Set Me Free
"You need to embrace who you are now."
"…I don't know who I am."
"Of course you don't. You've been away from your family since you were three… But I'm here now. I can help you. We can take this journey together."
The body. And such a beautiful one at that. But he shouldn't think that, he shouldn't. Not about his sister – even if she isn't blood; she hasn't done anything, isn't a murderer or a rapist. She's his sister. But he can't help it. Seeing her strung out like this, all fair, smooth skin contrasted by her dark hair. So beautiful and all ready for him. For his knives – for their knives. He can't help it; it sets his teeth on edge.
And there he is – Biney – right next to him, urging him on, telling him to let go, little brother, let go. It's so easy; just do it – take the first step, and you can be free. We can be together. You and me, little brother, like it should be.
It is. So, so easy.
The knife is cool, the handle smooth to the touch. So comfortable. So perfect. And there it is, his hand. Biney's hand over his on the handle. Warm and soft and calloused – the very same callouses he himself has. And it's perfect, like it belongs there – warm and enveloping, like a glove, except better.
The knife cuts through the soft, fragile skin of his sister's throat like a knife through butter.
Her eyes open. Disoriented for a moment before they focus. They widen, uncomprehending, before understanding, horrible and blazing, overcomes them. She stares up, her gaze burning in agony and betrayal, and for a moment, he feels it. Regret. Hot and all consuming, a hard ball of dread weighing him down like an anvil. Deb, his dearly devoted sister, a victim. His victim.
She makes a small, choking sound before her eyes flutter closed. His eyes close as well; he clenches them shut. He did this – he did this! Oh God.
And then Biney's hand is gone, his one anchor to sanity – or whatever this is. But it's only for a moment, and then Biney's draped over his back, a warm, comforting presence, and Biney's hand is back on top of his. His other arm wraps around Dexter's waist, his hand settling snugly over his stomach. He can feel his breath against his cheek, hot and heavy. And Dexter can't help it; he leans aback against the comforting presence, against that warm, hard chest. He feels the hot soft touch of his big brother's lips against the juncture where his shoulder meets his neck. Feels his brother rub his cheek against Dexter's neck right under his ear. A sigh escapes Dexter's lips.
His eyes pop open as Biney moves their hands. Away from the bloody mess of her throat and down to her stomach. And God, but it shouldn't feel this way – not when it's Deb. But there's blood, so much, and it's dearly disturbed Dexter's undoing, his very own kryptonite. And suddenly, it doesn't matter who it is – it's a body, hot and fresh and just for him – a gift from his big brother – and the dark passenger inside him sings in tact with the soft dripping of the blood to the floor.
His brother takes a step to the left, moving Dexter with him easily by the hand against his stomach. He goes willingly. Slowly, almost gently, Biney leads their hands in a dance across the skin of the stomach, cutting through it so easily in artistic swirly patterns. And the blood – oh, the blood – oozes, slow and sluggishly. So lazy now the heart isn't beating anymore. And it doesn't matter who it belongs to – it's blood. So sweet, so fragrant – the most powerful of aphrodisiacs. Like the richest of mineral water to the thirsting man. And Dexter gets lost in it, so lost. To the heady, overwhelming scent of it. The feel of the sticky, wet blood against his fingers when Biney runs his hand through it, the knife lying forgotten deep in the gut. A low moan escapes his throat, wild and primal, and oh, he's not the only one. Biney's breathing is heavy and loud in his ear, his arousal evident in the hardness pressing itself into the small of Dexter's back.
Dexter pushes back against him, wanting to feel it, feel him, his brother, the single person in the entire universe who won't judge him, who'll accept him for who he is.
Biney's moan is low and gravely and feral, and he grinds against Dexter, slow and sensual, and Dexter feels almost dizzy with desire, with want.
The sound of sirens in the distance is like jumping into a pool, expecting the water to be pleasantly warm and finding it ice-cold instead. They both freeze to the spot.
"This way," Biney whispers, grabbing hold of Dexter's bloody hand with his clean one and then they're running. Out the back door, into the yard and through the bushes – away.
"My boat," Dexter croaks.
