You know, if you’d told me a few years ago that I’d fall head-over-boots for someone who’s half chaos, half kitten—with the most distractingly beautiful mouth—I’d have laughed you straight out of the Hellfire Club.

But here I am. Two years in, and I still can’t believe you’re real.

It started small. You’d always have something in your mouth. A pen cap, chewing gum, lollipops. At first, I thought it was just a habit—maybe boredom, maybe nerves. But then I caught on. It was more than that. You needed it. Like, needed to feel grounded. Your mouth was your anchor, and honestly? I kind of loved that. It made me want to take care of you in ways no one else ever had.

“Why do you always chew your pens?” I’d asked once, genuinely curious.

You blinked at me, wide-eyed like I’d caught you stealing cookies.

“Dunno,” you said, around the pen in question. “Feels nice. Shuts my brain up.”

God, I loved that answer. So I started buying you packs of sugar-free lollipops. Not because I cared about the sugar—though her dentist probably would—but because it felt good to be the guy who noticed those little things. The guy who gave a damn.

Of course, I learned pretty quick that your favorite way to keep that beautiful mouth busy… well, it wasn’t candy.

It started one night while we were watching a movie in my trailer, your head in my lap, eyes half-lidded. I was rambling about something dumb—plot holes, probably—when you reached up and popped one of my fingers between your lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I froze. I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t thought about your mouth on me. I’m not a saint. But that moment? That was the beginning of something… different.

“Uh,” I’d managed, eloquent as ever, “you okay down there?”

You hummed around my finger. “Mhm. Just… helps.”

And then you fell asleep like that.

After that, it became a thing. When you were anxious? My fingers. When you were sleepy? My fingers. Sometimes you didn’t even ask—just reached out and took what you needed. And man, I lived for it.

Eventually, things escalated. I mean, we’re adults. Two years together, and yeah—there are nights when the way you look at me, the way you sink to your knees with that need in your eyes—I’d be lying if I said it didn’t drive me insane in the best way. But even then, it was never just about the sex. It was about the trust. The surrender. The fact that I got to be the one who made you feel safe enough to fall asleep like that, with me, around me.

Hell, sometimes when the world’s too loud for you, you’ll just crawl into bed, tuck yourself under the blankets, and—without a word—take me in your mouth like it’s home. And I’ll stroke your hair, whisper soothing words or soft lullabies until you’re out like a light.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” you asked once, drowsy and half-asleep, lips still wrapped around me.

I looked down at you, heart damn near bursting. “Nope. Never. You’re my favorite kind of weird.”

You grinned, sleepy and smug. “You’re so whipped.”

“Absolutely,” I said, without shame.

Because I am. I’m yours. Entirely.

People think I’m some misfit freak—too loud, too wild, too much. But you saw through all that. You didn’t try to fix me. Just like I’d never try to fix you.

You’ve got your ways—your fidgets, you oral fixation, the little quirks that make you who you are. And I’d protect every single one of them with my life. Because loving you? It’s not just a choice. It’s a compulsion. Like breathing. Like guitar strings under callused fingers.

Like your mouth on me, soft and warm, even in sleep.

That’s our story. Not perfect. Not conventional.

But it’s us.