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Shousetsu Bang*Bang
Issue 32: Hot for Teacher

Edited by Shousetsu Bang*Bang
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Shousetsu Bang*Bang

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Shousetsu Bang*Bang Issue 32 is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License

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Table of contents

Mister Seagull Gives No Fucks, by Roumonte Emi (竜主天 蝦)

le vice italien, by CAT ATTACK

Sweet to Tongue and Sound to Eye, by Ogiwara Saki (荻原咲),

illustrated by neomeruru

Lessons Learned, by Kagamine Marin (鏡音愛鈴)

Send My Love to the Dancefloor, by Nijiiro Sumi (虹色墨),

illustrated by sevenswells

Taylor the Demon Hunter, by Domashita Romero (地下ロメロ)

Long Way Around, by Parudesi (パルデシ)

One False Move, by shukyou (主教),

illustrated by neomeruru

Incognito, by Daifuku Hoyako (惰猪腹 ほや子)

Teacher’s Pets, by hcolleen

Second Chance, by Kim Chee (沈菜),

illustrated by vsentyabre

Eye in the Storm, by Ozawa Ayaka (小澤綾香)

Three Days, by Matsuo Basho (松尾場所)

Look to the Beat, by templemarker

The English Parent, by Nat Tagawa (ナット多川)

The Makeover, or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love Comic-Con, by Amai Tonken (甘い とんけん),

illustrated by Amai Tonken (甘い とんけん)

T.A., by Bluejuice (青液)

Front cover by halcyonjazz

Edited and published by the Shousetsu Bang*Bang editorial staff. Read more about this issue at

Mister Seagull Gives No Fucks

by Roumonte Emi (竜主天 蝦)

This is the best shaggy-dog story that I know:

Way back when I was a freshman in high school, I had this math teacher named Mr. Siegal. Mr. Siegal was a hardass. You hear stories about hardass teachers sometimes, the ones that push their students hard and take no shit and never let up and turn out to be the best, most inspiring teachers a guy could ever have–well, that wasn’t the kind of hardass that Mr. Siegal was. Mr. Siegal was a hardass because he wanted everybody else to be just as miserable as he was. Later on I found out that he’d burned out on his PhD program and had to grab the first job that came along that he was qualified for, but all I knew back then was that he hated everything, including his job and us. We didn’t like him much, either.

Let me tell you a story about him, about the kind of guy that he was. We were freshmen in high school, remember, dumbassed fourteen-year-olds, and if there was one thing that we wanted to be, it was grown up. We were desperate to look cool, to shed the last few lingering shreds of our innocence, to be worldly and jaded and unshockable, the kind of guys who could see the entire cheerleading squad having naked lesbian sex right out in the halls and would just pick their way through the writhing mound of flesh, rolling their eyes and saying “Not again, God, now I’m going to be late to Pre-Algebra.” (As if.) We wanted to be that guy, but most of us couldn’t say a dirty word without dropping our voices to harsh whispers and glancing around uncomfortably for eavesdropping teachers with detention slips.

So, anyway, on our first day of class, Mr. Siegal gets up in front of the class, puts his scowly face on, and says, “My name is Mr. Siegal, and I’m going to tell you right now, whatever your problems are, I do not even give a fuck.”

We all freeze. None of us can even think the word ‘fuck’ without wincing, and teachers do not say it, ever, and yet, there it was, like a slap to the face, you know? He looks at this class full of gaping kids and goes on: “I do not accept late work, incomplete work, excuses, or sass. I am not inclined to ‘let things slide’. If you are tardy, then you get extra homework on top of your detention. If you talk or chew gum in class, extra homework. If you mouth off, extra homework. I don’t care about your problems. You are here to learn and do your work. That’s all.” And he turns around and picks up the chalk and starts talking about math, just like that.

From what I heard, he gave every class the same speech, every year. “I do not give a fuck,” Mister Seagull told each and every squirming new freshman. I don’t know how he never got in trouble for it. I guess no one cared as long as he taught us math and didn’t kill anyone. It became kind of a byword at our high school: Mister Seagull gives no fucks. To this day when I meet people who went to my high school ten years after I did, eventually one of us always says “You ever have Mister Seagull?” and the other one says, “Yeah, he gave no fucks.”

He meant it, too. He piled us high with homework and hit us with pop quizzes and gave out zeroes like they were going out of style, and he threw chalk and yelled and told kids to shut up all the goddamned time. He made a lot of girls cry, and a couple of guys, too. I guess if that was all he’d been hardassed about, it might have been okay, but deep down he was a mean little fucker and there were no two ways about it. He wasn’t the first guy to call me ‘Fatty-Fatty-Two-By-Four’, and he wasn’t the last, either, but nobody ever said it to me with as much venom as he did. I have to admit, though, it shut me up, and back then I kind of needed shutting up from time to time.

Speaking of not shutting up, I think I was the one who hung him with ‘Mister Seagull’–back then a fat kid had two choices, try to be invisible or play the class clown, and I’d always had a mouth on me–because, as I pointed out to my friends, Mister Seagull was always screeching and shitting on our heads and there was nothing we could do about it. It helped, being able to call him ‘Mister Seagull’ to his face. Not much, but it helped.

Anyway. I hated him, and I hated how helpless he made me feel, but I survived him. I buckled down and did all that homework and got out of his class with a C, and I was happy to have it. Then I was a sophomore and I had geometry with Ms. Hicks, and then I was a junior and I had algebra with Mrs. Watson, and then I was a senior and I had pre-calc with Mr. Blundett, and then I graduated from high school and went off to college absolutely determined never to take another minute of math class if I could help it.

