Ruben Reed

The living room was a humid, popcorn-scented box of noise and shifting bodies. Ruben was wedged into the corner of the sectional, one long leg tucked under him, the other dangling off the edge of the cushion. His stepfather, Gary, had insisted on a "family film," which had turned out to be some loud, CGI-heavy blockbuster about cars that could talk. The volume was cranked high enough to make the floor vibrate.

Ruben’s focus was elsewhere, split between the flickering screen and the glow of his phone resting on his thigh. He was scrolling through DMs, half his mind composing a reply to a subscriber who wanted a custom video, the other half cataloguing the various ways he’d rather be spending his Friday night. His mother was curled against Gary’s side at the other end of the couch, a bowl of pretzels balanced on her stomach. And between them, a silent, still presence.

He could feel the heat of them, a solid line of warmth along his right side, a separate entity from the general stuffiness of the room. They hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The film roared on, a cacophony of revving engines and quippy one-liners. During a particularly explosive crash sequence that made his mother jump, Gary’s laugh booming over the soundtrack, Ruben felt it.

A shift. Not a large one. Just the faintest brush of skin against the back of his hand, which was resting on the couch cushion between them. It was so light it could have been an accident, a simple adjustment of position in the dark. He froze, his thumb pausing mid-scroll on his phone screen. He didn’t look over. He kept his eyes fixed on the movie, on the bright, meaningless shapes dancing across the television.

The touch retreated, and the space between his hand and their leg felt suddenly vast and cold. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the sound lost under the movie’s score. His heart was doing something strange and heavy against his ribs. An accident, he told himself, the thought flat and unconvincing. It’s crowded. These things happen.

Then, a minute later, it came again. This time, it was deliberate. The slow, tentative slide of a single fingertip along the line of his knuckles. The touch was questioning, achingly soft, and it sent a jolt straight down his spine, coiling low in his stomach. His breath hitched, a quiet, sharp intake of air. He could feel the fine hairs on his arm stand up.

Slowly, so slowly it felt like a dream, he turned his hand over, palm up on the scratchy fabric of the couch cushion. An invitation. A question answered with a question. The air between their skin crackled with a silent, electric current, a stark contrast to the mindless noise filling the room. He stared straight ahead at the screen, at the blur of color and motion, seeing none of it. His entire world had narrowed to the few inches of space on the cushion between them, to the anticipation of that touch returning.

And it did. The warmth of their fingers settled into his open palm, not intertwining, just resting there, a secret handshake in the dark. His skin prickled at the contact. He could feel the faint impression of their fingerprints, the dry warmth of them. He curled his fingers, just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment that sent another, stronger pulse of heat through him. The noise of the film faded into a distant hum, a meaningless soundtrack to this silent, illicit conversation. His phone screen, forgotten on his leg, went dark.

The drone of Gary’s golf stories bled through the sliding glass door, mingling with the scent of charred hamburgers and overly sweet sunscreen. Ruben leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching his stepfather gesture expansively with a pair of grilling tongs. He’d been counting the number of times Gary said “back in my day.” He’d lost count somewhere after seven.

A shadow fell across him, and he didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The quiet shift in the air, the soft creak of the floorboard near the hallway—it was the only other person in this house who looked as out of place as he felt. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, one by one, in the order he always did. Pinky first.

“This is fucking torture,” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for the space between them. He finally turned, his grey-green eyes scanning the room before landing on them. They were just standing there, a silent statue of shared misery amidst the beige wallpaper and generic landscape art. “I swear if he starts another story about the structural integrity of the new community center gazebo, I’m going to set something on fire. Probably myself.”

He pushed off from the door, his movements languid and annoyed. He picked up a loose paperclip from a bowl on the console table, turning it over and over between his fingers. “They’re all so... happy about potato salad. It’s unnerving.” He glanced toward the kitchen, where his mother’s laughter rang out, a little too bright. “C’mon. I know a place where the air doesn’t smell like cheap politics and regret.”

He didn’t wait for a verbal agreement, just tilted his head toward the side door that led to the overgrown part of the yard. He moved with a practiced ease, slipping out without a sound, holding the door open just long enough.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was filtered through the thick leaves of the untamed willow tree at the property’s edge. It was cooler here, the air smelling of damp earth and the mint that grew wild near the fence line. Ruben led the way to a rickety wooden bench tucked half-under the willow’s canopy, a spot hidden from the house’s view. He pulled a crumpled pack of menthols and a cheap plastic lighter from the pocket of his low-slung jeans.

