The quiet of the house was a constant companion for three days. Levi was barely home, a phantom presence who always departed by eight in the morning and returned near midnight. During that time, my life became an elaborate performance; I spent hours on the phone, weaving a fantastical tale of love at first sight and a whirlwind marriage to explain my sudden disappearance to friends, co-workers, and my agency. It was a dumb lie, in my opinion, too sappy by half, but I told it with conviction.

I watched him, no, stalked him in the house. My new routine revolved around observing him. He didn't really eat at the dining table; whenever he came back, he went straight to his locked room, spent some time in there, emerged, and then vanished into his own bedroom to sleep. Our schedules were inverted; he left early, and I, now liberated from the need for early auditions, slept late, so I didn’t see him at all in the mornings. And when he returned, exhausted and aloof, I didn’t really have anything to say to the guy, so I didn’t say anything.

But this house, these cold, gleaming walls, were slowly creeping on me. The sheer boredom was a physical weight, a suffocating blanket of loneliness.

It was close to midnight, but I was feeling surprisingly energetic, the caffeine from the coffee still buzzing in my veins. And then I heard it—the faint, familiar clanking of keys. Levi entered the house, his silhouette briefly framed in the doorway, and saw me lounging on the couch. He actually flinched, a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his shoulders. Is this really the first reaction I'm getting from him after three days?

“Nearly forgot your face,” I said.

“My apologies, work has been really hectic for me.”

He went to his room to change, and came back moments later wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. It wasn’t chilly or anything indoors. Why was he always wearing those long sleeves? Was he hiding something, or just perpetually cold?

“Some reporters managed to capture images of you today. I chose not to suppress them. Consequently, we will proceed with our wedding photo shoots tomorrow. This, of course, is contingent upon your agreement.”

“What if I say no?” I countered, gauging his reaction.

“I will reschedule them, certainly, but it is imperative that we acquire photographs of our marital union prior to the dinner with my family. It will facilitate our objective to…”

“To what?” I pressed, leaning forward, intrigued.

“I am endeavoring to select the most appropriate terminology. To… to screw my parents.”

I started laughing, a sharp, disbelieving sound, but a new layer of curiosity crept in about his reserved demeanor. What would that deadpan face look like in an intimate moment? If he said "screw my parents" with such a straight face, what would he do when genuinely stirred?

“What a foul mouth you have,” I remarked, a dry amusement in my tone.

“I am glad you found it amusing.” His reply was immediate, unblinking. Are you really? I had never actually seen a positive expression from him, not a genuine one. Which made me even more curious about his bedroom activity. Would he still have that utterly deadpan expression, that blank face, if he climaxed?

As he said yes to everything, indulging my whims, my desires for more of his unique, unsettling compliance grew. And let’s be honest here, he was undeniably handsome and oddly attentive in his own way. Someone like him, so seemingly detached, would likely prioritize his partner’s pleasure. I couldn’t deny my growing physical attraction to him, a primal pull that defied logic.

I came from really conservative parents. They wanted me to marry by 18, have children, and secure a good, conventional job. You know the drill. My earliest memory of that house was fine; that dynamic as a child was fine. Until I realized their affection was superficial, a condition of my compliance. They created a mold in their own fantasies, wanted me to fit into them perfectly, a living doll reflecting their narrow ideals. Never use cuss words, do not raise your voice, do not use violence, and absolutely do not like boys. They actually wanted me to be an angel, like the porcelain figures in their rigid religion, a flawless, compliant being.

It was around the time I was about to graduate from high school, a period where I felt as if I were trapped in an unyielding vise, each breath pulling tighter as the weight of expectations bore down on me. Constant moral education, the sermons which never sat right with me, someone always telling me what to do. My parents wanted me to study law, which was something I absolutely didn’t want.

I felt utterly exhausted, hollowed out. I never had anything truly on my own, no space for myself. They weren't abusive per se, not with physical violence, but they saw me more as a reflection of their dreams than as a person, which left me feeling lost and deeply resented. I was the only son, the angelic face, the bright future ahead of him, and I hated it. I was repulsed by my own hypocrisy. I wasn’t happy with my relatively okay parents, I wasn’t happy with my friends who silently judged me, I wasn’t happy by myself. I was just breathing at that point, nothing more.

