Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/612589.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dave_Strider/Dirk_Strider, Alpha!Dave/Alpha!Dirk
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Alpha_Dave_Strider, Dirk_Strider, brief_mentions_of_roxy
      lalonde_and_jake_english
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Stridercest_-_Freeform, Gift!Fic, Frottage, Somnophilia, that's
      sleeping_sex, SO, Dubious_Consent, some_may_consider_it_noncon, Sibling
      Incest, i_dunno, attempted_humor_sort_of, dave_is_a_diva, Underage_-
      Freeform, Wet_Dream, Oral_Sex, i'm_not_rereading_this_so_idk_what_else
      there_is, i'm_trying_not_to_remember, Tags_Are_Fun, Underage_Drinking,
      basically_there's_sleeping_and_there's_sex_and_striders_bitching, loads
      of_swearing, Alternate_Universe, There_was_gonna_be_full_sex_but_I_fell
      asleep
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-28 Words: 6254
****** In My Dreams ******
by AsinineGallantry
Summary
     Dirk has some trouble sleeping, and Dave goes above and beyond to
     help. Just kidding. Striders are jerks.
Notes
     This is unbeta'd. It's also three AM, so it's barely even spell
     checked. And a weird format I don't usually use. *sigh* I need a
     beta.
     This is kind of.... inspired by my own sleeping issues, though mine
     didn't turn out quite so nicely. There's some symbolic mumbo-jumbo
     but that's irrelevant. Let me know, I think I overdid the offensive
     Strider!jokes and also replaced Dirk with Dean a few times idk. Fat
     girl behavior is a real thing but I'm not sure what it is or why I
     know of it, so no judgment.
     I have the plot written out so I could technically write a Dave
     version and clear up some unexplained things, but that's 90% not
     gonna happen. Be a dear and let me know of corrections, and I'll
     always love you.
     The title's from an REO Speedwagon ballad that's way more sad than
     this fic warrants, yeah!!
     Happy birthday, dirks!
What woke Dirk was not the initial impact of should to unforgiving floor, or
even the unlikely angle at which his limbs had positioned themselves at the
point of falling. No, what woke Dirk was the slow, vicious burn which pulled
across his aching joints after hours of remaining in that godforsaken position.
His left arm, twisted unnaturally beneath his chest, was useless in lifting his
body from the orange shag carpet, but not nearly as uncomfortable as the knot
of cotton his tongue had formed.
Waking up always felt like this; creaky, uncooperative legs, a pounding
headache, a bitter taste in his mouth like he had been chewing on a washcloth
for the past several hours.
The sensation still clung to Dirk's throat and sinuses when he pulled himself
upright, good arm straining against his nightstand. The digital alarm clock
displayed the ungodly hour at which he was so unfairly awoken, and Dirk heaved
a sigh as he waited for feeling to return to his limbs.
 
