Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a weird way, I'm sort of grateful to Nick's older brother David for the way he's been behaving tonight. This wedding has been a firehose of saccharine to the face, and it's a little hard to take. When Charlie threw a bouquet and his friend Elle caught it, and her partner Tao got down on one knee and proposed in an obviously-planned speech while Charlie and Nick and all their friends cheered them on, I genuinely considered throwing up in a flower urn. Knowing that this roadshow of sickening long-term-monogamous high-school-sweetheart picket-fence-queer true love is at least a little bit marred by a drunken and problematic relative makes me feel a bit better about the startling lack of any of the above in my own life. It's like they've hired a mildly homophobic party clown for my personal amusement. Entertainment for the younger generation.

He started out by trying to hit on my (married) cousin Clara. Clara, bless her, couldn’t take her eyes off his douchebro navy-Ralph-Lauren-shirt-clad torso. But gloriously, her husband delivered her a screaming toddler at just the wrong – right? – moment, and David had to skulk off. It was beautiful.

He’s gotten progressively drunker, moving on to being spectacularly shot down in turn by Charlie's (ace) band manager Angel, Aled's (also kinda ace) friend Frances, Nick's friend Imogen, her girlfriend Sahar, the both of them at the same time when he found out they were dating, and now – and this is peak – I’m pretty sure he's just tried to hit on Tara. I missed the start, but I heard her saying "Fuck right off, David," and turned around to find Darcy casually putting him in an apparently painful armlock, and Tara launching half a glass of champagne into his face. It's so good. I literally have to shove my fancy linen napkin in my mouth to smother the laughter. I'm kicking myself for not pulling out my phone in time.

Darcy lets him go and slaps him on the back unnecessarily hard. "Daaaavid!" they say, in a voice that might be called jovial if you weren't paying attention. "Time to have a little break outside, huh?"

David is obviously slurrily gearing up for some five-beers-deep toxic masculinity at being so firmly put in his place by people a head shorter than him, who he no doubt thinks of as girls. As much as I'm enjoying the show, I think it would probably be better to head him off at the pass, given how much nervy bridezilla energy Nick has been keeping a lid on tonight.

I unfold myself off the table I've been sitting on to my full 6'2", a good couple of inches over David, walk over and drape my arm over his shoulder like we're best mates, casually steering his body away from Tara and Darcy. I hope his lizard brain won’t notice that I’m a twig compared to his signature Nelson Kelvinator shoulders. "Daaaaaviiiid!" I say, wobbling theatrically and sloshing my glass a bit. "Come out and help me put a dent in this vape.”

He’s clearly still angry-humiliated and wanting to fight, but I’ve picked up fluent macho dudebro from my stint playing footy at school. I lift my drink, hand him a random mostly-full Corona someone’s left on a table, let out a complete non-sequiteur “Eyyyyyyyyy!” and like a good little puppy salivating at a rung bell, he shouts “Eyyyyyy!” in return, grabs the beer, clinks drinks and lets me stagger him out to the foyer. I turn to Darcy, who makes a face. Tara mouths You’re a saint, and I toast her.

I push him towards one of those uncomfortable-looking leather sofas with eleven million buttons. He collapses on it. I sit on the arm with my feet on the seat and take the opportunity to kick off the horrible razor-wire dress shoes Mum forced me into. I stop pretending to be quite as drunk as he is. He doesn't notice.

“Why is every woman here a fucking lesbian!” David announces to a pot plant. The pot plant somehow manages not to wilt immediately under the blast of unfiltered homophobia.

“I don’t know, David, maybe because you’re at a big gay wedding? And I’m pretty sure Clara is straight, if her husband is anything to go by.”

“That’s probably not even conclusive, here,” David mutters resentfully, and I’m assuming, transphobically. What a fucking peach this guy is. Charlie doesn’t know it, but he really owes me one. He turns to me. “Nice socks. ‘S Olly, right? Charlie’s brother?”

I admire my novelty avocado socks, spoiled only by the marks where the stupid cheap Shoe Zone oxfords have cut my heels to ribbons. “Yup.”

I pull out my vape, take a puff, and hand it to David. He looks at it like I’ve handed him the remote control for Elon Musk’s underwater submersible. Fuck me, how old is he?

“The button’s on the side here. Put it in your mouth, squeeze and suck,” I say. I can’t help but make it sound suggestive. Whoops. He tenses up. Fucking Pavlovian douchebro shit. “No homo,” I add, keeping a perfectly straight face.

He laughs, surprisingly. “T’d have to be about the only thing tonight that fucking wasn’t,” he slurs.

“You really don’t gel with the queers, do you, Nelson? What is your actual problem with the gays?” I ask, without any heat. I’m genuinely curious. His face twists up and his eyes skid across the carpet and he picks at the label on the beer.

“I just can’t take all this soppy gay love story shit,” he says. “It just makes me wanna throw up.”

I laugh. “Oh my fucking god, right? RIGHT? The bouquet toss proposal? I nearly tossed that fucking mushroom risotto.”

He starts laughing like I’ve pulled out some sort of cork. “Fucking right? And the pair of them feeding each other cake?” He mimes retching.

“Oh my god it was the WORST! And the speeches?”

“The poem?” David gasps. We're both in minor hysterics.

“And fucking Nick singing Alicia Keys to Charlie? I wanted to crawl under the fucking table and die of sheer fucking diabetes.” I’m fucking dying laughing actually. I’ve slid off the arm of the couch onto the seat.

Inside the main hall, I hear the DJ announce that it's time for the first dance.

“Wild fucking unicorns pissing glitter could not drag me in there right now,” I say, and we’re both off in fresh fits of laughter.

“Amen,” he says eventually, wiping his eyes. He has a crack at my vape and starts coughing. “Jesus fucking christ, this thing tastes like a twelve-year-old girl’s bedroom,” he chokes.

“Hey!” I say, mock-offended. “That’s premium mojito vape juice.”

“Whatever. It’s gay as absolute shit.”

“I think you’ll find it’s bisexual as absolute shit, Nelson,” I say, not clarifying further.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” David jams the Corona bottle into the bridge of his nose, spilling a little of it. The tension is back up. Our moment is over. “Not fucking you too! F’fuck's sake! If you're gonna be gay, at least admit you're gay. Bisexual? Whadda load of absssolute bullshit.”

“See, you say that, David…” I reply casually, leaning over to swipe back my vape and taking a puff, “...like a man who has never watched a pair of beautiful titties bounce up and down while a girl rides your dick. Are you sure you're straight?”

I'm rewarded with the sight of David spilling half his beer all over his overpriced designer shirt. Fuck, am I flirting with him? Am I hate-flirting with a homophobic douchecanoe? I can't deny he's easy on the eyes – if anything, he might even be objectively hotter than Nick ‘Olly’s Bisexual Awakening’ Nelson. He loses a lot of points for having a personality as endearing as a Branston pickle milkshake, but there's no denying his conservative values would look reallll pretty squirming under me. I'm not gonna lie, giving David Nelson a really confused boner seems like a step forward for great justice right now.

“Fuck! What? Fuck!” he explains eloquently, trying to brush the premium Mexican beverage off himself. I'm not gonna lie, he looks pretty good soaked. He's leaner than Nick. Maybe a swimmer? Rowing maybe? Or, knowing him, crossfit, or Krav Maga, or some other testosterone-soaked one-upping fitness fad. Fuck. What am I doing? I’m gonna get myself decked.

“The thing about guys like you,” my mouth carries on without me, “Is that you have all these little rules in your head about how things are supposed to be and what you’re supposed to do, and you all care so much about them. You're all busy trying to get the right degree and the right job and the right business card and the right shower gel, and you all seem to think if you find the magic combination, gameshow klaxons will go off and you’ll be showered with cash and single malt and adoring women. You dudebros all police each other's behaviour like the straightest circle jerk around – you literally spend all your time thinking about what other men think of you.

“But here's the thing, David – my skinny bisexual tattooed ass took home a girl last night who looked just like Jennifer Lawrence, and do you know how that happened? We met in the kitchen at a party, she offered me a strawberry daiquiri, I said yes, we chatted about the ecological impact of fast fashion for a while, and then I told her her boyfriend was hot and asked if they'd be interested in her riding his face while I sucked his dick.”

David looks like a stunned mullet. I'm getting the sense that pure, sweet, vanilla ray of sunshine Nick Nelson has never really been the right person to explain bisexuality to David in terms he can understand. I lean in a couple of conspiratorial inches.

“He looked like Orlando Bloom and John Leguizamo had a baby. And every time I ran my tongue up his dick,” I smile, gratuitously clicking the ball of my tongue bar in the gap of my front teeth, “He’d moan and twitch under her, and she'd twitch too, and those titties would jiggle again. I put them in my mouth later, while I was riding his cock. They tasted so good, David.”

Holy shit, it's working. I didn't really think it would work. I was really just leaning into the tipsy and slightly vicious urge to fuck with the family homophobe. But his eyes have glazed over like a Christmas ham and he's frozen so still a baby deer could have walked over and shat on him.

I laugh suddenly. “But you know, David, you're straight! I'll probably never be able to explain it to you.” I skate a glance over his crotch. It’s got a very noticeable tent in it. Chalk one up for great justice, Oliver Spring. I jump up off the couch and down the last of my G&T and look him straight in the eyes. “I'm gonna take a leak. Don't hit on any more lesbians while I'm gone.”

I let the eye contact hold a full second longer, then turn and saunter off in the direction of the posh foyer toilets, still in my socks, swinging my hips just a bit, willing myself not to look back. I push a door open, let it close without locking it, lean against the wall, and start counting. One hundred and one. One hundred and two.

I make it to one hundred and eighteen before the door opens and he's on me.

He's got all the technique and style of… well, of a drunk closet case, really, but fuck me if he isn't making up for any lack of precision in pure desperation. He's got my face in both hands and he's crushing his lips on mine and trying to cram his tongue anywhere it'll fit. He's kissing me so hard I might actually end up with bruises from the fancy tiled wall against the back of my head. I reach over and fumble the door lock closed – thank fuck, it's a single-loo gender-neutral non-skanky miniature bathroom, bless the queer agenda – and then he just hooks me under my thighs and lifts me up like I'm a five-foot-nothing cheerleader and sits me on the sink, which is, unfff, so hot. I wrap my legs around his waist and haul his crotch into mine.

Holy shit, what is going on in those pants? I reach down with one hand to explore, and Jesus Fucking H Christ, David’s French heritage is apparently an objectively provable fact, because he is packing a goddamn full-size baguette.

He full-on shudders when I run my hand down the underside of his dick through his pants. Like, proper eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head shit. Ohhh, you are so bisexual, David Nelson.

Jesus, he’s pretty drunk. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. But it’s not like every single millennial doesn’t hook up drunk. Besides, nobody this closeted would ever make it this far without alcohol to lubricate the big rainbow slip’n’slide, and it’s not like I’m not plenty tipsy myself right now. Why should I be the responsible one? I’m not forcing him into anything. In fact, he is literally forcing himself into me right now, full-on grinding into my crotch.

I've got a boner so hard you could split logs on it. The stupid zipper on the stupid suit trousers is in exactly the wrong fucking spot, and it hurts, so I reach down and undo it, and the button for good measure. David readjusts his grinding with a yelp, and I run my fingers into the hair at the back of his head and grab on. I let my tongue slide in between his lips as my other hand finds that sensitive spot just under the head of his dick and I rub my thumb on it through his pants. Fuck, this is so hot. Why is smashing a douchey homophobic sack of shit so hot? I’m gonna have so much to talk to my therapist about.

His cock feels like it must be at least as big around as a coke can. There's nothing quite like a really massive cock to make me want to suck dick. Some part of me is just desperate to know if I can fit the whole thing in my mouth, no matter how impractical. I imagine this is how people feel trying not to eat a Tide pod. It just feels like it would be so good to eat.

I'm just thinking about maybe unzipping David's pants, when it occurs to me: maybe I have a duty here. I'm fucking a homophobic closet case. The campsite rule applies: leave things better than you found them. I don't know whether this is David's first experience with a man, or if he's been skulking around beats or bathhouses cheating on his girlfriends, but maybe instead of me giving him a nice blowjob and him walking out, logic-lady-meme-ing himself about how he's still hetero because he only gives the D instead of getting it – maybe instead, I can put a little crack in that comphet crust.

So instead of going for his belt, I pull my boxer briefs down and let my dick spring up free. He's still grinding on me, and the weave of his suit trousers feels pretty fucking good crushed up against my shaft by his ridiculous cock. Maybe I’m not going to blow you just yet, David, but let's see what other kinds of magic I can work with my mouth.

I pull his head back, breaking our kiss. “Do you know what I'd really like, David? I'd really like to watch you fuck a beautiful woman with my dick in your mouth.” He freezes up. I don't know if it's the good kind or the bad kind, but I guess, in for a penny? I let my fingers loosen and run them through the back of his hair.

“I'd like to tweak her nipples and hear her moaning while this massive dick of yours–” I stroke it illustratively, “–fills her up,” I continue, glossing boldly over the logistics. “All while you put your lips around my cock and make me scream and beg you not to stop.” I let my voice go ragged on the ‘beg’ part. He moans in a way I can only describe as ‘strangled’ and grinds his cock into mine again. Good kind, apparently.

“I'd be weak at the knees for you, David. I want to lie back while you make me helpless with pleasure. I want to melt for you. All while you make her scream at the same time. I bet you could make us both come at the same time, me in your mouth while you blow your load inside her.”

I let my eyes drop down to my crotch, and his follow. This was definitely your idea, David, I think at him. For good measure, I arch my back and moan, thrusting up my hips so my very pretty cock moves up against him. I put my hands back and up against the bathroom mirror, palms bent almost completely backwards, and let my eyes close and my head roll back, making dirty little noises. I feel him run a thumb over the avocado tattoo on my hip, and roll my body up to meet it.

Come on, David, take the bait. Join me in the pleasant waters of raging bisexuality. The water’s lovely. You’ve just got to take that first little…

He drops down and fits most of my dick in his mouth in one go. Holy fucking shit. I make a noise that's only technically not a scream because I manage to cram my fist over my mouth. His mouth is hot and wet and I’m elated. Holy shit, it worked. I manifested it. I have found The Secret. I mentally high-five the imaginary woman with the magnificent imaginary titties. She knows what’s up.

“Oh my god, David, that’s so good, you feel so good,” I moan. I don’t have to dial it up. The guy’s a natural. Or has he done this before? Maybe he just knows what he likes. He’s got my dick around the base and he’s going at it like a shake-weight, running my length up and down his tongue. I really want to put my hands in his hair, but I don’t want to freak him out. I decide it can’t hurt to make good on my promise from my fantasy threesome, and beg a little.

“Oh, my god, David, please don’t stop. Please. It’s so good. You’re so good.” I throw in a few moans and gasps for good measure. They come pretty easily. “David, you’re so strong, so goddamn hot, I want you so much, please don’t stop, I’m yours, I’m all yours,” I add. God, I thought I was laying it on a bit thick but he all but clenches up, I can literally feel him moaning around my cock. Okay. The boy likes praise. “Oh god, that’s so amazing, you’re so amazing, David, I’m all yours, I’ll do anything for you, anything, just please don’t stop.” OK, I kind of love it too.

I’m squirming like a fish on a hook, when all of a sudden, he goes from fucking his mouth onto my dick to a tight vacuum of his lips around my cock, and holy fucking shit I’m actually going to lose it.

“David, oh, fuck, stop, I’m going to come, you’re going to make me come, oh my fucking god–”

I can see him freaking out, he panics and starts to pull his mouth off my dick, but it’s too late, and I’m coming so hard, I can feel myself convulsing and groaning as wave after wave of pleasure strangles me. He’s still got my dick in his hand, and I manage to look down and see he’s looking up at me, with a streak of my come on his face, which is so fucking hot that it sends me into another convulsion.

After a minute or so I manage to haul my wits off the deckchair on a floating cloud they’ve taken a short vacation to. This is a delicate moment. The moment where a homophobe is covered in another man’s come. My wits are reluctant to leave their piña colada.

“Oh my god, get up here,” I settle for. I pull him down towards me, lick the streak of my come off his cheek, and kiss him hard. “You are so fucking hot,” I add, to ease the moment, and no word of a lie. He’s got his right hand out to one side like it’s radioactive, so I pull out some paper towels and do a C-grade job of cleaning us up while I snog him. My hand drifts back to the Pain Au Nelson. He’s still hard as a rock and I’m glad, because it’s keeping the blood out of his brain.

I twiddle my fingers on his belt buckle. “Would you like me to…”

He whimpers.

“Uhh-uhh,” I click my tongue. “Verbal response please.”

“...yes,” so quietly I could almost mistake it for another whimper.

I smile like the Cheshire cat. He whimpers again. Flattery will get you everywhere, David. I do have a pretty smile.

I manage to get his belt undone – it’s one of those stupid designer buckles that doubles as a puzzle box – then a moment later, I’ve finally unlocked my prize: that ever-so-hard, ever-so-soft monster in my hands. There’s no way I could get one hand around the whole thing. What am I going to do with you, my beauty? I think to myself as I stroke it with both hands, letting my fingers explore it. I’m getting hard again already just thinking about it. I so badly want to put it in my mouth, but there’s no way I’m going to let David just zip up and walk out of here. And that means getting messy.

I wrap my legs around David’s waist and pull him hard against me. My boxers have sprung back up, so I haul them back down under my balls again, then I grab David’s dick and crush it against mine. My old chap is back up at full mast again. I pull David in for another kiss by the back of the neck, and he’s on me like he’s drowning and I’m a scuba tank.

I swap hands on David’s dick and blindly, I feel around the back of the sink until I find the soap dispenser. I manage to get a couple of pumps into one hand, quietly hoping this venue shells out for something not too astringent, and squinch it over my palm. I carefully slide my hand back in between us, then smear my newly-slick hand all over and around both of our cocks. I’m rewarded by David shuddering like a snapped ruler against me, and making the most beautiful little strangled noise. Damn, I’m good.

Like he can’t control himself, he starts moaning and fucking his cock in between my hand and my dick, hard and fast. I have to add a second hand just to keep him there, which means I’m basically staying up with nothing but my legs around his hips, his lips against mine, and sheer core strength, braced against the mirror. It’s hot. It’s really hot. I’ve got my thumbs around my dick and he’s fucking the underside of my cock and it’s hot and slick and fast and amazing. He hooks his arms under my shoulders and buries his face in the crook of my neck, and he’s moaning right into my skin. God, I want to come again already. I can feel it building up. I want to watch him come. Maybe I can help that along a little.

“That feels so fucking good, David, your cock is so big, you’re so ridiculously fit, your dick feels amazing,” I moan into his hair. “You’re going to make me come again and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He gasps and speeds up, his cockhead catching on mine with every stroke. I’m so close.

“I can’t wait until we’re doing this with a girl in between us, David. I wanna feel your dick against mine inside her,” He makes a noise like I punched him in the stomach and his thrusts get huge and stuttery and he’s coming all over us and his head rolls back so I’ve got a perfect view of his O-face, mouth open and eyes gone, and oh boy that is a very nice view and suddenly I’m coming again. I pull him into me harder with my legs and my back is arching so hard I almost get cramp and I think I might be screaming but it’s hard to tell and his full weight is on me and his fingers are digging into the back of my shoulders and now his head is buried in my neck again and I think maybe it’s him screaming but it’s hard to tell because the whole world is basically whited out right now and

Hooooooooooooooooboy.

I feel like it might be a full minute before I unpeel myself from the ceiling. David’s still got his full weight on me, panting and shaking against my shoulder like he’s run a marathon.

“Holy fucking shit,” I soliloquize. I can’t even move. I gently let go of our dicks and try to prop myself up on one elbow but it’s twitching and it won’t take my weight. I shiver all the way from my ears to my toes. That’s got to be, what, somewhere in my top ten orgasms? Top twenty for sure.

A second or two later, I feel the panic setting into David. Literally. Starting somewhere around his shoulders and travelling down through his core, he tenses up, dropping his arms from under my shoulders like I’m red hot. I watch the terror blossom across his face as he looks down at the sticky, soapy disaster that is both our shirts and our softening junk.

I let my legs drop from around him and manage to sit up, pulling a fistful of paper towels out of the dispenser, handing David a few and using the rest to mop the worst of it off my belly, then I hop down off the bench and unceremoniously rinse my hands and dick off in the sink. The soap wasn’t too astringent after all. I cede the sink to David, and take off my come-stained dress shirt, leaving me in just my white T-shirt.

“Please tell me you’ve got something on under that,” I say, knowing perfectly well he doesn’t. The come and soap are shining on that stupid Ralph Lauren 1000-thread-count navy twill as brightly as the douchey contrast pearl buttons.

He shakes his head, frantically trying to get the stains off, and managing only to get himself covered in little shreds of paper. I take pity on him.

“Shirt. Off.”

He looks at me in terror.

“Jesus, we’re not going again, Casanova. Give me your shirt.”

He looks down at the stained mess, clearly weighing his options. “OK, fine,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since that little whimpered ‘yes’. It’s the second thing he’s said since we came in here. He hastily undoes the buttons and pulls off the shirt, handing it to me. Out of courtesy to his gay panic, I manage to refrain from caressing every inch of his torso gently with my eyeballs. I bunch up the stained part of the shirt and run it under the cold tap. Apparently the soap was just the right amount of astringent, as it’s now just got a huge wet swath instead of any embarrassing ‘just fucked your brother in the bathroom’ stains. It’s probably got less beer and champagne on it, too. I push the button on the hand dryer and turn to hand the shirt back to David.

“Hold that under there.” He does as he’s told. I haul myself back up on the sink and pretend to be busy on my phone for a bit.

He’s managed to mostly dry his shirt and is getting it back on. I am trying hard to make this less awkward, but my powers of irrepressible adorability have never met an adversary this dense. His eyes, which have been avoiding me, suddenly flick up to the door, and I literally watch the realisation dawning in his little brain that he is still stuck at his brother’s wedding and can’t leave until after the stupid sparkler exit at 11pm.

“Yeah… unless you can fit through an air-conditioning vent, we’re stuck here listening to Come On Eileen and Uptown Funk for at least another four to six drinks.” I see a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Eyyyy! Ladddd! That’s it! Now you’re coming back!” I slap him bro-ily on the shoulder and jump down. The ‘Eyyy’ doesn’t work quite the Pavlovian magic it did before he had my dick in his mouth, but he’s heading back to normal a little bit.

I don’t even bother to tell him not to mention this to Nick or Charlie. My bet is he wouldn’t mention this if it were the secret code that would save the earth from destruction by an impending asteroid.

“Come on, let’s get back out there and see if we can find the sparklers and set something on fire.”

Chapter Text

Back out in the wedding party, David makes a beeline for the bar, and I decide it’s probably safe enough to get out on the dance floor. I nearly make it out there before Mum collars me, to grill me about my absent dress shirt. She’s pretty sozzled, which is lucky, because she doesn’t notice I’ve lost the shoes, too. I tell her someone spilled beer on my shirt. She tries to go and find some salt for me to put on it, but I remind her that’s for red wine. She’s winding herself up for a full meltdown, so I derail her by asking her how the caterers are going with packing up cake for guests to take home. I feel a bit bad as she buzzes off to make some poor minimum-wage sod’s life hell, but I’m not above scooping a few brownie points by chasing after her with the ridiculous oatmeal pashmina she insisted on wearing, even though it literally matches nothing else in her outfit, and which she keeps leaving everywhere. By the time I escape her clutches, I’ve lost track of David completely.

Oh well. I’m sure if he’s going to go back into party clown mode, I’ll hear the screaming. I take myself and my avocado socks onto the dance floor and join Nick and Charlie wobbling around to a Vampire Weekend song.

The rest of the wedding is pretty fun. Michael and Tao end up in a dance-off and it is spectacular. We make it through the sparkler exit. The DJ is still playing. Mercifully, thanks to Charlie’s decent taste in music, we haven’t been subjected to either Come On Eileen or Uptown Funk. But the evening is winding down, and I’m sipping my fifth capirinha and chatting to my cousin Rosanna – or, more accurately, listening to her info-dumping about Steven Universe, which is quite soothing, actually, like watching a live YouTube fan theory video – when Sarah Nelson bustles over to me with the unmistakable look of someone who Has A Task For You.

“Olly, darling, I hate to ask you this, but do you think you could possibly see David home? He’s had rather a bit to drink,” asks Sarah Nelson. “I’d ask Michael to do it, only he’s the designated driver for everyone at our hotel, and we’re heading north, and your dad said you’re over Pimlico way? Your mum’s a bit under the weather too, and Stéphane’s… well, I think he and Martine have headed off already.” She does a masterful job of not sounding like she’s setting him on fire with her mind.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but… well, I’d rather not put one of the girls in charge of him.”

“Oh – I – er…”

“It really would be a big favour, darling, I understand it’s a lot to ask,” she says in that way that really leaves zero room for refusal. Damn Sarah Nelson and her inexorable personality. Damn all the Nelsons.

I desperately try to think of an excuse, but my usual lying-to-parents technique – slight variation on the truth – is rendered completely useless when the raw material is ‘Sorry, Sarah, he blew me and then we came all over each other in the toilets, and it might be a little awkward’. The silence goes on a beat too long, and I give up and smile the smile of defeat.

“I’ll go and find my shoes.”

She beams.

“He’s over near the cake station, darling, we’ll see you in a minute.”

“Probably wise of her not to ask me,” says Tori, materialising behind me. “If he gives you any trouble, please remind him that my offer to end him stands, and that the older I get, the more ways I think of to dispose of a body. Do you need some more plasters for those shoes?”

Bloody older sister magic.

With my feet crammed back into the stupid shoes and my come-stained shirt wadded up in my pocket, I wave goodbye to three people at random and head over to Sarah to collect my dubious prize. She’s in full Mum mode, although frankly, she does it much better than Mum does.

“Now, Olly, darling, I’ve had a word to your parents and obviously you’re a grown man and it’s up to you, but we’ve all had a bit to drink and we’d all be much happier knowing you weren’t out having to traipse all over London, and Tori mentioned your shoes are giving you trouble, so if it doesn’t interfere too much with your plans, we thought maybe you could stay in David’s spare room at his apartment tonight. It should be all set up. I even brought over some nice Egyptian cotton sheets last time I was there.”

God, Sarah Nelson’s a master. She’s just strong-armed me into babysitting her son overnight and made me feel like she’s doing me a favour. Mum and her endless pass-agg fussing aren’t even in Sarah’s league.

“David, darling, what’s your passcode?” She’s got his phone out.

“Muuuuuuuuuuum, m’not telling you my passcode,” he slurs.

“Passcode, David.” Heads of state couldn’t argue with that voice. He slurs it out and Sarah, bless her, writes it on a bit of paper and hands it to me.

“Call yourself an Uber home with that now, and again tomorrow morning. Here’s my spare fob for his apartment.” She hands me another entirely unmerited badge of trust.

“David,” Sarah says in that special resonant, clear voice, reserved for hard-of-hearing people, ordering take-away over a bad line, and those who’ve consumed their own body weight in alcohol. “David, darling, Olly’s going to take you home now, because you’ve had a bit to drink and you’re a bit wobbly.”

“What! M’not going home with a dude!” David slurs, arcing up from his collapsed borderline-comatose position. “Thasss gay. M’not gay.”

“Nobody’s saying you are, darling, Olly’s just going to make sure you get home safe and then he’ll take the spare room. You should be very grateful, he’s probably got much better things to do than babysit you.” She’s not wrong; it’s Saturday night and it’s barely gone 12:30am, and I’ve got a lovely fat spliff tucked into my pocket. Sarah rubs the back of David’s shoulder in a motherly way that I can literally see short-circuiting his tantrum. I’ll wager she’s done that shoulder-rub thousands of times, probably since he was an actual toddler, instead of just a man-sized one.

I call an Uber to David’s home address and Sarah goes off to find Michael to help me get him outside. I lean in close to David’s ear.

“Listen here, Nelson, I’m doing your mum a massive favour here, and you’ve well and truly redeemed your one-time-only Spring shag coupon, so absolutely nothing is going to happen between me and your paralytically drunk arse. I’m just shipping you home, kicking you into bed, making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit and helping myself to anything I feel like in your fridge. Are we clear?”

He makes a noise that suggests he at least heard me. I take a deep breath and get myself round David’s side and put my head under his arm to haul him up. Predictably, despite my little pep talk, he starts freaking out at me touching him. I get one hand round his wrist in the least sexy way possible and a fistful of his jacket in the other, and hiss into his ear.

“Get your shit together, Nelson. The lady doth protest too much. You’re going to blow your own cover if you can’t play nice. Put a sock in it and stop being a pain in my arse.”

I feel the freeze of terror run through him again, and I feel a little bit sorry for him. Michael turns up, and between us, we manage to get him outside and into the Uber.

We only make it about fifty metres down the road before David starts turning that very particular shade of green, and I tell the driver to pull over. I lean over and get his door open, just in time for him to heave his guts into a stormwater grate. The driver and I lock eyes; thank fuck for my cheeky vom sixth sense.

We’ve been driving for a couple of minutes when my tipsy genius brain has a great idea.

“Is it okay if I add a stop?” I ask the driver. He replies in the affirmative, and I pull out David’s phone and direct us to this thing Ava was talking about: a meat-free burger drive-thru pop-up in an old car wash in Shoreditch. It’s out of our way, but who cares? I didn’t get much other than cake at the wedding, and I know David’s got an empty stomach that could use some grease.

When we pull up, the place is heaving. It’s covered in fake vines and plastic roses. The ‘car’ in front of us is three people on rollerblades. David’s fallen asleep with his head mashed up against the door, but luckily I’m on the driver’s side. Someone in a pink frilly apron literally comes over to the window to take our order.

“Can I get… uh… two Mother Flippers, two Gretas, a McBluffin, two things of chips, a water, a hibiscus and lime iced tea and… what do you want?” I ask the Uber driver. He looks around at me, surprised. “Really?”

“It’s on his dime,” I gesture at David’s comatose form. “Get whatever you like.” The guy laughs and adds on another Mother Flipper and chips. I tap David’s phone and we collect our loot. Back out on the road, I prod David awake.

He wakes up like I’ve set off an air horn in his ear. I wait until he’s stopped flailing like a muppet and hand him a carton of chips and a burger. “Eat this, drunkface.”

“Oh my god, fucking chips,” he slurs, staring at them like someone who has just been introduced to the concept of deep-frying a potato for the first time. “I fucking love you.” He starts cramming them in his mouth, the picture of drunken bliss.

I can’t help myself. I snigger. It takes a minute for what he’s just said to percolate through his sozzled brain, but it gets there eventually, and I watch every part of his face try to back away from his mouth.

“Dude I don’t mean–”

My sniggers are escaping out my face despite my absolute best efforts.

“I jus’ meant, like, thanks for the chips–”

I’m in a full fit of the giggles now, slapping my knee repeatedly and getting sauce all over my T-shirt.

“Oh my god, David Nelson, you are a funny fucking guy,” I gasp.

He’s bright red with embarrassment and his eyeballs are slurring all over the place trying to avoid me, but to my surprise, he snorts, and then starts laughing too, which sets me off even further. I keep finding new levels on which this is hilarious and bursting into fresh laughter. We eventually calm down, but then he starts laughing again and I’m toast.

When I finally get my breath back, I smooth my cheeks back into a super-serious face and look at David.

“Hey, David,” I say, desperately hanging on to my deadpan, “I fucking love you too.” I manage to keep a straight face for, like, a full second, then I absolutely lose my shit and so does he.

It’s a minor miracle either of us manages to get any food down by the time we wave goodbye to Usama in front of David’s apartment. I made him drink most of a bottle of water, and the cheeky heave from earlier has clearly done him some good, and he’s looking a lot less like he’s going to try to fight a lamp-post and lose. I only need a hand on his jacket collar to steer him to the front door, and he even manages to buzz us in himself after only a couple of tries.

Chapter Text

I get David up to the apartment with minimal drama and, after doing a quick recce, herd him into what appears to be his bedroom and tip him onto the bed. I can tell it’s his bedroom, because it looks like a douchebro shag cave: frame-only black four poster bed, charcoal walls, sheets in a different shade of charcoal, industrial-looking bedside lamps with loads of unnecessary rivets, fancy black drawer units, stone-coloured carpet, and a feature shag rug in – you guessed it – a third shade of charcoal. It looks like a colour vampire sank their fangs into an Ikea catalogue. The only thing in the place that isn’t one degree off monochrome is a big framed poster of a Día de los Muertas skeleton with red boxing gloves, which is surprisingly, I guess, cool?

I leave off admiring his panty-dropping decor choices and, like the good little brother-in-law-once-removed I am, I do the decent thing and take his jacket and shoes off. He briefly protests, but by this point, he’s face down in a pillow and has forgotten why he doesn’t want filthy queers taking his nice straight clothes off. I consider trying to take his stupid puzzle belt off but it’s underneath him and I decide it’s too much trouble. He chose to wear it, let it poke him in the gizzard all night.

I saunter into the main living area to see if I can find him a bucket, and when I switch on the light – holy shit, this place is nice. Fancy kitchen with clean lines and over-complicated light fittings over the breakfast bar. TV the size of a billboard, with a full five-tier wedding cake of different gaming consoles. Big hovering fireplace that looks a bit like Pac-Man. Sofa looks reasonably comfy, but more importantly, massive fucking designer bean bags. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Is that a balcony past them? Focus, Olly. First things first. I find the laundry cupboard and a bucket. As an afterthought, I fill a glass of water from the stupid water cooler built into the fridge door. I take them into David’s room and park them beside his snoring form. Then I dig through the drawers in his ensuite (complete with stupid curl-destroying waterfall shower) until I find some Panadol, and dump them next to the water.

Right. Decent human being duty complete. Time for some fun.

Anyone who says I’m not capable of delaying gratification is lying their teeth off, because I start with the guest bedroom. It’s nice. I’m assuming Sarah Nelson was involved in decorating it, and she’s probably the only person who ever stays here, because it’s done up in nice mumsy warm beiges and wood. There’s colour in here, too – some blue and orange bits and pieces, cushions and abstract artwork and a big glass blob thing, and a small pile of those orange Penguin classics on the bedside table. It reminds me of Sarah’s place.

I peer into the built-in closet. It’s full of white boy closet shit: a pair of skis, a bodyboard, a bunch of exercise gear, a tent and some folding chairs, a ridiculously fancy drinks cooler, a wetsuit and flippers, a whole PE shed of different sports balls. I’m just starting to think the closet will be a washout – I’ve never seen much point in closets, myself – when I unearth an honest-to-god full-size folding ping pong table. Why the fuck is this stashed away in the back of the closet? What kind of joyless monster owns a ping-pong table and doesn’t use it? I consider hauling it out right then and there, but I’d have to move everything else and I’d probably wake David up. I wonder if it would fit in our lounge at home. It’s clearly doing nobody any good here.

Wandering back out to the main living area, all thoughts of a ping-pong table heist are momentarily erased by the array of treasures before me. I savour the decision. What to snoop through first?

I decide on the liquor cabinet. I’m starting to feel almost like I’m thinking about verging on sober, and we can’t have that. I’ve got a whole night to entertain myself in Douchebag David’s crib, and a nice buzz is essential for that. Of fucking course, it turns out to be mostly overpriced whisky. Well, I can slum it for once. I pour myself a hefty Laphroaig and continue my tour.

I park my breakfast burgers in the fridge, which is mostly full of condiments, leftover takeaways and ready-to-eat high-protein dinners. He’s got at least three different barely touched hot sauces with stupid names like ‘Louisiana Ring Burner’ and ‘Flaming Devil Baby’ and ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. The vegetable crisper is full of beer. He does get the fancy £7 free-range 50-hens-per-hectare eggs, I note with a raised eyebrow. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, eat your heart out. Maybe he’s not a purebred douchebag.

Next I ferret through his cupboards, which are frankly embarrassing. All his plates match. They’re fucking charcoal. The pantry is worse. Who the fuck drinks instant coffee? Especially who the fuck with this much money? The pantry is full of tins that look like they haven’t been touched since the Great Depression and which I’ll wager came with Sarah Nelson’s move-in care package, including an honest-to-God jar of Bovril. The only signs of life are a few boxes of protein bars, a couple of Mexican meal kits, some sad prefab pasta sauce and a few tins of tuna that, shockingly, look like they might actually have been purchased after Britain moved off the gold standard. There’s also a jar of crunchy peanut butter and a bag of corn chips, though, which I note for future reference.

Next, I take a look at the fireplace, which looks like a big black squished Muppet face, hanging off a tube from the ceiling. To my delight, I find the whole thing is fake. The wood is fake, the stones are fake, and there are a bunch of polyester fake flames. If any actual fire came near this thing, it would melt like an ice lolly. After trying every switch in the place, I find the remote that turns it on, and it whoofs up in my choice of three LED colours. If only I had some marshmallows.

I’ve been saving up the balcony. After futzing with the lock for a minute, I make it outside. It’s perrrretty fucking great out there. David’s got the government-mandated B&Q metal table and two chairs, and I’m shocked to find a small flourishing tree with pretty, frondy leaves in a pot out there as well. David, caring about a living thing enough to keep it alive? Surprising. I park my arse, sip my drink and soak in the perks of late-stage capitalism for a bit, amusing myself by going through David’s phone. I add myself to his contacts – can’t resist naming myself as ‘Sex God Olly’ - and send myself a text. I add myself on his Insta and vice versa. Because he’s a massive fucking boomer, he’s got Facebook, so I add myself there as well. Cheers, Mum, it’s just gonna be you, Dad, the Pimlico Buy Nothing group you made me join, and smeary photos of David’s Friday night drinks. Then, for good measure, I install Snapchat. He probably won’t even notice. I fish through his photos for nudes but apparently all he takes photos of are sports games and his mates drunk at the pub. There are a few girls in there, mostly of the type that overdoes the tooth-whitening strips, but none of them seem to stick around long.

I crack open his dating apps – all straight, of course – and check out how he’s marketing the merchandise. His profile pics have the requisite over-flashed torso mirror shot and blurry nightclub snap with friends’ faces cropped out. All his conversations start with ‘hey’. It’s all a bit sad, really. On a hunch, I check his match settings. Sure enough, he's got his maximum match age set to 26. This guy is unbelievable. I make a vomiting noise and change it to 37. I think about finding some nice girls to match him with, then decide I can't in good conscience inflict David on anyone who isn't fully informed.

Eventually I run out of booze so I head back inside for a refill and a spoon of peanut butter, and snoop through his desk. It’s boring work stuff. The bookshelf is more rewarding; it’s mostly books by comedians and sports bios, but he’s got a few actual books on there, a couple on the Napoleonic wars, a couple on the Gunpowder Plot, one on Queen Elizabeth I, one on Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite uprising, and one on the Peterloo Massacre and the repeal of the Six Acts. More surprises, David Nelson? Not someone I’d expect to be interested in radical protest politics and the birth of the trade union movement. There’s a photo of him, Sarah, Nick and the dogs all wearing matching Christmas jumpers, which, aaaaw. The adorability is only slightly reduced by the fact it’s in a distressed industrial metal frame in a nice shade of, you guessed it, charcoal. Apparently literally everything in this place is charcoal except for the actual contents of the fireplace.

I really want to go through David’s bedroom drawers but I’m not quite sure I dare sneak back in there, so I content myself with playing Mario Kart on his magical picture wall, and destroying all his high scores, until I get snoozy and take myself to bed.

—

The next day I wake up with no fucking idea where I am, but that’s not the first time that’s happened this week, so I roll with it. There’s nobody in the bed with me, though, which is surprising, and it takes a little while for the tapes to start rolling on last night’s activities. I’ve got a morning stiffy you could pluck like a mandolin, and I consider a cheeky wank then and there, but the guest room’s strong Sarah Nelson vibes are a bit of a mood-killer. Instead, I get up and head for the shower, accepting the death of my Curly Girl streak at the hands of David’s showerhead.

Under the water, I let myself remember the sensation of David’s cock grinding against mine. I remember the ridiculous hardness of his abs, and the slight, grippable curve of his waist. I let myself conjure up the sensation of him hungrily kissing me, his five o’clock shadow catching against my own, his surprisingly soft lips made hard by desperation.

David’s shower products are all coloured like Halloween costumes and called things like ‘Hammer Flame’ and ‘Sandpaper Ice’, but I manage to locate one that seems to be shower gel, and squeeze it into my hand and over my dick.

I think about David’s beautiful cock, letting my hand slowly squeeze up and down my own. Could I even get my mouth around it? I’ve never met a dick that could best my cocksucking skills, but there’s a first time for everything. What would it feel like, crammed down my throat? Would I have no choice but to throat-goat him? Would he make me choke on it? I’m so fucking hard. I want him to pull my hair and gag me on his dick until I can’t breathe. He’s literally in the next room. What if I woke him up by putting his dick in my mouth? Oh god. So good. What if I just went in there, carefully took down his pants so he didn’t feel it, and crammed that whole thing in my mouth? Would he scream? Would he even wake up? Ugh, I’d love to make him come without waking up. I work my cock faster, my arm braced against the wall. I wonder if I could sneak my dick into his mouth. He looked so pretty yesterday with my cock in his mouth. I wonder if he’d secretly enjoy gagging on my cock. I wonder if he’ll jack off to me tonight. I come hard, all over the stone-effect shower wall, and stand there panting for a bit. What the fuck is it about this guy, that even thinking about him makes me wet? I am not going back for another helping of the crown prince of internalised homophobia.

Welp, like they say, it’s been swell, but the swelling’s gone down. I take a look at the ingredients list on his probably-steak-flavoured Man Conditioner, immediately find three kinds of silicates, and decide a quick rinse, scrunch and air dry is my best option. Then I start on the process of making like a tree.

I decide to risk sneaking into his bedroom to find something to wear that isn’t stained with come or tomato sauce. I shouldn’t have worried last night; he’s out like a fucking light. I genuinely don’t think he’s moved from where I dropped him. I go through his drawers, quickly finding a black T-shirt, and then his collection of meticulously folded Calvin Klein boxer briefs, which is hysterical, not just because of the meticulous folding, but also because at least half of them are charcoal. I consider helping myself to some shoes, but he’s a size 9. Ironic that I’ve got bigger feet than him.

After that, the temptation to keep snooping is too much. After a couple of boring drawers, I look in the cupboard. It’s full of perfectly pressed shirts, suits and… is that a fucking school blazer? I pull it out. Glasgow University Boat Club, the pocket informs me. I’m overcome by the hysterical picture of David rowing a kayak in this stuffy little number, with its yellow piped lapels and cuffs. Where the fuck does he even wear this? His Puddington Club reunions? God, I would love to get my hands on this thing for Halloween.

Directly under the cupboard is a thin, wide drawer, and when I open it, I have to resist whooping with joy. I’ve struck gold: it’s a belt and tie drawer. He’s got a belt and tie drawer. It’s got all these little compartments, each just big enough for a single belt or tie, all carefully rolled up to display the pattern or the buckle. He’s even got a bunch of watches in here, on those little velvet display cylinders like you see in wank department stores. There’s one on a leather cuff. Most of them have so many dials and widgets they look like you could run a submarine off them. I can’t help letting out a snort of laughter. God, I wish I had my phone, nobody’s ever going to believe this shit. Everything about this man is entirely un-self-aware performance art. Honestly, Charlie couldn’t have gotten me a better wedding favour if he’d wrapped a Camberwell Carrot in a red ribbon at my place setting.

Apparently I’m laughing a little too hard, because from the general direction of the bed, I hear a raspy, slightly slurry voice.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I turn around. David’s risen from the dead. He’s not nearly as pretty as he was in my shower fantasy. He looks like a duck has nested in his hair, he’s still in the clothes he was in last night (that you came all over, he’d probably glow under a blacklight with your come, supplies my smaller brain helpfully, twitching manifestly despite the orgasm not ten minutes ago) and he apparently managed to pick up a bruised cheekbone somewhere in his travels last night.

I wave the T-shirt and jocks by way of explanation.

“Why the fuck are you naked?” he adds.

I’m blatantly not naked, I’ve got a perfectly respectable towel on, but I make a ‘duhhhh’ face and theatrically point at the T-shirt and jocks I literally just waved.

“You’re not the sharpest sock in the drawer of a morning, are you, David?”

“I feel like a pig shat in my mouth,” he says. He’s trying not to look at me.

I snort. “Bet you do. You fucking earned it. You were an absolute prize wanker last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nick and Charlie send you a horse’s head as a souvenir of Sicily. Glass of water and two paracetamol are on the bedside table.” He finds them and manages to down them, though it’s not pretty to watch. Either he’s the world’s least coordinated hangover sufferer, or he’s still notably drunk. I stay to make sure he doesn’t choke; I owe that at least to Sarah.

“What the fuck are you doing in my belt drawer?” he finally produces.

“I wanted an anthropological insight into the grooming rituals of a millennial douchebag,” I say in my best Attenborough. “Good luck sleeping the rest of it off, David. See you at Christmas. I’m raiding the fridge then I’m outta here.” I turn and walk towards the door. “Thanks for the change of clothes!”

“Hey! You can't just take my stuff!”

I turn back. “I think the loan of some basics is a very acceptable price for you to pay for getting yourself into such a state that your mum had to strongarm me into babysitting your drunk arse all night, instead of going out clubbing like I was planning. Don't worry, I'll get them back to you dry-cleaned and pressed with a sprinkle of lavender. Remember, a good host doesn't make a guest go home in a shirt stained with the host’s come, now do they, David?”

He's got nothing to say to that. “Cheers!” I say, making for the door.

“Hey,” he says.

“What?”

“I’m not, like, gay,” he says, in perhaps the finest fragile defensive man-tone I’ve ever heard. I don’t know if you can strain a muscle eye-rolling but I’m definitely giving it a red-hot go.

“I’m not gay either, dude,”

“You know what I mean,” he slur-mumbles. Wow, he really is still drunk.

“Look, man, you’re reading way too much into this. It was just a bit of fun. It’s a fuck, not a therapy session. I don’t expect to unwrap a gold heart necklace at Christmas while our mums look on fondly. Consider this entire thing forgotten.” I twiddle my fingers over my shoulder as I head out. “There’s a burger in the fridge for you!”

Just as I'm rounding the corner into the hall, I hear David's gravelly voice.

“Wait.”

I can't suppress a shiver. My dick lights up like a Christmas tree. Oh god. Am I doing this again? I should definitely probably not be thinking about doing this again.

I feel my legs back up a foot or so into the doorway. I tell them no, bad legs, but they know as well as I do that I’m lying. I meet David’s eyes.

He just lies there and looks at me, his mouth opening and closing. He clearly wants me to read his mind and do the work for him, which of course, I could do – I've seen skywriting less legible than his face right now – but I'm not inclined. I stand there expectantly, waiting for him to find the words to ask for what he wants.

“C–ome back here,” he finally manages to say.

I walk slowly back into the room and lean against one of the bedposts. I'm smiling a smile now that promises all kinds of things, but I'm not giving him anything else.

“Do you… wanna…”

I leave another patient silence for him to finish his sentence, but he seems to think he's answered the question. I run my hand suggestively down the bedpost.

“Do I wanna… build a sandcastle? Do origami? Discuss Foucault?” I squeeze the bedpost and run a thumb up and down it in a leisurely but very specific way. He makes a strangled little noise. His crumpled dress pants are looking distinctly too tight.

“…fool around again?” he eventually manages to say. Clearly it's a lot for him to have admitted that much, so I take pity on him and climb up on the bed on my knees, above him.

“Do I wanna… let you blow me, and then suck that ridiculous dick of yours until you come all over my face?” He swears under his breath.

“Does ‘fuck’ mean ‘yes’? Don’t make me tap the sign,” I tsk.

“Yes, Jesus fucking Christ, now will you shut the fuck up,” he spits out. He reaches out and pulls off my towel, revealing my now quite respectably hard dick right at his eye level, and stares at it for a bit, propped on one elbow on his side. Then, literally without any preamble, he jams it in his mouth. Apparently that’s his signature move.

His mouth is so hot and wet and it’s just as good as yesterday. He’s got his hand around the base of my dick again. He just looks so good on my dick. He’s basically fucking his face onto my cock and it’s so hot. Is it because I know exactly how desperate for me he must be, to have built a bridge and gotten over that twenty-metre moat of homophobia? Like, this guy really really wants me.

“Can I put my hands in your hair?” I find myself asking.

He pulls off and looks up at me, uncertain, like he’s not sure how he’s supposed to answer. “Uhhh… yeah? I guess? Like, whatever’s normal?”

My heart breaks a little. “Nothing’s normal, David. There’s a lot of shit on the menu, but you don’t have to order anything you don’t want to. If you want, I can put my hands in your hair, and if you want, I can move your head, but you don’t have to say yes to any of it, and you can nope out any time.”

“Uhhh… um. Yeah? Okay. Uh… both? You can do both.”

I lean down and kiss him, hard, and wrap my fingers into his hair. After a minute I kneel back up, and gently pull his mouth back towards my dick. He gloms back on and it’s so good.

I realise, mid-moan, that now it’s morning, maybe I can… unwrap my presents.

“Can I take your shirt off?”

Without even taking my dick out of his mouth, he undoes the buttons with one hand and pulls it off. For the first time, I get to enjoy the full unimpeded view of David Nelson’s shirtless torso. It’s almost comical how perfect he is. Michelangelo, eat your heart out, because my David’s got yours beat, hands-down.

“Holy shit, you are so fucking ripped,” I gasp. I feel him laugh on my dick. It is a weird and moderately excellent sensation, and I nearly fold in half. I remember now that the boy likes praise. I run my hand down his six pack and moan. “Jesus, this is stunning. You must be able to crush a watermelon when you do an ab crunch. And these fucking pecs…” I reach a hand down and fondle one of them. “Oh my god,” I stutter involuntarily, as his mouth tightens around my cock. I put my hands back in his hair and let them get into the rhythm he’s chosen, and very gently I tighten my fingers into the roots of his hair.

He whines with pleasure right onto my dick, and I know he’s a worthless garbage person, so why do I feel like I’ve won the fucking jackpot? He speeds up his movements and starts licking and sucking hungrily and I’m pulling his hair just the tiniest bit with every stroke and it feels incredible and I realise I’m careening towards a fat orgasm so I tap him on the shoulder a couple of times but then I realise I don’t know if he knows what that means so I gasp out “David, m’gonna come” but he doesn’t stop fast enough and his tongue feels amazing and then I’m coming so hard in his mouth and he’s hot and wet around me and it feels so good and oh oh OH FUCK FUCK FUCK

He’s got a mouthful of come and he clearly isn’t extremely psyched about it – in fact, he looks decidedly like he’s going to heave – so through the post-orgasmic haze I manage to grab his shirt from where I’m flopped over, and hand it to him. “Spit,” I instruct him. He crams the shirt over his mouth and spits, then wipes his mouth on it. His face is a magic lantern of obvious feelings chasing one another: disgust, embarrassment, horniness, humiliation, mourning for his shirt.

“Uh… sorry,” he says, looking at me as though he’s failed some kind of test. I wonder why for a second, until I realise he’s probably judged every woman who’s ever spit instead of swallowed.

“It’s an acquired taste,” I shrug. “By which I mean it’s basically gross, but you can get to like how gross it is.” I sit up, suddenly, the haze wearing off all at once as a thought hits me. “Wait, is that why people like mushrooms?”

“I have no fucking idea, mushrooms are disgusting,” he laughs.

“Right? But maybe mushrooms just need to spend more time in the gym and I’d be more into them,” I muse, running my hand down his ribcage and hip to his belt and hooking my fingers into it.

“Hey! Did you just imply I’m disgusting? Or that I’m mushrooms?”

“Most metaphors don’t bear close examination,” I wave, turning my attention to the ol’ puzzle box belt buckle again. It doesn’t put up a fight this time, and I yank off his trousers and pants completely.

I take a minute to savour the sight of David Nelson naked except for his socks, in all his glory. After a moment’s consideration, I take the socks off, too. Don’t want to accidentally end up with a sock fetish.

He really is staggeringly beautiful; proportions like the Vitruvian Man, a fine shine of golden hair on his legs and arms, muscle definition like they’ve been airbrushed on, and that superb dick springing out of a neat patch of almost ginger hair that trails up to his navel. I swear, a heaven’s gate pretty much shines a sunbeam down on that thing, to the tune of faint choruses of angels singing.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper to it. “What’s a nice girl like you doing on a massive dick like this?”

“Hey!” David objects from up somewhere near the pillows.

“Family legend has it that you once told a waitress she had to ‘earn her tip’ after sending back a steak three times,” I point out, irrefutably.

“It was overcoo–haughhhhh!” I end that conversation by sucking his cockhead into my mouth and running my tongue bar down his frenulum. He’s letting out these beautiful strangled moans like he’s trying to sound butch but literally can’t keep a lid on the pleasure.

Sucking David’s dick is everything I’d hoped it would be and more. I can only just get it in my mouth; it feels so good filling me up. Some of my tricks won’t even work on it; there isn’t enough room. I work on his tip with my tongue and let my saliva drip down to where I’m gently working him with both my hands, both thumbs underneath. Then, armed with a few deep breaths, I drop my mouth down and let his massive dick push deep into my throat, my tongue bar running the length of his underside. He pretty much screams. God, how the fuck am I getting hard again? I’m going to be coming sand at this point. But it feels incredible having that monster dick inside me, and he’s writhing and arching like a bloody octopus underneath me.

I come up for air and spend a little time kissing up his shaft. He puts his hands in my hair and tries to push me back on.

“Tsk, naughty,” I chide, shaking him free. “Don’t fuck with the hair unless I give you express permission.” I flick him right in the glans by way of reprimand. To my surprise, the hiss he gives sounds more like pleasure than anything else.

“C–can I put–” he stumbles, getting lost halfway through the sentence as I kiss and lick my way down to the base and up again.

“Ugh… fine.” It’s mostly theatrics; my curl routine is already as screwed as it’s gonna get, and in my heart of hearts, this little teaching moment came at the expense of me really wanting him to fuck my mouth. Hard.

He obliges. Boy, does he oblige. He pulls me back onto his dick and tries to hold my head still as he fucks up into my mouth, bucking and rolling and making the most unholy noises. I’m only just managing to get enough air. I spare one hand from his dick to reach up and tweak one of his nipples, and he yells “Oh my fucking GOD” like I’ve invented nipple play. He’s huffing and panting and my jaw is starting to get tired. I clamp onto his beautiful cock and suck all the air out of my mouth, then flick my tongue under his cockhead as I work his shaft and twist his nipple.

“Holy fucking oh my god I can’t– I can’t– fucking Christ–” he gasps, his fingers convulsing in my hair, and then he’s coming right down my throat, pulling me down onto him and giving a choked moan with every rope of come he shoots into my mouth. God, I love this feeling. So much for him coming on my face.

Maliciously, I stay on there, gently lapping up the last drips, until he starts whimpering and trying to pull me away. Then, even more maliciously, I reach up and plant a kiss on his mouth, then get up off the bed before he can protest. After a second or two he remembers to recoil and make predictable disgusted and offended noises, but I’m a bit less worried about the fragility of his rampant post-orgasmic homophobia, now that we’re in the privacy of his bedroom on our second go-round.

I reach for my stolen skivvies where I dropped them and pull them on. My dick’s still kinda hard but I think three times before breakfast would be pushing it, even for me.

Meanwhile, David wobbles to the ensuite, crashing into the doorpost slightly on the way past.

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my skills and not to the generosity of Charlie and Nick’s bar tab,” I quip. I hear the shower turn on and leave him to contemplate whatever the fuck it is macho closet cases contemplate in the shower. Arm-wrestling wild moose, probably. Or power tools.

—

Out in the kitchen, I’m most of the way through my reheated burger when David makes his appearance, his cocky demeanour entirely failing to hide his giant case of nerves.

“I see you managed to work everything out,” he says snarkily, sniffing my empty whisky glass from last night.

I shove his burger at him across the fancy breakfast bar.

“You’re welcome,” I add.

He looks across his lounge, looking for evidence of further crimes on my part. His eyes light on the Pac-Man fireplace, which is still going.

“Did you leave the fireplace going all night?” he asks, outraged.

“Yeah. Does it matter? Do I have to go out and buy you a fresh bag of fake wood for it?”

“It’s… you can’t just…”

I roll my eyes, popping the last of the McBluffin into my mouth. Then I walk over to the fridge and help myself to his posh eggs.

“Cheers for the Uber home, David. I’ll tell your mum you behaved like a perfect gentleman.” I walk out of the kitchen into the hall, blowing him a kiss over my shoulder.

“Hey! Where the fuck are you going with my eggs?” I hear him protest from behind the closing door.

Chapter Text

“So I totally fucked a homophobe at my brother’s wedding,” I announce to the crew in the living room as I put away my trophy eggs. “And then again this morning.”

“Weird flex but ok?” says Ava, handing me a beer.

“I consider it part of my civic duty as a hot bisexual to leave a trail of confused feelings everywhere I go,” I reply. Oscar lifts his beer and we clink. “I’m basically like that Black guy in the deep south who makes friends with KKK members, then keeps their robes as trophies when they quit the KKK. But instead of friendship and patience, it’s my magical dick, and I’ve got a cupboard full of heterosexuality.”

Bailey scoffs. “You can’t change people, Olly. You can’t convert dickheads. It’s a fool’s errand. Twilight shit. People don’t change.”

“Au contraire, my little duckling, people change all the fucking time. Ask any girl who’s ever patiently explained feminism to a slightly useless boyfriend, one conversation and call-out and raised eyebrow at a time.”

“You liar,” says George affectionately. “You’re just leaning into the dirrrrty.”

“Georgina Patricia Shi Han Chen! How dare you suggest I would undertake this good moral work just to get my rocks off!” I say in mock outrage.

“Mmmhmmm. Show’s us a picture then. If you’re really such an altruist, I’m sure he’ll be a person of very average appearance.”

I laugh. “Fucking sprung.” I crack open David’s Instagram, which I definitely wasn’t fishing through on the trip home. Georgie flips through it like she’s reviewing it for the Guardian, a frown of intense concentration on her face.

“On further examination, Oll, it appears you did do it for purely ethical reasons. Guy’s got a face like a smashed crab.”

Ava takes the phone and snorts. “What a scrubber.” Bailey’s turn. “Minger,” he pronounces.

Oscar takes the phone and says nothing, but I notice his eyebrow go up a couple of extremely articulate millimetres.

“Oi!” I snatch my phone back. “He’s my homophobic closet case! I saw him first!”

Oscar smirks.

“Does this mean you’re going to see him again, Olly?” asks Ava.

I grin. “Wellll… you know I was thinking of getting a hobby, and this is cheaper than collecting vinyl,” They all make the required gagging noises. “And besides, think about how good converting a homophobe will look on my CV. I don’t even have to redeem him completely. All ll I have to do is follow the campsite rule.”

“What… take only photographs, leave only footprints?” asks Bailey.

The room dissolves into laughter.

—

It’s been days now, and I just cannot keep my hands out of my pants. Yesterday at work I basically spent the whole first half of my shift leaning my dick against the edge of the cold steel worktop every five minutes, in the hope it’d get the message and calm down. It categorically didn’t, and I had to go and rub one out in the loos on my break. I’m just lucky we wear aprons. And that it’s summer holidays from uni.

It’s fucking ridiculous. What am I, fourteen again? I’ll just be wandering along, minding my own goddamn business, and then bam, I remember the feel of David Nelson’s perfect dick on my tongue and I’m nursing another incipient boner.

Right now, by sheer coincidence, I’m lying on my bed, thinking about David Nelson’s perfect dick on my tongue. What are the odds. I’ve already come twice today and it’s getting harder and harder to hit that sweet spot, but the fucker just keeps popping up again.

I’m just about to give up and try a cold shower when someone knocks on my door.

“Who iiiiis itttt?” I call out in a singsong voice.

“It’s me,” Oscar says. “Want some company?”

I sigh. “Sure, come in.”

Oscar opens the door and slides in, shutting it behind him. Bailey’s in the lounge playing something shooty.

“Going again, huh?” he gestures to my impressively priapic condition.

“Auuuugggghhhhhhh,” I explain, rolling over to mash my face into my pillow.

Oscar slides in beside me on the bed and brushes his hand carefully over my hair. He knows how not to fuck it up, so he’s allowed.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

“Fuck, Osc,” I mumble into the pillow. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?”

I sit up and hold my hands a generous, David-Nelson’s-dick sized distance apart. Then I cup my fingers into a large C and squint at Oscar through it.

“And just, like, beautiful. Like, if Da Vinci had scribbled a cock in the margin of his notebook, it would have been this one. Lovely proportions. Hard as a rock but soft as velvet. Nice ballsack. And he looks exactly like a young Jaime Lannister.”

“Well that’s got layers,” Oscar says.

“I know,” I moan, throwing myself back against the headboard. Goddamn the psychological sticking power of things you weren’t allowed to watch as a kid, but secretly did anyway. “And he’s such a prick. Apparently he once left a tube of Anusol in his and Nick’s bathroom cabinet and claimed he was ‘just trying to help’.”

“Wow, projecting much? Didn’t you bang him, like, twice?”

“A total of five loads were blown between us,” I admit.

Oscar smirks. “Who got the extra slice?”

I can’t stop the wide smirk that grows on my face.

“Olly, you witch. Come on. Tell me everything.” Oscar slides his hand into his shorts.

“Fuck, Osc.” I loll my head back and put my hand back around my dick. “He was being such a drunken cunt, and I took him out so he’d stop hitting on uninterested women, and I don’t know how it happened but I just started flirting with him to fuck with him, and, like, I feel like it might have worked faster than any flirting I’ve done in my life?”

“Wow,” Oscar says, impressed.

“I was saying all this stuff about hooking up with Sirje and Raúl last Friday, telling him how amazing her tits are, just to make him freak out–”

“Oh my god, Sirje’s nipples are the most beautiful,” Oscar adds. “All puffy, and then they firm up.”

I nod, and we both take a minute to contemplate.

“…anyway, I gave him some choice highlights, and he popped a boner faster than a mushroom out of a mystery box. And then I gave him The Look, and he followed me into the loo like I was towing him on a leash.”

Oscar sniggers. We’ve practiced The Look at parties. Mostly on each other, which is kind of cheating, but the trick is to see if you can tell someone you’re up for it with a single look. Mostly everyone ends up giggling, but when it’s hot, it’s hot.

“So we get into it, and he is not shy, he’s grinding on me, and I was going to suck his dick, but then I had this genius idea to see if I could get him to suck my dick, so I told him all this shit about how pretty he’d look fucking a girl while sucking me off, and Jesus, Osc, he pretty much swallowed the whole thing in one go. Jaime Lannister, on my cock.”

“Whoah… that’s…” Oscar hisses in a little stuttered breath, his hand working his dick a little harder. He’s got it out of his shorts now.

“Right?” I exclaim, lazily working my own. “Rent. Fucking. Free.” I tap my forehead with each word.

“Anyway, turns out he’s a mean cocksucker, which I still don’t understand, but damn. And then I came all over his face, and then got that monster dick out of his pants and wanked us off together with hand soap.”

“Jesus, you’re brave,” Oscar hisses through his teeth, without slowing his hand.

“I needed both hands, Osc…” I whisper. “And they were almost not enough… anyway, I thought that was the end of it, but he got absolutely plastered after that and Sarah Nelson buttered me into taking him home, and the next morning, he blew me again, and then I finally put that specimen in my mouth.” I moan as I remember it again.

“And I got to take all his clothes off, and, like, you know I don’t normally go for ripped guys in particular, but fuck, Osc, he looked like a Calvin Klein ad without all the fake tan.” I’m going at my dick harder now. “And freckles.” I add, remembering the scattering of little honey-brown marks, the imperfections somehow making his skin even more perfect.

“And his dick was so big I could barely get my mouth around it, I swear to god, I was a bit worried I was going to dislocate my jaw. And he got all handsy, too, and I let him fuck my face, which was, like, so intense. And he came down my throat, and I swear I nearly came again just from that. But I’d already come twice that morning.”

“Wait, twice?” Oscar asks.

“Cheeky wank in the shower before the fun started,” I confirm. “Hadn’t planned on the second helpings. Let’s just say I hope his fancy stone-effect tiles aren’t too porous.”

Oscar sniggers.

“And now you can’t stop thinking about it?” he asks me, caressing my hair again. I purr.

“Not just that. Like, half the time, it’s just a smash-cut on loop of all the hot shit we got up to. The rest of the time…” I snuggle into Oscar’s shoulder. “The rest of the time, I’m just thinking about him skewering me on that superb wang. Like, just letting him shove my face into the pillow and rail me senseless. Or climbing aboard and riding it like a greasy flagpole at the fiesta. Or letting him fuck me up against the shower wall so hard my feet come off the ground. I was at work the other day, and all I could think about was him bending me over the counter and pounding that thing in so deep it pretty much came out my mouth.”

Oscar comes all over his hand and belly with a moan, and that finally does the trick for me. I shudder through my third wrenching orgasm of the day, pressed up against Osc’s shoulder, David’s imaginary hands all over me and his imaginary dick shooting deep inside my guts.

“Pity he’s such an irredeemable sack of shit,” Oscar murmurs, sounding a little sad.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Complete waste of a truly glorious penis.”

I feel a bit better.

“Bee Movie?” I suggest.

—

About a week later, I get a phone call from David. Oscar and I are watching Bee Movie again. I’m pretty stoned but my dick is excited.

“Sex God Olly speaking,” I say, after a hopefully not too egregious delay.

“Oliver fucking Spring,” David says from my phone. I put him on speaker.

“David Nelson, to what’m do I owe the pleasure of this call?” I snigger in my poshest voice.

“Oh, yeah, one time, a bear had me pinned up against a mushroom, he had one paw on my throat, and with the other, he was slapping me back and forth across the face,” says Oscar, holding my neck and miming the slaps. I giggle and mime the head-turns.

“Did you spend ninety two fucking quid on burgers on my card after Nick’s wedding?” David demands.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, carefully not laughing. Someone is laughing though. I realise it’s me, which is even funnier.

“For fuck’s sake, Olly, what were you thinking?”

“I was hungry,” I protest. “You were hungry. Usama was hungry. Actually I’m hungry again now. Wanna get a burger?”

“Who the fuck is Usama?” David asks, bafflingly.

“David. Fffffffocusssss. Do. You. Want. To. Get. A.” I forget what I was saying. Oh, right! “Burger.”

“No, I don’t want a fucking burger, Olly!”

“Oh. Blowjob, then?”

“What the fuck?”

“Apartment 4, 27 Harold St. Buzzer’s broken, text me when you get here. Bring burgers,” I instruct him.

“And you were thinking of what, making balloooooon animals? That’s a bad job for a guy with a stinger!” says Oscar.

“Olly, shut the fuck up! Jesus, do you have me on speaker? Who the fuck is that?”

“That’s Oscar. Oscar, burger, blowjob?” Oscar nods, closing his eyes ecstatically. “Oscar says yes please on both.”

“Are you fucking high?” I think David asks.

Oscar and I both break into giggles. “Bllllllaaaaazed. See you in a bit, David!”

“Jesus fucking christ,” he says.

“Two veggie burgers. Don’t forget the chips. Love you, David!”

He hangs up on me.

Eventually I lean over to Oscar. “I think that went well,” I whisper, and we both dissolve into laughter.

Chapter Text

Charlie and Nick are back from the honeymoon, and the collective families have all been summoned to a slide night at Mum and Dad’s place. We’d’ve done it in town at Nick and Charlie’s place, but Mum’s got this new thing going where she’s decided driving at night is dangerous. I don’t really mind; Dad sends me the money for the train ticket, and I may as well see if I can get Mum to do some of my laundry.

Mum’s being remarkably chill about having nine people in her house. The one good thing about Tori and Charlie both pairing off in their teens, I suppose; after ten-plus years, Nick and Sarah and Michael are part of her mental furniture now. I even catch her bossing Sarah around on where to put her shoes, now Mum has tightened up the no-shoes rule since I flew the nest. Sarah meekly acquiesces.

We all arrange ourselves in the living room. Mum and Dad take their places on the sofa, and Sarah takes an armchair, claiming something about ‘old bones’. Nick and Charlie and Tori and Michael pile themselves in coupley little heaps on the floor. David makes a beeline for the other armchair, so I squeeze in next to Dad.

The slides themselves are excruciatingly boring – a million photos of Nick and Charlie in front of Mediterranean ruins and museums and fountains and coffee shops – but Mum and Dad are lapping it up, and Sarah is either enjoying it or hiding it well. Luckily she’s brought a bunch of drinks with her, and Mum’s cracked open a bottle of sherry, of all things, and I’m heading towards nicely buzzed. David’s been tipping them back and making increasingly contemptuous noises.

“I’m surprised there’s any coffee left east of Calais,” he starts off.

Later: “Is it a thing or something? Like is holding a coffee cup a signal for something?”

Nick tries to hide his flinch. Charlie gives David a flat look that I'm pretty sure would have blown his head up if Charlie had superpowers. Tori, who does have superpowers, regards David contemplatively from under her lashes, and I fear for his children unto the seventh generation.

“Pretty sure fancy coffee is a yummy mummy thing, so we'll defer to your expertise, David,” I drop, just quick and low enough that I hope the olds can't parse it.

“Whatever,” he mutters.

It doesn’t deter him for long.

On a photo of Nick’s (and David’s, euuughhh) cousin Jeanne and her girlfriend Yasmine: “Bet those two would have been up for joining in your honeymoon fun for a night or so.”

On a photo of Nick and Charlie in the Place Bellecour: “How was Dad? He mentioned he was in Lyons.”

On a photo of Nick and Charlie in the crowd at the Stade de France: “Did you get a chance to play any rugby Nick? Don’t want you getting out of shape. Well, more out of shape.”

On a photo of Nick and Charlie’s hotel room in Verona: “They really should warn all the other guests when there are honeymooners staying, it’s only fair.”

On a photo of Nick and Charlie kissing in front of the Trevi Fountain: “I’m surprised nobody threw a bucket of water over the pair of you, acting like that in public.”

By this point Nick looks like he wants to punch David, and I open my mouth to crush him again, when Sarah Nelson slides in like silk.

“Oh, bother!” she says, entirely believably. “I’ve just realised I forgot to get cream for the tarte tatin. David, darling, do you mind popping down to the shop to get some?”

David gets up, smirking. He clearly knows he’s being managed, but I guess he thinks he’s won. In an infuriating way, I suppose he has; he’s upset Nick and Charlie, plus he gets to escape this torture.

“Bring me back a Twinkie, David,” I yell after him. “Cream filled!”

—

Later, Nick, Tori, Michael, Charlie and I are playing Mario Kart in the living room, while the olds pretend to make dinner in the kitchen as an excuse to drink more wine, when I realise David’s been gone a while. I wander out casually, to find him sitting at the top of the staircase scrolling his phone.

I sit down next to him and lounge against the balustrade.

“What was all that about, earlier?”

“What was all what about?”

I smirk. He's fooling nobody. Well, okay, he's fooling everyone else, I suppose, but personally I've seen cellophane that's more mysterious.

“You like getting a rise out of people, huh? You get off on making people feel uncomfortable? Your kink is not my kink but your kink is… well, like, a bit fucking problematic actually?”

“Some people just can't take a joke,” he says, completely unironically.

“You know it's only a joke if people other than you laugh, David? Otherwise it's just you frotting your ego. You drop a nasty little remark, they froth at the mouth, you feel a little bit powerful and in control.”

“Fuck off! I don't have to sit here and listen to this.” He stands up, bringing the crotch of his Levi's just about to my eyeline. I can't resist. I glance up at him through some weaponised lashes and casually run a hand up his inside leg to his package.

He completely freaks out, grabbing my hand and twisting it away from him, scanning the blatantly empty upstairs hallway and upper landing like six people with cameras might pop out from behind Mum’s potted peace lily at any second.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses.

I laugh.

“Okay, I'm starting to see your point about the merits of the hilarity of getting a rise out of people,” I smirk, standing up and walking upstairs.

As I walk through my bedroom door, I think of something I’d enjoy even more than ribbing David for being a douchebag: ribbing him for being a douchebag while he’s got my dick in his mouth. I pause. It’s worth a try.

I lean back so he can see me from the landing.

“…you coming?”

He lasts a full three seconds before jumping up to follow me.

—

I shut the door and neatly wedge the ol’ privacy fork under it, with the practised hand of someone who discovered the fun that could be had, alone and with other people, at an early age. (Mum still thinks my bedroom door ‘sticks in the humidity’.) Then I grab David, throw him against the wall, and shove my tongue down his throat. It barely even qualifies as kissing.

He’s into it – he’s much stronger than I am, I couldn’t throw him anywhere he wasn’t amenable to – but god, I love being that little bit taller than he is. I love the idea that I can make him want to do whatever I want him to. Is this how I discover I’m a dom? Dom, dom, dom.

I grab his dick through his pants and start rubbing it shamelessly with one hand, then I grab his hair with the other and yank it a little bit so his neck is bent back for me to lick and kiss.

“Listening to you down there spouting all that homophobic douchebag shit, all I could think about was how stunning you looked with my dick in your mouth,” I say in between licks. “Just think how they’d react if they knew.” His breath catches and he tenses; I can’t tell if it’s fear or arousal. I work my way down his neck to that soft little corner where it joins his collarbone. “If the whole world knew just how talented David Nelson, manly man and heterosexual extraordinaire, is at sucking dick.”

He moans, and I’m still not sure if it’s fear or arousal. I suspect both.

“Anyone could try to come through that door right now,” I whisper. “Maybe they’d catch us. They’d all know you’ve been lying all this time. They’d know you’re actually hot for your little brother’s husband’s little brother. That you’re a cradle-snatching queer.”

I bob back up and kiss him properly this time.

“Wanna make sure they catch us with my dick in your mouth?”

He actually whines at that one, and I witness something truly majestic: David Nelson, his eyes locked on mine, sliding down with his back against the wall, and collecting my joggers and pants on the way down.

He wastes no time, as usual, and I’m suddenly surrounded by that hot, wet mouth.

“That’s the same mouth you’ve been spouting hate with all day, and now look at me fucking it, sliding in and out of your beautiful lips, and you loving every second of it,” I whisper, my forearms resting against the wall as I slowly push into his face and then release. “Talk about the punishment fitting the crime.”

I gently fuck his mouth for a magical couple of minutes, gasping and trying to stop myself going harder. My hips keep trying to jerk free of my willpower, but gagging David Nelson on my cock is a punishment a little too far down the line for today, no matter how much I would give to see that. In fact, I suspect he’s starting to struggle a little with how long he’s been on my dick, so I pull away and tug him back to his feet. He looks worried.

“What’s wrong? Was I not–”

I kiss the self-doubt right off his face, right in that sweet spot between desperate and tender. He returns it surprisingly gently, nervously. “God, why the fuck do I want you so much,” I say, pulling away an inch.

He laughs into my mouth. “Fucking you and me both,” he snorts.

“Come on,” I say, pushing down my joggers and pants and stepping out of them, pulling off my T-shirt and tugging him towards my bed. “I wanna come with your dick in my mouth. If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even show you my favourite party trick.”

“Should I–” he gestures towards my discarded clothes.

“Up to you. Personally, I don’t want to deal with any more come-stained clothes.”

He hesitates for a second, and I roll my eyes, and walk back to my bedroom door, where I pull my dresser a few practised inches in front of it.

“The fork really does work fine,” I point out. “It resisted Mum trying to barge in and help with our trigonometry in year 10 when I had Billy Leong over for a ‘study date’. I just shouted ‘It’s open, Mum! Ugh, do I have to do everything, we’re studying!’ until Billy managed to get his shirt back on.”

Is that a trace of a genuine smile on David’s face? Impulsively, I run at him and just completely jump him, my naked body against his still-clothed one, his face in my hands, my mouth on his, hard and hot. I was expecting to push him over onto the bed, but he barely even staggers, just gathers up my legs around his waist and grinds up into me. The fucking core strength on this guy.

He’s gonna fuck like a jackhammer, says a small voice in the back of my head. I gasp involuntarily, just as the asphalt-splitting dick in question pushes up into my crotch, and I just about climb him like a stepladder.

I’m just about lost in the bliss of grinding on him when he puts me down on the bed. I pout, but turns out he’s just losing his shirt. And his chinos. And his pants. Awwwww yeahhhhh. Hello, old friend.

Before I know what he’s doing, he’s back on top of me. The skin-to-skin contact is electric. I feel like my whole body just lit up like a Christmas tree. He’s warm and surprisingly soft all over me, and I feel my back arch up to meet him. He makes a little ‘ooff’ noise and my whole attention comes with laserlike focus to our crotches, where our dicks are snuggling up in a way that leaves very little room to think about much else. He starts pushing and I start pushing and oh my god it feels like so much with his weight on top of me and his hips splayed across mine and his lips crushing my mouth. All I can think about is how he’s gonna feel inside me. He’s so close. I could just wriggle a little bit and he’d be…

Well. He’d be giving me unprotected, unlubed, unprepped anal in my childhood bedroom while our entire families carried on making supper below us, protected only by the width of a dresser, a fork and a carefully-cultivated reputation for unreliability. Best not, really. But I have to get that thing inside me somehow.

“Come on,” I say into his mouth. “I want your dick in my mouth.”

He kneels up and I spin sideways so my head’s off the side of the bed. “Time to show you my party trick,” I smile. “Come around here.”

He gets up, confused. I hide a rush of self-satisfied elation. He’s never done this before.

“If I tap you three times or more, it means stop. Twice is if I’m gonna come. You can use the same if you want. Got it?” He nods. “Lean down.”

I hook my hands behind his thighs and pull him closer, lazily tonguing the head of his cock with my tongue bar, then creeping down the shaft while I load up on oxygen with deep breaths, and then when his moans are just starting to sound nice and ripe, I say “Oh, and remember to keep the volume down, David,” then I deep-throat him in one go.

Oh, yeah, baby. This is why you invest in 10,000 hours of practice. This is why you hone your skills. So that a 34-year-old built Adonis will pretty much lose the ability to hold himself upright as he tries to stifle a scream, and ends up tipped over your torso on his face, his absolute V&A specimen of a dick buried in your throat, his hands grabbing at your head as he fucks your face uncontrollably. It’s right on the edge of what I can handle, I’m choking messily, and he still hasn’t got his whole dick inside me, but I really am a goddamn sex god. I let him fuck my throat and focus on sneaking little gasps of air on the downswing, and on doing god’s work with my tongue bar.

He really is being a bit too loud for safety – Tori might be playing Mario Kart with the sound up, but even that’s not safe with her batlike hearing – so I decide it would be wise if David had something to put in his mouth. The obvious choice, a pillow, is out of reach. The second most obvious choice is two inches from his mouth already. I reach down under his torso, find his lips, put one finger to them, and push him towards my dick.

He gets the hint and he’s on my dick in milliseconds. He’s not really giving me head, more just using my dick as a muffle for all the sounds he’s making, but he’s clamped on hard and between that and the feeling of his massive dick filling my mouth, and his body squirming and thrusting against mine, it is perrrrettyyy. fucking. good. His movements are starting to get erratic – I’m surprised he’s lasted this long on his first throat goat, actually – and I’m already ready for it when he remembers to tap me twice.

He’s coming down my throat, and he fucks my mouth hard and jerkily as he shoots his load. His moans and groans are being vibrated directly into the wet skin of my dick, around his soft tongue. Oh god, I’m gonna come. I tap him twice but he doesn’t move, just sucks me harder. His come tastes salty and bitter and amazing. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. I’m coming. I’m coming in David’s mouth, with his beautiful dick still twitching and jerking in mine. I feel the waves of pleasure crest up out of my balls and my hands are around his beautiful waist and oh. my . god .

I swear I might actually have passed out for a second there, because the next thing I notice consciously is that David has flopped over on his back on the bed next to me.

I manage to crawl back onto the bed properly and fish down the side for my emergency T-shirt, pleased to find Mum hasn’t discovered it and tidied it away. To my surprise, David seems to have swallowed, though he still wipes his mouth on it. I do the same, then bounce up to sort out my clothes and fix my hair. Luckily I gelled my curls this morning, so they’ve held up pretty well, nothing that can’t be fixed with a tiny bit more product.

“By the way, our cover story is that I was up here giving you a bollocking for the way you behaved to Nick and Charlie earlier. Which, I suppose… technically… I was.” I rub my crotch with a thumb. “You really need to cut it out with all the little homophobic digs, by the way.”

“What do you care?” David snipes. “You’re not my mother.”

“No,” I agree, walking back to where he’s sitting on the edge of my bed, pushing his knees apart with my own and roughly twisting my hand into his hair. I add a little edge to my voice. “I’m really not. And I don’t like you giving my brother shit. Or Nick, for that matter.”

I let go of his hair and slide down to cup his cheek. “I’m sure we can find a better way to get you your jollies. What are you doing Saturday week?”

“Why?” he asks, the shutters coming down over his eyes. He gets up off the bed and pushes past me. Oh my god, apparently even making plans with me is too much gayness to contemplate.

“I’ve got a friend who wants a devil’s threesome for her birthday. Me and Oscar were just going to do it, but uhhh…” I make a vaguely circular gesture in the direction of David’s crotch, “I think she might appreciate it if I got her a larger gift.”

“Who’s Oscar?” he demands angrily.

Uhh, wot? That came out of left field. I have to swallow a laugh about how fast he’s gone from homophobic panic to territorial jealousy. Such big strong man, pound chest, make noise, ugg.

“Oscar’s my best friend. We fuck sometimes. You rudely refused to buy him a burger.” I stifle the overpowering urge to add, You jealous? because a) it wouldn't be productive and b) duh. “So, you free?”

‘I might be,” he hedges. I roll my eyes.

“Well, let me know if you can fit a hot threesome into your busy social calendar, and I’ll see if Mills can keep her ladyboner up long enough to fuck a pedigreed douchebag.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it,” he complains. I put a finger to his lips, mashing them shut.

“It’s better if you don’t speak, David,” I coo.

Mercifully, when I get downstairs, Tori is engrossed in trying desperately to beat Charlie on Ribbon Road. I casually slide in behind Michael on the sofa, trying not to look too much like the cat who got the cream.

Chapter Text

I slide into the seat next to Mills at our summer Culture, Racism and Resistance intensive.

“Hey, Millsy, I’ve got a project going on right now,” I whisper enticingly. “I’m cracking the inch-thick comphet shell around a 34-year-old closet bisexual douchebro with crippling internalised homophobia. I don’t suppose you’d like to… help out?” I waggle an eyebrow suggestively.

Mills squinches her whole mouth over to one side of her face. “Why would I want to fuck a 34-year-old douchebro?” she asks, reasonably.

“Oh. Yeah. One sec.” I pull out my phone and flick through the massive shared album of Nick and Charlie’s wedding photos until I find one of David, and show it to Mills.

“Oh,” she says, reasonably.

“Hung like the entire front window of an authentic Calabrian sausage shop,” I add.

“Oh,” she reiterates.

“Like, almost problematically hung.” I hold my hands out.

“You don’t have to oversell it, Olly.”

“That’s what she said.” God, I’m hilarious. “But seriously, like, I could barely fit it in my mouth. And also, you can be as mean to him as you like.”

She scoffs.

“No, seriously,” I wave my hands. “He's a bad person. He's given up the right to a life without pain.”

“Olly. There are no bad people. Just idiots who need to grow a clue.”

“Really? Because at the wedding, I overheard him asking my cousin – who has blue hair – if the carpet matched the curtains.”

A glint of a smile starts in the corner of her mouth. “Oh my god… I can be as mean to him as I like with a clear conscience?”

“I mean, maybe give him a safe word?” I say. “But yes. Everything you've ever wanted to say to a douchebag who’s trying to pick up your drunk friend in a club.”

“And he’s not even allowed to put up a fight?”

“I don’t think you’d like it if he didn’t put up any fight, Millsy, but yeah – I don’t think he’s realised it yet, but I’ve kind of got him by the short and curlies.”

She chews her lower lip for a minute.

“Fuck it, why not. We’ll double-bag him for safety.”

—

I text David a selfie of me and Mills. She’s doing the 👉👌 symbol and I’ve got my tongue out, licking my lip, tongue bar on show. The text just says ‘Saturday week Y/Y?’

He doesn’t reply, so that evening I send him a peach and two eggplant emojis. He doesn’t reply to those either.

Just as I’m drifting off to sleep at one-something in the morning, David texts back. It just says ‘ok’.

I pull my knees up and kick my legs under the duvet in triumph.

—

Bailey and Oscar have graciously made themselves scarce for the evening. There’s a house party on tonight, so I don’t feel super bad about it. I’ve put on some music and I’m grooving around the living room. I’m unreasonably excited about tonight, and also for some reason, like, weirdly, a bit nervous? I really hope David doesn’t make a horrendous tit out of himself. Or maybe I really, really hope he does, but only in, like, a funny way. Not a depressing way.

I texted David earlier with my address, and told him I expected wine and fancy chocolates. I was totally taking the piss but he replied with ‘ok’ so I guess we’re having wine and fancy chocolates? Hilarious.

David shows up first, right on 8:30pm, like a massive nanna.

“Welcome to my palatial abode,” I say graciously as he comes in, waving my arm around. “Let me give you the tour. Bathroom’s that door, and mine’s the one next to it.” He awkwardly holds out a Waitrose bag, so I take it off him and dump it on the kitchen bench, then I bounce down on the couch.

“Aren’t you giving me the tour?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “That’s it, that’s the tour. Did you want to see the laundry? What do you think this is, a secret labyrinth of many ways?”

He sits down awkwardly at the other end of the couch.

“So, uh, what are we supposed to do?” David asks.

“What do you mean?” I’m confused.

“Like… are we supposed to just get into it? Do we have to, like, talk about it first or something?”

“I mean… we can talk about it if you like? What do you want to talk about?”

He sputters. “I don’t want to talk about it – I just thought – “

“Chill, David. You’re overthinking this. Nobody’s gonna force you into doing anything. If you’re not into it, just say so, nobody’s going to get precious or stroppy.”

“I didn’t mean that, I just meant – ughhhh.”

“Awww, button,” I say in a cute pet voice. “Are you nervous? Let me get you a drink.”

“Fuck off,” he says, but he lets me pour him a large glass of Merlot.

He’s nervously chugged most of it and is sitting there on the edge of the couch like the supreme being of ascendant awkwardness, when I lose patience.

“Jesus, David, have you never visited another human being’s home before? Or spent time in a human domicile? Take off that coat and kick off your shoes, for fuck’s sake.”

He does as he’s told. Fuck, I’d forgotten how much I like it when he does as he’s told. I grab the Turkish delivery menu off the coffee table.

“Now pick out whatever you’d like, and then order that plus a deluxe vegetarian banquet for two. Oh, and some extra sigara boregi. Mills and I are both veg, and it’s her birthday, so you’re buying.”

Oh my god, he just does it. I wonder if at some point I’m going to have to start being responsible with this power. Not today, though. Not today.

Millsy arrives half an hour (or by David’s watch, two glasses of Merlot) later. She dumps her bag on the floor and jumps me for a hug.

“Oliviero Primavera!” she says in her plummy public school Italian. “It’s been minutes.” She jumps down. “Remind me I have to get the notes off you for the lecture on Thursday.”

“I recorded it for you, cara mia,” I tell her. “Happy birthday!”

“Oh, you absolute doll.” She kisses me on the cheek. “And this must be my other present! Hi, I’m Rebecca Mills. Everyone calls me Mills or Millsy.”

“Hi,” he says awkwardly, putting down what’s left of his second glass of wine, neither of which seem to have helped at all.

“You hungry?” I ask her. “There’s Turkish food on the way. I figured if we don’t eat it now, we can eat it later.”

She shrugs noncommittally, pulling off her coat. “Fancy late lunch with Mum’s lot. They were still on the Chablis and smoked salmon at four when I left. But a wine sounds good. So David,” she says, turning to him. “Olly tells me you’re an irredeemable douchebag who works in finance?”

“He what?” He seems, like, genuinely outraged?

“Hey!” I say, pausing my wine pour. “If the two-hundred-quid boat shoe fits, wear it, David. Did you or did you not famously cheat on your girlfriend with her best friend?”

“That was years ago!” he protests.

“At the best friend's wedding, while your girlfriend was a bridesmaid?” I add.

“My, you are a keeper, aren't you,” Mills smirks.

She wanders over to inspect the merchandise. He's got on jeans and another douchey slim-fit shirt, untucked this time, but damn if those people over at Designer Cockwomble HQ don't know how to slim-fit a shirt to a ripped torso. She puts out a hand and runs it over the proverbial washboard and makes a low moaning noise. David looks down at her, entranced. For a baffling second I find myself resenting her hands on him. What? Weird. I shake it off, and take her over her drink.

I gently kiss the top of her head, eyeing David as I do. She leans back into my chest as I wrap my arms around her, and she takes her wine out of my hand. I let my hands drop to her stomach. She's looking at David. I'm looking at David. I'm suddenly acutely aware how hard this threesome is failing the Bechdel test. It's hard, with the anthropomorphic personification of the male gaze right in front of us. Heh. The male gays. I snort.

David looks insecure. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I reassure him. “Just thinking what a terrible pair of feminists Millsy and I are right now, rewarding you for your toxic ways and obvious gym addiction.”

“I’ll make it up on my next essay,” Millsy says, starting to undo his bottom button.

“Or maybe we can make it up now,” I muse, undoing his top one. “Teach him some of the basic tenets of third-wave feminism.”

“Hey,” he protests. “Do I get a say in this?”

“No,” Millsy and I both say together.

Between us, we get his shirt undone. I lean down to nuzzle Mills’ temple as I push a finger up under each shoulder of David’s shirt and slowly hook it off him. Mills clucks appreciatively and puts her hands under his pecs, while I run mine up his flanks.

