Chapter Text
The most obvious sign of your building demise is your lack of sleep. It starts with fits of restlessness, broken by a few blissful hours of sleep before you’re pulled back into the waking world. It’s nothing new, and you lay awake in your bed and try and count your breaths until you lose track.
You can’t get up and wander around, Dave is a light sleeper and will wake up if he hears your door open.
You briefly consider going online, talking to Roxy or even Hal, but you dismiss the idea just as quickly. It’ll pass, after a couple more days at least, so for now you make yourself comfortable and resume your counting.
When you finally get up, it’s around seven in the morning and Dave is already moving about the apartment.
“You look like shit, bro,” he mumbles when you walk out of your room, and you’re inclined to agree. That was your third night of terrible sleep, and it’s only getting worse.
“Age steals everything. Just wait, man, you’ll lose your charm and youthful beauty in the end.”
Dave snorts at your melodrama and resumes eating his breakfast, idly flipping through his phone as he does.
You help yourself to some of his toast and then retreat back into your room to get your hair in order and shower. It’s a soothing, mind numbing task, and you feel better when you finish. The heaviness in your mind has subsided for the time being, and you stare at yourself for a minute and pretend it’s nothing.
“I’m going to work,” Dave shouts, breaking your concentration, and you roll your eyes in the mirror.
“Fetching coffee for washed out actors isn’t work, bro,” you call back.
“It is in the eye of my college, jerk. I’m getting credits for sitting on my ass! It’s just like the real movie bizz, Dirk. I sit around, do none of the work, and get all the credits. Credits rolling with nothing but my name, misspelled in increasingly hilarious ways. Got so much credit I could get a damn loan,” Dave’s rambling slowly gets more distant as he lets himself out, finally shut off by the front door being closed.
You decide to get a little work done yourself, and set yourself up by your workbench to tinker away at a commission.
That’s when the second, slightly less obvious sign starts to act up. You catch yourself staring out the window, fingers twiddling uselessly with wire as some sensation subtly tugs at the back of your mind. It’s easy enough to ignore, and you blame your lack of sleep rather than think too deeply on the matter.
You work in fits and starts, getting little done by the time the late afternoon rolls around. Your fingers are twitchy, and you drum them on the desk as you look over what you did manage to complete. The heaviness is back and your body feels achy and sore, despite how little you’ve moved today.
By this point you can’t claim ignorance to how you’re feeling, but that’s not going to stop you from trying. You always do this, hold out until it gets too intense, too uncomfortable to ignore any longer. It’s probably not healthy, but you also don’t think the end result is particularly healthy either.
Your craving for closeness will always be your downfall.
When Dave comes home you offer up quality bro time, and the two of you spend a couple hours glitching games and speed running Super Mario. Dave orders Chinese food and bitches about his day while you try and steal his spring roll.
“Anyway I think I’m going out tonight,” Dave adds, stabbing at you with a chopstick and foiling your attempts. “Rose and I have a bet going about who can impersonate who better. Tonight is her night and I’m going to document every second of it.”
Your mouth twitches upwards. “And when do you do her the honor of becoming a holy terror in training?”
“Next weekend,” Dave breaks the spring roll in half and hands you a half. “I need to get some stockings.”
“Don’t look at me dude, I’m not giving you mine.”
“Ew, dude, no, I don’t want those, who knows what you’ve been doing in them,” Dave elbows you and you grin.
“I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Ew! Dude!” Dave repeats louder, shaking his head. “I’ll borrow some from Rose, jeez, stop trying to traumatize me.”
“So, will Jade and John be there?” You keep your voice even, but you don’t think Dave would notice even if you did slip up and let a bit of eagerness into your voice.
“Jade will be, she’s my date for tonight. I have no idea what Egbert is up to now-a-days. Ever since last year he apparently has a life outside of me, which is ridiculous.”
“Absolutely,” you agree, mind elsewhere.
“What about you, man? Any plans?”
You open your mouth to say no, but some traitorous part of you overrides it and you find yourself saying, “Oh, yeah, might get together with Roxy later.”
Now you have an alibi, and your skin is prickling at the thought of it.
“Cool, don’t wait up for me tonight, mom.”
“I’m two years older than you, fuck, I’m not going to parent your ass,” you grumble, though you both know that’s a boldfaced lie. You may be his older brother, but you apparently picked up mother hen instincts sometime around when you let him move in with you for college. Dave gives you endless shit for it, but never makes any real attempt to stop you.
