Work Text:
Your name is Dave Strider, and after five straight hours of mixing, you have, at last, finished your final project for music composition. You are so mentally exhausted after all that work that you try to swipe into your dorm room three times before realizing that you are two doors down from your actual room--the one you share with your best bro and boyfriend, John Egbert. You quickly relocate to swipe into your own room before one of the occupants of the room you just accidentally attempted to break into can rouse himself from a finals-and-energy-drink induced hibernation to answer the door.
You enter your and Egbert's room to find him talking hurriedly into his headset, nose nearly touching the computer screen as he taps his mouse and keys frantically. After kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the floor by your desk, you decide to implement the plan Egbert asked you to devise. Walking over to stand behind him, you yank the headset off his head and say, quite loudly and directly into his ear, "Earth to Space Cadet Egbert on planet fucking Endor or whatever the fuck this game is about. You've been playing this game for twenty hours straight. Time to stop and get shit done, dude."
"Jeez, Dave, ow!" John shoves you and rubs his vocally assaulted ear before snatching back his headphones. "You could have just said, 'You have a paper to finish!'"
"Like you would have responded to that. It takes a natural disaster to get you to look away from the screen since you got that game."
"Ok, you're probably right, but some warning might have been nice! And this game isn't Star Wars! It doesn't contain Endor--and the Endor you're probably referring to isn't a planet anyway--it's the forest moon of Endor where the-"
"Don't care. Have you even started that big chem thing that's due in two days?"
"I wrote the outline, and I have my sources and quotes and stuff! All I have left to do is... write it."
You roll your eyes. "Can we just go back to the time before the whole social order fell apart. You know, when you were the motivated nerd and I just didn't give a fuck. You know, like last week."
"Well, if you can somehow manage to alter the flow of time and bring us to last week, that'd be great! I could play this game for a whole extra week!" He laughs, giving little indication of just how tired he must be.
You sigh heavily and drop onto your bed, the lower half of the room's bunkbed.
John's smile fades, and he looks over at you. "What's wrong, Dave?"
"Just feeling kind of tired and shitty."
Turning back to his computer, he quickly types something, then comes over to sit beside you on your bed. He slowly wraps an arm around your shoulders, mindful of your twitch reflexes. Placing his free hand on your cheek, he turns you to face him. Retracting his arm from around your shoulder, he lifts your shades off your face and smiles at you, gently, but not hesitantly. The way he looks into your eyes--the same eyes that have made everyone else, except your bro, who's seen them recoil--like you're the most beautiful thing in the world never fails to melt the coolness of your facade into a genuine, dorky smile.
John turns away briefly to put your shades on your desk nearby before taking off his own glasses and setting them beside yours. This is serious business--he's blind as a bat without those.
"You gonna be able to see your way back to my face, Egbert? You need a seeing eye dog? A cane?"
Grinning, he punches you in the arm before leaning in to press his mouth to yours. You smile against his lips before tilting your head to the side and kissing him back.
You're not sure who decided the sharing of saliva was supposed to be sexy, but regardless of your thoughts on the intermingling of two people's drool, you're forever grateful to that caveman who figured it out. He gave you an excuse to be close enough to John to run your fingers through his soft, black curls and stroke his cheek with the pad of your thumb. But most of all, it gave you a reason to be enveloped by the scent of his laundry-fresh sweatshirt and his kids' shampoo--John's scent.
Under any other circumstances, the smell of laundry detergent and shampoo for 8-year-old boys would not be even remotely sexy, but sitting there in John's arms, your lips pressed together, that same scent makes you feel like you're breathing in his warmth and his presence. You're touching him, tasting him, smelling him, hearing him, seeing him--he's real. And he's yours.
With that thought, you wrap your arms around him and pull him closer. But even after a couple months of occasional sloppy makeouts, you're still don't really know what you're doing, and your sudden initiation of repositioning knocks you both off balance. You fall backward, head narrowly missing then rungs of your bunkbed to land askew across your pillow. And John is lying on top of you, his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of you.
After a few moments, John pulls away and looks down at you, smiling. He shifts to the side before pulling your legs--which are still hanging uncomfortably over the edge of the bed--up onto the mattress. Before he can reposition himself, you grab his shoulders and pull him back down into a kiss. He lands heavily on top of you, but his weight is warm and comfortable. You wrap your arms around him, and he cups his hands around your cheeks.
You rub circles on his shoulder blades before trailing your fingers down the groove of his spine. His breath quickens, and he rocks forward, positioning his lips directly over yours and forcing his tongue into your mouth.
