Wicked Boy (24) (Patreon)

(The chapter in which Milan realizes he's as hot for Ez as we are.

Also! Sorry Wicked Boy was neglected this month (I wrote ten dollar tier AU scenes for it and forgot to write for the canon story! Expect many more Wicked Boy chapters in January. Have this short one as an apology until then!

Warnings for: a vaguely? (Maybe not so vaguely) implied NSFW dream.)

—

'Unless ya' say please.'

I dream of Ez.

I fall asleep to a text from him the night of the day that we have coffee.  There's a copy of the contract in a PDF document, the confirmation of his phone number, and email.  There's also the daunting promise that I'll be hearing from him more often, seeing him more than ever.

Incoming message:

save my # - k?

There's a distinctive giddiness that comes with that.  There's also a stifling fear that he'll come to hate me, and I still manage to fall asleep with both.

So it's to be expected — to dream of him, that is.

I tell myself that this shouldn't concern me. I'm at the juncture in life where the remembrances of dreams are murky and senseless things that I leave and lay to rest atop my pillows. I've had dreams about friends, family, barely-there acquaintances before.  Most of these, I forget.

The more extensive fragments cling to me for a few hours, sometimes, and this time — being Ez, perhaps those details should have been his boots, his embroidered leather jacket, or his absurdly loud motorcycle. I would've accepted the tacky diner in which Daphne worked, her changing lipsticks, or the neon-flashing hotel that I met Ez in front of.

Ez is becoming a staple of my waking life, after all?

It's to be expected, I tell myself, again.

But I sit in the dark blue husk of my bedroom's midnight shell and stare at the ceiling, cheeks flushed with heat and skin a live-wire. I swallow. I touch the sheets beside my thighs, rather timidly, then reach for the water beside my bed, and exhale.

I sit up and ignore the warmth that curls inside of my stomach.

I didn't dream of any of those vague details, of course.

No.

Instead, I dreamt of Ez's eyes — his bright, unusual irises, his pierced tongue touching his too-white teeth, his rings, his fingers that I held in mine hours before.  But the touch — the touch I dreamt of was vague in a way that suggested my innocence, but...

Sensual in a way that indicates my desire —

And it clings in an entirely different way.

Because... I dreamt of Ez, his low, husk of a voice — slow as tar and twice as thick, I dreamt of his laugh, his dimples, his grin.  I dreamt, foggily, of more.  And in that dream, I did say, 'please.'

What is this?

It's ludicrous.  It doesn't mean anything.  My sleeping senses took every one of his meaningless flirtations and gift-wrapped them into a vision altogether obscene, wholly salacious — totally unwarranted.

How could I dream of that?

My hands tremble.  I blink, finish my water bottle and make towards the bathroom sink to fill it again.  I've never felt so cotton-mouthed in my life, so awake — or so alarmed.

I can't leave this revelation against my pillows.

I certainly can't forget it.

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