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luxaofhesperides · 5 months

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For the ghostlights drabbles: “Say my name” with a favor being called in?

Duke had saved Phantom years ago, back when he was just out of high school and working to take down a branch of the government that was kidnapping and experimenting on people, targeting magic users and metas. Phantom had been working on his own to take them down, and they met in the middle, trashing a lab and freeing as many people as they could.

They had managed to shoot his back, knocking him down and making him bleed a glowing green. Phantom couldn’t move, protecting two kids with his body, and Duke couldn’t reach them in time before they were taken away by another swarm of agents.

He was able to go after them in time, free Phantom and the kids, and evacuated the victims before Phantom rained hell down on the facility.

At the end, standing in the background as they watched paramedics treat the victims and take them towards the nearest hospitals, Phantom had turned towards him and thanked him.

Or rather, he thanked the Signal and offered him a bracelet with a rounded orb of ice, glowing faintly in the dark. If you ever need me, he had said, Hold this, and call me name.

Phantom vanished once the last of the victims were transported to a safer location, and Duke hadn’t seen him since.

He’s kept up with news about Phantom as best he can, but from what he could tell, Phantom is based primarily in Amity Park, Illinois, and the town is fiercely protective of their hero. News rarely leaks out of there, and with them running on their own servers and independent internet, it was nearly impossible to get in from the outside.

Phantom remained a curious and distant figure in Duke’s life. He holds onto the bracelet still, guarding it carefully and sometimes running his fingers over the ice that never melts.

But he doesn’t call in that favor. He’s never to.

At least, not until now.

Sucking in a breath, Duke prepares himself and holds the orb of ice in the palm of his hand. He’s in civies, unable to hide his identity for this, and closes his eyes. “Phantom,” he says.

For a moment, nothing happens. Duke blinks his eyes open and frowns, mind already forming new plans to contact Phantom. Then the ice goes bitingly cold, almost painful, and the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The ice lifts up from his hand, floating in the air, then cracks open.

White-blue light spills out of it, growing brighter as it seems to swallow up the room entirely. Duke hurries to back up, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes. His breath mists out before him and he shivers as the sound of ice cracking fills the room.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the light disappears and the cold fades away like a bad dream.

Slowly, Duke lowers his arm and looks up at Phantom, floating in the middle of his living room with a crown made of ice, engulfed in blue fire, hovers above his head. He looks older, more regal, holding his head high.

He regards Duke carefully for a minute, then tilts his head and says, “Signal?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Man, I’m so glad you came.”

“You… need help with something? You’re calling in your favor now, right?”

Duke nods. He understands Phantom’s confusion; being in the hero business means that favors like these tend to be used only during the most hopeless of times, when the world is close to ending, when the chances of getting out of a situation alive is close to impossible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Duke was expecting to call Phantom in for.

Not the kid sleeping on his couch.

“You’re a ghost, yeah?”

Phantom blinks at him. “Ghost king, now. Why?”

“Well…” Duke rubs the back of his neck, nervously. “I didn’t really know who else to call, and I can’t do this on my own since I’m not a ghost. But this kid got attached to me and won’t leave, so now I’m taking care of her and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know why you think I have any experience with kids but—”

“She’s a ghost.”

Phantom stops short. “Ah. I see.” He floats down until his feet touch the floor, and then he’s standing like any other person. “Where…?”

Duke looks past Phantom’s shoulder, and Phantom turns to follow his gaze. Chelsea, the ghost girl, looks to be around nine years old and is fast asleep on the couch, curled up under Duke’s softest blanket.

“Signal,” Phantom says quietly, “What, exactly, is the favor you need from me?”

“You can say no,” Duke starts. “I get that this is a lot. But I need help raising her. And since you’re a ghost, I figured you could help me learn about the ghostly side of things. You don’t have to raise her with me or anything! Just… I would appreciate any help you’re willing to give me.”

Phantom doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at Chelsea, an unreadable expression on his face.

On the couch. Chelsea shifts in her sleep, brows furrowing as she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat.

Moving on autopilot after so many nights of this routine, Duke kneels next to the couch, fishing one of her hands from beneath the blanket. He gives it a few reassuring squeezes, keeping it a slow rhythm to pull her gently from her nightmare. She settles down in just a minute, brow smoothing out as she continues to sleep.

The silence grows and Duke is all too aware that his heart is the only one beating.

He doesn’t hear Phantom move. Doesn’t realize he’s right next to him until he sees Phantom’s hand reach out towards Chelsea. When Duke looks, Phantom is sitting on the floor next to Duke, looking at Chelsea with something soft and devastated in his eyes. His hand hovers about her head for a long moment, then slowly lowers to rest on her head.

The touch looks gently, barely putting any pressure on her head, but it’s enough to make Chelsea’s eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. She stares at Phantom with wide eyes, then sits up and looks between him and Duke.

“Who are you?” she asks in a small voice that makes Duke want to stand against the world to keep her safe.

Phantom smiles. It’s casual and charming and makes him look like anyone else, as if he’s not a powerful king from a realm unreachable to humans. “Hi there,” he says, “I’m Danny. I’m a ghost like you. Signal called me and asked me to meet you.”

The Ghost King is good with kids. Who would have thought?

Chelsea looks at him for confirmation and only relaxes when he nods. “I’m Chelsea. What do you mean ghost? I’m not dead.”

Both he and Phantom tense, carefully keeping their expressions neutral. She hasn’t told him much at all, just that her parents were gone and forgot her and she got hurt, so she wanted to stay with ‘Mr. Signal’ because he’s a hero and heroes keep people safe and he was the only one who was Black like her. Duke hadn’t had the heart to say no, and began searching for her family, only to find that her parents had fled the state, and likely the country, after killing their only child through neglect and a dangerous environment.

It was then that he realized that her powers were not because she was a meta, but because she was ghost.

It still hurts to realize how young she is, how much of her life had been stolen from her in an instant. Duke hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic with her, instead choosing to let her grow comfortable in his presence, get them both settled into a routine now that he was her primary guardian.

“I know it sounds scary,” Phantom says, “And you may not want to believe me, but it’s true. I’m sorry that you died so young, but that just means you get to hang out with me and other ghosts from now on!”

Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I am not dead,” she says.

“Cici, I’m sorry to say this, but you are,” Duke cuts in. “That’s why I called… Danny. You have new powers as a ghost, and he can help you get used to them.”

“I’m not dead!” she says again.

“Kid,” Phantom begins, but Chelsea shakes her head hard and hops off the couch.

“I’m not lying! Watch, I’ll prove it to you!” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her nose, concentrating. Her hands curl into tight fists by her sides, and the glow around her grows dim. Two faint, stuttering rings of light appear around her waist. They flicker and wobble in the air, as if weak and uncertain of their own existence, then split apart, one moving up towards her head while the other falls to her feet.

Beside him, Phantom sucks in a sharp breath, but Duke can’t turn to see what’s wrong when he’s trying to take in the sight of Chelsea suddenly full of vibrant color, looking more solid that he’s ever seen her, very much alive.

“See?” she says proudly, lifting her arms and doing a spin to show off her right she was. “I told you I’m not dead!”

“No, you’re not,” Phantom agrees, sounding shell-shocked. When Duke is finally able to look away from Chelsea to check on him, he looks awed. There’s the smallest smile on his face, just the slightest upturn of his lips, but it makes him look softer.

Duke turns his attention back to Chelsea before he can be caught staring. “Cici, can you come here for a second?”

She goes before he’s finished speaking, crossing the space between them in a single jump, then grins up at him. Her hair is a bit of a mess, the two buns he managed to get her hair into falling askew. He makes a note to visit the old aunties in the Narrows later to ask them to teach him how to do hair. For now, he holds out a hand and Chelsea drops an arm into it.

It seems to good to be true, having her be alive, but her pulse is steady and strong when he presses his thumb against the inside of her wrist.

“Well,” he says, leaning back and letting go of her arm. “You certainly proved us wrong.”

Chelsea doesn’t have much time to look smug before PHantom quietly says, “You’re like me.”

“What?”

“You’re like me,” he tells Chelsea. “A halfa.”

She tilts her head to one side. “What’s that?”

“Someone who is half human and half ghost. Both dead and alive.”

Duke blinks, taking in the words, then turns to face Phantom so quickly he’s worried he might give himself whiplash. Halfa, he said. Like me, he said.

And sure enough, two rings of light, bright and strong, appear around Phantom’s waist before splitting in half, moving over his entire body.

Gone is the Ghost King, all powerful and adorned in dark clothing with a crown of ice above his head. In his place is a guy who looks to be Duke’s age, eyes a deep blue and his black hair messy, feet set solidly on the floor. He looks completely normal, completely human, and no longer an impossibility.

“You still up for learning how to use all your new powers?” Phantom asks.