David plants both his hands on Mills’ boobs. She looks down at them, then back up at him.

“Wow,” she says, dry as the Sahara. “Is that your signature move? Straight for the tits? I can see why they’re queueing up.”

I tsk and put my hands on David’s, lacing our fingers together and moving them to Mills’ waist, then around her back. Then I grab his hips, sandwiching Mills between us.

“Muuuuuuch better,” Millsy purrs. She hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him down into a kiss. He promptly shoves his entire tongue in her mouth. She detaches herself hastily.

“Jesus, it’s the tits all over again. You’re like a blender stuck on frappé, aren’t you? Let us show you how it’s done.” She turns her head and I lean down to kiss her. God, she’s got beautiful lips. I could float around on them in a pool all day with a cocktail in my hand. I get lost in them for a bit, exploring kissing her, until David grumbles.

“Okay, sure, if you’re into all that mushy shit,” he says contemptuously, and with an edge of… is that… jealousy?

“Nothing mushy about it, David,” I say. I run my hand up his throat and grab his jawline hard, holding his face still for a second. Then I pull him towards me, my fingers still digging into his skin, and lean over Mills' shoulder to kiss him ever-so-tenderly, my lips soft and yielding against his. He’s so much stronger than I am, but he’s letting me do this. The contrast between where I’m almost bruising his jaw and the soft kisses is delicious. He freaking moans. Damn I’m good.

“Now let’s try that again, shall we, David?”

Mills tips her face up, and he kisses her a bit more slowly this time. She’s getting into the background music I put on, swaying and rolling, grinding her hips back and forth between us. I push her hair aside and start kissing down the back of her neck from behind one ear. She smells like strawberries.

We’re just getting into it when the doorbell rings.

“Grub’s up!” I pop up and drop my hands from where they’ve gotten entangled in David’s waistband and go to answer the door. David, predictably, freaks out.

“Fucking… let me at least put some clothes on!” He’s blushing like a tomato.

“Nobody cares, David.” I roll my eyes. “Millsy, can you toss a blanket over his head or something? Or just stash him in my room.”

I open the door – just a foot or so, in deference to David’s inexplicable modesty, honestly, what’s the point of being a gym bunny if you don’t flaunt it? – and collect our meal.

“Snacks now or snacks later?” I plonk everything on the kitchen bench.

“I think it’ll keep for a bit, don’t you?” Millsy grins. She’s got the door to my room open and is yanking David inside by the belt. I put the bedside lamp on earlier, and threw a scarf over it, so it’s all dimly lit and sexy in there. Nobody can say I don’t go the extra mile.

David starts pawing ineptly at Mills’ waistband. It’s kind of sad, really. I have to go over and snake my hands around to unhook the flat bar closure for him.

“Should we let him have a go at your bra? Might be funny.” I suggest to Mills. She giggles and pulls off her top.

“Have at it, caveman,” she sniggers.

“Ugh, I know how to take off a bra,” David rolls his eyes.

“Well, then, help a gal out,” Millsy says. “Want me to turn around for you?”

“No! I… aurgh.”

What follows is six to ten seconds of champagne comedy. David’s got both hands around behind Millsy’s back, and he’s looking off and up to the side, and feeling around blind like he’s in a Tom and Jerry cartoon with his hand in a mousehole. The look of concentration gets even better when he sticks his tongue in between his teeth. I don’t think he even realises he’s doing it. It’s majestic.

Mills and I keep a straight face as long as we possibly can, until eventually I snort, setting her off, and we both dissolve into mirth.

“Fuck off, I’ve nearly got it,” David mutters resentfully, still trying.

“Oh, this is so good!” I gasp.

Mills turns around slowly and theatrically. David does not comment on this concession. I’m torn between leaning over and unsnapping it for him with one hand, and just letting the hilarity roll on. The decision is made for me; he finally manages to unhook the third hook, and the bra comes loose. David looks both triumphant and humiliated, which just makes Millsy and I laugh even harder.

“Good job!” Mills says, between gasps, turning back around, now topless, and holding out her hand to shake David’s like they’ve just met at a business meeting. I’m in actual tears.

David growls and, taking her hand, pulls her in to kiss her, the other hand going straight to cup her breast, his fingers crushing it a little. Whoah. The boner that nearly died amongst the gales of laughter is back, baby. Apparently, David’s found his groove again.

—🐈—

I watch them for a second or thirty, my hand drifting down to my crotch to rub my dick, before I decide I’m overdressed. Hastily, I pull off my shirt, and push down my joggers and yank them off. Then I stroll over behind David and run one hand up his spine to the back of his neck, grasp it hard, then kiss down the side of his throat. My other hand snakes round his hip to his belly, then down under his waistband to the Swiss roll in his pants, caressing the underside. His jeans are a bit too tight, so I unbutton and unzip him, and it gives me enough room that I can start rubbing him in earnest. He moans into Mills’ mouth and squeezes her breast harder. She pushes her own trousers off and steps out of them, and then pushes both of us onto the bed on our backs. I get a foot around her knee and haul her over on top of us. She giggles and then realises what she’s lying on: David’s monster dick.

“Oh, golly gosh!” she says.

I lose my shit again.

“Golly gosh?” I gasp through tears of laughter. “Mills, you have killed me stone dead.”

“Oh my god, shut up, Olly,” she slaps me. She doesn’t really care; she goes straight back to her new toy, rubbing her hand up and down it, through David’s pants.

“Don’t shake it too much, babe, just unwrap it,” I suggest. “Happy birthday.”

She squeals and wriggles back up to pull off David’s jeans. Then she pulls off his pants, letting the behemoth spring free.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” she tips her head sideways and stares at it for a long minute.

“Are you just gonna–” David starts.

“Shhhhh.” She puts her finger to her lips, then waves her hand vaguely the direction of his face without moving her eyes a millimetre.

“Right?” I enthuse.

“You do the bottom, I’ll do the top,” she suggests, and I’m very amenable. I wriggle down and get my mouth on David’s shaft, while Mills gets those fabulous lips on the tip. David lets out a strangled gasp. We work him together, occasionally sneaking off him to smooch each other. I reach down and find one of her boobs and cup it, teasing the nipple gently with my thumb, while she finds my dick in my pants and starts jerking me off.

I leave one hand stroking David’s dick, letting the other one drift down to Millsy’s knickers, and… well, hello.

“Mills! Side-tie! You saucy minx, you!” I crow.

She shrugs. “It’s my birthday. And if you can’t wear your side-tie knickers for a threesome, why bother even owning them?”

I do one side of them and she does the other. I take the opportunity to lose my own knickers while I’m at it.

“Get up on the pillows, and let’s see what kind of skills David has,” I suggest.

She grins.

David, it turns out, does not have any skills. He complains when I roll him over and Millsy spreads her legs. Then, under the combined weight of both our judgy gazes, he has a perfunctory lick or three, then tries to crawl up and out of his responsibilities.

Of course he sucks at giving head to women. Low-grade misogyny, thy name is David. Curse every man that taught him it was ok to suck at this, and every woman who ever faked it, or let him skip it. I weave my fingers into his hair and stop him dead.

“Uh uh uh, David, oral is standard. You want to get it? You give it,” I tell him, guiding his head back down to Millsy’s crotch.

I straddle his back and lean down into his shoulder. “Okay, David, do you know where the clitoris is? I can draw you a map?”

“For fuck’s – yes, Olly, I know where the fucking clitoris is,” he says, as though that should be self-evident, despite his complete failure to do anything with it, not thirty seconds ago.

“Good. Get your mouth on it. You can switch between flicking it with the tip of your tongue, and sucking on it. And maybe try both together and see if that’s a crowd-pleaser.”

I’ve still got my hand gripped in his hair, and I push his mouth into Mills’ clit and hold it there, and fuck if it isn’t three-chilli hot. He gives a little whimper and I worry I might have gone too far for a second, but then he drops one hand and slides it under himself to rub his cock, and gets to work with his tongue, trying his best to follow my instructions.

“That’s itttt, good boy. You look so hot like this,” I murmur into his ear. Mills rolls her head back on the pillows and starts playing with her nipples. I push his head even further into her crotch. “Ok, now get that mouth on, and suck.” He obeys and Millsy moans.

“Fancy some fingers, bella?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t say no,” she gasps. I tap the arm that isn’t working his cock.

“You heard the lady. Two fingers. Gently at first, and then you can go harder. If you hit any resistance, tell me and I’ll get the lube.” God, he feels good between my thighs. I wonder if he’d freak out if I shuffled down and ground on his arse crack. Probably. Sigh. I settle for grinding on his lower back.

Mills gasps and starts moaning rhythmically, one hand still on her nipple, the other sneaking down to join mine in his hair. David’s fucking her with two fingers and still sucking her clit. I pin her thighs up with both hands.

“Now add some tongue flicks, baby,” I suggest. He clearly does because Mills nearly jumps a foot in the air.

“Oh, fuck, darling,” she gasps. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, yes, that’s it, oh, fuck.”

“Listen to that, David,” I whisper in his ear. “Isn’t that just the best thing you’ve ever heard?” He whimpers again, his mouth still hard on her clit. “Bet you haven’t heard much of that before. But don’t worry, we’ll make a sex god out of you yet. Keep flicking and fucking, baby. Don’t stop until I tell you you can.”

Mills is getting louder and louder, her gasps turning into moans, and her moans turning into yells.

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she screams, and then comes hard, lifting up off the pillows, her toes curled up and her soft thighs jiggling and convulsing under my hands.

“Don’t stop,” I tell him. “But you can loosen up and slow right down. Just the occasional slow hard swipe now.”

I can tell when he’s doing it, because every single one wrings another spasm out of Millsy. Eventually she goes limp, all shuddery, and I put a hand back in David’s hair, running my fingers through it, gently caressing his scalp.

“There you go, You did such a good job, David. You can stop now. Come up and take a look at your handiwork.” I purr into his ear. Millsy’s still basically a boneless mess. I pull David’s face round and snog his pussy-juice soaked lips. He tastes amazing. Then I clamber up to lie next to Mills, planting some leisurely kisses on her. She purrs right back, arms flung back on the pillow, luxuriating like a cat in a sunbeam.

David’s up on his elbows, and he’s got a look on his face like he’s just smashed some kind of high score… no. Surely not. The guy’s thirty fucking four years old. Surely this isn’t the first time he’s made a girl come without using the cheat code attached to his crotch. I’m so flooded with the enormity of the million kinds of shit I have to give him for this, that my brain short-circuits, and I actually end up gasping like a fish and saying nothing. Which might be a first time for me, too.

“Mmmmm, that was very nice,” Mills murmurs hazily, while I’m still trying to process. “Now I want to watch you sucking Olly off.”

Gay panic spreads over David’s face.

“Come on, pretty boy.” She runs her hand down to her wet clit. “I bet you’d be stunning with a dick in your mouth. Give the people what they want.” She hooks a hand back into his hair and pulls him gently over to my cock, which is leaking just a smidge in anticipation.

I can see the fear warring with the horniness in his eyes, but he lets her pull his head onto my dick, and once he’s there, he clearly decides he may as well roll with it. I shudder and moan as he slides down my shaft and then licks his way back up again.

“Oh, yes, darling. Right down to the hilt. Do you like choking a little, sweetpea? Hmm?” says Mills, rubbing herself lazily. I lean over and suck one of her nipples into my mouth, tonguing it gently, my hand finding the other one.

“Omgh fughhh,” I say, as David hits pubes. How is he so good at this and so rubbish at everything else? He’s going slower than the last couple of times, and after he jams my whole dick in his mouth a few times, he pauses to spit on his hand before starting to jerk me off while licking around the head. It’s so good I swear I’m getting tingles in my extremities. I leave off Mills’ nipple for a bit and kiss her in time to David’s work on my dick, gasping into her mouth.

“You ready to go again yet, bella?” I ask Mills. She shrugs, rolling her shoulders on the pillow. “God, I want to fuck you.” I slide my hand down over hers on her clit, taking over the leisurely rubbing.

Down on my dick, David growls. Is he… jealous? Of which of us?

“Hey baby, it’s not your birthday,” I remind him.

“Let’s make him watch for a bit,” Millsy suggests. She reaches over to my bedside table for a condom and my lube.

David seems reluctant to pop off my dick. I’m calling it progress. Here he is, in front of someone who’s basically a complete stranger, not even pretending he didn’t enjoy having a fat mouthful of the D. I roll on the condom and add a bit of lube, and Mills climbs on top of me. I rub her clit and then spread her pussy open, and she slides onto my dick, gasping in a stuttered breath.

“Look at that, David,” I mutter, reaching up to squeeze her boobs. I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s rolled onto his side, up on one elbow, and is working himself. His mouth is hanging slightly open. I run my hands down to Mills’ waist and grip it hard, and start fucking up into her, slow but fairly hard. She’s into it, letting me hold her up, her hands back on my thighs and her head rolled back, panting already. But honestly, I’m not built for strength, and after a couple of very pleasant minutes, my arms start to get tired.

“Get over here and make yourself useful, muscles,” I reach out and tap him. “Come straddle my legs behind Millsy.”

David clambers over, and I pull his arms tight around Mills’ torso. “Hold her up for me, baby.”

He gets a good grip on her, one hand on a breast, the other across her stomach, and she leans back into him. He’s got his face in her hair and he’s grinding on her arse; I momentarily wish I could see that instead of just inferring it from the available evidence. Still, I’m not complaining. I’m balls deep in a beautiful girl who’s being held tight by a perfect Norse god, both of who are pinning me to the bed.

I take advantage of my newly-freed hands to jam my thumb into Mills’ clit, and she gasps, arching into David, twisting her head and pulling him around to her to snog him.

David leans into it, then suddenly pulls Mills backwards, off my dick, and grabs a condom.

“Hey!” she protests.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What?” he says, the condom still between his teeth, looking back and forth between us with apparently genuine surprise, covered with a crispy shell of automatic defensiveness.

“Didn’t you ever learn any manners? We don’t just grab what we want, David. We ask politely. Especially when what we want is a person who has a say in the matter.”

“You don’t always ask,” he says petulantly.

“That’s because I don’t have the emotional intelligence of a ream of A4 paper,” I point out. “Although, now I look at it, I’m not sure you have the emotional intelligence of a ream of A4 paper either.”

“Fuck off!” he argues articulately.

“Oh, right then. Am I mistaken, David, and you’re actually perfectly capable of reading non-verbal cues, but you just choose not to?”

David, faced with two unarguable options that both make him look bad, resorts to sulking.

“How shall we punish him, Olly?” Millsy asks.

“Hmmm… we could make him sit in the corner and watch us?”

“Probably hotter than making him write ‘I will seek clear consent when trying something new’ fifty times on the blackboard,” she snorts. “Why don’t you fuck me from behind and he can sit here and look at the lips he’s not allowed to put his dick between?” She licks them illustratively. I don't know what kind of indestructible lipstick she's got on, but that red is staying put.

I nod and twist to kneel on the bed. This'll be fun. Millsy wriggles around in front of me, her face less than a foot from David’s monster cock.

“Touch either of us without express permission, and you’ll be getting your rocks off to PornHub tonight,” I warn him. Then I push into Mills and she moans.

I’m not fucking her that hard, so I know she’s laying it on thick with the noises she’s making. David’s still trying to look petulant but he’s sweating bullets. Fuck it, let’s have some fun. I add some dirty groaning to the mix.

“Fuck, Millsy, you’re so wet,” I chew the scenery a bit. “And so tight. Fuuuuuuuck. Oh Christ. God, you should see this, David. Watching my dick just disappear into this pretty pussy.” I groan some more.

David’s given up trying to pretend he isn’t desperate. He’s got his hand around his dick and he keeps swallowing hard.

“Fucking why am I here if I can’t even do anything,” he complains.

“You’re learning, David. Learning how not to suck as a person. Learning how to ask permission and take no for an answer. And apparently, unless I’m much mistaken, learning how to get a girl off for the literal first time in your life?”

Ahhh, there you are. Better late than never, God-given shit-giving talent. David scoffs, but the fire-engine hue of his face and his inability to hold eye contact tells me I hit that nail squarely in the dick.

I reach around Mills’ hip and find her clit, and she starts moaning in earnest. She’s got her mouth open and her eyes closed, and every thrust pushes her spectacular red lips a little closer to David’s crotch. He can’t take his eyes off them, and I hear a little whine escape his mouth. It’s pretty hot.

“You probably think it’s weak to ask permission, but being a decent person is the key to doors you didn’t even know existed, David.” I lean down and kiss Millsy’s back. “What do you want next, Birthday Bella?”

“I wanna make him watch us both come,” she gasps.

I make a long purry noise of agreement, straighten up, and let loose with my hips, snapping hard and pulling her into me by her clit and one hip. I can feel that familiar tightening feeling in my balls. Then Mills clamps down with her pelvic floor and suddenly I’m helpless.

“Oh, fuck, Millsy, fuck fuck fuck,” I gasp.

“Yes, Olly, fuck yes, I’m going to come,” she shrieks.

“Oh god, yes, come so hard, bella! Fucking fuck oh god fuck–”

I feel the first clench of her orgasm and I’m a goner. I’m coming balls-deep into the condom inside her. She’s making unholy groaning noises and strangling my dick. I keep fucking her until she finally collapses onto her face. Then I collapse onto my side.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I moan.

A strangled little noise from David reminds me that we’ve got an audience. He’s fapping furiously, his eyes flicking between us. I don’t think I really understood the term ‘green with envy’ until right now.

“Shit, we forgot to forbid him to touch himself,” I snigger, carefully pulling off the condom.

“Aww, c’mon, Olly, that would just be cruel,” Mills mumbles into the mattress, flopping over on her side.

“Mmmmm,” I hum appreciatively, reaching out an arm to caress her spine, and then I haul her back into my front and kiss along her shoulder. “Water?”

“Darling,” she gasps. I pass her the water bottle from the bedside table and devote myself to watching the post-match entertainment.

It’s very entertaining. David’s got his hand around that perfect specimen and is pulling it hard, letting his foreskin roll over the tip and then pulling it back. I relent.

“Come on, get up here,” I tell him. “Now find a way to politely ask if Millsy would be amenable to you fucking her titties.”

He’s up between us so fast he’s basically a blur.

“Can I… uh…”

Mills rolls her eyes.

“I’d love to fuck your titties, Millsy,” I say slowly, and then make a little hand-rolling now-you gesture.

“I’d love to fuck your titties, Mills,” he says. He does a surprisingly credible job of sounding sincere, and not like a six-year-old repeating instructions. Mills pretends to think about it.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” She swipes a hand through her wet crotch and then across her chest, which, meyowwww. Then she pushes her juicy little boobs together. I feel my dick twitching again already. David groans and slides his fat cock in between them. God, I want a little model of this in a snow-globe forever. He’s got his hands up on the top rail of the bedhead and he’s letting his dick slide in between Mills’ tits, and she opens her mouth and lets the tip of his dick catch her tongue on the upswing. I lick my fingers and lazily reach up and play with his nipple, and yet again he goes bonkers. It’s like nobody’s ever touched them before. He’s gasping and twitching and moaning.

“Goddamn, Olly, is he always like this?” Mills leaves off licking her ice lolly to ask me.

“Yup,” I affirm.

“Holy shit. It’s so fucking hot. Fuck it. Get a condom, big boy, I’m going again.”

David, still fucking her tits, apparently can’t process this, so I retrieve the one he dropped earlier and rip it open with my teeth. Mills lets her tits go and I grab his dick and roll the condom on it.

Mills clambers up and pushes him onto his back, then knee-walks over until she’s on top of him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna need the lube, Olly,” she gasps. I pass it over to her, and she rubs some into her pussy and then drags herself up and down the loaf.

I’m suddenly overcome with complete fucking throat-clenching jealousy that she’s going to get to ride that dick before I do. I kind of want to yank her off and tell her I’ve changed my mind. But before I can manage to make an embarrassing scene, she’s already sliding down him.

“Bloody Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, oh my god,” she says, somewhat ruining the effect. David doesn’t seem to mind. He’s got his hands on her hips and is trying to pull her down. She slaps his hands away. He tries to put them back, so I clamber over to his side and pin them up out of the way.

“Let the lady take her time, David,” I tell him.

“Fuck, Olly, he’s so big,” Mills says behind me. “I don’t think I can get him all in.”

“Don’t be a hero, bella,” I warn her. “It’s your birthday. Just have fun.”

I lean down and run my tongue over Mills’ clit, right where David’s dick is sliding in, letting it drift down the inches of David’s cock that are still out in the cold, then back up to Millsy again, and repeating.

“Oh, fuck, Olly,” Mills says. David can’t even manage that level of articulacy, he just groans. Apparently, I let his hands go at some point, because he puts one on Millsy again, trying to pull her down onto the rest of him, and one in my hair, pushing me on harder. She slaps his hand away again. Mmmmmnope. I come up, and throw a leg over him, straddling his chest. Then I pin his hands properly over his head.

“Just in case you’re wondering, when someone slaps your hand away, that means no, David.” I can’t believe I have to spell this out for him. “I’m sure you’d prefer Millsy to take the whole thing, but I find it hard to believe you’re exactly suffering here.”

This position has his mouth just inches from my cock, which is firming up nicely again. Mmmmmmm. I move it up a little closer to his mouth to see what he’ll do, not breaking eye contact.

He drops his mouth open and tips his head down to meet me. Yessssss.

I slide my semi in between his lips. Because I’m not all the way hard, I can get my whole dick comfortably in his mouth, and he loves it. He’s sucking on it like a chupa-chup and rolling it around with his tongue. He hasn’t broken eye contact yet, and neither have I.

Behind me, Mills has started swearing like a sailor and I can feel her bouncing up and down through David’s torso underneath me. His body is bucking up under me, but I’ve still got his wrists pinned. He’s whining and groaning around my dick, which is now very much back up to full steam.

“Who’s gonna come first? Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen,” I gasp. His mouth is so hot and wet, and his tongue is so good under me. I can’t stop myself from fucking his mouth, gently, trying to hold back, but oh my god.

“Oh my god,” Mills says behind me. Great minds. “Me first. I’m gonna come. Holy fuck.” She’s going at him like he’s a trampoline, and her beautiful groans get higher and higher pitched. Under me, David’s eyes have closed and he’s trying to arch under us both. I heart Millsy start coming, a flood of yesses and ohhhs and swearing and wordless moans. David’s obviously close and so am I. I spare a hand off his wrists and reach down behind me, feeling around for the magic button on his chest. I find a nipple, tweak it hard, and it works better than ever; he screams on my dick, his whole body convulsing, his abs crunching so hard he manages to literally lift my entire body weight a couple of inches, and I can’t take it any longer. I shoot into him, fucking my cock deep into his mouth, half-collapsing over his arms. Millsy’s still coming behind me, her groans turning long and guttural now, and I think about how he’s buried tight in her juicy little pussy with my cock in his mouth, and it coaxes another rope of jizz out of me.

When I finally stop coming – Millsy’s still at it – I wriggle back out of David’s mouth and he swallows my come. I let go of his hands and shuffle down until I feel Millsy’s tits on my back. Then I lean over and snog the absolute shit out of him. Eventually I can’t hold myself up anymore and I pitch over to one side, but I keep snogging him, and he turns his head to the side and keeps snogging me right back, letting his tongue lazily tangle with mine, slow and soft and blissed out.

“How do I feel like a third wheel when I’m literally still on your dick?” Millsy complains. I pat the space between us, and she joins us in a heap. I wrap my arm around her, and caress her gently, but I don’t stop kissing David, and he doesn’t stop kissing me.

—🍔—

We’re out in the living room again, with plates of dips and pide and fat Turkish baked beans. David’s put his pants back on. Millsy’s wearing her fancy knickers and one of my T-shirts. I’ve annexed David’s shirt. It’s a nice shade of dark green, and I’ve decided I want it, so I’m lounging about in it with the buttons undone.

“Why do you have such stupid tattoos?” David asks me suddenly.

“The word you’re looking for, David, is ignorant. I have ignorant tattoos.”

“Yeah, but like, a girl with her head on a string? What’s that about?” he asks. “And what does ‘taco cat goat cheese pizza’ even mean?” He sniggers. “Did you get it tattooed on in case you forget what to order at Giuseppe’s?”

“Why do you have a ridiculous fake fireplace when you can clearly afford a real one? Or just get a normal energy efficient heater, like a sane person?” I counter.

“Hey! My fireplace is fucking cool. It looks awesome. And why would I give a shit what you think of it?” he says defensively.

I make a sweeping gesture that scoops up my tattoos and ends in his direction.

“Oh,” he says.

I reach over and ruffle his hair. He ducks out from under it and tells me to fuck off. He hasn’t noticed that in all that over-the-top flinching, his plate has tipped into the shirt, and now there’s hummus all over it.

I click my tongue theatrically, looking at the greasy smear on the overpriced sateen. I put aside my plate and head to the laundry. Before David can stop me, I’ve thrown his shirt in the washing machine and hit start.

“Olly, what the fuck? That’s my shirt? I need to, like, get home?” he protests, not realising that the shirt is more truly lost to him than if I’d thrown it over the event horizon of a black hole.

“You got hummus on it,” I point out. “I’ll grab you something to wear home.” I duck into my room and emerge with a T-shirt.

“And I want this back, by the way. I don’t lend just anyone my coyote-eating-pizza-on-a-skateboard shirt,” I tell him.

The look on his face is beyond my wildest dreams. He looks like he's swallowed a whole egg.

Millsy cackles. “God, Olly, you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

Chapter Text

“I know a guy in Bromley who has a ping-pong table,” I say, with a surge of that special joy that comes only from knowing you are probably about to start some shit.

Bailey, Oscar, Ava and I are in a little huddle on the street outside Brixton House. Eska Mtungwazi’s new collab’s gig was amazing and we’re all feeling a bit giddy, but it started early and finished earlier, and after a well-behaved encore, everyone just filed out and left, to – I don’t know, go to bed, or water their taxes, or eat microgreens on pressed duck, or whatever it is old people do on a Friday night? So now, the night is young, and we’re all just hyped up and standing around on the street. Georgie’s got a possible lead on a club later, but she’s out on a date now, and I don’t feel like going home. Bailey floated the pub round the corner as an option, but I checked it out on the way here, and it looks like some old guy in a flat cap might set his pig on us if we went in the wrong door.

I reach into my pocket and cave to the temptation I’ve been trying to avoid for weeks now. I’ve been so virtuous. Well, I suppose being virtuous about not exacerbating a problem you literally created isn’t really virtue, but… well, I’m about to be bad anyway, so that sorts the whole philosophical dilemma. I crack open Snapchat and open David’s Snap Maps.

When I put Snapchat on his phone I didn’t think to turn Snap Maps off, and of course he’s a gormless boomer who leaves his location on all the time, and I can hardly clue him up at this point. I’m that burglar in the heist gone wrong: I’m in it up to my neck, and I’m going to have to commit to the life of crime.

His pin is placed squarely in Chelsea; probably in some skanky club that scams you six hundred quid for a ‘VIP’ table rather than waiting in line with the plebs.

I flip over to messages and send him a text.

Baguette Boy

8:17pm

Me:

coming to your place with booze and cool people to play ping pong, getting the tube so text next 3 mins if any objections

8:22pm

Me:

great! c u soon

Ava, reading over my shoulder, snorts.

“Your consent work is impeccable,” she says drily. “You should write a book.”

“Where access to a ping-pong table is concerned, it’s about the letter of the law, not the spirit,” I defend myself. “It had, like, an inch of dust on it. We’re basically liberating it from unjust detention. Anyway, if we pick him up a six-pack of beer and don’t raid his wanker whisky collection, he won’t care.”

“Maybe you could do an extract for the Guardian.” Dammit, Ava, I’m supposed to be the sassy one here.

Half an hour and one visit to Tesco later, and we’re popping up out of the Bromley tube station loaded with snacks and booze. I check my phone; he hasn’t replied. It’s an old-school SMS so I couldn’t even tell if he’d seen it or not if I wanted to, your honour. His pin is still firmly in Chelsea, probably getting stiffed £200 for bottles of that stupid vodka served in the glass skull of a grinning maniac.

I lead our merry band of criminals to his apartment complex and am secretly delighted when the fob still works. I know it’s Sarah’s, but he could have cancelled it if he really wanted to.

Everyone is appropriately impressed-slash-contemptuous of David’s apartment. I give them a quick tour of every charcoal and charcoal-adjacent object in the place, right down to the brushed gunmetal silverware. Then we roll up our sleeves and commence Operation Ping-Pong Liberation.

It doesn’t take too long between all of us, operating like a bucket chain, to wrestle out all the other detritus and extract the ping-pong table. It takes a lot longer to work out how to set the fucking thing up.

Bailey comes over all masc and gets down on the floor to see if he can bully it with pure manpower, without much luck. I’m reduced to googling the model number for a product manual online. I hate reading the manual, but Oscar has mixed me a couple of screwdrivers already, so I graciously admit defeat. Ironically, I discover we need an actual screwdriver, of the non-alcoholic type.

Finding and rifling David’s tool drawer – heh, tool – I locate and brandish the Phillips head triumphantly. Then I’m momentarily distracted by something else in the drawer: a fat black marker.

“One second, Bails,” I say.

I help myself to a couple of sheets of paper off David’s desk and carefully cut out a pair of large circles. Then I locate some blu-tack, and take my finds over to the fireplace, where I carefully stick the paper circles to the hood, then add a pair of drunken eye dots. I step back to admire my handiwork. Ava sniggers, and Oscar and I nod approvingly.

A few minutes later, after a bit of wrangling between us, Bailey and I have managed to produce a functional piece of sporting equipment. That reminds me, I really must buy a flannel lumberjack shirt. After this, I deserve it.

Within minutes, we’ve got the bag of balls open, and Oscar is wiping the floor with us. Ava, who’s on his team, is just mostly trying to stay out of his way.

“Oscar, you dark pony, you!” I crow, as he smashes the ping-pong ball neatly between Bailey’s and my defences. “Who knew you were secretly a jock?”

“I don’t think ping-pong counts as a jock skill, Olly,” Oscar protests, but he fucking loves it.

Ava’s given up on holding up her end of the table, realising she’s just getting in Oscar’s way, and she drifts off to find David’s speaker. She puts on some Korean hip-hop, and frankly tonight is shaping up into a very pleasant evening.

We’re a few drinks and several games in when the door opens and David flops through it. He’s still in his fancy corporate suit. I swallow a laugh. It’s charcoal.

“David!” I shout enthusiastically. “Are you any good at ping-pong? We’re getting our arses handed to us by Oscar.”

“What the actual fuck?” he says, a bit slurrily, looking around at all the smoking hotties in his house.

“Also we bought you beer,” I slide in before he can get his back up too much.

“Who the fuck are all these people, Olly?” he demands.

“David, meet Bailey, Oscar and Ava,” I politely introduce them. “Bailey and Oscar are my housemates. Ava’s our friend. Our concert finished early and we were down this way and your ping-pong table needed liberating from its closety prison.” I’ve cracked the top off a lager and I hand it to him. It doesn’t distract him as much as I’d hoped.

“Olly, you can’t just come over here whenever you feel like it. And you absolutely fucking cannot bring random people to my house.”

“Well, lucky none of these people are random, then!” I pass David a bat. “Come help me defend your home turf honour because Oscar is creaming me and Bailey, and not in a good way.”

“You need to give back my apartment fob, you absolute fucking little menace,” he says, but he’s letting me drag him to the ping-pong table.

“David! Language!” I say in my best Sarah Nelson. He flinches in automatic filial guilt and I suppress a snigger. “Sarah entrusted me with it, so I’ll give it back to her and none other. Okay, Oscar, we’re ready.” I’ve got my serious ping-pong face on, and Oscar serves. I manage to hit it back twice before Osc knocks it out of the park on a sharp diagonal.

David’s still yapping about his house keys but I’ve stopped listening, and after a couple of points to Oscar, he stops talking, too, and starts trying to hit the ball; he likes being on the losing team about as much as I do. Bailey, who’s stepped out to allow the man of the house to compete, starts doing a BBC One Wimbledon-style commentary from the back of the sofa.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that David’s fairly good at ping-pong, given he literally owns the table, but it’s still obscurely a tiny bit… annoying? Luckily he’s not quite as good as Oscar, which means he’s really having to work for it. He loses his jacket and tie, kicks off his shoes and socks and rolls up his sleeves, which looks somewhere between ridiculous and smoking hot.

After a while, he and I get a good rhythm going between us, and the balance starts to tip. Or possibly the booze starts hitting Oscar’s bloodstream – I’ll take it, either way. We surge from behind, and after an intense twenty minutes, we’ve evened the score to two-all matches. We’re doing best-three-out-of-five. The last match comes down to the wire, but David skids back an absolute tangent of a shot and Osc misses it by a millimetre, and the crowd goes wild. We’ve won it. I jump on David’s back, holding my ping-pong bat in the air like a lightning rod of glory.

“Victory lap!” I shriek.

David crows like a rooster and skids around the living room carrying me. I jump off and skid on my knees on his polished wooden floors in my best Freddie Mercury impression. David’s actually properly laughing as Ava hands him a celebratory beer. Osc bows in defeat, graciously not mentioning that the two of us barely scraped a victory over one of him, and produces a joint like a fucking stage magician. David’s good mood drops off noticeably and he pointedly opens the balcony door. I roll my eyes. We’re not fucking heathens.

I’m loading up drinks and snacks to take out when David corners me in the kitchen. It seems his millisecond-long character arc of being a chill, fun human being has already come to a close.

“Olly, this is cute and all, but you cannot just break into my house with a bunch of strangers and drugs and booze and make yourselves at home. I’ll let it slide this time, but seriously, if you try this shit on again, I’m calling the cops.”

“Oh, okay. Fair enough. I’m curious, though. How are you going to explain me to the boys in blue?” I raise an eyebrow. “I mean, if it were a matter of the law, I’d have to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I put my hand flat on a jumbo bag of cheese and onion crisps, and hold the other one up virtuously.

I literally watch that one playing out in real-time on David’s face as he walks through it, and realises he’s absolutely not calling the cops.

“You fucking still can’t just show up here. It’s a fucked up thing to do.”

“It is a bit of a cunty thing to do, isn’t it?” I purr. “Probably not as bad as outing your teenage brother to your dad, though. I sort of vaguely remember that dinner, though I’ve got to admit I was more excited about meeting your dogs than I was about meeting you. I was six, after all.” I’m probably being unnecessarily mean right now, but… truth, whole truth, right?

“I mean, maybe you disagree?” I continue. “Maybe you’d rather I followed your shining example of how to behave, than that I came round to play a bit of ping-pong on your criminally underused ping-pong table.”

He freezes like a kitten grabbed by the scruff.

“Mmmm… that’s what I thought. But just so you know, I might haul your ping-pong table out of the closet, but I’d never haul you out of the closet, David. Because I might be a cunt, but I’m not a fucking cunt. Now come outside and have some booze and salty snacks and leafy greens and stop being such an uptight prick.”

He follows me onto the balcony. He’s obviously not happy about it, but what do I care? He’s a terrible person.

We all end up trying to see who can keep a ping-pong ball bouncing on a bat longest, and it’s fucking chaos. David actually relaxes and starts being something approaching decent company. I lose my ping-pong ball over the edge of the balcony, which sends me into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles.

“How far do you think it’ll bounce,” I gasp between clutching my stomach. “Do you think it’ll reach terminal velocity and take someone out?”

Everyone’s in tears laughing, even David. He flicks another ball off the balcony and yells ‘That’s payback for what you did to my dog!’ indiscriminately over the edge into the darkness. We’re back on track for a good night.

—

Oscar and I have gotten up to ‘Watermelon? I thought you said Guatemalan! Why would I marry a watermelon?’ in our a cappella rendition of Bee Movie, when Ava shambles to life up off one of David’s gourmet beanbags.

“K, dolls, I’m gonna head off,” she says. “Georgie’s friend came through and got us on the guest list for that club in the old laundromat. Wanna come with, Bailey?”

“Sure,” Bailey replies from the depths of the other beanbag.

“Olly?”

“I think I’ll stay here,” I say.

“Oscar?”

Oscar looks at me and raises an eyebrow slightly. He might as well have used a megaphone. Do you want me to stay here and help seduce your hot closet case for a three-dick three-way?

I give a micro-smirk and a tiny shoulder shrug. Can’t hurt to try?

We’re such an old married couple.

“I’ll stay here for a bit,” Oscar says.

Bails and Ava pile into their jackets and head downstairs, leaving David and Osc and me alone.

David’s leaning on the balcony. By unspoken agreement, Oscar and I get up and join him.

“So… thanks for letting us hang out at your place tonight,” Osc says.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get a say in the matter,” David grumbles. “But I suppose it was fun,” he adds grudgingly.

“Olly gave me the impression that once you loosened up a bit, you could be… surprisingly fun,” Osc smirks.

“Why would that be a surprise?” David says, only vaguely defensively. Apparently the weed has improved his personality a mite.

“What can I say, David, I’ve… heard a lot about you,” Oscar says, licking his fucking lips.

“All good things?” says David, apparently automatically, like we’re all 42, at a dinner party making conversation over trout goujons.

“No… no, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Osc says, deadpan. “But he did list some of your more… endearing traits.” He lets a fairly suggestive smile creep up one side of his mouth.

“Wait, you two actually… uh… talked about…” David suddenly doesn’t know where to look.

“Oscar and I talk about everything, David. We’re best friends. That’s what best friends do.” I snake an arm around Oscar’s waist. “Mind you, I suppose we are pretty close even for besties.” I smile at Osc, who tips his head so I can kiss him. The weed means I get a bit lost in the kiss, and when I surface again, I realise David’s literally grinding his teeth. I can actually see the muscle in his jaw clenching.

“Aww, David! No need to be jealous. Oscar and I aren’t a romantic thing. Just pals. Buddies. Friends who enjoy each other’s company, and the occasional shared release of stress.”

“I’m not jealous,” David grates through his teeth. He looks away, trying to act casual. He’s not that great of an actor.

“Maybe I can help you with that,” Oscar says. He steps over to David and, wrapping a hand around David’s neck, leans in and kisses him.

Whoah. What the fuck.

It’s like I feel the jealousy well right from the back of my neck all the way down to my fingertips. Physically. My throat and chest freeze up as Oscar and David lock lips, one of Osc’s hands woven into David’s hair, the other creeping up his chest. David’s eyes are shut and his face looks blissed out. He’s really getting into the kiss, and his hands have come up to Osc’s waist, making tiny gentle stroking motions. I want Osc to take his fucking hands off him. I want Osc to take his fucking hands off my…

My what, exactly?

I am suddenly feeling a lot of feelings I was not planning to be feeling about thirty seconds ago, and they’re new, and uncomfortable, and I do not like them. Without consciously leaving, I find myself in the kitchen, apparently pouring myself a drink, despite the fact that I’m pretty sure I had a full one a couple of minutes ago.

Out of nowhere, I feel Osc’s chin hook itself over my shoulder, and his hands knot around my waist in a hug.

“Hey, you okay?” he says. I don’t really know how to answer that one so I sort of shrug vaguely.

“I think I’m gonna head,” he says. “I’m gonna catch up with Bailey and Ava, they’re still walking to the station.”

“What? I thought you were staying?” I’m confused, but I’m also hit by a vicious stab of joy.

“Mmmm… nah,” he smiles. “Think I’ll leave you two to it.” He kisses me on the cheek, lingeringly, then grabs his coat and he’s gone.

I take my unnecessary drink back out to the balcony, where David is standing, staring out at the buildings surrounding his own.

“Where’d Oscar go?” he asks me.

“What do you care?” I ask, like a petulant fourteen-year-old.

“I don’t,” he says, in a weirdly intense voice. We stand there, something bubbling between us. I knock back half my drink, put the rest down carefully, and stare at him.

Then we’re on each other.

It’s not tender. It’s not slow. It’s fast, and for some reason, it’s angry. He hooks my legs apart with his feet. I grab his neck and force him up against the glass of his sliding door. He grabs my shirt by the collar and twists his fist into it, choking me a little. I hook my hand into his belt and let my knuckles push hard into his abdomen. All the while, we’re kissing, fighting for who gets to cram their tongue into whose mouth. I win that fight for the moment, but then he rakes his teeth lightly on my tongue. God, what I wouldn’t give to fuck him tonight. Just bend him over the back of that overdesigned leather sofa of his and fuck him senseless. His hole must be as tight as a brand-new piercing.

I use the hand in his belt to yank him inside the house, and push him against the wall. Then I grab one of his thighs and hitch it up to my waist. He growls and hooks it behind my knee to destabilise me, then with apparently very little effort, flips our positions so I’m the one against the wall. I can feel the loaf of his erection grinding against my own, and I get to work on his belt and trousers. He’s sucking hickeys viciously into my neck and I grab his hair and yank him back and start to return the courtesy. He gasps, then suddenly pulls me away.

“Nothing above the collar, Olly,” he hisses.

“What, you don’t want your workmates to know your baby brother’s husband’s baby brother made you moan like a little bitch while I marked you?” I smirk, rolling back into the hand he’s twisted into my curls. “I can work with that.”

I yank open his shirt, popping off a couple of buttons, and pull aside his collar so I can latch onto his clavicle, sucking a fat hickey into his shoulder.

“And if I get sloppy, you can always go down to Boots for some Maybelline in #001 Whitest Privilege.” I say into his soft, soft skin as he tries to suppress more of those tasty little moans. I run a hand up underneath his shirt and find Ol’ Faithful and tweak it, and while he’s incapacitated with pleasure I shove him back until he’s against the sofa. I rip off a few more buttons, then I push his shirt completely off and plant my mouth on his nipple where my hand was.

It’s the first time I’ve gotten one of them in my mouth and he pretty much loses his shit. I feel a bit like I’m cheating. How am I doing basic stuff to this guy and he’s acting like I’m rolling out the red carpet? Is every girl he’s fucking worried about ruining her lipstick? I grab his dick through his pants and yank it, not particularly gently. His head drops back and his shoulders start shaking. I run my tongue around the little nub and bite it ever so gently, holding him up. Then I move over to the other one and give it the same treatment. He’s busy writhing like a hooked fish, moaning, and wreaking havoc on my curls. Guess I’m resigned to washing them now, thanks, David. I step back to yank off his trousers. He puts his weight on his hands on the back of the sofa and lifts up to let them slide off. I repeat the process with his pants, and now I’m stood over his naked body, still fully clothed myself, which is, like, bafflingly hot? I grab his dick again and pull it roughly, then unzip my jeans and flop out my hard cock. I reach over and pull his hair so he slides down on his knees, naked in front of me. God, this is doing things to me.

He goes to swallow my cock but I hold his head back by his hair and just roll my tip around on his tongue. Then I slowly push in as deep as I can go, until he’s choking. That’ll teach him to…

Uh, wot, brain? Teach him to kiss Oscar, like, ten seconds after I did?

I shake that one off. Plenty of time to unpack that when I don’t have my dick in the mouth of an underwear model. I pull back and then slowly gag him again. He doesn’t seem to be objecting.

“Three taps if you want me to stop, David,” I remind him. I’m such a good dom. He’s stroking his own sausage, so I’m assuming he’s hated things more in his life, and I let myself go to town fucking his pretty mouth hard for a minute or two.

“God, David, you looks so good like this,” I murmur. “Fuck. Your mouth is so hot. I love having you on your knees for me. Do you like it as much as I do, David?” I gag him so he can’t answer. He chokes on my dick and then I let him go and he gasps, his eyes fluttering closed.

“I don’t think there’s any question about who won that little fight we just had,” I crow quietly.

Whoops. Mistake. I forgot about his competitive streak. I thought I was holding him on my dick, but apparently not, because he grabs my wrist, slides off me like an eel, and is up on his feet with apparently zero effort.

“Oh, you think so, do you, Olly?” he smirks. Fuck. Luck: officially pushed. He does something to my arm and suddenly he’s twisted me around into an armlock, and next thing I know, I’m bent over the back of the sofa with him behind me. I open my mouth to give him a serve, but then he grinds his dick into me from behind and I immediately revise my plans. I decide instead, after much consideration, on a sort of desperate strangled hiccuping noise.

“Now who’s winning?” he says smugly, still holding my arm pinned behind my back.

“Oh, sorry, David, pretty sure that’s still me,” I smirk, grinding back on him.

“Fucking cheeky little shit,” he says. He lets go of my arm and yanks my jeans and pants down to my knees. Then he pushes his dick up between my cheeks. It feels like leaning back on a light pole. Oh god. Is tonight the night? Am I gonna let him fuck me? But I’m drunk and stoned and have done zero prep. God, why don’t I ever do my homework? This is why I can’t have nice things.

“Spit on your dick,” I instruct him, wriggling out of my jeans and pants and pulling off my shirt. “Get it nice and wet for me.”

“Should I go get a–”

“Just spit on your dick, David.”

He does as he’s told.

I spit on my hand too, for good measure. Then I reach between my legs to grab his dick, and then I guide it into the warm crevice under my balls. Oh, god. It’s so big I can barely close my legs around it. The tip is poking out between my legs. I spit in my hand again and polish that pretty knob.

“Oh, fuck,” David says behind me. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He starts fucking my thigh gap like he’s hypnotised and has no choice. I’m shocked by how good it feels. He’s raking my balls and my dick is as hard as a magic wand. The base of his cock is pushing past my arsehole and the friction is spot on. He’s got his hands on my hips and he’s properly hammering into me now. I leave off his cockhead so I can grab his right hand and pull it around to my dick, which is still wet with his saliva, and oh boy, it’s just a treat. I can’t stop thinking about how good it’s going to feel when he’s delivering this railing to my prostate instead of my sack.

“Faster with your hand. I want both of us to come all over your fancy couch.”

“What? No fucking way! Do you have any idea how much this thing cost?” He stops jerking me off, and his pounding stills. I have got to learn when to shut up.

“Fine. Pass me your shirt.”

He doesn't move. I look back at him, crossing my legs so his dick is getting absolutely crushed, and pushing back.

“Pass. Me. Your. Shirt.”

I very much enjoy watching the struggle on his face as he debates going to get something more practical, but my hand is still rolling around his glans and while it's a lot harder than putty, it's just as much mine to play with.

He cracks, inevitably. It's delicious. He passes me his shirt, and I lay it down under us. Heh. Olly, three, David's overpriced shirts, zero.

I pull his hand back around to my dick and drag myself up and down in time with his thrusts. I lick the hand on his knob again and curl it around into a tight little sleeve for him to fuck.

“Come on, David. Fuck me. I wanna feel what your dick is like going right through me. Get that hand going faster. Yes. Just like that. Yesssss. Yessssssssss. Holy shit. Yes. Oh. Fuck.”

I'm coming everywhere in ropes and a second or so later, so is David.

It's a warm, tingly, drunk orgasm. If it had a colour, it'd be pink. It's long, and deliciously slow, and flows through me as David keeps fucking my thighs and working my cock. I don't stop him, even once I'm starting to verge on overstimulation. Instead, I stretch like a cat and uncross my ankles, unlocking myself from around the log I've been riding.

“Mmmmmmmm,” I declare, leaning back against David's torso and throwing my arms up to slide behind his head. He wraps both his arms around my torso and squeezes, slow and hard and languid. It’s very nice, but then just as I'm relaxing into it, he apparently frightens himself with his capability for basic human affectionate touch, and drops me like a hot brick. Signature moves: deepthroating and gay panic. Sigh.

After I’ve wiped the come off my legs with his guest hand towel and helped myself to a robe, I saunter back out into the living room to retrieve my drink. David’s now wearing sweatpants and nothing else. He looks unreasonably hot and mildly defensive.

“So you're heading off now, right?” he says. I roll my eyes.

“David, it's nearly 1am. The last train on the southeastern goes at like, ten past midnight. Oscar and Ava and Bails caught the last one.”

“You could get the bus?”

“Or, wild thought, I could just sleep here. I'm sure there's plenty of room on that king-size expanse of mattress of yours for you, me and Jesus to get a comfortable night’s rest. No dicks touching. After all, that’d be gay, and you're not gay, are you, David?” I reach down over the sofa and pass him his come-soaked shirt.

He takes it, sheepish resentment burning in his eyes. Ahhhhhh, post-nut clarity.

“I've got footy in the morning,” he says, irrelevantly.

“Great! Where do you play?”

“Brockwell Park,” he says reluctantly.

“Perfect, I've got a 10am shift, I'll hitch a lift halfway with you.”

“Jesus, Olly, can’t you take a fucking hint?”

“Hmmmm… not when the hint is coming from a place of deeply internalised homophobia and general fuckboy crap, David. I have a habit of coming over all oblivious at moments like those. But out of respect for your tender feelings, I’ll graciously take Sarah’s room.”

He twitches at that description of his spare bedroom.

“Yeah, thought so. She and I are the only people who’ve ever stayed here, aren’t we?”

“No,” he says, a little too quickly and wayyyy too defensively.

“Whatever, David. I’m going to finish my drink and enjoy the last of this pleasant summer’s evening on your balcony with your suspiciously well-maintained shrub.” I fish my vape out of my jeans pocket. “Unless you want me to wipe the floor with you at ping-pong?”

“Like you even could,” he smirks.

Which is how we end up playing drunk ping-pong until three in the morning, when he chucks down his bat and refuses to keep playing, the big chicken. I decide to count it as a draw; if he wouldn’t even agree to best nine out of seventeen matches, is his ‘win’ really even statistically significant? I think not.

—

It’s nearly three days later when I get a text from David.

Baguette Boy

6:22pm

Baguette Boy:

Olly what the fuck

6:23pm

Me:

My work here is done

Chapter Text

I show up at David’s place on Sunday afternoon and let myself into the building. He didn’t reply to my text saying I was coming over, but… I may have caved and checked Snap Maps again.

I feel a little bit bad about that… but not really, given what I’ve got in mind. Besides, he still hasn’t deactivated Sarah’s fob.

I’m a bit nervous. I’m excited, obviously. I’m just nervous and excited about what I’ve got planned. That’s all. Nothing unusual about that.

Out of courtesy, in case he’s having a wank or something, I knock instead of letting myself in. He answers, holding a nearly-finished beer. It’s 2pm. I can hear some kind of sports on the TV.

I step past him into his flat, holding the Monopoly board.

“Olly, what are you doing here?” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just keep breaking into my fucking house. We’re not doing this. Give me my fob back.” He holds out his hand.

“Hey, David, nice to see you too,” I reply. “I wouldn’t have had to break in if you’d just answered my text. Hope I’m not interrupting your important Sunday agenda of drinking alone?” I gesture at his drink. “Or maybe you’re not alone?”

Oh boy, maybe I’ll get to meet some of David’s mates. Or maybe he’s got a girl here? But the resentful look on his face tells me he really is just getting drunk at home on his own.

“That’s what I thought. You going to offer me a drink?”

“You show up at my house unannounced, break in, and now you expect wait service?”

“Soda water if you’ve got it, David,” I grin. “You’re a peach.”

He tries to stare me down, but he doesn’t really understand that we’re playing two entirely different games, so he crumbles first. He stomps off to the kitchen, while I pull off my Docs and swallow the effervescent smile that keeps trying to creep across my face.

“What’s with the Monopoly set?” He comes back with my water and I chug it in about three mouthfuls. Ahhh, bubbles. The cheapest high.

“Oh, this? Well, David, since you so kindly invited me over, I’ve been tossing up what we should do this afternoon, and I’ve narrowed it down to two options.”

I wander into the lounge and deliberately put the glass on his fancy wooden coffee table, right next to a coaster. I savour watching him desperately want to say something, but worrying I won’t think he’s cool if he says something.

“Option one,” I continue, “Monopoly. Option two: I tie you up and ride that fat cock of yours until I see stars. What do you think?”

David is staring at me with his mouth kinda open, the coffee table forgotten.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m leaning towards Monopoly,” I add.

David grabs the Monopoly board from me and frisbees it across the room, and pins me against the wall to kiss me. Goddamn, why is he so hot. He has no right to be this hot.

“Wait… why do I have to be tied up? I’m not letting you tie me up,” he breaks off, mid-snog, to declare. “That’s ga– uhh, I’m not into that.”

I roll my eyes.

“Because, David, I’d put down a hundred quid that you’re absolutely rubbish at anal, and I want zero chance of being on the receiving end of you driving this bus,” I illustratively cup his crotch, which has inflated so fast I’m surprised he hasn’t fainted from blood loss.

“I’m fine at anal!” he protests.

“Really.” I scathe. “How many people have you topped?”

“ₜₕᵣₑₑ,” he mutters.

“Sorry, couldn’t quite catch that,” I say, cupping my ear, despite the fact his mouth is literally six inches from my ear.

“Three,” he says petulantly.

“And how many of those three came back for seconds?” He looks away and doesn’t answer.

“Next question: do you think anal is meant to hurt?” I ask him.

“Well, yeah,” he sniggers. “Obviously. Like, there’s a reason they say gay guys can’t even walk straight.”

Fucking straight boys.

“David,” I sigh, “If you’re doing it right, anal shouldn’t hurt at all. Which is why the only way I’m sliding this fine ass of mine down over this ridiculous pork roast of yours,” I turn sideways and slap it illustratively, eliciting a slightly desperate moan, “Is if all you’re doing is lying back and thinking of England. And I know how grabby these hands of yours can get, in the moment.”

“Mind you,” I kiss him lingeringly, then duck out from between his arms and head for the Monopoly board, “If you’re not into it, you’re not into it. I bags the top hat.”

“Wait,” he says.

I do a silent internal yessssssss.

Then I remember I’m supposed to be a decent person. Goddamnit.

“We don’t actually have to play Monopoly, David. There are plenty of other things we can do that aren’t anal. If you don’t want me to tie you up, then I’m not going to tie you up.” Goddamn me and my goddamn ethics, shooting myself in the foot. I really wanted to fuck him. I was all set. I’d done homework.

“Okay, fine.”

“Right. Blowjobs and Monopoly it is.”

“No, I mean… okay, you can tie me up.” He suddenly looks nervous. “How would you… like… how would you tie me up?”

Holy shit. It’s on.

“Nothing complicated. Just thought I’d tie your hands together in front of you. And anytime you want, we stop and I untie you.”

“…Okay.”

“You sure?”

“I said okay, didn’t I? Jesus, you snowflakes and your consent–”

I barrel into him and push him back against the wall, right where he had me a minute ago, smiling into his mouth.

“Thank you, Santa,” I mutter.

It’s not entirely clear which of us is pushing and/or pulling the other one into his bedroom, but he pulls at my T-shirt, and I fumble at his belt buckle and zipper. Oh my god, he’s wearing a white woven belt in his jeans. I’m about to fuck a man wearing a white woven belt in his jeans. God, this is so dirty. I’m definitely in my peak slut era.

We’ve both got our shirts off now and I take another moment to appreciate just how ripped David is. I can’t believe I’ve not yet taken the time to properly appreciate the beautiful pair of cum gutters rising out of the top of his Calvin Kleins. I can’t resist jamming my thumbs into them, and he practically folds in half.

“Fuck off!” he says, collapsing backwards onto the bed. I take the opportunity to pull his jeans off by the hems.

“Ticklish, are we?” I manage not to outright snigger.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s the plan,” I deadpan. He rolls his eyes, but I see those Calvins twitch.

I pull my own jeans off, drop them on the corner of the bed, and straddle him, knee-walking up his legs until we’re crotch to crotch. I hear the sharp intake of his breath as our cocks make contact through the soft fabric. I grind down on his cock. I have a sudden and inescapable flashback to sliding down the stair railings at school. Am I really going to take this thing? I wonder for a second if I may have slutted too close to the sun.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it,” I say.

“Having second thoughts, are we?” he smirks, thrusting upwards. Now I’m the one whose breath is catching. “Don’t think you can handle me?”

Ohhh, it is on, David Nelson.

“Where’s your stuff?” I look around. “Top drawer?”

He nods. I reach over, pull it open and start pulling stuff out. No toys, of course. There’s a box of condoms and a box of tissues. David’s lube is in a matte black bottle that looks like it cost more than my first phone.

“Ooooh, fancy. Did your lube sommelier recommend this? A fine full-bodied 2019 vintage?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, actually. It came with tasting notes.”

“Oh my god, David, did you just crack a joke? An actually mildly funny joke, and not, like, a remark at the expense of some minority?”

“Fuck you!”

“Ahhhh, there we go. You had me worried for a second there, David. Never change.”

He just growls, uh, hot, and pulls my thighs down as he grinds up into me again, uhhh, also very hot. But that reminds me.

“Speaking of these grabby hands of yours,” I put down the Château Lubeaux on the bed, “I was going to raid your tie collection, but I’ve got a better idea.”

I retrieve David’s jeans, sliding the fugly white belt out of its loops.

“Your safe word,” I say, scrambling back aboard, “Is… ummmm… ‘David Cameron teabagging a pig.’ No. Wait. You’re not supposed to use anything you might scream out in the throes of passion.”

He punches me in the arm.

“Oh my god you’re such a little shit, Olly!”

“‘Boris Johnson?’ No, same problem.”

“You are in serious danger of killing this boner entirely, Olly.”

“Look, feel free to sing out the name of any conservative politician you like and I’ll stop. But in all seriousness, just tell me to stop if you want out. Or ‘slow down’ or whatever. I don’t really get the whole safe word thing unless you’re doing some super-complicated roleplay shit and I am way too lazy for that.”

“Uhhh… I don’t really understand half of that last bit but if I want you to stop I just say stop, right?” David’s starting to look nervous again.

“Yup,” I say, popping the P. “Ready?”

He holds his hands out towards me. I wrap the belt around his wrists and tighten it, then buckle it.

“How’s that?”

He tests his hands. He’s got a little bit of movement - he could probably cross his wrists - but not much.

“I mean, I could probably get out of this in thirty seconds flat,” he says. Always a critic.

“I’m not aiming to completely incapacitate you here, David. What if there’s a fire? What if I, a healthy young person, have an unexpected heart attack due to the sheer mind-blowing sex we’re about to have? Just want a little physical reminder that your job here is to enjoy yourself, and maybe learn a little something.”

I scootch down his legs and take his Calvins with me, pulling them off and coming back to rest my cheek right in the valley of one of those pretty V-lines, letting my fingers trail on the other one, my mouth just an inch or two from his cock.

“Now, I’m going to assume you don’t object to appetisers?”

He puts his tied hands in my hair and pushes me towards his dick.

“He’s grabby, even tied up,” I say into the skin of his shaft. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh my god, you goddamn little cocktease,” he moans.

“Mmm-hmm, absolutely, honey” I nod conspiratorially, as if his dick had made some incisive remark over champagne brunch. “Incorrigible.”

I lick a pretty little zig-zag up the underside of his shaft, giving him the full tongue bar treatment, then suck his cockhead into my mouth. He groans and clutches his hands in my hair. I fit as much of his dick in my mouth as I can, drooling a little, but this is just the opening act, and I don’t want him too horny just yet. I want him to last.

I pull off and start stroking him in a leisurely fashion.

“Now, David, we’re about to learn about anal. Guys with less spectacular dicks can sometimes get away without prep, but you can’t.

“Step one: put down a towel.” I jump off him and dash to his ensuite to get one. Vengefully, offered the choice between white and charcoal, I pick the white. “Legs up. You don’t always need a towel, but bodies are unpredictable and lube is sticky.”

“Step two: cleanliness. Jury’s out on douching, some people love it, my med school friend Peg says don’t bother and that it can actually fuck with your natural internal lubrication. I can’t afford fancy gear, so I say the best option is to take your fibre supplements, get a little adventurous in the shower, and not to eat too much.”

I punctuate my little educational presentation with licks and kisses, since I believe in positive reinforcement. Something something sound pedagogy.

“The next step,” I say, sitting up, “Is making sure your partner is relaxed and stretched enough to take you. It helps if they’ve been… practicing.”

I shimmy off my marks and sparks non-designer pants and straddle him again, backwards this time, and arch my back to reveal the plug I’ve had in all morning. It’s the fancy rainbow one that Ava got in an Insta giveaway but decided was a bit much.

“Holy fuck, Olly,” he groans, his cock twitching under me. I feel him reach out to the wide jewelled base, pushing it in a little. My turn to groan. “Did you have this in the whole tube ride over? You’re such a dirty little slut.”

I fight the urge to ask if he kisses his mother with that mouth, and also the urge to shudder at how much I enjoy him calling me names. I gently start tugging at the plug, fucking myself with it a little as I go. Slowly, it comes free. He gasps again. I think I can assume he’s enjoying the show.

“You can’t assume anyone will have prepped like this, so a top who isn’t a complete sack of shit and doesn’t want to land their date in the clinic with a fissure will make sure with their fingers. If you’re squeamish, use a glove, or just a condom.” I pull over the bottle of SpaceX lube and for a second I can’t even open the damn thing until I work out that half the top snaps up when you snap the other half down. I put some on my fingers. For good measure, I put some on David’s cock as I stroke it with my other hand, where it’s nestled against my own.

“Start with one finger,” I demonstrate, “slowly at first, then fucking them with it. More lube. Then add another one, slow again. Then more lube, and another one. As they get comfy, you can stretch them open a little more. Go super slow, lots of lube, and if there’s resistance, don’t push. Just stop and wait and go on when you can.”

I can’t see his face, but he’s making some very satisfactory moaning noises.

“You can have anal sex without fingering and stretching, since dicks are pretty much the perfect shape, but it’s referred to as a ‘straight girl Valentine’s Day special’ in my circles, and we don’t recommend it for folks of your girth unless you’re very patient. Under-prepped anal is very much like being stuck in traffic on the M25.” I’ve been rubbing his cock the whole time, and I briefly wonder if I could give him an M25 fetish. “Very slow unless you want injuries. I’m imagining it’s the only kind of anal you’ve had before now.”

I work my fingers in and out, grinding on his cock as I go. He’s starting to buck underneath me.

“Do you want to have a try?” I ask, trying not to sound like a kindergarten teacher.

“I just want to fuck you, Olly.”

“Next time, then.” I say.

I shift off him again, grabbing the little bottle I stuffed in my jeans pocket earlier on the way.

“The last step – and this one isn’t compulsory, but under the circs I think it’s warranted – is poppers.” I shake the little bottle. “Ever done these?”

“Uhhh… no. I’ve… seen them.” Interesting.

“They give you a short euphoric high, but more importantly, they relax your muscles. For some people, they make your dick go soft. You inhale the fumes. Don’t get the liquid on your skin if you can avoid it, it burns like a motherfucker, and under no circumstances drink it. I’m gonna try without it, but I wanted it on hand.”

I grab the box of condoms and extract one, and lean down to give him one last suck for good luck. I roll it on and slather him up with lube. Then I put my leg back across and just let myself ride his cock in my crack.

“Oh– holy fucking shit Olly – unf–” He’s thrusting and doing masc grunts, but I’m pretty sure I can coax some pretty moans out of him before we’re done.

Welp. Here goes nothing.

I lift up on my knees and pull his cock up to let the tip ride around my hole gently. I close my eyes and try to relax. Just like usual, it takes a second or so to relax enough to open, even though I’m as prepped as I’ve ever been. I start to slide him in. Holy shit, he’s big. I grab David’s hands and put them on my cock. “Super slow,” I instruct him. He complies. Ooof. That’s better.

He’s sliding in now. I feel the pop of relief as his cockhead makes it past my sphincter. That gets me a nice little moan. I go slowly, an inch or so at a time, for what seems like hours but is probably not more than a minute or so, bouncing up and down a little to remind my arsehole it’s supposed to be having fun. David’s swearing and moaning and telling me how tight I am, which, like, dude, I know. He’s not even fully in and I’m already considering embracing Jesus. He feels so good.

It gets a little harder right towards the end and for a second I’m tempted to go for the poppers, but I keep fucking myself ever-so-gently on his dick, and the lube and David’s hand work their magic, and suddenly I feel the softness of his skin under my arsecheeks. I can feel his massive cock spreading me open completely, my sphincter twitching helplessly around the wide base of his cock.

“You’re all the way in, baby,” I breathe. His eyes are shut and he’s hanging on to my dick like it’s a lifeline. Ever so gently, I start to rock my hips forward. David gasps. I gasp. It’s amazing. I can’t be moving more than a centimetre or two but the friction feels incredible. He’s trying to fuck up into me but he can’t get purchase without his hands. His dick is ridiculous.

“Has anyone ever taken you all the way like this before, David?” I purr breathily.

He makes an incoherent noise.

“Come on, David, I want to know. I bet this massive dipstick of yours doesn’t get nearly as wet as you wish it did. Most girls would need a helluva lot of practice to climb aboard the way the lord intended. Even Millsy, who’s a confirmed size queen, couldn’t get the whole Pringles can in. Tell me. Has anyone ever taken all of you and liked it?”

“No!” he yells, apparently almost involuntarily. “Oh my god Olly, you feel incredible. Please, please fuck me.”

I let my hips start rocking a little harder. I can feel the drag of the condom inside me and I briefly wish it out of existence. There’s a thought.

“One day, David, if you can find a way to not be such a raging cunt, maybe we’ll get to do this raw. I’d love to feel you coming inside me, feel your come dripping out of me all day. Let you breed me,” I murmur, starting to bounce a little deeper. Ahhh, there’s my pretty moaning. He sounds so beautiful. “That’s it, David, yes, I want to hear you, I want to hear you moaning, I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

Holy fucking shit. I almost can’t think properly any more. His dick is so far inside me it must be up against my frigging liver, and every time I rock, it hits something that feels incredible. All of a sudden I need it harder. I start properly pulling up and dropping back down, ramming him inside me each time. Oh, fuck. Fucketty fuck fuck fuck. David’s moans are escalating underneath me every time I land on his balls. Suddenly he seems to remember my dick isn’t just a handle, and starts stroking me off. His dick is so fricking wide, I’m spread open like the Red Sea, he’s hitting so deep, and holy mother of fuck I’m going to come already and I can’t even stop it and I think I’m yelling that I’m going to come and he’s yelling and arching his back and bucking all over the place and I feel him unload into the condom deep inside me which how the fuck am I feeling that and I drop down one last time on that fat hard cock of his and I’m shooting all over his chest and oh boy there are those stars I was promised

I find at some point that I’ve collapsed across David’s chest. He’s still hanging on to my dick, but it looks like he’s about as functional as I am. I move slightly and my hole clenches around him in an aftershock that makes me hiss between my teeth, and him arch his back under me again. Very carefully, I grab the condom at the base and slowly pull myself off him. It almost hurts, the emptiness of feeling him come out of me. He reaches his wrists up to his mouth, grabs the loose belt end in his teeth and has it off in under two seconds. Oh well. It did what it was meant to do.

I collapse beside him and we lie there for a minute or two.

“Hey David, what’s the difference between jam and marmalade?” I whisper exhaustedly.

“What?” He says it more like ‘errr, what?’ but it’ll do.

“Can’t marmalade a cock up your arse,” I snigger.

I’m genuinely surprised he has the energy to hit me in the face with a pillow after all that.

—

A few hours later and Oscar and I are lying on the pebbles in the back garden at a party in Finsbury Park. Osc’s got his head on my belly. We’re both pleasantly buzzed. I’m still tingling all over, if you get my drift.

“So how was David?” he says.

I shut my eyes as I’m gripped by a full-body flashback. I think I make a little moaning noise.

“Mmmmm… interesting,” Osc says. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Fuck, Osc,” I whine. “It’s worse than Ruby. It might even be worse than Max.”

“Jesus,” he says, reaching up to pat my leg. “We didn’t see you for a month when you were huffing pure Max. If he hadn’t gotten that internship I think your dick would have fallen off.”

“Seriously, Oscar, it was like getting fucked with a maypole. Huge and festive and vaguely reminiscent of something magical and pagan and ancient. All I can think about is getting that thing back inside me.”

I pause and fiddle with my shirt hem.

“Do you remember when I got obsessed with those matcha kouign amann at that bakery on the river?” I say.

Oscar sits up and looks at me.

“Seriously?” he says. “Oliver Jonathan Spring, do I need to set up an intervention?”

“I don’t knowwwww,” I moan, hiding my face in my hands. Then I shake myself and pull myself together. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve just got to get it out of my system. The guy isn’t boyfriend material. The guy isn’t even friend-with-benefits material. If we’re honest, he isn’t even acquaintance material. He’s just got a spectacular dick and I’m being a shallow bitch.”

“Hmmm… you’re usually a bit more casual about the loaning out of your toys,” Oscar muses. “You’re not catching feelings, are you?”

I scoff. “For that guy? God, I know I’m being a bit fucking basic, but I’m not that basic, Osc. Literally what do we have in common? Other than our families? The guy is the human embodiment of manspreading. No, I think I was just being weird because I wanted to be the first one to properly fuck him.”

He nod-shrugs. “The novelty will probably start to wear off now you’ve finally cracked the seal.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I mean, you know me. I could get bored in a pile of disembodied boobs if I had to stay there long enough. The sex is great right now, but I just can’t imagine it’ll stay great enough to keep these dick goggles from wearing off.”

“Dick goggles,” Oscar snickers, cupping his hands to his eye sockets, and we both burst out laughing.

Chapter Text

David texts me around midday on a Saturday. It’s notable, because this is actually the first time he’s ever texted me out of the blue.

11:52am

Douchebag Who Probably Uses Disposable Plastic Forks:

The water is out in my building, can I come shower at yours?

The second the text comes through, I’m instantly hard. Now who’s suffering Pavlovian conditioning.

I fold one arm behind my head and stare at his message. Is this a bootycall? Is the water in his building really out or is it just an excuse? Does he… want to see me? Am I gonna get dicked down?

11:54am

Me:

sure, I’ve got the place to myself until like 4pm? come over whenever. text when you get here, the buzzer’s broken

Welp, I guess I’m gonna find out soon enough.

Ava had a word to one of her friends who’s in a sex work mutual aid group on Facebook, and managed to score me a dildo that I once would have considered ridiculous. Now, it’s starting to look like homework. I’ve been jacking off with that thing pretty much nightly since I got it. I don’t know how long this weird semi-regular hook-up thing with David is going to go for, but since I finally got on board that pool noodle of his, I kind of haven’t been able to think about anything else.

I pull the monster dildo out of my sex drawer, eye it and shrug internally. Can’t hurt. I shimmy out of my boxer shorts and give it a couple of pumps of my Tesco Gentle Unflavoured Lube.

—

David shows up 40 minutes or so later.

I open the door to find him in swish sports gear – short leggings, overshorts, and one of those skintight moisture-wicking tops with a big showy logo on it. I suddenly find I simultaneously hate this garment and everything it stands for, and also, love it more than anything I’ve ever seen. He looks vaguely like an overdesigned android, all silvery and covered in sleek random lines, like he leapt right off a digital wireframe for the perfect human.

Organised a stripper for Nick’s buck’s night as a ‘surprise’, I forcefully remind myself. A female one. He might be stunning and have loads of nice golden ratios, but David’s anything but perfect. Stop thinking with your dick, Olly. You can fuck him, but don’t start thinking he’s a keeper.

It doesn’t help that he’s clearly been doing something athletic and he’s all sweaty. Maybe the water really is out at his place.

“You know where the shower is. Knock yourself out,” I wave in the direction of the bathroom.

I turn around to go back to my room. At least, I’m nine-tenths certain that’s what I do. I definitely don’t saunter over to David, run my hand down the front of his shorts and say “Unless you’d like to get a bit sweatier before you clean up?”

You know, just with the minor disclaimer that in actual fact, that is exactly what I do.

To my delight, I discover his dick is half-hard already. He groans.

“Wow, just the thought of seeing me, huh, David?” I purr. “Aww, thanks. I am cute.”

“Shut up,” he says, and kisses me hard, pushing me up against the wall behind me. Whoooooooof. I’ve got tingles in my nethers. God, he smells so good, like a panther, but a panther who’s wearing Big Cat deodorant, with minty-fresh fangs. I find that I’ve jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. It’s like he doesn’t even notice. He’s got me pinned against the house whiteboard, smearing our cleaning rota and shopping list, his lips hot and fast and insistent against mine. Then, without warning, he picks me up bodily and starts walking.

“I can see you really urgently needed that shower, huh, David?” I say as he plonks me down on the kitchen table, among the take away menus and unopened mail and random junk that I send scattering to the floor.

“Why do you always have to talk so fucking much?” he says, pushing me onto my back and diving down after to kiss me.

For a second, I wonder the same thing myself. Then I remember – oh, yeah, it’s because I’m a mouthy bitch.

“I like to hear you, David. I like to hear how much you want me. I want you to convince me you want me. Come on, really sell it.”

“What, this isn’t enough?” He shoves his rock-hard dick into my crotch. “You want a diagram?”

I’m not ashamed to say that I make something an objective observer might reasonably describe as ‘a squeaking noise’. God, how nice would it be to just let him have his way with me, however he wants. I can’t stop a shiver running down my spine. But I’m stronger than that. I whip my legs out from around him and cross them resolutely, sitting back up and putting my feet on the kitchen chair.

“Nope,” I manage to say, I’m reasonably sure. “Tell me how desperate you are for me.”

“Olly, I’m so fucking hard I could mine diamonds with this thing. Please, please let me fuck you,” he growls in a voice that goes straight to my pelvic plexus and grabs it hard. I make a noncommittal humming noise. “Olly, please, fuck. I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. I’ve been jerking off about every ten minutes.”

I run my hand down his silvery smooth chest, over those superb titties, and hook off his overshorts. God, his dick looks majestic through those tight lycra leggings.

“How much do you want me?” I purr.

“I want you so fucking much, Olly. I want you desperately. I’ll do anything.”

“Well, I’m still not ready to let you drive,” I say. “I want your hands out of commission.”

“Anything you want. Tie me to the fucking kitchen chair if you have to. Just, please, please, I wanna be in you, Olly.”

“Hmmm, there’s a thought,” I put a socked foot on his chest and push him into the chair. “Gimme a sec, I’m just gonna go get condoms and lube.”

He reaches down to a sports bag at his feet that, apparently, he’s just produced out of nowhere, and whips out condoms and lube. Did he have that on the whole time? Fuck. This man just rots my brain. I peer down, and his stupid white belt is in there. God, I better be careful or I’m going to end up popping a stiffy every time I see that rank fashion crime. I climb down and fish out the monstrosity.

“Arms behind your back,” I instruct him. He wraps them behind the chair. Am I imagining things or did his breath just hitch? I mentally stick a pin in that for later.

I weave the belt through the uprights of the chair and around his upper arms, in a sort of wonky figure eight, then buckle it in place.

“How far up can you move your hands?” I ask him, running my hands lightly up his arms. He tries to put them up. He can get them up to his thighs, but that’s about it. Holy mother of molten lava, why is that so fucking inexplicably hot? I slide a leg over his lap and my arms around his neck.

“And if you want to get out?”

“Just say stop,” he says. “Or, like, yell out ‘Liz Truss’ or whatever.”

“God, you’re so beautiful when you’re all tied up like this,” I purr, running my hands into his hair and smoothing his hair back from both his temples with my thumbs. His breath definitely hitches. I lean in and kiss him. I can feel his hands trying to get to me, but he can’t. It sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. I pull back a tiny bit from the kiss and he tries to follow, but after a certain point, he can’t reach me any more. He whines. Oh my god.

I let that electric moment hang between us for a second, then I slither off his lap to crouch in between his legs, and hook my fingers into his waistband. He wriggles to let me pull off his leggings, and holy mother of fuck, he’s got a jockstrap on under there. God, why did I tie him to a chair before I could see that arse in a jock? Damn my lack of foresight. Still, I take a moment to appreciate it, running my hands around behind him to feel the straps around those peachy arse cheeks.

“Mmmmmmfffff,” I say, illustratively squeezing them. “God, your arse is a work of art, David.” I smother a snigger. “It’s such a pity that you’re heterosexual.”

He can’t even muster a ‘Fuck off, Olly’; he is doing some Gay. Shit. Right. Now. I make things worse by burying my face in his jockstrap, pulling his arse towards me and his hard dick into my open mouth, fabric and all. After a second or five, I can’t stand it any more, and I pull the jock off and get my mouth on his cock while I reach for the lube. I really should take my time, but fuck it, I’m prepped and ready and I want to fuck him into next week. God, how nice would it be to just push his legs up and… nope, nope, not today, Satan. I hastily lose my clothes, get him gloved up, apply the special sauce to his footlong, and a little extra – okay, a lot extra – to my hand. Then I have a delicious thought. I stand up, turn around, and bend over the kitchen table, splaying my legs open, right in front of David.

“Is this what you want, David?” I arch my back prettily.

“Holy fuck, Olly, you are such a hot slut,” he moans. Ooof, there’s that crackle of… something… again.

“Mmmm, I am, aren’t I,” I purr. I reach around and smear the lube on my arsehole, running my finger teasingly around the little pucker, then pushing it in. It yields immediately. “Maybe I should just leave you here and go out and fuck someone else.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says. He almost sounds completely sure.

“Mmmm… I might,” I muse. I’m fucking myself with two fingers now. They might as well be a straw in a milkshake. God, I need to be filled.

“Please don’t, Olly,” he begs. It goes straight to my dick. It takes all my willpower and self-control not to just jump him immediately. Instead, I stand up and turn back to face him, pushing my crotch towards him.

“Hmmm… if you can reach my dick, I’ll fuck you.”

His head’s a bit higher than my dick; he has to bend over awkwardly, but he does it. His hot, wet mouth around the head of my cock feels pretty good, but watching him try desperately to get there is the real treat. I let him struggle for a minute, then I pull him up by the hair, straddle his legs and climb that motherfucking tree.

Oh, holy fuck, this is even better than I’d remembered. Maybe his dick just feels so good it blows all the needles on my brain’s ability to register pleasure. I slide down so much easier than last time; the homework has paid off in spades. It’s still not fast, but it’s wayyyy faster than last time; he’s balls-deep in me inside of a minute, with just a couple of short breaks for R&R along the way.

David’s got his head tipped over the chair-back and his eyes shut.

“Oh my fucking god, Olly, you feel so good,” he gasps. I can feel his hands scrabbling at my knees, trying to get purchase and pull me down.

Now I’ve got him where I want him, I take my sweet time. I start by twisting my hips in little circles. I reach down and thumb my cock into his belly button, running the last bit of lube onto it from my fingers, letting it drag up and down his soft blond trail of hair as I move.

I slow down to nothing and just sit there, grinding ever-so-slightly on his stomach and feeling him deep inside me, just the tiniest little twitches in my sphincter like little bolts of lightning, each one making me shiver. David groans underneath me and starts whining.

“Please, Olly, please please please,” he murmurs. It almost sounds like a prayer.

“Please what, David?” I say, leaning down to kiss him gently. He moans so deliciously.

“Please fuck me,” he gasps.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” I say, deadpan. Then I start fucking him.

Oh, fuck. It’s amazing. I’m so glad I had a wank earlier because otherwise I’d’ve been done and dusted in seconds. He feels so good inside me. The homework hasn’t just paid off in getting him in; I can fuck him a bit more comfortably, too, instead of like I’m trying to fit an eggplant in a sock. Last time was hot, but it was a lot; this time, he’s sliding inside me like he was made for me.

He’s straining to fuck me, and even with his hands incapacitated, he’s sort of managing to meet my downward strokes with something approaching an upward one, and it adds just that tiny bit of extra impact. I wrap my arms around his neck and just let myself enjoy how astonishingly good this feels. I lean down and kiss him hard, letting my tongue bar touch the tip of his tongue. He moans and opens his mouth to let me.

We fuck like that for a minute or two, trading tongues while his dick splits me in half. Then I break the kiss and run both hands into his hair at his temples.

“God, David, do you have any idea how pretty you look like this? This tight shirt, your hair, your beautiful green eyes sliding shut because you can’t stand how good it feels, all tied up like a present for me?”

“Oh, fuck, Olly, I’m gonna come,” he gasps. I lean down and kiss him again as he arches like he’s being electrocuted, his dick twitching violently inside me. It’s not hard to follow him over the edge. I put one hand on my dick, grinding it into his midriff, push my tongue back into his mouth and I’m there, spraying come all over us both, his massive dick in me and me in him, and my god oh it’s incredible, it washes over me like golden light, and prickles like all my hair is standing on end. I can feel my toes curling off the floor.

An epoch or so later, I collapse into the crook of David’s neck, gasping.

“Holy fuck,” I manage, still twitching. “Why the fuck is it always so good?”

“Beats me,” he laughs weakly. I try to muster enough neurons to move again.

“Hang on a second and I’ll let you–”

David flexes and relaxes his arms, and the belt slides down off his biceps to the base of the chair, where he easily removes his hands from its loops. Oh. Oh well.

And also… hmmm.

“You were such a good boy for me, David,” I say into his neck. He’s still buried in me completely, softening, but that earns me a twitch. I shudder. His hands have come up to grasp and roam around my thighs and hips.

After a minute or so, I reluctantly extract us from where we’re joined. I can barely stand up, but I manage to wobble back to a sitting position on the table. I’m fairly sure the Sainsbury’s catalogue I’m sitting on isn’t going to survive this.

“Fuck, you look so good covered in my come,” I look at the silver workout shirt and mentally crow at the demise of another shirt. I wonder if I should start getting tiny little silhouettes of David’s shirts tattooed on my dick, like an old timey fighter plane, but then I wince and discard that thought. “Such a pity you have to wash it off.”

While David’s in the shower, I fire up the old dry herb vape, open my bedroom window and climb onto the sill.

He comes back in civvies, complete with white belt. I smirk.

“Want a bit?” I waggle the vape at him. “Keep it warm for me while I shower.”

He takes it and climbs into the window. As I’m walking out he takes a puff and breaks into a coughing fit.

“This isn’t grape mojito,” he protests. “Or nicotine.”

“Finest Mary Jane,” I agree. “Ava and Georgie are coming over tonight. We’re going to try and make a veg version of Oscar’s mum’s dumplings. Wanna stick around?”

“You lot are going to cook?” he says, incredulously.

“That’s rich for a man with an Old El Paso kit in his cupboard and a freezer full of Man Chow™,” I smirk, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey! Just because I’m too busy to cook doesn’t mean I can’t!” he says, puffing up like some four-legged curly-horned alpha male, about to fight a rival on the Serengeti. Over his cooking ability. God, I love how easy it is to get a rise out of him.

“Nobody who can cook has a kitchen as clean as yours,” I maintain.

“Fuck you,” he takes another puff. “That’s it. I’m sticking around and teaching you little shits to chop an onion.”

Oscar and Bails get back from Osc’s mum’s place an hour or so later, having raided her pantry for all kinds of exciting shit.

“Oh, hey,” Oscar says to David, who blushes. “Want a drink? We went past Aldi so we’ve got vin de box.”

David makes a face, but shrugs. “Fuck it, when in Rome, drink shitty pink wine,” he says, the picture of class and grace, and accepts a glass of the finest 2.5l box of rosé £13.99 can buy.

George and Ava show up from their dance class a few minutes later. Georgie tries and fails to hide her blatant once-over.

“It’s David, right?” she asks, looking at him like she’s a judge at a cat show and he’s a particularly fluffy ragdoll. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I watch him manage not to say ‘All good things, I hope’. Look at that. Personal growth.

To my absolute disgust, it turns out David does have secret cooking skills. The first thing he does is get all judgy about the ‘state of our knives’, then about the fact that we don’t have a knife sharpener. He pulls out some straight boy magic and starts sharpening our collection of hand-me-downs on the bottom of an upturned mug. I thought it was bullshit, but then he goes through an onion like it’s not even there. Like, he’s got that whole knife-moves-faster-than-you-can-see cheffy chopping shit going on, and he’s blatantly smug about it. I can’t decide if I want to put a pillow over his face for his own good, or rip his clothes off then and there.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knows fuck all about Chinese cooking, so he’s as lost as we are as to why our dumplings are such a fucking failure. None of the wrappers will stick together. The filling won’t stick together either; it’s just a bunch of tofu and onion and water chestnuts and cabbage all over the place. George is moaning that her ancestors will disown her. I take a photo of the garbage faildumplings we’ve made and threaten to send it to her parents. She tackles me and starts tickling me until I shriekingly point out that I literally actually have no way to contact her parents.

In the end, David suggests that we just sod the dumplings and fry the whole lot and eat it. Osc does some rice in our slightly broken rice cooker, jamming the switch down with a wooden spoon, and in the end, it’s actually pretty good. If it didn’t involve so much chopping, I’d probably do this again.

After dinner and the rest of the box of wine, I pull out my dry herb vape for round two, and we all get un poquiiiiito fumados.

I’m draped along the back of the couch, feeling very floaty and a little bit spinny, listening to Janelle Monáe, when Oscar breaks out the tattoo gun.

“Oooooh, me first!” Ava says.

Georgie commandeers the felt tip and draws something freehand on her leg. “You like?”

Ava looks down and sniggers. “Classic.”

Oscar comes over with the tattoo gun. “Heh,” he says. “Ghost boner.” Then he gets to work on her leg.

“Do me, do me!” I say to George.

“Howwww abouuuuuutttttt…” Georgie taps the pen against her lips then pulls out her phone to google something and starts sketching. After a couple of minutes, she holds up the pad for me to see. It’s an unreasonably buff garden gnome, from behind, lounging on his side and looking slightly over his shoulder, smoking a pipe, and wearing a little pointy hat, a G-string, red boots and nothing else.

“Fucking love it,” I laugh. “Reckon you can pull it off, Oscar?

Osc looks over from his work and scoffs. George starts transferring the design to my flank.

David is midway through some kind of epic rant to Bailey, apparently about me.

“...and this bloody agent of chaos gets hold of my phone and spends ninety-two quid on burgers. Ninety two. Bloody. Quid. On burgers that don’t even have any meat in them. Who does that? Veggie burgers are, what, three quid for a box of six at the supermarket? He could have got –” David looks intensely at his waggling fingers for about an hour, “– a hundred and eighty veggie burgers for the same price.”

“There’s my accountant,” I simper, ruffling his hair. He pushes me off automatically. “That’s why they give you the fancy spreadsheets, David.”

“Jesus, Olly, why didn’t you take him through the 1am Sainsbury’s drive-thru and buy a hundred and eighty veggie burgers?” asks Bailey.

“The night is young,” I reply ominously.

“And still had two quid left over for a loaf of bloody bread,” David adds, apparently missing the clear and present threat to his wallet.

“We should do you an angry veggie burger tattoo,” suggests Georgie, abandoning my gnome and waving her marker.

“Oh my god, yes,” I laugh. David thinks this is immensely, catastrophically funny, to the point that tears are actually coming out of his eyes, and immediately starts making demands. The bun should be angry, but the burger should be happy and the lettuce should be wistful. Five minutes later, David has hiked up his jean shorts and is getting his first tattoo.

—

It’s getting down towards the arse crack of the morning. Ava and Georgie have pushed back the coffee table and are showing off the results of their Argentine tango classes to a Gotan Project remix of Sarah Vaughan. Osc and I are in the kitchen, mixing the last of whatever the fuck we’ve got into something approaching a jug of cocktails. I’m pleasantly drunk and a tiny bit spacy.

“You know, he’s less of a fuckboy than I expected,” Oscar says, nodding at David.

“What? He’s like, in the dictionary next to ‘fuckboy’,” I reply, confused. I taste the thing we’ve created. It's kind of horrible. I wonder blurrily if some chilli sauce might improve it.

“I mean, he’s got the look and the attitude and everything, but I still haven’t actually seen him say or do anything noteworthily fuckboyish. Last time or this time.” Oscar says, squirting in some elderly bottled lime juice. “I guess I’ve been expecting him to, I don’t know, say something racist, or call us snowflakes. The worst he’s done is beat me at ping-pong and smell like a whole can of Lynx Africa.”

He sips our concoction and gives me a little it'll-do shrug.

I’m mentally reviewing the tapes, and… Oscar’s right? David hasn’t actually said anything horrible to any of my friends, that I can recall. I glance over to where he’s laughing at some anecdote Bailey’s halfway through, and watching George and Ava dance.

Interesting.

I pour David and myself a glass of O&O’s Mystery Juice and plonk myself down next to him on the couch, one knee up, casually resting it against his. He doesn’t pull away. I cheer when Ava lifts George up in a fancy swooshy lift.

“Your friend Ava is hot,” David says to me quietly.

“Yeah, she gets that a lot.” I eye Ava in all her five-foot-ten Black-Milk-legging glory. “She’s actually asexual.”

David scrunches up his nose. “What letter is that in the alphabet soup?”

“The A, dumbass,” I snort, in a faux-American accent. It’s cute. He’s being cute.

“What’s it mean? She’s only into asses?”

I punch him in the arm. He mouths ‘ow’ and rubs it theatrically.

“I mean, it can mean a lot of things, but in Ava’s case, it means she’s not into sex with other people,” I explain to him. Ava whips George around and then dips her.

“So she and George aren’t a thing?”

“I mean, they’re besties? So yeah, they’re a thing? But no, they’re not shagging, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Could have fooled me,” David says, as the two girls spin liquidly around the room, eyes fixed on each other, kicking their legs between each other’s feet.

Make up your mind to have no regrets… recline yourself, resign yourself, you’re through, sings Sarah Vaughan from somewhere in 1955.

Ava grabs George and drags her across the carpet on her tiptoes, then lifts her up effortlessly. George swoops over Ava’s leg and lands in a spin. They’re getting really good, I think. I’ve stopped even clapping. I’m just watching.

I always get what I aim for, and your heart and soul is what I came for… Sarah adds from somewhere behind the yowling tango accordion. Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets, and little man, little Lola wants you…

I'm acutely aware of my leg against David's. I let the hand that's not holding my glass fall casually to my kneecap, so it's touching his leg. He still doesn't pull away.

You're no exception to the rule, I'm irresistible, you fool, give in

I slide my hand up his thigh and he finally takes his eyes off George and Ava, hooking round to pin me to the sofa with a pair of eyes so hungry that I'm kind of instantly hard.

