Fold (Stridercest fic, NSFW)

So I’m always sort of hesitant to post the somewhat freakier fanfiction I write, but after some encouragement I decided to go ahead and post this bit of Stridercest fic.

EDIT: The first part, as promised.

and the third.

 

 Title- Fold

Warnings/Notes: One-sided Dave/Bro, incest, sexual content, NSFW, angst.

.: He has a good half hour before the washing machine finishes its cycle- no idea how long Bro will be out though. :.

As always, read at your own risk. This is basically built on themes that could potentially squick and/or bother people. For those who do wish to read, enjoy.

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It was kind of inevitable. Unavoidable. The way Bro messed with Dave’s head was bound to get to him at some point. A million too-long touches and lingering gazes had left him confused, the purposely poorly disguised gropes during a scuffle endlessly frustrating him. That fucked up little trick with his fingers at the dinner table was the icing on the cake, an answer that had left Dave terrified and turned on, but a deep breath and an adjustment of his shades had fixed that problem right up. But still, even if he wasn’t showing it, Bro’s freaky teasing was twisting Dave up inside. 

So much so that, when left to do his brother’s laundry as a favor (or because he’d been threatened with an ass kicking, whatever,) with Bro’s gloves left right on top of his laundry basket, all obvious and right in Dave’s line of sight, he immediately thought of the worst possible thing he could do with those gloves. Brain warpage was a bad thing for a boy to have.

So now Dave has a choice to make. Standing in the basement laundry area of their apartment building, he holds Bro’s fingerless leather gloves above an open washing machine, looking down into the dark pool of water and fabric and suds inside.

He’s supposed to wash them. Just like everything else.

But…but his fucked up brain is suggesting other things, making him flush and wonder just how long Bro will be out, how long he’d be able to get away with it before Bro was back at his bedroom doorway, leaning in, grinning, knowing exactly what he’d done and mocking him for it.

Dave slams the lid of the washing machine closed, gripping the gloves in one hand.

He’ll put them back later. He’ll wash them with his own clothes and put them back with all of Bro’s stuff and he’d be none the wiser. Maybe. Even if he did catch on, at least Dave’s curiosity would have already been satisfied. It isn’t like he was going to ruin them. Bro cared little enough about them to put them through some clanky old piece of crap washer, he couldn’t possibly get worked up over a few stains.

Dave’s ears are hot in shame as he bounds back upstairs to their apartment with ninja speed, gloves clutched in his hand and no, no he’s totally not flipping his shit. He’s fine. He’s cool. This is all cool.

Dave slips right into his room, locking the door behind him even though he knows for sure Bro is out and even if he were around, a simple lock wouldn’t stop him.

 He has a good half hour before the washing machine finishes its cycle- no idea how long Bro will be out though. He never said where he was going, just “out.” He was mysterious like that.

Leaning back against his bedroom door, Dave looks down at the gloves he’s stolen. They already seem filthy and he hasn’t even done anything yet. Cursing under his breath, he sinks to his knees, hurriedly tugging the gloves onto his own hands.

He’s doing this. If he backs out now he’ll just get burned twice as bad when Bro realizes what he’d wanted, but couldn’t quite manage to do.

But no, he can totally do this. It’s totally doable. More doable than fuckin’…than fuckin’…him.

He’s doable.

Or, Bro thinks he is. As far as Dave’s fucked up little fantasy world is concerned, at least. Regardless of what his brother really thinks of the situation, Dave focuses every memory of an awkward touch down to this one moment, shaping his brother’s imaginary intentions into something he can work with.

He flexes his hands inside Bro’s gloves, testing, feeling the fabric stretch and pull and fall back into place, hesitates as he tries to figure out just how this would go if it were real.

Right here on the floor seems fine to him. Sort of quick and dirty, getting it done.

He swallows hard and reaches up to grab his shades, whips them off and tosses them aside. No way would Bro let him keep those bad boys on.

And as for the clothes…well what would Bro do with those? Dave feels naked enough already with nothing to cover his eyes, and as he slips his own hands up along his sides experimentally, he decides that Bro could understand that.

Of course he might want to be a complete dick and strip Dave down to nothing and leave him shivering up until the moment things got too hot.

But for now, with his restrained time limit, Dave can keep his clothes on.

He moves away from the door, up on his knees, and drags his hands up his sides, feeling more than a little stupid, a little sick, as he focuses on the soft leather of Bro’s gloves, the frayed bits along the seams that scratch slightly.

If his hands were just a little bigger…but they’re okay, he guesses. Okay enough.

You are all kinds of freaky, little bro.

Dave plays the phrase in his head, in his brother’s voice, and nods in response. Yeah, he’s pretty freaky. That’s what he gets for being raised by a freak like Bro.

Bro’s hands would slip back from underneath his shirt, leave him frustrated as he explained how this was going to work.

No careful, girly, gentle bullshit.

He’d see the way Dave shot him a nervous look, even though he really, really didn’t want him to catch that.

Chill Dave, I’m not gonna fuckin’ hurt you.

"I-I know…"

Shit, he seriously just answered his imagination out loud. Goddamn, he’s slipping, really.

I take what I want, you get what you want. Got it?

Dave bites his lower lip, hands hesitating over the closure of his jeans. There’s no turning back from here.

Gloved hands flick open a button, unzip a fly, peel away black denim and some hilariously ironic gambling themed boxers.