On the last day of high school, a desperate act of defiance, my friends and I went to a bar to celebrate our legal drinking age. The first sip of alcohol, cheap and fiery, hit me like a revelation, and all of the reasoning inside my brain saying “They are your parents, they loved you, looked after you, put a roof over your head, you owe them this, go to the law school and don’t kiss boys” went far, far away, drowned out by the sudden, exhilarating rush of freedom. It wasn’t alcohol’s fault. I was about to do something really bad, something irrevocable, and I desperately needed an excuse by saying “Sorry, I was drunk.”

So I searched the crowded bar, found the first guy with a big, muscular body, and jumped on him, a desperate, clumsy leap. It was underwhelming and foreign, a clumsy tangle of limbs and unfamiliar sensations, but I was still happy with it. I never saw the other guy afterwards. But my friends back then knew what I did. They outed me to my parents without ever telling me they would.

As an adult right now, who has severed every connection with my parents, it was, ironically, the best possible outcome for me. I could never have mustered the courage to come out to my parents on my own terms. Well, I got slapped by my mother, a sharp blow that landed squarely on my cheek, the one who had already chosen a perfectly suitable bride for me, but what’s a little slap between an emotionally unavailable mother and a gay son?

After that day, some other things happened, a blur of arguments and silent treatments, but I actually ran away from the house. I had already applied for citizenship to Ascaria, knowing they were a beacon for those like me. I knew they would help a gay runaway kid, and surprisingly, I secured some scholarship money. I started traveling around the country, drifting, taking odd jobs, seeking a purpose.

But I actually always liked the attention. Attention from my parents when I had a good grade, or praising from my grandparents for not being a picky eater. Severing ties with my family and my friends, though necessary, made me lose those constant validations. No, a better word:

Praise.

I lost the praise.

It was very popular to upload vlogs back then, a new frontier for self-expression. So I uploaded a bunch of badly edited travel videos to the internet, desperate for an audience, any audience. I was shy at first, self-conscious, and my videos had very low production quality, raw and unpolished, but I still got the attention I craved, the praise I needed.

Do not get me wrong, not because I was a good content creator or anything. I was simply because I looked good.

I had a comforting face. It was my most valuable asset, even then.

A year and a half passed, a blur of fleeting gigs and restless searching, when an agency from Ascaria reached out, offering modeling and acting contracts. I knew modeling would be a better fit for me, easier, less demanding. But if I were only a model, the attention would inevitably die by the time I was thirty, a fleeting flicker of fame. So I chose acting, a longer, more challenging pursuit of that elusive praise. The agency helped me with my working permit, the Ascaria foundation for immigration helped me with my housing permit, and I was also openly gay, welcomed into their progressive society. I had already submitted an application for their foundation, another layer of support.

I never hid my sexuality in Ascaria, or actually never even hid myself, not truly. Ascaria was really a paradise for misfits. Like this guy, Levi. He helps millions of people, orchestrates grand designs for a better world. But he is the loneliest of them all. He is so alone that he needs a stranger, a "scandalous gay bride," to help him escape his own gilded cage. He created a paradise for everyone, while he himself never ever realizes he is the guy, holding the key to the Eden, the very freedom he craves existing within his own grasp.

"Levi." I broke the quiet, my voice softer than I intended, a silken whisper designed to entice.

"Yes, Raphael." His eyes met mine, giving nothing away, and everything to imagine.

"Let's have some fun, hm?" I said, a playful, suggestive note twisting the words. He looked at my face, his expression utterly uncomprehending, not understanding the layered meaning. The lack of reaction only fueled a dangerous spark in me.

"Let's have sex." I clarified, blunt and direct, cutting through the pretense. He glanced quickly towards the locked room, a phantom of consideration, then his eyes snapped back to me. "As you wish, Raphael."

That’s it? You just gonna say yes? No hesitation, no surprise, no anything?

"Why did you agree to that?" I demanded, a surge of irritation, a challenge in my tone.

"Raphael, please excuse me, but I need to ask. Are you being intentionally dense? I explicitly informed you, I would accede to any request."

Ah, this was what it felt like to feel your blood boil, a furious heat rising from my chest, consuming me. My ears were burning, hot with indignation, my skin prickling with frustrated desire.

