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They had received a large box with delivery this morning.
Dan had not sensed any anxiety from Phil as he stomped his way over the threshold and out in the sun. Usually he would feel queasy about being perceived by neighbors while still clad in worn out pajamas and greasy glasses at 2 PM, but today deemed different. He seemed too excited to even care.
Even though Dan Howell was listed as the receiver of the package - Phil was overly confident that it was for him. Dan figured that it was likely, considering he just so happened to use his card a lot when shopping online, and allowed Phil to be entertained by the anticipation. In Phil-verse he had already been waiting for ages for his new hand-held controllers to arrive.
Dan has placed himself at the kitchen counter when Phil stumbles back inside. Tired, stinging nap-eyes follows along with the uncoordinated movements of his boyfriend as he sways around the counter. The ominous package is hastily put on top of it before Phil decides to attack the tape with his bare fingernails. He slips and one nail breaks as it slides across the cardboard.
”Ouch…”, Phil whines and flicks his hurt finger in the air.
Dan puts his chin to rest on top of his palm, slouching onto the counter as he continues to watch the spectacle with an amused grin.
”First day using hands, kinda nervous”, Dan snickers.
”Shut it.”
Phil abandons his initial idea and proceeds to spin around to take in his surroundings, scanning the kitchen for a worthy tool. It does not take long until he starts rummaging through all of their kitchen drawers - leaving every single one of them open in the process.
”Gonna close them later or…?” Dan muses as he watches the mess unfold in their kitchen.
Phil ignores him. He turns back to the package, now holding a butter knife that he has deemed good enough for the task at hand.
Dan has always admired Phil’s hands. So delicate. So slim. So dainty. Long, thin fingers capable of doing the most amazing things. Petting cute animals, editing funny videos, making delicious midnight toasts… And always so, so eager and skilled when they intertwine with Dan’s, or when they find their way into his curls. Or when they scratch him. Stroke him. Play with him.
Dan feels his cheeks heat up as he watches his boyfriend tilt the knife back and forth in his hand, rolling his wrist, placing and replacing the supporting hand on the box’s surface, trying to understand how to solve the problem in front of him. His eyebrows furrow as he gawks at the package, looking like a small child, wondering how the hell the triangle shape is supposed to fit into the circular hole.
God, is he helpless.
Phil’s hands may be skilled when used for pleasure, but they are profoundly less useful when challenged with the effort of any form of actual labor.
His hands are weak, and his wrists bends way too easily, making movements that require strength and precision very difficult. Hypermobile and unreliable. Too soft and weak for their own best. Ultimately revealing a life well lived as the cherished younger brother, the softer one, the weaker one, the one that compels everyone around him to help and assist him at every given opportunity.
Dan has come to realize that he just picked up the mantle from the kind people before him.
”Ah!”, Phil suddenly yelps.
Phil has tried to cut into the tape with the butter knife, but it is not going well. The knife is too dull and slips over the shiny surface, barely penetrating anything while he searches for an angle to stab the slit of the tape-covered cardboard flaps.
A tingle runs along Dan’s spine, rolling up the back of his neck and all the way up behind his ears. He hunches his back in a shudder as his body relishes in the sensation. So pleasant.
As much as Dan loves to perform every act of service that is humanly possible in every way, shape or form for his boyfriend; he loves it just as much to watch Phil try - and fail - at doing things entirely on his own. There is a certain endearing quality to Phil’s lack of coordination, to the way he always seems to tiptoe right on the brink of a potential disaster, that never fails to make Dan’s insides sing with arousal.
”Easy with the big, bad knife bub….”
Phil grunts softly as he twists the butter knife in a different angle.
”I know what I am doing”, he answers sourly.
Oh. He is bratty about it as well. Dan watches him fumble for a few agonizing minutes before he gives up on the butter knife and lets it drop onto the counter with a ’clang’. Phil immediately starts rummaging the drawers again for his text tool of choice, before he spins around again - holding a comically large kitchen knife.
Oh god.
This is usually where Dan would interfere, pull away the danger from his floppy hands, move him out of the way by his curved hips, roll up his sleeves and open the package for him.
But not today.
The knife clumsily dips into the taped slit of the package and Phil bites down on his tongue, making a face of great concentration as he tries to penetrate it just right. His hands wobble and the knife is now dangerously close to the fingers of his supporting hand. They are bending upwards in an unnatural manner as he strains his wrist in an attempt to leverage the hold of the package. Phil has practically become a slave to his own hands. Over the years, his brain-to-body signals just seem to have gotten sloppy - too slow and lazy to control his limbs properly. Like he has given up on even trying.
Dan is ashamed, but the part of his brain that finds Phil’s helplessness alluring is currently in active overdrive, his insides are thrumming with it - right on its way to implode in a massive outage.
The hand holding the knife wobbles, Phil’s arm is getting exhausted, weak muscles filling up with lactic acid from the effort of lifting its own weight, as he continues to struggle with the exact same task that has kept him occupied for an embarrassing amount of time now.
Dan feels himself getting even more flustered.
