Silver River - 1. Wherein Shakespeare Breaks the Homoerotic Fourth Wall

This is a long, character-driven story. The sex begins this chapter, though, if that’s what you’re here for. I’d like to think that the rest of it is somewhat worth reading.

Notes & constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.

-- Leon xx

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“FUCK!”

I slammed my fist down on the island, tears burning in my eyes. I was still standing there in my kitchen, half-dressed and holding a carton of orange juice, just as I had been when I’d answered her call.

“Matty, sweetheart--”

“When was this?! God DAMN it, Phoebe!”

There was a pause on the other line of the end. I sucked in a deep breath to shout again, but Phoebe must have heard me, because she quickly began to speak before I could start up again.

“A little over three hours ago. A drunk knifed him behind some diner. The owners said he’d been around for a while… said they’d been trying to feed him real meals but he’d only ever take the day’s leftovers.”

I heard a choked sob on Phoebe’s end and felt a stab of-- fuck. A stab of guilt. Of all the fucking choices of words.

“I’m sorry, Phoebe. I’ll be right there.”

I ended the call and sank to the floor. My tears flowed freely, but I was silent, barely a change in my breathing. Noah had been one of our youngest residents. I knew that we couldn’t keep him, Hell, none of the minors weren’t even supposed to be with us, but I never should’ve let him go alone.

I punched the floor, waiting for the familiar cracking of bone against tile, the stinging reopening of skin. My left hand was virtually useless at this point; in the two years I’d been working with the network, there had been thr-- four deaths, and I had a fracture in my hand to show for each one. The last one had been recent enough that my skin was still wrinkled and loose from the scars.

I grabbed the lip of the counter with my good hand and pulled myself up. I rinsed the blood from my knuckles and wrapped the hand in a paper towel. I began a script for the phone call to his host family in my head, not yet ready to think about the script that I’d be writing for a few days later. Noah would’ve wanted Phoebe to write it, but I knew she wouldn’t be able to. And, hey, funerals are for the living.

******

“Noah found Silver River the way most of us here found it: through a queer homeless friend of a queer homeless friend of a queer homeless friend. He joined the way most of us here joined: angry, lonely, and scared. But Noah didn’t live the way most of us here did. Noah lived so that all of us here could. He lived to earn his place in the network. He lived to help everyone in his home feel safe, comfortable, and happy. He lived to help everyone in our family feel proud. He was constantly asking how he could lighten the workload, what errands he could run, what busywork he could do. Noah couldn’t believe that his presence alone was enough for us; in the end, that is why he left. The work that we do here is invaluable; I know that, Phoebe knows that, and every one of your hosts know that. Noah knew that. But you all are invaluable as well. You all are the reason that we’re here: because you are worthy of having a home; you are worthy of having a chance. Noah was worthy of having a chance. And all I ask of you now, Noah, is that you look down and see that you are worthy. That you earned your spot here, and that Silver River is eternally blessed to have known you.”

I stepped down from the makeshift stage, my arms shaking, and Phoebe caught me just before I fell to the ground. I gripped her shoulder and thanked her with a weak smile. She kissed my cheek and we held hands, looking out over the thirty-odd kids and adults before us. Some sat; some kneeled. Some wore all black; some wore rainbow; Noah’s family wore blue, his favorite color and the color of his striking, ever-twinkling eyes. We all lit our candles, Phoebe holding mine so that I could use my good hand, and we said goodbye.

******

“Phoeeebss!” I shouted into the phone. “Youuuuuu are not being helpful! Pick up your phone!”

I snorted as I hung up the phone. I knew that she was seeing my calls just like she knew that I was drunk just like I knew that she wasn’t picking up my calls because she knew that I was drunk. I didn’t even really want to talk to her; I just figured she’d think I got murdered if I didn’t spend my night off leaving her drunk messages. Two months since Noah had died and she still hadn’t asked me when this bullshit was gonna be over. God, she was a good friend. Or she was an enabler. Either way, she was the best.

