Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/604897.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Stridercest, Bro/Dave
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Bro_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-23 Words: 6064
****** That Game ******
by Tres13
Summary
     In the game of sibling one-upmanship, it is always the elder brother
     who wins. Or is it?
Disclaimer: Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie, and I am certainly not making
any money with my gross abuse of artistic license, AKA this fic. If I was, I’d
probably be spending it all on HS merch.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You are Dave Strider, and just once, you want to surprise the ever-loving fuck
out of your bro.

See, he’s always getting the drop on you with his (totally sweet, but also
totally unfair) ninja moves, and you think it’s high time he got his. Not in a
nasty way, because that would defy the brotherly spirit of your eternal
competition, but just in a way that might finally cause him to look at you and
nod, ever so slightly, in that way that means he acknowledges your creativity
and general awesomeness. For too long, he has seen you as a mere boy, albeit
one with potential. Today, on this unseasonably warm day in the Big City, you
become a man.

It takes a while to find him, because first you check all the usual hang-out
spots, like the roof, and the attic. Bro sure loves hanging out in high-up
places. It’s like he’s this huge, outrageously awesome bird, or something.
Always perched atop the nearest ideal vantage point, the better from which to
survey the future victims of his limitless irony. Sweet Thumb-Sucking Baby
Jesus, is he cool.

You quickly shake off the usual deep sense of worship. This isn’t just another
day of standing in your sibling’s utterly awe-inspiring shadow; today, it’s
your turn. You’re going to one-up your bro, once and for all, or else die in a
pile of smuppets trying.

You locate said guardian crashed out on the futon in the living room. You know
instantly that he’s truly asleep, because he’s lying in a rather conservative
pose, head lolled slightly to one side, one arm draped over his waist, the
other neatly tucked up against his side. If he were only resting or thinking
with his eyes closed, he’d be sprawled all over the place, just to prove he
doesn’t give a flying fuck about how vulnerable he appears, since obviously, he
could go on the offensive before any possible threat could so much as blink
threateningly.

The fact that he is actually asleep, however, does not mean he isn’t still
hells of dangerous, and of course you know that, and of course he knows that
you know it, and that’s why he can fall asleep out in the open like this when
you’re around. It might also have something to do with “trust” or some other
pointlessly sentimental notion like that, but probably only to the extent that
he trusts you to be smart enough not to walk into his Kill Zone while he’s
snagging mad Z’s.

The true irony of it all is, that’s exactly what you plan on doing.

Okay, well, not precisely, that is to say, perfectly literally in every way.
You are planning to invade your bro’s personal space, which is fairly ill-
advised even when he’s awake, but you’re not just gonna walk over there like a
chump. You’d be buried in plush, puppet ass before you could swear, and you’d
probably get a few solid whacks with the blunt side of a katana for good
measure. Heaping injury onto insult is how Bro teaches you to watch your
fucking step, because it’s a crazy world out there, and the only way to prepare
for it is apparently to survive an even crazier childhood.

But you digress; your plan is so smart, it’s retarded. It’s so retarded, it’s
gone full circle back to pure fucking genius, because that is the only kind of
plan worthy of the Strider name. It involves the flash-stepping technique
you’ve been carefully studying all these years, a liberal splash of Likely
Unwarranted Self-Confidence, mixed with a heaping spoonful of Probably
Shouldn’t Be Doing This, and capped off with a dusting of Making This Happen.
It’s the perfect recipe—assuming it doesn’t get your ass kicked in record time.

You take careful note of the room around you. Li’l Cal is propped haphazardly
against a speaker, and for once his wide, dead eyes are not fixed on your
person. Good; you really don’t want him looking at you and stealing your nerve
with his freakish, soul-chilling stare. It’s not that you don’t like Cal, it’s
just…the stare. God-damn.

Deep breaths, you remind yourself. It is all or nothing time, and you’d better
not trip, because if you aren’t fast enough, this is all going to go to shit
pretty quickly.

You position yourself for the attack, like a sprinter readying for a race. In
your mind, you can almost hear the pistol shot—and then you move.

