The next morning, I woke up with a start, the sun streaming in through the window and the sound of birds chirping outside. I sat up, the fluffy pillow and blankets pooling around me. The anticipation of the moment had turned into a strange sort of nervous energy, leaving me feeling both electrified and drained.
I grabbed my phone, scrolling through social media to distract myself from the racing thoughts. The house was eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional creak of the old floorboards. I knew Brody was a heavy sleeper, often not rising before noon, but I was the complete opposite. My eyes darted to the bedroom door, expecting him to burst through at any moment, but it remained stubbornly closed.
The silence was both comforting and nerve-wracking. I tried to focus on the chirping of the birds outside, the distant hum of a lawnmower, anything to keep my mind off the explosive night we'd shared. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Brody's body, the feel of his cock in my hand, and the way he'd looked at me after—a mix of confusion and something else, something that made my stomach flutter.
After what felt like an eternity, I heard the groan of the bed and the thud of his heavy feet hitting the floor. I felt a smile creeping up my mouth, a genuine, uncontrollable pull at the corners that I didn’t bother to hide. I was clearly excited to see him this morning, to watch how he’d behave after yesterday, to take in the sight of his hot, sleep-ruffled body emerging from the bedroom. The anticipation crackled in my chest like static electricity, sharp and alive. I kept my eyes glued to my phone screen, pretending to scroll through memes, but my focus was entirely on that door, waiting for the moment it would swing open. Would he be shy? Awkward? Or would he be the same oblivious, broad-shouldered Brody, blissfully unaware of the shift between us? Either way, the thought of seeing him—his hair tousled, his muscles relaxed from sleep, that thick morning voice—sent a warm flush creeping up my neck.
The door finally creaked open, and there he was. Brody shuffled out, blinking against the sunlight, his hair sticking up in wild tufts. He wore only a pair of faded grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, revealing the deep V-cut of his abdomen and the powerful swell of his pecs. Sleep still clung to him; his eyes were half-lidded, and a faint pillow crease marked his cheek. My gaze drank him in, tracing the familiar lines of his shoulders, the dusting of hair across his chest leading down, down… He scratched his stomach absently, the movement making the muscles in his arm flex. He looked deliciously rumpled, warm, and utterly unaware of the effect he had on me. The sheer normalcy of it, the everyday sight of my brother looking like a sleepy god, was almost more thrilling than the previous night’s intensity. It was proof that this, whatever *this* was becoming, could exist alongside our ordinary lives.
"Morning," he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly. He ran a hand through his messy hair, making it stick up even more. He padded towards the kitchen, completely ignoring my presence on the couch for a moment, focused solely on the promise of coffee. The scent of him – sleep, warm skin, and that faint, musky undertone – drifted over as he passed. I watched the powerful muscles of his back shift beneath his skin, the way his sweatpants hugged the curve of his ass. My heart hammered against my ribs. No awkwardness, no hesitation. Just Brody, being Brody. It was perfect. "Sleep okay?" he called over his shoulder, reaching for the coffee pot, his movements languid and unhurried.
"Like a rock," I lied, my voice thankfully steady. I swung my legs off the couch, standing up and stretching, subtly adjusting myself in my own sweatpants. "You?" I moved towards the kitchen island, leaning against the counter opposite him, watching as he scooped grounds into the filter. His hands were large, capable.
He glanced up, grinning, his teeth gleaming in the morning light. "You made me feel so good, I slept like a baby," he said, his voice already less thick with sleep. "I need to do something to return the favor."
Brody’s casual offer hung in the air like a dare. I felt dizzy, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks, but I kept my expression neutral—just a guy chilling with his brother. "Yeah," I managed, my voice steady despite the thrumming in my chest. "Sounds good."
He beamed, oblivious to the storm inside me, and turned to the cupboard. "Cereal?" he asked, already pulling down a giant box of sugary flakes. I nodded, and he grabbed two bowls, spoons, and the milk carton before lumbering over to the tiny kitchen table. He looked comically oversized beside it, his knees bumping the underside, muscles flexing as he poured the cereal with exaggerated care. Milk sloshed precariously, but he caught it just in time, grinning triumphantly.
I slid into the seat across from him, unable to suppress a smile. His own smile widened in response, bright and unguarded. "You’re in a good mood," he observed, shoveling a heaping spoonful into his mouth.
"Just like hanging with my big bro," I said lightly, tracing the rim of my bowl. The simplicity of the moment was surreal—cereal crunching, sunlight warming the linoleum, Brody’s bare foot tapping absently against mine under the table. Yet every cell in my body was hyper-aware of him: the dusting of sugar on his lip, the way his sweatpants dipped low enough to reveal the top curve of his hip bone.
He finished his bowl in record time, pushing it aside with a contented sigh. "Gotta get my shake ready for the gym later," he announced, lumbering back to the kitchen counter. He pulled out a massive tub of protein powder, the muscles in his back rippling as he scooped several heaping portions into a blender bottle. "Double scoop today," he grunted, adding water from the tap. "Feeling strong." He shook the bottle vigorously, the liquid sloshing, his biceps bulging with the effort. He set it down with a thud, then stretched, yawning wide. "Man, need to brush my teeth. Morning breath could kill a horse." He padded towards the bathroom, completely oblivious to the tension coiling inside me. "Then a shower. Gotta wake up properly."
