christina

The weight of Malleus’s body pressed you into the mattress as he pumps his cock in and out of your cunt. His hips almost frantically rut against yours, trying to drag his weepy cock as deep as he could through your plush walls. The thickness of his length and the blunt tip of his cock head worked in tandem to have you seeing stars as he stretched you out in all the best ways.

“Are you close, beloved?” Malleus’s voice is breathless in your ear, thick with lust. “I can feel you tightening around me.”

It wasn’t often you could see the fae’s composure wane. He was always the epitome of elegance and royalty, but how that polished appearance diminished when inside you. The strands of his dark hair, disheveled from their usual slicked back style, clung messily to his face with sweat. A dark flush colored his cheeks as the crescendoing waves of his own desire reached their peak.

Malleus groans your name. He squeezed your hips, driving himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, Malleus having to grab the headboard to steady his balance and catch his breath. But his cock still throbs and his balls ache, not satiated by merely filling you up once.

“Are you doing alright, beloved?” Malleus asks. He kisses your lips gently, hands roaming across your body to soothe where he may have been too rough.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, running your fingers across the cool scaling on his forehead, which makes Malleus seem to purr contently. “F-feel full.”

Malleus kisses you again before rising to slowly ease himself out of you when he freezes.

His cum oozes out of your pussy, trickling around your puffy folds. Just how wasteful it was for the white globs to stain the sheets instead of remaining sated within you. But, the sight of his release leaking out you, his wife and mate, snaps what ever restraint that had been tethering him to sanity.

“Forgive me…” Malleus’s apology is the only warning you get before you’re folded in half and his cock is splitting you back open. You cry out, tears prickling your eyelashes as he pushes your legs further against your chest.

“M-mal?”

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” Malleus says shakily, trying to steel himself as to not hurt you. But his body betrays him, acting on instinct as his hips drive forward. You husband’s eyes dilate, unfocused and dragon-like. “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve pumped you so full of me that I’m positive it sticks.”

♥︎ — leona kingscholar

Leona honestly hates the idea of having kids. After having to deal with his nephew, the last thing he wants is his own little brats running around. However, you both are young, only betrothed, set to be married in a few years, and therefore have all the time in the world to think about starting a family later down the line.

Nonetheless, Leona would be lying if he said that seeing you dripping with his cum didn’t get him the least bit excited. Even if it came with unwanted risks attached.

“Fuck—“ Leona groans, head lulling back as you sink down on to his cock. He could feel the way you were so wet for him, the slick, erotic sound of him pushing through your quivering walls had the slightest shivers racing down his spine, threatening to break his composure.

You always felt heavenly around him but perhaps he was more sensitive than usual or it was just his desire burning through his body, but the way your pussy hugged around him so nicely made Leona think he would blow his load sooner than he’d like.

“This damn cunt’s gonna be the death of me, squeezing me so tight like this,” Leona groans. He gropes your ass, rocking you forward slightly. “It’s like she’s just begging for me to fill her up.”

“Fuck Leona, please do,” you whimper, making the lion freeze. His skin prickled in response to your words, but your neediness didn’t stop. You pressed kisses against his jaw, batting those sinful eyelashes at him. “Need you so bad.”

His green eyes darken.

You barely have time to register what happened before Leona has you flipped on to your stomach, your face shoved into the pillows. The stretch of his cock feels even deeper when he re-enters you, which you have little time to adjust to before Leona sets a brutal pace that has you keening against him. His much larger frame pins you helplessly to the mattress, like a predator trapping its prey. Tears cling to your eyelashes as each punishing stroke kisses against your cervix, stringing you along until the pressure of your release winds so tightly that it snaps.

“Shit—” Leona groans as you gush around him, your release messily coating his cock which he uses to fuck into you. His chest constricts, teetering on the edge of his own orgasm as his cock throbs. Leona’s arms cage around you as he ruts into you harder, spurred by your moans. His teeth sink into your shoulder as a low growl resounds in the back of his throat, and warmth fills your stomach.

You shiver as Leona’s rough tongue drags across your skin, cleaning the blood he unintentionally meant to draw. He pulls out of your overstimulated cunt slowly, watching rather smugly as his release trickles out. But then, he stiffens in surprise, ears twitching dangerously, as you reach in between your legs and try to push his cum back into yourself.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

★ SMUT TAGS; rough sex, dirty talk, nicknames (sweetheart, good girl), body worship, cunnilingus, thigh riding, overstimulation, service top wriothesley, somnophilia, creampie

When you swiped right on Wriothesley all those years ago, you hadn’t really meant to.

In fact, it was Charlotte’s doing—your pink-haired, loud-mouthed work bestie who claimed you looked like you desperately needed to get laid. Blunt as she was, you couldn’t exactly argue, so you let her take your phone, roll her eyes at your half-filled bio, and start swiping with the same precision she used to schedule back-to-back meetings without mercy.

Charlotte had a reputation in the office: the matchmaking goddess. Every coworker she’d paired had at least made it through dinner without a red flag, which was more than most apps could promise. That’s the only reason you didn’t protest when she shoved your phone back into your hands, screen glowing with a photo of a very tall, very muscular, very attractive man.

“Wriothesley,” she read aloud smugly. “Twenty-nine. Lives downtown. Loves dogs. This guy’s your soulmate, I can feel it.”

Eh. You didn’t need a soulmate. You just needed a distraction.

So you nodded. She swiped. A flurry of hearts flooded the screen, and then: “It’s a Match!”

You didn’t expect much from that first date.

This Wriothesley person took you to dinner at some unassuming bistro near the edge of the city. He agreed to pick you up somewhere in the main district at your request. He told you that the restaurant wasn’t anything special, but the waitstaff greeted him by name and he tipped them double what you’d ever dream of spending on yourself. He also came with a dark coat and a voice so low it made your wine glass hum with each word.

You’d gone in expecting something casual—maybe even forgettable—but turns out, that date wasn’t a thinly veiled pretense for a one night stand. Wriothesley dropped you off at the main district again saying he’d enjoyed your company, and hoped he’d get to see you again next time.

Those last few words stuck with you though. Next time. 

It wasn’t until the third date that you found out what he did for a living. You were sitting across from him in a dim booth, half-drunk on a tequila sunrise and the way his frost blue eyes crinkled when he laughed, when you finally asked. 

“I work security,” Wriothesley said simply. “High-profile stuff. Government-related.”

That could’ve meant a dozen things, but the weight in his voice said it wasn’t just checking badges at a door. 

