Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4855196.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Davesprite
  Character:
      Bro_|_Dirk_Strider, Davesprite
  Additional Tags:
      Cloaca, Davesprite_Has_A_Cloaca, Strider_Manpain, Incest, Stridercest_-
      Freeform, Age_Difference, Oral_Sex, Fingerfucking, First_Time
  Collections:
      Drone_Season_Sloppy_Seconds_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-23 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 4252
****** Different Tenses ******
by secondhandact
Summary
     He's not your brother, but he is. He's not the kid you spent thirteen
     years fucking up and he's the same boy you watched grow from carpet-
     crawling rugmonkey to gangly teenage boy.
     He's not the hero, and that means you don't have to hurt him anymore.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Past *****
He was Dave, but he was not Dave, with sunglasses and big fuckoff feathered
wings, the shaggy blond hair that’s so familiar to you and a weeping chest
wound that was very distinctly not. Dave, but not Dave. Your brother, shaped
like a bird.
He didn’t have to explain his existence to you. You’re part of this whole
shittastic fucked-up thing too, after all. The Game has governed your entire
existence, from the time you were small and having dreams about the world in
flames and riding a rocket-board into the sun. Sure, there’d been momentary
panic. If Dave—the real Dave, your Dave—had thrown himself into the
kernelsprite, that would make this timeline the wrong one, because you’re
pretty sure someone can’t be a Hero and a gamesprite at the same time. He’d
been quick to soothe your panic. Dave (your Dave, the Dave that’s going to save
the universe) was ‘doing his own thing’. Which was fine. He was going to win
the Game. You were going to make sure that was possible.
Davesprite was going to help.
It was different, strifing your way through a world with him beside you instead
of against you, and yet still so familiar it ached. He had all of your moves
down pat and a whole host of new ones. Wings gave him maneuverability you could
only dream of, carried him over the heads of your enemies and let him rain down
bladed vengeance from above. When his sword was too gore-coated to be usable,
he brought his talons to bear, and you caught him shredding ogres to bits with
a begrudging sort of respect. Not that you’d admit it, of course. There were
some things that never changed, no matter how the world around you shifted.
Point was, he’d learned well. Better than you’d given him credit for.
Davesprite didn’t have to rest but you did, which meant catching cat-naps
between hot gears and in the shadow of spread wings. Sometimes, when you woke
up you caught the tail end of some verses he’d been whipping up to keep himself
occupied while you recharged. Dave, but not-Dave: instead of rhymes about hip
new scenes and pop culture, he spat lyrics about a world reborn from fire and
the data coded to make him part of it. Gotta help the heroes and spending my
time cutting out the zeroes, erasing the beasts from this killer game so my
main man Dave can stake a claim to his fame.
Dave.
But not Dave.
The first time an ogre landed a blow on him, he cringed away from your touch
after, curling his hands into fists that dripped bright orange where claws were
biting into his palms. Don’t touch me, he’d hissed, and you’d touched him
anyway, catching wrists that were pebbled with keratin and coaxing his fingers
to unfurl before you turned your attention to the ragged patch of skin on his
side. Just a scratch, you’d said, and he’d responded I fucking know that and
you’d shredded your shirt to wrap a bandage around his torso, covering the hole
where he stored his sword and the wound that the monster had left in one easy
go. A few hours later, he’d handed you a new shirt and a pair of gloves that
weren’t soaked with blood, and you hadn’t asked where he’d gotten them.
The more time you spent with Davesprite, the more you began to question whether
you’d done things the right way, in raising him the way you had. Would he have
been stronger if you’d allowed him more moments of weakness? Was Dave - the
other Dave - as reckless as the sprite? Did he while away his moments
convincing himself that he wasn’t a hero, that he was just a supporting
character in a grand play? You’d done what you were supposed to do. You’d done
everything right. You’d been sure of it. Until now.
Davesprite watched you when he thought you weren’t looking and you watched him
watch you until both of you gave up the pretense of not seeing the other one
watching. You saw the way he rubbed his shoulders and coiled his tail when he
was anxious, the way he flinched when he thought he’d done something wrong, and
the way he fought to suppress all of that when he realized your eyes were on
him. He wanted to impress you. Even now, with the two of you playing bit roles
in someone else’s story. Even now, when it was clear that the only thing you’d
ever been was the tragic backstory for the unsung hero, he still wanted your
approval. The world had ended and you were both going to die and he still hung
on your every word.
