don’t ya, steve?

Living with Keys was like living with a very nervous, very helpful house cat. You came to understand this about a month into living with him, after you found an ad for an empty bedroom while apartment hunting in Seattle. The ad read, "I'm a responsible 24-year-old man with a full-time job and no pets. I promise that I am not a serial killer. Looking for a neat roommate." The tone of the ad was odd and earnest, and you were desperate enough for cheaper rent that you decided to text the number in the ad to meet. Luckily, the face that greeted you in the coffee shop where you organized your first meeting was a friendly one. He introduced himself as 'Walt' first, but 'Keys works too'. He was nice, the pictures of the apartment he showed you were nice, and you were only a week away from starting your new job. It didn't hurt that he was pretty cute, too.

He stayed up concerningly late most nights, moved through your shared apartment in near silence most of the time, and was happy to sit with you quietly as you went about your own day. He lingered on the kitchen stools while you cooked dinner, joined you on the couch without a word while you watched TV. Sharing space with him was peaceful. Despite his career in video games, he was meticulously neat. Rather than the empty cans and chip bags that crowd the computer spaces of his industry peers, his desk was littered with sticky notes and various bottles of over-the-counter heartburn and headache relief. His room always smelled of clean laundry (come to think of it, so did he), and his dishes never sat in the sink for longer than an hour. If he ever runs late for work and doesn't get time to load them in the dishwasher, you get an overly apologetic but incredibly endearing apology text. You could say after almost two years of living with him, that objectively, Keys was an excellent roommate.

With the approaching developer's summit, where indie studios were going to get the chance to show off their work to executives and creatives from major consoles, his nerves have gone from lightly frazzled to full-on system overload. You can't remember the last time he slept for more than four hours, and you could hear him using any spare moment he got practicing his pitch script to himself, his soft voice and pacing footsteps audible through your thin walls. It's all he's thought about for months—he even decided to take his rarely touched PTO to take two weeks off and grind on his project. It was three days before the summit, and his presentation had been finished for weeks. To anyone else's view, and especially yours, Keys was overprepared. This is why you decided he deserved one night fully away from it all. Ordering his favorite takeout, relaxing on the couch while you watched The Social Network—his favorite movie because, according to him, he "appreciates any media that portrays Zuck as the piece-of-shit-loser he is inside."

You knew that getting him away from his project was going to be hard, even with the dangling of his favorite things in front of him, so you decided to sweeten the deal further. After your own work day, you stopped at the dispensary around the corner from your apartment. With Seattle being Seattle, the dispensary looks more like an Apple store than a place where you purchase drugs. Behind a counter, a 38-year-old man wearing jean shorts and a name tag that says "Smoky Trev" walks you through their selection of gummies.

"You looking to relax or lock in?" He asks, painfully enthusiastic to employ the lingo of a generation below him. You explain that these were for a friend, really amped about a big presentation, and you wanted to help cool him off. He jumps excitedly into a monologue, walking you through various strains, ratios, flavors, head high vs body high, until you interrupted as kindly as possible.

"I'm looking for something pretty low-key, he doesn't really drink or smoke," you explain. "So, whatever you have for 'baby's first high', I guess."

After an 'I gotchu' that sends a shiver of second-hand embarrassment down your spine, you end up with a container of five blueberry lemonade gummies, 10 milligrams each.

"I'd advise he starts with half, you can always take more, but you can't exactly have less once you get started," he advises, bagging up the container.

"Will do," you say, tapping your card on the terminal. "Thanks, Trevor."

"It's Smoky Trev," he responds, with a passive aggressive tap to his name tag.

"You and I both know it's not," you mutter, giving a tight-lipped smile as you take the paper bag from him.

After leaving the dispensary, you look up to see heavy clouds that will start to drizzle any second. Perfect weather for a night of staying in and getting high. You make one more stop for Keys's favorite takeout, happy that your walk home is only a few more minutes once the bag of hot Thai food is in your arms.

