Archive of Our Own

Sometimes it's the small things with him.

Him bandaging you up after training, ordering whatever you want for takeout, buying you new clothes. Sometimes it's just in him leaving you in peace for a little while. Not barging in your room when you accidentally laugh a little too loud, or jumpscaring you with his elaborate puppet set-ups, or whatever psychological and physical warfare he's planned for you today.

Of course, it's nice while it lasts. But it also means that whenever tomorrow comes, whenever tomorrow is, that you'll be 10 times as fucked.

You take the bus home from school, most of the time, but today he picked you up, and it's a Friday so that normally means he has to do some sort of demented puppet show or hours of editing puppet porn footage to do or something that isn't fucking with you, but you think that could also just be his way of luring you into a false sense of security.

You're nervous on the ride home, and he knows it, because you're scratching at the cuts - some scabbed over, some not - under your shirt, and thank god the sleeves of your shirt are red because you can feel a few parts start to bleed.

He runs the few red lights on the way (not like he can't afford to pay tickets) and when you cry out in surprise or fear all he does is laugh like it's the funniest thing in the world to see you scared. And to him, it probably is.

"How was school?" he suddenly says, glaring at you from the rear-view mirror, his eyes peering just enough over his shades.

You search for an answer, maybe for a tad too long, until you remember your social studies test. "Uhm, I got a 100 on one of my quizzes." and you know he doesn't give a shit, but maybe it'll give him less of a reason to do whatever the hell he's planning.

"Wow, a 100? Good job, kiddo," he says, voice flat, but you enjoy the praise for a second until he says, "If only you were that good with a sword." and of course he's ruined it, the little moment of happiness you had.

You just look down, not even considering talking back to him. You feel like crying.

A couple more swerving turns and run red lights and you're home, walking a few steps behind him and clutching your backpack for dear life, trying to think of literally anything else as he unlocks the door.

You space out by the door - you didn't even notice you had - when there's a hand snapping in your face. "Hey, I said put your backpack in your fucking room."

And you scramble to do so without so much as a second thought, almost running to your room and throwing your backpack on your bed.

You look at the bloody tissues in your trashcan. You can't risk going in the bathroom and having him barge in while there's cuts all over your arms, he never respects your privacy.

You change into a black sweatshirt you had lying around after using one of the dirty tissues to sop up the blood you drew, and proceed back to the living room.

Your sweatshirt keeps falling off your shoulder - it's obviously too big for you - and you can feel his gaze on your bare, freckled skin from behind you as you sit down on the futon.

In a few seconds he's in front of you, that ninja-like speed always catching you off guard.

"You cold?" he asks, and you realize he means your change of clothes. "Uhm, y-yeah, I guess so." you respond. He raises an eyebrow at you, then sits on the other end of the futon. "C'mere."

You're long past the days of reflexively shying away, pressing yourself as far as you can away from him, so instead you come close. He pulls you in, letting you rest your head on his chest, and his one hand rests on your thigh while the other rubs your lower back.

You flinch at the touch at first and pray he doesn't notice, but Bro notices everything. You feel his hand squeeze your thigh. "Why are you nervous? Big bro's here." he says, at half a whisper. You gulp, "I've just- I've had a long day." you say, and you kind of have. The other kids at school don't like you that much, you talk out loud to yourself, scratch at yourself, startle easy - they're just like your brother, they get off on torturing you.

He eyes you, wondering if you'll go on, but you don't really want to because he just blames you whenever you try to tell him about it.

"I see." and he pulls you a little closer to him, oddly tender. He's resting his hand on the small of your back, and moves his hand from your thigh to your wrist, rubbing the inside of it with his thumb. You whince a little, and he smirks, and you know you just gave yourself away.

"Is that why you're cutting yourself again?"

The words stun you, fuck, you should have been more careful, how could you have been so wreckless and stupid leaving bloody tissues everywhere and scratching yourself like some psycho?

"I-I-No? Uhm, yes, maybe?" and there's tears streaking down your cheeks. "Sshh, hey, it's okay little bro," he says, something sinister hiding behind that gentle tone.

"Show me."

And you adjust your position in his lap so you're simply sitting on him sideways, then roll up your sleeves, displaying your scarred, slashed wrists for him to see. You look away from his face.

"No, not just that. I mean show me." and he places something in your hand. Your vision is blurry with tears and you just wanna get away, run into your room and slam the door. But then things'll just get worse, right?

You look down at your hand. It's a box cutter.

"B-Bro, I don't understand-" he cuts you off, "You do understand, though, don't you? Show me." and you notice his breathing is a bit uneven and there's something slightly poking against your thigh. Is he getting off on this?

It would be the sickest thing he's done to you, but it could be up there. Your brain can't possibly sort that out right now, though, and instead you press the blade against your wrist and make a line across, wincing at the pain, and then looking to your brother.

