Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/629425.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Alpha_Dave_Strider/Dirk_Strider, Dave_Strider/Dirk_Strider
  Character:
      Dirk_Strider, Dave_Strider, Alpha_Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Love, Dubiously_Requited_Love, Dirk_is_Sixteen, Crossdressing,
      Nonsexual_Crossdressing, Public_Display_of_Affection, Submission,
      Pushiness, Bittersweet, Masturbation, Blow_Jobs, POV_Third_Person,
      Wordcount:_5.000-10.000
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-07 Words: 9282
****** Chivalry, and Other Personal Failings ******
by elegantanagram_(Lir)
Summary
     Dirk has an unrelenting, obsessive crush on his older brother. Dave
     has a new publicity gimmick in the pipeline, one that involves a lot
     of expensive silk and an even greater amount of bared skin. These two
     facts are entirely unrelated; neither is particularly good for Dirk's
     mental health.
     Or, in which the fact that Dirk Strider really wants to kiss his
     attractive father figure on the mouth is not helped in the slightest
     by the way Dave looks in a dress, and in which Dirk is determined to
     get his way in the end regardless of personal cost.
Notes
     This is an extremely self-indulgent piece of writing, in a whole lot
     of ways. The underage warning is because Dirk is sixteen and the age
     of consent in California is eighteen.
     Now that I'm about as finished with this as I'm gonna get, I'm a bit
     worried Dave comes off as meaner than I intended. Dirk's perspective
     is biased and he's a decently unreliable narrator so hopefully that's
     conveyed and Dave doesn't seem terrible. This is still bittersweet
     and arguably sadstuck and I've been wanting to write actual legit
     alpha stridercest fic for a really long time and yet the involved
     thing I've created will probably bruise emotions, PLEASE ENJOY!
Dirk's palm presses flat to Dave's stomach, on the right side, just above his
hipbone. He can feel the tension in Dave's muscles, the clamping down that he
reads as Dave stealing himself for Dirk's next move. Dirk knows that Dave is
strained from filming and physically exhausted. He curls his fingers against
Dave's waist and reaches his free hand up to massage the back of Dave's neck.
They're in a little crackerbox flat off-set – not a trailer, thank fuck – and
Dave hasn't made it more than two steps into the entranceway.
"Shut up," Dirk says quietly, with minimal inflection.
If he preemptively shuts down Dave's objections to being cared for, Dirk can
pretend at simple brotherly concern for Dave's overworked state.
Dirk knows a thing or two about overtaxing his body. He seeks out the knots in
Dave's muscles and works them loose with practiced fingers, until he can feel
Dave sag complacently against his hands. It's about as much as Dave will accept
from him, a service that Dave cannot perform himself and will therefore allow
to fall to Dirk. It's unwise in the extreme to flaunt that measure of trust and
go for broke.
Dirk does it anyway.
He leans forward until his nose presses against the side of Dave's neck, head
carefully tilted to avoid savaging Dave with the points of his shades. The
motion of his skin rubbing against Dave's skin is subtle, a counterpoint to his
working fingers that he challenges Dave to deny. The reprimand doesn't come,
and in the absence of his brother's dry, mocking criticism, Dirk pushes his
luck farther.
Dave's hair is fine against his fingers when Dirk pushes them into short blonde
strands, but Dave's throat is softer against the light, open press of Dirk's
mouth. His tongue traces the track of Dave's pulse hovering under the skin,
slides against the column of Dave's throat from just above his shirt collar to
right below his ear.
Dirk counts the passing seconds in his head while he does it.
The kiss he deposits beneath Dave's jaw makes a soft, audible sound, precluding
the others trailing back down, until Dirk's lips catch over Dave's adam's apple
and he has to tell himself that his brother will not tolerate the scrape of
teeth. He eases back, sticking to the lightest contact, to only the most
fleeting affectionate brushes of lips and flickering tongue.
Dave won't let Dirk on set, and he hardly has schoolwork to occupy himself
with. He's stuck here, rattling around their tiny personal space in an
unfamiliar country just like Dave told him he would be, left longing for Dave
while he's gone until he snaps and throws himself into some superficial project
or other. He tinkers or types and the whole time he thinks about touching Dave,
lets himself into Dave's room against Dave's wishes just so he can sit on
Dave's loaned bed while filling up his time with busywork.
Dirk gets as far as kissing Dave's neck, and even then he has to hold himself
strictly accountable for his damning reactions. Dave's stomach is tense again
under Dirk's fingers, the strain in his neck tightening back to bowstring-taut.
Dirk counts the seconds, until Dave pushes him gently, but firmly, away.
-
Dirk's truest creative calling is in building hardware, making complicated
technological devices of his own design. He has a great fondness for robotics,
and the California apartment he shares with his brother is liberally littered
with an array of stray parts. Construction is one of his deepest, most
obsessive passions.
He does, however, have more than a basic knack for writing software.
A year ago, Dirk wrote himself a script. The premise is simple – his program
scours the internet for any and all news about "Dave Strider." It's the
calibrations that are complicated. Dirk has tinkered with and finessed his code
over months, fine-tuning his news aggregate. Now it includes filtering
capabilities by both topic and overall relevance, and is easily the most
comprehensive compendium of information about his brother that Dirk is aware of
existing.
Dirk checks his program for its latest bounties bi-daily. It's soothing and
familiar to scan over the most recent entries while nursing his morning orange
juice and munching dry cereal. Dirk finds soundbites of his brother
particularly calming. This morning, there is one unfamiliar news article.
Dave's last premiere was a month back, and Dirk vaguely recollects the
whirlwind preparations. He declined to attend, as he always does. The article
is a feature on a fairly well-trafficked celebrity gossip website, and though
the focus isn't on Dave's latest movie, the page includes a video clip from the
premiere. Dirk watches it through.
Dirk doesn't remember Dave leaving the apartment like that.
The interviewer compliments Dave on his dress, haltingly, and Dirk can tell in
an instant that she's fishing for an explanation. Dave compliments her on her
shoes, wearing that empty smile that's better than a pokerface, and mentions
Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff's critical reception, returning to their previous
topic. Dirk can't be bothered to appreciate his brother's deflection; he's
staring at the ridges of Dave's collarbones above the crisp edge of his
neckline.
