Chapter Text
Matt
In my lap, Westley snuffled. He’d fallen asleep with his chin on his crossed paws, lending a sort of elegance to his usual disgruntled energy. Frank was horizontal in his bed by the hearth; I’d taken him out for an extra-long walk this afternoon to wear him out, and it really worked. He’d come in from the walk, obligingly presented his paws to be wiped of mud, and then immediately trooped into the living room and fallen asleep, where he’d been ever since. I had the BAFTAs on the telly and Dom’s category was about to be called.
I’d seen him off earlier today. He’d been scribbling away at his acceptance speech even as he waited for the car to pull up. Usually he read these things to me – not speeches necessarily, but responses to questions he knew he’d be getting in interviews – but he’d been a bit protective over this one, and I supposed I understood why. It was kind of like seeing the bride in the dress before the wedding, or like telling someone your birthday wish.
He’d kissed me on the way out, a hurried little smear over my cheek. It was the same kind of kiss I gave him every morning before I left for work – just wanting to touch him somewhere. When we first started living together, I’d kissed him on the mouth on my way out, but found that, more often than not, one kiss turned into two which turned into five which turned into me being late. But this afternoon, halfway to the car, he’d run back up to the door and kissed me properly while I was waiting in the doorway. “Are you gonna watch?”
“Course I am.”
“Okay. I…” He’d looked at me for a long moment, smiling, and then kissed me again. “I’m only gonna stay for like an hour at the afterparty. So I’ll be home as soon as possible.”
“Stay as long as you want, Dom, really.”
“I only wanna stay for an hour.” He’d held my face in his hands for a moment, staring at me. Then he’d given me one final kiss and headed for the car.
When he was nominated, he’d told me he didn’t care if he won it or not. He’d also pointed out that he was going up against Daniel Day fucking Lewis playing actual Abraham Lincoln – of course he wouldn’t win. I knew he was never in it for the accolades. The most he’d ever got from his long-lasting career in romcoms was multiple Teen Choice Awards, where you win big fuckoff surfboards instead of statuettes, and he’d liked that a far sight more than any serious gongs because back in LA he had actually surfed a bit. What mattered more to him was that people were taking him seriously, and the nominations were enough for that.
On the telly, they’d just come back from adverts and immediately launched into Dom’s category. “Here we go, Wes,” I said, and jiggled the sleeping dog a bit in my lap. Westley slept on. “That’s your fucking dad up there, have some pride,” I murmured at him. He ignored me. If Frank was awake, he would have been staring at the telly intently, as he always did whenever he saw Dom on the screen.
The clip they’d chosen from Inheritance was actually a pretty good one, the bit where Johnny is on the phone to a friend while his dad is conked out in his armchair. Dom had done a lot of work trying to find Johnny in the script. I was quite fond of the character because it was the first time I’d been around Dom from the very beginning of a film to the premiere – I’d even run lines with him for a few scenes he was struggling to get his head around. On screen, Johnny was bright and warm, but he wilted under his father’s scrutiny. Dom had given him a little tic of blinking with particular intensity every now and then that gave him a sort of simple softness, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Compared to the rest of the nominees, he was the most naturalistic of the lot. I thought that with all the bias in the world, but I was also right. And the BAFTA goes to…
The first thing that made me aware that I’d actually stood up from the sofa was Westley’s disgruntled huff as he hopped onto the floor. I was, to my complete shock, watching Dom, my Dom – not Daniel Day-Lewis, not Ben Affleck, not Hugh fucking Jackman – make his way up to the stage. For the first time I wished I was there with him, but my instinct would probably have been to run up on stage after him. I just wanted to put my fucking arms around him, that was all.
“Oh wow,” he said breathlessly, as the applause died down. “Holy… Oh, sorry, I’m not allowed to swear, sorry.”
In my eagerness to be as close to him as possible, I stepped directly over the coffee table to get as close to the TV as I could. His face filled the screen.
“Um, okay. Wow.” He was clutching hard to the statuette. “I’ll keep this short. I’d like to thank, in no particular order, Jane Crowley, Paula Maclean, Tony Ellis, Lawrence Ruislip, Marcia Gallo, Kitty Zalewski, and my mum and my sister and my dad, for their unwavering support and faith in me. They all had faith in me when nobody else did. Not even me!” The audience laughed. “And I love you, dad – I miss you and I love you.” His fingers flexed tight around the statuette for a moment. Then he went on, “And I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for my boyfriend. Matthew Bellamy, you’re the love of my life. Here’s to the next two weeks. Cheers.”
