Chapter Text
CHAPTER I
==> John: Get the expository shit out of the way
Your name is John Egbert and you've been unwittingly thrown into a road trip by none other than your best bro, Dave Strider.
After finishing up your first year at UCLA, you're meeting up with your friends Rose Lalonde and Jade Harley at the Lalondes' summer home. It's situated on Lake Champlain in Plattsburgh, New York which, in case you haven't noticed, is all the way across the country. You assumed you'd fly there since it's much farther away than Washington or Texas, but no, your roommate had other plans.
Of course, he didn't tell you his plans - that would've spoiled the fun - but he did ask Rose and Jade to play along so you were completely in the dark. He swore he bought the plane tickets, so you believed him and packed your bags, jumping into the car at five A.M. to catch the alleged flight. It was only after you rifled through his stuff looking for the tickets and almost had a panic attack when you couldn't find them that he told you the truth.
Instead of a six-hour flight, you guys were in for a four-day road trip for "ironic purposes".
You were so pissed. You exchanged barbs with Dave until you devolved into full-out shouting at him, hating how he kept his cool while you called him a fucking hipster who thought commercial airlines were "too mainstream". He listened with a straight face as you ranted about his obsession with irony and how you couldn't stand it when he pulled shit like this. It wasn't until you finally ran out of steam that he spoke again.
"Would you rather get molested by the TSA and deal with a goddamn baby screaming in your ear for six hours or spend four days on the road with your best bro who, by the way, put a ton of fucking thought into this?"
As he focused on the road, fingers tight around the steering wheel, you realized Dave wasn't doing this out of irony. Yes, he didn't want to deal with the pat-downs and shrieking kids, but that wasn't it.
He just wanted to spend time together, away from any distractions.
Unsure what to say, you sighed and rubbed the back of your neck. You broke the awkward silence with an apology, but made it clear that while a four-day drive with your best friend sounded awesome, whatever intentions he had, you just wished he'd asked first. You wanted to feel like your opinion mattered.
Dave said you'd have to be a goddamn idiot to think he didn't care what you thought. To prove it, he told you to open the red duffel bag in the back seat. You raised an eyebrow as you slid the zipper open and god, were you surprised.
Inside the bag was a portable DVD player, a menagerie of Matthew McConaughey and Nicolas Cage movies, and the authentic stuffed rabbit from the actual set of Con Air, which Dave got you back on your thirteenth birthday.
You would've tackled him with a bro hug right then and there if it wouldn't have caused a major crash. Better to save that for the last day of the trip, like in the movies.
So, you put on Con Air and forced Dave to reenact the final scene with you, music and everything. He'd complied without complaint and you swore he was trying so hard not to laugh, already losing the battle against smiling. You're just glad he was willing to entertain the whims of a dork like you.
Of course, that only lasted for so long. When you stopped for gas, he threw the keys at your chest. The message was clear: Your turn to drive.
So, with the fight forgotten and the parkway wide open, you embarked on the official start of the road trip of all road trips.
Still, you've decided that next year, Rose and Jade are coming to California. Aside from avoiding another fight over transportation, you want to show them all the gorgeous beaches, from Venice to Cabrillo. You like to imagine the four of you running around in the water like it's a film shoot for a low-budget music video.
Well, everyone but Dave because unlike you, he would rather create sick beats with his turntables than go to the beach. In fact, he's "too cool to frolic in the ocean". He won't go unless you beg him to, and even then he just sits on a towel in a t-shirt and black jeans, watching you flail in the surf through the Ben Stiller shades you bought him years ago.
You thought the irony would have worn off by now, but here he is nine years later, resting in the passenger seat with the same shades over his eyes.
So here you are, only three hours into your part of the drive with a purposely shitty mix CD Dave made blasting out the windows. ("A man can only take so much Nic Cage," he'd said as he slipped it in, and although it was fun to riff on "California Gurls" and "Call Me Maybe", you're getting strange urges to smack the stereo with a hammer). Now he's telling you to take the next exit to get some McDonalds.