“Well, send me a picture of my new little bro, I’ll start a collection.”
You and Dave chat for a bit longer until the sky starts to darken, and then he changes and heads out with his camera.
You keep your ass firmly on the couch, determined to try and ignore the insistent urging from the back of your mind that now is a perfect opportunity, nobody would miss you for a few hours.
You’re tired, really tired, and your skin feels too hot and tight. You lie down on the couch and stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come despite the early hour.
Your mind just fogs over, and you flip onto your stomach and bury your head in a cushion. You don’t want to go out. You don’t.
But you’re exhausted and you need something to punch your body back into its normal rhythm. You used to seek it out, going out with Roxy and getting into things you didn’t fully understand. You dabbled a lot when you were younger, and it grosses you out to think about it now. But it worked, and your body won’t let you forget it so easily.
Which is why, when the opportunity presented itself almost a year ago, you had snatched it up with a recklessness that startled the both of you.
Speaking of, your phone begins to vibrate in your pocket. You know, without a doubt, who it is. The uncomfortable, borderline suffocating feeling is making itself as noticeable as possible, and you groan into your pillow as the ringing finally stops.
Then you get a text, and you sigh.
If you avoid it, which you’ve tried before, you just sink deeper into your insomnia. It’s hell, and your mind rejects the thought of another sleepless night.
You pull out your phone on autopilot. The text reads Come over ;) and you grimace. You hate everything about those two words, how they act like a command only to be undermined by a cheeky wink. It’s infuriatingly vague and not at all what you want. If he wants you over then he should know by now that you despise anything short of a legit order. Because with that, at least you can feign innocence on your part, lack of control and thus lack of choice in the matter. But no, that asshole won’t ever do anything to give you deniability.
And yet your limbs are moving on their own accord, dragging you up and into your room to change. Your lazy apartment clothes get swapped out for a nicer pair of jeans and a simple shirt before you set off grudgingly.
He lives nearby, though it takes twenty some minutes to walk there. You could drive, or take up his many offers to come pick you up, but you remain as stubborn and unyielding as ever in the matter. It somehow offends you that he always offers to come get you, additional smiley faces following every text like he doesn’t know how it gets under your skin.
Your exhaustion clouds your normally rational mind, and with each buzz of your phone you get more and more frustrated. Your mounting aggravation only serves to tire you out even further, and by the time you reach his apartment complex you’re wiped.
You take a couple minutes to collect yourself before ringing him. You yawn despite your best efforts not to, and then hit his buzzer.
“Yes?” An infuriating voice calls out, light and sweet like he doesn’t know exactly who it is.
“Let me in.”
He giggles, and it sounds warped through the speaker. “Gosh, you remind me of a fairy tale. Big bad wolf, I won’t let you in!”
You scowl and grind the heel of your shoe into the step you’re on. “Let me in, or I’ll break in.”
He laughs and the intercom goes dead.
That answers that, and you step back and survey the building with thinly veiled distaste. It’s horribly easy to break in, you’ve done it before, but the extra step is so aggravating when he could just let you the fuck in.
You stomp around to the side of the building and climb onto a dumpster, wobbling precariously for a few seconds as your tired body protests the exertion. You reach up and snag the lowest rung of the fire escape latter that runs up the side of the building, pulling it down with a sharp tug.
It falls obediently, screeching in protest and hurting your ears.
You scale the latter up to the fourth floor and then find his window, reaching over and sliding it up. It takes a few extra seconds of finagling until you get your body through it, and then you’re finally standing in his living room.
John is sitting on the couch, looking quite disinterested in the fact someone just came through his window. “Jeez, Dirk, didn’t anyone ever tell you to knock? You’re so rude!”
You slam the window shut and cross your arms, feeling slightly more awake now. “And how many times do I have to remind you that it’s too damn easy to get in here? Lock your fucking window, Egbert, anyone can get in.”
“Ooo, and do what?” John raises his eyebrows, eyes wide at the thought.
“Rob you blind, for starters,” you snap, not in the mood—never in the mood—for his false innocence. “Seriously, a child could get in here.”
“Well which are you? A robber, or a child?”
You feel a pressure building behind your temples as John continues to look sweetly up at you. “Neither, asshole, though I’m beginning to feel inclined towards the first.”
John finally gets up, smile stretched firmly over his face as he puts his hands on his hips. “And what are you here to rob me of?”
Your lips pull back in distaste. “You don’t have a damn thing I want, Egbert.”
