I DID NOT WRITE THIS!
This is a fanfic posted by kawaii_tenshi27 on livejournal which was originally written about Tom and Dougie from McFly. I just thought when I was reading it how I could totally see the story working out as Dan and Phil, so I have just edited the story to put their names in, and make it all relevant to youtubing rather than being in a band.
In this Phil was originally written as Tom Fletcher, and Dan was Dougie Poynter. Some of their characteristics are actually pretty similar at times, so this worked better than I would usually expect for changing names and other little details!
Please don't think I'm trying to pass this off as my own; I'm just passing on the great storyline, and for anyone interested in McFly fanfiction, kawaii_tenshi27 is an awesome writer, so do please go and check them out! This story is called 'Butterflies all tied up' on their page which is called 'First Among Angels', and it's written in two parts which are divided just the same as I did here (keeping true to the original). Also Tom (the Phil character original) has a youtube channel too, so if you just type his name into the search bar he'll come up, and he's pretty damn cool. Plus Dougie (original Dan character) is in some of his videos (as well as the rest of the band) so there's plenty to enjoy there too!
By eleven o'clock, Phil has showered, changed into clean boxers and an old Pikachu tee-shirt, and settled in with his laptop on the bed he's claimed for himself. He still hasn't come down off the adrenaline high from the VidCon meet and greets, but he hadn't wanted to go out with the others to whatever bar or club they'd chosen – hadn't been sure he could handle being that close to Dan after the meetups without doing something he shouldn't. He's tense, wired, frustrated with himself for not just getting over his stupid infatuation. He's hoping he can burn through it all – at least for the moment – by working on the video idea he's had stuck in his head for the past week.
An hour later, he's gotten down about a minute of bad editing, and no inspiration for how to improve it. He kind of wants to punch something.
Phil presses hard against the edge of his macbook, feels the metal bite into his fingers, relishes the not-quite-pain. A moment later he releases, and abruptly puts the laptop down before he can pitch it across the room. He doesn't want to have to deal with gossip blogs tomorrow about how he trashed his room, and he doesn't want to deal with the other youtubers wanting to know if he's all right, which would probably be even worse than the fan's concern, though probably later in coming. Dan won't say anything to him, just give him worried looks when he gets back to the room at fuck-all in the morning, but he'll tell Chris and PJ in the morning, and they'll demand explanations. Somehow, he doesn't think "I was just frustrated, all right?" will cut it, and there's no way in hell he can tell Dan that part of the problem is the way Dan's shirt sticks to him in the American sun.
He really wishes he had the balls to break something. He settles for growling loudly and hurling a pillow at the far wall. It is less than satisfying.
He's starting to wish he'd gone out, but watching the others pull has never been his idea of a good time – hates that watching Dan with girls still gives him a sick, jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach even after all these years – and one-night stands aren't his thing. He likes to know who he's going to wake up to in the morning, likes to know they'll still be there after coffee, likes not having to scramble for clothes to avoid awkward goodbyes. He likes relationships. But right now, he's wondering if the dark, sweaty beat of a club and the promise of anonymity would really be all that bad. Getting drunk or getting off – or both – might help loosen the tension in his muscles, dull the electricity under his skin, distract him. At least it might make it easier tonight, when Dan's asleep in the bed next to his, loose and languid and smelling like some random girl's cheap perfume, and all Phil wants to do is curl up next to him and pretend he belongs there.
Phil frowns at himself and paces to the window, stares out at the city that's not home. He grits his teeth and stalks to the television, picking up the remote and flipping channels. He's not really sure what he's looking for – anything to distract him, really – and starts to pace in front of the screen while movies and programs and advertisements flick by, nothing catchy enough to hold his interest for more than a few seconds.
Screw it, he thinks, and grabs his jeans off the chair he'd thrown them on, digging in the pockets for his phone. He punches in Dan's number, rationalizing that he's the most likely to answer his phone, even if PJ's more likely to know where they actually are – it's got nothing at all to do with the way something warm curls in Phil's stomach every time he hears Dan's voice, at even the thought of it. Phil really just needs to get out of here, do something, someone, maybe, if he can just – and he really hates himself like this, but he's still buzzing with energy that has no where to go, and he feels itchy in his own skin, unfocused, tense, desperate, half turned on.
