Dean's POV:
~Three days passed after that night~
I swear the sun’s been hotter ever since. Or maybe that’s just my own personal hell. Either way, it’s been three days since… yeah. Since that.
My ass was still sore, but not as bad as the morning after. I still remembered waking up like I’d been hit by a truck. I couldn’t sit right. Could barely walk. And Bradley? He’d been smug as hell about it, grinning when I limped, saying filthy shits.
For days I’ve been thinking if I should just offer him back to the sea and finish what the ocean couldn’t but decided it wasn’t worth it.
He became touchier and more inappropriate than before like we’re not blood related.
I stopped reacting after the first day. Packed up what little pride I had left and started spending my days turning into a damn jungle monkey. Climbing trees. Collecting weird-looking shells. Talking to rocks. I can even communicate with animals now like a Disney Princess. I swear, one more day of this and I was gonna start swinging from vines like Tarzan just to avoid looking at Bradley.
And now — day three post-deflowering — things had only gotten weirder. I’ve became weirder.
Every time he looked at me, my skin felt like it was on fire. It was like my body had developed a special, fucked-up Bradley-sense that went straight to my dick.
Like right now.
I was down by the beach stripping bark off a fallen branch, something to use for binding firewood later, when I felt his eyes on me. Bradley had just finished working out. Because apparently, survival didn’t mean you had to lose your abs.
"Dean, take a fuckin’ break already," Bradley called out, his voice a lazy, arrogant drawl.
I didn't look up. Focused on the bark. The bark was my friend. The bark wouldn't violate me.
"Dean," he called again, louder this time. "For fuck’s sake, I’m calling you. Stop ignoring me, you little bitch."
“I’m busy, dude. Shut up,” I shot back. “And stop calling me a bitch!”
“I will If you stop acting like one,” he shot back, his voice dripping with smugness “You’d rather stroke that stick than come over here and take care of mine?”
I gritted my teeth. And didn’t answer. Fuckin prick.
I kept stripping the bark. A beat passed and Bradley was quiet.
Weird.
I risked a glance over my shoulder and my stomach dropped. He was sprawled back on one elbow, legs spread wide like he owned the entire fucking beach, his shorts shoved carelessly down his thick thighs. His fist was sliding up and down his massive cock. Right there. In broad daylight. Like he was just scratching an itch.
"You've gotta be kidding me," I muttered incredulously, unable to tear my eyes away. “What the hell, Bradley?”
"I'm taking care of myself since my bitch’s being a prude," he grunted, not missing a beat. "If you want in, get over here. Otherwise, stop staring and pretend you're not hard right now."
I tore my gaze away, my face burning.
"You're disgusting, Brad."
"Still shy after I popped your cherry?" he chuckled. "Go on. Pretend you're not pitching a tent in those shorts right now."
I kept working, my movements jerky and angry, trying to lose myself in the mind-numbing task. The sounds he was making… low grunts, breathy moans of my name…while stroking like I was supposed to be flattered, made it impossible.
"Oh, fuck, Dean… yeah… You love your big brother’s cock, don't you?"
I swallowed hard.
After a few moments, the sound stopped.
I risked a glance. I was stunned when I saw him standing up, dusting the sand off his perfect ass. He kicked his shorts off and he was coming toward me. Completely naked. Hard as a rock. Bradley jr. bobbed in the air like a divining rod looking for water, or in this case, my sanity.
“Stay back, Brad. Don’t come any closer,” I panicked.
“C’mon stop being a bitch,” he said, when he reached me. "Let’s do something fun instead of whittling your little stick."
He reached for my wrist. I flinched, but he grabbed it firmly.
He pulled my hand toward him, eyes locked on mine the whole time. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t breathe. Oh, for fuck's sake, I was thinking like a chick again.
"Don't make that face," he smirked, that infuriatingly hot smirk. "You've been thinking about my cock for three days straight. Might as well get reacquainted. It's been three days, Dean. My balls are gonna turn to fucking concrete."
I was ready to shot a comeback. But when my fingers brushed against the warm, velvety skin of his shaft. My brain short-circuited. This was different. Sober. The sun was beating down on us, I could smell the salt in the air, and my brother was guiding my hand to his dick. He wrapped his own hand over mine, forcing my fingers to curl around his impossible girth.