Chelsea grins. “Yeah!” And then, with a quick flick of her eyes going from Phantom to Duke that he almost misses, very innocently asks, “Are you going to stay with us then?”

“I… don’t know?” Phantom looks to Duke for an answer.

Already, Duke can see this going two ways. The correct way forward, the normal one, has Phantom popping in every so often, taking Chelsea out for a few hours to work on training her and her powers. It’s easy and routine and they can keep their boundaries uncrossed and be professional.

The other path is what Duke wants most that he shouldn’t impose onto the literal Ghost King. He could have Phantom living with them while he’s on Earth and out of Amity Park, having a place at the table, a section in the closet for his own clothes, a quietly domestic night together while Chelsea sleeps where they can get to know each other more, get to know each other outside of news reports and texts on a screen.

“You can stay with us if you want,” Duke offers, casually, “It might keep my apartment safe from her powers acting up on their own again.”

“Are you sure? I could always just fly in on the weekends or something.”

“I’d appreciate having you around. So you can help Cici.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phantom says, looking away. Like this, fully alive with a beating heart, it’s easy to see the blush steal away across his cheeks.

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either!” Chelsea pops in, looking far too gleeful by their awkward conversation.

Duke can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The relief of knowing that Chelsea is alive, for the most part at least, eases the guilt of thinking he had been too late to save her, that there was no chance she could have made it out and had a future, makes him feel weak. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks hits him all at once and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for twelve hours.

“Alright, squirt,” he says, reaching out to pat her head. “It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, so go to bed. In your actual bed this time, not on the couch.”

Chelsea stands up taller, ready to argue, but Duke gives her a Look™ and she quickly shuts her mouth, nods, and drags her feet back to her room (the former guestroom he can never give any of the other Waynes ever again, once they find out about her).

Sighing, Duke collapses onto the couch once he hears the door shut behind her. Phantom joins him after a few seconds, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. The cushion moves beneath his weight, another reminder of how solid and alive he is right not.

Duke wants to touch him, to reach out and feel for himself his pulse, the warmth of his body, his chest lifting with each breath.

He doesn’t move. He stays where he is, hands carefully still, and tries to think past the dizzying thoughts of she’s still alive, I’m not too late, he’s still here, he’s alive.

“Rough week?” Phantom asks, voice purposefully light.

“Something like that.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can. Not after everything. My mind’s too loud right now.”

Phantom shifts closer to him, hesitant in a way that Duke has never seen before in him, and asks, “Want me to stay with you until you mind quiets down some?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Phantom.”

“You know, if I’m going to be around so often as Chelsea’s halfa mentor, then you might as well call me Danny.”

Truth be told, Duke didn’t think that was his real name. He’s glad to know it’s not.

“Then call me Duke.”

“...Are you sure? You could still hide your identity from me.”

“Nah, I trust you. A name for a name, yeah?”

Danny smiles. “Duke,” he says, testing out the name, and it’s never sounded better than when it falls from Danny’s mouth.

“Danny,” Duke returns. He belatedly realizes that they’ve leaned towards each other, drawn together like gravity, stuck in each other’s orbit. It feels natural. It feels like this is where they’re meant to be.

Maybe he should be more cautious. They’ve only meant once before, after all. But he’s read all he could on Phantom and has seen how Amity Park loves him. He’s stressed and exhausted and trying to figure out how to look after a half-ghost child that’s already been dealt a bad hand in life. He should be keeping Phantom at a distance, watching over him carefully to ensure he isn’t a threat to Chelsea.

But Duke saw how he acted with Chelsea, so gentle and understanding and kind. That’s all he needed to see.

He may not know much about Danny, but he knows this: he is trustworthy.

Enough to entrust his identity to him.

Enough to entrust Chelsea to him.

It’s more than a favor; it’s a promise to walk this road together.

There’s no one he’d rather do this with.

“Thanks,” he says again, “For all of this. I know it’s a lot.”

Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s nice to know there’s another halfa out there, no matter how she came to be one. Makes things feel less lonely.”

“Will you tell me more about halfas?”

“Later. Once you get some proper rest. We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

“We do,” Duke agrees, affection settling warm in his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Learning how to control her new powers won’t be easy for Chelsea. Learning how to take care of her won’t be easy. Learning how to do things together, as Duke and Danny rather than the Signal and Phantom, won’t be easy. But Duke knows with a certainty he feels in his bones that they’re going to be fine.

So long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #prompt fill #my writing #thought a lot abt what the favor could be but i could not resist the idea of surprise co-parents once i thought of it #here's a kid who clings to someone she knows is safe bc she is scared and alone!!#heres a stressed out hero trying to take care of a kid with no knowledge of how to do that!! and the kid is a ghost!!#heres a ghost king expecting to be used as a weapon and called in for a big battle suddenly finding another halfa!!!#so much going on here. so much to think abt with this!!!!!#i do love found family like this where they all kinda stumble into it and do their best to make it good #also could not resist making yet another oc. chelsea has my whole heart i love her <3 shes my daughter first #the bats dont know abt chelsea yet!! bc she can go invisble. its all been instinct every time they pop over to visit duke #soon she'll be able to control it and meet them properly #by properly i mean dukes gonna go over for sunday brunch and a little girl is gonna pop out from behind him like 'hi! im new!'#they will all love her of course. they will be shocked but happy!!#and a little less happy abt the GHOST KING duke has been hiding in his apartment that hes co-parenting with #sorry for the long tags im obsessed w this idea i want to Expand on it #maybe one day... with my other wips out of the way...

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mediocre-quill-ink · 9 months

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Dirty cop pt3

Content: this one dosnt have Connor in it, just internal angst. A dwelling inner conflict. Back at the squat. Start of an enimes to lovers arc?

My cooling system trembled as I sat, staring out the window.

The events of the last week rang through my circuit board nonstop. Connor. The famous deviant hunter set me free.

I've heard whispers of what he's done in the time sense we interacted. A ruthless detective. Androids self destructied after meeting him, one he even shot.

It baffled me to my very core. He's hurt so many desprate lives. So many innocent people wanting freedom, and he killed them. And yet... of all poor souls I lived? A new feeling ruptured at my theriam pump. Anger, flattery, betrayal, sadness, guilt.

No, rage.

Why did he allow me to live? I've met poor souls who deviated due to terrible happenings. Attacked and tortured with fire, used by their owers, abandoned for newer shinier models left to die. And yet he let's me escape because he got off?

I shivered at the thought of the snow rushing snow outside the abandoned house, snow flakes rushing past and fighting for safety on the ground.

I turned slowly to look at Ralph, he was writing frantically on the opposite wall. He's been at it for what feels like hours. Ra9 written on top of or across other other lines and paragraphs of the same symbol. He's been shaken sense the investigation down the street.

Thankfully, no one came in and investigated the squat but the close call of it all was enough to make him a more nervous wreck than usual. "Ralph?" I muttered. He jumped for a moment, seemingly forgot I was still here. "Yes y/n?" He asks. I squeezed my seat slightly. "I think the man I love is a terrible person." My theriam pump vurred suddenly at the realization.

Love

Do I love him...

Ralph paused for a moment. "Who does y/n love?" He asked.

I thought for a moment. Was love even the right word? I desired him, but... love, I wasn't sure. What would his reaction be if I told him who it was?

"Just... an android I've bumped into a few times." I replied softly.

"... does ralph know this person?" He asked.

"No, I don't think so."

He stayed silent. "Why is he bad?" He finally asked.

I thought. Figuring out how to phrase it. "He puts his... selfish desires over the desperation of others."

"Ralph sees..." he muttered. "Ralph has never... felt romantic feelings twords someone, so Ralph does not understand your struggle, but Ralph has... suffered from selfish, cruel people. If this person is selfish, Ralph would suggest staying away."

I took a moment to think. He was right. I should. I really should, but for some reason, he hasn't swayed me.

"Thank you for the advice, Ralph. I'll try to keep it in mind." I responded.

Pt 1 Pt 2

#im so sorry this isnt a real chapter #i just felt like i needed to update because its been so long #ill work on a new real chapter soon #hopefully #i haven't forgotten about this fic im just stuck #dbh #dbh fic #pt 3 #dirty cop pt 3 #connor x reader dbh #dirty cop

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thankspete · 1 year

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Swimsuits & Sangria | dob

Word Count: 8.7k Rating: M Summary: All it takes is the hot summer sun and some boozy fruit to turn good friends into a little something more. | Also on Ao3! Warnings: friends to lovers, drunk flirting, mutual pining, SMUT (oral, fingering [F receiving], masturbation, praise kink, orgasm denial, unprotected sex) ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

You knew you loved Dylan when you were sitting at his poolside minibar, all sunglasses and swimsuits, watching him place a tiny umbrella in your drink. It was a Saturday, sometime past four and the heat beating from the sun had you sticky with a combination of SPF and sweat. Guests wouldn’t be arriving for at least another 45 minutes, but Dylan invited you to come early. You’d shown up two hours ago to make your sangria recipe as he requested. It took no longer than fifteen minutes to cut up the apples and citrus, then combine them with sugar and alcohol in a pitcher. It was placed in the fridge, ready to drink, at 3:09 and the party didn’t even begin until 5:30. Knowing your friends, that meant 6:15.

