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It's been a good day, you suppose. Strife went well; the kid's picking things up quicker than ever, even managed to get a few decent hits in. Your new mix is coming along swimmingly, a large order of smuppets sent off so you'll be getting paid soon. Pizza for dinner, baller. And Dave seems content enough, scribbling bullshit comics as you both relax in front of the TV, sliding them over to you when he finishes one to try and make you laugh.
When ten o'clock finally rolls around, and you flip over to catch the news headlines, he sighs, shifting his sketchbook from his lap and stretching out wide, releasing the fakest yawn you've ever heard. God, kid, at least try and make it convincing. Right? Jesus.
“Gonna hit the hay,” he mumbles, scratching at his tummy as he stands, sparing a glance at you to get your little nod of acknowledgement. You don't give it to him, staring straight ahead instead. Maybe you're being a dick, whatever, its funny to disrupt his little routine sometimes. “Yo, you hear me?”
“Little early. You got an e-date with that Harley chick or something?” you ask, picking your teeth as you look over and he frowns, sliding his shades off in some silly little display of wanting to be taken seriously.
“No,” he bristles, tugging at his jeans, and you hold back your smirk because you know exactly what he's going to do. He's been doing this pretty much every night for a month; sneaking off to bed earlier and earlier, working himself up in his head until he gets sick of waiting. Its a normal enough routine, you figure. Be nice if he was a little less obvious about it, but it's endearing enough.
“I'm just tired,” he insists on lying, and you nod, looking back at the screen while assuring him “alright, alright...” He huffs. You must have held up his perfectly scripted little plan and now he's out of sync with it in his head, the poor thing. You'll apologize with a strife before breakfast tomorrow, you know how much he loves those.
He shuffles off, sliding socked feet against the wood of the floor, and his bedroom door clicks when it closes.
The next morning he curses you out, screams as he tries to block you, still half asleep, stomach rumbling with hunger, and you can only laugh when he falls back on his ass, calling you every name under the sun.
That night is the same. And the night after. Earlier and earlier, he slinks off, closing his door so softly its as if he doesn't want you to know where he is.
A week later, he does his little bullshit yawning routine at half past fucking seven, and you just have to call him on it.
“Damn, kid, where's all that energy goin'?” you ask as he stands. He throws a questioning look at you, as if he hasn't realized how fucking weird he's acting, and you can't suppress a smirk at the fact he probably hasn't.
“Huh?”
“Don't you wanna stay up and watch Kitchen Nightmares with me? There's some crazy bitch on it tonight, apparently.”
“What.”
“What yourself, why you goin' to bed so damn early?”
He wrinkles his nose, a clear sign that he hasn't planned on you asking him what he's up to and thus has to think of a smart answer on the fly. The kid is fucking transparent as hell, you're gonna need to work on that.
“I'm...” he starts, stopping to think again. Jesus Christ...
“You're...?” you mock, grinning when he flips you off.
“I'm bored. Or something. I'm tired.”
“Good one.”
“Shut up. Good night.”
His door closes with a louder click this time. He knows you're up on whatever he thinks he's being sneaky about, there's no point in him trying to hide it any more.
You watch Kitchen Nightmares anyway, fuck about on the website for a while, add a new comment system, upload a few new pictures, disable the comment system after a couple of creeps decide to go balls to the wall with it. Approve a few orders, eat a few left over slices, catch up on local news.
It's only fucking nine at night, and you're bored as shit. Dave's been in bed for near enough two hours. Well, 'in bed', whatever.
You go to the bathroom, glancing at his door on the way out. There's no hint of light glowing from the crack beneath it, not even the flicker of a computer screen, nothing. For half a second you think maybe he really has gone to bed early, but a noise tells you otherwise.
It's a tiny noise, really you shouldn't have been able to hear it. If you were anywhere other than right by his room you wouldn't have. A little knock against the wall. The wall by his bed, the other side of the room, the acoustics in there are god awful, every noise carries, no matter how quiet and this is muffled so it's not near where you are. He's in bed, all right. Just not sleeping.
Well, there's one question answered. But you already knew he wasn't really sleeping. Whatever.
You're about to turn away when you hear something else. His voice is quiet, soft as anything, strained, and the phrase “fuck this” has never sounded quite so sweet or defeated.
