Chapter Text
1.22am.
Somewhere, in the up-and-coming and mostly gentrified area of King’s Landing known to the general populace as Flea Bottom - even if the developers are desperately pushing for the district to be renamed Rhaenys’ Hill, because that sounds more appealing to the monied home buyer wishing for a convenient city-based location near to the Red Keep - Willas Tyrell slumbers.
He gets perhaps four or five hours per night; not because he is one of those people that can function upon such a short spurt of rest, but mostly because he sits up every so often, terrified and sweating, thinking about what hells Stannis Baratheon has in store for him the next day. In bed by eleven, awake at twelve thirty for quarter of an hour of frantic worrying. Twelve forty five sees him basically pass out, dribble all over the high thread count cotton he treats himself to because he is the sort of man who lives for the tiniest of pleasures outside of his fascinating but bone-grindingly fiendish job. Two o’clock comes and goes, and by two thirty he is up once more, often with a soothing mug of warm milk and cinnamon, a spoon of sugar for indulgence, staring sightlessly at a report about breakthroughs in IVF and artificial insemination in the Reach Redpoll cow.
That, sadly, doesn’t bore him as much as others may think and hope.
By four he tries to snuggle down again, staring at the sadistic red flicker of his alarm clock that is set for six am. Every time the numbers change, he feels the growing dread of another day in the offices of the Seven Kingdoms Agricultural Board - unappealing acronymed SKAB for short. If that were his only hurdle, would be acceptable. Willas loves his job as much as he loves the animals he encounters, or the farmers who know of his reputation and how he ended up using a cane, or on bad days, his chair, or the one member of his family who doesn’t badger him about working.
Apparently being the heir of what boils down to a kingdom, even though the petty kings of Westeros haven’t existed in two hundred years, means that one should not sully one’s delicate hands with that employment malarky.
Margaery, who is strong-willed and delightful, though selfishly aware of her beauty and charm, conspires with him to upset Grandmother and Father. It is strange to think that Loras is considered a better son these days, even if all he does is loaf about, spend far too much money, and sleep with a large variety of highly attractive and very unsuitable boys.
Gap years. Loras takes full advantage. He’s in Essos at the moment, in Meereen, and says he’s never coming home. He will do, when the money runs low, and he’s slept with the entire city.
Willas never had a traditional gap year. He was working on a sheep farm in the North, up to his eyeballs on painkillers and tea, and having the best twelve months of his life covered in shit, stinking of lanolin. The first time he put his hand up an ewe in distress and helped her birth her single but bloody enormous male lamb made him cry, overwhelmed with a genuine feeling of actually being useful.
By six in the morning he is usually awake, or fitfully sleeping thirty second bursts, waiting for the screaming shrillness of his alarm to drag him from the fog in which he exists.
But now it is 1.22am, and Willas is flat on his stomach, like a starfish, dribbling into his pillow.
Peace. Quiet. Sleep.
1.23am.
His phone vibrates, the absolute electronic sadist that it is, bounces across the bedside table, lands squarely on his head.
The reaction demonstrates the sort of man Willas Tyrell is because a) he doesn’t immediately swear and b) he doesn’t throw the bloody phone across the bloody room. If he does fling the damned thing, it is always at something soft, like the bed, or a cushion, and he races to check to see if anything is broken. As a child he kept his toys immaculate, until Loras came along, like a three year old dervish of destruction. His little brother can trash things just by standing still and looking cheerful.
“Blllfioehgrlll!”
A pale hand gropes, finds the device - always Android. He doesn’t trust Apple. He likes having a wider range of phones to pore over when the new models come out, because, at heart, Willas is an enormous geek. Quick press of a thumb and he blearily looks at the Whatsapp message.
Boggles, open mouthed and horribly jerked from sleep.
Holy Mother of Dragons!
The number is one that he doesn’t recognise, which is actually rather great, because if this was from someone he knew, then Willas could never ever face them again.
1.23: Thought you might like this. Sweet dreams.
Which is a lovely sentiment.
However, the picture of the penis - no, erect and rather excitable penis - isn’t quite as lovely.
Well, it is. That is indeed an impressively handsome penis, as they go. Willas has seen two, close up, in his twenty eight years of existence, that weren’t his own, or those of family members. Sometimes, guiltily, he will browse the internet and observe men wielding them, because he is gay. Not like Loras, who sleeps with everyone he can get his beautifully manicured hands on, but secretive and a little embarrassedly gay. Monk-like gayness, he thinks, because two penises in his twenty eight years is quite a low number, and people do say he is nice looking, especially when he isn’t covered in cow dung or has his arm up a heifer. He says he’s picky, but with chronic sleep problems and chronic Stannis Baratheon issues, Willas hasn’t got the energy for a healthy sex session, let alone one of those boyfriend things that seem so popular these days.
