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Spice Up Your Life (Every Boy and Every Boy)

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Neil had been planning on a quiet night at home with takeaway while Olly and his band rehearsed and prepped for Brixton. He was still, ostensibly, somewhat ill, and he'd been told in no uncertain terms that he was to care for himself and get better or else. He wasn't actually sure what that meant, but it had sounded quite serious when Dr. Wong had said it.

But then Neil saw Olly's Halloween costume.

"What d'you think? Do I make a decent Ginger Spice?" Olly asked as he emerged from the bathroom, teetering on eight-inch platforms and wearing—a dress.

An exceptionally short, tight Union Jack dress that barely hid the fact that Olly hadn't bothered to put on his underwear after getting out of the shower.

And his legs.

His legs were utterly, completely smooth.

Neil's much-abused, post-laryngitis throat went dry.

"Neil? What'd you think?" Olly asked, looking to him for answers, while all Neil could do was look at Olly's exceptional legs on full-on display in a way Neil had never seen them before.

And he'd seen them a lot.

He'd seen them in loose shorts while Olly writhed and jumped and minced on stage. He'd seen them wrapped around his own hips, the image of them fucking reflected in the mirror in a way Neil wouldn't forget in a hurry. He'd seen them upon waking, duvet kicked all the way to the foot of the bed, tidy ankles just barely wrapped in sheets and pert arse on full display.

But this was. This was something else.

Completely smooth, with the heels forcing Olly's thighs into previously unseen definition. Shapely like a model's, really, and Neil had known that he was dating an angel on two perfect legs, but there was knowing, and then there was Olly in a ridiculous dress with shaved legs, standing on eight-inch heels naught but two feet from his face.

"Neil? Is it all right? I know it's ridiculous, but it's, you know, meant to be ridiculous, and Elaine is going to do this full-on like zombie makeup and it's gonna be—are you all right?"

Neil's gaze snapped up to Olly's concerned one. "Uh, yeah. Why?" he squeaked.

"You were making a wheezy sort of noise..are you still really ill, babe? I knew you should have stayed home last night… D'you want me to leave you alone? You're all—are you still feverish?"


Next thing Neil knew, Olly was right next to him, hot hand on Neil's forehead, and Neil felt feverish, but not in an ill sort of way. Olly smelt of their shower gel and steam mixed in with the cheap-shop scent Neil guessed had to be the dress itself. This close up, the fold in the front of it could not be mistaken for anything else.

Neil grabbed Olly's hand and brought it to his lips. He met Olly's gaze in a way he hoped was transparent. "I'm not feverish."

Olly's eyebrows quirked. He cocked a hip, then tilted his head. "Oh? You sure?"

Trust a popstar to be able to switch registers with no warning. Olly's voice came out just a little husky. Just a little low.

Just a little like his genuine sex voice.

And, oh. Olly's sex voice.

"I'm sure," Neil whispered and turned Olly's hand over in a way that allowed him to bite at his wrist, making Olly hiss. Neil licked the spot, not taking his eyes off his boyfriend's.

Olly sucked in his lower lip, then let it go. Shiny, flushed pink. So ready for Neil. "So, you like the dress, then?"

Neil circled Olly's wrist until he had all of it in his grasp and licked a hot stripe up to his elbow. Then he pulled just enough that Olly, unprepared and wearing platforms, wobbled and fell, just catching himself with one hand on the back of the sofa. Neil used the momentum to unceremoniously slide his hand up Olly's skirt and feel the smoothness of his thighs first-hand. So to speak.

Olly's eyes went dark, his cheeks taking on that pink sheen that Neil's skin tended to hide. Olly never hid anything. His desire pumped through him always, a physical thing, so bright in the flush of his cheeks, the curve of his spine, the heat of his pulse.

"Yeah," Neil said, hoarse with his own desire. "I like the dress."

"Any further suggestions on improving it?" A whisper. Olly didn't move, letting Neil's hand and the sofa take the brunt of his insubstantial weight, but Neil felt like Olly was crushing his very chest.

"Yes," he said as succinctly as he could manage. "Turn around. Bend over."

He let go of Olly's wrist and Olly gave him a look—a look—before spinning on his heel, presenting Neil with his back, and then slowly—oh, so slowly—folding himself forward until his arse was two inches and a layer of flimsy fabric away from Neil's face. He propped his hands on his thighs and thrust his arse out an extra inch.

Neil's skin felt too fucking tight for his body. He stayed where he was, aware of his blood going south, and simply took him in.

Olly loved being taken to the edge of what he could handle, and Neil wondered how much of this balancing act he could take.

If he knew his boy, it was quite a lot.

The flat was filled with silence. Neither of them wanted to give in and be the first to break, to betray how difficult it had got to breathe.