The heat of his skin quickly spreads and seeps into his flesh, invading him like an infection. A swarm of trapped butterflies tickles the inside of his belly, shooting sparks of pleasure towards his groin as they try to escape. He feels feverish with it. Dan tries to stop himself, but the dark side of his mind eventually gets the best of him.
In his fantasy Phil just slips.
One miscalculation - one tiny mistake - done and done in a heartbeat. The cold unforgiving steel would slide right into the flesh of his supporting hand.
His smooth, pale skin would part in a deep, red gash, right between the thumb and the index finger, and within seconds red droplets would start to well from the split surface. The leakage would evolve into an alarming spurt, trailing down his arm and dripping down onto the floor as his thumping heart would come to the realization of what he had done. His clumsy, unstable hands had managed to hurt its own host.
In his fantasy, Phil would not scream.
He would gasp and flush bright pink in embarrassment. He would move the hurt hand up to his face, big gawking eyes inspecting the depth of the injury. Then slowly, a sense of real panic would wash over him. Dan would be able to see the whirlwind of thoughts rushing through him as he stares into the pulsating wound, wondering how bad it is, if he would need to go to the A&E, if he would need stitches? And just as that… the hand holding the knife would be totally forgotten.
Phil would squeal as the blade slid into the soft pudge of his stomach.
Dan groans softly and shifts his position from where he is watching. He could stand up and help - but he would not do it. He would sit down, nice and easy, and watch it all play out, savor the moment when the fool realizes that he fucked around - and would finally be around to fucking find out.
”Ow…ow-OW!”, Phil would chant.
He would stare down at the blade shaft being buried deep inside his gut, put there by his very own hand.
Dan bites himself in the lip and places a palm on top of his groin as he imagines Phil’s look of panic and embarrassment as he snaps his head up to meet his dark, lingering eyes from across the kitchen.
That would be the moment when Phil’s pupils dilate.
His whole expression would change. Cheeks would stay flushed, now a darker, more humid pink, and it would slowly creep down his neck as well. Something untold would spark in his eyes. He would return his gaze to the knife, and then back to Dan. Looking at him with those large, glossy pup-eyes. And then he would moan softly. Pathetic.
”Daaan… what the fuck should I do?”, he would whimper.
Dan would just continue to spectate. Silent. Calm.
”Daaaan… it went so deep inside me. Should I pull it out?”
He should definitely not pull it out. That is like the number one rule when you get impaled with sharp objects. But of course Phil would not know about that, and Dan would not tell him about it. He would just watch, and let him figure it out for himself.
Phil would put his shaking hands around the handle, and by accident he would somehow push the knife even further inside. The moan leaving his lips would be laced with filth.
”Ahhh… Dan… what should I dooo?”
It would sound breathy, like he is on the verge of tears, but Dan would not miss the subtle change in his tone. It is impossible for him to not notice when Phil Lester puts on a show, when he starts taunting him with his helplessness. Like a needy, bratty child craving attention.
Phil would make a move like he is trying to remove the knife, but for some reason he would just push it downwards, pulling it along the length of his belly. Parting his flesh, his muscles, his guts into a big leaking wound.
The circle of blood on his shirt would grow larger, expanding out over the white fabric in an alarming deep, dark-red color. The fabric would tear, revealing the now out-stretched wound lined up like a vertical red ravine across his stomach. Phil would gawk down at the injury, a full body shudder crashing through him at the sight of himself being opened up.
”I have really gone and done it now Dan… fuck… it’s so deep…”, he would whisper in astonishment. ”Can’t… can’t take this back now.”
Dan palms himself through his sweats at the thought of Phil enjoying himself. He can feel himself getting sweaty, another embarrassing tingle of pleasure shoots through him and his cock fills out so nicely. He fantasizes about Phil experiencing pleasure from being on the receiving end of the knife. A sharp pointy blade poking into his squishy organs. Slicing its way through his gut-tissue. Not wanting it to end. The blade would slip through him so easily… there would really be no reason to stop.
”Dan… I really can’t do anything with… these”, Phil would moan and lift the hand that is not holding the knife in the air, wriggling his slim fingers.
They are covered in his liquid now. Wet. Dripping.
”They’re just so useless…”
He would pull at the knife some more and groan feverishly. ”Daaan… mmgh…”
A noise from the real world makes Dan snap back to reality. Phil is squealing. A high pitched, angry sound.
”Aaaghh… I can’t do this! I give up!”
The knife is thrown onto the counter. He looks up at Dan and his squeezed frustration-eyes goes wide. His voice drops to a concerned, confused whisper.
”Dan…? How are you feeling?”
Dan feels so good. The embarrassing warmth of his cheeks makes him realize how red he is, and immediately he realizes that he has been caught diddling with his dark shenanigans.
”I uhm…, I feel… okay. Just got a bit dizzy.”
It is a bad lie, and Phil - the king of lies - catches it immediately. The corners of Phil’s lips twist upwards. He almost looks feline. Smug.
”You were watching me.”
Dan swallows audibly. His throat closes up as his body thrums with a fresh load of norepinephrines.
