Brotherly Love

Brotherly Love

By: Spectrotica247

...

Summary:

Noah Aston desperately needs some sexual relief from another guy, but remains closeted due to living in a conservative, heteronormative town. His older brother Tyler however has been noticing the signs, leading them to a fateful evening when he decided to be the guy to satisfy his little bro's sexual cravings.

Main Characters:

Noah Aston: 14 years old, Caucasian cis male, chocolate brown crew-cut hair, hazel brown eyes, he's slender, not yet having developed the broad shoulders or the muscular frame that was the hallmark of the Aston men. Cock size: 5 inches and circumcised.

Tyler Aston: 17 years old, Caucasian cis male, swept-forward sandy blonde hair and a faint 5 'o clock shadow, sky-blue eyes, has a strong face that held the Southern rural charm, his broad shoulders and athletic physique were a testament to his dedication to football. Cock size: 6 inches and circumcised.

CONTENT WARNING!

This story is 18+ and may involve themes of incestuous sex between two underage brothers. If this story offends you, or if you live in an area where it is outlawed, or if you're under the legal age, then please do not read and click yourself out of this site, just to save yourself from a life of sin. This is supposed to be 100% fictional, any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely accidental. Thank you!

- Spectrotica247

Chapter One - "My Brother"

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Noah Aston was a shy Caucasian 14-year-old high school freshman with a mop of short, milk chocolate brown hair styled in a short crew-cut. His eyes, a deep shade of hazel, often searched the corners of his room for solace, as if the walls themselves could whisper back the answers to the questions he dared not speak aloud. The town where they attend high school, 9 miles away from their home, was a patchwork quilt of traditions and beliefs, woven tightly to keep out the cold whispers of change, leaving Noah to navigate his burgeoning desires alone. He was lanky, indeed, but not quite fitting into the 'athletic' or 'skinny' molds that his peers occupied, but rather hovered somewhere in between, a canvas of potential that hadn't quite painted itself into a clear picture.

Tyler Aston, Noah's 17-year-old older brother, was the polar opposite of Noah, an epitome of the all-American heartthrob. With a chiseled jaw decorated with light stubble, sun-kissed skin, and swept-forward sandy blonde hair that defied gravity and a broad, athletic body that spoke of hours spent on the football field and at the gym, Tyler was the poster boy for their high school's rural charm. His sky blue eyes and easy smile had earned him the title of 'Golden Boy' among the townsfolk, and the envy of many of his peers. His athletic prowess was matched only by his popularity, and his confidence seemed to radiate from every pore. As a junior and the star quarterback, Tyler would navigate the hallways of their high school with the ease and confidence of someone who knew they belonged.

Noah and Tyler Aston shared a bond that transcended their three-year age gap. Despite their differences, Tyler had always looked out for his younger brother, protecting him from the schoolyard bullies and offering guidance when needed. Their relationship was marked by a mix of playful rivalry and unspoken understanding, a dance of sibling dynamics that had been honed over the years.

Growing up on their family's rural ranch, they had learned to rely on each other, working side by side in the fields, and navigating the complexities of adolescence together. Yet, even in this closeness, Noah's secret remained unspoken, a silent barrier that Tyler had not yet recognized. As Noah grew more withdrawn, Tyler noticed the subtle changes in his behavior, the furtive glances at his phone, the sudden mood swings, and the occasional sadness that clouded his eyes. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely up with Noah, and he was determined to find out what it was.

One Saturday evening when their parents weren't home, Noah retreated to the porch, the familiar creak of the old wooden boards beneath him a comforting soundtrack to his solitude. Noah and Tyler's parents were visiting their aunt Margaret in the neighboring county—a mercy mission after her emergency appendectomy. Her farmhouse had no reliable phone signal, and their father's truck radio crackled with static even on clear days. They'd be gone until Sunday noon, minimum. Tyler knew this because he'd overheard his Ma stressing over her sister's "requirements contracts" with the feed supplier while packing casseroles into coolers. "Nonstolen beef," she'd muttered, referencing Margaret's ongoing feud with the butcher. For Tyler, it meant freedom. For Noah... alone on the porch?

The early evening sky painted a canvas of pinks and oranges, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the sprawling ranch. He sat cross-legged on the swing, his eyes tracing the patterns of the fading light as it danced with the shadows of the swaying trees. His thoughts swirled like the dust kicked up by a distant tractor, a cacophony of emotions he didn't quite know how to process.

As the last remnants of sunlight kissed the horizon, Tyler sauntered out onto the porch, a wad of tobacco in his mouth. He sat down next to Noah, his boots thumping against the wooden planks. The sound of the chewing filled the space between them as he leaned back on the steps, the wood creaking in protest. He spat a dark stream of juice into the empty beer bottle he'd brought with him, the act a silent signal of his intent to unwind.

Noah's gaze flickered to Tyler, unable to resist the subtle pull of his brother's masculine allure. The strong line of Tyler's jaw, the way his muscles flexed as he chewed, the faint scent of sweat and cologne—it was all intoxicating.

He felt his heart quicken and a warmth spread through his body that had nothing to do with the evening's gentle summer breeze. He was drawn to the way the fading light played with the blonde hairs on Tyler's forearms and the way his polo shirt stretched taut over his broad chest. Noah's thoughts grew hazy, his secret desires momentarily overpowering his usual shyness and self-consciousness. He wondered if Tyler could ever understand what he was going through, if he could ever look at him the same way.

The moment Noah's eyes met Tyler's, he felt exposed, as if the very air around them had thickened with his unspoken truth. He quickly averted his gaze, staring instead at the dust particles dancing in the last rays of the setting sun. Tyler, noticing his brother's discomfort, paused mid-chew and swiveled his head to face him.

"Hey, lil' bro," Tyler drawled, his Southern accent a comforting lilt in the quiet evening air. "Ya've been actin' kinda weird lately. What's got ya twisted up?" He studied Noah's averted gaze, the tension in his shoulders, and the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Concern etched lines into Tyler's otherwise carefree expression as he waited for a response.

Noah's heart skipped a beat as the spiked blonde teen spoke, the question slicing through the serene silence like a hot knife through butter. He stared down at his hands, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, trying to compose himself.

"What do ya mean, Tyler?" Noah finally managed to ask, his own Southern drawl mirroring his brother's in a high pitched, boyish sound that hadn't yet settled into the deeper tones of manhood. It sounded thin, almost fragile in the twilight air, like a creek bed drying up under summer heat. Noah hated it. He hated how it betrayed his age, how it made him feel small next to Tyler's resonant baritone. His eyes remained glued to his fidgeting hands, unable to meet his older brother's gaze.

Tyler studied his 14-year-old brother intently, his gaze piercing through the facade of indifference. He could see the anxiety coiled in the tightness of the young teen's shoulders, the way his fingers picked at the fabric of his shirt. With a sigh, Tyler took the tobacco out of his mouth and placed it on the edge of the bottle.

"I mean," he began, choosing his words with care, "ya've bin' mopin' around, not laughin' lak ya used to. Heck, ya've bin' lockin' yer door most days, spendin' a whole lot of time alone, more than usual. 'n ya've got these... looks own yer face, lak ya're thinkin' about somethin' real serious."

