hypnotiq
Title: hypnotiq
Pairing: Dave/John
Rating: NC-17 (lots and lots of nc-17)
Warnings: The mind control here is non-consensual. There's no pain or violence, but be duly warned that consent's not given, and the fact consent's not given is obvious.
For the prompt on homesmut:
gshjhj THIS IS KIND OF A WEIRD REQUEST, but. One of my biggest kinks is in fact hypnosis.
So I was wondering if it was possible for anon to write something with Dave and John (or Bro) along those lines? Perhaps Dave accidentally (or was it) stumbled upon something in his ILL BEATS that just happens to make John susceptible to the power of suggestion? Maybe Bro is a master of words in more ways than one (ironic hypnotist)?
And naturally, someone takes advantage of that in the sexiest way possible. Get creative!
I love mind control, so this seemed like a MUST DO fill. All the comments have been awesome so far, thank you everyone whose commented and encouraged me! This is the longest fic I've ever written, by far, and also the only MC fic I've ever done, so I'm glad others are liking it.
For some reason, alchemizing a new set of turntables using cheap rhinestone jewelry and a bottle of blue booze from his Bro's poorly hidden (read: left out in plain sight) stash seemed like a good idea.
Dave was going for ridiculous, blinged-out tables that would make Lil' Jon jealous. Instead, he gets... this shit. Junky turntables with weird swirls on them, glittering oddly when he tries to scratch out some sick beats. The tables make wobbly, uneven sounds that would undoubtedly inspire next-to-no-one to shut up and jam. Thank god there's no one around to see him wince.
Who knew liquor and Icing by Claire's could make his awesome tables so shitty? Sighing, he dumps the creation into his sylladex and moves on with his life, the failed experiment slipping from his mind as easily as he slips through the time stream.
--
-- [EB] ectoBiologist began pestering [TG] turntechGodhead --
EB: hey dave!
TG: sup egbert
EB: are you still in lohac hanging around with your crocodile buddies?
TG: yeah you know me and my scaley bros are tight
TG: they definitely never tried to cook and eat me for committing all kinds of sweet financial finagling
TG: that may or may not have caused the great crocodile depression
TG: i plead the fifth on all charges
EB: haha, if you say so dave.
EB: consorts sure are silly!
EB: anyway i just wanted to make sure you're here because:
EB: (hehehe)
EB: so am i!
TG: youre what
EB: see you soon dave!
TG: wait seriously
-- [EB] ectoBiologist ceased pestering [TG] turntechGodhead --
TG: what the fuck egbert
--
Dave Strider doesn't get nervous in the face of danger. Even when faced by armies of ogres, imps, or whatever other chumps are gearing up to try and kick his ass, he barely flicks an eyebrow. His eyebrows are way too chill to flick at anything less than the most extreme situation.
For some reason, John's sudden announcement is another thing entirely. His heady proclamation - "See you soon!" - has Dave fidgeting ceaselessly with his shitty sword, rearranging his sylladex, and changing his outfit eight times, no, nine times. Just at the thought of meeting John, he feels his composure trying to flee for the border.
Racking his brain, he tries to plan out cool lines for when John appears. Maybe just a "hey, Egderp." Something casual, friendly, but a little dismissive, just to shake him up. Wouldn't want to let him get too comfortable too soon. Or maybe he'll go for a single, silent fist bump. Fist bumps are cool.
Or are they overdone? Maybe bumps are overdone by now. How many bunp jokes can one webcomic artist make? Is there a limit?
Ugh.
He keeps practicing his poker face.
--
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaave! It's so cool to finally see you!!"
How is one supposed to reply to a flying (literally, flying, the stupid magical fucker) tackle hug from the dorkiest loser on the planet?
By hugging back, of course.
--
It takes about five minutes for the initial weirdness to wear off.
They're both nervous in their own ways. Dave keeps his hands in his pockets and denies any expression that considers crossing his face. After that dangerously sentimental hug, best to keep a safe distance.
Apparently alarmed by the coolkid's stoic demeanor, John babbles, awkwardly touches Dave's arm six times (he counted), and constantly plays with his stupid God Tier hoodie. All the while he shows of those enormous font teeth of his, grinning from happiness and nerves. Dave decides he looks like a mentally challenged beaver just presented with a lifetime supply of wood. John's jokes are as stupid in real life as they are online.
Dave concludes the boy could not be lamer, or more perfect. The longer he watches John, the more it feels like a heavy weight is pressing against his chest, aching. John is oblivious, as usual. As always. Will always be.
If this is a contest between who can make a better first impression, the Heir is clearly winning. And a Knight, especially one as cool as him, just can't stand for that.
He has to show off a little.
--
"Don't you want to test your lame-ass air powers against a real player? Come on, Egbert." Dave challenges, casually resting with his shittiest jpeg-artifacted sord over his shoulder.
His tone is even, treading close to cold, but John has the audacity to laugh him off - like everything's a big damn joke - and continue digging through the pile of stuff expelled from Dave's sylladex. Dave barely resists the urge to grind his teeth.
"Hey, haha, this is glittering! What the heck is it?"
Glancing down, he winces when he realizes John's found his almost-mostly-forgotten blue turntables. Of course. Leave it to the derp to play with the lamest crap he ever alchemized. It's like the guy does this shit on purpose, just to embarrass him.
"Can I play them? I've always wanted to be a sweet-ill beat dropper, or whatever!" the Heir implores with pleading eyes and the least manly giggle ever uttered, and god, how could anyone be more of a dork?
"They're not a weapon or something, are they?"
"Nah, they're safe, but I'm warning you ahead of time they su--"
But that weird wobbly screechy awful sound cuts him off as John starts spinning the discs erratically, shutting his eyes against the wailing but still laughing, mouth wide, face open and so, so innocent--
"Dammit, Egbert!" he snaps, grabbing the tables away from him angrily. John makes a confused, wounded noise, but after a moment, his arms sink to his sides. Trying not to wonder which one of them is more pathetic, Dave turns his head to the side to hide... something, his eyes, the thin line of his mouth, all of his weakness.
"Here, I'll show you how it's done," he mutters, glaring down and seriously considering his shitty alchemization baby for the first time. There are too many buttons - half of them probably pointless - but he presses them anyway, vision and mind swimming with too many irrational feelings to care about which button does what. Placing his hands on the tables, he reminds himself that anything he tries will be a hundred times better than Egbert.
The sounds that comes out of the tables this time is no less bizarre, but considerably more tolerable. It's strange music, liquid-like, as if someone's auto-tuned a whalesong, but there's a rhythm to it - lulling, sleepy - and somehow Dave feels his tension melting away.
It must be doing the same for John, or more, because an odd look creeps over his face--one that's not enthusiastic or silly, but mellow. Who knew he could even manage that face? In fact, his bright blue eyes grow hooded, almost glazed, like a dreamer newly-awoken. Dave watches, curious, as a flush creeps onto his cheeks. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the innocent boy had been drinking. Or taking something stronger, or thinking dirty thoughts.
"Mmm, that music is really, great, Dave... I feel warm... kind of, ummm..." he trails off, smiling that goofy smile of his again.
Dave arches one eyebrow, glancing between the tables and the Heir. Only an idiot wouldn't recognize John's behavior as weird, and that weirdness started as soon as he messed with the tables. Highly suspicious.
"Earth to Egderp, you still with us on planet Heat and Clockwork?"
"Of course, Dave," he answers, but his voice is still distant. "Play it some more?"
Curiosity unsatisfied, and finding no reason to deny him, Dave settles his hands back down to the tables. This time, he closely watches the effect the wavy music has on the Heir. The longer the music continues, the more he flushes, swaying slightly in time to the rhythm. After a few minutes, or maybe more - actually, strangely for the Knight of Time, Dave has no idea how many minutes it's been - John's knees fold and carry him slowly to the floor. Even as he settles into a sitting position, his face remains serene.
Dave realizes he should probably stop now, stop staring, but John doesn't seem to care, and his feels compel to let the music plays its course. When he finally stops, his senses jolt back to life. What was he doing...? The music, of course, the music made John...
John!
John's still sitting, kneeling, staring off into space.
"Hey, dude, are you okay?" Dave asks, kneeling and waving a hand in front of his face. What was he thinking, testing out that strange instrument on him? What if he's permanently brain-damaged the idiot?
"M'fine," John mumbles back, unmoving.
"Yeah, if you want me to believe you're fine, I think I'm going to need more proof than that," he snaps in return, irritated with himself for getting carried away and losing track of time.
"What should I do?" John asks, glancing up, smiling in a new way-almost... eager, although his eyes are still half-lidded hazy pools of blue. Dave blinks, drawing back from his face, suddenly feeling defensive and flustered all over again. Worry surges up behind his eyes, but he tamps it down stubbornly, refusing to take this too seriously.
"Hell if I know, Egbert. I'd say you could do something ironic, but we both know you couldn't pull it off to save your life."
"Is there something you want me to do?"
A rush of suggestions flood to the front of Dave's mind, each threatening to spill out of his lips. Sarcasm: go fuck yourself, Egbert; a joke: why don't you do a motherfucking pirouette off the handle; teasing: like you'd ever do anything I want; sincerity: just tell me you're all right and I didn't melt your brain. Wake up, snap out of it, stop acting so weird.
Instead, he asks a question. "Would you do whatever I say?"
"Mmm, that sounds fun." A simple but infuriatingly vague response from John, with more goofy grinning. More terrible suggestions fight to escape Dave's mouth, but only one makes it out.
"Kiss me."
Dave tries to make it casual, a joke, something he can play off later when John reveals it was all a prank, ha-ha, whose the king of gay chicken now, but he means it more than he ever wants to admit--
That's when John officially blows his mind, chirps "Okay!", and kisses him.
John's lips are warm, dry but soft despite that, his breath tasting like bitter pineapples--did the tables actually get him drunk, besides putting him in this weird suggestible state? That would explain hazy eyes and the hot flush Dave feels when he touches John's cheek, grabs his shoulder and pulls him up off his knees, close, closer, too close, as their teeth and glasses clack together uncomfortably.
Startled, Dave pulls away from the flushed and breathless Heir, who sinks back onto his knees. This has to stop. John's going to hate/laugh/kill/shame him when he wakes up. He should... he should stop, but, godgodgodgod dammit.
"Again. Harder," Dave rasps, and John practically jumps him this time, grabbing his hips and kissing him open-mouthed, messy, drunken, unskilled, but completely, utterly hot. Dave's reeling mind can't help but register how the last kiss was incomparable. There's nothing shy or goofy about John now, only heat and panting and rough touches and John's hand sliding between Dave's legs and shit! He curses and shoves John off, ordering him: stop, stop. Relax.
That order's for both of them.
As quickly as it appeared, the passion floods out of John, leaving him passive and smiling once again. Told to stop, he settles back without protest, without even thinking.
Dammit, Dave can feel his barely-maintained cool fleeing for the hills, then soaring rapidly over the boiling hot horizon of LOHAC. Maybe he'll meet up with his cool later on Jade's planet, back in its natural habitat. The ache from earlier squeezes at his heart again, but he dismisses it with an internal curse. Instead, he forces a chilly logic to determine his next words.
“Listen, Egbert. If I tell you to forget and snap out of this, will you?”
“Huhhhn?” John responds, eloquent as usual. “If you want, I guess...”
What kind of a useless fucking response is that? Whatever. He knows there must be limits to John's unnatural fugue. He may as well test them before... before...
He'll finish that thought later.
“Fine. You forget what happened, stop acting weird, and wake up when I tell you to. When I sn-no, that's a lame-ass cliché. Wake up on the count of three. That's how all the sketchy hypnotists are doing it these days, isn't it?”
John just stares at him, vacant. Waiting. Not appreciating his weak attempts at irony in the least.