You have no problem with that, signaling as you shift into the exit lane. The car glides down the ramp as you follow the signs, the Golden Arches to your right. Once you pull into the drive-through, Dave tells you that you're getting happy meals. You don't know why, but you have a hunch it has something to do with being ironic.
You decide to entertain him.
==> Order happy meals to be ironic
"Welcome to McDonalds," a woman's voice crackles through the intercom. "How can I help you today?"
"Hi, I'd like to order two happy meals. Both with apple juice, McNuggets and fries."
"Make sure to throw in a Rainbow Dash toy," Dave says, climbing over your lap to reach the intercom. In doing so, he makes sure to elbow you in the face, just enough to knock your glasses off-balance.
"Dude, chill," you say as you push him off, fixing your glasses. "You'll get what you get."
"No, man, it has to be Rainbow Dash." You raise an eyebrow and chuckle.
"Man, when did you become such a brony?" You can't see his eyes behind his shades, but you know he's rolling them.
"It's not for me, dumbass. I want to make my bro flip his shit, and he won't unless it's Rainbow Dash."
"I can't imagine your bro flipping his shit over anything."
"Of course not," Dave says, thrusting his index finger in your face. "That's the Striders' number one rule: never break face, never let anyone inside your head."
Now it's your turn to roll your eyes.
"Sorry, I'm missing the ironic point here."
"That's because your idea of irony is making a Nic Cage bear at Build-A-Bear Workshop."
"Come on! That was totally ironic!"
"Sir!"
You both jump as the intercom bursts to life. The lady does not sound pleased.
"Sir, you're holding up the line. Will that be all?"
"Yes," you answer, a bit sheepish. She gives you your total (ten bucks for two happy meals, she's got to be kidding you) and you drive up to the next window.
Or at least you would if there weren't a million cars in front of you. You groan. Someone's trying to pay exact change again, and oops, they just can't seem to find that dime.
"Holding up the line," Dave mutters, folding his arms behind his head. "Like it's that big a deal." You snort.
"Says the guy who demanded a Rainbow Dash toy."
"Shut up, you don't know my bro. I'm going to rub her in his fucking shades. I'll take her everywhere I go - to the table, to the bathroom, to my fucking bed. And it will drive him batshit. He won't show it, no, a Strider never shows it, but I'll know it and he'll know it and that's all that fucking matters."
Shifting onto his knees, Dave leans in and stares you in the eye. This close, you can see through his shades and man, no matter how many times you've seen his eyes, you can't get over that striking red color. You've learned to shut up by now because aside from smuppets, there is nothing Dave hates more than when people gush about his eyes.
"So," Dave says, his voice sinking to a husky tone, finger pressed lightly against your chest, "there better be a Rainbow Dash in my happy meal."
You convince yourself that this isn't the slightest bit attractive
"Geez, such a smooth talker," you say with a nervous smirk as you smack his finger away. "Better stop before you make me swoon."
"Don't fight it. All the bitches drop their panties once they hear the name 'Strider'."
"Oh, just take me now!" you cry, clutching your heart with all the cheesy mock-drama you can muster. "I can't bear to wait another minute!"
You see him fight the smile weaving its way onto his face. He loses it for a moment, a split second of an upturned grin before he sets it straight again.
"Sorry, I'm not that easy," he says, legs spread and arms propped on the arm rests. "It's going to take more than a happy meal to get in these pants."
"What if I bought you a new set of turntables for Christmas?"
"Damn, you drive a hard bargain. I just might have to bump you up the Strider to-do list."
You laugh, but after a few seconds he adds, "Literally."
That makes you pause. It's something that would usually roll off your back, but it's clinging to the cliff of your shoulder instead. You guys joke about this all the time, pretending Dave's a major stud and you're some swooning schoolgirl, but something's different this time.