“No?” John’s smile becomes a bit patronizing. “Well, sweetpea, evidently I do or you wouldn’t come crawling back every couple weeks.”
You bristle at the nickname, ignoring how your insides squirm and your hands suddenly because clammy. “Nothing I can’t get from anybody else.”
“Reeeeally?” John draws the word out until the pressure in your head turns into a fully formed headache. “Aw, honeydew, there’s nobody in the whole world that can do what I can, and you know it.”
“Quit it.”
“Quit what?” John’s voice turns sing-songy, and he even rocks back and forth on his heels, positively beaming. But it doesn’t come off nearly as childish as he had at first, and a darker intent is clear in his eyes.
“You know what,” you snap, unwilling to say it just yet.
“You need to be more specific, pumpkin.” His grin grows and he settles on his toes, like he’s about to leap forward.
“Fuck you, I’m leaving,” you turn back to the window, an empty threat that you’ve played almost every time you come here. The response is ingrained in the both of you, but you still freeze in place when arms wrap around you too tightly.
“You’re not going anywhere,” John says, and despite the two year difference between you his voice suddenly demands obedience. And fuck, you can’t quite give in yet, but you want to. “After all, Dirk, you broke into my house. That means I get to retaliate any way I deem fit.”
“No, it means you need to lock your damn windows,” you manage to choke out, heart hammering. You’re too tired to escape tonight, you know that, but you’re still not going to cooperate.
So when John presses his lips against the pale column of your throat, you twist away violently in his arms. He jerks you back and spins you around easily, slamming you back into the window you’d come through. Too easy to be seen, to be spotted, and you struggle against him and snarl when he laughs.
“Dirk, you’re so pretty when you fight,” he says brightly, like you’re not doing your damn best to wiggle away.
The compliment stuns you like a blow, and he takes your momentary confusion to kiss you.
Your addled, sleep deprived brain can’t handle the rush of stimulus, and you weakly batter at his shoulders as John pushes his tongue into your mouth.
You unwillingly make a noise in the back of your throat, and curse yourself when you feel him grin against your lips. So you bite, not too hard but enough, and it’s his turn to jerk back.
You take his rare lapse in concentration as an opportunity to duck out from under his arms and dart away into his apartment. He finds you in his bedroom easily, and you taunt him for his posters and sneer at his lava lamp until he gets his hands on you.
Your words are cut off in a yelp as he slaps your ass, and you redouble your efforts to get away until he gets his arms around your waist and croons “my darling, my sweet, where are you going, pumpkin?” and you whine pathetically.
You hate how he abuses those words, coats them in sticky-sweet malice that makes your body thrum with energy. They promise to be your undoing, and god help you it makes your nerves sing.
He wrestles you onto the floor and bites your shoulder, effectively immobilizing you for a second. You groan as he sucks and kisses his way back to your neck, finishing what he started in the living room. You grip the back of his shirt and swear breathlessly, light headed from the sudden onslaught.
He tugs at your own shirt then, pushing it up and over your head too quickly to prevent. You don’t think you wanted to prevent it anyway, not when his mouth returns to your body. He kisses your chest and grips your thin hips to keep you still, lavishing you with nips and open mouth kisses all the way down to your belly button before stopping.
You can feel a flush building on your cheeks, and you press back into the rough carpet as if to get away from him.
John doesn’t let you, never lets you, and you’re tugged back in place with ease. His teeth find your hip and you hiss at him when he bites too hard.
“Aw, I’m sorry chickpea,” he rubs the mark and you try to stop the full body shudder that tries to go through you at the sound of another nickname. You’re not very successful, and he catches your eye with a calculating gaze.
“You’re so lovely like this, Dirk. I think it’s because you’re not talking.” John leans over you, caging you in with his larger body. “You ruin everything when you open your mouth, clementine.”
You make a horrible little sound in response, nails digging into the carpet and body locking up in paralysis.
“That’s why nobody else can do what I do,” he continues, a smile playing around his lips while he keeps you frozen beneath him. “I can shut your mouth, or fill it up until you choke.”
You exhale hard, unable to look away from his piercing blue eyes. You try and find your voice, and manage to spit out, “Nobody else but me can actually stand this other side of you, though. You need me just as badly.”
John laughs. “See what I mean? You just shouldn’t talk.”
He gets off you and then sits on the bed, smirking down at you.
You feel dazed being left on the floor, but when you sit up he pats his lap and gives you a wide grin.
