My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan | S2 E11: Careful, Dylan…

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

I was rereading Season 1 recently and realized Season 2 was missing some of that sharp, sassy banter Troy is known for; the playful sarcasm and back-and-forth with Dylan. This part of the story brings back classic Troy: bold, sarcastic, and unafraid to give it right back.

I shouldn’t have knocked on Dylan's door. It was late. Not midnight, but late enough that it counted. I could’ve gone home. Could’ve taken a shower. Slept. Pretended I was a normal person who hadn’t just had slow, tender, eye-contact sex with a Frenchman who called me mon amour.

But no.

I was here. Standing outside Dylan’s apartment like I hadn’t spent the last two hours getting my brains blown out by Elliot.

The door opened fast.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, shirtless, in those gray sweatpants he always wore around the apartment. His hair was damp. He’d showered recently. Smelled like clean skin and cologne and maybe mint toothpaste. My stomach flipped.

I tried not to look tired. I was tired. In a very specific way. “Hey,” I said like I’d just dropped by to borrow sugar. “Still up?”

Dylan leaned one arm against the doorframe. His jaw flexed. His eyes moved over me once, slow. “You look like you already had a long night.”

I snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Wasn’t an insult,” he said. “Just an observation.”

I rolled my eyes and stepped past him into the apartment. He didn’t stop me. The place smelled like him. Familiar. Lived in. Unsettlingly comfortable.

He shut the door. Didn’t say a word.

“You always open the door half-naked, or is this a special occasion?” I asked, sinking into the corner of the couch.

“You always show up this late after a date?” he asked back.

Touché.

I gave him a look. “I didn’t say it was a date.”

“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Silence hung between us for a second. Then I smirked. “I thought you were above jealousy,” I said, stretching out like I owned the place.

“I’m not jealous,” he said too fast.

I raised a brow. “Sure.”

Dylan crossed the room and stood in front of me. He didn’t sit. Didn’t smirk. Just looked down at me like he was waiting for something. I met his gaze, tried to keep my face unreadable. I knew what he was seeing. Flushed cheeks. Still-rumpled hair. Skin that probably still smelled like Elliot.

And my eyes? Probably tired. In that very specific, very post-fucked way.

“I’m not stupid, Troy,” he said quietly.

“Never said you were.”

“You came from his place.”

I leaned my head back against the couch. “And if I did?”

His jaw flexed again. His hands curled slightly at his sides. I watched him. Waited. Tried to ignore the fact that my body, which should’ve been completely sated, was already reacting. Dylan had that effect. That tension in him. That heat. Even now.

He stepped closer. “You really think he can give you what I can?”

I laughed under my breath. “What, an aneurysm?”

He didn’t laugh. He reached down, caught my chin between his fingers. Not rough. But firm. “You smell like him.”

“So change that.” The words came out before I could stop them.

I regretted them instantly.

Because Dylan leaned down, slow and sure, and kissed me hard. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was claiming. Bruising. Hot. I gasped into his mouth and he used it, tongue sliding in like he already owned me. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing me down, forcing me flat against the couch. My body didn’t resist. Caus I missed being submissive to him.

I gasped. “Careful, Dylan…”

He paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow, lips still hovering over mine. “Careful?”

“I don’t know,” I said, all breath and bravado. “You kissing me is giving off some… emotionally compromised vibes. Starting to look a little jealous. I might think you’re catching feelings.”

He snorted, full sarcasm. “Spaghetti noodle,” he muttered, dragging his fingers along my jaw, “my cock’s already in love with your lips and your hole. My lips are just here for the drama.”

I laughed. Couldn’t help it. “Mm. Classic. So the dick’s in love, but you’re not?”

He dodged my question and proceeded to tug my pants down along with my underwear sliding down my thighs, knuckles brushing my skin. I sucked in a breath. He looked up at me, smug. “You really came straight from him, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sure,” he muttered, dragging my pants all the way off. “But I can still smell that expensive cologne on you. What’d he do? Feed you grapes in bed while whispering French poetry?”

“He doesn’t speak in clichés.”

“No? Did he sketch you after licking your balls?”

I gave him a sharp look. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, here you are. Freshly wrecked and still bent over my couch.”

He spread my legs with both hands and glanced down at my ass, tongue poking the inside of my hole. Then he let out a low, amused hum. “Aha,” he said. “I see how it is. You got fucked by your Frenchman, and you’re still not stretched.”

I flushed. “Shut up.”