You press your ear to the door, and you know you really shouldn't but fuck it, you're bored and intrigued. Another bump on the wall, like he can't control whatever is doing it, and he curses again, frustration weighing heavy in his words, a fussy little sigh leading into another knock, the sound of something slipping down.
You're turning the handle before you realise it, cracking the door open, silencing him completely as he looks up sharply, eyes wide and absolutely terrified as he stares at your silhouette in the hall light.
“You okay, buddy?” you ask, and the name isn't meant to belittle him in anyway, because you actually are concerned, but it's funny anyway.
“Yes get out,” he replies immediately, breathing heavier than he should be, and you take a step further into the room, watch as he gathers his blankets up around his legs in a panic, gripping at his pillow, perhaps for comfort, more likely to throw it at you.
“You sure?” You take another step, and catch the pillow before it hits your face.
“Get out!”
“Sure are actin' suspicious...”
“Fuck off!”
“Aw, c'mon...” you say, taking a seat at the side of his bed, twisting to keep your eyes on him. His face is bright red, possibly from embarrassment, possibly from...whatever he was doing before. “I just wanna help,” you offer, trying to sound genuine, holding back a laugh as he sinks back into his sheets, half covering his face, avoiding your eyes.
“I'm fine...”
“No you ain't.”
“I'm-” he cuts himself off, falling silent with a huffy little pout, glaring out the door, at the floor, anywhere but at your face.
“You can tell me, man, it's cool.”
You swear to god, if he's got something stuck up his ass or whatever, you won't be able to control yourself from laughing, which would be a shitty move on your part. Breathe deep, Strider. The young one needs you now. Be strong. Don't laugh at how dorky he is. You can do this.
“...I have... I have a, uh...I just can't do it...” He's uncharacteristically reluctant to speak, each word shrinking to a squeak, his flush growing brighter with each passing second.
God fucking damn it.
“It's cool, li'l dude, just show me.” You've always been good at convincing people to do things, its a gift. Born to coax, and it works. He watches your eyes for a second, and you remove your shades as a peace offering of sorts, something to smooth the transaction along. The shift of sheets is slow and meaningless as you keep your eyes on him and try to look reassuring. He's trusting in you, you're here for him, and whatever dumb shit he's caught himself up in is gonna be fi-
“Holy shit.”
“Bro, don't.”
You've never actually seen one of these in real life, this is something special. You certainly never expected to see one on your little fucking brother, that's for damn sure.
“Where did you get this?”
Your fingers itch to feel it, smooth along the wood of the pole, grab it and manoeuvre him around, feel the leather of the cuffs digging into his knees. He's reluctant to answer, pushing his face into his shoulder as you wait, unable to keep your eyes from flicking towards the spreader bar every few seconds.
“Internet,” is his answer, and you nod, looking back down at the thing, at just how wide apart his legs are. It's long, maybe about sixteen inches, and his thighs are splayed open, framing his swollen erection. Your mouth feels dry, and you sure as shit ain't laughing now.
“So, uh...” You have to clear your throat. Smooth moves, real smooth. He looks a little less mortified now, though, so maybe acting a little more human isn't going to kill you. “What's the problem? You lose the keys or somethin'?”
He shakes his head, shoulders hunching as he supports himself on stiff, straight arms when he sits up, fingers curling into the sheet beneath him, legs immobile. No, no of course not, it wouldn't be that simple.
“It's not, like... I keep trying and it doesn't work. I mean, it did, a couple times, but I can't ever get it...right, or, y'know whatever, I dunno. You don't have to do anything, you just totally don't. Just...maybe forget about the whole thing, that'd be fuckin' great. That'd be spectacular.”
He's nervous, doesn't want to admit he's in a jam, his blush spreading down to his chest, highlighting every freckle, and he's sweating, not much, just just enough for you to notice.
“Just tell me what doesn't work. I'll help you out, man. 'S what I'm here for, ain't it?”
He's still holding himself back, but you can hazard a guess at what it is, and when he reaches under the blankets and draws out a small curved vibrator, you feel like you just won Wheel of fucking Fortune. Keep cool, it's all uphill from here.
