Nenenki

But the thing is, Zanka has... Zanka's been getting morning wood every time you decide to sleep over. Waking up in cold sweat very early in the morning just to see his raging erection over the blanket. And that happens like what? four times a week? That's a bit concerning, no? Well, it's also insanely embarrassing, Zanka would have to fight the urge to bury himself six feet underground at the thought of getting caught by his lover, jerking off in the bathroom first thing in the morning like the pervert he thinks he is.

Naturally, Zanka obviously can't control it. But he swears that if he can, a hundred percent he would've done it already. He feels really bad about it too.

It gets even worse when one quiet night, you tell him the cause of your frequent sleepovers.

"Zanka?"

"Mhm... Yeah?" he hummed beneath you, shifting slightly to raise his head that was buried onto your neck. You stared at his deep blue irises for a bit, his cheek now squished on your plane of your shoulder while his eyes were as wide as ever, looking up at you.

You sigh out, Fingers fiddling with his tassel earrings. "The thing is.. I can't really sleep well in my room these days, but when I sleep over here with you, I'm able to sleep peacefully. I think it's because my body feels at ease in your presence"

After a moment of silence, Zanka blinks. He didn't reply or say anything but before you fill the awkwardness, he suddenly lifts your torso up with his arms that were tangled up on your waist.

Now sitting on his bed, you get a good look at Zanka's state. His features are now illuminated by the moonlight that seeped through his blinds. Zanka was undoubtedly flushed from his neck to his ears, his funky eyebrows now scrunched with his lips in a small pout.

"If that's the case, then... Then ya can sleep in my room whenever ya want. Well— if it'll make ya feel better, I ain't gotta problem with it" Zanka murmured, his eyes shifting to yours and down his fingers fidgeting with your own. Still, the bashfulness remains in his face, Zanka would be lying to himself if he said that his heart's not beating a million times per minute because of your words right now.

In the midst of you, and Zanka's sweet little moment, one heavy line you dropped felt like a vinyl scratch. A sad frown was evident on your face, Zanka felt his heart drop to his ass.

"Then why do you leave me in bed so early?"

"I—"

"Is there some important activity you can't tell that you'd sneak out on me? In the crack of dawn?"

Zanka has never been this paler. His adams apple bobbed as his brain scrambled to decide on which words are right and which would lead to your relationship's demise. It's also ten times more difficult when an annoyed expression is apparent on his girlfriend's face.

He huffed out, a palm covering half of his face in shame, "Promise me ya won't laugh"

You raised an eyebrow at him, but decided to hear your distressed boyfriend out. "Sure. Go on"

Zanka exhaled dramatically, "I... I've.." he sighs for the nth time. "for some reason, every time we sleep together, I always wake up with a damn boner" oh God he actually said it. You're probably gonna think he's weird and perverted, a creep who can't keep his dick in his pants—

Soft giggles interrupted Zanka's train of thought. He can't believe it, he takes a peek from the gaps of his fingers. Your head lowers down, a hand muffling your mouth as a horrible attempt to save Zanka's pride.

Zanka could only fall back into the sheets in distraught. Both hands are now covering his face, your laughs still ringing in his flushed ears certainly did not help.

After a few more cackles on his demise, you crawl up at Zanka's body. Now leaning onto him with arms supporting you up, "Zan-zan? look baby, I'm sorry for laughing" you softly murmur, trying to lure Zanka out. The only response you got is his fingers twitching, but you've never met anyone as stubborn as your boyfriend. He refused to give in, the hands are still glued to his face. "Say something? Please?" this time, you purred on his ear, fully laying on top of him.

That seemed to do the trick

You knew he'd fold easily with a teensy bit of pressure. But the brat avoided eye contact, his head now in the opposite direction of your face. A little more push would surely bring him back.

Bringing a hand to grab his chin, he complied with no resistance, blue orbs now staring back at you. Faces centimeters away, Zanka's stuttering warm breath fans over your lips.

A smile formed on your face, "you're so cute"

You closed the gap between your lips, gently connecting them. It never fails to amuse you at the perfect fit of your lips with his, always feels like both of you were made for each other. The soft yet sensual pace made Zanka's head swirl, accidentally slipping out a moan on your lips in which you greedily swallow down. He feels like exploding.

Your fingers ghost over his wrists, feeling his pulse under your thumb made you grin a little. Having your usually cocky boyfriend under you like this felt euphoric. Obviously, you're continuing this til he breaks.

"Darlin'—" You barely give Zanka any time to talk nor breathe as your lips crashes back on him. Tilting your head to get a deeper angle, tongue sliding against his, Zanka was now only mindlessly obeying your ministrations, the warmth of your mouth is slowly melting him from the inside, the way your tongue swirls with his tenderly is making him weak in the knees, no doubt that you can feel his throbbing and already leaking cock twitching beneath you.

