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Pairing: Anton/Anton's imaginary twin brother
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Twincest, possible underagedness (but I'll just pretend they're 17)
Word count: 2,831
Disclaimer: Obviously these are not the real people, especially because Anton doesn't have a younger brother.
Summary: For garden_hoe21's prompt, and because she is dead sexy.
Anton is cleaning his gun, crosslegged on the bed; Vanya stands timid at the door, watching. It scares him a little, or maybe intrigues him, to think of someone so close to being him who can hold a gun steady and hit a target shaped like a man.
Anton smirks at him, rubbing the barrel with extra vigor. "I could teach you to shoot, if you wanted to," he offers, but Vanya shakes his head. The gun is Anton's thing; Vanya has his paintbrushes. They're already so similar, he hates to think of blurring that line.
"Come watch," says Anton. shrugging; Vanya looks over his shoulder, as if their parents will magically appear in the house, as if Anton is doing something wrong, and then crosses the room to perch on the bed beside Anton.
It looks easy when Anton does it, stroking and assembling with deft fingers. For Vanya, it's an impossible puzzle, a task so daunting that he focuses instead on his brother's hands.
So when Anton says something, Vanya doesn’t hear it at first, and it isn’t until Anton’s hand unexpectedly grips his that he realizes he’s supposed to do something. He glances at Anton, questioning, feeling the callus under his brother’s soft skin, and Anton smirks at him and pulls his hand over to rest on the gun in his lap.
“Like this,” Anton says, and guides Vanya’s fingers through a clumsy repetition of one action, snick snick. Vanya feels his cheeks heating up, a strange twisting in his gut at the heat of Anton’s body so near his fingers. Anton chuckles at him, and Vanya hopes that it’s just Anton thinking he’s scared of the gun, or clumsy with his hands.
Because Vanya’s been keeping his distance from Anton lately. Truth be told, he started keeping his distance years ago, as they both started to grow at the same time. The burgeoning thatch of curls as Anton stripped for a shower was just like the hair Vanya raked his nails through when he got himself off at night; as Vanya’s shoulders grew broader and his body took on its adult shape, Anton grew too. Of course he kept himself a little more aloof. It was just a matter of privacy.
But lately… lately Vanya looks down at his own dick, leaking over his fingers as he twists and pulls, and in his head he sees one that looks just like it, and isn’t. How much are they the same? Does Anton flick his thumb over the head, like this? Does his other hand roll and fondle his balls? Do his lips fall open, and does he lick them and pant at the cooling wetness of them?
So now, Vanya lets Anton move his hands, instructing him how and where to work the gun, keeping his eyes down so that his lashes brush his cheeks. He can’t stand Anton’s knowing smirk. It occurs to him, now, as it hasn’t through months of jacking off, that if he knows any of Anton’s secrets, Anton knows his.
When the back of his hand brushes Anton’s belly, totally unplanned, and he feels the muscle quiver and jump, and Anton’s hand moving his stills for a second to delay the loss of contact-
Vanya practically leaps off the bed. “I need to finish my art project,” he babbles.
Anton replies in Russian, lazy-voiced, as he cocks the gun nonchalantly-it isn’t loaded, Vanya reminds himself- “You and your art, always hiding.”
Vanya doesn’t speak the language as well as Anton, but he does try. He’s always loved that they could talk to each other like this at school, as if it’s their own secret code; for now, though, it’s force of habit, Vanya responding to Anton’s prompts as if trained. “It’s for a grade, Anton. You don’t need my help here.”
“как Вы предпочитаете,” Anton replies. Whatever you like.
*
Their parents are home by eight, and Vanya’s project is finished by nine. He doesn’t come down for dinner.
He’s haunted by that touch. The back of his hand tingles with memory. He’s spent his whole life touching his brother, since they held each other in the womb, but now it feels like something secret and awful and forbidden.
He goes to bed early, lying stretched out on top of his sheets, watching the periwinkle glow of twilight give way to a sulfur-light glaze across his ceiling.
Anton knocks on his door an hour later, and Vanya doesn’t answer. “Vanya,” Anton says. (His real name is Ivan, which their parents still call him; Anton calls him Vanya, and that’s what he calls himself.)
“Eh,” says Vanya, rolling over to face the door, which opens a crack.
