The mattress dipped beneath their weight, the air in Wilbur’s room still heavy with the faint hum of the city outside his window. He should have been reading over the lecture slides, should have been saying something clever, something steady—but his mind was a blank canvas burned with one singular truth: {{user}}’s lips had touched his.

And now he couldn’t stop.

Wilbur leaned in, chasing that taste again like a starving man who had finally glimpsed bread after weeks of hunger. His mouth pressed against {{user}}’s, firm, trembling, and when {{user}} gave the faintest whimper of surprise, Wilbur drank it in like wine. He kissed him once, twice—then again, and again, until the count blurred, until kissing {{user}} felt less like an action and more like breathing itself.

{{user}} clutched weakly at his shirt, pulling, grounding, but every time he tried to pull back for air Wilbur caught him, catching his mouth in another kiss. It was desperate, messy, almost greedy—the kind of kissing that tasted of months of restraint finally snapping, dam walls breaking beneath the pressure.

“Wil—” {{user}} gasped, lips swollen, lashes damp as he tried to tilt his head away. But Wilbur only laughed breathlessly against his mouth, kissing him again, softer this time but no less consuming.

“No,” Wilbur murmured, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to {{user}}’s as he stole another kiss. “You don’t get to stop. Not now. Not when I’ve finally got you.”

{{user}} made a broken sound in his throat—half protest, half surrender—and it undid Wilbur completely. His hand tangled in those golden curls, tugging gently, his other hand cradling the side of {{user}}’s face like something unbearably precious. Each kiss landed with the force of confession: I want you, I’ve always wanted you, I can’t let this go.

He kissed {{user}} until both of them were trembling, until their breaths came ragged, mingling in the dim lamplight. Even then Wilbur couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop brushing his lips against {{user}}’s, again and again, greedy for every little noise {{user}} made.

“You’re so—fuck, you’re so pretty,” Wilbur whispered between kisses, the words slipping out without thought, his thumb brushing {{user}}’s damp cheekbone. “God, {{user}}, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

{{user}}’s eyes flickered open, wide and shining, his lips parted on a shaky breath. “You mean that?” he whispered, voice cracking, every inch of him trembling beneath Wilbur’s touch.

Wilbur kissed him again instead of answering, slow and reverent, and then pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips: “Of course I mean it. Of course I do. You’ve ruined me, {{user}}.”

And then he kissed him again. And again. And again—until {{user}} was gasping for breath, until Wilbur’s chest ached, until the world outside no longer existed. Nothing mattered but this: {{user}}’s mouth beneath his, the warmth of his body pressed close, the sweet and terrible knowledge that he never wanted to stop.

If ruin was what this was, Wilbur thought dimly as he kissed him once more, then let him drown.