MrNonsense: We still have a ways to go. Plenty of time for a lewd to possibly happen. If you wanna see cute, fluffy romance with no sex by yours truly, check out Once in a Lifetime; Dark as Night; and Be My Valentine.
Bass Huntet: You, sir, should be writing this story, not me.
shadow Shinobi1988: Just Brock and Abyss? And here I was hoping for a challenge.
Lori lay in the middle of the bed with her hand pressed to her achy head, the room spinning; if she didn't hold onto the covers with one hand, she'd fly off and break her neck, so she clung with all her might, her fingers clutching like hooked talons. The overhead light was off, but warm amber light from the lamp on her nightstand provided faint and short reaching illumination. She glanced at the clock, but the numbers were a bloody red smear: She squinted her eyes and discerned that it was 11:45. Or maybe 45:11.
Ugh.
She felt like garbage. You know what would help? A hot shower. Those always made her feel better. She tried to get up, but fell back to the bed with a laugh. Ooookay, then, never mind that. "I'm so drunk," she told Leni, even though she knew Leni wasn't in her bed. She was bunking with Luna and Luan to give Lori space. Lol. That was craaaaap. They thought she was going to do something to her, but she wasn't Lincoln, so Lori didn't give a FUCK.
A slow, sleepy smile crossed her lips at the memory of holding him close, breathing in his scent, and running her fingers over his rippling chest. Oh, God, she was so turned on for him. Deep in the alcohol steeped folds of her brain, she knew it was wrong, but it didn't feel wrong, and that's all that matters. Why not? That was her catchphrase, her motto, her Bible verse of the day. Why not?
Why not run her hands slowly over his body and kiss his lips? Why not straddle him and rub her crotch against his until she came undone and shook with orgasm?
She laughed and rubbed her legs together; the insides of her thighs were slick with arousal and her core bubbled like a sinful witch's cauldron - come stir it with your paddle, Lincy~ She cupped her breast in her hand and tweaked her nipple through the fabric of her tank top, her eyes narrowing and her teeth brushing her lower lip. Ummm. It was wrong...and dirty...and shameful, but that made it so much better.
I'm thirsty.
She reached out, but there was no bottle on the nightstand. Pffft. "Stupid!" she cried. She'd get up and get a drink from the kitchen, but she couldn't walk, lol. She slid her hand down her stomach and slipped it into the her cargo shorts, her hips rocking as her fingers traced the outline of her sex through her sodden pantes. She was sooooo horny. God. It was literally crazy. If she had Lincoln here, she'd massage every square inch of his body, then kiss it too, letting her lips linger on his warm, fragrant skin, starting with the soles of his feet and ending with his sweet candy lips. Then she'd let him do the same to her. He was a virgin and she doubted her got anywhere with Ronnie Anne, so it'd be his first time touching a girl, and for some indefinable reason, that was so hot she could melt.
She was a virgin too, though, so it'd be her first time as well. Her big brother could teach her how to make love, and she could teach him what a little sister looks like when she cums - face flushed, eyes narrowed, sweaty bangs hanging in her eyes, chest heaving, head thrown back, lips pursed. Ummmm. And how would he look? She imagined his eyes rolling back into his head and his breath catching as her walls squeezed him and coaxed his boiling load out from his balls and into her thirsty well.
Panting now, she rolled her hips against her hand, humping, grinding, thrusting, her heels digging into the bed and her mind scattering as heat filled her stomach. She arched her back and bared her teeth; the room spun faster and she suddenly felt very queasy, like she was going to be sick. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and her eyes flew open. Uh-oh. Swallowing, she pulled her hand out of her shorts, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and got to her feet, stumbling against the nightstand; the lamp rocked sickeningly but didn't tip. Her head spun, and she threw up her hands to balance herself. Okay. Wow. This is literally crazy.
Taking baby steps, she crossed the room, opened the door, and staggered into the hall - the light was off and all the doors firmly closed, glow shining under cracks here and there. Lori's stomach turned, and her hand fluttered to her mouth. Oh, shit, I'm gonna puke. She hurried into the bathroom, threw on the light, and sank to her knees before the toilet. The seat was down but all that good cheer from the party was coming up fast and -
Splat!
Clear liquid sprayed the seat, the lid, and the tank. It was hot, bitter, and reeked like booze: Bowing her head, she slammed the lid up and puked again, blood crashing against her temples and chunks splashing the bowl, water droplets flying back and hitting her in the face. Oh, God! She splayed her hands on the rim, smearing her hands in thin, greasy vomit, and more shot from her mouth like a geyser.
I'm never drinking again.
She rocked back on her knees and hung her head, waiting to see if she was done of if she was going to throw up more; tears of exertion filled her eyes and hot, pulsing pain pushed against the inside of her skull.
