yum . . . !

You went out more, and when you came home you didn’t even ask for dinner, already full. Even when he pressed his ear to the wall, he couldn’t hear you cry at night. Horrible, isn’t he? To feel some sort of desire for your pain, just so he could be the one to offer you healing.

Recently, you’ve been going through a rebellious phase. He knows, rationally, that you aren’t actually lashing out at him. It’s natural, even healthy, for you to desire independence. It’s just—he thought that it would start and end with a later curfew. The last thing he ever thought was for you to move out.

Never have you been any good at sharing bad news, but this time may be worst of all. You gave him your cutest, toothiest grin when you showed off your newly signed lease. The shock hit him with the force of a tsunami, knocking him off his feet in all ways but physical. It took the total strength of his will to choke back his bile and feign a smile. You hadn’t even asked him to help you look. 

Had he done something wrong? Smothered you too tightly? Not enough?

The thought haunted him as you scratched each date off the calendar leading up to your move-in. At the very least, he took solace in how you needed him to take you shopping for furniture. He somehow managed to find joy in helping you pack, even when every piece of you he placed into cardboard boxes felt like a knife to his gut. 

When you weren’t looking, he snuck some of your belongings away for himself. Little things, like one well-loved plushie or an old diary he’d already read through several times. Just enough to fill a fragment of the empty space you’d leave behind, things you were already likely to throw out or forget you had in the first place. Surely you wouldn’t miss just one tattered, out-grown bra or a pair of stained panties filled with holes.

Your moving day came quicker than he expected. One minute you were cuddling on the couch together and the next he was here, hauling boxes off a rental truck and into the apartment you found all on your own. 

“Don’t you just love it!” you cheer, spinning around in the empty studio, easily flitting between the living space and the adjoining kitchen within the limited square-footage. 

He hates it. If you had only asked him to help you, he’s sure he would have found something better than this. Anything would be better than this, even if it meant you leaving him still. 

The first problem, is the size. How could you leave behind the whole of your home, with a full kitchen, a backyard, and an actual bedroom for a space somehow smaller than the attic alone? He can’t wrap his head around it, wondering if all your things will even fit inside.

Second, is the location. It’s a terrible neighborhood, too close to the worst parts of the city. Already, he’s heard the sound of sirens nearby. Though the street itself is residential enough, made up of mostly local traffic and a few passerby, there’s no telling what kind of person could follow you home from the bus stop on the busier main road beyond.

Third, is the apartment itself. It’s a groundfloor unit. Just beyond your windows is an overgrown lawn landscaped with only a couple bushes, and beyond that, the street. So easy it would be to break-in. Even easier, would it be to see inside. To watch you at your most vulnerable, your most intimate and unknowing. If you left the blinds open, it would be a feast at night for any peeping sicko to lay their eyes on you. 

Would you be visible from the sidewalk? A parked car? Or would someone have to get closer, to stand on the lawn itself to peer inside? 

He worries, painfully, for your safety. But then the way you look at him right now, your proud smile puffing your cheeks, eyes crinkling closed with the sheer size of your grin, has him stuffing down all of his complaints. “It’s perfect.”

The two of you spend the whole day moving everything into your new space, though Caleb finds himself doing all of the heavy lifting. Not that he minds, in fact, it thrills him when you don’t even protest as he hauls your bedframe inside all on his own.

“You’re so strong, Caleb. Since when did you get so big?” you coo, watching raptly from the comfort of your desk chair as he begins with the assembly.

He can’t help his blush, feels it to the tips of his ears as he laughs. “Don’t tell me it took you this long to notice. I’ve only been working out since high school.”

“Sorry that I’m not a pervert who ogles her brother’s biceps!” you shout, voice high-pitched in that way you get when you’re lying. He’s read your journals, so he knows that you are, indeed, a pervert who ogles her brother’s biceps. It’s the thing that motivates him the most, afterall.

“But you’re staring right now, aren’t you?” Caleb pauses to look over his shoulder, just to watch you spin in your chair and face the wall.

“Nope. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He sighs, and returns his attention back to the bedframe. “Well if you’re not going to ogle me, then maybe you should put yourself to good use and start unpacking.”

 “...Fine.” With a groan, you jump from your seat and trot over just a few steps to the kitchen.

As soon as he finishes putting it all together, he hauls your new mattress onto the bed and admires his handiwork. It’s a queen, a substantial upgrade from your bed at home. Before he knew the size of your apartment, he didn’t question your need for such a large bed. Now, as it eats up the majority of the square-footage, something about it disturbs him. He can’t help but bring it up. 

“This is a really big bed for such a small space. We should have gotten you a twin. I don’t mind if you want to return it.”

“Ugh, no,” you respond to his dismay. “I needed something bigger. I don’t care about having more room.”

He feels a twitch in his eye. “What do you mean, needed something bigger? It’s not like you’re going to bring someone home, right?”

“Caleb! Of course not! I just like to spread out when I sleep. You know that.” You attempt to assure him, but fail to soothe his nerves. Because he hears it—the way your tone pitches up, an open window to your insincerity.

There it is, then. He finally understands why you decided to move out so suddenly. Why you didn’t tell him beforehand or ask for his help. You need your own space because you want to have sex. With someone else. Someone who isn’t him.

Hah. How sick is he, that there was a part of him, a deeply buried part but a part nonetheless, that thought you would… what? Remain a virgin forever? It’s not as if you were saving yourself for him. He’s your brother—it’s disgusting to entertain the idea even slightly. He should have known this day would come. You wouldn’t always stay his little sister, trapped inside your childhood home, untouched and virginal for the rest of your life. Every bird leaves the nest.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he mutters, just under his breath, more to himself than anything. Nails dig into his palm so hard it stings.

