My Best Friend's Straight Brother Dylan

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All characters in this story are 18+
This story is completely fictional.
All acts in this story are fully consensual.

S2 E1 : He Is So Gentle

I didn’t come to Paris to get over Dylan.

I came because my sister begged me. Said she was still settling in. Said she needed someone around. Someone familiar.

And then she started working twelve-hour shifts. Gone before I wake up. Home after I’m asleep.

So here I am.

Alone in her new apartment, roaming a city I barely know, thinking about Dylan’s body and what he said the last time we texted:

“Still thinking about your mouth, baby. That throat was made for me.”

"Spaghetti Noodle, you're mine"

God.

I shouldn’t miss him.

But I do. That muscled, so-called “straight” jock who used to fuck the attitude out of me and leave without a word.

And I let him. Every time.

So I distract myself.

I wear cute outfits. Take OOTDs in the street below the apartment. Post them on Instagram with pouty captions like “just trying to find my way” or “tired of being mysterious, might start acting up.”

I explore cafés.

I journal in parks.

I pretend I’m thriving.

I people-watch from terraces. I sketch in parks like I’m someone with a purpose.

I journal about Dylan’s cock. Write poem's about his body.

Pretend I’m healing. Pretend I’m not still opening his stories just to see if he’s shirtless again.

But I’m stuck here.

At least until my sister decides she’s okay being on her own.

So for now… I stay.

And I try not to text him back because if I do, I cannot stop thinking about him..

_____________________________

One Thursday evening, I was out on my usual aimless stroll. The golden hour light was soft and low, brushing against the buildings like a filter. I walked slow, lazy, scrolling Dylan’s Instagram, which felt like emotional self-harm but I did it anyway.

He’d just posted a selfie with some celebrity fitness guy.

Both shirtless.

Veins popping.

Dick print outlined in sweatpants like it was a brand deal.

I stopped dead in the middle of a cobblestone street, barely registering where I was. I was staring at the photo, thumbs frozen, brain spiraling. I could still feel his hands on my jaw, holding me in place. I could still taste the salt of his skin.

Then....

“Excusez-moi?” a voice said. “We are kind of… shooting here?”

I blinked up.

A tall French guy was standing a few feet away, camera in hand. Two impeccably dressed models were behind him, backlit by the sunset, posing beside a café.

“You’re blocking the frame,” he added, but he smiled as he said it. “Unless you’d like to be in the photo, too, handsome.”

My cheeks burned.

“Ah..shit..sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

I stepped back, flustered.

He clicked a few shots, quick and clean, then looked back at me.

“Je m’appelle Elliot,” he said. “You’re very photogenic.”

(My name is Elliot)

I laughed.

“Hi. Elliot. I’m Troy.”

He looked at me like I was the interesting one. Like I wasn’t just some distracted mess missing a hookup back home.

A few more lines were exchanged...about the light, the models, Paris in the spring....and then, suddenly:

“Coffee? With me? I know a place not far from here.”

I said yes.

He looked like a dreamy french guy who I wanted to kiss.

So, Of course I said yes.

We met again the next evening.

He wore dark jeans and a loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I wore a tank that dipped low in the back and some high-waisted corduroy shorts I’d thrifted earlier that day.

We walked around Le Marais. Laughed about nothing.

He smoked. I pretended it didn’t turn me on.

He told me about his freelance gigs and how annoying models can be. I told him about my sister, about not knowing how long I was staying.

We kissed in an alley behind a bookstore.

Soft at first. Then not.

He pressed me gently against the brick wall, his hands on either side of my waist, thumb stroking my skin like it meant something.

He tasted like vanilla and cigarettes.

He kissed like he wanted to memorize my mouth.

It only lasted a few minutes.

But I kept thinking about it.

Still am.

_____________________________

Which brings us to today.

Saturday. Sunny. Quiet.

Elliot’s over. My sister’s at work.

The apartment is filled with lazy afternoon light, slanting in through the blinds and pooling across the couch like a blanket. I’m wearing tiny black shorts and a crop tee that barely covers my chest. Elliot’s in that same breezy white button-down, halfway unbuttoned, his tan chest peeking through like a tease.

He’s sitting beside me, but we’re not watching the movie.

We haven’t been for the last twenty minutes.

His fingers are grazing my thigh.

My hand’s on his chest, just above his heart. He leans in, kissing me again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like it’s all he wants to do.

I move onto his lap. Straddle him. My hands slide under his shirt. He gasps softly when my thumbs brush his nipples.

His hands grip my hips, firm but still so careful.

It’s different than Dylan. Less urgent. More… attentive.

His mouth moves to my neck. He kisses me there, then again, trailing down to my collarbone, his tongue flicking just once.

I sigh.

His hands sneak under the waistband of my shorts. They just rest there. Heavy. Possessive. His palms are warm against my bare skin. I grind down against him and feel him growing hard beneath me.

My cock aches.

I can feel how wet the front of my briefs are.

His breath is ragged in my ear.

“Tu es si beau…”

(You are so handsome)

He cups my cock through the fabric, strokes it slowly. Just once. Then again. I buck into his touch, mouth open, panting into his neck.

He holds me still with one arm, the other teasing me through my briefs.

Then he pulls back, looking into my eyes.

“Let me take you out tomorrow,” he whispers. “To my place. My studio. We will finish what we started, oui?”

I nod.

God, yes.

But I’m still buzzing from the way his voice sounds saying that. From the way his fingers feel tracing the shape of me like I’m something delicate.

Elliot is different.

Not better. Not worse. Just… different.

I’m used to being on my knees, face-fucked by straight jocks who don’t kiss after.

I’m used to Dylan.

Where nothing matters except how good it feels.

Elliot makes it feel like we have time.

Like I matter.

His phone rings.

He groans, leaning his forehead against mine.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Work.”

He answers. Speaks in quick, clipped French. I catch the words “urgent” and “deadline” and a few other things I don’t fully understand. He paces briefly, then turns back to me, sighing.

“I’m sorry, bébé,” he says, smoothing my hair behind my ear. “I must go. Fashion doesn’t wait.”

I smirk.

“You’re lucky you’re hot.”

He grins. “I know.”

We walk downstairs together and I walk him a little further into the street. He kisses me outside the building. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to say what he couldn’t say with words.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers. “I’ll text you the details.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

I watch him disappear around the corner. Still a little breathless. Still hard in my shorts.

I turn back toward the building, walking slowly, lost in the haze of it.

That’s when I see it.

A taxi parked right outside the entrance.

A guy’s getting out.

Tall. Broad. Wearing a tight blue compression tshirt and black mesh shorts that makes his thighs look insane. His back is to me, bent over as he grabs a duffel bag from the seat.

Something about him makes my heart trip.

The sun-kissed hair. The solid calves. The easy stance.

My mouth goes dry.

I step toward the apartment door, trying to squeeze past the taxi in front.

“Excuse me, just....sorry, passing through...”

The guy straightens. Turns.

I stop cold.

My breath catches in my throat.

It’s Dylan.

Smirking. Sweaty. Tan as fuck. Fitter than I remember.

“Hey, Spaghetti Noodle,” he says.

“Told you I’d book a flight to see you.”

My Best Friend's Brother Dylan | S2 E2: Help Me Unpack

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