I watched him disappear into the bathroom, the sound of the faucet running and vigorous brushing soon following. My cereal sat half-eaten, forgotten. The casual ease with which he moved through his routine, the utter lack of awkwardness or even a hint of recollection about his earlier promise, was both frustrating and strangely endearing. He was just Brody, lost in his simple world of protein shakes and hygiene. I leaned back in the chair, the plastic creaking. The sunlight felt suddenly too bright, the cheerful chirping of birds outside grating. My own anticipation felt loud and clumsy in the quiet apartment. I wanted to pick up where we left off last night, to feel that power and connection again, to see that look of dazed pleasure on his face. Maybe it wouldn’t happen right now, but I’d wait. I’d find the right moment. That was certain.
The shower started, the familiar rattle of pipes vibrating through the thin walls. Steam began to seep under the bathroom door. I got up, clearing the breakfast dishes automatically, my movements precise. The clatter of bowls in the sink was loud in the quiet. I wiped down the table, the counter, anything to keep my hands busy, my mind focused on the rhythmic drumming of the water. Waiting felt like an ache. Every splash behind the door was a reminder of his body, wet and soapy, just out of reach. I pictured the water sluicing over his broad shoulders, down the defined ridges of his back, tracing the swell of his ass. The image was sharp, vivid, making my breath catch. He’d emerge soon, damp and smelling of soap, wrapped in a towel. Would he remember then? Or would I need to gently, subtly, remind him?
The water shut off abruptly. Silence descended, thick and expectant. I heard the scrape of the shower curtain, the soft thud of his feet on the bathmat. My pulse hammered in my ears. I stayed perfectly still by the sink, staring at the dripping faucet, listening to the muffled sounds of him drying himself. The bathroom door handle turned. This was it. The moment stretched, thin and taut. The door opened, and a cloud of steam billowed out, carrying the clean scent of his body wash. He stepped into the hallway, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets clinging to the hard planes of his chest and abs. His hair was plastered darkly to his forehead. He blinked, his gaze finding mine. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. "Forgot my clothes," he rumbled, his voice still a little rough. He padded past me towards his bedroom, leaving damp footprints on the floor, the towel doing little to hide the powerful lines of his body. My eyes followed him, the heat in my chest flaring. The waiting was almost over.
Then, the sharp, insistent buzz of the doorbell shattered the quiet. I jumped, startled. For a second, my mind was blank, fogged with the image of Brody half-naked. Then it clicked: Dad. He was picking me up to help in the garden. I’d completely forgotten. "Shit," I muttered under my breath. I hurried to the intercom by the door, pressing the button to unlock the building entrance below. "Coming up, Dad!" I called into the speaker. My heart was pounding for a different reason now – panic mixed with a bizarre, inappropriate thrill. I scrambled back to the couch, grabbing my backpack, stuffing my phone and charger inside, trying to look like I hadn’t just been frozen, staring at my brother’s retreating form. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs outside the apartment door.
A moment later, the door swung open. Dad stood there, filling the frame. He wore his usual weekend gear: faded jeans, a worn flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows, sturdy boots. He had the same broad shoulders as Brody, though softened slightly by age, and the same easy grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Morning, boys!" he boomed, his voice warm and familiar. He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the small apartment, landing on me. "Had fun last night?" He chuckled, spotting the empty pizza box on the counter. "Looks like it."
"Morning, Dad," I said, trying to sound casual. "Yeah, it was good. Anime marathon." I gestured vaguely towards the bedroom door. "Brody just got out of the shower. Be out in a sec. Sorry, totally spaced on the time." My cheeks felt hot. The scent of Brody’s shower steam still hung in the air, mixing with Dad’s faint smell of earth.
Dad waved a dismissive hand, his smile easy. "No stress, Mika. Garden ain't going anywhere." He moved to Brody’s worn armchair and sank into it with a comfortable sigh, the leather creaking under his weight. He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles. He looked solid, relaxed, a picture of comfortable masculinity. The flannel stretched across his chest, hinting at the strength beneath. Sunlight caught the silver strands in his dark hair. Seeing him sitting there, so similar to Brody yet undeniably older, more weathered, sent an unexpected, confusing jolt through me. My earlier arousal, momentarily dampened by the surprise arrival, surged back with startling intensity, a low, insistent thrum beneath my skin. I looked away quickly, focusing on zipping my backpack, my fingers fumbling slightly. Brody’s bedroom door opened.
Brody emerged, now clad in loose grey sweatpants and a tight white tank top that clung to every ridge of his damp torso. His hair was towel-dried into chaotic spikes. He grinned at Dad, completely at ease. "Hey, Pops! Didn't hear you come in." He leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms crossed, the muscles bulging. The casual display of his body, so soon after the shower, felt like a deliberate taunt aimed solely at me. My gaze flickered from the defined curve of his biceps down to where the sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric straining slightly. My mouth went dry.
"Morning, son," Dad replied, his eyes crinkling. "Just grabbing the garden helper here." He gestured towards me. "Your mom’s got a list a mile long for us."
Brody chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Good luck with that." He pushed off the doorframe and ambled towards the kitchen counter where his protein shake sat. He picked it up, giving it another vigorous shake. The muscles in his arm and shoulder rippled powerfully with the movement.
Dad watched him, a proud, appraising glint in his eyes. "Damn, son," he said, leaning forward slightly in the armchair. "Looking thick. Been putting in extra hours at the gym? Arms are looking like tree trunks."
Brody beamed, flexing his right bicep deliberately. The tank top stretched taut. "Hell yeah, Pops. Hit a new PR yesterday. Three-fifty." He took a long swig of his shake, throat working. "Feeling strong."
Dad let out a low whistle. "Three-fifty? Shit, that's impressive. Remember when you could barely push two plates?" He grinned, shaking his head. "Built like a damn ox now. Shoulders are looking capped too." He gestured towards the corner of the small living room where Brody’s modest home gym setup lived: a sturdy bench press, a rack of dumbbells, and a pull-up bar mounted in the doorway. "All that work on the equipment paying off. You're filling out that frame proper."
