Yo Ho Ho


Starring Thom and Phil from The Happy Onion


© Copyright 2010 Ally Blue


When Thom saw Phil in the foyer of their house in that ridiculous dress, he almost wished he hadn’t refused to be the pirate wench for this damn party.


Thom snickered. “Phil, you make the worst woman in the world.”

“Are you kidding me?” Phil shifted the square neckline of his red, white and black frock to better frame the hairy pecs that he hadn’t even tried to squeeze together into cleavage. “I look hot as a chick.” He twirled a lock of long golden-brown hair around one finger and batted his eyelashes.

“Not even if you’d bothered to shave. Which, by the way, I’m glad you didn’t.” Bracing his hands on Phil’s chest, Thom rose on tiptoe and bit Phil’s bearded chin. “Forget it, Phil. You’re too manly to make a convincing girl.”

“Damn skippy.” Phil’s arms went around Thom’s waist. “You know, you could’ve—”

“Don’t go there.”

“Right.” Phil gave Thom’s ass a smack before letting him go. “Alrighty then. You ready to roll, Cap’n Bubbles?”

They’d been together long enough that the nickname no longer irritated Thom like it used to. In fact, these days he thought it was kind of cute.

Not that it would do to let Phil know that.

Thom pinned the big guy with the stern look that tended to make him drool on his collar. “Phil. No.”

Phil grinned, half lustful and half sheepish and all sexy, and Thom’s cock stirred in the tight leather pants Phil had sweet-talked him into wearing. He wondered how much Phil would mind if they just skipped this shindig. Who the hell threw a costume party for the Fourth of July anyway? He liked Belial’s Basement, it was a fun club, but there was no denying the management had a weird fixation on dressing up.

Chuckling, Phil sidled closer, leaned down and planted a kiss on Thom’s mouth. “You got that look on your face, sweet thing. You wanna lift your wench’s skirt real quick before we go?”

So, no getting out of the party. Thom sighed. Much as he’d like to bend Phil over the back of the sofa, find his way through all those ruffles and see if the big hippie could at least scream Thom’s name like a girl, there was no way in hell he was squirming out of his torturously tight pants if he had to turn around and squirm right back into them. It took him long enough the first time, and he hadn’t even been sticky with spunk and sweat that time.

Thom shook his head. “I guess not. I’d need another shower before I could get these stupid pants back on.”

Was it his imagination, or was that a smirk on Phil’s face? Like he’d known Thom was going to say that?

Surely not. Shaking off the ridiculous thought, Thom grabbed Phil’s ass and squeezed through the ruffled skirt. “Do we have to go to this party?”

“Yes, we have to.” Phil brushed away a lock of hair that had come loose from Thom’s ponytail and fallen into his eyes. “We promised.”

You promised.” Thom pressed closer, both hands still clamped onto Phil’s butt, and gazed up at Phil with all the lust and need rapidly rising inside him. “We can play pirates here, if you want. I can be the infamous No Beard the Merciless and you can be my prisoner. I can…” What sorts of nefarious things did pirates do to their prisoners, anyway? “I can tie you up and suck your cock until you…I dunno, give me information, or something.”

Phil laughed. “As awesome as that sounds—and it does—it’ll have to wait, because we are going to this party.” Cupping Thom’s face in both hands, Phil kissed him again, deeper this time. The tip of his tongue flicked across Thom’s tongue stud, tearing an embarrassing whimper from his throat. Phil did it again, just because he was a bastard that way, then drew back with a lopsided smile and heavy lidded eyes. “C’mon, pretty baby. First prize in the costume contest is a four-day trip for two to Paradise Island in the Bahamas. Don’t you want to win it?”

Thom blinked. “How the hell do they afford a prize like that?”

“Anonymous donor.” Phil shrugged. “Does it matter? We’re going to win it, Bubbles, and we’re going on a much-deserved vacation.”

Thom studied Phil, from his anachronistic Birkenstocks to the decidedly unfeminine facial hair framing his overly confident grin. Then he examined his own motorcycle boots, leather pants, white puffy shirt with the leather thong lacing the front together, and leather vest that matched the pants. At least the hat and coat, waiting on the hook by the front door, looked more or less authentic since they’d been rented from a costume shop, but still.

“Phil, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna say it.” Taking both of Phil’s hands in his, Thom held his gaze. “We’re not going to win. We make crappy pirates.”

To his mingled relief and irritation—but not surprise—Phil just grinned wider. “I have a secret weapon.”