“Don't, like... I dunno...”
“So, you can't get it in or what?”
“I can, I just... ugh, fuck, this is so fucking dumb and gay. It's gay as hell, god damn.”
“It's cool, man,” It's totally not cool. “Tell me what you need.”
His movements are awkward, his open legs disallowing proper balance so he rests back, keeping a firm grip on the blankets in one hand, holding the little thing gently in the other. He's refusing to answer you outright, and you suppose you can't blame him.
“What about this?” you ask instead, brushing your fingers lightly along the bar between his knees, and he almost jerks in surprise, as if he can't believe you actually touched it. You grip it firm, checking its give and hold, and his knees bend as much as they can, a futile little attempt at protection. He makes a tiny noise in his throat, head sinking down, chest rising, his hands coming up to rest on his stomach as he breathes deep.
“When I try to, uh...” He waves the little vibrator to indicate, “my legs always, kinda...close, I guess. I thought this would...”
“Keep 'em open,” you finish for him, nodding a little, and he sighs out a little breath, still tense as hell but relaxing, and his cock twitches, completely exposed and neglected. God damn, how long has he been doing this to himself? It's over a month now, every night, trying to get off and not being able to.
“So, what's gone wrong this time?”
He blushes like a damn school girl, and you're getting sick of it.
“It doesn't feel right,” he says eventually, voice hardening when you groan out a frustrated sigh at his reluctance to reply.
“Well, that's 'cause you're probably doin' it wrong.”
Smooth, man. Fuckin' outstanding.
“I'm not fucking doing it wrong!”
“Obviously, you are. Give it here.” He snatches it away from your reaching hand, glaring wildly at you, and you know that if he could he'd run away. But he can't, can he. You smile.
Your hand slithers down, stroking along his inner thigh before you wrap your fingers around his cock and he gasps, legs twitching as they try to close over, to protect him, push you away, anything, and his choked little breath only spurs you on. His hands fall to his sides, curling into the sheets, dildo landing within your reach and you seize it quick as flash. It's a discrete little thing, only about three, maybe four inches long, sleek and slender, the tip curving only a bit, and still wet with lube.
“Gonna tell me the fuckin' problem now, kid?”
You stroke his dick gently, your wrist relaxed as he shudders and melts back a little, his eyes falling heavy as he pants as quietly as he can, feet rising from the bed to allow for more access. He stumbles on his answer, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes, swearing softly when you rub your thumb across his frenulum.
“I-I can't make it- ah fuck!” Your hand speeds up, only a touch, twisting around the head before sinking back down and squeezing. “It doesn't feel right, I- mm! Fuck... shit.”
You leave off, having relieved some of the pressure, hopefully, and he sighs, settling back as he keeps his glazed eyes on the vibrator in your hand, chest heaving with each deep, uneven breath.
“Well, it's only a tiny thing...” you muse, turning it over in your palm, your glove glossy with the little puddle of lube. Your other hand trails further down between his legs, and they flail as they try to close again, his panic evident in the way he half shouts out, a hand flying out to halt your movement.
“Bro, don't, seriously,” he demands. You frown.
“If you ain't stretchin' right, it ain't gonna feel good, now, is it?”
He looks at you like you just grew a second fucking head. Great, that's all you fucking need.
“Settle back, lemme see.” You keep your voice as kind as you can, gently pushing his legs back to open him further and he bites his lip against whatever retort he had lined up.
He's slick, your fingers glistening as they stroke downward, and he whines a pathetic little sigh as you circle his opening slowly. He's tight, you don't even have to feel it to tell, and your finger rubs in firm, small spirals, relaxing him down, drawing a tiny cluster of sweet little sighs from him, and when you glance up at his face he's watching your hand, as if he doesn't understand how you're doing it.
“You done this before?” you ask softly, leaning in a little closer to his face and his eyes shift slowly up to meet yours. He gives a tiny shake of his head, biting his lip again when you press a little harder, brows knitting together, a little trail of sweat trickling down his cheek. “How come?”
“Can't reach properly,” he answers honestly, and his voice sounds like it's been shredded in half, thin and laboured as he speaks, a small gasp cutting him off, and he pushes himself up, closer, leaning in towards you as an arm reaches up and curls around your neck, fingers slipping through your hair like snakes through grass, grip tightening when he shakes and pants again.