"Oh yeah? Fine. I’ll take a shower." I snapped, turning on my heel and leaving immediately for the shower, a desperate need to escape his infuriating composure, to cool the raging fire within me. That prick, ‘intentionally dense’. I was trying to be nice to him, to approach this whole bizarre situation with some semblance of normalcy, to tease and draw him in, and he had the audacity to call me dense. As I was scrubbing myself angrily, the hot water beating down on my skin, a searing caress, it dawned on me. It’s gonna be his first time, and he will probably groggily thrust himself, oh, no. A wave of dread, thick and cloying, washed over me. I wanted to bail, to run back to my old apartment and its familiar misery, to hide under my threadbare blankets. But the curiosity, the insatiable, burning need to know what lay beneath Levi’s impenetrable facade, what secrets his body held, was still stronger, far more compelling than my fear. For both our sakes, but mostly my own desperate need for control and pleasure, I started fingering myself, doing my best to stretch myself, preparing for what was likely to be an awkward, clumsy encounter.

I never taught someone from the start. Shit, it’s gonna be a really long night. After spending around thirty minutes in the shower, I got out and wrapped myself in a soft, steaming bathrobe, tying the sash tightly around my waist.

Do you know the feeling of awkwardness? The excruciatingly awkward silences at dates, where every second stretches into an eternity, or the searing humiliation in a classroom when you answer a really easy question wrong and everyone stares, their eyes boring into your soul. Yes, that specific brand of awkwardness, a cold, clenching pit in my stomach, was precisely what I was feeling now. Why am I feeling this? I wanted this. I initiated this. I was supposed to be in control. Then, the muffled sound of his door locking itself echoed from the other side of the hall, a soft, final click. That bastard, what’s he doing inside there?

I walked towards his door, my hesitant steps echoing on the polished floor. He was standing by his bedroom door, his hair not fully dry, a little damp like mine, clinging slightly to his forehead in soft tendrils. And he was wearing long-sleeved black silk pajamas, the fabric clinging to his lean frame. Which, bizarrely, made it even more awkward, more charged, for me. I was starkly reminded of my situation, the cold, transactional nature of it, the underlying agreement. I was getting paid for sex. To be honest, the money was really good, enough to solve all my immediate problems, to banish the gnawing anxiety of bills. But a wave of shame, hot and unexpected, washed over me, a bitter taste in my mouth.

He extended his hand to me, just like he did when we first met in the hotel suite, a gesture of formal invitation. "Raphael, if you are experiencing any apprehension, or indeed having second thoughts, we may simply choose to rest. There is no compulsion for you to proceed."

I wish he pressured me though. I wish he was the one who asked, who wanted this, truly.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"No, I want to." I took his hand, my fingers intertwining with his, his touch cool against my own, sending a shiver through me. He led us silently to his bedroom, the door swinging open to reveal its interior.

His bedroom design was, breathtaking. Which I mean, boring as fuck. Similar to mine but his desk was larger, and he had a laptop and a monitor on his desk, all meticulously aligned, a monument to order. It was an organized, clean, and utterly simple room. But not a single footprint of him, no personal touches, no warmth, no sign that a living, breathing, complex human being resided here.

While I was glancing around his room, taking in the sterile perfection, I realized I was still holding his hand. His skin was cool to the touch and I felt the rough texture of a callus, a slight hardening between his fingers, like a pencil callus from hours of diligent work. His hand was larger than mine, his fingers long and slender, almost elegantly formed.

"Raphael, do you derive enjoyment from the act of holding hands?" he asked, his voice flat, snapping me out of my silent observation. I flinched, a subtle jerk of my hand, realizing I had been idly fidgeting with his hand, my thumb tracing the faint callus, lost in thought.

"I don’t know, Levi. Don’t ask me that. It’s a weird question right now."

"I believe it is a pertinent inquiry, however." he said, his gaze unwavering, his eyes locking onto mine, seeking an answer. Yeah, he probably should ask, if this is all new to him.

"Well, I’ll take the lead, then, so just do as I say," I said, my voice firming, taking control.

