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linndechirTitle: Upon the brink of the wild stream
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Pairings/Characters: Anatoly/Vladimir
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2958
Warnings: sibling incest
Summary: Two years apart have changed them both, but Vladimir won't let anything come between him and his brother.
Author's Note: Written for Rare Pair Fest. Because pretty much the only thing I enjoyed about Daredevil were the two Russian bros (and Wesley), so I wrote fic about them. Nothing improves a mediocre canon like a bit of incest. ;)
His brother had changed in the two years Anatoly had been gone. He'd grown taller, for once, taller than him even. He was stilly lanky and too narrow in the shoulders, but so had Anatoly been at his age, he knew his brother would still grow into his strength. But the main difference was in his eyes, harder than they used to be, and Anatoly didn't know why he was surprised. Vladimir had been on his own for two years, providing for himself, muddling through best as he could, for the first time without his brother watching his back. Anatoly wasn't surprised that his brother seemed to have done so easily. Vladimir had always been tough.
He wondered if Vladimir saw just as much change in his eyes, after two years in the army. Not that his little brother had any idea of what awaited a man there, but there had still been concern in his eyes even as he'd smiled and hugged Anatoly the moment he came through the door, clinging to him for a minute – for far longer than he had the last time Anatoly had left.
Vladimir suggested going out, getting drunk and celebrating Anatoly's newly found freedom, but in the end they decided to stay at home, just the two of them and a bottle of vodka in the quiet of the little apartment that had once been their parents'.
It was odd, catching up when they had once shared every minute of their days. There had been letters, of course, but neither of them was much of a writer, and many things had to remain vague, in Vladimir's case. He'd been working for some local criminals, at first only carrying messages and then, as he told Anatoly now, slowly working his way up the ladder. He was still young, but he was fierce and ruthless and ambitious, and that counted for more than mere strength. Anatoly had been worried about leaving him alone, not trusting his cousins to keep his brother safe as he had asked, but if anything he should have been worried about the men who made the mistake of being in his brother's way.
Still, there was a half-healed bruise on Vladimir's face, colouring the skin around his eyes a sickly yellow, that showed that not everything had always been easy, that it was a good thing Anatoly was back.
Later that night, after Anatoly had come out of the shower – and the old shower in the tiny place they shared felt like a luxury after his time in the army – shirtless still, Vladimir frowned as his eyes fell on his brother's torso. He stepped closer, eyes roaming over Anatoly's chest before his hands followed, fingertips that were more calloused than they used to be not so long ago. Vladimir retraced the long scar on Anatoly's shoulder, from his collarbone to the top of his biceps, a souvenir from his earliest days in the army. Anatoly hoped his brother wouldn't ask for the story behind it, but Vladimir preferred to let his hands do the talking, retracing the parts of his brother's life that he had missed. The smaller scar on Anatoly's side, thick gnarled tissue that Vladimir pressed his thumb against, his touch lingering, his breath washing over his brother's face. The thin white lines on Anatoly's back, still oddly sensitive to any touch, especially the feather-light caress that Vladimir bestowed on them, fingertips retracing each line, followed by the slightest scratch of his nails, and Anatoly shuddered.
There was something peculiarly tense about each touch, or maybe it was just that so much time had passed since they'd seen each other, that they'd both changed so much, and there was something terrifying about not knowing his own brother anymore. Something unbearable that Anatoly was determined to remedy however he could.
So even as his brother's fingers mapped those scars on his body, Anatoly's hands went for Vladimir's shirt, unbuttoned it slowly and pushed it from his shoulders. And although Vladimir's eyebrow arched up in surprise, he let it happen, let his brother's fingertips find his shoulder, then his upper arm, the fresh black ink on pale skin. It had to be recent, the lines were still sharp, the skin around them still reddened. Part of Anatoly wanted to tease him, laugh at his little brother getting a tattoo like a grown man, like some sort of gangster, but the blue eyes that met his weren't those of a boy, they were those of a man who had killed already.