When you make it inside, Keys is where you expect—at his desk in the living room, sitting up and leaning forward, his face only inches from his computer screen and his chin in his hand. His hair is slightly askew, likely due to his nervous and adorable habit of running his hands through it when he's working through a problem. His glasses are perched a little lower on his nose than normal. You set the bag of food on the counter and toss your keys into the bowl on the counter, where his own set of keys sits, attached to keychains of a little Dragonball and Lego Darth Vader. Nerd, you think to yourself affectionately.

"You're worse than an iPad baby," you scold lightly, standing next to him with your hands on your hips. "You've been finished for weeks, what could you possibly be working on?"

He leans back against his chair, probably for the first time all day. When he swivels to face you, you can see the outline of his pecs and soft tummy through his long sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal surprisingly toned forearms. Pokéball socks peek out from the hem of his dark gray joggers.

"This little bug popped up when I replaced a character design in the demo a few days ago," Keys explains, trying to flex the tension out of his fingers. "I think I fixed it today, but I was going back through the code to make sure."

You push up his glasses with your index finger.

"Good," you say, dropping your hands into the pockets of your jeans. "Because I have treats for you if you promise to put it away for today." His face lights up a little before the excitement quickly fades.

"I don't know, dude," he groans. "I still have some development stuff to-"

"I brought pad Thai."

His eyebrows rise a little.

"We can watch Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg suppress the urge to make out."

His head tilts a little, weighing the situation.

You sigh, deciding to play your final card.

"I have edibles."

This is all Keys needs to hear to save his progress and stand from the chair, stretching upward to reveal a sliver of his stomach and happy trail.

Overall, he wasn't big on substances. Drinking was fun to do at the occasional work party, but he rarely ever brought booze home, and you remember the time he told you about his first experience attempting to get high. He was still in college and decided to make a rare appearance at a computer science party. These mostly consisted of people crowding around a television and playing Super Smash Ultimate while someone passed around a weak joint. Keys had a few hits, and he didn't even get to feel high before the weed put him to sleep. He mentioned being curious to try it again, and from his response to the mention of edibles, he was apparently more curious than you initially thought.

"Really? That's what did it?" you tease, heading over to the kitchen to unpack the still-warm paper bag of food.

"I know I've been kind of a pain in the ass," he says, getting a set of chopsticks from a kitchen drawer. "I've been trying everything to calm myself down. Music, meditation audios, stuff like that. My sister recommended these breathing exercises, but I just got kind of dizzy. Honestly, I was this close to going and buying some stuff for myself."

"Well, you're very welcome," you say, opening your own takeout container. "I survived a whole interaction with a man in tie-dye to get you these."

You pull the little bottle from its bag and Keys inspects it, smiling slightly in amusement at the blueberry and lemon wearing sunglasses on the label.

"You wanna go ahead and take some?" you suggest, "It'll be about an hour before it kicks in anyway."

"Sure." He passes you the bottle and you tip one gummy out, placing it on the lid. You retrieve a knife and slice the candy in half, using near surgical levels of precision. You pop your half in your mouth and offer Keys the other half. You watch him chew for a while, and he grimaces slightly as he swallows.

"The label said blueberry lemonade, why did it taste like the smell of computer duster?" He asks, taking a long drink from his ridiculously stickered water bottle—logos of random indie developers that constantly give out free stuff, overpriced ones sold in coffee shops and comic stores from growing up in Portland, MIT computer science swag, and a little frog sticker that you offered him after it came for free in a random package.

"These exist to get you high, not to snack on," you say, screwing the cap back on. "They never actually taste good."

You both bring your plates over to the couch, sitting on the floor with your backs to it. Keys likes things neat, and while he would never try to enforce a rule about eating on the couch, you knew he would be more comfortable if you didn't. You both dig into your dinner, Keys especially eagerly, as he tends to forget he has basic needs once he's in "the flow". You chat a little about your respective days, telling him about your co-worker's Twilight themed baby shower coming up this weekend. He tells you excitedly about the last of the concept art he got today from the artist he's commissioned to work on character designs. Once your plates are empty, Keys picks them up and brings them over to the sink, rinsing them and loading them into the dishwasher before he can even be asked. As he washes the dishes, you change into your own pajamas, eager to be out of your work clothes and totally relaxed into the high. He makes his way back to the sofa after lighting a Mandarin and White Tea scented candle on the kitchen counter.