Your finger stops, pausing when he whines soft and tries to pull you in for a kiss, the bar between his knees pressing against your shoulder.
“Dave...” you say, voice low and thick, his eyes watching your lips, drinking in each time you have to dart your tongue out, each breath and hesitation. This should be where you stop, you think. This is already too far, he's already too invested in this, too open to it, too comfortable with it.
You're finding yourself in the same position, however, and you lean up, pressing him back as you sink your lips to his, the arm around your neck tensing then melting into you, his other hand dragging up into your hair to join, a breath shared between you as he slides down, with the spreader being the only thing keeping you completely from him as he settles on his back.
“Bro-” he murmurs into your mouth, your finger pressing against him to halt whatever he wants to say.
“Don't call me that,” you growl, keeping your voice low, rumbling it through him so he moans softly, fingers gripping tight, hips attempting to push up towards your hand. Your stomach twists sickeningly at the word, guilt rising like bile as you fish for something to replace it, and he nips at your lip, tugs at it gently, your fingers pushing against his hole harder, stroking as he relaxes further, each little noise he makes shooting straight through you.
“Wh-what can-”
“Daddy.” You feel sick at the shocking thrill you get just by saying it, and Dave pulls back, his eyes dark and blinking hard as he stares at you.
“What-”
“Do it.”
He pauses, unsure.
“Daddy...”
“Fuck.” It's all you can manage, crushing your lips to his again, sliding your tongue in as he grabs at you, hold slipping, his chest panting heavily. You bring both hands up to press his shoulders down, letting his arms fall so you can kiss and lick down his neck, across his shoulder, his hips useless as they try to roll up, seeking the friction from before, and the links on the cuffs of the bar clink and squeak with each movement.
You pull back, sitting up just a little to stroke along the wood, bamboo you figure, smooth and light, and you push it back gently, just to test. He gasps, fingers clenching when his hips rise, toes curling in the air. You kiss his knee, stroking a hand down his thigh, then back up again, trying to hide your smile.
“Can't believe you got one of these, man,” you mumble against his skin, and he shakes out a little laugh, reaching out to touch it himself. “When you get it?”
“Couple weeks ago,” he admits, breathless and flushed, and you slide back, leaning low to kiss a trail down his thigh, pushing both legs back even further, his knees almost to his chest, and he hums when your tongue accidentally brushes the head of his cock, stomach fluttering when you press your lips to it.
“'N' I had no idea. Kudos, kid.” You can't hold back your little smirk as you look up; he looks close to destroyed already, eyes dark and wet, mouth open for all the words he can't think of to say, so he nods instead, biting his tongue when you drop your head to suck at the tip of his dick. Pulling off after a moment, you lick down, mouthing down along the underside and up again, and you can feel his legs moving, half protesting and half desiring to part further for you, his ankles waving pointlessly in the air. “Tell me 'bout this,” you say lowly, grabbing at the vibrator forgotten beside you and holding it up so he can see. He goes quiet, legs tensing until you lick him again, sucking a soft kiss just beneath the head, and suddenly he's returned to putty in your hands.
“Its- ah!” His hands slide back into your hair when you suck him deeper, your tongue pressing hard as your cheeks hollow and your lips slide down and easy around his cock. You hum, deep and muted and he pants openly, fingers sliding down to the back of your neck, digging into your shoulders as his hips rock up into your mouth. “I tried to- mm... Sometimes it feels good...”
You pull off, bringing the dildo up to glance at it, raising an eyebrow when you catch his eyes.
“When's it feel good?” you murmur, licking up the shaft again. He whimpers, shakes his head, tries to coax your mouth back down on him but you hold your ground. When he doesn't reply you look back down, shuffling your shoulder so you can press the thing against his ass, and with the click of a button it whirs into life, the tip vibrating against him so suddenly he shouts out, back snapping rigid as he moans, his hands gripping you tight everywhere they can. “That feel good?”
You can't help but be amused, not when his hips pulse desperately against the toy in your hand, his cock twitching as you press your tongue against it again, a long, hopelessly torn groan slipping from his mouth as he thrashes, nodding, chewing his lip, tugging at your hair like he's trying to rip it out.
