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It's been years now, since you gay-married your best bro in the most ironically unironic manner possible. Your best boy with his bright sky-blue eyes is yours forever.
You've joked about John being a sweetheart when he's really a mischievous asshole, and he jokes about you being lame, when everyone knows you're the coolest cooldude on the planet.
You've always known that your rather derpy best friend ain't as sweet as people think, but as time has passed you've noticed him getting almost... darker. Sometimes his jokes have more malice than mirth. Sometimes his pranks end with tears - or end friendships. But that's fine. That's just your John, not always aware of his limits.
The door of your apartment swings open and you smile, free of the label of 'irony' from your childhood, as John walks in with a big-ass grin on his face. He smacks your plush rump as he sets a bag of groceries on the counter, bringing a saucy smile to your own face.
"An' how's my big, strong manly man?" You coo, turning the sap to 11 as you drape your skinny arms over his shoulders. He turns in your grip and sweeps you into a cheesy romcom hug, swinging you around.
"Strong and manly as ever, sugar," he retorts, in a terrible imitation of your drawl. You scowl at the mangling and squirm out of his grip, bare feet padding onto the linoleum.
“So what’dya bring home, hunny?“ You start rifling through the plastic bags, grimacing at the messily-wrapped package at the bottom. “Not pork again...and they should really fiah that meat aisle fella, his wrappin’s a mess.”
John shrugs, although you feel a little tension from him for some reason. “But he’s definitely improved, right?”
You roll your shoulders noncommittally. “Sure, whatevah.” You make a face as you pass a messy hunk of meat to your boyfriend/husbando, wiping the pale pink juice onto your pants. “At least the cuts’re gettin’ less rough,” you mutter, putting up a box of cereal. You frown at the remaining contents of the bag as you do a mental check of the items bought, turning to John accusingly when you’re done. “Did you get only things you like, Johnny-boy?”
He laughs and runs one of those (mmmm) big hands through your hair, holding up a fancy bottle with the other. “Not quite~”
You roll your eyes and step out of ruffling range. “Expensive booze does not a jug of apple juice make, John.”
He shrugs and puts the bottle down, packing away the rest of the goods. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow morning, okay?”
You quirk a brow as you lean back against a counter. “And not t’night because...?”
He turns with a glint in his eyes, and you grin in spite of yourself.
-----
You’re on bottom again, much to your dismay (losing streak lately), but as John lubes up and probes you with one of those big, long, pianist fingers, you can’t find yourself much minding.
You do when he anchors his hands on your hips and thrusts in rough, making you seize up and groan. “Fuck, John, that ain’t enough lube-”
He silences you with a nip to the collarbone, laving his tongue up into the hollow of your throat. You moan and writhe beneath him, long past shyness, and your hands scrabble over his back as he ministers to your needs. Teeth graze your jaw, your ear, the edge of your clavicle, fingers tweaking a nipple and making you gasp and arch under him.
John thrusts again, still a little dry, a bit rougher than usual, but his touches on the rest of your body are dragging heat into your skin, and you melt into him. You think you can forgive him for a little thoughtlessness, although you’re definitely correcting him later.
That thought derails the second that talented, strong hand wraps against your painfully hard erection, making you squirm against him and drag nail lines down his back. He’s rougher here, too, gentling enough to get you off at the end.
You scratch him again, and bite his shoulder, knowing that he likes it rougher than you. “S-slow down there, stud,” you choke, as he pounds you hard and fast. You push at his chest when he shows no signs of slowing, grunting as he thrusts in again. He’s too deep, too hard, and your ass is starting to burn. You smack his shoulder and he stops mid-thrust, going as still as a marble statue.
The stillness and silence stretches, and you dip your head down in an attempt to look him in the eyes. “John...?”
He slowly brings his gaze up, eyes wide and mouth smirking. “I thought you liked me controlling you, Dave,” he purrs, leaning in towards you. He’s starting to worry you...” Liked me dominating and fucking you into the mattress.”
“W-Well yeah, but yer bein’ really rough there-” you wince, wriggling your hips in attempt to get out from under John’s weight a little. You’re stuck. “-since when dya forget pacing, let alone lube?”
John leans all the way up and kisses you gently, hands stroking your sides before digging painfully in under your ribs. “What the fuck-” He bites at your lip, drawing blood and distracting you. Suddenly his right hand is in a deathgrip on your neck, left tracing light patterns on your taut stomach before gripping your hips with bruising force.
You gasp as he starts up the pace again, then begins to speed up, blood welling under both sets of fingernails. Your own hands scrabble desperately at the wrist pinning your throat, making breathing a difficult ordeal. “John,” you croak, “John, what th’ fuck, this isn’t- isn’t funny-” You break into coughs, trying to draw air into your aching lungs. You realize that your lover is laughing; you blink tears out of your eyes to stare at him.
“Oh, but it is funny, Dave,” he murmurs, face in total shadow save for the glint of his white grin. “It’s fucking hilarious.” He releases your neck for a moment to rakes savagely down your pecs, grip returning before you have the presence of mind to block him. You claw again at his arm, push ineffectually at his chest, and this is John, dumb derpy prankster John and you never considered the fact that you migtt not be able to fight him off; that you might need to.
John is still making use of your body, entering and withdrawing from you with abnormal sadism as you struggle. “Wh...Why, is it funny, John,” you gasp, trying to distract him, find a moment, anything. Keep him talking, he might slip up...reconsider.
“Because you never knew,” he rumbles, and you’re more aware than ever of the actual size difference between you. He could snap you like a twig, and maybe that’s his plan. “You never knew! You call me dumb, but how the fuck could you not pick up on it?”
“W...hat?”
You think your pelvis might be cracking in his grasp, but so much of you hurts right now that it’s hard to concentrate on a single spot.
“Didn’t you wonder where I went out, late at night? What happened to our missing... heh... friends?” He cocks his head to the side, grin distorted in your tear-blurred vision. “But I know better than to rant, that’s stupid, that gets the bad guys killed. Not that I’m a bad guy!"
He kisses your cheek, tenderly, and chuckles darkly. “You’re the last one, Dave,” he whispers, ribcage vibrating against yours, “My magnum opus... my sweet finale.” He sits back up and slams into you again, making you choke against his tightening grip.
“I’ll pour one out for you, Dave,” he sing-songs. “I’ll never forget you.... I love you, Dave.” With that, his right hand closes like a vice, crushing your windpipe; his left hand carves another set of bleeding nail lines into your side; and his back arches as he finally, finally comes.
Heat fills you even as your gut drops into ice, disparity curling in your abdomen. John withdraws both hands, a pleased, childish smile on his face, and you realize he’s going sit there, inside you, and watch you until you die.
The last thing you feel is a bloodied fingertip gently wiping away your tears.