
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/770469.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Stridercest, Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Bro_(Homestuck), John_Egbert, Rose_Lalonde, (but_brief),
      and_also_mentions_of_jade, but_basically_its_just_about_these_two_loser
      brothers_who_suck_a_whole_lot
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Bad_Parenting, lol_my_favorite_subject, Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-23 Completed: 2013-06-27 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 3719
****** Five Stages Of Grief ******
by asslalonde_(rawrmynameisval)
Summary
     An account of an abusive relationship between Bro and Dave in terms
     of the Kübler-Ross model, or the "five stages of grief". The events
     take place mostly around Dave's sixteenth birthday. Used mostly to
     just explore the characters haha what a nerd
***** Denial *****
You’ll admit, to anyone, that your bro can get pretty weird sometimes. But even
then you try to be vague about what kind of weird shit he gets up to, and
exactly how weird it really is.
You don’t mention to people that his favorite hobby is to invade your “personal
space”.
You don’t mention that he makes you constantly uncomfortable.
You don’t mention how many times he’s touched you in ways you know normal
brothers don’t touch each other.
You don’t mention that you’re a little scared of him, because sometimes you
have no idea how far he’ll go.
When you were little you shared a bed with him, and you’d wake up some nights
to him rubbing his body against you. He always made you sit on his lap when you
two watched TV. And he wouldn’t let you get up, even if you had to pee really
fucking bad.
As you got older, he started to be more subtle about it. Well, as subtle as Bro
Strider can be. Sometimes he rubs your knee when it isn’t necessary. He’ll hook
you by the neck as you walk past and kiss the top of your head. He reaches
under your shirt or smacks your ass and then laughs at your flustered
expression.
Sometimes he corners you in the kitchen and palms you through your jeans,
before your tolerance meter runs out and you shove him away from you. He laughs
and calls you a prude or a pussy, and says you can’t take a joke.
But you grew up with this. You can deal with it. And it’s not that creepy, it’s
normal stupid brother stuff. No reason to sound the alarm. Not yet anyway.
Right?
When he gets drunk, he gets sappy and clingy. He cuddles up to you on the
couch, embracing you with his giant, muscular arms and traps you there, so that
even if he falls asleep holding you like that, you can’t get away. He’ll plant
big wet kisses on your neck and try to get you hot by whispering things to you
that you’d never dare repeat to anyone else, because you’d know they’d tell you
that you need to get out of the house because your bro has lost his shit if
he’s saying things like that to his little brother. He never gets too far
though. He’s fallen asleep with a hand down your pants before, but that time
you were able to become a noodle and slide right out of his steel bear hug.
You can handle this. Really.
***** Anger *****
Chapter Notes
     not my best work so bear with me here
Today was your sixteenth birthday. He and John’s Dad had conspired to send John
down here as a surprise. You wish they hadn’t. You don’t want him to know about
the way things were between you and Bro.
But he behaved. You don’t think John noticed a thing. Which was good. Maybe.
You have a recurring fantasy of John figuring everything out without you having
to explain it all and rescuing you. That’s fucking stupid though. You don’t
need to be saved. You’re totally fine. Bro’s great. He’s just. Overly
affectionate. Sort of.
Egbert’s too oblivious anyway.
You opened your presents from Bro cautiously. A couple of new games (that he’d
no doubt be hogging later), a couple of CDs, and a giant box of condoms. No,
like, for real giant. Like he got a giant fucking box. And filled it with
condoms. John laughed his ass off until he was wiping tears from eyes as you
sat there uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. You get that in any other
context, it would have been goddamn hilarious. But it was from Bro. It wasn’t
just a playful joke coming from him. It was a suggestion.
“There’s even lube in here! Dave, look,” John exclaimed, still grinning like an
asshole as he sifted through the sea of dick-wrapping fun.
You didn’t need to look though. He’d finally done it. He’d pushed your limit
too far and you were breaking.
You shoved the box off your lap, ignoring John’s protest (“Hey!”), and stood
up. Bro was lounging against the kitchen counter with a smirk on his face. You
stared at him for a second, calculating, before grabbing a sword out of your
sylladex and charging at him.
He saw it coming though. Your brief hesitation was warning enough. He
flashstepped out of the way and let your blade slice the wood of the counter.
Before you could pull it out and go for another blow, he’d captchalogued it and
had your face shoved down on the counter. He twisted your arm back behind you
painfully and you let out a distress call for help, sure this wouldn’t end
well.
You couldn’t see or hear John at this point, but you know he was still frozen
on the couch, at a loss for what to do.
Bro pressed himself against you, and leaned down so he could whisper in your
ear.
“You’re gonna pay for that tonight, babe.”
He smacked your ass hard and when you let out a yelp, he laughed and let you
go.
