Chapter 9: Ryan wakes up
Brad’s bedroom smelled like a dense, humid soup of sweat, sex, and the faint metallic tang of cum.Both men were sweating, covered in each others cum and now Ryan, who 'didn't do men' was knocking on the bedroom door.
"He's probably still drunk" Mark said, quietly.
"You guys in there?" Ryan rattled the door knob. it was locked.
The door rattled again, followed by a muffled curse. Then, silence.
"We better get out there."
"There's a bathroom there," Brad pointed at a door in the opposite corner. "Wipe up or... I dunno. I'll tell him you left and I fell asleep?" He tried wiping his chest with the edge of the sheet. "I mean, it's not like he's gonna notice the cum stains in the dark."
Mark snorted, rolling off the bed and grabbing his jeans from the floor. "Yeah, because *that* won't be suspicious at all." He pulled them on, the denim sticking to his sweat-damp skin. "Just tell him the truth. We were fucking. He'll get over it."
Brad shot him a look as he tugged his own jeans up, the fabric straining over his thighs. "You *want* him to know?"
Mark shrugged. "Why not?
He's your friend, right? And he's a grown man. He can handle it." Mark zipped his jeans and grabbed his shirt from the floor, shaking out the wrinkles as best he could. "Besides, it's not like we were quiet."
Brad exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Yeah, well, Ryan's got a way of making things complicated. And he's already half-drunk and pissed off about something."
Mark pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his still-damp skin. "Then let him be pissed. It's not our problem." He glanced at the door, where Ryan's muffled cursing had faded into silence.
"Telling him right now won't help anybody. Not anybody." Brad sighed. I'll go. You stay here." Brad wiped his chest with the edge of the sheet again, but the cum was already drying into sticky patches. He sighed, tossing the sheet aside. "This is gonna be a mess."
Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Brad with a smirk. "You're the one who invited him in."
"Hard to say no, considering. Tonight was supposed to be about us and..."
Ryan pounded on the door. "Hey mutherfuckers! what the fuck you doin' in there? Fucking or something?"
Mark stifled a laugh.
"Or something."
Brad shot him a glare before running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. "Just—just stay quiet, okay?"
The pounding on the door came again, more insistent this time. "Brad! Open the fucking door before I kick it down!"
Mark raised an eyebrow. "He sounds serious."
Brad sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yeah, well, he’s drunk and probably pissed about something stupid." He glanced at the door, then back at Mark. "Just… stay here. I’ll handle him."
Mark shrugged, leaning against the wall. "Suit yourself."
Brad took a deep breath, then walked over to the door and unlocked it.
Ryan stumbled in, his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot. He was still wearing the same wrinkled button-down he’d had on earlier, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.
“Took you long enough,” Ryan slurred, squinting at Brad in the dim light. “Thought you two were dead in here or something.”
Brad forced a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, just passed out. You know how it is.”
Ryan’s gaze flicked past him, landing on Mark, who was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
His smirk was gone, replaced by a guarded expression. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the kind of musk that clung to the walls and sheets, impossible to ignore.
Ryan’s nostrils flared. “Oh.” His voice was flat, his eyes narrowing. “I see.”
Brad cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Look, man, it’s not—”
“Not what?” Ryan cut him off, his voice sharp. “Not what I thought? Or not what you *wanted* me to think?” He took a step forward, his movements unsteady. “You two were *fucking*.”
Mark pushed off the wall, his voice low. “Yeah.
We were fucking,” Brad said, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his gut. “So what?”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. He swayed slightly, the alcohol making his movements sluggish but his glare sharp. “So *what*? You two just decide to—what? Swap sides of the plate tonight?”
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose. “Nobody *swapped* anything. We were just having a good time.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked between them, lingering on the way Brad’s shirt clung to his damp skin, the way Mark’s hair was still tousled from being dragged through the sheets.
