FOUR TIMES SOLLUX WANTED TO KISS BRO AND ONE TIME HE FUCKED HIM I GUESS
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The first time, you are young and heartbroken and your roommate Dave Strider is pushing you into a shitty little dive bar to drink your troubles away. "Well, okay, drinking your troubles away is kind of shitty and never works, but at least you won't be in that little hole of despair you call a room and the music'll be good," he said on the way here. "Even for your shitty little thumpety-thump dance beat tastes, Captor."
"The DJ looks like a tool," you mutter as he urges you over to order drinks with him.
"He is a tool. Didja know Jack Kerouac was a real asshole? Still brilliant. Don't hate on art just 'cause the vehicle is shit, lispy."
"Fuck you and fuck Jack Kerouac," you mutter into a glass of something candy-apple red and electric blue that he pushes towards you. Dave knows your tastes. He also knows damn well that you had that lisp trained out of your palate years ago.
"No homo. Now shut up, the show's starting."
No one comes to look at the guy pulling the strings, you want to say. It's not a show, no one comes to a bar to watch someone, they come to just not be anyone for a while-
But the music is starting, so you hold your tongue before Dave elbows you in the side again and hisses at you to fucking respect. For all his cool, ironic, wannabe-rap-thug demeanor, Dave is serious about the music, dead serious. It's something you have in common, something that holds you together despite everything else that goes down. Dave wouldn't bring you here if he didn't think it was the best thing he could do for you right now, so despite how much of a tool this pointy-shades asshole looks like, he must be up to some serious snuff.
The DJ spins his tables and gets going, and at first you think Dave's lost his shit, because everything is discordant and ill-fitting, a mess of sound. But from there some sort of harmonic beauty begins to emerge, the longer you listen. The guy plays things even you've never heard of and things you'd never have thought would work together. And he pulls it off with some kind of strange style and class, a force of personality, owning his tables and owning the small, dingy little bar with it. You can't take your eyes off him.
"Told you so," Dave mutters once you've finished your second drink.
You don't even tell him to shut up. You're too busy watching the man running the tables to do that, or even think about what you're trying to run away from. And maybe, for tonight, you'll be okay.
--
The second time, you've finally secured a night job to help pay your rent and tuition (the part-time IT work you do at the library is okay, but you tell people they're fucking morons too often, and you never have enough hours), and maybe you've finally hit your lucky break because it's DJing. Sure, it's at another shitty bar full of shitty human hipsters who will just loooove how exotic it is to have a troll DJ, like they're really taking a walk on the wild side, but it's a job and it pays and it's music, and at least you don't have to talk to anyone.
You walk in for your first shift and there he is. For one delirious minute you think maybe he's been hired in your place, sorry kid, you're out of a job, and you're not sure you mind if it's him. But then he leaves off polishing glasses and walks over with a cocksure little smirk, giving you that nod that is the mark of the Universal Douchebag.
"Guess you're the new guy. The patrons call me whatever the fuck they think means 'get me a goddamn drink', but since you work here I guess you can call me Bro. Before you ask, it stands for Bro and nothing else, so get that through your candy corn, kid." He flicks a horn, and you shove him away with a scowl.
"Whatever. 'm Sol-"
"Captor. Yeah, boss told me. Just try not to make my ears bleed and we'll get along fine." He walks back behind the bar and pulls out a glass, starting to mix what you recognize as one of Terezi's favorites, a Mojito.
"Why aren't you doing my job? I know you can," you blurt out, and then wonder why you did. "I saw you DJ, once."
Bro just grins, pushing the glass across the bar to you. "You'll need that before the night's done. Listen, kid, unlike you, I don't mix work and play."
There's nothing you can really say to that. You take the drink and head back to your podium, and try not to stare at him for the rest of the night's jams.
He's right. You do need that drink.
--
The third time, you're at your apartment. Dave is slightly more dead to the world than you, (probably as a result from a party that probably involved eating chalk or sniffing things that don't belong in olfactory sponges, if you know Terezi) so it's up to you to answer the door, grumbling and squinting against the bright sun you're still not used to after all these adult years among humans.
"Hey, my little bro left some of his shitty R&B at my place when he came to visit on the weekend, and like fuck am I taking-" Bro gets a good look at you and for a moment you can swear his perpetual cocksure expression actually falters behind those shades. "Well, shit. So you're the roommate with shitty taste in music."
"His is shittier," you mumble, but yank the box of records out of Bro's hands anyway.
