Wouldn't you Like to Know, Weather Boy?

But you don’t say any of that. You just stare at your knees and let the silence thicken.

Gran’s voice saves you both.

“Kids!”

You jump. Caleb straightens like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

She’s standing in the doorway, dressed in her going-out blouse, small rolling suitcase at her side.

“I’m headed downtown for three days. Something came up. Emergency stuff. You two will be fine, right? Like always.”

She’s said the same thing a hundred times over the years. Back then it meant popcorn fights and falling asleep to horror movies on the couch. Now the words land differently. Heavier.

The front door clicks shut behind her. The sound echoes.

Suddenly the house feels too quiet. Too big. Too empty except for him.

You’re hyper-aware of every inch of Caleb next to you. The sleeveless shirt clings to his chest from the humidity, dark at the collar where sweat’s gathered. His shorts ride up just enough to show the thick muscle of his thighs. His arms—God, his arms—flex every time he shifts, biceps rounding, veins standing out against his skin. He’s broader than last summer, taller, filled out in all the ways that make your mouth dry and your core ache.

You stare out the window at the garden like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Anything to avoid looking at him.

He notices.

Caleb chuckles again, softer this time, and reaches out. One finger brushes your cheek—light, teasing, the same way he used to when you pouted as a kid.

“Aww, is my meimei sad? Mm… I’m here. We can spend some quality time together—”

The touch is barely there, but it burns straight down your spine. Your whole body jerks away like you’ve been shocked.

Caleb freezes, finger still hovering in the air. His eyes widen.

“Pipsqueak… are you okay?”

You can’t look at him. Your face is on fire, heart slamming so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Your nipples are already tight under your thin tank top, traitorously visible, and you cross your arms quickly to hide them.

“I’m—fine,” you mumble, staring at the floor. “Just… hot.”

He swallows. You hear it—the dry click of his throat. His gaze drops for half a second, catches the outline of your nipples, then snaps away like he’s been burned too.

“Right. Uh… yeah. Hot.” He exhales, rough. “Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen. Lemme know what you want for lunch.”

He stands. The couch dips and rises with his weight. You watch his back as he walks away—broad shoulders rolling under the shirt, the dip of his spine, the way his shorts hug the curve of his ass and the powerful flex of his thighs with every step.

The second he disappears around the corner you clench your thighs together so hard it hurts.

You’re already wet. Have been since he sat down. Since he said your nickname. Since he touched your cheek.

You need a shower. Cold. Now.

You bolt upstairs before you can think better of it, lock the bathroom door, strip in record time. The dildo is already in your hand—pulled from under your mattress like it’s been waiting for you.

The water’s barely warm when you brace one foot on the edge of the tub, line up the thick head, and sink down with a broken moan.

It stretches you open in that perfect, filthy way—veins dragging, curve kissing your front wall, heavy balls nudging your clit on the downstroke. You fuck yourself fast, desperate, water pounding your back, free hand braced on the tile.

“Gege—fuck—gege—”

You don’t even try to be quiet. The house is empty except for him, and part of you hopes—prays—he hears.

Downstairs, Caleb grips the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turn white.

The second you disappeared upstairs he felt it: that familiar phantom squeeze around his cock, hot and wet and impossibly tight. Then the rhythm starts—fast, shallow, greedy.

He’s hard in seconds, leaking into his shorts, breath coming in short pants.

He glances toward the stairs.

He knows what you’re doing.

He knows because he’s been doing the same thing to your toy every night.

And now you’re both home.

Both alone.

Both breaking.

He doesn’t go upstairs. Not yet.

Instead he leans his back against the counter, the cool edge biting into his spine like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His cock is painfully erect under the thin fabric of his shorts, the obscene bulge straining forward, tenting so hard the waistband digs into his lower abs. Every shallow breath makes it twitch, every phantom slam of your hips upstairs sends a fresh jolt through him. He moans—low, broken, helpless—each sound punched out of his lungs as your rhythm rocks him from the inside out. His knees buckle once, twice; he catches himself on the edge of the sink, knuckles white, hips grinding forward into nothing like he’s fucking the air.

He reaches down without thinking, palm cupping the thick ridge through the cotton. One rough stroke and his head falls back, throat working on a groan. The wet spot at the front of his shorts spreads fast—dark, sticky, obscene. He grinds harder into his own fist, hips rolling in slow, filthy circles, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making, precum soaking through until the fabric clings transparently to the flushed head.

Upstairs, you stand frozen under the cold spray for a long minute, water pounding your shoulders, doing absolutely nothing to dull the ache between your legs. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, still fluttering around the memory of double penetration, still greedy for more. The shower did jack shit. You shut off the water with a frustrated huff, towel yourself off in jerky movements, and stumble back to your room naked, skin pebbled, nipples tight from the chill and from want.

You don’t even close the door all the way.

You crawl onto the bed, legs splaying wide, knees bent and feet planted so you can watch yourself take it. The dildo is still warm from earlier, slick with your earlier mess. You line it up, tease the fat head through your folds once—then slam it home to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your back arches off the mattress with a choked cry, pussy clamping down like a vice, walls rippling around every veiny inch.

Down the hall, Caleb sucks in a whimper so sharp it hurts. His eyes roll back; he has to brace both hands on the banister to keep from collapsing right there on the stairs. The phantom grip around his cock returns—tighter, hotter, wetter than before—and he knows exactly what you’re doing.

He climbs the last few steps on shaking legs, drawn like a magnet. Your door is cracked open. He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t.

He looks anyway.

And everything inside him fractures.

There you are—his sweet, innocent meimei—legs spread obscenely wide on the childhood bed you used to share during storms, tits heaving with every frantic roll of your hips, pussy stretched wide around a thick, veiny dildo that looks exactly like his cock. Down to the upward curve, the heavy balls slapping wetly against your ass with every thrust, the flushed brownish-pink head disappearing inside you over and over.

He can see the way your walls cling to it when you pull back, the slick strings connecting silicone to your swollen lips, the way your clit peeks out swollen and red every time you grind down.

“Mmhhh gege! Ahhh gege fuck—need you—mmpphhh!!”

Your voice cracks on his name, back bowing, tits bouncing wildly as you fuck yourself stupid, chasing that edge with desperate, sloppy thrusts. The sheets are soaked beneath you, wet patch spreading.

Caleb’s sure he would have moaned loud enough to wake the whole coast if he hadn’t bitten his lower lip bloody. It’s better than any porn he’s ever seen—hotter, filthier, because it’s you. His pipsqueak. His meimei. Ruining herself on a perfect copy of his dick.

The realization hits like a shockwave.

It was you.

All this time.

The ghost pussy milking him dry every night.

The way it clenched exactly when he needed it.

The way it knew his rhythm, his kinks, his breaking point.

And he’s been doing the same to you.

He shoves his shorts down in one rough yank; his cock springs free, angry red and leaking, veins standing out thick and pulsing. He wraps a fist around the base, strokes once—hard—and has to slap his free hand over his mouth to muffle the groan.

“Mmhh pipsqueak…” he whispers, voice wrecked, hips thrusting into his own grip like he’s fucking you through the doorway. “Such a needy little meimei… arghhh—it was you all along, huh?”

