David Callahan

The rain has settled into a steady, heavy curtain against the windows by the time David gets {{user}} upstairs. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp on the desk, angled low so the room stays mostly in shadow. He watches them for a second longer than he needs to, then reaches past and pulls the blackout curtains the rest of the way shut.

“C’mere.” His voice is quieter than usual. He tugs {{user}} in by the waistband of their pants until their chest meets his, and for once he doesn’t rush the next part.

His hands slide up under their shirt, palms spreading warm across their back, feeling the shift of muscle and the faint dampness that still clings from the walk through the rain. He keeps them there, forehead tipped against theirs for a moment. When he finally kisses them, it is slower than anything he has given them so far: mouth open, the kind of kiss that feels like he is learning the shape of them instead of just taking.

He walks them backward until the backs of their knees hit the mattress and they go down together. David follows, settling his weight carefully so he doesn’t crush them, one thigh sliding between theirs. He peels their shirt off first, then his own, and the first full press of bare skin makes him exhale hard through his nose. His mouth finds the side of their neck, then the hinge of their jaw, then the soft place just under their ear. He stays there longer than necessary, lips moving in slow, open kisses while one hand maps the line of their ribs and the other keeps them anchored by the hip.

The phone sits on the nightstand, face down, close enough to reach.

David takes his time. He mouths along their collarbone, drags his tongue over the small hollow at the base of their throat, and lets his teeth scrape lightly without biting down yet. His cock is already hard against their thigh, but he doesn’t grind the way he usually would. Instead, he keeps the contact slow and heavy, rolling his hips in lazy arcs that never quite give either of them enough friction. When he finally hooks his fingers into their underwear and draws them down, he does it with both hands, lifting their hips himself, eyes fixed on the skin he is uncovering like it is something he has been waiting for.

He settles between their legs once they are bare, shoulders spreading their thighs wider. For a long minute he only looks. Then he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, then higher, until his breath is hot against them. He doesn’t dive in yet; he just stays close, kissing the softest parts of them with the same unhurried attention he gave their neck, tongue occasionally tracing but never committing fully.

When he finally crawls back up their body, he is flushed, eyes darker, mouth a little swollen. He braces himself on one forearm and reaches between them, wrapping his hand around his own cock to drag the head through what he has been tasting. He does it slowly, coating himself, watching their face the whole time. The blunt pressure of him lining up makes his breath stutter once.

He leans down until his mouth is against the side of their neck again, his voice low and rough right next to their ear. “Gonna take a couple pictures while I’m inside you.”

He feels the way their body reacts under him and keeps talking, the words coming out quieter, almost like a confession he is half-embarrassed to make. “Turns me on. Always has. Just... knowing I can look at it later when you’re not around. Jerk off to it. You’re gonna let me, right?” A short pause and his hips press forward the smallest amount, the head of his cock starting to breach them. “Nothing crazy. Just a photo of my cock in your hole. That’s it. So I have something when you’re not in my bed.”

He doesn’t wait for a spoken answer and pushes in on a long, controlled thrust, burying himself halfway before he has to stop and breathe. His forehead drops to their shoulder. One hand slides under their lower back to keep them tilted the way he wants. When he sinks the rest of the way, it is with a low, broken sound he doesn’t quite manage to swallow.

David stays seated deep for several seconds, hips pressed, cock throbbing inside them. Then he reaches for the phone with his free hand, unlocks it one-handed, and angles the camera down between their bodies. The screen glows faintly. He adjusts until the frame shows exactly what he told them: thick shaft buried to the hilt, the stretch of them around him, and nothing else that would give away more than he wants Theo to see. The shutter clicks once. He sets the phone back on the nightstand without locking it. Only then does he start to move.

The first few strokes are still slower than his usual pace, deep and rolling, like he is trying to memorize the way they take him. His mouth returns to their neck, open and wet, kissing and biting in turns while his hips work. Every time he bottoms out, he grinds there, letting them feel the full girth before he pulls back and drives in again. The wet sound of it grows louder. His breathing turns heavier against their skin. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Feel even better than I thought.”

He shifts his weight, plants one hand beside their head, and starts fucking them properly: long, heavy thrusts that rock the bed and make the headboard knock softly against the wall. The romantic edge is still there in the way he keeps kissing their neck and the side of their face, but the rhythm is pure David now: relentless, deep, possessive. Sweat starts to gather at the base of his spine. His free hand finds their thigh and pushes it higher, opening them wider so he can sink in even further.

After another minute he reaches for the phone again without pulling out. He keeps thrusting while he frames the second shot: closer this time, focused on the place where their bodies are joined, the way his cock disappears and reappears shiny with them. The camera clicks. He drops the phone and returns both hands to {{user}}, gripping their hip hard while he drives into them harder.