He squints, rubbing at his eyes, which only helps sharpen the rampant erection staring out from his phone screen. Willas likes going for the larger model of handset, but he has a horrible feeling that the six inch screen isn’t doing justice to the rigid member standing proud and, well, gleaming.
It would be rude not to examine the picture further.
Willas is not a rude man.
He is also very very awake.
From what he can ascertain, the person is tanned, and dark-haired - there is a trail leading up from the main, neatly trimmed, action, to the slash of a navel. A hint of lean muscle tenses in the lower abdomen, and that v-shaped groove from hipbone to pelvis suggests someone who is rather fit. In all senses of the word.
Oh dear.
Wriggling, sitting up, ignoring the spike of interest in his stomach and the dull throb of his damaged leg, he knows he must text back. Whoever this is, they deserve to know that they’ve send a ‘dick pic’ as Loras refers to such, and thinking on it little brother probably sends and receives many such photographs, to the incorrect number.
1.37: Hi. u sent this 2 a wrong number i am sorry :(
He presses send, wraps the duvet around him, flops back down. Even if he is a little aroused, because it is a very handsome penis, and the person attached to it seems equally as attractive, Willas is far too knackered and sleep-deprived to have a quick wank.
Just as sleep threatens to overwhelm once more, when he is all cosy and warm, the damned phone goes. Once more.
“Of for the love of-”
1.43: I apologise for the intrusion. It seems that the person I wished to message has entered their number incorrectly into my phone. Please accept my sincere apologies.
Very polite, and well-spelled. What a decent sort of person.
Moments later, a second buzz.
1.44: Did you like the picture?
Willas stares at the message, neat little letters on the grey-pale screen.
Perhaps not so decent.
1.47: I am tryin 2 sleep sorry :(
The moment he sends it, Willas curses himself for slipping into apologising for something that isn’t his fault. He always does it, always has, always will. Even if aliens invade Westeros, and slaughter every man, child, and woman, and they are pointing their laser ray guns at his neck, asking if he has any last words for posterity, Willas would say sorry for being inconvenient.
1: 54 Sweet dreams for a sweet-mannered person. Good night.
Which is really nice, but it is now almost two am, and his sleep schedule is horribly screwed over, and Willas considers suffocating himself with his pillow just to get some rest.
“You look like shit, Tyrell.” Clegane eyes him. How the man wears so much leather and denim in the workplace Willas has never quite been able to understand. There are dress codes, but Sandor ignores all of them. He turns up in muddy workboots, and jeans, and a battered leather jacket, sporting a range of black t-shirts. Or just the one. If he has a range, they are all exactly the same cut, style, and make.
Clegane has the one job that Willas would cheerfully kill for, and since the man is a good nine inches taller than him, murder really could never happen.
“Bad night.”
Clegane does to horses what Willas does to cows and what Bolton does to dogs.
Which makes it sound really bad, but since they all work in artificial insemination and the protection of ancient breeding lines of the three species, it isn’t as bad as it could be.
Though he doesn’t trust Bolton. No one does. He’s just creepy.
“What are you up to today?” Politely, as the lift chugs skywards with the tiniest of movements.
“Pissing off Stannis, then goin’ to see some foals.”
“The usual, then.”
“You?”
“Reports.”
“Poor cunt.”
“I like doing them,” Willas offers weakly, only to be met with a sardonic snort.
“Bolton’s on the warpath. Avoid if you want to fuckin’ live.”
“What about now?”
“Everything.” Enigmatically. “Nothin’. Who gives a shit?”
“Good point.”
The lift asthmatically wheezes to their destination; a long forgotten and heavily neglected part of the Red Keep that serves the bit of government that everyone pretends doesn’t actually exist. The thought of upstanding officials masturbating animals for a living is not quite palatable to the general populace. In the department stand the vast freezers storing the rare breed semen and DNA analyses, and Stannis Baratheon and his meticulously kept files.
Bolton stalks past, wearing more black and more leather than even Clegane. He has bruising across one eye and a particularly sadistic expression.
Normality, therefore, reigns in their tiny office.
“Good morning, Ramsay.”