He was shepherded off the stage shortly after this, leaving me standing with my eyes glued to the telly screen, seeing but not watching, hearing but not listening. Matthew Bellamy, you’re the love of my life. We’d agreed, after batting ideas back and forth for a while, that we’d put my name back in the Vanity Fair article. My family knew, so there was nothing for me to really be worried about. He was the one who’d been reluctant, not me. Yes, his fame bothered me, the way it intersected with my life with him, but it wasn’t like that was ever going to go away, and I was sort of sick of being this weird, mysterious figure hidden in the shadows. I’d seen someone speculating that the ‘Matt’ he’d been shouting after in King’s Cross was the bloke who played the annoying teacher from fucking Glee, for fuck’s sake. That just couldn’t stand. But he’d really set the ball rolling with that one by saying my whole fucking name on national TV.
I found myself strangely careless about it. I thought that maybe when the article dropped I’d start to get paranoid, but right then I couldn’t have cared less. Matthew Bellamy, you’re the love of my life.
He said he’d only stay a little while at the afterparty, but the ceremony wasn’t even over yet and it would take over an hour to drive home. Being charitable, I had two hours to wait until he got back. What the hell was I going to do with myself for two fucking hours?
It struck me rather suddenly that when he got home I’d want to fuck him. It was an inescapable fact that I would want this. He looked great in a suit and he’d just beaten Daniel Day-Lewis to a BAFTA, of course I wanted to fuck him. He was the most fuckable man in England right now and he’d be coming home to me. But as I let this thought wash over me, another one stepped cleanly over it. What if he fucked me?
It would be two years for us this June – three years this October if we counted Prüm – and I’d still never let him fuck me. He’d never brought it up, but I knew he still wanted it. Often I would ask him to finger me, but something had always made me hold back from asking him to fuck me. I wasn’t ever sure what. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, because I did. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him, because I did. But maybe it was that I’d been waiting for the right time.
This was a good time. A better time than any. Maybe the best time.
Two hours. I didn’t want to wait longer than necessary. If he was going to fuck me I wanted him to fuck me.
I made sure the dogs were settled, turned off the telly, and went upstairs.
Dom
I called him from the afterparty as soon as I had a minute to myself. To my chagrin he didn’t actually pick up on the first call, so I had to call him a second time, stood in the corner of the room. People kept coming up to me to congratulate me. Fucking Daniel Day-Lewis had shaken my hand. I’d had a picture of him in My Beautiful Laundrette on my wall when I was a teenager; I’d worn out my tape obsessively rewatching the scene where he’d put his hand under Gordon Warnecke’s button-up. If Matt ever gave me a hall pass, I’d go back in time and fuck the life out of Daniel Day-Lewis with frosted tips.
Daniel Day-Lewis aside, though, I just really wanted to talk to Matt, and the bastard wasn’t answering his phone. It was on my third attempt that he actually picked up. “Hey,” he said. From that single syllable I knew he was turned on. He was absolutely terrible at hiding it. We’d had a lot of phone sex, and it was always immediately obvious to me when he was touching himself, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. He still tried to pretend otherwise anyway. Not right now, though; right now he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
“Hey yourself.” I could see someone coming my way, but the sound of Matt’s voice was so enticing that I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I started to move around the edge of the room, aiming for the doors that would take me out onto the veranda.
“I’m so proud of you, Dom,” he said. His voice sounded sort of heavy and very thick in his throat. I sped up and burst out into the cool evening. The veranda was almost entirely empty except for a few smokers a little way down; I stood as far away from them as I could. “Always. But a lot right now.”
“Yeah?” I’d been expecting to hear elated congratulations, but this was so much better. “How proud?”
“So fucking proud.” I heard him shift a bit. “So proud that I want you home right now.”
“As soon as I can, gorgeous, I promise. Don’t come until I’m back.”
His breath hitched just slightly. “But what if I wanna come?”
“Well, you’ll just have to wait, won’t you? But you can wait. You’re so patient.” He wasn’t. He could be if he tried very, very hard, but most of the time he wasn’t. And never when I wasn’t there. He could barely control himself when I wasn’t making him do it. “And if you do come,” I added, “don’t you dare clean up. You know I love it when you make a mess.”
