A/N: it's been long since I wrote an entire chapter of inappropriate content but H E R E you G O. Oh! And I only just miraculously pulled off this chapter despite my schedule and I'm not too sure if I can make it for next week's update but I'll be announcing on my Instagram when exactly I will be updating if not for the usual time :> it's also where I do my votes on specials and stuff so if you want to be a part of that... head over to @hisangelchip hehe.

Enjoy the i n a p p r o p r i a t e content I have for you. Warning, it is inappropriate. I said it three times.

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[Vanilla]

"No use pinning this on me, Leroy. An apron is a luxury. Plus, you're the school's number three! You... you don't spill, t-this is... this is not, clearly, legal l I think you'd have to be arrested for..." I trailed off, stunned and quite incapable of speech. Halfway through, I'd made the mistake of being exasperated enough to chance a look at him but good god, was that not the best of ideas.

It promptly reminded me of the mysteriously rigorous workout regime that culinary students were made to do in separate instances of gym class whilst exempting nutritionists and critics alike. After all, one couldn't possibly be built like an athlete what with food being central to their very living and being unless they were unfairly blessed with the gift of superior metabolism. Leroy was one such fortunate soul.

A pity he'd somehow traded in a good deal of his intelligence for, well, a set of fine physical traits; the idiot did not seem to have the slightest idea of the consequences wet hair could bring. Parts of his bare skin remained concerningly damp, including droplets of water dangling off the tips of his hair and some, clinging to his back.

"Please tell me you're wearing something under that towel," I said to him, slightly relieved to be observing his back instead of the um, the rather distracting front view. Well, technically speaking both were equally high up in their disruptive qualities but I suppose we'd all have to pick our poison at some point in our lives, so. Either way, he appeared to be searching for something. "Is everything alright?"

"Underwear," he laid out, unzipping his rucksack and reaching in before moving on to the grocery bags by the couch. "Can't remember where I put them."

"You mean the box you only just purchased from the department store?" I nearly sighed, pointing him in the direction of the dining table. "They were with the carrots and potatoes in that bag over there. You put them there yourself just this afternoon, Leroy. I can't believe the state of your memory!"

"Just trying to see if I could get away with losing them and not wearing all that to sleep," he had the gall to dodge my words entirely and fire a teasing flame in return. It was practically a crime.

"I'm sorry Leroy but underwear isn't 'all that' when it's the only thing you're attempting to put on at the moment. Let me see the shirt." I knocked on the bathroom door he'd closed for privacy and a hand, along with a bunched-up mess that was his brand-new 'Impress Me' shirt, presented itself through a gap in the door. My companion emerged as soon as I'd accepted it—this time, without a towel but thankfully (or, perhaps on second thoughts, not so thankful after all) clad in a pair of boxers.

"Alright, that's enough," was all I managed after a single glance that confirmed an increased likelihood of fainting spells. "Stay in there and I'll go get you a bathrobe. You're not walking around my apartment in that."

He'd laughed, glancing over his shoulder with a roll of his eyes. "In what?"

"Underwear, obviously."

Less than a minute after I'd pulled out my one and only precious bathrobe from the closet and handed it to Leroy for its appropriate use, the alarm in my phone gave its prompt reminder of bedtime. Naturally, I wasn't going to mess up my sleeping schedule all because a certain someone was over and thus, I'd urged him to don the robe and get into the far end of the bed before hitting the lights.

"At eleven?"

The look he gave me was not as appreciative as I would have liked it to be but then again, he appeared to me as a vague condescending blob of human without my glasses and I could very well have mistaken the expression on his face.

"Yes! Eleven. Is there a problem with that?" I made my way towards him, adjusting the covers so that the two of us would have an equal share. "Let me know if it's cold on your end. I'll do something about the heating."

