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its new, the shape

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The important thing for everyone to remember here, the most important thing, is for everyone to remember that Dan doesn’t have a piss kink.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

He’d done some reading--between being skullfucked repeatedly by the one place on the internet that he’d called home, but also boss, but also, maybe, daddy, and the unending days of wondering if this particular inhale would result in his premature death--he’d had some time to read. The thing is--

Dan’s seen a lot of porn, ok. He’s a millennial, just the right age to have missed the first virginal blushes of the internet and to have landed just as the drive to see just how horrible we can be before someone’s morality squeals had kicked in. Dan’s seen a lot of porn, a lot of it bad. And he’s a closeted millenial--wasa closeted millenial, thanks--so he’s seen men shove all manner of things up their asses. But it wasn’t until he had little to do other than tinker with his scripts, stare at his hand, jerk off til he was chafed and read that he’d really thought to read just what gay men had to say for themselves.

They had quite a lot to say, actually. Quite a lot of it very good, a lot of thoughts about life, masculinity, and sex, a kind of explosion of the things that had been swirling around his head for ages. It was a bit embarrassing that it’d taken nearly thirty years and a literal, actual plague to get him to the point of finding books that felt like echoes of his own internal monologue, except, y’know, much smarter.

But also, because he’s him, he’d picked up things that had a non-zero amount of rumination on sex, which sort of inevitably included more than one meditation on piss specifically. In all directions, on someone, in someone, near someone. Being pissed on, pissing next to each other. It was a buffet of prepositions, honestly.

So he knows piss isn’t for him because, frankly, he’s got a sensitive nose and a tragically sensitive gag reflex and even once he’d read himself past the initial disgust it just seemed a bit odd. But. And this is the point, now. There was a lot of discussion about the sensations--the thud and painful pulse of a full bladder, the shivers of release, the bodily thrill of sudden warmth, the hotshamepleasuredelight.

So, he’s joking when he tweets heckle me and make me cry at @AnthonyPadilla, doesn’t think about it for a second because he hasn’t seen Anthony in years, hasn’t heard from him since the errant blowjobs they’d traded one of the times Dan was in California--the ones that predated Anthony’s very obvious identity crisis but may have contributed to it. It’s all jokes, haha, a bit of fun with his audience, a laugh with the straight (...?) boy. And when @AnthonyPadilla tweets back your wish is my command , well. That’s a little hot but Dan is also a 30-year-old man, freshly so, and he’s sucked just enough cock, barely, and read enough books, definitely, to know that a little homoerotic thrill doesn’t have to be anything more than that. His own cock, resting phlegmatic and swaddled in cotton, is more or less absent from current events.

Except Anthony, the fucker, apparently hasn’t lost Dan’s number. Because Dan is stretching out on the couch in their living area, shoving his cold toes under Phil’s thigh and ignoring his yelp, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

And there’s Anthony’s name, and there’s Anthony’s text: from what i remember, you’re pretty when you cry.

And that’s like, the exact kind of clumsy, overconfident kind of thing Dan would expect from someone who got multiple videos about his straightness on his YouTube channel. Unfortunately, it does throw their brief online interaction in a sharp sort of relief that makes Dan’s stomach squirm and his thighs tingle in that way they do before he’s worked up to actually being turned on.

“Um,” he says, because he hasn’t had a thought he hasn’t shared with Phil in a decade and there’s no reason to start now.

“Yup?” Phil asks, still looking at his own, assumedly sext-less phone. He’s scrolling Instagram. Dan recognizes the long strokes of his thumb across the screen of the phone.

“Anthony Padilla is flirting with me?” Dan says it like a question because, again, what?

“Hm,” Phil says. Which is kinder than Dan had expected, honestly. Phil doesn’t give two shits who Dan boffs but he does hate people invading their space, literal or emotional, and Anthony (in between blowjobs) had been…needy.

“Is that…,” Dan searches for a word that won’t make this A Thing. Their couples’ therapist calls this particular habit conflict avoidance, Dan calls it time management. They’ve got their whole lives to argue about things more exciting than American Straight Man Anthony Padilla. “Ok?”

Dan’s phone buzzes again and Phil snorts.

“Don’t give him our new address,” is what Phil has to offer, and Dan takes it.

i bet it’d look even better, you crying onstage. Everybody watching

And here! As the tingle and squirm travel across his skin and become indiscernible between Dan’s stomach and his cock, here is the thing: the parts of his brain that experience shame and horniness are perhaps overdeveloped, and are certainly too close together. And while his fans are an often, but not always, friendly and amorphous mass of reactions, the thought of being on his knees, crying and choking on cock, on display is intriguing. Compelling. Certainly, something to think about. Maybe they could be a different crowd, the kind that doesn’t know him, the kind that just sees a silly, overgrown twunk, who keeps gagging but by God won’t let that stop him. The kind that’s basically just a hole, really, a place to keep cock warm, not good for much else, is he? How embarrassing for him. How ashamed he should be.
Dan clears his throat and rolls off the sofa, standing up. Phil looks at him--the flush of his cheek, the soft, swollen bulge of a cock that is interested in what might happen next but not committed to it--and rolls his eyes. It’s his fond eye roll, not the one that sets Dan looking through his secret Gifts to Get Phil bookmarks folder.

“Don’t judge me,” Dan says.

“I’m judging you,” Phil says flatly, while his eyes sparkle--like, actually twinkle--with laughter. “Your thing for straight men is--”

“There’s no thing!” Dan protests, “There are no men.”

“He’s waiting,” Phil says, going back to his phone, with his stupid, judgy smile. Dan blushes more, the squeezing feedback loop from his stomach to his cock pulses and he can’t quite tell if Phil is ignoring him. He waits and Phil doesn’t look back up at him. Unfortunately, that’s also very hot.

“I’m leaving,” Dan sighs, heading to the hallway, “to go have phone sex! As is my right!”

“Try not to post any of it online,” Phil says finally, “And don’t talk about it in the show.”

“You’re not in charge of me!” Dan calls, even as he unlocks his phone and opens the notes app to figure if any of this is useable.

Anthony sends a third text, bold, and Dan taps the message to finally respond.