Work Text:
Affinity 76: Rock Climbing
🍏MC: "I have a feeling you've collected lots of photos and videos of me over the years. Is there a lot you haven't shown me?”
🍎CALEB: “did I really?”
🍎CALEB: “I showed you the ones I could show you.”
You're always asking Caleb for pictures of yourself. You don't even take selfies anymore or bother grabbing your own phone for a photo; why would you, when chances are, Caleb already has his phone out and has snapped a dozen quality pictures?
He's good at it, too. He doesn't need to edit them—they're perfect the very moment he takes the shot, angled with direct lighting right at whatever he wants to highlight and capture.
You tease him, sometimes, “When did the Colonel have time to master photography?”
He always winks and teases right back, “All big brothers have to learn it. Who else would be willing to retake their little sister's photos a hundred times before she thinks it's good enough to post online?”
You always swat him on the back of the head, or chest, or bicep, and he laughs, and the conversation ends.
But this time…
༄˖°.🍎🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
Caleb took you rock climbing this weekend, a bonding trip, one of the few days that neither of you were busy with work. You ended up with some sore muscles and a scraped knee that Caleb fussed over, but ultimately had fun. Of course, you didn't get any pictures, since you were too determined to climb the wall to even think of pulling out your phone.
Now, you're splayed out on your bed, lying on your stomach and frowning as you scroll through your lacking photo gallery app.
You sigh, knowing you'll have to ask anyway, “Caleb, can you send me the rock climbing photos from yesterday?”
Caleb glances up from the table—he's cleaning your Hunter gear, something he's been insistent on lately, wanting to make sure it's all up-to-date and quality. He nods easily, “Sure, pipsqueak. Let me finish this first and I'll send them,”
You toss your own phone aside on the bed, chin in your palms as you watch him work, “I have a feeling you've collected lots of photos and videos of me over the years,”
He hums softly in reply, focused on cleaning out your stun gun. You continue, curious, “Is there a lot you haven't shown me?”
It's general curiosity; you've been wondering if Caleb keeps blooper photos, ugly photos, blurry ones. It seems like when he's around you, he always manages to capture a photo or two, but you barely see half of them.
Caleb says, distracted as he works, “Did I really?”
He squints slightly as he tilts your gun, cleaning tiny unseen crevices, mumbling as if speaking too loudly might disrupt the cleaning process, “I showed you the ones I could show you.”
That gives you pause. Your lips part, about to ask what that means, when he continues, “Don't you take pics of me when I'm sleeping and keep them?”
That changes the subject to both of you teasing each other, casual back-and-forth banter for a few minutes. Still, in the back of your mind, you're thinking about his words.
I showed you the ones I could show you.
What were the ones he couldn't show you? It could've been a throwaway comment—maybe the other photos were too dark, blurry, unfocused, or got deleted. But it made its way into your mind, and now it's wiggling around like a little worm in an apple, hungry for more information.
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ 1. Rock climbing ༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･
An hour later, Caleb's getting ready to shower before dinner, while you're watching soup simmer softly on the stove.
It's the perfect moment to strike. You've already swiped his phone from your bedside table, ready to search through it.
Really, it's a little sister's job to be snoopy and annoying. If Caleb didn't want you looking through his phone, he should've kept it under lock and key.
You assume you'll only be flipping through his photos for a few minutes. There can't be that many hidden pictures of you, anyway, right? Caleb won't even know.
You smirk to yourself as you hear the shower come to life in the next room, opening his phone to the lockscreen and inputting the code. Caleb freely gave you his phone pin years ago, and you never forgot it.
Leaning against the counter, relaxing with the gentle background noise of the bubbling soup and shower stream, you open his photo gallery app.
There's the rock climbing photos from yesterday, a few vivid photos of food dishes, pictures of clothes he's sent you to ask your opinion. There's some casual photos of the two of you, going back a few years, together and solo.
Your smirk slowly fades into a frown. There's nothing interesting here. Nothing that you imagine Caleb “couldn't show you,” at least.
But then your brow furrows, thumbs still hovering on the screen. How is it that you and Caleb grew up together for two decades, but you can scroll through nearly all his photos of those times in mere minutes?
It clicks; there's no way these are his only photos. Maybe the good ones really are hidden.
Smug feeling back, you decide to dig deeper into his phone files, determined. There has to be something, right?
Something, like a huge sixteen-gigabyte locked photo folder, buried in his gallery underneath a dozen boring folders of work-related receipt photos and aircraft information pamphlets.You blink, surprised. You were expecting to find something, but not this. What could your brother even be hiding worth sixteen-gigabytes anyway?
You think, immediately, confidential Colonel-related images?