He can see every detail from here— the way your thighs tremble, the way your fingers dig into the sheets, the way you arch and sob his name like a prayer while you slam the toy deeper, chasing the stretch he’s been giving you in secret for months.

And he’s glad.

Fucking glad.

Because it’s mutual.

You out-freaked him first—ordered a replica of his dick and rode it until you cried his name—but he matched you, customized a perfect copy of your cunt and fucked it raw while whispering yours.

You’re both freaks.

Two depraved, lovesick freaks who’ve been secretly fucking each other stupid across hundreds of miles, and now you’re under the same roof with no Gran to stop you.

He strokes faster, matching your rhythm—every time you slam down, he fucks up into his fist. Precum drips over his knuckles, slicking the way. His balls draw up tight, aching.

You’re close. He can tell by the way your moans turn high and broken, the way your hips stutter, the way your pussy visibly flutters around the toy.

He’s right there with you.

One more thrust—yours, his—and you both shatter at the exact same second.

You come with a muffled scream into your pillow, body convulsing, squirting around the dildo in messy pulses that soak your thighs and the bed. The toy stays buried deep as you ride the aftershocks, whimpering his name over and over.

Caleb’s knees finally give out. He catches himself on the doorframe, biting his fist as he comes hard—thick ropes painting the floorboards, his hand, his stomach—while the phantom squeeze of your pussy milks him through every pulse.

He slumps there, panting, cock still twitching in his grip, eyes locked on you through the crack in the door.

You’re still trembling, legs limp, toy lodged inside you, chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

But the door creaks just a fraction wider under his weight.

And your eyes—glazed, wrecked, still teary—slowly lift.

They meet his.

For one endless heartbeat, neither of you breathes.

Then your lips part on a soft, broken whisper that carries straight to him,

“…gege?”

And everything that’s been building for months finally snaps.

You freak out the second your eyes blink from eye contact.

The sheets fly up in a frantic scramble, bunching around your chest and thighs as you yank them to your chin. Your cheeks ignite—burning, scorching hot—while a high-pitched squeak tears out of you like a startled animal.

“What are you—!”

The door, already ajar, swings wider under Caleb’s unsteady weight. He loses his balance completely—arms windmilling for half a second—then crashes forward with a loud, graceless thud, face-planting straight into the floorboards.

You squeak even louder, the sound shrill enough to rattle the windows.

He groans, low and pained, and slowly lifts his head. Blood trickles from his nose in a thin, bright red stream, dripping onto the wood. He blinks once, twice, dazed, then pushes himself up on shaking arms. His shorts are still shoved halfway down his thighs from earlier, so his dick—half-hard, flushed dark, still glistening at the tip—bobs free with the motion, jumping against his stomach like it has a mind of its own.

Your breath snags in your throat, sharp and audible.

You stare. You can’t not staring.

When you’d scrolled through that sketchy website a month ago, trembling and horny and stupid, you’d picked every detail from memory—the exact length you’d felt pressed against your hip during too-long hugs, the slight upward curve you’d glimpsed once through damp sweatpants, the heavy hang of his balls, the thick veins that stood out when his forearms flexed carrying your luggage. You’d thought it was obsessive fantasy.

But seeing it now—in the flesh, real, twitching, leaking a bead of precum that rolls slowly down the shaft—you realize with dizzying clarity—they didn’t just make a replica.

They made an exact fucking match.

Everything clicks into place like a lock tumbling open.

The “ghost” sensations.

The double penetration every night.

The way your toy always seemed to know exactly when he was close, clamping down harder, milking tighter.

The way his phantom cock always mirrored your rhythm, pounding deeper when you slammed down hardest.

Caleb hauls himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He notices your wide-eyed stare locked on his cock and flushes darker than you’ve ever seen him—red creeping from his collar to his ears. With a rough, embarrassed jerk, he yanks his shorts back up, the waistband snapping against his hips, but it does nothing to hide the thick outline still straining forward.

“Pipsqueak…” His voice comes out hoarse, cracked, half-lidded eyes dark and glassy. A thin trail of blood slides from his nostril, curving over the bow of his upper lip. He doesn’t wipe it away.

You snap back to yourself with a jolt.

“Caleb—your nose is bleeding!”

You scramble forward on your knees, sheets slipping dangerously low as you reach for the box of tissues on your nightstand. One hand presses a wad against his nose while the other clutches the fabric to your chest—but not fast enough. The sheet drops just enough to bare your breasts again, nipples peaked and flushed from everything that’s happened.

Caleb’s gaze drops instantly.

He stares—openly, hungrily—for one long heartbeat before you yank the sheet back up with a mortified squeak. Only then does he drag his eyes back to yours, pupils blown wide.

“It’s not because I fell,” he rasps, voice thick. “It’s because of…”

His stare rakes down your body again—slow, deliberate—taking in the way the sheet clings to your sweat-damp skin, the dark patch between your thighs where you’re still dripping, the toy still half-buried inside you under the covers. You squeak again, smaller this time, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Caleb!”

“Okay—okay, I want you to stop freaking out and listen to me—”

You look away fast, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. You don’t know how to explain this. How to admit that you’ve been coming undone on a silicone clone of him for months. That you’ve whispered his name like a prayer while your pussy clenched around fake-him, imagining real-him pinning you down. That you’re terrified of what it means now that the secret’s out.

Who fucks a replica of their gege’s dick?

You do.

You really, really do.

Before you can spiral further, Caleb’s hands—big, warm, calloused from flight controls—cup your cheeks. Gentle. Steady. He tilts your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

They’re soft. Guilty. Desperate. Everything at once.

“We need to figure this out, okay?” he whispers, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “Wait—I need to show you something.”

And just like that he’s gone—bolting out of your room, bare feet slapping the hallway floor, leaving the door swinging wide behind him.

You’re alone again.

The room smells like sex and shame and him.

Your thighs tremble. The dildo is still inside you—warm, thick, stretching you open—and every tiny shift makes it drag against your oversensitive walls. You clench once, involuntarily, and a fresh trickle of slick leaks out around it.

You can hear him in his room now—drawers opening, something thudding to the floor, a muffled curse.

Your mind races.

He’s going to show you something.

You already know what it is.

A possible pocket pussy.

The one he’s been fucking every night while you rode his replica. The one that’s been milking him dry from three hundred miles away.

And now it’s here in this house with both of you.

You swallow hard, heart in your throat.

The floorboards creak as he comes back down the hall.

You don’t move.

Don’t pull the toy out.

Don’t cover up any more than you already are.

You just wait—sheets clutched to your chest, thighs still spread, pussy still stuffed, pulse roaring in your ears—while the footsteps get closer.

When Caleb steps back through the doorway, holding the black satin box like it’s evidence in a crime scene, eyes locked on yours with something raw and unguarded…

You know.

There’s no going back now.

Not for either of you.

Caleb steps back into your room, the black satin box cradled in his big hands like it’s both a confession and a trophy. He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even try to play coy. He flips the lid open right in front of you.

Your eyes blow wide. Your mouth drops into a perfect, stunned little ‘o’.