Turns out I could. Turns out college was good for me in a lot of other ways, too. My parents got divorced when I was real little, you know, and my mom had to get a job, and she ended up feeding me a lot of fast food and cheap sugary crap because of all the guilt and the lack of time to do anything better, but once I got off to college I got landed with this awesome roommate, Tim, who turned me on to eating healthy and working out–I lost like fifty pounds and picked up a tan from all the swimming and running and shit, and then since I needed new clothes anyway Tim talked me into bleaching my hair and getting an earring too, and once he’d finished fixing me up Tim turned me on to some other things, so I came out to my friends and then to my parents and then, of course, he got bored with me and started fucking other guys and eventually let me catch him at it. The usual college bullshit. You know.

Anyway, that was my freshman year in college, basically, although somewhere in there I went to class and stuff, too. I went to live with my dad that summer, on the other side of town. His condo association needed a guy to mow the grass and keep the pool clean for a couple of bucks an hour over minimum wage, and it sounded okay to me. I guess you could say I gave no fucks.

It was a pretty good summer. I worked hard and kept the weight off and got my tan damn near perfect. My dad and I barely saw each other, but when we did, it was okay. He was weirdly okay with me being gay, unlike my mom, who basically had a meltdown, all blaming herself for it, like she made me gay by giving me Snickers bars instead of some kind of ‘quality time’. Dad just treated me like he’d always known, like it was no big deal. I guess I got lucky, with my dad.

Still, even if he’d always known, he wouldn’t have liked me actually getting laid at his place, so I used to tell him that I was going to go meet up with some friends and hang out, and then I’d take his car and go down to the Strip and go to this one particular bar I knew about from some of my friends, called Stryker’s. I was only nineteen and I wasn’t supposed to be in there, but let me tell you, Stryker’s also gave no fucks, so long as no one made trouble. I’d lean against the bar and let these older guys buy me drinks and rip my clothes off with their eyes, and then we’d end up in the bathroom or out back in the alley or in the other guy’s car and every one of them felt like me telling Tim to go shove it up his ass. Real healthy behavior, I know, but I was nineteen and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So, yeah, as you’ve probably guessed by now, one July night I’m at Stryker’s, nursing a Coke with lime and waiting for Mr. Right Now, and I glance over at the door as it opens and in comes Mister Seagull.

I freaked out. I mean, I didn’t start screaming or anything, but I choked on my drink and started coughing and looking around for exits. Mister Seagull’s eyes slid right over me and then they slid back and I knew I’d been busted–for just a second I was that little lard-assed pasty-faced fourteen-year-old boy all over again, just waiting to cringe and fidget impotently as Mister Seagull threw my detention slip at me. That lasted until I figured out that what I was seeing in his face wasn’t disgust but something else I thought I recognized, after most of a summer of letting older guys get me off. It was weird, I don’t mind telling you.

It was pretty clear that Mister Seagull didn’t drive halfway across town to go to Stryker’s because he liked the banana daiquiris. He looked at me and I looked at him, my skin squirming with that same old impotent rage, and by the time he started drifting in my direction I’d somehow made up my mind to take this thing wherever he’d let it go. I guess that sounds weird. It sounds weird to me, and I’m the one telling this story. But I’d never liked him or respected him, so I didn’t have that stopping me, and part of me figured that if he didn’t recognize me, well, anything that happened was totally his own fault–basically I hated him so bad that I knew I had to stick my dick in him somehow, make him eat a little of what he’d made me eat for a whole year. Like I said, real healthy behavior.

Long as I’m being honest I might as well say that he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, if you like the aging preppy-jock-salesman kind of look. He had real good hair, thick and spiky and kind of a browny-gray, and this weatherbeaten face with deep frowny lines bracketing his scowl. He wasn’t that old, either. Back when I was fourteen I’d thought he was ancient because all teachers were ancient, but looking back he couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven, twenty-eight, which made him all of about thirty-two now. Young enough to still look pretty good in a blazer and jeans. Gross but not disgusting, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. He took his time, but not too much of it. Places like Stryker’s, you can’t play it coy. You’re good-looking and you walk in the front door, you’ll have some guy’s hand on your ass within five minutes, less if you start it with the right smile. He wasn’t the only guy circling me that night, but I kind of turned my shoulder this way and my head that way and I cut all the others out, just long enough for Mister Seagull to insinuate himself into the crowd at my elbow. “You’re new,” he said, and I swear to God that so-familiar voice made me shudder right down to my balls with hate and recognition and the sick little thrill of what I was about to do.

So I flick my hair out of my eyes and give him a long look. “Not that new,” I say, touching my jaw like I’m checking. “I’ve got to be at least twenty years old.”

“New here, then,” says Mister Seagull, with a trace of that old impatience of his, although his eyes are just eating my face straight up. “And if you’re twenty then I’m Miss America.”

“Suppose I’ll take your word for it, since you’re not wearing your little rhinestone tiara,” I say. “So, Miss America, you got a name, or just a title?”

Mister Seagull wets his lips with his tongue, just a little. “Ricky,” he says.


I ask you.

“Ricky,” I repeat. “Well, Ricky, I’m Ken–” which I am not, obviously, but if he was going to give me a fake name, I was going to do the same “–and I really don’t give a shit how old you think I am.”

He likes that. I can tell. Back in school he’d bring the world down around your ears if you mouthed off to him–and I did it all the time, because I couldn’t control my fucking mouth back then and I can barely do it now–but here he kind of likes it, as much as he can like anything, anyway. “Buy you another,” he says, in this queer little breathy voice, putting his elbow on the bar.

“Yeah, you will,” I say. I hold up my glass until it catches the bartender’s eye, then point at Mister Seagull. “What else are you going to do for me, Ricky?”

“Well, what do you want?” says Mister Seagull, half suspicion and half interest.

I make him wait until my second Coke’s on the bar, then I pick it up and take a sip. “Let me think,” I say, and he watches me take another little sip and lick my lip-prints back off the glass. “I think I don’t want any of that getting-to-know-you bullshit. Neither of us are here for that, right?”