But that's quickly dismissed. The folder's creation date says it's almost a decade old, when you were thirteen and Caleb was seventeen. He had no association with the fleet then. You click the folder, the request for a password popping up. Quickly, you put in the same password you know he's used for years.
Incorrect password.
You frown deeper. Caleb doesn't use any other passwords, not to your knowledge. It takes a frustrating amount of effort and wrong guesses before you grab your electronic transmitter from your Hunter gear. You fiddle with it and Caleb's phone simultaneously, just enough to briefly short his phone system into glitching past the password screen.
His phone screen flickers a bit for a moment, and you wince, hoping that isn't a lasting side effect from the transmitter. It's not exactly made for safe use on everyday smartphones. You toss the transmitter aside and sigh softly in relief as you see the photo folder start to load.
A moment later, it finishes loading, the folder scroll bar getting smaller and smaller as thousands of photos start to appear. A quick glance at the first few visible photos makes you frown in disappointment; it's only more rock climbing photos. You recognize the rocky background and sunny day easily, and of course, your form on the rock wall.
Until you see how it's framed, the exact angle it's catching—squinting at the phone, tilting it into landscape and zooming a bit, you note how…different this first one looks from the other rock climbing photos.
The others, the ones Caleb took that weren't locked up, were full-body, wide shot photos of you and the environment. Pretty, vivid, worthy of social media, even.
You tilt your head, gazing at this hidden photo like it's a spot-the-difference game. It's zoomed in much closer on your figure, and it cuts off halfway up your torso, only showing your waist and legs. You were wearing shorts while climbing, hence the scraped knee you got.
You wonder if it's a blooper, a photo taken at a bad angle that simply wasn't worth sending.
The angle of the photo, taken far below you, shows right up your shorts as you lift a leg to climb and the fabric rides up. There's a peek of your light blue panties, the slight swell of your butt beneath the shorts, and a focus on the groin of your shorts pulling tight enough between your thighs that there's an imprint of your folds.
And that's the shot.
Swiping through the next few photos, they're all similar; your shirt snagging on a rock and lifting to reveal your midriff, you bending to stretch before climbing with the camera focused on your ass, your sweaty t-shirt clinging tight to your chest.
They're all very intimate. Sexual, your mind supplies. Secret, private, hidden for a reason.
Your ears burn red, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, or shock, or embarrassment, just something mixed—you can't decide.
You're too fixated, blood rushing in your ears, to hear the shower water cut off and the bathroom door open. But you register his voice when he says, “Is dinner done, pipsqueak?”
You freeze, gaze snapping up to him. He's shirtless, with damp hair and a towel around his waist. You clutch his phone tighter in your hands.
You watch his eyes analyze you; your surprise and embarrassment, his phone in your hands, your electronic transmitter tossed aside. You watch in return, as his body goes from relaxed to holding a subtle tension.
Predator and prey.
He approaches slowly, as if you're a caged animal about to bite. He says, cool and calm, “What'd you need my phone for, goober?”
He stops in front of you, one hand resting on the counter beside your waist. His other hand clicks off the stove. He's looming over you a bit, whether he means to or not.
“I… I wanted the photos… from yesterday,” you stammer quietly as you hold his phone tight to your chest, folder still open.
Caleb, smiling tight and practiced, “You find ‘em?”
You nod, wordless. Caleb moves to grab the phone but you hold it tighter against your chest, breathless as you croak out, “No,”
Caleb pauses. His fingertips on the counter tap restlessly, a hurried tune. “You gonna keep my phone forever, pips?”
“I… I don't…”
In your moment of hesitation, Caleb reaches out quickly to snatch the phone, but you slap his hand away and duck under his arm, darting towards the living room.
Fight or flight, your mind hisses. And he's too tall to fight these days.
It starts a game of chase—moments later, you hear Caleb's footsteps running right behind you.
You round the couch, only for Caleb to jump over the back of the couch to lunge at you. A few shoves and pushes later, Caleb has you pinned to the couch cushions. You're both gasping for breath, though you hardly ran that much.
You shove your hand with the phone underneath your back, out of Caleb's reach. His weight is pressed on you, bare and damp chest dripping on your t-shirt. His hands are trembling where they lock around your upper arms. Your heart pounds, noting how quick and easy it was for him to pin you down. Didn't even need his Evol.
He swallows hard, “Good little sisters don't steal their big brother's stuff,”
He tries to snake an arm beneath you for the phone, but your constant squirming makes it difficult, “I'm not done with it!”
“Not done doing what?” Caleb asks, voice weak. He almost sounds like he might beg.
Your words burst out, “I'm not done looking! And I'm allowed to look, since they're all about me!”
