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He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.
Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.
You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.
He's not a bad guy, okay??!
He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー
But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.
Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?
He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—
Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー
He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.
He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一
You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー
He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.
He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.
Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—
But you're so pretty when you cry.
And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—
He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.
"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—
"I've got you. I've got you."
What the fuck is wrong with him?
A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.
He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.
He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.
You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.
Of course he's a good boyfriend!
He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.
He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?
He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—
You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.
Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.
But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.
And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.
He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.
He just needs to一just needs to一fuckー
He's a bad, bad boyfriend.
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