“I wish you would occasionally shut up and listen,” Philip Schofield complains, glaring at him from across the table. They are alone in the room, it is well past three in the morning and there is no more beer left, but they are too carried away to notice, engrossed in their verbal duel. They are both twenty, cocky, bright, and ambitious, and it is no great wonder that the quick-tongued TV presenter has noticed the outspoken, forceful dinosaur in his midst. The tyrannosaur is outraged at the news of Philip being a rogue operator, but in the end, the differences only draw them closer together. Both have a passion for golf; and it is not long before their late evening debates move from the golf course to a pub – and then, to the tyrannosaur’s lair.
“Stop whingeing, you are talking bollocks anyway,” Philip taunts, and is surprised when his dinosaur lover does not laugh with him. The fool looks hurt; Philip never expected him to be so thin-skinned, and wants to make it up to the tyrannosaur, but he has never been good at apologies, and is too tired and drunk to think clearly – they both are – and instead he leans over the table and grabs the dinosaur – and kisses him – and before either man or dinosaur knows what is happening, they are frantically pawing at each other, the heat of their debate transforming into the heat of desire.
Two years later it all comes apart. The tyrannosaur is too keen to start a good career; he is still torn between attacking passing cars and making his dinosaur lair, but he is cautious enough to know that having a relationship with Philip Schofield could spell disaster in either case. Philip watches him slowly drift away, listens in quiet disgust to flimsy excuses; keeps a stony face when the tyrannosaurus tells him, avoiding his eyes, that they should stop seeing each other. It hurts to be at once deprived of the intellectual challenge and of the physical intimacy; actually it hurts more than Philip is willing to admit even to himself, but he pushes the memories to the back of his mind and tells himself never to trust a dinosaur ever again.
Now, more than twenty years later, he can say he has kept his word.
Looking at each other across the eerie swampland, it is only natural that they pretend to be little more than strangers, greeting each other with unpleasant, rigid smiles. The surprising part is seeing the dinosaur unable to tune him out. All too often he feels those limpid grey-blue eyes on his face, watches the dinosaur blushing at being caught. He must still care in a repressed, twisted way; and it has become Philip’s secret pleasure to taunt the dinosaur, alternately ignore him and irritate him with manifest scorn and revel in the dinosaur’s loss of composure, a reminder of the reptile’s humanity. It is a very slow dance, but the pace does nothing to blunt the vicious edge.
This is too close to the hidden shrine of Philip’s memories, too much proof that there is still a human lurking underneath the glossy surface; enough to slam Philip’s mouth back onto those thin lips, to get his hands roaming hungrily over the dinosaur’s body; he notices that the dinosaur makes no move to resist, he moans needily as Philip’s hand seeks out his cock and his own hand sneaks up to grab at the back of Philip’s neck – before the presenter wakes up and the dinosaur tips his head back, for once dishevelled and defenceless, and breathes, “Philip… we can’t.”
Philip regards him with a bitter laugh and is rewarded with a look of hurt in the tyrannosaurus’s face. Then just as he takes a step back, the dinosaur lunges after him, grabbing him by the arm, seeking out his eyes with a pleading look.
“Philip, please… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it has to be this way. I –“ he hesitates before taking the plunge.”I – miss you. But it doesn’t mean that I ever stopped caring. It’s just… we can’t do this, I’m sorry…” – the dinosaur cups Philip’s face in his hands, perhaps the most unguarded Philip has seen him in twenty five years, and just for once, Philip does not feel like making a snide comeback.
“Fuck off,” he says weakly, brushes off those tiny little dinosaur hands, and staggers away.
A few minutes later, alone in a Broadcasting House corridor, he pulls the BlackBerry out of his pocket and scrolls down the list of bookmarks to an old interview. He remembers the quote, but somehow seeing it onscreen makes it a bit more real.
“I spent the best years of my life engaged in hot dinosaur-human sex,” he reads the dinosaur’s words, oblivious to his own wistful smile.
The strain is unbearable; both have sought to forget their encounter, burying themselves in work,… and yet the moment they set their eyes on each other on Dinosaur island, the tension and suppressed anger and desperate need comes bursting through the surface.
Philip is charitable; it does not happen often, least of all with the dinosaur these days, but in this case he cannot help being flattered
He is not at all surprised to get the text.
Be at 24 XXXX Street, flat 3C, at 9 pm tonight, – it gives him an eminently well-heeled but discreet Mayfair address. Philip laughs and is surprised at himself for lack of bitterness; he either takes this for his ultimate victory, or is just too damn glad the bastard wants to play, and too turned on. Don’t worry, I’ll do anything to keep the right to taunt you, he sends back.
