OSHA Violations Abound

Lowering himself into the ship, he exhaled carefully before plunging his head into the thin fluid inside of the cockpit. For a trip like this, it was more cost-effective to use a recyclable oxygenated fluid instead of wasting a entire carbon-to-oxygen converter. While it was easy enough to breath once you got used to it, the first few breaths always felt like drowning. Cyrus hated every moment of it.

He sank down towards the bottom of the ship, giving them room to seal up the hatch he had entered through. While it was hypothetically possible to open it from the inside, it would be impossible for one person — no matter how physically inclined — to open the door once they were in zero gravity. Once he was in zero gravity. This mission was to be endured alone.

As settled into his seat as best he could in the sluggish fluid, slipping on the harness that would keep him relatively secure during take-off. The curt voice over the radio in his ear informed him that they would be launching shortly.

There was no fanfare as he left the station for the final time. All that greeted him was a grim sense of finality. As the station receded behind him and became one with the sea of dying starlight, he focused on the coordinates that he had been sent to locate.

Once he reached an appropriate speed, Cyrus slumped down in his seat. With the ship locked on the destination and effectively piloting itself, there was nothing to do but wait. … Wait, and be annoyed by how his messy red hair kept floating into his face. Zero gravity and an non-regulation haircut did not mix well. Should have gotten a trim before I left. Guess I'm going to die looking like shit. … Guess I always kinda expected that.

Kicking back in the stiff seat, he reached under the fabric of his shirt and pulled out a small metal locket. Inside was a — thankfully lamintated — picture of a man roughly Cyrus's age, or perhaps a few years younger. Smiling. Cyrus didn't smile in return as his thumb traced the edge of the picture.

Not for the first nor last time, his mind drifted to why he was out here. His boss had a habit of sticking him on shitty mission, sure. Gabriel had been doing that since the accident. As if the accident itself wasn't punishment enough. But this? A suicide mission? It felt excessive, considering he'd never committed any crimes. Sure, Cyrus felt vaguely confident that he had the skills to pull this off if no outside forces interfered, but he'd never been so deep in the shit before.

At some point, he dozed off. When he awoke, it was due to the pinging of a proximity detector. He was near a planet of some kind.

Well, no, that wasn't accurate. There were next to no planets left. This was a moon. A crimson, undulating moon. Squinting, he peered through the front glass to get a better look.

He took the controls to steer, correcting the course to stay clear of the pull of the atmosphere. Reflexively, he pressed the button for his communicator, but was met with the fuzzy sound of interference instead. Shit, right. Deadzone. That's why they couldn't get a look at it from the station.

From what he could tell by visually examining the moon and using the sensors on his ship, the moon appeared to be primarily water. … No, not water. Something thicker. Oil? Can oil be red?

It took him slightly longer than he'd have liked to admit to make the obvious realization. There's an atomosphere. And it appeared to be breathable, from what he could tell. Oxygen, nitrogen… That itself was strange, as that would imply that the moon he was looking at may in-fact be habitable. But that was… fucking impossible. All habitable planets disappeared.

With an unexpected thrill, Cyrus realized that this could be huge. He might be the first person to lay eyes on the only habitable celestial object known to humanity at this point. Making short work of turning the ship around, he guided the ship back the way he came and periodically tested his communicator to see when it regained connection.

"— I think it's habitable." He concluded, wrapping up his summary. Cyrus expected something — shock, disbelief, praise, perhaps? But instead, he was met with cold indifference.

"Go get a surface sample. We need to figure out what we're dealing with." His supervisor said, voice crackling over the distance.

"What? You want me to just… go down there?" Cyrus asked incredulously. "This ship isn't made for atmospheric entry. It might shake apart, either coming in or going out."

"It'll hold. Trust me, that ship is worth more than you are. We want it back."

Cyrus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. So, fuck me, then. You realize that if I die, you're gonna have to send another ship out to come pick this one up, right? Waste double — triple the fuel?"

