lars my beloved

While it did take a while for Lars to get used to kissing, once he did - that was all he wanted to do with you. Little pecks turned to deep kisses, and quickly he opened up about the idea of making out with you. It was another night the two of you were together when Lars felt braver than usual. You were making out on the couch when he proposed you should take this to the bedroom.

You carefully took his clothes off in the process and was delighted when he agreed. It was until he was right on top of you, both of you fully naked, when he started having doubts.

“Gonna… put it in…” he breathed out, burying his face into your shoulder.

“Take your time,” you replied, fully meaning it too. You knew this wasn’t easy for Lars so you made sure to be as patient as possible.

He gently slipped inside you, stopping halfway in. This was quite overwhelming for him but he convinced himself he could do it. He bottomed out and let out a pained whimper that concerned you.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Yep,” he let out a short answer before trying to move. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain as he slowly thrusted in and out of you. He held his breath and bit his lips, thinking about how he needs to man up and do this for you, but he failed.

“I’m sorry,” Lars pulled out of you in one swift motion, tears rolling in his cheeks as he desperately tried to wipe them away while sitting on his calves.

You sat up, “Lars, baby, it’s okay,” you scooted closer to him. He was weeping into his hands, covering his face in shame.

“I can’t do it- I’m sorry,” his voice was muffled.

You held his forearms and gently moved them away, being greeted with Lars’ flushed face and wet eyes. The sight of him like that hurt you more than anything, “we can stop, don’t worry about it.”

“I want to- make you feel good,” he sniffled between phrases.

“I don’t mind kissing, I like it, we can keep doing that-“

“No,” Lars shook his head, “you deserve more than that.” He blinked hard and scratched the back of his head. “I can use… I can use my hands.” He said while staring at his knees.

You smiled at how devoted he was to pleasuring you, “there’s no need, seriously-“

“I want to use my hands.”

You paused. You tried to read his face to see if he truly meant it but it was hard to do so since he was still too shy to look at you. “We can do that, sure.”

“And maybe my…” he trailed off, his gaze now resting on your neck.

You hummed, showing him you’re still listening.

He sighed and nervously tapped his finger on his thigh. “My… mouth,” he mumbled, instantly regretting insinuating something so erotic.

You lifted his chin to meet his eyes, his eyelashes were still wet from previous tears. “Are you sure you want it?”

“Only if… you do too.”

You gently kissed him, “I do.” You spread your legs as Lars stared at your entrance, salivating at the sight and cursing himself for not being able to handle traditional sex. He feels as if he failed you as a partner and that you deserve better than this. His train of thought gets cut off by the sound of your soft voice.

“Need some help?”

Lars nodded, “I’ve never…”

“It’s okay,” you gently took his hand in yours and leaned on your other, “let me know if it’s too much.” You grabbed his middle finger and slowly let it make contact with your pussy. You were already wet from before and Lars didn’t know exactly how to feel about this new sensation.

You noticed his confused expression, “want to stop?”

“No,” he simply said, eyes glued to his hand. You guided his finger right to your entrance and gently shoved one inside. Suppressing a whimper, you looked at him, making sure he’s not uncomfortable.

“And then just… in and out,” you pulled his finger out, now slick and glistening, before shoving it in again.

“In and out,” he quietly repeated your words and actions. You bit your bottom lip, suddenly afraid that any sound you make might scare him away.

“You can add your ring finger too.”

Lars suddenly added another digit without warning, not thinking he should notify you about it since you’re the one instructing him and not the other way around. You quietly moaned in response, making Lars look up at you and halt his movements.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His cheeks burned bright pink, he was enjoying this more than he expected. “No, it’s okay, it’s… okay.” Was all he could mutter out before continuing to pump his fingers in and out of you again. “Am I doing this right?” He looked up at you with puppy eyes.

“You’re doing great, baby,” you smiled at him. His dick twitched at the praise, a sudden rush of lust making him more eager than before.

“Do I keep going like this?” He asked, hoping he could make you produce similar sounds.

“You can, mph, curl your fingers a little.”

Lars did as you said and you moaned in response. “What else?” He asked eagerly, suddenly being more interested in sex he’s ever been.