"Small world."
"Spare me the cliches."
"Must grind your gears that he's got a cushy radio job and you're stuck in a bar," Bro says idly, his face looking as if it never flickered. You wonder if you just imagined things.
"Yeah," you growl, "well, you can't exactly be fucking picky when you're a wild beast to humans and sub-species to most trolls. Whatever I think of Dave is my business, now fuck off."
Bro shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and just like that he's turned and gone. You close the door and attempt to sleep, and when that doesn't work you get up and write a particularly nasty virus to soothe your nerves.
Later, when you call Dave to task on not telling you that DJ Asshole was his goddamn brother, he just shrugs and goes back to his Beat poetry. "Thought it'd be obvious, asshole runs in the Strider genes. Does it even matter?"
You suppose it probably shouldn't, but for some reason, it does.
--
The fourth time, the bar's closed for the night and you're drooping over your reading for class tomorrow. Dave's supposed to pick you up, but he's probably nowhere to be found. Probably stayed late at his radio gig after his shift and got fucked up on pixie dust or something equally ludicrous, knowing him.
Bro shakes your shoulder. "Hey, kid. You know we have to get out of here, right?"
"M'ride's not here," you mutter. Taxis across town are expensive and you have to save up every cent you can.
"Let me guess. My little bro." When you nod, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Well, fuck. C'mon, I'll give you a lift."
You don't remember much of the conversation over the ride home, but you know that there is one, and that is a little bewildering considering how much Bro seems to be removed from everything around him, like he's something apart from troll or human both. You talk about yourself and he actually seems to listen, though maybe that's the lack of sleep - you just finished up a huge project, and you haven't slept in two days. He even asks about things, like he's actually fucking interested.
Then you're parked in front of the house and you don't know what to say. You stare at him for a few moments that stretch on into minutes, then mumble something like "thanks" and flee into your room and your troubled dreams.
--
The fifth time the bar's closed and Dave has been gone on some stupid thing for a few days, and you're crying over the stupidest fucking thing. Bro closes up for the both of you and takes you home, and for whatever reason he comes inside to keep you company and drink with you. Probably he feels sorry for you. You feel disgusting.
"I wanted to go with her," you mumble into the you-don't-remember-what-fucking-number drink, clutching the letter with your other hand. "I'd've done anything. But I was so fucking proud, I w-wanted to do it all myself - I wouldn't let her give me some special fucking advantage. I loved her so fucking much but she left and I couldn't follow and I hate it, I hate myself so much-"
Bro pushes you another drink and sits down beside you, downing a shot of his own. He hasn't been saying anything, just pouring drinks and occasionally touching your shoulder. You don't know what to do. Maybe he doesn't either.
"Fuck, I was doing so good at forgetting, you know? Just throwing myself into school and work and not thinking of anything else. And then she writes a letter about how she misses me, and she's the one who broke up with me and I'm still too fucking proud to be her pet lowblood, goddammit, I want to be with her and I don't have enough fucking sense to let that happen! It's been three fucking years and. I am the stupidest piece of shit ever."
Everything is getting hazy, and Bro fumbles through your music collection and gets something going, something nice and thumping and fast, fast enough to leave her behind maybe. Maybe not. You don't know.
What you do know is that you watch Bro hook your music into your machinery almost like he's caressing a lover, and you can't take your eyes off him. And it's such a terribly fucking bad idea but when he comes back you pull him to you and kiss his mouth with needy desperation because this time you're not going to fidget and fade and deny that you want to. His mouth is a lot softer than you thought it would be, and when he kisses you back after a pause of a few moments you feel delirious. You've forgotten yourself, and maybe he has too. Right now you need to forget, and he seems all right with that.
Things feel so blurry and warm, even though you've fumbled off each other's clothes and it's a cold night. You've ended up in his lap somehow, pushing your hips together and letting out breathy, needy sounds that are going to embarrass the shit out of you tomorrow. He barely lets out a sound, and if it weren't for his breathing being heavy enough for you to hear and his hard cock grinding up against yours you'd think maybe you were doing this wrong. Maybe you are doing it wrong, but if Bro thinks so he doesn't seem to care that you are.
