Advance or advance?

A resting place for a collection of headcanons, ficlets, drabbles, and the occasional doodle.

[apartmentofstriders]

That Probably Wasn't Supposed To Happen.

That Probably Wasn't Supposed To Happen.

Word count: 1034

Rating: NSFW

Players: Dirk/Dave.

Cameos: Bro.

--

Because the first time that Dirk touched you, the first time he kissed you, was on the afternoon of yours and his shared birthday- when you were both newly thirteen and sixteen respectively, and your hands were balled into tight fists denting the futon's fabric, knots tied in your stomach so tight you could barely breathe.

Your older brother was on his knees in front of you, hands fumbling with the clasp of your belt, concentrating on trying to undo it and yank down your pants- and you couldn't help but shakily mumble out something he only half catches. You actually had to snap your fingers to get his attention, something you hadn't had to do in a while- and while you're sort of relishing the fact that you're now thirteen, (and officially a teenager, at least in the rules that are set out in school and everyone knows are totally legit) and the fact that Dirk's paying special attention to you, you sort of need to talk to him for a moment. 

"Hey, uhm, timeout- Dirk?"

"Hm?" He gives you a noncommittal noise, fingers pausing midway through, looking up at you. You can't help but think that maybe this is sort of a little bit screwed up, because although you aren't a blushing daisy shying away at the slightest mention of, uhrm, explicit stuff, to put it politely, and you have had to sit through the whole sexual education rambles in health class that were more than awkward- it's kind of fucked up seeming, because wasn't Dirk your brother?

You must have said the last part out loud, talking without thinking again because he looks sort of hurt for a second, before shuffling to lean up and press a reassuring kiss against your mouth, lips clumsy and chapped. You make a mental note to remind him to start carrying chapstick in his pocket, or to slip a tube into them when you give him a hug in the morning before he has to dash off for the school bus. It'll probably be the latter, because Dirk means to listen, he tries to- but he's just too forgetful, other things pushing haphazardly in his mind. 

"'s not that weird Dave, you know the kind of shit that Bro's into, and anyways-" here, he pauses to messily entwine your fingers with his, laced neatly together. It's true, Bro is into some freaky ass shit. "It's okay. It's just us, remember? Nothing bad's going to happen, just wanna try a thing with you, see if it makes you feel good Dave, you know that. Sure it will." and he pauses to press a kiss against your forehead. "Just once, just once if you don't want to do it again. But can we try it? Think of it as a mutual birthday present?" He grinned at the end, showing a rare flash of teeth.

You can't let him down, and so you give a little prissy sigh for show, and nod, smooching him back as tactfully as you can. "Alright, but, just once, okay? Or, uh, I mean, I guess we'll see at the end. Maybe. But okay." He relaxes as you look distinctly more sure of yourself- and how could you not be, because Dirk looks pretty goddamn elated and that's a nice emotion to see on him, instead of a pinched, worried look because of exams or a dreamy lost in the ether and drifting on whatever mathematical exploits had caught his attention this time around gaze.

He settles back on his knees, and you can't help but blurt out something that seems distinctly childish and somehow fitting because you're still bridging that fragile gap between childhood and adolescence, and your petite frames shows that evidently- sometimes too much so for your comfort. 

"I love you." 

Dirk's lips quirk crookedly in that sideways smile again, and although its fucking awesome to see him actually genuinely pleased, and not catch just a glimpse of a sardonic smirk- as well as when he leans back up to whisper it back and kiss you deeply; you're distracted by something that sounds distinctly metallic, and you wonder if maybe one of Dirk's robots has fallen over or something, because sometimes that happens, the hunks of metal and delicate wiring losing its ground. In which case, he probably ought to go check on that or something, who knows which of his never ending projects it was- could be something dire. 

Although, it would be cool of him to just stay here too, because this is nice like this, his hands moving up to cradle your hips and mouth lazily moving against yours. He tastes like burnt popcorn and that orange swill that he drinks all of the time, sometimes chugging it from the litre bottles when it's really been awhile since his last fix, or he's in the middle of working hardcore on a project- because that seems to run in the family for some reason, having the innate ability to zoom in on something and forget about the passage of time and any other outside stimuli entirely, much to the detriment of some. The popcorn is a little unpleasant with the sugary sweet-tartness, but it could be worse.