“Right, no help from the peanut gallery. So when I say--”
Something. He glances around, looking for ideas, before settling back on John in his dumb outfit with his dumb, dreamy blue eyes. “--blue... apple juice, you'll get all hypnotic on me again. Got that?”
“I forget and wake up... on the count of three. Then, um, I...” John pauses to giggle obliviously, biting his bottom lip and staring at a spot somewhere over Dave's left shoulder. “Umm, when you say blue applejuice, I do what you want again. I think?”
“...Close enough,” Dave says, trying not to facepalm.
Here goes nothing.
--
==> John: Be the hypnotized boy.
--
The word “three” echoes in the air.
John takes a gasping breath, aware of little more than how disoriented he feels: everything's swimming. His eyes won't focus, and his head hurts; there's a stuffy, sore feeling pounding around the soft parts of his face, like a sinus infection crawled into his nasal cavities and died. When did his glasses down to the edge of his nose? Why are his eyes watering so painfully? Was he sleeping? Dreaming?
“Wh...wha, wh-where?” he asks the vague human-like shape in front of him, hunching his shoulders when the realization of his vulnerability hits him. But before he can do anything - summon the windy thing, move away, speak another word, flip the hell out - there's a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly.
“Dave...?” he asks, squinting up, willing his eyes and mind to focus. The red sleeves give him away, even if John can't see his face.
“Do you remember what happened? Anything?” probably-Dave asks him, a hint of Texan drawl piggybacking onto the words. Hearing the accent, it must be Dave, yet something in his voice makes John uncertain.
“N...no, what, are you okay...? I feel sorta sick.”
As he speaks, John reaches out towards the red and white shape before him, but his hands fall just short of Dave, catching only his absence. He hears a mumbled 'good,' but can't ask what Dave means because the Knight moves close, so close, and whispers something in his ear.
The floor goes out from under him, lost in a rush of sound and blue.
Warmth washes John's body, easing away every ache and worry that filled him a moment before, leaving only an intense floating giddiness--like a strong breeze could blow him away. Which it could, he thinks, giggling to himself. Everything seems funny, and happy, and that tingling warmth spreads all the way from his toes to his head as he laughs. What was he doing again? Why was he worried? Whatever. Thinking too hard hurts and interrupts the pleasant, syrupy heat that stifles his limbs and eyelids. So he doesn't think, happy to quietly enjoy his reverie, until the center of his world speaks again.
"You back with me, Egbert?"
Dave. All of his available attention narrows onto the magical sound of that voice.
"Did... did I go somewhere?" Talking's still hard, but he knows Dave wants an answer. But hasn't he been here all along? No, that can't be right. There was something before this, something he was doing...
"Nah, just confirming your re-entrance into the hypnothroes. Chill and let your pilot, the infinitely superior Dave Strider, fly you towards ultimate enlightenment."
Every word (nonsensical as most are) sends a little bolt of pleasure through John's system, derailing the brief flutter of other thoughts he was trying to think. After all, Dave says chill, so he must need to chill further than he already has. Thinking difficult thoughts does not facilitate the chill-ness.
Quieting the stray thoughts of his already-dimmed mind, John takes a deep breath and relaxes, willing himself even further under. One soft breath in, one soft breath out, over and over. It's not long before he slumps forward with new-found bonelessness, bumping his chin against Dave's shoulder. John vaguely feels the other boy jerk at the sudden contact, but he doesn't pull away.
Dave doesn't speak again for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, the Knight clears his throat.
“All right, that's enough touchy-feely-time. Back up,” Dave orders, running one hand through his smooth hair. His mirror shades hold John's reflection, so he watches himself shrink and blur (he ought to push his glasses back up, but Dave hasn't told him to yet) as he scoots back about a foot and waits for further orders from Dave's amazing voice.
He sees Dave's mouth open to speak, shivers in anticipation of his words, then lets out a disappointed sound when Dave stops. This pattern repeats several times before he finally gets the next order out:
“Touch yourself.”
Wow, that's an easy one! After all the delay, Dave thought he'd give him a tough challenge. John lifts his hand and touches his nose, grinning, feeling the pleasure of obedience. Surely it can only get better from here.
Much to his bafflement, Dave groans and facepalms.
--
==> Dave: Be the frustrated Knight.
--
Strangling John would not be conducive to getting off, Dave reminds himself. Besides, if he ever fights with the great-and-godly Heir of Breath (and Heroics and Love and Sunshine and Hugs), it'll be when the other has a chance to fight back.
"Do I need to break out the flow charts or start drawing you a shitty comic with step-by-step instructions? Hell, Egbert, let me find a picture book because I know your reading level's not up with the rest of the class." Sarcasm and teasing drapes a cover over his chattering nerves, surprisingly resilient even in the face of a totally subservient John. "Let me better craft the mental image for you. Step one, you undo your fly. Step two, you take your cock out. Step three, you jack off, nice and slow, so I can watch. Got the idea now, doofus?"
Despite his best efforts, he blushes while giving the instructions; thinking dirty thoughts in his head is one thing, but actually speaking his desires? Entirely another.
"Ohh! Umm, if that's what you wanted, why didn't you say so?" John responds with another dreamy giggle, hands immediately moving to the front of his pants. Dave curses internally; shit, shit, shit, the idiot's really doing it and he's hard as he begins to stroke and oh, fuck, John moans and then Dave moans - can't not moan to save his life - and this, this is undoubtedly the least cool he's ever been. His eyes fix on John's minute movements, the red light on his cheeks, the way his teeth dig into his bottom lip, the glistening of precum already at the tip of his cock. ...Which is not as big as his own, Dave notes with a certain degree of satisfaction, but his mind rapidly drives that thought away with a surge of lust when John whines his name.
Watching John without touching almost hurts, but the amazing show the Heir puts on definitely rewards his voyeurism. John's shameless, wanton, (licentious suggests the Rose-in-his-head, the one who always provides more vocabulary when he needs it), completely unfazed by Dave's eyes locked on him--no, not just that, performing for him. It grows more and more obvious in the way John glances up through half-closed eyes, tongue running over his lips, knees slowly spreading further and further apart with each stroke of his hand.
"Wh-what else do you, ngghhh--! W, w-want, Dave..?" he manages between hoarse gasps and moans, eyes opening a little wider now, practically begging for instruction, which the Knight remains happy to provide.
"Keep slutting it up for me," Dave hisses through gritted teeth, rubbing his constrained erection through the front of his black jeans. "I wanna watch you come shouting my name, begging me to touch you like the dorky little bitch you are, needing me, needing--fuck. Just do it."
Clearly taking Dave's words to heart, the movement of John's hand speeds up while the pitch, length, and volume of his moans intensifies. Dave's name leaves his wet, swollen lips over and over, like a mantra or maybe a plea; then he moves, arches, and drops onto his back, one hand running up his half-bare chest while the other grips his dick. His hips roll with the jerking of his hand, curving into the air, his body like an arched bridge as his heels dig into the floor. Dave can't hold out anymore and, resistance lost (why did he ever resist?), touches the other boy's jerking hips.
"John, you..."
He can't finish his thought because John comes like a firecracker at his touch, shouting "Dave, Dave, Dave" like he always imagined he would, staining his stupid blue hoodie--the sticky mess marking him in ways Dave will never forget.
The bridge of John's body quickly collapses after his release, leaving the boy panting, boneless and flat on the ground, pale cheeks flushed with blood and lips bleeding where buckteeth bit down too hard. As his breathing settles somewhere closer to normal, he closes his eyes and - seemingly oblivious to any damage - smiles contentedly.
Dave watches him for a moment, breathless and silent and achingly hard, aware of how far he's already crossed the line from creepy voyeur to downright best-friend-molester. Touching John was really the last straw. He edges closer, although his knees are beginning to ache from kneeling so long. But nothing hurts like the lust stabbing through him, demanding rather painfully he cease ignoring it.
"Stopping now would be a waste," he tells no-one in particular, (That's rationalizing, Strider, don't lie to yourself the annoying Rose-in-his-head whispers; can't his paradox sister ever mind her own business?), before taking a deep breath and running one hand across John's splattered hips. Slowly, Dave's hand travels up and over the gentle curve of the Heir's untoned stomach, pushing his hoodie up even further. He's so delicate, for someone supposedly so powerful.
John's come, already cooling in the air, coats Dave's palm. Dazed by how far this has gone, how surreal the whole experience has been, he stops and stares at his stained fingers.
Nobody else would see it, his poker face is fucking masterful, but he knows those fingers are quivering. Disgusted, he squeezes his eyes shut and mentally berates himself for hesitating. Who the hell stole Dave Strider and replaced him with this complete wuss, sitting and quietly contemplating his shaking hand?
"Lick it," he commands abruptly, shoving his messy fingers into John's face, voice tight with desire, frustration, and the screaming need to remain in control. Retreat's not an option, not when his whole body's throbbing with arousal.
John clearly doesn't understand the pressing nature of the situation, lazily opening his eyes with a questioning "mrr" sound, far too adorable for his own good. Without raising his head, he sweeps his tongue languidly over Dave's hand, just once, then returns to his complacent smiling.
"Fuck, more than that--!" Dave swears, but just that one lick makes him twitch and fight down a moan. “Don't make me get out the picture books again. Just clean me up like the slut I know you can be."
John cocks his head, apparently processing the statement. It takes a few seconds, but then his whole persona changes--from passive and content to active and eager.
He grabs a hold of Dave's hand, runs his tongue up the middle of his palm, then swipes it between his fingers, one by one by one by one. That done, he takes his movements another step further and wraps his mouth around Dave's index finger, sucking clumsily but enthusiastically, not coordinated at all but still so, so effective.
Dave responds to his sudden attentions with curses and a stupid little noise he'd never admit to making under the worst torture. John grins as he adds another finger to his sucking, drawing out yet more weak moans on the Knight's part. Those big blue eyes stare back at him, looking through his shades right to his hidden eyes, finding all the chinks in his armor. Driving him crazier than he already feels.
"A-all right, stop, stop! D-damn Egbert, I didn't say you had to treat my digits like somebody just handed you the last Louie-Bloo Raspberry in the pack. I mean, I always figured you for a dirty popsicle sucker, but you must've had pedos popping boners for miles when the ice cream truck came around."
...That simile got away from him. Where was he?
Oh, right. Dave groans, realizing John's still looking at him, waiting for him to get his shit together and issue more orders.
"Listen up, 'cause here's how it's gonna be," he begins.
--
John: Wake up.
--
Echoes, echoes and numbers are all John can hear, thrumming through his mind, his body, disorienting, painful, a building ache between his eyes, limbs heavy and sore--
Until the pain suddenly resolves, the echoes fade, and he blinks his eyes at the blurriness around him. Confused, he reaches up and touches his face with still-tingling fingers.
No glasses. That's his first problem. What's the next one?
Where is he?
He's standing on red stone. This must be somewhere in the Land of Heat and Clockwork, a small corner of his mind supplies, and yes, that looks like the truth. He glances around, wondering where his glasses went or how he got here, when his mind (or at least, it must be his mind, because it's a voice in his head even if it doesn't sound quite like his own voice) supplies the answer:
You're dreaming.
Yes, of course, he's dreaming, has been dreaming, was dreaming about...what? The memories are dark and muddled but he remembers someone's long fingers and kissing and the feel of his own hand, stroking... along with the knowledge he was being watched, that he wanted to please the other person who was...?
You're dreaming about Dave, the him-but-not-him voice supplies. It was Dave, wasn't it? Which explains why he's here, but where--?
A hand touches John's shoulder. His heart jumps and he whirls around, wishing he could see, but knowing anyway the somehow-familiar feel of Dave's hand. Besides, it's only a moment before Dave pulls him close and then the only thing John can see is Dave's face and his own wide eyes, mirrored back at him. Reflected in Dave's sunglasses, he looks downright indecent: cheeks flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen and bitten, pupils dilated with nerves, or something else like arousal. Belatedly, he realizes he's been hard the whole time, the persistent throb dulled and ignorable until Dave pulled him close.