Nestled inside, glossy and obscene, is the pocket pussy—soft silicone lips parted just enough to show the glistening pink interior. And draped over it, stretched across the entrance like a filthy bow, is one of your missing lace panties. The pale pink ones with the tiny bow at the front. The ones you swore the washing machine devoured months ago.

Caleb—shameless bastard now that the mask is off—hooks two fingers under the waistband and tugs the fabric aside. He drags the pad of his thumb slowly along the outer folds, parting them gently, stroking the slick entrance like he’s petting something precious.

The sensation hits you like lightning.

A surprised, broken moan rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Your pussy clenches hard around the dildo still buried inside you, walls fluttering wildly, fresh slick leaking out around the base.

Caleb flushes darker—cheeks, neck, ears—but his grin is pure sin. He chokes on his own spit when your inner muscles clamp down again, the toy translating every spasm straight to his cock.

“You get it now?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, thoughts crashing faster than light.

You’d spent months drowning in guilt—convincing yourself you were the only freak here, the only one twisted enough to order a perfect replica of your gege’s dick and ride it until you sobbed his name into your pillow. You’d hated how much you wanted it, how wrong it felt, how right it felt every time you came clenching around fake-him.

But look at him.

Look at your freak of a gege standing there holding a replica of your cunt, wrapped in your stolen panties like some depraved keepsake. He didn’t just buy it—he customized it, scented it, fucked it raw while thinking of you, and then he kept your underwear like a trophy.

“CALEB YOU STOLE MY PANTIES?!!?” The scream explodes out of you, eyes huge, accusatory, betrayed.

He squeaks—actually squeaks—scratching the back of his head with his free hand, sheepish grin wobbling.

“Umm… well… I rescued them to wash but uh… hehehehehe—”

You lunge.

Your fists rain down on his chest, shoulders, arms—smacking him over and over, forgetting the sheet, forgetting the toy still stretching you open, forgetting everything except righteous fury.

“YOU JERK!!! I KEPT BUYING CUTE PANTIES AND YOU STOLE THEM?!??! HOW DARE YOU!!! I THOUGHT THE WASHER WAS EATING THEM!!”

“Ow—ouch—ouch—pipsqueak!”

He’s half-laughing, half-squeaking, trying to shield himself but not really fighting back. The sounds are ridiculous, boyish, so much like the old Caleb that it almost hurts.

Then his arms snap around your waist.

One hard yank and you’re flush against him—chest to chest, hips to hips, the thick ridge of his cock pressing right against your lower belly through his shorts. Your breath punches out of you in a startled gasp.

“I can buy you new ones, yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping low, rough. “Anything you want. But right now… we need to talk about this, meimei.”

The name hits like a shockwave.

You stop breathing.

His eyes are locked on yours—dark, molten, stripped of every layer of pretense. You feel every inch of him: the heat radiating off his skin, the hard planes of his chest, the insistent throb of his cock trapped between you. And lower—the dildo still lodged deep inside you, making your walls flutter every time you shift.

“Take it out, pipsqueak.”

Your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll combust. You shake your head frantically—no, no, no—too embarrassed to move, too mortified to pull the replica of him out of your dripping cunt while he watches.

Caleb frowns, impatient.

His hand slides down—big, warm fingers wrapping around the base of the dildo where it’s buried in you. He groans low in his throat at the feel of your walls gripping it—gripping him, then yanks.

The toy comes free with a wet, filthy pop.

You gasp sharply—sharp enough to hurt—your pussy clenching around sudden emptiness. Slick gushes out in a messy splash, coating your inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets, making everything even more obscene.

“Come on,” he chuckles, dark and teasing, holding the glistening dildo up between you like evidence. “I know you weren’t shy fucking this replica in Linkon, huh? No wonder the ghost was so needy…”

His eyes drag over the toy—taking in the way it’s coated in your arousal, veins shiny, base slick—and then rake back up your body, slow and hungry.

“I should’ve known it was my naughty little pipsqueak. After all… it’s only meimei who takes this much from her gege, hmm?”

His voice drops to gravel.

You gulp, panting softly, chest heaving. You pout up at him—bratty, defiant—and smack his chest again, weaker this time.

“But… you had a replica of mine too!”

Caleb laughs—low, rough, relieved.

“In that case… I’m guilty too.”

Then he moves.

One step forward and your back hits the mattress. You both go down in a tangle—sheets ripping away completely, your naked body splayed beneath him, still sweaty, still flushed, still smelling like sex and shame and him.

He braces on his forearms, caging you in, face inches from yours.

“Then we should share this sin together, right?”

His hips settle between your thighs. The hard length of him—real this time—nudges right against your soaked entrance, hot and thick and leaking through his shorts.

You whimper—small, broken, needy.

His mouth hovers over yours, breath mingling.

“Tell me to stop, meimei,” he whispers, voice trembling just enough to betray how close he is to breaking. “Tell me and I’ll walk out right now. We’ll pretend this never happened.”

Your hands slide up—fingers curling into his shoulders, nails digging in.

You don’t push him away.

You pull him closer.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe against his lips.

And that’s it.

The last thread snaps.

Caleb’s mouth crashes down on yours—hungry, desperate, years of pent-up want pouring out in one bruising kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, tasting, while his hips grind forward, dragging the fat head of his cock through your folds.

You arch up into him with a sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper.

He groans into your mouth—raw, wrecked.

“Fuck—pipsqueak—been waiting so long—”

Caleb pulls back just enough to drink you in—really drink you in.

You’re sprawled beneath him like a fever dream: lips swollen and glossy from his kisses, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants, eyes glassy and half-lidded with want. His gaze drags down slow—over the flushed peaks of your tits, the soft curve of your belly still trembling from aftershocks, then lower, to where your thighs are parted and your pussy is clenching desperately around nothing. Slick shines on your inner thighs, dripping down toward the sheets in lazy rivulets. The toy’s absence has left you empty and aching, walls fluttering visibly like they’re begging to be filled again.

His whole body burns—not just from the heat of the moment, but from the sheer, dizzying reality of it. His wildest, most shameful dream is right here: you, naked and wrecked and his, finally letting him see you like this. Touch you like this. He’s drowning in emotions—guilt, relief, raw hunger—but he forces himself to focus. He wants this to be good for you. Better than good. He wants to feed every filthy craving you’ve both been hiding, satisfy the hunger that’s been eating you alive for months.

“So pretty,” he stutters, voice cracking as two fingers glide down your slit. He parts your folds gently, watching the way your clit twitches under the lightest brush.

You yelp, thighs jerking inward on instinct. “Caleb!”

He shakes his head, firm but soft. His free hand comes down in a sharp spank to the plush meat of your thigh—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make the flesh jiggle.

“Oh no no no no,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Don’t go hiding from me now. You’re beautiful, pipsqueak. I want to admire all of you.”

You bite your lower lip hard, cheeks flaming, but you don’t close your legs again. You watch—breath hitching—as his fingers continue their slow exploration: tracing your entrance, dipping just inside to feel how soaked you are, then sliding lower. He gropes one ass cheek shamelessly, kneading the soft flesh before landing another weak, appreciative spank. The jiggle makes him groan low in his throat.

