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Ken’s almost spent from the last few days, but he still gets a big kick out of seeing his release spread all over your body, watching the way you’re relishing in it.

He feels quite comfortable with your current arrangement, too, as you’re only kissing him, Luke is out of the picture and… well, he would like to touch you again. But he guesses the time will come for that, perhaps if he asks to sleep over in your room one night soon.

When you sit together to watch your show tonight, you surprise Ken with something he’s never considered in his wildest dreams.

The kiss is steamier than usual, hands exploring and Ken moaning loudly into your mouth, his tongue forceful against yours.

‘Ken?’ You pull away for breath.

‘Yeah?’ he says, dreamily,eyes half-closed as he gazes across at you.

‘Listen, I know what this kissing thing is doing to you. And it’s okay, I just… I don’t want to keep teasing you.’

‘You’re not teasing me,’ he grins, still high on your kiss. ‘You’re giving me everything I need.’

‘Well, how would you feel about taking things up a notch?’ you bite your lip, shooting a glance down between his legs.

Ken’s eyebrows raise. ‘You mean…’

You blurt out at the same time, Ken yelling out an excited, ‘You want me to jerk off in front of you?’ While you ask, ‘I could touch you?’

His eyes go wide and his jaw drops as you go on.

‘If it’s too soon, it’s okay, but I thought since you’ve already kinda touched me, I could kinda… y’know…’

You trail your hand from where it rests on his shoulder, down over his smooth, hard chest and abs, finally slipping over the bulge in his shorts. 

Ken melts immediately, cock straining beneath your palm, and he nods eagerly, lost for words for once.

‘I don’t have to go all the way if you’d rather not complicate things, but I could start you off? You know, like you did with me?’

Ken’s not sure what you mean. He made you moan, and isn’t that everything he needs to do? But he doesn’t want to interrupt the moment, so he just nods again. 

He feels that now familiar sensation riding in his body; hot cheeks, fluttery stomach. It all feels kinda nice now you’re actually touching him, though, like you’re soothing the ache his body holds for you.

You drag your palm over his length slowly, biting your lip at the way he shudders and grips the sofa cushions. Is he always this sensitive? Do his knuckles turn this white when he’s jerking off in the bathroom, right on the other side of the wall after you’ve kissed him for a few minutes?

Ken feels his orgasm approach quicker than usual, and before you have a chance to slide your hand inside his shorts and really get going, he spills, hot and thick beneath the fabric.

You feel the heat of his release spread over your palm as he writhes under your touch, breathing ragged and moans frankly unhinged. 

He recovers from the climax surprisingly quickly, only a little breathless when he lifts his head to ask you a question.

‘Wow,’ he pants, ‘so that’s like... kissing but the jerking off kind, or-?’

‘It’s a handjob,’ you answer gently, ‘or, it would have been if I’d actually got my hand on you. But that’s okay! I don’t mind when you cum, as long as it felt good?’

‘It did feel good. That was so cool! Wait,’ Ken sits up, suddenly completely sobered, ‘are you saying you were going to jerk me off for me? Like, inside my shorts, touching my dick?’ 

He makes a crude gesture to demonstrate the action.

‘Well… yeah, that’s kind of the idea of a handjob.’

‘Woah.’ He collapses back against the sofa, eyes wide with wonder.

‘Ken,’ you go on carefully, ‘was that your first handjob?’

‘Sure was,’ he smiles, still dazed from the high, but he stills as if to tell you something of the hightest importance. ‘I know you don’t like calling me your boyfriend, and that’s okay. But I can’t help thinking, I wouldn’t be a very good handjob roommate if I didn’t return the gesture, would I?’

You clench your thighs together, trying so hard to resist. You couldn’t quite believe it was his first. 

Ken fills the silence with a lowered voice, ‘I’ve been dying to feel you on my fingers again.’

You’re so turned on by how quick he unravelled, and the way his voice sounds right now is making you flush, but… perhaps things are best left there for now so you can guide him through your pleasure when he’s a little more acquainted with his own.

‘Oh. I’d love you to, Ken. Really. But, maybe next time, okay? I don’t wanna overwhelm you.’

‘Yeah, I guess that’s okay,’ he agrees, with a little shrug. ‘You’re gonna go use your pink buzzing toy now, aren’t you?’

You blush, flustered enough at his question you don’t even register that he knows a little bit too much about the vibrator.

‘Would you like me to?’

‘Yeah,’ he winks, and then his voice drops lower, ‘just give me a minute to clean up first. I wanna hear it when you moan my name.’

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You don’t see Ken in the morning and return home to an empty apartment. As you slip off your shoes and pass through the hallway toward your room, you pause. Did you really see that?

Taking a couple of suspicious steps back, you turn dizzy.

An art print you were looking at online two weeks ago, the one you’d mentioned to no one at all, is mounted in a frame and displayed on the wall exactly where you were thinking of hanging it.

You step forward and cautiously touch its frame. It’s really there.

Something snaps in you at that moment. Too much has been convenient recently. Too much has seemed a little too close to home. And sure, Ken might simply have similar taste to you, but this coincidence was one in a long line of coincidences and this one was simply the straw that broke the camels back.

As you try to think through it, all the breath slowly leaves your body. You shake your head. Unless he’s reading your mind, and knows the password to your laptop. And surely not?

But there’s a lingering pull in your gut, telling you there must be something else. So you head right for your laptop.

Finding it where you’d left it in your room, which comes as a small relief at least, you flip the laptop open and punch in the password. 

Of course. How could you be so stupid! You’d talked nonstop about your favorite character every night you’d watched TV together. Of course he would try that as your password!

Opening the browser, you navigate through the open tabs, frowning for a moment as you realise you’d organised your date with Luke on here, leaving it open. 

And there it is, the something else you’d felt in your gut. Four unread messages from Luke, who had been muted;

Hey, sorry if I said something weird last night. I was just going along with what I thought you wanted.

I really liked you though, it would be cool to chat some more and work it out.

If not, no worries. It was still really good to meet you.

And finally, just two days ago the final message had been sent:

Goodbye and all the best.

You scrolled up, wondering what this was about, and saw you’d apparently sent a couple of extra messages about your underwear. And your hot roommate. 

‘KEN!’ you yell, tossing the laptop aside and storming to his room to see what else you can find that could be anywhere close to this fucked up. 

Heart hammering in your chest, you stare at the door to his room. You knock, and there’s silence. You call his name. Silence again.

So you open it, lightheaded as you pass the threshold, because this feels so wrong. But as you begin to look around, it becomes kind of addictive. 

It’s bizarre in here. Horse blankets, pink sparkly decorations, neon signs, a mini fridge, an impressively organised closet with a crazy mix of clothing styles (the doors left open to display them). It’s somehow like standing inside Ken’s brain.

There are some chocolate bar wrappers tossed around and it’s not all completely pristine, but the bed is made and it’s tidy, for the most part. 

It’s very Ken but in a weird, eclectic way you wouldn’t be able to explain to anyone else, and you feel oddly comforted by it. You could stay here a while. The thought crosses your mind that you could sneak in again next time he’s out and you have to shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

‘What is wrong with me,’ you mutter, stepping back to head out, mentally telling yourself off for ever thinking stepping foot in here would be a good idea.

What did you expect to find? A shrine to yourself? Ha! He was a nosy weirdo with boundary issues,  but he wasn’t a creep. Ken had his share of awkward moments when he first moved in, sure, and he’s obviously violated your laptop, but he never actually snooped through your room, like you were doing to him. Right?

Wait. 

You think back. The underwear you’d seen him wearing, the pink toy left in the middle of your bed when you were certain you’d put it away — and did he actually mention it was pink last night? Had the laptop been in your room when he used it?

Surely not.

The dizzy sensations return two fold but as you turn to leave, you trip over something on the floor and grab his chest of drawers to keep from falling. 

As you grip it, something topples from the surface and you catch it with your other hand.

A Ken doll. Your Ken doll. Your Shaving Fun Ken doll.

‘What the-’ you start, scanning the top of the dresser for more. 

You don’t need to look far. There’s a sweater of yours, your pink underwear (which also appears to be coated in that pink shower goop), and finally, placed in a little cowboy boot shaped dish like a sick shrine to you, the pièces de résistance – a ball of hair.

You hold it up to compare the colour and the texture to your own, and you really can’t deny it. It’s yours.

You look down to see what you’d caught your foot on and right there before your feet are the pink high heeled shoes you tripped over in the hallway on Ken’s first night here.

Your heart slams in your chest again. Who did those shoes belong to and why did he still have them? 

Why did he have your hair?!

You have to get help. What had Ken done with the poor woman who belonged to those pink shoes? What will he do with you when he gets home and finds you in his room?

Suddenly it all makes sense. His lack of experience, his awkward interactions that could usually be read two ways – and for some reason you always chose simple misunderstanding over  creepy, which he no doubt hoped you would. He must be smarter than you ever thought.

You grab your doll and rush to leave. Then everything turns dark.

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‘Hey, baby,’ Ken smirks down at you as you collide with his chest. ‘Doing a little investigating of your own, huh?’

‘Ken- no, I-’

His eyes look so dark you can practically see yourself in their reflection.

‘Hey, it’s okay. I told you, if it feels good you should do it. I’ve been doing a lot of things I shouldn’t.’

‘You have?’ you play dumb. ‘Like what?’

‘I’ve been in your room,’ he says proudly, gesturing to the doll in your grip. ‘You’re holding me in your hand.’

You look down at the doll, then back up at him. As bizarre as it may seem, Ken suddenly makes a lot of sense to you. You recoil and drop the doll back onto the dresser.

‘I’ve been watching you, too,’ he grins, ‘but don’t worry, I did it within the guidelines of our agreement,’ he adds, strangely soothingly.

‘What did you do with that woman?’ You’re too riled up to keep up the charade when there’s some poor person out there — or in here — oh god...

‘What woman?’ Ken asks, completely baffled.

Oh he’s playing dumb now? Really?

‘The one who came here to kiss you. The one who left her shoes out in the hall!’ You point to the shoes in question like a defence lawyer convincing a jury. ‘What did you do to her? What are you going to do to me?’

Ken holds his hands up in surrender.

