A/N: Oh wow, holy fuck, what the fuck possessed me to do this? I'm not going to live down with this - I just am not. So yeah. The large amount of incest in here is nearly terrifying. Mainly Dave/Rose but there's like, totally a lot of Dave/Dirk and Dirk/Roxy and Roxy/Rose and totally, totally Dirk/Rose plus Dave/Roxy. Basically it's a foursome. Though not explicit or anything. And there's only one kissing scene. So. It's family. Uhm. Enjoy now.
Warning: Bad words. Incest. Sexual tension. Slash. Incest. Dersecest. Oh fuck. I'm officially going to hell.
The steak is half-cooked and large; dark red juices spilling beneath the squishy meat, grains of black pepper splattered across the raw-red surface almost neatly Dave thinks that perhaps yes, he has overdone it, a bit. Or maybe not because he is just the sort of person who does everything perfectly no matter how trivial that thing is.
It is not necessary for him to buy the most expensive beef from the market, make his own sauce of hot chilli pepper and smoothen-peanuts ketchup instead of simple Tabasco and tomato sauce, boil a few salted eggs and slice them to pieces into the seafood broth of crabs and squids and prawns. None of those things are necessary for this family dinner of his, but Dave does it anyway. He has the time and the resources both; so he totally did not drive all the way into the city, get caught by the police for speeding-up, parking tickets stuck to his windshield after hitting the ATM, empty the entire content of his wallet for the best ingredients simply to impress his sister.
… Well, not just Rose. Technically his Bro and the gorgeous, gorgeous Miss Lalonde – not that he will ever say this to her face, or worse, Rose's face, of course – will also be there. Dave likes to keep some things relatively short, but that's not the point.
Dave parades around the room in a steady dash, back and forth between one counter to another as his hands work frantically on the cupboards. He reaches out for a bottle of ketchup with one hand, a plateful of mashed potatoes with the other, nudges the stove with his knee a little bit when it strikes him that he does, apparently, putting an effort for this dinner.
A look at the thick bullet-proof window of his penthouse and he pauses, stares, thanks the god up above for giving him good reflexes on maintaining his balance on one foot, then throws a knife at the sink in realization, face wiped out of any emotions all the while.
Yeah, he fucking puts too much effort in this alright.
… In the end, Dave gathers the knife back in his hand, chops a few carrots and slices bread, shapes some onion rings into four different flowers and places them carefully atop the expensive China plates Gamzee smuggled for him last week.
None of that means he actually cares or anything of course.
But he checks the penthouse thoroughly for the billionth of times to make sure Bro or Rose or even Roxy is watching from nicely-hidden cameras in the ceiling or in the fucking walls – just to make sure.
He scatters extra salt and black pepper on Bro's steak after the vegetables are cooked. For Roxy he mixes a little bit of wine, Italian's red, into the bowl of sauce. It's not enough to get someone intoxicated, but definitely keeps them wanting more. Rose always pinches two or three limes on her food even when he frowns at her on the other side of the table because it makes her feel at peace or some shit, so he doesn't touch her food anymore.
It occurs to him as an ironic thing to do, that he and Rose have done this several times before, so many nights together in some fancy restaurants wasting their money on liquors and steaks – or seafood and pasta, or maybe some Chinese takeout with a cheap bottle of bourbons really; it depends on their moods – it feels almost normal to do this.
Yet this time he feels out of place, like he doesn't quite belong inside the comfort of his own penthouse. At first he thinks it's Bro and Roxy and countless creative images of having them both in the same room that's been playing in his mind since day one, but he knows it's not. Dave is not someone who would put the blame of the cause of his nervous-break on his parents or, whatever they are to him and Rose, truly.
Four candles are lined closely together in the middle of the last-day-purchased dining table, forming a circle inside another larger circle consists of eight candles. Beneath the inner candles-circle, Dave puts red linens over the black ones that stretch as wide as the outer candles-circle. It forms a perfect image of the CD icon on his shirt back when he was thirteen.
