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It was one of those mornings where Dylan Lenivy is stirring within his lumpy camp mattress and wishing nothing more than to be sleeping on an air mattress, perhaps floating aimlessly on the lake. Really, anything would be better than this—and by this, he means having thin, rigid springs stabbing into his lower back and making him wake up far before his alarm was set to go off. At least if he were alone he could go about his day, maybe take a shower and head down to the cafeteria for the sad little bagels there.
But, no.
There were almost a dozen kids slumbering peacefully around him and as much as he desired to get up, he didn't dare wake any of the children. His eyes are slanting through the dark as he blindly reaches for his cell phone, noting the time, then releases an outstretched sigh. He presses the flashlight button and cups it with a hand, shining it in the face of a sleeping Nick, who almost instantaneously groans at the disturbance.
"What are you doing, mate?" Nick murmurs through the silence, rubbing groggily at his eyes.
Dylan shrugs a halfhearted shoulder and utters a flippant noise in retort. "I don't know, what are you doing?"
"Seriously?"
The brunet is oddly amused by his response and his smile states as much. "Nothing at all, just can't sleep and this damn mattress is a literal pain in my ass. Like my entire ass is literally numb and—"
Nick looks completely unimpressed, and even a little agitated, so he does what seemed like the preferential option here: he grabs one of his overly firm pillows and launches it into the darkness. Seemingly satisfied with striking his target, he mumbles lowly, then just loud enough that the latter can hear: "go shove a bagel down your throat for all I care, just let me sleep, for the love of God."
Dylan places a hand dramatically over his chest at the microaggression, feigning his offense, but releasing an otherwise cool laugh. "Love you, too, buddy."
The brunet is attempting to remain as silent as possible as he creeps from beneath the covers. He has on a comfortable pair of shorts—which really, wouldn't fair well outside of the heated cabin—and a thermal splayed across his chest. His socked feet gently meet with the floor and his hands busy themselves with reaching for his phone again, plucking the cord out of the socket and shoving it deep within his pocket. He slips his feet into a pair of black slides and starts his departure:
For the most part, he can easily maneuver through the throng of bunk beds toward the front door. The only light illuminating the cabin's interior comes from the slits in the blinds and for that, he is grateful. He has to pause every couple of steps when he hears the sound of tossing and turning, but otherwise manages to sneak out without so much as a peep or hassle.
At each step he takes toward the radio hut, he is bathed in pale light from the motion sensing light poles above. Just enough light to get him to his destination, muses the brunet, as he saunters down the dirt path toward his building half a dozen cabins down. It doesn't take long and even in his haste—because fuck, was it cold—he was reveling in the sight of the waxing gibbous from below.
In his neck of the woods, per se, there weren't many opportunities to see the moon this clear in view, let alone the myriad of stars that litter the night sky in a beautiful glimmer of light. Sure, his cock feels like it's about to freeze off entirely, but he was willing to make that sacrifice, especially when there were only a few days left of camp.
When he breaches the door, however, he is tempted to slam it closed because what the actual fuck. Poised within his chair resides another teen, one with a pair of headphones on, arms folded across the desk, with his head resting in the very center. And yeah, he didn't need to see the latter's face to know that it was Ryan Erzahler.
Instead of tiptoeing away from the scene, he does quite the opposite. And by the opposite, he means that he saunters inside, closing the door behind him, to slowly approach the sleeping boy. Dylan didn't think it through, as per usual, as he stalks behind the boy and thrusts his hands out toward the latter's shoulders, taking hold and offering him a warm squeeze.
And Ryan?
He absolutely freaks the fuck out—he startles awake and an ensuing squeak of the swivel chair sounds as he makes to defend himself from the perpetrator. When he blinks through the daze of his vision, he discovers Dylan and minutely calms, though the agitation is clear on his countenance:
"You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!"
Dylan bats his lashes playfully, placing a hand over his own heart: "I tend to have that effect on people."