Brody puffed out his chest, visibly swelling under the praise. "Thanks, Dad. Trying to get like you used to be." He gave Dad a playful punch on the shoulder. "Still got it though, old man."
Dad laughed, a warm, booming sound, and flexed his own bicep under the flannel. It was still substantial, solid muscle layered over years of farm work. "Still got enough to keep you honest, boy." He winked. "Looking at you two…" His gaze swept from Brody’s imposing physique to my own slimmer frame. "Both my boys turning into fine specimens. Makes a father proud."
I stood frozen by the couch, backpack forgotten in my hands. The air crackled with raw, uncomplicated masculinity. Seeing them like this – Dad, solid and weathered, radiating that effortless, grounded strength, and Brody, a mountain of sculpted muscle still gleaming slightly from the shower, flushed with pride and exertion – was overwhelming. The easy camaraderie, the mutual admiration in their deep voices, the sheer physicality on display… It hit me like a physical blow, a jolt of pure, illicit heat straight to my core. My cheeks burned, and I had to look down, pretending to adjust the strap on my bag. They truly looked magnificent together, a potent display of male power that was impossible to ignore and undeniably, intensely arousing.
Dad clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. "Alright, garden calls. Ready to roll, Mika?" He gave Brody a final nod. "Keep lifting, son. Looking good."
Brody grinned, raising his shake in salute. "Will do. See ya, Pops. Later, Mika."
I said goodbye, and followed Dad out the door. As we descended the stairs, the image of them – Dad's proud smile, Brody flexing, the sunlight catching the definition in his damp tank top – burned behind my eyelids. The garden work suddenly felt like a very long distraction. All I could think about was getting back here, back to Brody, and seeing exactly how he planned to return the favor.
And I did see him rather early again, just a few days later. Mom had decided to make a big family dinner and invited Brody over. Brody, never one to pass up free food—especially Mom’s cooking—showed up way before Dad even got home from work. Mom was bustling in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of roasting chicken and herbs, while I sat perched on a stool at the kitchen island, idly peeling potatoes and keeping her company. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. It was peaceful, domestic. Mom hummed softly under her breath, occasionally asking me about college plans or teasing me. I kept my answers light, relaxed, matching her easy vibe.
The bell rang—a sharp, familiar chime that cut through the quiet. Mom wiped her hands on her apron, smiling. "That’ll be your brother," she said, her voice warm. "Always early when food’s involved." I hopped off the stool, already feeling the grin spread across my face. Not nerves, just pure, uncomplicated excitement.
I swung the front door open, and there he stood—Brody, filling the doorway with that massive frame. "Hey," I chimed, my voice light and easy. His presence hit me like sunshine, warm and immediate. He stepped inside, his broad shoulders brushing the doorframe. I lingered close, shutting the door behind him as he bent to pull off his sneakers. My eyes traced the lines of his back through the soft fabric of his long-sleeved henley, the way his jeans hugged his powerful thighs. He’d dressed up a little, just like Mom liked—clean, neat, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The sight of him, solid and real, sent a pleasant hum through my veins. No nerves, just pure satisfaction.
He straightened, towering over me. "Smells amazing in here," he rumbled, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen. A faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and simple—mixed with the aroma of roasting chicken. I watched the flex of his jaw as he sniffed the air, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. My smile deepened. He looked good. Really good. The henley stretched tight across his chest, hinting at the hard planes beneath, and his jeans sat low enough to show a sliver of skin above his belt. I let my eyes linger a second longer than necessary, soaking in the details: the dusting of stubble on his jaw, the slight dampness at his temples from the summer heat outside.
"Mom’s in full chef mode," I said, leaning back against the door. "She put me on potato duty." I nodded toward the kitchen island where my half-peeled pile sat. Brody’s eyes followed the gesture, then snapped back to me. He grinned, that familiar, uncomplicated flash of teeth. "Need help?" he asked, already moving past me. His arm brushed mine—a casual, fleeting touch that sparked heat under my skin. I fell into step beside him, matching his stride as we headed down the hall. The floorboards creaked under his weight, a comforting, familiar sound. I could feel the energy radiating off him, that same oblivious, physical warmth. My pulse kicked up, not from anxiety, but anticipation. This was where I wanted to be. Close. Watching. Waiting for what might come next.
He pushed through the kitchen door, and Mom spun around, her face lighting up. "Brody!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron before throwing her arms wide. He bent down—a mountain folding itself—to hug her, his massive frame dwarfing hers. She patted his broad back, the sound like a soft drumbeat. "Look at you! Did you skip lunch again? I made extra chicken, potatoes, green beans... you're taking leftovers home. Can't have my boy wasting away!" She pulled back, cupping his cheek, her eyes crinkling with affection. Brody beamed, soaking up the attention like sunshine. "Thanks, Mom," he rumbled, his voice thick with warmth. It was surreal, seeing this hulking man—all muscle and raw power—being fussed over like a little kid. The contrast was dizzying. Intimidating physique, gentle soul. My favorite kind of puzzle.
Mom released him, turning back to the stove. "Mika, give him a knife. He can help you finish those potatoes." She stirred a bubbling pot, humming again. Brody grabbed a spare peeler from the drawer and slid onto the stool beside me, his thigh pressing against mine under the counter. Solid. Warm. He picked up a potato, his large hands surprisingly deft as he began peeling. I watched the flex of his forearm, the way the veins stood out against the skin. The late afternoon sun caught the gold in his hair, the faint sheen of sweat at his temples. He was entirely focused on the task, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The silence between us was comfortable, charged only by my own awareness. Every shift of his weight, every rasp of the peeler, every quiet breath he took—it all felt amplified. My knuckles brushed his as I reached for another potato. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to notice. But the contact sent a jolt straight through me. I kept peeling, my movements steady, my gaze tracing the line of his jaw. The wait was part of the fun. And he was worth every second.
