Sweet
Sad is the memory of sweet.
"I like you," the wolf said, those sweet, sweet words in the too-sweet voice through the saccharine smile--all sweet, sweet music to Darren's ears.
His mouth hung open. Two weeks past since first looking upon the wolf's handsome figure; two weeks past over which time after time the sweet male touched on his heart in ways he hadn't thought possible. He touched and touched, and touched with the touch of a master--each was like the stroke of a brush, smearing grainy, oily pigments until at last, a glimpse of a beautiful work of art emerged, depicting a fantastical future Darren could only hope to inhabit.
His mouth was still open.
Pause. Breathe. Recall.
Demons from the past. Demons just as sweet, whispering too-sweet words through smiles just as saccharine. Creatures of nightmares, haunting his dreams and commandeering his daydreams until his own mind belonged only partially to him.
Demon one, ten months yonder. A sweet, sweet face and too-sweet promises. His first. The stroke-stroke-stroke on the canvas became the panting stroke-stroke-stroke lying in bed and the rock-rock-rock of two lovers in the throes of sweet, sweet passion--and they cried each others names that night, cried until they were hoarse and exhausted and collapsed sweaty and sticky and naked together, whispering sweet, sweet words meant to last an eternity.
They didn't last six months.
Demon two, five months yonder. Sharp contrast--sweet words came, but only secondary. A godly physique, a growl that sparked fiery shivers and the lift of his tail (and Darren didn't even bottom, usually), and a big, fat cock that really was too fat when they fucked (and Darren didn't even bottom, usually, well, most of the time), and yet he wanted it so badly (and now Darren bottomed, always). Hours, days, weeks in bed, with nothing but their own fur and juices and $2.99 bottles of lube from Walgreens as company, and it wasn't sweet, sweet sex but the throat-stinging Fuck me! sex: all loud, heavy grunts, desperate begging, painful throbbing and limping the next day and cumming so hard it hurt--
--the kind of sex where you wake up and you feel empty because you forgot the purpose of sex, of the loving touch of another and a sweet, sweet smile and a too-sweet kiss on your lips and warm words in your ears and warmer arms squeezing around you, holding you tight and making you forget when the world goes to shit and all you can think is it's my fault, my fault, all my fault...
Demon three, three months yonder. Quiet. Cautious. Softly-spoken, spreading chills in its wake. Their paths intersected--no promises, and no expectations; just the sweet fulfillment of perfect connection: blissful happiness, greater than a thousand orgasms, for a single, precious, fleeting moment--and then it was gone, transient splendor leaving eternal chills in its wake: hot, searing chilblains that make you wonder just how royally you fucked up to get this--God, what did I do wrong?--because things were going so well and then they weren't going at all and you'll never, ever know why, because he's gone. Forever gone.
The wolf bit his lip, impatient. He'd painted a giddy fantasy on the canvas of Darren's heart--the finest of paintings, with the sweetest of strokes.
But could the finest of painters paint the finest of paintings on the most scarred of canvases?
Pause. Breathe. Recant.
"I like you, too." And that was all he said, then and forever, and there were no more demons.