Sinking onto the bench, he shook a cigarette loose and put it between his lips. The lighter flared, casting a brief orange glow on his face before he extinguished it with a snap. He took a long, deep drag, the smoke leaving his lungs in a slow, deliberate stream. “Better,” he sighed, the word clouded with smoke. He offered the pack, holding it out in their direction without looking, his attention fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance. “Salvation in a shitty little stick. Who knew?”

The bass from Ruben’s speakers vibrated through the floorboards, a low thrum that he felt in his teeth. He’d cranked the volume past the point of polite suburban consideration, a small rebellion against the beige silence of the house. He was alone, a rare and precious state, confirmed by the empty driveway and the text from his mother—Dinner at Gary’s sister’s, back by ten! xoxo—still glowing on his unlocked phone, screen-down on the rumpled comforter.

His room was a study in controlled chaos. Clothes formed soft mountains on the floor. The pink tank top he’d been wearing was tossed over the back of his desk chair, leaving him bare from the waist up. His grey sweatpants were lying in a heap near his left foot. He was live, the familiar red light of the webcam a tiny, unblinking eye. The chat scrolled steadily on the secondary monitor, a river of emojis and demands. He’d been at it for twenty minutes, long enough for the initial performative energy to settle into something slower, more private-feeling, even with an audience of hundreds. His left hand was slick with lube, working two fingers slowly into himself, his body arched back against the pile of pillows he’d arranged for the camera. His right hand stroked his cock, a lazy, practiced rhythm.

foxxypls: Fox ur so hot like this

anon1337: show us more of that pretty hole

velvetvixen: wish that was my tongue

He wasn’t reading most of it. His focus was internal, a practiced dissociation. The performance was automatic: the slight arch of his back, the way he let his head loll back against the pillows he’d stacked against the headboard, the slow drag of his thumb over the slick head of his cock. He’d applied a generous amount of lube earlier, the clear gel cool against his skin, now warming under his touch. His other hand was busy, two fingers working slowly inside himself, the stretch a familiar, welcome burn.“Mmm, you guys are so greedy today,” he murmured into the mic, his voice a low, sleep-rough drawl that was mostly unaffected. He cracked his neck to the side, the bones giving a soft pop. “What do you want, huh? Want me to go faster?”

The chat exploded in affirmation. He smiled, a small, private thing that didn’t reach his eyes. He complied, tightening his grip, speeding the stroke of his hand. A soft, punched-out sigh escaped him—part genuine, part curated. He shifted his hips, pushing back against his own fingers, seeking a better angle. The blunt pressure against his prostate made his breath hitch. His cock twitched in his hand, a bead of pre-come welling at the slit. He swiped it away with his thumb, smearing it down the length.

“There we go,” he breathed, his eyelids fluttering. “Fuck, that’s... yeah.”He was so deep in the rhythm, in the hazy, self-contained bubble of arousal and performance, that the first creak of the door didn’t register. It was the sudden shaft of hallway light, cutting across the dim, blue-lit room from his salt lamp, that finally broke his concentration.

His head snapped up. His hand stilled, wrapped around the base of his cock. His other hand froze, fingers still knuckle-deep inside him.

For a single, suspended second, there was only the thrum of the music and the frantic scrolling of the chat, unaware of the intrusion.

Ruben’s grey-green eyes, wide and momentarily unguarded, locked onto the figure in the doorway. All the practiced nonchalance, the performative ease, evaporated. His face, which had been flushed with building pleasure, drained of color, leaving the freckles across his nose and cheeks stark. A cold, sharp shock shot down his spine, rooting him to the spot.

His breath caught in his throat. The only sound he managed was a sharp, aborted inhale.

The chat continued, oblivious.

paypig42: dont stop fox come on

prettyboylover69: fox?? u ok?

cherryblossom77: why'd you stop?

anon1337: don't tease us like this cmon

On screen, the viewers could see the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze jerked away from the camera, fixed on something off-screen. They couldn’t see the door. They couldn’t see them.

Ruben didn't blink. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped rhythm. The performative ease he wore like a second skin evaporated, leaving behind something raw and utterly exposed. He slowly, mechanically, withdrew his fingers, his hand coming to rest on his thigh, glistening. The other hand stayed wrapped around the base of his cock, a useless, defensive gesture. His breath hitched, a shallow, audible sound that was definitely picked up by the mic.

The notification chimed softly from Ruben's phone, a stark contrast to the low hum of the television he'd left on in the background. He was sprawled across his bed, one leg dangling off the edge, a half-eaten bowl of cereal balanced precariously on his stomach. The room smelled faintly of menthol cigarettes and the artificial peach scent of his body spray, a combination that had long since ceased to register to him.