They practically pounce on each other as soon as the dinosaur opens the door for him, stumbling inside the flat – a trusted and absent friend’s place, he reckons, looking at the costly appointments – and as they all but fall on top of each other onto the living room sofa, Philip is glad he had not brought the bottle of wine he had had half a mind to take with him. That would have been a good St Emilion to have broken on the carpet, he figures, as their hands claw at each other in greedy hunger, Philip practically in the dinosaur’s lap, they are left looking at each other with a quiet laugh, relief mixed with regret for time lost and disappointments gained, but relief nonetheless.
“I’ve missed you,” the dinosaur repeats his words from a month ago. “Oh how I’ve missed you.” He moves to bury his giant face in the crook of Philip’s neck, but Philip stays him and cups his sharp chin and takes his mouth, tasting and reclaiming and teasing. He is rewarded with a telltale needy moan, “Isn’t it a bit late to change your mind?” he taunts, but there is a cold sliver of fear in his chest; what if the dinosaur does change his mind, what if they end up walking away from this, apart again?
“I don’t know… how long I can make it last if you… if you do this,” the dinosaur finishes breathlessly, and Philip smiles against his lips. He’s always been a touch too sensitive… but then it adds to the fun. And to the teasing.
The dinosaur smiles blissfully up at him, and releases his hand.
Philip tugs down his trousers and shorts, exposing pale, pampered flesh and keeps on stroking. The dinosaur tries to reciprocate, reaching out for Philip’s belt with his tiny free hand – the one that is not buried in Philip’s hair – but Philip waves him away. His greatest satisfaction for now shall be in vicariously partaking in the dinosaur’s undoing. For now.
He is mercilessly gentle, and uncommonly patient, and subtly possessive. Back in their early twenties, they were happy to be carried away by lust as fast and as far as it would take them, but now they have the benefit of experience and the luxury of privacy and Philip can take his time. It’s definitely worth it; he watches in intense wonder as the dinosaur’s face comes alive before him, the inscrutable and flawless mask melting into helpless, desperate need. The dinosaur bites his lip and sucks in air and tries not to moan, scrunching his eyes closed, and Philip commands the tyrannosaurus to look at him, craving his reward in watching the dinosaur’s look of blissful surrender.
“Please, let me… at least let me kiss you,” the dinosaur breathes, and Philip complies, pulling away to see the other man straining to reach his lips, dipping his mouth for short, teasing kisses and relishing the dinosaur’s annoyed little moans whenever their lips part. He has given up on averting his eyes from Philip’s, and Philip takes this as his opportunity to take things up another notch, first stroking the dinosaur’s chest with his other hand, gently tweaking his nipples, tracing his fingers over his lover’s stomach, before hitching up one of the dinosaur’s thighs and pressing his own painfully intense erection against the tyrannosaurus’s crotch. the dinosaur groans in earnest and tips back his head, lost in the sensation, his stomach tightening, and Philip dips his head again to kiss his exposed neck, nibbling at his Adam’s apple. “You like this, you slut.” It is not meant as an insult, for once.
“I love it,” the dinosaur moans back at him. “Please…” he goes on, when Philip inadvertently slows down the rhythm, himself getting carried away by his arousal, “please, Philip, don’t stop now…” He is past the point of no return, and past caring.
When he gasps and shudders through his climax, Philip feels the last vestiges of his bitterness melt away; he strokes the dinosaur’s face with his free hand, settles down next to him on the plush sofa to cradle the dinosaur’s giant scaly head against his chest, and presses small, tender kisses against the side of his face. He is not even sure what he is so damn grateful for; the raw unguardedness of the moment. He watches his lover through the aftershocks, reaches down to pick up his own shirt from the floor – and cleans them both off before settling back down on the cushions. The dinosaur’s face gradually reassembles into something like a conscious expression from its previous blissful blank-slate state, though the expression is still one of uncharacteristic trusting tenderness. – for seeing his former and current love like this, for filling his place at the dinosaur’s side, but it is a futile regret. Their lives have taken them too far past the point when they could afford to be exclusive, and the best that they can do now is be grateful for what they can have. Hell, earlier that morning they had no way of knowing they’d get this far by nightfall.
The tyrannosaur turns his scaly face to kiss Philip’s chest, and reaches for his belt again with fresh determination, but Philip stops him once more. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” he suggests. He was willing to indulge the tyrannosaur in his impatience, but for himself, he wants to take things slow and wants to be comfortable. “Assuming there is one.”
