallway. 
scott hears “what’s up, dickie?” in his head, and he misses rob, but he doesn’t
miss vegas. kylie rounds the corner into the kitchen, wearing a two-piece black
bathing suit with a towel bunched up between her arm and her side, and scott is
exactly where he wants to be. he suppresses the urge to reply, “getting my dick
wet.” 
"hey, kiddo," scott slips out easily as he pulls his black new york yankees cap
over his head, just as easily as it had been to call her that when she was a
child. 
kylie looks good without her false lashes and lip liner, but scott knows better
than to say this. her nails looks sharp enough to claw his fucking eyes out and
he doesn’t totally believe that she wouldn’t if he tried to tell her how to
dress or what to put on her face. she’s a lot like a caged tiger, young and
always on the defensive, and scott remembers when he too was like this. it’s
part of the reason why he makes himself so accessible to her now. 
he wants to bury his head between her thighs and thinks she would smell only of
suntan lotion, doesn’t want to admit that kourtney’s smell of baby powder and
kale juice hasn’t inspired his libido much lately, not that she would let him
fuck her even if he was inspired to. 
“i forgot my suntan lotion,” kylie gripes, always one second from a meltdown of
such proportion that the only way to end it would be with scott calling khloe
to come over and sort out her little protege. 
scott volunteers himself to go check the bathroom cabinet for one of kourtney’s
two dozen assorted self-tanning oils and suntan lotions ranging from spf-15 to
spf-45. 
when kylie collapses on the couch to splay her legs out and squeeze lotion onto
them, scott is distinctly reminded of being infatuated with her legs
outstretched over his lap in the limo on the trip back from the runway show
where he’d gotten tipsy and rowdy in the front row beside kendall and kylie,
the show where a model had flipped he and kylie off for goofing around, though
mainly it was scott who was drinking and acting out. limos were a soft spot for
scott after growing up in new york city and taking one to school every day for
years. he’d wanted to take her then and there, with champagne on his breath,
and kendall sitting beside them. 
she was sixteen then and dating jaden, a kid who scott admittedly loved, and he
had actually gone on a double date with jaden, kylie, and kourtney more than
once. now, she was between men the same way she was between adolescence and
adulthood. scott wanted to be between her legs, which were stuck in skintight
red leather pants, to match the red matte lipstick on her mouth that scott
imagined getting stained all over his own neck. 
“it’s runny,” kylie complains, “is it expired?” the lotion runs from between
her fingers and all the way down her arm and scott knows if one droplet touches
the couch, kourtney will do one of two things: pile up all his clothes and
fling them outside the upstairs window, or call kris and have her put plastic
on all the furniture. 
it takes little convincing on scott’s part to get kylie to let him finish
putting the suntan lotion on her legs. she was the youngest of all the girls
and was practically raised in hair and nail salons, beauty parlors and spas.
scott imagines she wants this, this thing that scott wants, and that's why
she's always finding ways to throw her legs over his lap. then again, she does
this with rob, so it might be a fluke. 
scott runs his hands under her thighs knowing she won't need suntan lotion
there. when it becomes clear he's spent the most amount of time possible
spreading all of it evenly over her skin, he knows he has to stop, but he
can't. he watches her scrolling through her instagram feed on her phone, his
hands now planted firmly on the tops her thighs. 
"is there anything you won't document on instagram?" he grins, flashing an
enormous smile. he personally only uses it to post throwbacks of him and
kourtney, back when they were a couple that still slept in the same bed, and
sometimes he uses it to take selfies holding products he's being paid to
sponsor. 
kylie's eyes dart up from the phone and she looks to his hands on her thighs
and back up to his face. "dare me to post a picture of this?" 
"hell no," scott says. he's thinking about the implications of such a photo - a
shot of only scott's hands on her bare skin, fuck, bare skin all the way up to
her hip exposed in her swimsuit. maybe the average person wouldn't know it was
his hands, but kourtney would. so would the rest of the family, for that
matter. 
kylie doesn't drink kale juice, she doesn't go to the spa to get enemas, and if
she gets knocked up one day, she won't ever consider having a water birth.
scott is so attracted to individuality, that's why he liked kourtney in the
first place, yet now every woman in los angelos was like kourtney. hell, even
kylie looked up to kourtney, spent hours on tumblr reblogging paparazzi shots
of her older sisters. 
"why are you wearing a hat inside?" kylie snides, reaching over to swipe it. 
scott catches her arm, grinning. "you'll date guys who wear dresses, but think
wearing a hat indoors is unacceptable?" 
"you wish you could pull off a dress," kylie says, sticking scott's cap over
her head. "how's this look? snapchat worthy?" 
scott scans her cleavage and how she looks wearing some article of his
clothing, suddenly frustrated that he's allowed to look, always to look, but
never touch. "thank fuck kourtney doesn't do all this shit to show off." 
kylie glares. "maybe if she did, you would pay more attention to her." 
"you want your audience of one to go somewhere else for entertainment?" scott
wants to call her bluff. 
"no," kylie says, "i need you to take a picture of me in the pool later." she
sticks her tongue out. 
he's allowed to look, always to look, but never to touch. he sighs loudly.