When the video briefly pans out from their faces, Dirk admires the trimness of
Dave's waist, the way the dress fails to conceal the narrowness of Dave's hips.
The sleeveless design allows Dirk to examine the musculature of Dave's strong
arms all the way up to the shoulders. He suspects that the garment was tailored
for Dave specifically; it fits too well, too carefully, to have been modeled
for a woman.
It takes Dirk a moment to realize the video has ended. He plays it three more
times.
He wonders what Dave has done with the dress.
He tracks down a high-definition video of the interview and mines it for the
most flattering screenshots. He watches the video one more time straight
through. He makes himself stop fixating and takes out a drawer of miscellaneous
small parts, but watches the clock the entire time he's dismantling.
-
Dirk springs on Dave at the first sound of the apartment door opening. He does
his best to be subtle about his body-checking, cutting Dave off before the
point where the entranceway widens into their main living space.
"It's barely five," he points out casually. If he's innocuous in his speech,
maybe Dave won't notice how deliberate he's being in his manner. "Are you sure
your associates are working you hard enough, bro? At this rate sleep-
deprivation will elude you, and how will you do your best writing?"
There's the smallest hint of motion around Dave's mouth and that's how Dirk
knows that his brother is at least amused. Not irritated; not suspicious. Today
Dave's heavy-hitter of a work obligation was a meeting with his producer; he
may be home at an appallingly reasonable hour but Dirk has every reason to
suspect his brother has been mentally taxed beyond any sane person's emotional
limits. Dave's producer is ruthless. But Dave himself is practically inhuman
and Dirk doubts there's much his brother can't take.
"They don't understand the true needs of a creative," Dave bemoans, playing
into Dirk's angle. "Only you know my pain. I'll have to find someone else to
push me to exhaustion so I can keep working hard for the money and keep this
awesome roof over your head."
"So considerate," Dirk simpers, bumping up against Dave in the small space
before the door.
Dave holds his ground, but there's the slightest furrow between his eyebrows,
the first hint that he's questioning shooting the shit with Dirk while bottled
up at the mouth of their apartment.
"I like this apartment a lot," Dirk continues, "I wouldn't want to lose it just
because you aren't working yourself like a dog. Let me tire you out, bro, it's
the least I can do."
Dirk's hips are almost up against Dave's, he's standing so close. His hands are
slid in his back pockets, in a futile stab at nonchalance, much as he'd like to
hook them in Dave's pockets instead. Dave hasn't moved away and they're
practically the same height now, but Dirk gets the distinct impression that
Dave is looking down his nose at him from behind his shades. For all its
impassiveness, Dave's expression screams "unimpressed."
"I don't think you're man enough for the task, squirt," Dave says. "It takes a
seasoned professional to bring this racehorse right to the brink of dropping,
so the creative juices flow like the sheen of sweat dripping from heaving
flanks. Come back when you've jockeyed a race or two and maybe you won't seem
too big for your britches."
Dirk is near-positive the shitty horse metaphor is tailored specifically to
mock him.
"I don't want to," he says, stubbornly. "Put me up in the saddle and I'll prove
I can handle myself."
Dave's eyebrows arch up above his shades, and Dirk has to steel himself not to
flinch back.
He pushes himself into digging his pointer fingers into Dave's front pockets,
pulling himself the rest of the way into Dave's space. He wants to wrap his
hands around Dave's waist from both sides, drag his palms down over his
brother's narrow hips and across his thighs, imagining the way Dave's premiere
dress clung to them. He doesn't know why Dave did that, whether it was a
publicity stunt or something more complicated. When it comes down to it, Dirk
doesn't have as comprehensive an understanding of his brother's convoluted
irony as he likes to pretend.
"Dirk," Dave says, voice completely flat.
"Just count on me," Dirk insists, but he suspects he's actually begging.
He curls his fingers out of Dave's pockets up to his waist, but his hands stop
there, seized by an inexplicable impotence. He can't dare himself into petting
down Dave's thighs. Dirk leans his chin on Dave's shoulder instead, pressed
close from the neck down to their knees. It's almost like hugging, except his
heart is thundering too powerfully in his chest to be justified by anything so
mundane.
Dirk turns his face into Dave's neck, slowly, inches his hands farther around
Dave's body to grasp at his lower back and keep Dave close. Dave's arms hang at
his sides loosely, although Dirk can feel that his brother's back is poker-
straight. For a long moment, it's just Dirk's hot breath ghosting against
Dave's skin, before his lips make direct contact and he's moving frantically
across those few inches, quick, yearning, desperate kisses all up and down
Dave's throat.
"Dirk," Dave says again, sharper this time.
"C'mon," Dirk insists, pleads, mouth as close to the join of Dave's neck and
shoulder as he can get. He doesn't take the time to construct an argument in
his favor, not with one hand on Dave's hip creeping back towards his ass and
the other crawling all the way up to his shoulderblade, not with his teeth
lightly scraping skin while he speaks.
"I told you no," Dave says, and his arms come up to push Dirk's away. He
jostles Dirk free and when he's still standing close, puts a hand flat on his
chest and forces him back.
Dirk doesn't think any of what Dave said actually contained the word "no" or
"stop" but he knew that was the general message. He can feel his lips setting
in a grim, unflinching line.
Dave straightens his shirt, rubs one hand down the side of his neck, and pushes
past Dirk.
When Dave disappears into his bedroom, there's nothing Dirk can do about it. He
thinks about Dave's sharply-defined collarbones, the distinct ridges he can see
in high-definition video but couldn't get at with Dave's high collar, and licks
his lips quickly, twice.
Dave doesn't come out of his room again that evening, but Dirk doesn't either.
-
Dave doesn't lock his bedroom door when he's out. He should start.
Dirk pries open Dave's closet, easing the doors apart while paying careful mind
to their positions at the start. He never comes into Dave's room any more, and
he's never looked through Dave's things. The last time he came in plainly he
was a preschooler still suffering nightmares.
Sometimes he slinks inside while Dave is working late, but all he does is
stretch out on Dave's bed and curl around one of Dave's pillows, smelling like
Dave's shampoo and the unique clean-musky smell he pegs as Dave's own scent.
