Chapter 1: The Initiation: Claimed by the Brotherhood
The bass from upstairs wasn’t a sound anymore; it was a physical thing, a thrumming pressure in the chest that made the stale basement air vibrate. Finn felt it in his teeth. Neon glow sticks, cracked and leaking their chemical light, painted erratic streaks across the concrete walls, over the slumped kegs and the laughing, shouting mouths of brothers and hangers-on.
He’d lost his shirt an hour ago. It was draped over a pipe somewhere, a casualty of a drinking game he’d technically won. Now the cool, damp wall kissed his bare back as he tipped another shot of something cheap and pine-scented down his throat. His skin was slick with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Fuck, look at him.” The voice, slurry and hot, came from his right. Chad, or maybe Brad—Finn never bothered to separate them—loomed into his space. A thick hand, smelling of beer and salt from a pretzel bowl, landed on the dip of Finn’s waist. “Like a little piece of candy.”
Finn just grinned, his bright eyes glazing with booze and mischief. He arched his back slightly, pressing his ass out. The worn fabric of his jeans stretched taut. “You buying or just window shopping?”
Another body pressed in from his left. Tucker, with his stupid goatee. His laugh was a sharp bark. “I think we get a free sample. House rules.”
A third brother, a silent hulk named Derek, finished his beer and set the bottle down with a definitive clink. He moved in front of Finn, caging him against the wall. The music swelled, a chaotic pulse that matched the sudden, eager beat in Finn’s veins. This was the switch, the moment the vague, buzzy flirtation snapped into sharp, physical potential.
Chad’s hand slid from his waist to the front of his jeans, palming him through the denim. Finn’s breath hitched, a soft, willing sound. He was already half-hard, the attention like a direct current.
“Yeah, there it is,” Chad murmured, his other hand coming up to squeeze Finn’s pectoral, thumb rough over a nipple.
Tucker’s fingers dove into Finn’s hair, yanking his head back to expose the line of his throat. A wet, whiskey-flavored mouth latched onto his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. Finn moaned, the sound lost in the din. His hips pushed forward into Chad’s grinding palm, while behind him, Derek’s big hands found the glorious curve of his ass. They kneaded the firm, round flesh through his jeans, gripping hard.
“Jesus, look at that ass,” Derek grunted, his voice a low rumble against Finn’s ear. “Like two giant fucking pillows.”
“Wanna see it,” Tucker slurred, releasing Finn’s hair to fumble with his belt buckle.
Finn’s head swam, a pleasurable dizziness. This was the game, the thrill of being wanted, of being the center of this hungry, chaotic energy. He helped, shimmying his hips as Tucker fought with his button fly. The jeans slid down his thighs, pooling around his knees. The cool air hit his bare skin, followed instantly by the heat of their hands.
Chad’s hand was inside his briefs now, wrapping around his cock, which was fully hard and leaking. He stroked him, a clumsy, tight pull. Derek’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear and yanked them down. Finn was exposed, the neon light catching the smooth, hairless swell of his ass, the pink furl of his hole clenching instinctively in the open air.
“Fuck yeah,” Derek breathed. A spit-slicked thumb pressed rudely against his entrance, not entering, just rubbing hard, circling. “Pretty pink thing.”
Finn gasped, pushing back against the pressure. It was crude, it was rough, and it lit up his nerve endings. He was a live wire, arching between their hands.
And then he saw him.
In the doorway at the top of the short, crooked stairs, backlit by the chaotic party light, stood Marcus. He held a beer bottle, his grip so tight his knuckles were bone-white. His expression was unreadable, a dark mask carved from shadow and sharp angles. He wasn’t moving. Just watching.
For a second, Finn’s fever broke. Their eyes met across the smoky, throbbing room. Marcus’s gaze was a physical touch, colder than the wall, hotter than the hands on him. It wasn’t disapproval, exactly. It was something more primal—a possessive, simmering intensity that made Finn’s stomach flip.
The moment shattered.
Tucker dropped to his knees, his face level with Finn’s cock. “My turn,” he said, and without ceremony, took Finn deep into his mouth.
The wet, sucking heat was overwhelming. Finn cried out, his head thumping back against the concrete. Chad kept jerking him where Tucker’s mouth didn’t reach, a sloppy, dual sensation. Derek’s thumb was still working his hole, pressing harder, insistent.
“Think he’s ready?” Derek growled.
“Fuck him,” Chad panted, his own arousal evident as he rubbed his dick against Finn’s hip. “Use your fingers. Open him up.”
Derek’s thumb retreated. Finn heard the pop of a spittle-wet finger, then the blunt, insistent pressure against his hole again. This time, it pushed. It was dry, painful for a brilliant second, then the spit eased the way and the thick finger sank into him to the knuckle.
Finn shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound. It was a burn, a stretch, an invasion that tipped his pleasure into something sharper, darker. Tucker deep-throated him in time with Derek’s thrusting finger. The world narrowed to the push and pull, the grunting of the men around him, the smell of sweat and cheap beer and sex.
His eyes, blurred with pleasure, found the doorway again.
Marcus was gone.
A strange, hollow feeling punctured the haze of his arousal.