Dylan isn’t an idiot, he must’ve known he invited you far too early, but you didn’t want to feed into your own delusion. You’d met eight months ago in an ill-lit dive bar on trivia night in an unintended merging of yours and Tyler’s friend groups. Your team had managed to claw your way to third place by the end of the tournament, despite you shoo-ing Tyler’s phone away when he tried Googling answers. Dylan sat across from you on the innermost part of the booth, your friend Jade to your right. Two vodka lemonades in and you were struggling not to try to get a better look at his face. Despite the tug you felt to do so, you were terrified to really look at him, terrified that the tips of your ears would get red and your cover would be blown. You pulled the claw out of your hair and let it settle around your shoulders. You didn’t think it would be more than a silly drunk crush, primed by Deep Eddy and the fact you hadn’t gotten laid in weeks. Drunk enough to feel a tug in your abdomen when you watched his hands as he shuffled a deck of cards and dispersed them among you, but not dumb enough to try to do something about it.

The only difference now is that you could look at Dylan without feeling like you were going to fall over. Barely. Pregaming the party certainly wasn’t necessary, your sangria was boozy enough, but taste testing a new cocktail recipe devolved into three and now you’re both giggly and droopy-eyed under the California sun.

“I think the last one was the best,” he sets the glass down on the counter and pushes it in your direction. You pull the straw to your lips and take a sip.

“Hm.” Another sip. “I don’t know. The amaretto really goes off in this.”

“No, no,” he tuts, reaching for the last glass you shared. “You need a reminder.” He swaps the glass of drink three with drink two in front of you, then takes a swig and makes a face. Maybe amaretto just isn’t the liqueur for him.

“There’s, like, nothing in this, Dylan.”

“That’s definitely a taste-worth’s amount of liquid.” You look at him in disbelief. “Look, if you’re not gonna drink it I’m gonna go ahead and lick the glass clean. You have five seconds.”

“Shut up.” You take the glass and tilt it over your mouth, with no more than seven drops dripping onto your tongue.

“So? Definitely better.” He grabs the cup from your hand and replaces it with the drink he dislikes.

“Definitely good, but I made it so that’s not really news.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. You’re making it for me again soon.” He’s leaning on the bar counter in front of you on his forearms, eyeing the empty glass and seemingly genuinely debating if he should lick it clean.

“Maybe if you ask politely, Dylan.” You stir your drink with the straw before taking a big sip.

“Sorry, baby.” He grabs your hand and leans closer to your face. “Could you, please, make me that delicious drink again sometime?”

“I could send you the recipe.” You take pleasure in the way his face twists to your response. You can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.

He squeezes your hand. “No, it’s not the same. I’ll make it worth your while.”

You laugh out loud and push his glasses up to sit behind his hairline. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.” He takes the glass in front of you and pulls his glasses back onto his face. “Ugh,” he says after taking a drink. “We gotta end on a better note than this. I’m making a tequila sunrise.” He passes the drink back to you.

“You’re gonna let me finish this on my own?”

“Yeah.” He grins, all straight teeth and wide lips, as he pats your arm before leaning down to get a bottle of Espolon from under the counter.

“Dick,” you grumble as you pick up your drink and stand from the barstool. There was a set of four lounge chairs on the right side of the pool and you settle on the nearest one. On your phone, you connect to the Bluetooth speakers set up behind the bar where Dylan stood. The sound of your phone unexpectedly pairing to the speaker spooks him and you hear the ice tray fall onto the counter.

“You okay over there, butterfingers?” You take your glasses off and look in his direction.

“Yeah. Play something good, will ya?” He throws a broken piece of ice at you and misses. You put Microwave’s Much Love on shuffle, the sound of crunchy guitar blasting from the wall behind him.

Dylan walks to the chairs, two drinks in hand. You are nearly done with your drink, but happily put it aside to accept a new one.

“Are you trying to loosen me up right now?” You cock your eyebrow at him when he sits down. “I’m gonna be a whole drink ahead of you by the time I’m done with this.” You keep your eyes steady on his face while you drink. There’s so much grenadine you can’t even taste the tequila.

“You make it sound like it’s easy.” His voice is even and his lips settle into their neutral position. You wish he would take his sunglasses off.

“It’s hard? I don’t know about that.”

“Maybe boozing you up isn’t the preferred gameplan,” Dylan says flatly. He lets the words settle between you for a beat. “Let me finish your other drink.” He holds his hand out and you pass him the glass.

“Thank you.”

You sit in silence together, soaking in the sun and occasionally humming along to the music. There’s no point in dissecting whatever the hell that was, not when Jade had already texted that her, Jenny, Marcus, and Tyler were en route. But… had he done it on purpose? Just a taste, less than a taste, but more than enough to pique the part of your psyche devoted to some of your most private fantasies. Your skin felt hot, but not because of the ninety degree dry heat or the sun, far lower in the sky than when you arrived, but of the perceived intentions of the man to your right. Your sunglasses are back on, but its thin frames don’t hide your side-eye look-over of him. It’s like he was expecting it, the way he immediately turns to look at you, head tilted. You surrender and shift your torso to face him head-on, too tipsy to feel embarrassed about getting caught peeking. Maybe it was delusional, but the tightness in your lower abdomen was as real as the straw dangling from his lips. Your reflection is small in the impenetrable black of his Ray-Bans and you allow yourself to dwell on the idea that he was enjoying a far greedier look at your body than yours at his.

“Were you going to say something?” His words interrupt your train of thought, which had gone entirely off the rails as you struggled to separate your thoughts into what was and was not appropriate to say aloud. He was right, you had turned to him so confidently, but with nothing else for him to work with.

“Can a girl just have a look?”

That seemed to catch him off guard, eyebrows high and mouth ticked into a loose smile. “Are you objectifying me right now?”

You let out a noise of dismissal and grab your cup from the small glass table between you. “You love it. From the right people.” The end of your sentence is punctuated by the sound of air sucking through your straw as you finish your drink.

“You think you’re ‘the right people’?” Dylan licks his lips and finally pulls his glasses up to the crown of his head. His taunt only makes your core beat harder, body entirely uncaring of what was real and was in your imagination. If he was setting up a game, you happily play along–and win.

“I’m pretty certain, Dyl.” You shift your body again to sit up and place your feet flat on the ground. “If it were up to me, I’d be the right person.” You gather the three empty glasses from the table and get up to bring them inside.

You don’t hear him stand to follow, but you see his reflection not too far behind yours in the sliding glass door. You can’t tell if you expected him to follow you back in or if you just hoped for it. Either way, you couldn’t help but be struck with a vision as you step into his home and the kitchen island comes into view: Your chest pressed flush to the cold granite, breasts spilling out of the tiny bikini top you embarrassingly wore just for him today. One foot on the floor while your balance is supported by your knee on a stool, spread and gasping underneath the pressure of his big palms on your hips and his cock slipping in and out through the side of your swim bottoms. You attempt to get to the dishwasher without stumbling, mind hazy from the drinks and the intrusive daydreams. Dylan’s long strides bring him to the counter at the same time as you, reaching around your hip to hold you steady. His other hand opens the dishwasher and pulls out the top tray. You work together to arrange the glasses among existing dishware, awkwardly clinking against one another in an uncoordinated symphony. Despite having an approximately equal number of drinks, he was composing himself much more than you thought you even were capable of right now. Was it risk it all territory? You were unsure. LA traffic was atrocious, but not bad enough you were willing to attempt to make your wish come true. There was no way you’d be able to sneak to the bathroom, even if your little hole was already pulsing and sensitive, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his fingers resting on your side. You could do it fast, you feel like you’re about to blow, but you’re haunted by the fear he’d know. Your eyes might give you away, or maybe the way you talked to him. Even with hands freshly washed, he might smell it, might be so curious as to ask what got you so worked up while you were here, alone together. What level of desperation caused you to slip away just to get off on your own. Fuck, honestly you might even want it.

He shuts the dishwasher door, hand remaining on your hip. “Thank you for helping.”

You don’t respond to his words, focused on the light pink color spread across his cheeks and nose. “Sunburn?” You ghost your thumb over the area. He raises his eyebrows. You press down on the area, thumb a few centimeters below his eye and fingers framing the side of his face. His hair is thick, but soft against your fingertips. His skin turns from white back to pink as the blood rushes back into the region. “That hurt?”

“No.” The shade of pink deepens slightly. Not a sunburn.