"Yeah," he breathed, his eyes half-lidded with pure lust. "Just like that. Fuck, your hands are soft."
I was still frozen, a statue of pure denial. He was literally using my hand to jack himself off, and the weirdest part? I didn't resist. I couldn't. All I could think was, Holy shit, this thing went inside me. How?
"See? Not so complicated," he grunted.
I don't know when I started moving on my own. Maybe…I’m just curious.
Yeah…curious.
The feel of him in my palm—hot, thick, heavy, pulsing with his heartbeat—it did something to me. It bypassed my brain and went straight to my own dick, which was now straining against my zipper.
Bradley watched me, his smug look melting into raw, undisguised hunger. His chest rose and fell, his jaw was tight, a low sound rumbling in his chest.
"Fuck, yeah. That's it, stroke that fucking cock," he groaned, his voice getting rougher. "Good boy. That's my good fucking boy."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. My legs felt shaky, like I wasn’t walking through sand, but through heat. Pure heat.
"Too hot out here," he grunted, tilting his head toward our makeshift shelter. "Let's move."
He didn't ask. He dragged me while I was still holding his cock. Bradley manhandled me toward the shade of the lean-to, flopping down and leaning back against the logs like he was a goddamn king on his throne. He spread his legs wide, his cock standing up, thick and hard and waiting for me. A clear bead of precum drooled at the tip.
"C'mon," he smirked, tugging me down to sit next to him. "Get to work. Don't be shy now."
I swallowed hard, my hand automatically resuming its task. I peeled his foreskin down, watching the flushed, angry head glisten in the dim light. Fuck, it looked obscene.
He leaned in, and I flinched as he spat directly onto his cock, right where my hand was working. A thick wad of saliva that made the glide wetter, filthier.
"Keep going, man," he ordered. "Don't stop."
I used both hands now, twisting and pumping, my mind a complete blank. What the actual fuck am I doing?
"Suck it," Bradley murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, not gently, and pushed my head down. "Get those sexy lips around my cock. Now."
"The fuck? I've never done that before, asshole!" I sputtered, trying to pull back.
"Well, there's a first time for everything," he grunted, his grip tightening in my hair. "Come on, Dean. It's not gonna bite. Unless you want it to."
"I'll be the one to fucking bite it off if you keep pushing," I snarled.
"You want me to beg, brother?" he laughed, a deep, cruel sound. "You've had girls suck you off before. You know what feels good. Make me feel good."
I hesitated. My stomach was churning. I'd never… not for another guy, and sure as hell not for my own brother. But the sight of him, the raw, sweaty, musky heat radiating off his skin, the sheer primal power of his dick… it called to something broken and desperate inside me.
Not gonna lie, I was goddamn horny.
Slowly, hesitantly, I lowered my head. The smell of his meat hit me first—musky, sweaty, all male. All Bradley. I could also smell his spit from earlier. It made my stomach clench and my mouth water at the same time.
I felt my lips stretch wide, painfully wide, around the fat head of his cock. The taste was salty skin, clean sweat, his saliva and something else… something uniquely him.
"Yeah," Bradley groaned, his hips twitching up as he tightened his grip on my hair. "That's it. Fuckin' knew you'd have a mouth made for sucking cock."
I swirled my tongue, tasting the precum at his slit. More oozed out, bitter and salty.
I remembered what girls had done to me, what made my own toes curl. I flattened my tongue and pressed it against the sensitive underside of his head before letting it glide along his corona.
"Fuck, yeah. Just like that."
I twisted my hand at the base, a tight, corkscrewing motion, while my mouth focused on the tip. I took him deeper, letting my jaw relax as much as it fucking could, which wasn't much. He was just too big. I hollowed my cheeks, creating a tight, wet suction, and pulled back slowly, agonizingly, before sinking back down.
"Shit—fuck. You're a natural, brother," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. "A goddamn natural."
Bradley started to test my limits, pushing his hips up, trying to go deeper. I gagged, my eyes instantly watering as his thick head slammed against the back of my throat. Saliva flooded my mouth, dripping down my chin in thick, messy strings, slicking his shaft.
"Damn, the sound of you choking on my cock is the sexiest fucking thing I've ever heard," he grunted, his grip in my hair tightening. "Shit, Dean… fuck. Take me deeper. I know you can. Relax that throat for me."
