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hm. :|a
Rule Number One in the Strider house is as follows: do not screw around with your brother's friends. That includes friends and girlfriends.
You're sure Dave's thought about breaking it before (all of the chicks you bring home are Class A), but he couldn't if he wanted to — he'd have to distract them from you first, which is a complete impossibility. Maybe in another few years, but not now.
Which is basically exactly what you should have told yourself when you realized you were seriously checking out that Harley girl, the one with the rifle. Maybe in another few years, but not now.
Not now.
She's living at La Casa Strider because her island blew up or some shit; you never bothered asking for details. She's around almost all the time, except when she goes to the firing range to practice. (How hot is that?)
The girl talks to you like you're her own brother, like she's known you forever and there's no reason to be awkward, like there's not a decade or more between you. Even when Dave's out, and it's just the two of you, if you come out of your bedroom, you're guaranteed to be nabbed by that goofy-sweet grin, those rabbit teeth and green eyes like lanterns.
You do feel weird about it at first, and it takes you a little while to make up your mind as to whether or not she's hounding for your package. Eventually, you're pretty sure she's not, which makes you feel weirder.
But then one afternoon, when Dave's been coming and going all day, and you've been in and out of your room accordingly, so as to comply with Rule Number Six (never coexist in the same room for too long without a good reason), she's waiting in the kitchen to ambush you after Dave leaves.
You come in thinking about pretzels or something, because you can't cook to save your life, and Dave's the only reason the two of you don't subsist on a diet of instant ramen and potato chips, and you wind up thinking about blowjobs. This happens with alarming frequency around her.
"Hey, Bro," she says, all chirps and sunshine, and you swear you're going to hell. You give her a little head-jerk, just a hello, and open a cabinet so you won't have to look at her.
"You know, I've been thinking lately," she begins, and pauses as if to allow room for witty reparteé. She does this often enough that you've realized your baby brother has her pretty well impressioned. You don't chip in, though, you just pull the nearly-empty bag of pretzels out of the cabinet and frown at it.
"I know you can't cook, but I can! A little. And since you and Dave don't really do the bonding-time thing, I thought maybe I could teach you?"
Really? It seems innocuously in-context here in the kitchen, but she's asking you to spend an afternoon or better with her, alone. You don't rush to accept the invitation; you know an ambush when you smell one, and this one reeks.
But what is she ambushing you for? Is she looking for a Strider-style mattress beatdown? Or does she just want to spend some kind of quality time with you, like a little sister might?
Either way, the answer should be an immediate 'no,' but you haven't answered her yet. She's still sitting there, all full of stupid hope and bunny metaphors.
(Fuck like rabbits, your dick chimes in, and just this once, you wish you could punch it without repercussion.)
While you cagily debate the merits and demerits of agreeing to her stupid proposition (because let's face it, Strider, you're going to agree), she dims a little, slowly, and her smile turns into an almost-pout, her brow furrowing.
"Or, you know, if you don't want to, that's okay, too!"
At the sound of that desperately bright exclamation point, you shut the cabinet door and open the bag of pretzels.
"... Sure."
She springs back to life, leaping out of her chair. She's definitely gotten used to those noncommittal responses you and Dave are so fond of. Even the most lukewarm of answers doesn't deter her; a yes is a yes in her book.
"Great! I was thinking we could bake cookies! I've never seen Dave bake, so I thought maybe I could give you a one-up on him!" She winks, dark lashes flashing once, and you wonder what the unholy fuck you've gotten your bad self into.
One trip to the store and untold quantities of water, vegetable oil and eggs later, you've pretty much got that question answered.
That girl is sitting on the counter, keeping an eye on the oven timer while she mixes frosting in a bowl. She stops periodically to lick the spoon, which never fails to catch your attention. Every time she leans forward to grab the powdered sugar again, you glance at her cleavage.
So basically, you're seventeen again, and holy shit, is it retarded.
"Here, I think it's good now." She holds out the spoon invitingly, and you lean forward (there's not even any hesitation anymore; there's no way to tell her no) to try it. It's rich and sweet, and the inside of her mouth is probably steeped in the taste. You nod your approval.
The bowl is promptly abandoned on the counter beside her, her legs swinging a little. "So when the cupcakes are done, we can frost them! They're gonna be awesome! Dave will be so jealous!"
Then she's quiet, just long enough for the silence to turn sort of uncomfortable as you glance at her legs at her skirt's end. When you look up again, she's looking right at you, and her smile is relaxed, patient. She looks like she fucking knows, but there's no way she knew where your eyes were. One of the many benefits your shades have to offer.
So you raise an eyebrow over the edge of your sunglasses to ask her what she's looking at. Her smile grows a little, and then those big, adorable teeth come down over her lower lip.
Jesus kickflipping Christ, she's doing this on purpose. No way in fuck she doesn't realize — she tucks her hair behind her ear and grips the edge of the counter with both hands again. She's totally got you wrapped around her finger with all those stupid colorful reminders that never do her a damn bit of good.
The oven beeps, jerking your attention away from the white of her knuckles and the bright strings she's wearing above them. You grab an oven mitt, glad for the distraction.