Without taking his eyes off me, David takes a sip of his drink.

Then he makes a face like he’s just drunk bleach, and the moment snaps like a twig.

“Olly, this is rank,” he protests, glaring at the glass and wiping his tongue on his sleeve. “What’s it made of, fermented pig’s arseholes?”

“Yeah… it's pretty terrible,” I agree, toasting him and taking another sip of my own drink. “But after a while, it grows on you.”

—

I wake up the next morning when Bastard Sunbeam – the sunbeam that regularly crosses my pillow, and which no amount of Fort Knoxing my curtain setup seems to keep out – shafts me in the face in a less-than-sensual manner.

I don't really remember coming to bed. It takes a second or so for me to realise I’m not alone. It takes another second or two for me to realise that the person very much snuggled against my back is one David Nelson.

He’s got his arm wrapped around my midsection and I can feel his face in my hair. It’s like being wrapped in a very warm, slightly breathing escarpment: large and very, very solid. I suddenly understand all those stories about giants who fell asleep and turned into mountain ranges.

I must have moved, because he clenches me tighter and nuzzles his face into the back of my neck. He mustn’t actually be awake, though, because a couple of seconds later he lets out a tiny snore and whuffle I can only describe as ‘insanely adorable’. I have to compress my chest and hold my breath to keep the uwu from leaking out in a high-pitched whine of pure cute aggression.

I might be taller than David when we’re standing up, but lying down in the crook of his absolute slab of a torso, I feel like a little tiny pea in a pod. I can’t remember the last time I felt this little. No… actually, I can. It’s when Nick hugs me. Bloody Nelson hugs. Who knew David had it in him? Must be buried deep in their DNA.

I’m so warm and comfortable that I’ve almost drifted off again, Bastard Sunbeam notwithstanding, when David wakes up.

He makes a sort of ‘mmmmmm’ noise, and then a whole lot of things happen roughly at once.

First he squeezes me. Then he buries his face into the crook of my neck. Then he groans like a mummy coming to life in an ancient tomb. Then he freaks the fuck out.

He lets go of me like I’m a stick of Cobalt-60 and he’s just seen the ‘Danger Radiation ☢ Drop & Run’ warning, shooting up and out of bed, taking half the covers with him. I roll over just in time to see the hangover hit him in the face like he ran full-tilt into an I-beam. It would be perfect slapstick comedy if it weren’t so mildly insulting.

“Morning, David,” I sing cheerily in a loud, slightly grating voice, and take my time enjoying the sight of him wincing with every syllable.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” he grinds, holding himself up on my dresser. Then he lifts his hand off the dresser. It’s covered in incense ash, because apparently he just managed to plant his hand right on my incense burner. “What the…” he stares at it and clutches his head with his other hand. “Ow. Fuckkkk.”

As much as I’m enjoying this, I’m nothing if not a good host, so I relent and crack open my top drawer. I fish out a tissue and a sheet of paracetamol. Then I locate a half-full water bottle somewhere off the back of my bedside table.

“Oi, Imhotep,” I say, waving them at him. He shambles back, incense-crusted hand extended, moaning. I genuinely don’t think he’s even doing a bit.

He manages to dust himself off and swallow a couple of tablets, only losing one or so on the floor. He apparently fell asleep with all his clothes still on, which is a pity, but despite his increasingly seedy appearance, his morning wood is making itself apparent through his shorts.

“Why don’t you take that thing down the hall and give it a quick rinse and then bring it back here and we’ll see if we can’t arrange some… breakfast?” I suggest, making a sort of general circular waving motion at his crotch.

“Jesus Christ, Olly, are you ever not horny?” he complains.

“I’m not the one advertising a three-ring circus in the big top,” I smirk. “But nobody’s forcing you, David. Please thyself.”

He staggers out of my bedroom door and I hear him clanking down the hallway. Now he’s out of bed, I roll over and steal his spot, safe from the spotlight glare of the Bastard Sunbeam. It’s barely gone 9:30am, and if David doesn’t want to get frisky, then I’ve got quality snoozing to do.

I’ve just got the covers back how I like them and I’m curled in a warm little ball when David explodes back in through my door.

“What the fuck is this, Olly?” He sounds like he’s on the edge of hysteria.

He’s lost his shorts and is just wearing his Calvins. His new tattoo is visible, on his upper thigh, covered in the knockoff Tegaderm film Oscar found on Amazon for £9.83.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a tattoo, David,” I don’t move from my duvet burrito.

“Why the fuck have I woken up with a tattoo?”

“Uhhhh… because you asked for one?” I roll my eyes. “If I recall correctly, you were very insistent. And specific.”

“Who the fuck gets off their tits and gives other fucked-up people tattoos?” he pretty much screeches. “This thing is ugly as fuck. And stupid. What the fuck.”

“Well, I’d say about two thirds of my tatts have been done while blitzed on something,” I pull back the duvet and inspect my plastic-wrapped flank. “Including this excellent garden gnome.” I lounge on my elbow to match the little guy’s pose, looking at David over my shoulder and brandishing my naked arse. David doesn’t seem to care, which is… a little bit weird?

“This thing is fucking trash. I’m not having a trashbag tattoo. How the fuck am I supposed to explain this to girls? It looks like a toddler went to town on me with a felt pen. Women hate this shit.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had any girls object to my tattoos,” I point out. “Sometimes they tell me they’re cool?”

He carries on like I hadn’t even spoken.

“I’m going to look like a fuckwit at the pool, at the beach, in the fucking change rooms, oh my god, footie–” he’s winding himself up like a hand-cranked siren – “Why the fuck did you let your fucking mate scribble this random garbage into my literal skin?”

“Dude, if I can manage to decide whether I want a tattoo or not while I’m off my tits, why the fuck would I assume you can’t? You’re, like, twenty years older than me? You were yelling design instructions at Oscar like you were commentating a fucking football match.” I’ve rolled over to face him, and I’m kind of yelling now, all thoughts of morning delight forgotten.

“Fourteen years!” David yells in reply, as if that’s the salient point here.

How stupid that sounds hangs between us, the second it’s out of his mouth, like a giant floating ball of cringe.

“Look, David, nobody’s dead. Nobody’s pregnant. Nobody’s maimed for life. You’re now the proud owner of a fairly small, definitely insignificant tattoo. You don’t like it? Get it removed. This is just not the fucking crisis you seem to think it is. You can rest assured there’s no way in hell any of us will ever waste any more professional-quality ink on your ungrateful arse. I’m super sorry you can’t hold your recreationals well enough to make good decisions, but it’s not my job to hold your hand through the consequences.”

I find I’m very, very angry. Probably because I also feel a bit guilty, let’s be honest – but it’s not entirely that. I dig around in whatever this is I’m feeling.

Oh. Righttttt.

“You know, David, until yesterday, you and I had never hooked up while you were sober?” I’m about to dial the roast up to 250° when I catch the look on his face. A combination of brash defensiveness and deer in headlights.

“Oh my god.” The penny clanks to the bottom of the slot and the machine starts whirring. “You weren’t sober. You tipped back a bit of Dutch courage before you got here yesterday.” He looks like he wants to deny it, but he may as well have taken out an ad on the side of a bus shelter.

“We’ve still never hooked up while you were sober,” I realise.

“I–” he says, but then doesn’t finish.

“Wanna take this opportunity to fix that?” I ask, half coy, half furious. “Why don’t you come over here and show me you don’t regret me when you wake up the next day?”

He stares at me, but doesn’t move.

“Yesterday you said you couldn’t stop thinking about me all week. Couldn’t stop jerking off to the thought of all this.” I run my hand down my chest to my dick, grabbing it and stroking it, stretching from the base to the tip. “Well, it’s right here, David. The whole hot slut. Everything you want. Come take it.”

He still doesn’t move.

“I’m not something you laser off when you wake up with buyer’s regret, David. I’m worth way more than that. I know you want to fuck me. You know you want to fuck me. Everyone in this flat knows you want to fuck me. There’s nobody here who needs you to prove anything or pretend anything. So come back when you find the self-worth to admit – just to yourself – that you like what you like, without needing it to be the booze’s fault instead of yours.”

He just stands there, like a particularly nicely carved log of wood. But I'm done with holding emotional space this morning, and I'm fucked if I'm letting David's bullshit cheat me out of a snooze-in. I stretch, shake off the anger, and snuggle back down into the duvet, then let the warm remnants of sleep curl back up around me. When I wake up again, he's gone.

Chapter Text

After our spicy little argument over his tattoo, David and I have been playing whatever the opposite of Gay Chicken is for nearly two weeks now. I mean, technically, I don’t know that both of us are playing. Maybe I’m just playing solo. If that’s the case, it’s particularly embarrassing, because apparently I’m playing against myself and losing.

I’m just so fucking horny. I’ve had so many hookups that Bailey dubbed me the Velcromeister the other day. Last night I picked up a random guy in a club for literally no reason other than his hair vaguely reminded me of David’s. But his perfectly okay dick may as well have not been there. I made him fuck me on my hands and knees. Then, because I wasn’t getting off and neither was he, we switched places, and I finally managed to come, but it just wasn’t the same. Like eating the cheap little compound chocolate easter eggs instead of the fancy Lindt bunnies. Better than nothing, but kinda… not better than nothing.

Last night, after Madden left and I renamed his contact as ‘Madden 1NS The Divine 🍆🆗 XR activist’, I lay in bed trying not to think about David, and – finally – the lightbulb clicked on, and I remembered who’s in charge: me.

I can’t believe it took me this long to remember why I don’t do ultimatums: I just don’t have the fucking patience. There’s no point in waiting for him to head down to B&Q, buy seeds, potting mix and a tub, set them up on his balcony and grow a fucking clue. He’s made it thirty four years as a fuckup already; no amount of pointedly leaving the ball in his court is going to entice him get his shit together.

I want him, I know he wants me – every ten minutes, apparently – and so, goddamn it, I’m going to have him.

Which brings us to this morning. I’d fully intended to show up at his place again and fuck some sense into him, but luckily, before I got more than one stop on the train, I remembered it’s Saturday and he’s got footie, so I skidded out of the train doors at Brockwell Park with milliseconds to spare.

I suddenly realise, standing on the platform, that he might be playing an away game. That would foil this little plot of mine pretty effectively. But a very sly casual sideways glance at Snap Maps tells me I’m on the money. God, I’m such a creep. It’s lucky I’m cute.

I splurge on an oat flat white from the coffee cart outside the station, then find the footie pitch, a sad dirt thing with twenty or so people cheering on the fourteen guys in shorts from the railings. Falling over on this must hurt like a sonofabitch.

The match is already underway, and I quickly spot David. He's in basically the same outfit as last time I saw him, but the navy team shirt is a little less android-hot and a bit more Marcus-Llorente-hot.

I scope out the crowd and spot a likely-looking redhead in an unseasonable navy scarf, bouncing along to what seems to be David’s side of the proceedings. I put on my most adorable face, saunter over and lean on the railing near her.

“How much have I missed?” I ask.

“Most of the first half,” she laughs. “Big night?”

“Is there any other kind?” I quip.

She laughs again. “I’ve got two kids, a rager is any night I get through two glasses of wine without someone running in yelling that their sister dipped their hand in a bowl of warm water while they were sleeping,” she says, mournfully.

“Your kids sound like they’d be fun at parties,” I nod sagely.

“Who are you here for?” she asks.

“My – I don’t know what you’d call him, my brother’s husband’s brother? Brother-in-law-in-law? – is the sandy blond one over there.”

“Oh, you’re here for David? That’s lovely!” she says, a little too enthusiastically. Clearly David doesn’t get a lot of support from the sidelines. “I’m Melissa, I’m married to the captain, Ant. But they all call him Cookie. Anthony Cook.”

“Which one’s he?” I ask politely. She points out a cringe sweatband, with a rugged-looking guy underneath it.

“Nice,” I nod. “Though I’m not sure about that terrycloth garnish.”

“Oh my god, isn’t it just the bloody worst?” She buries her face in her hands. I’ve apparently managed to land on a tender subject. “If he starts to show signs of growing a moustache and a mullet, I swear I’m making him move to the garden shed.”

“If he grows a moustache and a mullet, he’ll be one jar of pink hair dye away from debuting his experimental soundscape installation in an abandoned warehouse in Hackney Wick,” I snigger.

Melissa bursts out laughing so hard she ends up doubled over the rail. I decide I’m keeping her, and that I’m going to call her Liss.

Something loud happens on the field beside us, and we stop giggling and guiltily look back towards the action. The navy blue guys are celebrating, so we immediately launch into indiscriminate clapping and yelling. In between whoops, I lean in and whisper conspiratorially.

“Do we have any idea what the score is?”

“It was two-one to the other lot. I’m guessing it’s even now,” she says. She lets out an extra loud cheer, which is when David spots me.

He’s still wandering around post-goal, slapping backs, and he freezes like someone hit pause on a remote. I feel a thrill of something run through me. Pure chaos adrenaline, maybe? I wave to him enthusiastically and pump my fist, then cup my hand to my mouth and shout “Yeah! Go Team Blueberry!”

A hit, sir, a very palpable hit. His eyebrows come down like a pair of lawnmower blades, and he starts to storm over to me. Then he realises what he’s doing, right in front of all these nice people, and swerves back, trying to make it look like he was just jogging out to some very particular strategic spot on the pitch for when play resumes. Then he pointedly turns his back on me to face the game.

I allow a big cheesy grin to swallow my small smirk of victory.

David shoots me occasional death glares for a few minutes as the match carries on, then theatrically ignores me for the remainder of the first half.

The ref blows the whistle for half time, and the sweatband comes over to Liss, who hands him a water bottle and kisses his craggy face.

“This is Olly,” she says, gesturing in my direction. “He’s a friend of David’s!”

Cookie smiles in a surprised-but-pleased sort of way. I toast him with the remainder of my coffee and flash him my biggest smile.

“Oh, that’s great! How do you–” he starts, just as David arrives in my peripheral vision.

“Olly!” he says, alllmost managing to fake a chill grin. “What a nice surprise.” The teeth don’t quite un-grit themselves.

“Great work out there, David!” I say cheerily, chucking him on the arm. I manage not to compliment him on his ball-handling skills, by massive effort of willpower.

Liss hands him another water bottle and he’s forced to stop lasering holes in my face for a minute while he thanks her and drinks it, then for another minute while he declines a satsuma. Liss offers it to me and I graciously accept. Once he’s unencumbered, David tries to subtly crab-pincer me by the back of the elbow, no doubt planning to frogmarch me straight back to Pimlico, but he’s not fast enough; several other players and their families have converged on Liss’ drinks cooler. No doubt the rumour of David having a living human friend is just added incentive. To my delight, he’s forced to introduce me around.

“My brother Charlie is married to David’s brother Nick,” I say by way of explanation.

“Oh! I didn’t know your brother was gay, David?” says one of the other players – Hugo maybe? – in a voice of clear surprise.

“Bisexual, actually,” I clarify. “They had a whole purple, pink and blue layer on the wedding cake, and a blue, white and green one for my brother, who is gay.” I manage not to roll my eyes at the recollection.

“Oh! That’s really nice,” says maybe-Hugo. “My brother’s gay, that’s why I mention it.”

“Pretty sure everyone gets an NHS-issued queer sibling now,” I deadpan. “I believe the policy originally came in under Gordon Brown?”

They all laugh, including a magnificently brittle one from David, and I peel my satsuma in a leisurely fashion, making sure I don’t look at him while we all chat and laugh pleasantly in the shade under the trees.

—

I might have thrown off David’s game in the first half, but a few minutes after play resumes, he apparently shakes me off and finds his groove again. He is annoyingly good. But I’m nothing if not an incurable brat, so, naturally, I am annoyingly excited about it.

I cheer every play. I loudly commentate every kick, every dodge, every run up the field. I boo every collision and make disapproving noises if the ref doesn’t card the other guys. In fact, I basically act like this is Italy versus Brazil in the semi-final. Fuck, if only I had a vuvuzela. Why can’t I plan ahead?

Unfortunately, my little performance turns into a bit of a self-own; after a while, I realise – to my horror – that I’ve accidentally got into the stupid fucking game. I hated footie in school for this exact reason; it’s so frustrating I want to tear my hair out.

Nobody’s scored yet this half. Both teams are just running up and down, doing all this fancy footwork and drama and stealing the ball off each other and nearly scoring, but the goalies are both doing a depressingly good job, so nothing’s getting through. I feel like I’m being edged, without it even being fun. David keeps running his hands through the hair at his temples in a way I would probably find cute if this weren’t all such a cockblock.

After a bloody age of deadlock, the scores are still tied. The game’s nearly over. If they carry on like this, they’ll go into overtime. Do these amateur kick-abouts even go into overtime? Or does everyone just go home with a mild sense of ennui?

I find I’ve yanked my own hair down over my ears like a poodle. Then I find I’m yelling “Come on, lads!” Who the fuck even am I right now?

It’s around then that David manages to get possession of the ball.

“Yeah! Daaaaaviiiiiiiid!” I shriek, “Smash it!”

He dances around the reaching feet of one of the other team’s dudes, and boots the ball neatly and majestically through the goalie’s arms into the corner of the net. The crowd – all twelve and a half of us – goes wild.

“Yesssss David, you absolute legend,” I yell, jumping up and down like a toddler at Peppa Pig World. “Hazme un hijo!”

His teammates are slapping him on the back and whooping. Play starts up again and the other team makes a valiant effort to even the score, but it’s too late; after a few minutes, the ref blows the whistle and it’s a Brockwell Blueberries victory.

We’re all cheering and hugging each other and generally raucously celebrating, as the players hoist a protesting David up onto a couple of shoulders. I whip out my phone to snap a picture, at which perfect moment, he nearly falls off. And it’s on burst mode, too. God, this is going to make such good blackmail material.

As the clapping and bro-hugging and opponent handshaking dies down, I find myself alone in a weird, adrenaline-rushy place. I’m still high on the pure happy endorphin joy of the stupid footie win. But let’s face it, I’m the cuckoo in this nest of nice, normal people having nice, normal fun; I’m here to fuck with David, and ideally, also to fuck with David, and one way or another, we’re about to throw down.

Families and friends are drifting onto the pitch and away towards the car park. I hang back, helping Liss pack up, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m glued to the movements of that sandy blond head.

He genuinely thinks about walking straight off and leaving. In fact, he makes it almost all the way to the other side of the pitch. I’m nursing a weird sense of hollow disappointment when I see him stop and hook a 180.

I hide a rush of shivers. I suppose, whether it’s because I’m cute or infuriating, it’s nice to know I’m still irresistible.

Smiling at Liss and Cookie, David loudly offers to help me repack the drinks cooler, and leans up close without making eye contact.

“You are so fucking far out of line it isn’t even funny, Olly,” he hisses.

“I really am, aren’t I,” I agree, nodding seriously as if we’re discussing some terrible political scandal.

“You need to leave, and you need to never pull this shit again. You cannot fucking be here,” he mutters.

“I think that’s the last of it, Liss!” I say cheerily, as she appears over David’s shoulder. He stands up like he’s been shot in the arse with a BB gun, then tries to act casual.

“Bring this one often, David!” she says, grinning. “I like him. You're both coming to the pub, right?”

“Uhhhh…” David prevaricates.

“Up to you, David, I’m in your hands,” I say, maliciously. “I really don’t have much on this afternoon.”

“Oh, come! Please come,” Liss begs. “It’ll be so boring without you, Olly. They’ll just talk about the offside rule for hours.”

“I really should get home and shower,” David attempts.

“Don’t be silly, everyone’ll be a sweaty betty,” Liss shuts him down. “And after that winning goal, we’d be proud to squeeze in next to your sticky arse!”

I pretty much nearly have an aneurism trying not to make any of the dozen or so filthy jokes that immediately pop into my head, picturing David’s sticky arse. But, god’s truth, I manage to keep a lid on it.

There’s a silence so grudging that I’m betting there are probably tectonic plates that have shifted more readily. But any longer and Liss is going to smell a rat, and David knows it.

“Yeah, okay. I can swing a pint,” he grates.

“I’ll save you both good seats!” she trills. Cookie comes over to scoop up the cooler, Liss takes the picnic basket, and they set off across the pitch.

We stand there for a couple of very plump seconds, saying nothing. There’s really nothing to say. David might have won his footie game, but I’ve just trounced him at human interaction. But I’m not one to gloat.

Much.

“Would you say I’m out of line enough to deserve to be bent over your car bonnet and spanked?” I ask, musingly.

David chokes on absolutely nothing.

I scoop up my empty coffee cup and start a slow saunter to the little Brockwell Park car park. David follows, going through the same complaints and hissed threats on a loop. I decide not to listen to it; it’s a beautiful day, and it seems a shame to ruin it by internalising anything David has to say, so I just hum Madonna’s ‘Hanky Panky’ and chew on the cup lid.

David’s forced to detour to the pay station, putting a break in his stream of toothless vitriol, and leaving me free to survey the car park. People are loading up into cars all over the shop. Hmmm. What’s left… not the slightly dented white Subaru. Not the zippy little Mazda or the BMW with the Pikachu window-shade. Definitely not the small blue Prius. Then I spot it in the corner. A showroom-shiny black Lexus SUV, with windows tinted so dark they’re probably illegal. It’s god’s own Chelsea tractor, and I’m ready to put down a tenner it’s David’s.

I walk casually over to it, pull out my phone and casually lean over to put my elbows on the bonnet, cocking one knee and pretending to scroll Insta. If I was out of line before, I’m way out of line now.

I don’t bother to restrain the smirk when I feel the car unlock and beep underneath me.

“Are you trying to set off the alarm, you fucking idiot?” David hisses at me.

“Thought it might make a nice change from setting off smoke alarms,” I quip. “Geddit? Because I’m smoking hot, David.” God, I’m funny.

“Not fucking funny, Olly. None of this is funny. You’re not fucking cute.”

Objectively not true, of course. On both counts.

“Aren’t you and the snowflake brigade supposed to be obsessed with respecting people’s boundaries?” David continues. He pointedly avoids coming anywhere near my pert buttocks; instead, he goes around, opens the boot, and sits on the back to untie his laces. I pout and get off the bonnet, walking around to lean on the side of the behemoth’s rear end.

“Ooooh, called out. You’re probably right. Hang on. I’ll put out a memo to cancel myself.” I pretend to type something on my phone. “There we go. I put an apology on my Instagram story, and pledged to support a boundary-reinforcement charity.”

“For fuck’s sake, stop treating this like it’s a fun game,” he hisses. “This is my life you’re fucking with. Why are you here?”

“Oh, that… I realised I’d die of old age if I waited for you to get your shit together. And I was horny.”

“Will you keep your fucking voice down,” he bites, eyes flicking wildly under his lashes, even though all his footie mates are gone now, there’s no-one anywhere near us, and I was hardly yelling. I roll my eyes.

“Also I kind of wanted to see you play,” I admit. “See if you were any good, footy lad.”

An involuntary smirk cuts through his little gay-panic freak-out. “And?”

“Fuck you,” I say. “You know you’re good. You objectively won the match.”

“I did, didn’t I,” he says, throwing his studs over his shoulder into the boot and grabbing some trainers.

I lean over and whisper theatrically. “Why don’t you skip putting those on just yet, and I’ll blow you in the back seat of your Secret Service vehicle, Mr President.”

He freezes. God, it's too easy. If I listen carefully, I can actually hear the cogs clacking.

Slowly and theatrically, I open the back door and climb in, throwing my elbow up on the back seat and resting my chin on my hand to peer out at him.

David’s still sitting on the edge of the boot, staring around the empty car park even more wildly than before.

“Someone’ll catch us,” he says nervously.

“Catch us? The eye of bloody Sauron couldn’t catch us through your car windows, David,” I smirk. “I always thought people with super-dark tinted windows were dickheads, but now I know they’re all just fucking in the back seat.”

He still doesn’t move.

I pull my secret weapon out of my back pocket and hold it out to David over the back seat of the Lexus, waggling it a little bit.

“Will this make you feel better?” I ask in a fairly patronising voice. He finally looks back, to see what I’m holding.

“Oh, get absolutely fucked, Olly,” he says.

I waggle it again, smile, and wait.

Come on, David, play with me.

The second stretches into two, then three.

“Fuck you,” David says, still not meeting my eyes. Then he takes the hip flask I’m holding out and unscrews the cap.

“That’s the plan, handsome,” I purr as he takes a sip, hoping he can’t hear the sound of my internal self-high-five.

“Euuuuuurghhh, what is that?” He makes a face.

“Peach soju. Tastes like candy, costs seven quid a bottle and goes down so easy it’ll put a six foot five Russian under the table before they can say ‘harasho’.”

“Tastes like a children’s birthday party.”

I give him a pair of freshly-cocked finger guns and click my tongue.

He takes another slug of Seoul’s finest tipple, takes another ludicrously furtive look around the parking lot, then gets up and shuts the boot.

A second later he’s sliding in beside me and shutting the door, and I hear the snick of the car locking.

I don’t even bother smothering my grin. I leap on him and smoosh him against the door with my face.

“You were so hot out there, David,” I mutter between kisses on his literally-peachy lips. “All your fancy footwork. The uniform. The way you kept nervously fucking with your hair when things weren’t going your way.”

I run my hands through the hair at his temples the way he did during the match, then let my fingers snake further in and clench them in his pretty blond locks. Then I pull back to look at him.

Confused, he opens his eyes, to see where I’ve gone.

“God, you’re unforgivably hot,” I tell him. He tries not to react, but I feel a little ripple run through him, and I can actually feel him chubbing up in his shorts. I’m astride him, and it feels like being on top of a bouncy castle while it inflates, but far less suitable for children. I reach down between my legs and stroke him. There’s plenty left over to stroke.

David’s got his hands on my waist, and he pulls me down as he grinds up. I start to rock in time with his thrusting. He smells like a Year 10 changing room, but it’s driving me insane. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale the musky mix of fresh sweat and deodorant. Then I lick a stripe up the side of his neck and nibble his ear.

He goes stiff as a board, and for a second, I think I’ve fucked up, but then he gasps in a breath.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, apparently involuntarily.

Hmmm. I nibble my way around the edge of his ear, then shove my tongue right inside at the exact moment he grinds up into my crotch.

He actually smothers a scream. God, he’s so fun to play with.

“Tell me how much you missed me, David,” I whisper right into his ear.

“Fuck off, Olly, I’m not rewarding you for invading my private life,” he gasps, shockingly coherently.

“Aren’t you?” I grind my dick into his, hunching my back to drag my crotch up the balance beam. “Okay.”

I jump off him and wriggle back to the other side of the car, turning to sit properly, the picture of a well-behaved backseat passenger. I even reach for the seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” David sits up, from where I’d squished him almost flat against the other door.

“Well, I’m enjoying this a lot, and we don’t want to encourage my bad behaviour, do we? So we better stop.”

“What happened to blowing me in the back seat of my car?”

“Well, I’d enjoy that too, David. Can’t have me getting out of hand. We better just go to the pub.”

I’m almost sure I hear a faint whine escape from his throat.

“Get back over here, you little shit,” He unclicks the seatbelt, grabs the front of my shirt and hauls me right out of my seat and back onto him, shoving his tongue into my mouth and wrapping an arm around my back to hold me in place. Oh my god. I’ve got tingles. He makes me feel so tiny when he pushes me around. I let out a disgraceful little moaning noise, which only seems to spur him on. Unexpectedly, he suddenly pushes me onto my back and shoves up my shirt.

“I thought I was giving you the–” I lose the ability to speak as his mouth hits my nipple. He’s pushing down my shorts and his hand – the one that isn’t effortlessly holding me where he wants me – finds its way into my pants and around my dick, and holy fuck, I’m completely at his mercy and it’s so good. I’m moaning like a pornographic ghost, and arching, and I’d be rolling all over the place, but I can’t, which is alarmingly hot.

David creeps his mouth down my chest to my stomach, which is awkward because of the way we’re sitting, but neither of us cares; he just pushes me up against the other door. He’s still jerking me off when he gets to the waistband of my pants, and pulls it down with his fucking teeth. Oh my god. Why the fuck haven’t they built video recorders into human eyeballs yet?

Then he’s on me, and his mouth is so hot and wet, and his tongue is so soft. I lie back and think of England. Hot, sexy, England. God, England looks good like this, in his football shirt, all sweaty, fresh off the most hetero-manly-man victory a man can achieve in this day and age, lips wrapped around my cock. It’s all my high school fantasies rolled up into one. I’m not gonna pretend this exact scenario – and several related ones – weren’t on my mind when I joined the Truham under-15s footie team in year 9. Let’s just say I did a lot of different sports in high school, until I worked out the particular physical activity I really had a talent for.

England is running his tongue up and down under the head of my dick, which is so hard it almost hurts. I can’t stop myself fucking up into his mouth a little. He moans. I fuck up a little harder. He moans harder. Oh my god. I start long, slow, strokes into his mouth, holding his head gently with both hands.

Fuck, this is so dirty. I haven’t fucked someone in a car since high school. I didn’t point out to David that his windscreen isn’t tinted and anyone looking in the front of the car would get an eyeful. A little thrill of naughtiness runs up my spine.

“Do you have any idea how much you’re fulfilling my high school fantasies right now, David?” I murmur. “Seducing the straight footy hero, fresh off a winning goal, still in his sweaty uniform? I would have loved to bang you in the Truham locker rooms. Gotten down on my knees for you in the showers. And now look at you, swallowing my cock in that beautiful mouth of yours, with that five-o’-clock shadow all over your manly face.”

He moans again, then pauses to lick his hand, and he’s back on me, wet fingers wrapped around me, soft tongue writhing under my cock, the back of his throat hitting my cockhead, one hand still casually holding my hip. I let him bring me closer and closer to the edge in waves, until suddenly, unexpectedly, I’m in a white-hot heaven, swearing and fucking the come right down his throat as I jam his face onto my dick.

“Oh, god, sorry,” I say, blurrily, as David’s overcome with a coughing fit. He manages to sit up and reach over the back seat, and retrieves a sports towel just in time to save his football jersey, and I sit up, feeling a tiny bit useless and a smidge guilty, but mostly just feeling like a floating ball of happiness. All my extremities are still tingling. “Fuck, that was amaaaaaazing, though. You’re amazing.”

I shudder, and David, from somewhere behind the towel, unmistakably preens.

“My turn. Get those shorts off,” I instruct him.

David lifts up his body awkwardly to push off the silky overshorts, which come off easily, but the lycra ones underneath are a nightmare. Worth it, though, because apparently Christmas does come twice: he’s got a jockstrap on again.

“Oh my god, turn around, I have got to see that majestic arse of yours in this thing,” I gasp.

He comes over all suddenly nervous, but he twists over to kneel up on the seat facing the window.

Oh my god. It’s glorious. The straps sit either side of that perfect arse like a gilt frame around the Mona Lisa. I grab it shamelessly and drag my teeth across the left bubble. It has the perfect balance of resistance and give under my hands and mouth, and David, gratifyingly, strangles a moan.

“Holy shit, David, do you have any idea how hot you are?” I find myself kneeling up behind him, two luscious handfuls in my hot little hands, my mouth against his ear. “You’re stunning. Like you stepped off a plinth at the Uffizi and popped a boner.” I let my dick – semi-hard again already – nuzzle gently between his soft down-covered cheeks.

I feel an electric thrill as David actually pushes back against me and moans, but then before you can say ‘no homo’, he’s completely freaked out, turned back around and sat down. The shutters are down again. Oh well. I’ll take five seconds of grinding on that arse over nothing.

In fact… come to think of taking it…

“I want you to fuck me,” I say, impulsively. It’s a stupid idea, and I don’t care even slightly.

“What? In here? I don’t have any… stuff,” he protests as I pull off his jock.

I find my shorts on the floor and pull out my battered little mint tin, stocked with condoms, lube sachets and the dental dam nobody ever wants to use.

I hand a condom to David. He looks at it.

“I… uh… I don’t think this is going to work, Olly,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask, about to rip a lube packet open with my teeth.

“This is a normal condom,” he says, holding it up. It’s one I got for free somewhere, with a little paper square attached that says ‘PLAY SAFE,’ with a picture of a suggestively shaped pink hard hat. He looks a bit sheepish.

“So what? You can’t perform unless it’s strawberry flavoured and ribbed for my pleasure?”

“No, they… just don’t… fit me, Olly. ”

I gasp out a laugh. “What?”

He’s kind of red now. “Look, they’re just really uncomfortable, okay? Way too tight, and not in a hot way. Especially these shitty freebie ones. I have to get the large ones.” He’s avoiding my eyes and it’s actually kind of… adorable?

“Awww, David, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” I say in possibly the most condescending voice I’ve ever used.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

“Clearly you’ve suffered horrors I can only dream of, David,” I concede. “Please, let me help you forget the onerous burden of having an absolutely massive cock.”

I lean my head over into his lap and start sucking on my favourite giant dick-flavoured lollipop.

“Ohhhhhhh fffffuckkkkkk.” His head goes over backwards. “Fuck, Olly, that slutty little mouth of yours. God, you feel so good.”

That sends a tingle right down to my solar plexus. I tap his knee and then tap the seat; he gets the message, and I pause so he can put one leg up and I can get between. I run my thumbs gently up the creases of his legs, just lightly enough that I don’t set off his tickle reflexes, and get my head sideways to suck on the underside of his base, burying my nose in his sweaty, musky balls, working my way up and then swallowing his massive cockhead. I let my hands creep around to his arse, sliding my hands between the juicy mounds and his leather seats, and mangling them just a little while I do my best to deep-throat him at this awkward angle. He’s doing these cool-guy little groany-grunts, fucking up a little and making me gag slightly.

He looks down at me, and reaches to run his thumb over my top lip where it’s stretched around his cock. Then he scoops up some of the spit that’s dripping out of my mouth and runs it over my lips.

“Ffffffffffffffuuuuu…” he says, and I can’t disagree. Slowly, deliberately, while holding my eyes with his, he fucks up into my mouth, gagging me for a second or so and holding it there, then letting me breathe again. A little whine escapes his lips. He repeats the move once, and then again, and god, it’s hot. He’s pushing it, and I’m letting him.

Mustn’t let him get too big for his britches, though. After a few more thrusts, I take back control; I pull my hands out from under him and lick them thoroughly, then wrap up the base of his cock in both hands and start jerking him slowly, then faster and faster, my mouth suctioned around his cockhead.

“Fuck, yes, Olly, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that,” he gasps.

He’s getting louder and more erratic when suddenly I pop upright, off his dick.

“Wait a second. You totally used a normal condom when we hooked up with Millsy,” I say. “I call bullshit.”

David lets off a frustrated groan and pulls me back onto his dick. I slowly allow him to pull me down for a few seconds, licking and sucking, then I pop off again.

“Come on, admit it, you were just too chicken to fuck me in your car, weren’t you,” I goad him. I’ve stopped stroking him, too. He moans in pure agony and tries to pull me back on. I eventually let him, getting my tongue under his head, letting his moans build back up to nice and juicy, then whoops, I let go again. He actually screams.

“Come on, tell me,” I demand. “No more blowjob until you tell me.”

“Fucking hell, I brought my own, Olly,” he moans. “You even used one yourself. Didn’t you notice?”

I think back to that evening. Had the condom felt different? I shrug.

“Okay, I may have been a bit distracted,” I confess, and plant my mouth back over his dick. He gasps in relief, fucking up into my mouth again – until a half a minute or so later, when I pop off again.

“I feel like I would have noticed,” I maintain.

David, who was clearly about to come, makes a genuinely pathetic whining noise.

“Please, Olly,” he begs, trying ineffectually to push me back on. “Please, fuck, please let me come?”

I let the grin spread across my face. He’s seen through me. But he’s being so well behaved; he could perfectly well pull me back on, if he wanted, and I’d have zero choice in the matter.

“We’ll see, shall we?” I drop my lips back around his cock and work his shaft and he’s moaning volcanically.

“Fuck, yes, Olly, please let me come, please, fuck, I want to come in your mouth, I want it so badly, please…”

Oh, no, whoops, I’m off again.

“How much do you want me, David?”

“Fucking christ, Olly, I want you so fucking much,” he whines

I give him one little lick.

“Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I wanted you all the time, Olly. I thought about you in work meetings. I thought about you at drinks. I thought about you at home and at footie practice.” I reward him with a single lick for each admission. He’s moaning desperately. “All I could think about was getting my hands on you. You make me so fucking hard, Olly.”

“So why didn’t you message me?” I demand, letting the barest touch of one finger drag up the underside of his dick.

He’s silent for a couple of seconds.

“Because I’m a fucking coward,” he finally admits. I grin like the Cheshire cat.

“Seems like you’re being pretty brave right now,” I say. “How about you come for me, my beautiful coward?”

And then I swallow his dick, wrapping my hands around his shaft, and milk him until he screams and comes like a fireworks display.

—

“I’m never going to be able to look my detail guy in the eye again,” David says. He’s managed to find the sports towel again, but there’s no polite way to put this – I got come up the back of my nose, and coughed at the exact wrong moment, and he came so hard there’s jizz everywhere. The football shirt, by some tragic miracle, escaped unscathed, but it’s pretty much everywhere else – the seats, David’s legs, my face. There’s a glob in David’s hair. Given how hard and how much he came, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was jizz on the ceiling.

I snort and reach for the towel, wiping my face, then pulling him towards me by the chin so I can de-spaff him properly.

“Maybe he’ll film the cleanup and shame you on YouTube,” I suggest. “I love those videos.”

I get David looking presentable and hand back the towel. David finds another drip on the window and wipes at it, making it worse.

“This is healing up nicely,” I run my finger over his cute little burger tattoo. “I know you hate it, but it looks really great, you know.”

He huffs an infuriated little laugh and gives up on the cleanup, while I wriggle back into my shirt.

“That's fucking exactly what they said when I went to see about getting it removed,” he says, rolling his eyes and wrestling his lycra back on, not bothering with the jock. “They all loved it. I had three Gen Z pierced goth chicks trying to persuade me to keep the stupid thing. But apparently I can't start the removal process until it's completely healed, so either way I'm bloody stuck with it for now.”

I give a little whoop of victory as I locate my pants.

“Suck it up, David, you’re one of the cool kids now,” I crow. “We’ll have you picketing something in no time.”

“The only thing I’m picketing is a pint of lager. Get your shorts on. They’re already going to be wondering why we’re so late.”

“I do not think that word means what you think it means,” I tell him, climbing into the front seat half-naked. He throws my shorts at me.

—

“So, you and David are friends, as well as the family connection?” Liss asks.

We’re sardined in amongst David’s teammates and their families in a couple of large booths down the back of the Lion and Crow. It’s loud and hectic and everyone else is at least half a pint ahead of us.

“Yep,” I reply instantly, blowing straight past just how very fucking weird ‘being David’s friend’ is, as a concept. “We bonded over our shared hatred of slide nights. Our parents share a terminal fondness for unironic compulsory bonding events, which our brothers are shockingly willing to indulge, and we both noped out so hard we came full circle.”

As I say it, I realise it’s the unvarnished truth. Well, minus the little extra that we also bonded over being the unruly, chronically single siblings who wouldn’t know a white picket fence if we tripped over one, hammered, on a large night out.

David fails to disagree, staring at his pint.

“Also it turns out David has a ping-pong table, and once I found that little fact out, he was toast.” I add.

“Oh my god, you have a ping-pong table, David?” Liss laughs. “You’re lucky our girls are at their gran’s, or you’d have two new housemates who are shockingly bad at pulling their weight.”

One of David’s teammates, a guy with thinning brown hair, turns to David.

“Davey boy, see you finally managed to find a friend!” he says in a thick Welsh accent. A little neon sign appears over his head, reading ‘23% Twat’.

“Oh my god, Dylan, don’t be a prat,” Liss says.

“I’m just sayin’!” Dylan says. “It’s nice to see someone out cheering for our Davey at a Sharks game. I heard you yelling from the sidelines. I’m Dylan, by the way.”

“Olly,” I offer, along with my hand. He grabs it a little too hard.

“You’re a handsome young lad, Olly! I didn’t know you swung that way, David!” he cracks, then laughs at his own joke.

David manages to laugh weakly, but I feel his leg tense up like piano wire under the table where it’s jammed against mine.

I chortle a tiny bit too loudly and lean over to jovially punch Dylan in the shoulder, making sure I angle my knuckles just right to land pointily in his bicep.

“Dylan, you card!” I say. “Cookie, this one should be doing stand-up, not midfield! No, Dylan, actually, we’re in-laws. I’m just here to fly the colours for the family sporting champion. And who are you here with today?”

“Oh… er… just flying solo myself,” Dylan mutters.

“Not to worry, Dylan. Not to worry. And let me know when your next comedy gig is, Davey and I will be sure to come along!”

Dylan laughs like I’ve said something funny, which I suppose I have.

I suddenly find myself overcome with the urge to protect David from any more homophobic bullshit – or unnecessary attention – at all costs. I smile and act superbly normal and am just charming enough to keep the chat flowing comfortably. David’s leg slowly relaxes, and he survives a full pint’s worth of conversation without swallowing his own tongue out of fear.

The group thins out, people making their apologies and saying goodbye and trailing out in ones and twos and nonsense-we’ll-give-you-a-lifts, until eventually David and I have the booth to ourselves.

“I’m still pretty fucking pissed you showed up with zero heads-up today,” he says, a safe four minute margin after the last slightly tipsy Blueberry finished his second pint, wished us a pleasant afternoon and wobbled out, hopefully not to return. “Don’t fucking do it again.”

“Mmmm,” I agree. I let that sit on the table for a bit. David messes with his coaster, shredding the edge off it.

“It was cool having someone here for me,” he admits, in a very quiet voice.

I run a lightning-fast internal debate on how to handle that one.

“I had fun,” I decide on, adding a one-shoulder shrug. I realise as I say it that it’s true. God, what is going on with me and unironically enjoying David’s company today?

“Just… fucking tell me next time.” He shreds another strip off the beer mat. “And… thanks for… not… uhh…”

“Outing you? Bringing my whole self? Showing up in a pink fringed muu-muu and doing a half-time lip-sych to ‘It’s Raining Men’?”

“Uhhh… yeah. For… that.”

“Well, it was a close thing. You have no idea how hard it was not to jump you and snog your match-winning face off,” I smirk. He blushes and tries not to smile, but kinda fails.

“Want to order lunch? My shout,” he says. “They do a good aged sirloin with beurre Café de Paris here.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I remind him. He raises a sarcastic eyebrow.

“Oh, right. Well, I hear the chicken burger’s pretty good too,” he says.

“Dickhead,” I grin.

Chapter Text

Eating lunch in the pub with David is both a little bit surreal and also kind of… like, what am I even saying… nice? On reflection, it’s probably surreal because it’s nice. Like, he’s not suddenly Dorothy Parker or anything, but he laughs at my jokes, even the stupid ones, and… just doesn’t act like a prat? I’m starting to wonder if all the horseshit he carries on with is exclusively reserved for time spent with his family.

Despite being chalk and Che Guevara, we manage not to run out of things to talk about, with our pants miraculously still on. Like, for example, midway through giving him shit about being a neocon, I discover David has a lot of opinions about the role of the free market in addressing climate change.

“No profits on a dead planet,” he says, leaving me to pick up my jaw out of the crumbs of my Beyond scotch egg and chips. “It’s not charity. It’s self-interest. You need to invest in long-term returns as well as short-term. There are only three kinds of people in business looking for quick, high returns: idiots, scammers and vandals. You can’t build your emerging markets in the BRICs if half of India is under water.”

I push my fork off the edge of the table. It falls to the ground and I retrieve it. David watches this exercise with a sort of superior bemusement, then back at me.

“What was that about?” he asks.

“Just checking gravity and all the other natural laws of the universe were still functioning,” I reply. “Did we just agree on climate change? You got there in the most astonishingly wrong-headed way I’ve ever heard, but I’m still boggled that you care enough about anyone other than yourself to manage to include the planet’s wellbeing.”

“Yeah, well, one: I’m not a moron, and two: giving a shit about the planet is self-interest too, Olly. I do live here,” he points out, infuriatingly accurately. “Besides, the planet is way easier to like than most people.”

“Ain’t that god’s own truth,” I say, toasting it with the remains of my vodka cranberry. “Maybe I should have gone into, I don’t know, marine biology or something instead of crim.”

“What, you’re gonna fix climate change one sea turtle at a time? You should’ve gone into engineering. Carbon sequestration and EVs and emissions control and shit like that. Plus, if you’ve got talent, you can be as rude and eccentric as you like.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I probably would have enjoyed engineering, but I got glandular fever in year 10 and missed some key shit in physics. By the time I got back, I was at least three thousand Newtons behind the curve.”

David rolls his eyes patronisingly. “That’s not even a measure of—" He’s halfway through taking the bait when he catches the tiny smirk I failed to hide behind my glass. “Fuck off.”

“Seriously though, never caught up. Mum even tried getting me a tutor, this Year 11 named Bessa, but she and I just ended up exploring the coefficient of friction of the surfaces of two bodies. In detail.”

“Trust you to torpedo an entire career pathway because you got the kissing disease, then got distracted by further kissing,” David snorts.

“I can’t believe it took me so long to figure out where my real talents lie,” I say, suggestively licking mustard sauce off my finger. “I wonder if I can find a way to get a salary for seducing Tory politicians and landing them in tabloid scandals?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s traditional to be paid as a contractor out of the MP’s allowance for that,” David says, which is like, actually funny.

“I wonder if all Conservative closet cases are as dynamite in the sack as you are,” I muse. David’s cheeks redden and his eyes skitter nervously, but we’ve got the whole booth to ourselves and nobody else in the pub could give two shits what we’re talking about. “All that pressure, looking for an outlet. Though I struggle to believe that Jeremy Thorpe’s combover-and-waistcoat combo was hiding abs as cut as yours.”

“I’m not that conservative, Olly,” David says, shooting me a look that’s hungry for something other than steak. Ooooh, frisson, baby.

I hold his gaze, then down the last of my drink and let my fingers wrap around the tall glass and slide down it, the condensation collecting on my hand. Then I casually lick it off, and am rewarded by David apparently doing an involuntary ab crunch.

“Wanna get out of here, Minister?” I ask. “We can head back to yours and misappropriate some public funds?”

—

The ride back to David’s is quiet, but the quiet isn’t quiet. It’s a very loud kind of quiet. If maybe my hand creeps over to David’s thigh, that wouldn’t make any noise, for example. Nor would the looks David occasionally shoots me at traffic lights, which could probably sear a hole in a space shuttle’s heat shield. There might be a tiiiiny bit of a hiss of indrawn breath when my fingers graze the loaf between David’s legs, but a very quiet one.

Once we park in the murky greyness of the garage under David’s place, we manage to very quietly exit the car. The beep of the central lock echoes through the many, many things we aren’t saying. Things like Oh, David Nelson, it is on, and I have been thinking about getting your dick back inside me every six minutes since you left my place and Fucking nail me to the wall, daddy.

We walk over to the lift, a very careful metre apart, and David pushes the button. After several decades, the lift arrives, and then finally a week later, the doors open. David steps inside. I step inside. I stand demurely against the back wall. He pushes the button for the seventh floor. There’s an hour or so of very heavy silence, before – in full 240-frames-per-second slow-mo – the doors cloooooooooooose.

Then we’re on each other.

David collects me bodily as I’m halfway over to him, abruptly changing my direction and flattening me against the side wall, hooking my arse up over the handrail. His mouth is hot and hard against mine and his hands are all over me, one of them snaking round the back of my neck, the other one coming up under my shirt. God, did I mention how hot it is when he just picks me up and throws me around like a Guy on bonfire night? I just let him, too, an embarrassing little whine escaping my mouth into his as he ploughs his rock-hard erection into my crotch.

Time apparently sped back up while we weren’t paying attention, because there are the barest of milliseconds between the lift stopping unexpectedly, and the doors opening to reveal a woman in her 50s with several bags of shopping. David barely manages to pull back off me, and I only just hit the ground and turned it into a casual wall-lean-and-back-of-neck-scratch, before she’s giving a polite micro-nod, stepping in and pushing the button for the fourth floor.

She calmly turns to face the doors. David’s beetroot-red, and has casually manoeuvred his sports bag from his back to the front so it covers his crotch. I’m trying to control my breathing. Time’s passing like molasses again as we ascend. I’m acutely aware that we’re both acting in a way that is fundamentally weird, and there’s no possible way she can’t tell, but I have utterly forgotten how to act normally right this second and there’s fuck all I can do about it.

The woman gets off at the fourth floor, and two beats after the doors close again, I burst out in uncontrollable laughter, and David sags into the corner of the lift, his hand over his eyes.

“I haven’t come that close to getting spectacularly sprung since Mr Lange nearly caught me and Billy in the printer room,” I whuffle through the tears.

“Oh my god, Mr Lange?” David snorts. “Wow. I hadn’t thought about him in years. I filled his satchel with fast-setting concrete one April Fools. Was he still teaching when you were there?”

“Wow… that’s… kind of… horrible?” I hiccup helplessly. “Actually, I think he’s retiring next year. He was at Nick and Charlie’s wedding. Didn’t you see him? He’s the one who accidentally set them up.”

David shrugs. “Yeah… I don’t think he would have been on my radar that night, Olly,” he says, nailinggunning me with a look, and just like that we’re on each other again.

The lift opens on David’s floor and he just scoops my legs around his waist again and carries me down the hall. I fumble in my pocket for Sarah’s fob, but I don’t want to stop kissing him, so it takes a few goes of me reaching down blindly to get the door open. We almost fall through it backwards.

David drops his bag and carries me the few steps to the kitchen, plonking me on the fancy marble-effect bench top and wrenching at my waistband. I kick off my shoes and lift myself up on my hands, and let him pull off my shorts and pants for the second time today – god I’m spoiled – then I lean back as he wraps one hand around my dick and pushes up my shirt with the other.

Now I’m naked and he’s fully clothed, unlike the last time we got frisky here, and it’s very, very hot. Cold, too, thanks to the benchtop. But I kind of love the dynamic; me, the naked grease-smeared witch; him, the helpless man who has followed my siren song.

Actually, speaking of grease…

“Go get your lube and jumbo-size condoms, like, right now,” I instruct him.

He disappears so fast he pretty much leaves a singed trail behind him, and, hitching a leg up, I lie back against the tiles and lazily start working my dick.

In a moment he’s back, dropping his gear on the counter. Oh god, I’m so excited. I’ve been thinking about riding this pony for two weeks, and now it’s finally my turn to get on the carousel.

David pulls off his shirt… well, hello, titties. I spare a moment to crush one of them a little, as he wriggles out of his bottoms, his dick springing up out of the compression shorts like a jack-in-the-box.

I grab the lube bottle and squeeze his fancy jus-de-shag over my fingers, then reach between my legs to start lubing myself up. I let a finger run around my hole, caressing it, and enjoying David’s sudden inability to look anywhere else. Then I shove two fingers straight in, and David’s breath stutters as I moan and start fucking myself with them.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and I couldn’t agree more.

Madden last night didn’t exactly count as prep for David, but I’ve been hornier than a Christmas reindeer with my mega-dildo. It’s been the only thing that even came close to David’s beautiful schlong. But thanks to Big Bertha, I am not only horny, I am also so ready for this.

When I open my eyes again, David’s still enjoying the show, but now he’s got a condom on, and he’s lubing up and stroking his dick, which is very distracting.

“You wanna have a go at helping me prep, maestro?” I say, coyly. I see him think about it, but at the last second, he chickens out. I restrain my eye roll. Instead, I use my spare hand to make grabby motions in the general direction of his midsection, getting him by the hip and pulling his crotch to mine.

His lubed-up dick hits my crack and we’re sliding together and ohhhh it is nice. I’m so excited.

“You’re… not gonna tie me up?” he says. He sounds both keen and… maybe a pinch disappointed? David Nelson, you kinky bitch. But, ugh. He’s probably got a point. I’m not sure he’s ready for his first solo drive yet.

“Mmmm… nope, can’t be arsed. But now you come to mention it, until you’ve graduated from anal school, you probably shouldn’t be in charge of all this—” I gesture down at myself, “ —unsupervised.”

I put my arms around his neck and lock my legs around his hips, his log still nestling firmly between my arse cheeks.

“Pick me up and take me over to the couch,” I instruct him. He does as he’s told – effortlessly, is that ever going to get old? – and I make him sit down with me straddling him.

I kiss him hard, savouring this last moment before shit gets intense, just letting myself grind up and down him wetly. Then I slide all the way up to the summit, and let his tip find my hole.

Like every time, there’s a second where I think it’s impossible; that I’m trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle. But then she gives gently and he’s sliding into me, more smoothly than ever before.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” I murmur, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.

“Oh my god, Olly,” he breathes into my chest. “I wanna fucking live in you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, David.” I gasp. “You couldn’t possibly live in me for longer than… say, a weekend,” I suggest, eyes shut in concentration, sliding further down his cock. “Just dick me down nonstop from 6pm Friday to Monday morning.”

He makes a criminally hot noise at that suggestion, wrapping his arms around me. I briefly wonder how long I could actually keep him in me for.

“We should test it out. For science,” I add virtuously. Then my arse hits David’s thighs and scientific method goes right out the window.

“Fuck, David, why do you feel so good when you’re all the way in? It’s fucking criminal.”

David can’t even manage coherent speech. He’s got his hands on my waist and he’s pulling me down hard, starting to thrust.

It’s a bit much for this early in the proceedings, so I find his hands and weave my fingers into his, then I push his hands out and spread-eagle him gently along the back of the couch.

“Slow down, chica,” I let my hips do the work, pushing forward against him and then settling back again. I lean down to press my lips against his, and he moans into my mouth.

I take my time, enjoying the ride as I relax properly into it. Eventually, I stop kissing him, and just look into those pretty green eyes and listen to his little moans. He’s in so deep I’m pretty sure he’s hitting my spleen on the upswing. My hands are still pinning him gently; he’s not trying to get out of it. You are so sprung, David Nelson.

“You love this, don’t you, David? You like me holding you down. Riding you like a sex doll. Turning you into my own personal sex toy,” I purr into his ear. He doesn’t deny it.

“I think maybe it’s time to see what you can do when I press the ‘on’ switch, though, baby,” I add. “Come on. Let’s take those training wheels off for a bit. I want you to fuck me, David.”

David makes a strangled whining noise and wriggles forward on the couch suddenly, tipping me backwards a bit and letting him get even deeper inside me, which I didn’t think was possible, but here we are. Goodbye, spleen. I don’t know what you did, but you did it well. He’s properly pumping into me now and it’s so good I’m pretty much screaming. He’s got his hands around my waist like a vice, and he’s fucking my whole body down onto him like I weigh nothing, while his dick ravages my insides. I goddamn knew he’d fuck like a jackhammer.

I’m not prepared for how good it feels to be a little bit at his mercy. I can feel my eyes rolling back in my head and little moans coming out of my mouth in time with each thrust of that monster dick inside me. I’ve got my work cut out for me just staying upright, holding on with the hand I’ve hastily hooked behind his neck.

“Put me on the couch, David. Put me on the couch and fuck me,” I tell him.

Without waiting a second, he throws me sideways and before I can say ‘fold me in half, daddy’, he’s up on his knees, and mine are up somewhere around my ears, and I have no choice but to lie back and just let the sensation of being properly fucking railed overwhelm me.

“Oh my god, yes, David, fill me, fucking take me, oh my god, fuck,” I say, articulately.

“Fuck, yes, Olly, take it, take my cock,” David mutters. “Take the whole thing.” He’s got his eyes glued to my crotch, where he’s pushing into me again and again. “Take me, you dirty little slut.”

That rips an unexpected shiver down my spine and another filthy noise out of my mouth.

“Yes, David, I’m such a dirty slut for you, I want you so badly. Nobody else makes me feel like you do,” I moan.

“Who else have you been fucking?” he demands in a gravelly voice.

I open my eyes and look at him. “You really want to know?”

“Who. Else. Have. You. Been. Fucking.” he repeats, ramming his cock into me hard with each word.

It takes me a while to gather the brains to answer with more than just helpless moaning. “Last night – guy named Madden,” I gasp.

“Who else?” he growls, .

“Mmmf… Oscar, if you count that,” I admit.

He makes a long, low noise. “Keep going. Who else?”

“Haghhh. Fuuuck. A girl named Candy and her friend at a party last week,” I huff. “Sirje and Raúl again. Cute enby named CJ.” He thrusts deep inside me with each fresh name, making me gasp each time.

“You really are a filthy little slut, aren’t you, Olly?” He’s railing me harder than ever. He almost seems… I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s translating into gains. I’m gonna be sitting wonky for days.

“Hey! Sex positivity, David!” I counter breathlessly. Then I moan in acquiescence. “The filthiest.”

He spares a vice-grip hand from my waist and reaches down to wrap it around the back of my neck, just as tightly. “But nobody else makes you feel like this?” I’m losing the thread of this conversation with how good David’s dick feels.

“Mmmf… why do you think I stalked you to your footie match?” I manage.

“You showed up in front of all my mates, risked getting me caught, because you were that desperate for me to fuck you?” he grates.

“You’re not the only one who’s been whacking off every ten minutes,” I moan. “Can’t get your stupid beautiful face out of my head.”

David stares at me, then leans down and pulls me in to kiss me, hard. He lets go of the hand on my hip and wraps it around my dick, where he starts jerking me off in time to his thrusts.

“Fuck, yes, Olly, you’re gonna come on my dick,” he says into my mouth. He’s jerking me off and kissing me hard. Between that and his cock inside me, it’s so much.

“Come on, Olly, I want to watch what my massive dick does to you,” he breathes as he pounds into me. The hand that’s not jerking me off is back at my waist. “All those people, and my fat cock ramming into your hot little hole is the only thing you really want. Come on, spill it, you dirty little slut.”

Oh. fffffuck. fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuck. I go over the edge hard. Every thrust deep inside is setting off a new round of fireworks in my whole body. I’m swearing and convulsing and coming all over us both when he moans volcanically and starts coming himself, driving into me and scroaning hard, and coaxing a couple more spurts of ecstasy out of me. Holy fuck, how is it always so good?

“Holy fuck, how is it always so good?” David gasps, collapsing messily onto my come-covered chest, his head in the crook of my shoulder.

Underneath him, I burst out laughing.

—

When I get out of the guest shower, David’s wearing a T-shirt and joggers. He looks comfy and soft and kind of huggable. He’s tidied up, and there’s an episode of Taskmaster on. I stretch luxuriously and start going through David’s cupboards for snacks.

“Plans for this evening?” he asks. I actually can’t tell if he’s being genuine or asking me to leave. Maybe he doesn’t know either.

“Thought I’d go through your kitchen and then take advantage of your giant TV,” I say, experimentally.

“How come you’re always eating?” he gripes.

“I’m a growing boy,” I say, straight-faced. “Got to keep my energy levels up, especially with all the physical activity. My body is a machine.” I flex one pretty much nonexistent bicep and kiss it. He snorts.

“I’d be impressed if you could pick up a kettle, let alone a kettlebell, Olly,” he says.

“Well, I’m impressed you managed to go two rounds in one day, old man,” I shoot back. I lean over and pick up the kettle, then pretend to get dragged down by its inestimable weight. “Can you make me a cup of tea? I’m too weak to do it myself.”

He snorts again, ignores the request and drops to the sofa. I take that to mean I’m not going to be kicked out. Meanwhile, still hunting through his pantry, I strike gold; hidden behind a massive tub of protein powder is a huge bag of salt roasted almonds. Jesus, I knew he was rich, but I didn’t realise he was roasted almond rich.

I take my loot and a glass of water and plonk myself down on the couch. David looks at the bag and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, and speaking of being insatiably hungry,” I say, and fish in my pocket for the little plastic bag with the two bliss balls. “Oscar’s dealer had these this week. They’re kind of mild, you have to eat a whole one to get decently lit, but they’re pretty good. And vegan, apparently.”

“I’m shocked the packaging isn’t reusable and biodegradable,” he snarks, but without much heat.

“Collective action is far more important than any single choice, David,” I say sanctimoniously. “Also… Bailey accidentally stole my fancy little wooden stash box to make a DIY retrogaming emulator.”

David laughs properly at that.

“I kind of like hanging out with you, Olly,” he admits. “You’re not hard going.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. I can talk to you. About anything. You’re like, a real person. I don’t have to pretend to be anything around you.”

“What, and you can’t be yourself around girls?”

“Of course you can’t,” David scoffs. “Girls aren’t…”

He pauses, clearly unable to articulate what girls aren’t.

“...People?” I suggest sarcastically.

“Yeah!” he nods furiously. Oh, fuck me sideways with a croissant. The straights are not okay. Has this guy literally never experienced a genuine human connection with someone he’s fucking? Or even someone he wanted to fuck?

“Girls are just… like, they care about stuff I just couldn’t care less about. Like clothes and makeup and influencers and YouTube drama and birthdays and anniversaries and weddings and kids. But, like it’s not just girls. All my mates ever want to do is get drunk and chuck stuff at people. Which is, like, funny, because it’s all banter, right? We play video games and watch sports and give each other shit about birds and do stupid stuff for a laugh. But we don’t talk talk.”

Has David ever had a genuine human connection with anyone at all? My internal facepalm at the towering misogyny turns suddenly to pity.

“Like… do you ever feel… like… you’re only doing things because everyone else is? And you’re scared… to… do something… that might… make people hate you? Your real personality has been, like, buried inside you, for a really long time? That’s how I feel when I’m around you.” He tenses up. “Ugh, forget I said that, it makes no fucking sense.”

My heart pretty much snaps in two. I want to fold him up in the biggest hug I can possibly manage and squeeze him and sing little Spanish nursery rhymes into his ear until I drown out twenty years of the voices of bottom-feeding homophobic arseholes in his head. But he’s too fragile to be able to handle that, so I resort to violence.

“David,” I kick him in the ankle. “Why are the fuck are you spending your time with people who you think might hate you if they found out who you really are? Those people sound like raging cunts. You need to find some better friends.”

He gives a sad little laugh. Fuck it. I lean over and fold him up into a hug. Predictably, he goes full ironing-board stiff.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t mean—"

“Shut up and be hugged, you absolute dickhead,” I tell the top of his head. “I’m willing to make this into a fight so either put up your dukes or just let it happen.”

It feels for a second like he’s going to take Option A, but he gives in.

“Thaaaaat’s it. Let my chardonnay-sipping snowflake lefty ways work their magic. We’ll have you in touch with your feelings before you can say ‘Ruth Bader Ginsburg’.” After ten or so seconds of ruthless human intimacy, I let him go and hold him by the shoulders.

“Now. Wanna get stoned and play Mario Kart?”

I swear he gives me literal heart eyes.

“Fair warning, though, I’m gonna leave you in the dust,” I tell him.

David gives a contemptuous little snort, a single ray of dickhead shining through the clouds of sincerity. “You wish, Olly. Bet you never got stuck on a five-hour drive to Paris with nothing but a Gameboy Advance for company. I’m gonna wipe the floor with you.”

I grin widely. “Can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

David texts me the Tuesday after.

Dick:

2:48pm

I've got free tickets from work to this comedy thing Sat, you wanna come with?

Holy fucking shit. What?

I’d been near nodding off in my Applied Multivariate Analysis class when my phone buzzed. I had been trying to wrap my screaming brain around cluster analysis and k-means and biplots, and even before I opened it, the notification gave me a tiny burst of euphoric gratitude for the distraction.

After I saw its contents, Dr Evans could have set off a firework on her lectern and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Now I’m just staring at it, wondering why I feel so warm and sizzly. David’s invited me to… something. Is it just us? Are others going? Are we going on… a date?

I decide to reply before I make it a big thing. I send a quick ‘Sure, sounds fun!’ and then spend the rest of the lecture overthinking it massively.

—

I’ve dressed down intentionally; from his texts, David’s clearly trying to play this super-caszh, so if it means wearing my ratty vintage Soundgarden T-shirt – probably the most masc thing I own – then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

I show up, like, fifteen minutes early, like a complete psycho, and find David already waiting out front. I shouldn’t have worried about my clothes, because David is wearing the douchebag version of Dorothy’s dress in the Wizard of Oz. Does he think we’re going for canapés on a yacht? Small mercies, though; at least he has a normal jacket, and has spared me the sockless boat shoes and jumper draped round the shoulders.

The venue is a hulking black box of a place, two streets too far out of the West End to be popular. A neon sign reads ‘The Laugh Factory’; underneath is a vaguely face-themed spheroid with two different sized eyeballs and its tongue out, which might be laughing, or maybe screaming for someone to please end its horrifying existence.

I walk up, my hands carefully tucked into my pockets.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says.

I suddenly find I’ve gone utterly blank on how to have a conversation with David Nelson. Ask him how his spreadsheets are going? Inquire after his one suspiciously well-maintained potted plant?

“So how’ve you been? Bought any new charcoal shit for your apartment?”

“What?” he says, perplexed.

“Never mind,” I say. “Let’s go in, huh?”

David hands the tickets to the door bitch, and he gives us a couple of programs – clearly run off an office printer – and tells us we’re at table three. Apparently this place does tables. Faaaancy.

My heart sinks as we pass tables nineteen, fifteen and seven, getting closer and closer to the stage. Oh god. Table three is in the front row.

I slow down and look at David. He’s gone very pale. Apparently he’s realised the same thing I have.

We’re not here to join everyone else for dinner tonight: at table three, we’re the roast.

“I’ll go see if we can move,” he says, swerving over to the bar.

He comes back a few minutes later with two Coronas, a couple of drinks cards and a pained expression.

“Fucking sold out show,” he says, closing his eyes in what looks like mild despair. “Apparently Floogle McDoogle pulls a big crowd.”

“Floogle McWhatthefucknow?”

“The headliner tonight. His real name’s Flynn Maddox. He’s the cousin of that guy who used to be in a band and does popular history shows now. Henry Maddox?”

“You mean Jack Maddox?”

“Jack, Henry, whatever. The guy with the white streak and the glasses who can’t afford a razor and did the Dakar Rally one time. Anyway this guy tonight’s his cousin, but for some reason, his stand-up character has a stupid name. The gig is sold out and they can’t move us, so they’re piling us with free shit instead.” He drops the drink cards on the table. “Nachos, chips and wings on the way.”

“Do you want to just GTFO? Front row at a comedy gig is a slightly less safe place to sit than a trench at the Somme, I’d’ve thought?”

David nervously eyes the stage, two feet from the little red IKEA lamp on our table.

“If I don't stick around, I'm never going to hear the end of it from the work crowd,” he says, with the air of a man going to the guillotine. “They got me the Floogle McDoogle book in last year's secret santa. I’m going to get a dozen questions about it before I get through my first coffee.”

“Okay, well, up to you, no skin off my nose,” I nod. “Actually… gimme a sec.”

I cast a practised eye around the room, looking for the most competent employee. I spot her behind the bar: a ginger woman with a practical glare. I wander over and wait to catch her eye.

“Hi, I’m wondering if you can get a message to whoever’s running the comedians for me?” I say, smiling widely. She eyes me skeptically.

“What kind of message would that be?” she replies, in a thick Australian accent.

“My friend and I are stuck at table three, and I just want to make sure they know to lay off. We’re not in the market for being material.” I tell her.

She raises a still-skeptical eyebrow.

“I can tell them, but I don’t know that it’s going to do you much good, I doubt any of tonight’s lot can count to three.”

I shrug. “I’ll consider them warned,” I twinkle at her. “No refunds if I break one of them.”

She rolls her eyes and snorts. “I’ll let them know.”

—

“And you two, what’s your deal? Father and son? But you don’t look related?” The comedian winks theatrically and finger guns me with the hand that’s not holding the mic. “Sugar daddy?”

For fuck’s sake. I don’t even need to look at David to feel the waves of pure terror coming off him.

“Oh, we met when his fiancée and I were in the same cult,” I say in a clear, carrying voice.

The comedian does a full double take.

“You what now? Did you say his fiancée and you were in the same cult? Really?”

I roll my eyes and say, again in a well-projected voice – thanks, Ms Richards-Guignon, Truham theatre teacher extraordinaire – “Nah, mate, just thought I’d see if I could come up with some better material than implying two random guys at a comedy gig must be fucking.”

The room breaks into laughter, and the comedian wisely calls me a troll and moves on. The rolled-up newspaper to the nose does its job; he leaves us alone for the rest of his set.

Un-fucking-believably, though, after Warmup Guy #1 finally takes himself and his check shirt off stage, Warmup Guy #2 comes out – in a slightly different check shirt – and after he exhausts his slim stack of unfunny jokes, does exactly the same thing. Starts going through the front row right to left like we’ll do his homework for him, looking for cheap laughs.

“These two guys here in the front, I’m getting very date-night vibes, lads! How long have you two been fucking?” He drops the ‘fucking’ with an extra long F, like, ffffucking, like he’s so edgy for swearing.

“Mate, I don’t know how to tell you this, I’m actually in a deeply committed relationship with your mum,” I reply, mostly over my shoulder to the audience.

I get a bigger laugh than he’s had all set, and unlike Flannel Lad before him, he doesn’t have the good sense to cut his losses. From this vantage point, I can actually see the little ball of rage catch in the guy’s jaw.

“Ooooh, we’ve got a live one here, folks! Fighting words from a guy who looks like you could snap him like a pencil.” He glare-smirks at me. There are a couple of polite titters.

“At least pencils can write jokes, mate,” I shoot back. That gets a decent laugh. “Why don’t you step up your game and ask us what the deal is with airplane food?” More laughter.

Grumpy the Comedy Dwarf is starting to realise he’s bitten off more than he can chew, but I’m having fun now.

“Okay, let’s settle down, shall we?” he says.

“That’s what I said, over sav blanc and brie, to your mum,” I deploy. The audience laughs and there are a couple of whoops and whistles. Seriously, is this guy walking into these on purpose?

The guy finally grows a clue and launches cold into an unfunny bit about Boris Johnson’s hair, pointedly avoiding eye contact with me. I’m no heckler; I consider my work here done. I turn sideways to see how David’s faring through this latest public assault on his façade of heterosexuality.

David is in silent tears laughing, slumped in his chair, clutching his midriff. He looks like he’s struggling to breathe.

—

The second comedian finally winds up, stalking off to limp applause, and the MC, a shortish guy with a cute smile and significantly more personality than either of his charges, trots out on stage to let everyone know about the interval, and remind everyone the bar and kitchen are open.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggest. “I could use a bit of nicotine and some cool air. The aircon in here isn’t really up to the size of this crowd.”

David nods. I think my antics helped, and he’s playing it chill, but I can feel the relief seeping through the cracks in his mask. God, being in the closet must burn so many calories. We head out and find a quiet shadowy angle between the Laugh Factory and the building next door and sit on the edge of a concrete planter. I take a massive puff on my vape.

“Fuck me, what a shitshow,” I breathe out, handing it to David. He takes a mouthful, then makes a face like I’ve fed him a live slug marinated in onion juice.

“Oeaaarghhh,” he says, wiping his tongue on his wrist. “What the fuck is that? It tastes like you blended a Care Bear.”

I shrug, taking another puff. “Piña colada, I think.”

“Jesus,” he complains. “Give it here again.”

He takes another puff and makes the same face.

“Why’d you go back for seconds if you hate it so much?” I snort.

“Dunno, just thought I might have imagined how bad it was.”

I laugh. He laughs. It’s nice. We sit there for a bit.

“You know, that was funny and all in there, but, like, you need to tone it down,” David whispers. “Like, sit properly in your chair. People can… tell.”

“You think people can tell I’m queer from… how I sit?”

He does a sort of one-shoulder shrug.

“Wait… you don’t actually think those dickheads clocked us, do you?” I snort incredulously. His face tells me that’s exactly what he thinks.

“David, the reason these guys keep picking on us about being gay is because we don’t read as gay. If we read as gay, then giving us shit about it wouldn’t be funny, it’d just be a fact. Nobody’s out there, like, giving a postbox shit for being red. If we’d replied with ‘Actually, yes, we’re on a date,’ the joke would have fallen flatter than my tits.” I stroke them illustratively. They are not voluptuous. There are probably ironing boards more voluptuous.

“But for real, David. The whole homophobic joke is that you take the straightest bloke around, and put him in a dress, and make him pretend to flirt with some other deeply straight bloke, and it’s funny because they’re both straight and would never willingly touch another guy. It’s the single-note kinda-misogynistic comedy that’s fuelled army drag shows and Shakespearean comedies since time began. The very first caveman probably said to the second caveman ‘haha funny you kiss Grug’ and the second caveman said ‘fuck off, Bog, I’m straight’ and everyone in the cave laughed. Nobody gave a shit if Grug had some secret weird feelings about it. Seriously. Take it as a compliment. You’re passing so convincingly that they haven’t even considered you might enjoy being balls-deep in another man. Possibly later tonight, even,” I waggle an eyebrow and we stare at each other. I really want to kiss him. I wonder if I could get away with it? It’s pretty dark here…

At that exact moment, David's phone rings. He tears his eyes off me and pulls it out to look at the screen.

Sarah’s smiling face is on it, in a little circle.

He declines the call.

My jaw drops.

“You did not just reject a call from Queen Sarah Nelson,” I say, horrified.

David looks like he’s trying to wriggle out through the space between two nearby atoms.

“You call her back right now, David Nelson,” I tell him.

“I’ll call her later,” he insists, unconvincingly, avoiding eye contact.

“We’ve still got fifteen minutes to kill. Call her back now, you monster.”

“Really, I don’t want to call her now.”

“What if it’s something serious, David? What if she’s fallen down the stairs and needs you to call an ambulance? What if Henry is stuck down a well? What if your grandmother is on fire?”

“If she’d fallen down the stairs I imagine she’d call back,” he deadpans.

His phone rings again. Sarah’s face appears on the screen. I raise an eyebrow and look pointedly down at the phone and back to David’s face.

For some reason, he goes bright red. He sighs like a man going to the guillotine, and answers the phone.

“Hi, Mum,” he says, resignedly.

Through the phone, no matter how tightly David tries to keep it pressed to his ear, or how quickly he tries to turn down the call volume, I hear the unmistakable strains of Sarah Nelson singing Happy Birthday.

I feel the glee rush up through me, right from my toes to my head, where it’s only with a masterful effort of willpower that I manage to hang on to a blank face.

David mutters his way through the conversation – “Yeah, no, yeah, out with a mate, seeing some comedy, yep I got it, thanks Mum, yeah, I will, yep, see you then, yep love you too—” that last part so quiet and rushed I almost don’t catch it. He hangs up.

“She hadn’t fallen down the stairs,” he says. “No emergency.”

“I don’t know, David, it sounded pretty serious… especially the part where it’s your fucking birthday?” I break into a massive grin and slap him on the arm. Then on the knee. Then on the shoulder. Then I just start gleefully slapping and poking him and tickling him everywhere at random.

“Oh my god, stop it, Olly, fuck off!” He’s trying to sound serious but nobody can sound serious while you’re trying to give them a nipple cripple, which I currently am.

“BIRTHDAY NIP CRIP!” I yell triumphantly, finding my target. He screeches. “Oh, god, sorry David, I forgot you’re… uh… sensitive… HAHA THOUGH, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” I crow.

“Ffffuuuuck,” David says, through watering eyes, slapping me away with the hand that isn’t clutching his chest. I feel a bit bad and rub his shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry… you don’t mess with tradition though.” Then I quickly look around to make sure nobody’s anywhere nearby, and duck in and kiss him on the temple. “How about a cheeky birthday blowjob?” I murmur.

“What? Here? Now?” he freaks out.

“No, you idiot, after the show, in a location of your choosing. I’d guess your place, my place or inside some kind of hermetically sealed bank vault, in order of preference?”

When we get back to our table, armed with more booze, I put my foot on the chair and sit on it, facing sideways, and fling an arm out along the chair-back.

David rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his fresh Corona.

“Oh my god.” I suddenly put it together. “The tickets for tonight. They’re not just a work freebie. They’re your birthday present. That’s why you had to stick around,” I chortle gleefully.

He buries his face in a hand. “Susan has access to the HR drive,” he admits. “She ‘happened to see’ it was ‘a big one’ and next thing I’m fielding twenty singing randoms, a massive card and a sheet cake the size of a bedspread. I fucking hate carrot cake.”

“What’s wrong with carrot cake?” I protest.

“If you’re gonna be cake, just be cake,” he says. “Stop masquerading as a fucking salad.”

I laugh. “Only you could be biphobic about cake, David,” I punch him in the shoulder. “Remind me later that we’re gonna have a little chat about intersectional identities, and how it’s possible to both walk and chew gum.”

Just then, the MC comes back on to announce tonight’s big comedic cheese, Floogle McDoogle.

He comes on stage to raucous applause. I recognise him now; he looks like a slightly Wish version of his hot BBC cousin, minus the silver streak and Nelson torso. For some fucking reason, he’s wearing a headband with a hot dog attached to it at a jaunty angle. He looks like he’s hoping we won’t mention it.

Now I come to think of it, I have seen him on a few panel shows. I remember the stupid headbands. I don’t remember him saying anything so memorably funny I’d bother to quote it, but I do have a vague memory of Noel Fielding giving him shit. And maybe I slid past one of his specials while flicking through David’s Netflix? Might have been a carrot on his head in the thumbnail on that one.

He gets a couple of honest sniggers out of me at the start, but after a worryingly short time, the show starts to go south. The whole schtick he’s gone with is that he’s ‘using us as a test audience to test jokes for his real show’. A couple of the bits land, but after about twenty minutes, it’s clear that the ‘schtick’ is no schtick at all. I wouldn’t mind it so much – it is a comedy club, after all – except that he’s a complete pissant about it, quickly turning to mocking us for having ‘no sense of humour’ when he doesn’t get enough of a laugh for his weak riffs on Rishi Sunak’s big future in crypto.

And then – with the inevitability of death, taxes, and a supermarket houseplant wilting – he, too, starts going along the people in the front row.

After the poor clods at table two have copped ten minutes of ragging for her blue hair and his inevitable resulting emasculation in the bedroom, he rounds on us.

“Now, you two lads look like an item. First date? No. Thiiiird date, and you’re hoping the hottie will put out.” he points at David then nods his head over at me. Then he hauls round to face me. “But you won’t, will you. Not until he coughs up the credit card number, right?”

For the sake of Kellogg’s original recipe whole-wheat fuck.

“Actually, I owe this man my life. He donated bone marrow when I had childhood leukaemia,” I say loudly. “Do you think that’s funny?”

I can actually see Hot Dog’s little sausage-brain trying to scramble backwards from his mouth. He clearly doesn’t seem to have the first clue why the audience thinks that’s funny.

“Well, every relationship has to start somewhere,” he says lamely.

“Nah, nahhh, I’m fucking with you, Flapjack,” I flap my hand at him. “I’m actually a Belgian spy. He’s my handler. Don’t worry, we’re from the EU so it’s all very well-regulated and aboveboard.”

McGuffin’s expression slowly turns to silent rage.

“Do you always bring your own jokes to comedy gigs, mate? This isn’t BYO at your local curry shop.”

“Flipper, mate, you’re the one asking me the shitty homophobic questions,” I point out.

“Yeah, well, next time, best leave the jokes to the professionals. I don’t come to your work and slap the sailors’ cocks out of your mouth.”

“Whorephobia and homophobia, two great tastes together at last!” I crow. “Got any more, Falafel? Anyone recording? Still time to cancel you tonight!”

Good round of laughs for that one. The blue-haired woman at the next table dissolves into absolute hysterics. I should do this for a living. McDongle opens his mouth and closes it like a goldfish. The guy’s nearly apoplectic. I suspect I just shot down all his favourite heckler insults.

“Who let this guy in?” he eventually manages in a theatrically petulant voice. I think he’s pretending it’s a joke, but he still looks over at the bar staff like he’s hoping they’ll toss me out unceremoniously. “I don’t have to take this. I pay my Equity dues.”

“Told you to leave table three alone,” yells an Australian voice I’m fairly sure belongs to the ginger woman behind the bar. “Warned you, Flozza.”

That gets a round of claps and cheers and laughter.

“How many times do I have to flush before you go away, mate?” he scrounges up, probably from the depths of some ‘best lines to deal with hecklers’ thread on Reddit.

“Look, McFlurry, I don’t know what you’re complaining about, I haven’t even mentioned the stupid fucking hot dog,” I say.

The room, already laughing, absolutely erupts.

Flerkin McMerkin stares at me as the last cackle dies away. I think he’s finally realising he brought a water pistol to a no-holds-barred naked jelly wrestle with the 2022 Men’s Heavyweight Jelly Wrestling World Champion.

Thankfully, apparently he’s had enough of getting spanked. He says ‘You know, that reminds me of a guy at one of my shows in Manchester – Manchester, amirite…” and takes out his sad-man feels on some hapless front-row attendee of the past who’s not here to defend himself.

It’s not really funny, though, and the laughter peters out. In the end, he launches into his big finale – a shaggy dog story featuring the hot dog that I stop listening to after twenty seconds – and the audience gives him a good-natured round of applause. He waves and all but storms off stage, refusing to look in anything approaching my direction.

The MC comes back out onstage.

“Ladies and gents, will you give a big round of applause for Floogle McDoogle!”

Everyone musters a bit more of an encore cheer and clap, but it’s even limper than the previous one.

“And for all our comedians tonight – Barry MacAvaney!” MC-guy says. Another slightly-warmer-than-luke round of claps and cheers. “Willard Schenk!” More token applause.

“And last but not least, our newest emerging talent and soon-to-be-signed member of the Laugh Factory team, assuming Floogle doesn’t kill him in the green room – folks, give it up for The Guy At Table Three!”

The audience goes wild. It’s a bit over-the-top, really, but I will admit it’s nice to be appreciated.

“We really did warn them to leave you alone, mate, but what can we say, seven out of ten studies show too much time under stage lights kills brain cells in mice.” Fuck, this guy’s the funniest act on stage so far tonight. “Wanna come up and introduce yourself?”

Before I’ve really thought this quite bad decision through, I find myself jumping out of my seat and bouncing up onto the stage, taking the offered mic from the MC and shading my eyes to see if I can see the rest of the audience. I can’t. Oh well. The MC is obviously about to start interviewing me, but I can’t be fucked with that.

“Hi friends and fellow travellers, I’m Olly, it’s been great trauma bonding with you all over this last two hours, we’ve all come a long way together, we’ve laughed, we’ve cried… mostly cried. Anyways, I know by now you’re all burning to know how David and I actually know each other, and I don’t want anyone to be up all night starting investigative podcasts, so just to let you all know, drumroll please—"

I’m startled when from somewhere behind me, someone starts a quite plausible drumroll. I jump, and turn around to find the MC drumming on a second mic with his fingers.

“Holy shit, he actually did it. Anyway, David’s brother Nick is married to my brother Charlie. You’re welcome.”

I take a little flourishing bow. The audience claps and cheers. I’m about to hand the mic back and jump off the stage again when another idea pops into my head.

“And by the way, it’s David’s birthday today, so can he get a bit of a bloody round of applause for putting up with all that homophobic rubbish, hmmm?”

I clap my hands encouragingly and the whole audience breaks out into whoops and cheers.

“Anyway, we’ll be here all night, don’t try the veal, it’s deeply unethical.” I hand back the mic and jump off the stage.

David has one hand welded over his eyes and looks like he wants to disappear into the floor, but he’s smiling as I crash back into my seat amid clapping and laughter.

A few people want to buy us drinks afterwards, including our trenchmates from tables two and four. The ginger Australian throws a couple of extra beers on the counter for us.

“Cheers, love your work, junior,” she says. “A pleasure to watch you skewer maybe our three biggest contenders for Tosser of the Month.”

“Did you put them all on together so you’d have the rest of the month cunt-free?” I ask.

“If only,” she says. “But… yes.”

The MC, whose name turns out to be Alex, comes over and, like, genuinely asks me if I’d like a slot. I tell him I’ll give him a call if I ever start needing that level of personal validation. He hisses in mock pain.

“Come on in, Olly, the endorphins are lovely,” he says with a mildly saucy wink.

“Why weren’t you on, Alex? You’re the funniest thing tonight.”

“I guess I don’t need the personal validation,” he shoots back, and we clink beers. Ginger rolls her eyes.

“He’s on four nights a week,” she dobs ruthlessly.

He cackles unrepentantly. I step down the bar and lean in next to David, who’s nursing a beer and standing around awkwardly.

“So, who do you want for your birthday?” I whisper impulsively in his ear.

He nearly spits out his drink. “What?”

“Well, you hardly gave me enough time to go out and buy you something, did you? So. Who do you want me to pick up for you? The two cute girls from table four? The couple from table two? Alex isn’t bad-looking either, he’d definitely be up for it. And he’s got a spectacular arse.”

This time David really does spit out his drink. I theatrically thump him between the shoulder blades.

“You all right, mate? Wrong hole?” I ask, in a slightly carrying voice, tucking the smirk down deep into my heart.

“I don’t need your help picking up, Olly,” he says defensively, once he’s mopped the Corona off his shirt.

“It’s not help! It’s a gift,” I insist.

David’s eyes flick around the small gaggle of people standing at the bar.

“Not Ginger, though, she’s out of our league,” I tell him.

“Damn right, I am,” a voice says from behind us. We both jump a foot in the air. I swear she was fully three metres away, just a second ago. “And it’s Maddy, by the way. Take Alex home. His situationship went up in flames last week and he could use some cheering up.”

It doesn’t feel very possible to disobey Ginger – I mean, Maddy – but I look over at David.

“It’s your birthday, big boy,” I defer to him. “Is that the cake you want?”

“Yeah, sure, okay,” he mutters, avoiding my eyes.

“Really?” I double check. It’s hard to tell the difference between closet bullshit and genuine reluctance.

“Yes, really, Olly! For fuck’s sake. Do you want me to skywrite it?”

“Just double checking, no need to get your knickers in a twist,” I grin. I turn back to Alex, who’s been chatting to a couple of punters. Unlike Maddy, he is entirely oblivious to his evening being planned out directly behind him. I peel him neatly out of his conversation.

“So, Alex! I’ve been thinking about your offer, and I have a counter offer for you,” I say. “Because Maddy says you’re newly single, and in tonight’s biggest punchline, David and I are indeed fucking – wanna help me give him the rest of his birthday present?” I waggle an eyebrow.

“Fuck, yes!” Alex says, not using his inside voice. “I owe you one, Maddy,” he yells at the bar.

“No, you don’t,” she replies, without pausing her restocking of the beer fridge. “Serengeti Clive.”

“Serengeti Clive,” Alex nods reverentially, clearly remembering something epic.

“Just fair warning, though,” I break into his reverie. “David’s a closet case and a bit of a douchebag. But he does have the most magnificent man-candy I’ve ever seen in real life. And a ping-pong table.”

Alex snorts. “You had me at ‘a bit of a douchebag.’”

“So, my place is in Pimlico, or we can hike back to David’s in Bromley?”

“Bromley? Jesus, you must really like the guy,” Alex punches me in the shoulder. I try not to think about that one. “Well, my place is probably closest.”

“Whereabouts are you?”

“Up those stairs,” Alex points to a door behind the bar marked ‘Staff only’.

“Alex, you classy bird. I bet you pull all the lasses with this sweet crib.”

“Just you wait, Olly. I’ve got a shower and a small handbasin.”

“Luxury,” I say, in a thick Yorkshire accent.

“Why don’t you two give me a few minutes’ head start, then come up?” he suggests. “Straight up the stairs, second door on the right, there’s a purple glittery star with ‘Alex’ on the door, Maddy thinks she’s funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Maddy says drily, from several metres away. Jesus, this woman puts Tori’s batlike hearing to shame.

Alex snorts and heads upstairs and I wander back over to David.

“You struck out, huh? He ran off that fast?” He eyes Alex’s vanishing form with some kind of David-brand smugness.

“What do you take me for, Nelson?” I say, mock-indignantly. “Get your coat, love, you’ve pulled.”

He gives me an odd look, like… kind of excited, kind of disappointed?

We chat to the last stragglers for a bit. It turns out the girls from table four are a couple, both bisexual, and my antics were apparently the only thing that stopped them copping probably the exact same garbage we did, so we swap numbers and I give them a small salute as they leave. The woman with the blue hair from the next table reveals that she also got free tickets, and that this is in fact a first date for her and her companion.

“You saved the fucking date, my friend,” she leans in to tell me. “You two are relationship goals.”

“Oh, you heard that, did you?” I say. “Well, keep a lid on that bit when you regale your future children with the tale of how you met. David’s not out.”

“His secret is safe with me,” she says.

I shake my head a little, to dislodge the word relationship.

The last punters are slowly clearing out, and suddenly, I’m getting excited. I really hope my traitorous dick doesn’t pull the same embarrassing mononormative horseshit it did last time I tried to get a special guest cock into bed with David.

I manage to keep my hands out of David’s jacket, where they seem to constantly want to drift, until Maddy nods us behind the bar. Halfway up the stairs, though, I grab him from behind and shove him against the grubby wall and kiss him. He kisses back, hard.

“Happy birthday, Davie,” I say, pulling back, my hands already under the douchey Dorothy shirt. I’ve got to find a way to ruin this thing if it kills me.

“Davie?”

“Davie? Davie-boy? You don’t like it?”

“I mean… I kind of just like it when you call me David,” he says, his eyes dropping in a vaguely embarrassed way. Oh? Oh. Oh. That’s… got layers.

“Happy birthday, Daaaaavid,” I draw his name out, really savour saying it, as I run my hand up his torso and press my whole body against his. “Did you know that you, David Nelson, are really incredibly attractive to me? That I, Olly Spring, objective smoking hottie who can generally hook up with pretty much whoever I want, specifically want you, David Nelson, more than anyone else? And that I say that, knowing exactly who you are?”