"Har, har, har." Ryan is plucking out his earphones, his jaw stiffening as he gazes up at the latter: "what are you even doing here?"
Dylan is as flippant as ever as he takes two steps toward the desk the latter previously occupied, plopping down on the edge unceremoniously. "Well, I mean—this is my domain, so I should be asking you what you're doing here, not the other way around."
Ryan releases an outstretched sigh, knowing that it was a losing battle and that his accusations held no validity here. "Right, the mouthpiece of Hackett's Quarry—"
"—and don't you forget it, big guy—"
Ryan coins him a narrowed gaze, his lips turned down into a frown. Dylan raises his hands defensively, though a bubble of laughter erupts from his throat nonetheless. The raven purses his lips, arms crossing over his chest, as he peers up at the latter: "Jacob snores. Loudly."
"Like a bear," suggests Dylan in an attempt to supply him with the right words.
"Not unlike a bear," Ryan glazes over with a slight upturn of his lips. He absentmindedly rubs at his eyes before he speaks once more, "and what about you? Do you just go around scaring the shit out of people for fun?"
Dylan allows his feet to leisurely kick back and forth, hovering just above the floor given his height. His head cants imploringly to the side, "scaring people? No. Fulfilling someone's wild wet dreams by appearing in the waking life? Hell yeah."
"I wasn't having a wet dream—" Ryan interjects, not that he has to. He wasn't being accused at all, but now Dylan was quirking a piqued brow: "I'm just saying, I wasn't."
"But if you were, who would be in it?" Dylan pries lightheartedly, humming his amusement: "Kaitlyn wouldn't be in it, by chance, would she?" His tone is casual, though his breath catches in this throat as he awaits the answer with bated breath.
Ryan seems to contemplate the thought for a moment, which was really out of character, all things considered, but Dylan mulls it over and assumes that sleep deprivation would do that to someone. Seemingly lowering his inhibitions, the raven just shrugs a halfhearted shoulder: "Not in particular, no. At least, I don't think so."
As if a light switch had been turned on—albeit flickering, mind you—Dylan is releasing the breath he had been holding and swallows thickly, wavering smile on his mouth. "So, that's a no for Hackett Quarry's number one Hacketteer?" He hums playfully, fingers curling beneath the desk as he leans forward: "should I go down the list, or should I keep pulling teeth?"
"That—... That phrase isn't useful here, just so you know." Dylan rolls his eyes promptly at this response, sticking out his foot to nudge the latter's knee: "Pulling teeth would imply it would be hard to extract information from me, and I don't think it's hard right now."
There was electricity brewing in the air between the two, an almost palpable sense of tension that leaves Dylan pondering the words spilling from the suddenly awkward teen. Where his foot touches the latter's knee, Ryan reacts to it by bobbing his leg up and down rhythmically, his dark eyes gazing up toward Dylan with a sheepish glint.
"I'm good at making things hard," Dylan breathes into the silence, slicing through the tension like a hot knife through butter. It seemingly knocks the latter out of the trance he had found himself in, awkwardly clearing his throat, gaze flickering down to his hands to fiddle with the cord of his headphones.
"C'mon, Dylan. What does that even mean in this context?" Ryan releases a breathless laugh, leaning forward until he's on his elbows. Dylan shifts atop the desk, pressing the side of his thigh against the latter's elbow; the ensuing warmth elicits a sigh from his lips.
Dylan feels his toes curl within his socks, his ivory teeth catching his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I'm way better at showing than telling, that's for sure."
Ryan, typically oblivious, feels his skin going warm and red. He averts his gaze momentarily, though his body moves in autopilot so that he's standing before the latter. Still propped on the desk, he finds himself face-to-face with Dylan, who quirks a challenging brow; it was one of those expressions that dared the raven to make a move, and make a move he does.