Dave, Dirk found, was seated at his usual side of the kitchen table, in the
same position Dirk left him in the night before. Even his posture hadn't
changed; his eyes were locked on the papers spread haphazardly before him, hand
frozen as he mulled over whatever plot inconsistency had his eyebrows knit so
tightly.
“Your back's gonna hurt like a bitch,” Dirk told him, discreetly rubbing his
still-numb right arm. He knew Dave probably didn't—and wouldn't—end up as sore
as the Strider who fell out of bed like a newborn foal, but unlike Dirk, Dave
brought it on himself. “Kind of like mine. Fell out of bed. Again,” he added,
shortly.
A lot of people thought of Dave as the penultimate aloof cool guy (which
couldn't be any farther from the truth: he's a total immature douchebag), but
even Dirk's gaggle of school friends (who saw Dave on a regular basis) were
floored by the completely real, single-mindedly-determined-to-overwork-himself
asshole that Dirk saw every time a new movie proposal rolled in.
Dave grunted in acknowledgement and began to gnaw on his pencil in an obvious
display of frantic concern. Huffing in a manner that he refused to admit was
indignation, Dirk gave up on garnering sympathy and moved to survey the
kitchen. As usual, the counter was piled high with a myriad of objects, only a
few of which were actually of the typical kitchen variety. Finding no evidence
of a meal prepared within the last week and unwilling to plunder the mess, Dirk
elected to risk cooking his own breakfast.
“You want bacon?” he asked over the clatter of knives released when he opened
the fridge. For a moment Dirk thought he had been ignored (yet again), but when
he peered over his shoulder, his older brother met his gaze.
Dave looked conflicted for a moment. “...That's fat girl behavior.”
Dirk scoffed and rolled his eyes. Another trait he so graciously kept from the
media was the eldest Strider's near-obsessive preoccupation with appearances,
including maintaining his “girlish physique” (Dave's words, not Dirk's). Some
of Dirk's earliest memories featured Dave, little red calorie-counting
pocketbook in hand, always jotting down cheesy inspirational quotes and
nutrition facts. The latest of Dave's diets came from some bullshit book; he
got a free signed copy when he met the author at some schmoozing party several
weeks before. Dirk wasn't so interested with what the program actually
entailed—just another “self-help” book designed to prey on the self esteem of
upper class broads—and he cared even less about his “after-party in the
alleyway” Dave had had with said authoress (for some reason, he insisted on
describing the experience in vivid detail) (Dirk tried to erase the
conversation from his mind). The point was, Dave would spew the phrase whenever
he was offered any sort of greasy food.
“Fine, whites then?” he asked, and Dave gave a noise of assent.
The taste and smell clinging to Dirk's mouth and nose had long since
dissipated, but when the bacon began crackling in the frying pan, he took a
deep breath and forgot all about it.
Dave muttered a low “thanks, man” when Dirk placed the plate as close to Dave's
hand (without balancing it on a stack of papers) as possible, and cleared his
own space across from his brother. They went about their activities in silence
until Dave finally put his pen down. He buried his eggs in pepper and ketchup
(Dirk didn't try to hide his grimace), and actually waited until a particularly
unappealing bite was chewed before he cleared his throat.
The air shifted a bit, felt a bit more tight with anticipation, and Dirk eyed
Dave carefully.
“You're having trouble sleeping again?”
 
“You were like seven at the time, I honestly don't remember all that much.”
“So Mom and Dad knew?” Dirk watched Dave's inevitable sigh, a reluctant frown
forming.
“Yeah... yeah, they knew,” Dave said. He looked resigned but truthful. “They
tried a couple different things but nothing really worked.”
“So how did I stop? When did I stop?” Somehow it had grown from a little
conversation about Dirk's sleeping habits into something much bigger. He'd no
proof that Dave was lying, so why did it feel like it?
“Look, bro, I don't really know.” Dirk couldn't tell if Dave was looking at him
through his glasses. The oldest Strider rubbed the back of his neck and moved
to shuffle a few papers into his briefcase. His effort to stand was
deliberately slow, but to Dirk's surprise he edged closer. “I've gotta get to a
meeting, man, but we'll talk about this later, okay? I'll ask around, maybe
someone can get you a prescription or something.” When Dave ruffled his little
brother's hair, Dirk began to wonder if he was looking too far into it. So it
was a sensitive subject for Dave; most were when related to their parents in
some way.
And what possible motive would he have to lie about Dirk's childhood sleeping
issues? Dave was a good brother, and he made it a point to hide nothing about
their parents.
“Suck it up, your mascara's running,” Dave shouted as he slunk out the door.
Dirk chucked his empty plate of bacon, narrowly missing Dave's left ear.
It was definitely all in his head.
 
