"What the fuck did you just say?"
The book Stanford had been gripping so tightly in his clammy fists was thrown shut aside his lap, some of the pages crinkling awkwardly between its stiff leather binding. From his spot on the top bunk, Stanley stood across from their beds, arms crossed ever so defiantly over his broad chest. His challenging squint and locked jaw sent frustration bubbling into Ford's throat.
"...You heard me." Is the only stubborn answer he's going to get out of his twin, but it's enough to send Ford's feet to the floor with a heavy thump.
Had either parent been home to hear the initial argument, things would have ended right there and then, tense and nagging the rest of the night, and probably all throughout the next day. No such thing would happen, however. With their mother out and about with her sleazy friend, and their dad working his shift well into the next morning, whatever came next was completely unavoidable.
"Take. It. Back." Stanford snapped back. His voice was barely above a whisper, but something behind his glasses sent Stanley backing up a few steps. It was obvious how he was willing away a hard shiver, even though that obstinate provocation didn't slip in the slightest.
Blunt nails dug into the meat of Stanford's palms from clenching his fists so hard; his breathing nearly non-existent despite his heart hammering away into his ribcage. Stan dropped his own balled fists to his sides, second-thinking shoving them into his jeans when his brother inched forward another step.
Before he could even get the first letter of 'No' from his mouth, Stanford had slammed his weight onto him, sending a mild punch into his stomach that knocked the air from his lungs. They were on the floor before either of them realized it, Stanley's head bumping rather hard against one of their shelves. Pain was almost an afterthought to him, the need for pushing back much stronger than any dull ache.
A thick fingered hand curled tight into Ford's sweater vest, shoving him with enough force to switch their positions with little remorse, pinning him hard against the carpet with his husky weight. It was more or less an accident when Stanley's knee came slamming up into his brother's thigh in a quick attempt to gain some leverage; Ford was struggling hard beneath him, and his hand swung to smack flatly against Stanley's dense skull.
Six fingers instinctively locked onto the longer bits of hair, pulling roughly enough to jerk Stan's head to the left. The muscles between his shoulder and ear seized up in a cramp, allowing Ford to use his other free hand to push his brother's thigh off of his hip and slip out from beneath him. Accompanied by his vicious yank, Stan's heavy weight worked against his own favor when his head followed the direction of his pull, along with his whole body, delivering him hard into the floor for the second time.
Ford grunted as he hauled his ass up amidst the turmoil as much as he could manage with his fingers still weaved in Stanley's dark hair. Opposing arms had already tried to grapple for any piece of Stanford they could find, his brother's face scrunched up in a mixture of indignation and fury. He was too quick though, already clamboring back to send Stanley face forward into their floor with a distressed swear when he landed hard on his elbows.
It was a matter of milliseconds before Stanford released his handful of hair; he mounted the back of his brother's quadriceps, a wide-knuckled palm backing up the dead weight by pressing firmly between his shoulderblades.
He sat like that for a while after there was no attempt to throw him off, feeling the sweat bead along the bridge of his nose where his glasses perched askew from their romp. Ford's arms felt like overcooked noodles and he could feel the worn out panting of his brother beneath him, but victory was sweet swell in his stomach.
Finally, he couldn't hold himself up any longer, and slumped atop Stanley. Fords elbow buckled, forearm dropping to the carpet aside Stanley's face. He was vaguely aware of how ragged his own breathing was before lowering his head, puffing hotly into Stan's ear, if not out of nonchalance, then out of spite.
Things were miraculously quiet for the most part. Ford's ears were actually ringing, and it was as if he could feel each vein filter blood back and forth if he concentrated hard enough, but the pain of his injuries hadn't set in yet.
Although, fact that Stanley had remained quiet and still for any amount of time after that particular display should have been the first warning sign.
Ford took it upon himself to break the silence, rasping out a slight chuckle. His eyes rested shut to prevent his head from spinning.
"I didn't give you brain damage, did I?" He managed, lifting his head enough to prompt a decent reply. But Stan didn't take the bait, he only lay against the floor with his cheek in their off blue carpet, managing his own breath.
"...Stanley?" Ford pried, finally looking down at his brother out of concern.
The sight was nothing he hadn't expected; Stanley's cheeks red from exertion from the tips of his ears, down to the clavicle, and his hair that may or may not have been styled now stuck up asymmetrically. But he just layed wide-eyed, pupils in his pale burgundy's blown and not bothering to attempt meeting Ford's own deep blues. His lips were pressed into a tight line, like he wanted to say something desperately, but couldn't bring himself to.
This obviously was a concern. Maybe he really had hurt him badly in their tousle?
"Stanley, really, are you-" Ford had begun to rise onto his knees despite the protest of his muscles, but something else stopped him that left him an equal to his stoney brother…
Which was actually a really funny comparison in itself, considering his rock hard erection straining through his slacks, right into the ass beneath him.