“I’m not gonna come,” he said with a slightly sing-song tone. “But you have to get back fast.”
“Maybe I wanna stay at the party a little bit longer,” I said. I didn’t; in fact, the only thing stopping me from leaving now was that I had to wait for them to finish carving my name onto the statuette, which I wanted to bring home with me straight away. If I could have teleported to him right now, I would’ve done. “Why don’t you tell me how you’re touching yourself and maybe that’ll make me hurry.”
“It’s a surprise,” he said on a funny little exhale.
This was very enticing to me. I pressed my lips together, glancing over my shoulder. Maybe the statuette could wait. Maybe I could get them to send it to me. “A surprise? For me?”
“Uh huh.” Then he gave me a shuddery little moan, which slid in my ear and down through my insides, curling in my stomach like a snake. “Dom, I need you…”
God. Fuck it. “I’m coming home now.”
“Good.” Then he fucking hung up on me. I stared at my phone for a few seconds in silence, and then forced myself into movement. I just had to get the fuck out of here as quickly as humanly possible.
On the way out I was stopped several times. My mum had gone home straight after the ceremony, so I didn’t have to factor her into the equation, thank God. But people kept approaching me to shake my hand and congratulate me, a lot of people I didn’t even know. I pretended to know them and smiled charmingly and made excuses – my boyfriend was at home and I just wanted to go back to see him. He was dying to see me. Someone asked me when I would be bringing him to a red carpet; I told her when I managed to convince him. I very badly wanted to get him into a nice suit and make him stand next to me in front of a step and repeat, my arm slung casually around his waist. One day maybe he’d acquiesce. If I ever got nominated for an Oscar.
I swung by the table where they did the engraving to find that they had actually done mine already, so I picked it up and made my way to the exit. I hadn’t had anything to drink purely so I could drive myself. The BAFTA trophy sat in the passenger seat.
All the way back I was trying to figure out what he meant by a surprise. In the two years we’d been a proper couple he’d developed a real love of being edged, but whenever he was left to his own devices he never seemed to be able to hold onto the patience to do it. By himself he was urgent; he wanted to come as quickly as possible. When I was there, he’d permit me to stretch it out. Once I’d been able to keep him on the edge for almost an hour, which I’d only managed because I tied his wrists to the bed so he couldn’t wriggle away from me. He’d been so overstimulated that, after I let him come and released his wrists, he’d curled into a shaking ball and flinched every time I brushed my fingers over his skin. I’d worried that it really had been too much for him, but the first thing he said after twenty minutes to recover was that it was the best orgasm he’d ever had. Maybe that’s what he meant by a surprise; maybe he was trying to work himself up to that state again.
But I just knew that he was terrible at holding back when I wasn’t there to give him a reason. Without me he was too easily indulgent with himself, and I couldn’t really blame him for that.
I’d managed to get home in just over an hour. When I unlocked the door, it was dark inside; both dogs were asleep, so I crept past them without turning on any lights and headed upstairs. The gap under the door to our bedroom was glowing warm yellow: he had a bedside lamp on, not the big light. I nudged the door open with my foot and almost dropped my fucking BAFTA on the rug.
Matt was lying in bed, his legs spread, naked. One hand was between his thighs, and I could see even from where I was standing that he had three fingers inside himself, more than I’d ever put in him. There was a thin sheen of sweat over his skin; his hair was stuck to his forehead and so damp it looked black. His hand was moving slowly as he fucked himself with his fingers, deep and steady. I felt so fucking dazed by the sight that I just stood and stared at him, trying to sear the image into my mind, my grip loose on the trophy. He really fucking liked being fingered, but I’d never seen him do it to himself. As far as I knew he never had.
I could feel my dick pressing urgently against the crotch seam of my trousers; it must have been a world record boner. I dragged my feet closer until I was standing at the foot of the bed. On closer inspection he actually hadn’t come. I couldn’t see any evidence of it. He had, though, dripped clear precum all over his stomach; it was pooling in the concave part under his ribs. As I stared, he lifted his head and looked up at me. His face was flushed with arousal. Another strand of precum drooled between the tip of his cock and his abdomen. His fingers slipped out. “Come and fuck me,” he said.