“I’m not sitting in your lap,” you snap, trying to calm your erratic pulse. But John just continues to sit there and grin at you expectantly, handing you back some semblance of control just when you thought you’d gotten rid of it.
“You’re such a child,” you growl, and he doesn’t deny it.
“Come here, Dirk,” he calls, and you move reluctantly. However, instead of sitting on his lap, you settle between his thighs as an act of defiance. He wants to give you control? Fine.
You push your face between his legs and kiss the hard outline of his cock straining against his shorts. John sucks in a sharp breath as your hands creep up his inner thighs, pushing them apart to give you more room. Deniability be damned, you really want his cock in your mouth.
Your fingers fumble for a second with his belt, and you silently berate yourself until you get it undone. You undo his fly and push his shorts and boxers down enough to free his cock.
“Dirk,” John chides, if a bit breathlessly, “I did not tell you to do that.”
Too fucking bad, you think rebelliously. You grip the base of his cock and run your tongue up it, both of you groaning as you do. John’s hands find your hair and he warns you once more, a nicety he rarely gives you. Naturally, you throw it back in his face when you wrap your lips eagerly around his dick.
He swears and you moan as you let him fill your mouth until the head nudges the back of your throat. Then you get to work, sliding your tongue along him and swallowing so your throat constricts around the tip. You teeter dangerously close to choking, and breathing is almost impossible with him this deep in your mouth, but it’s a head rush for you. You worship his cock with your tongue, licking and sucking on it as your eyes water and your jaw aches.
You think you’re being rather clever, until John tightens his grip on your hair and thrusts forwards.
His cock is shoved deeper down your throat and tears spring into your eyes as you struggle not to choke. He pays no attention to you and fucks your mouth with short, hard movements that leave drool running down your chin. When you finally do choke, eyes wide and panicky, John lets his cock slip from your mouth and gives you a ‘what-did-I-tell-you’ look.
“That wasn’t part of the game, Dirk,” John says pleasantly as you frantically try and remember how to breathe. “Now, because of that, you’ll be punished.”
Your body floods with dread and anticipation, mind running wild with what sort of torture he has in mind. You don’t have any energy left in you to fight as he drags you up onto the bed, spreading you out on the covers and wiping drool from your lips.
John pushes his pants and boxers down the rest of the way and discards them, then does the same for you. Your shoes and socks are pulled off, as well as his shirt, and everything is tossed on the floor, despite your weak protests.
“Hush, nothing you say will matter anyhow,” John runs his fingers through your hair and smiles.
You’re low on energy, dangerously so, and it makes your heart rate spike at the implications. He’s got you entirely to his mercy, he could do any damn thing he wanted to, and you suddenly feel very claustrophobic.
Whether it shows in your eyes or by the quick, shallow breaths you’re taking, John frowns and leans over you. He kisses your forehead, nose, lips, and then chin with a softness you’re not used to.
“Remember the safeword, Dirk?”
You blink, slightly out of it.
John waits, rubbing your bare thigh and kissing your nose in a too-familiar way that confuses you. “Come on, clementine, don’t go away from me yet.”
That gets to you, and you finally nod.
“I need words!” John says brightly, and your lips tug down with irritation.
“Yes, I remember it,” you grumble, and he looks pleased.
“There you are. Good.” He rubs your thigh one last time before pulling away and moving to a drawer in his nightstand.
You settle for a moment, feeling comfortable enough to sleep. His bed is soft, and smells delicious. Your daydreaming is ruined quickly enough, however, when John returns with a handful of things and a cheeky grin.
He kisses you, hard and possessive, and you let him push his tongue into your mouth without a second thought. John’s hands are moving all over you, touching and teasing everywhere but where you need it the most. He only seems to be encouraged by the impatient noises you make, smirking at you when you jut your hips up.
“Patience, chickpea, I have plans for you,” John promises, his voice far too eager. Then he takes your hands, which had been carving lines down his back, and pins them above your head.
You shiver and tug, only to have him tut at you disapprovingly. He binds your hands with a soft cloth from the pile of things he dumped beside you, and you feel horribly exposed when he sits back to survey his handiwork.
“Remember, Dirk,” he reprimands as you open your mouth to comment, “if you talk you’ll ruin it.” His eyes twinkle, and you know better than to disobey at this point.
“Good,” he nods when you close your mouth, and a flush of heat goes through you at the praise.
He picks up a glass wand and a vibrator and surveys them both critically, ignoring how you begin to squirm at the sight of them. The wand is heavy, you know from experience, and its bulged glass tip presses just a hair away from your prostate. The vibrator, on the other hand, isn’t thick enough for your liking but definitely has its perks.
