
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4845266.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Bro_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Shota, Incest, Somnophilia, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-21 Words: 3271
****** Wakeup Call ******
by LittleTrashLord
Summary
     …on second thought you’re sure with absolute certainty that this is
     illegal because here’s Bro, passed out after a long night at the
     club, and you’re having no trouble getting his jeans open.
Notes
     CAN BE SEEN ON TUMBLR AT: http://littletrashlord.tumblr.com/post/
     129472300397/wakeup-call
See, the major issue in your life is that you have poor impulse control.  This
never really proved to be a problem in the past because everything always works
out and really, if you’re feeling the motivation to get out of bed at three am
and set to mixing some beats so fine they require the word “hella” as proper
description then that’s not really going to hurt anyone.  Except maybe you and
your ability to pay attention during first period but eh, c’est la vie.  That’s
neither here nor there because mixing after midnight is one thing.  This?
 You're fairly sure this is illegal on seventeen levels and you just do not
give a single damn.  You don’t even have a single damn to give.  It's a bad
habit, this not-giving-a-damn thing you've gotten yourself into but hey, fact
of the matter is you're a modern man who likes to take life by the balls and
give a nice, firm, satisfying squeeze.  
Okay, you're a preteen boy who barely has balls of his own and you're not sure
how to find the great gonads of life to grab onto.  That’s secondary.
 Tertiary, even.  Unimportant to the conversation at hand which involves your
hands on your brother, and on the topic of balls-- and nope, you’re going to
halt that metaphor where it stand because here’s the deal.  You have been
harboring a weird little crush that has turned into an even weirder little
boner for your brother for a long time and when you say “long time” you mean “I
should be in therapy and stay there until I’m thirty.”  Does that come into
play here?  Nope, not even the slightest bit because you keep telling yourself
you’re fine, you’re okay, and everything you do is within the reasonable realm
of curiosity for a twelve year old boy.
...on second thought you're sure with absolute certainty that this is illegal
because here’s Bro, passed out after a long night at the club, and you're
having no trouble getting his jeans open.  It helps that he was drunk when he
crashed and you’re silent when your little fingers pull down the zipper, the
click of each tooth too-loud while you listen to his breathing with all the
attentiveness of a mandatory school hearing test.  Meaning: your ears are open
and you are praying you don't fuck up.  Considering the way you start rubbing
at Bro's dick through his boxers the moment his jeans are open there's a decent
chance you can't fuck up because you're already fucked up.
Nice turn of phrase; you commit that one to the memory banks.  At the same time
you cup your hand over Bro’s junk and marvel at the heft of all the cotton-
covered flesh in your little palm and deposit thatmemory into the spank bank.
 There's lots of banks, like how you bank on him being too tired or too drunk
or too hungover to wake up while you struggle with maneuvering his prick
through the fly of his boxers.  A little difficult when it's someone else's
junk and someone else's boxers but hey, you make do.  It's not like this is
rocket science, just sexual assault or something and wow, you really don't want
to consider that so you just tuck that thought away into the already full inbox
of your brain.  Consideration regarding your bunk morality is not what you came
here to do.  Self reflection can come later because now all you want to do is
marvel over Bro's dick.
Being perfectly honest here?  You have no idea what you're looking at.  From an
objective standpoint, sure.  It's a dick.  Issue is you don't have a lot of
experience with dick that isn't your own and you're not really sure if he's got
a big one or a pretty one or what.  Your knowledge of dick suffers a woeful
inadequacy and your life is hard.  What you do know is that even soft he’s a
decent handful and Bro's dream either got real interesting all of a sudden or
your grabby little paws are having an effect because as soon as you slide your
fingers around it he starts to get hard.  Score; his inadvertent cooperation
makes your life all that much easier.
Size aside, you realize it's not much different from your own in that it has
the same sort of velvety skin over a hard core that you’re familiar with.  His
has more veins, the flare on his cockhead is more pronounced - you wonder if
yours might end up looking more like that when you get older.  It's a passing
thought that you don't dwell on because masturbation is a thing you just
recently figured out and trying to extrapolate what your pork sword is going to
look like in ten years is more effort than you want to commit to.  That whole
train of thought stacks tidy into your brain’s inbox and then the only thing
left to think about is what you're going to do with Bro's dick.
Getting handsy with it proves less entertaining than you expected.  It serves
the purpose of stimulation and he hardens up in no time, but beyond that?
 There's not exactly a lot it's doing for you when the only reaction you get is
Bro's breathing, deep rumbles that edge on snoring but fall just short of
breaking into that classification of sleep sounds.  So for a few minutes you
entertain yourself with squeezing on the tip and pushing the veins around just
under the skin because hey; exploration, name of science, all that fun stuff.
You're on a mission to discover the secrets of Bro's anatomy with all your
senses and you’re two for five with touch and sight down.
The real question is: do you dare put it in your mouth?  Let’s be real: there
aren’t a whole lot of different senses and you're not about to listen to his
dick and hope to hear the ocean or anything.  Though you do lean forward and
give it a sniff because why not - famous last words - you might as well get
that out of the way.  Verdict?  Not bad, really.  Kind of musky, kind of sweaty
- you assume that's just par the course for him falling asleep in his jeans.