By the time he is done decorating the table, black smooth silk sliding easily across the flat rectangle iron surface, Dave wants to shoot his own head. There is a revolver tucked safely under the mattress of his four-poster bed, another one in the kitchen, and a shotgun behind the LCD in his living room. He considers going for the kitchen knife, or a sharp silverware fork he keeps around, but it takes a longer period of time if he does go for either of them. So, guns are safer bets.
Stealing a glance at his wristwatch as he rummages through the closet, Dave considers the amount of time it will take him to dress up, obviously in a casual shirt that is not expensive whatsoever, compared to the amount of time it will take him to come to common sense before pulling the trigger of his various models of guns.
Eighty three minutes before the intended time of their meeting. Unfortunately, his hand finds purchase on a dark crimson long-sleeved shirt. It doesn't have anything fancy on it, except for the eight buttons black as obsidian linked down the length of the shirt. The material is of silk, smooth as it slides down his skin, his purple-bruised digits rubbing against the bunched spots from not being worn as often as it should tenderly. Dave cocks his head to the side, looks at four bottles of Italian red resting atop his nightstand. Hmm, well, it doesn't look bad. In fact, the colours are just perfect.
Whether or not it is relief he feels or annoyance for having to put up in this stupid, stupid family dinner, brightens with the promises of awkwardness in the upcoming hour, Dave exhales a long heavy breath.
Okay then. Now, it is time for some trousers to cover his surely-going-to-be-verbally-abused-manhood by his fucked-up excuses of a family, later tonight. That's a comforting thought.
Shower is like standing naked with his lower-half buried in a frozen puddle of water in the middle of the fucking Everest Mountain itself. Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to his hot water? Last time he checked, the people in charge of the building's maintenances kept telling him there was nothing wrong with the pipes, or the hot water, or even the fucking useless piece of shit they called a toilet. If he doesn't have three separate bathrooms in the penthouse, it's likely that Dave might have gone on a(nother) rampage mode, firing all the staff out of rage.
Hold on a fucking second, now that he thinks about it, he had done that before. Being one of the richest men in the entire fucking world with his internationally-famous apartment business has its own perks after all.
Leaning back on his seat, Dave tries to recall how in the seven hells had he agreed to this, shit. Probably if he hadn't made love to his sister during one of their 'innocent' stays in Europe, none of this would have happened. Rose who is a world-wide famous author with her books being translated into more or less eight languages wouldn't be recognized by a passing actress who happened to be an acquaintance of their mother if they hadn't hung out together that night, wouldn't be seen by Bro drinking cheap beers in a rundown Irish bar after work, wouldn't be asked to spend more 'quality fucking time' with the said family later.
Yep, blaming everything on Rose is infinitely much better. The knots in his stomach subside, the lump in his throat eases, the forming headache to lessen considerably enough to get him through the rest of the day. A bottle of wine won't be enough for this, he knows.
Dave bolts out of his seat, into his bedroom, and explores the content of his cupboard carefully. He eyes the small lid hidden underneath his personal book of music sheets. Its purpose is to lead him into a small room of hidden centuries-old wines, located underneath the sink in his bathroom. Feeling satisfied, Dave walks back into the living room, puts the music on to help him relax, then draws the large stripes curtain open, letting the flickering lights of the city into the room.
It's a little bit after seven when the bell finally chimes. Dave doesn't jump out of his seat and nearly shits his pants, of course. But he does trip on the way to the door and kisses the stack of DVDs lining his wall gratefully when his elbow flails and catches the edge of the stack, therefore, saving him. He almost falls back on the ground when Bro regards him in front of the door – without his glasses – though.
Dave stares. "Uhm."
"Shut up," snaps Dirk, a hint of a really adorable flush gracing the pale skin of his cheeks. Dave nods stiffly, awkwardly stepping aside to let the older man in, and takes in Dirk's attire when he's not looking.
Bro looks really, really nice. He is not exactly dressed-up in fancy clothes or anything; elegant black buttons-up shirt which he left all three unbuttoned, exposing his sharp collarbone in the dim light outside his window. The long sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, revealing the dark Celtic tattoos on both of his arms for Dave's eyes to feast.