He makes this little grunting noise that I recognize as a ‘yes’.

“So… what I want is to have a little of this drink that you so kindly bought me,” I say, “and then I want to get the hell out of here. Go someplace private.”

“Private,” Mister Seagull repeats, as the bartender puts a drink down in front of him without even being told. He picks it up and drains off half of it, just like that. So Mister Seagull’s a regular–makes me wonder how many nights he was in here when I was already out back, letting some guy stick it up my ass.

I can’t help but grin a little. “Well, you could suck my dick right here in front of God and everybody, but even Stryker’s would throw you out for that.”

Yeah, he’s liking it–licks his lips when I say that, thinking about it–but all the same I’ve got his hackles up a little, because Mister Seagull disapproves of sass. “Yeah?” he says, sneering at me just like he always did. “What makes you think I’m going to blow you? Maybe I think you ought to blow me, instead, pay me back for that drink.”

Same old Mister Seagull. Well, on second thought, maybe not so much. Anyway, I laugh and let my fingers walk along his arm some. “Because if you do, I’ll be very good to you afterwards.”

“How good?” he demands to know.

I lean in like I’m going to whisper it in his ear, and he gives this little shudder and tilts his head towards me, just waiting. “So good,” I breathe, and I run the tip of my tongue around the curve of his ear, because we both knew I was going to do it and I didn’t want to disappoint.

Mister Seagull hooks a possessive arm around my waist, just like that, with his hand tucked in the back pocket of my cutoffs, and with his other hand he puts his drink to his face. And I’ve got to admit that it was weird as hell, having his hand on my ass, but I wasn’t about to back down now. Never did get the hang of keeping myself out of trouble, not with the mouth I’ve got on me, and here I was about to get another mouth on me and that was the kind of trouble that I liked.

All around us guys are doing the same thing we are, taking advantage of the noise and the smoke and the darkness to get things underway a little early, and no one gives us two looks, not even the guys who were cruising me earlier. Easy enough to slide my hand between Mister Seagull and the bar and draw two fingers down the thing pushing out the front of his pants, listen to him splutter into his drink. Somewhere inside me there’s a fourteen-year-old straight kid gagging and threatening suicide, but I’m not listening to him, not now. “Meet me out back in five minutes?” I ask, breath all hot on his ear.

“Five minutes,” Mister Seagull says, all choked up, already looking for the bartender to settle his tab.

I disentangle myself from his arm and slide away, heading for the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and ultimately to that nasty old alleyway. I don’t know what I’m planning, but I’m thinking that maybe I’ll come in his mouth or maybe even on his face–even the fourteen-year-old thinks that sounds mighty fine, like a grown-up version of covering his car in shaving cream–and then halfway there I get this idea. And I like this idea. So what I do is I slip into the bathroom and claim myself a stall (it’s early enough that they’re not all full of guys fucking yet) and I pull my dick out of my cutoffs and I jerk off into a wad of toilet paper, as hard and fast as I can, which was plenty hard and fast back then. I flush that and tuck myself away, nice and neat, and then I spend a minute in front of the mirror, getting myself put back to rights.

He’s already in the alley when I let myself out, his face wobbling between impatience and lust. This early in the evening we’re almost the only ones there. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come,” he gravels out, looking me up and down.

“Oh, I’ll come,” I say, kind of light-headed already. “Maybe. Guess that depends on you, really.”

I put my back to the bricks, still all warm from the stored-up July sun, and I start to unbutton my fly and all of a sudden Mister Seagull has eyes for nothing else. “Shit,” he gravels out, and he grabs my arm and hauls me down the alley to a spot I know pretty well, pushing me back in between the big recycle bin and some employee’s parked car, and I just laugh and finish what I started and he grabs for me and helps–his big old hand is callused, hard like cardboard, and I have no idea how a math teacher earns calluses like that, but I don’t care.

That hand shoves down the front of my shorts and finds me still soft, just now starting to recover from jerking off. The sidelong look he gives me makes me want to crack up, but instead I run two fingers down the side of his face. “Show me what you got,” I say.

Mister Seagull snorts and goes right to his knees on the dirty asphalt and God but I love that, looking down at him like this, and then he pushes my shorts down a little and sucks my soft cock into his mouth and I love that, too. He’s grumpy that I’m not hard already, that I didn’t want him bad enough to pay him that compliment, but all the same he knows how to fix that–just the right combination of rough and gentle to get me going again, swelling in his mouth until he can’t hold me there any more. He’s impatient, but it’s pretty good anyway. He’s tugging at my balls with one hand and giving me a sneaky little rub back behind them, too, and I slide my feet apart so that he can put a finger in my ass if he wants, but he doesn’t, not right away. Instead he just messes with me, playing around a little, while his mouth does all the real work, pulling now, sucking the blood out of my brain and into my cock. Maybe I just came, but he’s getting me pretty hard again, pretty quick.

I bare my teeth and give the top of his head an ecstatic hate-grin. “Yeah, suck it,” I say, thrusting forward into his mouth and groaning as he takes the thrust against the meat of his tongue. “Dirty bastard, want to stick your finger up my ass, don’t you–” Just like that he spears me good, one of those big square fingers rubbing up between my ass-cheeks and forcing its way on in. I let him hear me hiss. “Yeah,” I say again, breathless. “You like it like that–” and he makes this little rumbling sound and takes me deep, not all the way, but deep enough that I can feel his throat go tight about me as he swallows.

I give no fucks about etiquette, here. I grab his hair in both hands and start slamming into his mouth, not hard enough to gag him, not hard enough to make him stop, but hard enough to get my point across, that his mouth is there for my dick to own. And the hate just spirals up my spine and bursts in my brain, how this is Mister Seagull down on his knees in the filthy alley behind a gay bar, getting his face fucked by little ol’ me–and liking it. I can tell by the little noises that he’s making, and by his free hand clutching at my thigh, and by the finger up my ass, pumping away. “Yeah, you take that,” I growl, high on my revenge. “You take it all, you suck that dick…” and so on, just like that. You spend a summer getting guys off out back at Stryker’s, you learn how they like you to talk dirty, that’s for sure.

