I’m not sure why I’m in maths class during the Christmas hols.
I’m also not sure why Trixie’s snogging Philippa up against the professor’s desk. Seems a bit risqué, especially since Trixie’s got a girlfriend. (Did Trixie and her girlfriend break up? I feel like she would’ve mentioned…) (They can’t’ve done; Trixie never shuts the fuck up about her girlfriend. Also they live together, which would make things sort of tricky all ‘round.) (Maybe they’re doing the whole open relationship thing…)
I look to my right, and Niall’s sat there smiling. I’m suddenly offended on his behalf. (I sort of forgot that Philippa has a boyfriend. Niall. Niall is Philippa’s boyfriend...)
He should probably be more bothered than he is. Or maybe he gets off on it. Or maybe they broke up, too. (He would’ve fucking told me; there’s no fucking way I wouldn’t know that…)
Niall turns his attention back to his laptop. Doesn’t even blink an eye. He’s got a bit of auburn hair falling into his eyes, and I’d like to reach out and push it back for him. Which is well polite and also a bit of a strange thought. (Maybe I should have a chat with Baz about odd thoughts.) (Probably this doesn’t qualify.) (Still.)
When I look back to the front of the room, Trixie and Philippa are naked. Completely starkers.
“What the fuck is going on?” I say, and it seems farther away than it should. Also I feel like I should find this more arousing. If this were a porno I’d’ve popped at least half a stiffy by now.
I’m just now realizing it’s only the four of us in the room. And also Trixie and Philppa’ve just disappeared. So I guess that makes two of us.
“Where’d they—” but I stop. Because Niall’s naked too. He’s sat at his desk completely starkers—
Oh, no, now he’s in my lap. Straddling me good and proper. We’re in his dorm. Or mine, maybe.
Also I’m hard now, fuck.
What the fuck.
“Dev,” Niall says. “The truth will set you free.”
“The fuck, mate?” I say, but also I’m running my hands up and down his sides and the feel of him under my palms has my dick twitching in my trousers. (Because I’m still dressed for some fucking reason.)
"He's right, Devereaux," Baz says. And I'm not thinking it's weird he's here; I'm thinking it's weird he's calling me Devereaux. He's not called me that since year four.
"What are you on about?" I say. I'm holding Niall by the hips now, and he's got his arms draped over my shoulders.
Baz huffs at me and goes back to mixing something in a bowl. I think maybe we're at his flat, if he's here. But also this sort of looks like the Nico's break room. But with a kitchen.
"Making banana bread. Obviously. You idiot," Baz says. He's dressed in his football kit from secondary. I think he's wearing Salisbury's apron overtop…
Niall’s started nibbling at my neck, right in a spot that really gets me going. I wonder how he knows about it, and then I realize I've probably told him, and then I remember he’s naked and Baz is stood just across from us and also—
“What’re you doing?” I ask, but it comes out a little like a moan. Which is fine. This is fine.
“Giving you what you want,” Niall says. I’ve never heard him sound like this before. (I think I like it. A lot. Which might be weird.)
I push my hips up into him—just to see what happens, I guess—and find that he’s hard, too. Which shouldn’t be surprising. (It’s not really.) I do it again, because I want to this time. (I guess I probably wanted to the first time, too.)
“Jesus Christ, you deviant,” Baz says. “I’m trying to make a latte.”
“Me?!” I say. When I look over at Baz, we’ve got a full-on espresso setup on the break room counter. “What about him?” I try to gesture at Niall but it comes out like more of a shrug since I’m still holding onto his hips. (It also pushes my hard-on up against him, which feels better than it really has a right to.)
Baz rolls his eyes at me. “What about him?”
“He’s the one who’s naked!”
Baz scoffs. “Who’s fucking fault is that?”
Niall’s working on my neck again, grinding against me, and I’m afraid I might come in my pants right in front of my cousin at this point.
“Could you at least turn around?”
Baz rolls his eyes again. “I’m not sure what you’re in a strop about. I’ve seen you naked before.”
There’s a hot wire coiling in my belly, burning, burning, burning, and I swear to fucking God I’m going to come. Niall’s about to make me come—
"The truth will set you free, Dev—”
I wake up fucking myself into my mattress.
I roll over with a groan—I'm at least awake enough to know I don't want to come all over my sheets.
And I'm about to come really fucking hard.
I've barely got my hand in my trousers when I explode all over my fist. Didn't even have time to push them down. Which is fine. I guess.
What the actual fuck did I just dream?
Trixie and Philippa snogging in maths? And then just vanishing into thin air…
Baz dressed in his old football kit and an apron making...something? Does Baz even cook?
I think Baz was watching me fuck. Definitely out of the norm for him, the fucking prude.
Suddenly I’m remembering that time I accidentally drunk-texted Baz a dick pic. (He thinks I wasn't embarrassed about it. I acted like I wasn't; but who the fuck wouldn't be embarrassed about sending an unintended someone a candid shot of their bits?)
Was Baz watching me fuck?
He seemed irritated with me. Of course he did. Even in my fucking dreams.
I think he was baking banana bread in his football kit.
Not in his football kit. Like, he was wearing it while baking…
It's really fucking weird to be thinking about Baz right after I've wanked. Sort of. Didn't really take much effort; seems like the dream had that covered…
But why would I get off on Baz baking banana bread?
