
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/620166.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/John_Egbert, Dave_Strider/John_Egbert_unrequited, John_Egbert_&_Dave
      Strider
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Dave_Strider, Bro_(Homestuck)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_No_Sburb_Session, Angst, Masturbation, fucked-up
      striders, voyeurism_of_sorts, Community:_homesmut
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-02 Words: 1616
****** Dave: listen carefully. ******
by greenslimeghost
Summary
     You still don’t know if you’ve got the guts to put the moves on your
     best friend, even if his dorky face drives you crazy and the fact
     that he likes to brocuddle makes it really hard to suppress a boner
     when you’re on the couch and he’s talking along with some lame-ass
     dialog, pressing close against you and excitedly pointing out that
     this is the best part, no really!--
Notes
     Written for the homesmut kinkmeme prompt: One night Dave overhears
     his best friend and older brother going at it- and it's really hot.
     Voyeuristic!Dave, possibly masturbating to the sound of John and Bro
     doing the dirty.
     OOPS this was my first time writing for Homestuck and idek
See the end of the work for more notes
Your name is Dave Strider, and tonight you’d volunteered to pick up a VHS of
Escape From L.A. from the Blockbuster down the road. In exchange, John’s
volunteered to stay behind and whip up some wicked cool snacks for your
Saturday movie night. The catch is that halfway there you’d realized you’d
forgotten your wallet, so you decide to forego the entire affair. Bro’s got
more than enough movies stockpiled in your living room, and you’re sure John
can pick something equally shitty from the lot.
John’s talented like that.
When you get back to your apartment there’s no sign of John and no sign of
snacks either—it’s not even that late, but you figure he must have already
passed out in your room in those ridiculous footed pajamas he’s probably
brought along and you might be just a bit disappointed, because tonight you
were finally gonna try it. Maybe. Perhaps. You still don’t know if you’ve got
the guts to put the moves on your best friend, even if his dorky face drives
you crazy and the fact that he likes to brocuddle makes it really hard to
suppress a boner when you’re on the couch and he’s talking along with some
lame-ass dialog, pressing close against you and excitedly pointing out that
this is the best part, no really!
You open a can of Chef Boyardee and peer into its saucy, sodium-rich depths.
You wonder if there’s anything that really rhymes with beefaroni, ‘cause you’re
working on a brand new ironic fifteen-year-old-bachelor rap.
You hear a sound.
You stop and listen, because it sounded like a voice. After a moment of
silence, you chalk it up to the over-abundance of smuppets scattered about and
just assume they’re working your brain over with some sort of plushvoodoo
nonsense.
Then it happens again, and you realize it’s John.
Not just John—there’s a deeper voice, and something like a bedspring creaking.
It’s Bro.
You hadn’t noticed any sign of Bro upon entering, hadn’t noticed his rocket
board out front or anything and you’re wondering how you managed to miss such a
detail. Bro usually comes and goes without many words and you rarely
notice—you’ve become accustomed to his not-being-around over the years, even
though evidence of his existence over-populates your shared apartment.
Smuppets. Bro’s boxers and random other dude shit. Aforementioned piles of
shitty movies on VHS. Abundant cans of Chef Boyardee, which means Bro’s been
grocery shopping.
Your train of thought is interrupted by a moan—a fucking moan—and you take a
step towards the hallway shared with the bedrooms and the corner of the kitchen
and
it’s John.
John is moaning, in your apartment, and it’s definitely coming from Bro’s room,
and there is nothing cool or ironic about this and you can’t believe this shit
is happening and then
John whimpers, a breathy stretch of sounds which make you feel fuzzy and seem
to cause each and every one of your nerves to stand on end, your senses to
fully awaken, adrenaline to pump through your veins. You listen to John, hear
him whimpering and moaning and then hear the occasional low rumble that is your
Bro—
and are we really fucking serious right now
because this is so fucking ironic
that it isbeyondironic
that Bro could be fucking your best friend—well maybe not fucking, who knows
what they’re doing—when in reality Bro pays no fucking attention to you or your
friend, and John has no fucking idea as to how you feel about him. How perfect,
you think. Two socially stunted butterflies gathering into a sweet cocoon to
share their feels and kick you in their face with their—
oh God.