 Point is that you get comfortable on your knees next to the futon, get both
hands on your brother's dick to hold it steady and then it's open up for the
choo-choo train.
...what the fuck, you're twelve not two.  Open up for the hard rod of turgid
spam porpoise is more like it.  Except that sounds gross and won’t do at all;
either way, before you can really think of a good way to phrase cocksucking in
your head you're trying to open up wide enough that you don’t scrape your
molars against the sides of all that hard wang that you make one hell of a
valiant effort to stuff down your gullet.  At least you have enough sense to
know "blowjob" is a euphemism and not how this actually works so in short order
(after gagging yourself on it only once) you set to sucking like its the
biggest jawbreaker you ever got your hands on.
You're not even ashamed to admit that you like sucking dick.  Not like as in,
"yeah, I like art class because it's the least academic part of my school day,"
but more like, "yeah, I like apple juice, I want a personal drinking fountain
of it installed next to my computer."  Meaning that you are all about this, the
oral fixation thing is a definite and your dick decides to be helpful and makes
a ridiculous-yet-much-smaller-than-Bro's sized tent in your pajama pants.  This
is a definite thing that has occurred.  Huh.  Oh, well; nobody's going to mind
if you take care of that, right?  Right.
Issue: his dick is too big to keep a proper grip on without some serious double
fisting so you have to make do as best as you can with the two little hands
you’re stuck with; you wind up with a grip on the base of it with lefty while
righty makes for your crotch like there's a bit of urgency at hand.  (Ugh, John
would have laughed at that.  You're not allowed to think anymore.  Points off
for the accidental pun on top of it.)  Not that it’s difficult to fish your
prick out but it’s still more time-energy-effort than you have the motivation
to expend in the here and now.  Solution?  You set to rubbing at yourself
through your pants instead.  On a good day that gets you going and little more
but right now you're turned on enough to where skin-on-skin doesn't even begin
to matter.  Between the dick in your mouth and your hand gripping your prick
through your pjs you're totally going to get off here and you don't give a
single damn how messed up you are for it.
Right up until Bro's palm drops onto the back of your head and all of a sudden
you give a lot of damns.  All the damns.  Every last damn in the world; you’re
passing them out like you’ve turned into the most damnably charitable person in
existence. You are shitting out a mountain of damns in your pants because Bro's
hand is huge and his fingers are thick and rough in your hair when they cup
around the back of your head.  When you look up he stares back at you with that
unreadable expression on his face, the one he always gets while he decides the
exact level of rooftop ass beatdown you deserve.
You done fucked up.  Rest in pieces.
"Ballsy lil' fuck, ain't you."  Bro's drawl is heavy as it ever is, his voice
thick with sleep and hangover and you know there's a seventy percent chance you
won't make it out of this alive.  Not with the thousand pound weight of his
hand holding you in place, mouth still stuffed full of his cock and your eyes
like tiny red saucer plates staring up at him.  You try to say something, try
to defend yourself and your poor life choices, but all that comes out are
nonsense words garbled around his dick and a thick drip of saliva that escapes
the seal of your lips and runs down his prick to where your hand is latched
around the root of it.
He lets the anticipation of the moment hang in the air until you tremble and
try to squirm off him and only then does he slide his hand to the back of your
neck.  He pets his thumb up behind your ear and gives you a very eloquent grunt
that you hope is approval.  You pray it’s approval.  Your prayers are answered
in the form of a squeeze on your neck before he presses you down; you remember
how to work your mouth and suck and he makes this noise that goes right to your
dick and it perks up as if the brief moment of boner-killing panic had never
occurred in the first place.
Bro breaks eye contact first, drops his head back and drapes his other arm over
his eyes because of the light shining in through the kitchen window and the
sunbeam streaked across his face.  Must be murder with the hangover you have no
doubts about him suffering through.  It’s not like he has to look at you to you
to enjoy what you’re doing, though - that much is obvious when he sets you into
a decent rhythm of bobbing on his cock.  You catch your lips just behind the
head before dipping further down only to pull back just before you gag.  It’s
more involved than the absent slurp-suck you started with but it’s a lot more
effective; that aside, it doesn’t take more than a couple minutes to put that
whole routine on autopilot so you can go back to jerking your dick through your
pjs.
Sex is like strife when it comes to Bro; he’s quiet, just about silent save for
his breathing getting a little rougher when he’s engaged and the faint way he
hisses his exhales out through his teeth.  It’s familiar which turns out to be
a comfort; you’re used to hearing this sort of almost silence from him.  Only
difference is that he does this little half groan and the noise hits you like a
sledgehammer each time and it very well may be the sexiest thing your preteen
self has ever encountered.  It's downright shameful how much you want to hear
it more, want to know you’re the one causing it, want him to feel good because
it’s your mouth latched around his prick like a little suckerfish; you try to
slurp the proof of your good work out of him and he delivers in the form of
noises that do nothing short of making your dick throb in your hand.