“What did you say? Caleb, are you mad at me? I don’t understand…” You stop whatever you’re doing and grab onto his arm, tugging at him to turn around. Shedding his glower, he obliges and faces you with as much of a smile as he can muster.

“I’m not mad, I promise.” What’s one more little fib? “I think I’m just hungry. Why don’t I make us something to eat and break in your new kitchen?”

Visibly, you relax, but cling to him still. “I don’t have any groceries yet, dummy.”

“Then it looks like we have our next mission. Let’s go find the nearest grocery store.”

After fixing enough dinner to keep your empty fridge stocked with leftovers, night finally comes to steal you from him. Each time you yawn he’s reminded, dreadfully, that he needs to leave. Your eyes droop closed as you knock your head against his shoulder, the two of you curled up in front of your laptop on the floor. If it were up to him, he would stay like this forever—would keep himself awake all night if it meant you had something sturdy to lean on.

But it’s been a long day, and you deserve a good rest. The bed he worked so hard to build for you (and someone else) awaits. 

“Hey, little bird. It’s past your bedtime,” he whispers, gently rubbing you awake with the arm curled around your side.

You make a noise that sounds somewhere between the squeak of a mouse and the whine of a kicked puppy as you nuzzle into his pecs. “Can’t we watch just one more episode?”

“Someone slept through the last three episodes already.”

“Not true!” you gasp, tilting your face up just enough to glare at him. If he wanted to, it would take only the tiniest, itty bitty movement to lean in and kiss your pouted lips. If you wanted to, it would be just as easy. But you don’t, so he doesn’t.

“Alright, then why don’t you tell me what just happened,” he teases.

“I… um…” You furrow your brows in thought, trying your best despite the futility of the task. Eventually, you give up. “Whatever, fine, you win.”

Tenderly, Caleb strokes your cheek, letting himself indulge in the soft give of your flesh. His touch is just light enough to be sensitive to every minute detail of your skin—the invisible little hairs, the divots of faded acne scars, the ridge of a zit forming just beneath the surface. All of it beautiful, because they’re a part of you. “Get up and brush your teeth. Then I’ll head out, okay?”

“But—” Nervous, you pause, face heating beneath his touch. You quickly bury yourself in his chest again, arms wrapping tightly around his torso, speech coming muffled. “I don’t want you to leave…”

You are so ridiculously cute that it almost trumps the bitterness that pulses through his system. A poison to his endearment. There’s just this terrible, rotten part of him that can’t forgive you for leaving. “I’m going back to our home. You’re the one who decided to move out, remember? There are consequences to your actions, you know.”

Even with the edge to his tone, you seem to pay no mind to his fury and whine instead. “Can’t you just stay the night? Please? Everything’s too… different. It’ll be weird, all alone.”

Maybe if he left you here, walked out the door and let you drown yourself in loneliness, you’d learn your lesson. Sure, you might cry, might call him desperate and weepy after you scare yourself on a shadow, but he wouldn’t come. Not until you were begging, apologizing, finally admitting you were wrong to abandon him and buy a bed big enough for two. Only then would he take you back home where you belong.

Except you would hate him for that, wouldn’t you?

So like always, he relents to your whims. “Alright, little bird. I’ll stay with you.”

As you brush your teeth, he’s mindful to shut the blinds. Then, with two fingers scissoring them open, he peers through the slightest gap in plastic and out to the expanse of the road. A single, warm streetlamp illuminates the corner in a brisk orange glow, but aside from that, there is a peaceful lull to the dark beyond. He watches as a car passes by, bright headlights slipping through the openings between each shingled layer of shades.

There’s barely anything blocking his view, aside from a few overgrown shrubs in front of the rightmost side of the window. If you ever mindlessly left these blinds open at night, a stranger would have a nearly unobstructed sight of you lounging on your bed or sitting at your desk. Even a single light left on, whether it be the blue glow of a TV or the faint traces of a reading lamp, would bare your sleeping form to the world without your notice. He should remind you to be careful.

When you come out of the bathroom, Caleb is laying a spare blanket on the floor for himself, just next to your bed.

“Don’t be stupid.” You quickly snatch the pillow from his arms. “You’re going to hurt yourself down there! Just sleep next to me.”

Here, you offer him something to good to be true. It could be him, the person to share your queen-sized bed. The one to hold you in your sleep, to leave your sheets smelling like him as much as they smell like you. There would be your side of the bed and then there would be his. Anyone who came after would be in the shadow of his presence.

Except the more he wants something, the less he deserves it.

Caleb takes back the pillow from your stubborn grip and pats your head. “I’ve slept on the floor plenty of times in my life. I’ll be fine.” 

“Well if you complain about your back hurting tomorrow, then I get a free pass to call you an old man,” you huff, even though he knows you would find a way to call him old no matter what.

“Deal.”

It takes very little for you to doze off to sleep once you finally slip into bed, your snoring evident of as much. The move must have drained you, even if you did little of the real work. Caleb, on the other hand, stares at the ceiling, wide awake despite the exertion that holds his body captive. 

He just wants to be good to you. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Sometimes, that means putting his foot down, even if he ends up looking like the bad guy. Like when you were a kid and tried to slip through the bars of an enclosure at the zoo. You screamed and cried when he grabbed your wrist so tightly it bruised, nearly dislocating with the force of his pull, but he knew, even if you didn’t, that it was an act of love. 