There was ink on Anatoly's skin, too, not quite as crisp, cheaper ink leaving the crest of the regiment he'd served in on his shoulder blade. He hoped it would fade over time; it was nothing he wanted to take with him into his new life, the rest of his life, a life he could once more share with his brother. It was nothing he needed to be reminded of on the verge to something better than what the world was willing to give them.
“You need to introduce me to your employers,” Anatoly said eventually, his hand on Vladimir's chest mirroring his brother's touch, feeling his slow, steady heartbeat. “Whatever it is you do for them, I can do it, too. Probably did it already before I had to go away.”
Vladimir smiled, a wild, feral smile, like a hungry wolf in the deepest winter. It suited him better than innocence and naivety ever had, if his brother had ever been innocent to begin with.
“They might even remember you still,” he replied. His thumb rubbed warm circles into Anatoly's skin, and his touch still felt like home. “That's what got me in, do you know that? Your name. They'll be happy to have you back, especially with everything the army taught you.”
That much was true, at least. Somewhere between the beatings and the humiliation they had taught him quite a few things, about weapons and about killing, about pain, about how to bear it and how to administer it to others. A better brother might have been saddened that his younger sibling had to learn such things as well, if on the streets rather than on training grounds, but Anatoly couldn't find it in himself. There had never been another way for them but this. They were too proud to beg, too proud to work what others would call honest jobs and get nothing but scraps for it. A good brother would want Vladimir to have everything a man could dream of, and if that had to be stolen and robbed and killed for, he'd gladly get his hands every bit as bloody and dirty as Vladimir had for the past two years.
They'd both have more scars on their skin before that would happen, but also more ink, the kind of ink a man could be proud of, the kind he'd gladly slide his fingers over.
On a whim he leant in and let his lips brush over Vladimir's shoulder, barely more than warm breath over the fresh tattoo, and his brother's fingertips twitched against his chest.
* * *
Weeks passed in an odd mixture of adrenaline-fuelled violence and mind-numbing boredom when they weren't needed, or when they were saddled with dull tasks like collecting money and checking up on operations. Sometimes nothing more than standing around in the background to provide manpower in case anything should happen, and more often than not it didn't. In some ways it wasn't so different from the army, Anatoly thought, and yet it was different in the only way that truly mattered.
Vladimir was alert like a guard dog by his side, always ready to bare his teeth, always willing to rip out a throat with his bare hands if necessary. Anatoly preferred to listen, to the things that were said and more importantly to those that weren't, to the looks exchanged between men, the furtive gestures. At night they spoke about what they'd seen, about who seemed unhappy with his position, about who might be making a move on whom soon, about where to put their allegiances. Rough whispers while they were lying in the dark to save money on electricity, close enough that they could feel the other's breath on their faces.
It seemed like Vladimir wanted to force them together, as if to make up for Anatoly's absence, as if to breach that odd distance that had grown between them from time spent apart. And he'd never been patient, his Volodya, had never been willing to wait unless his brother's hand held him back, and there was no reason why Anatoly would do so this time. So he let his brother force his way back to his side, as if standing too close to him, sleeping next to him, washing the blood off Anatoly's hands after a fight could make them forget that there had ever been a time when they hadn't been together.
Oddly, it worked. There had always been an intensity to his brother that had only grown in Anatoly's absence, an intensity that was almost overwhelming in his presence and made time spent apart from him seem bland and dreary, fading away like a bad dream. Like a meaningless little detour he'd had to take on his path to the life they wanted. And soon enough they were back to moving around each other as if they were one, knowing what the other would say before he'd even opened his mouth. And what he'd missed maybe most was not the intimacy of it, the familiarity, but the complete trust. Maybe that was what Vladimir was trying to say, every time his hands found his brother's shoulders, every time he pulled him close, every time he put his head on Anatoly's chest in the dark. That they were one, that whatever they would do, they'd do together.
