brookiarty

anonymous asked:

Spanking

Richard was perched on the edge of his bed when Jim waltzed into the room. He’d been flicking through a bundle of crumbled papers, his fingers brought to an abrupt halt against a row of letters penned in his own neat scrawl.

Jim quirked one of his perfectly groomed brows, pausing in his steps as if to exaggerate the gesture before he continued, sweeping forward and looming over his twin.

Richard peered up, eyes wide - not with curiosity but with a stir akin to excitement this time - and his hands drew away from the mess of script completely.

Jim didn’t even have to speak, Richard knew exactly what his brother wanted. What he was beginning to think he wanted too. He shuffled back, rumpling a heap of blankets as he flopped himself over, stomach flush against the mattress.

Jim slumped himself down onto the bed, still managing to tower over the other man as his open palm grazed over the pinching fabric of Richard’s jeans.

Richard shifted under the touch, soft as though almost a caress, and waited until it drew away before he allowed his own hands to slink to the leather loop of his belt and fumble with the buckle.

It took far too long, both men thought - each second dragging out, scraping the air with a bitter sense of anticipation - for the belt to slide away and coil on the fuzzed carpet of the floor. It was almost agonising, their eagerness bubbling under their pale planes of skin, when the faded denim of the jeans slid down supple thighs.

Jim’s hand hovered over the exposed flesh, tracing along the fine curve of his brother’s arse with the smooth rim of nails. Then, his hand raised high and brought itself down heavy on one cheek, the smack of skin slapping against skin drowning out the soft whimpers rolling from between Richard’s parted lips.

Jim repeated the action, his stare glued on the blossoming salmon welts.

Richard cried out, his back arching - chest lifting from the crisp linen of the bed sheets, as his mouth fell open in a loud whine.

He was Jim’s. He was presenting himself just for him, pleading for more - craving the fire that burrowed deep, licking and lapping at every ounce of him.

Jim revelled in the noise of Richard. He was just for him. He made his brother cry this way, made him writhe and beg. Identical in appearance, almost like clones. But inside, inside they were perfectly matched in a different way altogether. Like a jigsaw puzzle, sliding into each others grasp - taking and giving.

anonymous asked:

Jim comes to visit Richard while he's backstage just minutes before he needs to get on stage/set

There was all of about ten minutes before Richard had to be on set and slump before the camera.

He was settled in his chair, flicking idly though pages of the book he would be reading. He barely registered the coloured blobs of text splattered across each dainty, little illustration. He was exhausted. They’d kept him up all night.

Eventually, exhaling a long, airy sigh, he closed the children’s book over with a dull thud and allowed his head to lull forward with a tired sway. His hands carded through his already ruffled hair, tugging a bit too harshly on the dark threads as he tried to wake himself up at least a little.

“Oh, dear. You look so tired! We were hard on you last night, weren’t we?” The slight click of shoes scraping against the calloused grains of the floor carried off each word with a bounce, “Well, aren’t you lucky? I’m here to make up for it - wake you up.”

Richard had scrambled off his chair at the first rattle of his brother’s voice, wide eyes darting around the room as he searched for its source. His gaze nestled over his twin’s figure, illuminated by the pale lighting of the dressing room.

“Oh,” he breathed, standing awkwardly before his chair.

Jim strolled over to him in sweeping steps, brushing a hand over Richard’s chest, beckoning him to plant himself back down on his seat. Richard obliged, his doe-like stare locking onto his brother’s identical features - pulled into a devious smirk.

Only but a mere minute had passed before Jim was lowering himself down onto Richard, the fine curve of his smile still in place as he straddled him.

“Now, I didn’t really bring you any coffee,” Jim purred, each syllable rolling off his tongue in his velvet lilt. Richard swallowed, his head bobbing up and down in a nod as he tried his very best not to shift under his brother’s weight.

Jim peered down at his twin for no more than a few seconds longer, eager to crush his mouth against Richard’s in a hungry kiss.

Richard’s breath hitched in his throat, a gasp parting his lips against his brother’s. The corners of Jim’s lips curled as his tongue glided over the plush flesh of the actor’s lower lip, teeth raking over the delicate, pink skin - hoping to coax those oh-so-delicious moans his brother was all too well known for.

The criminal reigned triumphant, a groan rumbling from the depths of Richard’s throat, heavy eyelids fluttering. They drooped over completely when their tongues slid against each other in a teasing graze.

Richard, jolted awake by his brother’s arrival, pleaded for more, arms looping around the other’s pale neck and forcing him to dip down closer.

At that, Jim drew back with the wisp of a chuckle, his fingertips tracing over Richard’s lips to swipe away the trickles of saliva ghosting over the swollen crimson.

“Richie! Think of the children - they need their bedtime story,” he taunted, slipping away from his brother’s lap and straightening his suit with a swat of his hands.

Richard had to fight with every fibre of his being not to break out a pout.

“Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get one of your own,” Jim called back as he disappeared through the crack of a door frame.

homeonthewastes  asked:

AND ALSO BROOKIARTY LOVE CONFESSIONS AAAAHHHH-chokes and dies because no one should ship potential twins that much unless they're hosts and ginger omg

(I’ve never done Richard before unless it’s Jim being him so don’t blame me if he sucks okay)


Richard fidgets nervously as Jim ruffles up his hair, eyes soft and wide as they watch his brother. They should be mirror images of each other, but personality bleeds through into appearance. Jim is sharp, cold, controlled. Even stripped of his sharp suits and designer labels, he can strike the fear of God into Richard clad in loose fitting pyjama bottoms and a v-neck. Has done several times. Richard on the other hand is soft, warm, undeniably gentle.

Jim steps back, admiring his now disheveled hair. He unbuttons another button on the shirt he’s dressed Richard in and the other man pulls his sleeves down over his hands in a nervous motion. He thought he had escaped Jim, broke away from his influence. He hadn’t heard from his brother in years, but it would seem all it takes is Jim snapping his fingers and Rich will come running back. Well, that and one lap dog assassin who’s willing to fetch when Jim tells him.

“I don’t want to do this.” His voice is weak even to his own ears, no bite to it. Not like Jim’s. Jim looks like he’s about to smirk at the pathetic effort, but he hides it easily and puts a hand to Richard’s cheek. Richard nearly flinches away to the touch but manages to hold his ground. No. He won’t give in to Jim. They’re not children anymore. He’s not some small, timid thing that Jim can order about.

Except he kind of is.

“Richie,” Jim purrs, voice low and soft, like velvet or melted chocolate, something comforting and lovely. Richard knows it’s an act, knows that Jim can slip in and out of character just as easily as he can, but something in him relaxes at the sound. “You’ll do this one little thing for me, won’t you? For your brother?”

Richard’s lips part to argue that it’s not a ‘little thing’, that Jim is asking him to sacrifice his identity, his career, everything he is and has just for his stupid little game. Jim doesn’t give him that chance to get out words.

“I love you, Rich. Do this for me.”

Richard knows it’s a lie. Part of him flares up angrily at the words. Jim doesn’t love him. Jim doesn’t love anyone except perhaps himself, but the same part of him that softened at the purring voice squirms hopefully. He’s wanted to hear those words for years. He doesn’t dare believe them, but his body leans slightly closer without his consent. With a sigh of defeat the resistance drains from him.

“I love you, Jim.” He raises a hand, laying it over the one on his cheek. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Excellent.” Jim grins, clearly pleased by this. He pulls his hand back, twirling and pacing out of the room, shouting instructions to Sebastian. Richard stands alone in Jim’s bedroom. A broken shell of a man looks back at him from the mirror. He takes in his new appearance. Fragile. Disheveled. Scared.

Slowly, he lowers his hand from his cheek.

kashfkjsadhkadjhfsakfjhf  asked:

If you're still doing ficlet prompts, Jim fucking Richard and just being completely indifferent about it

(I’m finally trying to get around to these prompts, apologies dears! This sways a bit off, I guess but um, yeah.)

They were seventeen years old now, wading through the crowds of a bustling school and happily waving their farewells to each second that dragged on past.

They’d slump back in class, always side by side - Jim’s hand grazing over the fabric of his brother’s trousers, the rumpled shirts draped over their shoulders rustling against the other. The class was completely oblivious to the fleeting touches, the intertwined hands swaying amidst a cluster of desks.

When the bell cried out, blaring its obnoxious, clattering tone throughout the snaking corridors and classrooms, they’d race towards their very favourite spot. Jim would tug impatiently, Richard stumbling behind as they collapsed into the silence of the empty classroom, shattering the peace with their breathy giggles.

Jim would nudge the door to a close behind them, clasp the key in one hand with a triumphant grin that would only grow as a sharp click of the lock pierced their ears. Richard would already be leaning back against the gnawed wood of a table, sprawled out in the sweet buzz of anticipation as he awaited the first move.

Jim would toss the key aside and sweep across the floor, fingertips already tracing every exposed flicker of Richard’s pale skin.

Richard would sometimes falter, under the impression that he’d finally plucked up enough courage to splutter out the gasp of how he knew this wasn’t right, how maybe the should stop. But his swollen lips would tremble, stutter on the bitter confession of his love and before even a trickle of words could roll from between them, the hazed warmth of his brother’s mouth would envelope him. He’d melt right there, crumble into Jim’s grip and feel any hope of a plea float away, abandon him.

Jim would tear his mouth away, revel in the obscene noise of his brother’s moans, all the more glorious as he tried to muffle his cries with pained gasps of teeth digging into the delicate flesh of his lips. He’d flip Richard around, his own thoughts smothered with wantwantwant, mineminemine.

Richard would thrust his hips against the table, rocking back hard, desperate for friction. A groan would rumble from his throat as Jim’s hips swayed forward in reply, grinding against him with the outline of his perfectly hard cock, trapped in the confinements of his trousers. He’d hunch over the desk, forearms splayed out across the scratched planes, eyelids fluttering closed, shielding a glazed gaze.

Jim would fuck him there, nails clawing at the ashen shades of jutting hip bones, two pairs of uniformed trousers yanked down to the hobbles of knees.