“Fuck,” you panted, “use your tongue.”

Lars thought that sounded lewd. He wanted to do it. Now.

He lowered himself to the floor, getting on his knees and facing your pussy, now getting a better look at what he’s been doing. He got dizzy from the sight. He’s not sure what’s come over him but he wanted to take out his fingers and devour you whole. He could hear the wet sounds coming from you every time he moved, making his mouth water. “How- how do I do that?” He said eagerly.

“Lick, right here,” you lied back and pointed right at your clit. Lars took a deep breath, not wanting to mess this up. He stuck his tongue out and gave you a hesitant lick, waiting for your reaction to know if he’s done a good job.

You felt his facial hair ticking your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “More, Lars,” you whined, he wasn’t using enough pressure.

Lars went back and kept repeating the same movement over and over again, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head when you moaned his name.

“Baby, go faster,” you whimpered and grabbed a handful of his hair, not too hard just in case.

Lars was happier than ever to oblige, especially since you’ve been making noises he wished he could hear forever. Speeding up his hands and tongue, you could feel your orgasm approaching.

“Fuck, you’re doing s-so good, Lars. Keep going,” you encouraged him, making him involuntarily whimper against you. He never thought in a million years he’d make someone feel so good and while the thought was getting him emotional, he pushed it aside- there are more important things to do right now and they involved making you cum. He adored seeing you from this angle, head thrown back as your chest rapidly moved up and down.

“Lars, I’m- I’m close, okay?” You made sure to ask, not knowing how he might react to anything further.

“Please,” he begged against you, hoping you understood his plea. Luckily for him you did and it was enough to push you over the edge. You took your hand off his head in fear of accidents pulling his hair and came while chanting his name in a manner he could only describe as heavenly. He kept making the same exact movements hoping you’d never stop but unfortunately for him orgasms can only last for so long. You eventually gently pushed his forehead away and he got the hint to detach from you.

“Oh my god,” you breathed heavily and stared at the ceiling. “You okay down there?”

Lars stood up to sit on the bed and locked eyes with you. You couldn’t register his response since you were distracted by his soaking moustache and chin. He looked gorgeous.

“Why did you- not that I’m complaining, but you… took your hand off…” he said and imitated your hand on his head with his own.

“Oh, I didn’t want to pull your hair or whatever, was scared I’d do it without noticing,” you giggled.

Lars blinked a couple times, “you should do that.”

“Pull your hair?” You chuckled but he looked serious. “I- wouldn’t that hurt you, baby?”

Every winter, the office holds a potluck. You consider yourself a home cook and take a lot of pride in the food you make, so you always go all-out. This year, you'd really outdone yourself, and you were very excited to see how the office took to what you'd made.

Amidst meandering about with your coworkers, you notice that Lars keeps sneaking extra helpings and slipping into the break room instead of socializing with everyone else. Eventually, after he doesn't come back for a while, you slip away yourself to hunt him down. It doesn't take you long to find him in the lounge on the other side of the building - fast asleep in a food coma. You choose not to disturb him, but you take note of how absolutely darling he is, snoozing away in the comfy chair with his hands clasped modestly over his middle.

A few days later, you offer him some of your lunch with the excuse that you've made too much. In actuality, though, you just found it precious how much he enjoyed your cooking and hoped to get that reaction again. He initially politely declines, but after a single "are you sure?" he folds immediately - you just make good food! If what you're offering is even half as good as what you brought to the potluck, it'll be the highlight of his day. Which, of course, it is.

Naturally, this devolves to you bringing him lunch every so often, then once a week, then a few times a week, until eventually you're bringing him a second lunch every day even though he's never stopped bringing his own. You'd even started spending some of your breaks together and getting used to each others' company. But after a few months of this, you start to notice him tugging at his shirt rather often and slouching a bit more, and he is very quick to put on a coat when standing... He's also been much more shy and quick to whisk himself away when talking to you, despite still never turning down a meal. Maybe he's worried that others will catch on to your role in his...change of appearance.