If he’d been awake when you’d pulled this shit, your sword would’ve pierced
futon stuffing and nothing more; as is, he doesn’t quite make it upright before
you shove the metal tip through the edge of his shirt, pinning it—and him—to
the futon. There is one other factor which contributes to his mistake in
timing: he assumed you were going for his body, not his clothes, and so the
sword he swung to block you whiffed harmlessly past your weapon when it stabbed
to the side of him instead. Still, he recovers almost before you can even fully
realize you have him, and with his unarmed hand he goes for the hilt of the
embedded blade to free himself.

If you let him escape now, he’ll definitely be pissed, and it might not even be
in the strictly “coolguy” fashion, where he doesn’t actually give a shit. You
violated the fuck out of his pointlessly sentimental trust just now, and unless
you finish what you started fast, there will be hell to pay.

So you intercept, seizing both his wrists and throwing your weight forward to
pin his arms to the futon as well. It’s not easy to hold him down; he’s bigger
than you, and a holy hell of a lot stronger, but your shitty sword is doing
most of the work since you impaled it so deep, and Bro could probably still
throw you off anyway, but you’ve got that covered too: with only the barest
hint of trepidation, you quickly lean down—and kiss him hard.

He immediately goes still as stone beneath you. Not exactly “surprised” still-
as-stone, but more like “the fuck are you doing” still-as-stone, and you’re
pretty sure that’s the look he’s piercing you with from behind his lethally
pointy shades. You can’t see it very well through the nearly-opaque black
glass, but you can feel it, and it makes you swallow a touch nervously.

See, this is the point where the plan sort of ventures back into “mentally
challenged” territory. You really haven’t thought much further than this, and
while you suppose you could count this as a win (you did get past his
impenetrable guard, after all, and that’s no meager feat), you are still
basically certain that you are about to get your ass handed to you like a
fucking birthday present. There’s only one way out, and unfortunately, like
always, you cannot abscond. Your only choice now is to go forward.

You’ve seen enough on the internet (that you shouldn’t have) to have a basic
grasp of how to proceed. Even so, it’s rather discouraging when he doesn’t
respond to the barely-there lick against his mouth. If anything, the nearly-
unseen glare burns even hotter into you, and you are almost tempted to try to
abscond anyway. But no, you came here to prove something to yourself, and maybe
to him too, and by all the rad beats in the universe you are going to do it.

You bite him a little, because you know that at least that will get something
out of him. Sure enough, the faint sting drags a response out of him at last:
he nips back, much harder than you did, and it hurts but it also feels a bit
like victory, because you challenged him and he accepted. You lick again,
deliberately pressing the tip of your tongue against the place where you bit
his lip, and then you bite down again, and then switch back to probing the
mildly abused lip with your tongue. You’re really digging the way you’re making
it turn sort of red like that, and also the way he’s not doing a damned thing
to stop you.

One more tiny lick, and he opens for you unexpectedly, and you’d thought you
knew what kissing was like before, but you were wrong; this is what kissing is
like, hotter and wetter and more involved than you originally assumed. It’s not
exactly cool or even ironically cool to shiver, but you can’t help doing it
anyway, and your toes actually fucking curl like you hear about in those movies
on the TV channels you’re not technically supposed to watch. Getting to
experience kissing, you decide, was definitely worth the risk of having your
ass kicked into next week.

It’s about then that you realize you’ve forgotten about holding down Bro’s
hands.

You flinch as soon as one enters your peripheral, but to your surprise, he
doesn’t punch you, or even push you away. He just lays that hand on your
shoulder, not gripping tightly, but in a way that—and you’re sure you’re not
imagining this—seems to indicate he wants you right where you are.

It really should freak you out that he’s consenting to be molested by you, his
younger brother, but honestly, you are just too tickled about it to fucking
care. You mentally kick yourself for using the word “tickled” in any context,
but in light of the fact that you are currently engaged in a rather spirited
game of tonsil hockey, you shortly forget about word usage and why you should
even concern yourself about it.

