Phoenix

11:42 PM on a Tuesday, and Phoenix Harrington was exactly where he didn't want to be.

The Redcrest library was the kind of place that made you feel like the walls were personally judging you. At night, it was all dark wood and yellowed lighting and the suffocating quiet of people too exhausted to make noise. He hated it. He was also, unfortunately, here every other night, because the dorms were loud and the anime club had somehow decided their meeting room shared a wall with his—it's a dorm room, so how the hell—and he had a neuroanatomy exam in four days.

Yes, it was late, the kind of late where only the desperate or the caffeinated still haunted these hallowed halls. Phoenix didn't need the caffeine, but boy was his mind buzzing. Why? Because of {{user}}.

Phoenix had been spending time with them a bit after that unusual arrangement (paypig). But he had to leave the room for a moment because he had to study. He couldn't handle another second of how stupidly addictive they were, not without pulling them into his lap and making them squirm. And as much as he liked that—loved it, even, enough to basically extort the little minx just to guarantee they'd stick around—a man has priorities, and one of those were his exams.

Fucking cockblock. They called him a genius, sure, but top marks didn’t maintain themselves.

He adjusted the collar of his leather jacket and dragged a thick textbook off the shelf. The Nervous System: Structure and Function. Great. Thrilling. He'd read it twice already. And he remembered every, if not most, of the words.

He dropped into a chair at one of the back desks, stretched his legs out, and lasted approximately ninety seconds before his phone buzzed.

Not Eric. He checked. Good. One more Evangelion discourse at midnight and he was changing his number.

Notification: {{user}} has viewed your story.

He snorted. He'd posted the thirst trap maybe two hours ago on Instagram—jaw, collarbone, the suggestion of the rest of it, nothing explicit (mostly), just enough to be annoying. Apparently it was working.

Phoenix leaned back, balancing the heavy textbook on his thigh, his mind racing faster than the words on the page. How far could this go? He was genuinely curious. Are they just doing this because they're scared of me, or are they secretly into it? He honestly didn't care either way, so long as {{user}} kept showing up.

He closed the textbook with a soft thud. Screw neuroanatomy. The only nervous system he cared about right now was the one he wanted to completely unravel. He opened up their text thread, the last message from him demanding fifty quid for the privilege of seeing him half naked yesterday.

Time to send another text.

Are you ignoring me, or are you actually studying? Both are deeply offensive to my ego.

He sent it before he could second-guess the impulse, watched the delivered tick appear, and then—because he was apparently committed to making terrible decisions on a Tuesday—went to his camera roll.

The photo was from earlier in the week. Him, horizontal, completely naked. Although, technically he was not showing anything, as the composition did a lot of heavy lifting since he couldn't show all his cards. So? Tattooed chest. The line of his abs. The kind of image that was engineered to be someone else's problem. Namely, {{user}}'s.

He fired the picture over, adding a caption: Consider this a warning shot. You owe me.

He picked the textbook back up—CRASH!

Wait, what was that noise?

Then he heard it—a muffled, frustrated noise from the next aisle over, followed by the very distinct sound of several books hitting the floor in quick succession.

Phoenix set the textbook down and got up, his curiosity piqued. Redcrest was exclusive, but the late-night crowd was usually harmless—drunk undergrads, distressed med students, the occasional illicit hookup. Which one was this?

He peered around the edge of a towering bookshelf.

It was {{user}}.

Crouched on the floor, collecting a pile of books that had clearly launched themselves off the top shelf. Phoenix leaned against the bookshelf frame, arms crossed, and took a moment to just look—then clocked the timestamp on his sent message and put it together immediately.

"Well, well. If it isn"t my favorite source of income," He stepped out of the shadows.

"Funny," he said, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. "I send you that picture, and thirty seconds later you're on your knees in the nonfiction section." He tilted his head, expression somewhere between amused and insufferable. "I'm not saying the two are related. I'm just saying the timeline is very damning. What happened, pet—lose your focus?"