Caleb pauses. He grinds his teeth, then rests his forehead on your shoulder. He breathes out, slow, air brushing your collarbone. You both take a deep breath, calming during your shared silence. Caleb doesn't try to grab the phone again.
He pulls back, looking pained, “Show me what you're looking at,”
“Photos,” you whisper, like an accusation.
Caleb's jaw clenches so hard you can hear his teeth clicking together, “I can explain,”
Your eyes narrow and you pull the phone out, shoving the screen near his face, “Then explain!”
The screen is set on a photo of you, around fourteen years old, at the local swimming pool near Granny's house. Innocent at first glance, until you look closer and see exactly what areas it's focusing on.
Caleb runs a hand down his face, “Pipsqueak—”
“No, Caleb, explain,” You demand, bratty and angry as usual when he doesn't immediately do as you say.
So, Caleb does.
With his head down like he's praying and words drenched in shame, he recounts his sins to you.
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ 2. Ice cream ༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･
You're in your bikini, licking an ice cream cone. It's a shot taken clearly while you're unaware. It's focused on your upper body; your small developing chest barely poking at the bikini top, your tongue out with white vanilla ice cream smeared across it, your small hand with purple painted nails gripping the long cone, eyes almost crossed as you peer down at the treat, your hair styled in a messy braid that Caleb himself had helped with that morning.
There are a dozen more photos of you at the pool that day too, some shots focused on your bikini bottoms and legs, others focused on your ankles and feet, a few zoomed in on your neck, collarbones, and lips.
But that first one, with the ice cream—that's the one Caleb revisited the most.
He remembers so clearly how it all started.
He had taken his first secret photo of you about a year earlier. It was a sudden urge that overcame him, and it was simple; you fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie night, lips parted with some drool on his shirt, and leaned forward so the front of your shirt sloppily swooped down your collarbones. It wasn't necessarily dirty. It could even be cute. He convinced himself it was, at first, that he would tease you with it later.
But when he got to his own room to sleep that night, he just kept staring at it with a warm, boiling pit in his stomach. He didn't mean to jerk himself off to it a few days later. But he did, and then he felt so ashamed that he didn't take any photos for a while, even actual cute and innocent ones.
But, the ice cream cone? That pushed him.
It was the first hot day of summer, air blazing with humidity, and you begged to go to the pool. Like any good big brother, he agreed to come with you, to keep an eye on you. He probably should've realized it was a bad idea when his cock twitched in his swim trunks the moment you walked downstairs in your little bikini and cover-up robe.
He spent most of his time sitting at the poolside, watching you swim, shifting a bit to hide his hard-on. He gave you a few dollars to grab ice cream from the concession stand just to get you away from him. He was staring like a creep, and he knew it. When you came back licking it up and down, some white cream dripping on your fingers and lips, his body went from 0 to 100. He was on the verge of bursting a few blood vessels.
And he couldn't stop staring.
The photos happened because he couldn't stop. He told himself it would be better if he snapped a few quick, secret photos to look at instead of outright ogling his little sister at the public pool.
So he took a few photos. Just to stare at for a bit, so he wouldn't be tempted to pull his cock out and stroke it at a community pool and get a dozen indecent exposure charges. He told himself that he’d delete the pictures later, and that would be it.
You were whining and pouting a bit by the end of the pool visit, complaining that Caleb was too distracted by his phone to pay attention to you. And it was true—Caleb had been staring at his phone hard enough to burn a hole through it.
And that night in bed, Caleb committed his sin again; he stroked his cock until it was raw, all while staring at those innocent, slightly tilted and fuzzy photos of you, your bikini, and the melting ice cream.
It was just too easy—your tongue wrapped around the ice cream cone? He pictured it around his cock instead, slurping it up just as sloppy as the cone.
The ice cream smudged on your upper lip and foamy on your tongue? His come that he just shot all over your cute, small face—still chubby with some childhood weight, just at the crisp start of puberty.
Your nipples poking at your bikini top from your small, budding breasts? He'd suck them in his mouth and massage them until they were swollen enough to look like you'd finally hit a growth spurt.
His hands shook as he cleaned his come off the phone screen.
As dirty as it felt, getting off to his sweet baby sister, he knew it was better than outright touching and corrupting her.
No, he'd never tell his baby sister about any of this.
And who knows? Maybe he'd grow out of it when he left for the academy later in the year, start jerking off to normal porn like every other eighteen-year-old guy.
༄˖°.🍎🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
After Caleb muttered his confession about the bikini photo, head ducked toward your chest as he braced over you on the couch still, he went quiet. He glanced away, avoiding your eyes.
You stared up, frozen and breathless. You were seeing your big brother in a different light, now.
Different, in the way that you were both the same.