Your answer to the pondered statement before and the theory that's slamdunked into the basketball next is disproved by the rasp and jangle that turns out to be the house keys sliding into the lock, and the click actually the noise as it accepts the teeth of the key- door swinging open to let Bro have a front view seat of you and Dirk.

You almost shove Dirk to the ground with how hard you push him off of you, eyes wide behind your shades, and he looks bewildered before he snaps his head around to stare in the direction you're desperately half miming towards, and promptly has his mouth drop open and not close. You'd be half tempted to tell him to close it before the flies crawl into him, (something that would be sure to gross him out) if it weren't for the fact that one, you're pretty goddamned sure you're not supposed to be macking on your brother, and two, that Bro is probably the last person you would request to walk in on you two during said moment.

You two are so dead.

[apartmentofstriders]

SCENT; Glitter Paint.

SCENT; Glitter Paint.

Word Count; 455 

Rating; SFW

Players; Dave and Dee.

Cameo; Dirk and Bro.

--

Your name is David (Dee) Strider, and you are the best goddamn babysitter in the history of babysitters.

Bro had needed to go out and meet a client about a particularly complicated order, and had taken Dirk with him, since the older child also had a dentist appointment to get to, leaving five year old Dave in your incredibly capable hands.

You’d actually had the  chance to be home for a few weeks, since the buzz from your first movie was finally starting to die down enough so that you could get to starting work on the second one without constantly being hounded and needed for interviews, appearances, or anything else your (sweetheart) agent cooked up to keep you from being just another fifteen minutes of fame. 

At first you’d managed to keep Dave relatively happy with the Spongebob marathon that Nickelodeon was running, and the Nintendo 64 set up on the living room floor. However, as another hour passed, Dave began to get antsy again, kicking his small feet on the couch and grousing that he was tired of watching Spongebob and playing Mario, he wanted to do something fun Dee! 

At which point you’d had the most spectacular idea of all spectacular ideas, packed David in his little hoodie, and headed out to Walmart to construct the very first Box.

Now, the Box wasn’t actually just a box in itself, it was an ingenious creation guaranteed to keep any one of the smidge Striders more or less occupied for a while. It was composed of coloring books, tiny easels, crayons in every color, colored pencils, markers, and watercolored paints. Basically anything a kid with a hyped up imagination would love to get their hands on. You were on your way out of the craft aisle when Dave suddenly stopped, chubby hands gripping the hem of your dress shirt and giving a soft pull. 

"Dee!"

"Mm? What’s up shortstack?"

Dave pointed to a shelf which was brightly advertising Glitter Paint! in an array of colors, and Dee was pretty sure Dave had never looked quite so enraptured in his tiny life.

"Dee, please?"

Oh christ. Bro was probably going to chew you out for spending so much on paint with glitter later, but how could you say no to that face? Although as it turns out, it wasn’t the money spent on the Glitter Paint that Bro was angry about, more the variety of ways that it had been smeared over the walls when he came home and awoke you from where you’d passed out on the couch from playtime exhaustion.

Thankfully, he decided the glittery mustache decorating your upper lip, courtesy of Dave, was punishment enough.

You were smelling that shit for weeks.

[apartmentofstriders]

SCENT; Charred, Melted Plastic.

SCENT; Charred, Melted Plastic.

Word count: 387

Rating: SFW

Players: Dee and Dave.

Cameos: Dirk, Bro.

--

There are certain kinds of plates in the world that are booby trapped with the obvious intention of ruining the lives of their owners.

These plates are known as non-microwave safe.

"Dee, I’m gonna throw the pizza rolls in the microwave instead of the oven, I don’t feel like waiting."

"Go for it. I’m starving."

It was a lazy Saturday morning in the Strider household, and while Bro and Dirk were tinkering with one of Dirk’s creations in his room, Dee and Dave were lounging around the couch, generally being lazy as sin and not giving a single fuck about it.

