Breaking Rules

by Ships_ahoy

Summary:

Your name is John Egbert, and all of a sudden this prank of dressing up like Dave at his party seems like a very bad idea. Although, his older brother seems determined to convince you otherwise.

A fill for a prompt on the kink meme that requested John dressing up/cosplaying as Dave with some very serious consequences regarding a certain Bro Strider.

EDIT: I was planning on this being just one chapter, but people asked if I could continue it in order to add some Dave into the mix. And, well, I got bored and a fucked up love triangle seemed appealing.

Chapter 1: => Be John Egbert

House parties didn’t usually come with a set of rules. But as Dave had opened the door to let you in, loud dubstep and the sound of half drunk high school kids spilling out from behind him, he had been sure to put things straight.

No touching his turntables.

No drinking his apple juice.

And absolutely under no circumstances were you allowed to enter Bro’s bedroom.

Simple right? And you had punched him playfully in the arm, rolling your eyes as you pushed past him to join the party, leaving him to murmur a joking insult your way before he followed you himself.

And for a few good hours, it was easy to stick to the rules. You had all your friends there, blaringly loud music, dark heated rooms filled with people only willing to listen to your terrible jokes. You tried your first alcohol, discovering exactly how lightweight you were after you found yourself uncontrollably giggling with Jade in the kitchen whilst downing Dave’s apple juice with a heavy helping of vodka.

Oops, one rule broken.

You’d only had enough time to dodge your escape out of the kitchen when Dave had seen you, roaring an angry, “EGBERT” in your direction as you had stumbled your way upstairs, taking refuge in what you soon realize is none other than Dave’s bedroom.

Locked away from the crowds, and hearing only the low beat of the music vibrate the floor beneath your sneakers, you finally take a moment to calm your drunken giggles, appraising the messy room. Your eyes linger on the brand new set of turntables sat by the window, almost calling your name in the way the metal shone in the dim moonlight.

Tripping clumsily over an abandoned pizza box lying in the middle of his floor, you curse quietly, quickly regaining your balance as you move to investigate the various buttons and sliders. Your fingers hover before they move to flick at a few of the switches, a giggle bubbling at the back of your throat as you set one of the records spinning.

Two out of three rules broken. You were on a roll tonight.

Loud footsteps thudding up the stairs, and your attention snaps back across to the door, breath held in anticipation for Dave to come in and beat your ass. But the footsteps pass and you hiccup back into breathing, instead turning a curious grin across the rest of the items in his room.

A set of headphones, a broken camera, an issue of GameBro, a set of shades- Wait. A set of shades? Stooping to pick up the glasses, you stare at your own confused reflection in the black glass, an exact replica of the pair you knew Dave was downstairs wearing at that very moment. Did the guy keep spares? You snort out a small laugh at how lame that idea was, especially considering you had bought him his original pair as a joke in the first place.

Giving another wary glance towards the closed door, you wait a second, ears tuned in to any approaching noises that might mean you were caught. But all you can hear is the sound of a muffled beat from the music and a group of girls laughing from where they sat on the stairs. Perfect.

Pulling off your own glasses, you chuck them onto Dave’s bed, moving to stand in front of his mirror as you slip on the shades, the room instantly plunged a whole shade darker as you grin at your own, slightly blurry, reflection.

“Hey, good looking. The name’s Strider.” You say to yourself, sending your reflection a wink, which is only lost behind the dark glass anyway. Laughing to yourself, you strain to look around the room again, slightly overbearing teeth chewing relentlessly at your lower lip as your gaze falls on an abandoned shirt lay across the floor. Might as well go the whole way, you figure, thinking about just how funny it would be to walk back downstairs dressed exactly like Dave Strider.

Letting your own ghostbuster shirt fall to the floor, you pull the red and white shirt over your head, frowning a little at the way the sleeves hang long over your hands, the bottom of the shirt reaching half way down your thighs. Damn Strider with his unfair height advantage, you grudgingly think, before you move to pull a pair of black skinny jeans from his wardrobe.

