Hi, guys.

My friend requested smut. I, being a terrible smut-writer, failed to meet her request.

I suppose it's a terrible cockblock to her, having not only NZ a girl, but also this whole shitfest is in second person, as well as present tense.

Read at your own risk.

Kiri

You don't want to touch her.

As she sleeps, peaceful smile on her face denoting blissful dreams you yourself will not ever achieve, she is perfect.

And you'll do anything, anything, to keep the illusion from shattering.

If you caress her creamy curls, you might come across a tangle. If you place a hand on her unmarred cheek, you might feel a bump. And, if you press a kiss to her lips, you might feel cracks, souvenirs of dry winter.

The thought is unbearable.

That she, this, this goddess who has chosen you of all people, might be imperfect is too deplorable to contemplate.

So she sleeps on her side of the bed, and you on yours, and you feel entirely unsatisfied, but reassured.

When day breaks, and sunlight reaches for porcelain her face (as you dare not), you turn away, run away, seek solace in the dubious refuge of the en suite. When she knocks on the door, and comes stumbling in, you leap into the shower and tug the plastic curtain across so roughly it is almost torn from its pegs.

The sight of a dishevelled girlfriend is not something you want to bear.

"Good morning," her voice drifts to you, and it flows like honey through your ears, causing your eyes to close and a smile to break over your face.

"Good morning," and your greeting is nowhere near as lovely as hers, your voice hoarse and slightly too high-pitched to be classified as beautiful.

Perfect.

Like hers.

"I have to go to uni soon. Would you mind if I used the shower first?"

As if you could ever deny her anything when she asks in that voice.

So you pull open the curtain, and leave quickly, before she can realise you were in the shower with clothes on.

And before you can see her probable bed hair, or the possible bags under her eyes.

The comb you drag through your hair has a strand of hers twisted through its tines, and you gently unwind it. You don't throw it away. The mere thought of doing so disgusts you. No, you keep it, placing it delicately, lovingly, on your nightstand.

The clothes you put on are the only caress you need. Their touch is rough, and imperfect, but you don't mind.

Better their touch so, better their touch flawed, than hers.

When she leaves the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel that does nothing to disguise the perfect swell of her chest, you cannot help but stare at her. But now she is at her most lovely, as she might not have been before her shower. There are no circles under her wide, turquoise eyes, no hint of knots in her slick hair.

When she surprises you by kissing you full on the lips with her soft, moist ones, you turn away, before she can make even the slightest mistake. You do nothing to remove the shocked, hurt look in her eyes.

Some would call you obsessed. But they are mistaken, grievously so. It is not obsession, fixation. It is love.

Your day consists of staring blankly at the space just beyond your lecturers' faces. You take no notes, not to say that's irregular for you.

Arriving home, you are accosted by a demanding dog, who leaps on you and ruins your already ruined shirt by tearing it and slobbering on it. You don't mind, it gives you a distraction from the fact that she is standing in the doorway, arms folded, and an expectant expression on her face. It makes her look all the more exquisite, but you know that if you looked up at her face, she would ask you what happened in the morning, and you would have to reveal just how sick you truly are.

You go through all the usual pre-dinner routines – feeding the dog, attempting to complete an essay at a regular hour, getting changed – alone, as you always have.

Dinner is an awkward affair. She bought takeout (she doesn't know how to cook much anyway) that's slightly too salty and the portions are slightly too small, so when you look at her – finally – you look at her with a dry mouth and an empty stomach.

"So ..."

"Yes?" You snap, before remembering that it was a goddess you were snapping at, no Polly Blogs, and apologising profusely.

The clock on the wall ticks.

The rain patters on the windows.

Somewhere outside, a cat yowls.

"I'm going to bed," she mutters, and even when filled with repressed anger, her voice is wonderful.

"Oh – I was just going too."

Lying in bed, a meter apart from her, you wonder exactly why you said that. The awkwardness that had been so obviously present at the dinner table was even more so in the bed, with the crisp sheets and the thick duvet that only just kept out the cold.

Her bedside lamp is on, and she's reading 1984 for what has to be the five hundredth time or so. The soft frown of her concentration is so endearing, that you almost forget yourself again and lean over to place a chaste kiss on her cheek.

But you don't.

Instead, you slide your copy of Lord of the Flies – or at least you think that's what it is – and pretend to be absorbed in a page you stay on for at least ten minutes.

You put your book down when she turns her light out – yours was never on – and listen to the crickets' valiant attempt to fill the oppressive silence.

So intent are you, you don't notice her moving until her lips are on yours for the second time that day, and before you can turn your head, your tongue acts of its own accord and swipes itself along her mouth, asking – begging – permission for entrance, which is granted easily, and, as your and her tongue begin one of the oldest dances known to man, you wonder what the hell took you so long to do this. It's not perfect – it's not, and you can readily admit that – but you find yourself not giving a damn as to whether the tongue down your throat is a bit too forceful to be considered skilful.

Nor do you give a damn if she's being a bit too eager when you roll so that it is you lying atop her, and her legs clench around your midriff and she whispers something that sounds rather like 'fuck me' in her perfectly innocent voice.

You respond by slipping a hand under her nylon pyjama top and with a muttered 'not yet'. Indeed, the way you trace the area around her nipples suggest it could be hours – possibly days – before you even consider 'fucking' her.

It feels like hours have passed before you pull off her shirt, and it feels like precious minutes go to waste as you fumble – unsuccessfully – to take off her bra, wondering why in the Hell she would ever wear a bra to bed. Reaching up to give you a lazy kiss, she undoes the cursed thing herself, and you throw it behind you, not bothering to look where it lands.

And later, when she is asleep and you are awake, mind clearer than it's been in months, you wonder what your fucking problem was. No, she isn't perfect, or at least not all of the time, but she's pretty damn near it, and that's good enough.