”Don’t try to hide it Danny, I can see your hand on that little cock of yours.”
Dan does not think it is possible but somehow he flushes even harder. His face is quite literally burning. He tries to deflect.
”Little!? What is that supposed to-”
Phil quickly shushes him.
”Shhh-sh-sh-sh… no. Dan. No. I know you. I know that you enjoy it”, he muses and wiggles his hips a little, ”- watching me, that is.”
He picks up the knife again, tilting it sloppily back and forth in his hand. It looks like his wrist is made out of jelly and Dan shudders at the thought of it.
”Ah… you were imagining things involving this weren’t you?”
Dan bites his lip and nods carefully. It does not matter if Phil means the knife or his incapable wrist. It does not matter at all. It is whatever. There is no need to deny anything in front of Phil when he is acting up like this, putting on a show just for Dan. It would just rile him up the wrong way, and make him unnecessary whiny and annoying.
”Was thinking about that knife slicing you”, Dan blurts.
Phil's eyes narrow for a split second, but then his expression turns intrigued.
”Oh… Dan. You were thinking about it again weren’t you. About marring my virgin snow?”
He flicks the knife towards his pale blue-veined wrist and the sight of it causes a large gulp of air to lodge in Dan’s throat.
”Really? You were thinking about me doing it to myself?”, Phil muses.
Dan mewls. His hand continues to palm his crotch, more urgently now. He subconsciously allows his hips to grind with the movement. A goddamn tease is what he is. Phil notices and his nose scrunches up.
”You’re sick in the head.”
The vulnerable sound that leaves Dan’s throat is embarrassing. He cringes at himself.
”Sorry… I’m sorry. Phil… m’ so sorry. It’s just… it’s… you’re just so fucking adorable.”
Phil’s eyes narrow again. A stupidly wide grin on his face.
”Adorable?”
Dan throws his head back and lets it loll to the side, revealing his jugular. His respiratory system is starting to struggle, making him slightly winded.
”Yeah, adorable… when you… try- try to do shit.”
Phil wets his lips, and moves towards Dan.
”That’s what your dirty little brain is fantasizing about?”, he muses and pulls one finger along the flat side of the blade. ”Philly struggling? Philly struggling with a sharp tool and cutting his own fingers off?”
Dan groans as the whole goddamn scene plays out in his head.
”You would need to interfere… put a band-aid on it. Kiss it better.”
”Yeah… don’t know about that buddy”, Dan chuckles weakly. He sucks his chapped bottom lip into his mouth and nibbles on it before he releases it. ”-if -if a band-aid would be enough.”
Phil is standing right in front of him now. Without hesitation he raises the blade to one of his fingers and slices it. It is not too deep, but certainly worse than what a papercut would be.
Dan thinks he is about to come on the spot.
He pushes his thighs together, his hand pressing down hard on his twitching cock as another strangled mewl leaves his throat.
”Mmgh… what the fuck Phil.”
Slowly Phil raises his free hand to Dan’s cheek, stroking the leaking finger against his skin. It moves with surprising delicacy down his face until it comes to a rest on his quivering bottom lip.
”Show me. Where you would kiss it better.”
Dan complies eagerly and sucks the injured tip into his mouth.
Phil hisses.
They lock eyes as Dan curiously swirls his wet tongue around the leaking slit. It tastes like iron and Dan moans at the taste of it.
The trapped butterflies in his stomach have developed sharp claws and fangs. It is starting to hurt as they repeatedly try to burrow their way through the contracting walls of his gut. Dan grinds himself into his own hand with more force in an attempt to soothe himself and whines pathetically.
”Grinding yourself like a dog. You’re such a wanker”, Phil grins down at him. He sounds so bratty as he continues: ”Like quite literally, please just do it already. Wank yourself off properly.”
Dan’s hand quickly slides into his sweatpants and the relief when he grabs hold of himself is immediate. His skin is clammy and hot to the touch. He breathes out heavily through his nose and fights to keep his eyes open as another great pulse of pleasure surges through him. He sucks down hard on Phil’s finger and feels as the iron-filled liquid continues to seep into the tastebuds of his tongue and down his throat.
”Good boy…”, Phil muses.
Phil momentarily disappears as his vision is flooded with black blobs. His toes and fingers curl impossibly tight. The butterflies are raving. Breaking free. It feels only like a few seconds pass before Dan’s body convulses in a violent shudder and he spills warm and hot all over himself with a deep sigh.
When his vision returns to his fluttering eyes; Phil appears above him looking like a literal ray of sunshine - a saint. The light from the nearby window casts a glow around him. Almost like a halo. He has been sent here to save him. To help him. And he looks so beautiful with his unruly bed-hair and big kind eyes that Dan feels like crying. Phil. So precious. So innocent. Untainted.
Maybe Dan has got it all wrong.
Maybe he is the one that needs help.
Phil slowly pulls the finger from his mouth and messily wipes off the mixture of spit and some newly formed droplets of blood onto his own shirt.
”So…”, Phil rocks on his feet, ”- can you help me open the package now?”