#lime writes

Your name is Davis fucking Strider and you rule the indie movie scene. And the club scene. And whatever scene you feel like sliding into.

You’re looking for a lay, but when are you ever not? If there’s anything you’re known for that isn’t goddamn perfect cinematic shots, it’s being a rampant, unrepentant horndog. Also an occasional coke addict, but shh. You don’t have a problem. Everyone else has a problem. 

The point is, you own this club. Not literally, but this place is your fucking bitch. You’ve been here a thousand times and you’ll probably be here a thousand more, and this time you know what you want. Some of your friends have been talking about some sweet young thing that’s been bar-hopping, getting super fucked up and generally going with the goddamn flow. Hot, young, blonde, a total babe--you know, your usual MO. 

One of your pals points him out, there, drinking at the bar. He knocks back a shot while you watch, and you’re maybe kinda fucked up yourself, but his silhouette is familiar. Maybe you’ve fucked him before? Hard to say. You’ve slept your way through half this city and it’s a wonder you don’t have a hundred thousand STDs and a crab cinched around your dick. 

You make your way over to him while he takes another shot. Hot diggity shit, he’s really going at it. When you get close enough some sorta deja vu hits you like a truck and when you slide your hand along his back you realize you know these shoulders. You know this hair. It’s styled differently than usual--not quite so sharp. Softer. Looks nice on him.

But this is your brother, and he spares you a glance and then doubletakes. Blinks hard. “...Bro?”

“Dirk, the fuck are you doing out here?” you say, nailing your brotherly greeting like the excellent family member you are. Your hand still lingers on his shoulder, and you draw it back when you realize. He’s skunk-drunk and reeks like vodka.

He also doesn’t answer for a while, mulling over his words with exaggerated consideration. “I’m drinking, chucklefuck,” Dirk says, and he only slurs a little. You’re almost proud.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ see that, numbnuts. Last I checked you were too young to drink.”

“Last I checked you got boozed up on our birthday and celebrated with some stupid floozy instead of me, so eat my ass, bro.”

Yeowch. That stings. “To be fair, she was hot as shit and leaving the country the next day. That accent? Right to my dick, dude.” 

He scoffs and signals for another drink. You nab his hand and shoo off the bartender before she can get him one. To that he growls and turns to look at you with the surliest fucking expression. “The fuck, Davis?”

You do your best impression of the shrug emoji. “Can’t let you drink yourself to an early grave, lil’ dude. C’mon.” He doesn’t move when you make like it’s time to leave, so you hook a hand under his arm and start tugging him away.

Dirk grumbles but lets himself be dragged. Him being so compliant and malleable is weird as shit, but then again, you’ve never seen him drunk, and you’re hardly home nowadays. Lots of shit needs to get done in production, and you’re crashing on other peoples’ couches as much as you are the occasional office or alleyway. Maybe he’s just like this now. Look at you go, Davis. Drove your brother to early onset alcoholism. Nice fucking going.

He comes along while you say bye to your friends because you’re not a fucking animal, you can say goodnight to them before you fuck off. They laugh at you and give you knowing looks and all that shit, but you just roll your eyes. Not that they can see it, but you telegraph it pretty well. 

When you hoist him into the taxi you called to get out of this joint, he looks more sulky than anything.

“Is this some sort of ploy for attention? Is that what’s going on here? Cuz Dirk, you could’ve shot me a text or somethin’. You don’t need to get smashed and join a sheltered suburban mom’s first orgy or whatever the fuck you were doing. Heard you were getting into some pretty fucked up shit, dude, like. When you start getting a reputation that shit’s serious. You shouldn’t be out drinkin’.”

“That,” Dirk starts, with emphasis, “is the most hypocritical horseshit I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

…Well, he’s not wrong. 

“Yeah, okay,” you agree, after a moment of quiet. “But still. I’m, like, twenty years older than you. My slut reputation is timely and well-obtained. You should just be a baby slut, not the talk of the town. And also using condoms and the pill. Are you on the pill? We should get you on the pill.”

Dirk looks at you like you’re stupid. “You’re five years too late to give me the safe sex talk, bro. Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Not if you get herpes cuz some guy fucked you in the bathroom stall with pus and blood all up on his dick--”

“Gross.”