You reached your free hand up to hold his chin between your forefinger and thumb, turning his face back to you. Your voice was shaky, small. “You too, Caleb?”
Caleb choked out, low, “Me too?”
“We both…” you stopped, unsure of how to continue. You were desperate for more, for confirmation that he was telling the truth, that he felt—this something, that you'd been feeling for years, too.
You released his chin and fumbled for the phone again, scrolling down and clicking a random photo, turning it back to him.
“Explain,” you breathed, again.
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ 3. Training bra ༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･
Caleb was off at the academy when you turned fifteen, but he came home shortly after your birthday for summer, ready to visit you with a few gifts and souvenirs. Mostly, he just wanted to hug you again. He imagined it the entire train ride home; how he'd scoop his baby sister up in his arms, kiss her forehead, brush her hair, and playfully ask if she missed him.
What he wasn't expecting: to walk in the door with his bags, put them down, and have you run at him and hug him with a grin.
Of course, he did actually expect the excited hug. He just didn't expect the part where you'd clearly grown about three inches taller. And how, when you squeezed him in your tight embrace, he could feel how your small developing chest was actively developing.
They could even be called breasts now, he thought, mind reeling. All the blood in his head rushed downwards.
Caleb was welcomed home by Granny and you, but now, home felt like a strangely female place where he had to carefully watch his steps. Every other floor tile was a landmine, where if he tripped, he'd hear Granny telling you that she bought you a new pack of training bras upstairs and more “mature” clothes instead of your usual cute, childish ones; or, he'd hear Gran asking if you needed any period products while she was at the store.
He heard Granny giving you the sex-talk once during that summer break, and he almost brained himself to death—after choking on air and promptly stumbling back down the hall away from that conversation, where he then ran face-first into his doorway instead of entering his door.
Every minute in that house drove him insane, that summer.
Still, he was determined to be as normal as possible about all of this. He still took you places everyday, had movie nights with you, teased you casually, hugged you. He gave no hints that he was desperately thrusting into his own fist each night at the thought of you, his precious baby sister, finally growing up.
Two months into summer, Granny was out with some old friends for dinner, leaving Caleb and you home alone. Caleb was on his way to ask if you wanted him to order takeout, scrolling the menu on his phone as he walked down the hall. He reached your door, finally glancing up as he raised a fist to knock, but paused as he heard sounds of rustling inside and a soft huff.
The door wasn't completely closed—with a crack about two inches wide, he was able to glimpse inside.
Immediately, he was white-knuckling his phone and holding his breath. There you were, standing in front of your tall mirror, shirtless, eyeing yourself in a small training bra. It was a simple beige cotton, with little prints of apples on it.
His first instinct shouldn't have been to open the camera app. Shakily aiming the camera through the door gap, Caleb snapped a dozen pictures as you turned left and right, admiring yourself with a bit of a frown.
Caleb could see why you were frowning; you'd clearly grown a bit since Granny bought you the training bra. The bra should've fit perfect, normally, but with your recent developments, your small breasts now seemed slightly squished in the fabric, pushed up against your chest, swelling a bit over the top of the bra in an uncomfortable way.
Caleb was dizzy, palming himself to stop from immediately coming in his pants like some desperate kid. He was nineteen, for fucks sake.
Did normal nineteen-year-old guys come in their pants over their baby sister wearing a training bra? He didn't think the internet would have an answer for that one.
He could've cried when he watched you scrunch up your face in discomfort, reaching behind your back to unhook the bra, and your small breasts were free. He probably should've stopped there, not taken thirty more pictures of his baby sister's small, naked breasts in her mirror, but he couldn't.
It wouldn't matter anyway; the image was officially seared into his brain.
Caleb forced himself to go down to the kitchen and breathe, to stop creeping on his little sister like a pervert.
But he hadn't seen her for months, and he missed her, and he'd only had a few photos of her asleep and the ones from the pool to live off of, and a hundred truly innocent ones of them together that he refused to use as masturbation material—he did place some limits.
His excuse was that it'd keep him at bay. For a while, it should. Because he couldn't possibly do anything worse than taking naked photos of his sister, right?
So, he'd hit his limit. This was as far as he would go, and he'd stop now.
Until, later that night, right after dinner—he saw the too-small apple patterned training bra in the trash, right as he was about to empty the garbage and take it outside.
There was a split second hesitation before he grabbed it, folded it up, and shoved it in his jeans pocket.
It wasn't that bad. He was just keeping it, in case, he told himself.
In case what? He wasn't sure yet.
And maybe Caleb didn't know what his limit was, yet. Because that night in bed, he stared at the photo of your bare breasts and slightly pouty face, while he held your small training bra wrapped around his cock as he thrust into it.
