Villain Hole Emporium

Stan's had enough.

He can deal with the sore tits and the sticky spots on his shirts (they're easier to hide now that the weather's gotten cold enough for wearing layers indoors). He can deal with the humiliation of having to sneak into the school bathroom with Ford during breaks. He can even deal with the fact that his brain's developed some kind of Pavlo-whatever response to this whole mess and now he gets a hard-on any time his chest starts to tingle and ache. But Ford teasing him is the last goddamn straw.

Half of him can't believe that his nerdy brother – who Stan knows has never gotten past a first date, much less to first base – is so good with his mouth. And his hands. And then there's that fucking look he gets when he's latched on and sucking shamelessly, his eyes lidded and unfocused, and just the faintest hint of a blush across his ears. The other half, of course, isn't even a little bit surprised that Ford's managing to be a smug bastard about this. If he wasn't also being more supportive and understanding than Stan could have hoped, he'd have given Ford a left hook right in his self-satisfied face by now.

Well, he'll show Ford. If Ford wants to make this weird, Stan's prepared to bring the weird in fucking spades.

They've fallen into a routine by now. Ford milks him before school, after school, and before bed. Sometimes Stan needs more than that, and so far Ford has obliged him every time. But today, Stan has only let Ford milk him once, in the morning.

By the time dinner's finished and the dishes are done, his chest aches and he's gone through most of a box of sterile gauze pads and a lot of duct tape to keep his shirt dry. He can tell just by the feel that he's really, really full – fuller than he's let himself get since this all started. It's actually kind of exciting, flirting with being found out like this, but even that possibility isn't what's really got him worked up. His heart is jackhammering against his ribs as he waits for Ford to join him in their room.

Stan talks a big game, but he's not much more experienced than Ford – and certainly not with other guys. But he knows what he's heard around school, what he's seen in the dirty magazines that get traded around after boxing practice. And, well, working someone else's dick can't be that different from handling his own, right? Even if he's never been on the receiving end of what he's got in mind.

He hears Ford coming up the stairs – it's funny how he knows his family members by their footsteps, he thinks, and almost snorts as he considers that it's probably because of all the times they've nearly caught him jacking off. But the sound cuts off before it escapes his throat, choked by nervous anticipation. He shifts a little on his bed, the blanket draped around his shoulders brushing maddeningly against his skin, and Stan hurriedly shoves the gauze squares he's been holding against his  chest into the crevice between the bed and the wall.

Ford opens the door, and Stan gives him the most casual smile he can manage as he watches Ford close the door behind himself. There's a puzzled look on his twin's face, and Stan notes, smugly, that Ford seems to make a conscious effort to keep his eyes from drifting south – but he doesn't say anything, just returns Stan's smile a little awkwardly.

Stan's heart is going a mile a minute as he watches Ford half-turn and tug his shirt off. He tosses it into the laundry hamper and starts to reach for his fly. “Hey,” Stan says, “hang on. C'mere.”

“Why?” Ford asks, turning back towards his twin. “Is something wrong? Are you-”

“I'm fine,” Stan cuts him off, motioning him closer. He grins when Ford obliges, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“I was going to put on pajamas...” Ford says, and it's almost a question. He blinks as Stan pulls him forward by the belt loops, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed, until his shins brush against Stan's parted knees. “Stanley, what are you doing?”

“You'll see.” It feels good to be the one in control of this situation, and Stan allows himself a moment to soak in his brother's confused expression. He's still so, so nervous, but it's the mostly-good kind of nervous, like he felt the first time he snuck an issue of Playboy into the house – a little nauseous and a lot shaky and warm and electrified. His nipples are already leaking, the now-familiar tingly sensation going straight to his groin.

Stan takes a deep, steadying breath and holds it as he reaches for the zipper of his twin's fly. He gets it halfway down before Ford manages to stutter out, “S-Stanley?”

“Like I wouldn't notice you were gettin' off on suckin' my tits,” Stan snorts, catching Ford's hip to keep him from pulling back. The blanket around his shoulders falls away with the motion, and Ford's face noticeably reddens as he gets a proper look at Stan's chest and the watery beads of milk starting at his nipples.

“It's not like that, Stanley, I--”

“Sh-sh-shh.” Stan gives Ford's hip a distracted pat, two fingers of his left hand still anchoring Ford by a belt loop. “M'glad s'not jus' me,” he mumbles, ducking his head but resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck self-consciously. Ford's not the only one blushing.