You both settle onto the actual cushions, and Keys queues up The Social Network. You're close, not quite touching, but near enough to feel his warmth and breathe in his ever-present detergent fragrance. The introduction score is familiar to both of you at this point, with his fondness for using the movie as background noise when he's working from home.

"You feeling anything yet?" you ask. He assesses himself for a moment.

"I don't think so," he decides, stretching his legs onto the sofa. "It's alright, even if it doesn't kick in, I got to have a nice night with you."

You smile a little to yourself and settle a little deeper into the cushions, fidgeting with the cuffs of your pajama pants. It's around the twenty minute mark that time starts to slow a little, and you start to feel a little lighter. Five milligrams was nothing crazy to you, being at least a little more experienced than Keys. You take a sip from your own water, noticing your drying mouth, then take your first look over at him in a while. The sight of him immediately pulls a gleeful little giggle from you.

His eyes are heavy lidded behind his glasses, the whites tinging pink around the edges, and his pupils almost entirely occupying the hazel irises. His cheeks are rosier than normal, and his mouth is ever so slightly parted. His tongue slowly peeks out to wet his lips.

"You okay?" you ask, resting a hand on his shoulder. He exhales at the sensation.

"I think so," his voice is slower, way slower compared to his usual, slightly frantic stream of consciousness way of speaking.

"Good," you affirm, moving your hand back to rest on your lap. A few seconds go by.

"Um," he starts, a little nervously. "The second you stopped touching me, I immediately felt like I was going to float into space, so if you could just, um, hold my hand or something? I don't know." The stream of consciousness has persisted through the weed.

"Are you scared?" you ask, your eyebrows furrowing as a little tug of concern pulls at you. He shakes his head, comically swinging it slowly from side to side.

"Not scared," Keys clarifies. "Just, um, floaty. Your hand on me felt really nice." He turns his face to look at you, a blissful smile on his face that gets a smile out of you. You know this feeling—not necessarily frightening, but the littlest bit of grounding makes all the difference when everything around you has gone fuzzy. You bring an arm up to rest on the back of his shoulders, giving his bicep a little squeeze. Keys exhales.

"That's good, that feels really good," he mumbles blissfully, his head finding your shoulder almost as soon as your arm rests.

You have to admit to yourself that you're glad that the edible has helped weaken the barriers that Keys had put up from years of being hyper-aware of every social interaction. You gave him a hug for the first time a few months into living with him, after he brought home your favorite cake for your first birthday away from family and your friends from home. You can perfectly recall the memory of him stiffening sharply before melting into it, his palm rubbing the space between your shoulder blades a few times before he pulled away, apologizing under his breath. He needed it. What he doesn't understand is how happy you are to do it.

"He's such a fuckin' prick," Keys mumbles to the TV, pulling you from your thoughts. Jesse-Mark is being a bad friend to Andrew-Eduardo. You laugh a little.

"Why do you like this movie again?" You ask. "I mean, it's good, but you're like…a big fan."

"It's well made," he says, shrugging a little. "I guess it also makes me feel good that I'm not that kind of computer guy. I meet so many weirdos, like, dudes obsessed with Mark and Elon and they think they're this gift to programming. I like to think that I'm not like that, you know, that I remember the person behind everything." It's nice to hear a guy who is usually so self-critical be this nice to himself.

"I'm really glad you moved in," he says through a dopey grin. "Really glad we're friends."

"I'm glad I moved in, too," you say, your own lowered inhibitions allowing you to press your lips to his temple. Keys's eyes close, and his eyebrows knit together a little, like he's hearing sad news. He turns his head and plants a kiss on your clothed shoulder. Neither of you says anything.

"I'm hungry," Keys observes aloud after a bit of silence. "I just ate a lot of pad Thai, why am I hungry?"