“Aw damn…”

You huff, mortified and turned on in equal measure, and reach up to grab his ear—tugging hard.

He yelps instantly. “Ow ow ow—what’s wrong? Did I hurt you—”

You scoff, cutting him off, and slide both palms under his shirt. Your fingers find the hard planes of his pecs, cupping them shamelessly, thumbs brushing over his nipples.

“Take off your clothes too, dummy,” you mutter, voice bratty and breathless. “I don’t wanna be the only one naked.”

Caleb blinks once—then grins so wide it’s almost stupid, ear-to-ear and boyish despite the filthy situation.

“Fair enough.”

He yanks the sleeveless shirt over his head in one smooth motion, muscles flexing under sweaty skin as it hits the floor somewhere behind him. Next come the shorts—hooked thumbs in the waistband, frantic tug downward. The fabric slides off his thighs and his cock springs free, slapping lewdly against his lower abs with a wet smack.

You gasp—sharp, involuntary.

It’s exactly like the dildo. Down to the last detail: the thick veins, the slight upward curve, the flushed brownish-pink head already leaking, the heavy balls hanging low. Your pussy clenches hard around nothing at the sight, a fresh gush of slick trickling out.

“Like what you see, huh?” he smirks, voice hoarse and wrecked. He grips the base and smacks the fat head against your dripping folds—once, twice—coating himself in your mess.

You whine instantly, hips jerking up. “Ahhh fuck—Caleb—mmmpphhh!!”

But instead of pushing in, he pulls back. You frown, confused and needy—until you see him reach for the dildo again.

With a slow, sinful smile, he lines it up and slides it back inside your tight cunt.

“Hai—ahhhh—Caleb!?!”

You can only stare up at his face—pleasure twisting his features, mouth falling open in a perfect ‘o’—as he pushes the toy deeper. A low, rumbling groan escapes him.

“Fuck… exact feeling…”

He keeps going—slow, torturous—watching your face the whole time while he feeds inch after inch back into you. Your walls stretch around the familiar silicone, fluttering, sucking it in greedily until it’s buried to the hilt again: tip kissing your cervix, heavy balls pressed flush against your ass.

Only then does he stop.

But he’s not done.

He manhandles you with easy strength—big hands under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You squeak as he repositions you properly on the bed: flat on your back, head near the pillows, legs spread wide. He climbs over you, straddling your chest, knees bracketing your shoulders.

His cock hovers right above your face—hard, twitching, leaking a fat pearl of precum from the slit.

Your brain empties completely. All you can do is stare: at him, at the dick that’s been haunting your nights for months, now real and inches from your lips.

“You’ll suck it, right baby?” he rasps, voice trembling with restraint. “Mmmh… suck gege’s dick while the replica stretches you open.”

He lowers himself slowly. The swollen head smacks against your lips—hot, sticky, salty.

You open immediately.

Your mouth wraps around the tip, tongue swirling, sucking gently at first. Caleb throws his head back with a guttural sound.

“Ohhh fuck—dual sensation—ahhh… shit!”

His fingers slide into your hair, gripping gently but firm. He starts fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts—careful not to choke you yet, but deep enough to make your eyes water.

“Fuck baby… take it deeper. I know you can—ahh… you’ve been swallowing that dick down your throat, haven’t you? Hah…”

You can barely think—pussy stuffed full and throbbing around the toy, mouth stretched around the real thing, taste of him flooding your senses. But you obey.

Your hands fly up—gripping the firm meat of his ass, nails digging in as you pull him forward. You relax your throat and swallow him to the base in one slow, greedy glide.

Your nose buries into the neatly trimmed, newly shaved patch of pubic hair. His scent—musk, clean sweat, him—overwhelms you. Your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, fingers sinking deeper into the thick muscle of his thighs while tears of effort slip down your temples.

Caleb’s head snaps back, face contorting in raw pleasure—jaw slack, brows furrowed, a broken moan tearing from his chest.

“Fuck—pipsqueak—good girl—fuck—”

He holds himself there for a heartbeat—letting you feel every thick inch pulsing on your tongue—before he starts to move again.

Slow, deep thrusts into your mouth while the dildo stays buried in your cunt, every rock of his hips making the toy shift inside you just enough to drag against your walls.

You’re stuffed at both ends.

Full.

Claimed.

His.

And he’s not stopping until you both break again.

Caleb keeps fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips—balls smacking wetly against your chin on every deep thrust, the filthy sound echoing in the quiet room. His moans are low and ragged, pleasure ripping through him in waves as your throat flutters around his length, tongue pressing flat against the underside, sucking greedily.

You snap your hips forward uselessly, clenching desperately around the dildo still buried deep in your cunt. The dual fullness—mouth stuffed with real him, pussy stretched by fake him—has you trembling, thighs shaking, slick dripping down your ass in steady rivulets.

That’s when he breaks.

Caleb’s whole body locks up, shaking violently. His fingers tighten in your hair—almost too hard—burying himself to the root until your nose presses flush against his pelvis. A guttural groan tears from his chest as he starts cumming.

Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth instantly—salty, bitter, overwhelming. Your eyes roll back so hard you see stars, throat working frantically to swallow it all, but there’s too much. It overflows the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin in messy strings.

He doesn’t stop.

He pulls out with a lewd, wet pop—cock still jerking—and shoots the last few ropes across your face: warm streaks painting your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips. You gasp for air, tongue darting out instinctively to lick what you can reach, tasting him everywhere.

Caleb pants above you, chest heaving, staring down at the mess he made. You look wrecked—face covered in his cum, eyes glassy and dazed, lips parted and shiny. He knows he should feel ashamed. He should apologize, clean you up, stop this madness.

But fuck—you look so hot like this it’s rewriting his brain chemistry. Ruining him for anything else.

You flutter your lashes up at him, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing your lower lip to catch another drop. The sight snaps something inside him.

He groans, low and broken, and reaches for the dildo. One rough yank and he pulls it free from your overstimulated pussy.

You arch violently off the bed, hips jerking, a gush of slick squirting out around the sudden emptiness. “F-fuck—Caleb—!”

He stares, mesmerized. “Fuck… you’re so hot, meimei. I think I’m losing my mind.”

You’re panting, trying to catch your breath, body still twitching with aftershocks. Guilt crashes over him like cold water—he reaches for the tissue box on your nightstand with shaking hands and starts wiping your face clean, gentle despite everything.

His cheeks are crimson, burning with embarrassment and leftover heat. “Ah shit—sorry pipsqueak, didn’t mean to… fuck… I’m sorry, okay?”

You just stare up at him—brain fried, body humming—and reach out. Your fingers wrap around his still-hard cock, slick with spit and cum.

He hitches a sharp breath. “Ahhh—oh god—mmhh—”

You give him lazy, teasing strokes, smirking mischievously through the haze.

“I want it, Caleb,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “I want your dick.”

He groans, hips snapping forward into your touch. Hearing you talk like that—filthy, needy—makes him throb harder in your palm.

“Say it again, meimei,” he rasps, voice trembling. “Say it… properly.”

