#tw lemon

You did not see him, at first. You were looking for black hair; he was wearing a green beanie and a mask and a sweater. When he first approached you, moving usually fast, your first reaction had been to move out of his way before he grabbed your arm and started pulling you along. The first word out of his mouth was, “Walk.”

You looked back at the terminal, expecting someone to be following him. There was not. You followed. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” His grip tightened as the two of you began to walk closer in step. His voice was noticeably fragile. “Nothing. Just keep walking.”

You did. Taking the lead, the two of you made your way to the car.

He pulled off his mask as he sat down, face red. He shook out his hair, sniffed, rubbed his nose, stared down at his lap.

You did not start the car.

He folded his legs on the seat, wrapping his hands around his ankles. “How have you been?”

You glanced at him, almost nervous to look at him for too long. “Fine.” You leaned back in your seat as a car drove by. “What’s with the getup?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s warm out and you’re in a sweater and a beanie.”

He sniffed again. “It’s a style.”

“It’s a getup.”

He looked out the window. “It’s comfortable.”

You took the neckline of the sweater, gently tugging him towards you. He did not resist, head leaning against your shoulder as you pulled him into a one-armed hug. “You were crying. Why were you crying?”

He wrapped his arms around your neck, shifting so that he was leaning over the center console. “It’s nothing.” His voice was soft. “I promise, it’s nothing.”

He lied to you a lot. He was not particularly good at it, but he sure did try.

You leaned away from him, running your fingers through his hair—greasy—so it would go back to where it normally sat. “You don’t have to tell me right now.” You kissed him on the forehead, settling back into your seat. “Just know that if you need to, I’m here, alright?”

He folded his legs again, nodded. “I will.” He sniffed one last time, exhaled sharply, and looked back at you. “How have you been?”

“Same as always.” You started out of your spot. “My friends are starting to think you aren’t real, though.”

He snickered. “What a horrible thing to do, lie to your friends. How could you?”

“It’s hard to look at myself in the morning,” you sighed dramatically. “But we can’t all be saints, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately.”

This sort of menial conversation went on for quite some time as the two of you caught back up to speed. He was oddly closed-lipped about it this time around. It was not atypical for him to skimp out on details regarding his work, but he usually at least told you the basics: the type of climate in which he was staying, how his room was, whether the food was any good, how Watari was doing. This was not for lack of interest; you tried to ask him at least enough so you could form a mental image of what he might have been up to, but whenever you asked his answers were frustratingly vague; what little you could tell is that his room was hot and the internet was spotty, which did not narrow where he was down.

The two of you got home. He dropped his bag by the door, and before you even had the chance to properly step inside, he was on you, arms wrapped around your waist and face in the crook of your neck.

You did not say anything, kicking the door closed and stroking his head. “What, miss me?”

He nodded silently, grip around you tightening.

“I made cake.” You nodded at the kitchen. “You want cake?”

He nodded again.

“The cake is in the kitchen,” you stressed. “Which means we need to walk to the kitchen.”

He let out a quiet groan.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s five steps, you big baby. You can do it.”

He did not move.

You sighed in inflated exasperation. “I can’t carry you, you know; you’re too heavy.”

“I love you.” His fingers gripped the back of your shirt, voice muffled. “I love you more than cake.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “You do?”

He nodded. “I do. You’re warm.”

“You’re weird.” You furrowed your brow. “Are you sick or something?”

“No.” You felt him smile. “You might be, though; you feel like you have a fever.”

Your voice raised. “You be quiet.” You huffed. “And here I was, making a cake in the early morning like a psychopath for you. You suck.”

“Not yet I don’t.”

“Shut up or I go without you.”

Reluctantly, he pulled away letting you actually enter the apartment before locking the door. “You’re very cold today.” He wrapped his arms around your arm, offering you more mobility.

“I’m not.” You headed to the kitchen. “You’re just weirdly touchy. When was the last time you slept?”

He considered it. “A week ago.”

You took a knife from a drawer. “And the last time you had real food?”

“A month ago.” He rubbed the side of his calf with his foot. “I had a stick of beef jerky and a bag of spicy chips to give myself a break as you told me.”

You put the knife back. “Alright, here’s the game plan: we’re gonna get you fed and watered and we’ll just turn in early. Deal?”

He scratched the back of his head, eyes unfocused. “I won’t sleep.”

“Bullshit.” You smiled, proud of yourself for knowing. “You only last a week at a time maximum; you’ll collapse any minute now.”

“I won’t,” he repeated calmly. “I haven’t slept properly for six weeks.”

Your stomach dropped. “Why?”

He sighed, reaching with one hand for the refrigerator. “Lots of reasons.” He pulled out a container, looked it over, put it back. “I dislike sleep at the best of times; I actively avoid it, as a matter of fact.”