One day, you decide to risk it and head over to his desk, feeling a pang of guilt at his crestfallen face when he sees you've come empty-handed. However instead of offering him lunch, this time you invite him over for dinner. You'll be making the same dish that you'd made at the potluck, and you thought he may like to share it with you. You see him swallow his anxiety and try to contain himself, but the light in his eyes and the squeezing of his hands gives away his excitement, and he agrees.

At your place, it takes him a few minutes to start to relax around you. He normally does not spend time with company, ESPECIALLY in such an intimate setting, at another person's house while they make him dinner. You make sure to be a good host and bring him his plate, which becomes plates, and keep his drink topped off throughout the night. By the end of the evening you can clearly see him trying to hide how full he is, and the shirt-tugging has become incredibly obvious. Wearing a button-up was not the move for him today.

You tell him you'd baked some cookies for dessert, and his face goes through several emotions before he responds - excitement, thought, nausea, fear. He stands up quickly, grabbing his coat and making a point to hold it closely in front of him. He breathlessly thanks you for the meal and hurries out the door, leaving you puzzled and disappointed. Maybe he had caught on...? You hope that isn't the case. Your love language is food, and while it makes your heart flutter to see the effect you're having on him, it really just gives you joy to make him happy with what you already love doing - making food and sharing it with people you care about. You would hate for him to take this the wrong way without you being able to explain.

You spend the night worrying you've overstepped a boundary with him and dread him ignoring you at work the next day. But instead, to your delight, he stops by your desk rather than waiting for you to stop by his. Without so much as a greeting, he stammers a request to come over for dinner again.

And so you run it back - he comes over that night, a bit more relaxed off rip this time. You whip up something less extravagant but just as delicious. You notice he's chosen a sweater instead of a button up, rightfully so, and you realize you recognize the sweater - it used to be a staple in his rotation, but considering the way it hugs him now, you can see why he has seemingly retired it.

After dinner, you take a leap and invite him to the couch to watch TV. It's a Friday, after all, so there's no burden of work or church in the morning. You both can afford to spare the extra time for each other. His gaze lingers at the table for a moment, pursing his lips which disappear behind his mustache in that darling way they do. He squeezes his eyes shut before he looks back at you, and he mutters his agreement through a nervous smile.

He sits first, again hiding the effort it takes to stand and make his way to the couch. But before you follow suit, you remember that you still have leftover cookies from yesterday. You tentatively offer them again, hoping that he doesn't have the same puzzling reaction.

His eyes widen and his lips tighten again. He looks at the floor, then you, the floor, you, and he opens his mouth to speak seemingly before he had come up with what to say. So instead, he softly smiles and nods with a nervous laugh, if you could call it that. It was more of a sigh, a quick outlet of air in place of anything to say.

You can't hide your smile, so you quickly turn away and head for the kitchen, opening the tupperware of cookies that you'd put so much love into baking. You're overjoyed that you'll get the chance to share them with him after all. You take out half and arrange them carefully on one of your big fancy plates - it's a white serving plate with ruffled edges lined in green and gold, with a mint floral pattern branching out from the center. You only ever use it for special occasions, and this sure is one to you.

After taking a moment to breathe and compose yourself, you pad into the living room with the cookies and set them on the coffee table. You grab the remote and turn on the TV - a popular sitcom is on, easy watching, so you leave it on that channel. You start to sit before you realize -

"Oh my gosh, I haven't offered you anything to drink - would you like anything?"

He furrows his brow in thought for a moment and grips the edge of the couch, near his knees. He bites his lower lip before answering.

"Do you, uhm...do you have any milk?" He tilts his head earnestly.

A grin tugs at your cheeks until you truly can't hold it in. How absolutely precious he is. Milk and cookies. What could be more endearing? You tell him you'll be right back and grab him a glass.

You hand it to him, and he receives it with both hands and a quiet "thanks." You take your seat to the right of him, ensuring that you are on the complete opposite end of the couch. You were not about to push him more than you already were - Lars is not one for touch, and this is already the closest you've ever been to him. You settle in and tuck one knee to your chest, crossing the other underneath you. He looks at you, puzzled.

"Don't you want any?"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise - here you are, doting on him and giving him everything he wants; it didn't cross your mind that he might think about your wants, too. You start to respond and adjust yourself to get up, but he interrupts you.

