![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themostempty posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
swampofsadnessThe first time Dirk woke up that night, it was after midnight. The fourth time he woke up, it was just after 3 am. In between, he tried going for a piss, getting a glass of water, getting up to piss again, and twice wrapping his leg around Ranboo's waist, in case maybe he just needed a little something extra to fall asleep and stay asleep.
No such fucking luck.
So, when he woke up for the fourth time, he surrendered to whatever restless demon was occupying his brain and slipped out of bed, again, and picked his way through the dark of his bedroom, expertly stepping over dropped swords and stumbling occasionally on the soft body of a puppet or smuppet or other inoffensive-to-collision object. He only bothers to remember where he leaves the dangerous shit on any consistent basis, but he does remember.
Ranboo doesn't stop him; the soft, worried questions are conspicuous by their absence. He doesn't really have the energy to offer reassurances again, anyway, but he has to make a point of thinking that it's better this way before he closes the door on him and heads down the hallway towards the living room where his complicated, lonely brother now sleeps.
Or slept, anyway. He's awake already when Dirk turns on the light--he hasn't been for long, Dirk can tell by the lines on his face and the squint of his eyes. He waves two fingers in greeting, and Dirk returns the salute.
"Heard the door, huh."
Bro looks at him like he's the most exhausting human being on earth, and Dirk almost regrets that he's about to become even more exhausting in a second.
"Bad news. I can't sleep, so I'm taking over the Playstation."
"....."
It went fine, for a while. They shared the couch, with Dirk sprawled back and Bro propped up against the arm of it, watching him eat shit repeatedly because he's tired and he's pretending not to care as much as he does--he hates making the same mistakes while he has an audience--and gradually, oh so gradually, they fall into their old shared rhythm. Lying across Bro's legs with his head against the man's chest, Bro's arm draped comfortably over his torso, occasional flurries of conversation interspersed with silence or light shoving as one or the other has a limb fall asleep. Normal. It's so fucking normal.
When it stopped being fine, it wasn't because anything abnormal happened. Bro reaching out and grabbing him abruptly, strong hands closing on his arm and torso to pull Dirk in flush with his brother's body--
His hold is powerful, practised, unbreakable; he can feel the unyielding-yet-pliable form of Bro's muscles against his own. His back, he realises, is slightly sweaty from the heat of one living man pressed against another. But there's more to it than that: Bro's erect cock is firm against Dirk's ass, and his hand slides up Dirk's shirt to palm the swell of his his pectoral, calloused fingers spreading to find and pinch a pierced nipple.
It's all condensed into about two or three seconds, as is Bro's wont. He's always quick. Forceful. Possessive.
It's all so normal.
His instincts split. Fight, or fuck. He wants to accept this. To embrace it, even. He missed him. His aggressiveness. His efficiency. He missed how it feels, missed the way his brother smelled up close, the scrape of stubble and callouses on his skin. Not that he didn't touch Bro at all over the past days, or come in close enough to smell that specific mix of deodorant and aftershave and sweat and metal and Strider. But it wasn't like this.
Like this: trapped. Held, tightly. Restrained. Panic? Anger? He doesn't feel anything. On a superficial level, he almost relaxes.
But his promise to Ranboo puts his body in motion, galvanised by all the lines he's drawn between him and Bro--lines smeared and scattered and trampled but remembered. He twists, lightning-quick, pushing an elbow back into his own brother's ribs. Hard.
"Not in the mood."
He can feel Bro's irritated huff--the rise of his chest withh the short intake of breath, the exhalation against the back of his neck. A spike of adrenaline--irritation of his own--rises fast in him. Bro doesn't let him go. Bro doesn't stop feeling him up, either. His inner walls clench, his body's arousal threatening his heart.
"You will be." Bro's voice has a little growl that makes Dirk's stomach knot. It's both a promise and a threat, and Dirk knows it's true and he almost hates his own Bro for a moment, before it flips over in his brain and he remembers to hate himself.
"I said I'm not--no, fuck you, I said we're not doing this." Dirk's voice is naturally below the volume that most people consider socially audible, but it threatens to go someplace deeper and darker.
Even as he does it, he knows that it will only escalate things. He can't help it, he's always been like this--reflexes faster than thought, thoughts faster than awareness, acting and thinking in ways he's not fast enough to know he's choosing, even though he knows it all comes from him. In the end, he's making his choices, and they're cruel and efficient just like Bro is.
