Sly was not one for cuddling, usually dressed and out of the bar long before anything so disgustingly affectionate could occur. But on more that one occasion he'd been fucked too hard, drank too much or gotten too high and had passed out. Waking up either sprawled out on a sticky leather sofa with Mizuki draped across him like some overly-warm blanket, or, more bizarrely, in Mizuki's bed. He was never sure how he actually got there, whether the bar tender carried him, or whether he made his own way up but couldn't remember due to the various toxic substances pumping through his veins. Either way, Sly would crawl away as soon as possible, gathering his clothing and slipping them on over abused skin, blood clotted on his bitten neck and semen crusting on his flat stomach. There was no time to cuddle, or wish each other good morning with gross breath and crusty eyes. Not that Sly wished there was, the mere idea made him want to throw up.
So waking up to sunlight streaming through blinds in a strange bed was no surprise to him, merely groaning lowly as his head pounded and his stomach began to churn. He was about to slink out of bed and creep past the sleeping tattooist when he became aware of a strange weight over his side. He turned cautiously, stretching out and meeting firm flesh as he arched backwards, his back connecting with the chest of the bartender. So that explained the unfamiliar warmth flowing through his body, Mizuki was spooning him. His newly conscious mind was too exhausted to even question why on earth he'd choose today of all occasions to be so clingy. The sex last night, what Sly could remember of it anyway, had been harder than usual. Thin cuts running down his chest licked clean with a hungry intensity, hands around his neck tightly as he slammed into him hard, head banging against the sofa arm with each thrust. Vision going black as nails raked down his sides and his back arched, crying out wordlessly as his oxygen supply failed and he fell into the void of orgasm. His spine ached and he could feel a stinging at both his neck and sides where teeth and nails had pierced previously pale skin. Breathing was painful, and he was sure when he moved to look his neck would be sporting beautiful finger marks, wrapping around his throat in rainbow shades of blue, purple and yellow.
A shift from behind him distracted him from his bodily aches, warm skin moulding to his own making him aware of his nudity, not that it had ever bothered him. It was warm, so deliciously warm, and comfortable that Sly almost drifted off again, something unknown to either of them. Mizuki used to waking alone and Sly used to scurrying off as soon as possible like an ashamed teenager after a bad one night stand. His eyes fluttered shut and he was succumbing to the delicious temptation of more sleep, reasoning with himself that he could tell Mizuki to get the fuck off when he woke up again, hopefully his hangover would be better by then. A soft breath on the back of his neck and a tired yawn made him stiffen up, yellow eyes snapping open, when the hand around his waist moved away he was almost disappointed, feeling the cold rush onto his bare skin immediately. So he didn't know how to react when the same hand carded through his hair carefully, twice, before following the bumps of his spine slowly and sliding back around his front, pulling him closer to the hairdresser. He could feel a nose pressing into his neck and the hand on his stomach rubbed small circles into his skin, rising and falling of the flesh behind him constant and peaceful. There was a noise almost like a low hum, and lips pressed to his neck, nuzzling into his hairline and kissing the pale skin. Sly didn't know what to do, he should move, he needed to go, this was uncharted territory. This wasn't part of their deal, Sly fucked Mizuki in exchange for the use of his bar to drink and get high, that was it. They didn't cuddle, or kiss, or hold hands or do any of that couple bullshit Aoba was always raving about.
"Morning." A sleepy voice muttered softly, breath on Sly's neck making his skin crawl.
He just grunted in reply. He wanted to leave, this was unnerving and wrong, what did Mizuki think he was doing? But something in him was reluctant to leave the relative safety of Mizuki's arms and face the world outside, the people who shot him disgusted glares and the gangs who would no doubt try to pick a fight with him. For once he didn't want to have to go and 'service' Virus and Trip in return for drugs and cigarettes, he didn't want to return home to his families concerned and disapproving expressions that made him feel worse than shit.
He wanted to stay here, and for once, in his pathetic, worthless excuse for an existence, feel wanted, feel needed, feel loved.