Dave's closet is mostly full of formal wear, rows of neatly-pressed slacks and
finely-tailored suit jackets. Dirk shuffles through them, stroking his hands
down the legs of Dave's pants and across the breasts of the jackets, feeling
the nice fabric. His brother is striking in all of these things, cutting a
memorable figure whenever he shows up at a premiere or other publicity event.
Past the professional outfits, there are a few items that coax even Dirk's
stubborn lips into curling up.
Dirk remembers this suit. He touches the hideous paisley fabric, manages not to
cringe at the assault of the bright colors. He must have been six years old
when Dave commissioned its design. It was the first time Dave took him to a
work event. Dirk's tiny suit was orange with a neon green bowtie and tiny
cufflinks; Dave had ordered it custom as well.
Behind the hideous eye-affront of the premiere suit are a few other outfits
that Dave could only have acquired for their sheer tackiness value. Dirk can
name the occasion Dave last wore each of them, until he's swimming in an
intoxicating muddle of nostalgia. He used to think his brother was the coolest
thing in the universe.
Dirk still does, he supposes – if only in his head where Dave's gluttonous ego
can't hear it – in a subtly different way.
There isn't anything behind the ironic ensembles. Dirk slides all of the
hangers back into their original alignment, but not before his frustration
catches up with him and he jostles everything forward again, sticking his hands
in between each garment and the next looking for something missing.
Dirk can't find the premiere dress.
He's sure that Dave hasn't gotten rid of it. Everything he knows about his
brother has educated the hypothesis that the dress is still somewhere in their
apartment. Dave wouldn't want Dirk to get his grubby, oil-stained fingers on it
(respectfully fuck you, bro, Dirk knows exactly how to handle fine things)
which means its in Dave's space, where Dirk is never supposed to go. It's in
this room, Dirk simply has to find it.
There's a long shelf along the top of Dave's closet, wedged high enough that
Dirk can barely see its contents when he stands in front of it. It's lined with
narrow boxes, and Dirk pulls them down one by one, setting them on Dave's bed
to go through them.
The first box contains a drycleaning bag. Dirk peels it open, carefully, feels
slinky black silk pool against his fingers. It isn't the premiere dress. Dirk
pulls it out, draping the material over his arm to examine the high neckline,
the elegant keyhole back and the uneven hemline.
This is a far slicker evening gown than the flashy, playful dress Dave wore to
the premiere.
Dirk opens the next box.
And the next.
His determination unearths a black and white sundress in a classic print, a
wine-red cocktail dress with a skirt shorter than Dirk thought a man could ever
get away with wearing, the firetruck-red dress with the low neckline and trim
waist that Dirk remembers from the premiere. Each is carefully packaged,
pristine and lovely. Dirk lays them out on the bed, one after the other, judges
from the dimensions of the premiere dress that they're all carefully fitted to
his brother's unique proportions.
Dirk stands and runs his hands over all of them, calculating, scientific, his
brain a low buzz of internal processors grinding away.
On an impulse, Dirk starts pulling out the drawers on his brother's dresser,
sifting through the rest of Dave's clothes one drawer at a time. Mostly there
are t-shirts, sweats, folded collared shirts, one drawer just stuffed with all
of Dave's mismatched socks, and Dirk laughs at the fact that his brother can't
be bothered to ever fold them together. One drawer has Dave's underwear, which
feels a bit weird to systematically rifle through, mostly because it isn't
titillating enough.
The lingerie is under Dave's worn slacks in the bottom drawer, the ones he
doesn't hang because they're too worn-out for nice occasions but are weathered
soft and perfect for slouching in. It isn't with the rest of Dave's underwear,
like that fucking means anything. They're a jewel-toned rainbow, an array of
women's panties in varying dark colors. Dirk's greedy hands find silk and satin
and delicate lace, find see-through mesh panels and mocking little bows.
Dirk pushes the drawer shut.
Dirk packs up the dresses one by one, folding them with careful precision. He
lingers over the wine-colored one, tugging the hemline straight and imagining
it stretching tight across Dave's thighs. He imagines the skirt creeping up
with the strides of Dave's steps, imagines the well-defined muscles that would
be unabashedly on display. He realizes the front of his pants are tighter than
the fabric pulled between his fingers.
Dirk puts all the boxes back, shuts the closet doors so firmly they come
together with an indignant thump. He has to stop to edge them back apart, just
minutely, to replicate their initial state when he first walked into Dave's
bedroom. Dirk walks back over to Dave's dresser, stops, pulls the bottom-right
drawer open in one smooth motion.
He sits on Dave's bed with a pair of wine-red panties hanging from between his
pointer fingers.
The additional data Dirk has unearthed calls for immediate appraisal, followed
by a decision as to whether or not Dirk must reassess his preconceptions about
his older brother. The electric hum of Dirk's hormones, and the insistent ache
between his legs, call for him to shuck off his jeans and tug at his cock until
all the analytical centers of his brain have short-circuited underneath the
weighty duress of satisfying his arousal.
Dirk already knows he has a mighty fucking hankering for summer sausage, to put
it euphemistically, already knows that Dave is the most frequently recurring
theme in all his queertastic jerkoff fantasies. It wasn't hard to accept, once
he took the time to lay those facts out for himself. Imagining Dave in sheer
stockings, silky panties, and elegant eveningwear hardly registers as an
extreme deviation from the norm.
Dirk does hope his brother isn't opting for an early evening. He manages not to
examine the thought beyond dismissing it.
Dirk's jeans are dropped to his ankles with little effort, stepped out of and
discarded on the floor in favor of planting his ass on Dave's mattress and
scooting up against the pillows. He reclines back, fidgets until he's perfectly
comfortable, finally reaches down to curl his fingers around his aching dick.
His usual firm grip is almost too tight, verging on the painful when he strokes
himself a few slow times.
The panties are still in Dirk's other hand, crumpled up in tense fingers. After
a few moments Dirk curls that hand around himself instead, so that the cool
silk slides against his skin. He hisses out between his teeth.
Dirk thinks about wearing them, for a moment, but that isn't what he wants.
