#p.s. I have that icee t-shirt

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

Omg for the prompts: “if you called just to get off on my voice, i’m hanging up” !!!! It can be for whatever character/real Dylan, doesn’t matter, I know you’ll do it justice 😄

OoOOoOo!

I realllllllly hope I can, anon. I'm sure as hell gonna try ;)

I'm gonna write this with Dylan, because I'm the most confident in my ability to write him well. I hope that's okay <3 This is phone sex... so like... warning?

Prompt list HERE

Tell Me

What hell time is it? Is that your phone? God, you hated falling asleep on the couch. You always woke up so confused. It was just supposed to be one more episode, but that turned into four and at some point, you'd fallen asleep. It took you a few moments to come around to even be certain your phone was actually ringing before you reached over and snatched it from the coffee table. 4 AM.

"What the fuck?" You muttered under your breath before you registered who was calling. It was Dylan. You swiped to answer the call. "Hello?"

"Hey, you."

"Is everything okay?" you asked, rubbing your knuckles into your eye to clear the fog.

"Yeah. Everything's fine."

That was a relief, but now you were a little annoyed. "You do realize it's four in the morning here, right?"

"Shit."

You could tell by his tone that it had entirely slipped his mind that he was on the other side of the world. He was filming in Australia, and even after three weeks, he hadn't quite sorted out that he was living almost a full day in the future.

"I'm sorry. I'm an ass. I just..."

He sounded genuinely sorry, and you couldn't really be upset when you heard his voice. It was hard to find time to talk when he was so far away, so now was honestly as good a time as any.

"Just what?"

"Nothin'..."

He was doing that stupid annoyingly cute thing he did where he feigns being coy when he really has nefarious intent.

"Dyl?" you questioned, sitting up a bit on the couch.

"It's just..." he paused, but when he started talking again, his tone changed. There was a slick darkness to it. "I miss you..."

This little shit called for phone sex at 4 in the fucking morning!? "Are you seriously— If you called just to get off on my voice, I'm hanging up."

"Well..." he hummed. "I didn't just call to get off on your voice." It was annoying that he could be so charming while he was perving from another continent.

"Oh no?"

"Thought I could get you off on mine too."

Distance was a frequent enemy for the two of you, so you were no strangers to phone sex, but he wasn't usually so forward. It generally just kind of organically happened during a conversation that began elsewhere.

"You still there?"

"Yeah, yeah...I'm here."

"Well..." His voice was sweet like honey, "interested?

You rolled over onto your back and stared up at the ceiling, listening to him softly breathing as he awaited your response.

"Yes."

"Mmm," he hummed in approval. "Good." You heard a few shuffling sounds before he spoke again. "So I woke you, huh? Wish I was in that bed with you."

You smiled. "I'm on the couch."

"Mmm, okay...What are you wearing?" His voice is muffled for a short moment, like he was blocking his mic.

You look down at your body and grinned because you knew he'd like it. "Those little shorts you like and one of your t-shirts..."

"Mmm."

You could hear the smile on his face.

"Which one?" More shuffling.

"Icee..."

"Oh, I like that one...can't believe I left it there."

"I thought you left it for me," you teased.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm..." you wiggled a bit, getting more comfortable. "Looks better on me..."

Dylan laughed softly. "You're right..."

You smirked, worrying your lower lip between your teeth for a moment before you posed a question of your own. "What about you? What are you wearing?"

"Nothing."

"Oh." Your eyes widened. That must have been what you'd been hearing. He'd been taking off his clothes. "Not wasting any time..."

"Mmm, nope. You should probably catch up."

"Yeah?" you questioned, looking around the room at the floor-to-ceiling windows. "You want me to strip naked right here in the living room?"

"It's 4 AM... no one's gonna see..."

You considered just telling him you were naked when you weren't, but that hint of mischief in his voice emboldened you a bit. You set your phone on the arm of the couch behind you and pulled his t-shirt up over your head, accidentally knocking your phone off onto the rug.

"What was that?"

You picked it up from the floor. "The phone was a casualty of my superior stripping skills," you smiled.

He huffed out a little amused breath. "You naked yet?"

"No...not entirely."

"Shirtless?"

"Mhm."

The little groan he let out was so amusing to you. You wished you could see him. He always looked so good when he was desperate.

"Cold in here..." You ran your fingertips down the center of your chest, hoping he was imagining how you must look with your nipples peaked.

"Fuck..." he muttered. "Wish I was there to suck on those pretty things..."

Those words struck a chord and you traced your finger around one of your breasts, tantalizingly slow. You loved how he practically worshipped you with his mouth. You were sure he'd explained every inch of your skin with his mouth and tongue, but his particular fondness for teasing your breasts was well-documented.