“Oh...” Ford says, and then, as realization sets in, “...Oh.” He raises his hands but doesn't seem to know what to do with them – they hover in Stan's peripheral vision, just shy of touching him. “Stanley,” Ford begins, as if Stan might assume he's talking to someone else, “this isn't – I mean, I never expected you to--”

“Can it.” Pausing in his attempt to tug Ford's jeans down a little, Stan flicks a glance up at him, flashes him a grin to soften the words. “Unless you're gonna tell me to stop, shaddap.”

Ford's face is so red by this point that Stan bets it's hot enough to fry an egg on. The front of his tighty whities is getting noticeably tented. Stan waits, his hands on the waistband of his twin's pants, one to either side of his open fly.

It takes Ford a moment of gulping like a landed fish before he seems to even fully process what Stan said. He looks away – toward the door, like he's expecting to get caught – and then back at Stan, and says, quietly but not uncertainly, “I'm... not going to tell you to stop.”

“Good.”

Stan can feel Ford's eyes on him as he carefully palms the increasingly stiff bulge between Ford's legs. He wonders, not for the first time, why he's doing this – what could possibly have made this seem like a good idea, when he was laying in bed masturbating to the thought a couple of nights ago. A private fantasy shared with his hand is one thing, but actually doing it is something else, and god, what if Ford feels weird about it afterward, what if he feels weird about it...

Too late to back out now, he tells himself, and cups his left breast and starts to knead, trying to find the same rhythm that's worked so well when Ford does it. He feels like an idiot, fondling himself awkwardly and staring at his brother's crotch, barely more than flaccid himself because of nerves. Maybe he can sort of go halfway, give Ford a hand job and pretend that's all he meant to do.

Ford makes a noise, a little strangled gasp, and Stan looks up.

If Stan thought his brother's face was red before, it's positively crimson now. Ford's eyes are locked on him, pupils blown so wide Stan can barely see the color of his irises, and his lips are slack and parted. He gulps and huffs and flicks his tongue across his upper lip, obviously trying to wet his mouth, and then he sees Stan watching him and looks away in a hurry.

“Hey.” Stan strokes the pad of his thumb over the firmness of Ford's erection, tracing from the underside of the head down to where he loses the shaft beneath the stretched fabric of Ford's cotton briefs and instead finds the gentle swell of his balls. Stan reaches to tug on the waistband of the briefs expectantly.

“C'mon,” he urges, giving himself a squeeze and hoping Ford will think it's sexy instead of just ridiculous. Stan can feel a fine spray of warm wetness spattering his fingers but he doesn't look down. “I want you t'watch me,” he adds, trying for a smug smile. Thank god Ford's never had a girlfriend, because the only thing bolstering Stan's confidence enough to get past feeling like a total doofus is the knowledge that Ford has nothing to compare this to except his hands and the Playboy issues hidden in their room. He doesn't think Ford has ever even looked at the Playboys.

“Stanley...” Ford breathes, and the way it comes out – breathy, strangled, needy – is just about the sexiest goddamn thing Stan's ever heard. His nerves begin to melt away, tension settling into electric warmth. He tries to remember the captions in the Playboy issues, tries to figure out how to talk sexy when his mind's increasingly preoccupied.

“You like it, right? The way my chest gets all warm an' full, an' how stiff my nipples are? Feels amazin' when you suck on 'em... gets me so hard, Sixer, you got no idea.” That sounds about right – kind of cheesy, but not actually untrue, just... played up a bit so he can put it in words. Stan lets his thumb travel back up to rub circles at the tip of Ford's cock. He can already feel a little dampness gathering there, warm and sticky, and the smell of Ford's arousal reaches him on his next inhale. He shivers, his confidence building along with his desire.

“Oh god...” Ford's voice is barely a whisper, his eyes squeezing shut as Stan thumbs over his glans, then fluttering open again. “I... S-Stanl-- ah!” His hips jerk, pre beading through his underwear, and he hisses through clenched teeth when Stan pulls his hand away and licks the trace of wetness off the pad of his thumb.

“'Bout time I got a taste of you,” Stan says, smug, and he's not sure, but he thinks he hears the faintest little whine escape his brother's lips.