"Good idea, little brother." And then Biney's tugging him in another direction, and Dexter's desperately listening for the sound of footsteps trailing behind them, but they don't come. Not in the woods, not when they're running down deserted streets, not when they finally make it to the harbour. It's all silent except for the sound of their rapid breathing and heavy footsteps.
They stop in front of his boat, both gasping for breath. Adrenalin courses through his veins, his heart beating rapidly, and he feels so alive. And he can't help laughing – freely and loudly – cause they made it this far. And Biney's with him, laughing, the sound light and dark and grave and free. On a whim, he pulls Biney down, clashing their mouths together in a hard, biting, passionate kiss, because he wants to – oh, how he wants to – and he doesn't give a damn about the security cameras, about Rita, or about how, in a matter of hours, he'll be wanted for abetting a known felon. Here, now, he is alive, he is free.
The waters are dark and vast and welcoming. And it's so easy, so simply, to take off, helping each other in easy companionship to ready the boat. And then they are off, the darkness of the sea swallowing them up as they leave Miami behind – together.
The wind whips through Biney's dark hair, and his deep eyes glint in the moonlight as he watches the sky while Dexter steers. He looks… content. At peace. How didn't he notice before how beautiful he was? How aesthetic? Other worldly.
A long time has passed, Miami long gone and the blood of his sister dried and cracking against his skin, when Biney comes up behind him, pressing against his back just like he did before, and, gently, he pulls at Dexter. Dexter shuts the boat off quickly, the sudden silence infinite; the only sounds are the waves gently lapping at the sides of the boat. Biney tugs again, slowly turning him around so they're face to face. And Dexter stares into those dark, dark eyes, seeing only acceptance, devotion and… love. Is that it? Are they even capable?
"Little brother." His voice is low, intimate, easy.
"Biney." And then they're kissing again. Slower this time, less urgent. But still wild, still passionate. It's not quite the same – there's no blood. No aphrodisiac to cloud his brain and overtake his body. But it's still good, still so perfectly wrong. And Dexter's moaning into it, wrapping his arms around Biney's shoulders as he feel arms wrap around his waist. And he's never felt like this before, never felt such lust. Except, perhaps, in that room with their first victim.
"I know, I feel it too," Biney mumbles between heated kisses. "Something's missing." A sharp bite to Dexter's lower lip has him gasping and rutting his rapidly stiffening cock forward against his big brother's hip. "Next time, little brother, next time, we'll have one; we'll share it." Next time. Victim. Dexter groans at the thought.
"Yes," he moans. He feels Biney's hands tugging at his shirt; so he lets go of his shoulders, lets his brother rip it from his body. He quickly returns the favour, tearing that dark red shirt from his brother's shoulders, quickly followed by his white undershirt. He's leaner, taller, perfect. Biney pulls him closer again, and the feel of their sweat-slick skin sliding against each other has Dexter moaning.
"Do you like that idea, hmm?" Biney whispers against his ear, biting at his earlobe. "You and me, together, with a sweet, fresh body. Playing together?" And Dexter can envision it – oh – the two of them together coupled with the high of a kill. "Getting that hot, sticky blood all over us." Dexter gulps, shuddering, his cock swelling even more at the thought. God. He feels hands tug at his pants, popping the bottom and pulling them down. "Fucking in…" Biney trails of with a loud moan, rutting hard against Dexter. "… in a pool of it, of blood, seeing it all around you and over you as I fuck into you…" And suddenly Dexter's thrown to the floor, hitting it hard, and Biney pounces. And Biney's everywhere, quickly digesting Dexter and himself from the last of their clothing. And then Biney's mouth is on his again, and his hand is around Dexter's cock, hot and dry, the flaking blood chafing oh so good. "Imagine it, little brother, can you imagine it!?"
"Yes, yes! Oh God – Biney!" Biney's mouth trails away, over his jaw and down his throat, leaving a burning trail behind, and then, all of a sudden, he bites down hard on Dexter's shoulder, and Dexter screams and bucks up against him, wanting more of that hand, needing more.
"You taste so good, little brother, so good. Just think, just think, we could use the blood of our – our – victim as lubrication. We'd be engulfed in it." YES.