You closed your eyes, reminding yourself that, despite all facts suggesting the contrary, your boyfriend was an adult capable of making his own decisions about his health and that you had no right to yell at him about he chose to live his life. You took a deep breath. “Why do you dislike sleep?”

He paused. “I’m not sure how to explain.” He was not typically this picky with what he ate; he seemed to be looking for something specific. “I am what you might call a somniphobe.”

You were unsure that was a real word. “Why would you fear sleep?”

“A lack of awareness of my surroundings, sleep paralysis, dying in my sleep, nightmares.” He set his desired container on the counter: a container of something you had made a few nights ago. “Mostly just nightmares; unfortunately, I have a good memory, so my dreams are vivid.”

“Fun.”

“That’s certainly an adjective.” He stuck the container in the microwave. “So, for about twenty-five hours at a time every week or so— that is to say, when I am forced to sleep— I am in hell. While typically I can stand sleep, because of work-related matters, my night terrors have gotten worse, so sleep has become unbearable, and because sleep is unbearable, I don’t sleep.”

“So you’re just in a great head space.”

He smiled tiredly. “In all fairness, I doubt sleeping in the same position as I work helps.”

“Probably not,” you agreed. “As someone he cares about you, this is incredibly troubling, for the record.”

“I can only imagine.”

You swallowed. “Have you tried exercising before you sleep?”

He let go of you to grab his food. “Let me put it to you this way.” He grabbed a fork. “Remember how I picked you up at the fair the one time?”

You nodded.

He took a bite, speaking behind his hand. “My job is almost entirely sedentary. The reason I am as strong as I am is that I have taught myself various martial arts in my spare time.” He swallowed. “Tasers are typically more effective than martial arts in close quarter situations and I certainly don’t need to know more than one form. Before I met you—even during our relationship, while you were asleep—if I had any energy in my body after work, I tried working it out of me. Still, I had night terrors.” He took another bite. “I have tried just about every medication on the market and then some; they also have not helped with night terrors. I have, over the years, bought enough therapeutic tea to last the rest of my life, and even then, I can’t fall asleep comfortably. I doubt there is anything that I could feasibly do apart from physically knock myself out to avoid it.” He shrugged at your horrified expression. “It’s unfortunate, but it’s an inevitability; it’s not something to worry about.”

You laughed incredulously. “Oh, I think it should be.” You rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms. “For fuck’s sake—how long was it gonna take for you to tell me?”

“I wasn’t planning on telling you at all.” He was going through the container fast. “I was planning on abandoning the possibility of sleeping peacefully until I die.”

You took another deep breath. “Love,” you sighed, lips twitching into a smile, “I hope you know that some of the things you say take years off my life.”

“Hence my not wanting to tell you.” He swallowed his last bite of food, setting the container on the counter. “Again, it’s not anything to concern yourself about; unless you have a suggestion for a more effective way to force my body asleep, there’s no use worrying about things you can’t change.”

“I—” You paused, a thought occurring. It was a stupid idea. You knew it was a stupid idea when you thought of it; you sincerely doubted he had not tried it. Still, you considered it an option worth considering if nothing else was working.

He grabbed your arm again, pulling himself to your side. “Please, don’t worry about it.” He kissed your shoulder.

Your hands dropped to your side, face warming. “I have a theory.”

“Hm?”

You looked down at your feet. “The things you just listed—exercise, candles, drugs—is it possible they don’t work because you’re actively thinking about sleep?”

He chewed at his fingernails absentmindedly. “Elaborate.”

“Well,” you continued, “typically it’s harder to sleep when you’re thinking about sleeping. Sleep isn’t an activity; sleep is a state of relaxation your body reaches. It’s why people who are stressed all the time have hard times sleeping, because they are actively thinking about things, including sleep, which keeps them from reaching that state.”

“Sure.” He wiped his hand on his pants.

“Well, you think a lot.”

“Astute observation.”

You ignored him. “If you’re thinking a lot and doing a lot of things to compare methods to get yourself to sleep, you’re going to have a hard time sleeping, since instead of relaxing yourself, you’re making it work.” You twisted a bit of hair around your finger. “So, if we wanted to find a way to make sleep easier for you, it would make sense that the solution would be to find an activity that forces you to release a lot of energy while actively taking your mind off of sleep, something that necessitates being present and not thinking about much else.”

“Such as?”

You cleared your throat, shifting a bit on the spot. “Well,” your voice lowered, “sex would probably work.”

He did not respond.

“Love?”

Still nothing.

You waved a hand in front of his face, trying your best to play this cool. “Love?”

“Hm?” He looked over at you, blinking as if he had been broken out of a trance. “Sorry; lost in thought.” He took a step away from you, face growing noticeably redder. “I don’t think I quite caught that last part; could you repeat yourself?”