I tried, I really did. I took a deep breath through my nose and forced myself down, but my body rebelled, convulsing around him. It was too much, too soon.
"Mmm, yes, yes... such a tight little throat pussy," he moaned, losing himself in it. He started fucking up into my mouth, no longer letting me set the pace. His hands gripped my hair like handlebars, and all I could do was brace myself on his powerful thighs, my nails digging into his skin as I gagged and drooled. His cock was a relentless piston, driving into my throat, making my eyes water uncontrollably.
"Fuck, fuck, you're better than any girl, Dean," he panted, his voice ragged. "You're made for this, made for your big brother's cock."
I struggled to keep up, my throat aching, my jaw burning. I pulled back, gasping for air, coughing violently. Tears and spit were streaming down my face, making a complete mess of me. My lips were swollen, my throat felt raw.
"Why the fuck did you stop?" he growled, looking down at me with a mixture of irritation and pure lust.
"You're trying to suffocate me, asshole," I rasped, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My voice was hoarse. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna die choking on a cock. It’s not on my bucket list.”
He just smirked, a cruel, beautiful bastard. "Better add it, then. You're a goddamn natural, little bro."
I scowled, but a new, defiant idea sparked in my brain. Fine. He wanted to be rough? He wanted to use my throat? I'd give him something he'd never forget.
I didn't go back to his cock. Instead, I leaned down and took his heavy, sweat-slick balls into my mouth. I sucked on them gently, rolling them with my tongue, bathing them in spit. His whole body jerked.
"Holy fuck," he gasped, his legs spreading wider instinctively. "Oh, shit, Dean."
I worked them over, sucking first one, then the other, my hand never stopping its tight, twisting stroke on his shaft. I could feel his balls drawing up, tightening against his body. He was close.
I released his balls with a wet pop and looked up at him, my face a wreck of tears and spit. I held his gaze as I went back to his cock, but this time, I was in control. I took him deep, deeper than before, and when I felt him hit the back of my throat, I didn't pull back. I swallowed.
The convulsive motion of my throat muscles gripped his head like a fist.
"Fuck—FUCK!" he roared, his back arching off the logs. "DEAN!"
I did it again, swallowing around him, my nose buried in his sweaty pubes. I was doing it. I was taking all of him. The power that surged through me was intoxicating. I pulled back until just the tip was in my mouth, swirled my tongue around the slit, and then slammed back down, taking him to the hilt in one smooth, filthy motion.
"God. Ahhhh. It feels so good…don’t stop. Don’t stop, Dean,” he choked out, his hips starting to lose their rhythm.
“Oh…fuck. I’m gonna cum. Oh…fuck. Here it comes. I can't hold it…Nghh. TAKE IT. FUCK, TAKE IT.”
I felt the first pulse, a hot, thick throb against my tongue. Then he was coming, his cock jerking violently as he flooded my mouth. It was bitter, salty, and impossibly hot. The sheer volume of his semen made me gag, but I didn't pull away. I swallowed, again and again, my throat working to take every drop. Some escaped, leaking from the corners of my mouth and mixing with the mess of spit on my chin.
"HOLY FUCK!" Bradley groaned, his body going limp as he slumped back against the logs, his chest heaving. "Didn't think you had it in you. You got a massive one outta me."
I finally pulled off him, gasping for air. My throat was raw, my jaw felt like it was dislocated, and my face was a sticky, tear-streaked mess. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my heart pounding like a drum.
"Your turn," I muttered, my voice a hoarse, wrecked whisper.
Bradley snorted, a lazy, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. "Ain't gay, Dean. Never sucked a dick, never will."
I scowled, the post-coital haze instantly replaced by pure fury. "I hadn't either, dumbass. But I did it for you."
He just shrugged, like it was nothing. "You're my bitch. That's how this works. You get me off, I fuck you. It's a perfect system."
"Are you being serious right now, Brad?" I asked, my voice trembling with rage.
"Relax, Dean," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll fuck you so good you won't even care. You'll be begging for it."
"You're a selfish piece of shit, Bradley. What the hell was I expecting?" I shot back, getting to my feet. "Forget it. We're done."
