Randoms:
Patrick had just turned nineteen, still living at home while he figured out what came next after sixth form. His mum had been single for years, widowed young and when she started dating Jack, Patrick told himself it was fine. Good for her. Jack was everything his late dad wasn’t: broad as a barn door, late forties, ex-rugby prop turned personal trainer, covered in coarse black hair from collarbone to navel, voice like gravel dragged over iron. He moved in three months after the engagement, hauling gym bags and protein tubs into the spare room that used to be Patrick’s old playroom.
Jack filled the house. Literally. Shirtless in the kitchen making breakfast smoothies, sweatpants slung low enough to show the deep dip of his Adonis belt and the thick trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband. Patrick couldn’t look away. Every morning he’d catch himself staring, at the way Jack’s pecs flexed when he reached for a mug, at the heavy bulge shifting lazily as he walked barefoot across the tiles. Patrick told himself it was admiration. Curiosity. Not lust.
He was lying.
One Tuesday evening Mum was on late shift at the hospital. Patrick thought the house was empty. He locked himself in the upstairs bathroom, Jack’s bathroom now, technically, stripped down, and pulled up his favourite porn on his phone: older tops railing eager twinks, thick cocks stretching tight holes, deep growls of “take it, boy.” Patrick’s hand flew, slick with spit, breath fogging the mirror.
The door opened without a knock.
Jack stood there in nothing but grey boxer-briefs, arms crossed over his hairy chest, eyes dark and amused.
“Thought I heard something,” he rumbled.
Patrick froze, cock still in hand, screen still playing obscene moans.
Jack didn’t yell. Didn’t leave. He stepped inside, closed the door, locked it.
“Keep going,” Jack said, voice low. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Patrick’s heart slammed against his ribs. He couldn’t move.
