Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3120932.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Roxy_Lalonde/Alpha_Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Alpha_Dave_Strider, Roxy_Lalonde
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Pokemon_References, Oral_Sex, Age_Difference, POV_Second
      Person
  Collections:
      Drone_Season_Sloppy_Seconds_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-05 Words: 7569
****** Kitten Heels ******
by tanglelore
Summary
     Roxy and Dave are siblings some ten years apart in age. Roxy's been
     stuck at home while Dave gets rich, famous and hot. What happens when
     he ends up as guardian for a sixteen year old girl? Is this a recipe
     for disaster? Quite possibly, but everyone's got to have some fun
     first. ;)
Notes
     For the prompt: "I can't find it now, but a while back there was a
     neat bit of Roxy/Alpha Dave fanart that consisted of her sitting in
     his lap and playing Pokemon on her Gameboy while he watched. And
     there was something about him helping her when she gets stuck and
     mumbling suggestions. It was super sweet and tame.
     I guess I want to see where that goes. Dave is the hot older cousin/
     brother/uncle in his swank-as-shit suits and Roxy is a sixteen-year-
     old PYT with a love of dapper fellas. And secretly Dave is super
     anxious around girls (read: everyone) and Roxy is hungry for
     affection.
     So yeah. They should probably make out or whatever. Or maybe there
     should be some oral sex action. Dave's gotta at least grope her. And
     run his mouth. Say some hot'n dirty shit and then get all flustered
     and fuck it up. And Roxy is just ;)"
See the end of the work for more notes
Your older brother was ten and already away at boarding school when you were
born, then it was college, then Hollywood, so your first real meeting aside
from the Worst Christmas Evar the year you were five, was when you were twelve
and just beginning to think about boys as something other than cootie delivery
protocols. Naturally you'd seen tons of pictures of him, how could you avoid
those aviators and incredible, gorgeous, perfectly fitted suits plastered on
every magazine from GQ to National Geographic (Mom kept that one framed on the
piano), and you'd seen some of his movies. But it wasn't the same as seeing him
in person. Even through the flimsy veil of grief at your father's untimely
death, you looked at him across the open grave and thought, "I'd tap that."
Sure you'd kind of slapped your brain after, but the fact remained: he was hot.
Four years later, your esoteric and alcoholic mother had followed her husband
to the great dirt nap beyond the curtain and now you were going to have to find
out what he was really like. He was going to be your guardian for the next two
years. Blood relation notwithstanding, you were going to be living with the
painfully famous Dave Strider. You hoped he didn't mind that you liked an
occasional sip of this or that when you were feeling down. You hoped you might
have something to talk about once in a while. You hoped he didn't mind suddenly
having a teenage girl foisted on him and that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps he'd
actually want to spend time with you. Maybe he'd take you out on the red carpet
once in a while? Fuck.
---
You arrive at his penthouse apartment in Hollywood with a duffel full of
clothes, a pet carrier full of Frigglish, and a head full of confusion. He
isn't there. He isn't there for almost a month, though he calls once and
mumbles something about it being your home so feel free to something-something-
whatever you want sorry for being busy hang on got another call I'll call you
back sorry *click*. You sigh, make another martini with his top-shelf gin, and
flop on the couch to play another few hours of the original SNES Chrono
Trigger. Old school RPGs were the best. He had at least left you a lot of cool
toys to play with. Aside from the superlative collection of gaming consoles
both vintage and current, he’d given you a criminally fancy computer setup that
actually held up as suitable tribute to your mad skillz. You didn't even know
what most of the shit in the kitchen did, but it sure looked like you could
whip up some haute cuisine if you knew how to cook. You had your own room; he’d
left a note saying “ROXYHAUS” in an imitation hand-scrawl font on SBaHJ
stationary taped to the door so you’d know. Didn't really make up for the lack
of hot bro presence, though. You maybe spend a little time theorizing on what
he would look like with one of his shirts mostly unbuttoned and his pants maybe
undone and there was a tiny chance that you had an encrypted folder containing
a couple thousand words of RPS featuring one (1) Dave Strider, and one (1) Roxy
Lalonde, mashing their faces together in the rudest ways. It was therapeutic,
right?