“Hey. Christopher Sly, bar’s closing.”

“Is that from Shakespeare?” I slurred, a smile spreading, or maybe remaining, across my face. I looked up, expecting to see the boring, straight as a hockey fan bartender who usually came to berate me at closing time when I saw the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. That may have been/probably was a boozed-up hyperbole, but he was definitely beautiful to some capacity. He had dark, dark brown chin-length waves and broad shoulders, which I loved. He was tan, almost certainly too tan to be white, or a WASP, or whatever; his skin was a beautiful reddish golden brown. He grinned at me, looking kind of curious, kind of amused-- a nice deviation from the usual bartender’s look of disinterest and impatience.

“Do you have a way to get home that doesn’t involve you behind the wheel?”

A rather stupid question, I thought, for the 21st century, especially considering that he had just seen me using my phone. But I just altered my smile to something sugary-sweet and replied, “No, but I have a way to your place that involves you behind me.”

He choked a little, causing us both to laugh. He cleared his throat and patted my shoulder.

“I’ll call you a cab, alright?”

I smiled at him, more genuinely this time, but just as sweet.

“You’re new here,” I said, and then cut him off as he started to respond, “and I know first of all because you have not yet learned to detach from the well-being of your patrons, and second of all because I definitely would’ve noticed that tight ass before.”

He didn’t choke this time, merely rolled his eyes.

“You’re very eloquent for a tankard.”

“I’m not a-- (hic) -- tankard.”

He smiled, and suddenly I was moving, he was touching my shoulders and walking me somewhere someplace but I didn’t care because he was warm and he smelled like soap and I wanted him to smell like sex.

“Where do you live?” he asked, pulling out his phone, and I pouted. Were we outside?

“It’s cold,” I whined, and a smile flickered across his lips. I wanted it to stay.

“You’ll be in a cab soon,” he replied. He looked up from his phone. “Where do yo--”

“Are you British?” I asked, suddenly registering the unfamiliar tune to his voice. He began to laugh hysterically.

“How drunk are you, mate?” he asked, still laughing and wiping a tear from his eye.

I giggled. “Mate,” I mumbled. “How very British indeed.” Then I straightened up. “What if I pass out in the cab?” I asked sternly. “What if he kicks me out because I throw up or I can’t pay?”

The pretty new man sighed. I batted my eyes and wrapped my arms around his shoulders and he stumbled back.

“Why would you do that to me, Petruchio?”

He looked at me with a wide smile of disbelief. “Petruchio,” he repeated slowly.

“The Taming of the Shrew,” I mumbled happily, and I pushed up onto my toes to kiss him.

“Woah, woah, no way,” he said firmly, pushing me off of him. He kept an arm on me just long enough to steady me and then pulled away from me like I was a leper. “I’ll drive you home, alright?”

I smiled and nodded.

You don’t invite lepers into your car.

******

“So what were you celebrating, Christopher?”

I frowned at the question.

“I was alone,” I said. “Clearly forgetting, not celebrating.”

He was quiet.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I was forgetting?”

He blushed and bit his lip. Mm, I wanted to bite that lip. I re-realized how sexy this man was, how tall and lean and rough. I reached out to touch his stubble and he shrugged me away.

“Don’t do that.”

I sighed and turned away.

“I was forgetting a dead person, you know.” I immediately felt sick after saying it. I was an asshole, I was such a sick asshole, Noah wasn’t someone for me to bring up just to get some hot bartender’s attention. “Never mind. That wasn’t… that wasn’t right. Never mind.”

I drew my knees to my chest and leaned against the window.

“Do you read a lot of Shakespeare?”

I blinked and looked over, wondering if he’d even heard anything I’d said. He was focused on the road, but when he saw me looking he glanced and gave a small smile. Fuck. Oh, fuck, he was so charming. Was it the accent? His smile seemed British. How long have I been thinking about this? I should probably answer. He asked something about reading, I think?