Brody wasn’t as swift as me with the peeling – his thick fingers moved with careful deliberation, chunks of skin coming away unevenly. But he didn’t have to be fast. Mom orchestrated the final touches with practiced ease, pulling the golden chicken from the oven amidst billowing, fragrant steam. "Table, Mika!" she called. I wiped my hands quickly, grabbing plates and cutlery while Brody, ever eager, lumbered straight to the dining room and claimed his usual spot at the head of the table, stretching his long legs out with a contented sigh. The front door slammed open just as I was setting down the last fork. Dad strode in, still in his work boots and dusty jeans, a faded company logo on his blue work shirt. He looked rugged, tired, but undeniably handsome with his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair. "Smells like heaven, hon!" he boomed, his voice rough but warm. He clapped a heavy hand on Brody’s shoulder as he passed, making the chair creak. "Boys. Be right down – gotta wash off the day." He disappeared up the stairs two at a time, the sound of his boots heavy on the steps, promising a quick shower.
The table was set. Mom brought in the platter of chicken, its skin crackling. Brody’s eyes followed it like a magnet. I sat down next to him, pouring glasses of water. The air hummed with the comforting sounds of home: Mom bustling, the clink of serving spoons, the distant rush of the shower upstairs. Brody drummed his thick fingers on the tablecloth, his gaze drifting from the chicken to the stairs and back. He shifted in his chair, the fabric of his henley pulling tight across his chest. I watched him, the familiar heat coiling low in my belly. His sheer presence dominated my mind, a mountain of casual masculinity waiting for dinner.
Dad returned, damp hair combed back, smelling faintly of soap and pine. He slid into his seat at the other end of the table. "Dig in, boys," he said, already reaching for the chicken. Conversation flowed easily. Dad talked about the work he’d wrestled with all afternoon. Mom shared gossip from the library where she volunteered. Brody listened intently, nodding, his mouth full, occasionally offering a simple, "Yeah," or "Cool." I kept it light, chiming in about college registration dates, my eyes constantly drawn back to Brody. He ate with focused enthusiasm, his forearm brushing mine as he reached for seconds. The potatoes vanished. The green beans were demolished. Plates gradually emptied, leaving smears of gravy and contentment. Twilight deepened outside the window.
Finally, Brody pushed his plate away with a satisfied groan. "That was awesome, Mom." He stretched, the hem of his henley riding up, revealing a strip of toned stomach above his belt. Dad stood, gathering plates. "I’ll help your mother with these," he said, stacking dishes with a clatter. Mom beamed, picking up her wine glass and Dad’s. They drifted towards the kitchen sink, leaning close together, sipping the last of their wine, their silhouettes framed in the doorway like a scene from some cozy old movie. Brody scraped his chair back. "Better head out," he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the quieter room.
I followed him to the front door. The hallway felt suddenly intimate, the sounds from the kitchen muffled. He pulled on his worn sneakers, bending over with a grunt. "So," he started, straightening up. He towered over me in the dim light. "Friday?" His voice was low, tentative. "My place? Like… last time?"
A wide smile spread across my face. "Friday," I confirmed, my voice low and steady. "Definitely." Brody's expression brightened, pure and uncomplicated, like a kid promised an extra scoop of ice cream. "Good," he rumbled, shifting his weight. "I... I kinda enjoyed it, Mika. Last time. A lot." He shuffled his feet, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. "Wanna do it again? Like... properly?"
The sheer, guileless enthusiasm in his voice made my heart leap, but the volume was too loud. I reacted instantly, stepping closer and pressing my finger firmly against his lips. "Shhh!" I hissed, glancing nervously towards the kitchen doorway where the murmur of my parents' voices and the clink of dishes drifted out. "Not so loud, Brody. Seriously. Mom and Dad... they don't need to hear about my sex life, okay? Keep it down."
He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion behind my finger. I pulled my hand away. Understanding dawned slowly, then spread across his face in a wide, sheepish grin. "Oh. Yeah," he whispered, leaning closer, his breath warm against my ear. "True. No need for them to know." His voice was a low rumble now, conspiratorial. He straightened, his expression shifting to something earnest, almost pleading. "Maybe... maybe you could stay longer this weekend? Like, crash over Friday *and* Saturday?" He shuffled his feet again, a faint flush creeping up his thick neck. "I might have to leave once or twice, y'know... gym stuff. Gotta keep the gains." He gestured vaguely towards his chest. "But I'd like... I'd like to spend more time with you. Just hanging." His eyes held mine, wide and hopeful, the eagerness radiating off him like heat.
I tilted my head, letting a slow, thoughtful smile play on my lips. Inside, my pulse was hammering – the image of two whole nights at his place, the possibilities unfolding like a map. But outwardly, I kept it cool. "Hmm," I murmured, dragging the sound out, my gaze drifting past him to the darkened window. "Stay both nights? That's... a commitment, Brody." I let my eyes slide back to his, holding his gaze with deliberate ambiguity. "I dunno. I might have plans. Stuff to do." I shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance, watching his face intently. The flicker of disappointment was immediate, his broad shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. His lower lip jutted out just a fraction. Seeing that reaction, that simple, unguarded desire for my company – even if he couldn't fully articulate why – sent a sharp thrill through me. Playing coy was already paying off.