So should he have done the same now? Is he being too lenient, giving in to your desires without so much as a protest? Or is that just his selfishness speaking, masking some feral part of him in the guise of brotherly protection? 

Caleb turns his head, and sees your hand drooped over the side of your bed, inches away from where he lays. Even with all that space, you still choose to curl up right on the edge, as close to him as possible.

Your wrist dangles, and he still remembers how it felt as he nearly crushed it in his grip all those years ago. Even when he was a child himself, it took barely any strength to feel the carpal bones beneath your flesh. You are a delicate, fragile thing.

His gaze travels from your pulse point to the soft padding of your palm. By now, he’s memorized the creases in your thin and tender skin and the path of your veins that peak beneath it. Caleb has no concept of what makes up a palm reading, but he believes, however irrationally, that each line would somehow lead to him if he pressed your hands together.

In your current pose, your fingers naturally curve and slope to create a loose cupped shape. Would you feel it, he wonders, if he held it now? Would you wake if his hand slipped through the gap between your thumb and your index finger? He could thrust through the hole you’ve made, your circle of digits widening to take the size of him, dwarfed by his girth—

His cock twitches.

Caleb closes his eyes to will his erection away, but the back of his lids are flush with the image of your hand tight around his weeping length. In his fantasy, your fingers would barely wrap around it, unable to meet each other in their ringed hold. His briefs tighten with just the thought of your delicate wrist flexing with every up-and-down motion, the soft flesh of your palm against his dry cock—no, not dry, but wet with your saliva after you spit onto the head and watch it roll down his foreskin.

Unconsciously, he grinds the heel of his own hand into his clothed groin, hissing at the painful force he applies to himself in punishment. 

He attempts to run from his fantasies just for his eyes to open to the very real fingers dangling right next to his face. The loose skin that wrinkles around your knuckles calls to him in an unbearable way.

You’ve always been a deep sleeper. Growing up, it would take several alarms each morning for you to get up for school, and even then, he would have to practically haul you out of bed. So he knows, logically, that he could do whatever he wants and you wouldn’t wake up. Vulnerable you, with your groundfloor apartment.

Maybe he’s teaching you a lesson, then, when he inches closer to your hand. That anyone could do this, with but a bobby pin to the lock on your door. Even if it should only ever be him who gets to lick at the salt on your palm as he does now. No one else is allowed to access you like this, to curl their tongue around your knuckle, to know what the thin webbing between his sister’s fingers tastes like. Just him, the only person to have your nail graze his teeth as he lathers himself on your thumb.

Then he feels it, a drop of slimy wet that hits his forehead. You’re drooling.

Caleb comes like a flash grenade—with a pin drop, then a tick of the clock, and finally his vision going white. 

The mess in his boxers brings a sudden, shameful clarity to him. Even in the dark, your hand is visibly sticky with his saliva, soaking wet, as if you’ve been slobbered on by an untrained dog. A repulsive sight, to know that it was him that did this to you. His sister.

In a moment, he’ll clean you up as gently as he can to hide the evidence of his sin. But first, he cranes his neck to get a good look at you, face hanging just off the edge of the bed. Your drool pools against the sheets where it’s slipped from your open mouth along with your snores.

He reaches up, wiping his thumb along the corner of your chin, where spit drips from your lips. Then, with only a moment of hesitancy, he brings it to his mouth and sucks.

The next day, you treat him just as you always have, mocking the bags under his eyes and the extra set of stretches he does after a night against the hard laminate. If you somehow realize what he’d done last night, you at least have the courtesy to act as if it didn’t happen. 

Even as his guilt shadows him, there’s a domestic sort of peace to this morning. For a moment, as you both finish unpacking after a hardy breakfast, it doesn’t feel like just your apartment. Ours, he thinks, selfishly, knowing too well it’s just another way to play house with you in the fog of his mind. This place of pretend he too often inhabits, where he can be something more, something worthy of this homemaking.

If you were never raised together, would this be the life he’d have? Moving in with his— with you, arguing over which cupboards should store the dishes and which should be the pantry, knowing he’d be the one cooking in the kitchen you’d share. His model planes sharing a shelf next to your plushies, his clothes overtaken by yours in the lone closet. Even in an apartment as small as this, he could be so happy, if it meant he was always with you. 

But he already had all of this and more, didn’t he? Even if it meant being your brother. Now you’re the one who chose to leave, so here he’s left, unpacking your things, separating your life from his instead of joining them together like he dreams. 

Soon, he’ll return to the place that actually belongs to the both of you, and you won’t come with him.

That time comes eventually, when your apartment is fully unpacked, every corner stuffed full of your things until there’s no room left for him. He’s already cooked enough to keep you fed for days, stalling this finite domesticity with every dish he could possibly whip up. Then, all too quickly, there’s nothing more he can do for you.

At your front door, the two of you stand quietly. Anything he wants to say is too cruel and he hasn’t earned that bite. Not after what he did to you last night.

You hang your head, shuffling back and forth from foot to foot as you stare at your own bare feet next to his, in shoes. It takes just one little sniffle before he pulls you into his arms without a second more of hesitation, strangling you in a bear hug as tight as he can while you start to cry.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you whisper between little hiccups.

“Shush, you don’t ever have to thank me.” He kisses the top of your head, rubbing soothing circles into your sides. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

Never has he meant it more—because even as you’ve plunged a knife into his gut and unspooled the precious organs from his body, he’s supported you unwaveringly. This martyrdom comes easily. As long as it makes you happy, he’ll gladly spear himself on every ugly thought that possesses him.