“That feel good, baby? Tell me,” you say, rubbing the vibrator against him lightly, the bar between his knees creaking at every harsh little wiggle of his legs and he hums his approval around the hand he stuffs in his mouth. “Tell me.”
“Yes, yeah it does, it feels good- shit!” You have to smile, a quiet little snicker slipping out as you look up at his face, eyes shut tight against sensation, mouth unable to close and dripping wet as his gasps and moans grow increasingly urgent. You push a little harder, feeling the tip press to open him just a fraction, sliding the little button to amp up the speed and he fucking wails, throwing his head back and tossing his shoulders against the pillow, his bound legs frantic as they try to snap shut or slide further apart, his body confused and fighting to right itself.
You click the toy off, pull it back and set it aside as sudden as you can, shocking him out of his delight, and he sucks in great pulls of air, hands limp when you push up and they slip from your hair to fall beside him.
“Fuckin' shit...” he gasps out, and you do laugh this time, leaning up and over him to slip him a kiss which he whines into, his fingers straining to trace at your hands either side of his.
“You like me pressin' it up against you, huh?” you murmur, brushing his lips with your own as you speak, returning the kiss when he leans up, sliding his tongue against yours, soft and quick.
“Yeah,” he whispers, tugging at your lip again and dragging his fingers across the back of your hand.
“Want me to fuck you with it?”
His heart seems to stop, eyes splitting even darker at the question, and you feel his cock twitch, pulsing hot when you slide your thigh between his splayed legs and press gently. Leaning down and nuzzling against his neck, he moans as you lick up to his ear and growl “you want it?”
“Y-yeah...”
“Ask nice.”
He's hesitant, like he has been all night, his fingers tap against your hand as he tries to find the words, and you're patient with him, kissing across his cheek as he breathes even to calm himself down.
“Can you...will you fu- damn...”
“Come on...” you mutter, kissing at the edge of his lips, sliding your thigh harder against him, forcing a little noise from him that he can't help. His hands raise to grasp at your shoulders, holding you against him while you continue to paint a bloom of tiny kisses along the line of his jaw, and he grips you tight, shaking and rubbing up against your leg.
“Please fuck me, Br- D-Daddy...”
The shock that jolts through you is unbelievable, snaps at your senses in a wonderful, burning rush. You didn't want to admit to yourself how hot he was making you, how having him bound and spread open beneath you was making you feel any different about him. In hindsight, it's stupid, really; it stopped being about helping your little brother the moment you kissed him. He's pulled back, watching your eyes, and he looks nervous as hell, scared you'll leave, that he's taken it too far and you won't look at him the same ever again. He's right. You won't.
The end of the world couldn't tear you from him now.
You breathe deep, your body reawakening with a shudder, his hands clasped tight at you in something close to fear, and all you want to do is burn into him and hold him forever.
“Anythin' you want, baby. I'll do anythin' you fuckin' want,” and you kiss him deep, furious, your teeth knocking and clacking together, tongue twisting against his as he sings a little wordless note full of relief and gratitude and desire, clinging to you close and insistent, voice hot as it cracks, rolling through his lips into yours. His breath is searing against your cheek as you break away, rich and full of demand, his arms claiming your neck again as his hips roll up into you, his entire body roiling with tension and need, dependant and submissive, laid utterly bare before you as your hand snakes down to grasp between his legs again and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.
He needs to cool down. Well, fuck that, you both probably do, but he's on the edge as it is, so you press down, rubbing him only to relive the pressure as he whines and tingles, and he reaches up to grasp the bar with both hands, rising it another few inches for you.
“God damn...” you smirk, sitting back, keeping your hand steady as he buries his face in his shoulder again to hide, toes curling as his knees bend and his ankles try to cross. He pulls the bar to his chest, covering his face as best he can manage, which isn't much, and you just have to lean back and take in the visual because hot damn, the boy is gorgeous. Sweat glows on his flushed skin, you can almost see his heart beating in his small flat chest with each gasp, the force of holding his legs back making his arms quake and his eyes clasp shut. Your hand slips down, startling him, stroking soft and light against his exposed opening, applying only a tiny bit of pressure to breach him and slide the tip of a finger inside. He bites off a noise, jaw clamped shut, brows locked together. “This okay?”