He leaned in again, his voice dropping even lower, thick with sincerity. "C'mon, Mika. Please? It'd be cool. We can watch more anime. Order pizza again. Whatever you want." He paused, his eyes searching mine. "I just... wanna hang out with my little bro." The earnestness in his voice, the way he emphasized 'little bro' while clearly wanting something far less brotherly, was delicious. He was trying so hard to be casual about it, yet his entire posture screamed anticipation. The raw need beneath the clumsy invitation was palpable.
I let the silence stretch for a beat longer, savoring the tension coiling in the dim hallway. Finally, I met his hopeful gaze and offered a slow, deliberate nod. "Alright, big guy," I said, my voice smooth and low. "I'll see if I can clear my schedule. Friday *and* Saturday." Relief washed over his face, followed by a bright, beaming smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Awesome!" he breathed, the word bursting out before he remembered to keep it down. He clapped a massive hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "It's gonna be great. See you then."
When I strolled back into the kitchen, Mom and Dad were shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink, Dad scrubbing a pan while Mom dried with a soft cloth. Their backs were to me, a picture of domestic harmony. "Heading up to bed," I announced, my voice light, easy. "Night, you two." Mom turned, offering a warm smile. "Night, sweetie. Sleep well." Dad grunted in acknowledgment, his focus on a stubborn bit of grease. Their obliviousness was perfect, a comforting blanket. They had no clue about the electric current humming under my skin, the secret pact simmering between their sons. Let them stay in the dark. Brody’s eager simplicity was mine to savor, mine alone, for now.
---
Friday arrived like a promise. By six, anticipation thrummed through me like a live wire. I found Dad sprawled on the worn living room couch, legs wide, nursing a cold beer. The flickering TV screen cast shifting light over his relaxed face as he watched the final minutes of a football game. The announcer's voice buzzed low, punctuated by Dad’s occasional grunt of approval or muttered curse. I leaned against the doorframe, my backpack already slung over one shoulder. My gaze drifted over Dad’s sprawled form – the solid strength in his thighs beneath worn jeans, the way his work-roughened hand gripped the beer bottle. It wasn't Dad himself that tightened my gut, though. It was the raw, visceral memory of Brody waiting for me, that mountain of muscle and eager oblivion. Every thought of him, of what tonight held, sent a jolt straight to my groin. I shifted subtly, adjusting my stance against the sudden pressure in my jeans. The wait was torture. Every second stretched, the game dragging on. I watched the clock above the TV tick past six-fifteen, willing the final whistle to blow. Dad needed to drive me into town. Needed to deliver me to Brody.
The final buzzer sounded, a harsh electronic bleat. Dad drained the last of his beer, setting the bottle down with a decisive clink. "Alright," he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch with a groan. "Ready to go?" His eyes scanned me, sharp but unseeing. "You seem... eager." He chuckled, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. "Brody order pizza already?"
I matched his chuckle, smooth and effortless. "Something like that," I said, following him out into the cooling evening air. The drive was mercifully short. Dad hummed along to the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. My mind raced ahead, picturing Brody’s apartment door opening, seeing him standing there – probably shirtless, maybe sweaty from a late gym session. The image was vivid, potent. My fingers tightened on my backpack strap. Dad pulled up outside Brody’s building, the familiar brick facade glowing under a streetlamp. "Have fun, kid," he said, giving me a quick nod. "Don't stay up *too* late." The irony almost made me laugh. "Thanks, Dad," I replied, stepping out. The car pulled away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk. I took a deep breath, the humid summer air thick with the scent of asphalt and distant grills. Anticipation coiled tight in my stomach. Time to see what the evening held.
Dad always waited, his car idling patiently at the curb until he saw me safely step inside. Tonight was no different. I gave a final wave towards the driver's window, catching the silhouette of his head turning to watch. Only then did the engine rev softly and the car pull away, disappearing down the quiet street. Friday night in this small town meant a few more cars cruising slowly, the distant thump of bass from one, and a small group chatting outside the corner store a block down. But compared to a city, it felt hushed, almost sleepy. The usual stillness wrapped around me as I approached Brody’s building. I pressed the buzzer beside his apartment number, the sharp electronic chirp echoing in the entryway. Silence followed. A few seconds stretched before the answering buzz sounded, unlocking the inner door.
The familiar, slightly musty smell of the old stairwell hit me as I climbed the creaking steps. Oddly, the frantic buzz that had plagued me all week – the constant replay of Brody’s invitation, the phantom feel of his skin – had vanished. Standing outside his door now, a deep calm settled over me. The tightness in my chest loosened, replaced by a warm, confident certainty. I smiled softly to myself. *Two whole days.* The frantic edge was gone. There was no clock ticking down, no fear of interruption. We had time. Plenty of it. To take things slow, to explore, to savor. *Don’t rush him,* I reminded myself, the thought clear and steady. *Let him build. Make it last.*
The door swung open before I could knock. Brody filled the frame, bathed in the warm yellow light from his apartment. He wore a clean, faded black oversized t-shirt – disappointingly covering that broad chest – and grey sweatpants. His damp hair and the scent of cheap soap and shampoo clung to him, sharp and clean. He practically glowed with freshness.
"You showered?" I asked, stepping inside and letting my backpack slide to the floor near the door. My eyes swept over him appreciatively despite the shirt. "You smell good."
Brody grinned, puffing out his chest slightly. "Yeah, just got back from the gym. Had to wash off the sweat." He dropped onto the worn couch with a heavy sigh, the springs protesting. "Killed Arms today." He flexed a bicep, the faded shirt sliding doen his straining muscle. "How's the pump?" His eyes searched mine, eager and uncomplicated.
