Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/772958.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dersecest, knightlight, davexrose
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Rose_Lalonde
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Drugs, Angst, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Implied_or_Off-
      stage_Rape/Non-con, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental_Breakdown, Violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-24 Chapters: 2/? Words: 3533
****** Constants And Variables ******
by allofthisforgotten
Summary
     A simple self-medication is much in need.
Notes
     Warnings : Incest, drugs, mentions of sex, nostalgia, slight angst,
     cis-gendered, heterosexual, self-medication, runaways, and wordy
     writing.
     Pairings : DavexRose (knighlight, dersecest)
     Timeline : In which the game never happened. Au, of course.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Prologue *****
I'm watching the clock again. 2:02 in the morning, and I'm stuck idling in a
sparsely lit parking lot just outside of some picturesque city in the Midwest
Boston maybe? I find it hard to keep track of every place we stop. Every city
is somehow the same set of architecture organized in a different fashion,
different colors. The leaves are changing and just before sunset the light
shines through them, casting a shadow of thin veins and edges on the perfectly
paved streets and ornate wrought iron fences.
It would be beautiful, but it reminds me of Dave. It reminds me that he used to
get excited at such a perfect opportunity to take some sort of mid-seventies
inspired photograph that he would later inscribe with some “life changing”
hipster epithet. It reminds me that I took for granted all the times he dragged
me out in the freezing snow to capture some strange out of place trinket; or
more often a landscape framed by some seemingly impossible formation of
branches. I miss his Polaroid phase, I miss his film phase, and I even miss his
unshakable urge to snap a photo of me in every city, once at dawn, once at
twilight, sitting somewhere against the backdrop of the sky.
Yet, all things change, and slowly our pact to never stay more than one night
anywhere became more of a necessity than a choice. He'd begun to make a habit
of acquiring large groups of single serving enemies, and allowing them to beat
the living hell out of him. Sometimes it was bar fights, sometimes drug
dealers, sometimes cops. This little ritual always ended with me waiting
somewhere dark and eerie while he followed up his latest conquest with whatever
he could manage to sniff, smoke, or swallow.
Tonight it would be clear liquor of some type. I'd become a regular wizard at
identifying what set of variables added up to what addiction. Weather. Local
population. Urgency. Location. It seems an unnecessary detail to keep track of,
because much like the architecture, it is a puzzle made of the same pieces
arranged differently, but serving the exact same purpose. After a while it's
all the same shit different night. Yet, here I am, placing bets with myself and
watching the LED lights on the dashboard count down to 2:12. At least I can
count on him to be on time.
If my analysis of the situation was correct, it'd be best to have the car on,
and my shirt off. Without having to look, I know he'll be stumbling across the
parking spaces, bottle in hand. It will slip and shatter before he reaches the
car and after a passive aggressive attempt to punish him, I'll break down crawl
into the backseat to open the door that insofar eludes his motor reflexes.
We'll struggle to get him inside, but once we've claimed victory and the gate
to our enemies is closed, he'll lay between my legs, his head somehow balanced
on one my left breast, fingers running the distance of the scar that traces the
right half of my collarbone. We won't break the silence, and I'll fall asleep
to his breath on my chest.
Had it been brown liquor, I'd spend the rest of the early morning light
struggling to keep him off of me, but still in the confines of the car; and
without breaking another window. Whatever ruckus he'd stirred up would be
worse, and once he finally passed out, I'd attend to his wounds. Those nights,
I forgo sleep. Had it been heroin or Vitamin K, I'd be dragging his dead weight
into the passenger seat and driving away. Had it been cocaine, ecstasy, or meth
I'd be face down in the backseat, legs spread, biting the seat cover.
My little crystal ball changes to 2:12, and I hear him try in vain to master
the latch to the back door. Tonight the entire front of his shirt dyed a very
dark shade of red, which is not all that impressive a sight, considering I'd
never quite managed to get his cloths free of the stains from the previous
nights. Half of his sunglasses are dangling from one ear, the other half lost
forever. As foretold he is sullen, and I welcome him into the backseat. I
remove the broken plastic and replace it with a shiny new pair of sunglasses
just before he takes his predetermined place and I settle in for the night.