Nevertheless, you aren't really prepared when you amble out of your room one
Sunday, clad in kitty-print sleep shorts and a cami, no undies, no bra, hair
kind of everywhere, and there he is in the kitchen, fully dressed and looking
sharp in suit and shades with a glass of scotch on the rocks in his hand. You
stare at him. He stares at you. You can kind of feel his gaze sweep over your
nubile curves and his cheeks start to go darken. It's both cute and hilarious
and you think, Hell yes, game is on! You stop feeling surprised and run up to
fling your arms around his neck, rubbing every inch of you on that multiple-
thousand dollar wool suiting (p. sure it's Armani; look at those smoothly
rounded shoulders, unf). It feels just as nice as you thought it might, and his
face up close is perfect, albeit kind of slack-jawed. He slowly curls his arms
around you like he isn't sure you're real, or maybe like he's not sure he
should be doing it, and you are the happiest girl in the world. He smells a
little terrible, like some cologne that is probably meant to be manly but
instead is just stank, and you hope you can convince him that a nice vintage
fougére would suit him better, but it's just so nice otherwise. The ice in his
glass slips.
"'Sup."
Did he squeak? Oh no, he squeaked. You burrow into his chest a little to hide
the fact that you are totally laughing at him and he squirms.
“When did you get in, oh my gawwwwd, Dave!” You punch him without relinquishing
your hold and wiggle strategically. Frigglish emits a curious squeak from
behind you, and everything is great until Dave puts his hands on your waist and
puts you down very firmly a safe personal bubble away from his body and lifts
one eyebrow over the top of his shades. You try real hard not to think about
his hands on other parts of your body and lean down to scoop up your cat. You
grin up at him, tucking a curl behind your ear. He better be okay with a cat;
there's no way you would ever give up your baby.
"Sorry I didn't tell you about Frigglish! I figured it'd be okay. You'd never
live anywhere pets were verboten."
You bat your eyes and ruffle Friggie’s belly and Dave visibly melts.
"Uh, yeah. It's cool. Kind of allergic, but it's no big. Made yourself at home,
right? Everything's good, shit's set up how you want it and you’re okay?”
You chatter with him until you realize that he’s having trouble keeping his
eyes off of the way your tits — especially the left one with its relevant
piercing — are bobbling under the thin jersey, then give him some mercy and
scamper off to get your bathrobe. Seeing him up close absolutely confirms every
suspicion you'd ever had: he's a big nerd, just like you, all social anxiety
and nerves tucked behind a lot of bravado. Your body is on fire. The next two
years are either going to be hell on earth or beyond amazing.
--
He's there for the next week solid. The two of you do family bonding like no
one has ever bonded before. Sort of. You beat the shit out of him at Galaga
because no one can beat you at Galaga. No one. He kicks your ass at Puzzle
Fighter, though, and all the racing games you try. Full of vengeance, you
retaliate by pasting his pixel guts all over the floor with your trusty
chaingun when he tries to take you on in Doom. You talk sometimes, or listen to
him pour nonsense out of his mouthhole until you're tempted to kiss him just to
shut him up. He asks you vague questions about your mom and her books, he hands
you a clean hanky (so hot, very gentleman, seriously though,wow) when you tear
up, and then you watch movies. You cling to his arm when you watch the Saw
series, even though he's the one with tremors at the gross parts and everything
with the puppet. You peep up under his shades to see his eyes, grenadine red
and fixed on nothing in particular and want them on you always. He doesn't seem
to care if you drink, but makes disdainful noises if you use anything but the
best in your martinis. He even admits that you make a mean dirty with three
olives. Your mom used to drink those. He doesn't remember, or maybe didn't
know. You wank yourself to sleep pretty much every night, and have epic dreams
about getting his gorgeous hands and mouth all over you.
The next Sunday he's gone again, leaving only another note, this time actually
handwritten in genuine ballpoint pen on a Post-It. It says: “sorry got
business. back soon do you (smudge smudge) from l.a. cause I know a guy
(smudge, blot) and maybe i can get something just like text me and let me know
wait do you have my phone # its xxx-xxx-xxxx.” The lazy scrawl falls off the
edge, but you slap that number straight into your contacts under 'Bro' and
carefully do not add heart emoji anywhere.
He’s back in two weeks, sleeps for three days straight, and when he emerges in
an artfully tailored yet incredibly tacky track suit (what the fuck, how does
that even happen, why are there perfectly pressed double-welt pockets and and
immaculate lapels on a track suit), he tells you that he’s finished editing the
newest movie and he’ll be home for a while to take care of things. Your heart
leaps and you don’t even bother trying to shoosh it. You ‘hm!’ thoughtfully and
then throw yourself at him, squealing about finally getting to know your rad
big brother. You maybe have some ulterior motives that make you happy that he
has blackout curtains installed everywhere. He stammers and sort of staggers
off to the kitchen to make popcorn.
—
Things are mellow for a while and you start to get used to the way he lives.
Takeout (pickup, always, never delivered) and perpetual roughhousing with a
virtual personal trainer blend seamlessly with endless video games and
invitations to parties that he never attends. Long phone calls with other
famous people, actors, directors, the odd politician mingle with drives out
through the worst areas of town and nights spent in sticky-floored movie houses
with a worn baseball cap as his only disguise. There's something of the
infinite bachelor about him; his house is clean on all the visible surfaces,
but his room (glimpsed only briefly, it's clearly a no-Roxy zone) and the
corners he doesn't touch are full of tangled wires, ancient media, and dust.
