Chapter 7
Arthur lies sideways on his bed, one knee bent, ice cubes in his coffee melting in the winter sun. The window is cracked just enough to let in a breeze that raises goosebumps on his arms. The hoodie he stole from Chris smells faintly like his cologne, which would be comforting, if Arthur didn’t already feel like his skin was trying to crawl off his body.
George: Incoming Call
Arthur doesn’t move, staring at his phone, the TikTok he was watching still playing, now mute with the notification.
He should let it ring out. That would be the cool thing to do. Make George sweat a little.
Instead, he answers on the third buzz. Doesn’t even clear his throat.
“Hi,” he says. It comes out quiet. Breathless, maybe. He doesn’t care anymore.
There’s a pause.
“Hey.” Rough like gravel. Smooth, like a match being struck with dexterous hands.
Arthur flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting on the floor of my room,” George answers. “Back against the wall. Hoodie off.”
Arthur bites his lip. “Why’d you take it off?”
“You made me feel a little hot,” George says simply.
Arthur smiles, small and stupid. His hoodie sleeves are tugged down over his knuckles, and he picks at a frayed seam like it’ll keep him steady.
“You’re easy,” he says, trying to sound unaffected.
George hums. “Only for you.”
“What are you wearing?” George asks, casual but not really.
Arthur looks down at himself. “Shorts,” he says. “Chris’s hoodie. It still smells like him.”
George makes a displeased noise.
“What?” Arthur asks, smiling. “You don’t like me smelling like other men?"
“I wanna be the only one to make a claim. I want you smelling like us tangled together."
Arthur’s heart beats a little faster.
“You wanna brand me?” Arthur teases, voice light, but his fingers twitching slightly against the cuffs of his hoodie.
George’s laugh crackles through the phone, low and unhurried. “Not with fire,” he says. “Just with touch. With how sore you’d be after. With how warm.”
Arthur exhales like he’s been punched. “Jesus.”
“You’d say that too,” George murmurs. “Maybe slurred a little. Maybe into my mouth.”
Arthur covers his eyes with the crook of his arm like he’s hiding from a stare. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” George says, voice soft, now smiling.
It goes quiet. They’re taking small steps towards something they’re going to fall into.
“What are you thinking about?” Arthur treads gently.
“You,” George says.
Arthur groans, laughs quietly. “What about me?”
“You really wanna know?” George teases.
“As long as you don’t bring up a fucking mango vape.”
George sighs against the mic, making a puff sound. “I’m thinking about your thighs around mine and the way your hips stuttered when you came, looking all fucked out with my cock stuffed inside of you.”
Arthur’s cock physically twitches in his boxers.
"You can’t just say shit like that.”
“You asked,” George says. “I’m just giving you the details.”
Arthur turns his head into his pillow. “You remember too many details.”
“You make me wanna be good for you,” George murmurs.
Arthur’s hands curl in the sheets.
“What would you do? How would you be good for me, if I was here?” Arthur asks, and it comes out all clunky and honest.
“I’d sit you in my lap,” George says slowly. “Over my thighs. Let you warm up like that.”
Arthur hums, soft and shaky.
“I wouldn’t rush,” George continues. “I’d have one hand on your hip, the other on your back, under your hoodie.”
Arthur closes his eyes and runs a palm over the skin of his stomach just where the hoodie’s ridden up.
“I’d kiss your neck, soft and slow, and leave a mark. The first of many for everyone to know you’re mine. And I’d press in, gentle, sweet, until you were buried to the hilt. Until you asked me to start moving.”
Arthur’s thighs press together instinctively, and he covers a whimper with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Fuck,” George says, hearing it like it knocked something out of him. “You’d sound so good in my hands.”
“I’d take my time,” George murmurs, like he’s dragging each word down Arthur’s spine. “Take my time with you. Until every inch of your skin burnt with my touches.”
Arthur lets out a soft, shaky breath.
“And later I’d kiss down, down, down your stomach so slow,” George whispers, and Arthur can feel it, can feel the kisses. “Use my mouth to worship you. Like I was made for it.”
“I’d get on my knees for you,” George whispers. “Right there on the carpet. Hands on your hips. I’d take you into my mouth and let you fuck my throat. Let you use me until your legs shook and your voice broke.”
Arthur covers his mouth with his hand but the sound still escapes – a stifled moan. His cock tents his shorts now, precome leaking through the fabric.
“Are you touching yourself?” George asks, voice husky.
