Chapter 2 - Fresa / Strawberry
Fresa / Strawberry
"How does kissing a guy prove I'm NOT gay?!"
"If you're totally straight, then you've got nothing to fear — one kiss won't change anything. But we both know the truth, don't we, fresa?" Dylan checked the time on his phone. "You're scared you'll like it, and then you won't be able to keep lying to yourself any more."
"I'm not lying," Ashton spat.
"Then kiss me, and prove it."
"Fuck off."
"Such language, Ashton! You blow all the boys with that mouth?" Dylan smirked.
"Screw you."
"Naw. Maybe if you ask nicely. And only after you kiss me. Y'know. If you're so sure of yourself."
Ashton muttered something under his breath, and Dylan's smile widened at the frustrated tone.
"What was that?"
"Shut the fuck up," Ashton growled.
"Oh, that's real witty m— "
But before Dylan could say his piece, Ashton was grabbing clumsily at his shirt collar, hand striking like a snake slithering up Dylan's arm to his neck, and —
And Dylan's reflexes kicked in again, just as fast as before; protecting himself, defending himself. He grabbed at whatever openings his opponent was foolish enough to leave him — big fistfuls of shirt, hair — yanking hard on whatever he touched.
Logically, he didn't want to hurt the guy. Not to mention an assault charge would pretty much blow his entire life right out of the water. But it wasn't the logical part of his brain that had him shoving Ashton up hard against the closet wall so the bastard would back the fuck off, now was it?
No, that part was too busy trying to work out why Ashton's fingers had curved around the back of Dylan's neck; why he was being pulled forward even closer; why Ashton's other hand had come up to hold Dylan's jaw; why, why, why Ashton's mouth was on his, hard and angry; all heat and aggression, teeth clacking, and noses bumping; his body —
His body relaxing against Dylan's, under Dylan's; lips parting, giving, welcoming as Ashton pulled Dylan tighter still; pressed flush together, their breathing loud in the space; Ashton's hands grabbing Dylan's face, cupping his jaw, holding Dylan close.
It was dizzying. Dylan groaned into the kiss, leaning in just that little bit more so he could suck on Ashton's lower lip. To nip it, graze his teeth along the corner as if he could bite at that smirk, before returning to claim that damn spoiled, sweet mouth once more.
Ashton gasped, and Dylan used the opportunity to slide his tongue inside; wanting, needing, to see how far Ashton would let him push this, or if he'd meet this new challenge too.
One of the hands too-softly gripping his face slid along his cheek to curve up his head, threatening to try and thread through his hair or some shit. Ashton's fingers ghosted hesitantly over Dylan's cropped burr, halting abruptly when he met the stiff-gelled seam of Dylan’s mohawk.
Dylan smirked, nudging his knee between Ashton's thighs.
And for a minute, it felt like Ashton would balk, as if he was thinking about challenging Dylan for control.
That would be interesting. A really terrible idea, though Dylan couldn't claim he wasn't a little curious how that might play out too.
But Dylan just thrust his tongue between those too-soft lips again, leaning his weight into Ashton's bigger frame all the harder, tightening his grip in Ashton's hair and shirt.
That was all it took before Ashton whined, arching into Dylan's touch, his mouth desperate and needy.
Dylan's hands tightened at Ashton's surrender, tugging the taller man's head down to an angle so he could press further; deepening the kiss, everything.
God, Ashton was taking everything. Melting under him, moaning, his tongue tangling, dancing with Dylan's.
Hot and wet and firm and greedy and gasping and grasping; until Dylan's knees about went weak with Ashton's eager response to Dylan's claim.
It was all he could do not to slip his hand down and cup Ashton through his jeans; to pull him in closer by the hips, grinding against him.
He was pretty sure Ashton wasn't ready for that yet, but Mary, Mother of God.
Dylan was fast approaching the point he'd need to do something about this coy little cocktease it seemed he'd stumbled on.
He was so fucking hard, his cock aching for the friction of Ashton's lean body.
My God, he wanted to show this cocky straight boy all the ways Dylan could make Ashton eat his words.
The only thing stopping him was the certainty that if he gave in, it would push Ashton over what already seemed a very shaky line.
He'd break off and storm out, and then there'd go all of Dylan's fun.
Instead, he yanked Ashton's head back by the fist Dylan still had in his hair, raining closed-mouthed kisses down the column of that too-pretty throat.
Fuck, but he'd love to suck his mark into Ashton's skin, if for no other reason than to witness his reaction when Dylan asked him about it in class tomorrow. But no, no. There was a Christmas party raging outside, wasn’t there?
A whole crowd to see what he’d let me do to him…
No. Dylan could be good. He could keep his hands where they were, holding onto the last shreds of Dylan's self-control in their gold-knuckled grip, satisfying himself with leaving his claim on Ashton's mouth again.
And fuck Ashton to hell and back for turning out to be a good kisser. A really good kisser. Dylan groaned, unable to contain himself when Ashton tongued so greedily at his bottom lip; slipping into the space Dylan granted him and moaning, begging Dylan for more.
Too bad the moment had to end. He could hear the whispering coming from the other side of the door. Their time was almost up.
Ashton's sweet whine was the purest of highs when Dylan broke their kiss.
"Clean yourself up, you look like shit," Dylan told him, putting his own clothes back in shape. He wondered how long it'd take Ashton to realize it was too dark for Dylan to see anything in here, that he was being punked. But the only sound Ashton made was a very heavy, uneven breathing.
Oh, my little strawberry. Just had your world rocked and now you don't know what to do about it, do you?
Did this man even understand how flattering Dylan found that? How fucking powerful it made him feel?
Dylan couldn't resist leaning up quickly to whisper in the stunned man’s ear. "See you in your dreams, asshole.”