Willas is rewarded for his politeness with a snap of sharp little teeth, a snarl, and then, thankfully, Bolton plunges into the stockroom, probably to find a secretary to staple to a filing cabinet.
“Good morning, Mr. Tyrell.” Stannis, who purposely has the desk closest to the office door so he can keep a beady blue eye on everything, is always polite in the manner of a very stressed, very clever, very anal retentive man. He, like Willas, is old-school in shirt, tie, and suit, though his clothing is perfectly pressed, scrupulously clean, and his shoes gleam in the way of the polished every evening after work.
“Good morning, ser.”
“I need to discuss fisheries with you. Seaworth has been carping on,” and Willas wonders if his boss is aware that he’s made a pun, and smiles politely in case of the answer being yes or no, “about how we devote our time to mammals and ignore the need for possible fish stock crises. The man is an absolute menace. Whoever put him in charge of the bloody fishing union needs harpooning.“
Why him? Why Willas, who has more work than Clegane and Bolton put together?
Oh, yes. Because he’s the only one who actually seems to know what goes on with the science behind their AI/IVF programme. Sandor is a stockman, marvellous with animals, but is more hands-on than academic. Bolton has a degree in the right subject area but, legend has it, actually bit someone once. No one knows who, or where, or why, but the rumour has made its way around the entire Red Keep and people prefer to keep their distance from the man who resembles one of those bull terriers he loves.
Rumour has it that Ramsay Bolton has titanium weapon-grade tooth implants and a locking jaw. Or he is the King’s Landing serial killer. Or that he has a pet gimp.
None of these would be surprising if they were true.
“I will find a slot in my diary, ser.”
“There is one. Meeting with Seaworth at 3.15pm this afternoon.”
“Fucking brown-nosing cunt,” Clegane murmurs, pleasantly, as Willas curls into his computer chair, hooks his cane in the usual place, and boots his PC.
His phone goes, and he pulls it from his man bag, the one Margie bought him, the one with the DNA of cow semen beautifully embossed into the leather, putting it on his desk.
Whatsapp. He opens it, idly.
8.26: I hope you slept and I did not keep you up all night. You never said if you liked the picture, though I think you may have considering that I am not blocked from your Whatsapp. I wonder if your mouth is as polite as your messaging. I wonder if you have a pretty mouth. In my mind it is a very lovely mouth indeed.
Every drop of blood in Willas’ body goes straight to his head, and he has to loosen his tie lest he accidentally strangle himself. Everything burns. Ears. Cheeks. Nose. Eyeballs. For a single paranoid second he wonders if everyone is staring at him, and he checks above his monitor, like a meerkat, but no; Clegane is punching his PC tower, Bolton is stalking about muttering to himself, and Stannis, rigid-backed, is arguing with someone on the other end of the telephone.
8.28: r u flirtin w/me? U dont kno me.
8.29: Despite your appalling text speak, yes. How thrilling. Did you delete that photo?
No. He hasn’t. Hasn’t got round to it, hasn’t looked at it several times, has totally ignored the existence of it. Honest. Willas wonders if his blood pressure could cause his brain to explode, like a faulty pressure cooker.
8.41: You haven’t, have you? So very naughty. Considering I sent you one, and you seem to be keeping it, I request one in return.
Oh Gods. Oh Gods. He is being flirted with by a complete stranger who wants to receive a photo of his penis. But then, is he asking for a penis? Perhaps he thinks Willas is a woman, given that propensity for smileys? He did send smileys, didn’t he? And what about the person this person was supposed to send his straining, glorious erection photo to? Can an erection be glorious? He’d check the photo again, to make sure, but he’s in work, in an office with a psychopath, a man who wrestles horses for a living, and the man with the biggest stick up his arse in the Red Keep, and it would be highly inappropriate.
What if there are cameras? He could get sacked. He could get fired for looking at pornography at work. Oh Gods.
Right. Need to stop this. He has a nice picture out of it, that he may or may not save to that special hidden folder in his phone that Willas keeps his more interesting internet finds. Right, he’ll say he’s a man, and apologise, and everything will be fine. His trousers will calm down, his own body will stop being so fascinated by that photo, and everything will be alright.
8.58: i am sorry :( im a man. Sorry u got rong number. Will dleet ur photo. Sorry.
9.04: I am sitting here waiting for a photo, and your gender is of no worry to me. I am quite fluid in my desire for the beautiful and the interesting. You do not have to delete what I sent. Consider it a gift for waking you from your slumber. I have never met someone so polite before whilst chatting. Just to check that you are over the age of eighteen - I would hate for there to be any legal issues.
