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Striders are intensely fond of their shades. This is just an indisputable fact. One of the quickest ways to their heart is a positive first reaction to seeing them, maybe with a little compliment thrown in, something about how the shape compliments the face. One of the quickest ways to end up at the business end of one of their swords is to fuck with the shades. With only a few exceptions.
John Egbert was one of those exceptions, because, for one thing, he did actually buy Dave his shades, something that had basically been his first step as a person independent of Bro, so if John wanted to play with them, or make fun of them, well, he wouldn’t get much more then a swat on the arm in return. For another thing, John actually understood what The Shades meant to a Strider, or, got the gist of it, at least. So while he might make fun, he was also quick to defend him and his brother against anyone else who started saying shit. It wasn’t necessary, but John pulling himself up to his not so impressive height of five foot five and three quarters, cutting people verbally down to his height and then pulling his sleeve up his arm, like he was actually getting ready to land a right hook that always caught his opponents by surprise, well. Well, Dave wasn't going to lie, it was actually pretty hot. And adorable. But mostly hot.
Which all lead to the third reason why John was allowed to handle his shades: the fact that he just plain trusted the blue eyed dork. So when he pulled open the shower curtain- the polka-dotted one that John had compromised in getting, since Dave absolutely refused to shower in something that had ugly, plain gray covering it, and John had drawn the line at the pink prancing ponies and hearts-, he managed to only be a little exasperated when he noticed that his sunglasses, his favorite accessory, the one that made him feel more naked then any other lack of clothing could, were not sitting by the sink where he placed them.
He sighed, long, drawn out, put upon, and sounding suspiciously like "Jaahhhhhhhhwn..." as he toweled off half assedly, only enough so that his boxers wouldn't cling uncomfortably when he put them on, and so that his hair wouldn't be dripping every which way, letting the fluffy, damp thing rest loosely around his neck as he left the bathroom to see just what sort of antics John was getting into. He had only hoped that it wouldn't involve an overly messy prank, since he'd just gotten out of the damn shower.
There was absolutely no way he could have prepared himself for what he saw, John sitting on the arm of the couch, feet just barely brushing the carpet as he lazily kicked them back and forth, holding most of his weight on his hands, braced against said arm of said couch, giving Dave his best innocent look, which only told Dave that the smarmy little smart-ass knew exactly what he was doing, how he was effecting Dave, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, one of Dave's button up shirts, hanging loose over his shoulders, and... and Dave's aviators, taking up a goodly amount of John's face, just like they once did on his own face, when he was thirteen.
Some people thought it was hot when their lovers wore their clothing, and Dave happened to agree. John swimming in the fine cotton cloth of his dress shirts, or one of his old ratty tee's, was something that had always peaked his interest. It wouldn't be hard for people, should they happen to see him, to take in the way they didn't really fit him at all, and it wouldn't take much to go to the logical assumption that he was wearing his boyfriend's clothes. Or had a really tall and broad shouldered girlfriend.
But that was the thing: boyfriend, lover, they were some pretty vague terms. And he knew, logically he knew that people who didn't know him wouldn't understand just what those shades John was wearing signified, but he knew. He knew, and everyone who knew him would know, and everyone who mattered would know, and John knew. It was the same as writing Property of Dave Strider across his face.
Striders were possessive creatures by nature, despite how cool they always tried to behave, and it didn't take much to bring that side of them out, he knew that, they both knew that. But fuck, it had never made him actually lose control before, he was always able to hold for a little while, at least long enough to get somewhere private. Or to the bedroom.
He didn't even let the primal growl he could feel rumbling it's way up his throat out before he was on him, flashstepping right in front of him, grabbing onto John's hip with one hand, burying his hand into unruly black hair, pulling him up and flushed against him, even as he bent his head in for a harsh, demanding kiss.
It wasn't Dave's usual style. Even at his roughest, John would tease him about being a sentimental softie. He wasn't soft right then, tugging sharply at John's hair, hand just on the side of bruising against the pale skin of his hip, lips and teeth and tongue demanding. He could have sworn that he actually felt John's lips bruise underneath his own, subtly swelling, rushing with blood. And when he pulled John’s head back with a sharp tug, exposing the long line of his throat, he could see just what he felt, his lips swollen and flushed red, parted as he sucked in a breath, glistening in the strong light of the lamp.
Flushed red and swollen around John's teeth as he smirked up at Dave, obviously pleased with the turn of events.
The little punk.