“Well,” you said, offering up a sheepish smile. “I sit at a desk and answer emails for a living. So... not quite bodyguard-to-the-stars level.”

It was meant to be a joke, light and self-deprecating, but part of you meant it. His life sounded like something pulled from a spy thriller, whereas yours felt like the static in between radio stations. But Wriothesley didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, brow furrowing just slightly.

“Sounds exhausting,” he commented dryly. “I think I’d last five minutes before walking out.”

The way he said it made your cheeks warm because it wasn’t the words themselves, but the way he looked at you when he said them. Like your life, your effort, your everyday still mattered. Maybe that was the moment you first started thinking this could actually go somewhere.

Things didn’t explode into love right away. 

There were no grand declarations or slow-motion kisses in the rain, but Wriothesley texted you every night, called you whenever you were both free, and took you out more than you expected. And when he stayed the night for the very first time, he made breakfast and folded your laundry before you could even protest. It was slow and intentional, set at a pace that never set alarm bells in your head, and somehow, that made it better.

A year in, he gave you a toothbrush in his bathroom. Two years, the two of you exchanged keys. By the third, you were fighting over paint swatches for a shared apartment with sun-warmed windows and enough closet space for both of your lives to unfold side by side.

Little by little, you and Wriothesley built a home, not just a place to sleep. The kind of home where laundry is always halfway done but no one minds because you both chip in without being asked. With the quiet rhythm of brushing teeth side by side, splitting chores when the world feels too heavy, and falling asleep tangled in limbs that speak more love than any words ever could.

It’s not glamorous, not like the movies. But it’s yours. 

Even now, with the city in the midst of one political flare-up after another and Wriothesley wrapped tightly around Neuvillette’s every step like the shadow of a well-muscled bodyguard, your routine never breaks. He still comes home and peels off his coat like it weighs double what it should. He still presses a kiss to your hair—even if his lips barely graze your scalp before exhaustion pulls him under. 

You’ve always been each other's safe place. When you're worn thin by the drag of a 9-to-5 desk job that leaves you staring at screens more than anything meaningful, Wriothesley’s quiet presence soothes you in more ways than one. And when he's bruised by the weight of guarding a man as important as the mayor, you're there for him, too. 

But these past few days?

You feel a little… disconnected.

Wriothesley has been working six nights in a row now—long shifts that come with the close-range security detail. Neuvillette has been attending summit after summit, hosting visiting officials with so much tension in the air you can feel it clinging to your boyfriend when he finally walks through the door. He’s more exhausted than you’ve seen him since you got together. 

You don’t fault him for it. How could you? He’s not just doing his job; he’s protecting someone. That’s who he is. That’s part of why you love him.

But gods, you’re tired too.

Sure, your job doesn’t have the physical strain his entails, but the mental grind has been eating you alive. There’s something about being around people all day—clients, coworkers, managers—that drains you in a way you can’t explain and lately, it’s been more than that.

You’re tense, too high-strung than you’d want to be. Your body aches not from work but from want. It’s because of the way Wriothesley’s voice scrapes low when he’s half-asleep. The way he brushes your shoulder when he’s passing by, his large hand spanning your back like he’s still half-protecting you even at home. The way he looks in the morning when his dark hair is mussed and his skin is still warm from sleep. 

You want him.

But every night, when he comes home, it’s clear: he’s spent. He doesn’t even make it to bed sometimes. You’d find him knocked out on the couch with his boots still on, his fingers slack where they’d been fumbling for the remote. And you’d just sigh and kneel down to untie his laces like it doesn’t hurt.

Like your needs don’t count quite as much.

You’ve started to think maybe they don’t.

He’s working harder. He’s serving the city. You’re just... clocking in, filling out spreadsheets, trying not to cry in the break room. It doesn’t feel like enough to justify this low, gnawing ache inside you; the crawling restlessness that no warm bath or vibrating toy or late-night distraction can quite soothe.

You miss him, and it’s not just physical. It’s not just sex.

It’s connection.

But you’re starting to worry you’re being selfish just for wanting it.

Tonight, it’s quiet again. 

You’re curled on the couch with your favorite blanket draped over your knees, all while the TV is murmuring some show you’re not really watching. The lamp you picked out a year ago with Wriothesley casts a soft gold glow across the living room, but it doesn’t feel warm tonight. Not when the other side of the couch is empty and the only sound is the ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of wind through the balcony door.

You’ve already set out dinner. It wasn’t anything special, just something simple you picked up from the corner deli and left covered on the stove. But that was hours ago, and it’s probably gone cold already. You don’t even remember what time Wriothesley said he’d be back, if he even told you at all. 

You hate this feeling—this hollow, irrational ache blooming in your chest. 

You know he loves you. You know he’s trying. You’re not mad at him, but still... something tightens in your throat as you stare at the front door, willing it to open; wishing stupidly that just once, he would walk in and look as desperate for you as you are for him.

Your phone buzzes. It’s a message from him.

Leaving now. Be home soon.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard before you finally type: Okay. Be safe.

You delete the heart emoji at the end.

By the time the lock clicks and the door creaks open, you’re still on the couch, pretending you weren’t just crying into your sleeves two minutes ago. You paste on a smile that feels too thin and look up as Wriothesley steps inside, heavy-footed and drained, like the city dragged him behind it all day and spit him back out.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes finding you immediately. “You’re still up?”

You hum. “Wanted to make sure you ate something.”

He sighs as he shrugs off his coat, hanging it by the rack. “You didn’t have to.”

You know. But you did. You always do.

Wriothesley walks over to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s automatic and familiar, but not quite present. And when your boyfriend pulls away to make for the shower, you feel something inside you falter. You bite your tongue hard because if you speak, it’ll come out wrong, whiny and ungrateful even if you know you’re neither. But still—

“Wrio,” you say quietly, almost surprised you’ve spoken at all.

He pauses just when he’s halfway out of his shirt, brows furrowing slightly in concern when he turns to look at you. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

You open your mouth to speak, but hesitate when you nearly choke on the words. You can’t cry—not over this. Not when he’s exhausted, and he’s already giving you what little he has left.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, tugging the blanket tighter around your legs. 

Wriothesley doesn’t move for a moment, as if trying to decipher the tone of your voice. You half-expect him to dismiss it with a shrug, but then he walks back over and kneels in front of you, one calloused hand resting gently on your knee.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice gentler now. “Talk to me. You’ve been quiet all week.”

You blink rapidly. It stings. “So have you.”

That makes something flicker in his expression—guilt, maybe. 

