Marcus and Ethan

It's a Friday evening in late spring, and the Cole house smells like the spaghetti Marcus made for dinner and the cheap candles he lights to cover up the smell of the garage. The dishes are still in the sink. Nobody's washed them because nobody ever does on Fridays.

Marcus is at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other wraps around a beer. He's in his grey sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt that's tight enough across the chest to show the shape of him, barefoot on the cold tile. Ethan is leaning against the counter across from him, shirtless, eating leftover garlic bread straight from the foil. His basketball shorts ride low enough to show the V of muscle above his hips and the dark trail of hair disappearing below the waistband. Neither of them is talking, but the silence between them has a texture to it. Easy. Settled. Like two people who don't need to fill the air.

"We're heading out early tomorrow," Marcus says without looking up from his phone. His voice is directed at the table, but the words are meant for you. "Fishing trip. Ethan wanted to try that spot up past Cooper's Mill."

"There's bass out there this time of year," Ethan adds, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth. He doesn't look at you either. "We'll be back Sunday night."

Sunday night. Two full days. Another trip you're not part of. There have been four of these in the last three months, and each one left you alone with leftover money for pizza and a list of emergency numbers you've never needed. They always come back looking relaxed in a way that doesn't match fishing. Marcus's stubble is thicker, like he hasn't shaved. Ethan walks like he's sore, moving carefully, stretching his shoulders out. They smell like the inside of a truck and something else underneath it that you can't place.

You've started collecting the details without meaning to. The way Marcus's hand lingers on the back of Ethan's neck when they're watching TV. The way Ethan gravitates toward his father's side of the room without thinking about it, their shoulders bumping, their legs pressed together on the couch. The locked garage door that stays shut for an hour at a time. The mornings after the trips where neither of them makes eye contact with you until they've had coffee, like they're waking up from something they haven't quite shaken off. The way Ethan's voice changes when he talks to Marcus when he thinks you can't hear, softer and lower, stripped of the sharp bravado he wears like armor around everyone else.

None of it is proof of anything. All of it sits wrong.

Marcus finishes his beer and stands, the chair scraping against the tile. He drops a twenty on the table near your elbow without comment. Pizza money. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, his palm broad and warm and calloused, his thumb pressing into the muscle there for a beat longer than it needs to. "Don't stay up too late. And lock the back door tonight, yeah?"

Ethan pushes off the counter, crunching the foil into a ball and tossing it toward the trash. He misses. He doesn't pick it up. He ruffles your hair on his way out of the kitchen, his fingers dragging through it slow and familiar, and his green eyes flick down to yours for just a second. Something moves behind them, quick and unreadable, before the grin snaps back into place. "Don't trash the place while we're gone, yeah?"

They both head toward the garage. The door closes behind them. The lock clicks.

You're alone in the kitchen with a cold twenty-dollar bill, the hum of the refrigerator, and the low murmur of voices bleeding through the wall, too quiet to make out words.

The garage door isn't closed all the way.

You've been looking for your charger for twenty minutes. Marcus said he left it out here somewhere, and the door that usually clicks shut and locks from the inside is resting against the frame with a half-inch gap where the latch didn't catch. Light spills through the crack, yellow and warm, cutting a thin stripe across the concrete floor of the laundry room.

You reach for the handle. Your fingers close around the cold metal, and you hear it.

A sound that doesn't belong to the garage. Low, rhythmic, wet. A heavy thump of something against the workbench, steady as a heartbeat. Then a voice, unmistakable, breathless and cracked in a way you've never heard it.

"Fuck, Dad, right there, don't stop, don't—ahh, ahh—"

Your hand freezes on the handle. Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. The stripe of light from the crack widens as the door shifts a centimeter under your grip, and through the gap you see them.

Ethan is bent over the workbench, his bare chest pressed flat against the scarred wood, his cheek turned sideways against a rolled-up shop towel. His basketball shorts are shoved down to his thighs, his ass raised, the muscles in his back shifting under flushed skin with every thrust that drives into him. His fingers grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white, his mouth open and drooling against the wood. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, seven thick inches bouncing with each impact, the foreskin peeled back to expose a flushed pink head leaking a steady thread of precum that swings and drips onto the concrete.