You just cry harder at his admission, unable to choke back your weeping as his shirt wets with your tears. “You better not forget about me, okay? I need to see you all the time. If you stop visiting me, I’ll burn down the house so you have no choice.”

“Geez, you drive a hard bargain. I have too many embarrassing photos of you at home to risk it going up in flames,” he teases, as if he’d ever keep himself away for long. It seems to do the trick, however, when you wipe your snotty nose on his shirt and stomp on his foot.

“You’re so annoying!” you huff as you pull away, crossing your arms against your chest.

Caleb is too distracted by your veiny red eyes, the streaked wetness against your cheeks and the quiver of your lip to really care about your indignation. “Call me if you need anything. No matter what it is, I’ll come running. You got that?”

All you can do is nod, fighting against yourself and losing when tears well up in your waterline and threaten to release. 

Caleb ruffles your hair, drawing a frustrated stop that from under your breath before his hand tangles in it—not pulling, just holding, keeping you still. He leans in, knees bent as he drops to meet your eyes, so close your noses almost touch. Then, just as one fat tear starts to roll down your cheek, he presses a kiss right to the bone and catches it, tasting the salty tang of you on his lips.

When he finally says goodbye, tearing himself away from you at last, his chest heaves as his back rests against the closed door to your apartment. 

He’s so hard it hurts.

The eeriness of the empty house shocks Caleb when he returns, as if the vacancy of your presence has been replaced with a thick miasma. His throat tightens, choking on your loss. He puts away his shoes, and all he can see are the empty spots on the rack. When he takes off his jacket, your coats are missing from the hall closet.

Caleb has always felt his height the most at home, where its second nature to duck under doorways just to fit through them. Now, for the first time, he feels so… small. Like he’s lost half of himself, and now he struggles to fill a shape that feels meaningless without you to tower over.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, fidgeting like a stranger in his own home. It’s dinner time, but he isn’t hungry. What’s the point of eating, if there’s no you to cook for? 

You, alone, in an apartment that just about anyone could break into. That anyone could soon see inside, with the sun nearly set as it is. 

And, ah, he forgot to remind you about the blinds. He pulls out his phone, hovering over your contact, always his most recent text or call. Fingers skim across the touch screen, but for some reason, he can’t find it in him to write the message. It’s just—maybe it’s better if he tells you in person. Or maybe, you’ve already figured it out for yourself, and you’ll think he’s belittling you if he reminds you of something so obvious.

He should go over and check first, shouldn’t he? Just to make sure his overbearing nature isn’t in vain.

Such little convincing it takes to retrace his steps, to put on his shoes, his jacket, and get right back into his car. It’s as if something else has possessed him—the miasma, perhaps, as he drives to your apartment without thought, muscles moving on total autopilot.

Fate, it seems, is on his side. There’s still empty parking on the street, just outside of your building, right across from your unit. The streetlamp soaks the road in warm, orange light, but this spot is just out of reach, only the sparest refraction against the gloss finish illuminating him. He doubts, even if he did stand out, that you’d recognize the car anyways—he still has to wave out the window whenever he picks you up.

He was right to worry. Your blinds remain wide open—the plastic shades sit horizontal, acting like ultra-thin bars to your enclosure. All the lights on your apartment are flicked on, spotlighting you to the world outside. To him. Inside, you go about your night completely unaware to how you’ve exposed yourself. Silly girl. He thought he raised you better than this, to have some sense of self-preservation. But no, here you are, pittering about to an audience of one. 

You need him, don’t you? To keep watch like a bodyguard, or perhaps a guardian angel. This is a role he can easily fulfill. Whether or not you’re aware of its necessity, he’ll make sure he remains your one and only voyeur.

In your kitchen, you microwave one of the many meals he prepared for you today, taking it to your desk in front of the window to indulge. Just after you take a bite, he sees you take out your phone and snap a picture of your food before taking one of yourself. His phone buzzes in real time, selfie delivered promptly. It makes his heart skip a beat, to bare witness to your thinking of him. All while you have no idea he sits just outside.

Your evening routine is mundane, dull in a way that would drive anyone to boredom. Not Caleb. He is enraptured by your normalcy, each unconscious movement appears to him like a beautifully choreographed ballet.

Every yawn, every stretch, every step between points of interest has him mesmerized. There is something… pure to your obliviousness. You exist in only your most natural state, the you that no one else sees, that picks your nose or unconsciously rests your hand under your waistband. He’s lived with you your whole life, and yet he’s never seen you so unabashedly yourself. Like an animal in a zoo, incognizant to its performance.

Eventually, the night drags on, and you get yourself ready for bed. You disappear from his sight for a moment, the bathroom he supposes, before you return to rifle through your drawers. Then, with a haphazard struggle that only he could find grace in, you remove your shirt.

Caleb sucks in a breath. Your bare breasts sit exposed on your chest as you turn towards the window.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen you naked like this. Sure, he’s snuck glances here and there whenever you left your door open at home, but he’s never been given such an unobstructed view of your body. 

Your tits are perfect, of course they are, how could they not be? He knows they’d fit his hands just right, made for him to grope and touch, one for each palm. So too are your nipples, begging to be pinched between his fingers and sucked between his teeth. Would you like that? Just the barest hint of pain as he teethes on your breast, suckling on the fleshy nub until you’re begging for him to touch you elsewhere. Maybe you’d like it better if it hurt more, if he pulls, twists with intent while you cry and thrash and—

He knocks his head against the wheel. Too much, too much. That’s his baby sister in there.