‘Don’t get mad, babe,’ he says, way too calmly. ‘I know, you’re jealous. That was the whole point. But there’s really no need to be.’

‘No, I’m not jealous, Ken-’

‘The shoes are mine,’ he says simply, shrugging, like it’s nothing. ‘I brought them back from Barbieland because I liked them and they remind me of Barbie. I thought they might come in useful. Turns out, I was right.’

He looks so pleased with himself that you want to slap the stupid smirk off his face. You clench your fists at your side to stop yourself. 

‘What?’ you say flatly.

‘There was no woman. No one night stand. I left them outside to see if it made you jealous, so I knew I had a chance at being your boyfriend, which has obviously worked out- oh no, wait… is this our first fight?’

‘Prove it,’ you say bluntly.

‘Prove what?’ he asks, scrunching his face in confusion, ‘That I’m your boyfriend?’

‘That there was no woman, Ken! Or I’m calling the cops.’

‘I told you, I brought the shoes back from Barbie-’

‘Then prove you’re a Ken doll,’ you shrug, calling his bluff and wincing as you hear yourself. It sounds completely ridiculous.

‘Oh! Yeah I can do that,’ he said, grinning and leaning casually against the door frame. ‘But you’ll have to watch me jerk off. Unless you wanna hand me off again?’

‘It’s a hand job,’ you scathe, ignoring his invitation.

‘Okay, well I can prove it if we do one of those, because something I’ve learnt from watching those late night movies here, is that guys from the Real World don’t have stuff that looks like mine.’

‘What do you mean?’ You are genuinely curious even though he’s so obviously leading you on for sex. Your blood is boiling.

‘My orgasm stuff,’ he says under his breath like he’ll get in trouble for it, pointing at his dick, ‘is pink and it glitters. Guys here have this boring white stuff. I bet it doesn’t even taste of anything! Mines strawberry, if you were wondering,’ he adds, looking very pleased with himself.

You slump back to sit on the end of his bed.

‘What’s wrong, baby, I thought you liked it? It looks so good on your skin!’

Stunned, you speak slowly, realising this as you say it out loud, ‘The body wash I’ve been using is your cum?’

‘Is that what’s it’s called? Interesting.’

‘This is insane.’

‘Right?!’ Ken exclaims. ‘I had no idea there was a name for it! I learnt orgasm when I looked up how to use this thing,’ he points to his dick again, ‘but I didn’t see the word cum.’

‘I didn’t know I was covering myself in your stuff this whole time,’ you wince.

‘But you like it,’ he smiles, shooting you a finger gun.

You have to take a moment to really admit this to yourself, but ultimately, you nod.

‘So that’s what’s in the underwear you stole from me when you also pretended to be me on the dating site and ruined my date with Luke.’ It’s a statement, not a question. 

Ken shrugs in agreement.

‘Do you know how fucked up that is?’ You sound calmer now, but your heart is racing. Taking time to process all this is really taking a toll on you. ‘Why do you have a ball of my hair?’

‘Because I like your hair,’ he says simply, like taking a clump of it was the obvious thing to do in that situation. ‘I got it from your hairbrush. I didn’t think you’d like me cutting a chunk off while you were asleep.’

‘God. That’s so fucking messed up,’ you breathe, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your core. ‘You’ve watched me sleep?’

‘No, but I’d sure like to,’ he says, far too intensely.

‘Holy shit,’ you sigh. ‘What did you mean before when you said you’d been doing things within our agreement? What agreement?’

‘Oh!’ Ken laughs, ‘You said not to watch you through the gap in the door, right?’

You nod.

‘And you said I could still jerk off as long as you couldn’t see me doing it?’

You nod again, narrowing your eyes.

‘So I jerked off in your closet while you were naked in your room and didn’t know I was there.’

You take a deep, shaky breath. ‘Ken?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How often have you jerked off about me since you moved in here?’

He lifts his hands up to focus intensely on trying to count on his fingers, but gives up pretty quickly and shrugs. ‘A lot.’

‘Do you want me to do it for you more often?’ you ask, looking him in the eye now – and you’ve got his full attention. ‘Because despite my better judgement, despite you being a complete sicko and snooping through my stuff and stealing my Ken and my hair and hacking my laptop to ruin the first date I’ve had in over a year… I’m-

‘Baby, you’re so hot when you’re mad-’ he interrupts, but you carry on.

‘I’m so turned on right now that I want you all over me, and I don’t think I can wait any more.’

‘You mean…’

‘Yeah, if you want to call it being my boyfriend, fine. I just need you and your glitter jizz. Right now.’

‘You need me… like in those late night movies?’ Ken asks, awed. He wasn’t sure that was something people really did.

‘Exactly like that. Except I’m gonna teach you how it’s done properly,’ you smirk.

‘So am I your-’

‘Yes, Ken. You’re my boyfriend, and I want you to do everything boyfriends do.’

‘Oh good because I have some matching outfits I’ve been saving for us to wear-’

You stand up from the bed only to pull him back down onto it with you, lips crashing together in a bruising kiss that has him trembling on top of you.

‘You’re a freak, you know that? You’re sick.’

‘You like that, baby?’ Ken grins.

‘I like it,’ you agree, and shut him up with your lips again.

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Thanks for reading and I hope the cliffhanger isn't too frustrating ;) don't worry, we'll delve right into it next chapter!

There were zip ties keeping your wrists tightly secured to the arms of an uncomfortable metal chair. A burlap sack over your head was both blocking you from being able to see and flooding your nose with the smell of blood and vomit—you didn’t wanna know why the fabric had taken on that specific odor.

You were also half-naked, only still wearing your underwear. Goosebumps were trailing all across your body at the thought that someone had undressed you while you were unconscious. The only thing keeping you from spiraling even more was that there wasn’t any pain between your legs. Some part of you believed deeply that if something had happened to you, you’d know it. Whether because of some natural conclusion, or lingering pain, you didn’t know. But you clung to that like a lifesaver, barely keeping your head above water.

If you were in a better state of mind, you might have laughed at the whole situation. Starting with the van that had pulled up next to you, and the men exiting it wearing ski masks, knocking you out before you could do anything, along with the position you now found yourself in; this was a cliché kidnapping if you’ve ever seen one.

A burlap sack over your head? Who were you—Scarecrow?

That and more spun around in your head like a tornado of hysteria. Perhaps you could laugh at it tomorrow, or next month, or maybe once you hit the bottom of the ocean after they cut every limb from your body and let you bleed out slowly.

Yeah, that wasn’t helping. You wished you could go back to imagining yourself as Batman villains, but the longer you sat there with the back of the chair digging into your spine, the louder the silence echoed in your head.  

Your breathing, which had been shallow for some time now, sped up, filling your mouth even more with the taste of all the previous victims of the sack. It felt like hours since you regained consciousness, tied to a chair. Since then, no one had answered your terrified screams or stopped you from rubbing your wrists bloody.

You were aware enough to know that that was the point. Leaving you alone, clueless and trembling was supposed to make you even more afraid of what was to come. You knew that, but that didn’t stop it from working.

You were terrified. Every muscle in your body was tense, if you hadn’t already hurt your wrist by trying to wriggle out of the zip ties, the way you were trembling would have been enough to leave wounds, and your heart pounded so fast, you could feel it in your toes.

“Knock knock!” You couldn’t help but scream when a low male voice suddenly came from right next to your ear. You hadn’t heard anyone come close, but now that he had presented himself it was like the entire left side of your body was simultaneously leaning toward and away from him. Everyone of your nerves was on alert, waiting for what his sudden arrival meant.

“Uh, you’re a jumpy bunny,” the voice said, sounding delighted at that. Something touched your wrist, making you flinch away. Which in turn only made the zip ties dig in further, hurting you more. “Ouchy, why’d you do that?”

Even if you had been planning on answering, you weren’t sure you could. Your throat was dry, and every possible word seemed to get stuck somewhere between tongue and lips.  

“Hey!” The man flicked his finger against your head. “I don’t like being ignored!” The playful tone had vanished from his voice, leaving behind the kind of seriousness that better fit the circumstances.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered. Telling him that you had tried to escape didn’t seem like the smartest thing, but then again, he must know that you would at least try to. “I wanted to see how tight they are.”

“Ah, a science girl, I see. So, what is your assessment?” his previous good-humored tone had returned, with a speed that left you dizzy.

You swallowed, trying to make your voice come out less shaky. “Tight.”

He hummed self-satisfied. “That it is.”

After that, he fell silent. Were you supposed to answer him and continue the conversation? Did you have to keep his spirits high to make sure that he wouldn’t kill you out of sheer boredom? You didn’t want to keep interacting with him, you wanted to roll up in some corner and weep for the next foreseeable future.

Silence prevailed so long that you almost began to think that he had left, when suddenly, the sack was ripped off your head. You squinted against the unexpected sunlight shining through a window, making your eyes burn.

When your eyes adjusted, it took you another second to realize what you were seeing. You had expected to be in some sort of rundown warehouse—cliché kidnapping and all that—but instead you were sitting in what was perhaps the nicest room you had ever seen.

It was the size of your apartment, with a high ceiling, large windows, and a balcony. It was furnished and decorated in the way that suggested either rich people that actually had taste and didn’t spend all their money on minimalism, or that you were about to see a dragon fly past a window, because the last place you had seen look this way had been on Game of Thrones.  

Gold trimmings along the edges of the walls, candelabras standing in corners, and a large four-poster bed with thick red curtains.

“You like it?” Your gaze snapped toward the man, who was still standing next to you, grinning as if he had just flashed you his wallet. He was white, tall, and wore the kind of mustache you could probably only confidently wear if you spent your time kidnapping people for fun. He raised an eyebrow after you stared at him for too long, and you remembered his annoyance at being ignored.

“It’s…” Your voice wavered. “It’s nice.”

“You think so?” He looked at you, and maybe it was the head wound from being knocked out, but he sounded genuinely interested in your answer. “I think it’s kind of kitschy.”

“I guess,” you said hesitantly. “But… in a nice way? Like, you’d see in a castle or something.”

“Funny you’d say that.” He leaned closer. “Three guesses where we are.”

“A castle?”

He clapped his hands together, making you jump. “Ten points to smarty pants over here.”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to give him a reaction. You were still trembling, but at least you had run out of tears hours ago. “Why am I here?” you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt.