He doesn't know any other way to act, to speak, to fight or give in. It's all deliberate. But he doesn't feel himself in control. He's a monster, and a machine with invisible code running in the background of user processes.
"Liar," Bro retorts, and that stings. Not because he didn't say that--he did, and it stung them both--but because what Bro is calling him out on isn't what he said. It's what he wants. No matter what he told Ranboo--and specifically, remembering his conversation with Ranboo, the words that left Ranboo's mouth (it's supposed to be us now, right?)--
It doesn't hurt, not really, but he kind of wishes it did--the rush of wrenching guilt and horrible anger that comes with it. It's like his heart collapses in under the pressure, his brain completely jamming up. Worse, his cunt floods with heat, like the worse he feels, the more it wants. Like shame preps him for more.
He wants to die right there. For Bro to reach out and actually kill him, just rape his corpse and be done with it; he fantasises, insanely, about escalating this, about making Bro snap and giving Ranboo the cleanest, clearest excuse to escape him and Bro and everything about him, to really be free since Dirk clearly can't keep his fucking promise--
But what about Bro? What about his promise? 'No funny stuff.'
The anger flips again, this time outward. He realises, at this point, that he's been saying words, but the specifics are... meaningless, really.
"Jesus, you're a loud little bitch," Bro's grip tightens. "Your man is asleep, do you want to wake him up?" Dirk's breath stops for a second, fear bouncing off that hate while Bro's other hand glides down his abdomen--an opportunity Dirk seizes immediately, shrinking down the couch to try and slip free.
This proves to be a mistake. Bro wraps a leg around him, restraining him around the midsection, and there's a short struggle between them. One of them is bigger, more practised, more in control. Dirk is smaller, and not desperate enough to forget what he knows--but Bro's arm shifts up, the muscle of his forearm pressing into Dirk's throat, bone against jaw. He feels that flush of arousal between his legs, wetness and ache--even as the panic he instinctively knows not to feel activates around his brain. But within his brain, he's still under control. He tries to find purchase with a leg to squirm or thrash, to find a weak point to press his fingers into, to simply wait it out, his teeth gritted tightly and face burning as the lack of oxygen finally starts to cut into his faculties. He still doesn't panic--and for all that he can feel his desperate pulse running hot just under his skin, his heart is weirdly still in his chest.
Bro doesn't let him black out, though. He lets go just in time, and Dirk springs half-free of him, contorting like a cat, one scarred arm still held tight in Bro's huge hand and his lower body still prisoner beneath a muscled leg. Bro rears up off the couch and there are a couple of seconds where their struggle is all muscle and bent limbs and speed. The Playstation controller hits the floor and unpauses.
Dirk's character runs off the edge of the platform.
When Bro finishes with him, he's flat on his back, his head up and neck pressed against the arm of the couch, canted at a painful angle. One arm is pinned underneath his body. Another is still held tight in Bro's grasp. His brother is sitting on him, his pelvis centered over the base of Dirk's ribs.
He could kick, but there's nothing to connect with except sofa material and empty air. He can see the length of Bro's hard cock and heavy sack outlined in the material, inches from his face. He inhales, grits his teeth again.
"You son of a bitch," he wheezes, but it gets caught in his throat. Bro's free hand reaches forward, fingers threading into Dirk's messy hair with a detached fondness--part ruffle, half pat.
Dizziness washes over him. He's breathing hard, too hard for the brevity of their scuffle, his chest rising and falling dramatically enough for him to feel. He's getting plenty of oxygen, but he can't seem to get enough.
His cunt is so tender now, so hot and wet and awake. His hips jerk up. It must feel good for him, because Bro straightens a little, and shifts his weight down into Dirk's body for more. Agony--jealousy, betrayal, loathing, relief--crackle along different pathways of his brain as his own pleasure throbs back.
He failed.
It hurts. Physically, it hurts--the post-pressure pain of being held the way Bro does to him, this position bending his neck so sharply, his throat sore and his head pounding after being choked out. The coarse material of the salvation Army couch rough against the bare skin of his back, the back of his shirt having ridden up towards his shoulders when his Bro shoved him back into the sofa arm.