“--seriously, no way. You wanted my attention? Congrats, baby, you got it.”

“Don’t call me baby, it’s fucking creepy.” His lip has pulled up, but he looks out the window instead of at you. “I’m not your baby.”

You consider this and summarily dismiss it, in part because you’re a dick and in part because it’s patently untrue. “Yeah, no, you’re absolutely my baby.” You reach over and poke him in the side. “I raised you, fucker. Held you in my arms. Changed your diapers. Absolutely my baby.”

He smacks at your hand, still without looking at you. “Once again: eat my entire asshole.”

“Only if you take me on a date first.” You’re grinning, but his expression only gets darker and grumblier. His cheeks are flushed with alcohol, but you think they’ve darkened further. Dirk’s never been one to get embarrassed by a little dirty talk--you know, the normal kind, not the bedroom kind, you’ve never given Dirk the bedroom kind, but. The way he’s hunching in on himself, drunk and maybe flustered, makes you wonder if maybe you should have.

Woo boy, that’s the most fucked up thing you’ve thought all day, and you thought about Nic Cage’s saggy ball sack earlier. Purely for filmography reasons, of course. Looking at Dirk now that the idea’s in your head, though, you have to remember how he’s exactly your type. Cute blonde snarky twink? God, have you been lusting after your baby brother all your life?

You shouldn’t be thinking about that, but you’re kinda fucked up drugs-wise and when the cab driver drops you both off at your place, you pull Dirk maybe closer than you should. You’re just supporting him. It’s no big deal. He’s drunk as fuck.

You practically have to drag him up into your apartment, and then it’s just a matter of dumping him into his bed. You do it, as any brother would, by just fuckin’ dropping him onto it, and he grunts like he might kill you for your indiscretions. “Fuck you,” he says without much bite.

“Maybe later,” you say, and start unlacing his shoes. He kicks at you until he realizes what you’re doing, and then he just kind of turns into dead weight. Off come his hightops, and you chuck them into the corner before flopping in bed next to him. 

You then remember you’re still wearing your own shoes, so you start kicking them off in the least coordinated way possible. Dirk turns his head to, again, look at you like you’re stupid. “The fuck are you doing?” he slurs at you. 

“Gettin’ ready for bed,” you tell him, finally getting your right shoe off. Nailed it. The other follows shortly after. You unzip your pants too, for good measure, and start to wiggle out of them. “Y’know, we used to sleep in the same bed all the time. Back before I made it big, you know. When you were like five? You were just the cutest little kid, Dirk, you never stopped fuckin’... takin’ things apart. That poor toaster.”

“That toaster got what was coming,” he says, and you’ve softened him up some. His voice is less angry drunken sailor, more vaguely fond and reminiscent. 

“You remember way back then, huh?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You toss your shades on the nightstand and then roll onto your side to look at him, at the softness of his face and the fluff of his unstyled hair. You kinda wanna touch it. “I don’t know, man. You were so little. Fuck if I know what happened when I was five.”

“You’re also an old man.” He turns his head to look at you too, and his expression is more familiar to you now. That sort of invitation to be in on the joke that you both used to share with each other. Striders, together, on the same team. The way it used to be. 

“I’m fuckin’ forty, you jerk.”

“Ancient.”

“Ex-fucking-scuse you.”

“I can hear your bones creaking right now,” he drawls, and yeah. That’s a little smile on his face. Success. You’ve done well. 

“Fuck you,” you say without a lick of seriousness.

He looks smug when he echoes, “Maybe later.”

You snort and throw your arm over him. “Shut the fuck up, Dirk, you’re such a little smartass. I swear to god, someone’s gonna give you what for one of these days.” 

“Sure.” He sounds like someone who’s already gotten what for. You remember what folks told you about him, about how he got fucked through bars and bars and bars, and something twists in your gut. Something jealous, something angry. He’s your little brother, and you know what happens to folks who get too drunk at clubs alone. You wonder what they did to him. You wonder if he wanted it. Part of you hopes he did, because the idea of someone raping Dirk makes you fucking furious, but part of you hopes he didn’t, because he should save wanting it for someone--

Special? 

Someone like you?

Yeah, you’re hot shit. You know that. But you don’t think you’re hot enough shit for someone to save their virginity for, and especially not Dirk. Your baby brother. The kid you took care of for years until the fame kicked in and you just kept leaving.