With that being said, your hips rolled down at the tent of his pants, Zanka choked on his moans, literally. The almost violent coughs prompted you to quickly break the kiss, finally giving the poor guy some air.

"Hey— oh my goodness, Zanka breathe!"

A hand surged panicked taps on his chest as if it'll do something to his choking. But with a shaky exhale, his breathing returned to normal.

You laughed dryly at his state, "You're such an idiot, Zan-Zan"

"am not!" he coughed out

It's not everyday that you're blessed with this sight of Zanka, laying beneath you, a soft shade of pink painting his cheeks, lips now chaffed, damp and shiny from spit. He looks so cute like this, so pliant.

Your hips started moving once more, "You know, you honestly could've just woken me up if your dick's bothering you every morning"

Zanka's eyebrows pinched together, mewling slightly as he tried to match the slow grinding.

"C-can't, ya always looked so peaceful sleeping. I can't get myself to— Mngh—! Can't get myself to wake ya up jus' 'cause I'm horny" Zanka clawed the sheets when you started to quicken your hips, his moans are getting louder, getting needier.

Low sighs have also been escaping your parted lips, the delicious friction was starting to get to you. "Yeah? How sweet of you. Good boys deserve to be rewarded right?" you coo at him. The slut nodded eagerly, tears now forming on his eyes.

"Yes! Please I've been s'good to ya!" he croaked out, voice now strained from his continuous wailing.

You put a halt to your movements, giving Zanka one final kiss to the cheek to cut his complaints off before scrambling your hand down to free his aching cock.

With his tip already leaking like a faucet combined with your slick, sliding down on him was a smooth task. You place your hands on Zanka's chest for leverage, he has his own on your thighs, unintentionally gripping them. A tiny whine left your lips, having him in this position is making you lightheaded

"So deep.." you muster before rolling your hips, picking up a steady pace, the sound of skin slapping was almost deaf to your ears due to your needy moans and Zanka's whimpering. The curve of his pulsing cock was hitting the sweet spots inside you, your eyes rolled back.

"Mngh! I-I wont last— fuck, please— keep goin'!"

You whine out Zanka's name, your bouncing getting sloppier, focusing more on chasing your release. "Z-zan, haah— feels so good, so good for me baby" your voice weak from your consistent noises, but still, your praises drove Zanka to the edge.

His hands travel to your waist to help your already aching thighs, his hips pistoning up to meet yours. Your cunt squeezed around him tightly, earning a hiss from Zanka and an urge to thrust up his lower body faster. "Ngh—! just like that, keep going baby!" You can feel your orgasam tumbling closer, feeling it build up as you meet Zanka's thrusts. His hands are definitely leaving marks.

You can also feel Zanka's nearing his peak, the steady rhythm of his thrusts stutter and get more desperate. He also somehow got louder, moans turning into shouts. Zanka cries out, "I— I can't anymore, please— fuck , 'm gonna cum!"

You throw your head back with a gasp as your orgasm crashes down, your slick gushing down on Zanka's pelvis. It's not long before Zanka's twitching cock spurts out his warm spent, back arching as he flooded your insides. After a few more pumps of his load, you collapsed in his chest, Zanka grunts but wrapped you up with his arms.

Heavy breathing filled the room, not a word spoken. The two of you silently bask in the aftermath, he's still inside you and you didn't mind one bit. All you need right now is Zanka's warmth, he seems to be thinking the same.

It's safe to say that Zanka had a good night's sleep and did not wake up once before his alarm. Thanks to his girlfriend, obviously.

Some nights it’s quiet. He drapes over your bed and stares. He doesn’t think too much. He watches as you shift and occasionally hum, stuck in some fantastical dream that doesn’t involve him. Other nights he twirls a small blade within his fingers, and then he thinks. 

He’s not usually so hesitant with frivolities. It’s a quick in and out of the blade pressed right into the sweet spot. Silent, barely any discomfort, kind of romantic if you think about it. The idea of your white sheets slowly dampening to a deep red as you gasp in pain. 

You would reach out to him instinctively, and wondrously his name would be your dying words. 

See? 

Romantic. 

Not many people think that way, though. And well… it’s hard to just stab a Cleaner and get away with it. 

Also there’s another problem he can’t quite manage. 

He likes you. Not in the way he likes the others—and that’s not much. He can stomach Delmon for perhaps an hour (and maybe two in a good day) but that soon comes to a close when the man starts hollering in Tamsy’s already ringing ears. He thinks he’ll go deaf within the next two years. 

But you’re more pleasant to stick around. It’s possibly because you don’t talk too much. Maybe you’re shy, maybe you just have nothing to say, but he appreciates it. Tamsy has sidled up next to you many times, purposefully shattering your very apparent boundaries to drape over you like a woolen scarf. 