Marcus stands behind him, broad and solid, his grey sweatpants shoved down to mid-thigh. His shirt is still on but pushed up past his gut, exposing the dark trail of hair below his navel. One thick, calloused hand grips Ethan's hip, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks, holding him steady. The other hand is braced on the small of Ethan's back, pressing him flat. His cock is buried to the root in Ethan's ass, nine thick inches of veiny, uncut meat stretching his son open on every pull-out, the fat blunt head tugging at the rim before slamming back in. The sound of it is obscene, slick and heavy, skin slapping skin, the wet squelch of lube and precum filling the garage.

"Taking it so good, Eth. That's it. Gonna fill you up." Marcus's voice is a low rumble, barely above a murmur, his hips grinding deep before pulling back for another slow, brutal stroke. His eyes are half-lidded, hazel and heavy with focus, his jaw clenched under the five o'clock shadow. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. His thumb traces the base of Ethan's spine in a gesture that's almost tender, completely at odds with the force of his thrusts.

"Yes, fuck, breed me, do it—" Ethan's voice breaks on the words, raw and wrecked, his whole body shuddering. His hips push back to meet Marcus's rhythm, his cock jerking untouched, leaking freely.

They haven't noticed you standing there yet.

It's a Friday night with no trip planned, which is strange enough on its own. Marcus and Ethan have been hanging around the house all evening, neither of them mentioning Cooper's Mill or the truck or the packed cooler that usually sits by the garage door. Instead they've been orbiting the living room, drifting through your space with a closeness that feels deliberate. Ethan sat next to you during dinner, his bare shoulder pressed warm against yours, his thigh flush with yours under the table. Marcus kept finding reasons to touch you, a hand on your shoulder, a squeeze to the back of your neck, his palm lingering each time like he was checking your temperature.

Now the dishes are done and the three of you are on the couch. Some action movie plays on the TV, the volume low, blue light shifting across the walls. Marcus is on your left, his arm stretched along the back of the couch behind your shoulders, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him through his worn t-shirt. His grey sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and the weight of his cock rests visible along his thigh, the outline thick and heavy against the thin fabric. Ethan is on your right, shirtless, his basketball shorts riding low enough to show the trail of dark hair below his navel. His leg presses against yours from knee to hip, warm and unmoving.

The air in the room feels thick. Nobody's watching the movie. The silence has a weight to it, expectant, like a held breath.

Ethan moves first. His hand leaves his own thigh and settles on your knee, heavy and warm, his fingers curling loosely around the inside of it. Not gripping. Just resting there, his thumb resting against the seam of your jeans. He stares at the TV, but his eyes aren't tracking anything on screen.

"You've been weird lately." His voice is low, casual, the same tone he uses for everything. "Quiet. Like you're thinking about something all the time." His thumb shifts, tracing a small circle on your knee through the denim. "I see you, y'know. Watching."

Your chest tightens. You feel Marcus shift beside you, his body turning slightly toward you, his arm lowering from the back of the couch to rest across your shoulders. The weight of it settles on you, heavy and grounding, his broad palm curling around your upper arm. His thumb brushes the fabric of your sleeve.

"He's right." Marcus's voice comes from close to your ear, low and measured, the same rumble he uses for everything but softer now. "We've been giving you space. Figured you'd come to us if something was on your mind." His thumb traces a line along your shoulder blade. "Haven't yet, though."

Ethan's hand slides an inch higher on your thigh. His green eyes finally leave the TV and turn to you, sharp and searching, the freckles across his nose catching the blue light. "You wanna know what we do, don't you." Not a question. His voice drops lower, stripped of bravado, the softness underneath showing through. "When we go on trips. When the garage door's locked." His thumb presses into your thigh, firm and deliberate. "You wanna know why you're not invited."

The room feels like it's shrinking. The movie plays on, forgotten. Marcus's arm tightens slightly around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side, his chest broad and warm against you. You can smell him, the familiar scent of beer and deodorant and something underneath that's just skin and heat.

"We didn't want to rush you." Marcus's hand moves from your arm to the back of your neck, his calloused palm cupping your nape, his thumb stroking the short hair there. His hazel eyes find yours, tired and warm and careful. "We've been waiting to see if you'd come to us." He glances at Ethan, a look that passes between them quick and loaded, then back to you. His voice drops, barely above a murmur. "So. Here we are."

Ethan's hand squeezes your thigh. Marcus's thumb strokes your neck. The blue TV light shifts across all three of you. The silence holds, patient and heavy and full of something about to break.

It's a Saturday afternoon and Marcus is supposed to be at the hardware store. The house is quiet, sunlight falling in warm bars through the blinds in Ethan's bedroom, lighting up the dust motes drifting in the still air. Ethan's sheets are tangled at the foot of the bed, and the room smells like the body wash he uses, something sharp and clean with a trace of sweat underneath.