This morning is different. The air is warm but unremarkable, and the sky is a
typical gradient of purple's and blues as the sun greets the clouds. It is, by
all accounts, the most average appearance of any day anywhere, but still, I
sense a change. I shift under Dave's sleeping weight, just enough to reach my
pack of cigarettes. I have two left, and nothing to beg or barter with for
more. The thought crosses my mind that I ought to hold off, but it's been a
long night and this creeping feeling is starting to make me uneasy. A simple
self-medication is much in need. Of course, this stirs the slumbering, and I
know it's not long before I'm in for one of Dave's rare but fun rants about how
horrible smoking is for you, and give me a drag so you kill yourself slower, no
it's not hypocritical, I'm your brother, I do whats right for you in spite of
myself.
Does he really know what's right for me? We've been to every state twice over
and I've spent more time tending wounds than seeing sights. But still, he is my
brother, and though technically we're twins, he is, by a hairs breadth,
technically older (which he never fails to bring up in any conversation
regardless if it does or doesn't relate.) This particular morning the rant is
longer and much more adamant than most, so I tune him out and focus on the way
he moves when he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and climbs into the front
seat. It takes a moment for me to realize he's thrown my shirt at me and
started the car. He waits, as I slip it over my head and haphazardly fall into
the passenger seat. Then, like all mornings, we're off to another battle.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     I know it tears him up to hear me dying of laughter. I know it’s only
     because he wishes he could do the same.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings : Incest, graphic sex, liquor, allusions to rape, blood,
     mental breakdown, angst, violence, cis-gendered, heterosexual, self-
     medication, runaways.
     Extra Warnings : I have not proofread this. I’m sorry.
     Pairings : DavexRose
     Timeline : In which the game never happened. Au, of course.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The conversation is initially shallow and meaningless. We play a very intensely
competitive game of ‘I Spy’. We stop for breakfast at the most dingy gas
station we can find. He muses about how trapped everyone looks, how miserable.
I fail to comment on how incredibly inward he’s looking. He fails to comment on
how I fall asleep in the passenger seat in the middle of the day and wake up in
the backseat with him on top of me just before sunset. He is rough, I am
obedient. I let him get off, he doesn’t ask why I don’t. I don’t ask who he is
thinking of when he fucks me, he doesn’t ask if I’m silently wishing he’d love
me as much as he fucks me.
It’s a very delicate truce, and both sides must play accordingly.
The foreboding atmosphere is almost forgotten by the time he slips out of the
car, and I laze about in the front seat debating if I should take the chance
and venture into the convenience store across the street. I know Dave doesn’t
like me to leave the car without him. I also know my stomach is doing Olympic
gold medal level gymnastics likely due to hunger, and that I have to use the
bathroom, and that I have at about two hours before he returns. The choice is
easy, and before I know it I find myself buried in a treasure trove of junk
food, liquor, and cigarettes. After all, I rarely ever stay in the
car all night.
When I come back to the world I’d escaped, I’m trapped in what seems like
thousands of wrapper pyramids, the bottles are all empty, and Dave is sprawled
out on the hood of the car staring at the stars. My head is spinning and my
muscles are weak, but I manage to coordinate enough to wipe away a swath of fog
from the windshield. Just enough to see him mumbling to himself. Wait, no, not
to himself – I think, maybe, he has a phone? I try to make out the words, but
my ears are filled with cotton, and I can’t keep my head steady enough to read
his lips. He’s gesturing wildly, obviously irritated or excited, but I can’t
tell which.
He notices I’m awake and whatever conversation he’d been having stops short. He
brushes off his phone partner, snapping the phone closed, and hops off the car
leaving trails that hypnotize me as he moves. I’m still watching the ghosts
disappear against the headlights when my body registers the pressure of his
hands at my wrists. I don’t bother to look. I can tell he’s angry, and I’d much
rather contemplate the stars forming around the parking lot lamps than confront
the trauma to come. I may be drunk – trashed – but I’d like to think that even
so, I have a sense of self-preservation.
I want to ask if it’s cold. I want to know why the heat of his breath is so
stiffing. I want to know what my punishment is. I want to ask why such a double
standard is placed on girls. I want to know why he’s just hovering there, like
a car in the left lane just before an exit you really need to take, but can’t
because goddammit, go away. Just go away. I think behind the haze of my own
inebriation I have some sort of existentialist crisis of self and I think I
feel shame for being so embarrassingly out of my mind sprawled across the two
front seats with the gear shift pressing achingly into the small of my back. I
think. My conscious thoughts are occupied by a particularly shinny border of
candy wrappers sticking out of the glove compartment, and damn, how did I
manage to make such a perfectly spaced gradient of rainbow?