“You should come help me clean my guns again,” says Anton, and something in his voice is saying something else. “Sometime soon.”
Then the door’s closed, Anton’s feet padding down the hall, and Vanya purses his lips, bewildered, shaking.
*
At midnight, starving, Vanya tiptoes to the kitchen in his underwear and pours a bowl of cereal, which he takes back to his room. He hasn’t slept a wink, and even while he crunches away at the cereal, his mind is at war with itself. Was Anton inviting him? Or is he just being stupid?
When the cereal’s gone, he stretches back out, whirling inside with frustration and fear. He wonders if Anton will talk to him about it. Anton’s perceptive, the outgoing twin, the one in charge; Anton goes to the rifle range, Anton goes out late at night, Anton makes Vanya go to the school dances. Vanya’s never been the one to start something, to make a move.
So it’s Vanya who’s most shocked when he cracks open the door to Anton’s room, so carefully, and pokes his head inside.
There are no guns on the bed; they’re all in the cabinet, locked, against the wall. Anton is under his blankets, knees sprawled, breath grunting. He’s stroking himself. He doesn’t realize Vanya’s seen him.
And Vanya can’t walk away, because even though he can’t exactly see, it’s what he’s been wondering about for all these months, so he keeps watching until Anton’s hand suddenly stills and he wonders: is Anton coming?
“Vanya,” says Anton, and his voice is at once amused and a little afraid. “I know you’re there.”
Vanya goes to duck out, cheeks flaming, but Anton twists to look at him, forgetting his own cock, pulling the sheets around himself. “Vanya, come here.”
So he does, goes in his underwear to his brother’s bedside, feels his blushing spread down his chest, perches on the edge of the mattress: do I pretend I don’t know, brother? Then Anton stretches out his hand and strokes him, from his chest down to his belly, and Vanya shudders all over and lets out a sigh.
“I knew this,” says Anton, amused. “I knew it.” Vanya can’t reply; he just lets Anton touch him, those callused fingers working up and down his ribs, ghosting over his shoulders, rising up to test the firmness of his chin, grazing his lips. He can’t look at his brother.
Until Anton sits up straight, grips his shoulders, and pulls him in. It’s so unexpected, even with the touching, that Vanya barely realizes in time that he’s being kissed, and he gasps into Anton’s delicate mouth, raises his hands to cup the chiseled jaw, lets himself be pulled in.
Then it’s Anton’s hot mouth, questing fingers, Vanya struggling to give his hands permission to roam; Anton squeezes his ass, and Vanya forces himself after a minute to squeeze back, and marvel at how like his it is. They topple backward onto Anton’s bed, Vanya on top but Anton steering him, and the skin of their chests meets and rubs and Vanya can feel the shape of Anton’s dick pressing into his belly.
Anton growls and flips him when Vanya freezes up, shucking Vanya’s underwear and kicking them from his knees to his ankles. Vanya isn’t quite sure about this, because while his dick is aching-hard and he feels like he will never get enough air again, this is his first time being naked like this, with someone else, and he says as much. Anton laughs.
“Don’t worry,” says Anton, wriggling downward in the bed like an eel, “I’ll be gentle.” He pushes Vanya upward until he’s slumped against the wall with Anton’s face breathing hot and wet across his groin, and laughs when Vanya jerks under the sensation of it.
Vanya lets Anton spread his legs, lets him stroke-and yes, it’s very close to the way Vanya touches himself, but with subtle wonderful differences that let him know it’s not quite the same-but when Anton lowers his face further and noses beneath Vanya’s balls, he’s terrified for a second, and he struggles to get away.
Anton isn’t having it. His fingers, strong and supple, dig into Vanya’s thighs, and Vanya finds himself pulled back down the bed a little, legs spread further. He mewls in protest, because he honestly doesn’t know what Anton’s trying to do, but then there’s something probing and holy fuck, Anton is licking his asshole.
For a split second it’s just awful and strange and wet, and then his nerves catch up and he moans and rocks his hips up into Anton’s face. Anton is stabbing at his hole, darting around the rim, plunging the tip deep inside; it feels so fucking good that Vanya can’t even make words, and his head rolls back against the wall and he concentrates on not shouting the house down and waking up their parents.
