Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/744116.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Bro_(Homestuck), Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Stridercest_-_Freeform, Anal, handjobs, bro_hates_himself, dave_thinks
      bro_is_a_cockblock
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-01 Words: 2581
****** Responsible Adults ******
by Saesama
Summary
     You can't fuck him and you can't let him touch you or you're going to
     fuck him and you can't explain it to him in a way he'd accept so you
     tell him that you won't until he grows up.
He's fifteen the first time that looking at him gives you a frisson of heat and
you nearly slit your fucking throat.
He's lean and lanky and just starting to grow into his limbs and he's leaning
against the kitchen counter in a wife beater and boxers as you fry eggs for
breakfast. You glance at him over your shoulder and your eyes catch on the
sharp lines of his clavicle over the edge of his shirt and you imagine the
sound he'd make if you caught it in your teeth.
And then you imagine the sound you'd make if you shoved the spatula into your
left eye socket because imagining whoever you're talking to in your bed isn't
an uncommon thought for you, but this is Dave, your brother, your blood, more
or less your son you sick fuck. This is Dave and he worships the ground you
walk on and self loathing isn't a stranger, either, but you've never been more
disgusted in yourself.
Stop it. It was a one-time thought and you're burning the eggs. Get a grip.
O o o
It wasn't a one-time thought.
It happens again and again over the next year and each time you hate yourself
more. You shove it aside and carry on. You work. You pay the bills. You teach
Dave the finer points of sword fighting. You help him with his calculus
homework and Christ, how can you be related, he has no appreciation for numbers
and the beautiful things they can do.
He sprawls half-naked on the futon - on your fucking bed - and you think about
pressing him down into the padding.
He leans his elbows on the counter and juts out his ass to eat his cereal and
when you ask if he's waiting for his boyfriend, he wiggles his butt at you and
waggles his eyebrows over his shoulder and you're not sure which of the two of
you it is that you want to kill.
He whines when you wake him up before he starts to drool on his tables and when
you yank on his arm to try and get him up into bed he wraps his arms around
your neck and clings and his breath is hot on your Adam's apple and you freeze
until he wakes up enough to stumble to bed.
He fights you to a legitimate draw, neither holding back until your blade is at
his throat and his pricks your sternum and you realize that it's not just that
Dave's a good-looking kid like you've been telling yourself but that you
actually want him and the blood you're both losing shouldn't be the biggest
turn-on you've ever experienced.
Way later, you allow yourself to jerk off to the thought of him. This must be
what complete degradation feels like.
O o o
You give him a piece of shit car for his seventeenth birthday.
He straddles your lap later in the evening and tells you that he likes the car
but he'd much rather have a kiss. You punch him. He punches you back and you're
fighting viciously, nastily, and he accuses you of every horrible, fucked-up
thought you've ever had about him and your brain stops when he hisses that 'the
feeling's fucking mutual, you asshole!'
You snarl and kiss him. He kisses back and clutches your shoulder. You break it
off and leave and spend three days at a hotel.
He finds you and you'd be proud of the way he snuck in through the window while
you were in the shower if he didn't immediately jump you as soon as you walked
out of the bathroom. You break a lamp in the struggle but he pins you and spits
out that he's sorry and he knows that you're sorry but he doesn't care because
he wants you and you want him and fuck society because he wants you and he's
not going to take 'no' for an answer.
You hate him. You love him. You want to break his nose.
You kiss him instead because you're tired of fighting yourself and you can't
fight him at all.
He squirms and wiggles and tries to get a hand down your jeans and you don't
let him.
You might be a self-hating narcissist but he's a proud worshipper at the Church
of Bro and you refuse to fuck a supplicant who would bend over and do anything
you told him to because that's not consent, that's more fucked up than kissing
your little brother in the first place.
You wonder what that says about you.
O o o
He still tries to get into your pants. You don't let him.