“Yeah, I read. I mean, I used to. Not a lot of time for reading anymore.” I yawned. “I work a lot.”

“What do you do?”

I paused. There were a lot of honest answers to that question, too many for my drunk mind to sift through at that point.

“Accounting,” I settled on. Accountant by day, homo by night, I thought to myself, smiling. That was Phoebe’s favorite.

“Sounds… lucrative?”

I laughed.

“It’s a goddamn goldmine, can’t you tell?” I said, gesturing to my crumbling old apartment building as the car slowed to a stop. He grinned.

“Maybe if you spent a little less time at bars…”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “That’s not all there is to me, Petruchio. Who’s a real dick in that play, by the way.”

He laughed, and I felt pleased to have made him laugh so heartily. He really was cute. I gave him a quick peck on the cheek before he could protest.

“I’m gonna fuck you, you know,” I whispered into his ear, and I could’ve sworn I felt him shiver. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Christopher Sly,” he replied quietly, and I slipped out of his car and stumbled away. I looked back and saw him pretending not to watch me. He really is cute, I thought.

******

“How many drunk voicemails from the club should I be expecting tonight?”

I groaned and plopped down on the couch next to Phoebe. I made her mute the onslaught of depressing political developments droning over the TV and pulled my legs up onto the couch. I sat criss-cross and turned to face her. She was giggling.

“You always laugh at me when I sit like this,” I grumbled.

“You look like you’re in grade school,” she tittered.

“ANY-way, I will be sending you all of my voicemails from my couch tonight. I humiliated myself in front of a sexy bartender at the only gay club by my place that I don’t hate.”

Phoebe gasped and clapped her hands together. “Sexy bartender?!”

I sighed. “Yeah, he gave me a ride home and everything. And he was British.”

Phoebe threw her hands up in the air. “So what’s the goddamn problem, then?”

I huffed. “Do you even listen to those voicemails, Phoebe? I was a hot mess!”

Phoebe’s head turned with mine as we heard keys jingle and the front door open. Phoebe’s partner, Tali, pushed open the door, encumbered by what looked to be about three weeks worth of groceries.

“Jesus, Tal,” I said, as Phoebe leapt from the couch to help carry the bags.

“Come help us, dickhead!” Tali called cheerfully. She was a sweet little woman with the heart of a saint and the mouth of a sailor. I got up and heaved several of the bags over my shoulders, carefully avoiding putting weight on my injured hand.

“What the fuck is in these?” I asked, wringing my hands after setting them on the counter.

“Oh, that’s all kitty litter. I gave you the heaviest ones,” Tali chirped. I shoved her playfully, causing her tiny frame to teeter dangerously and eliciting a growl from Phoebe.

“Don’t,” Phoebe snapped at me, wrapping her arms around Tali and smooching her on the cheek. I rolled my eyes and began unpacking the groceries. “Matty was just telling me about a sexy British stranger that he met at a bar.” Tali’s eyes lit up, and I shook my head.

“As always, Phoebe is romanticizing. I was drunk and he extended his duties as a bartender to give me a drive home. Probably thought I’d fall down a storm drain, the state I was in.”

Phoebe’s squeal nearly caused me to drop the carton of milk that I was holding and I grabbed my chest in surprise. She seemingly either didn’t notice or didn’t care because she plowed ahead into her next lengthy portion of the conversation.

“You didn’t tell me that he drove you home! Talk about going above and beyond for a customer, oh la la, what a gentleman. What was this British fox’s name?”

I paused and cocked my head. After a moment of thought, I replied, “Petruchio.”

Tali raised an eyebrow. “From Taming of the Shrew?”

I shrugged. “He called me Christopher Sly, you know, the play’s drunk, so I called him Petruchio.”

“I thought the drunk was named Toby.”

“That’s Twelfth Night. Sly is often written out of performances of the Shrew, though, beca--”

Phoebe gave the most melodramatic of groans and threw herself over the counter. “This conversation was supposed to be about SEX,” she cried.

