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D knows something is up, and tonight, he is going to find out what.
D knows he's a heavy sleeper, especially after a bender. And usually he wakes up with an aching head and tense muscles. But the last several times he'd come home drunk out of his mind, he'd woken up the next day relaxed and comfortable. Even when he fell asleep in his suit! Which used to be a guarantee that he'd have a bad morning.
And he's noticed some… marks. On his skin. So faint you'd almost think it was just a natural flush. But they're there, and he knows it. Small faint red circles around the freckles on his inner thighs. And slightly darker ones on his ass. He'd only noticed them when his costume guy had pointed them out. Laughing and saying he was back on the market.
(He's sore too. Sore in places he shouldn't be when he hasn't been with anyone since Dirk moved in. But that must be nothing.)
And the biggest tell that something is up is the way Dirk's acting.
D had thought they'd gotten over flinches at hair ruffles, but they'd come back with a vengeance in the past couple weeks. Any slight brush, and Dirk will jolt, like his mind's never present. Which, D can make the argument that Dirk is so comfortable now he can lose himself in thought without a care for his surroundings. But D isn't going to make that argument because something. Is. Wrong.
Dirk's avoiding eye contact. More than usual. And in a way more obvious manner. He'd slowly started taking his shades off when it was just them, but like fucking magic they're back on his face like they never left.
He keeps making excuses to not spend time with D when before he'd never pass up bro time. It's freaking D the fuck out.
He'd asked Rose about it since she seemed to be handling Roxy fucking perfectly somehow, but she just said some cryptic bullshit about "discovering it under the moon's light." Which, now that he thinks about it, is exactly what he's doing.
Fuck Rose and her prophecies.
But none of that matters because tonight he's gonna get to the bottom of it all.
He goes out as normal that night. Ruffling Dirk's hair (if he flinches, D refuses to notice).
He meets up with Sean (costume guy) and Gabriela (an actress he'd worked with before) because they'd made plans to get shitfaced the next time she was in town, and he's not gonna let her down. Much.
They obviously notice he's not drinking more than a few beers, but accept his excuse of promising Dirk he'd go easy tonight. Not without a lot of bitching of course. But they do let it slide.
Once they're both suitably distracted with their new paramours of the night, he texts them that he's not feeling too hot and leaves.
He didn't take the car because he never does when he's drinking a lot, and he's gotta sell this, so he calls an Uber.
Dirk's waiting up for him, as is his usual. (It doesn't warm D's heart. It doesn't. He has very chill normal feelings about his lil bro sitting in his fucking weird plush chair sewing a creepy fucking puppet while watching My Little Pony, waiting for him to come home).
In the Uber, D had fucked with his outfit. He'd ran his hands through his hair and smudged his sunglasses. Undid the tie and three buttons. Untucked his shirt. Basically made him look like he'd actually gotten shitfaced like he'd promised.
And now his acting career is paying dividends (by tricking his new baby brother. Exactly how he thought it would when he started). He stumbles in through their front door, dropping his keys into the tacky green bowl some fuckhead had given him.
Dirk looks up from his spot in the living room (well, not really living room per se. The apartment was very open concept. The kitchen to the far left, then a small dining table, and the couch and TV set up was down a very small set of stairs nearest to the door. D is not going to say how many times he's tripped on those stupid fucking stairs because he obviously never has).
He approaches while D starts fumbling with his shoes, glasses slipping down his nose. To be honest, he doesn't always remember what Dirk does when he's as drunk as he's pretending to be.
When Dirk kneels down to get at his laces, he's not surprised. But… he's something. He feels the same something he feels when Dirk brings him coffee or makes breakfast when his hangover has him puking his guts out. When he cleans up the messes D makes. When he does the grocery shopping because D never remembers and he doesn't trust a stranger to do it. The twisted kind of gratefulness where Dirk shouldn't fucking be doing all that. He shouldn't have to make up for D's incompetence. He was supposed to be giving Dirk a better life, but he's just screwing him over in a different way. (There's a reason D started drinking again.)
But Dirk does it no matter D's feelings. He unties his laces and gently takes his sneakers off. D grabs at the wall for stability, and then leans heavier on it when Dirk looks up at him through his pale golden lashes.