Even when he's in your lap and grinding against your cock and making tiny,
desperate noises as you rock up against him, you still won't let him go for
your belt. Even when his neck is smooth and hot under your teeth and his dick
is smooth and hot under your palm and you're grinding against his ass as you
jerk him off, you keep your pants firmly in place and focus only on his
pleasure. An when he tries to sneak into the shower with you, you kick his ass
halfway around the block for interrupting Shower Time and you ignore his
yelling when you lock the door.
You can't fuck him and you can't let him touch you or you're going to fuck him
and you can't explain it to him in a way he'd accept so you tell him that you
won't until he grows up.
He sulks and seethes and you tell him to go find a twink his age if he wants
the dick so badly. He snarls back that its not about getting fucked, it's about
you and how much he wants you and that he feels like he's taking advantage of
you because you don't ever let him return the favor. You bark out a harsh laugh
and inform him that his perceptions are backwards if he thinks he's taking
advantage of you.
O o o
It's late and you're asleep and you wake up when he straddles your waist and
grinds his ass into your dick. "Last chance, Bro," he mutters against your neck
right before he bites down, his hands in your hair and he maneuvers so that his
cock slides against your own through your sweatpants. He's finally filled out
and he's naked and he feels so good you could scream and you want to roll him
over and make him sob your name.
"I can't," you say instead. "Not until you grow up."
"Three thirty am, December third," he hisses into your ear, his tongue tracing
the lobe. "I'm eighteen now."
Well, shit. "Happy birthday," you say, "But that's not what I said." You reach
down and still his hips against yours. "I said not until you grow up."
He sits up and glares down at you in the light of a street lamp. "You don't
think I'm good enough for you," he accuses.
"No," you say, and telling him this is the hardest thing you've ever done. "You
don't think you're good enough for me."
He stares at you for a long time, then rolls off of you and disappears from
your line of sight. You lay there until well after dawn, until your phone rings
with a text message.
'brb going to seattle see you'
You don't see him face to face for seven years.
O o o
He eventually texts you again.
He spends the spring with Egbert and in the summer he finangles his way into
the Vancouver film school. You give him the account number to the college fund
you set up when he was a baby and wish him luck. He asks why the fuck you still
have cinderblock tables if you're making that kind of money and you tell him he
should know the answer to that as well as anyone.
He doesn't say anything about the year of illicit make outs and hand jobs. He
doesn't say anything about wanting you. Maybe he doesn't want anyone to see it
by accident or phone hack. Maybe he wants to forget it.
You travel.
Mexico is fun. Australia is more fun. You get arrested in Turkey and in a fight
with a militia in Egypt and you duel some Russian asshole in Amsterdam over his
girlfriend making goo-goo eyes at you.
You send Dave a link to your newest blog, Smuppets Around the World. He talks
you into spray-painting Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff on a wall in Rome. You get
arrested for that, too.
He gets through freshman year, then sophomore. In his junior year he tells you
he has a film debuting at the Sunset Film Festival and sends you two tickets.
You go. He doesn't show.
The film is as hilarious as it is disjointed, like one of his metaphors strung
on for far too long. It's subtle and sly beneath the drug-trip and there's a
smuppet in the background of every shot. You spend two months finding and
sending each other reviews of it and hooting at just how far off the mark some
of them are.
He's gone from your child to your brother to your illegal almost-lover to your
long-distance friend. You think you like the friendship best, even if you
imagine him beneath you or above you or inside you whenever you're with someone
else. Even if you want nothing more than to drive to Vancouver and wrap your
arms around him and never let go. Even if you miss him like you'd miss
breathing.
He graduates. He gets a contract in Hollywood. You mail him a dozen roses and
don't try to go see him.
O o o
He's been in California for nearly two years now. You'd moved out of your old
apartment when you went globe-hopping, and your new place is an actual house
and your new favorite hobby is weirding out your suburbanite neighbors. Years
of investments have paid off and you could choose to not make another smuppet
for the rest of your life and still live comfortably. Instead you keep your
sites open and make robots for eccentric rich fucks in your ample spare time.