You stand there playing a game of chicken with one another, trying to read the situation as if his palms weren’t sliding up your waist and you hadn’t removed your hand from his face. You refused to be the one who did it, especially after today.

The sound of the doorbell causes your hand to fall from his face, but he is unmoved. Dylan presses his lips together as he looks at you, then past you toward the direction of the door.

“Be good and get the sangria out, okay, angel?” His hands release your sides and he gently shakes your chin before brushing past you to greet your friends. You let out a breath when he’s out the room, dnomi from his proximity to your face. Your task is simple and you get to it. Six small glasses are fished from the cabinet to the left of the fridge and you get the ice tray from the freezer. Two cubes go in each glass and you refill the tray before placing it back in the freezer. You hear everyone before you see them, Jen excitedly chattering about a date last night while Tyler laments about the drive up. Once the six glasses are full, you’re greeted by a hug from Jade as the crowd enters the kitchen. Dylan wordlessly takes the half-empty pitcher from the counter in front of you, unnecessarily reaching around you for it. You savor the moment where his hand rests on your skin, warm and firm against your stomach.

You and Jade stay behind as the group moves through the room to the backyard, shuffled rock music blasting from the speaker connected to your phone. Once the room is empty, you turn to her in disbelief. “Today was weird. Like, good weird, but weird.”

“I saw… That man did not need to get so close to you to get that pitcher,” she laughs.

“He said… I don’t know, interesting things? Like, now-I’m-horny types of interesting. I don’t know, Jade, I literally–”

“I’ve been telling you! He wants it so bad and you…” She gestures to your swimsuit, “...look so fucking hot. I’m personally struggling with not motorboating you right now.”

You laugh and hope that you’re not both too delusional to read the situation. “Ah, well… We should go, they definitely think we’re talking shit.”

“We’re not?” She giggles and picks up both of your drinks. “Alright…”

The sun slowly sets as you lounge and watch your friends play 2v2 pool volleyball. Dylan and Jade are on one team, Tyler and Jenny on the other. Marcus is sitting to your left, scrolling through Twitter and occasionally tilting the phone in your direction to show you memes. Tyler and Jenny were winning, namely as a result of Dylan’s uncoordination. It was nearly a shut-out, with Marcus eventually playing ref and calling the game once it got ridiculous.

Dylan is soaked, cold water dripping from his hair onto your chest as he leans over your shoulder post-game. Goosebumps appear on your skin from the sensation.

“Can I help you?” You turn your head to face him.

“Can you make me that drink? A consolation prize? Pretty please.” His right hand is on your neck, thumb rubbing up and down the bones of your spine.

“What do I get if I do?” You stand and he removes his hand from your neck. He follows you to the bar, roles reversed as he sits on the stool and you stand behind the counter.

“What do you want?”

You line up the drink components on the counter and grab two empty glasses that had previously held your sangria. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out, babe.”

“Honey…” He’s tapping his fingers on the table. The drink comes together quickly and you push a cup in his direction. He’s looking at you contemplatively and you lean on your elbows, pushing your face closer to his. He’s coated in the yellow glow of the sunset, light peeking from behind his hair like a halo. His brown features are enhanced by the warm light, your stomach doing flips as you try not to stare. You’re close enough to smell the sunscreen on his face. “Play volleyball with me and we can discuss.”

You roll your eyes, disappointed in his response. “You’re kinda ass at volleyball, Dylan. I don’t like being on the losing team.”

“I promise you’ll win, angel.”

You raise your eyebrows in amusement. “You promise?”

“With me?” You pretend not to catch the way his eyes move between your face and your breasts for a moment. “Yeah.”

You lose against Tyler and Jade, as expected. However, with the few successful spikes you were able to pull off, Dylan exhibited terrible sportsmanship. He gloated, picking you up and parading you, cheering in celebration around your half of the pool. You weren’t afraid that he would drop you, but happily took the opportunity to cling to his shoulders and press your breasts to the side of his face as he lifted you up and out of the water. It wasn’t winning, not yet, but you were lying if his grip on your thighs didn’t feel delicious.

Marcus starts up the grill while Jen begins to chop kebab vegetables on the bar counter. Tyler and Jade vacate the pool to help with the meal while you and Dylan remain. You sit closely on the steps on the far side of the pool, sunglasses on even as the sun disappears behind the horizon.

“Should we help out?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan shrugs. “I’m providing the grill, the venue, and the propane. I don’t feel too bad about waiting a sec before stepping in.” His hand rests on your inner knee.

“Can’t say those things apply to me, Dyl.”

He smiles. “But you’re keeping me company. Counts for something.”

“When you’re already deeply indebted to me…” You place your hand on his forearm.

“There was no way in hell we were winning that game, baby, you gotta know that.” You purse your lips and he continues. “But you don’t want payment now, do you?” His hand moves further up your thigh and he moves his face closer to yours. “Not with all our friends here, right, angel?” You narrow your eyes at him. You’ve reached an impasse, heart and pussy pounding in sync with one another. His free hand cups your face and you can see all of your friends distracted on the other end of the yard in your periphery.

“Dylan,” you breathe. His hand moves further up your thigh, thumb rubbing circles into your upper inner thigh, mere centimeters from your sensitive center.

“You can be patient, can’t you?” His cheek is pressed to yours. You can’t tell if you're imagining the kisses scattered down your cheek. “You’ve been so good all day for me, yeah?”

You nod limply, but pinch his forearm lightly before dragging his hand from your thigh to the edge of your swim bottoms.

“That’s not being patient.” His tone is firm, but the tips of his fingers dip into the fabric. “We could have avoided this entirely if you just said something, baby.” You glance back at the group, still enjoying their time and minding their business. “Would’ve called it all off if I knew…” You shift your hips so he has easier access to your core. His fingers find their home between your folds, exposing the extent of your pent-up arousal. You let out a soft sigh at his touch and he pulls his face from yours to look you in the eye. Dylan continues, rubbing up and down the entirety of your cunt slowly. “Have you been like this all afternoon, angel? Thinking about when you get to go home and fuck yourself?”

“Please,” you whimper, gripping his arm.

“Do you think of me? I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for months. And now… Now when everyone is here, you’re so desperate for me. It’s torture, baby. Do you want our friends to see? To watch you fall apart beneath me?”

You shake your head, unable to form a coherent sentence. He moves his hand from your swim bottoms and places it back on your thigh.

“Then be patient. You’re my good girl, yeah? I know you can do it.” Dyaln presses a chaste kiss to your lips and stands from the pool. He chats with Marcus as he heads the grill, then collects empty glasses to bring inside. Your head is spinning as you get up and make your way to the bathroom, being sure to detour your route to brush past him a little too closely.

It’s a mostly bare room, walls hosting a couple of pieces of Mets memorabilia and not much else. Your reflection looks far less wild than you feel internally, the warm lightbulb making you look a little jaundiced. Your heart is pumping faster than it has since you met Dylan and you steady yourself on the counter. Desperately, one hand snakes into your bottoms and you’re hit with a rush of sensitivity. A few targeted rubs cause your orgasm to wash over you like a dam break. Your fingers stutter when it hits, body falling over on itself while your lonely pussy clenches around nothing. Your bottom lip is between your teeth, muffling any cries that manage to escape. Dylan’s fingers and voice were nearly enough as is, but the reality of fucking him was dawning on you. It was mere hours away, but the idea of adding them to your 8-month pining streak wasn’t favorable. A sigh of frustration leaves your mouth as you stand there, looking in the mirror and pressing your thighs together. You piss and clean yourself up before making your way back outside. It couldn’t have been more than seven minutes since you stepped in the bathroom, but when you lock eyes with Dylan, you know you’re fucked. He raises his eyebrows at you like you’re both in on a joke. You avert his gaze, embarrassed of how quickly he clocked you, and sit to chat with Jade.

“Hey, so… What’s your plan for the rest of the night?”

“Subtle.” She gives you a knowing glance. “Jen’s got work in the morning and Marcus and Tyler are going to a concert tonight. So… we’ll probably head out not too late after dinner. Got plans? More pool canoodling?”

“Fuck off.” You clear your throat. “Well, yeah. Actually. I think.”

She grins at you. “I’m tellin’ ya, your tits look–”

“Food’s ready!” Tyler calls from the grill, clicking the tongs together.

You gather around where the plate of kebabs sat on the bar counter, across the circle from Dylan. Over dinner you learn they’re seeing A Day to Remember tonight, followed by an apology for needing to dip so soon.

“No problem, man,” Dylan assures, but he’s looking at you when he says it.

Once full, everyone helps by collecting plates and glasses and stacking them near the dishwasher. Marcus loads the dishes in while you, Jen, and Jade change into dry undergarments and fresh clothes. Tyler lost, found, and lost his keys again within the span of three minutes, causing everyone to search tables and between couch cushions. Dylan’s antsy, grumbling about how Tyler’s shit memory is the weed’s fault, until Jenny finds them. Once his keys are in-hand, your friends gather their things and file up at the door to leave. Maybe it was because you were experiencing the same anticipation, but Dylan seemed to rush the group out, saying something about getting to the concert in time to get merch without ridiculously long lines.