You’re not sure how long the (way too awesome to be termed sloppy) make-outs
last, but it’s long enough to make you a little lightheaded. You have to remind
yourself to breathe all over again, and when you pull back a little to do so,
you take a long, satisfied look at those lips you’ve managed to redden up some
more; it’s a nice color on Bro, and you’ll be disappointed when it fades.

You dip your head down again, but this time it’s to plant an open-mouthed kiss
against the underside of his jaw. You’re glad he’s not glaring at you anymore,
or asking you why you’re doing this, because you wouldn’t be able to answer him
without sounding like a disgrace to the coolkid image. The truth is, you might
have been able to come up with much different ways of “surprising” your bro,
given time, but this is the scenario you wanted.

It’s hard, harboring blatantly incestuous feelings for your criminally cool
older brother. It’s hard, and nobody understands.

Then again, maybe someone does understand, because you’re fairly positive
that’s Bro’s other hand on your ass right now. You shiver again, have a
panicked moment of second thoughts, and then tell yourself to chill the fuck
down because this was, and still is, pretty much what you were aiming for.
Still, that’s mighty presumptuous of him, you decide; you’re the one who
started it, and if he thinks he gets to finish it, he’s got another thing
coming.

You bite down on his neck harder than you ever thought you’d dare, harder than
is strictly sexy and much harder than is polite, and he actually twitches, and
the hand on your shoulder tightens briefly in what is unmistakably pain. It’s
not very cool of you to do, but it gets your point across, because that hand
parked on your ass retreats to neutral territory at the small of your back
instead. You love that about Strider-style communication: words are almost
never required for you to understand each other.

Biting that hard does deserve an apology, though, which you offer in the form
of a long lick to the abused spot on Bro’s neck. It’s gonna be all kinds of
bruised tomorrow, you realize, and you’re more pleased about it than you maybe
should be. Especially since you know that, unlike some terribly average person
might, he won’t make any effort to hide the mark your teeth made on his person;
in fact, he’ll probably go out of his way to display it, because to do
otherwise would indicate that he gives a shit that someone marked him, which
just wouldn’t be his Way.

You shift downward, and wonder briefly if you dare to remove the sword pinning
your bro to the futon by his shirt, since it’s going to be hard removing said
article of clothing with the thing still stuck in there. A glance up at his
face makes the decision for you: absolutely not. As soon as he’s completely
free he’ll take control back from you faster than you can react, and you sure
as hell don’t want that. Not this time, anyway.

So, you settle for touching him through the shirt instead, which isn’t quite as
much fun, but manages to give you inappropriate feelings all the same. Hell,
who are you kidding; it’s all been inappropriate thus far, and it isn’t likely
to become any less so. Particularly not with you tonguing your older sibling’s
nipple through the fabric.

You bite down again, though you’re careful not to do it so hard this time,
because with both his hands free Bro is perfectly capable of smacking you one
if you don’t mind your fucking manners. It’s hard to tell when he won’t make
any noise or even any facial expressions, but you think he likes what you’re
doing, so you repeat it on the other side of his chest too. You want things to
be fair, after all.

He shifts under you just a tiny bit, and at first you wonder if he’s suddenly
decided the game is over, and now wants you off him. Then you realize that
you’ve scooted down enough that you’re directly straddling his hips and whoa,
okay, you really weren’t expecting…that. Gog Almighty that has to be
uncomfortable, holy shit. You’re sort of flattered, actually. Flattered, and
vaguely terrified.

You figure you can either A) let the terror get the best of you and flee the
premises like a little bitch, or B ) sack it up and finish what you started.
You know which would be worthy of the Strider name. Still…dear lord, not even
the most lascivious porn websites had prepared you for this reality, and now
that you’re sitting on said reality, you’re really starting to wonder how that
much reality is going to, well…fit.

You really haven’t thought this through, and it’s coming back to bite you now.
Can’t abscond, you remind yourself. It sounds kind of weak sauce in your head.
Eventually, you decide that you should at least try to face the problem head on
before you choose Option A. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think?

