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This was a bad idea and you knew it was.
Bodies crowd the penthouse apartment– sweat and spilt liquor and body glitter stick to Colt as he passes, smearing him with evidence as he shoves through in his dogged search. He was sweating himself, burning up under the thick leather of the Miami Vice jacket.
It drew no attention. It wasn't important, or famous, or covered in so much expensive faux fur it made every animal in a thousand mile radius shudder. This was Tom Ryder’s afterparty, and that's exactly why Colt knew it was a stupid fucking idea to let Grace tag along.
“But Colt, I never got to go to the frat parties in college,” Colt mutters under his breath, slamming to a stop to narrowly avoid a woman stumbling, drunk, laughing, clinging to her friend as they crossed his path. “Yeah, there's a reason I didn't let you do this shit, then.”
At the very least, colleges and universities pretended to care about the rate of assaults and druggings and all the nasty, seedy shit happened with too much testosterone and money. Here? This was no-man’s land. International waters. Tom’s private, off-shore investment account of cheap thrills.
Somewhere in the thrall of feverish bodies, there's a break. A small lounge area, a conversation pit ripped out of a 70’s catalogue that’s been blanched in the new millennia and butchered with post-modern harsh angles. There was still a lively group around it, sitting on the top of the couch with their feet dangling down, people taking up space with their asses on the coffee table, and far too many crushed onto the couch.
What really drew him there was the obnoxious, boisterous bark of Tom’s laughter. Loud, playing it up for his audience, demanding to be the center of everything. Well, there he was– right in the middle of a tangle of limbs thrown over his lap, taking over his space and invading everyone else’s in a bid for his focused attention.
For once, he wasn’t handing it out.
All of his attention was trained on the reserved, shy body kept close to his side, shoulder squeezed under his arm with a dazed, out-of-place, lost look up at the star. Sweet, absent baby-blue eyes swim across Tom’s profile, head angling like he was confused by what he was looking at, before his head tiredly falls back down to rest his cheek against Tom’s shoulder. Almost tucking his nose under the man’s jaw while he kept a possessive hand curled around his ribs.
All the warmth in the penthouse vanishes as Colt’s blood runs cold.
“Grace.” Colt starts forward immediately, unkindly shoulder-checking another partygoer out of his path as he storms over to the couch. “What are you doing?”
It takes a few moments before Grace is able to register the familiar voice of his twin. Nobody else seemed to hear, least of all Tom, who was animatedly chatting away with some Barbie-wannabe, leering over Grace from the back of the couch. But the moment Grace alerts to his call, Tom is tracking his wayward attention until he locks onto Colt from behind those gaudy, jaundice-yellow shades.
“Colt! Hey, man!” Tom calls cheerily, grin stretching wide and sharkish.
He jostles Grace against him like one would a dog, roughly petting against his ribs from over the button-up he chose for the party– because of course, Grace would wear a button-up to a sleazy cesspit like this, because he was Colt’s baby brother and there was nothing else in the entire world that he would do but that.
The shift in the air from lax and easy, to dangerous, leads many of the guests to straighten up. Colt didn’t have a reputation for being a hard-ass– quite the opposite, actually. He was considered the opposite side of the same coin to Tom, being easy-going and charming and funny and pretty to look at. Hearing his angry tone, his squared shoulders, his deathly serious glare driven through Tom, carries weight that Tom refused to carry.
Grace is able to peel himself upright as Tom’s grip over him relaxes. In the cradle between their bodies, he was hugging a solo cup filled with something so noxiously pink that just looking at it made Colt’s stomach churn with the memory of what that morning-after felt like. It was almost full, sloshing against the sides with his lack of balance, and he knew right away that just a few sips wouldn’t destroy Grace like this.
He was a lightweight, sure, but not that light.
This wasn’t his first cup.
Just one more glance around, taking everyone in and the state of the coffee table, showed that Tom had several cups lined up, untouched, next to two drained and crushed in a heap.
And that makes Colt’s blood boil.
“The fuck are you doing to him?” Colt demands, stepping up to the couch and staring down at the A-Lister.
“Me? Doing to him?” Tom says, not even feigning indignity as he raises his hands into the air. Acting innocent, as though he hadn’t just been restraining Grace to his side. “I’unno what you’re getting at Colt, but I’m not doing anything.”
“Bullshit, look at him,” Colt growls through clenched teeth. He starts to make a move to grab Grace by the arm, drag him off the couch to get them both out of this hellhole, when Tom’s barking laugh stops him.
“He did that to himself!” Tom says, leaning back and tucking his chin to try and get Grace to look him in the eye. “Didn’t you?”
Blearily, Grace cranes his head up from where he had slumped down again. It was difficult for Tom to get enough space away from the twin with how limp Grace was, but the prompting manages to inspire a little bit of a spine. Clumsily, he rights himself, pushing at Tom’s thigh with a grasping hand that Colt can’t help but notice.
The heat of anger rises to his features, and he grinds his molars hard enough to hurt in his temples.
Grace was not a touchy kind of guy. He shied away from a pat on the shoulder from somebody he was well-acquainted with. He doesn’t hang off the shoulder of relative strangers, in a room of voyeurs, but here he was, letting his hand rest on Tom’s thigh, squeezing for stability, face flush and buttons popped down to his collarbones.
“Mmmhuh?” Grace mumbles, slowly looking between the two.
“You wanted that drink, right?” Tom presses, and the way he speaks to Grace almost makes him lose it. He steps closer, though it's ignored by Tom as he tilts his head at the younger brother.
When it's brought up, Grace glances down at the pink liquor as though it was the first time he had ever seen it in his life, even though it's been loosely in his hand for god-knows how long now. He gives a little nod, raising the cup up slowly, like it weighed a thousand pounds, to drink.
There’s a smear of glitter across Grace’s lips. Colt can’t help but stare at them, parted and loosely wrapping around the lip of the plastic cup to take in the liquor. It’s sloppy, clumsy, and he barely gets a swallow down before he’s spilling some out the corner of his mouth.
“Okay– Okay– That’s enough–” Colt grunts, once again trying to start towards his twin as the guests around them chuckle at Grace’s sloppy state.
Tom is faster, and physically blocks him with his body. He turns to Grace in a flash, hand shooting out to the bottom of the cup to steady it so it doesn't fall, while his other hand finds the nape of Grace’s neck.
“Here, lemme help–”
A noise dies in Grace’s throat, head lulling back into the slightest touch as he’s coaxed to tip his chin up. Fingers thread through the short hair at the back of his head, holding him in place as Tom poured more of the pink drink into his mouth. It’s too much– already way too much, Colt could smell the alcohol content from here– and Grace fumbles his hands out to find Tom’s bare chest to brace himself, trying to keep up the motion of his throat to take it all. Inevitably, even more than what he was wasting on his own spills down the lean column of his throat, the liquor catching the light as it licked into the grooves of his collarbones and chest, where it disappeared in a dull grayish-pink stain in his button-up.
“Tom!” Colt snaps, not thinking as he grabs the collar of Tom’s fur-lined jacket and wrenches him back against the couch.
Dislodging Grace’s only point of gravity sends him spilling backwards, against the legs of the man on the back of the couch. A hand comes down, carding through Grace’s bangs as his brother blinks in a daze, wide-eyed for once and staring up at Colt like he was the seventh wonder of his world.
It completely stops Colt in his tracks, the breath getting sucked from his lungs, as he can’t make sense of the look or the way it shoved itself down his throat, as nauseatingly potent as any of the liquor at this stupid party.
“Grace, c’mon,” Colt tries, voice coming out hoarser than he’d hoped. “We’re leaving.”
“Leaving? But he’s just starting to have fun!” Tom whines, not resisting the hold Colt has over him, hand framing the right span of his collarbones to keep him down. “You heard him– he’s not doing anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Hearing his own wishes spoken back to him, Grace has no choice but to nod. There wasn’t a glimmer of higher cognition in his head, and anything said to him must certainly be right because considering anything out of place would simply take too much processing power. The hand in his hair feels good, and he tilts his chin up like a cat chasing it, to the delight of the stranger above him.