I leaned against the doorframe, letting my gaze roam appreciatively over the thick curve of his arm, the way the vein snaked down toward his elbow. "Solid," I said, keeping my tone casual but injecting genuine approval. "Looks like you added half an inch." The praise lit him up from the inside, his smile widening. He flexed again, holding it. "Think so? Felt strong." We fell into easy chatter about his workout – the weights he'd lifted, the guy who'd hogged the bench press. It was strangely normal, comforting even. The frantic energy of anticipation had settled into a warm hum beneath my skin.
He stretched, cracking his neck. "Oh, uh... pizza," he mumbled, scratching his head. "The place on Elm? Closed today. Some plumbing mess." He gestured vaguely towards the tiny kitchenette. "Got noodles though. Those cups."
I shrugged, pushing off the doorframe. "Noodles are fine. I'll make 'em later." His grin returned, relieved. "Cool." We lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment. My eyes traced the clean line of his jaw, the damp hair curling at his temples. He looked incredible – fresh, powerful, relaxed. But the desperate edge was gone. Instead, a deep calm satisfaction filled me.
We settled onto the couch, Brody sprawling comfortably as I navigated the streaming service to continue the anime we'd started last time. The familiar opening theme filled the small apartment. Brody leaned forward, engrossed instantly, his brow furrowed in concentration. The flickering screen light played across his face, highlighting the strong planes. an hour drifted by comfortably. The plot thickened, characters fought, emotions ran high. Brody gasped at the twists, chuckled at the slapstick, utterly absorbed. Eventually, a loud rumble echoed from his stomach. He blinked, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Whoops. Forgot."
"Told you I'd make them," I said, getting up. I moved to the kitchenette, filling the electric kettle. As it hissed to life, I glanced back at Brody. He was stretching, his oversized shirt riding up again, revealing that strip of toned stomach above his sweatpants.
Then he did it. Casually, almost unconsciously, his thick hand drifted down. He palmed himself through the grey fabric, adjusting his cock with a soft grunt. The outline was unmistakable – thick, heavy. My breath hitched. I bit my lower lip hard, the sharp sting grounding me. *Perfect timing.* I leaned against the counter, the kettle bubbling behind me. "See something you like?" My voice came out low, smooth, teasing. "Or just appreciating the view?"
Brody froze. A deep flush spreading rapidly from his neck up to his roots. He stared at me, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights panic flashing across his face. "I... uh... wasn't..." he stammered, his gaze darting anywhere but me. "Just... itchy?"
I chuckled softly, pouring the boiling water into the noodle cups. The savory steam rose instantly. "Itchy, huh?" I stirred slowly, deliberately. "Looked like you were giving it a pretty thorough appreciation." I kept my tone light, playful, but let my eyes linger pointedly on the bulge in his sweats. "No need to be shy, Brody. We both know what happens here."
He shifted on the couch, the flush deepening. "Yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess... guess I am kinda eager." His voice gained a touch of that raw honesty I craved. "Been thinkin' 'bout it. Since... since dinner at Mom's." His gaze flickered to mine, hesitant, then dropped back to his lap. "Thinkin' 'bout..." He gestured vaguely towards his own lap. "And... y'know. This."
"Good," I murmured, carrying the steaming cups over. I placed mine on the small coffee table and handed him his. "Me too." I settled beside him, our thighs pressing together through the fabric. The heat radiating off him was intense. "Been thinking about *this*," I added, letting my hand rest casually on his thick thigh, just above his knee. His muscles tensed instantly beneath my palm. "And *that*," I nodded towards the prominent swell tenting his sweats. "Great view."
He blew on his noodles, avoiding my eyes, but a small, pleased smile tugged at his lips. He ate quickly, hungrily, his spoon clinking against the cup. I took my time, savoring the cheap broth, watching him. The sheer size of him beside me was intoxicating – the width of his shoulders blocking the lamplight, the heavy forearm resting on his knee. His proximity, his scent mixed with the noodles, the low thrum of his presence – it was a feast before the feast. I nudged him gently with my elbow. "Slow down, big guy. You'll choke." He grinned sheepishly, slowing slightly, but still finished long before me.
He scraped the last bits from his cup, setting it aside with a sigh. His eyes drifted back to my lap, then up to meet mine. The hunger there was unmistakable now, raw and uncomplicated. "You gonna finish that?" he asked, nodding towards my half-full cup.
I shook my head slowly, placing my cup beside his. "Nah. Lost my appetite." I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a low murmur. "Got something else on my mind." My hand slid higher up his thigh, fingertips brushing the inner seam of his sweatpants. "Do you mind?" I asked, already pressing my palm firmly against the thick ridge beneath the soft fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath, his hips lifting slightly off the couch. "N-no," he stammered, his voice thick. "Go ahead."
I traced the impressive length through the cotton, feeling its heat and solid weight. "Damn, Brody," I breathed, squeezing gently. "You're huge. Seriously." My thumb rubbed slow circles over the swollen head straining against the material. He groaned, low and rumbling, his head falling back against the cushions. "Feels... good," he managed, his eyes squeezed shut. "Your hand..."
"Better than scratching an itch?" I teased, shifting closer so my knee pressed against his own. My fingers traced the thick ridge beneath the soft grey fabric, mapping its impressive heat and rigidity from base to tip. Brody let out a low, shuddering breath, his spoon clattering forgotten into his empty noodle cup still clutched loosely in his other hand. His eyes remained fixed on the TV screen where animated characters clashed dramatically, but his focus was clearly shattered. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. "Yeah," he rasped, hips lifting slightly to press harder into my palm. "Way better."
I kept my touch slow, deliberate – a firm stroke along his length, a circling thumb over the swollen head straining against cotton. His thighs tensed beneath my other hand, thick cords of muscle flexing under my fingertips. The scent of cheap broth mingled with his clean sweat and the primal musk rising from his lap. He shifted, spreading his legs wider unconsciously, granting me better access. His breathing grew heavier, ragged, punctuated by soft grunts as I worked him through the fabric.