You watch as John picks the wand, setting the vibrator down for the time being, and turns to you with a smile. “Like it?” He waves it under your nose.
“I love how it looks in you,” he continues when you don’t say anything. He taps the top of it, a pink glass star, and smiles mischievously.
You break eye contact at the thought of how it must look, equal parts shame and exhilaration fighting inside you.
John sets it down and wraps a warm hand around your cock, not moving it as your eyes snap back to him immediately. “Turn around now, pumpkin.”
You briefly consider not doing that and making him force you, but you’ve already earned one punishment and you’re not keen on amassing more. Slowly, and with obvious reluctance so you don’t appear too eager, you roll on your stomach.
“Well aren’t you behaving now, that’s so nice,” John comments, gripping your hips and pulling you up onto your knees. Your face ends up pressed into the pillows, so you raise up onto your forearms for balance.
John’s hands smooth over your ass and you bite your lower lip, still not making a sound as his fingers trail down over your balls and up your cock, before retreating back up to your ass. He does this four more times before you start to shake, cock hard and dripping for any semblance of relief.
John leans in and you flinch when you feel his lips on your entrance at first, then settle back almost immediately. He does it again, and this time you’re ready and don’t move. Satisfied, John kisses your entrance again, and you have just enough awareness left to be relieved you took a shower this morning despite your weariness. He licks you, slow and firm, and you shudder at the feeling.
The first time he did this, you jerked away and argued with him for almost an hour before he grabbed you by the hips and showed you how good it could feel.
Now you willingly spread your legs a little farther, trembling as he works his tongue against you, not dipping in quite yet. You don’t think you would let anybody else do this to you, you hate the vulnerability that comes with it. But John works you over with a practiced ease, hands running along your thighs and brushing your cock as his tongue coaxes you to relax.
Once you’re making tiny, needy noises into your arms he begins to point his tongue and press, slipping it into your now slick entrance with ease. You shudder and push back into it, letting him tongue fuck you until you’re dripping. Only then does he push a finger in alongside his tongue, working you until you’re pleading for more.
“What was that?” John asks playfully, pulling his mouth away as he pushes his finger deeper into you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, battling with keeping quiet like he asked and begging him for more. You moan as he runs his finger over your prostate, abandoning your silence and hoping fervently he won’t punish you for it. “Please, more…”
Surprisingly, John actually complies, and you groan as another finger is added. “Is that what you want, sweetpea?”
You make a strained noise, gripping his pillow and hunching your shoulders as if to ward off the pet name.
He leans over you, kissing the tension between your shoulders as he works his fingers in and out of you at a tortuously slow pace. “I think you’re ready for the wand, what do you think?”
It doesn’t matter what you think, and you know you’ll only get what John is willing to give you. But oh you desperately want it in you, and you choke out another strained ‘please’, which seems to satisfy him.
John pulls his fingers out of you and picks up the wand. He coats it liberally with lube from the small pile by your knee, and then presses the flared tip to your entrance.
It’s cold, from the lube and just due to the nature of glass. You recoil slightly, and receive a smack on the ass for it. It stings brilliantly, and you groan as he presses the glass back against you.
John slowly pushes it in, and your arms give out completely as the cold glass is pressed inside of you. You can feel it, every damn inch of it slipping deeper into you. You moan helplessly into his pillow, shaking as you feel the hilt finally rest against your ass.
“Fuck, Dirk,” John breathes, sounding awed. “You look so beautiful like this. How does it feel, clementine? Does it feel good in you?”
If the glass hadn’t done you in, that definitely did. Your entire body shakes and you keen loudly, too far gone to be embarrassed. The weight of the wand inside you and of John’s praise as he strokes your cock is far too much for you in this state, and you try to warn him of it.
All John does is croon at you, stroking you and toying with the wand, moving it gently inside of you as your moans climb higher and higher in pitch.
The tension in you finally shatters, and your body is flooded with intense pleasure as you come into John’s hand. You clench around the wand and cry out as it sends another pulse through you, prolonging your orgasm to the brink of painful before he finally slips it out of you.
You collapse instantly, and dimly feel John tug the bindings off your wrists.
“Oh no you don’t,” John says, his voice teasing. “You still haven’t gotten your punishment.”
You make a weak sound of protest, but he ignores you and gently turns you over until you’re blinking up at him languidly.
“Aren’t you a sight,” John says softly, and you whine.