“Why are you here?” the man repeated. He tilted his head to the side, bringing his hand to his chin as if in deep contemplation. “Hm, see, that’s a bit tricky. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with you. It’s more about who you know. Or, well, who knows you.”

You shook your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

The man sighed and then grabbed the chair next to him. You noticed an indent in the cushion, and it dawned on you that the reason you hadn’t heard him come in wasn’t because he had been that silent—he had been there the whole time. Your fingers started digging into the arms of your chair in a desperate hope to find some stability.

He settled down, and then got back up, pulling the chair forward until he sat so close that his knees bracketed yours.

“A little birdy told me that we have a mutual acquaintance.” He stared at you intensely as if waiting for some kind of reaction. When you didn’t give him what he wanted, he continued, “Guy, early forties, about yay high, kind of looks like a Ken doll came to life and decided to spend his life wearing clothes that make you want to kill yourself.”

He looked at you expectantly, but you just stared back. Something was poking at the back of your mind at the description, but you were not in the right state of mind to start dwelling in your memories.

The man sighed. “Goes by the number six, and acts like that makes up for his lack of personality.”

Oh, fuck!

“There it is.” He grinned and then started drumming on his legs excitedly. “You mind sharing how you know him?”

“I—I don’t know him,” you said. Your heart was beating even faster, which you hadn’t thought was possible, but the sudden reminder of the man you had met a couple of months ago felt like a punch to the gut.

“No, see, sugar, I saw how you reacted when I mentioned his name. Your eyes got all wide, and you looked like the cute little bunny that you are.” His face suddenly fell into a terrifyingly neutral expression. “Don’t lie to me. You really don’t wanna do that, believe me.”  

Your breath hitched, and you dug your fingers even harder into the metal. “It’s not a lie, I don’t know him. We met months ago, just once. I helped him, and afterwards he left. I never heard or saw him again.”

“You might not have, but our boy has definitely been keeping an eye on you. You know, it’s funny if you think about it; by trying to keep you safe, he led me directly to your doorstep.” He shrugged and then crossed his legs like the smug asshole that he was.

Later you might have the space of mind to go over what it meant that Six had been keeping tabs on you—and why that didn’t disturb you as much as it probably should have—but right now all you could do was focus on the mercurial man before you.  

“Okay,” you said in a thin voice. “What does that mean for me?”

He laughed loudly and abruptly at that, even going so far as to slap his knee. If you were braver, you might have glared at him, but you could only watch as he wiped a tear from his eye. “What does that mean for me?” he said, the question in a mock version of your voice. “Cute. You’re really cute. I like it when people can just say what they think, and don’t hide behind fake empathy for other people.”

You frowned, momentarily not understanding what he was talking about. Then it dawned on you. “You want him to come here so that you can hurt him.”

“No, I want him to come here so that we can share a cup of tea and talk about the weather—of course I’m going to hurt him! God, what happened to the smart girl I met a couple of hours ago?”

He had started yelling again, which made you sink deeper into yourself. To be fair, you hadn’t thought (or cared) at all about what he wanted to do with Six, after all, he wasn’t here, you were.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the puppy-dog eyes,” he grumbled, waving you off. “Ugh, you’re starting to bore me. I thought you’d be more fun. Whatever, life is filled with disappointments. Here’s what’s going to happen now.” His eyes darkened, and he got up, walking around the chair until he was right behind you. He leaned forward, whispering in your ear, “We’ll wait here for him. I left enough clues for our little boy scout to find his way here to you.”

“Why would he come?” You asked, unable to stop yourself. You didn’t really know him, you had spent maybe three hours together, and you were clearly in the hands of some kind of professional lunatic. Who would ever willfully get himself into that situation?

He scoffed, “Because he’s a little bitch boy with a bleeding heart for the weak and vulnerable.” He tapped your cheek harshly. “That’s you, my dear. Anyway, we’ll wait until he arrives like a knight in shining armor. When he gets here, I’ll have that nice overdue conversation with him, and afterwards, beat his face until it is mush on the floor.” You could see his wide smile out of the corner of your eye.

“Okay,” you said in a shaky voice. A desperate sob was bubbling up in your chest, but you tried your best to choke it down. Up until now, it wasn’t that bad. Sure, he just detailed the planned murder of a man, but you were just the bait. You could live with that.

“And in the meantime…” Your heart sank. You could feel his hot breath hitting the side of your face, making you shudder. “I’m sure we’ll find some way to occupy ourselves.” He gingerly placed his pointer finger on your shoulder, just grazing your bra strap, and then slowly stroked it down your arm.

“Please don’t,” you whimpered. It was like the realization that you had actually been sitting there half-naked in front of this mad man hit you so quickly it left you winded. A shaky sob finally broke out of you. “Please.”

“No, no, shh,” he shushed you almost tenderly. “It’s not like that—I’m not a monster. C’mon, don’t cry. You have nothing to cry about, not yet.” He went back around you, pushed his chair away, and then squatted before you, hands settling on your knees. “Look, I’m not gonna lie to you, I will hurt you a little.” You whimpered at that, and he shushed you again. “No, listen. Yes, I will hurt you, but I won’t sexually assault you or anything. Who do you think I am? A freshman frat bro trying to date-rape the first girl that looks his way? Ew, no, I have self-respect.”

You almost laughed at the genuine offense on his face. This was so fucking ridiculous. His hands burned where they touched your skin, and you almost started gagging when he pushed himself up, pressing down more on your legs for a second.

“One thing you probably didn’t know about me is that I’m a bit of an artist.” He walked somewhere in the room you couldn’t see, and you didn’t dare try to shift in your seat. Maybe—maybe if you sat really still and didn’t make a sound, he would forget you were there and leave. You’d happily spend the next three days on this chair and then die of thirst if it meant not having to talk to that man even a second longer.

“Hey!” he suddenly appeared next to you again and smacked your head. “Do I have to repeat myself? I don’t like being ignored!” If you thought his carefully curated neutrality was scary, it was nothing against seeing him actually upset. His shoulders were rising and falling quickly, and he was clenching his jaw, looking like he’d bite through his own teeth any second.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! You—you’re an artist. What—what does that mean?”

“It generally means someone who does art, cupcake,” he said, his voice having lightened up considerably since your apology. There was, however, still the way his fist clenched next to him, that kept you from relaxing even a little.  

“That’s… okay.” You took a deep breath. “What kind of art do you make?”

You heard him chuckle lowly at that, and then, before you could ponder over what that meant, his hand shot toward your hand.

The pain didn’t set in immediately. For a couple of seconds, you just stared at the scalpel that was now jammed into the back of your hand. You watched as a dark red liquid gushed out between the glinting metal of the blade and your skin—it was blood, you knew that. You were bleeding. Out of your hand. Because the man who had kidnapped you just stabbed you with a scalpel.

The pain slammed into you like the blast wave of a bomb, almost knocking you backward. Burning hot, and nothing like you’ve ever felt before. You screamed, pain overtaking any instinct to hide what you were feeling.

“I specialize in my own version of body art,” he hummed, and then with one quick movement, pulled the scalpel back out. You choked on your own spit as you flinched at the new wave of pain crashing through you. “Oh, I’m Lloyd, by the way. Don’t think I introduced myself yet.”

────────

There was not a part of your body that didn’t hurt. Your left hand—which was where it had all begun—was throbbing not just from the stab wound, but from the missing pinkie, which had landed somewhere on the ground, probably kicked away by Lloyd at some point.  

There were scorch marks where he had experimented with a couple of different ways to burn you. The matches didn’t seem to satisfy him, the lighter seemed better, the torch lighter almost made you pass out from pain, and the sparklers had just been bizarre.

At some point, Lloyd decided that he wanted to leave behind a more personal note, like a signature—his words—and he started carving little doodles onto your thighs, arms, and stomach. On your chest he carved a big heart, with the number 6 inside it, and then laughed about it for like ten minutes.

He had briefly considered waterboarding you, but then decided against it because the logistics just seemed a bit too difficult. You were supposed to stay on that chair in that room until Six arrived. After that… you didn’t know what would happen.

It didn’t matter anyway. You didn’t believe that Six would actually show up. You had lost all sense of time, but considering the sun was about to set, and you had been kidnapped on your way to work in the morning, you could guess pretty accurately. Still, while it might not have actually been a very long time, it sure as hell felt like it.

You were tied to a chair and trapped in a body that was in so much pain, every time Lloyd now put a blade to your skin, you wished he’d just slip up, cut too deep, and end what seemed endless at this point. You had even considered trying to tempt him into killing you, get him angry enough to just jam a knife into your throat, and then spend the last seconds of your life laughing in his face because you won.  

Ultimately, you decided against it. Lloyd was clearly a sadist, getting off on all the pain and suffering he caused you. You feared that if you were to provoke him, he’d just get more creative with his methods of torture.

All you could do was endure.

Stare out of the window, and fantasize about breaking away from the chair and running forward, through the glass doors leading to the balcony, and then just jumping off in the hopes that the lake you could see stretch out before you, reached up to under the balcony.

You had spent the last hour just gazing out of the window, your vision going in and out of focus. Every now and then your nose would twitch from the acidic smell of vomit, which had settled around you after you had thrown up not once but twice from the sheer amount of pain.

Your brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Whether it was because of the blood loss, or adrenaline taking over and then abandoning your body over and over again, you didn’t know, but you were okay with it. You liked being so sluggish, it made it more difficult to hear the bullshit Lloyd was spouting from where he was standing a couple of meters away.

He was yelling at someone over the phone, face going red in a way that you knew should scare you but just didn’t anymore. It was like you had gotten used to him in the strange way you could get used to the sadistic murderer that had spent the last hours gleefully torturing you. You already knew what to expect of him, that was at least something.

“—able to do this. I hired fucking professionals, did I not?” He had walked closer to you. His eyes flickered toward you, and then he backhanded you. “Hey! Don’t fucking die yet. Get it together.”

Your head fell forward, but even still, you nodded slightly, mumbling what might have been an ‘okay’, or might just have been noises; either way, it satisfied him enough to move away from you.