"Dave, wh-what're you," he begins, but Dave cuts him off.
"Kiss me like you mean it."
And he has to, of course, because he always listens to Dave, and why wouldn't he? Maybe he's never thought of Dave like this before - he hadn't, had he? - but he must be thinking it, to dream about it. To dream about Dave, Dave's lips and the way their mouths meet roughly; at least he's not wearing his glasses. They'd just get in the way and keep Dave from deepening the kiss, from working his tongue inside John's mouth and burning him with sparks of desire.
When Dave pulls away, after far too short a time, John utters a keening whine at the loss of his amazing tongue. The other boy only grins at the sound, a mocking smile that makes John blush with embarrassment.
"While your incredibly girly moans are music to my ears, you've got other things to take care of a few floors lower." And with that, he undoes his black jeans with one hand, and with the other, shoves John with surprising strength to his knees.
Embarrassing himself further, John squeaks at the shove, then squeaks again at the unforeseen introduction to Dave's hard cock. Whoa, whoa, whoa! He's not sure he's quite ready for his dream to head in this direction even though his eyes can't look away and the throb of Dave's pulse through the veins is almost hypnotic and it smells good which is weird but nice, but, but no, even if this is just a dream he's probably not ready to get his mouth anywhere near, um, err.
"I know it's impressive, but you don't need to stare all day," Dave drawls from above him. Those long, clever fingers work into John's messy hair, tugging him really really really close, making him blush like a stop sign but Dave's not getting the “stop” message and, well, maybe he doesn't want to stop as much as he thought because he finds his hand moving, without even thinking about it.
Slow, clumsy, blushing and hesitating all the way, he wraps his hand around Dave's erection, then gives it a little stroke. Something about it feels... better than he expected, exciting, even if it's weird. The hissing gasp that the other makes in response eggs him on.
You like pleasing Dave his mind reminds him, and that's right, he likes dragging those sounds of pleasure out of him, feels his own body aching with desire when the Knight makes another low sound. John grins with newfound confidence, thinking he can definitely do this and enjoy it, no problem!
But then Dave jerks the hand still tangled in his hair and mutters a frustrated sound. Trying not to wince at the hair-pulling, John glances up shyly. The other boy's face has a gentle flush but little else to indicate his mood, those mirror shades covering even the barest hint of his eyes.
"I may have all the the time in the world, but that doesn't mean I have all the patience. Didn't put you down there to use your hands and you know it, don't you?” His voice is harsh, mocking, shaking with something.
This time John does wince, and he ducks back down to cover his blush, only that leaves him facing the most pressing concern once again.
Of course he knows what Dave wants, he's not some baby! Somebody on their knees will probably... probably be doing things. With their mouth. Which is slightly more intimidating than just jacking Dave off because at least he's done that before, if only by himself with the lights off and Dad most definitely asleep or out of the house.
Maybe he should just say something because surely Dave will understand but then oh god a drop of pre-cum leaks down the shaft of the other boy's cock and John instinctively swipes his tongue out and licks the trail of fluid away. Dave yelps with surprise and rocks his hips, but John can't stop now that he's started, doesn't want to, this is yes, duh, why wasn't he doing this already? He likes this taste, likes tasting Dave, even if it's sort of salty and bitter, the heat of rigid skin against his tongue feels good and only further spurs the fire growing in him.
You want more that him-not-him voice reminds, and that thought couldn't be truer. Aching for more, he awkwardly moves his lips around the head of Dave's cock, sucking and lapping with his tongue. He knows he can't be very good at it but he wants more of the shivery feeling he gets from hearing gasps and groans and curses flowing down on him through the Knight's tight lips and gritted teeth. Trying his best, he lowers his mouth further onto the thick flesh.
He needs to... what? Lick more or suck more or... oh god what is he doing this feels strange, and when he glances up Dave's looking at him expectantly, one eyebrow quirked. He can see himself in the other's sunglasses again, the way his lips are pulled into an odd shape and red with exertion and embarrassment and arousal. Panicking with indecision, he stops his movements, closing his eyes against the shameful vision of himself.
Apparently fed up with waiting or hesitating, Dave orders 'watch your teeth' and thrusts his dick forcefully into John's mouth.
John lets out a stifled yelp at the sudden movement, scrunching up his eyes and waiting for the inevitable choking sensation. As he discovered a long time ago in his misspent youth (he was young, somebody dared him!), even sliding his toothbrush back too far sets him gagging fiercely so this can't... he can't...
But nothing happens. His nose bumps against warm skin and rough blond hair, filling his senses with that distinct, intoxicating scent of Dave. It's like cinnamon body wash and sweat and coolness, something he wants more of and can't get enough of filling the musky smell. He's so distracted by the scent and the feel of Dave's length in his mouth that he forgets to move his tongue and almost forgets to breathe.
"Y-you still alive?" the other asks, teeth clenched with obvious strain--he must be trying really hard not to jerk his hips, which fills John with a sudden burst of gratitude, even as he feels Dave's hands moving to fist his hair more tightly. Nodding doesn't work, talking definitely won't work, so he settles and gives an incredibly awkward thumbs-up. Dave actually snorts and mutters 'you're an idiot' just loud enough for John to hear, but he quickly covers his half-smile with an abrupt jerk of the hips.
Naturally, Dave sets the pace. At first the Knight moves slowly, letting John work his tongue and suck, messily, but he quickly seems to tire of Amateur Hour with John Egbert and takes the lead from there.
Gripping his hair harder for leverage (which stings, but each little jolt sends heat down his spine so he doesn't complain), Dave rocks in and out of his mouth, each thrust reaching what feels like far, too far into him, but never goes over the point of tolerance.
Tears form at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming feeling: part strain, part soreness, part thrilling filthiness. This isn't anything like mutual; Dave's obviously using him to get off, but somehow he thinks he owes the boy that. And besides, the thrusts just makes his own erection throb and twitch, and the longer Dave thrusts, the more he moans with pleasure around the invading flesh. It's not long before Dave's moaning even louder than him, replacing muttering and mumbling under his breath with outright curses and groans.
"F-fuck Egbert, I thought you'd, shit, you'd b-be the absolute, hhn, the worst, but you're even more of a-a, h-h-aaahhh, cocksucker n' I figured you for." They're long past the point where John has the right to blush for his dignity, but he closes his eyes to hide for a moment anyway. At least Dave's obviously effected too, from the way he stumbles over each teasing word.
Eventually, Dave gives up on the teasing, focusing entirely on fucking his mouth. John would worry about losing a fistful of hair if he wasn't so involved in the feeling of Dave's cock driving in and out, leaving him breathless and gasping. Gazing up at the other boy with bleary eyes, he wonders when he'll finish, if he'll ever finish, and when he's allowed to get off himself (because something tells him that now's not the time, don't touch, but he wants to so badly). When Dave's cock pulses and he swears louder than ever, John takes that as a sign and readies himself for... whatever happens. Nerves fill him at the realization of what might come next, until Dave pulls back and he feels relief. Swallowing sounds kinkier than what he's ready for, and besides--
His thoughts stop abruptly when Dave's come starts to splash across his lips, his cheek, dripping down his chin and onto the soft fabric of his god tier hoodie. Dave jerks himself through it, covering John's face with the messy liquid and it should be so hot, the feel and smell and taste of come on his lips shouldn't drive him so absolutely crazy but it's as if every single button in his body jangles with pleasure, begging for further stimulation. Lightning strikes his nerves at every point and god if only touching himself was an option but no, no, no, not yet.
Don't touch yourself until he says you can. Wait, wait, wait.
John collapses off of his tired knees and back onto his ass, moaning 'Dave, Dave, Dave' (for the second time in this dream, he's sure of it) as he scrabbles for purchases against the dry dirt of LOHAC. His hips roll with pent-up frustration and need, a useless action without the stimulation of friction, but he's hardly thinking logically.
The now-sated knight only watches him with that (blurry) inscrutable smile, dignified and chill even with his spent dick hanging out of his pants and his hair completely frazzled, sticking every-which-way to his sweaty forehead.
"Dave... please, I need...!"
John never gets the chance to finish his request, because Dave opens his mouth and answers with something completely ridiculous, and then he doesn't remember anything more.
--
Dave: Gloat.
Gloating would be unsporting. Coolkids don't gloat; gloating's for cheap hipsters. Well, maybe they gloat a little, but you don't really feel like it right now.
Maybe later.
--
For several minutes, Dave just stands there, watching John's slow breathing. The boy's completely out, back in a trance and smiling peacefully. Happily oblivious. La-di-da.
Lucky John.
Dave's own breathing catches. His patented Strider poker face held in front of the naïve Heir, but he can't hide from his own hands, unsteady once again. Coming back in an hour and interrogating his past self about 'what the hell his fucking deal is' suddenly tempts him.
Glancing around, he half-expects a future Dave to appear and breate him, but no. No such luck. He's stuck alone in his own head, listening to John's soft and steady breathing.
This is ridiculous. Dave Strider does not get overwhelmed by feelings; feelings aren't cool, even when they're ironic. He has quite the opposite reputation to uphold, after all: that of the underwhelmed dude who's seen and done it all. Tossing a dead version of himself out a window? Yawn. He only freaked out for ten minutes, tops, and his hands barely shook when he washed the blood off.
So why are his hands shaking now, minutes after letting John go?
He expertly controlled John, planted suggestions and they worked, the other boy was confused and utterly awkward but everything happened just like Dave wanted and damn it felt good. On top of that, he managed all of it like a chill-fucking-pro and proved himself totally smooth under the circumstances. At least two points to team Knight of Time, definitely. A+, would win again.
Uncertainty punches him in the gut. Even as he looks at the evidence in front of him (one satisfied customer, come and get your first facial for free, side-effects may include a sore jaw) he barely believes what's happened. Maybe what he'd told John before about dreaming remains true. A dream, what an easy answer! Hey, Strider, nice dream about taking advantage of your best friend while he's vulnerable and suggestible and (probably) heterosexual.
Life certainly feels like a dream. And what happens in a dream can't hurt, can it? Rationalizing again, sure, but the temptation to pretend never leaves.
"You are fucked up, my friend," he says to the dark corners of his mind, the parts that demand he go even further.
His dark corners plead the fifth.
--
"Hey," Dave murmurs, settling beside John for what feels like the millionth time that day. Probably only the second or third, but the repetition's grating him already, like a sample looped enough to bore the ear, turning into someone's shitty amateur techno.
"Mmm?" John responds, leisurely turning. He utters a muffled sound of confusion when Dave swipes a towel (captchalogued only a few days ago, but it feels like a million years) across his dirty face. Turns out facials have a hotness expiration date of about 5 minutes; after that, they're just gross. When the Knight's finished, he re-captchalogues the towel--maybe he'll need it again, who knows.
That done, he places John's glasses back in their rightful place. Moving slowly, the Heir reaches up and touches the corner of his glasses. He blinks owlishly, adjusting to the strong prescription, then flashes his brightest goober smile in Dave's direction.
“S'anks,” he chirps, slightly slurred. Without warning, he catches Dave in a fumbling but tight hug. The supposed-coolkid tenses and he swears before jesus or troll jegus or whatever he doesn't blush because after making someone blow you it's impossible to blush from something as simple as a hug. Seriously. Everybody knows that.
"I promise I never want you to mention it. Ever. Take it to your fucking grave and hold a memorial service where all the women wail and rend their garments," he answers with a cough--but without extracting himself from the hug. "Beyond being a chronic lameass, how do you feel?"