"No. No, that's okay, I'll get it." He gently sets his glass down and gives you a soft, closed-lip smile - different than the one he normally gives. It's...warmer. Happier, you'd say.

He places his hands on his knees, and you smile to yourself, noticing the faintest huff of effort he gives when standing. You hear the fridge open, the jug of milk being placed on the counter, followed by some rummaging through your cupboards.

"The glasses are above the sink, to the right."

"Oh, okay." A pause in the rummaging, a cupboard opens and closes. You hear him pour the glass and return the jug before coming back to the living room.

Your cheeks flush when he walks back towards you, again holding a glass in both hands - your glass, your blue and green glass. The one you always drink from, the one you bought a second of just so you could keep it at work. He picked out your glass.

"Thank you, Lars," you blush, taking it from him with the same care he did you. He nods and smiles, bouncing slightly on his toes before stepping around the coffee table to sit with you again. You have to stop yourself from doing a double-take - he was absolutely sitting closer to you. You hold your breath, waiting for him to scoot away, but he doesn't. Instead, he just reaches out and takes one of the cookies. You do the same, mostly to keep yourself occupied so you don't stay frozen, unable to do anything but stare at him while your heart threatens to jump out of your chest.

He holds it in front of his face for a moment, and you hear him take a breath, as if working himself up to it. You think back to dinner - he had really enjoyed your cooking as always, so you can't help but chuckle to yourself knowing he probably is trying to find room for dessert that really isn't there.

You catch yourself staring, but luckily he doesn't. You turn to face the TV and start snacking on your cookie. Out of the corner of your eye you see him carefully take a bite out of his, and you keep your attention on your peripheral vision, anticipating his reaction.

"Mmm," you hear him hum his satisfaction. You feel the couch shift as he leans his back against the cushions, settling in and getting comfortable. You allow yourself to look back at him now, your heart full from seeing him happily taking small, consecutive bites out of his cookie. What you wouldn't give to wrap him in an embrace and shower him with affection! But no, it's important to you to go at his pace. You remind yourself where you came from and where you are: what started as an office acquaintanceship has evolved into a growing friendship, blossoming from your shared love of good food - the proof of which rests softly on his waistband. How could you even think of wanting for more right now?

The two of you sit for a while, absentmindedly chuckling to yourselves over the cheesy jokes on TV. You've already torn through three of your cookies and half your glass of milk while he's just about finished his first, his glass still full. You adjust your legs so you can lean forward and grab his cup for him, which he graciously takes.

"Oh, thank you," he says, gingerly placing his last bit of cookie in his mouth before taking a swig of milk with it. "These are really delicious," he adds.

"I'm really glad you like them," you reply, reaching for another cookie. But instead of taking it for yourself, you hand it to him.

He shakes his head. "Oh, no, thank you, I don't need anymore, thank you," he says quickly.

"Oh, alright," you go to take a bite of the cookie yourself.

"Wait-"

You stop with your mouth wide open before you can chomp down on it.

"I can maybe have one more, maybe."

You become overwhelmed by the warmth in your cheeks and butterflies in your stomach. With a grin probably too big to go unnoticed, you hand the cookie back to him and curl your legs back up into yourself. You realize you had naturally settled in so you were facing him more than the TV. He seemed so comfortable - you'd never seen him like this. He let his chin tuck to his chest and his body sunk into the couch. All the stiffness that he normally carried himself with was gone. You can see it in his cheeks, jaw, shoulders, hands - you had never noticed all of that tension he held in his body until now, now that you've seen him without it. It's unfortunate that he's still in work clothes. While the sweater is definitely better than the button up, his slacks almost certainly aren't the most comfortable thing he could be wearing while relaxing on the couch after a big meal on a Friday night.

"I think I'm going to change into some comfy clothes," you declare, and his gaze shifts from the TV to you, his mouth full of the tiniest fraction of a cookie. You pause awkwardly. "I...I might have some comfies that will fit you."

He swallows and looks at you without saying anything, but you can tell he's pondering.

"I just feel bad that you're in your day clothes," you add, breaking the silence.