Vladimir's eyes were bright in those weeks, bright and wild and happy even, and it wasn't until one night in the coming autumn that his brother frowned at him again, frowned at him on what should have been a joyous evening. They were celebrating in one of their boss's clubs after a successful takeover that had left most of their rivals chopped up in various ditches. None of them were anywhere near sober and most of them had a girl draped over their lap. Anatoly barely paid attention to his, as much as he appreciated the heat of her body against his side, but it still took him some time to notice that Vladimir was sitting by himself. Like he always did on nights like this one, and however young he still was, he was more than old enough for girls.
But instead his eyes were fixated on Anatoly – not even on the scantily dressed girl by his side, but only on his brother – burning and angry almost, and he didn't look away when Anatoly met his eyes. Ignored the questioning look and the raised eyebrows in favour of another swig from a half-empty bottle and a few more minutes of angry glares and sharp retorts to anyone who tried to talk to him before he walked over to Anatoly.
He was maybe a little drunk, but the look in his eyes was still clear, his hand still steady as he grabbed the girl's shoulder and all but shoved her off Anatoly's lap.
“I'm leaving”, he snarled in a tone that clearly said We're leaving. Most of the others were too drunk to pay them any attention, someone had started singing and one of the girls had climbed onto the table to dance, and only Sergei next to Anatoly gave them both a surprised look at Vladimir's tone. It made Anatoly wonder what this sounded like, to anyone who wasn't them. Whether he should insist on staying simply to make a point, but then he had never bothered to pretend that Vladimir was not in charge of their decisions – if only because he often made them long before Anatoly had made up his mind.
So he merely tossed a few bills at the girl for her trouble before he got up, one hand easily finding his brother's elbow to steer him out of the crowded club, his voice only as loud as it had to be to be heard over the music.
“What's going on?”
No reply, unless he counted Vladimir's fingers going for his wrist, wrapping tightly around it, fingernails digging into the thin skin as if he wanted to scratch it open, as if he physically needed to drag his brother with him. As if Anatoly wouldn't go anywhere with him.
“Makes me sick, seeing you with those whores,” Vladimir said several minutes later – they were heading home, Anatoly could tell. He raised both eyebrows – he hadn't pegged his brother for a prude, had hardly thought it possible in the business they were in. He'd hardly thought that was the reason Vladimir stayed away from the girls.
“They serve a purpose,” he merely said, and his brother all but snarled at him, quiet again for the rest of the way as if he couldn't find words in his anger. Anatoly let him seethe, knew that his brother would tell him what he wanted sooner or later. Vladimir had never been shy about anything, never been reluctant or quiet.
He'd barely managed to take off his coat once they reached home before Vladimir grabbed him by his collar and pushed him into the wall. There was a surprising amount of strength in his brother's still slender frame, in those sinewy arms, in the press of Vladimir's knee against his thigh. His muscles were hard and tense where Anatoly's hands came to rest on his shoulders, gently at first, before his fingers tightened their grip on the fabric. The look in his brother's eyes was heated, and not from mere anger.
“Didn't we promise each other we'd do everything together?” Vladimir's voice had dropped to a low growl, lips so close to Anatoly's cheek they almost touched it, his breath almost unbearably hot on skin cooled by the wind outside. Anatoly let his hand slide up from Vladimir's shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing it gently. He would have thought it'd take him time to get used to Vladimir being taller than him, but it had already started to feel right, the way it should be. Tense muscles didn't relax even as Anatoly stroked his neck, pulling his brother closer until their foreheads touched.
“We could have shared her, if that's what you wanted,” Anatoly mumbled, as if he didn't know that wasn't what his brother meant, what he wanted, not the way Vladimir was pressed against him as if he couldn't trust Anatoly to stay where he was.