I chuckled as Tali shot me a knowing look and pressed a kiss to the back of Phoebe’s head.

“He called me Christopher Sly so I called him Petruchio. I don’t know his name, and I never will. The end.”

The two girls gave each other a look and then turned to me and scoffed in eerie simultaneity. “Well we’re going back,” Phoebe said incredulously.

******

“So what’s he look like again?” Phoebe asked. I’d given them both about a hundred descriptions from my hazy memory of the man-- dark brown waves, broad shoulders, tall. Taller than you? Yeah, much taller than me, but much slimmer. Nice laugh. British. Makes Shakespeare references to drunk strangers.

Still, I relayed all this information, eager for an engaging topic of conversation. I was really hoping to look like I was having fun with my girl friends on a night out rather than skulking around a bar looking for a hot piece I’d nearly puked on.

“So you’re sure he’s a bartender? Not a bouncer or a waiter or anything?” Tali was taking a more practical approach to this.

“Yeah, it’s usually the bartender’s job to round up the sad sacks at the end of the night.”

Tali touched her heart. “Just like Moses out of Egypt,” she crooned.

“Your wedding is going to be so Jewish.” Phoebe rolled her eyes as Tali nodded emphatically. Then I saw him. “Oh, fuck,” I hissed, shrinking down in my seat

He was a fucking vision, glowing under the lights and dressed to kill, no doubt for those Friday night tips. Sleeveless tee, tight black jeans that hugged his ass like it was their goddamn job. He was working at the other end of the bar, his hair tied back in a short ponytail, revealing his strong neck and a jaw that could cut glass. He was so much-- a thousand times more than I’d remembered, and I wondered for a moment if I’d clocked the wrong guy until I heard his laugh above the roar. That I remembered for sure. I felt a pang of something acidic and unwelcome as I saw him direct that laugh at some random liquored-up cub. I turned back to my friends.

“Can we just go, you guys? This is too weird.”

“God, Matt, look at him,” Tali breathed, and Phoebe smacked her.

“Fucking bi women,” Phoebe grumbled, and Tali opened her mouth for a no-doubt scathing reply (this was a point of frequent conflict between them, and it was frankly growing tedious) but I interrupted.

“Yeah, if I had remembered that he was that fucking sexy, I wouldn’t have agreed to this. So let’s go,” I said, wrapping my arms around them and attempting to usher them out the door.

Phoebe yelled “Barkeep!” over my shoulder and I nearly tackled her to the ground. Luckily, the bartender who was actually working on our side came to her aide. He glanced over at me and smiled.

“Hey, you actually brought people this time,” he said, chuckling, and I buried my face in my hands.

“Oh, God, Matty, you really do come here a lot,” Phoebe said, her tone half-worried, half-amused.

“You know, babe, I think our resident Brit was asking about you.” I looked up with an expression that made the bartender burst out laughing. “Lemme send him over,” he said with a wink and twirled away before I could protest. Or think about protesting. Would I have protested? He was asking about me. I turned to Phoebe and Tali with a look of excitement and terror that they returned twofold. Then a more smug excitement overtook their faces as their gaze landed over my shoulder and I froze.

“Christopher Sly.”

That fucking voice. I turned around to face a whiff of his silky, soapy scent and wanted to jump over the bar right then. I forced myself to think of my previous humiliations in order to ground myself in the gravity of this interaction.

“Petruchio. I heard you were asking about me,” I replied smoothly, grappling to regain some semblance of power in this dynamic. It was power easily won, evidently, as he turned a shade of pink different from the sweaty flush he’d been wearing before. He went to tuck his hair behind his ear, forgetting that it was tied up.

“Well, you could barely walk when I dropped you off. I was hoping someone had seen you alive.”

There went my upper hand. Phoebe snickered behind me, and I shot her a glare that only worsened her laughing. I sighed and faced my mystery Brit.

“These are my friends Phoebe and Tali. They are the reason that I’m here.”

He gave them a wave accompanied with a cute little smile that made all three of us melt. He turned back to me and I tried to refreeze.