His eyes move back to the TV for a moment and worries at the inside of his cheek in thought. Now that you've been so close to him for such an extended period of time, you've noticed that he does that a lot. Between sentences, while thinking, while listening...you find it so charming. It takes a moment, but he nods.

"That sounds nice."

You smile at him and rise from the couch again - you're starting to really get antsy to fully relax with him there - and head upstairs to your room. You pick out a pair of pajama pants and a sarcastic block-letter t-shirt for yourself, then rummage through your drawers for something for Lars. You look for the oversized brown sweatpants from the thrift store you know you have - you find them buried at the back of your bottom drawer - but you're not sure what top you can put him in. All of your shirts might be too small on him - now, anyway.

You peer your head around the top of the stairs so you can see him from the second floor. He's mid-reach for another cookie, but quickly pulls away when he notices you. "I don't think I have a shirt that will fit you," you relay, trying not to smile. "I'm sorry, Lars."

"Oh, that's okay," he assures. "I have my pink shirt under this." He pulls at the sleeve of his sweater, showing that he's wearing a pink, floral-pattern long undergarment.

You shrug and bring the sweats downstairs. Lars watches you expectantly as you approach and reaches out to take them from you. You hand them over, but both of you jump when your hands briefly touch in the exchange. He reels back a bit, gasping a small hiss of air, and shakes out his wrist. You clutch the sweatpants to your chest, instinctively trying to give him space by tucking your body into itself.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"No, no, it's okay." He stands up from the couch and steps towards you, shakes the rest of the adrenaline out of his hands, and takes the sweats from you carefully. He looks around behind you, towards the stairs, and points that way. "Is the bathroom up there?"

You nod, wide-eyed and unmoving, still cautious of startling him, and still surprised yourself - for a brief, electric moment, your hands touched. You felt guilty for your excitement about an event that clearly pained him. But, you mulled over it...he still moved closer to you, and he still reached for the sweats himself, albeit with obvious strain. You would have expected him to say "nevermind," or worse, end the night and go home. Neither of those things would have been out of character for him.

He must really want to be here. With you.

There's no way he didn't notice your dumb, awestruck face as he stepped past you and headed upstairs to the bathroom, but of course he didn't mention it. You huff and shake your head, trying to pull yourself back together, and make your way back to the couch. Once again, you tuck yourself up, hoping you won't have to get back up again.

A few minutes go by, and you mindlessly watch the TV, waiting for Lars to return. The episode was nearing its end by the time he did.

The familiar heat in your cheeks and stomach return as he emerges with his day clothes draped over his arm, now wearing your sweatpants and just his pink long underwear shirt. The fit of the shirt isn't egregious or anything, but...you can tell he's had it for longer than you've been friends with him. It takes every ounce of strength you have to peel your eyes away from him and place them squarely on the TV, lest you give yourself away.

He shuffles back to the couch and plops down in the same spot he was before - a twinge of sadness nags at you as you realize he hadn't sat any closer this time. He also doesn't lean back and make himself comfortable...in fact, the stiffness that you were so glad to see gone is back again. He slumps forward and clasps his hands in his lap, and you can just barely see the nervous tic playing at his mouth. You stay still and quiet, letting him choose when the silence breaks, if at all.

He takes in a breath of air and sits up straight, clearly prepping himself to say something. You tense, expecting him to announce his departure.

"Why, um..." he clears his throat. "Why do you make me food so much?"

Shit.

Well, this is what you wanted, isn't it? A chance to explain rather than let him get the wrong idea?

"Ah," you start, "well..."

He looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze unwavering, awaiting your response.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, trying to retreat so far into yourself in hopes that the couch will swallow you whole. "I uh...I just really like to cook," you explain cautiously, forcing a nervous laugh, "and it's how I show..." -oh God, how do you put this?- "...that I care."

You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Innocuous enough.

His eyes flick to the other side of the room, and time crawls to a halt while you watch the gears turn in his head. It takes him a while to respond.

"I don't see you make food for other people, though." He passes the conversation back to you. Man, you are really in the hot seat right now.