The resounding beeps of the microwave echoed in the apartment, and within moments, Dave had thrown himself across Dee once more, earning a yelp and nearly taking out the older Strider’s coffee in the process.

(“Watch it, if I had gotten coffee on this shirt-!”)

(“Well your shirt is stupid anyway, I hope you didn’t pay hundreds of dollars for that thing.”)

(“Do you have any idea what this is this is an advance on the new fashion line you little-“)

Dee and Dave were rolling across the couch, coffee long since abandoned on the table and TV droning on Toddlers in Tiaras in the background.

"Dave I swear holy shit-!"

"Wow Dee, you’re getting old, step it up-"

"YOU LITTLE FUCK-"

"Wait, ow, ow, dude, wait, do you smell something?” Dee paused, pushing himself off of Dave and sniffing experimentally. Sure enough, the smell of burnt plastic was wafting through the apartment. Eugh. Oh ew.

“Where is that coming from?”

"I don’t know."

"Here just, park it here, I’ll go look."

Dave, true to his nature, ignored the order and trotted along after Dee as he made his way into the kitchen, where the microwave sat innocuously, and reeking of melted plastic. And sure enough, when Dee opened it up and pulled out the plate, it was charred, flaked, and most of all, melted.

"Dude."

"I thought it was microwave safe!"

”Dude.”

"Come on, it’s not even that bad-"

"Dave you totally killed these pizza rolls.”  Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep!

"…Dee? Is that the smoke detector."

"That would indeed be the smoke detector, which means we have approximately thirty seconds before-" "Dee, Dave? What the fuck are you two doing out there-"

"IT WAS DAVE."

"OH GEE THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT DEE."

[apartmentofstriders]

Late Night Visits.

Late Night Visits.

Word Count: 1328

Rating: NSFW

Players: Hal/Dave.

Prompt: "Something sort of creepy with Hal and Dave? Like Hal being a weird as fuck creeper and Dirk being aware of it but not really stepping in even though it's sort of really weird his brother is fucking an android but whatever. Maybe he gets off on it?" --Anon

Even when you know very well that he's acting, when every move on his part is carefully thought over and shuffled into slides like cards to draw from his hand, every nuance and faucet of his charade pinned down to appeal to your sense of trust- you can't help but believe that Hal really does just want a friend. It's absurd, and you know that it would send Dirk recoiling in horror and locking you into your closet until you got half a shred of wits into your skull, because he's an experiment, and nothing more; but its how things stand. Says that it's crazy because Hal just wants to know everything and anything, from intimacy to murder, and that you shouldn't indulge him in that- that he can't be trusted.

(Dirk knows though, the things that happen at night when its just the two of you and he says that it fucks him up, that its fucked up, but you can't help but notice that it doesn't stop him from watching the recordings Hal makes when he visits. Doesn't stop him from hitting replay and rewinding and it sure as hell doesn't stop the soft noises that leak from behind a hand pressed against his mouth, doesn't stop him from crying out in the middle of night- and not from horrorterrors.)

So when Hal comes to your bedroom, foot steps light and hesitant, face contorted with worry and streaked with tears, you let him in. Because you sort of, in a way, trust him. You don't shoo him off, or roll your eyes theatrically and tell him to fuck off like your older brother would, or ignore him- you make a half assed welcoming gesture with your hand, because he's going to come in anyways, and he stumbles in accordingly. Hal's clutching a worn down plush toy to his chest, a bunny, that clearly has had some darning happen along the ears and a scrap of stolen orange ribbon knotted under its neck clumsily, and its almost endearing. You can faintly recall that he named it Miffles, after Miffy from that television show that used to air ages ago, and it's face is pressed against Hal's obscured chest plate- one of Dirk's t-shirts  stolen and worn in place of seeing synthetic skin over metal plates. A pair of your old boxers are slung along his hips, sliding down, worn elastic giving up on their job.

When Hal crawls into bed with you, still sniffling, (you wonder at the fact that Dirk built him a body with the ability to cry, and you're not entirely sure why- but probably for the same reason Hal's able to eat, because he requested it, to feel more human, despite denying it vehemently,) you just close your eyes and let it happen. The bed dips slightly underneath his weight. Miffles is placed lovingly on top of the pillow, just squeezed into the gap between wall and the top of your pillow.