"You have the munchies," you say through a laugh. "It's normal. I can get you something to eat."

His eyes narrow a little, searching himself for what sounds most satisfying right now.

"We have ice cream, right?" He asks. You nod. "I'll have some, that sounds yummy." In the two years you had known him, Keys had never once uttered the word 'yummy'. His voice is light and serene, a little eagerness seeping through it at the thought of satiating the strong and sudden hunger. Slowly standing from the couch, you give yourself a moment to adjust to the movement before heading to the freezer. A pint of cookie dough ice cream sits in the door, purchased after an especially long day last week. You bought it for a stupidly inflated price from the convenience store and only managed a few bites before exhaustion took over. This meant that luckily for Keys, the pint was almost full.

"How much do you want?" you call out, reaching for a bowl.

"Um," he starts, gauging his hunger. "Can you bring the pint?" You giggle a little as you put the bowl back up in the cupboard. After wrapping a paper towel around the pint to keep his hands clean, you return to the couch, pint and spoon in hand. He accepts them eagerly, and without sliding down to eat it over the coffee table, Keys digs right in.

"Fuck," he moans after a comically large mouthful of ice cream.

"Good?"

"It's really good," he rambles around the spoon. "I didn't know ice cream could taste like this, I mean, I like ice cream as much as any guy, but this is a whole other thing. It's good, you're so good to me."

A little heat rushes to your cheeks.

"I'm glad I could help," you reply, lying back against the cushions again. In a matter of five minutes, Keys has wolfed down around two-thirds of the pint.

"I sort of want to eat all of it, but that's so rude," he says, a little whiny. "You bought this and I just ate, like, 80% of it. That's kinda fucked up."

"It's alright, you've had a long few weeks," you say, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Go for it." He gives you another sleepy smile.

"I owe you one," Keys murmurs. "I owe you as much as you want. Thank you, baby."

You freeze a little, and Keys goes back to happily spooning the dwindling contents of the pint into his mouth. The shock of him saying it is quickly replaced with a more troubling feeling—the overwhelming desire for him to say it again. You glance over to see if he's had any response to it, but he only looks up at you with hooded, red eyes, showing you the empty pint.

"S'gone," he laments.

"I can see that," you respond. "You want me to toss it for you?"

He shakes his head as he leans forward, setting the empty pint on the coffee table.

"I'll do it on my way to bed," he says, resting his head in your lap. Your hands begin to rake through his hair, the urge to do it as instinctual as the urge to breathe. His hair is silky soft, unsurprising considering he's the only man you have ever met who routinely conditions. It smells clean, vaguely like apples, and you bring your face a little closer. Apple, laundry, a little something on his skin that is uniquely Keys. Once the smell mixes with the high, another rush of gentle warmth comes over you, taking you to an entirely new level of ecstasy. A little tension takes over your thighs before you can stop yourself, pressing together slightly under his head. You kiss his smooth cheek. His ability to get the shave close without nicking himself has always fascinated you. A low, happy hum leaves his throat.

As you start to brush your hands through a little deeper, scratching occasionally at the back of his head, Keys starts to squirm a little. Tiny shifts of his hips, tense bends and extensions of his legs, balling his fists slightly, until he sits up suddenly. His eyes shut, thrown off kilter by the suddenness as he pulls a cushion into his lap.

"Are you okay?" You ask in a small voice, worried you've done something wrong. His eyes widen.

"No, not at all," he assures you, shaking his head as quickly as the high will allow. "You're so great, I just, um, I didn't wanna fall asleep yet. Your hands, they were really…relaxing."

You're not entirely convinced—he's still squirming, grasping hard at the fluff of the cushion.

"I'm really sorry if I made you uncomfortable," you start, your voice sweet and low.

"It's not you at all," Keys insists, his hand pushing his glasses up in near slow motion. "If anything, I'm a little too comfortable."

"What are you-"

He blushes harder, looking down at his lap and adjusting the cushion stiffly.

"Oh."