He didn't mean to, but he must've said that out loud, because when he lowered his head, biting down hard, knowing he was leaving an imprint of his own teeth in John's flesh, for once, the dork was laughing, a low chortle that became beautifully breathy as he sucked, hard, working a mark into his skin. And then another, and another, leaving a molted pattern, all up and down the length of his throat, barely having to brush his fingers against the fabric of his shirt to shift it out of the way, bearing the shallow curve of John’s collarbone, skin paler then even Dave’s where his shirt always hid his skin, with only a few sparse moles scattered around to break up the milky white skin and light tan where the sun graces him.
Dave was a talker, in every and all situations, but John had always been louder, not always with his voice, but always with his gestures, so it shouldn’t have surprised Dave at all when despite his hold, John arched, rubbing up against him as boldly as you please, grinding his covered erection against Dave’s stomach, making him feel slightly dizzy as whatever little bit of blood he had in his head went rushing straight to his cock, straining against his own boxers.
Well, no, Dave wasn’t actually surprised by it. He was surprised, or, would’ve been surprised by his own reaction to it, if he’d had the ability to think beyond ‘Mine mine mine’. John could be a brat when he wanted to be, and went out of his way to be terrible at following directions half of the time, and normally, Dave just let him, even in the bedroom. Maybe especially in the bedroom. Because he was John, and even though Dave could talk the talk, he just couldn’t seem to ever fully walk the walk.
His feet must’ve learned the right rhythm, though, because that little display had him moving before he fully comprehended what he was doing, pulling back just long enough to turn John around, bending him over the arm of the couch, and rutting against the welcoming curve that that position shaped his tight little ass into.
"Ah! Dav- Fuck!" John didn't whimper, or mewl, he never really did unless he was trying to convince Dave to do something for him- or to him-, and that was normally alright. Dave usually enjoyed the fact that his boyfriend didn't sound like a cheap porno, and that he could read his body better then any wanton noises he might make.
Right then, though, all he wanted to do was make John scream.
He grunted, laying down on top of the smaller man, holding him down with his dead weight, grabbing onto his hips, keeping him from moving even as he rolled his hips slowly, subconsciously using the same pattern and rhythm that he knew John liked best, rewarded by a long groan from John, vibrating through his back, right into Dave's chest, spurring him on.
"Don't, don't- Jesus Fuck, don't tease me, you doucheba-Gah!" It was always a pleasure to cut John off mid-thought, and doubly so when he could do so by undressing him, yanking his boxers down, pooling at his ankles. It did separate them, which wasn't the most preferable thing in the world, but when he was knelt down it did allow him a lovely view of soft, pale backside. A soft, pale backside that was right in front of his face. A soft, pale backside that deserved to be punished for being everything he could have ever wanted, for being perfectly made for him, for still managing to somehow make him want him more every single day, even though it shouldn't even be physically possible.
The smack cracked through the room, reverberating in Dave's ears, stinging the palm of his hand, leaving a bright, red mark. John hissed, his thighs and his back tensing, but he also stood up on his toes, like he was presenting himself, willingly putting himself in the way of another slap.
"God, I love you." He barely even had to ask John to do anything, he just did it on his own, a living, walking, talking wet dream. So when he leaned in to press a kiss against the hot, red skin, it was close to reverent.
Not that John could see that, but he chuckled like he could, arching his back to look back over his shoulder, one blue eye peaking out from behind the tinted glasses, just viewable from the angle Dave was looking at him from, a little impish hint of mischief.
John parted his lips, about to open his mouth, no doubt to spew some wise crack about ass-kissing, and Dave simply wasn't going to have any of that. Not when he could get John to make far more appealing sounds, and have a little bit of fun himself in the process.
Striders were fond of their eye wear, but if there was anything that rivaled that affection, it was their love for fine asses. And as far as Dave was concerned, John had the finest: round and perky, turning into a charming little heart shape when he bent over and held his legs together, and had just enough give to be irresistibly touchable. And biteable.
Give him credit, John didn't jump at the little nip, which probably would've caused Dave to bite harder then he meant to. He didn't want to really hurt him, just to leave a mark or two. And it wasn't like John didn't like it; hell, he spurred him most of the time. Like it was a game.
Well, maybe it was a game, but John wasn't the only one who knew how to play those.
He licked over the small mark, a quick, teasing little lick, strictly because he knew it was going to annoy his lover, but was quick to do it again, a long, slow, dipping into his favorite crease, barely able to keep from grinning as he pulled a low groan out of John, felt him shift and wiggle around to get to a better angle, to get Dave's tongue exactly where he wanted it.
