Archive of Our Own ^beta

Quarantines are fucking stupid. 

Andrew understood the necessity of them—they were for the good of public safety and all that. When someone was a parasite infested danger to society, you kept that motherfucker as far away from people as you could until you could determine whether they had recovered or better understood whatever was infecting them. It’s just logical. Hell, Andrew might’ve even taken the never-ending quarantine as a well-needed reprieve from how hard he worked himself in between university, his part-time job, seeing his girlfriend, and taking care of the bloodthirsty leech that is his little sister. 

The problem is, he’s not alone.

He’s stuck in quarantine with Ashley—and Ashley is everywhere.

She’s practically glued to him now that neither of them has any reason to leave the apartment, a constant irritating shadow that pokes and prods at him like a buzzing fly in his ear. 

It’s difficult to deal with. It’s been so long since he’s been around her this much, at least,  not since the incident that he refuses to recall. They’d long since made up, but he's also done everything in his power to pad his schedule to keep his distance from her, too—spending time with his girlfriend (and fucking her every chance she wasn’t too shy to let him have her), working, or studying in the library just to keep from being alone with Ashley. 

And why couldn’t he be alone with her own little sister? 

Well, because he’s a fucking disgusting pervert, that’s why!

Andrew knows that about himself already. He had long since come to terms that what he felt for his sister wasn’t normal—that it was a sick, pathological compulsion that had haunted him for years at this point. It hadn’t even gone away during the year Ashley pushed him away. If anything, that awful desire only grew like a rapidly spreading cordyceps, hijacking his brain until it was all he fucking thought about. It’s the lack of control that scares him the most—the fact that he doesn’t know if he’d be able to reject her again if she came on as strongly as she had when they were still teenagers. 

He likes to think that he wouldn’t pursue it, but deep down, he knows better. 

That crippling desire is even harder to ignore with no outlet. It’d been two months since the quarantine began, and he and Ashley had already exhausted all of their rented VHS’ by the first week. By the third week of isolation, they decided to watch them again, just to see if there’s anything else to be gleaned, and then another time for good measure. Sadly, the movies were exactly the same each time. He’d read all of his favorite books front to back three times and had managed to write an entire stack of poetry that he trashed not long after. He’s out of cigarettes, too, which is just fucking great. The withdrawals have been giving him headaches and keeping his baseline mood in an endless state of irritation. 

He’s also pent up out of his goddamn mind. 

As much as Andrew hates to admit it, he’d gotten used to the consistent sex that he got with his girlfriend, even as boring as it was. It scratched the itch, so to speak; held the demons at bay. His self-control had already been hanging on by a thread, and a month of unsatisfying jerk-off sessions once or twice a day in the shower just wasn’t cutting it. The high libido he’d been blessed with was becoming a fucking curse. 

It doesn’t help that Ashley seems allergic to walking around with clothes on like a normal fucking person. 

Well. She does wear clothes. Just…very little of them. 

It’s always some variation of tiny tshirt with no bra and shorts—and while this usually wouldn’t bother him too much, he’s about to burst out of his fucking skin after days on end of this torture. Even worse was Ashley’s obliviousness to his plight. She nudges her way into his space when they watch tv together, nestling against his side like she fucking belongs there in her skimpy fucking outfits so that he can feel every inch of her body through the the paper thin clothing. 

Like her curves, or the fullness of her breasts pushing up against his arm as she rests her head on his shoulder, the heat radiating from her body that beckons him to pull her just a little closer and partake in that forbidden fruit that hangs tantalizingly from the vine. 

She doesn’t think anything of this—and maybe that’s fine. Perhaps he’s the weird one for reading too much into all otherwise innocent behaviors. Maybe these are totally normal sibling interactions and he’s just a sick fuck for looking at his sister like some sort of beast in a rut when she’s only wearing clothing and behaving in ways that feel comfortable to her. Ashley even has the nerve to fall asleep beside him, like she feels so safe because she knows her big brother would never, ever do anything to harm her. So, he just sits there, as still as a wooden plank, and tries to keep himself from getting hard. 

That never works, so he has to put a pillow over his lap until she wakes up before making a mad dash to the bathroom.

He’s—he’s fucking losing it. 

When he goes to the balcony to escape her for a smoke, she follows him. If he goes into their bedroom for a reprieve, then she’s there, too. Andrew finds himself wondering if she had any fucking solitary hobbies outside of bothering him, but maybe she’s also just as bored as he is. 

Most of the time, she’s not even riling him up on purpose. No, if she were she’d be way more of a little shit about it and he knows that. Unless she’s just gotten a lot more sly about it, but he doubts it. There isn’t a subtle bone in Ashley’s body. When she did come onto him (and that still happened, too, by the way, but it’s all jokes—jokes that don’t seem like fucking jokes) she’s always as direct as a hammer straight to the face. She’s never serious about it because he really can’t catch a fucking break. She is aware of him being a man just enough to tease him with sexuality, but not enough actually to commit. Or to think that he will follow through. It’s just a game to her—a game where Ashley is the only winner.  

(There’s a part of him that wishes that she did know, though—that she was doing this on purpose and not as a fucking joke. Andrew wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty, then. There’d be less shame when he pictures grabbing a fistful of her hair and throwing her onto the kitchen table, shoving those tiny fucking shorts down around her thighs and really giving her something to complain about when she bitches about how bored she was).

On days where he can’t take it, he finds himself on his hands and knees outside of the bathroom door, looking through the peephole just to catch a glimpse of the soft skin that he longs to see, panting like a rabid dog as he strokes himself off, practically foaming at the fucking mouth.

He wonders if she knows that he watches her, if she has any fucking idea how badly he wants to throw the door open and have her right against the tiled wall of their shower.  He could do it. It’d be easy. She’s so desperate for attention that she might just let her big brother fuck her even if she didn’t want it. 

But he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—and it’s driving him insane. Sometimes he imagines leaping off the balcony just to stop those thoughts.

God. Maybe he really is the sick one out of the two of them. Maybe he should get his head checked, but the very idea of coming to a therapist with any of this makes him laugh. Yeah, right. That would probably go just great! He can even imagine the notes the shrink would write:

Andrew Graves is a psychopathic misanthrope who fakes his way through all social interactions. He was neglected by his parents, hates his mother and most people that he encounters, and can barely remember the names of some of even his best friends! Also, he’s in love with his younger sister and is pathologically fixated on engaging in sexual relations with her. This will clearly all be solved by talking about it more!

Absolutely fucking not. 

He’s at his wits' end, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, wishing that it would collapse and crush him when Ashley walks in, leaning against the door frame. 

“Get up, lazy bones! We’re watching a movie.”

He groans and turns onto his side away from her, palms pressing into his face and dragging his eyelids down from pure frustration. Ugh . “We’ve seen everything already. If I have to watch Nightmare on Oak Street one more time, I’m hanging myself.”

Ashley laughs brightly because her sense of humor is blacker than tar. “Ooh! Wanna hang together? Could be kinda funny if we turned the ceiling fan on while we did it. It could be like one of those carnival rides where they swing around!”

Apparently, so is his because that joke makes him laugh until he’s nearly wheezing. Yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of this apartment. 

“What kind of carnival ride would that be?”

“A killer one,” she grins sharply a,nd now, there are tears in his eyes. “You’re so fucking dumb,” he says affectionately when his laughter finally begins to subside. His stomach hurts, too. Damn.  His sister looks proud, standing with her hands on her hips in a pose meant to mimic total confidence. “And you love it.”

He does. He loves it so much he wants to drag her onto his bed and show her just how much. 

“Anyway, no more rotting away in bed! We actually haven’t seen this one! I found it lodged in the back of the TV stand. I didn’t even know we had this!"