Fuck, you’re a shitty brother.

“Hey,” you say, a little softer. Dirk makes an ‘mm?’ noise, half-asleep already. Last you remember, he was a massive insomniac. More points for drinking, you guess. “Those people you fucked. Did you want it? Heard some pretty fucked up shit, kiddo.”

He looks at you with his amber eyes, his mouth pursing into a thin line. After a while, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I wanted it.”

You don’t know if you believe him. 

You definitely know you shouldn’t rest your hand on his cheek, because one, that’s a stupid movie cliche that feels awkward in real life, and two, because he’s your brother. But he’s <i>your</i> brother. “Dirk,” you mumble back. He’s still, now, watching you from under pale eyelashes. “Were you really doing it for attention?”

He doesn’t answer for a while, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together some great puzzle. You’re not sure there’s a puzzle to put together. You’re not sure there ever has been. 

“...Yeah,” he finally says, so you kiss him.

Dirk doesn’t really kiss back, but he doesn’t seem super surprised. He doesn’t freeze up, or try to hit you, or shove you away. He sighs into your mouth and doesn’t do much of anything. You pull away after a few seconds and he’s still just watching you, blinking slowly. 

“Is that what you wanted?” you ask.

He keeps blinking like the answer’s swimming somewhere in his eyes and he needs to clear it away. When he realizes you’re not gonna do anything till he responds, he murmurs, “I don’t know.”

You don’t know either, but you kiss him again. His mouth tastes like vodka, like warm and wet, and he’s so… compliant. His hand comes up, but he doesn’t really do anything with it--it just hovers over your shoulder for a bit before falling back down. You kiss him again, and then again, and then along his jaw. When he still barely moves, you break off and watch him as intently as he’s watching you.

“Dirk,” you say, “if you don’t want this, you gotta tell me. I couldn’t live with myself if you got fucked up over this.”

Dirk, drunk, maybe lost, a creature in wait, just looks at you. 

Your heart twists along with your gut. “Dirk, c’mon.”

He looks at you and then shuts his eyes, sighing. You get the feeling this isn’t really what he wants at all. This isn’t what he’s used to. He says, “I never thought I’d have to accuse you of being too nice, Davis.”

“Eat my entire ass,” you have to say back. You just have to. “You’re my baby and I love you. I’m not always nice but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be okay, dumbshit.” 

“This isn’t how this is supposed to go,” Dirk tells you, and sounds vaguely frustrated about it. “You’re supposed to pin me down and tell me stupid shit about how I’m a slut and a whore and I’ve been asking for it since I was five and then you’re supposed to shove your dick in me and it’s supposed to hurt. You’re fucking it up, bro.”

Right, yeah. That’s definitely your heart twisting now. “Is that what you’re into?”

“Sure, yeah. Fucking hell, dude, just do it.”

You frown at him. “...No, I don’t think I will.”

He groans, frustrated, and flumps away from you. You, predictably, keep your arm around him and snuggle up close into his back. “Seriously, if you’re actually into rape kink I’ll fuck around with it for you, but Jesus Christ, Dirk. Have you even tried anything else? I cannot stress enough how not okay you seem right now. Like, has anyone sat you down and told you how drop dead gorgeous you are? Have you ever topped? Fucked while you weren’t drunk? Be real with me.”

Dirk, sounding for all the world like you’ve just actually started giving him the safe sex talk and that he would rather be anywhere else, says, “Forget it, man, don’t worry about it. I don’t want to fuck if you’re gonna be like this.”

“So you did want to fuck.” You grin in your epic gotcha moment and then remember you’re talking about banging your brother and promptly feel kind of weird about it. Not weird enough to stop, though.

“Ugh. Yeah, fine. Sure. I wanted to fuck.”

“See, was that so hard?” You kiss the back of his neck, feel him shiver, and wonder if you’re getting somewhere here. “We could do so many things, Dirk. You just gotta tell me about ‘em. I could call you a slut, or the most beautiful guy in the world, or! Fuck it, both. We love mixing metaphors here. You could fuck me so hard I can’t talk straight and you’ll finally get me to shut my mouth for more than ten seconds.” Beat. “Maybe.”

He snorts. “Not likely.”