Or tried to, at least. Dave wasn't having any of that, too busy licking broad strokes against the twin curves, between them, slicking up the skin. He had a plan, and John wasn't going to derail him from it. Well, not fully, at least. When the word please came out, a breathless little gasp, he did relent, just a little. It was hard enough to say no to John about anything, but when he started to beg, it was like he was hardwired to just give in.
As he parted the two cheeks, giving himself better access to the sensitive skin between them, Dave told himself that he was just making his own plan a little easier, the slicker John was the better, and it wasn't going to hurt anything to flick his tongue against his puckered hole, to work it a little bit looser, to rim him for a bit. John adored getting ate out, and Dave adored doing it for him, so it was a win-win situation by all counts.
Not for long, though. He pulled himself away before he really wanted to, and definitely before John thought he should, but the smaller man had been rutting against the arm of the couch, and his rhythm had been starting to go off beat, a sure sign that he was getting close, and Dave couldn't let him do that, no matter how much he growled in frustration, kicking back behind him in an attempt to get the blond in the shins.
He missed, of course, but it did allow Dave the opportunity to shuck his own boxers down, his cock standing erect, proud, and almost purple as it drooled precum, turning the head shiny. And John was distracted enough in his attempt to hit him that he didn't even notice Dave's hand coming to grab onto his hair, pulling his head back sharply, forcing his back to arch even as he situated himself behind John, his erection laying perfectly between the slick globes of his ass.
"Aahhh...!" That was what Dave wanted. John underneath him, moaning, cheeks bright pink and ass hot and welcoming, and he could see, oh yes he could see his shades on him. Everything was perfect, and he when his hips started moving, riding John, grinding him into the couch, watching his eyes grow unfocused as he went faster, faster, harder... He didn't even have to touch his dick to make him cum, ribbons of white arching onto the cushion of the couch, letting out the most beautiful noise, a long, drawn out, guttural sigh, before going limp in Dave's hold, only held up by his hand in his hair.
"Fuck, shit, Mine," Dave hissed, a mantra, as he let John drop, both hands grabbing onto his hips instead, holding him still as he kept his hims snapping. It wasn't the most pleasurable way to get off, they'd definitely done things that felt better, but there was something about the wild, uncontrollable need to get closer, to have skin on skin, not having the time of the patience to get the lube to get some actually penetration, only able to mindlessly rub up against each other... It reminded Dave of the beginning of their relationship, when every little touch seemed to just be sexually charged, when they thought that frotting up in any room that was halfway private was a perfectly sound way to spend an evening.
Gritting his teeth, sweat dripping down his face, and the image of the first time he managed to make John cum fresh in his mind, the look on his face, red and wide eyed, glasses askew and a growing wet spot on his shorts, Dave hissed out his name, holding his hips still as he instinctively shifted his hips downwards, the tip of his cock finding John's hole, and pressing in, just a little. Not even enough to get in the whole head, though John's yelp let him know that it probably felt like a whole lot more then it was, and came. Came from the heat, the almost unbearably tight grip, and the familiarity.
They stayed that way for a while, Dave trying to catch his breath, smiling a little in the afterglow, John shifting slowly beneath him, hips moving experimentally as he tried to not get his hands or arms in the mess he left on the couch. But it wasn't long before the blue eyed man spoke up.
"You just seriously creampied me."
"Mmm, yeah. I kinda did." Dave smiled even more, pleased at the almost disgruntled noises John made, before taking a step back, pulling up his boxers and taking the time to get a good look at his handy work, John's red cheeks and the little bit of jizz sliding out from between them. "I'll clean it out for you."
"No shit, you're going to clean it out. You make the mess, you gotta clean it up. Dem's the rules. Ugh, shit, give me that towel before the couch starts to stain."
Dave thought about pointing out the fact that he probably wouldn't have been put into the position to make the mess in the first place if somebody hadn't taken his shades, but decided against it, just silently handing John the towel that he hadn't noticed slide off his neck, allowing him to get the worst of the mess off of the couch before he picked him up, holding him close to his chest, and taking him right back into the bathroom.
Dave also thought that it said a lot about how far they came that John no longer put up a fuss when he did that.
A few hours later found them snuggling up on the opposite side of the couch where they fucked earlier, talking shit about whatever shows they happened to surf past, when Dave groan, face palming himself in annoyance.
"Fuck. I forgot to get a picture."
It only took John a moment to figure out what Dave was talking about, and when he did, he smirked mischievously, reaching up to slide his lover's glasses off his face, and send him a coy little glance.
"Well then, I guess we'll just have to try it again, hm?"
They spent the rest of the night putting a stain on the other side of the couch.
And Dave still forgot to get his picture.