That catches his attention ,if only for the novelty of it. “Yeah? What’s it called?”

“I dunno,” she holds up the faded VHS box and squints. “ Pink Valentine. I mean, it could be reruns of that shitty drama you can’t ever shut up about and I’d watch it just to have something to do.” She shrugs. 

He couldn’t disagree there, but — “It’s called prestige television and it perfectly encapsulates the current ethos—”

“Anyway,” the disrespectful little shit cuts him off, “Are you game, or what?”

To fuck her even stupider than she already was? Fuck yeah!

“Sure,” he says with a heavy sigh, because he really has nothing else better to do, and it’s impossible to say no to her when she smiles at him like he’s just made her entire year. Her eyes even sparkle, like glittering rose quartz. 

Jesus Christ, he had it bad .

Pink Valentine or whatever the fuck it's called is boring as fuck. 

Which is fine because he’s not watching it to be entertained, anyway. It’s some kind of artsy film, filmed in black and white, and painfully slow-paced. Andrew is sure that the director must think that he’s very profound. It’s just a way to cut through the monotony and keep his mind occupied—a distraction so he doesn’t linger on how horny he is. Or how he wishes he could instead pass the time by spending it in between his little sister’s legs, or with her between his legs. Or maybe with her legs thrown over his shoulders? The possibilities were endless—and he’s thought about every single scenario of how it could possibly go down too many times to count. 

He shelves that thought in the back of his mind, right beside all of the other thoughts that he wishes he’d never had; files it away beside the disappointment that Julia didn’t look more like Ashley, and the subsequent horror he’d felt when he realized part of the reason he had even bothered with Julia to begin with (besides dispelling those fucking rumors) was because in the right lightning she held a slight resemblance to his little sister.

Also, Ashley is currently lying her head on his lap as they watch this terrible movie. She really shouldn’t be. He knows that, and he’s sure that she knows that as well, and yet there she remains because he can’t say no to her. He plays with her hair, twirling the slightly curly locks around his index finger. The flesh is weak, but his spirit is in absolute shambles, too, so it’d be a disaster if he got hard right now. There’d be no hiding that. 

She’d comment on it because she’s Ashley. 

And he doesn’t know what he’d do in the state that he’s in. He’s always been the one to draw the line between them because Ashley wouldn’t. She enjoys playing games, but there is always the slight chance that she’s being serious, and both options are terrible when he’s like this—teetering on the very edge of madness and desire, peering into the endless abyss of depravity.  

“This sucks,” Ashley says, and he can feel the vibration of her voice on his thigh. He grits his teeth. “Well, it was your idea to watch this.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” she complains, and if there was anything that his sister was an Olympic gold medalist at—it’s whining. He can’t really blame her in this instance, though. “ My Ex-Ex Lover’s New Secrets would have been better than this.”

“I can play a recording if you want.”

“I’d rather die,” she says flatly, “And don’t sound so giddy about that. You’re ruining your tragic poet boy image when you cream yourself over crappy shit like that.”

He tugs on the lock of hair around his finger in retaliation, making Ashley swear. She doesn’t appreciate true art at all. “Ow! Fuck you!”

Oh, if only he could. “Don’t be a bitch then.”

“Takes one to know one!”  he pinches her nose then, which then makes her grab his hand before proceeding to fucking bite him like some sort of feral animal. The sting of her canines sinking into his palm calls to something primal buried deep within. Something base and wanton, something that wants to grab her wrists and wrestle her down to the couch before showing her what a real bite feels like. His hand squeezes around her chin as she giggles girlishly. “You are such a pain in the ass. Fucking animal,” Andrew thinks he might have growled those words. 

His eyes flicker down to her plush, pink lips. He’d like to bite her there, too. She’s smiling with the intensity of the fucking sun, cheeks flushed all pretty. “Yeah? But you love this fucking animal,” she says playfully. “Don’t you?”

He loved her so much it physically fucking hurt—so much that he suffered daily just to keep himself from ruining her even more that she already was. “I do,” He swallows, averting his eyes back to the movie with great restraint. 

—and learns that apparently (and quite suddenly) that this movie had sex scenes when he’s met with the sight of a woman slowly pushing her hand into her pants as she moans indulgently, which was really great, just fan-fucking-tastic. 

Andrew’s face feels like it’s on fire.

This couldn’t be happening. 

He knows he’s a piece of shit, but whatever deity there was that presided over the world couldn’t hate him this much, could they?

Or course they do, you fucking moron! You’re a murderer!

Oh, right.

The woman on screen writhe, hips bucking upwards into her hand—back arching like she’s getting the best fuck of her life from her own fingers. His ears burn, and his mouth feels dry. He can feel his cock stirring. Fucking hell, what was this, soft core porn?!

His fingers grab the remote shakily, very much about to skip over the scene when Ashley says, “Huh,” she watches the screen with a thoughtful expression,  “Does it really feel all that good?”

Andrew feels like he’s been dunked headfirst into frigid water. One comment, and this is already getting dangerous. He should just ignore that she even said anything.

But, well. 

His mouth moves before his brain can shut the question down, the remote forgotten in his hand.  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ashley gestures towards the screen, with a wave of her hand, “I mean — all that . The moaning. The panting and all that squirming. Movies makes it seem like fucking yourself is the best thing ever but every time I’ve tried has been pretty lame. Nothing like that—,” she nods towards the female character who is currently having a massive orgasm, “—has ever happened.”

Andrew stares at her. 

And stares. 

And stares. 

And then stares some more for good measure. 

He’s pretty sure she just broke his brain, because he can’t really think of anything but the insane shit that had just come out of her mouth so casually. Is she totally socially inept? Didn’t she know she isn’t supposed to bring up how she masturbated to her fucking brother? 

“That’s nice,” is what Andrew should say before swiftly changing the subject like a steering wheel being jerked abruptly to avoid a crash. He shouldn’t laugh or try to joke, as that might encourage her to continue. He should just turn the entire fucking movie off and go to bed, in fact. 

“You’ve never come before?” He opts for the head-on collision instead. The car is barelling right towards the tree at mach speed, but he doesn’t fucking stop. Apparently, he wants to go flying right through the windshield because seatbelts were for pussies and the brakes had been torn right out. The hair on his body stands on end, heartbeat thudding against his ribage like its trying to break the fuck out. And yet, his thoughts seem to come sluggishly. Difficult to grasp and hazy, like being caught in a dream. 

It’s the most inappropriate thing he could have possibly asked her, but for some reason, Ashley’s thoughtless comment is exciting . It really shouldn’t be, though—because however she tried to get herself off doesn’t have shit to do with him and he shouldn’t be letting his mind linger on this. Still, those words replay in his mind on repeat, like he’s rewinding them again and again, and now he’s stuck on the fact that his little sister has never actually had an orgasm before. 

And God. 

Andrew wants to be the first person to change that. He wants to make her come so hard that she’s nothing but a brainless mess beneath him. He wants her fucking drooling, unable to do much but say his name and not that Andy shit, either. He wants to make it so that no other man would ever compare to how good he gets her off—not that he’d let any of them near her, though. His skin prickles.  God, he’s fucking disgusting. 

He needs to disengage right the fuck now. 

“Nope,” Ashley shrugs, all casual, like this is a normal conversation to have with her adult brother. “I mean, I tried, but it never really felt like anything.”

Disengage. 

“I mean, did you…” He needs to fucking stop talking, “…Do it the right way? Like, uh—“ stop, stop, please just stop! What is his fucking problem?!

She bursts out laughing, and she just sounds so damn happy that he finds his chest tightening. He wonders if she’s the type of girl to giggle through her orgasms. She probably is. Fuck, he wants to find out so badly — “The right way? There’s a right and wrong way to do it? I thought I was just supposed to play with my clit until something happened!”