“I didn't want to share her,” Vladimir all but growled into his ear. His palm pushed against Anatoly's throat, pushed his chin up just so to bare the side of his neck, and even as he leant in Anatoly realised what he was about to do. Had just enough time to tell himself that he shouldn't let him, that he should put an end to this, but he'd never had it in himself to deny his brother. He'd never wanted to deny him, so he merely closed his eyes until he felt sharp teeth sink into the soft skin of his neck, a hard, lingering bite as his brother sucked a mark into his skin, and the soft moan that left Anatoly's lips surprised himself and made his brother smirk triumphantly.
Vladimir looked up, eyes wild like those of a man who had jumped off a cliff and was exhilarated by the thrill of the fall.
“I won't share you, my brother.” There was no question in his voice, no uncertainty, no fear of rejection. A better brother, Anatoly thought idly, would have scoffed and pushed him away, punched him in the face, called him a pervert and dragged him into the next whorehouse.
But the truth was that he'd rather look into Vladimir's eyes than the vacant stare of the girl he'd been with earlier, that he'd rather feel Vladimir's demanding hands than have her lie unresponsively underneath him. The truth was that they'd been stumbling towards this from the moment he'd kissed that first tattoo on Vladimir's shoulder, and Vladimir never stumbled for long.
Anatoly nudged his brother's nose with his own, the same tender gesture he'd used when they had been children, but his hand on Anatoly's neck brought him closer still until their lips brushed.
“I'd never ask you to, Vovik,” and the name ended up in a gasp when Vladimir's teeth caught on Anatoly's lips, biting him hard before he kissed him. It was rough and angry and Anatoly briefly wondered if his brother had done this before, and found that he for one didn't care. He knew they had each other, no matter who else there was in the world.
He found himself with two more angrily bitten marks on his neck before his brother's hands ever started tearing open his clothes, with an impatience either born out of youth or jealousy. Vladimir's touches were rough and fumbling, and yet Anatoly only wondered for the briefest moment if he should take charge and show his brother how this was done. But Vladimir seemed to know what he wanted, hands digging bruises into his brother's skin, pushing him against the wall, pulling on his hair before he pushed him down onto his knees as if he had no doubt in the world that his brother would comply.
After all, there had never been a time when they didn't want the same things.
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Pairings/Characters: Anatoly/Vladimir
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2958
Warnings: sibling incest
Summary: Two years apart have changed them both, but Vladimir won't let anything come between him and his brother.
Author's Note: Written for Rare Pair Fest. Because pretty much the only thing I enjoyed about Daredevil were the two Russian bros (and Wesley), so I wrote fic about them. Nothing improves a mediocre canon like a bit of incest. ;)
His brother had changed in the two years Anatoly had been gone. He'd grown taller, for once, taller than him even. He was stilly lanky and too narrow in the shoulders, but so had Anatoly been at his age, he knew his brother would still grow into his strength. But the main difference was in his eyes, harder than they used to be, and Anatoly didn't know why he was surprised. Vladimir had been on his own for two years, providing for himself, muddling through best as he could, for the first time without his brother watching his back. Anatoly wasn't surprised that his brother seemed to have done so easily. Vladimir had always been tough.
He wondered if Vladimir saw just as much change in his eyes, after two years in the army. Not that his little brother had any idea of what awaited a man there, but there had still been concern in his eyes even as he'd smiled and hugged Anatoly the moment he came through the door, clinging to him for a minute – for far longer than he had the last time Anatoly had left.
Vladimir suggested going out, getting drunk and celebrating Anatoly's newly found freedom, but in the end they decided to stay at home, just the two of them and a bottle of vodka in the quiet of the little apartment that had once been their parents'.
It was odd, catching up when they had once shared every minute of their days. There had been letters, of course, but neither of them was much of a writer, and many things had to remain vague, in Vladimir's case. He'd been working for some local criminals, at first only carrying messages and then, as he told Anatoly now, slowly working his way up the ladder. He was still young, but he was fierce and ruthless and ambitious, and that counted for more than mere strength. Anatoly had been worried about leaving him alone, not trusting his cousins to keep his brother safe as he had asked, but if anything he should have been worried about the men who made the mistake of being in his brother's way.