He only seemed to watch, rather still from his end of the bed as I sat on the edge and slowly, carefully slipped under the covers on the other half. Frankly speaking, I wasn't exactly in the most comfortable state sleeping beside the very person I was supposedly dating—an idiot rudely clad only in his underwear had it not been for my generous offer of a bathrobe to sleep in. Well, at least he wasn't completely undressed.

"It's fucking small," was all Leroy had to say as soon as I'd joined him in bed, doing my best to avoid as much physical contact as I could. Admittedly, he was right; it was quite the squeeze. Though considering the other options we had, in which included my sleeping on the couch since, well, I wasn't heartless enough to actually suggest he spent the night freezing on that thrifted furniture, this had seemed almost feasible.

"Well then you're welcome to sleep on my doorstep, Leroy Jeremy Cox, self-invited guest," I told him in return, unable to lay bare the squishy creature that was really my heart. For extra measure, I pretended to be making myself comfortable on the extra pillow I'd had to pull out. After all, I couldn't possibly be sharing a pillow with Leroy.

"I'm telling you to come closer, dumbass."

This was followed by a snort and an immediate sensation of a hand on my waist, pulling me in. "You'll fall over like that."

"I-I'm not a child, Leroy. You don't have to go around concerning yourself about thing like me falling off a bed. It sounds completely ridiculous."

Needless to say, the unwarranted physical contact had had me startled. My companion on the other hand, didn't seem to care very much about leaving me in a stuttering mess and merely proceeded to continue on this path of action—soon enough, having my back plastered to his front—though in a manner so initially odd, I couldn't seem to figure out what it was I was pressed up against.

"Those cannot possibly be what I think they are," I whispered-shouted, far too outraged to actually register the fact that I'd accidentally brushed against his, apparently, open bathrobe.

I could nearly hear the smirk in his voice. "What?"

"Bread rolls," I struggled to turn under the covers, far too bewildered to think about anything that wasn't figuring out the mystery that was his abdominal muscles. "Just how often are you culinary students made to physically exert yourselves?"

"You mean abs," he followed my gaze before returning, staring rather intensely.

"Yes I still can't believe they make it necessary, all those additional field rounds and morning routines and what not." I prodded them out of curiosity and, as biology would have it, they were hard.

"Yeah." He was agreeing with me, albeit to my surprise. Still staring, right down my iris like there was something beyond it that he was looking for. "As though standing from nine to nine and having the stamina to run a line isn't enough as it is. Guess it's why we're always champions in the inter-majors."

"What's that?"

"Sports day, thing. Kinda lame."

"So the majors compete in different segments? Culinary, baking, critics and nutritionists. Like an inter-house sports carnival. The kind they have in every school during the summer season."

"Yeah."

Granted, I hadn't expected casual conversation, of all things, to be the source of my returning attention narrowing in on the sudden realization of our close proximity and the sheer clarity of his face despite my vision of poor nature. I tugged on the sides of his bathrobe that had come undone, giving it a quick fix whilst clearing my throat. "There. Much better."

Turning back to the empty space I had been facing—away from the source of my present anxieties—I forced my eyes shut and commenced my first attempt at sheep counting. Alas, it proved futile.

"Night, Vanilla."

He was awfully close. The sheer proximity factored into my general discomfort and heightened self-consciousness, all-too-aware from the clarity of his voice that he had chosen not to turn away from my back and sleep facing the wall. This was further supported by the odd sensation of his abdominal muscles on my back, through the fabric of my pyjamas and the bathrobe he was wearing. Again, as abovementioned, they were very hard.

Perhaps the entire world was mistaken and that being well-toned wasn't exactly the most positive physical attribute for any human species after all since, well, that couldn't possibly make them very pleasant to hug. All of a sudden, I rather pitied my godfather.

Floating thoughts were unfortunately ineffective in aiding my task to fall asleep and before long, I felt my companion shifting on his side of the bed, tossing and turning for quite the long moment.