When she was sure she was good, she got to her feet and swayed, one hand going to her cheek and slipping into her tangled hair. She looked at the mess and groaned. She'd worry about it in the morning.
In the hall, she rested against her door frame and closed her eyes - wonder if I can sleep right here, standing up. She swallowed and grimaced at the lingering taste of Smirnoff. It was a whole lot worse coming back up than it was going down. The first time it was fruity and nice, the second it tasted like battery acid.
Her stomach twisted and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to be sick again, but it passed. She should go to sleep; she'd feel better in the morning. She hoped.
Pushing away, she shuffled into the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands going to her fevered face. Lol, I'm so drunk. She started to lay down, but froze when she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around, and her heart burst.
Lincoln stood in the doorway, wearing only his socks, underwear, and a worried expression on his wan face. "H-Hey," he said.
There's a poem by T.S. Elliot called, Lincoln thought, The Wastelands. It contains the line: This is the way the world ends...not with a bang but a whimper. For some reason, that stanza occurred to him as Lori's party guests filed somberly out the door, some of them drunk, others just bummed. Alright, assholes! Luna called from the bottom of the stairs after she and Lynn sprinted Lori away; the chatter died and every head turned to her like she was Christ and the Second Coming was at hand. Party's over. Her commandment was met with a chorus of disappointed groans, but everyone left without protest: Lynn and Luna stood by the door, both glaring and looking as though they'd bite your head off if you made trouble, so no one did. The only hiccup, if hiccup it can be called, was Dana, Lori's friend; on her way out the door she stopped at Lincoln, who sat on the couch with his face in his hands in the most obvious expression of dejection one could ever not hope to see.
"I had a good time tonight," she said, and Lincoln looked up. She smiled drunkenly.
"That's nice," he mumbled. Why was she telling him this? It wasn't his party, and frankly, he had a lot on his mind at the moment - Dana Jurgens was the last thing he cared about right now.
She stared at him for an awkward moment and chewed her lip like it was a Twix and she was meditating very deeply on something. "Do you, like, wanna hang out sometime?"
The realization that she was asking him out slammed into him like a sledgehammer booby trap, and he sputtered. Before he could turn her down, Lynn called out from her station by the door. "Let's keep it moving!"
Dana threw her head back in frustration and sighed. "I'll text you." She gave an exaggerated wink, then she was gone, leaving Lincoln alone, his confusion even heavier than it was before; he'd never been drunk, but he imagined the way his head spun was pretty darn close.
How was she going to text him, anyway? She didn't even have his number.
Well, she could get it from Lori.
At the thought of his older sister's name, Lincoln's body tensed and his heart sank into his stomach. His mind flashed back to the party, to her hot breath caressing his neck and her fingers skimming his chest, to the heart stopping sensation of her soft breasts smooshing against his back. He started to stir, and a burst of shame burned across the back of his neck, killing his erection in the cradle.
He didn't realize someone was standing over him until they spoke. "You okay, Linc?" He looked up, and Lynn forced a tight, sympathetic smile. Luna waved the last guest out the door and closed it, turning to the living room and frowning at the mess: Cups and soda cans littered the coffee table and the floor; chips, crackers, and cookies were ground into the carpet; empty bags and packets were strewn about like flotsam in the wake of a shipwreck.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice leaden.
Lynn sighed and sat next to him on the couch. "She was just drunk. S-She didn't mean anything by it." She reached out to touch him, but thought twice and pulled her hand back. Less than twenty minutes ago, one of his sisters touched him in a very unsisterly way, so right now, she must have figured, he might be a little skittish.
Her concern genuinely touched him, but it wasn't Lori he was worried about.
It was him.
Steepling his fingers against his nose, he took a deep breath. "I'm fine," he repeated. "I get it, she was really drunk, it-it doesn't bother me." He could sense his sister's incredulity. "Much," he added.
"I'm sorry," she said, a hint of pain in her voice. "She shouldn't have done that, Linc, and when she sobers up I'm gonna ream her a new asshole."
Lincoln shook his head. "No, it's fine. She was drunk. Like you said. She didn't know what she was doing."
Lynn favored him with a sad look, then hazarded touching his shoulder. He smiled and patted her hand. "I'm just glad you guys came along before I had to roundhouse her in the head."
Snickering, Lynn punched him in the arm. "That's my bro."
When she was gone, Lincoln's smile faded and he covered his face to hide the guilt he was sure blared across his countenance like a headline in bold. EXTRA! EXTRA! MY SISTER TOUCHED ME AND I LIKED IT! READ ALL ABOUT IT!
A cold shiver raced down his spine. Lori was drunk, so she had an excuse...he, on the other hand, was stone cold sober, in his right mind and not intoxicated, influenced, or otherwise in an altered state: He was normal, average, everyday Lincoln.