He was like an animal, smearing pre-come all over the bra, then bringing it to his face to lick and suck the inside padding where your nipples had touched.
You were growing up.
You had breasts.
They were small now, but still, he imagined pushing those little breasts together just like your tight training bra had, and rubbing his cock between them. It'd be a tight fit, hard to really squeeze them that much with so little to grasp, but he'd make it work.
His baby sister would make it work. She was smart, and she always, always wanted to please her big brother. If he ever told her that he wanted to fuck her small breasts, she would find a way, he was sure.
That was the first night he ever imagined a scenario where she reciprocated his desire, even participated in it.
༄˖°.🍎🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
You don't even remember that training bra from so long ago, but the thought of Caleb finding it so arousing that he rubbed on it, licked it, and bit it, makes your cheeks burn.
You were so embarrassed those days by the awkwardness of having a developing body, you couldn't imagine someone finding you attractive during that awkward half-stage between kid and teenager.
But you believe Caleb when he describes it. Because he pauses when he tells the story, like he's not sure if he should be saying all of it. Because when you make him look at you, his gaze is painfully honest and guilty, and his words aren't chosen carefully as if he's making it up along the way—no, it's real.
Caleb is attracted to you. He's been attracted to you for years.
“Caleb,” you say, or whisper, or whine. You can't really hear yourself over the rush of air leaving your lungs and the blood roaring in your ears.
Caleb cups your cheeks, his own face screwed up in regret, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this. I'm sorry, pipsqueak, let's just—”
He reaches for the phone, but you gasp and pull it away, just like earlier, “No,”
Caleb pauses, “No?”
“I don't want you to stop,” you blurt out.
Caleb stares at you now, like he's seeing you different. Like you're crazy. And maybe you both are—maybe this is fucked up, or wrong, that hearing your older brother's fantasies about you are giving you butterflies and making your panties damp. But you and Caleb have never really been normal.
“You like this,” Caleb says softly, as a fact, not a question. Caleb pushes himself up so less of his weight is on you, and you panic, grabbing his shoulders, dropping the phone on your chest.
“Don't!” you beg, whining like a bratty little kid.
Caleb rests a hand on your hip, rubbing his thumb over the slightly exposed skin from your rumpled t-shirt. He soothes, “Okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, little sister,”
You relax under him, still feeling desperate and wide awake, needing the puzzle to click together—you need this final piece.
“Caleb, please, don't stop,” you practically whimper.
Caleb's quiet, eyes almost predatory as he watches your lips form around the words. He slowly scoops up the phone from your chest, and when he feels you tense again, he quickly clicks a different photo and turns the phone to you.
He swallows thickly and murmurs, “This one was my favorite,”
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ 4. Sleeping ༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･
You were fully committed to joining the Hunter's Association by the time you hit sixteen. And when you turned seventeen, you joined a local junior Hunter training program that your school offered.
It was the first summer where Caleb came home from Skyhaven and you weren't there.
Your training program lasted for two months, and when you finally came home to find that Caleb had been keeping Granny company by himself for those weeks, he hugged you tighter than ever.
He missed you, desperate and worried, like his beating heart had been taken from him and only now returned.
Caleb always used the word hate liberally, joking that he hated the dumbest things; pickled eggs (who likes soggy, vinegar-flavored eggs?), the color turquoise (look, pipsqueak, it's just trying too hard to be unique), and even hairbrushes (you can just use my fingers, little sister).
But Caleb soon found out that he hated the Hunter's Association more than anything else.
The thought of it taking you away from him made him ache. It physically hurt, sometimes, sleeping in his old bedroom upstairs at night. He was used to you being right down the hall, available to bother or hug or chat. Now, he was just used to feeling lonely.
That summer you were at training camp was the first time Caleb really wished he was back in Skyhaven instead. At least there, he could pretend it was his own fault that you two were apart (“You're going to leave me for the academy, aren't you, big brother?”) and not that you were deliberately choosing a career path that would pull you away from him, into dangerous missions and places he couldn't reach.
Caleb didn't want to call himself clingy, but he was definitely hovering when training camp finally ended. He made every lunch and dinner for you, and always your favorite foods. Every night was movie night, every day was heading to a new shop or local spot to be together. You two were attached at the hip.
Caleb had teased you the year before that you were getting too big for him to carry and cuddle around, but he apparently stopped sharing that view by the end of this summer.
Tonight was the last night Caleb was home, before he had to go back to Skyhaven tomorrow.
He insisted on watching an old TV show, one of your childhood favorites. He cuddled you up in your bed and held you close. You blushed and fought it a bit, but eventually gave in and settled against his chest.
He brushed your hair from your eyes and kissed your head, rubbing your back. You drifted off on his chest, and that's where the memory ends for you.