Anton’s grip is strong, thank god, and Vanya gradually surrenders to it; finally Anton reaches around him and grabs his asscheeks, spreading them wide, and pulls him into such a contorted position that Vanya’s muscles protest, but then Anton’s lying on his side and thrusting his tongue so deep and so hard into Vanya that he wonders for a split second if this is what it’s like to be fucked.
Then Anton’s hand clamps over his mouth, and Vanya realizes he’s been babbling, a long panting stream of moans and obscenities. He bats Anton’s hand away and bites down on the meat of his own thumb to drown his noises, and nearly bites through the flesh when Anton’s mouth closes on his dick with scalding heat and a slurping sound.
Anton really has to hold him still now, because Vanya can’t help the thrusts and tenses and shudders that force him up into his brother’s mouth. It’s hot, so hot and wet and slick and muscular, with Anton’s tongue pressing as firm as fingers against him and flicking on the upstrokes over the tip (just like Vanya’s thumb when he’s jacking himself, he realizes). Anton’s fingers, soaked with spit, prod at his asshole, and Vanya remembers how insanely fucking good Anton’s tongue felt and doesn’t even tense as Anton pushes his way in.
It burns and stretches a little, but then there’s that swirling heat around the head of his dick, and Vanya grunts and feels his face tense into an open-mouthed frown. “Я собираюсь стрелять,” he says: I’m going to shoot.
With an obscene pop, Anton’s mouth slides off his dick, and the fingers inside him still. “Not yet,” says Anton, and he sprawls over Vanya’s body (which relaxes into the mattress) and rummages through his bedside drawer, emerging a moment later with a jar of Vaseline. Vanya tenses.
“Oh, come on,” says Anton, gently teasing, but there’s an edge to his voice. “You don’t want to stop now, do you?”
“It’s wrong,” says Vanya, fighting himself. “We can’t-we shouldn’t do this, Anton.”
“Hush, Vanya,” says Anton, crawling back over Vanya with his hand slathered in Vaseline. “You’re my little brother, I get to take care of you.”
“Only by a minute,” protests Vanya, because this is what he always answers to Anton calling him ‘little brother’, but he realizes he’s missed the point just as Anton’s fingers enter him again, slicking him open with that burning stretch again. “Anton-I don’t-”
But then Anton’s fingers brush up inside him, and the silent impact of that touch hits him like a wall. Vanya is left gasping, hips twisting, vainly searching for that touch again.
“Don’t what,” growls Anton, and he does it again, crooks his fingers and leaves Vanya helpless and shaking and chanting fuck fuck fuck under his breath. He’s trying so hard to gather his wits, Vanya is, that he even manages to shake his head in protest before the next wave of bone-wracking pleasure.
He didn’t realize it would be like this. Anton seems to know him so well-Vanya realizes that Anton must do this to himself, fingering his own asshole open, pressing upward to shatter his whole consciousness with searing lust. He wonders if Anton has ever fucked anyone, or if it’s been his own fist and his own asshole the whole time, and he wonders how he never found all these parts of his body on his own. Anton always was the adventurous one.
Vanya’s mind is still reeling when Anton pulls out, looking self-satisfied, and kneels under Vanya’s hips with his cock resting right beside his brother’s. Vanya is panting like a broken bird, his dick leaking stickily against his belly, the weight of his brother’s dick nestled beside it, strangely comforting. Vanya knows Anton is going to fuck him, knows he’s probably going to come from it, and the guilt that blends with his arousal feels like plummeting, feels like the soar and the fall just before orgasm. Anton is going to fuck him. Anton is going to fuck him.
And Anton does, drawing back just enough to breach Vanya with the head of his cock, a tremendous and awful stretch that almost breaks the boundary between pleasure and pain. Vanya yelps, moans, pinches his eyebrows together in a wordless plea-and then Anton sinks into him.
It’s so full. Vanya feels like he can’t breathe deeply enough, like Anton’s cock has displaced his lungs. Some fundamental part of him, he knows, has been changed: made into an instrument of pleasure, where before it was simply skin. Then Anton draws back, adjusts his angle, and presses in again.
