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Phuwin sometimes thinks of how he got here: in the same way a little thunder outside makes you think of collapsing buildings, a small piece of candy makes you aware of your teeth, a smile makes you recall hunger.
“Ah.” Phuwin’s body is tight, melting, seeping into the cracks of his soul, and yet he feels that there’s no escape from the rest of him. That everywhere Pond is holding him down is a pin to his existence, and he can’t unstick himself from the awareness—and the world bursts into colors, deep and fragmented. Pond’s smell surrounds him, sunny, like Rome, but Phuwin has barely any time to inhale before all the air is being punched out of him again.
He's on his back—fifth time this week—wrapped around the bare, naked body above him, spit and saliva and drool streaking his lips, his neck, the inside of his most intimate parts, and Pond is moving him, moving inside him, but all his deadly force is in full view of Phuwin, outside either of their bodies where Phuwin’s eyes can’t help but fall on Pond, and Pond’s can’t help but linger and extend on his.
Rome is hot, summer at its most mildly upset, and Phuwin is a shiver of a soaking body in their hotel bed. The length of his legs covers the smooth wet slide of Pond’s thighs and hips, the inside of his knees accommodating the fit of Pond’s waist, their hot breaths and strangled groans painting humidity, making everything damp along his neck and cheeks and temple where Pond presses close with eager abandon, open and insistent.
And to start with, Phuwin isn’t even fully naked: he’s wearing Pond’s long-sleeved shirt.
The same one that he wore outside for better photos; the same one that he came out of the shower already wearing, with nothing underneath, and Pond kissed him for it. “Pond,” he gasps out, Pond’s hot, hard length moving languidly in him, almost like a gentle caress. Pond holds him down, their hands intertwined over Phuwin’s head, putting barely any strength behind it—but Phuwin wants him to do it like he means it. “Harder,” he says, squirms until Pond’s hold on him tightens, looks Pond in the eye as he moans at Pond’s undisputed obedience, who thrusts in harder.
Phuwin feels hot then cold, high then sinking under, feels like he’s falling, falling, falling. Pond catches him throughout it all like he always does, but he smiles about it—and it’s ridiculous because it’s not even a new smile, not like Pond’s smile changes during sex, absolutely not. It’s just a lot.
Phuwin arches into him, skin to skin, sweaty and warm and slow, and squeezes his fingers in Pond’s grip, lets his mouth fall open as his head falls back, as his eyes slide shut. Pond doesn’t smile during sex as he would during filming their romantic scenes together, or as he would listening to him talk about his day, but like he’s found his favorite thing to do and wants Phuwin to know that he’s loving it. A little like ‘thank you’, but amped up to a hundred and accompanied by a strong yank of his hips into Phuwin, soft and hard at the same time.
Pond nuzzles into the side of Phuwin’s neck, hot breath setting new tremors along the slick skin, goosebumps dancing along Phuwin’s spine, his toes, between his legs where Pond’s grinding deep into him. He licks at the unmarked flesh, like it’s a starter course of his favorite buffet menu: something to tease his appetite with before he can really devour. And Phuwin finds it difficult to hold in his noises during sex with Pond, but when they’re like this: alone together and allowed to hide in from the rest of the world in a bed with the balcony wide open, Phuwin feels the sounds tear out of him like cries for help.
God knows he needs help to not lose himself completely to this addicting heat, to Pond. But it’s a fate he doesn’t want to be saved from—at least, not when Pond’s in his guts.
“Enjoying yourself?” he pants into Pond’s hair, breath hitched on a short moan, as Pond rocks them together not so gently, the wet heat between them getting wetter and hotter.
Pond rises from the crook of Phuwin’s neck, pupils blown wide like he’s high, lips red and swollen and smudged with the lipstick that Phuwin almost kissed off of him, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that makes Phuwin something like angry, like little pinpricks under his skin catching fire under Pond’s gaze, like the need to hold him in—just like this, buried inside until he gives it all to Phuwin, everything. Anger that wants to run its teeth down Pond’s belly.
He keeps thrusting into Phuwin even as Phuwin snakes his toes down the swell of his ass, down the taut line of his thigh, sinking into soft flesh; Pond is single-minded even when they’re fucking, and he’s not even ashamed of it, seeing as how often and how thoroughly he takes pleasure in indulging himself in Phuwin’s need. For all that he is stubborn, Pond is nothing if not a gentleman, Phuwin’s found.
“You’re so beautiful,” Pond murmurs with fervor, forehead pressed to Phuwin’s, their noses sliding together with each little movement. “Feel fucking amazing, Phuwin. So good, baby.” He presses in and stays, slowing only long enough to grind his length into Phuwin, making him acknowledge the girth and fullness, the hunger that never abates, and Phuwin closes his eyes, defeated.
Phuwin can’t see the darkness on the back of his eyelid: he’s forgotten how to process vision, and instead he’s full of sounds, sensations, heat and fireworks. He’s a corporeal paradox. Words are useless, words are the most important sounds; he’s floating, he’s being pressed so hard into the sheets that he might just sink through; he’s the most awake he’s ever been; he’s so far out of his mind they won’t spot him even in space—and so on, till infinity. Or till Pond is in him, and they’re joined so disgustingly intimate that the concept of personal space seems abhorring.
“Ah- hah- Pond—” Pond groans into his skin, pressing himself impossibly closer until the cold plate of his necklace is almost branded into the center of Phuwin’s chest. Phuwin arches, mouth numbing open in a silent moan as Pond picks up the pace, hammering his prostate mercilessly, so close to Phuwin that he’s literally digging into him—but Phuwin needs to touch, he’s gone too long without it— “Phi Pond let- fuck- I want-“
Pond’s mouth slides over his, easy and hot and wet, taking away all his words. Phuwin closes his eyes, helpless, and barely can even return the kiss, half-formed moans and filth falling off his lips, teeth catching on Pond’s plush bottom lip.
