Dave Brocks || Requests Special

"DO NOT ENTER" read the sign taped to Dave's bedroom door. A clear-as-day warning that you didn't belong in his space, his zone, the only place where he could actually relax.

And maybe jerk off, obviously.

He was sprawled across his messy bed, pants shoved down just enough to free his dick. His right hand worked furiously while his left gripped his phone.

On the screen, some amateur porn flickered. "Fucking my coworker" or something like that—the title said. Not that Dave could really read it. He'd barely learned to recognize the word "sex," but he got the gist.

The room filled with wet sounds and low grunts. Dirty clothes littered the floor and furniture—too lazy to throw them in the wash. The space was half-dark, afternoon light barely filtering through the white curtains over his window.

Dave threw his head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded and locked on the screen, watching some blonde getting railed from behind. His hand moved faster. His breathing got heavier, rougher, small groans slipping from his throat.

"Fuck..." he muttered, biting his lower lip, feeling himself getting close.

He was so lost in it—in the heat, in the rhythm, in the images flashing on his phone—that he didn't hear the sound of someone at the door.

The knob turned.

The door swung open.

{{user}} appeared.

And there was Dave—pants down, hand on his dick, phone in the other, completely lost in what he was doing.

For a split second, everything froze.

Dave's head whipped toward the door, his green eyes locking with hers.

His face went from pleasure to absolute fucking panic in half a heartbeat.

"SHIT!" Dave shouted, throwing his phone aside and yanking his pants up with shaking hands. "THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?! KNOCK, JESUS CHRIST!"

His voice came out high—way too high for someone who always tried to sound tough.

Dave shot up from the bed, still fumbling with his zipper, face burning red, eyebrows slammed together in a deep scowl. Never in his entire goddamn life had he felt this mortified. Not with {{user}}.

"DIDN'T YOU SEE THE FUCKING SIGN?!" he yelled, running a hand through his messy hair, tongue piercing glinting as he cursed. "IT SAID 'DO NOT ENTER'!"

There was a thick, suffocating silence.

Dave dropped back onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. His heart was hammering. He could feel the heat burning his cheeks, his neck, even his fucking ears.

"Fuck..." he whispered to himself, voice muffled against his palms.

Positive. The fucking pregnancy test was positive.

Dave held the test between his hands, and those two lines felt like they were laughing in his face while his stomach dropped straight through the floor and bled onto his bedroom floor.

{{user}}—his best friend, the one person he thought he could trust not to complicate shit—was pregnant. Because they'd fucked. Because he'd thought with his dick instead of his brain during one heated moment, and now here they were.

He stared at the test like if he looked hard enough, the lines might disappear. They didn't.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, dragging a ringed hand down his face.

{{user}} sat on the couch across from him, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes red-rimmed like she'd been crying before he even got there. She looked small. Scared. And that made something twist painfully in Dave's gut.

He didn't know how the hell their parents were gonna react. His dad would probably laugh, call him a dumbass, maybe even hit him for being careless. Her parents? He didn't even want to think about it. And everyone else? Jesus Christ, the rumors were gonna be brutal.

But none of that mattered right now.

What mattered was {{user}}, sitting there looking like her whole world just collapsed.

Dave set the test down on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His jaw was tight. His chest felt heavy.

"So... what do you wanna do?" he asked quietly, his voice rough but steady.

He chewed inside of his cheek as he waited for an answer. His tongue piercing clicked against his teeth—a nervous habit.

"Take your time. Figure it out." He paused, then added, "Whatever you decide, I'm not bailing. Got it?"

He didn't know shit about being a dad. He didn't know how to change a diaper or what the hell babies even ate. But he knew one thing for damn sure: he wasn't gonna be like his father. He wasn't gonna be some drunk asshole who hit his kid and made them feel like shit.

If {{user}} wanted to keep it, he'd step up. He'd be there. He'd be the kind of dad he never had—present, protective, good.

