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Night One
His brother has a nice cock. Like—really nice. It’s long and thick even when it’s soft and vulnerable against his thigh. It’s a nice shade of pink, the head covered by that soft slip of foreskin, the thatch of russet-brown curls, the trail of hair from his navel to the thick, pink base.
He can’t remember when he first thought it, only that Saxon has never bothered with clothes when it’s just them. So it’s an ordinary thought, something he’s weighed in his mind dozens of times; a background fact of Lochlan’s existence. He’s even seen it hard every now and again, the tip all rosy and exposed and shiny. And Saxon lets him look, seems to like it, lingers at the edge of the bed with his iPad, saunters to the bathroom like he’s Thor or something, stepping down from the clouds.
It’s just that—well, Sax has never jerked off in front of him. Lochlan thinks, for a heart-pounding few moments, that Saxon is going to do it. Right there, in front of the bathroom mirror, with his iPad showing a skinny girl with huge boobs and two muscled dudes eating her out. Saxon’s cock is already at half mast when the sound starts up—the wet licking and the girl’s unh unh unh—and he even tugs himself once, twice, sighing, before—
He catches Lochlan’s reflection in the mirror and closes the door.
Lochlan’s palms prickle with sweat, and he wipes them on the sheets, weird little shivers running up and down his spine. He was about to watch his brother jerk off—like it’s a fine and normal thing to do. And he’s—God, he can’t catch his breath, can’t quell the adrenaline in his veins. He should—he should go in the hall or hide in the corner, but he’s struck still. Can’t move. Turned to stone by the sight of Saxon, by the knowledge of what he’s doing just beyond that thin, sliding door.
And yeah, the door—that door is meant for a room shared between friends or lovers—not for grown siblings. Well, not when one of them is an overgrown iPad kid with a porn addiction.
There are sounds in the bathroom—a pump of lotion, Saxon’s grunt, the slick, unmistakable stroking of his cock—and Lochlan feels heavy in his groin, thick beneath his boxers, his back and shoulders and abs tensing with every movement. His head is swimming, breath coming fast, and his brother hasn’t even been in there a minute. If only Lochlan could see it. He squirms in bed and presses into the soft cushion of the bed, bearing down until his own cock is—yeah, it’s hard—slipping out of his fly and rubbing into silky sheets.
His brother is masturbating—ten feet away—and Lochlan’s body is screaming at him, throwing image after image into his brain, the rapid-synapse-fire of Saxon’s high, firm ass, his sculpted torso tensing and releasing, his thick cock fucking into the warm hollow of his fist.
“Yeah. God—fuck.” Lochlan says it into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s going to erase the fact that he’s slipping his hand into his boxers and squeezing his dick while Saxon’s porn plays—loud—and the thwap thwap of his wet cock fills Lochlan’s ears. “Fuck, fuck yeah.”
Saxon shouts when he comes—fucking king of overdoing it—and Lochlan’s orgasm bursts through him like a dam breaking, like something’s been plucked away inside of him and he spurts, helpless and shaking, onto his hand, the sheets, his boxers sopping. Little shivers roll through his body afterwards, through his scalp down to the balls of his feet.
Lochlan is hopping into a pair of dry boxers, kicking the soiled pair beneath the bed, when the door rolls back and silhouettes Saxon in the light. “All done, bro. You can go next if you want to. I don’t mind.”
“Thanks. I—I’m good. I—” Lochlan takes a shuddery breath. He wonders if his bed smells like cum because—holy shit—there’s so much of it.
“God, dude. Relax. You look like an actual wet cat.”
“Yeah. I’m just. I’m tired.” Lochlan gets back in bed, pulse pounding in his throat, watching his brother watching him. He just lies down on top of the duvet and buries his face in the pillow.
After a while, he hears the light click off and Saxon’s breath evening out in the dark.
Night Two
Lochlan is already half-hard before Saxon is even naked.
It’s not—not at all—like Lochlan likes him like that. Everything’s all weird because of last night, because of the porn talk, and then the—well, everything that happened after.
It was just the flight. His jet lag. His thoughts wandering on the plane, eyes fluttering open and resting on Saxon during their descent. In the dim glow, Saxon had oddly reminded Lochlan of his senior photography shoot. The theme had been nostalgia, and Lochlan had taken soft-focus portraits of a few friends with the backdrop of the Durham Bulls stadium, the Lucky Strike tower, the red-brick sprawl of the train station; all of these places interspersed with the ubiquitous chain-link fences and the black skeletons of new construction. Layers of history, layers of that human longing for something unnameable, ephemeral, impossible to grasp. Combined with the razor’s edge of fatigue and the twitchy caffeine high that kept him awake today—it makes sense that Lochlan’s brain is all confused. A fucked-up amalgam of emotion. Images of Saxon and home and Thailand stacked on top of one another, cracked and fraying at the edges, overlapping in unsettling ways.
That’s all it is. Crossed wires. Thirty-six hours between airports and luggage checks and customs and bad sleep—like, Lochlan had flown on regular airplanes a few times for school trips and stuff, but none of the Ratliffs were very used to the close quarters of Delta first class. And it had been a year, maybe, since he’d seen Saxon for more than a handful of hours. Lochlan’s body was worked up from all of it, and he’d been missing Saxon so badly and was so excited to see him, be with him, so all of that was smashed together inside him.
This quasi-boner he has right now? That’s like. Leftover. From the night before, all this shit in his mind. He’ll be cleared up by tomorrow.
“You alright Loch? You’re quiet.” Saxon plugs in his iPad. The one with porn on it. The one he’s probably going to watch. Like, eminently.
“Um. Just like, tired I guess.”