"Wait. Fuck, Dean. Okay, wait," he said, sitting up straight, the smirk finally gone. He looked… panicked. "What do you want me to do? Just tell me."
Is this guy just dumb or what?
I stared down at him, my anger a hot, sharp spike in my gut. My own cock was a steel rod in my shorts, demanding attention.
"I told you. I want you to suck my dick like what I did to yours," I said, my voice low and steady, leaving no room for argument.
His face went through a series of rapid, comical contortions. Panic. Disgust. A flash of sheer indignation.
"What? No. Fuck that. I told you, I don't do that. That's… that's fag shit."
"Then I won’t do this shit with you anymore. You can go back to fucking your fist for the rest of our time here," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “Ain’t no way, I'm gonna be the only one putting out."
I saw the war raging in his eyes. I was about to turn and walk.
"Fine," he finally spat, the word dripping with acid. "Fucking fine. But you owe me for this."
I raised a brow. Owe him?
He dropped to his knees in the sand like it was the most humiliating thing he'd ever done, which it probably was for him. He looked at my crotch like it was a venomous snake. He fumbled with my zipper, yanked my shorts down, and my cock sprang free. It wasn’t bigger or comparable to his but it was…decent.
He hesitated for a long moment, his face a mask of revulsion. Then, like he was diving into a pool of sewage, he leaned in and took the tip into his mouth. It was the most awkward, toothy, god-awful blowjob in the history of mankind. He just sort of… held it there, his mouth slack, like he was trying to taste a piece of fruit he wasn't sure about.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I groaned in frustration. "Are you gonna suck it or just fucking baptize it? It’s a cock not a breathalyzer. Use your tongue, you idiot. Suck. Like I did."
I grabbed a fistful of his hair, just like he'd done to me.
"Open up," I ordered, pushing his head down further. He gagged instantly.
"Relax your throat, you dumb jock. Breathe through your nose. No, not like that, you're gonna scrape the skin off. Watch the fucking teeth!"
I was trying to guide him, but he was a lost cause. He was clumsy, his teeth scraped my sensitive skin more than once, and he kept making these pathetic, retching sounds like he was about to puke all over me.
A smug, vicious grin spread across my face. Never in a million years could I picture my dumb big brother on his knees sucking a cock, but here he was.
"What's wrong, Brad? Not as easy as it looks, is it?" I taunted, my voice dripping with condescension. I tightened my grip in his hair, forcing his head to bob up and down.
"Not so fucking high and mighty now with a dick in your mouth, are you? Look at you. My big, strong brother, choking on my cock. Who’s the fag now, huh?"
I knew I'd fucked up the second I said it.
A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest. Something in him snapped. With a guttural roar of pure rage, he wrenched his head free with such force I stumbled back.
Before I could even register what was happening, he lunged at me. He wasn't just tackling me; he was a predator taking down its prey.
We hit the sand hard, the air knocked clean out of my lungs as he flipped me over onto my stomach.
"You think that's funny, you little shit? I’m not a fag," he snarled in my ear, his voice pure venom, his body a heavy, crushing weight of muscle and fury.
"You think you're in charge now? You think you get to talk to me like that?"
He ripped my shorts the rest of the way down, exposing my ass to the humid air. My hole was still tender, still sensitive from his last violation.
“Get the fuck off me, Brad!” I struggled, but it was like trying to move a boulder.
He chuckled, a dark, nasty sound.
"Like this view better. You on the ground, underneath me. This is how it's supposed to be."
He slapped my ass, hard. I yelped.
"I'll show you who's in charge," he growled. He spat a huge wad of saliva directly onto my crack, then used his rough fingers to smear it against my clenched hole. He pushed one thick finger in, dry and brutal, and I hissed at the sting.
"Still so fucking tight," he muttered, almost to himself. He worked the finger in and out, scissoring it, stretching me. "Gotta open you up again. Gotta remind you who’s the real fag here."
I could feel the weight of his cock behind me, getting harder again after I’ve just drained his freakin balls.
He pulled his finger out and I heard him fumbling in the corner of the shelter. The familiar 'click' of the lube cap. A second later, a cold, thick glob of it was being shoved against my hole. He pushed two fingers in this time, the lube making the slide easy and slick. He wasn't preparing me gently, his fingers plunging deep, curling inside me to find that spot that made my whole body jolt.