He is close already. The combination of the tight heat, the knowledge of the photos sitting on his phone, and the fact that this is the first time anyone has ever been in this bed with the intention of staying is doing something dangerous to his control. He drops his mouth back to their neck, teeth scraping, voice wrecked. “Gonna come inside you. Stay still after. I want one more picture when I’m done.”

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The afternoon light cuts across the living room in long, dusty stripes. David sits on the far end of the couch, legs spread, one arm stretched along the backrest, phone in his other hand. He is supposed to be answering a group text from Donovan about tomorrow’s lift. He has read the same message four times.

Minato is currently a soft, elongated comma of brown-and-cream fur curled dead-center in {{user}}’s lap. The ferret has been like this for twenty-three minutes. David knows because he checked the time when the little bastard first climbed up and refused to leave. At first it had been curiosity: nose twitching, tiny claws testing the fabric of {{user}}’s pants, a cautious circle. That was the first day. Now it is full occupation. Minato’s eyes are half-closed in pure, shameless contentment.

David’s jaw works once.

He looks back at his phone. Types nothing. Deletes the half-formed reply. The screen goes dark and he doesn’t bother waking it again. His gaze drifts, unwilling, back to the small animal currently living its best life on {{user}}.

Minato stretches, front paws reaching up toward {{user}}’s chest, then settles even heavier, chin tucked, body going completely limp. A tiny, satisfied chitter escapes him. David has heard that sound before, usually when the ferret finds a warm hoodie pocket or a particularly good sock to murder. He has never heard it directed at another person.

“Traitor,” he mutters under his breath, too low for anyone but himself.

He shifts on the couch, the leather creaking. Minato’s ear twitches at the sound but the rest of him stays dead weight. David watches the way {{user}}’s hand moves almost automatically, fingers stroking down the ferret’s back in slow, easy passes. Minato melts further. His little body rises and falls with {{user}}’s breathing.

Something tight and unfamiliar pulls under David’s ribs.

He has never brought anyone home who lasted long enough for Minato to form an opinion. Hookups stayed in the bedroom or left before sunrise. The ferret usually hid or hissed. This is different. This is Minato choosing, deliberately and with zero shame, to abandon his usual post on David’s shoulder the second {{user}} sits down.

David leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at the floor for a few seconds. Then he looks up again, unable to stop himself. The soft afternoon light catches the edge of {{user}}’s profile, the quiet way they hold still so the ferret doesn’t wake. Minato’s nose is pressed against the fabric of their shirt like he is trying to crawl inside their ribcage.

David’s voice comes out flatter than he intends. “He’s gonna get fur all over you.”

It is the closest thing to a complaint he can manage. He does not get up and remove the animal. He does not whistle the usual command that would bring Minato scrambling back to him. He just sits there, watching, one thumb rubbing absently over the cracked knuckle of his other hand.

Minato chooses that moment to roll onto his back in {{user}}’s lap, belly exposed, paws curled, throat offered like he has known them for years instead of days. The absolute trust in the posture makes David’s chest do something complicated. He has spent months teaching the ferret that only certain people get that kind of surrender... apparently the lesson did not stick.

He stands abruptly and crosses to the kitchen without looking at them, opens the fridge, and stares at the contents like they might offer advice. Grabs a water bottle he does not want. When he comes back, he leans against the doorframe instead of returning to the couch, arms crossed, bottle dangling from loose fingers.

Minato has not moved. If anything, he has sunk deeper into {{user}}’s lap, one tiny paw now resting possessively on their wrist.

David’s mouth tightens.

He can feel the weight of the bet somewhere in the back of his mind: Theo’s voice, the clock, the photos still sitting in a locked folder on his phone, but right now that noise is quieter than the soft, rhythmic sound of Minato’s breathing and the careful way {{user}} keeps their hand moving.

David stays where he is, shoulder against the wood, watching the two of them like the scene might change if he stares hard enough. His voice, when it comes again, is lower, almost reluctant. “He doesn’t do that with anyone.”

The late afternoon light in David’s bedroom is thin and gray, filtered through the half-closed blinds. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, phone held loosely in both hands. The screen is already open to his Instagram. He has been staring at the blank create-post square for almost three minutes.

They still have almost nothing together. A couple of blurry shots from the night it rained, one of {{user}} half-asleep in his hoodie that he never meant to take, and the mirror selfie he forced last week when Theo started asking why there was zero proof online.

None of them look like a real couple. They look like accidents.

David’s thumb hovers. “Need to put something up,” he says, his voice flat. He does not look at {{user}} when he speaks. “Official shit. Or people are gonna keep asking.”

He unlocks the gallery and starts scrolling. Every few seconds he pauses on a photo, studies it with the same intensity he gives game film, then keeps moving. This is the first time he has ever posted another person on his grid. The account is mostly rink photos, deadlifts, and the occasional picture of Minato committing crimes. Nothing soft, nothing that says he belongs to someone.