This time the racking delirious pleasure is almost overwhelming, and the fullness and the burning and the chest-ache of guilt and wrongness are like a terrible weight curling up in his abdomen and spilling into his balls. He begs. Anton pulls back again, thrusts again, and it happens what feels like a hundred more times, until Vanya is so wretched with the thunder and shame of it that he can’t tell which parts are his and which are Anton’s. They’re tangled up, identical arms, lips and mouths and teeth mirroring each other, Anton’s curls hanging down into Vanya’s curls until they might as well be the same person, and Vanya’s dick is riding wet and red against Anton’s belly and his hands are curled weakly around his brother’s hipbones and every strike inside him pushes him closer-
He almost doesn’t feel it coming, he’s so lost in the rest of it, so when Anton laughs low and feral in his throat and picks up his pace, Vanya’s nearly surprised at the way his back arches and the way he clenches around his brother’s dick, at the way the weight in his belly rises into a tidal wave that curls him up into Anton, sobbing out his orgasm into his brother’s neck.
Before he’s even finished, Anton spasms inside him, and he feels more than hears the low hungry moan in his ear, the hot rush of breath as Anton goes taut and then limp over him. Vanya breathes for a few moments, just working the air back into his lungs and then letting it go, secure under his brother’s body.
“We need to clean up,” he says in a minute, when Anton’s dick slides out of him.
“We’ll clean up later,” says Anton. “I’m going to sleep.”
Vanya pushes him toward the edge of the bed, and Anton pushes him back, long lithe arm flopping over Vanya’s chest in something suspiciously close to a cuddle.
“Up,” insists Vanya. “I’ll strip the bed, we’ll get fresh sheets. We can’t-they can’t know.”
“They won’t,” says Anton, but he hauls himself upright nonetheless, and even helps Vanya change the bedding and wad the soiled sheets up into the hamper. “Stay,” he adds, when Vanya starts toward the door, having pulled on his underwear again.
Vanya hesitates.
“Stay,” says Anton, and this time it’s firmer, like an order; underneath it, Vanya can hear something else again, something vulnerable in his big brother, something that the guns and the cocky sneers don’t even hint at. Something like him.
So he obeys, as he always does, and sleeps beside his brother, arms and legs tangled, like twins in the womb.
Pairing: Anton/Anton's imaginary twin brother
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Twincest, possible underagedness (but I'll just pretend they're 17)
Word count: 2,831
Disclaimer: Obviously these are not the real people, especially because Anton doesn't have a younger brother.
Summary: For garden_hoe21's prompt, and because she is dead sexy.
Anton is cleaning his gun, crosslegged on the bed; Vanya stands timid at the door, watching. It scares him a little, or maybe intrigues him, to think of someone so close to being him who can hold a gun steady and hit a target shaped like a man.
Anton smirks at him, rubbing the barrel with extra vigor. "I could teach you to shoot, if you wanted to," he offers, but Vanya shakes his head. The gun is Anton's thing; Vanya has his paintbrushes. They're already so similar, he hates to think of blurring that line.
"Come watch," says Anton. shrugging; Vanya looks over his shoulder, as if their parents will magically appear in the house, as if Anton is doing something wrong, and then crosses the room to perch on the bed beside Anton.
It looks easy when Anton does it, stroking and assembling with deft fingers. For Vanya, it's an impossible puzzle, a task so daunting that he focuses instead on his brother's hands.
So when Anton says something, Vanya doesn’t hear it at first, and it isn’t until Anton’s hand unexpectedly grips his that he realizes he’s supposed to do something. He glances at Anton, questioning, feeling the callus under his brother’s soft skin, and Anton smirks at him and pulls his hand over to rest on the gun in his lap.
“Like this,” Anton says, and guides Vanya’s fingers through a clumsy repetition of one action, snick snick. Vanya feels his cheeks heating up, a strange twisting in his gut at the heat of Anton’s body so near his fingers. Anton chuckles at him, and Vanya hopes that it’s just Anton thinking he’s scared of the gun, or clumsy with his hands.
Because Vanya’s been keeping his distance from Anton lately. Truth be told, he started keeping his distance years ago, as they both started to grow at the same time. The burgeoning thatch of curls as Anton stripped for a shower was just like the hair Vanya raked his nails through when he got himself off at night; as Vanya’s shoulders grew broader and his body took on its adult shape, Anton grew too. Of course he kept himself a little more aloof. It was just a matter of privacy.