"That won't happen if you do your job right. Just get out there and come back."

"Oh, yeah, just do it. Sure thing, el capitano."

"Don't get smart—"

Cyrus disconnected the line, floating back to the controls and setting his course back towards the red moon. Knowing it would be a few hours before he would be needed to steer again, he settled into "pacing" the ship. AKA: pushing himself off of the walls back and forth in a self-soothing gesture.

Having assisted in building this ship, he knew every nook and cranny of it. Each screwhead, every rivet. When he grew bored of pacing, he drifted over to a console near the back of the ship. It was meant as a hard backup of the ship's data in case of emergency. A black box, if you will. It automatically recorded everything in the ship, from diagnostics to audio. Thankfully, it did not have visuals inside the ship. Cameras were too expensive.

After booting the device up, he typed in a couple of administrator passwords and scrolled through the data it had collected thus far. Data soothed him in ways he couldn't put into words. No feelings to contend with, just cold hard facts.

To his surprise, the audio recordings expanded well before today's date. In fact, they went back to the installation of the computer itself. The month matched up to his memory, anyway. He tapped on the file, playing the audio.

He could hear himself, cursing and muttering as he bolted the computer into place. I sound so fucking hostile. Do I always sound like that? Cyrus quickly switched to a different file — months later. This would have been while another team was testing the interior devices of the ship.

For a while, he eavesdropped on the idle chatter of engineers he hardly knew. Cyrus didn't make a habit of knowing too many people, these days. He was only half listening as he paced, feeling a sense of relaxation in some core part of his brain. The simulation of company was a powerful force. Though, that calm changed when he heard his own name.

"— Cyrus, I think?"

"Oh, yeah. I've met him, I think. He's kinda…"

"Freaky? Yeah, I know what you mean. Got psycho eyes."

Cyrus couldn't hear the next few sentences over the crackle of welding.

"— Still can't believe it. Barry was a good guy. Why would anybody want him dead?"

Hearing that name made his heart skip a beat. No one mentioned Barry around him. They knew better.

"I don't think he WANTED him dead. Sounds like it was an accident to me."

"Yeah, an accident where a robot with AI that only three people understand happens to kill one of its creators. Fat chance that was an accident."

"I'm just sayin'! If Barry didn't set it up to kill himself, then it had to either be his partner, or his boss."

All three of them were silent for a long moment. Cyrus stared daggers into the computer.

"… You really blame his partner over his boss?"

"Can't be the boss. He's a stupid asshole, but no one could fire him for anything. If I start thinking he's a murderer, then we got bigger fish to fry than one—"

Cyrus hit the button to silence the file so hard, the entire computer shook in its housing. He clutched his hair, curling up onto himself as thoughts he tried so hard not to think crept their way in.

It doesn't make any sense. I'd never hurt Barry. I loved him. I STILL love him. Barry wouldn't have killed himself, either. I think. Shouldn't I have known if he was planning something like that?

Which left only one other option.

He couldn't let himself think it, no matter how much sleep it had cost him since the accident. It would make his life even more nightmarish than it already was.

As the ship shook through the atmosphere, Cyrus prepared to die. It wasn't made for this. It's going to fall apart. It wasn't made for this. I wasn't made for this.

But somehow, they both survived. With shaking hands, he pulled up and cruised over the ocean of sloshing red fluid. It was thick and viscous, and set off a primal, fearful part of his mind. Pressing a few buttons, he extended a tool to collect a sample of the liquid.

Being so close to the murky darkness below made a pit of dread open up in Cyrus's stomach. As the arm retracted, he peered down into the depths of the ocean, swirling and churning endlessly. He could almost believe that it was alive —

The lights flickered. The engine sputtered. All at once, the ship dropped and Cyrus was thrown against the ceiling. In a matter of seconds, all light faded away as he plunged into the bleak abyss.