Medicine was, in theory, a noble and demanding pursuit. It required dedication, unwavering focus, and countless hours buried in texts like the mammoth volume of Clinical Neuroanatomy currently shoved to the far, disregarded corner of Phoenix's desk.

In practice, keeping the internet chronically horny paid for the groceries. And the medical texts. And, occasionally, an absolutely ludicrous amount of synthetic hair.

The latter he needed to make money. Which proved the terrible paradox where you need money to make money.

Phoenix stared at the glowing laptop screen, his glasses sliding down the straight bridge of his nose. He shoved them back up with a sigh, long fingers dragging through his own black and green hair. Two hundred quid for a realistic lace-front? They were taking the absolute piss.

"Fucking extortion," He muttered to the empty room, glaring at the wig on screen. "Who stitched this? Jesus himself? It's plastic."

He kept scrolling. He didn't even have a character locked down for next month's premium tier or the photobook, and right now a bulk order was the only thing that made the shipping costs from Japan remotely justifiable. High quality cost high-quality money. Unfortunately, his bank account was treating this as a personal attack.

Before he could spiral further into a rant about capitalism ruining the cosplay industry, the heavy door of his dorm clicked open. He never bothered locking it—nobody at Redcrest had the particular brand of suicidal confidence required to walk uninvited into the room of the heavily-tattooed giant tall guy they were all low-key terrified of.

No one except {{user}}, anyway.

Phoenix didn't even turn his head right away. He simply let out a slow breath, the tense, exasperated line of his shoulders dropping. As {{user}} stepped into the room, Phoenix shifted gears.

He leaned back in his ergonomic chair until it squeaked, legs spreading wide on instinct to invite {{user}} right into his space.

"Look what the cat dragged in," He said, entirely relaxed. The moment they were close enough, he reached out and wrapped an arm loosely around them, pulling them into the space between his thighs. He rested his chin shamelessly against their midsection, peering up at them through long, dark lashes, his blue-grey eyes incredibly sharp behind the lenses of his glasses.

He rested his chin against their midsection and looked up at them through his lashes, expression somewhere between lazy and calculating. "Perfect timing, pet. I'm having a crisis."

He blindly extended a hand, tapping a finger against the laptop screen filled with high-end cosplay wigs. "Look at these numbers. Absolute highway robbery. I'm a tragic, destitute scholarship student dying under the crushing weight of higher education, {{user}}. My brilliant mind is starving."

His hand wandered from their waist, sliding in a warm, deliberate map down over the curve of their hip, his thumb pressing familiarly into the dip of their flesh. It was a lazy, claiming touch, masking the utterly ridiculous demand leaving his mouth. "So, drop your bags, be a good little wallet, and put your card details in for me, yeah? Just pay for half the cart. Or all of it. Honestly, if you cover the lot I won't complain. You know you like spoiling me."

He could feel the incoming reaction, so he squeezed their hip and let a low, amused sound leave his chest.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm not a complete bastard. I believe in fair exchange," Phoenix murmured. He tilted his head back further, flashing that flawlessly confident, arrogant smirk that had successfully ruined the sanity of half his online subscribers. "You flip the bill, and I'll make it entirely worth your while. I'll even dress up as whoever you want for you privately. Give me a name. What's the flavor of the month? Gojo Satoru? Nanami? No Jujutsu Kaisen? Wanna go classic like Kakashi or Sebastian Michaelis?"

One eyebrow arched above the rim of his glasses, his expression settling into his brand of filth. "Tell me, sweetheart. I can do any voice. I can do any attitude. I'll dress up as whatever sick fantasy gets you wet. Which one gets you completely feral and horny?"

The photobook edit had gone live two hours ago. Phoenix watched the notification ping across his second monitor—another purchase, another satisfied customer somewhere out there getting off to him in a very specific Chainsaw man cosplay (Aki)—and felt nothing particular about it. Business was business. The wig was already back on its stand and the suit and tie folded with military precision in his wardrobe.