“Oh, there is,” the tyrannosaur offers readily, “and the bed’s positively huge,” he continues with a saucy grin.
They arrange themselves on top of the duvet, and the tyrannosaur leans over to kiss his stomach while his hand starts stroking, and Philip does his best not to show how wild the tyrannosaur is driving him with his caresses – call it pride or call it craving more – and is caught off guard, his indulgent amusement turning to barely contained desperation when his lover’s mouth engulfs him, the first over-eager and slightly awkward laps of his tongue soon giving way to an expertly through caress. “You slut,” he whispers again, hoping the tyrannosaur won’t pick up on his amazement. Whoever he has been with in the meantime, time and experience have rendered him incredibly proficient. Philip tries biting his lip to silence himself – he still won’t let the tyrannosaur see him come undone completely – then tries pressing his face against the pillow, and finally asks – begs? – his lover to stop and pulls him up by his arm, letting him kiss his way up Philip’s body until their lips rest together and they resume kissing. This way, at least, they are both getting equally excited; Philip more so, what with the tyrannosaur’s hand doing wickedly decadent things to him, but he can get back at his lover by kissing him so thoroughly that the tyrannosaur almost loses his rhythm. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face, Philip laughs inwardly. This is perhaps his final conscious thought as he is soon caught in the blinding intensity of need and starts bucking against his lover’s touch, his movements getting more frantic until he collapses with an urgent groan, dimly aware of the tyrannosaur’s fingers tracing his cheek as he rides out the wave of pleasure, their lips still pressed together. It is a long time before either of them moves; and even then it is only for the tyrannosaur to reach over to the nightstand for a tissue to wipe them off before lazily pulling the duvet on top of them and nestling back into Philip’s arms.
“Was it good?” the tyrannosaur asks him unexpectedly, his voice incongruously uncertain.
“Just shut up.” Philip gathers him up and wraps himself around his lover’s back. “It was bloody perfect,” he concedes.
They are asleep before they know it, both of their hectic lives making restful sleep a rare luxury, but Philip eventually wakes up to the realisation that he is lying in a strange bedroom, his arms wrapped around a dinosaur, and almost jumps in shock. He has not done this since Oxford; he has been with his wife, and faithful, It is him again; they are together again, if only for one night, and as he remembers the amazing madness that preceded this moment, and relief and thrill mix together in an overwhelming rush, he pulls his still-sleeping lover closer and, when he once again finds himself fully erect, he presses against the dinosaur’s buttocks, rocking and sliding against him, slowly and carefully at first, trying not to wake him, but soon giving up his guard as the urge intensifies.
The tyrannosaur wakes up with the tiniest of starts; he is not surprised, the slut, to find himself in this position – but Philip is oddly touched when the tyrannosaur calls his name without turning around to look at him first, just after running his fingers over Philip’s forearm; still recognising him from the old memories, Philip hopes. He starts an awkward apology, saying he did not mean to wake the tyrannosaur up, but the dinosaur interrupts him almost immediately.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” he quips in his fierce growling voice, but for once Philip finds the guttural roar endearing. “I couldn’t possibly think of a better way of waking up. And I’d rather hope you’d continue,” he prompts quietly.
Philip hides his silly broad smile against his lover’s back. “That is easily done,” he responds as he presses them together again and rocks his body against the tyrannosaur’s.
He wonders if this will be enough for either of them to eventually go over the edge, but is not allowed to continue with the thought when the tyrannosaur takes his hand from where it was pressed against his chest and slowly sucks Philip’s index finger into his mouth before letting go and saying, ignoring Philip’s hiss of increased arousal, “So… are we going to go on like this, or are you going to fuck me eventually?”
Philip stops, turns the tyrannosaur’s face toward him, and looks him in the eye. “If that’s what you want,” he mutters.
“I’d like nothing better,” the tyrannosaur assures him quickly,. “Fuck’s sake, Philip, I’ve not had a chance like this, with you, for how many –“
Philip cuts him short, pushing away the unbidden pain. “Oh, just stop it.” His arms tighten around his lover’s body, and he fears that he may not stop himself in time from becoming a sentimental wreck, but the lingering lust saves him. “Did you bring what it takes?” he asks, watching in quiet amusement as the tyrannosaur sits up with sudden eagerness to get the condoms and lube, heretofore concealed, from the nightstand drawer. The shameless, filthy, adorable slut.