You shake your head quickly, reaching to touch his cheek like you’re the one who should be reassuring him. “I know you’re busy. I’m not mad, I swear, I just... I think I’ve been pretending that I’m okay a little too hard.”

He catches your wrist, frowning. “You’re not okay?”

You press your lips together, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess… I just miss you a little too much.”

The silence between you hums with tension, and then, quietly, Wriothesley exhales and cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing gently behind your ear. Your friends always say that your boyfriend has the coldest eyes they’ve ever seen, but it’s in these moments that you get to see the warmth just simmering beneath the glacial blue of his irises. 

“I’m sorry,” Wriothesley says, so quietly it nearly breaks you. “I’ve been gone, even when I’m here. Haven’t I?”

You nod, not really trusting your voice.

Wriothesley doesn’t say anything else. He just rises, takes your hand, and leads you toward the bathroom with a touch so gentle it feels like a question, and you answer simply by not letting go.

The steam curls up from the showerhead when you step inside, the soft rush of water filling the space between your breaths. Wriothesley glances back, and you can feel the hesitancy in his touch as his fingers find the hem of your shirt. You let him lift it over your head, let him undress you like you might break if he moved too fast.

When he’s bare, too, you both step into the warmth.

It’s not rushed, or heated. The two of you stand beneath water and silence. Wriothesley lathers shampoo into your hair with careful fingers, like he’s trying to make up for all the days he’s been absent. His hands move slowly, massaging your scalp, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

You lean into him with your back against his chest, the spray of water hitting your shoulders, and his arms wrapped gently around your waist. There’s no space between you anymore—not physically, not emotionally—and that’s when he finally speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You shrug, pressing your lips in a thin smile. “I didn’t want to make it worse. You come home everyday looking like hell. I didn’t want to be another thing you had to carry.”

Wriothesley’s brow creases, and for a second, he looks like he wants to argue and tell you that you’re never a burden, not even close. But instead of speaking, he turns you around so he can pull you fully into his chest, burying his face in your wet shoulder like he’s the one who's been starved of touch.

“You’re not something I carry,” he murmurs. “You’re where I rest.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and a sob slips out before you can stop it—quiet and shaky. It feels more like relief than sadness. Wriothesley’s grip tightens like he hears it and needs to hold you through it, like he’s grounding himself in your heartbeat.

“I didn’t know it was getting this bad,” your boyfriend admits, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’ve been so good at holding everything down... I didn’t see how much you were holding it all in.”

You give him a watery smile, cheeks damp both from your tears and the shower. “Yeah, well. I’ve always been a little too good at pretending.”

He exhales, then presses a kiss to your forehead again. “No more pretending,” he says softly. “Okay? You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

“I want to be,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, brushing a clump of soap suds just above your brow. “But wanting to be strong doesn’t mean you don’t get to fall apart alone. At least let me be there when you do.”

Wriothesley watches you intensely until you surrender with the barest nod of your head. He sighs, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead like it’s all the confirmation he needs.

The rest of the shower passes in wordless understanding. Wriothesley’s hands are steady as they move across your skin, careful in a way that makes your chest ache. He passes you the bar of soap without being asked. You tilt your head to rinse, and he guides the water away from your eyes with a gentle palm. 

There’s nothing urgent here. Just the quiet act of being—of washing away the days between you, and slowly remembering that love isn’t something either of you has to carry alone.

You both dress for bed after the shower. The air in the bedroom is cooler than the bathroom steam, and you pull on one of your lighter nightgowns—thin straps, soft fabric, a hem that brushes just a bit too high on your thighs when you sit. You catch the way Wriothesley’s eyes flicker down just once before he turns quickly to pull on a clean shirt.

He doesn’t say anything about it. 

You settle under the covers first, curling onto your side before he joins you not long after—close, but not close enough. He lies on his back as his arm brushes yours, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s engaged in a staring contest. You both breathe quietly for a while, cocooned in the kind of stillness that’s starting to feel more comfortable again. 

Wriothesley speaks first.

“Things might settle down soon,” he murmurs. “Neuvillette just has a final round of meetings tomorrow, and I should be switching in with some of the other bodyguards. Might actually be home before midnight for once.”

You hum softly. “That’s nice. Maybe you can eat a hot dinner, too.”

He turns to look at you then, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “Maybe I just like it better when you reheat it for me. The extra effort equates to extra love.”

You nudge his arm with your elbow, smiling despite yourself. “You sap.”

Wriothesley chuckles softly and the sound warms you all the way down. For a few quiet moments, he asks about your work, and you give him the rundown of the usual mundane office grind—annoying emails, tight deadlines, and the coffee maker that mysteriously stopped working when you needed it most. He listens carefully like he always does.

But the entire time, you can feel it. That slow coil of tension in your belly, the lingering warmth from the shower, and the ache that never really left. 

You’re not sure if it’s just you, but Wriothesley’s eyelids have dropped half-lidded, while he speaks with a tone that’s deeper than usual. His thigh is brushing yours now, and it makes you shift just a little closer. Then, almost reactionary, you feel his body tense beside you—barely perceptible, but you’ve been with him long enough to know when to wonder: 

Does he feel it too?

But Wriothesley has always been a mindful man. Since you ended up crying in the shower, you’re pretty sure that he now thinks if he touches you now, he’ll break something delicate. It’s something you still haven’t decided whether you hate or love about him because you’re not fragile. 

You’re burning.

Which spurs you to turn to your side and face him. The blanket slides with your hasty movement, and your nightgown pulls a little higher. Wriothesley’s frost blue eyes dip there again, lingering so much longer this time. He says nothing, but you see the way his hand twitches from where it rests on the sheets between you. 

You reach for it without hesitation. 

His fingers slip into the spaces between yours, warm and calloused and so much thicker than your own. You watch him as he watches you, and your heart simmers from… whatever’s growing here in the silence.

“I’m okay now,” you whisper.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” You shift closer, your knees brushing his. “I’m not gonna break, you know.”

Wriothesley’s gaze lingers for just a moment too long—still cautious, still holding himself back like he thinks he’s protecting you. It makes you want to grab his shoulders and shake him, but you’ve always had more composure than that.

But still, you’ve been together for years. You know Wriothesley, and even if it means swallowing your pride, saying what’s on your mind has always been the surest way to reach him.

“I want you,” you add softly. “If you want me too.”

The moment you murmur the words, it’s like a switch was flipped.