Transformation complete, you turn back to the mirror and let out a small snort, knocking the shades askew as you raise a hand to try and flatten where your dark hair had turned messy. Maybe your frame was a little small, and your grin a little too wide, but you figure that with a blonde wig and a forced Texan drawl, you could maybe make a damn good Dave Strider impersonation.

And there was only one thing left to do now, and that was to show your sheer genius to the entire party population waiting downstairs, right?

Despite your newly acquired shades, the bright light from the hallway still has you blinking as you throw open Dave’s bedroom door, the alcohol making you sway from the disorientation of it for a second before you shake yourself into motion again. Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause, taking a few moments to try and force any giggles you had out of you. You wanted to try and make this as convincing as you could, famous Strider poker face and all.

“Dave?”

The low voice has you freezing where you stood, blue eyes flying wide as you turn quickly to try and source where it was coming from. Catching sight of a door to the left standing slightly ajar, you take a wary step towards it.

Now, you had been around Dave’s house plenty of times before and you knew the layout pretty well enough for you to know that the door handle you were currently curling your fingers around at that moment led to the one room you were forbidden to enter.

The one rule you were yet to break.

Under no circumstances were you allowed to enter Bro’s bedroom.

With the door already being slightly open, all it takes is for you to give the handle a light push for it to open fully, revealing a dimly lit bedroom, almost as messy as Dave’s had been. Except the one thing setting it apart from Dave’s room was the fact that there was currently a half naked, older Strider lounging back in a computer chair facing your way. He was still wearing his stupid pointed shades and fingerless black gloves, but his usual trademark cap was strewn across his bed along with the rest of his clothes minus one pair of loose, black boxer shorts which you realize with relief were still firmly attached to the blonde man’s hips.

At your arrival, you can see a single blonde eyebrow cock upwards from behind his shades, the rest of his expression becoming infuriatingly more unreadable with every painful second that passed by. Because, oh god, what were you doing? You were just stood there in his doorway, dressed in his little brother’s clothes, practically gawking at the fact that he was barely wearing anything.

He had every right to lounge around in his underwear, you inwardly tell yourself, this was his house after all. And his room. Which you had been forbidden from entering. Oh fuck, you were in a lot of trouble.

“I saw the shirt through the gap,” His voice is low, quiet almost, but not lacking in intimidation, “And I thought you were Dave. But apparently I was wrong?” His head tips a little to the side and you don’t need to be able to see his eyes to know that they were roaming all over you. You could almost feel his gaze against your skin, invading your personal space without him even having to move an inch.

“F-fuck… I’m sorry. I thought it would be funny to dress up like him… like a prank. I didn’t mean to… I, uh, I’ll go take it off.” You suddenly wish you were sober enough to make coherent sense, your head swimming as you take a quick step backwards.

“Wait.”

The voice comes louder this time, an order, ringing sharp through your drunken haziness and halting you in your tracks. Your fingers curl up against the edges of the red sleeves, gripping the material tightly as you swallow nervously. Blue eyes becoming untamed, you find yourself glancing at the contours of Bro’s bare chest and stomach, and you only force yourself to look back up again when your gaze hits the dark blonde trail of hair disappearing beneath the other’s boxers.

Wow, you’re suddenly really fucking grateful for Dave’s shades hiding your line of sight just then. This was already embarrassing enough as it was without it being revealed that you were totally checking him out.

“Come here. And close the door.”

His words have turned smooth, the smallest of smirks pulling at the corner of his lips, anything to pull you in. And dammit, it works. Because you are already moving back into the bedroom, the sound of heavy bass and drums becoming muffled once more as the door clicks shut behind you.

Pressing your back firmly against the door, you push your palms flat against it, hands still mostly covered in the length of Dave’s shirt so that only the tips of your fingers press against the cool wood. It seems to ground you a little, steadying the spin of your head. Which means that when he beckons you towards him with a flick of one gloved finger, you can’t help but panic as your support disappears and you take a few nervous steps towards him, stopping by his knees.