Still, there was a half-healed bruise on Vladimir's face, colouring the skin around his eyes a sickly yellow, that showed that not everything had always been easy, that it was a good thing Anatoly was back.
Later that night, after Anatoly had come out of the shower – and the old shower in the tiny place they shared felt like a luxury after his time in the army – shirtless still, Vladimir frowned as his eyes fell on his brother's torso. He stepped closer, eyes roaming over Anatoly's chest before his hands followed, fingertips that were more calloused than they used to be not so long ago. Vladimir retraced the long scar on Anatoly's shoulder, from his collarbone to the top of his biceps, a souvenir from his earliest days in the army. Anatoly hoped his brother wouldn't ask for the story behind it, but Vladimir preferred to let his hands do the talking, retracing the parts of his brother's life that he had missed. The smaller scar on Anatoly's side, thick gnarled tissue that Vladimir pressed his thumb against, his touch lingering, his breath washing over his brother's face. The thin white lines on Anatoly's back, still oddly sensitive to any touch, especially the feather-light caress that Vladimir bestowed on them, fingertips retracing each line, followed by the slightest scratch of his nails, and Anatoly shuddered.
There was something peculiarly tense about each touch, or maybe it was just that so much time had passed since they'd seen each other, that they'd both changed so much, and there was something terrifying about not knowing his own brother anymore. Something unbearable that Anatoly was determined to remedy however he could.
So even as his brother's fingers mapped those scars on his body, Anatoly's hands went for Vladimir's shirt, unbuttoned it slowly and pushed it from his shoulders. And although Vladimir's eyebrow arched up in surprise, he let it happen, let his brother's fingertips find his shoulder, then his upper arm, the fresh black ink on pale skin. It had to be recent, the lines were still sharp, the skin around them still reddened. Part of Anatoly wanted to tease him, laugh at his little brother getting a tattoo like a grown man, like some sort of gangster, but the blue eyes that met his weren't those of a boy, they were those of a man who had killed already.
There was ink on Anatoly's skin, too, not quite as crisp, cheaper ink leaving the crest of the regiment he'd served in on his shoulder blade. He hoped it would fade over time; it was nothing he wanted to take with him into his new life, the rest of his life, a life he could once more share with his brother. It was nothing he needed to be reminded of on the verge to something better than what the world was willing to give them.
“You need to introduce me to your employers,” Anatoly said eventually, his hand on Vladimir's chest mirroring his brother's touch, feeling his slow, steady heartbeat. “Whatever it is you do for them, I can do it, too. Probably did it already before I had to go away.”
Vladimir smiled, a wild, feral smile, like a hungry wolf in the deepest winter. It suited him better than innocence and naivety ever had, if his brother had ever been innocent to begin with.
“They might even remember you still,” he replied. His thumb rubbed warm circles into Anatoly's skin, and his touch still felt like home. “That's what got me in, do you know that? Your name. They'll be happy to have you back, especially with everything the army taught you.”
That much was true, at least. Somewhere between the beatings and the humiliation they had taught him quite a few things, about weapons and about killing, about pain, about how to bear it and how to administer it to others. A better brother might have been saddened that his younger sibling had to learn such things as well, if on the streets rather than on training grounds, but Anatoly couldn't find it in himself. There had never been another way for them but this. They were too proud to beg, too proud to work what others would call honest jobs and get nothing but scraps for it. A good brother would want Vladimir to have everything a man could dream of, and if that had to be stolen and robbed and killed for, he'd gladly get his hands every bit as bloody and dirty as Vladimir had for the past two years.
They'd both have more scars on their skin before that would happen, but also more ink, the kind of ink a man could be proud of, the kind he'd gladly slide his fingers over.
On a whim he leant in and let his lips brush over Vladimir's shoulder, barely more than warm breath over the fresh tattoo, and his brother's fingertips twitched against his chest.