He shudders and gasps in jerkily through his teeth, and I feel his dick jump discernibly in his stupid beige chinos. Wow. This is a new one. Does this kink even have a name? A being-truly-seen fetish?

“Tonight’s all about you, David. The real you. Tonight’s all about what you want, what makes you happy. You want a blowjob right here on the stairs? You got it.” I lean down and punctuate my suggestions with kisses down his neck. “You want to forget the threesome and take me home and fuck me? You got it. You want to go upstairs and spit-roast Alex until he comes, full of our dicks? You got it. You want to go up, huff a few bulbs of nitrous and play Pictionary? I’m so up for that.” I undo the top three buttons on his shirt and start kissing down the soft skin over his sternum.

“Fuck. Um… fuck. Second last one.”

I pretend to have forgotten. “That was Pictionary, right?”

David whines. God, I love it when he whines. I straighten up and take his hand, pulling him up the stairs.

When we get there, there is indeed a purple glitter star on Alex’s door. Maddy’s done his name in Curlz MT, which is savage. She is hilarious. I knock.

“Finally!” comes a voice from inside.

“I’ll take that as a ‘come in,’” I say, pushing the door open. Alex is posed across the bed, propped on one elbow, looking over his shoulder, his spectacular chunky little bubble butt on display. I burst out laughing.

“What?” he says.

I pull up my shirt to show him my garden gnome. He bursts out laughing too.

“How long were you stuck like that?” I ask, dropping onto the bed next to him on my back, lifting my boots in the air to start untying them.

“At least five minutes,” he admits.

David’s standing awkwardly near the foot of the bed. He’s taken his jacket off, but doesn’t seem to know what to do next.

“Take that picnic basket liner off and get over here, birthday boy,” I instruct him. “And lose the trous while you’re at it.”

“Nice place you’ve got here,” David says, starting on the rest of his buttons. I look around as I kick off my boots. It’s a bedsit room with a sofa, microwave and kettle. Most of it is taken up with the bed we’re on. The decor is Early Laminex. There’s a tiny ensuite bathroom, its door standing open to let out the steam from Alex’s shower, and a window with a lovely view of an ancient sodium street-lamp and the water-stained concrete of the office building opposite.

“Don’t be a cunt, gorgeous. Come over here and show us what you’ve got,” says Alex, who’s busy pulling at the legs of my jeans. I shuck off my shirt and get to work on David’s belt – a new one today, soft brown leather with a buckle that looks vaguely like a bunch of gold nipple bars welded together. David pulls his shirt off.

“Holy shit,” marvels Alex, his eyes travelling down David’s torso.

“I know, right? Though, to my shame, I still haven’t found out if he can crush a walnut between those titties,” I admit.

“Shame on you, Olly.”

“’Tis most remiss of me, I know. I don’t know how I shall hold up my head at Lady Merriweather’s shooting party,” I say, spinning around my knickers on one finger like a lasso before I chuck them somewhere off the bed.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it to Lady Merriweather’s shooting party,” Alex says, watching as David steps out of his khakis, revealing his stunning thighs, and a pair of well-packed charcoal boxer briefs. “I think all the shooting’s going to happen riiiiight heeeeere.”

God, I never get sick of watching David Nelson undress.

“Hey David, are you a piñata? Because I just wanna smash you until all the sweets fall out,” I giggle.

“Olly, that doesn’t even make sense,” David complains.

“Okay, then. I just wanna smash you. Hard. Repeatedly.”

“Ooooh, can I have that one for my routine?” Alex says.

“Of course you can, darling!” I tell him. “So David, did my pick-up line work? Am I getting lucky tonight?”

He peels off his pants, to reveal that impossible must-be-an-optical-illusion crotch sausage, already standing at full mast.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit,” says Alex. I hold up a palm without looking and he high-fives it.

“As lucky as you ever get, Olly,” says David, before he dives on top of us.

The first few minutes are just giggling chaos and a mess of bodies, limbs, dicks and torsos. I don’t know why, but hooking up with Alex is just super-chill and funny. My dick isn’t being weird about it at all, thank fuck. Even David struggles to remain uptight in the face of someone so fundamentally unbothered. After a minute or three, it seems entirely natural that I should be straddling a sniggering Alex, trying to get his arse-cheeks to do a Newton’s Cradle by slapping one, to see if the other one will jiggle back. Then we both end up straddling David’s chest, which somehow turns into knob-jousting (which I win), which then turns into a tickle fight (which Alex wins resoundingly, with David laugh-screaming for mercy and me hiding behind a pillow). Then I wallop Alex with the pillow and David pins his arms so I can properly enact our downy revenge, but then I drop the pillow and start kissing him instead and things go from giggly to hotttttttt in 0.2 seconds.

Alex is a beefy little guy, but with a layer of extra-soft chub that makes him super squishable. It’s such a change from David’s whole iron-thighs-in-velvet-bike-shorts mouthfeel. He feels like a real person, where David feels like he came out of a catalogue, or possibly a book of Roman mythology. He’s also very nice to kiss, in a sort of relaxed way. He twists around in the Alex sandwich we’ve got him pinned in to kiss David, who’s still wrapped around him from behind, and the way David has to lean down to kiss him is very nice indeed.

“So, Alex, please feel free to adjust this agenda in any way you fancy, but since it’s David’s birthday, I thought he might like a double blowjob, and then maybe to be on one end of a spit-roast. I’m not fussed who gets spit-roasted, though, so I’ll leave that up to you,”

“Me! Me, please,” says Alex. “What’s the point of hastily douching if I’m not gonna get roasted like Flynn did tonight?”

“Euuuuugggh, don’t mention that name while you’ve got your hand on my dick,” I complain. Though I am enjoying Alex’s hand, which has snuck onto my dick. I notice his other one has snuck around back onto David’s, which he’s got half-pressed into the cheeks of that spectacular arse. I drop my hand down Alex’s chest, past his soft little belly, and wrap my hand around his fat little wang, which is just as short, stocky and chubby as the rest of him. I wanna put it in my mouth. So, that’s exactly what I do.

Once I get it in there, I realise it’s not quite as short as I thought it was – apparently I’m getting spoiled by all that fresh-baked baguette – but I can juuuuuust about get down to the base if I choke a little. Alex is making some gratifying noises up above, and I glance up to see David playing with his nipples.

“Gracias, dios mío,” Alex says, glancing at the ceiling.

“¡Ah! ¡Hablas español!” I say.

Well, what I actually say is ‘Ah! Harraf affauyaarr!’. Alex looks down at me questioningly, and I wave a doesn’t-matter hand and get back to cramming my mouth full of his juicy cock.

After a minute or two of working him with my tongue piercing and sucking enthusisastically, I let go and beckon David to join me.

“Wanna share an ice lolly, David?” I put my hand to the side of my mouth conspiratorially and whisper loudly, “The ice lolly is Alex’s dick.”

He snorts and Alex twitches like he’s gonna come just thinking about it.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, looking down entranced, as David settles in next to me on the bed. I push a knee between David’s legs, then we both get to work on opposite sides of Alex’s junk. “Fuckfuckfuck santa mieeeerda, chúpenmela, machitos,” he purrs, his hands in both of our hair.

I get on the tip and kiss it, then David comes up to join me, then we’re kissing each other right on Alex’s dick, which is so hot, and it appears everyone’s on the same page as me; David’s grinding on the thigh I’ve pushed between his legs and Alex is moaning and soltando unos tacos sabrosos.

David takes my place with Alex’s dick in his mouth, and by the gods, he’s just as pretty with someone else’s dick in his mouth as he is with mine. Alex might even be a whisker thicker than me, and watching David with his face buried in Alex’s thick black pubes is an absolute treat.

I drift down and suck one of Alex’s balls into my mouth, releasing a fresh tide of Spanish swearwords.

“Holy shit, I thought it was his birthday, not mine,” Alex moans. “Oh, fuck, do the other one, Olly, I don’t want it to feel left out.”

I oblige and am rewarded with more moaning and swearing in Spanish.

After a minute, Alex cries uncle.

“Stop, stop. I can’t come this fast. I’d dishonour my family.”

“Wanna get on David with me?” He nods like a kid who’s been offered a nutella pancake and we both dive for David’s crotch.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” I crow as Alex admires the goods. “The rest of him ain’t so bad, either,” I add, leaning down to give David a long, slow smooch. He’s all soft and pliable and I frigging love it.

Can’t get distracted by mushy stuff, though. I roll back down to where Alex is trying to get as much of David in his mouth as possible.

“Don’t land yourself in hospital, man,” I warn him. “You need those vocal cords to make a living.” I crawl around between David’s legs to get at the underside of his dick. I latch on, just below Alex’s lips, and he just about throws us both off. He’s being very loud. I kinda hope some of this evening’s shitty homophobic comedians are still in the building, finding out what a real show sounds like.

Alex and I work David over, licking and sucking, our hands finding each other’s dicks whenever arm’s reach permits, until I’m too horny for words.

“I really want to fuck that glorious arse of yours, Alex,” I murmur. “You up for it?”

Alex agrees slightly faster than the speed of sound, whipping a bottle of lube and a condom out of his top drawer.

“Come up here, David,” I instruct him. “Time to get some life skills.” I lean down and fish my mint tin out of my jeans, then extract one of the new additions to my travel kit: a latex glove.

“Put that on,” I instruct him. “We’re gonna prep Alex together.”

“What?” he says. “I don’t— uh—”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t freak out on me now, David. You’ve had your dick so far up my arse that it couldn’t even see my kidneys in the rear vision mirror. Besides, Alex is fresh out of the shower – and don’t you want to get your fingers in this majestic little bubble?”

Alex wiggles it obligingly. I can’t resist leaning down to get my teeth into it.

“Put the glove on, David.” I tell him.

He gloves up.

I put some lube on his fingers and mine. Alex obligingly bounces over on his hands and knees, fishing a beach towel from under the bed on the way. It’s got a print of a rooster at the beach wearing sunnies and striped shorts on it.

“Okay, we’re starting with one finger,” I run my index finger around Alex’s cute, slightly hairy little pucker. “Stop when you feel any resistance and wait.”

I slowly push in, letting Alex’s sphincter relax before going further, until I’m in to the second knuckle.

“¿Se siente bien, chiquito?” I ask him.

“¡Dios mío! ¿Hablas español, Olly?” he says in surprise.

“¡Si, fluidamente! Mi papa tiene 47 anos, and all that!”

We both burst into giggles. David looks defensive, like he’s worried we’re joking about him.

“Sorry, that was a bit of an arsehole move,” I say. Alex sniggers again. “No more Spanish. Don’t want you feeling left out, David. Speaking of which,” I carefully pull out. “Your turn,” I tell him.

Nervously, he copies me.

“How’s that, Alex?” I ask.

“Mmmmm, can you fuck me with it a little?”

I incline my head, and David does as he’s told. Alex immediately starts moaning and bouncing back and forth.

“When you feel the deathgrip loosen up, we’re gonna go up to two fingers,” I tell him.

He fucks Alex a little harder, getting more moans.

“Okay, I think it’s now?” David says.

“Alex?”

“Yep. Yes please. Yessss pleasssse,” Alex says.

I squeeze some more lube on David’s fingers. “OK, now pull out and put two in at once. Do one fingertip, then the other one. If he grabs you, just wait until he lets go, maybe just do the tiiiiiiniest bit of back-and-forth.”

I lean over and nuzzle David’s shoulder, since he’s clearly terrified. I feel some of the tension drain and he has a crack at… well, at the crack.

“Beautiful, David! Lovely work. Alex?”

Alex has dropped to his elbows, and he makes an indistinct purring noise of happiness. “Mmmmmmyeahhhhhhh. Oh, god. Yes. Fuck me with them, please.”

David doesn’t even wait for the go-ahead. He starts moving and Alex’s moans kick up a notch or several. I’m giving my dick a cheeky stroke with one hand and admiring the show when Alex says he’s up for a third finger.

“Ok, let me show you this one,” I suggest. David pops out, and I squeeze on a bit more lube and demonstrate how to fill a man until he screams with only one’s fingers. I had fully planned to hand over to David for a try, but by the time I’m thinking about it, Alex is a quivering jelly pleading for me to stop or he’ll come.

“Come up here and give me something to chew on, huh, big boy,” Alex suggests. David looks at me for permission. Oooof. Hot. I gesture for his glove so I can pull it off, then wipe my hands on the beach rooster’s face. Then I run my hand behind David’s neck, kiss him hard, and nod.

I roll on a condom and, carefully, ease into Alex’s hot little round arse, while up the other end, David is muffling his gasps and moans as he feeds Alex the front half of his monster cock.

God, this is the life, I think to myself as I gently start fucking this cute little hole, one hand on each fat arse cheek, pushing Alex forward onto David’s dick with every stroke.

“Fuuuuuck, Alex, don’t answer this now, but how the fuck did you get this arse? It’s like two of God’s own waterballoons,” I murmur, watching his cheeks ripple with every pounding I’m giving them. “Don’t answer this now, but you must be killer at twerking. And you don’t have to answer this now, but can I maybe slap one of them a little?”

Somehow, without entirely taking his mouth off David’s dick, Alex manages to get his head round enough to roll his eyes at me and nod. I giggle and grab his arse-cheeks again, spanking them just to watch them jiggle.

Alex is hot and tight around my cock, sliding deliciously around me, and I’ve got a full show in front of me: right up past that bubble butt, Alex messily choking on David’s girthy dick, and moaning while he does it. My eyes creep up to find David’s.

“Come here,” I tell him, leaning in, and we’re kissing over Alex’s back, both of us reaming the little beauty from either end while David’s tongue finds mine, and we kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

It’s a respectable few minutes of pounding later when Alex pops off David’s dick.

“Okay, I wanna do it. I wanna get on the 747,” he says.

“You sure?” I ask. “Took me a while to work up to that thing, and he’s still got L plates on.”

“How about you supervise?” he suggests. “It was hot when you did that before. No offence, big guy, but you getting schooled by your pretty boy here was a whole new boner I didn’t even know I had until today.”

“Hey!” I say. “David’s my pretty boy, thanks very much. And right now, so are you,” I add, with a thrust that’s maybe a little more enthusiastic than it needs to be. Though, from Alex’s response, I don’t think it’s quite the negative reinforcement I’d had in mind. “But sure, I’ll keep him in line for you if you’re sure you want to walk funny half of tomorrow.” I ease out of Alex and pull off my condom.

“I hate to break up the party, but I didn’t bring any condoms,” says David.

I open up my mint tin and whip out a mylar packet. David’s about to protest again, when he realises I’m holding one of the swish XL ones.

“You got the large kind? For me?” he asks. He sounds a bit misty.

“If by ‘got them’ you mean ‘helped myself to a bunch of yours last time I was at your place’, then I absolutely did that,” I agree. “Now let’s get you jacketed up, Nelson.”

I come around behind David and grab him by the hips and slide myself up against his back, nuzzling my cock up between his arse cheeks. I can’t stop a little whine from escaping my mouth. David stiffens, but I put my hands up on his shoulders and massage them until he relaxes. I lean down to whisper in his ear.

“Nothing happens without your say-so, David,” I remind him. “I might want to grind on your glorious arse, but that doesn’t mean you want that. Your arse, your choice.”

David’s eyes slide shut. “You can, uh. Um. You can grind on me if you want.”

“Really?” My eyes shoot open. “Like, really really?”

“Really really,” he says. I can hear the eyeroll. “But, uhh. Can you not. Uh. Can you not… like… I’d rather you didn’t, uh, finish on me or anything.”

“That is absolutely fine,” I agree. Wherever you would like to stake out this imaginary no-homo line, I will stand on the appropriate side of it, David Nelson.

I snake my arms around David’s hips to Alex’s chunky little arse. David’s taken his glove off, so as a birthday treat, I do the honours of lubing both him and Alex up. Then, wiping off my hands on the chicken again, I pull Alex’s cheeks apart.

“Nice and slow, David. Wayyyy slower than you’ve been going with me. Alex hasn’t been swotting up the way I have.”

“Oh, fuck, fucketty, fucking how Olly?” Alex says as David’s fat cockhead presses against his hole. “It’s like a bloody literal aubergine.”

“I believe in you, Alex. I believe you have the power within you,” I say in a magical voice. “That said, don’t hesitate to nope out. I don’t want to have to take you to the ER with a fissure,” I add in a less magical voice.

Alex is puffing and panting and grunting and whining. I look down over David’s shoulder, and he’s got about half the tip in now. I grab his hips and slow him to a complete stop.

“Let Alex handle this bit however he needs to,” I tell David. Alex pushes back, then with an audible grunt of relief, he manages to pop past David’s mushroom head. I smooth my hands over the base of his spine.

“I feel like I swallowed a whole can of tuna,” Alex pants.

“Yeah… yeah, it is a bit like that,” I commiserate. “Want a little bit of friction before we carry on?”

“Yeah, go on then,” Alex agrees.

I grab David’s hips and push them the tiniest microscopic inch forward, then pull him a micron back, and repeat.

“Oh, fuck. Fucking goddamn puta madre lechosa. Yes. Yessss. Push it in a little bit more,” Alex declares. I push David a little further. Together, my dick between his cheeks, my hands on his hips, and his dick in Alex, we slide together inch by inch until he’s most of the way in.

“Fuck. That’s my limit, boys,” Alex admits. “Fuck, Olly, where do you put this monster?”

“I have a small pocket dimension up my jacksie,” I confess. “It’s great for taking drugs to festivals. One time I almost lost a bottle of Bailey’s up there, though.”

Alex laughs and nearly pushes David out. I take the opportunity to add some more KY sauce to the mix, before pushing David slowly back in. Alex moans gratuitously.

“Ok, chuletita loca, let’s get some steam up on that thing,” he suggests. I couldn’t agree more. I start grinding properly on David, pushing him into Alex, who’s gasping. David’s got his hands on Alex’s arse cheeks, but he’s leaning that pretty blond head back into me. My hands have drifted up from his hips to his chest, and I find his nipples and start playing with them ever-so-gently.

“Oh, fuck,” David mutters. “Oh, fuck, fuck fuck fuck.”

“Amen,” yells Alex.

We’re moving faster now, David thrusting harder into Alex, who’s keeping up a symphony of approving noises.

“Oh my god, I think I’m going to come, please don’t stop, fuck, holy fuck,” Alex reaches down with one hand to stroke his cock. “Fuuuuuuucking me cago en las tetas de la virgen, I’m gonna come, yes yes yesss—”

David has tipped his head back against my shoulder and he’s driving hard into Alex and gasping and moaning in a way I recognise means he’s close. I’m grinding on his smooth, perfect arse cheeks and damn I’m going to have trouble keeping that promise about not coming on them. He twists his head around and I kiss him and pinch his nipples hard and just as Alex is screaming the building down and shooting hard, David comes, his mouth still on mine, alternately jerking into Alex’s hot little arse and pushing back on my dick.

I am not ready for how hot it is to have David Nelson coming in my lap. I moan with the effort of keeping it in as David stutters and shudders through his orgasm.

“Fuck, David, you are so fucking hot, look at you, god, I need to come, I need to come so badly,” I babble. David pulls out of Alex, who very reasonably collapses on his face on the bed, and swivels around to grab my dick. Then he drops down on me face-first.

It’s not the most amazing blowjob he’s ever given me, but then, it doesn’t need to be. I’m so keyed up and horny from railing Alex and open season on David’s peachy arse that I blow my top after about thirteen seconds of fucking David’s hot, wet mouth, my hands in his hair, my brain somewhere on the ceiling.

Eventually, David manages to get his condom off, and I manage to haul the defiled chicken out from under us for him to wipe off with. After that, we all just lie there for a bit, sacked out in a messy heap of limbs.

“I’m gonna write a letter to your manager complimenting the great service I received today,” Alex says, finally surfacing from his bliss-coma. “Where’s your feedback box?”

I snigger. “Heh. Feedback box. That’s my new favourite euphemism for arsehole.”

Alex sniggers back. “All complaints can be placed squarely in the feedback box,” he chortles.

“Jesus, you two are worse than each other,” David rolls his eyes. He scrambles off the bed. “Water?”

“Glasses in the cupboard over the sink,” Alex yawns. David pulls out three, fills them and hands them over, then heads for the tiny ensuite. I chug mine, then go back for a refill. Fucking is a workout.

“I’d invite you to stay over, but I’ve got to get up at six thirty, and I can’t exactly leave you two to sleep in, living here – you’d set off the alarm,” Alex says apologetically.

“Six thirty! How uncivilised,” I sympathise.

“Yeah… shockingly, comedy does not pay the bills,” Alex admits. “I’m actually a nurse.”

“God, you’re wholesome, Alex,” I coo. “No, we’ll get out of your hair. David’s a bit weird about sleeping over anyway.” I find my underpants and wriggle into my jeans. David emerges from the bathroom and starts getting dressed, and Alex and I swap numbers.

“Happy birthday, dude,” Alex says, reclining on one elbow, comfortably naked. ‘Sorry again about those complete fucking amateurs downstairs tonight.”

“Fuck, I’d actually forgotten,” David admits. “I don’t know, between you, you two are probably the best live comedy show I’ve ever been to, so whatever, I guess.”

“Awww David, I’m blushing,” I actually blush, in a Fran Drescher accent.

“What a nice boy you’ve brought home, bubbeleh,” Alex adds. “So polite.”

I look at my phone. “Ugh, we’ve missed the last train, I’ll have to walk,” I moan.

“I can give you a lift, I drove in,” David says.

Hmmm. We both had at least four beers over the course of the evening. Was he planning on… staying at mine? I decide not to pursue that line of questioning.

I give Alex a last, lingering kiss, and he rolls over so I can slap his arse in farewell. David just waves from the doorway, the big chicken.

An amused Ginger, I mean Maddy, is still downstairs, mopping the floors. She unlocks the door to let us out.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily come to a show here twice, but if you do, your beers are on the house,” she says. “A happy Alex is a happy family around here.”

She waves us off and we walk to David’s car in a nearby parking garage. I clamber in the front, too tired to do much other than curl up and change the radio station three times. David eventually slaps my hand away and puts it on Classic FM, who are, hilariously, playing Debussy. I’m so busy trying to come up with six ‘de bussy’ jokes at once that I don’t even notice the soothing music getting to me, and I’m asleep within twelve bars.

I wake up in David’s parking garage.

“Mthissn’t my house,” I slur sleepily.

“You were fast asleep,” David says. “I poked you, but you were dead to the world, so I just kept driving.”

“Mmmmmfgh,” I explain.

“Yeah, just come up and sleep at mine. It’s not a big deal,” he says, not very convincingly. I smile sleepily as I extract myself from the car.

“Mmmmyes, David, you absolutely can have morning blowjobs as part of your birthday present,” I say, addressing the sentiment rather than the words. He blushes gratifyingly and starts to stutter a denial, but I yawn and wave him off.

“Let’s get upstairs before I make you carry me,” I suggest.

I find I’ve snuggled into his shoulder in the lift, and he doesn’t complain. I almost drop off again, and he wraps an arm around my waist to haul me to his door. Once we’re through, I stumble to his room and collapse on his charcoal bedspread, just barely managing to kick off the boots I didn’t bother to tie properly earlier.

“Olly, what are you—”

“Shuddup,” I say into the pillow my face is buried in. “S’past my bedtime.”

I feel him undo my jeans and pull them off, then pull the duvet out from under me and drape it over me. I crack a joke about him undressing me, but I think I only crack it in my head, and then I’m off in the warm arms of the sandman.

Chapter Text

The first thing I register when I wake up is the sheets. Goddamn. Linen sheets. I feel like I’m wrapped in the softest, smoothest cocoon.

The second thing I register is that the cocoon isn’t entirely made of duvet. On closer examination, it is, in fact, at least 55% David Nelson.

I’m lying on my back, and David’s sprawled half-across me, his face buried in my armpit and one arm thrown across me like a freckled seatbelt. I’ve wound up with one arm under his neck, my hand jammed under the pillows. He’s also got a knee up on my thigh.

I snort with laughter, then have to hold super still as he readjusts slightly, nuzzling into my shoulder. That’s two for two now. There’s probably more to it, but for absolute sure, one of the reasons David didn’t want me sleeping in his bed is because apparently he’s a chronic sleep-snuggler. I suddenly find myself wondering who else he might have unintentionally snuggled over the years. I picture David on camping trips, and top-and-tailing in bunk beds, waking up wrapped around his straight mates, and it’s all I can do not to laugh him awake.

As it is, he whuffles and readjusts, contracting his arm around me. I freeze. Have I fucked it? But he just nuzzles even deeper into my t-shirt and starts up the cutest fucking snore-let I’ve ever heard. Like, I just want to crush him from how cute he is when he’s asleep. Which is counter-intuitive, because then he’d wake up and he wouldn’t be half so unashamedly adorable.

Fuck, why does he smell so good? I mean sure, his shower stuff smells fine, but it’s more than that. His hair doesn’t just smell like fruit or rocks or engine oil or whatever his man-shampoo is scented with; he smells… I don’t know, kind of… warm? And rich? And… like… spicy? Fuck, clearly it’s too early for my brain to be functioning if it’s spitting up this much absolute rubbish. I settle in, my nose in David’s hair, with a view to further snoozing.

Unfortunately, after a few warm, pleasant minutes, the realisation sets in that I’m absolutely bursting. I’m going to have to find a way to sneak out to the toilet, ideally without turning Cute Snuggly Sleeping David into Annoying Closeted Awake David.

I extract my outside leg from under the duvet and get it on the floor for leverage. Then I contemplate my options.

If I just pull out, he’s going to flop down and wake up. I need to keep him where he is. Ever-so-carefully, I reach up behind my back with my free hand and manage to get a hold of the pillow I’m lying on. Thanks, brief year 6 obsession with gymnastics. I pull my leg free first: slowly and carefully extracting myself from beneath David’s warm thigh. I get his knee settled on the bed, and then gently start wriggling my arm from under his cheek.

Slowly, inch by torturous inch, I extract myself like a limbo-dancer, and manage to pull the pillow into my place, Indiana-Jones-style. There are some sticky moments when I’m sure David’s going to wake up, but he’s sleeping like an absolute log this morning. Clearly getting laid agrees with him. I’m almost clear when he makes a sort of ‘hmmmm’ noise and his lashes flutter, but after a piano-wire couple of seconds, he just wraps himself around the pillow and I’m free.

Which is when I overbalance, fuck it up on the dismount trying to straighten up, start falling, catch myself, trip on my boots and land loudly in a heap on the floor.

“What the fuck?” David shoots up from the pillow.

“Notttthhiiiinnnnggg,” I say, petulantly. “Go back to sleep.” I lever myself up, stomp into the bathroom and plonk myself down on the loo.

“This is all your fault,” I murmur resentfully to my pathetically grateful bladder. Plus, I forgot my phone, so I’m bored the whole time I’m on the loo.

I take a shower, in the hope of a) morning shenanigans and b) David getting bored and going back to sleep, but when I get out, he’s up and about, wandering around in a dark grey satin dressing gown with black lapels which I definitely hate and do not want to run my hands all over. Nosiree. Is it still considered charcoal if it’s shiny?

“You know I have a whole other bathroom, Olly,” he says, pissily.

“Good morning to you too, David,” I reply sunnily. “Just think, if you’d gone back to sleep, I could have been waking you up by putting your cock in my mouth right now.”

That shuts him up, even more surely than my original plan would have shut me up.

“I’ll just—” he says in a strangled voice.

“Yep.” I agree. “You do that.”

As I hear the shower taps turning on, one of those flashes of pure genius strikes me. One of those inspirations so majestic that you really have no choice but to act immediately and without hesitation. I’ll have to move fast.

When he gets out, I’m lounging across the bed, wearing nothing but his Puddington Club Rowing University blazer. Well, almost nothing.

“Hey, David, want me to talk posh to you?” I say, running my fingers down my thigh. I put on my best braying Sloane Ranger voice. “Did I tell you about Tilly’s new Arabian, Yellow Sapphire of Marrakech? They’re calling her Saffypants for short. They’ll have to get new horse croquet sticks, though, because she’s only eighteen hands.”

“Olly, what the bloody hell are you doing in my rowing blazer?” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed, confused or amused.

“Don’t be silly, David, you can’t row a horse,” I say. “That’s water croquet.”

“This is some weird shit you are carrying on with,” he says. “Did you think I’d be horny for my own rowing team?”

“Come on, David, why do you have all this stuff if you don’t like it? I like it. It smells like you. And…” I sniff the collar, “... a little bit like cupboard. Where do you even wear this thing?”

“Rowing club reunions. Take it off, you’re gonna crease it,” he complains, like a complete boomer with literally no sense of humour. I pout.

“You still go to rowing club reunions? In Glasgow?” I shrug, and start sexily unbuttoning the blazer, and wriggle out of it.

Underneath it, I’m wearing his matching Puddington Club tie, three of his fancy belts, including the stupid puzzle box one, and every single one of his ridiculous watches. I’ve got, like, at least four on each wrist.

I have actually struck him speechless.

“You obviously think watches are sexy, so by definition, more watches equals more sexy,” I run my hand over the collection.

“Jesus, Olly, you are such a little shit.”

“You fucking love it,” I reply.

“I fucking love it,” he admits, walking over to the bed.

He runs his hand down from the knot of the tie, down the centre of my chest, then wraps his fingers into one of the belts and grabs it, hauling me towards him. Jesus, he's strong.

“God, I want to fuck you so bad,” he hisses.

“Hmmmm,” I tap my chin. “How about we see how much you can remember of our little lessons on anal prep, and if you can rustle up an A*, maybe you can rail me until I can't remember my own name and all I can do is scream yours?”

God, I love how fast I can shut him up. Sometimes I worry a little about the power imbalance in our relationship.

He gets out the condoms and lube, a towel, a hand towel, and, knock me over with a feather, a latex glove, out of what looks like a whole box of them.

“David! You’ve been paying attention this whole time! My star pupil, listening to everything I told you. I'm so proud of you,” I say it with a pinch of sass, but I'm just trying to hide that I really am a bit fucking proud of him. I suspect he knows, because I'm pretty sure he's trying not to preen as he lays out the towel.

He freezes up a bit when faced with the actual task of touching another man's arsehole of his own volition, so I decide he could use a bit of encouragement.

“Remember, everything you learn about this applies to women, too,” I say, rolling onto my elbows and knees on the towel and wiggling my arse. “So many women are either afraid of anal play, or they just have zero clue how good it is. And watching a girl scream through her first catastrophic anal orgasm… oooof.”

He puts the glove on and puts some lube on his fingers.

“I remember when I was on holiday in Almería a couple of years ago, and I met this American girl on a gap year,” I continue. “Gorgeous, long black hair, wide hips – she was, like, 25, but had never done anything more exotic than vanilla PIV… That night I made her come with my tongue on her clit while I finger-fucked her, two fingers in her pussy and two in her arse.”

He's got his fingers on my hole and is rubbing lube onto me.

“She was one of those people who can't keep still, and that first time, she came so hard she actually smashed the drywall.”

He's got one finger at the entrance to my hole.

“Please, David, fuck me, I wanna come on your fingers as hard as she did,” I say.

All of a sudden he's in me, pushing inside up to the first knuckle, and I've actually talked myself into such a state that I’m pretty near coming already. He starts pushing in and out. I snigger internally. Only I could manage to no-homo anal fingering.

“Slower… slower.” I feel myself relax and nod. “There it is.” He starts again and I'm purring and pushing back against his hand.

“Okay, another,” I moan. He pulls out, then pushes two fingers into me.

“Now fuck me with them. Slow, then you can speed up.” He pushes awkwardly into me, catching his knuckle on my rim. I hiss. “Slow first.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. I look over my shoulder, and he’s concentrating like he’s doing sans-pants open heart surgery.

“Just take your time and like, enjoy it?”

‘Yeah, okay, thanks,” he says sarcastically. “Because this is definitely a freaking pedalo ride on the lake.”

‘Hey! I’m the one with your whacking great man-hands up my starfish, I’m perfectly aware of the complexities!” I point out testily.

David pushes his fingers in again hard, possibly with some slight revenge in mind, and – I suspect by pure accident – lands right on my prostate. I gasp and shudder.

“Oh god, sorry, did I hurt you?” David stops immediately.

“No… nope… that was a good noise. You hit my prostate.”

“What, this thing?” He pokes it again, sending a jolt of pleasure through me and making me gasp again.

“Hyyyyyepp,” I manage to get out.

“Interesting,” he says. I can hear the smirk in his voice. He does a couple more experimental jabs, then starts properly fucking me with his fingers, managing to land on my prostate every time. Oh my god, this feels amazing. I didn’t want to come this quick, but I’m panting and moaning and trying not to writhe. Trust a jock like David to immediately pick up the knack for how to win at a physical activity.

“Oh, fuck,” I hear myself say. David says something but I don’t really hear it.

“What?” I moan.

“I said I’m going to move up to three fingers, Olly,” I think he says.

“Oh, uh… right,” I say. It’s a mistake. He takes his fingers out of me and I whine at the loss.

He doesn’t put his fingers back and I turn around to see what’s gone wrong. He’s staring at me with a shit-eating grin.

“What the fuck?” I demand.

“Dunno, just thought I’d take a little break,” he says, like the massive dick he has and is. “My fingers got tired.”

“David fucking H. Nelson, if you don’t get back to work I’m gonna put your school blazer back on and go the fuck home,” I threaten, entirely hollowly.

“It’s David fucking D. Nelson, actually. And why don’t you try asking nicely?” he smirks. Ohhhhh, okay.

“You want me to beg you, David?” I bat my eyelashes and go all big-eyed and breathy. “Please David, I want you to fuck me. I want you so badly. I’m so desperate for you to be inside me. Please, give me your fingers, I need to feel you filling me up and stretching me out so you can ram me with that beautiful dick of yours.”

I feel his fingers back on my arsehole and push back as he slides three of them in.

“That’s fucking better,” I groan through my teeth, all traces of sugar gone from my voice. He laughs. He’s much better at the fingering when he’s relaxed and not freaking out about his performance; he’s straight back on my prostate and it feels so good.

“That’s it, baby, now stretch me out so you can slide that dick of yours straight into me without even stopping. I want your cock in me so badly.” He’s full-on fucking me with three fingers now, though his accuracy isn’t as good as it was with two, since he’s trying to stretch me as well. I hear the telltale sound of a condom packet ripping; is he putting it on one-handed? But no, he pulls out of me and I’m torn between feeling empty and feeling so fucking excited about the dicking I’m about to get.

“If I tell you to slow down, you slow down. If I tell you to stop, we stop.”

“Okay,” he says. He sounds nervous again.

“Get some more lube inside me,” I instruct him. “And all over that beautiful dick of yours.”

He follows my instructions, then pulls off the glove and grabs my arse with one hand. He pushes the head of his ridiculous salami against my hole, and like every damn time, it feels impossibly massive. But yet again the magic trick works, and I feel my arsehole stretching around him.

“Oh, holy fuck,” I comment unnecessarily. David slides in inexorably, and I puff and pant my way through until his head pops inside me. We both gasp. He grabs on to my hips and I can tell he’s fighting the urge to just thrust straight in.

“Good boy,” I tell him. “Ten out of ten so far.”

He whines. I can’t help it. I clench in pure reactive pleasure. He hisses and again, I feel him struggle not to thrust.

Instead, he keeps pushing slowly, and I bounce back and forwards, and between us I feel him slide further inside. He hits that tricky last couple of inches and I have to relax and focus, until finally he’s pubes-deep inside me, and his balls are warm up against my taint.

“Yesssssss,” I breathe. “Okay, now start off fucking me gently. Like, really gently, beautiful man.”

He whines again. My god, it’s like putting coins in a vending machine. He starts pulling out and pushing back in, just moving an inch or two of the monster that’s buried inside me, and I already want to die from how good it is.

“Oh my god, yes, David, fuck, you feel so big. Okay, you can speed up a little.” He lets go a little and starts to stroke me longer and deeper. It’s doing the prostate thing on every slide past. Shit. Fuck. I’ve got shivers going down my spine.

“More,” I eventually manage to say. “You can go for it. I’ll tell you to slow down if I need to.”

As he starts to fuck me in earnest, I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head. I think I might be drooling. I feel like I’m 50% David’s dick at this point.

He grabs onto one of the belts and uses it for leverage to pull me onto his dick as he fucks me harder. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod. I can hear him moaning filthily behind me, and I know exactly why; that huge length is buried in me so deep I can barely breathe around it. His balls are slapping against mine.

“Oh, god, yes, David! Take me! Fuck me! Oh god, I can't take it, you feel so amazing inside me,” I scream. His moans are coming thick and fast.

“Spank me,” I find myself saying. He slaps my arse, still holding me by the belt with his other hand, and it’s incredible. “Fuck! Again!” Holy shit, who knew. It stings in the best way. “Keep going! David, please, I want you to spank me!”

Each impact drives me forwards just a bit, and then he hauls me back on him with each thrust. His cock feels like it’s splitting me in half.

“Oh fuck, pull my hair, David! Get right in at the roots and pull it!” Fuck, what is with me today? David reaches down into my hair, grabs a fistful and pulls it towards him as he thrusts deep inside me. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I have died and gone to heaven. My whole body feels like one massive toy for David to fuck, held just the way he wants me. I’m at his mercy. And yet I know he’d do anything I told him to.

“Fuck, David, I think I’m gonna come,” I gasp. I haven’t even touched my dick. I start to shake. Behind me, David’s fingers tighten in my hair and on the belt as he starts to rail me faster and faster. “Fuck, Olly,” he moans. “Olly, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

His moans increase desperately in pitch as I reach down and barely brush my dick with two fingers, my head still pulled back, and come like a fucking fountain on David’s cock. I feel his dick bury itself inside me hard and deep repeatedly as he comes, each thrust sending an aftershock through me.

He keeps fucking me, even after he’s come, and even after I’ve come, and it’s almost too much but I fucking love it. He lets go of my hair and the belt and just fucks me long and leisurely, hands resting on my hips. Finally, he pulls out and my shaking limbs give out on me completely, the traitors, leaving me to tip over on my side in a jelly.

Behind me, David is leaning against one of the bedposts, one arm above his head, the other carefully pulling off the condom. He looks sweaty and stunning. I kind of want to pull him over and bury my face in the crook of that sweaty shoulder, but before I can muster the coordination to grab him and pull him down, he puffs out a whoop of triumph and goes off to the ensuite. Oh well. Next time. I roll over onto my back and marinate in endorphins.

–

“So, did you want me to call you an Uber back to yours?” David says, walking out of the bathroom, already in a T-shirt and fancy joggers and startling me out of my happy haze. “I think I’m gonna go for a swim, so…”

“Jesus fuck, David, haven’t you heard of aftercare?” The second I say it, I realise how ridiculous that is. Of course David hasn’t heard of aftercare. David probably hasn’t heard of any kind of care. David’s the kind of guy whose usual sexual encounters probably end with him calling an Uber before he’s put a knot in the condom, if he even bothers with that little courtesy.

“What’s aftercare?” he says.

How do I boil it down so he’ll understand it? I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees and cudgel my half-useless brain for something simple enough for him to grasp.

“If you’re going to slap my arse or pull my hair or call me names, it means you’re signing up for all the sappy stuff afterwards,” I eventually settle on. “Check you haven’t done any damage, then the usual – hugs, kisses, warmth, all those alien concepts to you I’m sure.”

“But you asked me to slap your arse and pull your hair!” he protests. I mean, he’s not wrong.

“Well, now I’m asking you to hug me so I don’t feel like a sack of your used rubbish,” I say resentfully. I’m not really being fair. I didn’t warn him. But that doesn’t stop me feeling increasingly like crap about this whole interaction.

He stands there for a second, then walks back to the bed and awkwardly hugs me.

“I really don’t understand what I’m supposed to do here,” he says, like the world’s giantest idiot.

“How about we just lie around here on our phones together for a bit? I’ll scroll Insta and you can, I don’t know, google ‘aftercare’,” I say, pushing him back onto the pillows, lying on him, and hauling one of his arms around my neck. “And you can help me take off all these ridiculous watches.”

—

It’s surprisingly nice, just lying here on David. He’s scrolling Facebook, and occasionally he shows me a dashcam video of someone doing insane shit in traffic, or a pipe exploding, or someone punching a crocodile. I’m scrolling Insta, and occasionally I show him a video of a cool science thing, or an otter, or a slow-motion video of something exploding. I send him the video of the French Olympic pole-vaulter clocking the bar with his dick, and we both end up in a five-minute-long fit of uncontrollable laughter.

I’m going to have to get going eventually, but David makes a great sofa to do fuck all on, and that’s what I had planned for this morning anyway, so I may as well do fuck all on top of him.

“Why do you have all this stuff?” I ask him, toying with one of the watches I took off. It’s got so many dials and knobs on it that I can barely work out what the time is.

“I wanted it? So I bought it?” he says, like I’ve asked the stupidest question in the history of stupid, and also questions.

“You clearly never use any of this stuff, so why bother buying it? For that matter, why do you own a stupid enormous gas-guzzling car when you live in London? How much money do you make, David?”

He comes over all defensive. “None of your business,” he says tetchily.

“Seriously, how much?” I press him. “Don’t be shy. Remember, being open about your salary with your coworkers gives you greater collective bargaining power.”

“You’re not my coworker,” he points out, apparently in case I’m somehow unaware that I don’t work for Sack, Back & Crack Enterprises, or whatever other glass and steel monstrosity David works for.

“Solidarity knows no division, David,” I remind him. “How much?”

He purses his lips, looks at his phone and pointedly says nothing.

“Ohhhhh, right, okay. I get it. It’s lower than you’d like, and you don’t want to say anything. The car’s leased and the house is mortgaged to the tits, you’re swimming in credit card debt and you’re embarrassed to be living beyond your means,” I say reassuringly. “Never mind.”

“The car’s not bloody leased, Olly, and my mortgage is perfectly manageable,” he says, incensed. This is too easy.

I hold up a virtuous hand. “Say no more, David. Consider the question withdrawn. You don’t want to tell me, and I don’t need to know.” C’mon, take the bait, David, like a good little fishie.

“Ahundredandthirtyfivekay,” he blurts.

I burst out laughing. “A hundred and thirty five thousand pounds?” I screech. “For wrangling a bunch of spreadsheets?”

“I don’t just wrangle spreadsheets, Olly, I’m literally the financial controller for the whole—"

“Fuck me, how do I get your gig out of a history degree?” I gasp, still laughing.

“Well, you do an internship at KPMG then a third-year conversion to accountancy? If you’re actually interested in finance, I could see if—"

I’m off in fresh gales of laughter. “Me? Go the corporate sellout route? Boys’ club shit? Board meetings? Low-grade misogyny? ‘Nancy, could you get me a fresh espresso, this one’s burned?’ Talking about quarterly projections with a straight face? Can you imagine it?” I’m rolling around, practically in tears. “The only part of it I’d be good at is the arse-licking.”

David’s not finding this nearly as funny as I am. In fact, he sits up, waving his first-class express ticket to Giant Stroppington.

“Hey, dickhead, I’m thirty-four, and I’ve got my own apartment with a view, a Lexus, a share in a villa in Provence and a very healthy investment portfolio,” he snipes.

“Thirty-five,” I remind him mercilessly. “And what in the name of fuck makes you think I’d want any of those things? I mean you might tempt me with the villa in Provence, except that we all know the short-term stay economy is destroying Europe’s housing market.”

“Oh right, so you’d just give all your cash to charity?” he snorts contemptuously.

“I mean, yeah, probably, a chunk of it?” I agree.

“So there’s nothing at all, material, that could tempt Saint Oliver Spring?” he says. “No fancy hand-blown bongs or lump-free mattresses? No off-grid eco-houses or tiny homes or single-origin goat farms?”

“I mean, sure, all of those sound nice.”

“Seriously, what would you buy if you had my kind of money?” he presses. He’s acting like he’s hanging shit on me, but I can feel the gleam of genuine curiosity through it.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t mind going to that festival with all the psychedelics and nudity and consent workshops. Maybe a sustainable whale-watching cruise? Oh, and I hear Machu Picchu is amazing, I really want to go there someday. And I could visit those Mexican rainforest caves you can dive in. Oooh, and I’d totally get a hot tub. And maybe one of those hanging wicker daybeds that looks like a massive Hershey’s Kiss? Hang it over a pond somewhere near my new off-grid eco-house? Fill it with pillows and weighted blankets? Those things are so expensive. I’d get, like, three for my daybed. And one of those blue blåhaj IKEA sharks that are a trans icon, to live in it. And I’d get a tiny retro-style camper van with a built-in cocktail bar. Oh, and a trip to New Zealand. I wanna do Middle Earth. And can you go to Antarctica? I’d kind of like to sponsor a sea turtle or a penguin or something. And maybe that slackline festival in the Italian alps where you sleep in a hammock over the mountains. Come to think of it, I heard there are places in Italy where you can buy a whole village for five euros if you promise to do it up. Could get everyone down there and we could all learn to, like, paint shit and drill holes in things. Oh my god, and some of those bed sheets that are made out of T-shirt fabric. And I’d definitely get a bearded dragon, they’re much smarter than everyone thinks—"

“Okay, okay, Jesus fucking Christ, I get it, I get it,” David is finally laughing. “Talk about the platinum hippy dream.”

“What, you really wouldn’t go for any of that?” I ask him.

“I have no interest in doing up an Italian ruin with no sewerage or power or running water,” he says. “The rest of it sounds okay, I suppose.”

“Wow, you capitalists really know how to live it up,” I snort. “You really can’t think of anything more fun than old booze and sports equipment and cars that look like they might come to life and try to eat your face off while you’re sleeping?”

For some reason, this sends David into bona fide hysterics. I didn’t think it was that funny, but my god, he’s rolling around with actual tears coming out of his face. It takes him a good minute or two to calm down.

We’re both getting hungry, so David orders us breakfast burritos, and to my surprise, when they arrive, he slides back into bed with me.

“Aren’t you worried about getting bean juice on your sheets or something?” I ask.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, then looks pointedly down at his duvet cover. There’s a giant lube smear on the linen from where I flopped over earlier.

“Oh,” I say. “Soz.”

Chapter Text

I’ve only been here, like, five minutes, and I’m already regretting coming.

When Charlie messaged the sib group chat to say he and Nick were throwing a fancy dress party for Nick’s birthday, and that he really wanted us to come, I should have known it would be like this. Tori just flat-out said no – didn’t even bother making up an excuse – and now I’m kicking myself for not taking a leaf out of her book of older sister wisdom.

George and Ava had been over when the invite came through, and they and Oscar had gotten super-excited about making me the coolest outfit ever. I’m dressed as a jellyfish, in a loose iridescent crop top Georgie accidentally took home from a music festival, with a bunch of ribbons and necklaces and stuff pinned to the hem, and Oscar taped a string of fairy lights on the inside of the shirt, so it glows. Between that, my short-shorts, and the ridiculously cool blue-green-pearl eyeshadow Ava did for me, with sparkly little jewels, I look amazing.

Pity nobody else here does.

I’m surrounded by a sea of lazy cat ears, limp efforts at retro clothing and animal onesies. Elle’s in jeans, moon boots and an old ‘Vote for Pedro’ T-shirt, and honestly, that’s one of the better efforts. I feel like I’m looking at a live performance of the search results page for ‘easy last minute halloween costume’.

Nick and Charlie, at least, haven’t let their standards slip; they’ve got a reputation for going all-out with costumes, and tonight they’re dressed as Kirk and Spock from Star Trek. Charlie’s straightened his hair, done up the ends of his eyebrows, and got hold of a pair of reasonably not-terrible elf ears. For authenticity, Nick’s gone with mussed hair, a ripped shirt, dirt smears and possibly just a hint of baby oil, and it’s hard to disapprove. But I can hardly stand around all night perving on my brother-in-law. Who might also be my… brother-in-law? Weird.

After I’ve duly delivered Nick’s birthday present – Osc’s mum’s recipe for custard egg tarts, which I bloody well hope he appreciates, since I had to promise her a whole day as her minion at Chinese New Year in exchange – I try to find someone else to talk to, but the conversations are so boring I can actually feel every cell in my body dying as I drift around the room. I ran into one of Charlie’s workmates earlier, coming out of the bathroom earlier with a little smear of what I assume probably isn’t the remains of a Sherbet Fountain under one nostril, and now she’s standing next to Charlie and Nick’s breakfast bar holding a martini glass and talking about her investment property. Even high on class As these people could still bore the paint off a wall.

Darcy, who’s usually good for a laugh, is on edge because Tara’s freaking out. Apparently, their usual babysitter cancelled at the last minute, and Tara’s convinced the last-minute replacement is going to boil their child, or let them get a nose piercing, or play with knives or something. So instead of spiking the punch or doing shrooms in the gutter with me like they normally would be, Darcy’s having to play adult and make soothing noises at Tara, who keeps trying to leave every five minutes. I leave them to that hell of their own making and drift back to the kitchen to top up my glass. I’m probably drinking too much, but what the fuck else is there to do?

I’m genuinely considering just blowing the fuck out of here, even though it’s an hour from anywhere better and I’d arranged to stay the night, when a stunningly beautiful man walks in the door wearing a literal Disney prince costume, complete with giant puffy sleeves, cape and tight pants. Hello. Maybe I’ll stick around after all.

“Who’s that?” I say, elbowing Charlie out of an apparently riveting discussion on interest rate rises.

“Oh! That’s Pierce. He’s Antoinette’s friend.” I think Antoinette miiiiight be the one with the nose candy and the slumlord aspirations? “You’d like him, he’s gay, he does something in renewables, I think? Come over, I’ll introduce you.”

Charlie abandons the hot debate on fixed versus variable rate loans and beelines for Pierce with me in tow, despite my protestations that I don’t need him to set up a play-date for me.

Pierce doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s quickly clocked that he’s severely overdressed for the crowd, and apparently my very-extra outfit is just sheer relief.

“Pierce!” Charlie greets him, arms out, kisses on both cheeks. “So good to see you! Can I get you a drink? This is my brother Olly. Olly, this is Pierce Odumbe. Pink martini sound okay, Pierce?”

Up close, Pierce is even more beautiful. He’s got these super-dark freckles that, on his already dark skin, are just the tits.

“Nice outfit,” I offer.

“Oh,” he laughs, a little awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s from the costume rental place near mine. I just picked it out, really.”

He trails off. I watch my first attempt disappear into the conversational abyss, and try again.

“Yeah, well, mine is the product of several fairy godmothers. Well, one part-time fairy, one asexual and a staunch hetero, to be precise.” He laughs, but then doesn’t say anything. Is he just nervous or is this case terminal?

Charlie reappears with a drink for the guy.

“There we go! Now Pierce, if I recall correctly, Antoinette said you work in renewables?”

It’s like Charlie’s pressed play on a tape deck.

“Well, I don’t actually work in renewables per se, I’m really more someone who works with the renewables industry a lot of the time. I’m an energy insurance claims adjuster. We insure various energy companies, and my job is to make sure that when a claim is made, that it’s valid, to evaluate the coverage, damages, liability and ensure correct settlements.”

Oh god.

Charlie, the absolute rotter, pops a hand on Pierce’s shoulder, mouthing something ‘do excuse me, must host’-y, and slides out of the conversation faster than an eel. I make a mental note to curse his whole family later.

Pierce is smiling at me like I’m a ray of fricking sunshine.

“Property damage viability investigation coverage liability paperwork,” he says, I’m pretty sure. “Claimant underwriter damages validity energy sector product disclosure. Analytical risk wind turbine policy holder actuarial services capacity investment scheme.”

“Oh, so you work with the wind industry?” I catch in there somewhere.

“Well, among others, yes. We have a diverse portfolio of clients across a range of…”

As he drones on, I look at his stunning features in front of me and try to decide if this conversation has the remotest chance of not ending in disappointment. He starts to look animated for a second, and I tune back in to see if he’s actually saying something interesting, but apparently he’s now on a rant about actuaries and how they think they’re such hot shit but really all they are is glorified statisticians and claims adjusters are the ones who do all the real work, so I tune straight back out again.

I wait until what sounds like a reasonable pause in the stream of Pierce’s monologue and squeeze in sideways.

“So what do you do for fun, Pierce?” I say.

“Oh! Well, actually, right now I’m in rehearsals for a community production of The Pirates of Penzance,” he says. “We’re not professionals or anything, just a bunch of locals doing it for a bit of fun! I just love Gilbert and Sullivan, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, the Mikado hasn’t aged particularly well, has it?”

“Oh, but you have to remember they were writing in a different time! I mean, it’s tricky, but it would be such a pity to lose ‘Three little maids from school are we.’”

For a second, I start hoping the wall I’m leaning on might become porous, so I can just slowly back right through it. Instead, I finish my drink and waggle the empty glass.

“I’m just gonna—", I say, and then I flee shamelessly for the kitchen.

The group chat is no help. They just laugh at me, and Oscar demands video evidence of the shitty costumes. Tori, when I message her, just replies with ‘Did you know the biggest risk in trying to rescue a drowning person is that they’ll pull you in too?’

I let my finger hover over David’s contact in my chat list for a second before I think fuck it, and click it open.

David D. Delson:

8:52pm

Me:

SOS come rescue me from Nick and Charlie’s party, I’ll make it worth your while

I see the green ticks appear but he doesn’t reply. Fucker. I pour myself another stiff drink and go to see if I can convince Tao and Elle to dance with me.

—

Tao and Elle have busted out their collection of ridiculous dance moves, and I feel like things are improving slightly for a half a dozen songs or so, when some fucking weekend iPhone DJ gets hold of the bluetooth and manages to kill the mood stone-dead with some navel-gazing jazz. I grump in Charlie’s direction from across the room – this is his house, after all – but he just smiles and shrugs ruefully at me and I give up.

Unfortunately, it seems as though my willingness to dance was protecting me from more than just endless conversations about IVF and school districts. As soon as I head to the kitchen to find some water, a pair of puffy sleeves appears from around the fridge.

“Oliver! I thought I’d catch up with you again so we could continue our interesting discussion,” Pierce says, smiling a toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile. But I’m not falling for it twice. He might be astonishingly beautiful and perfectly nice – and also out and secure in his sexuality – but a man with conversational skills like Pierce’s is probably going to try out the alphabet trick on the underside of my dick and then panic when he accidentally misses the Q.

“Really? So would you say that violence is a valid and necessary form of protest, then? Or do you think non-violence is core to the justifiability of direct action?”

“What?” says Pierce.

“Never mind,” I say. “Listen, Pierce, I’m going to make a long island iced tea, or as close as I can get with whatever I can find in Nick and Charlie’s liquor cabinet, do you want one?”

“Uh… sure!” Pierce smiles, but his smile dies away as he watches me pouring shot after shot into the glasses.

“Did a stint as a bartender when I was on my gap year,” I say, handing him his glass and clinking it against his. “We made a lot of these for the staff. The pay was shithouse, borderline illegal actually, but there was hardly a union, so we basically paid ourselves in booze. Bottoms up!”

I sip my drink and he follows suit with some trepidation. Then a surprised look crosses his face.

“It… actually tastes like iced tea!” he says. “After all that alcohol you put in, I thought it would taste horrible.”

“I know, right? Weird, huh?”

I’m starting to think I might be able to survive a conversation with Pierce provided I’m the one driving it, when he comes right back at me.

“Anyway, we were talking about the Mikado, and I wanted to be clear that I don’t think the cultural appropriation in the original is remotely appropriate for a modern audience, although I have seen productions where it was cleverly handled, including an all-Asian production by the New York Gilbert and Sullivan Players, and another called The Mikado Project where a struggling Asian American theatre company decide to stage the operetta, which adds a framing narrative to discuss the problematic nature of the original—"

I can actually feel my eyes sliding shut. It’s horrible, because I suppose this is actually a topic worth discussing, but there’s something about Pierce’s delivery that makes me feel like I’m listening to a dramatic reading of a Wikipedia page.

Then all of a sudden, things take a turn for the worse, when I discover Pierce is singing ‘Three little maids from school are we’ at me.

He doesn’t stop after one line.

The wafty jazz is doing nothing to disguise his admittedly quite full and lovely baritone, and people are starting to look around to see who’s singing. Charlie’s throwing me this look like he’s done something clever. I’m kind of trapped behind the breakfast bar. I think about how hard it would be to maybe casually vault over it, but it’s covered in glassware.

It’s at that exact point that David fucking D. Nelson lets himself in quietly through Nick and Charlie’s front door.

He’s just in a white T-shirt and jeans, but he looks good. He’s holding a booze-shaped gift bag. He saunters in and skirts the room until he gets to the entry to the kitchen, where Pierce is swinging into the third verse.

“Sorry, mind if I squeeze past?” he says. “Nice sleeves.” Pierce manages to make it to the end of the line, then mercifully trails off. “Alright, Olly?”

“Alright, David,” I reply casually, but inside I’m screaming with joy. My party clown is here.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Pierce says brightly.

“David’s Nick’s brother,” I explain. David opens the fridge and puts a jar in it.

“And you are?” he asks Pierce. It doesn’t really sound like a question; it sounds more like a threat.

“Hello! I’m Pierce. I met Nick and Charlie through Antoinette Peterson, who works at Schuster & Slatt with Charlie.” Then, I swear to god, he holds out his hand for David to shake. David, acting like that’s a completely normal thing to do at a freaking party, takes Pierce’s hand and shakes it, although I’m guessing from the slight wince on Pierce’s face that he probably tried to crush it while he was at it. He’s looking at Pierce with an expression that’s, like, two inches from a glare.

Oh my god, is David jealous? Of this guy? I feel a completely irrational blush of warmth down to my toes.

“Pierce has been telling me all about himself,” I say with a hint of enthusiasm I wasn’t feeling until precisely ten seconds ago. “He does community productions of Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“Right,” says David flatly.

“Yes, we’re just in rehearsals for The Pirates of Penzance. I’ll be playing the Major-General, which is probably the most technically difficult role, so I’m very excited to—"

“Mate, I’m going to have to stop you there,” David says bluntly. “Very happy for you and all, but it’s been a long day, and I’m not going to pretend I give a toss about Gilbert and Sullivan for anyone.”

Jesus, apparently being a habitual cuntknuckle has its perks. He turns to me.

“Wanna head out for a smoke, Olly?”

“Sure,” I say, and follow him out of the kitchen.

We don’t make it more than three metres when Nick appears.

“David.” Nick is clearly pissed, his arms crossed over his chest. I can see the muscle in his neck going as he clenches his jaw. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Yeah, happy birthday, little bro, good to see you too. Mum mentioned you were having a party tonight, and I was down at the Elephant and Castle, so I thought I’d stop by. She asked me to drop you some of her new batch of pesto.” David says coolly, and a little smarmily. “Why? Can’t I stop by my little brother’s birthday party?” He puts down the gift bag on a table.

“No, David, you fucking can’t, not after that horseshit you pulled at my wedding,” says Nick through gritted teeth. “Tara told me all about it afterwards. In fact, I keep hearing fresh stories from just about everyone about what a royal sack of shit you were.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I was pretty fucked up on your open bar that night,” David says unapologetically. “Sorry Tara!” he adds, in a half-yell directed vaguely in Tara’s direction without actually taking his eyes off Nick. She doesn’t notice.

“Why are you here, David?” Charlie comes up beside Nick.

“I don’t know, just trying to be nice?”

It’s genuinely impressive how David can make apologising for his bad behaviour, and doing something objectively nice for someone, into a parade of douche moves.

“Daaaaaaavid!” I step around him and insert myself into this increasingly tense conversation. “You owe me a lift home. And I’m collecting tonight.”

“What?” Nick and Charlie both say simultaneously. Fucking couples.

“Your mum made me babysit Drunkface McSpewsalot here on your wedding night,” I explain.

Nick glares at David again, who, to his credit, looks a tiny bit sheepish.

“Olly, you’re not leaving yet? I thought you were staying the night here?” Charlie protests.

“Yeah, well, that was before you led me into a conversational slaughterhouse and ducked out like the Judas Goat, leaving me to be claims adjusted to death and then serenaded with Gilbert and fucking Sullivan, Charlie. Serenaded.”

“Oh, come on, Olly, you always think shit like that is hilarious.”

I snort. He’s not wrong. I probably would have thought it was fucking hilarious, if it had been happening to someone else.

“I’ll remember that for when he’s serenading you, Charlie,” I say.

“Stay for a bit longer, at least,” Charlie pleads. “You came all this way.”

“Ugh, fine,” I say. “I do smarten up your lack-lustre crowd a bit. But right now I’m going to take my shiny jellyfish arse and go have a vape in your back garden, and if Pierce follows me, I’m going to kick him into your compost bin, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Well, I guess I’m staying for a bit, then,” David smirks to Nick. I kick him in the shin.

“Don’t be a shitheel, David. Come and entertain me with tales of your douchebag exploits and stop bothering these nice people. I’m sure you’ve jumped off a balcony into a swimming pool lately, or whatever it is you people do for fun.”

Charlie sighs and goes back to the party, and I herd David out under Nick’s barely-mollified glare.

Sitting at Charlie and Nick’s garden table, wrapped up in our coats, I take a puff from my vape then pass it to David.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

“No problem,” he says.

We’re quiet for a bit after that. It’s weird how comfortable it feels. Like we’re not just hook-up acquaintances, or frenemies-with-benefits, or whatever the fuck we are. Like I just enjoy sitting here with him, doing nothing.

Under the table, he casually sneaks his calf up against mine. I make sure there’s nobody else in eyeshot, and let my hand fall against the side of his thigh. Then we just sit there, while Charlie and Nick’s epic collection of fairy lights twinkle around us.

After a while the chill starts to get to me – this jellyfish outfit might be hot, but it isn’t warm, and even with my coat back on, it’s brisk out here. Besides, I’ve nearly finished my Wimbledon Iced Tea.

“I’m gonna go have a big, loud, obvious good time for a bit so Charlie doesn’t feel too bad about tanking my Saturday night,” I say. “You wanna come with or are you good?”

“Oh my god, Olly, you’re the one who threw up the SOS. I don’t need looking after,” he huffs.

Pierce picks that exact moment to emerge from the house.

“Oliver! David!” he says, slurring just a tiny bit. I grimace and hiss guiltily through my teeth. Probably shouldn’t have tipped that much booze into him. He’s got another martini now, so I guess I started something. He sits down heavily in the empty chair. David moves his leg away from mine.

“So what do you do, Pierce?” David asks, before I can stop him. The tape deck restarts. Welp, this is your punishment for being predictable, David. I smother a snigger and quietly stand up, waiting til I’m behind Pierce to give David a big pair of thumbs up and mouth ‘Good luck’ as I walk backwards into the house. It’s times like this I sorely regret that I’ve never invested the time to learn to moonwalk.

The vibes in there have improved significantly. Everyone’s looser and louder. Tara seems to have capitulated to parental angst and gone home, leaving Darcy to get messy. They’ve booted Smooth Jazz Guy off playlist duty, replacing him with a trashy but enjoyable blend of gay club anthems, retro cheese and the kind of EDM so fast it makes you feel like you’re having a heart attack. Coke Landlord asks me if I want a line. Who am I to turn that down?

A little while later, I remember David’s still out in the back garden. I should probably rescue him. I stumble off the dance floor and down to the back door.

David and Pierce are still out there. David’s manifested a beer from somewhere. As I get within earshot, I hear David say, “Fucking actuaries,” and Pierce replies “Right?” and they both burst out laughing. I shrug and head back inside to compete with Tao over who can come up with the most ridiculous dance move.

I realise it’s getting pretty late when Tao and Elle decide to head home, scooping up an increasingly blotto Darcy and pouring them into the back of their car. Darcy puts up a fight, complaining they don’t want to leave and they’ve only just started having fun, but then Elle reminds them that Tara’s at home and they launch into a mildly nauseating soliloquy about how beautiful Tara is and how much they love her and their little bean, and after that, they go without protest. The room’s thinned out significantly and Nick and Charlie have vanished. Classic. It’s not a party unless Charlie and Nick escape to hang out with each other.

I head out back again and David and Pierce are still talking. I drop myself into the third chair and begin the work of untangling myself from the fairy lights in my costume, which have come loose from inside my shirt.

“You two having a nice time?” I ask.

“Olly!” David says. “You ready to head off?”

“Oh, are you two together?” Pierce asks.

“David’s just giving me a lift home,” I reply smoothly. David’s hiding the Instant Panic (Just Add Water) reasonably well, but I can still smell it.

“Oh. Sorry. Just thought you’d make a cute pair,” he says. I laugh as I stand up again. Who knew? I’m finally beginning to warm up to Pierce.

I’m trying to remember where I threw my coat when David asks if there’s another loo. Someone’s in the downstairs one, apparently.

“Charlie and Nick have an ensuite. Come up, I’ll show you.”

I’m about to barge into Charlie’s room when I hear Nick and Charlie on the other side of the door.

“But Captain Nelson, we’re both men, that wouldn’t be… logical,” I hear Charlie say.

“Nothing about how I feel about you is logical, Mr Spring,” I hear Nick reply. “Now kiss me.”

I clap my hand over my mouth and back away from the door, bumping into David, nearly weeping with the effort of keeping in this explosion of laughter. David has stuffed his shirt in his mouth. We stumble down the hall away from their bedroom, open a door at random and fall in. What the fuck? This room is full of… shelves? I find the light switch. It’s the airing cupboard, of all places. I manage to close the door before we both burst into helpless gales of laughter.

I end up resting my face in a pile of towels, weeping with laughter, while David clutches his stomach.

Well, hello, David’s stomach.

His shirt’s still rucked up from where he was biting it, and those washboard abs look spectacular in the tight cotton. This is not a large closet; I’m backed right up against the water heater, and I only need to move my hand six inches to run it up under David’s shirt.

“What are you doing?” David panic-whispers. “We’re literally at Nick and Charlie’s house!”

“So?” I ask. “They’re busy.”

I let my other hand drop to the front of my shorts and rub my dick through them.

“Fuck, you’re stunning. No wonder Pierce wanted you,” I mutter.

“What?” David stutters.

“Oh, big time. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. I could see him leaning in. And you were flirting right back. Your little in-jokes about actuaries. You two would make a perfect couple. You could talk dirty about spreadsheets all night.”

“Olly… are you… jealous?”

“What? No!” I realise as I say it that I might be lying. “Although you would look spectacular with his dick in your mouth.”

“Are you kidding? No way! That guy was so boring.”

“So how’d you manage to spend all night talking to him?”

“I… didn’t. I was inside for most of it.”

“Inside? I didn’t see you on the dance floor. Or in the kitchen. Or anywhere, actually.”

“I found a good spot on the windowsill and just hung out there.”

“Doing what?” I think for a second about the bay window downstairs. The window seat would have had a great view of the spot where we were dancing. “David, were you watching me dance?”

David blushes bright red.

“No,” he lies.

I don’t even bother dignifying that with mockery, I just haul him in and kiss him hard, letting the hand on his abs curl around that sweet, soft curve above his hip and pulling his crotch into mine.

I slide my other hand in between us, unzip the zipper on my shorts, and slowly push them down below my junk. Then I push down my pants. My dick is more than half hard already. I let him grind his fat cock into mine through his jeans. It reminds me a bit of our first time together, except that the kissing is better and the jeans are more brutal on my cock. Apparently he’s changed his mind about hooking up at Nick and Charlie’s place.

I put my hands on his shoulders and push down gently. He takes the hint and drops to his knees, making a sad little ‘ow’ noise when he lands.

“You okay down there, old man?” I ask. He punches me in the crease of my leg, and I fold over a bit and snigger, but I stop pretty quickly when he puts his tongue on my dick.

He runs it underneath, back and forth, and then pulls my cockhead into his mouth, and I let my head fall back against the heater with a fairly gratuitous moan.

He’s gotten so much better at this. He’s got the tongue going at the same time as the bobbing up and down. He’s got the pressure just right.

“Oh my god, baby, you feel so good,” I whisper. It’s risky, making noise, but my reward is his lips tightening around me. I put my hand on the door handle to stop anyone opening it, since there is, of course, no lock. “Can I pull your hair?”

He nods without taking my dick out of his mouth.

God, David looks so pretty from up here. That white shirt and blue jeans combo is giving such James Dean vibes, and seeing him on his knees like this makes me think that the real James Dean must have looked just as pretty when he was sucking cock.

“I want you to jack yourself off while you do this,” I whisper, weaving my fingers into that floppy blond hair. “Get out that fat cock of yours and work it for me, baby.”

He stops blowing me.

“Oh my god, Olly, I’m not cleaning up come off Nick and Charlie’s airing cupboard floor,” he protests.

I pick a large flannel off one of the shelves. “Luckily, we’re surrounded by solutions to that problem,” I say, handing it down to him. “Now get to work, beautiful. I want you to come with my dick in your mouth.”

Was that an actual whine? God, I love it when he does what I tell him. He unzips himself and pulls out that ridiculous third leg of his, grabbing it just under the head and strangling it. Hmmm, noted.

A second later he’s back on my dick, and I can feel the shake of his body as he starts stroking his cock faster and faster. He starts moaning on my dick, which is very nice, and I can feel my balls starting to tighten in my pants. I wind my fingers into his hair and start to fuck his face a little bit.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good, you’re so good, I’m gonna come, are you ready to come?” He nods. A second later and I’m shooting my load down his throat, one hand in a death grip on the door handle and the other twisted up in David’s hair. I feel rather than see him come – I can barely keep my eyes open, it feels so good – but his soft, puffy lips contract around me, grunting and moaning, and he shudders convulsively against my leg, his head resting against my belly.

Slowly, he releases me, and my wet dick flops out onto my shorts. I manage to untangle my hand from his hair, and he slumps against the shelf. I want to get down there and kiss my come right out of his mouth but there’s barely room for two people to stand, let alone kneel.

Eventually he recovers enough that he lets me pull him to his feet and I kiss him anyway, long and slow and lazy.

“So… wanna go home for round two?” I suggest.

“Holy shit, Olly, you’re insatiable,” he complains.

I shrug. “I could go down and ask Pierce if he’s free…”

“Fuck off,” he snorts. “No way are you risking another Gilbert and Sullivan rendition.”

He’s not wrong.

I manage to retrieve the flannel off the floor.

“What should we do with it?” he asks.

“I don’t know, chuck it in their washing?” I suggest.

“I’m not leaving my grotty cumrag in my brother’s laundry basket,” David protests.

“Guess we’re stealing a towel, then.”

The coast is clear when we quietly make our way out of the airing cupboard. As we sneak carefully past Nick and Charlie’s door, there are slapping and moaning noises that I’m pretty sure are going to rack up an impressive amount on my therapy bill. David’s foot creaks loudly on a floorboard, and we both freeze.

“Captain Nelson, you’re so tight,” Charlie’s voice wafts through the door.

“Fuck me harder, Mr Spring, or we’ll never get out of this Romulan mind-prison!”

David and I flee for the staircase, where we lose our shit on the lower landing. I’m pretty sure I’m scarred for life, and judging by the gagging noises he’s making, so is David.

The downstairs loo is free now, so David gets his long-awaited leak. Nobody notices me casually stuffing a hand towel in my jacket pocket. I retrieve my fairy lights, and we don’t bother finding Pierce to say goodbye.

“I honestly can’t be fucked actually driving you home tonight,” David says. “I really did have a long day today. Run you home in the morning?”

“Only if you promise to get me a decent coffee somewhere,” I yawn in the passenger seat.

We make a valiant gesture in the direction of round two, but really, all that actually happens is that we just fall into David’s bed and I stroke his dick until we both fall asleep.

—

Char-Siu Bao:

11:36am

Char-Siu Bao

You dropped a ribbon, little bro

I take it you changed your mind about Pierce

11:58am

Me:

A lady never kisses and tells, oh brother mine

Chapter Text

“So how’s your manic pixie dream girl project going?” Mills asks me, leaning down the back of the couch to give me an acrobatic hug.

“My what?”

“Your closet case,” she specifies.

“He’s— I’m— how very dare you, Millsy! I’m not a manic pixie dream girl!”

“Mmmhmmm, is that right, Zooey?” she smirks.

I go to open my mouth, then subside in a huff. I feel very personally attacked right now.

“I feel very personally attacked right now,” I say.

She shrugs.

“If the sparkly headband fits, Olly…” she waves a rudely articulate hand in the direction of my hair. Incensed, I pull off the sparkly headband I’m wearing. Then, after a couple of seconds, I put it back on.

“Fuck it,” I say, settling it in my curls just so. “You know what? I will wear it. That’s it. I’m officially in my manic pixie dream girl era, spreading self-actualisation and fun like fairy dust over lacklustre leading men.”

“Well, so how’s it going, then?”

A smirk spreads across my face.

“It’s going very satisfyingly, thanks, Millsy.”

She smacks me in the shoulder resentfully, which I enjoy just a tiny bit.

“Does that mean I can come round and finally properly get between the two of you like a double-cucumber sandwich at afternoon tea? I didn’t get to ride the twin ponies on my birthday.”

“Hmmm, I’ll see what he says,” I say.

What I actually seem to mean, when I examine that closer, is maybe I’ll get around to asking him, maybe I won’t, Millsy. She's about the fifth person to fish for a three-way with David tonight; apparently word has gotten out. I feel like a kid who got the latest PlayStation for Christmas: everyone wants a go on my new toy.

“So are you two a thing now?” she asks, perfectly reasonably, so I don’t know why the question gets my back up so much.

“Well, I’m certainly getting plenty of the tasty treats in his Pringles can, if that’s what you mean,” I say, trying not to sound smug or resentful, neither of which is a good look.

Maybe I'm feeling a bit tender because I realised the other day that, since Nick’s birthday, David and I have been hooking up pretty much weekly, sometimes twice a week, for actually, like, quite a while now? It’s… kind of weird? Like, I’m not complaining, but… weird.

I don’t think I’ve had a hookup this regular since high school, and even then, Billy and I were thrown together by classes and homework. David and I seem to be choosing to see each other that often. It’s like the more of that dick I get, the more I want it.

So far, we’ve mostly fucked at his house, but occasionally at mine, and once, memorably, in the back room of the cafe on a pile of boxes of soy milk, when he came by while I was closing up. The other night, I edged him for nearly an hour, until he came, screaming. On Tuesday night I let him fold me in half and rail me senseless against his bedroom wall. The Friday before that, we blew each other in the fancy £4 million loos at Victoria because we were so horny that neither of us could wait. My rainbow jewel plug has made its way over to David’s place and not come home. I honestly don’t know which end of me is hungrier for his dick. I wonder how much man-meat it takes to officially no longer qualify as vegetarian.

At least I’ve finally found a regular hook-up who’s as horny as I am. If I’m honest, right now I feel like a lazy house-cat, instead of my usual gutter-kitty on the prowl; I don’t have to think about where my next meal is coming from. Tonight, for example: I’d usually spend my evening on the hunt, sussing out every other party attendee for whether or not they might be open to mashing our bits together like plasticine later. But instead, I’m just lounging around, enjoying the music and chatting to people and being a bit drunk and stoned, because I spent last night at David’s place and he fucked me over the back of the sofa, then again this morning in bed, and then he gave me a very thorough licking in the shower before he went down to the gym, and I’m pretty sure if I didn’t have work tomorrow, I could text him tonight and he’d be up for another go-around.

It was weird, actually. I showed up at his place after my shift finished on Friday afternoon, and did my usual automatic fridge-check, only to find it full of, like, actual food instead of man-meals and meaty leftovers. There was, like, a tub of baba ganoush, and some carrots and celery, and, like, basil and cheese and shit like that.

I’m all like, “Oh my god, David, what the fuck happened in your fridge?” while I whip the little net bag of Babybels out of the door. And, yes, let me reassure you, I had that shit ripped open faster than a squirrel ripping open a bag of walnuts. I frigging love those sexy little cheeses, lactose be damned.

“Got sick of wasting money on takeaways,” David sez, from his desk, where he was still working at 5:30pm on a Friday like a massive nerd. “Couldn’t help but notice that my UberEats bill has gone up by, like, two and a half times since you started showing up here.”

“I’m a growing boy!” I sez, all mock-offended, hand to my heart.

“Yeah, well, you can grow on £2 pasta instead of £14 rice,” he tells me, the cheeky fuck. But the goddamn amatriciana pasta he made was spot on – he even did mine with tempeh instead of bacon – so, like… if he’s going to do the cooking instead, fucking… profit?

“Why don’t you cook more often, if you can pull this out of your arse on twenty minutes’ notice?” I remember I asked him afterwards, low-key stuffed, and trying to lounge it off a bit before I got low-key stuffed.

“Not much point in bothering cooking for just me,” he’d said. “But if you’re gonna be here all the time, this is just the cheap, sensible way to do it.”

Which makes total sense, because I’ve never met a rich person who isn’t a penny-pinching bastard – well, except Millsy of course, but she’s not rich, she’s posh, which is different – and it’s not like Osc and Bails and I don’t cook dinner for each other at home, literally all the time, for that exact reason. But coming from David, it seemed… I don’t know. Nice?

A few weeks back – some time after that morning we spent in bed on our phones, or maybe after Nick’s birthday, I think – our text messages kind of ramped up past the basics of ‘your place or mine?’ into a long chain of mildly entertaining trash. It started when I sent him a picture of a truly ripped kangaroo with the caption ‘this u’ and he replied with a picture of three squirrels banging. A few days later I sent him a video of an octopus squeezing through a tiny drain hole, with the caption ‘🤔🤔🤔’ and it's been kinda going on ever since. Thursday I sent him about thirty-five pics of otters, no explanation. We never actually seem to reply to each other's random garbage, just send more random garbage in an endless cycle of funny internet one-upping.

I don’t really know what a relationship is meant to feel like, because either I get kind of bored of people, or we just end up mates with benefits, which is honestly how I prefer things. But I don’t know if David and I are mates, exactly. I mean, I did invite him along tonight, and he’s even come to a couple of things here, which is mates territory, but he always sticks out like a sore thumb. Tonight he’s actually catching up with a friend, some guy named Jason. Who knows what that involves. Probably, they’ll go to the pub, then light each other’s farts on fire in the car park.

I haven’t limited myself to sending David funny animal videos, either; I may also have started sending him filthy nudes on Snapchat. That was a mixed bag; the first time I sent one (a really hot one of me with one knee up on my desk, showing off my hole and my little perky arse, with my hard dick pushed down between my legs; I had to get Osc to take it for me) he finally realised I’d installed it, which he was kinda pissed about. He even called to yell at me; apparently he’d been ‘in an important meeting’ and ‘I couldn’t just send him stuff like that during work hours’ and ‘how the fuck did I install Snapchat on his phone’. I listened to the blah blah blah and made apologetic noises until I got bored, then asked if he’d noticed I upped his match age on Tinder yet. That shut him up.

I didn’t care about the bollocking, really, but fuck me if the real tragedy wasn’t him turning off Snap Maps. I thought boomers were meant to be technically clueless. Vale, Stalker Olly. My halo is restored.

But David took to sexting like a duck to x-rated duck-porn, and we have had some very spicy little back-and-forths of an evening – at least, after I got him to quit it with the blurry flexing mirror torso shots. I even got him to jerk off on video chat one time. I might not have had the foresight to sneakily record it, but it probably wasn't necessary, because the picture of David Nelson moaning and coming all over himself – his hand wrapped around his slippery dick while I told him how beautiful he was, and how good his dick feels churning up my insides – is pretty much burned into my retinas anyway.

—

The next day, after I get home from work, I decide I can’t be fucked with the broken heater in our flat.

Pain au Nelson

2:24pm

Me:

My place is freezing. Also boring. What do you say we toast some fake marshmallows on your fake fire? Also do you have a bearskin rug at all, asking for a friend

Pain au Nelson:

Sure, we can order Thai and watch a movie or something

I’m at the office, wanna head over without me? Or I’ll be finished in an hour, can swing by and we can get the SE together

Me:

You’re at the office on a Sunday? God, and I thought my life was a tragedy

Pain au Nelson:

You literally started work at 6am today Olly

Me:

Shut up

I feel a bit of a rush of something peculiar at David offering to swing by and get me just so we can share a train ride.

Me:

Come by mine when you’re done

David spends the train ride bitching about Susan, his co-worker who won’t stop hitting on him, and I do my part and bitch about the many entertaining health violations that I’ve dealt with at the cafe this week. We’ve snagged the two window seats in a booth of four, and we’ve both got long legs, so it’s no big deal that our feet are sort of woven together. I’m sure none of our fellow commuters would think about it twice.

—

The genius idea of tying David to the bed pops into my head as I drop my backpack on my side of the bed. It just seems like a crying shame to have a four-poster like his, and… not tie someone to it? Actually, I suddenly kind of want him to tie me to it, which, oooh, kinky, Olls, I can hear in Ava’s voice, but I don't think I quite trust him with that just yet.

So instead, I whip open his tie drawer and select two of his swankiest designer ties.

“What the fuck is it with you and my accessories drawer, Olly?” he says, walking out of the ensuite and loosening his tie. Even on a Sunday, apparently, these bozos expect corporate drone uniform. Or maybe David just likes it?

“What, you'd prefer I tie you to the bed with extension cords? Kitchen string?”

David’s breath hitches at the suggestion, but then his inner manchild takes over.

“Why do I have to get tied up?” he says, kicking off his shoes and socks.

“Chekhov's four-poster, David. Can't have a bed like that on stage without the entire audience knowing someone’s getting tied to it.”

“And why shouldn't I tie you to it?” he growls, grabbing my hip and jamming his thumb into the soft part, pulling me in. “You'd look so good spread-eagled face-down on my mattress. I could see how many times I could make you come with my fingers and mouth, and then once you're a complete desperate mess, I could fuck you until you beg for mercy.”

Oh, christ on a fucking bike. David has really found his dirty-talk groove lately. My whole lower half just went weak on the spot. I pretty much nearly cave instantly, with that on the table. And I'm pretty sure he can tell, because he growls again and yanks me in for a kiss that’s 78% tongue and the remainder a very detailed unspoken promise.

With a catastrophic effort of will, I wrench myself back and smile.

“Hmmm, you make a strong case, but let’s put a pin in that one until you're off your L-plates, huh?”

He does the 35-year-old equivalent of a toddler grump.

“I don't know why you always get to call the shots,” he complains.

“Don't you?” I shank him with a thousand-volt look and push a single leisurely finger into his shoulder. “Get on the bed, on your back, David. Now.”

He backs up without another word and falls back onto the mattress.

I start unbuttoning his shirt, taking my sweet time, kissing down his neck and caressing his gorgeous tits and smooth flanks, running my fingers gently over the fine golden hair of his snail trail.

“You're gonna enjoy this, David. A lot,” I tell him.

I get his shirt off, slowly, gently, kissing down his shoulders and arms and wrists, then getting the thin end of the ties knotted nicely round his wrists.

Getting the fat ends round the bedposts is more of a challenge than I expected. After a couple of minutes of flailing, I end up having to go get a couple more ties so I can knot them together. I pick out a nice red one (Dolce & Gabbana) and a hideous brown one (Prada).

“Not the red one,” David says, from the bed. “I really like that one.”

I shrug and replace my intended victim with a middling-ugly Louis Vuitton, which is now probably living out its best life helping me get David’s wrists tied securely to the bedposts.

“You comfy?” I purr.

“You’ll let me out if I ask, right?” he says. He sounds a bit nervous. “And you won’t, like, fuck off and leave me here or anything?”

“Not even to go out and get a decent coffee,” I promise. “Now, let’s get you out of these chafing pants.”

After I get us properly nuded up, David clearly assumes we’re headed straight to Pound Town, but let’s just say I’m about to fuck around, and he’s gonna find out. I’ve got David Nelson all tied up, completely at my mercy, and he thinks I’m gonna be satisfied with a quick frot-and-go? Oh, son. No. Nope, I’m gonna make you wonder if you should yell Theresa May’s name, by torturing you with the thing that you hate the most: human intimacy.

I slide myself along his pretty flank, luxuriating in the feel of his skin on mine, letting my hands brush up his thighs, skirting carefully around his junk, which is already at full mast. I drift my hands up his chest, then twist his cheek to face me, and kiss him, long, slow, sensuous. No tongue. Just sweet, gentle, soft, insistent kisses. He tries to turn it up a notch, but I just scoot back an inch or so every time he does, holding his jaw still and sliding my other hand under his face to cup the back of his neck. He’s starting to get impatient and wriggly.

“Olly—” he whines into my mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Whatever I like,” I smile.

I pull off his mouth and twist his cheek back, then start trailing kisses along his cheekbone, down his temple, and then drifting down his neck and shoulder. My hands are caressing his smooth belly, my fingers tracing the pornographic V of his adonis belt, but staying carefully clear of his beef wellington and spuds. I trail my nose through the fine golden hair under his arms, and he flinches wildly.

“Sorry, forgot you were ticklish,” I apologise, unapologetically. I drift up to the soft, soft skin under his bicep, milk-white and without the freckles of his more sun-adjacent parts, and kiss it tenderly. My hand drifts up to his nipple and he thinks we’re back on track, but as I move on, running up his clavicle and along his opposite shoulder, he realises exactly what a hurry I’m really not in.

“Jesus, Olly, please,” he murmurs.

“You want out, all you have to do is say,” I remind him. He makes a high-pitched noise of desperation.

I run my fingers delicately down his six pack, feeling my way through his fuzzy snail trail, until I get to the thick forest of ginger hair around his cock, where I let them drift through, exploring the skin there, running my fingers delicately juuuuuust around the base of his dick without really touching it.

“Fuck, please,” he says, thrusting up against nothing, my hand whipped swiftly out of the way. It sounds like he’s barely even asking me, more just sort of asking the universe? Either way, nobody’s listening.

I go back to kissing him and he whines into my mouth. I add a tiny little bit of tongue this time, and he responds eagerly, but I still don’t let him lift the pace. After a minute or so, I drift my kisses down his neck and chest, pausing on his nipple again for just a moment to make him squirm, then continuing south. I can feel the tension building in his body as my mouth gets closer and closer to his dick, but after I plant a kiss in his pubic hair, I skate neatly around again and start kissing down his legs.

“Oh my god, Olly, you are such a fucking brat,” he whines. I grin. Bratting from above: an Olly Spring Original.

I carry on like that for I don’t even know how fucking long, kissing his insteps and behind his knees and inside his thighs and all those other places no-one bothers with and everyone should bother with… and then I turn it up… my way.

“God, you’re incredible, David. Look at you, all tied up for me like a present in a pretty ribbon, mine to do whatever I want with. I want to kiss every inch of you. I want to make every part of you tingle. I want you to feel precious and wanted. I want you, David Nelson. I want you under me. I want you in me. I want you around me. I want you so badly, all the time.”

David’s writhing around like a landed fish by this point, desperately fucking up at nothing. I clamber carefully to the top of the bed, then straddle his chest. He strains even harder, but I’m out of reach. My own sorely neglected cock is weeping pre-cum on his beautiful titties, and I take the time to do a little finger-painting, smearing it in swirls and stripes, before I move on to the next course.

“Open up, gorgeous,” I tell him. He lets his lips fall open, and I bend double to kiss them sloppily, before I shuffle up and push my cock gently into his mouth. Not far; I just let the head rest on his tongue, just about where you’d sit a chupa-chup, and let him roll it around like a treat.

“How is it that perfection can look even more perfect with a dick in his mouth? How are you even real, David Nelson? I feel like I found a da Vinci in a pile of mattresses in Walthamstow. God, that fucking tongue of yours, and the magic it works.” I’ve got one hand up on the headboard, the other woven into his hair, clenching it but not pushing or pulling. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone as much as I want you.”

He moans around my dick at that, his eyes closed, his hands wrapped around the fabric of the ties.

“Knock the headboard with your knuckles twice if you want to stop, huh, beautiful?”

He nods on my dick, and I start to fuck his mouth, long, slow, leisurely, sliding over his tongue and into his cheek. I reach over and snag the lube – gotta love being tall – and in between thrusts, I surreptitiously work some into my hungry arsehole. I might have been torturing David, but I’ve been low-key torturing myself, too, and while his hot, wet mouth feels amazing, and I am never going to get sick of feeding him my come, I realllllly want us to come together.

I can’t disguise the sound of a ripping condom packet, though, and David’s eyes flash open, desperately hopeful, to find me with a giant grin on my face and a condom wrapper between my teeth.

“You ready, baby?” I ask him.

He basically cries in response. God, I love him when he’s all pliable and desperate for me.

The next part is where my plan gets a little bit sketch. I have done zero prep. But we did just fuck, like, a day ago? And the night before that? Enh, I’ve done sketchier things.

I clamber off him and, with the hand not holding the condom, run a finger very delicately up the underside of his dick.

“Ohmyfuckinggod,” he says, apparently involuntarily. “Olly, please, pleasepleaseplease…”

I get the condom on him, lube him up and straddle him in record time, accompanied by a symphony of swearing, and then fiiiiiinallly, I sink down onto his hot, weeping cock.

It feels like fireworks are going off behind my eyes. I slowly sink down him, letting him open me up, waiting through each little hesitation until my arsehole remembers how the dance goes and spreads open to welcome David with open arms. Like always, the last couple of inches take almost as long as the first couple, by which point David’s basically trying to fuck me on pure ab strength alone. Fuck, he feels good inside me. I don’t know how I ever managed without this in my life.

Slowly, I lift up and ever-so-gently slide back down again.

“Olly, please, please, please,” David’s begging me. I take a moment to really admire him; shiny with sweat, trussed up, hanging on to his fancy designer ties for dear life, looking at me like I’m a birthday cake in a bakery window and he’s pressed up against the glass. Then I start absolutely riding him like a Pony Club girl.

Holy fucking shit, it’s the best ever. In some tiny part of my brain, I know last time was the best ever, and next time will no doubt be the best ever, but this, right now – this is the best ever.

“God, yes, David, yes, fuck me, fuck me you beautiful god,” I say, absolute nonsense pouring out of my mouth. “My stunning Adonis. Wanna feel you come in me. I’m gonna come for you so hard, David Nelson.”

