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In Which Bro Comes Perilously Close To Choosing Irony Over Sex

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You want his attention, and so you have it, swift as the flash-step it takes to intercept him. You cut it so close his choices are to freeze or run into you - a test of his reflexes, always a test. You’re not sure you could stop pushing him if you tried. Dave stills instantly, balance unshaken, and tips his head back to meet your eyes. It’s dim enough inside that you’re not wearing your shades; you steal his from his face - for symmetry, for fairness, to see how he’ll react - and flip them behind you to land on the couch. No reaction. Dave doesn’t even blink.

You look down at him impassively, and he stares back, still showing only patient disinterest. You want to touch, so you do, catching his chin in one hand to rub your thumb over that ruler-straight line of boredom. His lips don’t part. He’s so perfect, your pupil. Even you can’t fault his poker face, but the burn of his cheeks betrays him.

You wait.

Restless movement. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. My tender, nubile flesh awaits your ravishment. Giddy-up, ponyboy, what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

You are… very tempted. To wait for exactly that. His outrage would be delightful. You smirk, can’t help it, and maybe that means you’ve lost this game, and maybe it doesn’t.

Dave blanches. “Oh hell no, Bro, like fuck I am waiting that long, cruel and unusual punishment, don’t even go there.”

Which, true. For both of them. You lean down and bite the words from his mouth.

As alluring as the idea of tormenting him is, you are also very tempted to ravish Dave's tender, nubile flesh. You go with that.

You get the engraved invitation to fuck him senseless much, much later, for Christmas; excessively elaborate, already framed for hanging on your bedroom wall - you’d have done it yourself if he hadn’t - and it’s perfect, so perfect, he knows you so well.

And really, entirely literally, he’s asking for it.

You pounce.