He was still yelling, so you almost missed the weird scraping sound coming from the balcony. You lifted your head as much as you could, but even that hurt enough to make dots appear in your vision. You blinked a couple of times, trying to get rid of them, and when you focused again, you were sure you had died.

There on the balcony stood the man you had last seen months ago—the man everyone here presumably had been waiting for for the last couple of hours.

Six was half-hiding behind a pillar, his gaze wandering between you and Lloyd, who was standing with his back to the balcony. With one hand Six was holding a gun, and he lifted the other to his mouth, putting a finger to his lips, in a motion telling you not to say anything.

Then he motioned to the balcony door, raising his eyebrows in question. You were like 90% sure that he was asking you whether the door was unlocked—the 10% were leftover fears that you had died and this was a very weird afterlife.

But instead of answering him, you just kept staring at him.

He was wet, you realized. Soaking wet, in fact. A dazed giggle escaped you at the thought of him swimming in the lake.

The second you made a sound, Six hid completely from your view, and you almost cried out for him not to leave. Luckily, Lloyd interrupted that by coming back to your side. “What the fuck is up with you now, huh? What’s so fucking funny, bunny?” He pressed the barrel of his gun into your cheek, and for some reason, that just made you giggle more. You weren’t sure whether he had rhymed on purpose, but he definitely didn’t look happy about it.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” He had become really aggravated now, there was no hint left of his previous playfulness. But still, for some reason, your mind couldn’t even try to be afraid of him. You were either already dead or were about to be rescued.

And you did just lose a shit ton of blood.

Lloyd pistol-whipped you, which succeeded in finally shutting you up. The wound you had previously acquired by biting your lip to stifle your screams reopened, and you could taste the slight trail of blood making its way down your lips.

“Jesus, there we go. Open your mouth again and—” he never got to finish his threat. A loud sound rang out, the glass in front of you shattered, and Lloyd stumbled back. “Fuck!”

Blood was running down his right shoulder, and he quickly changed the gun from his right hand to his left, holding it up. Six stepped out from behind the pillar slowly, gun directed straight at Lloyd.

He walked forward a bit and pushed the glass door open with his foot. It evidently hadn’t been locked, not even closed properly, which made you wonder why Six had asked you.

“Lower your gun.” Six’s voice was just as you remembered it. Low and rough, as if he’d just woken up from a nap that went on for an hour too long.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me just…” something pressed into the back of your head, and only now you realized that Lloyd was pointing his gun at you, not Six.

“Lloyd,” Six growled.

“Hey,” Lloyd replied in a singsong voice. “Funny to see you here. How’s it going, how’s life?”

“Let her go.” His words were said slow and in a tone that made you almost impressed with Lloyd’s ability not to immediately run and hide. Six sounded deadly serious.

Lloyd hissed through his teeth. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Lloyd let out a strained laugh. He held his right shoulder slightly tense, and it was clear that no matter how much he tried to hide it, he was in a lot of pain. “A lot of things. I want a house on Lake Como. I want one of my former classmates to stop posting shirtless pictures on Facebook… right now I really want like a Twix or something. Y’know, something for the blood sugar.” He shrugged with one shoulder and then widened his eyes as if just remembered something. “Oh, and obviously, I want to kick your ass before making you eat a bullet, pal.”

Six had stayed stoic throughout Lloyd’s babbling, eyes not straying from where they were trained on the gun pointing at your head. “You want to beat me up? Didn’t work so well last time, hmm?”

Lloyd pressed the barrel of the gun harder against your head and sneered. “That’s not quite how I remember it. Anyway, you should probably watch your words a bit more, or my pretty little guest here will lick the dust off the floor.”

Your head was spinning, vision blurry, and you weren’t sure whether you could hear them correctly anymore. The pain that had been clamoring through your body slowly ebbed away, leaving you feeling like you were floating. You wanted to tell them to wrap it up. 

Someone should probably kill the other one now, because if the way you were starting to feel cool sweat gather on your skin was any indication, it wouldn’t matter much to you soon, anyway.

Your head fell forward, and automatically Lloyd grabbed your hair, trying to keep you facing forward. He used his left hand, which momentarily removed the gun from pointing at your head. You saw the way Six immediately shifted his stance, and a second later, another gunshot rang through the room.

Lloyd dropped your head, followed by the sound of his body dropping to the floor.

Six instantly rushed toward you, kneeling down before you and taking your face gently into his hands. “Hey, hey. You’re okay, you’re fine. I’ll get you out of here now.” You blinked at him, and when that didn’t seem to satisfy him, you tried to smile. If his concerned expression was anything to go by, you didn’t succeed in that so well.

He took out a pocketknife and started to work at the zip ties around your wrists. He was muttering apologizes, probably afraid that he was hurting you, which he shouldn’t. He wasn’t hurting you; nothing was. You didn’t even really have a body anymore. You were floating, and even though his voice got louder and more insistent, you closed your eyes, letting darkness consume you.  

────────

You awoke slowly at first. The bed you lay on was comfortable, and the soft pillow was nice under your throbbing head.

Why was your head hurting so badly? And why didn’t this feel like your bed?

…

All the memories returned at once, making you shoot up and then push yourself out of the bed. You landed hard, yelling out at the impact against your many wounds.

“Whoa, hey, don’t do that.” You looked up and scrambled back against the edge of the bed. Six stopped in his steps, raising his hands placatingly. “It’s just me. You’re safe, I promise.”

Your heart calmed a bit once it recognized who was standing before you. You nodded sharply, regretting it instantly at the pain shooting up your neck. Everything hurt. You couldn’t even tell where it hurt the most; it was like your entire body was just one large open wound. You whimpered as you readjusted yourself.

“Let me help you back into bed. You really shouldn’t move too much right now.” He waited for you to nod again before coming closer. He put his arms under your legs and behind your back, lifting you up in one smooth movement and then putting you back down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” was all you managed to say. Your throat was dry, and you started coughing a bit.

“Here.” He handed you a glass of water that had previously been standing on the nightstand next to the bed. “Slowly.”

You drank a couple of sips, enjoying the way some of the water escaped between the glass and your lips, running down your chin in cool veins.

You handed him the glass back.

“Better?” he asked, putting the glass down.

You hummed, not feeling like talking more. Everything was hitting you again. Your fingers started to shake, and you twisted them into the fabric next to you.

You looked down at yourself and only then realized that you were wearing clothes again. A black shirt and some sweatpants that bunched up at your waist. “Did you…”

“I figured you’d feel more comfortable with some clothes on,” he said. “I also took care of your wounds as best I could. If you want to, I’ll get you to a hospital, but right now it would probably be safer to lie low a bit.”

“It’s fine.” The last thing you wanted now was more people probing at you. From what you had seen of Six’s own wounds—and the number of them—he was well versed in keeping a body from falling apart.

“Okay, just say if you change your mind. Do you need anything else?”

You just shook your head, tears were starting to gather in your eyes, and you tried in vain to blink them away.

Six hesitated a bit, standing at the end of your bed like a child waiting to be picked up by his parents. “Can I, um…” he tilted his head toward the bed. You nodded, and he sat down where he sighed, running his hands over his legs. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot. This… it never should have happened, and I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

You rubbed an escaped tear from your cheek, sniffing. “He said it was because of you.” You didn’t mean to blame him for what happened, but there was a bitter edge evident in your tone.  

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“He also said you kept tabs on me.”

Six sighed, “I did. I wanted to make sure you were okay after…”

“After,” you said, tasting it out in your mouth. “After what?”

Six looked at you with a complicated look. “After you helped me.”

You had helped him all those months ago. Back then he had just been a stranger in an alley, bleeding out slowly. You had been walking home and noticed him trying and failing to get back up. You had offered to call an ambulance, which he declined fervently. Ultimately, after seeing the wound, you had led him to your home, but not without making it clear that you owned a stun gun and were ready to give him another stab wound if he stepped out of place. He had only smiled quietly at that.

At your place, you had taken care of him the best way you could, using your never before used first aid kit. He told you what to do, and together it only took about thirty minutes to get him back from death’s doorstep.

He stayed for another couple of hours, regaining some of the color in his face. Both of you had been fueled by adrenaline—he from almost dying, and you from the presence of that tall, handsome man whose body you were almost burdened with—and one thing led to another. You had sat next to him on the couch, and the next thing you knew, you were sitting in his lap, making out with him.   

He had left afterward, and you hadn’t expected to ever hear from him again.

Now you were here, with him in front of you, and even though you would give anything to reverse time and not have gone through the last 24 hours, you were glad to see Six again.

“Well, at least you found me,” you sniffed again, and then took a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you for that.”

“Don’t thank me for that. Should have been there much earlier.”

You shrugged, wincing at the uncomfortable sensation running down your shoulder at that.

“Seriously, is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?”

“I kind of wanna take a shower.” The tacky feeling of dried blood on your skin made you nauseous, and you were sure you smelled like a delightful mixture of sweat, vomit, and blood.

“Sure, just gotta be careful not to get the bandages wet. I have some plastic wrap which you can use, and if you do get them wet, I’ll just redress them, it’s fine,” he said.

He got up and then helped you to the bathroom, supporting most of your weight. When you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he exited the room, and when he returned, he handed you a carton of plastic wrap. He left you then, closing the door behind him, but not before telling you to just yell out if you needed anything.

Now you were left in the empty room, clutching the plastic wrap to your chest. The bathroom was devoid of personality, nothing in it communicated anything about the person it belonged to. You couldn’t tell whether that was because this was a safe house, or if that just summed up who Six was as a person.

Slowly, you started stripping yourself of the borrowed clothes. You winced as you lifted your arms over your head to take off the shirt, straining the wounds along your chest and stomach. You took off the pants next, which was considerably easier.

That left you in only your underwear… again.

The memory of being tied up and so vulnerable slithered its way from your brain down into your stomach, and before you had time to adjust, you started gagging. Instantly, you jolted toward the toilet, and not a second too soon. You threw up, racking coughs shaking your entire body.

A knock came from the door along with the concerned sound of Six’s voice, “You okay?”

“Fine,” you croaked back, wiping the back of your mouth with your left hand. That’s when you finally remembered that Lloyd had not just taken your dignity and feeling of safety, but your pinkie finger as well.