What are you supposed to do with this? You can either play it off that he's not special, it's no big deal, you'd do it for anybody, but that would be shitty and not true. But the only other alternative would be to come clean - that you're completely smitten with him, that you have been for months, that it gives you immense joy to see him enjoying the food you make and the softness it adds to him, physically and emotionally. That all you want to do right now is scoot three feet to your left and touch him, in any way, any way at all, to give some kind of relief to this yearning that's been building in your chest since the day you met him.

He's still waiting for a response.

You let out a heavy sigh through your nose and lift your face to the ceiling. "Alright," you huff, dropping your head and meeting his gaze. "I really..." -you blow out another puff of air- "...really like you, Lars. Specifically. And I have for a long time." You bite the inside of your cheek, which is painfully hot at the moment.

He hasn't moved. Was he listening?

Anything is better than this silence, so you continue. "And it...makes me really happy when you like what I make for you. Ever since the potluck, I--"

His eyebrows raise.

Oh fuck. He doesn't know I noticed him at the potluck. He doesn't know I found him in the lounge. He doesn't know why I started it all. Oh no. Oh, no no no.

You bury your face in your hands. You can't bear to look at him, but there's no way out of this. You spill. You spill it all. The potluck, the lounge, you never did make too much lunch, you just wanted to make things for him, you wanted a reason to be around him. But the floodgates are open now, tears start to soak your cheeks behind your hands and you don't stop there. The truth just pours out of you. You noticed him getting softer, and you thought he was so beautiful, and you just couldn't stop yourself because...

"Because I love you!"

Fucking hell.

The silence that trails your confession lingers in the air so thick, it's hard to breathe.

You don't move your hands. You don't say another word. The only sound that escapes you is the occasional stifled sob out of pure humiliation and guilt. It all hits you like a truck - just because he liked your food didn't mean that he liked what you were doing to him, even if it was just a natural consequence of him accepting what you offered. What if you thought you were making him happy, but you were hurting him instead? You feel disgusted, nauseous, selfish...

"That's okay."

You peek through your fingers and watch him sink back into the couch. He clasps his hands over his stomach in that familiar way he did in the lounge - what is this? Where's the tension? Where's the anger? The betrayal? Surely you must be misreading his body language. You certainly weren't expecting an "I love you" back, but you were expecting something.

"That's okay...?" you whisper, sniffling through the tears.

He takes a breath in. "Oh, yeah. It's fine, I'm fine," he says. He looks down at the coffee table, still sporting two cookies. He seems to ponder them for a moment before leaning forward and grabbing them both, offering one to you and taking a bite out of the other. "You're okay."

You cautiously lower one hand from your face and wipe the wetness on your sweats. You allow yourself a strained smile and take the cookie from his hand...but he doesn't let go right away. Several seconds pass with both of you holding the cookie, in the most intimate - albeit painfully awkward - moment you've shared thus far. He's looking at your hands intently, clearly pondering when to let go, and finally, he does. He takes his time finishing his last cookie, watching for you to finish yours. And you do. He hands you your blue and green glass of milk to finish it off before leaning back again, assuming that same comfortable position he was in before.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner," you tell him. "I didn't think about it. I thought I was making you happy so I just kept rolling with it, but maybe it was just me."

He knits his brow and shakes his head slowly, purposefully.

"No," he says, more sure than any answer he'd ever given you before.

You let your other hand fall away from your face.

"I was happy. I am happy. I'm happy I made you happy," he says carefully. "And clothes are just clothes," he finishes, picking at the hem of his shirt. Lightning struck through your body when the action revealed a sliver of skin above his waistband, and you pretend not to notice the perfect happy trail he's sporting on his soft lower belly.

"Are you sure?" you ask while allowing your body to unfurl a bit, no longer desperately trying to disappear into yourself.

"Oh, yeah," he assures again. "You didn't ask me to come over today...I asked."

A small, involuntary laugh escapes you in relief. Your meltdown, your confession, your months-long escapade in loving him enough to make there be more of him...it was all okay. Not just because he told you so, but you can see it. For the first time since your spiral, you allow yourself to really look at him - his face is gentle, his eyes are kind, his smile is earnest and warm. It almost seems like he's happy to see you again after you'd been hiding behind your hands for however long.

