Bonus: Brother Knows Best (Patreon)

(A commission piece)

The dashing bandit scrambled over upturned sandstone slabs and ducked under linden branches as he plunged deeper into the forest. The castle spires and moonlit bay were leagues behind him now. Ahead was a drifting green light, guiding him to treasure.

“Just one more,” the man whispered to himself. One more score, and then he could settle down. He didn’t need the gold. His future was secure; he’d saved a princess — a genuine princess, for God’s sake! Soon they would be married, and he’d be given the rank of royal consort or something. He was all set.

He just had to get adventuring out of his system, once and for all. Or even for a little while. He could make this a yearly event, perhaps. His darling bride had swallowed his story about evening hikes to “clear his head.” He didn’t have to tell her the truth about where he was going or why. And if she worried that she was being too clingy, to the point she was driving him away…? Well, that was on her.

The wobbling glow dipped down. He followed and found himself in a wide crevice with tall granite sides. Twigs snapped beneath his boots. Above, the cries of pygmy owls and the nervous skittering of deer put his nerves on edge. He listened for the telltale clatter of hooves. Max, that burly, interfering horse, might be on his trail. But he heard nothing like that. Sometimes the sounds of pattering footfalls or high-pitched sniggering would tease his ears, but he chalked it up to a guilty imagination.

He fingered the tiny fairy lantern swinging from his belt. He’d paid for it with money swiped from the royal treasury, but he would replace all the gold and then some. It was about the journey, not the reward.

The hovering flame within the lantern was the size of his fingertip, but it reflected and distorted itself into something larger: the soft glow that danced on the trail ahead. He pressed on, warily noting how the walls grew higher and the crevice grew narrower the further he walked. The glow followed a gently curving bend and disappeared. But he could spy its luminance splashed over the rock. He followed, with the brilliance growing, stinging his eyes, and wiping out everything else in view. And then there was just green. Blinding, ghostly green. He took another step and collided with something solid. Not granite. But close.

The glow ebbed. And then it was just a jade-hued flame flickering in a lantern held aloft by a towering ginger-haired brute with one eye.

Instinct spurred Flynn Rider to whirl around and flee. He ran full force into another solid surface. Not a man, this time. A wall. His escape route had filled in with solid rock. He turned back around and cast a fearful gaze over the shoulder of the thug blocking his path. Another wall. He wasn’t in a crevice anymore. He was in a pit.

He tried to affect his trademark roguish smile. It came out as a sickly, shit-eating grin. He knew that the Stabbington twins had escaped jail, but he hadn’t expected to encounter one of them here. A criminal with any sense would have fled the kingdom. Not that the Stabbingtons ever showed any signs of cleverness.

The thug rubbed the sandpaper stubble on his lantern jaw and eyed Flynn with an odd glint in his remaining eye. It almost looked… hungry. His sword was still in its scabbard, thankfully. With one hand holding the lantern, his other was occupied by two large sacks. He licked his lips and murmured, “Eugene.”

His real name. He didn’t mind it, but coming from a Stabbington, it stung. And Flynn had never learned the brothers’ first names, so he was left with aliases.

“Patchy,” he said, brightly. “I didn’t know you could talk! You know what…? Good for you.”

“Can talk,” Patchy grunted. “Don’t like it much.”

“Fair enough! Sideburns was the chatterbox in the family, huh?” He angled his head at the wall behind him. “So, what’s the deal here? Looks like we’re trapped. You wanna give me a boost? Then I can pull you to safety.”

Patchy shook his glowering Mastiff head. “We’re not trapped here, Eugene. You are. With me. The kobolds saw to that.”

From above, Flynn heard the high-pitched laughter again, louder and more distinct this time. Flynn squinted at the darkness.

“Don’t bother looking for them,” the brute growled. “You can’t see them. But they can see you. They like to watch.”

As casually as he could, Flynn put his hand on his hip, feeling for his dagger. It was gone. Another peal of laughter rattled through the softly fluttering leaves.