And he liked what Lori did to him, liked the way she dragged her nails lightly up hs chest and panted against his neck, like an animal in heat; liked her calling him cute; liked the way she breathed in his scent as though it were the most fragrant perfume she had ever smelled; liked the feeling of her body heat and her arm around him. He liked it so much that he started getting hard, which is why he pulled away, and when she moved in to kiss him, her nose brushing his, her eyes lidded and simmering with lust...God help him, if Lynn and Luna didn't drag her off, he would have kissed her right there in front of everyone.
His own sister.
Wincing, he got to his feet; he needed to take a walk or something, clear his head. Luna, Luna, and Luan were picking up the living room, and when he called out that he was going out, none of them tried to stop him.
Outside, the night was blustery and cold, and for a moment he considered going back in for his jacket, but decided against it: Nothing sobers you up like the bitter cold, and while he hadn't been drinking, he was nevertheless inebriated...drunk on Lori.
God, just the thought of it made him feel icky, like his entire body was lightly coated in slime. Descending the stairs, he called up a vision of Lori's face. Sister...that's your sister. Maybe you were mistaken but just look at this. Refresh your memory. See the family resemblance? Looks a lot like Mom, doesn't she?
Ugh, yes. She did. Lincoln had seen many pictures of his mother as a teenager, and Lori favored her so greatly it was almost uncanny. In fact, if you looked at Mom and subtracted some of the...extra (he couldn't bring himself to call her fat), BAM, Lori.
Even so, his skin tightened at the lingering memory of her touch, and her husky voice echoed though his head like the fresh, clean hiss of summer rain. His dick twitched and he froze, on the sidewalk now, to will it asleep. Dude...get ahold of yourself; you're acting really gross.
Right. It's just...a girl had never touched him like that before, and over the past few months, as his body dragged him kicking and screaming into the depths of puberty, he found himself wanting one to, aching for it as he sat in class and fought to ignore the delicate faces, long, soft hair, and budding beasts surrounding him. At night, alone in his room, he masturbated into socks, underwear, and whatever else he could grab while imagining a girl running her hands over his body the way Lori had, a satisfied smirk on her pink lips and wicked delight in her eyes.
The same expression Lori wore at the party.
Shudder.
That's where his mind was, at any rate, so yeah, something like that was...you know...bound to affect him. Tomorrow, after sleeping (and pounding) it off, he'd see things a whole lot clearer, and he'd realize that nope, he wasn't some kind of sister loving freak hillbiilly - he was just a normal kid who got excited over a girl touching him. Really, that's not even all that bad. Everything gave him a boner these days: The way his pants rubbed against him as he walked; Cliff purring in his lap; a stiff breeze; being shot in the face and beaten about the midsection with a crowbar. It was miserable.
Simple biology. Nothing more, nothing less. Hey, he got hard over Cliff, it didn't mean he wanted to have sex with him.
He was two blocks over now and feeling a little better, so he turned around and went home, hands shoved deep into his pockets and teeth chattering. Streetlights cast murky pools of illumination across the sidewalks, and the needling wind pushed dead leaves across his path, its voice roaring in treetops like the frustrated sigh of an angry deity. I have seen your incest lust, Lincoln Loud, and I am not pleased.
I'm sorry! It was just my body! I-I-It started responding, I couldn't stop it! Excuse the hell out of me for bleeding out from a gunshot wound, amirite?
Heh.
Ten minutes later, he walked through the front door, his face flush with cold and his arms raked with goosebumps. The living room was empty and clean - you'd never be able to tell just by looking at it that there was a party here less than an hour ago. Lincoln shut the door behind him, locked it, and went upstairs, hesitating before snapping the light off. No calls of hey! Or I need to see! came, so he figured everyone was setted for the night.
At the top of the stairs, Leni popped out of seemingly nowhere and his heart rocketed into his throat. She was in her nightdress and carrying in pillow under one arm. "Hi, Lincy!" she cried.
"Hi," he jerked, his eyes darting to the pillow. "Where, uh, where you going?"
Leni blinked in confusion, then smiled. "Oh, I'm having a slumber party with Luna and Luan since Lori's drunk and tried to molest you."
Wince.
"She might, like, try to do the same thing to me, so…" she shrugged. "See you tomorrow!" With that, she turned and minced into Luna and Luan's room, closing the door behind her, leaving Lincoln in semi-darkness.
...tried to molest you.
Those four words stuck him like a shiv to the guts. For one, that's not how it went, she was drunk and didn't know what she was doing. Saying she tried to molest him made it sound sooo much worse than it really was. Lynn was the one who first pointed out that Lori didn't mean anything by it, so she and the others didn't really look at it as her trying to rape him, right? For two...there's a saying Poppa Wheelie used all the time. You can't rape the willing.
And Lincoln was more than willing.
