V.Thomas -
It was an online thing.This Londonboy needed support.I needed someone to ‘have my back’.I sent him a direct message.My heart dead as I waited for a reply.And his heart?Didn’t miss a fucking beat.He replied straight away - turning my ‘something’ into a ‘nothing’.
Always happy to lend a voice :)
After this I told him I’d take a bullet for him.But deep down - I knew I wanted to take something else.
R. Adrian Thorne -
It wasn’t about heroics.
It was a message sent too late at night and typed too carefully. The kind that pretends to be casual but lands heavy. I saw his name light up my screen and didn’t hesitate. I never do with him. There are people you answer when you have time, and there are people you answer because time doesn’t matter.
He said he needed backup. A voice. Support.
What he needed was steadiness.
So I gave it.
Not because I was collecting something. Not because I expected interest on the loan. I answered because I knew he needed my help, because I could hear it between the words he didn’t write. He overthinks when he feels exposed. He gets loud when he feels uncertain. That night, he was both.
And when he thanked me, it shifted. Not because of the gratitude—but because of the weight behind it. He said he’d take a bullet for me, and he didn’t flinch when he said it. People don’t reach for language like that unless something in them is already leaning too far forward.
That should’ve told me what was coming.
Two weeks later - me pretending to be in the city for something else.Me pretending my offer of a drink was just ‘casual’.To discuss ‘the girl’ problems that pushed him nightly to a bar called The Liberty.Airport - Taxi - Hotel - Shower - Taxi.Thinking about him the whole time.Trying not to touch myself.Trying to save my energy.Wondering if my intentions were pure as I got ready to repay all the good deeds this man had done for me.
By the time I was halfway through my third rum and coke, I’d convinced myself I’d been right. The jukebox wheezed through something nostalgic. The bartender barely looked up. I checked my phone once, then again, already composing the teasing reply I’d send about his imaginary visit.
Then someone stepped into the empty space beside me.
Close enough that I caught his cologne before I saw his face.
Even then, I refused to let my brain land on the obvious. This was Philadelphia. Men drift in and out of places like this every night—salesmen, drifters, boys pretending to be men. I told myself he was just another body filling a stool.
Before all of this, before today, I’d told him about the girl—the one who left clean and quiet and took more with her than I’d admit. I’d told him about the nights that followed. The way I’d been trying to outdrink my own self‑pity. He’d said he had my back. Said it like it was a fact, not a favour.
The bartender wandered over, towel slung over his shoulder, not bothering to look up. “What’ll it be?”
The voice beside me answered before I could turn.
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
There was no hesitation in it. No London lilt softened by travel. Just him. Solid. Certain.
I looked up slowly, half expecting the illusion to break.
It didn’t.
“You?” I said, the word thinner than I intended.
He held my gaze without blinking. “Me.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. There was an edge in it I didn’t bother to hide.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t smile either. “There once was a guy who never knew love until a girl broke his heart,” he said, quiet and steady. Like he was reciting something already decided.
I huffed out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. “You came all the way here…for me?”
“For you?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly. “I said I’d take a bullet for you. This seemed like it required less anaesthesia.”
The bartender set his drink down. We clinked glasses without ceremony, without breaking eye contact.
Before getting to the city.Before sitting next to him.I had felt so brave and alive.This great Londonboy.My repayment plan so clear in my head and so stiff in my pants.But as our lips touched glass.Tasting coke.Tasting rum.I felt young and inexperienced.So long since another’s flesh had entered my mouth.So long since I had felt who I really was.My cock and brain confused and excited.I needed something to settle my nerves. With my hoodie still up and my sunglasses still insanely on in that dark bar - I acted. I took a glass emptying gulp.
And then placed my hand on his denim thigh.The jukebox stopped playing.The world around us stopped playing as realisations were realised.This simply wasn’t a drink and a shoulder for tears anymore.
He stayed close. Close enough that his knee pressed into mine, deliberate now. The silence between us wasn’t awkward; it was charged. Me trying to understand the scale of what he’d done. Him letting me sit in it.
Then his hand settled on my thigh.
Not tentative. Not playful. Firm. Certain. Like he’d crossed the ocean and had no intention of standing at a distance.
“I don’t really know what to say,” I admitted, lifting my empty glass to signal for another. My voice didn’t sound like mine.
He leaned in just slightly. Close enough that I felt the warmth of his breath near my ear.
“Tell me what you need.”
Five words.
Not flirtation. Not boasting.
An offer.
And that was the moment I understood this wasn’t about drinks. It wasn’t about heartbreak. It wasn’t even about the promise he’d made.
It was about me choosing whether to let him keep it.
Walking three blocks with a hard-on was easy with him. Eye contact and smiles as he pointed out favourite pizza haunts and record shops with shutters down.
I slid the shirt free and our chests collided. Skin to skin. Man to man. It felt less like heat and more like memory—something old waking up inside both of us. Then he sank to his knees, deliberate, steady, guiding my legs apart with quiet intention. I leaned back into the sofa cushions, breath unsteady, trying to will myself sober—not from the alcohol, but from the magnitude of it—so I could stay present for what was unfolding between us.
My bravado and passion faded just a little as he revealed his cock.
Then he leaned in, closing the distance with intent, and the heat of his mouth wrapped around me in a way that stole the air from my lungs. The sound that left me wasn’t planned—a low, rough exhale that told him he’d found the rhythm without needing direction. My hand slid to the back of his neck, not forcing, just holding him there, letting the moment sharpen and stretch until there was no room left for anything but sensation.
I was somewhere else at this point. The Garmin on my wrist announcing ‘workout’ mode as my hand, mouth and imagination when crazy. One hand to the base - spare fingers slipping to balls while my other hand held him firm. Directing the action to my jaw.
He reached down, shoved his sweats past his hips and wrapped his hand around his own aching cock. He worked himself hard and fast, like he refused to be left behind.
I still think about that moment a lot.The moment when he came.The moment we came.
The Favour connecting and destroying us.Ruining and rebuilding a friendship at the same time.His mouth stripped of confidence as he came in mine.
“Fuck—I’m cumming,” he had gasped.
And I didn’t flinch.I held his cock and eyes firm as I took his load deep.Unloading my own cum with my own fist.Feeling triumphant and alive.
Two loads delivered by this…London…….boy.
The Favour now repaid in full.