The music from the television is vaguely creepy, and Phil glances at the screen as he paces around the room, tapping the remote restlessly against his thigh, waiting for the phone to stop ringing and for Dan to pick up, breath already catching in his throat. A guy in dark clothing is climbing in a window, and there's another guy on the bed, looking fairly terrified. Murder story, Phil thinks, but then. Then they're both on the bed and, "Lie down," says the first guy, and he's pushing the other guy's shirt off his shoulders, and.
There's a click next to Phil's ear, and a voice saying, "All right, mate? Hello? Phil?"
But Phil's staring at the screen even as he shivers, staring at the shadowed figures twisting together, their breathing heavy, fingers curling into hair, and it's not – this isn't what he'd usually – but right now –
Both remote and phone fall from Phil's fingers as he sits hard on the edge of his bed. The images on the screen flash once before vanishing as the set goes dark and the noise from the phone cuts off just as abruptly. He continues to stare at the blank screen, replaying the scene on repeat in his head, slowly getting longer as his mind continues from where the program cut off. He drums his fingertips against the bedspread, against his knees, feels hot and twitchy and the scrape of calluses on his bare skin makes his muscles jump and his breath hitch. He can still hear Dan's voice saying his name in his ear.
The phone buzzes against the carpet, but Phil ignores it, can't – can't – actually talk to him, doesn't want to hear confusion or worry in that voice, just needs the sound and images in his own head. He drags short nails up one leg, right to the edge of his boxers, then back. The phone stills for a moment, buzzes again, stops. Buzz stop buzz stop. Phil can almost feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet, though he's not touching it, lets the phantom sensations run up his legs, hit his spine, and spread all the way out to his fingertips, shivers with it, closes his eyes and leans back on the bed.
Phil slides his fingers up one arm – barely-there contact that makes the short hairs stand on end – then down across his chest, the touch enough, even through his shirt, to make his breath catch. He lets his nails scrape against skin where his shirt rides up, then slides his hand up under the worn fabric, pressing his palm against his stomach, fingertips curling in just a little.
He runs his other hand up along his side, lets his nails catch against his throat, brushes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. He lets the tip of his tongue dart out to sweep his lips, thumb, then slides his hand back down, flash of cool on wet over his chin before it dries. He dances his fingers over the waistband of his boxers, hip to hip and back, then, giving in, along the line of his cock.
His breath catches, fingers pressing hard into his stomach, but he keeps the touch on his cock feather-light, teasing, not enough not enough. Up, down – he can feel himself getting harder, breathing shallower. There's sweat on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, making his shirt stick to his chest, slick under his palm as he slides it just a bit lower.
He doesn't usually do this, doesn't tease when it's just him, doesn't usually see the point, when all he wants is to get off, but right now. Right now he wants this. Wants more than this. Wants something else entirely, maybe, and he doesn't really know, just lets it build until it's almost too much.
Want want want, Phil thinks, pushes the heel of his hand against his cock, hips lifting to meet it, a gasp escaping his throat, and Need need need. He forces both hands away long enough to haul himself fully onto the bed – head against the pillows, the duvet kicked roughly aside so he's lying on clean, cool sheets – then he's slipping his fingers under the elastic waist of his boxers, pushing them down as slowly as he can manage, and then they're gone, gone, and he's wrapping one hand around his cock, and fuck, that's good.
Oh, god, he thinks, tightens his fingers around his cock, lets himself get a little lost in the sensation. He slides his other hand up under his shirt, nails against the skin of his chest as he starts to jerk off properly, hand dry, and he swears out loud at the rough drag. Hand to his mouth to lick his palm, to ease the friction just enough – thinks, oh, god, I want – the fingers of his other hand have dropped down, skimming his stomach, the crease of his thigh and. Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks, licks his left palm instead, and Phil's not used to jerking off left-handed, but knows enough to know he needs to be careful if he's never. And he wants.
He presses his right index finger against his bottom lip for a moment, hips shifting with the slow movement of his left hand, then slides his finger past his teeth, tongue curling against the knuckle. He can feel his cheeks hollow when he sucks in a second finger, flicks his tongue between the two, and it feels good. It shouldn't, it's just his fingers, but. He can feel the vibrations of a moan against his hand, down his arm, and that's him moaning.