"As expected, the bed is small and uncomfortable." I said, strangely nervous. "I apologize. I'll sleep on the armchair. I mean, the couch. You can have the bed." I sat up at once, which was a huge mistake since I definitely would not have appeared the slightest bit sleepy or at least pretended to look the part.

This was very surprisingly followed by him doing the same. Sitting up in the dark.

"I need to jerk off."

"Ah," I'd said on instinct, preparing to shuffle out of bed to let him do as he pleased, whatever the words meant, before pausing and stopping short. It took some thorough scouring of my mental dictionary before I finally realized the absence of the last two words in his sentence, which then warranted some good ol' blinking in the darkness.

Outside, the street was unusually quiet for eleven o'clock on a Saturday evening. There was, however, a warm glow coming from the streetlamps downstairs and the odd chill of moonlight combating the orange mist, filtering though the window.

"Is that a bad thing or a good—"

"Masturbate."

Oh, was what really went on in my mind before a pregnant pause ensued and thus ruined the otherwise peaceful, everyday dynamics we had between us since the day we reunited in culinary school.

I mean, there were escalations and the like but still! Never to such an extent, dear god these were foreign waters. Very foreign, highly dangerous. Practically lethal.

"U-um. I... well, I."

In the darkness, I knew precisely how I would have looked with the lights turned on. The heat on my face was unbearable and spreading fast, backwards to the very tips of my ears and up to my head for a dizzy moment. Then, it was the neck and everything below that.

What I did not expect was for Leroy to switch on the lamp stuck to the wall on his side, triggering me into a panicked scrambling for the covers in my lap to hide the embarrassment that was my face.

"What are you doing?" He was very clearly laughing, though I wasn't too sure what it was, exactly, he found so awfully amusing.

"Nothing," I kept my face buried in the covers that were bunched up in my hands. Again, he made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a... a don't-know-what and was very soon inching closer, sheets and fabric rustling and—oh god he was trying to take the covers away. "No! No, Leroy, these are my half! You have yours!"

I struggled. I fought. I was unfortunately defeated.

Bare face out like an open book with nothing to hide behind, I refused to have my gaze wander anywhere near his face. This, too, happened to be another mistake of mine. I attribute all blame to the misbehaving bathrobe that was clearly open in all its enthusiastic glory.

All of a sudden, I was acutely aware of the blood rushing downwards and pooling below my midriff. The air was oddly warm and the temperature, rising in a steady motion, playing with the thoughts in my head.

"Do you... really need to...?" My eyes drifted somewhere near his neck and, since I wasn't exactly able to make out the exact details of Leroy's body, meant that I could afford looking at body parts I wouldn't usually find myself looking at.

"Yeah."

I tried to make out what was happening under the folds of the covers and his bathrobe by squinting. "Would, um. Would a cold shower suffice? I mean, you've already showered but..."

"You need one too?"

Now he was staring at me. In fact, the direction and general acoustics of his voice made it so that I could tell he was very clearly observing the activity around the lower half of my body, which I, too, had been doing so for him. Except I don't have twenty-twenty vision. Which he had.

Not to mention, satin pyjamas weren't exactly the best at concealing apparent involuntary excitement. Or instincts, as I like to call it. Nothing more, nothing less—a perfectly ordinary physical response that needed no attention whatsoever! Instincts weren't going to sweep me off my feet, no. I'd never allow for that; instincts were easily conquered.

At least they'd always been to me, in the past. The contention had been an interesting one explored in the universe of sparrows and eagles, so much so that I had been surprisingly invested in the arc whereby the protagonist had to battle instinct despite possessing a mind of pure rational reason, tampered by what they'd termed Heat. W-was that it? Is this Heat I was experiencing?

"No! No, most certainly not," I told both Leroy and myself. "It'll go away if I leave it and think about the grammatical mistake I'd made in the email I'd written to the Baker's Times for an internship application. It was the very reason I received no response and no one can convince me otherwise."

He had the gall to snort, musing to himself. "Don't you have other ways to get rid of it?"