“A *good time*,” Ryan repeated, his voice flat. He took another unsteady step forward, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “That’s just *great*, Brad. Real *great*.”
Brad crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles tensing. “What’s your problem, man? You’ve seen me with plenty of girls. Why’s this different?”
Ryan’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Because it’s *you*, Brad.
It’s you and *him*.” Ryan jabbed a finger in Mark’s direction, his voice rising. “And it’s not just some drunken hookup—it’s *different*. You two were—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the image. “Fuck, I don’t even know what to call it.”
Mark smirked, leaning back against the wall with an easy confidence that only made Ryan’s scowl deepen. “Call it whatever you want, buddy. Doesn’t change the fact that we had a good time.”
Ryan’s face flushed, his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words.
The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but the confusion in his eyes was real. "You two just... *fucked*? Like that? No warning, no buildup, just—"
"Just what?" Mark cut in, his voice low and steady. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to Ryan, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light filtering through the blinds. "Just two guys who wanted each other and didn’t see a reason to overthink it?"
Ryan’s breath hitched. He wasn’t used to Mark being so direct, so *unapologetic*.
Ryan’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening. "You make it sound so simple," he muttered, his voice thick with something between anger and disbelief. "Like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s no big deal."
Mark shrugged, his muscles shifting beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. "It *is* simple. And yeah, it’s no big deal. Not to us, at least."
Brad exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ryan, come on. You’re making this way bigger than it needs to be."
Ryan’s gaze flicked between them, his expression unreadable.
The alcohol had dulled his edges, but something sharper glinted in his eyes—something that wasn’t just anger. It was something more complicated, more personal.
Mark crossed his arms, watching Ryan with a steady gaze. "You’re acting like we just committed a crime. We’re all adults here."
Ryan’s jaw tightened. "Yeah, well, some of us have standards."
Brad let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Standards? What the hell does that mean?"
Ryan’s face flushed deeper. "It means I didn’t expect to walk in on my two best friends fucking each other like a couple of horny teenagers."
Mark smirked. "Jealous?"
Ryan’s eyes flashed.
“Jealous? Of *this*?” He gestured wildly between them, his voice rising. “You think I’m jealous because you two —”
“To what?” Mark cut in, his tone sharp now, the easy confidence slipping into something harder. “To have a good time? To do something we both wanted?” He took a step forward, his broad frame towering over Ryan. “Or are you just pissed because you didn’t get an invitation?”
Ryan’s breath hitched. The words hung in the air between them, thick and heavy. For a second, the room was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint sound of Brad’s breathing.
Ryan’s face twisted.
He opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his lips. The truth of Mark’s words hung between them, sharp and undeniable. He *was* jealous. Not because he wanted Brad or Mark, but because he’d never had that kind of freedom—never let himself want something so recklessly, so *honestly*.
Brad watched the exchange, his fingers flexing at his sides. He knew Ryan well enough to see the conflict playing out behind his bloodshot eyes. The alcohol had stripped away his usual filters, leaving raw emotion exposed.
“Look,” Brad said, stepping between them. “We didn’t mean to—”
“To what?” Ryan snapped. “To hide it?
"Ryan, do you want to *do something*? With one of us, tonight? Is that what you're mad about right now?" Brad stepped in close, almost touching Ryan.
"Fuck no!"
"Are you sure? because we can, you and me. Or all three of us..." Brad began to unbutton his shirt.
"I said no." Ryan took a step back, and Mark made sure he bumped into him.
Ryan stumbled, and Mark caught him by the shoulders. "Easy there, buddy," Mark said, his voice low and steady. His hands lingered on Ryan's shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. "You're not gonna fall over on us now, are you?"
Ryan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He could feel the heat radiating off Mark's body, the strength in his grip. He wanted to pull away but found himself frozen, caught between the urge to run and the strange, unsettling pull of curiosity.
Mark’s hands were strong, steady, and Ryan could feel the callouses from years of weightlifting rough against his skin. The scent of sex still clung to the air—sweat and musk and something darker, something that made Ryan’s pulse jump.