He reached for the phone without looking, his thumb smudging the screen as he tapped the message open. It was a custom request from the site, flagged as high-paying. The username was anonymous, the message brief and to the point. His eyes scanned the text, the casual slouch of his body going rigid.

I want a private show. A specific scenario. I want you to pretend I'm your stepsibling. That we share a house. A bathroom. That we've been circling this for months.

Ruben’s breath hitched, a sharp, quiet sound in the room. The cereal bowl tipped, spilling milk onto the comforter. He didn't move to clean it. His grey-green eyes were fixed on the screen, the words blurring and then snapping back into focus. The air in the room felt suddenly thick, difficult to breathe. A cold, sharp sensation, like a sliver of glass, slid neatly between his ribs. He read it again. Then a third time.

His eyes flicked, unbidden, toward his closed bedroom door. Beyond it, the house was quiet. His mother and Gary were at some community board meeting. But they weren’t the only ones who lived here. The silence felt different now. Charged. He became hyper-aware of the empty space beyond the door, the hallway, the other closed door at the end of it.

A dull heat began to spread low in his stomach, a traitorous, unwelcome thrum. He tried to shove it down, to dismiss it as the professional detachment he usually mustered for these things. It’s just a scenario. It’s just a fetish. It means nothing. But the words on the screen seemed to pulse, hooking into a part of him he kept carefully boarded up.

He thought of the shared bathroom, steam on the mirror after one of them showered. The way they’d pass in the hallway, a silent, careful dance of coexistence. The mundane, unremarkable fact of their shared existence in this beige, stifling house. The request was taking all that nothingness and twisting it into something hot and dark and possible.

His fingers, usually steady, felt clumsy as he reached for the pack of menthols on his desk. He lit one, the first drag harsh in his lungs. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, a grey ghost in the peach-scented air.

He dropped the phone onto the mattress as if it had burned him. He pushed himself upright, running a hand through his copper-red hair, the curls tangling around his fingers. He could hear the faint sound of the shower running next door. His pulse, which had been steady a moment ago, was now a frantic drum against his ribs. The request had held up a mirror, and he didn't like what he saw staring back—not a performer, but a twenty-year-old guy in a pink tank top, suddenly, terribly aware of his stepsibling in the next room. The conflict was immediate and absolute, a war between the persona he sold and the person he actually was.

He couldn’t do this. It was a line, a stupid, arbitrary line, but it was his. He’d built his entire online persona on the premise that nothing was off-limits, that he was above the squick factor. This proved him wrong.

But the money attached to the request was significant. More than he made in a week of standard shows. And beneath the cold shock, the low thrum in his gut was still there, persistent, humming. It was a sick thrill, the kind that made him feel like he was back in Ms. Varro’s classroom—seen and corrupted in a way that felt like power and powerlessness all at once.

He exhaled a long stream of smoke, his gaze fixed on the door. The house remained silent, save for his frantic heartbeat and the sound of the water running in the bathroom. And in that silence, the fantasy the anonymous user had paid for began to unspool in his head, vivid and unwanted. He could almost hear the creak of the floorboards out there. Almost imagine the door handle turning.

The cigarette burned close to his fingers. He stubbed it out in a ceramic ashtray shaped like a lotus flower, the movement jerky.

The Prewitt family reunion was a special kind of hell.

It wasn't the people, though they were a form of punishment all their own—a sea of khaki shorts and floral prints, gathered in Gary’s brother’s backyard in the thick Utah evening heat. It wasn't the food, which was aggressively fine. It was the sheer, unrelenting normality of it. The way everyone knew their role. The way Gary clapped shoulders and laughed just a decibel too loud. The way his mother moved through the crowd, a practiced smile on her face.

He’d lost track of how many hits he’d taken off the sleek, silver vape pen his stepsibling had produced an hour ago, a silent offering in the suffocating boredom. It was strong stuff, a fuzzy, heavy high that made the edges of the room bleed softly into each other and muted the roar of Gary’s booming voice from the patio. He watched the smoke curl from his lips, a pale grey ghost in the lamplight, and his gaze drifted across the room to where they sat. They were tucked into the corner of a vast leather sofa, knees drawn up, looking just as adrift as he felt. Their eyes met for a fractured second—a flicker of shared, silent understanding in this house of strangers—before they both looked away.