I really did drop the BAFTA this time; it landed on the comforter at the bottom of the bed. Then I tore off my jacket, my shirt and tie; I kicked off my shoes; I dragged down my trousers and my boxers. Quick-change artists all over the world would have been envious. I crawled up onto the bed, over him, my hands planted on the pillows either side of his head. “Fuck you?”
“Fuck me.” His voice was so lethargic and syrupy; I wanted to drink it. I’d fucking dreamed of this moment. Almost two years since I knew for a fact that I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life. Longer than that since I’d first laid eyes on him and knew I wanted to bend him over and fuck him. It hadn’t really mattered to me that he never seemed to want it; I never really thought about it all that much, because I loved him too much to care. Every other way we had sex was just as good, just as vital, and he’d let me do practically everything else to him that I could possibly want. I could have died regretting nothing if he’d never wanted to bottom for me. But here was this. Here was him, already open for me so I didn’t have to wait to do that first, as much as I liked fingering him. How long had he been lying here with his fingers inside himself? How many times had he worked himself almost to the edge and pulled himself back so that I could be the one to make him come?
“I love you,” I said, breathless. “I fucking love you.” I sat back, grabbed the bottle of lube, squeezed some into my hand, and gave my dick a few cursory strokes. Then I pressed my cockhead against his hole and felt it slip very easily inside him, which itself was such a fucking turn-on that I felt like I might not be able to last. A little moan fell out of his mouth at the sensation, and I drew back out of him, shifting both hands so I could lift his thighs up and tilt them back a bit. He was a lot more flexible than he used to be since he’d permitted me to give him regular massages; I always loved bending him, moving his legs especially, pushing his thighs back against himself so he was almost folded in half. Once I had him just how I wanted him, I rocked my hips forward and pushed inside him, meeting almost no resistance.
His back arched up and stayed strained; I watched the pool of precum trickle up his front, over his sternum, all the way into the hollow of his throat, and felt my cock throb heavily. That knocked another moan out of him as he felt it. For a moment all I did was kneel with my dick inside him, deep enough that my front was pressed flush against the backs of his thighs. “Yeah?”
“Uh huh.” He had that heavy-eyelid look of proper, bone-deep arousal. Arousal that seemed to come from somewhere so deep inside him that it was almost primal. It was a state I’d only managed to get him to a few times. His mouth was hanging open dazedly. He licked his lips, swallowed, and said with his usual imperiously demanding tone, “Fuck me. I’ve been waiting.”
“For how long?” I asked, curling my arm around his thigh so I could rub my thumb into the wet tip of his cock, play with his precum a bit. He was only half-hard. It happened sometimes when I was fingering him; he’d lose the hard-on but not the arousal, too focused on my fingers in him to even think about his dick. I’d always found it almost sickeningly hot. When I touched him now, he panted out a gasp, his chest shuddering. I picked up some wetness and smeared it over his stomach, feeling his abdomen tense and clench under my touch.
“Since—” I dragged my dick almost entirely out of him and in again, and he interrupted himself to moan. “Since you won.”
Almost two hours ago. Two fucking hours ago. By himself. I thought I’d done something impossible when I got him to last an hour. “You little fucking whore,” I said, and his mouth actually ticked up into a smile. I rolled my hips again, slow. “Is that what you are?”
He bit his lip. Then he nodded, slow, his eyes never leaving mine. This had become something of a code between us, a way of asking without breaking the flow. If I called him a whore, I was asking if he wanted to let me take proper control. If he agreed with me, he was saying he did. It helped a lot that I really fucking liked how that word sounded when it came out of his mouth.
“Say it.”
“I’m a whore.”
“Whose?”
“Yours,” he said softly. Then, “Your whore. I’m your whore. Oh—” This as I actually started to fuck him, rocking my hips at the pace he’d been fucking himself with his fingers, slow and deep. He was sliding back on the covers a bit every time I fucked into him; my hands shifted to his hips to hold him still. This was more surreal by far than it had been to stand on that stage holding a BAFTA and reciting an acceptance speech I’d actually thought it would be stupid to even bother writing.
One of his legs slid down, curled around my waist. I felt his heel digging into me where it had landed, trying to push me to fuck him faster. God, of course I could do that. I was doing it without thinking, actually, faster and harder, my hips snapping against him roughly. He was moaning now, a long sound interrupted as his body jerked with every thrust. He hummed, licked his lips; his eyes rolled shut. “So good inside me,” he said softly, almost a whisper, like he’d not even meant to say it out loud. “Ohhhh, you feel so fucking good…” That one he’d definitely meant to say aloud, since it fell out of his mouth as a very fucking loud moan. Living in a house in the middle of fucking nowhere had its perks. “Please can I—” His eyes fluttered open. “Please can I ride you?”