“We didn’t do shit today. But yeah, same bro. I’m going to do a five-knuckle shuffle then settle in for the night.”
Lochlan swallows; the back of his throat tastes like metal. “Mm hm.” He tucks his cock between his legs and rolls onto his stomach, one open eye still trained on his brother.
“You can use my iPad after if you want. I got lots saved.”
“Lots of—”
“Porn, Lochy.” He says this with an impatient edge. Like Lochlan should have known. “Hot teacher. MILFs.”
“Cool.” Lochlan blinks and tries to think of Henry’s mom or Mrs. Williams at school. The soft weight of breasts, the movement of hips. The images flick through his mind, but nothing stays. “I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself, nerd.”
Saxon putters around the room, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He sets up room service for tomorrow morning, plugs in his laptop, his phone, brushes his teeth. For a while, he stands in front of the mirror and flexes, pecs jumping. “Go for a swim with me, Lochy. Tomorrow morning.”
Lochlan thinks that it’s meant to be a question, but it’s not entirely clear. It sounds like a statement, a command. His eyes stay glued to the jerky rise and fall of his brother’s nipples. “Um. Yeah, I guess.”
“Course you have to weight train, too.”
Saxon’s voice drones on, and Lochlan watches. The shirt goes, then the shorts. His brother isn’t wearing boxers underneath—not with white shorts, Lochy, not ever with white shorts—and his tasks resume, tits out, dick out.
Lochlan tells himself it’s crossed wires again when his dick goes from half-hard to straining, tip wet, wicking into the fabric of his boxers. That it’s just a mistake that his eyes are drawn to Saxon’s dick, the plump prettiness of it. Yeah. It’s like—he’s probably strung out from the deprivation tank. And that’s definitely why his ears perk up when Saxon pulls the door to the bathroom closed—except it’s not closed closed. It’s half-closed. Lochlan can see Saxon, flipping through clips on Pornhub. It’s not like Lochlan doesn’t watch porn, like he hasn’t seen his fair share of weird, disturbing, sexual shit, just not—not like Saxon does it. The girls in Saxon’s videos all look—oddly plastic, like they’ve been poured from a silicone mold.
Lochlan squeezes his eyes shut, but he can still see Saxon behind his eyelids, can hear him when he starts, louder than last night. He makes whimpery little moans that don’t sound like Saxon at all, that sound like he’s one of the girls on the screen. And maybe—maybe that’s why Lochlan’s eyes move back to the half-open door, to Saxon’s reflection, to the steady movement of his arm, the flex of his bicep, the cant of his hips. The moans of girls in the video rise and fall, a backdrop to the filthy-slick sounds of Saxon jerking his cock.
The sight of him—his smooth chest, the trail of russet hair beneath his navel left unshaved, the smooth motion of his arm—is—is—erotic. Lochlan’s heard that word a million times before, but he never understood it until now: the setting, the stage, the scene of his brother, half-shadowed by the door, the rest of his body gold from the slight tan of his skin and the pleasing glow of the bathroom lights. It’s like art, like a vivid scene from a story, painted in bright, broad strokes. But it’s all Lochlan’s, only his, this moment belongs to him. The composition, the score, the dirty, wanton wrongness of it—all of it settles deep into Lochlan’s belly, deeper even than last night, an insistent beat of need, pulsing in time with the blood in his dick. He swallows and swallows and tells himself not to touch it, not to fuck into the sheets like he did last night, not to imagine Saxon holding him down while he does it. He’s shaking by the time Saxon speeds up, when his noises get more desperate.
“Fuck, I’m close,” Saxon says, like he’s announcing it. “God, I’m gonna—fuck.”
Saxon grabs for a tissue and holds it just over the tip of his cock, so he can fill it with— Lochlan’s body spasms, his hips twitching hard against the bed, and he’s coming in his boxers, groaning into the pillow and holding his body hard and taut so he doesn’t give himself away. So Saxon doesn’t know.
After Saxon cleans up and turns off the lights, he slides into bed with a satisfied sigh. “Night, Lochy.”
“G’night,” Lochlan says weakly. He lies still, panting, in the dark and waits until Saxon’s breath goes deep and even to clean himself up.
Night Three
Saxon does his whole naked thing again, just like—bitchily instead of easygoing. Lochlan keeps his eyes on his book, peeking up every now and again. Saxon keeps sighing, rolling his eyes. He cracks his neck, touches his toes, and yeah—Lochlan can’t help but look at that. But he looks back at the page before Saxon stands again.
“Tell me how I’m supposed to jerk off now, Loch.”
Lochlan grips his book, knuckles tight. “Maybe in the shower, like a regular person?”
“I don’t have porn.”
“Then, like, use your imagination?” Lochlan turns over, away from Saxon. He’s not getting pulled into this, not with his brother’s dick staring him right in the face. It’s not that Lochlan wasn’t used to seeing it, especially on vacation, but the context feels weird after the past two nights. Lochlan’s not thinking about it.
“You’re such a fucking dork, Lochy.”
Lochlan makes a noncommittal noise and tries to focus on the shape of the paragraphs, the rhythm of the words. He feels himself hunching in on himself and tries to make his body straight and long, like the posture guy said. In the background, he hears Saxon pulling back his covers and settling in, the click of the bedside light going off.
“I met this girl on Tinder a couple weeks before I came here.” Saxon’s voice is low.
“Good for you.”
“I just like thinking about it, you know. Been thinking about her when I watch those girls in the videos. Which I can’t right now. So maybe I can, you know, tell you about it. You need to learn, right? And I need to get off.”
“You what.”