All of a sudden I can barely hold myself up, and I topple forward onto David, hands either side of his head, still sliding him in and out of me. He quickly puts his knees up to give me something to push back against. I find his lips with mine and kiss him so hard, shoving my tongue right into his mouth, in time with every push back onto his magnificent dick, and he’s whining and groaning and straining desperately, and he’s in so deep he can probably taste himself on the downswing, and I start to shudder as the fireworks close in from the sides of my vision and all I can feel is David, David, David, and I’m coming so hard, so hard, so hard David, I’m coming for you

I don’t even know how long I’m out for. Feels like I’m still coming, and I think I’ve been laid out on David’s neck here for at least ten years, my hands wrapped around him. Every time I think I’m done, my arsehole twitches again, wringing another gasp out of us both. Pretty clearly, he came as hard as I did.

Finally, I reach up and start untangling the knots in his ties with one boneless arm, leaving his dick to soften where it is. After a bit of exhausted concentration, I get him free, and then I get back to the important task of lying on him like he’s the world’s comfiest, dickiest beanbag. He wraps his arms around me and we just lie there for I don’t know how long, until his dick gets so soft that it’s threatening to fall out, and I have to sort out the condom.

I kiss him and get up to retrieve a warm flannel. He tries to follow, but I shush him back down.

“You got tied up, so you get spoiled,” I remind him. I clean us both up and help him drag himself up on the pillows and partly across my chest, where I can run my fingers over his scalp, which I’ve discovered he loves.

“Your arms okay?” I check.

“I mean, they’re as okay as the rest of me,” he mumbles. “Fuck, Olly.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I know,” I agree.

I’m not gonna lie, I kind of love having David all soft and buttery like this. All the bullshit is just gone. He just curls up on my chest and I pull the duvet over us both, and he lets me caress his hair for half an hour.

After a while he starts getting antsy, though, so I suggest getting up. It’s not quite late enough to start thinking about dinner yet; maybe we can find something to watch. Reluctantly, I let him unfold us from the comfy pretzel mess we’ve ended up in, and go and find my pants and shirt.

Out in the living room, I find the fireplace remote, turn on Calcifer and start flicking between different colours. I hope the eyes I stuck to him don’t catch fire. David hasn’t taken them off yet, so I’m sure as fuck not going to.

“Do you want a Bovril?” David asks, from the kitchen. I can’t stop myself laughing.

“Jesus Christ, David, no, I don’t want a Bovril. Do you not have something a bit more modern, like, I don’t know, eel broth or a boiled calf’s liver tea or something?”

“Fuck off. I like Bovril.”

“That’s because you’re a dinosaur,” I point out.

“I think I’ve got some cocoa somewhere, is that modern enough for you?”

“Not unless you’ve got some non-cow milk hidden around here somewhere.” I settle on a festive purple and orange flame mode, and flop on the sofa as the toasty warmth starts to flow out into the room.

“Fucking hell, Olly… first no meat, and now no milk either?” he complains, pouring water into his mug of gravy juice like I’m the weird one. “Do you live entirely on peanut butter?”

“Trust me, it’s for the best,” I tell him, not elaborating further.

“Well, the only other thing I’ve got is…” He fishes around in the cupboard over the kettle, tossing around boxes ‘til he finds something likely. “Some kind of cinnamon and orange refresher tea?”

“I would love a steaming mug of whatever fruity infusion bullshit your second-to-last ex-girlfriend left here, David,” I smirk, then laugh as he blushes. Fucking nailed it.

He brings over my hot fruit water and his vegetarian meat extract, and I shake out his charcoal throw blanket over us both.

We eventually decide on a wildlife doco about marine mammals, and David Attenborough’s reassuring voice flows out of David’s surround-sound speakers. An otter is rolling in a kelp forest, blowing bubbles into its own coat.

“I wanted to get an otter tattoo one time, but Oscar said it was dumb and cringe when I asked him to do one,” I admit.

“What? Well, he’s fucking dumb and cringe. What the fuck is wrong with an otter tattoo?” David demands, apparently weirdly outraged.

“That’s what I said! But then Georgie drew me the girl flying her own head as a kite so I forgot about it.”

“Probably just couldn’t handle the drawing skill required for an otter,” David says.

We watch the documentary for a bit.

“Did you know that all male bottlenose dolphins are bisexual?” I say, randomly. “And all male walruses, too. Pretty much all the marine mammals will shag indiscriminately – there are even whale polycules – but male bottlenose dolphins pair up for life. They mate with females, but their life partners are male.”

“How the fuck do you know shit like this?” David asks. “I thought you studied criminology.”

“Yeah, well, how the fuck do you know about the Peterloo Massacre when you’re a finance bro?” I counter, reasonably. “I didn’t live under a rock before I started uni, and I don’t live under one now, either.”

“Sounds like you wouldn’t mind living under a rock in a walrus polycule,” he snorts. I kick him in the shin and we watch a bit more. A pod of humpback whales are now working together to herd and eat herring like aquatic sandworms.

“Humpback whales have only ever been spotted during any kind of mating behaviour one single time by humans…” I say.

“Let me guess,” David says, and then doesn’t guess.

“Ten points to the man in the charcoal T-shirt,” I crow. “The one time they caught two humpbacks doing what it says on the label, so to speak, and it was boy-on-boy action. Land rights for gay whales, eat your heart out.”

After a minute or two, I realise David’s whole energy has changed. He’s nervous all of a sudden. I’m trying to think what might be making him nervous, but I’m coming up blank. I decide to wait and see.

“So… uhhh… how did you know you were g– uh, bisexual?” he finally chokes out, picking at the knee of his joggers, avoiding my eyes.

Ohhhhhhh.

“Ha. Yeah. I will never hear the end of that one.” I snort. Actually, this particular anecdote seems funnier than ever, now. Our families can never, ever find out about us.

“When I was, I don’t know, seven? Eight? Or something? I apparently walked into the family room at Christmas and announced, ‘Nick, I know you’re marrying Charlie but I’m gonna marry you too!’ and everyone bursts out laughing and Mum tells me that you’re only allowed to marry one person, which, in retrospect, is also quite funny. Then, and this always gets the biggest laugh in the retelling, I apparently said, ‘Oh. Okay. Nick, do you have a brother?’”

If David had actually been drinking his Bovril, I’m confident it would have come out of his nose.

“He apparently said ‘I do have a brother but he’s a bit old,’ although the excuse does change in the retelling so I wouldn’t rely on that fact in court,” I continue. “I apparently said, ‘Oh, okay. I’ll marry Peppa Pig then.’”

David laughs. “Knowing your lot, Peppa Pig probably has one of those stupid middle nose rings and a degree in women’s studies by now.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I ran into her at a cuddle party last year and she’s halfway through her thesis on the utility of dance notation as a postmodern lens for analysing the production of scientific ‘fact’ as performance.”

David sniggers, then freezes. “I uh… am I allowed to… I can’t tell if that was a joke or not.”

I thought I was funny but David is fucking hilarious.

“So… were you never into guys before me?” I ask, once I’ve recovered from my fit of the giggles.

David determinedly keeps his eyes on the TV.

“I, uhh…” he trails off. “I’ve been with some… some guys before,” he finally finishes awkwardly. “But, like, it mostly wasn’t… like, it was mostly just bro stuff, you know?”

I don’t know, but I have a bit of a horrible suspicion. “Just guys helping a pal out, huh? Any port in a storm? Easier than girls?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Like, in… uh, at Truham. Me and my best mate Tom.” He stops there, like that’s a full sentence and he’s explained everything in detail. I manage not to push him, and just nod.

I suppose, actually, he pretty much has just explained everything in detail. He and his mate got up to a bunch of queer-arse shit, never spoke about it, and spent their adult lives pretending it didn’t happen. Maybe they went to different unis and never spoke again. Maybe they still get together and play five-a-side, and every couple of years when they’re both single they get sloshed and hook up for old times’ sake after someone’s birthday drinks. Corporate needs you to find the difference between this picture and this picture. They’re the same picture.

“I mean, that stuff doesn’t really count, right? Neither of us is, like, gay,” he says. I can tell that he genuinely thinks he’s telling me the truth on both fronts. I manage to swallow the YouTube-worthy rant on comphet that’s trying to claw its way out of my throat. Gently, gently. Suuuuper casual, Olly.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘counts’. To me, if it feels good, and I’m into it, I’m into it.” I shrug. “I mean, maybe I’m lucky. Truham and Higgs had merged into a co-ed by the time I started – cheers to Tori’s psycho stalker ex for burning half of Higgs down – and Charlie set up a gay-straight alliance when he was head boy and it stuck and all the cool kids were in it. People just weren’t as into all the hetero hoop-jumping stuff any more when I was there. Like, the school still had a few homophobes round the edges of the rugby team, but they mostly kept their mouths shut if they didn’t want to get shitcanned. So everyone was really sex-positive and it was all like ‘Be safe, sane and consensual, have fun, high five, hey psst have you heard about eating ass?’

“I guess I’m saying, like… If you and your mate Tom had come through Truham-Higgs fifteen years later, probably you would have done exactly the same thing, but you’d’ve held hands in the schoolyard and snogged behind the bike sheds and nobody would have given a shit except maybe wondering if you were doing it for cool points, and maybe you’d’ve broken up drama-free in year 11, and maybe you’d’ve both gone on to shag exclusively women for, like, the rest of your lives, but you’d still both show up to London Pride with your bi/pan flags on every year and you’d give him a piggyback ride up Piccadilly, because he was important to you, and because, like, it all counts.”

David doesn’t say anything and I think for a minute or two that he just went back to watching the documentary while I rambled, so I go back to the doco too, until I realise his shoulders are shaking. Jesus, he’s full-on crying. Forget the comphet rant, apparently the gently-gently approach was just as brutal. Fuck. I can't believe I thought it would be funny to fuck a closet case.

I put my feet up on the couch and pull him in between my legs and fold him up into my arms and he’s sobbing into my T-shirt. I’m kissing his temple, his forehead, his hair, rubbing the back of his shoulder the way I saw Sarah do it, muttering bullshit about how he’s real and important and he counts and he’s perfect just the way he is and telling him he’s pretty in Spanish. He cries for a long time. Eventually he calms down but he doesn’t move, just lies there and lets me keep caressing him, and I sure as shit am not going to be the one to break this moment. The doco eventually ends, and I couldn’t tell you one single thing about the rest of it. We lie there together as the room slowly darkens around us.

It must have been somewhere around an hour later that he finally moves. I’d started wondering if he’d fallen asleep, but his breathing hadn’t changed and I didn’t dare risk moving to check. I’ve still got him wrapped up tightly, just one thumb caressing his shoulder, when he rolls over between my legs, leans up and kisses me.

It’s not a fuck-me kiss. It’s not a horny kiss. It’s not a desperate kiss. It’s not a polite peck of thanks. It’s a soft, inexorable kiss of the kind I didn’t think David was capable of. It’s a kiss with feelings. Suddenly I’m having quite a lot of those too. I manage not to freak out. I manage not to think about the fact that we’ve never really kissed outside of sex before. I manage not to think about how very much I enjoyed it, and the catastrophic desire I’m suddenly flooded with for him to do it again, but he doesn’t. He just flops down on my chest again and I bury my fingers in his hair.

“Come on,” I eventually say. “Let’s get some carbs into you.”

Chapter Text

I’m horny and bored on Sunday, so I text David for delivery.

Baguette Boy

2:23pm

Me:

u up

Baguette Boy:

Of course I’m up, Olly, it’s 2:30pm

Me:

ffs David I know you’re old but did you crawl out of the triassic DO YOU FANCY A SHAG

Baguette Boy:

Christ just say that then, why do you need a stupid code

Me:

every minute you spend in your futile quest to claw back a shred of relevance is a minute you spend without your dick in my mouth

Baguette Boy:

Fine

Me:

great my place in 30 bring popping corn

We haven’t spoken about what happened at his place last Sunday. He’s not bringing it up. I’m not bringing it up. I don’t want to poke whatever delicate internal process David is undergoing whereby he can, y’know, experience basic human intimacy and comfort without feeling like his dick’s under the Sword of Damocles. I don’t think he’s going to be joining me in a cuddle puddle any time soon, but the idea that he’s come so far since the terrified mess he was when we first met gives me a sort of warm, sparkly feeling of pride.

When David arrives at my place, popcorn in hand, he’s absolutely soaked and looks vaguely like he’s been on a mud run.

“What the fuck happened to you?” I snort. “Did you travel here by waterslide?”

“Very funny,” he grumps. No sense of humour. “I had to park miles up the road and some absolute cockwomble drove through a massive puddle at about seventy miles an hour.”

I graciously don’t mention that I would have paid good money to see that happen.

“Give me your coat, I’ll put it over the heater,” I offer.

“What? No! You’ll fry it! It’s cashmere!”

“I know it’s cashmere, you smell like a wet goat. Not on the heater. On a coat hanger over the heater, Mum.”

He reluctantly parts with his wet goatskin, and I find him a towel.

“You’re pretty gross,” I point out, pulling the towel away as he reaches for it. “You’re about 20% mud. There’s literally a leaf in your hair right now.” I reach over and pull it out, showing him his new leafy son. “Get in the shower, I’ll go find you something to wear.”

He kicks off his shoes and stumps down to the bathroom with a wordless giant-toddler stomp.

It’s getting uncomfortably close to laundry day, so the joggers I dig out for him have a bit of paint on them from when we did Rosie’s bedroom, and the T-shirt is pink with big orange and yellow retro flowers and says ‘Feminism Is For Everyone’. I do have to skip past a couple of plain grey T-shirts to find it, but laundry day can’t be expected to take up all the slack on tragically requiring David to wear this shirt.

By the time I get out of my bedroom, I can already hear the shower going. I wander in. He’s juuuuust at that gloriously awkward pulling-the-pants-off-the-ankles stage, and my sudden appearance knocks him off balance. I’m treated to the rare and glorious sight of a perfectly carved, freckled Adonis, hopping around, bent over like an unstable monkey pretzel, arse akimbo.

“Fucking, Christ, do you knock?” he complains, eventually regaining some stability.

“Clearly I don’t, David,” I smirk. “It’s not like you need to preserve your modesty. And after your drunken post-wedding spew antics, I really wouldn’t worry about trying to preserve your dignity either. They’re both long gone, hand in hand, on a crime spree in the Pussy Wagon.” I plonk the clothes down on the basin and lean back to admire the view.

“You’ve seen Kill Bill?” he says in surprise.

“What?”

“You know what the Pussy Wagon is?”

“Of course I do! From the Lady Gaga film clip? I loved dancing to Telephone when I was little!”

David closes his eyes in pure old-person suffering. God, it’s too easy. I actually have seen Kill Bill. Or, at least, a chunk of it until it got boring and I fell asleep.

The water’s apparently warmed up and he climbs into the tub under the shower spray.

“Enjoying the show?” he snarks as he folds the glass screen back. He genuinely seems kind of… shirty? About me watching? It’s weird.

“I don’t know, is there an audience participation ticket I should have forked out for instead?” I counter, hooking my thumbs into my waistband and pulling it down a couple of inches so the top fringe of my muff is showing. I’m not wearing any pants.

The universe apparently wants to reward my saucy ways, because I’m treated to the sight of David’s cock rising up from its flaccid state. Comparatively speaking, he’s a grower, not a shower – which is lucky, because otherwise he’d be catching that thing on door handles – and watching it inflate is like watching the world’s filthiest dick-shaped hot air balloon puff up from the ground. I encourage it by hooking my waistband a little lower, and then running one hand under to stroke my own cock to life.

“We’ll have to keep it down, Oscar’s home,” I warn him. I turn sideways and let him watch as I give the back side of my joggers the same treatment, pulling them slowly down over the curve of my arse, wiggling it suggestively, then dropping trou and stepping out. I have my T-shirt off in one smooth pull. Then I slowly and sexily remove my fuzzy purple house socks.

“Awww, you like that, huh, baby,” I purr, standing on one leg, one shin crooked awkwardly across my thigh. I slingshot the sock at the shower screen like it’s a glittery G-string.

“How you can kill a boner so fast, I will never know,” David complains from under the water, his crotch blatantly demonstrating exactly how full of shit that complaint is.

“Really?” I climb into the shower with him. “From where I’m standing, I’d give myself a ‘C minus, must try harder’ in Boner-Killing.” I push his dick down with one finger, just to watch it spring back up and bounce satisfyingly.

He just pulls me in and starts snogging me hard, his hands coming down on my waist. I’m not complaining. I let my own hands run down his slick torso. His skin is so warm, and soft, and wet, and yet the guy’s as hard as a tree trunk. Oooof. I could spend all day just playing with him like a fidget toy, feeling out his textures and pressing all the buttons to see what they do.

Still kissing him, I grab the shower gel and squeeze some into my hands, rubbing it into his skin unnecessarily thoroughly. I let my hands travel all over; his belly, up his flanks, under his arms, over his shoulders, the sides of his neck, around to his back, then I hook onto the back of his neck and kiss him even harder, pushing my tongue into his mouth. I love the way he has to tip his head just a little bit back to reach my mouth. Then I drift my mouth straight down under his chin, kissing down his Adam’s apple, the little dip in his throat that I feel rise up as he swallows, then straight down his breastbone and stomach, slowing only to gently tongue his belly button for a second on the way past, then continuing until I hit pubes.

Then I pull his own signature move on him, and swallow as much of his dick as I can manage in one go. He gasps and flails, managing to grab the seashell soap dish in the tiled wall. I’d suppress a grin, but frankly, I’ve got no room for one with this monster dick in my mouth.

I get my hands on the bits I can’t fit in my face and let the remaining shower gel slide up and down, working him firmly but not too fast, just a nice leisurely stroke.

David’s put his reliably wandering hands in my hair, but he’s not fucking my face like he usually would. Instead, he’s just running his fingers through my wet curls. Apparently he’s content for me to drive today.

I let my tongue bar work its magic for a bit, then pull off to give his balls a bit of love while I stroke him. I gently suck one into my mouth and he gasps in through his teeth, his hands in my hair stilling. Encouraged, I do the other one, and then run my tongue bar over them gently. I get a dirty, low moan out of the vending machine. I wonder…

I let my tongue drift back a little further, under his balls, to the very base of his dick where the taint starts, where water is running down his arse crack through his slightly spread legs and making a little waterfall on the soft, soft skin.

Jackpot.

He jumps, and yelps, and gasps, and then grinds down and twitches up again.

“Holy shit, Olly,” he manages. I flick my tongue tip up and down, and he whines and jerks like I’m going at him with jumper cables. I’m still working his dick with one hand, the other around his leg for support. I lean back against the shower screen and look up at him.

“Do you trust me?” I ask him.

He looks down at me.

“...No?”

“What!” I say, outraged, leaving off working his cock.

“You’re a literal agent of chaos, Olly. I wouldn’t trust you to water my potted plant.”

“And yet you trust me to put your dick in my mouth?” I huff resentfully.

“I’m literally here to supervise that,” he points out, infuriatingly accurately.

“Well, you’ll be here to supervise this too,” I point out.

“What do you want to do, Olly?”

“I want it to be a surprise!” I mean, I could just say I want to stick my tongue in his arse, but he’s always been a bit… homophobic… about his own arse. I sigh. Probably shouldn’t spring that on him, huh. “Okay, I want to stick my tongue in your arse,” I capitulate.

“Uhhh… what?” He seems genuinely flabbergasted at the suggestion.

I stick it out of my mouth to demonstrate.

“Nobody’s ever gone down on you? Not even a girl?” I ask him. He shakes his head, unsurprisingly. I only really asked to hetero it up a bit. He looks very nervous.

“I don’t know… it seems… weird?”

“I grant you it’s not tea with the vicar, but then most fun stuff isn’t, is it?” I point out.

“Um. I, uh… I don’t know?” He sounds like he really wants to try it, and also really wants to get on the first plane to Sweden right this second.

“Well, how’s this sound. I’ll start slow, one lick at a time, and give you a sec to see if you don’t hate it. That way you can nope out if you’re not into it. Just tell me to stop or slow down or whatever and I will. Okay?”

He nods, his face a wet picture of resolute terror. I don’t bother telling him he’s going to love it. He’s going to find out soon enough.

I push him back against the shower wall, and hook a hand under his knee and get him to put it up on the edge of the bath over my shoulder. I get my hand back on his dick and my tongue back on his balls, and resume my journey into the forbidden lands.

He’s already moaning and twitching again and I’m barely halfway up his taint. I didn’t get this far before with his legs down, and now I can really push my tongue into the soft, elastic skin there, the water running over my tongue. I spend a little while lavishing attention there.

Then, carefully, I swipe my tongue all the way across his tight little pink arsehole.

David makes a noise so dirty I want to put it in a bottle and keep it in my bedside table drawer to jerk off with.

I wait a second or so in case he decides to return the product, or flee back to Pretend Heterosexuality, but he doesn’t, so I give it another pass. The second noise is almost as good as the first. I put a bit less of a pause in between the next attack, and then less again. He’s groaning and panting and jerking in my hand – which is still working his cock – and he’s had plenty of time on the try-before-you-buy plan, I decide. Time to get busy.

I stop with the long slow swipes and get my tongue right in there and start flicking. He nearly collapses on me. Once he regains control of his legs, he starts grinding down on my face. He’s swearing and moaning and gasping and he sounds like a porn soundtrack but less professional. Holy shit. I really need to get a ‘Sex God Olly’ nipple ring or something because I am unstoppable.

I feel his balls start to tense up and I grab one of his arse cheeks in my free hand, mangling it joyously as I go to town on his little pink starfish. I speed up the hand on his dick, and just as his gasping and moaning starts to sound about ripe, I shove my tongue right inside him, and he comes spectacularly across the shower screen, shuddering, pretty much screaming, and collapsing.

Collapsing. Properly collapsing. I don’t know what happens, whether his foot slips or what, but the entire weight of David Nelson comes down flailing. Halfway down, he collects the tiled-in ceramic soap holder with his temple, and then he’s not flailing any more.

It all happens very, very fast, and also with extreme stop-motion clarity.

He’s lying half across me, half against the shower screen, like an eighty-kilo sack of sweet potatoes. His eyes are very much not open.

“David!” I shout. I’m trying to extract myself out from under him when I notice the trickle of red coming down his cheek.

“Fuck! OSCAR!” I bellow. “OSCAR, HELP!”

Osc appears in probably less than ten seconds, but it feels like an age. He is, for some baffling reason, stark naked from the waist down.

“Fucking help!” I demand.

“What should I do?” he asks helplessly.

“Get me up!” I extend a hand and he tries to pull me up, but it’s too slippery.

“Turn off the water!”

Oscar reaches across us both, managing to turn off the water. He does the hot first, and for a second I’m stuck under freezing cold water.

“Aaaaaargh! Osc!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, turning the cold off and putting his hands up apologetically.

“David!” I yell again. He’s out cold. He’s properly bleeding now, it’s everywhere. Fuck, what if he’s dead? I don’t know how to check a pulse. I really need to do a first aid course. I know you’re supposed to press their wrist or something? I fumble around for a bit before I realise he’s literally breathing right in front of me. OK, good. Not dead. That’s a start.

I put my hand up and Oscar manages to pull me up. David slumps to the floor of the tub, and then, thank fuck, he starts waking up.

“Osc, go and google what to do for a head injury!” He nods and dashes out.

I slap David’s face a couple of times. “David!”

“Ow, fuck, stop slapping me!” he mumbles. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” He’s trying to sit up, so I awkwardly kneel and get an arm around his shoulders to try to help him up. I suspect I’m not helping but together we manage to get him sitting up against the side of the tub. He hisses in pain and puts his hand to his temple.

“Holy fuck,” he says.

“I’ll, uh, get you something for that.” I grab him the first thing to hand, which is the joggers I brought in for him. He presses them against the side of his head.

“Ow,” he says again.

Oscar comes back in, still pantsless, with his phone in one hand.

“Apparently we have to take him to hospital if he was out for more than twenty seconds,” he says. “Was he out for more than twenty seconds?”

“What the fuck!” David says, hunching up in the bath and trying to cover his crotch with his free hand. “What are you doing in here? And why is your bloody cock out?”

“I needed help, duh, you fucking fell over and cracked your head open and basically crushed me with your unconscious body,” I point out. “And… why are you naked, Osc?”

“I… uh…” Oscar looks mildly sheepish. “Um. The walls are kind of thin, you know.”

“Oscar!” I chide, unable to suppress a grin. “Were you having a cheeky play-along for the listeners at home?”

“You what?” David practically shrieks.

Oscar looks at him for a long second.

“I’ll go put on some pants,” he says diplomatically.

“He what?” David adds unnecessarily.

“Oh my god, David, don’t be such a prude. We’ve got more important things to worry about. Can you stand up?”

He doesn’t seem to have much trouble standing up except that he’s doing it minus a hand, but I help him anyway.

“Put that on,” I hand him the T-shirt and grab my towelling dressing gown off the back of the door. “And that. I’ll go find you some dry bottoms and call an uber.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t need to go to hospital,” he protests.

“David,” I say firmly. “You heard the internet. What if you have a sub-hemorrhagic concussive arachnoid brain aneurysm bleed?”

“A… sub… what?”

“I don’t know. I binged all of House on Netflix that time I had glandular fever. But I’m fairly sure they have to run scans and stuff to make sure that hamster-sized brain of yours isn’t bouncing around in your skull like a ping-pong ball.”

“This is ridiculous, Olly.”

“Shut up. We’re going. End of story. What’s the point of having a strained, groaning, desperately under-resourced NHS if you don’t use it, right?”

I swipe his phone off the sink. I’m not sure what the etiquette of paying for the Uber to hospital after you give someone an orgasm so catastrophic they knock themselves out is, but I’ve only got thirty quid til payday so I guess this one’s on him.

Back in my bedroom, I discover the only other clean joggers I have are the lime-green ones with the black rhinestone tiger down the left arse-cheek. Oh well, some things just can’t be helped.

David reacts badly to the trousers.

“I’m not fucking wearing those,” he says flatly.

“It’s either these, your wet ones, the blood-soaked ones or, if you like, we can swap.” I gesture down at the pastel pink joggers I’ve put back on. They’ve got tartan bunnies on the knees.

He’s trying to think of another way to avoid the green joggers when the pain clearly gets to him and he gives up. I crouch down and hold them open so he can step into them, then pull them up his legs and over his arse.

It feels a lot like… a couple of minutes ago, and I look up at him from where I’m down at waist level in front of him, and he hisses in a breath and shudders.

“At least your memory seems fine,” I quip. “Don’t you dare fucking fall over again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles. “Ow.”

I grab my stuff and help David into his shoes and we go down to meet the Uber. Oscar offers to go with us, but David looks like he might just do a runner out the second-floor window if that happens. Just as we’re leaving, Osc stuffs a deck of Uno into my pocket.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“Hospitals,” he says sagely.

—

Holy fuck, was Oscar ever right about the Uno.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this bored in my life. We’ve been sitting in this waiting room for, like, eleven years. I get up and go to the vending machine for the fifteenth time, hunched and dragging my seven-foot-long white prisoner’s beard along the ground behind me, but there’s still fuck all in there I want, and nothing new has magically materialised in the last fifteen minutes.

David started out by hitting on the triage nurse when he arrived, which, like, not cool dude, she’s working, but then she asked him if his emergency contact was still Madison McInerney.

“Uh… no. No, can you take that one off?” he said. He was still trying to play it smooth, like, hey baby I’m single, but I piped up.

“Isn’t that the one you cheated on with the singing telegram?” I whisper-asked, juuuust loud enough to be audible through the plexiglass screen.

“You’ve also got a Sarah Nelson on here, shall I leave that one?” the nurse asked, either wholly uninterested in our shenanigans or deploying a bulletproof poker face.

“Um… do you think you’d be likely to… call her? Like, today?”

“We’ll call your emergency contact if at any point you are unresponsive or suffering impaired cognition, or if we need consent for procedures which you are unable to give yourself.”

I could see the mathematical formulas floating around David’s head as he tried to work out the odds that the hospital would call his mum to tell her her son had been injured in a catastrophic gay rimming accident.

“Can you take her off and put down Oliver Spring, please?”

I was overtaken by a weird rush of warmth when he said that, only slightly cooled by him listing me as ‘friend’, and then proceeding to lie his face off about what happened.

After we took our plastic seats, I managed to waste about nine minutes on checking out the other patrons of this fine establishment, before I cracked and pulled out the Uno cards.

I should just leave. I want to leave. David keeps telling me to leave. But I just, sort of, feel like I should stay? Like, I desperately want to leave, but I also really, really don’t want to leave until I know his brain’s not going to fall out of his head?

We’ve played nine hundred rounds of Uno, and I’ve already done two runs to the M&S food hall down the street, and I’m dying. I ditch the vending machine again and decide to go back and whinge some more at David.

Just as I open my mouth and David’s eyes pre-emptively glaze over, someone calls his name. Thank fuck.

We’re ushered through some secure doors into the treatment area, where there is lots going on. A guy is muttering to himself and occasionally yelling in a cubicle. Medical professionals are walking around in that brisk, calm way that suggests someone could be spraying blood like a garden hose and they still wouldn’t speed up. Things are much more interesting. It doesn’t smell great, but other than that, I feel better already.

Someone comes to patch David up. He’s already stopped bleeding. The wound is embarrassingly tiny for the amount of drama it’s generated. All he ends up needing is one of those little white sticky tab things they always give people in movies.

“Awwww it’s so little!” I coo. David looks at me like he’s trying to blow me up with his mind.

“I understand you fell and lost consciousness?” the doctor asks when she arrives, looking at David. She’s got on hot pink crocs and I immediately take a shine. Her badge says Dr Melody Demirci.

“Uh… yes.”

“It’s good you came in. A lot of people don’t, and it can be serious.”

She takes a history, which David casually omits me from entirely, and manages to keep his blushing to a minimum. She makes David do a bunch of entertaining stuff, like recite random words, tell her his whole life history, read a paragraph off a page, stick his tongue out, count months backwards, and follow her finger around like it’s a laser pointer and he’s a kitten. I half-expect her to whip out a pedestal and have David jump on it while balancing a ball on his nose. She pokes him, prods him, smooshes his head and generally mangles him all over before she declares the results look provisionally good.

“We’ll need to do a scan to be sure, so we’ll have someone take you up to radiology. Sit tight.”

Hilariously, they insist on taking David for his scan in the hospital bed, so he has to sit on it awkwardly while they wheel him out, even though he literally walked in here himself. He’s back soon, looking absolutely ridiculous in my clothes, trying to make laddish conversation with a strapping healthcare assistant who’s clearly only thinking about dinner.

“You missed the guy in bed six having a proper full-on psychotic attack,” I tell him. “Ran out yelling about needing to do his self-assessment tax return. Lucky you were gone, huh?”

David snorts and rolls his eyes. “Anything for a brother in the trenches.”

Dr Melody comes back with David’s scan results and congratulates him on having an apparently resilient bonce.

“Any sudden headaches, memory loss, anything weird with your vision, hearing, smell, touch, taste, balance, anything you’d normally be able to do but suddenly have trouble with, dial 999,” she tells him. “Now bugger off out of my ED and go eat something and get some rest.”

She looks me dead in the eye.

“And be more careful in the shower,” she adds.

I wouldn’t say I’m blushing, exactly, but I do feel very seen.

“I like you, Dr Melody,” I grin. She snorts and goes off to her next patient. Maybe she’ll get lucky and someone will have slipped and fallen on their shampoo bottle in the shower. If you know what I mean.

David calls us an Uber back to my place. Bailey’s back and it’s getting late and none of us have eaten, so I make everyone mi goreng noodles. There’s not much to pimp it up with, but I’ve got some tofu, and I find a bag of broccoli in the back of the freezer. All fried up with some of Osc’s Lao Gan Ma chilli oil, it’s actually pretty great. I deliver Bailey and Oscar their dinners and take ours into my room, where David is hiding from my housemates.

David, it turns out, doesn’t know how to use chopsticks.

“How have you lived in London for, like, half my life, and you don’t know how to use chopsticks?” I’m genuinely floored.

“I don’t know, I just, like, why learn when I already know how to use a fork?”

“Why learn to do anything? Because it’s fun. Here, let me show you.”

I show him how to hold one chopstick like a pencil, then slide the second one in underneath, sitting between his middle and ring fingers.

“Now you just hold the bottom one still, and move the top one around like you’re drawing.”

He’s hilariously bad at it at first, but he gets the hang of it surprisingly quickly.

“And now you prove yourself in battle,” I say, stealing a piece of broccoli out of his bowl. “I vowed to train you, and you have been trained.”

“Hey!” he protests.

I hold out my bowl. “You are free to eat. Go ahead, Panda. Have a dumpling.”

He slowly and carefully steals a piece of broccoli out of my bowl. I feel surprisingly proud of him, a warm rush sneaking over me.

‘Truly you are the dragon warrior,” I clap my hands with only half-faked joy.

“Shut up,” he says, but he can’t hide the fact that he’s glowing with pride.

I decide we should watch Kung Fu Panda to celebrate. I make the popcorn David brought over and we curl up around my phone. David surprises me by knowing most of the good lines. He actually does a passable Jack Black impression.

“We used to watch it a lot, stoned in my hall’s common room at uni,” he admits as we watch the credits sequence. I’m lying on my side and he’s using me as a pillow. I don’t think he’s going home tonight. I run my hand through his hair, carefully avoiding his injury.

“Sooooooo… you remember how I invited you over for a shag…” I let the sentence trail off suggestively.

“Oh my god, Olly! Has today not been exciting enough for you already?” he bitches. “Your last brilliant idea on that front literally landed me in A&E. It’s nearly 1am and my head is killing me. Honestly, I’m surprised that CT scan didn’t show some massive brain tumour that explains why I’m nuts enough to keep hooking up with you.”

“David! Is that any way to thank me for giving you the greatest orgasm of your life today?” I sass through his grumpy old man rant.

I thought it was funny, but he gets very quiet all of a sudden.

“It was, you know.” He shuts his eyes, leans into my hand that’s still in his hair caressing his scalp, and shudders and gasps in the most obvious sex flashback I’ve ever seen. “Fuck. Literal best.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Do I… bow? Or something? I feel toasty and a bit awkward.

“And just think,” I settle on. “There’s still better shit you haven’t tried.”

He hisses again. I think about seeing if I can get him properly horny, but instead, for some reason, I scoot down behind him and wrap my arms around him, and we fall asleep like that.

Chapter Text

“There’s really no delicate way to ask this, so I’m just gonna dive right in – did you take a crap this morning?”

David blushes a fetching shade of beetroot and splays a hand across his face. I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen a human turn this colour before. I wonder if I’ll need to call an ambulance. Again.

“Jesus fuck, Olly,” he says. “Hi. How’s it going.”

I showed up at his place this morning, unannounced, and let myself in to find him splayed out on the couch, watching Withnail & I. He must have just started it; Paul McGann hadn’t even offered Withnail a cup of tea yet, he was still just sitting there, smoking and jittering. I vaulted over the back of the couch, grabbed the remote, hit pause, and here we are.

“Hi.” I grant him. “So, did you?”

David buries his face entirely in his hand, and goes, if anything, redder.

“Mmff,” he says.

“What?”

“Yes, okay? Yes. There, are you happy?”

“Couldn’t be happier,” I feel the smile creep across my face. “I just wanted to check before I made you come so hard you saw God.” I reach down and start unbuckling his belt.

“Fucking hell, Olly, are you seriously just going to jump straight into it?” He’s apparently struggling with the concept, for some reason.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to do small talk first? How about that thing Piers Morgan said, what a tosser. Have you seen the price of eggs? That new Comic Relief bit was a corker!” I’ve got his buckle undone and I start on his jeans. “The tube was so crowded! Kids these days.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls me up and kisses me, his stubble dragging deliciously on my face, his arm snaking around my back, pulling our bodies together. I get a weird rush of happiness. God, this man does things to me.

My plans get a bit derailed as he smooches me lazily, then rolls me over on the couch so he’s pressing me half-underneath him. God, I love having his weight on me. I wriggle deliciously, letting his tongue feel its way into my mouth to tangle with my own.

I make a feeble gesture in the direction of being in charge – I had plans – but he just pushes me back down with one hand with all the effort of someone closing a book, then starts kissing down my neck, pulling the neckline of my T-shirt, then pulling it up so he can lick and tweak my nipples.

God, it’s nice to be spoiled.

I weave my hands into his hair, not directing him, just sending them along for the ride wherever he wants to go. Surprisingly, he ends up kissing his way along my collarbone and down my arm, and then sucks two of my fingers into his mouth as he unzips my jeans.

“Oh, Ffuuuuck, David,” I gasp, as he sucks my index and middle fingers like they’re my cock, running his tongue underneath them and closing his mouth around them tightly, sliding his lips over my knuckles. He’s got one hand in my pants now, and he mirrors the movement of his mouth with the flat of his palm, and it is shockingly hot. I start grinding up against him, pushing my fingers into his mouth, and he moans gently, and oh boy, I am going to have the staying power of a kid left alone with a marshmallow today.

“How are you so fucking good at this, David?” I moan. “I mean, seriously, I’ve shagged a lot of people, and none of them make me feel like I’m getting zapped every time they touch me.”

He ripples gratifyingly under my hands, then starts wrenching off my jeans, which I am eager to assist with, whipping off my T-shirt while I’m at it. God, why do I love it so much when he’s fully clothed and I’m naked?

He takes his time for once, licking me and sucking my balls, which is really fucking nice. I stretch out like a cat, arms above my head, and just let him service me, keeping up a steady stream of filthy compliments about his mouth, his hotness, his general talent and how much I am unable to resist him. He really is spectacular to look at. He hasn’t shaved today, and the little bit of scruff has dialled the Jaime Lannister vibes up to eleven.

“Fuck, yeah, beautiful man, take it all,” I murmur, and he does. My god. He’s got me all the way in his mouth, the head of my dick pushed right up into his throat. I’m no David Nelson, but I’m not small, and oh my god this feels amazing.

I manage not to thrust and also not to scream, but only just. He holds me there for a second or three, then comes off, choking a little, but immediately dives back down for a second go, then another, and another. Holy fucking shit. How the fuck did David learn to deep throat? I’m babbling absolute crap now, about how hot and wet and amazing he feels – and, no word of a lie, that I’m about to come.

He starts wanking me off with one hand and I’m a goner. I come in his mouth, rolling my hips and moaning desperately, my back arching as the pleasure washes through me, from the centre of my body right down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

David slows his roll and then releases me, clambering up to kiss me again. I can taste myself in his mouth, and it’s shockingly hot. Have we never kissed after a blowjob before?

We lie there, lazily making out on the couch while I work up the ability to manipulate the muscles that control my arms and legs again.

“God, I need a vape and a sandwich after that,” I quip.

“What happened to making me come so hard I saw God?” he ribs me.

“You melted me,” I protest. I’m so fucking comfortable right now, with David’s weight on me, his lips on mine.

“You know, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Withnail and I kind of guy,” I say, Paul McGann catching my eye, over where he’s still frozen on the screen. “I’d’ve thought you were more of a Michael Bay, John Wick, Apocalypse Now movie type.”

“What, I’m not allowed to like more than one thing?” David snipes between kisses. “This is literally my favourite movie. It’s fucking hilarious.”

“Actually, on reflection, maybe I’m not surprised that your favourite film is a queer love story between two truly awful toxic homophobic straight boys,” I muse.

David pulls back.

“What are you talking about? They’re literally not gay. Like, half the movie is about how gay they’re not.”

“You sure about that?” I raise an eyebrow. “I mean, you never see them fucking, but if anyone would end up hooking up, off their tits one night, it’s those two. They might be complete sacks of shit, in a relationship so toxic it would need a hazmat suit to clean up, but they clearly can’t live without each other. Half the movie, as you so rightly point out, is about how gay they’re not, and do you know what kind of person obsesses about that the most? And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dumping as brutal and beautiful as the ending of Withnail & I.”

David looks like I’ve suggested the moon landing was faked.

“Maybe you’re right,” I offer. “Maybe I’m talking out my arse. Let’s watch it.”

David unpauses the movie, and I pull my pants and shirt back on and settle in under the blanket, belligerently snuggling into his side.

He starts out laughing and quoting jokes, but after a while, he tails off. By the time Richard E. Grant finishes his ‘Man delights not me’ speech, standing in the rain after Paul McGann – the only person who understood him, the person who intimately shared his strange, broken, rock-bottom chaotic drug-addled existence – has put down the bottle, scraped together a haircut and walked out of his life, David has gone very, very quiet.

I don’t bother rubbing in that unilateral victory; now would not be the time to start poking. Instead, I stretch slightly theatrically.

“How about I make us some lunch?” I suggest. David nods. He stays on the couch while I ferret about in the cupboards and the fridge, pretending to look at his phone, but I can see out of the corner of my eye that he’s not scrolling. I almost feel a bit… bad? Like, I hope I didn’t ruin his favourite movie for him. I’ve really got to learn to stop pointing out uncomfortable truths that can’t be unsaid.

I decide on tacos and get some refried beans warming up. I nuke the tortillas, slice a bunch of assorted green and red things for 〰helth〰 and dish everything up nicely in little bowls on a tray I scrounge from the back of the cupboard, its warm-toned wood declaring it immediately as ‘touched by the hand of Sarah Nelson’. It's all super civilised. I’ve even done a single scoop of sour cream, just for David.

I get a tiny twinge of worry when David doesn’t tell me off for bringing the tray over to his precious sofa, or insist we go and eat at the table. I go back for plates and beers and he just lets me set up on the coffee table. But he perks up a little bit as he watches me carefully placing three jalapeños on each of my tacos.

“Jesus, Olly, they’re not going to kill you,” he says condescendingly, loading them onto his own taco like they’re filler.

“Yes, well, I enjoy spicy food, David, but I don’t need to prove anything,” I say.

“God, you’d do so badly on that show where they eat hot wings,” David scoffs.

“I’d probably also do badly on one of those Japanese game shows where people punch each other in the dick for prizes,” I point out. “I don’t need to dial everything I enjoy up to eleven.”

“Oh, right, so just a little punch in the dick?” David asks, a little smile on his face like he’s won the banter-off. He hasn’t.

“David, if you’re asking whether you can slap my cock around a tiny bit, then the answer is, hmmm, sure, why not, let’s give it a go, shall we?” I give him a long slow wink, then cram the whole end of my folded taco in my mouth and slowly bite it off. David spills the jalapeños. I snort in laughter, which is a mistake, because my mouth is full of taco. This is probably why you’re not supposed to eat on the sofa. I’m glad I didn’t bother putting my jeans back on.

David’s sprung back to his usual self by the time we’ve finished lunch, fussing over my beer being on a coaster.

“I didn’t think you were coming here today. Didn’t you say you had an essay to write?” he asks.

“Ugh. Yeah. Two of them. Bailey's playing Super Meat Boy in the living room at my place. I think he might have been up all night? I couldn’t get anything done with all the yelling and cursing, so I just grabbed my laptop and blew out of there. Was hoping I could hide out and get some work done here.”

“So… instead of getting distracted by your housemate’s gaming, you’re over here getting distracted by movies and blowjobs? Very responsible of you, Olly,” he snorts.

I shrug. “Well, I’m sure giving you the best orgasm of your life will put me in the ideal flow state to knock out this academic opus about Gotham City.”

“About what now?” says David.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve decided I’m going to analyse the Batman franchise as a cultural performance of various theories of criminality and justice, specifically as a tool of law-and-order driven conservative hegemonies to socially construct toxic systems of policing and retributive justice as structures of safety and defence of the common person.”

“Oh my god, Olly, you absolute wanker,” David laughs. “Are you trying to say that… Batman is conservative PR for the cops?”

“Nailed it, David D.” I smile. “What does the D stand for, by the way? Other than the obvious.” I brush my hand up his crotch.

“Dominic. Don’t change the subject. What the fuck is your beef with Batman?”

“I mean… a better question would be, what isn’t my beef with Batman? Guy’s got more money than god, and instead of spending it on fixing up the shambles that is his city and sorting out the crime problem with proven solutions, like education, healthcare, social support, harm reduction, access to abortion, driving down unemployment, campaigning for the legalisation of victimless crimes – nope, dude’s either up in his Wayne Enterprises tower or down in his bajillion-dollar cave, spending his cash on bat-spacecraft and battle tanks and cars that turn into submarines. But those comic books and movies have shaped the last hundred years of how people see criminals, and how people understand justice. They’re part of the reason that every time someone goes off their rocker on a crime spree, everyone wants to bring back the death penalty instead of improving mental health interventions or doing the hard work of behavioural change with high-risk offenders. They’re part of the reason people out there think cops are good guys, fighting faceless morally unambiguous bad guys. They’re the reason Bezos is up in space and those idiots got crushed touristing the Titanic. They all wish they were Batman. He’s the capitalist wet dream. He’s just a normal guy whose only real superpower is having offensive amounts of money.”

“Okay, okay, Jesus, I get it, Batman and everything else I like is cancelled,” David grumps. He’s not laughing at me any more. I think I hit a nerve. Fuck. I’m not doing well with stepping around his fragile masculinity today.

I shrug. “I mean, I’m not trying to ruin the fun – I like explosions and batarangs and grappling hooks as much as the next guy, I never miss a new Batman movie – it’s just, y’know, worth acknowledging that this stuff is about as realistic as most pornography, and, like, kind of serving the same purpose? It’s a fantasy. It’s just that it’s a power fantasy, instead of a sex one.”

“Are you saying I’m getting off on wishing I was Batman?” David asks, clearly unsure whether to be more offended or incredulous.

“Well… aren’t you? Isn’t that the whole point? Wouldn’t it be so cool to just jump off a building and whip out the old bat-wings and hang-glide down onto a roof and sit there brooding over how you’re the only thing standing between the good citizens of Gotham and anarchy?”

David opens his mouth, and shuts it again. Shit. I better change the subject before I accidentally tell him Fight Club is a merciless satire of using toxic masculinity as a desperate way to fill the void of modern consumerist drudgery. I’ve got to leave him something.

“Anyway, enough about power fantasies… first things first, I blow your mind with sex.” I reach for his waistband.

“No you don’t,” he says, scooting out of reach and getting up, picking up my plate and loading the tray to take back to the kitchen. “You’ve got work to do. No more fooling around until after you’ve convinced me that all Gotham needs is a Bat-Guillotine, in 2000 words plus references.”

“UuuuuuuuUUUUUGH,” I moan, flopping back dramatically on the couch. “My own words, used against me. It’s probably not going to be that much fun in reality.”

David pointedly pulls a chair out at the dining table for me.

“You gonna spank me if I don’t do my homework?” I attempt, kneeling up and slapping my boxer-brief clad arse by way of example, but fuck me if he doesn’t just casually walk out of the room. Goddamn. Apparently David Nelson doesn’t just do whatever I want, whenever I want him to.

I eventually shamble up to the chair, dragging my backpack by one strap like a ball and chain, pull out my laptop and start procrastinating. I’m about to start whinging about how I can’t possibly work without snacks, when David materialises beside me with a glass of water and a bowl of the roasted almonds I like, then pulls out my laptop charger and plugs it in for me. A minute or two later, he’s back with a cup of tea – oh my god, he bought almond milk? – and a minute after that, his stereo starts up with rainy day lofi beats.

“How the fuck do you know about lofi beats?” I ask, turning around in amazement to see a cute animation of a Japanese cafe on his TV. “You’re, like, forty-seven?”

He shrugs, ignoring the bait. “YouTube suggested it. It’s really good for working to. I usually put one of these on when I’m working from home.”

A vision of David as the Lofi Beats girl swims unbidden in front of my mind’s eye, doing his finance bro thing in an oversized jumper under an anglepoise with a cat and a pair of oversize headphones, surrounded by cute eclectic junk, hand-writing his stock market picks in a moleskine notebook with a fountain pen.

“You’re full of surprises, David Dominic Nelson,” I say.

“I mean… I’d’ve thought most people were,” he says, settling on the sofa with a book and a mug of hot gravy water.

“No,” I say, opening up my Zotero library and logging into the uni portal. “Most people are pretty much exactly who they appear to be.”

—

It’s about three, maybe four hours later when I finally decide it’ll do.

David spent the afternoon belligerently ignoring every attempt I made to drag him into off-topic conversations, but somehow managed to be a decent sounding board for ideas, even though he didn’t have a clue about half the shit I was talking about. He kept me supplied with snacks and bullied me back inside after a couple of minutes every time I tried to bunk off for an extended vape break. I can’t decide if it was cute or infuriating.

He insists on reading the essay when I’m done.

“I want to see what kind of lefty bullshit I’ve just enabled,” he says, and I crumple up the top sheet of my notebook and throw it at his head. It only misses because he ducks sideways. But I take my laptop over and let him read it, and he eventually declares it ‘fairly well constructed and argued, for ridiculous fun-hating socialist propaganda’, with the air of a king offering a peasant a royal wave and tossing a groat out his carriage window.

I flopped down on the floor and went all dead-starfish while I waited for him to finish reading, but when he delivers his verdict, I pop up again like a fresh piece of toast.

“Soooooo… does this mean you’re ready to come so hard it'll bring tears to your eyes?”

“Fuck, Olly, you're really obsessed with this, aren't you?”

“I mean… didn’t you enjoy last time?”

“Last time, you landed me in A&E, Olly,” he says, drily.

“We’ll keep you well clear of any hard surfaces, flammable objects, teetering stacks of boxes or precariously placed fruitbowls. I reallllllly wanna finger you, David.”

I knee-walk over to the sofa and slot myself between his legs.

“If you’re really not into it, I can just give you an old-fashioned blowjob, but I swear to you, it’s better than ice cream sprinkled with cocaine. If you want, you can imagine I’m Billie Piper, fingering her client in that sexy call girl TV show.”

David rolls his eyes.

“Okay, fine, Billie, do your worst,” he says.

“Really?” I grin.

“Fucking hell, I’m not signing fucking mortgage paperwork, Olly, will you stop triple-checking this shit?”

“Nope,” I say, leaning in and kissing him.

He yields slowly under my onslaught, sliding slowly down the seat back as I press my lips on his, licking his mouth open and running my hands all over him. It’s all I can do not to bounce up and down with excitement.

I finally get his belt and jeans undone, six hours after I started this mission, and haul them off, yeeting them somewhere in the general direction of the fireplace. I manage to collar my own jeans from where they ended up, under the coffee table, and sneak out my travel tin, plus a new addition: a little promotional travel-sized bottle of lube. The sachets just aren’t cutting it any more. I mentally extrapolate to a hypothetical day, some time in the future, where I go everywhere with a two-litre bottle of the stuff wedged into my back pocket.

I get onto my knees between his legs, pushing them apart to make room, and hook his feet up onto the coffee table either side of me. Then I unceremoniously faceplant on his dick, where it’s still encased in the cotton of his pants, mouthing down his length as I very slowly drag the elastic waistband after me, unveiling the Nelson Space Program’s flagship rocket. First I lick my way up, right from fins to payload. Then I get right on the nose cone and slide my mouth over it, running my tongue bar under his frenulum and adding a hand for good measure.

I never get sick of watching David's eyes roll back in his head.

He moans filthily as I go to town on his dick, his arms stretched out on the back of the couch. I devote a few minutes to getting him properly worked up, pulling out all my favourite tricks: sucking hard with tongue, gently teasing his slit, choking his dick under the head the way he loves while mouthing his glans and licking all the way down to his balls.

Then I put a glove on, add some lube, and very gently, start adding some fingers to the mix.

I start with his balls and taint, given how much he liked that last time. He jerks with the cold, but I work him through it, and then he relaxes and starts moaning as he lets my slick fingers massage him.

Slowly, I work my way south, pulling his arse towards me to keep the lube off the sofa cushions, rubbing his taint up and down as I suck him and work him with my other hand. It’s just as rewarding as it was in the shower: he’s twitching and moaning deliciously. God, I love how sensitive he is. It kind of feels like cheating.

Then, carefully, delicately, I run my middle finger around his little pucker, and he moans like the Canterville Ghost. My slick finger rubs him, like it's a little pink clit, which I suppose for all intents and purposes, it is. He's fucking up into my mouth in tiny little thrusts, like he can't control it, and every thrust brings his arsehole a little closer to breaching.

I pop off his dick.

“So… just checking in to see if you’re still up for being fingered… any thoughts about that catastrophic prostate orgasm?” I enquire politely.

“Fuck, Olly,” he groans.

“Hmmm, okay, fair, I'll just carry on like this, then.” I resume my ministrations, putting my mouth back on his cock, gently pressing his hole without pushing in.

“Maybe… maybe you can put it in just a tiny bit?” he grates out.

I grin as widely as his fat cock will let me.

Gently, gently, I slide just the very tip of my middle finger into that tight little ring. David stops breathing. I gently press sideways against his sphincter, rubbing him in a way that sends him rigid with pleasure, his cock coming up into my mouth hard, then down onto my finger even harder. He's writhing like a fish on a hook, and I have to stay on the ball to make sure I don't slip in further.

“More,” he gasps.

“You sure?” I pop off to ask. He gives a frustrated groan.

“Yes! Do your thing! Whatever you're going to do, do it, for fuck’s sake!”

I smile up at him.

“Welcome to your new favourite thing,” I purr. Then I glom back on his dick.

Slowly and carefully, I start to push back into his hole, licking his underside as I do. I start the world's tiniest finger-fuck, pushing in and out microscopically. Just as I'd hoped, he gasps out the breath he'd been holding and relaxes, wriggling and thrusting into my mouth.

Letting his own body do the work, I hold my finger still and he grinds down on me in between thrusts, until I'm in to the first knuckle, then the second. Oh my god, I'm inside David Nelson's tight little arse. After a moment, I start a very gentle slide in and out. I can feel my own cock jumping in yapping anticipation, like a Pomeranian after a treat. You're next, little buddy, I whisper to it internally. For now, just enjoy the show.

He flops back on the couch, his head rolling, toes curling on the coffee table either side of me, as he gasps in breath after breath, holds them, and then moans them out again. Oh, David Nelson, you are a treat.

I spare the hand I was using to stroke the base of his dick and redeploy it to my own. After a moment, David opens his eyes and looks down to see where it's gone, to find me stroking myself frantically.

“Oh, fuck, Olly, you hot little bitch,” he gasps.

“Can't help it,” I say between licks. “You are so catastrophically sexy right now. I feel like I could come just from watching you.”

I have to make a major effort of will to stay on target here: to make David come so hard that he knocks a hole in his apartment ceiling. I crook my finger towards my face and carefully feel about in the general direction of the back of his ballsack, until I find the gilded treasure of this quest: the soft, spongy mass that is David's prostate. Then I run my finger around it in a leisurely circle.

His reaction is everything I could ever have dreamed about and more. He yells and bucks underneath me like I’ve shoved a chilli up his arse. I leave off it for a second, then I look up at David, his dick still in my mouth, and stare at him until his eyes open up again and he looks down at me. Then, my eyes locked on his, I very deliberately start rubbing it again.

“Holy fucking christ almighty,” he all but screams. How quaint, I think. David’s religious after all. He’s doing these plaintive high moans and gasping and shuddering all over the place, and I’m betting he’s not going to last thirty seconds.

He’s alternately fucking himself up into my mouth and down onto my finger. He’s got both hands in my hair and is kind of choking me on his dick on the upswing, which I’m quite enjoying. I shift the finger inside him from a circular rub to more of a fucking motion, pushing repeatedly, and he rewards me with more frantic moaning and grinding.

“Oh, fuck, Olly, fuck, I— I can’t— Ohhhhhh,” he informs me. I don’t let up, and about thirty-five seconds later, his whole body starts shuddering and shaking. The moans are coming thick and fast. I shove my mouth down on his dick repeatedly, frantically working my cock with one hand and fucking his tight little arse with the other, and he comes. And comes. And comes. After a few spurts I have to pop off, replacing my mouth with my wanking hand, and he just keeps coming, convulsing, his legs jerking. I kneel up and manage to lean over my arm to put my cock on his, still fucking him with my finger below, wrapping my other hand around as much of us both as I can manage, and blow my load after barely three strokes, while his toes are still curled up over my shoulders.

I work us both until we’ve both finally stopped twitching with pleasure and drifted into twitching from overstimulation, and then I slowly and carefully pull out and de-glove myself.

Between the jalapeño juice and the jizz, David’s T-shirt is an absolute ruin, as is my hand around our cocks. Heh. Finally. I mentally put a diagonal line through the four strokes representing David’s destroyed shirts in my mind. Actually, it reminds me a little of the first time we hooked up, but there’s no hand-dryer here. In the end, I just peel the come-soaked cotton off his unprotesting form and use it to wipe us both off.

David’s still gasping for air a little bit, his breath slowing down as he lies boneless on the sofa. I flop over next to him, my legs flung over his.

“Thought you might like that,” I purr, running my hand down his flank and leg, then securing it across his chest as I nuzzle my face into the crook of David’s neck. “Fuck, David, watching you come that hard might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen two girls tribbing on a double dildo while one of them squeezed the other one’s tits.”

He doesn’t answer, or even react. I look up.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask him. He still doesn’t answer. I pull back to look at him properly, and realise he’s got tears running down from the corners of his eyes. Holy fuck. I was just joking about making him come so hard it brought tears to his eyes. I lean up and kiss the ones on my side away.

“I’ll take that as a compliment to the chef, huh?” I joke, but he’s not picking up what I’m putting down. Suddenly, he springs to his feet, and strides off to the bathroom, wiping his face, and a minute later, I hear the shower go on.

When he comes back out, he’s dressed in grey joggers and the stretched-out Offspring T-shirt he sometimes sleeps in.

“I think I’ve got a migraine or something,” he says. “My head is killing me all of a sudden.”

Obvious lie, he's clearly freaking out, but I have a feeling bullying him into talking is going to be counter-productive. If he needs a bit of alone time, he needs a bit of alone time. I get that.

“Yeah, okay, as long as I didn’t rupture a blood vessel in your brain from making you come too hard,” I quip. He’s still not laughing. “I don’t think I could stand another stint in the A&E waiting room.” Nothing. “You need me to tuck you into bed with an Advil?”

“No… I think I just need to go to sleep,” he says.

I gather up my stuff and put my backpack and coat and boots on, then very deliberately, walk over to where he’s standing, take his face in both hands and kiss him. He doesn’t respond much, just kind of stands there and takes it.

“I had a really great time today, David. Thanks for helping me with my essay. I really appreciate it, and you,” I tell him.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says.

“See ya,” I say. “Hope you feel better soon.”

“Yeah,” he says, as I see myself out.

Chapter Text

David hasn’t been answering any of my texts for two weeks. He didn’t answer the one I sent after I got home from his place, subtly checking in. I gave him some space. But then I texted him last Friday for our usual weekend hookup, and nothing. Not a twitch on the line when I snapchatted him a picture of my hand around my dick – he didn’t open it. He didn’t even nibble when I started sending him a constant stream of Minion memes.

It’s making me very, very antsy, and I don’t like it. I’ve given him plenty of space. I’m cursing myself for letting him realise he had his Snap Maps location on.

I’d have just gone over there, but I still had my second essay to finish – this stupid farce on biosocial criminology that I totally phoned in – and then after I handed it in, Dr Edwards basically threw it back in my face and gave me five days to re-write it. “Your work is generally better than this, Oliver, blah blah blah yerk yerk yerk,” he told me. As if we have anything still to learn from death masks and YYY chromosomes and Lombroso. I got a bit savage in my re-write – explained in detail why Elon Musk had a ‘criminal cast to his features’ – but apparently that did the trick, because he gave me an H1. Nice, I suppose, but the whole artificial sense of urgency didn’t help the anxiety much.

By halfway through the second Friday night of radio silence from David, no answer to my ‘Are you alive dickhead’ text, and trying to convince myself this feeling isn’t worry, I decide I’ve had enough of his David Nelson bullshit, so around 8:30pm, I show up at his place. Either way, the fridge is empty at home, and maybe I can finally force him to watch Schitt’s Creek like I’ve been planning.

He isn’t home.

He’s always home by 8pm on a Friday night, even on nights he goes out for work drinks, because of footy in the morning. It’s one of his less, and also more, endearing qualities.

Where the fuck is he? Should I be worried? He hasn’t messaged me in weeks, but it looks like he’s been here; there’s half a butter chicken in the fridge.

I raid his cupboards. It’s not inspirational, but I manage to find a jar of pesto and make myself some pasta. Then I buy Sky: Children of the Light on his PS4 account and play that for a bit. I go through half a grape vape. He’s still not back. It’s been hourssss. I belligerently raid his expensive whisky.

I should get out of here and go to the house party Bails and Osc went to, even if it is being thrown by that one chick who dropped an ice cube down my back one time and thought it was cute. But I’m in fucking Bromley and it’s ages away. Maybe David’s out with his coworkers and couldn’t leave for some reason? Friday after-work drinks ran late? Or there’s no match tomorrow? That could be a thing, right? Or, like… a birthday? I don’t know why I’m thinking about this so much. I should just steal his posh eggs again and leave. It’s not like we’re officially dating or anything. I wonder if I should message Sarah. How long are you supposed to wait before you report someone missing?

God, what if the butter chicken is really old? I’m not tasting it to check. I wander into his ensuite, and, thank fuck, the shower floor is still damp. He’s been here, today. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or furious, or just horny. On the way out, I wonder if I should take off all my clothes, get lubed up and sprawl on his bed. Instead, I push the ping-pong table up against the wall and play a few rounds. The wall’s not a bad opponent; it never misses a shot, and sometimes gets quite creative on the rebound.

I’m still playing ping-pong when the door finally opens. From where I’m standing, I get a nice view of David staggering in, followed by a blond girl in a bandage dress. She wobbles on her high heels, giggles, and staggers into David, who catches her and shoves his tongue down her throat, then closes the door. She grabs his shirt and wobbles back the other way, into the door, pulling him down with her.

The ping-pong ball I didn’t hit has bounced off somewhere on David’s hardwood floors; I can hear it in the last jittering throes of its journey somewhere. I find myself flipping the bat over and over in my hand.

“Well hi there, David, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” I ask.

David all but drops the girl, who turns around in surprise. I give her my widest, cheekiest smile. “Hi. I’m Olly.”

She’s obviously confused, but my smile is hard to resist, even if it could be more genuine right now. She smiles back and wobbles some more. “Hi!” she bubbles. “I’m Melinda! I didn’t know you had a roommate, David!”

“I don’t,” David says. “What the fuck are you doing here, Olly?” He’s drunk too, but not quite as drunk as she is.

I hold up the paddle and give it a little flip. “Playing ping-pong, obviously, David. Do you play, Melinda? I’ve just been playing on my own, but it’s always more fun to play with someone else.” I add just a tiny dash of sauce, just enough that her clearly sloshed brain isn’t quite sure if it’s a come-on.

“Olly, this isn’t your fucking hotel suite with room service. You can’t just show up here whenever you feel like it,” David says.

“Just when you feel like it, huh, David?” I say prettily, then laugh like I’ve told a funny joke. I pull the ping-pong table back out from the wall and grab another bat and ball. “Melinda, don’t leave me hanging, kick off those shoes and let’s see what you can do.”

Melinda pauses for a moment, swaying. Then I see the moment when she decides I’m fun. She kicks off her stilettos with obvious relief and runs over.

“Olly,” David says, in what I think might be meant to be a warning tone.

“Oh, do you want one too, David? You playing? Which team do you want to bat for? There’s three of us, so you’ll have to pick a side!” I pick up a third bat and throw it directly at his face, hard. He manages to catch it. Melinda claps in delight at his reflexes.

I’m acting like a petulant child and I do not care. At all. We never discussed being exclusive. We never discussed being anything. But somehow that’s making me angrier. How dare he ghost me. How dare he make me worry about him for two fucking weeks. He at least has the good grace to blush and avoid my eyes.

“You need to give me back Mum’s apartment fob, Olly. You can’t just show up here.” he says.

Luckily, Melinda’s still facing David, so she doesn’t see me flinch like I’ve been kicked in the solar plexus.

“Right,” I gasp. My eyes have gone blurry. So this is a thing that’s happening, then. Two weeks ago he was screaming my name as I made him come so hard he wept, and now we’re… here.

It takes me a second to find the ground again. Memo received, David Nelson. I grab Melinda’s hand.

“Melinda, my darling, can I ask you a question, and please answer me honestly, because this is important.” I drag her into the kitchen and open the cupboard. “Are these, or are these not, the absolute worst fucking plates you’ve ever seen in your life?” I pull out one of David’s charcoal plates and lean in with pure camp conspiracy on my face.

I very much doubt Melinda has any strong feelings about the plates, but she can’t resist the mean-girl urge to bond through shared mockery, so she giggles and nods enthusiastically.

“Oh my god, so bad!” she chirps.

“Right?” I enthuse. “Every time I come here, I think to myself, ‘God, I’d be doing David such a favour if I just, like, accidentally smashed these plates.’”

She giggles like I’m so norrrty. I look theatrically around like I’m checking for teachers, give her a conspiratorial wink, say ‘Whoops!’, put one hand to my mouth and let go of the plate. It hits the floor and breaks into three satisfying chunks.

She and I burst into laughter.

“Here, you do one,” I pull us out another plate each, and give one to her. “Three, two, one—"

We both drop our plates and laugh some more.

“Can you please stop it?” David clearly doesn’t know how to stop us without upsetting Melinda, and has, for some fucking reason, fallen back on astonishing politeness.

“Hush, David, we’re improving your decor,” I wave him off, handing Melinda another plate and dropping one myself. She follows suit. “Oh no, my hand slipped!” I giggle with her.

“Seriously, can you fucking stop it, Olly? This is so fucking immature.”

“Still more mature than ghosting someone like a fourteen-year-old, though, isn’t it?” I giggle to Melinda.

I reach over to the benchtop, to where the plate I ate my pasta on earlier is still sitting.

“Just one more, David,” I look him in the eyes, all traces of the giggles gone. “And then we’re done.” Then I push it off onto the floor.

There’s a moment of silence after that.

Melinda and I are standing, both of us barefoot, surrounded by the shards of David’s plates and whatever he and I used to be.

“Whoops, I didn’t think of an exit strategy,” I laugh. “Come on, hop up,” I lift her up onto the kitchen island, letting my hands linger on her waist. If she noticed the tension between David and I, she’s forgotten already. She’s wrapped her arms around my neck. I let the suspense build, then lean in ever-so-slightly, letting my eyes drift half-closed. Her lips part and she’s got her eyes fixed on mine. Then I jump up beside her and look David dead in the eye, to make sure he knows I could walk out of here with his date if I wanted to. He looks… terrified. Fuck him.

“Come on, Melsy, up and over!” I encourage her, swinging my legs over the kitchen island. She’s still confused as fuck, but she follows me and I pick her up and help her off the bench. Then I put my arm around her waist and drape hers over my shoulder and walk to the front door. I let her go while I step into my boots and shrug on my coat.

David’s sort of half-followed us over, but he clearly doesn’t want to get too close to me, the fucking coward. He has this weird look like he’s almost pleading with me, but I’m fucked if I’m about to give him a patient, kind, hand-holding lesson in dumping me.

I pull out my keys and twist David’s apartment fob off my keyring. Then I toss it over my shoulder. I think it lands somewhere in the mess of smashed plates, but I don’t look around to check.

“Olly, wait,” he says.

“Wait for what, David?” I grit through a rictus of a smile. “Five minutes? You to come to your senses? The heat death of the fucking universe?”

“Olly, please, I didn’t mean it like that,” he stutters.

“Didn’t you? Please. Fucking enlighten me. How did you mean ghosting me for two fucking weeks, after the first time we— and then coming home with a—" I pause and look at Melinda, who is finally starting to realise she is knee-deep in someone else’s shitshow – “very nice young lady like Melinda?”

“I—" David starts, but then doesn’t say anything else, just stands there staring at me, gaping like a fish.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” I spit. “Good luck finding your way to being a better person, David Nelson. Maybe that’s on me, huh? I mean, I suppose if I’d ever really cared about you, maybe you’d have had a real reason to try.”

I grab my backpack off the hook and open the door.

“Melinda, it was lovely meeting you,” I say, desperately trying not to cry. “Bye, David. And get absolutely fucked.” I say, and walk out, closing the door behind me.

I make it about five houses up before I end up in someone’s shrubbery, weeping uncontrollably in the freezing fucking cold like a fucking idiot.

Chapter Text

By the time I get home, I’m a bit less of a mess. Two old ladies and a teenager stopped me on the tube to ask if I was okay. All three were outraged by David’s behaviour.

“He doesn’t deserve you, pet,” says one of the old ladies.

“Closet cases can get fucked,” says the teen. “Like, fucking own your own shit.”

“Harriet! Language!” says the other old lady. “But Harry’s right, he can get fucked.”

“And that poor girl, ending up right in the middle of it!” the first lady clucks.

“I hope she’s okay,” I mutter. I feel a little bit guilty about Melinda. Maybe I should’ve got her number.

“That bit with the plates was legendary, though,” Harry affirms.

By the time they get off at Herne Hill, we’re fast friends and Madge and Tilda have booked me for one of their regular afternoon tea outings.

At home, no-one else is back. I haul my duvet out of my room, wrap myself up like a big squishy slug, and watch Schitt’s Creek and cry until I pass out.

—

Osc wakes me up with a cheese toastie and a cup of tea the next day. I must look like an absolute mess, because my face hurts and my head hurts even more.

“Can’t help but notice you’re… here,” he says. “Haven’t seen you here on a Friday night for quite a while.”

“Yeah, well, consider my dance card cleared for Friday nights,” I tell him.

Oscar doesn’t say anything, just slides down on the sofa next to me, and wriggles under the duvet.

“Want to watch Bee Movie?” he asks.

“…no…” I admit.

“Oh, Oll,” he puts his head on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well… Surprise, surprise. It turns out, you can’t change people.” I bury my face in his hair.

—

I cannot believe I have to see David fucking D. Nelson at my own goddamn family Christmas. Doesn’t he have a fucking full moon party to be at, drinking rubbing alcohol on some Thai beach, and winding up on the evening news after he nearly dies jumping off a waterfall? Nope. Apparently that level of decency is beyond him.

Instead, he’s joining the apparently-now-inextricably-combined Spring-Nelson Christmas. Mum, like some kind of deranged masochist, has yet again convinced herself she loves hosting, driving blindly at ninety miles per hour past every reflective road sign reading ‘STOP, GO BACK, YOU HATE IT, JANE’ in order to get in early at the 15% Off All Linen and Tableware Sale at Lakeland. I sometimes think Mum’s happy place is just a beautifully set table with no people at it.

To add an extra layer of chaos, Abuela and Abuelo are coming. And apparently, just because we hate ourselves, we’re also wheeling Nanna Driscoll out of the retirement home, where her homophobic, xenophobic arse should really moulder, eating dry turkey and playing bingo and listening to sermons on tape, until they play the last trumpet and she’s shocked to find herself escorted directly downwards into a nice, relaxing bath of molten brimstone.

Okay, so maybe I’m a little less my usual easy-going self this year. It’s a little harder to dance my way through the drama, when all I want to do is curl up with a tub of ice cream and maybe set something on fire.

I’m the first to arrive, probably because I’m the only one who can stand more than four hours in Mum and Dad’s company in the run-up to Christmas lunch. Dad picks me up from the train station in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, and I manage to invest some quality minutes ‘helping’ Mum with her last-minute shopping list, which just consists of trailing around after her writing down whatever she says.

Billy Leong invited me down to the Elephant and Castle for Christmas Eve, and I’m excited to see him. Unfortunately, everyone else and his dog has apparently had the same idea.

“Maybe we should just swing by the off-license and fuck off back to yours,” I suggest glumly, surveying the crowd.

Billy shakes his head. “No can do, Olly, Mum’s got the brooms out and is cleaning the house top to bottom for New Year’s. What about yours?”

I sigh. “Mum’s got twelve people coming for lunch tomorrow, my place is a carousel of horrors. I only just avoided getting sucked into the second circle of hell along with Dad, who’s currently folding napkins into seashells.”

It’s sleeting down, so we can’t even brave the outside tables. I sigh.

“If you get me a gin and tonic, I’ll go charm the shit out of someone and get them to let us share their table.”

The pickings are slim. Most of the tables are full or overcrowded, and the bar is thick with leaners. I’ve got it narrowed down to an older couple, who’d have to move to let us join them as they’re sitting opposite each other at a four-top, and a small high-top with one dude who we could maybe chat up if he’s not waiting for anyone, when a large booth all start standing up and finding their coats.

Smooth as silk, I slide up and ask them if they’re leaving. They are. With many festive wishes of joy and season’s whatevers, I slide in behind them and stretch my long legs out across the expanse of U-shaped bench seat. Billy comes back with two G&Ts, and is suitably impressed.

We’ve been catching up for a while – Billy’s studying public health at Kent – when someone comes up to our booth.

“Oh, hey, Billy!” he says. It’s a guy with dark brown hair, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties? Straight-edge but cute with it. “How’s it going?”

“Tom! Hey! What are you doing here?”

“Just here to meet some mates for a drink,” Tom says.

“This is my friend Olly,” Billy gestures and I wave noncommittally.

“Actually, you wouldn’t mind sharing by any chance, would you? This place is fucking chock-a-block,” Tom says. Billy makes a vague hand movement that I suppose could be interpreted as assent, and Tom immediately slides right on in next to him. He holds out a hand for me to shake, and when I take it, crushes my hand unnecessarily.

“Tom Petrie,” he says, like we’re at a business networking event. “Billy and I coach summer footy intensives together at Truham.”

“Oh?” I ask, already bored. “You’re a Truham lad, then?”

Tom nods. Billy’s got a bit of an odd look on his face, but that could just be because some random bozo has invited himself to our little queer catch-up.

“Well, Tom, how about you make up for gratuitously crashing our private party by buying us another round?” I suggest.

“Oh, right, sure, what are you drinking?”

“Four Pillars and tonic with lime,” I say promptly. “Make them doubles for us, Thomas, would you, love? Tall glasses. Straws, if they’ve got paper ones.”

Tom slides out of the booth and I try to pick up where we left off – Billy had been halfway through a promising story about his housemate’s weed dealer’s run-in with a yuppy coke-chasing prick – but Billy seems like his heart isn’t in it any more, and he’s looking odder and odder with every passing second.

“What’s up, babe?” I eventually slide a hand over his, where it’s sitting on the table.

“That guy who just showed up? That’s the guy I’ve been hooking up with,” he blurts. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see him here. I don’t know what he’s doing. We don’t have that kind of— this is so weird, I’m sorry.”

“Billy! You stud!” I whack him on the forearm. “Any paramour of yours is a paramour of mine. Well, indirectly. Actually that’s creepy, I rescind that remark. Good for you! I can’t wait to grill him.”

“Shit! You can’t! Fuck. He’s not out. Fuck, I just outed him to you. Oh god, Olly, you can’t say anything. Please, Olly, you can’t say anything!”

I feel a chill crawl across my skin. But surely there are loads of Toms about that age who went to Truham.

“How old did you say he is? Exactly?” I ask urgently, but before Billy can answer, his eyes slide sideways and Tom reappears with our two drinks and a pint, and slides them all down on the table.

“There you go, lads, and these are my mates, Rory, Biggsy and—"

“David Nelson,” I finish for him. There have probably been icebergs colder than me right now, but I don’t imagine many.

“You two know each other?” Tom asks, surprised.

“David’s brother is married to my brother,” I say, very crisply. “A big, gay marriage. With two men. Mind you, David’s brother isn’t gay. He’s bisexual. Like me. And Billy here.” I pick up the G&T and take a long and slightly gratuitous suck through the straw, then shuffle over in the booth. “Well, come on, what are you waiting for? Squeeze on in, lads!”

Billy’s giving me some weapons-grade side-eye right now – he knows I’m up to something, but not what – but I ignore him. I’m too angry.

The other two look varying levels of affronted and confused, but the pub really is rammed and Tom’s already sitting down. David tries to get in next to me, the fucker, but he’s stuck behind the other two, and one of them – Rory, I think – slides in beside me first.

The other one sits next to Tom, and immediately lives up to his stupid name. “So you’re gay then? Are you two on a date or something?” he mocks, like we’re all thirteen and he’s going to chuck a tangelo at me.

“Biiiiiiiisexualllllll,” I drawl, pulling my fingers out on an imaginary line. “And no – Bucketsy, was it? – not every bisexual person is automatically fucking every other bisexual person in their line of sight.” Though, actually, come to think of it, probably two thirds of the people at this table are bisexuals who’ve fucked each other, so there’s that.

The guy looks at his mate, then David, like he’s doing a bit, and laughs again. “Dude. If you’re gonna be gay, just say you’re gay.”

“I don’t know, Boxxy, if you only ever fuck, let’s say, for example, your own right hand, does that mean you’re not into girls?” I lift my glass without looking and Billy clinks it, also without looking. I then turn very squarely away from him and delete his existence from my mind.

“So Tom, what’s your thing? Is it just footy or do you have a secret hobby?”

“Uhhh…” Tom is clearly undergoing some kind of internal schism. “I’m a conveyancing solicitor, I mostly work in—"

I wave my hand to cut him off. “As wildly exciting as conveyancing is, Tom, I’m more interested in what makes you tick. What do you do for fun? What books do you read? What movies do you like? Have you ever broken in anywhere?”

“Well, I liked the Batman movies,” Tom all but stutters, then trails off.

“Actually, Tom and I once broke into that abandoned brewery out past Sittingbourne,” David pipes up from the end. “We got out on the roof and got stoned and Tom nearly broke his ankle getting down. It was twisted and I pretty much had to carry him out.”

“You never!” Rory crows. Tom is giving David a look like he doesn’t know whether to thank him or strangle him.

“That was brave of you, David,” I say, sweet and vicious. “And so dashing.”

“When was this?” Rory demands. “Where was I?”

“Year 13, I think?” Tom picks it up. “And I don’t know where you were, Rory, probably drooling down Rebecca di Milio’s top, if I remember anything about Year 13?” They all laugh like that’s a funny funny joke, and start reminiscing about her boobs. Apparently, they were large.

I turn to Billy. “Anyway, where were we before this flock of red-crested uber-lads descended on us? Oh, right. I was telling you about that closet case I was seeing.”

Billy gives me his full and instant attention, putting his chin in his hand and vacuuming his straw between his teeth. I hadn’t been telling him about the closet case I’d been seeing.

I don’t even need to turn my head to feel David freeze.

“Absolutely spectacular dick. Like—” I karate-chop both my hands on the table a bâtard apart. “And practically a Coke can around. The sex was phenomenal. It was like getting railed by a pneumatic drill. And he gave the best head.”

David’s not the only one who’s fallen silent. Tom and Rory are both staring at me.

A voice from nowhere says, “Fucking Christ, dude, can you not? I don’t wanna hear about your disgusting gay sex,” but it’s probably some kind of haunting because I can’t see where it’s coming from.

“Like, he’d just jump on me and slide right down to the hilt, no prompting,” I continue. More grossed out noises come from nowhere. “And he was so pretty – you know that type who looks stunning clean-shaven, but then they grow a weekend’s worth of stubble and you’re like, take me now, right here on this rough-hewn kitchen table, you wild man.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” says the disembodied voice, but none of the others react. “I’m going to get snacks,” it adds, like anyone cares.

“But he was a hot fucking mess, Billy,” I tap my thumbs on the table. “Hated himself, hated everyone around him. Spent all his time shitting himself that ‘people’ would find out. That his worthless mates would get a whiff of his queerness and freak out and hate him. Mates just like whoever the fuck it was that was making that weird buzzing noise just now.” I wave in the direction of Bucklesy’s empty seat.

I want to put the boot in harder, but I am aware that I am talking very directly to at least three people at this table, and judging by Rory’s shifty fuckin’ eyes right now, maybe four.

“Anyway, it ended badly. He ghosted me, and then when I went to demand answers, I sprung him hooking up with a drunk chick and he dumped me. It was a three-ring clusterfuck. I’m sure there are decent, nice closeted guys out there somewhere – like, I don’t know, lovely guys from strict religious families? – but speaking for myself, I’m hard never hooking up with a closet case again. I have zero interest in soaking up that much of anyone else’s damage.”

For a solid ten seconds, everyone at the table is silent, stark against the backdrop of the pub’s hearty rumble of conversation.

“Do you think he meant it?” comes, shockingly, David’s voice from the end of the bench seat. “Because he’d have to be pretty fucking stupid to do something like that.”

Tom’s eyes shoot to David like magnets snapping together, widening slightly, and I literally watch the penny drop. Billy clocks that little moment, too; he isn’t a hundred percent sure what he just saw, though, because his eyes flick back to me questioningly. I purse my lips in the tiniest gesture of confirmation. Yep. I’m talking about David.

“Yeah, what an arsehole,” Rory says, utterly oblivious to the whole second and third conversations underway at this table.

“Right? Thank you, Rory.” I say, idly drawing three sides of a square in the condensation on my glass where Billy can see it, then very slowly and obviously drawing in the last side. Billy’s eyes widen even further, and his eyes flick to Tom and David and back. Pennies are dropping all over the fucking place tonight.

“I don’t think it matters if he meant it or not. He still did it. There’s a beautiful little saying: ‘When people show you who they are, believe them’.”

I don’t even look at David in my peripheral vision. I’m a fucking candidate for sainthood right now.

Bexxy the Lonely Ghost arrives back into the long silence that follows that mic drop, with four packets of crisps.

“Are you bunch of faggots still talking about buttfucking?” he says, like he’s expecting a round of whoops and a canned laugh track. David and Tom both hide their flinches fairly well. Billy and I don’t bother flinching. We were openly dating in high school; we’ve heard everything there is to hear.

Rory buries his face in a hand. “Fucks sake, Biggsy, can you stop being a five-star raging cunt for like, ten whole seconds?”

“I like this one, Tom,” I hook a thumb at Rory. “Keep this one.”

I decide I’ve had enough. “Bilhelmina, my love, I’m heading out. Long day tomorrow. Text me later.” I kiss him on both cheeks, letting my lips linger a bit longer than is strictly warranted. “No, don’t get up,” I say to Rory, who is starting to shift over to let me out.

I lever myself up and onto the flat bit dividing the booths, and slither neatly out into the pub. Bogus is still standing there with an armful of crisps, and I’m pleased to discover I’m at least four inches taller. I make a kissy face down at him and he flinches back like I’m serious, makes a disgusted noise, and drops his crisp packets everywhere.

“Oh, that’s right, you weren’t here for the part where I said I’m never fucking a closet case again,” I smirk. “Don’t ever change, Ballsack. And by that, I mean, continue on your dead-cert trajectory to dying alone, face-down in a high-protein microwave meal for one.”

I turn back to the table. “Rory, Tom, it was lovely to meet you. Have a lovely Christmas.” Then I turn the full force of my glare on David, who I’m right next to for the first time tonight. God, he looks good. And… like absolute fucking hot-roasted garbage. Bags under his eyes, hair a mess, stubble. Goddamn it. Even when he looks bad, he still looks good. Absolutely fuck him.

“David,” I say, in that Mr Darcy voice that means, You certainly exist, and I am acknowledging that fact, and that’s all I’m obliged to do.

“Olly – I’ll – see you at Christmas lunch tomorrow?” he manages.

“Unless a satellite falls out of orbit and crushes us all,” I reply. “We can only hope.”

I turn and walk out without another word, and spend five quality minutes in the freezing beer garden, vaping and trying not to hyperventilate.

Chapter Text

I wake up with a ball of lead in my chest, in my childhood bedroom, on Christmas morning. Neither Charlie nor Tori slept here last night, which is bad, because I’d really like to go and cheer myself up by waking them up by bouncing on their beds. It was always fun when I was little, but if anything, it got funnier when I hit six foot in year 9. But Nick and Charlie are staying at River Crescent this year, and these days, Tori couldn’t be convinced to sleep in this house if zombies attacked, and 3 Brittania Rd, Rochester was the last safe place on earth.

I take a deep breath, gird my loins and head downstairs at nine to help Dad with the non-meaty bits of lunch. He’s gotten me a mini vege-roast, which is sweet. Normally, I’m used to just existing on roast potatoes, breadsauce and Bisto onion gravy at these things. Things are hectic in the kitchen, so I retire with a chopping board to the conservatory. It’s quite nice. As long as I look like I’m doing something, Mum can’t load me up with more tasks, and if I’m going at a leisurely one carrot per minute, she doesn’t need to know. Dad is just pathetically grateful every time a plate of cut vegetables appears. I will honestly never understand how a man who knows how to make paella and flan and tortilla can make brain surgery out of a roast, but there it is.

Charlie and Nick show up at twelve thirty, just in time for Abuelo and Abuela to arrive in a hail of kisses, pinched cheeks and tightly-gripped upper arms. Then Tori and Michael arrive, with Nanna Driscoll, in a wheelchair accessible taxi. Between them, Nick and Michael manage to get her chair up the couple of steps into the house. Sarah arrives last, towing three things: another perfect tarte tatin, a bag of presents, and David fucking Nelson.

—

Dad’s running late with lunch, so Mum decides to completely fuck with the natural order of things, and makes us open presents first. It’s chaos.

Everyone knows I’m a broke student, so nobody really minds that all my presents are half-arsed bits from the charity shop. Mum gets a fancy table runner/table mat set I salvaged out of the Sunday night junkdrift outside the British Heart Foundation, and a thing of her favourite hand cream. Sarah gets loot from the same mission: a giant swirly glass soup-tureen-slash-salad-bowl that I suspect is actually worth a fair bit, but that someone would inevitably have kicked into a wall if I’d left it there, so I don’t feel too bad about stiffing BHF. Tori gets a USB drive of movies I stole off the internet and a black woolly scarf with a purple stripe. Michael gets rainbow toe socks, and is ridiculously excited about them, putting them on immediately. Charlie gets a curated Spotify playlist and a cool jumper. Nick gets one of those gadgets that turns vegetables into spirals, and a voucher for me to come hang out with his class and teach them Shakespearean insults. Dad gets a collection of dog-eared literature, also courtesy of British Heart Foundation, though these ones were acquired legitimately by means of exchange of currency. Abuelo and Abuela get fancy chocolates and a screenshot of my booked ticket to come visit in summer, and Nanna Driscoll gets the same choccies and a ceramic Virgin Mary, which she is so weepingly pleased by that I start to suspect she might be taking the piss. I suppose that’s only reasonable, since I bought it to take the piss.

I leave David’s present under the tree for him to retrieve himself. When he picks it up, I suddenly find myself suuuuuper interested in the new pair of Converses Charlie’s just opened from Mum.

I didn’t bother to wrap it, just threw it in a thrice-reused gift bag and crossed Bailey’s name off the tag, but given I had to go and print it at uni, I’m considering that I put plenty of extra mile in.

He pulls out the bag of charcoal BBQ briquettes first. Take that, David fucking D. Nelson. You’ve earned literal coal for Christmas.

Then I hear him snort with laughter. Fuck. He’s not supposed to enjoy this. I was being mean.

Then he pulls out the poster, and takes off the rubber band to unroll it.

That shuts him up satisfyingly fast. He rolls it back up and looks at me like he wants to say something, and I consider letting him, but then I remember that he can get absolutely fucked, and I get up and walk into the kitchen to help Dad.

Christmas lunch has always been a special hell for most of the family, but it’s never actually been a special hell for me until today. My foolish attempts to help end up with me getting last pick of the seating, and I’m stuck between Abuela on one side and Dad on the other. David, I’m pleased to see, is pinned between Abuelo and Mum.

Nanna Driscoll kicks off the proceedings by helping herself to about half of my veg mini roast, and then exclaiming in disgust when Mum tells her it’s not meat. I pass my plate down and Mum transfers the roast with a minimum of denture glue. Abuelo then launches into a long diatribe, two thirds in English and the rest in Spanish, on how vegetarianism is killing off traditional Spanish cuisine, pausing every six or so minutes to reassure me he’s not talking about me, of course.

Nick changes the subject by asking Michael how his new coaching gig is going, and Abuela starts asking him about the end of his skating career, and going on about how it’s such a shame he only made it to two World Championships, never the Olympics, and didn’t place in either.

Sarah hastily asks Tori about her new pet lizard. So it goes for the rest of the meal, each apparently safe conversation running into a bunch of spinning blades until someone else interrupts with a new one. It’s like the grandparents have some kind of private competition going, to see who can turn things awkward in the shortest possible time.

Eventually Mum asks Charlie how his work is going, and that’s when the shit really hits the fan. The world’s most innocent question. But Charlie is actually excited about his work right now; he’s just been handed one of his publishing company’s hottest writers’ accounts – a ridiculously popular series of books about a queer teen romance. It’s no wonder it’s dear to Charlie’s heart, given the subject matter; I wonder if he’d have had an easier time of it at school if these books had been around then. It’s just been optioned for TV and the whole series is getting a re-release, plus another book is in the pipeline.

“What did you say the book is about?” Nanna Driscoll asks.

“It’s about two boys who fall in love at school,” Charlie half-shouts.

“Two boys?” says Nanna Driscoll, as though the concept is brand-new to her, and she didn’t attend Nick and Charlie’s wedding literally this year. “And you say these books are for children? How are the schools letting them get away with this? How are the parents?”

“Nobody cares who you love now, Nanna,” I say in my clearest voice.

“That doesn’t mean we need—" she makes a face “—sex manuals for children. Adults – well, adults are beyond help, but children don’t need to know about these ungodly, unacceptable lifestyles.”

I can feel Charlie shrivelling and Nick bristling across the table. Michael, who’s on Nanna Driscoll’s other side, is grinning fixedly and staring at the brussels sprouts. I realise I’m the only one that knows there isn’t a single straight grandkid at this table. I’m about to give her a casual bollocking when David pipes up for the first time this meal.