When the pain in his head and spine faded enough for him to move, panic controlled his body. The ship was still falling. He grabbed for the railing to haul himself back to the controls, frantically pulling up — trying anything to slow his descent. He got no feedback, beyond the pressure in the ship slowly rising.

When they hit something, Cyrus screamed. It was a sound he hated, and it left his throat raw. Him and the ship bounced off of whatever the obstacle was, and finally, they settled on the bottom of the ocean with an ominous groan.

Something was horribly wrong. Why had the ship lost power? How long would it last under these conditions? Sure, it was meant to survive the vacuum of space, but under an ocean of pressure? That was a vastly different story.

As reason slowly returned, Cyrus realized what he had to do. He crawled to a panel in the wall, yanking a tool from his pocket and undoing the screws. He yanked the panel off, exposing the innards of the ship. Everything was more slippery than it had been on installation, thanks to the oxygenated fluid submerging the entire ship, but he managed to grab a lever, hold a button, and crank.

Once.

Twice.

Oh my God, it's not working.

I'm going to die.

Three times —

The ship sputtered to life, gasping light into Cyrus's face. He blinked and shielded his eyes, but welcomed the blinding glow of electronics. He scrambled back to the controls, hitting the distress button over and over.

… Of course, there was no response. Even if the emergency signal was getting out through an ocean and a deadzone, it would take a while to reach the station, and longer than that for a rescue shuttle to be sent out.

"Fuck." Cyrus whispered. Then, gripping his hair, he said it again with feeling. "Fuck!!"

Something outside of the ship rumbled. Shifting. Was it the ocean itself? The hull of the ship giving way? He wasn't sure. As he stared out into the maroon haze outside of the glass, he could see little bubbles breaking away from the ship and floating upward. Was that oxygen clinging to the ship from its descent, or the oxygenated fluid leaking out?

Am I tasting blood, or am I hallucinating?

Cyrus touched his mouth, but his fingers came away clean.

Mercy came when his communicator crackled to life. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Oh, fuck me — yes! Yes, I can hear you!" He almost laughed with relief. "Gabriel, is that you?"

"No, I'm not —… How did you get here?"

"I, uh… I'm on a ship, from the COI. SC-13. I came out for surface samples. Who the hell are you? Are you from the station? Did I, uh… black out or something?"

"It doesn't matter. Listen to me, you can't stay here."

"Yeah, I'm picking up on that." He said, shutting his eyes as another shudder rattled the ship. "Are you stranded here, too? Did they send out another crew before me?"

"I'm not stranded. But, you don't want to stay here long enough to find me, anyway. You have to leave."

As his gaze focused out of the glass, he could see something dark moving ahead of him. Something big. Unfathomably massive.

"Oh my God." His voice wavered as he jolted forward, grabbing the controls. "I'm sorry, I can't— I can't help you. I gotta get out of here."

"You do. But you're not going back."

He paused, fiddling with the propulsion system. Still working, for now. He backed up, giving himself a running start.

"I think I can manage."

"You won't make it back alive. Your ship is damaged. You're going to run out of oxygen before you even get close."

Confused, he glanced at his readouts. To his horror, his oxygen level was dropping rapidly. He was losing CO2 by the second. Acting fast, he punched the ship into gear and hauled ass away from the ocean's floor.

As he ascended, the communicator crackled. "You won't — … I can show you another way."

"Yeah? Try me." He spat through grit teeth.

The voice read out a long string of numbers. He recognized the format as coordinates. Cyrus glanced at map, committing the new location to memory.

"Where is that? Where are you?"

"Home. Come home, Cyrus."

His stomach flipped.

"I didn't tell you my—"

When the line crackled again, louder, he reached up to pull the communicator from his ear, but—

It wasn't there.

While the G-force pushed him back in his seat, he forced his head to turn and scan the cockpit. Drifting around on the floor near his feet, he spotted his communicator. It hadn't been in his ear since he hit the ocean.