“You didn’t want to come back and face me?” he asked sweetly. I opened my mouth to answer when he turned away, over his shoulder, apparently being called back by a coworker. He grabbed a napkin, fished a pen from his back pocket, and scribbled down his number.

“I’m off at one tonight,” he said with a smirk. “If you’re in the neighborhood.”

And then he was gone, dancing away, moving like water, or syrup, or something fluid but entirely its own.

“Wow, he is way out of your league,” Phoebe said flatly, and, for the life of me, I just wanted to tackle her to the goddamn floor.

******

“Well, you won’t be getting a ride with us!”

That was the response Tali and Phoebe had given me that night when I told them I might just head home. They were right to push me, and I knew it, but in the moment I was so pissed. All I needed was for someone (Phoebe) to look me in the eyes and tell me that it was okay to be scared and nervous and that it was going to turn out fine and that even if it didn’t turn out fine that would be fine becauses who was he to me anyway? But Tali was tipsy, and Phoebe was doting on her, and I was standing outside that damn bar, too nervous to go in, too nervous to leave, refreshing my texts and emails repeatedly in hopes of finding some sort of distraction.

“Christopher,” said an almost-surprised, ever-coy British voice behind me. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

I turned and faced him. I’d had time to prepare, trying to wear down the aggressively sexual image of him in my mind, but seeing him in person slapped the preparation out of me. It was a nice try, though.

“Oh, you’re not all that scary,” I said, trying to sound casual, or flirty, or friendly, or anything other than anxious and turned on. “And could you call me Matty?”

His eyes lit up for a moment. “I’m not sure I recall that character,” he replied, tightening his scarf around his neck before gesturing in front of him. My eyes followed his gesture to an empty sidewalk and then returned to stare at him blankly.

“Oh,” he started, his face flushing slightly. “My apartment. It’s that way. I mean, not that we-- I-- just, to talk and, you know, hang out. Because it’s late, and places aren’t open. That sounds fake. I’m being sincere.”

I grinned at the bashful man before me and waited for him to tire himself out.

“Man, I really thought you’d have a little more confidence after I made such a complete fool out of myself in front of you.” He rolled his eyes, but with a smile, and I held out my hand. “Lead the way.” He hesitated before taking my hand and beginning to walk. I had only raised my hand to suggest his guidance, but I quickly squeezed his hand and matched his pace, not wanting him to realize his mistake. The autumn wind swirled around us as we walked; I noted internally how romantic the scene was before shaking the thought from my head.

“So, it’s Matty, in case you’ve forgotten. And you?”

“Julian.”

It suited him.

“And do you always escort sad, drunken gays home from your bar, Julian?” I asked, and then I sighed, realizing that this next part was necessary. “I never thanked you for that. So… you know, thank… you.” I wanted to bash my face into the thick layer of ice on the roads.

“You’re welcome,” he said warmly, and I could tell that he was looking at me, but I just looked ahead. I wanted him to see me, but I wasn’t sure that I was ready to look back. “You were right when you said that I was new here-- do you remember saying that?” I nodded sheepishly. “Well, you were right, and I suppose that’s why I did it. I hope that I never become so jaded to let customers drink and drive,” he said anxiously.

“I think you can manage that,” I responded, genuinely hoping that it helped. He seemed to perk up a bit. “Although you really could’ve just called me a cab. I think you knew I was bullshitting you in that monologue.” Where had all my nerves gone? Talking to him was actually fun. He laughed and jostled me as we walked, not letting go of my hand. I was glad that he was wearing gloves so that he couldn’t feel how sweaty my hands had become.

“I wanted to keep talking to you,” he answered simply. His casual honesty was slightly jarring. “Or, rather, keep listening to your drunken musings.” And the honesty was joined by a familiar smirk that set me more at ease.

“Give me the worst of it,” I sighed.

“Well, there was a lot of flirtation, and a lot of touching.”

I cringed.

“I’m sorry. That’s not cool.”

