Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/759285.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Stridercest, Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Bro_(Homestuck)
  Additional Tags:
      One-Sided_Relationship, Unrequited_Love, Masturbation, Glove_Fetish
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-13 Words: 692
****** Let it Go ******
by BlameMyMuses
Summary
     Dave has a thing for Bro. And Bro's gloves.
Notes
     Because fingerless gloves are sexy. Just try and deny it. ;)
     "Underage" because of 13 and 16-year-olds masturbating. 'S about it.
     Also, this is my first posted Homestuck fic. :D
When you were twelve, you stole your Bro's spare pair of fingerless leather
gloves. They were worn, well loved before being traded in for the new pair he
wore. You used to put them under your nose and inhale deeply before stashing
them inside your pillowcase, each night before bed.
 
It was your guilty secret.
 
When you were thirteen, the secret got guiltier.
 
You had slid them on once, as an experiment. His hands were still much larger
than yours, but the feeling of that cool leather against your palm
was...intoxicating, really. Exhilarating, even. You remember, even today, the
first time the thought crossed your mind. What would it feel like, you had
wondered. Bro was out, and you had a lock on your door...
 
But you hadn't done it. Not then. Not for a few days. But it was the first time
you had wondered consciously what it would be like for his hands to touch you.
It was only a matter of time before you had caved in to the impulse, pulled the
gloves from their hiding place, and put them on.
 
Door, locked. Bro, gone for at least an hour. Hands? Encased in loose leather,
so big just your fingertips peaked out. You had settled back in bed, propped up
with a thin pillow, with skinny jeans and underwear pushed down around your
knees. You were already hard with anticipation, and envisioning his hands on
you—the gloves making the fantasy all the more real—you hadn't lasted long.
 
It became a nightly ritual. You started hiding the gloves somewhere else when
the stains became obvious. Bro could notfind out. The vent beneath your bed
became a vault of secrets—lube, tissues, porn mags filled with blond men, and
those gloves. When you became worried he'd find the stash, you had quietly
captchalogued them, because he could neverfind them there.
 
And then, of course, the game had happened. You forgot about them, whilst
fighting for your life. Things like masturbation took a necessary back seat in
favor of survival and strifes and other more immediate problems. And Bro had
died, and you'd held his hand, refusing to cry over him, and somehow those
gloves had lost their magic. Your last memory of his hands was spoilt.
 
Three years on the asteroid, though... That's a long time. You were going
through your sylladex, clearing out old junk, sorting between useful stuff and
pointless garbage, when you found them again. The leather is as worn thin as
you remember, as supple to the touch. You freeze when you find them, holding
them in slightly shaking fingers.
 
When you pull them on, tugging at the wrists slightly to get them positioned
comfortably, you are surprised to find that they almost fit now. Still a bit
loose through the palm, but your fingers seem to be about as long as his ever
were. In a rush, you suddenly remember how it felt to touch yourself,
pretending it was him. You remember the friction of those leather palms against
sensitive skin, and before you're even aware of what you're doing, you have a
hand down your pants, cupping yourself.
 
There, kneeling on the cold floor of your room, you rut furiously into your
fist, imagining again that it's his hand around you, that the wall to your back
is his chest you're being held against as he jerks you off.
 
When you come, your head jerks back so fast your head hits the stone wall with
a crack. You're seeing stars and your dick is pulsing slowly in your fist, and
your thighs are shaking. The breath you try to suck in is shuddering, guilty
all over again, and more so than ever because Bro is gone and here you are,
still madly in lo—
 
Still infatuated.
 
Obsessed, even.
 
You pull the gloves off, hands shaking so badly it takes a few minutes. You
stare at them like you're seeing them for the first time. It's time to let go,
you think. Long past time, in fact.
 
Without looking, you toss them in with the trash. It's time to move on.
 
 
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