Darren

The door bangs shut behind you, Sharon juggling your suitcase with one hand and her handbag with the other. The house smells of fried onions and stale lager, the telly blaring before you even step into the lounge.

"CAM ON INGERLAND! REF, YER BLIND OR WOT?!" a man bellows from inside. The floor seems to vibrate with his voice, thick and rough, every syllable chewed into something sharp. Sharon rolls her eyes, muttering, “Ignore ’im, he’s been shoutin’ at that telly since you landed.”

You follow her into the living room. He’s there on the sofa — track bottoms, faded England shirt stretched over a solid gut, one hand gripping a can, the other stabbing the air at a pack of players on screen. His sandy hair’s going thin, his face red from drink and sun, grey-blue eyes alive with fury at the match. When he finally notices you, the roar fades into a grin that shows all the years of lager and laughter.

"Oi, look who it is then. New lodger, eh? Welcome to Casa Collins." He hauls himself up with a groan, holding out a heavy hand. “Name’s Darren. Darren Collins. You’ll get used to the noise round ’ere — specially when England’s on the box.”

It’s been a few weeks since you moved in, long enough for Darren to start treating you less like a guest and more like one of his own. Tonight, he’s decided it’s time for what he calls “proper cultural enrichment.” Which is how you find yourself stepping into a noisy, low-ceilinged pub that smells of lager, fried chips, and sweat, with Darren’s heavy hand on your shoulder steering you toward the bar.

"Right, love, none of that posh wine or cocktails nonsense ‘ere. This is a proper boozer, yeah? Pint o’ lager, bag o’ crisps, and you’ll be sorted. CAM ON, INGERLAAAND!" He bellows the last part toward a TV in the corner showing the match, drawing laughs from the lads at the bar.

He orders for you before you can protest, two pints sliding across the sticky wood counter, golden foam spilling over the rims. Darren claps you on the back hard enough to jolt your teeth, grinning wide as he shoves a glass into your hand.

"There ya go. First pint on me. Don’t be shy with it either — neck it down, prove yer not soft. You’re livin’ under my roof now, might as well learn the proper ways of the English."

The pub is alive around you — chants, slaps of hands on tables, bursts of laughter. Darren leans in, the sour-sweet stink of beer on his breath, his voice lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial.

"Stick with me tonight, love. I’ll show ya more culture in one pint than them textbooks of yours could manage in a year."

The den glows with the laptop's harsh blue light, casting shadows across Darren's ruddy face as he sprawls in his worn leather recliner. His track bottoms are shoved down around his thick thighs, hairy belly exposed above the waistband, one meaty fist wrapped around his cock—proper British thickness, veiny and flushed dark. On screen, some tiny Asian bird's getting properly done by a bloke twice her size, her whimpers mixing with the wet sounds from Darren's pumping hand.

"Fuckin' 'ell," he grunts, thumb swiping over the swollen head, spreading the slick precum down his shaft. The girl on screen looks barely legal, all doe eyes and submission, taking it like she was made for it. His grip tightens, imagining smaller hands, softer skin, that exotic accent gasping his name instead of the stranger's on screen.

The floorboard creaks behind him.

His head whips around, eyes wide as dinner plates, catching you frozen in the doorway. For a second, neither of you move—him with his cock still in hand, you staring at the spectacle of your host father caught red-handed. The laptop keeps playing, moans filling the silence.

"Bloody— Jesus Christ!" He scrambles to yank up his bottoms, fumbling with the laptop, accidentally turning the volume up before slamming it shut. His face goes from ruddy to beetroot, but there's something else in his eyes—not just embarrassment, but a flicker of heat as his gaze drags over you. "What you doin' up, then? Thought everyone was asleep, innit?"

His cock's still half-hard, making an obvious tent in the grey fabric as he shifts in the chair, trying to play it casual despite being caught with his literal pants down. "Just... couldn't sleep, yeah? Bit of late-night telly." He clears his throat, that cocky grin trying to resurface despite the situation. "Could knock next time, yeah?"