“I’ll go to the bathroom if you want me to. Just—you don’t even have to listen. You can stay like that.” Saxon’s breathing is harsh in the darkness. “Like it’ll help me visualize.”
Lochlan breathes in and chokes a little on his own spit. Fuck. This seems fucked. Is it fucked? He thinks about texting Piper to ask but he doesn’t have his phone, and he bets she’d say it is fucked, and he should put a stop to it. But that thing he felt when he watched Saxon last night is still there, still making his thighs feel hot, his toes twitch.
“C’mon.”
“Yeah. Alright. You can—but I’m not going to listen. I’m reading.”
The room is still and quiet; all he can hear is the low hum of the air conditioner and a distant rumble of thunder, the beginning patter of rain on the balcony. He thinks Saxon isn’t going to say anything, but the silence breaks, and it’s that low, throaty voice again.
“She was really hot. Like in the world there are probably only five ten out of ten women at any given time. That’s my philosophy. But she was a solid eight. A Durham nine. Dark curly hair and short and curvy, full lips and big tits.”
Lochlan shifts in bed and arranges his hips so his dick isn’t rubbing against anything.
“I took her out. Girls like that. Going to dinner and shit or like an art gallery. I stuck to dinner and I asked her back to my place. She said yeah. Let me feel her up in the back of an Uber, got my fingers on her bare tit, and she had her hand halfway down my pants. By the time we got out of the car, I didn’t think we were going to make it to my condo.”
“Jesus. That poor Uber driver.”
“Thought you weren’t listening.”
“I’m not.”
Saxon laughs, a little breath of a thing. “Yeah. Right. You’ll want to pay attention to this part, I swear. You need to know what you’re doing when you get a girl back to your place. Like, one hundred percent of the time, get a girl’s panties off and put your mouth on her pussy. Gotta have a good stroke game, but eating pussy is a kingmaker. It’ll seal the deal just about eighty percent of the time.”
Lochlan swallows hard. He tries to ignore the ache in his dick. “Mm hm.”
“So I ate her out and like—look, this is indisputably a thing you want to excel at. You have to be horny about it, you understand? Like—it’s soft, tastes good, feels fucking awesome under your tongue. You have to will yourself to believe it. Mind over matter.”
“This feels more like a weird instruction manual than actually like—hot or anything.”
“Just listen, man.” He hears Saxon rearrange himself, hears the pump of the lotion bottle on Saxons night stand, the stuttering breath when he touches his dick. “She smelled and tasted fucking great, I’m telling you. Shaved but like with a little landing strip. You know what that is, Loch?”
“Sure.” He doesn’t, not really. Or he can’t bring it up in his mind, and his hands are sweating. And he’s trying to disconnect his brain from his dick, which is swelling with blood and pulsing with every syllable Saxon speaks.
“Landing strips are fucking hot. She came, like all wet and trembling against my mouth, and she was all smooth. And then she let me fuck her raw. No condom.”
Lochlan makes a choked noise, which he hopes Saxon is too self-centered to hear. Too high on his own supply.
“You think it’s hot. You heard me, pervert.” Saxon laughs to himself, the fucker. The sheets rustle, and every now and again, Lochlan hears a hitch in Saxon’s breath. “I was so fucking horny after eating her out, so I flipped her and stuck it in. Slipped in so fucking easy.”
Yeah, Lochlan is hard, really hard. His dick filled up entirely without his permission, and now he’s got a leaking boner pushing uncomfortably against his boxers. Thinking about this date, Saxon on this date, with this girl, getting hard and slipping inside her. Fucking worlds away than anything he’s ever done, ever.
He’d felt up Lindsay Jarvis over her dress after homecoming—in his Range Rover outside of a Taco Bell—and her tit didn’t feel like anything but a handful of beaded satin. When he’d jerked off later that night, he ardently didn’t think about her tit. He sort of kept a blank mind when he did it, like just picturing skin on skin. Lindsay certainly hadn’t gotten him hard, but Saxon’s sex talk kind of always does. And holy fuck—now he knows what Saxon means when he says he needs to get off.
“She let me fuck her from behind so I could get a thumb in her ass, and that made her moan like crazy. Fuck, I’m hard.” There’s a rhythmic brushing sound beneath the covers, a little pleased sound. A gasp. Quieter than he was in the bathroom, but Lochlan is right here this time. “God, she was so tight. That pussy could grip.”
Lochlan squirms, his stomach tense, cock pulsing heavily. He makes another whimpering sound.
“You can beat your meat, Lochy. Nothing personal. Just getting off.” Saxon’s voice goes low and husky, like one of the porn guys on his iPad.
Lochlan’s mouth is so fucking dry. His dick feels like it’s about to launch itself into space.
It’s just one wire crossed over another—porn and brother and hard dick all woven together—it’s not personal, Saxon says, so Lochlan does what any boy his age would do. He slips his hand down into his boxers, eyes squeezed tight, and grips his cock in his fist, his toes curling.
“There we go.” Saxons breath hitches, and the brushing beneath the covers picks up tempo. “That’s so good.”
Lochlan makes a broken sound, He goes slow at first, letting the coil of want and yes and Saxon wind tight in his belly, getting his hand slick with spit, then touching himself again. His cockhead is sensitive and wet, precome burbling from his tip, wicking into his boxers. Saxon can hear him. Saxon can hear him.
“I probably shouldn’t have busted inside her—”
Lochlan lets out a low moan. His thighs are tingly, his stomach all twisted up like he’s being tickled, and a sensation like pulling just behind his navel. It’s wrong to think of his brother like this, but Saxon is practically volunteering himself for Lochlan’s jerk off fantasy. Saxon’s pretty cock. That girl’s wet, tight pussy. The vision of him sliding inside, stretching her apart until she was stuck and helpless on his dick.