“No, really,” he went on, dragging his fingers between my cheeks. “You should see your hole after I fuck you. It practically doubles in size.”

“Dylan...”

“Bet he fucked you slow, soft. Probably whispered ‘my love’ while he did it.”

I stayed silent.

He grinned. “Yeah. That tracks. Meanwhile, as far as my dick tells me…” He pushed a finger inside. I gasped. “You like a good pounding.”

His voice dropped, cock hard and heavy against my ass. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pushed another finger in, slow but firm, watching my face the whole time like he could read every twitch of pleasure across it. I was already starting to sweat. My hole fluttered around his knuckles, greedy even after everything that had happened just hours ago.

I glared up at him, breath catching. “Are you gonna shut the fuck up and actually stretch me open, or are we just flirting forever?”

That cocky smile widened. His hand slid into my hair, fingers tightening.

“As you wish.”

He yanked my head back with just enough force to make my breath catch. His mouth was back on mine, but this time it wasn’t sweet or slow. It was hungry. All tongue and teeth and heat. His fingers worked deeper inside me as he kissed me like I was something he already owned.

And maybe I was.

I whimpered into his mouth and he used it, tongue sliding in like he already knew the shape of me. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing me flat against the couch. My legs bent instinctively. He dropped down between them, grabbing the lube from somewhere under a cushion, like he knew he’d need it the second I walked in.

“You really let him fuck you?” Dylan said, his voice low and teasing as he poured slick onto his fingers. “Romantic, candlelit, missionary bullshit?”

I didn’t answer. He kept going.

“You know what I see when I look at you right now?” His fingers were back inside me. “I see a hole that missed being treated like a fucking toy.”

I moaned, eyes fluttering. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“You’re full of me in a second,” he muttered.

Then he stood, stripped his shirt, and pushed his pants down further, his cock already hard, leaking, heavy in his hand. He looked down at me, spreading lube over it slowly, the way you’d sharpen a knife before slicing something open.

“Turn over.”

He grabbed my waist and flipped me with a grunt, holding me like I weighed nothing. My chest hit the cushions. He spread my ass, spit once, then slid the head of his cock up and down, teasing me.

I moaned loudly. Maybe too loud.

“Careful, Troy,” he said, voice dripping smugness. “Feels like you’re falling in love with my dick.”

I groaned. “Maybe I already am.”

He slammed into me in one smooth thrust.

I gasped, arching. The stretch was instant, deep, dizzying. He didn’t pause. Just pulled back and slammed in again, groaning low under his breath as he bottomed out.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s more like it.”

He set a rhythm, deep and punishing. My breath hitched with every thrust. His hands held my hips, fingers digging into my skin like he was anchoring himself to me. The couch creaked beneath us, the room filled with the sound of slick skin and breathless moans.

“You gonna tell him?” Dylan grunted, fucking harder. “That I fucked you like this? That you came crawling back to me the second he went soft?”

“You...” I gasped. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re mine.”

He leaned down, chest against my back. One hand slipped around, wrapping around my throat. Not tight. Just enough to make me feel it. “Say it,” he whispered into my ear. “Say you missed this.”

I didn’t answer.

He pulled out slowly, just the head left in me. I whimpered. Then he slammed back in and I moaned, biting the couch cushion to muffle the sound.

“Say it.”

“I missed this,” I breathed. “Fuck. I missed it.”

His hand stroked my cock while he fucked me, each thrust perfectly angled to make me gasp.

“You sound so good when you beg.”

“I’m not begging,” I panted.

“You will.”

He kept going, faster, deeper, and I couldn’t pretend anymore. I was moaning, needy, shameless. My body pressed into every thrust like I was starved for it.

“God, Dylan...”

“Yeah,” he groaned. “Take it. Take every inch. Let him kiss your neck and call you pretty. I’ll fuck the part of you he can’t reach.”

My body shook beneath him.

He slowed down, just a little. Pressed kisses to my shoulder. Then my spine. Then my lower back.

“I know you,” he said quietly, cock still buried deep. “You don’t just want sweet. You want this. The stretch. The ache. The ruin.”

I couldn’t answer. Maybe he was right?

He pulled out again. Flipped me over. My legs went up automatically. He shoved his cock back in and started thrusting harder, kissing me again between every stroke, but it wasn’t soft anymore.

It was ownership.

“Keep looking at me,” he whispered. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”


My Best Friend’s Brother Dylan | S2 E12: I Came From Dylan’s Apartment