* * *
Weeks passed in an odd mixture of adrenaline-fuelled violence and mind-numbing boredom when they weren't needed, or when they were saddled with dull tasks like collecting money and checking up on operations. Sometimes nothing more than standing around in the background to provide manpower in case anything should happen, and more often than not it didn't. In some ways it wasn't so different from the army, Anatoly thought, and yet it was different in the only way that truly mattered.
Vladimir was alert like a guard dog by his side, always ready to bare his teeth, always willing to rip out a throat with his bare hands if necessary. Anatoly preferred to listen, to the things that were said and more importantly to those that weren't, to the looks exchanged between men, the furtive gestures. At night they spoke about what they'd seen, about who seemed unhappy with his position, about who might be making a move on whom soon, about where to put their allegiances. Rough whispers while they were lying in the dark to save money on electricity, close enough that they could feel the other's breath on their faces.
It seemed like Vladimir wanted to force them together, as if to make up for Anatoly's absence, as if to breach that odd distance that had grown between them from time spent apart. And he'd never been patient, his Volodya, had never been willing to wait unless his brother's hand held him back, and there was no reason why Anatoly would do so this time. So he let his brother force his way back to his side, as if standing too close to him, sleeping next to him, washing the blood off Anatoly's hands after a fight could make them forget that there had ever been a time when they hadn't been together.
Oddly, it worked. There had always been an intensity to his brother that had only grown in Anatoly's absence, an intensity that was almost overwhelming in his presence and made time spent apart from him seem bland and dreary, fading away like a bad dream. Like a meaningless little detour he'd had to take on his path to the life they wanted. And soon enough they were back to moving around each other as if they were one, knowing what the other would say before he'd even opened his mouth. And what he'd missed maybe most was not the intimacy of it, the familiarity, but the complete trust. Maybe that was what Vladimir was trying to say, every time his hands found his brother's shoulders, every time he pulled him close, every time he put his head on Anatoly's chest in the dark. That they were one, that whatever they would do, they'd do together.
Vladimir's eyes were bright in those weeks, bright and wild and happy even, and it wasn't until one night in the coming autumn that his brother frowned at him again, frowned at him on what should have been a joyous evening. They were celebrating in one of their boss's clubs after a successful takeover that had left most of their rivals chopped up in various ditches. None of them were anywhere near sober and most of them had a girl draped over their lap. Anatoly barely paid attention to his, as much as he appreciated the heat of her body against his side, but it still took him some time to notice that Vladimir was sitting by himself. Like he always did on nights like this one, and however young he still was, he was more than old enough for girls.
But instead his eyes were fixated on Anatoly – not even on the scantily dressed girl by his side, but only on his brother – burning and angry almost, and he didn't look away when Anatoly met his eyes. Ignored the questioning look and the raised eyebrows in favour of another swig from a half-empty bottle and a few more minutes of angry glares and sharp retorts to anyone who tried to talk to him before he walked over to Anatoly.
He was maybe a little drunk, but the look in his eyes was still clear, his hand still steady as he grabbed the girl's shoulder and all but shoved her off Anatoly's lap.
“I'm leaving”, he snarled in a tone that clearly said We're leaving. Most of the others were too drunk to pay them any attention, someone had started singing and one of the girls had climbed onto the table to dance, and only Sergei next to Anatoly gave them both a surprised look at Vladimir's tone. It made Anatoly wonder what this sounded like, to anyone who wasn't them. Whether he should insist on staying simply to make a point, but then he had never bothered to pretend that Vladimir was not in charge of their decisions – if only because he often made them long before Anatoly had made up his mind.
So he merely tossed a few bills at the girl for her trouble before he got up, one hand easily finding his brother's elbow to steer him out of the crowded club, his voice only as loud as it had to be to be heard over the music.
“What's going on?”
No reply, unless he counted Vladimir's fingers going for his wrist, wrapping tightly around it, fingernails digging into the thin skin as if he wanted to scratch it open, as if he physically needed to drag his brother with him. As if Anatoly wouldn't go anywhere with him.