Your teeth are biting hard against your lower lip, heart pounding almost as fast as the beat still thudding up through the floorboards. Your head runs through a million different words to say but none of them seem to form a sentence that makes any kind of sense so you keep your tongue still, gaze following his movement as he leans forward in his seat.

For a second, you think that he’s going to beat your ass into next week. You’d seen him fight Dave once and you knew that it was entirely possible for him to do that. Hell, just looking at his biceps right there and then was enough to tell you he was perfectly capable of literally chucking you out of his house via the bedroom window.

“John, right?”

You nod quickly, words falling from your mouth in a quick babble before you can hold them back.

“I’m really sorry, Bro. I didn’t even realize you were home… I shouldn’t have taken his stuff. Especially after I used his apple juice to mix with that vodka… I mean. Unless you didn’t give Dave permission to have drink at the party. In which case, there was no vodka, I swear we weren’t drinking or anything.”

He watches you with a look of disinterested amusement, waiting for you to run your course before he slides his tongue across his bottom lip, biting it back as though in thought for a second. When he speaks again, he completely disregards everything you had just said, leaving you feeling like even more of a fool.

“You know, John, I didn’t think anyone could wear those clothes better than Dave did. But I think you might have proven me wrong.”

And suddenly his hands are on you, making you jolt in surprise as you feel fingers slip around your waist, pressing hard against your lower back to make you step forward into the gap between his parted knees. His other hand rests against your shoulder, slipping sideways until you can feel rough fingertips brush against your neck as he hooks them beneath the collar of the borrowed shirt.

A shaky breath pushes past your lips, your mind racing in an attempt to keep up with what was happening. Were you allowed to feel as excited as you did right now? Because you swear you felt like there was electric running through your veins, his touch starting sparks, and the way his lips curled upwards providing the fuel.

Tipping your head downwards, the shades slip down the bridge of your nose a little as you follow the path of his hand as he gives a tug at your collar before moving lower across the faded image of a broken record and then lower still.

He’s aiming for the bottom of the shirt, but it’s size on you means that his palm is pressing along your thigh for a brief second, giving it a teasing squeeze before the fingers slip up beneath the white material. Smooth leather and rough skin sweep quickly against the bare skin of your stomach and you suck in reflexively, your own hand finally moving to grasp lightly against Bro’s forearm.

This was wrong. Bro Strider was your best friend’s older brother, for fuck’s sake. No matter how attractive he was, and how much he teased you… and how good he felt against your skin. Oh fuck.

He knows that he has you right where he wants you, because your breathing was coming fast and heavy and the blush on your cheeks wasn’t down to the drink.

“I-is this what does it for you? These clothes…” You stammer and he looks up at you.

He can see your eyes from where the shades have slipped down a little, wide, blue-ringed pupils darting about in an attempt to catch his own through the barrier of dark glass. You can’t remember ever being this close to him before, noting down the light flush of freckles below where his shades rested on his cheeks, the small twitch of his mouth as he considers how to reply.

“What does it for me… are things I know I couldn’t normally have. Things like my younger brother. Things like my younger brother’s best friend. And more importantly right now, things like my younger brother’s best friend dressed as a most perfect image of the two.”

You can’t help it, your breath hitches under the serious weight of his words and you press forward as you see him stand from the chair. His hand grabs you beneath your chin, pulling your lips upwards to meet with his own, the hand against your stomach sliding around your back to jerk your body up against him roughly.

And who were you trying to kid here? You were seventeen years old, on the drunk side of tipsy, with enough hormone induced arousal to make anyone seem appealing at that moment, never mind a boxer-clad, blonde tower of muscle and good looks. You could honestly see no other option in this situation but to push back just as hard into the kiss.