You scoot back some more, until you’re sitting astride your bro’s legs instead.
This gives you access to the front of his jeans, which you quickly unbutton and
unzip before you can lose your nerve entirely. You can’t help flinching in
surprise; yeah, there was pretty much no way he was wearing anything under
there. You’re not even sure why you thought he might be. And also, you think
you might be in a bit of a bind, because “it” certainly is as bad as you
thought, and for a moment Option A looks really good to you.

But you can feel his eyes on you while you sit there like a brain-dead lump,
and even if you aren’t sure if you can handle this, that doesn’t change the
fact that you want it.

You take a deep breath. First things first: you’re not going to get anywhere
just by looking, so you warily reach out and touch. Aside from the
comparatively frightening proportions, his dick isn’t that different from
yours, and you would know; you’ve been jerking off since you were, what, ten?
He’s different enough to make you interested, though, so you set about
discovering.

You’re not teasing him deliberately (although that could be fun), but after a
few minutes of somewhat aimless petting, he gets all impatient with the pace of
things, and reaches a hand down to “assist.” You’re not having any of that
unmitigated bullshit, though, and abjure the hell out of the move with a rather
brazen swat, knocking his hand away. You can see just enough of his expression
to know he just narrowed his eyes at you something fierce, but this is your
fucking show, so he can just sit back and enjoy it. And yes, you are being a
brat, and no, you do not give a flying shit. Like, that shit could be soaring
through the upper atmosphere on white, fluffy wings, and you still wouldn’t
give it at all.

You do take pity on the man, however, and apply a firmer grip; you even throw
some genuine stroking into the bargain. Your decision to be magnanimous is
rewarding to you both, as it turns out, because his fingers curl a little
against the futon cushion, and there’s this tiny furrow between his eyebrows
that you think means you are definitely doing something right. Still no sound,
though, and that strikes you as unfair. You’ll have to fix that.

Frankly, you’re surprised that he doesn’t see it coming, but then, that might
be because he wasn’t expecting his little brother to jump his bones in the
first place. In any case, when you suddenly lean down and lick him, he comes
the closest to jumping that you’ve ever seen him do. He stiffens up like
someone just informed him shades aren’t cool anymore, and you don’t envy the
futon for what his fingernails are doing to it currently. Thanking your lucky
stars for too much internet porn, you take the tip of his cock into your mouth
and suck.

He hisses softly, and you swear you nearly come in your shorts right then. It’s
not exactly wanton moaning, but it’s so him, and it makes you want him even
more. Too many utterly crappy TV dinners over the years have pretty much killed
your gag reflex, so you take him deeper, and you glance up and see him swallow
hard before he lets out a barely audible huff. Jesus, he’s going to kill you
with those tiny noises, but all you can think about is how much you want to
hear more.

You use your hand on what you can’t fit into your mouth, and go to town. It’s
harder than you thought it would be to keep your teeth out of the way, and this
kind of workout is rather hard on your jaw muscles, but it is so worth any
inconvenience or discomfort to watch him react. There’s this minute twitch in
his hand every time he makes one of his practically inaudible noises, like he
wants to muffle himself, but won’t because that would be admitting how far he’s
come undone. How far you’ve pushed him.

There is a more practical reason behind you giving his dick a saliva bath, but
even so, you wonder if it will be enough. Of course, you brought lube, but the
idea of using it sort of squicks you. Putting slime—even medical-grade slime
created for these specific circumstances—anywhere near your ass just seems
really gross to you. Still, there’s no way that what you have planned isn’t
going to hurt like hell unless you ease the way sufficiently, and spit simply
doesn’t appear to be doing the trick. It’s not quite slick enough, for one
thing. And you know from wanking experience that it dries too fast to be much
good as lubrication. You guess you’ll just have to endure the sliminess.

You don’t think the average person knows how hard it is to shimmy out of jeans
and boxer-shorts whilst sucking someone off. It’s interesting, that’s for sure.
Thank god you weren’t wearing any shoes.