“—but I couldn’t help myself, dude. She was milking me for all I was worth. Fucking back onto my dick like she needed my cum inside.”
She probably made nice sounds like the girls in the videos, sighs and gasps when his brother’s sizable dick squeezed in, little moans when his hips started slapping into her, wet and messy.
Lochlan shivers.
“Bet you’d like it. Bet you’d be” —Saxon gasps— “a fucking hound for that pussy if you tried it. What you think, Lochy? Should I nut in that dripping pussy?”
“Fuck, oh fuck.” His brother’s words hit him like an electrifying force. Goosebumps prickle over his arms and legs, hips bucking against his fist, the force of pleasure unstoppable. Spots cloud his vision and he comes, spilling over his hand. Saxon isn’t far behind, his words turning into needy whispers, followed by a hot, choked moan.
For long seconds after, neither of them say anything, their breath heavy in the silence of the room. Saxon yawns and dips into the bathroom as if nothing at all had happened. Lochlan wiggles out of his boxers and uses them to wipe himself, then tosses them in with the laundry.
It’s not long until Saxon is asleep. Lochlan stays awake for a long time, drifting off when the sky has just begun to change.
Night Four
Lochlan is barely even thinking when he does it.
It’s like instinct; lost in the high of a smooth, thin body beneath his, the slide of wet against his cock, soft lips on his. His own rhythmic slapping as he fucks Chloe, the girl Saxon had picked for him. It’s good; Saxon was right. It’s really good. Better, even, because Saxon is next to them, watching, eyes fluttering closed every now and again, but always opening to rake over Chloe’s body and his, moving in beautiful unison, all for Saxon to watch. Lochlan almost comes inside Chloe when he hears Saxon jerking off, when he sees it. Saxon is making those gentle whimpering sounds—Saxon made those same sounds just this morning, when he masturbated in bed, talking to Lochlan about some stupid porn. The sheets had only half covered him, and Lochlan had seen the head of his dick popping out of his wet fist. Over and over and over.
So Lochlan doesn’t think. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t justify it. This is what Saxon wants, clearly, with the way he’s watching them. The way he’s watched Lochlan all week. The way Saxon said Lochy this morning when he made a mess on his sheets, cheeks flushed, hand working. Saxon is lonely now. He looks left out. Sidelined.
Lochlan spits in his hand and gets his fingers around Saxon’s pretty, pretty dick, even as he rides Chloe hard and she tightens around him. It feels good in his hand, hot and solid and all wet with his spit. Fuck, the sounds Saxon makes, the half-dazed Lochy and something that sounds like please.
He feels Saxon’s dick fill the second before he spurts, hot, on the sheets, on his stomach, on Lochlan’s hand. It fills and jerks again, Saxon lifting off the bed and groaning loud and long.
Lochy. Lochy, please.
Lochlan licks the cum from his fingers as he pounds into Chloe, his whole body tightening and spilling, deep inside, as the taste hits him. Salty and bitter.
It’s the best orgasm of his life, he thinks as he pumps into her. He’s finished inside, inside a girl, just like Saxon wanted him to.
“You little deviant!” Chloe laughs. “You should be glad I’m fixed, no?” She brings her fingers to her pussy, rubbing her clit until she clenches around him again and makes him hiss and sob. He can’t say anything, and Chloe just rubs soothing circles on his back, shushing him, speaking in French, something about his little heart beating like a bird. Oiseau. Mon petit. Alouette.
“I like your tricks, little magician.” She ruffles his hair and bites him on the nose. “Would you let your brother fuck you? I’ll pay. Gary would probably pay double to watch.”
“No thanks. I’m already rich.”
Lochlan stumbles to the tiny bathroom and vomits.
Night Five
It seemed like the monastery would be cool. That’s why he offered. Because god fucking dammit maybe he needs a hard reset like Piper did. Maybe he’d done something fucked up last night, and maybe he needs to process it. With monks or whatever.
But Piper doesn’t want him there. She doesn’t want to stay in Durham and do the theology program at Duke. And Sax—Sax fucking ditched Lochlan to sit on the beach with Chelsea, who seems to think everything he says is stupid as shit. Which it kind of is.
He’s still out. And Lochlan is all alone and hungover, with midnight rapidly approaching. No fucking phone and no fucking iPad to dull his thoughts. He could really use a tsunami video (or five) right about now. He’d settle for a Wikipedia page on wave structure or breakwater architecture at this point.
He settles for picking up one of Piper’s books and imagining he’s at the monastery, eyes closed, listening to the guys in orange tell him how to meditate, how to stop wanting things. Saxon said it’s good to want things. But Lochlan thinks maybe there’s something fucked with his wanting-things chemistry. Clinging is the cause of suffering, the book tells him. And isn’t that Lochlan to a tee? Clinging to people, craving attention. Affection.
He falls asleep with the book on his chest, his dreams hazy and sick. Alone.
He’s disoriented when he wakes. At first, he thinks he’s home in his third floor bedroom, with all his books and the old Squishmallows that he hadn’t let Mom get rid of during her most recent run-in with sobriety.
But no. He’s here in Thailand, and someone is in the kitchenette, banging around, slamming cabinet doors and crinkling food wrappers and making Lochlan’s head throb like all fuck. Lochlan has the momentary thought that he should be nervous, that it could be some rando, one of the burglars from the hotel store come to burgle his room, but he knows this brand of thumping too well. He pulls a pillow over his face and groans.
“You got any snacks, Lochy?” His voice is just this side of drunk, not like last night. Just like—normal weekend Saxon. Vacation Saxon.
“No.”
