Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4285329.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Bro_Strider, Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Rape_Fantasy, Dave_and_Bro_Aren't_Related, Bro_Has_a_Wimp_Kink
  Collections:
      Drone_Season_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-07-06 Words: 3808
****** Nerds Ain't Got Shit ******
by Limesparrow
Summary
     PE needs to stop existing, but it won't, and you need the credit to
     graduate. Given the creepy-ass looks from your teacher, this semester
     might end in pure hell.
Notes
     Heyoooo! This was a fun prompt and I'm glad I got a chance to fill
     it. I certainly amused myself! Hope you enjoy. <3
It's sort of weird, how much two people who aren't related at all and honestly
don't have a lot in common can look like each other.
Coach Bro has what you might call chronic douchebag syndrome- he wears a
baseball cap and shitty anime shades all the time. He's also ripped as fuck and
wears too-tight polos to show it off. You're not even sure how a guy who
dresses like that can get a job at a school, but the school board isn't picky
about its PE teachers, if Mr. Slick down in the junior high is any indication.
There's rumors he stabbed a kid and he's getting fired, which is stupid,
because if he stabbed a kid they'd just throw him in jail.
No one ever said the student body is smart; thus, why they keep comparing you
to Coach Bro (and isn't that the douchebaggiest fucking name you ever heard,
anyway?) even though your similarities are purely skin-deep. Just because you
both wear shades and have that same sort of white-blond hair doesn't mean
you're fucking related.
Besides, you've got acne out the ass and insane amounts of metal in your mouth-
plus some red bands -and you are nowhere near muscular. Actually, you're about
exactly the opposite, and Jade and John punch you in the arms all the time just
to tease you about how noodly you are.
Bastages.
References to fantastically awful 80s movies aside, you're sort of fed up with
the Coach Bro craze and you cannot for the life of you get out of it. Every
time you get near him your voice completely dies in your throat. You, Dave
"never stops talking and all his metaphors eventually get away from him and
escape the fucking corral and ride off into the damn sunset" Strider, are
rendered speechless by this dickhead.
You really don't get it, except that every bit of Bro radiates danger and
sometimes you can sense him looking at you; that wouldn't be so bad on its own,
except then he'll smirk and tilt his head just so and you'll go mysteriously
weak at the knees like in some Japanese anime, your heart going doki doki all
the way home.
You're not attracted to him or anything. He fucking terrifies you.
Unfortunately, there's some sort of fine line there that all your friends seem
to think you are irrevocably close to crossing, and it doesn't help that Coach
Bro feels you up just about every chance he can get- well, no, that's coming on
a bit strong, you're sure it's not that obvious or someone would have reported
it by now. You don't know why you haven't reported it by now.
He's just touchy-feely, is all, and you know you sound like every statistic
ever when you say you don't want to report something that's really nothing, but
you can't help it. He'll be behind you before you even know what's happening, a
hands-on demonstration of how to swing the bat in the baseball unit or how to
bump the damn ball in the volleyball unit.
Yeah, actually, you think he's found a way to put his hands on you every couple
of weeks under the guise of helping you not be shit at sports.
It's so fucking subtle, though, that you're not even sure what to make of it.
No, he doesn't do it to anyone else, but you know you're god-fucking-awful at
everything except badminton. The thing about badminton, though, is that it
doesn't need strength or even speed- just wrists and reflexes. You've got
those, but you get all wheezy in sports that require you to move too much. It's
probably some kind of asthma, but you've never actually been unable to breathe,
so no one gets on your case about it. Incidentally, if Coach Bro gets too close
to you while you're having lung trouble, he gives you a hard pat on the back
that always nearly sends you flying, and you're pretty sure he's touched your
ass more than once. It's fleeting, but he's done it.
The final nail in the 'Coach Bro is a creepy weird adult who you should
probably avoid at all costs but damn it you need the PE credits to graduate,
what kind of fucked up system is this?' coffin is probably near the end of the
year in the only PE unit you've ever been any good at. Yeah, badminton- you and
Rose are kicking Jade and John's asses, real succinct like, getting back at
them for all the hideous losses they've inflicted upon you in other games like
soccer and basketball.
That's when Coach Bro calls you out, the exact same way he's called you out at
the beginning of every unit, his voice all gruff and deep. "Dave!" he says, and
you fumble the serve for the birdie. It spirals carelessly to the ground and
you stare after it, steadfastly not looking in Bro's direction. You don't need
to; you can feel him come up behind you, standing probably too close but far
enough away that you're sure it's not arousing any suspicions from others.