“I have an idea,” Flynn offered. “How about the two of us have a conference with Sideburns? That way, you don’t have to do so much darn talking! I’m sure your brother and I can work out some kind of deal and…”

“Brother’s dead,” Patchy spat. “Dead escaping. Just me for now. But the kobolds found me and told me how to fix it.” He lowered the sacks and lantern to the ground, keeping a watch on Flynn all the while, and then dumped the contents of one sack at the thief’s feet. “Put it on,” he barked.

Flynn stared at the rubbery thing on the ground. It stared back, with hollow black eyes set deeply beneath furry ginger brows. It appeared to be the skin of a man. A tall, brutish, burly man with furry ginger sideburns.

The bandit had done a lot of unsavory things in his abbreviated career. But this was different. He regarded the awful, fleshy object and looked back at Patchy. “Is this really his… y’know…?”

Patchy smirked. “Kobolds, man…!” He chuckled to himself. “Naw, it’s not real. Looks that way, though. Exactly. Right down to the freckles on his pecker. Hurry up, now. Put it on.”

Flynn narrowed his eyes. Even for a Stabbington, there had to be more to the scheme. “Put it on and then what…?”

The thug didn’t bother answering. With a blindingly quick motion, he drew his sword and held it to Flynn’s throat.

The bandit forced himself to smile with the full force of his charms. “I mean, that was a silly question! I’ll just go ahead and put it on. I’m happy to put it on.”

Bathed in the flickering glow of Patchy’s lantern, Flynn disrobed. After removing his tunic and vest, he held out his arms and quipped, “Nothing up my sleeve!” Patchy’s eye twitched beneath his glowering brow. “Tough crowd,” Flynn muttered. “I’ll, um, I’ll just move on to my breeches and boots, then.”

The thug’s expression changed as Flynn unbuckled his belt and removed his breeches. Patchy’s thoughts were difficult to parse from merely looking at him, but they seemed to be a mixture of anticipation and something else. Flynn had a good idea of the “something else” but he didn’t want to think about that. He eyed the Sideburns costume. He wished he’d worn something else beneath his breeches, but his knee-length tunic normally served well enough for his undergarments. He just hated the idea of his genitals touching the recreated skin of a dead man. He pushed the thought from his mind. Compartmentalization

was his specialty. It’s how he viewed himself as both a faithful future bridegroom and a wily, devil-may-care rascal. He could live both lives if he wanted. He was sure of it. When he was finished disrobing, he stood in just his stockings on the pit’s soft, loamy floor, and clapped his hands together. “Alright then,” he cried. “I’ll just slip into this thing, huh?”

“Not naked enough,” Patchy spat. He jabbed the tip of his sword at Flynn’s feet.

Shuddering, Flynn removed his stockings. He picked up the costume. It felt exactly like skin, and it was warm, even in the cool night air. Bile gurgled in his stomach. Just then, something flopped to the ground, making him jump. It was the mask of Sideburns’ head, and it landed with the mouth gaping and the forehead caved in, making the eye holes seem angry. Flynn looked up at the stars flickering through the forest canopy and took a long, deep breath.

The rest of the costume was in one piece. He turned it around a few times, searching for laces, buckles, buttons, anything. After rotating it three times, a seam opened in the back along the spine, going from the top of the neck down to the buttocks. The inner lining glistened. Flynn had a sinking feeling that it was moist. Moaning softly, he leaned against the rock wall and stuck his left foot into the costume.

As he’d feared, it was wet, and as warm as bathwater. And yet, it wasn’t unpleasant. He felt his foot sink effortlessly down the leg and lodge within the costume foot. There was a sense of the garment sucking his leg into it, almost like it was welcoming it.

The foot was roomy, at first. Warm fluid sloshed around his own foot, soaking into it. And then he had a peculiar sensation of snugness, as the membrane-like texture of the suit caressed his skin – even between his toes. He wriggled them and saw the suit’s toes move as well. A stray breeze brushed over the suit’s foot, stimulating the thick ginger hairs that carpeted the top of it.

And Flynn could feel it all. He’d imagined having to galivant around in a floppy, oversized costume, making a jackass of himself for a dimwit’s half-baked revenge scheme. This was worse. Because he couldn’t feel his own foot, anymore. Just Sideburns’.