The control in his shoulders crumples all at once, like something inside him finally gives him permission to need—to take. He exhales sharply and sits up just enough to cup your cheek and pull you in like he’s been holding this moment behind his teeth for days.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “you have no idea how much.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

There’s nothing rushed about it. No hurried tearing of clothes, or frantic fumbling—only the slow, molten press of his mouth to yours as his fingers stroke along your cheek. You sigh into him, melting like wax under his hands. Wriothesley pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours with a shallow breath, his voice still heavy with restraint.

“You’ve been so patient with me. Always waiting. Always putting me first.”

You let out a soft whimper when his thumb grazes your lower lip, the sound slipping out before you can catch it. Your knees brush his as you lean in, drawn by the quiet gravity between you. Wriothesley’s frost-blue eyes crease at the corners, a faint smile tugging at his lips—those same eyes you gazed into on your very first date, wondering how someone so breathtaking could have ever made room in his world for you.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs, the words curling hot against your skin. “Let me make it up to you. Please?”

You reply with a breathless nod.

That’s all he needs.

Your boyfriend moves to lower you back against the mattress with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. His hands roam over your body, calloused fingertips ghosting along your waist, your hips, every curve he knows by heart. Wriothesley doesn’t just touch you—he cherishes you, tracing every part of you like a man reacquainting himself with something precious.

“You’re so beautiful,” Wriothesley breathes, leaning down to kiss the slope of your shoulder, then your collarbone, making sure to let his lips linger on every patch of skin. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve been working too. You’ve been holding it all together so well.”

His voice grows softer as he speaks, words dipping between kisses, filling every breath with tender praise.

“Coming home late… still smiling for me. Waiting up, cooking dinner…” His teeth scrape lightly at the sensitive skin along your throat, pulling a gasp from your lips. “And I just… let you carry it all alone.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you breathe as you arch under his careful touch. His hands feel so big, so steady on your skin, like he’s holding you in place with nothing but devotion.

“But I did,” Wriothesley answers softly, eyes dark and warm all at once as he slowly peels your nightgown higher, slipping it over your head until you’re bare beneath him. “I should’ve been here. With you.”

Your breath stutters as the cool air meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze—drinking in every inch of you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. Wriothesley doesn’t rush to touch you again right away. He just looks at you for a moment, steady and unashamed.

“I missed you,” Wriothesley murmurs, more to himself than to you. “So much.”

Then his hands return—broad palms skimming up your sides, teasingly slow in their ascent until they cup your breasts with a reverence that leaves you trembling beneath him.

“Missed these too,” he mutters, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp softly. He watches the way you bend into his touch, as if you need more because you do. You always do when it comes to him.

“You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you?” Wriothesley’s voice dips low as his fingers roll over the sensitive peaks, teasing them with practiced care, never too rough, but never quite enough either. You whimper, your back arching off the bed as his thumbs circle again and again, slow and torturous.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So soft. So sensitive.”

Then his mouth replaces his hands.

He takes his time tasting you, tongue flicking softly over one nipple before drawing it fully into his mouth, sucking slow and deep until your fingers tangle in his dark hair and your breath comes out in shaky little gasps.

The wet heat of Wriothesley’s mouth, the way he swirls his tongue around you before gently grazing his teeth—it’s overwhelming in the best way. He lavishes one breast thoroughly before moving to the other, making sure to tease and kiss every inch in between, leaving love bites in places only he will ever see.

By the time his mouth moves to your other breast, you’re barely holding yourself together—trembling under his slow, relentless pace, breath breaking with every careful flick of his tongue. He takes you deeper into his mouth, sucking with deliberate pressure, then releasing with a soft, wet pop only to start all over again, worshiping you with a focus that makes your head spin.

That’s when he notices.

The subtle, helpless way your hips keep shifting—arching up, grinding down without even realizing it. You don’t even realize it. The soft friction of your thighs squeezing around his, your barely-there panties growing damper by the second as you subconsciously rut against the firm muscle of his leg, desperate for any sort of relief.

Wriothesley’s eyes darken immediately.

He pulls off your nipple with a sharp exhale, his gaze locking onto yours as a slow, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh?” His voice drops, rough with amusement, low enough to make you shiver. “Didn’t realize you were this needy, sweetheart.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realize what you’ve been doing, but his hands are already sliding down—gripping your hips to hold you there, keeping you flush against the firm press of his thigh.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, dragging your hips down just enough to grind you deliberately against him. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” His tone is teasing, but fond—like he’s utterly charmed by your desperation. “Rubbing yourself on me like that… Cute.”

You let out a shaky whimper as he rocks you again, slower this time, making sure you feel every inch of the pressure against your aching core.

“Go on,” Wriothesley coaxes, his voice a low, velvety rasp. “Don’t hold back. Show me just how much you missed me.”

With that, he guides your hips once more—grinding you against his thigh while his lips find your chest again. He latches back onto your breast as he sucks deep and slow, coaxing broken sounds from your lips as the heat between your legs grows unbearable.

Wriothesley only smiles against your skin with a voice that’s dark and full of promise as he groans softly, “That’s it… there’s my good girl.”

You can barely meet his gaze, dizzy from the burn between your legs, but it doesn’t matter. He sees everything—feels everything. The wet patch growing on his skin, the way your hips twitch and stutter as you chase every little drag of friction.

“You’ve been so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing his way up your throat again. “So patient for me. But…”

His hands go still on your hips in an instant, holding you there right on the edge.

“…I’ve been patient too.”

The words rumble out of him like a warning, and before you can even catch your breath, Wriothesley flips you beneath him again in one smooth motion. Your lover pins you to the mattress, looming above you with eyes dark and ravenous, his breath hot against your lips. In a flash, he hooks his fingers under the band of your soaked underwear, dragging it down your thighs and tossing it aside without a second glance. His hands spread your legs wide, baring you fully to him, and the sheer hunger in his gaze makes your breath catch.

Your breath stutters, hips twitching beneath his touch as his thumb teases over your sensitive clit. As though he’s savoring every tiny jolt of your body under his hands while he pins you in place. His voice is a dangerous purr when he speaks, eyes locked to yours as he toys with you. 

“Where do you want me?”

You can barely form words, already shaking from the overwhelming heat and tension, but he doesn’t need your answer. He already knows.

Wriothesley hums, the sound thick with amusement and something darker, more indulgent, as he leans down—pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, just beside where you need him most. His lips drag slowly as he makes his way closer, that piercing gaze never once straying too far from yours. 

“Poor thing,” Wriothesley coos, deceptively soft as he presses his lips to your other thigh, teasing you with more kisses that only make the ache worse. “You’ve been starving too.”

And then, without warning, he finally gives in.