It's like there was more weight behind the word.
==> Affirm Dave's intent
"...Literally?" you ask, testing the waters. You don't think Dave is serious, but you want to ease the uncertainty (uncertainty, yes, it's only uncertainty) running through you.
Dave doesn't respond. He doesn't dole out a snappy one-liner or prolong the joke. Instead, he gives you the same old poker face, the one that says, "No, not literally, you dumbass."
You let out your breath, your shoulders slumping in relief as you chuckle and say, "I know, I know." But for a second there you really didn't know. You want to hit your head against the dashboard. You've known the guy for nine years and you still have moments like these, unable to discern between sarcasm and sincerity. Sometimes there really is more weight behind his words than he lets on.
The same goes for you. When you call him a smooth talker, you're not entirely joking. You like the rhythm of his voice, fit for a rapper of his skill level. It's without a hint of the exaggerated Southern drawl you expected from a Texan. Dave says it's just another faction of his awesome irony, but you wonder if you should blame your assumption on movie stereotypes and bad reality TV.
You finally reach the pay window. It's a quick exchange, the cash for the happy meals, because unlike whoever was holding up the line, you have the money at the ready. You pull into a parking space to inspect your goods. Dave goes straight for the toy while you grab your apple juice and take a sip, tangy perfection.
"Shit, that bitch gave me Applejack," Dave gripes, a clear grimace on his face. You can't help but laugh as he pushes the pony's voice button, her Southern accent painfully reminiscent of Texas. It's the epitome of irony.
"Ha, ha, looks like even you can't smooth talk all the ladies!"
"Please, I've had more dates than you've had wet dreams, and that's saying something."
You flinch, glaring as your face burns. That struck a chord. As roommates, it's a well-known fact between you two that this hasn't been a dry year for you.
The worst part was that half the time they weren't even sex dreams. Classmates you'd never even talked to would start pissing and you'd wake up with a personal pair of hot pants. According to a forum you frequent, wet dreams involving piss without sex happened a lot, so that made you feel a little better. It just meant you'd have to walk around for a week apologizing to people in your head for what your subconscious did to them.
One of the few times you actually had a sex dream, you woke up with Dave next to your bed, looking down at you. You remember how he asked as a joke if it'd been about him and how mortified you were when you choked out, "Yes."
He gave you the weirdest stare and then you babbled incoherently as you tried to explain that no, you weren't into him, it was just your brain fucking with you. You remember he tried to calm you down by playing it cool, telling you it was okay. It was one of the rare times he looked genuinely concerned. You figure he felt bad for teasing you since you'd practically burst into tears.
Fuck, you're pathetic.
"Y-Yeah, but at least I've had girlfriends!" you sputter, trying to save face. "Real long-term relationships!"
"Look at you, sweet-talkin', sugar-coated candyman," Dave deadpans as he stabs his apple juice with a straw and takes a sip.
"Oh yeah, I've got lips like sugarcane."
"Good things come for boys who wait."
"Ha!" You spy a hint of blue plastic in your happy meal and grab it, holding it up in victory. "Here's to that - I got Rainbow Dash!"
"Who's the candyman now? Hand her over."
"No way. My meal, my toy."
Dave stares at you in silence as you dangle the spunky pony in the air with a wide grin. You wait for his ninja-like reflexes, snatching it away before his fingers can seize it. Your smile grows even wider on the second try.
"Fuck you, Egbert. I thought you were the pranking master. Here I am, a humble swagmaster in desperate need to make his bro flip a shit, and instead of helping me on my noble quest, you leave me out to dry. Rude, man. Just rude."
"I think you're in desperate need of a dictionary if you think you're humble."
"Burn. Third-degree. I better check into the intensive care ward because shit, that burn is sizzling like a freshly smacked plush rump."
"Oh my god, don't bring smuppet porn into this," you beg, laughing.