Dirk thinks about Dave in the wine-red dress, thinks about grasping Dave's
waist and drawing their hips together. He thinks about tugging Dave's skirt up
in some secluded corner of some anonymous function hall, paints the picture so
that Dave is wearing the matching panties, the outline of his cock visible
through the thin material. Dirk imagines pulling himself out of his dress
slacks and grinding against Dave, so that their cocks rub together with only
that thin, cool layer of fabric separating them.
Dirk repositions the panties, curls them around his cock so he can jerk himself
off with the material. It's marginally less stimulation, an arrangement that
cuts down on friction just enough to be a maddening tease, and Dirk's fist
around his cock speeds up impatiently. He's watching the motion of his own hand
at first, but that's doing nothing for him, so he turns his face into Dave's
pillows, breathes in, and imagines his brother is the one touching him.
He's pulling his hand back faster than if his own junk had burned him, but that
was all it fucking took, and Dirk doesn't want to get jizz all over Dave's nice
things. He doesn't even have to touch himself again, panting against the
muffling down of Dave's pillow while he comes virtually hands-free.
Dirk realizes Dave's silky underwear will smell like him, after he's dressed
himself and placed them back in the drawer with the others.
He wonders if Dave will notice.
-
Dirk stands in front of his mirror, wriggling the knot of his tie back and
forth. It isn't perfectly symmetrical, but he neatens it until his tie lies
satisfactorily straight against his chest. The red-violet silk is stark as
blood against Dirk's white dress shirt, though the effect is lessened with the
addition of a suit jacket.
Dirk gently pats along the crown of his head, establishing tactile confirmation
that his hair is ordered properly, never mind that he can see the effects of
much product and styling in his reflection. He might have a near-compulsive
need to ensure that everything about his appearance is completely up to par,
but it hardly changes the fact that he looks dapper as fuck. Though the face
before him seems naked without shades, it's every inch the face of a young
gentleman.
In complete honesty, it may be turning him on.
It's patently untrue to say Dirk doesn't like dressing up. He's always
extremely mindful of the way he looks, though he might choose to dress down on
ordinary occasions. It's premieres and publicity stunts that Dirk doesn't like.
Dirk steps back from the mirror, resigned to his plans for the evening.
He ends up standing by the apartment door, waiting for Dave to finish getting
ready. Either his brother is legitimately more of a prima donna than Dirk is,
or Dave put off dressing until the very last minute in order to maximize his
chances at fashionable lateness. Dirk would have preferred if Dave circled the
block a few times in the limo before pulling up, if he's really determined to
achieve that devil-may-care persona.
Dirk reminds himself about the latest leaked interview with his brother,
pertaining to the evening's events, and shelves his irritation. He asked for
this. A very reliable source confirmed that Dave Strider will once again be
showing a little leg on the red carpet, and Dirk is not about to be caught
without his front-row ticket.
Dave likely only let him come to remind Dirk that these events make him
miserable.
Dirk does not fucking care. His brother has more poise than an entire troupe of
Olympic gymnasts. It's a fact Dirk has always known, both instinctively and
through getting his ass routinely handed to him at the wrong end of a sword. It
makes watching Dave completely addictive. There's a certain composure behind
all of his interviews, inherent in the knack Dave has for casting doubt on
whether any statement is straight fact or an elaborate joke of a ruse. Dave
looks sharp and dangerous in a suit, possessed of a roguish charm that's won
him all sorts of disgusting women's magazine awards.
He looks even better in a dress.
All of Dave's dresses are cut with a sense of class and elegance, and with a
distinct eye for the feminine. Yet when their silhouettes are transposed onto
Dave they also serve to highlight his competence and masculinity, drawing
attention to flat chest, broad shoulders, toned musculature. Dirk keeps
remembering how Dave's last dress showcased his lean legs and defined arms.
As if Dirk needed any further reminder of his brother's admirable physical
prowess and incredible personal stamina.
When Dave steps out of his room, balanced like the world's most powerful
gazelle on four-inch stiletto heels, Dirk expects to offer his arm and suggest
he escort Dave to the waiting limo. In reality, he follows Dave out the door
with his mouth feeling a little dry, still far more lovesick teenage boy than
cultured gentleman.
-
The red carpet is a chaotic mess of cameras and reporters all hounding in on
the best story, flashbulbs going off frequently enough to generate a strobe
effect. Dirk hangs back from the throng. He isn't anyone the paparazzi should
be interested in recording, and the way they converge on his brother like flies
to putrefying meat is nearly enough to turn Dirk's stomach.
Dirk takes care to blank his expression and keep his posture as loose-limbed as
possible. There's still little he can do to transform a legs-spread, arms-
crossed pose into anything save a combative stance. He misses his shades. Dave
is a fucking asshole for insisting Dirk go without; Dirk can see Dave's
familiar gold-rimmed sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, the goddamn
hypocrite.
The camera barrage dies down briefly, some intrepid junior reporter type
muscling between the photographers to get her recording device pointed in
Dave's direction. Dirk stays behind the line of fire; he's hardly more than a
dozen feet away from the woman and his brother but he can't hear a thing over
the cacophony. Her pink-painted lips curve and contort, and if Dirk was more on
his game, he'd try to read the words they're shaping.
Dirk isn't off his game, he amends, it's simply a waste of talent to decipher
words to the same vapid questions that have been asked a hundred times before.
Dave turns on his heel, offers the minimal, patronizing smile that Dirk
categorizes as Dave's public face, and leans down to speak with the reporter.
He bends at the waist, back remaining a perfect straight plane. Dirk can't be
the only one admiring Dave's easy awareness of his center of gravity, the
intuitive way he gauges just how far he can reach on his dagger-point shoes
without looking awkward, without unbalancing.
How the fuck does Dave walk so well in heels. Dirk can't imagine him
practicing. Dirk can't even imagine when Dave would have time for practicing.
The reporter laughs at some comment Dave makes and reaches out to touch his
arm, a gesture that isn't repudiated even if Dirk imagines the telling,
disapproving tension that will crop up around Dave's eyes, hardly discernible
with the shades. Dirk doubts anyone else would notice, or divine the
significance, even if they had Dave's bare face to stare into. The reporter
keeps trying to touch Dave, drawing out her two-minute bit. It's disgusting;
she must be a fan.