He doesn't clear his throat. Leaves his voice rough as he says, "Thanks, bud." And then pats Dirk on the head like he's a dog. And Dirk doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away either. Just… let's D ruffle his hair. Like he used to.
D realizes he's staring and removes his hand from silky blond hair (it's crazy how soft and shiny Dirk's hair is with how much product he puts in it). He shifts away from where Dirk is still kneeling, and makes a beeline for his bedroom, making sure to sway and wobble as he walks.
He hears Dirk stand up and follow behind him.
Dirk flips on the light as they enter his bedroom, and D he starts stripping. Signature silk red tie? Off. Black suit jacket with the shiny inner lining? Off. Normal ass belt he's had since he was sixteen? Off. It's as he starts unbuttoning his (no longer) crisp white shirt that he sees Dirk come in from the en-suite, carrying a glass of water and two tylenol (that he thankfully won't need). He doesn't look at D where he's getting naked three feet from the door. He just puts them down on the night stand next to the bathroom door. He doesn't ask D to move, simply side-steps him with a soft, "Night, Bro."
The door closes behind him.
That interaction, at least, was normal. Dirk's never been one to stay when D starts changing even though D's modesty is nonexistent. He wonders if whatever hang up he's got is also why Dirk stays covered up all the time. Even when they go to the pool, Dirk will rock a long sleeve swim shirt and too big bermuda shorts. Which, to each their own. D personally, in his efforts to keep Dirk comfortable, has put his speedo into his closet for the time being.
Either way, Dirk is gone, and D needs to piss so bad. He did have some drinks.
He finishes the buttons on his shirt when he comes back out of the bathroom. Putting in the pile next to the door on his left, and shimmying out of his pants and socks next.
He debates leaving his undershirt on, but he's sweaty and hot, so he shucks that too.
(He resolutely doesn't go to his closet to change his boxers. He doesn't even look to his right where the walk in closet is. There is no reason for him to put on the nice shit he wears when he knows he's going to get some. No. Reason.)
He turns the light off, puts his glasses on the nightstand with the water, and flops down on his giant ass bed. It was big enough to hold four people comfortably, five if they were close, and six uncomfortably. With seven someone always fell off. The silk sheets are soft and cool against his skin. He doesn't pull up the blankets. Too hot. Hugging a pillow to his face, he turns his head to the left so he could see the door.
(He's not usually a stomach sleeper, but that's another odd thing. He's been waking up on his stomach more often. Which doesn't even happen when he falls asleep in that position.)
He relaxes and settles in to wait.
With his eyes closed and his body forcibly lax, it's hard to keep from dosing off. He does it though, by rating every fuck he's ever had from one to ten. Which… has caused a small problem in his pants, but fuck. He hasn't had sex in months, and he's fucking horny. (A little voice at the back of his mind whispers, and it'll be easier if you're wet. He resolutely doesn't hear it.)
While he's debating whether his single night with Rose should be a nine or a ten (her strap game was killer but the morning after was so awkward it almost makes him want to bring the score down to a seven in acknowledgment), he hears it. A soft creak, but no red against his eyelids. Familiar footsteps approach his bed.
D keeps his breathing even and slow, his forehead uncreased and face slack. (Which means his mouth is a little open and he's drooled a disgusting wet spot underneath his cheek).
His midnight visitor stands there for a long moment, and D can hear his breathing as well as his own in the quiet. It's controlled and slow. Too even to be natural.
Then there is a dip in the mattress. A light weight shuffling closer. (Too light. D has been trying to fatten the kid up but it seems to just disappear. He's all skin and bones and wiry well-defined muscles seen on the rare occasion Dirk wears a tank.)
The weight settles near his mid back, and then there's stillness again.
Hot breath puffs at his ear with each soft whispered word.
"Hey, are you awake?"
D suppresses the shiver that wants to travel down his spine. There isn't any way to deny it anymore. Dirk is the one in his room right now. But maybe Dirk is just checking in on him in the night. Like how D does himself. (Heart beating too fast and sweat at his temples. Trying to be quiet but panting out breaths. The relief that floods him when he sees Dirk. Who actually is a stomach sleeper. His brows soft without the permanent crinkle. Sometimes. Not often, but sometimes, sometimes he'll just sit down next to Dirk and card his fingers through his hair. Smooth it away from his forehead. Tuck it behind his ear. It grounds him. Makes Dirk feel real. Alive and with D.)