Already half-hard at his own twisted imaginings, he brings a hand up to slide two fingers into his mouth as he shudders, getting all kinds of stiff and sensitive in the palm of one glove.

You have an oral fixation or something, Dave?

No, Dave thinks, I have a you fixation.

And he sucks his fingers indulgently, eyes closing softly so he can imagine all kinds of other things that he only knows from internet porn and incredibly awkward conversations with John about topics too old for them.

He figures Bro wouldn’t mess around, even if he does like to tease like a complete fucking douchebag. Bro’s fingers would move over his dick the same way they handle a knife, a sword, the fragile little toggles on a game controller, all subtle strength and finesse that Dave tries to mimic, and really, he does a pretty decent job.

And through all this Dave would hold himself together, keep his head upright, tighten the muscles in his thighs till they strain, hurt, the way he’s doing right now, making himself ache just enough. He’d stay strong because he had to, only falter if Bro wanted him to.

Dave shudders and swallows a gasp, bites down lightly on his fingers as his other hand picks up the goddamn pace already because seriously, Bro’s a busy dude and he doesn’t have all day to sit around fondling people.

You’re gettin’ sloppy, Dave, his imagination quips, so fucking smug it might as well be the real thing.

And dammit he’s right, he is getting sloppy, literally. He’s doing that drooling thing again, so fucking gross, and he swallows thickly around his fingers to try and make himself feel like less of a messy jackass.

The ache in his thighs is distracting, the slow, burning pain highlighting each spark and jolt along his spine and he arches his back, leaning farther, farther, till the pull of muscle makes him whimper and shit, he’s going to lose his balance and smash his fucking head open.

He rights himself, dropping the hand at his mouth to splay spit-slicked fingers on the floor, keeping his balance even as he arches his back, rolls his hips, and he’s probably going to be so fucking sore later but he’s not about to stop.

With his fingers out of his mouth he can really hear himself, each rough breath coming out too loud, and fuck his life, Bro is going to come home any second and hear him. He works his hand faster, as close to frantic as a Strider can get, imagines Bro bearing down on him, imagines his own pathetic, fucked up little reflection panting back at him from his brother’s shades.

He’s seriously close, hips hitching all on their own like he’s a mechanical bull stuck on the ‘desperate buck’ setting.

Beg for it.

Dave’s stroking doesn’t miss a beat.

Beg for me, Dave.

Because Bro would be enough of an asshole to ask for shit like that. Dave doesn’t even know if that’s the kind of thing he likes but it’s the kind of thing that would embarrass the daylights out of him and that’s probably enough to keep Bro entertained. He’d push Dave to collapse, to whimper and cling and beg please please please, Bro-

Fuck no-“

His gloved hand tightens, the imaginary smirk spreads wider.

Good boy.

And Dave comes into his hand with a sharp exhalation, whole body jerking upright before slumping down, dropping him onto his ass to stare hazily at the wall. He can just barely see the photos strung over his bed, just make out his own impassive expression in a series of self-portraits, and he closes his eyes, sprawls on the floor to catch his breath.

It’s then, when the oxygen really hits his brain, that he flips the fuck out.

It’s silent, internal, but powerful, and he holds his breath as he rips Bro’s gloves off his hands, balls them up and throws them across the room so they hit the wall with a dull thud.

Everything feels weird and slow, his mind racing to make up an excuse for how this is totally not weird, totally not even a little bit sick and twisted and he shouldn’t feel even a little bit ashamed. But the gears in his head just spin uselessly, running over a checklist of what makes a seriously fucked up, damaged, sick individual and yup, everything checks out. He is basically a mental case and a complete pervert and maybe he should put all the blame on Bro but fuck if he didn’t just do this all on his own. Nobody put a gun to his head and told him to masturbate into his brother’s gloves, for fuck’s sake. He is the ultimate creeper, worse than any of the freaks frequenting Plush Rump, and the gods of irony are probably weeping over just how uncool he is right now.

He kind of wants to weep over just how uncool he is right now.

But Striders don’t cry over dumb shit and really, this is all just dumb shit. This will pass. Dave just has to lie on his floor for a while and wait for his nerves to stop screaming.

Once he’s hating himself a little less and he can stand up, Dave gets redressed and picks Bro’s gloves up off the floor. He keeps them balled up tight in his hand as he heads back to the laundry room. He takes the rickety elevator for once because you know what? Fuck stairs, he’s not doing stairs right now.

He finds his Bro’s laundry about to enter the rinse cycle and throws the gloves in there with everything else. He can’t even give half a fuck about whether or not they actually get clean, just as long as they’re not sticky later.

He sits on the dryer, he waits, and when the rinse cycle finishes he transfers everything from washer to dryer, get the rusted heap going, and sits down on it again.

The rumbling and rocking of the machine take him years back, to sitting on that very same dryer, chilling like the coolest of five year olds while Bro fucked around with detergent. For a moment he thinks he might flip out again, have a serious, hardcore emotional breakdown, but the motion of the dryer soothes him, lulls him into indifference.

He’s cool. He’s detached. He’s a Strider and this is all just ironic as fuck. He’s practically laughing at how much of a joke this is.

When the dryer buzzes under him and rolls to a stop he hops off onto the floor, takes everything out and folds it haphazardly, puts it in Bro’s laundry basket and carries it back upstairs, dropping the basket in the corner of the room.

He leaves the gloves on Bro’s pillow.

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Notes

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