This nauseating song and dance has been going on for too long altogether.
The next barrage of pictures sets in, with the cameramen staging another surge
in the direction of their captive starlets and director. While they jockey for
more fortuitous angles, Dirk pushes his way though. Once he breaks their line,
it's a few short steps to Dave's side.
"Fancy seeing you here, little bro," Dave says, out of the side of his mouth.
"Shut up," Dirk mutters, quietly enough that it should go overlooked.
Dirk never knows how to talk to Dave at publicity events. It's normal for them
to bully each other, but he doesn't have the stomach for another feature on
Dave Strider's strained relationship with his baby brother. It's been three
goddamn years, and Dave still hasn't stopped laughing over the last one.
"Say cheese," Dave prompts.
Dave's arm is winding around him, tugging Dirk against his side before the
command can process. The cameras go off and Dirk gropes across Dave's back,
fumbling over bare skin to clutch at his brother's waist. With heels, Dave is
indisputably taller. Dirk realizes Dave is hamming it up for the cameras,
draping against Dirk, and he slightly resents that placing his arm across
Dave's shoulders is awkward with the extra height. Dave simpers and grins and
yet it's Dirk, standing stiffly in his suit, shuffled into the female pose.
His brother is fucking impossible.
Dirk hates having pictures taken. Paparazzi never want flattering pictures –
whenever they decide they give a shit about capturing Dave on film it needs to
be in the context of some mortifying snafu. And of course Dave never fails to
gratify them. He must get some perverse joy out of staging the scenarios the
gossip rags report on, not bothering to have his publicity people clear up the
misconceptions. He just chuckles over all the silly tabloids writing the exact
silly stories he wants them to.
Dave loves it. Dirk could never do it; no matter how much effort he puts into
appearing composed, he's always sure some conniving cameraperson will catch him
looking the fool. Making an ass of himself on purpose is completely counter-
intuitive. The best Dirk can do is stand in the line of fire for the requisite
duration before getting the fuck out of there.
That isn't what he's doing this time.
"You aren't smiling, little bro," Dave chastises him.
Dirk can feel Dave's fingers curling along the side of his neck, reaching up
across his cheek and pushing up the side of Dirk's mouth. The laugh that
startles forth is an offended one, though it must have been enough of a genuine
expression because Dave's hand drops back to Dirk's shoulder and he can feel
the smugness radiating off his brother in waves. Fuck it.
Dirk can play this game, too, and fuck Dave for thinking otherwise.
Once upon a time, Dirk navigated his way through a gauntlet of ballroom dancing
lessons. Dave quickly ran out of time for that brotherly bonding experience,
but Dirk kept going. He doesn't have the gross lack of shame that enables Dave
to embarrass himself on command, but he does have just enough classical
training to inform his decisions when he takes over posing them. They may end
up looking like a centerfold yanked from Dancing With the Stars, but there will
be no doubt that Dirk is the young gentleman and Dave his lady companion.
Dirk never stops regarding the cameras as a threat, but he does summon the
nerve to subtly dip his brother before their pitiless eyes.
Dave conducts the rest of his interviews with his arm looped around Dirk's
waist, and for once Dirk doesn't feel the compulsion to get out of the
limelight. He does ignore the majority of Dave's conversation, though. Instead
his attention is paid to Dave's fingers, slipped under Dirk's suit jacket and
skirting back and forth over Dirk's dress shirt, just above where it's tucked
into Dirk's pants.
Dirk keeps waiting for Dave's fingers to slide under his waistband. They don't,
of course, wouldn't do that even if they weren't standing in front of a
battalion of reporters. Dirk uses the contact as justification for running his
hand up and down Dave's bare back all the same.
On several occasions, Dave is asked about his presentation at the event. The
first time, Dave spins his answer into a convoluted, self-involved story,
veering so wildly off-track that even Dirk is amused by the reporter's
frustration over how useless each and every word is relative to writing a
piece. Each subsequent time, Dave throws Dirk under the bus. He chirps
facetiously about his gentlemanly little date and construes the entire thing as
Dirk's idea.
Dirk should be insulted. He's being blamed for a dumb publicity stunt, one that
rings far truer than Dave lets on to the media. Instead, he's inexplicably
flattered.
Dave pets Dirk's side and calls Dirk his date to the faces of so many jackasses
who don't know better than to take Dave seriously, tells them he dressed up so
nice and pretty just to make Dirk happy. Dirk wants to laugh, or maybe cry,
imagining the moment when all those reporters identify Dave Strider's mystery
gentleman-beau as his baby brother. On one hand, it's fucking mortifying.
On the other, Dirk's stomach clenches far too pleasantly every time Dave's
false, smiling lips proclaim them involved. He's going to kill Dave when they
get home.
He wishes he could kill Dave now, kiss him in front of the captive audience and
force Dave to deal with the consequences.
-
"Post for that was terrible," Dave is saying. "Up to my eyeballs in deadlines,
someone should've stuck a fork in me. The marinade's successful, I'm done, it's
not like that shit was really getting any better, might as well wheel it out to
the starving masses."
There are two fresh young faces standing before Dave and listening to him
pontificate. Dirk pegs them as newly-minted starlets, actors with one good role
under their belts who want to peer across to the other side of the fence. It's
cute. If Dirk were wearing his shades, he would be rolling his eyes
so hard.
At least they aren't Ben Stiller.
"But that movie was great," the one actress gushes. Buttering Dave up.
"Everything you guys do after the cameras stop rolling is like wizardry to me."
And here comes the patronizing little not-smile, the one that means
internationally acclaimed film director Dave Strider is about to impart
valuable fatherly advice. He's holding court right smack in the middle of the
after party, an empty wine flute forgotten in his hand. Dirk tries to fault
Dave for his self-absorbed public persona, but then he watches the way Dave
wraps these young actors around his littlest finger, people who are halfway to
famous in their own rights, and he just cannot give a shit.
It kind of makes his throat seize, seeing the deft way Dave handles people. He
wants the full force of that focused on him, doesn't doubt that his brother
could work him over with the same careless ease – Dave just doesn't care to
try.
