#qhtz

There’s always a certain strange energy in the air at the Hughes’ lake house during the summers. A limbo, almost; like one could get away with anything. The stench of it permeates the whole house, and, well, with all the sex that goes on at the lake, with everyone coming and going at their leisure, it goes unsaid that whatever happens is a secret.

Trevor’s also gotten really, really tired of having to look at Quinn’s stupid handsome face everywhere he goes.

When he comes down the stairs for breakfast, Quinn is there, all sleepy and focused by the stove, eyes half-lidded, lashes fluttering in the sunlight shattering across his face. When they all head to the rink for training, Quinn is there, elbowing him into the boards with that annoying pompous smirk. And late at night, by the fire, Quinn is there, occasionally meeting his eyes over the flickering firelight.

It’s stupid. Trevor knows it’s stupid, certainly doesn’t need someone to tell it to his face. He’s had this puppy crush on Quinn since he was, like, fourteen and met him for the first time. Best friend’s older brother and all that. Back then, Trevor thought Quinn was the best thing since sliced bread, older and cooler and hotter and everything Trevor fantasised about. Embarrassingly, Trevor feels the same about him now: Quinn is hot, like, really hot—he’s gotten so muscled and attractive over the years, especially compared to when he was a gangly teen—and he’s poised and skilled, with a little bit of an ego to match.

Trevor is down dastardly for him. Like, borderline obsessed, he thinks, and will be the first to admit it. So what? He can’t pine over a hot older guy a little bit? Jack’s caught him staring a few times, ribbed him for it, and he thought that would be it—but he thinks Jack knows. Every time Trevor manages to make Quinn smile at one of his jokes, he always looks over at Jack to see him enthusiastically flashing a thumbs-up in his direction.

It’s late when Trevor finally leaves the fire pit and retreats up to his room. He’s made this guest room into his home the past few weeks, and so his clothes are strewn about, the bedsheets rumpled, belongings haphazardly thrown over furniture. Trevor’s just reaching to take off his shirt, eager to get in bed and pass out, when there’s a soft knock at his door.

“Z?” It’s Jack, whisper-shouting through the door. “I have something for you.”

Trevor goes to the door and opens it, and in waltzes Jack, holding something behind his back. Then he tosses it to Trevor, who catches it without thinking, and—it’s a pair of underwear. Trevor stares, bewildered.

“They’re Quinny’s,” Jack explains, soft. He grins at Trevor. “Figured you’d just—want to have ‘em.”

He pats Trevor’s shoulder, then leaves as quick as he came while Trevor still battles to get a word out. Quinn’s underwear? Fuck. Is he really that obvious? Trevor knows Jack knows about his stupid crush, but they’ve never really talked about it before, mostly because it’s awkward to be crushing on your best friend’s older brother and all. Jack probably doesn’t even want to think about Quinn that way, anyway.

Trevor holds up the underwear to take a good look at it. It’s nothing special, really—just a black pair of boxer briefs, combed cotton, the waistband stretched out over time. Distantly, he wonders if this is a dirty pair, snatched right from Quinn’s laundry basket, but even with how desperate Trevor feels, he isn’t about to smell them, or anything crazy like that. Trevor has a feeling Jack wouldn’t waste his time, though. The underwear’s probably dirty.

Without thinking, Trevor works to strip off his shorts and underwear and slips into Quinn’s, pulling the pair up over himself. They fit fine, just like underwear should, but—Trevor can’t stop thinking about who had just worn these. His cock’s sitting in the exact same place Quinn’s once was, and the thought of that alone has Trevor’s cock twitching to life, heat pooling in his belly.

He lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it to the floor, then crawls underneath the blankets on his bed, feeling breathless and giddy like after he met Quinn for the first time. Quinn was bigger than him then, all broad shoulders and meaty thighs and the most devastatingly hot thing Trevor had ever laid eyes on. And now Trevor’s here, in Quinn’s house, wearing Quinn’s underwear and desperately trying not to touch himself.

He fails, of course.

With a soft whine, Trevor squirms until he’s comfortable, then slides his hand down his chest, his abs, over his stomach, until his fingers reach the waistband of Quinn’s underwear. Did Quinn touch himself in these, too? Maybe right now he’s lying in his own bed, two rooms over, with his hand down the front of his underwear, same as Trevor. Trevor wonders what Quinn looks like when he comes. Does Quinn make noise? Trevor doubts it—Quinn’s always been more of a quiet guy—but Trevor would kill to hear Quinn grunt in pleasure, watch him squeeze his eyes shut when he comes.

Trevor whimpers when he finally touches over his underwear. He’s painfully hard already, cock twitching and throbbing and leaking pre-come profusely against the black cotton, making a big mess of Quinn’s underwear. When he pushes his hand under the waistband to touch his cock properly now, he finds himself already slick with pre-come, embarrassingly so. Thinking about Quinn has always managed to get him like this, all on-edge and desperate to be touched.

