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’d been trying for ages not to go down this route, to ignore his instincts telling him this one, this one is perfect