He's leaking from both nipples now, so full that the milk wells up on its own. Shifting, Stan scoots right to the edge of the mattress, motioning Ford closer. Ford hesitates, like he's trying to figure out what's going to happen, but he does it, shuffling forward until his groin is just a few inches shy of rubbing against Stan's chest, the low bottom bunk lining them up just right.

“Undies off,” Stan orders. Again, Ford obeys. His cock bobs free, stiff and full and twitching just a little with his pulse. Stan grins.

Gently, he guides Ford even closer, the sound his brother makes as his dick meets the warm skin of Stan's chest sending a thrill all through him. Stan pushes his chest out a bit, letting Ford's cock rub smears of precum through sparse curls of dark brown hair. He still feels a little silly, but Ford seems enthralled.

It's all or nothing now. Stan takes a deep breath, intensely aware of the slick heat of Ford's pre smeared between his pecs, and lowers his voice to a throaty whisper. “Wanna fuck my tits, Sixer?”

Ford chokes, and his cock jerks, a spurt of pre catching Stan's jawline. Stan reaches to wipe it off with the side of his hand, glances at the clear fluid, and on a whim, licks it off. It tastes sort of salty, not nearly as gross as he'd expected even though it's more than a drop or two this time, and Stan gives the heel of his hand another pass with his tongue, looking Ford right in the eyes as he does it. Ford moans.

“So I'm guessing that was a yes.”

Ford nods vehemently, biting his lip, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He clearly doesn't know what to do with them, but Stan doesn't either, so he doesn't comment. Instead, he draws in his arms – god damn, he's so full it kind of hurts – and cups his chest, framing a pec in each broad hand.

He's only ever seen this done in pictures, and it's more awkward than Stan expected it to be, but then again, he doesn't have as much to work with as a Playboy Bunny usually does. Already leaking steadily, his nipples standing erect, he pushes the flesh of his chest together, sandwiching Ford's dick between his breasts. It's like trying to fit a salami into a hotdog bun, he thinks, and Stan almost laughs, biting his lip.

But it feels... kinda good, actually. His chest tingles, and the milk beads up around his nipples, cooling them enough to really make them ache with how stiff they are, and then it runs down his chest, tickling over the soft swell of his belly. And Ford's cock is already slicking his skin with pre, the contrast of the hot flesh and cool wetness making them both shiver.

“God, Stanley,” Ford whispers, his eyes heavily lidded. Finally seeming to make up his mind, he lays a trembling hand on his twin's head, and strokes his fingers over Stan's gelled-back bangs. “That's... incredible. You're so warm...”

“Hold onta yer ass,” Stan laughs, “'cause I ain't even started yet.”

The look on Ford's face is just... god, it's gotta be the sexiest thing he's ever seen, slack and breathless and so gone on arousal that he looks drunk, his cheeks and ears bright red. And it's 'cause of me, Stan thinks, awed.

“Move your hips,” he says, his voice coming out much softer than he'd expected – gentle, encouraging. Ford does, sliding his erection between Stan's pecs as Stan does his best to press them together around it, and Ford's breath stutters out in a gasp of both surprise and excitement. Stan can feel the milk dripping down his chest in two nearly-steady streams as his cupped hands and the push-pull of his twin's slow but increasingly insistent thrusts create a rhythm of intense pressure and spine-tingling relief.

Ford's hesitation quickly melts away. His shoulders relax, his hips moving in slow, rolling thrusts as he presses himself up against Stan, fingers sifting through his hair. His breath shudders out of him in shameless sighs of ecstasy, and despite leaking like he's ready to blow, he seems to be going as slowly as he can stand to – savoring this, drawing it out.

For his own part, Stan can't stop watching him. Ford's always been so shy around the few girls he's liked – so private about his feelings, worried about getting his hopes up even enough to think about what could happen. But he isn't like that at all now. He wears his pleasure openly, moaning around Stan's name as he moves. It's so much better than porn, because Ford is real and warm and so obviously wants him – wants him, god, the thought brings a whine crawling up the back of Stan's throat.

“Oh,” Ford breathes, like it's a prayer. “Oh, Stanley...”

“You gonna clean me up after this?” Stan asks, licking his lips with exaggerated slowness. “Suck me dry, Sixer?”

Ford nods vehemently, and another dribble of pre shoots against Stan's collarbone. He chuckles.

“If you cum all over my face, you better clean that up too.”