He shook his head quickly.

“No, no, nothing over the top. Although you did tell me,” he said, smiling deviously and coming to a halt, “that I had a tight ass.” I laughed out loud, my head meeting his chest as I did. He’d rotated so that we were facing each other, and he then dropped my hand and moved his touch to my neck, his other hand meeting my waist.

“Truth serum,” I said with a shrug, and I locked my fingers behind his neck.

“You also let slip, in so many words, that you’re a bottom.”

Drunk me is such a goddamn whore, I thought bitterly.

He lowered his lips to my ear and murmured, “I’m glad.”

God.

******

“Do you want something to drink?”

I was perched awkwardly on Julian’s couch, remaining uncomfortably still. I didn’t even know him, that had become more and more clear in my tight chest as we walked home from that deliciously frustrating almost-kiss. I’m not supposed to take drinks from strangers, right?

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

Then again, I was about to take his dick, so what did I know?

“I like how you sit with your legs crossed,” Julian laughed, traversing the room to sit beside me. “It’s cute.” Cute! “So how much of that night do you remember anyway?”

I chewed on my lip, thinking. I saw his eyes drift to my mouth, and I repressed a smile.

“I remember getting into the car…”

“Do you remember getting out of the car?” he asked, and then lowered his voice to add, “when you said you were gonna fuck me?”

“Thank God you’re here for the recap,” I snarked, trying to play off the blush creeping up my neck. “What else did I reveal?”

His eyes shifted to the ground. “Uh… you talked about your job,” he offered. I frowned.

“Which job?”

He furrowed his brow. “You work more than one job?”

I wasn’t dying to get into that at the moment if I didn’t have to. “Which job?” I repeated. He looked at me dubiously.

“Accounting.”

I nodded. Good. “Yeah, accounting. I do work under a lot of different positions at the, uh, company, so I was just wondering if I’d said something more specific.” He frowned, clearly not sold on that explanation, but I changed the subject. “So how does a British theater buff stumble upon a bartending job in my very own mediocre gay bar?” This made him laugh, and I felt a warm glow from his approval. I definitely remembered that feeling from the other night.

“Not a theater buff by any definition, but I actually go to school here. I’m finishing up my degree.” My eyes widened.

“Wait, how old are you?”

“Oh, I’m 24,” he answered quickly, and I sighed with relief. “Just took some time off to care for my brother.” His eyes darted to the floor. I could tell that he hadn’t intended to share that bit of information, so I ignored it.

“I’m 26, just so you know.”

“Really? I thought you were younger than me,” he said, and I rolled my eyes. “I’m serious!”

“No, I know you are. It’s just…” I waved a hand around my face, but he didn’t seem to understand. “I’m light blond and I can barely grow stubble. You’re not the first person to say I look young,” I explained. He chuckled and reached out to my lap. He rested his hand on top of my left one, tracing my knuckles.

“What’d you do here?”

I exhaled through my teeth. “I got mad,” I said frankly. The guy had been so nice to me; I figured I should be honest with him. I kinda felt like he’d get it.

But he pulled away with a look of fear so intense that it startled me. I knew that fear, I worked every day with kids who held that fear in their eyes. I held that fear in my eyes.

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” I said gently, reaching back out to take Julian’s hand. He hesitantly obliged. “I have a bad habit of punching my kitchen floor.” He raised his brow, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. My heart thumped with relief, and I realized then how affected I’d been by his show of fear. “Sometimes bad shit happens in the world, and I get mad,” I said finally. It was the best explanation that I could offer. He nodded. I knew you’d get it, I thought, beaming at him.

“What’re you smiling at?”

I pushed his chest just hard enough that he’d fall back onto the couch.

“You.”

We’d talked enough. He smiled at me as I crawled over him, my hands meeting his head. I pulled his hair out of its ponytail and wrapped my fingers in his waves. His hands traced up my sides, and I closed my eyes and hummed my approval.