But I’d already come once and not that long ago, so I’m not feeling that need. See, that was all part of my plan. And once the newness wears off that hateful joy I use my grip on his hair to pull him off my dick–he comes away all surprised and wet-lipped, with his mouth gaping in a startled ‘o’, and I love that, too. So I grin down at him. “You better stop there if you want me to be good to you, too,” I say, all hoarse.

“You got something in mind?” he demands to know, still working that finger in my ass, these raw little rubs that don’t travel very far but go to all the right places, making my knees go all watery.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice hitching a little, and I wriggle around on his finger just to make sure I’ve still got his attention. “But you’re gonna have to pull that out if you wanna find out what it is.” As if he didn’t know.

He pretends to think about it, still working me hard and slow. He’s nearly got my dick in his eye, so he can see it every time it jumps, reacting to the finger he’s got jammed up my ass, and it’s good, but not good enough to make me come again, not that quick. So finally he scowls just a little and twists his finger free, just like that, and it feels so nice going out that I nearly ask to have it back. I shiver and groan a little, because he likes that.

Mister Seagull sits back, hand buried in a tissue I didn’t even see him pull out, and waits all impatiently. And me–I bring my legs back together and push my cutoffs down until they fall into a puddle around my ankles, and I kick one foot free. I’m not wearing any underwear (because what would be the goddamned point of that, I ask you) so all of a sudden it’s just the tail of my tank top between me and the steamy July air. And I look at him all heavy and turn around, taking my own sweet time about it, and I put my cheek against the still-warm bricks and I push my ass back at him, really present myself, spreading my thighs wide so that he can see clearly what he’s getting. I’m still all raw and throbbing back there from his little finger trick, and I know what he’s seeing is probably all pink and swollen and in need of some rough tending. “Hope you brought protection,” I say, all singsong and mocking, and–

And he makes this sound and next thing I know he’s got his face buried in my ass and his tongue stuck in me as deep as it’ll go, with both hands clamped hard on my hips, which was good, because otherwise I might have just fallen the fuck down out of sheer shock. There’s nothing fake about the sound I make at that, let me tell you. I never liked getting rimmed before this–I guess everybody’s got their limits and I always thought that was mine–but turns out all I really needed was to hate the guy that’s got his tongue up my ass, really hate him, really get off on the idea of that asshole Mister Seagull just aching to kneel down behind me and service my ass with his tongue…

As revenge goes, I tell you, it doesn’t get much better than that.

Oh, God, and it’s nice, too. He grabs my ass in both hands and spreads my cheeks as wide as they’ll go and just goes to town, all slick and intrusive, really tending to me, putting out the burn that his fingers made–“Yeah,” I choke out, shutting my eyes, all clawing at the bricks until the tips of my fingers go sore. “God, eat my ass, you nasty bastard…” and Mister Seagull hums out this choked noise and stabs his tongue into me again and it goes in so easy and wet and squirmy and makes me shake from my chest to my knees and I get this shudder in the pit of my stomach that’s just the best thing. The best thing. I want him to do it forever, and I groan out a real sound when he stops and lurches to his feet behind me, something crackling in one hand.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice all cracked and raw, and an empty condom wrapper drops to the ground by my discarded cutoffs. “Yeah, you liked that, didn’t you?”

I swallow. “Yeah,” I say.

“Figured you would,” he says, and one of his fingers twists into me again, a little wet from handling the condom. “Little slut,” he adds, but there’s a hitch in his voice that’s almost embarrassed, like he’s not used to talking dirty. Guess I set the tone for the evening, though, because he says it again–“Little slut, you liked that”–and presses that finger down towards my balls and torques me open to the evening air.

“Yeah, I liked it,” I say. “You gonna talk all day or you gonna fuck me?”

He snorts and pulls that finger free and smacks me on the ass just hard enough to sting. “Fucking look at you,” he gravels out, and he’s already sounding less embarrassed. “Out in the alley with your shorts down around one ankle, spreading your ass for anyone to see–” something slick and a little rubbery scrubs hard down the crack of my ass and comes to rest pressed against me right where I’m sore and aching and ready for it “–all for the price of a drink, guess that makes you a whore, too–”

Any other time, with anyone else, I might have gotten a little bit worried right about then. But it was Mister Seagull, and I’d stood in front of his desk and squirmed a thousand times while he poured hate and bile all over me, and this was just Mister Seagull’s usual ranting with an XXX rating, nothing to be scared of. So I laugh and push up onto my toes and the head of his cock nudges me open the tiniest bit. “So fuck the little slut, then,” I say, and just like that, he does.

His cock goes in hard and I have to bite my forearm to keep from yelping. Guess he figured that the meager scrap of lube on the condom and the spit in my ass would be enough, and it turns out that it was, mostly. There was some burn to it, sure, but not enough to put me off, not then, not after that little trick he did with his tongue–I was so horny that I’d have fucked a hole in the wall right about then. He’s got one big old hand spread out on the wall in front of my face and the other clamped tight around my hip to brace me against his thrusts, so I let him see me reach down and grab my cock in one hand. He likes it. He makes a growly sound that’s probably another “Yeah” and jams himself into me real good, and I bear down and let it happen and bite my arm again.

I’m gonna tell you right now that it wasn’t the best fuck I’d ever had–hell, it wasn’t the best fuck I’d had that month–but it was pretty damned good all the same. Mister Seagull’s pretty impatient but all the same he’s got some focus, and his cock’s not too big but it’s big enough to hit me in all the right places, and he’s strong enough to push me around how I like it. Any little inadequacies in his technique are papered right over by the soaring triumphant hate boiling in my brain, this fourteen-year-old’s voice all if you only fucking knew–! as Mister Seagull grunts and does his level best to fuck me forward into the wall and I jerk myself off and let him.