"Um... good." John pauses, 'ehehes' sleepily into Dave's shoulder - nosing at him like a retarded fluffy kitten - then continues: “Are we gonna do more, ummm, more stuff now?”
Dave draws in a slow breath, trying not to enjoy the faint scent of the Heir and his rumpled hoodie as he lets his nose brush against soft blue fabric. Maybe he hugs back. Only a little.
"I see you're as much of a goddamn wordsmith as ever." Sigh. Chronic lameass indeed. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
"Do you want to?" John answers back.
"Har-har, Egbert. I asked you first."
The other boy makes a confused noise, shifting in his arms.
"But... do you want to?"
"Shut up," Dave growls, grabbing John's chin and dragging him up for a kiss, knowing he won't say no. "Of course I do, of course, of course."
The Heir yields to his biting, pressing lips without comment, opening his mouth when the Knight's tongue pushes inside. Digging his fingers into delicate shoulders, Dave explores every corner of the other's mouth with his tongue, unsure whether he cares anymore about John's passive acceptance.
That is, until John actually responds negatively, squirming and trying to pull away, which makes him stop in an instant--from shock or revulsion at himself, he's not sure which.
"You didn't tell me what you want," John says with a whimper, looking guiltily at the ground like he's the one who did a bad thing by stopping the kiss.
"Fuck, I'm familiar with the routine we've established. Can't a guy take a little bit of a break from ordering you around to play tonsil hockey without hearing you whine--"
But he can't continue ragging on John for very long, much as the boy deserves it for interrupting Dave's cool with his infinite neediness, because, well. Dave would like to see anyone resist the kicked puppy wibble he's faced with.
"Christ, stop looking like I cooked your rabbit and served it back to you. I'm not mad at you, no matter how big a pussy you are." The other quickly perks up, much to his relief. Turns out sad-John's the ultimate boner killer. "Come here and kiss me and get into it, go with the fuckin' flow, since you still need that spelled out with small words."
Those small words set everything right, apparently, because he's barely closed his mouth before John leaps on him with enthusiasm. Thrown completely off balance, they tumble onto the ground, but that doesn't stop John, who's taking his kissing orders seriously. Maybe waiting so long for a new one built up in his system, whatever, logic and reason and theorizing's out the window when the other boy moans into his mouth and runs the tip of his tongue under Dave's own.
Dave takes a moment to recover and returns the favor, and they both moan then. Their tongues clash as John grows bolder, touching Dave's chest and his hair and his hips, curious hands exploring all the sensitive places they find, drawing little gasps and curses from the Knight's mouth, muffled by the Heir's lips.
Okay, awesome, this is exciting and distracting and shit, the palm of John's hand presses against his groin, then again, and that shouldn't make him want to lie their mewling quite as badly as it does, because that's not what cool-and-in-control guys do. Mewling's for submissive nerds with buckteeth and thick glasses and names like John Egbert.
Striders, on the other hand, push submissive nerds onto the ground and pin them there, biting and touching until said nerd squirms and wails from arousal and over-stimulation. After several minutes of fervent touches and kisses, Dave extracts himself from John and settles back on his heels. He has to hold up a hand to stop the other boy from grabbing after him.
"Stay there,” he orders, forcing the breathiness out of his voice. His eyes rake over the Heir's body - his panting chest, those heavily-lidded blue eyes, the flush of his cheeks - his mind considering all the things he'd like to do to it, do to him... and one thing in particular. He's been building up to it, taking a little more and more each time, crossing more boundaries. Somehow, crossing one more doesn't seem so bad.
"All right, Egbert, pants off."
Eager and without misgivings, John scrambles to obey. He lifts his hips and slides the blue pants down a few inches, awkwardly trying to remove them without moving too much, still obeying the previous order to stay. Shaking his head in bemusement, Dave shifts back and gives the other more room, which allows him to get the pants half-way down. Bright yellow sneakers come off first with a helpful tug from the Knight, who then - bored of the spectacle, or eager to continue, or both - pulls John's pants and boxers off with one forceful yank. He discards the garments, tossing them casually to the side. John makes no effort to cover himself as Dave looks him up and down, appraising his slightly-curved hips and half-hard cock.
"Spread your legs more," Dave murmurs absently, sliding a searching hand up the inside of John's thigh. In response, his legs stretch indecently wide, clean yellow socks dragging in the dirt as he does. Dave feels his mouth going dry and he has to quash the temptation to say something about 'doing this' and 'making it happen.'
Memes and sex just don't go together as well as he thought they would.
Realizing he has to face certain facts of anatomy sooner rather than later, Dave turns away to consider his sylladex with mild trepidation. John tries to distract him, faintly whining his name and poking with one yellow-clad foot, but he shushes the eager boy offhandedly.
"Not right now. Wait."
Potentially thrilling as the idea of fucking John raw and making him love it sounds - in fact, he can't repress a shiver at the thought - the Heir probably needs to walk afterward, even if he spends most of his time flying like a magical blue butterfly these days. Too bad he doesn't have the alchemiter on hand, or at least the stash of ironically fruit-flavored lubricant shoved into the back of his bedside drawer (a.k.a. concrete block).
Well, there's one thing that might work... one very weird thing. Reminding himself that coolkids do not get grossed out when improvising (even when improvising lube) he unscrews the lid to his jar of creepy Mr. T puppet (please be a puppet) and takes a sniff of the contents. Hmm.
The viscous liquid doesn't smell like formaldehyde. That means it's not formaldehyde, right? As a teen with a penchant for collecting dead things, he knows formaldehyde when he smells it. This should be fine. Hopefully. If the Heir dies from sexy poisoning he'll just go back in time and stop himself from ruining paradox space through the magic of time travel. The liquid feels chill to the touch when he dips his fingers in, but it quickly warms against his skin. He glances around.
No future Daves appear, so it must be safe.
Feeling relatively reassured this won't kill either of them, he turns back to John. His cock jumps at the sight in front of him. Shit. John, apparently taking the order of "wait" as "wait as sexily as possible," has shoved the waist of his hoodie all the way up his chest and lifted his legs. An entirely undignified pose, one straight out of cheap gay porn (which he has never watched, ever, even in his lowest moments), yet remarkably effective.
He half-expects John to bust out a line from Sleazey Porn 101, something about coming and getting him, followed by sensuously batted eyelashes. Instead, he only looks over the top of his glasses with a hazy "Did I do good?" look fit more for a puppy and less for someone naked and aroused and exposed.
"I know I said 'get into it,' but gotta say you followed instructions like an honor student at Fuckville's School for the Gifted." John ruins some of the effect by giggling and grinning at that compliment, but the Knight shuts him up by dragging his slick fingers down the underside of the boy's erection, drawing a low moan from his throat. "I promise to get a bumper sticker to commemorate this event. I'll even take you out for ice cream afterward."
John only moans again in response, failing as usual to appreciate the good banter he comes up with.
Oh well, he'll take what he can get.
Wanting to hear more, he slips his fingers lower, leaving a glistening trail behind. He's pleased when he drags more pathetic sounds from the Heir's throat.
"You obviously love this," Dave teases, unsure whether John's reactions are from his previous orders or a natural response, but that doesn't stop him from commenting. He presses one sticky finger against John's entrance, half-grinning to himself when the boy responds by keening faintly.
"Gonna have to officially revoke your straight card if you keep wailing like a blushing virgin at her first gangbang." Exaggeration, undoubtedly, but his words make John blush, so the comment serves its purpose.
Despite his previous sounds of enjoyment, the John winces when Dave tries to push that finger inside him. The Knight relents for the moment, rubbing the boy's inner thigh in an attempt at reassurance, or comfort, or something. Something to erase that brief look of pain that crossed John's face. Something that's not completely lame or embarrassing, like showing concern.
"Come on, relax and and enjoy this. Didn't I tell you before? It's not gonna hurt if you chill out and go with the flow."
"Mm, okay... if you say so," John answers softly, blue eyes focusing on him. Those eyes, completely innocent and open and stupidly vulnerable. A lamb showing up to the slaughter with mint jelly already liberally applied. Somebody get the fire started, it's time for roasting.
Our hero, ladies and gentleman, the Knight thinks ruefully. Proving for the viewers at home that trusting people's the easiest way to get fucked.
The saying just happens to be literal this time.
But any reflection on trust or innocence - or anything more coherent than 'hhnng' - quickly flees Dave's mind at the delicious sounds John makes when he works first one finger, then another, inside him. Gasps and 'ohs' and whimpers leave the Heir's lips with every movement of his hand. Unlike before, the other offers no resistance to the invasion, and only increases the volume of his noises when Dave adds another finger without difficulty.
He presses in harder, smirking with triumph when John's whole body stiffens for a brief moment, then collapses, leaving the boy a shivering, submissive puddle. Stroking that spot again, testing, he causes the same intense reaction, except this time John actually curses, which is probably the hottest thing anyone's ever heard. He repeats the action more, again and again and again, reveling in the sight of John's open mouth and the way his legs tense, heels digging into the ground as his hips rock upward.
Those hours secretly reading about gay sex on Wikipedia (and other equally reliable websites)? Finally paying off.
But there's something missing. It's still... not enough, not right, not what he needs.
As good as it feels every time his fingers make John moan, as much as he wants the Heir right-fucking-now, he hesitates, then stops, ignoring the complaining whine the other makes as he pulls his hand away. After all, John will settle down and wait if told--and that's the problem.
The dreamy-drifting-dazed Heir's not nearly enough, like playing with a toy-John, utterly passive and pliable. Hollow. He'd rather have the real thing, goofy thumbs-ups and awkward smiles and fumbling and all of that, wrapped up into one goobery package. Which he can do, he's already proven that for himself, but it'll take a few minutes of directions, agonizingly long minutes considering how damn turned-on he is. But the wait should be worth it.
What's he waiting for, in that case?
First, he takes a moment to kick his hi-tops off and shirk his skinny black jeans; the fabric was growing far too constrictive, and they'll only get in the way soon. The shoes are infuriatingly difficult to remove (important for battle, not so handy for smoooth sexytimes), but he gets them off eventually. After that mini shoe strife, the pants are easy.
That done, he drops back down and leans over John, both his hands supporting him, just inches over the Heir's face. To his surprise, their eyes meet.
Somehow, his shades crept down his nose, leaving him feeling far more exposed than shucking his jeans did. A nervous shiver runs down his spine, but he doesn't look away. Can't.
John smiles up at him, placid but interested, aware enough to know seeing Dave's eyes is a strange event indeed. He opens his mouth to speak--
"Don't say a word," Dave snaps, shoving the sunglasses back to their proper place with one hand, then quickly re-balancing himself. "Close your mouth and open your ears because I'm about to lay it down for you, and I know you're slow enough to miss the important details."
"You remember what happened before, right? Wake up, it's a dream, sexy dream to be more specific, and it's all okay because you're dreaming, sucking your friend's cock must be okay because you only do what you want in a dream, everything feels good, it's a major turn-on, all that other shit I said that was worded better but, fuck, deal with it, etcetera?”
John looks... vaguely baffled by the manic energy of Dave's speech, but he nods after a moment.
"Umm, I remember... I think. Most of it?" The boy bites his lip, obviously uncertain, but Dave charges on, temper and frustration and desire driving him to rush past the niceties.
"Yeah, well, we're gonna play that little pretendy-fun-time game again. Except this time, in your dream, I'm going to fuck you and you're going to love it. That's pretty cut and dry. Any questions from the students at the bottom of the class? That means you, Egbert. I know your sense of innuendo's severely under-developed."
Babbling, he's definitely babbling, losing his cool and considerable chunks of his dignity, but John only smiles and shakes his head, indicating no questions. Calm asshole. Dave wants to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.
"Great. You're a quick learner. I'll assume you remember to come to at the count of three then." Another nod. Simple.
He takes a deep breath.
One, two...
