#thread:dillon

Dillon baked when stressed, but sometimes, he was also known to mess with his hair. And so, when he showed up (later than agreed) to Club Garden, his hair was brunette with dark blond highlights, drastically different from the platinum blonde it had been when Mitch left his apartment a few hours previous. He was also dressed up for a night of dancing, nothing out of the ordinary, but certainly more skin than his casual clothes. His oversized black shirt had the top few buttons left open to show off a few long necklaces draped around his pale neck, and his jeans were so tight they almost looked painted on.

He spotted Mitch at the bar, ordering drinks, and casually slid up beside him, ordering a shot of his own. “Hey,” he breathed. His eyes scanned the area around them, finally landing on Stacey chatting with a girl a few yards away, before they were back on his best friend. “She looks hot,” the lankier of the two stated simply, honestly. Sure, he was gay, but he could still appreciate a good-looking woman when he saw one. He wouldn’t try to pretend that the girl was some kind of troll. It was easier than commenting on how good Mitch looked, at least. “How’s it going?”

open to: ‘straight’ m, 25ish closed, has been fulfulled thanks

plot: This. Your muse is straight, they’ve been best friends since school. Dillon is troubled, very promiscuous and moody, but really a very sweet bean. Please give him someone strong, patient, reassuring. I promise he’s fun. This can be the start of their first ‘incident’, or just Dillon being flirty, call is yours.//

Dillon let out a loud laugh, cheeks flushed deep and hair falling in his face as he shook his head slowly back and forth. “I don’t think you need any more of that,” he teased fondly, long fingers reaching out to nab the joint back out of their fingers before they could take another hit. “And just so you know, babe,” came a soft, playful purr, “I’ve never had any complaints. I'm sure you'd like to know, though, wouldn't you?”

@virtuesuncounted

The year was 2003, and Dillon was 8 years old. It was a rainy Saturday, and he and his mother were over at the Astor home, like most days since he was five. He, Mitchell, and his mother were in the kitchen while she cooked and they played Operation on the floor, occasionally getting up to lend a hand when it was asked for and chatting with her about their weeks at school. There was always a calm energy around his mother, so the boys tended to stay wherever she was in the home, while the other Astor children avoided the nanny and her tiny son as best as they could.

Mrs. Astor came home and immediately started fussing at Mitchell about being on the floor in his nice clothes, then at Dillon’s mother for allowing him to be on the floor in his nice clothes, and things quickly got heated from there. Things had been getting more and more tense between Mrs. Barnes and the Astors as of late, and Dillon’s mother had explained to him as gently as she could that it might mean she needed to find a new job.

“I know, I know, I’m going home, Charlie,” he offered the officer in greeting, trying not to wince as he wiped pointlessly at his face again. “Are you stalking me or something?”

@itsyouxxatme​