This Dave wasn’t going to go on to save the world. It didn’t matter if he got
soft, if you showed him kindness and he got used to it. You could see the way
he longed for your words and how badly he wanted your approval.
(You could see too the lean lines of his body, the toned shape of his chest and
abs, the sharp line of his jaw and the way he caught his lip between his teeth
when he was nervous, but there are some things you don’t think about because
you can’t, because there are lines you can’t cross and hadn’t part of your no-
touching rule been about making sure that you never touched him the wrong way,
anyhow?)
You pretended you didn’t see. He didn’t ask, and you didn’t say anything.
***** Present *****
Chapter Notes
     I really hate the whole 'and then they kissed' trope, but it was the
     only way. The only way, I tell you.
     Also, this is the chapter with the porn. Enjoy.
     =====================================================================
The session is failing.
You don’t know how you know but you do. You can feel it aching in your bones
and ticking in the back of your head, like a misplaced piece of code making the
whole program jump three inches to the left. It doesn’t seem like much, but
it’s enough of a discrepancy that—left unchecked—it could mean doom for the
universe. Which means doom for the world. Which means doom for your brother.
Davesprite knows it too, and he’s the first one to say it aloud. “It needs
Scratched.”
Sword in hand, you scowl when he speaks. It isn’t the session that you’re
worried about right now, it’s the misplaced ring of the black Queen, the one
that’s driving some rogue agent to cut a swathe of destruction through the
moons so big that it makes the work you and Davesprite have been doing look
downright saintly. “That is the least of our worries right now, and you know
it.”
He’s got his arms folded behind his head, tail tucked under him like he doesn’t
have a care in the world, which means (of course) that he’s trying really hard
to pretend like he doesn’t have a care about your opinion. (Which means he
cares too much about your opinion, but you’re used to that.) “Could be. Or we
could just Scratch the session and let everything go to hell. Then everything
gets fixed. Erase the save-file, reset the game. Player two, it is now your
turn. The first one sucked so let’s get on with the sequel.”
“Bullshit. We’ve still got a perfectly good file here, ain’t no reason to fuck
it up. You’re bitching out of the boss battle because you didn’t hit every
power-up on your way here.” To you, that’s the end of the discussion, and you
turn attention back to your weaponry, cleaning it and checking the edges for
dullness. It’s too early to give up. Surely he knows that.
Clearly he doesn’t, because he’s drifting closer to you, and still fucking
talking, just who does he think he is. “We’re gonna lose.”
Who the fuck does he think he is. You raise your brows. “Not with that shitty
attitude.”
It’s not an argument anymore, but he continues anyway. “We are. We’re gonna get
our asses handed to us and the Game is gonna be lost.” His voice is climbing in
pitch, and you set the sword down, turning to fix your gaze on him. He doesn’t
notice (or maybe he does but he doesn’t care) because his tail is damn near
tying itself in knots and his shoulders are shrinking, fingers wrapping around
his upper arms. “Kiss the ass of the universe goodbye and say hello to sweet,
sweet oblivion, not even stars decorating the void of our sky that’s it,
sayonara, we’re done.”
His claws are digging into his own skin so hard there’s little trickles of
bright-orange dripping down his arm, and he actually warbles out a caw of
distress when you catch his shoulders and give him a brisk shake. “None of
that.” The words are hissed through gritted teeth. “The hell are you talking
like that for, huh?” God, you want to jar the words right out of him. Who the
fuck does he think he is, taking all of your fears and saying them out loud?
“The fuck kinda good does that do?”
You figure it works, because he’s silent. Well, mostly silent. He’s making
funny little hiccuping noises, and you realize with a start that there’s
streaks on his cheeks, under his glasses.
Calm down, Dirk. You suck in the deepest breath you can manage, struggling to
settle some of the fire boiling in your blood. “We’re Striders,” you remind
him. “Striders don’t give up.” You turn away.
He mutters something under his breath, and you close your eyes. For fuck’s
sake.
Slowly, oh so slowly, you shift to face him again. You really, really hope your
expression conveys how fucking done you are with this conversation. “What was
that?”
He won’t look at you. “I said I don’t want to bury you again, you selfish
fucking douchecanoe.”