“He’s wasted, this isn’t fun,” Colt growls, jerking his head to the side to glare through Tom’s irritatingly yellow shades. The anger only makes Tom grin wider– and fuck, what Colt wouldn’t give to choke the life out of him, here in front of everybody.
He barely stops himself from saying this isn’t my brother, he’d never do this.
He probably would, and that was the part that made this so terrible to witness. He would, and he’s been wanting to for so many years, but Colt always rejected the idea. Refused to drive him to the parties, hovered over his shoulder like a good older brother, made sure nobody got their hands anywhere near him.
And now Grace is reaching up, pawing at the man above him, encouraging more hands on him as a soft, slurring giggle slips past his lips. It’s sweet, light, and he earns more attention as the other guest to his side, the one whose knee he had been resting his entire body weight on, leers towards him and gets their hands along the collar of his shirt.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin his night, would you?” Tom says, and to anyone else it sounds wheedling and genuine. “C’moooon. Let him live a little!”
Colt knows he’s trying to get a reaction.
“Hi– Oh, hi!” Grace giggles again, turning towards the man sliding his hands down the long line of muscle around his throat, fingering open his shirt wider. “You’re prettier than your brother, y’know?”
“Yeah?” Grace breathes out, smiling so sweetly at the stranger molesting him. He didn’t even seem aware of the hands following the line of his chest down, into where sweat and liquor has made his skin damp and shiny, and–
Colt tears his eyes away, swallowing thickly, and redirects the heat building in his gut towards Tom.
“Whatever the fuck you’re doing, Tom, you’re going to regret,” Colt hisses lowly.
Tom stares at him, eyes edging open wider. It made him look frenzied– feral. His tongue darts out past his canines, wetting his lips without ever breaking that sharp, predatory grin.
“Yeah?” Tom presses, low and warm like a hot ember.
Colt folds his hand around it, burning with an anger that Tom has been stoking for years.
He’s always been cool about it. Taking it on the chin. Rolling with the punches to his ego, all the different ways Tom liked to humiliate him in front of the cameras and off-set. It was nigh-constant— Tom is just an ass, ignore him, as Gail would put it– and he’s been stomaching every demeaning comment, slap on the ass, inappropriate tease, you name it.
Involving his brother?
“Get. Up,” Colt breathes out, so rough in his chest it rolled in his throat. Roughly, he shoves Tom into the couch, jostling everybody across the cushions, and takes a step back to give the actor room to rise.
“On it, boss,” Tom says breezily. Leaning forward, he sets his items on the table. “Don’t let the fun stop, I’ll be riiiiight back.”
Just as he motions that he was standing, he swings around and grasps at Grace’s face. Strong, long fingers grab his little brother’s jaw, wrenching him out of the clutches of the two men behind him to slam their mouths together.
It takes one second to process what was happening– Tom kissing Grace so hard he could hear the wet slide of their lips and tongues as he tried to eat him alive. It takes another second for Colt to realize that the sight made his stomach twist with heat, mouth drying out like all the drool in his mouth died wishing it were between theirs. It takes one more, horrible second for him to move, grabbing Tom’s coat and ripping him back so violently he nearly takes him straight to the floor.
He does let go of him this time, hauling Tom through his own party by the collar and throwing him into the first dark side room he saw. Within an instant, his hand is on Tom’s throat, wrenching his head back as he squeezes.
“I can’t believe you have the fucking nerve to do this shit– in front of me,” Colt seethes, bicep flinching as he thrashes Tom– that shit-eating grin still plastered to his face.
“Oh, jealous?” Tom manages to croak, hands coming up to Colt’s forearm. Not fighting him off, which somehow makes Colt even angrier. “I’m right here, big guy.”
Lip curling back in a snarl, Colt is at a loss for words. The notion that he wanted anything to do with any part of Tom was as laughable as much as it was stomach-churning. He hated his guts, even if it never showed. The end of every day of filming was better than sex, when he could finally walk away from Tom and shut the man out– except for the fact that Tom loved to get the hotel room closest to Colt’s to blast his shitty trap music.
Colt wasn't jealous.
Colt was livid that Tom would dare lay a finger on his brother, touching him and licking into his soft, wet mouth in such a way that eeked out the prettiest airy moan that went straight to his–
“Ah, I get it. You couldn’t give a shit about me– never have, actually– but Grace–”
Pressing into the cage around his throat, Tom looks up at Colt through his lashes, tracing his lips with his tongue like he were chasing the lingering taste of Grace.
“Yeah. That’s what you want.”
The pressure around Tom’s throat slacks with surprise. Colt can only stare at the actor, heat rising to his face as Tom takes it all in.
“The fuck are you talking about?” Colt asks, and no matter how he tries to sound angry in his head, the words come out ringing hollow.
Then Tom shifts, canting his hips where Colt has got him pressed against a dresser, and forced their hips flush. It makes him jolt, fingers twitching dangerously around Tom’s windpipe, as the spark of friction arcs up his spine. The pressure against him makes his lashes flutter for just a moment before fixing on the man in front of him again– the man that is notably not his brother.
Colt was hard and twitching in his jeans– he has been since he watched liquor pour down the pale, taut skin of Grace’s throat. It was an ugly, possessive anger that gripped him first, watching how Grace’s Adam’s apple worked to swallow everything, with every instance of idle thought and fantasy slamming into the back of that anger. Every moment of his life where he stared at his pretty little brother when he wasn't looking, drinking him in, taking his fill of fodder for his right hand for that night.
He doesn't know when that started. He's never tried to look too hard at it, because just admitting it alone late at night was almost too much for his good conscience.
Almost.
“You gonna take what’s yours?” Tom teases, a canine poking over his lip as he tips his head, eyes darting to Colt’s lips.
Grace’s drool was still wet, shining across Tom’s lips.
He can work with that.
Using his hold over Tom’s throat, he slams their mouths together in a bruisingly hot kiss. It manages to jar Tom, wrenching a shocked noise out of him with Colt’s violent hunger to reclaim the taste across Tom’s lips that he had no right to.
The body beneath him responds in kind, hips straining forward to find friction against Colt as he crowds Tom into the dresser. Compressing him, forcing his back to bow against the unforgiving wood, leveraging their mouths together with the chokehold he maintained. Tom almost encouraged it, hands gripping Colt’s wrists and squeezing like he could manipulate the tendons and muscle into tightening, which Colt gladly does.
Teeth rip into the soft flesh of Tom’s lower lip, and Tom tears back at the sudden bolt of pain. It tears, the thin tissue splitting and coating Colt’s tongue with his blood, mingling with the residual sweetness of liquor and his brother.
“Damn, Seavers,” Tom says lowly, the ghost of a laugh trailing his words. “Pent up?”
Colt shudders as Tom rolls his hips, slow and languid like he was paid to do it. “You disgust me.”
“Uh-huh, is that what I feel?” Tom pants, tongue peaking out to catch the bead of blood dotting his lip. “Or are you thinking about your baby bro?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Colt has to swallow down anything stronger than a mild, unconvincing, “fuck off.”
“Hey, I don’t blame you. He’s soooo sweet, especially when he can’t tell which way is up anymore,” Tom says, letting his head lull to catch Colt’s gaze as it sharpened. “So dumb and all loose.”
Realization grips Colt in an instant, and he’s wrenching backwards towards the door. He left Grace on that fucking couch, by himself, because he was so pissed off that Tom was right, that he couldn’t stop himself from looking at his little brother in his debauched state with all the restraint of wet paper and just as much strength against his degenerate desire.
Grace, all soft without all his harsh edges he puts up against the world, softer than he even gets when he’s comfortable and tired with his older brother. Grace, with his long limbs sprawled out, the phantom weight of them thrown over Colt’s lap where they would relax on the couch together after a long day. Grace, with his face smoothed over, flush and eyes shining from laughing too hard at Colt’s antics.
Grace, with those same lips parted, gasping, slick, with that steady voice breaking apart, his breath hitching and hiccuping, his thighs split around Colt’s–
The other partygoers must be fed up with Colt’s shit as he bustles through the dense crowd again, shoving through the bodies before him to get back to his brother. Tom was fast on his heels, doing nothing to right himself in his bid to chase after his stunt double.