"Oh, it's into this all right," he says as he grabs your shoulders in the most dramatic fashion possible, "into this like all the nose dicks I saw violating the world's plushest rumps. Do you have any idea how much smuppet porn I had to go through to find his pony folder? I have seen the levels of hell, all fucking seven of them and shit, the tamest ones are BDSM and watersports."
Your laughter tapers off as you realize he's not joking, your grin replaced by a look of disbelief.
"That's right, I've seen smuppet bondage, gags, blindfolds - all that shit. I've seen smuppets purposely rigged to piss all over each other until they're soaked with kidney juice. I've seen it all."
As you take in the information, you can't help but feel disturbed and at the same time...flustered. You chalk it up to your dislike of bathroom talk. You tend to slap your hands over your ears if someone gets too descriptive about their exploits on the john.
Oh. Nice pun. Very nice. Dave would be so proud. And by proud, you mean he would shake his head in solemn silence for your now-deceased shred of wit.
Still, you note that you're not really disgusted right now. You just feel...off. Unsettled. You don't know how to explain it, other than that it makes you want to change the topic as soon as possible.
You don't have to. As you're lost in thought, Dave makes use of his stealth and snatches the Rainbow Dash toy right from your fingers. You're so shocked that you yelp and drop your apple juice, which he grabs before it hits the ground.
"Dave!" You shout, watching him drink both of your juice boxes at the same time. Rainbow Dash sits perched on his shoulder. Her spunky smile mocks you.
"Serves you right, denying a bro in need."
"Bluh, you suck."
He makes an obnoxious sucking noise with the two straws as if to agree with you. You roll your eyes, groan, and grab your fries instead. Whatever. You're not that thirsty anyway.
Shit, these fries are salty.
==> Get back on the road
You finish your meal, throw out the trash and, after deciding you guys don't need a bathroom break, get back on the road. It's going to take at least four days to get to New York, and that's without factoring in traffic. You don't have any time to waste. Setbacks must be kept to a minimum.
Twenty minutes later, you're stuck in stand-still traffic. So much for that.
Your eye follows the lines of stationary cars down the road in search of the source. It isn't long before you realize this isn't a simple merge or construction zone issue. It's much more complicated than that.
You switch to the radio and scan the airwaves until you find the traffic channel. It turns out there's been a huge collision way ahead of you and cars are backed up for miles. You both groan. This blows. You could be stuck here for hours.
==> Be stuck here for hours
You've been slowly inching forward for two and a half hours now, entertaining yourselves with rap battles, Truth or Truth (your dares pretty much resulted in shit like "bleat like a goat"), and the Story Game. Now, you've run out of fodder, so you're stuck with a banal game of I-Spy.
"Dave."
He doesn't respond. You figure he's bored, the way he gazes out the window, though you'd like to think you're more interesting than a bunch of trees.
"Dave," you say, a little more forceful this time. He turns to you.
"What?" The word is sharp, annoyed. You feel a little intimidated.
"...Uh, it's your turn."
"Fine. I spy with my little eye a dork named John Egbert."
You raise an eyebrow. Well, that was rude.
"You okay?" The last time you saw him this irritable, he was neck-deep in a pile of smuppets. It was a great prank, but you paid for it dearly.
"Fucking peachy," he snaps. "Like a steamy cobbler fresh off the bakery rack."
You decide to back off. He's probably just pissy because you're stuck in traffic.
It's ten more minutes before you notice the tension in Dave's shoulders. You see his fingers grip the upholstery and every now and then he readjusts his seatbelt with a grimace, as if it's cutting into his abdomen.
What spikes your curiosity the most is that he won't stop staring out the window. His neck strains to the right, past the line of cars, so you stretch your own to see what's caught his eye. All you find is a sign on the side of the road:
REST AREA - 2 MILES
It doesn't click until you look at him again. There's a certain stress running through his thin frame, from his claw-like fingers to his pressed-together thighs.