He kisses you, threads his fingers through your now completely un-styled hair, murmurs to you until you’re mumbling desperately for him to stop.
Instead, John starts touching you again, thumbing your nipples, kissing your neck, making your arch and gasp at the oversensitivity. You’re so far gone at this point from his previous treatment and your sleepless nights that you almost don’t notice him slicking up, but when you feel him press against you that brings your awareness back.
“Wait,” you slur, pushing at his chest with the all the strength of a newborn, “don’t, it’s too much…”
“Your punishment, chickpea,” John practically purrs, and your protesting is cut off by a long, drawn out cry as he slides into you. It doesn’t hurt, you’re nice and stretched by this point, but it burns with an intensity that makes you pant and claw at his shoulders.
John moans, his voice low in your ear. “Oh fuck, Dirk, you feel incredible.”
You clutch at him mindlessly as he rocks into you, pushing you back down into that faraway place. You feel wrung out, used, and it delights you as the discomfort shifts into a hyper sensitive pleasure. You moan encouragement to him, begging him not to stop until he’s through with you.
John fucks you until you’re hard again, bending your legs up and practically folding you in half as he thrusts into you.
You’re being driven into the bed, and you’re crying out loudly with the brutal pace. He bites your neck, kisses you, holds you down and fucks you until you’re sobbing and out of your mind.
“Oh, oh, fuck, yes,” John groans to your increasingly wild cries. “You’re perfect, so good, yeah come on, come on, clementine, be good for me, so good—”
You open your mouth in a soundless scream as you bend off the bed and come again, this one short and harsh and almost too much to comprehend.
John fucks you through it, and then kisses you hard as he moans your name and finishes inside you. The feeling of him filling you makes your body shake, and you think you will never be able to piece your mind back together.
When he finally pulls out of you, you’re too spent to do much else except let your legs drop. John is talking to you, rubbing your thighs and saying something, but you have no idea what it is. You feel him leave and then come back, something soft and cold touching you in a spot way too tender.
You make a strangled, hiccupping noise, and he shushes you gently as he cleans you up. Finally it’s gone, and whatever else he does is lost to you because you’re asleep at last.
You sleep for hours, woken only once by John shifting beside you. When you eventually do wake up for real, it’s because the sun is hitting you in the face. Blearily, you roll over and then groan as your body loudly alerts you to how battered you are.
“Morning, honeydew!”
You peer through your lashes at John, already up and looking like last night never happened. He’s beaming down at you with a look of mock concern on his face.
“Sleep alright, princess?”
You grumble a half-formed swear and stuff you face back in his pillow. Truth is, you feel incredible. You must’ve slept for a good ten hours, and despite the stiffness setting in you feel wrung out and pleasantly relaxed.
Not that you would ever let that asshole know.
“You snore,” is what you say instead.
John laughs and climbs into bed with you, disrupting the nest of sheets you’ve collected. He ignores your complaints, preferring to poke and prod you with both barbed comments and his fingers until you get up.
It takes a solid thirty minutes for you to find your clothes, and John comments loudly on the collection of bruises you have on your neck, shoulders, and hips.
It’s only when you’re dressed and about to go that he gets out of bed and follows you into the living room.
“So, Dave told me he’s going out again next weekend, want me to get out of it?” John smiles cheekily at you.
You scowl and tug your shoes on. “No, go hang out with your friends for once.”
John arches an eyebrow. “Are we not friends, then?”
“Definitely not.”
“How about friends with benefits?”
You flush and glare at him, only to be met with the usual sweet smile. “Dave will wonder why you’re not spending time with him, you know.”
It wasn’t meant to be a low blow, but John frowns and scuffs his feet. “I still hang out with him.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence passes, and you struggle for a moment before walking up and giving him a little kiss. “Look, go hang out with him next weekend. I’ll be free most of the week after anyway.”
John gives you a look. “You could come out with us, you know.”
You pull a face. “Hell no, being seen with you in public is career suicide.”
“Career? What career?” John mocks, and you roll your eyes, shoving past him to get to the front door.
“Bye, Egbert.”
“Bye, Dirk! See you soon,” John calls after you.
“Like hell,” you retort, but you both know you will. As you leave you make a note to yourself to get Dave to buy John some locks for his windows. He’ll take them if they come from Dave, and it should deter most people who aren’t dead-set on getting inside for questionable therapy.
When you get home, Dave is already back and sleeping off last night in his room. You head to your room, thinking of a shower, and doing your best not to plan your next visit to John.