Surprisingly, the frosting process is uneventful. It requires just enough concentration that you don't have a chance to pay attention to what her mouth is doing.
At least, not until you're finished, and you look at her, and it's like some stupid fucking rom-com; there's a smear of frosting on her cheek. She's beaming up at you like she's just waiting for you to wipe it tenderly away.
"Well? What are you waiting for, silly?"
Shit, what the fuck are you waiting for?
You skip the stupid rom-com opening gambit and lean down (way down, Jesus H., she's a foot shorter than you) to seal the deal. The second your lips touch, she tenses, but before you can even start to back out, she's kissing you back as enthusiastically as she does everything else, all plush lips and excited tongue.
You break for air because she's a stupid teenager and she doesn't know how to breathe and make out at the same time. She grins, a thousand watts, and you stare.
"Wow," she says, and before it's even out of her mouth, you know it's stupid. "I didn't expect that so soon!"
She bites her lip again, dropping her eyes to your feet and giving you a second to look completely fucking floored. How the fuck is it that a teenage girl — one of your brother's friends — is the most complicated chick you've ever wanted to slap a Strider seal of approval on?
"I kind of thought it would be a few more weeks, at least."
You're silent, as usual, for the next fifteen seconds, before your curiosity finally overwhelms your Vow of Few Words. You open your mouth and give that chick an entire sentence. (She'd damn well better be grateful.)
"Implying you were trying to get me to kiss you."
Her eyes dart back up on a laugh. "No! It was going to happen, no matter what I did! I had a dream about it."
Prophetic dreams, you think, of course. You never even consider calling her bluff. There probably isn't one.
"But I figured we had to spend some time together, so I made the first move!"
She's completely unabashed. You've never kissed a girl and left her with her mastery of the English language before, and you're not about to start now.
"You have a dream about me kissing you again?"
Her mouth opens, and your words catch up with her just as you're leaning down. Her eyes go wide, then flutter closed.
"What the actual shitkicking fuck is going on right now? If I don't start hearing the motherfucking Twilight Zone music in the next ten seconds, someone's gonna fucking strife with me."
When you break this time, it's not for air, but to look at your kid brother, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with fast food bags in each hand. Even through his shades, you can tell he's dismayed. Poor kid can't keep his hands on a chick with you around.
"Oh, I'll strife with you!" Jade chirps.
You cough to cover a laugh, stepping back from her as Dave tosses the food on the counter and draws a sword from his sylladex. He doesn't miss a fucking beat.
"Fuck yes you will, Harley. You don't just shack up in here and start macking on my brother, okay? He's a sensitive guy; I don't want you hurting him."
You're sure Dave's thought about breaking it before (all of the chicks you bring home are Class A), but he couldn't if he wanted to — he'd have to distract them from you first, which is a complete impossibility. Maybe in another few years, but not now.
Which is basically exactly what you should have told yourself when you realized you were seriously checking out that Harley girl, the one with the rifle. Maybe in another few years, but not now.
Not now.
She's living at La Casa Strider because her island blew up or some shit; you never bothered asking for details. She's around almost all the time, except when she goes to the firing range to practice. (How hot is that?)
The girl talks to you like you're her own brother, like she's known you forever and there's no reason to be awkward, like there's not a decade or more between you. Even when Dave's out, and it's just the two of you, if you come out of your bedroom, you're guaranteed to be nabbed by that goofy-sweet grin, those rabbit teeth and green eyes like lanterns.
You do feel weird about it at first, and it takes you a little while to make up your mind as to whether or not she's hounding for your package. Eventually, you're pretty sure she's not, which makes you feel weirder.
But then one afternoon, when Dave's been coming and going all day, and you've been in and out of your room accordingly, so as to comply with Rule Number Six (never coexist in the same room for too long without a good reason), she's waiting in the kitchen to ambush you after Dave leaves.
You come in thinking about pretzels or something, because you can't cook to save your life, and Dave's the only reason the two of you don't subsist on a diet of instant ramen and potato chips, and you wind up thinking about blowjobs. This happens with alarming frequency around her.
"Hey, Bro," she says, all chirps and sunshine, and you swear you're going to hell. You give her a little head-jerk, just a hello, and open a cabinet so you won't have to look at her.
"You know, I've been thinking lately," she begins, and pauses as if to allow room for witty reparteé. She does this often enough that you've realized your baby brother has her pretty well impressioned. You don't chip in, though, you just pull the nearly-empty bag of pretzels out of the cabinet and frown at it.
"I know you can't cook, but I can! A little. And since you and Dave don't really do the bonding-time thing, I thought maybe I could teach you?"
Really? It seems innocuously in-context here in the kitchen, but she's asking you to spend an afternoon or better with her, alone. You don't rush to accept the invitation; you know an ambush when you smell one, and this one reeks.
But what is she ambushing you for? Is she looking for a Strider-style mattress beatdown? Or does she just want to spend some kind of quality time with you, like a little sister might?
Either way, the answer should be an immediate 'no,' but you haven't answered her yet. She's still sitting there, all full of stupid hope and bunny metaphors.