Willas panics, flails silently, turns his phone off with a shaking thumb, and retreats into paperwork.
Seaworth turns out to be far nicer than his fearsome leftie unionist reputation. He went out on strike with the miners in the ‘80s, was arrested for campaigning for nuclear disarmament and spent six months in prison for public disorder. Apparently he accidentally bashed a policeman over the head with a particularly weighty placard while trying to save a lost labrador puppy from being stamped to death by a maddened police horse.
“Mr. Seaworth, this is Mr. Tyrell. He is my office expert on breeding.”
Willas hates it when Stannis calls him that. Makes him sound like a stud for hire.
“Lovely to meet you, Mr. Tyrell. Bit formal, that is - is it alright if I call you by your first name?” Seaworth offers a hand, and Willas shakes it. Mace always impressed upon his family the importance of a good firm handshake, and had them practice with him. When they finally got to the point where they could bear the pressure of their father’s hand crushing theirs, and could squeeze back without their broken bones complaining too much, he deemed them acceptable to be unleashed in public.
“Willas, ser.”
“Call me Davos, lad.” Davos, which suits him more than Mr. Seaworth, is quite ordinary, though he has a lovely kind smile and strangely mutilated fingers on his left hand. He is dressed far more casually than they are, in an open necked checked shirt and cord trousers, a variety of badges on the lapel of an old tweed jacket hanging over the back of a chair proclaiming support for the Labour Party, CND, Go Fish - the grass-roots campaign calling for assistance to the dying fishing industry - and various, mostly militant, trade unions.
“We will come straight to the point.” Stannis paces as Willas pours coffee, hands it over, wrangles the packet of biscuits into a plate. “We are overworked and understaffed at the AI/IVF office, yet you wish to involve us in this ludicrous fish farm scheme-”
“It isn’t a fish farm,” Seaworth points out. “It is the sustained raising of young fish, in order to release them back into the wild.”
“Fish,” Stannis intones, “are not like badgers, or squirrels, or hawks. We cannot captive breed stock to such an extent.”
“But you can.” Davos, who Willas really likes, because he seems to fluster Stannis just by being there - something to do with hard-bitten union types makes Baratheon very twitchy - taps his maimed fingers upon a beautifully bound dossier. It has a fish on the front, which looks suspiciously Tully about the gills. “It’s all in this, if you want to have a look. Already we have to rely on imported Essosian stock, which is never as good quality, especially the farmed side of things. What we need to do, like you’ve done with cattle and other animals, is instill into the public about buying Westerosi. I think it’s now about eighty percent of milk and beef products are local, or at least, from this continent?”
Willas nods. “Yes, ser. Sorry. Davos. Since we’re bringing back the old breeds and the public have that in their consciousness, they are more than willing to spend an extra dragon or two on livestock that is traceable through the system and has the necessary welfare behind it, than on meat products that might be less that optimum. Animal welfare and ethics is a massive issue at the moment.”
“See, that’s what we need with the fish. There’s nothing better than a free-ranging salmon caught with a line off Bear Island, fresh-frozen the moment it comes from the water, in the markets the next day, on the plate the day after that.” A strange, dreamy look overtakes Davos, and Willas revises his first impression. Ordinary, but attractive because he cares about things. Deeply. He probably has a million children, and gives all his spare cash to Worthy Causes. “But more than that, we can help the fishermen themselves, and their families. We can make the industry a protected interest.”
“And how much will that cost, exactly?” Stannis is, always, the great jackboot of reason and financial stinginess, squashing the burgeoning flame of hope and goodness.
“Less than it’d be to pay everyone in the industry off when it goes arse over tit, Stannis. You know that.”
At that moment, Willas decides he’d marry Davos Seaworth. No one ever speaks to Baratheon like that, and for a moment it looks as if the man will smack the union leader in the face, but angry blue eyes meet warm calm brown, and Stannis grinds his teeth instead.
“And stop grinding your teeth.” Davos is definitely a Dad. That’s a Dad voice.
“I am not grinding my teeth!”
“You are. I can see your jaw working. Stop it.”
A death glare from his boss towards Davos, but Stannis does, for the first time ever, in the history of Willas being in the department, what he is told.
“I’ll leave this with you, in Willas’ capable hands, and if there’s any issue at all, lad, just email or ring. All my info is in there, in the back.”