Brad watched them, his shirt now fully unbuttoned, revealing the thick, tattooed muscles of his chest. He took another step closer, his bare feet silent on the carpet. "You sure about that, Ry?" His voice was low, almost a growl. "Because we don’t have to stop here. We can make this a night you’ll never forget."
Ryan’s breath came faster. He should walk away. He *should*.
But the way Brad’s tattooed chest flexed as he moved, the way Mark’s hands still gripped his shoulders—something in Ryan’s gut twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else entirely.
Brad smirked, stepping even closer until Ryan was sandwiched between them. "You’re overthinking it," Brad murmured, his breath warm against Ryan’s ear. "Just let go for once."
Ryan’s pulse pounded in his ears. He *hated* how good it felt—how safe it felt—being held like this. He’d spent his whole life pretending he didn’t want things like this. That he wasn’t curious. That he wasn’t *lonely*.
Ryan’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. The alcohol had dulled his edges, but it hadn’t erased the truth—he *wanted* this. Wanted to feel something real, something raw, something that didn’t require him to be the guy who never asked for what he needed.
Mark’s fingers flexed against Ryan’s shoulders, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "You’re thinking too much, Ry. Just *feel*."
Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. The heat of Mark’s body pressed against his back, the solid wall of Brad’s chest just inches from his face.
Brad reached out and put a hand on Ryan's hand.
"Ry...put your hand on my chest." As he said it, Brad lifted Ryan's hand toward his chest. He resisted, just a little.
"It's... I mean, you don't... "
"I'm asking you to. Will you?"
Brad held Ryan's hand, placed it on his right pec.
"See? The sky didn't fall, you didn't die. And I say, that's ok. Ok with me. Is is ok with you?" Brad asked, his voice low and steady. Ryan's hand was still on Brad's chest, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Ryan's fingers twitched, his breath coming faster.
"Yeah," Ryan finally whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's... it's okay."
Mark chuckled behind him, his hands still gripping Ryan's shoulders. "See? Not so bad, is it?" He could feel the steady thump of Brad's heartbeat beneath his palm, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. It was intimate, too intimate. But he didn't pull away. He couldn't. And then his fingers curled, felt the hard muscle under the fabric, under the warm, hairy skin. He felt the strength in Brad’s grip, holding his hand in place.
And he felt something else, too. Something deeper. Something that made his stomach tighten and his breath catch in his throat. He felt his own cock, growing. Fast. His heart was racing.
"I... I.. need a drink..."
Ryan’s voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He pulled his hand away from Brad’s chest, rubbing it against his thigh as if trying to erase the sensation. Ryan’s pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the distant hum of the refrigerator.
Brad smirked, his tattooed chest rising and falling with each breath. His voice was low, teasing. "Or are you just looking for an excuse to keep your hands off me?" He wanted to snap back, to push past them and storm out of the room, but his body betrayed him.
Then the hands on his shoulders moved. They moved down his arms, and began to turn him around. Now he was facing Mark. Mark was taller, better proportioned than Brad. Prettier. And he smelled like cum.
Ryan knew the smell, at least the smell of his own. It always gave him a hard on, without fail. And right that minute it was working. Mark looked down at Ryan's face.
"You want to leave Ryan, or do you want to stay. Honest, now. Which do you want, really?"
'Fuck."
Ryan exhaled sharply, his breath warm against Mark's chest. His fingers flexed at his sides, torn between the urge to shove them both away and the traitorous heat pooling low in his gut. The alcohol had loosened his tongue but not his instincts - and right now, his instincts were screaming at him to run.
Mark's hands were still on his shoulders, warm and heavy, grounding him in the moment. "You don't have to decide right now," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "But if you're gonna stay, you're gonna have to be honest with yourself." Mark's voice was soft but firm, his breath warm against Ryan's ear. "No more pretending you don't want this."