Thom stopped himself before he could act on his impulse to glance toward his belt with the plastic scabbard and sword hanging beside his pirate coat. “What do you mean, ‘secret weapon’?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not telling you.” Phil tugged his hands free of Thom’s. “Our cab’s here. Let’s go.”

“What?” Thom whirled and looked out the window beside the front door. Sure enough, a Bluebird taxi sat idling by the curb in front of the house. He spun back around and glared at Phil. “You must’ve called the cab before you ever came downstairs, you fucking tease. You never meant to let me fuck you here.”

“Guilty.” Phil grabbed his wallet and keys from the drawer of the foyer table.

“But…” Thom didn’t know which offense to complain about first. He fished his own wallet and keys out of the drawer while he thought about it. “Why won’t you tell me your secret weapon?”

Phil looked at him like the answer was obvious. “Seriously? I love you, sweet thing, but get a few drinks in you and you couldn’t keep a secret if the fate of the human race depended on it.” Phil opened the door. “Don’t forget your coat and hat, Cap’n.” He slipped outside with a grin and a wink.

Thom’s jaw dropped open. “I can too keep a secret.”

I can. I’ll show that goddamn smug Vegan bastard he’s wrong about me. I’ll find out what his stupid “secret weapon” is, and I won’t tell a soul. Except him. And he can fucking well suffer all night waiting for me to spill the beans, then apologize on his knees when we get home.

The idea had merit in more ways than one.  Holding the lovely picture of humble, penitent Phil in his mind, Thom gathered his coat, hat and sword belt and followed Phil out the door.


Three hours and four strong rum and Cokes later, several people Thom had just met knew all about that thing he and Phil had done in the tub last week and Thom suspected that Phil might’ve had a point about him being slightly talkative when he’d been drinking.

Not that it mattered. Knowledge was power and all that. Now that he was aware of his weakness, he could control it.

He had a problem, though. Namely, he still hadn’t learned anything about Phil’s secret weapon.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d bought Wench-Phil enough rum to make him silly and even hornier than usual, which was saying something. But every time Thom tried to verbally worm the information out of him, Phil just smiled and kissed Thom until he forgot what he’d been trying to do. Even his totally sneaky attempt to search Phil’s dress while they were slow dancing had failed. Thom hadn’t known whether to be pissed off because Phil had caught him red-handed, or impressed because the big rat had just laughed, held Thom’s wrists together behind his back with one hand and kept on grinding his crotch against Thom’s lower belly without even breaking his rhythm.

Thank Christ for the layers of skirts that padded the thigh pressing against Thom’s crotch, or he would’ve come in his pants. Of course all the fabric in the way meant he hadn’t been able to properly feel Phil’s cock digging into the flesh just above the waist of his pants, but he’d let it go this one time if it meant saving himself the embarrassment of a public orgasm.

Stupid Phil and his stupid secret weapon.

Thom drained his glass and swiveled his barstool around to watch Phil stumble his way through a too-much-rum version of The Hustle along with the crowd on the dance floor. He looked ridiculous, but somehow it worked for him.

A thoroughly sappy smile tugged at the corners of Thom’s mouth. Only Phil could make him smile that way and like it.

And here comes the one person who can make it go away, he thought, scowling, as a slim, overly swishy Indiana Jones wannabe sidled up way too close to Phil.

Brad. Annoying, ten-years-too-old-for-successful-twinkhood-but-still-trying-anyway Brad, touching Phil like he had a God-given fucking right to.

Swiveling halfway around without taking his laser death glare off Brad, Thom thumped the bar. “Hey. ‘Nother one, please. Put it on our tab.”

The bartender slid him another slightly Coke-flavored glass of rum on ice with only the barest hint of a snicker, which Thom ignored. He swallowed a healthy sized mouthful and wished his sword was real.

Of all Phil’s former boyfriends, fuck-buddies and one-night stands, Brad was the only one who remained a) interested, b) hopeful, and c) oblivious to the fact that Thom would, in fact, kick his ass from here to Siberia if he didn’t back the fuck off.

Okay, so all the other men in Phil’s past thought Thom’s possessiveness was more cute than intimidating. Thom was okay with that, as long as they kept their interactions with his personal hippie platonic.

Brad? Did not get it.

Out on the dance floor, Brad snaked both arms around Phil’s waist. Phil pried them off, but Thom wasn’t about to let the brain-dead idiot try it again. Knocking back as much of his drink as he could manage in one gulp, he set the glass on the bar, hopped to his feet and marched off to stake his claim on his man.

On account of the crowd on the dance floor—and Thom being shorter than most everyone else—Phil didn’t spot him until he got within grabbing distance of Brad. Phil’s eyes widened, but he didn’t have time to stop Thom from clamping a hand onto Brad’s skinny shoulder and whirling him around. Brad’s flirtatious smile melted into an “oh shit” expression. Thom glowered. “Keep your dirty paws off my man, you whore.”