Other proof comes shortly thereafter and as it turns out Bro is really, really
bad at giving warning.  At least he’s nice enough that when he pulls your head
down further the tip of his dick is angled at the roof of your mouth to spare
you a shot to the uvula.  Even after he’s done spilling in your mouth he
doesn’t let go, hand still planted firm on the back of your neck; you guess you
aren’t going anywhere until you swallow.  So you do.  Not the worst thing
you’ve ever tasted so you give it a passing grade.  An acquired flavor, you
assume. You’ll get used to it.  All the connotations that go with “get used to
it” are noted and then tossed onto your mental inbox pile to be examined later.
 Look at the overflow on this thing, you should hire a secretary already.
It’s about that time that Bro lets you go so you lift off his prick with as
much dignity as you can manage, ignore the strings of saliva that dangle
between your lips and his cockhead and the way they catch the morning light,
and wipe your mouth off on your sleeve.  You haven’t managed to get yourself
off yet and it seems that Bro is pretty well done with you because he cleans up
and tucks himself away without a word, eyes closed against that sunbeam that
doesn’t want to leave him alone.  The sun is a brutal master, ruining people’s
sleep and making hangover headaches worse - you would suggest curtains but
that’s far more domestic of a purchase than you suspect Bro is capable of or
willing to make.  So with that all said and done you’re ready to do the polite
thing and abscond to jerk off in the privacy of your bedroom.
Except you don’t make it to your bedroom.  In fact, you barely make it to
standing upright when he grabs your wrist and halts you in your tracks.  You
don’t even get to ask what’s up before Bro drags you onto him - no, literally,
he drags you right off your feet and you wind up sprawled out half on his chest
and half tucked between him and the back of the futon before you can consider
what the fuck just happened.  What the hell was that?  Doesn’t he know it’s
polite to take a someone to dinner before just yanking them around by their
extremities?  Rude.
“Th’fuck was that about?”  He still sounds sleepy but there exists a distinct
lack of murder in his voice.  You accept that you’re going to make it out of
this alive.  Hallelujah; your celebration is compounded by the realization that
you’re just about cuddling him.  That turns out to be as unfamiliar as hearing
him moan and you think you might be ready to consider why affection and
pleasure are foreign concepts in regard to your brother when his arm - the one
not looped around your shoulders - moves so his hand can press against your
belly.  Oh, right.  He asked a question.  You should answer that.
“Wakeup call?” you try and he snorts against your hair.  The huff of breath on
your scalp does nothing to distract you from his five fingered invasion of your
pajama pants, especially not when they wrap around your dick and you make this
broken little noise because wow, you’re really needy right now and that is
embarrassing as hell.  Bro finds it funny; either that or he’s just chuckling
because he randomly decided he wanted to and it’s not related in the slightest
to the way you keen and arch against him when he strokes you.
“Helluva wakeup call.”  You try to reply but your mouth won’t make the word
noises happen, it makes the moaning noises happen instead and look at that,
you’re an uncommunicative mess.  Bro has officially shut off your language
center and you don’t give a single damn.  Not when he jerks you off like he
knows your body better than you do, not when he holds you close so you can
muffle yourself against his chest and especially not when you come in your
pajamas with his fingers framing the base of your prick and the palm of his
hand warm and firm against your belly.
Bro’s got his hand out of your pjs before you’re even finished with the little
aftershocks that make you groan and tremble against him.  Yeah, those are a
thing that happens so you chill while they run their course.  Once you can get
yourself in order you try to squirm out from the little valley he’s got you
tucked into - that idea gets vetoed when his arm tightens around you like some
weird arm-python and you find yourself unable to escape.  Whoops.
“Where th’fuck y’think yer going?”  You’re going to harbor a guess that this is
more words than he’s ever spoken to you post-club and pre-coffee even if it is
more grumbling than anything that bears a remote resemblance to proper
enunciation.  That’s fine, you speak Bro-ese and you could figure out what he
meant even if he decided grunts and aborted hand gestures made for grade A
communication standards.
“...to clean up and get out of your way?  Figured I’d fuck off before-- whoa,
hey, Bro, what--”  You don’t get to finish that thought because what he does is
nothing short of bully you to roll over before he squishes your face into the
back of the futon.  It takes a solid twenty seconds after you go quiet to
realize he’s spooning you.  Spooning, as in cuddling, as in his thick arm is
resting over your side and curled around your chest like you’re his own
personal stuffed Dave-bear.  “...what are you doing?”
“Sh’up,” he says, eloquent as ever, so you sh’up.  You’re still sticky and your
comfort level falls into the realm of either can’t breathe or have to twist
your neck to keep your face from being buried into the cushion, but other than
that?  It’s nice.  Bro’s got his face tucked against your hair, warm breath
slowing as he drifts back off and he’s clinging onto you and it’s nice.  So
what; it’s Saturday, neither of you have anywhere to be and you decide that if
you want a little more of a nap it won’t hurt anyone.
You really ought to talk about all this and you know it.  You consider doing it
later but let’s be honest; you cram that thought into your brain’s inbox, file
the entire stack of thoughts into the trashcan, and go back to sleep.
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