"Yeah," he says, letting out a tense exhale. "Oh." When he finally looks at you, your heart lurches at his expression. Glassy, red eyes filled with a churning mix of anxiety and want, pink cheeks burning with embarrassment. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, a habit he resorts to when frustrated or nervous, or both.

"It's totally fine," you eventually manage to say, after what feels like forever. "I mean, this is natural. I can get worked up when I'm high, it's just your body relaxing and everything."

"Are you…worked up?" He asks shyly. Warmth begins to flood your core.

"Mhmm," you reply, shifting a little closer to him. "Kind of a lot, actually."

"My whole body feels so crazy," he sighs, finally loosening his grip on the pillow. "Like, light and heavy at the same time, does that make sense?"

"Totally."

"Your hands felt so good on my head," Keys says, craning his head a little to look at you. "And then you kissed me, you were so close."

You reach over, laying your hand on top of his.

"Keys, it's really okay," you reiterate. "If you want me to, I can help." His mouth falls open slightly.

"H-Help?" he gulps. "Like…"

He gestures vaguely at his cushion-covered crotch.

"Can I see?"

Keys nods a little and moves the pillow back into its original corner of the sofa. When your eyes land on what it was concealing, your mouth starts to water through the marijuana-induced dryness. Under his sweatpants, his cock strains hard against the thick fabric. Just the size of the outline is impressive, definitely longer than average from your limited view. The waistband of his underwear peeks out above the sweats, enticing you further.

"Can I touch you?" you ask, looking up at him through your lashes. He nods, surprisingly fast considering how high he is. As you slowly reach for him, palming him slightly through his pajamas, Keys lets out a soft, involuntary whimper. Your own core begins to stir and pulse as you grip him, slightly squeezing and encouraging him to grind up. He does so, with a present but sleepy rhythm, the high still coursing through his veins.

"You feel so good, Keys," you coo in his ear. "So big, and I haven't even touched you under your clothes."

"W-want you to," he whines, his hands balling at his sides. You add a little more pressure as you move your free hand to rub at his inner thigh. His mouth parts a little more, and he lets out a real, voiced moan, tension stirring too hard in him to stifle the sounds.

"Um," Keys whimpers, biting down on his bottom lip. "Can I kiss you?"

The words stop the movement in your hands, and they skim up his body until they reach Keys's face, cupping his cheeks. The pink skin is so warm under your hands, and you giggle a little at his sleepy, needy expression.

"You're so fucking cute," you breathe, pulling his face to meet yours. His lips are pliant at first, soft and sweet from the ice cream. As he kisses back, you feel a hand on the side of your thigh, gripping a little at the softness. An arm snakes around your waist and you suddenly feel him tug, lifting you onto him. Your thighs fall on either side of Keys's legs, and you lower your aching core onto his clothed cock, moaning against his mouth as you finally get some relief. You let out a soft, almost pouty noise into his mouth. His hands travel up and down your waist, the back of your neck, an especially bold hand settles on your ass and squeezes. When you both come up for air, Keys's kiss-bitten lips and shiny eyes make your tummy flip and flutter.

"Is this a bad time to tell you I really, really like you?" Keys pants, blinking his pretty red eyes slowly.

You giggle, sliding your hands into his hair again. He sighs, shuddering a little at the sensation.

"S'not a bad time," you say sweetly against his lips, kissing lazily. "You feeling good?"

Keys nearly scoffs.

"Good? I feel fucking incredible," he says through a laugh. "I've been so tense. I haven't even jerked off for weeks, like it didn't feel good until now." His hips stutter upwards, and your clit catches on his erection despite the layers between you. The urge to take everything off of Keys simmers inside of you again, and you slide one of the hands in his hair down his chest to the hem of his shirt. From the rare glimpses you got of his body, you knew Keys wasn't going to be ripped or anything, after all, he spend 90% of his waking hours in front of a computer. But you definitely didn't expect what was there instead. Broad shoulders covered in moles and freckles that you wanted to count and kiss, dark, soft chest hair that tapered into a happy trail, his tummy just round enough to extend slightly past the waistband of his underwear. He wasn't necessarily muscular, but solid. Still lean, but round and strong in all the right places.