You go to the kitchen, leftover alcohol-soaked fruit calling your name from the empty sangria pitcher. You hear everyone bid their farewells one at a time as you fish a fork from the drawer near the sink. The citrus was cut a little too thin for your liking, courtesy of Dylan’s knife skills, and slipped off the tip of the fork each time you tried impaling it. It’s fine, the apple chunks absorb wine best anyway. You are on chunk three by the time you hear the door shut.

Once the door is locked, Dylan makes his way into the room and points in your direction.

“You,” he says, walking towards you.

“Me.” You poke into a piece of apple and wave the fork in his direction. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for your shenanigans, but you poke the fruit between his lips anyway. His face doesn’t move and he grabs your wrist to tilt it away from his face. You accept your defeat and pop the apple chunk into your mouth instead. No need to waste it.

“What did I say about being patient?” His hands rest comfortably on your hips and he pulls you close. You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe some more back and forth, but it certainly wasn’t getting straight to the point.

“I’ve been patient, Dylan.” You put the fork down and place your hands on his biceps. Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, hoping to charm him into fucking you now.

“Mmm… I don’t know.” He starts to press kisses to your neck. “You were in the bathroom for a while…”

Your face flushes with blood. “It was like, five minutes. Dylan… please.” You avoid verbally confirming his suspicions of what you were doing in that time.

“You don’t need to hide from me.” He bites down hard enough to leave a mark, then licks the sting away. “But that’s not fair, is it?”

“Dylan.”

He pulls back from your neck to look at you, brown eyes dark under the soft lamp light. “Do you want to cum tonight?” It catches you by surprise, wide eyed watching him closely. “I said, that’s not fair, is it?” You blink, nod, then furiously shake your head. “Let me hear it.”

“No, it’s not fair. I’m sorry.” It takes everything not to squeeze your thighs together for some relief.

“Haven’t even had a taste yet and you’re helping yourself. I thought you were going to be good for me.”

“I am, Dylan, I promise.” Your hand moves from his arm to the nape of his neck, pulling at the short hairs that reside there. The game continues, and you can’t tell if you’re winning or losing right now.

His lips press messily on yours. One of his hands travels from your torso to cup your core outside of your shorts. “You gonna keep touching yourself, baby? Or are you gonna let me handle it?”

“I’m gonna let–” your breath catches when he applies hard pressure over your center. “You, please.” You’re fighting the urge to pass out, breaths shallow and labored.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, all along? You could’ve told me, angel; I would’ve done it for you.” He’s reaching under your shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your stomach as his fingers find one of your nipples. “You think I’ll live up to your imagination? Tell me, baby, how hard do you think I can make you cum?” You let out a strangled groan, senses overwhelmed by his hands and voice. “Wish I thought of getting you hot and half-naked in my yard sooner. Didn’t know that’d be what did it.”

“At the risk of getting another lecture on patience, could you politely get on with it?”

He removes his hand from your cunt to hold your jaw. His lips are in a sweet pout. “Honey… you’ve got a lot to learn.” You’re unmoving, unsure of what he has planned. “Tell me what you were thinking about.” All the blood in your body feels like it’s rushing between your face and your pussy, back and forth as the words fall from his lips. His eyes are unrelenting, holding your gaze like a deer caught in a snare.

“Well…” you let out a shaky breath. Your hands spread to the kitchen island behind you as you speak, “Us, right here.” Dylan’s still stoic, seemingly unaffected by your confession. The game was just getting fun, even if your mind was screaming to tap out, go home, figure out another way. You can hear your heartbeat conducting through the bones in your head and feel it pumping all the way to your fingertips. You’re trying to focus on the man whose face is mere inches from yours, the way he’s touching you, but the thick, heavy pump in your chest overwhelms your senses.

“Go on.” His hand moves from your jaw to your collarbone. “I know that’s not all.”

You’re trying to hide the tremble in your arms as you lean back against the edge of the countertop. “I guess…” You slowly turn 180 degrees, palms flat against the granite and his hot chest flush to your back. His hands remain on your body as you move and travel down your back. They land exactly where you’d envisioned they would. “Something kind of like this.” You raise yourself on your toes, pushing your ass into his crotch and leaning your elbows on the counter for support.

“Kind of?” One hand moves up your back underneath your shirt while the other fiddles with the elastic on your shorts.

“Less clothes, maybe?”

He laughs for the first time since your friends left. “I think I got that part.” His hands move again, this time settling on your outer upper thighs, gripping the area where your legs meet your torso. You don’t know what else to say. He is toying with you, seeing how much humiliation you can bear before begging for some relief. “Feeling shy? That all you wanna tell me?” You gulp and nod. Hopefully it’s enough. His left arm wraps around your torso to lift you to press tight against his chest. His right hand is still firmly on your pelvis, pulling you to rest on his semi. “You don’t need these, do you?” Dylan’s right hand moves to your front, fingers just barely dipping past your waistband.

“No.” It comes out far shakier than you intended.

“Take them off, then.” He releases you from his grip and you’re left supporting your own weight. Your arms and legs feel frail, like they should snap at any moment. You can sense his frame looming behind you, just far enough that you’re unable to touch him. Your clammy fingers wrap around your waistband and gently slide the shorts over the curve of your ass and down your legs. They fall to the floor with a gentle swish. After all the dreaming, three quarters of a year’s worth of thoughts kept between you and your bedside drawer, you feel unsure of what to do next. The anxieties of fumbling your course of action disappear as you hear Dylan drop to his knees and use a firm hand to spread you apart. You’re trying to steady your breathing, or at least reduce the noise you’re making, as he pulls your underwear to the side. “Hm.” Hm? “You put these on, like, half an hour ago. Already pr’soaked through.” Your head falls into your hands.

“Dylan.”

“Yeah, angel?” His fingers are gentle in their prodding, spreading your arousal to the outer edges of your cunt. “You’re real pretty.” He glides his wet thumb once over your clit, causing you to twitch into him.

“Please.”

“Please what?” He taps your leg and pulls a stool from your left. You’re fucking kidding. You appreciate the extra support as you lift your knee to the plush seat. With the new angle, he’s able to fully spread you with two fingers.

“I–anything, Dylan, please just touch me.” He blows air over your sensitive core and as much as you try to restrain yourself, your body betrays you. Your hole pulsates at the stimulus, as minor as it was. He circles your entrance with his thumb like he’s trying to calm the area, hysterically clenching and grasping, begging for his fingers.

“I know, it’s not fair.” He pulls your underwear back to its proper place and pulls your leg down to stand. This is retribution. The game is sick, you’ve come to learn.

He stands up and turns you around, fingers holding your hips beneath your waistband. Your hands are pressed to his stomach. “You’re evil.” He smiles at that, proud of his ability to get you so distraught with nothing more than a few words and fingers.

“You don’t mean that.” He moves a hand to cradle your face.

You nod. “I do mean it.” For all your begging to God to make this moment happen, you still need to beg Dylan to give it to you.

“I keep my promises, baby.” He helps you sit up on the counter and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna win.” He kisses you deep and slow, strong hands shifting your hips to hang off the edge of the granite. One of your arms is locked around his neck holding you flush to him. Your right hand ghosts the waistband of his swim trunks before pulling the drawstring out of its knot. He grunts when your hand brushes his clothed cock as you pull the shorts down his legs. He pulls your hands from his body and holds them on the countertop behind you, pressing himself into your core as he licks the inside of your teeth. Your ankles lock behind his back and press him further into you. You groan into each other's mouths as you rock against each other. He’s calculated in his thrusts, snapping his hips right as your cunt rocks over him. The friction against your sensitive little nub pulls the strings in your abdomen tight, soon to snap. You attempt to break free from his grasp to no avail. Your movements stutter as every swipe feels like it’s shooting electricity up your spine.

“Ah, please, harder. Please!” Your legs tremble as your orgasm begins to overcome you. Dylan steps back from your body abruptly, the force of his movement unclasping your ankles and leaving them without support. Your hands are still held flat on the counter, keeping you from touching him. His eyes are dark, lips swollen and open from his labored breathing. You’re frustrated, shaking and reeling from your almost-completion. “What the f–!”

“Don’t move.” He pulls his hands from yours. He moves your thighs to spread you open for him again. He palms your cunt over your underwear, pressing firmly as you squirm beneath him. “You think I’m gonna make this easy on you?”

“Clearly not,” you huff.

“You haven’t made it easy on me either, angel.”

“Is this some sort of sick revenge for you?” You regret your rebuttal as soon as he stops the circling of his palm.