Oh.
"You know what?" you say as a wide grin breaks out on your face. "It's my turn. I spy with my little eye a guy who should've used that bathroom back at McDonalds."
Dave's head snaps toward you and you can feel the blaze of his glare behind those shades. Looks like you got inside his head. So much for that number one Strider rule.
"Fuck you, I have a Strider-patented bladder of steel."
"Ha, that's some weak steel if you're squirming over two juice boxes!"
"I haven't pissed since three A.M., so how about you shut up and drive the fucking car?"
You do shut up, but that's because you're attempting math during the summer. You left the house at five and you've been on the road for ten hours now, so it's around three in the afternoon.
Twelve hours.
He hasn't pissed in half a day.
"Strider-patented bladder of steel," he says, a little smug.
"Dude, that can't be healthy!"
"My bladder's on a completely different level than your mediocre urine sack. It's the goddamn king of all bladders, holding all his liquor, downing all the shots."
You roll your eyes. "Whatever, this is your car. I'm not cleaning it up if you pee yourself."
The words feel strange as they roll off your tongue. You're not sure why you chose them. You almost wish you hadn't said them.
You sigh and focus on the road.
There's not much to focus on, just a bunch a cars stopping and stalling. You often glance back to Dave, who is preoccupied by his situation. One of his hands curls into a fist as the other gives his crotch an occasional squeeze. As the minutes pass, the number of squeezes increases until he's constantly holding himself, and the more you watch, the more you sense a stirring inside that you haven't quite placed yet.
"Fuck!"
You jump as Dave shouts, both hands between his legs, a stifled whine in the back of his throat. You observe how he trembles, teeth grit, eyebrows knit, his head thrown back and spine arched as he fights a wave of urgency. You sit in silence, awestruck by the scene in front of you and once again, something's...off.
Then you feel it.
There's a twitch, a familiar tension against your jeans, and a light flush on your face as your confusion grows by the second. This doesn't make sense. There's no reason for you to get turned on right now, unless it's one of those "surprise erections".
Dave lets out a shaky sigh as the worst of the wave passes, his posture still rigid and legs clasped tight. You watch him squirm in his seat, hands pressed between his thighs, panting softly. A strained sound escapes him and you freeze up.
Fuck, that twitch was strong.
==> Realize how fucked up you are
Unfortunately, you're way too naive to realize how fucked up you are.
In fact, the voice in your head screaming, "Danger! Danger! You're heading into fucked-up territory!" is completely drowned out by the one panting, "Oh god, so turned on."
You grip the steering wheel harder as you watch him fidget. He rubs his legs together, hands digging into his crotch as his neck strains to survey the lines of stopped cars. The "REST AREA - NEXT RIGHT" sign is a cruel reminder and he scowls at it, too focused on his predicament to maintain his stoic mask. Lucky for you, this also means he hasn't noticed the fine tent in your pants.
The traffic starts to move again. It takes a few seconds for you to roll the car forward. After all, you were too busy watching the imminent accident in front of you, almost thankful for the one that put you in this situation.
Then you feel bad for thinking such a thing because the people in the crash could be really hurt. They could be in a coma or bleeding on the pavement. They could be clinging to a stuffed rabbit for dear life in hopes of giving it to their daughter. Oh god, now you're worried Nicolas Cage was in the car crash.
"Egbert."
"Huh?" you ask, brought back to your senses. Dave is staring at you and from the way he's trembling, legs crossed, it's clear he's in a bad state. "What?"
"Pull the car over," he says, trying to keep his cool, but the desperation leaks straight through. You like this tone to his voice, breathy, the pitch higher than usual.
"Dude, there's a rest stop up ahead. Just hold it."
"My bladder's about to let go like a sexually-repressed businessman at the annual holiday party, and you want me to fucking hold it." His voice is laced with venom, but the sharp hitch in his breath almost makes you shudder.