It's not the first time you've kissed like this, but it's very clear neither of you know what you're doing yet. As you let him explore your mouth, the kiss quickly becomes wet and clumsy and simultaneously hesitant and hurried. You start to shake a little with adrenaline, and you pull your legs up until John's legs are between yours. He resettles himself comfortably as you shift. You feel him push himself against you and, through your jeans and his boxers (they're definitely the Ghostbusters ones), you can feel that he's already getting hard. It's not as though you would be that hard that fast, though. Not at all. You are totally cool right now.
No, ok, you can't even lie to yourself about that. You begin gracelessly thrusting your hips upward, you and John finally reaching a desperate rhythm. It's your turn to slide your tongue into his mouth, and he gives you a low moan in return. You feel the breath go out of his chest, and you hold him closer as you continue rubbing against each other.
Lucky Egbert and his fucking kid boxers. You're going through slow, painful torture in these jeans, and you're on the verge of just kicking him away you so you can get your damn pants off. But you don't, of course. No one's taking any additional clothing off. You've never gone even that far before. So you just lay there, your tongue exploring John's mouth as you squirm in aroused frustration.
But John finally seems to notice that you're writhing frantically under him and pulls back, resting his full weight against your hips. That's not helping anything. He gives you a confused look until he realizes that he's resting on your hardening dick. He flushes and looks about to get off you before he hesitates and looks you in the eye.
"Dave? Did you, uh...?"
"What?" Your voice is a bit raspy and low--like you needed another tell.
"You know...?"
You narrow your eyes at him. "If you're offering to take off my pants, what the fuck are you waiting for?"
His eyes widen in shock, and you realize what you just said. You go beet red and scramble for something to say that might made the situation just a shade less awkward. You're about to spew some nonsense when John rocks back onto his knees between your thighs and starts to undo the button on your jeans. You shudder as he brushes your erection through your jeans as he fumbles with the button and zipper. His movements are clumsy and slow, but your breath is already coming out in shuddering gasps. You reach down to run your fingers through his ink-black hair, and he turns to look up at you.
His eyes are hooded, and his lips are parted, still red and swollen from kissing. But behind his arousal, you see genuine nervousness. Does he think he's done something wrong for doing what you asked? Or maybe it's because he thinks you know what you're doing better than he does? You stroke his cheek and try to think of something encouraging to say. But you're still way too turned on to think properly, so all that comes out is a throaty "John..." This does, however, have this intended effect, and you see him relax as he gives you a small smile.
He then turns his attention back to relieving you of your pants. Within seconds, your zipper is down, and he's starting to tug your jeans down. You lift yourself up so he can pull them down to your ankles, and you suddenly feel sickeningly vulnerable. As he works on getting your pants fully off, you debate if you should ask him to stop.
You love him, sure, but this is a lot to take in in not a lot of time. You're not sure why your virgin prudishness has to rear its ugly head right now, of all times. You've both talked about this. He always wanted it more than you did. You didn't want to deny him--you were just scared. You grew up amid your brother's porn and sex toys. It's not like this would be entirely new to you, by any means--no where near as new as it would be to John. But that's why you've held back for so long. Sex has never equated to an emotional attachment for you; it might even ruin the attachment that was there. And you wouldn't want to lose this relationship for anything in the world. Your concept of sex has always been about physical need for you--emotion has never been part of it. You need John more than anything. You can't let yourself--both of you--do this. You have to-
Your thoughts are cut off by a crash and a squeak that make you sit bolt upright (you couldn't have jumped a little--Striders don't do that). John is lying on his back on the floor next to your bed, still holding the pants he took the fall to wrestle off. He looks up at you like a wounded puppy, his face beet red. As you look down at him, you grin, and the look of surprise he gives you makes you laugh.
"Shut up, Dave." There is genuine hurt in his voice, and your grin falters. "I guess I kind of ruined the mood. Sorry."
You open your mouth to say something, but instead, you get up and walk over to where John is sitting on the floor. You kneel down next to him, tilt his chin up, and give him a genuine smile. You open your mouth to put your feelings into words, but you can't. All you can say is, "No, it's ok. It wouldn't be you if shit like this didn't happen."
His expression falters, and you can see he's at a loss for words. Fuck, that is not what you meant at all.
"No, John, wait. I didn't- Shit."
He's shaking a little, though he's managed to plaster a smile on his face, because that's just the kind of guy he is. He looks like he's about to get up, so you grab his shoulders and hold him there in front of you, looking him directly in the eye.
"I meant that I need shit like this, I guess." Your face is starting to heat up, but you owe it to him to say something that doesn't make you sound like a complete douchebag. "I don't want this to be perfect. You know what my bro does for a living. I've had enough of that perfect fantasy shit involuntarily shoved down my throat." Your accidental phrasing makes you shudder a bit, but you continue, tilting John's chin up to make sure he's looking at you. "I'm not my bro. I'm not in love with perfection, no matter how long it took me to realize that. I'm... I love you, John. I guess I needed something to remind me that I'm head-over-heels for a dork, as fucking stupid as that sounds. I mean, how could I forget? So I'm probably the lamest person ever and an eternal shame to the name of Strider, but I needed something to-"
John laughs a little. "I get it, Dave, shut up! You're killing what's left of the moment." He touches your cheek and kisses you on the lips. "I love you, too." You sigh contentedly as he looks you in the eye for a moment.