Fantasising about Quinn fucking him isn’t new to Trevor. In fact, he’s been thinking about it for, like, ten years, but Trevor feels like everything’s different tonight. He knows how big Quinn is, is the problem, sees it hanging soft and thick between Quinn’s thighs in the locker room when they train together. It’s big enough soft, and Trevor has enough of an imagination to think about how big it would be hard. To think that Quinn’s huge cock was nestled right where Trevor’s hand is right now . . . it makes Trevor whine, turning his head into the pillow to muffle himself.

Trevor’s hips twitch up of their own accord, rutting desperately into the tight curl of his fist. He’s so focused on chasing his pleasure for a while that he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being, tilting his face up to the ceiling, moaning and panting into the sticky air. It’s good. It’s really good. He cringes at the slick sounds of himself fucking his fist under the blankets, embarrassed to be so desperate, but soon enough his mind conjures up a vision of Quinn kneeling over top of him, reaching down to stroke his cock and telling him what a good girl he’s being, and he doesn’t feel so embarrassed anymore.

“Quinn,” he moans, unabashed. “Please.”

Trevor turns his head to whine into the pillow again, and all at once the heat in his belly becomes all-encompassing, crashing over him like a wave, hot pleasure searing up his spine. He comes hard, harder than he has in a long time, and feels it land sticky over his fingers and the fabric of his boxers.

He lies there panting, eyes squeezed shut so tight that he sees stars. He feels boneless and exhausted sprawled out on the bed, skin flushed so hot he fears he might burn up. It’s been like this before, sure—it always seems to be especially good whenever Trevor thinks about Quinn—but tonight, after touching himself in Quinn’s underwear, he feels more satisfied than ever.

Then the shame sets in, just a little.

It’s how Trevor always feels, after doing stuff like this. He knows Quinn isn’t interested in him; it’s clear as day to see it. It makes him feel like a stupid teenager hopelessly crushing on some celebrity he knows he won’t have a chance with, but maybe that’s what makes Quinn so alluring: having someone so forbidden and unattainable is inexplicably exciting.

He waddles to the bathroom to clean up, embarrassment colouring his cheeks pink, and avoids looking in the mirror as he’s pushing Quinn’s underwear down his legs, to the floor. They’re sticky and wet with come, a stark pearlescent white against black cotton, and Trevor picks them up to promptly drop them in the sink. He dumps a generous amount of hand soap into the basin, fills it with warm water, and scrubs his mess off Quinn’s underwear the best he can.

After wiping himself off, he wrings out Quinn’s boxers and drapes them over the towel rack to dry, then heads back to bed. Trevor doesn’t mind sleeping naked, and when he rolls back under the sheets, they’re crisp and cool against his overheated skin, making him sigh. He really is fucked, isn’t he?

The next morning, Trevor wakes up starving, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He groans, rolls out of bed to find something to eat, and has just enough brainpower to remember he’s still naked before he ventures out into the hallway. He goes into the bathroom to collect Quinn’s underwear from the towel rack and puts them back on, then finds a pair of pyjama pants somewhere on the floor to throw over top.

When Trevor descends the stairs, he expects the kitchen to be busy, full of guys cooking their separate meals, but today, it’s quiet. Terribly, as if the universe hates Trevor or something, the only one in the kitchen is Quinn. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, sleepy-soft, his hair a lovely mess. Trevor has to swallow, hard. Embarrassing thoughts of a domestic life with Quinn have plagued him for years—thoughts of waking up every morning to a sight just like this one. He can be casual, though. He can be so casual.

“Hey,” Trevor says, and applauds himself for how his voice doesn’t even crack or shake. He starts rummaging through cabinets instead, searching for a box of Bisquick.

“Hey,” Quinn rumbles back, voice rough and low from sleep, and it makes Trevor’s stomach do some embarrassing flips. Then, when Trevor finds the Bisquick and turns back around to face him, Quinn grins and asks, “Are you wearing my underwear?”

A lead weight drops into Trevor’s stomach. “What?”

“The waistband,” Quinn says, impatient. Trevor’s pyjama pants are far too big on him, sagging just enough to expose the waistband. “I just wore those, like, two days ago.”

Trevor stares at the countertop, refusing to look. He can’t look. He’s guilty, embarrassed, and almost sick with the shame of doing something like this. “No,” he lies. “These are mine. I just bought these last week. Why would I wear your underwear?”

“That’s a discontinued brand, Z. For years.”

“Oh.”

Quinn gets up from his seat and comes closer. Trevor freezes in his tracks, too petrified to do anything but stay right there and take whatever’s coming to him. He half-expects Quinn to deck him in the face, or give him a shove, anything, but he doesn’t.

“So you are?” Quinn asks again.

Trevor wets his lips and forces himself to meet Quinn’s eyes. He can feel how hot his face is, shoulders hunching in, wishing he could sink into the floor and die from embarrassment. “Um,” he says, and looks away, “I guess. But I didn’t take them, I swear. Jack gave them to me.”

