Work Text:
Songfic for English Love Affair by 5SOS, i'd advise listening to it as you read!
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He never quite planned for it to go as it did.
It all started with an argument, a warring of verbal daggers, resulting in a drive a hundred miles away, ending up in a dive bar.
It felt like a thousand miles that the brunet had driven, mouth as dry as his motor, the strongest type of alcohol his ideal gasoline.
He needed some kind of intervention, this had happened more than once, always ending the same, drinking away the night, crashing at a hotel and driving home the next day listening to the same old apology, waiting for tempers to boil over again.
But this time it was different, for it wasn’t the regular company of biker gangs and the occasional gaggle of teenage girls occupying the bar. A few couples grinding on the dancefloor, a few singletons milling around pouncing on those looking the weakest, and a guy who sat alone, slightly sheepish but completely smug in his surroundings.
The dim lighting somehow accentuated his seemingly milk-bottlesque complexion, and it was ridiculous how good it looked.
And then he smiled.
Dan slid onto a barstool at the opposite end of the bar, the bartender now knowing to give him one of everything strongest, due to far too frequent visits. Dan kept his gaze trained solely at the black-haired guy, and it seemed the gesture was reciprocal.
When the guy stood up, it was hard for Dan to keep his gaze anywhere but the obvious, and when the guy ascended the staircase it took everything Dan had not to run up after him.
Not that it took too long.
The guy came back down a few minutes later and strode confidently towards the exit, stopping abruptly to drag Dan up to his feet by his collar, and simply raised an eyebrow. A universal sign, evidently, as all Dan had to do was nod before he was dragged out of the bar and towards a car parked in the shadows, away from prying eyes.
The back seat of the car was surprisingly comfortable, for sloppy hook-up bar sex.
But it didn’t end there.
Next thing Dan knew they were back at the guy’s place, and that’s when things escalated, in more ways than one.
Letters addressed to Phil Lester littered the side table which toppled over as Dan was pressed against the wall beside it, the exposed flesh of his neck being sucked and nibbled as he got to work on the guy – Phil’s – shirt, growing impatient and instead ripping the fabric open, causing the other man to moan softly as Dan’s cold hands explored the newly found beginning of a six-pack, and set to work below, but his hands were brought back up to his chest and a sloppy kiss pressed to his lips, and Phil grinned before pulling away and dragging Dan into the living room.
To say how experienced the guy seemed, he appeared to live a cushy life according to his home décor, and the stark contrast all added up to why Dan couldn’t sit cross legged on the sofa much longer.
Shot glasses were smacked down onto the coffee table and a twenty percent beverage of some kind smashed beside it, and shot after shot was downed by the two before they set to work on each other, hungrily pulling down garments of clothing and the occasional licking of lips and annoyed huffs when things weren’t going just as fast as they’d have liked.
It seemed in a blink of an eye Phil was dragging him up the stairs, fooling around on the sofa just not enough, and the occasional grope on the staircase proving just what was in store. It all seemed so ridiculous, but logic was taking a serious hit as a satisfying fuck was all that was on Dan’s mind, top priority.
It all seemed so serious when Phil was sweating on top of him, greasy strands of hair brushing Dan’s nose, and it definitely wasn’t ending there. Not that any wanted it to. The way Phil looked, pupils dilated and lips pressed in a fine line as he looked down at Dan, was ridiculous, he just looked so good. And tonight, he was all Dan’s. And that? That was all he needed.
“You’re so fucking hot” Phil grinned as he thrusted again, pushing a few astray strands of hair from Dan’s face, passion-induced sweat thankfully disguising his blush.
Nobody could ever take the memory of when Dan was forced to grab the brightly coloured valance sheet, and when the duvet was embroidered the creamiest of white.
Nobody could ever take the memory of when Phil asked for round three, and Dan beat his personal record, the king-sized bed imprinting on Dan’s memory as a conquered victory.
Dan knew nobody would believe him, and nobody needed to.
He didn’t need his mates to high-five him and call him a ‘living legend’. He was happy to remain the quiet one, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
He didn’t need to explain himself when he arrived home the next morning, hair dishevelled in every direction and a smirk that refused to budge even when his husband apologised and promised they’d work their problems out.
He didn’t need to explain to his one year old son why daddy didn’t come home last night, and why daddy arrived this morning stinking of unfamiliar cologne and neck covered in the darkest of purples barely hidden by the collar of a hoodie conveniently found in the car.
Because nobody could take the memory.
The picture was burned in his brain, a mental fantastical movie playing in his head, of his monochrome sheets the brightest of blues and greens and his husband of four years being a black-haired man with piercing blue eyes and pale skin, now covered in scratch marks and dominantly bitten hickeys.
Because he’d had Phil Lester, a good old fashioned English love affair.