But lately… lately Vanya looks down at his own dick, leaking over his fingers as he twists and pulls, and in his head he sees one that looks just like it, and isn’t. How much are they the same? Does Anton flick his thumb over the head, like this? Does his other hand roll and fondle his balls? Do his lips fall open, and does he lick them and pant at the cooling wetness of them?
So now, Vanya lets Anton move his hands, instructing him how and where to work the gun, keeping his eyes down so that his lashes brush his cheeks. He can’t stand Anton’s knowing smirk. It occurs to him, now, as it hasn’t through months of jacking off, that if he knows any of Anton’s secrets, Anton knows his.
When the back of his hand brushes Anton’s belly, totally unplanned, and he feels the muscle quiver and jump, and Anton’s hand moving his stills for a second to delay the loss of contact-
Vanya practically leaps off the bed. “I need to finish my art project,” he babbles.
Anton replies in Russian, lazy-voiced, as he cocks the gun nonchalantly-it isn’t loaded, Vanya reminds himself- “You and your art, always hiding.”
Vanya doesn’t speak the language as well as Anton, but he does try. He’s always loved that they could talk to each other like this at school, as if it’s their own secret code; for now, though, it’s force of habit, Vanya responding to Anton’s prompts as if trained. “It’s for a grade, Anton. You don’t need my help here.”
“как Вы предпочитаете,” Anton replies. Whatever you like.
*
Their parents are home by eight, and Vanya’s project is finished by nine. He doesn’t come down for dinner.
He’s haunted by that touch. The back of his hand tingles with memory. He’s spent his whole life touching his brother, since they held each other in the womb, but now it feels like something secret and awful and forbidden.
He goes to bed early, lying stretched out on top of his sheets, watching the periwinkle glow of twilight give way to a sulfur-light glaze across his ceiling.
Anton knocks on his door an hour later, and Vanya doesn’t answer. “Vanya,” Anton says. (His real name is Ivan, which their parents still call him; Anton calls him Vanya, and that’s what he calls himself.)
“Eh,” says Vanya, rolling over to face the door, which opens a crack.
“You should come help me clean my guns again,” says Anton, and something in his voice is saying something else. “Sometime soon.”
Then the door’s closed, Anton’s feet padding down the hall, and Vanya purses his lips, bewildered, shaking.
*
At midnight, starving, Vanya tiptoes to the kitchen in his underwear and pours a bowl of cereal, which he takes back to his room. He hasn’t slept a wink, and even while he crunches away at the cereal, his mind is at war with itself. Was Anton inviting him? Or is he just being stupid?
When the cereal’s gone, he stretches back out, whirling inside with frustration and fear. He wonders if Anton will talk to him about it. Anton’s perceptive, the outgoing twin, the one in charge; Anton goes to the rifle range, Anton goes out late at night, Anton makes Vanya go to the school dances. Vanya’s never been the one to start something, to make a move.
So it’s Vanya who’s most shocked when he cracks open the door to Anton’s room, so carefully, and pokes his head inside.
There are no guns on the bed; they’re all in the cabinet, locked, against the wall. Anton is under his blankets, knees sprawled, breath grunting. He’s stroking himself. He doesn’t realize Vanya’s seen him.
And Vanya can’t walk away, because even though he can’t exactly see, it’s what he’s been wondering about for all these months, so he keeps watching until Anton’s hand suddenly stills and he wonders: is Anton coming?
“Vanya,” says Anton, and his voice is at once amused and a little afraid. “I know you’re there.”
Vanya goes to duck out, cheeks flaming, but Anton twists to look at him, forgetting his own cock, pulling the sheets around himself. “Vanya, come here.”
So he does, goes in his underwear to his brother’s bedside, feels his blushing spread down his chest, perches on the edge of the mattress: do I pretend I don’t know, brother? Then Anton stretches out his hand and strokes him, from his chest down to his belly, and Vanya shudders all over and lets out a sigh.
“I knew this,” says Anton, amused. “I knew it.” Vanya can’t reply; he just lets Anton touch him, those callused fingers working up and down his ribs, ghosting over his shoulders, rising up to test the firmness of his chin, grazing his lips. He can’t look at his brother.