You bite your lower lip, thumb flicking over the sensitive head, circling the slit, smearing precum.

“I want your dick, gege,” you purr, slow and deliberate. “Please?”

You don’t stop. Somehow you sit up—legs shaky—free hand sliding up his arm, over the thick muscle of his shoulder, then flicking his hard nipple. You lick your lips again, eyes locked on his, and climb into his lap.

“Need you inside, gege,” you breathe against his throat. “Not the… toy. Need your dick to fuck this pussy—mmhh!”

Caleb snaps.

Since when did his sweet pipsqueak become this seductive little tease?

He hauls you up the bed in one swift motion—then slams you back down onto the mattress. Not too rough—just enough to make you squeak in surprise, tits bouncing with the impact.

“Fuck—look at that sultry expression,” he growls, voice dark. “You’re such a tease, meimei. Such a dirty girl begging her gege’s dick.”

His palm comes down in a sharp smack against your pussy—wet, obscene. You whine, arching hard, the sting turning into molten heat that makes you even wetter.

“You bought a dildo to fuck this needy little cunt, huh?” Another smack—harder. You sob, mindless, hips grinding back toward his hand. “Used a replica of your gege’s dick to train this pussy?”

You can only nod—whimpering, desperate—grinding shamelessly against his palm.

“Fuck—but who am I to judge?” he chuckles darkly. “I’m a freak too, ain’t I?”

He presses the fat head of his cock to your entrance—hot, leaking, real—and snaps his hips forward in one powerful thrust.

You both nearly scream.

The bed shakes beneath you as he bottoms out—thick, burning, stretching you in ways the toy never could. Your walls clamp down instantly, fluttering around every veiny inch.

Caleb grips the headboard above you, knuckles white, hovering over your body. His other hand slides between your legs—fingers finding your clit, pinching and flicking with his thumb while he watches your face twist in pleasure.

“Good thing is… I don’t have to train you for my dick anymore, hah,” he pants, hips rutting in sloppy, messy thrusts. “You’re nice and ready to take me full… fuck… I never thought—”

He throws his head back, eyes squeezing shut. Tears well at the corners—not from pain, but from too much everything: pleasure, relief, fear.

He’s terrified he’ll cry in front of you. Terrified you’ll disappear when this ends. Terrified he’ll lose you after finally having you.

So he fucks you deeper—hands roaming everywhere: groping your tits, spanking your ass, squeezing your thighs. Rough, unpracticed, desperate. He can’t help it. He’s never done this before—not like this, not with anyone.

Suddenly he stops—mid-thrust, sweat dripping down his chest in rivulets. He looks down at you, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Hey—hey hey hey, pipsqueak… hah… are you like—feeling actually good? Like… or…”

His whole face is on fire. He gulps, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your brain is too fried to process deeply. You just grin—mindless, blissed-out—and grind back against him with a small, innocent smile.

“Mmhh… best big brother ever…”

Caleb’s mouth falls open. He chokes on a laugh—or maybe a sob—then shakes his head and goes back to fucking you.

He’ll ask when you’re sober. Right now you’re too drunk on his cock to think straight.

He finds your clit again—rubbing tight circles—and feels the telltale shiver in your hips. You’re close. He can see the faint bulge in your lower belly every time he bottoms out, and it makes him shy and so fucking turned on at the same time.

The fact that he’s claiming you like this—fucking you so deep you’ll feel him for days—makes his head spin. He prays this isn’t a fever dream.

His own brain is melting from the pleasure, the sensation, the sight of you taking him so perfectly.

He reaches down—presses the heel of his palm against the bulge in your belly—and pushes.

Both your eyes roll back at the same instant.

Broken moans spill from your tongues as you cum together—hard.

You squirt violently—soaking his cock, his abs, the sheets in messy arcs—walls clamping down like a vice around him.

Caleb comes with a shattered whimper—hips stuttering, spilling inside you in thick, endless pulses until it leaks out around his base, dripping down his balls and onto the ruined bed.

He collapses next to you—breathing ragged, eyes half-focused and glassy.

After a long moment he reaches over—gentle now—brushing damp hair off your face. A soft, satisfied smile curves his lips.

“Thank you…” he whispers, voice hoarse and raw.

You turn your head—still panting, still trembling—and press a lazy kiss to his palm.

“Gege…”

He pulls you close—bodies sticky, tangled, hearts hammering in sync.

Caleb’s hand comes up slow—almost reverent—caressing the side of your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. His breath hitches when he feels the warmth, the realness of you still flushed and glowing against him. A low, stuttering rumble escapes his chest.

“Did you… like it, pipsqueak?”

You’re draped over him now—breasts cushioned against the hard plane of his chest, cheek pressed to the thick swell of his pec, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slow. You grin lazily, voice cracked and hoarse from all the moaning, all the screaming his name.

“I fucking loved it, Caleb.”

His smirk falters—just for a second—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. His thumb circles lazy patterns over your hipbone, the touch grounding and possessive at once.

“Me too.” He swallows. “I thought I was pushing things too fast… making it uncomfortable since I’ve never—”

Your eyes shoot open. You half-scream, half-gasp, bolting upright so fast your tits bounce against his chest.

“WAIT—you… YOU MEAN YOU WERE A VIRGIN?!?!”

Caleb’s whole face ignites—crimson flooding from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut in pure mortification, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a faint, sheepish grin.

“Yeah yeah… first time got my dick wet. Kinda nervous.”

You beam—bright, wicked, delighted—and crash your mouth to his in a messy, giddy kiss. Then you’re scrambling off him, lunging for your phone on the nightstand.

“Wait—lemme take a picture of us losing our virginities together!”

Caleb’s mouth drops open. You were a virgin too. The realization hits him square in the chest—funny, warm, possessive—and a smug grin spreads across his face before he can stop it.

You flip the camera to selfie mode, crawling back into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips. His arms snake around your waist immediately—tight, claiming—pulling you flush against him while you stick your tongue out in a naughty little pose.

“Say cheese!”

He looks straight at the lens—smug as hell, eyes half-lidded and dark with leftover lust—while you giggle and snap the photo.

Caleb huffs softly after, nuzzling into your neck. “You better not show this to anyone.”

You wiggle your eyebrows mischievously. “Oh, I’m gonna show it to any guy who’ll bother me like—you should be scared of my big brother.”

He wheezes—chokes on his own spit—and bursts out laughing, arms squeezing you until you squeak in protest.

“Diabolical.”

His palm comes down in a light, playful spank on your ass—watching the flesh bounce with open delight.

“You’re a menace to society, you know that?”

“I get it from you.”

You bite your lower lip, rolling your hips back slow—grinding your slick folds along his still-hard cock. He groans low in his throat.

“Fair enough.”

He dives back in—kissing you deep, tongues tangling messy and hungry. You both moan into each other’s mouths, hands roaming, relearning every inch now that the barrier’s gone.

“Fuck… I’m gonna miss you when I go back to Skyhaven…”

You grin against his lips, crawling higher up his body until you’re straddling his chest. Your hand wraps around his cock—still slick, still leaking—and guide the head to your mouth.