"Nah, Tyler," Noah replied, trying to play off his brother's observation with a casual shrug. "It's all fine, really."

"Listen," Tyler said, nodding toward the empty driveway where their parents' truck usually sat. "Ma 'n Pa ain't comin' back 'til tomorrow noon at the earliest, you know that? Nobody's gonna hear us out he-yah." He spat another dark stream of tobacco juice into the bottle. "Just you 'n me. Whole house empty as a church own Monday. So whatever's eatin' at ya? Ain't lak anybody's gonna know but meh."

"It's just school stress, ya know how it is." He offered a forced smile, hoping to convince Tyler that everything was normal.

The older Aston ain't no fool of course. The doubt in his eyes remained steadfast, his gaze unwavering. "Come own, man, I know somethin's up with ya. Ya got the look of someone who's... I dunno," he paused, searching for the right words, "keepin' somethin' to themselves. Somethin' they needed to git off their chest." His voice was firm but gentle, the king of tone reserved for handling delicate situations.

The blonde-haired jock knew he was treading on sensitive ground, but the bond between them was strong, and he was determined to offer support. "Look, I know this ain't about yer grades. But if they-yur's anythin' goin' own, ya can talk to meh. I'm he-yah fo-wah ya, buddy."

In Noah's mind, a cacophony of thoughts clamored for his attention. He knew the risks of opening up in a town where the whispers of the wind could carry secrets to everyone's ears. He'd seen the way the other boys at school treated those who were different, who liked the same things Noah liked. The whispers in the locker room, the cruel jibes thrown over lunch trays, the isolation that followed.

As he sat there, his heart racing, Noah talked to himself internally, trying to piece together the words that would explain his feelings without shattering their bond. Should I tell him? he thought, his mind racing. I don't know... What if he doesn't git it? What if he doesn't accept meh?

Noah was acutely aware of the progress the country had made regarding LGBTQ+ rights over the past decades—same-sex marriage federally legalized by the U.S. Supreme Court, rainbow pride flags displaying in cities, and celebrities coming out without much fuss. But here in Texas, deeply rooted in the Bible Belt, especially down here in the rural south... progress felt like a rumor in the air of homophobic prejudice. Church signs still warned of hellfire for "unnatural acts", conversion therapy still legal in the state, and at school, words like "faggot" got tossed around like dodge balls during gym class. Speaking of gym, just last week, Coach Warren had joked about "keeping things straight" during drills, and everyone laughed like it was nothing.

Coming out could mean facing a storm of hostility from the community, one that Noah's family might not be prepared for. Despite the fear, the weight of his secret grew heavier by the day, threatening to suffocate him in the very place he should have felt safe—his own home, with his own brother.

But being Tyler's little brother for 14 years of his life, Noah knew he wasn't like the others. He had always been his rock, his protector. Yet, even with all the love and trust between them, could he dare to reveal his true self?

Noah's eyes searched the horizon, avoiding Tyler's probing gaze. "I don't know, Ty," he replied, his voice barely audible. "I've just bin'... feelin' different, I guess."

The 17-year-old's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to Noah, curiosity written all over his face. He took a pinch of tobacco from his pouch, placed it in his mouth, and began to chew again, the motion thoughtful and deliberate. "Different, huh?" he pressed gently. "How so? Ya can tell me anythin', ya know that."

"Just... hormones, I think. Ya know, puberty stuff." The brown-haired teen kept his response vague, hoping it would be enough to satisfy his brother's curiosity without giving way too much away.

Tyler nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah, I get it," he said, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "It's about girls, right? That's what's got y'all riled up?" He spat into the bottle again, winking at Noah.

"Huh," The younger Aston turned to him, taken aback.

"Don't worry, lil' bro, I've been there. I know what guys yer age goes through. Girls can drive ya crazy." Tyler chuckled, remembering his own tumultuous journey through puberty. "Who's the lucky girl, huh?"

Noah felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He hadn't expected Tyler to jump to that conclusion, and for a moment, he contemplated playing along. But the lie felt heavy on his tongue, a burden he didn't want to carry into their conversation. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the truth that was about to spill out.

"It's... it's not about girls, Ty," he finally murmured, his eyes flicking up to meet Tyler's for a brief second before dropping back down to his trembling hands. The silence between them grew thick with anticipation, only the chirping sounds of crickets surrounding the brothers.

"Not about girls, huh?" Tyler drawled with a confused frown. "What do ya mean, then?"

The tension grew as Noah's mind raced, trying to find the right way to express his truth. "It's about... guys," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, a confession that felt both liberating and terrifying. "I think... I think I might be... gay, Ty," His hazel eyes remained glued to the floorboards of the porch, unable to meet his spiked blonde-haired older brother's gaze.

The world seemed to stop spinning for a beat, the only sound the distant hum of the crickets. Tyler's hand paused mid-air, the tobacco forgotten. He looked at Noah, really looked at him, and in that moment, the love and protectiveness he felt for his younger brother swelled in his chest. He took a deep breath, his heart racing, and reached out to gently squeeze Noah's shoulder.

Tyler's expression shifted from confusion to one of solemn realization. He took a moment, his thumb rubbing over the fabric of Noah's shirt in a comforting circle. "Ya mean, ya lak... other guys?" He asked, his voice gentle, trying to keep any judgment at bay.

Noah nodded, his eyes still downcast. "Yeah," he murmured. "I do."

The two brothers were quiet for a moment. Tyler's mind raced with questions and concerns, but the one that surfaced most was how Noah must have felt, carrying this burden alone in a town that wasn't quite ready to embrace such truths. Well, shit, he thought, I had no idea THAT'S what was goin' own. How could I not know?

He leaned in closer, his arm sliding around Noah's shoulders in a reassuring embrace. "It's okay, buddy," he said, his voice even. "Ya're still the same Noah to meh."

The younger brother's eyes shot up to meet Tyler's with hope swimming in their depths. "This doesn't bother ya?" he asked tentatively, his voice shaking with the weight of his secret.

"No, of course not, Noah," Tyler said, his voice firm and gentle. "What matters is that ya're mah brother. 'n I love ya, no matter who ya lak. Didja really reckon I'd turn own ya, beat ya up, 'n call ya a faggot?" He scoffed, his tone one of disbelief that Noah could ever doubt their bond. "I ain't that kinda guy, I don't swing that way." He paused, giving Noah's shoulder a squeeze.

He paused, giving Noah's shoulder a squeeze. "But I do need to understand, okay?" Tyler continued, his voice measured and calm. "This town ain't exactly... friendly 'bout stuff like that. I gotta look after ya, lil' bro. Make sure yer safe." His sky-blue eyes scanned the darkening horizon as if assessing invisible threats. "Who else knows?"

"Nobody," Noah tensed when he answered. "... Ya gonna tell Ma 'n Pa?"

"Not unless ya want me to," Tyler said firmly. "But listen—" He shifted, turning fully toward Noah. The fading light caught the earnestness in his sky-blue eyes. "Ya can't keep this bottled up, lil' bro. Ain't healthy. Trust me, I've seen guys snap from less." He spat tobacco juice into the bottle with a sharp tink. "And I ain't like those assholes at school who talk shit 'bout anyone different. Swear on Mama's Bible."