"Let me take that," Dirk cuts in, reaching across Dave's body to pluck the wine
flute from his fingers.
Dirk's arm is around Dave's waist and Dave's empty hand is settled against
Dirk's shoulder. It's probably ironic – Dave is the one in the killer gown, and
Dirk is the one who acts like a trophy.
"You're too good to me," Dave says, turning to press a kiss to Dirk's forehead.
It's more patronizing than the film lecture these young actors are narrowly
avoiding.
"I'll get you another," Dirk says, starting to pull his arm free from Dave.
"Sugar plum."
"You're a peach," Dave replies. "What would I ever do without you."
Damn, that little muscle twitch at the corner of Dave's mouth is actually a
grin; Dirk wasn't expecting to get away with the shitty, hardly-ironic pet
name. He feels more childish than when he was actually a childand attending his
first soiree with Dave. He certainly didn't hang on Dave as much when he was a
kid. At the same time, getting away with it feels amazing.
"Perish, alone and unloved," Dirk offers back. "I'll grab you one of those
quaint little sandwiches with the watercress, we wouldn't want you to starve
and your diet has been sorely lacking in anything green."
Dirk can see Dave trying not to laugh. He can see the young actress and her
male companion failing to school their faces anywhere near as well as Dave can
achieve.
Dirk isn't sure what their expressions mean all the same.
He rubs Dave's back, pretends his reluctance to pry himself off is just part of
the couple ruse. He kisses Dave's cheek, chaste and gentlemanly, and knows he's
genuinely unhappy to leave Dave alone.
"Isn't he a little young for you?" he hears the starlet stage-whispering as
he's walking off, and Dirk would give a lot to hear how Dave plays that one
off.
The bartender also thinks Dirk is a little young. He can read it in the
unimpressed look he's leveled with, but the man still pours Dirk's brandy. He
could have snagged Dave another flute of champagne, but Dave drinks through
that bubbly crap like he's a camel fueling up at the oasis. If Dirk brings him
back some hard spirits he'll at least taste the liquor and wind up less drunk
in the end.
The bartender is visibly relieved when Dirk asks if the bar stocks orange soda,
relaxing all the more when Dirk lingers nearby to nurse his drink. From there
he can watch Dave across the room, ignoring the other party-goers approaching
to snag some booze of their own. The plum silk of Dave's dress contrasts
sharply with his paler skin, and even from a dozen yards away Dirk can see the
dimples in Dave's back before the skirt pulls in, as well as the dusting of
freckles across Dave's bare shoulders.
It's a miracle the reporters need to ask Dave why he dresses up; if putting his
body that much on display doesn't play to all of Dave's obvious narcissism Dirk
will eat every hat-emblazoned shirt he owns.
With the brandy glass in one hand, Dirk picks up one of the promised froofy
sandwiches with his other before reinstalling himself at Dave's side.
"Your beverage, milady," Dirk says, holding out the brandy and sketching a
narrow bow over the sandwich plate.
The audience around Dave is different, not that Dirk cares. Dave still accepts
the glass.
Dave eats the sandwich, too, one bite at a time off the plate Dirk is left
holding. The sound of Dave's voice washes over him, the words themselves of
little importance but the steady thrum of Dave's speech proving familiar and
pleasant. Dirk never enjoys socializing at parties; it's funny that as Dave's
pretend date, so much less is expected of him. He becomes a silent spectator,
only counted upon to bring Dave drinks and ensure that he eats something every
now and then.
It's rare that someone speaks to Dirk directly.
He fetches Dave another diminutive sandwich, and a dainty little piece of cake.
The brandy lasts Dave until the evening has well progressed, and in its
eventual absence, he seats himself on a low couch in another room of the venue.
Dirk sticks a glass of water in Dave's hand and positions himself behind Dave's
seat.
The crowd has changed again, fading from fawning youngsters into Dave's actual
friends. Dirk recognizes another director with whom Dave has a well-loved
rivalry, three popular actors from Dave's past movies, and one of the most
charismatic publicists in the business. Dirk wants to beam a suspicious look at
her, but this is the sort of high-stress gathering he would ordinarily excuse
himself from in short order. He isn't pushing his luck.
It's a miracle to be ignored. Dave chats freely, the torrent of words
quickening all the more when Dirk allows him another brandy. He massages Dave's
shoulders from where he stands, gratified when he can feel Dave's head briefly
loll back against his chest. When the publicist disengages and departs, Dirk
allows himself to scoot around the couch and usurp her seat next to Dave.
For a while, Dirk counts the minutes during which he's nestled in against
Dave's side. Sitting down nullifies the advantage of heels and enables Dirk to
rest his arm across Dave's shoulders, his free hand easing in to curl around
Dave's knee. At the twenty-three minute mark, Dirk stops counting; Dave isn't
going to brush him off. Dave is going to lean into him instead, head rocked
carelessly back against Dirk's shoulder while he talks.
Dirk's chest feels warm, his limbs loose and heavy, like he's the one who's
been drinking all the brandy. It's well after midnight when they leave, because
Dave can't stop talking and Dirk can't give up the rare casual intimacy.
-
Dirk opens the apartment door for Dave, although he has to issue a very
ungentlemanly hip-check in preserving that privilege. Dave's hand might be
tucked in the crook of Dave's elbow but Dirk pushed for that, too, staring Dave
down outside the limo with his arm cocked until Dave rolled his eyes so hard
Dirk could feel it through the shades. Dave gave in, and that's what matters.
Dirk escorts Dave inside.
"Allow me to assist milady with his coat," Dirk says, moving in behind Dave and
pulling the door shut.
Dave isn't wearing a coat. Dirk puts his hands on Dave's shoulders anyway, a
light lingering drag of his fingertips before he mimes slipping off an
overcoat. He worms around in front of Dave, reading the meager expression on
his brother's face as midway between "amused" and "what are you trying to
pull." He mimes folding Dave's imaginary coat anyway, his own face composed
into a look of smug servility.
"C'mon, Dave," he cajoles. "It's pampering time. No objections."
Dirk reaches for Dave's hands, taking one step back into their living room. He
can sense Dave rolling his eyes again, but amusement and curiosity win out, and
Dirk leads him across the room to the couch. Gently but firmly, he presses Dave
down to sit. He kneels on the floor in front of Dave.