There were spots Olly'd missed shaving, the insignificant hairs at the backs of his knees, for one, but it hardly mattered. The very image of Olly bent over in the bath, running a razor up his legs over and over was enough to fill Neil's veins with heat.

And then there was the reality of Olly. Long slim legs made this way from so much dancing and fucking. And genetics—luck of the draw. His lucky, lucky boy. He was wearing long socks—signature—but they weren't enough to hide his lovely calves from view. The calves tapered to the vulnerable backs of his knees, which flowed so flawlessly into his thighs. Pale, utterly smooth, and just a little flushed at the top.

Right below the water line.

And then, the dress. Just enough coverage to tantalize, not enough to hide the grace. The strength. Olly was slim, but he was tough.

Even after five minutes of standing bent over, presenting his arse to Neil, he wasn't breaking a sweat. The only way Neil knew he was straining was the minute quivering of the dress's hem.

Five minutes was enough for Neil. He swung his legs over the edge of the sofa, planted them on the floor, reached out with both hands. With shaking fingers, he took the hem and lifted it up, then rested it on top of Olly's arse.

If he'd been hard before, it was nothing to now.

Olly's arse was still flushed from the shower, red from scrubbing and the too-hot water that he preferred. Unlike his legs, it was downy with hair still, dark hairs hiding in the lovely middle, the spot where Neil loved to tease him to utter oblivion. His bollocks were drawn up tight, the only sign from this angle that Olly was as hard as him.

Heels really did do wonders for an arse. Not that he hadn't known that, but it was one thing to be used to the sight of your best friend's bottom in various situations, and another to have your boyfriend in eight-inch heels and a dress, presenting for your pleasure.

Already pert from his stage shenanigans, Olly's arse was a wonder to behold now. Neil wanted to lay his own marks over the shower's pink.

One slap on one cheek, one on the other. He watched with some satisfaction as gooseflesh appeared beneath the flush. He followed the sight of it, saw that Olly's thighs and calves pricked as well.

Olly was still silent, but Neil could hear the echo of his gasps floating in the air between them.

He did it again. Unmistakable gasp, this time. Wet-sounding, and hot. Another slap. Another gasp.

He couldn't wait anymore. Laryngitis be damned.

Neil used his thumbs to spread Olly open, leaned in, and licked where Olly was hottest. Olly shook beneath him now, but stayed so silent, so good. Neil gripped his hips to take some of his weight and then went at him like a prisoner released.

Olly was clean. Too clean, really, not enough of his musk left over after being scrubbed, but Neil gave him his own scent. Gave him his spit and breath, tonguing at the center of him, reveling in the shivers and twitches of Olly's arsehole against him. God, he tasted so fucking good, once Neil licked all the soap off of him.

Lost to it entirely now, Neil pulled him in closer, began to open him up with this tongue. Bit by bit, Olly let him in. In increments, Neil got him ready, got him prepped. It was nominal preparation, really—they always used lube, anyway—but it was part of the ritual, part of the play.

And Neil loved eating Olly out even more than Olly loved getting it.

Neil squeezed his hips twice, and Olly, released from silence, let out a mother of a cry. High and desperate, an echo of his strain colouring his voice. He sounded wrecked. He had shows coming up, still, maybe this wasn't wise, but when had they ever been wise? Neil needed him, and Olly needed Neil. Neil'd fix him a cuppa as part of the aftercare.

Enough. He was ready. They both were.

Neil took in a shuddering gasp of a breath, then pulled at Olly hard enough that he landed in Neil's lap, arse hot against Neil's trackies. Neil grabbed what he could of Olly's hair and leaned in, his mouth against his ear. "What should I do to you?" Also nominal. They both knew.

Olly made an incoherent noise. Neil ran one hand across the front of his dress, then fumbled it beneath the hem. God, yes. There it was. Olly gasped. "You should fuck me," he panted.

"Yeah? Should I fuck you in this dress? Bend you over the sofa, have you show me your arse, just shove the hem up and do it?"

"Yes. Yes, God, yes, please, fuck—"

"How hard?" Neil breathed, his lips dry and quickly losing moisture.

"So hard," Olly whispered. "As hard as I can take it." His ears were bright, bright red. When Neil reached up and licked the delicate shell, Olly shuddered in his arms. "So fucking hard," he whined.

"Get up, then."

It was a little cruel, really, because Olly was barely balancing on those shoes, weighed down as he was by his dick. But he obeyed, anyway, wavered only slightly, then went right down with his hands propped on the back of the sofa, legs so straight, he could have led a bloody yoga class if he wanted to.

Neil stripped quickly. It wasn't much to begin with, just a t-shirt and trackies, then reached over to the side table, grabbed the lube from the drawer. Olly wasn't even attempting to keep silent anymore, his breathing ragged and fast. Music to Neil's ears.