Disengage. God she’s so fucking crude but now he’s thinking about her alone in the dark, on her bed, trying to quietly play with herself on the rare times they aren’t sleeping in the same bed and he’s fallen asleep first. Or perhaps on nights where he’s stayed with Julia. Was she frustrated? Did she work herself into a frenzy trying to get off, pissed out of her goddamn mind that he was with Julia instead of her?

Did she cry?

Fuck. His cock is already rock hard against his thigh. Thank God for the pillow on his lap beneath Ashley’s head or else he’d be fucked—and hopefully literally. No! Not hopefully! What was he even thinking?! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Well,” why the fuck is he still talking?! “If you aren’t turned on, it’s probably not going to feel like much. There are right and wrong ways to touch.”

She smirks all coy and feline-like. She looks like a bobcat who had just snuck into the hen house, a fresh kill hanging from her jaws all bloody. “Yeah? Like how?”

Disengage. Disengage. Disengage. Disengage!!

“There’s uh… ,” it occurs to him that while his brain is functional, he isn’t in control. Not really, anyway. He’s like a passenger in his own body as something else directs his actions and his words—he can’t seem to stop any of this, not the word vomit that spills from his mouth, nor the way his insides burn as though he’s been placed into a boiling pot. “—when you’re turned on, the blood rushes all down there…so it’s more sensitive. You feel it more. A lot more. You have to get yourself worked up first.”

His mouth waters, hands twitching, the finger twirling in her hair wants to yank and tug her head back so that he can see the blood vessels pumping beneath the pale skin of her bared throat.

Or perhaps he had been in that boiling pot the entire fucking time they’d been locked together and is only now realizing how fucked he truly is. 

(Yeah, right, dumbass. Get fucking real. A passenger? Take some responsibility. Andrew knows he’s got both hands on the steering wheel. It’s a boiling pot, alright, but one he’d leaped into gleefully. He’s doing exactly what he wants to do. He’s just bullshitting, isn’t he? And bullshitting came easy. It’s his bread and butter, his speciality, lying so damn much he’s even fooled himself. He’s been a disgusting creep for years now. It was always a matter of time before it all spilled out of him like erupting lava, destroying everything within a two-mile radius. 

Andrew’s always known that. He’s a monster, after all—the kind that hid in closets or beneath beds, lying in wait until their quarry was all alone and vulnerable. Tender and fresh, all ready to eat.  He calls Ashley a psycho, but he would know better, wouldn’t he? He’s been so hungry , hasn’t he? Starving slowly. Ravenous. Going mad. Desire munching at his insides bit by bit like rats that chew slowly as they crawl around and use their nails to dig through his guts. 

But now—

It’s time to eat his fill.)

“Like how , Andrew?” She asks, looking less devious and more pensive as she purses her lips. “I’ve told you before, right? I’m not really about that stuff. Whenever I try to watch porn I get grossed out. And thinking about it doesn’t do much, either,” her eyes glance towards the television screen. The woman isn’t masturbating anymore, but neither of them cares. They aren’t watching the film anyway right now. “But, I mean,” her cheeks blush up in that pretty, pink way that makes him want to bite them. “I guess, there is something .”

He’s gonna fucking drool. 

“What’s that?” Andrew asks, trying to sound nonchalant even he’s hard as a fucking rock. Appear uninterested; casual. He’s just trying to have a conversation with his little sister. He’s not searching for an opening—some weakness that he can exploit, really sink his teeth into. Not at all. 

Ashley frowns, “You pushed me away last time I tried to talk about it.”

Huh? Pushed her away? Now why the fuck would he push his baby sister away when she’s trying to tell him what turns her on? When was this? “What are you talking about?”

She crosses her arms underneath her chest, pushing up her tits so that they swell up to her collarbone. Fuck, they look so soft—“Don’t play stupid, Andy.”

“Who’s playing stupid—,” he cuts himself off abruptly as her meaning hits him. Oh. She meant the night of that stupid wet dream where she’d come onto him and he’d panicked and run out of their room. Then, they barely spoke for a year. And hadn’t spoken about that at all, even now after this time, and for good reason. Seems like they’re talking about it now, though. Cool. He guesses he can roll with that. No big deal. “…that’s what all that rambling was?”

Ashley glares at him, “Wow. Eat shit and die,” she practically growls out, looking like a diminutive, riled up kitten poised to strike. She bares her teeth, small but still capable of doing some damage. Not much, but some. It’s kind of adorable. She attempts to leap to her feet, probably to go back to her room and mope, but he pushes her head back down onto his lap. She blinks, then scowls again. “What the fuck, Andy?!”

“Stop with that Andy shit,” he murmurs, “I’m not trying to fight. We talked about all that shit ages ago so I don’t really remember all that well,” that’s a lie. He remembers it in perfect detail. That conversation, the subsequent dream. The incident haunted his fucking nightmares. “I’m trying to listen now, so remind me.”

She raises an eyebrow, looking caught off guard, “…Really?”

“Yeah,” Sure, why not? He really wants to know what turns her on, anyway. He won’t be able to stop thinking about it, otherwise. This conversation was going to haunt him for god knows however long they were going to be trapped in this shitty apartment listening to their shitty neighbor play his shitty music otherwise. Also, he’s still hard despite this little interlude. It's best to get her talking about the important things. 

Ashley’s eyes narrow into slits, looking into his as though searching for something. He’s not sure what. “…Well, I don’t know. I’ve tried to think about boys before. The stuff I’m supposed to like about them, like their arms or chests…didn’t do much for me, though. Same with girls. All I can think about is them being fucking floozies always spreading their legs—”

“…You’ve got to stop watching those soap operas.”

“I’ll stop when you stop watching shitty prestige television . Anyway,” she clears her throat. “I always thought it’d be okay with you, though,” she looks back towards the forgotten movie, “That’s the only time I ever really felt…you know.” 

You know? She’s picking a great time to be vague. His throat feels like sandpaper. “...Okay to do what with me?” He’s asking a stupid fucking question, but he wants to hear her say it plainly. Just so there’s no room for confusion, no way that he can talk himself into believing anything else. 

Ashley smirks but doesn’t answer, eyes glistening as if to say, well, what do you think, smart guy? He swallows, razor blades cutting his esophagus on the way down. “What’s the right way to touch?” She asks instead of elaborating. Andrew scowls; fine by him. 

His fingers flutter, the hand in her hair clenching lightly at her ponytail, filled with the desire to pull. “You were partly correct earlier. About the… the…clitoris.” 

His sister burst out laughing, holding her stomach as she did. “Oh, no! Not the clitoris!”

Andrew flicks her forehead just to shut her up. God, she’s so fucking annoying—all the goddamn time. Why did he want to fuck her so badly again? Her breasts bounce subtly with each giggle that wracks her body, flushed all pretty for him with pure delight shining in her eyes. His tongue rolls over his lips unconsciously. Oh, right. That’s why. “Shut up you little shit. Do you want advice or not?”

Her grin is so wide it might split her face. “You’re going to give me advice on how to get off?” 

Well, she came right out and said. Of course. Why is he even surprised? It’s Ashley. Still, it’s annoying. She plays coy when she wants to but otherwise had no fucking filter. He should drag whatever answers he wanted out of her. Hold her down, make her squirm and panic when she realizes he wouldn’t release her until she tells him exactly what he wants to hear. His cock stirs beneath the pillow again, but she still doesn’t notice. Or if she does, she makes no mention of it. He’s not sure whether that’s disappointing or not. “Sure, why not?” He shrugs, trying to appear unaffected before switching the television off and unceremoniously dropping the remote. “This movie is fucking boring, anyway.” He brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “And everyone should know how to get themselves off. Kind of a tragedy not to be able to.” 