"I know I'm not i-impressive or anything," Keys mumbles, his hands finding his hair as they always did when he was nervous. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed, we don't have to-"

You cut him off with a bruising kiss, palms planted firmly on his chest. His warmth and wildly beating heart feel so right under your hands. He lets out a little noise of surprise before melting into the kiss, his hands resting on your upper arms.

"Keys, you're hot," you say to him. "I don't need you to be this ultra-jacked dude with a ten pack, I like you the way you are. I promise, I'm not disappointed at all."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive," you say, punctuating with a soft kiss. "I mean, I'm not perfect, but you still like me, right?"

"But you are perfect," he says factually. "Can I see more of you?" The fabric of your big sleep shirt shifts as Keys grips the hem. You nod, feeling the beginnings of nerves for the first time this evening as he pulls the shirt up and over your head. You regret not wearing a bra for a moment, until you remember that if you were wearing one, Keys would have to try and figure out the hooks while high.

"Shit," he breathes out, awestruck at the sight of your bare breasts. His hands hold your waist again, thumbs brushing upward toward your chest. "I really wanna touch you." You reach for his wrists and pull them upward, and Keys cups your breasts, lightly groping as his mouth falls open again. The pads of his thumbs brush and tease your nipples, and you whine, giving the hair at the back of his head a little tug. His head cranes forward and he pulls a nipple into his mouth, licking and barely nipping with his teeth while his hand squeezes and teases the other breast with growing confidence. Without thinking, your hips start to grind against his crotch. You glance down and desire rushes through you harder at the sight—Keys licking messily at your breast with an open mouth, only taking a second to breathe before finally giving the other the same attention.

"Keys, you're doing so good," you pant. "But if I don't get fucked soon, I'm gonna go crazy."

His mouth releases your nipple with an audible 'pop', eyes fluttering open to look up at you. The pretty hazel is almost entirely eclipsed by his pupils, either from the high or the sex. Probably both.

"Fuck, I want you," he groans, pulling you up a little by the waist as he reaches for his waistband, finally freeing his cock from his sweatpants. The sight of it finally bare pulls a soft noise from you, the curve and pink tip resting against his pelvis. You sit back a little on his thighs, marveling at how gorgeous he looks underneath you. Hard cock already leaking precum onto his happy trail, hairy chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

"Come back," Keys pleads softly, reaching again for your hips.

"I will," you soothe with a giggle, kissing him quick before you stand on slightly wobbly legs. You pull down your pajamas and underwear together and the skin of your thighs dimples with goosebumps at the sudden cool air. You climb back onto his thighs, shuddering as your bare cunt makes contact with his erection. With an experimental roll of your hips, Keys lets out a shameless moan as he reaches for your face, pulling it down to kiss your lips and lick into your mouth gingerly. As you part your lips to slide your own tongue to entangle with his, Keys moves a hand from your face down to your pussy. The tips of his middle and ring fingers shallowly push into you.

"You're so wet," he says needily against your lips. "This all for me?"

"All for you, baby," you moan, reaching down to wrap a hand around his cock. Keys grasps your hip as you lower yourself onto him, eyes rolling back as your walls sink down around his tip. Needy whimpers escape his mouth as you lower yourself onto him, his cock twitching inside you as your thighs meet his again.

"You feel so good, so warm," Keys whimpers, kneading at your ass hungrily. "Shit, I feel so fucking crazy, you're so pretty, like really pretty." God, he was going to kill you.

"Your cock is perfect, Keys," you moan, lifting your hips and slowly drop them again, whining at the stretch. "Can I move a little more?"

He nods a little frantically.

"I really want that, really want you to ride me," he says, hands hot and eager as they explore your body. You happily indulge his request, starting to rock your hips more and more—suddenly very aware of his size. Through your high and the sex-fog in your brain, you recall the jokes online about computer nerds with giant dicks. You've never been so happy to confirm a stereotype. Chasing his own pleasure, Keys starts to thrust up into you, his arms around your waist with a vise-like grip. You throw your arms around his neck as his hips move, burying your face into his neck and suckling at the skin where he neck meets his shoulder.

