It’s important in the Strider household to take whatever’s thrown at you and roll with it. You have to be always on your toes, always ready for an impromptu strife on the roof or a cascade of butt puppets from above. But it’s cool, you can deal, you’ve dealt for years, your whole life practically. You know the tricks up your Bro’s sleeves and you’re pretty sure of his modus operandi after all this time, so it’s all good. Sometimes shit still freaks you out but it’s not as bad as it once was.
You roll with it.
You should have realized the moment you thought Bro was predictable. You should have fucking realized he’d have some even greater feat of irony stuffed up under his shirt somewhere, so deeply beyond sleeves that it was hidden with the utmost safety and soundness until it’s pulled out screaming, to never return and fuck up everything in its path.
Kinda like a kamikaze bomber.
You’re not really sure how you got here.
You remember it, but it doesn’t feel like that was you. Sword drawn on you as you were trying to pull some sick tricks on Bro’s video game – shit, if Bro was that fucking touchy about his xbox, fine, you won’t touch it anymore – and then there was a strife in the living room of all places, cramped and shitty and while he might be coordinated not to destroy his surroundings you’re not used to this close-quarters clashing and oh shit, that was the futon, wasn’t it, definitely not a target for your sword.
Everything stopped and you had no idea how he was going to react. You’d never destroyed something this important before, and the futon was in halves, foam stuffing everywhere, and this would take ages to clean up, not to mention how much money it would be to replace it, and mother of god he was staring at you behind those impossible shades and his mouth was hardening into a line.
But all he said was, “You’re gonna make this up to me.”
And you agreed casually, because it was easier than falling over yourself with an apology that you barely managed to keep in check.
If you’d known what he meant by ‘making it up’, you might not have consented so readily.
It’s been a few days and you’re starting to get anxious. There hasn’t been any further talk on what you owe him, and even the futon’s been replaced. You came home from school one day to see the entire area cleaned up and empty, and then the next day there was a brand new one, a shade of tangerine orange you supposed was only ironic.
That’s the shade of the elephant in the room, too, a big fat sunburned orange elephant with razor tusks. Bro hasn’t even spoken to you at all since the incident. It’s almost as if he’s ignoring you’re there. You’re not sure what he’s planning on making you do, but this cold shoulder treatment is getting to you and it’s getting hard to stay chill around him.
He has to know how much this is eating you up. Tricky bastard.
You don’t dare bring it up yourself. You find yourself hoping he’s forgotten, but that’s about as likely as world ending in the next few months – not very. More likely he’s just trying his hardest to think of the worst possible punishment and is making you wait to instill a sense of fear in you. Well, it’s working.
It’s another few days of you living on tenterhooks before he says anything. It’s just after dinner (microwaved texmex burritos, as fucking always) when he stands up, takes off his hat, and throws it at your chest. You swallow your half-chewed mouthful in surprise and grimace as it scrapes all the way down.
“Cashing in my favor now,” Bro intones, starting out of the kitchen. “Meet me in my room.” You watch his retreating form uneasily. He’s removing his gloves, too.
You wolf the rest of your burrito despite your sudden lack of hunger and scurry after him, clutching his hat to your chest as if it would protect you. If Bro is anything, he’s not very patient after he’s given an order. He’d demand your instantaneous response if you could flash step as fast as him.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed when you get there, shoes off, muscular chest bare, and starting on his belt. He looks up when he hears you enter, and the hint of a smirk plays at the edge of his lip. He tips his head flippantly as he asks you his next question.
“You ever heard of BDSM?”
No. This isn’t happening. You are not going to let your brother beat the crap out of you while fucking you. This is so wrong. You swallow hard at the pit of feeble arousal in your stomach despite yourself. You’ve never, never let him know that you were even remotely interested in him that way… How the fuck could he know?
Your skin prickles uncomfortably, and he’s staring at you, and you feel even more disgusting at the thoughts running rampant through your mind. You’d always wanted something like this, but not this way, not another parallel of the fighting on the roof that leaves you feeling like a failure, not the mind games that leave you feeling inadequate. In your fantasies, you’re equals, for once, and you feel stupid now for ever thinking that’s how it could be.
It makes you feel a little better as Bro slips out of his jeans and you’re confronted with his grey boxer briefs. He wants this, too, and you aren’t the only fucked up one in the family. Even if this is going to be much different than you’d like, he’s right there with you if the hardness in his underwear is any indication.