A sob broke out of you, and when you automatically went to cover your mouth with your hand, you only started crying more. It felt different, weird. You stared at your left hand and could swear that you felt the cut-off finger as if it were still part of you. It was throbbing, burning, melting, screaming. You whimpered as you stretched your arm as far away from you as you could.

“Can I come in?” Six asked, but you couldn’t answer him, just stare at your hand as if looking at it long enough would force it to regrow the missing appendage. “I’m coming in now.”

The door opened slowly, and he stepped into the room. He didn’t come closer to you, though, staying in the doorframe. Your face was twisted anxiously, and you looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and wet cheeks.

“I can feel my finger. Why—” you choked up. “Why can I still feel it? I need it back.”

Six slowly lowered himself to the floor, leaning against the door. “That’s normal. It’s okay, you’re okay.” He seemed a little awkward trying to comfort you, as if not quite sure what to say.

“It’s not okay. I am not okay,” you wailed. “How am I ever supposed to go on with my life now?”

Six looked uncertain, opening his mouth and then closing it again. After a couple of seconds filled with your weeping and his silence, he moved toward you, stopping right in front of you. Hesitantly, he reached out for you, and when his hands came in contact with your shoulders, you threw yourself forward into his arms. He pulled you closer, mindful of where you were injured.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, stroking a hand up and down your back. “I won’t let anything else happen to you, I swear.”

You sniffled, burying your face in his chest. He just kept hugging you, and even though you were only in your underwear and still covered in blood and wounds, you couldn’t remember the last time you'd felt so safe.

“He took my finger,” you said, and immediately felt silly, like you were a child complaining about other kids on the playground.

But Six just nodded his head, his mouth ghosting over your hair. “I know, I know. I killed him, he’s gone. He’ll never hurt you again.”

You cried even more at that, pressing your face harder into his chest.

“Easy, don’t hurt yourself,” he said, and gently pulled your head away from him. He cradled your face between his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that kept on falling from your eyes. “I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you, okay? I got you; I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”

His lips were in a thin line, but his eyes seemed to want to drill his words into you.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting your skin absorb the heat radiating from him.

“You’re shaking,” he said lowly. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” you mumbled, only now realizing that you were trembling slightly. He reached behind him for the clothes you had been wearing, but you shook your head. “I still need to shower.”

“I don’t know if that’s truly the best idea right now. If you wrap all your wounds, then there is not much of your body left to clean.”

“Please, I need to just… get clean. Please,” you said, not even trying to hide how desperate you sounded.

Six pursed his lips before nodding slowly. “You could maybe just kind of use some wet towels and do it like that.”

“Like a sponge bath,” you asked.

“Like a sponge bath,” he repeated, smiling faintly.  

“Can you…” you trailed off, looking away.

“Can I, what?” he prompted you, taking your chin and coaxing it back toward him.

You closed your eyes before continuing quietly, “Would you help me?”

“You want me to—” he raised his eyebrows, but when he noticed your embarrassed expression, he quickly corrected himself. “No, sure. I can do that. I’ll help you in whatever way you need.”

He eased you up, placing you back on the edge of the bathtub. He averted his eyes from your body as he gestured back to the clothes on the floor. “Are you good like that, or do you want to put them back on?”

“It would probably be a bit difficult to clean myself while wearing clothes,” you replied.

“Maybe,” he said in a playful tone. It was so different from the one Lloyd had used. Where his had always sounded like he was making fun of you, Six’s held a trace of comfort, inviting you toward him. “But if you wanted it, we could make it work.”

“No, it’s alright.” You smiled cynically. “At this point, I’m kind of used to being in my underwear in front of people.”

Six’s smile dropped, and he turned towards a cabinet, grabbing some towels. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“He didn’t, like… do anything,” you said, shrugging halfheartedly.

“I figured.” He went to the sink, where he wet a towel. “That’s one of his tactics to mess with someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’re just in your underwear, it leaves you even more vulnerable than you already are just by being captured. If you somehow got loose, you’d be less likely to leave without at least some clothes on you.”

“Then why not take off all my clothes?”

“Because of the insinuation of it all. Like at any point, if you didn’t do exactly what he says, he could strip you off that last barrier of safety that you got. And obviously, with women there is also the underlying threat of what it meant for someone to have taken off your clothes, what it would mean if someone continued,” he explained and then walked back to you, kneeling down. “It’s cruel and fucked up, and I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“What the fuck,” you mumbled. “Maybe it’s better that he’s…” you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“It definitely is,” Six said, and then pointed toward your arm. “Gimme.”

You extend your arm and he brought the wet towel to your skin, softly rubbing at the blood on it. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, concentrating on what he was doing.

But he wasn’t hurting you, it was like the opposite of it, actually. With every stroke of the towel, with every touch of his skin on yours, you felt a buzz run down your spine. It went on like that for a while. Him making his way around your body, cleaning away all the visible stains and while doing the same to the ones you couldn’t see with your eyes, only feel deep down.

You exchanged words here and there, soft quiet ones without any actual meaning. About the weather, about a book you read recently, whether 3-in-1 shampoo was a crime against humanity—you said yes, he disagreed.

It was simple and nice, and even though you were sitting, you could feel yourself drift off slowly. When your head dipped forward for the third time in less than five minutes, Six stopped what he was doing, smiling at you.

“Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

“Okay,” you whispered, already half asleep.

“C’mon.”

The two of you made it back to the bedroom, where he pulled back the blanket, waiting for you to settle in. You did, but before he could place the blanket over you, you stopped him.

“Would you…” you swallowed. “You need sleep too, right? When was the last time you slept?”

He hesitated, looking conflicted, but then he started smiling. “Scooch over.”

You did, and he joined you in bed. He turned off the lights, and before you could think better of it, you laid your head on his chest. He promptly put his arm around you, caressing your waist.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, and then pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “You’re safe.”

With his words on your mind, and his strong arm around you, you closed your eyes.

“these are cheeksters.” you tell him, holding the bubblegum pink pair with a lace trim up for him to examine. you know he loves you in pink, so you’re sure he’ll like these.

“cheeksters?” he echos the word, a small breathy laugh making its way past his lips as he takes in the sight of them. “what a funny name.” he cocks his head a little, blinking his eyes a few times.

“because they’re more cheeky.” you clarify with a smile, flipping them around so the higher cut back is on display for him. “isn’t the pink and the lace so pretty, lars?” you watch as his eyes trace the lace pattern that adorns them.

“so pretty, sweetie.” he agrees quietly, his eyes breaking from the pink fabric and meeting yours before he says his next words. “they’ll look even prettier on you.” his voice is shy, but once he sees the smile that grows on your face, he’s smiling in quiet satisfaction. one of the large ones that meets his eyes and makes them crinkle.

“my sweet lars, thank you.” you hum, setting the pair down between the two of you so that you can reach over and place your hand on his jean clad knee, giving it a small squeeze.

“you’re welcome, sweetie.” his smile stays as he places his larger hand on top of your own, covering it completely and returning the squeeze. he’s gotten more comfortable with touch. he’s told you that it doesn’t even sting anymore, not like it used to, and he’s making sure to show you.

he lets his hand linger on yours for a few more moments before he finally retracts it, placing it back in his own lap. he clasps it back together with his other hand, letting his fingers fidget around each other. you give him one more small smile before you reach for the next pair.

“and these, these are called boy shorts,” you tell him, holding the butter yellow pair up for him to inspect. “cute, huh?”

“boy shorts...” his voice is quiet, his eyes darting across the fabric you’re holding up for him. they look more similar to what he himself wears, he thinks. he likes that.

his hands unclasp and his hand reaches out again to grab the material between his finger and thumb, rubbing at it to get a feel. “soft.. i like these boy shorts. they look comfortable.” he settles on his answer with a nod, retracting his hand so that you can pull out the next pair.

“they are extremely comfortable.” you agree, placing the pair beside you to continue on with the show. “now these,” you start, reaching over to grab the next pair sitting beside you.

“this is called a thong.” you don’t say anything else, bringing the muted green pair up and holding them between the two of you like you have been. he looks them over like normal, nodding more to himself than to you. you give him another moment before you turn them around to finally show him the back.

his eyes widen immediately as he takes in the sight of how little fabric there is. while the rest would keep you fairly covered, these are pretty much nonexistent. his cheeks heat up at the sight and the realization of himself picturing you in them. he looks so cute when he’s flustered.

“wha-what?” he’s in shock, his mouth slightly agape. “those—those are not comfortable.” he’s shaking his head now as he continues to stare, not being able to tear his eyes away yet.

“you get used to them.” you say with a light shrug of your shoulders, setting the pair down on the bed with the rest of them. his eyes still track them, staying glued to them as they sit in the middle of the two of you now. “it’s almost like they’re not even there sometimes.”

“not even there? i don’t believe it.” his voice shows the disbelief he’s feeling. always expressive, your lars is. you can’t help but giggle at his reaction and how his eyes haven’t met yours since you brought out that specific pair. he’s too focused on them to be bothered with trying to look at you.

“it’s true. i wear them so there’s no visible panty line with certain pants. they can be comfortable once you’ve worn them for awhile.” you try to convince him, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to. you think for a moment before you finally settle on your next words, “how about a proper show and tell, now? i can try all of them on for you.”

that gets his attention. his eyes finally dart back up to your face. the corners of your lips turn up as you watch him study your features, see if you’re serious. you most definitely are. he blinks hard a few times before he responds.

“yeah—yes. if you want to. i’d like that.” he nods, his cheeks still slightly tinged pink. you give him a confirming nod, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his nose before letting out a light squeal and gathering up the pairs to go try them on for him one by one.

Ken is smiling when he pokes his head around the door. He’s always smiling when he’s looking at you. Sometimes you’ll walk into the kitchen after he’s already been awake for an hour and find him looking sadly at the TV. The moment you make yourself known he always breaks into a grin which won’t leave his face for the rest of the day.

“Hey! I was hoping we could do boyfriend-partner stuff today,” he says, flopping chest-first onto the mattress next to you and immediately kicking his legs in the air. You’ve explained multiple times over that it can just be partner-partner stuff, or even just partner stuff, but he seems to be attached to the word boyfriend. Wears it like a badge of honour: yeah, he’s YOUR boyfriend, and everyone should know!