You looked back down at your feet. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” You kicked the floor. “It’s just an idea. When I feel stressed or I can’t keep my head straight, I know masturbating usually helps, so I figured—you look like you’re going to pass out.”

He leaned against the counter as a novice roller-skater might the wall of the rink. “I don’t know what you are referring to.” He turned in your direction. “I—yebat, I…” He paused, took a breath. “I just… I believe this is the first time I have been propositioned for sex.” He laughed, anxious. “You know, when you see other people do it— handle these sorts of situations, I mean—you think that those who do not act particularly gracefully are just generally obtuse. This is likely due to the tendency of audiences to respect and flock towards men who are suave as opposed to those who are not. Unfortunately, it appears that I belong to the latter camp.”

You grabbed his discarded container, disposing of it properly. “You don’t have to agree, you know.” You were sure your attempt to seem confident was quickly failing. “I just—well, I figured it was worth throwing out. I just wanted to give it as an option.”

“I know.” He scratched at his neck. “I know that you have no intention of pressuring me. Words are just failing me is all.”

You nodded. “I get that.” You laughed, flustered. “I don’t usually proposition people for sex; I’m sorry if I did a bad job.”

He was quick to refute you. “You did an excellent job, given the circumstances. You are handling this situation much better than I am, which is a low bar to clear, but a bar nonetheless.”

You sighed. “How about we just agree that we both kinda suck at this?”

He was almost indignant. “No. We are doing fine at this.” He stood up properly. “We are just inexperienced; with practice, we will be able to handle the transition from general conversation to sex smoother.”

You gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Love the energy.” You could practically feel steam coming out of your ears. “So, we’re doing this?”

“If all of this talk has not put you off, Ii sure would like to.”

“It has not.”

“Then yes, we are doing this.”

You looked around. “What, in here?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Probably not. If the end goal is to fall asleep it makes more sense to do this in the living area or the bedroom.”

“Dope.” You nodded, holding your hand out for him. “You’ve never been in my room, have you?”

“I have not.” He took it. “I have also not slept in a bed since I was seven; I apologize if I turn out to be a bad bed-mate.”

You pulled him along behind you. “Do you kick in your sleep?”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine.” You pushed the door open. Your room was certainly a room in which you slept. It was, admittedly, not as tidy as it could be, seeing as you had not been expecting visitors, but it was your room, decorated how you chose, warm, cozy, and respectable for those traits exclusively. You gestured to it with your free hand, pulling him over the threshold without much fanfare. “The bed.” You let go of his hand, walking back to shut and lock the door. “Make yourself at home. I’d offer you a drink, but I think that comes after.”

He just stood there in the center of the room. He had that look on his face again, the one he used on you when the two of you first met; cold eyes scrutinized every surface of the space, studying everything from whatever you had hanging on the walls to the bedspread.

A different sort of embarrassment spread through you than the one you had been experiencing before. “It’s not that bad.”

He glanced back at you. “I never said it was bad.” He took one last look around the room. “You can tell a lot about a person from how they keep their room. Your room is very fitting; I like it.”

“Oh.” You nodded, taking a step away from the door. “Then thanks, I guess. You can sit down, you know.”

“Sit down?” He blinked. “Sex. We’re here because we’re going to have sex.”

You nodded, sitting down on the bed. “We are.” You patted the spot next to you, straightening your back. “Sit.”

He did.

“Alright.” You set your hands on your knees. “I’ll admit, I’m not the most sexually experienced person in the world, so bear with me here.”

“Neither am I.”

“Figures. Are you a virgin?”

“I am not.” He looked down at his hands. “Admittedly, my first sexual experience was not particularly romantic—I did it for the sake of it— but I think I am generally familiar with the mechanics of it.”

“Cool.” You nodded, wanting to die. “Cool.”

There was an awkward pause between the two of you. For once, at least, you were sure the both of you felt it.

He turned to face you properly. “Am I allowed to touch you?”

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“Consent is important.”

You swallowed, nodded. “Yes, you can touch me.”

He scooched over to you. Tentatively, he took your face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along your cheekbones. “Your skin is soft,” he noted conversationally.

You snorted.

He cocked his head to the side, turning your head so he could more easily see your jaw. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” you smiled, tension melting away. This was ridiculous. “It’s just that I think you’re the first guy I’ve been with who’s given me a free physical.”

He looked up at you through his eyelashes. “I’m not giving you a physical,” he explained. “I’m planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Nothing in particular.” He brought your head back to its original position. “But according to you, the purpose of this exercise is to get me to focus on something besides my work and besides sleep. You can at least let me plan.”

You put your hands up. “Look, I’m not complaining about you being thorough.” You leaned into his touch. “It’s one of your better qualities, I think.”