Ryan swallowed hard. His cock was already half-hard, pressing uncomfortably against his jeans. He could feel Brad's heat at his back, the solid wall of muscle that had always made him feel safe, even when it was intimidating. Mark's hands on his shoulders were different—stronger, more insistent, pulling him into a space he'd never allowed himself to enter.
"I don't know what I want," Ryan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The confession felt like a surrender, and he hated how weak it made him sound.
But the truth was, he *didn’t* know. Not anymore. The alcohol had stripped away his usual defenses, leaving him raw and exposed. And for the first time in years, he was letting himself *feel* instead of overthinking.
Mark’s fingers flexed against Ryan’s shoulders, his grip firm but not painful. “That’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “We can figure it out together.”
Brad, still standing close enough that Ryan could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest, smirked. “Or we could just stop thinking and start doing.”
Ryan’s breath hitched.
He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him, but it wasn’t suffocating—it was intoxicating. He could still taste the beer on his tongue, bitter and sharp, but beneath it was something else—something sweeter, something that made his stomach tighten.
Mark’s hands slid down Ryan’s arms, his calloused fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on his biceps. “You don’t have to decide right now,” Mark repeated, his voice low and steady. “But you *do* have to be honest with yourself. No more hiding.”
Ryan swallowed hard.
"I...need a drink."
"Lets go get you one then," Brad said. He moved to the door, expecting the other two to follow. They did. Ryan and last Mark.
Brad led the way down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The house was quiet now, the party long gone. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant drip of a leaky faucet broke the silence.
Ryan followed, his steps unsteady, his mind racing. He could still feel the ghost of Mark’s hands on his shoulders, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He didn’t know what he wanted—only that he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Brad led them into the kitchen, flicking on the overhead light. The fluorescent glow was harsh, casting long shadows across the counters.
And for Ryan, it revealed what he couldn't see in the dark. Three hard cocks straining at the fly of their jeans. And yes, the cum drying on Brad's chest. Brad hadn't even gotten his zipper up, and the bulge was that much more noticeable for it. Mark wasn't much more discrete. His jeans were thin material and a little loose. The tent in the front was obvious. Ryan looked down at himself. oh yeah, right side, Definitely the right side and hard all the way down past his pocket.
He looked up at Brad and Mark, both of whom were smirking at him like they'd won some kind of bet. Ryan's face burned hotter than the sun.
"Well, well, well," Brad drawled, leaning against the kitchen counter. His bare chest flexed as he crossed his arms, the tattoos rippling with the movement. "Looks like someone's having a little trouble deciding what he wants."
Mark chuckled, stepping closer to Ryan. The scent of sex and sweat clung to him, making Ryan's stomach tighten. "Like I said, you don't have to decide right now," Mark said, his voice low and steady. "But... it kinda looks like you already did. Or at least part of you already decided."
Brad stepped in. "Lets get you that drink, Ry. What do you want? We got water, ..." He opened the refrigerator. "And... beer. " He looked over at Ryan. "Not a lot of choices."
Ryan tried to laugh it off, but his voice came out hoarse and strained. The fluorescent kitchen light buzzed overhead like an angry insect, making his headache worse. He rubbed his temples, trying to ignore the way his cock still throbbed against his zipper.
Mark leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that Ryan could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Water's probably the smarter choice," Mark said, his voice low and teasing. "Unless you're trying to drown your thoughts in another six-pack."
Brad grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and tossed it to Ryan. "Here. Hydrate.
You look like you need it," Brad said, his smirk never wavering.
Ryan caught the bottle mid-air, his fingers brushing against Brad's as he did. The brief contact sent an electric jolt up his arm, and he quickly twisted the cap off with shaky hands. The cold water was a shock to his system, but he drank deeply, letting it cool the fire in his throat.
Mark watched him with amusement, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "Better?"
Ryan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah. Better."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken words.