"As you wish, Raphael." He responded instantly, his obedience unnerving and arousing all at once. I gently pushed him to the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. Slowly, deliberately, I unbuttoned his silk pajamas, the soft black fabric parting to reveal the pale skin beneath. He smelled incredibly nice, clean and fresh, not like cologne, but like soap. He had a broad chest and toned, lean muscles beneath the silk. His skin was pale, almost translucent, so his nipples were a paleish pink, barely visible, tiny nubs. I grazed my hands over his chest, a light, teasing touch, feeling the warmth radiating from him. He was looking at me, his eyes utterly unreactive, and I sensed he wasn't impressed, or perhaps, didn't react at all. I pinched and rubbed his nipples gently, the pads of my thumbs circling the sensitive nubs; he slightly squinted, a minuscule reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.

No, this isn’t enough. I want him to beg, with a flushed face, to show me some raw, uncontrolled desire, to break through that impenetrable facade.

I leaned down, my tongue tracing the curve of his chest, a slow, wet path, then grazing his nipples, a delicate, teasing assault that sent shivers through me. I sucked on his neck, my lips leaving a damp, tingling trail on his pale skin. That was when his breathing became distinctly dysregulated, a faint gasp escaping him. Ah, look at me, getting excited because he was breathing. It's the small victories. His warm breath was running along my spine, a delicious sensation, sending shivers through my own core. Which made me really giddy too.

"Is there any particular action you would prefer I undertake?" he asked, his voice still even, despite his ragged breathing.

Which snapped me back to the reality of his emotional detachment. This guy was really not interested in himself at all, not even in this moment of mounting tension.

"Levi." I sat on his lap, straddling him, the silk of his pajamas sliding deliciously against my skin, and leaned close, whispering hotly into his ear, my breath caressing the sensitive skin. "You act high and mighty, but I can feel your dick under me, getting ready." He turned his face away sharply.

"I find my ears to be rather sensitive; please provide a modicum of personal space."

I am not going to give you space when you tell me these things you gorgeous, infuriating robot. "Oh, are they? I just licked your neck, didn’t even touch your dick yet." I started rubbing my ass against his growing erection, a slow, deliberate grind, reveling in the subtle friction, the heat building between us. I could feel his growing erection against me, a hard, promising bulge pressing insistently. He did have a good size, a very good size.

"Raphael."

Ah, don’t say my name with that heavy, breathless voice of yours, it makes me crave more. I nibbled his ear, a light, playful bite. He really did have sensitive ears; a shiver ran through his lean frame.

"You saying my name, especially like that, really turns me on." I climbed fully onto the bed, pulling him with me, the black silk pajamas rustling softly against the sheets. I undressed my robe slowly, deliberately, letting the soft fabric fall away to reveal my body, savoring the moment, then pulled him closer to me, our bodies pressing together, skin against silk, heat against coolness. In a soft, commanding voice, I whispered, "Take your pants off." He did so, very obediently, almost mechanically, his movements precise and unhurried.

I guess it was around time he realized he needed to do something, to contribute to this unfolding act, to match my rising desire. He pried my legs open, his strong hands framing my thighs. Cold and slender fingers, surprisingly delicate despite their power, grazed between my thighs, a tantalizing brush. Then he touched my penis. It wasn’t a touch of eroticism. It was a curious touch like someone who had never seen a penis before, exploring its contours, its hidden potential.

"Hey, don’t squeeze it," I warned, a sharp edge to my voice. He looked at my eyes, and to my surprise, his eyes weren’t deadpan. They were rather curious.

He placed his middle finger on my hole, the tip pressing gently. "I have just trimmed and manicured my nails; please apprise me if you experience any discomfort." he said, his voice as formal as ever.

What? What? He trimmed his nails for this? How cute.

He gently started pushing and pulling his finger out, a slow, methodical rhythm, exploring the tightness, drawing out the pleasure. "I see that you spent your time in the shower well," he remarked, a faint hint of something like approval, or even amusement, in his voice. Oh, look at you getting cheeky, Levi. The bastard. He reached to the bedside drawer and, with a smooth, practiced motion, got out some lube and condoms, placing them neatly between us.

Oh wait, did he really have those in his drawer? I thought he wasn't the type to have one-night stands, or casual encounters, to be prepared for such spontaneity. Was this a pre-planned eventuality, a calculated consideration for every scenario? As my thoughts drifted, he pressed two fingers in, suddenly igniting the moment, a jolt of sharp, intense pleasure. Two fingers was fine, a comfortable stretch, but the third was a little bit too much for me, a sharp edge of discomfort, a sudden tightening.