Without as much as a warning, Ryan is surging forward and pressing his mouth deftly over Dylan's with such force and intensity that the latter is scooted back half an inch on the desk. He makes a squeak of surprise, though not unwelcome, at the abrupt occurrence. He feels hot, albeit perspired hands grasping at his bare knees and he almost chuckles into the kiss—in fact, he would have laughed euphorically had his oxygen not been deprived by the tentative lips on his own.
His hands are trembling timidly as he extends them to grasp at the back of Ryan's head; his fingers are smoothing over the cropped hair there, tugging him forward and more furiously into the kiss. He is only slightly embarrassed by the twitch within his boxers, usually not this enthused by a simple kiss, but the thought melts away when he feels the wetness of a tongue flicking at his bottom lip, coaxing him to open up.
And holy shit, who knew that Ryan Erzahler could kiss like this—the type of kiss that leaves his head drifting off into space, like he was levitating but needed the latter to ground him all at once.
Dylan attempts to break the kiss, but Ryan is chasing him with a grunt. Eventually the brunet is offering a snort as he presses a hand against the latter's chest: "Hey, big guy, if you don't fucking touch me right now, I may spontaneously combust."
Ryan purses his lips at that, then allows his fingers to briefly glide over the skin of the latter's lower thigh, then ghosting over to where the bulge is prominent within his shorts: "Then it wouldn't be spontaneous combustion, would it?"
"Lame," chastises the brunet with another snort, one that dissolves into a moan when the hand squeezes his length. His legs are going to encase the latter's waist, tugging him closer into the inviting contours of his body: "You can handle pitching tents, right? Isn't that your job?" His eyes are hooded as he gazes up at the latter, his tongue wetting his bottom lip when the hand slips beneath the band of his boxers and skin meets skin.
Ryan looks only mildly offended by the inquiry, snorting his amusement. "I raise sails," corrects the raven with a pointed look in the latter's direction, leaning forward once more to press a peck to his lips.
"Doesn't—.." Dylan is breathing between each kiss: "sound as—.. hot—..."
Dylan uses the distraction to slide his hands beneath the material of the latter's shirt, his cool fingertips warming beneath the feel of his toned abdomen. Who would have guessed that stoic little Ryan would actually have a semblance of abs? His nails scratch bluntly over each ridge, tracing mindless shapes there as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss and using ivory teeth to sink into his bottom lip.
Ryan seems to enjoy it, if the press of his hardening cock against his thigh is anything to go on. And for that Dylan celebrates his little triumphs, sucking the latter's bottom lip into his mouth until he receives a breathy whine. The hand beneath his boxers goes to his cock and strokes him at a leisure pace, one that seemed to be testing the waters of what he preferred.
All Dylan can do is vigorously nod his head in response, pulling away from the kiss once more to bow his head against the latter's chest. "Oh my god—" chokes out the brunet when the hand tightens to apply just the right amount of pressure, his wrist twisting on the upstroke, thumb occasionally swiping over the head just to tease him so: "you're so good with your hands, what the fuck—"
Ryan is keening at the praise and works his cock in fluid pumps, learning how to touch him, learning how to please him. "I've had a lot of practice," murmurs the raven and really, it shouldn't be funny at all, but somehow it reels a choked sob from the brunet as he jerks his hips forward into the fist the latter's hand makes.
"Bet you have," Dylan breathes heavily, withdrawing from the latter's chest to lean back on his palms, his fervent gaze intent on memorizing the scene—Ryan with his big hands stroking his cock, watching him with an equal ferocity: it felt like he could visibly see the flames fanning in his gaze and it nearly sets him ablaze. "Can you—can you reach in the second drawer from the top? I, uh, I have lube there, you know, for special occasions and all."
Ryan's hand wavers against his cock, his brows furrowing to the center of his head, blinking owlishly at the brunet. He was clearly taken aback by the revelation and Dylan has the sense to blush: "Right, yeah. Special occasions," his voice trails off, but the confusion has melted into intrigue as he steps to the side to rummage through the drawer, locating the bottle beneath a litany of old, dusty books: "It's half empty," notes the raven with a quirk of the lips.