The urge to give your own hard-on a few conciliatory tugs is strong, but you
just barely manage to resist; no sense in risking an early eruption before you
even get to the main event. You retrieve the lube from your pants pocket, uncap
it, and pour some medical-grade goo into your hand, making sure to coat your
fingers good. Ugh, the stuff feels like something out of a horror movie
featuring man-eating slugs, and it smells weird, like cherries, only pretty
much not like real cherries at all. Oh well; all for a good cause, right?

You have to stop blowing your bro to concentrate, which means he’s fully aware
of what you’re doing from the moment the first nasty word escapes your lips.
Damn that stuff is cold. It’s hard to reach back there too, and the initial
entry is hells of uncomfortable. You’re only up to the first knuckle when it
occurs to you that this isn’t going to work; your hands are trembling faintly,
and it feels way too weird and awkward to do this to yourself.

Bro saves you from embarrassing yourself further. He raises a hand and crooks a
finger at you, motioning you forward. You know what he wants, and at this point
you are all kinds of fine with allowing him to participate more. You grab the
lube and move up his body so you’re straddling his waist, and then hand the
tube of un-cherry-scented sex-slime to him. Moments later, you feel the first
cold, slick touch to your anus, and you try really hard to relax. It’s still
completely weird, but not nearly as awkward anymore, and as it turns out, the
lube warms to your body temperature if you give it a bit.

You nearly choke when he pushes that first finger into you up to the last
knuckle, because holyshit that hurts more than it should. You guess your body
doesn’t much like people using what is traditionally an exit as an entrance.
You bear it, though, because you’ve heard this is supposed to be uncomfortable
at first, and then get loads better, and the “better” is what you’re looking
forward to.

The second finger forces you to remind yourself that Strider men do not cry
like little girls. The third wrings a humiliating noise of pain out of you
anyway, and if it weren’t for your shades hiding the sudden, incriminating
wetness in your eyes, you’d be shaming your family name even further. Now you
know you couldn’t have done this to yourself; you’d have stopped way before the
job was finished. Bro doesn’t stop, but the way he’s watching you makes you
think that he will if you ask. You don’t ask.

The pain fades somewhat in time, much to your relief. Then, Bro twists his
fingers like he’s searching for something, and it feels weird all over again,
and then he curls them just so and…OH. Oh GOD. A shaky moan escapes you in
spite of your best efforts to remain calm and unaffected; Bro actually has the
gall to smirk, and then he does that finger-curling thing again and you just
don’t care anymore that he’s being smug, because your world has abruptly
narrowed down to ohgodmore.

He works that spot until you’re a shivering wreck, sounds that you will later
deny making spilling out of your mouth with every rub against your insides.
Finally you can’t take any more, and you have to stop him with a hand on his
wrist before you lose it completely. You gasp in spite of yourself when he
takes back his fingers; you’re not sure whether you feel relieved or bereft,
but you soldier on, uncapping the lube again with shaky hands and pouring some
into your palm. You slide back so you can apply the gel to his shaft, and Bro
makes that soft, unbelievably sexy hiss between his teeth, and you can’t help
teasing both him and yourself for a bit, pumping him slowly, spreading the lube
around but not gripping tightly enough to do much more than that.

Eventually, though, the suspense gets to you, and you reposition yourself over
him and use a hand to guide the tip of his cock to where it needs to be. For
half a second, your eyes meet through the black-glass barriers of your
respective shades. You wouldn’t have thought consent was needed at this point,
but you give it anyway with the slightest of nods, and he slides a hand up to
rest on your hip and presses inside.

You immediately wonder why you thought this was a good idea, as all your
worries that he is simply too big come back to slap you in the face. You bite
down on a strangled cry of pain, which doesn’t quite stop it from emerging, but
at least preserves the tiniest bit of your dignity. Your bro immediately goes
still at the sound, and you are so pathetically grateful that you’re almost
tempted to sob. All those times he’s pissed you off or buried you in smuppets
aside, you are occasionally reminded that he actually does give a shit about
you, which if you were any less cool would give you feelings of the warm and
fuzzy variety. Good Bro. Best Guardian. If you were in any position to kiss him
right now, you would.