“Makes me sick, seeing you with those whores,” Vladimir said several minutes later – they were heading home, Anatoly could tell. He raised both eyebrows – he hadn't pegged his brother for a prude, had hardly thought it possible in the business they were in. He'd hardly thought that was the reason Vladimir stayed away from the girls.
“They serve a purpose,” he merely said, and his brother all but snarled at him, quiet again for the rest of the way as if he couldn't find words in his anger. Anatoly let him seethe, knew that his brother would tell him what he wanted sooner or later. Vladimir had never been shy about anything, never been reluctant or quiet.
He'd barely managed to take off his coat once they reached home before Vladimir grabbed him by his collar and pushed him into the wall. There was a surprising amount of strength in his brother's still slender frame, in those sinewy arms, in the press of Vladimir's knee against his thigh. His muscles were hard and tense where Anatoly's hands came to rest on his shoulders, gently at first, before his fingers tightened their grip on the fabric. The look in his brother's eyes was heated, and not from mere anger.
“Didn't we promise each other we'd do everything together?” Vladimir's voice had dropped to a low growl, lips so close to Anatoly's cheek they almost touched it, his breath almost unbearably hot on skin cooled by the wind outside. Anatoly let his hand slide up from Vladimir's shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing it gently. He would have thought it'd take him time to get used to Vladimir being taller than him, but it had already started to feel right, the way it should be. Tense muscles didn't relax even as Anatoly stroked his neck, pulling his brother closer until their foreheads touched.
“We could have shared her, if that's what you wanted,” Anatoly mumbled, as if he didn't know that wasn't what his brother meant, what he wanted, not the way Vladimir was pressed against him as if he couldn't trust Anatoly to stay where he was.
“I didn't want to share her,” Vladimir all but growled into his ear. His palm pushed against Anatoly's throat, pushed his chin up just so to bare the side of his neck, and even as he leant in Anatoly realised what he was about to do. Had just enough time to tell himself that he shouldn't let him, that he should put an end to this, but he'd never had it in himself to deny his brother. He'd never wanted to deny him, so he merely closed his eyes until he felt sharp teeth sink into the soft skin of his neck, a hard, lingering bite as his brother sucked a mark into his skin, and the soft moan that left Anatoly's lips surprised himself and made his brother smirk triumphantly.
Vladimir looked up, eyes wild like those of a man who had jumped off a cliff and was exhilarated by the thrill of the fall.
“I won't share you, my brother.” There was no question in his voice, no uncertainty, no fear of rejection. A better brother, Anatoly thought idly, would have scoffed and pushed him away, punched him in the face, called him a pervert and dragged him into the next whorehouse.
But the truth was that he'd rather look into Vladimir's eyes than the vacant stare of the girl he'd been with earlier, that he'd rather feel Vladimir's demanding hands than have her lie unresponsively underneath him. The truth was that they'd been stumbling towards this from the moment he'd kissed that first tattoo on Vladimir's shoulder, and Vladimir never stumbled for long.
Anatoly nudged his brother's nose with his own, the same tender gesture he'd used when they had been children, but his hand on Anatoly's neck brought him closer still until their lips brushed.
“I'd never ask you to, Vovik,” and the name ended up in a gasp when Vladimir's teeth caught on Anatoly's lips, biting him hard before he kissed him. It was rough and angry and Anatoly briefly wondered if his brother had done this before, and found that he for one didn't care. He knew they had each other, no matter who else there was in the world.
He found himself with two more angrily bitten marks on his neck before his brother's hands ever started tearing open his clothes, with an impatience either born out of youth or jealousy. Vladimir's touches were rough and fumbling, and yet Anatoly only wondered for the briefest moment if he should take charge and show his brother how this was done. But Vladimir seemed to know what he wanted, hands digging bruises into his brother's skin, pushing him against the wall, pulling on his hair before he pushed him down onto his knees as if he had no doubt in the world that his brother would comply.
After all, there had never been a time when they didn't want the same things.
