Music suggestion: Drake - Slap the city
Mom left early.
I heard her moving around the kitchen a little after seven — the quiet clink of a coffee mug, the soft jingle of her keys. She came to my door and knocked once before opening it a crack.
“Ash. I’m going to take a few extra jobs this week. The Martinez want the whole house done and that office building on 4th needs a deep clean before Monday. Can you stay home with your brother? Just for a few days. Make sure he eats, keep him company. He’s still adjusting.”
I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”
She smiled, tired but grateful. “Thank you, sweetheart. There’s money on the counter if you need anything. And Ash—” She hesitated in the doorway. “Be patient with him. He’s not the same.”
“I know.” Of course I knew, I slept with him until 5AM before returning to my bed.
After she left, the house felt different. Quieter. The kind of quiet that settles in when it’s just two people and too much unsaid history. I stood in the kitchen for a long time staring at the empty coffee pot, replaying the night before in pieces, the way Calum had held me, the thick heat of him sliding between my cheeks, the broken sound he made when he came against my back. My stomach tightened just from the memory. I still had his dry cum on my skin, like his imprint.
I decided to cook properly.
Not the usual toast and whatever was left in the fridge. Something decent. Bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, pancakes with fruit, fresh orange juice, the good maple syrup Mom kept on the top shelf. I moved around the kitchen slowly, letting the smell of bacon fill the whole house. I cracked the eggs one by one, whisked the batter longer than I needed to, flipped the pancakes carefully. By the time everything was ready it was almost nine and the kitchen looked like a real breakfast had happened in it.
I loaded two plates onto a tray, added forks and the syrup, and walked down the hall to Calum’s room.
The door was half open. He was still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. The sheet had slipped down to his waist. Morning light cut across the hard lines of his back and the thick muscle of his shoulders. His new buzzcut giving him a new edge. He’s no longer the preppy boy, his a bad boy now, my big bro, my ex-con. I can’t lie to myself that it turned me on so much. The black ankle monitor sat against his skin like a reminder.
I set the tray on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Calum.”
He made a low sound and turned his face into the pillow.
“Calum. Wake up. I made breakfast.”
He shifted, groaned, and finally opened his eyes. For a second he looked confused, like he didn’t remember where he was. Then his gaze landed on me and something in his expression softened.
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine. Mom already left for work. She asked me to stay home with you for a few days.”
Calum pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheet sliding further down. His chest was bare, the thick muscle and the light dusting of dark hair catching the light. He ran a hand over his buzzed head and blinked at the tray.
“You cooked for me?”
“Yeah. Proper breakfast. Move over.”
He shifted toward the wall without arguing. I climbed onto the bed with the tray and set it between us. The mattress dipped under my weight. Calum leaned back against the headboard, still half-asleep, and watched me like he wasn’t sure what to do with the situation.
I cut a piece of pancake, dragged it through the syrup, and held the fork out toward him.
“Open.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna feed me?”
“Just take it.”
He opened his mouth, still looking faintly amused, and let me put the fork between his lips. He chewed slowly, eyes closing for a second.
“Fuck. That’s good.”
“There’s bacon too. And eggs.”
I fed him another piece of pancake, then a strip of bacon. Calum let me do it without protest, which somehow felt more intimate than anything that had happened the night before. Every so often his eyes would flick up to my face while he chewed, and the quiet between us would stretch a little longer than it should have.
“You’re being weirdly nice, you’re my little brother, I should be the one feeding you.” he said after a while, voice still rough with sleep.
“You just got out of prison. Figured you deserved a decent breakfast. But dong get used to it, this is not a 5 star hotel.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and accepted another forkful of eggs. A bit of cheese stuck to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking I reached out and wiped it away with my thumb. Calum went still for half a second. I pulled my hand back and pretended to focus on cutting more pancake.
We kept eating like that, me feeding him more than I fed myself, the tray balanced between our legs, the occasional quiet comment about how good the bacon was or how Mom never let him have this much syrup when we were kids. At one point he reached over and stole a piece of pancake straight from my plate with his fingers. I smacked his hand. He grinned, the first real, unguarded smile I’d seen on him since he got home.
“Still a little shit,” he muttered.
“You taught me.”
After the food was mostly gone I set the tray on the floor and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Calum watched me unlock it and open Spotify.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing you what you missed.” I scrolled through the albums I’d saved. “Hip-hop didn’t stop just because you were locked up.”
I put on Drake first — the album that dropped a few months ago. Calum listened in silence for the first track, then the second, expression unreadable. When the third song started he leaned his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes.
“This is actually good.”
“Told you.”
I played him a few more — some Travis Scott, a couple of tracks from the new Cole album, one of the more underground ones I’d gotten obsessed with over the last year. Calum didn’t talk much.
He just listened, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking who the artist was. At one point he reached over and took the phone from my hand so he could read the lyrics on the screen. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away immediately.
“You really stayed home this whole time?” he asked after a while, still looking at the phone. “No parties, no boyfriends, nothing?”
“Mostly just work. Mom needed the emotional support.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. Then he set the phone down on the bed between us.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” His voice was lower now. “I fucked up. I know I did. And you and Mom paid for it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.
The music kept playing softly from the phone. The empty plates sat on the floor. Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere down the street. Inside the room the air felt thicker than it had a few minutes ago.