In his room, he stripped out of his clothes, tossed them into the hamper, and climbed into bed. It was past eleven by the clock on the nightstand - he wanted to drop into blissful unconsciousness, but he already knew sleep would not find him. He had too much on his mind.
Letting out a deep breath that did little to dispel the dark pressure in his chest, he leaned over, opened the nightstand drawer, and pulled out a comic. He'd read for a little while and distract himself, then maybe he'd be able to sleep.
For fifteen minutes he stared at the first panel, reading and rereading the dialogue bubbles but failing to retain any of it - like a ship drifting off course, his thoughts returned again and again to Lori; her warm, fleeing touch; her smoldering eyes; her bleary-but-salacious grin; the way she bit her bottom lip as she leaned unsteadily in to kiss him, her mouth coming closer, closer, her nose rubbing against his and her breath filling him, intoxicating him, making his knees weak and his stomach roll. He threw down the comic and tossed his head back with a groan of consternation, Lori's face following, her blonde hair sweaty and tangled. I like when you call me little sister. God, why did that make his breath catch? Why did that specifically turn him on? He'd never looked at his younger sisters that way, and he honestly didn't think he was about to start, but the image of Lori as she was in middle school - small, thin, just beginning to develop curves and breasts as she passed the threshold of womanhood - and lying in bed, her hair pooled around her head, chewing her lip and trembling in need for him, her big, strong older brother…
He swallowed thickly and balled his shaking hands. Alright, well, looks like getting her off his mind wasn't going to work. Great. Lovely. Fantastico. He glanced restlessly around the room as if in search of salvation, and his eyes landed on Bun-Bun, his once beloved rabbit, sitting on the dresser and watching him with cold, black eyes. Why'd he still have that thing anyway? He was eleven, far too old for stuffed animals, and honestly felt no attachment to it whatsoever. "What do I do?" he heard himself croak. "I'm sitting here...thinking about my own sister and…" he trailed off, unable to vocalize his emotions, to speak them and give them power. If he had, he would have said: And not caring that she's my sister.
The fact that his blood relation to Lori didn't bother him bothered him greatly. Lori was like a...not really a second mother, but there was a certain dynamic between them that was akin to a parent-child bond. Oh, she was an asshole sometimes, but while she annoyed him, irritated him, and even outright pissed him off, deep down, he knew he could count on her...knew she would protect and guide him. He felt safe with her, at ease. She was...she was his big sister.
And thinking about her this way should feel alien...disgusting...unnatural...if not because they shared the same blood then because they shared such a sacred family bond.
Nope.
Three hours ago, he'd never once thought of her as anything more than a sister (unless you count bitch, he'd thought of her that way a few times), but now, after a touch and a husky whisper, he could see himself French kissing her and he freaking liked it. That told him that these new feelings weren't new at all - they'd always been there, just hiding or stuck to an anterior wall, waiting to be dislodged like a deadly blood clot.
He looked at Bun-Bun again, but the rabbit offered no assistance or advice. Turning away, he bowed his head and took a deep breath. Alright, fine, I'm...I'm into Lori. My sister. And her being my sister doesn't even gross me out.
There.
It was out.
Articulated even if just to himself.
Now...what was next?
Nothing, he decided, nothing was next. He'd put it out of his mind, feel awkward around her for a few days until he got used to his emotions, then things would go back to normal. Right now, he needed to sleep on it.
Returning the comic to the top drawer, he stretched out and started to reach for the lamp, but realized he had to pee. At least I wasn't under the blankets. He got up, went to the door, opened it...and came to a screeching halt. At the end of the hall, the bathroom light was on and Lori knelt in front of the commode, her head bowed and long, miserable moans drifting forth. She rocked back on her knees and let out a pained sigh.
As far as Lincoln knew, puking after getting really drunk was normal, but even so, a tight band of anxiety squeezed his chest, and worry flooded his stomach like black ice. Gripping the rim of the toilet, Lori got woozily to her feet and turned; Lincoln's heart clutched, but she didn't look in his direction - she leaned against the doorframe, rested for a moment, then disappeared into her room.
Lincoln stared after her, frozen, his heart slamming.
Maybe he should check on her.
Just to make sure she was okay.
Yeah. That's why.
Swallowing, he went down the hall. At her room, he peeked his head though the doorway - she sat on the edge of the bed with her face in her hands, her slender, French tipped fingers threaded through her silky blonde hair. Lincoln's throat went dry, and in that moment he knew exactly why he came here, and it had nothing to do with checking on her.
He wanted her to touch him again.
A rush of self-loathing went through him, and he started to back away, but Lori's head turned, and her drooping eyelids shot up. A hammer of dread struck his center and his lungs withered in his chest. "H-Hey," he said dumbly.
Lori's expression was blank, and bitter disappointment stole over him. She was over it, apparently, over him.
Then she grinned.
"Hey, Lincoln~"