Admittedly, such a question had indeed made its way across my mind over the years of puberty but entertaining it was a completely different matter. It was in this very moment that I'd decided to give it some genuine thought. In fact, the pause to think had ended up being longer than I'd expected and thus somehow resulted in a fair intensifying of the heat on my face.

Not good.

"I... th-this level of inappropriateness is beyond my capacity." I concluded intelligently.

This proceeded to trigger a smirk on his face that, even without my glasses, I could tell foreshadowed something highly illegal. Leroy was leaning into the conversation, or whatever it was we were having, closing the distance and then in the panicked frenzy that I was experiencing on the inside, brushed something against my upper thigh.

This all had happened in quick succession but because he'd gone and filled my entire field of vision with the upper half of his face, I could only attend to the movement of his gaze—flitting downwards to something below my nose and then back up.

"I'll help you. If you help me."

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[Leroy]

He made me wait for two whole seconds, skin colouring several shades darker than the pink he first started out with.

"Y-you... you honestly think I'd take you up on that offer?" Disbelief. His eyes struggled, a glimpse into the battle inside. Reason up against instinct. And honestly, he wasn't doing too bad, having resisted this far into the flames. He had his waves under control, that's for sure.

"Why not?"

I was at a distance that made it easy for him to observe the details on my face, just so every piece of information was laid out for him, crystal clear. He was having trouble meeting my gaze, though. It was cute.

"Skin," he let slip by mistake and from the way his eyes widened and peered up for my reaction, it only furthered his embarrassment. "I did not mean that. I don't even know why I said it." His gaze lowered to my crotch, mostly because he couldn't look me in the eye. "Were you always this tanned?"

I followed, finding myself highly entertained by his embarrassed, wandering thoughts. "Could be the light."

What I did not expect was for him to continue staring at my crotch, eyes round and, like a pool on a midsummer night, glistening. I couldn't tell if he was curious or amazed or just, turned on by something daunting in his realm of knowledge.

"I mean I'd see why that could be the case but it's ridiculous how I'd never noticed—" I thought he needed some encouragement, what with his drifting attention and with his lips inches away, it wasn't all that hard to lean in for a long one.

It was deeper than usual, unintentionally, so by the end of it, he was holding onto my shoulders for support and then resting his hands on my chest whilst trying to catch his breath. I took one of them in mine and guided it lower, down to where had piqued his interest.

His breath quickened from soft, gentle panting to a series of startled stammers. "Leroy? W-where are you—what is the, you, I don't think I..."

"Please?" I'd thought this would make him cave but it was clear he'd known me far too well to fall for one of my tricks. Almost immediately, his eyes had hardened. He knew I wasn't the kind to beg.

"The... the look in your eyes says it all, Leroy. That's no plea, that's nearly an order disguised as one and you know perfectly well that it is. I'm most certainly not allowing any of—I! I-is that...?"

His fingers were cold. It had been a matter of taking it out and letting it stand, all whilst helping him out by positioning where and how his hands were supposed to move. Not really what I'd been expecting, but he was keeping both his hands occupied. First, the tips of his fingers and then, the heart of his palm.

Naturally, I was rock-hard.

"Leroy, you're... this... clearly, you're making a, a mistake I-I..." He'd kind of positioned the rest of his body for easier movement of his hands, resting on my length and sort of just holding it there. A single glance at his face confirmed nervous glances and a general expression of extra care and concern for my dick in his hands. "I certainly hadn't handled any, sort of, well, body part that did not belong to me, let alone a-a rather specific private area not exactly meant to be handled by just about anyone."

'Handled' was a funny word. I kept that in mind.

Loosening my grip on his wrist, I leaned back to give him some space and rested my weight on the hands I put behind for support. I let him decide.

For the first time, he was chewing on his bottom lip, occasionally peering up with his hands just frozen in place. I didn't say anything to pressure him; just maintained eye contact to let him know that he had all my attention.