He's genuinely affectionate towards you, this stranger suddenly inhabiting his
primo top floor penthouse, but also just a few steps removed. It's hard to
really feel like you're connecting, no matter how many rounds of Mario Kart you
play or how often (once) you fall asleep on his shoulder. Your life revolves
around his, because, frankly, you surpassed high school kids (and teachers,
your mom would say) a while back, don't want to start college yet, and are too
nervous to try to break into the real world. Your parents are dead, all you
have is your brother and your cat, so why not just take it easy for a bit? He
doesn't seem to mind at all.
Your libido, of course, minds a lot. You know that it's probably not okay, but
it's still a little difficult to reconcile and really hard to care when he's
always walking around in those unbelievable suits. That's one weird thing -
- you never see him undressed. Your fantasies about him go completely wild.
Maybe he's hiding robot parts! Maybe he's got a bazillion scars he's super-
insecure about! Maybe he's, like, scaly or has that disease that makes it so he
can't go out in the sun! Maybe he's a vampire! Or maybe, just maybe, you think
one night when you haven't been drinking and are feeling a little
introspective, maybe he uses those suits and shades as armor, a silky smooth
carapace protecting his tender gooey bits from the world. Maybe he's just
waiting for someone to come along and unbutton one of them in the right way.
Maybe that someone could be you.
Two months in, you get your impetus to try. One Sunday you wake up and hear
voices — Dave’s on speakerphone, like he always is when he chats with his
frenemies while he’s making breakfast. He likes to make sweet bready things
like French toast and pancakes and waffles, but they’re inevitably burnt black
on one side because he loses track of what he’s doing. You sigh and crawl out
of bed, slapping on a longish hoodie and some undies, hopeful that maybe if you
get out there in time, you can take over in time to Save Breakfast!!!111!!!
Frigglish sighs a kitty sigh and stays put on your pillow. As quietly as you
can, you open the door and slip out. You stop in the hall to listen, because
heck, maybe you’ll get some hints on what his next project will be. You can
post them to your super-secret anonyblog and make people wonder.
“Yeah, seriously bro, I’m in hell here. You have no fucking idea. It’s not just
regular hell, either, it’s the extra-special hardcore one.”
The second voice is a little fuzzy, could be Stiller. “Yeah, I hear you man.
It’s rough living with a teenager,” he says. Probably Stiller. Might be
McConaughey.
Wait, what.
“Yeah, like, the other day, she was wearing this goddamn short skirt and these
adorable fucking heels — the really low ones, right, I think they’re called
kitten heels for some reason, which totally fits with her cat obsession, and
they’re pink, right, like her eyes.”
“For sure, for sure. Colored contacts are so in with kids right now.”
Totally McConaughey. Fuck that guy. An irk starts up in your gut. Dave carries
on, clattering what is probably a spatula against a pan (French toast, score!)
and ignoring the boredom in his conversational partner's voice.
“And sort of sheer dotted stockings, stockings, man, not even tights, and she
was sitting on the floor with her goddamn 3DS and that cat who totally hates me
but whatever and her skirt was hiked up and I swear to the fucking batterwitch
I thought my dick was going to explode in showers of confetti and glitter. It
was going to be like an atom bomb of repression and an ode to the glories of
zettai ryouiki all in one moment of incredible fucking madness. Wait, how do
you know what living with a teenager is like?”
Your brain shorts out, like, you can feel your neurons fizzing with each
heartbeat. Oh my GOD.
“Words, words, words, my friend. But I dig it, man. But isn’t she like, your
sister?”
“That’s the problem, shitcan.”
“Isn’t that weird? I mean, not like it was, historically speaking, since about
a third of our genetics are engineered anymore but whatever, incest taboo,
right?”
“RIGHT.” Dave sounds irate. You feel a wicked glee rising in your chest, and
keep right on listening. “But broooo, come on, feel my fucking pain, okay?
She's got a goddamn nip ring. She's not supposed to be able to get one of those
for another two years. Go on, ask me how I know that.”
“Don't even want to know, my friend. I’m just kinda at a loss as to how your
sister is somehow more appealing than all the incredibly hot movie stars you
always have hanging on your arm, dudes, chicks, whatever. You could have any
tail you want. She’s, like, your kid sister even, right? Scrawny and wobbly
like a lamb and all. Like, are you going in for the pedo—“
“NO. She’s sixteen and a half. And not exactly scrawny.”
