Roomies in Arms - Part 23

Everyone in this story is 18+

Hunter's Belgravia palace had eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, and apparently six full time live-in maids, but I still insisted on ironing Lex’s shirt myself.

“Sebby,” he said slowly, standing in the doorway of the walk-in closet-slash-minor cathedral. “You do know there are actual paid professionals here whose job is to—”

“I know,” I said, not looking up. “But they’d do it wrong.”

Behind me, Lex muttered something about “posh neurotics,” but didn’t argue further.

I carefully folded the sleeves with the kind of obsessive precision I used to apply to Latin translations. Lex had a grey Oxford shirt now — crisp, structured, clean. Paired with black trousers I’d salvaged from one of Hunter’s more subdued wardrobes, he looked… entirely presentable. Well, until he yawned and ran a hand through his hair, turning it instantly feral again.

“Do not touch your hair,” I warned.

“Too late.”

I glared, then turned to the mirror, immediately regretting it.

I looked like I’d been dressed for a funeral hosted by a hedge fund. Navy suit, pale blue shirt, tie knotted with surgical tension. My reflection looked fine. Proper. But my hands were clammy and my throat felt like it had been ironed too.

“You okay?” Lex asked from behind me.

“I—no. Not really.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, pressing my palms together. “This is the moment. The test. If my father thinks this is stupid, or unserious, or too… queer, he’ll shut it down. Or worse, pretend to support it and sabotage everything later.”

Lex crouched in front of me. “Hey. Look at me.”

“You’re not just some trust fund prop. You built this thing. Astra is your vision — not his. And he’s going to see that.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said. “Also, if he doesn’t, I’ll tell him you ironed my shirt this morning. That’s commitment.”

That got a laugh out of me. Weak, but real.

“I don’t even iron my own shirts,” he added.

“Yes, that’s painfully obvious.”

He grinned. “Still gonna spoon me again tonight?”

“I rather suspect I will need it.”

From the hallway, Hunter’s voice echoed: “Maids! Have you seen my swarowski crystal cufflinks?!”

I sighed. “He has a 12 person staff and still can’t find his own accessories.”

Lex stood and offered a hand. “Yeah. But we’ve got each other. So.”

I could not help but smile.

We walked out into the hall together — me pressed, Lex polished, both of us ridiculous in our own ways. Brock was already waiting in the foyer, looking like he was en route to a congressional hearing. Hunter emerged moments later in a navy suit, crystal cufflinks with velvet lapels and loafers that appeared to be crocodile. Real crocodile.

He grinned. “Alright, Astra crew. Let’s go see if Daddy dearest thinks we’re worthy.”

And just like that, we were airborne again — only this time, we weren’t flying.

◆◆◆

“I still can’t believe we’re pitching a queer-coded fintech startup,” Lex muttered, squinting up at the building, “on top of a giant glass dildo called The Merkin.”

“It’s The Gherkin,” I said automatically. “It’s an architectural landmark.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “It’s a glass dildo. And we’re doing a porn-adjacent business pitch on top of it. In suits. That’s art.”

I sighed. “It’s not… a dildo.”

He pointed up. “Seb. That building looks like a chrome-plated dildo.”

I winced. “The Gherkin. But… in a nutshell, yes. I suppose. Oh dear.”

◆◆◆

The top floor of The Gherkin was all glass. Floors, walls, table — all perfectly clear, like stepping into a Bond villain’s greenhouse. The view was nauseatingly panoramic. The kind of skyline meant to remind you how far above the rest of the city you were — and how easily you could fall.

“I’ve never been here,” I admitted quietly as we were led into the meeting room.

Hunter raised a brow. “Really?”

“They used to have the London offices a few streets from Bank Junction,” I said. “But I rarely visited. I was always in boarding school or with my mother for the summers. I only saw him in New York occasionally.”

Asher looked over. “That’s where the headquarters are, right?”

I nodded. “Tucker Inc owns a skyscraper in Manhattan. And Father’s penthouse—six floors, full staff, a rooftop pool. Feels more like an embassy for capitalism than a home.”

We were shown into a conference room that felt more like a throne room made of WiFi.

And then we waited.

Of course we waited. My father made every meeting wait. It was his version of a handshake — a quiet assertion of dominance.

I tried not to let my hands shake. Asher gave me a nod. Lex gently bumped my leg under the table. Hunter was texting someone. Brock sat perfectly still, like he’d downloaded calm from the cloud.

Finally — the doors opened.

Father entered like a man used to walking into rooms that stopped for him. Trim. Impeccably tailored. Not a hair out of place. A pocket square folded like a threat.

“Sebastian,” he said smoothly. “Good to see you.”

“Father,” I said, standing.

“And your… associates.”

I gestured calmly. “This is Hunter Maddox, early investor. Brock Sterling, legal counsel. Asher Milford, financial lead. And Lex tech developer.”

“Just Lex,” Lex added cheerfully.

My father gave him a look that said just Lex would need security clearance. Then he sat at the head of the glass table and gestured.

“Well then. Impress me.”

Asher went first.