He seems to enjoy your reciprocation because his tongue is already running along your lower lip before his teeth bite harshly against the flesh. You gasp, giving him the access he needs to push his tongue past your teeth. He doesn’t do anything lightly, putting everything he had into every suck and lick and press against your skin.

It was almost overwhelming, but pleasantly so, your arms moving up to wrap tightly around his neck, fingers carding through the spikes of blonde hair before they tighten their grip. And the pull brings forth the smallest of noises from Bro, sending your lips flying into a triumphant smile against his kiss. You’d never in your whole lifetime, thought that you’d be capable of ever making Bro Strider produce a noise such as that.

But it’s not long before he has an even more embarrassing moan bubbling at the back of your throat, as his lips are suddenly pressed against your neck, sucking up the skin between his teeth. He releases, a red tinge marking the assaulted skin.

“F-fuck…”

The room seemed warmer than it had been before, or maybe it was just your body temperature rising, or maybe it was the fact that his body temperature was rising and you were pressed flush against his bare chest. The heat only rises as his leg moves to bump between yours, thigh pressing against the rough denim of the borrowed jeans and forcing you up onto your tiptoes in an attempt to keep yourself under control.

He smirks at the action, hands grabbing at your shoulders to push your feet flat against the floor again, simultaneously forcing you to rub down against his thigh in a way that has you taking a sharp inhale.

His lips back against yours seems to come as a welcome relief from the lack of words you’d been able to form in response to everything that was Bro Strider. His taste, his touch, his grip on your upper arms as he breaks the kiss to spin you to face the door. Tugging you back against his chest, you swallow as your lower back comes into contact with the growing bulge in his boxers, doing little to help the own way your jeans seemed far too tight now.

Damn, this was going really fast. But you would have more success at slowing a speeding train with your bare hands than you would with your attempts to reign in Bro. Not like you were complaining though. Because you didn’t want to think about how you would react if the fingers fumbling with your jeans button and zipper were to stop now. You were far too gone to be able to reason with yourself that the two of you should stop.

So you let him dip his head to press kisses across the side of your face, his tongue licking along the arm of the shades as his hand moves back beneath your shirt, material bunching up as his fingers slide up to your chest to hold you back against him. His other hand slips below the now loosened waistband of the jeans.

“Do you know how much I want you, John?”

You don’t need to be facing him to know that he was smirking, speaking right into your ear as your breath stutters, body tensing. He’s toying with the waistband of your underwear and you can’t help but grasp lightly at his wrist. But you both know that it was encouragement more than anything else.

“Why don’t you stop fucking around and just show me?” You can hardly believe your own cheek, knowing that you would never have dared talk to Bro in that kind of way before. And for a brief second, even he freezes in surprise at the sharp question.

“As you wish.”

And then his hand was pushing into your boxers, fingers meeting skin, surrounding you. And you can’t help but buck forward into his hand, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. He blows a hot breath by your ear, pressing his thumb against your tip to spread the forming precum.

Any kind of confident upper hand you had gained before is erased in an instant, your head tipping back against Bro’s shoulder as you let out a shaky breath. As he slides his hand along your length slowly, you almost melt into his fingers and your attempts to move forward are halted by the hand still pushed beneath your shirt, yanking you firmly backwards against his chest.

It’s almost painfully embarrassing when you let slip a frustrated whine, far too high pitched and needy to gain you any kind of pride in the situation. And he just laughs at you, quiet and low as his hand pulls away slowly, leaving you to give a groan in need.

“Patience, kid, you’ll get what you want…”

He pulls his glove off with his teeth, letting it drop to the floor before you can hear him spit into his palm. And his other hand starts to rub slow circles against your chest, his own hips rolling forward against your lower back so that you reach behind you to grasp tightly around his thighs.

When the hand pushes back into your underwear, you thrust forward into the warm, wet palm. Moaning softly, he squeezes against you lightly, sliding against your erection frustratingly slow before he starts to pick up a pace.