Lube on his cock, some on his hand, and then he was inside Olly with two fingers, drinking in his cries. God, he was so open for him, so fucking ready, and still so tight. Tight and hot and his. It didn't take much some days.

"Please, please, please—"

Neil leaned over until his entire front was being scratched to bits by the cheap fabric of the dress, reveling in it all. He lined himself up, ran a free hand down Olly's back, and thrust home.

They both cried out at that. God, but this was never not amazing. Olly welcoming him, Neil feeling every inch of him from the inside out.

He pulled out nearly to the end, then thrust back in. Olly loved that stretch, loved the way his skin sang at every teasing point of contact with Neil's cock, and Neil gave it to him, gave him all of it. He watched his hands on Olly's hips, half-hidden by the falling hem of the dress, watched the way Olly met him thrust for thrust, wanton with it, and utterly shameless.

Neil squeezed shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

He wouldn't touch Olly's dick, but this meant that he had to last, too, if he were to give Olly what they both wanted. Couldn't come before Olly, couldn't take that away from him. Slow at first, then picking up speed, he fucked him again and again, losing himself in the thrum of it, the raw feel of their skin meeting inside and out. It had only been a handful of months that they'd begun to go without condoms, and it still felt new every single time. Still felt precious. Felt like home.

Beneath him, Olly was losing words, but not his voice. His every breath was amplified by need, both met and unmet, and Neil had to stop himself from reaching around and finishing him off just so he could come himself. But no, he wanted this. Wanted Olly a near-puddle under him, wrung out and done in, coming because Neil forced it from him with every fibre of his being.

He leaned over, covered Olly's back, found the sweet spot below his ear, and bit. Olly buckled, and Neil let him. He sucked on the tendon, raised Olly's blood beneath the skin, could almost feel the tingle of it as if in sympathy. Olly staggered, landed on his knees on the cushion, and Neil didn't bloody care anymore. He fucked him hard and fast and only had the presence of mind to lift Olly's dress enough out of the way so that when Olly came—and came so beautifully, so breathlessly untouched, for a staggering endless moment—he didn't spoil his costume. Olly's cries encircled them both as he shook.

Neil's own orgasm felt torn from his body. From his cock, from his arse, from his limbs, from his heart. He came and came, came until he was wrung dry, and then they sagged against the sofa cushions and did the best they could at getting their breath back.

This probably wasn't what Dr. Wong had had in mind, but fuck Dr. Wong. Neil could do his own healing.

His senses took a while to return. Olly protested with elbow to rib (standard; understandable) and Neil unglued himself from the dress, pulled out as gently as he could.

He saw the error of his ways a moment later.

It wasn't that they hadn't fucked on the sofa prior to now. It was just that, they had never done it bareback. And never quite like this.

Olly groaned and laughed simultaneously as Neil's come slowly slid down his leg and made its inexorable way downward. When Neil tugged him just a little ways away from the back cushion, he saw Olly's load all over it.


Olly turned his head enough to catch his eye. "We could just, like…turn it over, right?" He bit his lips, but it wasn't enough to hide his impish smile. "No one need ever know."

Neil groaned and sagged down onto the fabric arse-first. "I'll clean it up." Imagine the smell if he didn't.

"Just turn it over," Olly laughed, then winced. "Oh God. I need to take these fucking shoes off."

Neil tugged at him until Olly landed back in his lap, protesting weakly, "Oh no, the cushions."

"Fuck the cushions," Neil breathed and kissed the shorn side of Olly's head. He ran his hands down Olly's bony shoulders, down his arms, down until their fingers intertwined. He felt the last of his own come smearing between their thighs. "Hope the dress is all right, though."

"You can clean that up, as well."

Neil laughed. "Fine. But only because I want you to wear it again," he warned. He wasn't cleaning dresses just for anyone.

"Oh, I plan to." Olly giggled, squirming in Neil's lap. Neil stilled him with a hand. It was one thing to feel that fabric whilst fucking. Quite another when it scratched across your spent dick. "It's for the Thursday show and all that."

"I meant with me," Neil said quickly. "And those heels."

Olly snickered, then turned his head so they could catch each other's eye. "You're so bloody easy."

Neil narrowed his eyes. "You wanted this."

"Duh." Olly actually rolled his eyes. Utterly shameless. "I'm dressing up as Ginger Spice. When Ginger Spice was a thing, all I ever dreamt about was getting fucked by hot guys. This is, like, the culmination of all my dreams. I'm a popstar and I've got a hot guy to fuck me into eternity."

Neil groaned and let his head fall back against the sofa arm. "You're a scheming harlot."

Olly giggled, loud and bright. "That's how you love me best," he declared.

And Neil—Neil couldn't argue. Neil couldn't argue one little bit. And so, he didn't.