You stood up straight, trying to hide your burning face and the tears prickling
under your skin, threatening to pour out like a waterfall. Bro was gone by
then, and John was staring at you, still in shock.
"What was that?" John asked, but you ignored him.
“Move over, Egbert,” you grumbled, still avoiding looking him in the eyes as
you sat down next to him and unpaused your game.
John was quiet, but he didn’t pick up his controller.
“Dude,” you prompted.
“Are you crying?” he blurted out finally.
You gritted your teeth and managed a shaky “no”, which of course he didn’t take
as seriously as you’d liked him to.
“What’s wrong, Dave?”
You felt your face grow hot. The way he asked that question, the intonation of
his voice--it was too intimate for you to handle.
“Fuck, you gonna keep interrogating me or are we gonna play?”
“Dave--”
“Jesus Christ, shut up.”
“Did I do something--?”
“No, you didn’t do fucking anything,” you growled. “So shut the fuck up and
play already.”
John gave up finally and left you alone. You two didn’t talk much for the rest
of the day.
***** Bargaining *****
As the afternoon passed you felt yourself grow more and more anxious.
John went to bed first. You wanted to follow him. You wanted to curl up next to
him so that when Bro drags you out of bed, he’ll notice the absence of your
body heat and maybe--maybe he’ll try to help you this time.
But instead you stay there on the couch. You stare at the blue screen in front
of you and wait for footsteps outside the door.
You know he’s drunk as soon as he walks in. It’s dark and all you can see is
his silhouette. You don’t want to see his face, or the lecherous grin you’re so
familiar with.
“Hey, Davey,” he croons as he leans down, one hand on the back of the couch
behind you to steady himself. He kisses you on the lips and you don’t fight
back.
You’re scared out of your mind.Please. Anything but this.
“Waitin’ up for me?” he asks and his breath reeks of alcohol when he kisses you
again. “How sweet...”
He captchalogues your shades and you can hear your heartbeat pounding in your
head. You realize you’re trembling and you try to stop but you can’t. He stares
right into your eyes. You look away but you can still feel his gaze piercing
your skin. You feel helpless. Frozen. It is pretty cold in here.
He gets frustrated when he sits down next to you and you inch away from him. He
hooks an arm around your neck and pulls you into another kiss. You try not to
look so disgusted when he pulls away to examine at your expression.
You apparently don’t do a very good job. He almost looks a little hurt. Really,
anything.
“What’s wrong, kiddo? Don’t like me?”
You open your mouth to say something clever and scathing but nothing comes out.
He laughs.
“That’s alright, I like you enough for the both of us,” he says as he stands
again to unbuckle his belt.
Fuck. Kill me now. Take my life. Just don’t let this happen to me.
“Bro--” you start, but you can’t finish.
“Come on, Dave. Take it off.”
You cringe away from him when he reaches for your shirt but he yanks it off of
you before you can stop him.
He pins you down on your back and climbs over you. He leans down and you feel
his tongue, hot and wet, swipe over your collar bone.
You gasp, and he takes the noise as pleasure. But you’re just cold. And off
your guard. You don’t want this and you’re trying so hard to tell him with
every bone and muscle and blood cell in your body but he isn’t listening.
He’s sucking on your skin now and--ow--it’s starting to hurt like fuck--
“Bro, fucking stop!” you shout, and you shove his face away from you with all
the strength you can get up.
You see you’ve cracked his shades when he sits up, still straddling your
thighs. His face is twisted into a scowl. You swallow nervously.
He isn’t happy.
 
“Don’t,” you scream.
You don’t know how John can’t hear you.
“Stop,” you yell.
These walls must be more insulated than you thought. You’d just assumed all
these years that Bro was just really fucking quiet.
“Come on, you like it,” is all he says in reply.
“Stop, stop,” you sob.
Your voice is getting hoarse.
“Please.”
“Quit strugglin’, princess. You’re just makin’ it hurt more.”
“Please, I’ll do anything, just stop,” you cry.
Tears stream from your eyes and you groan unhappily when he thrusts into you
particularly hard.
“I won’t tell anyone, I swear,” you whisper.
You can’t take this much longer. It feels like it’s been going on for years.
“Bro, please, I’m your brother--”
“Oh, shut up, you’re adopted.”
You hate yourself with every shove of his hips. Loathing and disgust burns
inside you, in your guts. Or maybe that’s just his dick ripping you open from
the inside.
You know it’s your fault he’s being so rough. You shouldn’t have provoked him.
You shouldn’t have broken his stupid ugly shades or come at him with that
sword.
You guess he’s close because he reaches beneath you to grab your dick and start
jerking you off. You’re completely soft. You have been for the whole time.