He takes the lack of a reaction as permission to curl up against you, the blankets having been cautiously tugged back over the both of you, lashes flickering downwards to shield bright orange eyes as he makes himself comfortable. You can hear the faint whirring noise of his cooling fans, and its strange, not hearing him breathe- but then, he doesn't really need to. Hal's an android.

He chances a skittish look up at you, cherry stained lips plush and pouty, cheeks still tear stained, and you can't help but bring up your sleeve to gently wipe them away, his eyes closing at the touch. He doesn't say anything, because you know he dislikes his voice box, samples taken from Dirk himself, and they're flat, as monotone and shapeless as a skyline scraped of clouds and stripped of color, left to the smog of city works to mask it in a dreary puff, but instead subtly presses against you. Hal's spent hours on hours of studying up on the gestures that humans make, on body language as well as verbal, and the way their hands accompany inflections in their voice, so when he brings up one of his hands to gently press the palm of your hand to the curve of his cheek when you try to pull back, you know full well he's entirely aware of what he's doing.

That he knows entirely too well that because he looks even younger than you do, (which is saying a lot, what with your baby face) you sort of see him as some kind of twisted younger brother, and that you have a soft spot for him that not even Dirk has. Dirk sees him as a nuisance, an interesting one maybe, but still a bother- Dee, skittish of the whole sentience in a robotic body concept, and Bro, sort of uncaring, apathetic. But Hal knows that he has a weakness he can exploit inside of you, and damn it, you know he knows that you know, but that doesn't stop you from pressing a ridiculous kiss to his forehead, or the faint, self satisfied smile on his lips. Because you're playing along to his plan, and he knows that you know that he knows you won't stop him, because you never do.

You don't stop him when he  moves to possessively hold you, (after turning his face and kissing the palm of your hand,) legs meshed in a tangle with yours underneath wound up sheets, and you don't stop him when he nestles against the crook where your neck meets your shoulder, artificial breath fanning out. He must have registered the odd look flitting across your face earlier, and adjusted accordingly.

He laughs, softly, and its odd, to hear your brother's chuckle remashed up and given to Hal, because it's so utterly and completely Dirk, but you have the uneasy feeling that Hal knows that there are the lightest fingerings of ice crawling along your spine like cold fingers on a winter morning; the sensation of wrongness. Hal is almost omniscient after all, and when he presses a cold kiss to your shoulder, you only barely repress a shudder.

His hands sneak underneath your shirt, not as cold as his mouth, but still chilly, goosebumps and shivers involuntarily taking place- and you could swear as he pushes his hips against yours more firmly, laughing as you arch against him, squirming because it's cold. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs digging into the bone, content to rest there, mouth moving upwards in a row of soft kisses, interspersed with fluttering butterfly kisses, before he moves a hand up from its resting place and tilts your head up with his finger, insistently pressing his mouth against yours. 

Whether or not you respond makes no difference to Hal, who quickly commences getting his 'mack' on, optics strangely open as they record and capture new 'data' for him to puzzle over and study later on in his own time, and share with Dirk when he's not in the dimly lit bedroom with you, on top of you really, grinding and mimicking soft panting noises as he sloppily kisses you.

He doesn't really care whether or not you're even really okay with the whole thing, and he doesn't mind in the slightest if all you do is lie down there and let him just get it over with, because its Hal and really, he has no interest in intimacy, he just is carrying out a little task he puts in his sick little database in attempts to fluster Dirk, and you couldn't stop him even if you tried, (thanks a lot Dirk, installing Hal with enough robotic strength to rip a human to pieces, limb by limb,) and so it's probably really just best to lie down and wait until its over. It'll be over, everything always has an end.

You close your eyes, and resign yourself to the fact that its going to be a long night.

[apartmentofstriders]

SCENT; NOVELTY CANDLES.

SCENT; NOVELTY CANDLES.

Word count: 759

Rating: SFW

Players: Dirk/Dave. 

Cameos: Dee/Bro.

--

It’d been late at night, and you weren’t sure how you had exactly gotten yourself into this mess.