But for Caleb: he held you tighter as you fell asleep, eyes squeezing shut as he savored the feeling of you lying in his arms.
He gently grabbed his phone at one point and snapped the photo of you sleeping against him, wrapped up in your silky orange pajamas with little airplanes on it that he bought for your last birthday.
He had come full circle. His first secret photo of you had been similar, a night that ended with you drooling on his shoulder on the couch, leaning on him like you needed him. Now, what he hoped wouldn't be the last time you were this close, he took the photo of himself clinging to you, clutching your smaller body close.
But you weren't just his baby sister, now. You were becoming a young woman, setting your own life path down, ready to leave the nest just like Caleb had years ago.
It's just that Caleb wasn't ready for it.
He held you tight, like he might never do it again.
And before he fell asleep with you in his arms, he allowed himself one selfish action: he leaned down and pressed a soft, brief kiss to your lips. It was likely the only time he would get a chance.
That was one of the photos he had a limit on; he never touched himself to it.
But every time he missed you, he pulled it out and stared, soft and relieved—glad that wasn't the last night he was able to hold you close.
༄˖°.🍎🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
His words were gentle, vulnerable this time.
You expected something else, something hot and forbidden—your brain conjured up images of him tracing your pajama pants with his fingertips, both of you sleepily grinding together, him masturbating in bed beside you as you slept.
But this story was just as intimate. His loneliness, his aching desperation to keep you close.
You knew Caleb was possessive and worried too much, you knew he always tried to sway you from taking Hunter missions. Sometimes you hated that, how he tried to control you, hoped he could keep you away from the greater world and have you all to himself. But hearing it like this, all you could feel was relief.
Caleb missed you, he thought about you constantly, he ached for you.
During the time you were training for the Hunter's Association and Caleb was away in Skyhaven, you felt so bitter. A part of you wanted to choose the Hunter's Association solely to shove it in Caleb's face—how's it feel for your favorite person to leave you all the time for training and work, big brother? Sound familiar?
You didn't really mean to be a petty brat about it. You loved hunting, saving people, adventuring—and you loved Caleb. Any day, you would choose Caleb over everything. But it felt like he chose the Aviation Academy over you first, like you didn't even get a chance to choose him, or to convince him to choose you the way he'd always been doing.
You knew it wasn't like that, not really. But in your teenage mind, part of you felt betrayed.
There's a happy, relieved feeling in your stomach, knowing you weren't the only one wishing things could be like they used to be back then.
Caleb hardly finishes his story before you wrap your arms around him, loosening your death grip into something relaxed and sweet, pressing your face to his neck.
“Caleb,” you murmur.
Caleb rubs your sides, kissing your temple. He hums, “I have such a clingy little sister,”
You only squeeze him tighter. You pull your face away from his neck, just enough to look up at him. You lick your lips and watch his eyes track the movement. You lift a hand to his face, gently brushing your fingertips over his lips. “Caleb?”
Caleb reaches up and gently holds your palm to his cheek, “Yeah, Pipsqueak?”
You whisper, “I want…”
Caleb tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you. His voice is soft, but hesitant, too. “What else could my baby sister possibly want? You already know my biggest secret, now.”
“I want to give my favorite big brother a kiss?” You reply, trying for teasing and landing on very hesitantly testing the shark-infested waters.
“I'm your only brother,” Caleb shoots back lightly, but he's careful, hands gently coming up to cup your face. He rubs your cheekbones with his thumbs, holding you like you're made of Granny's precious porcelain plates.
You wrap your arms around his back, one hand splaying over his bare, damp shoulder blades, the other hand tangling in his hair.
“It's not fair,” you mumble, “Caleb kissed me in my sleep, when I couldn't remember it or kiss back. I want a rematch,”
Caleb's lips do twitch up at that, “What, is this a competition, little sister?”
Your heart speeds up. “Maybe… What other things has my big brother done without me knowing? I need to know what to get revenge for,”
Caleb brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and leans down closer, kissing your nose. It's a move he's done before, brotherly and sweet. This time, it feels like a whisper of what's to come.
Caleb murmurs, “I guess I have kept things from you,”
You study his face as you push, “The photos…you took more, even after I became a Hunter and you joined the Fleet?”
Caleb nods, honest and open.
“Before rock climbing yesterday?”
Caleb nods again, thumbs brushing over your bottom lip as it traces your face.
“Tell me,” you say, breathy but still demanding.
Your words have always had that sort of power over Caleb—it's like a siren's call, making him easily dive into the deep end and bend to your will with a simple command. He's resisted a few times, but only a few. He's willing to drown, as long as it benefits you.