Your cheeks warm. Your weight's been testy territory for you ever since you
started getting boobs at eleven and your mom talked endless bs about putting
you on a diet. But the way Dave says it, he gives the impression that it's
pretty okay in his book.
“So you're in Humbert Humbert territory, then.”
“NO! It’s not like oh god how can I even talk to you about this shit. This was
a fuckdamn mistake. It’s not like that.”
“I wanna quote you on this, ‘quote, I thought my dick was going to explode.’
How is it not like that, my man? Sounds like she needs a boyfriend and you need
to get out more. Dinner next week? I have to meet this kid who’s hot enough to
distract the Great Dave Strider.”
You dare to peep around the corner as silence drags on for almost ten seconds.
Dave’s glowering at his phone, mouth taut and grim. Smoke is starting to rise
from the range.
"No. Just no." He snaps it in a gravelly tone you've never heard him use
before.
There's a snort of laughter from the other end of the line and he mashes the
button to end the call and yells, "SHIT." as he realizes breakfast is burning.
The fire alarm starts beeping, and you hightail it back to your room and bash
open the door like he just woke you up. Your brother thinks you're hot. You
take a moment to to compose yourself because your mind has been blown and all
your fantasies are coming true.
You run into the kitchen where Dave (pressed slacks, shirt with one button
undone [you want to bite his collarbone. you want to lick his throat], totally
ironic fluffy slippers), is dropping an overly crispy chunk of bread into the
disposal. He barely looks up.
"Hey. Gonna need a few minutes to make a fresh batch. Burned it again."
You run your fingers through your hair and hope you aren't blushing. You're
suddenly embarrassed at your state of undress and tug at the bottom of the
hoodie like it'll magically become a proper length. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah, no big."
You creep back into your room, put on some jimjams and scoop up Frigglish, who
mewls out his irritation into your ear. You pet him and snurfle his belly while
your mind races. Holy fuck.
Where do you go from here, though? Is there a way to progress from unspoken but
apparently mutual attraction through into something else, something maybe hot
and a little sticky, while avoiding the difficulties inherent in being, oh, you
know, a little blood related?
You're not sure, but your junk throbs and you think that perhaps you're a
little invested in finding a way.
--
Tuesday rolls in, and you're still a little jumpy. You’re going out on a movie
expedition with Dave in the evening, but that's later. For the moment you're
sitting and playing Pokemon on your very own personal brought-from-home 3DS,
grumpily trying to succeed at wooing your Skitty into perfect affection. Dave
is at the dining room table fussing with manuscript pages and a glass of
scotch. You curse a little; you just can’t manage to get the facial recognition
thingy to acknowledge that you exist, Skitty's getting pissed, and you're
getting frustrated. Then Dave's leaning over you and his breath is mildly
alcoholic but warm on the back of your neck. You shiver.
"Dumbass," he says, charming as ever, "you need more light for that to work.
Come on, just gimme the fucking DS." He hops over the couch and settles next to
you, squashing you into the armrest, then whips off his glasses and holds out a
hand expectantly. You don't argue, but do engage in a brief tug of war just to
watch his eyes track the jiggle of your breasts. Once he's got it, he holds it
out of your reach and waves it menacingly.
"Okay," he says, "now let Dave Strider, Amie Master show you how it's done. If
I could get my goddamn Aegislash to level five affection, then you can
absolutely get that dunkass pink kitten there."
You wriggle free, shaking your skirt out. He looks cool, too cool. He needs to
lose some of that cool. You have an idea. Turning your back to him, you perch
jauntily on his lap, trying for super-casual, oh hey, I'm your kid sister and
this is the kind of thing that sixteen year olds do with their twenty-six year
old brothers all the damn time. Because it's not, and both of you know it's
not, you fail and just end up sliding down his endless legs. The fine wool of
his trousers feels a tiny bit itchy on your bare legs, and you end up much
closer to his crotch than you'd intended, but fuck, it's great. He's still got
your DS, but now his hand is shaking slightly. Too cute for words.
"Uh, okay. Yeah, so," he reaches behind his shoulder for the remote for the
lights, and you lean back, just a little. He flails a little, flicks the
switch, and the track lighting flares into your faces. "You need good lighting
for this. Your face, padawan, must be free of shadows. You gotta let your
Pokemon see the emotion you feel. Bond with the cat, Roxy. Bond."
You let yourself settle back onto his chest. You can feel his breathing hitch a
little, but he puts the DS-carrying hand in front of your face and mooshes your
cheek with the other.
"What's it's name."
"Duh, Frigglish." You roll your eyes. As if your best one could possibly be
anything else. This guy might not be shiny, but he's got the highest potential
possible. You bred him especially for that.