The two of you sit in silence for some time. The stillness melts away as he closes his eyes and draws in a breath without letting it go. Slowly, timidly, with the slightest tremble, you watch as his hand slides across the couch towards you. It stops just inches away from yours, still folded between your knees.

You stare at it, dumbfounded. There's no way.

You look at his face, completely still, then back to his hand, still waiting patiently beside you. Your breath catches in your throat as you reach in return, lest he pass out from holding his for too long.

The moment your skin touches his, he flinches, but slowly lets out the air he's been holding. Controlled, regulated. Practiced. You let your fingers gently rest on top of his, not daring to do any more. As you are now, your body is on fire, heat radiating from your fingertips and flooding your entire nervous system. You couldn't move even if you wanted to.

He, however, apparently can. He turns his palm up under your hand and curls his fingers to interlock with yours. You follow his lead, reciprocating his movements, as he gently begins to pull. You tilt your head in confusion and look into his face, searching for answers.

His gaze is fixed on your hands, his breathing slow and deep. He continues to pull, slowly enough that you have plenty of time to process what's happening - he's trying to bring you closer. You feel your heart rate skyrocket and try to wrap your head around this, but it's not happening - all you can do is continue to follow his lead. Your arm is fully extended now and he's still pulling, so you scoot closer...and closer...

You're face to face now, and you can feel his breath on your lips. Every siren and cylinder in your body is firing at full capacity, but you maintain your composure, starkly aware of the intense regulation that Lars is maintaining to do this. He trades which hand is holding yours as the one had pulled you as far as it could. You watch his face, waiting for a flash of panic or regret, but it doesn't come.

He has your hand hovering over his body now, and you feel his breathing deepen further. Time slows as he changes the direction he moves your hand - he's not pulling you anymore. Your eyes fly open and dart to your hands as he presses your palm into the soft warmth of his midsection.

Now, you're the one holding your breath.

Desperately, you fight the urge to trace your way to the hem of his shirt, which you fiercely want to remove. You let him guide your hand completely, mesmerized by every supple millimeter he allows you to explore. The fire in your body concentrates somewhere you dare not pay attention to.

You swallow hard and shift your focus back to his face, which to your horror, had been observing you the whole time. Your reaction to finally getting to touch the plushness of his body that you were fully responsible for was on full display.

You start to say something to absolve yourself, but faster than you can think, he sucks in a breath as if about to dive underwater - suddenly, his lips press against yours. Fireworks set off from every nerve in your body, and your hand instinctively grips into the soft flesh with which he'd so generously gifted you contact. He doesn't push you away. His lips, the victims of so many of his nervous tics, are yours now, and you kiss them with all the love they had gone without. They're gentle, unsure, and more still than any normal kiss you've had before, so you take the liberty to allow yours to slowly guide them into movement. You're painfully aware of that concentrated warmth you've been trying to ignore, and chills wash over you as you wonder if he's experiencing the same.

Amidst the swirling in your mind, flooded with combinations of chemicals you've never experienced, you can only make out a single, half-formed thought that flickers by.

“I want to try to…” he wrung his hands together as you put away the dishes he cleaned. You turned your head towards him, hand still outstretched as the plates clinked with one another. You didn’t interrupt him, not wanting him to lose his thoughts.

“…Cuddle.” The word felt wrong on his lips. It’s something he’d never thought he’d want or even have the opportunity to try.

Seeing that little sparkle in your eyes come to life washed away most of the doubt that swallowed him whole. His cheeks rose and filled out as he smiled, eyes crinkling when you fully faced him.

You were obviously trying to hide your excitement. Lars learned you were pretty bad at that—you always gave it away with that smile that was just a smidge too wide to be just ‘happy’. With hands clasped behind your back, you took a small step towards him, bouncing slightly on the balls on your feet.

“When…when do you want to try?” You asked, rolling back onto your sock covered heels.

He swallows thickly. “Tonight.” His voice comes out more demanding than asking. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for a second, before looking back at you. “Only if you want.” He backtracks, thick fingers messing with the hem of his favorite sweater he wears around the house.

You nod enthusiastically, shifting your feet on the smooth wood of his ‘kitchen’. “I’d love to, Lars.”