Arthur doesn’t answer.
“Can you touch yourself for me, baby?” George says, low and hungry. “Let me hear you fall apart?”
Arthur’s hand slips down, tentative. Like crossing a threshold he knows he won’t come back from.
“I’m–” Arthur’s voice breaks. He has to start again. “I’m hard already.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m… I’m imagining my hand is yours.”
George doesn’t respond. Just breathes out shakily and lets his fingers move around his own cock. He closes his eyes. His body already feels like it’s humming, like it’s on the edge of something sharp and warm.
George exhales like he can feel Arthur next to him. “Wish I could see you.”
“Say something.”
George groans, and continues. “I’d be between your legs right now. Palms flat against your thighs to keep you spread open. I’d mouth at your cock slow at first, just teasing. I remember it tasted sweet.”
Arthur chokes on a moan. He’s barely touching himself, and it’s already unbearable.
“I’d edge you with my tongue,” George whispers, “Until your hips bucked and you started begging. And I wouldn’t stop until you were moaning my name and gasping for it.”
Arthur breathes out, quiet, sharp. His wrist stutters.
“Tell me how you feel,” George says, voice rougher now. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“It’s– fuck, it’s good. You’re so good. It's never felt like this.”
George’s breath falters on the other end of the line, and when he speaks again, it’s lower. Hungrier. “Stroke yourself for me. Slow. Like you’re imagining it’s my hand. Like I’m on my knees with my mouth around your cock.”
Arthur’s whole body arches off the bed, hips fucking into his hand. His breath is jagged, caught between curse and cry.
“You make me wanna be good for you,” George says again, so low it feels like he’s whispering directly into Arthur’s skin.
Arthur’s fingers twitch. He presses his forehead into the pillow, heat crawling up the back of his neck.
“What would you do?” Arthur asks again, quieter this time. “If I was there.” His breath is already uneven, hand paused, not quite brave enough to move again, scared to finish without George telling him to. His toes curl against the sheets with the pressure.
George hums. “I’d start slow,” he says. “Lie behind you. Let you lean back into me. One hand on your stomach, feeling you breathe. The other…” He trails off, suddenly. “Would you let me touch you?”
Arthur nods, fast and desperate, before remembering George can’t see. “Yeah,” he breathes.
“Your hips would buck into my hand and I’d squeeze it just enough to make you feel it.” Arthur’s fist tightens around his own cock.
“And then,” George breathes, and Arthur can hear wet sounds coming down the mic, thinking about George stroking his cock, remembering how thick it was, “I’d press my cock against you and feel your hips grind onto it. Feel you taking me in.”
George smiles into the knuckles he’s been biting on, fisting his cock, and continues. “And then we’d fuck.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, heat still inside him but a fondness growing. “Awfully romantic.”
“I’d fuck you so hard you could feel it in your stomach," George says suddenly. "I’d put your hand there and press down so you could feel the shape of me inside.”
Arthur remembers George’s cock spearing him open, memories rushing back like a flood. The way it stretched him open, the heat of it, the veins pressing against his walls.
Arthur’s hand speeds up as George’s words continue, each sentence dragging him deeper into that tight, perfect place where his skin feels too thin and his thoughts too loud. “I’d come so deep you’d probably get pregnant,” George laughs, but heat simmers in Arthur’s stomach. “Fill you up and make you mine. Then fuck it out of you, again and again. Press it into you with my cock so it stayed.”
Arthur’s hand speeds up and he comes with a gasp, spine arching off the bed, his whole body pulled taut and trembling. He pictures George’s come inside of him, spilling out of him, and his hole clenches, body weak.
The wet noises are still coming down the mic. “Fuck, Arthur, you’d take it all,” George strings out. “You can have all of me. I’d give it all,” George groans, and then he lets out a broken sound and finishes.
“Holy shit you sound good,” Arthur blurts out.
George laughs, breathy and weak.
“Yeah, you do too,” George says.
“Wish I could see your face,” George adds.
“I don’t wish for that. You’d fucking break me in half if you were here,” Arthur laughs.
“I’d take care of you afterwards,” George replies, voice tender and sweet. “I’d be holding you now.”
Arthur’s smile fades, shutting his eyes and imagining George’s thick arms around him again. Taking care of him.
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Arthur breathes.
“Stay on the phone,” Arthur says quietly.
“I’m not going anywhere,” George replies.
Arthur wraps his arms around himself and falls asleep, half-wrecked – half-broken and half-blooming.