"We're bumper-to-bumper in the middle lane, so I'm sorry, but you don't really have a choice. We're almost past the crash, so chill."
He groans but doesn't argue. His legs are restless, changing positions every few seconds. He practically bounces in the seat, and the rustle of his jeans reminds you of your own need for friction.
You inch the car forward every few seconds, trying to match the gradual incline of speed as the cars in the front observe the accident and then zip away. Dave starts to whimper and each time it goes straight to your cock. You glance at him as he massages his crotch, a tight grasp intermittent with strokes and shaky breaths. His hips rock against the seat, rolling into his hands, and you just want to tear them away and watch him piss.
"Oh my fucking god, stop staring and fucking move!" Dave shouts at the other drivers, unable to mask his desperation anymore. All of his efforts are into keeping his pants dry. Just the thought makes you throb harder, and you suppress a groan. You try not to think about how the hiss of his urine would sound inside his jeans, flooding over his hands to form a warm puddle under his thighs.
Shit, he's not the only one losing control.
In a moment you thought would never come, you finally reach the end of the traffic. You hurry past the accident, not even sparing a glance. Okay, so you took a quick glance. One of the cars had been reduced to a smoking exoskeleton. That's not something you can just ignore.
There are a lot of things you can't just ignore right now.
"Okay, now hold on," you say, as much to yourself as it is to him. "We're almost there."
"Pull the car over."
"But the rest stop-"
"Pull the fucking car over!"
"Dave, it's right there, just-"
"John!"
That grabs your attention. If calling you by your first name weren't enough of a clue, the strangled cry on his lips as he hunches over with a death-grip on his crotch is a downright confession.
"John, it's coming out, please!"
Twitch.
Fuck, he's seriously going to pee his pants if you don't pull over right now. That thought paired with the desperate pleas spilling out of his mouth makes your throbbing cock swell even more. It's funny, almost ironic, how you're both not going to last much longer.
Scratch that, this is so not funny. You need to pull over right now if you don't want to crash and have the autopsy report conclude it another case of "Death by Boner".
==> Pull over, asshole
You immediately signal and shift into the right lane before skidding to the side. Dave is out before you can even stop the car, over the rail and down the hill. You curse and leave the keys in the ignition as you follow him down because watching Dave piss himself is suddenly higher on the priority echeladder than making sure no one steals the car.
It's official. You're a horrible person.
Your boner rubs against your jeans as you sprint, and fuck, you're dangerously close to the edge. A few more twitches and you'll become an honorary member of The Lonely Island, your jizz-soaked pants a temporary badge. You don't even care. All you can think about is Dave and the gorgeous scene about to unfold.
"No, fuck, fuck!" Dave screams as he skids to a stop, fumbling with his fly, his legs pressed together in a futile attempt to hold off the inevitable. You catch up in a second and, stopped in your tracks, see the first spurts stain his crotch as the flood releases.
Oh god, you can hear it.
You watch the wet patch grow as Dave pees down his legs, the urine's definite hiss interspersed with whimpering curses and sharp cries. Spurts stream down from his soaked crotch until he finally forces his fly open, and you see the thick yellow torrent gush out of his cock, hear it splash against the grass as he moans with relief, and oh god, oh fuck, you're going over the edge-
==> Become an honorary member of The Lonely Island
You manage to duck behind a tree, your body to the bark and your teeth to your hand as you lose control. Air rushes through your nose as you try to breathe, the orgasm so intense that you almost scream as your cock twitches harder than ever. You release, hips rolling against the slickened fabric in a warm but disgusting ecstasy as you ride it out.
And then it's over, the sound of Dave's piss splatter overlapping your hushed pants as you try to process, your pulse pounding in your neck, your blue eyes half-closed in the remnants of pleasure.
Jesus Christ, you've never climaxed so hard in your life.
==> Realize how fucked up you are