Fingers sliding, lips pressed just below your ear, nails scratching slowly across your chest, he hasn’t even undressed you but he has you more turned on than you have ever been in your whole life. You have to move an arm to loop back around his neck for support as your legs start to shake, feeling as thought they could give out beneath you at any moment.

For every moan you let spill, he only moves his hand faster around you, making your toes curl in your sneakers and your cheeks turn feverish, dark hair sticking to your forehead. Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, nails digging in against his skin in an attempt to put across exactly how he was making you feel.

Because you were like a spring, all coiled up and, embarrassingly, it doesn’t take all that long for you to release the building pressure. You come with a cry of his name, back arching away from his chest as he simultaneously sucks hard against the now overly sensitive skin of your neck. Spilling into the boxers he hadn’t even bothered removing, you cover his fingers in your release as he strokes you through your finish.

When he pulls his hand back out of your messed boxers, his other hand also slips out from beneath your shirt, taking away the support that had been helping you to stay on your feet. Your hand uncurls from around his neck and your shaking legs take you to your knees, panting and shocked as you stare down at the carpet, shades knocked askew on your face.

“Fuck…”

“Heh, being that turned on really suits you, Egbert.”

You turn a head in his direction, watching him move to sit back in his computer chair, seeming not to care about the obvious tent in his own boxer shorts. He smirks your way, lifting his hand to lick at the sticky fingers before you see his head tilt a little, knowing that he was settling his gaze back on you from behind the shades.

“You can head back to your party now if you wish,” He gives a slight nod towards the door and you glance towards it before your attention fixes back on him, “I’m sure Dave would be just as excited as I was to see you dressed like that.”

You swallow, briefly wondering what he meant by that before you straighten the shades on your face, clumsily pushing yourself to your feet again. Your boxers feel sticky and uncomfortable, and your skin was still flushed and marked from his bites and scratches. And as your fingers twitch back against the red sleeves, you come to the realization that you didn't want to head back to the party at all.

Lips twitching upwards into a grin, you see him cock an eyebrow in response, his shades following you as you take quick steps, not towards the door but towards him.

“Actually, I've been thinking that if it wasn't too much trouble for you… I’d maybe like to stay.” Your fingertips hit the bend of his knee, lightly brushing upwards along his thigh, “You see, I think it would be really rude not to return what you have given me, right?”

You lean forward, hand reaching for his shades as you work your lower lip with your teeth nervously.

And for once, you witness Bro Strider not giving a smirk or a sneer, but a genuine smile as he pulls you quickly onto his lap.

Chapter 2: => Be Dave Strider

Notes:

I was entirely planning on leaving this as a one-shot kind of thing but I got a few messages on tumblr and people commenting saying they wanted to see more. You may or may not have unleashed my Bro/Dave/John feelings everywhere, I hope you are proud.

This one isn't quite as smutty as the last so take this nice song to go with it instead

Your name is Dave Strider and never have you been quite as drunk as what you are now.

But then again, that had always been part of the plan you had formulated weeks ago when you first decided to have this party. Step one: get yourself drunker than an alcoholic in a fucking brewery. Step two: use newly found liquid confidence to tell your best friend exactly how you feel about him.

And as of now, the time reading 1am and the room swaying pleasantly through the tint of your shades, you could successfully say that you have climbed that first step. You were practically stumbling and tripping on the edge of that first step you were so damn wasted. But you weren’t going to let that stop you from climbing higher. Because, fuck, you weren’t going to chicken out and let this opportunity, let him, slip from your grasp.

You aren’t entirely sure at what point the feelings you had for a certain John Egbert evolved from friendship to something more; you’re only sure that they came fast and hard, relentless almost. They racked your brain every time he smiled your way, and they sent your blood pounding every time he touched you. They were what coursed through your veins when you had watched him fall asleep besides you all those times he had slept over, the tightness in your chest each time he pulled you in for a brohug.

God fucking damn John Egbert.

And god fucking damn him for going missing when you needed him the most.