Dirk broke through the wall of consciousness with a deep, gasping breath, torso
lifting from his pillow in perfect mimicry of nearly every D-rank suspense
film. Sweat coated his slim chest and neck, cooling his skin as he tossed his
blanket off his body. Dirk scowled at the ceiling and lay back on his pillow.
He remembered, slowly, a particular conversation with Jake over Pesterchum the
year prior. They had not-so-timidly broached the subject of erotic dreams: Jake
had openly admitted to having them on an almost regular basis, from the blue
women on which he was so determinedly fixated, to some of his real-life
friends. He hadn't seemed reluctant to partake in graphic detail.
Dirk hadn't been so comfortable sharing his experiences, though not because he
was ashamed of the people who starred in them. No, being embarrassed over his
dreams would require an actual dream over which to be embarrassed.
Staring down his body at the disobliging appendage, the younger Strider felt a
wave of exhaustion crash over him. Partly because of his recent inability to
achieve any sort of rest, but also due to the exasperation of waking up to an
unexplainable, burdensome arousal.
Dirk had never—not once in his life—awoken from a dream of any nature, sexy or
no. At least, if he had, he couldn't recall what had happened, and he wouldn't
consider his descent into unconsciousness a “dream”. No, when Dirk slept he
didn't see himself in a world where he could interact with figures from his
life; rather, he felt them. There was always a scent, a pleasant pressure
flattening gently over his entire body, a world of sluggish krypton color and
not much else. But sometimes it was stifling and hot, and the friction pulsed
across his nerve endings like fire melding steel, pulsed straight down between
his legs. It was on these nights, when the heat persisted until he just
couldn't take any more, that Dirk found sleep impossible. The nights when he
was suffocated by red and the slow, never-ending grinding of gears, his
attempts at escape would end on his bedroom floor; the ones where he was
certain he was to rupture from the inside out ended like this.
And when he managed to leave that state, his body and mind would inevitably
start to duke it out—body too tired to move but head screaming that he take
care of it. The course of action was to be left entirely to Dirk, be it taking
a long (and cold) shower, or shoving his t-shirt between his teeth and roughly
striping his cock dry.
Tonight it looked like the latter.
He brushed off the sheets clinging to his thighs and bit his lip, slowly
sliding his hand down the center of his sweat-slick body. His pale skin rippled
as he trailed down over his chest, his bellybutton, the curvature of his upper
pelvis; closing in ever slowly on the hem of his boxers. As annoying as the
dreams were, Dirk had to admit the anticipation they brought was unparalleled.
Dirk raised his hips and rid himself of his only article of clothing, moaning
as he was freed, and wasting no time in gripping the flushed clock tightly in
his fist.
His own touch familiar, he slid his thumb lightly over the head; shivering,
smearing the bubble of precome down and over his shaft. He moved without
hesitation, long, quick jerks at just the right pressure, stifling his groans
by sinking his teeth deep into his knuckles.
Dirk's conscious mind provided images his dreams did not, and above his pelvis
he pictured lithe arms wired with muscle. The person's head bobbed relentlessly
in time with Dirk's still-pumping hand, swallowing him greedily, the face
unimportant.
Dirk forced his hips to remain static against the mattress, digging his teeth
even further into the flesh. The figure growled hungrily and kneaded his ass
with confident fingers, trapping the head of Dirk's cock in the warm confines
of his throat.
Dirk sobbed when hands drew up his body, wishing he could feel the long red
lines the figure drew with their fingernails, and the taste of blood flooded
his mouth as he bit clear through his own skin.
Just as the figure's tongue—or rather, Dirk's hand—slid lazily over the highly
sensitive zone on his underside, and his free hand drew back to the area below
his balls, there was a rap on Dirk's bedroom door.
“Dirk, time to get up.” It was Dave's voice, and suddenly the imaginary partner
between his legs was Dave too, his lips leaving Dirk's dick with an obscenepop.
Dirk frantically halted his movements, determined not to blow his load to the
sound of his brother's voice. But it was too little, too late; the only thing
Dirk could do was bite down hard on his forearm to stop the resounding cry. His
cock pulsed, splattering come up and down his stomach.
“Fuck,” he groaned. He pulled his eyebrows together with his fingers, the other
hand wiping sticky jizz off on his mattress. “Shit. Fuck.” It sounded like Dave
had already retreated to the kitchen, but Dirk wouldn't put it past his older
brother to have stuck around for the feature presentation.
Dirk only gave himself 30 seconds to scream into his pillow, then shoved off
the bed to perform a temporary high-speed body scrub. His bed could wait until
later.
 