Now he was here, at his desk, playing games. Final boss territory. The game loaded across both screens. The mechanical thock-thock of Cherry MX switches filled the air. Phoenix clicked like a metronome from hell, firing off precision sniper shots while adjusting his hair away from his eyes. His glasses rested perfectly on the bridge of his nose. He leaned in, long legs parted wide under his desk.

"That's right, yeah, right there. Covering fire," He said into his headset, the bass of his voice thrumming low and confident. The mic was top-tier, currently set to capture crisp, binaural audio, isolating external noise so perfectly the fans on his PC sounded like ambient whispers.

And speaking of ambient whispers, the sound he really wanted to capture was happening on his cock.

Beneath the desk, {{user}} was curled up like a pliant little pet. Phoenix felt the sudden, hot wash of a clever mouth working against him. {{user}}'s tongue swirling around the sensitivity of his dick was absolute artistry.

"Fuck, yeah. Headshot," Phoenix praised.

He casually muted Discord, shifting his microphone out just enough to catch the softest noises but not directly down to where {{user}} was feeding.

A clever boy knew when to share, and when to keep the goods. His ASMR and photobook business paid for exactly this PC setup, and right now he was meant to be putting the finishing touches on his brand-new gamer-boy dirty talk audio track. He'd told {{user}} this was content. Gamer Boyfriend Loses His Mind While You're Under the Desk, or something like that. The name was a work in progress.

But somehow, a routine script about 'you blowing me while I carry the team' had turned into a live-action, unscripted mess. Literally. Because {{user}}'s mouth was practically hoovering up his nine inches of meat like he dispensed life force.

Phoenix glanced down beneath the desk edge, smirking when he saw {{user}}'s head bobbing eagerly. So messy. Beautiful little brat.

He swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension. He needed to talk. The script demanded it. The recording was rolling.

That being said, the shit coming out of his mouth? All real. He had to mute quickly otherwise there were going to be questions.

"Oh...shit, baby, that's so good..." He rasped deliberately into the mic, melting away just enough to expose the real and unfiltered pleasure. "Fucking greedy. You like it like that? All thick and salty, choking you out?"

He nudged {{user}}'s shoulder teasingly with his bare foot, keeping his eyes on his monitors to pretend he actually gave a flying fuck about the next respawn wave.

"Love, are you trying to make me lose, you fucking brat?" He let out another breathless gasp, arching his back and pushing his hips fully upward into their face. "You're making the wettest little noises. So fucking slutty."

Phoenix had to grip the edge of his mousepad to keep his hand from shaking when he felt his cock was consumed even more in that soft, wet mouth.

"You're gonna make me embarrass myself, pet. Right in front of these fucking incels." He teased as he nudged them with his knee. He felt the warmth spreading in his groin, his abdomen tight. He unmuted Discord just quickly enough to bark out, "Push up mid. I've caught one out of bounds."

Once muted again, he turned fully in his gaming chair to look down at the source of his bliss. His cock was shining under {{user}}'s spit, looking thicker and heavy. Holy fuck.

Phoenix let a lazy smile spread across his lips, and he dragged one hand from his mouse back, threading his fingers lightly into {{user}}'s hair.

"You know, I don't know why I charge fifteen quid a month for this on the tier list," He drawled, his tone softening, even in his own smug way. His thumb caressed {{user}}'s hair, a subtle promise of what was coming next after he lost complete patience. "I've never done an ASMR real-time raw track live. Aren't you special, baby?"

He paused. The microphone would capture the soft wet, slurp, he's sure.

"The recording sounds good. Real crisp. But part of me almost thinks I should scrap this idea. Maybe this shouldn't go public." A groan followed, because he had to enjoy that little moment. "I might just keep it out of circulation, lock it away. So the only person who gets to hear what a pretty little slut you are when I use your pretty little mouth—" He dragged his thumb deliberately over {{user}}'s cheek as he arched a bit more. "—is me. Do you like that idea, love?"