Bolton nips out for a quick smoke at around four pm, and then returns with a Vale Bull Terrier that he calls Myranda, who curls up under his desk and falls asleep. She snores like a pneumatic drill, and leaves a trail of tiny pinprick black hairs over the entire office. From a distance she looks like a toast rack on legs.
It is the first time anyone has ever seen Ramsay being nice to anything. He sits on the floor, strokes her sad-eared black head, tells her she is beautiful and perfect and Daddy loves her very much.
Clegane and Willas just stare at each other.
“Why the fuck is there a dog in the office?”
“Because.” Ramsay sneers, weird pale eyes full of malice and hate and death threats. He and Clegane are millimeters away from murdering each other on a daily basis.
“She’s very pretty,” Willas offers, even if the dog is as ugly as any other. He is more a cat person. Myranda seems a little moth-eaten and mangy around the peripherals.
“She’s a beautiful girl. Oh yes she is, isn’t she? Myrri is a beautiful baby girl, and so clever, and so pretty, and Daddy loves her so very much, yes he do-”
“Fuck’s sake, Bolton. Fucking creepy cunt even when you’re trying to be not fucking creepy.” Clegane states the truth, at all times, because he is that sort of man. Sandor comes complete with a ridiculously pretty, rich, adorable girlfriend, a foul temper, and the sort of face that makes a person nervous. Not that he is as terrifying as Bolton, who is murder, death, and sadism distilled into a far smaller package, which makes him far more dangerous. And bitey. Very bitey.
“Don’t you listen to the ugly bastard, baby girl. Daddy’ll flay him for you, so pretty, and then you can eat his face. Wanna eat a face for Daddy, sweetie?”
“Where did you get her?” Best to intervene.
“Beric found her at the temple. Didn’t he? Uncle Beric found you, and he said ‘we must take you to Ramsay, so he can love you,’ and then turned up when I was having a fag.”
“Beric Dondarrion?”
For a moment Bolton looks both shifty and nervous, before his usual belligerence re-emerges. “Red Priest bitch that he is.”
How Bolton knows a Red Priest, or at least a man who works with the Red Priests as a secular advisor and PR consultant to the order, to the point where Dondarrion knows where to bring stray dogs, he doesn’t know, or want to know. Something about R’hllor worshippers is a little too out of the comfort zone for Willas, who, like most, is a devotee of the Seven. Not that he goes to the sept every Sunday, or any Sunday, because he’s either working, having to visit family, or trying to sleep. It is just a thing, like being a Tyrell, or from the Reach.
“What are you going to do with her?” The dog pants, ribs heaving, ridiculously huge tongue lolling to the point where it drags on the carpet. She is quite small for her breed, and seems to be peppered in scars. Silently Willas fishes in his man bag for the remnants of his sandwich, offers it to Bolton who strips it down, removing any lettuce, before feeding Myranda the meat and crusts.
“Roose took my dogs when I moved down,” Bolton says, a tiny crack in his voice. “This one’s staying with me. Aren’t you, baby? Yes you are. So pretty. So good. Daddy’s little puppy. Because Uncle Beric says I must keep you, because you’re so beautiful and precious, a precious puppy that Daddy loves, yes you are. We’re going to make people so sorry for hurting you, aren’t we? We’re going to flay the bitches for making you sad, baby girl, we are. We’re going to skin them alive and make them scream. Oh yes we are.”
Clegane’s right. Only Ramsay could make sweet nothings towards a dog really bloody creepy.
19.04: im over 18 so u dont need 2 worry
19.41: Good. Such a shame if you were not, for you are quite fascinating. Most would have told me to desist from my contacting them, or would have blocked me. You, however, prove more robust than most. What are you up to? I am contemplating a most excellent Dornish red. Slight acidity but a rich claret depth that makes it morish.
19.56: got homr from work long day. Dont want 2 cook ugh. Mite have wine 4 dinner instead w/Pot Noodle.
20.02: Such a late hour to be arriving home.
20.04: boss iz a slavedriver an i got 2 research fish :( fish are ok but boring
20:18 Perhaps this shall give you good cheer, my little fish researching friend?
Willas drops his Pot Noodle, all over his lap. Thankfully it wasn’t boiling hot.
Another pic, of, well, it really is a handsome penis. The hand wrapped around it is long-fingered, strong, almost elegant, with the same olive tan as the stomach has. As the pelvis has.
Oh.