"Fuck—Brad—" I gasped, my fingers digging into the sand.
"That’s right. I’m gonna fuck you," he growled, pulling his fingers out. He lined up his thick cock, the fat, wet head pressing against my slick entrance. "And you're gonna fucking beg for it by the time I'm done with you."
He rubbed the head of his cock against my hole, teasing me, before he pushed in, one long, relentless thrust. The burn was immediate, a sharp, exquisite pain that melted into a deep, full-body stretch as he buried himself to the hilt. His weight was suffocating, a delicious, heavy blanket pinning me to the ground.
"Fuck you, Bradley," I choked out, my face pressed into the sand. My hole was stretched so wide it felt like it was tearing all over again to accommodate his insane girth.
"Already am, little brother," he grunted in my ear. And then he started to fuck me. There was no warm-up. No slow build. This was a punishment. A primal, possessive, mind-blowing fuck.
His hips slammed into my ass, the sound obscene—a wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, punctuated by the filthy, squelching sounds of my hole getting slicker and slicker with lube and his pre-cum.
My former virgin ass was once again being used, stretched, and utterly owned. It fucking burned in the best way.
"Is this what you wanted?" he snarled, his breath hot against my neck. "You wanted to run your mouth? Huh? Is this good enough for you, you smart-mouthed little bitch?"
I couldn't form words. I could only moan and push back against him, taking every punishing, glorious inch. He was fucking me so good, so deep, it felt like he was rearranging my insides all over again. This himbo really knew how to fuck.
“I knew you’d get all putty and needy the second my cock is back inside you,” he said smugly, his voice a rough pant in my ear. His cock was so fucking hot inside me.
“Shut up and just move,” I hissed. Too far gone.
He chuckled, a dark, arrogant sound.
“That’s not how you ask for it, bitch.”
He suddenly slowed, pulling out almost all the way before sinking back in with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that made me see stars. He was fucking me in figure-eights, hitting every walls inside me.
He turned my head to the side, his mouth crashing down on mine. It wasn't a kiss; it was a violation. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, claiming me, tasting me, swallowing my moans as he continued his deep, punishing thrusts. The angle was incredible, his cock hitting that spot inside me with every stroke, making my own neglected dick throb against the sand.
I moaned against his lips, softly biting his tongue before sucking it hard. It was so hot and wet. I couldn't believe this was happening again.
"You're so fucking tight," he groaned against my lips. "Missed this hole. You should've just asked for it instead of making me suck your faggot dick.”
I grunted and pulled his neck closer, kissing him harder, making him smirk. Our tongues swirled against each other, his spit and mine mixing as it drooled down my chin.
He shifted his weight, grabbing my hips and yanking them up, forcing my ass higher in the air. The new angle was devastating. He was hitting even deeper now, his heavy balls slapping against mine with every thrust. My fingers clawed at the sand, digging deep trenches as waves of blinding pleasure washed over me.
"Bradley, fuck—"
"Yeah? You like that? You like my big dick owning your ass?" he grunted, his voice rough and demanding. "You want me to fill you up again? Huh? You want my fucking cum?"
I swallowed hard and pressed my forehead onto the sand. No way I’m gonna admit that.
He kissed down my neck to my shoulders, softly biting my skin, marking me. He was fucking me like he was trying to brand his soul onto my insides.
“Fuck, I’m getting close. I’m gonna fucking nut again,” he grunted, his rhythm getting frantic, his hips slamming into me with bruising force. “God, this ass is so fucking perfect. Made for my cock.”
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkkkk.. Ngghh. I’m gonna fucking CUM!” he roared, another orgasm ripping through him. I felt him throb inside me, hot and deep, as he pumped another massive load, flooding my already wrecked hole. His cock spurted rope after rope of fertile cum inside me, some of it already leaking out and running down my thighs.
The feeling of him emptying himself inside me, the heat, the sheer possession of it, was too much. I came with a strangled cry into the sand, my cock pulsing and painting the ground beneath me with thick, endless ropes of my own cum. My ass clenched around him like a vise, milking him for every last drop.
His cock throbbed and twitched inside me until it was finally spent. Satisfied.
He collapsed on top of me, his full weight crushing me into the sand, both of us panting, sweating, and utterly spent. For a long time, the only sound was the crash of waves and our ragged breaths.