And he seems oddly blissed out, his breathing deep and rhythmic, the poking at your thigh growing and you realize yes, he is, in fact, getting off on this, and you don't know whether to laugh at how utterly deplorable it is or cry.

"That all you're gonna give me?" he says, stroking your thigh, whispering heavy into your ear. You get the hint and press the blade down again, salty tears falling off your face and stinging the new wounds.

"Now, now, don't cry," he says, "You like this, don't you? Why else would you do it?" and his voice is so sickly sweet it might as well be dripping in cough syrup.

"I-I don't know." you respond, and he just rubs your thigh more, his hand moving up farther with every stroke, his breath hot in your ear, and the fact that he's turned on is starting to make your body react just the way he conditioned it to.

You almost wish you were back at school - without the boner - or at least anywhere else but under his predatory gaze. Where you really wanna be is staring at blue, green, pink text, trying to forget about the whole thing behind the cracked door of your room. You wish you were hearing John or Rose complaining about their parents, hearing how Jade's plants are doing, hell, even watching some shitty Nic Cage movie.

You snap out of your thoughts when you feel a warm, wet sensation on your bare wrist, and you look up in shock to realize it's your brother licking the blood off your wrist.

You startle and try to pull away, but he manhandles your dainty wrists and pulls you back, cleaning all the dried and fresh blood off with his tongue.

He licks his lips when he's done, and smirks at your astonished face. You have no clue what just happened, but you tug your sleeves back down in shock.

He's still rubbing your thigh, when he whispers into your ear to take your clothes off. Your pathetic little hard-on can't ignore how hot his voice is in your ear, so you obey. Normally, if you obey, it can be somewhat pleasant.

For the past few times he's fucked you you've managed to keep him distracted with pleasure enough so he lets you keep your shirt on, but this time, he motions for you to remove it. Your cut up wrists are a sight for sore eyes to him, it seems.

While you undress, he does too, then sits on the couch, bottle of lube at his side and legs open just enough for you to still be able to straddle him with your small body.

You climb on and you know he's not gonna waste any time prepping you, but the lube is a nice inclusion. He must be taking your hard-on as eagerness, which you know he loves to see on you, but you always tell yourself you just can't control it.

In reality, you can't stand that it's only him who does this to you.

"Well, Dave?" he says, and you realize he's expecting you to do all the work. You take the bottle of lube and squirt some onto your palm, and he groans in pleasure when your soft hand starts stroking it down his intimidating length.

You realize you've never had to get it in all by yourself, and you're understandably nervous, especially with no prep.

You gulp, and try to position yourself above him. He at least helps you by lining it up to your hole. You can manage the head by yourself, and you moan at the feeling of him entering you. He moans with you, his hands gripping your hips impatiently, but not pushing you down. His self control is amazing.

You continue to push yourself down onto him, slowly, inch by inch getting all of him in you, and once he's balls deep you collapse against his chest with your arms around his neck. You're already exhausted, but your body is telling you you want more.

"Overwhelmed, baby bro?" he asks, patting your back. "M-Mhm," you respond, but you're determined - "I-I can still do it."

You can't help but turn into some other person when you have sex with him, there's something that drives you to please him, to be an obedient boy who does just as his big brother says. It drives you crazy how he makes you feel.

You lift yourself off of his dick, slowly, and then push yourself back down. "There you go, just like that, but faster. You can handle it, right?" he says, and there's a slight threat in his voice that makes you move faster, moving your hips up and down, listening to him groan in approval.

You're adjusted to his size, now, focusing on how thick he is and how perfectly he hits your spot when you arch your back a little, you can't stand it, you feel so good.

You're moving pretty fast now, and you can hear him muttering praises and your hips being gripped tightly, probably tight enough to bruise.

You feeling good?" he asks, as you continue to ride him, and you nod furiously, "I feel s-so good," you whimper, and goddammit you're his perfectly groomed little whore but it doesn't matter right now because his cock is in you and stretching you out and hitting your prostate perfectly.

"Hhaa, bro, I'm gonna cum," you say, not stopping your rocking hips from moving, and he smirks at you, making eye contact with you, now gripping your hips so hard that tears of pleasure and pain are running down your face.

"You milk my cock so good," he says, and one hand moves up to grip your hair. "Fuck yourself on me. Go on. I wanna see your face when you cum."

And you can't do anything but obey so you arch your back a bit and keep fucking yourself on his cock, his hand gripping your hair to keep your eyes locked together.

You pick up the pace, basically moving as fast and hard as your little body will allow, until you feel him cum inside you and the feeling along with another hard slam down of your hips is enough to make you clench and cry out, cumming all over both you.

You collapse onto him, breathing heavily, and he trades the harsh grip on your hair for gentle petting. "Good job, lil' bro," he mumbles, out of breath but not nearly as much as you are.

You start to doze off on him.

God, you're such a whore.