Seemingly satisfied that he's asleep, Dirk pulls away but puts a scarred and calloused hand into D's hair, softly scritching at his scalp. D lets himself melt into it. Being more limp isn't going to blow his cover.
He lies there, enjoying the feeling. When Dirk moves away, he's truly relaxed.
Dirk's hand sweeps down his back, light passes getting firmer. Has Dirk just been nervous about asking for physical touch? Deciding to sneak into D's room in the middle of the night doesn't say good things about the trust level in the house, but they could work on that. D doesn't even realize that he's been craving skin-to-skin contact until he's fighting down more shivers.
He's not worried anymore. Clearly Dirk just wanted some brotherly affection, but couldn't ask. They'd talk about it in the morning, and all this would be put to bed (heh).
And then Dirk's hand slides down past the dimples at his lower back and starts squeezing his ass.
All thoughts flee D's head except one: THAT'S NOT FUCKING BROTHERLY!
Dirk's other hand comes up, and he starts fucking massaging his ass. Not too hard, and God, D does like having his ass messed with, and this is not helping that problem in his boxers. And just as he's getting used to this new and horrible touch, Dirk spreads his cheeks and slides a hand down to cup him through sticky cotton cloth.
His fucking brother leans back down to his ear. "You're so wet for me tonight, Bro." (His dick does not twitch. It doesn't. But his whole body flushes, from cheeks to navel. He is, in that moment, so fucking happy for the darkness in his bedroom.) Dirk chuckles directly against his ear, a mockery of the work D has put in to get this little shit to laugh even a handful of times.
A finger starts delicately tracing his dick through the cloth, the palm pressing down enough to be felt but be nothing more than a tease. The press gets harder against his cock until he starts wanting to squirm back against it, hole clenching around nothing. He manfully resists that urge and the moan trying to work its way out of his throat. (He's not quiet in bed. Never has been, but for how many sex tapes and pornos he's made, he's never been one for somnophilia. Or, he wasn't before. He doesn't know how loud sleeping D is, and he can't give himself away. Not now. He doesn't want to think of what would happen if Dirk knew he was awake.)
The pressure slowly lets up, like Dirk's a fucking orgasm psychic, and he goes back to just gently rubbing, too light to get off on. It leaves completely with a little pat to his cunt.
Hands at his waistband, slowly pulling his worn-soft cotton boxers down. There's this sound as the fabric unsticks against where he's soaked through. And that gets to him, makes him feel embarrassed and too-seen. (Even though he knows this sound, has made it on purpose. Let his partners know how much he wants them.) Maybe it's the darkness, being unable to see what's going to happen next, or maybe it's that it's his fucking baby brother, but he feels so affected by everything that's happening. The cold hits his warm wet hole, and he lets himself shiver this time. Being chilled in the night isn't weird. It's not.
Dirk lifts his ankles, so his boxers don't get caught on them, and then he's completely nude. Spread out in front of his little brother like a feast ready to be eaten and he feels himself somehow leak a little more at the thought. (He's been forced through orgasm after orgasm, edged to the point of sobbing, and yet a little petting through his clothes is what makes him wetter than he's ever been.)
When he hears fabric rustle, a deep breath, and a pleased sigh in quick succession—he's too shocked to feel anything really. Dirk sniffing his underwear shouldn't rank above him—molesting D in the night, but somehow it does. He fucking knows that his pussy doesn't smell like fucking roses, so what Dirk gets out of it is a mystery.
But because wonders never fucking cease, Dirk nuzzles his nose right up against his lips, warm breath and terrible sniffing sounds as he apparently goes to the source. D is terrified (and only terrified, nothing else), that Dirk is about to go down on him. Thankfully, he pulls back with a sigh, and instead immediately sticks two fingers in him. They scissor once, and then a third joins them. Dirk spreads him as wide as he can, just edging onto pain, before withdrawing.
D can't feel anything about the emptiness, because a rustle of fabric, a wet slicking sound, and then a pillow is being placed beneath his stomach.
Being propped up is worse. Makes it feel more like past experiences where he's been too fucked up to do more than lie there and moan. Makes it feel real in a way being flat on his stomach somehow didn't.
