Hands Off

Pairing: Stridercest
Rating: M
Warnings: Incest, Asphyxiation. Trigger warning? lol idk 
Chapter: 1/2/3/4

And you know exactly what he’s asking. How long has this been happening, how long have you been coming home with shit like this and him not even noticing. You don’t want to answer though, so you just stay silent as his fingers start to crawl up your spine again. 

You think you’ve got another week.

Okay, that’s a lie, you pray you’ve got another week.

Another week before he’ll fuck with you again, make you feel like that confused sack of shit you’re getting used to.

So fucking hell, you’re not expecting him to come up to you the next morning, already jittery from a stupid little nightmare you had, and gently skim his fingers against the side of your neck.

You jump suddenly, almost dropping the carton of milk you’re holding in your hands before just barely managing to set it down and shy away from the older Strider.

He doesn’t do anything more, just looks at you for a moment before grabbing his own mug and shuffling out of the kitchen and back into his room, leaving you to practically hyper ventilate before you manage to drag yourself back to your room on unsteady feet.

You spend the rest of the Saturday camped out in your room, not even bothering to come out when you get hungry, which is a first.

Bro doesn’t bother you either, just does whatever the fuck he usually does around the apartment, though you swear you hear him pass by your door more times than is necessary.

The next three days continue in nearly the same manner, the only difference being you deciding to risk it and venture out of your room more often than not.

Bro keeps up the weird light touches that make you jump out of your skin every time they happen. Ranging from things like running his hand through your hair to gently skimming his fingers up your spine.

This is the shit that confuses you the most. If you thought him shoving you up against a counter and getting you the horniest you’d ever felt in your life was confusing, this was making you doubt yourself far worse than anything else.

You’re scared of your own thoughts and the direction they take whenever you’re touched, how much you like it, how good if feels. How much you want more.

That’s dangerous territory you shouldn’t be treading in, you know that. You know it. But you’re having trouble shoving these particular chaste feelings down.

So you let it happen, let Bro catch you in the hallway and gently stroke his thumb over your scar, let him feel up your sides when you two are in the kitchen. You know it’s selfish and self indulgent but you can’t help yourself, you like it too much to stop and you’d rather this than him making you feel disgusting.

——

Wednesday is when you come home with a pretty little shiner and a limp in your step that you’re trying to hide. You hope and pray that your shades are maybe big enough to cover your black eye and you can hide the whole thing from Bro.

You weren’t hopeful though, not with how close and touchy feely he was lately.

So you try and avoid again, instantly moving off to your room and crawling on the computer. The only person online is Rose at the moment and you don’t think you can deal with her analyzing your every word and eventually finding out how much emotional distress you were in.

So you log out instead, deciding that maybe you’ll just take a nap or something and hope that maybe Bro will we gone by the time you wake up.

He isn’t.

You wake up maybe an hour or two later to the rustling of paper. There’s a note on top of you and you have to squint to read it in this darkness but it says, ‘livingroom’ in bright red letters.

You let out a quiet groan, flopping back onto your pillow for a moment before finally rolling off your bed and fumbling around for your shades. You find them resting on your dresser and you roll your eyes because you were positive you had gone to sleep with them on. Bro was obviously in here and had probably seen your- oh. That’s why he wanted to talk to you.

You slowly make your way out of your room, taking a detour to the washroom to assess the damage on your face. You half wince at the bruise you see around your eye, just barely noticing the small scratch on your lip as you huff. You couldn’t believe they had left marks in visible places this time.

You finally head out, moving towards the futon where Bro’s sprawled out on one side. You go around and take a seat on the other end.

The both of you sit in silence for maybe twenty minutes before Bro finally turns his head towards you. You catch it, obviously, having been staring at him out of the side of your shades the entire time. He shifts his head a little, beckoning you over and you respond almost immediately.

You hated yourself for it, wishing you’d hesitated or waited or something. But no. The moment he made it clear he wanted you over you hoped up like an excited puppy, crawling over to him so he’s within touching distance. He watches you for another moment before reaching out and slowly pushing your shades back so they rested on your hairline.

You blink at him, once, twice, before you can’t take it anymore and you let your eyes fall shut so you don’t have to look at him.

You can hear him shift though, and he’s closer and your brows crease in worry but it’s not long before you feel what could only be his thumb gently smooth under your eye, feeling the bruise for what feels like an eternity before he speaks.

“Who did this?” He asks simply, gruff voice giving you no hint to what he’s thinking or feeling. You consider lying, telling him you fell, but Bro of all people would be able to tell the difference between a bruise from falling and a bruise from fighting. So you take a deep breath and answer.

“Some kids at school.” You offer, his thumb leaving your eye to trail further down, pressing against the cut on your lower lip and making you flinch lightly. It stung more than it hurt, but you know he’s just trying to figure out how bad you’re hurt, and not trying to put you in any pain.

“You get into a fight?” And he’s basically asking you if you’re getting bullied without throwing out the term that would make you feel like a weak useless little kid.

“Yeah.” You say, unable to answer him truthfully for this one. In response you feel his other hand join your face, seeming to be less focused on your injuries and far more focused on just tracing over the planes of your face, almost exploring like he’s never ever touched you before. And you figure he hasn’t, well, not like this at least.

It makes your stomach clench, making you feel hot and cold at the same time as you absently chew on your lip. He instantly corrects that though, but prodding at your lower lip until you stop worrying at it.

“Open your eyes and look at me.” He says, and you feel weird, like this isn’t Bro and you’re not you and you can do whatever you want right now because none of this counts. None of this is really happening right now and it won’t carry on to your next encounter.