"Oh my God, Walt," you say against his skin and he moans, fucking into you with deeper, stronger rolls of his hips.

"Fuck, say my name again, pretty," he groans. "Tell me how my cock feels inside you."

For a second, it's hard to really believe that this is Keys. Sweet roommate Keys that bought you a rain jacket as a 'Welcome to Seattle' gift. Keys that insists on walking closer to the street when you're on the sidewalk. Sweet, shy Keys that waves politely at your friends when they come over before retreating back to his desk. That same Keys was working you on his cock, pulling hot, filthy, wet noises from your cunt as he fucked you. This side of him was unbelievable. You always thought he was cute, in the dorky, nice guy kind of way, but this Keys was hot. You prayed this would not be the last time you see him.

"Love it so much, Walt," you whine, gripping his shoulders hard. "Your cock's so big and it's filling me up so good, making me all messy." The earliest waves of orgasm start to build in your stomach, your cunt pulsing around him.

"Close?" he pants, his hips maintaining their rhythm.

"Mhmm," you nod against his shoulder, a little dizzy as more and more waves of pleasure rush through your body.

"Come on me, baby," Keys says in your ear, pressing a kiss to your soft cheek. "Wanna felt your perfect pussy soak me, please." His words reach your fuzzy mind, mixing with the sensation of his cock fucking into you and the waves of pleasure build, and build, until they crash into full body euphoria—your pussy clenches around him as you mouth at his shoulder, kissing and licking and mumbling nonsensically. Keys starts to chase his own orgasm, the once consistent rhythm in his hips starting to slip as his desperation builds.

"I'm really close," he cautions, his voice reedy. "Where should I-"

"Inside," you plead against his shoulder. "Pill."

"Holy fuck," he mutters at this, his hips starting their frenzied thrusts again. You whine into his shoulder, the sensation of his cock stirring into staggering, overwhelming pleasure.

"I know, sweet girl, I know," Keys assures, one hand bracing the back of you neck as he thrusts. "M'so close, just a little longer. Doing so good for me, taking me so well."

His praises ease the overstimulation a little, softening the edges of the intense feeling in your tummy. You kiss at his neck again, licking and letting out soft mewls of pleasure against the flesh, now sticky from sweat.

"Fuck, m'gonna come," he pants, arms locking around you. "Thank you, baby, shit-I needed this so bad, I-so tight on my cock, so perfect-you're so fucking pretty oh my God, fuck." His cock finally spills into you, painting your walls with pulse after pulse of hot cum. Your chests heave up and down against each other as you both chase for a deep breath. Keys presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"Thanks," he says with a breathless laugh. "I feel bad, I usually like to show a girl a good time before we do that."

"The two years of living together wasn't enough good times?" you giggle, tracing swirling shapes across the plains of his chest with a lazy finger.

"No, they've been good times," he assures, a hand rubbing up and down your back gently. "Best times of my life, actually." A soft, sleepy smile spreads across your face.

"I really like you, Walt," you say against his chest, a little shy.

"I do too," he says. "Like you, I mean. A lot."

"Sorry I crashed your work night and got you high," you sigh, and he laughs softly.

"I'm glad you did, I've probably been a nightmare to live with for months," he replies, his thumb subtly tracing the bone of your shoulder blade.

"No," you say, shaking your head a little. "Obsessed and very anxious, yes, but not a nightmare."

"You're sweet," Keys says with a gentle smile. "Once the project's over, I'm gonna try to be less…on edge, I promise. You don't deserve to go out with such a workaholic."

You look up at his earnest face and let out a little breath of laughter as you push up his glasses.

"So we're going out?"

Keys's face blooms pink with embarrassment.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume assume anything, I just thought-"

You press your lips to his before he can stay on the spiral.

"Of course I wanna go out with you," you assure him. "I've always had a thing for nerds anyway."