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It’s rhythmic.
Beat, beat, grab, beat beat, sidestep. The whole ordeal is like poetry, and while it’s sick and you could get your brother into some serious trouble for doing this, you can’t stop yourself. It’s the look in his eyes when he leans into your bedroom door, tells you to get on the roof and strife with him. It makes your heart thud in your chest like the base to one of your mixes, and your palms get sweaty like you were holding the hand of your dream date to prom. Just about as many lame metaphors as you could think of, that about captured your feelings. Because not only was his order an order, it was a promise. An unspoken meaning behind soft lips, ones that spoke with the mind that you’d be getting more than a sword sliced at you.
And like the stupid fool that you are, you fall for it. Drag your sorry ass up to the roof with your shitty sword and hold position, look up at him with your bright eyes that are too sensitive to the sun, and mumble. “M’ready.” You know it’s alright to let your accent slip. It’s just the two of you after all.
And once he goes towards you, the beat picks up. It’s step after step, feet moving in a familiar pattern as you slip away from the blade, move your in time with the never ending music ticking in your head.
There’s sweat on both of your brows, breathing coming out ragged and quick, and after that, there’s no stopping either of you.
A mutual clanging as swords hit the hot rooftop.
His hands are strong, grabbing you by the hips and lifting you up so you can mold your lips together, work in time, fitting one another like puzzle pieces and god damn it is really fucking illegal how good this is.
It’s all passion, lips, teeth, tongue, all become a mix of the same thing and you can taste him. Taste your brother, and you can’t get enough. Neither can he.
The music goes a little haywire in the time between rooftop and mattress, but as soon as his physic works onto you, it’s back. Hips working together to make some sweet music, and it’s just just instrumental anymore. Moans flood the room, not just yours, not just his, as clothes come off and two bodies become one.
His lips are at your neck and he’s inside you, prep done in what seems like a moment, slowly grinding in, once again speaking without actually speaking.
It doesn't take long for it to peak.
The whole symphony going absolutely berserk, symbols clashing as your back arches and your lips part in a howl of your brothers name, and he’s right after you, sucking marks into your neck and mumbling over and over again, “Dave, Dave, Dave, my baby, Dave.”
And just like that, it’s over.
He’s out, you’re clean, and all that’s left is the fading sound of the base pounding.