There is a good reason that I wrote this, I swear there is and it involves a ridiculous conversation that resulted in this picture - http:/media[dot]tumblr[dot]com/tumblr_lot1aheuqu1qceq6c[dot]png and the I was compelled to write this stupidity and please don't judge me too hard.
I don't know what's worse, that I wrote it in the first place or that this is the closest to porn that I have ever written.
Enjoy I guess
It was rapidly becoming unbearable.
For days it had completely consumed his every waking thought, cropping up during the most unrelated and inconvenient moments of his everyday life. It would spring to mind during rap-offs, in the shower, walking to the fucking grocery store. The most innocuous things would remind him of it and he'd have to stop and sit down to recover. The worst of it was when he suddenly thought about it in the middle of strifing, because that just resulted in getting his ass kicked. Dave had an image to maintain.
He could stand it for a time. He could go about his business without a flicker in his coolkid facade, laying down sweet beats and administering sick burns except then he thought about the burning in his chest, in his loins, on his tongue. The worst of it, however, came about when Bro found out.
He didn't know when.
He didn't know how.
All he knew was that upon entering the Strider household, a foreign yet familiar scent immediately hit his nostrils. He stopped dead in the doorway, waiting for some sign of life or for his Bro to beat the shit out of him as usual. He was perplexed, therefore, when nothing happened, and the house was still, silent as the grave. He was kind of ashamed at his slow creep into the living room, but the presence of that wonderful fragrance had put him on edge. The Strider house only ever smelt of sweat and mangrit with a tiny undercurrent of paralysing shame and that beautiful smell certainly didn't belong here.
It couldn't be.
Dave prayed that it was.
Anticipating a surprise attack at any moment, he darted from the living room and into the kitchen where the smell was the strongest, and flattened himself against the doorway. The scent hit him full force and he wobbled on his feet, dizzy with the intoxication. Slowly, almost against his will, his head turned to the kitchen counter and the origin of his torment. His knees nearly buckled at the sight. It took all his considerable powers of restraint to calmly stride (of course) over to the countertop, stare fixed upon the curry atop it.
Oh jegus it was a korma too.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder, Dave lifted the plate, careful not to spill anything and hurried back to his room. He thought vaguely that there were several reasons that this definitely didn't belong in his house, not least of which was the fact that no food had ever been consumed in the Strider house that hadn't first been extremely intimate with a microwave. The likelihood of Dave ever eating cooked food was about on a par with meeting aliens.
Dave slipped into his bedroom and promptly closed and locked the door behind him. It wasn't likely to be very effective, but for now he needed the illusion of privacy.
The korma was set reverently on Dave's bed and he kneeled down to properly appreciate it.
"You're so ironic I can't stand it," he whispered.
Tentatively, he reached out a finger and dipped it into the bright orange sauce atop the rice and brought it to his mouth, moaning as the spices hit his tongue. He shifted uncomfortably as his pants tightened and a blush rose high on his cheeks. Shit, he was blushing like some kind of… some kind of Egbertian schoolgirl. It was always like this.
Hurriedly he pulled his shirt off, knocking his shades askew before discarding them all together. Gog, he was a flustered mess, but he didn't have much time before Bro inevitably decided to ruin this for him. Abandoning his hesitation, his hand reached out, seemingly of its own volition and submerged itself in the mess of sauce and rice, groaning, and painfully hard. He licked and sucked at his fingers as his other hand fumbled with the button of his jeans. He was ready to cry with the frustration when finally (finally!) he managed to shove them off far enough to reach down and palm himself through his boxers.
"Oh jegus, take me now," he moaned, for once not caring how unironic he sounded. Clambering up onto his bed, he clutched at the plate for all he was worth, spilling the contents onto his chest, head flung back in ecstasy. His eyes rolled back into his head as it dripped down his ribs, a low guttural moan vibrating in his throat. His messy hand slid down to the band of his boxers, teasing and hesitant, before plunging under the thin material. With the curry slicking up his hand, he resisted the urge to just grab his cock and get off, forcing himself to take it slowly. This was a rare occasion, and he was determined to savour every moment. His hand slid easily over his skin, and Dave moaned in relief, nearing desperation in his need to be touched. He clenched his free hand in the curry before bringing it to his mouth, licking and swallowing. Gog, there was chicken in it. His hand began to speed up reflexively, heat building in his belly. There was curry everywhere, on his chest, his face, his hair, and he keened, arching up off the bed into his own hand. God, he'd learn to cook if it meant he could just do this all the time, whenever he wanted, his whole house would just smell of curry and he'd ascend to a new level of irony if only he could control himself around the stuff, and his life would just be all curry all the time and at that thought he bucked, once, twice, into his hand and came hard, korma burning on his lips and tongue and fuck, his whole body was on fire and he never wanted it to end.
When he finally came down, he was left gasping and satisfied on his ruined sheets, hands and chest covered in curry and come. Slowly his eyes flickered open, registering the world around him and eventually finding focus on his ceiling.
Written in bold red:
"THANKS FOR THE SHOW LITTLE BRO"
In smaller letters underneath:
"ask nicely and ill give you a cut"