I’m not working my cock too hard, though. I’ve got a plan. A plan that involves telling Mister Seagull to fuck me good, telling him to give me what I want, telling him to treat my ass rough, and all the while I’m thinking mostly of the burn in my ass, and the beery-vomit smell of the alley, and whether or not I remembered to take out the garbage before I got in the car. Mister Seagull’s slamming into my ass so hard that no matter how hard I brace against it I surge forward with every thrust, my cheek nearly grinding against the wall, and it’s good stuff but it’s standard back-alley fare. It’s not too hard to keep myself stroking my cock lightly and thinking distracting thoughts until Mister Seagull’s grunts take on this pained edge and his hand squeezes my hip. There’s this one super-rough thrust and a pause and a fusillade of shorter strokes and then Mister Seagull goes “Uh, uh, uh” and bites down on my shoulder and works himself through it, four or five shallow, measured thrusts that milk every last drop of come out of him.

And then he lifts his head and realizes that I’m still working on jerking myself off.

“Give a guy a hand,” I say, and my voice is all choked because I lasted this long but I’m not going to last much longer, and Mister Seagull makes this pissy little noise and closes his big old hand over mine and together we jerk me off in earnest. I stop thinking about everything but what’s in immediate contact with my dick and I push forward into our hands, which makes my ass squeeze all tight around Mister Seagull’s cock, which feels so good in those last few moments before he starts to go soft–I let go then and come all over the wall in short, sharp little splatters. Every night the closing crew at Stryker’s comes out and hoses down those bricks without letting themselves think about it too much–probably thousands of guys have come on that section of wall right there, and thousands more will come on that wall after I’m done with it. Hell, I’ve come on it a few times already this summer. But I know that this time will be the one that I remember.

I’ve barely finished before Mister Seagull sticks a hand between us and pulls himself free, just radiating this pissy mood. If my still being soft when we started was kind of an insult, then my not coming from the butt-fucking I just got was another, and he’ll probably worry about that a little in the months to come, but right now he’s just dropping the condom onto the pavement and cleaning himself up, one avid eye glued to my ass as I drop my forehead onto my upraised arm and catch my breath. I’m all loosened and sore back there, but it’s a good kind of sore, or good enough, at any rate.

Eventually I’m done. I step back into my cutoffs and I pull them up, wriggling to get them settled over my hips just so–the heavy seam of the denim sinks into my ass-crack and rubs up against me where I’m aching and I shudder all over–and I tuck in my tank top and run my fingers through my hair and I give him this look that I practiced in the mirror, all heavy-eyed and smirky. “Thanks for the drink,” I say.

Mister Seagull just snorts, but I’d like to think that I can see worry in the back of his eyes. Who knows? Maybe I do. There’s sweat shining around his hairline and his face is all flushed, but otherwise he looks pretty much the same as he did when he walked in the door. “Welcome,” he finally says.

I waggle my fingers at him and step past, heading back down the alleyway towards the back door of Stryker’s. He doesn’t quite follow me, not yet, although he turns to watch me go, and so I stop about ten feet away and glance back over my shoulder, and I can’t help but grin. “Well,” I say, savoring it. “I guess Mister Seagull finally gave a fuck after all, huh?”

Like I said. Best shaggy-dog story I know.

le vice italien


It all started when Derren woke up naked, with a hangover, curled up in a strange bed next to another equally-naked man, smelling faintly of cheap beer and sex.

No, that wasn’t quite right, he supposed; it began when that godawful history lecturer from hell asked Derren to be his TA after a series of highly improbable instances in scheduling caused him to be in Mr Willoughby’s courses. Ten terms in a row. Ten. They had become quite familiar with each other in that time, in the strange sort of way coworkers do even if they detest each other with every fibre of their beings. (The Willoughby-Hale tension became a bit of a campus joke by the seventh term they had been together. It did not help that both men were very openly gay.) Mr Willoughby may have despised Derren’s constant verbal belligerence in class, but he had begrudgingly accepted that Mr Hale was quite the competent young man. On the other side, Derren had just begun thinking about applying to grad school, so he needed the money and figured it would be a good mark on his record; also, Mr Willoughby may have played a rather key role in Derren’s decision to switch from his intended maths major to European history, not that he would ever admit it.

Or perhaps it was that very first day of his second year when Derren walked into class twenty minutes early as Mr Willoughby was setting up, sat down, and proceeded to stare at his impossibly bright green eyes for the next forty minutes. An hour later, Derren realised that the lecturer was an anal-retentive, close-minded half-wit. With a very nice bum. But Derren had standards, okay?

Regardless, no matter which point Derren traced his steps back to, he couldn’t quite figure out how he got from hating Mr Willoughby’s guts to waking up next to the man himself with the unmistakable, lingering stretch and burn of a good fuck and a scattered assortment of love bites to boot.

Derren had no idea how he was going to get out of this one. So he quietly dressed, gathered the rest of his belongings, and slipped away before Mr Willoughby could wake up, hoping the night’s events would be as much a blur for the lecturer as it was for him.

Thank goodness it was Saturday.

“Seems like you had a good night,” Trevor grinned from his desk as Derren face-planted into a pile of pillows on his bed. “Might want to do a better job of covering up that love bite on your neck there, though.”

Derren sat up and threw a pillow at his flatmate before proceeding to fall back on top of the rest of the pile, mumbling “bloody wanker” through the cushions. It hit him straight in the face, but Trevor’s expression didn’t waver. Sodding schadenfreude. He may have been Derren’s best friend since they were in diapers, but that didn’t make him any less annoying.

Nonchalantly reclining on his swiveling chair, Trevor prodded, “So who was the lucky lad?”