She blows a raspberry at him, poking out her pink tongue in a playful but provactive way. He wants to capture it in between his lips, suck on the tip of it until she’s pliant and shivery under him, and then bite it so that he can swallow up whatever sounds of indignation and pleasure she makes. “A tragedy ? Aren’t you being kind of dramatic? Fucking nerd.”

“Not at all. You don’t know how good coming feels—sounds pretty fucking tragic to me,” Andrew says, voice low and scummy because that’s exactly what he is—scum. He’s the lowest of the low right now. Predatory and wicked, like a spider casually stalking towards a fly caught in its web. 

He should disengage. He really, really should.

This makes his sister hum in contemplation, her ears growing a little red. Cute. “Like the slut from that movie?” He does wonder why all women were sluts to her, but that’s a conversation for another day. “Better than that. She’s just acting.”

Ashley smirks, “Then, like the hussies in porn? They look like they’re having fun.” This makes him laugh, “You watch porn? That’s not too slutty for you?” She hits his arm, making him laugh harder. “Shut up! I was curious! And anyway, answer the question!” 

“I mean, some of it is probably real, but a lot of that is acting, too,” he muses out loud. “The real thing is different.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one, porn is about getting the right angles so the fucking looks good on camera—,” and he’s starting to lose the plot here. He didn’t need to go off on a rant about the intricacies of porn right now. Fucking hell, don’t be such a fucking nerd and stay focused, Andrew! “Nevermind, that’s not important. Anyway, when you uh, touch yourself, it’s about doing what feels best to you. And getting yourself worked up,” he wets his lips again, “or taking care of yourself because you’re so worked up you have to.”

“Hm,” Ashley says, eyes holding a thoughtful but curious shine. “That’s happened to you before?”

“…All of the time,” he admits, oddly without any real shame. He should feel it, though. Especially when all of the times he’s been so turned on that he had no choice but to fuck into his own hand like a horny, rutting animal. All instinct and no thought. Then again, wasn’t he? Look at what he was trying to do now—and with his own little sister, no less. “Surprised you’ve never felt like that before. All pent up, like you’re going to burst out of your skin if you don’t get off,” he absentmindedly plays with the strap of her tank top, looping a thumb underneath to brush over the outline of her collarbone. Her skin is hot to the touch. “Drives me fucking crazy sometimes.”

Her nose twitches, rabbit-like, as the tip of it reddens, too. “…What gets you worked up?”

Oh, Ashley, Ashley, Ashley— the silly girl is getting ahead of herself. “How about this?” He proposes, his thumb moving from her collarbone to tease along the slight swell of where her breasts pushed up. Her breath arrests in her throat, and he smiles, hunger twisting in his belly. Like he’s the big bad wolf lying in wait for Little Red Riding Hood to waltz in through the door. “Let’s figure out what works for you first, then I’ll tell you what gets me going.”

“Huh,” she says, “Didn’t expect that.”

“Didn't expect what?”

She murmurs something that he can’t quite make out. “Nothing,” she says, strangely quiet, almost shy. “Deal, I guess? How do we figure out what I like, then?”

Andrew considers pressing her further about what she meant—coaxing it out of her with his fingers and mouth, but lets it go. He has an idea what she’s thinking, anyway. “How do you usually touch yourself?”

Ashley blinks, clearly taken aback, but then she laughs, “Oh my!” She covers her mouth, but the blush staining her skin betrays her bravado. “What? Do you want a demonstration or something, big brother ?” She grins like an imp, familiar with this song and dance. She’d make some kind of crude comment to rile him up and cause him to back off because she didn’t really think he’d ever follow through. He’s her safe older brother. She can poke, prod, and tease as much as she wants, but her sweet Andy would never really cross that line. 

It’s really a shame. She didn’t realize that Andy had shriveled up and died somewhere around the first month of their shared quarantine, leaving behind a shambling, bloodthirsty, and ravenous zombie—That’s what Andrew is, after all; who Andrew is. Andrew wants to taste flesh—to rip it away, savor it as it fills his belly until he is sated, and leave nothing behind. His Ashley is observant, intuitive in a way that often surprised him, but not about that, it seems. That’s where she’s still innocent, he supposes. 

“Sure,” he answers easily. 

Her smile thins, “Eh? What?”

“I said, sure,” Andrew repeats, bringing one hand down to rest on her knee. “Show me.”

“I—uh,” she’s blinking up at him, and he can practically see the gears of her mind turning. He can even imagine the question marks that must be floating all around her head as she struggles to make sense of this, “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She looks into his eyes, perhaps looking for a sign that he’s kidding—playing around, or that they’re engaged in some sort of game of chicken. She expects him to back down first because he always does, but he only raises an eyebrow as though to say, Well? Get on with it, then. 

Ashley shivers like a leaf in the wind. Eyes growing doe-wide, like alert prey, completely aware that a wolf was stalking it. “Oh,” she says quietly, looking down at the hand on her knee—the way her brother pets a divot in her kneecap with his thumb, the tips of his other fingers just barely touching her inner thigh. “Alright.”

He smiles like it’s been cut into his face, all black dahlia-like. “Okay, then.”

“Not sure if your girlfriend would like this,” she notes, hesitantly spreading her legs as he watches intently. Ashley brings her knees up, hesitantly sliding one of her hands down, stopping right at the band of her shorts. Andrew feels his mouth fill up with saliva — like a dog conditioned to the sight of a juicy steak. And oh, wasn’t his little sister a juicy , delicious treat? Red meat, dripping blood at the bone.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he murmurs, full of complete and utter shit. But, hey! At least he knows it. Not like he cares. Julia hasn’t called in nearly a month, anyway, so maybe she didn’t, either. Maybe she’d grown bored of him after months in quarantine, but the thought of that does little to stir his heart. It doesn’t bother him at all, in fact. He’d been dating that girl for nearly four years now, and he still felt nothing for her. Not even a little bit. “Just helping out my little sister.”

Ashley snorts in disbelief, “Sure, I guess we’ll go with that. Whatever helps you sleep at night, you sack of shit.” She is still hesitating as the hand on her knee slides up, touching her inner thighs in earnest and pushing them apart. She gasps, startled. “Wow. You really aren’t bullshitting me.”

“Nope,” he wonders if his expression looks as slimy and filled with viscous oil as his insides felt. 

“A—Alright, then,” she says, getting on with it at long last as her fingers push past that final barrier into her too-small shorts. With her legs spread he can faintly see the outline of her slit through the material, though less so as her fingers reach their goal, the fabric pushing up around her hand as she begins to touch herself. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

He can’t really see what she’s doing with her shorts in the way, which is a shame, but he doesn’t want to rush this and potentially scare her off. Though, was it even possible to scare her off? She’s been practically begging for this kind of thing for years now, hasn’t she? Is it so wrong to give her what she wants? To give in? Andrew only had so much strength after being given his little sister, only to be told that he could never, ever have her in that way. The way he wants to. The way she wants him to have her, too. 

Ashley’s breath hitches, a sweet, light inhalation of air that stutters as she grows redder and redder under his attentive gaze. She’s tentative about it, moving slowly and doing everything in her power to avoid his gaze as she works herself, or her clit, he imagines. Her fingers make small circles, but that single touch is enough to make her lips quiver, her body growing more tense. 

She seems so frustrated. “Y-You’re just going to stare?” 

Andrew, the master of coming up with bullshit on the fly says, “I have to watch to see why you’re having trouble, right?” 

Ashley doesn’t look like she believes him, brows drawing together in annoyance. “You’re such a fucking freak,” she mutters, though her hand doesn’t stop moving. She’s not wrong, but he suspects that he’s not the only sick fuck among the two of them. It’s not like she had to stay after he’d proposed this. He probably would’ve kept pushing, but the ball’s absolutely in her court. She wants this, too. In fact, he’s starting to hear how wet she is—loud, slick, and absolutely filthy . 