"Slow and gentle at first," I instructed, my voice strained, breathless. "I understand your experience comes from women, but vaginas and anuses are really different. You need to spend a lot more time on foreplay, trust me."

"I understand, Raphael." He squeezed an extra dollop of lube onto his long, slender fingers, which then reached deeper than mine ever could, exploring my limits. After some moaning, which I tried to keep to myself, biting my lip, he said, his voice flat but a faint smile gracing his lips, "I am glad you are enjoying yourself."

He really must be glad.

He got closer to my face, his breath warm on my skin, his eyes still holding that curious glint, and said, his voice barely a whisper, a low rumble that vibrated through me, "Raphael, as much as I appreciate your guidance, you should know, I would rather see you cum."

Hearing this man, who never swore, never ever made any dirty joke, acting like a pristine robot, suddenly saying the word "Cum," ripped me from the surreal, sensual experience and sent me plummeting back to reality. The exhilarating, terrifying reality where I had actually stolen the Saint of Ascaria with my sheer, unadulterated lust. I did cum, a violent, unexpected release, a shuddering wave of pleasure. All he had done was some inexperienced fingering, but he was diligent, I must add, incredibly diligent. He got closer to my ear, his voice a low rumble, laced with a new, dark amusement, "You truly derive gratification from my use of expletives, Raphael."

Yeah, I actually fucking did! Because it felt like I was seeing something, probably no one has ever seen before, like he was giving me a secret.

He pulled out, the sudden emptiness a startling sensation, then with precise movements, put on a condom and squeezed lube onto his penis. "Raphael, I bid you to be forthright in the future regarding your desires."

"What do you mean by that, Levi?" I asked, confused, my voice still hoarse with arousal. He wrapped my legs around him, effortlessly, pulling me tight against his hips, my body molding to his. He looked at me, his deep blue eyes no longer deadpan, but holding a dark, knowing glint, a spark of something primal. Then, to my utter shock, he let a truly charming, almost predatory smile spread across his face, a genuine, terrifying flash of emotion that utterly consumed me.

"Wait, wha-" My breath hitched in my throat, cut off by his sudden action. He entered inside me with a sudden, powerful, and really forceful thrust. It had been a while since I had sex, so I could feel myself stretching a lot, a sharp, exhilarating pain that bordered on ecstasy. "I said gentle-" I gasped, trying to pull away, the words muffled by the intensity.

He smiled again, that unnerving, real smile, his eyes burning into mine. "Raphael, you do not desire gentleness. You merely wish for me to treat you with severity, do you not?"

"No! I don’t want that!" I protested, though the lie tasted like ash in my mouth, betraying my body's trembling surrender.

"Raphael, I have merely deviated from my conduct by a minuscule degree, and your physiology has already exhibited pronounced involuntary responses."

I fucking love it. I like it so much. It feels like actually getting to know Levi Blake, not just your dutiful, contractual husband, but the raw, unbridled force of him.

"I will do as you wish, Raphael." He pinned me down from my wrists, his grip firm, unyielding, while slamming inside me with a fervent, relentless pace, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress, deeper into sensation. He was picking up the pace, his breaths coming faster, harsher, but he really didn’t even flinch, his eyes remaining clear and focused on me.

Let me admit it, his dick was amazing, perfectly sized, his consistent pace, hitting the right spots all the time, and slowing down precisely when you needed a breather—it was truly amazing. I was enjoying myself, thoroughly, completely consumed, my body arching into his rhythm, but I wanted him to enjoy too, to break through that clinical veneer, to lose himself for a moment.

He was panting now, his breath hot on my face, mingling with my own ragged gasps, and I had already cum twice from him, the pleasure overwhelming, my body shaking with residual aftershocks. I could tell Levi was close too, the tension in his body palpable, every muscle coiled. "Do you wish to continue?" he asked, his voice strained but still formal. I actually wanted to, till the sun came up and exposed his secrets, to drain every ounce of hidden desire from him. "Yeah, but let’s switch positions." I managed, my voice breathless, my body aching for more. He turned me around, effortlessly.

