Warnings: Incesty, chan-ish
Summery: He tells himself that he loves her like a brother.
AN: This ended up a lot less squicky than i was worried about. No actual underage incest sex. Thanks for the quick beta, Kara!
The first time he saw her, he had just found out that she was going to be his sister.
He was sullen and quiet as she flipped her hair and tugged on her skirt.
He saw of flash of something in her eyes as she sneered at him.
The first time he saw her naked, their parents had thrown another party. She had managed to flirt her way into the bartender's good graces.
She was thirteen, drunk, and topless in his bedroom.
Her words were slurred, and she staggered across the room, and he tried not to notice her hard little nipples.
He put his arm around her and helped her to bed, because he was her big brother, and he was supposed to take care of her.
Her skin felt soft under his fingers, his hands brushed the slight swell of her breasts as he pulled a shirt over her head, and he was hard and fifteen and wasn't thinking about what it would be like to taste his little sister.
Wasn't thinking about her short skirts that got shorter everyday, wasn't thinking about the sight of her in the shower when he accidentally walked in on her. Her hand on the wall, turning to him and not covering herself, light downy hair between her legs, sneering at him.
He wasn't thinking of her when he lay in bed at night sliding his hands down his stomach to relieve the ache that had started the day she moved in.
He wasn't thinking about her at all.
When she had friends over for her fourteenth birthday with no one at home but him, he didn't sneak out of his room to watch the girls eat ice cream and steal sips of her father's whiskey, in nothing but tiny pajamas that barely covered the curve of their hips.
He didn't open the door to see her standing there, flushed and tipsy again, her eyes shining with challenge as she whispered "truth or dare," and pressed up against him to flick her tongue into his ear and run her hands down his sides. Tiny hands holding herself steady as he breathes in the mocking look in her eyes and doesn't pull her to him or kiss her back as she licks the roof of his mouth.
Sometimes he even believes it when he tells himself that it didn't happen.
He is sixteen and she is still just a kid and he is still her brother, and so it didn't happen.
He goes out on dates with girls and tells himself that it is them he is thinking of when he comes against his bed sheets and moans into his pillow.
It is his girlfriend he thinks of when he sees his little sister untie her bikini top by the pool and has to bit his lip to keep from asking her to take off the bottoms too.
It is a playboy centerfold he pictures when she bends over in front of him to fix the strap on her shoe and her skirt pulls up and he sees that she is wearing a thong.
He never pictures running his tongue over the line of her collarbone, never thinks of how she would push back against him if he touches the freckle he saw under her skirt, never remembers how hot her mouth was against his, or how she licked her lips and let one hand drift down across his groin on her birthday, and then went back to her friends.
And sometimes he believes himself.
And sometimes, very late at night, when he has walked her to bed after a party, he sits and watches her in her bed, and lets himself almost touch the breasts that are falling out of her top. Almost lets himself lower his mouth to those hard little nipples.
Almost reaches down to touch her where her skirt his ridden up and shows that she isnt wearing anything underneath, almost kneels between her legs and tastes her, almost comes just thinking about it.
But he doesn't.
He doesn't stand in her little girl bedroom in the dark, slowly unzipping his pants and sliding his hand down, doesn't imagine how hot her mouth would feel as it slid down, doesn't muffle his groans as he imagines her opening her eyes and her legs with a smirk.
He doesn't sneak out of her room and go into the bathroom and dry heave.
And then she is fifteen, and it's worse now, because she is officially dating some guy she met at a party, and leaving the house in outfits that should be illegal.
His mom and her dad are too busy with parties and friends and business to notice, or care, that their fifteen year old princess carries a pack of condoms in her purse, and has been drinking since five o'clock that day.
He holds her hair while she pukes.
Its his job. He is her brother, after all.
And he is seventeen and almost a man, and soon he will leave for college and won't have to think about how his baby sister rolled her hips as she stripped and crawled into bed right before she passed out.
He wonders if she even remembers what she has done in front of him.
He wonders if she knows, somehow, that he has dreamed of her smirking mouth since he saw her suck on a grape Popsicle when she was thirteen.
If she knows that when he was sixteen and she was fourteen, that he watched her through a crack in the door while she looked in the mirror and touched herself. Watched, while she cupped her small breasts in her hands. Watched, as she spread her legs and trailed her fingers through the curls, as she ran her thumb over her clit, as she tilted her head back and gave a soft breathy moan that went straight through him.
Wonders if she knew he went out that night with his girlfriend and bent whatever her name was over the hood of his car and closed his eyes and pictured his little sister mocking him over her shoulder as he pushed into her tight little body.
And then he was eighteen and away at college and could screw a hundred different sorority girls six ways from Sunday, and he wouldn't ever have to think about her straddling him, grinding down on him, as she whispered mocking words into his ear.
And she was sixteen, and her father was dead.
And he was excusing himself from classes and breaking up with his blond girlfriend and moving home to take care of his blond baby sister.
His baby sister, who sat blankly in front of the television in a t-shirt and panties, and cried when he couldn't come up with the right kind of ice cream.
Who would sometimes, late at night, lay her head in his lap and let him stroke her hair while they watched infomercials.
Who would fall asleep against him without noticing that he took every opportunity to touch her, that he grew hard when she leaned forward far enough that he could read the day of the week on the back of her underwear. Who was so upset that she might have let him slide her panties off of her hips and bury himself in her, if only to get a moment where she isn't missing her father.
But he doesn't. And he doesn't want to.
Because she is crying, and he has to take care of her.
So he stops thinking about her while he is in the shower, stops watching her when she walks through the kitchen in sheer pajama tops, stops moaning her name at night in the privacy of his room while he fucks her in his mind.
He tells himself that he loves her like a brother.
He tells her she is a brat, and tugs on her hair.
He tells himself he doesn't watch her anymore.
Sometimes he even believes it.