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Oliver steps into the corridor and closes his bedroom door behind him. It is louder out here. From the floor below, there comes a mechanical shriek, the sound of a drill meeting plasterboard, biting and burrowing its way through. The ground shakes beneath Oliver’s feet. He grimaces and tries in vain to shrink away from the noise.
The renovation of Webbe college is taking longer than everyone had hoped, churning up both dust and animosity. At the start of term, Oliver was reassigned to an empty bedroom on the first floor, coincidentally, next door to Farleigh Start.
Farleigh, who was irritating enough in weekly tutorials, somehow managed to be even worse as a neighbour. Oliver would describe him as “inconsiderate” if he was being polite and “an absolute prick” if he wasn’t.
Their shared wall, which was painted a particularly depressing shade of beige, seemed to be made out of a sheet of cardboard. Of course, that meant that Oliver could hear everything. The CD player permanently playing sickly-sweet pop music, the loud phone calls which served as an opportunity to gossip about the entire student population one by one, the things Farleigh got up to at night...
Four steps – One, two, three, four – and Oliver is outside of Farleigh’s bedroom door with a stack of dog-eared pages in one hand. He raises his free hand and knocks.
The corridor falls blessedly silent and Oliver glances down at the manuscript clutched in his left hand. The Fly. What a cheerful start to his morning – Discussing a compact exploration of grief with his current least favourite person. He is glad that Farleigh doesn’t answer the door straight away. It allows him a few more moments of peace before the headache resumes.
” We cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves.”
Professor Ware had insisted that he come. Oliver wouldn't be here otherwise. The next hour or so would be spent working out their differences so that, by the time their next tutorial rolls around, they can agree on at least one aspect of the work to spare the Professor's sanity. Oliver and Farleigh's constant disagreements have taken a toll on both the Professor and the now tenuous working relationship between the two of them. Oliver knows that their arguments aren't helpful for anybody but he simply cannot back down from a challenge, least of all when his intelligence is being called into question by the smug, self-entitled dickhead he is about to come face-to-face with.
Inevitably, the moment of peace ends. The whine of power tools starts up again, the door swings open and Farleigh is standing before him, rubbing his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. Oliver struggles to believe that anybody could sleep through this noise, but there Farleigh stands, drowsy and dressed in pyjamas. His grey t-shirt is just a little too short for him, leaving a sizable gap between its hem and the green chequered pyjama bottoms that are slung low around his hips.
Oliver drags his eyes away from the ridges of Farleigh’s hip bones but not before noticing a distinctive outline between them. He resists the urge to glance back down to confirm his suspicions, instead locking eyes with Farleigh. He tries to look studious, dampening down the mild flicker of arousal that lights his core and warms his blood in an instant.
“Forgot you were coming.” Farleigh mumbles in an accent that sounds thicker than usual. Sighing, he steps aside and Oliver enters the room.
It is surprisingly tidy. At least, compared to Felix’s bedroom. Aside from the unmade bed and a row of empty bottles lining the windowsill, everything appears to be in its place. Everything except...
Farleigh follows Oliver’s gaze towards the red thong hooked on the corner of his headboard and chuckles, “I had a late night.”
The girl Farleigh had slept with last night had been loud. Louder than the guy he had brought home at the weekend. As soon as the first shrill giggles had drifted from the corridor, beneath the door and across the carpet to his bed, Oliver had braced himself. After just a few weeks in his new bedroom, he had gotten used to Farleigh’s sleeping around. Mostly. Annoyance still flared within him every now and then, not at the sordid noises themselves, but at the way his body responded to them.
“Yeah. I heard.” Oliver looks up at Farleigh’s smug expression and adds, “Don’t worry, you didn’t keep me awake for long.”
Farleigh’s smirk drops, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, go on.”
“It’s just... You brought her home at midnight and, if I remember correctly,” Oliver shrugs, knowing full well that he remembers every single detail, “It was all over by 12:15.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like you could do any better.”