"But... do ya even know anyone who's queer 'round here?" Noah's voice cracked, thin and desperate. "Because it feels lak I'm the only one in the whole damn county."

Tyler chewed thoughtfully, tobacco juice staining his lower lip. "Well... ain't gonna lie, lil' bro. It's real quiet 'round these parts 'bout that stuff." He spat into the bottle again. "But..." A slow sudden grin spread across his handsome face. "I reckon I know a few folks. Like..."

He counted on calloused fingers: "There's Mr. Perez—the old librarian? Quiet fella, lives alone with all them books. Saw him once at the county fair holdin' hands with another man under the bleachers. Real subtle-like." Tyler snorted. "Then there's this girl with a short pixie, Joan Reed, senior at the time I was a freshman. Wears flannel shirts, dated girls openly, got suspended once for punchin' a kid who called her a dyke when they're tryin' to grope her girlfriend." He places his elbow on his knee. "Badass chick. Still works at the feed store."

Noah's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Swear on Papaw's grave." The blonde brother said, leaning back against the swing's armrest and looks up at the porch ceiling. "The thing is bro, with girls like Joan... sometimes they get a pass 'round he-yah, even when they-yer simply holdin' hands. Folks would whisper 'bout her bein' a 'confused tomboy' and shit, but mostly leave her be. But with guys..." He shook his head, shadows deepening the lines around his mouth. "Can't say the same. Most of 'em ain't open 'bout it, otherwise they'd get shoved into lockers or called 'faggots' to their face. Unless..."

Noah bents forward, elbows digging into his knees. "Unless what?"

"Unless ya're built lak a brick shithouse and nobody dares mess with ya." Tyler's grin turned wolfish. "Like Bobby Shaeffer. Senior last year? That linebacker who bench-pressed three-fifty?"

Noah's mouth was in an 'O' shape with wide eyes when he nods his head slowly. Everyone knew Bobby. The same guy who used to ride the same bus as the Aston brothers, six-foot-four, shoulders like a bull, and a permanent scowl that made even older students piss themselves. You can imagine how relieved Noah was when the hulking menace had already completed high school when he started 9th grade.

"Okay, so," Tyler's began. "Last spring, the Abdul twins were throwin' a party at their farm, a supervised one. Ya know, where the parents were inside watchin' NASCAR?"

Noah nodded, remembering the faint music drifting across the fields that night. He isn't much of a party person himself, preferring solitude over crowds. Hearing stories like this before, the boy with crew-cut brown hair can tell where this is going.

"Me 'n the fellahs slipped out to mah truck bay-ehd fo-wah a case of Coors when we heard distant noises comin' from the Abdul family RV parked near the cornfield." A snicker escaped the older Aston brother. "Curtain was cracked, so we took a peak. 'n wouldn't ya know it, they-yur was Shaeffer himself, leanin' back own the couch bare assed, belt undone, legs spread. 'n kneelin' between 'em? Liam Abdul, his own favorite punchin' bag. Workin' own him lak his life depended own it."

WHAT!? Noah's jaw dropped, finding this hard to believe. The same Bobby Shaeffer who would pick on any vulnerable boy on the bus if they look 'sissy' enough? "But... didn't Bobby dated Liam's twin sister Sarah? The cheer captain ya told meh about?"

"Yeah." Tyler spat tobacco juice into the bottle while laughing. "Turns out Sarah dumped Bobby earlier that night 'cause he kept pushin' fo-wah sex, sayd he was 'obsessed'. Poor bastard was so drunk that he was desperate, pent-up lak a bull en ruttin' season. So when his ex's own twin brother, the skinny kid Bobby shoved into lockers daily, offered him a 'private chat' en the RV... well, Shaeffer didn't say no."

Tyler moved close to his 14-year-old brother to whisper, despite that no one else is around to hear. "Didn't think we'd be watchin' through that crack en the curtain, Noah. Bobby's head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, not barkin' orders... just buckin' his hips, gaspin' 'oh fuck, oh fuck', had one hand grippin' the beer can 'n the other tangled en Liam's hair while that kid sucked him." he shook his head, still amused. "Total different dude. Lak watchin' a bear turn into a whinin' puppy."

Noah's mind reeled. Bobby Shaeffer—the terror of their school bus, the embodiment of brute force—reduced to shuddering ecstasy by the very boy he tormented. The hypocrisy was staggering, almost laughable.

"But... Liam?" the younger boy whispered, picturing the quiet, lanky twin with glasses perpetually sliding down his nose. "Why would he...?"

Tyler chuckled darkly, leaning back against the arm set with a cough. "We thought the same thin' at first—figured Liam was finally standin' up to that bully, tryin' to talk some sense into him or somethin'. But nah. Turns out Liam'd bin' itchin' to git a taste of a boy's cock fo-wah who knows how long. Saw his chance when Bobby was drunk 'n pissed off 'bout Sarah. Didn't look lak no act of bravery through that curtain, Noah. Looked lak hunger." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Liam wasn't just doin' it 'cause he had to. He was savorin' it. Lak Bobby was his last meal."

The porch swing creaked as Noah shifted, pulse hammering in his ears. The look on Tyler's face sharpened, studying his brother's flushed face. "Point is," he murmured, "while some quiet ones lak Liam got the fiercest hunger, some toughest, meanest beasts lak Bobby got needs that prefers no pussy." He turned his head slowly, sky-blue eyes locking onto Noah's hazel ones. "But Bobby ain't exactly a role model, Noah. Guy was a hypocrite—tormentin' others fo-wah what he craved himself. That's why we kept quiet 'bout what we saw, because who the hell would have the balls to expose Shaeffer? Not meh."

With icy clarity, Noah grasped his brother's meaning. Bobby Shaeffer's stature served as armor, protecting him from violence and mockery, so he could revel in secret. If there were ever any rumors, Bobby's reputation and fists would put an end to it right away. However, Noah? The fourteen-year-old child is lanky and still struggles with limb coordination. The heft, the intimidation, the sheer presence that caused jocks to hesitate was absent from him. There wouldn't be any leniency if others learned about him. Every nasty remark, every shove into lockers, and every slur that reverberates along halls would be practiced on him. His throat constricted. He wasn't made to be spared like Bobby was.

He sadly reply to Tyler, "Yeah... I ain't built lak Bobby." with his shoulders slumped as he stared at his thin arms. "If anyone found out 'bout me... I'd be dead meat. Folks 'round he-yah... they'd treat meh lak some kinda freak."

Tyler places his hand on his brown-haired brother's knee and firmly grips it, looking at him in the eye. "Then ya don't let 'em find out, not 'til ya ready." he said fiercely. "But hear meh clear, Noah—ya ain't wrong for feelin' this way. Ain't sick, ain't broken. Just... wired different than most 'round he-yah. Even though this town'd rather live in the Stone Age, scratchin' dirt 'n prayin' for rain, there's still folks lak ya existing 'n survivin'. Hidden, yeah, but breathin'. Like Mr. Perez buryin' his nose in books 'stead of facin' whispers. Like Liam swallowin' his pride along with Bobby's cum just to taste somethin' real. They-yer buildin' lives in the cracks, Noah. Quiet lives, but lives all the same."