Phil moves his hand a little faster on his cock, and it's awkward, still feels a little backwards, but good. Really good. Palm over the head, and he can feel the damp of pre-come already, uses it to make the glide of his hand easier.
He pulls his fingers free of his mouth, lets his arm fall, fingertips wet against his thigh, his balls, and. Bloody hell, he thinks in the tiny section of his brain that hasn't been completely swamped by sensation, because that's his arsehole, and what the hell is he doing but. It feels good and he wants and.
The tip of his first finger slides in easy, and it doesn't hurt, but it feels so odd. He pushes a little harder, slides it in a little farther, and moves his left hand a little faster on his cock, squeezes a little at the base. The dual sensation makes him gasp, and his head tilts back against the pillows, throat bared and arched like there's someone there to offer it to. He twists his right hand, tries to move his finger, gasps again, slides his hand back, and shoves two fingers in, hard.
"Fuck," Phil hisses, voice loud in the room, but fuck that hurt. He bites into his lower lip, but doesn't pull his fingers out. He forces himself to focus on his left hand – still jerking himself off, faster, but still not too fast, drawing it out – and tries to relax while his body adjusts to the – holy Jesus – the fingers in his arse, because it's rough and almost too dry and it hurts but it's still a good hurt. His fingertips drag lightly over the head of his cock and he takes several deep, half-gasped breaths, his muscles slowly losing some of their tension. Then his hips move to meet the hand on his cock and the fingers in his arse shift, twisting and curling as shivers run along his spine, and oh god, oh god. Sparks go off behind his eyelids, and the tiny voice in his brain goes oh god, prostate and then sort of fades into the background, too busy sending mixed signals as to whether he should be thrusting up into the hand on his cock or down onto his fingers.
He can hear his breath loud in his own ears, a jagged off-beat of the heavy pounding of his heart. His whole body is shaking, he feels a million degrees, and wishes he could get rid of his shirt, but he doesn't have a hand to spare, can't even focus on anything besides the feel of his hands and the sensation of spiraling closer. He jerks himself faster, hand tight, twisting over the head of his cock, and pushes his fingers in harder every time he drives his hips down – harder, harder, it's not enough, not enough, but – his muscles shudder and clench as he fucks himself on his hand, heat building low in his stomach.
The wooden-metallic slam and the sound of someone-not-him gasping registers in delayed reaction. It's several heartbeats before the noise breaks through the fog in Phil's brain, and several more before it sinks in enough for his body to respond, going completely still, eyes dragging open, and.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. The words trail like a broken record through Phil's head, staticky and faint. Petrified.
Phil can't move, can't do anything but stare at Dan, breath frozen in his lungs. And Dan – Dan is staring right back, eyes wide and lips parted, barely two steps into the room, keycard still in his hand. The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of Dan's breath. Phil can't breathe. His heart is slamming in his chest, and – he'd always thought it was just some fancy turn of phrase to say it felt like your heart was going to beat its way out, but this, this really hurts. And he can't breathe.
"Phil," Dan says, his voice slightly choked, and, "Oh God," he says, and, "Can I fuck you?"
The trapped air leaves Phil's lungs in a whoosh, like he's been punched in the stomach, and. Fuck fuck fuck. He's still got two fingers pushed up inside him, his other hand still on his cock, can feel the sweat slicking his face, his arms, sticking his hair to his forehead, gluing his shirt to his chest. He feels like he's frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth open as his lungs try to drag in oxygen. Each inhalation catches on his lips, icy cold as the skin dries.
Harsh breathing and heavy heartbeats and Phil's not sure if he's hearing his own or Dan's. He hasn't moved, can't seem to connect the panic in his brain to the muscle-memory necessary to pull his hands away. Not when his body is still screaming at him to keep going, keep going, because he's still hard, still turned on, and Dan is actually there, and Dan said. Dan asked. Dan wants.
"Phil, I." Dan's voice cuts off when he tries to speak again. Phil sees the way his throat moves when he swallows, sees the pink tip of his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and, "Can I?"