Of all the bad ideas Colt has had in the past three hours– begrudging agreeing to going to this party to satiate Grace’s youthful curiosity, walking away for no longer than twenty minutes, shoving his tongue down Tom’s throat– leaving Grace unattended on the couch was the worst.
The men that were left in Grace’s company were on him. The one sat on the back of the couch, the wannabe-Ken, has sunken down into the cushions with one of Grace’s thighs thrown over his lap and a hand trailing up along his inseam. The other one that wasted no time in getting his hands on him has gotten his button-up all the way open, stroking and squeezing at Grace’s chest while taking his mouth for his own. Grace was pinned between them, hands loosely braced against the man before him, chest heaving into the kiss before it breaks with an audible, wet pop. His head droops, eyes sluggishly trailing down the hand creeping up his thigh, before he’s guided into another kiss. Drool slicks down his chin, worsened with another tongue shoved past his lips.
It was his wet dream and waking nightmare all at the same time.
Tom runs into Colt, not expecting him to stop suddenly. The stuntman was frozen in place, everything within him torn between action and envy, as Tom tries to find reason for the freeze. He cranes his head to look over his shoulder.
The moment the man finds the shape of Grace through his jeans and squeezes, working out a soft, airy moan into the space between their slack lips, both Colt and Tom break out of their shared stupor.
And Tom moves faster.
“The fuck are you doing?” Tom snaps, startling all but Grace on the couch, who merely shudders with the aftershocks of the simple touch. “I leave for three fucking minutes and you can’t keep your hands off my shit!”
Past the indignation of Tom asserting Grace as his, there’s the humiliation over how Tom Ryder, largest dickhead in existence, moved faster to Grace’s aid than his own older brother. That shame heats his face, spurring him to kick his ass into gear while Tom was berating and yelling at his guests. He was belligerent, gesturing wildly and raising his voice loud enough to drown out the thumping house music, effectively scaring back the partygoers all over Grace.
Kicking the coffee table back, uncaring to all the loose affects scattering across the surface and clattering to the floor, Colt takes the opportunity to stoop down and collect Grace into his arms. He’s deadweight, limbs hardly responsive as Colt slips his arms under his knees and shoulders to heft him up and away from the men molesting him.
Colt was going to take him back to their shared hotel room on the other side of the building, put Grace to bed, and pretend that this night never happened. There’s a strong chance that Grace simply wouldn’t remember any of this, considering how incoherent and lifeless he was, lax as a sleep-heavy housecat, warm and nuzzling in Colt’s arms.
There’s the smallest memory attached to the shape of Grace against him like this. Picking him up, dragging him away from his desk after he had stayed up well over forty-eight hours to cram for finals. His body gave out on him, and Colt had gotten so alarmed when he didn’t easy rouse that he almost called for an ambulance until Grace stirred against him on the way to bed, nosing into his throat with a half-conscious hum, before promptly passing out again. Safe and warm and held.
Colt was so scared of disturbing his rest trying to set him down that he merely laid in bed, still holding him, and stared off into space while Grace softly snored against his throat. It felt like cat rules, and disturbing Grace now would incur cosmic retribution against him for his evil infraction against his sleep.
This wasn’t like that.
He wasn’t even sure Grace knew that it was his older brother carrying him, as he blearily picked his head up and panted softly against his throat. Where his arms have instinctively flung around Colt’s neck, one hand trails clumsy to his jaw, thumb pressing hard into the muscle and hair, as the uncoordinated lipping became concentrated mouthing, and kissing, and sucking–
“Grace–” Colt grits, just barely out the door of the penthouse suit before he catches the hard angle of teeth against his jugular. “Grace. Stop. It’s me.”
The only response is a slurred uhhh-huh, pretty and soft and too close to his ear. He tightens his grip on Grace’s legs and adjusts, bouncing him slightly to stop him from slipping out of his hold, and it earns him a delighted, hiccuping giggle.
The hallways were mercifully empty, as was the elevator. Everybody not already drunk and liable to pass out, slumped against walls and strangers in Tom’s suite, where in their rooms trying to get a reasonable, respectful night’s sleep. He manages to knock the elevator button with an elbow, and steels himself against the intolerable wait for the elevator to climb all the way up to the top. Their room was several floors down, Colt trying to save their sleep from Tom with as many stories between them as possible.
It only made the ride stretch into what felt like hours.
“Lemme d’wn,” Grace slurs against his throat, making his vocal cords buzz with his voice.
“Can you stand?” Colt mutters, glaring at the little numbers above the door going up by one far too slowly.
“Yyyeah… I wanna,” Grace mumbles, turning his face and rubbing into Colt’s shoulder. At the least, it seemed like he had gotten bored of making out with his older brother’s neck, and Colt took that as a weak victory when he was aching with the struggle of not responding to the attention.
Reluctantly, he eases Grace to his feet, but keeps an arm wrapped around his middle. It was a good call, as Grace immediately pitches to the side the second he’s reliant on his own legs to stay upright, and Colt has to hike him up into the strong line of his body so he doesn’t tumble to the floor. Another giggle. Arms wrap around him, clinging, hugging around his ribs. He tips his chin up to avoid catching Grace’s temple to the jaw.
“Settle down,” he huffs, squinting at the number above the door as he now tries to figure out the logistics of maneuvering Grace into the elevator. He shouldn’t have put him down yet, that was on him, being too quick to give Grace everything he ever asked for.
Clumsily, he manages to get them both into the tight quarters of the elevator, not without having to leverage Grace into one of the walls and steady him with his body while he hits the right buttons. It felt like the safest option, between him or hitting the floor, even if half the struggle is keeping his hips as far away from Grace as possible. He hasn’t flagged for even a second since he lunged at Tom, trying to find his brother on the other man’s lips, and he couldn’t have Grace realizing that he–
He flinches, knees nearly buckling, as Grace’s hand hones in on the warm, stiff space between his legs and squeezes.
“Grace.” It was a tone he tried so hard never to use with his brother, one that imprinted on both of them very early in their lives that still activated the instinct of a prey animal on a bad day. It did nothing to deter Grace now, and he feels just a little bit less bad about using it. “Grace. Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”
“Why’re you hard?” Grace murmurs wetly, and Colt can hear the spit separate between his lips as he slurs, thick-tongued and dumb. He squeezes his eyes shut against the fact that he was twitching against the heel of his brother’s palm, unable to stifle himself from responding bodily.
“That’s– You–” Colt tries, and fuck, why isn’t he just pushing Grace away? “Stop. You’re not helping. Just– Just ignore it, we’re going to bed.”
“Are you hard b’cause of me?” Grace asks, and it sounds almost innocent, the way the words are carried light and airy, touched by some sort of sick wonder, and really he was the one that was sick in the head as all of his bloodflow, what little was working its hardest to cobble together one coherent thought at a time, went to his cock.
“No,” Colt growls, squeezing a little meanly where he’s trying to hold Grace up by the bicep, a hip pressed to Grace’s for support.
The warm, buzzing body trapped between his bulk and the cold, elevator wall sags forward, and Grace’s cheek finds his collarbone to peer up at him through his lashes. Sweet, baby-blues peering at him without the shield of his glasses, and– shit. Where are his glasses? He’s going to be pissed when he wakes up and can’t find them, he just got that pair last month—
A groan is forced down into the depths of his chest, squeezing into his diaphragm painfully, as Grace gropes him harder. There’s more intention there in the rolling, squeezing press of Grace’s hand. Figuring out the shape of him in his entirety, mapping him out through his jeans with a deftness Grace shouldn’t possess for how drunk he was, as if it was his own body he was touching with familiarity.
“Y-You realize it’s me, right?” Colt tries, one desperate hail mary to encourage some sense in Grace’s oversaturated skull. “It’s Colt. I-I’m not– I’m not some random–”
“I know,” Grace breathes out, warm breath fanning across the hollow of his throat as he finds his place again, kissing along the strong line of muscle feeding down into his collarbones.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He feels lightheaded. He feels like he’s the one that’s going to pass out and brain himself on the floor.
The elevator was moving too damn slow.
“‘M so happy it’s you,” Grace murmurs, body tipping forward and pressing, leaning heavily against Colt.