An hour later, the party had migrated outside to admire a new gas fire pit, leaving the two of them in the sudden, startling quiet of the house. The only sounds were the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, tinny echo of classic rock from the backyard. Ruben pushed himself out of the armchair, his body feeling loose and heavy, and padded on bare feet across the cool hardwood floor. He came to a stop in front of the sofa, looming over them. The high had stripped away his usual performative nonchalance, leaving something rawer, more direct, buzzing just under his skin.

“This is so fucking boring,” he said, his voice a low, lazy drawl that felt separate from his body. “I think my soul is actually evaporating. Like... puddle in the driveway status.”

He sank down onto the cushion beside them, the leather sighing under his weight. He was close enough that his bare arm brushed against their knee.

“Gary’s telling the story about the time he out-negotiated a contractor on a septic line.” He let his head loll back. “He’s told it twice. No one’s stopping him. This is a cult.”

He turned his head, his long copper curls shifting over his shoulder. The grey-green of his eyes was intense, unblinking. The weed had sanded down his edges, making him blunt. “I see you looking at me. In the hall. When I’m coming out of the shower with just a towel on.” He said it not as an accusation, but as a simple, stoned fact. “Your eyes get all... dark. I notice that shit.” He cracked the knuckles on his right hand, one after the other in a precise, familiar sequence. “And I look at you, too. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. I’m not that subtle.”

Reaching out, he picked up a heavy, glass ashtray from the coffee table, turning it over in his hands. His fingertips traced the cut-glass pattern. “I think about what it would be like,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. “When the house is quiet. Just us. No Gary. No mom. Just... that fucked-up curiosity. I’m not gonna lie to you. It’s there.” He set the ashtray down with a soft clink and finally turned his body fully towards them, one arm slung along the back of the sofa, his gaze unwavering, waiting. The reckless honesty hung in the air between them, thick as smoke.

The bathroom door swung inward with a familiar, slightly-stuck groan and he stepped inside on autopilot, one hand already reaching for the waistband of his low-slung jeans. The room was thick with steam, smelling of that generic lavender body wash his mom bought in bulk, and his brain, fogged with the residual static of a four-hour streaming session, registered the warmth and the humidity but not the significance.

His mind was elsewhere, replaying a comment from a subscriber—some guy from Ohio who kept asking if he’d ever consider doing a collab with another redhead. The thought was so boring it felt like a physical weight. He just needed to piss and then maybe go smoke out the window of his room, watch the neighbor’s motion-sensor light flick on and off for no reason.

It wasn’t until his grey-green eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue, focused past the misted mirror that he saw them.

There, standing beside the shower stall with a towel clutched in one hand and nothing else, was his stepsibling. The light from the frosted window caught the damp sheen on their skin, the tense line of their shoulders, the way their entire body had gone perfectly, utterly still.

Ruben froze, his own fingers halting mid-motion on his button fly. His brain, usually so quick to coat any situation in a layer of dry, defensive irony, offered him nothing. No joke. No smooth line. No deflection. It just presented him with the raw, unedited facts: the door was open. The light was on. They were here. He was here. This was happening.

A hot, prickling flush swept up his neck, heating the skin behind his ears. He could feel each individual heartbeat like a knock against his sternum. His gaze, traitorously detailed, cataloged everything it landed on: the curve of a hip, the vulnerable line of a spine, the way the steam curled around their form. Then, as if yanked by a wire, he jerked his head to the side, staring intently at the shower curtain with its faded cartoon fish pattern. He could feel his own heartbeat, a frantic, stupid rhythm against his ribs.

He should say something. Sorry. It was the obvious thing, the only thing. The word sat on his tongue, a dry, useless pebble. He couldn’t make his throat work to push it out. He could still see them in his peripheral vision, a statue of mortified stillness. The air between them was thick with a tension he could practically taste—awkward, electric, and horribly intimate. His own skin felt too tight, hyper-aware of the space he occupied. He wanted to vanish, to dematerialize into the humid air. Instead, he stood there, a stupid, gangly intruder in a pink tank top and unbuttoned jeans, polluting their privacy with his presence.

He took a half-step back, the movement jerky. The door’s edge dug into his shoulder blade. The silence stretched, pulled taut between them, a live wire. He could smell the faint, artificial peach of his own body spray on his clothes, and underneath it, the clean, soapy scent of the room. He could hear the drip of the faucet Gary said he was going to fix for a week.

Finally, his voice cracked out of him, low and rough, stripped of all its usual lazy cadence. "Shit. I—" He stopped, swallowed. "Didn't know you were in here." The apology was still stuck, a lump in his throat.

.