"Okay, feel Frigglish. Really feel his Pokefeelings. Feed him a Pokepuff. The
best one you've got."
Dave's super into this, and it's hilarious as fuck. He shakes the DS at you
until you take it back. You feed the Skitty and pet him until hearts come out.
Then you wait.
"Come on, doofus. Pet the kitty again!" He smacks your thigh lightly, then
rests his hand on the couch. You do, luxuriating in the twofold delight of
being on Dave's lap and having him make unintentional innuendos while you're
there. You don't call him on it, even though you know he'd start sputtering and
it would be great for about ten minutes, but you really want his help, and so
you keep your mouth shut. You do, however, make yourself just a little more
comfortable. If that requires putting your ass firmly against his crotch, well,
what's a little flirtation between friends? His hand curls into a fist. You pet
that kitty until your Skitty finally deigns to request a game. Then Dave stops
you.
"Okay, now the super-secret technique. Gotta get the mood lighting right to woo
the cat." He dims all the lights but the ones shining directly in your face.
"Okay. Now, make that face." The directions pop up and you try, but Skitty just
looks upset. Twice. Dave fusses at you.
"Okay, clearly you are fucking something up. Let me see your big smile face."
Your inside voice says you'd like to show him your O-face, but you ignore it
and instead you shift so you're sideways on his lap (his other hand grips the
remote so fiercely it creaks, score) and dutifully smile very widely. He rolls
his eyes, looking just a little stressed around the edges.
"My sweet, innocent, failboat sister, that is the worst wide smile. Give me
that infernal machine and let me school you properly."
You cannot help but wonder if he actually listens to any of the noise coming
out of his head and bite back a bucketload of rude retorts.
He takes your DS again and starts making disturbing faces, distorting his mouth
into a rictus grin that, miracle of miracles, succeeds in making your Skitty
happy. His wink is equally ridiculous, but also succeeds. Your jealousy knows
no bounds, and you wiggle a little. A soupçon of wiggle. A bare sliver of
undulation of your butt against the halfie you can feel he's got tucked away in
his pants.
He flips the DS closed and puts it down real fast. Oops. You may have fucked
up. There's a moment where you hold your breath, waiting for him to toss you on
the floor and declaim loudly of his tarnished virtue, but it doesn't happen. He
looks at you, eyes wide. His heart is kind of racing, you can feel it against
your shoulder. To be fair, so is yours, but that's pretty much what it does
when you're in proximity to him, so whatever. He shifts his hand away from the
remote like he's afraid it might explode. You wait for the slap, the 'Get off
me you lousy kid!', but it doesn't happen. His hand goes to your shoulder,
flutters there, fingers shaking like Frigglish's whiskers when he's hunting
dust bunnies.
You cannot for the life of you guess what he's thinking. He settles his hand on
you, tremors running up his arm. He's starting to jiggle his leg a little. You
can feel that halfie turning into a full on stiffie, which is making your
panties feel too tight and also like you might start soaking right through
them, ho-o-ly fuck. You decide to go for it, because why not. He hasn't
rejected you yet!
You don't smile, you keep your eyes fixed on his, and you execute a slow roll
down your spine, rubbing everything you've got right over his junk. He grits
his teeth and whines, a slow exhalation of air that really reminds you of a
balloon deflating. You do it again. The first time might have been accidental,
maybe. This, though, this is half a step off grinding and one pace from a lap
dance, and there's no way he could possibly mistake your intentions.
He breaks. His eyes shutter closed and he leans forward to give you the
clumsiest kiss you've ever had, lips all sloppy and wet, teeth in the way, the
whole shebang. He's shivering and a little sweaty around the edges and you are
just so, so happy. You throw your arm around him as well as you can with the
awkward angle and try to kiss him back. He won't let you, pulls you under his
chin and just sits there quivering.
He doesn't say anything, just holds you there until you squirm out of his grip
and shift around to straddle him properly. You don't sit down again, because
you think he might have an actual aneurysm. His tie has tiny Sweet Bro faces
embroidered on it. His shirt has perfectly proportioned collar points and you
want to tear it off him. His gorgeous gray slacks have the most fantastic tent-
pole at the crotch and you really want to get them off of him. You're not sure
he could take being ridden like a pony, and anyway that’s probably a bad idea,
but maybe you could at least get him in your mouth? You think you might be
starting to actually drip girly goo down your leg. He's staring at you again,
and you decide you'd probably really better just take charge. You give him what
you intend to be a reassuring smile, wrap your arms loosely around his neck,
and lean down for another kiss.
He meets you halfway there, surging up and grabbing your waist and your thigh.