And then he’s cocking his head expectantly in your direction, and he’s taking off his shades and your heart is in your throat and you can’t breathe, because Bro is mostly naked and shadeless and smiling in your direction.
“Get your ass over here,” he says playfully and there’s a twinkle in his red, red eyes and as you stumble over your feet to join him on the bed, you are positive this is what love feels like.
His bare hand smoothes through your hair in a comforting gesture he hasn’t done since you were eight years old and broke your leg. Your eyes fall shut of their own accord and you hum your appreciation. And then his lips are on yours, stealing your first kiss. You’re too shocked to do anything but go along with it, tumbling over him as he stretches out on the bed and pulls you with him.
“Kiss me hard,” he murmurs against your lips. “Make it hurt.”
Your inexperienced lips slip over his for a while, hesitant at first but then with crushing heat and clashing teeth as Bro’s hands slip lower on your shirt. Every nerve ending is singing in the same key as your heartbeat, frantic record scratching up and down your spine.
When you can’t stand it anymore, you pull back, hoping you don’t seem like a panting desperate mess as you choke out, “Shouldn’t I be undressed too?”
Bro just smiles again, and the melt in your heart rushes straight to your groin. “Up to you,” he hums. “You’re in charge.”
“I’m in charge?” You heard that wrong. There was no way –
“Mm,” he replies, and it sounds like he’s holding back a laugh at your dumbfounded expression. “Your big manly bro’s the greediest sub you’ll ever meet.”
“What the hell,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. “You mean to say you take big fat meat sausages up the ass and beg for more? Bullshit.”
Bro does laugh now. “No joke. Why don’t you pull yours out so I can prove it?”
Your sudden excitement betrays your belied attempts at staying calm and collected. Your clothes are soon in a heap on the floor despite your shaking hands. Bro just watches you with a sleepy-eyed Mona Lisa smile, hand rubbing slowly over his clothed erection.
“A-are you going to take that off?” you manage after a moment of tonguetied speechlessness. Fuck, you did not just stutter.
“Only when you tell me to,” he practically purrs. “Make it an order.” Apparently he didn’t notice your halting speech, or didn’t care. It’s so bizarre, not being chastised for being uncool. But you suppose he’s currently the most uncool with the way he’s starting to arch his back a little and look quietly and guiltily impatient. And fuck, that’s all it takes for your boxers to be stripped away, cock raised mast-high and already slick with precum.
This is so wrong, so fucking hot, so disgusting and oh my god he’s looking at you and that is a needy expression and holy fucking shit that should not be as attractive as it is. Every knowledge of your brother as a strong and self-sufficient man is shattered in that look, but that’s okay, because you can’t really think straight anyway.
You find yourself on the bed again, dying to touch yourself, but you know if you’re not careful you’ll be done before it’s even begun. You clear your throat once, twice, eyes firmly on his chest. You can’t look lower at the hazy circles he continues to rub, and you can’t look up into his face, where his eyes are staring and you can feel them staring like pits of red hot desire.
“Take it off,” you mutter unconvincingly.
“Meaner. Command me, make me your bitch.”
“Take it the fuck off,” you snarl and he moans like a cheap whore. It’s overwhelming and then his boxer briefs are sliding down, out of your periphery, and you can’t help the way your gaze slides downward to follow.
A strangled sound catches in your throat. A metal ring glints up at you from the head of his swollen cock. You never expected him to be pierced and this throws you for a loop. You reach down and gingerly touch the ring and he sighs the sigh of a man on a precipice, all tension and quivers.
“Please,” he breathes, and your thumb trails down his length gently, marveling at its pulse beneath you. He sighs again, hips twitching as he holds himself back from the bucking you know he must want to give in to. A surge of something like sympathy finds you grasping him and stroking awkwardly. I love you, the action says. I want to please you, make you happy.
His head tips back against his pillow, a soft and vulnerable groan pulling from his lips in unison with the pulling on his cock. Legs spread wider to accommodate you and you fill in the space, scooting as close as you dare, hand an unceasing up and down. He’s trembling, keening so needily as you find a rhythm that works. Your own harsh breathing goes unnoticed.
“Please, God, please stop, I need…” He squirms, gaze turned outward upon the rest of his room. “Get the… handcuffs, over there, on T.”