But none of it hurts like knowing that he's failed.
"That's a good boy," Bro says, as Dirk fights for breath beneath him. Then he takes his hand back to pull down his waistband.
No such fucking luck.
So, when he woke up for the fourth time, he surrendered to whatever restless demon was occupying his brain and slipped out of bed, again, and picked his way through the dark of his bedroom, expertly stepping over dropped swords and stumbling occasionally on the soft body of a puppet or smuppet or other inoffensive-to-collision object. He only bothers to remember where he leaves the dangerous shit on any consistent basis, but he does remember.
Ranboo doesn't stop him; the soft, worried questions are conspicuous by their absence. He doesn't really have the energy to offer reassurances again, anyway, but he has to make a point of thinking that it's better this way before he closes the door on him and heads down the hallway towards the living room where his complicated, lonely brother now sleeps.
Or slept, anyway. He's awake already when Dirk turns on the light--he hasn't been for long, Dirk can tell by the lines on his face and the squint of his eyes. He waves two fingers in greeting, and Dirk returns the salute.
"Heard the door, huh."
Bro looks at him like he's the most exhausting human being on earth, and Dirk almost regrets that he's about to become even more exhausting in a second.
"Bad news. I can't sleep, so I'm taking over the Playstation."
"....."
It went fine, for a while. They shared the couch, with Dirk sprawled back and Bro propped up against the arm of it, watching him eat shit repeatedly because he's tired and he's pretending not to care as much as he does--he hates making the same mistakes while he has an audience--and gradually, oh so gradually, they fall into their old shared rhythm. Lying across Bro's legs with his head against the man's chest, Bro's arm draped comfortably over his torso, occasional flurries of conversation interspersed with silence or light shoving as one or the other has a limb fall asleep. Normal. It's so fucking normal.
When it stopped being fine, it wasn't because anything abnormal happened. Bro reaching out and grabbing him abruptly, strong hands closing on his arm and torso to pull Dirk in flush with his brother's body--
His hold is powerful, practised, unbreakable; he can feel the unyielding-yet-pliable form of Bro's muscles against his own. His back, he realises, is slightly sweaty from the heat of one living man pressed against another. But there's more to it than that: Bro's erect cock is firm against Dirk's ass, and his hand slides up Dirk's shirt to palm the swell of his his pectoral, calloused fingers spreading to find and pinch a pierced nipple.
It's all condensed into about two or three seconds, as is Bro's wont. He's always quick. Forceful. Possessive.
It's all so normal.
His instincts split. Fight, or fuck. He wants to accept this. To embrace it, even. He missed him. His aggressiveness. His efficiency. He missed how it feels, missed the way his brother smelled up close, the scrape of stubble and callouses on his skin. Not that he didn't touch Bro at all over the past days, or come in close enough to smell that specific mix of deodorant and aftershave and sweat and metal and Strider. But it wasn't like this.
Like this: trapped. Held, tightly. Restrained. Panic? Anger? He doesn't feel anything. On a superficial level, he almost relaxes.
But his promise to Ranboo puts his body in motion, galvanised by all the lines he's drawn between him and Bro--lines smeared and scattered and trampled but remembered. He twists, lightning-quick, pushing an elbow back into his own brother's ribs. Hard.
"Not in the mood."
He can feel Bro's irritated huff--the rise of his chest withh the short intake of breath, the exhalation against the back of his neck. A spike of adrenaline--irritation of his own--rises fast in him. Bro doesn't let him go. Bro doesn't stop feeling him up, either. His inner walls clench, his body's arousal threatening his heart.
"You will be." Bro's voice has a little growl that makes Dirk's stomach knot. It's both a promise and a threat, and Dirk knows it's true and he almost hates his own Bro for a moment, before it flips over in his brain and he remembers to hate himself.
"I said I'm not--no, fuck you, I said we're not doing this." Dirk's voice is naturally below the volume that most people consider socially audible, but it threatens to go someplace deeper and darker.
Even as he does it, he knows that it will only escalate things. He can't help it, he's always been like this--reflexes faster than thought, thoughts faster than awareness, acting and thinking in ways he's not fast enough to know he's choosing, even though he knows it all comes from him. In the end, he's making his choices, and they're cruel and efficient just like Bro is.
