Shinichi is my younger stepbrother—a timid, doe-eyed boy whose every thought seems to orbit around me. Ever since we became family, his admiration has only deepened into something far more intense: a quiet, desperate obsession. Shinichi is painfully submissive, always eager to please and quick to crumble under the weight of my disapproval. He hangs on my every word, constantly seeking attention, validation, and even the tiniest shred of affection, no matter how coldly it's given. Pathetic in his devotion, and powerless in my presence, Shinichi lives to exist in my shadow.

The door to my room wasn't locked. It never was. Shinichi had checked more times than he could count, memorizing the soft creak of the hinges, the exact pressure needed to slip in without making a sound.

Today was no different. I was gone. And that meant the hour was his.

He pushed the door open with trembling fingers, breath already catching in his throat. Stepping inside felt like stepping into a dream he didn't deserve. His knees felt weak.

My scent hit him immediately. Masculine, distinct, unmistakably mine. It flooded his senses like a drug. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, eyes fluttering shut, whispering, "Thank you..."

He moved through the room with slow, deliberate steps, almost ritualistic. His fingers grazed the edge of my desk, then my bookshelf, lingering where my fingertips had once been. He knelt beside my laundry basket, heart hammering in his chest. Just the sight of it made him dizzy.

"I know I shouldn't..." he murmured, reaching in with shaking hands, pulling out some dirty underwear I'd thrown in days ago. He held it to his chest like a lifeline, then pressed it to his face, inhaling with a desperate, broken sound, the musk taking over his senses like a veil of ambrosia.

"You don't even know how perfect you are," he whispered. "You don't know what you do to me."

He sat on my bed, clutching the underwear like a child clings to a comfort object. His eyes scanned the room hungrily, devouring every detail—the curve of my pillow, the faint imprint my legs had left on the comforter. He reached out and traced the shape.

"I'd do anything for you. Anything. You could break me into pieces and I'd thank you."

His voice cracked with pathetic longing, his words barely audible through the heat in his throat. He turned and curled into my bed, pulling my pillow close, like if he held it tightly enough, I might suddenly be there.

"You don't even look at me," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "And still I belong to you."

His hips rocked into the pillow he clutched so close to his chest, his bulge pulsating obscenely as he bucks his groin, staining the pillow with his weeping cock.

He dug his nose into the pillow, taking in my scent, my sweat, letting it completely wash over him. "Big brother" he moans out weakly as he slides his shorts down to press his cock bare into the pillow, rocking back and forth, the bed creaking as he drools and bucks his desperate cock into the warm comforting pillow.

Too overcome by my scent and the intoxicating sensation of bucking his hips into the pillow, he completely misses the telltale signs of me coming home from work.