“You love it. Swear to God…” He pulls your underwear aside again, reviewing his work. You are glistening everywhere, cunt clenching and dripping for him. “Just need the right person.” He places the underwear back where it belongs. “Are you feeling tired, angel? Spent all afternoon lounging in the sun and now here I am, taking care of you, and you’re still unhappy?” He caresses your face, but keeps his hard dick away from your core. “Tell me, baby, do you really think I’m evil?”

“No.” You’re overwhelmed, and maybe he is evil, but you have one goal in mind. “I want you to fuck me,” you say bluntly.

He chuckles. “You only had to say so.”

He pulls you off the counter and tugs you to his bedroom with him, leaving your discarded shorts on the kitchen floor. He’s not so coy here, open mouth on yours and hands tugging to remove your shirt. You assumed it’d be more of a marathon than a sprint with Dylan, but he had you completely naked, lying on the bed within two minutes. He was a gentleman, of course, stripping himself of his underwear to match your level of vulnerability. You try to keep your focus on his face, but his red-hot cock pressing into your thigh is understandably making it difficult.

“You’re gonna tell me what you like, okay angel?” He slips a finger between your folds, collecting your wetness and rubbing your clit vertically like he was in the pool. You nod. “How’s that?”

“Mm… it’s good.”

“Just good?”

“A little to the right maybe? My right?” He shifts slightly, finding the spot you use to make yourself cum. You cover your mouth with your hand as he uses the tip of his finger to gently brush over the area, sending shockwaves through your body. You were already so sensitive from your denied orgasm, you had no clue what you were capable of handling.

“Better.” It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. He continues, kissing up your neck and telling you to relax. “Remember, I got you. I’m gonna make you feel good, okay? I’m here to make you feel good.”

“Ah..!” You twitch away from his hand from the hypersensitivity. “Uh-huh. You got me.”

His finger moves from your clit to your pulsing little hole, circling it and spreading your wetness slowly. It wasn’t going to make you cum on its own, but it still felt divine. “Can I taste?”

“Please,” you beg.

“So needy for me.” He bites your breast on his way down. “My needy baby. How long have you been dreamin’ about me, angel?” He’s kissing your inner thigh, waiting for a response to his question.

You’re honest. “Forever. Since I met you.” The words rush out with your breath, uneven. You sit up and look at him, big brown eyes and pink lips mere inches from where you wanted him.

“Forever,” he mumbles into your skin. “You did a good job keeping it to yourself for the first few months.”

“I’m glad I don’t anymore.”

“And why’s that?” He’s smiling up at you, far too goofy for being between your aching legs.

“Ugh. I take it back.” You groan and lie back down on the bed.

“Okay, okay…” He taps your clit with his thumb. “You still gotta tell me what you like, okay?”

“Okay.” You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair as he swipes his broad, flat tongue over your cunt. You can’t help the noise that comes out of your mouth, nor the clench of your pussy that he certainly felt against his tongue. He circles your clit, saliva mixing with your own arousal and creating wet noises that are sure to reappear in the fantasies that result from this encounter. You scratch his scalp lightly. “I think vertical is a little better.” He grunts and changes his technique. You squirm at the feeling of his hot, wet tongue pressing onto you, eating like it was his first meal in months. His left arm is wrapped around your leg, hand resting on your lower stomach pulling you to his face. You’re unable to move under his grip, every twitch or flail impeded by his strength. His tongue travels further down to your hole, slipping in and out of it as excruciating intervals. It feels good on its own, but great when coupled with the way his nose brushes against your clit with every pump. “That’s good. That’s so good,” you gasp. Your forearm is clamped between your teeth, muffling your cries.

“You’re close?” The vibration of his words against your cunt cause you to twitch into his mouth.

“Uh-huh.”

“I can feel it.” You tug on his hair, encouraging him to allow you to finish. The way his tongue licks up your pussy, pushing and rubbing firmly against your clit, elicits a choked moan. Again, he pulls back suddenly. You thrash your hips in frustration, letting go of his hair to grip the sheets beneath you. Before you’re able to complain, he presses his wet lips to yours. His tongue tastes like you, tangy and familiar. He settles between your legs, pressing his cock between your folds. Dylan rocks across you, never moving from your lips. The only noises in the room are the wet ones coming from your two points of connection. To regain some semblance of control, you snake your hand down between you to grab his cock. It’s already well lubricated from the way it was nestled in your cunt. He bites down on your lip when you grasp him, losing control for a moment and fucking into your tight fist. Your hand twists around him so your fingers are pressing into the most sensitive part of his cock and your knuckles brush against your core. He’s gasping and biting at your neck as you pump him, clearly wound up after your afternoon of back-and-forth. He’s not distracted for long, as the sweet symphony of your cries tip him off to exactly what you’re doing. “That definitely counts as touching yourself, angel,” he says while pulling your hand away from where your bodies meet. You’re frustrated, body brought so close and kept so far from your release for what felt like hours.

“Can you blame me?” Your breathing is heavy; your eyes are looking into his for an ounce of mercy. He only holds your gaze for a moment before sitting back on his knees and scanning your body, saving its image for his own lonely nights.

“No,” he says, caressing your thigh. “Definitely not. Roll over.” You do, making the decision not to press your hips into the bed for a twinge of relief. Dylan is being needlessly cruel, but the end has to be near. You can be good; you can do it for him, give him what he likes. You never thought you’d see this side of him, domineering, competent, and so incredibly sexy. It was almost worth the eight months of fumbling and awkward quasi-flirting–given that he actually lets you finish. The game was fun, but you both knew the feeling of clenching around him with stars behind your eyelids was infinitely better. He sighs as he pulls your hips up off the bed, finally ready to play fair. Gently, he pulls your legs apart. His fingers are no longer exploratory; his purpose is explicit as he swipes his thumb against your clit at a casual pace. His middle finger circles your hole so lightly it feels like a tickle. “This okay?” He presses onto your entrance, but doesn’t push in. “Jus’ wanna see…”

“Yes,” you say, voice muffled by the sheets pressing against your face.

“Wanna know what you feel like,” he continues, talking to nobody but himself. His middle finger slides in easily. “Jesus.” Your body is ecstatic to finally have something to tremble around. “Why y’been keeping this from me, baby?” He pumps slowly, rotating his wrist to push down on your g-spot. His thumb still rubs across your clit in an almost excruciating manner. You’re lubricated and loose enough to allow him to put his index finger into the mix, your cunt grasping and twitching around him.

“I could say the same thing,” you sigh. Your arms are outstretched to hold onto the mattress for support as you move your hips to softly fuck onto his fingers. He’s motionless, fingers curled and allowing you to use him for your pleasure. It’s good, it’s building, but it doesn’t fill you right. “Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not gonna let me cum on your fingers, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” His thumb picks up speed on your clit, continuing to play with you, to challenge you. Your breath hitches, sheets between your teeth.

“Please, Dylan, I think I’ve learned my lesson.” You clench around his fingers, hoping to entice him for just long enough to want to know how his cock would feel inside of you. A soft groan escapes his throat. You’re warm and soft and wet, perfect and ready for his pretty pink dick. “I need you to fill me up. Please, I can’t–“ You’re interrupted by your own pleasure, shooting it’s way up your body as he presses into your g-spot and taps your clit in unison.

“You need me that bad? Been waiting for so long, haven’t you?” He purrs and removes his hands from your center. Despite the shakiness in your thighs and the beat of your cunt, relief washes over you.

“Please. So bad.” Dylan pushes your lifted hips back down onto the bed and lies overtop of you.

“Okay,” he says while tucking your stray hair behind your ear. He’s looking at you–really looking at you for the first time since your friends left. You wish you knew what his eyes were searching for. He’s the same Dylan he’s always been, but it’s different. His tousled hair was your doing, as were his kiss-bitten lips and the haziness behind his eyes. You soak it all in on the off-chance this is a fluke, that you’ll never find yourself here again. He rubs the underside of your thigh as you hook your ankles over his back. “Are you ready?” His tone is softer than it’s been in nearly an hour.

“Yes.” He aligns himself with your entrance and gently presses into you.

“Ah, relax…” He braces himself on one hand, placed to the left of your head. His other hand grips your side. He continues to inch himself into you, eyes watching your face to gauge your comfort. You’re gripping his shoulders, trying not to dig your nails into his skin. “It’s okay, relax, I got you.”

“Okay, okay,” you whisper as he bottoms out inside of you. He grunts, pressing in as much as he can and holding it, pubic mound pressing to your clit. He partially pulls out, then pushes himself back in. Air escapes through your teeth as you cling harder to him, no longer giving a damn if you mark him or not. He fills you just like you hoped he would: to the brim until it stung with pleasure.

