Chapter Text
Arthursquirttruther4lyfe:
Pretty sure this is our boy btw [link attached]
George pauses, midway through scrolling down the comments. It’s a link to XVideos, and he briefly feels a wave of panic wash over his body, terrified someone’s leaked a sex tape from his Uni days.
And then he reads the username, and remembers he’s on Arthur’s video. Realises that the commenter is most likely talking about Arthur, not George.
So clicking it would, at most, show George porn of Arthur.
George’s thumb hovers over the link.
He shouldn’t click it.
It’ll probably hack his phone and send a bunch of private photos of his butthole or something to his friends and colleagues.
And it could mean seeing Arthur naked and having sex.
George clicks the link.
The page is covered in ads for A.I. porn, and it takes about ten seconds before they finally cave and disappear.
What takes their place is a blurry video of a bare, toned body, face cropped out, being fucked open on a ridiculously large dildo.
Hey, that looks like Arthur, the voices tell George.
Shut the fuck up, George’s brain responds. He’s just white. Don’t get a boner for a white man.
George’s body, not listening to either of them, responds to the video so quickly that George swears he feels the blood physically drain from his brain to his dick.
And maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s wrong, but George can’t take his eyes off the screen even as his palm slides down his stomach, fingers slipping just under his waistband to touch his half-hard cock.
Because it does look like Arthur. Same abs, same chest and shoulders, fucking hell, same nipple colour, and…
And he’s making noises that sound familiar in tone. Sort of breathy huffs, slurred curse words littered between moans, clearly British, clearly fucking loving it.
George wraps a hand around his cock and tells himself it’s just porn even as his hips start to fuck up in rhythm. As if George is inside, stuffing him full, meeting Arthur’s ass as he slams down on him.
But it’s not Arthur, George reminds himself.
Because George knows Arthur very well, and Arthur’s never pulled a ten-inch dildo out of his ass in front of him and told him he’s gay.
(Told George that Arthur’s gay, to clarify. It’d be a bit weird to pull a dildo out your ass and then call someone else the British word for a cigarette.)
But what if it was Arthur? George wonders, imagination getting the better of him for a moment.
His eyes flick to the view count: 2.1 million. Holy shit.
George feels a wave of anxiety at the thought that this might actually be Arthur, but he also happens to feel a huge wave of blood rush to his cock once again.
His brain wanders as his fist slowly drags over his dick.
He pictures Arthur, stretching himself open before he takes it, before he even presses record. Fingers curling inside his hole, begging—to no one in particular—for something to stretch him open.
The exhibitionist streak that George has had since puberty emerges, and suddenly his mind wanders to their not-porn video shoots. The regular ones. George wonders if Arthur would ever film a video there, jerking his cock in a supply closet, fucking himself in the locker room showers.
George wonders if he could catch him in the act, and what Arthur would do. If he’d be so lost in pleasure that he’d just drag George in and use his cock instead.
Video-Not-Arthur’s moans are getting louder, and George groans along with him, but at the scenario he’s imagining. He returns his full attention back to the porn on his screen.
Familiar-looking abs ripple with exertion as they ride the cock underneath him, and though the video quality is poor, George can see little tracks of sweat on his skin—it’s obvious he’s been at it for a while.
George absently wishes he could see the guy’s face.
And suddenly, as if prompted by that thought, a million images of Arthur, sweaty from practice or training or cardio, flash in his mind.
Heat coils in his gut, thick and fast, and George swallows. Shut up. Shut up.
Arthur, curls across his forehead, sweat on the planes of his face, panting above George, silk heat around his cock, lips against his, it all becomes too much for George and he comes with a shudder and a drawn-out groan, spilling into his hand.
The electric fuzz moves its way down his body erratically, and then slowly subsides. George pants, and then shakes his head at himself.
“Not Arthur,” he mumbles. “Not Arthur.”