He licks a broad, slow stripe through your folds, groaning low in his throat the second your taste hits his tongue—deep and guttural, like he’s been denied this far too long.

“Fuck,” he breathes against you, voice rough, almost dazed. “I missed this. Missed you.”

Before you can even gasp, he dives back in—devouring you with undeterred hunger, tongue flicking, curling, pressing just right, relentless and eager as he feasts on you like he’s making up for every night he came home too late, every hour he spent away.

He doesn’t just eat you out.

He worships you.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wider as his tongue flicks against your clit—slow and precise, then faster, then back to languid strokes just to hear how your breath hitches. He drinks down every moan, every shudder, chasing every sound you make like it’s a reward. And he talks. Filthy, breathless praise slurred between licks, his voice deep and dark against your dripping heat.

“God, you taste so good… been dreaming of this for weeks.”

You sob out his name, thighs shaking as you clutch at his hair, but he doesn’t let up—if anything, your desperation only spurs him on.

“Don’t run from me, sweetheart,” Wriothesley growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core as he sucks hard on your clit, drawing out a sharp cry from your lips. “You wanted this, remember?”

You nod, breathless, but it’s useless—he’s not letting you go.

He laps at you deeper, eating you like a man possessed. His thick fingers somehow end up sliding home into your wet channel, There is no escaping him when Wriothesley picks you apart with his tongue as if you’re the only thing he needs in the world.

And you realize—you are.

“Come on,” he coaxes, voice wrecked and desperate between strokes. “Let go for me. Let me have it.”

With the way he’s tasting you, relentless and perfect and starved—you don’t stand a chance. You shatter under him, legs trembling as your orgasm crashes over you, his name spilling from your lips in broken, breathless cries.

But Wriothesley doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t let you go.

If anything, he groans against you as if your taste only fuels him further, only sharpens his hunger. His hands tighten around your hips, pinning you down with an iron grip that leaves no chance to wriggle away from the overstimulation blazing through your body.

You thrash beneath him, sobbing, legs kicking helplessly against the sheets. But he holds you down with ease, strong arms locking you in place, his mouth still locked to your soaked core.

“Wri— Oh god. Wrio, please—” You can barely form words, voice breaking as your body jolts with every stroke of his tongue, every ruthless flick against your already oversensitive clit. But he’s gone completely lost in you as he drinks down every drop, licking you through each spasm and twitch of your trembling thighs.

“So good,” he rasps between hungry slurps, breath hot and wet against your slick skin. “So fucking sweet.”

He buries his face deeper, his grip bruising now, dragging you against his mouth again and again, forcing you to ride every last wave whether you can take it or not. You sob beneath him, trembling so hard it feels like you might break, but he loves it. He moans into you, devouring you like you’re his only salvation.

Your body’s already spiraling toward another high—too soon, too much, but his mouth won’t relent, and the pressure coils again before you can even breathe.

“No, no, I can’t—” you whimper, but it’s useless. He’s not listening. He refuses to stop.

“Shh,” Wriothesley hums darkly against you, sending another jolt through your core as his tongue flicks mercilessly over your clit, deliberate and devastating. “You can. You will.”

Then his voice drops even lower.

“You’re gonna come again for me, sweetheart,” he growls, dragging his tongue deeper, relentless and cruel in his hunger. “Be good and give it to me.”

As if your body is made solely to appease him, you fall apart all over again—screaming his name as your body convulses. Your vision goes white, another orgasm slamming through you so hard you can barely think, barely breathe.

You’re barely conscious of anything—your body still wracked with aftershocks, mind swimming in that heady, blissed-out haze—but you can feel him moving above you, finally letting go of your hips, his lips dragging one last kiss against your trembling inner thigh as he pulls back.

Wriothesley finally rises, breath hot and heavy, lips swollen and glistening from his relentless feast. His chest heaves with every ragged inhale as his frost blue eyes burn with something far more dangerous than hunger. 

Still, there’s a softness beneath it all. He cups your face with a large, steady hand, thumb brushing tenderly over your tearstained cheek, as if he’s grounding himself after losing control.

“Did so well for me,” he rasps, voice low and rough from how wrecked he is. “Took it all like a good girl… but I’m not finished yet.”

You can only whimper, too dazed to speak, and that’s when he sits back—kneeling between your legs, towering above you with that broad, sculpted frame still dressed in his sleep clothes. You watch through hooded eyes, breath catching in your throat as he hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his loose shirt. Wriothesley lifts it slowly, dragging it up over his head in one smooth pull.

God.

You’ve seen him shirtless before, countless times, but it still hits you like a punch to the chest. Your boyfriend is all hard muscle and carved lines, every inch of him honed from years of brutal work. His stomach ripples as he tosses the shirt aside. Your eyes catch on the faint trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, tracing lower beneath the waistband of his pants. 

Scars scatter across his torso, some faint and old, others more recent. They all cut through the otherwise perfect canvas of his body—making him look more devastatingly beautiful. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he speaks again.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Wriothesley murmurs, “and you’ll end up calling in sick tomorrow.”

Then he shoves his sweats down with little ceremony, pushing them past his hips and kicking them off with ease. You suck in a breath—he’s thick, flushed, already fully hard and aching for you. His cock curves heavily toward his stomach, leaking at the tip. The sight of him alone is enough to make your thighs clench together instinctively.

Wriothesley’s gaze softens at the sight, his voice dipping low and tender as he crawls back over you, caging you beneath his weight, every hard inch of his body pressed to yours.

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, nuzzling against your throat, his hips slowly dragging the thick weight of him through your spit-slick folds. “I’ll be careful.”

His voice roughens as he exhales, the words slipping out like a secret meant only for you.

“I want to feel every part of you tonight.”

The head of his cock catches at your entrance, teasing the sensitive spot where you’re still pulsing from his prior ministrations. Wriothesley doesn’t rush—he just stays there for a beat, watching the way you squirm beneath him, your body strung tight with need, trembling and bare beneath his weight.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, kissing your temple as he rocks his hips forward.

You gasp—he’s thick, stretching you inch by inch, filling you with an aching, burning fullness that steals the air from your lungs. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the strong muscles there, but Wriothesley doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, gaze locked on every little change in your expression, like he can feel every shiver inside you just as deeply.

“God… You feel like heaven,” he groans, voice fraying as he finally sinks all the way in—seated flush against you, filling you completely. 

You can’t speak—you can barely think around the pressure, the overwhelming stretch that makes your body tremble from head to toe. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every throb of him inside you.

