" Shit. Shit, shit, shit — " Dave scowls at the screen as it goes black, then the red bleeding letters pop up to announce his loss. He's almost tempted to toss the controller in his irritation, but instead he passes it over to you so that you can, once again, own his sorry ass at one of his old school games. He claims he's just rusty, and that he needs a warm - up. That all your victories thus far have been beginner's luck. You don't respond to those, to let him have his little hopes, but you do smirk — just faintly — to yourself, knowing that even he knows that's all wrong.
You clear off the ' You Died ' screen, and find yourself back in the shoes of Chris Redfield. Because zombies were awesome. But they still deserved to die. Fuck that noise. It doesn't take long as you lead him down the hall before you run smack into a Licker. No problem, though; easily enough taken down. Much to Dave's chagrin. You can practically feel the self - disappointment radiating off of him despite the fact he's managed to uphold his poker face.
" It's not that complicated, " you inform him with a hitch of your left shoulder and an upturn of the opposite corner of your lips. " You can hear the damned thing breathing before you encounter it, if you're paying attention to that. Then you just prep everything accordingly. "
" Shut up, I got it. " He's grumpy. You tilt your head back onto his shoulder to shoot a look over from over the top of your sunglasses, and —
… Holy shit, is he pouting? Dave fucking Strider is pouting. This is golden. You pause the game, pressing more of your weight into him, and grin. " For some reason, I don't really think you do. " Your tone is cocky, and he doesn't seem to like it, judging the way his eyes narrow behind his own shades before he turns his head to stare down at you.
" Dude, I got it. You can hear pretty much all the zombies and mutants before they come on - screen, they all sound different, and they all get taken down easier with the right weapon. I gotit. I don't need to be schooled in my own games. "
" But you are. " You're just asking for it tonight. But after the bad day you've had earlier trying to contact Jake after his sudden disconnection, you could use something to lighten up the mood. And maybe a really stupid, old school ' Playstation ' game - induced Strife would offer the relief you're looking for. Not that he ever seemed to have enough time to do something like that with you, but by the Gods, when he did, he sure gave you a damn run for your money.
" … You know what, kid? " Here it comes. You drop the controller on the floor in preparation. " I am going … " Oh — " … to kick … " — yes — " … your sorry ass. " Suddenly you find an arm around your waist, and Dave is hoisting you up over his shoulder, and this is not what you were expecting, oh shit.
He deposits you none - too - gracefully on the worn out old futon — he'd said something about it having sentimental value, and that it had a special place in his heart, and that if you broke it your ass was grass, but you feel like he's just being weird again — and before you even have a chance to sit up, he's sitting on top of you.
This suddenly seems to spark some part of your brain to think that flailing around and slapping at his hip would be a good idea, and you do just that, as stupid as you look. You always kind of sort of lost your cool around your bro. He had this stupid magic way about him that made your cheeks flare up with a simple touch — which always brought a strange expression on his face that he always shrugged off when you asked about it. He always knew the way to make you start laughing, even when you were in the worst of your moods.
Maybe that had something to do with the fact he was never around for you, and that when he was, every moment was special.
He snorts at your efforts, and rolls his head to rest on his shoulder, red eyes fixing on you. You can't see them very well, but you can slightly, and the intense gleam catches you temporarily off guard. You furrow a brow downward, seemingly unsure for a moment, but then he's descending upon you and your uncertainty becomes slight alarm. Oh, no.
His awkward fumbling over the futon ends up with his foot knocking the controller, which effectively unpauses the game, but he doesn't seem to care; his hands are too busy wandering along your sides to find The Spot. The one that always makes you jump and twitch, writhe and mewl, wriggle and squirm with laughter. What a jackass. " No, come on — "
" Say it, Dirk. " His fingers found The Spot, and he digs them in. He doesn't stop even for a second at your yelp of surprise, or the way you begin to squirm around. Instead, he firmly plants one knee against the back of the futon, and pulls his other leg up onto the couch so that he's ultimately straddling your hips and leaving you nowhere to go, and continues to tickle you. " Say it. "
" Stop! " You're already almost howling with laughter as you push at his hands. Not cool, not cool, not cool. You try bringing your leg up between his, but he's low enough that you only end up kneeing him in the ass — which pauses him for a minute as a brow hikes up over the rim of his sunglasses. But he continues before you get much of a break. " No, no, stop … ! "
" Not … until … you say it. " He smirks, and leans down closer to you. His sunglasses slip, slightly, but he doesn't stop even then. Which means he's in this until you do say it, so you're pretty screwed unless you listen. " I wanna hear it, Shorty. "
" Fucking — … " You try again to jerk your leg under him, but yet again, you just end up ramming your knee into his ass. Damnit. This time, he snorts.
" What, want some of that? " His smirk melds into something more lewd, but his hands continue their ministrations, almost subconsciously it would seem. Or else he's just that good at multi - lined thoughts. You're not sure. You can't really think straight.