No, this is fine. Actually, this is best case scenario. He would take care of Grace and put him to bed without letting him do anything stupid, without anyone getting their hands in his pants that doesn’t belong there. He would be the perfect older brother he always tries to be, and make sure Grace doesn’t wake up with any regrets like him.
Sighing shakily, he turns and cages Grace against the wall of the elevator, elbows bracketing the wall above his head as Grace curls into the provided space under him. He makes a little noise, appreciative and happy to be tucked under the shelter of his brother’s bulk, as he finds the perfect spot to suck a mark into Colt’s throat. And Colt bears it, lashes fluttering as he tracks the floors as they slip by, counting in his head how many more it would take before he could bundle Grace into bed and hide himself in the bathroom.
The moment the elevator door dings, he almost misses it as Grace moans out his name, low and buzzing.
He might be a little less kind as he urges them both down the hall, but it doesn’t seem like his brother cares either way. Grace is tripping and stumbling, giggling all the while, still trying to paw at Colt while he fumbles around for their room key and swipes it. The second they’re enveloped in the dark, private recess of their hotel room, Grace is throwing his body weight around like a man twice his size.
It startles him, having never been able to attribute Grace to any sort of strength in their lives. Academically, intellectually– without a doubt. He had a mental fortitude that was almost unshakable in his convictions, and Colt always admired that immensely. But physically? Grace always looked to him for anything weighing heavier than fifty pounds, for any sort of altercation getting out of hand, for strong arms to be wrapped up in.
But now he was pressing Colt into the wall, soft, dirty-blonde hair a tussled mess from too many hands working through it, his lips slick and parted and flush like the rest of his face. He was utterly debauched, and already so pretty in Colt’s eyes though he always chalked that up to being his brother and thinking every part of him was perfect for simply being.
“C’mere,” he wheedles, grasping and clutching Colt's stunt jacket.
“Grace, stop,” Colt tries.
“Please?” he gasps, blinking up at him wide-eyed. It makes something pull in Colt’s chest, and the reflexive refusal chokes in his throat. “Please, I jus’ wanna…”
Pressing, Grace ruts against his hip. It’s uncoordinated and almost misses the mark entirely, but Colt can still feel every inch of delicious drag as he grinds his cock against him. He wasn’t hard– with that much liquor in his system, there was no way he could be, but he didn’t have to be for Colt to feel just how desperate he was. There’s a shudder that follows immediately, the pleasure of the friction almost knocking Grace off his feet as it ripples through him, before he’s chasing the tail end of it with another shaking roll of his hips.
And Colt just… lets it happen.
Head thumping back against the wall, he stares up at the dark corner of the little room foyer and keeps Grace steady with hands on his hips. Letting his little brother drunkenly grind against him, ignoring how his hands travel up his chest and squeeze his pecs beneath his thin t-shirt. Trying to think of anything else but how he was so hard it was hard to breathe, pre making a mess in his boxers.
“Gracie,” he croaks. “You should sleep.”
The only response he gets is Grace fumbling his belt.
“C’mon. Sleep it off,” Colt continues weakly. He doesn’t move. “I-If this is a good idea, it’ll still be a good idea in the morning.”
“Want you now,” Grace pants out, the strength of his conviction clearing the slur from his words momentarily. “Been wanting you– this– Colt–”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Colt says unsteadily, shaking his head. The buckle slips free, hitting his thigh with its heavy weight. “You’re drunk.”
“Y-You’re so frickin’ hot, Colt,” Grace gasps, struggling to get his button and fly down with shaking hands. It’s worse when he says his name. “Please–”
Colt catches his wrists but doesn’t look down from the ceiling. Only brings them to a pause that Grace weakly protests with a whimper, hands flexing where they’re trapped in a hover away from his jeans. He tries once to free himself, though it's a pathetic attempt that gets nowhere.
And then he sniffles, and Colt would actually rather die with how that sound rips into him.
“Please?” Grace says quietly, though he doesn’t try to move again. Just flexes his fingers, making fists and squeezing the air. “Please. Colt?”
“We can’t do this, Grace,” Colt says in a hoarse, croaking whisper.
“I-I don’t care– please?” Grace tries a little harder, but it’s difficult with tears coming through his words now. Him and his big crocodile tears, so quick to cry, never failing to bring Colt to his fucking knees. “I love you. Please?”
Colt tries, one last time. He has to.
“I-I love you too, Gracie, but we– you’re drunk. You’re so drunk,” Colt reasons. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I am,” Grace strains, pressing into Colt so hard it felt like he was trying to meld into him, lock their ribs together, leave no space to breathe without his brother. “I-I have been thinking about this for so long.”
“You don’t mean that,” Colt murmurs, finally dropping his gaze down. He regrets it immediately, being caught by Grace’s eyes, brimming with tears, so wide in the dark.
Grace goes to say something while there’s a modicum of dignity left, but it’s completely bowled over as he charges forward, needing to tell Colt everything. It only proves to Colt how right he was in the past for refusing to let Grace get this fucked up, ever, at parties or even at home.
“Ever since you started working out,” he breathes out in a rush, frantic.
Colt blinks, his face heating.
“W-What?”
Grace nods, desperate, worrying his lower lip.
“That– That was in…” high school, oh my god.
“Please?” Grace tries again, like he just sold an unbeatable marketing pitch that Colt simply couldn’t refuse.
Colt was reeling. High school. Grace has been staring at him, thinking about how hot he was, since they were teens. During his wifebeater and gray sweatpants phase and– oh, Christ. Okay. Yeah, that makes sense. His whole issue started not much later, during Grace’s cozy phase. Loose, baggy shirts sized up to drape over Grace’s frame, reminding Colt way too much of his girlfriends taking his shirts. It didn’t help when he bulked up, and his shirts did stop fitting Grace for the first time in their lives, and he took to taking the shirts that his girlfriends weren’t fast enough to get to first.
The admission reconceptualizes what Grace was actually doing, all those years ago.
He was taking Colt’s shirts away from his girlfriends on purpose.
Colt’s hands, rougher and broader than his twin’s from years of harsh work, slide along the definition of his ribs, slipping beneath the shirt to haul him close. Then they move, finding the seat of his pants and dragging, hitching Grace up against his hip high enough to pick him up. A gasp of surprise is lost beside his ear as Grace clings to him, startled as his feet leave the ground.
The walk between foyer and bed was too short. Not long enough to talk himself out of it. Dropping Grace onto the bed, his brother spills across the sheets with legs splayed and hair fanning out around his head in a halo, blinking up at Colt like he were the greatest thing in the world. It makes his stomach twist and clench hotly, the heat of shame and arousal clashing in a mix of dizziness and nausea.
Grace’s shirt was still unbuttoned all the way down, barely tucked into his pants. Colt didn’t bother with fixing it on the way back to the room, thinking (hoping) he would just put Grace in bed and leave it at that. He’d slink off, deal with his problem, come back with his shoes on straight and his head on right.
“If– If I do this–” please say no, please, “–will it make you happy?”
Grace nods frantically, getting his elbows beneath him.
“You want this?”
A whine, impatient and strangled, answers.
Slowly, Colt sinks down onto the bed, kneeling between Grace’s splayed legs. A hand finds his ankle and travels up, slow, sensual, until he reaches the hem of his pants. He can feel under his hand the raw anticipation burning under Grace’s skin– it was the only thing holding him back from passing out black-out drunk, wiring through him like an exposed nerve.
All Colt has ever wanted to do was make Grace happy. That was his job– he was the older brother. It was intrinsic to his very being to want to protect Grace, make sure he has everything he has ever wanted, even if sometimes he can be a bit of a jerk just to take the piss out of him. That was also within his right, and this–
Grace chews his lip, breath unsteady, as Colt works his pants open and carefully slides them down his lean hips. With it comes his boxers, soaked with pre, bunching and snagging over his soft cock as Colt laid him bare. He doesn’t hide like he’d expect, because he’s thought about this. He’s thought about this exact moment so many times it coated everything he’s ever tried to do with anybody else. Girlfriends, random strangers, himself– it was always Grace in the back of his mind. He differs from his fantasies by keeping himself exposed, letting Colt drink his fill before he properly touches him.
And the moment he does, palm moving to simply cover his cock with the length of it, Grace is collapsing back into the bed with a reedy yesss.