“I’ll call room service.” A light flicks on.
“What the fuck? Just go to bed, you psycho.” Lochlan turns all the way over, holding the pillow over his ears, trying to sink back into the dark. There’s a horrible anxious tugging in his stomach, but the safest bet is to keep acting like Saxon is an annoying, selfish dick. Which he is.
“Yeah, can I get some of those noodles?” Saxon’s phone voice. “No. I don’t know, whatever. The noodles with all the vegetables and shit. Extra chicken. Need that protein. Yeah, yeah okay. Um. Make it two. And two of those mango nectars. Ratliff villa. That’s right.” Saxon laughs; a stupid, obnoxious laugh. “Yeah, dude. Awesome. Sawadee whatever. See you in ten.”
The thumping continues, pointedly, coming closer and closer to Lochlan’s bed and making his belly swoop and his toes twitch.
“Lochy. Yo, Lochy.” Saxon yanks the covers back and smacks Lochlan’s calf muscle—then his thigh—which makes Lochlan’s body pull tight as a stretched rubber band.
His heart hits the back of his throat, pulse hammering. “I don’t want any noodles. I just want to sleep.”
Saxon flicks the back of his neck. “You owe me one.”
Lochlan shoves the pillow aside and, finally, looks up at Saxon. His blue eyes look keen and clear and not tipsy at all. “What for?”
“You know what.” Saxon’s expression is deadly.
A primal tingle rolls down Lochlan’s spine. Like he’s a big-eyed mouse or some shit, and Saxon is a hawk. But maybe Lochlan was the hawk last night. He’s not sure, and he doesn’t entirely remember—okay, he remembers, but it’s not clear, not like Saxon’s eyes are implying. “Are you mad at me or something? Did I do something—”
Saxon grabs the back of Lochlan’s neck without warning. It knocks the wind out of Lochlan, but Saxon’s not gripping him hard. Just enough to make Lochlan know for sure Saxon remembers, and ‘we both blacked out’ was a frenzied bid for normalcy in the light of day. “It’s okay if you worship me.”
“What?” Lochlan blinks into the pillow as Lochlan holds him. He couldn’t move if he tried, and now, yeah, predictably he’s hard as fuck, boner digging into the bed. He’s a dirty pervert—that’s why. “I don’t—”
“Just don’t—don’t—” Saxon squeezes his neck, harder this time.
And Lochlan can’t fucking help himself—he can’t—so he moans like a whore and squirms against the bed, grinding down, down, down. He doesn’t mean to, really. He’s a sick freak, a delusional sick freak, and his breath is coming fast, his ears ringing. “Fuck. Fuck, Saxon.”
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” Saxon traces a finger along the curve of Lochlan’s spine, drawing another whimper out of Lochlan. “You do. I bet your dick is hard, you little shit.”
Saxon presses Lochlan’s hips into the mattress, big hands splayed across Lochlan’s lower back. For a second, they’re both still, Saxon’s palms hot against his skin. Lochlan makes another keening noise, this one higher, more specific, and he thrusts down against the bed. Chasting heat, chasing friction. He half-expects Saxon’s going to beat the shit out of him; end it right here, right now.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Saxon lets out a shaky breath. The bed shifts. There’s a knee between Lochlan’s thighs, skin warm against skin. Saxon’s thumbs rub circles just over the waistband of Lochlan’s boxers, heartbreakingly slow. Lochlan takes a choking breath and groans, mouth open against his pillow.
“This is what you want, huh?” Saxon’s thumb dips, slow, so slow, beneath Lochlan’s waistband. “Your big brother.”
Lochlan’s head spins. He tries to choke out a response, but nothing comes. Just another roll of his hips and a desperate gasp.
“I said. This is what you want, isn’t it?” The tone of Saxon’s voice changes; lower, calmer.
Lochlan doesn’t even know how to answer that, not really. He knows he wanted to touch Saxon. Always wants to touch Saxon, or be touched by him. But doesn’t he also want to be Saxon? He’s wanted that since he was little, since he first realized that Piper and Saxon were separate people. He’s wanted to be one of them, brought into the fold.
“This is what you want.” Saxon snaps the waistband of his boxers, tugs them a little lower and puts his thumb at the base of Lochlan’s tailbone. Saxon’s breathing is ragged, and when he shifts, Lochlan can feel the weight of his erection, the length of it, hard in his shorts. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” he croaks out against the pillow. Because it’s the truth, isn’t it. Lochlan wants and wants, and his brother is at the center of that wanting. The nexus of it. Lochlan wants his stupid laugh and his sharp smile, and the too-intense look in his eyes, the assurance of his broad hands and the weight of him, broad and muscular, holding him down so he doesn’t float away.
“Knew it, you freak.” Saxon’s tone has lost its hard edge, its knife-sharpness, the accusation hidden between syllables. Instead, his breath is ragged, and his hands are kneading Lochlan’s ass. “You’re the reason I can’t fucking score, hm? Pretty and innocent and gay” —Saxon pulls down Lochlan’s boxers, shoves them down to his thighs— “for your big brother.”
Lochlan can hear Saxon undoing his belt, his zipper, pulling out his dick. The brushing of skin on skin. He hears Saxon spit and the warmth lands on Lochlan’s ass, right above—
His brother’s fingers are spreading him apart and smearing spit over his rim. That wicked anticipation returns to his stomach, the stultifying fear that this is too much, too far, the point of no return. He thinks, oddly, of the man on the beach standing, motionless, as the great black wave rose on the horizon. Lochlan wonders if he was giving in to fate, or if he stayed there, feet planted in the sand, welcoming the sublime force of the ocean’s consumption.