A flush instantly rises to your cheeks, and you squirm more, trying to roll over. It's a lot harder to get at The Spot when you're laying on it, and you're well aware. He isn't sitting on you with his fat ass anymore, so you figure you might be able to get over —
— but no. He stops to set both hands over your shoulders and pin you where he has you. " Well? "
You're panting for a proper breath, giggles still slipping up occasionally until you calm down a few moments later. The game's music in the background is littered with sounds from the idle animation that plays when you've been standing around long enough for the game itself to be bored. It's a wonder there haven't been any zombies or something that found Chris just standing there like a fucking doofus. " … Well what? " You try to act defiant. But really, you're not sure which thing he's questioning at this point.
" … What do you think? "
… Asshole. You roll your eyes behind your shades. " … ' Dave James Strider is the fucking coolest, and my only hopes of ever being as cool as him lie in — ' "
" Not that. … But yeah, I am, aren't I? " He laughs, very faintly. You can sense how tired he must be, from all the work he's been doing. But you don't really get to mull on it very long, because suddenly his lips are pressed to your forehead, and everything is suddenly really unimportant. Well, everything else.
You hardly hesitate before you tip your head back, advertently guiding the older blonde's lips lower. He catches on quickly enough, and you can't really deny that skip of your heart. He seems to be goofing off a bit with it, though, because his shades clink against yours as he trails ginger kisses down the bridge of your nose.
Lifting your hands from where you've left them, you set them against his cheeks — and God, they're warm; but he's not blushing, is he? — and try to pull him down further. He doesn't seem to be having any of that, because he rebelliously moves to plant the next kiss against your cheek. " … Nn, come on. " You're not sure, really, which would be more satisfying right now. Him continuing this slow treatment, paying that special attention to you that you craved … or him just getting it over with, and caving in to the passion you needed.
" Have to do it just right, " Dave murmurs against your skin, and the way his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear elicits a light laugh from you. It tickles … it's nice, but it tickles. " Otherwise, what's the goddamn point … " He grins, and you savor the feeling of it. Then he's moving, and kissing along your jaw, and oh gods never stop.
You lower your hands to his shoulders, and fist the red fabric of his shirt, tugging lightly on it. Tonight was obviously going to be a slow one, but you could live with that. " … Yeah, " you mindlessly agree with him in an almost breathless whisper. His lips amble across your chin, and you're uncertain which of the three directions he might go. He's done this before, but he's never had a set pattern.
A kiss on the lips is your hope, but continuing down the other side of your jaw would be just as nice. … And who would complain if he started trailing them down your throat, instead? You do your best not to move, though, so as not to influence his decision since you're really not sure what would be the best option at this point in time anyway.
He seems to decide he's stalled long enough, and presses a ginger kiss to your mouth. You try to lean up to return it, but he pulls back. Damnit. You frown at him, ignoring the yawn that's nagging at you, because you really need more time with Dave. You really, really do.
He gives an almost exhausted smile when you decide the scpwl isn't enough and throw in a quiet, disgruntled noise. " Alright. " He steals your lips with his own again, and the friction is nice when he tips his head — he's always had dry lips, especially with how often his tongue flickered out to run over and wet them — and you lean up into him. He allows it this time.
The kiss isn't nearly what you're hoping, since you have to turn your head away and yawn after a few short moments. This doesn't seem to bother him, though. He simply shifts to settle himself more comfortably off to your side, and presses chaste little kisses to your ear and jaw again.
The screen suddenly going black dims the room significantly, and you both quickly turn your gaze over to see that somewhere along the way, a zombie finally did find out that Chris existed, and partook in devouring him. You're … not really sure if this ruins the mood or not. Dave decides it doesn't, and snakes an arm around your waist, tugging you back against himself, and his free hand wanders off the side of the futon, fumbling around. You're about to ask him what he's doing when the TV goes back to whatever TV show was on, and you make the connections yourself that he'd just unplugged the console.
Twisting around a bit, you scoot yourself up against him, hopeful. When his hand retracts and flicks up your sunglasses, you're sure that this was going to be good. Your thoughts skirt along on wondering if he'll allow the same, but you decide the worst he can do is pull them back down; you reach out and push them up from his face, and through his short blonde hair, and meet his eyes.
The lack of complaints means he's okay with it. That's how Dave is. Then he leans in, and he's kissing you again, and this time it's a little less innocent. This time he's pressing with a more bruising force, and it's exciting; you lower your hands, and paw at his chest. Most of your experience comes from the hentais you've watched, and … frankly, it isn't much. Dave never seems to be really okay with going that far with you, so you're still unsure of yourself sometimes. Especially those times that he does let it get that far —
…
There's a hand.
There's a hand on your ass, and all you can process is that there are lips caressing yours, and a hand coddling your rump, and you couldn't like it any more than you do. You arch your back a bit awkwardly to press back into his touch, and curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt again. " … Mm. "
He's laughing against your lips. Enough that he has to pull away after a moment as he gives your butt a nice squeeze. " Eager, huh. " Another snort. You resist the urge to pout. If it's funny when he does it, it's only going to be funny when you do it. And you're trying to get him to stop laughing at you, not make him laugh at you more.
Instead, you just move to bury your face into his collarbone, and worm your arms up under his, hugging him closer to yourself without much response otherwise. The last thing you consciously recall is his hand sweeping up your back, and fingering through your hair, and the faintest mumble of ' goodnight, then, Dirk. '