Colt’s other hand moves to himself, easing some of the pressure building between his legs while he dedicates himself to his twin. It’s only momentary, sidetracked just long enough to take the edge off, before he’s properly exploring the expanse of Grace’s thighs.
Lean, developed from many years of desk work with the slightest give, the smallest layer of soft fat all the way down to the knee. There’s moles here and there, and Colt distantly registers them as his own, in the same exact spots his are. He has the same beauty mark right above the crest of his hip, and Colt palms his waist, thumbing over it, as he wraps his hand around Grace’s cock.
Despite how much he’s had to drink, Grace is responsive. Just the feeling of Colt’s hand around him, making a tight, hot channel over his soft dick, makes his back arch off the bed. Drool collects in Colt’s mouth as he silently watches, breathing harshly through his nose, as he strokes him slow and steady, almost clinical.
This was just to help. Grace was asking– begging, so sweetly– for this. He was just being a good older brother, and taking care of him, and then he was going to walk away and pretend like the rise of shame in his throat didn’t taste like the sickly-sweet drool that came before throwing up. It mingled with the drool of hunger, and he has to swallow thickly to keep himself from speaking of everything running through his head.
Wriggling, Grace shifts, digs his heels into the bed, and drags himself down until he was practically in Colt’s lap. He doesn’t move, only adjusting with how Grace writhed and positioned himself like a detached caregiver, simply tending to the most immediate wound. The Brother Wound, his brain supplies– a twist off something he had read over Grace’s shoulder once in college.
“Colt–” Grace chants, head tipping back and baring the delicious stretch of throat to the ceiling. Colt swallows again, his teeth aching for it. “Cooolt, ColtColtColt–”
The sound of his name chokes in Grace’s throat, harsh against the consonants, making it sound so much more guttural and explicit than he’s ever heard it before. He leans forward, bracing a hand beside Grace’s ribs, hand hurrying over him as he strains to catch more of it.
Another shift, a little wiggle, and Grace has worked himself down until Colt’s erection was pressed against the soft curve of his inner thighs, rough denim chafing the sensitive skin. Dark blue, almost black in the dim light, juxtaposed against moon-pale legs. His knees hitch up, slinging over Colt’s hips, grinding down against Colt, forcing his involvement despite how hard Colt tried to separate himself from this.
He still could. He’ll just get him off and act like every fantasy he will ever have again won’t be reshaped by this one night.
But then Grace just has to go and say the single worst thing he’s ever heard in his life, and every last shred of his nebulous restraint just snaps.
“C’mon, I-I need it,” Grace pants, pawing at the bedsheets mindlessly in little rhythmic squeezes. “Please, bubba, I need you–”
Colt groans, crushing the bedding in his fist as he squeezes his eyes shut. The little nickname– petname, whatever it’s become in Colt’s bastardized mind– hits him in the core. Nobody else called him that, hasn’t in years, not since they were very young. Now it only came from Grace in the quiet, gentle moments, often whispered, sleepy and warm.
And Grace was so warm beneath him now, so lively and wanting.
“What do you want, Gracie?” Colt asks gruffly. He was blushing so hard he was light-headed, looking down at his twin through half-lidded eyes, barely able to make him out as anything past a blur of pale need beneath him.
Grace loses his voice in a moan, answering instead with his hands. He grasps at the belt still loose around Colt’s hips, straining to reach and tug at the hem of his jeans. After a moment of clumsy fumbling, he grabs at Colt’s wrist and pushes his hand off his cock, leaving it to drool over the crest of his hip in favor of feeling the press of fingers down the length of his taint.
“This?” Colt pants, knowing the answer already but needing to hear Grace say it. Needs to to abate the tempered clench of disgust at himself for how he was touching his brother.
“Yesyesyesyes–” Grace ekes out, tight and reedy, as he collapses back into the bed.
Okay. This, he knows how to do more than he knows how to deal with the fact that he wants to do this.
Roughly, he pulls Grace’s pants the rest of the way down, getting them tangled around his ankles before he brusquely frees them to throw off to the side. Without wasting a second, he’s hooking his hands beneath Grace’s knees and pushing them up, scrunching his twin in half to bring him closer to his mouth.
Grace yelps at the manhandling, before he’s overtaken by a moan that shudders his chest with the force of it at the hot press of Colt’s tongue against his hole. He doesn’t hesitate– can’t, or everything was going to come crowding back into his mind and ruin this– as he laves the flat of his tongue against him. Wetting his rim, working him loose and soft to take the thick, blunt muscle that will eventually make way for his fingers.
Just like a girl, that’s what Colt can hang on to. Thinking of exes in the past, girls that have come and gone from his life impermanently, never constant like Grace was. Never a constant source of unconditional love like his brother. The girls that wore his oversized shirts with no underwear beneath them, that shook and shudder against his mouth, that threaded their fingers in his hair and–
He moans into Grace’s core when he pulls, nails itching against his scalp. His hands shift, framing Grace’s hips and squeezing hard enough to leave impressions behind. He concentrates all the drool that’s been pooling in his mouth to the tip of his tongue and pushes it into him, slicking him with as much as he can and pulling away for breath with long, thick ropes connecting them.
Through Grace’s trembling thighs, he sees his brother lost in complete pleasure. The liquor blankets him in the perfect softness to meld him into the sheets, keeping him pliant and warm with everything coming through a filter of thistledown. He looked like he was barely there, flushed and glassy eyed and not even hard and– fuck, what was he doing?
“Feel’so good,” Grace slurs wetly, head lulling against the sheets as a hand shaking comes up to his mouth. Nipping at a finger mindlessly, more lipping along the end as he peers up at Colt.
“Yeah?” Colt rumbles, gently shifting Grace’s hips to better angle him. It earns him a little giggle that settles something in his stomach, and a soft, resounding yeah.
Nuzzling back between his thighs, he slows down, peppering kisses everywhere he can reach. It reduces Grace down to short whimpers, twitching sporadically with anticipation, until Colt is kissing against his rim. More spit is coaxed against him, pushed into him with his tongue before he leans back only as far as he needs to press fingers against him. He strokes through the mess of drool, smearing it in and soaking his fingers, going as far as working his tongue in his mouth and pushing a thick rope out over top of his fingers.
He’s never asked– and it’s never been his place to know, despite all the nights he lay awake thinking idly about it– about Grace’s experience with this. He only knew of his own, the obligatory experiences of Hollywood and afterparties much like this one, but he had cordoned off the seedy underworld of stardom from his brother. Colt could only be curious, watching raptly how Grace tenses and shivers and gasps as he presses the first finger into him.
Spit mats his facial hair down, clinging to him messily. It mirrored the sloppy state Grace was stuck in, heavy chest sparkling with edible glitter from all the liquor spilled over him. It accentuates every heavy, labored breath as he squirmed around the intrusion, throat bobbing as he chokes on his own tongue at the insistent, impatient press of a second.
“Colt–” Grace gasps out, blindly reaching out to touch his brother. His hands find Colt’s thighs, nails scratching into the denim of his jeans.
“I gotcha,” Colt breathes out, unable to make up his mind whether he wanted to watch Grace’s expression fall apart or if he wanted to watch the way he stretched around his fingers. It was obscene, Colt having made sure to dry his mouth out to get Grace wet enough to take him, and in any other state of mind it would be embarrassing how loud it was. “I’m giving it to ya.”
He knew he was probably going a little fast, his better judgement making him consider that this might be a number of firsts– don’t get hung up on that, don’t get weird about that– before reason dies under the heavy weight of his arousal. It was suffocating, it felt like he was choking on his brother, even as he dragged in low breaths like a fucking animal.
Really, that’s all he is. He could blame Grace for it, pin it all on him for being so desperate and pretty and vulnerable that it just triggered every single one of Colt’s impulses to take, but that would be undercutting all the years those urges have been building.
This was far past the point of just taking care of his twin.
Turning, he brushes his lips against the back of Grace’s thigh, dragging the side of a canine against the skin before nipping. He teethes, gentle even as he works a mark into the unblemished skin, relishing in the sounds close to his ear of slick and heat. He curls his fingers, slowing enough to search in dragging, teasing strokes until Grace flinches around him with a gasp.