Still, the hair of your neck starts standing on end, all spooky like a cold
draft just hit you.
"Why don't you pick up that birdie and I'll show you how to really serve, lil'
man?" His voice is practically right next to your ear, or maybe that's just how
strongly his presence exudes from his body. God, Coach Bro is like a fucking
menace. You don't know how people stand it.
You also don't know why he's picking on you again, because you've been serving
goddamn perfectly this entire time. Except, honestly, you do know, and that
spooks the shit out of you. Coach Bro is, in every sense of the word, a jock,
and in a few other senses of a few other words, he's also a teacher and, like,
thirty or something. Jocks have never made you comfortable.
But you hear him tap his foot a few times, slowly, casually, but you know he's
waiting for you to get the damn birdie. You do, leaning down and snagging it
between your scrawny fingers- he makes a soft noise of appreciation, one so low
you're not even sure you heard it and holy shit that fucker is staring at your
ass. You straighten up as fast as you possibly can, your spine like some iron
rod brutally jammed up through your back, and you only get stiffer when you
realize Bro's right behind you now, taking your hands in his.
Wait, no, not stiffer like that-- shit, that's not what you meant! Christ, even
your own inner monologue is against you, and Coach Bro's hands are enormous,
dwarfing your own. He just barely adjusts your grip on the racket. "Now this is
how you serve," he murmurs, right into your ear, and your shoulders are so taut
you're pretty sure they're going to snap right in half.
Coach Bro drags your arms through the motions a few times, not that you'll
retain any fucking bit of it, not with him all huge and hard behind you-- no,
not that kind of hard, you just meant his fucking abs-- why are you thinking
about his abs? Ugh.
"You know," he drawls, quiet and you think maybe amused, "they don't always
call these things birdies." Lightly, Coach Bro shakes the hand you're using to
hold the birdie, his body hunching over yours. You can feel his lips,
practically on your ear, and his breathing is hot and maybe ticklish. "You know
what they call 'em?" Yeah, he's grinning on your fucking ear.
"Shuttlecocks."
His teeth nip your lobe and you nope right the fuck out of that situation,
vaulting from his arms so fast it actually hurts. You think maybe you'll have
bruises on your hands later, but at that second you don't care- you're too busy
swearing loudly out of shock. Choice bits of your colorful vocabulary fly into
the air as you do a pirouette off the fucking handle. Nearby, Rose's eyes are
narrow, concerned, but it's a little bit fucking late for that, you've already
been damn molested.
Hands on his hips, Coach Bro hardly seems bothered. In fact, he seems less than
bothered. He actually looks like he's enjoying himself. "Well, that's uncalled
for, kid," he says, like he's perfectly innocent and didn't just practically
stick his tongue in your ear. "Not supposed to swear during school hours and
all that. I think that's grounds for a detention, don't you?"
Your mouth snaps shut, effectively cutting off your tangent of 'fuck's,
'shit's, and 'goddamn can't a guy go one day without this sort of thing
happening, saints' assholes's. Detention is not something you're overly
familiar with because your teachers tend to like you. You're sure if you
brought a pink slip home, no one there would approve, and you really do not
like where this is going.
"Nothing left to say to that, huh?" Bro chuckles lowly. "Be in my office after
school to serve your brand new shiny detention, 3:05 sharp."
And then he just walks away, even though you're pretty sure he's supposed to
write you up or something. It doesn't matter. Both of you know you'll show up
anyway just because of how much sheer terror he pumps into your circulatory
system.
Rose comes over to you and gives you one of her she-devil looks, like she's
trying to pierce into your soul and see what's up in there. You give her a
nasty look back that she obviously can't see because you are wearing fucking
shades. "What?" you snip at her.
Instead of saying anything, she delicately clears her throat and gestures
faintly downward. You become intimately aware of the boner you're now sporting,
visible as fuck through your paltry blue gym shorts. You scream internally
because no, hell no, hell fucking no, and the snarky part of your brain just
whispers 'well I guess terror isn't the only thing he's pumping into your
circulatory system.' You tell that part of your brain to fuck right off;
unfortunately, so much of your brain is snark that it's ineffective.
You flee to the restroom for the rest of the period because you are so not
dealing with awkward dick city. Still, you can feel Coach Bro laughing at you
internally, and you can imagine him whispering "That was the plan, to give you
a boner." That's not what actually happens, but it might as well have for all
the internal screaming you're doing and the fact that your trouser snake
doesn't seem to comprehend that you're actually terrefied of your PE teacher
and you do not want to bone him.