"This heat is... it is very unfamiliar indeed," he voiced out of obligation, fingers wrapped around my length and I could see just how he was on the brink of malfunctioning, just realizing what exactly it was he was holding onto.

"I-I should... well, I should remind you that I've never... even to myself, it isn't something I'm entirely familiar with and I'm... I'm admittedly not going to be very good at this. I might even end up hurting you."

This was him. I lifted a finger, beckoning. Still leaning my weight on one hand, I reached for the back of his neck as he neared and, with the momentum, went for another one that was long and deep. From the way his lips had stiffened by surprise and the clear lack of breathing through his nose, I could almost hear the counting in his head.

"There's a first for everything," I told him after he started thumping against my chest as a sign for 'let me breathe.' He sighed, kneeling on the mattress and keeping his hands to himself. Still panting slightly. Satin button-down a mess.

"Short disclaimer, um. I'm no expert. Also, do sound out if, say, I'm hurting you in one way or another. A-are we clear? On this?"

I rolled my eyes, giving him a simple 'yes' but also just leaving it there for a pause, waiting for him to collect himself. He was fixing his shirt—fingers trembling just enough to render his buttoning abilities useless. His shorts were riding up his upper thigh, which was mostly the fault of my wandering hands during the kiss.

Either way, I was about to tell him I'd take care of it myself in the bathroom when he, all of a sudden, went into breathing exercises mode, closing his eyes and all. In the seconds I was distracted by his breathing, he'd sort of leaned into me, head angling in a way that I thought he was going for a hug but instead, reached for my shaft.

"Hey—" I thought of telling him to slow down, or at least warn him against forcing himself but there was something in his eyes and it was fucking full-on-concentration­.

It was so like him to be setting his mind on pulling something off, no matter how far it was beyond his capacity of knowledge or experience. For him, even in moments like these, to be doing his best was personally the ultimate turn-on.

I found it hard not to stare at his face. He was blushing, that's for sure. And then swallowing because he was nervous; then, occasionally, peering my way to check for reactions. For some reason, I could tell the things going around in his head were just about crazy.

He had both his hands running up and down my length in gentle strokes, resembling mere brushing of his fingertips at times that anyone else would have mistaken for deliberate teasing. His inexperience was clear as day—almost as though the concept of jerking off had never been an issue legitimate enough for him to include in his mental capacity. His touch was soft, slow and unsure, mostly careful with no sense of rhythm and visible worry written on his face.

"Does it, um. Are you...? Is there a proper way of doing this?" He finally asked, having observed zero reaction on my face. His gaze continued to alternate between the heat in his hands and up at my own.

I reached for his waist, pulling him closer to laugh in his ear. "Wow, you really suck at this."

He blushed indignantly at my amusement and stammered a protest. I slipped a finger down the back of his satin shorts and tugged, along with the band of his underwear. "I'll teach you."

"What! Th-that is not how—"

"Watch closely."

"Good god Leroy Cox this is no ordinary practical lesson with step-by-step demonstrations!" He was pressed up against me, fingers still somehow wrapped around my shaft but frozen in place. "You're not going to... you cannot possibly be thinking of..."

I coaxed the back of his neck into leaning forward, just so that he would rest his head on my shoulder for comfort, then stripped his bottom half bare. I checked his state for permission before reaching between his legs.

He had been trying to look at what I was doing or where my hands were about to go, but we both knew he wasn't the best multi-tasker around, so while he attempted to jump-start his malfunctioning hands, I stroked him once.

His reaction was immediate. Trembling—almost violently, in the middle of saying my name before shutting down in a whimper. It was soft. Barely audible. But he was close enough and I was looking out for signs in the first place.

He was untouched, for sure. Then skin I was caressing between my fingers, feeling in the heart of my palm. Pale, pink at the tip or at least from what I could tell under the dim light. His skin was smooth. Almost soft.