“Fuck,” he said plainly. I met his eyes, and he was watching me with an intensity that made my cock jump. His gaze was soaked with lust, and I wanted to taste what his eyes were promising. I nestled my hand in his hair beneath his ear and kissed him.

It was fucking fantastic. I have no more-eloquent adjectives for it; he was simply the best kisser I’d ever encountered. I love to kiss. Even in the gentlest kiss, the intimacy turns me on like crazy. And this was not the gentlest kiss.

Julian responded to my lips with full force, his tongue lunging into my mouth and my whole being melting into his. He wrapped his arms around my waist tightly-- a gesture that would’ve struck me as oddly nonsexual were it not for the sheer heat of his body. I felt him kicking off his shoes, so I pulled away and hopped up to ever-so-quickly disrobe. I glanced up and noticed him still laid up on the couch, his arms folded behind his head.

“You’re gonna make me undress you?” I asked, pulling my shirt over my head and smiling in spite of myself.

“I’m not going to make you…”

I rolled my eyes and dropped my jeans before realizing that I still had my socks on, which looked rather goofy. I stripped them off and moved to sit again. I straddled him, casually grinding my crotch into his. He let out a choked moan and I smirked.

“Sorry,” I purred.

“Just get these damn clothes off,” he breathed, grabbing my hips. My heart soared seeing how turned on he was-- how turned on I’d made him.

I pulled his t-shirt off and proceeded to make quick work of his belt. It had been years since I’d been working, but the undoing of button-downs and belts remained in my muscle memory. I’d barely gotten his jeans to his knees before he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me back up for a kiss. He grabbed my ass and huffed, apparently out of frustration at my briefs, as his hands were down them the next moment. His firm grasp spread my cheeks a bit, stealing the breath from my lungs.

“Suck my dick.”

The sudden demand startled me solely because it seemed so out of character, but I recovered swiftly and dropped back down to face his groin. I pulled his underwear down with a tug, not bothering to move it past his thighs, and saw Julian’s cock for the first time. He was definitely at least seven inches, and, much more importantly, at least to me, he was mouth-wateringly thick. His dick was smooth, though he had a bit of that dark, dark hair at the base.

I was immediately intimidated by the length-- I’d faced longer in my epic career of survival, but that was a long time ago. I looked up and saw the raw desire on his face falter and his natural caring look resurface. I couldn’t have that. I made my way along his cock, starting with a teasing moment of suction on the head that drew a sharp gasp from above me and working my tongue down and around. I continue to lather him with my spit, and as I took the head of his cock back between my lips, I looked up again and was pleased to find his face red and his eyes aflame, all traces of concern gone.

“Fucking blow me, Matt,” he growled, his voice low and thrillingly dark. So I made a split decision and lowered my entire throat onto his at-least-seven-inches.

“Fuckin’ shit, Matty, oh bloody goddamn--” and a steady stream of other breathless expletives followed, but I was focused on the hot, slick cock in my mouth. I gagged a bit and even retched once, but I didn’t stop. I was intent on getting this down, as I had high hopes of choking on Julian’s length again in the future. I pressed the back of my throat against the head for a few seconds longer at the end of each stroke, and I soon felt his cock spasm. My own dick twitched in response. I was aching below the belt but I wanted Julian’s cum on my tongue; I wanted to taste him and hear him groan and feel him splashing down my throat. I shoved my arm up below me at an angle that was both awkward and kind of painful, but it was fully worth it to be able fondle his balls and hear him moan my name. Then, tragically, he pulled me up by my hair and my prize was ripped away. I let out a little whine and looked at him with wide eyes. He met my gaze head-on and his eyes were suddenly sucking me in, absorbing me, setting me on fire.

“I wanna cum inside you.”

I leapt off of him and he followed, tearing off the remnants of his outfit. He grabbed my hand and said, impatiently, “Bedroom.”