Until Anton sits up straight, grips his shoulders, and pulls him in. It’s so unexpected, even with the touching, that Vanya barely realizes in time that he’s being kissed, and he gasps into Anton’s delicate mouth, raises his hands to cup the chiseled jaw, lets himself be pulled in.
Then it’s Anton’s hot mouth, questing fingers, Vanya struggling to give his hands permission to roam; Anton squeezes his ass, and Vanya forces himself after a minute to squeeze back, and marvel at how like his it is. They topple backward onto Anton’s bed, Vanya on top but Anton steering him, and the skin of their chests meets and rubs and Vanya can feel the shape of Anton’s dick pressing into his belly.
Anton growls and flips him when Vanya freezes up, shucking Vanya’s underwear and kicking them from his knees to his ankles. Vanya isn’t quite sure about this, because while his dick is aching-hard and he feels like he will never get enough air again, this is his first time being naked like this, with someone else, and he says as much. Anton laughs.
“Don’t worry,” says Anton, wriggling downward in the bed like an eel, “I’ll be gentle.” He pushes Vanya upward until he’s slumped against the wall with Anton’s face breathing hot and wet across his groin, and laughs when Vanya jerks under the sensation of it.
Vanya lets Anton spread his legs, lets him stroke-and yes, it’s very close to the way Vanya touches himself, but with subtle wonderful differences that let him know it’s not quite the same-but when Anton lowers his face further and noses beneath Vanya’s balls, he’s terrified for a second, and he struggles to get away.
Anton isn’t having it. His fingers, strong and supple, dig into Vanya’s thighs, and Vanya finds himself pulled back down the bed a little, legs spread further. He mewls in protest, because he honestly doesn’t know what Anton’s trying to do, but then there’s something probing and holy fuck, Anton is licking his asshole.
For a split second it’s just awful and strange and wet, and then his nerves catch up and he moans and rocks his hips up into Anton’s face. Anton is stabbing at his hole, darting around the rim, plunging the tip deep inside; it feels so fucking good that Vanya can’t even make words, and his head rolls back against the wall and he concentrates on not shouting the house down and waking up their parents.
Anton’s grip is strong, thank god, and Vanya gradually surrenders to it; finally Anton reaches around him and grabs his asscheeks, spreading them wide, and pulls him into such a contorted position that Vanya’s muscles protest, but then Anton’s lying on his side and thrusting his tongue so deep and so hard into Vanya that he wonders for a split second if this is what it’s like to be fucked.
Then Anton’s hand clamps over his mouth, and Vanya realizes he’s been babbling, a long panting stream of moans and obscenities. He bats Anton’s hand away and bites down on the meat of his own thumb to drown his noises, and nearly bites through the flesh when Anton’s mouth closes on his dick with scalding heat and a slurping sound.
Anton really has to hold him still now, because Vanya can’t help the thrusts and tenses and shudders that force him up into his brother’s mouth. It’s hot, so hot and wet and slick and muscular, with Anton’s tongue pressing as firm as fingers against him and flicking on the upstrokes over the tip (just like Vanya’s thumb when he’s jacking himself, he realizes). Anton’s fingers, soaked with spit, prod at his asshole, and Vanya remembers how insanely fucking good Anton’s tongue felt and doesn’t even tense as Anton pushes his way in.
It burns and stretches a little, but then there’s that swirling heat around the head of his dick, and Vanya grunts and feels his face tense into an open-mouthed frown. “Я собираюсь стрелять,” he says: I’m going to shoot.
With an obscene pop, Anton’s mouth slides off his dick, and the fingers inside him still. “Not yet,” says Anton, and he sprawls over Vanya’s body (which relaxes into the mattress) and rummages through his bedside drawer, emerging a moment later with a jar of Vaseline. Vanya tenses.
“Oh, come on,” says Anton, gently teasing, but there’s an edge to his voice. “You don’t want to stop now, do you?”
“It’s wrong,” says Vanya, fighting himself. “We can’t-we shouldn’t do this, Anton.”
“Hush, Vanya,” says Anton, crawling back over Vanya with his hand slathered in Vaseline. “You’re my little brother, I get to take care of you.”