Suddenly, John flashes you a wicked grin and hoists you up into his arms, bridal style. (How does this spindly kid have that kind of mangrit?) He drops you onto the bed before climbing out of his own pants, and you both pull your shirts over your heads with all due speed.
He's looking down at your naked body like he's seconds away from eating you alive. "We're doing this-"
"Really, Dave?" his gaze returns to your face, and he glares at you.
You smile up at him peevishly. "We're making this-"
The last of your self-indulgent quote is swallowed by his kiss as he crawls on top of you. The warmth of his bare chest against your makes your breath hitch, and his--oh, God. You really are doing this. That sickening feeling returns, and you reflexively turn your head away from the kiss. You feel John freeze immediately.
"Dave? Are you ok?" His voice is quiet and hesitant, and you turn back to look up at him. His black curls are in disarray, hanging down to frame his face. You reach up to touch a freckled cheek. You search his deep blue eyes and find nothing there but affection and concern. "Did you-"
"No. I'm ok. Sorry." You wrap your arms around him, and he lowers himself to kiss your freckled shoulder. As you turn to kiss his hair, you breathe in the smell of kids' berry shampoo. You smile against his thick black curls and let yourself remember--it's John. His weight becomes warm and comforting, and you nuzzle into his hair.
John begins to kiss up your neck a little bit too fast, making you squirm a little. He takes the hint and stops, sucking lightly before beginning to move upward again, tantalizingly slowly. His slow kisses are torturous, but fuck if you don't secretly love those the best. Then again, from your ragged breathing and the soft moans escaping your lips, it's probably not a secret at all. You instinctively raise your hips to rut against him. The sudden pressure of your naked dicks against each other makes you groan, and you feel John's teeth sink painfully into your neck.
"Ow, fuck, John."
"S-sorry--I didn't mean to! I wasn't expecting... that," he murmurs against your neck.
"If I'm bleeding, dude..."
"You're not. Stop being such a drama queen." He kisses the still-tingling spot on his neck where he clamped his jaws shut before returning to his trail of kisses. You tangle your left hand in his hair and kneed the fingers of your right into his back.
His lips press against your neck, just under your jaw, and your head rolls to one side as a small, needy sound escapes your throat. "Joh- John." You feel him open his mouth and press his tongue to your skin--you know what he's doing. And you don't really intend to stop him. "Shi-" As he begins to suck on that sensitive spot, you arch up, grinding against him. You feel him moan against you, but he manages to keep his lips latched onto your neck.
Not for long.
You bring your right hand down and wrap it lightly around both of your dicks. Even that small pressure makes you gasp. But John, not expecting it, immediately releases you this time. His forehead drops against your shoulder, and his breath is coming in shuddering gasps.
"Holy... crap, Dave," he says with a breathy laugh. You turn to kiss his hair before tightening your grip slightly and beginning to pump, slowly.
John is still shaking, but he begins to thrust into your hand, making your breath hitch. "F-faster, Dave."
You are happy to oblige. You try to time your thrusts to John's, and in no time at all, you're both panting. For once, you're glad for your brother's shitty porn. This was evidently a good idea.
By the time you match your rhythm exactly, John is moaning into your shoulder between warm, wet kisses, and you're uttering a quiet stream of profanities alternating with John's name. This is about the last thing that would ever qualify to be sexy because, shit, you are both so bad at this, but-
"Dave, I-" You feel John shudder--you're getting close, too. You give one particularly strong pump, and John groans. He shudders, and you follow a moment afterward, your cum mixing with his as it drips onto your chest.
John's full weight drops onto you, unconsciously smearing the cum between the two of you. "Ugh, gross," he says, laughing weakly as he rests his head on your chest.
"If it's so gross, then get off me and let me wipe it off." But you hold him tightly against you, stroking his hair and smiling.
"Nope." He wraps an arm around you as best he can and turns his head until his ear is pressed to your chest, right over your heart. It's still beating rapidly, but you don't really mind. John already knows you're lame enough to be affected by things, and you don't mind that either.
As you turn to kiss his hair and smile at the scent of how deep his dorkiness runs, you consider how, when it comes to John, you don't want to be cool. You love him because he's a dweeb, and he loves you because you're an idiot right back.
"Like the shampoo, Egbert."
He tilts his head to look up at you and sticks out his tongue. "Shut up, Dave."
You chuckle. "No, seriously."
He rolls his eyes. "Dave, you're such a moron."
You grin. "I know."