I almost came right then and there; I had to stop where I was, gasping to catch my breath, and screw my eyes shut for a few seconds to hold onto a crumb of self-control. Then I pulled out of him; that made us both shudder out a moan. “Of course you can, baby,” I said, and out of the corner of my eye I saw his dick twitch a bit. I dropped onto my back on the bed as he pushed himself up to sit. He was still damp with sweat and it seemed to take him real effort to sling a leg over me; his thighs were actually shaking a bit and a few times as he moved, tiny little noises of exertion nudged out of his mouth. He reached behind himself, curled a hand around my dick; I felt him pressing my cockhead against his hole, felt my dick jerk in his palm. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. Then, instead of slowly letting my cock fill him up, he just sat down heavily in my lap. I actually saw his eyes roll back in his head. His lip was still caught between his teeth and he must have bit down hard because a dark red smear of blood immediately welled up over the skin.
He splayed a hand on my stomach. His fingers were trembling. Then he lifted up and slid down on my dick again, gasping. All I could do was stare up at him, his glimmering skin and dark hair, the necklace I bought him shining at his throat. The rhythm he found was faster than mine, more urgent; he was bouncing in my lap, his dick bobbing as he moved. He was hard again. When I started to lift my hips up to meet him as he sank down on me, he whined, his whole body shuddering; he gasped my name, and then again, and again, his fingertips pressing into my skin. His other hand dragged up so he could pinch a nipple between thumb and forefinger and this made his hips jerk and stutter and God, I fucking loved him.
For a while there was just this, him fucking himself on me. I’d driven myself crazy imagining this. I still remembered that shower I’d taken while he was shopping in Salzburg, the filthy image of him riding me and holding me down while he did it, but it didn’t hold a candle to actually watching him, to actually feeling him. His head was so loose on his neck, tilting at one moment towards one shoulder and then straight back, his throat straining as he gasped out moans. He had that look on his face, the blissed-out expression of someone floating in pure sensation, someone a thousand miles away from a single coherent thought. More than anything, this was why I wanted to fuck him. Not because I wanted to feel it, but because I wanted him to feel it.
He sat down heavily in my lap again and this time he didn’t straighten, he just started to grind down on me, tilting until he found the angle that made him pant. “Oh,” he gasped suddenly, and I felt his hole flutter around my cock, “oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—” His orgasm seemed to have completely surprised him; if I was honest it surprised me too. Usually he needed me to jerk him off a bit to actually come, but he was spurting on my stomach, still grinding in my lap, trembling head to toe. It had been, I reminded myself, almost two hours for him.
He came to a stop with my cock still inside him, breathing hard, squeezing out high-pitched little moans between breaths. He sounded so fucking good. Not for the first time when we were fucking, I wished he’d let me video it, or at least record the sounds he made.
Slowly, his eyes peeled open. His cheeks and neck were flushed red as he panted. “I didn’t mean to,” he said in a very small voice, and I found myself so stupidly turned on that I couldn’t even remember how to speak.
“No?” I said eventually, once I got a hold of myself. He was so fucking sexy to me when he did this, when he played properly submissive for me, because I knew he was doing it for me. “You didn’t mean to come without my permission?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. Then, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” I told him idly. “But those are just words. How are you gonna show me you’re sorry?”
His tongue ran over his lip again. It was still red and shining. “Jerk you off?”
“Not good enough.”
“Suck your cock? And let you come on my face?”
“Still not good enough.”
His lips pressed together. I gave him a hint, lifting my hips up to bounce him in my lap and knocking a hitched moan out of him. His back arched.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” I told him. “So keep going until I do.”
He stared at me for a long while. For a moment there was a familiarly petulant look on his face, as if he was about to say he couldn’t. Then he lifted up and sank down on me again. The act of doing this made one of his thighs start to tremble and it didn’t stop as he repeated the motion. He was moving much too slowly for me to feel anything except teased, which simply wouldn’t fucking cut it. I reached out to him, slid my hands under his thighs and lifted him up, forcing him back down on my dick a little faster. He gasped this time, his softening cock dragging against my stomach. For a little while I just kept doing this, lifting him up and pressing him down. He let me do it, though I could feel tension coiling in him even as his head sagged forward. He was leaning all of his weight on me, his hand pressing heavily on my stomach until it sort of hurt.