“Only by a minute,” protests Vanya, because this is what he always answers to Anton calling him ‘little brother’, but he realizes he’s missed the point just as Anton’s fingers enter him again, slicking him open with that burning stretch again. “Anton-I don’t-”
But then Anton’s fingers brush up inside him, and the silent impact of that touch hits him like a wall. Vanya is left gasping, hips twisting, vainly searching for that touch again.
“Don’t what,” growls Anton, and he does it again, crooks his fingers and leaves Vanya helpless and shaking and chanting fuck fuck fuck under his breath. He’s trying so hard to gather his wits, Vanya is, that he even manages to shake his head in protest before the next wave of bone-wracking pleasure.
He didn’t realize it would be like this. Anton seems to know him so well-Vanya realizes that Anton must do this to himself, fingering his own asshole open, pressing upward to shatter his whole consciousness with searing lust. He wonders if Anton has ever fucked anyone, or if it’s been his own fist and his own asshole the whole time, and he wonders how he never found all these parts of his body on his own. Anton always was the adventurous one.
Vanya’s mind is still reeling when Anton pulls out, looking self-satisfied, and kneels under Vanya’s hips with his cock resting right beside his brother’s. Vanya is panting like a broken bird, his dick leaking stickily against his belly, the weight of his brother’s dick nestled beside it, strangely comforting. Vanya knows Anton is going to fuck him, knows he’s probably going to come from it, and the guilt that blends with his arousal feels like plummeting, feels like the soar and the fall just before orgasm. Anton is going to fuck him. Anton is going to fuck him.
And Anton does, drawing back just enough to breach Vanya with the head of his cock, a tremendous and awful stretch that almost breaks the boundary between pleasure and pain. Vanya yelps, moans, pinches his eyebrows together in a wordless plea-and then Anton sinks into him.
It’s so full. Vanya feels like he can’t breathe deeply enough, like Anton’s cock has displaced his lungs. Some fundamental part of him, he knows, has been changed: made into an instrument of pleasure, where before it was simply skin. Then Anton draws back, adjusts his angle, and presses in again.
This time the racking delirious pleasure is almost overwhelming, and the fullness and the burning and the chest-ache of guilt and wrongness are like a terrible weight curling up in his abdomen and spilling into his balls. He begs. Anton pulls back again, thrusts again, and it happens what feels like a hundred more times, until Vanya is so wretched with the thunder and shame of it that he can’t tell which parts are his and which are Anton’s. They’re tangled up, identical arms, lips and mouths and teeth mirroring each other, Anton’s curls hanging down into Vanya’s curls until they might as well be the same person, and Vanya’s dick is riding wet and red against Anton’s belly and his hands are curled weakly around his brother’s hipbones and every strike inside him pushes him closer-
He almost doesn’t feel it coming, he’s so lost in the rest of it, so when Anton laughs low and feral in his throat and picks up his pace, Vanya’s nearly surprised at the way his back arches and the way he clenches around his brother’s dick, at the way the weight in his belly rises into a tidal wave that curls him up into Anton, sobbing out his orgasm into his brother’s neck.
Before he’s even finished, Anton spasms inside him, and he feels more than hears the low hungry moan in his ear, the hot rush of breath as Anton goes taut and then limp over him. Vanya breathes for a few moments, just working the air back into his lungs and then letting it go, secure under his brother’s body.
“We need to clean up,” he says in a minute, when Anton’s dick slides out of him.
“We’ll clean up later,” says Anton. “I’m going to sleep.”
Vanya pushes him toward the edge of the bed, and Anton pushes him back, long lithe arm flopping over Vanya’s chest in something suspiciously close to a cuddle.
“Up,” insists Vanya. “I’ll strip the bed, we’ll get fresh sheets. We can’t-they can’t know.”
“They won’t,” says Anton, but he hauls himself upright nonetheless, and even helps Vanya change the bedding and wad the soiled sheets up into the hamper. “Stay,” he adds, when Vanya starts toward the door, having pulled on his underwear again.
Vanya hesitates.
“Stay,” says Anton, and this time it’s firmer, like an order; underneath it, Vanya can hear something else again, something vulnerable in his big brother, something that the guns and the cocky sneers don’t even hint at. Something like him.
So he obeys, as he always does, and sleeps beside his brother, arms and legs tangled, like twins in the womb.