He stood with a quiet authority that didn’t ask for the room’s attention — it simply assumed it. With a laser pointer and a clean stack of slides, he walked my father through Astra’s projected revenue models, starting with year-one burn and scale-up, then moving through three-year targets and break-even windows.

“By month eight, we estimate a subscriber base of 75,000 active users if we maintain the current growth curve from beta sign-ups,” he said. “Based on current freemium-to-premium conversion, that puts us at $3.2 million ARR by month twelve.”

My father raised an eyebrow. “Aggressive.”

Asher didn’t blink. “So is the market. Creators who’ve been kicked off traditional platforms need a reliable space — and they’re actively searching. Our ad-spend per new user is low because they’re already primed. They just need a place that won’t ban them for existing.”

He clicked to a slide showing the comparative CAC between Astra and two major adult-platforms, then another outlining their payout structures.

“We also maintain creator loyalty by offering higher splits than OnlyFans or Fansly — and lower churn due to our built-in social ecosystem. Astra isn’t just a payout tool. It’s a space.”

By the time he finished, Father actually looked semi-impressed.

Then came Lex.

Who started talking before he’d even stood up.

“So the tech stack is hybrid, yeah, but modular — basically we’ve built it with escape hatches in case we get nuked from AWS or another host,” he said, moving around the table as if the PowerPoint were optional. “Most adult platforms get flagged by content classifiers and booted. We’ve sandboxed all the risk areas and added dynamic server redundancy, which basically means if we get booted—”

Hunter muttered, “Plan B is already running.”

Lex pointed. “Exactly. It’s like digital guerilla warfare.”

Howard looked mildly alarmed.

Lex held up his hands. “Which is good. Actually.”

Then he settled. “We’ve talked to dozens of creators — some of whom make six figures annually, and still get deplatformed overnight. We’re not guessing at the pain points — we’ve built tools directly from that feedback. That’s why the UI is swipe-based, and kink-adjustable. It’s usable, inclusive, and future-proof. Also: We own the codebase outright. No third-party dependencies.”

He paused, then added, “And I made the beta in two weeks.”

He sat down. My father said nothing. But his fingers had steepled.

Next was Brock.

He adjusted his collar slightly, then spoke like he was testifying before Congress.

“We’ve structured Astra under a Delaware LLC with full IP protections filed. Sebastian is currently designated as Managing Partner on the charter, but we’ve left that role amendable.”

Howard tilted his head. “Flexible structure?”

“Yes,” Brock said. “Specifically to accommodate possible outside board appointments, or transfer of authority once funding rounds scale.”

He passed over a folder. “The SAFE agreement is clean. We’ve secured name, brand, and a provisional trademark. No conflicting claims on codebase, no VC strings, and no foreign influence issues.”

Howard flipped open the folder. “And the Visa problem?”

“There’s been pushback from PayPal, Visa, Apple Pay and Stripe,” Brock said, “but through Mr. Maddox’s father’s network, we’ve used quiet-pressure levers to delay escalation and secure a six-month runway for our internal processing platform.”

“Contingencies?”

“Already built. Including litigation support, escrow agreements, and outside counsel through Rothbridge & Klein.”

Brock sat. I felt myself breathing again. For a second, I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped.

Then it was my turn…

I stood. My notes in hand, perfectly ordered — and unreadable in that moment.

“We’ve built something,” I said quietly, “that isn’t just a platform. It’s a response. To censorship. To institutional abandonment. To the way the financial world treats creators — especially queer ones — like parasites instead of businesspeople.”

I looked at my father.

“We’ve done everything right. The structure, the protections, the outreach. But what we need now is something only you can give us: legitimacy. A signal to the market that we’re real. That we matter. That we’re here to stay.”

Then Hunter, like clockwork, slid in beside me.

“And if you back this,” he said smoothly, “you’re not just validating a company. You’re validating a movement that’s already thriving. You get in early — help guide it and your name becomes part of the next chapter in fintech. Not just safe money. Smart money.”

Dead silence.

Then my father leaned back.

And said, “Well.”

The additional silence that followed was nuclear.

He leaned back. “I’ve had my people go over all of this. Some say it’s idiotic.”

Lex made a face.

“But,” my father continued, “most of them think it might actually work.”

I held my breath.

“I’m impressed, Sebastian. I didn’t expect… this.” He paused. “But I also think this is too far from my line of business. I don’t disrupt. I don’t rock the boat. I make money through stability. So I think this is a no.”

Everything dropped.

I felt it in my chest. The tension that held me upright sagged like a snapped thread. I swallowed, nodded. “I see.”

But before anyone could speak—Lex stood up.

"Howie—uh, Mr. Tucker.”

My father arched a brow.

Lex pushed his hair out of his face and said, fast and unfiltered, “I’ve read about you. You actually made your first fortune after betting on your best friend — your dorm mate who had this insane idea in the late seventies about portable phones, right?”

I could see it. A flicker of recognition and a nod.

Lex pressed on. “You believed in him. Got him in front of the right people. Helped build the prototype. And then you two actually did it. In 1981 you sold the damn thing to Motorola for, like, millions.”

Howard’s voice was level, almost amused. “Yes. The Motorola DynaTAC.”