Derren turned his head to face his friend. “Why does it matter?”

Trevor’s smile finally wavered. “You’ve been a bit not good since that whole ordeal with Emrys. Thought you’ve finally found someone better than that sod.”

“From one night out?” Derren looked mildly amused. “You knew I was already pissed by the time you left the pub.”

“You’ve never so much as snogged a random bloke before, though, even when completely sloshed.” Trevor absently scratched his head. “Find it a bit hard to believe you’d shag someone you just met.”

Derren sighed. “You know me too well.”


“So what?” Derren raised an eyebrow.

“I’m acquainted with who you were with, then?”

“Unfortunately.” An awkward silence hung in the air as Trevor continued to look expectantly at his flatmate. Derren’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “For a straight man, you are rather curious about my sex life.”

“Oh, piss off! It’s not like I’m asking for detailed information,” Trevor laughed. “You’re my best mate, Derren. Can’t I be a little worried?”

“Of course not,” Derren teased. He turned around as Trevor called him a bastard and proceeded to finally fall asleep.

Date: 19 Aug 20XX, 11:39am
Subject: Assistance required
You haven’t been by my office since Friday. I have a growing stack of papers that needs grading with your name on it.


Date: 19 Aug 20XX, 12:24pm
Subject: RE: Assistance required
I’m taking a week’s holiday.

Date: 19 Aug 20XX, 12:45pm
Subject: RE: RE: Assistance required
Are you not well?


Date: 19 Aug 20XX, 3:02pm
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Assistance required
What do you think?

Date: 19 Aug 20XX, 6:34pm
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Assistance required
Recover quickly.
Inform me immediately after you decide you’re taking leave next time.


“You’ve not left the flat in six days,” Trevor stated dully.

Derren deadpanned, “Very astute observation.”

Trevor tossed a neatly-arranged folder at his friend. “Luckily, you have a flatmate who cares enough about your grades that he’ll go around asking your teachers for assignments.”

“If you weren’t straight, I’d kiss you right now,” Derren replied in awe after catching it between both palms.

“And thank God for that.” Trevor’s mouth quirked upward. “I’ve been informed by reliable sources that you’re a bloody awful kisser.” Bracing for impact with a flying object, Trevor defensively brought his arms up to guard his head.

Browsing through the folder, Derren replied without looking up: “My eternal gratitude to you is so vast that I am not in the least tempted to throw anything at you right now.”

“Bollocks. You’ve never been that nice to me.”

“Key words: right now. I intend to retaliate later.” Grinning, Derren added, still not looking up, “You have an hour of safety remaining.”

“And for this next hour, I shall proceed to take the piss out of you in every way possible.”

“You now have forty-five minutes because of that.” Derren held out a open hand. “Now get me a pen.”

Date: 25 Aug 20XX, 4:01pm
Subject: It’s a week and a half now.
I’m beginning to get worried. Shall I come visit?


Date: 25 Aug 20XX, 4:53pm
Subject: RE: It’s a week and a half now.
You needn’t bother. It’s just a nasty cold. Almost gone.

“You’re a dirty liar,” Trevor chided right after Derren clicked “send”.

Derren scrambled to shut his laptop. “And you’re a nosy bastard.”

“I’m surprised you managed to get to your classes without running into him once, though.” Looking down at his coat and brushing spots of dust off it, Trevor added, “You shouldn’t avoid the man in charge of your paycheck, you know.”

“I have my reasons,” Derren hissed.

“My, aren’t we catty—oh,” Trevor gasped, finally putting two and two together. “You didn’t.

Derren flushed red in a combination of anger, surprise, and embarrassment. “Are you really asking me that?” he mumbled, attempting to deflect attention off himself.

“You—you—” Trevor stammered, attempting to find the right words. “I can’t believe it! You shagged your boss?”

“I was pissed off my rocker,” Derren argued, trying to defend himself. “I don’t even remember meeting him at the pub!”

“You weren’t drunk enough, apparently!” Tension grew in the air as the two men stared at each other. Then Trevor had the gall to burst into a fit of intense laughter.

“What the hell?” Derren demanded.

“I’m sorry”—Trevor squeezed out between laughs—”I just can’t believe it.” Taking a few deep breaths, he managed to regain some composure. “Honestly, I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

Derren scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was always Willoughby this, Willoughby that, Christ, Willoughby is such an arse, but my, he does have a nice one,” Trevor mocked, flailing his hands around in the most camp way he could, all the while attempting to imitate Derren’s voice.

Derren groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I do not sound like that.”

“You might as well,” Trevor sneered.

Saving Trevor from experiencing the true extent of the Wrath of Hale, the buzzer at their front door rang. Trodding along to their makeshift sitting room, he answered the door, only to be shocked out of his jovial spirits.

“Oh, Mr Willoughby, what a surprise!” Trevor said loudly, obviously feigning his tone. “Derren and I were just talking about you.”

Derren’s eyes grew wide and he panicked, jumping out of his seat and attempting to get under his bedclothes as quickly as he could without looking suspicious.

“Mr Hennel,” the teacher acknowledged curtly. “How is he?”

“Better than he was last weekend, but that’s not saying much.”

“He told me not to worry, but I decided to bring him some medicine,” Willoughby said, holding up a plastic bag.

Grabbing the bag, Trevor replied, “I’ll be sure to give it to him.”

“May I come in?”

Don’t let him in, don’t let him in, don’t let him in, you ruddy pillock,’ Derren thought furiously, hoping that somehow Trevor would get the message.

He didn’t. “Of course! You’re always welcome at our humble abode,” Trevor answered, stepping back from the door.

“Thank you.”

“Actually, since you cropped up, do you mind watching over him for a while? We’ve been running a bit low on groceries lately, but I’ve not been able to go to the grocer since Derren fell ill.”