When at last he calms his thoughts enough to look back inside, you’ve finally changed into your pajamas except—that’s his shirt. You’re wearing his shirt. 

It’s then that the lights flicker off, vanishing you from his gaze as your room goes dark.

the words echo something from just twenty minutes earlier—when you’d taken your first drag of the joint he rolled, all nerves and inexperience. the way the smoke hit your lungs too hard, how you spluttered and coughed, eyes watering. just like this. just like having your mouth wrapped around him, overwhelmed by his weight and heat.

he’d laughed then—lazy, fond and devastatingly cute. “you can take it, pips, can’t you?” the drawl of it had gone straight to your core, molten and slow. and when you coughed again, throat burning from the weed, his laughter only deepened, warm and teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

caleb made it easier for you. he took the joint from your hands and murmured, “c’mere—come closer.”

you did as you were told, scooting closer to him. you watched in awe, hypnotized by the way he brought the joint to his lips, inhaled, and held it there. his free thumb pulled at your plush bottom lip, and he parted your mouth as he leaned in.

your eyes widened in shock, a soft whimper slipping out when he blew a thick puff of smoke into your mouth, his lips a single millimeter away from yours.

“breathe it in,” he whispered. and you did—there was nothing you wouldn’t do when caleb talked to you like that. nothing you wouldn’t do for caleb in general. 

“‘n out f’me.”

you blew the smoke out and watched the white puff fan across his pretty face.

“gooood girl,” he murmured, and his tone made your stomach tighten. the thumb resting on your bottom lip tugged gently at the muscle, and for a moment you thought he was going to kiss you—but instead, he spoke softly, “it’s easy once you get the hang of it, yeah?”

when you nodded dumbly, he pulled back and brought the joint to his lips again, inhaling before letting the smoke drift into the air, secretly wishing it had been in your mouth instead. he continued to guide you after that, watching your intake, teaching you how to take small, careful hits since you weren’t used to it yet.

and once you got the hang of it—he’d been right. it was easy. you were both out of your minds, somewhere far, far away from earth. your eyes had fallen closed, but his… his stayed on you. he watched every small movement you made, his gaze constantly drifting back to your lips. he scooted closer, and his thumb found your mouth again.

“hmm?” you hummed lazily.

the sound made something in him tighten. he couldn’t help himself—his thumb slipped past your lips, and your eyes flew open as wide as they could in your hazy state. still, instinct took over. you wrapped your lips around his digit and sucked, slow and thoughtless, like it was the joint all over again.

“lemme show you how to do something else…” he whispered, a gentle yet predatory glimmer shining in his high eyes.

and now you’re here. your bloodshot eyes peer up at him and he watches as the tears spill down your face. he looks hazy to you, partially because of your current cognitive state and partially because of the tears on your lash line. “ca-caleb,” you slur out, dragging out the vowels in his name . “‘s too big—too much.” 

he just chuckles, “yeah? it’s too big?” he asks, a hint of condescension in his voice and you feel pathetic for the way it makes butterflies in your stomach erupt. “poor baby doesn’t know how to smoke or suck dick…” he jokes, voice cooing. 

“caleb,” you pout. “you’re being mean…”

“you haven’t even seen me mean, pips,” he murmurs, the words honest and low—because you haven’t. you’ve never met caleb’s true self, never touched the depth of what coils inside him. you don’t even know half of what he feels for you, and that’s the most dangerous part. “open your mouth—i’ll teach you how to suck me off, too. that’s what friends are for right?” 

the lopsided grin on his droopy face does nothing to soften the blow of his words. your pussy twitches needily as arousal soaks right through your underwear and begins to sodden your shorts. 

you open your mouth and he laces his fingers through your hair, pushing you right on to his throbbing length. he moans prettily when your lips successfully meets the base of his cock. he holds you there for a second—or five—feeling your throat constrict around him. when he pulls you back you’re fully crying, strings of saliva connecting you to his spit soaked cock. 

“so fuckin’ pretty,” he chokes out, his grip in your hair tightening. “look at you, just so pretty like this—all for me, hm?”

you feel the weight of his hands guiding your head, slow and insistent. your limbs are heavy—heavier than they should be—your body humming as the weed sinks deeper into your bloodstream, blood thrumming hot beneath your skin. but the ache that usually lives in your pussy is sharper now, need curling tighter in your belly.

you want him on your tongue again. badly.

you slip from his grasp, your hand closing around his thick length as you draw him back to your mouth, lips parting around just the tip. your hips rock aimlessly and without thought, chasing friction—chasing relief—slick and desperate against nothing at all. your moans turn soft and broken around him, little whimpers that send a jolt through his body, and he throbs hard against your tongue in response.

“god, you feel s-so good, pips.” he whimpers and your cunt gushes another wave of arousal. it only encourages you to take him further. you drop your hand and take him deeper into your mouth. you ignore the way your throat pushes him out, gagging in favor of releasing him. anything to hear the clipped moans coming from your best friend's mouth. “shit—ugh, baby—baby, please.”

you gag again and again, fighting for control, forcing yourself to breathe through your nose until caleb yanks you off him by your hair. your scalp burns at the sudden pull—you’re coughing hard, chest heaving as you gasp for air. tears sting your eyes while he pumps himself furiously just inches from your face, the sight dizzying and all too overwhelming.