Calum shifted against the headboard. The sheet had slipped down to his hips. I could see the clear outline of him underneath it — soft still, but heavy. My eyes lingered a second too long. When I looked up he was already watching me.
The silence stretched.
I cleared my throat. “You want more coffee or anything?”
“No, you just treated me like a king. No one ever done this shit for me before. No girl, no one.”
Another few seconds passed. My pulse was starting to pick up for no good reason. Or for a very obvious reason that neither of us was naming yet.
Calum’s voice came out quieter than before.
“You’ve been looking at me like that since last night.”
I felt heat climb up my neck. “Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking about what we did.”
I didn’t deny it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and looked down at his own lap for a second, then back at me. Something conflicted moved across his face, hunger, shame, and the clear memory of how hard he’d come against my back only hours earlier.
“I keep thinking about it too,” he admitted. “The way it felt. How easy you made it.”
My mouth went dry.
Calum’s hand moved under the sheet. I watched the fabric shift as he adjusted himself. When he spoke again his voice had dropped even lower.
“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not asking.”
I held his gaze for a long moment. Then I shifted closer on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and reached out. I rested my hand on his thigh over the sheet, feeling the solid muscle underneath.
“I know you’re not asking,” I said. “I’m offering.”
Calum’s breath caught.
I pulled the sheet down slowly. His cock was already filling out, thick and heavy, the head starting to swollen as blood rushed into it. I wrapped my fingers around the base and felt it twitch and swell further in my grip. Calum let out a low, rough sound and let his head fall back against the headboard.
“Ash…”
“Just let me.”
I leaned down and took him into my mouth.
The reaction was immediate. Calum’s whole body tensed, a sharp breath punched out of him. One hand came down and settled in my hair, not pushing yet, just resting there as I sank lower. He was still only half-hard when I first closed my lips around him, but he thickened fast against my tongue, the weight of him stretching my mouth wider with every second.
I worked him slowly at first, long, wet strokes, tongue pressing against the underside, taking a little more each time. Spit built quickly. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room. Calum’s breathing turned heavier almost immediately. His fingers tightened in my hair.
“Fuck… that’s good. That’s so fucking good.”
I took him deeper, ignoring the way my throat tried to close. The thick head pressed against the back of my mouth and I held there for a few seconds before pulling back to breathe. Calum’s hips shifted upward to follow my mouth, a small, involuntary movement he seemed to catch himself doing.
“Sorry…” he muttered.
I answered by sinking down again, further this time, and the apology died in his throat.
The next few minutes stretched out in wet heat and the growing pressure of his hand on the back of my head. I sucked him with steady focus, taking as much as I could on every stroke, letting spit run down the shaft and over my fist as I stroked what wouldn’t fit. Calum’s voice dropped into a continuous low stream of rough praise and curses, the words half-broken every time I took him particularly deep.
“Dear God, Ash… your mouth… fuck!”
His control started to fray. The hand in my hair grew firmer. His hips began meeting my mouth with short, deliberate thrusts. I relaxed my throat as much as I could and let him use it. The wet, choking sounds got louder. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I kept going.
Calum sat up straighter against the headboard, both hands now framing my head, and started guiding me properly. The careful version of him from a few minutes ago was slipping. What replaced it was need — pure and a little desperate after a year of nothing.
“Stay there,” he muttered. “Just stay right there and take it.”
He fucked my mouth with growing intensity, short deep strokes that forced the thick head into my throat on every thrust. I gagged around him. Spit poured down my chin and onto his thighs. The bed creaked softly under the movement. My own cock ached inside my shorts, hard and leaking, but I didn’t touch it. I kept my hands on his thighs and focused on breathing between thrusts.
Calum’s voice was wrecked now.
“I’m close… fuck, I’m getting close!”
He pulled out of my mouth with a wet sound, still holding my head in place by the hair. His other hand wrapped around his cock and stroked fast and tight, the flushed head only inches from my face. I stayed where he put me, mouth open, eyes looking up at him.
“Tongue out.”
I stuck my tongue out.
Calum groaned low and deep as the first thick rope of cum hit my cheek and the bridge of my nose. The second landed across my open mouth and tongue. He kept stroking through it, aiming carefully, painting my face in heavy pulses until it was dripping down my chin and onto his stomach. The amount of it was ridiculous, hot, thick, more than I expected even after last night.
When the last weak spurt landed on my lower lip he finally loosened his grip on my hair.
I stayed on my knees between his legs, face covered, breathing hard. Calum looked down at me for a long moment, chest still rising and falling, something dark and satisfied and a little stunned in his expression.
He reached out and dragged two fingers through the mess on my cheek, then pushed them into my mouth. I closed my lips around them and cleaned them without being told.
“Good boy,” he murmured, voice still rough.
For a while neither of us spoke. The playlist had moved on to some r&b. Outside, the lawnmower had stopped. Inside the room the only sound was both of us trying to catch our breath.
Calum eventually leaned back against the headboard and let out a long, shaky exhale. He dragged a hand down his face, then looked at me again, at the cum still drying on my skin, at my swollen lips, at the clear evidence of what we’d just done.
“This is gonna get complicated,” he said quietly.
I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt as best I could and met his eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
He didn’t tell me to leave.
I didn’t offer to go.
We sat there in the wrecked sheets with the empty breakfast plates on the floor and the taste of him still thick on my tongue. And none of us pretend this was going to stop.
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