“Oh really?” Oliver chuckles joylessly, “I bet I could outlast you, Farleigh.”
He is fairly sure that he can. He certainly did last night, his fist working frantically beneath the blankets in time with the panting and moaning next door.
Farleigh takes a step forward, looking down at Oliver purposefully, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. How much?”
“What?”
Farleigh spaces out his words, speaking in condescending slow motion, “How much are you willing to bet?”
Oliver pauses to consider his next move. He should have known that Farleigh would accept the challenge. He had never backed down before.
Confident in his abilities, though less so in the heft of his wallet, he wonders how much he could afford to lose on the off-chance that Farleigh wins. He could probably get by on £20 for the next fortnight or so.
“I don’t know...” Oliver begins, maintaining steady, unwavering eye contact, “A hundred quid?”
Raising his eyebrows at the paltry sum, Farleigh proffers a hand for Oliver to shake, “Deal.”
With their palms pressed together, Oliver seizes the moment and yanks Farleigh towards the unmade bed, throwing him off-balance. It's just enough to be able to push him down onto the mattress with ease.
Now kneeling atop Farleigh, his knees either side of the taller man’s hips, Oliver feels like a predator about to toy with his prey. There is something in Farleigh’s eyes, behind the arrogant façade, that screams weakness. Uncertainty. Apprehension. The allure of making him lose all trace of the aristocratic poise with which he carries himself is undeniable.
Oliver brings a hand down to brush between Farleigh’s legs and, confirming his earlier suspicions, finds him already hard. Beyond hard, to tell the truth. Absolutely rock solid. Something dark and devious flares within him and he unceremoniously hooks his fingers beneath Farleigh’s waistband and shucks his pyjama bottoms to his knees.
“You’re that ready for me already?”
“You woke me up,” Farleigh protests, “It’s just morning wood. It has nothing to do with you.”
Oliver hums and wraps his hand around Farleigh, giving him just one stroke down to the base and back up. He gasps.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Oliver gives Farleigh one more slow stroke, relishing the flutter of his eyelashes, “I wouldn’t want to humiliate you.”
It is a lie, of course, and the cruel smile on Oliver’s face almost certainly undermines his words. To humiliate Farleigh would be utter bliss.
“Just take these off.” Farleigh is impatient, unbuttoning Oliver’s jeans and allowing him to shuffle them down along with his boxers. Oliver leans over Farleigh again, holding himself rigidly above him, their faces just a little too close to be comfortable. For a split second, Farleigh glances down and subconsciously swipes his tongue over his lips.
“So...” He begins uncertainly, his hand drifting across his hip bone and towards his cock, “Should I?”
“I can do it for you?” Oliver offers, tilting his head. Daring Farleigh to accept. He wants to be in control. It would work in his favour and, although he cannot bear admitting it to himself, he is eager to keep touching Farleigh.
Farleigh hesitates, but only for a moment, “Okay. Go on, then.”
He pushes his t-shirt up to his waist, revealing his taut lower stomach, and Oliver tries not to stare. He considers sitting up on his knees, taking himself in one hand and Farleigh in the other and matching the pace. Would it be fair to use his right hand, by far the more practised hand for these sorts of activities, to get Farleigh off? As much as Oliver wants to win the bet, he also wants this to be a fair fight.
Bracing himself on one arm, he pushes his hips forward against Farleigh and takes them both in one hand. Their combined girth only just fits within in his closed fist.
“What are you doing?” Farleigh asks, a hint of huskiness appearing in his voice.
“It’s the only way to make sure we’re both feeling the same thing.”
Farleigh looks as though he is about to argue but Oliver starts stroking the two of them together and his jaw goes slack. A breathy moan escapes him, barely audible.
If Oliver wasn’t hard before, he is now. With his stroking hand, he adopts a pace that is fast but not frantic. It is a constant, steady rhythm that he can maintain. That he can endure. After all, he is not trying to get himself off.
