
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1925964.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Bro_(Homestuck), Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      dubcon, Sickfic, Shota, Underage_-_Freeform
  Collections:
      Drone_Season_Sloppy_Seconds_2014
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-09 Words: 998
****** Flu ******
by scattergun
Summary
     Dave is sick, Bro is interested.
Notes
     Went a little off-prompt, but I hope I hit the right sort of notes
It started with some sniffles, some tiredness, and well, there you have it:
Dave down with a righteous flu. Probably from some snot-nosed brat at his
school.
Still, it's not like you really mind. Hours are flexible in the smuppet
business and, in your own way, you enjoy this. You're proud of him: while sick
he hardly fusses. None of the dramatics one might expect from a seven year old.
Maybe he pushes himself a little hard- at his sickest, you'd found him napping
on the kitchen floor, Campbell's in the microwave, as if he'd just keeled over
from exhaustion. But he's fine. You've taught him how to be independent. Not
being stupid about it will come with age.
Currently he's lying down, dozing on and off as he watches cartoons and rides
out the flu's last throes. You've inserted yourself at the end of the futon so
his head's in your lap.
You card your fingers through the soft white ruffles of his hair, wondering
what you can get away with. Gradually your touches grow more affectionate, from
touching his hair to the nape of his neck to caressing his jaw.
He stirs.
"M'sick, bro." He mumbles, sounding sleepy and a little uncertain. He's turned
himself a little to look at you out of the corner of his eye. Red and red-
rimmed, not from crying but just from sick. Bleary. His hair is sticking up in
unruly tufts and he looks like some kind of stupid baby bird, which is quite
frankly adorable.
"It'll make you feel better," you reply, intent solidifying.
He just lets his head fall back into your lap with a tiny groan: not quite a
protest. So you gently pull him up to sit with his back against your chest,
then do the majority of the work wrangling his shirt off. He's small and fits
neatly in your lap.
Sickness-worn, he hardly fidgets or tenses: you don't as much physically see
his nervousness as you intuit it, which, in any case, is fair enough. It hasn't
been long since you started this with him. A week, maybe, not counting months
of one-sided, barely-there flirtation; just enough to get the idea under his
skin.
He had still been confused at first, but now he doesn't resist as you push his
pajama pants down, and when you cup his boyish cock in your hand he no longer
looks at you as if for answers. Just shivers.
"You cold?"
"...Sorta," he replies, in that child-cute voice.
Honestly, you'd asked him on a whim, and making him put on his shirt again
would feel kind of silly. Instead you pull a blanket (felt-like, warm) from
underneath the bed.
"Alright, let's get cozy up in here."
You wrap the blanket around the both of you, securely ensconcing him. You can
feel his body heat and yeah, damn straight it's cozy.
You hold him close with your left arm, trailing your right hand down his chest.
You can't see his body now, or what your hands are up to, and it's not that you
didn't appreciate that view, god no. But with the way you're sitting now, you
could just be two brothers cuddling, only you and he knowing how you're
touching him. Some kind of hypothetical, of course, you wouldn't risk something
public- but the thought rouses something in you, nonetheless.
You caress him a while longer, keeping him in suspense- you touched his dick
once, and you finish what you start; but the question is when. He leans further
into you for warmth or maybe comfort, exhaling when you brush your thumb over
one of his nipples.
You trail your hand down further. When you touch the tender inner side of his
thigh he clenches them together briefly, ticklish, but you know he wants this
as much as you do because he spreads his legs right after.
"Good boy," you mumble into his hair, loud enough for him to hear, and wrap
your hand around him. He whines low in his throat, half-heartedly wriggling his
hips forward. You both know you set the pace.
A few more teasing touches- your thumb brushing across the corona of his glans,
then sliding over the slit- and you start giving him a handjob in earnest.
Steady pace, steady pressure. He gasps. So easy to please. He's already getting
noisy, not in volume but in frequency, whining and moaning, breath hitching
audibly. You know it's not on purpose: you'd had him straddle you once, then
coaxed every noise out of him as carefully as you could, and he'd been flushed
cherry-red with embarrassment, looking about ready to cry. You up the pace.
"Bro-" he throws his head back against your chest and tries to thrust into your
hand, even as your other arm holds him in close. "Bro-"
And god, desperation looks good on him. You adjust the position of your hips,
knowing he can feel your cock through your pants. You want him completely, all
of him, as his first his only his everything. Him stretched open for you,
fucked half-delirious... But now isn't the time, and you pull on the pride you
take in your self-control to tamp down on your desire.
He's close, almost sobbing as he repeats himself, Bro, Bro, Bro. You brush your
lips against his neck and continue stroking him, patient even as his movements
turn frantic.
He comes dry but you know when he does- he shudders and shakes and his
movements slow until he's still. You take your hand off him and pull his pants
back up around his waist, then pull the both of you down so he's lying on top
of you. God knows you're still riled up, but you're a patient man, and so you
just hold him in silence and pat his back soothingly as the heat ebbs out of
you.
You lie like that until Dave dozes off, then get up to leave. You've got things
to do.
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