coronavirus quarantine got you down? never fear, abbie's here with the porn no one asked for, as well as a link to my phinferb discord server (just dm me). drop me a line on tumblr theycerola!

Sixty-three miles southwest of Danville, the Quad-State Area's hottest gay bar opens its arms and invites you and your stepbrother both into technicolor darkness.

Phineas doesn't drink—says it makes him feel like he's drowning—but he takes a Shirley Temple in the most elaborate glass offered, laughing delightedly when the bartender tops it off with a long curly straw cut from stainless steel. You sip your scotch slowly and watch him make conversation with anyone and everyone: your server, other patrons, one of the bouncers when his shift ends and he comes to the counter for a gin and tonic, all bright eyes and broad, carefree smile. When he starts to sweat, he takes off his flannel overshirt and ties it around his waist, exposing slim, pale arms dotted up and down with light brown freckles; he stretches, ruffling his wild red hair with a hand, and the hem of his sleeveless shirt rides up and bares the skin along his lower back and stomach.

Honestly, you can't blame them all for drooling.

Not that Phineas notices, of course. Ever the oblivious one, he is, no matter if it's a neighbor coming by every day with her heart in her eyes or a clubber not-so-subtly undressing him with his gaze. There's enough space between you two that it's not immediately obvious you're here together, and while you do feel some temptation to put a possessive arm around his shoulders and glare daggers at anyone who dares look his way, for the most part it's actually quite fun for you to watch. Phineas tilts his head, the man beside him licks his lips, and he beams and describes in detail his goal to build a paper airplane capable of breaking the sound barrier, which earns a moody pout from his unappreciative companion, every time.

It's not all innocence, the obliviousness, though it may seem that way to the untrained eye; when you're alone again, he's more than happy to slide a hand into the back pocket of your skinny jeans and grin suggestively at you while he sucks on his straw. You've seen those big blue eyes gazing up at you from where he kneels on the floor, his fingernails digging into the small of your back as you push deeper into his mouth. That boundless creativity can be misused in ten thousand delicious ways—you know it better than anyone. Is that the crux of it, perhaps? Does his inability to recognize how badly these men want him stem from how wholly he's invested himself in you?

That can't be all of it, you think. But if it plays even the tiniest, most inconsequential part—well, you must admit, that does something to you. That makes your breath hitch and your fingers tighten around your knee, and the flush that creeps up your neck feels like a burgeoning fever.

You swallow what's left of your drink and tip a piece of ice into your mouth, hoping the bite as you chew it will keep you cool. "Phineas, my love," you say, unable to fight a breathless chuckle, "you really are something else."

He laughs, too, even as his eyebrows furrow. "What d'you mean?"

"What I mean is—" and you lean back against the bar, gesturing around the small and smoky room with your empty glass, "—there isn't a single fellow here who doesn't want you in his lap wearing only that adorable smile of yours, myself included, and as is typical, you are absolutely none the wiser."

Blood rushes into his cheeks with astounding speed; really, he looks as though you've slapped him. When the initial shock ebbs, he bursts into strained, high-pitched giggles quite unlike his usual easy laughter, shaking his head so vigorously it puts a crick in your neck just to watch. "C'mon, Ferb, get real," he says. "Seriously? I don't buy it."

"Why is that?" You put down your glass and turn in your seat to give Phineas your full attention, propping an elbow on the countertop. It has the desired effect of making him blush redder.

"Because you're biased," he manages, after several seconds of sputtering, "that's why."

"Maybe," you concede. You fish another ice cube from the dregs of your scotch, sliding it between your lips without taking your eyes from his face. "Doesn't mean I'm not telling the truth."

"No, but it means it's statistically less likely," he says. He plucks the straw from his Shirley Temple to drain the rest of it in one; a pinkish drop clings to his mouth and then dribbles down his chin, and you resist the urge to follow its path with your tongue.

You do still lean in, though—contrary to what many believe, you aren't made of steel. "See that man in the studded leather trousers?" you murmur, close to his ear. He manages to glance that way without being too terribly obvious—a real feat for him—and then returns his gaze to yours with his eyebrows raised. "He'd like to give your ass a good paddling and see how comfortably you sit on that barstool then."

"Ferb!" he hisses, eyes growing wide. You crunch down on your ice as you regard him nonchalantly. "For Christ's sake, get your mind out of the gutter."

"And the fellow in the ugly striped vest," you continue. "He wants to know how many fingers it takes before your mouth stops running."

"You're so full of it," he mumbles, covering his face with a hand as his cheeks positively glow red.