Brad’s eyebrows went up nearly to the brim of his hat. “Honest to God, Phil, I don’t get it. I mean, yeah, he’s pretty, but he’s vicious.”

Thom opened his mouth to show Mr. Less-Manly-Than-A-Guy-In-A-Dress what “vicious” sounded like, but Phil leapt forward and covered the entire lower half of Thom’s face with one hand before he could get out a single word. Phil wound his other arm around Thom’s shoulders, holding him still. “Brad. Quit while you’re ahead, all right?”

The tension in Brad’s jaw and the line between his eyes said he wanted to argue, but in the end he just wandered off muttering under his breath. Once he was safely out of reach, Phil released his grip on Thom, who turned to glare up at him. “What the fuck, Phil? He gets to call me names and you hold me down like a misbehaving toddler if I try to defend myself?”

“You called him a whore. And that was before he said anything to you. I kind of hated to think what you might come up with after his snide little remark.”

“Yeah, but—”

He didn’t get any further, because Phil wound a hand into his hair to tilt his head up, swooped down and stole a deep, unhurried kiss.

When all the angry tension had melted from Thom’s body and everything else had been driven right out of his mind—Brad? Brad who?—Phil drew back with a lazy, lustful grin. “You know what it does to me when you get all up in someone’s face like that, pretty baby. Did you really want me to molest you right here in front of everyone?”

Thom let out a shaky laugh to drown out the “yes” the less sensible parts of him wanted to shout. He could tell by the soft, husky growl in Phil’s voice that he was hard under all those layers of ruffled skirts, and God help him, it was tempting. “What would you call that?”

“That? That, Cap’n Bubbles, was a little kiss. When I molest you, you’ll know it.” Phil waggled his eyebrows.

Thom snickered. “Lusty wench.” He made a grab for Phil’s crotch. His hand closed around a hard length that felt familiar, yet…not. He shot a suspicious look at Phil. “Okay, what the hell—”

“Gentlemen,” the club manager’s voice boomed over the sound system, cutting Thom off. “The time you’ve all been waiting for is now here! That’s right, it’s time for the costume contest. Everybody who signed up to participate, please come on up to the stage.”

“That’s us, Bubbles. Come on.” Phil took Thom’s hand and pulled him through the throng toward the stage.

Thom followed without argument, too busy trying to puzzle out what he’d just felt beneath Phil’s skirt to spare any energy for indignation over being dragged around like a rag doll. A memory flitted just below the surface of his mind. Something about the irregular pattern of lumps and bumps around Phil’s cock. It was there, right there, just on the tip of his brain, if only he could grasp it.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. This was going to drive him crazy.

Phil clambered onto the stage, hauling Thom after him and looking way more excited than Thom thought he had any reason to. “Here we go, angel face. We’re gonna win this fucking thing.”

Thom shook his head as they took their place in the ragged line between an impressive Uncle Sam and a couple dressed as Dr. Clayton Forrester and TV’s Frank. “Yeah, you and your secret weapon. You think you can tell me what it is now?” He turned to glare at Dr. Forrester and Frank, who seemed to be trying for the Eating Each Others’ Faces Off prize rather than the costume one and kept bumping into Thom in their enthusiasm.

Phil’s ever-present grin turned sly. Leaning down, he put his mouth close to Thom’s ear. “You already felt it, sweet thing.”

Heat filled Thom’s cheeks. It was a testament to Phil’s powers of distraction, Thom figured, that he hadn’t immediately connected what he’d felt under Phil’s dress with the secret weapon.

Or maybe it was the rum.

Either way, he wasn’t about to admit his lack of detecting prowess to Phil.

“I figured out that much.” Thom fixed Phil with his best death glare, the one that would’ve had Phil bent over the nearest piece of furniture in about thirty seconds if they’d been at home. “What I want to know is. What. Exactly. Is it?”

Phil’s lips quirked as if he saw right through Thom’s lie. He started to speak, but the manager chose that moment to start explaining the contest rules—such as they were—and describing the prizes, so Phil straightened up and paid attention, leaving Thom weak with mingled relief and frustration.

He stood there chewing his lip and running over the feel of Phil’s abnormally lumpy prick in his head while the other contestants strutted up and down the stage in front of them by ones or twos and the audience judged them with applause, wolf whistles and less savory exclamations.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Phil elbowed him in the ribs. He frowned up at Phil. “What?”