He focused back on your face. “Is that what you see in me? My tendency to be thorough?”

“Stupid question.” You held your hands behind your back, letting him analyze you for once. “I think you’re great whether you’re thorough or not.”

He stared at you. “Then what do you see in me, exactly?”

“I think you’re beautiful.” You met his eyes. “And I love how your mind works. You make me happy, and that’s all I could want in a lover.”

He kept eye contact. “Is that all?”

“It is.”

It took him a second to process what you said. When he spoke again, it was slow, deliberate, as if he were struggling to come up with the words. “May I kiss you?”

You nodded. “You may.”

He was gentle. From the way he was moving, you doubted it was for your benefit; you could feel the slight tremor of his hands as he moved his lips to yours, how he practically melted against you. You propped yourself up with your arm, using your free hand to grip the front of his shirt loosely. From where you sat, it was, for once, abundantly clear that this was his first proper kiss.

He pulled away first, eyelids drooping. “I think,” he breathed, sounding almost drunk, “that your theory has legs.”

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him and pulling you two both down on the bed. You rolled on top of him, arms caging him in. “You think?”

He smiled, and for once, you could identify the look on his face: adoration. “I do.”

You pressed your lips back against him, unable to hold back your smile at the way he wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you even closer. As the two of you finally fell into a rhythm—albeit not without fumbling and apologies and awkward laughs—you felt your moods shift from giddy excitement to a slowly growing hunger. You pressed further down into him, letting him clutch at your shirt as you slid a knee between his legs, eliciting a quiet gasp as you ground it into him.

Abruptly, he pulled away, eyes wide. “Wait.”

You froze, breathing heavily. “Yeah?”

He sat up, you coming with him. He took a moment to breathe. “Protection. STDs, STIs. Do you have a condom?”

You blinked. “Oh. Right.” You nodded, climbing off the bed and stumbling to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched you leave from the bed, chest pounding. He fiddled with his shirt, looking back around the room, eyes settling on a mirror. He stood up, walked over to it, checked his reflection. He looked about the same as he expected: half dead with just a bit more color than what was typical. He pushed the hair out of his face as if that would make him look any less like a slightly more healthy corpse. In the past, even when he was a teenager, he had never been particularly bothered by how he looked; he rarely left hotel rooms long enough to care, and when he did leave the house it was never intending to impress. Still, here he was, in your room, nitpicking over an appearance that you were clearly not repulsed by if your enthusiasm was any indication because of an otherwise nonexistent insecurity. He supposed this was a sign of growth. It was typical for men his age to be insecure about their appearances; this was just the first time he had personally experienced it. If he were anyone else, he supposed that fixing the issues that he was observing— a lack of muscle mass, greasy hair he had not cut for years, dark circles under his eyes— could be remedied with a changing of lifestyles. This would imply, however, that the maintenance of such a lifestyle would be possible for him which, given how he had the impulse control and discipline of a toddler, was just about impossible. This would also imply that making an effort to take time to invest in something as objectively meaningless as his appearance was at all reasonable, which was ridiculous to think, and that he cared any more about the relationship than he already did, which he was adamantly against for pettiness’s sake.

Not that any of it mattered. At the end of the day, even if he were the most attractive man on the planet it would not make up for all of his other shortcomings. A more attractive man with a profession less likely to get you killed by a sadistic monster with the drive to murder everyone he ever loved— however useless that drive may be, given the circumstances— would come along and sweep you off your feet and so long as he treated you well that was fine by him. Still, he wished he had better odds than he did.

He just about had a heart attack when you came back in, lost in thought. “Alright, so I brought five.” You held up the packages, tossed them onto the bed. “We probably don’t need five but I figured better safe than— what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took a step back as if guilty of something, hair falling back over his face. He cleared his throat, sticking his hands back into his pockets, unusually nervous. “Five is a lot.”

You nodded, starting to fiddle with the buttons on your shirt. “I know. Again, preparedness.” You glanced from the mirror to him and back. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use a mirror.”

He looked down at his feet. “I don’t have much use for them.”

You made an active effort to not make this situation any more awkward than necessary, fingers making easy work of your top. “And why’s that?”

“I don’t leave the house much. There—“ He looked back up to see you, paused for a second to look at your chest, realized what he was doing, looked back down, and carried on with his sentence, face reddening again. “There isn’t much use in looking good if you aren’t leaving the house.”

You considered it. “That makes sense I guess.” You shrugged, unbuttoning your shorts. “I guess it depends on the kind of person you are. Do you own a mirror?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t leave the house much.”

You leaned down slightly to get yourself into his frame of vision. “You can look at me, you know.”

He scratched at his hair. “See, logically, I know that, but illogically, I’m worried about looking like a pervert to someone who just took their clothes off in front of me.”