I stroked twice, then with my other hand, reached up to run along the sides of his waist, covering as much as I could while he seemed to be almost leaning into my touch. This was before I found a pace he responded to the most, kept at it for a couple of strokes and then, picking up.

"This... y-you're not..." He wasn't in the state to speak, let alone piece words together for a sentence. Somewhere along the way, he'd left my length and reached for my hand that was stroking his own, brushing my wrist or whatever it was he was trying to grasp. "That's just—that's just going to... to dirty your, hands. You don't have to..."

If this was him trying to stop me from pleasuring him, it wasn't really working because his attempt was feeble and also, he was also clearly crumbling under instincts; unconsciously leaning into my touch, along with his entire body just giving in and inching, closing the distance between us till he had his face buried in my shoulder. It muffled the sweet things threatening to escape his lips. His breathing picked up, hard and uneven against my neck and the scent of his shampoo, mixed with the chamomile tea he had before going to bed and his pyjamas was sending me over the edge.

"Leroy?"

I turned, just to observe the look on his face but instead, stared at his ear that was a mere inch away. It looked delicious. I licked it.

He gasped, clearly surprised and turned several shades redder the moment he heard himself. I laughed, nuzzling down his jaw and picking up the pace of my hand that had been doing the stroking, thumbing the tip several times till he was unable to internalize the physical pleasure he was going through—hips bucking and back arching into his high.

He came in my hand. For a good moment, he seemed to have lost all control of his system. Fingers clinging on to the bathrobe on my back and pitched, adorable sighs escaping his lips. I let him rest his forehead on my shoulder whilst catching his breath, coming down from his high.

I'd always imagined his resistance to be a lot lower. Like, coming from a kiss, low. If this was his first time receiving a hand job or jerking off, even, then I'd say he was doing pretty well. It surprised me. Have to correct my stance on this.

"Oh god I'm so... I'll get you some tissues."

"No need," I told him, holding him in place with my other hand that was clean, knowing that what he needed most at the moment was some time to patiently wait it out, let the high of his climax slowly make its exit. We stayed like this for a good minute or two—him resting his forehead on my shoulder and me wondering if my erection was ever going to go away—till he promised he was alright and that I could let go.

He brought a box of Kleenex over to the bed and I asked, teasing, if he was ready to put 'observation into practice.'

"That was barely observing," he started out, back to being overly self-conscious already. "I-I... I was in your neck nearly half the time." I wiped my hands and pulled him closer to wipe him down too. Meanwhile, he was looking around for his shorts, slightly dazed.

I wanted his full attention.

"You were really weak right here." I thumbed his tip without warning and went for his ear once more and it was enough to send shivers down his spine.

"Leroy, Jeremy, Cox, please." He looked serious, albeit teary-eyed from the prior and immediate pleasure. "No more."

Seeing that he wasn't in the state to respond or continue, I let him off the hook and cleaned him properly, handing over his shorts before helping him with the covers. "You sleep. I'll be in there."

He followed my gaze to the bathroom, slightly stunned. "W-what? But I thought we were... I mean, you haven't exactly...goodness. Why am I so tired from... how is this possible?"

"Ejaculation releases a hormone called prolactin, ever heard of that?"

"No... no, I haven't," his eyes were half-closed, "I must have missed it out on the biology thesaurus I'd read five years ago. I must have sped through it..."

"It makes you tired," I went on, as a distraction. I was really just waiting for sleep to hit him. "Also associated with 'recovery time.' It's the break people take between rounds of sex."

"O-oh... oh, I see..." He mumbled something about research and having to go back to that biology thesaurus before completely falling asleep. I made sure he was comfortable under the covers before heading to the bathroom with the past ten minutes still fresh in my memory.

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A/N: okay lik i said inappropriate and ohmygod it has been ages since I've done anything close to this and its not even the real thing but MEHHH ITS GONNA BE YEARS SINCE THEY ACTUALLY DO IT SO HOORAY FOR ME????

-Cuppie