He kisses you like a drowning man, too much tongue, too much spit, low gasps
and sometimes biting more than kissing, his lips and hands still shaking like
maybe there's an earthquake under his skin. It's amazing and ridiculous and
even though it feels kind of like he's trying to eat your face, you're so, so
into it. Eventually he calms down a little, reaches between you to adjust his
junk a little, and looks you in the face and says:
"Roxy. Roxy what the fuck."
You laugh.
"You are so romantic, oh my god, Dave. Those are the words every girl wants to
hear after her first kiss with a hot older man like yourself."
He moans and grips your thigh harder. You aren't actually sure he knows he's
doing it.
"Oh my fucking god, Roxy. I've been trying so hard to do that thing where you
pretend that a thing doesn't exist by not looking at it at all and all I really
want to do is challenge your snatch to a match with my pork sword or maybe just
get my hands wet in your love taco, or hell, get my face between your thighs,
actually that sounds the best, get my tongue down in there and run it all
around until we're both a squirming heap of junk that's been thoroughly touched
and sweaty sex juices. Fuck, that sounds so unappealing. I'm sorry. I'll
just..."
He waves his hand towards the window and makes a motion like he's going to try
to stand. You grab his hair and push him back down, biting your lip to keep
from giggling in his face.
"Nah, it's cool. I think I take your meaning. And, really, let me be real with
you for half a minute: I've wanted to touch your junk for, lemme think," you
mentally calculate and decide not to tell him that twelve-year-old-you
developed a thing for her bro at your dad's funeral, "at least two years."
"I haven't even known you for two years! Like, I knew you existed, but I didn't
really know you, weren't you like oh my fucking god. Fourteen. You've been
petting your pussy to thoughts of your older brother since you were fourteen?
Why does that turn me on. Was it the Nat Geo cover? That was a pretty good one;
I looked hella sharp. Ffffuck, my dick hurts."
The contrast here is stunning. Super-cool hotshot director Dave Strider turns
into a babbling idiot when he's about to get a little action. No wonder he
never brings anyone home. You bite your lip a little harder.
"Come here and let me kiss it better?" You cock an eyebrow at him just so he
won't misunderstand you at all. He looks like he's about to cry. You stroke his
hair. "Let your mama make you feel good, sweetheart."
You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider, but they do.
"Hell no, Roxy. Hellll to the n to the o to the way. No mommykink the first
time out. Save it until the third time and then we can start talking lacto or
something. What am I even saying. I'm definitely going to hell."
"Can we at least go there together? Because my junk hurts too, like the bluest
of girly blue balls, and I'd love to get some part of your anatomy down there.
Not even going to lie."
He drops his face to your chest and mumbles directly into your breasts.
"When did kids get so...forward? Like, if this were happening a hundred years
ago we would have had to beat around the bush for like, twenty-five years
before daring to have one of those pained conversations where we discussed
everything except our feelings about each other and maybe I'd dare to touch
your hair and it would all be so shocking, like I might see your ankle someday
and we’d have to commit ritual suicide together to atone for our sins. Now
you're like, all aboard the incest train, choo-choo!" He mimes tugging on a
train whistle. "Hot, not even remotely legal, and all riled up and ready to
ride!"
"Exactly. Who's got the time for that bullshit anymore?"
Then you wiggle out of his lap, sliding more-or-less smoothly to the floor, and
kneel between his knees. He lets you undo his ostrich leather belt with the
wholly ironic but mysteriously tasteful silver Geromy buckle, unbutton his
pants, and slowly, so slowly, tug down the zipper. He wears y-front tighty-
whiteys with red trim, which you find unendurably hilarious. You try to hold it
back, but the giggle flood won't be stopped.
"WHAT."
He sounds actually upset.
"Okay, Dave. Dave. Oh my god, Dave. I want to put my mouth on you so bad, but I
just keep seeing your uhhh, underroos and I can't."
"Oh for fuck's sake."
He sounds almost like a grown-up for a moment, stands up, yanks his tie loose
enough to pull it over his head and prissily unbuttons his shirt and cuffs. His
pants go next. Then he throws his underwear at your head. You scoff.
"Such maturity, oh my goodness, whatever shall I do?"
He glowers down at you, dick bobbing near your face. You resist the urge to
give it a kiss. It's great, big but not too big, cut, clean, and neatly
groomed. No long curlies caught in the teeth of this girl! He's basically
perfect. A-plus fantasy material until he opens his mouth.
"I see you're still wearing some clothes, Ms. Lalonde. How about we start by
getting you out of them?"
"Is this Secretary all of the sudden? Am I going to start having to do your
paperwork, too? Will you start putting red marks on every piece of code I fuck
up?"
"Nah, son. I just want to see your breasts and I have a powerful curiosity on
the state of your pubes. Wait, you've seen Secretary? Wait, why am I surprised?