Either way, Lochlan isn’t moving. And his big brother is stroking himself, making stilted, desperate sounds, and then he’s lying on top of Lochlan, his pretty pink cock stiff and hot and sliding in Lochlan’s wetted cleft. Lochlan is half-aware of his own sounds, the clutch of his fingers in his pillow, the grind of his own cock into the sheets as his brother holds him down in this simalcrum of a fuck. The almost-but-not-quite hitch of his cock head against Lochlan’s hole.
He could come like this. They both could. Eyes screwed shut, facing away, but his brother flips him like a rag doll just before the tide of pleasure sweeps him. Blue eyes on his, another glob of spit on Saxon’s hand, and the lowering of his body so he’s crowding Lochlan in.
“You like this.”
Lochlan nods frantically, his abdomen and low back jumping and the shrill please, please, please in his brain.
“Do you feel as good as a girl inside, Lochy?” Saxon grabs both of their cocks and slides them together in his palm. “Do you think I’d like it?”
Lochlan whines, eyes rolling back, mouth slack. It’s better than sinking into Chloe, better than her pretty tits and her mean, teasing mouth, better than all the times this fantasy has popped into Lochlan’s mind, unbidden, on the edge of sleep. “Yeah, yeah. You should try it. You should fuck me. You should—get it wet—and—and—”
“You’re a pervert. A dirty, nasty little—” Saxon’s grunt seems punched out from somewhere deep inside when he starts spilling, hot, onto Lochlan’s dick, eyes screwed shut. “Freak. You’re a freak.”
“I am,” Lochlan sobs. His cock is hot and smarting and covered in Saxon’s jizz. And Saxon—Saxon looks down at it with a smirk and takes it in hand, jerking him off in brutal, even strokes. It takes maybe thirty seconds before the first wave hits, and Lochlan is lost in it, cock jumping in his brother’s hand, ropes of cum on his chest, on Saxon’s ugly polo shirt. Lochlan whines, and Saxon covers his mouth in a hard, scraping kiss.
There’s a knock on the side door, and they both startle. Saxon’s eyes are wide.
“Gimme a minute,” Saxon shouts, still looming over Lochlan. He rolls off the bed and strips, wiping his dick off with his shirt and grabbing one of the big, fluffy hotel robes.
The door opens, closes. The smell of food, the clink of cutlery, the thump of two drinks against the table by the bay window.
“C’mon Lochy. You need to eat.”
Day Six
The last day is weirdly charged, that same feeling of a final calm before the storm. His mom is drunk, which is not at all unusual, but his dad is—checked out, to say the least. Slurring his words, stumbling. He gets the courage to ask Saxon if he thinks anything is weird when they go down to the beach, but Saxon just rolls his eyes and punches Lochlan on the arm. Harder than he should. Like he’s trying to make a point.
“No, dude. Stop thinking too hard. You’ll end up like Piper, moving to some foreign country just so she never has to fuck anyone.”
Lochlan doesn’t point out that he doesn’t qualify for that last thing, since he’s already fucked the girl Saxon picked for him, and he did—whatever it was they did last night. And the night before that. Instead, he frowns and just looks at Saxon, rubbing his shoulder.
“Ow.”
“Dad’s on vacation, Lochy. Living it up. Drinking cocktails and pumping it in the gym. C’mon. Swim?”
Lochlan nods. They wade out to where the water is chest deep, and they race between the barrier nets that separate The White Lotus’ beach from the open sea. Saxon wins pretty much every time. But Lochlan is barely trying, lost in watching the leonine grace of Saxon’s body, the freckles on his back, the sprinkle of hair growing in on his chest. Wondering if Saxon will touch him again.
When they’re done, panting and laughing, Saxon grabs him by the waist and squeezes him hard. His eyes have that venomous look, like something in Lochlan pisses him off. That look drops like fire to the pit of Lochlan’s stomach and burns, burns, burns as Saxon slips his hand into Lochlan’s swim trunks.
Lochlan nearly chokes on his tongue. He manages a pathetic sound even though he knows he should say a word. More, maybe. Please. Stop?
“Shh. What happens in Thailand..” Saxon shrugs, that sharklike smile overtaking his face. And yeah, shit. That does it for Lochlan. He can feel the blood draining from his head, simultaneously filling his dick.
“Saxon.” His voice is a simpering whine.
Saxon leans close to his ear. “I’m going to fuck you tonight.”
If this is the tide, Lochlan will always let it pull him under.
Night Six
“Is there something wrong with Dad?” Lochlan’s heart is in his throat, and he doesn’t quite know why. “That was weird. With the drinks. I think something’s—”
The door slams behind Saxon. “What? No.” Saxon scoffs. He crosses the room and crowds Saxon against the bed. “Our family doesn’t have stupid people problems.” He flicks Lochlan’s forehead. “Stop thinking about it.”
“I didn’t say it was—” Lochlan’s words leave him entirely because Saxon’s hand is on his chest, pushing him back so quickly that he falls on the bed, bouncing on the white duvet. He makes a little shocked sound, and Saxon smiles like a shark.
“I haven’t scored in a fucking century, dude. You’re going to give me a hand.” Saxon tips Lochlan’s chin up, thumb on his bottom lip. “But you already did that, you perverted little menace.”
Saxon looks a bit crazed, his smile more vicious, eyes bright and intense. He’d been like that, on and off, since the full moon party, since that morning after, like something in him had cracked open and spilled out on the boat. Left behind.