He nods with a little incomprehensible sound. He can't speak, and you lean in to kiss at his ankle, up his calf to distract him, twisting your finger only a little before pushing further, bracing your other hand on the back of his thigh as if he doesn't already have his legs restrained and spread wide for you.
“Tell me if you don't like it, okay?” He nods again, panting hard through gritted teeth and you stop moving just for a moment. “Dave, tell me you will.”
His eyes flash for a second as they peek open, seeking you out in the darkness of the room, and he gasps, letting out a bated breath, lip falling from his teeth.
“I will. I will, Daddy,” he groans, your finger sliding deeper before you can stop yourself, bending and crooking, pressing around inside and it seems to drive him insane, the way he throws his head back, twists his neck and shoulders, feet kicking in small flips, a cry breaking from somewhere deep in his chest, and you move yourself down to suck at his inner thigh, beginning to draw your finger out only to push back in slowly, your tongue stroking his heated skin as you build a slow rhythm, keeping your eyes on his face.
He relaxes around you, legs twitching with each little touch and stroke, each tiny thrill you pull from him. He moans, loud and pure and bares his neck completely, swearing when you rub a second finger at his entrance, preparing to add it to the first.
“That good?” You have to keep asking, its a compulsion, you have to know how he feels. You have to hear him say it, describe it for you.
“Y-yeah. Yeah, it's good. It's so good...” He practically sobs when you push your second finger in alongside the first, his grasp on the spreader starting to slip as his palms sweat, and you sit up a little, pressing it back down yourself, letting his arms fall to his chest where they clamp and curl and ball up and drag at his pectorals and the hollow of his stomach because he needs something to hold on to. You start to thrust your fingers in and out that little bit harder, faster, moving them around until you find that one little spot inside him. His eyes snap open, the stale air in the room disturbed by his sudden howl, back arching violently from the bed, his hands vicious at his skin, and when you stroke at his prostate, rub against it in little circles to mimic your earlier actions, he shouts your name, hands shooting up to grasp at your arm, his hips moving up towards your hand as much as they can.
“You like it?” You're only torturing him now. He couldn't answer if he tried, his brain is melting slowly, hyper sensitized and delirious, his body lost in each new wave of sensation he's pierced with, over and over, and its as if he barely registers when you slip a third finger inside, he's that strung out. You fuck him fast, but gentle, holding his legs down easily enough despite his death grip on your wrist and forearm. His muscles constrict around you, clenching tight, rippling when you stroke him right, his throat sounding red raw with each guttural groan he cries out.
His head can't decide if it wants to lay back or look up at you, or down at your hand between his cheeks, so you let off, releasing your hold slowly as you drag your fingers out. Pressing your clean hand to his chest, you wait. He keeps his grip firm on your arm, breathing deep, slowly sinking back down, his heart thumping angrily in his chest against your palm.
“That's how its meant to feel,” you murmur, and you have to smile at the glazed look he gives you. Poor kid is long overdue an orgasm, so you waste no time in plucking the vibrator back from the sheets and leaning over to snatch up his little bottle of lube from the night stand. He almost whimpers at the sight, hips wiggling as they push forward, his shoulders flopping back to the mattress. “That felt good, right?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, still frazzled but coherent, and he reaches a hand up to graze his fingers across your cheek, “yeah, felt good.”
“Ain't over yet,” you reply, and the kid moans, just at the words, your voice, nothing else, so you lean down to kiss him again, sucking his tongue out just for a second before sitting back and pouring a little stream of lube onto the toy in your hand, letting it warm up in your palm before you press it against him. “You ready, baby?”
“Daddy...”
Christ, telling him to call you that was a huge mistake, it's driving you crazy. You're so fucking hard, your dick rubbing at the inside of your jeans uncomfortably, heat rising from your chest, making your head spin every time he says that damn word.
“Say it again,” you tell him softly, slipping the tip of the vibrator inside him and pulling it out, penetrating him slow and gentle as he writhes against the strange intrusion, his hand squeezing around your wrist as he fights to keep his eyes on you.