Paris is the place, where the tattoos came from. Dave and Rose had gone to Paris on their birthday, bought some French food in a fancy strange-named restaurant, wrapped them all up and sneaked their way into Eiffel Tower. It was midnight by the time they were finished. Rose became pretty handsy with him, touching his neck, trailing her delicate fingers over his inner thigh, cupping his buttock just because she could. Dave had been too drunk to care, but he took his time with her in the car on their way back to their hotel (where he splendidly turned the proud Rose Lalonde into a sobbing needy mess, oh that much he was aware of).
The car halted into a stop when Dirk called him, told him to turn back because Dave just passed by him without any sign of recognition, and Dave did, reluctantly. They drove him to a tattoo parlour downtown where another one of Dirk's boyfriends was waiting for him, gorgeous and obviously horny, so Dirk didn't comment on Dave's hard-on even after they kissed each other's lips. Rose had spent the time of her life laughing, back then.
"You look nice," Dave blurts, feeling the heat coiling in the pit of his stomach, feeling awkward comparing his lithe slender form to Dirk's well-toned, slightly muscular one. Being the cool-guy he is though, Dave masks it with a casual shrug as if the compliment was nothing. Dirk studies him with his cold golden eyes, burning him with the intensity of his gaze, and Dave wants to shrink into a cat and leave or, whatever. He shifts his weight on one foot to another, still trying, and absolutely failing, to look indifferent.
Dirk leans in closer, pushes his knee between Dave's legs against Dave's crotch then brushes his lips on the corner of Dave's own in response, which makes the younger Strider bites in a choked moan. What comes out of Dirk's lips next, those bruised split lips that Dave wants to kiss so much, makes him stop breathing for a second. "Lookin' fuckable in that shirt for you Dave," he murmurs against Dave's lips before licking a stripe down his jaw.
The bell chimes loudly once more. Dirk calmly strides toward the large window while Dave scrambles for the door, opening it wide and kisses Rose firmly, hungrily, as soon as she is within his sight. Roxy, who apparently has been standing beside his sister for a while, chuckles in amusement at his antics. And also probably at the insistent bulge on the front of his jeans, but Dave ignores her.
"Assuming that Dirk is already here, then," she says, her voice sweet, her tone teasing. Dave inhales a large amount of air into his lungs and nods. "He's in," replies the blonde breathlessly. Roxy wraps her cool fingers around Dave's wrist, pulling him into the penthouse with her. Suddenly he feels the gnawing feeling is back around his heart again, suffocating.
Rose tugs at the hem of his shirt, gives him that intoxicating smile of hers in a gesture he supposes is assuring. "Worry not, brother dear. If even you had the time to dress up like that, the possibility of surviving this 'wonderful 'dinner together actually rises from zero. Now that is something, is it not?" her voice lingers close to his ear as she follows their mother swiftly inside.
Being the cool-guy he is, Dave stops the exasperated groan from leaving his lips, turns around, and breathes.
"So I heard that your music company has signed a contract with some foreign rock bands now, Dirk." Yellow-ish light of the candles lighten the pink-pearl colour of Roxy's cocktail dress, giving a beautiful flushed-golden effects on her overall appearance. Her lips are stained red and swollen wet as she speaks, and both Dave and Dirk find it hard not to stare instead of paying attention to what she's actually saying. The Striders immediately regret taking their sunglasses off the moment Rose stared unabashedly at them straight in the eye across the table – though Roxy, in her drunken stupor despite the lack of alcohol in her drink or food, is not that much of a trouble, really.
When Dirk finally manages to compose himself, Rose cuts in. "Hmm, it's quite a wonder. More like an act of financial desperation other than respecting other cultures to me." There is an edge of mocking in her tone, the way she usually gets when she's bored and Dave is the only one in the room to entertain her. Except now Dirk is here and Dave isn't sure whether he's supposed to feel relief for the shift of attention or sorry for his brother (father) or jealous, even.