Noah stared at his brother with some relief, the unspoken walls of his secret now crumbling away under the warmth of Tyler's understanding. "Thanks, Ty," he murmured, laced with emotion. "I just... didn't know how ya'd take it, ya know?"

"Well, now ya do," The blonde teen said with a grin showing his pearly whites, ruffling Noah's hair. It was kinda annoying for Noah that Tyler still gives him head ruffles even though he's no longer a little kid, but he felt it's at least better than having a closed-minded brother who would roughly push him and call him a 'fag' in reaction to him coming out.

"Alright, Noah," Tyler continued, patting his brother's back before standing up, "Let's go own en 'n grab us a couple of beers. Ya can tell meh all about this fellah who's got y'all tied up en knots, yeah?" He winked and led the way into the house, his stride confident despite the gravity of their conversation.

The two Aston brothers stood up from the porch steps, the wooden boards creaking in protest as they moved. As they headed towards the trailer house, Tyler threw his arm around Noah's shoulders in a familiar embrace that spoke volumes of acceptance and support.

Inside, Tyler led the way to the fridge, grabbing two cold beers. He popped them open with a hiss and handed one to Noah. "Here, consider this yer 'comin' out' party starter pack. Ma and Pa are out, so it's just us."

Noah's heart pounded as Tyler handed him the cold, perspiring beer, his mind racing with the excitement of this newfound rite of passage. It was his first time, a secret shared only between the two of them, a bonding moment that felt both illicit and incredibly liberating. Huh... First I tell mah brother I'm gay, 'n now he wants meh to have beer fo-wah the first time without Ma 'n Pa knowin'? Shit, how lucky is mah day getting? Finally, I won't have to feel left out anymore.

He had seen their parents crack open a cold one after a long day of work, the amber liquid a symbol of the freedom that came with adulthood. He remembered the day their father had decided Tyler was old enough to join them, a rite of passage that had occurred when Tyler turned 15. It was a memory etched in his mind, watching Tyler's proud smile as he took his first sip under their dad's approving gaze, the warm camaraderie between them palpable. And now, here he was, about to share that very same experience with his brother, only the context was vastly different, and the significance of the moment weighed heavier on his heart.

The brothers settled into the worn leather couch in the living room, the TV flickering in the background with the muted sounds of a basketball game. Tyler took a swing of his beer. "So, who's the fellah?" the jock asked.

Noah took a deep breath, his cheeks flushing with a mix of nervousness and excitement. "There isn't really a fellah," the younger teen admitted. "Not yet. It's just... I've been havin' these feelings, and I don't know how to deal with them."

Tyler nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Well damn, Noah," he said, "that's gotta be tough." He took another sip of his beer, his blue eyes never leaving his younger brother's.

"It's just... it's hard to imagine bein' with anyone, ya know." he spoke with a low tone. "With everyone en town bein' so... close-minded. I caint just walk up to some fellah 'n say 'hey, wanna fool around'." He took a tentative sip of his own beer, for the first time, and grimaced at the taste that's nothing short of bitter and foreign on his tongue. Ugh... God, that shit's stronger than 'em Warheads sour candy! I don't know how the fuck can ANYONE stand this drink! He thought with disgust. It would take him a while to get used to this kind of beverage.

"It's an acquired taste, Noah. First sip's always rough." Tyler drawled with a chuckle, watching his brother's reaction to the beer. "But it's not about the taste. It's about the buzz, and the bond it creates."

He placed a reassuring hand on Noah's shoulder. "But yeah, bro, I know it's hard," he said with a sigh, understanding the gravity of the situation as he leaned back into the couch and takes a swing of his beer. "Texas ain't exactly the most welcomin' place fo-wah fellahs who are different, who don't fit the mold," The blonde offered a gentle smile, considering his words carefully, hoping to ease some of the weight that had settled on Noah's shoulders. "But that don't mean ya gotta hide who ya are forever. I'm he-yah fo-wah ya, man. No judgement, no bullshit."

The younger Aston nodded slowly. "I know, Ty," he sighed. "It's just... I've bin' feelin' so alone with this, ya know? Lak I'm the only one." He took another sip of the beer, grimacing slightly less this time as the bitterness became more familiar. The cool liquid felt grounding, a small anchor in the swirling sea of his thoughts.

Tyler decided to spice the conversation, elbows resting on his knees, the beer bottle dangling loosely between his fingers. "So... what's it lak?" he asked softly, genuine curiosity in his voice. "When ya see a guy ya think is... y'know. Hot."

Noah's cheeks turned scarlet. Tyler's sudden question had caught him off guard. Tracing the condensation on his bottle, he fidgeted. He muttered, "It's... hard to explain. Although appearances have a role, it's more than that. It's their laughter, their voice, their movements. Occasionally..." Feeling vulnerable, he gulped. "It can feel lak a kick to the stomach at times. As if I'm havin' trouble breathing, 'n then mah mind goes... elsewhere."

"Places?" Tyler prompted gently, his blue eyes steady and non-judgmental.

Noah ducked his head. "Yeah. Like... imaginin' what it'd be lak to touch 'em. To kiss 'em. To..." He risked a glance at Tyler. "Does that... disgust ya?"

Tyler snorted softly. "Disgust meh? Nah, lil' bro. If I was, I wouldn't be talkin' 'bout Bobby Shaeffer gettin' his dick sucked, nor would I be sittin' here askin'. Sounds lak... well, just bein' a teenage boy." He took a long pull from his beer, some of the liquid dripping onto his jeans. "Just... aimed different, is all. When I see a girl I lak, mah mind goes places too. Places that'd make Pastor Jeff faint dead away."

The brown-haired Aston managed a weak chuckle. The tension eased slightly, replaced by a strange intimacy. He watched Tyler's throat work as he swallowed, the strong line of his jaw illuminated by the flickering TV light. That familiar punch-to-the-gut sensation hit him again, stronger this time. He quickly looked away, heat flooding his face.

Silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts. Tyler shifted on the couch, his brows furrowed. For some reason, he seemed to be wrestling with something. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Listen... ya said ya ain't got nobody. That ya feel... pent up."

Noah nodded mutely, staring intently at the label peeling off his beer bottle.

Another pause, heavier than the last. Tyler ran a hand through his spiky blonde hair, a nervous gesture Noah rarely saw. "This might sound crazy," the older Southern teen began, his voice now sounded lower and rougher than before. "But... if ya need... relief..." He trailed off, unable to meet Noah's suddenly wide-eyed gaze. "Fuck, j-just forget I said anythin'."

But Noah hadn't forgotten. The words have already been said. 'Relief' he said? He saw Tyler's hand shaking while gripping firmly around his beer bottle.

"Ty..." Noah called his name. "What... what're ya sayin'?"

