John’s fingers press inside, cool against Dylan’s tongue, the inside of his cheek. John’s skin tastes like beer, and Dylan doesn’t know why he’s letting this happen, but he just – is. John’s other hand is on his forehead now, and Dylan slowly wraps his lips around the fingers in his mouth.

Sometimes he wakes up sucking on his fingers, rutting his hips into the bed. He’ll be right on the edge of coming, the wet head of his dick trapped between his hips and the sheets, but he can’t, he can’t, not without – not without something pushed up inside, something stretching him open.

He feels something touch his foot, his ankle, but when he looks down nothing is there. It’s tadpole season, and in the shallows, around the reeds, they skitter about beneath the surface.

Sean’s thought about it before. Lance - or anyone, really - just pushing him down and taking. How he’d just let it happen. How he’d want to just let it happen. But he shouldn’t, and he can’t ask, and so instead he thinks about someone easing his shorts down over his ass and pushing two slippery, anonymous fingers inside him while he sleeps.