“It’s our turn, Cap’n.” Phil slipped a hand through Thom’s elbow, clearly amused as all hell. “Escort your wench in a walk ‘round the stage.”

His face flaming, Thom lifted his chin and did his best to strut like a real pirate instead of slouching around like he wanted to get it over with, which he did. At his side, Phil sashayed, simpered and swished his skirts. The big ham. Thom fought a smile.

“Cap’n Bubbles and his Wench, Phillipa, gentlemen,” the manager called. “Let’s hear it for ‘em!”

The crowd erupted into perfectly respectable applause, though it couldn’t compete with the Dr. Forrester & Frank Almost-Sex Show which had come only moments before. Thom arched an eyebrow at Phil in a silent question. If he was going to bring out his secret weapon, it was now or never.

Phil winked at him. “Cap’n Bubbles is such an incorrigible rake and I’m such a lusty wench, we have produced a love child.” He gathered his skirts and lifted them to his waist. “Meet Horny Little Bastard.”

Laughter, catcalls and deafening applause exploded through the bar. Thom stared at Phil’s crotch in shock. His cock, still fully erect, swung free of any restraining underwear. That wasn’t the shocking part, though. The shocking part was the tiny blue pirate coat with a gold sash laced around the shaft. And the little blue hat, complete with purple feather—a feather, what the fuck?—strapped to the head.

“Jesus Christ, Phil, your dick’s dressed like a pirate!” Thom’s eyes widened as the memory finally came to him. The website of penis costumes they’d both nearly hurt themselves laughing at a couple of months ago. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you bought that thing.”

“Scoff all you want, I do believe my dick pirate just won us a vacation.” Letting his skirt drop, Phil performed a clumsy curtsey, slung an arm around Thom’s neck and led him back to the line so Uncle Sam could have his turn. “C’mon, admit it. Little Phil looks pretty spiffy in his new outfit, doesn’t he?”

Laughing, Thom slipped both arms around Phil’s waist. “He looks spiffy no matter what. And there’s nothing little about him.” He rose on tiptoe to put his mouth next to Phil’s ear. “Speaking of which, Cap’n Bubbles’ ass demands the services of Not-So-Little Phil the minute we get home. Without the new clothes.”

A tremor ran through Phil’s body. Thom grinned.


Later, sprawled naked and replete across their rumpled bed, Thom thought of Phil’s prick in that crazy pirate coat and hat and snickered.

“Thought I’d fucked all the smart-ass-ed-ness out of you. Temporarily, at least.” Phil scratched his crotch and shot Thom a lazy grin.

“You know better than that.” Rolling over, Thom propped one elbow on Phil’s chest, the better to study his flushed, sated, utterly gorgeous post-sex face. “I still can’t believe you bought a dick costume. And showed it in public! Christ.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. It won us a vacation.”

“We could’ve gone on vacation without you flashing half of gay Asheville, you know.”

Phil gave him a yeah, right look, and Thom developed a sudden keen interest in Phil’s chest hair. Phil had been trying to wheedle him into a vacation for months, but he’d kept putting it off. There always seemed to be so much to do.

“Hey.” Phil cupped Thom’s face in his hands, forcing Thom to meet his gaze. He smiled. “You work too hard, Thom. You deserve some time off. If dressing up my cock and showing him off in public is what it takes to make you relax for a change, then I don’t mind doing it.”

A familiar affection bubbled up in Thom’s chest. Stretching forward, he planted a kiss on Phil’s mouth. “You’re an insane man, but you’re my insane man.” Phil laughed, and Thom grinned at him. “Promise me Not-So-Little Phil won’t make any more public appearances, especially in that ridiculous costume, and I swear we’ll take two weeks off every year and spend that time alone somewhere. Just the two of us, a bed, a fridge full of food and beer and a bottle of lube. Deal?”

Phil’s face lit up. “Deal. C’mere, pretty baby.”

Thom’s heart lurched as Phil gathered him close and kissed him. Secret weapons might be a good thing after all, but the only motivation Thom needed lay warm and solid beneath him.


“You know,” Thom murmured against Phil’s lips, “if you like to wrap things around your cock, I can think of other stuff we could use.” He dipped his head. Bit Phil’s neck. Traced the tip of his tongue behind Phil’s ear where he knew it tickled. “Bedtyme Stories has all sorts of fun toys. Leather. Metal. Rubber.” He lifted his face to watch Phil’s reaction. “We can go shopping tomorrow, if you want.”

Phil’s cheeks flushed, his eyes going heavy-lidded and hot. Thom’s lips curled into a wicked smile.

Not-so-secret weapons? Yeah. Those were fun too.