“Wow, you’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Mrs Driscoll?” he says, his chin on his hand, his voice oozing faux politeness.

“I beg your pardon, young man?” Nanna Driscoll looks outraged. Too outraged, too quickly. She was looking for a reaction.

“Granted,” David sneers. “Get off your moral high horse. Pretty sure your Big Book of Verses has more to say about being a decent human being than it does about who you shag. You just love the drama, don’t you? If you need a hobby that badly, you can have the Scrabble set Nick got me.” He stabs a chunk of potato onto his fork.

“Oh, wait. No. You’d probably need a friend to play that with,” he adds.

“David!” Sarah says, shocked.

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” he rolls his eyes.

Well, he’s not wrong there, the fucker. Charlie and Nick look so shocked you could knock them over with the breeze from a sharply closed door. Tori has raised an eyebrow of what might be grudging respect at David. Mum has gone red and is looking at her plate, but is certainly not coming to Nanna Driscoll’s defence. Meanwhile, I’m haunted by the fact that David basically just publicly called Nanna Driscoll on the exact same bullshit I called him on last time we were in this house together, and I really don’t know how to feel about that.

—

After lunch finally dies a merciful death at the hands of Dad’s dry pudding and Sarah’s heavenly tarte tatin, I sneak out to the old treehouse to fill my lungs with cherry-flavoured nicotine. It feels like some experimental physics PhD project has gotten out of hand and slowed the passage of time to one second per minute.

I just want everyone to fuck off so I can stop thinking about David fucking Nelson all the fucking time. As if anything’s going to work, when the past month of mooning around the house, crying randomly in nightclub toilets, snogging strangers and crawling into Oscar’s bed at weird hours did fuck all. I just need to delete him right out of my brain. I scream in frustration and scrub at my eyes.

Which, of fucking course, is when David climbs the ladder into my little wooden bubble.

“Absolutely fuck right off.” I consider trying to push him out the door, but I don’t actually want to kill him, and besides, I don’t really think I could. Instead, he climbs into the treehouse. He’s uncomfortably close to me; this tree house isn’t palatial, and neither of us are small people.

“Olly, can I talk to you? Please?”

“What part of ‘absolutely fuck right off’ was unclear to you, David?”

He winces. “I just… I just need to apologise to you, Olly.”

“Stellar. Knock yourself out. And then fuck right off. The quicker the better, thanks.”

“I… uh…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I make a move past him, towards the door.

“Olly, wait—" He puts a hand on my shoulder to try to stop me. I look down at it like it’s a large radioactive alien slug crawling up my arm, and he removes it. “Olly, I’m really sorry.”

“Mazel tov. See ya later, David.”

“No, seriously. I was a sack of shit, Olly.”

“Oh, were you? I hadn’t noticed.” I ooze sarcasm all over him. He winces.

“I tried to apologise, but you blocked me everywhere. I even came to your place but the fucking buzzer’s broken.”

“You came to my flat?” I really don’t know how to feel about that. Angry-flattered?

“Uh… yeah. I left you a note.”

I’m betting Bailey or Oscar got to that note before I did. Or, more likely, it’s still sitting in the huge pile of unsorted junk mail on the kitchen bench, wedged in an Aldi catalogue.

“I just… Olly, I miss you so badly.”

That makes my heart feel crisp and painful.

“Oh, okay, hmm, yeah, and you think all you have to do is say sorry and I’ll fall back on your dick, is that right? All’s forgiven, pass the lube?”

“No, Olly, I—" he stops again.

“Christ almighty, either spit it out or I’m going inside to hang out with Nanna Driscoll, because that’ll be more pleasant,” I hiss.

“Please just let me get this out, Olly, I’m… not good at this,”

“No shit,” I mutter quietly, but I shut up, sitting back down, facing him with my arms wrapped around my knees. He takes a couple of deep breaths.

“I freaked out, Olly. After you and I… after we…”

“After I fingered you,” I supply.

“After you…” he takes another deep breath, “—fingered me, I was a mess. All I could think about was how good it had made me feel, and how much I wanted it again, and that I was a— uh. What that made me. And what else I wanted. Like, so many feelings. And I couldn’t cope. I freaked out completely. Spent two weeks solid in the gym, working out constantly. And I went out and picked up that girl. Olly, I couldn’t even— with her— that has never happened to me before—"

Oh, poor, poor Melinda. Running into the pointy end of David’s proper full-on gay crisis, and not even a decent dicking down to show for it. I feel so sorry for her. I feel kind of sorry for him, too. We were obviously getting closer and closer to the day when I’d be the one fucking him; of course he freaked out. But fuck. No. I have to stay strong.

“And then you were there…” he continues, “And I just kept saying stupider and stupider stuff, and it all just went horribly wrong, and you were just… gone. And when I woke up you’d already blocked me, and I couldn’t tell you I—"

He chokes up again. I wait for him to pick up again, but he doesn’t, just looks at me hopelessly, like a sad dog at the adoption centre. God, I just want to tell him all is forgiven, and wrap him up in my arms and kiss his stupid beautiful shithead face off. It feels like I’ve swallowed a hundred magnets, and they’re all yanking me straight over to him. I take a deep breath.

“Look, David. You are a bad person. You know this, I know this, everyone knows this. But you’re also bad for me. I don’t want to be the one soaking up your damage. I’m super sorry you’re broken and all that, and that all the bullshit in this world really got to you, but you’ve got a six-figure income and fucking legs, toddle the fuck out and go get some therapy. You might have had your reasons for freaking out, but the way you behaved…”

I stare sideways out the treehouse door down at the conservatory, where a silent pantomime of Nanna Driscoll yelling at Mum is playing out.

“I was so fucking worried about you. You didn’t even read my messages. You hadn’t been active on Whatsapp or Insta or anywhere. Deep down somewhere inside, some little grain of me was terrified you might have…” I swallow hard and don’t finish that sentence. That’s the first time I’ve articulated that little terror, even to myself.

David looks horrified. “Olly, I would never…”

“Really? Because people don’t? Took me years to figure out how close I came to losing both my siblings.” I watch as Nanna Driscoll whips out her grabber claw to hit Mum on the back of the legs as she puts down a cup of tea for her on the coffee table.

“But the reality is,” I continue, “You’ve sprung back in my face like a broken bungee cord once, and that means you’ll probably do it again. And David, I have absolutely zero interest in going through the last month of my life again.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes and ruthlessly will them down again. “I was de-fucking-lulu thinking that I could go anywhere near you without getting put through the meat grinder.”

David looks like he’s going to be sick – like, actually, my cheeky vom sixth sense is tingling – but he takes some deep breaths and gets it under control.

“Olly, I—"

He still can’t manage to say whatever grand thought is on his mind.

“Just go.” I drop my eyes from his face and look the other way, out the little window.

He does. He pauses on the ladder to give me one last heartbroken look, then he’s down and I watch him cross the lawn and go in through the conservatory door. He almost walks straight through, but then he stops at the door, turns around, and drops into an armchair opposite Nanna Driscoll, arms crossed and legs splayed out. Maybe I’m imagining it, because I’m honestly too far away to see properly, but I think I see a trace of a vicious smile. Then he leans over and helps himself to her cup of tea.

A laugh bubbles out of my chest before I can stop it, and for fuck’s sake, now I’m fucking crying again.

—

Michael, apparently on some kind of nominating-for-sainthood kick, takes Nanna Driscoll back to the peach mausoleum on his own, allowing Tori and Charlie and I to carry on our annual tradition and watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. I curl up with my head on Charlie’s lap. I have to physically restrain myself from chewing my knuckle. Apparently I’m regressing hard.

Sarah gets ready to go home, David with her; they’ve got the annual Nelson family Christmas party on tonight. Sarah doesn’t look remotely stressed, despite the fact that fifty-odd people are descending on her house in a couple of hours. Nick asks if she needs any help and she just breezily says it’s all under control. Sarah Nelson at Number 10 would be a force to be reckoned with. David tries not to let his eyes linger on me, and I do the same. I can feel the laser beam of Tori’s all-seeing gaze scanning the room, and the last thing I want is to be sprung now, when it’s all over. As they walk out, I manage to pull my eyes back to the singing vegetables on the screen.

After the movie, we do our traditional Mario Kart throwdown – really, it’s just between Charlie and me, with Tori occasionally winning a race, usually by cheating – and finish on the annual triumphant, hilarious, chaotic final Baby Park round. Nick flukes a win and does a victory lap around the whole house flying his Christmas jumper like a flag. Then Charlie and Nick peel off to Sarah’s, leaving Tori and me aimlessly playing through Coconut Mall.

“You okay, Olly-bean?” she asks me.

Damn. I thought I’d skated.

“I kinda feel like shit,” I admit. There’s no point lying to Tori. Lying would just put her nose on the trail. “Complicated breakup.”

“Would you like anyone killed?” She says it like it’s a joke, but I know for a fact that she would clock David with a shovel in a heartbeat.

“No, no. Don’t kill anyone. It’s just… I’m sad about it. We were great together, the chemistry was off the charts, but there was some serious baggage there, and I eventually copped it in the face. Apparently I need reminding that you can’t save people.”

Tori shrugs. “I mean, if you think you’re better off out of it, then good for you. Don’t take shit from anyone. But… Michael saved me,” she says. “Followed by some serious work by the NHS, mind you. But sometimes, you need help, and don’t know how to even start asking for it.”

We play in silence for a while after that. Tori beats me three times.

Chapter Text

I beg off the Nelsons’ party, telling Mum and Dad as they head over there that I need a nap to digest, and that I might come by later. Instead, I pull the duvets off my, Charlie’s and Tori’s beds, and drag them all down to the living room. I start watching two different Netflix shows but get bored with both in under an episode. I play some Unpacking on the Switch for a bit. Eventually, though, I give up and just lie there on the floor, tightly wrapped in a pile of warm softness, watching the rain that’s started coming down outside running in droplets down the window.

David’s gratuitously large present to me, which I didn’t open earlier, is still sitting under the tree. Sigh. Might as well get it over with. I extract an arm from among the duvets and haul the monster box over.

I pull the fancy gold paper off and flip open the cardboard box inside.

It’s filled with blue plush fabric. I don’t even realise what I’m looking at until I poke it, and a fin pops up.

He got me a fucking blåhaj. That glorious fucking dickhead arsehole got me a fucking blåhaj. I mentioned it one time.

There’s a card in there too. I pull it out. The envelope says ‘Open later’ in small letters. Did he put a picture of his dick in here? I rip it open. It’s the world’s most generic Christmas card, with gold bells and holly embossed on it. It looks like it came out of a packet of thirty. Inside is… a whole fucking novel, in David’s neat, slanting handwriting.

Olly,

I’m so, so sorry for what happened at my place. I’m such a fuckwit. I freaked out so hard. That whole fortnight, I knew I was being a stupid cunt, and that night when I went out clubbing, it was like it wasn’t even me. Like I was just watching the whole thing happen. That’s not an excuse, I know.

Even then I knew the truth, and I was just running from it like a fucking coward. Like, maybe if I fucked it up on purpose, I wouldn’t have to face what it means about what who I am. But that clearly didn’t work, so here we are, with me writing you the sad fifth version of this Christmas card, trying to find a way to tell you I fucking love you, Olly Spring, and I want to be yours, and that I would do anything for us to go back to how we were.

You don’t have to use your present if you don’t want to, but it’s for you to keep, no matter what. It’s a new one, just for you.

Yours – and I mean yours –

D.

I pull out my phone, unblock David and text him.

No. Do not cave, Olly. Be strong.

8:49pm

Me:

Get the fuck over here right now.

Everything feels a bit grey and staticky. Am I going to pass out? David said he loves me. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Why do I feel like my chest has inflated like a balloon? My head… hurts? Or something? All my hair feels like it’s standing on end. Am I having a panic attack? My fingers are cold and tingly. I shove them into the box, into the soft furry flank of blåhaj. I pull the stuffed IKEA shark out of the box, and it pops out into its full metre-long glory. I hug it to my chest. It… smells like David? I bury my nose in it and hyperventilate a bit. There’s something under where the shark was, in the box. It’s also furry. Does he really love me, or is he just saying that to get me back into bed with him? I pull out the furry thing. It’s really heavy. Oh my god, it’s a weighted blanket. A fucking massive weighted blanket. In rainbow colours. It’s got an otter embroidered on it. Did he order this specially? You can’t get something like this made in a month. Did he order this for me months ago? I pull the weighted blanket over me. It can’t be a panic attack, because I still feel like I’m going to float away. David Nelson loves me.

I bury my face in blåhaj’s side, then realise there’s something gleaming on its tail, catching the low lamp light. It’s a gold chain, made of long, narrow links. I twist it around. Hanging on it is a keyring, with a fat gold heart charm and a black access fob on it.

It’s a new one, just for you.

The doorbell rings. How did he get here so fast? Or has it been an hour? I leap up and run to the front door, still clutching blåhaj under one arm, and open the door.

He’s standing on the front step, soaking wet and panting. He’s wearing one of Sarah Nelson’s iconic ugly Christmas jumpers, with a flock of reindeer with tinsel pom-pom noses. He’s stubbly and he’s got bags under his eyes and his hair is plastered flat like a ridiculous dripping spider on his head. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.

“Say it,” I tell him.

“Say what?” He’s looking at me so earnestly, afraid and confused. The water’s dripping out of his hair into his eyes.

“Say it, you absolute sack of shit. To me. To my face. Say it.”

His eyes fall to the stuffed shark under my arm.

He works it out.

“I—" he starts, and then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and blows it out again. Then he opens them again. “I love you, Olly.”

I drop blåhaj and take a running jump at him, wrapping my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and my face around his face. God, I could die happy right here. He’s holding me so tight it hurts a little bit and I wouldn’t want it any other way. His kisses are hot and insistent, like he’s trying to eat me alive, and I think there might be tears somewhere among all that rain, from the way his chest is heaving. And if maybe there are some on my face, too? Whatever. We’re a fucking cliché, and right now, I’ve never been happier about the lack of a decent scriptwriter for the story of my life. I want to climb into this kiss and live here forever.

I pull back.

“If you make me regret this, I swear to god, I will fucking kill you. And Tori has promised to help me hide the body.”

“If I make you regret this, Olly, I’ll help her,” he says, grinning like an idiot, and I plant my face back on him like a starving man at a buffet.

“Carry me inside, we’re getting soaked,” I order him. I don’t stop kissing him, though, so we bump into the step, then the doorframe, then the hall stand, and finally I manage to kick the door shut. David leans me against the wall with his full weight, and I smile into his mouth.

“Goddamn you, David Nelson,” I murmur. “I thought I was taking you for a spin, but I never stood a fucking chance, did I? And I’m meant to be the adorable one.”

“Does that mean you…” David’s eyes are bright and insanely hopeful, flicking back and forth between mine.

“Is that what this feeling is, like my heart’s going to explode and I’m going to vomit up fireworks? There was me thinking it was some kind of cardiac event. I was going to dial 999. And they’ll get here and be like, soz mate, can’t help you, EKG says you’re just in love with a giant douchebag.”

I’ve never seen him smile like this before. It’s like I just turned on a stadium lamp in my own face. Then he leaps on me and tries to merge his face with mine, making a little whining sound, and the feeling is entirely mutual. I feel like the top of my head’s going to come off. David loves me, and apparently, in defiance of every sensible and right-thinking bone in my body, I love the fucker right back.

I let my fingers explore that delicious quarter-inch of Sad David stubble that just makes him look rugged and straight out of Lord of the Rings. Speaking of every bone in my body, I can definitely feel one that’s insanely excited that David’s back in my arms. I run my hands through his wet hair. He lets me drop down a couple of inches on the wall and suddenly I don’t know why he’s bothering to hold me up with his hands, because frankly, he could probably hold me up on the flagpole in his pants alone.

“Bedroom,” I manage to squeak out.

“We don’t have to—" he starts.

“Bedroom,” I insist. He doesn’t argue any more, just carries me up the narrow staircase. We pause to make out on every third stair, and there's a brief but delicious grinding sesh on the landing where I lose my hoodie and shirt, and then we’re through into my room and he tips us both on the bed like a sack of very hot potatoes. He accidentally catches me in the rib with an elbow and I huff in mild outrage, but he’s already fumbling with the button on my waistband and sticking his tongue in my belly button.

“Fuck, I’ve missed every fucking inch of you so much, Olly,” he breathes, yanking down my zipper with one hand and running a broad palm down my stomach with the other. “I can’t believe I nearly fucked up the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“You did fuck it up, David,” I murmur, throwing one arm above my head to grab the headboard, the other pushing David’s head down to my groin. “Get back to fixing it.”

He pulls off my trousers and pants, wriggles out of his jacket, and jumps back up to bury his face in my crotch.

“God, I missed the way you smell,” he mutters.

I feel a stupid smile bloom across my face, and I let my hands wind themselves into his hair.

“Weirdo,” I grin.

He swallows my dick, and I swear I hear a chorus of fucking angels light up in song somewhere nearby.

Of course, thirty ecstatic seconds later is the moment that I actually hear the front door slam downstairs, and Mum instantly starts loudly complaining.

“Olly, you can’t be leaving things all over the floor, I nearly tripped on this silly thing!” her dulcet tones float up the stairs.

David freezes, my cock still in his mouth. Then we’re both up, me hastily throwing clothes on, David finding the jacket and shoes he just kicked off.

“And why is the living room full of duvets? Come and tidy up right now, please, Oliver!” comes Mum’s voice again.

“Sorryyyy Muuuuuum!” I yell unrepentantly.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” David hisses. “They were well into the brandy when I left, why are they back so soon?”

I shrug. “Your mum’s place?”

He rolls his eyes in pure pain. “There are at least fifty people at my mum’s place.”

“OLLLLLIVERRRR!” Mum yells.

He grabs my wrist as I go to leave and yanks me back into a searing kiss. I pretty much liquefy. Then I scrape myself back together and wrench myself away from him to go and Placate Mother.

By the time I return, dragging three duvets, a weighted blanket, my hoodie and shirt, and a stuffed shark, David is dressed again and on his phone.

“I’ve booked us a room,” he says. “We’ll have to go get my car from Mum’s, though, it’s a few minutes out of town. Everything closer was booked out.”

“Well, I’m not going without blåhaj. Or my new blanket. I think I’m gonna name it Steve.”

“I’ll sneak out and go get the car and come back for you?”

“Okay. I’ll pack some clothes. But first we’ve got to get you out of the house.”

I sneak halfway downstairs to make sure the coast is clear, then pad over to the front door and open it. David moves impressively for such an old man, though I’m surprised his knees aren’t audible from the kitchen, where I can hear Mum pottering. It’s still pissing down, so I pull an umbrella off the peg and hand it to him. I’ve just gotten him out and am shutting the door when Dad pops his head out.

“Ah, Olly! Heading out?”

I immediately open the door again. “Yeah, thinking about it, Dad! Do you think I’ll need a brolly?”

I see the pink half of David’s two-tone umbrella, halfway down the path, pitch sideways behind the oleander in the front garden, accompanied by a muffled yelp.

“I think so, Olly! Why don’t you take that nice one Nick got you for Christmas for a spin?”

“That’s a good idea, Dad!’ I shut the door. “Oh, bugger. I haven’t wrapped Henry’s present yet. Or Percy’s.”

“Henry’s a dog, Olly,” Dad smiles at me indulgently.

“Well, it’s putting that little bit of extra effort in that people appreciate, Dad.”

“And dogs,” he grins. “Though I doubt Percy will care, unless the wrapping is edible, Olly!” He heads off to the kitchen with a backwards wave.

I wait until he’s safely through the door, then dash upstairs and start throwing stuff in my bag. Should I take everything? Am I coming back here? I end up throwing everything in my bag, just in case, and stuffing my new blanket into my old beach bag. It weighs a tonne. Oh my god, I love it so much.

I carefully remove the gold necklace from around blåhaj’s tail and put it on. It feels heavy around my neck, and like… a weirdly large moment? I’m flooded with warmth again. David loves me. I can’t believe he remembered that stupid joke about him giving me a gold heart necklace for Christmas. Was that, like, the morning after we met? I think of the real present I got him, but didn’t give him, still hidden under my bed at home.

I’m sitting on the bed, jittering, when David finally texts to say he’s outside. I bolt downstairs, my new metre-long shark stored subtly under one arm, and jump into my boots and scarf and coat. Thank fuck, because Dad’s trying to flamenco dance in the kitchen, and Mum’s giggling like a schoolgirl, which is a sure sign I need to get out of the house, soonest. Guess the mystery of why they're back so early is solved.

“Bye, parents! I’ll be out for the night. Don’t wait up!” I yell.

“Bye, Oliver!” Dad says indistinctly. “Have fun!”

I throw my stuff in the back of David’s car and jump in the front. Oh my god, the seat warmers. My arse is suddenly toasty. This thing is ridiculous. As always, my immediate instinct is to fiddle with every knob in here. But then I remember there’s really only one knob in here I actually care about, and I practically leap across the centre console to collar him.

He tries to protest, but gives up quickly and wraps his arms around me; what can I say, I make a strong case for the pro-smooch team. God, fuck I love him. Fuck. Now I’ve said it to myself, there’s no getting away from it. I’m done for. I imagine this is what it feels to get eaten by a T-Rex; just fucking grabbed round the middle, hauled twenty feet off the ground and shaken until you stop protesting.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere other than in front of your parents’ house,” he points out, infuriatingly reasonably. I whine petulantly. He kisses me again, lingeringly, then starts the car.

We drive for longer than I expected; all the way through Maidstone and out on the highway. He turns off, and we drive through a village, then eventually we’re on proper country lanes.

“You know, if you wanted to murder me, you probably didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I point out.

“Shut up. It was all I could find,” he says, not sounding very sorry.

A few minutes later, we pass a pair of huge fancy signs reading ‘Chilston Park Hotel’. The signs are shortly followed by the appearance of an even huger and fancier country house. A car park full of BMWs has mowed over what probably used to be the croquet lawn or something.

“Holy fuck, David, what did you do,” I breathe.

A lovely chap, probably about Mum and Dad’s age, comes out to the car park with golf umbrellas in hand, greets David by name, and helps us take our bags to the coach house. To our suite in the coach house. To our exposed-beam, massive-bathtub, three-room suite in the coach house.

“We’ve put out a little Christmas hamper for all our guests today. Just a few little treats. And this is Larry the Lamb – he’s our Do Not Disturb sign, just pop him outside the door if you’d prefer the room not to be cleaned.” He points out a large woolly lamb soft toy, who I test for huggability. (Good, but not blåhaj good.) “Our breakfast menu is available until 10:30, either in the restaurant or as room service, you can call down, or just fill in the card and pop it outside on your door handle.”

“Roland,” I grasp him by the hand, “You are a prince among men. This is wild. You’ve gone above and beyond. Thank you for being here today. And merry Christmas.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he winks. “I’m Jewish. I’ll just take Larry out with me now, shall I? And mazel tov to you both.”

David blushes, and I laugh. “Are we that obvious?”

“Only to those of us who have an eye for these things. Enjoy your evening, gents.” Then he disappears.

I pull off my coat, drop my stuff, kick off my muddy boots, and sprawl out on the king-size bed. Precisely six seconds later, David lands on top of me at full speed, crushing me with his brick house of a body.

“Ooof! Daviiiiiid! You’re crushing meee!” I faux-complain.

“Shut up,” he says in a gravelly voice that takes a first-class ticket straight to my dick, and then kisses me hard. I find myself moaning and arching underneath him. I wrap my legs around him and he’s just as hard as I am. He pulls back and looks at me.

“I love you, Olly Spring,” he says. I laugh like an idiot. I feel like I’m drunk. Like cartoon birds are flying around me. So this is what everyone’s always going on about.

“I love you, David Nelson,” I reply, just to watch him smile again. I manage to resist calling him something mean. He completely melts, his head landing in the crook of my neck.

“Fuck, Olly,” he whispers. “How did I get so fucking lucky? I do not deserve you.”

“No,” I agree, caressing his hair. “But you will.”

He breathes in deeply for a second, but then he’s pulling up my jumper and T-shirt, his mouth on my chest, his hands seemingly everywhere, on my hips, my belly, curling under my shoulder blades, around my waist. I make some fairly disgraceful noises as he kisses me frantically from neck to zipper, then yanks my jeans open and pulls them down, along with my knickers. My dick springs up like a tree being felled in reverse. I have to release my legs’ grip around him to let him pull my clothes off, but then my legs are back, over his shoulders as he mouths at my balls and up my dick. Ahhhh, there’s my choir of angels again.

“Mmm… kiss it. Right on the tip,” I tell him. He obliges. After a second or two I push into his mouth as he does it, losing control of my hips a bit in the process. Oh, fuck, I’ve missed this. All those random people over the last month – tall, short, boys, girls, skinny, plump, everyone I could get my mitts on, I even went out to a normie club one night and picked up a finance bro, which was not good – but all I wanted was this one particular capitalist scumbag’s pretty pink lips around my cock. He’s got his head on an angle and I’m pushing up into his cheek a little bit, and holy fuck I can’t come already.

“Get those clothes off, get a condom on and get up here,” I announce. “I want you in me up to my fucking ears, and I wanna smooch you while I’m coming.”

If I listen carefully, I can hear the clap as David breaks the sound barrier with how fast he moves to get condoms and lube out of his bag.

Leaning on one elbow, I work myself while David peels off his ridiculous reindeer jumper. It’s not like I haven’t seen the goods before, but it’s different now. They’re not just the goods. They’re my goods. That pale, freckled skin over those ridiculous sleek muscles: mine. Those pretty green eyes: mine. That majestic penis, that should probably be available for every hen’s night on earth to coo over: please apply to Olly Spring for bookings, because it’s all mine.

I lick my hand, then beckon David over and pull him right over by the cock. He lands on me in a heap, his hand frantically searching out my dick. It’s a hot, hot mess and I love it. He finds me and starts wanking me like my dick is the emergency cord on the train. I tangle my legs with his, my lips finding his and kissing him hungrily as I work him.

“Lube,” I manage to gasp. “Condom. Now.”

He retrieves the lube from somewhere among our knees and I get to work, slinging my knees around my shoulders. After nearly two months, I really hope I can still take him; I don’t remotely have the patience for anything like proper prep right now. But between all the hookups I threw in to fill the void, and my monster dildo – which I have to admit, I have roped in for more than a few David-Nelson-themed sad wanks over these weeks – I think I can swing it.

By now, he’s gloved up and he takes the lube from me, smearing himself generously and taking over below, rubbing his thumb around my hole and pushing in more lube.

“Fuck! Towel. We need a towel,” he says, frantic. I look around. He dashes off to get one from the bathroom. I lift myself up on my hands and feet, and he wriggles it under me.

“Anything else we’ve forgotten?” I giggle. “Christmas hats? Party squeakers? Elaborate sex dungeon?”

“Jesus, Olly, the world could be ending and you’d be making a crack about the size of the meteor,” David growls, pushing my thighs up and pulling my arse towards him.

“Well, how often do you get to see something rock-hard and big enough to fuck the whole planet?” I smirk.

“Oh my god,” he mutters.

“Shut up, you love it,” I grin.

“I fucking love you,” he says, leaning down to kiss me.

Ohhhh, that is very much not boring yet.

Very carefully, David presses himself against my hole.

“Super-slow, David, I’m not prepped or anything,” I gasp, as the blunt head of his cock starts spreading me open.

“Hnnnnnggg,” David says, biting my knee.

I’ve got the fingertips of one hand on David’s tensed abs, just holding him off with a feather’s touch, slowly letting him slide in. We both gasp as his head pops past my ring. And then, inch by immaculate inch, that goddamn perfect fucking dick I can’t live without finds its way deeper and deeper inside me. I start wriggling like an eel, fighting my own instincts to go further, faster, than I can handle.

“Oh, fuck, yes, David, God, I missed you so much. Don’t you ever fucking disappear on me again, you absolute cunt.” I pretend there’s no water leaking out the corners of my eyes. He starts to fuck in and out of me just a little bit as he pushes, the exact way I like best to help get him in, and I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck and just stare into those green eyes like a sappy fucking idiot.

He keeps up the slow microfucking, until after a minute or two, he’s properly in me up to the fucking gills, and I’m properly relaxed. I fucking did it. I took David Nelson’s cock stone fucking cold. I really do need that Sex God Olly nipple ring. He feels as incredible as ever, but it feels... I don't know... more? Like, it's not just about the monster cock any more. It's the monster cock attached to this man, who fucking makes me feel like my insides are a blancmange. Who makes me feel drunk and dizzy and high and like I want to scream and giggle and bite him, all at the same time.

He picks up speed, and I start to pick up volume. He gets faster and harder by degrees, until eventually he’s hammering into me and I’m seeing whole galaxies of stars. For some fucking reason I start saying ‘yes’ on every stroke, and I can’t stop, until I’m just panting and screaming ‘Yes’. Then he leans down to capture my lips and I latch onto him desperately and gasp into his mouth.

“Oh, God, Yes, David, David, please, fuck, fucking love you, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

He’s braced on one arm, the other one on my hip, and he wrenches me in closer, and fuck, I can’t hold on any longer, I’m trying but the ecstasy creeps up on me like a fucking tsunami, and it feels like it washes me right into David’s skin, and I scream into his mouth as he comes as well, his body weight crashing down on me, my hands buried in his scruffy beard and my fucking heart floating right out of my chest, somewhere, AWOL, flying on a string like the girl in my tattoo, the other end tied to my beautiful David goddamn Nelson.

Chapter Text

Afterwards, we lie there in a tangled sticky mess for ages, just kissing and touching each other, until David eventually insists on running a bath.

“We’re both covered in come, and we’ve both gotten thoroughly sodden tonight,” he says. “And I just wanna.”

I make noises of protest, but a bath does sound bloody lovely. It’s a massive claw-foot job, and David’s just cracked open the complimentary bottle of champers and taken it into the bathroom with a couple of flutes. He returns, the sound of water running behind him, with a warm flannel and wipes me down, and then unfortunately, what a tragedy gets distracted kissing me all over.

He winds his arms around me and crushes me in a vice of a hug. Technically I suppose it's not pleasant to be crushed, but having David squeeze me like a python with feelings might just be my new happiest place on earth. His face is buried in my shoulder, and I can feel hot breath on my skin.

“Yrr’re wrrring thr nrrcklrrce,” he says, indistinctly.

“Mmmm… yep. Yes I am,” I murmur. “I really like my new presents, David. All of them. The necklace… the shark, the blanket, the key to your place… whatever this big lumpy thing is.” I squeeze him a bit harder.

“Frrck rrrf,” he replies, which seems fair, and I find myself grinning like an idiot again for some reason.

I have to take it off to get in the bath, and it almost hurts.

In the tub, he stretches his legs apart and I lie between them.

“I thought I might never get to be with you like this again,” he confesses into my damp hair. “I can’t believe how much time I had with you, how much time I could have had with you, and how much of it I wasted freaking out, instead of appreciating every fucking inch of you. You’re a goddamn wet dream, Olly Spring, and life’s too fucking short.”

“Speak for yourself, old man,” I deadpan. “I’ve got another seventy-six years to kill.”

He snorts and reaches for the soap. After he’s lathered himself, he gently washes me all over, even though I’m really not that grimy. He washes my neck and shoulders, my chest, then works all the way down my snail trail to my pubes. He gently, reverently, washes my cock and balls, then pulls up one of my arms, to massage its length and scrub my underarm.

I reach down to stroke his cute burger tattoo as he rinses me off and starts on the other arm. George and Osc did such a good job on this thing. The lettuce really does look wistful.

“You never started your tattoo removal,” I say, as he works his fingers into the sensitive skin and curly hair of my armpit.

“No… no, I didn’t,” he affirms, carefully rinsing off the soap. “I think I’m gonna keep it.”

“Well done, David!” I crow. “You finally came around to something actually cool!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, hipster, I’m not growing a moustache any time soon. I just… it reminds me of you.”

Well, I really don’t have much of a choice but to roll over and kiss him, do I?

He kisses me back slowly, but he doesn’t stop washing me. He runs a soapy hand down my back, and then cups my arse, letting his fingers run along the folds under each cheek, then creeping closer in.

Gently, hesitatingly, he runs his naked, soapy finger down my crack and over my arsehole, rubbing it the way I did with his, all those weeks ago. Even though the water’s hot, I shiver and snuggle in closer. Oh, ffffuuuuuck, that feels good. I’m up for whatever, but I’m not going to risk pushing him out of his comfort zone again. That’s on me, I realise. It’s a thought that’s been percolating since this afternoon in the treehouse.

But ohhhh, man, does this feel good. He’s running his finger around my rim, just teasing me with the tip of his finger. I’ve got my head cradled on his wet shoulder, and it’s so soft and so warm, and he loves me, and I don’t know why I haven’t been cradled on this shoulder every minute of my life. I’m making little low keening noises and twitching and he’s got his other arm wrapped around my upper back, and then suddenly he’s pushing into me, and ohhhh yeahhhhh.

I only came, like, twenty minutes ago, so as he slides in his wet finger and begins to gently fuck me with it, it feels good without being urgent. I’m so content to just lie here and feel his hands on me and in me. My own are folded up flat between us, on his pecs, and I feel like I’m drifting on the fluffiest white cloud.

“That feel good?” he asks. “I don’t know if I could come again, but I want you to.”

I stretch under his hands and do a little purry moan. Honestly, it’d almost be disconcerting, if it weren’t so fucking nice. It’s like he’s been kidnapped by aliens and replaced, fully refurbished and reprogrammed, as a… basically normal decent human being? Jesus, have I been hoodwinked into thinking basic decency is deserving of acclaim? But then, I suppose it’s not the decency I’m impressed by; it’s the work he’s put in to get here. The guy I met in June would rather have chewed his own finger entirely off than bang me with it, let alone raw. And this David is gearing up to add a second one.

I can feel myself slowly chubbing up, and so’s he, though nothing like as hard as he was earlier. As he gently pushes another finger into me, I drag my cock an inch or two up his semi, grinding on him just a little and then rolling my hips back onto his fingers.

“Oh, fuck, that feels nice,” I say into the soft skin under his ear. “But if I come like this, we’ll end up glued together like two sides of a Jammie Dodger, with wet spaff cement.”

David levers us up, literally hoisting me by the arse, so I’m mostly out of the water, sort of straddling him, then grabs a flannel off the rail and drapes it between us. Then he moves the hand that isn’t fucking me around to wrap around my cock.

“Ohhhhhhh yeah, ffffff…” I can’t even finish the words. I just feel so content right now, letting the pleasure wash over me, David working his fingers in and out, rubbing my dick, his warm, wet body under me, his hardening cock wedged under my balls. “Oh, yeah, just like that,” I think I say. “Love having you inside me, David. Love being at your mercy like this. Make me come. I want you to make me come. Like, whether I like it or not.”

He groans at that, grinding up into me. His half-chub is now pretty respectably near full-chub.

“Where’s that magic spot,” he says, only half to me. He’s feeling around inside me.

“It’s a little bit further towards the—” I stop, gasping, as he lands right on the pirate map X. “Yep. Yep, that’s it.”

He starts pushing his fingers into me faster, and what was a leisurely pleasure cruise is now suddenly racing at speed towards the edge.

“Ohhhhh, fuck, David, yes, fuckfuckfuck,” I gasp. Whichever way I move, there’s new pleasure; his fingers fucking into my arse, his hand round my cock, his dick grinding up under me, and suddenly, his lips on mine. I latch onto the bottom one, making strangled noises and kissing him desperately, and then suddenly I can’t hold on any longer and I come all over him messily, shuddering helplessly, contracting around his fingers. Through the white-hot haze, I realise he’s coming too; he’s somehow managed to scoop his own dick into his hand with mine, and he’s grinding up messily as we both paint his chest.

I’m sure these tears in the corners of my eyes are just from exertion, I think, as I slowly come down, our lips still locked together. Whatever. Let them stay there.

David kisses me, slowly, carefully, intensely. I find myself hiccuping. More tears are coming out of my eyes. What the fuck. He slowly unwraps his hand from around our dicks. He goes to pull the other out of me; I whine in protest, and he leaves it in. He manages to extract the sticky flannel, giving us a cursory wipe and then pulls me close, kissing the corner of my leaking eye. Guess I’ve been sprung having feelings. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so shy about it.

I slowly calm down and come back to myself a bit as he brushes his hand down my back over and over.

“Okay, I think I’m alright now,” I murmur. He very gently pulls his fingers out of me, and I shudder softly.

“Think I’m going to have to wash us off all over again,” he says ruefully, once I move over a bit. “I don’t think that flannel worked as well as I hoped it would.”

I look down to where his treasure trail is… well, let’s face it, somewhat spackled together.

“One sec,” I reach out and grab the little bottle of hotel shampoo. “This is variably successful, but…” I squeeze a little onto his midriff and gently scrub it in with my fingertips. Yesss. It’s working. The only legitimate use for ammonium laureth sulfate.

David’s looking at me like I’ve just taught a pigeon how to calculate the integral of e by tapping its beak.

“How… where the fuck was that trick in my uni days?” he mutters.

“I don’t know how you people coped before Google,” I commiserate.

“We had— oh my god, Olly,” he says, only barely escaping the bait. “I see that love apparently doesn’t translate to you being even remotely less of a little shit.”

“What on earth made you think it would?” I smile.

We lie in the bath together for a bit after that, just soaking, and soaking up each other.

I don’t even realise I’m falling asleep until I snap awake suddenly, to find David has managed to pull out the plug, and has draped a giant fluffy white towel over my shoulders to dry me off.

“Come on, let’s get to bed,” he says. “I’d carry you, but I don’t want to die by slipping in the bathtub on the very first day I get you back.”

“Or dislocate your hip… where would we get a replacement at this hour,” I sass sleepily.

With a series of protesting noises from me, we manage to get up and out of the bath and off the plinth without major injury or accidentally kicking over the bust of Shakespeare that’s plonked precisely underfoot for some fucking reason.

I head over to the loo to relieve myself.

“Oh my god, Olly, are you just going to take a slash right in front of me?” David says, apparently somehow scandalised.

“What, you’ve never seen a guy pissing before?” I yawn. “You’re allowed to check my dick out all you like. No need to be surreptitious.”

He wants to argue, but apparently can’t think of a good objection, and settles for blushing furiously as I wipe off.

“Can you carry me now?” I grump as I brush my teeth. A second later, as I spit out the toothpaste and rinse my mouth out, he scoops me up, one arm under my shoulders, the other under my knees, sending the plastic cup and my toothbrush flying. God, why do I love it so much when he picks me up? Getting through the Tudor doorframe is a bit of a fucking undertaking, but then I’m just cradled against his body, and then we’re plunging under the bedspread into the fresh crisp white sheets, and I know it’s probably not even that late, but fuck, this might have been the longest day of my goddamn life. This day had fucking epochs.

I’m about to pass out, when I remember my necklace; there’s no way I’m going to sleep without it, but once I manage to fumble it up off the bedside table, I find my tired fingers can’t do the catch.

“Here, let me,” David says, carefully putting it on for me.

“Thnks, dickhead,” I mumble. “Love you.”

I make it to about 0.3 of a sheep before I’m out cold, with David Nelson wrapped around me like an octopus.

—

I wake up in the arms of the man I love.

What a fucking concept.

He’s awake already, and when I stir and stretch, he squeezes me gently and kisses my shoulder.

“Were you just watching me sleep, you absolute creeper?” I mutter through a smile that starts small and ends up threatening to rip my face in half. I bury my face in his chest to hide it.

“Yep,” he says.

“I take it last night wasn’t a dream, then,” I say, running a finger over the horizon of his body: over his shoulder, along his flank, down his hip.

“Nope,” he grins.

“I remember… you wearing a horrible Christmas jumper. And I think I remember telling you I’d murder you and Tori would help me bury the body? For some reason I recall you jumping into the oleander in the front garden, which is a ridiculous thing for anyone to do. There was a shark? The rest I’m hazy on,” I declare, squeezing the soft curve of his hip. “Remind me?”

“Yesterday, I finally grew the balls to tell you I love you, and for reasons I still don’t fully understand, you said you love me back,” David says. “And then I put a hessian bag over your head and bundled you into my car and dragged you to a posh hotel and I am going to spend today explaining in detail, with blowjobs, just how much I missed you.”

“Oh, no, you vile, dastardly…” I attempt the full maiden-tied-to-the-train-tracks bit, but I can’t keep a straight face, not when he kisses me like that, soft and insistent and like I’m the only thing in the universe. When he finally releases me, I’m not sure I can remember my own middle name, let alone what I was going to ask him. I just stare at him in a stupid daze until the cogs start turning again.

“Don’t we have to, like… check out and stuff?” I ask.

“Booked us in for two nights,” David says, between kisses, his hand tangling in my hair as he drifts down my neck. “If one more random bullshit thing got between us, I was going to scream and throw a brick through a window.”

I flash to the likely scene at Mum and Dad’s place. Mum will be heading to the Boxing Day sales, armed with a carefully researched list of every sale item she’s selected ahead of time, ranked in order of preference, and with a mapped route planned for minimal distances and allowing for traffic. Dad will be heading to Uncle Ant’s place for their Boxing Day festivities with Abuela and Abuelo before they head back to Spain.

“Ok, low-key genius move,” I say. “Finally, a solid argument for capitalist wealth-hoarding.”

I pull out my phone and text my excuses, then throw it somewhere into my bag.

“Now, what did you say about explanations involving blowjobs?” I enquire, throwing back the duvet and waving my spectacular morning wood, but just as David is wriggling down for the prize, my treacherous stomach betrays me with a truly spectacular grumble.

“Think we better order you some breakfast,” David clucks, like a big, hunky, chiselled blond mother hen.

I pout while he retrieves the room service menu, but okay, fine, when I start looking down the page I realise exactly how hungry I am. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t actually eat dinner yesterday. Too busy – first moping, then declaring my love for this douchebro sugar daddy who’s the exact opposite of everything I’ve always valued in a lover.

We call the restaurant and I order the smashed avo with poached eggs, and the cinnamon brioche french toast, and David gets the full English sans mushrooms. Throw in a couple of coffees and juices and I dread to think how many quid they’re tacking on David’s bill right now.

“They said it’ll be about half an hour,” David says, hanging up the phone. We both stare at each other for a second, and then as one mind, we crash together, grabbing each other’s dicks. My morning wood is still woody as ever, and David’s cock is coming up nicely with every tug. I lick my hands hastily and he holds his palms out for me to lick too, which is surprisingly hot. So hot that I can’t help slurping two of his fingers into my mouth while they’re there, and David gasps, then groans as I grab his dick and mine with both mitts and start jerking him off.

It’s hot, and fast, and desperate. David’s hand joins mine, and he’s thrusting up into our hands, and I’m sucking his fingers like they’re a cock, and he’s pushing them into my mouth over and over. David manages get his tongue in my ear, which feels amazing, and as the finish line sprints for us and clotheslines me spectacularly into a sparkly disintegrated mess, I’m pretty sure I scream his name through his fingers, which would be pretty fucking embarrassing for someone who wasn’t in love, so it’s lucky I am.

We’ve managed to mop up and get into the fluffy hotel dressing gowns by the time someone appears with a bunch of dishes with honest-to-god big silver cloches over them. I can’t resist doingging two of them together.

“Oh my god, Olly, I literally can’t take you anywhere,” says David, into his palm.

“I didn’t think these things really existed,” I say to the amused person who brought them. “Genuinely thought they were like truth serum and ‘enhancing’ pictures in CSI… complete fiction.”

“It’s a big hotel with a lot of different buildings,” she says, tolerantly. “Keeps it warm, and we don’t want a gust of wind to fill your breakfast with leaves.”

She puts everything on the coffee table, and David and I cosy up on our little sofa and I start inhaling my breakfast, everything at once. I’m ravenous. Except for the Greek yoghurt, which I can usually handle a bit of, but for safety I palm off on David anyway.

“God, you Gen Z kids and your ridiculous allergies and intolerances,” David says, chomping a strip of bacon. “I swear, half of you just avoid gluten because it’s cool.”

“Oh, what, back in your day you had to walk seventeen miles to school and snacked on roofing nails and slugs and cage-bred ham for morning tea and it never did you any harm?” I scarf a mouthful of french toast and honey.

“Well, go on then, what actually happens to you if you eat yoghurt? Do you fall to the ground and foam at the mouth? Start speaking in tongues?”

“Actually, David, there’s nothing stopping me having lactose… the symptoms aren’t that bad. Just, y’know, me unexpectedly doing my impression of one of those firefighting helicopters in the loo,” I grin, chewing the french toast in a leisurely fashion. “So you in particular better be grateful for my Gen Z picky eating, and especially today.”

“…Oh,” says David.

“Yeah,” I agree, slurping my oat flat white. It’s pretty well made. I’m impressed.

“So… when did you realise you were in love with me?” I demand, halfway through my second slice of avocado toast. The poached egg explodes, covering me with yolk.

He rolls his eyes, throwing a napkin at me. “You look like you blew a Minion.”

“Hmmm… avoiding the question,” I catch the napkin and lick most of the yolk off sexily.

“Come on, Olly,”

“No. I want to know. When was the moment? What were you doing when you realised I was the sun in your sky?” I mop the goo off my face and do big blinking adorable eyes at him.

“I mean…” he thinks about it. “Probably somewhere on the rowing machine?”

“So romantic,” I snort.

“Well, I was literally in the gym desperately trying to avoid working it out. I think by then, I’d been in love with you for… like, a while, actually. I… ” he lets out a deep breath and puts down his fork.

“It wasn’t… good. I wasn’t happy about it. In fact I don’t know if I’ve ever been more terrified in my life. It was all just happening to me, like I didn’t get a say in it, and I was angry and afraid and so fucking in love with you it felt like my guts were on fire all the time.”

This line of conversation is not turning out as adorable as I’d thought it would. I put down my avocado toast and wonder if I should hug him.

“At first, when you smashed all my plates and left, I had this sense of, like, relief? I’d fucked it up beyond repair. I’d convinced myself I wanted to fuck it up, and I’d succeeded. Like, I’d done all the damage I could, and now I could relax and stop obsessing about how I was going to ruin it, because I already had.”

Fuck it. I pull him into my arms.

“Oh, David,” I murmur

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t the first time I’ve done that. I did that to Gracie, to Eleanor… pretty much all my serious relationships have ended like that. And afterwards, I always felt this fucked up kind of calmness. Like, I’ve done them a favour. They’re better off out of it, knowing what a piece of shit I am. Like, by sleeping around or ditching them I’d done the right thing.”

I’ve got his head cradled in the crook of my neck, and I’m just stroking his hair. He’s not even protesting.

“And normally, that relief would hang on for a few months. But after you left, it barely lasted a day. And then this new voice started up, and it didn’t say, you’re a piece of shit and someone as great as Olly is better off without you. It said Olly wants you, and if he wants you, he should fucking well get to have you. It said If Olly wants you not to be a piece of shit, you better make the fucking effort, you piece of shit. It said, you fucking love him, you dumb cunt. It said Olly Spring is the best thing that ever happened to you and if you don’t fix this, I am going to make sure you spend the rest of your miserable little life regretting it.”

“Jesus, David,” I say. I don’t even know what to add. I’m officially at a loss for words. I’m starting to get the horrifying sense that the number one victim of David’s world-class arseholery was himself.

“By about day five, I was freaking out harder about losing you than I ever did that I was a disgusting freak.” David’s got his arms wrapped around me tighter than a boa constrictor. “I’d tried calling you, messaging you, Snapchat, WhatsApp, Insta, Facebook, all blocked. I even tried installing Signal, but apparently you blocked me there pre-emptively? I went round to your place but I couldn’t get through the security door. And then I found myself wondering if I should get Mum or Nick to try to contact you for me. That’s when I knew I was absolutely fucking done. Like, completely gone for you. If I was considering telling Nick, just for the remote chance I might be able to get in contact with you… game over, man. Game over.”

“So why didn’t you?” I murmur.

“I knew I was going to see you at Christmas,” he says. “I was just clinging to that, desperately. You would not believe how many Christmas cards I went through. It was not a good month,” he says. Understatement of the century. “I was apparently so obviously falling apart that a random coworker asked me if I was okay, and I fell to pieces all over her. This poor fucking woman’s just come to me to get some training on the new finance processes for the product development team, and instead she copped a faceful of my nervous breakdown. She was remarkably good about it, but fuck. It was not pretty.”

He sighs, and I’m pretty sure I can feel hot tears on my neck. He can’t see me, so he can’t tell I’m barely holding it together.

“I love you, Olly,” he says.

“I love you too, you absolute hot fucking mess,” I say. “And… I… uh. I wanted to apologise to you, David.”

“Why? What on earth for?” David says. He’s genuinely baffled.

“That last night at your place… I told you I’d never really cared about you. I don’t know why I said that. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, afterwards, what a stupid, petty thing it was to say. I thought I was better than being stupid and petty about breakups, but I guess I found out in the moment that I wasn’t, and I don’t like that about myself. So, um. Yeah. Sorry. I did care about you. Obviously.”

“Don’t worry about it,” David says.

“I am worried, though. It was a shitty fucking thing to do.”

“Well, you’re talking to the reigning heavyweight champion of doing shitty fucking things just to hurt people before they hurt you, right here,” he says. “So you’re allowed a little slip.”

“Well, I’m still sorry.” I hug him a bit closer. We sit there, tangled together, the remains of breakfast cooling in front of us, for minute after lengthening minute. I don’t want to let him go, and apparently, the feeling is mutual.

“Just to be clear, though,” I add, “I am absolutely bloody well not apologising for smashing your plates.”

Chapter Text

David’s lying snuggled into my side, one arm wrapped tight around my middle like I might try to escape. We eventually finished breakfast, and by mutual silent agreement, we put the dishes and the ‘we’re busy fucking’ stuffed sheep outside the door, and went straight back to bed.

I’m fiddling with my new necklace, which I am irrationally obsessed with. The long links are just wide enough that I can flip their direction in the chain. I’m going to spend a lot of quality time fiddling with this thing. The heart keyring is objectively menocore, but it’s such a satisfyingly puffy little unit. But the little round key fob might be the thing that makes me happiest. I’m not quite ready to move them to my keychain yet.

“You know, you’re not getting off scot-free,” I say suddenly. “I’m really not going to let you pull any more horseshit like that on me again. You’re getting therapy.”

I expect a bit of a fight, or at least resistance, but instead David just laughs.

“You’re not laughing this off,” I say, annoyed.

He pulls out his phone, does something on it, and hands it up to me.

It’s an email confirming an initial consult with Dr Janice Strindberg, Clinical Psychologist, booked for January 5.

“Holy shit, when did you book this?” I look at him in awe. This must have taken some fucking doing for him.

“Yesterday afternoon. After you told me to get therapy,” he admits. “I just googled ‘therapists in Bromley’ and she was the top result, and her website had a booking thingy, so fuck it, right? I already hate being me, it’s not like she can make it any worse.”

“Do you really hate being you… all the time?”

“Maybe not so much in the last day or so,” he smiles up at me. “If you’ve found something to like, maybe there’s something worth liking.”

“Are we the only couple on earth to progress to liking each other after we’ve officially admitted we’re in love?” I smile into his hair. It smells so good. I forgive his stupid man-flavoured hair products.

That reminds me.

“Hey, why does my blåhaj smell like you?”

He buries his face in my side.

“Mmmf wrfhh fllghhghh wff hrmm,” he admits.

“What was that?”

“…I’ve been sleeping with him,” comes the voice, marginally clearer, from somewhere near my armpit.

“Aww, you massive softie,” I coo. I try to sound like I’m taking the piss. I suspect I fail.

“I missed you so, so much.” He tightens the arm around my waist. “I thought I might never get to do this again. I had so much time to think about how badly I fucked up, and how much more you deserve than a shitty self-hating closet case.”

I kiss the top of his head. I fight the urge to reassure him, because, I mean, he’s not wrong.

He pulls up to look at me.

“I was thinking… what if I came out? To some of my friends, anyway? I mean, I’m already out to your friends, and to, like, I don’t know, my one co-worker, and that doctor at the hospital, and apparently, the guy who runs this hotel… Not sure I’m ready to tackle the family yet, but…”

“You mean, like… come out to your Truham mates from the pub last night?” I say, slightly incredulous.

“Yeah. We could go to the pub again tomorrow. Or… actually, you know what, fuck it.” David gets a steely look in his eye like he’s about to do something stupid, and starts typing away on his phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask, nervously peering down at his screen.

“Ripping the fucking plaster off,” he replies.

Truham Lads 4 Eva

11:13am

Me:

So heads up lads, I’m bisexual, and if any of you has a problem with it you can fully platonically shove it up your arse

Happy Christmas!

Rorz:

NELSON LAD! You stud!

Biggsy:

Fuckin wot

Are you high mate, it’s christmas not april fools

Me:

And before you get any ideas, Biggsy, I’ve seen your arse and I couldn’t pop a stiffy if I tried, I’m not into drywall

Biggsy:

Wait you’re not actually serious are you bruv

Am I being filmed

Rorz:

Oh my god Biggs STFU not fucking everything is about you, you giant cock

Congrats David, who’s the lucky lad who tipped you over and when do we expect the wedding invite because there’s no way you’d tell Biggsy this unless you were proper gone 😆

and does he play FIFA he better play FIFA

Biggsy:

Are you fucking serious right now? You’re gay now David?

Cannot believe David “Ladykiller” Nelson is a cocksucker

You gonna start prancing about in short-shorts covered in glitter and lisping like a faggot?

Rorz:

Biggsy pull your fucking head in or so help me I will come round there and paste you one

Nate Mate:

Whoah what the fuck’d I miss

Biggsy:

Nelson’s a faggot now

Rorz:

Nelson just said he’s bisexual and Biggsy’s going for gold in the cunt olympics

Nate Mate:

Good on you @Nelson lad! My little cousin just came out yesterday at lunch and I promised him I’d belt anyone who gave him shit, so same offer goes for you.

Just read back and apparently I’m belting you first @Biggsy you fucking floater

You’re just fucking lucky I’m stuck at Nan’s in Manchester

One more nasty fucking word out of you and I’m booting you out of the group chat

Biggsy:

Are you all fucking serious right now

Nate Mate:

Serious as cancer mate

Me:

I appreciate it lads

Tom:

Well I guess since we’re on the subject, I’m bisexual too

Nate Mate:

TOMBO! YOU TOO!

Rorz:

Lol I fucking called that one didn’t I Nate ✋

Nate Mate:

Rory that’s rude

Rorz:

Don’t leave me hanging ✋

Nate Mate:

Fucking FINE ✋

Rorz:

EYYYYYYYYYYYY

Uh sorry, congrats Tom, this is definitely a huge surprise

Defs didn’t spot you being suspiciously cuddly with a lad at a party when we were at uni

Biggsy:

hahahaha lads okay you’re all very funny, we’re all buttfuckers, I get it

Nathan Billingsley removed Chase Biggs from the group chat

Nate Mate:

I’m not even sorry

Tom:

This was not how I expected this to go

Me:

Me either

Tom:

Should we tell them

Me:

I mean… fucking sure, why not, while we’re at it

Tom:

Nelson and me pretty much hooked up all the way through high school

Rorz:

😮

Nate Mate:

Ewww gross I don’t want to know about that, you two are like my brothers

Rorz:

😮

😮😮😮

All that time you were moaning along with Nate and me and Biggsy about how confusing girls were and how we’d all die virgins

YOU TWO WERE GETTING LAID THAT WHOLE TIME

Me:

Uh… yeah… sorry?

Rorz:

I need a minute

OK I’m over it

Lads I’m very happy for you both

Wait you’re not still together are you

Tom:

haha no… but I’ve got a boyfriend? I guess?

Nate Mate:

you GUESS?

Tom:

I mean I’ve been too chickenshit to ask him but

Nate Mate:

…TOMMY MY LAD

Tom:

Yeah okay okay

Nate Mate:

PICS PLEASE LADS

David’s lying against my chest, weeping freely as every new message comes through. At some point, I wove my hands into his hair, and I’m cradling him tight.

“Can I?” he looks up at me hopefully.

“Of course.”

He hastily wipes his face and snaps a photo of us, his head in the foreground, tucked under my chin. We’re both smiling like idiots. I give the camera a little wave.

He types the caption underneath: ‘Those of you who were at the pub yesterday will have an inkling of what a royal cunt I’ve been and how much of a grovelling apology I owe my boyf’

He stops typing abruptly and looks up at me, a big fat question shining in his green eyes.

I roll my eyes. “Ughhh… fine. I’ll be your boyfriend, David Nelson. But I get your chocolate pudding at lunch every day.”

He grins like an idiot and drops his phone, rolling over to cage my chest in and crawling up for a long, heated kiss. Then he picks up his phone, finishes the word and sends the pic off.

“From closeted to showing me off in record time,” I snigger.

“Are you kidding? That closet door is the only thing stopping me telling random strangers in the street how hot you are and how absurdly lucky I am that for some stupid reason, you decided you wanted me.”

I squint at him.

“Are you sure you’re the same guy who couldn’t string together six words about his feelings yesterday?’

“I am absolutely not the same guy,” he leans down and kisses me again. “That guy died doing battle with your absurdly awful Nanna Driscoll.”

“That was spectacular,” I affirm. “Who knew you could use that vicious tongue of yours for good instead of evil?

“Pretty sure I can think of a couple of other ways to use my tongue for good instead of evil,” David smirks.

“Oh, is that so?” I say, in an interested voice. “Do, please, go on,”

He grins and undoes my dressing gown belt.

Chapter Text

David runs his tongue from the little hollow at the base of my neck, right down my chest, through my belly button, past Lizard Point and straight down my cock, where he swirls it around my still-soft cockhead. Ohhhhh, yeah.

I lean back against the headboard and let my eyes roll into my head.

“I guess I have Tom to thank for your amazing skills at diving man-muff,” I murmur. “I must send him a fruit basket or something.”

David doesn’t answer – fair enough, he’s got his mouth full – but he snorts before he absolutely goes to town and I dissolve into a drooling puddle of mush. Fuck, his mouth feels so good. I don’t even mind the way his wild-man stubble catches in my pubes. I run my fingers through his hair as he fucks his mouth onto me, and he looks up at me with those pretty green eyes, and oooooffffff why does that hit so different now?

I hear myself stutter in a gasp, and he’s got a hand around me now, pumping me hard to meet his lips in the middle, and I’m starting to buck like a pony, god, it’s so nice, I feel like I’m on the express escalator and he’s still looking me in the eyes and I can’t look away.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this, David, look at your beautiful mouth, your beautiful eyes, god, I love you. I’m so proud of you. Love watching you take me. Love being in you. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come, David.”

I dissolve into a mess of swearing as I come down his throat, and just manage to keep my eyes open so I can hang onto that eye contact as the hot rush rips through me. It’s so intense.

David crawls back up, kissing his way up the same way he went down, coming to land on my lips, his hot body pressed against mine, the bitter taste of my come on his lips. I can feel the push of his dick against me, and between that and his soft, tender mouth, it’s giving me shivers.

“Mmmmm… fuck, that was nice, David. I think I’m gonna send Tom a whole fruit orchard,” I purr. “As a fruity welcome to the family.”

“God, he is not going to be ready for the Olly Spring Experience,” David snorts.

“Enh, nobody’s ever ready for that,” I wave a hand. “Now… what can I get for you off the room service menu?” I reach around and grab David’s waist, pulling his crotch into mine.

“Um…” he says, then trails off.

Weird? It’s not like David to be unsure about fucking.

“I could blow you?” I suggest. “I haven’t goated you for ages. Or you could bend me over that imitation Tudor writing desk? It’s a bit small, but I’m sure we could make it work.”

“I… uh,” he hedges.

“Why are you suddenly wriggling like a worm on a hook?” I finally demand.

“I’m not,” he lies, with all the convincingness of a guy telling a cop he’s not drunk, officer.

“Come here,” I instruct him, wriggling up on the bed, spreading my legs and patting my chest. He mulishly obeys, like I’m asking something strange and unreasonable of my boyfriend. I pull him over so his back is cradled against my chest, then kiss his stupid head.

“What’s eating you, David? Tell Uncle Olly,” I say in my most patronising voice.

“Jesus Olly, that is not hot,” he complains, trying to get back up again. I pull him down.

“Telllllllll meeeeeeeeeeee,” I say in a Gollum voice.

“Even less hot, Olly,” he snorts.

“I’m just going to keep trying sillier and sillier shit until you tell me,” I warn him. “Wait ‘til I go full Ernie of Bert and Ernie on your arse.”

“Now that might be hot,” David snorts.

“Seriously, David, man who I love and who loves me – spit it out,” I insist.

“Ughhhhhhhh, it’s… I don’t know.” He buries his face half under the trailing side of my open dressing gown. “Do you think you would… want to… maybe… do stuff… to me?”

“Do… stuff?” I’m confused for a second or three, until the picture clicks into focus. “Ohhhh… do stuff. To you. Gay stuff.”

“Um… yeah,” he says, directly into my left nipple.

“Stuff like… that last time at your place? Or like that time in the shower?”

“Well, not exactly like in the shower, if at all possible, thanks, we’re at least half an hour from an A&E here,” he snarks. “But… um… yeah. Stuff like that.”

I wriggle down under him until I find his face, taking it in both hands, and kiss him.

“I would love to do stuff like that to you, David,” I say. “If you think you’re ready?”

“Can’t stop thinking about it,” David says quietly. “And… um.”

“What?” I prompt him gently, after a long moment.

“Can’t stop thinking about you tying me up while you do it,” David mutters, even more quietly.

Wow, way to knock the breath right out of my lungs. Probably it’s a malfunction due to the blood departing my brain like water down a plughole.

“Holy fucking shit, you are so hot,” I finally gasp into the silence, yanking him in to kiss him desperately. “Fuck, David, I’m gonna blow your fucking mind. And you. I’m gonna blow everything.”

David gives a relieved little laugh and kisses me back.

“Do I need to… like… I don’t know? Do stuff? Beforehand?”

“I think a wet flannel should do nicely,” I muse. “I know you took a crap this morning, so…”

“Oh my god, Olly!” David moans into one hand, apparently pained.

“What?” I protest. “You wanted me to come in and give you a blumpkin? You’re such a weirdo about normal human bodies. Anyway, stay there, I’ll be right back.”

“What’s a blumpkin?” I hear David ask, as I dash into the bathroom, which I do not answer. Best to kick that one into the long grass, I think.

I run a flannel under the hot water and grab a fresh towel – after all, the whole point of a fancy hotel is not to have to sleep in the wet spot – then ditch my dressing gown and zip back to David so fast you can probably see scorch marks on the floorboards.

“Kneel on the bed for me. Knees apart.”

I pull off David’s dressing gown and extract the soft belt from its loops, getting it tied securely around his wrists. Then I use the loose end to pull him over to one of the bedposts, and secure him.

“And if you want out? Or for me to slow down, or wait, or stop?” I ask him.

“Just say so,” he breathes, obediently. “Or yell ‘Suella’.”

“That’s my beautiful man. Fuck, you look so good like this, David,” I murmur, caressing up his tied wrists and arms and down his flanks. Then I edge around behind him, massaging his shoulders, down his back, out across his tailbone and hips and finally get my hands on his meaty spread cheeks.

“Oh my fucking god. You look so good. You feel so good. I’m gonna make you come so hard, David. I love you so much.”

David just moans and presses back against me, as far as his tied hands will let him, as I kiss his shoulders and mangle his perfect arse. I let my fingers creep further and further into his crack, and his moans get more and more intense, until finally I’ve got my little fingers on his hole, and I feel a shudder run through his entire body.

Blindly, I grab the warm flannel with one hand, and start to massage his crack with it, running it up and down once or twice, then settling on David’s hole and rubbing it in circles with my fingers.

“Oh, fuckkkkkkkk,” David says, breathily. I smirk and kiss my way up his hairline.

“God, you’re so fucking pretty, David Nelson. You should be in a museum, making everyone who walks past catch their breath. I love touching you. I love the noises you make. I love how you try to act tough, but you can’t, because right in here—” I snake my spare arm around to his solar plexus “—you’re just a big, soft, buttery muffin who wants to be loved and looked after and treated like the princess you are. Well, you’ve got no choice now. You’re at my mercy, and I’m going to make you feel amazing.”

I punctuate my little soliloquy with kisses along the plane of his shoulder. I wonder if I could kiss every freckle individually. They’re so delicious, like hundreds and thousands, but for skin - just the perfect sprinkling to make something already great better. I can’t help sucking just a little on his shoulder and trapezius, making him moan. I’m pushing the warm flannel into him now, and after a couple of goes, I decide that’ll do; I fold it and give him another once-over, then chuck it off to one side.

I plant a hand in the middle of David’s back and push him over onto his elbows, letting my hands slide all over him and making him ripple and shiver.

I’ve finally, finally got quality time alone with the Arse of the Gods, and I’m not wasting it; I hunker down and get my teeth into one cheek, dragging them down its luscious curve. I make a fairly disgraceful noise of appreciation, and just by way of experiment, give the other cheek a little slap.

David gasps and moans.

“You like that?” I purr, digging my fingers in where the slap landed. “You like a bit of spanking?”

He doesn’t answer. I click my tongue.

“Come on, David, you know the drill. Want another one?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Fuck. Yes.”

Something in my brain starts spitting sparks, like a downed power line in a puddle. I slap David’s arse again, and he jolts and moans and wriggles back helplessly. Oh, fuck. Apparently he loves it as much as I do. I slap the other cheek, then dig my fingers in again mercilessly, this time into both of them.

I can’t resist any longer – I dive in, face-first, and spread his cheeks with my hands so I can bury my tongue in his arsehole. David reacts like I’ve jammed that downed power line right up his cloaca. He writhes and grinds back into my face, and I take the opportunity to slip a hand underneath him to fondle his cock and balls. With the other one, I deliver another sharp little slap to an arse cheek. Oh, god. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.

I’m jerking him off now, as I flick his little pucker, and then bury my tongue inside him, pushing as far inside as I can get. I’ve got his glute gripped tightly in my other hand, He’s swearing up a storm and moaning and I don’t blame him; this whole setup is so hot you could fry your dinner on it. Come to think of it, this might be my favourite meal of all time.

David’s already starting to shake, but I don’t want him to come yet, so I leave off his dick and go back to biting and slapping around those magnificent globes while I reach for the lube.

“You ready for me to finger you, baby?” I murmur.

David’s lost to moaning again, so I run a hand all the way up his spine to his hair and grip it gently.

“Fingers, David?” I enquire politely.

“Oh, fuck, Olly, please, yes, god, you had me so close,” he whines. I smile. I know.

I squeeze a bit of lube on my middle finger, my favourite for this activity – I’ve always said there’s a reason it’s the finger that universally symbolises ‘shove it up your arse’ – and start rubbing his hole, still wet from my saliva. Then, ever so gently, I start pushing into him. He falls from his elbows onto his face, pushing back, and starts gasping helplessly.

I kneel up and imagine shoving my cock into this tight little ring as I slide my finger in and out. If he’s strangling my finger right now, imagine what he’s going to do to my boner. David’s spread out in front of me like a pervy drawing of a superheroine, arms stretched up prettily above his head, and I wanna grind on him so bad. But given how spectacularly he freaked out last time, I’m holding off. Instead, I dive down to add my mouth above my finger, and reach under again to caress his balls.

“Oh, fuck, Olly, I wanna come, please make me come?” David begs, which is so hot I could probably blow my load just from listening to it on loop.

I twist my hand around so it’s palm-down and start feeling around for David’s prostate. It’s not too hard to find; that bad boy is juiced up and ready to explode. David’s reaction is everything I could possibly have wanted; he’s desperately pushing back against my tongue and fingers where they’re fucking him, moaning, writhing, begging and whispering my name.

I creep my hand up to his dick and start pumping it, and within seconds, he’s shaking. A few strokes later and he’s coming, wrenching at his ties and arching his back convulsively as he shoots strings of come all over the towel.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come so hard,” I mumble, as I fuck him through his orgasm with my finger and tongue and hand. Once he’s stopped strangling my finger to death, I pull out and kneel up over where he’s collapsed face-down in a panting heap. At the last dizzy second, just as I’m about to jizz all over his perfect arse, I remember he’s weird about that. So I grab the flannel and come into that instead, thinking about ramming my cock into his shiny, winking little pucker and filling him full of my swimmers.

Holy fuck, if it isn’t so good I nearly die and come to life again. I feel like I just blew my soul out through my dick. Every part of me is on fire.

I end up collapsed half on top of David, making a ‘hmmmm’-type noise and stretching like a cat. Eventually, I remember I've got duties, and bonelessly flap at the knot around David's wrists until it comes loose. Then I roll him up on his side and scoop him against my chest. Neither of us can really speak for the first little while, but I nuzzle kisses against David's neck and smooth my hand down his flank in that not-too-ticklish way he prefers. Eventually, I wriggle back a whisker, and pull David onto his back so I can kiss him.

“Aren’t you going to… I don’t know, brush your teeth or something?” he says, before I can commence my smooching plans.

“Oh, right, so your arse is good enough for my mouth, but not yours?” I say, amused. “I can’t give you back food poisoning. Trust me, David, after the amount of sampling each other’s bodily fluids we’ve done since last night, whatever we’re sharing, we’re sharing. Arse-munching notwithstanding.”

But, in deference to David’s tender feelings, I grab a glass of water from the bedside table and gargle briefly and theatrically, before spitting it back in the glass.

“Better?” I say.

“Somehow… worse?” David says.

“Ugh, I just can’t please you,” I flop over dramatically on my back, one arm still cradling him, the other stapled to my forehead. But I can't manage to stay in character, and a second later, I'm back to my original plan of kissing him, and judging by the soft little kisses he's giving back, he doesn't really mind that much.

I pick up the creamed towel and evict it from the bed, along with the now very manky flannel, and pull the duvet up over us both, resting on my elbow and running a gentle hand up and down his midline. He’s all melted and soft, and I just want to eat him with a spoon, he’s so fucking pretty.

“That was so insanely hot, David,” I murmur. “I’m so proud of you for asking for what you want. You’re so fucking hot. I nearly forgot and blew my load all over you,” I confess. “Top three orgasms of my life, easily.”

“Fucking… same,” the David-puddle says from under my hand. I kiss him again.

“Giving you the best orgasms of your life might be my latest obsession,” I muse.

“I guess I’ll have to find a way to put up with your new weird hobby,” David snorts, without opening his eyes. “Until you get bored and take up needlepoint or trainspotting or collecting vinyl or whatever.”

“Ugh, collecting vinyl,” I gag comically.

We’re quiet for a bit, just me caressing and kissing him, and him half-snuggled into me like a big blond teddy bear.

“Hey, David,” I eventually say. “I’ve been meaning to tell you… I’m really sorry I didn’t notice that you were a bit wobbly, that last day at yours.”

“That’s okay,” David says.

“No, really. I knew you were… sensitive… about this stuff, and I should have been more awake to that.”

“Olly, you don’t have to feel guilty about my baggage,” David says.

For some reason – I couldn’t even tell you why – my spidey-sense suddenly starts tingling at the way David says the word ‘baggage’.

“What do you mean, baggage?” I ask, casually.

“Well, like, just because I’m a bit prone to freaking out over this kind of stuff – like, that’s my shit to deal with, not yours.”

The tingle is almost an itch now.

“Shit to deal with?” I prod very gently. I’m fiddling with my necklace again.

“Well… like, I don’t have the greatest history with, uh. Arse stuff. Um. Receiving, that is.”

The itch has suddenly grown into a blaring alarm with flashing lights and a siren.

“History,” I say, extremely carefully.

“I mean… I had some… not-great experiences at uni. Well, one, anyway. That was enough to put me off this stuff for, like… well, pretty much until I met you, basically.”

Fuck. Fucketty fucketty fuckington fuckasaurus rex. Why didn’t I see this coming? Jesus. I can’t fuck this up again and send him into another tailspin.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” I say, firmly.

David’s quiet for a long time. I keep stroking his skin, up and down from his navel to his neck. I actually have to bite the inside of my lower lip to keep myself from filling up the silence.

“I think I want to tell you,” he says. “It’s not, like, that big of a deal, so why not? It was just a shit night where I made a bunch of bad decisions.”

David rolls over so his head’s nestled into my chest. It doesn’t escape my notice that, in this new and extra cuddly position, I can’t see his face. My blood’s roughly the temperature of Antarctica right now.

“So, I moved to Glasgow for uni, as far away from Kent as I could get, and I thought, maybe… maybe I could be someone different. Maybe I could start fresh,” he says. “Glasgow's got forty thousand students; nobody could give two shits what anyone else is up to.

“I even went along to a queer soc mixer, an outdoor barbecue one – pretended I didn't know why they were there, and made out like I was just wandering past and seagulling for free food. Was just enough of a prick to make it believable.

“A few months into first year, once I was settled enough to feel like I knew the place and had sussed out the setup in Halls and all that, I went out to a gay club. Bermuda Pink, I’m pretty sure it was called, had a big neon sign out front. I don’t remember what the night was, but they were having some big event, and it was packed, which suited me fine. I had these grand plans to stay under the radar, just check the place out.

“I spent an hour picking my outfit. An hour. Picking out jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Hot, but anonymous, and deniable. I had my lines all worked out; ‘Oh, sorry, mate, I’m straight, just here with my friend for his birthday.’

“But then, this guy came up to me while I was propping up the bar, fucking ten-out-of-ten stunner he was, and he leans into my ear like he’s going to say something, because it was so fucking loud in there, but then he just licks my ear and feeds me a shot and starts kissing me. I’d already had a few drinks to get up the balls to go there in the first place.

“I was too surprised to do much, so I figured, for once, why pretend I wasn’t enjoying it? He was snogging me already, and in this place, I’d be more memorable if I made a scene. Then he was introducing me to his mates. And then they were kissing me, and each other. And there were more drinks. I don’t even remember how many.

“And then we were going somewhere, back to someone’s apartment, and it was hot and I was so excited and I was so pissed I didn’t give two shits who saw me or how gay I was. I think I might have thrown up in a bin on the way to wherever we ended up.

“And then, suddenly, everyone was getting naked, and taking my clothes off and cooing over my dick, and I don’t even remember it properly? Just, like… flashes? And it was nice at first, when we were all just giving each other blowjobs. But then they…”

He trails off for a moment.

“…and it hurt. Like, a lot. I don’t even know if it was all the same guy. I think they might have… taken turns?”

On second thoughts, thank fuck he’s got his face buried in my chest, because I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of keeping the abject horror off mine.

“Oh my god, David, I’m so sorry,” I murmur into the top of his head, reeling him in tight.

“I wanted them to stop, but I think I’d said yes to it, and I was so drunk, I didn’t know how to… so I just gritted my teeth and waited til it was over. It ended up with them all falling asleep, and me eventually just getting dressed and stumbling out. I got a taxi home and sat in the shower for an hour.”

“David.” My heart is boiling with rage and love and helplessness.

“It’s okay, I mean, it was a long time ago. I just— it’s just, that stuff freaks me out a bit now.”

I can’t even begin on the understatement involved in that one. “David, jerk of my heart, I’m not saying you should have led with this when I first started bringing up moving into this territory, because you don’t owe your trauma to anyone, but, uh, you probably should have led with this.”

“Oh my god, Olly, it’s not trauma, it’s just a nasty experience. Sometimes shit happens and you just have to take the hit and get past it,” David says.

“That actually sounds like a pretty accurate definition of trauma,” I point out.

“Why must everything be so dramatic with Gen Z,” he mutters.

I refuse to take the bait. I’ve got him wrapped up so tight I might start digesting him soon, like a carnivorous plant. “All that time, I thought I just had to help you through a hefty serve of common, garden, original-flavour internalised homophobia. If I’d known you went through that, I’d never have…”

I break off and start again. “I’m so sorry, David. I know I don’t have to apologise, because obviously I couldn’t have known, but I’m still sorry I blithely crashed through something so painful.”

“It’s not—” he blusters, unconvincingly. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“I mean…” How the fuck do I break this to him? “From what you described, that kind of sounds like, maybe… you know… sexual assault?” I say, gently.

“What?” he laughs. “I literally said yes.”

“Did you, though? To anal?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t say no,” he says, as though that settles the question. God, millennials.

“If you were drunk, you weren’t really able to give consent. That makes it sexual assault.” I say, firmly.

“What, so every time I’ve hooked up drunk, or with someone who’s drunk, it’s been a crime?” he snorts. “My god, I must have my photo on so many cop shop walls. Most wanted.”

“I’m serious, David.” I don’t laugh at the joke. “You weren’t legally able to consent.”

“You and I didn’t hook up sober for months,” he says.

“That’s—” I stop mid sentence, close my mouth, open it, and close it again.

“Different?” he says. “How? Because it was great, not horrible?”

“Um…” I trail off. I’m sure there’s an answer to this, if only I’d read the right article or seen the right tiktok or whatever, but I can’t for the life of me think what it is. Or… do I have some kind of serious culpability for our hookups? Or him? Who’s the one who gets the caning in a drunken blowjob-and-mutual-handjob?

“I don’t get why you’re so set on this,” he says. “Sometimes bad sex is just bad. It’s not illegal to be a shitty, inconsiderate cunt in bed.”

Some fucking criminologist I am right now. I’m just opening and closing my mouth like a fucking goldfish. But you know what? Fuck the legal definitions. Without my reference library, I’m gonna stick to what I know: feelings. I sigh and bury my cheek in his hair.

“Look, something happened to you, David. Something that hurt you, something you never actually said yes to, something you didn’t know how to say no to or stop, something that went well beyond the bounds of what you wanted to do or were comfortable with, all while you were very mentally impaired. Personally – if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…”

I take a breath and renew my hold on him.

“It’s not like we’re ever going to track these guys down and drag them in front of a jury, so really, whether you call it sexual assault or just bad sex… I guess it’s really just about whatever helps you best understand that experience. The pain it caused, the damage it did, what it took from you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They didn’t take anything from me,” he says.

“Really? Nothing? You woke up the next day still excited about exploring your queer side?”

“I mean—” he cuts himself off. “I suppose—” He stops again. “No, I s’pose not.”

“For all this time, did you have any queer folks in your life who you could talk to?”

“...no,” he says.

“They should have been those people. They should have met you, welcomed you, looked after you, supported you. Taken some pastoral fucking care of you. They should have been your queer fairy godmothers, and instead, they fucked you up and sent you screaming back into the arms of straightness.”

I’m surprised by how angry I am. Like, it would be impossible to like these guys, but right now, I’m 100% sure that if you handed me the detonator that blew up these dudes’ heads right now, they’d be toast.

“I mean… whatever, it doesn’t matter,” David says, but he sounds distinctly wobbly.

“Shut up,” I say, lovingly, pulling him up to kiss me. “You don’t ever have to bottom if you don’t want to, but if you do, I will make it my life’s mission to replace every shitty memory with a good one, a hundred times over.”

He gives up fighting. “God, I love you so much, Olly,” he says, squinching his eyes shut. I can see the little drops escaping at the edges.

I kiss him, then I kiss him some more, and after that, I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Chapter Text

I kind of just want to stay here in our room and never let David out of my sight again, just squeezing him protectively like a helicopter mum, but after a while, he starts getting bored. And, like, fair enough; we’ve been in this room since last night. David calls to reserve us a table in the restaurant, but that’s not for a couple of hours yet, so I tuck away my overprotective freakout into my back pocket, and we scrape our clothes on to go and explore the hotel grounds.

It’s a beautiful day: clear, crisp, cold. There are a bunch of people on the front lawn shooting clay pigeons, and while I would quite like to murder something, I don’t really want to deal with other people right now, so I drag David round to the ornamental lake at the back.

I have a go on the rope swing by the lakeshore. David, who apparently investigated the welcome hamper in a much more thorough way than I did, throws pellets to the ducks from a little paper bag. It’s idyllic, until the ducks climb out of the water and start mobbing him, at which point he panics, piffs the remainder of the bag’s contents into the lake and flees in the opposite direction, while I crack up laughing and shamelessly film the whole thing.

David gets his revenge shortly afterwards, when I overestimate my irresistibility, and one of the sheep in the sheep meadow – instead of becoming my new sheepy best friend, like I’d planned – decides I’d be fun to headbutt. I get chased in several hectic circles before I manage to dodge back to the stile, where David’s leaning, complaining wheezily that it’s hard to hold the camera steady when he’s laughing this hard.

I try to maintain my grump, panting like a frenchie, but it’s hard to do when I get to watch him out here in the bright afternoon sun, laughing with his whole entire self. And then he kisses me without even checking to see if there’s anyone around, and I swear I can see little cartoon fireworks go off all around us. Why does every kiss today feel like it’s the first time I’ve ever kissed David Nelson?

I sneak my hand into his as we walk around the little copse of trees at the back of the lake, folding our fingers together, and as I do, I realise – Is this the first time we’ve ever done that?

Eventually, it gets too cold to be out any longer – it’s bloody Baltic out here – and we head back inside, into the main hotel building, and squirrel ourselves into one of the eleven billion ye olde seatinge itemes the place is crusted with. I swear, in this place, if there’s a square metre in between a fire extinguisher and an emergency exit map, it’s got a wingback armchair in it.

We end up settling in one next to the massive fireplace in the wood-panelled foyer, which is guarded by a huge pair of extra-doggy shishi guardian lion statues. Perhaps they’re here to prevent the descent of any portly, bearded undesirables in red fur-trimmed outfits.

“Do you think there are any secret passages behind this wainscoting?” I wonder vaguely, poking the nose on a carving of a medieval-looking chap. I’ve still got the other hand tangled up in David’s – even though we’re back in the hotel now and there are occasional people around, he doesn’t seem to mind.

With his spare hand, he gets out his phone and pulls up the video of me getting harassed by a sheep, which he proceeds to watch several times on loop. After the fourth sniggering re-watch, I manage to extract my phone and send him the duck video to shut him up.

A moment later, he suddenly pricks up.

“Holy fucking shit, Olly,” he says. “That mate of yours from down the pub on Christmas Eve, Billy, he’s… he and Tom are…”

“Oh. Yeah. Your mate Tom is banging my ex Billy,” I nod. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. In my defense, it’s been a busy time.”

“You knew?” he yelps. He sounds slightly outraged.

“Yep. Billy was telling me at the pub about the older guy he met at summer football coaching, and I was just about to start commiserating when you showed up, and all hell broke loose.”

David shows me the group chat, where Tom has posted a super-cute photo of him and Billy, in what I recognise – from many a fine after-school hook-up – as Billy’s bedroom, in the granny annexe at the back of his parents’ garden.

I finally check my messages, and there’s one from Billy that just says ‘The FUCK did you DO, Spring 💜💙💚💛🧡❤️💀💀💀💋💋💋’.

I make David take a photo of me pretending to pick the nose of beardy medieval carved panelling man, and send it back with the caption ‘soz can’t talk now, doing hot girl shit’.

I’d’ve taken it myself, but I don’t want to let go of his hand, and it seems like he doesn’t either.

He ends up smooshed right against me, where I’m propping up the sofa’s armrest – like, not quite publicly snuggling, but not far off – and it’s such a tiny thing, but it fucking makes my heart want to burst.

A few minutes pass in silence, until David jerks away suddenly.

“Euuuurgh, fucking hell, Olly,” he says in a completely disgusted tone, sitting up and staring at his phone.

“What now?” I say.

“I just googled ‘blumpkin’.”

I think it’s perfectly reasonable that I lose my shit laughing for a full three minutes at that.

—

By the time our dinner reservation rolls up, I’m a little bit resentful that we have to sit on opposite sides of a table, no matter how crisp the linen or shiny the cutlery. I’m reduced to playing footsie under the table; I just want to have some part of me touching him the whole time. I gather one of his feet and hook both of mine around it.

We order dinner – sage and butternut gnocchi and a crispy tofu and green mango salad for me, scallops and a rack of lamb for David.

“Not getting the steak? Who even are you?” I goad him.

He shrugs. “I’d’ve thought you’d be all in favour of me getting the lamb after your little adventure this afternoon,” he says, deadpan.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to request a particular sheep,” I sigh tragically. “And I’m not going to extract my vengeance on any old sheep.”

“Do you think you’d eat meat if they could guarantee all the animals it came from were arseholes?” David asks.

“And just like that, we’re back to arguments in favour of eating the rich,” I pick up my knife and fork and bonk them, handle-first, on the table. “You look particularly delicious today, David,” I lick my lips.

He snorts. “Seriously, though. Would you?”

“I’m way too lazy to want to constantly worry about that level of ethical ambiguity. Better to just stay on the safe side.”

David loses the trail of the conversation, and stares out one of the big picture windows at the setting sun. It’s lighting him up in a golden glow. He’s so beautiful that it almost feels like it physically hurts. I pull out my phone and sneak a picture. I cannot fucking believe anyone has ever had the fucking gall to so badly mistreat something so goddamn precious and fragile.

“I cannot fucking believe I came out to the Truham lads,” he says.

Fuck. I’d almost forgotten about that.

“How are you feeling about it?” I try out, neutrally.

“I don’t know. Good? Weird. Relieved. Still kind of scared?”

“Scared how?”

“I guess… well, Biggsy was exactly as much of a cunt as I expected him to be about it,” he says, fiddling with his water glass. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to worry that people are going to be like that every bloody time I tell them.”

Twist, stab.

“Look, I don’t want to paint a picture like being queer is drama-free and that nobody’s ever going to be a prick about it ever again,” I start. “But, like… I don’t know. You’re not a teenager risking being kicked out of home, so Biggsy-level shit is about the worst you’ll ever be risking, especially if you stay away from the kinds of places where happiness goes to die and hate crimes are still Saturday night entertainment. And you handled him just fine today.”

“Well, Nate and Rory handled him,” David points out.

“As if you couldn’t have obliterated that unoriginal little pimple in a heartbeat,” I remind him. “Whip out one of your patented David Nelson ‘What? I’m just saying…’ takedowns. And remember, if people act like sacks of shit when you come out to them, not only are you permitted to be as mean to them as you like, but people will cheer you on.”

He laughs at that and goes back to staring out the window. I have to stop myself leaping out of the chair and tackling him into another hug. Instead, I joggle the feet I’ve got wrapped around his until he comes back to me.

“Love you, David,” I tell him. “You’re strong, and brave, and amazing, and I love you.”

He smiles, and it feels like the sunshine that’s pouring through the window just tripled. Which I get to enjoy for precisely six seconds before the bloody waiter arrives with our entrees.

Dinner’s nice. Our meals are served on vast white plates with sauce applied in artistic swirls and smears. I tell him about replaying the entire Portal series. He tells me about Archana, the co-worker who he went to pieces on.

“She actually said she’d thought I was a bit of a douchebag the first time she met me,” he admits. “She’s been really… cool, actually? Just jumped in feet-first. I don’t know why. Fuck, I need to text her and let her know we’re back together.” He starts tapping hastily.

“Here, let me send you a pic for her,” I suggest. I forward him one of the selfies I took of us walking this afternoon: a really cute one of me trying to jam my tongue up his nose while he tries to flail me off, laughing and protesting. It was quite a feat to take, and I’m inordinately proud of it. For a second I think about making it my phone wallpaper, until I remember we’re still kinda in incognito mode.

“Oh my god, Olly, did you take any photos where we don’t look actually straitjacket-level insane?” David complains. I sigh and forward him the Hallmark one from moments before, where I am merely besottedly kissing his temple while he beams.

“Yeah, Arch kinda saved my life a little bit,” he admits. “She talked me out of a bunch of stupid stuff, like when I wanted to drive over to yours and just park outside so I could watch your apartment in case you came out, and when I was trying to stalk all your mates online, and when I was trying to look up your class timetable, and shit like that.”

“Wow, David, how very Twilight of you,” I muse. “Really showing your millennial colours there, huh?”

“Fuck off,” he says, looking everywhere but at me. “I was a miserable, desperate sack of shit.”

“Hey!” I swat him with my napkin. “No shit-talking my boyfriend!”

“Okay, okay,” he smiles. “But, yeah… it’d be cool if you might want to meet her?”

I feel the grin creeping across my face. “I’d really like that, David.”

We share a vanilla cheesecake, then I decide I’ve had enough of not being naked, take him back to our room and let him blow me in the bathtub until I’m practically screaming, then return the favour on my knees as he leans up against the wall, his hands in my hair and his head thrown back.

Then I drag him into bed, along with blåhaj and my new blanket on top of us, and put on Schitt’s Creek on my phone, until at some point, we both fall asleep in a warm, tangled pile.

—

I wake up slowly, reluctantly, early, in the grey cold winter dawn. I don’t want to leave our little bubble and go back to the real world, where parents and siblings and housemates and obligations and reality and rampant homophobia might leap out from behind a door at any moment.

As I slide out of bed and head for the bathroom, I’m momentarily super-jealous of girls, who can just climb right on a dick in the morning the second they wake up, without needing to sneak out to the toilet like a 1950s housewife to do their hair and rinse their arsehole before hubby wakes up. But it’s worth it, when I sneak back and slide in under the toasty duvet next to a still-snoozy David, and he grabs me and pulls me into the warm, tight cave of his muscular arms and even more muscular body, casually throwing a leg over me like he’s trying to stop me escaping, then nuzzles into my shoulder and promptly falls asleep again.

When I wake up again, he’s grinding against me. God, I love waking up with this new David Nelson. Gone is the morning defensiveness. Gone is the buyer’s regret in the harsh light of day. Instead, he’s got me wrapped up even tighter, and there’s a hydraulic piston making itself known somewhere in the vicinity of my balls.

For a moment, I’m consumed with the idea of just letting him push right into me like this and fuck me raw, wondering what it would be like to feel him coming inside me without a condom, of how it would feel to have him dripping out of me. But that’s insane, so I quickly grab a condom out of the box on the bedside table and roll it on him before he can even register what’s happening. Then I lube myself up and start wanking him off with my slick hand, before throwing my legs over his and directing his cock to the Home Office.