“gonna cum, pretty girl,” he grunts, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest all raw and strained. he slaps his cock against your cheek and you let off a desperate moan, “open wide.”

you stick your tongue out and patiently await for his load, your body wound tight, aching for him. 

he throws his head back and moans your name loud enough that there’s an echo that rattles your entire body. then come the ribbons of cum, thick and hot and almost never ending as they dress your face, missing your mouth completely. his entire body shakes like crazy as his orgasm rocks him. 

he’s breathless when his eyes finally crack open, and there you are—pretty, wrecked and painted like you’ve stepped straight out of one of the countless dreams he’s had about you.

his cock doesn’t soften. if anything, the sight of you high and covered in cum makes him harder. his breathing turns rough as his hand closes around your chin, forcing your gaze up. a low, almost manic chuckle slips from him when he sees the hunger still burning in your eyes. carnal desire behind hazy eyes. 

“you’re a quick learner, pips.” he whispers, grip tightening in a way that makes you whimper. “what do ya say you teach me how to make you feel good now? or should i roll another joint first?”

kit says… HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FUCKING BABY @stonedxia. i adore u to the moon and back—you always have my back when i need u and i just lobe you so so much. ur one of my favorite people on this earth and i pray u never ever go bald and that happiness and caleb find u in every lifetime. i hope u have an amazing day!! pls cum over and cum on me <3 p.s. i really hope u like this i am genuinely so terrified…. it’s not my finest work but i made it longer than usual just 4 u

The pillow you threw at him falls to the ground with a dull thud, and you stick your tongue out, softly blowing a raspberry as he tugs your legs in retaliation. He narrows his eyes in amusement and smirks as you shriek, murmuring under his breath something half-hearted about women you don't care enough to dignify. Instead, you turn your sights to Lane's small flatscreen, where the PS3's startup screen begins to play.

"Devil May Cry 4? Seriously?" He stares boredly at the screen, one arm propped on your calf to hold up his chin, while the other traces absent shapes on the skin of your thigh. He can't help but stare at the rim of your shorts, catching the smallest glimpse of your underwear before you shift your legs.

Damn.

He sighs through his nose, leaning over your legs to finish the rest of your beer in a single dramatic chug just because he can.

Silence falls over the two of you, broken only by the sounds of Nero's grunts and the quiet clack of buttons as you aggressively handle his controller.

It doesn't take long at all until his hands start to wander. It's innocent enough at first, just a few lingering touches ghosting across your exposed skin. But then he's skirting around the hem of your shorts, the tips of his fingers brushing beneath the lifted fabric, just barely low enough to be considered decent, but high enough to make his intentions clear.

"Lane."

He shudders at the tone of your voice—the exasperation entwined closely with affection, and how it drips from your lips like sin itself.

God, the way you say his name should be considered a crime with how much he's willing to do to get you to say it again.

He grins at your suspicion with a shrug of his shoulders, the edges of his smile holding the familiar traces of what you've come to pinpoint as desire.

Your eyes narrow when they clash with clouded blue, the undeniable heat behind them sending a shiver down your spine. Trying to close your legs proves fruitless as he slots himself between them like he belongs there, tossing your legs over his broad shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

Fuck, you look so good beneath him with your shirt—his shirt, the possessive part of his brain preens—riding up to expose your stomach, your lips parted as your breaths get heavier, and your eyes beginning to glaze with a hunger only he has the power to satiate. He licks his lips, chuckling lowly when you imitate the action.

His palm travels over the newly revealed skin, resting just where your shorts meet your navel, while the corners of his grin sharpen into the cocky smirk you've grown to look forward to every shift. He leans down to kiss you, deceptively soft, but it's quick to devolve into a desperate clash of tongue and teeth, leaving you breathless when he pulls away suddenly, your lips connected by a thin string of spit that glimmers beneath his TV's blue light. You blink blearily as his other thumb swipes across your lips, eye twitching at his cocksure smile with an almost dejected scoff.

"I'm not doing anything, baby, just keep playing." The way he kisses the bend of your knee doesn't exactly feel like nothing, and the metal of his piercings is cold against your flushed skin, sending cold chills throughout the rest of your body. But still, you turn back to the TV, doing your best to focus as his thumb dips beneath the elastic of your shorts. He pulls experimentally, letting the band snap against your waist whilst he caresses your stomach.

His lips leave wet bruises along your inner thighs. "Tell me to stop, and I will," his voice an uncharacteristically soft murmur against the most recent of his love bites.

You don't look away from the screen once. "If you stop Lane, I'll smother you with a fucking pillow."

He snorts loudly, biting hard enough to draw a yelp from you. "Always violence with you women," he tuts, licking gently at the bruise in an attempt to soothe. You roll your eyes, trying to focus on your input commands while Lane works you out of your shorts and underwear in one smooth movement, tossing the garments haphazardly over his shoulder with little regard to whether you'd find them later.

Your legs try to close, more so out of instinct than insecurity, but Lane's hands pry them apart gently, exposing your glistening cunt to his greedy gaze.

He nearly groans at the sight, using his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you…So wet, and I haven't even touched you yet. Need me that bad, princess?"

"Fuck you." You hate how pitched your voice comes out, all breathless and needy, just the way he loves it. The controller in your hands nearly cracks in two when he laughs, the heat of his breath telling of just how close he's gotten.

He shifts slightly, settling against the couch when you spare him a heady glance. "Go on," he goads with that godforsaken smirk of his while he rests his cheek on your trembling thigh, "just keep playing. You suck ass, though."

You open your mouth to retort, but the only thing that comes out is a soft gasp of surprise when he licks a slow stripe up your pussy, his lips closing around your clit as he begins to suckle relentlessly. His hands hold you open, arms wound tightly around your thighs with a rare show of strength, leaving you at his mercy as you squirm in his grasp.

