A Certain Arrangement
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are a pizza delivery guy. Not a boy, because you grew out of boyhood a long time ago (incredibly earlier than most guys your age). You are mildly attractive (okay, mega-fucking hot, but you digress), but you have never truly been romantic with anyone because romance is overrated; you're too fucking cool for it. Instead, you spend your days working and clubbing, DJing and playing old-school video games that are ironically cool. You don't go to college, because fucking why? You're happy as you are.
This night isn't any different from any other work night for you. You check in, pick up an order, program your GPS, and head out. You arrive, get paid, go back to the store, and start it all over again. This is the eighth stop of the night, and your final, so you pull up to the driveway of a large white house hurriedly, intent to get home before your favorite Adult Swim show comes on (fucking Robot Chicken is hilarious, dude). Your sneakers squeak as you jump out of your jeep, grab the box of pizza and money envelope, and rush up to the front step. You can hear the distinct sound of Mario Kart (Double Dash, you note, probably the best fucking one out of all of them) seeping from the windows, and you hide your excitement as you knock out shave-and-a-haircut on the door.
You blink behind your ironic sunglasses as a yelp is heard from what you are guessing is the living room and the sounds from the game are paused. A panicked voice calls out 'Coming!' There's another awkward moment of silence, then the door flings open. The kid standing in front of you is, for lack of better words, fucking adorable. He (God, when was the last time you saw a guy so cute?) is flushed in the cheeks from the exertion of trying to reach the door, his green sweatshirt sagging slightly off one shoulder. You can't help your eyes wandering (damn, these sunglasses are good) to tan-colored jeans clinging to thin legs and hips, low enough to show a ripple of peachy skin between them and the sweater. You force your gaze up to take in unruly black hair, bright blue eyes framed with dozens of freckles and thick-rimmed glasses, and an obvious case of overbite. The kid is staring at you embarrassedly as he scratches the back of his head. That smile is so fucking adorable.
"Hey! Sorry about that, was sorta caught up in the game, ya know?" His voice is dorky, still a bit squeaky from puberty.
You gulp. "Nah, it's cool man. Double Dash is best Mario Kart," you mutter nonchalantly, trying not to sound turned on. You squirm in place.
The kid is suddenly grinning from ear to ear. "Ohmigosh, you play Mario Kart?" he asks excitedly. His eyes are brighter too, you notice. Dear fucking God he isn't giving you a break. You nod in response, eager to finish this job and get home so you can get rid of the problem in the lower hemisphere. "Neato! Oh! Well anyway, come on in, I totally forgot to get my money ready for when you got here, heheh. It'll be a minute so you can wait in the kitchen."
You aren't sure this is such a great idea (it's actually in your training handbook not to enter a customer's house, but the kid looks so fucking guilty), so you oblige anyway. You follow him through the living room to the kitchen, careful not to crunch any of the game cases or controllers strewn about the floor. The kid tells you that you can drop the pizza on the coffee table, so you do so and continue to follow him. You find him hunched over a wallet on the kitchen table (you can see a picture of a slimy green ghost on the front and faintly wonder if the kid is a fan of the Ghost Busters, a movie that was kind of bad in your opinion but to each his own), and he's fumbling with the bills he is pulling out.
"How much was it again?"
"Fifteen sixty-five." You sniff and try not to stare at the kid's ass as he bends over to fetch a rogue quarter. After a moment it seems he is finished counting, and you hear him groan loudly. Goddamn, you could have sworn these pants fit this morning. "What's up?" Oh, you know what's going to be up in a moment…
The dork turns to you, a far more guilty expression on his face than before. "I only have, like, six bucks. I completely forgot I bought those Gushers today!"
The kid is staring at you, seemingly contemplating something. You look around you and see nothing that could distract you from that look. "Is there… I mean, I really don't have enough to pay for it. Is there… anything else I could do? To repay you." He is worrying his bottom lip between his prominent teeth, and it takes all your self-control not to jump him. You know what he's insinuating; some housewives have tried this move on you but not one of them had been remotely attractive, in looks or personality. He is clearly experienced with this, at least slightly, and a pang hits you hard in the chest. You can see him leaning back against the kitchen table, thighs rubbing together ever so slightly, fingers toying with the hem of his sweatshirt (which he has graciously pulled up to reveal more smooth skin). That unmistakable bulge is twitching behind his zipper, and the sight is so riveting you find yourself shaking your sweaty hands out and licking your lips.
You take a step forward and notice a twinge of a smile on the other. Your hands slide into your pockets as you get closer. "Well I guess there is something." You try to hide the smirk that is creeping onto your face. You're right in front of him now and you can see the flush on his cheeks when you look down at him through your shades. "I can get in trouble for not filling my quota, but I think I can work around it. Thankfully I don't hold grudges. I just… take care of business." The corner of your mouth is quirked up finally and the kid is smiling at you, legs spreading subconsciously (or consciously but you couldn't give a flying fuck at this moment with your dick yelling at you like this) as you move closer so you're in between them.