So you open your eyes, and instead of searching his shades you settle your gaze on his nose. It looks like it’s been broken maybe three times at best but you think it still looks pretty attractive and you think that maybe you’re going to stop thinking about your brother’s nose now and focus on the fact that he can see your eyes and you’re not hiding anything from him.

“How many were there?” He asks you, and even his voice sounds muted, like nothings at full volume. You feel like there’s a blanket draped over everything, trapping in these feelings and sounds and emotions and letting you be honest for once, because once you lift the imaginary covers you won’t be able to anymore.

“Six.” You say simply, focusing on his shades finally, and where his eyes should be. He doesn’t say anything this time, just lets his hands drift back to run through your hair. He pushes your shades clear off your head and you feel them land on your back, slipping off and hitting the floor with a dull clatter.

The feeling of his hands in your hair, leather scraping across your scalp makes your eyes flutter shut again and you’re left sitting there as your mouth begins talking of its own accord.

“I’m sorry Bro- I didn’t- I didn’t mean to lose, I tried to fight, you know? I mean I really did but there were just so many of them and they held me down and there was nothing I could do expect lay there and wish you were-“

And you catch yourself, jaw suddenly snapping shut before you told him that you desperately wished he was there to save you.

So you sit, Bro’s hands drifting through your hair and slowing to a stop as his hands fall off you. This finally prompts your eyes to open again as you see that he’s leaned back even further and shit you can feel the magic starting to wear off because he’s so disgusted with you he doesn’t even want to touch you.

What person can’t handle a fight, what kind of Strider would come home with injuries like a loser? You’re not his little brother, you don’t deserve to be his little brother and it’s only reasonable that he thinks less of you, it’s only reasonable that he must hate you now-

“Stop. Come here.” And his words shake you out of your depreciating thoughts, turning your wide, picked eyes to him to see that he’s still holding one of his hands out, beckoning you forward and to him.

You pause for a moment before you try and draw a blank and just go, tentatively reaching out and taking his outstretched hand and letting him pull you to him. You feel your face smush into his shoulder and you’re starting to feel like you’re in that ‘nothing counts’ bubble again, like this is happening but you’ll have to forget it as soon as you get up.

“You said they held you down, what else did they hit.” He asks, realizing his hands are moving over your back and sides in search of more injuries. You try not to wince as his fingers go over a bruise you’re quite positive you have under your left armpit.

You just wrap your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to indulge in that one gesture as you shake your head against him.

“Nothing, just my face.” You say instantly, not letting anything else give at this point.

“You’re lying; you came in with a limp.” He retaliates, hands moving down to brush over your thighs and prod at that one spot that makes you half hiss in pain. His hands draw away instantly and he lets you sit on him for an unreasonable amount of time before he’s talking again.

“How long.”

And you know exactly what he’s asking. How long has this been happening, how long have you been coming home with shit like this and him not even noticing. You don’t want to answer though, so you just stay silent as his fingers start to crawl up your spine again.

“Kiddo-“

“I dunno, a year and a half, maybe more maybe less.” You mumble, feeling your eyebrows crease as you wait for him to inevitably pull away and tell you that you’re a piece of shit for not being able to deal with it all this time.

He does pull away and you feel your breathing get deeper, feeling your chest start to heave as you suddenly feel like there’s less and less air around you. You can’t handle this, you can’t breathe. Bro’s disappointed with you and you feel like you’re going to pass out.

“Names.”

And the word snaps you out of your mini panic attack, red eyes meeting his shades as you try to process what he’s asking you now.

Names?

Names.

Oh hell fucking no. You weren’t going to tattle and have Bro deal with it. You’d rather get it three times worse than this then have that happen. You weren’t a fucking child, you were fifteen.

You scramble back from him, little spell suddenly broken and you’re on the defensive again, looking at him challengingly as you reach down to retrieve your shades. You slide them on, feeling like your old self for a moment with their protective barrier shielding you.

“No, fuck that. I ain’t giving you shit.” You say hastily, absconding off the couch and almost succeeding if not for the gloved hand you feel wrap around your wrist and yank you back down so your face plants right into the firm cushions.

Your hand is pulled behind you to an almost painful level as he stands above you.

“Names.” He repeats, and you half scoff through the pain of having your arm twisted back.

“No.” You say firmly, crying out unwillingly when he yanks particularly hard and almost has your shoulder popping out of its socket.

“You’re going to have to try harder; I’ve dealt with far worse from the likes of you.”

And you know it’s a low blow, calling him the same as the kids that treat you like crap at school, but it’s your only option to get him off you.

You succeed and suddenly his hands are releasing you and he’s stepping away from you and he’s heading towards the door.

“Bro-“ But whatever you’re going to say is cut short as the door slams and he’s gone.

Great job Strider, you managed to fuck things up yet again. Are you fucking proud of yourself?

You made Bro leave again, and you don’t know when he’s coming back.

The thought alone makes you curl up right there on the futon, trying to lose yourself for the remainder of the evening. It doesn’t help to get your mind of things that the stupid thing is flooded with the scent of your brother, but you can’t be bothered to make it to your room right then. You figure you could get used to it.

Everything hurts, both inside and out and you’re dreading everything. You’re dreading school the next day, you’re dreading Bro coming back at some point like nothing ever transpired. And most of all, you’re dreading having to deal with your feelings at some point. They’re quickly getting out of hand and you don’t know how long you’ll be able to ignore them for.

Or rather, you don’t know how long Bro’s going to let you.