(I'm not attracted to Baz, am I?) (I suppose he's a good-looking bloke. Fit. And also my cousin, so…) (Fucking hell, this is some Game of Thrones bullshit…)
I try to imagine kissing him. Like. Just to test it out. But just thinking about imagining kissing Baz makes me want to vom, so I guess that solves that.
More than a bit of a relief, honestly.
I guess it was just a weird dream. A weird dream that ended…happily. And stickily. I’ve got the proof in my pants.
Maybe I just really, really like banana bread.
Maybe I have a food kink.
Maybe it’s a banana-specific kink…
I feel like I would’ve known that by now, if I did, but I suppose life’s just a journey of self-discovery, really. Like, if you have a food kink I don’t think that’s something you’re born knowing…
I don’t know that there’s much that could really be done with a banana, sexually. Hm.
I feel like I’d be able to think up more uses, if bananas were actually a thing that got me off.
I’m really, really knackered. Could just go back to sleep…
I force myself to get up and have a piss and throw my pyjama bottoms in the hamper. Then I pull on a fresh pair and get back into bed. I'm not sure why I woke up so fucking early…
I keep thinking about banana bread as I toss and turn. Flip my pillow over to the cool side. Curl up in a ball because it's a bit nippy in here, Jesus.
I don't want to get up again to fix the thermostat.
Now I'm bloody famished, too. I sort of want to make banana bread. Maybe Baz has a recipe that I subconsciously knew about...or something…
I can ask him later, if I remember…
I still think it's pretty fucking weird that I nearly had a wet dream. Close fucking call, honestly. Another minute asleep and I would've just unleashed into the mattress.
Fuck, it's been a while since I had an actual wet dream. It's like puberty all over again, just less feverish. And with bananas…
Baz was watching me fuck.
No, he wasn't. He was just there. And…
God, he called me Devereaux. Jesus fucking Christ. The last time he called me that, he was still in his moody preteen phase. (Sometimes I feel like he’s still in his moody preteen phase.)
Baz was there while I fucked…
Who did I—
Fuck, I’m tired…
I startle and sit up. And then I realize I’ve not missed maths. We took our final exam just yesterday. No more class. Not for a few weeks.
I lie back down again. (I’m starting to think maybe I should just get up for the day at this point.) Just try harder to fall asleep. Or don’t try to fall asleep. Whatever the right advice is, I don’t know.
We’re going to the cinema tonight, Niall and Baz and Baz’s bloke. His friend, too. And Philippa. I don’t want to be tired for that. I guess I could get by on a coffee or two, if I needed, but—
He’s the one who’s naked!
I almost laugh. Almost.
Niall. Niall was…
Well, he was bloody well straddling me, wasn’t he? Good and proper. And...
I'm sat up again, staring at the wall.
I dream-shagged Niall.
Or I guess he sort of dream-shagged me. I guess…
Holy shit, is that what the bananas were all about?
My mobile's facedown on my bedside table. I pick it up. (I try to ignore the surge of—fuck, is that excitement?—in my gut and chest when I see I've a text from Niall. The tosser is actually a morning person. The tosser I dream-shagged…
Okay. Okay, this is fine. It was just a dream.
I open Google and type in a search. What do bananas symbolize in dreams?
I don't know why it matters. It was just a fucking—
Oh my God.
This is fine.
I'm biting my lip, staring at the screen.
No, that makes absolutely no sense.
I set my mobile back down and pull my blanket up around me. My hand's shaking as I card my fingers through my hair. I snort when I remember dream me wanting to push dream Niall's hair out of his eyes like some kind of lovesick idiot.
This is probably bullshit, anyway. Dream symbolism. Complete tosh. An actual, literal flaming pile of rubbish.
It was just a dream. And it was just Niall.
I dream-shagged Niall. Niall dream-shagged me. Sort of, anyway. While Baz watched and chastised me and made banana bread.
Ha. Boners and banana bread. Bo-nana bread.
I'm giggling to myself even as I start to panic.
Why the fuck doesn't this seem out of the realm of possibility? I guess Baz chastising me is the common thread…
Alright. Obviously it's hot to dream about sex, yeah? It's not like it means anything. It was just a shag.
A dream shag.
I go out on a fucking limb and try to imagine kissing him. I figure the same thing will happen, like when I tried with Baz. (Which still makes me shiver to think about, and not in the good way.)
I don’t...hate it.
Also apparently I know exactly what Niall’s mouth looks like.
I should, shouldn’t I? We’ve been friends for more than a decade; of course I know exactly what his mouth looks like. Of course I know he’s got that weird scarring on his upper lip from that time he split it playing footie. And the dip of the acne scar at the corner. And the cluster of pale freckles on the opposite side.
I feel like maybe this isn’t the first time I’ve considered this. I feel like there’ve probably been some drink-induced instances…
Fucking hell, I hope I’ve not sent Niall any dick pics over the years. (I don’t think I have, and he’s never said…) (I feel like he would’ve said? We don’t have secrets. Then again he might just be too nice.)
What if I’ve sent Niall a dick pic?
I guess that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. It’s a good dick, otherwise I wouldn’t be sending photos of it at all. Probably.
Niall’s got that scar on his upper lip…
I’m still imagining kissing him, and I still don’t hate it. And also I’m thinking how it’d feel to trace that scar with my tongue which is…
Probably not a thing mates do.
There’s a thrill in my belly when the me in my mind pushes his—Niall’s —hair back from his face. And dips my tongue against that scar. And when he starts kissing me back...
Well. I'm well and truly fucked, is what I am.
I’m figuratively fucked.
...and also I'm hard again.