Somehow he retained the obscene air of lust emanating from his very being while gifting me with a sweet smile. As he pulled me along to his room I found myself wondering just how deeply he felt about me, and that was when I knew I was screwed. And at that moment, I really couldn’t find it within myself to give a fuck. He swept me up in another all-consuming kiss, taking his sweet time, and I moaned into his burning mouth.

“I’m fucking dying here, Juli,” I whimpered. He pulled back, looking surprised and genuinely delighted by the nickname. Oh, how fucking cute he was. He pressed a swift kiss to my lips before trotting to his bedside table to fetch a condom and a bottle of lube. His tight ass swayed, and I felt an overwhelming urge to grab it right where it met his muscular thighs.

“Well, lie down, then,” he chuckled, looking at me curiously. Instead, I charged towards him and slapped my palms to his ass. His knees gave, which I was not expecting, but I manage to hold him up without stumbling and continue to knead his flesh in my hands.

“Come on,” he whispered, and together we tumbled back onto his bed. He finally pulled off my briefs and threw them to the side like they were the bane of his existence. He pulled my legs up onto his shoulders and plunged his face into my ass. I cried out as he lapped at me, twisting his tongue into my hole and coating it in his spit. He rimmed me thoroughly, and by the time he drew away I was a writhing, mewling mess of desperation.

“Fuck me, please, goddamn it, Julian,” I pleaded.

“Bloody hell, you’re hot.”

I laughed out loud. “Don’t say bloody hell.”

He rolled his eyes, but I barely noticed because he was spreading lube over his cock. I was mesmerized. He hovered over me on his knees, stroking himself and giving me that sarcastic look; he was so utterly sexy in that moment.

“Will you please just fuck me?” I cried, and he laughed.

“Let me ready you, for Christ’s sake,” he said, tracing my hole with his now-lubricated finger tips. I moaned and arched my back as he continued to tease me, poking into me just a bit. I bit my lip to stop from begging again-- I was still pretending that I had some dignity to protect. He pushed two fingers into me, and I threw my head back and gasped.

“God, Julian.”

“Fuck yourself on my fingers, Matty.”

I looked back to him and saw a sincerely hopeful expression. He really wanted to see me do this, and he thought I might say no.

As if I could.

I grabbed at his sheets and pumped my hips up and down, moaning for him, contracting my hole around his fingers. I could hear his breathing hitch at each noise I made, and I couldn’t help but smile. I felt a third finger at the entrance of my asshole, and I knew that he was asking if it was okay. In a wordless response to his wordless question, I pushed myself down onto his third finger and increased the speed of my movements. I was twisting my core and tugging at the sheets-- really putting on a show-- and apparently it worked because within a minute he pulled out suddenly and pushed into me in one slow stroke.

I groaned long and loud, and I think that he did as well, but after that it was just a blur of pressure and friction and oh fuck that’s my fucking prostate fuck yes and I was screaming, I think, and it was probably two in the morning and I silently apologized to his neighbors but goddamn I needed to be dicked down like this and I hadn’t even realized until Julian was balls-deep inside of me and the sounds he was making I wanted to hear him make those sounds for the rest of my fucking life. He roared and started to move faster, his hands planted firmly on either side of my head and mine clawing at his back. He met my lips to envelope me in one last kiss, and as my head swirled I felt his hips slam into mine and his hot cum flood inside of me. I came immediately, my semen spurting all over our chests. Our mouths rested together, too spent to keep kissing but not ready to part. Finally he pulled away and lowered his head to my neck, where he dropped short, soft kisses and he collapsed onto me. I gave a little grunt at the sudden weight and he giggled into my neck. I laughed in response and ran my hand through his hair, the awkward question already rising in my throat.

“Am I… can I sleep here?”

He looked at me in incredulity. “Of course you can, mate, what the hell?”

“Some guys are weird about it, I don’t know!”

He rolled his eyes. “I want to be offended, but I also want some in the morning, so, fine, whatever.” He gave me a little smirk as he hopped off the bed and headed to the en suite.

“Let me clean you up, darling,” he called over the sound of a running faucet. I smiled so fucking wide I thought my jaw would break.