Didn’t seem like she had a problem getting turned on if the not so subtle undulations of her hips were any indication. Or how her slick is starting to seep in through the fabric of her shorts. He clears his throat, “So? What’s the issue? Seems like you’re worked up enough,” his voice sounds like gravel in his ears. Good job, appearing unaffected, Andrew Graves. Though that ship has long since sailed. Neither of them was going to fall for his excuses at this point. “Still feels like nothing?”

“ I-uh…,” Ashley’s lips part, open and close like she can’t quite form the words she wants to say, “S-Still nothing.” 

Andrew’s head tilts, watching her as she squirms, as her hips buck eagerly into her hand, speed increasing. Oh, she’s getting off, alright, and definitely feeling it. She’s lying, but he’ll play along—only because she looks so fucking pretty like this, blood pooling beneath her skin as she moans for him. “No?” He drags his other hand up from her collarbone, gripping her chin and turning her head to make her look at him. “Not at all?” 

He puts on that fake smile—the mask of the kind, older brother, but it feels ill-fitting for he is too wild and delirious. Can she see it? His hunger? How badly he wants her? 

“N—No,” she squints up at him. “I-I need your—mhm—your help.”

“Yeah?” He purrs, the hand on her thigh drifts upwards, grazing just his fingertips along her trembling, heated flesh. “You know, I think I see the problem.”

She blinks rapidly. “W—What is it?”

Andrew hums to himself, the hand on her thighs delicately grazing upward. He rests it on her belly, fingers skimming among the skin below her navel. He encircles her wrists, pulling upward just slightly; a subtle direction for her to withdraw her hand from her shorts. She does, and he nearly forgets how to breathe when he sees the dripping slick coating her fingers. So wet—no, she’s incredibly turned on. What a little liar his Ashley is! He wants to grab that hand, bring those fingers to his mouth and lick them clean, just to finally know how the cunt that’s been the star of his every fantasy since he was fifteen tastes. But no, not yet. He can’t rush this. Push it down, Andrew. 

Ashley waits for him to make a move, fidgeting impatiently, but oh so obedient. So, she can listen . Who knew? 

“I think it’s easier to show you,” he says, using every acting skill he possesses to mask the giddy tremble he feels in his chest. He toys with the band over her shorts. “May I?” She groans, head twisting to the side, but he doesn’t let her look away from him. Her breathing is uneven, like she might just start hyperventilating. “This is actually happening,” he hears her mumble to herself, still bewildered. “You’re really…You’re really serious about this?” she questions, still having a difficult time believing him. He can’t blame her for having doubts, even now he weighs the options of throwing her off, locking himself in the bathroom to jerk off, and pretending none of this happened. 

He can’t, though. Andrew’s fucked either way because he’s starting to realize that this was inevitable. The shared madness that poisoned them both had no antidote. If so, he would’ve found it during their time apart, wouldn’t he have? She would’ve found it, too. 

Their affliction was terminal. 

Even if they stopped now, they’d probably end up like this again later, wouldn’t they?

“I need an answer, Ashley.”

“Y—Yeah. Do it,” she’s redder than he’s ever seen her now, flushed from her cheeks and down to her chest, disappearing into her shirt. It’s pretty adorable, honestly—so cute that he wants to make her come so hard that she never doubts that this was real ever again. He didn't know she could get like this—it makes him wonder just how much redder he can make her. Could she even give him a full-body flush?  Then, more quietly, she adds, “Please.”

Fuck. 

He wants to stroke his cock but can’t with her still laying on him. He’s so hard it hurts , hips jerking upward in slow, controlled movements as not to alert Ashley as he finally crosses the line. It should be more difficult to do this. His morals should be screaming at him right now, stopping him in his tracks like the sight of a gorgon. Instead, he feels nothing aside from jittery anticipation, manic in its intensity as his heart rushes like he’s on the verge of a fucking panic attack. He must look like a fucking creep with how hard he’s grinning.

His fingers run through the curly hair on her pubic mound before drifting lower, into damp heat that makes him shudder . Ashley whimpers, thighs squeezing around his hand, though it does little to ward him off. She’s just as wet as he thought she was, coating the two fingers that slide in between the folds of her labia with just one touch. She’s hot to the touch, and he finds her clit without much difficulty, rubbing small circles around her clitoral hood as her hand wraps around his wrist. To stop him? He has no idea. 

“When you’re touching yourself, you shouldn’t go right for it,” Andrew murmurs, “Your clit, I mean. Feels better if you… tease a bit,” he leans forward, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear. “Touch around it…” her hips hump upward, all desperate and needy. Fuck. He wants her in his mouth, but not yet. He has to be patient .  “…get yourself on the very edge before—”

Ashley’s back arches off the couch; warm fluid gushing over his fingers. Her nails bite into his wrist hard enough to make him grit his teeth as he watches her hips twisting and shaking wildly. It’s intense—the way her eyes fly open, pupils blown so wide they’re swallowing her cherry blossom pink irises. 

Realization hits like a bullet shattering his skull, “Ashley,” there’s shrapnel in his brain, mashing up the grey matter and making him dizzy. The room is practically spinning. “Did you just come?”

“I—I…think s-so?” She stutters—like the bullet has decimated her too. 

Fuck—holy fucking shit—Jesus Christ—he didn’t expect it to happen that fast— 

“Let me see,” he says as he pushes her tightly clenched legs apart. She doesn’t fight him much even with the way that they tremble uncontrollably. The crotch of her pink shorts is absolutely ruined, and he’s sure her underwear is worse. He feels like he’s high, and he laughs—a sharp sound that feels like it’s been punched out of him. “Holy shit, you actually did.”

Ashley covers her face with her hands, “W—Why are you laughing at me, jackass? I d—didn’t know it would happen just like that—that’s never—I’ve never—“ he hasn’t ever seen Ashley this flustered in his entire life. There’s a part of him that wants to revel in this—tease her until she’s furious like any normal sibling would, but then again, poking fun at your little sister for how quickly you’d brought her to orgasm wasn’t exactly a normal situation to begin with, was it?

—And they sure as hell weren’t normal siblings, especially not after this. 

“Hey,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “I’m not laughing at you, nightmare,” the fingers still resting on her clit flutter, and she flinches, “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he soothes, using one hand to gently pry her hands from her face before moving up just enough to brush his lips over her forehead. Even if this entire situation was beyond wrong—her pleasure certainly wasn’t. He doesn’t want her to think that. 

Ashley relaxes, still quivering. “You better not be you fucking perv.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” he says dryly. 

“Fuck you,” she says with no real bite, smiling tiredly. 

Don’t worry, you will, he almost says, but doesn’t. “Real mature.”

“I’m the maturist, bitch.”

“That’s not a word, dumbass,” he snorts. What an odd conversation to have when your hand is currently in your sister’s panties. “Whatever,” she pouts at him before her eyes shift. “If I didn’t do anything weird, then why did you laugh?” 

“No reason,” Andrew drawls, “I laughed because I was…glad.” She was so fucking beautiful, the most beautiful girl he has ever seen, and she had come for him. How could he not be thrilled, practically fucking hysterical with joy after that? Seeing her break apart all around his fingers was better than even the sweetest, most visceral of his nightmares— “You didn’t seem like you had a hard time coming just now, you know?” He teases his digits lower, resting the pad of his middle finger right outside of her opening. “Was that because of the present company?” 

She sucks her teeth, “You’re so annoying.”

“Says the most annoying woman on the planet."

“That’s no way to talk to your sister when she’s letting you be a gross man around her.”

“ Letting ?” He asks, amused. Who did she think she was kidding? “Let’s not pretend this isn’t exactly what you’ve been aiming for, Ashley.”