He feels Dirk's dick press up against him, and he barely has time to think, No condom? before his mind is emptied of everything but the slow push into him, steady and inexorable. He can't help it; he moans. Full throated and loud in the room. Dirk says something like, "finally," and sighs as his pelvis touches D's ass, his balls against D's dick.
He pulls out to just the tip just as slowly as he went in and sets a terrible, torturous pace.
In and out, in and out. Just smooth fullness and friction in him. It feels so good, and D doesn't want to know when and how Dirk learned this focus and control in sex. The rhythm is so consistent and leisurely, it's almost soothing. He falls into it, into the wonderful pleasure of being fucked.
That pleasure and pressure builds gradually in his core. He's panting and moaning louder, not even trying to stay quiet. He doesn't realize he's on the edge until Dirk slows more, starts grinding his hips in little circles. And horror of all horrors, when he reaches down to palm at his dick, D comes immediately.
White sparks in the darkness behind his eyes. His hands fist his pillow. His face scrunches up. He clenches down on Dirk, who's still twisting and thrusting through it, and grinds down hard on Dirk's palm.
His body goes lax, panting in the aftermath, trying to squirm away from the now too much feeling of Dirk's hand on him. Dirk doesn't let him.
Instead he picks his grinding and thrusting back up, wrapping his fingers around D's dick and jerking him off with force. It's overwhelming and too soon. His legs spasm. He recoils from the touch, whines budding from his throat that he doesn't care to stop. Dirk just follows him—both scooting up the bed slightly. He edges closer and closer until the pain-pleasure brings him over the edge.
More white sparks, more clenching, everything touching him is unbearable. He's too wet, and it feels like Dirk is just going to slip out. He doesn't.
Almost completely limp on the bed, D does nothing as Dirk takes his hand away and snuggles his dick in as tight as possible. He lays his full torso on D's back. With how hot he feels this living weighted blanket should be uncomfortable. It's not. His heaving settles and his hands unclench.
Dirk worms his arms underneath D. But he doesn't go for his nipples or top scars (he's seen Dirk eyeing them when he thinks he's not looking. But D always thought it was curiosity, not… this). He simply holds D.
He's so full and enveloped. It's comforting. Dirk presses kisses to his upper back and neck. Little chaste ones full of affection and nothing more. He's still hard. This is exactly how D likes to come down from an orgasm: surrounded by his partner and lavished with attention.
(D doesn't want to know how Dirk learned all of his preferences. The way he likes to be overstimulated into a second orgasm, how he likes to be taken apart and put back together. How much he craves being full afterward. He's made a lot of sex tapes. Some he's released himself, others leaked. Hell, some were just straight up porn he was paid to do. But just watching one wouldn't tell you enough about what he likes for these meticulous actions. Just how much has Dirk seen?)
They lie there for a long while. Their breathing syncs up, rising and falling in rhythm. D thinks he could fall asleep like this, warm and stuffed and with his brother (and isn't that a fucked up thought).
Eventually Dirk slides his hands out from under him, gives his neck one last kiss, and leans back. He starts pulling out and pushing back in, not any faster than before. D wonders if he's in for another two excruciating orgasms.
He is not.
Dirk holds his hip (too gentle to make marks, D knows. He wonders if Dirk will ever get sloppy enough to leave one (if he'll let this continue long enough for that to happen)), his other hand planted on the mattress. Then with a quick snap of his hips, everything speeds the fuck up. D's soreness makes so much sense now. It wasn't from the tender torture of before, it was from this. From Dirk chasing his own pleasure. (Which means that all of that before was for D. Why? Why would Dirk fuck him in the middle of the night for D's pleasure?)
They're just as deep as before, but now it feels like a fucking jackhammer to his pussy. His dick is getting a lot more attention too; the soft skin of Dirk's balls hits it with every thrust. He's almost moving up the bed again. Dirk's hand is the only thing keeping him in place, still so gentle.
Mercifully, Dirk seems pretty pent up. (Maybe he shouldn't have spent so much time just lying balls deep in D then, huh.) His tempo gets sloppier, more erratic. Still fast, but not as deep. He's making little noises too. Dirk has been so quiet during everything, but now he's panting, letting out moans and grunts.