Tyler's fierce, tormented sky-blue eyes finally met his. "I'm sayin'... I see how much it hurts ya. How alone ya feel. 'n I hate it." His elbows were once more on his knees as he leaned forward. "I ain't... like that. Girls all the way fo-wah meh. But..." He swallowed hard. "I-I know yer mah brother... But if... if I just help ya out once..." He couldn't finish the sentence, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the thought. "Shit, Noah. Forget it. It's wrong. It's messed up."

This now made it harder for Noah to ignore. They seeds had been planted. The statement "if I just help ya out once" coming out of Tyler's mouth could only mean one thing: his powerful hands—the ones that flung footballs and tousled his hair—touching him in that manner. He felt a shock of unadulterated, frightful need, followed instantly by crippling shame. He glanced at Tyler, his hero, his guardian, the brother who had recently taken him in when he most feared being rejected. Suffocating need and the deeply embedded taboo were at odds inside of him.

The quiet grew intolerable. The basketball game's subdued applause was startlingly inappropriate. Thin and strained, Noah found his voice. "Ya... ya'd do that? Fo-wah meh?"

Tyler flinched as if struck by lightening. He stared at the worn carpet, jaw clenched. "I dunno," he admitted gruffly. "I just... hate seein' ya suffer. Locked up inside yerself." He finally lifted his gaze, his expression emotionally raw. "But it ain't simple, Noah. It changes thin's. Forever. 'n... what if I ain't... what if I can't..." He gestured vaguely, frustration etching lines on his face. "What if I traumatize ya?"

Noah saw the vulnerability in Tyler's eyes, the fear of failing his brother in this unimaginable way. It mirrored his own terror. The next move, the next word, felt like stepping off a cliff.

He also had to admit, he did think about Tyler... in a way that a sibling shouldn't. Flickers, although not frequently or compulsively. Imagine those powerful hands performing things that shouldn't be done in the middle of the night while entangled in sweaty sheets. Upon witnessing Tyler without a shirt after mowing the yard, his muscles flexing beneath his rich tan skin, a forbidden spark would erupt, swiftly extinguished by embarrassment.

But the one image that turns on Noah the most: his brother downstairs in the basement last summer, shirtless, sweat sheening his broad back as he lifted heavy weights. The rhythmic clank of iron plates, the low grunts of exertion, the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched and flowed. Noah had been pretending to organize old fishing tackle, stealing glances, feeling that forbidden punch-to-the-gut sensation until it became a desperate, aching throb low in his belly. He'd told Tyler he wanted to start lifting too, just to be near him like that.

The rhythmic clank of iron plates echoed in Noah's memory—Tyler's low grunts and husky pants during workouts always sent forbidden sparks through him. But the hottest sounds burned deeper: thick, ragged moans Noah once overheard through Tyler's bedroom wall one night last October, when Veronica, his older brother's ex-girlfriend, was over. Tyler's voice had been strained, primal. "Fuck... yeah... right there..." Noah imagined the sweat-slicked muscles he'd seen lifting weights now driving into Veronica. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin, Tyler's guttural groan as he came—it haunted Noah's lonely nights. He'd stroke himself then, biting his lip to stay silent, imagining he was the reason Tyler sounded like that.

How could he think such sinful thoughts like that? Tyler was supposed to be looked at as his hero, his defender, the one who taught him how to toss a football and deterred bullies. It was like corrupting something sacred to think about him in that way. He'd lock away those images, deep down, hoping they'd vanish.

But today, Tyler's sudden offer had ripped open that box.

Noah stared at his brother—the quarterback jawline, the tiny hairs of his faint stubble, the corded muscle visible beneath the thin cotton of his worn t-shirt. The forbidden spark roared into an inferno, fueled by Tyler's hesitant words. He kept lying to himself that it was just admiration, brotherly pride. Well he can't lie now.

"Ty..." The younger Southern boy broke the silence. "It... it ain't just random guys," He stared at his beer bottle, the label blurring. "Most of the time... lately... when I git these feelin's... it's..."

Silence crashed down. Noah couldn't look up as he was bracing himself for disgust, for fury, for his 17-year-old blonde-haired brother to recoil and call him sick. The shame was a physical weight crushing his chest.

Tyler's expression shifting from discomfort to intense focus. "It's what, Noah? Spit it out."

Noah forced himself to continue, not wanting his brother to become impatient. "It's... it's been you, Ty. Mostly you." He blurted out, still not looking at the older boy he isn't supposed to lust for. "When ya lift weights downstairs... shirt off 'n sweatin', I'd say I wanted to train with ya... but really? I just... I wanted to watch. To be close. To..." His skin burned brighter than any Texan sun, unable to say the rest - to touch ya, to feel that strength against meh.

He didn't hear Tyler make any moves, nor a word come out of his mouth. He can tell that he's in shock. Can he blame him? Incest is a taboo subject, something that could shatter the normalcy of their family.

"I know we're brothers... 'n it's sick of meh to think lak that." the hazel-eyed 14-year-old continued. "I know it's wrong. God, Ty, I'm sorry..."

Seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, slowly, there was a sound of a beer bottle placed down on the scarred coffee table, followed by a quiet, shaky intake of breath.

"Jesus, Noah." Tyler's deep voice was stripped bare of its usual confidence, rough with an emotion Noah couldn't name. Not disgust. Not anger. Something else—astonishment? Pain? "Me? Ya... think 'bout me, yer own big brother, lak that?"

Noah ventured a look. Tyler wasn't flinching away. His blue eyes were wide and searched Noah's face with an almost physical intensity as he stared at him. There was no disdain. Rather, Noah witnessed a flash of... vulnerability? Accompanied by a sudden, terrible awareness. Acknowledgment?

"Yeah," Noah whispered, the single word costing him everything. "I try not to. I-I... I honestly hate myself fo-wah it. But... yeah."

Tyler didn't speak for a long moment. He looked down at his own hands, calloused from football and ranch work, then slowly back up at Noah. The playful jock, the protective older brother, seemed momentarily stripped away, replaced by someone grappling with a profound, unsettling reality. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly.

"Yeah," the first-born Aston respond, his voice stripped bare. "I knew somethin' was off. The way ya'd stare when I was sweatin' after practice—eyes all locked on mah shoulders or arms. Thought maybe ya was jealous of the muscle." He gave a hollow chuckle. "Didn't... didn't wanna admit it felt... different. Hotter."

He met Noah's shocked gaze head-on, his eyes half-lidded. "Not me bein' hot... Christ, that sounds vain, but the look. The hunger in it. Like ya wanted to... devour somethin'. Made mah skin prickle. Felt powerful. Wrong, but... fuck, Noah. Exciting."

He scooted closer, placing his hand on Noah's knee. "That's why I offered. Partly 'cause I hate seein' ya twisted up inside. Partly 'cause..." He swallowed hard, the admission raw. "...'cause that look? It does somethin' to me. Makes mah blood pump faster. Ain't about boys. It's about... bein' wanted like that. By you. Feels like winnin' the damn state championship times ten." He shook his head, disbelief warring with a fierce protectiveness. "But it's us. It's messy. Dangerous. One wrong move..."

So Tyler knew... he'd felt it. And it hadn't disgusted him—it had EXCITED him.