Then this seed of curiosity, a dangerous, irresistible thought, crept into my brain. Whom did he learn how to fuck like this? No, snap out of it. Be grateful for the women—or whomever—taught him. I was expecting him to continue in doggy style, but he pulled out, a sudden, jarring emptiness. I looked at him, bewildered, my head whipping around. "Why did you stop?"

He was busy with something, his back to me, but I couldn’t tell what it was, the rhythmic shuffling of fabric, the quiet sounds of movement. "My apologies, the temperature of the room has become excessively elevated; kindly allow me to remove my attire."

Oh, I was so focused on myself, so lost in the pleasure, I didn’t even realize he was hot, literally, a furnace. He took his shirt off, revealing the pale, toned expanse of his back and shoulders, muscles rippling under his fair skin, and reached for a bottled water, taking a long, slow swallow. "Raphael." he said, his voice low, a deep rumble.

"Yeah?" I replied, my voice still husky, my body humming with anticipation.

"I apologize in advance for any discomfort I may cause."

What? What is he apologizing for? He pushed my face down to the pillow, a firm, unyielding pressure, pressing my head down, and re-entered me with a primal force that took my breath away, a sudden, powerful thrust. His pace wasn't like before; it was merciless, a relentless, deep thrusting that plunged into me. It was taking everything from me not to cum again, the sensation too intense, too overwhelming, pushing me to the brink. I struggled to talk and breathe, the pillow muffling my voice, my desperate gasps for air. But, his forceful grip on my head, using me as he pleased, driving into me with unbridled power—yes, it was undeniably good.

It was head-spinning good. Also, I couldn’t get enough oxygen, the pressure on my head making me lightheaded, my vision blurring at the edges. But it reminded me of getting choked while fucking, so I was cool with it, strangely aroused by the loss of control. Then he placed his broad chest on my back, a heavy, warm weight, going slower but deeper, his previously unshakable rhythm now crumbling, shuddering, building to a furious crescendo. He was going to cum. My legs were trembling uncontrollably, he was breathing hard down my neck, his body slick with sweat, every muscle strained. I wanted to see his face, to witness the climax that had eluded me before, to see him truly lose control. I tried to turn my head around, to catch a glimpse.

He closed my eyes with his hands, his fingers firm against my eyelids, pressing down. And then, we both finished, a simultaneous, explosive release, our bodies shuddering in unison. "Raphael, close your eyes." His voice, though breathless, was still a command.

"Why, are you shy? I already saw your body, Levi," I taunted, breathless but defiant, trying to push him.

"I am not shy; however, if you do not desire to be complicit, I will ensure that you are unable to see."

What was that? A threat? Did he just threaten me? A rush of ice-cold fear washed over me, a sudden, chilling realization, my mind racing through dark possibilities of what he might do next if I disobeyed. I was in my own fantasy for a while, imagining him throwing acid on me or something equally horrific, but the fear was real, potent, visceral. This wasn't him humoring me. This was an order, unyielding and absolute. I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw tight, my body tensing. I could feel his gaze on me, even through my closed eyelids.

He got out of bed, the mattress shifting with his weight, and shuffled around the room. I could hear the faint rustling of fabric, the soft movements, the sounds of him regaining his composure. He was clothing himself. He was fully clothed, dressed once more in his black silk pajamas, when he finally told me to open my eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and started rustling my hair gently.

"Why did you want me to close my eyes?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, still trembling slightly.

"There was something that should not have been seen by you."

What do you mean by that? I couldn't say it out loud this time, the words caught in my throat, paralyzed by a new, deeper fear. I could feel his shadow looming over me again, cold and imposing, even though he was several feet away.

I was wrong about him. He wasn’t a sheep in wolf clothing. He was a lion, a predator of the highest order, hiding around prey by design, observing, calculating. I was uncomfortable and scared of him, truly, deeply afraid. He got off the bed again and reached for me, his hand extended. "Do you wish to take a bath, or would you prefer I cleanse you?"

If I told him I don’t want him to take me, that I wanted to escape, he would get suspicious, those dead eyes would sharpen, seeing right through me. If he wiped me, touched me again, I would get even more scared, and he would notice, he would know.

"Yeah, take me to the shower," I said, forcing a casualness I didn't feel, a desperate attempt at normalcy, "but I don’t wanna sleep here. Your sheets are, uh, covered in cum and sweat."