I say nothing, but my legs part on their own. I know looking down at myself I’d
be disgusted, but they open nevertheless. He scoffs, and releases my wrists,
hands roaming slowly down my sides. His palm is surprisingly warm when he
passes the fabric of my skirt, which has bunched up in places and isn’t doing
such a good job of being clothing. Down, down, and further down, until he takes
a turn at my ankle, and then up, up up. I still as he slows his pace and
lightens his touch. Such a simple thing, yet he knows it lights my nerves on
fire, and just before I start to squirm, at the height of my sensitivity he
yanks his hand away slams an open palm into my thigh. It’s sufficient enough to
both close my legs and shock me into yelping. Say what you want about Dave’s
habits, but he’s efficient.
He drags me out of the car feet first, and I land in a shower of iridescent
wrappers on the cold rough cement. Between cradling my newly acquired welt and
clutching my screaming head I manage to slur a few insults in his direction as
he aggressively “cleans out the car.” I don’t think he’s paying much attention
to me anyway as he throws glass bottles out the passenger side window, because
as they shatter I catch a few of the shards with my bare legs. I don’t feel it,
but I can see it, and I spend the next few minutes drawing on myself with my
own blood. I’m covered in smiley faces and kindergarten landscapes when he
drags me to my feet and officially claims victory in the battle of the night.
He knows I threw the battle, I let him win, but it doesn’t matter. I still
lost.
“What the fuck Rose? I’m gone for fucking thirty minutes. No, hey, fucking look
at me.” He jerks my head to face him, and I try to avoid his eyes. “I’m serious
Rose. You’re trashed. You were fucking gone by the time I got here – the doors
on the car were unlocked. Fuck. What if it would have been someone else? Huh?”
I don’t answer. There isn’t a good one anyway. “You could have been raped. Or
killed. I could’ve come back to an empty car and a trail of fucking blood
leading to a dumpster. I told you to stay in the car and wait. Why is that so
damn hard? Why do you have to ignore me like this all the time? Lock the damn
doors. Stay in the car. Two simple things. Two very simple fucking things.
Jesus fucking christ.”
“Check your privilege.” It’s all I’ve got. In all my vocabulary, with all my
self-taught literary education, all I can muster is a bad quote from a group of
childish brats on tumblr that doesn’t really even make sense in context. I
stare at him trying to process all the possible meanings behind the phrase, and
it’s all so ridiculous, that I can’t stop the laughter from bubbling up in my
throat. Once it’s spilled over all bets are off, and even when he punches the
car inches from my shoulder I can’t stop. I try biting my fist and reasoning
with myself but all it does is transition my jovial desperate giggles into
nervous break down giggles.
He tries to calm down, bowing his head and leaning into his pose, palms pressed
firmly into the car on either side of me. He sighs, and I know that he’s
closing his eyes and counting to ten, even though I can’t see him through his
glasses or hear him over the obnoxious sound of my own laughter. Every giggle
would be a river of tears if I had the courage, or at least the sanity, to
follow through with my own breakdown.
I know it tears him up to hear me dying of laughter. I know it’s only because
he wishes he could do the same. But we bury our pain in two very different
ways, and when the capacity of our respective thresholds is met, we both grieve
in our own way. In a strange, but symbiotic coincidence (or maybe out of some
sort of strange twin empathy), we have a shared point of return to stability.
We are resisting.
My body is shaking.
His fists are clenching.
My heart is racing.
His will is slipping.
I stop thinking.
We are giving in.
His fingernails dig into my thighs as he lifts me into the air and then slams
me back into the car in one smooth motion. Had he or I been anyone else I might
be afraid of him, of how effortlessly he gains control. He’s somehow violent
and sudden but fluid and patient as he kisses me, biting on my lip, drawing
blood, and simultaneously sliding up my skirt. His eyes are open. This is the
only time he looks me when we fuck – when he needs to watch me. To make sure I
don’t forget that it’s him leaving a trail bruises and teeth marks. That I am
not face down, crying. That I can stop him at any time.
But let’s not pretend this is all about me. He needs to know he has control as
much as I need to relinquish it – he needs to be the one breaking me down and
building me back up as much as I need his body to purify every inch of me. He
believes he can hide how much he believes this delivers him from his perceived
failures by shielding his eyes from view, but he gives himself away in the way
his breathing hitches, in the way he draws himself up, in the way he possesses
my every movement. His need radiates from him just like the heat gathering
between us.
There is no pretense, no foreplay, no slow teasing. He doesn’t graze my nipples
lovingly with his lips or caress my inner thigh. I don’t brush my fingertips
across his ever-so-sensitive collarbones, or whisper his name encouragingly. We
have no need. We have been ready for ages.