Flynn stared at the appendage, dumbfounded. As the suit’s left leg continued to seal his body into it, he realized that the thing wasn’t getting tighter; his body was expanding to fill it up. The feeling was unlike anything he’d experienced. Achey, but in a good way, like after a strenuous escape. Twinges of pain and a dull pleasure, as soft as sheep’s wool. He leaned down and touched the leg, tentatively. His fingertips crawled over to a particularly bulging vein. He could feel the pulse. The leg was quite hairy, too. He’d suspected the Stabbington’s were on the furry side, given their perpetually stubbled jaws. But he’d never seen one naked before, so he couldn’t be sure. Dense, shaggy hair covered the leg’s calf, thinning out slightly on the thigh, save for the inner part where it was even thicker than on the calf. That made sense. The costume’s balls were furry as a Persian cat. The thing’s imitation cock was the only thing below the waist not covered in hair. And it was elephantine: a foot long and as thick around as a wine bottle. He dreaded having to feel it lock into place around his own shaft. He’d been physically close to the Stabbingtons when he was running scams with them, even spooning with them in ditches on cold nights, but this was a step too far.

“Other leg,” Patchy hissed.

Flynn watched his right foot disappear into the suit. “Disappear” seemed like the proper term; it felt like the faux Stabbington leg had rendered his own into something insubstantial. It was a false promise. Disappearing ink. He flexed the toes, rotated his ankle, and dared to put his full weight on it. A warmth radiated through his legs, like he was caught in a fever dream. It was a familiar and specific warmth, but he couldn’t place it. Standing up, he was caught off guard by the added height the legs gifted him. It made him dizzy. He bent down again and felt the legs. They were sturdy. So much tougher and so much more muscular than his own. The calf muscles felt like melons. The carrot-hued pelt was soft to the touch. Silky. He found himself getting distracted by the lushness of it, so pleasing to run his fingers through.

Patchy cleared his throat. Flynn sighed and tugged at the suit, pulling it up to his waist. At once, he could feel his small, pert buttocks balloon into a muscular, shelf-like rump fit for a plow horse. Meanwhile, his average-sized testes and cock were sucked into the pouch-like genitalia of the suit, plumping up to fit. His balls tingled as he caressed them, tracing the walnut texture beneath the luxurious fur. The shaft – his shaft, now – reared up. Flynn tore his hand away, humiliated for Patchy to see him like this.

The thug tilted his head back and sneered at him. “You like it, huh? Go ahead, then. Sample the merchandise.”

“That’s not what that was,” the bandit protested. “This is just very… very strange, alright? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Looked like it to me. Y’know, my brother couldn’t stop playing with himself. Makes this realistic.”

Flynn looked away, put off by his own memories of catching Sideburns diddling himself anytime he thought he was alone. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Hog like that, who could blame him?” His cruel eyes looked wistful. “Mine’s not as nice. That’s why he was the boss.”

Despite his anxiety, Flynn guffawed. “Too much information, broth—ah, I mean, buddy.”

Patchy leaned forward. “What was that?”

“A slip. And I don’t want to play with myself, or this costume, or whatever.”

“Same thing to me. Keep going.”

Flynn’s hand was on the mammoth rod again, stroking it, slipping his fingers beneath the baggy foreskin, gently teasing the tip with his fingernails. A drop of pre emerged, shining in the moonlight.

That snapped him out of his reverie. “You mean, keep putting the costume on, yeah. I knew that.”

Patchy scratched at the scar on his cheek. “Is that what I meant?”

“Let’s say that it was,” Flynn said, slipping his right arm into the garment. He fought a powerful urge to look back down at his – at the costume’s – junk again. The pernicious half-erection hadn’t softened. If anything, it was getting harder. He wondered how Sideburns liked running around with a monster like that hanging from his crotch. He must have been aware of it all the time, feeling the balls smashed against his thighs, the shaft squeezed down one leg of his breeches. It was no wonder he was so confident. He may have been a sleazy, violence-prone moron, but he was decidedly a man. He could barrel his way through life with only brute strength and the unabashed confidence of a ram in heat as his tools. He didn’t have a silver tongue or a pretty face to smooth the way for him. He wondered how Sideburns saw him before all the nasty business that ended their partnership. Did he even think of him as a man?