"Shit. Shit!" He cursed, focusing on rising out of the ocean.

Finally, he broke free of the surface. Thick fluid clung to the glass like corn syrup, but was splattered off by the force of his acceleration.

The voice — hallucination or not — was right. He wouldn't make it back. But he knew he could make it to the coordinates he had heard. Maybe he had somehow remembered the location of another station, one that was closer than where he had come from. Maybe, if he was lucky, it was just outside of the deadzone. Somewhere that he could wait until help arrived.

He tried to steady his breathing, thought his head was pounding. He reached back to touch the back of his scalp. This time, his hand came away red. Blood drifted from his fingertips, leaching into the embrionic fluid he was breathing in.

As the ship convulsed through the atmosphere again, he finally noticed that the ship's fluid was tinged a murky shade of red. The taste of blood was stronger now, tinging every breath. There was no escaping the taste of iron. He tried to turn off the part of his brain that cared, but it was the same part of him that was keeping him alive.

I am definitely concussed. Or, maybe I'm already suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning.

He blinked, trying to keep his eyes focused on the flight path. The further he went, the harder it was to maintain consciousness. But, he had to keep going. He had to live. I won't let Gabriel kill me, too.

A sensor on the ship's dashboard went off. It was the sensor meant to indicate proximity to a planet — or another large gravitational field, given the current lack of planetary bodies. He squinted at the light, trying to detect if it was a hallucination or not. In the end, he decided it may not be. Cyrus grabbed the controls and slowed his approach.

He mumbled the coordinates to himself again, checking them against his current position. He was close — he could tell that much. But something was… wrong. The starlight ahead of him had warped, curving inward on itself. It was unlike anything Cyrus had ever seen before. He stared at it for a long, long while, unaware that his ship was slowly drifting closer to the end.

"You made it."

He startled, looking around the ship. "What the fuck — who is this?"

"Don't worry about that. You don't have to worry about anything, Cyrus."

"I didn't —" He paused, swallowing a mouthful of blood-tinged liquid. "… I didn't tell you my name."

"You didn't have to. There's nothing more to do. Just go forward, and find your freedom."

"I'm not just going to go into some fucked up gravity field and get crushed." He said defensively, staring at the controls. The acceleration pedal was slowly pressing down on its own.

"You won't die. You're going to live for the first time." The voice distorted further, doubling and echoing over itself. "Come see what lies beyond."

"I'm not — don't — stop!" He said, grabbing the controls. He tried to twist them around, to turn away from what he was hurtling towards, but it was no use. It was out of his control now.

The oxygen sensor blinked a warning glow. Contamination reaching critical levels. His breath was coming in shallow gasps now, and his vision faded in and out. He could feel something pulling him in — forward, onward, down, out.

He couldn't resist it.

He was drowning, and he was going down.

"You're coming home, Cyrus."

"Home."

Much, much later, a sensor went off on a distant station. An unrecognized ship was slowly drifting back, battered and bruised.

When a crew ventured out to intercept it, they were surprised to find it was one of their own. It had been years since its original voyage.

Though the flight data was corrupted beyond repair, there were two signs to point to what had happened.

A single copper locket was found floating inside.

"… You haven't even touched me, dude. And, for the record? I'd like it if you did."

"O-oh. Sorry." He lifts his hands and hovers them vaguely near your body.

With a sigh and a smile, you hold his wrists and plant his hands on you. One hand cups your chest, and the other rests on your hip. Randy's eyes widen as his face burns. "Oh, uh… Wowie! Thanks!"

"You're welcome. Dork." You tease, leaning back in to resume kissing him.

Whenever you kiss - which isn't terribly often, given your mutual living circumstances - you've noticed that Randy can't seem to help but let out little moans every so often. You find it absolutely adorable, even if he isn't aware that he does it.