Smoothing his hands down the front of Ashton's shirt as if to tidy it, he was unable to turn down the opportunity to give Ashton's nipples a pinch first, just to listen to him gasp and squirm.
Delicious.
Still —
"Ashton,” he hissed, adjusting himself in his now too-tight pants. “C'mon, idiota – they're gonna open the door on us any second. Get your shit together, straight boy."
It seemed to galvanize Ashton into action. Either that, or the burst of laughter close by, chased quickly by the quick sounds of shuffling as Ashton adjusted his own clothing.
The light was blinding when they wrenched open the door, and for a second Dylan completely forgot where he was; transported momentarily to another time, another too-small space.
But no, this was a party. Some stupid thing thrown by people whose biggest worries were where their next drink was coming from, or maybe if they got a B instead of a B+ on a quiz.
"Hey, lovebirds!" someone shouted. "Time's up. Come on out."
"?Qué, cabrón!" Dylan shouted, recovering fast as he could to strut out like a cockerel into his yard; keeping everyone focused on him, and giving Ashton a chance to compose himself.
"You all really just sit in there and say Hail Marys the whole time?
Lame! Thought you said this game was exciting.
Mi abuela gets more action on Sundays, may she rest in peace. "
Yeah, that got him some chuckles and even a whoop or two; walking that thin line between humor and belligerence that'd saved Dylan's neck more than once. He'd spent his entire life dealing with thugs and bigots. Sometimes the only way to shut that kind of mockery down, was to shut it down hard.
"So who blew who?" jeered some guy in the back of the crowd.
"You know I'm saving this load for that pretty ass of yours," Dylan snapped at him just as quickly, cupping his junk and throwing a wink in the jerk's general direction. "Now kiss your girlfriend goodbye, and be ready for me upstairs in ten minutes, princess. Daddy's on a schedule."
And that bought him even more laughter, covering Dylan's trail as he booked it out of the living room.
Getting himself far away from that foolish game and the kind of people who'd think it was funny.
He'd need to keep an eye out for that guy who'd mouthed off, or any of his friends.
One of them might prove stupid enough to decide Dylan needed to pay for those jokes.
Heh. Just let them try it.
Compared to some of the people Dylan had dealt with in his life? Those guys were nothing. And they'd learn their mistake quickly if they tried to back Dylan into a corner again.
Holy shit could he use a beer. Unfortunately, Ashton was right on his heels when Dylan ducked into the kitchen, because of fucking course that was his luck tonight.
"Dude!" Ashton snarled as Dylan snagged a beer from the stack of twelve-packs on the kitchen table and popped the top. "What the hell was that?"
"You tell me, dude." Dylan rolled his eyes over the edge of the can, nodding his head at the couple making out in the corner. "You really wanna do this here?"
Ashton opened his mouth, and for a second Dylan thought he might, actually. But then he snapped it shut, just as a big guy leaned in the doorway.
"Hey, Ashton," called the walking wall of muscles. "You seen Oz?"
"What?" Ashton blinked in confusion at the newcomer. "Uh, no? Maybe check the porch?"
"Alright, thanks," the guy said absently. His eyes darted quickly from Dylan's fluorescent pink mohawk to his face, his studded black leather jacket, down to his skinny jeans — interesting — and then, like everyone else, back to Dylan's hair; just as intended. "Do I know you?"
'Logan, this is Dylan. Dylan, Logan," Ashton said, gesturing vaguely between them.
"You into punk music?" Dylan offered, throwing him a bone despite knowing just by looking at the guy the answer had to be 'no'. He would've remembered moshing with a guy that stacked, damn. "Could've seen me at one of the clubs."
What Dylan didn't expect, however, was for this ‘Logan’ guy’s eyes to zip back to his mohawk as a pretty pink blush lit up those cheeks. He choked out a strangled “No,” then abruptly disappeared.
"You've got weird friends," Dylan informed Ashton, hiding his confusion in his beer. He was used to the mohawk making him recognizable, but Dylan didn’t really get out much aside from the odd punk show or hitting up the gay bars…
His eyes snapped to the doorway, but the guy was already long gone. Ashton’s attention was still fixed on the place where he’d been, and Dylan almost wanted to laugh at the poleaxed expression on his face.
Oh, you are having some thoughts now, aren't you? Ones that aren't nearly as easy to push aside as they used to be…
"Man, you are so twisted up," Dylan said in a low voice, smirking as Ashton drug his eyes away from his retreating friend and back to Dylan. "You don't even know what to do about it, do you?"
Ashton scowled. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"No?" Dylan cocked his head, reconsidering the man in front of him.
"Tell you what. I made a very loud promise to princess out there, so people will be watching if I try to head upstairs in the next ten or fifteen minutes.
But if you really want to prove yourself?
Come find me in the second bedroom upstairs in half an hour. "
"What? Why the hell would I do that?"
"You tell me, straight boy." Dylan winked. "You want to show me, to show yourself — hell, to show him — that you aren't into guys? Thirty minutes, asshole; that's all it'll take for you to get your answer."
When Dylan walked off, Ashton was still gawping like a fish, which was already kind of funny all by itself.
But the best part? Oh, that was yet to come.
Dylan hadn’t ever been to this house before tonight.
He'd certainly never gone past the first floor.
He didn't know if there even was a second bedroom upstairs.
Didn't matter. Just as it didn't matter that he took that as his excuse to leave, practically jogging down the dark, deserted streets back to his apartment and the safety of his own empty room.
Because whether Ashton did or didn't find a second bedroom in that house; as soon as he went looking, hoping to meet up with the guy who'd kissed him, who might do more than just kissing?
Yeah, he'd have his answer if he was completely straight or not.
And Dylan would be far, far away; safe from wasting any more time on that strawberry's stupid, confused ass.