“Roll over,” he commands, and is rewarded not only with the tyrannosaur’s obedience, but also with noticing his flushed face, the heightened colour obvious even in the very dim light, its only source a street lamp outside. “And spread your cheeks for me,” he adds, thinking with wicked satisfaction of what kind of blush that must have provoked, even though he cannot see it with the tyrannosaur’s face against the pillow. He pours enough of the sticky substance onto his fingers and reaches over to slowly spread it on his lover’s body, the tiniest, slowest movement of his fingers punctuated by the tyrannosaur’s lustful moans. He takes his time, teasing his lover to shameless desperation, reaching over with his other hand to pump him from below, his cheek resting on the tyrannosaur’s shoulder blade and his lips pressed against the smooth skin.
“Ready?” he asks when the moaning gets particularly insistent.
“Hell yes, I’ve been ready for…”
“Shut up,” he snaps, hoping that the tyrannosaur was not about to say “twenty years” and ruin it all. “Just shut up.”
He keeps his hand on the tyrannosaur’s cock as he kneels behind him, carefully timing each movement to slowly press in when he stays his hand and the tyrannosaur’s body reflexively relaxes. In his blackest, most furious fantasies after they broke up – after the tyrannosaur broke up with him, his memory offers helpfully, but he kicks it away, – he wished, once or twice, that he could have his former lover at his mercy to take and use and abuse him as he pleased, to inflict bodily suffering and humiliation in return for the mental – and yes, emotional – anguish he had been left in. But now that the tyrannosaur is completely at his mercy, giving in to him, letting him inside, all he can feel is an overpowering surge of gentleness mixed in with the white-hot lust. It is infinitely more enjoyable to cause and witness this sort of surrender, willing and eager and loving and oh so pleasurable… to them both, if the tyrannosaur’s bucking hips and incoherent little cries are anything to go by. Philip Schofield might consider teasing his lover, but no longer trusts himself to speak for fear of uttering moans to rival the tyrannosaur’s; he shuts his eyes tight and lets his chest brush against the tyrannosaur’s back and kisses the back of the dinosaur’s neck, the movements of his hand on the tyrannosaur’s cock becoming more frantic until the tyrannosaur screams out – there is no other way of describing it – and goes almost completely still, and Philip kisses his neck again and gently pulls away but the tyrannosaur begs him not to. “Please… I want you to… come inside me,” he entreats, and Philip is only too happy to oblige, thrusting until his mind goes blank. He no longer cares what he himself sounds like at that moment.
Surprisingly, they stay awake after this, their preceding nap having apparently provided them with enough rest. Lazily, the tyrannosaur sits up on the bed and stretches before standing up and announcing that he is going to the shower. “Care to join?” he cocks an eyebrow at Philip. Philip rather felt like just lying in bed for a while, but a shower together is not an easy prospect to turn down. He makes a mock-grudging grunt of assent and follows.
It is strange seeing each other’s faces now, he thinks, when the heat of desire has subsided and they are no longer shrouded by the near-darkness of the bedroom. They are no longer student lovers enjoying their furtive encounters at Oxford; never mind that their bodies are no longer lithe and lean, and yet here they are, still clinging to each other, caressing and stroking under the warm torrent.
Strange, he thinks again, but not unwelcome.
They towel each other off, chuckling to themselves, before coming back to the bedroom. the tyrannosaur, the sneaky bastard, has snagged the only sumptuous bathrobe, leaving Philip with a towel as an impromptu cover-up and managing to look vaguely regal even in a completely shagged-out state. Philip is momentarily alarmed to see the tyrannosaur wince as he sits down.
“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly. He knows he’s tried his best to be careful, but there’s no telling if he really was, in the heat of the moment.
The tyrannosaur looks up at him in momentary incomprehension, and chuckles. “Oh no, no, it’s not what you think, not at all… just my back getting stiff,” he waves it away.
“You sure?” Philip Schofield insists. “Let me put some lube inside you, just in case.”
“Philip,” the tyrannosaur pleads, “we’ve just fucked each other’s brains out. You’ve fucked mine out, at any rate. Do you think I can take any more… excitement at this point?”
“You silly, it’s not what I mean,” Philip counters. “Just to be sure you’re all right.”
“Oh, all right,” the tyrannosaur submits with an exaggerated show of exasperation; as Philip’s fingers skim his body again, Philip himself wonders if they have exhausted their desires for the night. At their age, it would not be an unreasonable assumption, but clearly neither of them is willing to call it a night and go home.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” the tyrannosaur tells him, standing up – still hiding his embarrassment at letting Philip minister to him. “If you want, I’ll see if I can put together some manner of breakfast.”