It’s slow and warm and comfortable; he’s on his side, I’m on my back, and if he weren’t splitting me in half and sending every nerve ending I’ve got haywire, I might feel like I could just drift back to sleep. He’s got one arm hooked behind my shoulder and the other one parked lazily on my dick, as he slowly shoves further and further in with every stroke. Even though I’ve got my eyes shut, I can feel him watching me.

Neither of us speaks. It’s enough to just be here, together, as close as two people can be, before we have to leave.

Eventually he’s all the way inside me, and I feel so complete and secure; he’s compressing me like the weighted blanket that’s still on top of us, but from the inside. I feel his lips on my shoulder as he fucks slowly into me, his hand moving to my opposite hip to give him better leverage. I don’t mind; I don’t want to come too fast. Maybe I don’t want to come at all. Maybe if I don’t come, we can stay here forever.

But it’s too good, and I can feel the ripples of bliss rising, even though there’s nothing on my dick but air. There are little moaning noises escaping me with every thrust, and I can’t help running my hand down my belly, over where he’s in me, just to feel how far in he must be.

Then David slides his hand over mine, walking his fingers up to correspond to where his dick would reach, and oh, god, why is that so hot? Then he scoops up my dick and grinds it against my belly, and I can’t hold off any more. I throw my head back and let the moans burst out of me with every thrust, and he gets the message and speeds up. I can feel my balls drawing up. I’m so close.

“Fuck, I love you, Olly,” he whispers, and that does me in. I come all over myself under the duvet. He fucks me through it, hand on my cock, rolling his hips into me, and then he’s getting desperate. He drops my cock and returns his hand to my hip, pumping into me hard and fast, his huge length filling my fucked-out post-orgasmic hole, until he shudders and grinds into me, gasping my name as he comes.

—

“Do you think I should keep the beard?”

I walk into the bathroom to find David, in his dressing gown, staring into the mirror and holding a hotel razor.

“Well, I like either way, but given you’re holding the razor already, I figure some part of you is getting itchy,” I diagnose.

“Yeah, I don’t know, it’s almost, like, beard-length now,” he says, contemplating his half-centimetre of scruff. “I could just keep it and see how it looks properly grown out?”

“You’ve literally already picked up the shaving cream, David,” I point out. He looks down at his hand.

“Oh. Right.” He looks mildly confused.

“Like I said… I think you’re smoking hot both ways,” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively. Then I realise what I just said, and quickly change tack back to safer waters. “Clean-cut chiselled CK model David and dashingly scruffy Knight of Gondor David are both welcome in my bed any time you like.”

There’s a knock at the door, and I dash off to admit a giant pile of breakfast: a vege fry-up for me, minus the mushroom, and eggs Benedict for David, plus coffee and a pile of random baked goods, because I had an unstoppable yearning for a croissant. Having unfettered access to David’s wallet is really going to test the powers of my metabolism.

Davide appears in the doorway as the hotel person and I are unloading the last of the food. He’s shaved off the beard, leaving behind just the moustache.

“What do you think?” he says. “Do I look properly Gen Z now?”

For a moment, I actually can’t say anything, it’s so bad. It’s possibly the least decorative face-fuzz I think I can ever remember seeing. He looks like he’s going to try to arrest me for not having a TV license.

“Well, that’s going to haunt my dreams,” I finally say.

“Can I get you anything else?” says the hotel guy – also Gen Z – with a pitying look.

“Got any waxing strips?” I ask. “Or failing that, a stash of replacement boyfriends?”

“I’m so sorry, I think we ran out this morning,” he says, in a deeply apologetic voice.

“Ugh, fine, I thought it was funny,” David faux-grumps back into the bathroom.

“There are just some things you don’t joke about, David,” I say, in a completely serious voice. “You never know whose entire family has been murdered by a rogue moustache.”

The hotel guy snorts and waves himself out, and by the time I’m two inches into my oat flat white, CK Model David has emerged from the bathroom, smelling of shaving cream.

“Oh, thank fuck for that,” I say. He rolls his eyes, but it’s a tactical mistake on his part, because it gives me the distraction I need to pounce on him and kiss him.

—

A couple of hours later, we’re all breakfasted and packed and ready to go. I’m a bit sad, if I’m honest. David makes me check everything three times, and still manages to discover that I’ve accidentally kicked my charger plug under the bed.

David wants to go and sort the checkout stuff without me, but I’m not leaving without saying thank you to my man Roland.

Once I’ve chucked our stuff in the back of the car, I walk back to reception, only to find Roland isn’t there, and David’s talking to a man somewhere in his 60s with strong silver fox vibes. The guy is so crisp he looks like he should be advertising pension funds, or – given his teeth – possibly toothpaste.

“Ahh, and you must be Mr Spring,” he says, as I arrive.

“Olly,” I tell him.

“I do hope you enjoyed your stay, Olly. I’m Phil. One moment, if you wouldn’t mind terribly?” He steps away from the desk and leans through a doorway nearby. “Rollie, darling, they’re checking out now!”

Roland appears, untying an apron.

“Ahh, gents, just wanted to say I hope you had a very pleasant time with us at Chilston, and to wish you both all the very best.” Roland winds his arm around the older man’s waist. Awwww.

“Are you two an item?” I ask.

“For more than thirty years now,” Roland affirms. “I met him two weeks after I arrived in London from Manchester. I got a job waiting tables at First Out, and there he was, and that was it.”

Phil kisses the side of Roland’s head.

“I couldn’t resist the way you sloshed tea all over me,” he says.

“I bloody did not,” Roland denies, smiling. “Anyway, you don’t have to take it on board or anything, we’re a pair of old saps, but the way you two look at each other just reminded me so much of us, back in those days.”

“What was it like, back then?” I ask, leaning on the counter and putting my chin on my hand.

“Pretty scary, actually,” Roland admits. “I’d been too terrified to even kiss a boy back home, for fear of getting my teeth knocked out. I got to London and I thought I was finally safe to be myself, but people were still kicking the bucket left, right and centre. Phil lost a lot of friends. When Phil got his diagnosis a couple of years later, we thought it was curtains. We didn’t know the new treatments were just around the corner. But we made it through. Things are a lot better now. And we had so much fun together, didn’t we?”

Phil nods, looking down at Roland like a lovesick stock photo.

I’m a little bit teary by this point, but I suck it up and pull myself together. Then I change my mind, and run around the counter and hug them both.

“I don’t wanna be a prick and get all misty about queer elders and all that, but thank you,” I sniffle. “Wait, you’re not transphobes, are you?” I pull back.

“No, we’re not transphobes,” Phil laughs.

“Good,” I say, and renew my hug. “We had a really nice time.”

“Well…” Roland looks up at Phil, who nods. “If you don’t have plans for this afternoon, we’d like to invite you to stick around for our buffet dinner, on the house. It’s all very casual, mostly just for the few Christmas guests staying extra nights. There’s a cream afternoon tea as well, and our Marble Lounge always has a big open fire and quite a collection of books and games.”

I can feel I’ve transformed into the misty-eyed face-holding-back-tears emoji.

“Oh my god, you guys,” I barely don’t sniffle.

“That’s… really nice of you,” David says. He sounds a bit mushy himself.

“It is a bit chilly, but there are some beautiful walks around here, even in winter, and it’s not supposed to rain until later,” Phil smiles, fishing out a couple of brochures, although he’s a little bit hindered by me hugging them again.

“Um… is it weird to ask… how old you both are?” David says.

Roland beams. “I’m fifty-one,” he says. “Phil here is sixty-eight. He’s got seventeen years on me.”

“Sixteen and a half,” Phil protests.

“You two are so fricking cute,” I whisper.

Roland gets all business-like all of a sudden and pretends not to sneakily mop a tear.

“Anyway, gents, it’s been a real pleasure. And do come and stay with us again soon.”

As we wave our way out of reception, I glance back to find Phil has Roland in a big hug.

It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. Pure fucking coincidence. Just the universe being a twee fucker. Of course they gave us a complimentary dinner, I’m adorable. I’m not feeling at all unsettled or anything. I definitely don’t look at David and wonder what he’d look like with grey hair. I pull out my vape for no reason whatsoever and huff a few lungfuls of pink-lemonade-flavoured nicotine.

David’s apparently in a similar headspace, because he doesn’t know what to do after we get outside. He starts walking to the car, then walks back, then turns around again.

“Uhhh… what do you want to… do?” he finally says. “Do you want to stick around here? Or…” he trails off.

I really don’t want to go back to Mum and Dad’s place.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I say, in the end. “I could use a bit of exercise.”

“What, this morning wasn’t enough for you?” David smirks.

“Shut up,” I blush.

Chapter Text

One of the brochures Phil gave me has a bunch of local walks in it. Number four promises to take us through the most haunted village in Britain, thus immediately selecting itself as today’s winner. It’s fifteen minutes’ drive away; while David navigates us there, I inveigle myself into an extra pair of socks and my scarf, and try not to freak out about forever, and whether I just got threatened with it at brochurepoint.

Thankfully, Britain’s Most Haunted Village has plenty to distract me from any looming fucking happily-ever-afters. David looks it up while I entirely fail to be useful, jumping on the stone fences, taking photos of myself with scarecrows and climbing on rusted-out farming equipment. Apparently we’re on the lookout for a phantom coach and horses, a drowned Romani woman, a highwayman hiding in a tree, various hangings and enraged ladies…

“And apparently, the hanging body of a schoolmaster in Dicky Buss’s Lane,” David concludes.

“Sorry, whose lane now?” I explode in a fit of the giggles. “Oh my god, we have to go there right now.”

I tow David to the lane in question. Well, at any rate, I strike out confidently at random, until David tells me I’m going the wrong way, so I about-face and tow him the other way, until eventually he manages to shout some directions.

Heartbreakingly, there’s no sign for me to get a selfie with, but that doesn’t stop me going all the way up Dicky Buss’s Lane. If you know what I mean. And what I mean is that I literally walk all the way up it.

Eventually, we get off on the official walk, which apparently is in honour of some old TV show they filmed here several thousand years ago. After about forty minutes of running ahead and zipping back and skipping and climbing on more fences and taking photos of everything, I can feel the edge come off my low-grade mania. After another twenty minutes, I kind of crash completely, sacking out on a log in a little grove off the side of the path.

“Here,” David says. He’s holding out one of the leftover blueberry muffins from breakfast, wrapped in a napkin. He must have packed it for me like I’m a toddler who needs a snack, which probably wouldn’t annoy me so much if it weren’t apparently the literal fucking truth.

“You’re lucky I love you,” I grump, biting into the muffin resentfully.

“What?” he laughs. “I have literally no idea what is going on right now.”

“Shut up,” I haul him down to sit next to me and give him half the muffin.

The log I made my final stand on is pretty fucking picturesque: we’re in a copse beside a little stream. It’s nice. I rest my chin on David’s shoulder as we look out over the burbling water. He smells rich and warm, like spice and cinnamon.

“Why do you smell like a pumpkin spice latte?” I ask, burying my face under David’s coat collar, in his jumper. He sniffs at his cuff, embarrassed.

“Oh, god. Yeah. Sorry. Mum got me this jumper for Christmas. She likes to put cinnamon sticks in them when she wraps them, so we’ll ‘feel festive’ for a couple of months afterwards,” he admits.

“Well, you can spice my pie any time you like, Nelson,” I smirk.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Olly,” he snorts, kissing my cheek.

“It’s innuendo, David. It’s an optical illusion. Your brain fills in any gaps with filth. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Actually, come to think of it… I look around carefully. The path is completely empty. The fields around us are even emptier. We haven’t seen a single person on this walk – not even in the village. Alive or otherwise. So…

“Ok… yep. I want you to fuck me up against a tree like I’m Maggie Gyllenhaal and you’re James Spader,” I announce.

“James Spader? Like… the old guy from Blacklist, James Spader?” he says, utterly bewildered.

“Oh, David, I have such a present for you later… But right now, I really need you to fuck me up against a tree.” Looking around, I’ve already spotted the perfect tree; nice, flat, slightly concave, sheltered from the path.

“This is fucking nuts, Olly. We can’t fuck in public. It’s bloody arctic out here. Your balls will drop off.”

“Yes, but David, counterpoint,” I argue, “I want to.”

“How would this even work, exactly?” he challenges me. Heh. Mistake. I love a challenge. I start unlacing my boots and David rolls his eyes so hard I can actually hear them creaking.

“Can’t I just give you a perfectly nice blowjob instead?” he wheedles, as I spring up and dash over to my tree, dragging him with me. I pull off my coat, laying it on the ground so I can step out of my boots in my socked feet.

“Nope. I want to get railed against a tree, the breeze on my arse, the bark on my back. It’s just a pity we don’t have any rope for you to tie me up,” I insist.

“For me to what?” he says, momentarily shocked out of his boomer rant about practicality.

“Like I said… I have such a present for you. But would you like that? Tying me to a tree and fucking me?”

David is utterly speechless, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. For a second I think I might have gone too far, when he crashes into me full-force, pinning me to the tree, kissing me and ripping at the button on my jeans. Fuuuuuuuuuck. I can almost hear the ‘Level Up’ sound effect somewhere.

“Condom,” he says, between kisses. “Lube.”

I manage to pull my stash out of my jeans pocket, before I yank them and my pants off entirely. I’m now basically naked from the waist down, and I’d say it’s fucking cold as a witch’s tits, but actually my tits are pretty warm right now, with David’s hands on them under my shirt.

He grabs the lube and condom from me, to my surprise.

“Don’t you want me to—”

“Shut up,” he says, holding me effortlessly against the tree with his body. He reaches under me, lifting up one leg, and I feel his wet fingers smearing up my crack until they hit the jackpot, pushing lube into me as he smashes his mouth on mine.

Fuuuuuck. Yesterday I had him trussed up like a roast, begging for my tongue, and today he’s got me pinned like a mouse under a housecat’s paw and I fucking love it. I wrap my arms around his neck and just let it happen.

I can’t see between us, but I’m pretty sure he’s rolling on a condom, and then he’s pushing that wet dick between my legs and hoisting me bodily off the ground. Oh, fuck. Fuck. I wrap my naked legs around his waist and before I can say ‘Fuck me now, daddy’, he’s pushing into me.

We only fucked, like, a few hours ago, and thank fuck for that, because he is not holding back. He’s pushing past all my resistance and I have to tell him to slow down. He does, but he growls, and it’s so goddamn hot I clench up even more. I have to take a second to focus on relaxing for him, which is really hard when he’s biting and sucking at my neck and pulsing up into me just enough to make me feel it. Eventually he’s in most of the way, and I give him the okay, and it’s like I’ve unleashed the beast.

He’s hammering up into me like he’s mining for diamonds, his body hard and tensed against mine; I knew this would be good, but I didn’t think it would be this good. He sucks my bottom lip in between his teeth, and I’m helpless. He’s got me literally by the balls; I’m just his plaything. David Nelson is finally off the leash, and it is everything I dreamed about and more.

“God, Olly, I wanna tie you up and fuck you,” he grates, letting my lip go. “I wanna make you mine. I wanna fuck you so hard I leave an imprint of my cock on your insides, so hard that when I take my dick out of you, you miss it like it’s a piece of you. I wanna fuck you for hours on end. I want to gag you on my dick while you’ve got that pretty rainbow plug in your arse and your hands behind your back. I wanna make you come over and over again, screaming my name and begging me for more. Fuck, Olly, I want to own you, just a tiny fraction of the way you own me.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes yes yes yes,” I’m saying, with every thrust of David’s cock into me. It starts out quiet, but by the time he fucks his way past that last tricky couple of inches, I’m pretty much screaming. I take my hands off David’s neck and wrap them around the tree behind me, and it just sends David even wilder, railing up into me like I’m a fucktoy.

“You like that? You like that, my pretty little slut? You like spreading your legs for me and letting me throw you around like a doll? You like being at my mercy?”

“Holy fuck, David,” I moan. “I don’t know when you grew this filthy mouth but I am here for it,”

“Yeah, you are. You’re here for me.” He rams his dick home again and again, and holy shit, could I come just from this? But then he slips his hand in between us and I’ve got no choice.

“Oh Christ, fuck me, David, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come so hard, please, please fuck me, I want you to come in me, please, please, yes, yes, yes—”

David’s breath starts catching in that way that means he’s close, and he starts full-on pounding his dick into me. He’s barely remembering to stroke me now, but it doesn’t matter; just the occasional jerk of his hand and the ramming of his fat cock deep inside me is enough to push me into ecstasy, and I’m coming so hard I can’t breathe, and it just goes on, and on, and on.

Time has lost all sense of meaning when I finally come back to myself. The wash of pleasure ebbs away, and for a moment, I’m just dazed and contented and happy and a blob of wellbeing.

Then reality reasserts itself, and I slowly become aware that I’m quite uncomfortable. The rough bark on the tree is jammed into my back where my hoodie has ridden up. The tingles in my extremities are dying off, revealing that I’m quite fucking frosty in my bare legs and socked feet, actually. My arse is cold and wet with lube, and worst of all, I think I’ve got a cramp threatening in my calf.

David’s still in me, collapsed against my neck, when I tap him urgently.

“Cramp. Cramp, ow, put me down, put me down, ow ow ow,” I insist. Hastily, he grabs the condom and pulls out, and I did not think this through, because my legs give way and I pretty much immediately collapse on the ground. Thank fuck I put my coat down, but I only land half on it, and I can feel twigs and dirt on my cold, sticky arse.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” I say, in an entirely different tone of voice to earlier. The threatening cramp is now on me in full force. I’m rolling around in low-grade agony. Immediately, David’s on the ground, pulling my leg out and pushing my toes, massaging my screaming calf muscle, until the cramp finally lets me go.

“Uggggghhhhhh, whyyyyyyy,” I cry, as he pulls me to my feet. My entire arse is covered in leaf litter and twigs. My hoodie has a massive smear of come up the front of it. David’s jumper has fared a little better, but he hasn’t escaped unscathed either, and… well, he’s still got his dick out, in its little saggy rubber suit with the now-deeply-unsexy white glob on the end, which he has to take an also-deeply-unsexy moment to deal with.

“Turn around, let me sort you out too,” David says, pulling out the muffin napkin. I turn and put my arms up against the tree, and David starts picking bits of god-knows-what out of places god-knows-what should not be, and wiping the remains of the lube off my nethers. He declares me as sorted as he can get me, and I get back into my pants and jeans; not a moment too soon, because I’m starting to properly shiver now.

“Fuck, my toes are so cold,” I complain, buttoning my jeans. He doesn’t comment, just crouches down and rubs them vigorously between his hands before putting my boots out for me to step into. By the time he’s using the last ragged remnants of the napkin to dab at the stains on my hoodie, then his jumper, I’m feeling a little bit less pathetic.

“I think that might be the literal definition of a clusterfuck,” I say, feeling a trace of a smile tug at the corner of my mouth, as David wraps the condom in the dirty napkin and balls the whole lot up in his coat pocket.

David makes an indecipherable noise and puts his hands around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss.

“Proper hot mess,” he says, running his fingers down my cheek. “Holy fuck, that was hot. And we are never doing it again.”

“Amen,” I agree, rubbing at my hand, which I apparently scraped raw on the bark on the way down. “Maggie G made it look so easy and practical, and she was in a dress and heels.”

“Come on,” David says, as I pick up my lube-smeared jacket off the ground and do my best to shake it out. “There’s a pub in Little Chart, it’s only fifteen minutes’ walk from here. We can eat and get properly sorted there.”

They’re basically the longest fifteen minutes of my life. David must have missed something, or maybe it got into my pants on the ground, but I have to stop to fish a bit of… matter… out of my arsecrack. My toes are cold and my fingers are colder. The cramp keeps threatening to return. The scrape on my hand hurts… well, like buggery, really.

It’s not until we’re tucked in by the fire in the pub’s back room, with a couple of hot toddies and some cheese croquettes and chips and an Eton mess on the way, my leg up on David’s lap and him giving me a proper vice-grip calf massage with his Sports Guy skills, that I start to feel a bit better.

We made a beeline for the gents on arrival, so I’ve managed to get most of the lube out of the lining of my coat, and both our jumpers are now relatively clear of the Devil’s hollandaise – thank fuck, wool is hydrophobic and polyester dries quickly – and by the time the fried cheese and potato shows up and I manage to get myself around it, I’m feeling practically human again.

“How much longer is the rest of the walk?” I ask David.

“Are you kidding?” David says incredulously. “You’re not walking back. You’re staying here in this nice, warm pub while I go get the car and come pick you up.”

God, that gives me the squishies.

“You’d walk all the way back on your own just so I don’t have to?” I say, mushily.

“It’s purely self interest, you’d complain the whole way,” he mutters.

“Awwwww, you love me,” I poke him in the arm.

“So fucking much,” he gazes at me over his drink.

We’re quiet for a bit after that, listening to the fire crackle and sipping our drinks. I sneak a hand onto his leg under the table, and he sneaks his hand on top of mine. When the waiter comes over with our Eton mess, I ask for two spoons, and I don’t move my hand. David doesn’t move his, either. After he leaves, we eat our pud one-handed, my fingers woven into his.

I can’t stop thinking about stupid Roland and his stupid happily ever after.

“Have you ever been in love before?” I eventually find myself asking David.

“I… don’t know. I don’t think so,” he says, eventually.

“…me neither,” I say.

Chapter Text

I’m just polishing off the last bit of meringue and gearing up for a rant about how flavoured lube is a Valentine’s Day scam for straight people and a short road to yeast infections, when David starts in surprise.

“Oh my god,” he says, staring out the small, high window.

“What?” I say, looking around.

“It’s snowing,” he says, wonder in his voice.

We look at each other for a moment, and then, like someone’s fired a starter pistol, we’re both up and shrugging back into our now-dry clothes.

“Do you want my jumper?” David asks, holding it out. “I’ve got my coat, and I run hot.”

Cut to me, halfway into my hoodie, eyes the size of watery saucers, full-on sad_hamster.gif. Fucking… this whole ‘love’ bullshit is killing me.

I reverse out of my hoodie, and instead pull the warm wool jumper over my head, shaking out my curls. I’m greeted, as I emerge, by a look of such utter besottedness that I can respond only one way.

“Like seeing me in your clothes, do you, Nelson?” I purr.

“I have lost count of how much of my clothing you’ve stolen, Olly,” he says. “I’m surprised I have any pants or T-shirts left.”

“Hmmm, that doesn’t sound like a ‘no’ to me,” I muse, stroking the russet wool just around the edge of my (nonexistent) tiddies. “Though it’s a little loose around the décolletage. Must have been stretched out by your B-cups.”

“I’m sure we can get you some chicken fillets if you’re worried,” David snorts.

I shrug my hoodie and jacket over the jumper and David pulls on his coat.

“Just so you know, we are not having sex again,” he says as I drag him towards the door.

“Spoilsport,” I pout.

Outside, the already biscuit-tin-worthy town has turned into a gingerbread wonderland. Somehow, the sun is still peeking through a hole in the clouds, and white flakes are falling gently all around us. It must have been snowing for a bit before we noticed, because there’s actually an inch or so on the ground already. The whole car park is a vast white powdery sheet, the picnic tables by the river poking up like Christmas cakes.

“Wow,” I breathe.

“God, it’s so pretty,” David breathes.

We look at each other.

I take off running across the car park. David scoops up a fistful of snow and comes after me. I’ve got a head start and longer legs; I leap the fence into the pub’s little playground and sweep a load of snow off the slide, turning and launching it into David’s face just as the snowball leaves his hand. I duck, but slip and end up on my back in the snow. David immediately scoops a fresh handful of snow and dumps it directly on my face.

Then he kisses my snowy face, and I’m suddenly less worried about who’s winning. His lips are so hot in the freezing cold, and even though not three minutes ago, he swore we weren’t fucking again, this kiss says I want you, Olly, more clearly than if he’d written it with a sparkler attached to his erect dick. Goddamn it, I’ve got zaps up and down my spine.

I lean up and into the kiss, savouring his newly-shorn mouth, gently taking his bottom lip in between mine, letting him push his tongue into my mouth.

Then I mash another fistful of snow into his face, leap to my feet and skid off towards the picnic table, laughing like a maniac.

Eventually, after a pitched battle by a parked Range Rover with me shrieking and David stuffing snow down my collar, I admit defeat and we both end up flopped on the snowy grass. I drag him in for a selfie. David’s got leaves in his hair. I’m so snowy I look like a coconut mushroom. We’re both grinning like idiots. We’re so fucking cute I want to throw up on us.

“Come on,” I say, “Let’s get going before I get frostbite. Or projectile vomit from how nauseatingly adorable we are.”

“God, why are we like this?” David say in a disgusted tone, looking at the selfie I just sent him. He makes a noise like a cat horking up a hairball.

“Don’t ask me, dickhead,” I dust myself off. “I mean, I’m cute as all fuck off no matter what I’m doing, but you? You’re a mystery. Can’t think of a single reason I like you.”

“Get fucked,” he says, clambering to his feet.

I put my finger thoughtfully to my chin and drift my other hand down to my fly. “I’m really not sure I could manage a third go round, David, but if you insist, I’ll give it a try.”

“Oh my god, Olly, don’t even joke about that, my dick will drop off with frostbite,” he says, grabbing my hand instead. “Then it’ll get lost in the snow and some poor dog-walker will find it and I’ll end up on the six o’clock news.”

“What’s the six o’clock news?” I say, keeping a straight face, but he clocks it and punches me in the shoulder.

We’re back at the car before I realise.

“Do you have to go back to your folks’ place tonight?” David asks, as we drive through the maze of country lanes back to the hotel.

“Uggggghhhhhhhhhh,” I moan, by way of explanation.

“I could drop you there and stay at Mum’s?” he suggests. The unspoken and pick you up and take you home in the morning and give you nine screaming orgasms is loud and clear.

“I don’t have to stay there,” I muse, pensively. “But Mum will have kittens if she doesn’t see me before I go back. In her head, apparently, her children’s independent adulthood only reasserts itself once we’ve formally waved goodbye to her on the doorstep. And I did leave a bunch of stuff there.”

“How about we go back to the hotel, waste some time, then we can go back to Rochester after dinner and I’ll take you back to town tomorrow morning?”

“That sounds…” like this bubble is about to pop “…like a plan.”

It doesn’t take us long to get settled in an overstuffed sofa in the hotel lounge. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. It’s cosy in front of the fire, and David’s reading out the rules of some insanely complicated card game he’s found on the games shelf.

“Okay, so, each player gets a hand of 13 cards from the 33-card deck, and the goal is to win tricks by playing the highest-value card. Higher value can be relative, though: every odd-numbered card modifies the game slightly, giving you powers such as switching out the trump suit…”

“…or forcing the other player to play…”

“…a certain…”

“…card…’

—

I wake up to find myself curled up, my head on David’s lap. It’s dark outside, and the fire is crackling beside us.

David’s absent-mindedly stroking my hair and reading a book – where did he get that from? – and he looks… comfortable and content?

I’m not gonna lie, it’s a look I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before. It’s… weird. The good kind of weird.

“Did I fall asleep?” I say, pointlessly, as he registers that I’m no longer unconscious.

“Pretty much out cold mid-sentence,” he nods.

“Sorry,” I say. “That must have been boring.”

“Nah, it was fine. Phil snuck me a cup of tea and a book,” he waves it. It’s an Agatha Christie. “I’m pretty sure the coke-fiend archaeologist is actually the dead lady’s long-lost German spy first husband in disguise.”

I turn my face to nuzzle his midsection, which after a second or so, I realise is actually his crotch. I hmmmm in pleasant realisation and rub my cheek on the edifice.

“I hope you’re not angling for more insane sex-related antics, because I am still very much at my hard limit for those today,” he says, calmly turning a page. “Anyway, it’s almost dinner time. They’re already setting up the buffet.”

I harrumph in a dignified, mature way and roll over to face the fire. Okay, offensively unfirm dick-pillow notwithstanding, this is really super nice. I know they’re terrible for the environment and fill your lungs with particulates and all that shit, but damn, there’s just something about real flames.

I’m cosy and comfortable and still at least a quarter asleep, so I don’t even bother pulling out my phone. I just lie there, soaking up the vibes, letting David stroke my hair, imagining faces in the flames and listening to David occasionally turn a page above me.

But, y’know, I’m me, so I eventually roll onto my back and stare up at David from under his copy of Murder in Mesopotamia, batting my eyelashes.

He lowers his book and runs a finger along the outside of my face. Nothing else; just that, and then he sits there, looking at me. I feel a slow, warm blush suffusing my face, so I bury it in his crotch again.

“I can’t believe that two days ago I was genuinely considering pushing you fifteen feet out of a treehouse just to get away from you,” I say, in a distinctly muffled voice.

“Best two days of my life,” he says.

I snort.

“Not joking,” David says. “Best. I wouldn’t trade flopping around in the freezing cold with my wet dick out, trying to pull a cramp out of your leg, for tickets to the World Cup.”

I narrow my eyes. “Really?”

He snorts slightly. “Okay, I might. But only if you were coming with me.”

I sit up, and for a second I think he’s going to kiss me; but there are other people in the lounge now, and quite a few people in the restaurant behind us. I catch the familiar look of panic ghosting behind his eyes, and I don’t want it there. I want contented David back.

“Come on, let’s eat, I’m starving,” I tell him.

We load up a couple of plates from the buffet. I wave to Roland, who’s overseeing some kind of house of horrors roastery – which David’s been raiding, judging from how much animal is on his plate.

I can’t be fucked dealing with other guests, but this hotel being what it is, we’ve got our pick of eight thousand upholstered seating options. I drag David back to the lounge and snag a low tea-table between two Chesterfields, only marginally crowded by a three-foot-tall ripped Greek statue, posing heroically with his tits out and a toga that’s juuuust about to fall off his shoulder.

For some reason, I’m fucking starving. Apparently, a walk, a nap and the best al-fresco disaster shag of my short little life really burned the calories today. I inhale half a plate of spicy tofu fried rice, a piece of spanakopita and a mountain of roast veg and gravy pretty much before drawing breath.

“So… what do you want to do for the rest of the week? New Years?” I eventually stop chewing long enough to say. “Go back to yours and learn to make macrame pot plant holders?”

“I’ve got to work on Sunday,” David says. “And Monday and probably part of Tuesday as well.”

“What?” I sputter, narrowly avoiding spitting out the mouthful of water I’d just sipped. “You have to work between Christmas and New Year? Is that legal?”

“Of course it’s legal, Olly,” he snorts, forking up a brussels sprout. Yeick. “I took today off, which I wasn’t planning on doing, so I’ve got shit I have to catch up on before Monday.”

“That’s insane,” I say, aghast. “It’s between Christmas and New Year. The taint of the year. You’re not even supposed to know what day it is, let alone go to work on a Sunday. You need to call your union rep.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not in a union,” he scoffs, like he’s proud of it.

I cover the statue’s ears.

“Don’t listen to him, son,” I whisper, in a heartbroken voice. “He’s not well. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“Pretty sure ancient Greece didn’t have unions either,” David says, spearing something’s mortal remains and smearing them in gravy.

“The literal inventors of collective action as a system of government?” I protest.

David rolls his eyes. “Democracy is not the same thing as unionism,” he lectures. “Unless all those slaves had a union I’m unaware of?”

“God, you’re lucky Charlie’s not here,” I say. “Right now, he doesn’t know why, but his blood pressure is going up. Next time we see him, he’s gonna—”

I slide to a halt mid-sentence so I can extract my foot from my mouth.

David pushes his last lonely brussels sprout round his plate.

“Uh… sorry. I forget you don’t really have much of a package deal going on with them.”

He half-shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. “They don’t need me. We do our own things."

The big unspoken question of ‘how are we going to tell them’ hangs in between us, hovering over the table like an insurmountable blob.

“Why do you give them such a hard time?” I ask. “I mean, other than your whole ‘performative homophobia’ bit.”

“I’ve just… I don’t know. I guess I’ve always been kind of jealous of Nick,” David mutters.

“Well, fair enough, he did manage to successfully pin down some quality Spring merchandise at an early age,” I run a suggestive hand down all of this.

“I mean… that too,” he mutters, staring in the direction of my knees.

“David! You did have a crush on Charlie! I bloody knew it!” I laugh.

“Well, not any more, obviously,” he scoffs, but then his voice gets small as he torments the brussels sprout further. “But yeah. Charlie was great, and Nick and Charlie were great, and it felt like Nick found that so easily. And that even when they were having a shit time with all the… you know… Nick never even doubted himself for a second, or who he was, or what he wanted. He was just a perfect ball of love and sunshine to everyone. He never got pissy, or resentful, or took his feelings out on anyone, or stayed up late, night after night, freaking out that he was a disgusting pervert. I mean, I swear that kid had his bisexual crisis over and done with in about a week.”

Whoah. This has gotten heavier than I’d planned. I was just going to give him a bit of shit for being an arsehole to Nick and Charlie, and now I’ve crashed into yet another yawning pit of unprocessed feelings.

“And you… did get pissy and resentful?” I say, carefully.

David laughs ruefully. “I was a sack of shit to Mum and Nick. Pretty much from the minute Mum kicked Dad out. I was so angry. I ‘accidentally’ locked Nick in the garden shed for hours once. Stole his toys and broke them. Lost my stuff on purpose so Mum had to buy replacements. Hid things around the house that they needed. Once, I must have been about twelve, I tipped out a whole bottle of milk because I knew Nick and Mum were planning to make cupcakes. Told them it smelled weird and I was doing them a favour.

“I mean, Dad left Nick too, but Nick had Mum. Nick was always Mum’s favourite. I was Dad’s. They’re not supposed to have favourites, parents, and they’ll never admit it, but they do. Even now, I still find the two of them snuggled up on the couch watching movies. Mum just always… lit up a little bit more when he was around. It just all seemed easier to take, you know, if I kind of… earned it? Like, I could pretend it was my choice. That I didn’t want them to love me.”

Jesus fucking christ, rip my heart out and run it over a couple of times, why don’t you David? I abandon my side of the table and rush around to his sofa to pull him into my arms. He doesn’t protest.

“You know your mum loves you to bits, right?” I ask.

“She’s legally obliged to,” he mumbles into my T-shirt. “I know she loves me, I just sometimes wonder if she… likes me. At all.”

“Sarah Nelson is the warmest, most caring human being I’ve ever encountered,” I state flatly. “This is the woman who pulled her car over in the middle of a six-lane motorway to rescue a goose.”

David laughs. Percy Nelson’s origin story is legendary. “And frankly, that goose makes you look like a choirboy. He is a feathered terrorist. He once snatched an entire loaf of bread out of my hand.” I coax another wet snigger out of David.

“Your dad left when you were, what, ten? Eleven?” I continue.

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve pretty much been keeping your mum at arm’s length and generally being horrible to her, as well as being horrible to Nick in a way you knew would hurt her, and – catch me if I’m wrong on this one – low-key blaming her for your dad leaving, since you were an actual child?”

“I mean, no, I was…” David stops for a long minute. “No, I… it wasn’t…”

I let the silence percolate.

“Yeah,” he finally says, in the tiniest voice.

“And she still comes round and decorates your house, bakes for you, buys you ugly jumpers at Christmas, keeps a stock of Bovril in the house despite the fact that she and Nick both hate it, tries to set you up with nice girls, looks after you while you’re drunk, and come to think of it, accidentally set you up with me?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Have you considered that maybe it’s time to stop listening to an eleven-year-old’s sage advice on how best to deal with your Dad being a cunt?”

I can literally feel the tears soaking through my shirt.

—

I knock on the Nelsons’ front door. Sarah opens it. She’s confused to see David just standing on the doorstep behind me, and she’s even more confused to see me with him, especially given we both have our own keys. She looks back and forth between us like she’s expecting some kind of hidden camera, or possibly a police escort.

“Hi Sarah. I know it’s technically a couple of days late, but I’ve got another present for you for Christmas,” I say, gently shoving him forward.

David resists for a few seconds, then suddenly launches himself at Sarah, wrapping her up in a hug that looks like she’d need an angle grinder to get loose from.

“I’m sorry, mum,” David mumbles into his mum’s hair.

“What on earth for, darling?” Sarah is rubbing David’s back. She’s obviously pleased by the uncharacteristic affection, but is clearly deeply confused, both by my presence and by David.

“For everything,” he says. He starts shaking, and I step in and close the door behind us as he starts sobbing in earnest.

“I’ll be sitting on the top landing scrolling TikTok, call me if you need me,” I say, rubbing David between his shoulders. Then I make myself scarce.

It’s probably over an hour later that Sarah Nelson comes and grabs me up in a Sarah Nelson hug unlike any other Sarah Nelson hug I’ve ever experienced, and I’m a connoisseur. I think she might have cracked a vertebra or two. When she finally lets me go, we’re both a bit damp about the eyes.

“I don’t know what you did, Olly, but thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She wipes her eyes, smudging her mascara even more thoroughly. “As a parent you never give up hope, but I suppose the older we get, the harder you have to hang on to that hope, and… I was hanging on pretty hard for my beautiful first baby. And even then, I just hoped he could be happy, not that…” She’s tearing up again. Oh god.

“Family therapy,” I quip, unfolding my hands above my head in a Spongebob rainbow. The joke does an OK job at putting a lid on the tears that want to explode out of my face. “Now the NHS has defunded it, the least I can do is pass the benefits on for free.”

She laughs soggily. “He’s fallen asleep on the couch. I think I might go back down and pretend I fell asleep there too. Do you want to take Nick’s room, darling? I know you can walk home perfectly well by yourself, but it’s late and it’s cold out there.” Another smooth Sarah parenting moment.

“I’d love that, Sarah. But I might take David’s room, if it’s alright, Nick’s mattress gave me a terrible crick in my neck last time I slept on it,” I invent. Two can play at smooth, Sarah.

“Anything you want, darling. And Olly,” she reaches up and grabs my arm a little too tightly. She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Merry Christmas.”

—

I lie in David’s bed, in his childhood bedroom, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stickers that still coat the ceiling, even now.

I’ve spent so many nights in this bed. Mum and Dad used to park me here with Nick and Charlie for babysitting all the time when I was little – a plan I always advocated strongly for on the simple basis of ‘dogs’ – and then when Nick went off to uni, Sarah took over, claiming ‘empty nest jitters’ and later ‘dog walking assistance required, learning responsibility,’ then eventually she stopped bothering with excuses altogether. Charlie came with me for that first year, but then after that, it was just me and Sarah.

I loved it here; no yelling, no Mum stressing, just movies and dogs and pizza nights and clear expectations around loading and unloading the dishwasher. David was never around, so I always got his room. I guess for some reason I’d only vaguely connected David, the distant rude nasty older brother, with the person who made this room.

All the stickers are carefully placed to display the constellations. I never would have had the patience. But the little David who stuck these up had clearly patiently followed the star map exactly.

All his Goosebumps books that I found on the bottom shelf and read as a kid, his picture books on dinosaurs and astronomy and King Arthur and ancient Egypt and Rome, his lego that I pulled out from under the bed and built spaceships out of, his ancient GBA that I played Mario Kart and Harvest Moon and Zelda on, his tiny basketball hoop that I’d shoot tennis balls through, his lava lamp that takes hours to properly warm up. The ragged stuffed tiger I found at the back of the closet and that I named Dopey and who kept me company at night, and that I now realise probably isn’t named Dopey and isn’t mine at all.

I realise suddenly that I might have gotten to be a happy kid in this room more than David himself did.

I get out of bed and run to the closet, and start fishing through it. Under the boardgames, the sports gear, the old textbooks, the extra blankets Sarah’s stored in here – there he is. Dopey the Tiger. Both eyes nearly invisible through the matted polyester fur. I try to brush it back, but it springs down immediately.

I take him back to bed with me and cuddle him tightly.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, I come downstairs to find David and Sarah on the couch, watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. David’s snuggled into his mum’s shoulder; he looks so damn young.

I grab one of the fresh croissants from the pile on the bench, make everyone a builder’s tea, and then slide in on Sarah’s other side. She sneaks an arm round my shoulders like it’s no big deal.

I can’t imagine sitting and watching a movie like this with Mum; I love her and everything, but she’s not a snuggler. Even hugging she approaches like it’s something she’s read about in books; the whole time, she’s probably stressing out about whether her elbows are at the correct angle. Dad and Charlie always took responsibility for the snuggling duties when I was little. A hug from Tori was a fleeting and precious treasure.

Now, snuggled into Sarah Nelson’s expansive embrace, watching Matthew Broderick singing ‘Danke Schoen’ on a float, I think again what a bloody gift this woman is.

—

“Dinner on Thursday?” Sarah says to David. We finished the movie and made lunch together – huevos rancheros, letting David show off his vegetable-murdering knife skills again – and now we’re gearing up to leave. “I’ll make sausages and mash?”

“I’d like that,” he says.

There’s a moment’s silence. I notice David pulling in a deep breath.

“Can Olly come, too?” he asks, trying to act casual.

“Of course, darling!” Sarah says, a millisecond too fast.

Welp. That settles it. She’s absolutely clocked us. I know it. She knows it.

David reaches over and folds his fingers into mine, looking me in the eyes, then back to his mum. He knows it, too.

“Yeah… so. There’s that.”

“Oh, boys,” Sarah says, tears welling up in her eyes and a broad smile breaking out across her face, as she flings her arms wide to reel us both in. “Thank you so much for telling me, David, darling.” She doesn’t say it, but I can hear that she knows how big a deal that is.

She lets me go and grabs his face, hauling it down to kiss his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, David,” she says. “And you couldn’t have picked anyone nicer!”

“Well, actually, he picked me,” David says, wetly. “And you sort of set us up, Mum. Once you gave him my apartment fob, I never stood a chance.”

“Ohhhhh,” Sarah says, squinching her eyebrows sentimentally, but without any real regret I can detect. “Well, I’d love to have both of you for dinner.”

“Sorry to derail your sausage and mash plans,” I say. I’m a bit sniffly myself.

“That’s all right, Olly, darling! I’ll do yours with veggie sausages,” she smiles.

On the way out, as I’m putting on my boots, she collars David into her own Nelson hug. I busy myself with my laces as I hear her whisper “—love you, baby. And I’m so proud of you.”

—

I’ve made it in and out of Mum and Dad’s place intact. I swooped in, deploying a strategic tupperware container of Sarah’s limoncello bars to derail Mum’s interrogation, gathered up all my presents, and explained that I’d run into David Nelson at Sarah’s and he’d offered to give me a lift back into town.

Mum, who’s never been the sharpest at picking up the nuances of human interpersonal subtlety, accepted this without question, as though it’s just the natural way of the world for random people to do favours for her kids, though Dad did seem a bit surprised.

“His work is around the corner from my place,” I offered vaguely, and Dad nodded. He loaded me up with the leftover vege roast and other bits and pieces, which I suppose, if I put enough sriracha on them, will probably taste like sriracha. But they let me go without too much drama; Dad even helped me pack up all my prezzies into a couple of big IKEA bags.

I can pretend it’s because I’m running out of clean pants and because I need to ditch all this loot, but let’s be real about it: the reason I need to go home is to face Osc and Bailey and tell them I’m back with David.

I’m not staying there, though; David has to work tomorrow and the day after – which I’m still pretty sure isn’t legal – so I’m going over to his today, hell or high water.

We pull up and park half a block from mine, and I realise, looking into the car boot, that there’s absolutely no way I can possibly carry all this junk in one go.

“I’ll have to do two trips,” I moan.

“Why? I’ll just help you?” David says, confused.

“Oh. Uh… I mean. Yeah. But you might run into my housemates?” I hedge, suddenly confused. “Um… I don’t know how happy they’ll be to see you. I… wasn’t shy about blackening your name over the last few weeks.”

David sighs and looks down. “I probably deserve that,” he says to his feet.

“No, no, David, you don’t. I mean, what happened wasn’t great, but I wasn’t great either. I just… they had to listen to me complaining nonstop for a month. And Osc had to put up with me crawling into his bed at the weirdest hours with a sad boner, like, a lot.”

“Oh,” says David. Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Um,” I say, intelligently. “Well, anyway, you don’t have to come up if you don’t want to. I can just go up and get clean undies and drop all this stuff off and come back down.”

“No,” says David, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll come up.”

In the shadow of his car boot, I lean over and sneak a kiss onto his temple. “I love you, David Nelson,” I smile. “Like, a truly vomitous Christmas Special amount.”

—

I open the front door quietly, but there’s really no point; as I step through, four pairs of eyes turn in unison from the general region of the couch. Bailey and George are playing Crash Bandicoot, and Ava is doing Oscar’s nails.

“Oll!” Osc crows. “The prodigal returns. We thought you were due back yesterday? Did you find someone pretty to hook up with?”

“Uh… sort of?” I shuffle in through the gap and after a second, David follows me.

The silence is thick and rich, like chocolate topping, as he puts down an IKEA bag with a stuffed shark in it.

“You all remember David,” I say, idiotically, like we’re at a garden party in 1963.

“That we do,” says Ava, after another long, awkward moment of silence.

“I’ll… uh… I’ll put these in your room, Olly?” David says.

“Uh-uh. Nope.” George says. “What are your intentions concerning my son Oliver, Douchebag David?” I wince at the nickname; particularly bad, since I gave it to him myself.

“Um. Well. Uh. I love him.” David says, which I was not expecting at all. My heart suddenly fills up with love and overflows and fills up my chest cavity with hot, gooey, sticky affection. It’s a… slightly disconcerting feeling. “And he’s said he’ll be my boyfriend, so, uh, whatever that means. And he’s officially got a key to my place now.”

I officially moved the fob to my keyring yesterday morning, but I still find myself fingering the necklace.

“And I see you think you can buy him with shiny trinkets,” George says, her eyes missing nothing, skidding from the necklace to the shark.

“Oh. Uh. No, those were… I didn’t expect anything. Those are Olly’s Christmas presents,” David says, lamely.

“And are you planning on pulling any more closet case shit on him?” Ava says, in a voice that could freeze a martini solid.

“I… uh. No. I’m trying to, like, come out and stuff,” David says. “I already told, like, my mum and my high school mates.”

Ava looks at me, and I nod in the affirmative. I wonder if I should stop this.

“Any more emotionally constipated boomer shit and we’ll key your Lexus, dickhead,” George says.

“And just to be clear, if you hurt Olly again, I’ll kick you out a seventh storey window,” Bailey says.

Osc, who’s been very quiet, sitting with his arms folded, points two fingers at his eyes, and then turns them back and jabs them in David’s direction.

“Uh…” David says. “That seems, uh. Fair.”

“David, could you give us a minute?” I say.

“Um. Sure. I’ll… uh… do you want a coffee?” he asks me.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Oat—”

“—flat white, yep.”

“And we’ll take a short black, two oat lattes and a soy chai,” George pipes up.

“Um. Right. I’ll— uh. See you in a bit. I’ll text you to let me back in, Olly?”

“Yep, thanks, David. See you in a bit,” I reply, closing the door behind him as he exits.

There’s a very, very pregnant silence as David’s footsteps die away down the corridor.

Then Osc throws his arms in the air, lets out a whoop and leaps up to grab me into a hug, followed swiftly by everyone else, cheering and shrieking.

“Oh my fucking god, you guys,” I say, muffled under a heap of friends.

“Thank fuck for that,” Bailey says. “You were such a sad sack.”

“I’m so glad you sorted out your shit,” Ava says. “Wait, you did sort it out, right?”

“Yeah, we sorted it out,” I laugh. “And how.”

“Oh, you sorted it out, did you?” Oscar winks.

“Yeah… so it turns out, the way to a guy’s heart is not in fact through his stomach. It’s a bit further down,” I snigger.

“Oll, you tramp, are you saying you sucked his heart out through his dick?” Bailey snorts.

“Pretty much,” I say, airily. “Anyway, thanks for saying you’ll push him out a window if he’s a cunt again, Bailey.”

“Awww, Olly. You know I won’t actually do that, right?” Bailey says.

“I will,” Georgie says. I look down at all five foot two of her.

“Sometimes, you’re scarier than my sister, Georgie,” I say, squeezing her.

I let them pull me onto the couch and give them the precis: the horrible Christmas lunch, David hoeing into my Nanna, the treehouse, the presents, the card, me snogging his face off in the rain, us going to the hotel, him coming out to his mates and his mum. I leave out the details of his family drama and his story from uni, but I do mention that he admitted to having some personal shit, and that he’s booked a therapy appointment.

“Does this mean we can go around and play ping-pong whenever we like?” asks Bailey. “And I’d love to see if I can get the retrogame emulator going on that domestic Piccadilly Lights setup of his.”

“It absolutely does,” I confirm.

“Oh my god, we should totally throw a party at his place!” Georgie says. “It’s got such a good view.”

“Hmmm,” I consider. “Let me send out a tentacle and feel that one up a bit before you start buying ice. I’m not sure he’s that ready to unclench yet. He might need a little working on.”

“So, are you and he, like, exclusive now?” Osc asks.

“What? No. Why on earth would we be exclusive?” I ask. As I say it, I realise I have no idea what David thinks on that front. Shit. Is he going to want to… like… settle down? His’n’his tuxedos? Two standard poodles, IVF surrogacy and a semi-detached house in Wimbledon, two blocks from Nick and Charlie’s?

Luckily Osc spots me having a mini-freakout and rubs a reassuring hand down my arm.

“Hey, chill, Olly-molly,” he says. “You can work all this shit out. He’s pretty relaxed, right? I mean, you two have hooked up with other people and stuff?”

“Yeah, well, you had front-row tickets to how uncomplicated that hasn’t always been,” I fret, my anxiety levels ticking up again.

“Aww, Olly, just talk it out,” Ava says. “It can’t be that hard, right?”

Sure. Can’t be that hard.

—

“So, are we, like, supposed to be exclusive now?” I burst out, at a traffic light somewhere in Dulwich.

“What?” David says, pulling his eyes off the back of the stopped car in front of us.

Shit. I swore I wasn’t going to do that on the drive to David’s. Fuck it, the worm-can is cracked now, may as well tip ‘em out.

“Oscar asked if we were exclusive while you were out getting coffee, and I said, like, no, obviously not, but then I realised I have no idea what you think.”

“I… uh…” he trails off.

The car behind David bips their horn; apparently the lights have changed. He hastily starts driving again, but then about fifty metres down the road, he pulls over and puts on the handbrake.

“Is it greedy if I don’t want to share you with anyone?” he asks, looking at me. “I mean… I liked it when we hooked up with other people together – like, a lot – and I know you lot are all shagging each other all the time, but I just… like, I have zero interest in going out and hooking up with other people if you’re not there.”

He suddenly gets very interested in the stitching lines on his fancy leather steering wheel.

“Do you… do you have other people you want to hook up with, without me?” he asks, not looking up.

“I don’t know? I guess? I mean, Oscar and me have been hooking up since we met, and it’s really not a relationship thing, we’re just best mates helping each other out when we’re horny.”

David clenches the steering wheel.

“I mean… I don’t… love that?” he says. Oh god. Fuck. This is going well. We’ve only been together five minutes and already, bam, now we got problems.

He must see it in my face, because he starts again. “I'm… uh… I'm not doing a great job of explaining this,” he says. “I just… I don’t know… I kind of want to be the one who helps you out when you’re horny, Olly.”

“Are you gonna be around seven nights a week, then, and most mornings, because that’s when I’m horny,” I joke.

“If that's what I have to do,” he says.

“That’s ridiculous, David,” I say. It’s ridiculous.

“Okay, that’s ridiculous. But I want to try. And can you at least tell me when you’re going to bang other people? Give me the chance to show up for you?”

“Ugh, don’t say ‘bang’,” I shudder. “So… is that the deal? Let you know when I’m horny and give you first crack?”

“Uh… I guess? But can you not, like, be a dick about it? I don’t think I could take it. I’m already not wild about the fact that I probably can’t give you everything you want, and that you’ll have to go to other people instead.”

He runs his hands through his hair. Fuck, he looks nervous. And miserable.

“Hey, David, look, if this is such a big deal for you, I can skip hooking up with other people?” I try to reassure him.

“No, no, Olly, this is who you are, I literally just got you back into my life, I’m not fucking this up again.”

“Well, that settles it,” I say. “I don’t want you to have a freak-out every time I pop a boner and you’re in a big, important business meeting with the head of product development and the President of Taiwan. I don’t need friends to have fun. My balls aren’t going to drop off if nobody’s around to play with. You’ll just have to put up with me being extra-annoying about sexting. And send me crotch pics under the table while the President of Taiwan is distracted.”

David laughs. “Okay. Getting me fired it is, then,” he says.

“And Oscar?”

He rolls his eyes theatrically. “Fiiiiine, you can still hook up with Oscar if I’m not available,” he says.

“Yaaaaaaaay!” I screech, like a kid getting a sleepover. “You’re the best, David.”

Impulsively, I lean over and kiss him, and he turns to kiss me back, and suddenly it’s really hot and heavy, he’s got his fingers in my hair and he’s yanking me in and I’ve gone all melty and dizzy and I’m grabbing at his seatbelt and he’s almost climbing over the centre whatzit when he suddenly breaks away, and an old lady with a shopping trolley walks out in front of his car bonnet.

We hastily rearrange ourselves into casualness as she looks through the windscreen at us questioningly, and David gives her a small no-you-please gesture. He waits for her to cross, then pulls back onto the road. For some reason, I can’t stop blushing.

“Thanks a lot, Cockblock Carol,” David mutters resentfully. “I hope all your scrapbook glue fails at once.”

For some reason, it’s the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, and I start laughing, and then I can’t stop. And then he starts laughing. And then we’re both laughing so hard he has to pull over again, which just sets me off further, and that sets him off further, and then a dad with a pram walks in front of the car and I whisper "Blue Ball Brian," and that just finishes us off completely until I’m weeping and slapping the dashboard and he’s collapsed against the window with his hand over his face.

It takes us about three minutes to stop laughing, and then he’s just about to pull out when I lean over to conspiritorially whisper “How about I just give you some nice discreet road head instead?” and then we’re both pissing ourselves all over again.

—

“Ugh, why must you live in fucking Bromley? It’s not even posh.” I moan, as we fiiiiiiinally pull into his parking spot.

“It’s convenient,” he says.

“Convenient how? You work in bloody Westminster!”

David gets out and starts unloading his stuff from the boot. I shoulder my bag and slouch after him.

“I didn’t need to triple the size of my mortgage to save a few minutes on my morning commute,” he says sanctimoniously. “I own my place outright. I’d still be paying Chelsea off in ten years.”

“Oh my god.” I say.

“What?” he says flatly.

“Oh my god.”

He rolls his eyes. “What, Olly?”

“It’s convenient… to Rochester.”

“Fuck off,” he says, a little too defensively. I’ve put an arrow through the fucking bullseye. He turns around and walks off towards the lift.

“It’s convenient to your mum, you big fucking softie,” I crow, running after him and draping my arms around him from behind before he can get more than three metres.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says, trying to wriggle out, but I’m draped over him like a fishing net, and I start kissing him mercilessly all over.

“Even when you were being a complete arsehole to her, you still wanted to be nearby,” I say, in a sugary voice.

“Fucking, well, so what?” he says, resentfully mashing the lift button. “She’s nearly sixty-five. What if something happened?”

“God, you really just have the most fucking cream-filled centre, don’t you, David Nelson? Hard man on the outside, buttery soft in the middle.”

He starts protesting, but I shut him up with my lips until the lift arrives.

—

It’s a bit fucking weird stepping back into David’s apartment again, especially since I just opened the door with my key fob. Mine.

The ping-pong table is still out, which makes my chest ache a tiny bit. Everything else is exactly as I left it. Well, with the exception of the absence of forty thousand shards of smashed charcoal plate, which appear to have been escorted off the premises.

After I’ve kicked off my boots and scarf and coat in the middle of the hallway where they will annoy David the most, I beeline for David’s room and ditch my bags on my side of the bed – god, is it my side of the bed again? – then I flop down dramatically on my back.

David wanders in after me with his bougie little designer aluminium-shell suitcase, in Brushed Charcoal.

I roll over onto one elbow.

“Why is everything you own charcoal?” I ask earnestly.

“What?” he asks. He seems genuinely confused.

I motion to the charcoal linen sheets, charcoal walls, matching rug, lamps and now the suitcase.

“It’s okay, David,” I say, sympathetically. “I understand allergies. I’m Gen Z. We get it. You can tell me. Are you allergic to hue? What happens? Hives? Or is it like me and dairy? You see something brightly coloured and just start shitting yourself uncontrollably?”

“Fuck off, Olly,” he says. “Maybe I just knew what you were getting me for Christmas and planned ahead so it’d match.” He pulls the bag of charcoal briquettes out of his sack o’ loot and goes over to the dresser, where he makes a big show of placing them just so.

I snort. Then I catch a glimpse of something pink peeking out from under his duvet.

“Ah-ha! A colour!” I crow, pulling it out.

It’s my Feminism Is For Everyone T-shirt. I look up at David to find him blushing furiously.

“Awwwwww, David, have you been sleeping in my T-shirt?” I coo mercilessly. “You absolute marshmallow.”

“Fuck me,” David mutters. “Being in love with you is like rolling around in a pile of nettles, voluntarily.”

“Now, don’t be resentful, David, it’s not a good look on you,” I tsk. “Unlike my rhinestone joggers. Have you been sleeping in them, too?”

“Oh, fuck off,” David gripes.

“Haha! You have!” I crow. I pull back the duvet a bit further to find the tiger staring up at me wonkily from a pile of crumpled lime green fleece knit. I pull them out, with plans to wave them triumphantly.

Unexpectedly, David barrels into me from where he’s standing, knocking me flat on my back and caging me with his arms.

“Remind me what it is I see in you again?” he growls, his pretty green eyes narrowed just inches from my own.

I body-roll up against him, starting from my hips and working my way up to press my chest to his, then my mouth to his lips. It’s a fever-hot kiss, zero to a hundred, and I’m hard already, and so is David, whose dick is crushed up against mine like a fucking stick of Blackpool rock of the more ludicrously thick variety.

“Pretty sure it’s the fact that I have all the lyrics to ‘What does the fox say?’ memorised,” I murmur sexily. “What more could anyone possibly want in a significant other?”

“It’s moments like this I can’t help but think, how the fuck did my life go this catastrophically south?” David says.

“Wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-powww!” I comment, sympathetically.

“Jesus fuck, Olly, how do I shut you up?” he moans, dropping his head on my shoulder.

“You know how to shut me up, David,” I purr.

He lifts up and looks at me for a long second, and then he’s up on his knees, wrenching at his belt buckle, and I’m climbing out of my trousers and it’s like we’re trying to set a world land-speed record for nudity, there are clothes flying everywhere. He beats me to it, though; he’s already naked and that beautiful dick is right in my face while I’m still shirtcocking it. Oh well. I hope he likes the Pooh Bear aesthetic, because I instantly drop what I’m doing and dive for his cock.

“Fffffffuuuuuuck, Olly,” he moans. “You look so good on my dick. God.” He runs a finger down my cheekbone. I reward him with a glance from under my lashes, and then very deliberately lean forward until I choke, and he moans again, desperately.

He leans over to his bedside table and scrabbles it open, pulling out a bottle of lube, and… my rainbow butt plug.

“Wanna see you wearing it,” he breathes. “Wanna fill you up at both ends while I fuck your mouth.”

“Fuck, David, how were you keeping a lid on this much super-hot pervert energy for so long?” I say, wonderingly, as I finally shrug out of my T-shirt and he snicks open the lube and squeezes some on the plug. “There are, like, fifteen years’ worth of dudes out there walking around with permanent ennui, and they don’t know why, and it’s because you were out of circulation and they never got their chance to go on the smoking hot fairground ride that is David Nelson.”

He doesn’t even answer, just pushes me onto my back and hoicks my knees up to my nipples, then starts rubbing the tip of the plug on my hole.

“Mmmmm,” he says, abstractedly. I twitch at the cold, but I kind of love it, too. Without warning, David starts to push the plug into me.

“Fuck, this is a great view,” David murmurs, dragging a lubey hand up and down my dick. I don’t respond. I’m too busy enjoying myself. Whaddayaknow; he found a new way to shut me up.

He starts fucking me with the plug, and it’s not close to as thick as he is or anything, but the fact that it’s David – homophobic, arsephobic David – fucking me up the jacksie with a sex toy, zero qualms, full boner, is just beyond.

Finally, it slides past the thickest part, but David doesn’t stop fucking me with it. Instead, one hand still pushing the plug into me, he knee-walks up to my face and feeds me his dick right where I am, pulling me over on my side for a better angle.

“Fuck, yesssss,” he hisses, as I moan and take him into my mouth. “God, Olly, you are so stunning.”

He leaves off the plug to start jerking me off, and I feel myself arching and moaning with the pleasure of it as I work his dick with my mouth and my tongue bar and one hand.

“Fuck, yes, Olly, look at you, all laid out for me, weak with how much you’re loving this, and your mouth full of my dick. I’m gonna make you come so hard, and then I’m gonna fuck my come down your throat.”

I moan even harder at that. Where the fuck did David get this filthy fucking mouth he’s suddenly sporting? I thought that was my thing. I’ve got the best fucking view of his chiselled torso and stubbly chin looming over me. He’s jerking me off faster now, and starting to fuck my face, and the plug in me is just making it more intense.

“Next time we hook up with someone else, I want to fuck your mouth while they fuck your arse,” he says, casually, like that isn’t the hottest thing anyone’s ever said. “Maybe we could get a pretty little pussy slid over this cock of yours, too. Wanna get you blissed out so hard you can barely think, while you suck on me.”

Oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK, I wanted to last but I can’t help it, I’m coming so hard, shooting all over myself. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth on David’s cock, but he’s doing all the work now, jerking me off and fucking my mouth, and every wave makes my arse lock up around the plug and I’m a helpless fucking mess and David’s coming down my throat just like he promised and stirring his dick in my mouth as he milks the last of the jizz out of my screaming overstimulated cock.

Eventually David stops with the blissful torture and lets his fingers unwind from my hair – when did they even get in there? – and apparently they were the only thing holding me up, because I collapse on my back. He runs his fingers up and down the mess on my belly as I lie there like a beached invertebrate. I can’t even move, let alone talk.

“Guess I do know how to shut you up,” David smiles from above me. “Want me to take this out for you?” he says, tapping the rainbow jewel nestled between my cheeks.

I muster all my energy and lean over and lick his cute little veggie burger tattoo, then look up at him.

“Nahhhhh,” I say. “Leave it in.”

Chapter Text

The eyes I stuck on David’s fireplace are right where I left them.

I know it shouldn’t mean anything, because it’s just a stupid giggle I had for ten seconds, but as I look at the stupid glorified electric heater flickering away merrily under those wonky eyeballs, fuck me if it doesn’t just make me all gooey inside.

Which is a weird way to feel, while you’re walking naked around your boyfriend’s apartment with a butt plug in, secretly stashing condoms and lube all over the place so you can fuck on every surface available. Or is that normal for boyfriends? I’m in such uncharted territory here.

David, now wearing my lime-green joggers and making them look just unforgivably hot, now that he’s not ashamed of their very existence, has brought out his bag of Christmas presents and is unpacking them on the kitchen island. Other than Sarah’s jumper that I stole, mine are the best he got, by a long chalk. The rest is the saddest collection of socks and chocs I’ve ever seen. Mum got him a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, which is a new low, even for her.

“What are you doing for New Year’s?” I ask him, cracking open the Terry’s box and beginning the slow, careful process of unwrapping the orange without damaging the foil.

“Dunno,” he says, pulling out a bag of churros and Valor dipping chocolate – Dad’s. I got the same, although I also got two hundred quid and a promise to take me to get a pair of rollerblades. “Someone’s usually throwing a party or something, or going to a club or whatever. Or… do you… would you maybe want to do something?”

He looks like a man who’s 100% convinced I’ve got better things to do with my New Year’s Eve than spend even ten seconds in his company, which, nope. None of that. No self-hating bullshit on my watch.

“Would I like to spend my New Year’s with my ridiculously fit boyfriend who I, like, actually love and stuff?” I say. “Yes. Yes, I think I would be okay with that. But I was going to say – Osc managed to get hold of some party favours. You want to join us and our mate Lucy on a bit of a trip?”

“A trip where?” he says, delectably. “And which one of your million friends is Lucy?”

I stop, mid-bite of an orange slice, and stare at him. I’m trying not to snigger so hard I think I might actually be at risk of straining a muscle in my face.

“Oh,” he says after a second or five. “Um… I mean… I guess? I’ve, um. Never tried it.”

“Oh my god, David,” I clap my hands in glee. “You’re going to have such a nice time. We can all go to the park, maybe come back here and watch the fireworks? Then go out dancing?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess, sure?” he says. “As long as it’s just your mates here?”

He pulls out a cardboard box. It looks like a pill packet. I lean over and take it from him.

“Asspirin,” I read. “Specially formulated to stop you being a complete asshole.” I flip the box to find ‘Happy Christmas, from Charlie Nelson-Spring!’ on the back.

“There’s a packet of paracuntamol and grinchistamine, too,” David says, flipping them out onto his kitchen bench with a tinge of rueful amusement in his voice, as I open the asspirin to reveal mini packets of gummi bears. “Your brother really doesn’t like me.”

“Classic Charlie,” I say, a smile yanking at the corner of my mouth. “I can’t believe he gave you the full name. What’d Nick get you?”

He pulls out a tin of Quality Street with what I recognise as one of Nick’s Christmas-hat-pug tags on it.

“Ohhhhh, savage,” I hiss in between my teeth.

This year, Nick remembered me saying in passing last Christmas that I’d love a super-long scarf, and knitted me one, with a cute pattern of billowing leaves at the ends. In fact, it’s draped over my boots in David’s entryway right now. From Nicholas Nelson-Spring, a tin of Quality Street is basically a gift-wrapped fart in a jar.

“How are we going to tell them?” I ask, giving the box a long look, my elbows on the kitchen island.

“I don’t know,” David says. “But I do know I can’t talk about our brothers any more, while you’re waltzing around my house, naked with a butt plug in.”

“I’m not naked! I’m wearing a necklace!” I point out. “Buuuut I take your point.”

David pulls out my motivational poster and unrolls it.

“You really are a cheeky little fucker,” he says, shaking his head ruefully as he looks at it. Then, unexpectedly, he lets it roll up again, steps around the bench, grabs me and smashes me into a sizzling-hot kiss. Like, this shit is passionate. I’m one long overboiled strand of helpless swooning fettuccine in his ridiculously strong arms. I just let my hands wander all over his torso and feel the firecrackers popping down my spine until, eventually, he stops smearing his gorgeous lips on mine and looks me in the eye.

“I fucking love you, Olly Spring,” he says.

“What was that for?” I ask, dazed, as he slowly tips me back on my wobbly feet.

“…I just like my present,” he says. “Actually—”

He drops me suddenly and I have to grab onto one of his bar stools for safety as he shoots over to the door of the spare bedroom. I hear a bunch of clanking and swearing, and I’m considering going in to spectate, when he returns with a truly dire framed poster that reads ‘Please don’t do coke in the bathroom, hookers have tits for a reason’ with an ever-so-tasteful abstract dotted-ω-swoop graphic.

“Biggsy?” I ask, looking at it through my fingers, as David starts prying the little metal widgets away from the back of the frame.

“Biggsy,” he confirms. He removes the back and pulls the poster out of the frame, then moves to scrunch it up.

“Don’t do that!” I skid in and swipe it from him. “That thing is champagne comedy. Ava’s mates are gonna have a field day with it. Guaranteed, it'll be up on a lesbian sex worker polycule’s toilet door within the week.”

David raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t protest. He replaces the poster with mine, does the tabs back up, and then hooks it on the wall, where it does an excellent job of lowering the tone of the establishment.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask, bouncing over to stare pointlessly into his sad fridge. It’s not that late, but it’s getting dark already, and that always makes me snacky. Well, to be fair, pretty much everything makes me snacky.

“Why, you gonna cook or something?” he raises a condescending eyebrow, as he finishes packing up the chocolate orange I left open. “Something involving smearing a tortilla with, I don’t know, mustard? Or mayonnaise?”

“Hey! I can cook!” I protest, examining the contents of his equally depressing pantry. “Like… I can make… pasta? And proper Spanish tortilla? Anyway the problem is your sad-sack supplies. Who has as much money as you do and not a single packet of Japanese curry?”

He rolls his eyes, shutting the fridge door I left open. “Yeah, right. Japan. A nation known for its curry.”

I put my hand to my chest, shocked.

“David,” I gasp. “Have you never had Japanese curry? What rock have you been hiding under?”

“Pretty sure there are better things to eat at a Japanese restaurant than Indian food,” David says as he closes the pantry door, in the kind of voice that’s unshakably sure of its rightness. The kind of unshakable surety that I was born to obliterate.

“That settles it,” I thump the bench. “Japanese curry tonight. You want to order delivery, or shall I go down to the Asian grocery? Mayyyybe… like this?”

I turn away, run a hand down my flank and slap my naked, bejewelled arse. David snorts.

“You wouldn’t actually go out with that thing in, would you?”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, then opens it again, then closes it again. Wow, turns out I know how to shut David up, too.

“Jesus Christ, David, was every girl you ever dated just a huge anthropomorphic pot of low-fat vanilla yoghurt?” I marvel. “What on earth is the point of looking like you do, of working out as much as you do, if all you’re doing is pulling people who are about as adventurous as putting hazelnut syrup in your coffee?”

“I… uh,” David says.

I saunter back to the bedroom and retrieve my clothes, and then walk back out to the living room, bending over gratuitously to pull on my pants, and then slowly wiggling them up over my sparkly arse. Then I run both hands over the cloth covering my arse-cheeks, which feels very nice, and I’m not shy about vocalising it.

“You’re not actually serious about this, are you?” he gasps. I don’t bother to answer, just pull on my clothes and step into my boots.

“You coming?” I smirk, wrapping myself in my scarf. “Or is this just gonna be me amusing myself solo?”

“Ohhh, I am going to regret this,” David murmurs to himself as I scoop up a Bag for Life.

“Mmmm,” I purr, handing him his coat. “Yeah… in the best possible way.”

—

I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in an Asian grocery since that night we did ketamine in second year and I saw a packet of noodles with an octopus on it, and thought I was one, for a bit.

First, the lift ride down, where I suggested so many filthy things that I got hard, and had to tuck my dick into the waistband of my pants to stop myself from looking like a circus tent. David fared marginally better than me on that front – being old and having come barely half an hour back apparently have their advantages – but when I licked my lips and told him I could still taste his come in my mouth, even he twitched.

Then the walk to the mall, where I walk ahead and casually shove both my hands into my waistband at the back like I’m such a cool guy. Then I drop back next to David and speculate about how many of the walls and lamp-posts we’re passing he could fuck me up against.

Now we’re in the grocery, and I find I’m just particularly interested in leaning down to examine the items on the lower shelves. I’ve already thrown a packet of peach gummies and a tray of plump white custard bao in the basket David’s carrying. The stuff for Japanese curry goes in, but just for good measure, I also very carefully select an eggplant and two cucumbers, giving them a really good, proper inspection. Wouldn’t want to get a sub-par cucumber. Then I find a pallet of huge bags of rice that’s juuuuuust the right height to lean over, which I promptly do, chin on my hands like a kid posing for a pageant photo.

Weirdly, instead of taking the bait, David just keeps getting calmer and calmer, which is kind of infuriating, so at the last second, I throw in an ice cream, and spend the whole walk deep-throating it and gratuitously tonguing it with my piercing.

Once we got to David’s building, I’d fully planned on jumping David in the lift, so imagine my petulance when the doors open to reveal a family with two small kids, flopping all over the place, squealing, hanging off the handrails and generally, behaving like me, really. I almost suggest we wait for the next one, but by the time it occurs to me as an option, the parents have wrangled the kids to make room for us, and, well, far be it from me to get in the way of someone else teaching their offspring not to be entitled little shits. I don’t want any more competition than necessary on that front.

We squeeze into the far side of the lift, and – conveniently masked by the low-grade cacophony – I whisper in David’s ear.

“Do they make you clucky, David? Maybe you could knock me up. I’m already cooking you dinner… maybe you could keep me at home, barefoot and pregnant. Would you like that? Having me at your beck and call? When you get home after work every day, I’ll bring you your slippers… in my teeth, on my hands and knees.”

David chokes on absolutely nothing. One of the parents looks at him, worried, and I give him a big, solicitous thump on the back, and look at him with big concerned eyes until he gets it together.

We barely get through David’s front door before he drops the bag and pushes me face-first up against the wall, jamming his crotch straight into my arse, his monumental boner pushing into the plug in my arse. Yes. Yes, please.

“Fuck, Olly. You’re such a hot little slut. Fucking teasing me like that, you complete fucking brat. I wanted to rip your fucking pants off and fuck you right in that shop,” he purrs, into the back of my neck. “Just shove my dick into you, no prep, no lube, nothing, make you scream and wince and beg me to please slow down because I’m too big and you can’t take it.”

“Fuck, that’s so theoretically hot,” I gasp. “What else did you want to do to me?”

“Wanted to slap that hot little arse of yours,” he says, running his hand over the arse in question and squeezing it. “Wanted to punish you for what a little shit you were being.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth.

“Well, that would be non-theoretically hot,” I choke out. “You gonna spank me, David? Make me really feel how bad I’ve been?” Fuck, I’m almost drooling at the thought of it. Was I angling for this? Some dom I am.

David’s arms reach around me and start pulling at my clothes. First he yanks off my jacket, then he pulls at the hem of my jumper and shirt, pulling them up and pinching my nipples, hard – so hard I yelp, then moan. I barely manage to get my arms up before he’s tugging my tops off.

“Bend over and get those boots off,” he says, in a deep voice that’s currently frying some kind of chip in my brain.

“David, so bossy,” I breathe, but my heart’s not in it. Before I know it, I’m bent over, unlacing my Docs, and his hand is in my crack, pushing the plug into me, while the other hand yanks my hips back into his. I nearly trip as I step out, I’m so fucking high on this, but he catches me like I’m a feather and ohhhhh.

I straighten up and David runs his hand up my spine, straight into my hair, then latches on. Unexpectedly, he starts walking me into the kitchen, his other hand firmly gripping the back of my trousers. I stumble a bit, but again, I’ve got no choice; I’m going where David wants me to, like it or not. Right now we’re coming down very firmly on the side of like it.

“You’ve racked up a lot on your fucking ticket today,” David says, still in that voice that basically makes me want to drop to my knees, as he pushes me up against the kitchen island. “That fucking routine with the ice cream? The bit in the lift?” I put my hands out to steady myself as he starts grinding on me.

He’s got his hands around my waist, ripping at my zipper, and then he’s yanking down my trousers and pants in one go.

“Fucking look at that,” he says, splaying my cheeks apart. “Step out and spread your legs.”

Holy fuck.

“Yes, daddy,” I whisper.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he says, and I feel the first slap land on my right arse cheek, and I am not prepared for how good it is.

“David,” I moan. “Yes, David.” I step out of my trousers as instructed, and now I’m just naked and pushed up against David’s bench, legs spread.

I hear a rustle and look over my shoulder.

“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice you, hiding these all over the place earlier,” David smirks, as he rips a condom off the strip and drops it on the counter next to me. He unzips himself and I feel his soft, warm cock fall against my arse crack, and he pushes it up and down a couple of times before slapping it against me.

Then he smacks me again, this time on the other side.

“Oh, fuck, David,” I moan, as my eyes roll involuntarily shut. How can something I’m literally wired to find unpleasant feel so fucking good? He slaps me again, alternating sides.

“Such a little shit,” he says, still in that commanding, calm voice. “Wanted to ram one of those cucumbers right down your throat and the other one right in here and make you regret every little porny trick you pulled. Wanted to make you scream my name til you’re hoarse.”

“Fuuuuuuuck, David, yes,” I’m gasping, as the slaps come faster. The plug is making things so intense. “Oh god, David, I want you to fuck me.”

“Really? Is that what you want? I couldn’t possibly have guessed.” I can hear the smirk in his voice as he lands another slap, and I flinch involuntarily. It’s starting to smart.

“Please? Please, David?” I’m not above begging. In fact I’m really enjoying begging.

“Hmmmm… dunno if I should, though. Hardly sending you the right message, is it?” He slaps me again and it’s really starting to hurt now, and I think I hate it and kind of love it more than anything? It’s so confusing. “Maybe I’ll just give you a spanking, then jerk off all over you and we can make dinner?”

“No, please,” I’m whining, almost crying, between the sting of his blows and the catastrophic levels of desperation I’m currently feeling. “Please, please, David, please fuck me, I need you, I need your cock in me, I need to feel you deep inside me, it’s all for you, need you to take me.”

I’m fucking babbling like an idiot, and I almost dont realise it’s worked until I hear the condom packet being ripped open. I’m almost too out of it to react properly, but he’s pulling out the plug and I feel a wash of cold lube, then with zero warning, he’s pushing into me, and fuuuuuuuuuuuuck it’s amazing. I’m just pinned over the bench with him behind me, his fat dick so much bigger than the toy, it’s everything I wanted.

He barely gives me a few seconds to adjust before he’s fucking into me, slow and hard.

“Thought about dragging you into the loos at the station, I was so fucking hard, Olly,” he growls. “You were fucking made to be on my cock.” He’s ramming me so hard now I feel like my eyeballs might fall out if my eyes weren’t closed. I drop my head to rest my cheek on the cool marble, and just let him rail my tender arse. Every time he lands, it sends off fireworks of sizzling pain-pleasure, and for a second, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve died and gone to sex heaven.

And goddamn, if David’s earlier orgasm hasn’t translated into staying power. I’m already starting to feel like the slightest breath on my dick would send me into a screaming orgasm, but he’s showing absolutely no signs of slowing down, even after a good couple of minutes. He’s not even out of breath, let alone getting breathy. I try to reach down to stroke my dick – probably optimistic anyway, pressed up against the bench like this – but he grabs my hand and puts it back up above my head, pinning it in place, and now I just want to come even harder.

David tsks behind me. “Cheeky little shits like you don’t get to take the easy road. You’ll have to find a way to come without any shortcuts,” he says. He’s enjoying this way too much. Fuck, I’ve created a monster.

“But David, I want to cooooome,” I moan. “It feels so good…”

And then I find myself wondering… could I come from this alone? I start experimenting a little as David fucks me, pushing back against his thrusts, rolling my hips, arching my back up, and suddenly— holy fuck there it is—

“Harder!” I hear myself screaming. “Oh, my god, David, fuck me harder! Please! Right there! Yes! Yes please fuck me please please David oh my god David David David—”

He obliges. He fucking obliges. I don’t even know who I am right now. I’m just one huge tensed-up ball of catastrophic pleasure, my whole body skewered on his pounding dick. Thirty seconds ago I didn’t think I could come untouched, and now I don’t think I could stop myself. He’s moaning desperately too now, and the sound of his voice tells me he’s on the edge, and the thought of him blowing his load in me is the last fucking straw.

“Fuck yes, David, come in me!” I yell, as the stars and sparks take hold of me, shooting all over my body, and I’m convulsing and jerking in ecstacy under David’s jackhammering dick, and it feels like it goes for a thousand years, and he fucks me through the whole fucking mind-blowing wonderland as I groan and shudder and cry and gasp against the marble. Every time I think it’s over, another wave hits me, and I let out another desperate little gasp. I think David’s feeling it too, if the noises he’s making are anything to go by. He’s properly collapsed on me, and as I slowly come back to myself, the feel of his heaving torso on my back and his dick inside me are just the most amazing lead weight of happiness. If they weren’t there, I’d probably have floated right out the window.

Neither of us moves, until it’s becoming pretty clear David’s going to slip out if he doesn’t sort it. I feel him plant a kiss on the back of my neck before he reluctantly straightens up to deal with the condom.

After what might well be the best orgasm of my entire life, I’m not sure I’m ready to be upright yet, but a moment later, David scrapes my limp form up and turns me around to kiss me, slow and sweet.

“Shower?” he suggests.

“Carry me,” I mumble, and he does.

—

“Okay, this is fucking delicious,” David admits, after his third spoonful of curry.

I allow the triumphant grin I’ve been keeping shuttered to escape.

Through some inexplicable miracle, I managed to not egregiously fuck up any part of the meal. It was a close thing, I’ll admit – David swooped in to do mysterious shit with the rice, involving, like, washing it and reading the instructions on the packet – but the carrots and potatoes aren’t raw or mushy, and this brand of fried silken tofu is really good. I just picked the most expensive one, so I guess you do get what David pays for.

“I’m so pleased you like it,” I say, graciously.

“Fucking… go on,” David says, rolling his eyes.

“Go on what?” I say, confused.

“You know you want to say it,” he sighs.

“Nonsense, David, I don’t want to say anything,” I say, virtuously, smiling harder.

He narrows his eyes. “Fine then, I’ll say it. You told me so.”

“Oh. Well, if you’re saying it,” I lean over and kiss him. “I wouldn’t want to contradict you.”

We lose a bit of dinner to kissing, then, but whatever.

After the curry, I go to slap a custard bao for each of us in the microwave, but when I open the cupboard, there’s nothing to put them on.

“You haven’t replaced the plates yet,” I say. It’s giving me large feelings, but I’m not entirely sure what they are yet.

“No,” David agrees, from where he’s loading the curry bowls into the dishwasher. “I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?” I ask, abandoning the bao. For some reason, this feels like an urgent question.

“Um… I don’t really know. I just didn’t get round to it.”

“Is that it?” I press him.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Really? You just didn’t get round to it? In a month?”

David sighs. “I mean, I could have. I probably could have just ordered some more online. But… every time I opened up Google, I just ended up closing the window without buying anything. I don’t know why. I suppose… replacing them felt like… giving up on us? Fuck, that sounds stupid when I say it out loud. Forget I said anything.”

For some reason, the picture of David, sitting in his kitchen, eating his morning toast out of a bowl, makes me feel guiltier than anything else has about the way we broke up.

I should have seen the signs, our last good day together, when I wrote my Batman essay, the one I got my mark back for three weeks later – an H1 – and cried over. The day I fingered him.

He was a bit off, and I thought I could make it better with a mind-blowing orgasm, but however unintentionally, I made it worse. I pushed him too hard, and while I might not have known that he had really fucking good reasons for being scared, I certainly should have known that he was scared. I just got too fucking carried away in the excitement of showing him all my favourite toys.

I leap on David where he’s standing at the sink and grab him around the waist and hug him like a limpet.

“It doesn’t sound stupid at all. I fucking love you, David.”

He turns around in my arms, still holding a bowl, and kisses me.

“What’s this for?”

“Nothing. Shut up,” I say, by way of explanation. Then I suddenly decide exactly what I’m doing next.

I let David go, and dash into his bedroom to scoop up the Bag for Life I towed over this afternoon.

“You probably don’t quite deserve this yet,” I pronounce, “but given your clear appreciation of the effort I went to for my excellent revenge chrissy present, I’ve decided you can have it provisionally. But any sign of you reverting to type, and I’m scooping it and running for the hills. Along with my rainbow butt plug.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Olly?” David looks at me, utterly confused.

I reach into the bag, and pull out the chunky cardboard box.

“It’s second-hand, so don’t expect any packaging or manuals or anything,” I warn him. “But I’ve checked it and it works properly.” I hand it to him. “Happy Christmas, David.”

I know that look he’s got. He’s trying not to look excited. Unfortunately, his chameleon skills in that department are hindered, these days, by what a gigantic ball of sap he is when it comes to me.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty excited, too. I’d been fucking stumped trying to come up with a present for David, way back when I was looking, months ago. What do you get the guy who has literally everything he’s ever even thought about wanting? Other than, like, a private jet? Don’t think they come up too often on Gumtree, which is where I’d started my search.

I was scrolling aimlessly, thinking vaguely about whether I could maybe find him a small decent coffee machine and teach him how to use it, so he didn’t have to drink instant swill any more, when it came up in the list and I knew I’d struck gold.

David rips the paper – skiing kangaroos, don’t ask me, it was in the cupboard – off the box and opens it. It’s not in the original packaging, which was long gone by the time the guy in Hampstead Heath threw it vaguely at me, through a once-working-class door that now opened onto an Architectural Review centrefold. Dude looked more worried I might steal his designer light fittings than interested in the fifty quid I had for him. Who knows, maybe he’d seen things, man. Gumtree’s the wild west.

David pulls out his present and stares at the black sphere, with its little wire stand and inscrutable buttons.

“You got me… Darth Vader’s… eyeball?” He turns it over and stares at the buttons. ‘Power’, ‘Timer’ and ‘Move’ clearly aren’t helping him much.

“Let’s take it into your room,” I suggest, “and I’ll show you what it does.” I fish out the power cable and the little box of discs and pied pipe my way to his boudoir.

“It’s a sex toy, isn’t it?” his voice comes from behind me. I smirk.

I unplug one of his silly riveted industrial bedside lamps and let him plug it in.

“You want to do the honours?”

He presses the power button. The eyeball part lights up. David peers at it.

“Is this, like, a bedside lamp or something? I’ve already got a bedside lamp, Olly,” he says, confused. “Two of them.”

“Not like this, you don’t,” I grin. I’ve snuck over to the door, where I hit the room light, plunging us into darkness.

Well… not complete darkness.

David’s eyes travel up and his jaw drops open as he realises half his wall and ceiling are painted with tens of thousands of stars, surrounded by the bright orange clouds and blue vapours of the Carina Nebula.

I’m back by his side in a flash, adjusting the focus and tilting the star projector just so, so the nebula is splashed across the whole ceiling and the opposite wall.

David’s just standing there, his mouth open, his eyes travelling dazed across his own ceiling, until I realise there’s a bright, wet glint in them, the projector’s light making them – quite literally – starry.

“Olly—” he finally says, in a low, wobbly voice, and I can’t resist folding my arms around him from behind. “Olly, this is— how did you know—” He breaks off and wipes his eyes hastily.

“I used to sleep in your room at Sarah’s, remember?” I smile into the hair at his temple. “I used to read your astronomy picture books, go to sleep under your glow-in-the-dark stars. Come on. Wanna stargaze with me, handsome?” I flop down on his shag rug and pat the spot next to me. “The grass is actually pretty dry!”

He just stands there, until he suddenly sits down, nestling his head onto the fold of my armpit.

“It’s a photo of the—” I start.

“Carina Nebula. I know. One of the first ones taken by the JWST. I get APOD. God, Olly. This… this might be the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me, without me telling them in advance what I wanted. No. Scratch that. This might be the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me, full stop. I fucking love you so goddamn much, Olly Spring. Not because you got me something shiny. Because you knew exactly the shiny thing I didn’t know was missing, from in here.” He pulls my hand over to the leftish-middle of his chest.

I lie there with David on my chest, floating below the vastness of the stars, on my back, in a huge pool of pure, weightless oxytocin.

“Next time I’m at Mum’s, I’m bringing over all my astronomy books,” David eventually says, quietly.

“That reminds me, did I mention this comes with a whole bunch of discs with different pictures?” I say. “The guy I got it from threw them in with the unit. God bless the rich and clueless.”

“I think I’ll leave this one in for a little bit longer,” he says, rolling on his side to look at me, his hand finding its way to my cheek and tipping my face down to gently kiss me.

Chapter Text

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m impatient and horny.

It’s been, like, two entire days since I got laid. I jerked off yesterday, but I’m trying to hold off today, because David’s gonna be round soon, and I wanna cream him like a profiterole.

I’m also stoned, but only a leeeetle bit, because I don’t want to overdo it if we’re taking acid today.

Really, I’m the picture of fucking moderacy and restraint today. Who even am I.

I still don’t understand how it’s legal, but David insisted he had to go into the office on New Year’s Eve. Something about yip yip yip yip uhhh huhhhh compliiiiiiiance? So instead of getting blown like a novelty balloon dog, I’m sprawled in the living room with Oscar, me lying on my back on the floor with my legs on the couch, Oscar sitting on the floor next to me, watching Bee Movie.

“Mr Liotta, first, may I offer my belated congratulations on your Emmy win for a guest spot on ER in 2005,” I say in my best Serious Jerry.

“Thankyou, thankyaaaahahahahaha,” Oscar laughs raspily. God, he does such a good Ray.

“I also see from your resumé that you’re devilishly handsome, but with a churning inner turmoil that’s always ready to blow,” I say, like I’m reading the ingredients off the back of a packet of falafel.

“I enjoy what I do,” says Oscar, leaning heavily on the Jersey accent. “Izzatta crime?”

“Not yet, it isn’t. But is this what it’s come to for you, Mr Liotta? Exploiting tiny, helpless bees so you don’t have to rehearse your art and learn your lines, sirrrr?”

“Watch it, Benson, I could blow right now,” Oscar why-I-outtas.

“This isn’t a goodfella, this is a baaaaaadfellaaaa!” I shriek.

Osc grabs a plastic spoon off the coffee table and starts smashing it around everywhere.

“Why doesn’t someone just step on this little creep and we can all go home?” he yells. “You’re all thinkin’ it!”

“Owch!” I protest, as he collects my elbow with the spoon.

“Oh, shit, sorry, Oll,” he says, breaking character.

"You caught my funny bone," I snigger, rubbing my elbow. "At least it’s now double-use plastic."

That pretty much finishes Osc completely, and he's lost to the world in silent laughter.

—

“Ok, who’s got cash?” Bailey asks. “We need party eats.”

“I spent the last of my cash on party favours,” says Oscar. “And unlike you white boys, my red envelopes don’t come in ’til the end of the month.”

“Hey!” I protest. “Almería’s closer to Algeria than it is to Madrid…”

Osc raises an eyebrow.

“So white,” I whisper. “Let’s go spend my Christmas cash on Aldi’s finest Prime Ministerial brie.”

We stagger off to the shops, my long scarf wound around both Oscar’s and my necks.