You both decide to watch a movie before bed, with you sitting next to him, gently leaning on him. Lars leans into you, both of you keeping yourselves upright.

It started with a small yawn on your part. Then a big yawn from the large man beside you, and another yawn from you, which eventually lead to you both mutually deciding to end the movie early and retire to bed.

You followed Lars’ nightly routine with him. You brushed your teeth with the spare he bought for when you stayed over, shoulders occasionally brushing with little reaction on Lars’ part—more of recognition than anything distressing.

He gave you a pair of old shorts and one of his only short sleeve shirts (he knows you don’t like tight sleeves on your arms), and you dressed in the bathroom while he changed in his bedroom.

Stepping out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom, you peeked your head in the doorway, seeing Lars sitting oh so politely on his bed—back straight, hands clasped in his lap. A hand leaves his lap to give you a wave when he sees you in the doorway, and you can’t help but giggle and wave back, which makes Lars smile.

You sit down next to him, one leg tucked underneath your body on the mattress as the other dangles off the bed. “How do you want to do this?” You ask gently, watching as Lars’ gaze flickers from you to the mattress beneath him.

“Well,” Lars starts, tongue messing with the inside of his bottom lip before he catches it with his teeth. He’s nervous. “I don’t, I don’t really know.” He admits softly. He braces himself for a sudden rejection, a ‘nevermind, I don’t want to do this’ that never comes.

Instead, you offer an idea.

“Do you want to just lay down and…go for it?” You shift further back on the twin sized bed, and Lars shifts with you absentmindedly.

You watch Lars debate with himself in real time. You can see when he’s weighing the action with the outcome, and when a bad outcome creeps into his mind—but you also see the moment when he manages to put it all aside, and lays down on the right side of his mattress with enough room for you on the other.

“I’m ready.” His voice is soft, laced with a hint of sleep that you don’t catch in your own drowsy state. You slowly nod in confirmation, lowering yourself down to rest your head on his pillow.

Your faces are probably closer than they’ve ever been before, but Lars doesn’t seem uncomfortable—nervous, yes. He closes his eyes, drinking in the moment, and you realize that this might be what he meant by cuddling. You’re fine with that, and you two are decently closer than you normally are on the couch—

Big paws suddenly find their way onto your shoulders, settling before they curl around your body. The left snakes its way behind your neck and comes up to cradle your head, his arm shielding around you. His right wiggles its way underneath your side that you’re laying on—at first it’s slightly awkward and uncomfy, but you soon melt into his embrace when his full arm comes to wrap around your middle.

Lars gaze is soft, currently fixated on the hand that’s cradling your head. You both lay together, a bit awkward in his arms as he’s technically holding you yet you’re still quite a distance away from being held against his chest.

Lars soon tugs you closer, and you make a small noise that causes him to check on you.

“I’m okay, Lars.” You whisper, and Lars sighs in relief.

He tugs you closer a little bit more. A little more. A little more, until you're completely flush with his chest, your head tucked under his chin. You sigh against the soft fabric of his shirt, curling your arms close to your chest as he holds you close.

“Is it okay?” You mumble, a small yawn wracking through your frame.

You feel his head bob up and down slowly, the movement weighed down by sleep. You hear a small sniffle from above.

“Mhm.” He presses his nose to your hair. “No. No, it’s great.” He corrects himself, his gentle voice breaking on the last word. You feel a tear fall into your hair, and you nuzzle closer. You’ve learned that Lars just needs to feel things sometimes, and let him regulate himself.

“Very great,” you press a soft kiss to the fabric covering his heart. Lars holds you tighter, and you a small, content sound that Lars mistakes for discomfort. He loosens immediately, looking down at you with a stray tear down his face.

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He worries about his bottom lip between his teeth, and you can’t help but smile at his concern. You shake your head.

“No, no. Good noise,” you murmur, your sleepy voice barely making a sound. “I like it when you held me tight. Made me feel safe.” You watch as his worried frown morphed into a dopey smile, pulling you back to his chest.

He tightened his grip on you, whispering into your hair. “Is this okay?” When you nod, he finally closes his eyes.

Lars never thought he’d be able to hold hands with someone, let alone cuddle—but you have proved him wrong, and he hopes you continue to.