"So... what now?" Noah asked him in a soft, trembling tone. "Ya take it back? Pretend this didn't happen?"

"Heeeell no." Tyler's reply was prompt and incisive. He stood abruptly, pacing the worn rug like a caged animal. "Offer stands. One time. Strict rules." He stopped, facing Noah, his quarterback intensity dialed to eleven. "We do this sober. No beer haze. Right here, right now. Ya tell me exactly what ya need—hand, mouth, whatever. I do it, then it's done. We never speak of it again. Ever." His gaze was flinty. "Deal?"

Is he really that serious? Noah thought with fear and hope. The look of willingness on Tyler's face tells him he's not lying. He's actually offering a solution, a release valve, wrapped in brotherly duty and his own twisted fascination. "Deal," he nodded fervently, setting his beer bottle down beside Tyler's.

Tyler spread his arms wide like a throne and rested back on the leather cushions. The self-assured quarterback stance had returned, but it was tempered with a hotter, darker element. He responded, "Come 'ere then, baby brother," in a low, resonant voice that was thick as molasses. The command was not harsh; rather, it was a flirty purr that sent shivers down Noah's spine, like velvet-wrapped steel. "Show meh what ya been dreamin' 'bout."

Noah moved. Not gracefully—more like a startled deer drawn to a predator's call. His limbs felt clumsy, disconnected. He slid across the couch with the leather groaning beneath him, until his knees bumped Tyler's thighs. He hesitated, staring at the broad chest beneath the thin cotton shirt, the powerful arms resting open. Tyler didn't rush him. He just watched, those sky-blue eyes locked on Noah's face, simmering with a mix of challenge and anticipation.

Then the 14-year-old brunet folded himself forward, collapsing onto Tyler's lap. His thin frame settled against the solid heat of his brother's body—chest to chest, hip to hip. Tyler's arms closed around him instantly, one hand splayed low on Noah's back, the other cradling the nape of his neck. The embrace was possessive, grounding.

Noah buried his forehead against Tyler's throat, smelling the familiar scent of sweat, cheap soap, and something distinctly Ty: sun-warmed flesh and motor grease. He could feel the hard planes of muscle beneath him, Tyler's heart beating against his own furious cadence. The physical reality: the heat, the intensity, the thereness, was omnipresent. Safe and dangerous. The pressure of his cock against Tyler's gold western belt buckle grew, his arousal evident.

The jock looked down at him, filled with surprise and desire that mirrored Noah's own. "Christ, yer shakin'," Tyler spoke into his hair, his breath warm. The hand on Noah's neck stroked gently, thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear. "Ya sure 'bout this? Last chance to bail."

Noah shook his head, his nose brushing Tyler's collarbone. "No bailin'," his whisper was muffled against the skin. "Jus'... scared."

"Ain't nothin' to be scared of," Tyler rumbled, the vibration humming through Noah's chest. "Yer callin' the shots, remember? Tell meh what ya want."

Noah lifted his head, meeting Tyler's steady gaze—that impossible mix of protectiveness and raw invitation. He felt lightheaded, untethered. This wasn't some fantasy conjured in the dark; this was Tyler's solid thigh beneath his knee, Tyler's calloused palm still resting warm on the nape of his neck. The sheer realness threatened to drown him.

"C-can we..." He stammered, cracking like dry kindling. "... start slow? Like... just... a kiss?" He winced, half-expecting laughter, a dismissal, the shattering of this fragile, impossible moment.

Tyler didn't laugh. His blue eyes softened, the fierce quarterback intensity momentarily tempered by something profound—understanding, maybe even relief.

"Yeah," he answered huskily with affection. His thumb brushed the frantic pulse point beneath Noah's jaw. "Yeah, Noah. We can start slow." He shifted slightly, angling his body towards his brother. "Slow's good. Real good. Never been this close to a guy before but... I'd been wonderin'... what that'd be like." He leaned in, slow enough for Noah to bolt, deliberate enough to ignite every nerve ending. "C'mere."

Noah did not bolt. He pushed infinitesimally forward, bridging the small gap. The first touch of lips was light and timid, like a shared breath rather than a kiss. Tyler's lips were pleasantly supple, albeit chapped at the corners from the Texas breeze. Noah halted, overwhelmed by the sheer sensory overload: the faint taste of cheap beer combining with Tyler's distinct aroma, the warmth emanating from his skin, and the small scratch of stubble against Noah's smooth cheek. It didn't involve fireworks. It was a gentle implosion deep within his center, smashing barriers he had not realized existed. He drew back an inch, his eyes wide, scanning Tyler's face.

Every line of Tyler's countenance was marked by extreme attention, making it impossible to read. He uttered, "Okay?" as his breath escaped across Noah's mouth.

Unable to speak, Noah nodded. A fire had been started by the tentative touch. This time he rushed forward, his mouth slamming against Tyler's. Fueled by a lifetime of suppressed desire crashing against the barriers of reality, it was awkward and desperate. He can taste the lingered remains of beer mingled with what he can guess is tobacco. Tyler greeted him with just as much passion, his fingers slithered through Noah's chocolate brown hair as his hand moved from his neck to hold the back of his head. The kiss became more intense and adventurous.

Tyler groaned low in his throat—a sound Noah had never heard before, rough and resonant—and parted his lips, inviting Noah in... and he swore he felt his older brother's erection growing beneath him, a clear response to his own need.

The world narrowed to the slick heat of Tyler's mouth, the scrape of teeth, the dizzying slide of tongues. Noah forgot the beer bottles sweating condensation onto the coffee table, the muted TV flickering forgotten highlights, the oppressive weight of the town outside. There was only this: Tyler's taste, Tyler's heat, Tyler's strong arms pulling him impossibly closer until Noah was practically straddling his lap.

The older Aston's strong hands roamed over Noah's skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Noah's own hands weren't idle either, tracing the muscular contours of Tyler's chest and abs covered by his polo-shirt, exploring the terrain of his brother's body as if it were a map to a hidden treasure. Tyler groaned, his cock straining against the fabric of his briefs, and Noah felt a thrill of power at the effect he had on his older sibling.

Using a technique Noah had witnessed Tyler employ on his ex-girlfriend, Veronica, during innumerable porch make-out sessions, the older teen's hands moved down Noah's back, pushing into the swell of his ass cheeks through the faded denim of his blue overalls. Tyler whispered against his lips, "Fuck, Noah," in an aroused voice. "Yer ass feels... damn." He tightened his grip, drawing Noah close to him as they ground their hips in a slow, methodical pace. The friction sent sparks through Noah's whole body as he gasped. The pressure was both sweet and agonizing as he rubbed his own developing erection against Tyler's belt buckle's icy metal.

With their foreheads touching and both panting, they broke the kiss with a string of saliva connecting their lips. Noah had never heard a predatory sound like Tyler's low-pitched laugh coming at him. Something deeper and amusement glinted in his blue eyes. He rasped, "Damn, baby bro," and looked directly down into Noah's lap. "Ya're grindin' against mah buckle lak yer life depends on it. Didn't know ya was this eager. Been pent up that long?" With his thumb following the seam of his overalls exactly where they met his thigh, he gave Noah's ass another tight push to punctuate the inquiry.