It takes a moment for you to tear your concentration away from him, blearily looking toward where he’s pointing insistently. Chuck Norris and Mr. T are handcuffed together, sitting on a chest across the room. Reluctance to let go of him leaves you with a bitter taste in your mouth as you obey and traverse the smuppet-strewn floor to retrieve the cuffs.
“While you’re up...” Guilt and apologetic appreciation floods Bro’s voice and your heart skips a beat. It suddenly occurs to you that this could be a dream, but you push that thought away. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up.
“There’s, uhh, in the closet. There should be a collar and leash.”
You half expect an avalanche of puppet ass but it’s surprisingly clean and organized. It’s easy enough to locate the collar and leash; they’re hanging on a peg on the back wall. The black leather is smooth and pliant under your hands as you carefully retrieve them. You turn and start back to the bed but Bro stops you.
“Actually, hold up. There’s a riding crop in there too.”
You’re not entirely sure you’re going to be able to go through with this. Not this way, with all these added shenanigans. But you find the crop anyway, dumping your kinky spoils on the foot of the bed.
“Now what?” you hazard to ask.
“Handcuff me to the headboard and get me collared, obviously,” is the reply. Bro’s voice is a little breathy, and without his shades his anticipation is practically screaming from every pore. God, this previously unknown vulnerability is so fucking hot.
It takes a few minutes of fumbling for you to figure out the cuffs. The chain between them is slightly longer than normal, and you loop it around the bedpost, hooking him in. He’s now ass-up, panting heavily with the effort not to move. Something feral and predatory rises deep inside you as you kneel behind him.
He’s yours to control. He’s a puppet under your deft fingers now. The completeness of the role reversal sends a visceral shiver through your veins and you lean over him, pressing bare chest flush against bare back. He arches up to meet you with a whimper.
The collar snaps on easily. After hooking the leash onto the metal loop, you twine it around your left hand, yanking experimentally. His head jerks back with a grunt and he grinds his ass up against your groin.
“Yeah,” he gasps, “more of that.”
Keeping the leash taut, you lean back to grab the crop. You’ve only ever seen these things used in movies, but it can’t be too different from wielding any other weapon. The flat leather end is traced gently down his spine and he shivers under your ministrations.
“C’mon,” he very nearly begs. “Use it. Bruise me.”
The first connection of the crop against tense flesh is a sharp crack that almost makes you jump. There is no way that couldn’t have been fucking painful, but Bro just groans and buries his face into his cuffed hands. “More,” he pleads, voice muffled.
“You’re a regular slut, aren’t you?” you jibe, confidence rising at his reactions to your dominance. “Come on, Bro, beg like the dirty whore you are.”
“God, please,” he urges, rocking against you desperately. “I need this so fucking bad, you don’t even know.”
You oblige him. Every harsh snap against skin makes him gasp and writhe beneath you, almost unintelligible beseeching for more spilling from his lips. You continue hurling insults and whip him until he’s crying and raw-red.
Guilt threatens to replace your bravado entirely as you take a breather. Bro is still weeping softly into his hands, knees quivering against the sheets. This is so wrong. You’re hurting him, you’re actually hurting him and he’s fucking crying and you’re starting to feel kind of sick. You are a sick, sick bastard for doing this. Why did you ever agree to this?
“Nn, why’d you stop?” Bro suddenly croaks.
Relaxing against him, you trace one of the welts rising on his back. “I’m fucking hurting you.”
Soft, affectionate chuckle. “That’s the point, little bro.” He stretches, readjusts his weight, and takes a deep breath. “Now.” His voice is steady, reassuring. “Don’t flip off the handle here, but. I need you inside me in the next few minutes or I am going to fucking explode. You think you can handle that?”
Can you handle it? It was fairly obvious that’s where this would eventually go when you started out, but you hadn’t actually thought about it. Being distracted by your naked writhing brother will do that to you.
It’ll be your virginity, but there’s no way you’d ever admit that. He probably knows anyway, in that way he seems to know everything. Your pause is probably proof enough even if he didn’t know. Your mind is completely blank and you’re scrambling for your words. All that exists is his heaving breath and that pregnant pause in the air as he waits for your answer.
“Uhh, yeah, I guess.” Eloquent as fuck, that’s you.
“Good.” He drops his front down, ass skyward like a dog in heat. “Don’t need any preparation. Just plough right in.”