“That’s what the toys are for, gege.”

You hum as you wrap your lips around him again—slow, teasing—tongue swirling over the sensitive slit. Caleb lets out a low, rumbling moan, hips twitching up into the wet heat of your mouth.

“Ahhh… I almost forgot…”

His fingers slide down—two thick digits pushing into your dripping pussy without warning. You moan around his cock, the vibration making him curse under his breath.

“Three days left… fuck, I can’t get enough of you, meimei…!”

Neither can you.

The next three days blur into one long, feverish haze.

You fuck like rabbits—hours bleeding into hours, positions changing, surfaces shifting—bed, floor, shower, kitchen counter when Gran’s still gone, even on the old couch in the living room where you used to watch cartoons together as kids.

He eats you out until your thighs shake and you’re crying his name.

You ride him slow and deep until he’s begging.

He pins you against the wall and fucks you standing until pictures rattle on their hooks.

You suck him off in the hallway while he tries—and fails to stay quiet.

Every time one of you starts to flag—exhausted, sore, spent—the other just reaches over, touches, whispers filthy encouragement, and the fire reignites.

Even after Gran comes back—bags in hand, cheerful questions about your “quiet week”—you keep sneaking.

Late-night tiptoes down the hall.

Muffled moans pressed into pillows so she doesn’t hear.

Quick, desperate fucks in the bathroom while the shower runs to cover the sounds.

His hand over your mouth while he grinds into you from behind, whispering “quiet, meimei, or Gran’ll hear how much her good girl likes her gege’s cock.”

When the vacation finally ends, you stand on the platform watching the train to Skyhaven pull away.

Caleb leans out the open window one last time—hair mussed, eyes soft and dark—and presses a final, lingering kiss to your lips.

“Be good,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You grin, wicked. “No promises.”

The train starts moving. He disappears down the track.

You stand there until it’s gone, thighs clenched tight—still feeling the fresh load he stuffed you full with this morning before dawn, warm and thick and leaking slowly down your inner thighs under your skirt.

You shift your weight—feel it drip a little more—and smile to yourself.

Three hundred miles apart again. But the toys are waiting. And now you both know exactly what the other needs. You turn toward your apartment in linkon, already counting the days until the next break.

offhand errands and neighborly guilt were what brought you your very first friend.

homework side by side at your grandmother’s kitchen table, peeling satsumas, watching VHS recordings of pro matches in silence until he couldn’t hold in a lecture anymore and started breaking down every toss and spike as though he was born to do so. which, you were starting to believe, he might have been.

you never asked why he always came over instead of inviting you to his place, but you suspected it had something to do with his father’s car being in the driveway less and less as the months went by.

your mother would see him standing awkwardly outside the sliding door and tell you, “that boy’s here again. don’t let him eat all the senbei.”

he waited patiently for you in the living room, still in his school uniform, not without a volleyball under one arm, his backpack splayed open on the kitchen table.

“can i do homework here?” he’d ask, as if he hadn’t done the same the last seventeen tuesdays.

“yeah. leave your shoes by the door this time.”

you were about twelve, when you started understanding just how serious it was for him.

kageyama would bring his own pencil case and a copy of monthly volleyball, dog-eared and scribbled in. when the schoolwork was done, he’d take out the magazine and start breaking it down aloud—quietly at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

that boy would circle moves he wanted to try and mimic tosses with throw pillows. balanced a ball between his hands to describe the visual mechanics of a perfect set, teaching himself without realizing he was teaching you, too.

“i saw someone do a one-handed back set in brazil,” he mumbled from the couch, eyes gleaming. “i think i could do it if i fix the way i step.”

you leaned back on the carpet, fingers sticky from mandarin oranges. “if you make it to nationals one day, will you tell me?”

he turned his head to look at you. “why wouldn’t i?”

you didn’t know what changed, but after junior high started, he stopped coming over.

maybe it was the new school. maybe it was the way he started practicing more, talking less. maybe it was the space he needed after his grandfather’s funeral.

your window stayed open those tuesdays, though.

at first it was habit. then it was hope.

he went to kitagawa daiichi. you heard through your neighbor. “he’s playing in a lot of tournaments now,” she rambled on. “maybe even one in tokyo.”

by high school, he was more myth than boy.

kageyama tobio. the prodigy. the king. you didn’t go out of your way to avoid him even though he still lived next door. you just never had a reason to cross paths. not when he was playing matches across the country and you were barely making it through finals.

and then suddenly, graduation came.

then he was truly, finally gone—off chasing a life you only ever caught glimpses of in interviews and magazine headlines.

you don’t come home often.

calls and texts have been enough, most of the time check-ins, asking after your mom, letting her tell you what’s new in the neighborhood and what mirin brand they discontinued from the local grocery store.

but when she mentioned the doctor’s appointment, paired with the too-quick laugh after saying she’d be fine on her own, you opened your laptop and booked the tickets that night.

you told her you finally had time, that you needed a break from the city. both excuses, still easier to say than “i’m homesick” and “i’m worried about you.”

the flight was cheap. the return date left blank.

by the time you step out of the car in front of your old house, suitcase rattling against uneven pavement, you wonder if it was a mistake. the shutters need paint, the lawn’s grown in uneven patches, and everything smells faintly of the past—of dust and rain and summer break.

the lock sticks the same way it always did, and when the door opens, the air is heavy with familiarity. not warmth, exactly, but close.

the rooms are smaller than you remember, and the wallpaper hasn’t aged well.

you drop your bag by the stairs and make your way upstairs, where the window faces the same narrow strip of lawn it always did.

you convince yourself you’re here to take care of mom, to catch your breath, to remind you of where you began. that it’s nothing more than a quick trip down memory lane.

you don’t even realize until your palm’s on the frame, the old wood warm from the late sun.

the blinds are drawn. not enough to see anything. yet just enough to see light.

his light.

a glow you haven’t seen in years.

there he is. not on a glossy page, but in the window across from yours, finally looking back.

for a moment you think you’ve imagined it. but then his expression shifts—a puzzle snapping into place, as though he’s put a name to the face in front of him.

he disappears. a shadow moving quick out of sight. your heart jolts, heavier than you want to admit, then you feel the buzz in your pocket.

you swipe to answer.

“...you still have the same number?” his voice is lower than you remember, but there’s no mistaking it.

your laugh catches on your tongue. “you do too.”

he grins, and you swear feel the warmth slip back into your limbs. “so,” you start. “you’re back?”

“for now.” he sighs. “season break. national team training resumes in august.”

you nod slowly, smiling as he comes back into view. “do you miss it when you’re not playing?”

tobio leans back in his chair. “no.”

you arch a brow.

he clarifies. “i miss it when i am playing, too. if the match is bad. if i mess up. if my teammates aren’t as focused that day. i even miss it when i win sometimes, because i should’ve done better.”

you shift against the sill, cheek pressed to your knuckles. “that sounds miserable.”

he looks away. “it’s not. i just want to be the best.”

“you always did.”

“yeah, but now i know how far i am from it.”

“you’re the best setter japan’s had in a decade.” you yawn, bring your knees up to your chest while the jet lag catches up. “they say it on TV all the time.”