“There you go,” Colt croons, straightening after he’s left a small belt of lovebites to the back of Grace’s thigh. “That feel good?”
Grace doesn’t respond, and when he looks, his eyes have completely disappeared behind his heavy lids. Flushed and the picture of debauchery, he bites down on his lip to instinctively trap a moan as it’s worked out of him. He kneads Colt’s thighs, alternately squeezing like a cat.
“Yeah, it does,” Colt murmurs, almost chuckling at the sight. “You just needed to be–”
“A-Are you g’nna fuck me?” Grace slurs, not realizing he interrupted Colt.
He freezes, blinking down between Grace’s legs.
I don’t want to, because I’ve done nothing but think about it for way too long.
“I-I…” Colt stammers. He doesn’t move his fingers anymore, buried to the third knuckle in the silky-slick heat around them. “I, uh…”
His cock throbs, neglected and twitching in his jeans that have been too tight for too long. Everything in him leered towards the prospect of fulfilling everything he’s wanted in his late night fantasies, but now that he was right in front of it– over it– he was locking up.
“Gracie…” he mumbles, and he gently eases his fingers out to let Grace’s lower body rest back down on the bed, in his lap. He has to swallow, wet his lips, clear his throat to try and find something within him that was going to be the voice of reason.
“Please, you’re– you’re right there.” Grace’s voice cuts clear through the weak stirrings of cognition. He squirms, always wriggling and moving around, and forces their lower bodies flush with heels hooking uncomfortably against the back of Colt’s hips.
His breath hitches at the sudden assault of friction against him. He grinds his teeth, breathes out.
“You’re still hard,” Grace tries, rocking back and forth. Every time he does, it makes the crest of his hipbones pronounce in that nauseatingly distracting way that catches Colt’s eye.
“Fuck,” Colt swears, only allowing himself a moment behind tightly shut eyes before he’s moved, ripping his belt clean out of their loops to toss off the side of the bed. He doesn’t even bother with the rest beyond his belt and his jacket, with a hand shoving down between them to pop his fly.
Under him, Grace chants a little cheer of yesyesyes, c’mon– that only spurs Colt into grabbing at him rougher than he intended. He squeezes Grace’s thighs, hauling him up so the hard line of his cock pressed into the hot, slick space of his intimacy where Colt’s drool still clung stubbornly. He ought to be a little more careful with how he wrenches his brother around, considering he was so full of liquor he could practically hear it sloshing around if he was moved too quickly, but they were past the point of menial concerns. He’s held his liquor so far– that’s as far as Colt could be bothered.
“I’m only doing this because you asked for it,” Colt grits, almost angry at the pleasure he caught rutting into the slick dripping from Grace’s hole. Letting him feel the full length of him obscured by the dark room, even if it was already largely familiar as the rest of Colt was to himself.
“Thank youuu,” Grace says airily, almost musically.
“Don’t–” Colt starts before a groan interrupts him. “Do not fucking thank me.”
As Grace giggles at Colt’s frustration, he lets a rope of drool trail from his lips and over his cock, working it under his palm to make sure he was as slick as they were going to get. He never considered this to be a possibility, so there was nothing on hand to make things go any easier, but he’ll be damned if he let all the drool that threatened to just spill onto his little brother go to waste. If he was going to lose all his brain function and become nothing more than a slavering, hungry dog, he’ll make the best of it.
Pushing his thumb under the head of his cock, he cants his hips back and presses into the soft ring of Grace’s hole. Any laughter still left in Grace’s lungs snaps to a stop as he sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering open wide as he watches between them. He’s picturesque– trembling and panting in anticipation in such a way that Colt can’t help but pause to take in. It’s only when Grace’s eyes sluggishly trail up the length of his body to his does he push, just enough to pop the tip in.
A choked whimper is wrenched out of Grace, stomach flinching at the sudden pressure that Colt soothes with a hand over his intimacy. His thumb rubs up the line of his raphe, feeling every twitch and clench, while his fingers rest along the soft length of his cock where it weakly jerks at the touch. When he pushes, bullying his way into his brother’s body, he gets the perfect view of Grace’s face as he tenses up, brows knitting together and lips splitting apart in an O.
“Attaboy, Gracie,” Colt grunts, wincing as he fights against how tight Grace is around him. “C’mon, you wanted this, gotta lemme in.”
He gets a little, frantic nod, and Grace tries to relax despite his body actively resisting the efforts. He didn’t have any semblance of control over his body in his intoxication, leaving it to Colt to settle him as his hips tried to twist away from the pressure. With his hand between Grace’s legs, Colt pushes down as he bucks his hips forward, slamming himself home and keeping Grace steady to take it.
Grace yelps– shrill and startled– as he finds himself suddenly, overwhelmingly full. He shudders viciously, back coming away from the bed as he’s taken by the sensation, held in place by hands on his hips.
“There you go,” Colt rumbles, thumbs stroking soothing circles into the crest of his hipbones.
“O-Oh– my god…” Grace babbles, struggling to catch his breath without a hiccup interrupting his panting. “Y-You– You’re–”
His eyes roll back and his head hits the sheets, groaning low and glottal. Hands shaking, he blindly finds Colt’s wrists to hang onto.
“You’re in me,” Grace slurs.
“Uh-huh,” Colt murmurs, petting his sides.
“Wow…” Grace mumbles, a weak giggle escaping. “That’s… wow.”
“You okay?” Colt asks, low and steady as he tries to puzzle through Grace’s reactions. He doesn’t think even Grace understands what he’s doing, what he’s saying, being an unfiltered slideshow of reaction.
“So good…” Grace slurs out, squeezing Colt’s wrists.
Nodding to himself, Colt holds onto that assurance and looks down between them, where he’s stretching Grace around his cock. Carefully, he draws back only halfway and pushes back into the space barely there for him to fit, and is rewarded with a high, whistling sigh. Only good sounds, one after another, as Colt found a gentle, easy rhythm that barely jostled his twin against the bedsheets.
None of this felt real. It felt as tangible as how Grace must surely feel, eyes drifting into the back of his skull with his older brother tenderly rearranging his guts. Colt didn’t have the haze of intoxicants to buffer the reality of this, completely beholden to the pleasure that clung to his nerves like new muscle memory. He was so tight, only lending credence to the thought that threatened to just kill him, that he was his brother’s first like this– drunk in a dark hotel room– and he was so warm and perfect for taking it.
Letting his eyes slip shut, Colt falls into the sensation. His hips drive forward just incrementally harder, working up to a pace that plucks little whimpers off the end of every breath from beneath him. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend he was anywhere else, with anyone else, but as hard as he tried his mind pushed back because this was exactly where he wanted to be. Slotting together with his twin, feeling the way their bodies were perfectly designed for each other, mixing and melding.
His Gracie mumbles and babbles, completely incoherent, whenever breath allows. He was blushing down to the line of his ribs, sweaty and glittering and like something not meant to be seen with Colt’s worldly eyes as he is fucked into the sheets.
“You’re so pretty,” Colt finds himself saying before he becomes aware of his own voice. It cuts through the gentle, sweet image of Grace beneath him with a harshness; his voice was rough and gravely, pitched in ways that Grace has never heard before except through thin, bathroom doors.
“Pretty?” Grace echos, the easiest thing for him to do with the entire room swimming and spinning, Colt being his only fixed point. He mindlessly paws up his arms, accidentally coaxing Colt to lean further over him and plant his hands beside his head.
“So pretty,” Colt coos, allowing the shift to drive his hips forward harder. The effect was immediate, Grace gasping and struggling to stifle himself for only a second before the effort is too much, not worth it, when he just wants to feel good.
“There ya go,” Colt encourages, catching the exact moment Grace lets slip a full, unfettered moan. “Lemme hear it.”
And Christ, he does.
With his older brother’s permission, Grace merely gives in. He sings his praises to the ceiling above them, giving the best actors among them a run for their money with how he cries out. It only serves to unravel Colt further, his twin’s moans doing something terrible to his head that completely shuts off everything but the need to make him feel better than he’s ever felt in his life. This was his whole purpose– this was the point. He was supposed to make sure Grace always felt good, and loved, and–
He loses himself, slamming into Grace hard enough to make the hotel bed’s springs creak. And horribly, it’s received with a broken swear and claws finding their way into his biceps. Grace leverages himself back down with his nails dug into Colt’s arm, finding the warm space beneath the sleeves of his sheet to hang onto. A deluge of nonsensical pleas spills out, somewhere begging and praying for it.