—

When we get back, laden with shopping and halfway down a jumbo bag of emergency munchies tortilla chips, David’s waiting outside my apartment, poking uselessly at the buzzer.

I drop my bags and sneak up behind him, running my hands under his arms and up over his pecs, nuzzling into his hair.

“Fucking, Christ, Olly,” he micro-freaks out, looking up and down the empty street.

“Hi, David,” I snigger, letting him go and fishing out my keys. He goes over to grab the bags I dropped. I hold the door for everyone to come in, and as David trails in last, I swoop down and plant a kiss on a random bit of his face. “Love you.”

I watch happiness spread resentfully through the grump he was working on. Heh. Derailed. Nobody can stay mad at me.

David barely has time to put the bags down and take his coat off before I’m hustling him into my room.

“Have fun, boys,” Oscar trills.

“Don’t wait up!” I trill back as I slam the door. Then I open it again. “But actually, do wait up, please.”

Oscar laughs, and Bailey unpauses Bee Movie and turns up the volume.

I wipe the embarrassed look off David’s face by the simple expedient of mashing him up against my door with my face and shoving one hand into his jeans.

“Jesus, Olly,” he says, in a slightly muffled mumble, but he doesn’t sound that sad about it.

“Fuck,” I say, in between kisses, “I’m so—” kiss, “fucking—” kiss, “horny.”

Now his hand is in my pants, and I’m pretty sure the weed is the only thing stopping me embarrassing myself like a fourteen-year-old. I fumble with his zipper and get his jeans off his peachy fucking arse, and grab it with both hands so I can yank his dick into mine.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” I gasp, as his hand wraps around my dick. “Oh, fuck, yeah, just like that.” He’s doing this tug-and-twist thing that’s realllllly nice, and I push my joggers down my thighs so our dicks are grinding together.

“It’s barely been two days, Olly,” he murmurs into my mouth.

Instead of answering, I lick one hand and slide it between us, so we’re properly jerking each other off. I should probably, I don’t know, go get some lube, or even, like, actually even take our shoes off, but all I can do is kiss him and crush him against my door and gasp little increasingly desperate noises. Fuck, his hand feels good around me. How did I last this long?

I lick the other hand and add it to the pile, wrapping it around his velvety hard cock and letting my body weight pin him. He’s jerking me hard and fast now, and I should probably find a way to be quieter, but I just can’t. He makes me so fucking helpless.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Just wanted you all over me. Desperate for you, David.”

“Okay, I missed you too, my beautiful boy,” David concedes, softly, and fuck if that doesn’t do the trick. I come all over his hand and his dick and mine, and the pleasure washes through me in slow, languorous waves. There’s really nothing quite like a slightly stoned orgasm.

He catches me and drops me on the bed, on my unprotesting back, and before I can even register what he’s doing, he’s hustled out of his clothes. I run my hands appreciatively over the goods as he kneels up over me and pushes up my shirt.

“Lick your hands for me again, baby,” he whispers, and the message somehow filters through my cloud of dopey happiness. He guides them to his dick, then starts jerking himself with my hands. It feels so nice, his hands pushing mine just the way he likes it, and pretty soon, he’s shooting come all over my belly and chest.

“Mmmmmm,” I purr, trailing my fingers through our come where it’s caught in my snail trail, and dragging it up my chest to my pecs. “I could really go a Krispy Kreme right now.”

David, who was sitting on top of me looking dazed and like he’d won the lottery, falls over sideways and hits the pillow laughing.

“I can’t wait to see you on acid,” I purr as I reach lazily for a tissue to mop up the mess. “You’re gonna have such a nice time.”

“Um,” he says, suddenly nervous.

I roll over and look into his eyes.

“I’ve got a great night planned. We’re going to Kew for Glow Wild, Ava’s gonna come along and trip-sit everyone. And we all know it’s your first time. Everyone’s gonna be looking out for you. You’re gonna have a lovely time, David, I promise.”

He pulls in a little silent deep breath and gazes at me with those gorgeous green eyes with their frondy blond lashes.

“Okay,” he breathes.

—

“My guy said it’s pretty mild, so we’ll probably need the whole tab,” Oscar says, as he carefully passes out the tiny squares.

“Pop it under your tongue and keep it there as long as you can,” I instruct David, demonstrating with my own.

Bailey peeled off at Victoria on the Southeastern with David's apartment fob, a bunch of bags and most of our party supplies, muttering about getting his gaming setup ‘mint’, bless his boring straight-boy heart. He's not massively keen on psychedelics.

The rest of us are now stood outside Kew Gardens Station, in front of a chichi grocery named, hilariously, Oliver’s, where you can buy a carton of quail eggs for eleven quid, or a satsuma with its own pedigree chart.

Ava and Georgie showed up at our place, along with Georgie’s apparently-maybe-on-again squeeze Fox, whose resemblance to a fox ends with their name. They’re a sort of round, sandy-blond arrangement with a blue dip-dyed mullet, who’s more freckle than not.

“Okay, the first rule of hallucinogens is this: The cars are real,” I tell David and Fox, who is also a first-timer. “No matter how blobby they get, or friendly and creature-ish they look, they will still flatten you. Follow the pretty moth for safety.”

I gesture to Ava, who’s wearing her gorgeous Etsy moth wings today over her 1950s short wool cloak, with shiny leggings, and she looks extra-majestic.

“Rule number two: if anything’s upsetting you, say something, preferably to Ava. She’ll get you somewhere nice and quiet. That’s it! Let’s go have a very nice time, everyone.”

We noodle over to the Gardens and wander in. We’ve still got a few hours to kill before sunset and our slot for the light show, though the sun is already slanting prettily through the branches.

It’s about half an hour later when the trees start to get a bit extra-treeish.

I realise I’m holding out my hand to pat the trunk of every tree we wander past, letting my fingers brush the bark in a sizzly sort of way.

“Ooooooo,” I announce, to general agreement. This shit’s kicking in.

The bark on this tree has particularly deep cracks, and one branch is rich with lichen and a thick pelt of fluffy green moss.

“Come look at this moss,” I call everyone over. We all gather in.

“It looks like it’s… breathing?” David says, in faint wonder.

“Right?” Oscar says. “And every little frond looks like its own tiny tree in a tiny forest.”

Whoah, he is so right. I wonder what it would be like to be a ladybird, and trundle around in that tiny forest, under the soft little bright green fronds.

“Wanna eat lunch here?” Ava suggests, plonking down our bags. I get a little bit distracted by the shiny mylar on the bottom of our picnic blanket. Yep. Definitely kicking in.

One by one, we unpack my specially curated bag of gourmet Aldi treats: knockoff fancy brie, bougie seeded fig crackers, dried apricots, quince paste, goat’s cheese, hummus, freshly squeezed orange juice, garlic twists and the fresh strawberries that probably got off the last easyJet business-class flight from Spain, plus a fresh crusty baguette with poppy seeds on it. Oh, and a bunch of post-Christmas discount chocolates. I'll admit I went kind of overboard, but you can't skimp on the food while you're high, even if you have to down a Milkaid or so.

Osc has put on some music on a portable speaker – it’s the new Aurora album, I think – and the chill, mellow tunes and wafty vocals are perfect for the frosty park, mixing gently with the background of twittering birds.

I start loading wedges of brie onto highbrow crackers and handing them around. Oscar bites into his, then does a little dance where he’s sitting. Georgie makes appreciative noises.

I watch as David takes a mouthful, then collapses on his back on the grass.

“Oh my god,” David gasps in between crunches.

I bite into mine, and I can taste the sunshine that shone on the wheat. I can taste the roots of the tree that grew the nuts. I can taste the rich creamy yellowness of the cheese as it melts on my tongue like a Sunday afternoon in summer. I love the sharp crunch of the biscuit, and suddenly, it tastes like I'm eating the Earth.

“I feel like a giant eating rocks, except the rocks are delicious, because I'm a giant,” I say. For a second I’m worried nobody else is going to know what the hell I’m talking about, but they all nod.

Everything in my bag of treats is its own revelation, and we end up marvelling over the dried apricots and laughing about how far the strawberries must have travelled, just to end up being eaten by a bunch of tripping dorks. Everyone unanimously hates the garlic twists, but even that’s a wild discovery.

“The trees look so fuzzy,” David says, lying on his back on the blanket and looking up at the rich green pines beside us. “Everything’s so bright and crisp and… more… real?”

I lean over and kiss him, and I fall into the kiss for about a thousand years before I finally bubble my way back to the surface.

“Wow,” David says quietly, his green oceans fixed on mine.

I turn just in time to see Ava blow through a bubble wand she’s produced from somewhere, and then ‧.•˚° all ◌ of ‧. ｡ a °˚○ sudden ◎○.｡°◯˚ we’re ◌◯˚°• surrounded ◯○‧.˚ by ○•.◎ shimmering °｡◌°◯ iridescent ○•˚ balls ◎◌ of ◯｡. wonder ˚°‧◌.◯.

—

“Come on,” says Ava. “Time to go look at the Palm House before it gets dark.”

I levitate to my feet, pulling David up after me, and as we walk away, we leave crisp, deep footprints on the frosty grass that sink gently deeper the further away we get.

Something glints in the corner of my eye, like the sparkle of buried treasure. I drop David’s hand and float over, bending down to scoop up the most beautiful thing I have ever seen: a stunning blue and black striped feather.

“Wow,” says Oscar, appearing over my shoulder, as I hold it up between my fingers. The fluttering grey fronds are almost as gorgeous as the stripes. We all marvel at it.

“Wingfeather from a jay,” David says. How does he know all this stuff?

We trickle over towards the big white confection of a greenhouse that sits on the lawn.

“Do you think it would taste like cake or meringue?” I ask of nobody in particular.

“Meringue,” Georgie says.

“Jelly mould,” David says, his voice definite. “Lime ice cream float flavour.”

A chorus of quiet agreement comes from the group.

“Imagine how big a spoon you’d need,” I say in awe, and we all lose a moment to that.

—

Through the doors, we’ve stepped inside the Permian era; ferns and lush palms, fronds unfolding and refolding around us, breathing and reaching, flat-leafed undergrowth crawling among the stems and trunks of their older siblings, the last rays of the sun streaming through and catching the leaves with a crisp golden-edged glow. It’s incredible. I let my hands brush a frond that’s reaching out over the path and let its fingers caress mine, a conversation between me and a creature so different from myself that this is the only way we can speak. What would it be like to live such a quiet life, without needing to move, just talking to my neighbours and snacking on daylight and working on unveiling my next leaf? I’d make a terrible plant, let’s be real. But maybe I could manage it for a day.

Or maybe not, because my legs have already moved past my frondy palm friend and brought me to meet a luminous bromeliad of some kind, home to a tiny jewelled frog that I suspect may not be real but who I watch puffing out its crystal throat in a rhythm that just perfectly matches the beat of Aurora’s song.

—

It’s dark now, and we’re time-travelling out into the darkness, leaving the Permian heat behind us and stepping into the icehouse of Victorian London. I shiver, and a warm arm comes around me. It’s David. He’s pulling me in under his coat. I let the ୧‿︵‿︵ tendrils of ৎ‎ heat ༄ from his body ︵‿୨ wrap around me‎. I snuggle into the warmth of him, even though it’s ridiculously impractical and I have to kind of lean down to do it.

“How did you know?” I ask him.

“I mean, look at it,” David says, breathing *✴₊⊹✧ out ⬫✴⥋⟡ a *~-.,¸ cloud ¸.-~·⬫ of ✴☆*'¨⥊ chill ⟢⊹‧₊˚✫.

“Yeah, okay,” I huff a matching cloud ꧁꧂ in agreement.

—

We get closer and closer to the lights, a beautiful forest of lit triangles dripping from their stems, and my shining moth mother tells me to choose a lantern.

I look at her in disbelief.

“Really?” I can’t believe I’m allowed to take one of these magical tetrahedrons.

She nods, picking a ▲ and a ▲ from the hedgerow of light and handing them to Ash and Georgie, who take them with the reverence they deserve. David plucks out a ▲ and then hands me a ▲.

“How did you know,” I gaze at the pink envelope of fire.

“The umbrella,” he says, confusingly. “You and me.”

We walk, hand in gloved hand, along the path, our lanterns bobbing, as vast jellyfish and whales swim past us.

“It feels like as long as you're holding my hand, I can breathe underwater,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he says. “It feels like as long as you’re holding my hand, I can do anything.”

—

“David!” says a warm, light voice behind us. “And Olly, is that you?”

I turn around, and it’s Liss and Cookie and their two small humans, all holding ▲▲▲▲, the two taller ones smiling broadly.

I make noises of greeting which I’m fairly sure are human, and reach down to clink my lantern with the smallest Cookie’s matching ▲, a move she returns with great seriousness. I take the opportunity to try to casually drop David’s hand, but he doesn’t let go.

“Hi,” he says.

“Never thought we’d run into you here,” Cookie smiles.

“Olly’s taking me out,” David says. Then, after a viscously poured second, he holds up our joined hands. “Date night.”

“Are you on a date?” asks the ▲ of the two small biscuits.

“Yep,” I confirm. “Boyfriends.”

I look up from the short person to find Cookie grinning a normal amount, and Liss grinning so hard I start vaguely wondering if the top of her head might pop off and I might need to catch it before it floats away. She’s radiating so much happiness I can feel my hair curling up a bit [more] at the ends.

“Did you know boys can have boyfriends and girls can have girlfriends?” she asks her kids, without really looking at them.

“I knew that,” says purple child, “I’m ten, Mum, not six.”

“Same. I knew that too,” says pink child.

“And non-binary people can have enbyfriends!” I add.

“What’s a non-birey?” asks Purple Child.

“That means not a boy or a girl, just a person!” I explain. “Turns out you don’t actually have to pick one if you don’t want to.”

“Does that mean you have to have half short hair and half long?” asks Pink Child.

“No—” I start. Then I think about Fox’s mullet and CJ’s asymmetrical half-shave. “Whoah. Maybe you do. Let me get back to you on that one.”

“Okay. When you find out, you can tell my mum and she’ll tell me. Or you can come to our house for dinner and tell me.” Pink child says seriously, then turns to her mother. “Can we go see the dragon now?”

“Sure, Bri,” says Liss. I can feel the remnants of a grown-up silent conversation that she, David and Cookie had drifting down over me like warm spiderwebs, so I stand up and shake them off.

“You two have fun,” Liss beams at us as they walk away. As they disappear around a corner, I see her do a little skip.

“I take it that went well,” I say, and David grips my hand a little tighter and rests his head on my shoulder.

“How are people just okay with it,” he murmurs, and I risk lifting his gloved fingers up to kiss them.

—

By the time we emerge, we have fought and won a strange odyssey. We received our directions from the glowing yellow moon, communed with the fishing figures as they floated on the black lake, forded rivers of fire, made a run for it past a nest of hornets and a field of shambling faceless nightmares, walked under trees dripping with breathing blue leaves, met birds and deer and badgers and ferns. There was even a fox. And yes, there was a dragon, but fortunately, it wasn’t the aggressive type.

At the end, Ava awaits us, taking our lanterns back and presenting us with our quest’s rewards, one by one: huge marshmallows on sticks.

“The fire is real and hot and I will not touch it,” she says, once we’re all assembled. “Do you understand?” She makes us repeat it, one after the other: the fire is real and hot I will not touch it. But, my God, when she leads us to the pit of glowing coals to toast our prizes, it's so beautiful.

—

There are just people everywhere. The lights are too sharp, and there are too many eyes, and men down the carriage are yelling in spiky football shapes that hurt my brain, which I am trying to cradle safely under my arm.

Thank fuck, after a stop, some people get off, and we get a few seats in a row.

Beautiful Ava stands in front of us and produces, from a pocket dimension somewhere in her sub-moth attire, a variety bag of shiny treats, pulling them out one after the other.

A sheet of shimmering holographic plastic. A string of bright blue faceted beads. A picture flip-book. A box of light-up pop tubes, like neon accordion-snakes. A faceted gem in bright purple.

I’m wondering which one to choose when David extracts my 𓆰 jay feather 𓆰 from his inside jacket pocket, and as we lean together to gaze at it in wonder, Ava spreads her wings to wrap us all in the loving eyes of her mothly embrace.

—

We finally get to Bromley station eight thousand very stressful years later, and I have learned a valuable lesson: do not do acid in a fluorescently-lit crowd of randomly generated NPCs.

We spill out into the comparative quiet that is a merely crowded and festive Bromley High Street, with a collective aura of relief that probably reverberates off the sky. I do a little dance to shake off all the horrible neon lighting that’s still clinging to my skin, and brush some off David, too.

“You were probably right about getting that Uber, cariad,” I tell David. “I will never doubt you again.”

He laughs at that, and why does his laugh sound so fucking magical?

It’s raining a little bit, and he produces an umbrella out of nowhere. It’s the one I gave him on Christmas night. Pink and dark grey.

“Ohhhhhh,” I say, brushing my fingers over it. “Us.”

—

“David! Well, isn’t this just perfect timing!” says a hairdo, coming towards us down David’s hallway.

We’ve just completed a perfect dismount off the lift at the exact moment it soared past the seventh floor. Osc, Georgie and Fox took off towards David’s place, but David and I were the last to make the leap, and now we’re pinned.

“Save yourself,” I whisper-yell to Ava. “You can’t risk a pin in that outfit. You’d never get loose. They’d put you in a shadowbox forever.”

Underneath the hairdo is a woman, followed by a tanned, gristly Lurch in a polo shirt.

“Can you believe yet another fire alarm thanks to those irresponsible people having illegal barbecues on their balconies?” David’s neighbour begins. Her voice is very abrasive, like her speech bubbles are written on sandpaper.

“Oh, no, yes, very annoying,” David grimaces.

she scrapes.

“Oh… right,” David says. I think he might be trying to melt through the corridor wall?

“Stronger measures are going to have to be taken,” says Blonde Helmet. “We can’t have people bringing down the property values.”

“Oh… no, definitely a concern,” David tries to pour over the sharpness, but I don’t think it’s working. We’ve got to get out of here somehow. I glance at Ava but she’s as at a loss as I am.

“So do you think you might be able to step up and run for the management committee, David?” she says, in a voice that could probably take paint off a wardrobe. David is drenched in his particular brand of well-disguised bisexual panic right now – though I guess for once, it’s about something other than his core identity. Which is actually refreshing, I suppose. Nice to know he gets anxious about stupid shit, just like the rest of us.

I pop out, in the cutest little pink speech bubble. The overly loopy wedding font is a nice touch, I think, looking at it. “Come on, David! Ava! Lots to do still.”

I toss a bit of extra pink glitter on there, and before any more sandpaper can come our way, I grab David and Ava both by the sleeves and take off down the corridor.

The door has mercifully been left open and we skid through it and slam it, David and I collapsing in a giggling heap on the floor.

Then we take stock of the apartment in front of us, and whoaaaah, has Bailey ever been busy.

He’s put up strings of LED fairy lights all over the place. He’s got Journey up on David’s massive TV, and he’s rigged some kind of lighting behind it that makes it look like the game is spilling out over the wall.

On the other side of the room, above the ping-pong table, the Pillars of Creation are looming, thousands of stars surrounding the towering gas nebula, reaching up and across the ceiling.

And – I seriously do not know what part of his apparently capacitous arse he pulled this out of – there’s dry ice machine fog billowing gently around our ankles, with more fairy lights flickering under it.

“Whoah,” I say, from my vantage point on the floorboards.

“Who the fuck are all these people?” David says, apparently unaware that there are no people in the gas clouded vacuum of space.

I force myself to tear my eyes off the majesty of our vast insignificance, and see that there’s a respectable number of folks here.

“Well, Mills you know,” I elbow him. “That’s definitely still her, green bob notwithstanding. The ridiculously hot couple are Sirje and Raúl, who I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned before, in detail. CJ I think I have also mentioned to you, they’re the one with the asymmetrical haircut and the sparkly earring. The tall girl is Miranda, Bailey’s cousin. I don’t know who the short girl with the braids is, but I’m guessing she might be Bailey’s date, he said he met someone new at his makerspace meetup.”

“Darlings!” Millsy catches sight of us and skips over, extending us a hand each to pull us up of the floor, then down again into a hug with a flurry of cheek kisses.

“Hi, Mills,” David says. He seems to be relaxing a bit after his little flipski outski. “How are you?”

“Better now you’re here!” she chirrups sexily.

“Come on, Millsy, at least let us take our coats off first, please,” I beg her. “Also, we are so high right now.”

She laughs.

“Let me get you a drink,” she suggests. “Olly, vodka cranberry? David, I’m guessing from your drinks cabinet that you’re a neat whisky sipper.”

“Uhhh… yeah,” he agrees, looking somewhat called out. “Anything out of my drinks cabinet would be great. Thanks. There are ice balls in the freezer. Help yourself while you’re there.”

“Whoah, David,” I say, elbowing him. “Opening up your drinks cabinet? Is that wise?”

“Yeah, well, what the fuck am I saving it for? The apocalypse?” he says. “My house is full of bright young things. It’s New Year’s fucking Eve. May as well show them a good fucking time.”

I feel the affection wash through me like a wave of golden light.

“Fuck, I love you, David,” I whisper into his ear, and I watch the golden light ripple out of my mouth and go through his every molecule, lighting him up from inside and shining out in a halo. He smiles at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I’m just thinking about pinning him to the wall and smooching his brains out when Millsy reappears.

“Yeah, so, I’m pouring you some of this one,” she holds up a brown bottle, “And I’m hiding this one in the back of your pantry,” she holds up a black box with a gold Japanese character on it. “My Uncle Rog got Daddy one of these for his 50th and he would not shut up about how much it cost.”

“Oh… thanks, you’re a good egg,” David says, not really looking away from me.

“Fuck, you two have gone all mushy on me, haven’t you?” she says.

“Don’t @ me,” I whisper dreamily. “I did it for the money.”

“Well, if you nick the fancy whisky, you can pay your rent for a month,” she says, disappearing again.

David and I manage to peel ourselves out of scarves and boots and coats and gloves, and I’m pretty sure David’s about to tow me to the bedroom when Sirje and Raúl come over.

“Olly, baby!” says Raúl. “You look gorgeous! Who’s your friend?”

“This is David,” I wrap an arm around his waist. “My boyfriend. This is his place.”

“David! Lovely to meet you! Thanks for the party, your apartment is byeaudiful,” she says in her thick Estonian accent.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Olly!” says Raúl. “Hi, I’m Raúl.”

“Well, we only made it official about a week ago,” I admit. Has it really only been a week? Not even that? I find I’ve moulded myself to David’s side, my nose buried in his hair. It smells so good.

“Want some sparkle, Olly?” CJ appears brandishing an eyeshadow palette so shiny that it might just be visible from space.

“Ooooh, yes, can you do me bisexual eyeshadow?” I squeak, feasting my eyes on all the pretty colours.

Millsy pops up out of nowhere with our drinks.

“Genius idea with the DIY toastie station,” she says.

“Well, thank you,” I purr, as CJ dusts me expertly.

“What?” David says, nonplussed.

“Bailey brought over our sandwich toaster and we bought a bunch of bread and fillings,” I explain. “Cheese and spinach and beans and stuff. Party catering for the student loan budget.”

“Who’s next?” CJ chirps. Raúl puts up his hand.

“Could you do me some cool cheekbones or something?” he asks, and CJ claps their hands in excitement.

“I could have just given you some cash for food, Olly,” David seems vaguely… embarrassed?

‘Oh, probably,” I say, uncertain where he’s going with this, but pretty sure I don’t want to talk about money while I’m high. “You can give Bails twenty quid later if you want. And we still owe Osc for our party treats. But that’s tomorrow’s problem, handsome. Tonight’s problem is what to dance to!”

Sirje laughs.

“Let’s get some tunes on!” she yells.

Party music isn’t Bailey’s strong suit, but a minute or two later, she’s commandeered the sound system and put on Dua Lipa’s Levitating, and everyone in the room except Bailey and David are doing the claps.

“Oh my god, this takes me back!” yells Georgie. Everyone’s congregating beside the ping-pong table – the biggest open space – and arms are up all over the place.

“Year 13 Prom, baby!” I agree, whooping at full volume. “What a classic tune! Come dance with me, David!”

“I can’t dance,” he protests. “And isn’t this song brand-new?”

“It’s, like, five years old, David,” I roll my eyes. “And you don’t have to do anything. Just come over and sway vaguely while I grind on you.”

“Jesus, I am so old,” David mutters. “I just wanna watch you dance, Olly.”

I pout, but I don’t really mind. It’s kind of hard to object to being the centre of David’s universe. So I just let the sparkly music flow into me, and over me, and through me, and I dance with my best mates like no-one’s watching.

—

Ava puts a half a toastie in my hand and another half in David’s.

I bite into it. It’s just the right temperature, the cheese all melty but not burning hot. It’s cheese and tomato, my favourite, and she’s put some pesto or something in it, too, because wow.

“Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I moan.

“Holy fuck,” David says, tangled in a cheese string. “Why don’t I eat toasties all the time?”

I gaze mournfully at the toasted sandwich. “How am I supposed to put a ring on you when you have no fingers?” I say, tragically.

“Replaced by a sandwich,” David says, in a long-suffering voice.

“And here’s other two toastie halves,” she hands me a paper plate, the angel.

—

It’s finally time. Two minutes to go.

Osc handed us a party popper each – the paper streamer kind, thanks very much, perverts, though that reminds me, the other kind is probably still in David’s bedside table drawer – and we’re all crowded on the balcony, wrapped in assorted coats, me in David’s charcoal throw blanket. Everyone's out here except for Bailey and Sirje, who are doing something complicated with the music and David’s TV.

“Two minutes to go!” yells Miranda.

“You know, it feels weird to say this, but I haven’t hated this year,” I murmur into David’s ear. It’s kinda crowded, so we’re wedged side by side into the corner behind his potted plant. “I mean, a chunk of it there wasn't ideal, but I’ve had so much fun with you. And I really haven’t hated the last week of this year at all.”

“Olly,” he turns to me, “Since I met you, this has been… the hardest and best year of my fucking life.”

“Well, thanks,” I laugh. “Good to know I’ve made your life difficult.”

“Seriously. Life was so much easier when I could just be a cunt,” he says. “I didn’t have to think about anything. Especially not things I didn’t want to think about. And so what if I’d sometimes lie awake all night feeling like the ceiling and walls were crushing me? Just get up, do a couple of shots, it’ll go away. Go out, have fun. I thought it was normal. And then you fucking sailed into my life.”

He squeezes the arm he’s got wrapped around my waist harder.

“One minute!” comes the warning from Miranda. The strains of one of those old EDM club anthem bangers starts pouring out of the speakers in the apartment.

“I remember you told me, once, that being a decent human being opened doors, and you were so right, but… even then, the only thing I can imagine wanting behind those doors is you,” he adds, running his hand into my hair.

“Well that’s… unhealthily codependent, and also makes me mushy inside,” I say, my arms coming up to wrap around him.

“Ten… nine… eight…” everyone starts yelling around us.

“I love you, David Nelson,” I whisper.

“I love you, Olly Spring,” he says, and pulls me in to kiss me, as the drop hits, the bass kicks in, the poppers go off, everyone starts whooping and jumping up and down, the fireworks crackle in the distance, and we’re the only two people in existence, alone on a silent, perfect planet, somewhere in the Pillars of Creation.

Chapter Text

The effects of my party favour are starting to wear off, which is probably a good thing, because sleeping on acid is a bitch, and every time I look at them, the small hours are getting smaller and smaller. We never did officially make it out dancing; everyone’s just strewn around David’s apartment, having their own version of a very pleasant time. Right now, I’m just mellow, and feeling a bit drunk and generally benevolent towards the world.

“So, Oliviero,” Millsy insinuates herself into my orbit as I’m making David and me another round of toasties. “My dove. My darling. My ray of sunshine.”

I snort as I close the lid on two fresh cheese, pesto and tomato envelopes of joy. We’ve run out of cheddar, so I had to use brie. What a tragedy.

“I can't imagine what proposal you're about to put to me,” I say, winding a collegiate arm around her waist, as we regard the sandwich press together like it’s our first child, going off to their first day of primary school. “Is it a wild suggestion that… I make you a cheese toastie?”

“Well… not quite…” she admits.

“It’s a baked bean toastie, isn’t it? No? Mushroom?” I mime spitting. “No, wait. I've got it… A double sausage.”

She slaps me in the shoulder. I'm not entirely sure why, since she follows it with a hopefully raised eyebrow.

“Let me ask David,” I laugh. “It's his first time on acid and it’s mostly worn off, but I don't want to overload him.”

I load the now-molten toasties onto another paper plate – he still hasn't replaced the real ones – and drift back to where Oscar and David are playing some kind of pixellated retrogame where dinosaurs shoot green bubbles at ghosts and turning them into bananas. I get totally sucked in, and for a minute, I forget Mills and David and the toasties and I'm just fighting for my life against a horde of ghosts armed with nothing but a bubble wand. But Mills appears at my elbow to prod me back to the world, which is good, because the toasties are just the right temperature now.

“Who’s winning?” I enquire, and as I drop onto the sofa next to David, he looks at me like I just descended off a puffy cloud, holding a harp and flapping my six biblically accurate wings.

“Me,” he says, gazing at me like a lovesick idiot, as his dinosaur gets exploded by an angry little purple whale.

“Oh my god, you two,” Oscar says, frantically trying to shoot bubbles on his own.

David wordlessly holds out the controller without taking his eyes off me, and Bailey’s new pigtailed friend Ruby takes over.

I go to hand David a sandwich, but apparently, now he’s started kissing me in front of other people – even if it’s just my mates – he can’t stop. He wriggles me over onto the long section of the sofa and plants a long, lingering smooch on me, before he comes back up to stare at me some more.

“You’re so pretty tonight,” he says. “I’m the luckiest guy on Earth.”

“Damn right you are,” I nod. “You’ve got me and a toasted sandwich.”

“And me,” says Millsy, plonking herself down behind me on the long arm of the sofa. “If you’re up for it?”

“Oh, um,” David says. “That’s up to Olly. He’s the expert on acid.”

“Well, on this particular subject, it’s really just about doing whatever gives you the best vibes in the moment,” I bite into a toastie triangle. “So feel free to say no. But I do recall you saying you’d like to fuck my face while we got – how did you put it? – a pretty little pussy slid over my dick?”

“Oh, wow,” says Mills.

“Wow indeed,” says Oscar, from the other end of the sofa.

We all look at him just as his little blue dinosaur explodes. Miranda makes a disgusted noise and takes the controller off him. He sidles a little across the couch until he’s allllmost pressed up against David’s back.

David looks at me, a slightly confused question in his eyes.

“Only you can answer this one, David,” I shrug, smiling around another bite. “Nobody’s gonna get salty if they don’t get picked for the softball team. And you can nope out of anything at any time for any reason, or no reason at all.”

“I mean… um… yeah?” David says, still looking at me. “Yeah, you know what, fuck it. Let’s do it.”

“Woohoo! Sexytimes!” yells Oscar, subtle as a brick. I think Millsy is kicking her legs. I can’t really tell, because I’m busy kissing my ridiculously smoking hot boyfriend.

He eventually pulls back, and I cram the rest of my toastie triangle in my mouth in one go.

“Let’sh do zhiszh thing, frehnsh,” I say, sexily, through a mouthful of cheese.

Mills makes a squeeing noise and leaps up off the arm of the couch. “Where’s your loo?” she asks.

I point towards the bedrooms, and she skips off towards the guest room. “Keep going!” I shout, unfolding myself off the couch and extending a hand each to Oscar and David. “Last one at the end of the hall!”

“Oh… that reminds me,” David says to the room at large. “Anyone’s welcome to use the guest room. And I’ve got some sleeping mats and stuff, hang on, I’ll drag them out.”

He disappears into Sarah’s room and emerges with an airbed, a camping mat, a sleeping bag and an assortment of linen and blankets. He’s about to start setting them up when I grab him by the waist and tow him towards the bedroom, Oscar skipping ahead.

“’Night, everyone!” I yell, and a chorus of half-arsed farewell follows us.

Mills is in the ensuite when we get in, and I slam the door behind us. I’m a little bit nervous, given what happened last time Oscar and David and I tried to get together, and given the slightly awkward way they’re standing, I’m not alone in that.

“Test smooch?” I suggest, inclining my head and raising an eyebrow to nudge the two of them together.

They hesitate for a second, then David hooks Osc around the back of the neck and pulls him in. At first it’s tentative, but then David’s kissing him hot and hard, his tongue darting into Oscar’s mouth.

It’s… not like I’m not having any feelings about this, but it’s nothing like last time. And, actually, the little frisson of jealousy that runs down my arms is… kind of… hot. I find I’ve walked over to join them. I sneak up behind Oscar and put my hands on his, where they’re sitting on David’s waist, and run them up, underneath my boyfriend’s shirt.

Ahhh… my boyfriend. That’s what’s different.

“Mmmmkay, I’m good, test smooch number two?” I suggest. David nods, a little breathlessly, and Oscar turns his head so I can plant one on him. We honestly don’t even really make out normally, but it’s nice to make the effort for company. Like getting out the good china.

David gives a little low growl – I can feel it in his chest, my hands still under his shirt with Osc’s – but it’s his horny growl, not his angry growl. Wow. Apparently I can tell the difference through touch alone now. I drop one hand to David’s belt and yank him in close, then leave off Oscar to kiss David over Osc’s shoulder.

“God, I love you,” I whisper, when I let him go. Oscar’s kissing down the other side of his neck and busily undoing his buttons. “All good?”

“Mmmmm,” he growls again.

“Did you start without me?” comes Millsy’s mock-offended voice from somewhere a half a foot below us. “And I brought boobs to this picnic and everything.”

“Why don’t you tag in for me, while I go get some towels and rinse off and stuff,” I suggest.

I dash into the ensuite and whip off my slacks, and give the south entrance a go-over with a wet flannel. A quick finger check reveals no obvious impending disaster, so I take a minute to get myself relaxed and open for the festivities. Scouts motto and all that.

I bring out a couple of charcoal towels and a couple of extra wet flannels, in case anyone wants to go to the buffet. Oscar doesn’t bottom much, but he likes being eaten out as much as the next guy.

While I was gone, Mills managed to lose her top and her bra, Osc’s jeans are gone, and David is down to his charcoal boxer briefs, the three of them already piled on the bed. It helps me not feel too underdressed, because I’m wearing nothing but my necklace and a swiftly-inflating semi.

I rub my hands gleefully and leap into the mess of limbs, grabbing the nearest nipple in my mouth, before I realise I’ve forgotten a matter of great importance.

“Oh! Shit! One second. Be right back.”

I leap off the pile of warm bodies, throw on David’s silky dressing gown, and dash out of the room. A couple of moments later, I return triumphantly with my prize: an as-yet-uneaten toastie and a half.

“Well, thank god for that, I don’t know what we would have done without it, Olly,” David says.

“Ooooh,” says Oscar, from the middle of the pile, reaching for a triangle.

“No crumbs in the bed,” David says, automatically.

“Jeez,” Osc mutters, hesitating momentarily, but returning to his toastie plan.

David winds a hand around the back of his neck and into his hair, gripping him and holding him still.

“No. Crumbs. In. The. Bed,” he hard-whispers, his lips trailing up Oscar’s neck, and I literally see Osc shiver.

“Oooooh, daddy,” Millsy breathes, watching from a lounging position alongside.

“Don’t call me that,” David growls.

“Okay, Eliza,” Mills says. “Jesus, Olly, is this even the same guy?”

“Nope,” I grin, perching the toastie plate on the bedside table. “Full refit.”

David just growls again. “Get over here, you little brat,” he says, yanking me by my pants so I fall over on top of him and kissing me like he’s trying to melt steel. It works. I melt all over him.

“Ugh, not this again,” says Millsy. “How do you two manage to make me feel so single when I’m literally half-naked in a bed with three people?”

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologise, leaning over to kiss her while I gently grind on David’s crotch.

“That’s better,” she allows.

God, I’m in my fucking element. We get Millsy’s skirt and stockings off, and Oscar’s shirt ends up on David’s bedside lamp. Weirdly, in a way, this might be my favourite bit? Before the fucking starts in earnest, and I’m just rolling around in a pile of people, putting whatever I want in my mouth like I’m on one of those all-you-can-eat berry farms. I find myself with a dick in one hand – must be Oscar’s, since I can get my hand around it – and someone else’s nipple in my mouth – David’s, I’m assuming – while my other hand has found Millsy’s arse and is shamelessly squeezing it. Through the forest of bits, I can see David’s mouth on Millsy’s boob, and Osc’s hands on David’s globes. If we got caught in a volcanic eruption right now, this melded beast with four backs would puzzle the absolute shit out of future archaeologists.

Okay, so the acid hasn’t completely worn off, I think, as I find myself tracing David’s leg all the way to his foot to make sure we’re two separate people, then staring at his fine golden leg hair as I brush my hand over it. But I don’t have too much time to go off on a tangent before someone’s got their mouth on my junk and ohhhhhh, that is very nice.

I look up to find Mills riding David’s face while he strokes himself and finger-fucks her – chalk that up for great justice – and Osc sucking my dick. I’m overcome with an enormous sense of wellbeing as I lie back and listen to Millsy’s escalating moans, as David manages to bring her to her first orgasm of the evening, without even a hint of direction from anyone. In a great show of personal restraint, I do not tell David how proud of him I am.

“Wow, I’m kind of proud of you, David,” says Mills. “Nicely done.”

David grabs Mills by the waist and pushes her over onto her back, but he can’t hide the unmistakable glow of satisfaction of a man who just made a woman come.

“C’mere, Olly,” David says. “I wanna fuck your mouth while you get sandwiched.”

Somewhere in the universe, a bunch of confetti cannons go off, and a sign unfurls reading ‘MOTHER. FUCKING. YESSSSS.’

“Bossy, these days, isn’t he,” Mills comments.

“I can’t say I’m sad about it,” I confess, as I pick myself up, dislodging Oscar, and settle between her legs. “Pass me a condom, Osc?”

He passes me one and rips open one for himself, while David just sits by and watches us. I wonder if I could get him to spank me. Is that greedy? He’s already gonna gag me with his monster cock.

I get the latex rolled down my dick and reach for the lube, but Millsy stops my hand.

“No need, I’m wet as the Amazon,” she says. God, how nice that must be. I pass the lube over to Oscar and spread her dark pink pussy lips, rubbing my cock up and down her clit and making her gasp. Then I change angle and push down into her.

“Ohhhhh, yesssss,” she groans at full volume. “Oh. Fuuuuuuuuuck. Give it to me, Olly, baby.”

I’m surrounded by warmth and I oblige. In fact, I’m so busy pounding her that I almost forget the plan, until Osc’s hands cup my arse-cheeks and I feel his dick sneak into the crack.

“No need to prep or anything,” I gasp, freezing mid-stroke. “I’m ready to go.”

“Hot,” says Oscar, in that way where he’s being sincere but also sarcastic but also sincere. I feel his fingers anyway, smearing me with lube, and then they’re replaced by his cockhead, as he slowly and carefully thrusts into me.

“Mother of fuck,” I say, almost collapsing on Millsy. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Fuck.”

That’s the moment where David decides to shove his fingers in my mouth, and I almost come on the spot.

After I calm down a bit, we manage to find a rhythm – Osc railing me, me meeting his strokes and then fucking into Mills on the downstroke – but I’m not going to last. It feels like there are twenty people in the bed with me, Mills with her hands on my titties, me with my thumb on her clit, Oscar’s hands on my hips and his mouth on my neck, my dick pounding into Mills’ tight little pussy and Osc’s cock buried inside me – and David’s fingers in my mouth. And then, suddenly, he stands up on the bed, tips my face up to look at him, and pushes his cock into my mouth, and holy fuck, do I ever love this man.

I desperately try to keep my eyes on him as he fucks my face remorselessly, one gentle hand cupping my jaw, the other in my hair. I can’t even keep up with what’s going on below, and I have to let Osc and Mills take over, her with her hands braced on the headboard and her legs around both of us, grinding her hot, wet heat around my dick to meet Oscar’s hard thrusts up into my arse. The angle is perfect, and he’s nailing my prostate like a bullseye every time. All I can do is let David push his massive fucking dick down my throat, tears in my eyes, while I’m yanked helplessly towards a massive, towering orgasm.

Millsy beats me there, but once she starts clenching around me, I’m a goner, and I’m desperately trying not to bite down on David’s dick as the pleasure rushes through me like a thousand sparklers. Every part of me is convulsing and contracting and shaking like a leaf. It’s incredible. As usual, I set Oscar off, too, and he comes a second or two later, and we’re all a shuddering, twitching blissful blob of sparkly happiness. Apparently my thumb is still rubbing Mills’ clit, because she seems to still be coming.

My eyes find David’s again, his hand still holding me onto his cock, though he’s not fucking my throat any more; I can breathe fine. Slowly, he releases me and kneels back down to kiss me. We don’t say it, but it hovers between us like a caption in a comic book: I love you so fucking much.

—

Out of deference to David’s feelings, we finish the toasties sitting on the floor, leaning against the mattress.

Millsy, Osc and I need a minute to recover from the kind of orgasm that is generally found on bucket lists, but David hasn’t come yet; he’s donated his toastie for the cause, and he’s lying on the bed behind me, just running his fingers through my hair and scratching my scalp and generally turning me into an Olly-shaped puddle of mush.

“You sure you don’t want the last bite?” I say, holding up what’s left of my triangle.

“I’m not hungry for toasties, Olly,” he says, in that low, rumbly voice that might as well be a knife-switch marked ‘Activate Spring Boner’.

“That reminds me, I haven’t had a play on your maypole yet, big boy,” says Mills.

“Me neither,” says Osc. “Though, honestly, I’m not sure I could take it. I don’t really bottom that often.”

“Oooh, speaking of bottoms,” I say, “I brought wet flannels in case anyone wants to get eaten out.”

“Mmmm, that sounds nice,” says Oscar.

“Well, then, my pet, you shall have it!” declares Millsy. She bounces up and locates one of the flannels.

“Up you hop,” she tells Osc, who gets on the bed on his hands and knees, and she gets busy with the flannel.

“Fuck! Cold!” Oscar yelps.

“Oh my god, you big baby,” Mills says, slapping one arse-cheek. “The waiter didn’t provide warm ones. Now shut up and enjoy yourself.”

She dives in as David and I watch, licking and flicking at his arsehole enthusiastically as Osc makes comfortable noises of pleasure.

“You lot really all are into eating arse, aren’t you?” David says, wonderingly.

“Everybody’s got one, David,” I remind him. “Come on. Let’s get in on this. Which end do you fancy?”

I slide underneath Osc and get my mouth on his dick. It’s chubbing up again nicely. Osc doesn’t have a David-sized monster cock or anything, but I kind of love that I can almost get the whole thing in my mouth, and when it’s soft, I definitely can. I bury my lips in his pubes. We’re good at this.

David gets up and goes around to where Millsy is kneeling behind Oscar. To be fair, her generous arse does look pretty appealing, where she’s got it stuck in the air. I replace my mouth with my hand on Oscar’s dick so that I can spectate.

David starts dragging his dick up and down Millsy’s backside, from top to bottom, and then he grabs her hip and starts fucking her crack. His dick’s so big I can see his tip appearing and disappearing as he slides up and down.

He rubs his dick on her wet pussy, and she gasps.

“Ohhhh, now this is what I’m here for,” she says in a low moan. After a long minute of stroking back and forth, she can’t take the teasing any longer. “Might be time to think about getting wrapped up, big boy… anyone want to get me ready for a double?”

“It would be my honour, bella,” I offer. Oscar wraps his hands around David while I extract lube and condoms from the drawer; he takes the condom I was about to hand David.

“Let me do that for you,” he says, then dives down on David’s cock with his mouth, wringing a ripe moan out of David.

I snuggle up behind Mills and sneak an arm under her to fondle one breast, the perfect little handful soft under my hand, then push over her top thigh with my other hand and start lubing her up.

I kiss along her shoulder as I push two slick fingers into her pussy, pulling a leisurely moan out of her. I get her nice and wet, then drift back and start lubing up her arsehole, letting my dick nestle under my circling fingers as I push gently.

Over on the other side of the bed, David and Oscar are enthusiastically sixty-nining each other. Way to get sidetracked, but I must say, it’s a pretty nice view, Osc bobbing up and down trying to get as much of David’s monster down his throat as possible, and David buried somewhere underneath with almost all of Osc’s dick in his mouth.

I get a lube-loaded finger into Mills and start smearing it around inside, pushing in and out, gently curling it and using it to tug her open sideways until she’s nice and relaxed and I’m fucking her easily with two fingers.

“Oh, fuck, yes, Olly, mmmmm,” she mumbles, running her hand down to her clit. “Oh, fuck, so good,”

“Wanna come again now?” I suggest.

“Nope… wanna come full of cock again,” she breathes. “Like, full of cock.”

“How do you want to do this?” I ask. “Horizontally or vertically?”

“Vertically? Jesus!” she says. “I don’t want to end up in a comedy sex accident, explaining myself in an A&E. Horizontally, thanks.”

From underneath Osc’s hips, I’m pretty sure I hear a snort that’s not blowjob-related.

“You on your back, David on top, Osc up here fucking my mouth please,” Millsy continues. “Come on, you two, stop with the noshing and let’s do this.”

I roll on a condom and lube up while Oscar finally sorts David out, and we all get into position. I pull Mills over me, spreadeagled, and David straddles my legs. Fuck, I hope this works. I’ve only done this once before.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I start to push into Millsy’s tight little arsehole, cupping her soft, generous cheeks in both hands as I gently increase the pressure. Our first attempt fails, my dick pinging off target, but the second time, we start getting somewhere. Fuck. I slow down even more as she makes little urgent keening noises, letting her take over the sliding, until my head pops in and we both sigh in relief.

Over her shoulder, I see David’s eyes absolutely glued to our crotches.

“Holy fuck, that was hot,” he breathes.

“Amen,” Osc says, apparently leaning on David, and judging from his elbow movements, wanking one or both of them off.

Mills hitches her legs up, and I slide in further, until I’m slowly starting to fuck her properly. God, it’s good.

“Ohhhhhh, fuuuuuuck, yes, Olly, baby, you feel so good,” Mills croons helplessly as I pick up speed. She’s taking me better, now, relaxing properly so I can get a proper rail going.

“Ohhh, yes, David, just like that,” she says. I crane over her shoulder in surprise. David’s rubbing her clit as he jerks himself off, Osc lounging on his shoulder, both of them utterly entranced.

“Okay, now Olly, you pull almost all the way out and I’m going to try to get this monster in,” Mills says breathlessly. She puts her hands down to spread out her pussy, and I take over holding her soft, creamy thighs. God, I forget how soft girls are, sometimes.

David eases forward, and all of a sudden, I feel his dick pushing at mine, clear as day, through Millsy. Mother of god, that’s hot. Her spine jerks straight as David pushes in – I know, sister – and she starts huffing and panting.

“Oh, fuck,” David says.

“Understatement of the fucking century, my love,” I gasp. I have to push back in a little to avoid getting popped out entirely, and Mills shudders and whines. David immediately slows down.

“Okay, that’s it, that’s as far as I can take,” Mills eventually grates through her teeth, a thousand careful years later. “Olly, push back in,” she instructs me.

I push back in, and I’m so fucking thankful I used half a bottle of lube on this, because I’m basically just fucking the underside of David’s dick in a very, very confined space. Mills all but screams. David gasps and falls onto his hands, landing either side of my shoulders. I have to multiply numbers frantically in my head to keep from coming.

“Oh my fucking godddddddd,” Mills moans. “Okay, David, you can try moving. Just one of you at a time.”

David starts a slow fuck, and Jesus, I’m starting to understand why this is such a fantasy for straight guys, because it’s basically dick-jousting with heterosexuality ladled on top, while you’re fucking someone. It’s so intense.

After a minute or so, we seem to be getting the hang of it. David does a few strokes, then he pushes his cock all the way in and I take over railing Millsy’s arse.

“Oh, fuck, boys, yessssss,” says Mills. “Oscar, get up here and cram your dick in my mouth, would you, darling?”

Oscar obliges, kneeling up beside us, and well, if that ain’t just the prettiest thang. Mills is wearing her mysterious unruinable red lipstick again, and watching Osc’s dick sliding in and out of her juicy lips, scant inches from David’s and my faces, while we both fuck her, has just seared itself into my spank bank for eternity, to sit alongside the much-less-concrete mental picture of James Dean and Paul Newman fucking Eartha Kitt. Honestly, thank fuck we all came earlier and David has old-man stamina, because otherwise, this would have been over before it started.

As it is, we get a nice rhythm going, our fingers linked together, gripping onto Millsy’s hips, taking turns to rail into her and coax increasingly desperate muffled groans out of her, around Osc’s cock. I’m pretty sure she’s right on the edge, if I know Millsy, so I drop one of David’s hands and slide it in between us, to find her clit.

She pretty much reacts like I just electrocuted her. She’s screaming about as loud as anyone can scream with a hard mouthful of man-meat, and then she starts coming, her whole body arching between David and I, gripping my dick so hard it might come off.

“Remember when we got together, and I said I couldn’t wait to do this with a girl in between us?” I say to David over Mills’ shoulder as I fuck her through it, and he leans down and kisses me, long and hard, his tongue in my mouth and his dick sliding hard against mine through the softest, tightest space imaginable as he pounds into Millsy’s pussy, and jesus fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming so hard, I’m coming so fucking hard I might black out, oh my fucking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck David yes yes yes YES

When I come to, a minute or so later, David’s looking at me with his big green eyes, breathless and groaning, still fucking my now-screaming cock through Mills’ pussy.

“Can I come on your faces?” says Osc to me and Mills, jerking himself frantically.

“Mmmhmmm,” purrs Mills.

“Yep,” I barely have a chance to concur, before he’s coming hard across us both.

I lick it off my lips, eyes still locked on David’s, and mouth the words ‘LOVE YOU’. Then I lie back and watch as he loses his shit, eyes rolling into the back of his head, moaning and swearing like a porn star as he jerks erratically, wringing another couple of convulsions out of Millsy’s helpless body and a massive fucking grin out of mine.

—

The next morning, I wake up wayyyyy earlier than I should, in a warm heap of bodies, desperate for a pee. When I come back, Oscar’s gone, and David’s pulling on some joggers, so I guess I ruined everyone but Millsy’s New Year’s Day snooze-in. Whoops.

I stumble into the kitchen to find Oscar looking hopelessly at three sad end-slices of bread, which is all that remains of the toastie station.

“We really should have got more supplies yesterday,” Oscar mourns. “I forgot all the shops are closed on New Year’s Day.”

“We must be able to rustle up something,” I say, unhopefully. “I don’t have the spoons to go down to the Asian grocery. If they’re even open.”

I’m staring into David’s cupboards, trying to will some decent coffee into existence by staring, when my phone, on the bench, rings.

“Why is it doing that,” says Oscar, staring at it.

I peer at the phone from the safety of behind the pantry door. “I don’t know!”

“Oh my god, you two are such dorks,” David says, appearing from somewhere behind me. He leans over and picks up the phone to look at the screen, then basically throws it to me like it’s radioactive.

“It’s Charlie,” he says.

“Charlie. Oh my god. Why would he do something like this?”

I gingerly press the answer button.

“Is Mum in hospital? Did dad catch fire?” I demand.

“Oh my god, Olly, no, I’m just driving is all,” Charlie says.

“Oh.” There’s an awkward moment of silence. “What… do you… want?”

“There was some kind of airline kerfuffle and Tori and Michael have to take an earlier flight to the Netherlands,” he says. “I’m picking them up now and they need to be at the airport in a couple of hours. Thought I’d see if you wanted to come for brunch before they leave? I could swing past your place?”

“I’m not at home, actually… I’m in Bromley,” I admit, trying not to sound like I’m admitting anything.

“Oh, how come?” Charlie says.

“Was at a party last night, crashed here,” I non-explain.

I hear some muttering at the other end.

“Well… actually that could work, Nick says there’s a cafe in Crystal Palace that’s open. Or is that too much of a pain?”

“Oh… uh…” I look over to find David waving. He points to himself and mimes driving. Apparently he can hear Charlie. I don’t even know how to change the call volume on this thing. “Actually, I think there were some people who said they might be heading back into town soon, maybe I can cadge a lift. I’ll text you and let you know. Like a sane person who’s not a monster.”

“Yeah, okay. And be careful in Bromley!” he laughs. “David Nelson lives there, you wouldn’t want to accidentally run into him!”

“Wouldn’t that be hilarious,” I say, in a voice a whisker more high-pitched than I was planning. “He and I could chat about our share portfolios.”

I hang up on Charlie with a sigh of relief.

“Who calls someone?” I say, feeling mildly traumatised. Osc rubs my shoulder sympathetically.

David’s already doing busy competent things.

“I can drive you there and go to the shops, there’s a Sainsbury’s in Crystal Palace that’ll be open. I can restock my fridge and pantry,” he looks pointedly at me, “and get some more bread and whatever for breakfast toasties. Least I can do, given I didn’t really chuck in for last night.”

“Well, I think you might find you have less whisky today than you did yesterday,” I point out. “But what are you going to do for an hour or whatever on New Year’s Day, while I sip coffee and eat pancakes with my siblings?”

“I am a fully grown adult, Olly,” he snarks. “I’m perfectly capable of amusing myself for an hour or so. Provided nobody here minds waiting.”

“This party’s not a cultural monolith and I don’t speak for everyone, but on behalf of everyone, we are all happy to snooze for a couple more hours if there’s a toastie at the end of it,” Oscar says.

—

Within minutes, we’re on the road. I get David to dump me out of the car a safe half-block from the cafe, where Charlie, Tori, Nick and Michael have already snagged us a table.

“Ollster!” Michael leaps out of his chair and runs over the moment he sees me. “Ollarific! Olleander!”

“Michael-croscope!” I yell in return. “How’s your triple axel? Nailed the landing yet?”

“Nailed it and then some,” he says, hugging me. “Threw on a couple of extra axels for good measure. You stopped towing around a plastic penguin yet?”

“Hey!” I say. “Flipper is the most enduring relationship of my life, thank you very much.”

I slide into my seat and we give our orders.

“So – big news, everyone—” Charlie starts.

Nick does a little drumroll on the table.

“We got our adoption date! It’s official!” Charlie says.

“Oh my god, Nick, Charlie! That’s amazing!” Michael enthuses.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tori be surprised before. It’s a strange thing to see. She nearly spits out a mouthful of lemonade, and Michael has to thump her on the back.

“What?” she says, and I’m in full agreement.

“She comes home with us on the ninth!” Nick says excitedly.

“How are we only just hearing about this?” I stutter.

“Well, it wasn’t a done deal,” Nick says, his eyes finding Charlie’s, a look of complete besottedness on his face. “These things are always so uncertain. But we got a call two weeks ago saying they’d matched us, and we just had to wait until she’s old enough to leave her mum. Ten weeks, apparently, so from her birthday October 31st… that’s the ninth!”

“We’ll have to see how it fits once we get to know her properly, but we’re thinking ‘Daisy’ for a name,” Charlie says.

“And she’s a Halloween baby! I’ve already found a bunch of fun costumes,” Nick says.

“I’m too pretty to be an uncle,” I say, dazed. Nick and Charlie both laugh.

A kid? Charlie and Nick are getting a kid? The whole bit – a nappies, prams, plastic-shit-everywhere, shit-shit-everywhere, screaming-all-night, throwing-food-on-the-floor, kid?

“This is… a lot to process,” Tori says. “Con… gratulations!”

“Yeah, this is huge congrats!” I add, in a hurry, trying to dig up the appropriate level of celebration. “Have you told Mum and Dad yet?”

“No…” says Charlie. “Why? Do you think we should?”

“What?” I almost yell at Charlie. “You weren’t planning on telling them?”

“I mean… they’re hardly animal lovers,” Charlie says. “I don’t think they’d be that excited about a grand-dog. Unless you think Dad’s going to turn into one of those YouTube ‘Dad who didn’t want the dog’ types?”

I burst out into a massive honk of laughter. Tori has basically collapsed on her hand in relief.

“Oh my god, you two,” she says into her plate. “The word ‘dog’ would have been useful information to have learned a little bit earlier.”

“What?” Nick says.

“Oh,” Charlie says, blushing bright red.

I’m properly in a laughing fit now.

“I’m not following?” Nick says.

“They, uh, thought we were talking about a non-fur baby, my love,” Charlie whispers.

“Like… one of those cats that needs to wear tiny jumpers all the time?” Nick says, confused. “I mean they’re adorable, but I’ve always wanted a labrador…”

That sets me off in fresh gales of mirth, thumping the table so hard my latte sloshes over the rim of the cup.

“No… the human type of baby, my sweet,” says Charlie.

“Oh. Oh. Oh, no. No. We are not ready for that,” Nick says, blushing as brightly as Charlie did a minute ago, killing me afresh for the third time.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” I manage to say through the tears. “I am definitely the right amount of pretty to be a dog-uncle.”

As Tori and I give Nick and Charlie shit for their legendarily terrible dog-parenting announcement, I find myself first desperately excited to tell David this fucking hilarious anecdote, and then, weirdly sad. He should be here, with me, laughing himself sick, at this table with his family and mine.

—

After lunch, Charlie suggests I come to the airport with them, but I wriggle out by saying I don’t really fancy being the fifth passenger sardined in their car, and besides, I need a nap, neither of which is technically a lie.

We hug each other thoroughly – a fleeting clasp from Tori, and lingering warm embraces from everyone else – while clogging up the pavement outside the cafe, as tradition dictates, and then they walk off one way and I go the other. But instead of going to the station, I skid off down a side street.

I find David pretty much where I expected him to be: in the Sainsbury’s meat section, looking at slabs of dead animal.

“Have they started labelling them by arseholery level of the animal yet?” I enquire politely. He snorts, and throws a tray of cling-wrapped death into his basket.

“I got three loaves of bread plus a brick of cheese and some beans and ham and stuff,” he says. “The ham is for me. And I guess tomatoes? What else?”

“Hmmm. Maybe some more pesto?”

He pulls a jar out of the basket.

“We should get some…” I mime spitting, “mushrooms. Osc likes them.”

We wander over to the fruit and veg section, and after we’ve thrown in some tomatoes and mushrooms and some random spinach, we find ourselves in the fruit section, where I am pressed casually against David’s side, trying to get a snigger out of him by feeling up all the melons.

“Okay, well, now I see what you mean by baggage,” says a familiar voice from behind me.

I freeze more solid than a lake on the surface of Mars.

Victoria Annabel Spring.

Slowly, I swivel around to face my sister. David has turned a worrying shade of dark red and is staring at the melons like he’s hoping one of them will turn out to be a portal to a space-time vortex, and fair enough, because that would be really nice right about now.

“Tori! Is everyone in the universe randomly in this one supermarket? Two coincidences in two minutes!” I lie ineffectually. It’s so bad that Tori doesn’t even grace it with a reaction. “Are Charlie and Nick here too?” She ignores that one too, but I can’t see them anywhere, thank fuck for microscopic mercies.

“David Nelson,” she says.

The instruction in her voice is very, very clear. He turns around to face her, and without even thinking about it, I wrap my arm protectively around his shoulders. He’s calmed down a whisker in the last second or two, while I was yapping, but I can still see his white knuckles on the shopping basket handle, which he’s holding in front of him like a very casual shield.

“So. I see that in addition to being a toxic, vicious, sad little misanthrope, you are also a massive hypocrite?” she says, in a calm voice, staring two smoking holes through David’s face.

“Tori, back off,” I say sharply. “There are things you don’t—”

She holds her hand out to cut me off without even moving her eyes. David runs a hand up to mine, on his shoulder

“It’s okay, Olly. Uhhh… yeah. Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” he says. He’s trying to keep his eyes up, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. I weave my fingers into his and he grips on to them like they’re the rope out of the abyss.

“There are things you don’t know, Tori,” I finally manage to finish.

“I don’t doubt it,” she says, still calm as a windless pool of diet lemonade. Well, calmer, actually. “What I do know is that every minute spent with this man has made my little brother and his cinnamon roll of a boyfriend – sorry, husband – miserable, since the day I clapped eyes on him when you were seven, Olly. He’s been a homophobic, misogynist, entitled waste of skin, who’s never missed an opportunity to try to make someone feel worthless, for longer than you’ve been able to tie your own shoes.”

“Yeah, well, he’s changed,” I say. Even as I say it, I can hear how fucking sad and delusional it sounds. “I mean, you were at Christmas lunch,” I remind her, in an attempt to shore up my position.

“Oh. That was your handiwork, was it?” she asks.

I straighten up and grip David’s fingers a little tighter myself.

“No. It was his.”

“And yet I seem to remember that it was after Christmas lunch that you told me about your complicated breakup and how you… how did you put it? Copped it in the face.”

“Yeah, well, actually, good point… David, did I ever tell you that you kind of have Tori to thank for us getting back together?”

“What?” David looks up at me, genuinely surprised and apparently forgetting he’s being given the third degree for a second.

“Yeah… I was throwing a little pity party about how stupid I’d been to think I could save you, and Tori pointed out that people save each other all the time,” I paraphrase. I don’t think Tori would thank me for sharing the personal specifics of that conversation. “It was a big part of what made me decide we were worth another go.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t think you were talking about saving the douchebag version of Leonardo DiCaprio…” she says, but she trails off as David melts into me, burying his face in my jacket.

“Fuck, now I’m crying in a fucking Sainsbury’s,” he says.

“Hey, babe,” I gently take the basket out of his hands and plonk it on the melons, and wrap him up tight. “You were an even bigger part of why we’re back together. I’m so proud of you, and everything you’ve done to get here, and I love the absolute shit out of you.”

A throat clears beside us, and as I turn to see Tori’s icy eyes flicking between us, I remember we’re busy getting sprung.

“I don’t really understand what I’m looking at right now. In fact, I feel like I would understand being kidnapped by aliens more easily,” she says. “But it’s very clear that you two are wayyyyyyyy down some kind of rabbit hole together, and it is obviously far too late for me to point out that this is a terrible idea.”

David shakes himself loose from my hug and stands up to face Tori, but in between our jackets, I feel his hand find mine.

“Um. Look, Tori, you might not like me, and you have every reason in the book for that, but I just want you to know I’m. Uh. Trying really hard to be less of a cunt. And Olly made it very clear you’d kill me and hide my body in a swamp if I fucked this up. And… apparently I owe you, like, big time, so, uh. Let me know if you need a kidney or anything. But, um. Yeah. I’m bisexual. I’m trying to come out to more people. I’m already out to my mum, and a bunch of my mates. And I know it’s probably terrible and I’m a cradle-snatching weirdo but I’m very, very, catastrophically in love with your brother.”

“Cradle snatching? Please. You never stood a chance,” I remind him.

“No… no, I did not,” he smiles up at me.

“Ughhhh… okay, that’s my limit,” Tori says. “You’re both making me want to go and find the Gaviscon. So here’s the deal. David Nelson, I need you to understand that if my baby brother suffers so much as an emotional hangnail from this little escapade of yours, I’ll kick more than just your iPhone down a staircase. I’ll cut your balls off, bounce them down one after the other, and then kick the rest of you after them.”

David smiles, a bit weakly.

“Fair,” he admits.

“You seem surprisingly pleased with that ultimatum,” Tori says, narrowing her eyes.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s just cool that Olly has people like you in his corner,” he says.

“Huh,” says Tori, one speculative eyebrow raised. Without another word, she turns and starts walking off among the fruit piles.

“Wait! Tori! You won’t tell Charlie and Nick and Mum and Dad, will you?” I call after her. She probably won’t, but this is too important to leave to chance.

She rolls her eyes.

“That’s your shitstorm to deal with,” she says. “I’ve got to go and find the diet lemonade in this barn, and then I’ve got a plane to catch. But I’d make yourselves scarce, if I were you. Nick and Charlie went to the chemist, but that doesn’t mean one of them won’t suddenly remember they need a bag of treats to keep Nick’s coat glossy.”

She turns to go, then turns back to David.

“Balls. Staircase.” Then she disappears around the tomatoes and is gone.

“Holy fuck,” David says, falling back against the melons. I’m too wired to even make a melon joke. I wrap my arms around him from the side, and he sags against me without a word of complaint or a single sideways look. “Your sister is terrifying.”

“Like having a thousand-year-old vampire on your side,” I agree. “Come on. Let’s get the rest of this shit and go do something calm and relaxing, like rob a bank.”

Chapter Text

David’s got his first appointment with Janice Strindberg this afternoon, and I’ve seen hostage situations calmer than he is right now. He’s been pacing up and down his living room for an hour, pretending to clean stuff, but actually mostly just picking stuff up then putting it down again somewhere else.

I don’t bother trying to calm him down. I just wait until it’s time for him to leave, then I scoop him up from behind and kiss the back of his neck.

‘It’s worth it,” I tell him, kissing up his hairline to behind his ear. “I love you and it’s worth it. Just be honest in there. Don’t try to impress her. Therapy is the emotional equivalent of a cheeky heave. Just get it all out and hopefully you’ll feel better.”

David leans sideways to look at me.

“Why has nobody ever described therapy to me like that before?” he asks. “I probably would have considered it a lot sooner.”

I lean down and kiss him. “What can I say. I speak fluent Man.”

He’s hanging on to me like I’m a pool floatie. “Olly… I know it’s a lot to ask, but… can you, like, come with me? Please?” His eyes are big and desperate.

“I don’t think so, David, this is really something you have to do yourself,” I nuzzle into his temple.

“Just for the first one? Please? I just… I feel safe when I’m with you. Even just the first half or something?”

Oh god. I have no defences against this kind of thing. How does a lifetime of learning to set boundaries help, when love just tunnels past them all with a cheeky ‘Yes, Olly, your point is well made, healthy and logical, but have you considered that doing what he wants will make him happy and that is apparently now all you want in life?’ Apparently I’m going to have to learn to set boundaries all over again, only now we’re playing on Inferno Mode.

“Okay, I’ll come in for a bit,” I say, taking my first one-hit kill.

Dr Janice Strindberg has nice rooms in a bougie suite in a refitted house near Bromley Common. Her name is on the door in an expensive font, along with another psychologist, a dietician and a chiropractor. The walls are in a muted green, and every available surface that can have random wooden battens stuck to it, does. There are suspiciously healthy plants everywhere. Either they’ve got someone on staff who’s a top-tier plant-whisperer, or these plants get rotated out the second they dare to develop a yellow spot. Judging by the utterly disinterested receptionist, it’s the latter.

Janice calls David into her office, greeting him with a handshake. She’s in her mid-forties maybe, wearing a beige jumper, white pants, tall heels and a big engagement rock/wedding band combo.

She looks at me slightly askance.

“I’m Olly, I’m just here as David’s emotional support human for a little bit,” I explain.

“That isn’t how we normally do things here,” she says. It’s neutral but definitely on the cooler side of neutral.

“I don’t doubt it, but this is David’s first time with anything like this. I’ll duck out after the warm-up,” I reassure her.

We trail into her office, which is also earth-toned and covered in wood battening and rental plants. She’s got her degrees in fancy frames behind a desk in the corner. She offers us water and David accepts, taking a seat on the sofa. I sit down at the other end, but he grabs my shirtsleeve and drags me closer.

“Well, David, I’ve had a look at your intake form and the answers you gave there were quite brief, so we might just start with going into a bit more detail on those,” she says. “Can you tell me what your reason for seeking counselling is?”

“Um, well, I just want to be… I don’t know, better, I guess? A better person?”

He turns, and I can feel him looking at me, questioningly. God, this is why I shouldn’t be here. Stop hoping I’ll give you the right answers, David. These are your questions. I pull out my phone and pretend to start scrolling, but I slide a sneaky hand out and brush my pinkie up against his.

“Can you expand on that a little?” says Janice.

“Um… well. I’m not always… like… the nicest person. I can be pretty awful sometimes,” he says, haltingly. I manage not to snort at the layers on that one, eyes glued to my phone.

“And you’d like to change that?” Janice says, after David trails off. I can feel him nodding.

“And can you tell me a bit about your relationship to Olly? You didn’t mention him on your intake form?”

“Olly’s my boyfriend,” he says, unhesitatingly. I don’t move or react, but it’s hard when every single one of my extremities just flooded with warm tingles. His little finger against mine feels so warm.

“But you haven’t listed him under ‘partner’? Or ‘Person you spend the most time with’?”

“Oh… uh. Yeah. We were broken up when I made the appointment,” David admits. “I think we got back together again about three hours after that.”

“So, would you say you spend the most time with Olly?”

“No, I think that would still be my co-workers. I’m with my team at least forty hours a week.”

“And are you close with any of your co-workers?”

“Um, I wouldn’t say close, but I’m kind of friendly with one of them, I guess? A woman called Archana? But we don’t actually work in the same department, just text sometimes, and we’ve gotten lunch twice. My actual co-workers I’m not really close to, just the usual occasional after-work drinks and lunches and so on?” David says it like it’s a question.

“So would you say that Olly is the person you’re closest to in your life?”

“Yes.” Again without hesitation. “Olly’s the only person who really knows me.”

“How long have you two been together?”

“July?” he says, again like it’s a question. “Though we only made it official on Christmas. I’m— um. I’m new to dating— uh— I’ve only ever dated women before.”

She makes another note on her notepad.

“And can you tell me what outcome you’d most like from your sessions?”

“Uhhh…” David looks at me again. I resolutely keep my eyes down. “I’d. Um. I guess I’d like to have a better relationship with my family? My mum and brother at least. My dad fucked off to France when I was a kid.”

“Do you want to tell me a bit more about that?”

“Not much to tell. He left when I was ten. After that I don’t think I ever saw him more than twice a year. He remarried when I was eighteen or nineteen.”

“Okay, we’ll come back to that in a minute. For now, anything else you’d like to get out of your therapy?”

“I think I’d like to, um, be better at… like… people stuff? In general? And I’d like to be a bit, um. More comfortable with. Who I am.”

I feel like these two are off to a reasonable start, so I gently squeeze David’s finger and then start sneaking for the door.

“Olly—” he says, nervous.

“You’ve got this, David,” I give him a big smile, and lean over to kiss the top of his head. He leans into me, shutting his eyes, and it takes everything I’ve got to haul myself out that door and back into the waiting room.

About forty minutes later, David finally emerges from Janice’s office. He’s holding a sheaf of papers, and he looks… horrible. He’s kind of wobbling around and he can’t look me in the eyes.

“Can we go,” he says, like it’s not a question.

“Jesus, David, are you okay?” I’d been expecting him to come out a bit bruised – therapy is rarely light going, and I’d expected he’d need a bit of TLC after – but he looks like he’s going to throw up in one of the manicured pot plants.

“I don’t… um. Can we go?”

I have to fish his credit card out of his wallet for him, after he nearly drops it, and I basically throw it at the bored receptionist before I hustle him out of there. He’s clearly in no state to drive anywhere.

“Shall we find a cafe or something? Where you can sit down? Get a hot drink and talk about it?”

“I can’t— no people,” he says. Fuck. He’s so not okay.

Thinking fast, I get his keys out of his coat pocket, and open up the car. I could probably just stuff him in the back seat, but I know from experience that there’s nothing like some literal ground to help ground you when you’re in a state. Time to find some green shit to stare at. There is one thing in the car that will help, though; I scoop up my otter blanket out of the boot. Thank fuck I forgot to take it out last night.

I hustle him across the road to the common, where I manage to locate a quiet bench under some trees, looking out over a little pond. I wrap him up like a big rainbow burrito, then pull him over into my lap with his head on my chest, and rub his shoulder.

It takes him a really long time to break the silence.

“I don’t… I don’t know if that – I don’t think I want to. I don’t know if she was meant to…”

He clams up again, and I wait. After another long silence, he takes a deep breath.

“She told me… she told me we were in an unstable codependent relationship. She said I was dating a man to try to replace Dad, and that you were the me I wished I’d been, or something? And she said if I committed to therapy and to ‘making better relationship choices’, she said that she was… ‘optimistic that she could get me back to normal’.”

“She did fucking what now?” I’d been expecting him to have to unpack the experience of being vulnerable and open with a stranger, but holy fuck, this is some next level bullshit. “And I assume by ‘normal’, she meant…”

“…straight,” he confirms.

“That fucking grade-A cunt,” I say, in an entirely calm, rational manner. It’s lucky we didn’t end up going to that cafe, because if I’d been anywhere near a butter knife right now, I probably would have grabbed it and gone back to stab her.

“I’m really sorry, Olly,” he says, burying his face in my chest.

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry? You have nothing to be sorry about,” I say, molten with rage, squeezing him harder than I probably should. “She should lose her bloody licence. With a bit of luck, conversion therapy will soon be illegal in this country, and she can be kicked into a woodchipper and made into mulch, where she might finally do someone some good. I’m reporting the shit out of her.”

“I’m sorry I— I didn’t stand up for you. I just nodded, and agreed, and took the papers she gave me, and let her go on and on, and left when she said our time was up.” He takes a huge breath. “And, like— what if she’s right? What if I am only dating you because my Dad didn’t love me and I’m trying to fill a hole?”

“David, you’re dating me because I’m a fucking ten-out-of-ten hottie who’s more fun than a trampoline covered in bouncy balls. Also, I pretty much didn’t give you a choice.”

He gives a tiny laugh and pushes closer into my chest. I’ll call that progress.

“But seriously, for her to be making statements like that is incredibly unethical. The whole point of therapy is for someone to help you come to realisations yourself, not to have some two-bit hack who got her degree for twenty-five quid on the internet smash them in your face, let alone after knowing you for an entire fifty-two minutes. It’s a complete abuse of power dynamics. Which, by the way, is why you couldn’t stand up for yourself. She was the expert. She was in charge. Her space, her field, her rules. You were scared, vulnerable, talking about your deepest shit, and she was just sitting in a chair, passing judgement in her white pants. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted anyone who wears white pants. She had all the power in that room, and she used it to spray homophobic bullshit and armchair quackery all over you.”

David’s quiet for a bit, clearly thinking about that.

“I am gonna tear her such a new arsehole on the internet,” I vow.

David laughs properly. “She can join Floogle McDoogle and those other guys in the elite club of people who rue the day they crossed Oliver Spring,” he snorts.

“Damn straight,” I say, squeezing him again. “I’m the only one who gets to fuck with you.”

That gets a proper laugh out of him, and I can feel the tension in him draining away. Thank fuck.

“I’m gonna find you someone who isn’t fucking terrible,” I promise him. “And personally vet them first. And – with your permish – give them the precis so maybe you can skip some of spilling your guts again. God, I’m so sorry I didn’t do that the first time, David.”

“Not your fault. I probably shouldn’t have picked the first therapist recommended by Google,” David sighs.

“Hey! David. This is not your fault, even a little bit.” I squeeze him tightly. “You did all the right things, and the world let you down today. You asked for help and you didn’t get it, and that happens more than it should, but you’ve got something going for you most people don’t: me.”

David wriggles out of the top of the blanket to wrap his arms around my waist so tightly that I might lose circulation to my legs. Don’t care, though. My back is killing me from where I’m leaning against the arm of the bench and the weird angle. Don’t care about that either. Or the cold wind. Or the freezing bench slats.

“I love you, David, and you were so fucking brave today,” I tell the top of his head.

“I love you so much, Olly,” he says into my coat.

We sit, wrapped up together in a big rainbow heap, until eventually David gives the Big Sigh that one gets after a big process, and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“You right to drive?” I ask gently, rubbing his shoulder, and he nods, “Come on. Let’s get you home, and I’ll make you some Bovril on toast, and we can watch Black Books and never speak that harridan’s name again.”

Chapter Text

Shark Princess:

1:56pm

Me:

Can you sneak off early on Fri

David:

Why? Can't whatever it is wait for the weekend?

Me:

I wanna take you on a date and it’s a weekday thing

David:

Why am I nervous all of a sudden

Me:

because you have trust issues, David

OK fine and because I am an agent of chaos

but no chaos Fri. Just date.

David:

Ok I think I can swing it

Me:

YAAAAAAY you're gonna love it

I’ve packed a couple of Bags for Life into my jacket pocket; hopefully that’ll be enough for what I’ve got in mind.

We get out of the tube at Elephant and Castle, and I lead David around and down Walworth Rd.

We’ve been going for ten minutes and have got as far as the burned-out shell of the town hall, still covered in hoardings promising a ‘sensitive refurbishment’ would be completed nine months ago, when David finally cracks.

“What… are we doing here, Olly?” he asks.

He’s behaved himself very nicely so far, not asking where we’re going, but now that we’ve left the gentrifying high-rises near the station, and are well into the slightly grim town God couldn’t even be bothered to forget, he’s clearly reached his limit of patiently waiting for the reveal. God, I hope nobody mugs him for his phone. That would be non-ideal. Maybe I should have scruffed him up a bit before we left.

“I’m treating you, David,” I say. “It’s still another ten minutes’ walk, but this is one of my favourite spots. Not too bougie, not too picked-over, not too posh, not too pricey.”

About ten minutes later, we arrive at our first destination, and I haul David into Shop from Crisis.

“A… charity shop?” David asks, deeply confused.

“Yup,” I confirm, pulling him straight past all the clothes and handbags and shoes, up the back, to the crockery.

Our first candidate leaps out at me instantly.

“How about this one?” I suggest, pulling it out and holding it up in front of me. It’s a green glass plate with a moulded design like a sunflower.

“How about this one for what?” he says.

“How about this one for you?” I explain slowly and clearly. “I seem to recall you are currently in need of some plates.”

He starts laughing. “Olly, I don’t—”

Then he stops.

“You brought me all this way so you could replace all the plates you smashed?” he says, quietly.

“Well, it wasn’t my finest moment,” I say.

I’m kind of lying. Smashing David’s plates was one of the few things that kept me sane in the month before Christmas. But I’m also not lying. It might have felt good, but it wasn’t a very healthy reaction, and I don’t super love finding out that I’m not above things like that.

“And you could use a little bit of colour in your apartment! Oh my god, look at this one. Is this the iconic Chinese restaurant plate or what?”

I pull out a red-patterned plate, edged with a Greek key design on a yellow background, and four Chinese characters in little circles.

“Do you think it reads ‘Fuck off white people?’” I wonder aloud. “I’ll check with George.”

I snap a photo and text her. Then I realise David’s just standing there, staring at me.

“What?” I ask. He’s making me nervous.

Then he launches himself on me and kisses the absolute shit out of me.

I know we’re standing up the back of a charity shop on a Friday afternoon, and it’s hardly crowded, but David kissing me in public – kissing me very much like nobody’s watching – feels kind of huge. I manage to put the plate down on a shelf without breaking the kiss or smashing the plate, which is a minor miracle, because all my bones have briefly liquefied. Then I fold him up and let him smooch my absolute face off.

“Fuck, I love you, Olly,” he says, when he finally comes up for air. I’m glad I already put the plate down.

“Love you too, David,” I murmur into his cheekbone. God, am I going to have to shop for crockery surrounded by little scribbly floating cartoon hearts and sporting a semi?

My phone goes off. It’s George, replying ‘The plate reads ‘Fuck you, Olly, you know I can’t read hanzi’! You should deffo get it.’

We make our way down Walworth Road, and David lets me buy him pretty much every single plate that takes my fancy: not just the first two, but also the wild 70s one that looks like a giant fried egg, the dark brown Swedish-looking ones, the pair of crazy 80s square plates with the striped and chequerboard sections and vaguely bi colours, a bonkers halloween set with a full-on snake through a skull’s eyesocket and a mouse, even a hideous 90s one, trying to be ‘Tuscan’, with big tomato-blobs and little grape-blobs. The only one he draws the line at is the 70s brown floral one.

“But it’s vintage, David!” I plead.

“Nan has these exact plates already,” he says. “They give me the ick.”

I can’t argue with the ick. The ick is the ultimate subjective hard no. I put it back, and instead, select and immediately lose my shit over a plate with a pair of fish on it, one sporting a particularly gormless expression. I immediately do an impression of the fish.

“Okay, that one is hilarious,” David says. “Put it in the pile.”

We carry our haul back up Walworth Road, detouring for an early dinner. I know this cheap but authentic little taco place that does these amazing cheese-topped plantain slices. David gets a bunch of their meaty stuff, and judging by his face, it’s good. For some reason, it really floats my boat that even though I’m a broke student, I can still show him a properly nice time – not because I can just drop cash and buy him fancy shit, but because I know how to swing it on a couple of ten-quid notes and ingenuity.

We head back to mine – I can’t be bothered hauling all that crockery back to Bromley tonight, and both Oscar and Bailey are out this evening – and once we’ve kicked off our shoes and coats, and parked our loot in the corner of my room, I put down a towel, and tell David to get naked and lie on the bed on his stomach.

“Just like that?” he says, slightly apprehensively.

“Just like that,” I agree, stripping off my T-shirt and undoing my trousers. “No funny business, I promise. I’m giving you a massage. I’ll leave my pants on. I just don’t want to get massage goop on my clothes.”

“Well, you don’t have to get goop on your pants either if you don’t want to,” David says, all in a rush.

I eye him carefully.

“It’s very selfless of you to think of the welfare of my pants like that, David. For their sake, and their sake alone, I will take them off and give you a fully nude massage with a 95% forecast of incipient boner, which will likely end up nestled somewhere between your arse cheeks.”

“Well, if it’s for the sake of your pants,” David says, almost straight-faced.

“They thank you for your sacrifice,” I say, whipping them off.

David lies down on the bed, and I pull out my massage butter. I rub a little on my hands, and a little on David’s back, then straddle his magnificent arse and get to work. I start gently, long strokes just smoothing across his skin, getting him nicely oiled up and a bit relaxed. Then I start going to town on the spots where everyone carries their tension: neck, shoulders, spine, upper arms. I’ve picked up quite a few little tricks from the cuddle puddle circuit – by the gods, those folks love a back massage – and I pull them all out: the roll, the elbow, the karate chop hail, the shoulder pummel.

David starts off quiet, but then the unholy moaning and groaning noises begin, and he starts yelling directions and making even more scandalous noises when I follow them. He almost sounds more pornographic than when we’re actually fucking. It’s definitely bringing Olly Jr to attention, not least because the little dude is firmly wedged in the vicinity of David’s magnificent arse crack. But that’s strictly off limits unless invited: the arse is all on David’s terms. So instead, I work my way down his spine and lower back, and give his stunning buttocks the Swedish pummelling routine.

“Oh, fuck, that feels amazing,” David says, in a raspy and somewhat reverent voice, as I drift down the back of his thighs. Where the fuck did you learn to do all this? Is this what they’re teaching at all those hippy-dippy festival classes? Because if so, they need better marketing.”

“Nobody taught me how to do this, David,” I purr, though I’ll take the compliment. “They’re just human bodies. I’ve got one. You’ve got one. I just pay attention to what I like, and what everyone else seems to like, I get creative, I accept feedback – verbal and non-verbal – and if something works, I stick with it. Isn’t that how everyone does it?”

“I dunno,” says David.

“Have you never had a massage before?” I ask.

“I mean, yeah, but not where I was allowed to just run unfiltered commentary the whole time,” he says in a slightly muffled voice. “Like, even the happy ending ones in Thailand, you can’t just let loose.”

Showing great restraint and immense maturity, I decide not to open the kettle of fish that is sex tourism at this precise second, and decide instead to just karate-chop my feelings out on his hamstrings. “Oh, fuck, yeah, keep doing that,” he moans blissfully.

I slowly make my way down his calves and ankles, eventually getting down to his feet. Masc guys like David never pamper their feet. I get both my thumbs into the arch of one foot, and he groans like he’s just come.

“Mmm, noted, we like the foot massages,” I say. “You know I can just give you these whenever you want, David? Foot massages come standard as part of the boyfriend package.”

He groans orgasmically again, and I can’t tell if it’s the massage, or the idea that they’re his for the asking. I work my thumbs up his instep to the ball of his foot and my god, if I thought he was soft as butter after we fuck, then I knew nothing. If the bed weren’t there to hold him up, he’d have melted into a puddle and dripped onto my carpet.

I take my sweet time, massaging each foot from heel to toe, and then finish the massage by smoothing my hands over him, from his feet, all the way up to his scalp, where I dedicate several minutes just to scratching and rubbing his temples and running my fingertips through his hair. He’s stopped moaning. He’s just lying there, barely conscious with pleasure.

Eventually, I just switch to kissing the back of his neck, and then I lean down to his ear.

“How would you like your happy ending, David? Blowjob? Maybe with fingers? Or my tongue in your arse and my hand on your cock?”

He whines incoherently.

“Both it is, then,” I whisper in the direction of the bedside lamp, as I grab the lube, a flannel and my water bottle. Before I head south, though, I can’t resist a little grind up on his juicy arse, just for the road.

To my surprise, he shudders and arches up against me, wriggling his hips into me.

“Want you to finger me… like this,” he says, half-muffled where his face is buried in the towel.

A thrill runs through me. Fingering David while I’m laid out on top of him? Well, that’s just deliciously adjacent to…

“You sure?” I check.

“Yep,” he says, breathily, hiding his face. “And I want you to grind on me while you do it.”

Holy shit. I physically can’t stop myself pushing my dick up his delectable mounds again.

“Can I eat you out first?” I ask.

“Um… yep. Okay, yeah,” he says. He sounds nervous.

“I’m gonna make you feel better than the massage did, David,” I promise him. “And you can make as much noise as you want.”

I wriggle down and part those magnificent cheeks, still soft and pliable and a little bit slippery from the massage butter, and hastily tip some water on the flannel.

“Cold incoming,” I warn him. He still jumps a little when I apply the flannel, but almost immediately starts grinding back into my hand and moaning. I can’t wait a second longer. I give him the world’s speediest once-over and then I dive into that crack with both hands like it’s the last drop of water in a desert.

David almost shouts with pleasure as I absolutely go to town. I’ve already got my tongue jammed partway in, flicking desperately, as my hands mangle his buttery cheeks, and I realise I’m pushing them rhythmically in time with my tongue. Oh well. Guess my id’s not hiding her feelings very well right now. Not that she ever does.

After a couple of minutes of enthusiastic rimming, I get him nice and wet and moany and desperate, then fumble the lube from where I dropped it on the bed, and apply it lovingly to his winking little pink pucker. He makes a shuddery noise as the cool gel touches him. He’s shamelessly grinding down on the towel underneath us, and I’m glad I had the foresight to put it down, because that sucker is going straight in the washing. Then I lie my full weight back over David’s prone body, and it feels incredible, my dick sandwiched in his warm, wet crevice.

“Put a condom on,” David gasps suddenly.

“What?” I gasp, opening and closing my mouth like the fish on the stupid plate again.

“No, I’m not ready for… um… that. But while you’re fingering me, I want you to fuck my crack ’til you come,” he says, and I swear I’ve never heard more beautiful words in the English language.

“David,” I say, and even to my own ears, I sound fucking besotted. “I fucking love you so much.”

I feel my words ripple right through his body under mine, and I kiss his neck, his cheek, his temple, as he buries his face in the towel.

Then I reach over and fish out a normal-sized condom and kneel up to roll it on. I squeeze a bit more lube on my fingers and run them up the inside of his meaty cheeks, before letting them come to rest on his hole, and lying back down again.

Ever so slowly, carefully, I slide my finger into that yielding little pucker, my hand slid down alongside my balls, my dick sliding ecstatically up between those two tight globes, pinned together by my legs either side. For a moment, I just enjoy the feel of his arsehole clamping on my finger, and imagine it’s my dick instead. God I want to fuck him. The thought of it is too hot, and I have to start moving, and fuuuuuuck his lubed-up crack feels amazing.

I’m pushing my finger into him in time with my strokes, angled down to hit his prostate, and he’s pushing back against me and moaning so hard he’s almost crying, my lips on the back of his neck. I think maybe I got him a little too worked up, because I’d planned to add another finger, but he sounds like he’s about a minute off coming already. Then he slides a hand under himself, and I amend that to thirty seconds, as his cries ramp up to ‘desperate wordless begging’. I start fucking his crack fast and hard, and his arsehole to match, giving him the best possible railing one finger can muster, and I can literally feel him start to orgasm underneath me, his whole body curling and tensing as he practically screams in pleasure. It’s too much; it’s all I can do to keep fucking him through it, as my own orgasm leaps on me like a fucking jungle cat, pushing my dick over and over into the tight vise of his perfect fucking arse.

I don’t stop, though, and even after I’ve calmed down, he’s still twitching and moaning and begging. I don’t even know if he’s begging me to stop or to keep going, and I suspect he doesn’t, either. I switch from fucking him to running my finger in gentle, firm circles over the sweet spot, and he adds some swearing to the mix, still pushing his hips back and forth between me and the bed.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect, David,” I murmur into his ear as he slowly stops writhing. “You’re a fucking gift, you know that? Getting to be with you like this is a goddamn privilege.”

I slowly pull my finger out and find the flannel to clean us up a bit, but before I’ve managed to do more than a perfunctory wipe, David pulls me back down on top of him, and I couldn’t be happier to oblige. We lie there, me whispering that he’s pretty and amazing and how proud of him I am and of how far he’s come.

After a while he rolls me off, but he won’t let me get out of bed. Instead, he buries his head in the crook of my neck.

“Wanna go squeeze into my bathtub and watch a mindless action movie on your phone?” I suggest, caressing his neck.

“How are you real,” he says.

Chapter Text

It’s a Saturday morning, and we’re in bed, David still licking my come off his lips, when his phone rings on his bedside table.

I go to hand it to him, but in my half-melted post-spaff haze, I accidentally mash the answer-on-speaker button.

There’s a moment of chaos – I have no idea who it is, and neither does David, and I want to giggle and try to hand it over but I fumble it between the pillows while trying to stifle my laugh, and in the end David just says “Hello?”

“Davros!” says a blokey voice I don’t recognise. “Just checking we’re still on for my birthday at Lord Lucan tonight!”