"alright, give me the fucking phone, let's do it now and get it over with." 
kylie shoots off the couch and poses in front of scott, standing between the
white sofa and the coffee table. she starts to tie her towel around her waist
like she's insecure about her weight and scott wants to rip it off and tell her
she has no reason to be. the yankees cap is still on her head and scott rolls
his eyes and takes one picture as she poses with one leg stuck out in front of
the other to make her seem taller. 
"you're a regular kendall jenner," scott says, "now, can we go swimming?" 
she twists her foot in her heels trying to reach down and slap scott and starts
tumbling down towards him. he grabs her arms and lets her regain her balance by
sitting on top of him. her shrieking laughter fills the house and scott feels
his eyes brimming up with tears from the sight of her almost falling backwards
on the coffee table. 
"if you had fucked up that table," scott tries to say between laughs, "kourtney
would fucking kill you." 
kylie stares at him for a moment, her face suddenly going flat and emotionless.
scott is still laughing when she leans in and ends up kissing more of his beard
than his mouth. it's a millisecond of contact and then she's pulling back
already, so scott lifts his back away from the couch and crowds her personal
space with one hand on the back of her head, fingers grazing the back of the
hat of his she's still wearing. 
he buries his face in her shoulder, licking up the side of her neck and
expecting to taste sweat after she’d walked under the blistering sun, though
she tastes sweet instead. he becomes aware, very suddenly, of her towel coming
unknotted from her waist and the material preventing him from feeling her in
his lap. she lets him take it off with much less hindrance than he had
expected. she's so particular about when you are allowed to see her without
things - without fake lashes, without fake hair, without her spray tan - that
scott expected her to put up a fight about the towel coming off. 
instead, she rides his thigh for a few minutes, bare thighs and thin bathing
suit bottoms rocking against his shorts, while scott tries to figure out what
she’d drank earlier today. coffee, taken black, or close to it. she must have
gone to lunch with kris. her hands slip up the back of his shirt and she's
gently scratching his skin with those sharp nails that scott can imagine
leaving claw marks. the few times a year he sleeps with kourtney, it's not
nearly as exciting as this, and he's not even inside kylie. 
“oh, man,” scott groans. 
kylie brings her hands around scott to rake her acrylic nails gently over
scott’s jaw. scott is jewish, but it feels like his whole body is awakening
again after a decade, like being baptized. there is a guilt-ridden moment here
beneath the lust, wondering where mason is. of course he's with kim for the
weekend. scott tenses slightly when he thinks of this, but then kylie digs her
nails in at his jaw and scott groans and decides to fuck her. 
she's louder than kourtney ever is, but then kourtney never rode him at full
speed on their living room couch with the blinds open, fully visible in front
of the windows if the gardener had come that day. her hands mostly shake from
the momentum, not being able to land properly on his shoulders, and scott is
hard as iron from her bouncing up and down onto his cock with his baseball hat
on. 
scott doesn’t stop. he bucks up into her again and again, hips snapping up
involuntarily, too fast and too hard after so many months since he’s last had
sex with kourtney. he sees kylie balling her fists up, bunching up the fabric
of his navy lacoste polo, and scratching him sharply when he can’t contain his
enthusiasm. he feels like a new man, fertile and insatiable. he wants, almost
brutishly, to fill her with everything he has, but he has to pull out and jack
off onto her thighs, away from the couch or else he'll catch hell for it,
because kylie probably isn't on the pill. neither was kourtney, she doesn't
believe in it anymore. it almost wasn’t even cheating, kylie looking almost the
same age kourtney had when he had started dating her. 
something kourtney doesn't love is being eaten out, so scott knows an
opportunity when he sees one. kylie is oversensitive from the sex and falls
backwards onto the couch with her legs splayed out and bathing suit bottoms
caught at her knees. she starts laughing when he squints and bends his head
down, his way of asking if she was good with that. her heels meet and cross at
scott's shoulders, tightening her thighs to keep scott's head in place, though
this was a daydream of an experience that scott wanted to last. 
the pit of his day are those minutes alone and wild pacing his house waiting
impatiently for kylie to get there, and the peak of his day is that millisecond
before kylie comes, when she grits out scott, scott, scott. each pronunciation
of his name from her mouth sounds otherworldly, an ego boost from the gods
compared to kourtney's quiet breaths of indifference, or worse, sometimes
sounds of pain as she often admitted.  
===============================================================================
kylie wakes up in the morning, phone in hand with eyes still bleary. vine,
snapchat, twitter, instagram. scott imagines one false lash hanging off her
eyeball, though she didn't come over wearing any. 
scott wakes up in the morning, thinking.mason, penelope, north, the little one
inside kourtney’s stomach. 
fuck, it’s been so long since scott has shared a bed with kourtney, not on a
regular basis since before mason was born five years ago. he peeks up from the
pillow, rolls over on his side so he can lay his head on kylie’s chest, and
inhales the smell of suntan lotion from the day before. 
“you won’t tell them?” kylie asks, because she’s the responsible one in this
scenario, almost that it’s her place to apologize for crossing a line, or
twenty. “bible?” 
scott holds out his pinkie. “bible,” he says, feeling like a real member of the
family. 
the phone rings.  
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