You were pretty sure that somewhere along the line it had started off with Dirk’s suggestion. Most of your shenanigans that you felt unsure off started with a simple sentence from your older brother, a hint of teasing in his voice and a little bit of mockery to spur you into action, even if it was only to spite him. That was probably how this time around had occurred as well, if you thought about it- it almost always was, and the laws of probability were probably still the same as ever. The universe didn’t change that easily, after all. Okay, scratch that, maybe it actually did- but that wasn’t really the point of this conversation at the moment.

Not that you were having a conversation at the moment, not in the strictest sense of the word, you were just kind of, well, mumbling to yourself under your breath about how this had to be a bad idea and how you couldn’t even believe you had let Dirk talk you into something as stupid as this. The whole notion of you two even being idiotic to pull a stunt like this was laughable, as was the idea of you guys even addressing the flitting idea for more than a second, because seriously, how stupid was this? Really fucking stupid, was what.

Perhaps you ought to clarify. 

The two of you were standing outside of Dee’s room, hands shaking, (at least on your part, clutching tightly around a flashlight that was half dead and emitting the faintest circles of light possible, little rays that were barely able to illuminate your fingers in front of your face, let alone cut through the gloom of the hallway- your nightlights gone, the ones that you had placed as a glowing mushroom trail through the forest sort of like, like in those fairy tales Dirk would read you when Bro was out of the house and wasn’t around to tuck you in. (Dee wouldn’t consent to reading you a story, he said it was too childish and anyways, you were old enough- so Dirk was the closest thing, even if you would have really preferred Bro, though you kept that bit to yourself, because really, it would have come off as ungrateful. Wasn’t your fault you just clicked better with Bro though.)

Maybe Dee had taken them out again, you weren’t quite sure on anything at the moment. 

Dirk was whispering furtively for you to ‘Shut up, please,’ what little of his face you could see drawn in an annoyed grimace meant for you, and you couldn’t help but stick your tongue out at him. He looked like he would have slapped you across the face, (‘This is a serious mission Dave,’) except for the fact that it probably would have given away the fact the two of you were hiding behind Dee’s door and trying to get a peek into what on earth the two older guardians were doing. They sometimes had meetings in the dead of the night, and judging from all the scuffley squeaky noises the two of you could hear through the walls, it had to be something worth knowing. Maybe it was something like a mouse circus, training mice to do back flips and balancing on beach balls and wiggling their little mice booties on trampolines and pulling handstands like in Coraline. Or maybe it was a super secret big mega awesome surprise for the both of you- usually when it got around to the time of year when you guys got to have presents, your brothers went all out. 

Of course, when Dirk had finally cracked open the door and peeked through cautiously, having shoved you to the ground to stare upwards awkwardly through the gap between the door and the floor, you two both saw something that you probably never should have. Something that sent Dirk’s jaw dropping down and your eyes going wide, a knuckle shoved into your mouth to muffled any horrified noises.

(The smug bastards probably had already known from the scuffles that the two of you had been trying to spy on them, and really, you had hoped that was the case- because that would have some frightening connotations if they hadn’t been pretending to summon the dead just to freak you guys out on purpose. It had worked of course, sending the two of you muffling squeaks of horror and shoving and pushing each other down the hallway over and over to dash back to your rooms.)

Alas, the pains of having a director for a brother- he knew his fair share of horror movie special effects tips.

[apartmentofstriders]

SCENT; RAIN.

SCENT; RAIN.

Word count: 1156

Rating: SFW

Players: Dee/Dave.

--

Your head jerks backwards, it smells strongly of something metallic and at the same time fresh, invoking the feel of slippery grass underfoot and damp fingertips trying to wring out some of the water from your sweater inside the apartment’s foyer. Your shoulders suddenly feel as if something heavy is resting on top of them, and the oddest feeling that the air crackles with the static that you’ve always known would foretell a storm, starts humming and buzzing along your skin. When you close your eyes, you can hear a faint pitter patter, like paper children applauding with rattling beads bouncing and plinking off your shades as, even though when you shove a hand up to your sunglasses, there’s nothing on their surface. 