If Dave had heard his little brother whacking off in his bedroom, he gave no
indication, instead standing with his hip pressed against the arm of the sofa.
He ran his hand over his face then pinched the bridge of his nose. Dirk
swallowed down the anxiety in his throat and tried not to freak out. “So, since
my generosity knows no bounds and I'm pretty much the greatest older brother in
the whole kingdom, I asked around...”
Dirk felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach. “And, uh...” Dave didn't look
nervous or out of place; just like he wasn't sure how to word things (for
once). “So when you were like eight you started having these—I dunno, mom
called them 'episodes'—where you would fall out of bed or just basically be
even more of a little shit than usual.” Dirk raised an eyebrow, unimpressed,
but Dave seemed encouraged. “You didn't start pulling the Houdini shit til
later, after they started taking you to specialists.”
“Specialists? What, like a shrink?” Dirk was more than a little surprised.
Having no recollection of his sleeping issues was one thing, but he had no
memories of talking to some suit about said problems.
Dave grunted and moved to sit fully on the arm rests, feet easily brushing the
ground. He told Dirk everything he personally remembered: from a few not-so-
innocent scares where Dirk managed to venture past his room, to unsuccessful
trips to various doctors, and his parents' reluctance to attempt any sort of
drug on the then-eight Dirk (“You were a wuss of a kid, I wouldn't have given
you anything either.”).
“Wait, wait,” Dirk said, lost. He had long since moved to sit across from his
brother on the coffee table, knees spread enough to clasp his hands between
them. “So I asked you this before but getting you to answer something directly
is like trying to walk into fucking Mordor.”
Dave's face was pinched, “Please tell me you're rereading the books and not
going through a fucking meme phase, I can't fucking handle... Stop giving me
that look, Jesus. I was getting to it.” Dirk's face was disbelieving. “I was
trying to avoid it coming to this because it's weird as hell. So I asked around
and got some contacts, talked to some colleagues, and we could get you in to
talk to—”
“Sounds like that didn't work so well before.”
“—or we could try to get you on some kinda med—”
“By tonight?”
“—fine. Fine. Okay, there's listening to reason, or there's—“
“Or?”
“Just let me fin—“
“Or?”
 
“So, uh...”
“Yeah.”
They were in Dave's room, standing a respectable distance apart and mutually
agreeing not to make eye contact. As it so happened, younger Dirk had been able
to sleep after sharing his bed with his older brother, and that fact had
brought them here.
Dirk had brought with him a pillow (“Like hell we're sharing.”) and Lil' Cal
(“Likehell you're bringing that thing in here.”), who he had placed on Dave's
dresser. Deciding that they were going to have to move sometime, Dirk sighed
and clambered onto the bed.
“I don't think so, bro, scoot over.” Dirk glared up at his brother from his
barrier of blankets.
“What, you want this side?”
“Hell yes I want this side. This is my side and it will continue to be my side
for the forseeable future. My side, you little prick.”
Dirk let out a laugh. “Are you really getting all worked up over which side of
the bed you're on? I wonder what News Weekly would think of this? This just in:
'Mastermind Behind Movie Sensation SBAHJ Throws Bitchfit Over Side of the Bed'.
The tagline would read 'Homoerotic and Incestuous Love Scandal—'“
“Fuck. Man, you're making this weird,” Dave whined, looking close to stomping
his feet.
“I'm making this weird?”
“Damn right you are; you brought your motherfucking puppet.”
Dirk wanted to protest—Lil' Cal doesn't like being called that. But that would
probably just prove Dave's point.
“You know what? Fine,” Dirk hissed. “Take the fucking spot.”
But of course that didn't sit well with the older Strider's misled pride, and
Dave crossed his arms stubbornly. “No, I don't care. You sleep there.”
Dirk pressed an arm across his forehead and groaned, exasperated. “You have got
to be freaking kidding me.”
 
When they had finally settled into the bed (Dave had obligingly taken the other
side but had pouted so hard for so long that Dirk made him switch) (His brother
was a fully grown man-child), Dave had been quick to fall asleep, but the
younger Strider was not so lucky. It was certainly not uncomfortable here in
his brother's bed (though it was a bit awkward); the comforter was an obnoxious
coral pink, but the sheets were far more comfortable than Dirk's polyester
disaster of a bed.
And it wasn't all that strange to share a bed with Dave. It was big enough, so
it wasn't like they were actually touching, and even if they had been, years of
wrestling and strifes had rendered touching part of the package of being a
Strider. Not to mention they were both clothed below the waist, and Dave's
weight pulling down the opposite side of the mattress was warm and almost
comforting.
Dirk had always been unusually close to his brother; the two of them had been
attached at the hip since practically birth. Sharing a bed wasn't quite the
novel experience some part of him acknowledged it should be.
What was keeping Dirk from sleep was the promise of what was to come. The bed
was cozy, warm, smelling of metal and Dave, but what frightened Dirk was the
way the air caught his nostrils as he breathed. The room was dim, the air thin,
colors bleeding together beneath his eyelids. He had never felt this way
before; like the world had stopped just to cradle his body as it drifted into
unconsciousness.
“Man, go to sleep,” Dave grumbled, not bothering to turn around.
“Shut up,” Dirk retorted, and that was all he needed to fall into slumber.
 