--
Pairing: Dave/John
Rating: NC-17 (lots and lots of nc-17)
Warnings: The mind control here is non-consensual. There's no pain or violence, but be duly warned that consent's not given, and the fact consent's not given is obvious.
For the prompt on homesmut:
gshjhj THIS IS KIND OF A WEIRD REQUEST, but. One of my biggest kinks is in fact hypnosis.
So I was wondering if it was possible for anon to write something with Dave and John (or Bro) along those lines? Perhaps Dave accidentally (or was it) stumbled upon something in his ILL BEATS that just happens to make John susceptible to the power of suggestion? Maybe Bro is a master of words in more ways than one (ironic hypnotist)?
And naturally, someone takes advantage of that in the sexiest way possible. Get creative!
I love mind control, so this seemed like a MUST DO fill. All the comments have been awesome so far, thank you everyone whose commented and encouraged me! This is the longest fic I've ever written, by far, and also the only MC fic I've ever done, so I'm glad others are liking it.
For some reason, alchemizing a new set of turntables using cheap rhinestone jewelry and a bottle of blue booze from his Bro's poorly hidden (read: left out in plain sight) stash seemed like a good idea.
Dave was going for ridiculous, blinged-out tables that would make Lil' Jon jealous. Instead, he gets... this shit. Junky turntables with weird swirls on them, glittering oddly when he tries to scratch out some sick beats. The tables make wobbly, uneven sounds that would undoubtedly inspire next-to-no-one to shut up and jam. Thank god there's no one around to see him wince.
Who knew liquor and Icing by Claire's could make his awesome tables so shitty? Sighing, he dumps the creation into his sylladex and moves on with his life, the failed experiment slipping from his mind as easily as he slips through the time stream.
--
-- [EB] ectoBiologist began pestering [TG] turntechGodhead --
EB: hey dave!
TG: sup egbert
EB: are you still in lohac hanging around with your crocodile buddies?
TG: yeah you know me and my scaley bros are tight
TG: they definitely never tried to cook and eat me for committing all kinds of sweet financial finagling
TG: that may or may not have caused the great crocodile depression
TG: i plead the fifth on all charges
EB: haha, if you say so dave.
EB: consorts sure are silly!
EB: anyway i just wanted to make sure you're here because:
EB: (hehehe)
EB: so am i!
TG: youre what
EB: see you soon dave!
TG: wait seriously
-- [EB] ectoBiologist ceased pestering [TG] turntechGodhead --
TG: what the fuck egbert
--
Dave Strider doesn't get nervous in the face of danger. Even when faced by armies of ogres, imps, or whatever other chumps are gearing up to try and kick his ass, he barely flicks an eyebrow. His eyebrows are way too chill to flick at anything less than the most extreme situation.
For some reason, John's sudden announcement is another thing entirely. His heady proclamation - "See you soon!" - has Dave fidgeting ceaselessly with his shitty sword, rearranging his sylladex, and changing his outfit eight times, no, nine times. Just at the thought of meeting John, he feels his composure trying to flee for the border.
Racking his brain, he tries to plan out cool lines for when John appears. Maybe just a "hey, Egderp." Something casual, friendly, but a little dismissive, just to shake him up. Wouldn't want to let him get too comfortable too soon. Or maybe he'll go for a single, silent fist bump. Fist bumps are cool.
Or are they overdone? Maybe bumps are overdone by now. How many bunp jokes can one webcomic artist make? Is there a limit?
Ugh.
He keeps practicing his poker face.
--
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaave! It's so cool to finally see you!!"
How is one supposed to reply to a flying (literally, flying, the stupid magical fucker) tackle hug from the dorkiest loser on the planet?
By hugging back, of course.
--
It takes about five minutes for the initial weirdness to wear off.
They're both nervous in their own ways. Dave keeps his hands in his pockets and denies any expression that considers crossing his face. After that dangerously sentimental hug, best to keep a safe distance.
Apparently alarmed by the coolkid's stoic demeanor, John babbles, awkwardly touches Dave's arm six times (he counted), and constantly plays with his stupid God Tier hoodie. All the while he shows of those enormous font teeth of his, grinning from happiness and nerves. Dave decides he looks like a mentally challenged beaver just presented with a lifetime supply of wood. John's jokes are as stupid in real life as they are online.
Dave concludes the boy could not be lamer, or more perfect. The longer he watches John, the more it feels like a heavy weight is pressing against his chest, aching. John is oblivious, as usual. As always. Will always be.
If this is a contest between who can make a better first impression, the Heir is clearly winning. And a Knight, especially one as cool as him, just can't stand for that.
He has to show off a little.
--
"Don't you want to test your lame-ass air powers against a real player? Come on, Egbert." Dave challenges, casually resting with his shittiest jpeg-artifacted sord over his shoulder.
His tone is even, treading close to cold, but John has the audacity to laugh him off - like everything's a big damn joke - and continue digging through the pile of stuff expelled from Dave's sylladex. Dave barely resists the urge to grind his teeth.
"Hey, haha, this is glittering! What the heck is it?"
Glancing down, he winces when he realizes John's found his almost-mostly-forgotten blue turntables. Of course. Leave it to the derp to play with the lamest crap he ever alchemized. It's like the guy does this shit on purpose, just to embarrass him.
"Can I play them? I've always wanted to be a sweet-ill beat dropper, or whatever!" the Heir implores with pleading eyes and the least manly giggle ever uttered, and god, how could anyone be more of a dork?
"They're not a weapon or something, are they?"
"Nah, they're safe, but I'm warning you ahead of time they su--"
But that weird wobbly screechy awful sound cuts him off as John starts spinning the discs erratically, shutting his eyes against the wailing but still laughing, mouth wide, face open and so, so innocent--
"Dammit, Egbert!" he snaps, grabbing the tables away from him angrily. John makes a confused, wounded noise, but after a moment, his arms sink to his sides. Trying not to wonder which one of them is more pathetic, Dave turns his head to the side to hide... something, his eyes, the thin line of his mouth, all of his weakness.
"Here, I'll show you how it's done," he mutters, glaring down and seriously considering his shitty alchemization baby for the first time. There are too many buttons - half of them probably pointless - but he presses them anyway, vision and mind swimming with too many irrational feelings to care about which button does what. Placing his hands on the tables, he reminds himself that anything he tries will be a hundred times better than Egbert.
The sounds that comes out of the tables this time is no less bizarre, but considerably more tolerable. It's strange music, liquid-like, as if someone's auto-tuned a whalesong, but there's a rhythm to it - lulling, sleepy - and somehow Dave feels his tension melting away.
It must be doing the same for John, or more, because an odd look creeps over his face--one that's not enthusiastic or silly, but mellow. Who knew he could even manage that face? In fact, his bright blue eyes grow hooded, almost glazed, like a dreamer newly-awoken. Dave watches, curious, as a flush creeps onto his cheeks. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the innocent boy had been drinking. Or taking something stronger, or thinking dirty thoughts.
"Mmm, that music is really, great, Dave... I feel warm... kind of, ummm..." he trails off, smiling that goofy smile of his again.
Dave arches one eyebrow, glancing between the tables and the Heir. Only an idiot wouldn't recognize John's behavior as weird, and that weirdness started as soon as he messed with the tables. Highly suspicious.
"Earth to Egderp, you still with us on planet Heat and Clockwork?"
"Of course, Dave," he answers, but his voice is still distant. "Play it some more?"
Curiosity unsatisfied, and finding no reason to deny him, Dave settles his hands back down to the tables. This time, he closely watches the effect the wavy music has on the Heir. The longer the music continues, the more he flushes, swaying slightly in time to the rhythm. After a few minutes, or maybe more - actually, strangely for the Knight of Time, Dave has no idea how many minutes it's been - John's knees fold and carry him slowly to the floor. Even as he settles into a sitting position, his face remains serene.
Dave realizes he should probably stop now, stop staring, but John doesn't seem to care, and his feels compel to let the music plays its course. When he finally stops, his senses jolt back to life. What was he doing...? The music, of course, the music made John...
John!
John's still sitting, kneeling, staring off into space.
"Hey, dude, are you okay?" Dave asks, kneeling and waving a hand in front of his face. What was he thinking, testing out that strange instrument on him? What if he's permanently brain-damaged the idiot?
"M'fine," John mumbles back, unmoving.
"Yeah, if you want me to believe you're fine, I think I'm going to need more proof than that," he snaps in return, irritated with himself for getting carried away and losing track of time.
"What should I do?" John asks, glancing up, smiling in a new way-almost... eager, although his eyes are still half-lidded hazy pools of blue. Dave blinks, drawing back from his face, suddenly feeling defensive and flustered all over again. Worry surges up behind his eyes, but he tamps it down stubbornly, refusing to take this too seriously.
"Hell if I know, Egbert. I'd say you could do something ironic, but we both know you couldn't pull it off to save your life."
"Is there something you want me to do?"
A rush of suggestions flood to the front of Dave's mind, each threatening to spill out of his lips. Sarcasm: go fuck yourself, Egbert; a joke: why don't you do a motherfucking pirouette off the handle; teasing: like you'd ever do anything I want; sincerity: just tell me you're all right and I didn't melt your brain. Wake up, snap out of it, stop acting so weird.
Instead, he asks a question. "Would you do whatever I say?"
"Mmm, that sounds fun." A simple but infuriatingly vague response from John, with more goofy grinning. More terrible suggestions fight to escape Dave's mouth, but only one makes it out.
"Kiss me."
Dave tries to make it casual, a joke, something he can play off later when John reveals it was all a prank, ha-ha, whose the king of gay chicken now, but he means it more than he ever wants to admit--
That's when John officially blows his mind, chirps "Okay!", and kisses him.
John's lips are warm, dry but soft despite that, his breath tasting like bitter pineapples--did the tables actually get him drunk, besides putting him in this weird suggestible state? That would explain hazy eyes and the hot flush Dave feels when he touches John's cheek, grabs his shoulder and pulls him up off his knees, close, closer, too close, as their teeth and glasses clack together uncomfortably.
Startled, Dave pulls away from the flushed and breathless Heir, who sinks back onto his knees. This has to stop. John's going to hate/laugh/kill/shame him when he wakes up. He should... he should stop, but, godgodgodgod dammit.
"Again. Harder," Dave rasps, and John practically jumps him this time, grabbing his hips and kissing him open-mouthed, messy, drunken, unskilled, but completely, utterly hot. Dave's reeling mind can't help but register how the last kiss was incomparable. There's nothing shy or goofy about John now, only heat and panting and rough touches and John's hand sliding between Dave's legs and shit! He curses and shoves John off, ordering him: stop, stop. Relax.
That order's for both of them.
As quickly as it appeared, the passion floods out of John, leaving him passive and smiling once again. Told to stop, he settles back without protest, without even thinking.
Dammit, Dave can feel his barely-maintained cool fleeing for the hills, then soaring rapidly over the boiling hot horizon of LOHAC. Maybe he'll meet up with his cool later on Jade's planet, back in its natural habitat. The ache from earlier squeezes at his heart again, but he dismisses it with an internal curse. Instead, he forces a chilly logic to determine his next words.
“Listen, Egbert. If I tell you to forget and snap out of this, will you?”
“Huhhhn?” John responds, eloquent as usual. “If you want, I guess...”
What kind of a useless fucking response is that? Whatever. He knows there must be limits to John's unnatural fugue. He may as well test them before... before...
He'll finish that thought later.
“Fine. You forget what happened, stop acting weird, and wake up when I tell you to. When I sn-no, that's a lame-ass cliché. Wake up on the count of three. That's how all the sketchy hypnotists are doing it these days, isn't it?”
John just stares at him, vacant. Waiting. Not appreciating his weak attempts at irony in the least.