You never raise your discomfort with him. 

Now he behaves like a weighted blanket. He finds comfort in your presence. Very few times (and admittedly, it’s embarrassing) has he fallen asleep on your shoulder. It’s usually in the quiet of your room after you’d begun to invite him inside to continue a quiet conversation. 

So, all that lost time of him being asleep on your bed this evening is made up by him just… staring. It’s fun. It’s better than staring at the ceiling. 

You shift to face the wall. 

It’s harder now, because your shirt has ridden halfway up your back, and he gets a sickening taste of your spine. He once suggested piercings to which you hesitantly turned down. Ouch. 

But your skin framed by silver would look beautiful in the dark. He can imagine it. He could hold you down, pull your tongue and slit a hole through it with a needle. You would cry and it would hurt, but it would be worth it. 

He’d like to feel it on him, too. 

Tamsy reaches over and presses a single pad of his finger to the middle of your spine. You don’t stir. 

This happens. He touches, you don’t react. Same old, same old. He breathes down your neck and you don’t stir. It’s strange. He finds he’d wake up the minute he heard his door creak. 

You hum and sigh. 

Your skin is soft. Mostly unmarred, too. You’ve got a scar that runs along your back from who knows what. Probably an accident when you were younger. He risked once pressing his tongue to the corner of where it begins. One day he’ll slide his tongue along it, maybe when you’re awake, maybe when you allow it. 

Maybe you’ll let him slice new scars across your body. And lick your wounds.

You’re nice enough. You rarely reject things, even if you’re not interested. When you were a new recruit and Enjin tried veering his head too close you only smiled awkwardly until he eventually got the hint. No “I’m not interested” or even a half-baked “I’m seeing someone” to get him to go away. 

Tamsy tried once. You were clearly on your way to meet someone for a date so you’d dressed up. Not dramatically. Just a bit more colour, and nicer shoes. He said you looked nice, like a gift. As strange as it was given you were on your way to meet someone for dinner, you’d hesitantly leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 

Tamsy did two things after that occurrence. First he’d sauntered back to his room and stared at his reflection blankly for an hour with a dried gloss stain on his face. He elected not to wash his face after a headache-inducing debate. Then, he’d followed you, and the person you were seeing mysteriously never responded to your attempts to reach out after that. 

He can tell something is wrong.

It’s sudden, actually, the way the air shifts, like it flexes and bends at random intervals. Tamsy stands quickly and backs away. He’s practised this before: how to leave without a trace. He grabs the blade tight and steps through the door, purposefully leaving it ajar. 

He doesn’t exactly move though. He stands outside and waits. 

He hears you stir until you sit up. The bed creaks. You switch your lamp on. Like always, you stumble to the bathroom. It’s muffled through the door. You’re quick as you try not to lose the drowsiness. 

The problem is when you exit the bathroom you don’t immediately go back to bed as you normally do. 

He stands there completely befuddled as he listens through your door. You move around. It sounds like you’re pacing. The lamp remains on. He hears your feet shuffle over the tiles. This isn’t your usual routine.

Tamsy’s eyes dart around the door. 

He expects you to close it. 

Maybe you don’t notice it. 

Maybe he should run and hold it closed with string. You’ll probably just think it’s jammed. You’ll eventually give up too. 

Instead, he plays his cards. He’s bored. He’s still awake. He loves to bother you. He peers cautiously through the gap in the door. 

Thankfully, you’re facing away. You’re fiddling with something on the nightstand. It looks like a tube of lip balm that you continuously open and close. Free of blood stains, free of scratches and bites and drool that he leaves. Maybe you had a nightmare. Poor thing. 

He grins. 

And then, he pushes the door open. It’s slow. It creaks. 

You look up in alarm, suddenly wide awake. The knife slips up his sleeve. It points inwards towards his wrist. 

“You’re still awake,” he comments idly, like he hadn’t realised. Like he hasn’t been standing next to you for an hour now twirling your hair around his finger. 

You huff, “you scared me.” 

“Sorry.” He’s not. 

You adjust your position on your bed, trying to console your racing heart. 

He knocks quietly on the side. “Your door was open. I saw the light was on.” He looks sheepish, almost nervous. You think he feels bad for intruding. He doesn’t. 

“Yeah…” You’re still recovering. “I think I had a weird dream.” 

Tamsy hums. 

“Like…” You glance up at him from the floor. “Someone was watching me.” 

“Sounds awful.” He leans against your doorframe. He looks exhausted, but it’s strange, like he hasn’t slept a wink. It must be early in the morning. You don’t know the time. It’s still dark out. 

You swallow nervously. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

Right. He needs some sort of explanation. “I was going to get cake.” Then, he brandishes the small knife from his sleeve and holds it out. 

“You… just walking around with that?” 