“they say a lot of things on TV.”

“that one’s true.” you tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

the line is quiet for a beat, then he exhales. “everyone keeps saying that. but i don’t know. i feel the same.”

you bite down a smile. “you got taller.”

“so did you,” he says, sounding nervous. “thought i was seeing things. when i looked out.”

you laugh under your breath, the sound crackling on the phone’s speaker. “thanks, i think.”

a low sigh rushes past the receiver. “that’s not what i meant. i’m… i’m trying to say you look good.”

your grip on the phone tightens. “you think so?”

“yeah,” he nods. “you grew up well.”

“thank you,” you warm. “you look good too.”

he flushes. “that means a lot coming from you.”

your chest feels heavy. “why’s that?”

“i don’t know.” he fidgets with something you can’t see. “i had a really big crush on you.”

you laugh, incredulous. “are you serious?”

he looks over. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“since when?” you angle yourself so it feels like he’s right in front of you. in a sense, he is.

“well i don’t anymore,” he hurries to cover. “it started the day you talked about me making it to nationals.”

“well ouch,” you joke. “you’re so conceited.”

“fuck you,” he smiles, and you bristle at the profanity, the reality of just how far you’ve come settling in.

“-i’m humbler than i used to be.”

“i’m sure,” you shake your head, checking the time when you see him yawn. 3:54 am. “that’s a low bar.”

“i thought you forgot about me,” he admits suddenly.

“even with your face on every magazine cover from hokkaido to okinawa?” you laugh.

his ears pinken, “those were stupid.”

“they were not,” you counter. “i’d stop at the store sometimes and flip through just to see what you were up to. mom thinks you’re getting real handsome.”

he glances back. “what about you?”

“what about me?” you tilt your head, putting the phone between your neck and shoulder as you stretch your limbs. you hear a noise that sounds like thinking.

“what do you think of me now?”

“have you been drinking?” you laugh again, not expecting him to be so forward after all these years.

you hear him sip. “just a little.”

“what’s a little?”

“whatever amount of alcohol you can drink in your parents’ house without it being pathetic, i guess?”

you hum. “would’ve been less pathetic if you weren’t doing it alone. could’ve invited me over.”

“i didn’t know you were home. not until ten minutes ago.” he rolls his eyes. “i didn’t even know you drank.”

“yes you did!” you scroll through your instagram, finding a picture he liked from a month ago, tilting the screen toward the window. “i know you keep up.”

“i mean, yeah, i do.” he chuckles at the photo. “not from there, though. don’t you remember?”

“remember what?”

“in january, when you called me.” as the words leave his mouth, vague memories appear with them.

you’re grateful you don’t remember most of it. but the breakup, and driving back from college to cope, are details you recall all too well. kageyama pipes up again on the other end. “you asked me if i was home, and i thought it was funny how drunk you sounded.”

the details get fuzzy there. “what else did i say?”

“you really don’t remember?”

“…no? is that bad?”

“oh.” he says through a smile, clearly liking the one-up he’s gained on you. dread settles in your gut. “well,”

“you left your blinds open,” he starts, voice shrinking for some reason. “mine were open too, but only because you called, and i got curious.”

he laughs. “then you took your shirt off.”

you stay quiet, not saying anything, letting him run with it despite the crimson creeping up your cheeks.

“you took your belt off next,” he says, voice low, steady. “the boots too. just… stepped out of them.”

a pause, a big breath. “then you turned around, faced away from me, and unclipped your bra.”

“i’m… so sorry,” you murmur, face hot.

“you don’t need to apologize,” he says quickly. “i could’ve looked away. so… i sort of feel like a creep.”

you can’t help it—you laugh, sharp and a little breathless with relief. “well, that makes you human.”

he chuckles, the sound carrying low over the line. “yeah, i guess. sorry… not sorry?”

you laugh again, shaking your head. “i really am sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says, “i thought it was kind of hot.”

his voice drops, controlled but clearly self-conscious. “you can hang up if you want. i’ll understand.”

you smile to yourself. “i’m not hanging up.”

“so…” you start after a beat, voice low. “you’ve been thinking of me all this time?”

“every once in a while,” he admits, careful. “more than i’d like to. back then, i used to think you were the prettiest thing i’d ever seen.”

you swallow. “and now?”

“still do. maybe even more than then.” he says, looking away. “i like that outfit you’re wearing.”

you laugh softly, “because you can see my tits?”

“i mean, that’s a plus.” the corners of his mouth pull upwards. “i just… think it really suits you.“

“thank you,” you murmur, voice soft—just as you hear a low, muffled noise from his end of the line.

you freeze, brow furrowing. “tobio… are you…?”

there’s a quick hitch in his breath. “i… uh…” his words falter, sharp inhale. “yeah. i… i can’t help it.”

“…is that… okay?” his voice is low, tense, and wary, like he’s still testing the waters.

you nod, slowly. “did you take it out?”

he hesitates, a short, frustrated groan escaping. “not… not yet. it’s still… in my pants.” another sharp inhale. “can i? it really hurts.”

“have you, thought about me before?” you tease, ignoring his ask. “touching yourself?”

a ragged breath comes through. “i-” his voice catches, almost a whisper now. “yeah. i have.” there’s a scrape of fabric, almost as if he’s fisting his shirt.

“how many times?”

“i don’t know,” the words are strained. “often.”

“what did you think about?” you press, curious.

“you… the things i saw on your instagram… posts when you wore… um… slutty outfits out with your friends,” he says just as he shifts slightly, and the metallic click of a zipper reaches your ears.

his arms are thick now, strong and muscled in a way they weren’t back in middle school, hands gripping at himself through his pants as if he can barely contain the tension coiling through his body. “fuck... i’m trying to be respectful, i swear.”

“you can take it out.”

“thank you,” he says through a low, rough moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he fully unzips.

you watch him, chest rising and falling, hand wrapping tight around himself. your lips curve into a teasing smirk. “do you want… some help?”

“yes… god, yeah,” he groans, sharp and tense.

you pull your top off, watch the way his pupils blow wide. “nice bra.”

“nice dick,” you shoot back, and he laughs, arm starting to move behind the frame blocking your view.

“are you just going to watch?”

“why?” your lips part. “you want me to join in?”

“if you—mmph, if you want to.” the wet, slick sound of his hand sliding up and down punctuates the words.

his breathing rattles, uneven, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his hand. “aren’t you wet?”

“i can check,” you joke, one that he clearly doesn’t find funny, but the grin splits across his face when he hears the sounds your fingers make against your clit.

he can barely see you now, on your bed that’s angled away from the window. he hears it all, though.

the wet drag of your fingers, your uneven breathing carrying through the speaker.

your head tips back, heat flooding your chest. “do you want me to stop?”