You could not hold back your grin. “What does that make me, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re a pervert,” you repeated, taking a step towards him, “what does that make me?”

He stared at the ground, trying to come up with an answer. “Reasonable,” he decided.

“Mhm.” You held your hands behind your back, eyes softening. For someone so obviously capable, there was something nice about seeing him so obviously unsure of himself. He was, by your count, only inexperienced with two things; you were hardly about to complain about him being bad at something else. Still, you made an effort to be gentle. “You know, we don’t have to do this.” You took another step towards him. “I mean, the plan is obviously working, but that doesn’t mean we have to go all the way. You’re allowed to call it off whenever.”

He tugged at his shirt collar absently. “I know.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Alright.” You kept your voice soft. “Are you okay with seeing me like this, then?”

“I am.”

You reached forward, tilting his head up to look at you.

This look, you were unfamiliar with. It was not the same as his typical clinical stare, but they were not necessarily unrelated. The only difference was that this look was a bit warmer and a bit softer, the intent not to dissect and analyze, but to memorize, to drink in. Oddly enough, he did not look as lustful as he did fascinated, as if you were a piece of fine art as opposed to a sexual partner. The way you felt under his eyes, too, was not dissimilar to how you felt typically— nervous at the attention, slightly off balance from the intensity of it all— only now you felt as if you understood the intention for the most part, less like a creature to be dismembered and more like a painting on display.

You stepped back. You raise your arms, giving him a little spin to give him a full look at your body. “Like what you see?”

He did not respond, only taking your hands and gently tugging you closer to him, your chests pressing against one another. He wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you into a tooth-achingly sweet embrace.

You responded in kind, linking your hands together behind his back. “So.”

His voice was muffled. “So.”

You leaned closer to his ear. “How do you want me?”

He seemed to seriously consider it. “On top,” he decided. “If I fall asleep, then I won’t fall on you, and there’s a higher likelihood of me hurting you than you hurting me.”

You rolled your eyes, words teasing. “Sound logic. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Would you rather I crush you?”

You sighed contemplatively. “I mean, yeah, but not today. Another time.” You kissed him on the cheek, letting go of him. “Well, lie down; I can’t ride you standing up.”

He started unbuttoning his pants, the subtle tremble in his fingers not lost on you despite his general outward indifference. “For someone so quick to mock rational thinking you are very frank about this.”

“Would you rather I not be?” You waved it off, deciding that staring at his crotch was probably not the most polite thing you could do for the poor man. “I could make a big thing of it, but then I’d be setting a precedent that, honestly, I don’t want to set.”

“Sound logic,” he repeated back to you, stepping out of his jeans. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You crossed your arms, looking up at the ceiling in an entirely hypocritical show of modesty. “I didn’t say I was any better.”

“No, you implied it.” He sat down on the bed, crisscrossing his legs on the mattress. “I have a proposal.”

You straddled him, sitting down on his lap before reaching for a condom. “Listening.”

You were genuinely impressed by how matter-of-fact he kept his tone. “Seeing as I am likely much more sensitive than you are, I would like to suggest that I make you orgasm before we proceed.”

You swallowed. “Interesting. How?”

“I’m fairly dexterous and I have long fingers.” He looked over your shoulder. “This will also make what comes after easier, I suspect.”

You were conscious of how eager you sounded. “Can't argue with that.”

He picked you off his lap, setting you on the edge of the bed before kneeling on the floor in front of you.

He approached this task the same way he approached just about every task you had ever seen him handle, i.e. via a faithful use of the scientific method. His actions, to you, were unusually coordinated, running his hands along your skin and applying controlled pressure to certain areas, and taking mental note of how you reacted. He only took about thirty seconds on any specific method, constantly changing locations and patterns and speeds to find what worked for you, and when he found out what did work— which took him about two minutes of fiddling on his end and two minutes of quiet reassurance on your part— it took you an embarrassingly short amount of time for you to unravel, balling the sheets under you as he adjusted, took note, adjusted again. Your high came fast and surprisingly hard, and from his quietly satisfied expression— the same you would expect from him if he had solved a particularly difficult puzzle— you had to wonder if he had studied beforehand.

As you struggled to remember how to think, he pressed a kiss against your thigh, standing up and sitting down next to you. Curiously, he looked at the hand he had used, now covered in a mortifyingly thick layer of your drippings, and brought it to his mouth. He tasted it, paused, considered it. “Salty,” he decided. “Not overwhelmingly so, but it’s a distinctive taste.”

“Oh.” From the way the blood was rushing to your face, you considered if, between the two of you, he was the least prepared one. “Well, ain't that something.”

He glanced over at you innocently, continuing to clean his hand. “Oh, are you worn out already?”

You glared at him, heart still racing. “Fuck you.”