"What do you think you're doing, little bro."
It's not inflected like a question.
Dirk leans up and forward, and he has to put his hands on Dave's knees to reach
but he manages to kiss his brother on the forehead. A kiss on the mouth would
get him shut down, hard. Dirk isn't having that.
"I answered that already, dude, at least try paying attention when someone says
they're gonna do something nice for you."
Dirk sits back again, on his heels, pulling one of Dave's feet into his lap.
His fingers pick at the tiny little buckle cinched against Dave's ankle,
loosening the strap so he can slip off the shoe. Dirk's face is pointed down at
the work he's set for himself but his eyes are slanted up at Dave, watching for
a reaction, however minute. He gets nothing, so he sets the shoe aside, lifting
Dave's other foot instead to repeat the process.
Dave kneads his heels into Dirk's thighs. "Are you gonna give me a foot
massage? Dishing out the royal treatment here and everything?"
"Something like that," Dirk says.
He pushes Dave's feet out of his lap, one to either side of his knees, like he
isn't calculating the disgusted gesture to edge Dave's legs apart. When Dirk
sits up again, he reaches right for Dave's shades, plucking them off the bridge
of his nose, folding them decisively, and placing them aside. He curls his
fingers around the backs of Dave's calves, just under the knees, and lightly
runs his hands up and down.
(It's immediately obvious that Dave went so far as shaving his legs, except he
did it a day or two ahead of time. Dirk feels faint leg stubble instead of
smoothness and something about that is both hilarious and charming.)
"Anatomy lesson number one, little bro," Dave says. "Those aren't my feet."
Dave sounds almost defensive. It must be losing the shades – but Dave didn't
fight Dirk on that, a solitary fact that is more encouraging than Dirk wants to
admit. He can push and joke and act like he's enacting some giant charade, but
when it comes down to it all he wants is to crawl into Dave's lap and kiss him
quick and then quicker and with messy amounts of tongue, grinding his hips
against Dave's silk-covered lap, and his heart is goddamn pounding in his chest
but he has to fake composure until he can at least get motherfucking somewhere.
"I know," Dirk says. "And I'm not actually giving you a foot massage."
He wraps his fingers into the hem of Dave's skirt, slides the material a few
inches up Dave's things. Dave doesn't stop him. He pushes Dave's skirt a little
higher, but the couch gets in his way.
"Be a peach and lift your hips," Dirk says, "it'd be a world of help."
The look Dave shoots down at Dirk is a challenge issued if he's ever seen one,
but after that Dave levers his ass a few scant inches off the couch and Dirk
wants to stop breathing. He pulls the fabric all the way up, quick, too quick,
and his fingers catch in the elastic of Dave's underwear. He can't ask because
he's so certain Dave will think better of everything but even if he won't ask,
he can still do, can still drag soft satin and rough lace off Dave's hips and
down his thighs without stopping to wonder that of course Dave is actually
wearing women's panties, Dirk already knows Dave owns them.
Dave doesn't do anything, just lounges back on the couch with his dress bunched
around his hips and his underwear looped around his ankles. Maybe he thinks
this is as far as Dirk can get, that in spite of all Dirk's obvious wanting
he'll pussy out once the panties drop. Maybe he figures Dirk will wise up now
and cut it all the fuck out.
Whatever Dave is thinking, Dirk takes the opportunity to stare, admiring the
shape of Dave's cock like he's trying to memorize it.
"I'd tell you to take a picture," Dave drawls, at length, "but I'd have to
break your camera on principle so it sure as shit won't last longer."
"Shut up," Dirk mutters, because if Dave isn't going to kick him off he might
as well not be spouting bullshit.
"Nah, little man. If you're signing on for a good long gander at the strider
salami you'd better be prepared for the full package, and I'm not talking about
my junk this time. If you can't handle the banter, you're definitely not
seasoned enough for this rodeo."
"I'm going to blow you now," Dirk clarifies, like that will shock Dave into
shutting his mouth.
It doesn't, of course it doesn't.
"Just don't talk with your mouth full, buckaroo, I know some things I tell you
never get it the fuck through your skull but that shit's rude as hell."
It isn't what Dirk was expecting – imagining – at all, and at the same time
it's exactly what he should have anticipated. It's too goddamned easy. Dave
isn't refusing, isn't giving Dirk some bullshit excuse as to why this shit is
Grade A Not Okay, but he is running his mouth like it's on course to win three
marathons and Dirk should have known that Dave would deride him even with his
dick right in Dirk's face.
So he curls his fist around Dave's admittedly soft cock and wraps his lips
around the head and the whole gesture absolutely screams "take that, see, I can
do this" but it's also exactly what Dirk wanted so he doesn't fucking care.
"Teeth," Dave chides, immediately, and Dirk kind of wants to punch him in the
balls rather than blow him.
He hides his teeth, makes sure they aren't scraping Dave's shaft when he bobs
his head down, sucks sweetly at first and then harder, puzzling out what
pressure will coax Dave into getting it up. He isn't going to pretend he's
never practiced, but Dave's half-hard dick feels nothing like sturdy silicone
and Dirk doesn't know what Dave likes.
"Nah, like" – Dirk can't be doing a good enough job, Dave is still talking at
him – "I didn't mean no teeth, just be careful where you're dragging 'em, I
don't want to be fucking savaged on my best feature. Shit's best in moderation.
Delicate-like."
Dirk almost gags in surprise at the suggestion.
"Easy there, slugger," Dave says. "Whoever told you it's sexy to choke on a
dick was taking advantage of your sweetly trusting nature and extreme lack of
experience. Try breathing through your nose, jeez, that's completely fuckin'
unattractive."
Dirk pretends it's a noise of outrage he's making around Dave's cock, ducking
his head down again in a demonstration of just how great he is at not choking,
fuck you bro. Dave makes an actual pleased sound as Dirk drags his tongue along
the underside of Dave's cock and Dirk moans again to hear it.
Well, fuck, there goes the chance of Dave not realizing Dirk is getting off on
the snark.
"Do that again," Dave says, quieter, and suddenly he doesn't sound quite so put
together.