Why does oh--"
You stop resisting. You've resisted long enough, and since he's apparently at
least mostly down with the idea of fucking his sister, you may as well get what
you can while you can get it. You kiss the head of his dick and his run-on
sentence grinds to halt. You lick it. Kind of sweaty, but not gross. Precum all
over, but that's predictable. You're pretty sure that if you'd started really
grinding on him earlier he'd probably have come in his pants. You open up and
get the head in your mouth and it's warm and a little sticky and he gasps.
"Come on, show m-me your ohgodohgod oh fuck, Roxy."
Your name sounds so nice coming out of his mouth while his dick is gently
nestled in yours. You give him a swirly kiss around the head. This is not the
first blowjob you've given, but it's been a while and you're enjoying taking it
slow.
"Roxyroxyroxyroxy!”
Well, you were. His legs are already shaking and his fingers are really fucking
up your hair. Which is fine, and kind of hot, but also a little painful. You
suck in as much as you can manage, jacking what you can't quite fit in your
mouth with your hand and he's gone in about ten seconds. You swallow to be
polite and try not to think about it too hard. You manage to look up in time to
note that his face scrunches when he comes and he closes his eyes. He collapses
on the couch, a soft stream of profanity pouring from his lips.
"shitfuckpissdamnoh my god fuck fuck ffffuck. I just let my-- I just came down
my sis--"
You cut him off, standing up and shaking a finger at him.
"Nope! No fits of remorse or guilt until after you get me off. I am sitting
here with my panties soaked and you now officially owe me one."
It's as delicate as you can bring yourself to be. You're deathly afraid that
he'll freak himself out and then kick you out. So it's blackmail (sort of), at
least until after he's given you some permanent wank material. You have your
mother’s fortune, after all; it’s not like you need his. You'd really rather
not have to move back to her mansion, though. It's nice to have company and the
thought of all that empty space distresses you, nevermind the library. He
stares at you, all maraschino eyes and disbelief. You take pity on him and lean
down to kiss him. He whines into your mouth.
"Why are you being so nice? You should be calling the cops, not, uh, taking
your, oh ...fuck."
You're pretty dextrous and are totally taking off your skirt. It falls and you
step out of it. You stop kissing Dave and lean back to slowly slip off your
shirt. He looks at you like you might be made of candy as your bra drops to the
floor.
"Holy hell. My sister's rack is fucking fantastic. Can I...?"
He holds out a hand an inch away from your boob, the left one, the one with the
piercing. You try not to roll your eyes too hard and close the gap. He touches
you like you're glass, like you're fire, like you might burn him. He tugs
gently at the little ring you'd coerced your mother into letting you get when
you were fifteen. Leans forward, eyes on yours. He opens his mouth, again, an
inch away. You can feel his breath.
"Can I?"
"Yes." Your voice is a little more shaky than you’d like to think it should be,
but you want him to touch you so bad.
He closes his mouth around your nipple and you close your eyes. He's not too
shabby with his tongue, and it gets even better when he brings his other hand
up to cup your other breast, pinching just a little. He spends some time there,
licking and twisting, and you start letting yourself allow credence to a tiny
shred of hope that maybe he really wants you. He nibbles lightly and you emit a
sound best described as a squeak. You feel him smile against your breast. He
looks up at you, that goddamn ring between his teeth, and yanks, and you feel
it all the way to your crotch. It's your turn to gasp and his turn to smile.
"So do I get to find out if you're shaved or au natural?"
You really do roll your eyes. Aggressively. But you also take a single step
back and drop your panties, which are exactly as soggy as you thought they'd
be. You take the opportunity to drag one finger up your slit just to you know,
see how you're feeling, to which the answer is wet. Really wet. You're pretty
sure Dave stops breathing when you lick your finger clean. You thought you'd
have lost all sense of shame about the same time you quit jacking off to
Calmasis/Zazzerpan fanfic and started in on the man in front of you, but the
way he looks at your junk, like it's a thing he really wants to be involved
with, like, right now, and it's the best thing in the world, it makes you
squirm a little. You subscribe to the landing strip style of pubes, and he very
carefully traces the shape with one finger without ever actually coming into
contact with your skin.
"Can I put my mouth on you? Like, is that a thing you're actually cool with me
doing? Like, get you on the couch and lick your pussy, maybe get a finger or
three inside when you're ready, lick you all up and down and write my name on
your clit with my tongue and just, like, keep going until you're screaming my
name and I can feel you coming all over my face? Because wow," and his voice is
barely a breath, "wow, I want that. A lot."