Ryan set the water bottle down on the counter, his fingers lingering on the condensation-slicked plastic. The kitchen felt too bright, too exposed. He could still feel the ghost of Brad’s fingers brushing his, the way Mark’s gaze had lingered on him like a challenge.
Brad leaned back against the counter, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. "So," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "what’s the verdict, Ry? You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this, or are you gonna admit you’re curious?"
Ryan’s throat tightened. He wanted to snap back, to deny it, to walk out of the room and never look back.
But the words died in his throat. The truth was, he *was* curious. More than curious. He was *starving* for something he couldn’t even name.
Ryan swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the water bottle. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across Brad’s tattooed chest, the way his muscles shifted as he breathed. Mark stood beside him, arms crossed, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt. They were both watching him, waiting.
“Fuck,” Ryan muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin felt too hot, too tight. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
Brad pushing off the counter and stepping closer. Ryan glanced down as Brad stepped closer. He was bulging. He was hard.
"That's not an answer, Ry. You either want to stay or you don't."
Ryan's breath hitched. He could smell the musk of sex on Brad. He glanced at Mark, who was watching him with an unreadable expression, his arms still crossed over his chest. Ryan glanced down at Mark's crotch. Yeah, he was hard. Ryan adjusted himself. His own cock throbbed painfully against his zipper, betraying him.
Ryan swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the water bottle until the plastic creaked. He didn't want to admit it—not to them, not to himself—but the truth was written all over his body.
"Fuck," Ryan breathed again, this time quieter, more defeated. His voice cracked slightly, and he hated how vulnerable it made him sound. He could feel the weight of their gazes on him, heavy and expectant.
"You either want to stay or you don't."
Ryan's fingers trembled around the water bottle. He wanted to look away, to pretend this wasn't happening, but Brad's presence was overwhelming. The scent of sex and sweat clung to him, making Ryan's stomach clench. Brad stepped even closer, his bare chest brushing against Ryan's arm.
"If it matters, Ryan, I want you to stay. Stay and get past this... whatever it is. Fear? Whatever it is, you're welcome to stay, and I would like it."
Brad looked over at Mark. "How about you, Mark? do you want him to stay or go?"
"That's his decision, what he does." He paused. "But sure, I'd like him to stay and we can figure something out." Mark's voice was steady, but his eyes were locked on Ryan's, searching for signs of hesitation.
The air in the kitchen felt thick, charged with something more than just the lingering scent of sex and sweat.
Brad reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against Ryan’s wrist. "You don’t have to decide right now," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "But I want you to know that if you stay, we’ll take care of you. No pressure, no rush. Just whatever you’re comfortable with."
Ryan’s breath caught in his throat. The way Brad said it—so simple, so matter-of-fact—made it sound like the most natural thing in the world. Like this wasn't some kind of twisted betrayal, some secret he was supposed to keep buried. Like it was just another night, just another choice.
Mark stepped closer, his presence solid and grounding. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," he said, his voice steady. "But if you’re curious, we’re here. No judgment, no expectations. Just...whatever you feel like exploring."
Ryan exhaled sharply. His mind was racing, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Brad’s thumb traced slow circles on the inside of Ryan’s wrist, the touch light but deliberate. “You’re overthinking it,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Just feel.”
Ryan swallowed hard. He *was* overthinking it. He always overthought everything—his decisions, his words, his actions.
"What if I do... stay." he looked between the two men. "What happens... next?" Ryan's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a question he'd been afraid to ask for years.
Brad's smile was relieved, kind. "That's up to you, Ry. We're not gonna push you into anything." He glanced at Mark, who gave a subtle nod. "But if you're curious... we could show you what it feels like to let go."
Mark then stepped closer as well. His presence filling the space between them. "We aren't going to force anything, one way or the other. No pressure. No expectations. Just... whatever you... want to try." His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it—a challenge beneath the calm surface.
Ryan’s pulse jumped. "Anything?"