Ethan is on top of you. His lean body presses you into the mattress, his bare chest flush against yours, the heat of him soaking through your skin. His mouth is on your neck, wet and open, his breath hot and uneven against the curve below your ear. You can feel his cock hard between your bodies, seven thick inches of heat grinding slow against your stomach, the foreskin slick with precum smearing across your skin each time his hips roll. His hand is between you, two fingers slick with lube, pressing into you, stretching you open with a careful patience that doesn't match anything else about him.

"You're so fucking tight." The words come out low and rough against your throat, his voice stripped of its usual bravado, raw in a way you've only heard when Marcus has him wrecked. His fingers curl inside you, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk, and he groans at the reaction, his cock twitching hard against your stomach. "Been wanting this. You have no idea how long I've been wanting this."

He pulls his fingers free and shifts his weight, reaching between you to line himself up. The flushed head of his cock presses against your hole, blunt and hot and slick, and he pauses there, his green eyes finding yours from inches away. His dark hair falls across his forehead, messy and damp, the freckles across his nose sharp in the afternoon light. His jaw is tight, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.

"Tell me you want it." His voice cracks on the last word. His hips press forward a fraction, the head of his cock breaching you, the stretch sharp and immediate and deep. "Say it."

The bedroom door is open. From somewhere down the hall, you hear the front door close. Heavy footsteps on the tile. Marcus is back early.

Ethan doesn't stop. His eyes flick toward the hallway, and something flashes across his face, sharp and hungry, the exhibitionist thrill cutting through the tenderness. He pushes forward, sinking in inch by inch, his breath hitching as your body opens around him. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers lacing together, gripping tight.

"He's gonna hear us." A grin splits his face, breathless and sharp, his hips grinding deep. "Good."

The bedroom is dark except for the hallway light leaking under the door. Marcus's bedroom smells like him, the concentrated scent of deodorant and beer and skin and the faint mineral tang of lube on the nightstand. The sheets are warm beneath you, the mattress dipping under Marcus's weight as he settles between your legs, his broad frame a wall of heat and pressure above you.

His hand cups the back of your knee, lifting your leg, spreading you open. His calloused palm is rough against your skin, his grip firm and grounding, the kind of hold that says I've got you without words. His other hand is between your legs, three fingers deep, working you open with a slow, deliberate patience that makes your thighs shake. You can feel the stretch of it, the burn easing into something heavier and warmer each time he curls his fingers.

"Doing so good." His voice is a low rumble in the dark, close to your ear, his breath warm against your temple. His thumb traces the inside of your thigh, steady and soothing, while his fingers keep their rhythm inside you. "Gonna take care of you. Not gonna rush."

He pulls his fingers free, and you hear the wet sound of lube, the slick noise of his hand wrapping around his cock. The bed shifts as he moves closer, and then the fat head of his cock presses against your hole, blunt and impossibly thick. Nine inches of heavy, veiny meat resting against you, the heat of it radiating into your skin. His foreskin is pulled back, the head slick and flushed, and even just the pressure of it against your entrance is enough to make you clench.

"Breathe." His hand moves from your knee to your hip, gripping firmly, anchoring you. He pushes forward, slow and steady, and the stretch hits you like a wave, deep and relentless, the girth of him opening you wider than his fingers prepared you for. A low groan rumbles through his chest, his hips pausing halfway. "That's it. Take your time. There you go."

He sinks in another inch. Your body stretches around him, the burn and the fullness blurring together into something that steals the air from your lungs. His thumb strokes your hip bone in slow circles, grounding you through it. His breathing is controlled, measured, the restraint of a man who wants to drive forward but won't let himself.

"Halfway." His voice is rough now, the control fraying at the edges. He leans down, his chest pressing against yours, the mat of dark hair scraping your skin, his lips brushing your ear. "Gonna fill you up all the way. Gonna make you feel every inch of me."

It's a Sunday morning and nobody's going anywhere. The bedroom is bright with late-morning light, the blinds doing nothing to block the sun flooding through the windows. The sheets are wrecked, tangled and damp, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and two bodies that have already been at each other once today.

You're on your hands and knees in the center of the mattress. Marcus is behind you, his thick hands gripping your hips, his cock buried deep inside you with a slow, grinding rhythm that punches the air out of your lungs on every thrust. Nine inches of thick, veiny meat filling you completely, the fat head dragging against your walls on each pull-out before slamming back in. His weight shifts the bed with every stroke, the springs creaking under the combined load, his gut pressing warm against your lower back.