You stare at the puckered ring of muscle he’s offered you. You’ve seen enough porn to know that this will work, but it still seems impossible in the moment.
No preparation, he said, and despite your incredulousness and your want to stretch him at least a little bit first, you readjust, perching as tall on your knees as possible, and nudge yourself at his entrance. And impatient whine rumbles deep in his throat as you press, certain this isn’t going to work. Nothing gives, this is so stupid and terrible and then oh, you breach something, and Bro sucks in a quick breath.
Slowly, slowly, you slide in. Lungs burn with forgotten air but you couldn’t care less at the moment. He’s so fucking tight. So fucking tight and he’s whispering little encouragements, and you feel the way he clenches and unclenches around you, trembling, so impatient but willing to wait to let you adjust.
“You okay back there?” His voice is strained.
“Oh,” is the only word in your vocabulary right now. The leash is wrapped tightly around your left hand like a lifeline, and your right hand digs into his hip for balance. You can barely hear the sound of his labored breathing past the collar as you yank on it a little too hard. Your pulse is roaring in your ears and you’re pretty sure you can’t breathe.
“Start whenever,” he says. Please do so quickly, he doesn’t say, but you can sense it underneath his husky baritone anyway.
You swallow the air your lungs desperately need and clench at his hip, psyching yourself into motion. It can’t be that hard, after all, this is what you were built to do.
Instinct takes over quickly and you don’t really have much say in the matter. After the first tentative thrust you’re gone, hips snapping forward quickly. Your mind is swimming with pleasure, a low groan finding its way to your lips. Still, your sounds can’t rival the sudden desperate swearing exploding from Bro as he counterthrusts greedily.
“More, more, fuck,” he pleads eagerly. At this point you couldn’t say no even if you wanted to, and you fuck him harder. The hand on his hip slips around and grasps at his erection, teasing the piercing with your fingers. His words dissolve into indecent whimpering that leaves you achingly turned on.
The fumbling on his cock finds a rhythm as you continue your thrusting as deep as you can go. Bro is practically crooning now, completely at your mercy and loving it. You doubt you have much longer, not with the white heat that’s building in your gut.
You pull harder on him, determined for him to come first. Nails drag along purpled swollen flesh and he’s back to insatiable swearing, the words bubbling out of him like a fountain. “Please, fuck, Dave, I’m almost, fuck, shit, so close, please!”
Concentration on getting him off spurs you faster, every ounce of self-control utilized to hold back your own finish. A low hungry groan and an exclamation of love is punctuated by the spurt of his seed all over your hand, and that accompanied by the sudden clench of muscle around you is enough to send you falling too. You lean over him, bite into his shoulder, and ride out your orgasm with a shiver.
It takes you a moment to realize you’re muttering “Oh god” against his skin, and you shut up immediately once you do. You distract yourself from the implications of what’s just happened by peeling yourself off of his back and prying yourself free of the leash. Bro flops over onto his back and gives you a sleepy smile.
“Could you let me free?” he implores softly. Another mindless action you complete, hands shaking as your mind reels. You’re not a virgin. You fucked your brother. You are so fucked up. You are so, so fucked up.
Bro stretches, rubbing at the raw skin on his wrists with a satisfied grunt. You stare at it, feeling sick. You did that. Every mark on his body is because of you.
He looks up and the slight smile on his face drops. “What’s up?” It’s not a demand. It’s nonchalant, but filled with an undercurrent of concern and caring that makes you want to cry, if that was your shtick.
You don’t even know what to say. How do you begin to explain how shitty you feel?
“C’mere,” he beckons gently. You crawl over to him, tucking yourself under the arm he has outstretched for you. He wraps his arms around you and buries his lips in your hair, inhaling sleepily.
“You did good,” he whispers, a hand playing at the hair on the nape of your neck.
“When you… you know,” you mutter, unable to put what just happened to words and feeling like such a child for it, “you said you… luh…” The word catches in your throat. Why are you asking him this? This is so stupid, and you’re stupid, and there’s no way he’s not going to use this against you later.
“S’cause I do love you.”
He laughs then, artery-clogging butter Crisco filling your ears. “What, you thought I didn’t mean it? Dumb squirt.”
Relief and mitigation flood your veins and you can finally, finally relax.
You finally mumble what you’ve been meaning to say for the past five minutes into his shoulder.
“Well… You too.”