“Fuck--” he breathes against your neck. “Dave.”
You feel him cum and the tears start up again. Quiet this time. But you can’t
make them stop. Your poker face has been stepped on, cracked, crushed under
huge, heavy combat boots, and ground into dust. You’ve lost control of your
body, your emotions. You try not to think too hard about what’s just happened.
You try to ignore the fact that your brother is the one who did this to you.
Just for now. Or maybe forever. Because you just can’t handle it. Your body
already feels like it’s been destroyed by armies. You’re hanging onto the arm
of the futon like it’s your last shard of sanity, and maybe it is.
He pulls out of you and you feel horribly empty and unfortunately full.
Everything stings. Everything burns.
“You bled a little,” Bro says, and his voice is flat.
You don’t answer. You just hold on tight. You can see your knuckles. They’re
white. The blood probably drained out of them to leak out of your fucked-up
asshole. Hah.
“Shit,” you hear him whisper.
There are rough, calloused hands on your hips trying to pull you off. You grit
your teeth and don’t let go.
He grabs your fists and pries off your fingers one at a time.
One hand under your neck and another under your knees. He carries you into the
bathroom.
You get an awful wave of déjà vu. You’ve seen this in a movie or read it in a
book.
He drops your naked broken body into the tub, and turns on the water. It’s too
cold and then it’s too hot until he gets it the perfect temperature.
You think he’s going to drown to you at first, but then he lifts you up and
kisses your forehead. You can feel his panic in his every movement as he washes
his guilt off you.
“Hey, hey,” he says, slapping your face gently to get your attention. As gentle
as Bro Strider can be. “Listen, it’ll be okay. You’re okay.”
You ignore him. You don’t owe him a response. You’ve just given him your body
and your dignity. Practically all you goddamn have.
“You’re gonna get better and we’re going to forget this ever happened and we’re
never going to tell anyone, okay?” His voice is rough, a little angry. Like
it’s your fault you feel, and probably look, half dead.
It is your fault, though, isn’t it?
You close your eyes. You just want to sleep. Just let me sleep.
“Alright, you can sleep. Just let me get you out of this tub first. Jesus.”
Oh, you guess you said that outloud.
“Fuck,” you hear him mumble under his breath, and you wonder fleetingly what’s
wrong now.
You feel something on your asshole and you jerk away before you realize it’s
just a washcloth. It hurts, but it’s a small comfort.
When you’re clean enough to his standards, he pulls your slippery limbs out and
sits you down on the tile floor so he can dry you off.
He disappears for a moment, and then flashsteps back into the room with boxers
and a t-shirt for you to wear. He helps you put them on.
It hurts to stand.
He doesn’t take you to your room. He lays you back down on the futon and throws
a blanket over you.
“I’ll tell John you’re sick. He’ll be gone by tomorrow afternoon.”
You don’t answer.
He runs his fingers through your wet hair.
You want him to leave. He must pick up on this because he's gone seconds later.
It’s dark. It’s cold. You ache all over.
But this blanket’s warm and the worst thing that could ever happen to you is up
moping on the roof and won’t be back until morning.
***** Depression *****
Chapter Notes
     had this finished for a while idk why i didnt update <333
See the end of the chapter for more notes
When you wake up, your phone tells you it’s two in the afternoon and a text
from him tells you your rapist won’t be back until eight.
You try to get up and go to the bathroom but your ass aches with memories of
last night.
Won’t be able to shit for weeks, you think, though that’s probably not how that
works.
Bro is out of the apartment--thank god. Or not. You don’t really feel up to
thanking any deities for a while--so you decide to relocate to a room with a
lock on the door. Not that it would really stop him. The Strider Residence is
no stranger to door replacements. Or windows. Or walls. Or any kind of
replacement really.
Emotional replacements too. Sarcasm for sincerity. Anger for grief and panic
and a fuckton of others. Uncontrollable lust for unconditional love.
You shake your head. You’re starting to sound like Rose.
You make yourself a nest of blankets and pillows and you bury yourself in it.
You don’t leave your room for the rest of the day. You don’t get up, unless
it’s to piss or scavenge for food. You sleep through the days and sneak out of
your room only at night, or when you know by his schedule that he won’t be
home.
You manage to avoid seeing his face for almost a week, and then you’re shaken
awake and you open your eyes to see him sitting on your bed next to you. You
close them right away but he doesn’t like that.
He shakes you again, more roughly.
“What?” you groan.
“I gotta make sure you’re still alive. Haven’t seen you around lately. You
feelin’ okay?”
Oh, I don’t know, it’s not like you ripped up my anus and traumatized me for
life or anything.
“Yeah,” you spit. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m tired as shit.”
Jesus, just leave me alone. It’s not like you care anyway.