Just as Colt leans back, eyes shadowed and determined to lay into him, he’s startled by another voice in the room.
“Goddamn, Seavers.”
His hips buck, sheathing himself hard and deep inside Grace, who cries out at the beautiful roughness of it, unaware of anything but where Colt fits himself furthest.
In the darkness of the hotel room, he can’t truly make out anything, but he could recognize the voice anywhere. Near the foyer, leaning against the wall, he can make out the silhouette of Tom highlighted by the thin sliver of light creeping in beneath the hallway door and the light of his phone screen, dim where it was recording in a dark space.
It felt like all the air was sucked out of the room, and Colt could only stare in terrified silence.
“Oh, don’t stop on my behalf,” Tom says coolly, stepping further into the room. “Go on.”
“How’d you get in here?” Colt breathes out, hardly able to hear himself speak through the blood rushing in his ears.
He gets his answer in the flash of a keycard, most certainly bribed off the front desk. And not for a second does Tom lower his phone. Recording them.
“Y’know, I always figured you guys were weird,” Tom muses, slinking further into the room until he was a few paces away from the bed. “But I didn’t think it was ‘fucking my little brother stupid’ weird. Just… weird.”
Colt’s mouth was dry. Gun to his head, he wouldn’t be able to move if his life depended on it. No words and no thoughts came through but a spiralling mantra of fuck, I’m so fucked, this is so fucked up, what am I doing? Notably, any anger at Tom’s intrusion is absent, as everything sharp and pointed in his head turned on himself at the first opportunity.
Beneath him, Grace doesn’t understand the abrupt stop. It doesn’t even seem like he’s aware of the voyeur beside them, as he whimpers and tries to wriggle his hips. It’s clumsy and he doesn’t do a very good job of it in his intoxication, only managing a weak, lackluster grind that frustrates him.
“Cooolt,” he mewls, panting thinly. He makes a little growl, upset, and huffs. “Why’d’ya stop fucking me?”
Colt’s ears burn. He can’t look away from Tom, who watches him hawkishly from behind his camera like this were some sort of sick, twisted set. He was just a beholden pornstar performing against his will, caged by fine print he knew he should’ve never agreed to.
“Yeah, Colt,” Tom needles, drifting to the head of the bed and slipping down onto the covers. “Why’d’ya stop?”
The slight mock of Grace’s slur inflames the anger that was frozen by fear. Fear of what Tom’s ulterior motives were, fear of what he would do with what he’s already recorded, fear over what that might mean for his Grace, fear of—
He winces when Grace manages to find a horribly perfect motion, rocking and grinding down along the last couple of inches of cock nestled deep within him. He’s getting better, guided along with the thread of pleasure he can pull taut if he focuses with everything he’s got. Colt squeezes his hips, trying to stop him, but it only strums a sweet moan out of Grace’s throat, thrilled by the roughness.
“Stop recording,” Colt tries, putting everything he has into the growl he tries to convince with. “I swear to god, Tom, I’ll kill you.”
“No, actually, I don’t think you will,” Tom says lazily, getting comfortable against the overstuffed hotel pillows. Without any modesty or shame, his other hand not holding the phone reaches down and gropes himself. “I wanna remember this.”
Colt refuses to move, even as it frustrates Grace. He does his best not to react to the perfect heat around his cock, working along his length with increasing desperation, the soft pitches of strained breath escaping his brother as he pleasured himself separate from Colt.
There’s nothing he could say to justify this, and they all know that. Grace– no, he’s not thinking. He stopped thinking maybe an hour ago, maybe longer, the moment his blood-alcohol hit triple the legal limit, which only made what Colt was doing worse. It was all coming back to him now, the reality of what he was doing shoved down beneath his need and Grace’s begging. And now there’s a camera shoved in his face, recording him taking advantage of his drunk little brother who was still grinding down into him, teasing that knot in his stomach tighter.
Tom’s gaze rakes over the sight before him. His perpetual grin was curved, softened with hunger, as he takes it all in– how Grace shuddered and how his stomach flexed with the motion of dropping himself onto Colt’s cock over and over. Even with his head tipped back, his eyes were unfocused, not making sense of the new shape at the head of the bed, and Tom is quick to correct that, refusing to be ignored.
Leaning forward, Tom brings the camera with him as he cards his fingers through Grace’s sweat-damp hair. “Hey, doll. Remember me?”
Grace’s eyes flutter open, fixing on Tom in a glaze of wonder and surprise. It takes him a moment, unable to remember the uncannily familiar face for a minute, before he’s nodding with a soft moan.
“Get your hands off him,” Colt snaps.
“Mm. No. He’s enjoying this,” Tom murmurs, tilting his head down at the younger twin. “Aren’t you?”
A smile slowly stretches across Grace’s features, his eyes lidding heavily at the gentle touch and soft words above him. Responding just as he did on the couch at the party, preening into any benign touch without a single thought about the implications.
“H-Hi–” he giggles out, not understanding the question asked of him. At the least, it makes him stop moving, falling still with Colt buried to the hilt.
“Yeah, you are,” Tom coos, and he’s fumbling with his phone for a moment. “Weird, disgusting degenerate you are.”
“Tom. Shut up,” Colt snarls. He doesn’t realize he’s squeezing bruises into Grace’s hips, and Grace doesn’t respond to the painful pressure when he’s got Tom crooning and petting him.
Lowering the phone for just a moment, he presses it into the bedsheets and flicks his thumb across the screen in a few, deft movements. Suddenly, the flash blinks on, muffled in the sheets to spare Grace’s eyes– a small mercy that he shouldn’t be thankful for– before he’s lifting it up again to get a clear shot of his face.
“You like being fucked by your big brother? Huh?”
“Yeah,” Grace says breathlessly, eyes wide and fixed on Tom despite the light glaring in his eyes.
“Grace,” Colt tries, squeezing his eyes shut as his brother’s quick and easy admission hits him right in the core. It made it hard to hold onto the mortification and shame and anger wicking through him, but everything always fell to the wayside when it came to Grace. He was Colt’s little achilles heel, nipping at him until he was whittled down to nothing.
“You heard him,” Tom says, leaning back against the pillows with a satisfied smirk. “He’s exaaactly where he wants to be.”
Colt isn’t, not anymore.
But he doesn’t have much of a choice at this point.
“Go on. Fuck him,” Tom directs, gesturing lightly with the phone.
It’s almost better that he doesn’t have a choice anymore, not with Tom actively recording brazen blackmail right in front of him. Judging by the angle of the phone, he was less concerned with capturing Colt’s face in the frame and instead focused almost all the attention on Grace’s body, how his legs were splayed wide around Colt’s hips, hands still grasping at his older brother’s wrists.
Sighing out shakily, Colt doesn’t look away from Tom as he relents. Driving his glare through the actor as he draws his hips back and pushes forward. It doesn’t help when Grace whines, slurring out a swear in ecstasy as he’s finally given what he’s wanted again. Incessant and needy as any little brother could be, even here, even in front of a camera, so drunk he can’t make sense of himself.
“C’mon. Like you mean it.”
Colt’s face burns with humiliation, and it’s what finally makes him break eye contact to look down at his brother. Getting directions like he were on set, being told how to move his body and perform, unfortunately works to loosen the muscles tensed with fear. He could listen to commands– it was his entire career, letting himself be orchestrated for entertainment, and this was no different.
He tries to find the tempo he held before they were interrupted, but it’s hard. It feels stilted and wrong now, and it frustrates him more than anything because he was doing a good job working high, happy sounds out of his brother and now he wasn’t. Grace was still completely unspooled beneath him, loose and content to take everything Colt gave him, but he was softer now, quieter. He has no idea how long Tom hovered in the foyer before making himself known, but he can tell that he notices it too.
“You love him, right?” Tom huffs, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his gaudy, pleather pants. “Let him have it. Make him feel good.”