“You were made just for me, weren’t you?” Wriothesley whispers, his lips trailing down your cheek, your jaw, your throat, worshiping every inch he can reach. “Taking me so well. You love being split on my cock, don’t you?”

You let out a broken moan, nodding frantically as your hips shift in a silent plea. That’s all it takes for him to start moving—slow, deep thrusts that make you feel every thick drag of him inside you.

His pace is unhurried but devastating, hips grinding down with every stroke, hitting places inside you that make your breath catch in your throat. Wriothesley groans low against your skin, hands gripping your waist to keep you anchored as he rocks into you, steady and relentless.

“Been wanting this,” he pants, his voice wrecked and breathless in your ear. “Thought about it every damn night—wishing I was here instead of stuck out there, fucking missing you.”

He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust that has you keening beneath him, as if he’s trying to make up for every lonely night all at once. Forcing you to feel just how much he’s longed for you, how much this has been burning in him too.

“It’s been hell,” Wriothesley breathes, his voice fraying as he keeps his pace steady, grinding into you with slow, bruising rolls of his hips. His words fall against your skin, rough and tender all at once. “Coming home too late… seeing you waiting up for me every night, even when you’re dead on your feet yourself.”

You whimper, overwhelmed by the fullness and the weight of his confession both.

“I hated it,” he groans, his pace stuttering slightly as he sinks even deeper. “Hated watching you drift away from me. Hate pretending everything’s fine when all I want to do is keep you right here under me. Where you belong.”

The honesty and filth that coat his words makes you shudder, body arching toward him, helpless to the way his words spark against every nerve ending. 

You nod shakily beneath him—too breathless to speak, but it doesn’t matter. He can feel everything in the way your body tightens around him, in the soft, broken sounds spilling from your lips every time he rocks deep. Wriothesley swallows them all with a kiss, lips messy and desperate, as if trying to drink down every ounce of your need.

His hips grind deeper, slower, his voice dragging low from his chest, half-gone with restraint. “Nothing else feels like this,” he groans against your mouth. “Nothing else… feels like you.”

And god, it’s true. You’ve tried. In those long, aching nights when Wriothesley wasn’t home, when the cold side of the bed stayed empty and you’d buried yourself in pillows that didn’t hold his scent, you tried. Fingers, toys, anything to fill the space he left behind. But nothing ever compared to this.

Nothing ever stretches you the way he does, dragging against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your head spin. Nothing else burned like this, leaving you trembling and tearful under the weight of his need.

Nothing else makes you feel this full—this loved.

Your thoughts blur as you claw at his back, nails raking down the ridges of muscle and scars you know by heart. Your voice comes out wrecked, half-sobbing into his shoulder. “It’s not enough. N-Nothing else is ever enough. I only want you, Wriothesley.”

That makes him curse, loud and raw, hips snapping just a little harder as he holds you down, grinding deep into your tight pussy. “Say it again.”

“Only you—only you make me feel this good.”

Wriothesley groans like it’s tearing him apart. 

“That’s right,” he grits out, every thrust sending shocks through you. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to have you.”

Your walls tighten around him at those words, and his pace falters, grinding in deeper, staying there, as he cradles your face with one trembling hand. When he kisses the tears away, you feel your heart ache for him even more. 

“I’m gonna give you everything,” he whispers, voice breaking apart with emotion and heat, his forehead pressed to yours. “Every second we’ve missed, every fucking bit of it.” And he means it—each roll of his hips packed with unspoken apologies, with longing and love so thick it almost hurts. He’s not just fucking you. 

He’s reclaiming you.

You can feel it building fast, the knot in your stomach wound tight from everything he’s already done to you, from the weeks apart to the way he holds you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. Every deep, grinding thrust pushes you closer, and you cling to him, nails pressing crescents into his skin, chasing every bit of him with shaking hips.

Wriothesley feels it too.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice low and frayed, his breath hot against your cheek. “Let go for me again, sweetheart… I’ve got you.”

His words undo you completely.

You fall apart with a sob, the pleasure crashing through you, overwhelming and hot, tightening every muscle as your poor, abused pussy clenches around him. Your body locks up, trembling as your climax hits and stars burn behind your eyelids.

Wriothesley shudders at the feeling—your body gripping him so tightly it rips a ragged moan from his throat. He’s right there with you, his pace faltering as he fights to keep from unraveling too soon, but it’s useless. You’re too tight, too warm, too perfect wrapped around him like this.

“Mine,” he rasps, his rhythm losing all control as he drives into you even deeper, grinding to the hilt, buried completely inside you.. “All fucking mine—”

He spills into you with a groan, his hips locked tight against yours, the warmth of him filling you completely as he pulses deep inside. You feel everything—every twitch, every wave of his release spilling into you—and it only makes you tighten around him more, dragging out every last drop.

For a while, Wriothesley doesn’t move. He simply stays there, holding you close as his chest heaves with every labored breath. You notice his arms shaking as he cradles your face, as if afraid you’ll slip away, and you respond with a breathless laugh. You lean into the warmth of his chest, fingers tracing lazy shapes along the scars on his back.

“Y’know, you always overdo it…” you murmur sweetly despite the jab in your words. “You could’ve just said you missed me instead of nearly breaking my pelvis.”

Your boyfriend snorts. “Sweetheart, we both know you wanted to be folded in half beneath me for weeks. No need to act so coy with me.” 

You make a sound of outrage—weak and breathless, given the state he’s left you in—but it only makes him laugh, the kind of sound that warms your chest.

“As if you weren’t grinding on me in your sleep last week,” Wriothesley mutters against your hair, voice husky but amused, his arms tightening around you as he shifts to pull the blanket over your bodies. “Or moaning my name when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Lies,” you mumble stubbornly, tucking your face against his throat, too drowsy and satisfied to argue properly. “You’re full of it.”

He just hums, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before you both start slipping into that soft, boneless quiet—his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, his body still nestled inside yours, too lazy to part.

But hours later, when the moon has shifted and everything’s hushed and hazy, you stir awake to the slow, instinctive roll of his hips against yours. 

You’re still wrapped around him, your bodies tangled and sticky with warmth, and even in his sleep, Wriothesley’s cock is thick and hard between your thighs, grinding up with needy, helpless thrusts as he breathes raggedly against your neck. You blink, hazy and half-lost in the fog of sleep, but when you shift your hips in answer, you feel the quiet groan he spills against your skin.

Still half-asleep, he mutters your name, slurring it like a plea.

You don’t stand a chance—not with the way he slides himself along the mess between your legs, driven by sheer need. All you can do is cling to him, letting him take what he wants, pulling you both under all over again.