You push your way through to the kitchen, where you had last seen him drinking your apple juice, his cheeks pleasantly flushed from the drink before he’d absconded. He’s not there anymore, of course he isn’t, that had been at least half an hour ago? Had he gone home without telling you?

Nerves twist in your stomach and you pray you aren’t going to be sick, waving away a beckoning Jade with a small frown. Jesus, you’re sure you hadn’t invited this many people. It was too busy. Full of people that weren’t John.

You head for the stairs, biting back a comment at the couple sprawled out across three steps in a heavy makeout session. Telling them to get a room would only result in your bedroom probably being under the assault of their teenage hormones and you’d rather not want to think about that.

Mumbling beneath your breath, one palm pressed against the wall to keep yourself straight as you climbed the stairs, you half wish you hadn’t drank that last double vodka, your head spinning and your feet fumbling on the last step.

“Fuckin- uh.”

You cut off, eyes falling on a figure up ahead which looks scarily like… well, you.

It was your record shirt, and your skinny jeans, and even your damn spare pair of shades resting slightly wonky on the bridge of his nose, but it was most definitely not you. Because the shirt hung too long and loose, and the arms of the shades hooked into wildly messy dark hair you were far too familiar with.

“John?”

His cheeks were flushed the darkest you’d ever seen them, his hands quickly fiddling with his hair to pat it down as his lips drop open. He seems shocked to see you, unprepared even, but you’re far too drunkenly absorbed in the fact that he was wearing your clothes to wonder why. Fuck, he’s almost the perfect image of what you’d want to see the morning after. Just him wearing your clothes, cheeks pink. The only thing missing was that smile.

“D-Dave! I-I was just coming to see you now. I’ve been… uh.”

“You’re wearing my clothes.”

Well done for stating the fucking obvious, Strider. You inwardly curse yourself, taking a step forward and hoping that it wasn’t too unbalanced for John to guess how drunk you were.

“Well, yeah! I thought it might be funny, y’know, like a prank. But then I was… uhm.”

You have to admit that you’re barely focusing on his words, more rather, your gaze is set firmly on the movement of those lips, the small flash of teeth when he gives a nervous laugh. You lick at your own lips almost in reflex, hands twitching by your sides out of want to touch him, hold him, do anything but fucking stand there staring at him.

“I… I have something to tell you.”

Okay, good start, and you pretend not to notice the way his expression falls a little, almost as if he already knew. As if he was just preparing himself to turn you down and kick you to the fucking curb like you half expected him to. But no, fuck, you were not backing out now.

“I think I have something to tell you too. But I don’t- I don’t know how to…”

For the first time, you wish he wasn’t wearing your shades. Because his eyes were one of your favourite parts about him, the bright blue in contrast to the dark lashes, the way they were so wonderfully expressive, like reading an open book. It was difficult to read him now, difficult even to stand without swaying slightly, or hear him without having the loud music and sound of people talking interrupting.

So you step towards him, fingers curling around the red of his shirt sleeve to tug him after you as you pull him into your bedroom. He puts up little resistance, letting you close the door behind the two of you, flicking the bedroom light on to drown you both in its dull yellow light .

He looks small stood in the clutter of your bedroom, his teeth pulling at his lower lip repetitively in a way that might have had you wondering why he seemed so nervous, if you weren’t already busy focused on how much you’d rather be kissing those lips.

You barely even realize you’d moved closer until you were close enough to touch him, close enough to see the outline of his eyes through the shades. So you reach up and you pull them away, revealing wide, almost scared eyes, causing your grip against the shades to tighten before you drop them carelessly to the floor. You’ve never been quite so terrified of anything before in your whole life.

And it’s almost enough to make you drunkenly laugh at yourself. Every sword held to your neck, every strife that had almost sent you toppling over the edge of your apartment block roof, every time Bro had stitched you up after slashing you. None of those times could even compare to the way this stupid, blue eyed boy made you feel.

Heart racing, breath catching, fingers shaking. Just… terrified.