Caleb leans in, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispers, “I'll show you, too,”
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ 5. Bath ༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･
Caleb was staying at your apartment two weeks ago, after a Fleet mission ended and he had some time to stay in Linkon. You kept it casual, staying inside and playing board games over takeout food for dinner.
You went into the bathroom to shower before bed. It was a bit cold outside—not really cold, but the temperature had dropped to a breezy lukewarm as the autumn weather swooped in that night, leaving you with a craving for a hot shower and warm pajamas after.
Caleb, playing his role as a good big brother, read your mind and decided on his own to clean your bath tub and fill it with warm water and bubbles for a bath instead. You could've kissed him, you were that grateful—and you said so, to Caleb's smirking delight.
You pushed him out of the room and sank into the tub, sighing softly. You only realized a moment later that you forgot to grab a towel or pajamas in your excitement, so you called out, “Caleb? Can you get me a towel?”
His footsteps came closer and the door creaked. You sank into the bubbles and closed your eyes, like Caleb couldn't see you as long as you couldn't see him, either. The bubbles mostly hid you, besides your face and knees peeking out.
Caleb chuckled softly alongside the sound of him opening the nearby linen closet and putting the towel on the counter, “Really, pipsqueak? Were you planning to walk around dripping wet after? You'd catch a cold if I wasn't here,”
You felt your ears burn when he made the comment about being dripping wet, "Shut up, Caleb,”
“Anything else while I'm here, your majesty?” He drawls, and you're certain that if you looked, he would have an annoying smirk on his face.
You mumble, “Can you get my pajamas, too?”
“I have to do everything around here, huh? Being a big brother is a lot of work,”
Your eyes are still squeezed shut, but you must have surprisingly good aim as you blindly throw your shampoo bottle in his direction, because he yelps and laughs.
“Okay, okay, I'm getting them!”
Caleb left the bathroom, chuckling softly as he headed down the hall. He tried not to think about your naked body in the tub, and had mostly averted his eyes from you while he was in there. It took restraint, but he was used to having to control himself around you.
Caleb walked straight to your bedroom closet and pulled out a pajama set he knew you loved—two years old, fraying a bit from all the wear, but comfortable and worn. They were fuzzy red pajamas with little white hearts all over them. Caleb had mailed them to your house after Valentine's Day, writing in an attached letter, “Happy Valentine's Day to the sweetest baby sister I know. Do me a favor: take a break from missions and curl up in bed for once. Send me a picture of you wearing these pajamas as proof you're relaxing, got it?
Caleb didn't need a photo to know how much you liked the pajamas, though; you wore them all the time when he came over for unannounced sleepovers. But he appreciated the photo anyway, very much, several times.
He scooped the pajamas up, smiling. He loves knowing you're wearing something he picked out.
He opened your undergarment drawer and planned to grab something random without paying too much attention to the choice. The last time he paid too much attention to what you wore under your clothes, he ended up jerking himself off with that little training bra of yours pressed to his face like a pervert.
But Caleb paused as he opened the drawer, frozen and stiff. His fingertips twitched toward something that stood out in the colorful mass of soft cotton panties.
Lace.
Caleb's fingers brushed it and pulled it out. You had white lace panties in your underwear drawer.
Caleb felt his mouth go dry and his cock shoot up like a sniffer-dog picking up the scent of an addiction. His cock was all over this development, while his brain moved a hundred miles per hour: Why does my baby sister own lace panties? Who is she wearing these for? Please tell me it's a matching set.
He rubbed the lace fabric between his fingers, feeling the slight scratch, and made a split second decision; he needed to feel it on his cock immediately.
A second later, your pajamas were tossed on the bed and Caleb had his pants half-shoved down. Holding the base of his cock, he rubbed the tip on the bridge of fabric that would fit right between your thighs. Pre-come smeared on it as he rubbed it, groaning softly. The middle of the panties were slowly growing damp from his smears of come.
Your whiny voice broke through his arousal, ringing out from down the hall, "Caleb,"
Caleb jolted and paused. Running a hand down his face, he put your panties aside and yanked his pants up. Gathering your pajamas and damp lace panties, he came back to the bathroom, clenching and then shaking out his fists from the tremors of being so close.
He clears his throat, "You're so needy, you know that?"
He puts your clothes on the counter and glances over at you, staring openly as he sees your eyes are closed again. His fingers twitch toward his phone as he sees your leg resting on the side of the tub, glistening with water and bubbles, long and wet and soft.
It's not hard to snap a photo of the bubbles barely concealing your body, as you scowl, eyes still squeezed shut, "You were taking forever!"
Caleb shoves his phone in his pocket, swallowing as he wonders how much he can get away with. "Your room is messy, pips. I thought girls were supposed to be organized,"
You sputter and start arguing with him. He's glad for the picture he just took, but the view right now is better. You're all flushed and worked up when you're annoyed, and he can see your pink cheeks spreading down your neck and collarbones, towards your chest under the bubbles.