You press your hands against the sides of his head (you don't know how you got his shades off, his eyes are deep red and some part of you thinks that's beautiful) and kiss him hard, open-mouthed, and then you are unable to resist gravity and desire, you descend and your open mouth is around his cock. That gets a groan out of him, when you run your split tongue over it and suck desperately, thump thump thump goes the music goes the rhythm of you-and-him. He fucks your mouth hard enough to make you gag a little and you're so caught up in delirium and beat that you don't give a shit, you want more.
He shoves you off and arranges the cushions you normally have to sit on by this low table so you can lie back on them, and then he's urging you down and you didn't see him get lube but his fingers are nice and slick when they press into you. You wonder if he does this a lot, going home and bedding someone from the bar. You wonder if he's fucked trolls before, if he knows about their ambiguous genitalia, because it certainly doesn't seem to give him pause. (If he didn't before, he sure as hell does now.) You wonder if you care, but you don't really think you do. It's kind of uncomfortable but then he finds this great spot in your nook, and once he figures out what's making you wiggle and moan and relax against the sheets he's practically massaging it, clumsy with drunkenness but still so good.
He slips on a condom at some point and starts fucking into you and it makes you whine, but he keeps fucking you and strokes your cock and you relax against him slowly. The music helps, it pounds into your ears as Bro pounds into your hips and you can be so mercifully a creature of sensation instead of intellect for now.
"God," you mumble, "oh f-fuck Bro-"
You probably should have warned him that trolls come literal buckets, in retrospect. He doesn't seem to care much, though, because he keeps going until his head's nuzzling your shoulder and he's muffling a groan against your grey skin and his hips finally, finally still.
(Everything's even hazier after that. You guess he cleaned up, and you're pretty sure he turned off the music, but fuck if you know how the two of you ended up in your bed after that.)
You fall into sleep and for once, you do not dream.
--
Your name is Sollux Captor, and last night you fucked your roommate's older brother in a drunken haze where that seemed like it might actually be a good idea. You have remembered this remarkably quickly because you just woke up to Dave calmly snapping pictures of you and him snoozing in your bed.
"Gotta get blackmail on that douchebag somehow," he says before you can speak. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for class soon?" And he walks out as if that is that. You know that he is quietly freaking out and not sure what to make of it all, but he's too cool to look like he's freaked out by the fact that his male troll roommate just had sex with his jerkass older brother.
You turn to regard said jerkass older brother and let out a sigh. As usual, you are a champion at fucking things up spectacularly. The question is, now what?
The first time, you are young and heartbroken and your roommate Dave Strider is pushing you into a shitty little dive bar to drink your troubles away. "Well, okay, drinking your troubles away is kind of shitty and never works, but at least you won't be in that little hole of despair you call a room and the music'll be good," he said on the way here. "Even for your shitty little thumpety-thump dance beat tastes, Captor."
"The DJ looks like a tool," you mutter as he urges you over to order drinks with him.
"He is a tool. Didja know Jack Kerouac was a real asshole? Still brilliant. Don't hate on art just 'cause the vehicle is shit, lispy."
"Fuck you and fuck Jack Kerouac," you mutter into a glass of something candy-apple red and electric blue that he pushes towards you. Dave knows your tastes. He also knows damn well that you had that lisp trained out of your palate years ago.
"No homo. Now shut up, the show's starting."
No one comes to look at the guy pulling the strings, you want to say. It's not a show, no one comes to a bar to watch someone, they come to just not be anyone for a while-
But the music is starting, so you hold your tongue before Dave elbows you in the side again and hisses at you to fucking respect. For all his cool, ironic, wannabe-rap-thug demeanor, Dave is serious about the music, dead serious. It's something you have in common, something that holds you together despite everything else that goes down. Dave wouldn't bring you here if he didn't think it was the best thing he could do for you right now, so despite how much of a tool this pointy-shades asshole looks like, he must be up to some serious snuff.
The DJ spins his tables and gets going, and at first you think Dave's lost his shit, because everything is discordant and ill-fitting, a mess of sound. But from there some sort of harmonic beauty begins to emerge, the longer you listen. The guy plays things even you've never heard of and things you'd never have thought would work together. And he pulls it off with some kind of strange style and class, a force of personality, owning his tables and owning the small, dingy little bar with it. You can't take your eyes off him.
"Told you so," Dave mutters once you've finished your second drink.
You don't even tell him to shut up. You're too busy watching the man running the tables to do that, or even think about what you're trying to run away from. And maybe, for tonight, you'll be okay.