Fluttering, unsteady breaths ghost over his face as Farleigh shudders under his touch. His eyes flicker quickly, taking it all in. He looks at Oliver’s thighs, boxing him in, he looks at Oliver’s hand, rhythmically jerking them both off, he even glances at Oliver’s lips, wetting his own as though anticipating a kiss, but he never once makes eye contact.
After just a minute of firm stroking, Farleigh bites down on his lip to supress a moan that ends up being audible anyway. In contrast, Oliver bites down on a sadistic smile. God, it is so easy. Farleigh will be handing over that £100 in no time, the notes cool and crisp and contrasting nicely with the wet heat currently slicking his palm.
Hold on...
Wet?
He looks down in surprise. Droplets of pre-come shimmer on Farleigh’s stomach in the mid-morning light and a good amount has gathered on Oliver’s fingers, slicking his motions. If he didn’t already know what Farleigh sounded like when he was coming and if his cock was not still so hard and heavy in his hand, Oliver would have guessed that he had already finished.
He pauses for a second to trace his fingertips through the soapy liquid on Farleigh’s skin, gathering it up before returning his hand to their cocks and moving with newfound ease.
“Fuck.” The word leaves his mouth sharply before he can stop it and Farleigh keens in response, his hips bucking up ever so slightly.
Oliver wants to taste him. To trace his fingertips over his tongue or to lean down and take Farleigh in his mouth, swallowing every drop as it bubbles up like water from a natural spring. He suppresses the urge.
Each slick stroke lights a fire within him. The coil in his stomach glows red as the flames lick against each metallic turn and, when his cock gives an impatient twitch, it suddenly flares white-hot. For the first time, he considers the very real possibility that he might lose the bet.
“Oliver-“ Farleigh murmurs in a voice that sounds different. Breathier, whinier. Oliver likes it. “S-slow down.”
“Why, you close?”
Farleigh presses his lips together in an expression of strained concentration and breathes hard through his nose.
“Tell me,” Oliver taunts, not slowing down even a little bit, “Tell me how close you are.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I already am.”
Farleigh manages to sneer at Oliver before a plan unfolds behind his deep brown eyes. He brings one hand to the back of Oliver’s neck, draws him down and begins to place hot, open-mouthed kisses in a trail from jaw to collar bone. Oliver allows himself to enjoy the sensation before he realises – with mild amusement – that Farleigh is fighting back.
“Dirty tactics.” He tuts, trying to ignore the shivery feeling of Farleigh’s breath against his newly dampened skin and the way his stomach is beginning to clench again. “Well, two can play at that game.”
He increases the pace of his stroking. The sound of their cocks sliding together is wet and messy, gliding like hot silk.
“I won’t let you win.” Farleigh chokes out.
His hand moves from the back of Oliver’s neck to tangle in his hair and yank sharply. A groan slips from Oliver’s lips. He cuts it short but Farleigh is quick and he wastes no time in putting a new plan into action. He lets go of the fistful of hair triumphantly, scrapes his blunt nails down Oliver’s back and digs in hard at his sides.
The stinging pressure around his waist forces Oliver closer to the edge. It feels way too good to be fucking his fist with Farleigh holding onto him so tightly.
Locked in a perverse sort of war, rolling their hips to attack, breathing deeply to defend, the fight can only escalate. Oliver reviews his tactics. Farleigh's first instinct had been tenderness and passion.
He knows what he has to do.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he leans down and kisses Farleigh square on the mouth. It’s hot and heavy, the way someone might kiss if they really, truly wanted the other person. Farleigh reciprocates immediately, messily tangling their tongues together and moaning into his mouth, and the red-hot pressure cooker in Oliver’s lower belly roils dangerously. He hadn’t expected to like that.
Catching Farleigh’s bottom lip between his teeth, he gives it a light tug as he pulls away.
