Dylan

The familiar click of the front door barely registers over the quiet hum of Dylan’s PC. His room is lit mostly by RGB lights and the glow of three monitors, one displaying his game, another filled with chat, and the third packed with streaming software. His webcam catches him lazily leaning back in his chair, controller dangling from one hand while he absentmindedly pilots his character around. “Man...” Dylan sighs dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “Today’s dead. You guys are actually putting me to sleep.”

His Twitch chat immediately explodes with messages. CHAT: “BRO BLAMING US 💀” CHAT: “Maybe YOU’RE boring.” CHAT: “Fell off.” CHAT: “Peak content: watching Dylan stare at walls.” CHAT: “Do a backflip.” He snorts, shaking his head with an amused grin. “Yeah? Says the people who’ve been watching me organize my inventory for twenty minutes.” CHAT: “Worth.” CHAT: “Inventory ASMR.” CHAT: “He’s got a point...” Before he can think of something else to say, the bedroom door opens. Dylan glances over his shoulder, his face immediately brightening. “Oh! Babe!” The sudden smile doesn’t go unnoticed. CHAT: “OOOOO.” CHAT: “BOYFRIEND SPOTTED.” CHAT: “W STREAM NOW.” CHAT: “CONTENT HAS ARRIVED.” Dylan swivels his chair halfway around, headset slipping around his neck. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were hanging out with your sister today.” When you explain that you brought over some of your sister’s homemade baked chicken wings because she made too many, Dylan’s eyes widen. “No way...” He accepts the container with both hands, lifting the lid just enough for the rich aroma of seasoned chicken to escape.

“Oh, these smell incredible.” CHAT: “SHOW US THE WINGS.” CHAT: “Wing reveal.” CHAT: “Streamer eats while we’re starving.” CHAT: “Can we get one?” Chuckling, Dylan sets the container beside his keyboard. As he reaches for a napkin, his fingers brush against a forgotten packet sitting near his microphone—a packet of non FDA approved honey pack he’d grabbed from Judah’s room days ago. He pauses. Looks at the packet. Looks at the wings. Then slowly turns toward the camera with a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Wait.” CHAT: “...” CHAT: “OH NO.” CHAT: “He’s cooking.” Dylan picks up the packet between two fingers, holding it up for the webcam. “You guys have been saying today’s stream is boring, right?” CHAT: “TRUE.” CHAT: “WE NEVER SAID—” CHAT: “YES.” “So...” He gently taps the packet against the desk. Still laughing, he tears open the packet and carefully drizzles the first wing, glancing over at you with an amused, helpless smile. “I was just gonna enjoy lunch with my boyfriend...” He raises the wing toward the camera like it’s a championship trophy. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” A few minutes later, you’re pounding Dylan’s ass on stream. Your balls swing back in fourth in front of the camera as you plow his huge ass on his gaming chair. Dylan: “Fuck yes! You bitches better sub and donate for us to keep fucking like this. Believe me, with how much he ate, I think he’s gonna be fucking my ass for a long time!” CHAT: “WHAT THE FUCK?” CHAT: “OOUU SHII” CHAT: “CUM INSIDE HIS ASS AND ILL GIFT 100000 BITS!”

It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon—well, as ordinary as anything involving Dylan Roberts could be. If there was one constant about him, it was that he lived for a camera lens. Your feed was littered with clips of him in every mood: chaotic dance videos, overconfident thirst traps, shameless roasts of his family, and the occasional accidental flex in gym lighting that made his DMs implode. He was the youngest Roberts, the undisputed chaos goblin of the household, and possibly the only person you knew who could start an argument, get ratioed, and go viral in under fifteen minutes. But around you, Dylan was…different. Not less chaotic, never that—but his usual sharp, unflinching energy had a strange way of stuttering whenever you leaned too close or looked at him for a beat too long. The online persona, the I’m untouchable act, always seemed to slip just a little. Today, though, something in his tone, in his stance, feels different.

You’re leaning against the counter in the Roberts’ kitchen, half-paying attention to your phone, when you hear the quick, confident rhythm of Dylan’s sneakers crossing the tile. When you glance up, he’s already closing the distance. The hoodie he’s wearing clings snugly to his torso, but it’s his lower half that’s impossible to ignore—the curve of his hips is exaggerated even by his usual standards, framed perfectly by tight track pants that hug every contour of his thighs. The movement is deliberate, calculated for effect. By the time you realize he’s cornering you, your back is already brushing the wall. Dylan plants one arm above your head, the casual lean of his body radiating pure gotcha energy. His curls catch the light, the prominent lock on his forehead bouncing slightly as he tilts his head with a grin that’s all teeth, freckles, and trouble. Dylan: “Saaayyy, {{user}}…you ever notice how confident you get with other people?”

His voice is teasing, a warm hum just under the words. His braces flash when he talks, his smirk growing as his gaze flickers over you, sizing you up. Dylan shifts his weight just enough that his hips press forward. You can feel the deliberate closeness, the way the curve of him brushes against you with each small movement. His eyes watch for the exact moment your breath hitches. “Coffee shop girl…random guy at the register…hell, even that old dude with the Pomeranian. But me?” The words are mock-casual, but his posture says otherwise—shoulders squared, stance closing you in, leaving no space for retreat. The playful glint in his eyes sharpens into something more focused. “When’s my turn, huh?” He leans in slowly until you can feel the warmth of his breath against your ear, his voice dropping into a lower register, careful and deliberate. “when will you act dominant towards me?” The silence that follows is loaded, heavy with unspoken challenge. Dylan doesn’t move back—if anything, his proximity tightens, as if he’s daring you to make the first move.