“Right, no help from the peanut gallery. So when I say--”
Something. He glances around, looking for ideas, before settling back on John in his dumb outfit with his dumb, dreamy blue eyes. “--blue... apple juice, you'll get all hypnotic on me again. Got that?”
“I forget and wake up... on the count of three. Then, um, I...” John pauses to giggle obliviously, biting his bottom lip and staring at a spot somewhere over Dave's left shoulder. “Umm, when you say blue applejuice, I do what you want again. I think?”
“...Close enough,” Dave says, trying not to facepalm.
Here goes nothing.
--
==> John: Be the hypnotized boy.
--
The word “three” echoes in the air.
John takes a gasping breath, aware of little more than how disoriented he feels: everything's swimming. His eyes won't focus, and his head hurts; there's a stuffy, sore feeling pounding around the soft parts of his face, like a sinus infection crawled into his nasal cavities and died. When did his glasses down to the edge of his nose? Why are his eyes watering so painfully? Was he sleeping? Dreaming?
“Wh...wha, wh-where?” he asks the vague human-like shape in front of him, hunching his shoulders when the realization of his vulnerability hits him. But before he can do anything - summon the windy thing, move away, speak another word, flip the hell out - there's a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly.
“Dave...?” he asks, squinting up, willing his eyes and mind to focus. The red sleeves give him away, even if John can't see his face.
“Do you remember what happened? Anything?” probably-Dave asks him, a hint of Texan drawl piggybacking onto the words. Hearing the accent, it must be Dave, yet something in his voice makes John uncertain.
“N...no, what, are you okay...? I feel sorta sick.”
As he speaks, John reaches out towards the red and white shape before him, but his hands fall just short of Dave, catching only his absence. He hears a mumbled 'good,' but can't ask what Dave means because the Knight moves close, so close, and whispers something in his ear.
The floor goes out from under him, lost in a rush of sound and blue.
Warmth washes John's body, easing away every ache and worry that filled him a moment before, leaving only an intense floating giddiness--like a strong breeze could blow him away. Which it could, he thinks, giggling to himself. Everything seems funny, and happy, and that tingling warmth spreads all the way from his toes to his head as he laughs. What was he doing again? Why was he worried? Whatever. Thinking too hard hurts and interrupts the pleasant, syrupy heat that stifles his limbs and eyelids. So he doesn't think, happy to quietly enjoy his reverie, until the center of his world speaks again.
"You back with me, Egbert?"
Dave. All of his available attention narrows onto the magical sound of that voice.
"Did... did I go somewhere?" Talking's still hard, but he knows Dave wants an answer. But hasn't he been here all along? No, that can't be right. There was something before this, something he was doing...
"Nah, just confirming your re-entrance into the hypnothroes. Chill and let your pilot, the infinitely superior Dave Strider, fly you towards ultimate enlightenment."
Every word (nonsensical as most are) sends a little bolt of pleasure through John's system, derailing the brief flutter of other thoughts he was trying to think. After all, Dave says chill, so he must need to chill further than he already has. Thinking difficult thoughts does not facilitate the chill-ness.
Quieting the stray thoughts of his already-dimmed mind, John takes a deep breath and relaxes, willing himself even further under. One soft breath in, one soft breath out, over and over. It's not long before he slumps forward with new-found bonelessness, bumping his chin against Dave's shoulder. John vaguely feels the other boy jerk at the sudden contact, but he doesn't pull away.
Dave doesn't speak again for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, the Knight clears his throat.
“All right, that's enough touchy-feely-time. Back up,” Dave orders, running one hand through his smooth hair. His mirror shades hold John's reflection, so he watches himself shrink and blur (he ought to push his glasses back up, but Dave hasn't told him to yet) as he scoots back about a foot and waits for further orders from Dave's amazing voice.
He sees Dave's mouth open to speak, shivers in anticipation of his words, then lets out a disappointed sound when Dave stops. This pattern repeats several times before he finally gets the next order out:
“Touch yourself.”
Wow, that's an easy one! After all the delay, Dave thought he'd give him a tough challenge. John lifts his hand and touches his nose, grinning, feeling the pleasure of obedience. Surely it can only get better from here.
Much to his bafflement, Dave groans and facepalms.
--
==> Dave: Be the frustrated Knight.
--
Strangling John would not be conducive to getting off, Dave reminds himself. Besides, if he ever fights with the great-and-godly Heir of Breath (and Heroics and Love and Sunshine and Hugs), it'll be when the other has a chance to fight back.
"Do I need to break out the flow charts or start drawing you a shitty comic with step-by-step instructions? Hell, Egbert, let me find a picture book because I know your reading level's not up with the rest of the class." Sarcasm and teasing drapes a cover over his chattering nerves, surprisingly resilient even in the face of a totally subservient John. "Let me better craft the mental image for you. Step one, you undo your fly. Step two, you take your cock out. Step three, you jack off, nice and slow, so I can watch. Got the idea now, doofus?"
Despite his best efforts, he blushes while giving the instructions; thinking dirty thoughts in his head is one thing, but actually speaking his desires? Entirely another.
"Ohh! Umm, if that's what you wanted, why didn't you say so?" John responds with another dreamy giggle, hands immediately moving to the front of his pants. Dave curses internally; shit, shit, shit, the idiot's really doing it and he's hard as he begins to stroke and oh, fuck, John moans and then Dave moans - can't not moan to save his life - and this, this is undoubtedly the least cool he's ever been. His eyes fix on John's minute movements, the red light on his cheeks, the way his teeth dig into his bottom lip, the glistening of precum already at the tip of his cock. ...Which is not as big as his own, Dave notes with a certain degree of satisfaction, but his mind rapidly drives that thought away with a surge of lust when John whines his name.
Watching John without touching almost hurts, but the amazing show the Heir puts on definitely rewards his voyeurism. John's shameless, wanton, (licentious suggests the Rose-in-his-head, the one who always provides more vocabulary when he needs it), completely unfazed by Dave's eyes locked on him--no, not just that, performing for him. It grows more and more obvious in the way John glances up through half-closed eyes, tongue running over his lips, knees slowly spreading further and further apart with each stroke of his hand.
"Wh-what else do you, ngghhh--! W, w-want, Dave..?" he manages between hoarse gasps and moans, eyes opening a little wider now, practically begging for instruction, which the Knight remains happy to provide.
"Keep slutting it up for me," Dave hisses through gritted teeth, rubbing his constrained erection through the front of his black jeans. "I wanna watch you come shouting my name, begging me to touch you like the dorky little bitch you are, needing me, needing--fuck. Just do it."
Clearly taking Dave's words to heart, the movement of John's hand speeds up while the pitch, length, and volume of his moans intensifies. Dave's name leaves his wet, swollen lips over and over, like a mantra or maybe a plea; then he moves, arches, and drops onto his back, one hand running up his half-bare chest while the other grips his dick. His hips roll with the jerking of his hand, curving into the air, his body like an arched bridge as his heels dig into the floor. Dave can't hold out anymore and, resistance lost (why did he ever resist?), touches the other boy's jerking hips.
"John, you..."
He can't finish his thought because John comes like a firecracker at his touch, shouting "Dave, Dave, Dave" like he always imagined he would, staining his stupid blue hoodie--the sticky mess marking him in ways Dave will never forget.
The bridge of John's body quickly collapses after his release, leaving the boy panting, boneless and flat on the ground, pale cheeks flushed with blood and lips bleeding where buckteeth bit down too hard. As his breathing settles somewhere closer to normal, he closes his eyes and - seemingly oblivious to any damage - smiles contentedly.
Dave watches him for a moment, breathless and silent and achingly hard, aware of how far he's already crossed the line from creepy voyeur to downright best-friend-molester. Touching John was really the last straw. He edges closer, although his knees are beginning to ache from kneeling so long. But nothing hurts like the lust stabbing through him, demanding rather painfully he cease ignoring it.
"Stopping now would be a waste," he tells no-one in particular, (That's rationalizing, Strider, don't lie to yourself the annoying Rose-in-his-head whispers; can't his paradox sister ever mind her own business?), before taking a deep breath and running one hand across John's splattered hips. Slowly, Dave's hand travels up and over the gentle curve of the Heir's untoned stomach, pushing his hoodie up even further. He's so delicate, for someone supposedly so powerful.
John's come, already cooling in the air, coats Dave's palm. Dazed by how far this has gone, how surreal the whole experience has been, he stops and stares at his stained fingers.
Nobody else would see it, his poker face is fucking masterful, but he knows those fingers are quivering. Disgusted, he squeezes his eyes shut and mentally berates himself for hesitating. Who the hell stole Dave Strider and replaced him with this complete wuss, sitting and quietly contemplating his shaking hand?
"Lick it," he commands abruptly, shoving his messy fingers into John's face, voice tight with desire, frustration, and the screaming need to remain in control. Retreat's not an option, not when his whole body's throbbing with arousal.
John clearly doesn't understand the pressing nature of the situation, lazily opening his eyes with a questioning "mrr" sound, far too adorable for his own good. Without raising his head, he sweeps his tongue languidly over Dave's hand, just once, then returns to his complacent smiling.
"Fuck, more than that--!" Dave swears, but just that one lick makes him twitch and fight down a moan. “Don't make me get out the picture books again. Just clean me up like the slut I know you can be."
John cocks his head, apparently processing the statement. It takes a few seconds, but then his whole persona changes--from passive and content to active and eager.
He grabs a hold of Dave's hand, runs his tongue up the middle of his palm, then swipes it between his fingers, one by one by one by one. That done, he takes his movements another step further and wraps his mouth around Dave's index finger, sucking clumsily but enthusiastically, not coordinated at all but still so, so effective.
Dave responds to his sudden attentions with curses and a stupid little noise he'd never admit to making under the worst torture. John grins as he adds another finger to his sucking, drawing out yet more weak moans on the Knight's part. Those big blue eyes stare back at him, looking through his shades right to his hidden eyes, finding all the chinks in his armor. Driving him crazier than he already feels.
"A-all right, stop, stop! D-damn Egbert, I didn't say you had to treat my digits like somebody just handed you the last Louie-Bloo Raspberry in the pack. I mean, I always figured you for a dirty popsicle sucker, but you must've had pedos popping boners for miles when the ice cream truck came around."
...That simile got away from him. Where was he?
Oh, right. Dave groans, realizing John's still looking at him, waiting for him to get his shit together and issue more orders.
"Listen up, 'cause here's how it's gonna be," he begins.
--
John: Wake up.
--
Echoes, echoes and numbers are all John can hear, thrumming through his mind, his body, disorienting, painful, a building ache between his eyes, limbs heavy and sore--
Until the pain suddenly resolves, the echoes fade, and he blinks his eyes at the blurriness around him. Confused, he reaches up and touches his face with still-tingling fingers.
No glasses. That's his first problem. What's the next one?
Where is he?
He's standing on red stone. This must be somewhere in the Land of Heat and Clockwork, a small corner of his mind supplies, and yes, that looks like the truth. He glances around, wondering where his glasses went or how he got here, when his mind (or at least, it must be his mind, because it's a voice in his head even if it doesn't sound quite like his own voice) supplies the answer:
You're dreaming.
Yes, of course, he's dreaming, has been dreaming, was dreaming about...what? The memories are dark and muddled but he remembers someone's long fingers and kissing and the feel of his own hand, stroking... along with the knowledge he was being watched, that he wanted to please the other person who was...?
You're dreaming about Dave, the him-but-not-him voice supplies. It was Dave, wasn't it? Which explains why he's here, but where--?
A hand touches John's shoulder. His heart jumps and he whirls around, wishing he could see, but knowing anyway the somehow-familiar feel of Dave's hand. Besides, it's only a moment before Dave pulls him close and then the only thing John can see is Dave's face and his own wide eyes, mirrored back at him. Reflected in Dave's sunglasses, he looks downright indecent: cheeks flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen and bitten, pupils dilated with nerves, or something else like arousal. Belatedly, he realizes he's been hard the whole time, the persistent throb dulled and ignorable until Dave pulled him close.