"Biney, Biney!" Biney's rutting hard and fast and desperate against him, his hand speeding up so good, so good.
"I-I-" Biney's voice catches and stutters, as if the bare thought is too much to handle. "I could use it to open you up. You'd have it all over and inside you." Dexter moans so loud at the thought, pushing up into the hand desperately. So wrong, so right – so right for them.
"Yes, YES!" Suddenly, the hand around his cock is gone and Dexter whines at the loss – he was close, so close. But then there are fingers at his lips, pushing into his mouth past his teeth.
"Suck, suck!" His tone is harsh and demanding and a lot desperate and Dexter doesn't hesitate, curling his tongue around the digits sloppily, getting them dripping in his spit. Biney's dark eyes, if possible, darken even further and his breath catches on a moan. And just as suddenly as they'd come, the fingers are gone again, replaced by his brother's demanding tongue, distracting him from the sudden presence at his entrance. He spreads his legs wide, allowing his brother access. Never would he let himself be so vulnerable, but this is Biney, and it's perfect. The first push of a finger is dragging and odd, but it's his brother. Inside him. It's so strangely intimate – it's a feeling he has no name for. A weird blooming in his chest, a flutter in his stomach. Biney's teeth nip playfully at his lower lip as his finger roams about – almost like it's… searching. And then, all of a sudden, the world lights up in unbelievable, all-engulfing pleasure that has Dexter bucking and moaning loudly.
Biney grins victoriously, almost smugly, against his lips, pressing down on that spot even harder. It's heaven on earth, and never mind that he doesn't deserve it – he wants more. He wants it all.
"More, more!" he smoky chuckle he gets in return sends shivers down his spine.
A finger becomes two becomes three and the burning stretch of it hurts so good.
"Are you ready – say you're ready." The fact that Biney has enough self-restraint to ask him right now impresses – and annoys – Dexter.
"Get in me!" And then he's pressing in, slowly, and it's burning, burning but it's so good. And Biney's moaning loud and long into his ear and Dexter answers with a moan of his own. And suddenly he's in to the root, stilling to let him adjust. And Dexter's never felt so full before, so cherished.
"Brother, my little brother… I've waited so long. For this, for you." He strokes a trembling finger down the sides of Dexter's face, over the shell of his ear, down his jawline.
"God, Biney – move!" With a groan, he does, and Dexter has never felt so much before. It's unbelievable pleasure spiked with the most delicious of fires, burning, stretching, but it's good. Pleasure and pain complimenting each other in ways Dexter never could have imagined.
He wraps his legs around his brother, pulling him closer and moaning as Biney slides incessantly against that perfect spot inside him.
For a time, neither of them speaks, both lost in their bodies' sensual dance. It's good, so good, so perfect. Better than even the sweetest of kills. And then that voice is whispering in his ear:
"Imagine it, little brother, you and me with a soft, helpless body. Taking it apart limp-by-limp, fucking in a bath of blood. Together." Blood dripping, sliding together using the slickness of the sticky wet substance to ease their away – so much blood. And that's it, that's all it takes, and he's coming, the orgasm erupting inside him like a supernova, throwing his head back and screaming his pleasure in the form of his brother's name, his Biney.
And then Biney's coming too, stilling his movements as Dexter feels his insides being filled with the hot spurts of his brother's cum. Then he collapses on top of him.
They lie together for a long moment, both breathing heavily and shivering in their aftershocks, Biney a heavy, reassuring weight on top of him. Then he rolls over, and they lie side-by-side, shoulders touching, staring up at the vast, star-studded night sky.
"You and me, little brother," Biney speaks softly. "like it's meant to be – forever."
"Yeah," Dexter answers, feeling a calm flood over him, a relief. Like he's been carrying an anvil and perhaps a piano on his shoulders all his life and suddenly it's gone. He feels almost giddy with it all. And on a whim, he reaches out the short distance and takes Biney's hand in his. His brother, his lover, his partner. Biney's grip is firm and soft and fits perfectly in his.
And somehow, he feels safe here – like nothing can harm him. Here, he won't be judged or ostracized.
Here, he's free.