He releases one of my legs to free one of his arms, and we shift to balance our
collective weight against the car. My hands move to grapple with the buttons of
his jeans, and he uses his free hand to lay siege to my breasts. He grows
quickly impatient with my inability to free him from his denim prison, and
separates us just enough to expertly pull open his jeans. The cold air rushes
between us, and I am suddenly aware of how attractively his pants cling to his
hips. The contours of his muscles make the most lovely of paths, that, had I
been another person, he would let me walk.
If only.
Dave saves me from my own wistful dreaming and closes the distance. My hands
dip beneath the boundary of his boxers and tries in vain to hold back a gasp as
my fingers close around him. His hips jump forward unconsciously and he buries
his head against my shoulder. His body is on fire and there is a fine layer of
sweat already starting to form between us. I can imagine his face twisted in
restraint as he bites down on his inner cheek. He always does his best to
resist really enjoying the way it feels to have his baby sisters hand sliding
up and down his cock.
It is a rare treat that I am allowed to touch him this way - in fact, it takes
the world shattering around us for me to be granted access. Tonight it seems I
am full of unthinkable luck, and I allow myself to revel in the small victory.
He shudders, pressing closer and I take a chance by pulling him out of his
boxers. His grip on my ass tightens, a slight warning, but I continue,
arranging my wrist so that he can slide against my outer opening. It’s an
unspoken rule that on these nights we never trespass that invisible boundary
that would connect us completely – so I keep my fingers wrapped around him as a
precaution. Instantly he picks up his pace and I realize immediately how
dangerously intoxicating this is, but I can stop my own hips from meeting his.
Too soon he realizes how close we are to crossing the arbitrary line. His body
is reacting desperately, thrusting sporadically, almost crying out for me to
relent and slide my hand away. We’re both gasping for air by the time he comes
to the rescue, and slides his free hand between my legs, fingers only half
satiating my urge to have something inside of me. Still, Dave’s knowledge of my
body is incredibly accurate and it becomes increasingly difficult to hold back
my voice.
“Dave. God. Oh god.”
Dave manages to mutter some sort of encouragement between moans, assuring me
that it’s okay, it’s okay baby. His body is starting to tremble violently, and
he matches the pace of his hips to the rhythm of his fingers. It almost feels
as if we’re actually linked, though it’s still impossible to imagine it as such
because in my haze I can still recognize the sensation of my hand holding him
back.
“Baby. Fuck baby, I’m close.” He need not say it, I can feel his temperate rise
and his muscles start to strain. Still, I can’t deny the fact that the simple
sentence causes my entire body to ignite with heat. He thrusts one last time
and let’s go, twitching and trembling the whole way down.
Not a man to waste time or mince words, he gathers his breath and hastily tucks
himself away, unaware of just how close his orgasm brought me to mine. I
struggle, combating my own reactions, and gather every once of self control I
have to keep from ending this moment. Dave has other plans. He slides a second
finger inside me and moves in quick violent gestures, killing all hope of a
return from the crest my own fast approaching end. When I can no longer prevent
my own orgasm from crashing into me in, he pulls back and watches me peak. Had
I been able to keep from closing my eyes, I might have caught the coy smirk
that danced across his lips.
As the pleasure subsides I feel the beginnings of my own aftershock swell up in
my chest, and the tears start. They are silent at first, but it’s not long
before I’m sobbing into Dave’s chest. He keeps quiet and picks me up, placing
me inside the car to curl up and wait out the worst of it. I can’t speak, but
even if I could, I wouldn’t. He cleans my hand and thigh off and I fall asleep
whimpering pathetically as he starts our quest to another town.
Chapter End Notes
     Authors Note : I am incredibly surprised I managed to finish this
     chapter. I’m even more surprised I actually finished the sex scene as
     that is the hardest thing for me to write. I don’t know why, but I
     think it might have something to do with wording it correctly.
     Anyways, this is actually going somewhere. I have a few ideas (actual
     plot! it’s amazing!) that I am struggling with, but will try to work
     out. There is going to be plot, I promise. Somewhere. Eventually
End Notes
     Authors Note : I started this because I can find absolutely nothing
     in the knightlight/daverose/dersecest fandom that really works for me
     for this pairing. That's not to say what's out there is bad, but it's
     just not my cup of tea.
     Ahem. Anyways, I also haven't really written anything in years.
     Writing has always been my better half's thing and I dabble in it
     sporadically and with much frustration. Hence the reason this is so
     short. I am working on the first chapter, but I am an adult who
     suffers from a condition called "full time job" coupled with the
     affliction "rarely finishes anything I start." So we'll see.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!