Gritting his teeth, Colt bows his head and shifts. Sweat drips off his temple, dotting Grace’s pale stomach as he drags his hips up off the bed, holding him in his broad palms to keep him steady for every stroke. At once, the new angle rips a moan out of Grace, high and reedy and earning a laugh from Tom. Both reactions hit Colt in tandem, falling somewhere between pride and indignation, and translates into being rougher, meaner, as he drives into the pliant body around him.
The camera flash highlights every contour of Grace’s body, every flinch of his stomach as Colt slams home. If he concentrated, he could imagine the shape of himself fucking against the smooth muscle of his stomach, poking through, and just the thought of it– that that might be what he was actually seeing– makes him groan somewhere deep in his chest.
“Lift his– yeah, like that,” Tom huffs, watching with wide, clear eyes. His hand worked over his cock, slower than Colt’s pace, as he enjoyed the show. “Make him tight.”
It shouldn’t be helping– the crude, crass instruction in Tom’s grating, unwelcome voice. But Colt can only feel the way it embeds in him, lodging in the twist of release that’s been getting knotted tighter and tighter. It was grating and demeaning and Colt groans, listening dutifully as he manipulates Grace to arch his back. His brother already wore him down, begging for this, and Tom was the final nail in the coffin to just give in.
It doesn’t even register that Grace still wasn’t hard– hasn’t been the entire time– and the only moment where it crosses his mind is when his eyes flutter open, blinking sweat out of them, to see a pool of cum trailing down his lean abs. Any other time, he would’ve stopped, checked in, made sure this suddenly wasn’t too much, but Grace’s moans don’t stutter or falter, and his begging never stops.
“Oooh, fffuh–” It cuts off, Grace’s jaw going slack as his eyes rolled back into his head with a shudder. He swears Colt’ name, squeezed against the back of his throat with a gasp. “Don’t– Please—”
There’s scratches down Colt’s forearms, and each new welt makes pain mix with pleasure singing down his spine in a shiver. A concerning hiccup bubbles out of Grace, momentarily choking him with his own tongue, before he finds his voice and drools out a drivel of don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop capped with a keening please–
“Jesus, Colt,” Tom tsks, all humor gone as he watches in awe as Colt properly lays into his twin.
Then, just as Colt was nearing his end, growling out through clenched teeth hard enough to slip drool past them, Tom is jolting forward.
“Don’t.”
The harshness of the command jars Colt enough to make him glare at Tom through his lashes, confused. The actor shifts, rolling forward with his cock bobbing in the air above Grace where he almost straddles the younger twin’s head. The phone is completely forgotten, tossed to the side. Under him, Grace mindlessly moves his hands to paw at Tom’s thighs, clawing at the flashy, metallic pleather, though he’s ignored.
“Cum on my cock,” Tom demands with that edge in his gaze that reminds Colt all too much of all the benders he’s seen the actor take.
“What?” Colt pants, scowling.
Suddenly, a hand flashes out and tangles in his shaggy hair, pulling like he were a disobedient dog. It makes him hiss, his hips bucking forward reflexively with the perfect spark of pain.
“You are going to cum on my cock,” Tom reiterates, deathly serious and even. “And I am going to fuck your brother while you watch.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Colt snarls, lip peeling back over his canines. It earns him a harsh jostle, making his scalp sting.
“I never got your face in the video, Colt,” Tom breathes out, lip twitching into a crazy smirk for only half a second. “Plausible deniability. And I can change that.”
Unwillingly, he slams to a stop with his chest heaving, every breath trailing into a growl as he glowers at the actor. Humiliation, arousal, shame, anger burn through him in equal measure. Reluctantly, he relents to the pressure over his head, and slips himself free from his brother’s guts. The loss is mourned beneath them, though its ignored as Tom immediately moves to wrap his hand around Colt’s cock to bring him the rest of the way.
“I fucking hate you,” Colt growls, even as he has to brace a hand against Tom’s shoulder to stay steady. Tom wasn’t kind or slow with it, impatience coming through in every jerky motion.
“Gonna need a stronger word once I’m done with him,” Tom sneers, staring down at how his hand worked over Colt’s dick, palm catching the slick smeared along his thick length.
The moment he crashes, shuddering and groaning with a clenched jaw, unwilling to give himself to Tom completely, he’s being wrung out for all he’s got before being brusquely shoved back. It’s disorientating, the rush of release unsteadying him and taking his center of gravity for a moment long enough for Tom to steal his position. He’s feral and quick, getting himself wet with the mess of Colt’s drool and cum, before he’s unkindly shoving Grace’s legs apart.
“Be gentle,” Colt bites, collecting himself and shifting to the side where Grace could reach him. Needing to be beside his twin, blanket him with enough of his presence to drown out Tom.
“What, like you were?” Tom taunts.
“You– You told me to–”
“Yeah, I did,” Tom spits, looking up at Colt in the same moment that he fucks into the wet, ruined hole beneath them. “And you didn’t, so now I will.”
Grace moans, flinching and tensing at suddenly being so full again. He was more out of it than before, exhaustion and intoxication running its course on him as he hardly shivers against the onslaught of pleasure. His eyes were glassy and sightless, with drool and tears making a mess of his face.
“Heeey, Gracie,” Colt coos, attention immediately diverting to his brother. Everything else falls to the side as he hones in on Grace, reaching down to stroke his cheek. “I’m right here.”
Grace blindly bats at him, trying to find his hand and hold onto it. Blearily, he nuzzles his nose into his palm, smearing his drool-slick lips against him as he mumbles something too soft and slurred to make out.
Tom is cruel and harsh with his thrusts, slamming into Grace without any kindness and nearly folding him in half with hands hooked under his knees. It was the only way to get his legs to cooperate as he lays there, boneless and incoherent, chasing his brother’s affection.
If Tom was pissed about not holding Grace’s attention, it only shows with how mean he fucks into him. He’s tight-lipped, grunting and groaning like an animal as he makes use of all that Colt has already done, fucking his cum deep into Grace. There’s a perverse sense of satisfaction that, despite Tom ripping away the pleasure of Colt spilling his load into his guts, he was still in there, claiming him.
Laying down on his hip, braced on his elbows, he cradles Grace’s head and watches his twin pepper his palm and wrist with sloppy, open kisses. He didn’t even seem to realize that he was still being fucked, and Colt holds onto the twist of pride that brings knowing that Tom was still being snuffed even as he gets what he wants.
He gets the perfect angle to see Grace’s eyes flutter and roll back as another release is ripped out of him. He can tell his body was exhausted, incapable of tensing and seizing with it, though it was no doubt as strong as before as he whimpers and clings to Colt’s hands.
In a cosmically funny twist of fate, Tom lasts just about as long as anyone riddled with substances could ever hope to. Whatever he may have been doing in the other room to key himself up, whatever he was snorting and taking, destroys his stamina and makes him near his end in almost record time. Colt doesn’t care to watch him come apart, hearing the way he chokes and gasps through it, instead watching Grace.
Roughly, as soon as he’s done and not a second later, Tom is sitting back and slipping free. It’s only then that Grace fully reacts, grimacing and whimpering and clinging tighter to Colt against the uncomfortable sensation of emptiness. Tom staggers, almost falling over himself as he comes off the bed, panting like he just won a competition with a grin playing across his face.
“Best pussy I’ve had in a looong time,” Tom pants, smirking as he tucks himself away messily. “Thanks, Colt.”
It takes everything in him to keep himself cool and composed, knowing that Grace would respond to his reactions while their faces were so close together. Slowly, still stroking a thumb along Grace’s cheekbone and watching how his eyes drift shut with a happy, content sigh, he lifts his head and looks at the actor.
“Get out.”
Tom pauses, any humor in his features flattening out as he scoffs, before he’s moving around the bed for his phone. Fuck. Colt should’ve grabbed that, destroyed the evidence, but he was so preoccupied with making sure Grace was okay, even if tomorrow nothing was going to be.
“Live a little,” Tom sneers, then wags the phone in the air tauntingly. “I’ll make sure you do.”
Colt can only glare, measuring his breathing so he didn’t scare Grace. It’s exactly the reaction Tom wanted to see, his stunt double cowing to him. With a slow, creeping smile and a wink, Tom is stepping back.
“See you on set.”