The long answer is: if the fuckboy fucks around long enough, he eventually falls—and even then, it’s complicated. No matter how much he fights and wrestles with it, if it’s powerful enough, it will roll even her under the waves. The fuckboy who is accustomed to riding the wave realizes that if he’s gonna wipe out in love, he’ll do it with as much grace as he can—slowly, cautiously, tenderly, contemplatively—because that’s how she vibes.
Falling in love with a fuckboy can be more torturous than falling in love with a “good boy” (or any guy).
Good boys are built for it, and they wrap their identity and existence around it. They live for you; they make it easy for you, fuckboys don’t.
A fuckboy does the opposite: since his limbic system has a fast lane (sensation/sex) and a slow lane (emotions), he’s grabbing the “oh shit handle” and saying, “Shouldn’t we slow down?”
When you picture a fuckboy falling in love, imagine a sloth who is also a moody bitch. Obviously, you’d prefer a puppy dog jumping all over you, tongue hanging out, tail wagging—and that’s just not him.
The fuckboy bandwidth for real, deep, true love happens so slowly for him that he’s expanding to hold it as he’s feeling it. It’s as if he’s a fish who saw the most beautiful bird—and he can’t evolve and grow wings fast enough for you. Frankly, he’s also pissed off at you for yanking him from his comfort zone and making him feel such insane things. For making him think of himself in a different life.