"Or half-full, you fucking pessimist."
Dylan rolls his eyes, though the smile on his mouth betrays any real semblance of annoyance. He raises to his feet once more to toe off his socks, one at a time, before swiftly stripping his shorts and boxers down to pool around his ankles. Ryan is, well—the asshole is reading the label on the back of the bottle, but holy fuck, why is that actually so hot, though?
Dylan leans over the desk, his forearms laying flat over the scratchy wooden surface. He glances over his shoulder at the sight of the raven, playfully wiggling his ass in the air to garner his attention; of course, it works like a charm, always did. "Focus, big guy."
Ryan nods simply and pops the cap open, squirting a dollop onto his fingers. He comes up behind the bent boy, one hand going to his hips to steady him, while the other is pressing at his ass and teasingly dipping just his thumb inside. Dylan mewls at the action, his cheek flat against the desk to gaze at the latter; he nods encouragingly, his toes curling into the floor.
The raven is deliberate in his movement as he presses one digit at his entrance, allowing the finger to slide inside with a painstakingly tantalizing pace that leaves Dylan shivering involuntarily. "Is that okay?" From his position, Dylan is raising a hand with the "ok" gesture: "that's—that's good, thanks."
"Did you just thank me?" Dylan teases, inhaling sharply when the sole finger curls inside.
The hand at Dylan's hip squeezes him tenderly as he retracts the finger to add another, this time the middle finger is joining the forefinger. The duo are scissoring him open, stretching him appropriately for what was to come, and Dylan? Well, Dylan feels a dizzying intoxication that leaves him boneless upon the desk, his eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of being filled.
Ryan stretches his fingers as far as he physically can: his slender, nimble fingers a yearned for thickness that Dylan had been fantasizing about ever since meeting the bastard. But, no, he needed so much more than just fingers, no matter how deft and good those fingers feel. As if reading his mind, the raven is withdrawing his fingers and instead works on lowering his cotton pajama bottoms, followed by his boxers.
Dylan wet his lips unconsciously at the sight of his cock—it was bigger than his, had more girth and thickness to it—and he ponders how it would feel stretching his mouth. Later, muses the brunet, as he spreads his legs to better accommodate the latter's form. Ryan reaches for the lube once more and coats a substantial amount upon his cock before he lines it up with the latter's entrance, pressing the head there and halting movement.
"Are you sure about this?"
Dylan presses his hips back until the head presses just inside of his ass, ivory teeth sinking down into his bottom lip at the pleasant burn. "Consent is hot, but uh, yeah—yes, now, just get inside me.. Please..?"
Ryan doesn't hesitate and acquiesces, slowly sliding into the unbearable tight heat that encases him. He has to take a moment to collect himself and not outright thrust his hips because this was more than he could have ever imagined or even materialized in his wildest of dreams. Both hands go to each side of Dylan's hips, nails digging incessantly into his skin until tiny crescents are branded there.
Dylan adjusts fairly quickly and is pressing back against the cock settled deep within him; Ryan gets the hint and experimentally snaps his hips back, plunging deep within the slick heat. He earns a low hiss at the movement, so he repeats it—once, twice, thrice until Dylan is blindly grappling for the end of the desk for purchase.
It doesn't take long for Ryan to find a rhythm, his hips rolling with finesse, surging his cock forward and delving deep into the most intimate of Dylan's crevices. And Dylan? Dylan feels every inch of him, filling him up in the ways he had always craved. The thickness of his cock stretches him to capacity, so deep that he swears he can feel it in his throat—
Alas, that wasn't the case, Dylan had just forgotten to breathe and chokes out a sob at the merciless snap of Ryan's hips against his own. The lascivious sound of bare skin slapping skin is a welcomed symphony against his ears, one that spurs him to meeting the latter thrust for thrust, making certain to slam back against Ryan's cock at each earnest thrust he had to offer.