“Dave, I-“

“No. Shut up,” you cut him off and his brow creases a little at your almost rude interruption, “I need you to think about something for me… and you have to promise that you will actually do it and you won’t just hit me square in the fucking jaw for even suggesting it… Do you promise?”

His mouth falls open, eyes darting across your expression before you see him give a small nod, his mouth snapping shut so that he could swallow.

“Promise.”

You breathe out, slow and long, hands coming up to rest against the tops of John’s arms, partly because your blood was drowning in alcohol and you needed to stay steady, but also partly because you loved to feel him warm and alive under your fingertips.

“You’re my best friend, y’know. Like, I don’t think… I’ve ever had a greater friend than you,” And you catch something painful flash across his expression, but you choose to ignore it, continuing, “But have you ever… thought about us? I mean, me and you, but in a way that’s different to us being friends?”

“Different?”

“Yeah, different.”

You raise a single blonde eyebrow above your shades, head tilting a little to the side in question. But he doesn’t seem to want to reply anytime soon, his eyes dropped to the floor and his feet shuffling against your carpet as his lips struggle to form words.

Fuck, maybe you hadn’t been clear enough.

“John, I really like you.”

“Dave-”

“As in, wow, this kid is pretty much everything I need and want, and he has been for a long fucking time now. As in, shit, John Egbert, I like you so much more than anyone I’ve ever met please don’t leave me fucking hanging.”

The words spill faster than any other kind of confession, leaving you empty, hollow, needing John to help fill the silence you’d dug the two of you into. And he’s all tense under your fingers, or maybe you’re just holding on too tight. You think that might be the case, so you uncurl your fingers from him, running a hand through your hair out of need to doing something, anything.

“This is not what I was… I’ve just been… oh god,” John words send your stomach sinking and your fairly sure that it’s obvious from the look on your face because his lips tip down into a frown when he next looks up at you.

And he seems to study you for an awful long time, and the cogs must be whirring in his head because he’s chewing at his lip in the way he only does when deep in thought. But all you can do is stand there, shaking slightly, cheeks burning and lips set in a thin line. You have the impending sense that you’d royally fucked up the only friendship you’d let affect your heart.

Your eyes snap tightly shut behind your shades, feet stepping back despite how heavy they feel. You wonder where you could go to get away, because John was here in your room and the thought of heading back into the party after this kind of rejection made you want to throw up.

“I’m sorry, can I be alone, I just want-“

“Dave.”

You startle, the sound of your name sourced from right there in front of you, the warm breath fanning across your cheek. And you drunkenly let your eyes peek open to ascertain that, yes, John had moved closer again, even closer than before actually. So that when you lean forward slightly, his lips brush against your cheek.

He’s so painfully everything that you want, it feels uncomfortable in your chest. It’s pathetic that you think you might cry, knowing that no amount of alcohol could be the excuse for you to start bawling on his fucking shoulder over how much you’d fucking fallen for your damn best friend.

But there was hardly time to even consider tears when you feel a warm wet pressure push against your lips, spurring you into shocked action as you wrap arms around his waist, tugging him further into the kiss.

His chest is pulled up against your own, and although he had been the one to start the kiss, his lips feel slack beneath your own, unresponsive. Your fingers grip tightly against the back of his shirt, your shirt, and you pray for more of a reaction from him. You hope to god that he hadn’t realized how much of a mistake this was.

You catch his lower lip gently between your own, sucking against it lightly, kissing him softly and slowly with hands gripping tightly against him. All you’d wanted was the taste of these lips.

And then it happens. The soft press back he returns, the slide of his hands along your arms as they move to hook around the back of your neck. He was kissing you back.

You swear you hear about a thousand fucking brain circuits short out all at once. Because he was starting to move his lips back against your own kiss, tempting you further with a swipe of his tongue against your top lip. You meet it with your own, lips parting and head tilting so that you can flick against his teeth gently, feel him reply with a slow scrape of a bite against your lip.