--
The second time, you've finally secured a night job to help pay your rent and tuition (the part-time IT work you do at the library is okay, but you tell people they're fucking morons too often, and you never have enough hours), and maybe you've finally hit your lucky break because it's DJing. Sure, it's at another shitty bar full of shitty human hipsters who will just loooove how exotic it is to have a troll DJ, like they're really taking a walk on the wild side, but it's a job and it pays and it's music, and at least you don't have to talk to anyone.
You walk in for your first shift and there he is. For one delirious minute you think maybe he's been hired in your place, sorry kid, you're out of a job, and you're not sure you mind if it's him. But then he leaves off polishing glasses and walks over with a cocksure little smirk, giving you that nod that is the mark of the Universal Douchebag.
"Guess you're the new guy. The patrons call me whatever the fuck they think means 'get me a goddamn drink', but since you work here I guess you can call me Bro. Before you ask, it stands for Bro and nothing else, so get that through your candy corn, kid." He flicks a horn, and you shove him away with a scowl.
"Whatever. 'm Sol-"
"Captor. Yeah, boss told me. Just try not to make my ears bleed and we'll get along fine." He walks back behind the bar and pulls out a glass, starting to mix what you recognize as one of Terezi's favorites, a Mojito.
"Why aren't you doing my job? I know you can," you blurt out, and then wonder why you did. "I saw you DJ, once."
Bro just grins, pushing the glass across the bar to you. "You'll need that before the night's done. Listen, kid, unlike you, I don't mix work and play."
There's nothing you can really say to that. You take the drink and head back to your podium, and try not to stare at him for the rest of the night's jams.
He's right. You do need that drink.
--
The third time, you're at your apartment. Dave is slightly more dead to the world than you, (probably as a result from a party that probably involved eating chalk or sniffing things that don't belong in olfactory sponges, if you know Terezi) so it's up to you to answer the door, grumbling and squinting against the bright sun you're still not used to after all these adult years among humans.
"Hey, my little bro left some of his shitty R&B at my place when he came to visit on the weekend, and like fuck am I taking-" Bro gets a good look at you and for a moment you can swear his perpetual cocksure expression actually falters behind those shades. "Well, shit. So you're the roommate with shitty taste in music."
"His is shittier," you mumble, but yank the box of records out of Bro's hands anyway.
"Small world."
"Spare me the cliches."
"Must grind your gears that he's got a cushy radio job and you're stuck in a bar," Bro says idly, his face looking as if it never flickered. You wonder if you just imagined things.
"Yeah," you growl, "well, you can't exactly be fucking picky when you're a wild beast to humans and sub-species to most trolls. Whatever I think of Dave is my business, now fuck off."
Bro shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and just like that he's turned and gone. You close the door and attempt to sleep, and when that doesn't work you get up and write a particularly nasty virus to soothe your nerves.
Later, when you call Dave to task on not telling you that DJ Asshole was his goddamn brother, he just shrugs and goes back to his Beat poetry. "Thought it'd be obvious, asshole runs in the Strider genes. Does it even matter?"
You suppose it probably shouldn't, but for some reason, it does.
--
The fourth time, the bar's closed for the night and you're drooping over your reading for class tomorrow. Dave's supposed to pick you up, but he's probably nowhere to be found. Probably stayed late at his radio gig after his shift and got fucked up on pixie dust or something equally ludicrous, knowing him.
Bro shakes your shoulder. "Hey, kid. You know we have to get out of here, right?"
"M'ride's not here," you mutter. Taxis across town are expensive and you have to save up every cent you can.
"Let me guess. My little bro." When you nod, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Well, fuck. C'mon, I'll give you a lift."
You don't remember much of the conversation over the ride home, but you know that there is one, and that is a little bewildering considering how much Bro seems to be removed from everything around him, like he's something apart from troll or human both. You talk about yourself and he actually seems to listen, though maybe that's the lack of sleep - you just finished up a huge project, and you haven't slept in two days. He even asks about things, like he's actually fucking interested.
Then you're parked in front of the house and you don't know what to say. You stare at him for a few moments that stretch on into minutes, then mumble something like "thanks" and flee into your room and your troubled dreams.
--
The fifth time the bar's closed and Dave has been gone on some stupid thing for a few days, and you're crying over the stupidest fucking thing. Bro closes up for the both of you and takes you home, and for whatever reason he comes inside to keep you company and drink with you. Probably he feels sorry for you. You feel disgusting.