"Come on Rose, take it easy. Last time I checked, the company was doing well. There's this band called Rammstein or something, from German and their songs were sort of awesome," says Dave flatly, not exactly defending him or anything, so he adds; "And a guy needs to take care of his needs, Rose. Even you won't survive a month without food." At that, Dirk's grateful stare turns into a heated annoyed glare. Dave stuffs a piece of bread into his mouth to hide his smile.
As far as dinner goes, this one goes quite smoothly. He was expecting the first few seconds to be awkward – and it did, God it did, so much Dave doesn't even think he can consider another dinner-arrangement for, fucking ever – but he didn't expect snarky banters between the four of them after the first four awkward minutes.
It's like talking to Rose, except Roxy is more vulgar in her approach, shameless like them all, not caring whether she just said something stupid while Dirk is all careful words and sometimes straight-forward replies. Rose is Rose and Dave is Dave, and everything is so much easier it almost feels like home, almost, because this doesn't feel normal, doesn't seem normal. They are talking like siblings other than parents to their children it's almost easy.
Ninety minutes later they end up stretching lazily on Dave's couch, eyes dark and half-lidded from the amount of alcohol they consumed (a bit too much because suddenly, Dave's stock for the month was out of the kitchen's counter). Game of Thrones marathon is playing on HBO, so Dave puts it on because Roxy will wreck his room if he doesn't, and Dirk keeps staring at Richard Madden's arse like it's the best dessert he will ever have in his life. Rose doesn't comment on their choice of show, instead sitting at the independent couch by the window, her eyes unreadable as she watches the flickering lights of the city. Dave goes to her.
On the corner of his eyes, he sees Roxy's head dropping from where he left her. Dirk winds his arms around her waist to keep her steady. Purple clouded eyes meet with his bright-crimson when he looks back at Rose's face.
"It's sort of nice is it not, Dave?" her gaze shifts back outside the window, studying the streets carefully, fingers playing with the hem of her dress. "Having a stupid family dinner over work and eye-fucking your ecto-parents all at once..." she murmurs softly, trailing off into nothingness, which causes Dave to realize, rather stupidly, that she's drunk. He kneels in front of the couch and takes Rose's free hand in his, kissing the smooth elegant knuckles with the rough seam of his lips. Rose shivers visibly.
"I guess," Dave starts, nuzzling at the skin between her fingers fondly. "It is fucked up, sort of. But who's to judge? Incest is not all that uncommon after... you know." And she does. She knows as much as he does, as much as their parents do.
Dave leans closer until the tip of his nose brushes against the hollow of Rose's throat, nipping at the skin between neck and shoulder, marking her, and exhales shakily when Rose's quiet moan reaches his ear. A surge of lust passes through him. He knows Rose feels the same thing; her eyes get all lidded every time she's aroused. Dave nearly hauls her up into his bedroom, stopping only when he feels two pairs of eyes burning a brand new hole on his back. He turns around to look at his other guests and purse his lips.
Roxy's grin is as suggestive as the sex-god himself. "David, dearest, love, please tell me you do have another bed hidden somewhere, because that bed –"she points at the bed inside his bedroom, as if to make a point, continues, "However big as it is, doesn't look like it will last with the four of us altogether."
Dave groans and lets his head drop on Rose's shoulder. Fuck, he didn't think about that. He's spent all his money on the decorations, the food ingredients, certainly not the clothes, but tonight costs him a fortune. The rational part of his mind argues, telling him no just, god-fuck-no, stop being the fool here Strider. The other part keeps telling him that yes, this is an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the bed doesn't matter, you can always sleep on the couch, and everyone doesn't need to know how the bed broke tomorrow morning because he is their boss, god-damned-it. Let the rumours spread; none of them would think it's true if he doesn't respond.
So Dave nods, lies, and after riding out his orgasm for the fourth time in a row, thinks that yeah, it definitely pays off; all his effort last night and all.
He texts Dirk all the same if he can get a part-time job at the studio, after, though – just in case he can't sleep on the couch for another two weeks.