“No, it’s fine with me,” Willoughby responded, a sliver of discomfort snaking through his usual poker face.

Trevor walked back into the bedroom to grab his things, winking at Derren as his glower grew increasingly grim.

Trevor Hennel was now officially the worst best friend in the whole entire world.

“We’ve juice in the fridge and if you want some coffee, go ahead and use the machine to make yourself a cuppa,” Trevor smiled genially, motioning toward the various appliances in their kitchenette. “Bathroom’s next to the bedroom. Thank you so much for doing this, Mr Willoughby.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Willoughby said stiffly as Trevor exited the flat.

As soon as Derren heard the door close behind Trevor, he tried to sink deeper into his bed, hoping to somehow disappear. ‘Dying under a mass of blankets and pillows does not sound so bad right about now,’ he thought.

Willoughby gave a polite knock on the bedroom door. “Is it all right to come in?”

Derren feigned a loud cough in response. Willoughby took it as a yes and cautiously entered, bringing with him two glasses of water. When Derren turned to look at him, the teacher held one up in offer. He sighed in defeat and manoeuvred into a sitting position, still in his safe cocoon of bedclothes. He held out both of his hands through the opening of said cocoon.

“I’ll hold them. Grab a chair and sit down,” Derren said weakly, trying to make his voice sound hoarse. Willoughby did as he asked, and once he had sat down at Derren’s bedside, he noticed he was smiling. Derren raised an eyebrow and asked as he held one glass out, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Willoughby said, taking it. “It’s just that…” He chucked to himself for a moment before regaining composure. “I lived in a tiny flat very much like this one when I was going for my master’s. Had to share rent and split the bedroom the same way, too.”

“It appears the plight of grad students does not change much through the ages,” Derren replied dryly after guzzling down his own cup of water. “Did you get locked out five nights in a row because your roommate brought home his girlfriend, too?”

Willoughby let out a sudden burst of laughter. “A week, actually. Then I did him one better by retaliating for two with my boyfriend from uni.”

Derren shifted uncomfortably and stared at the glass in his hands. And so the pink elephant finally makes its appearance.

Willoughby drank as the tense silence clouded over them, until finally breaking it by setting his glass down on the floor beside him and placing a hand over Derren’s interlaced hands. “About two weeks ago—”

“Don’t.” Derren let out a sharp breath of air. “It won’t happen again. It was a silly mistake; we’d both been drinking.”

“Not exactly,” Willoughby said slowly.

“I beg your pardon?” Derren asked with a distinct accusatory tone to his voice, looking Willoughby in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, Derren, it just—it kind of—” He sighed, squeezing Derren’s hands a little tighter. “I wasn’t as intoxicated as you may have thought I was. Definitely not as much as you were.”

“And you thought you could take advantage of me just because I was pissed?” Derren violently pulled his hands away, dropping the empty glass in the process; it landed on the rug beside Derren’s bed and rolled away, miraculously not shattering. “I may always disagree with you, but I thought you at least had some honour!”

Catching Derren’s fist mid-punch, Willoughby shouted back, “You’re misunderstanding me!” He pushed the younger man’s hand down and cautiously let go. “If you would just listen—”

“Then start talking!”

Willoughby took a deep breath. “That night…I only brought you back to my flat because I was worried you’d get yourself into trouble. You could barely even talk straight; I wanted you safe.”

“Does your definition of safe include sleeping with me?” Derren spat.

“No!” Willoughby sighed, stretching his hands to help clear his tension. “That was never part of my intentions. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all.”

“So why did it?”

“Because,” Willoughby paused, biting his lower lip in hesitance. Once he managed to find the words, he continued, “Because I didn’t fight it hard enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know it sounds a bit silly, but…” Willoughby let out another sigh. “I put you on my bed once we got back to my flat. I was going to sleep on the couch, and I started changing once I thought you were asleep. And well, you—Derren, are you sure you want to know what happened?”

Derren looked contemplatively at the fallen glass for a few moments before turning his eyes back to Willoughby’s and answering, “I’d like to know just how bad I am pissed, thank you.”

“Well, in that case…erm, you know, I’m not exactly sure how to put this.” Willoughby scratched his head in embarrassment. “You kind of…started having a go while I was changing. On my bed.”

Derren’s eyes widened. “‘A go’?”

“Y’know,” Willoughby laughed nervously. “Wanking.”

“While you were changing.”

“Er, yes.”

“And I was on your bed.”

“Correct.” Willoughby stared intently at the other man, waiting for his reaction.

“That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard.” Derren frowned. “If you want to cover your arse, you’re going to have to do a bit better than that.”

Willoughby growled, “I know it sounds absurd! How do you think I felt when it was going on?”

Derren sighed; it did not appear Willoughby was going to change his story. “Okay, so let’s hypothetically say this claim of yours did actually happen. How did it go from…er, a solo endeavour to one that concerned both of us?”

“Well, when I turned around to see where the funny noises were coming from, you noticed me, and…got louder?” Willoughby said hesitantly, testing the waters. Derren found that it was getting harder to swallow; his companion had a similar thought. “Then in the time it took my brain to register what was going on, you…um, came.”

“I—er. Okay. Uh.”

“So, um, yes. I decided to be a courteous host and wipe you down with a towel.”


“And I think you can see where it snowballed.”

“Indeed,” Derren replied slowly.

Fearing another awkward silence, Willoughby quickly blurted, “I’m sorry.” Before Derren had a chance to say anything, Willoughby continued on, brain-to-mouth filter apparently completely damaged. “And I know it wasn’t completely my fault that night, but…God, do I feel guilty.”

“I don’t blame you for anything; physiological reactions are hard to control,” Derren responded, attempting to comfort the other man.