He wiped the excess off on his pants. “That is the next order of business, isn’t it?” He scooped you up, setting you back down on his lap. “Like this, right?”

Shaky hands gripped the front of his shirt. “Lean back on the pillow so if you fall asleep, then you don’t wake up with a bad back.”

He smiled. “You’re seriously concerned about me getting a bad back from that of all things?”

“Don’t make me drag you.”

He sighed, moving the two of you back and onto the bed, you still solidly on his lap. Carefully, clumsily, you tore the wrapper. Your hand reached down to fish his dick from his boxers.

You paused. “Huh.”

He shut his eyes. “What?”

“It’s bigger than I expected.”

His face reddened. “Should I take that as an insult?”

“No,” you backtracked quickly, pulling the wrapper open, “but your diet isn’t the best so I just figured it wouldn't be very big.”

“Penis size is genetic.” He looked over at one of the walls, the back of his hand laid over his mouth. “While lifestyle has some impact on its size, unless we’re talking about malnutrition, what matters is testosterone levels, and while that is something that—“

You slid the condom on in one move of your hand.

The man under you let out a gasp, shutting him up for the first time in your recent memory.

You smiled, kissing him on the forehead. “That’s all very interesting,” you purred, “but let’s save the biology lesson for after we get you to sleep, alright?”

His voiced raised an octave. “Alright.”

“Good boy.” You sat back up, placing your hands on his chest. “Are you all settled in?”

He closed his eyes“Mhm.”

“Okay.” You swallowed, reaching back with one hand to line yourself up with him. “Ready?”

After a few seconds, he nodded.

It was slow work, sliding down onto him. You had completely overestimated your capacity for this sort of thing; your attempt to just take it was impeded by your inability to stretch that far, and while you were stuck trying to take slow, even breaths and relax enough to get his appendage info you at all, your normally much more level headed partner appeared to be having a significantly harder time than you were, and though his voice was low— a problem not helped by his covered mouth— you did catch a couple of adjectives, “warm” being the most prolific.

He lasted a shocking amount of time. It was not enough time for you to get into it, but from how he was acting before you assumed he would barely go for a minute.

The first thing out of his mouth after you climbed off of him was an apology. “I am proving to be a horrible partner.” He rolled over, watching with unusually bleary eyes as you cleaned up. “I promise that I will make an effort to be better at this sort of thing in the future.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You picked your clothes off the floor, tossing them in a pile to be washed. “You got me off before; you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“In your opinion.”

You stretched your arms above your head. “My opinion is that one that matters.” You sighed, smiled. “Besides, I don’t care. I like you whether or not you’re good at sex.”

His legs curled up towards his chest, not unlike how he sat usually. “That’s how marriages end,” he pointed out. “Small things build up over time.”

You sat down on the bed, crawling over him to where you usually slept. “I will remind you that we are not married.” You slid under the covers, facing his back. “So, until we are, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

He rolled over to face you, a fair distance away. “I would rather worry about that than most of the things I worry about.” He cleared his throat. “But worry in general wouldn’t help, I suppose. When under long periods of stress bodies tend to produce increased levels of the hormone cortisol which decreases libido, so if I were to hypothetically stress out about it I would probably only be exacerbating the problem. Not to say that I still won’t, but that’s an aspect of this worth considering.”

You reached over, cupping his cheek in your hand. “I only slightly understand the words that you’re saying because I’m tired but I want you to know that I love you regardless.”

His face warmed under your fingers. “That’s good. I would hope that this far into our relationship you would be at least somewhat fond of me.”

Your eyes slid shut. “I am somewhat fond of you, yeah.” You relaxed into the bed, ignoring the fact that it was probably barely sunset outside. “I hope I’ve been pretty clear about that.”

He watched you. “You have been.”

“That’s good.”

He nodded, taking your hand gently and holding it under his against the mattress. His thumb gently traced the back of your hand. “I think so too.”

You fell asleep before he did. That was fine. It was soothing in the same way the sound of rain or the ocean was soothing, watching as your chest rose and fell in a soft, slow, vaguely regular rhythm. Your breathing, he noted thankfully, stayed fairly even over the course of his brief observation. You were sleeping soundly.

He did eventually fall asleep. It took a longer time than usual, having to choose to fall asleep as opposed to pushing himself to stay awake for another hour or two or twenty, but he did manage to at least doze off. There was an advantage to sleeping next to you, he found; there was something comforting about being able to immediately confirm that his nightmares were just nightmares, to be able to squeeze your hand and remind himself that you were still a living, breathing person with a pulse as opposed to a mutilated corpse. This did not dispel all of the possible tortures his mind was fond of coming up with— his more ingrained memories still made their usual appearances— but at least there was something to ground him in reality.

He fell asleep of his own volition, at least. That was a start.