Something in you cracks. “You know what I don’t wanna do?” You advance on him,
once again closing the space between the two of you. “I don’t want to give up
without even trying, because I’ll be damned if I let everything you went
through to be for nothing, I’ll be absolutely fucking goddamned if I wasted a
decade fucking you up to quit now just because you can’t handle the sight of a
couple corpses!”
“It isn’t just anybody’s corpse, it’s your corpse!”
“I don’t give a shit!”
“But I do!” His claws are at your wrist, bunched up in your shirt, and he’s
tugging at you, pulling your body against his. “Please. For fuck’s sake, Bro,
I’m begging here and I don’t give a shit if you wipe my ass all over the Mesa
first. If you spent your whole life fucking me up then just let me have this
and then we can call it good, I swear to god.” He’s crumpling against your
chest, bowing his head against your shoulder, his voice a ragged whisper.
“Please.”
You’re somewhere between disgusted and hurt. This is such a flagrant display of
emotions that you don’t know how to handle it. “Dave.”
He flinches. Those claws (deadly fucking weapons, ain’t they just) are tearing
through your shirt, and you’re only vaguely aware of it. “Don’t call me that,”
he mutters against the fabric.
“Davesprite,” you allow, and he flinches again. Awkwardly, you put your arms
around him, letting the sword clatter to the ground beside you. It’s the
weirdest thing you’ve ever done, and as you try to figure out where to put your
hands on his back, he jerks back. If that isn’t enough to make you go still the
fact that his next move involves pressing his face against yours definitely is.
His lips are hot, fire, and you catch his arms when he withdraws, squeezing
them, keeping him from going anywhere. Still, he tries his damnedest, wings
beating furiously at the air in an effort to pull himself out of your grip, and
you yank roughly at him, bringing him back down so your lips can meet his
again.
He tastes the way burning wood smells, and when he opens his mouth to yours
it’s apple spice and desperate, desperate want. By the time he’s wrapping the
wispy ends of his spritely form around your waist you’re no longer burning with
shame, because if he wants it and you want it then how bad can it be, really,
and besides: he isn’t Dave. He isn’t your Dave, because your Dave wouldn’t be
whispering apologies against your lips as you felt him up at the edge of the
Beat Mesa, nor would he be opening up your shirt with talons better meant for
rending flesh.
When the hand you’ve got on his ass finds warmth, you pause, exploring the damp
skin underneath the fuzz of feathers he’s got covering his back. The way this
makes him squirm against you is definitely pleasing, and you probe until you
find give, slipping one finger into the sprite. “This is new.”
“Think—you might have a more intimate knowledge of me—than my Bro did,” he
responds. Any sting that the words might’ve carried is lost in the way he’s
panting around the sound of them, and he’s clutching at you, heedless of his
claws are pricking at your skin.
You withdraw your finger (the sound he makes is downright pitiful) and rub the
outer edges of the opening you’ve discovered. “‘Scuse me for makin’
assumptions. I feel like this ain’t quite part of most human anatomy.”
“Fuck you.” The words come out in a rushed wheeze—fakyeww—and the sprite rocks
back against your hand, trying in vain to get more contact from your probing
fingers. You’re too quick for him, though, and deliver a swat to his rump,
making him squawk.
You never thought your brother being part bird would be this interesting. “What
is it?”
His face immediately turns against your chest, and he mumbles against it. ”’ts
a cloaca.”
“A what?”
“A fucking cloaca, okay, a birdhole, an avian entrance all full of so many n-
nerves—fuck, you can’t keep doing that—”
‘That’, in this case, is you rubbing three fingers against the tight entrance,
providing entirely more than he can take right now and thus keeping him from
grinding his way into getting penetration from you. “No? Pretty sure I can.”
You curl your fingers, forcing the tips of two of them into him.
The sound he makes is half-pained. “Bro, I can’t—”
You make what you hope is a soothing sound. “Bet you can, birdboy.” Slowly you
ease your fingers into him. He’s wetter than you expected him to be, making it
that much easier for you to work his incredibly tight hole. Once you’re
knuckle-deep, you hit a division in his weird anatomy. After a moment of
consideration, you take the low road (so to speak) and are rewarded with an
actual moan.