“Eating okay?”
“Food’s been disappearing from the fridge, hasn’t it?”
He lets out a chuckle and you wish you kind find comfort in that sound again
but you haven’t been able to since you were nine.
“Alright, just checkin’.
You feel his body leave the bed and you let out a silent sigh of relief. Now
you just have to wait for him to leave the room and--
“Hey,” he says, and you flinch. You thought he was done. “About the other
night...”
Your stomach flips and you feel sick.
“I just wanna say I’m sorry about that.”
Oh God. You’re going to throw up.
“Next time, I’ll make sure it’s better for you."
Your mouth feels small and dry. Your eyes are watering. You hear him close the
bedroom door behind him and you barely make it to the trash can in time before
you start vomiting your misused guts out.
Chapter End Notes
     the finale will be coming soon since i have most of that written
     already so keep an eye out for it over the next few days.
***** Acceptance *****
Chapter Notes
     cry, my pretties, CRY
     im sorry i lied about when this would come out. i got lots of
     personal shit going on and had terrible writers block.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s been scientifically proven that if you tie up a dog and torture him for
long enough with no way of escaping the pain, you’ll break his will to run away
from you. And when you finally let him go, he won’t move. He’ll just lie there
and wait for you to hurt him again, like the chain that held him to the spot is
still there.
Rose told you about that. Some creepy-ass experiment these guys did in the late
sixties. She was trying to explain to you what “learned helplessness” was. (She
was the best teacher you’d ever had, though you’d never tell her that.)
You still think it’s funny you never seriously considered running away. But you
get why. You get that you’re the dog being tortured and shit with no way out
until there is and by then you just can’t do it. You don’t know if you can even
live on your own, without Bro breathing down your neck while he fucks you again
and again and again and again and--
You grew up with this. You’ve got no fucking clue how to deal with it.
So you just take it like you want it so he isn’t so angry all the time.
You get that he’s fucked you up so bad you’re too scared to leave him. You just
wish you had the balls to hit him back next time.
But you wish a lot of dumbfuck things.
You wish you didn’t have all these shitty trust issues, hanging on you like
sticky cobwebs and making you feel so heavy and tired all the time. You wish
you weren’t so afraid of everyone you meet treating you like he does.
And you wish your friends weren’t so nosy. You wish Rose wasn’t so good at
diagnosing all your problems. You wish she didn’t throw psychology terms at you
that you know are true but don’t want to hear. You wish she couldn’t read you
so well. You wish she hadn’t figured out what was going on between you and Bro
so quickly. You wish she hadn’t told John after you asked her not to. You wish
she had believed you when you said it was consensual and that it wasn’t
actually as terrible as it sounded. You wish she hadn’t called the cops that
one time to try to help you out. You wish Bro wasn’t so good at talking his way
out of things. Which is what he did. And they left. Thinking it was a prank
call.
You wish John would still talk to you without sounding like he’s scared of like
triggering some traumatic memory or something. God, what a moron.
You wish Jade were online as often as she used to be, but ever since she left
her little island paradise (you never visited her there like you promised)
she’s been pretty busy with living in real life. You’re not sure if Rose told
her or not. If she did, Jade never brought it up with you.
Rose and John both went to college. You aren’t sure you’d want four more years
of school and you don’t think Bro would let you if you did. It’s not like
you’ll ever need to get a job or anything. Bro has enough money for you to bum
off of him until you die. Wow, your brother is literally your sugar daddy.
Great.
...Fuck.
You don’t know if you can live with this for the rest of your life. But the
idea of even going to get groceries by yourself practically gives you an
anxiety attack.
He makes you sleep in the same bed as him now. So he can “get himself some
sweet lovin’” anytime he wants. Apparently that means when you’re unconscious
too.
At least he’s good at it. Sex, you mean. You know, when he isn’t forcing it on
you totally dry.
He’s sitting next to you now, on the futon in the living room. Some movie you
used to love is on the television but you’re kind of tuning it out. He makes
you watch it every time he thinks you’ve been a debbie downer all day. You know
exactly where this is going.
Soon as the last scene begins he slides off the couch and gets on his knees
between your legs. He takes off his shades before he unzips your jeans, because
he has this idea you like looking at his eyes when you two are getting it on.
As if you really want to fuckin’ be reminded that he’s an actual human being.
You cum just as the credits start rolling. He swallows, per usual. You find
yourself tugging at his hair as you come back down, and your muttered curses
fade to quiet panting. Bro wipes his mouth on the back of his gloved hand and
smiles up at you.
“Hah, you do still love me,” he says, satisfied.
Chapter End Notes
     welp thats it so i hope you enjoyed it
     remember to rate, comment, and subscribe.
     *double pistols and a wink*
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