Lex pointed, not backing down. “This is that. Right now. Look at your son.”

“Sebastian is a fucking genius—pardon the language. But he really is. Sure, he’s got a slightly compulsive thing about ironing pillowcases, but he knows what he’s doing. But, he’s been raised with the children of every mogul, banker, and industrialist on the planet — and instead of just turning into one of them, he actually listens. He’s sharp. Strategic. And somehow not an asshole.”

Father said nothing.

Lex stepped closer to the table, eyes bright. “He’s not just some rich kid with a trust fund. He’s your son. He’s got your instincts, your vision. Hell, even your eyebrows.”

I blinked again. “What—”

“Sebastian is his father’s son,” Lex finished, quieter now. “And you’d be crazy not to back him.”

The room was dead silent.

My father looked at me. Then at Lex.

Then he slowly nodded.

“I’ll sign off on Sebastian accessing his inheritance for this,” he said finally. “And Tucker Inc will invest. But we want oversight. A board seat. And a CEO who isn’t…” He looked at me. “…eighteen. Or,” he turned to Hunter, “deeply questionable.”

Hunter raised both hands. “Fair.”

“Good.” Howard stood. “Meeting over. I have a hedge fund merger in seven minutes. Good to see you, Sebastian. And your… colorful associates. We’ll be in touch.”

He paused at the door.

“Your brother Bryson wanted to see you before you return to the States.”

Then he was gone.

And the moment the doors shut behind Father, the room exploded.

Lex let out a whoop that echoed off the glass walls. Asher gave me the most subtle, British double-fist pump imaginable. Hunter actually jumped up and did a spin, which Brock politely ignored in favor of re-organizing the signed documents like he was curating them for the Louvre.

“We did it,” I said, almost to myself.

Lex beamed. “You did it.”

Hunter pointed at me with both hands. “Sebastian Iron-My-Socks Tucker-Renfield just secured legacy funding from The Merkin. That’s hot.”

I blinked. “That’s not quite how I’d phrase it—”

Jax would’ve probably thrown confetti. Nick would’ve brought shots. Brady might’ve wept.

But even without them, it felt like something cracked open in my chest — something tight and terrified — and out came... pride and something even more intense building in my crotch.

Then I cleared my throat.

“Gentlemen,” I said, in my best boarding school prefect voice, “could you please be so kind as to vacate the premises? We will see you all back at the mansion.””

Everyone paused.

I added, a little more breathlessly, “I’m going to need a moment. With my partner.

Lex blinked. “Wait, what?”

I turned to him, heart hammering.

“My boyfriend, I mean” I said, louder this time.

Asher gave a crooked grin, brushing past me on his way to the door. “About time.”

Brock, gathering his briefcase, nodded approvingly. “Good to establish exclusivity. Keeps liabilities down.”

Hunter leaned in and whispered, way too loudly, “They’re totally gonna bone, aren’t they?”

Lex looked scandalized. “Hunter—”

The door clicked shut behind them.

Suddenly, it was just us.

Glass walls. London skyline. Silence. And Lex — standing there, flushed and flustered and very, very real.

“I’m your boyfriend?” he said, blinking.

I stepped toward him.

“If you want me?”

I’d meant it to sound calm. Romantic. Anchored.

But what it felt like — what it lit in me — was molten.

Lex stood there, flushed, rumpled tie, sweat on his throat, eyes full of heat and chaos and something that looked dangerously like devotion.

“Of course I want you.”

And me?

I turned, marched over to the wall panel, and slammed the privacy button like I was detonating a nuclear warhead.

With a mechanical whisper, the glass around us frosted over — office windows vanishing into matte grey, the city replaced by our own reflections.

Then I turned back.

“Bloody hell,” I said, breath catching. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this—this fucking riled up.”

Lex’s smile was slow and delighted. “Posh boy’s gone rabid.”

I climbed into his lap like it was a throne, knees straddling his thighs, suit fabric rough between us. His hands flew to my hips, fingers bruising through wool. I kissed him hard — open-mouthed and hungry, all teeth and need and absolutely no technique.

He tasted like mints and startup stress and something underneath that was his, that made my stomach drop.

“Jesus,” he breathed between kisses, tugging at my shirt, “you’re—you’re trembling—”

“I’m not trembling,” I snapped, even as my fingers fumbled with his belt. “I’m asserting dominance. Or something.”

He laughed — low and ragged — and then gasped when I reached in, shoved his briefs down, and grabbed.

Lex’s entire body jolted. His head thunked back against the chair with a thud. “Holy—okay—yes, hi—”

“Shut up,” I whispered, stroking him fast, no finesse whatsoever. “Just—fuck, I’ve wanted this—”

“Yeah?” His voice was breathless. “Since when?”

“Honestly, since you wore that stupid boxershorts with booty.exe. The very first day. But I wasn’t ready, now I am, right now!”

I kissed him again to shut him up, fumbling at my own belt now, desperate and clumsy and fully coming apart. His hands yanked my shirt open like he’d decided buttons were optional. One went flying. I didn’t care.

I was going to lose my virginity, right here in Father’s boardroom.