“That sounds like wishful thinking,” she smirks, opting to pretend that she wasn’t a borderline succubus. Fine. Two could play that game. “I was just joking!”

Yeah, fucking right. 

“You’re changing the subject, Ley,” Andrew purrs, dragging his middle finger between the slick folds on her slit, from her entrance up to her clit and then down again, smiling as she shudders. “You just had your first orgasm. How was it?”

Ashley stares down at his hand, inhaling sharply as he prods at it, pushing in just slightly, just enough to feel the muscles clench eagerly, wanting, no, needing him inside. So fucking responsive, like her body is perfectly in tune with his. Primed for him in a way that Julia’s never had been. No, Julia always had to be coaxed with what felt like endless foreplay and even then she shrank into herself when they were fucking. She came, sure, but each orgasm was dragged out of her. He had to force it since her body seemed to be in constant opposition to his. It was like she knew she wasn’t really what he really wanted deep down, and her body protested that indignity each and every time, even on a subconscious level. 

His sister isn’t like that—her hips move in tandem with his fingers, as though being led by a string. His pretty little marionette, dancing in perfect sync to the pace that he sets for her. 

 “Good,” she answers him, slurring the word. 

“Just good?” he asks, easing his finger inside of her. God, she’s hot inside, so wet that it’s easy to press, further, deeper.

“I—I’ll answer if you tell me what the fuck we’re doing—,” Ashley chokes on a moan as he crooks his middle finger within her, nudging towards a certain spot that he knows is there. “—right now,” she squeaks, making his grin widen. He must have found it. He drags the pad of his finger along it, watching her closely. It doesn’t take much, just the right amount of pressure, and she’s practically singing for him. “ F—Fuck —Andy— ”  

He ignores her question for now in favor of continuing his lesson, “And this…” He watches as the pleasure flickers across his sister’s face, so expressive—eyes so wide and skin so red. Completely fucking gone. “—This is another place that feels good to touch,” he says, continuing this farce of a lesson. “If you just rub here—,” he drags his finger down along the slightly swollen flesh as his sister whines, and god, it feels like her cunt is fucking vibrating around him. “Wow. You’re really feeling it, huh?”

“Y—Yes!” 

Andrew chuckles. He should have done this ages ago! Just what had he been thinking, denying them both this? “And to answer your question from earlier. I’m helping you learn how to come.” 

This time, she laughs, all shaky and whimpery. It’s such a wonderful sound. “A—Ass. I m-meant what does this mean—,” she chokes on a moan, “A—Andy!” 

He could answer her now, but there’s a more pressing matter to address first. 

She’s keeps using the wrong fucking name. 

“Who?”

He adds his ring finger, pumping up at that spot firmly. Ashley cries out, clearly startled by the intensity of the feeling. He’s losing it. Oh, what a delight to show her this—to know that he is the first ever to make her feel this way. It’s pure delirium—an exquisite psychosis to drown in. 

“Andy—“

“Wrong,” he says roughly, it sounds so wet—the sound of his fingers working within her. He’s not sure if she can take three, but he adds his forefinger as well, pleased by the way she hisses from the added stretch. It’s a tight fit, but she opens for him just like he knew she would. Julia had always been too tense for this. He could never work her open like this, make her body yield to him like Ashley’s did. Her cunt would never suck his fingers in like Ashley’s did—so fucking greedy, hungry for it, like she couldn’t let go of him even if she wanted to.  

She’d never get this wet for him. Ashley’s juices are running down his wrist, covering his entire fucking palm. The couch beneath is probably fucking ruined, but it had a good run—and what a perfect way to go. 

Andrew sets a brutal pace, palm slapping against her cunt each time he pushes inside. “Try again.”

Ashley looks like she might cry. Good. She should fucking cry for him. “What do you—“

“Andy wouldn’t be doing this to you,” he says, launching into a stream of consciousness that had no business seeing the light of day. “—He wouldn’t be fucking you like this, about to make you come around his fingers for a second time. So— try again, Ashley.” 

She’s close. He can feel it in the frenetic way her inner walls shiver around his fingers, how her hips bounce wildly, meeting each harsh thrust of his hand. Her eyes are rolling to the back of her fucking skull—

“ A—Andrew !“ She shrieks, and he’s sure that the entire apartment complex knows what they’re up to now. He hopes the cultist next door hears it, so he can learn what good music actually sounds like. He thinks he wants her louder, though—so that the entire fucking neighborhood can know next. It’s good. This is better than good. He might be able to fucking come just from watching her get off—just from hearing her wail his name like he’s killing her. You sick, sick fuck, he thinks, unable to resist as he grabs her chin and yanks her body up off of the pillow roughly before kissing her. 

It’s clumsy in this position —he still has to hunch over, and his fingers are still buried within her, but he has to taste her lips. They’re chapped, of course, but also warm as his tongue slides over them. It’s messy as hell—but he can’t help himself. It’s like he wants to consume her, and he does. He wants everything: the slight sweetness of the strawberry lip balm that she uses on his tongue, the sounds she makes when he bites at the tender, plump flesh. She’s just as eager as she chases his mouth, all too willing to give back as much as she received—sloppy, inexperienced and fucking perfect.

He only pulls away from her when his chest starts to burn. “Good girl,” he says softly, finally easing his fingers out of her. They’re covered in her, dripping with her, and this time he can’t resist licking them clean. He sticks them in his mouth, sucking on the digits lavisciously. She tastes so fucking good — like Ashley, all sweet and salty in a way that makes him want to drool. “Good fucking girl,” he growls when he’s finally exhausted his fingers of her juices, grabbing one of her hands—the one still covered in her slick and begins to clean, them as well. 

“Andrew!” She laughs tiredly, eyes bright, “w-what the hell are you doing you fucking perv?” She tries to draw her hand back playfully, but he doesn’t allow her to. He holds firmly until he can no longer taste her arousal on her fingers. “Indulging in my new favorite treat,” he says before biting down on her index finger. She yelps, laughing harder. “No! Let go, you animal!”

“The queen of animals is calling me an animal?” He asks, biting her middle finger now, pleased by the red marks he leaves behind. 

“I’m not the one licking and biting his sister like a dog.”

She’s not trying all that hard to get away despite her protests, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much. He bites her ring finger next. “Woof.”

“Enough already!” Ashley giggles, finally pushing his head away before he could get her thumb or pinky finger, too. She lifts herself onto her knees shakily and throws the pillow off his lap for good measure, too. No hiding his erection now, but from the way she’s looking at him, it didn’t seem like he had her fooled at all to begin with. Her eyes flicker down to his lap, and she smirks, clearly pleased with herself. Succubus. It’s like she’s been brought up from Hell just to bring about his demise—but he welcomes that eternal damnation nonetheless. She could ask to eat him alive, and he’d hand her the fork and knife. “You’re trying to distract me, Andrew.”

It feels like sparks of electricity are shooting up his spine. He really liked it when she used his actual name. He grins wolfishly. “Nah, I’m just teaching you all about some valuable information.” She bites into his cheek in retaliation for his jest, perhaps, but the painful sting causes his blood to roar in return. He grabs her, manhandling her onto her back on the couch as she laughs, squirming in his grasp. “No!” He’s able to pin both of her wrists up above her head, onto the armrest, using his other hand to stabilize himself by finding purchase on the cushion beside her head. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Yeah? But I’m being so nice right now,” he coos, sliding in between her thighs. She’s been kind enough to part them for him even without being told, and he is eager to oblige her. His cock is throbbing even though his pants, but pushing against the soaked fabric of Ashley’s shorts is enough to dull the ache… somewhat. Though it’s only scratching the surface of what he really craved. He moves against her, watching with barely restrained glee as she whimpers, and shifts against him—still sensitive from her back to back orgasm. “Aren’t I?”

