The rain hammered against the windows of the old house like it wanted to break in. Derek stood in the doorway of his younger brother’s room, shoulders filling the frame, eyes locked on the figure on the bed. At twenty-eight, Derek had always been the bigger one, the one who took what he wanted. Ryan was twenty-three now, lean and tense, pretending to sleep under the thin sheet.
“Get up,” Derek said, voice low and rough. No question in it.
Ryan’s eyes snapped open. He knew that tone. He had heard it since they were teenagers, when their parents left them alone for weeks at a time. “Derek, don’t. Not tonight.”
Derek crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed the sheet and yanked it away. Ryan wore only boxers.
The sight of his brother’s body—smooth skin, the faint trail of hair leading down—sent the familiar dark heat through Derek’s veins. This wasn’t affection. It was ownership, raw and unasked for.
“You don’t tell me no,” Derek said. He shoved Ryan onto his stomach, one heavy hand between his shoulder blades. Ryan struggled, but Derek had always been stronger. He pressed his weight down, letting Ryan feel every inch of him. “You know how this goes. You fight, I take more.”
Ryan’s breathing turned ragged. “They’ll hear—”
“No one’s here. Just us. Like always.” Derek hooked his fingers into the waistband of the boxers and tore them down. The fabric ripped. He didn’t care. He spit into his palm, reached between Ryan’s cheeks, and rubbed the slickness over the tight entrance without warning or gentleness. Ryan jerked, a choked sound escaping him.
Derek freed his own cock, thick and already hard from the power of it. He lined up and pushed in with one steady thrust, ignoring the way Ryan’s body tried to resist. The heat inside his brother clamped down, burning and perfect. Derek groaned, low and satisfied, hips snapping forward until he was buried to the hilt.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled against Ryan’s ear. “Always so fucking tight for me.” He started moving, hard and deep, each stroke claiming territory. Ryan’s hands fisted the mattress. His protests turned into broken gasps that Derek drank in like fuel. The power exchange was absolute: Derek gave the force, Ryan took it, body yielding even as his mind fought.
Derek reached under Ryan, found his cock half-hard despite everything, and stroked it in time with his thrusts. “You get hard for your brother’s cock. Say it.”
Ryan shook his head, teeth gritted. Derek slammed in harder, angling to hit that spot that made Ryan’s resistance crack. A moan slipped out. Derek smiled darkly against his neck. “Say it or I stop and start over.”
“…Hard for you,” Ryan finally rasped, voice wrecked. “Fuck, Derek—”
Derek rewarded him by fucking deeper, faster, the bed creaking under them. Sweat slicked their skin. The room filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin, Ryan’s reluctant moans, Derek’s rough commands. He bit down on Ryan’s shoulder, marking him, then licked the spot. His hand never stopped working Ryan’s cock, twisting at the head until Ryan shuddered and came across the sheets with a broken cry.
Only then did Derek let himself finish, burying deep and pulsing inside his brother, claiming him in the most primal way. He stayed there, cock softening slowly, weight pinning Ryan down. The rain kept falling outside.
After a long minute, Derek pulled out. He rolled Ryan onto his back and looked at him—flushed face, bitten lip, the evidence of what they’d done between them. “You’re mine,” he said simply. “Always have been.”
Ryan didn’t answer with words. He just reached up, fingers curling into Derek’s shirt, pulling him down again. The night was long, and the house was empty. Derek took his time the second round, slower but no less intense, making Ryan beg before he gave him anything. By morning the rain had stopped, but the marks on Ryan’s skin remained, and the heavy silence between them said everything that needed saying.
They would do it again. They always did. In this house, power didn’t ask permission. It simply took.