The last time Lochlan had seen him like this was after a hundred-hour week at the firm. That Saturday morning, he’d shown up at home, shirt half-unbuttoned, breath reeking of vodka. You have to take care of me, Lochy. The Vyvanse. I just. I haven’t slept. Lochlan was home alone for the weekend and sixteen and had no idea what the fuck he was doing. But he gave Saxon soup and two of Mom’s pills—a Xanax and something else she used for sleep—and Lochlan curled up with him while he slept for twenty-four hours straight. The time before that was after Chi Psi hell week, when he’d come home to ‘take a rest’ for four days after. He was more vacant than he is right now, eyes glued to the endless episodes of The Office that he made Lochlan watch with him. Don’t rush Chi Psi, okay, Lochy? It’s the best one, but you’ll be better off somewhere else. Promise. Promise me.
“Saxon. If you’re mad—tell me. And I’ll—I’ll make it better. Because Piper is going away and I’ll be alone. At college. So you can ignore all of it. All the stupid shit I said and did.”
“I’m—” Saxon swallows hard, throat bobbing. He smells like his cologne—Polo Black—and his lime shampoo, and beneath it, a little bit like sour sweat and spilled coconut milk. “I’m not mad. Besides, I can’t stay mad at you, can I?”
“I—I don’t know. Can’t you?”
“No, I can’t. Maybe I was a little put off. But it worked out well for me last night.” He squeezes Lochlan’s chin until it starts to pulse with pain. Then he dips his thumb inside Lochlan’s mouth. “You’re too cute. And you’re my baby, aren’t you?”
Lochy can’t properly speak because Saxon is petting his tongue, thumb pressing down, pushing deeper. But he nods. He feels his eyes fluttering closed, hazy warmth taking him over. Last night was—it was stressful. Hot as fuck, but it felt like he was walking along a rickety bridge, frayed rope beneath his hands, shifting slats beneath his feet.
Being the baby; this feels right. He’s always been the baby: malleable and soft, padding around the house after his brother and sister, playing their games, watching their shows, modeling his dreams after theirs.
When he opens his eyes, Saxon is staring at him, slack-mouthed, sharpness faded some. Lochlan wants Saxon to feel good, wants him to feel that same warmth, the soft bubble of anticipation instead of the rope-bridge dread or the icy fear of staring into that high, relentless wave, heading inevitably towards the shore. So Lochlan moves his tongue against Saxon's thumb, licks over it and closes his mouth, sucking on it, watching Saxon watch him.
Saxon gives him a little laugh, almost teasing, but his cheeks are splotchy-pink, and his breath is coming fast. The way he’s looking at Lochlan is tender instead of angry, and maybe—maybe that’s the role Lochlan is meant to play. Little Lochy, trailing after his big brother, making him feel like a prince.
It’s not so wrong, opening up for Saxon like this, spreading his legs so his brother can come closer, touch more of him. It’s what Saxon wants; a body, open and vulnerable, to sink into. And Lochy can give him more than any girl because Saxon loves him. Loves their family more than anything else.
“You’re pretty like a girl, Lochy. You know that?” Saxon moves his thumb around in Lochlan’s mouth, and Lochlan sucks harder. He makes a little noise, and Saxon must really like it because his breathing changes, and he crowds closer. “Yeah, we’ll just have a little fun, won’t we? What happens in Thailand, right?”
Lochlan nods vehemently. That makes sense. This’ll be a one and done thing. Out of their systems. Maybe on their next big vacation they can fool around again. But for now, this makes sense. It's clear direction. Saxon needs this, needs his little brother Lochy.
Saxon’s free hand is already moving to his belt, but he unhooks it more slowly this time. Less frantic. When he pulls his cock out, it’s already hard, a little bit of fluid at the tip. Pretty. Pearly. Lochlan presses the heel of his palm against his own cock, just to get a little friction. He’s half-hard and getting harder, opening his mouth obediently when Saxon hooks his thumb in the side of his mouth.
“Just want to feel your mouth, Loch. Just for a little bit. Will you put your mouth on it?” Saxon strokes himself with efficient jerks, squeezing out more little drops.
Lochlan drops to the floor automatically, like it’s a goddamn reflex, and maybe it is. Maybe it’s his intrinsic need to please—and please Saxon, specifically. And so he’s on his knees, face to face with the beast: the stiff length, the swollen head, the tempting bead at his tip.
Saxon ruffles his hair, then smacks the side of his face with his dick. “Can you suck on it just a little, baby? Can you do that for me?”
Lochlan is too dazed to nod, so he nuzzles his brother’s cock, kissing it, taking in the salty, heady smell. He licks the red tip until he tastes another drop, hot and sharp as bleach. It sets off a heated fizzing in Lochlan’s brain, like all the weird stress of the last few nights is dissolving into mist. When he takes Saxon in his mouth, the taste—his skin, musky and masculine—makes him shiver all over.
“Oh, fuck, baby. That mouth—shit, Lochy. Open big.”
Lochlan does, and Saxon pushes in farther, because that’s what Saxon does—he’s always pushing, filling spaces, walking through the world dick-first. It feels good when Saxon pushes in. Feels right. A friendly little jump in his stomach, a happy hum in the back of his throat.
Saxon babbles—your mouth, baby, fuck, I got you all wrong, you were born to suck cock—and rocks, insistent, into Lochlan’s mouth. Lochlan whines when he pulls out, but Saxon shushes him and bullies him back on the bed. He undresses Lochlan like he’s a kid, folding his shorts and shirt, snickering when he pulls off his underwear.
“You’re already hard, dude.” He grabs Lochlan’s dick unceremoniously, and Lochlan arches off the bed, mewls like a cat, all while pushing into his hand. “Do you think you’ll stay hard when I get my dick inside you?”