Still, you do your best to fight through the hordes of enemies, trying with little avail to ignore the wet squelches of Lane's tongue disappearing inside you. It only gets worse when he pushes his middle finger in, lapping at your swollen clit like a man depraved. The pace he sets is punishing, each flick of his wrist a silent promise of what's to come.

Blindly reaching down, you grab at his hair with a shaking hand, whether it's to pull him closer or push him away, neither of you cares.

"Shit…How are you still so tight? Can barely fit two fingers in you, baby." He groans against you as he pushes in his ring finger right next to the middle one, a snug fit, but the burn hurts so good. You keen at the feeling, dropping the controller completely in favor of tangling your hands in his hair.

"Lane…" The sound of your voice calling out to him so sweetly has him almost rutting pathetically into the couch cushions.

"That's right," he growls between obscene slurps, "say my name." He curls his fingers, deliberately hitting that soft little spot he's had mapped out since your first time sleeping together.

Your whines taper off into drawn-out moans with a vague similarity to his name, the warmth in your stomach spreading to the tips of your toes as your legs begin to close around his head.

"You're close, aren't you?" You can feel the smugness of his grin through the haze of pleasure, making the mistake of meeting eyes from between your legs. His face is flushed red, clear blue eyes crinkled at the edges with his trademark lazy arrogance, whilst you fall apart above him bit by bit. "Then cum."

The snap of pleasure inside of you has your back arching off the couch and away from him, Lane's shirt clinging to your sweat-soaked body like a second skin.

"L-Lane!" You pant, weakly grasping at his wrist, but barely slowing his movements as he cleans up the remnants of your orgasm with slow yet calculated strokes of his tongue. Only when you stop trembling does he pull his fingers out, whistling at the sheen of slick that coats his fingers as he slowly spreads them in front of you. His face fares no better—coated in cum that drips from his jaw onto his graphic tee.

The bastard doesn't even bother wiping his face, cleaning what he can with his tongue before capturing your lips in a disorienting kiss that you can't help but melt into. You feel the heat of him through his sweats as he grinds against you, the weight of his cock alone reigniting the need inside you once more.

He makes quick work of your shirt, shoving down the cups of your bra to palm at your tits. His fingers tweak at the perked nipples, tugging and twisting them in a way that has you arching into the touch, your head thrown back against the couch's armrest.

"You-you're so annoying, you know that?" Your eyes narrow at him, but your lip is caught between your teeth as you bite back another whimper.

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know, princess. Plus, you're the one who came over to my place," he rolls his eyes, tossing his shirt in the same forgotten pile as the rest of your other clothes, "condom or no condom."

"No condom…"

"Sorry, what was that? You're gonna have to speak up, pretty girl."

You're going to kill him. Right now.

If only you knew how attractive Lane found you right now, maybe then you'd curb your judgment.

"Kidding, now turn around for me, yeah?" He kisses the crease between your brows, not giving you much of a choice as he manhandles you onto your knees, your forearms propped over the armrest. You hear the rustle of fabric behind you, followed swiftly by a familiar nudge against your clit. Lane's hand holds you steady by the hip as you jolt, slowly sliding through your folds before finally pushing in.

"Breathe, pretty." He presses kisses along your back, ghosting his hands up your sides, and down your arms to ground both you and himself. He's trying, really, he is, to let you adjust, but holy shit, you're tight, debilitatingly so. He can feel the control slipping with every passing moment.

An eternity had to have passed before you're calling out his name like a siren's call. Don't you know what that does to guys like him?

"You can move."

And like the love-blinded sailor he is, he answers, first with a shallow grind that makes you push against him, pleading for more—for harder, then he's pulling out and thrusting back into the hilt, tearing a scream from your throat loud enough to have the neighbors looking for new listings.

You feel your knees buckle as your feet kick up, brushing against his thighs as he pummels into you from behind. His hands hold you up, their grip nearly bruising to keep you from collapsing.

He watches you shudder with every thrust with an expression that can only be described as self-satisfactory.

Nobody on this planet could make you feel the way he did.

Especially not that punk ass biker who always acted like he had some sort of weird claim on you. Last he checked, it was his name that you moaned out, and his cock that turned your brain into a fucked-out mess.

"Shit—keep clenching like that," he pants out, head hanging low as his pace becomes more erratic.

His name falls from your lips like it's the only word you've ever learned, woven between a slew of moans and whimpers that's making it substantially for Lane not to bust every second.

You feel the cold press of his nipple piercings against your back when his breath fans your ear, one of his hands falling from your hip to rub deep circles on your clit, which twitches from overstimulation.

"I'm gonna cum inside, alright?" He bites the lobe of your ear softly, pinning you to the couch with his weight. It creaks with every heavy thrust, clearly not built for someone of yours and Lane's libido.

You only nod frantically in response, your breath hitching at your own impending peak. "Lane, I'm close—!"

"I know, baby, I know. Let go for me, I've got you."

What could have only been described as pure ecstasy explodes beneath your skin, setting each one of your nerves alight as you orgasm with a strangled cry of Lane's name. It's not long until tears of overstimulation well in your eyes and blur your vision at the corners as he chases his own high, his face buried in the crook of your neck, and breathing in the smell of you.

The hand that had been rubbing your clit finds one of your hands, intertwining your fingers together tightly when his peak finally crests, filling you with enough cum to leak onto the couch when he pulls out.

He lies back with you on his chest for a moment, allowing his nerves to settle before stalking off with a yawn. He returns with a soft towel and a glass of water, wiping you down with enough thoughtfulness for you to think someone replaced your boyfriend while he was out.