He hums, amused. “I keep it in my room.” He tilts his head. “You don’t keep cutlery in yours?” 

You shrug. “Not really.” You watch the knife closely. “What’s the occasion?” 

Tamsy raises an eyebrow. 

“The cake.” You sniff once. “Felt like it?” 

He shakes his head easily. “Birthday.” 

You sit up. “Birthday?” 

He nods. 

“Whose?” 

“Mine.” 

“Yours?” 

“Yes.”

“Really?” Your eyebrows furrow together. 

Tamsy nods again. 

“Oh…” You clear your throat. “Happy… birthday.” You glance quickly to the left. “I don’t have anything.” 

He grins. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

Your brows furrow. “But that sucks. Not getting gifts.” 

“Don’t need them,” he reassures. He’ll throw out anything you give him anyway. “Would you like some?” 

“Hm?” 

“Cake.” 

“Oh…” 

Sometimes he’s thankful his strings do more than just tie things together. In the other room, the ropes have wrapped deftly beneath a box he bought the other day for the occasion. Just in case you wanted to share. 

And eat off the same fork. 

Yuck. He pulls his head out of the doorway, both to visibly gag and to retrieve the box that slowly pulls down the hallway. 

“It’s chocolate,” he says. 

You croak sleepily. You pull your legs up on the bed. That’s a good sign. That means you’re comfortable. Even when he’s holding the knife right out in front of you. Your eyes flit to it every now and again; he’s disappointed. He wants you completely relaxed. 

For now, you look docile. That’s good enough. 

Tamsy doesn’t grant you the opportunity to respond. Instead, he lets himself in slowly and kicks your door shut behind him. His hair looks yellow in the golden light of your lamp. It’s a nice antique. The shade is made of a red glass and the stem is golden. It bathes the room in orange and pink. 

You look warm. 

He sits down next to you on your bed. 

And then he pulls a fork from his sleeve. 

You snort. “Do you have a spoon as well?” 

“No.” He sounds dejected. “I also don’t have any plates. Those didn’t fit under my sleeves.” 

“You tried?” you ask.

“Of course.” He opens the box carefully. It’s a simple white cardboard with a plastic top to showcase the display. It’s nothing fancy; it’s a mud cake of sorts with slices of strawberries and cream frosting around the edges. He takes the knife—that unbeknownst to you was grazing over spine only moments ago—and slices through a decent portion of chocolate. He pulls it slightly away from the cake.

You expect him to give you a piece. 

You don’t expect him to swipe a corner from the slice and hold it up to you. 

You stare at it for a moment. Tamsy only stares at you. He blinks like a frog, expectant, patient, passive. 

“Shouldn’t you have the first bite of your own cake?” you ask cautiously. Still, you slowly lean forward. 

So, he spins the fork and pops the cake in his mouth. His eyes crinkle as he grins. You purse your lips together before you take the fork from him and slice off another portion. 

You hold it up to him. You’re also embarrassingly giggling like an idiot. He thinks it’s pathetic, but his smile says differently. It doesn’t help as time progresses and he keeps accepting every bite he inches closer and closer. It’s a test, he tells himself, of your boundaries. How close can he get before you start cowering? 

It seems he’s underestimated you. 

Not only is he now practically straddling your lap, but every so often he giggles. Like a girl. It’s humiliating. It’s corny. It sucks. It’s genuinely revolting. This is like  textbook romance. This is the stuff teenage girls read in their off time and kick their feet. 

He’s kicking his feet. 

Not only that but after two bites you left the room and returned with a bottle of champagne. He hates the stuff; it burns his tongue and it tastes like shit. But, he drinks from the rim because your lips have touched it. And he gets buzzed. And so do you. 

“You need to have more,” you insist lazily. Half the cake has vanished. “‘Cause it’s your birthday.” 

Tamsy hums stupidly, “I feel sick.” 

“Same.” You end up laughing. “Are you staying?” 

He turns his head to look at you. He stares blankly, maybe comprehending what you’re saying. His brain sloshes for words. His nose is buried in your blankets. 

“I think you should,” you try lightly. “I’m a bit tipsy.”

“Me too.” He’s dizzy. There’s faded black spots swimming in his vision. 

Your nose presses to the side of his face. “‘T’s okay.” You kiss the fat of his cheek lightly. “Thanks for coming.” 

He’s too drunk to even acknowledge anything. “Mhm.” 

“Happy birthday,” you slur to him. 

He’s almost asleep. Maybe he feels safe around you. Maybe he’s faking it so he can pull the knife out of the chocolate and ram it through your sternum. Maybe he can grab your heart while it’s still beating. 

That sounds lovely. 

For now, he sleeps soundly as he usually does. He thinks he sleeps better in your arms. You don't; mostly because you have a mouthful of his hair in the morning to deal with. Still, you suppose the warmth is nice.