"Dave, wh-what're you," he begins, but Dave cuts him off.
"Kiss me like you mean it."
And he has to, of course, because he always listens to Dave, and why wouldn't he? Maybe he's never thought of Dave like this before - he hadn't, had he? - but he must be thinking it, to dream about it. To dream about Dave, Dave's lips and the way their mouths meet roughly; at least he's not wearing his glasses. They'd just get in the way and keep Dave from deepening the kiss, from working his tongue inside John's mouth and burning him with sparks of desire.
When Dave pulls away, after far too short a time, John utters a keening whine at the loss of his amazing tongue. The other boy only grins at the sound, a mocking smile that makes John blush with embarrassment.
"While your incredibly girly moans are music to my ears, you've got other things to take care of a few floors lower." And with that, he undoes his black jeans with one hand, and with the other, shoves John with surprising strength to his knees.
Embarrassing himself further, John squeaks at the shove, then squeaks again at the unforeseen introduction to Dave's hard cock. Whoa, whoa, whoa! He's not sure he's quite ready for his dream to head in this direction even though his eyes can't look away and the throb of Dave's pulse through the veins is almost hypnotic and it smells good which is weird but nice, but, but no, even if this is just a dream he's probably not ready to get his mouth anywhere near, um, err.
"I know it's impressive, but you don't need to stare all day," Dave drawls from above him. Those long, clever fingers work into John's messy hair, tugging him really really really close, making him blush like a stop sign but Dave's not getting the “stop” message and, well, maybe he doesn't want to stop as much as he thought because he finds his hand moving, without even thinking about it.
Slow, clumsy, blushing and hesitating all the way, he wraps his hand around Dave's erection, then gives it a little stroke. Something about it feels... better than he expected, exciting, even if it's weird. The hissing gasp that the other makes in response eggs him on.
You like pleasing Dave his mind reminds him, and that's right, he likes dragging those sounds of pleasure out of him, feels his own body aching with desire when the Knight makes another low sound. John grins with newfound confidence, thinking he can definitely do this and enjoy it, no problem!
But then Dave jerks the hand still tangled in his hair and mutters a frustrated sound. Trying not to wince at the hair-pulling, John glances up shyly. The other boy's face has a gentle flush but little else to indicate his mood, those mirror shades covering even the barest hint of his eyes.
"I may have all the the time in the world, but that doesn't mean I have all the patience. Didn't put you down there to use your hands and you know it, don't you?” His voice is harsh, mocking, shaking with something.
This time John does wince, and he ducks back down to cover his blush, only that leaves him facing the most pressing concern once again.
Of course he knows what Dave wants, he's not some baby! Somebody on their knees will probably... probably be doing things. With their mouth. Which is slightly more intimidating than just jacking Dave off because at least he's done that before, if only by himself with the lights off and Dad most definitely asleep or out of the house.
Maybe he should just say something because surely Dave will understand but then oh god a drop of pre-cum leaks down the shaft of the other boy's cock and John instinctively swipes his tongue out and licks the trail of fluid away. Dave yelps with surprise and rocks his hips, but John can't stop now that he's started, doesn't want to, this is yes, duh, why wasn't he doing this already? He likes this taste, likes tasting Dave, even if it's sort of salty and bitter, the heat of rigid skin against his tongue feels good and only further spurs the fire growing in him.
You want more that him-not-him voice reminds, and that thought couldn't be truer. Aching for more, he awkwardly moves his lips around the head of Dave's cock, sucking and lapping with his tongue. He knows he can't be very good at it but he wants more of the shivery feeling he gets from hearing gasps and groans and curses flowing down on him through the Knight's tight lips and gritted teeth. Trying his best, he lowers his mouth further onto the thick flesh.
He needs to... what? Lick more or suck more or... oh god what is he doing this feels strange, and when he glances up Dave's looking at him expectantly, one eyebrow quirked. He can see himself in the other's sunglasses again, the way his lips are pulled into an odd shape and red with exertion and embarrassment and arousal. Panicking with indecision, he stops his movements, closing his eyes against the shameful vision of himself.
Apparently fed up with waiting or hesitating, Dave orders 'watch your teeth' and thrusts his dick forcefully into John's mouth.
John lets out a stifled yelp at the sudden movement, scrunching up his eyes and waiting for the inevitable choking sensation. As he discovered a long time ago in his misspent youth (he was young, somebody dared him!), even sliding his toothbrush back too far sets him gagging fiercely so this can't... he can't...
But nothing happens. His nose bumps against warm skin and rough blond hair, filling his senses with that distinct, intoxicating scent of Dave. It's like cinnamon body wash and sweat and coolness, something he wants more of and can't get enough of filling the musky smell. He's so distracted by the scent and the feel of Dave's length in his mouth that he forgets to move his tongue and almost forgets to breathe.
"Y-you still alive?" the other asks, teeth clenched with obvious strain--he must be trying really hard not to jerk his hips, which fills John with a sudden burst of gratitude, even as he feels Dave's hands moving to fist his hair more tightly. Nodding doesn't work, talking definitely won't work, so he settles and gives an incredibly awkward thumbs-up. Dave actually snorts and mutters 'you're an idiot' just loud enough for John to hear, but he quickly covers his half-smile with an abrupt jerk of the hips.
Naturally, Dave sets the pace. At first the Knight moves slowly, letting John work his tongue and suck, messily, but he quickly seems to tire of Amateur Hour with John Egbert and takes the lead from there.
Gripping his hair harder for leverage (which stings, but each little jolt sends heat down his spine so he doesn't complain), Dave rocks in and out of his mouth, each thrust reaching what feels like far, too far into him, but never goes over the point of tolerance.
Tears form at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming feeling: part strain, part soreness, part thrilling filthiness. This isn't anything like mutual; Dave's obviously using him to get off, but somehow he thinks he owes the boy that. And besides, the thrusts just makes his own erection throb and twitch, and the longer Dave thrusts, the more he moans with pleasure around the invading flesh. It's not long before Dave's moaning even louder than him, replacing muttering and mumbling under his breath with outright curses and groans.
"F-fuck Egbert, I thought you'd, shit, you'd b-be the absolute, hhn, the worst, but you're even more of a-a, h-h-aaahhh, cocksucker n' I figured you for." They're long past the point where John has the right to blush for his dignity, but he closes his eyes to hide for a moment anyway. At least Dave's obviously effected too, from the way he stumbles over each teasing word.
Eventually, Dave gives up on the teasing, focusing entirely on fucking his mouth. John would worry about losing a fistful of hair if he wasn't so involved in the feeling of Dave's cock driving in and out, leaving him breathless and gasping. Gazing up at the other boy with bleary eyes, he wonders when he'll finish, if he'll ever finish, and when he's allowed to get off himself (because something tells him that now's not the time, don't touch, but he wants to so badly). When Dave's cock pulses and he swears louder than ever, John takes that as a sign and readies himself for... whatever happens. Nerves fill him at the realization of what might come next, until Dave pulls back and he feels relief. Swallowing sounds kinkier than what he's ready for, and besides--
His thoughts stop abruptly when Dave's come starts to splash across his lips, his cheek, dripping down his chin and onto the soft fabric of his god tier hoodie. Dave jerks himself through it, covering John's face with the messy liquid and it should be so hot, the feel and smell and taste of come on his lips shouldn't drive him so absolutely crazy but it's as if every single button in his body jangles with pleasure, begging for further stimulation. Lightning strikes his nerves at every point and god if only touching himself was an option but no, no, no, not yet.
Don't touch yourself until he says you can. Wait, wait, wait.
John collapses off of his tired knees and back onto his ass, moaning 'Dave, Dave, Dave' (for the second time in this dream, he's sure of it) as he scrabbles for purchases against the dry dirt of LOHAC. His hips roll with pent-up frustration and need, a useless action without the stimulation of friction, but he's hardly thinking logically.
The now-sated knight only watches him with that (blurry) inscrutable smile, dignified and chill even with his spent dick hanging out of his pants and his hair completely frazzled, sticking every-which-way to his sweaty forehead.
"Dave... please, I need...!"
John never gets the chance to finish his request, because Dave opens his mouth and answers with something completely ridiculous, and then he doesn't remember anything more.
--
Dave: Gloat.
Gloating would be unsporting. Coolkids don't gloat; gloating's for cheap hipsters. Well, maybe they gloat a little, but you don't really feel like it right now.
Maybe later.
--
For several minutes, Dave just stands there, watching John's slow breathing. The boy's completely out, back in a trance and smiling peacefully. Happily oblivious. La-di-da.
Lucky John.
Dave's own breathing catches. His patented Strider poker face held in front of the naïve Heir, but he can't hide from his own hands, unsteady once again. Coming back in an hour and interrogating his past self about 'what the hell his fucking deal is' suddenly tempts him.
Glancing around, he half-expects a future Dave to appear and breate him, but no. No such luck. He's stuck alone in his own head, listening to John's soft and steady breathing.
This is ridiculous. Dave Strider does not get overwhelmed by feelings; feelings aren't cool, even when they're ironic. He has quite the opposite reputation to uphold, after all: that of the underwhelmed dude who's seen and done it all. Tossing a dead version of himself out a window? Yawn. He only freaked out for ten minutes, tops, and his hands barely shook when he washed the blood off.
So why are his hands shaking now, minutes after letting John go?
He expertly controlled John, planted suggestions and they worked, the other boy was confused and utterly awkward but everything happened just like Dave wanted and damn it felt good. On top of that, he managed all of it like a chill-fucking-pro and proved himself totally smooth under the circumstances. At least two points to team Knight of Time, definitely. A+, would win again.
Uncertainty punches him in the gut. Even as he looks at the evidence in front of him (one satisfied customer, come and get your first facial for free, side-effects may include a sore jaw) he barely believes what's happened. Maybe what he'd told John before about dreaming remains true. A dream, what an easy answer! Hey, Strider, nice dream about taking advantage of your best friend while he's vulnerable and suggestible and (probably) heterosexual.
Life certainly feels like a dream. And what happens in a dream can't hurt, can it? Rationalizing again, sure, but the temptation to pretend never leaves.
"You are fucked up, my friend," he says to the dark corners of his mind, the parts that demand he go even further.
His dark corners plead the fifth.
--
"Hey," Dave murmurs, settling beside John for what feels like the millionth time that day. Probably only the second or third, but the repetition's grating him already, like a sample looped enough to bore the ear, turning into someone's shitty amateur techno.
"Mmm?" John responds, leisurely turning. He utters a muffled sound of confusion when Dave swipes a towel (captchalogued only a few days ago, but it feels like a million years) across his dirty face. Turns out facials have a hotness expiration date of about 5 minutes; after that, they're just gross. When the Knight's finished, he re-captchalogues the towel--maybe he'll need it again, who knows.
That done, he places John's glasses back in their rightful place. Moving slowly, the Heir reaches up and touches the corner of his glasses. He blinks owlishly, adjusting to the strong prescription, then flashes his brightest goober smile in Dave's direction.
“S'anks,” he chirps, slightly slurred. Without warning, he catches Dave in a fumbling but tight hug. The supposed-coolkid tenses and he swears before jesus or troll jegus or whatever he doesn't blush because after making someone blow you it's impossible to blush from something as simple as a hug. Seriously. Everybody knows that.
"I promise I never want you to mention it. Ever. Take it to your fucking grave and hold a memorial service where all the women wail and rend their garments," he answers with a cough--but without extracting himself from the hug. "Beyond being a chronic lameass, how do you feel?"