And then Pond untangles his right hand from Phuwin’s left, bringing it down to caress and knead the curve of his hips and upper thighs, nails skimming down, leaving goosebumps like a trail of invisible stardust on Phuwin’s sweat-shined skin, and finally grips the underside of Phuwin’s leg and bends it farther back, swift and greedy.
It’s at this second instant of impossible closeness that Phuwin becomes aware of his own cock, trapped against the smooth planes of Pond’s stomach, and he’s so hard he’s honestly amazed how he’s not already crying with it, when Pond above him is so relentless in pressing all his buttons—even discovering some new ones that Phuwin didn’t even know existed before now.
Phuwin slides his free hand into Pond’s hair and tugs. They come together once more, joined in every crevice, and Phuwin is astonished by how people can just move on from sex like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t cost a piece of your soul every single time. But he knows that he’s okay with it. Let Pond have anything he likes, as many times as he likes. Because at the end of the day, Pond would look at him and smile, absolving him of all pain, Phuwin’s personal royal touch—and Phuwin will hold onto it like a buoy in a seastorm.
Pond eats him now, opening his mouth into him like he’s giving Phuwin a gift, giving and giving because he doesn’t know how to take selfishly at all. And all the while he’s thrusting into him, measured and biting and perfect, thick and hard in all the right places, and he keeps Phuwin content in a puddle of his own pleasure on the bed. Phuwin’s vision is only darkness—darkness and Pond, and the flashes of searing hot fire that raze his guts, dancing along his spine, teeth and a growl buried in each push of Pond’s hips, each half-moaned pant, and an all-encompassing gaze.
Phuwin is stretched in more than one way, and Pond is trying to carve himself inside his body through all those vulnerable openings: tongue, eyes, cock. He’s godly, lissome, the heft of him in the cradle of Phuwin’s thighs and the shattered grace of his want dripping into Phuwin’s blood, turning it pink and black and viscous. While Phuwin is butchered, laid out, pliant and razed, and it should feel more devastating than it does—to be so wholly taken in and devoured for who you are.
“Pond—” Phuwin’s fingers tangle viciously in Pond’s short hair, back arching as sudden and intense pleasure spikes in him. He can feel a single tear roll down his left cheekbone, the hotness of it, and the liberation, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping. Chanting. “Pond, phi Pond—fuck, ah.”
It’s the fifth time that Pond breaks for him, sweet groans of pleasure pressed under Phuwin’s jaw, a languid swipe of his tongue as Phuwin comes with him, shivering from head to toe, warm and serrated. Phuwin wraps his limbs tight around him, making Pond breathe out a harsh sound, half-moan and half-laughter.
Phuwin’s body feels like one tender bruise, levelled out by the force of Pond’s ruthless ministrations. He bites Pond’s earlobe playfully, making him giggle, then hums and nuzzles closer in the crook of Pond's neck.
“What was that for?” Pond’s exhausted rumble stirs his belly, and it’s like Phuwin said: ruthless.
Phuwin lets out a tired moan as Pond gently untangles them, almost on the verge of whining about it. “I’m dead. You’ve fucked me to death. Congratulations.”
Pond laughs, soft, and eases Phuwin into a more comfortable position, dutifully cleaning them both with a wet towel, slow and relaxed and so attractive it hurts just to look at him like this. He meets Phuwin’s eyes when he’s done, smiling, and pinches his cheek.
Phuwin’s heart does a giant flip; he pouts to hide whatever expression’s about to slip by him.
“Let’s get some water in you,” Pond says. Phuwin curiously watches his movements as he puts on his boxer-shorts, low on his hips, and grabs a bottle of water from the coffee table in the room. Phuwin shivers, still naked except for the shirt, and Pond’s eyes darken when he turns around, as he takes him in.
Phuwin laughs, low and deep from his throat, letting himself feel the quiet curl of pleasure that struts down the length of his spine, aching sweetly between his legs. He spreads himself on the bed, deliberate and smug, and Pond’s eyes flicker up to him, knowing, as he smiles fondly, hair tousled by a strong breeze from the balcony.
“Want you again,” Phuwin whispers in Pond’s ear as soon as he’s close enough, slinging his arms round his shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of soft sheets and softer skin made firm by flesh and blood.
And Pond, who looks down at him with all the desire and affection in his eyes, doesn’t even call him out on his teasing, only gives him an earnest, “Want you too.” And that—Phuwin stutters, shatters. That doesn’t feel like it should be taken lightly or laughed off.
“Want you,” Phuwin says again, testing a half-formed theory, shaking inside from the intensity of having Pond close, as close as he can be, and not have to hide it.
Pond lifts the unscrewed bottle to Phuwin’s lips, gets the water into his mouth, dark eyes lovingly tracing each gulp that trickles down Phuwin’s throat. His lips are red, bitten, and well-used, and there’s evidence of Phuwin all over him—evidence that won’t stay long, but they will know that it was there.
“Want you too,” he replies, reiterates. Looks Phuwin in the eyes and makes sure that Phuwin knows what he’s getting into, just like that first time he pressed Phuwin into the sheets and taught him how to consume.
Phuwin is done drinking. His heart in his throat, he takes the bottle out of Pond’s hands and pushes it on the bedside table, then reaches out and tugs him down by the back of his neck. Phuwin kisses him, open-mouthed but chaste, heart beating so hard he’s scared it’ll fly out of him. He inhales Pond in, presses himself closer, tangles them together once more.
They lie there the whole afternoon, making Rome their own.