Noah felt the prickling heat sting his face, mortification warring with the electric thrill Tyler's words sent through him. He hadn't realized how obvious his movements were. Tyler wore the same thick leather western belt just like their father did for as long as Noah can remember. Dark brown, scarred from ranch work, the heavy brass buckle embossed with a lone star. It was a staple of Texas masculinity, worn daily like a badge of heritage.

His erection didn't find comfort on his older brother's belt, sure. It also bites him. But the pressure, the friction, the sharp counterpoint to the heat pooling low in his belly. "It... it ain't smooth," stammered the younger teen. "But... fuck Ty,... it feels... good. Real good." He pushed his hips forward, experimentally, the textured metal scraping deliciously against the sensitive head of his cock through the worn denim. A small, involuntary groan escaped him. "The metal... 'n the leather behind it... firm. Solid. Lak... hngh... lak ya." He ducked his head, embarrassed by the admission. "Stupid, I know."

"Not stupid," Tyler corrected in a gentle tone. He shifted his hips deliberately, grinding the broad, cool surface of the buckle harder against Noah's trapped cock. His younger brother gasped, arching into the pressure. "See?" the blonde Southern jock murmured, watching Noah's reaction with dark intensity. "This buckle's seen some shit. Held up mah jeans since I was twelve, hit the dirt after gettin' knocked out in a fight with Jimmy Leary, scratched a coyote off ole Bessie's flank. Now it's gettin' mah baby bro's rocks off."

Noah choked out a laugh—half-hysterical, half-aroused—as Tyler's thumb traced the seam of his pants again, dipping dangerously close to his cleft. "Ty—"

"Slow," Tyler breathed against his temple. His other hand clamped around Noah's hipbone, halting his frantic grinding against the cold brass buckle. "Slow down, baby brother. Ain't no race." He shifted Noah's weight subtly, settling him more squarely in his lap. "Watchin' ya... fuck, Noah. Watchin' ya rut against mah belt like a starved pup?" His chuckle vibrated through the younger teen boy's chest. "Best damn halftime show I ever seen."

"Yeah... Aa-aah... aah," Noah panted, his hips still moving of their own accord.

"Ya wanna blow yer nut all over mah jeans?" the teen with spiked blonde hair replied with a teasing smirk. "Soak 'em through? Paint 'em white?" Noah whimpered, nodding frantically against Tyler's collarbone. "Damn right ya do. I'd love to see that. Watch ya splatter mah goddamn Wranglers like Jackson Pollock on meth." His grip tightened. "But not here."

Tyler jerked his chin toward the hallway. "Ma's good rug's right there. Pa's recliner smells like stale farts 'n defeat. Ain't... sacred." His blue eyes locked onto Noah's brown orbs, fierce and suddenly solemn. "This? What we're doin'? It's filth. Beautiful, necessary filth. But it deserves better'n this busted-ass couch 'n mah damn belt buckle."

Tyler leans in to Noah's ear and whisper, "How 'bout we take this in mah room."

Noah gave him a frantic nod, forehead scraping Tyler's stubble. The movement stirred something primal—a childhood reflex buried beneath years of shame. "C-carry meh?" The words slipped out in a thin, reedy voice he hadn't used since he was seven, trembling after nightmares. "Lak... lak when I was little? When the thunder scared me?" He turned crimson, instantly regretting the regression. Jesus, what am I, FIVE!?

Tyler froze. For a heartbeat, Noah thought he'd shattered the fragile tension. But then, Tyler's arms tightened around him—not mocking, but possessive. "Yeah," he respond huskily. "Yeah, baby brother. I gotcha."

He stood smoothly, lifting Noah's entire weight like hefting a sack of feed. Noah gasped, scrambling instinctively—legs locking around Tyler's waist, arms choking his neck. Tyler staggered half a step, boots scuffing linoleum. "Whoa... shit, Noah," he grunted, shifting grip beneath Noah's thighs. "Ya ain't that scrawny runt hidin' under mah bed durin' thunderstorms no more. Solid as a damn oak stump." He chuckled—a raspy, winded sound—but his hands stayed firm, palms splayed wide across Noah's backside. "Ma usedta carry ya lak this when ya puked up cherry cough syrup. Remember?"

Noah nodded against Tyler's shoulder. The memory surfaced: feverish toddlerhood, Ma's floral apron scratchy against his cheek, her humming off-key hymns. Tyler's embrace felt different—muscles straining beneath cotton, sweat-damp skin against his own. Safe, yet charged with forbidden electricity.

"Ya... ya smell lak Pa's workshop," Noah mumbled into Tyler's collarbone—oil, pine tar, and sunbaked earth.

"Better'n Ma's damn lavender soap," Tyler snorted, already walking them toward the hallway, leaving their beer bottles in the living room behind.

The journey to Tyler's room felt like crossing state lines. Noah clung tighter with each step—past the dusty grandfather clock ticking like a jury verdict, past Ma's collection of porcelain angels staring blankly from the hallway shelf. Tyler's boots thumped heavy on the worn carpet runner. Noah buried his face in Tyler's neck, inhaling sweat and motor oil and the faint, sharp tang of Axe body spray—teenage desperation disguised as confidence.

Tyler kicked his bedroom door open with his heel. The latch clicked—final as a bullet being fired. Noah flinched.

The room was a man cave in the making, with walls painted a shade of greenish-grey that brought the outside in. The walls were adorned with frames, each one holding a treasure trove of memories: a picture of their Memaw on a horse, a family portrait from when they were kids, and a few certificates from his various school awards. But the real story was told by the sports posters that dominated the space, showcasing his love for football and the athletes who had inspired him. On the wall beside his bed, a life-sized poster of Tom Brady throwing a perfect spiral. The average-sized bed in the corner was adorned with dark blue and white striped sheets, rumpled from it's owner's afternoon nap, and the floor was a minefield of dirty laundry and discarded textbooks.

Gently, the older brother set Noah down gently, his feet landing on the floor with a soft thud. He then closed the door shut. They faced each other, their eyes filled with love and hunger. Tyler wrapped his arm around Noah's shoulders, pulling him in close, his bicep flexing behind his dark green shirt. Noah's hands found Tyler's stomach and back, his fingers tentatively tracing the contours of his brother's abs. They stood like that for a moment, eyes closed, their breaths mingling in the stillness.

They leaned into each other, the fabric of their shirts the only barrier between their skin. Finally, Tyler leaned in, pressing his lips to Noah's in a gentle, almost reverent kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of the love and understanding that only siblings could share, but it was also a kiss that transcended the boundaries of brotherhood. Noah melted into the embrace, his 14-year-old teenage body responding eagerly to the touch of the boy he had idolized and grew up with for so long. His hands roamed up to Tyler's shoulders, feeling the strength and warmth of his big brother's body beneath his fingertips.

Their kiss grew more urgent, their tongues sliding against each other, exploring the familiar yet forbidden landscape of each other's mouths. Tyler's calloused hand slid down to Noah's ass, his thumb tracing slow, torturous circles on the fabric-covered cheeks before giving it a firm grip. The younger boy moaned softly, his hips pushing forward instinctively, seeking more of the contact that was driving him wild with desire.

