So, this whole thing started when my little bro Nev and I were running dry of good sub!Dave fanfics. And I was stupidly like, “Screw it, I’ll just write one,” and Nev was like, “DO IT.” So then I was morally obligated to do it. I like a lot of plot with my porn though, so bear with me through the exposition and such—it’ll get good. :)
So, in case it wasn’t obvious, this is going to generally be nsfw starting with the next chapter. It’ll contain BDSM (obviously), and while I doubt any triggers will come up, I’ll tag them if they do.
So thanks for reading and bearing with me as exposition dump this first chapter. \o/
Your name is John Egbert, and you are not a homosexual. No, you’re pretty sure the best way to describe you is Davesexual. Ok, so you’ve been informed by a certain lavender-texted party that the term is demisexual, but it’s basically the same thing since you can’t imagine yourself being with anyone but Dave Strider. You’ve only been dating for about ten months, but since you’ve been friends almost your whole lives, you’re already really comfortable with each other.
Ok, so Dave may still have some weird paranoid defence mechanisms from living with Bro that didn’t fully abate in four years of living in dorms during undergrad, so “comfortable” may not be the right word. But it’s getting there.
Dave texted you awhile ago saying he’d be a bit late getting home. You’d asked him why, of course, thinking he might be hurt or sick or something else dire. At least his obnoxiously enigmatic response of “youll see,” though annoyingly vague, probably indicated he wasn’t lying half-dead on the pavement somewhere.
About half an hour later, you’re in the throes of channel surfing, ignoring a lab report (med school is lame), when you hear a key in the lock. You turn to look at your boyfriend from your position half-sunk in the couch. He’s carrying a bag from that Asian restaurant you love, and the smell of fish and fried rice wafts toward you. Before you can comment, Dave throws a movie at you: The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It’s the only recent Cage flick you haven’t seen yet, and you’ve been dying to watch it—but Dave wouldn’t sit through this voluntarily.
“Jeez, Dave, my birthday isn’t for another month!”
“Yeah, I know.”
He definitely wants something. He only buys dinner without prompting by way of apology for something or when he wants to be able to guild you into something. And he hasn’t been any more of a dick than normal lately, so he must be about to lay something big on you. And with a Cage movie to boot—this must be serious business. You’re torn between amusement and nervousness, but mostly, you just want to know what the fuck is going on.
==> Be the guy who knows what the fuck is going on
Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re not sure you know what the fuck is going on either. Actually, you’re kind of flipping the fuck out right now, and that weird look your boyfriend is giving you is not helping. You try to keep your cool as you walk over and drop the bag of food on the coffee table between your crappy sofa and shitty TV. You then drop yourself onto said crappy sofa beside John. You’re definitely chill as fuck.
“So how was work? John asks, starting to unpack the food.
You grab the DVD and put in in the player. “Only slightly more excruciating than having my eyes skewered with those little cocktail swords and-“
“Ok, stop.” You laugh nervously as you resume your post in your personal dent in the couch. So, better than usual?”
“Yeah. Class ok?”
“Yeah, today we—Dave, is this sushi?”
“No, it’s your grandmother’s dentures, lightly toasted, then seasoned with a blend of-“
“Ugh, Dave, shut up.” You smile as he rolls his eyes. “That was a rhetorical question.”
“I don’t do rhetorical questions.”
“Yeah, I know. But really, why do you have sushi? It’s gross! Do you even know how much nasty microscopic stuff might be living on this?”
“Nope. Don’t care.” You snatch your meal from him and crack apart the shitty free chopsticks (because getting an actual pair would require getting up). “Don’t blame me that parasitology worsened your already questionable taste in food.”
“My taste is questionable, Mr. Let’s-Eat-Pizza-and-Apple-Juice-Every-Day? Pfft, yeah, right.”
You’re about to argue, saying that you also would add Asian takeout to that list, but maybe you shouldn’t ruin this delicately planned movie night by arguing. So you keep your mouth shut and hit play.
==> Be the really confused guy
You are definitely really confused. Dave bought you dinner (which was thoroughly cooked pad thai, you were pleased to discover), is watching a Cage flick with you and adding only minimal negative commentary, and refuses to take any of the bait to argue with or tease you. You haven’t even been able to coax more than a couple SBAHJ references out of him all evening. You’re not sure who this guys is or what he did with the real Dave Strider, but he’s really boring.
As the movie’s credits begin to roll, you pick up the final fortune cookie (you always get two entrees each—you’re growing boys, and you get double the complementary fortune cookies, too). You’re about to wrestle it out of its packaging when Dave shifts suddenly.
“John?” Calling you by your first name. That doesn’t bode well.
“Yes?” you reply, placing the unopened fortune cookie back down.
“I don’t really know how to say this in a way that’s not as awkward as two-“
“No similes, Dave.” The buildup to this point has left you no patience for Dave to dance around the issue like he usually does. “No figurative language of any kind, ok?” Is he breaking up with you? You thought everything was going really well! But there was that one thing… “Just tell me.”
“Ok, I… Shit, I don’t…” He buries his face in his hands, but you can see that his ears are red.
“Come on, Dave! Spit it out! It’s ok!”
“I haven’t even told you what it is,” he says, voice muffled by his hands. “You don’t know if it’s ok.”
“Well, try me.”
Dave looks up to stare straight ahead at the credits rolling by. “You remember how, after that New Year’s party, you were completely hammered, and when we got home, you pinned me to the bed and refused to let me move or talk or anything until I let you fuck me?”
Oh. That. That was something you wish you could forget. The next morning, when you realised what you’d done, you were terrified Dave was just going to pack up his stuff and leave. The first time you went that far together shouldn’t have been like that. “Yeah. I remember.”
“I actually…” (Oh shit, oh shit, he’s going to leave.) “liked it.”
You’re pretty sure you didn’t hear that right. “What?”
He turns to look you in the eye through the shades he still refuses not to wear. “I liked it.”