“no. don’t stop.” his breath hitches, audible. “been thinking about you like this too long to tell you to stop.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, hand working between your legs, the phone hot against your ear. “yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, blunt, steady. “since before i left. since that night you-” he cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “you don’t even know what you did to me.”

you bite down on your lip, pulse racing. “then tell me.”

his jaw tightens, and for a moment he doesn’t look at you, like he needs the space to say it out loud. “sometimes after practice. when it was shit, or i couldn’t get my serve right… i’d get back to my room, lie down, and think about your mouth.”

your hand slows, wanting every word. “my mouth?”

his breathing deepens, “your lips. the way you’d chew on your pens when you got antsy. i’d close my eyes and picture you on your knees instead.”

your thighs clench, hips rolling into your own fingers. “tobio-”

he doesn’t flinch at his name, doesn’t even hesitate. “sometimes i’d think about you at the window. waiting for me. wearing shorts so small i could see your ass when you leaned on the frame. god.”

there’s a pause on his end, and you hear it. the steady slap of his hand around his cock.

your hips jerk up into your hand, two fingers slipping inside you while your thumb grinds against your clit. “fuck… i can hear it.”

he grits out a laugh, shaky. “yeah? i can hear you too. fingers working that pussy like you’ve done it before, thinking about me.”

“i have,” you gasp, curling your fingers up, chasing that spot. “so many fucking times.”

he groans, deep and guttural, his rhythm picking up. “tell me. tell me what you think about.”

“your hands,” you whine. “those big fucking hands—wanted them on me for years.” your wrist aches, but you don’t stop, your voice breaking. “wish they were inside me instead of mine.”

he growls low in his throat, stroking faster, the sound of it filthy through the speaker. “wish i could bury my fingers in you and make you come. fuck, i’d ruin you.”

you moan into the receiver, hips lifting off the bed as your fingers curl harder inside you. “keep talking.”

his hand is loud now, quick strokes, precum slicking every drag of his fist. he’s not holding back anymore. “your tits—” his breath hitches, ragged. “wanted to get my mouth on them since i saw that top. grab them, suck them, leave you shaking.”

your free hand squeezes over your chest through your top, nails digging in. “fuck—”

“bet your pussy’s tight around your fingers,” he grits out, stroking faster, voice dipping. “you’d squeeze the life outta me if i was inside you right now.”

your thighs clamp together, wrist straining as you fuck yourself harder, thumb pressed so tight to your clit you’re seeing stars. “i’m close-”

he groans, hand smacking wet around himself. “me too- shit, keep going. wanna hear you come for me.”

your breath breaks into a sob as your body arches, everything snapping. “fuck, fuck, fuck- tobio—”

his hand doesn’t stop, even when you cry out into the phone, your fingers pulsing inside you. he strokes himself through it, teeth gritted, voice sharp. “holy fuck- you sound so good- fuck, i’m cumming-”

your body is still trembling, every nerve raw as you listen to him come undone. the sheets are damp under you, your chest heaving as you swallow air back down. your clit throbs, oversensitive, and every little brush of fabric feels like too much.

you press the heel of your hand against your stomach, grounding yourself. your legs won’t stop twitching, small aftershocks sparking up your thighs.

the phone is hot against your cheek, slippery in your grip, but you don’t hang up. you can still hear him—breathing hard, shifting, the faint drag of his palm across his leg.

you smile, voice shot, throat tight. “can’t feel my legs.”

he lets out a short laugh, still rough around the edges. “me neither.”

your eyes flick to the window. he’s already looking back, hair messy, shirt clinging to his chest.

“that was fun,” you murmur, eyes swimming in his.

his chuckle carries through the speaker. “yeah. better than i expected.” a pause. “i missed you.”

“missed you too.”

he leans closer to the glass, mouth quirking. “we should do it again.”

you huff a soft laugh. “phone sex?”

“no,” he says, unlatching the lock. “come over.”

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HANK #1 + Loves watching you full of himself, couldn't help but groan once you showed off your tits, showing off his strength, he loves the ride. + Although he always downplays #2's anxious antics of the adventures the group goes on, he secretly admits his own concerns to you. - You'll be caressing the back of his head and rubbing his back as he cuddles into your body, practically being the little spoon as he talks to you about whatever you're comfortable with. + Always trying to impress himself in front of you ever since you first met. When you first appeared in front of the hanks, he literally asked them to tidy themselves up, so he's definitely a pleaser, similar to the rest of them. + During sex, he loves cuddling in any form. He gropes your chest while he's pressed close against you in missionary, kneading your thighs, and any chub/curves you have to your skin are a must. He loves expressing his admiration for your body. - DEFINITELY gives the sweetest massages to you and the others. He can pop muscles with ease, especially your shoulders.

HANK #2 + He loves your pretty moans, he's getting very vocal beneath you, loves being sensual, going on a sweet ride. + ALWAYS asks if something is okay while being together, during sex, or not. He never wants to go against any of your wishes. + Detailed plans if you were to go on a date alone. Would get help from Mitchell for the best tasting restaurants to please you the best. + Caressing you is a must; pleasing you with just simple holding will be more than satisfactory for him.

HANK #3 + Showing off his stamina, inspiring you to ride with dirty talk, going to town, finally got in your pants. + I feel like he has a lower sex drive for someone whose dirty talk comes from the deepest part of his heart, but his drive is still just a tad bit higher than the other Hanks. - EVERY word from him is something he means, even promises, especially if it’s dirty talk. He doesn't just say things for nothing. - He can probably last two to three rounds, but only if you are willing. + When touching you, he loves a more sensual touch than rough. Although he speaks dirty, caressing your face and thighs is something he loves to do. + Although he shows his soft side more with you, even with dirty talk, he does have a freakier side, of course. Some kinks, such as light bondage and edging, really spurs him on, but he will always be sure to discuss those with you. + The only Hank who wouldn’t mind quickies. Blowjobs, handjobs, getting the chance to eat you out briefly are all on the table. The others prefer to take their time with you, as does three, but he wouldn’t mind a quick sesh to get some steam off.

HANK #4 + Fucking up into you, loves watching you squirm, can't get over how pretty you are, cant help but stare. + He has come up to you before asking to toy with his hair, to which you happily complied. He’d let you do anything to his semi-long locks, small braids, sweet massages to his scalp, or just allow his head to rest between your thighs as you both snoozed off during the day. + He and #3 aren't on the same level of horniness, but #4 still has his kinks. If you were to pull his hair, he would let out the filthiest groan in response; he'd probably tug your's if you'd beg him to. + He's only a little timid during intercourse, usually burying his head in the crook of your neck while he groans softly, kissing your skin. If you were to pull his hair to force him to look at you, it would be the icing on the cake.

HANK #5 + Earning the prettiest cries out of him, filling you with all he can, dumping inside of you, hand holding melts his heart. + Hank's underlying baby fever was already on his mind before you two had properly met face to face, but it immediately worsened the moment you spoke to him. + To see how sweet of a person you were, energetic, kind, thoughtful, gave him hope for a child of his own, even more than what the other Hanks have given him. + DEFINITELY was afraid of telling you about his dream of having a child. He would never keep it a secret intentionally, but had delayed his hopeful plan to try with you. He wanted the time to be special too, him and the rest of the Hanks working to please you while he paints your inner walls white. + Absolutely loves when you leg lock him during sex. The feeling of your legs reeling him in closer to you is something that easily makes his eyes roll back in bliss.