Surprisingly, the next couple of weeks involved some of the best sleep Dirk had
ever not dreamed about.
“I don't feel like I went two rounds with King Kong,” he told Dave over
breakfast, three days into the experiment. Dave had, in turn, smirked through
his bite of cereal, pleased but tired, and that morning had been Dirk's first
clue.
 
Dave had always been frustratingly oblique—the man would bitch and moan for
years over the slightest inconvenience, but should he ever face a real-life
problem, he would clam up and refuse to talk seriously. This always drove Dirk,
the more straightforward of the Striders, up the wall, especially since he knew
something was wrong, despite Dave's arguments to the contrary.
He tried to bring the topic up once, after Dave had returned from work and had
settled into his routine of watching cheesy Disney shows with a bowl of
unbuttered popcorn. “You're watching too much Supernatural, man,” Dave had
uttered in retaliation to the subject, mouth full of half-chewed food, “turning
everything into a big queer sobfest.” Of course Dave would go for the jugular,
but Dirk would not be deterred.
The fact of the matter was, while their new setup was certainly beneficial to
the number of useful hours of sleep Dirk experienced, it had quite obviously
had the opposite effect on Dirk's older brother. Dave looked more exhausted
than he had in years—since the move following the death of their parents and
his subsequent efforts to enter the moviemaking scene. Dirk didn't know why
Dave refused to talk about it; it wasn't like it was particularly difficult to
notice the bags beneath his eyes or his failing posture under the strain of
exhaustion. Dirk would venture to guess that his brother hadn't had a proper
night's sleep in weeks, which unsurprisingly coincided with the beginnings of
this little experiment.
“I dunno man, you look like you're gonna collapse,” Dirk told the elder
Strider, lifting a handful of his own (buttered) popcorn. Dave, predictably,
rolled his eyes and pressed the volume button up a few notches.
“Shut up or I'm turning off Hannah Montana.”
Dirk glued his lips together and focused his eyes on the screen. Dave hated
this show, and would only willingly watch with Dirk when he was feeling
particularly giving—another hint in favor of Dirk's argument—and Dirk had been
enjoying watching. He liked that Hannah herself (well, Miley) had a horse, and
that episode where the horse talked had Dirk crying like a bitch. His favorite
was the incompetent older brother, much to the chagrin of Dave (“He's like 35,
do you have any idea how creepy that is?”), and the B-plot of this episode
followed his reluctant following of the scrawny little rich boy's nefarious
plot.
But Dirk noticed when Dave breathed out a low, long breath, closing his eyes
against the glow of the television, and he couldn't help but feel just a little
wrong.
 