This is simultaneously so much better and so much worse than you could have
ever imagined. His dirty talk is pretty excellently dirty, and you definitely
feel a strong tingle in the relevant parts, but he's kind of also giving you a
not-quite-creeper, but also not-quite-normal sort of vibe. His focus is all on
your crotch, and you have the strong temptation to say something like, "eyes up
here, bozo!" Still, you've never had anyone get that into the idea of eating
you out, and it sounds pretty great.
You settle yourself on the couch next to him and spread your legs.
"Be my guest!"
Your next two minutes are absolute hell as he sings as much as he can remember
of the goddamn song from Beauty and the Beast. Then he's back to attentiveness
and it's him on the floor on his knees and your pussy is so ready to be licked.
He lifts your legs like they're holy and kisses his way up from the knees to
the top of your thighs, shifting around until they're settled comfortably on
his shoulders. You look at each other for a moment.
He still hasn't actually touched your naughty bits. He's gotten pretty close,
but you could still change your mind. What's happened so far feels like it
could be considered pretty bad, like in the eyes of the law, but this is
totally the point of no return. The second he touches your junk with his
tongue, you have Officially Incested. You aren't sure why you feel like you
count so much more than he does, you think, you did have his spunk still sort
of squeaking around the back of your mouth. It was probably just because he
came so fast, like you barely had time to get his dick in there and then he was
popping.
He lowers his head, keeping his eyes locked with yours. He's giving you every
opportunity he can to back out, and your heart gives off a stream of happy
champagne bubbles. You lean back into the cushions and wiggle contentedly.
"Where's the action, Dave? I was promised action."
"Can't hurry great things, baby." His mouth is so close. You want to grab the
back of his head and press it down, but you don't. You figure you should give
him the same respect he's giving you, let him back out if he wants to.
He doesn't. After much too long sitting, and fuck all knows, breathing in your
scent, he lowers his eyes and kisses you. Then he puts his tongue on you, flat
against your wet, wet cunt. He stays there for a moment, an agonizing moment
that lasts approximately a million years, then he licks, and it's like
lightning jolts through you. You gasp, and he does it again. And again. And
again, until you're practically riding his face and panting with how good it
feels. His tongue slides over you down into you back up and traces lines of
flame over your clit. You think about what he said and pay enough attention to
realize that he is, in fact, spelling out his name. He does it three times. D-
up and around-A-up down across-V-two downward slurps-E-one down three across.
It makes you giggle and arch your hips up, but you also inch closer to orgasm.
He pauses.
"Want some inside action, Rox?" He wiggles his fingers like a dumbass. He
already told you want he wanted to do. Why on earth would he not just do it
already? "I really want to feel your tight little pussy, but you gotta let me
know." It's a little difficult, but you manage to nod. You really just want him
to keep working you over with his tongue, but you also know you'll come way
harder with something inside you. He stops moving. "Can I get a hell yeah?"
"Y-yeah. Fingerbang me, Dave. Let's get some penetration. I w-wanna come all
over you."
"Roger that, missiles are firing! Pchooo!"
He's the literal worst, but you forgive him everything when he goes straight
for three fingers and immediately resumes lapping at you. His tongue must be
getting tired, though, because he slows up and narrows it, rubbing it against
your clit instead of actually licking. It feels really good, and you tell him
so, your voice shaky with arousal and impending orgasm. He keeps going, both
tongue and hands and you find yourself at the peak without warning. It kind of
creeps up on you, one second you're happily rubbing your junk against his mouth
feeling like you could just go forever, and then next minute you're moaning and
panting his name while your cunt throbs around his hand and your goo gets all
over his goddamn face. He keeps you going as long as he can until you shove his
face away, and even then he sits there with most of his hand up your junk and
thumb gently caressing your clit until you stop shuddering every time he moves.
You're still wet enough that it doesn't sting much when he pulls out, but you
still feel kind of empty and wish, just a little, that it might be okay for him
to actually get his dick in you. You've never managed to come from being
fucked, and you'd like to try with someone who maybe has more of a clue as to
what they're doing (though frankly, you're not actually all that sure he does
know more than the guy you slept with before; he's definitely better at giving
head, but that could be just as much your inexperience as his greater
experience). He's a little hard again, and definitely breathing heavy, but
everything about his posture says he's done for the day. He pillows his head on
your thigh and presses kisses onto it over and over until you sit up and ask if
he's okay.
"Yeah, just a little, uh, overwhelmed." His eyes are suspiciously shiny, and he
quickly grabs his shades and his undies and his scotch -- which he slams -- and
sits back down on the couch next to, but not touching you. Your 3DS digs into
your leg, and you pull it out and flip it open.
Skitty-Frigglish is waiting for you. You try the smile again, and this time it
works. Who has the best brother?
It's totally you.
End Notes
     Eyyy, happy Tanglemas. ;)
     Special thanks to Laylah for beta reading! <3 <3 <3
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!