"Brody," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper against the anime soundtrack. "You finished your noodles." My hand didn't stop its rhythm. "Mine's still half-full... but you ate yours." I glanced pointedly at his lap, then back up to meet his glazed eyes. "Seems only fair... I get something out of you." Confusion clouded his expression for a moment, his brow furrowing. He blinked slowly, trying to process the words through the haze of pleasure. "Out of me?" he mumbled, the flush deepening across his chest. "Like... what?"
I leaned in closer, my lips almost brushing his ear. "Your cum, Brody," I breathed, the words hot and direct. "You got to eat. Seems fair I get to taste something too." My fingers traced the damp spot forming on his sweats where his tip pressed insistently. "Right here." His eyes widened, understanding dawning slowly, mixed with a flicker of shock. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "T-Taste?" he stammered, his voice thick. "My... stuff?"
"Yeah," I pressed, my tone low and insistent, my hand continuing its steady pressure. "You liked what I did last time. Liked how it felt." My thumb pressed harder against the dampening fabric. "This time... I want yours. Want to taste it." I watched the conflict play out on his face – simple desire warring with ingrained awkwardness. "But you helped me out last time," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on the couch cushions. "Was... really good." He swallowed again, his gaze dropping to where my hand worked him. "Guess... guess it's my turn?" The question was hesitant, hopeful. He needed permission, needed the justification.
I seized it instantly. "Exactly," I breathed, leaning in closer. "You owe me." The lie slid out smooth as silk. "Fair's fair." I kissed his jaw,soft skin scraping my lips. "Thank you," I murmured against his skin, injecting soft gratitude I didn't feel. The effect was immediate. His shoulders relaxed, the tension easing. A relieved grin spread across his face, simple and bright. "Yeah," he breathed, nodding vigorously. "Yeah, okay. Fair." He grabbed his noodle cup again, bringing it to his lips to slurp the last dregs of broth, utterly oblivious to the manipulation fueling his compliance.
While he drank, I moved. My hands went to the waistband of his grey sweats. He lifted his hips obligingly, just enough for me to tug them down past his thick thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. It curved proudly upwards, resting heavily against his stomach. I pushed the sweats further down, bunching them around his knees, exposing the heavy curve of his balls beneath. He shifted slightly, settling back against the cushions, still focused on draining the last drops from his cup, the plastic crinkling loudly.
I knelt between his spread legs, the worn carpet rough beneath my knees. The musky scent of him filled my nostrils, sharp and primal. My gaze traced the thick vein running along the underside of his shaft, the flushed head glistening. He finally lowered the cup, setting it aside with a clatter. His eyes found mine, wide and expectant, a flicker of nervous excitement beneath the eagerness. He didn't speak. He just watched, breathing heavier now, anticipation thick in the air between us. My hand wrapped around his base, feeling the hot, pulsing weight. I leaned forward.
My tongue touched him first, a slow, deliberate lick from root to tip. Brody gasped sharply, a choked sound escaping his lips. His hips jerked involuntarily. "Easy," I murmured against his skin, tasting the salt and musk. "Just relax. Last time it were my hands, now its my mouth." I took him deeper, inch by inch, savoring the heavy warmth filling my mouth. His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. A low groan rumbled deep in his chest as I hollowed my cheeks, sucking firmly. His thighs trembled against my shoulders.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word ragged. "Feels... different." His hips lifted again, seeking more pressure. I obliged, swirling my tongue around the swollen head before sinking down further. His fingers tangled hesitantly in my hair, his exys searching for mine, wide with disbelief. "You're... good?" It was a question, awed. I hummed affirmation around him, the vibration pulling a sharp gasp. His grip tightened, not forcing, just anchoring. His thighs trembled against my shoulders. The sheer size made my jaw ache pleasantly, a stretch that felt like claiming. I loved it—the weight on my tongue, the helpless little thrusts he couldn't control. His chest heaved, the clean black cotton stretched tight. Distracting.
"Shirt," I pulled off him momentarily, my voice thick. "Off." He blinked, confused. "Why?" "Need... see you," I lied smoothly, my lips brushing his tip. "Need to watch you come." Simple. Believable. He didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, he yanked the oversized tee over his head, tossing it aside. The sight punched the air from my lungs. Broad shoulders, thick pectorals, the sculpted ridges of his abdomen flexing as he settled back. He was magnificent—powerful muscle laid bare, skin flushed pink, sweat already beading. Utterly exposed. Utterly at my mercy. My gaze drank him in—the vulnerable arch of his neck, the desperate clench of his jaw. His cock pulsed heavily against my lips. "Better?" he rasped, eager. "Yeah," I breathed, taking him deep again. "Much."
He was too big. My throat protested, gagging slightly as I pushed my limit. I pulled back, gasping. "Need practice," I admitted hoarsely, my lips slick. His eyes darkened instantly, pupils blown wide. "Practice?" His brows fussed. "Yeah," I breathed, tracing his thick vein with my thumb. "You're huge. Takes work." His chest swelled with pride. "I like you tryin'," he rasped, hips lifting eagerly. "Am I... good?" The raw vulnerability in his voice sent a thrill through me. "You're perfect," I murmured, leaning back in. "Let me practice." His hand returned to my hair, gentle now. "Okay," he breathed, utterly pliant. "Do it."