“Daddy,” he repeats, voice barely over a whisper, like he's telling a secret, staring glassily into your eyes even as you slide it that little bit deeper, keeping up your easy rhythm, letting it fuck him open again lazily as he looks up at you. “Daddy...”
“That's it...” you encourage, sweet as you can, as you press back down on the spreader, exposing him a little more, pushing the toy further in, twisting it just slightly, and his legs kick out, a moan choking from his throat, his eyes snapping shut again, and what better time than this to turn the little thing on.
You start slow, switching to the lowest setting, the little slider button poking into your thumb as you keep pushing the vibe in and out, the low hum of it completely masked by his sharp gasp, the shuffle of fabric as he grabs at the pillow beneath his head, teeth gritting together against any other noise he's liable to make. You slide it up a notch, hearing the increase in volume as you pull it out, teasing at his hole just for a moment before letting it sink back in, his legs wild in the air, flailing either side of you, and you push the bar further to his chest. He squeals, a high, pinched whine peeling out as his toes point and his teeth worry at his lip dangerously hard. He's a fucking vision like this, he doesn't even know it, and you slide the vibrations higher and higher, stopping just before the end of the line, pressing the curve of the tip upwards against his prostate so make him scream out, and one of his hands tears the seam of the pillow with the force of dragging it down to curl around his cock desperately. He has tears in his eyes, and you don't think you've ever seen anything quite so mind numbing as the way he looks at you while he comes.
He implodes, working his hips down against the toy inside him, barely stroking his cock before it twitches, swollen and red, and he paints his stomach with thin translucent stripes, sobbing and moaning as he grips harder to milk himself fully, his entire body stuttering with shocks and trembles and he looks like he might pass out at any moment.
You slip the vibrator from him quickly, clicking it off before you toss it aside, and immediately you're leaning over him, sucking kisses to his tongue as he pants, unable to reciprocate but appreciative none the less, fingers curling around your ear weakly. Fuck this, you've waited long enough, your hands on your zipper before you can even think about it. Even just tugging your cock out from your pants is relief enough, and it only takes a few quick strokes, a little twist around the head to set you off, your hips thrusting into your hand as you mark him, your cum mixing with his on his belly, stark against the flush of his skin.
Your head feels stuffy, clouded and dazzled, your fingers fumbling at the cuffs on his knees, his own joining them with a subtle expertise that shouldn't at all make you feel proud but does anyway. He groans when they slip from his legs, kicking them to the floor, the bamboo rod clattering down beside them, and finally you can collapse.
You flop on your back beside him, his bed tiny enough to force you up against the wall, and you watch as he stretches his legs out, pointing them to the ceiling, crossing them over, bending one, then the other, a regular bedroom gymnast, and you grin stupidly at the thought. He turns, squishing himself against you, his face burying into the crook of your neck, and you would complain about the mess on his stomach if you gave a shit. Instead, you wrap an arm around him, dragging him up and over as you shuffle, settling him on top of you while he still drags in air as if he just ran a marathon.
Jesus Christ.
“Jesus Christ,” you say. He seems to agree, a broken little noise muffling around your shoulder. He doesn't speak for a few minutes, neither of you do. Internally you worry if you've broken him, if he regrets whatever it was you did with him, or to him, or if he's scared, or freaking out like you're freaking out, oh god you're freaking out aren't you, shit.
“Can I call you Bro now?” he asks.
“'Course, man,” you reply.
“Cool. Thank you, Bro,” he mumbles, raising his head to smile dumbly up at you. You try to remain impassive, but fuck that, you just came on him. You feather your fingers through his hair, wrapping your other arm tight across his back, thumb rubbing gently at his temple.
“No sweat. Glad to help.”
He grins, kissing light at your chin since its all he can reach.
“Just promise me one thing, homie.”
“Hm? What's that?” God, he sounds fucked. You have to laugh at that, and you do, and he punches feebly at your shoulder.
“Promise me you'll work on lying. You're a fuckin' open book.”
He grunts, nuzzling at your neck.
“Sure.”
“Also any other weird bondage shit you want goes through me.”
“I didn't get it for that!” he whines, and you smack at his ass to shut him up.
“You didn't. But I'm gonna.”
“Fuck you, Bro.”
“Love you, kid.”