(Fuck like rabbits, your dick chimes in, and just this once, you wish you could punch it without repercussion.)
While you cagily debate the merits and demerits of agreeing to her stupid proposition (because let's face it, Strider, you're going to agree), she dims a little, slowly, and her smile turns into an almost-pout, her brow furrowing.
"Or, you know, if you don't want to, that's okay, too!"
At the sound of that desperately bright exclamation point, you shut the cabinet door and open the bag of pretzels.
"... Sure."
She springs back to life, leaping out of her chair. She's definitely gotten used to those noncommittal responses you and Dave are so fond of. Even the most lukewarm of answers doesn't deter her; a yes is a yes in her book.
"Great! I was thinking we could bake cookies! I've never seen Dave bake, so I thought maybe I could give you a one-up on him!" She winks, dark lashes flashing once, and you wonder what the unholy fuck you've gotten your bad self into.
One trip to the store and untold quantities of water, vegetable oil and eggs later, you've pretty much got that question answered.
That girl is sitting on the counter, keeping an eye on the oven timer while she mixes frosting in a bowl. She stops periodically to lick the spoon, which never fails to catch your attention. Every time she leans forward to grab the powdered sugar again, you glance at her cleavage.
So basically, you're seventeen again, and holy shit, is it retarded.
"Here, I think it's good now." She holds out the spoon invitingly, and you lean forward (there's not even any hesitation anymore; there's no way to tell her no) to try it. It's rich and sweet, and the inside of her mouth is probably steeped in the taste. You nod your approval.
The bowl is promptly abandoned on the counter beside her, her legs swinging a little. "So when the cupcakes are done, we can frost them! They're gonna be awesome! Dave will be so jealous!"
Then she's quiet, just long enough for the silence to turn sort of uncomfortable as you glance at her legs at her skirt's end. When you look up again, she's looking right at you, and her smile is relaxed, patient. She looks like she fucking knows, but there's no way she knew where your eyes were. One of the many benefits your shades have to offer.
So you raise an eyebrow over the edge of your sunglasses to ask her what she's looking at. Her smile grows a little, and then those big, adorable teeth come down over her lower lip.
Jesus kickflipping Christ, she's doing this on purpose. No way in fuck she doesn't realize — she tucks her hair behind her ear and grips the edge of the counter with both hands again. She's totally got you wrapped around her finger with all those stupid colorful reminders that never do her a damn bit of good.
The oven beeps, jerking your attention away from the white of her knuckles and the bright strings she's wearing above them. You grab an oven mitt, glad for the distraction.
Surprisingly, the frosting process is uneventful. It requires just enough concentration that you don't have a chance to pay attention to what her mouth is doing.
At least, not until you're finished, and you look at her, and it's like some stupid fucking rom-com; there's a smear of frosting on her cheek. She's beaming up at you like she's just waiting for you to wipe it tenderly away.
"Well? What are you waiting for, silly?"
Shit, what the fuck are you waiting for?
You skip the stupid rom-com opening gambit and lean down (way down, Jesus H., she's a foot shorter than you) to seal the deal. The second your lips touch, she tenses, but before you can even start to back out, she's kissing you back as enthusiastically as she does everything else, all plush lips and excited tongue.
You break for air because she's a stupid teenager and she doesn't know how to breathe and make out at the same time. She grins, a thousand watts, and you stare.
"Wow," she says, and before it's even out of her mouth, you know it's stupid. "I didn't expect that so soon!"
She bites her lip again, dropping her eyes to your feet and giving you a second to look completely fucking floored. How the fuck is it that a teenage girl — one of your brother's friends — is the most complicated chick you've ever wanted to slap a Strider seal of approval on?
"I kind of thought it would be a few more weeks, at least."
You're silent, as usual, for the next fifteen seconds, before your curiosity finally overwhelms your Vow of Few Words. You open your mouth and give that chick an entire sentence. (She'd damn well better be grateful.)
"Implying you were trying to get me to kiss you."
Her eyes dart back up on a laugh. "No! It was going to happen, no matter what I did! I had a dream about it."
Prophetic dreams, you think, of course. You never even consider calling her bluff. There probably isn't one.
"But I figured we had to spend some time together, so I made the first move!"
She's completely unabashed. You've never kissed a girl and left her with her mastery of the English language before, and you're not about to start now.
"You have a dream about me kissing you again?"
Her mouth opens, and your words catch up with her just as you're leaning down. Her eyes go wide, then flutter closed.
"What the actual shitkicking fuck is going on right now? If I don't start hearing the motherfucking Twilight Zone music in the next ten seconds, someone's gonna fucking strife with me."
When you break this time, it's not for air, but to look at your kid brother, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with fast food bags in each hand. Even through his shades, you can tell he's dismayed. Poor kid can't keep his hands on a chick with you around.
"Oh, I'll strife with you!" Jade chirps.
You cough to cover a laugh, stepping back from her as Dave tosses the food on the counter and draws a sword from his sylladex. He doesn't miss a fucking beat.
"Fuck yes you will, Harley. You don't just shack up in here and start macking on my brother, okay? He's a sensitive guy; I don't want you hurting him."