Fics like let me put my lips to something

“Ah,” Phil coughs, then laughs, half-awkward. “You want a moment to sort yourself out while I, uh, look for some non-ripped sheets?” “Sort myself out? What does that even mean, Philza? You’re the one shedding tears all over me. Didn’t take you for a crying man—is this a new thing, do you think?” Wilbur is half-sprawled on Phil’s bed, propped up with an elbow, and he squints open his eyes to look at him. Phil clears his throat. “I mean your little problem there, pal." “My little problem? What is this, middle school?” Wilbur rolls over on his stomach, the sheets soft against his skin. “These are better than the ones you gave me. You shelling out on sheets for your guest, Phil? For your own son?” Phil makes a sound, caught between a sigh and a groan. Then something sparks—Wilbur shifts against the bed, stretching his leg out, and moans. Fuck, he thinks, and then shifts again. He’s hard, he realizes, has been hard for what must be a while now. His head feels clouded. He grinds down, hard, and moans again. There’s a noise behind him. “You have a room,” Phil hisses. Right, Wilbur thinks, dazed. Phil is still there, watching him make a mess of himself in his bed. Heat crawls up his spine.

Fics like let me put my lips to something

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