He does not appreciate that comment and deliberately gives a rough wipe to your oversensitive cunt with a blank stare.

You kick him in the chest lightly, and he staggers back like he's been shot. With a fond roll of your eyes, you bend down to pick up the fallen controller as "Abandon All Hope" flashes periodically on the screen. "You're actually the worst, you know that?"

"Yeah, but you love me."

"Unfortunately."

tunnel vision doesn’t exactly give him a chance to consider that any further, in a trance as he sizes you up. the most forbidden area of your body, likely the only part of you that he’s never seen. sure, things have been inevitable throughout the time you’ve spent but this is light years different than an accidental walk-in courtesy of his own negligence and an unlocked door.

“what’s on your mind?” you breathe up at him and he almost misses it, heart pounding in his ears. he can hear the meekness of your words and it screams insecurity to him, purple eyes shaky as they dart back up to you. no, that was the very last thing you should ever feel.

the air in the room feels so much thicker, each passing second hitting him with that sense of realization. this was it, this was you spread out on his familiar navy blue sheets. babydoll eyes staring right up at him, looking for reassurance and comfort as your pussy drools a little puddle down your asscheeks.

“oh, baby,” he coos, faint and quiet despite the house being empty. a thumb slides along the wetness gathered at your slit, coating the pad before he’s using it to slide the pudgy hood of your clit up. it’s swollen, it’s hard and throbbing. he’s never seen anything like it and goddamn, is he feeling faint. “i think you’re so gorgeous. you already knew that, right? that you’re just so gorgeous to me.”

his words almost sound like they hurt as they leave his mouth, strained and breathless, conveying such strong emotion that it makes your chest hurt. as exposed as you are, as new as all of this is, it undeniably feels so good. the right move, the final piece to the annoying and complicated puzzle that the two of you have built.

the gentle pressure has your toes curling, a shudder punching from your kiss-bruised lips. it almost makes him jump and he moans in turn, the tips of his ears burning a crimson red. there was no chance that he could fake any of this, the raw and real reaction to seeing the love of his life so bare all for him.

“i’m getting cold, cal,” your voice whimpers in that sweet way he’s only heard once or twice before, a sound that makes his cock twitch against your cunt. his skin transfers so much heat that you can’t help but squirm and seek some for yourself.

that protective nature that he’s always held for you comes full throttle, brain wired to respond to your every plea. when an issue arises, caleb always delivers. no need for question, no need for begging. he’s got his girl.

“shh, let me warm you up,” he leans forward, his chain colliding against your chin for a moment as he plants a kiss to your forehead. simultaneously, his fat tip presses into your tiny hole, soft exhales leaving the two of you at the mere feeling. he wants nothing more than to plug you full, the nonexistent selfish part of his brain begging to roll his hips forward until his balls clap your ass.

even then, he can’t do that. caleb would rather let the world burn than inflict any pain on you. right now is the most vulnerable and open you’ve ever been with him, with anyone— he wasn’t going to make that a regret.

he reiterated time and time again leading up to this that tonight wouldn’t be the full length, just the tip. as much as he wanted to indulge fully, he wanted to savor all of this. work up to it, earn it. stupid caleb being considerate and sentimental, per usual.

“shit, how’s that?” he chokes down a groan, desperate to gauge your every thought. sometimes he wished he could crawl into your brain, see for himself what those thoughts flying in your head have to say. he knows that you often hold back around him and in a way, connecting like this plays into an effort to get you to open up. speak your mind more, let him nurture you. “how is it? don’t go quiet on me, please. not right now.”

it was hard to put into words how meaningful this all felt. sure, it was bound to be an emotional milestone for the two of you considering all of the history behind your relationship. it was going to reach this point of intimacy and cross those platonic lines eventually but living in the moment was much easier said than done. your body welcomes him rather fast, very warm and needy in the way your hole swallows up his tip with greed.

“i’m workin’ on it, caleb,” you hiss quietly, mewls leaving your trembling lips as the tips of your nails dig into the flesh of his biceps. they were built and big, caleb was a big boy— he could handle a little clawing. your mind was filled with fog, almost in shock that this was finally happening. “give me a minute.”

the scent of his shampoo, the same kind he had been using since high school, wafts into your face with the rushed nods he gives you. it fills you with nostalgia and plenty of love, being surrounded by his scent and being warmed by his heat. “it’s no rush, honey. you tell me when you’re ready.”

typical caleb. selfless in ways that make you want to shake him by his shoulders, always looking out for the better interest of you. it used to be annoying but the older the two of you grow, the more you learn to appreciate his overbearing tendencies. all he ever wanted was the best. comfort, security, safety. the thought helped your body naturally relax, pussy tightening up before letting go of some resistance.

he can feel it in real time, head falling forward to rest on the skin of your shoulder. nothing has ever felt so good and it almost winded him, the way you managed to surpass his years worth of fantasies and wet dreams. there’s a voice in the back of his head begging him to go all of the way. he’s learned plenty of self control throughout the years and he’d be damned if he let it falter now, of all times.

as soon as he felt a love tap to his arm, he knew what you were asking for. all it ever took was an exchanged look between the two of you, minds connected deeper than words could convey. he reels his hips back, tip nearly sliding out of your slick just to press the faintest bit back in.

he can practically feel your hesitance. as big of a game as you talk, there was simply no fooling the man who has grown by your side. even the subtlest shift in energy is something he can pick up on and caleb smells the reluctance in you, reading your body language like he was fluent. you were overthinking again.