"So are we at an agreement?"
The next moment your hands are on either side of his face, his grasping your hair as lips crush against lips, tongues twisting and stroking together while you both gasp for air at every swivel of the head. Your hips have ground up against his and he is practically sitting on the rickety kitchen table with his legs wrapped tightly around your waist. The friction is God-sent and after a minute without breathing you pull back, grip is hips with tight fingers, and thrust against him, arousals grinding through two layers of jean. The kid is crying out and clutching at your hair, his head down staring in awe at the movement between you.
"Dave, my name's Dave."
"Oh fucking Christ, Dave."
You both are rutting against each other wildly and the table is groaning at you and screeching along the tile floor with each jerk. The kid's ("J-John Egbert-fuck!") legs are shuddering against you so you pull back a bit, only to have him release you and drop down, flipping you around so you are the one against the table. John fumbles with your belt momentarily, but has your pants and boxers around your knees in an instant. You can't help but scream slightly (fuck your cool-kid image, you need this guy now) as his hand and mouth wrap around you and start moving simultaneously.
"F-fuck, John…" You look down through your shades to see the other flushed, his cheeks bulging with your girth and eyes shut in content. A particularly hard suck nearly brings you to your knees, so you pull John away from you and bring him up. You have undone his clothes as well and with a small shift upwards, you two are grinding against each other again, this time with no debilitating barriers. "C-can I keep going…?" You ask because you're a gentleman, and this kid is too adorable to ravage without permission.
He bites his lower lip again, a habit you have noticed over the past several minutes, but grins widely. "Mhm, I'm all yours Dave," he accentuates with a slow grind against you, "do whatever you want with me, I'll be a good boy."
You suppress a groan and flip your bodies around so that John is spread-eagle on the table. Stopping for a moment, you take a second to look at him, face flushed red, panting from exertion, grinning like a madman. His legs are shuddering gently, so you reach forward to stroke the thighs with coarse DJ fingertips. John sighs and leans his head back onto the table, relaxing into your touch. You move down to kiss the inside of his leg.
He jolts suddenly, nearly kicking you in the face as you probe a finger into him. "Oh dear God, Dave," he moans loudly, dragging out your name seductively. You feel yourself twitch in response. After a moment he is calmed down, still gripping his lower lip in his teeth, and you feel brave enough to venture and add another finger. He is more accepting of it and the third and final, and before long you are driving into him, crashing him against the kitchen table with everything you have. He is panting your name with every movement, every deep thrust, and it isn't long before you are gripping his arousal and getting him off.
John relaxes against you once he is spent, but his legs continue to hold onto your waist to assist your driving force. You pull out before you finish, and both of your release is dripping perversely onto the tile floor. John is panting heavily, legs now limp against you, but he is grinning and laughing like an idiot. You stare at him as best you can through your sunglasses. You're almost afraid to ask him what he thinks is so funny.
"That was… amazing," he finally says, then sits up to bring you down into a deep and sensual kiss. You return it and can't help but gasp at the feeling it sparks in you. You back up from John and help him up before leaning down to pull your pants back on. John, however, stops you with a hand on yours, then kisses you again. When he pulls away he is still bright red.
"Yeah… it was," you finally reply, trying to stop your awkward smirk from returning. "Your pizza's gone cold by now."
John shrugs as he smooths out his sweatshirt and buttons his pants. "Eh, it doesn't really matter. Cold pizza is just as good." He smiles at you again.
You decide you're brave enough, so you step forward once he's righted himself and run a hand through his sweaty and sex-mussed hair. "And I can name quite a few more things that are better than even cold pizza." He is blushing again, and you count a victory for yourself.
"So Dave, do you think I could get some more 'pizza' from you sometime?" He stresses the name with a soft voice and a wink, and another wave of victory pulses through you.
"I guess so. Delivery, or take-out?"
"Take-out sounds nice."
You hand him your cell number, he hands you his, and you leave. As you turn down the street to get back to the store, you can't help the ironic grin that splays itself across your face.
Ohey everyone! Been a while, hasn't it?
So yeah~ Homestuck is like way up there in the fandom stream for me now. Fuck you tumblr xD So there's an artist on there doing a fancomic, and along the way she posted a little photo and asked for a fic to go along with it. So go to her page (loonytwin) and insert this after the com: post/ 14499609338/ i-made-it-happen-now-where-is-that-fic-hmmmm-i
SO YEAH. Officially my second smut (I prefer romance myself but yeah), first Homestuck fic, and my first general fic in perhaps a year or so? Dunno xD Anyway I had fun writing it and I hope you liked it!
Homestuck belongs to Andrew Fuckin Hussie and all copyright privileges belong to him. I only own this fanfic. Reviews are appreciated, not demanded, and flames will be used to stoke the fire of Mrs. Lovett's oven.