His arm bulked up within the costume sleeve, his bones thickening and lengthening to support the copious muscle that was building up. As the bond completed itself, Flynn felt the forest atmosphere ruffle the dense hair on his arm and the back of his hand. He squeezed the bicep. It was a mighty thing. Even in the absence of a dagger or a sword, Sideburns had been dangerous. His whole body was a blunt force weapon. Without even thinking about it, he raised the arm and flexed the muscle, feeling himself adopt a cocky smirk. He’d never felt so powerful before. It was intoxicating. He didn’t need to be devious in this body. He didn’t need to concoct elaborate schemes or adopt aliases or take on so many personas that he couldn’t remember who he used to be in the first place. He could just take what he wanted, as simple as that.

With an eagerness that surprised him, he plunged his left arm into the suit. The warm, welcoming damp heated up his flesh, pulling it outward and clinging to it like an ardent lover. The swirling heat in his legs and crotch boiled upward to fill his arms and chest. What was it? He’d been ill before, close to death, but the fever had mercifully passed. No, this was something else. What, he couldn’t say.

He felt his ribcage expanding, his heart growing large and powerful, pumping blood so loudly that it echoed in his ears, drowning out his more complex thoughts. His lungs were like bellows, his winding guts like boa constrictors. He had the constitution of a bull, practically unstoppable, and he was so damned hot. A dizzying heat, vertiginous, making him feel… drunk. That was it. He’d always taken care to drink spirits in moderation. But when he was younger and more foolish, he would overindulge. This was how he’d felt then. Hot and sweaty and stupid.

He flexed his pecs and delts and traps, reveling in his strength. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He couldn’t understand what he’d ever seen in his old life as slippery confidence man and petty thief. If he’d been big like this, his life would have been so much easier. So much more satisfying. And with his twin at his side, he could do anything.

Not that he’d had a twin, he reminded himself. He looked sideways at Patchy, who was licking his lips and clutching his chest… right over his nipples.

And this his own hands were on his own – the costume’s nipples, pinching them, pulling at them. It seemed like the thing to do in the moment. And who would even see them? And even if they did, would he care? Not anymore. He ran his thick, calloused fingers through the thatch of ginger fur between his bulbous pecs. It was a forest of hair, spreading over his chest and his back, and growing in silky curls on his shoulders. It made him look rough. Bestial. He was someone to respect. Not some third-rate trickster skating by on his looks. Not like that loser, Flynn.

No. He was Flynn. He knew it, but he was seeing himself from Sideburns’ perspective. Flynn was pathetic. Who in their right mind would want to be him?

The mask was in his hands. He didn’t remember picking it up. It didn’t matter. He stared at Patchy, feeling like he understood him, now. Birdlike voices giggled in the trees. The kobolds. His fingers trembled. This felt like a last to save himself. He could let the mask drop to the ground. He could stomp it into the dirt or tear it apart with his sinewy hands; it was merely skin, after all. The spell might be broken. Maybe the kobolds would leave him be, then. Surely, they’d had enough fun.

Patchy sheathed his sword and moved closer, his own fingers flexing. Suddenly, they were on Flynn’s hard, sensitive nipples, rubbing and pinching them. “Don’t stop now, brother,” he purred. “Haven’t you wished we could be together again?”

The fever burbled up to Flynn’s neck. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, clouding his vision. His monster cock slapped against his furry gut. He could almost hear the cum churning restlessly in his bull balls. It begged for release.

“I have,” Flynn mumbled. “I mean, I have someone already. A girl.”

“No kidding,” Patchy whispered. “What’s her name?” His hot breath tickled Flynn’s ear. And then he licked it.

The tremble elevated to a tremor. “It’s, well… I know she has long, golden hair. No, it’s short brown hair, and…!”

“Sounds like you don’t know much about her, brother.” He kissed Flynn below his ear, setting the fine hairs on the back of his neck on end. “Sounds like you don’t know anything at all.”

