Holemates returns this June for a second series with the boys, and I’m excited to re-release series one in the lead-up over the next few months.

🏡 Holemates

A Queer Serial About Use, Longing, and the Boys Who Stay Anyway

There’s a home in the city.
Three bedrooms. Four boys. No doors that lock.

No one remembers exactly how it started.
Jet showed up with snacks and lube.
Wes never left after the second blowjob.
Rafe started filming the moment he moved in.
And Daz —
Well. Daz was already on his knees when they found him.

They call it a house, but it’s more of a habitat. A place where affection is handed out with condoms. Where praise sounds like good boy, and love feels like someone leaving a towel on the sink.

They fuck.
A lot.
But this isn’t porn.

It’s mess. It’s ritual. It’s need, carved out in sweat and silence.
It’s about the moments after.
The breath. The cleanup. The ache.

It’s about family… chosen.

Dog Bowl Days

Chapter Two

The Good Boy.

Wes calls it good manners. The others call it something else.
He kneels because it feels right. Waits because it feels safe.
Never reaches first. Never asks twice.

He is polite, quiet, and always ready.
Touch-starved in a way you only notice when someone’s hand lingers too long.
He will fetch, hold, serve. He will bare his throat without thinking.

Wes grew up in a world where obedience kept the air calm.
So he learned early:
If you stay where they put you, they might keep you.
If you smile when they’re finished, they might let you stay.

Now, he hovers at the edges.
Always in the room, never in the way.
The floor knows his knees as well as the couch knows the others’ weight.

But sometimes, in the middle of the filth, something slips.
A glance. A touch that comes before the act.
And it undoes him in ways no order ever could.

He is not ready to ask for it yet.
But in this house, this messy, laughing, unashamed house, someone will notice the moment he wants more.
And that will be the real game.

Bowl

They didn’t ask if he wanted to.

The bowl hit the floor hard enough to slosh what was already in it. Flat beer. Spit. Something cloudy he didn’t recognise. Kitchen tiles under his knees, slick from someone’s boot tracking rain through earlier. The music from the lounge came in pulses, bass shoving through plaster.

“On your knees, Pup.”

He was already there.

A hand found the back of his head and pressed, not steady, just impatient. The rim was cold against his lip. The stink was sharp. Beer gone sour, saliva thickening in the froth.

Someone else laughed. “Open wider. He drinks like he sucks cock, lazy until you give him a reason.”

A wad of spit dropped into the mix with a sound he felt more than heard. Warm sliding into cold.

“Eyes up.” A knee nudged his shoulder. He looked. Three of them ringed him. Trainers scuffed. Jeans unzipped. The casual sprawl of men who knew they would not be refused. One was already stroking himself, bored eyes on the ceiling like even this was not entertainment enough.

The hand at his head lifted, then shoved again. “Go on.”

He drank.

First swallow burned in his nose. Second sat heavy in his gut. He could taste skin oil from the rim, the ghost of ash. Someone’s palm clapped his cheek like they were congratulating a dog for sitting.

“Atta boy. Don’t spill. God, look at him, already dripping.”

Another voice, lower, closer to his ear. “Bet you would lick the floor if we tipped it.”

A thumb smeared wetness from his chin and pushed it back into his mouth. He took it. He always did.

The third man crouched to his level, shaking himself free with lazy precision. “Add some cream for him.” The laugh was sharp and mean.

A shadow fell across the bowl. A slow rope of come slid into the surface, breaking the beer-skin. No one told him to stop. No one told him to wait.

He drank until it was gone. Until there was nothing left but the cold taste of metal and the warm salt of someone else’s day.

When he sat back, the room did not clap. They moved on. Talking about the next round of pool in the garage. He stayed on his knees a little longer, bowl between his palms, head lowered.

They only called me good when I stayed on my knees.