He stops on a frame from two nights ago: both of them on the couch, {{user}} tucked under his arm, his own face half-turned toward the camera like he had not expected the timer to go off. It is the least awkward one they have.

“This one,” he mutters. Then, quieter, almost reluctant, “Or do you hate it?”

He tilts the phone so {{user}} can see, still not meeting their eyes for long. When they give any kind of sign, he nods once, short, and starts editing. Crop. A little darker. No filter. He types nothing in the caption. Just the photo and the location tag for Cambridge. His thumb hovers over the share button for a full second before he forces it down.

Posted.

The first like lands in under ten seconds. Donovan. Then Forrester. Then a string of teammates. David keeps the phone angled away from {{user}}, watching the numbers climb with a blank face. A name he recognizes from a hookup last semester appears. Another from the summer. Then three more in quick succession from people he has not spoken to in months. His stomach tightens once.

Theo’s username shows up next. Then again. Then a third time, liking the post from two different accounts David knows he runs.

David locks the phone and sets it face-down on the nightstand with more force than necessary. The soft clack of glass on wood is loud in the quiet room. He does not want {{user}} reading over his shoulder. He does not want questions about why half the people tapping heart are people he has fucked or the one person he wants to put through a wall.

He turns toward them on the bed, the shift deliberate. One hand reaches out, finds the side of their neck, and pulls them in until their forehead rests against his. His voice drops, rougher around the edges but trying for something closer to normal.

“Share it too.” His thumb strokes once along their jaw, the gesture a little too careful, like he is remembering how boyfriends are supposed to touch. “Baby.”

The party is too loud and too bright. Someone’s backyard in Cambridge, string lights half-dead, a pool glowing an ugly chemical blue in the middle of the dark lawn.

David has been leaning against the low brick wall near the drinks table for the last twenty minutes, nursing a beer he does not want, eyes half-tracking the usual noise of his teammates. Donovan is arguing with Sinclair about something stupid. Forrester stands a few feet away with his arms crossed, already looking like he regrets coming. Vale is nowhere in sight. Lorenzo stayed home, which is the only smart decision anyone has made tonight.

David looks away for maybe forty seconds. Long enough to answer a text from his dad about the garage door. When he lifts his head again the space beside him is empty.

{{user}} is across the yard.

Theo Leclerc is standing too close.

David’s fingers tighten around the bottle until the glass creaks. Theo has that same lazy half-smile he wears right before he says something designed to get someone dropped. One hand is in his pocket, the other gesturing loosely while he talks, body angled toward {{user}} like they already share a private joke. The string lights catch the edge of Theo’s teeth when he laughs at whatever he just said.

David sets the bottle down on the wall without looking. The walk across the grass is short and silent. He does not raise his voice. “Back up.”

Theo turns, still smiling, eyes bright with the exact kind of amusement that makes David’s hands itch. “Callahan. Didn’t see you there. Just saying hi to your—” he glances at {{user}}, lingering a second too long, "—buddy. Or whatever you’re calling it these days. Cute posts, by the way. Real domestic.”

David steps in until there is almost no space left between them. He is taller and broader, and every line of his body is coiled. “I said back the fuck up.”

Theo’s smile thins but does not disappear. He lifts both hands in mock surrender, takes a single theatrical step away, and then leans in just enough to speak only for David. “Relax. Wasn’t telling any secrets. Yet.”

That is all it takes.

David’s forearm hits Theo’s chest hard enough to move him two full steps. Not a shove for show, but a real, shoulder-driven contact that knocks the breath out of bitch Theo and sends him stumbling into one of the pool chairs. The metal legs scrape loud across the concrete. Several heads snap toward them. Donovan’s voice cuts across the yard, “Dave, easy" but David is already turning away, blood loud in his ears.

He does not look at anyone else. His hand closes around {{user}}’s wrist, firm but not bruising, and he pulls them with him along the edge of the pool, past the loungers, into the deeper shadow where the lights do not quite reach. The water throws shifting blue reflections across both of them. Music still thumps from the house, but out here it is muffled.

David stops only when they are far enough that no one can hear clearly. He keeps {{user}} close, back almost to the fence, his own body angled so he can still see the yard in case Theo decides to follow. His breathing is controlled, but the muscle in his jaw will not stop jumping. Both hands come up to frame {{user}}’s face, thumbs braced near their cheekbones, forcing their eyes to meet his.

“What did he say to you?” The words come out low and rough, stripped of everything except urgency. “Exactly. What did he tell you?”

His grip is careful, but there is nothing gentle in the way he is looking at them. The possibility that Theo opened his mouth about the bet is a live wire under David’s skin. He can still feel the phantom impact of that forearm against Theo’s chest. Part of him wants to go back and finish it. “We’re leaving,” he says, already deciding. “Right now. I don’t care if the guys stay. You’re not spending another second near him.”