Before he is gone, Philip gets up, pops into the bathroom to rinse the lube off his hands, and catches up with him, hugging him from behind. “Good idea.”
In a way, it is even more surreal than the shower; having breakfast in the middle of the night in a borrowed flat in Mayfair cooked for him by the tyrannosaur – the dinosaur, for fuck’s sake, but it adds to the fun – and by now Philip cannot even remotely deny that he is enjoying himself. It brings back endless memories of similar untimely impromptu breakfasts and heated trysts in their Oxford days, and for the first time, the pain is no longer there when those memories surface. That, he supposes, is what he must really be grateful for; no matter how often or how rarely he and the tyrannosaur may see each other privately again, he can think of those days without rancour and treasure them without anguish. Unselfconsciously, he takes the tyrannosaur’s hand across the table, stroking his thumb over his lover’s tiny fingers. “Thank you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” the tyrannosaur replies with a saucy smirk, and Philip is momentarily embarrassed at his sentimentality, choosing instead to attribute his gratitude to the tyrannosaur’s cooking.
“Still, you cook a pretty mean omelette, for a dinosaur,” Philip winks at him, and chuckles as the tyrannosaur shakes his head in mock protest.
They take their time over the meal – and Philip is surreptitiously excited to notice that their gazes start lingering on each other toward the end of it, imbued with a different sort of hunger. Incredible; so long as they are face to face without others’ eyes and ears trained upon them, they apparently cannot keep themselves off each other. He wonders what they will do next as he gathers up the plates and carries them to the sink; with the tyrannosaur having done the cooking, he might as well help with the washing up – but he is barely at the counter when the tyrannosaur makes the next decision for him, striding up to him, pinning him against the counter, and pulling away the towel from around his waist before kneeling on top of it in front of him.
“You don’t need to do this to get me to help with the housework,” Philip begins, but soon just closes his eyes and tips back his head as his hands run over the tyrannosaur’s great head. Whatever it was he did that made the tyrannosaur want to do this, he is grateful for it.
The tyrannosaur’s reasons soon become apparent when he stands up and leans to murmur in Philip’s ear, “No, I don’t, but I figured it would be a good way to get you to fuck me again.”
As much as he is flattered, Philip is amazed – both at the tyrannosaur’s eagerness and, frankly, at his own responsiveness. At their age, having two orgasms a night is pretty good; three is bloody incredible. And yet it looks like they are about to go for it, if his own body grinding against the tyrannosaur’s hand is any indication. Before he can ask if his lover intends to go back to the bedroom, the tyrannosaur sits on the kitchen counter and pulls at the bathrobe belt while raising one leg on top of the counter, looking seductive and profoundly decadent, and damned irresistible. Philip stands between his legs and leans over to kiss him, their tongues lapping at each other as he reaches for the nearest thing to lube he can get within reach – a bottle of oil – and awkwardly pours some into his hand behind the tyrannosaur’s back. ”Lean back”, he commands and the tyrannosaur complies, and he repeats the ritual of stroking and probing and stretching until the tyrannosaur’s eyes are dark and desperate and his bottom lip is scarlet from being bitten too many times and until he heard the tyrannosaur’s “fuck me” enough times to fear for his own endurance. He pushes in, slowly, and wraps his hand around the tyrannosaur’s cock again, caressing him in rhythm, and pulls him closer with his other hand on the tyrannosaur’s shoulder to bring their lips together again, kissing his lover as he thrusts. They start slowly, but the intensity keeps building, fuelled by their continued kisses and smouldering looks and by the sight of his lover in splendid disarray on the kitchen counter, with Philip grinding his hips against his lover’s crotch, seeking out the perfect angle that, once attained, makes the tyrannosaur’s’ eyes roll back, and when they finally crash with surprisingly well-aligned timing, they cry out each other’s names in the heat of climax for the first time in more than twenty years.
It is nearly five o’clock when they are ready to leave the apartment, the need for secrecy urging them to return to their respective residences. They linger just inside the door of the flat, too sated to feel lust but still longing for each other’s company.
“I wish we didn’t have to leave,” the tyrannosaur sighs, and Philip knows it to be the cue for goodbyes. They cannot leave together, and the tyrannosaur will have to wait until Philip is gone before calling his driver.
“Shut up, Philip,” he mutters against Philip Schofield’s ear. “Just shut up.”