Breaking the kiss, Tyler looked into Noah's pleading eyes, and with a smoldering gaze, pulled him closer, their crotches pressing together through their pants. Noah's cock strained against the fabric, desperate for release, and Tyler could feel the heat and pressure of his own arousal mirroring his brother's. They ground against each other, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through both their bodies. Tyler swore, he would explode with warm jizz in his pants right now.

"Oaahh-aahhh... Ya have... hah... no idea how long I've wanted this," Noah breathed heavily, his voice a mix of relief and desperation. His 17-year-old brother's grip on his ass tightened, his own breath coming in short pants as he rocked their hips together.

Reckon I'm mighty proud to be mah lil' bro's first to help him take that big ol' step into manhood... By givin' him some good ol' lovin'. The older teen's mind chuckled.

Their movements grew more erratic, their need for each other's touch escalated with every second that passed. Tyler's hand slid down the back of Noah's overall pants, cupping his ass cheek, the warmth of his hand sending shockwaves through the younger boy's body.

Tyler pulled back from the kiss and took Noah's chin in his hand, tilting his head up to look into his eyes. "Are ya ready fo-wah yer big brother to make ya feel good, baby?"

Noah nodded, unable to find his voice, his hazel eyes wide and pleading.

"Good," Tyler murmured, his voice dropping to a predatory growl. His thumb gently caressed his chin, a gentle touch that seemed to be the final piece of a puzzle that had been unsolvable for too long.

Neither brother could believe this was happening—the sinful dance they were stepping into, condemned by scripture and society alike. Noah's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, his thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of "This is wrong" and "I need this". Tyler's hands, rough from ranch work, trembled slightly as he traced Noah's jawline—a gesture that felt both tender and treasonous.

Homosexuality alone was enough to brand them pariahs in this god-fearing town... But incest?

Not just incest... Homosexual incest!

That was a line even Tyler hadn't imagined crossing. But here they stood, breath mingling, the atmosphere around them filled with the scent of sweat and desperation. For Noah, this would be his first time—virgin territory explored not with some sweetheart from homeroom, but with the brother who'd taught him to ride a bike. For Tyler, it was uncharted waters too: his first time with a boy, let alone his own blood. The weight of it pressed down, sacred and profane, as Tyler's thumb brushed Noah's lower lip.

"Noah," The blonde-haired brother broke the silence. "Before we do this, I need to ask ya somethin'." He paused, his eyes scanning Noah's flushed face—the way his eyelashes trembled, the sweat beading at his temple.

The younger brother swallowed, nodding against Tyler's collarbone. "Ask."

"You ever... touch yerself?" Tyler's thumb traced circles on Noah's hipbone, slow and deliberate. "Lak... when ya're alone? Thinkin' 'bout... stuff?"

Noah froze with his mouth 'o' shaped. Heat flooded his cheeks, hotter than the Texas sun. "Yeah," he admitted, the word catching like a burr in his throat. "Mostly... at night. In mah room." He stared at the frayed edge of Tyler's green flannel shirt collar, unable to meet his eyes. "Would look up... things. Own mah phone."

Tyler's eyebrow raised. "Things?"

"Porn." The brown-haired Aston's voice dropped to a threadbare rasp. "Guy-own-guy stuff. Mostly." A shaky inhale. "There was this one model... dark hair, blue eyes. Built lak a linebacker." He dared a glance up. Tyler's gaze was molten, locked onto him. "Almost looked lak... lak ya."

"Almost?" Tyler repeated.

"Not... not as hot," Noah confessed, the admission burning his tongue. "Yer jaw's sharper. Yer eyes... bluer." He swallowed hard, the memory coiling low in his belly. "But... mah favorite times weren't the videos." He hesitated, shame warring with the raw truth clawing its way out. "Remember last year... when Ma 'n Pa were at that cattle auction in Amarillo, Veronica came over?"

Tyler's eyes darkened, recognition of his ex flashing. "Yeah."

"Y'all thought I was asleep," Noah continued to pour his words out, now sounding frantic and feverish. "But... I heard ya. Through the wall. Yer bed... bangin' against the plaster. And... yer voice. The way it sounded so deep 'n husky. Makin' these... these growls, like a wolf caught in a trap." His hand fisted in Tyler's shirt. "I jerked off right then. Hard. Fast. Waitin'... waitin' to hear ya finish. Wanted to come with ya. So when ya howled... lak somethin' wild bustin' loose... I spilled all over mah sheets."

The 17-year-old didn't speak. Didn't move. His stillness was volcanic—pressure building beneath the surface. Then, his hand slid from Noah's hip, fingers curling possessively around the back of his neck. He hauled Noah closer, their foreheads crashing together. "So ya listened, huh? To me fuckin' Veronica? While ya...?" He trailed off, his other hand sliding down Noah's spine, palming the curve of his ass through thin denim. The touch wasn't gentle—it was claiming. "Ya nasty little pervert," he breathed, almost admiringly. "Ya filthy sinner."

Noah shuddered, pushing his hips forward, seeking friction against Tyler's thigh. "I caint help it... I-I wanted it to be me instead of her," he gasped. "Under ya. Makin' ya sound lak that."

Tyler's hold became more firm. "Funny thing," he muttered. "Heard ya that night too."

The brown-haired brother froze, eyes snapping wide. "What!?" He squawked.

"Yeah." Tyler nod with a sly, sexy grin showing his whitened teeth. "Heard ya through the damn wall. That frantic squelchin', yer little whimpers... Thought ya were jackin' it to Veronica's moans. Figured mah little perv of a brother finally discovered girls." His gaze dropped to Noah's mouth. "Never crossed mah mind ya were gettin' off to me."

"Ya lyin'," Noah choked out, pulling back slightly but his older brother's grip on him never weakened.

"Swear on Pa's shotgun," the blonde brother cut in, seriousness detected in his tone. "Heard every slick stroke through that cheap drywall. Thought it was cute: my kid brother finally hittin' puberty to Veronica's theatrics." His lips twisted into something bitter. "Funny how things echo different when ya know the truth."

"Did... d-did Veronica heard meh?" Noah hissed, panic sharpening his voice.

"Nah," Tyler shook his head. "Too busy screamin' mah name." His thumb traced Noah's jawline—a slow, deliberate drag of calloused skin. "But I heard. Clear as coyote yips on a still night. Yer little gasps... sounded lak tiny birds caught in barbed wire."

Noah asked, "Why didn't ya... say somethin'?".

Tyler's chuckle rumbled deep. "Figured ya'd die of shame if I teased ya 'bout jackin' it." His thumb caressed Noah's cheekbone—rough skin catching on peach fuzz. "But I liked it. Liked knowin' I made ya squirm. Guess we both got secrets echoin' through these walls."

Noah swallowed hard. "Ya... ya liked it?"

"Liked the power," Tyler corrected. "I'm all 'bout chicks, yeah? But hearin' ya... that raw need? Felt like God Almighty whisperin' mah name. And I ain't ever ignored a prayer."

With that, their new kind of brotherly fun evening was about to get started...

...