“I’d love that, baby, but we gotta go easy today. I’m a bit tender.”

“Oh.” He cocks his head to the side. “Did I massage you too hard last night?”

“It isn’t that. If anything, you can massage me harder, if you want.”

"Ooo," he says, excitedly, then his brow furrows again. “Then what is it? Tell me! If it’s a guy I’ll fight him for you.”

You’re pretty certain Ken has never been in a fight in his life, or at least one which didn’t contain contemporary dance. 

“I’m on my period.”

A beat.

“We talked about this, yeah? I’m menstruating, Ken.”

He nods, slowly, the meaning of the word coming back to him.

“Well, why be ‘menstruating, Ken’ when you could be… Kenstruating men?” 

He looks at you and wiggles his eyebrows as if he’s just said the smoothest pickup line anyone’s ever thought of. You burst into laughter. It’s total nonsense, but when he says that kinda stuff with so much sincerity it’s so charming. 

"What did you have in mind?" you relent.

"Well, you said orgasms can make your cramps better, right? I remember, I'm a good listener."

"You sure are," you agree. He traces ever so lightly over your stomach, tiny little hearts from his fingertips into your skin.

"What if I helped you come?"

He wants to help you come about every problem. Nothing worth watching on TV? No worries, he can help you come. Didn't find pants in the size you wanted? It's okay, he can help you come about it. Pizza's gonna arrive five minutes later than expected? Well, do you know what he can do in those five minutes...?

This time, though, he might have a point. Yet you still find yourself hesitating.

"Are you sure, Ken? None of my previous partners have been... super enthusiastic about that idea at this time of the month." Not even the couple of girls you've dated, which had been a bitter pill to swallow, as you were happy to help them when the scenario was reversed.

Ken looks at you with total sincerity when he says, "every partner you've ever had has been a coward."

Can't argue with that. When he tugs hopefully at your comfy sweatpants, you lift your hips so he can slide them down along with your big, unflattering period undies. With any other person, you'd feel self-conscious. Not with Ken. Never with Ken.

It's not a pleasant sight, you can't imagine, but he drops a kiss to your navel as he gently pulls your lips apart. He inspects the blood which gathers on his fingertips before slowly sliding between your folds, tenderly beginning to rub your clit.

"Oh, shit," you groan, getting lost in the combination of pleasure and aching. The former soon overtakes the latter as his thumb swipes over and over where you need it to, gentle waves of ecstasy rolling across your body. Ken has his chin propped up on one hand and looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Inside?" he begs, eyes huge and full of reverence. You nod, and he slowly eases a finger into your sore cunt. It makes you suck a breath in through your teeth but he works you slow, pumping and crooking exactly how you like it until he feels like you can take another without issue. When the second slips in to join the first, you're sure his hand must be coated in blood. He doesn't care.

"My menstruating darling baby angel..." he hums, and you laugh a bit before it turns into a moan. "Can I use my mouth?"

"It might not taste good," you manage, as he hits the exact spot you need him to, buried in your tender walls.

"You always taste good," he states, as if it's so simple, as if it's a fact, and you're pretty sure you gush over his fingers. You groan and tangle your hand in his hair before shoving his mouth to your cunt.

He eats you out as if every time might be his last. The crimson mess of your pussy doesn't phase him at all, instead he buries himself against you and begins to fuck you with his tongue. It makes you gasp, every little movement magnitised by the sensitivity of your period, and when you automatically try to wriggle away he gently holds your hand to keep you still. Not an instruction, not an order, just a request. So you stay put and allow him to loop that arm around your thigh in order to keep you flush to him.

His fingers rejoin his tongue and he's fucking you so beautifully, every little movement in tandem, and when you look down he's coated in slick and blood -

Yeah, you come.

It blooms over you and a physical ache is relieved, like Ken is the orgasm fairy of period comfort. You flop back into the bed and he peppers your thighs with wet kisses.

"Good?" he asks. You shoot him a wobbly thumbs-up.

"Five stars."

“Out of…?”

“Five, baby.”

"Yippee...!"

He had accidentally snagged his beloved blanket on a nail today, the hardened rust ripping a few stitches, and the more he moved it, the more the yarn untangled itself, the delicate wave pattern coming undone.

Lars had cried like it was the end of the world until Karin recommended him this new tailoring shop in town, and that she had heard the owner was a very lovely and kind lady. He practically flew into his car, speeding down the road to find the cozy store tucked away in a quiet corner of the small wisconsin town, snow piling up on the roof.

Luckily, the lights were on, and the sign on the door read 'open'. This was his last hope.

The little bell above your shop door chimed, a cheerful sound that always made you look up from whatever you were working on with a smile. And how could you not? After years and years of dreaming and saving up, you were finally able to call this little nook your own shop.

So as a person stepped inside, you felt that familiar flutter of excitement. A customer. Your customer!

It was a tall, soft looking man, draped in a plush winter jacket and clutching something to his chest like it was a wounded animal. He was handsome, cute even. He had a fine-boned, round face and a dusting of chestnut brown sat atop of his head, his mustache matching the colour of his hair. His eyes were wide, pale blue, darting around the shop as if he expected a trap to swallow him up.

"Welcome in!" you said, setting down your scissors as you cut pieces from some burgundy fabric "What can I help you with today, sir?"

He shuffled forward to the register, his broad shoulders hunched. "I- uh, I need to get something fixed" his voice was soft, almost a whisper, and he held out the bundle in his arms. It was a blanket, baby blue, knitted out of thin and delicate yarn and clearly throughouly loved, but equally treasured to make sure it remained in tact.

You gently took it from him, noticing how he pulled back his hand before your fingers could touch his. You let the fabric slip between your fingers with a soft frown before you found a tear, the stitches jagged and ripped.

The man in front of you wrung with his hands as you assessed the damage. "I'll pay whatever you want, just...just repair it. Please" he practically begged you. You softly smiled at him, this clearly was no ordinary scarf. "Sounds like this is very important to you, if you want to get it fixed so badly" you said, your head tilting to encourage him to satisfy your curiosity.

His mouth stretced into a vertical line and he blinked harshly, two times, before he took a breath to answer "My mom made it for me...before I was born" he muttered, and you were about to say 'aww', when he continued, wiping any joyous expression off your face "She died when I was born, so..." he smiled gently, as if this wasn't a devestating fate at all.

You looked back down at the blanket in your hands. You could see the careful, even stitches of a woman who had poured all her love into every row. A mother knitting for a child she would never hold. It almost made you tear up, but you swallowed that down. "I can fix this" you said softly "It's a simple pattern and stitching, I'll make it barely noticeable. Give me about two days."

He lit up at your statement "Thank you" he breathed, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He patted down his thick jacket for his wallet "How much?"

You leaned forward and pressed your hand against his clothed forearm, and while he flinched for a second, the pressure of it was oddly...comforting? How were you doing that? "Let's see how it turns out first." You smiled with a little wink, and he seemed to relax a fraction.

Two days later he returned as if those 48 hours had him greatly distressed, like waiting for a sick loved one to come out of a complicated surgery. You seemingly had awaited him as well, smilling widely when his adorable, awkward nature filled your shop. "Ah! Mr. Lindstrom was it, right?" you pointed at him to which he nodded timidly. You had actually remembered his name days ago when he told you. He felt warm inside, but he blamed it on the heat from the lit fireplace in your store.

"Just give me a second!" you called out to him and he made himself comfortable on one of the plush chairs that surrounded the fireplace, watching you count through various letters before finding the letter 'L' on top of your shelf.

You climbed up, sorted through a few finished orders and custom pieces until you found his, the one labeled with 'Lindstrom', and retrieved it with a giddy smile. You didn't want to admit it, but you probably had never worked as diligently and careful as you had done for this piece. You just wanted to make it perfect.

He jumped up from his seat, brushing back his hair and dusting off his jacket as if this was a special event. You giggled softly at his antics. He was very intriguing, you had to admit.

You then handed him the repaired scarf. The tear was invisible unless you knew where to look, the yarn you had chosen a perfect colour match to the original one.

He held it up, craddling it in his big hands, his fingers tracing the spot, and his eyes went watery. Your heart clenched in your chest, fearing he didn't like it and you just ruined the precious memory of his mother. "You...don't like it?" you whispered and his head shot up, his round, teary eyes searching yours "Oh, no it's- it's perfect. Looks very good" he nodded with a jerk of his head, clearly not being great in showing his gratitude and excitement visually. But you didn't mind, you knew it meant a lot when he said it like that.

He went to wrap it around his neck like a scarf. It was a very cute way to still use and honor the blanket, even though he couldn't be swaddled up tighly in it anymore.

His hand dipped into his pockets then, reaching for his wallet "How much-" he started, but you held up your hand and shook your head. "It's on the house. I couldn't take money for something that is so dear to you, especially since it was a gift from your mom. I'm not going to make you pay for it now"

Lars just stared at you then, his soft pink lips slightly ajar, something shifting in his expression. A kind of awe, or maybe gratitude so deep it looked like pain, you weren't sure "You don't have to-" he said, shaking his head in disbelieve, but you just smiled at him. "I want to." you assured him, smoothing out the blanket over his chest "Really."

He swallowed, his cheeks glowing red under the dim light of your shop. He could barely feel your touch through the many layers of clothing he wore, but it made something in his chest flutter nonetheless "Thank you." he breathed, his ears starting to match the colour of his face.

As much as you would have liked, you were sure this wouldn't get deeper than that. He would leave, and you'd never see him again. Maybe a few glimpses around town, but that would be it.

And at first you thought you were right. A week passed with no sign of him. You tried not to let it affect your mood- he had just been another customer! And yet, you felt like there was more to him, and you wanted to see him again. No, you didn't just want to see him, you wanted to get to know him better.

Then one afternoon, he appeared again, holding the puffy jacket he wore last time under his arm. Timidly, he showed you a ripped seam under the arm.

"I was...uhm, chopping wood and moved a bit too much" he explained, blinking harshly. You laughed, and it surprised him into a half smile "You chop wood?" you asked then and he nodded, all shy and sweet. God, he looked very cute today, very cuddly with the many layers he wore. "Yeah, I'm pretty good at it" he said proudly, softly puffing out his chest as you took the jacket from him to assess the damage. "I bet you are" you smiled, counting how many stitches had ripped open.