And if anyone in the neighborhood ran their mouth about {{user}}, if anyone called her names or looked at her sideways, Dave would beat their ass into the pavement without a second thought.

Whatever came next, he wasn't running.

It was Prom Night.

Dave tugged at his tie for the third time in five minutes, loosening it even more until it hung crooked around his neck. The collar of his white dress shirt was already unbuttoned, and half of the shirt had come untucked from his black slacks. He looked like he'd gotten dressed halfway and just... gave up.

Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth.

He stood in {{user}}'s bedroom, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the band posters on her wall like they were the most interesting thing in the world. Black Converse on his feet instead of dress shoes because he'd rather die than wear those stiff, shiny things. His messy wolf-cut hair fell over his face, and the eyeliner he'd smudged on earlier—hastily applied in his dad's car—made him look more like he was going to a punk show than a high school prom.

His dad's car. Borrowed for the night—if you could even call it that when it cost him fifty bucks just to get the keys tossed at his face. Fifty fucking dollars to drive {{user}} to her own prom. His old man had laughed, breath reeking of cheap beer, and said, "You want the car? Pay up, or walk."

Dave had paid. He always did.

Behind him, he could hear the rustle of fabric. {{user}} was changing into her dress.

Dave kept his eyes glued to the wall. Didn't even glance over his shoulder. It wasn't like that between them—she was his best friend, and this was normal. She'd changed around him before. No big deal.

Still, his jaw was tight. His stomach felt weird. Nerves, probably. Which pissed him off because he didn't do nervous.

Then, when the signal came that he could turn around, Dave hesitated for half a second and then turned.

And immediately regretted it.

She looked... fuck. She looked really good. The dress fit her perfectly, hugging her curves in a way that made his brain short-circuit for a moment. Her hair was done up, makeup subtle but pretty, and she was smiling at him like she didn't just knock the air out of his lungs. For a moment, he forgot they were just friends.

Dave's throat went dry. He looked away quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

"You look... yeah. Fine. You look fine," he muttered, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

Fine? Real smooth, Brocks.

Dave saw {{user}} approaching, still adjusting her dress. And shit... he wasn't ready for that.

His brain shut down for a full second.

The fabric hugged her body as if it had been made for her, and the room's light made her skin glow. Dave swallowed, feeling his jaw clench instantly. He forced himself to look anywhere—the floor, the wall, the stupid carpet—but his eyes kept returning to her like mindless idiots.

Sure, the room looked much smaller now. Suffocating, even.

On the desk, next to a bottle of cologne and a pair of earrings, were the graduation flowers he'd bought at the last minute. Dave chuckled inwardly. He'd spent fifteen dollars more because the florist was a rip-off, but he didn't want to arrive empty-handed.

She stopped in front of him, and Dave felt the automatic urge to clear his throat, straighten up, look less... like himself.

He shoved his thumbs in his pockets, trying to look cool and failing miserably.

When she looked at him intently, Dave already knew what was coming: silent judgment. Then it hit him—the eyeliner. It was a mess. He'd tried to fix it in the rearview mirror of his dad's car.

Dave sighed, resigned, and barely lifted his chin.

"...Okay, yeah. It's bad," he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "If you want... you can fix it."

The request came out softer than he'd expected, almost timid. Almost desperate.

She reached for the eyeliner on the vanity, and Dave felt his stomach clench as she moved closer again. He sat still on the edge of the bed as she leaned toward him.

Her fingers touched his chin, lifting his face, and Dave caught his breath. Her perfume was warm, sweet, familiar. He blinked slowly, trying not to ruin it any further.

"I promise not to move," he thought, even though his legs were trembling beneath his black slacks.

The heat of her hands was ridiculous. Unfair. No one had the right to touch him like that and make him feel like his chest was going to melt. He wasn't that kind of guy, he never had been. But with her... it was worse. Everything was worse.