The taste flooded my senses – salt, musk, skin. My jaw ached beautifully as I took him deeper than before, focusing on the stretch, the heat, the way his breath hitched. My gaze roamed his exposed torso: the powerful swell of his pecs rising with each ragged inhale, the sweat-slicked valleys between his abs, the frantic pulse hammering in his throat. He was a sculpture of raw need laid bare before me, completely at my mercy. His fingers tightened slightly in my hair, not guiding, just anchoring. His hips stuttered upward in tiny, helpless thrusts, seeking more friction, more heat. A low, continuous moan vibrated against him, drawing a choked gasp. His obedience was intoxicating – this powerful, dominant top yielding control completely to my mouth, trusting me implicitly. His trust was sweeter than submission. I savored the weight, the texture, the sheer *himness* filling my world.)
His climax built slowly, a trembling tension coiling through his massive frame. His moans grew louder, fractured. "Gonna... Mika..." he warned, voice thick with impending release. I hummed encouragement, hollowing my cheeks, urging him on. Then, abruptly, his hands tangled in my hair, not pushing, but pulling me firmly off him. Confusion flickered through me – *Why stop?* – as I looked up, lips slick and parted.
His eyes were squeezed shut, face contorted in desperate concentration. "Almost..." he gasped, hips lifting off the couch entirely. "Can't... hold..." He sounded panicked, like he was fighting something overwhelming. Before I could react, his hands tightened painfully in my hair, yanking me off him completely. I blinked up, startled, lips wet and aching. "Brody? What—"
"Gotta come!" he blurted, his cock throbbing visibly, thick veins pulsing. A bead of pre-cum pearled at the tip. "But... girls always said..." He looked genuinely distressed, brow furrowed deep. "They said it tastes bad. Real bad." He gestured helplessly at his straining erection. "Don't wanna... ruin it for you."
The manipulation clicked instantly, smooth as oil. I leaned forward, resting my chin on his trembling thigh, gazing up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Brody," I murmured, letting my breath ghost over his slick tip. "You're incredible. Look at you." My hand traced the thick ridge of his hip bone, the powerful swell of his quadriceps. "All this muscle... every hour in the gym, paying off right here." I gestured slowly, encompassing his entire exposed body – the sculpted chest heaving, the sweat-slicked abs clenched tight. "You're a feast just to *look* at. Strong. Perfect." His panicked expression softened slightly, replaced by a flicker of bewildered pride. "Yeah?" he breathed, his grip in my hair loosening infinitesimally.
"And this?" I continued, my voice dropping to a husky whisper as my fingertips brushed the base of his throbbing cock. "This is the best part. The reward." I held his gaze, letting him see the raw hunger in mine. "Why would I be down here, putting in the work, tasting you..." I licked my lips deliberately, "...if I didn't *want* the prize?" A slow, reassuring smile spread across my face. "You're my brother. I'd never say no to something you offered me. Especially not this." I saw the flicker of relief, the simple logic overriding his worry. "Really?" he asked, hope warring with lingering doubt.
"Really," I affirmed, pressing a soft kiss to the base of his shaft. "Give it to me. All of it." The permission shattered his last resistance. A groan escaped his throat as his head fell back against the cushions. His hands slid from my hair to lace behind his neck, elbows flaring wide, exposing the powerful expanse of his chest – just like last time. Utter surrender. "Okay," he said, unable to contain the small smile that tugged at his lips. "All yours."
I didn't hesitate. My mouth engulfed him again, taking three-quarters of his thick length in one smooth slide. The stretch burned deliciously, my jaw protesting as I worked to accommodate his girth. Brody gasped sharply above me, his hips lifting off the couch cushions in a helpless thrust. "Fuck!" The word ripped from him, raw and ragged.
My focus narrowed entirely to his swollen tip—the velvety texture against my tongue, the salty pre-cum already slicking my lips. I swirled my tongue around the sensitive ridge beneath the crown, applying firm, rhythmic pressure. Brody's hands flew from behind his neck, fingers digging into the worn fabric of the couch beside his thighs. The cheap material groaned under his grip, knuckles white as bone. "Mika—!" His warning was choked, desperate.
The climax hit him like a physical blow. His entire body arched violently, muscles locking tight as a cable. A thick, hot pulse flooded my mouth—salty, bitter, undeniably potent—followed by another, and another. I swallowed instinctively, keeping my lips sealed tight around him, milking every drop with gentle suction. His hips jerked erratically against my face, riding out the waves. A low, guttural groan tore from his chest, echoing in the steamy silence of the apartment.
I pulled back just enough to let a thick strand of pearly cum stretch between my lips and his glistening tip. Brody watched, chest heaving, eyes wide with fascination. "Look," I murmured, voice thick. "Your prize." I grinned, leaning forward to lick the string clean from his shaft with a slow, deliberate swipe of my tongue. The taste lingered—musky, primal, uniquely *him*.
"Damn," Brody breathed, his voice wrecked. He stared down at me, slack-jawed. His hands trembled where they gripped the couch cushions. I savored the flush spreading from his chest to his throat, the dazed awe in his eyes. Slowly, I stood up, knees popping faintly from the carpet. "Whew," I chuckled, clapping my hands against my thighs like dusting off dirt. "That was fun."
Brody blinked, still catching his breath. "Fun?" he echoed, voice rough.
"Yeah," I said breezily, nodding toward the TV where anime characters remained frozen mid-battle. "But we missed half the episode." I grabbed the remote, thumbing the play button. The soundtrack surged back to life—clashing swords, dramatic shouts. "Scoot over," I ordered, nudging his bare thigh with my knee.
He scrambled to obey, tugging his sweats back up over his hips with clumsy hands. I dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that our shoulders brushed. Brody stayed rigid, eyes darting between the screen and my profile. I kept my gaze forward, relaxed, as if nothing monumental had just happened. Only a sly smile playing on my lips.
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