He blinked, nodding at you, his heart beating faster in his chest for a reason he couldn't name. "You should watch me some time" he suggested, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

You looked up from the jacket in your hand to find him standing there all nervous, and it made something flutter in the lower parts of your stomach "I'd love to. But first, I gotta fix this jacket so you can really get back to it" you winked, opening a drawer to fish out a needle "It's an easy fix. Come, make yourself comfortable" you gestured to your cozy sofa next to the fireplace "It'll take ten minutes."

He just nodded and settled on your little couch, tensed, as if he wasn't supposed to be there, while you threaded a needle with matching yarn.

While Lars was busy admiring your simple shop and the fabrics rolled up on high shelves, you were able to take a better look at him. He was wearing a nice sweater, a shirt peeking out at the collar. It was a bit worn, lumpy at the shoulders, but he looked soft and warm and somehow out of place in his own skin. You almost wanted to coo.

"Do you have someone in your family who knits, then?" you asked while you worked, vaguely gesturing to his clothes.

"Uh, yeah, I had. My grandma knitted most of my sweaters. She died years ago though..." he told you, yet again like it was the most normal thing in the world, throwing you a tight lipped smile, while you could only watch in pity. He twisted his hands in his lap. "I like sweaters. They're cozy." he muttered, trying to lighten the mood.

You nodded at Lars, pulling your string tight before looping it back through the fabric "I can see that. They suit you." You smiled gently as he blushed at your compliment.

"I do custom work, you know." you shrugged, biting your lips in concentration. It was a good look on you, and Lars couldn't avert his eyes. "I could make you one that fits perfectly. Not that the oversized look isn't cute but I thought, maybe, you'd like a sweater that isn't all stretched and loose" you muttered, and you couldn't believe you just called him cute like that. God, you surely just scared him off!

His eyes grew wide "Really?"You turned from your work to look back at him, only to find him already watching you "Really. I'd give you a discount, since you're such a nice customer."

He blushed, the beautiful colour creeping up his neck. "That's- I don't know what to say." he admitted, munching on his bottom lip while trying to hide a bashful smile from you. You tied a quick knot as you finished stitching up the hole in the jacket, cutting off the excess yarn. "Say yes, and I'll take your measurements."

Lars was hesistant, mostly because he didn't want to flinch when your touch would ultimatively burn him and make you feel bad about it, but how could he say no when you looked at him like that?

He nodded gently and you got to work. The measuring was as delicate as you could make it. You had come to the conclusion yourself that he might not like to be touched by basically strangers, or maybe he didn't like to be touched at all. Either way was fine. You still had to make him take off the sweater, keeping him in only a very light pink long sleeve, so you could take measures as accurately as possible without making him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

You used your most flexible and soft tape, so he barely felt it over his clothes, and you made sure not to touch him more than necessary, though you noticed how he tensed when your fingers brushed his chest, his waist or his arms, even though you were extra careful. He held his breath when you measured his shoulders. Not because of pain, but because your fleeting touches left a weird but pleasent tingling sensation.

"There" you said proudly, after walking back and forth between Lars and a table to write down his measurements "I'll try to have it ready in about two weeks" you informed him and two weeks later, he returned on time for the sweater.

You had chosen a rich, warm brown wool, soft as a cloud, and knit it with slightly dropped shoulders and a generous fit that would hug his midsection without clinging too much. When he pulled it on over his head, the fabric settled against him like it was made for him- well, because it was, but seeing it fit him like this really made it clear. He looked down at himself in awe, running his large hands over the sleeves, the chest and the hem, tracing the pattern you had made with darker wool.

"That's a nice sweater" he nodded to you with a smile, his whole face scrunching up when he did it. Oh he looked so cuddly and warm, it made your heart ache in your chest, and all you wanted was to sink into his arms because it looked like the most cozy place in the universe "I'm glad you like it."

He wore it everywhere. He wouldn't take it off for days on end, he slept in it just to smell the scent of your shop, and he wouldn’t leave the house if he had to wash the garment. It became his comfort sweater, much like his little blanket was a great comfort to him. The combination of wearing both was unmatched. After Karin told him, very nicely, that he might want to look for other sweaters to wear, as the town surely thought he wasn't washing his clothes, he decided to have you make more.

But Lars being Lars, he purposefully ripped or cut some of his older clothes so you could fix them, claiming he had snagged them somewhere or that Gus' cat got them, a cat which Gus didn't have, but you didn’t have to know about that, just so he didn't directly have to tell you he wanted another sweater.

It quickly became obvious he searched for excuses to see you, waiting for you to suggest another handmade sweater of yours for him. He would feel less of a burden if you got the idea of making a second sweater for him instead of him specifically asking for one. You were surely busy, with you being the only seamstress in town.

Oh, he could never be a burden

So soon you made him another, and another. He quickly became a regular, sometimes just dropping by to say hello, to sit on your couch and watch you work while you talked about anything and nothing. It was mostly just you two, and you enjoyed the company greatly, rather than listening to the radio all day just so you wouldn't feel all alone. You learned a lot about each other, you about his family and what he did for work- him about where you were from and how long you've been sewing.

Conversation flowed fairily easy with Lars, something you hadn't expected, but when he was comfortable enough, he could be quite the chatterer.

He became the highlight of your day. He'd bringt drinks and snacks to your shop after work, knowing you often forgot to take breaks and eat when you were hands deep in a project, especially when you had procastinated it for a while and it had to be finished in a few days. In those times, he always made sure to pull you out of it for a moment, have you take a breather to clear your head before you continued.

One day he even let you take pictures of him modelling your early spring collection, his face visible from his mustache down and ending at his thighs to showcase the longsleeves, hoodies, jacket and sweaters you made for your storefront window. It was perfect, and you could have kissed him right there, even though he would argue he looked silly or you should have hired a professional. Which was bullshit, you liked it like this, having him in your shop even though he wasn't there, and while he wouldn't admit it- Lars felt honored and...proud that you wanted him out of all people to model for you.

Everything was going well, your relationship, whatever this was, blooming between you like the flowers in early spring breaking through the thick snow blankets.

Then Mark came in.

He often did, he was one of your regulars as well, just usually not when Lars was there.

Mark was a very successful lawyer. He was tall and clean shaven, his hair slicked back to perfection, pearly white veneers glinting when he'd smile, and his lean but toned body clad in expensive and hand tailored suits- which is the reason why he was here. He needed a new one for a case abroad, pinstriped and fitted at the waist with shoulder paddings.

He always tipped well and complimented your work, and you liked him well enough as a customer. Back then, he was in your class in high school, the guy who had every girl wrapped around his finger. Well, except for you. When he noticed that, he desperately tried to make you change your mind, even though you were sure he didn't even want you that way, like at all. He just wanted to reassure himself that no woman was able to withstand his charm.

Maybe he was still bitter about the fact that he never managed to get you into bed with him, which was why he still sought you out, even in this small wisconsin town. But how could you care if you made about 2500$ plus a fat tip whenever he visited?

Lars came from your office in the back where he had managed your emails like he did at work, just one of the ways he tried to make up for all the cheap or free of charge clothes you had made him the past months.

So when he saw you kneeling in front of a random mans crotch, pinning his trouser hem, he turned into a statue. His jaw was tight as he watched you. He knew the things you had to do for your job, but seeing this guy all arrogant and smug while practically shoving his crotch into your face made him feel sick to the stomach.

Marks gaze landed on a dumbfounded Lars then, his carved brows furrowing "Didn't know you had a little helper around here" he nearly growled, staring Lars down as if he was his sworn enemy.

You jumped softly, standing up straight again, your cheeks flushed that Lars had found you in such a compromising position. "Mark" you said, clearing your throat "This is Lars. He helps me out sometimes" you explained, then gestured over to Mark, looking at Lars with a forced smile "Lars, this is Mark. He is a lawyer and often comes to me for custom suits"

Mark extended a hand. "What a pleasure to meet you...Lars" he smirked, his voice carrying a hint of disgust as he said Lars' name.

Lars puffed out his chest, squaring his shoulders and his chin held high. He reached forward to shake Marks hand with a strength that made the lawyer flinch in surpise. The touch burned Lars more than usual, probably matching the anger brewing in his chest, but he held Marks intense gaze as if trying to assert dominance and impress you, even if it meant pain.

Your mouth was agape at Lars' behavior, especially knowing how agonizing touch could be for him. Yet he shook hands with Mark, as if he was jealous. No, Lars wasn't jealous, was he? Sometimes stirred in your gut, your thighs pressing together.

Mark cleared his throat, his ego clearly bruised as he wiped his hands on his dress shirt. "You know, you could use a suit, buddy. A sweater isn't exactly...classy" Mark chuckled, eyeing Lars up and down, to which Lars faux confident facade finally broke. He blinked harshly and brushed past you to get his jacket. "Lars-" you started and reached for him, but he had already put on his jacket, not throwing you another glance in fear to see your disappointment of him tucking his tail between his legs.

With a pressed out "I have to go" he was gone.

You were sure he'd return tomorrow. He always did, right? Your chest felt heavy throughout the whole fitting with Mark, your thoughts drifting back to Lars- so much so you sometimes accidentally pricked Mark with a bobby pin as you secured a hem for later stitching.

Lars didn't come back for two weeks.

You waited until you couldn't anymore, closing down your shop way too early today to drive to his house and check up on him.

The afternoon was gray, threatening snow, and you stood on his porch, if you could even call it that, knocking on the flimsy garage door until your knuckles ached. The curtain twitched at the window next to the door before it creaked open, as if he had watched you while you knocked desperately in hopes you'd leave, before realising you weren't going to give up, so it was only fair to answer the door.

"What do you want?" he asked you through a small crack in the door, his eyes tired and red rimmed.

"I want to talk" you urged "Please"

It took him a few moments, gently sniffling and blinking hard, before he looked down at his feet with a nod and let you push open the door further to let yourself in.

His little garage house was neat but sparse. He had a bed in the corner, a little desk, a small kitchenette and an adjacent room with a toilet and shower. He had the baby blue scarf around his neck as if to comfort himself by smelling it. "You've been avoiding me" you said, crossing your arms over his chest.