"Fuck," he finally muttered, his voice muffled against my shoulder. He stayed inside me, his cock softening but still plugging me up, keeping his cum trapped inside. "We make a great team, baby bro."
I grunted and shoved him off me, his cock sliding out with a wet, filthy sound.
We laid on our backs, staring at the shitty palm-frond ceiling of our shelter.
My body hummed, a dull, satisfied ache spreading through my limbs. My ass was throbbing, a constant, sticky reminder of what he'd just done.
Goddamn. Now I had no excuse. No evil vodka. No life-or-death panic. Just a himbo big brother with a magic dick and a complete lack of boundaries.
I was already in way too deep. Damn you, Bradley.
~One Week Later~
Time had gone completely sideways.
Either that, or my brain had finally cooked itself from the sun, the salt, and the frankly irresponsible amount of sex I was having.
A week ago, the idea of being stranded on this island with Bradley sounded like the universe personally flipping me off. If someone had told me, Hey Dean, you’re about to spend your days drinking questionable stream water and your nights getting railed by your dumb-jock big brother, I probably would've laugh it off or I would’ve tried to drown myself early just to get it over with.
Now?
Yeah. Turns out when you remove things like Wi-Fi, pants, and literally all social consequences, Bradley and I apparently devolve into something resembling two extremely horny cave animals.
Our daily routine had simplified dramatically.
Hunt. Eat. Fuck. Sleep.
That was pretty much island life.
Bradley was still an asshole. If anything the constant sex had made it worse. The smugness alone could probably power a small city. But at least he wasn’t punching palm trees or screaming at the ocean anymore.
Instead he’d just snap his fingers, flash that annoying smirk, and say, “Break time.”
And somehow that had become a perfectly normal part of the day.
We didn’t talk about it. What the hell was there to talk about?
Hey man, thanks for railing me against that rock this morning. Really cleared my sinuses.
Yeah. No.
It just… happened.
Over and over.
Against the driftwood wall of our shelter. In the shade of the jungle. In the surf with the water washing our sweat and cum away. No rules. No shame. Just two idiots stuck on an island doing whatever it took to stay sane.
And weirdly enough… it worked.
Right now we were behind our shitty excuse for a shelter, tangled together in the sand. We were lying on our sides, half propped against the driftwood wall while making out. It wasn't a sweet, gentle kiss. It was a messy, desperate clash of teeth and tongues, tasting of salt, coconut, and each other's spit.
My hand slid over Bradley’s chest, slick with sweat, feeling the muscle flex under my palm while he groaned against my mouth. He was so hot.
"God, you're a fucking animal," I panted, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.
"You love it," he growled, his hands grabbing my ass, pulling me tighter against him. "You're the one who couldn’t get enough of my cock."
But then Bradley pulled back, his mouth hovering over mine, brows twitching.
“You hear that?” he said, voice low and sharp.
I raised a brow. “Heard what?”
The only sounds were the waves, the seagulls, and our own ragged breathing
I pulled him back for another kiss. I kissed his jaw down to his neck. I just ducked my head and started sucking a dark hickey onto his neck, right above his collarbone.
"You're hearing things, Bradley. Paranoia from all that protein. Now shut up and kiss me."
I tried to pull him back in, but he shoved me off, sitting up so fast I nearly toppled over. "No. I'm serious."
And then I heard it. A faint, rhythmic sound of helicopter blades, cutting through the air.
We both froze, the post-sex haze instantly vaporized.
"Chopper," Bradley said, his eyes wide with a shock so pure it almost looked like fear.
"What?" My heart started hammering against my ribs for a whole new reason.
"Get the fuck up!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet and kicking sand everywhere. "Get your shit on! Now!"
I stood up shaky. My ass dripping with his cum. Goddamn, this wasn't what I pictured myself being rescued.
We dressed in a blur — me fumbling with my shirt, him stuffing his foot into the wrong shoe and swearing under his breath. The sound of the blades was getting louder, whipping the trees, kicking up the wind.
By the time we broke through the tree line and hit the beach, the helicopter was already circling overhead — low, slow, scanning the wreckage.
“Here!” I shouted, waving both arms. “Hey!”
"We're here!"