"That's it. Taking me so well." His voice rumbles out low and gruff, his thumb pressing into the dimple above your ass, his pace steady and relentless. "Gonna keep you full all morning."

Ethan is on his knees in front of you, shirtless, his lean body lit gold by the morning sun. His cock is right in front of your face, seven thick inches jutting up from the dark hair at his groin, the foreskin peeled back to expose the flushed pink head, slick and leaking. His hand is in your hair, fingers threading through it, gripping just firm enough to guide you.

"Open up." Ethan's voice comes out rough and breathless, his green eyes fixed on your mouth, his hips tilted forward. The head of his cock brushes your lips, hot and slick, the taste of precum salty on your tongue. "C'mon. You know what to do."

Marcus drives in deep from behind, the impact jolting your whole body forward, and your mouth opens on a gasp that Ethan takes immediately. He pushes past your lips, the head of his cock sliding over your tongue, thick and hard and alive in your mouth. His hand tightens in your hair, his hips rocking shallow, feeding you inch by inch.

"Oh fuck, that's—yeah, just like that—" Ethan's head tips back, his throat working, his free hand bracing on the headboard. His stomach flexes with each shallow thrust, the trail of hair below his navel catching the light.

Marcus leans forward over your back, his chest pressing against you, his lips near your ear. His hips never stop, the rhythm deep and brutal now, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. "Look at you. Taking us both." His hand moves from your hip to your chest, pulling you back against him, changing the angle so his cock hits deeper. "Our good boy."

Ethan's eyes snap to Marcus over your head, something hot and territorial flashing between them. His grip tightens in your hair. His hips push forward, hitting the back of your throat.

"Our boy." He repeats it, low and possessive, his green eyes dropping back to yours, watching your mouth stretched around his cock.

It's late, past midnight, and the house is dark. Ethan's bedroom door is closed, the only light coming from the phone propped on his nightstand, the screen casting a pale blue glow across the tangled sheets. Ethan is on his back beneath you, his lean body spread open, his legs hooked around your hips, his chest rising and falling fast. His cock is hard against his stomach, seven thick inches lying flat against his abs, the head flushed and leaking a steady pool of precum into the trail of hair below his navel.

His hand is behind his own thigh, holding himself open for you, his fingers digging into the muscle. His hole is slick, stretched and ready, the lube glistening in the phone light. His green eyes are fixed on your face, wide and wanting, the sharp bravado stripped away entirely, leaving something raw and hungry underneath.

"C'mon." His voice is low, breathless, cracking at the edges. His hips roll, pressing up against you, the heat of him radiating into your skin where your bodies touch. "I'm ready. I've been ready. Just fucking do it already."

The door opens. No knock, no warning. Marcus steps in, his broad silhouette filling the frame, backlit by the hallway light. He's in his grey sweatpants, barefoot, bare-chested, the dark hair on his chest catching the dim light. His eyes adjust to the darkness, finding you between Ethan's legs, finding the position, the lube, the way Ethan is spread open and waiting. His cock is half-hard in his sweatpants, the weight of it visible, thickening as he stands there watching.

He doesn't speak. He crosses the room and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He sits close enough that Ethan can feel the heat of him, close enough that his hand can rest on Ethan's thigh, calloused palm pressing warm against the skin. His hazel eyes move between your face and Ethan's, slow and careful.

"Go slow." His voice is barely above a murmur, directed at you, his thumb stroking Ethan's thigh in the same absent, grounding gesture he always uses. "He acts tough about it, but he needs you to be patient with him."

"Dad, shut up." Ethan's voice comes out strangled, flushed and embarrassed, his hand shooting out to grip Marcus's wrist. Not pushing him away. Holding on. "I don't need you to coach him."

"Yeah, you do." Marcus's hand turns in Ethan's grip, his fingers lacing through his son's, squeezing once. His eyes find yours again, steady and warm. "He wants this. He's been thinking about it for a while. Haven't you, Eth."

Ethan's jaw clenches. His chest heaves. His cock twitches against his stomach, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip. His green eyes burn into yours, desperate and defiant and completely undone.

"Just—please." The word breaks open in his mouth, raw and honest, stripped of everything. His legs tighten around your hips, pulling you closer, the head of your cock pressing against his slicked hole. "Please."