"I don't have a lot of direction to give," Theon admits, watching him with wide, hungry eyes. "I only really, ah, started seeing what felt good a few months ago." There's, of course, the sex chart made by his friend David, but that's been kept safely in his work locker.

Theon slides his fingers between Daryl's, guiding them to the patch of skin, the swell of tissue beneath that feels best, that already feels warm and good, for lack of a clearer term. "Like that," he says, and then he pulls Daryl's fingers up to his mouth, sucking briefly before sliding his hand back to that spot.