Bradley didn’t yell. He lit a piece of debris and held it high, smoke curling into the air.
The chopper dipped lower, angling towards us. It saw us.
And when it finally touched down fifty yards away, the roar of the engine and the hurricane-force wind blasting sand against our skin, something in Bradley just… broke.
He turned to me, his face a mask of disbelief and raw, unfiltered emotion. He grabbed me, pulling me into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of me. His arms were like steel bands around my back, his chin digging into my shoulder.
"We're out, Dean," he said, his voice rough and cracking. "We're actually getting the fuck out."
I couldn't speak. I just buried my face in his neck, holding on for dear life. For a second none of the other stuff mattered. Not the stupid fights. Not the sex. Not the island madness.
It was just us. Just two dumbasses who somehow didn’t die.
And finally… finally… we were going home.
The inside of the chopper was deafening, a wall of mechanical roar that vibrated through my bones. A paramedic wrapped a silver shock blanket around my shoulders while shouting questions I couldn’t hear. I mostly ignored him. I was busy staring at Bradley.
He caught my eye and gave me a look—a quick, private flicker of his gaze that said, Can you believe this shit? And I couldn't help it. A slow, stupid grin spread across my own face.
But another thought ran through my mind. Doubts. What will happen after this? After us?
The airport was a shitshow. A feeding frenzy of flashing cameras and microphones shoved in our faces. Our parents were there, a mess of tears and frantic hugging, their bodies trembling against ours.
Everyone kept saying things like miracle and survivors and incredible story. Meanwhile I still had sand in places sand should never be.
My mom held my face in her hands like she was afraid I'd disappear, while my dad clapped my shoulder so hard I almost fell over. They saw their son, back from the dead. They didn't see the feral thing I'd become. The sin we’d committed on that wretched island.
Bradley, of course, was in his element. He soaked it up, smiling for the cameras, playing the part of the brave survivor. He told them a sanitized story about the wreck, the fire, the struggle. He held up the pocketknife and the water filter like sacred relics.
"These things kept us alive," he said, his voice full of conviction. "That, and just being tougher than hell."
The reporters ate it up. They nodded, they scribbled, they clapped. My mom wept with pride. What they didn’t know are the filthy things we did to keep the madness at bay.
No one asked what we did when the sun went down and there was nothing but the dark, the jungle, and each other's bodies for warmth.
They didn’t know what we’ve become.
We were back home now. Home was supposed to feel like a victory. A hot shower that didn't involve a bucket of questionable stream water. A real bed. Food that wasn't burnt fish or a protein bar. I was clean. I was fed. I was alive.
But I felt like a ghost.
Bradley, on the other hand, slipped back into his old life like he’d just been away for the weekend. The first morning, he was at the gym at six a.m. By that night, he was at some party, and I could hear him come in around two with a girl. His life was a loud, thumping soundtrack of easy confidence and easy conquests.
The island was a closed chapter for him. A story he could tell to get laid. And what we were on that island? That was a secret he’d locked in a box and thrown into the ocean.
He hadn't said a single word about it. Not a glance, not a nod, not a moment of awkward silence. It was like a switch had been flipped the second his feet hit the tarmac. Bradley the Survivor turned back into Bradley the Douchebag.
And I fucking hated it. Hated him for it, and hated myself for how much I missed it.
This morning, I was sitting in the kitchen, staring at a cup of coffee I had no intention of drinking, when I heard his bedroom door creak open down the hall. A giggle. A girl's high-pitched voice murmuring something I couldn't make out. Then the familiar, rhythmic creak of his bedframe, followed by the soft, muffled sounds of another one-night stand.
I didn't move. I just sat there, listening. Each sound was a tiny needle in my ear. I pictured him on top of her, the same way he'd been on top of me a dozen times. The same flex of his back, the same low groan in his throat.
An hour later, his door opened again. I heard her laughing, then the front door close. Silence. Bradley didn’t even look at me when he went back upstairs.
I got up and walked into the hallway. I stood there, staring at the closed door to his room, my heart pounding for no reason I could logically explain. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides.
I told myself I didn't care. That I was glad things were back to normal. That I could go back to hating his guts from a safe distance.
I was lying. And the worst part was, I didn't know who I was more pissed at: him for forgetting so easily, or myself for being the only one who couldn't.
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