He doesn't jerk off to the picture this time. Sliding his hand into his pants, he quietly strokes his cock, staring right at you, fully aware that you have no idea it's happening. Caleb smiles, voice shaky after a slight hitched breath, "So feisty, pipsqueak,"
You pout, "You're always teasing me,"
"Not always," Caleb breathes. He wouldn't tease you if you asked for it.
He listens to you whine and complain and list off his worst offenses as he bites the inside of his cheek, wrist twisting as he jolts and comes into his palm.
He can't help himself from smearing just a little more come on your panties before he leaves you to finish your bath.
And when you lounge on the couch after, fresh in your pajamas and damp panties, he snaps a few more casual photos, stating its to commemorate your sleepover. And maybe he records a few voice notes, when you complain about not having dried off enough after your bath, still feeling damp.
༄˖°.🍎🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
As Caleb told you about the bath photo, he showed you, too. It's why you were whining and panting as he pulled his towel off and started rubbing the tip of his cock against the outside of your panties now.
You remember being slightly embarrassed when you realized Caleb chose your lace panties for your bath clothes, but of course you weren't going to ask him why he did that at the time. You assumed he was teasing, and Caleb always had the upper hand when teasing. You choke out, "I thought they were wet from the bath water,"
Caleb smiles, faux sweet as he kisses the corner of your lips. He grinds the tip of his cock against your panties. "No. Just wet from me."
You squirm and claw at his chest, "That's not fair. You tease me, and now you won't even…"
Caleb awww's, soft and so annoying, "Are you frustrated? Tell your big brother what you want,"
"More," you glare weakly, reaching down to push your panties down, then grabbing for his cock.
Caleb tuts and grabs your hand, "I said I'd show you what I did to your panties, pipsqueak. Did I do more than rub myself on them?"
What follows is torturous, Caleb grinding against you only enough to slide his tip in and out, just as he did to the lace panties. He murmurs against the shell of your ear, all the ways he jerked off to the bath photo later and the thought of his pre-come smearing on your pussy without your knowledge. He takes your hand and guides it up and down his cock, showing you just how he likes it. His grinds turn into small thrusts between your folds, not inside, but sandwiched, because he refuses to take your virginity yet. Not until you're wearing that white lace again, pips, he tells you.
Each small thrust bumps the tip of his cock against your clit. It's not long before you're a whiny, wet mess, nails dragging down his back. Caleb kisses down your neck, sucking your nipples into his mouth just like he wanted to do when you were fourteen.
When you come, it's with his name on your lips. And when he smears his own release all over your folds, breasts, and then lips, it's with reverence.
༄˖°.🍎.ೃ࿔*:･ +1. Dripping ༄˖°.🍏.ೃ࿔*:･
After, you both settle down to eat dinner together, standing in the kitchen with bowls of cooling soup. Caleb has no shame, naked without his towel as he leans against the counter; but you felt too embarrassed to stand naked, especially with Caleb staring so openly now, so you tugged on one of his oversized t-shirts to hide the come drying on your naked body and dripping down your thighs.
Swallowing a spoonful of soup, you glare at Caleb. With a petulant little pout and pink cheeks, you huff, "Why don't you take a picture? You're good at that,"
As if he was waiting for permission—as if he ever cared about obtaining it in the first place—he swipes up his phone and opens the camera app. He crowds you up against the kitchen counter, just like earlier, and rucks up your shirt with one hand. He snaps a dozen photos of your body; one with his free hand kneading your breasts, the other with his fingers spreading your folds to see the combined wetness of his release and yours dripping out, another with your leg pressed up to your chest to catch the open angle, and one with his thumb popped in your mouth after he gathered up some of the still-wet come.
You squawk indignantly, batting his hands away as he positions you around like a doll, getting his favorite angles. "Caleb! I meant, like, one!"
He pays no mind to your complaint as he turns you around and bends you over the counter. Spreading your thighs, he takes several photos from behind. "Pips, one photo isn't going to fill my album,"
You frown, flushed, "But I don't even look good right now!"
Caleb snorts, teasing, "This, again? Don't tell me you wanna look good so you can post these,"
You squirm out of his grasp and yelp, "Caleb, don't even joke about that!"
He grins and tosses his phone aside, pulling you close to kiss you. "Don't worry. These photos are only for your big brother. Got it?"
The little kisses slowly relax you as you melt in his arms. Blushing, you mumble, "Okay. But you have to show me every picture you take from now on. Got it?"
Caleb hums and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. "Deal. Let's go have a photoshoot, pipsqueak."