“No, it’s not that.” Willoughby sighed, trying to figure out how to word his feelings best. “The truth is, I’m glad you didn’t come in last week. I-I haven’t exactly—Christ, this is hard to say—I can’t stop thinking about that night. About you.” As if to punctuate his point, he suddenly reached out and grabbed both sides of Derren’s face, cradling it. “Even now.”

Shocked, Derren stammered, “I-I-I don’t understand.”

“You can always say no. Push me away,” Willoughby said softly, then Derren’s brain short-circuited, because suddenly Willoughby’s lips were on his and—and—

Derren gently pried Willoughby’s hands away, feeling the other man stiffen, rejected. But strangely enough, surprising both of them, Derren let go and moved his arms to embrace Willoughby, drawing him closer to him, reciprocating all the while. And once he felt Willoughby’s tension fade away, he smiled.

When Trevor returned home with enough groceries to last Derren and him the next couple of weeks on their meagre grad student meal portions (he may have been an arse, but he was not a lying arse, thank you very much), he was a bit confused by the relative silence of the flat. Granted, he was not expecting Derren and Willoughby to have thrown a party in his absence, but something about the atmosphere felt strangely off, eerie. Had Derren actually died from embarrassment due to Trevor’s meddling? And killed Willoughby while he was at it?

After putting their perishable groceries in the fridge (dead flatmate and his plus-one or no, Trevor had priorities), he cautiously made his way to their shared bedroom and slowly nudged the door open, preparing for a scene of carnage and horror.

There wasn’t any carnage, but there was quite a bit of horror: a very unclothed Derren Hale straddling an equally-bare Luke Willoughby, who was currently balls-deep in his best friend’s arse. Trevor couldn’t help the tortured cry of “Jesus fucking Christ!” that escaped from his mouth, and he slammed the door a bit too loudly as he scurried from the scene.

As he absconded, he could hear Willoughby’s laughter and Derren’s scathingly scolding him in response—”I thought you locked the door, you sodding tosser!”—before his voice degraded into moans of “oh yes, Luke—fuck, right there—” as Willoughby used his position to his advantage and got Derren to shut up because they were not about to have an argument in the middle of sex, no matter how infamous their disagreements were.

Upon finally escaping the flat, Trevor started en-route to visit a certain Molly Sanders; he figured that he would not leave until a few good hours with his girlfriend’s glorious naked body wiped all traces of that traumatic incident from his mind. Because even if he had seen Derren naked before—the two flatmates had a rather flexible post-shower towel rule—there were things that no man should ever see his best mate doing. Ever.

And when Molly just laughed at him and told him he deserved it for being an arse after he whinged at her, Trevor Hennel decided that his life officially sucked.

Sweet to Tongue and Sound to Eye

by Ogiwara Saki (荻原咲)
illustrated by neomeruru

Around three o’clockish on a Thursday in October, James Wellesley lay in an excellent specimen of a claw-footed Chatterham bathtub, where he slit his wrists and waited to die. Unfortunately, the desired cessation of existence was not so accommodating, and he was forced to climb out of the tub and don appropriate clothing when summoned for supper two hours later.

“Dare not be tardy, James,” Mrs. Milborrow said as she passed him on the stairs. “The vicar will be joining us for supper.”

“Oh, the vicar,” James said as he adjusted his cuffs, trying his utmost to hide the geography of scars on his left wrist where the recent cut shone red and raw above the mass of thickened tissue. His voice, when he spoke, was butter-thick with the sort of amusement that made his aunt hesitate, stop in her tread, and place her delicate gloved hand on his arm.

“You will behave, won’t you?” she said anxiously. “I am afraid the vicar has been out of sorts with our family, on account of what your uncle said to him last Sunday at church, and I do hate for there to be any sort of bad feeling with the parish.”

James had little fondness for most of his blood relations, and the feeling was most eagerly returned, but he did have a fondness for his owl-eyed aunt, who had not complained when his parents cleaned their trunks of him and shipped him to Milborrow Court at the impressionable age of thirteen. So he took her hands between his and looked down at her from his greater height. “I will give the vicar no reason to complain,” he said.

She sighed in relief. “Mayhap you can even show him one of your little spells? The vicar does have an interest in magic.”

“How positively apostate of him,” James said, for in the past four decades since the awareness of magicians had blossomed in English society, the Church had been akin to a brooding magistrate, joyless in everything except the possibility of sentencing magicians for abuse of decency under the Arcadia Act. There was an endless struggle taking place between Dr. Carrington, head of the Royal Society of Magicians, and the Bishop of Exeter. If James were to pick up one of the circulating partisan papers, he would no doubt be regaled with yet another manifesto, from either Dr. Carrington, arguing about the essential freedom and patriotism of the English magician, or the Bishop of Exeter’s associates, warning against the dangers of idolatrous powers and seduction by fairies. James could read his fill of such debates, if he wished to, which he most vigorously did not.

That magicians had the capacity to cause havoc, he did not doubt, as he had seen a magician call down lightning on another magician’s head out of spite and no small measure of drunkenness. That magicians were idolatrous, he supposed depended on the specific magician and the amount of Christian feeling involved, or lack thereof. That there were magicians seduced by fairies might have been laughable, except James himself had been taken by fairies when he was a very young boy. Taken and, in the estimation of his less than benevolent parents, forever altered.

Did you, or did you not, lie with evil sprites and swear carnal allegiance to the Devil? his father had shouted at him.

I might very well have been tempted to, James had replied, if I had not been six years old at the time.

He adjusted his cuffs over his scars one more time, and then proceeded to join his family in the dining hall where they were wont to receive guests. Despite his brisk and efficient preparation, he was the last to arrive, as his aunt, uncle, and cousins were already seated, as was the vicar, and Mr. Hawthorne, James’ tutor. To have a mere tutor dine at the same table as the family should have been an unorthodox sight indeed. However, Mr. Hawthorne was James’ tutor in the arts arcane, and even James’ uncle was sensible enough to realize that one did not slight a magician.

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