Phil still hasn't moved, though he can feel his muscles shaking, chest heaving as he breathes. He swallows, licks his lips, only half aware he's mirroring Dan's movements, and he doesn't know what in hell he's doing, but he's nodding, and the sound escaping his mouth isn't words, it's somewhere between a moan and a whimper.
A hiss of breath escapes Dan's mouth, and he swallows again, hard, eyes wide like he's not really sure he believes what's happening. Phil's not really sure what's happening either, but. He wants this – really wants this.
Phil licks his lips again, feels the moisture sink into dry skin, and Dan's still staring at him, never stopped, and Phil can't stop staring back. Dan's slightly flushed, and Phil can see the way his chest rises and falls under his shirt, breathing irregular. Phil still hasn't moved either of his hands, and maybe that should be a problem, but he's still so hard and just needs Dan to be closer, closer, now. He twists both wrists just a bit, can't help it now, needs something, makes himself gasp, back arching just a little from the sudden friction after stillness. He can practically see the way Dan's pupils dilate, making his eyes go dark, can see the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and.
Dan takes a step farther into the room, two. "Phil," his voice is a broken whisper now, and he sounds so unsure, looks like he's not sure if he should jump Phil or flee, but he doesn't look away. His eyes flash from Phil's hands – still moving a little, Phil can't seem to stop them, twists against them, doesn't even care what he must look like – up to Phil's face – lips parted as he breathes, sure he's flushed and sweaty, doesn't care, doesn't care – and back. He takes another step, drops the keycard on the floor, step, step, and Phil can't look away from him. He pushes up slightly into his fist and down onto his fingers, and can't seem to stop watching Dan's mouth, the way Dan worries his bottom lip as he moves closer. One more step and Dan's thighs hit the side of the bed.
Phil makes a noise in the back of his throat, tries to stop moving, waits for Dan to touch him, can feel every inch of his skin practically humming in anticipation. He's not sure how he got to this point, half panic, half thrill, and so fucking turned on it almost hurts, but it's Dan. Dan, who is standing over him, watching him like he's wanted this forever, like he's tried not to think about it, like he doesn't know what to do now he has it. And maybe Phil's projecting, but for once in his life, he doesn't think so.
Dan reaches out, but stops halfway, arm suspended in air. "Phil," he whispers again, a question this time, and Phil shivers at the sound of his voice, needs contact now. He drags his hand away from his cock – tiny groan leaving his throat at the brush of calluses against sensitive skin and then the loss of contact – and catches Dan's fingers.
"Yes," Phil's voice is as soft as Dan's, but somehow comes out firm, confident, like he knows what he's doing, despite the frissons of terror racing down his spine. He can feel Dan shivering, and somehow the fact that Dan is maybe freaking out about this just as much as he is makes it easier.
"Yes," Dan repeats, almost inaudible, and reaches out with his other hand to touch Phil's right wrist, pull his hand free, and Phil whimpers a little at the loss, hips lifting of their own volition as they try to follow his fingers. "I. Do you want me to." Dan's eyes dart from Phil's hand up to his face and.
They're doing this. They are. They are. And Phil really, really wants this. He's not sure it's possible to not want this. Oh god. He needs – he needs to think. His brain seems to be malfunctioning, but. "We need." He stops. Swallows. Squeezes Dan's fingers and tries to breathe, tries to make his body calm down enough to think. It feels like his blood is burning its way through his veins, and he just wants to catch Dan by the back of the neck and pull him down, but. "We need," he tries again, because this is important, "lubricant. Some kind of. Do you have?"
And Dan's still staring at him, never stopped, but now he looks like he's maybe trying to process this. "No," he says. "I. Toilet? They must have some –" he steps back, and Phil's fingers clench convulsively around Dan's. Dan raises an eyebrow, and it's such an everyday move that something relaxes in Phil's chest, like there'd been a fist clenched too tightly underneath his ribs. He releases his grip on Dan's hand, and Dan stumbles away, backwards towards the toilet, tugging his shirt off over his head as he goes, still trying to watch Phil like he thinks Phil is going to vanish the second he turns his back.
Dan's shoes hit the tiling of the toilet floor and he stops, eyes still fixed on Phil, then swallows, cheeks flaming, jerks his head backwards through the doorway, says, "I'll just," and disappears inside.