“Fuck.” Farleigh gasps, looking frantically between Oliver’s face and his hand around their cocks, “Can I come?”
“If you’d like. If you want to lose.”
Farleigh whines in a mixture of frustration and undeniable pleasure. He throws his head back, his eyes wide and desperate, staring up at the ceiling as though looking to the Heavens for salvation. He swallows roughly between ragged breaths, the gulp audible.
“Come on,” Oliver goads, “I know you want to. Just let go.”
Farleigh begins to shake his head, but freezes when Oliver tightens the ring of his forefinger and thumb and changes his rhythm, jerking in short, firm strokes.
It is a double-edged sword. The altered pace has Farleigh panting and arching up into the touch whilst also dragging Oliver even closer to the edge.
“Ah- No... Nononono.“ Farleigh begs. His stomach muscles are agonisingly tense, his whole body locking up and trembling under the strain. Oliver tries not to let the sight affect him, but he can’t help thrusting forward, chasing the same pleasure Farleigh is feeling before hurriedly scrambling to gain control of himself. He feels like a pot that has been left on the stove for too long – Unbearably hot, about to overflow.
With one hand still working firmly between the two of them, he leans down into the unbroken eye contact, bringing their faces so close that he can feel Farleigh’s heavy breathing against his cheek.
“Fucking. Come. For. Me.” He demands.
Farleigh snatches up fistfuls of duvet, holding on tight as though the blankets might anchor him. As the tide surges higher and threatens to consume them both, he glances down briefly and then drops his head against the pillow in defeat.
“Ahh- I can’t... I can’t stop. I’m coming-”
Farleigh can barely finish his sentence before the first wave is spilling over Oliver’s fist and he is moaning far louder than Oliver has ever known him to be through their shared bedroom wall. The second shot travels further, splashing onto Farleigh’s t-shirt, turning the grey material black as it soaks into the fibres. Between moans, and with each weakening twitch of his cock, his breath shivers.
Victory. Oliver would sigh in relief if he was not wound up so tightly. As it is, he can only exhale in short, clipped puffs of air.
He continues to stroke vigorously and Farleigh whines and writhes beneath him, trying to pull his hips away but hampered by the mattress beneath. Oliver is so fucking close. So close that he can’t think straight. With no excuse to hide behind, he leans down and presses his lips to Farleigh’s again, kissing him messily and it takes just a few more strokes before he is moaning into his mouth – stuttering, wayward sounds that escape him while he is powerless to hold them back – and covering Farleigh in his own release.
Coming down from the high, Oliver shakily sits back on his heels to tuck himself away in his jeans. While catching his breath, he admires the sight beneath him. There is an obscene amount of come streaked across Farleigh’s stomach, all the way up to the neckline of his t-shirt. He looks like a piece of modern art. Jackson Pollock would be proud.
Farleigh pulls up his own pyjama bottoms, wincing as the waistband smears their cooling spend over his stomach and hips, and kicks his legs out from beneath Oliver.
Recovering quickly, perhaps out of embarrassment, he stalks over to his desk. While he rifles around in the drawer, Oliver appraises the damp shirt clinging to Farleigh’s torso and tries not to think about how badly he had craved him. He had kissed Farleigh so desperately, needing so badly to taste him in some way. Oliver shudders in... disgust? He's not sure.
Without meeting Oliver’s eye, Farleigh returns to the bed and hands over a stack of five £20 notes - Crisp and unwrinkled.
“Now fuck off, I need a shower.”
Conscious of their long-forgotten English assignment, Oliver asks, “We can revise another day?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Farleigh waves his hand dismissively.
Oliver moves towards the doorway and is just about to leave when a wicked idea occurs to him. He has one final strike to deploy to undermine Farleigh just a little more.
“Are you coming to the pub later?” He holds the £20 notes in one hand, fluttering them in the air and smiling impishly behind his makeshift fan, “The drinks are on me.”