“Fuck.” Dylan finds a comfortable pace to allow you to get used to him, mumbling expletives and replacing his faded bite mark on your neck. “So wet for me.” You use the leverage from your locked ankles to meet his thrust midway, pushing him even deeper into your core. You squeak with every scrape against your g-spot, bottom lip clamped firmly between your teeth. His hips quicken their pace as his lips press to yours. You feel a shift behind your head, then Dylan pulls back. “Up,” he says, tapping your hip. He slides a pillow, silk case and all, underneath your ass to provide him with better access. He pushes your leg up so your knee is near your head and holds it there as he begins to roll into you. His head pokes into your g-spot at the same cadence of the skin of his lower stomach scraping against your sensitive clit. Your pussy clings to him each time he pulls out; its only purpose is to milk him dry. The adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he watches himself disappear within you. “Jesus Christ, how are you still so tight?” It rushes out of him in one breath. You tug him back down, needing to feel his chest on yours as he brings you, finally, to your completion. Every thrust feels like it’s stretching the rubber band in your stomach further and further, its elasticity painfully endless.

“Ah, yeah, like that.” You can feel your cunt gripping him, pulling at him as he hammers into you. “Don’t stop, please, Dylan, please,” you cry, holding on for dear life as his thrusts begin to shake the bed.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “Me too, baby.” All his weight is on the elbow by your head, spare hand on your hip to hold you still as he stutters into you. The pit of your stomach feels like you’re on a roller coaster lift, up, up, up until–

“Oh, my God.” Your eyes screw shut when it hits you, the pulsations of your cunt reverberating up your torso and through your limbs. Your back arches uncontrollably, stomach pressed to his. Your heart is beating out of your chest, wet and heavy like the cock still pistoning in and out if you.

“You’re so good. Fuck, you’re so good.” It’s muffled in your ears, your overstimulated body focusing on the stretch of his dick and the shakiness in your thighs. He presses himself fully into you and holds it there, a yelp escaping from your lips as he does. “Where?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you choke out. He sits up as he pulls out quickly, though you wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Next time, maybe. Before he’s able to finish, you grasp and pump him from where his cock rests on your mound. It takes one tight squeeze before he twitches in your fist and ribbons of cum adorn your stomach. He’s holding onto your knee for support, breathing labored. You’re flat on your back, sinking into the mattress to center yourself and organize your thoughts.

“You okay?” He leans over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You nod, a small smile gracing your face as you notice the sweat on his brow. He grins and places another kiss on your mouth before getting up and retrieving a towel from the en suite. He wipes your pussy first, needing to hold you still as the feeling of the towel is still too much, then delicately cleans up your stomach. The towel gets tossed to the floor, a responsibility for another time. The room is dark, but he finds you anyway, pulling you to his chest. “Was it worth the wait?” You laugh, unsure if he was referring to the day or the year.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” He feigns offense at your response.

“I need a few more data points before I’m sure.” He scoffs.

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs and pulls you tighter to him. “You don’t need some elaborate ploy to get me again, baby. I saw you–no, felt you cum so hard; no need to be coy with me.”

“Okay…” You fiddle with the hairs on the back of his neck. “Definitely worth it, but I want it again. And I don’t wanna wait.”

“I can make that happen,” he says while ghosting kisses on your shoulder. You lie comfortably together, skin-on-skin listening to each other breathe. Your mind is a haze of the day’s activities, unsure of what memories you can truly believe.

“Dylan?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“What did you mean when you said I did a good job ‘keeping it to myself for the first few months’?” He laughs and his hand travels down to rest on your ass.

“God, see this is why I couldn’t do anything. You tried making out with me on, like, four separate occasions at Jenny’s birthday party. Very persistent.” You groan as you remember, or more, don’t remember that evening. The first thing you know about Jenny’s party was walking in, already riding the high of a successful pregame, with a bottle of tequila tied with a bow for her, and taking a required shot at the door. The second thing you remember is waking up in Dylan’s spare bedroom the next morning. This was three months ago.

“That… explains a lot.” You hadn’t noticed at the time, far too in awe of Dylan’s attention, but he did act differently as the spring transitioned to the summer. He would sit next to you at group brunch, suggest outings with just the two of you, occasionally get a little handsy, and start peppering pet names in his conversations with you until it became second nature. You weren’t delusional, at least not in the ways you thought you were.

“It’s okay. It’s cute.” He rubs your thigh as he speaks. “It’s funny though, you refused to get in an Uber with Jade to take you home. You literally wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

“So fucking embarrassing.” You cover your eyes with your hand as you cringe at the thought.

“Look where it got you, though.” He pulls your hand from your face and presses a kiss to your lips.

well. that’s it. hope u enjoyed <3 i have some (many) ideas for continuing this soooo maybe that’ll show up soon ;) pls feel free to leave me feedback, like, n reblog!

#dylan o’brien x reader #dylan o’brien smut #dylan o’brien imagine #dylan o’brien x you #so about that fic i promised a few weeks ago…… mama got writers block at 10.3k so i will prob edit and scrap for parts soon #anyway new 5sos (calum. lmao) smut coming soon i promise <3 #dylan o’brien

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wren-of-the-woods · 3 months

Text

On Doomsdays and Devotion

After the Enterprise’s most recent brush with death, Jim notices that Spock is sticking closer to him than usual. The conversation that ensues is unexpectedly impactful. This is 2.5k of pre-Spirk feels, rated G. On AO3 here!

Jim was fairly certain that Spock had been following him.

It did not happen all the time. It did not disrupt either of their duties. In fact, it had taken him a few days to convince himself that he was not imagining it, especially since he was still distracted by dealing with the fallout of their most recent incident with a planet-killing weapon. Still, once he started paying attention, the fact remained: when Spock would normally have been off on his own doing science experiments or reports or whatever else Spock did when he was away from Jim, he was, instead, quietly by Jim’s side.

Spock sat next to Jim at meals. He accompanied him in the gym. He sat in the same room as Jim when they were doing reports. Even when they were not together, Spock often found reasons to pass Jim in the corridor, speak to him briefly, or grab something from whatever room Jim was in on his way from task to task.

Jim did not mind this. In fact, he probably should have been slightly worried about just how little Spock’s frequent presence bothered him, but he could not quite bring himself to analyze that part of his feelings too deeply. Suffice to say that he was not irritated by the shift in his first officer’s behavior. He was, however, slightly concerned.

At one point, he attempted to bring it up with the Vulcan in question.

“Mister Spock,” he said, smiling, “Is there something you would like to discuss with me?”

Spock blinked at him. If it were anyone else, Jim would almost have said he looks sheepish.

“No, captain.”

Jim bit back a sigh. He did not expect Spock to simply tell him whatever was going on, not after so many days of silence, but it still would have been nice.

“Very well,” said Jim, and the conversation was forgotten. Jim almost began to ignore the unusual occurrence entirely.

Then, one night, well over a standard week after the incident with their most recent planet-killer, Jim suddenly found that he could no longer hold himself together.

He was off duty, which was fortunate, but that was just about the only thing that felt fortunate about the situation. The events of their most recent adventure — the death of his friend, the possibility and reality of such destruction, how close he had come to his own death — had finally caught up to him, and all he could do was hightail it to his quarters and hope he made it before his crew has to witness their captain having a minor meltdown. He ended up hiding in his room for a good portion of the evening, a few hours which he would rather not talk about, before eventually deciding he had pulled himself together enough to justify going out in search of some food.

After everything, it really should not have been a surprise that Spock was there when he emerged.

His first officer was attempting to look nonchalant, but given that there was very little reason for his presence in this corridor at this time and it was highly unlikely that he simply happened to be here at the moment Jim left his room, Jim thought he was doing a rather poor job of it. He looked distinctly unsurprised by Jim’s presence.

“Mister Spock,” he said, trying to act casual and not as though he had spent the last few hours working through a series of extremely strong emotions. “Is something wrong?”

Spock looked at Jim consideringly for a moment. Jim resisted the urge to fidget under his gaze.

“The ship is in standard working order, captain,” Spock said.

“That isn’t a no.”

“Correct. You are experiencing emotional distress.”

Jim winced a little. “That obvious, huh?”

“To an average member of the crew, likely not. I, however, can make out eleven separate physiological and psychological signs that—”

Jim raised a hand to cut him off. “Very well, Mister Spock, I understand. You’re right.” He quirked a small smile. “Even the great Captain Kirk can’t see his friend die without experiencing any unpleasantness, I’m afraid.”

“You also came close to death, captain.”

Jim blinked. “Yes, that too, I suppose.”

Spock’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing. For a moment, they stood there in rather awkward silence.

“Well,” said Jim eventually, “I was going to get some food. Would you like to accompany me?”

“I would find that acceptable, captain.”

Spock fell easily into step beside him as they made their way towards the mess hall. They were silent as Jim got some food and sat down with his plate. Spock sat across from him, though he had not taken any food from the replicators. The room was empty due to the late hour and the lights were dimmed. In the silence, Spock’s presence seemed to have more significance than really made sense.