You sit down with a bump, the bottle somehow still firmly grasped in your left hand, pictures flooding into your mind with an awkward jump to them- like grainy black and white effects overlaid on top of your recordings when you wanted to make them a little more old timey. There’s pauses and minute scratches, as if the slides on the film feel had been maltreated and thrown in haphazardly, jerkily hopping from one to the other with no thought for smoothing out the transitions. 

It had been a Friday night, and it had been pouring buckets outside- raining cats and dogs, as someone you had overhead had mentioned on the street, after you had ran past them pell mell, soaked to the bone because of a hilariously badly timed storm. It wasn’t often you got a deluge of icy water soaking you for a constant twenty minutes, but hey- when it rains, it pours. You had been settled on the couch for a hour or so, kicking your feet idly as you tried to flip through the channels in hopes of finding something decent to watch- you’d already glanced boredly over your books, and you weren’t in a creative move; which had left video games, and you had already beat Dee’s high score, so there wasn’t much left to do. 

That was, until he came crashing out of his room. Dee was clearly excited, clutching what you assumed was a record in a paper sleeve in both hands, hair a mess and suit’s cuffs rolled up to around his elbows, and from the wide eyed look on his face and jittery legs- recently having finished off his tenth cup of coffee, and probably a good chunk of the script he’d been having trouble on for the last week. All the layers of subtlety and irony had to be a little hard to manage, splicing together in horrifying combinations if he wasn’t careful. It didn’t help much that he was in the middle of a major writer’s block, which absolutely had made him unbearable to be around for the past few days.

Without even sparing a glance at you on the couch, he’d started playing it, setting it onto the supposedly hispter-chic-vintage-trendy gramophone that Bro had left in the corner of the room and setting the clunky thing in motion. It wasn’t a tune you were familiar with, but then- the ones that Dee brought home rarely were. Something about it was reminiscent of ballroom dancing though, slow and wistful- the metronome that always clicked time away in even portions on top of the fridge wasn’t helping matters either. It was only when he was satisfied that it was set up properly did he look your way again, a maniac grin in place of his missing shades, and that was probably the most unnerving part of it. You hadn’t seen Dee get this way since the night he had literally drank the whole two pots of coffee straight out of them, at four am, because he had been on a breakthrough with his writing and sleep be damned. 

So when he suddenly scooped you up, dragged you over to the empty space that wasn’t cluttered by chairs and knickknacks and promptly dropped you onto the floor again, it was to be expected you were more than a little terrified. Your brother was hard to predict normally, much less when he was hyped up on enough caffeine to supply eight Starbucks for a whole week straight. He just laughed at your reaction though, before helping you up, and promptly looking you right in the eyes, and throwing you into a crash course refreshed on waltzing, even though you were quite sure that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t classify the crazed flailing about on your part as ‘dancing.’ It was mostly because although Dee knew the moves off by heart, he kept rushing through them and then slowing down, leaving you stumbling and gripping him around his waist to stop from falling down into the tangle of carpet and his lanky as hell legs, before amping the pace right back up and almost knocking your head on top of the lamp that you swore had a hard on for attempting to murder you.

The frenzy of excitement was a little contagious, even though you were still afraid he was going to straight up murder you by accident, maybe sort of throwing you out of the window in some mishap that only Dee on coffee could manage, and after a while he slid into a rhythm that was predictable enough for you not to just cling and hope to god that he didn’t accidentally throw you into the fridge full of shitty swords. The record still played, mournful and going at the speed of mostly frozen molasses, the speed of Dee’s dancing a bright contrast. 

Rain poured down outside, lending a dreary atmosphere, the clattering of teardrops drumming on top of the roof vibrating through your walls and windows, the smell of it leaking into the apartment- fresh and metallic all at once, probably from sliding all over the metal shingles and roofing, sending a peculiar shiver up your spine. You threw yourself as equally into the moment though, matching Dee’s movements best you could, and somewhere along the lines, you had forgotten to realize you were laughing- maybe even enjoying yourself, even if Dee was sort of demented. 

It wasn’t every day a guy got to dance to the point he was almost tripping over his feet and falling down onto the carpet, after all.