"Touch them..." his breathing was a bit more uneven than it'd been before. "Squeeze your nipples and imagine it's me."

You sighed as your fingers traced over the hardened peak of your breast before you pinned it between your thumb and forefinger. You moaned as your eyes fluttered closed and your mind's eye conjured up a hazy image of him.

"Good?" he asked, his voice slick and low. You knew him so well you could tell his mouth was hanging open.

"Yes."

"Tell me..."

Your free hand glided across your skin to the other breast and your squeezed it in your hand, palming it gently before you pinched your nipple between your index and middle finger. "Feels good, but your mouth would feel better..."

"Shit..." His curse was abbreviated by a stuttered intake of breath. "You'd be writhing on the couch if I had my mouth on you."

You laughed softly, your hand gliding down to your navel, tracing soft little patterns on your skin. "Thinkin' about that making you hard?"

"I've been hard since you picked up the phone."

Those words hit different. The warmth that spread through you made your fingers and toes tingle, and you felt the desire pooling up between your legs. He'd made you wet with just a few little words.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"Not yet."

You were impressed. He could behave sometimes, but he wasn't generally one to deny himself pleasure.

"Do you want me to?" he asked, practically purring into the phone.

You closed your eyes again and imagined him laying there naked on his bed, hard and desperate to touch himself, then you imagined the flex of his arm pulling the tendons to the surface when his long fingers wrapped their way around his length.

"Yes."

"You take those shorts off yet?"

Your fingers were teasing at the waistband of them, but you still had them on. "No."

"Take them off."

You obeyed, even though you knew it was more a request than a demand. You slid them down along with your underwear and kicked them off the side of the couch. "They're off..." you breathed, your fingertips gliding up the side of your thigh.

"Good..." he paused for a moment. "Want you to touch yourself when I do...at the same time."

"Okay..." you agreed, your hand gliding up over your thigh until your hand was resting near the heat of your core. You wished he was here. Wishing your hand was his. You missed him so badly you were burning need. Being with him like this was almost torturous because it only made you want him more, but it was better than not having him at all.

"Now."

You moaned as your fingers slipped into your heat. You were so wet already and it felt so good to hear the sounds he made in your ear.

"Feel good?" he panted.

"Mmmm," you hummed, chewing at your lip. "So good...I'm so wet..."

"Got you soaking our couch and I don't even get a taste..." he grunted before he continued. "That's such a fucking shame...you should probably do that for me too..."

Your finger swirled around your clit and you pressed your head back into the cushions as your back arched.

"Tell me how you taste..."

Your toes curled up when you could finally start to hear the sound of his fist working him over, the way his breathing was growing more erratic by the second. You wanted to please him, drive him as insane with need as you felt. You traced along your lower lip with your slick index finger before your tongue wet it and you drew it into your mouth.

The sinful noise he made when you exaggerated the sound of sucking on your finger let you know he was as desperate as you. "Tell me..." he whispered.

"Good...the way I always do..." you breathed, sliding your hand back down your body and between your legs. "But I wish I was sucking on something else..."

"Oh, God..." Dylan said between his teeth. "I wish I could fuck your mouth...so fucking bad."

"Mmm..." You squirmed imagining his hands in your hair, tugging you over his length while he bucks down your throat, but what you really wanted was him buried so deep inside you that you'd forget your name. "Just my mouth?"

He growled at that, the pace of that satisfying slapping sound of his fist quickening a touch more. "No."

You slipped your fingers back inside yourself and curled them up into that sweet spot inside you that made you see little stars. "What would you'd do if you were here right now...?"

He didn't answer right away, but you could still hear the frantic pace of his hand bringing him closer to release. "I'd pin you down on that couch...fold you in half...and fuck you so deep..." He sounded so breathless and gone that you knew he was on the brink. "Make you cum...feel you squeeze around me...fill you to the fuckin' brim..."

Your orgasm was building, like a wave just offshore about to break. The pressure, that ache for release. You were so close. "Dylan...I want you so fucking bad..."

"Me too, baby..." His words were soaked in sin, but there was a sweetness behind them too.

You were so God damn close, and knowing he was right there with you was making the whole thing so much better.

"Baby, holy fucking shit...I'm so close..." he didn't speak for a moment, but the sinful sounds coming out of his mouth didn't stop. He was moaning low and soft, and you could hear the way he was struggling to keep pace, and then it was like a rubber band snapped. "Fuck!" He called out your name and you knew he'd finished.

Your name on his tongue was more than enough to have you base jumping off that same ledge. You cried out in pleasure, his name and half-formed praise falling from your lips as you rode the high of release. You basked in the way it felt to be connected to him even though he was a world away. You nursed yourself through the throes of it, all the while listening to Dylan's heavy breathing in your ear.

"I fucking love you."