"Mr. Turtleneck thinks he'd much rather give that mouth something else to do," you say. "And Denim-on-Denim wants to take you up against that wall right over there, and pound you so hard you don't even feel the brick rubbing your back raw."

You can see his pulse jumping in his throat; oh, to sink your teeth into it, to feel it throb under your lips and tongue. "Is that what you're into now?" he asks, harsh and hurried as he does his best to glower at you. "Swinging? Letting random guys have their way with me? I've got to admit, it feels a little out of character—here I'd thought you wouldn't want anyone to come between us."

"No, I wouldn't," you agree, resting your cheek on your fist. "And that's the beauty of it, dearest. All these men want a piece of you, and you've got eyes for only me. It's doing wonders for my ego, I must say."

"It doesn't sound like your ego needs the help," he retorts, and you can tell that he's biting his lip to hide a smile.

"It doesn't, no." You place your hand on his knee and slowly slide your palm up the outside of his thigh, then hook two fingers through the empty belt loop at his hip. "Does yours? I'd be happy to lend a hand, if so."

"Actually, despite what you and all the other casanovas here think, I'm not gonna fall to pieces if some smooth-talker doesn't take me by the waist and tell me I'm pretty." He bats his eyes when it renders you dumb for a moment. "But you can still pay the tab."

"Who says I'm ready to get out of here?"

"I'm ready to get out of here—" he hops down from his stool, tightening the sleeves of his flannel around his waist, "—and I think you owe it to me after the little show you just put on."

You do always repay your debts. In the vacant lot across the street, Phineas straddles your hips and leans back against the dashboard of your Cadillac, thin chest heaving as you take his cock in fast, hard strokes. "Christ!" he chokes out, and you use your other hand to cup the back of his neck before he cracks his head against the windshield. "Like that, like that—Jesus effing Christ, that's good—"

Part of you wonders where he learned to invoke the Lord's name like he does; neither of your parents are particularly devout, and he's never had another partner. The other part finds it erotic as hell and isn't worried about the specifics.

"Come here," you murmur, tugging him close, and he braces his hands against the passenger's seat armrests as he curls forward. Like this, he's panting directly into your ear, and you can easily lean in to nip his jaw and lick the beads of sweat rolling down his neck. "Mm, there you go, love. That's a good boy."

He moans, rocking his hips in your lap. He's always been an open book to you, truth be told, but this kink of his took almost zero effort to discover.

"Handsome boy, clever boy. You like that, don't you?" One hand leaves the upholstery and twines itself in your hair, the touch of his fingers rough and clammy. "Talk to me. I love it when you talk to me, Phineas."

"God, you're amazing," he gasps, breath hot on your neck as he trembles against you. "The things you can do with your hands, Ferb—don't stop, just don't stop, please."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He thrusts into your fist, you tease the underside of the head with the pad of your thumb, and he whines, long and loud. Precome leaks from his tip and coats your fingers. "I've no idea how you don't realize how sexy you are. Really, anyone can see it. But I'm the only one who gets to see this, aren't I?"

"Yeah," he agrees, a small, broken whisper as he nears the edge. "Yeah, it's just you, Ferb. Just you."

"It's selfish, I know," you murmur into the hollow of his throat. "Keeping you to myself like this. But it can't be helped."

"I don't—" He struggles to form words, his breathing fast and shallow as you work. "I don't—don't want anybody else—j-just you—"

The noise that rises from your throat can only be called a growl. "That's what I like to hear."

You squeeze him, probably right on the edge of too tight, and Phineas forgets himself and yells, "Fuck!"

"That's it," you hiss through your teeth as he wails and pulls on your hair. "That's it, come for me. I want you to come right now."

"Fuck," he sobs again, drawing out the sound, his cock pulsing between your fingers as it spills over your hand and lap and stomach. "Fucking fuck, that's so good—thank you, my God—"

"Anything for you, Phineas, love," you tell him, soft and gentle as you kiss him behind his ear. You help him down from the high, massaging his back and shoulders under his shirt while his legs shake and his breath stutters. "Clever Phineas, handsome Phineas, perfect, precious, darling Phineas."

Slowly, his breathing starts to ease, and he relaxes his grip on your hair. The hand still clenched around the armrest slides over to your lap; you catch his wrist before he can make a move for your zipper. "Not yet," you mumble, pressing more kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his neck and collar and shoulder. "Let me enjoy what I did here for a bit longer."

"I don't know if you know this, Ferb—" and you're only partly listening, much more interested in kissing down the length of his arm, "—but that's pretty freaking gay of you."

You lean back in your seat to look at him, Phineas smiles innocently, and you snicker and pull him close again to hold him tight in your arms. "Fancy that," you murmur, nuzzling his jaw. "Fancy that."