Lars huffed "No I haven't", the apples of his cheeks puffing out softly.

You cocked a brow "Lars. I'm not stupid." you pressed on impatiently, your gaze so intense it made Lars feel bare and laid out before you, even though he was wearing so many layers. He suddenly got the strong urge to go outside and chop wood.

He turned away so he wouldn't have to endure your stare "Shouldn’t you be with Mark? He probably needs your help or wants to look at you like you're a work of art and..." and you are one, he wanted to add, but didn't. Instead he shut his eyes tightly as if waiting for a painful blow.

Your eyes grew wide in shock "He looks at me like I'm something he can buy with money! He can fuck off with his stupid suit requests and his money if it means you'll come back to me" you said, your voice cracking.

"You don't really care about me, no one does. You just feel sorry for me, that's all. But I don't want that" it surprised even him that his voice didn't wobble when he said it, and now it hung heavy in the air between you. The words stung. You stepped closer, grabbed his arm and forced him to face you as he tried to put on his winter jacket.

He winced, and you let go, guilt settling in your chest "I care about you, Lars." you said, your voice tender "I care so much it's stupid. I thought I scared you off, but no, you're just jealous and too proud to admit it."

His eyes were wet as he looked at you one last time before stepping to the door, reaching for his navy blue beanie "I'm not jealous." he muttered timidly. "I'm going to chop wood" he breathed out, ready to take his keys and leave.

"You are."

Your stern tone made him stop in his tracks, his back turned to you. "You're jealous of Mark because you think he's got me wrapped around his fingers because he's rich and handsome to most people." you continued, watching him lower his head in shame. You hit the nail right on the head.

"You're jealous because he talks to me easily and isn't afraid to be bold. You think that's what I want, but it isn't" your voice became quieter and quieter the more you talked, until the soft quaking of his shoulders silenced you.

You stepped closer, impossibly slow, inching your hands over his sides and locking together over the front, cuddling him to you from behind. It felt warm, having your arms around him. No pain, just warmth and comfort.

"I don't want him, Lars. I want you. I want shy, sweet, mustache-having and sweater-wearing you." you whispered against his back, the fabric muffling your voice. A pathetic sob escaped him then, and he pressed his palm over his mouth, leaning ever so slightly back against you. "I don't know how to- to..." he muttered, but he choked on his own cries, burying his face in his hands.

"I know, I know, it's okay" you cooed, turning him around in your arms to cup his cheek, featherlight at first, before he leaned into your hand like a cat "We'll figure it out together, I promise" you kissed him then, and he returned the gesture, clumsy and wet, his mustache tickling your upper lip. It was hesitant, but it made both of your hearts soar in your chests.

The kiss deepened, and his hands came up to frame your face, trembling against your cheeks. You felt the warmth of him through the sweater, the slight give of his soft belly against yours as you hugged him closer by the waist. He smelled so good, like wood and freshly cut grass.

"Can we-?" he started as you pulled back for a breather, his voice rough, and you kissed the question right off his lips with a smile "Yes. If you want."

"I do" He breathed the words into your mouth. "I want you. I've wanted you e-ever since you..you made me that sweater" one of which he was wearing in the moment, while he was deeply embarassed of having confessed to you that he had dreamed of this happening after meeting you just a couple of times.

You pulled him over a few steps to his neatly made bed, and gently pushed him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"I want to see you" you said, and after he nodded timidly, you pulled his sweater and long sleeve shirt over his head. Underneath, he was pale, soft around the middle, with a light dusting of hair across his chest and a trail going from his slight pudgy tummy into his underwear. You licked your lips at the sight. He watched you with wide eyes, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

"You're so pretty" you murmured as you admired the beautiful flush that spread down his chest, and he shook his head, avoiding your eyes "I'm not." he denied your praise, though it certainly made something move in his soft grey pants.

"You are" you said and traced the line of his collarbone, to which he shivered, goosebumps appearing on his arms. And now that you could take a closer look at him, you noticed how defined the muscles in his arms actually were, probably from all the wood chopping he was doing. You wanted to moan as your hands slid over his broad shoulders down his strong arms, but you held yourself back "Now lie back for me, baby"

He did, and you took your time with him. You undressed him slowly, your hands gentle over his thighs and his hips as you pulled his pants away. For every garment you took off him, he was allowed to take one from you as well.

When you pulled his boxers down, his cock sprang free. He was thick and long, heavy against his belly. He was only half hard but already so fucking big, and the sight of it made your mouth water. "Oh Lars" you breathed, your pussy gushing into your already wet panties and you squirmed.

"Is something wrong?" His voice was high, worried that he might have scared you off, that you didn't find him attractive, that you realised how uncomfortable he made you, that you thought-

"No. Nothing's wrong. You're just...big. Really big." you couldn't help but whine when he throbbed, biting your lip and digging your nails into your thigh to stop yourself from touching his slick, pink tip.

He flushed deeply, scooting away from you against the headboard "I don't- I didn't know- is that bad?"

You quickly shook your head to sooth him "No" you said with a smile, and you leaned down to kiss the head of his cock, a wet smack following your lips. He gasped, his hand flying up to cover his face, his hips jerking up against your mouth. "Trust me, it's perfect. I love myself a challenge" you winked, leaning back to take your own undershirt and bra off for him to see you bare. He peeked through his fingers and his breath hitched. "You're so pretty" he echoed, and you laughed softly.

You crawled over his strong legs, your tits jiggling between your arms, hypnotizing the poor man "We're a matched set then." you purred before straddling his hips, shrugged off your panties with his help, while his ears were starting to turn a burning shade of red.

Your wet cunt was now hovering over his shaft, which was fully hard now, the tip rosy and leaking. You took him in your hand, guiding him to your entrance, and the first nudge of that thick head against your folds made you both moan. "Ready?" you asked him breathlessly, sliding the tip back and forth along your wet folds.

He nodded with a cute whimper, his eyes squeezing shut. "I'm scared."

You cooed gently, brushing your thumb over the tender skin under his eyes "You don't have to be scared, I've got you. Just breathe with me, okay?" you lowered yourself an inch at a time. He was so thick that it stretched you, a deep, aching pressure that made your vision blur, bordering on pain, but you pushed through. His hands flew to your hips, gripping you tightly "Oh my god" he whimpered. "S-shit, you're so- I can feel-" he started to gasp between words and you had to put your hands on his face to calm him "Shh. I know. It's okay." you whispered, your voice cracking into a groan as you finally sank all the way down, his balls pressed against your ass, his cock buried as deep inside you as it could go, the tip nudging your cervix. He was trembling, his chest heaving, and when you looked down at his face, his eyes were wet with tears.

Your brows furrowed in concern "Are you crying, baby? Do you want me to stop? Is it too much?" you asked, brushing the fat tears away that rolled over his plump cheeks "N-no it's just...it's too good" he whispered. "It's so good I can't stand it, I- I don't know what to do"

You smiled down st him and then started to move, slow rolls of your hips, and he let out a sound like a wounded animal. You leaned forward to kiss him, and he opened his mouth for you, his tongue shy as you wrapped and curled your own around it, moaning into his mouth, the sweet sounds making him tremble in your arms "You feel so good inside me" you whined against his lips, every thrust punching the air from your lungs "So fucking good."

He hugged you closer, hiding his face in your neck "Really?" he asked, his voice broken, his mustache tickling your sweaty skin. "Really. You fill me up so perfectly. I can feel every inch of you. You're going to make me cum, Lars" you panted into his ear and he sobbed, his hips starting to meet yours, a clumsy, desperate rhythm to make you feel even better and get you to that edge.

You rode him hard, your clit grinding against his pubic bone, the friction building a pressure low in your belly. His moans were high and broken, his hands gripping your waist so hard you'd have bruises by tomorrow.

"I'm gonna c-cum" he gasped, crying into your shoulder "I'm sorry, I can't hold it-" he hiccuped, the strong arms around you trembling as if he could will himself to hold off his orgasm even when your velvet like pussy was dragging over his cock like a dream. "Don't hold it, baby Cum for me. Fill me up." you whispered, the filthiness of it making him mewl, and when your fingers found his hair to pull- he was done for.

He cried out as he came, his body arching off the bed, his cock pulsing wildly inside you. Hot ropes of cum painted your walls, and the feeling of him flooding you, paired with your fingers over your clit, pushed you over the edge too. Your orgasm clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth, and he sobbed through the aftershocks.

You collapsed beside him with shaking legs, sweaty and breathless but more satisfied than you had been in a long time. The same for Lars, as he had usually let out his sexual frustration by chopping wood and more wood, until Karin had to physically force him inside for a break. As he laid there panting, a whole lot of weight just lifted off him, thanks to you.

He turned into your arms, burying his face in your neck, his tears wet on your skin. "I'm sorry" he mumbled, kissing your neck as an apology "I didn't last long."

"That's what the second round is for, maybe tomorrow" you said, brushing your fingers over his bare back, circling the moles there and he laughed wetly.

You laid together together for a while, just basking in the afterglow. He was warm, soft, his heart hammering against your palm as your fingers reached his chest. "I could make you a suit some day" you said idly. "A tweed suit, perhaps. Something with a glen check pattern and a matching vest" you sighed dreamily, imagining all the things you could make him as if he were your own personal mannequin. And you knew he'd look dazzling in everything.

While Lars had no idea what you envisioned through your words alone, he smiled at the idea "I don't want a suit. I want this" He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pulling you closer "I want to be your Lars in sweaters forever." he whispered, his nose nuzzling with yours.

You giggled at that, threading your hands through his hair "You're my Lars" you whispered back "In or out of sweaters."

He fell asleep in your arms, his mustache tickling your collarbone and with his hand splayed over your belly securily as if to make sure you wouldn't leave. You watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, and you thought about all the sweaters you would knit him, and the suits you would maybe convince him to try on in the future. You tried not to think about his bed being way too small for two people, but you made it work, and fell asleep with him cuddling like you were his favourite pillow.

You never wanted to miss this ever again.

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I was planning to post this yesterday night but i got home from vacation and I was so fucking tired i couldn't have pasted and edited it in tumblr for the life of me😭

@ken-dom @bleerggg I hope it's fine i'm tagging ya'll for my second Lars fic, hoping i did him justice again💔