Finally he stutters and goes still, his hand clenching harder on D's hip (maybe a bruise will form). A flood of new liquid coats D's insides, hot and sticky. Dirk collapses lethargic onto D, and he faintly hears, "God, I wish you weren't on birth control."
D's eyes pop open. Look unseeing into the dark. He takes in the silhouettes of clothes on the floor, the cracked door. He's more turned on than he's ever been. A fire burning in his gut, spreading out to his extremities.
It's only when Dirk groans from behind him, shifting to sit up, that D closes his eyes. His brain is muted. He's consumed by images and thoughts. One taking center stage:
I wish he'd knocked me up.
That breaks the spell. A cold sweat breaks out over his body. He breathes deep and slow. Controlled. The thought is shoved in a tiny box at the back of his mind. Gone.
In the most careful move of the whole night, Dirk pulls out, so so slow. He hisses at the stimulation on his cock (Heh, fucking serves him right). He shuffles back on the bed, slick sounds of flesh on flesh. An incriminating wet noise as he apparently licks the come from his hand.
There is nothing after that. Just their mixed come sliding out of his hole, dripping down in a lethargic waterfall. He can feel Dirk's eyes on him, and it makes him clench around nothing. He's sure he makes a sight. Ass up, legs spread, cunt puffy and red and slick. Dick still standing at attention. Squeezing and fluttering as liquid dribbles out. It shouldn't make him hornier. It shouldn't. (It does.)
He isn't sure what snaps Dirk out of his pussy trance, but suddenly there's shifting behind him.
Hot humid breath puffs onto his lips.
He has not escaped being eaten out.
Dirk's tongue starts its sinful journey at his cock. Laving it with broad swipes. He's very—thorough. Sticks his tongue underneath the hood and all around the sides. That silken heat sweeps circles around and over his dick until he's shivering and squirming again, so close to the edge.
Dirk's psychic come magic ruins the moment again. His tongue sweeps up. Licks up his own come from the inside of his lips. Then, the main event. The pussy de resistance. The waterfall's opening. The—
Dirk shoves his tongue in D, and thoughts flee once more. It curls and cups, bringing loads back to Dirk's waiting mouth. Cleans and scrapes and fucks his hole. Pushes and presses against that one specific spot erratically. Keeps him tense as it passes it by, then three strokes in quick succession. He feels hollowed out, everything taken by Dirk and his tongue.
His legs are shaking, and he does mourn the loss when Dirk's tongue retreats. He's been full so much tonight, and he doesn't want that feeling gone. Dirk somehow hears his thoughts (or maybe the whine he makes) and sticks two fingers in him.
Feverish suction envelops his whole dick. Those scarred fingers crook just right. And he's coming for a third time that night.
It's longer and less overpowering. He comes down slowly with kitten licks on his cock and fingers soothing him from the inside.
A too soon sloppy kiss to his dick makes him twitch and clench. Dirk doesn't remove his fingers as he lightly mouths at his inner thighs.
His inner thighs… D's foggy mind knows those spots. The marks on his freckles. He wants to laugh; clearly Dirk has favorite moles. He sucks a little harder on those spots, still stroking inside D.
The scrape of teeth starts on his ass, but no bites. Tiny stings as counterpoint to the petting of his walls.
Once he's sufficiently marked up, Dirk slowly and carefully removes his fingers. Just as gentle as he was with his cock. (The care and consideration in these actions hurt, makes him ache.)
His boxers a dragged back up his body, the pillow removed.
And then Dirk performs an odd ritual. He puts his hand back on his cunt, and starts circling his dick with one finger, starting light then going harder.
D fears he's going to be forced to cream his pants this time when the touch gets light again. And then there is an almost proprietary pat on his hole, and his hand moves up. His ass gets massaged. Wonderfully firm pressure on his slightly sore muscles (three orgasms can take a lot out of a guy).
Dirk travels up his spine and pets down his back, touch growing softer and softer. He scritches into D's hair, and whispers, "Good night, Bro. Sweet dreams."
The hand leaves, Then Dirk leaves, shuffling off the mattress. Light footsteps. A creak opening and closing. And D is alone.
He opens his eyes. Contemplates turning onto his back. Doesn't. He simply lies there, fucked out, cleaned up, and tucked in. And he wonders if this was a mystery better left unsolved.