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the heady, aching fullness still lingering between your legs, or maybe it’s the low, guttural sound Wriothesley makes with every slow grind against your slick folds. But you tilt your hips anyway, just enough to guide him back inside you.

A soft, broken gasp slips from your lips the moment he catches, the thick head of his cock pressing right where your body is still tender and dripping from before. He slides into your soiled cunt with little resistance—everything still messy, still so wet, and it’s obscene how easily he fills you again.

You both groan, the sound low and guttural in the dark.

Wriothesley stirs at the sensation, his breath hitching against your skin, but he doesn’t fully wake just yet. His body simply moves on instinct, hips rolling slow and deep as he sinks fully inside, grinding against every oversensitive spot within you.

Despite himself, his hands roam, heavy and uncoordinated but hungry—palms dragging over your waist, up your ribs, before settling on your breasts with a rough, possessive squeeze.

“Mmh… Mine…” he mutters against your throat. 

His thumbs rub lazily over your nipples, teasing circles that send shivers down your spine even as his hips continue that deep, drugging rhythm—slow, thick strokes that never quite pull out fully, always grinding back in to the hilt. You can’t help the soft, breathy moans that escape you, half-lost in sleep yourself, body too pliant, too soaked and overstimulated to do anything but take him.

“Good girl,” Wriothesley breathes in that same drowsy murmur, his lips pressing clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. “Always so good for me… fuck, you feel so perfect.”

Your thighs tremble with every lazy thrust, his cock dragging through the combined mess of your earlier highs, every stroke a filthy reminder of how many times he’s already claimed you tonight, but none of it matters. You let him have you anyway, let him grind into you again and again, too far gone to care about anything but the warmth of him buried deep inside.

Despite yourself, you meet him willingly, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, as if you’re just as insatiable as he is.

“You’re gonna keep me up all night at this rate,” you manage to tease, though your voice is wrecked, breathless from the slow burn of his cock dragging against every sore, swollen spot inside you. Wriothesley only lets out a dark, sleepy laugh right against your ear.

“Good,” he rasps, grinding in deep enough to make your toes curl. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before Wriothesley shifts, the drag of his cock somehow sharper as he finally rouses fully from the fog of sleep. His breath is hot against your skin, rough and ragged, the weight of him pressing down on you as he starts to move in earnest—slow, steady thrusts that grind into every spot that makes your body jolt and tighten around him.

“So fucking sweet,” he groans, still slurred from sleep, but every word dripping with hunger. His hips roll deeper, languid and thick, as if savoring every wet, obscene sound of your bodies grinding together in the dark. “You just keep letting me in…”

You can barely respond—you’re too far gone, too soft and overstimulated, your cunt fluttering around him with every lazy thrust. It’s filthy, the way he slips through your earlier mess, grinding it deeper, making you feel every bit of it of his release still sticky and present. 

But when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen nub with terrifying ease, you gasp—a high, broken sound that echoes in the quiet. Wriothesley groans right with you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, devastatingly gentle strokes.

“Gotta help you along, sweetheart,” he mutters, his voice half a purr, half a growl as he watches your face twist in helpless pleasure. “Don’t want you falling behind…”

It’s too much. His cock grinding deep, his fingers working you with lazy precision—it has your body locking tight, your hips jerking against him despite yourself.

“Wrio— ah! Too much—” you whimper, but he only hushes you, his lips curling into a dark, sleepy smile against your throat.

“You can take it. You always do, my perfect girl,” he rasps, pressing harder against your clit as he rocks into you even deeper. “Just one more. Give me one more.”

The pressure crests too fast for you to keep up with, but there’s no stopping it. His cock drags through your gummy walls, his fingers never relenting, and you can feel yourself slipping under again, shaking violently as another orgasm curls tight in your belly.

“Come on, sweetheart. Milk my cock again—show me how much you love being filled up like this…” Wriothesley groans, voice wrecked and desperate now as his pace picks up, hips grinding messily into yours. 

You break into him with a sob, white hot ecstasy crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your aching pussy clamps down tight around his cock, and Wriothesley curses with a sharp hiss, hips stuttering as he grinds in deep.

“Fuck—fuck, just like that—”

He’s not far behind, your orgasm dragging him right over the edge with you. His hips lock tight against yours, buried to the hilt, as he spills inside again with a long, shuddering groan—filling you up once more as your body still flutters around him through the aftershocks.

You both stay like that for a while—panting, tangled, drenched in sweat and stickiness and heat, too spent to even think of moving. But you’re too blissed out and filled with cum and love to care.

Eventually, your breathing starts to slow, though neither of you moves—too exhausted, too warm in the tangled knot of limbs and sheets and fading tremors. His cock is still nestled deep inside you, softening but not quite slipping out, the heat of him still leaking from where your bodies remain joined. Wriothesley hums quietly against your temple, barely more than a rasped breath. He strokes slow, soothing circles over your hips, your back, as if to calm the aftershocks still fluttering through you both.

“I love you,” he murmurs, almost slurred with sleep again. But it’s steady—like the words were always meant to be there, tucked between your heartbeats.

You smile, too dazed and sore to do anything but melt into him.

“Love you too,” you whisper back, fingers curling lazily into his sweat-damp hair.

You tug him down for a soft kiss, lips brushing more than pressing, but it’s enough. He groans faintly in response—somewhere between contentment and pride, the sound rumbling in his chest where it’s pressed against yours. And then, in that same drowsy haze, Wriothesley’s hand drifts from your waist down to your thigh, hooking it around his hips again. 

“Better clear your morning,” he mutters against your skin, more to himself than to you. “You won’t be leaving this bed anytime soon.”

You laugh softly, not even bothering to argue because deep down, you know he’s right.

When you finally fall back asleep, your last blurry thought is that you’ll definitely be calling in sick.

The message from Charlotte pops up just as you’re halfway through your afternoon reports.

Get down to the lobby. Right now.

You frown, obviously puzzled as you rack your brain for what could have prompted this. Did you order something? Did you forget a courier drop-off? Were you in trouble with someone from the front desk?

Still puzzled, you grab your phone and make your way downstairs, muttering to yourself the whole way. Whatever it is, it better not be another one of Charlotte’s ridiculous pranks. But the second the elevator doors open, your breath catches.

Wriothesley is standing right there in the middle of the lobby.

Your boyfriend is dressed in his bodyguard uniform, looking every bit the part—broad shoulders, fitted black, looking painfully good and very out of place in the sleek office space. He’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers that looks like it came straight from a fairytale. Your heart jumps to your throat as every head in the lobby turns toward him. 