By the time you ease a third finger into him he’s completely at your mercy,
rutting on your hand, his claws digging furrows into your back where he’s
holding on to you. There are words from him occasionally, though all of them
are expletives (you’ve heard ‘oh shit’ and ‘fuck’ at least six times in the
past six minutes) and you’re not sure if you could get much more from him than
that.
After a few rapidfire motions of your hand (yeah, he squirms so pretty when
he’s needy) you pull your fingers from him, leaving him empty and gasping. His
head jerks back and he fixes you with the most desperate expression, and you
meet his gaze with a faint smile. “Turn around.”
There’s only a half a heartbeat between you instructing and him obeying, and in
that space of time your mind dredges up a hundred worries, a thousand
questions, a countless number of fears and failures. You’re fucking your
brother, your mind sneers, Fucking him up good, poor kid never even had a
decent chance, you spent your whole life fucking him up and now you’re making
it worse, you sick fuck—
The sprite’s tail uncoils from your wrist and he shifts, twisting until his ass
is bumping against your hips (because of course that’s what he wants), and you
absentmindedly give it a swat. “Don’t rush me.” There’s an edge in your voice
that you don’t mean to be there, and it has him looking back at you as you sink
to your knees behind him.
The best way to squelch your inner demons is to drown them in doing something
else, and when your tongue first traces the edges of his opening, tension
shudders through him like he’s been shot. It’s such a strange thing—not quite a
pussy, and still so different from an asshole—that it takes you a second to
figure out what you’re doing. Still, he’s already making little needy noises
before your lips find the swollen ridge at the top of the opening, and when you
roll your tongue over it he downright sings, back arching and wings flaring as
he presses against your mouth.
If you’re going to be your little (not)brother’s first and only lay before the
Universe boils away into nothing, you’re going to make sure you’re a good one.
By the time you’re done tonguefucking the hole in his backside, he’s near
sobbing, and you give his ass a fond squeeze as you sit back up, wiping
glistening orange away from your mouth with the back of one hand. He makes a
pretty picture like this, with his wings spread and his whole body quivering,
and you take a second to admire the image while you’re opening your pants.
You slide your hand down the length of his back, pushing down on his shoulders
until his cheek is against the ground. “There you go,” you murmur, dragging
your nails down the slope of his spine, making him shudder. “Stay just like
that. Need a minute?”
Somehow, he manages to shake his head, and you rub the head of your cock
against his dripping hole. Even with all the working up you’ve given him,
you’re still not sure it’s gonna fit—you were not blessed with something that
lacked in girth—and you rub your hand across his backside, thumbing his swollen
cloacal lips as you tease him. Finally, he squeaks out a desperate little
please, and you can’t resist anymore.
If it didn’t feel so good, you’d take a second to be amazed at how easy it is
to actually slip inside of him, and by the time your dick hits that seam within
him, you’re already gritting your teeth against any sounds you might make. You
shift, angling down, and then—yes—
He’s tight, almost painfully so, and his inner muscles are rippling around you
in a way that’s entirely new and unexpected. He’s got one hand curled into a
fist and the other scraping across the ground as he arches up into you, lips
parted, shaping soundless words as you continue the slow plunge into him until
your hips are flush against his. You let your hips cant back, and when you
thrust back in, he breaks his silence with a half-cawed cry that sounds enough
like your name that you give up being gentle.
There’s more give than you expect. He opens up to you and you drive into him,
picking up the pace ‘til he’s given up trying to hold back and is swearing at
you, rocking back to meet you with every thrust. The glowing end of his tail is
tightening around one of your thighs, and you can feel it rubbing up your
backside.
He’s near whining beneath you, his sounds occasionally shaping into words, and
damn if your kid brother doesn’t sound good. “Fuck—yes—give it to me, Bro,
fuck—”
Well, you’ve always been one to please.
You’d never meant for this to happen. You’d never dreamed of this. The
scorching heat is familiar but the tightness around your shaft is not, and if
there was ever anything hotter than riding Davesprite’s tight hole while he
hissed his desires at you, you’d be astonished. As it is, you’re close, closer
than you’d like to admit, and when he finally bites out the phrase I’m cumming
(followed by a sound that you’re pretty sure is your actual birth name) he
hasn’t even hit the last syllable before you let go, fucking yourself into him
with enough force that he’ll feel it tomorrow (and the day after, and the day
after, and the day after), and you can taste blood in your mouth because you
will not scream—
When he goes slack beneath you, you release his hips, letting him collapse to
the Beat Mesa as you sit back heavily on your heels. It takes him a few
minutes—which is just as well, because you barely have the strength to pull
your pants back up—but he eventually twists around so that his head is butting
up against your knee. After a few seconds, you let your hand fall, stroking his
hair. You’ve never been good at what to do after sex, and kicking him out of
your room wasn’t an option. Y’know, since there was no room to kick him out of.