The screaming hellfire agony fades somewhat, at least enough that you can think
about continuing without feeling the urge to weep like a Miss United States
Pageant winner. You push your hips down just a little bit, and while it still
fucking hurts, it’s not quite as bad anymore, so you keep going. A few more
stops to catch your breath and let the pain return to manageable levels, and
then you’re fully seated and can’t quite believe it. You were so sure it wasn’t
all going to fit in you, but your ass’s capacity for dick is apparently greater
than estimated. Not by much, though, you note; just sitting still aches like a
motherfucker, and your body is quivering from the strain of accepting a little
too much.

But then you risk a glance at your bro, and all at once the pain seems a little
more worth it. Those pointy shades of his can’t hide the way he’s gone all
flushed with pleasure, or the way his lips part slightly on a deep, unsteady
breath. The hand on your hip trembles the tiniest bit; he’s fighting—actually
fighting—to control himself, and you feel hot all over knowing that you did
this to him.

You shift to get your knees under you a bit more, and lift up a little before
pushing back down. The hilt of your sword, still buried in the futon, offers
you some leverage as well, and you use it to help pull yourself up and to keep
your balance. You have to go slow at first because of how much it still hurts,
but the upside to the snail-like pace is that you get to torment Bro; this is
still a game of one-upmanship, after all, and for once the score appears to be
in your favor.

You wonder if you can force any louder sounds out of him. He won’t make it easy
for you, but the challenge is sort of the point. You’ll just have to get
creative.

Recalling something you saw on cable TV once, you take your bro’s hand (the one
that isn’t on your hip) and bring it to your lips. You tease the tips of his
fingers with your teeth (not quite nibbling because “nibbling” is something
fucking rabbits do, not coolkids like you), and then with darting flicks of
your tongue, all while rocking your hips down onto his. Difficult to
coordinate, but as with all the other inconveniences you’ve discovered about
sex, totally worth it.

You draw his index finger into your mouth and suck, and he makes this little,
itty-bitty noise that you could almost swear was a moan. The sound goes
straight to your Little Dave, and you have to think terribly unsexy thoughts
for a moment just to keep things under control. Old people making out. Old
people making out with barn animals. Old people making out with Li’l Cal—Jegus
fuck, NO. Just…NO. But hey, problem solved; you are no longer close to the
edge. You and the edge are no longer even friends; you’ve slotted each other
into the “Acquaintance” box. Someday, when you can get the image of Li’l Cal
and some geriatric fetishist out of your head, you will have to thank the
little guy for saving you from prematurely blowing your load.

Mind, this whole time you’ve kept enough sense of the moment to continue your
wanton molestation of your bro’s fingers, which is just as well, because if he
guessed what you were thinking about, he’d be too busy laughing at you (on the
inside, naturally; guffawing out loud isn’t his Way) to be turned on anymore.
And by god, you are not going to have gone through all of this just to end up a
joke.

You have, however, gotten distracted from the other thing you were doing; Bro
reminds you with a thrust that suddenly has you seriously considering making up
with the edge and being friends again. You have no idea when the cock up your
ass stopped hurting, but you figure it must have been sometime while you were
creeping yourself out, because it certainly feels a lot better now. Maybe not
totally mind-blowing, but there’s potential there. You push down to meet him on
the next thrust, and a groan fights its way free of your throat. So much better
now, fuck, the pain is nothing more than a dull, burning ache, all background
sensation as pleasure finally makes its debut.

You can pick up the pace now that your body isn’t pretending like it’s going to
split in two anymore, and unfortunately you have to let go of Bro’s hand to
maintain your balance, but neither of you really minds now that some earnest
fucking has begun to happen. Your terminally awesome sibling’s once-molested
hand finds a new home on your other hip, and both his hands are big and
callused and just seem to belong there, and you never thought of yourself as a
hand man before, but you are so hot for him right now it’s ridiculous, and it
has a lot to do with the feel of those long-fingered bastards gripping you like
you’re the best thing since Irony. You’ll have bruises tomorrow, and the
thought pleases you, however strange that might be. They’ll be a nice
compliment to that whopper he’s going to have on his neck. It’s only too bad
you won’t be able to display yours, since you don’t think you own any pants
that ride that low (and couldn’t wear them in public if you did).