You hear John moaning in short, rhythmic gasps, and your cock is hard. So hard,
you can’t believe you haven’t noticed it until now. You hear the shifting of
bedsprings and mattress and blankets and everything and fuck when did you
acquire supersonic hearing? You clutch your can of Chef Boyardee and press
yourself against the wall and listen for more of John—because, oh God, you want
to hear John—
John moans, and it’s loud and it’s sudden and it’s helpless and you start to
imagine what Bro might be doing to him—and fuck Bro, seriously, fuck him for
getting to experience what you’ve wanted for years. Part of you wants to pound
down his bedroom door and part of you is complacent because you don’t want to
upset him, don’t want to drive the wedge between you further into the soft and
fucking pliant ground.
John moans.
You place the can behind you on the counter, absentmindedly; you are leaning
back against the counter and you are listening to the sounds of them doing
something and you can’t help but touch yourself, tentatively at first.
You hear hushed voices, John in a pleading tone, Bro flat and decisive. You
hear the bounce of bedsprings again and then you hear John, murmuring
desperately, and you wish you could make out the words but you imagine them
sounding something like this:
Dave, oh fuck, Dave, oh god fuck yes Dave please
You’re jealous of Bro. You’re jealous of the fact that perhaps he’s watching
his cock disappear into John’s mouth right now, maybe even disappear into his
ass—but you don’t think John would go that far, in fact you don’t think he’s
gone as far as penetration with anyone--
You certainly haven’t, and when you hear the desperate whimpering beginning to
reach a crescendo you start to stroke your cock, and oh god do you wish it were
John’s hand, and John’s voice , and John’s eyes looking up at you from that
flushed and doofy face with his glasses all crooked and his hair all messy and
blushing and shit—
you hear a muffled plea, in John’s voice, and you come. You come so hard that
your legs shake and you almost lose your footing, almost have to sink to the
floor with your back leaning firm against the wall. You feel ashamed and guilty
and perverted and terrible because you have just gotten off on your Bro fooling
around with your best friend and at the same time you can’t help but wonder why
you aren’t
good enough
for Bro to spend any time with.
You realize that there’s come all over your hands and you quickly turn and step
towards the sink on jelly legs to rinse it off. While you frantically rub your
hands beneath the faucet, you hear Bro’s door open down the hall.
“Oh hey!”
You turn around, and John is there, standing in the kitchen with the dumbest
look on his face, blushing for all the world like a fucking ripe-ass tomato
plucked forth from a vine of shame. You notice that his pajama pants are inside
out and his hair is sex-messy and he’s got a red mark on his neck where—
fuck, you think, FUCK, and you turn around and focus harder on the sink and
even pick up a fucking dish to wash, because you can’t stop thinking about that
spot of red on John’s neck and how your Bro must have sucked and tasted it and
how you’ve no idea what John tastes like, only that he smells like some cheap
ass corny cologne from CVS which probably comes in a spray bottle shaped like
some dude’s mutant fiftypack abs.
“Sup,” you say, trying so hard to keep your cool. John fumbles awkwardly in the
cupboard for a glass and his face is way redder than it should be, but neither
of you acknowledge what just happened. At all.
“Just uh, waiting for you to get back,” John mutters, filling the glass with
water from the tap and taking a sip. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, but
after a few seconds he glances at you. “Sorry there’s no snacks! I uh… well I
guess I couldn’t, uh…”
He looks panicked, and you want to call his ass out but he’s your best friend
and so you play along, because you don’t want to hurt him and you also kinda
need him, so you motion towards the neglected can of high-blood-pressure-
induction.
“We can share this Chef Boyardee,” you say. “The beefiest of the ronis.”
John laughs, but it sounds a bit nervous, and his words come out a bit rushed.
“Totally,” he says. “Or should I say-- brotally.”
The pun hangs in the air for the most millisecondest of milliseconds before
John apparently realizes how fucking awful and awkward it is and absconds. He
looks humiliated; really he does, with the way his whole face is red as fuckin
Hector Boyardee’s secret sauce and how he fidgets and stutters over his words
until you put your hand on his shoulder and tell him to shut the fuck up cause
we got a movie to watch.
An hour later John is asleep, his head on your shoulder and drool dripping down
your sleeve. It’s to be expected, really, because it’s John. In the other room
your Bro is sleeping. He hasn’t even said hello, hasn’t even ever told you
what’s going on with John, and you begin to wonder if this is a thing that’s
been going on since way before tonight.
Tonight your life sucks. Maybe. Just a little. You put your arm around John and
he hiccups in his sleep, nestles closer against you as corny actor dudes ramble
some shit on the screen. You almost wish he were awake to ramble along with the
dialog. You almost wish Bro were awake and hanging out, too. You wish. Almost.
End Notes
     You can find more of me at my main psued, deadcellredux, or at
     listentoyoubleed.tumblr.com.
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