Also, he’s your brother (there's no more denying it, not now) and you just
fucking wrecked him. He doesn’t seem to be complaining, though when your
fingers brush over his cheek, they come away damp. Fuck. “Dave—”
“Told you not to call me that.” He rasps the words (which is understandable,
considering the amount of screaming he’d just done) as he struggles to sit up,
scrubbing at his eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
You look away. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because now it’s gonna be hard for me to focus on fighting, dickweed.” There’s
a soft, stuttered laugh, and he shoves at your arm. “Now fuck off.”
Behind your shades and in the confines of your skull, you can feel the monster
coming. “Nah. Think I’ll stay here.” Inwardly, you know that you’ve burned
through whatever time there was for you to run or for him to try and talk you
out of fighting.
He knows it, too. When you look back at him, you can see it, even with his own
shades hiding his orange eyes from yours. It’s written on his face in streaks
of wet. He wipes them away, swallowing, and you turn your attention back to the
horizon, to give him a moment to compose himself.
His claws tap at your arm, and he shoves a new shirt into your hand. Like with
the gloves, you don’t ask where it came from, or why there’s already a
bloodstain in the center of it. “At least now I’ve got something better to
remember you by.”
It’s not quite absolution for your sins, but it’s close, and you shrug off the
shirt he’d torn to tatters, pulling on the new one. Now it’s him who won’t look
at you, and you drop the shredded piece of clothing at his side. “And a shirt
that ain’t bloody.”
His hand finds the fabric and clenches around it. “That isn’t going to make it
any easier.”
You drape your arm over his shoulder, giving him a squeeze that you hope is
reassuring. “If we lose. This timeline’s new. You don’t know how it goes.”
“If,” he echoes, but some of the tension in his face eases, and he glances up
at you as you rise to your feet, spreading his wings.
Your katana still isn’t far, and you scoop it up, cracking your neck as you do
so. “You ready?”
There’s another short staccato of laughter, but at least this one sounds
nervous instead of hopeless. “Fuck no.”
“Then let’s go.”
***** Future *****
Chapter Notes
     Every story needs a happy ending.
     =====================================================================
When it comes, it won’t come swiftly.
It’ll seem like you’re winning at first; you and him versus the beast, the
rogue agent who seemed like such a challenge before it was two on one would
seem like nothing when it was you and your sprite doing the ass-kicking. He’ll
be bloody and dripping before the final prototype, and you’ll be seconds away
from taking him down and sealing the deal. When the change happens, the tables
will flip in an instant, and all surety you had of this being a good idea will
be lost.
You’ll go down fighting, at least; your sword slashing at the monster’s
tentacles and keeping them from tearing anything else from Davesprite, who will
be lying in a pool of his own blood, one wing stolen before you get a chance to
protect him. The thing will be faster than you, and you’ll still fight like you
know you’ve got one on him, like you know you can’t lose. It won’t keep the
sword at bay forever, but it’ll buy some time.
There will be tears on your sprite’s face when he curls his claws around your
limp hand, and you’ll smile with blood bubbling on your lips while you try to
give him the words you couldn’t before, to tell him how proud you are of him,
how well he fought. You’ll try to reassure him that this is how it was supposed
to go, that you were never meant to make it through the game. You’re an NPC
background character in the life of a Hero, and those never last. You’ll try to
tell him how lucky you were to have two heroes to fight for. You’ll try to tell
him you love him.
You’ll try, and it will all be drowned in blood.
End Notes
     I almost didn't finish this, because someone else filled the prompt
     first, but I kept going back to it, and finally gave up fighting it
     and wrote the porn.
     I'm also not sorry that the last chapter is short and full of pain.
     If you don't like a little emotional heartache in your sex, you
     probably shouldn't be reading my fics.
     Thanks for reading!
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