"So, what you want to do," Hal smiles at him from up above. If it was anyone else, Kyle would most certainly get mad at being literally looked down on, but—it’s Hal. It's Hal, and they're both naked, and his cock is so hard lined up perfectly to Hal’s hole. "You really want to be generous with lube."
"Lube," Kyle parrots back, somehow managing to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth only for it to slap itself back in said place as he watches the muscles in Hal's abdomen ripple.
"Jesus, relax, will you?" he laughs and Kyle's cheeks burn at the sound, but he can't be too ashamed about it. Hal squeezes the bottle, letting its content drip all over his hand that then he wraps around Kyle's cock, getting it all wet. "You better not come as soon as the head's inside."
That would be bad, wouldn't it? It would all be over way too soon and Hal is so beautiful and hot and naked and Kyle doesn’t want it to be over so soon.
"Not gonna," he promises. He doesn’t know if he'll keep said promise, but hey, at least he'll try. "Can you—I, I mean, when you're, you're ready—"
Hal snorts. Tossing the bottle to the side, he strokes Kyle's cock for another handful of seconds before he’s using that same hand to smear the leftover lube over his own hole.
"You'll be good for me, won't you, Kyle?"
Oh, god. Kyle's not going to be able to keep his promise. He swallows, hands itching at his sides where they're gripping onto the bedsheets for dear life.
"Y-yes," he chokes out, forgetting to breathe as Hal finally starts sinking down, "please, yes, please..."
not knowing anything about hockey is really hindering my engagement with sports-related yaoi. i have come up with a solution. i will weaponise my own sports knowledge and become the world's first cricket yaoi warrior. fine leg????? yeah he is
I’m not sure if we can make an innuendo about Silly Mid Off but we gotta use the phrase as often and with the same tone we use for “Bodyline” or “Ball Tampering”.
Right okay can we quickly pretend it's 1900 and make it raffles and bunny
"You've really gone too far," I hissed, trembling with rage. "I won't do it."
A.J. Raffles - indolent, beautiful, as utterly unscrupulous as a cat - lowered the hoods of his sharp cold eyes and looked at me. "You will," he said; and it was quite offensive how he did not even bother to turn on the charm. "You do everything, Bunny."
"I can't think why you think that," I said.
"Because you are my Bunny," he said simply. "It's really quite simple. Seduce that nice cricketer for me."
"But I don't know anything about cricket," I said.
"You know three of the main things about cricket," Raffles said, "the bit with the bowling, the bit with the batting, and the fact that I'm still, regrettably, the best captain in England. Do be a good Bunny and sort it out for me."
"That's the entire point and crux of the matter," I shouted at him; might as well have shouted at the stars, or some other grand aspect of splendid and indifferent Nature. "You're the cricketer, you go and do it."
"But he knows me," Raffles said, lowering his eyes. "Everyone knows me."
"I don't see that as a barrier," I said, "you've always considered lack of discretion - your lack of social discernment - your - your - your - your utter promiscuity - to be positive assets in your reprehensible habits of BURGLARY."
"Well, to be precise, if you're going to be tiresome and precise - he knows quite well that I wouldn't seduce him," Raffles admitted shamelessly.
"Why not?"
"Because I told him," he said soulfully, "that I wouldn't sodomise him with someone else's bat."
"RAFFLES," I said.
"Be a darling angel dove and take him out, Bunny."
Something very potent occurred to me as I attempted to leave the room, and I wheeled back, pointing my finger at him. "Homosexuality's illegal," I said.
Raffles looked exquisitely pained. "So is crime, Bunny," he said. "So is crime."
I think… I think the only way to describe what was wrong with EW Hornung is that he would have done numbers on tumblr.
In 1898, having his brain chemistry altered by Sherlock Holmes, he said “but what if Holmes and Watson were criminals, and were extremely homoerotic and slightly BDSM with each other, and the narrator was an absolute wreck of a man”. He instantly created his own OCs to facilitate this, dedicated his stories to Arthur Conan Doyle, and published his first short, titled, I shitteth thee not, “The Ides of March.”
In it, the stammering but plucky Bunny holds a gun to his own head, holding himself hostage as he begs his former cricket captain for help. Raffles, more turned on than anyone has ever been, glitters at him and dares him to do it. Raffles then offers to corrupt Bunny’s morals instead.
Do it, Bunny says.
The word “unhinged” is getting tired: say instead that Bunny and Raffles are completely un-hardwared and not even trying to hide it. After every sentence of The Ides of March you will find yourself muttering: Which could mean nothing, and The author’s barely-disguised … everything.
Like he really did go: Holmes and Watson should have been textually kinkier with it. In 1898. And he sent these stories, with their loving dedication to ACD, who read them all.
Because you do have to fold in the fact that EWH was very much married to ACD’s sister.
I don’t KNOW what was wrong with him. The Ides of March is on Gutenberg. Work it out for yourself. I submit that it is a fine basis for cricket yaoi.
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