[jademoniquewrites]

Robbie Borrelli

I never adored any of my mother’s boyfriends the way I did Robbie. When the final school bell rang, I remember sprinting from the doors of the P.S. 158 Bayard Taylor School into the arms of a stout man waiting for me outside his black pick-up truck.

Robbie always wore a dull t-shirt splattered in a bit of egg yolk from breakfast, loose light wash jeans and wheat Timberland’s scuffed from the day’s work doing construction and roof-fixing. He was an Italian man with low cut, spiky hair and clear blue eyes you could see your reflection in. He also always looked sunburnt. For years, Robbie filled in the gaps of my adolescent mind that constantly craved the answer of what it would be like to have a father again.

Each time I entered the vehicle scattered with loose tools and buckets of paint, sitting in the cupholder was a Smart water and Reese’s Cups, as he knew were my favorite. He would greet me with a throaty but gleeful call of my name and ask me what I learned that day in school. From there, we swerved on the FDR Drive heading to the Animal Medical Center to pick my mother up from work. As we waited for my mother to be released from the sliding doors of the animal hospital, Robbie and I would make up songs about the adventures we’ve been on together; riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, seeing who could eat a Katz’s pastrami sandwich the fastest and the endless pranks we played on my mother, scaring her shitless with every given opportunity. It is hard to pick just one fond memory out of the years I spent with Robbie and the Borrelli’s, but if I could pick one, it would be our summer, weekend rituals.

The air feels different in Park Slope, a comfortable kind of warmth that made riding my pink and white Barbie bike up and down Douglass street an activity I could do for hours before the other kids came out of their brownstones to play. Besides the usual double-dutchin, hop-scotchin’ days us children of Douglass street had, cooled down with perfectly scraped cherry mango icees part of my routine involved Robbie’s mother, Marianne.

At her glass table, I always watched Marianne and my mother put out their cigarette ashes in the tray and signal me to explore the garden once more so perhaps I wouldn’t become a chain smoker myself. 

Marianne’s garden was the kind that makes you question if you’re really in Brooklyn. It was a serene setting, sprawling with curling vines and an assortment of blossoms, but my favorite part was the small pond that held the turtles and fish I fed bi-weekly. As my mother and Marianne chatted for hours and prepared dinner for Robbie’s arrival, I would dance through the backyard shoeless, the naked soles of my feet catching small pebbles and soil. I remember sprinkling the flakes of turtle food like fairy dust into the pond, my young eyes bulging with zeal as small turtle heads bobbled up and snapped their mouths at the pellets. When I heard the wind chimes, that was my indication that Robbie was home and it was time for dinner.

On a typical weekend it wouldn’t just be me and my mother eating dinner at the Borrelli’s. The rest of my family would join us, and so would the rest of the Borrelli’s, each journeying from different parts of the Brooklyn borough for some of Marianne’s tomato sauce. As we ate, Buster, Robbie’s small Maltese scurried around our legs and scratched on our calves, begging us to throw him a chicken leg covered in the pungent tomato sauce. Dinner usually was baked chicken legs, browned to perfection then smothered in sauce that also covered spaghetti noodles garnished with basil and homemade mozzarella. The adults had red wine and I had ice water with my favorite kind of ice cubes, the cylinder-shaped ice cubes I don’t have at home.

If conversation had color, ours at dinner would burst the brightest of yellows, oranges and greens. The air would be filled with endless chatter and the strong cackle of my mother while swatting at Robbie with her hand for teasing her. My grandma and Marianne clucked in their sector of the table about new teas and regimens for arthritis.

I on the other hand, always ate slow and would talk with Robbie’s niece Alaisha, born just a month after me. We planned the next time we would race up the block, how huge our bubbles would get in Marianne’s backyard and the possibility of us really being like sisters if my mother and Robbie ever got married.

After dinner, we all would sit out on the front steps, the dense food sinking slow like anchors in our bellies as we watched the bustle of the neighborhood.

In these moments I would think to myself how identical our families look to when it was my mother and fathers’ families that were woven. I would think about my white family, carrying the same blood I do. A distant memory of steamed cabbage, corn beef and rye bread because the only time I was allowed to be around was when I was Irish, not Black.

As the sun began to set, I would lace my sneakers up, knowing it was time for the Borrelli’s and Tate’s to go to their respective homes. This tradition would go on for over five years despite the bumps in my mother and Robbie’s relationship.

Sometimes I still see him. His pick-up truck pulled into our driveway, the sound of the doorbell echo through our house only for there to be a brown bag spilling with sesame seed bagels and tubs of chive cream cheese. From the window of my room, I peak my head out and see his scratched chubby legs dangling, and his arms banging away at our neighbor’s roof. As I look up at Robbie Borrelli and up at the sky towards another man I adore, my eyes water -- I smile for what I had.