"I wanted to go with her," you mumble into the you-don't-remember-what-fucking-number drink, clutching the letter with your other hand. "I'd've done anything. But I was so fucking proud, I w-wanted to do it all myself - I wouldn't let her give me some special fucking advantage. I loved her so fucking much but she left and I couldn't follow and I hate it, I hate myself so much-"
Bro pushes you another drink and sits down beside you, downing a shot of his own. He hasn't been saying anything, just pouring drinks and occasionally touching your shoulder. You don't know what to do. Maybe he doesn't either.
"Fuck, I was doing so good at forgetting, you know? Just throwing myself into school and work and not thinking of anything else. And then she writes a letter about how she misses me, and she's the one who broke up with me and I'm still too fucking proud to be her pet lowblood, goddammit, I want to be with her and I don't have enough fucking sense to let that happen! It's been three fucking years and. I am the stupidest piece of shit ever."
Everything is getting hazy, and Bro fumbles through your music collection and gets something going, something nice and thumping and fast, fast enough to leave her behind maybe. Maybe not. You don't know.
What you do know is that you watch Bro hook your music into your machinery almost like he's caressing a lover, and you can't take your eyes off him. And it's such a terribly fucking bad idea but when he comes back you pull him to you and kiss his mouth with needy desperation because this time you're not going to fidget and fade and deny that you want to. His mouth is a lot softer than you thought it would be, and when he kisses you back after a pause of a few moments you feel delirious. You've forgotten yourself, and maybe he has too. Right now you need to forget, and he seems all right with that.
Things feel so blurry and warm, even though you've fumbled off each other's clothes and it's a cold night. You've ended up in his lap somehow, pushing your hips together and letting out breathy, needy sounds that are going to embarrass the shit out of you tomorrow. He barely lets out a sound, and if it weren't for his breathing being heavy enough for you to hear and his hard cock grinding up against yours you'd think maybe you were doing this wrong. Maybe you are doing it wrong, but if Bro thinks so he doesn't seem to care that you are.
You press your hands against the sides of his head (you don't know how you got his shades off, his eyes are deep red and some part of you thinks that's beautiful) and kiss him hard, open-mouthed, and then you are unable to resist gravity and desire, you descend and your open mouth is around his cock. That gets a groan out of him, when you run your split tongue over it and suck desperately, thump thump thump goes the music goes the rhythm of you-and-him. He fucks your mouth hard enough to make you gag a little and you're so caught up in delirium and beat that you don't give a shit, you want more.
He shoves you off and arranges the cushions you normally have to sit on by this low table so you can lie back on them, and then he's urging you down and you didn't see him get lube but his fingers are nice and slick when they press into you. You wonder if he does this a lot, going home and bedding someone from the bar. You wonder if he's fucked trolls before, if he knows about their ambiguous genitalia, because it certainly doesn't seem to give him pause. (If he didn't before, he sure as hell does now.) You wonder if you care, but you don't really think you do. It's kind of uncomfortable but then he finds this great spot in your nook, and once he figures out what's making you wiggle and moan and relax against the sheets he's practically massaging it, clumsy with drunkenness but still so good.
He slips on a condom at some point and starts fucking into you and it makes you whine, but he keeps fucking you and strokes your cock and you relax against him slowly. The music helps, it pounds into your ears as Bro pounds into your hips and you can be so mercifully a creature of sensation instead of intellect for now.
"God," you mumble, "oh f-fuck Bro-"
You probably should have warned him that trolls come literal buckets, in retrospect. He doesn't seem to care much, though, because he keeps going until his head's nuzzling your shoulder and he's muffling a groan against your grey skin and his hips finally, finally still.
(Everything's even hazier after that. You guess he cleaned up, and you're pretty sure he turned off the music, but fuck if you know how the two of you ended up in your bed after that.)
You fall into sleep and for once, you do not dream.
--
Your name is Sollux Captor, and last night you fucked your roommate's older brother in a drunken haze where that seemed like it might actually be a good idea. You have remembered this remarkably quickly because you just woke up to Dave calmly snapping pictures of you and him snoozing in your bed.
"Gotta get blackmail on that douchebag somehow," he says before you can speak. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for class soon?" And he walks out as if that is that. You know that he is quietly freaking out and not sure what to make of it all, but he's too cool to look like he's freaked out by the fact that his male troll roommate just had sex with his jerkass older brother.
You turn to regard said jerkass older brother and let out a sigh. As usual, you are a champion at fucking things up spectacularly. The question is, now what?