Jim ate in silence for several long moments. Spock considered him from across the table. Eventually, to Jim’s surprise, it was Spock who broke the silence.

“Would you like to speak about the subject of your distress?” asked Spock.

Jim paused. His instinct was to refuse, to focus on the mission instead of his distraction and only talk about it later, perhaps in his logs or on shore leave with Bones and copious amounts of alcohol. He usually did his best to keep Spock from having to deal with any more of his human emotions than is necessary. But Spock was asking, now, and though the Vulcan would deny it if he ever dared to make the claim, Jim could tell that he was worried. He could not bring himself to refuse his friend’s offer.

“It… troubles me, when I can’t save someone.”

Spock’s brows furrowed. “You were not on the ship at the time of Decker’s departure. It was not your responsibility to save him, nor was it possible for you to do so.”

Jim managed a small, sad smile. “I know. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to remember.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement, and they returned to the silence in which the meal had begun. Jim finished his food, pushed his plate aside, and looked at Spock consideringly. Spock returned his gaze, even and unflinching.

“There’s something on your mind, Mr Spock. Care to share?”

Spock considered him for a moment. When he spoke, it was with deliberation.

“It concerns me, captain, that you give such little importance to your own near demise.”

Jim blinked.

“I had no desire to die,” he said.

“And yet you came perilously close to doing so.”

“It was the best way to save the ship.”

“Perhaps, sir, but you must take into account the way your death would have affected the ship and its crew. Productivity would have decreased at a significant rate and the emotional fallout would have affected many of the crew for at least several years.”

Jim frowned. “A grieving crew is better than a dead crew. I wouldn’t be much of a captain if I couldn’t value my ship above myself.”

“You may be correct, captain. However, I would still strongly advise you to utilize more caution in the future.”

Jim’s brows furrowed. “Where is this coming from, Spock? This isn’t the first time I’ve almost died.”

Spock hesitated. Jim noticed, for the first time, a shadow of vulnerability hidden bleeding through the edges of Spock’s mask of Vulcan control. He felt his expression soften.

“Spock,” he said gently, “Why have you been following me?”

Spock looked down at his hands where they were calmly clasped together, resting on the table. “It is illogical, captain.”

“You? Illogical? Somehow I doubt that.”

“Even the best of us have our flaws.”

Despite the strange tension in the air between them, Jim could not help but chuckle at that.

“Very true.” Then, when a moment of silence went by without Spock responding, he prompted, “Well?”

Still looking at his hands, Spock paused for a moment before speaking. “I admit that I would have found it most disagreeable if you had lost your life in that mission.”

“I wouldn’t have exactly been pleased with it either.”

Spock continued as though Jim had not spoken. “Were you to perish, the ship would feel your absence most keenly.”

Jim considered him for a long moment before, throwing caution to the winds, he spoke. “And you? Would you feel it?”

For the first time in several moments, Spock finally looked up and met Jim’s eyes. “I admit that I would, captain.”

Jim swallowed. If Spock were human, Jim would have reached across the table to take his hand, but as it was, he contented himself with holding his earnest gaze.

“I’m sorry I concerned you.”

“Thank you,” said Spock. “Though I admit that I appreciate it more if you refrained from doing so again in the future.”

“You know I can’t promise that, Spock.”

Spock’s brow furrowed slightly. “I am aware, captain. However, that does not mean I am pleased by this fact.”

Jim smiled a little, gentle and a bit sad. “I thought Vulcans were not capable of displeasure.”

Spock looked Jim in the eye, tilting his head slightly. “When it comes to you, I find a great many capable of a great many things.”

Jim opened his mouth. He closed it again.

“I see,” he said, rather lamely.

Spock frowned. “Captain, I do not think you realize the importance of this matter.”

“It’s my life. I’d say I have a pretty good sense of how important it is.”

“And yet you are acting as though you do not realize how significant it is to those around you.”

“A captain’s life is lived in service of his ship and his crew”

“The importance of your existence is not found solely in your captaincy, Jim.”

Jim gave Spock a long, considering look. “Are you trying to tell me something, Spock?”

“It is also found, among other things, in your status as a friend.”

Jim was silent, digesting this. Spock looked at him for a long moment, then, unprompted but with uncharacteristically visible hesitance, spoke again.

“I have been maintaining a proximity to you that is closer than average for the last eight point three days because, unreasonable and improper as it may be, I have found your presence an illogically reassuring reminder that you did not, in fact, perish during our last mission.”

“Oh,” said Jim softly.

This time, he was unable to keep himself from reaching out to place a hand on Spock’s sleeve, just above the wrist. Spock looked down at the place where their skin didn’t quite touch, seeming to consider it, but did not protest the contact. Jim took this as permission to leave his hand where it is.

“I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” he said. It was a testament to the weight of the conversation that Spock only frowned slightly at this, not bothering to protest the implications of emotion in Jim’s statement. “I’m safe now. I promise I had no intention of letting the universe get rid of me this easily.”

Jim paused for a moment, thinking, then forged ahead with all the boldness of the man who had recently faced death without flinching.

“You know I had to do it, though,” he said.

Spock’s frown deepened slightly. “The machine’s destruction was logically necessary for the sake of the galaxy. However, the specific method chosen was perhaps not—”

Jim held up a hand to stop him. “I’m aware of your thoughts on my methods. I’m talking about my motivation.”

Spock’s frown grew less displeased and more considering. “In that case, please elaborate.”

Jim couldn’t help a small, fond smile at Spock’s words. “I knew it had to be destroyed for the sake of the galaxy, but that wasn’t really what I was thinking about when I did it.” His smile faded into seriousness as he spoke. He maintained eye contact with Spock. “I was thinking about my crew. About how my friends— my family would be destroyed if I did not act.” He gently squeezed Spock’s forearm where his hand still rested on his sleeve. “I was thinking about you.”

Spock was silent. Jim studied his face, trying to parse the emotions he could almost feel hiding behind Spock’s Vulcan control. There was surprise, he thought, and perhaps confusion, but also something deeper, perhaps more vulnerable or more tender. He could not make it out.

Jim found that he could not let this conversation stagnate in silence, not without knowing for certain that Spock understood him.

“So,” he said, “I hope you realize that this feeling goes both ways.”

Spock’s brows furrowed just slightly. “Clarify.”

“I… value your presence. Very highly. I, um,” Jim paused, took a deep breath, then forged on quickly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He swallowed. “Please don’t make me find out.”

Spock paused. He considered Jim for a long moment. For some reason, Jim grew increasingly nervous under his scrutiny.

“I am gratified to know that you understand the sentiment,” Spock said eventually. “I will endeavor to act in the interest of self-preservation.”

Jim relaxed a little, letting a smile slip onto his face. “That’s all I can ask for. Thank you.”

“And you will endeavor to do the same?”

Jim lifted his hand from Spock’s arm and held it out to shake. “It’s a deal.”

Too late, he remembered the vast differences between the cultural norms of humans and Vulcans when it came to touch and fingers in particular. He made to withdraw his hand, slightly sheepish.

Before he could move and without breaking eye contact, Spock reached forward and took his hand.

Jim felt a spark of warmth, almost a tingling sensation, travel up his arm and down his spine at the touch. Spock’s hand was dry and very warm. His gaze was serious, earnest in a way Jim rarely saw from him. Jim found that he could not look away.

“A deal,” Spock repeated, his voice soft and low. Jim found himself fighting back a shiver.

Before Jim could pull himself together and return to his senses long enough to speak, Spock released his hand and stood. Jim looked up at him, blinking dumbly, as Spock nodded at him.

“This conversation has been most profitable, captain. Thank you for your time.”

“It— uh, it was my pleasure.” Jim winced internally, abruptly glad the room was empty but for the two of them. He doubted his suave reputation would survive intact otherwise.

Jim could have sworn he saw Spock smirk at him as he turned to go. He found himself smiling softly in return as he watched Spock leave.

When Jim returned to his quarters, he found that he felt much better than he had when he left them last. The emotional toll of the mission was not completely lifted, of course, but the reminder that he had his first officer at his side made it feel easier to bear. The thought of Spock’s concern for his well-being made him made him feel oddly warm.

And, if it was the memory of Spock’s hand on his — of the warmth of his touch, the thinly veiled feeling in his eyes, the emotions that sparked in Jim’s own chest at the contact, and the promise of, maybe, someday, something more — that eventually lulled him to sleep with a smile on his face, that was no one’s business but his own.

#star trek tos #spirk #kirk x spock #james t kirk #spock #star trek #wren writes #*waves shyly* hello star trek fandom!#this took FOREVER because writing has been really slow lately but i finally came up with a title i'm happy with so here you go :D #there should be more fic for both witcher and star trek on its way soon! <3 #also first fic of 2024 let's go!!!!#man it's been ages since i posted a new fic that wasn't a collaboration

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