It's a hot, lazy summer day when someone pounds on your door like it stole
their car. You wait overlong in answering just to be obnoxious and you're ready
for the hand that snaps up to grab your collar when you finally unlock the
door. What you're not ready for is Dave pushing you back into the house, then
spinning you around against the door and kissing you solidly. He's broad in the
shoulders and narrow in the hips and the hard cock against your leg threatens
to drive you out of your mind.
There's a change to his kisses. He's not doing it like he's got something to
prove. He's doing it because he wants to and he knows you want to and that's
all the reason he needs. It's stopped being about payback and worship and you
bite his lip and grab his hair and he growls a challenge against your tongue.
You shove him away and stalk down the hall to your room. He catches up with you
and when he goes for your belt you let him. "Finally grow up?" you ask against
his lips, undoing the buttons of his shirt with carefully calculated slowness.
"Finally left Neverland," he says, grinning when you make a rude noise. Then he
shoves your pants off of your hips and sinks to his knees and you grab a
handful of his hair when his mouth slides down your cock.
If he's given a blowjob before, it hasn't been often and you hiss anyway
because he looks far better than he should, on his knees and making up for any
lack of skill with open enthusiasm. You use his hair to guide him and he lets
you and when you groan he whimpers and reaches down to palm himself.
Your patience snaps. You shove him back and he sprawls out and licks his lips
up at you and you almost lunge for him. Instead, you grab lube out of your
bedside table and he shimmies out of his jeans eagerly. You kneel down beside
him and he tackles you and shoves you down on your back and straddles your
hips. You grind up on him and your cock slips between his ass cheeks and he's
slick, what the fuck.
He grins obnoxiously and grinds down again. "A good Boy Scout comes prepared,"
he pants out, snatching the lube from your hand.
You roll your eyes. "Never say that again, Christ," you mutter, the vehemence
of your voice thrown when his slippery hand wraps around your cock. "Seriously.
I will fucking end you."
"Promises," Dave purrs, then he sinks down on your cock and you forget about
Boy Scouts because, holy fuck, he feels so good and you've wanted this for
years. Dave's face is gong to haunt your wet dreams for an eternity and you
grab his hips as he rocks on top of you.
He's new at this, too, and his inexperience once again does fuck-all to temper
his enthusiasm. He rides you hard and fast and you grit your teeth as your
orgasm builds too fast, too out of control and wanting him too much and fuck,
fuck-
And then he's off of you and you swear a blue streak and he laughs in your
face. "That's for never letting me in your pants," he grins and you're going to
kill him. Later.
His grin slips as you roll with him. You catch yourself on one knee and shove
him to keep him going, until he's back on his knees and you're behind him. He
starts to protest and you press your cock back inside of him and he lets out a
string of gibberish and moans instead.
You grab his hair in one hand and his shoulder in the other and you fuck him
with hard, steady thrusts that make him clutch at the carpet and choke on your
name. You keep going as his voice rises in pitch and volume and you keep going
when he's sobbing and clawing at the floor and you keep going as he comes and
screams your name and you keep going as he begs you to come for him and when
you finally do, it's like you're home for the first time in seven years.
You pull out and you both collapse on the floor, breathing heavily and it's
almost like you've just finished strifing and you think that maybe that's not
too far off. "So," you say when it sounds like he can breathe again. "What made
you come back?"
He laughs shortly and rolls his shoulders and rests his chin on his folded arms
and he came on your carpet, the little fucker. "I'm the producer of Hollywood's
next blockbuster," he tells you. "I saw the final edit yesterday, and I
realized I was proud of it because it was worth being proud of, not because
you'd approve."
You're offended for half a second before his words actually register and relief
so strong it's breathtaking courses through you. You roll over and kiss him and
slide your messy cock over his hip in retaliation for your carpet. "About
time," you tell him.
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