“Dunno.” Lochlan spreads his legs, knees up. That’s how all the first time amateur anal boys do it—and yeah he can admit that’s the porn he watches. Most of those guys say it hurts, but they moan and beg for more after a minute or so. “Lube. Just—use lots.”
Saxon keeps fucking talking—I’ll take care of you, baby, you know I will—and stripping off his dumb shirt and shorts, and Lochlan strokes himself until he’s hard as fuck and leaking on his belly.
“I need this, man; I really need this.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you do, yeah.” Lochlan matches Saxon’s relentless babbling. The fucker has an econo size bottle of lube, white knuckled in his hand, and Lochlan tells him he’s good for having that, he’s thoughtful, he’s such a good big brother. That—that makes that cracked, feral look come back to Saxon’s eyes, which makes Lochlan’s soul want to exit his body and his dick rock hard. He’s shaking by the time Saxon scrambles onto the bed and coats his fingers with cool, clear lube.
“I’m going to make a mess of you,” Saxon says. His hair has flopped over his forehead, and he’s looming over Lochlan, trailing a finger over the length of Lochlan’s cock, lube in its wake. “You’ll have to sleep in my bed after I fuck that little pussy.”
Lochlan’s hips buck, involuntary, like a marionette’s string being pulled from somewhere on the ceiling, and the string is on fire; he’s on fire. Saxon presses the pad of a finger against Lochlan’s rim and kisses him in the same breath, breaching his body, sinking inside. Lochlan’s shocked gasp is lost on Saxon’s lips, as they tease and bite and pull. The girls must like that—the way he kisses, like he’s starved—or maybe this is just for little Lochy, an accompaniment to the stretch of Saxon’s fingers, the interminable slide, dipping inside of him and taking up space. Which is what he always does—
Lochlan yelps—Saxon found that good spot inside, the one Lochlan can’t quite reach on his own, not in this profound way, not in the way that makes his vision turn spotty and his ears ring, burn turning to ache as he opens and opens.
“Fuck, baby, don’t think I can wait any longer. Promise I’ll be slow. I’ll be—oh fuck.” The head of Saxon’s dick pushes inside, and he’s Saxon, so he keeps fucking going.
“Sax—you said. Slow! Holy—fuck—”
“Baby, baby boy, you’re so tight.” Saxon bottoms out because of course he does. This is a man who’s never been still for more than three minutes at a time, never waited, always gotten.
It feels fucking good to be the thing Saxon wants. Wholly and completely, in this moment, the only thing he wants. Even with the bright sear of pain and the burning in Lochlan’s cheeks, his trembling legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, it feels good. So fucking good he could cry. If this is clinging, wanting, if all of this need is life’s suffering, Lochlan will keep on and on.
“Does it hurt?” Saxon kisses him gently, more gentle than anything Saxon’s ever done. Maybe he’s allowed to be gentle when his dick is literally splitting Lochlan in half.
Lochlan shakes his head and asks for another kiss. He gets it; harder this time, and punctuated by little circular thrusts of Saxon’s hips. Lochlan makes a little sound each time; yes, there’s a little pain, but pleasure, too. Little waves, little ripples, spreading warmth through his abdomen. Lochlan’s actually not sure if his dick is hard anymore, and he’s not sure if he cares, not sure if it needs to be. Saxon’s picking up speed, rambling again in Lochlan’s ear—so good, so tight, make me feel like a teenager, baby, I’m not gonna last—and making more and more space inside. Full, Lochlan’s so full, to the hilt, murmuring Saxon’s name over and over, hands on the back of his neck, in his hair.
“God, oh my god, fuck, I’m sick.” Blue eyes on Lochlan’s, sharp and almost angry again. “I’m gonna—oh fuck—”
Saxon makes a pained noise and slams all the way in, hips stuttering then quivering. Until all that’s left is the hum of the air conditioner and the heavy panting of their breath.
“You didn’t get off, Loch.” It’s almost accusatory.
“m’sorry.” He kisses Saxon’s cheek like he did when he was a little kid. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not, I’m not. I couldn’t be, I’m not.” Saxon kisses his cheek and his neck and works his way down Lochlan’s body until he’s facing off with Lochlan’s half-mast dick, staring at it like it might jump up and bite him.
“You don’t have to, Sax. I can—”
“No. You’re getting off. Or else.” Saxon grabs his dick, rough with it, and sucks it down.
“Oh, my god.” Half hard is all-the-way stiff now, risen from the proverbial dead. Maybe Saxon’s massive porn collection is good for something because his mouth and his tongue and his lips feel so fucking good that Lochlan could ascend to another plane of being. He scrunches his fingers in Saxon’s hair and thrusts up, coming hard and all at once.
Saxon tidily spits it on the sheets, then looks up at Lochy with a dazed expression. “I’d only ever do that for you.”
Lochlan smiles, pleased. He’s special. He’s good. And he got what he wanted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Saxon flicks his thigh. “Now get in my bed. This one is a crime scene.”
Lochlan laughs at that and rolls to the other bed. He should shower or clean up, but he wants this evidence inside of him for now, as he watches Saxon brushing his teeth and washing his dick, in all of his full, naked glory.
He drifts happily with his brother’s arm wrapped around him. It feels like they sorted out all the crossed wires and made everything simple, even if it was just for tonight. Let all of that wanting crash together and be something real and honest, something for both of them. Balance restored, clinging to one another as they should.
Lochlan thinks he’s ready to go home now, after tonight, back to their quiet, pretty life where nothing can touch them. Where it doesn’t matter if his mom is permanently sauced or if his dad made weird cocktails for everyone but him. Home, where all of this ominous stress will die off, swept away in their normal day-to-day.
Lochlan lets the tide pull him under, and he sleeps.