An instant later the bruises are the last thing on your mind, because he
strikes that place inside you he was teasing with his fingers before, and you
goddamn yelp before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t even give you time to be
embarrassed before he thrusts right up against that spot again, and yet again,
and you try to stifle the noises, you really do, but shit, you are just not as
good at it as your bro is, and you can’t help it. One particularly hard thrust
adds a hint of real pain back into the mix, and the next breath you draw is
practically a sob. Your carefully-crafted persona is shattering around you, but
at this point you hardly even care, as long as he doesn’t stop.

Just when you think it can’t feel any better, he wraps a hand around your shaft
and pumps in counterpoint to the motion of his hips. You unconsciously claw him
a bit where your own hand is braced against his stomach, and he makes this
deep, primal sound from somewhere low in his throat, and you straight up moan
in response. He sounds so good, feels so good that you’ve all but lost your
mind to it, barely conscious of anything but the need for more; your plans are
all forgotten, along with a lot of other things, including your own name.

In the last moments, your shades slip down your nose a little, and you meet
your bro’s eyes again with just one pair of dark glasses in the way this time.
The sharp stab of vulnerability is combined with a yet another well-aimed
thrust, and the odd mishmash of embarrassment and ecstasy has you crying aloud
as you reach the end. You’ve never come this hard in your life, and you’re
still moaning and shuddering for several seconds after you’ve spilled the last
drop.

You’re so sensitive all over now that when Bro thrusts up into you again, you
almost scream. You choke back on that one, because there are limits to how much
you’re willing to humiliate yourself, but a whimper escapes you nonetheless.
It’s awful and amazing at the same time, and all you can do is hang on until,
at last, he finds the end too. He shivers and makes that itty-bitty moan again,
and his fingers dig into your skin so hard it hurts, and even though you’re
utterly spent your cock manages to twitch a little in appreciation as he fills
you. It’s hot and wet, and you’re sure that in a moment it’s going to feel
totally disgusting, but right now everything feels way too good for you to
complain about anything. You’re actually a touch disappointed when he pulls out
of you, but you just nudge your shades back into place and try—with moderate
success—to steady your breathing.

It’s only after you accomplish the breathing thing that the guilt and
apprehension start to creep in. That the sex was really, really good doesn’t
change the fact that your bro is never going to let himself sleep soundly
around you again. Neither does it change the fact that incest is generally
frowned upon by the majority of society, and in spite of what just happened you
aren’t sure what Bro’s opinion is on that matter. In any case, you guess you
should let him up. Whatever happens after that, you brought it on yourself, and
you plan to take it like a Strider, no matter what.

You grasp the hilt of your shitty ninja sword and tear it free from the futon,
sending bits of stuffing into the air. Bro sits up, straightens his hat a
little, and regards you with a neutral expression. He lifts a hand, and you
just barely stop yourself from flinching. You’re not sure what you expect—but
it damn sure isn’t the casual ruffling of your hair that you receive. You
protest the move automatically, but cut yourself off after only the first
syllable, because honestly, what do you say to that?

He removes the hand from your thoroughly tousled hair, and then levels a finger
at you in unmistakable warning.

“You pull this again, and I will end you.”

You gape up at him for a second, which is not even in the same universe as
Cool, but then you pull yourself together and nod. He gives your cheek a solid,
brotherly pat, and without another visible movement he is gone. You’re not even
sure how he ninja-vanished like that while you were still on his lap. So
fucking awesome. Damn.

It takes you a minute, but you gather that he was not, in fact, all that mad at
you. You’re not sure what part he actually was miffed about, but you suspect it
might have just been your underhanded methods that he didn’t like. Maybe he’s
not opposed to the incest thing at all?

You can’t help smirking a little. It might get your ass kicked into another
dimension, but that “maybe” definitely deserves some investigation.

You are Dave Strider, and you have some more planning to do.
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