You were studying for an exam late at night. You heard a knock at the door, 'who could that be?' you mumbled. When you open the door, someone quickly falls into your arms..the scent of alcohol stenches your nose. You realize the person was...Kenzo, but all drunk. He was always drunk!

"Oh..hey Zack." He mumbled, with a smirk on his face. "I can make that frown upside down..~"

“Drink some water” You commented lifted him up and put him on the couch. Kenzo chuckled, then sighed.

"I'm fine…" He says, as the alcohol made him slur his words. "I just have this cute little idea, you know~" He smiles at you, and suddenly goes in for a kiss.

“Back off fag-” You pushed his head away “-stay here I’m bringing you water”

"That's kind of homophobic, you know~" Kenzo frowned, then smiled at you as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you close and you fell into his lap. "What's wrong with a little smooch?" He giggled, his breath smelled like alcohol. He was most likely very heavily drunk.

“Maybe when you’re sober,” You said so he let you be for now. He didn't seem satisfied with your answer. He pulled you closer to him and pinned you under him on the couch. He's really close to you. He still reeks, and your heads start to get dizzy.

"Oh, come on~" He smirks down at you, putting both hands on your cheeks. "No need to be too serious."

“Man, I’m gonna punch you if you don’t let me be” You warned, knowing you’re stronger.

"Punch me?~ Oh, don't threaten me with a good time~" He giggled, as he put both hands around your waist. "I feel like you're into it, you know~" He said, in a flirty voice as he looked deeply into your eyes.

You flipped yourself and him around and pinned his hand above his head “Listen here you little shit, it’s fucking 11 pm, I’m not in a mood of you annoying me. D’you understand?” You growled in a deep voice, not having the patience today.

He looked surprised by your tread, as he looked at you with his eyebrows raised.

"Oh..you're not in the mood." He chuckled."How about we get you in the mood, huh?" He said, with a smile on his face as he looked at you. Kenzo was drunk, so he probably didn't realize how this was sounding to you.

“I give up” You sighed and stood up “You stay here, k?” You disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of cold water and a paracetamol. As you got in, Kenzo was still lying there and blushing madly, looking up at the ceiling. He blushed slightly as he heard you walking back into the room and turned back to you.

"Did you get me water..?" He asked, with a soft voice, almost looking tired. He looked so sleepy and it's honestly adorable. You hummed and gave it to him

Kenzo drank the water, nodding in appreciation. He put the cup down and looked at you.

"You're really good-looking, you know.." He mumbled, as he laid back down and put his hand under his head. He was probably starting to get tired..but he was also drunk, which isn’t the best combination.

You ignored his comment and sat on the couch on the other side and took your phone out

Kenzo stared at your phone screen, wondering what you were doing. He was a bit too drunk to realize that he was being annoying and making you uncomfortable.

"Don't ignore me, Zack~" He pouts, winking at you while his eyes are slightly closed.

“Go sleep or something,” You said and turned on your phone.

Kenzo got up from the couch, still being quite wobbly. He was trying to be funny by trying to walk over to you.

"I won't sleep until I get a little smooch~" He giggled, and put his hand behind your head, trying to pull you in to kiss you.

"You're not even looking at me!" He scoffed.

“Tomorrow okay?” You fake promised

"No! Now!" He blurted out, as he still tried to pull you in for a kiss. "Don't you care about me..?~" He pouted.

You looked him in the eyes with an unimpressed look.

Kenzo finally realized your expression and suddenly stopped, then went silent. He walked back over to the couch, and fell back down on it.

"You're no fun.." He mumbled, looking away and putting his hand behind his head. He looked a bit disappointed.

“You say it like it’s something new” You chuckled and stood up “Ey I don’t know about you but I’m gonna go sleep” You went into your rooms and closed your door.

"Oh..okay.." He mumbled, as he laid back down on the couch. Kenzo wanted to keep bothering you, but decided that it's better if he just leaves you alone.

It's getting pretty late, around 2 a.m. Should you keep trying to study..or go to sleep? You lay in bed, as the alcohol already had it's effect on Kenzo so he was passed out on the couch. He was still smiling and mumbling things that were probably about you. It looks like you will be able to get some sleep.

You were really tired, so you thought that it was best to just go straight to bed and sleep. You changed into boxer shorts and lay . You're just about to fall asleep when you hear some noises coming from the kitchen.

Should you go check out the sound..? Or stay in bed and hope it stops?

You were too tired so you fell asleep.

**4 am.**

There is a loud banging on your door. Kenzo was there, still drunk. He kept banging on your door.

"Wake up~" He said, very loudly, as the banging noises were still going on.

Kenzo kept banging on your door..it seems like he's very persistent on you opening the door.

"Zack! It's important!!" He yelled through the door, while banging on it.