That night, under a blanket of smokey-white sleep fog, Dirk had a dream.
Maybe it couldn't be considered a legitimate dream, since he was decidedly
aware that he was, in fact, asleep, but it was the first time he had
experienced anything of the sort.
He was standing in the doorway facing the living room, fingers clenched lazily
around the familiar curve of a katana, lax posture not betraying the blood
pumping through his veins like liquid fire.
The air smelled harsh, like sweat and blood, suffocating and deliciously
cerise, clenching his stomach.
Dave slunk into view, shirt dripping with accumulated sweat, the smirk on his
face a clear invitation:
“Come at me, bro,” he said, and Dirk snorted with derision as he spun his sword
deftly in his hand.
Dirk was fast—getting faster every day—but it would probably be a long time
before he could compete with Dave, and he doubted he could best his older
brother in a strife of brawn (as demonstrated by his losing all but a few
spontaneous wrestling matches).
What Dirk had was strategy and whip-quick reflexes, not to mention an intimate
knowledge of his opponent. And while this information had yet to prove
exceedingly useful in real life brawls, this was certainly not real life.Dirk
made the rules here.
So of course Dirk saw the brief, almost unnoticeable shift in Dave's footing;
his right foot gave way to allow him to keep his balance, alerting Dirk to
anticipate his older brother's next strike. The younger Strider moved
accordingly, springing forward to mirror the attack, dropping his weight deep
into his heel and grinning as the swords met. The sharp clang of metal was
music to Dirk's ears, and he used Dave's own momentum to catapult him away.
Dirk heard rather than saw the clatter as the weapon fell from his older
brother's hands.
Dave refused to be the only one without a blade, however, and he kicked out his
leg in an easy, practiced sweep. Dirk fell like a ton of bricks, ass hitting
the floor at the worst possible angle. His grip on his weapon slackened just
long enough for Dave to punt it out of his grasp.
Suddenly Dave's body covered the length of his own, lithe and crimson and
smelling of burning.
It felt like burning, too, the most pleasant burning imaginable; Dirk's flesh
was on fire, he was hot and red like a coal being prodded into ignition.
“Hot,” he said, glowing, nearly burst into flame at Dave's responding grin.
“Hot.”
Dave, unexpectedly obliging, was suddenly lacking the shirt he had previously
donned. The switch had been almost too quick to be natural, though Dirk found
it difficult to complain at the miles of muscled flesh pressed taut against his
own—oh, hey, his clothes had vanished too.
Dave chose not to speak, his face so close to his brother's they breathed the
same air, instead running a hand roughly down the planes of his brother's
torso. Dirk's following moan and the way his body reacted in kind, arching
deeply into the hand as it dipped ever lower, was a direct result of the hot
metal flame it scorched into his skin.
Every inch it touched strained for an encore; everywhere Dave wasn't touching
was screaming in protest. Dave dropped his chin, biting a trail from Dirk's
collarbone to the line of his jaw.
Dirk moaned, stretched tightly, and cried out in approval. His body urged him
forward in search of purchase—some kind of friction—and he found it somewhere
in the lower regions of his brother's body. He was on fire, his body blackening
from the strain, and only this would put out the flame, he was sure of it.
Dave reciprocated eagerly, shifting so whatever Dirk was grinding against was
in the perfect position—just right—and covered his mouth when he let out a low
keen. Dirk bit down none too gently on the fingers, Dave growling in response,
and the younger Strider could not take it anymore.
His hands immediately on the gentle curve of his brother's ass, sliding down to
cup, to feel, and then his whole body jerked forward, effectively trapping
Dave's pelvis between Dirk's arousal and his greedy fingers. He pressed just
hard enough that he could move in tight little gyrations, stoking the flames
until they licked at the edges of his vision. Dave was groaning, holding back,
breath stunted through his bared teeth.
Dirk was so close he could feel it; to what no longer mattered, what mattered
was the hot stench of arousal building like a slow destruction, like any minute
his body would collapse into Dave's and they would explode.
And then it was over, and Dirk was out of breath and alone in Dave's bed.
 
Dave wasn't in the house when Dirk maneuvered his leaden limbs into action.
Even so, the atmosphere was thick and scentless, and Dirk's stomach clenched as
though kneaded.
He returned to Dave's room, pulling Lil' Cal over his shoulder and grabbing his
pillow.
Something told Dirk that Dave had been present, had witnessed every moment of
his dream, and Dirk couldn't bear the thought. He pushed it out of his mind as
best he could, trying to think of anything else but the fucking situation he
had gotten himself into.
Exhaustion coursed through him. This whole ordeal had ended up causing more
harm than good, and he wished he could just put it all behind him. The past few
weeks had obviously been hard on Dave for whatever reason, without his little
brother's stupid crisis on top of it, and while Dirk appreciated the rest, it
wasn't worth all the awkwardness and miscommunication.
Dirk punched a number angrily into his phone and brought it to his ear. If Dave
wasn't going to stick around for the inevitable horror show, then neither was
he.
 