Therefore, the rest of the day is pure anticipatory hell. You're anxious and
you have no idea what to expect and what if he does try something? What are you
going to do? Your beef truncheon seems to have a few ideas, but you've learned
not to listen to that fucker and you're scared. You're pants-shittingly,
unironically horrified by what might happen to you locked away in Coach Bro's
little office where you'll probably have to sit for half an hour.
Maybe he wants to fuck you. He might just bend you over his desk and fuck you
so hard your glasses fly off, tears running down your face even though you're
not saying anything; can't say anything. Maybe he gagged you, maybe he
threatened you, maybe you're just too ashamed, but you wouldn't say a word as
he fucks you hard and fast and grunting. He would use you, and the he would
slap you on the ass and tell you to get going before the folks in the office
start to get suspicious.
And then, briefly, he'd lean over and whisper to you that if you tell anyway,
he'll break you in half and fail you and you with your snotty little fucking
kid face- that's what you are, a damn kid -you'd just nod, too mortified to say
a word.
That scenario runs through your head for all of art class and you wonder just
how fucked up you've gotten in the past hour. Judging by the old heat seeking
love missile, pretty goddamn fucked up. You can't stop thinking about it and
you're pretty sure you're just going to be hot and bothered for the rest of the
day. You're sure as hell not jerking off in the bathroom to thoughts of your PE
teacher raping you.
Well, that was a suspiciously specific denial, but you swear you aren't.
The final bell startles you when it rings at last, so shrill it pulls you right
out of your messed up fantasies and into your messed up reality. Your heart
starts to flutter hard, boom boom boom, and you feel like you're going to throw
up. There's no way you can do this, not with all the shit that's been going
through your head today. It'd be like talking to John while thinking about
blowing him, which is legitimately impossible and has maybe you ramble
incessantly rather than actually communicate more than once.
You head toward Coach Bro's office anyway. Too scared to disobey, too scared
not to, and so you're just a big ball of jittery nerves. Nothing's going to
happen, you tell yourself and rehash it so many times you almost manage to calm
yourself down. Then you knock on the door to his office and here him say "Come
in," and you lose all resolve at all, your heart dropping straight through your
stomach and into some region south of Shanghai, China. It's too late to back
out now, though, and you push open the door.
Bro's waiting for you, his hands steepled together like some sort of shitty
supervillain. You can almost see him spinning around in his office chair,
petting a large fluffy cat; you relax enough to step inside at that. Imagining
him as a cartoonish villain makes it seem far less likely that he's going to do
anything serious to you. Even evil has standards, the tropish part of your
brain whispers.
"Close the door behind you," he says, deep and still sounding faintly amused by
you. Nope, nevermind, you're still panicking. Definitely still panicking.
Still, you do as he says. "Lock it." Your heart expedites its shipping from
Shanghai right up into your throat, doubletime. You swallow, suddenly feeling
like there's no liquid in your mouth, and your hands are trembling a little as
you lock the door.
"Now why don't you have a seat?" Coach Bro leans back from his desk, pushing
himself away from it a bit and spreading his legs. You could almost interpret
it as a 'come sit between these babies,' except that there is no way in the
fiery depths of hell that you are ever going to do that. You swallow again,
harder, and sit down in a chair across from him. His eyebrow quirks above his
shitty anime shades and you try not to think about that too much.
"Dave," he says your name all low and fiery and your face goes red like you're
a psychokinetic teenage girl at her first prom and they just dumped a vat of
pig's blood directly onto your cheeks with no concern for how you're literally
going to kill all of them soon enough and bullying is not a goddamn viable
option unless you wanna bring a wouldbe serial killer down on your head-
Man, you really need to stop letting your inner thoughts get away from you.
"That's not what I meant," he says.
You reply eloquently. "Huh?"
Coach Bro stretches out a little further and, between the tight clothes and the
incredibly deliberate way he does it, you can basically see everything. You
think you're gonna barf. "Come sit in my lap."
Are you fucking dreaming? "Uh," again, your way with words is mysteriously
profound. Coach Bro outright laughs at you in a way that goes straight to your
cock and makes you hideously ashamed all at the same time.
"I know you've noticed, kid. You ain't a damn idiot. Even Lalonde noticed that
last time, and I ain't even been touching her. Not my type." You wish you could
say a flare of protectiveness went through you or something but you're honestly
too busy freaking the fuck out, focusing on keeping your breathing even enough
to pass for calm instead of the short sharp bursts it wants to come out in. Bro
notes your silence. "What, crow got your tongue? Get over here, kid, we don't
got all night."