The intoxicating heat was melting his brain. He couldn’t remember what the girl looked like, or her name, or even how he knew her. His memories were candle wax, deforming and sinking down into puddles.

“You know what’ll help you get your head on straight?”

The bandit nodded.

Patchy stepped back and watched as the bandit pulled the mask over his head. It felt like warm water pouring over him, making him clean. He sensed his ears popping into place and expanding, his chin swelling into a beefy, jutting knob, his nose growing bulbous and broken, his forehead beetling, casting his eyes in shadow.

He explored his face. It still felt strange to him… the lantern jaw; the long, curving scar on his chin, the bristling mutton chop sideburns. He was handsome, or he’d thought he was. His face had been his calling card. That was why the “wanted poster” had annoyed him so much. The nose had been wrong. It had depicted it as knobby and broken…

Stumbling backwards, he felt his brawny, hairy back strike cool, smooth rock. Patchy stayed put, regarding him with a mixture of concern and expectation.

“You’re so close, now,” he said. “I need you to go all the way. Remember, brother. Remember how close we were.” As he spoke, he unbuckled his belt and disrobed, revealing an almost identical body. There were scars in different places, and a surprisingly small pecker, but otherwise…

Sweat soaked the nameless bandit’s body. He looked at his one-eyed companion and felt something else rise up through the heat: lust. He knew he was a perfect specimen of manhood, and here was a close second. He had to take him, to feel him, to make him his own. Jacking off was fun, but this would be so much better. It would be the best. And didn’t he deserve the best?

He felt his head tilt down and a demented grin curl his lips. “Turn that ass around and bend the fuck over, boy,” he growled.

The pre and the sweat combined to make an ideal lubricant. The one-eyed man’s ass was deliciously loose. He slipped his mammoth cock inside him with no resistance. As he humped him raw, slamming his rod into the wet man-pussy with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer, the one-eyed man whimpered and wept like a little bitch. The bandit held him tightly, his tree trunk arms wrapped around the bitch-boy’s barrel chest. When he grew bored with that, he placed his beefy hands around the man’s throat and choked him for a while. And then he grasped his shoulders and clawed at his flesh with his long, thick nails. Beneath the carpet of ginger hair, there were multiple old scars. This wasn’t his first time fucking him, he realized. Above them, tiny voices whispered, gossiping and cheering. There was a moist, fluttering noise. Like dozens of small, wizened hands working similarly small and wizened peckers. The faerie folk, of course. They were everywhere in this forest.

He pulverized the one-eyed bitch’s hole, grunting and roaring, his great lungs hyperventilating, sending plumes of superheated air from his nostrils like the bull he was. One more thrust. His load exploded from his monster dong, filling the bitch’s hole, overloading it until it came squelching back out and spattering onto the ground.

The fever broke.

Sideburns inhaled the scents of the forest. Edelweiss and beech and Alpine rose. He snorted. It was a startling change from the musty dungeon he’d been in just seconds before. Casting his gaze wildly about, he tried to make sense of his new surroundings. They were in a stone crevice. Not a bad hiding place.

Withdrawing from his brother, he stood upright and assumed his usual cocky, defiant posture. “Hot damn,” he muttered. “We made it. I don’t remember getting all the way out here.”

“You were knocked out. Dragged you here. And then you fucked me.”

“Short and to the point, brother,” Sideburns grinned. “Just like your cock.” He playfully ruffled his twin’s hair. “Now then, where the hell did you put my clothes? I only see yours.”

“Other sack.”

Sideburns roughly shoved his dull-witted brother out of the way and retrieved his outfit. “Other sack. Okay, genius. Suppose you tell me what was in the first sack?”

For once, his brother’s expression was inscrutable. “You were,” he said, simply, and then he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Sideburns got dressed and motioned for his brother to do the same. He couldn’t stop thinking about the idiot’s odd remark. He couldn’t picture his brother toting his burly ass all the way from the castle in a goddamned sack. There must have been a horse or cart involved, at the very least. But if that’s what the dummy wanted to believe, he supposed there was no harm in it. After strapping on his weapons, he ordered his brother to show him the way out of the crevice. Soon, it would be daylight. And they had some hell to raise.