“Not at all, jackass. We’re talking, or I’m leaving you with blue balls!”

That threat is actually so horrifying that it makes him pause. He glares down at her, “You wouldn’t,” he can’t fathom her leaving him like this after getting her off twice—after finally giving into her foolish whims. That would be just cruel , wouldn’t it? He’s not even sure he could let her go, even if he wanted to, right now, if she changed her mind. 

Ashley isn’t the least bit deterred, “Try me.”

Andrew groans loudly. “Okay. What the fuck do you want, then? Not sure if you noticed, but most of my blood isn’t in my head at the moment.”

“Try your best to keep up then, cockbrain,” she says with a huff. He has to admit that he’s somewhat impressed by her ability to stay this focused, considering she has the attention span of a hamster, but this must be important to her. How fucking lucky for him.“If we’re doing this, then be fucking honest for once. Are you just going to act like everything is all normal tomorrow? Keep on dating your whore like you didn’t just make a bunch of excuses just to make your sister come?”

He makes a face, “I wouldn’t call them excuses—”

“ Andrew .” She doesn’t look the least bit amused. “Alright. Fine.” Andrew says with a sigh. His forehead rests against hers as he takes a moment to collect his thoughts. She's going to keep pushing for this, so he had to say something. Be honest—even if the thought of being so vulnerable with her made him want to take a leap of faith from the balcony. “We’re going to have sex. If that’s what you want.”

“It is. But then, what?”

His brow furrows, “Then what?”

He’s sure that if he didn’t have her hands pinned down, she would have hit him from the way her eyes flash in irritation. Alright. There was no worming his way out of this no matter how horny he was. “What would you want?” He asks, uneasy. 

“I want you to break up with your slut girlfriend,” she says, which…isn’t that much of a surprise, if he’s being honest. “And I want it to just be us. It’s Andrew and Ashley or whatever the fuck you want to be called from now on and that’s that. No more hussies. Just you and me.”

He swallows saliva that’s gathered in his mouth, this time not from desire. “Sounds like you want to date me.” Honestly, it sounded like she wanted a whole lot more than just dating. Like she wanted the entire thing—till death do they part. Andrew’s heart pounds, thoughts racing through his mind at dizzying speeds. Ashley doesn’t shy away from him, staring up at him with that frustrating, idiotic stubbornness that drove him insane. Like she didn’t didn’t get what the fucking problem with that logic was. Like what she was suggesting wasn’t fucking insane—

It’s terrifying.

He’s not sure why. He can rationalize all of this more easily if it’s just sex, they were cooped up together for months, for years . It didn’t take a rocket scientist to explain why it was a bad idea for a male and female sibling of a similar age to continue sharing a room into adulthood. Wires can get crossed, feelings and desires could get confused. It’s the logical conclusion. 

But, more than that?

He’d long since accepted his abnormal feelings—accepted that they would need to be buried up tight, locked in a similar coffin to the one they’d locked Nina in, never to be acknowledged or examined again. Ashley returning those fucking awful feelings changed things, though. It’s true madness—the kind that’s impossible to bury or tuck away once unearthed. It would not be ignored or swept under the metaphorical rug. Then again, Ashley had always been that way. It shouldn’t be a surprise that this would be no different. She’d never been one to let sleeping dogs lie. No, she’d bang pots and pans together, scream at the top of her lungs just so she and her fucking feelings would rouse them, even if those dogs were rabid, snarling wolves. 

“That’s exactly what I want. I already told you that I’m not about to be some fucking feather in your cap,” she says, repeating the same fucking nonsense she’d just back when they were still teenagers. “You’re not about to just use me to get your rocks off like I’m some whore.” 

His head is a total mess, “I’m not trying to use you—”

“Prove it, then,” she hisses through her teeth, eyes sharper than razor blades. Her gaze is enough to slice into his flesh, deep into the meat until she reveals viscera, muscle, and bone. “You’re mine. Say it.” Ashley speaks as though she’s not trapped beneath him. She’s not the least bit fearful, not the least bit apprehensive at the threat that he poses as an older, stronger man. She’s just as demanding and bratty as ever, the slight tremor of her lips the only tell of possible underlying anxiety. 

They’re at a precipice—caught precariously between the pit and the swinging pendulum that was Ashley’s ultimatum. Or had they always been here, toeing the line between denial and acceptance? 

Or, perhaps, that was just him. 

“I’m yours,” Andrew whispers, the words coming surprisingly easily. “I’ve always been yours, stupid.” 

Ashley’s answering smile is more blinding than a solar eclipse that sears his retinas. He kisses one corner of her upturned lips and then the other, chest growing warmer as she giggles. Not the heat of arousal, but something gentler. It’s like basking in the sunlight on a summer’s day, though far more lovely and more temperate than that even as she immolates him upon the pyre. “More,” she urges. 

Her hips grind upward, sliding right along his cock in a way that makes his blood boil. “I’ve been yours my entire life,” he leans down and whispers into her ear, as though sharing a secret.  He supposes that he is, from the startled way that Ashley inhales, like this is all new information to her. Idiot, he thinks, sinking his teeth into the space between her jaw and throat. He moves to her collarbone and then her shoulder, too. He’ll leave something that would last, marks to remind her of his words when she forgets them. “I was born for you,” He’d write her a fucking poem if she let him, inscribe each and every line on her skin with his tongue. 

“For me?” She asks, laughing in an incredulous way as she leans into his eager mouth, as though offering her throat to be cut. He feels mad—overflowing with love and aching need. Andrew would die for her. He would die without her—and he’d die for this. He’s too eager when he gropes at flesh with bruising intensity, his free hand palming at her breasts, which were just as soft as he’d dreamed of them being. “Aren’t you the older one?”

“—Had to come first,” he murmurs, not even sure what the fuck he’s saying right now. “So I could take care of you.” He pants nonsensically. God, they are barely even doing anything—barely even scratching the surface of what he wants to do to her, and he feels like he is already unraveling. She takes him apart like a child dismembering a beloved doll. “All yours—just for you.”

She bites at his earlobe, “To teach me?”

Andrew barks out a laugh, “Yeah,” his chest rumbles, “Who else is going to teach you to fuck?”

Ashley’s hips rock harder and faster. Her breath stutters in the way it does when she’s close to coming. Her wrists turn and twist beneath his hand, hissing in frustration. “Andrew —can you —can we—,” her words are broken and jumbled, but he knows what she’s asking, and god yes, he wants that, too—needs it. He might lose his fucking mind if he doesn’t get inside of her soon. Though it’s been gone for months now, hasn’t it? He’s only now realizing the extent of his madness—the mental shared malaise that plagued them both. 

“Yeah, fuck —yeah we can.”

They can do whatever the fuck she wanted. He’s not thinking as he reaches between them, pushing the thin lounge pants he wore down around his hips along with his boxers. It’s too much hassle to take them off when his cock springs free, so fucking hard that it slaps against his abdomen. “Come on, come on, come on,” his sister urges insistently, “F-Fucking let me go if you’re going to be so slow—”

Of course, she’d complain even now.

“Shut the fuck up,” he bites back, hooking his fingers beneath the band of her shorts to tug them down. She raises her hips, but it’s difficult to slide them down with the way they are positioned without some awkward shifting to allow her to kick them off herself. 

Fuck that. He has a better idea. They can still make it work even with them on. Truth be told, he’d always wanted to fuck her in a pair of those too small shorts that she’d taunted him with. “Just leave it,” he murmurs. “Eh?” Ashley questions, eyes wide with an innocence that seemed ill-fitting on her. “Then, how are you going to fuck me?” And there’s the crudeness he loves. 