He doesn't know any other way to act, to speak, to fight or give in. It's all deliberate. But he doesn't feel himself in control. He's a monster, and a machine with invisible code running in the background of user processes.
"Liar," Bro retorts, and that stings. Not because he didn't say that--he did, and it stung them both--but because what Bro is calling him out on isn't what he said. It's what he wants. No matter what he told Ranboo--and specifically, remembering his conversation with Ranboo, the words that left Ranboo's mouth (it's supposed to be us now, right?)--
It doesn't hurt, not really, but he kind of wishes it did--the rush of wrenching guilt and horrible anger that comes with it. It's like his heart collapses in under the pressure, his brain completely jamming up. Worse, his cunt floods with heat, like the worse he feels, the more it wants. Like shame preps him for more.
He wants to die right there. For Bro to reach out and actually kill him, just rape his corpse and be done with it; he fantasises, insanely, about escalating this, about making Bro snap and giving Ranboo the cleanest, clearest excuse to escape him and Bro and everything about him, to really be free since Dirk clearly can't keep his fucking promise--
But what about Bro? What about his promise? 'No funny stuff.'
The anger flips again, this time outward. He realises, at this point, that he's been saying words, but the specifics are... meaningless, really.
"Jesus, you're a loud little bitch," Bro's grip tightens. "Your man is asleep, do you want to wake him up?" Dirk's breath stops for a second, fear bouncing off that hate while Bro's other hand glides down his abdomen--an opportunity Dirk seizes immediately, shrinking down the couch to try and slip free.
This proves to be a mistake. Bro wraps a leg around him, restraining him around the midsection, and there's a short struggle between them. One of them is bigger, more practised, more in control. Dirk is smaller, and not desperate enough to forget what he knows--but Bro's arm shifts up, the muscle of his forearm pressing into Dirk's throat, bone against jaw. He feels that flush of arousal between his legs, wetness and ache--even as the panic he instinctively knows not to feel activates around his brain. But within his brain, he's still under control. He tries to find purchase with a leg to squirm or thrash, to find a weak point to press his fingers into, to simply wait it out, his teeth gritted tightly and face burning as the lack of oxygen finally starts to cut into his faculties. He still doesn't panic--and for all that he can feel his desperate pulse running hot just under his skin, his heart is weirdly still in his chest.
Bro doesn't let him black out, though. He lets go just in time, and Dirk springs half-free of him, contorting like a cat, one scarred arm still held tight in Bro's huge hand and his lower body still prisoner beneath a muscled leg. Bro rears up off the couch and there are a couple of seconds where their struggle is all muscle and bent limbs and speed. The Playstation controller hits the floor and unpauses.
Dirk's character runs off the edge of the platform.
When Bro finishes with him, he's flat on his back, his head up and neck pressed against the arm of the couch, canted at a painful angle. One arm is pinned underneath his body. Another is still held tight in Bro's grasp. His brother is sitting on him, his pelvis centered over the base of Dirk's ribs.
He could kick, but there's nothing to connect with except sofa material and empty air. He can see the length of Bro's hard cock and heavy sack outlined in the material, inches from his face. He inhales, grits his teeth again.
"You son of a bitch," he wheezes, but it gets caught in his throat. Bro's free hand reaches forward, fingers threading into Dirk's messy hair with a detached fondness--part ruffle, half pat.
Dizziness washes over him. He's breathing hard, too hard for the brevity of their scuffle, his chest rising and falling dramatically enough for him to feel. He's getting plenty of oxygen, but he can't seem to get enough.
His cunt is so tender now, so hot and wet and awake. His hips jerk up. It must feel good for him, because Bro straightens a little, and shifts his weight down into Dirk's body for more. Agony--jealousy, betrayal, loathing, relief--crackle along different pathways of his brain as his own pleasure throbs back.
He failed.
It hurts. Physically, it hurts--the post-pressure pain of being held the way Bro does to him, this position bending his neck so sharply, his throat sore and his head pounding after being choked out. The coarse material of the salvation Army couch rough against the bare skin of his back, the back of his shirt having ridden up towards his shoulders when his Bro shoved him back into the sofa arm.
But none of it hurts like knowing that he's failed.
"That's a good boy," Bro says, as Dirk fights for breath beneath him. Then he takes his hand back to pull down his waistband.