Suddenly, their genetic makeup wasn't the only thing that made them very much alike because the realization behind the ruddiness of Stanley set Ford's face aflame like a contagious disease. How he had failed to notice such an important detail while mounting his fucking brother, for pete's sake, was totally beyond the both of them.
Stanford didn't exactly feel worthy of the endearing nickname 'poindexter' in his current ignorance.
He couldn't exactly care too much about such a trivial thing however.
What was more of an involvement, was why his gut felt so tight and hot, and how he had mistaken it for a 'heat of the moment' sensitivity. Apparently victory wasn't all he was feeling. Yet, Stanley had not thrown him off all the while, and Ford hadn't removed himself either...
'Did he even want to get off him?' Was what some maniacal part of his brain managed to question.
Dare he go further with whatever the hell this could lead to?
In a stomach flopping moment, there was no time to elongate the thought when Stanley began lifting his torso slowly from the ground, face turned away from Ford's view no doubt purposely.
Stanford has never been good with now or never type scenarios, but in that instance he knew his mind had been made up when he pushed his brother back down, perhaps a little harder than he really needed to.
"W-wait!" demanded a mouth that couldn't possibly be his. What was he doing?
Aside from the slight 'oomph' of a grunt from being shoved, there was no real resistance to his advancement. He felt just as surprised as his brother looked, all flustered and tense and ready to turn on their heels if things went for the worst.
That wasn't going to be a deterring factor, one part of his brain had yet again decided. He had begun to move without much thought behind it, but god, had Stanley's body always felt so warm? Even against their clothing, he could feel the heat emanating through and straight past his skin, coagulating from liquid fire in his blood into a solid throb in the lower parts of his waist. The dense air must have been getting to him. He couldn't find it in him to care; a new desire had already taken bloom.
Eager for more of that warmth, his palms flattened out against the white cotton shirt that had become slightly damp from perspiration, dragging down tediously slow to feel every dip and raise. His thumbs idly played over the curvature of Stanley's spine, from the long thoracic length, all the way down to the lumbar dip where his heart stuttered a little harder.
He briefly imagined the precious dimples in Stanley's back, digging his nails in softly where he estimated them to be. Then, there was little hesitance in the way he yanked up the shirt from where it had been tucked in beneath his brothers pants, humming unconsciously when he could actually see the sun-licked skin in stark contrast to the now wrinkled shirt. It was something Stanford had seen a million times before, be it due to Stanley's frequent shirtless adventures out on the beach, or when he emerges from the shower smelling divine with little droplets still rolling down from his wet hair that he always refused to dry properly.
There was something different about the light he was looking at him now though, something entirely primal and far too familiar that Stanford only glimpsed in dreams on the nights he found himself in the small bottom bunk, with thick arms hugging his head close.
Was it the dwindling light of the sun that made his head spin? Or what felt like the breaking of a flood gate that withheld emotions he had been much too reticent to address in solitude?
He couldn't flee from this. Parts of his mind had split like two completely different people; one rolling over how his brother might taste and finally deciding it had to be along the lines of late summer winds and saltwater, the other rejecting every and all thoughts related to such an indecent thing.
Stanford's eyes began to scan their room. There was nothing saying he should stop, or rather, no singular person preventing him from doing this.
Abruptly, his deep reflection was averted to the considerable stimulation happening between his legs; Ford's hips had begun to twitch and grind to their own accordance, determined to relieve some of the ache that had been swelling up within his cock. Going back now was unequivocally not an option.
Were Stanley to look back, he might have seen something dark and mischievous glitter within his brothers eyes that he only witnessed when they were investigating a mystery particularly trying. Six fingers splayed out wide on either side of his now exposed hips, grabbing firmly before Stanford rocked his erection right into his ass.
It was unknown of who exactly the deep sigh had come from, but after a few awkward and sporadic jerks, the minor rhythm that was formed had them both growling out unabashedly. Stanford's whimpy bucks had morphed into a full on filthy hump, and Stanley would be a horrible liar if he said he didn't love the development.
"Sh-shit…" Stanley heard his brother breathe out, seconding the thought within his head while his hips were continuously forced back into the scratchy carpet. It's longer fibers had begun to rub against the sensitive skin of his stomach when his shirt was driven further up his chest, but the beginning burn was bittersweet when the same motion causing it provided a moderate relief to the tent in his own jeans.
Ford seemed to be in a world of his own atop of Stanley, only edged on further when his brother had begun to squirm impatiently beneath him, still flushed like a ripe cherry. A giddy amusement from such a sight aroused a discordant chuckle.
"What, Stanley?" Ford probed at the laugh, a thick brow arched up. "Not enough for you?"
With that arrogant little question; Stanley had half a mind to buck his brother off and give the smug bastard a what for. Even if he knew Ford would chase him right back into a similar position, should he be given the chance to. Nevertheless, it was far too early for Stanley to admit he was loving the rough treatment.
"Shut your mouth; you act like you're giving me something worth beggin' for," Stan snarked back, ignoring the crack in his voice. He turned to give him a self-satisfied grin of his own, glowering for what it was worth.