When Dirk returned, lightheaded and pleasantly woozy from tequila, Dave was
planted in front of the TV. He was leaning forward, watching intently with his
elbows on his knees and chin in his hands.
“Hey.” Dirk's mouth felt thick and dry, and he had to push the word out with
effort not to slur.
“Nice try, Lindsay, but I think you had one too many appletinis.” Dave didn't
seem angry—Dirk didn't expect him to be. He hadn't, however, expected him to
sound so tired, resigned. “Sorry I disappeared this morning. I got called in to
work.”
So now Dirk was drunk and confused. Had he screwed them both over with his
stupid kinky dreams or just jumped to conclusions? “Oh,” he said, and Dave gave
him an odd look.
It split into a grin as he remarked, “Besides, you know I don't do the whole
morning after thing.”
That was all it took for Dirk to wind up face-first on the floor. Literally.
Dave watched him fight to stand from the couch, looking as though at any moment
he would burst into laughter. “Man, you didn't drive, right?”
Dirk scowled. So maybe he had overestimated his tolerance a little; he was not
drunk enough to be an idiot. He just hadn't been fucking prepared forthat
particular comment.
“Roxy called me a cab,” he grunted, rubbing at his now-sore shoulder. He
begrudgingly dropped to the couch beside Dave, careful to leave a good inch or
six between their thighs.
“Good.” And, after a beat, “I'm really sorry man.” He looked him straight in
the eyes, utterly serious, and Dirk's heart dropped down into his pelvic
region. Dave licked his lips. “But it's flattering to know I can make your
knees weak, Princess.”
“Fuck you,” Dirk retorted over Dave's laughter, his intestines in knots.
 
Two weeks passed relatively normally; Dave had seemed somewhat surprised at
Dirk's abrupt departure, but not opposed to the old sleeping arrangement. Even
if Dave was just fooling around like usual, and hadn't been molested by Dirk in
his sleep, the younger Strider wasn't going to risk a second encounter.
While it was true that things had returned to (mostly) normal—early breakfast,
Dave's two-mile run, school and work, usually a strife with Dave, dinner in
front of the television, and chatting with friends on Pesterchum until
midnight—Dirk couldn't stop the nagging feeling that followed him everywhere.
Like Dave would look at him one day and spontaneously realize his younger
brother had come uncomfortably close to ruining his bedsheets over thoughts of
him. An even smaller part of Dirk wondered what would happen if Dave were to
find out; Dirk wouldn't be surprised (or even opposed) at being kicked out or
at least getting his ass handed to him.
And then there was the sick part of Dirk that wondered, what if he wasn't
freaked out about it?
But that thought was quickly stifled by a truckload of guilt along with a
sprinkling of horror and shame. If you asked Dirk, this whole thing was
sick—abnormal—and the sooner he forgot about it, the better.

But evidently Dirk's subconscious disagreed.
His body seized involuntarily, and he was once again in the blazing state
between alertness and slumber. He could feel something wet and warm drag over
his chest, his tightening nipple, his heaving neck. It was over as soon as it
had begun, then came crashing back like a tide of lava over his body.
Time sludged forward, painfully uneven, and Dirk couldn't comprehend the order
of events, or even how to move his heavy arms and legs. Everything was
unfocused and confusing, no ground to cling to.
But then Dirk caught his footing. He still wasn't sure where he was, what was
going on; all he knew was assuredly, blinding real was the swipe of a tongue
from the base to the very tip of his sensitive cock.
Dirk was catapulted into reality, desire emanating from every atom in his body.
This was significantly different from every dream Dirk had had before, and all
he could think was how desperately he wanted it not to stop. He wouldn't let
it. He anchored his arms into the mattress, refusing to move them.
He gritted his teeth, eyes rolling back into his head when Dave—it was Dave, of
that much he was sure—accepted nearly all of Dirk's length into his mouth and
throat, nose pressing firm into Dirk's pelvis, and when he could go no further,
sucked until the ensuing suction approached pain.
The noise that erupted from Dirk's throat was mortifyingly animalistic. His
body moved of its own accord, hips hitching forward, hands clenching
desperately at the sheets.
Dirk bit down on the insides of his cheeks, and pulled himself tight so he
wouldn't lose control.
He was hot, burning once more, but this time it was vivid, clear.