You share a breath, hot and slow into each other’s mouths and your skin tickles when he cards a set of fingers through your hair. He tastes of something familiar on your tongue, but you can’t quite place it, barely find yourself to care. Not when his head was tipping, lips switching to a new angle in the way they sucked and pressed against your kiss.

You both moved as though you might break each other if you moved too quickly, tasting each other, testing each other out. It was loving, caring, more than full of lust and stupid teenage hormones. It was exactly how you imagined it would be to kiss your best friend.

Pulling back a little to catch your breath, he sends you a grin that has the corners of your own lips tugging upwards. Fuck, was it wrong to think that you might even be in love with him? Or was it only right after being friends for four whole years and then just having the best time of your fucking life kissing him?

“You…? Uhm, huh.”

Wow, Dave, had you always been this great with words?

“That was kind of way different to what I thought it might be,” John says quietly and you can feel his fingers playing with the ends of your hair. His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and he was still wearing that dorky grin. Yeah, you’re pretty sure you love this kid.

“I know, I was expecting the world to implode as soon as our lips touched. So I guess this is a little anticlimactic and all, but I think I can make do. At least this way I can kiss you again without having the fear of an apocalyptic response.”

You’re glad the power of speech seemed to have returned to you, figuring that if you’d probably scare John away of the only thing you could utter after kissing him was ‘uhm’.

“Oh, so you think you’re entitled to another kiss, do you?”

He raises his eyebrows up at you cheekily, pressing his body closer to you at the same time so that you can feel something inside you become unhinged.

“I think I’m going to never stop kissing you now that I know you won’t kick me in the gut for attempting it, Egbert. You’re pretty much stuck with me, now.”

And you push a kiss to his cheek, feeling the hot skin press beneath your lips, wanting more. Trailing kisses down along his jaw, he giggles and squirms, his grip around the back of your neck tightening and encouraging you on. You could probably spend the whole night kissing him like this, showering him with affection you’ve kept built up for far too long.

But you stop. Lips frozen just above his neck as you feel a shiver run cold down your spine. Because your gaze had fixed on the dark red mark sitting bold against the pale of John’s skin, just below his ear. There was no mistaking that it was a lovebite. And you have experienced your fair share of those to know that this one was new, fresh… and definitely not caused by you.

John senses that you had tensed up against him, his head tilting a little to look at you curiously, wondering why you’d stopped. So you run a finger against the red mark on his neck, tracing it lightly with a shaking fingertip and catching his eye from behind your shades.

“Who…?”

You don’t even need to finish the question to know the answer, your insides twisting unpleasantly as it all slots together like the pieces of a fucking jigsaw. The way you’d found John stood outside his room, the way he’d been shocked, almost guilty to see you, the mess of his hair. Even the way he’d talked to you, told you that he had something to say. And, oh god, the way he had tasted.

And then there was this. Harsh, and red, and blooming darker. The strongest evidence of all that your best friend, and the only person you could admit to loving, had already been taken, marked, owned by none other than your own brother.

“D-Dave… it was just, I don’t...”

But you aren’t even listening anymore, anger burning hot and red in your vision as you slip out of John’s grasp, throwing open your bedroom door hard enough so that it slams against the wall with a heavy thud. John was scrambling after you but you turn to send him a glare so fierce that, even with your shades hiding your eyes, he halts in your doorway, mouth falling open helplessly.

It wasn’t John you were angry at. Of course it wasn’t. It was him. It was the way he had done this to John in the exact same way he’d done it to you, trapping you, making you feel like it was right to be touched and kissed by him.

When you reach for his door to swing it open without knocking, you’re still swaying from the drink a little, your expression twisted into a look of pure fury and hurt. You were a mess, and he glanced across at you so coolly from where he sat. Wearing nothing but his boxers, you wonder how much he made John do the undressing of him.

He gives the tiniest of knowing smirks in your direction, tipping back in his computer chair, and you can only think of one thing.

You were going to kill him.