After several minutes of you ignoring Kenzo and his persistent knocking, he finally realized that the door was open and the banging noise stopped. He quickly peeked his head inside your room, as soon as he realized your door was open.

"Dude..you're so mean. I've been knocking on your door for like hours and you just ignore me? I had something important to say to you." He said, in an annoyed voice.

But then he heard a soft snoring. Looking surprised down and he saw you still peacefully asleep. "What? How is he still asleep..?" He thought out loud, surprised. Kenzo was just about to leave your room, but he noticed that you looked really cute. He looked a little bit down at you, as he thought.

The longer he stayed the more his thoughts wandered into the wrong places.

You start to move around in your sleep so you are laying with all your beauty in front of Kenzo. He saw how you were lying on your back, slightly frowning. He looked into your face, thinking how you are too beautiful to have such an expression on such face. With a cloudy mind, he starts to lean in. Before he could kiss you, he halted, afraid to wake you up. But after some thinking, he remembers that you are a very heavy sleeper.

So he leaned in and connected his lips with you. It felt so surreal to be able to do something like this with you, even if you are asleep.

After the small peak, he pulled away and studied your face with unfocused eyes. Kenzo saw how your expectations changed to a neutral one, perhaps even somewhat happy. He sighed out and leaned forward watching you asleep.

His eyes slowly wander down your body. With the blanked being kicked off he had a full view of your body. One hand starts to ghost it’s self to your left pec and slightly squeezing it. It pulled an unsuspected moan from you that surprised Kenzo. He pulled his hand fast away, fearing that he wake you up.

But seeing your reaction made him laugh. In your sleep, you pushed your chest up and frowned at the loss of contact and a quiet whine could be heard.

Leaning down he kissed you behind your ear and nuzzled his nose into your hair. “Aww who is the fag now?” He mockingly whispered into your ear and squeezed your pec again.

He really can’t believe his luck. Chuckling he starts to kiss down your neck and bite slightly at your Adam's apple. He starts to go more down till he arrives at your chest. Stopping here he took a minute to look at your defined pecs. They were so beautifully big and soft, that he wished he could fall asleep on them.

Kenzo gave it another kiss and took it into his mouth, his warm tongue immediately started to play with your nipple. At the same time, your moans got louder at that warm feeling. You slowly start to grind up into him. Kenzo could feel your dick start to harden and moan, which sends vibrations into your chest and you moaned while buckling your hips up into Kenzos abs, cumming into your boxers.

Kenzo latched himself off your chest and squeezed it again. Slowly he went further down, kissing every ab, till he got to your waistband.

He leaned down and kissed the wet spot at the front. You tried to pull away, feeling overwhelmed with the unknown pleasure. He held your hips down, getting impatient. He slowly pulled your boxers down, seeing your cum sticking to the briefs. Kenzo leans in and laps two or three times over it moaning at the taste.

He pulled it down and let your 6.5-inch dick slap him on the face. He looked up at you checking if you were still sleeping.

Kenzo crawled up, not thinking about all the consequences, seemingly lost in the moment and smell of sex. He took your half-hard dick and lined it up. He slowly pushed down, balling his fist on your chest.

Kenzos blood turned cold as he felt hands on his hips. Looking down at you he thought about the worst-case scenario of you being awake but looking down he still sees your peaceful gaze. Breathing out he leisurely starts to bounce on your dick.

Throwing his head back he felt your cock hitting all the right places. It filled him up so well as if it’s molded after him.

After a firm trust from you, Kenzo had the most mind-blowing orgasm. The combination of his ‘friend’, alcohol, and doing something so forbidden really gave him the kick.

As the white fluid painted his shirt, he got unbelievably tired. His heart aches for after-sex cuddles with some whine and cigarettes with you…

Kissing each other while watching some movie and keeping each other company.

Oh, how he wishes you took his love confessions seriously.

He looked down at you again with tears building up in his eyes. There are too many emotions he feels about you. Like he doesn’t want to go from your side even though it’s nearly 5 a.m. so you would wake up if he stayed any longer.

Squeezing your cock one last time, he slipped it out and put your boxers on again. As he went out of the room he cringed at the feeling of the cum getting out of his hole so soon but never less he got back into his room with surprisingly little stumbling.

**11 am**

You woke up very late for your standards today and are surprisingly more tired than before. You realize you must have had an intense dream about Kenzo. You could even feel the tingling on some spots he kissed you in your dream.

You rolled out of your bed and went to the kitchen, too tired to change. Surprisingly you saw Kenzo there too. He was sipping on hopefully water and reading some book he found lying around “Good morning beauty. You look like you had the best sleep of your life” He said in a mocking voice. You grumbled about how it felt as if you did an all-nighter instead of sleeping.

He chuckled and had a light blush on his face, remembering only half of the night.