"You feel so good—" croaks the brunet, arching his back for a better angle; his jaw tenses when Ryan finds that one spot, the one that paints stars behind his closed lids: "holy fuck, why do you feel so fucking good?"
Feeling spurred by the words spilling from Dylan's mouth, Ryan increases the frantic twitch of his hips, his hand encircling the latter's waist in favor of finding his neglected cock. It was an angry red at the head and a welcomed weight in his fist as he pumps with avid finesse. And Dylan?
He knew what sensory overload meant, but he hadn't known what it felt like until now. All he can feel is the stirring of Ryan's cock inside of him, can feel the hot puffs of air from his labored breathing on his back, can even feel the blunt nails grasping at him for purchase as he bottoms out in a desperate attempt to prolong the moment. His toes are curling once more just as Ryan's wrist twists on the upstroke, hand tightening around the head in just the right amount of pressure that leaves him moaning, his cock twitching with his release.
And Ryan?
Ryan is right there with him, chasing his orgasm with a choked profanity; his hips offer one last weak thrust and he ultimately succumbs to the waves of pleasure that overwhelm him. He collapses in a weak heap against the latter's back, not that he was complaining. His hands are going around the middle of Dylan, embracing him warmly, his head nestling against the back of his neck.
Dylan relaxes beneath his weight, though he does have to shift a bit to find that comfort. His breathing isn't steady yet, but he still manages a breathless laugh at the occurrence, his smile broad and beaming as he shifts until his arms are more comfortably folded beneath his head.
"You're still alive back there, right?" Dylan hums into the silence, "you don't need emergency services?"
Ryan doesn't reply for a beat, his chest still rapidly rising and falling against the latter's back. "I'm not sure yet, give me a sec."
Dylan is pleased by this revelation and really, would love nothing more than to stay in this position for as long as physically possible, but to no avail. His legs were cramping up and Ryan was heavier than he looked: "well, if you're still kicking, can you ease up a bit?"
It takes him a second to work up enough energy to actually move, but when he does, he plops down into the abandoned swivel chair. And Dylan follows suit as if attached by an invisible wire, plopping down into his lap. "Was that good for you?"
Dylan taps a finger against his chin, feigning his contemplation. "By good, do you mean mind-blowingly orgasmic?"
Ryan quirks one of his small, rare smiles and shifts his eyes to the latter's lips. "Yeah, same."
Minutes go by like that. Dylan is curling on the latter for warmth, craving the closeness of his form. Strong arms encase him into a snug embrace, holding him there, only to be startled by the abrupt droning of Dylan's long-forgotten cell phone. He scrambles quickly for the device, his butterfingers making it difficult to silence it as his hands are, admittedly, covered in dried cum.
"It's that time!" Dylan announces enthusiastically as he clamors out of the latter's lap in favor of going for his microphone. He chances a fleeting glance at his hand and absently wipes it on the bottom of his thermal. He glances over his shoulder at Ryan and playfully waggles his brows:
"Good morning, my favorite little Hacketteers. It's your boy, Dylan, and it's about time for the morning announcements!" Dylan nods his head in the direction of the microphone: "You're in for a treat! This morning we have none other than Ryan Erzahler here, aka your sail-pitching enthusiast. Your favorite sailor, err, captain, and here he is with a word—" Ryan raises his hands defensively, shaking his head in dismissal:
"No? Okay, he's a little shy, so, uh, back to scheduled programming! This afternoon will be swimming in the lake, then an activity of your choice, followed lastly by an epic bonfire. Enjoy your day, Hacketteers, and remember: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!"
When he releases the button on the microphone, he shifts to face Ryan once more, who only looks thoroughly amused by his spiel. "What?"
Ryan beckons him with a curl of the finger, and Dylan approaches him with an imploring quirk of the brow: "I just like you. A lot. That's all." Dylan resumes his position in Ryan's lap, a reserved smile playing on his lips.
"Yeah, me too."