Dirk listens, curls his tongue against Dave's cock on the upstroke, gets
another nice noise out of his brother for the effort. Dave is properly hard
now, no doubt about that, and Dirk's motions aren't so messy. He figures out
that Dave likes a firm, cheek-hollowing suction, that Dave likes a lot of
tongue action and even likes it if Dirk drools a little and pops Dave's dick
all the way out of his mouth when he doesn't mean to. He even likes it when
Dirk deliberately scrapes his teeth along the top of Dave's cock, as long as
it's lightly.
Most of Dave's encouragement is nonverbal, the sounds Dirk yanks from Dave's
throat when he does something just right. Dave doesn't touch him, doesn't place
his palm against Dirk's head or work his fingers into Dirk's hair. It's a
little impersonal, Dirk figures, but it also means Dave isn't forcing the lead
and he thinks he likes that. When Dave bothers with articulated words, it's
amused criticism, but Dirk likes that too.
"No one tells you they like sloppy," Dave mumbles, while Dirk is trailing spit
and seeing just how far he can take him. "But that shit's hot. Don't choke or
nothin', just go to town, enthusiasm's nine-tenths of the formula for boner
city."
Dirk even kind of likes that Dave never stops talking to him.
He eases back before he gags again, and Dave chuckles a little, like he
realized Dirk keeps edging up on deep-throating him but doesn't actually have
the skill. Fuck him, maybe Dirk can't do that (yet) but he can still stroke and
suck and drag his tongue, tells himself he can still get Dave off with a little
more effort. Maybe he just wants to do that because he thinks Dave would like
it, how about that?
(Maybe he just wants to do that because he wants to prove to himself he can
deep-throat a real person, because Dirk is the one who would get off on doing
it, maybe Dave doesn't need to know that.)
Dirk has been hard since the first time Dave reprimanded him, but he's focusing
on Dave, head bobbing sweetly, stubbornly, in Dave's lap. If he grinds his free
palm against his groin, it's only once or twice. His jaw aches faintly but he's
forcing himself not to care, is maybe getting off on the strain. Dave makes the
best long, low moans, the best little rumble-groans that build in his chest,
makes this litany of sounds and they all go straight to Dirk's dick. He wants
to get off almost as badly as he wants to get Dave off.
"Fuckin' puttin' your all into it," Dave says, softly.
He sounds distracted, sounds like that isn't something he meant to say. Dave's
hips are lifting faintly off the couch in a way they never did before and Dirk
realizes Dave sounds /close,/ that's why he's not thinking about what's coming
out of his mouth.
"'Course you would," Dave laughs, though it turns into a moan when Dirk sucks
hard. "You fuckin' perfect little overachiever."
Dave shuts up after that. It's just the sound of his panting, his ragged
breaths interspersed with moans, and Dirk really does not give a shit any more
if he whines around Dave's cock. He gives one last burst of determined effort,
stabs at overwhelming Dave with lips and tongue and stubborn suction. It
doesn't matter that Dave is an asshole and doesn't warn him when he comes
because Dirk is expecting it. He swallows, because maybe Dave won't be
expecting that.
There's really no point in pretending he's not trying to impress Dave.
When Dirk slides his mouth free, it's with a few parting licks that make Dave
shudder in overstimulation, although Dirk himself hasn't fucking caught his
breath. He leans his arms across Dave's knees and subtly grinds his hips
against the edge of the couch. He tries not to whine while he does it.
"I'm all about giving praise where praise is due, and hell if I want to seem
ungrateful or damage your delicate homo development," Dave says. "So let the
record state, for one unversed in the fine art of fellatio, you did good. Hell
of a first rodeo."
It's the last dose of measured praise that gets Dirk off, the better if Dave
doesn't realize it.
"Thanks," Dirk says. He can hardly think of anything smarter. On even more of a
delay: "Your flattery sustains me."
Dave snorts at him.
Dirk slides up onto the couch next to Dave and pulls his brother's face toward
him. He feels smug and invincible and capable of great feats of daring, like
pressing his mouth to Dave's. Dirk's kiss is lazy and sated, open-mouthed but
not quite angling for tongue.
Dave doesn't actually kiss back.
It takes Dirk a moment to realize that's what's happening. Dave's lips move,
faintly, and at first Dirk is enthusiastic enough for both of them, too assured
of his victory to question reciprocation. When Dave remains passive, becomes
increasingly stiff the more Dirk coaxes, he's forced to accept that he's
getting nowhere. Dave wasn't kissing him, Dave was trying to say something
before he just shut down.
"Let's not do this," are the words out of Dave's mouth when Dirk pulls back.
It's worse than a slap in the face. It's more like a kick in the balls, or a
punch to the gut, a decisive act of violence that shocks the air right out of
Dirk. It fails to compute, that Dave might let Dirk put his mouth on Dave's
dick, but would refuse him the chance to put his mouth on Dave's mouth.
Dave sounded authoritative, when Dirk was blowing him. Usually he sounds
authoritative when he pushes Dirk away, too.
This time he just sounds tired. Sad, even.
"Why not?" Dirk asks.
Dave sounding defeated is a more lingering hurt than being repudiated. It's not
a way Dirk's brother should ever sound. He doesn't want to understand that, but
he needs to know why kissing is still the thing Dave just won't do.
"You need to stop wanting to," Dave says. He pulls his dress back over his
thighs. "I need to stop wanting to."
It's such utter bullshit.
It's also the first time, through all Dirk's wheedling and gray-area touches
and frequent attempts to put his mouth on Dave's skin, through the one
desperate, straightforward confession they both pretend Dirk never made, that
Dave has ever admitted he wants any of it. Dirk can't tell if that feels like a
victory.
Dirk sidles in against Dave's side and takes encouragement when that proximity
is not denied, notches his chin over Dave's shoulder and allows the closeness
to console him.
"No way," he says, when it feels safe. Then, quieter, unvarnished: "I love
you."
Dirk can feel Dave tense up. That hurts too.
"I know."
Dirk squirms closer, wraps his arms around Dave, nuzzles the side of his neck
and refuses to relent. After a minute, Dave pulls him closer, arms around
Dirk's back.
"Love you too, kid."
-
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