You stand on command and curse yourself. Maybe you can bolt. The door's locked
but you know how to unlock it, nice and easy. You could do it, you think, and
then you can avoid school for the rest of your life so you never have to deal
with Coach Bro again.
Something about your stance must give you away, because Coach Bro shakes his
head minutely. "Don't even think about it. We're doing this, one way or
another, and you're either gonna get on my dick of your own accord or I'm gonna
do it for you."
There's ice and fire in your veins. You don't even know how to react and your
stomach is curdling. When you speak, your voice cracks right in half and it's
probably the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you. "I cou-could
scream," and then you inhale sharply, trying to regain your footing. "Office is
right down the hallway. They'd hear me."
"Scream?" Bro chuckles. "Kid, you can't even talk. No, I've got you all to
myself, and the only question is whether we're gonna do this the hard way or
the easy way?"
You stand your ground for about all of one second, but he's so much bigger than
you and for all that this is making you petrified out of your goddamn wits,
your dick is interested. You really, really hate your dick right now. Bro leans
forward and, well, you've never really believed in auras and shit like that,
but you swear you can feel the lust and aggression radiating from him and it's
so scary you practically scramble over his desk to get in his lap. Your legs
are spindly and poke out on either side of him under the arms of the chair.
A self-satisfied smirk appears on Coach Bro's face. "That's what I thought," he
says, placing the palm of his massive hand across the small of your back. You
nearly leap out of your skin, but Bro doesn't seem to care. He just feels you,
up and down, all across your back and your arms and your chest. His hands are
too big for you, hot across your scrawny body, and you try desperately not to
move at all. Movement might encourage him.
Of course, he seems to take your stillness as a personal challenge and, before
you even know what's happening, tears off your shades. Now you're a deer in
headlights, red eyes taking in the vibrant colors of life that you rarely every
actually see, and your panic is so clearly evident that Coach Bro laughs. He
tosses your shades- damn it, John gave those to you -and you start squirming.
His gloved hands lock on your shoulders in a vice.
"Cool it, they're fine, man, you can get them after we're done," he placates
you, like you're actually in this together. Still, it works, and you stop
moving so much and he goes back to petting you. He seems to almost revere your
tininess, rubbing at your nonexistant muscles and firmly stroking your ribcage.
More than once, he wraps his hands around your wrists almost curiously,
reveling in the fact that he can easily loop his fingers around you.
You sit through it, limp, confused, and getting a little more turned on by the
minute; you don't know if you can help it. He's just paying so much attention
to you, the sort of attention no one's ever paid you because you're a damn
nerd. Even your friends don't want to fuck you, but here's your PE teacher,
putting his hands on your hips and rubbing down the sides of your legs.
God, this is horrifying, your brain is already accepting what's happening and
trying to get the good things out of it. You're so fucked up; have you always
been this fucked up? You've never gotten your rocks off to thinking about Coach
Bro slamming you while you begged and cried before, but before isn't now and
that's exactly what you're doing.
It isn't until you're shaking that you realize exactly how far you've gone.
You've been fixing your gaze steadily on nothing, the arm of the chair you're
conveniently trapped in, and Bro flicks open the top of your pants.
You flip your damn shit, swearing and trying to dart away, but Bro holds you
down with one fucking hand; it's so easy for him that shame starts to creep up
in you and you feel like hell. There's not enough shame to stop his hands from
dipping into your boxers and pulling out a hard cock of modest size, though,
and you actively resist the urge to either puke or pass out. Instead, you let
out a hard, heavy breath and shut your eyes.
Whatever Coach Bro is getting from this, he doesn't need you actively paying
attention, apparently, because he doesn't reprimand you for biting down on your
lip and trying to shut everything out. No, he just starts jerking you off, nice
and easy, until your hips are rocking on their own and you're whispering
nonsense under your breath. You've always been that way; the Orgasm Monologues,
you call them, and you've even recorded them a few times because you never ever
remember what you say.
It's always fucking nonsense, but whatever you're saying as you spurt a nasty
mess into Bro's hand has him grinning when you blearily open your eyes.
A tsunami of 'god I'm just so tired, this has been super fucked up and I need
to sleep so I can pretend this never happened' hits you point-blank in the
face, and slowly you try to pull away from your captor. Surprisingly, he lets
you go, lets you stand on your incredibly wobbly legs and tuck yourself into
your pants and zip up.
He lets you pick up your sunglasses, put them on, and open the fucking door
before he drops the bomb.
"You've got detention for the rest of the week, Strider. You know the time and
the place."
All you can do is nod meekly and leave, shutting the office door behind you.
You're in deep shit.
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