Ford only harrumphed, relinquishing the control of his brothers hips to fix his glasses. At least there was something comforting in his much needed reply.
"Let me fix that then," he retorted. Stanford pushed himself back from his brother's calves, willing away the nerves threatening to make his voice tremble. "Hands and knees Stanley; Posthaste if you will."
Stanley let out a laugh of his own this time, rising up from the ground to fling of his shirt by the collar haphazardly. "Now, this is what I'm talking 'bout sixer."
Ford rolled his eyes hard at the ceiling, but was quick to mimic the action with his own stretched sweater vest, unbuttoning the crisp sleeves of his dress shirt to roll them up.
Before Stanley had a chance to rest back on his palms though, a finger had hooked into one of his fraying belt loops, tugging him back and straight into Stanford's firm chest. Two thinner arms wrapped around to his stomach, fingers tapping irregularly up his ribs, and then gently sliding flat palms over his pectorals where hair was sparsely beginning to grow.
A chin rested lightly on his shoulder, close enough so that Ford's lips could catch the very edge of Stan's jaw.
How his brother could be such a neglecting prick pre-fight, only to rebound with such mushy sweet gestures was the biggest mystery Stan had yet to solve. But hey, he could totally do mushy.
Stanley's head turned, allowing him to run his eyes meticulously over the face that was so alike, and yet, so completely different from his own. His heart might have palpitated when he realized his sixer was staring right back, corner of his mouth upturned in the slightest, eyelids lowered.
Stanley had managed to get their lips just atoms apart before he heard the tinkling of metal near his navel, realizing that somehow Ford had already undone his pants, and was pulling out the leather belt out from it's hoops.
"I might need this," Stan felt him breathe against his lips.
He only swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing before Stanford moved, hands already guiding him back into the pose he was supposed to be in.
Thankfully, the belt was put aside for the moment being, granting Stanley the award of breathing easy. But of course the wild rush of excitement that made him bite his lip was left unexplained.
Stanley's pants had begun to sag down his posterior without the aid of his zipper and belt, allowing his brother a small peek of what he had to look forward to.
Indubitably, just a peek wouldn't be even remotely enough to satisfy Stanford's current needs. With one swift motion, he dipped his fingers beneath the articles of clothing and quickly tugged them down around his lower thighs, and if there was ever a worse time for Stanley to be self conscious, it would have to beat when his cock jutted out from his briefs into the open, bobbing in its thick engorged state.
He tried to keep himself from making any unseemly noises, but the cool air sticking to his temperate skin elicited a gasp.
Behind him, Ford just seemed to be having the damndest time, humming away and whispering little nonsensical things while, no joke, inspecting 'things'. The tips of his fingers began just at the parting of Stanley's ass, dragging down until he felt the coarse hair beginning to build towards a much more sensitive area that neither of them were quite ready to explore yet.
Instead, Stanford skipped over it in favor of prodding precociously at his taint. Oh how Stanley wishes he didn't jerk forward dangerously, almost headbutting into their bedside dresser-table thing with an indignant squack.
Stanford's brows shot up, taken aback by the reaction he really should have accounted for. Before he could give any sort of apology Stanley was already stammering out an encouragement.
"H-hey, don't worry about it," Stanley began, head shaking, "Keep going, that was just, sudden…"
All Stanford could do was nod, knowing the both of them were far too turned on to let anything spoil how far they had come. His second approach was significantly more gentle, keeping the poking to a minimum in favor of sweeping his warm palm down to cup Stanley's balls, rewarded with a throaty groan that delightfully went straight to his own erection.
Ford slowly began palming him, gradually stroking upwards to circle around the base of Stanley's cock before fully wrapping his fingers around the solid shaft, watching the way his legs flexed when he shoved his hips forward into his warm hand. There was little Stanford to do to keep his brother from bucking, feeling the foreskin shift fluidly beneath his thumb that teased the reddened shapely head when it could.
Stanley couldn't bite back his whining, because holy shit have someone else touch him was a completely different experience than anything he's ever done on his own. He just didn't know if it was more unsettling or more comfortable for his own brother to be the source of that pleasure.
Well. Ford didn't seem to mind it too much either. From the few times Stanley had hung his head down to peer between his own legs, and hadn't pulled it back up immediately because of how ridiculously fucking lightheaded he felt from watching, it wasn't even a question his brother relished in the experience.
Yet again, Stanley was left admiring how much of a freak Ford could be in all the right ways.
Thinking of whom, Ford seemed to be anticipating another startled leap if the hand braced firmly onto Stanley's thigh was any indication. He had begun to arch himself lower, almost uncomfortably close, his breath grazing past the stretch marks of Stanley's hips. The sheer intimate closeness sent pinpricks of chills up either of their arms and necks; Stan willed himself not to succumb to the rabbiting heart trying to break its way through his ribs.
A strangled breath, almost a choke, forced its way from Stanley's throat when he felt his brothers hot, wet tongue lap at the puckered ring of muscle above his taint, pushing and prodding without the slightest regard….
This was going to be a long night.