This time he was made of fire and only Dave could tame the flames, though the
inferno only intensified when Dave's blunt nails scraped unceasingly from his
chest to his hipbones.
This time it left marks, welting and red and pulsing, threatening to spill
over.
This time Dirk could feel it; pain and pleasure mingling in impossible
increments, and he couldn't imagine how it could get any better.
Dirk nearly swallowed his tongue, because then Dave's hand was urging his hips
upward. Dirk complied instantly, dizzy, and let out a groan when a large hand
slid down into the crack of his ass, thumbing his most intimate area.
He was aware, suddenly, of the world around him; the sheets crinkling under his
torso, the sweat dripping over his body and pooling in all its crevices. He
knew, too, of Dave's curious fingers pressing against his opening, and he
couldn't stop himself from catching a glimpse. Forcing his protesting muscles
into action, he adjusted just enough to see Dave. Dave, hair remarkably
disheveled, clothed only in sweatpants, right hand clutching loosely at Dirk's
throbbing dick, and sunglasses-free eyes focused, intense. His left hand ran
gentle circles around the rim of Dirk's asshole, and he looked as though he
couldn't stop for the world. Dave's lower lip was torn to shreds, caught
between his teeth, and he ground his hips down into the edge of the bed
desperately.
Dirk's eyes crossed then thanks to Dave's clever hand (he wasn't sure whether
it was the right or left), and he shouted out his release.
For a moment, all he could see was a flash of red irises. Then it all went
black.
 
The next few nights were all the same, an endless blur of desire and release,
and every morning Dirk awoke to Dave acting as if nothing had happened.
Half of Dirk appreciated this fact; it wasn't like he wanted to talk to Dave
about what was going on, and it was almost a relief to just go with the flow.
Talking about it would make it real, as though there wasn't enough evidence to
support it already. But at the same time, he knew that nothing good could come
of having sex—even really, really fantastic sex—with his older brother. Well,
okay,Dirk was certainly coming.
There was the other problem: Dirk was theonly one coming.
He hadn't noticed at first, seeing as most nights he collapsed in a pile of
sweaty limbs and fell right asleep, but after a while he caught on. Dave was
all too eager to get Dirk off (with his mouth, his fingers, his lips,his
tongue), but not once had Dave finished himself.
And who knows, maybe Dave was slinking off and jerking alone in his room, but
Dirk got the feeling that when he ran off, sweatpants still intact, he would
mope and try desperately to ignore it. It definitely seemed like a Dave thing
to do.
So when Dirk, having awoken prematurely, felt the hand caressing the skin where
his boxers had previously been, he moved his foot discreetly, brushing Dave's
erection with his heel.
Dave hissed as though bitten, a noise suspiciously like a whimper escaping his
mouth, and pointedly moved his groin out of Dirk's reach.
The night commenced otherwise normally, though Dirk found himself inexplicably
angry. The feeling only grew when Dave left the room, silent as ever, and he
stared at the ceiling until he reluctantly fell asleep.
The morning after, when the smell of waffles wafted into his room, Dirk stomped
into the kitchen with a small tube in his hand. His brother was already seated
and digging in, eyes downcast and obviously not in the mood to talk.
He dropped the tube into Dave's lap, and the older Strider looked up at him,
stunned. For a brief instant, Dirk wondered if this whole thing had just been
in his fucking head, that he was going crazy.
But Dave was blushing, too, and as he peered at Dirk over his tool glasses,
Dirk realized that he wouldn't let it be in his head. If it was, he would rip
it out into reality himself, because goddamn it, he really wanted to kiss Dave.
He wanted to kiss Dave and there was no way out of it, even if the idiot
refused to make it easy for the both of them.
“Aren't you the one who's always telling me,” Dirk said carefully, unblinking,
“that if I'm going to start something, I should always finish the job?”
Dave's pupils dilated, the ring of red shrinking to a sliver.
Dirk walked out like Dave had every night for the past week, and he didn't look
back.
 
Weight pushed down on either side of his body, and Dirk couldn't stop the
victory smirk if he tried. Dave crawled atop his brother, stretching every inch
of himself to cover the younger boy. Hands pulled Dirk's arms up and away from
his waist. Dirk could feel the container of lube Dave held when he joined their
hands together above their heads.
“We need to talk,” he told Dirk, one hand sinking back to grip his knees, and
pulling him up so his hard arousal pressed at just the right angle. Dirk held
his breath and allowed his thighs to be wrapped tightly around the older
Strider's waist, gasping when he let all his weight rest on that spot. Dave
thrust into Dirk, grinding down experimentally, and he repeated his actions in
time with each responding moan.
“You awake, bro?” Dave asked. He pressed his mouth to Dirks, slow but dirty,
matching the way their bodies moved in junction. The friction was achingly,
ridiculously good.
“Fuck yeah,” Dirk panted into Dave's mouth, pressing his hips right where he
was needed. “Yeah, yeah I am.”
 
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