The One-Shots | D.O'B.

The Prism* | Dylan O'Brien x Harry Styles

The Prism.

Boston's very own sex club. Boston's best underground sex club.

Secret, but not unknown, The Prism is nothing short of legendary. The parties, the memories, the clients, the exclusivity. All of it making The Prism what it is.

This is where you find yourself one Friday evening. With your on again, off again boy-toy Harry by your side.

You figure it's a good way to welcome in the weekend. A quick fuck to reset the stress from the previous week. A habit that's becoming rather typical for you. Especially with Harry, who offers you nothing more than some good cock.

He might be a pain in your ass, but he certainly does know his way around your body. A talent that's proven even now as he rests his hand on your thigh while you take a sip of your Sprite.

The touches always start innocently enough. A quick squeeze to your knee beneath the table as you laugh. He'll make some comment about how perfect your dress is for easy access. How fun it would be to fuck you right there in the booth. How thrilling it would be to make everybody watch.

And everybody would watch. And they wouldn't care. Because that's just...what The Prism does. It's why you're all here. No judgements, no consequences...just sex.

And right as this thought occurs to you, Harry's fingers begin their journey up your inner thigh. They always find themselves there eventually, and you aren't about to argue. Especially with how determined his touch is tonight.

You're tempted to wonder why but can't find the willpower to do so as the soft stroking against your skin crawls higher.

Out of reflex, your legs begin to squeeze shut around his hand while your fingers grip onto the edge of your seat.

You turn toward him, face nuzzling into his shoulder as if to hide. Because you're so smitten by this man and his touch and this feeling he's giving you.

But when you glance up at him, maybe in an attempt to encourage him to finally touch you...you see that his eyes are not on you.

They're on something in the distance.

Focused, and cocky, and somewhat angry.

And just as you're beginning to ask yourself why...you hear footsteps. Growing louder and louder until they stop right behind you.

"Well, well, well."

The new voice is enough to startle you, but it isn't enough to deter Harry's touch. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow. Doesn't offer you a moment of reprieve. No, he keeps pressing his thumb over the dampening spot of your underwear as you slowly turn to see who's approached.

And to your surprise, and slight horror...you find Dylan.

Dylan, your friend of nearly eight years, looming above where you sit in the booth. Hands in his pockets, a smirk pulling at his lips, and his shirt unbuttoned about halfway down his chest.

For a moment, he eyes Harry's wrist as it continues to disappear beneath the hem of your dress.

And then, he looks up. Finds you. Studies you for a moment as you quickly attempt to push Harry out and play coy.

"Hi," you breathe, frowning when your attempts at shoving are unsuccessful. Harry won't let himself be moved away from you, and you want to smack him.

And now you understand the look on his face. Understand why he kept his focus on the man across the room.

Dylan and Harry can't fucking stand each other. You're not sure why, but it's been like this since the moment you got the outrageously idiotic idea to introduce them.