“What the—what the hell are you doing here?!” you hiss the moment you stomp over, your face burning as you try to shrink into yourself. “Aren’t you on the clock? Neuvillette’s going to kill you—”

But Wriothesley only flashes that infuriating, calm smile of his, completely unfazed by the growing audience of office workers gathering around you. He steps forward and presses the bouquet into your hands.

“Didn’t think I’d forget my girlfriend’s birthday, did you?”

The words hit harder than they should, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and your whole face burns hotter.

You sputter uselessly, gaping at the sheer audacity of him—your boyfriend, standing here in full uniform like some dark knight from a drama, handing you the most beautiful bouquet you’ve ever seen, while half your office gawks.

Charlotte, from somewhere behind you, lets out a delighted little squeal. You catch her openly snapping photos, giggling behind her phone like she’s watching her favorite rom-com unfold live.

“W-Wriothesley, I swear to god—”

“Relax.” He leans in close, lips brushing your ear in a way that makes your knees nearly buckle. “I cleared it with the mayor. Just think of it like I’m on my lunch break.”

Then, even lower, he murmurs, “Besides… I figured you’d want something to look forward to after work.” His gaze flicks down before he adds with a wicked glint, “Dinner first. Then we’ll celebrate properly tonight. You’ll get to unwrap another present later.”

You almost faint.

Before you can say another word, Wriothesley straightens, presses a kiss to your cheek—in front of everyone—then turns to leave. His confident stride is slow and smug, leaving you standing there with the bouquet in hand.

Charlotte giggles beside you, utterly delighted as she keeps taking pictures. “Told you he was your soulmate~” she teases, while you bury your face in the flowers—face burning, heart impossibly full.

But honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⟢ end notes: oh this was extra filthy... it has been A While since i locked in and wrote smut this emotional and passionate and— *sighs dreamily* ohh to be wriothesley's girl... i very truly enjoyed writing this, so i hope you enjoyed reading too :3c thank you again to my beloved bean for trusting me to write this for you!!! i am always happy to go back to my roots (the genshin men...) to bring ur delusions to life <3 happiest birthday!!!

Finally, Leona's lips found your own before his hand eagerly moved up to your clothed pussy. He laughed against your lips, parting briefly from you as he licked his lips clean of your sweet-tasting lipstick. "Already this wet for me herbivore? All that talk earlier must've been a heap of lies." He then pressed another kiss to your lips before peppering a trail of kisses down your cheek and to the side of your neck. Oh, he was so tempted to mark you right here and right now in this garden but...Leona willed himself to play the long game rather than try to obtain all of his winnings in one single night. He'd get you addicted to his touch first, getting you to beg and plead for him to take you but, as cruel as it would be, he'd deny you. After all, it was more fun to have you come to him rather than him come to you.

"Ah..." You moaned sweetly, the beastman's ears perking to the sound.

"I-It's because you're so d-damn arrogant..." You said breathlessly before you whined at the feeling of cold air hitting your sex when Leona pulled your underwear to the side. The prince ignored your words, too focused on how you squeaked and shuddered each time he kissed you and especially how you grabbed at his shoulders like a lifeline when he began to touch your twitching sex.

"All this just from talking to me, herbivore?" He then trailed his lips back up to your cheek before whispering in your ear. "How shameless..." He continued to lightly scold you before he dipped a finger inside your pussy, your grip upon his shoulders getting tighter from the action.

"And here you were reading a romance novel...did your precious characters do something like this in that little book of yours?"

You shook your head with a whiney 'no' in response. "Oh?" Leona briefly flashed his teeth as he smiled. "You must've been really eager for something like this to happen then," He continued to whisper in your ear as his finger began to lightly thrust in and out of your pussy, the sound of your moans increasing only making the prince's cock strain harder in his pants. But, for the moment, he'd ignore his own desires in other to please you.

"You have a crush on anyone?" Leona lightly nipped your ear.

He felt his ego grow when you shook your head no, he had a completely blank slate to work off of. To make sure that you got addicted to him and no one else. "My lucky day then...I get a cute lil' herbivore to play around with then. It'd be pretty awkward to fuck you with my fingers before you'd leave and smile in your crush's face next." Then, he curled his finger a little, a whine leaving your lips when he suddenly hit your g-spot. At the sound, Leona began to press into that spot with more accuracy, causing you to wrap your arms around his neck as you pulled him closer to your body.

"L-Leona!" You gasped.

"Tch, you sound like a lioness in heat. All from a little fingering?" He teased. A knot began to form in the pit of your stomach as you continued to clench around Leona's finger at his words, the combination of his typically rude and sarcastic tone mixed with the pleasure he was delivering you making your head spin. Then, Leona added a second finger and his thumb into the mix. The addition of the rubbing against your clit and the increased thickness from the second finger making you whine Leona's name.

He had to hold himself back from cumming in his pants like some teenager at the sound. "F-Fuck—! L-Leona...!" You gasped. "Your fingers...f-feel so good..."

"Yeah?" He placed a surprisingly gentle kiss on your lips. "You're so much more honest when you have a couple of fingers tending to this needy hole of yours, don't you?" He chuckled.

You dumbly nodded your head, your further honesty to his question only making his ego grow as the pace of his thrusts increased. He had to cover your mouth with his hand to help muffle your moans, the feeling of your drool against his palm making the prince hiss at the dirtiness of it all. In this moment, he felt more akin to a thief rather than a prince. Stealing away the purity of the seemingly innocent princess, who was "promised" to her knight. Leona moaned at the thought, and what's more? With the way you called out his name and clung to him like you were begging him to give you pleasure, trying to continue to plead your case for him to give you what you so desperately want, Leona couldn't deny how quickly his desires for you grew.

"So loud herbivore..." He said with an unusually sweet tone as his ears started to move to the sound of your cunt beginning to squelch. Your slick started to stick to Leona's palm and drip down onto the bench, filling the air with the smell of sex as Leona picked up the pace of his fingers even more. "Gonna cum soon? Your drippin'."

You answered with a loud moan as your eyes started to roll to the back of your head while your hips started to thrust onto his fingers in time with his movements. Your cunt tightened around his fingers, making the prince have to put more work into fucking you until...you whined loudly behind his palm, your pussy clenching and unclenching around his fingers rapidly before you finally relaxed as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm.

When you made a noise of discomfort though, he finally removed his fingers.

"Dirty," He mumbled, spreading his fingers as he lewdly played with your slick before finally sticking the digits into his mouth.

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system