I wrote this a few weeks ago when I was trying to sleep at like, three, but couldn't... I was having a lot of DaveJohn feels, and I was procrastinating working on Labeled (-shot), so here. Have some... uh, DaveJohn three-shot thing! yeah! :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Homestuck~


You should be sleeping.

It's two in the morning, and you've got school in four hours, but no matter how hard you try, your mind won't stay quiet about anything. Specifically, about one thing, one very entertaining thing that you really shouldn't be thinking about right now, but you can't stop it. You try to switch your mental channel to that hot girl in your physics class you almost had a fling with, or whatever porn you had looked up on your phone in a desperate attempt to wear yourself out, yet it doesn't work, and your mind just brings you back to who you shouldn't have in your mind as your hand jerks up on your hard dick, and you fight down a moan.

In your mind, it's not your hand, and you're not worrying about your older brother on the other side of the paper thin walls. The fantasy you've made in your head is near perfect- Bro isn't home, and the pressure you feel is his hand, or his mouth, and you're crossed between the two before finally deciding the latter, slipping your eyes closed in ecstasy, and imagining his tongue sliding up the bottom of your cock, mouth hot and wet, blue eyes looking up at you from behind black, soft eyelashes and his dark bangs, pink lips pressed against your swollen flesh. His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't bring yourself to say it yet. He pulls away, a small smile on his face, and he crawls up your body, soft pianist fingers caressing your skin, his own erection pressed against your stomach and he stops at your lap, eyes needing and wanting. "Dave, please, I want you so bad…" he moans, lustfully, rocking his ass back against your cock.

Next thing you know he's riding you, bouncing in your lap, every downward motion eliciting a moan and a squeak from his mouth, hands braced on your chest as he rises up and falls back down. He's saying gibberish you half understand, the air hot and bed sheets far away, his mouth opened and tongue barely peeking out of his buck teeth. Then he's moaning and gasping something out of a bad porno, screaming "fuck yes" and "deeper please!" among a mess of tangled words and then he's coming, and you're coming, too. He's still whimpering your name, and when he collapses against you, he looks up at you and smiles, mumbling out "I love you", before you're rushed back to reality, panting and gasping for air desperately, back in your bed, in your apartment, alone and the heat is settling and fading and you're feeling cold, hand still on your dick and covered in your own release, and you slump against your pillows, mumbling a soft "I love you, too" and falling asleep too quickly.


When you wake up the next morning, you're sticky and exhausted, sunlight peeking through your blinds, and with a slow glance, you look to your clock, seeing it's already nine, and you know you've missed your first period. Your boxers are at your ankles, and you pull them up, feeling the soreness in your thighs, where you were bucking up into your touch, and clumsily rise from bed and stumble out the door, eyes catching sight of your brother on the couch. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Slept in." You tell him, simply, walking past him to the kitchen, grabbing a box of cereal and a bowl for your breakfast. "I'm not going today."

You know he's watching you, but you don't dare turn. "Does it have anything to do with the shit you were doing last night?"

Your blood runs cold at the question. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Dave I'm not fucking stupid. I could hear your moans through the walls." He says, and you hear him pick up the TV remote, flipping through the channels.

You slow your actions and shrug. "Yeah. I wore myself out. No big deal." You rather not think about what you had in your mind during your impromptu jack-off session, but Bro's casual discussion has you reliving the guilty, sick thoughts.

"Who's John."

At that, you actually freeze, bile rises in your throat and you force yourself to swallow it back down, hands clutching the cereal box you held too roughly. You can feel the regret and the guilt that you're the sickest fucking person for thinking about him during something like that, to think of him on your dick out of everything, and you have to will yourself not to vomit from the guilt. "No one."

"From the way you were moaning and whimpering his name I wouldn't say he was no one." Bro has you in a fucking corner again, and you bite your lower lip too hard and rush off to the bathroom to throw up, letting the emptiness in your stomach splash into the toilet until you're choking and sobbing on your emotions.


After finally stomaching some breakfast and taking a shower to clean off the sweat from last night and the vomit from this morning, you fall back in bed and it's already noon. You feel drained, and you're still sniffling- you'll never tell Bro but you were crying in the shower too- and a quick alert on your phone rouses you from your almost nap. Drowsily picking it up and unlocking it, you check the text and find there's not one, but four, and all from the last person you wanted to think about right now.

John: hey where are you?

John: dave? are you sick? oh god i hope you're ok.

John: um you're probably still asleep but there's something i needed to tell you… haha but you didn't come to school today. i'll tell you later.

John: get better soon… i miss you, dave. lunch is lonely without you.

Your stomach knots uncomfortably, and you shoot back quick texts before throwing your phone back on the nightstand and rolling over to bury your face in your pillow.

Dave: stayed home

Dave: sorry i didnt answer this morning i was asleep

Dave: ill be back tomorrow so dont worry

Dave: youre in class and wont get these for another hour huh

Dave: i guess ill talk to you after school

Dave: and john im so fucking sorry

Dave: shit im really sorry

John: sorry for what?

John: dave?

But you can't hear your phone over the sound of your sobs.

Your name is Dave Strider and you feel like the worst human being.