"Um... good." John pauses, 'ehehes' sleepily into Dave's shoulder - nosing at him like a retarded fluffy kitten - then continues: “Are we gonna do more, ummm, more stuff now?”
Dave draws in a slow breath, trying not to enjoy the faint scent of the Heir and his rumpled hoodie as he lets his nose brush against soft blue fabric. Maybe he hugs back. Only a little.
"I see you're as much of a goddamn wordsmith as ever." Sigh. Chronic lameass indeed. "I don't know. Do you want to?"
"Do you want to?" John answers back.
"Har-har, Egbert. I asked you first."
The other boy makes a confused noise, shifting in his arms.
"But... do you want to?"
"Shut up," Dave growls, grabbing John's chin and dragging him up for a kiss, knowing he won't say no. "Of course I do, of course, of course."
The Heir yields to his biting, pressing lips without comment, opening his mouth when the Knight's tongue pushes inside. Digging his fingers into delicate shoulders, Dave explores every corner of the other's mouth with his tongue, unsure whether he cares anymore about John's passive acceptance.
That is, until John actually responds negatively, squirming and trying to pull away, which makes him stop in an instant--from shock or revulsion at himself, he's not sure which.
"You didn't tell me what you want," John says with a whimper, looking guiltily at the ground like he's the one who did a bad thing by stopping the kiss.
"Fuck, I'm familiar with the routine we've established. Can't a guy take a little bit of a break from ordering you around to play tonsil hockey without hearing you whine--"
But he can't continue ragging on John for very long, much as the boy deserves it for interrupting Dave's cool with his infinite neediness, because, well. Dave would like to see anyone resist the kicked puppy wibble he's faced with.
"Christ, stop looking like I cooked your rabbit and served it back to you. I'm not mad at you, no matter how big a pussy you are." The other quickly perks up, much to his relief. Turns out sad-John's the ultimate boner killer. "Come here and kiss me and get into it, go with the fuckin' flow, since you still need that spelled out with small words."
Those small words set everything right, apparently, because he's barely closed his mouth before John leaps on him with enthusiasm. Thrown completely off balance, they tumble onto the ground, but that doesn't stop John, who's taking his kissing orders seriously. Maybe waiting so long for a new one built up in his system, whatever, logic and reason and theorizing's out the window when the other boy moans into his mouth and runs the tip of his tongue under Dave's own.
Dave takes a moment to recover and returns the favor, and they both moan then. Their tongues clash as John grows bolder, touching Dave's chest and his hair and his hips, curious hands exploring all the sensitive places they find, drawing little gasps and curses from the Knight's mouth, muffled by the Heir's lips.
Okay, awesome, this is exciting and distracting and shit, the palm of John's hand presses against his groin, then again, and that shouldn't make him want to lie their mewling quite as badly as it does, because that's not what cool-and-in-control guys do. Mewling's for submissive nerds with buckteeth and thick glasses and names like John Egbert.
Striders, on the other hand, push submissive nerds onto the ground and pin them there, biting and touching until said nerd squirms and wails from arousal and over-stimulation. After several minutes of fervent touches and kisses, Dave extracts himself from John and settles back on his heels. He has to hold up a hand to stop the other boy from grabbing after him.
"Stay there,” he orders, forcing the breathiness out of his voice. His eyes rake over the Heir's body - his panting chest, those heavily-lidded blue eyes, the flush of his cheeks - his mind considering all the things he'd like to do to it, do to him... and one thing in particular. He's been building up to it, taking a little more and more each time, crossing more boundaries. Somehow, crossing one more doesn't seem so bad.
"All right, Egbert, pants off."
Eager and without misgivings, John scrambles to obey. He lifts his hips and slides the blue pants down a few inches, awkwardly trying to remove them without moving too much, still obeying the previous order to stay. Shaking his head in bemusement, Dave shifts back and gives the other more room, which allows him to get the pants half-way down. Bright yellow sneakers come off first with a helpful tug from the Knight, who then - bored of the spectacle, or eager to continue, or both - pulls John's pants and boxers off with one forceful yank. He discards the garments, tossing them casually to the side. John makes no effort to cover himself as Dave looks him up and down, appraising his slightly-curved hips and half-hard cock.
"Spread your legs more," Dave murmurs absently, sliding a searching hand up the inside of John's thigh. In response, his legs stretch indecently wide, clean yellow socks dragging in the dirt as he does. Dave feels his mouth going dry and he has to quash the temptation to say something about 'doing this' and 'making it happen.'
Memes and sex just don't go together as well as he thought they would.
Realizing he has to face certain facts of anatomy sooner rather than later, Dave turns away to consider his sylladex with mild trepidation. John tries to distract him, faintly whining his name and poking with one yellow-clad foot, but he shushes the eager boy offhandedly.
"Not right now. Wait."
Potentially thrilling as the idea of fucking John raw and making him love it sounds - in fact, he can't repress a shiver at the thought - the Heir probably needs to walk afterward, even if he spends most of his time flying like a magical blue butterfly these days. Too bad he doesn't have the alchemiter on hand, or at least the stash of ironically fruit-flavored lubricant shoved into the back of his bedside drawer (a.k.a. concrete block).
Well, there's one thing that might work... one very weird thing. Reminding himself that coolkids do not get grossed out when improvising (even when improvising lube) he unscrews the lid to his jar of creepy Mr. T puppet (please be a puppet) and takes a sniff of the contents. Hmm.
The viscous liquid doesn't smell like formaldehyde. That means it's not formaldehyde, right? As a teen with a penchant for collecting dead things, he knows formaldehyde when he smells it. This should be fine. Hopefully. If the Heir dies from sexy poisoning he'll just go back in time and stop himself from ruining paradox space through the magic of time travel. The liquid feels chill to the touch when he dips his fingers in, but it quickly warms against his skin. He glances around.
No future Daves appear, so it must be safe.
Feeling relatively reassured this won't kill either of them, he turns back to John. His cock jumps at the sight in front of him. Shit. John, apparently taking the order of "wait" as "wait as sexily as possible," has shoved the waist of his hoodie all the way up his chest and lifted his legs. An entirely undignified pose, one straight out of cheap gay porn (which he has never watched, ever, even in his lowest moments), yet remarkably effective.
He half-expects John to bust out a line from Sleazey Porn 101, something about coming and getting him, followed by sensuously batted eyelashes. Instead, he only looks over the top of his glasses with a hazy "Did I do good?" look fit more for a puppy and less for someone naked and aroused and exposed.
"I know I said 'get into it,' but gotta say you followed instructions like an honor student at Fuckville's School for the Gifted." John ruins some of the effect by giggling and grinning at that compliment, but the Knight shuts him up by dragging his slick fingers down the underside of the boy's erection, drawing a low moan from his throat. "I promise to get a bumper sticker to commemorate this event. I'll even take you out for ice cream afterward."
John only moans again in response, failing as usual to appreciate the good banter he comes up with.
Oh well, he'll take what he can get.
Wanting to hear more, he slips his fingers lower, leaving a glistening trail behind. He's pleased when he drags more pathetic sounds from the Heir's throat.
"You obviously love this," Dave teases, unsure whether John's reactions are from his previous orders or a natural response, but that doesn't stop him from commenting. He presses one sticky finger against John's entrance, half-grinning to himself when the boy responds by keening faintly.
"Gonna have to officially revoke your straight card if you keep wailing like a blushing virgin at her first gangbang." Exaggeration, undoubtedly, but his words make John blush, so the comment serves its purpose.
Despite his previous sounds of enjoyment, the John winces when Dave tries to push that finger inside him. The Knight relents for the moment, rubbing the boy's inner thigh in an attempt at reassurance, or comfort, or something. Something to erase that brief look of pain that crossed John's face. Something that's not completely lame or embarrassing, like showing concern.
"Come on, relax and and enjoy this. Didn't I tell you before? It's not gonna hurt if you chill out and go with the flow."
"Mm, okay... if you say so," John answers softly, blue eyes focusing on him. Those eyes, completely innocent and open and stupidly vulnerable. A lamb showing up to the slaughter with mint jelly already liberally applied. Somebody get the fire started, it's time for roasting.
Our hero, ladies and gentleman, the Knight thinks ruefully. Proving for the viewers at home that trusting people's the easiest way to get fucked.
The saying just happens to be literal this time.
But any reflection on trust or innocence - or anything more coherent than 'hhnng' - quickly flees Dave's mind at the delicious sounds John makes when he works first one finger, then another, inside him. Gasps and 'ohs' and whimpers leave the Heir's lips with every movement of his hand. Unlike before, the other offers no resistance to the invasion, and only increases the volume of his noises when Dave adds another finger without difficulty.
He presses in harder, smirking with triumph when John's whole body stiffens for a brief moment, then collapses, leaving the boy a shivering, submissive puddle. Stroking that spot again, testing, he causes the same intense reaction, except this time John actually curses, which is probably the hottest thing anyone's ever heard. He repeats the action more, again and again and again, reveling in the sight of John's open mouth and the way his legs tense, heels digging into the ground as his hips rock upward.
Those hours secretly reading about gay sex on Wikipedia (and other equally reliable websites)? Finally paying off.
But there's something missing. It's still... not enough, not right, not what he needs.
As good as it feels every time his fingers make John moan, as much as he wants the Heir right-fucking-now, he hesitates, then stops, ignoring the complaining whine the other makes as he pulls his hand away. After all, John will settle down and wait if told--and that's the problem.
The dreamy-drifting-dazed Heir's not nearly enough, like playing with a toy-John, utterly passive and pliable. Hollow. He'd rather have the real thing, goofy thumbs-ups and awkward smiles and fumbling and all of that, wrapped up into one goobery package. Which he can do, he's already proven that for himself, but it'll take a few minutes of directions, agonizingly long minutes considering how damn turned-on he is. But the wait should be worth it.
What's he waiting for, in that case?
First, he takes a moment to kick his hi-tops off and shirk his skinny black jeans; the fabric was growing far too constrictive, and they'll only get in the way soon. The shoes are infuriatingly difficult to remove (important for battle, not so handy for smoooth sexytimes), but he gets them off eventually. After that mini shoe strife, the pants are easy.
That done, he drops back down and leans over John, both his hands supporting him, just inches over the Heir's face. To his surprise, their eyes meet.
Somehow, his shades crept down his nose, leaving him feeling far more exposed than shucking his jeans did. A nervous shiver runs down his spine, but he doesn't look away. Can't.
John smiles up at him, placid but interested, aware enough to know seeing Dave's eyes is a strange event indeed. He opens his mouth to speak--
"Don't say a word," Dave snaps, shoving the sunglasses back to their proper place with one hand, then quickly re-balancing himself. "Close your mouth and open your ears because I'm about to lay it down for you, and I know you're slow enough to miss the important details."
"You remember what happened before, right? Wake up, it's a dream, sexy dream to be more specific, and it's all okay because you're dreaming, sucking your friend's cock must be okay because you only do what you want in a dream, everything feels good, it's a major turn-on, all that other shit I said that was worded better but, fuck, deal with it, etcetera?”
John looks... vaguely baffled by the manic energy of Dave's speech, but he nods after a moment.
"Umm, I remember... I think. Most of it?" The boy bites his lip, obviously uncertain, but Dave charges on, temper and frustration and desire driving him to rush past the niceties.
"Yeah, well, we're gonna play that little pretendy-fun-time game again. Except this time, in your dream, I'm going to fuck you and you're going to love it. That's pretty cut and dry. Any questions from the students at the bottom of the class? That means you, Egbert. I know your sense of innuendo's severely under-developed."
Babbling, he's definitely babbling, losing his cool and considerable chunks of his dignity, but John only smiles and shakes his head, indicating no questions. Calm asshole. Dave wants to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.
"Great. You're a quick learner. I'll assume you remember to come to at the count of three then." Another nod. Simple.
He takes a deep breath.
One, two...
--