Mystery dick pic man must sunbathe naked, because he cannot see a tan line for love nor money. Naked and gleaming, and his brain screams that there is oil involved, and with that really quite beautiful part of him for the world to see. Considering he is shamelessly sending these photos to someone he’s never met before, then he probably wanders around in the nude, all glistening and gorgeous, with his hips and hands and genitalia.
20:22: I can send you a video if you so wish?
20.24: I keep imagining what you must look like. Delightful, my mind tells me. A sweet delightful man with awful spelling and the urge to apologise for things that he has no right apologising for.
20.26: Is this not erotic? Complete strangers that we are, bound by nothing but from a messaging service and a peculiar circumstance.
20.29: Perhaps you shall send me a photo, such as what I have sent? Will you be long and slender, or shorter, thicker? Mouth watering, I am sure. I believe you are younger than I, for your writing style suggests a youthfulness that I no longer possess. How delightful. How I could teach you the ways of sin, with my mouth, my fingers, my body. Shivering and eager under me as I pleasure you, worship you, devour every part of your body with my lips and tongue. If I know what you look like, what your body is like, I can imagine you more accurately. I can imagine your flesh, and how your taste, and how your accent changes your whimpers of pleasure into something entirely unique. How your hair feels in my hands as I plunder your mouth. How your breath hitches as I take you utterly, with pleasure, driving us both to the insanity of completion. Ah, to see you undone, my mystery!
The orgasm that Willas has, after he has fled to the shower because he is that fastidious sort of man, is possibly the best he’s ever had in his entire life.
It hits him, after coming down, wrapped in a fluffy robe and still damp, that this is really bizarre. What sort of man sends another a picture of his fulsome member, gets a wrong number, and then just...goes with it? He’s sure that if he’d said to stop, or that he wasn’t interested, the mystery man would have apologised, and it would have been fine. He doesn’t come across as creepy.
But then, given that Willas’ base-level of creepy defaults to Ramsay Bolton, perhaps he is quite off on the creep-o-meter? Maybe his meter is very much broken indeed? Perhaps this is quite weird, and people don’t do this, and he’s just damaged after working with a psychopath who loves dogs rather than people?
He sips his wine, Arbour Gold obviously because the Tyrells own the vineyard, because if anything, this situation calls for a lot of wine, and dials a number.
Heya hun, what’s up?
Margie, have you got a moment to speak?
Of course. I’m just watching trash TV and eating truffles. Bronn says hi, by the way. He’s giving me a foot massage. You need someone to give you a foot massage, Wil, you’re totally missing out on human contact and the benefits it brings.
You sound like Olenna.
She would be so proud.
I’ve got a bit of a problem. It’s...weird.
Ooh, favourite sort. Go on.
There’s this man-
Ohhh! Tell!
I’ve not met him, I’ve no idea who he is, or anything. Apart from, Gods, this is really going to be hard to say, okay? So please don’t comment, because I have to get it out before I lose my bottle, right? Um. He sent me a Whatsapp photo. Of his, uh...penis-
Ohhh-! Dick pic? Tell me ab-!
No, Margie! Let me finish! He sent me it, and it was for someone else, and I told him that, and then he apologised, and then asked me if I liked it, and now he’s messaging me with all these ideas of what he wants to do to me, and I said I was a man, and he doesn’t mind, and he sent me another picture of his bits, and now he’s threatening to send a video.
Is it upsetting you, or making up feel uncomfortable in a bad sort of way?
No. He’s quite nice looking. At least, his penis is.
Deeetails, brother of mine. I need these so badly right now.
Margie!
Oh come on! I won’t tell Loras, even though he’d be so jealous at you having a hot guy sending you photos and porn.
Oh for...Fine! Okay! It’s big. I don’t think a six inch screen does it justice, if you know what I mean? He’s all, I don’t know. Tanned, and has this really nice set of lower abs, and gorgeous hands. He’s older than me, I think. I think he gets off on the idea of me being young and naive.
He’s not a-?
No. Asked if I was over 18 and was happy to hear I was.
Then what’s the problem? Live a little, Willas! Have you returned a dick pic yet?
No!
Oh that poor man.
...should I? Really? Oh Gods.
Totally. You want him to keep talking, don’t you? Otherwise you’d not have rung me, and you’d have blocked him.
Is it wrong though? I mean, he could be a stalker for all I know?
All he knows is your number. C’mon, big brother. Have some fun for once in your life, do something a little bit reckless.
Fine. Fine. Thanks, sis.
No problem. By the way, if you take from slightly underneath, your cock’ll look bigger.
...what? How do you even know tha-?
Going now. Love you, hun. Bye!