
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/627091.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/John_Egbert
  Character:
      Bro_(Homestuck), John_Egbert
  Additional Tags:
      Foot_Fetish, kind_of?, there's_a_footjob, and_thigh_highs
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-06 Words: 1323
****** I forgot to press B. ******
by ArrogantConqueror
Summary
     Fulfilling my own prompt: Bro x (John + thigh highs) = sex.
Notes
     i posted an underage!john/bro prompt on tumblr and my_lovely_friend
     filled_it. and i loved it so much that i changed what i was writing a
     smidge to fill my own prompt and kind of made it a sequel to hers?
     so here i go
     john is 17, bro is 29 because of reasons
John Egbert has no concept of subtlety. This is something that you learned very
early on in your relationship, back when he was more your kid brother's best
friend than he was your downfall (he calls you his boyfriend, and though you'd
never say it aloud, you think that's kind of sweet; and you most certainly
don't think of him in similar terms when you are alone). But he had learned for
you -- at least, at first. As time passed and he began to notice just how
tightly around his little finger you had allowed yourself to be wrapped, the
pretences began to drop, and you were left with John bat-my-eyelashes-and-get-
my-way Egbert. And as you watched him grow up, watched him fight to fit into
his body like a god damn Labrador, watched him never quite catch up to his
legs, you came to understand that that might be his most endearing quality.
If John wanted something, he would go right for the jugular. He didn't even try
to pretend to have grace about it anymore, like he did when he was younger,
when he would tease and seduce with all of the innocence of a siren.
When you could still make excuses.
But five years is a long time to be pointing fingers and ducking
responsibility. It almost kills you to think of just how glorious those five
years were.
Five years feels even longer when you're guilty.
As you sit on your futon and run your fingers reverently down a child's sky-
blue thighs and mouth at John's hard dick under the matching underwear, you
almost can't bring yourself to care.
He grips at your shoulder with his left hand, the right pinching and tugging at
his rosy little nipple. You brush your nose along the length of his cock and
hesitate to suck at the head, tongue darting at the small wet spot already
there. Your hands inch up to cup his ass -- his perky, tight ass that you know
better than the back of your own hand -- but he gasps and wrenches himself
away, twisting out of your grasp.
Your heart stops for a second; you very nearly sigh with relief when he settles
himself on the coffee table in front of you, one endless leg crossed over the
other and jiggling his airborne foot. Once John's sure he's caught your
attention with it, he smirks and eases them apart, knees splayed wide to adjust
himself. You aren't even aware that you've started to reach for him until he
gives your forearm a playful kick and then rests his feet on your shoulders.
Okay. He's got a plan. You can work with a plan. You grant him a quick smile
and get a little more comfortable, rolling your shoulders. His feet slide down.
John leans back, arms splayed behind him in support. One foot, dainty in its
nylon costume, presses against the left half of your chest. It slides up a few
inches before gliding down, pausing to dig his big toe into your nipple before
continuing down your ribcage, over across your abs, and finally stopping at
your navel. You smirk. He grins. His other foot follows a similar path but
veers off course to settle on top of your thigh.
He circles his toes around your navel, catching the fabric of your shirt
between them every so often and tugging. You understand his message quite
clearly: however, you aren't feeling too particularly accommodating right now.
You lean further into the futon, fingers lacing behind your head and you tug
your hat back a little to eye him. John pouts like a fucking two-year-old and
huffs, pursing his lips in determination. You mentally wish him all the luck in
the world.
He bears down a little and wiggles his toes until he gets a nice bunch of
cotton gathered up. And he pulls. It wasn't much, but enough of your shirt
comes untucked that he can inch one foot up against your skin. Your muscles
twitch under the cool nylon. You figure he's earned something of a reward, and
so you allow yourself to grunt a soft sound of surprise and pride. John grins
and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You take yours off, set them
on the cushion beside you.
You try to lean forward to grab him, drag him in your lap, but he holds you
back with both feet firmly against your solar plexus. You raise an eyebrow; he
keeps on with that deceptive choir-boy smile. "Get it out," he says.
You blink. His heel digs into your belt buckle.
Oh.
Oh, okay.
You push his foot aside to unbuckle your belt and pull the zipper of your pants
down. John takes over again, toeing apart the button. You wonder when his feet
became as talented as his piano fingers.
He coos in his throat, regarding your erection like a cherished toy. You knock
your hat off and your fingers dig into your hair somewhere between when he
curls the toes of one foot just so and you feel the scrape of his toenails
through your pubic hair; and when his other foot darts between your legs to
press up against your perineum.
That fucking tease.
You catch a devious little glint in his eyes, the kind he gets when he's
pranking or feeling particularly rambunctious and for an irrational second, you
think he honestly might not be able to differentiate between his libido and his
gambit. But then he pulls himself together and captures your dick between his
feet, and you forget everything that you should have been thinking about. You
are absolutely consumed by John and that's just how he wants it.
Just like you did when they were small and clumsy, you cup your hands around
his feet and guide them. Hold them steady. Feel the tension in his legs leave
when you set a rhythm that your hips could work to as you rock into the silken
fabric, made slick by your pre-ejaculate. You squeeze at the dorsum of his feet
until he understands and relaxes the muscles there, too. You use this slack to
your advantage and direct the tightness of his grip.
"You know, I tried to find a striped pair." John's tone is far too
conversational, too light. You glance up at him. He pulls one foot out of your
hold to nudge at your balls, to roll the instep against them from back to
front. Then it's back with its mate; his toes spread wide and around the head
of your dick. They close, his big toe pressing into the slit. You think you
might have choked.
"All they had was solid blue," he whispers and resumes the pace you'd set. His
words are dry. Terse. Like a secret. You bow your head and try to reconcile the
blue of his knees with the blue of his eyes in a way that didn't niggle at your
gut.
Your hands leave his feet to crawl up his legs, settling in the spot behind his
knees that makes him laugh when you kiss there. Now free, one foot curls
sinuously around the shaft and wedges it against your stomach, stroking its
cornered prize slightly faster; the other catches your foreskin and his toes
squeeze. John knows just how to kill you and you have no doubts about how badly
you deserve it. You tense and your hands edge down to grab at his calves.
Seconds later, one darts out and shoves his foot harder against your dick, your
hips breaking cadence to thrust erratically a few more times, and then you come
undone.
Your semen splatters on your shirt and the stockings. He pulls the foot at the
head of your dick away, holding it aloft to inspect your come. His toes wiggle
and he smiles, wide and bright.
"You'll make me another pair, won't you?"
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