For Paula. Happy Christmas, beautiful.

Thanks to Sam for the pairing recommendation.

For HedwigBlack's Very Slashy Competition.

I'm not really sure what this is. Blame my weirdo muse. I have no control (Attitudes expressed here that I don't believe in).


This is wrong.

You're a good boy. Your name was down for Eton.

Eton boys don't do this.

It's this school, you think. This school is corrupting you, turning you into someone you didn't used to be. Making you feel things you didn't used to feel.

You're a good boy, a good Eton boy, you tell yourself, but it doesn't seem to change the way this feels. His tongue is in your mouth and his hands are tugging at the hem of your sweater and you let him — more than that, you want him to — pull it over your head.

Without any command from your mind, your hands undo the buttons of his shirt and your hands are tracing the planes of his chest.

You think of everything you've ever been told about this by your strict Catholic parents — that boys who treat boys like they're supposed to treat girls are sick, disturbed, wrong. And then you think about the way his hands feel tangled in your hair and the way his bare chest feels against yours and you can't understand. The two ideas won't mesh in your mind — you can't understand where something that makes you feel more right than you have in forever could be so wrong.

This is wrong.

I'm a good boy, an Eton boy. Eton boys don't do this.

Yet you cannot deny to yourself that you want this. Desperately. Too desperately to stop.

And so you don't.