“Jacky gave them to you?” Quinn repeats, a smile crossing his face. “That’s perfect, because I told him to.”

Trevor’s head spins. He doesn’t know what Quinn means by any of this. He told Jack to give Trevor his underwear? Why? Trevor braves another glance over at Quinn and finds him casually shimmying his shorts down over his hips, then reaching for the waistband of his underwear, too.

Sensing Trevor’s confusion, Quinn gives him a look. “What are you looking at me like that for? Get on your knees.”

Blood rushes in Trevor’s ears. “Here?” he squeaks.

“Yes, here, unless you don’t fuckin’ want this after all.”

Trevor goes. He sinks to his knees right in front of Quinn, easy as ever, shaking all over with the shock of it all. He’s—fantasised about this exact thing, many times, when he’s alone in a dark room with a hand around himself. Maybe Quinn will stuff his mouth, fuck his throat, use him like he was always meant to be used. He opens his mouth, ready to beg for it, but Quinn shushes him.

“Stay right like that,” Quinn tells him, and shushes him again when he opens his mouth to protest. “Ah-ah. No. You get to look. You don’t get to have it.”

Trevor whines, high in the back of his throat, as he watches Quinn push his underwear down just enough to take his cock out. Quinn’s already half-hard and it seems to perk up further under his touch, filling out thick and hot and delicious in his hand. Trevor’s mouth waters when he gets a good look at it. He can imagine just how huge it would feel in his mouth, the weight of it on his tongue. He’d be such a good girl for Quinn, take it all, but—but Quinn won’t let him.

Quinn gives himself a few slow dry strokes, just to get hardened up, then brings his hand up to his mouth, spitting into his palm. He sighs when he gets his hand back on himself, panting soft and sweet into the warm air. “Jacky told me how obsessed with me you are,” he says, and smiles, so condescending that it makes Trevor’s stomach twist. “Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Trevor whimpers, finding it pointless to lie now. Obsessed might be an understatement. Quinn’s all he’s ever been able to think about ever since he was fourteen.

“He told me I should let you do this for me, just once,” Quinn goes on, stroking himself lazily. He moves a little closer, inches from Trevor’s face, and Trevor has to fight not to lean forward and get a taste. 

Then Quinn’s words sink in. Just once. Trevor tries not to be disappointed, but deep down, he knew this wasn’t going to go anywhere. Quinn’s just being a good guy, letting him learn what it’s like so he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life wondering. “Yeah,” Trevor pants, voice pitching up into a whine, “that’s a good idea.”

“We figured you’d say that,” Quinn says, then sighs softly as he settles into a bit of a quicker rhythm, hips twitching forward on each downstroke. He’s getting desperate. Quinn even closes his eyes, a low, throaty sound rumbling up from his chest; Trevor doesn’t wonder what—or who—Quinn’s thinking about instead of him.

“Please,” Trevor whines, then opens his mouth wide, sticking his pink tongue out as far as he can for good measure. He wants to show Quinn that he can take it, wants it more than anything.

Quinn only laughs, though. “Close your mouth. You’re drooling everywhere.”

Trevor brings one hand up to gingerly touch at his chin and finds it wet with drool. God. This is humiliating, and knowing that Quinn and Jack planned this together makes it even worse. They’ve always been a bit strange to him, untouchable, almost. He’s friends fine enough with Jack on his own, but Quinn and Jack when they’re together are . . . strange. Just strange.

“Listen very carefully,” Quinn says. He sounds more strained, now, voice tight, and when Trevor sneaks a glance down at Quinn’s cock he’s leaking everywhere, his cockhead flushed a delicious shade of red. “I’m gonna come. It’s gonna be all over your face. I want you to keep your mouth closed. Just take it. Can you do that for me?”

Trevor nods, desperate. He can do anything for Quinn, doesn’t matter what. He’ll do it.

“Good girl,” Quinn pants, and just like that he’s coming all over Trevor’s face, as promised. Trevor closes his eyes and concentrates on keeping his mouth shut, even when he feels it all land warm and sticky over his cheeks, his nose, his lips, catching in his eyelashes. He wishes it could’ve been all over his tongue.

When Trevor dares to open his eyes, Quinn’s already tucking himself back into his shorts, looking satisfied. His face is flushed, wonderfully so, and Trevor feels his own dick kick in his pyjama pants at the sight, already achingly hard. He knows better than to hope Quinn will help him with that, though. Trevor’s already a mess, face covered in Quinn’s come, sticky and disgusting, and he certainly doesn’t need to make that any worse.

“Keep the underwear,” Quinn tells him, then ruffles his hair. “I don’t want it back now.”

Trevor watches, shame settling thick like a lump in his throat, as Quinn heads back upstairs. He slumps to the kitchen floor, drags one finger through a string of come on his cheek, and presses it to his tongue, moaning at the taste. 

This is the worst, he thinks. He’s gotten the tiniest taste of what he could have, and knows it’ll be the first and last time Quinn’ll give it to him. It stings.