“Trust me, I can still fuck you,” he promises, chuckling as he grips the base of his cock. He releases her wrists with regret, pushing both the crotch of her panties and shorts to the side. Her cunt glistens with slick arousal, all red and swollen for him. He can barely restrain himself from slamming himself inside there and then. “I knew you were gross, but I didn’t think it was this bad,” Ashley mutters, and he chooses not to dignify that comment with a response. She’s right, but he doesn’t have to acknowledge it. Despite her impatience and snark, she watches him curiously before reaching between them to hold the soaked fabric to the side to expose herself to him. Ah. Fuck, that’s hot. 

“Well? Do it, already, then! I’m growing grays here.” 

He snorts, “On your pussy?”

“Everywhere! Hurry up!” He’s not prepared for the sensation of her cunt sliding wetly along his cock as her hips roll upward. It’s like brain freeze, a strike of lightning that eradicates his thoughts. 

It would be a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t enough of a problem to stop them. He’d take his time later. Really make it worth it to her when both of their heads were clearer, and the post-nut clarity set in. Then, he’d undress her slowly, memorize every inch of her naked skin the same way that he did with his favorite lines of poetry. He’d unravel her like a gift, make her come undone again and again until she only remembered the feeling of his tongue and the roughness of his fingers when she thought of pleasure. 

Later. But not now. 

He didn’t have a difficult time sliding inside of her. Ashley’s tight, so fucking tight—but it feels like she was made to take his cock. That’s how well he fits within her. So snug, and wet, but just fucking right even with the problem that his size and her virginity posed. It wasn’t this easy his first time with Julia. No, she’d cried and cried—complained about the pain so much that they had to stop numerous times, even with him fingering her and eating her out. Neither of them finished, and the rest of the night was spent enduring stilted conversation and long silences as they tried to sleep on her cramped dorm room bed. 

It’s not like that with Ashley. No, her cunt feels like hot and slick velvet that stretches to accommodate him the way that water shapes itself to glass. She takes every single inch of him, until they are hip to hip, until they are practically breathing the same air. She cries out sharply, like the wind’s been knocked out of her, but he’s just as breathless. He’s fucking dizzy.

He’s never been more in love with her. 

This has to be what this is—love. It’s more potent than even the sick desire that’s led them to both this point. It fills his lungs like noxious gas and taints every cell in his body. It’s toxic, a venom for which there is no antidote. No remedy but this , but her. Andrew kisses her like she is the cure, like the remedy of this affliction can be found on her lips. 

“A—Andrew,” She whimpers, she pulls him close—clinging to him as she always has. He is her lifeline, after all. Her eyes are squeezed closed, face screwed up in an expression that seems like pain. No, that’s not what he wants. He draws back, kissing every inch of her face. 

“Hurts?” He asks, because her pussy has rendered him to mono-syllabic utterances. 

“No,” she answers too quickly for it to be a lie, luckily. The tension leaves her face slowly as she opens her eyes. So vibrant—rose quartz that shimmered beneath the sun’s golden rays. They shone like stained glass, iridescent against the deep flush that bleeds across her cheeks. She shakes like she’s been plunged into frigid water, inner walls shivering around him, gripping tightly in a way that makes him see stars, no—fucking constellations that die and come to life before his very eyes. She’s coming again, he realizes. 

Fuck. 

“I’m yours, too.” 

Oh, fuck, he’s going to come. 

He closes his eyes as he fucks into her, snaps his hips in deep but slow strokes that she meets each and every time. His Ashley is so responsive to him. “I was born to love you, Andrew,” she presses her mouth to the shell of his ear as she whispers. Those sweet nothings might as well have been the filthiest words he’s ever heard by the way they twist up his stomach, make his balls grow tight and on the verge of erupting. “Andrew,” she coos his name, cupping his cheeks as she kisses him deeply. 

Andrew can barely make sense of her softness of her lips or the honey coating her words—so at odds with everything that he knows about her, or what he thinks he knows, perhaps. “I love you, beloved,” she says, hips moving with him—like she knows exactly what he needs. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” her fingers rake through his hair, dragging along his scalp in a way that leaves his fucking toes curling. “—All yours, Andrew. Forever and ever.” 

He doesn’t expect her to bite him, right on where his shirt is pulled down to expose his collarbone. It’s like she’s marking him right back, staking her claim, practically branding his soul. She’s further knotting up the red string they’d both come into the world already all tangled up together in and the sting is enough to make him come harder than he has in his entire fucking life. 

It’s shattering, like she’s murdered him. Like she’s plucked his soul from his body and ascended him to a fucking higher plane of existence. She’s something divine, and it’d make sense if she were a goddess. He’s come into the world primed to worship her. 

His vision goes white, pins and needles prickling at his limbs as he loses all sensation and collapses on top of her. It’s intense—truly like a little death. The French were onto something there. He is barely even aware of the way his hips continue to pump sluggishly into her. He fills her up until he has nothing left to give. 

God.

That was incredible.

Why hadn’t they been fucking for years at this point? Why had he allowed his morals to shackle him? He had read so many books about destiny and the nature of love. He’d searched for it, yearned for it, only for it to have been right here the entire time—within the nightmare of a sister who he had been running from his entire life. 

He laughs, breathless. Only he can wax poetic about the nature of love while balls deep in Ashley’s pussy. 

After finishing inside her. 

Man.

That was so fucking stupid of them, huh?

“I shouldn’t have come inside,” he murmurs when he can finally think again. Ashley cradles his head in between her breasts as she curls stray locks of his hair in between her fingers.  He feels himself softening away inside of her, but he makes no move to remove himself. No, he’s far too comfortable. Insane—how the woman who caused so many of his nightmares was also the only comfort that could tame the wildness within him. Like her, darkness tempered his own. “That was a bad idea.”

“Probably,” Ashley agrees with an exhausted smirk, “And it’s not like we can leave our apartment to get any Plan B, huh?” 

Andrew pales, “S—Shit,” he says, growing panicked. She’s right. She’s absolutely fucking right—

“But, it’s a safe day,” Ashley says with a loud yawn, “I thought you’d know that from how you track my days like a freak.” 

He blinks. Was it? Wait. No, she’s right, actually. He releases a breath that he didn’t even realize he was holding as his sister snickers beneath him. “Someone has to,” he says, relaxing into her embrace. “I’m shocked you keep track enough even to know that.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Ashley says, unimpressed, “And it makes sense for me to track them. But you? What? Were you keeping track to see when you could fuck me raw?”

“No,” he says quickly, though he’s not really sure if that’s a lie or not. It’s probably not a lie. Maybe. 

“Yeah fucking right,” she grins, “ Anyway,” her eyes sparkle deviously. “You’re lucky I’m kind enough not to poke holes in that obvious delusion.”

“Since when have you ever been kind?”

“Since I let you use my tits as a pillow instead of making you call your whore girlfriend right the fuck now.”

It’s impossible to keep up with her sometimes. He really wonders where she came up with half of this shit, “And why would I do that?”

“To break up with her, duh,” Right. Of course. Why is he even surprised? Still, he’s oddly not the least bit annoyed by this childish display of pettiness. He smiles fondly, endeared by this creature’s ruthlessness. Ah. He’s just as bad as her, isn’t he? “And I want to hear the entire thing on fucking speaker phone, Andrew!” Her eyes narrow and squint like a cat poised to pounce, “Or else.” 

Andrew kisses her, just to shut her up. It works for a little while, but he knows he’s going to have to make that phone call before the sun sets. 

Yeah. 

He’s a fucking goner. 

This might have been the stupidest, most foolish, and ill-advised development from the quarantine. Maybe he was infected, and the parasites were feasting on his brain. 

—But the sound of Ashley’s laughter that fills the dead air of their cold, empty apartment makes the quarantine almost worth it. 

Almost.