“You think this is good enough?” I asked him.
“Mmh… no… But…” His eyes screwed shut; he let out a thoroughly overstimulated whine.
“But?”
“I can’t…”
I sighed. Then I lifted him all the way off my cock and dropped him front-first onto the bed next to me. He was so floppy that he felt twice as heavy as usual, forcing me to actually exert myself a bit as I moved him. I let him catch his breath for about three seconds, and then I lifted up and slung a leg over him to straddle him. “On your knees.”
“I can’t…”
If he asked me to stop, I’d stop. He knew this. He hadn’t said stop.
I smacked his arse. The sound cut cleanly through the thick air in the room; the skin where I’d hit him was immediately pink. He had his face pressed into the pillow, but I heard him moan all the same. “Come on, up. On your knees. Don’t make me wait.” He pushed his hips up from the bed and then dropped flat again. Pathetic. I slapped him again.
He whined something into the pillow that sounded an awful lot like I fucking caaaaaaan’t. Then he tried again. One thigh trembled, shook, and then he fell forward, but before his stomach landed flat again I slid my arm under him to hitch his hips up off the bed and force him onto his knees. Then I lined up and fucked into him again. No pausing this time to acclimate him to the sensation, I just found a pace and stuck to it, hard and firm, skin slapping skin. This knocked the breath completely out of him.
He was no good to me with his face hidden, so I reached up the length of his body and got a handful of his hair, yanking his head back. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were shut, eyelids fluttering; he panted, gasped unevenly, looking to me like he was barely even in the room anymore. I held him like this for a long time, his whole body rocking every time I snapped my hips. Then his eyes fluttered open and he slurred, drunk and thoughtless on too much sensation, “I love you.”
That did it. I came with a long groan, my cock shoved all the way inside him. He was already slumping forward again and I managed to lower his head back down onto the pillow fairly gently before I let go of his hair, panting as my dick pulsed, sending warm shockwaves through me. He was making these funny little noises every time my dick throbbed inside him, halfway between a gasp and a whimper. Then I let him drop flat on the bed, my cock sliding out of him. My last shot of come trickled over his hole, and I dragged two fingers through it and pressed it inside him too. This nudged another urgent little humming noise out of him, his hips twitching into the mattress.
I felt pretty fucking exhausted, but not nearly as he must have felt. With the last vestiges of my strength I reached out to the bedside table, opened the drawer and pulled out a pack of wet wipes, which I kept there in emergencies such as these where I didn’t want to leave the bed to get a cloth to clean us up.
The first thing I did, though, was lean over him and press a kiss to his shoulder, then another, and another, tracing a line over his back to the other shoulder. “I love you,” I murmured into his skin, which was radiating heat and slick with sweat. “I love you. I love you.”
He blinked at me, looking tired and well-fucked. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I’d wanted to see him like this since the first time I ever saw him. I leaned down and kissed him again, and then dropped onto my side so I could clean him up a bit. He just lay where he was, breathing slowly, his eyes on me. As I wiped the lube off his fingers, I kissed the tip of each one. For a while I thought he might doze off like this, considering how heavy his eyelids were, but he stayed awake. Eventually he murmured, “Lemme see it, then.”
With some effort, I got up off him, just enough to reach out and grab the trophy I’d dropped at the foot of the bed, holding it out for him to see as I propped myself up on my elbow. He reached out to touch it, running his fingertips over my engraved name. Then he giggled, a soft and exhausted little sound. “If you get my laptop for me…” A pause as he stretched out and sighed. “I’ll update your Wikipedia page.”
“I genuinely think we’re the first couple to bring Wikipedia into the bedroom.”
He grinned, stretching again, catlike. “You’d be surprised. But actually, if you give me, like,” he hummed in thought, “fifteen minutes, you can fuck me again while I do it.”
Music to my fucking ears. However: “Someone’s gonna get to it first. I’d be surprised if they haven’t already.”
In a stage whisper, he said, “I locked your page for editing so I could be the one to do it.”
“Isn’t that an abuse of your admin powers?”
He nodded very seriously.
“You naughty boy.”