As you rock your hips against him, his breath shudders in his chest. This time, when he moans, it's loud enough that he notices and stops himself. But you can tell from the way he tenses up that he is very, very much so enjoying himself.

His thin fingers dig into your soft flesh as he moves with you, shakily rocking his hips against your ass. He doesn't seem to be aware of this motion either, or else he most likely would have put a stop to it immediately.

You savor the moment, relishing in the intimacy of your grinding and embracing. The moment is broken prematurely, however.

"Oh, God, I— I'm sorry, hold on," He blurts, holding you still against him. His eyes are screwed shut, as if holding something back.

You examine his face, curious as to what the issue is. As you feel his cock throbbing inside his jeans, you think you have a pretty good idea.

"Wow. You're sensitive."

"I'm sorry," He repeats, "I haven't— I don't usually—… It's been a while, okay?"

"It's been a while since you last got off, or since you had sex?"

Randy raises his shoulders to his ears, looking away. "I… plead the fifth?"

"Okay, fair." You rub his shoulders, trying to help him relax. "We don't have to stop, you know. I think its cute how eager you are."

"… Re~ally?" His voice cracks. "You don't think its sad or pathetic or—?"

"Nope. It's cute." You say, booping his nose. He cracks a smile, and you lean in to press your lips against his again.

Trepidatiously, he resumes his ministrations. He raises both hands to feel your chest as you grind into him, and the feeling draws a little gasp out of you. Satisfyingly, his hips twitch in response to the sound.

It doesn't take long before his breathing picks back up and little whines leave his lips. You can tell he's getting close again, but you don't slow down. Instead, you reach down to cup him through his pants, rubbing him with your palm.

He curses out your name as his body tenses under you. "Oh, G—God, please—!"

Through his jeans, you feel him cum. His cock twitches and pulses under multiple layers of fabric, and he lets out the cutest little pathetic sounds as he comes undone. You keep stroking him the whole time, letting him enjoy himself.

When he finally finishes and comes down, his face is bright red and his hands are shaking terribly. He looks up at you with wet eyes. "… Oh. God. I'm so sorry. That was—"

"Hot." You cut him off, kissing him one more time to drive the point home. "You want me bad enough to cum in your pants about it. I fucking love that."

He hides his face behind his hands for a beat, shifting his legs apart uncomfortably. "Yeah, well… Now I'm all… sticky. I don't even have any other clothes to change into, I—"

"You can wear my sweats when we throw your clothes in the wash." You assure him. Reaching down to slip a finger under his waistband, you ask, "… Mind if I take these off?"

"Huh? I— I mean… if you're sure you wanna see a wet idiot's junk…"

"You're my favorite wet idiot."

Scooting down, you undo his pants and pull them down. His plad-print boxers are stained with fresh ejaculate, as you were expecting. You smile as you pull those down, revealing his still-hard cock.

He can't stand looking at you assess at him, so he turns his head to examine the wall.

"… I— uh. I know I'm pretty small. And, uh, you don't have to touch me or anything if you don't want to. I probably need another shower."

You gently take him in hand, admiring him from between his thighs. You remark, "You're average. Which is good, since big dicks kinda hurt, in my experience. It's pretty, too."

"Wh— huh?" He glances down, shuddering as you start to stroke him slowly. While he's obviously still sensitive, he doesn't seem to be pained by the contact. "I don't think it can really be called pretty. It's just… there."

You make a show of examining him, checking the tip and the shaft in equal measure. Then, you press a kiss to the spot where skin collects under the head. "… Seems pretty nice to me."

His legs jolted at that kiss, and he can't seem to look away as you drag your tongue over his length. You'd been expecting some untrimmed hair (seeing as he hadn't gotten a haircut in the entire length of the time you'd known him) and your expectations were met. He tasted clean, but a little bitter from his recent orgasm. His diet didn't include enough fresh fruit to make his cum taste particularly sweet, but you weren't going to point that out to him right now.

Randy doesn't know what to do with his hands as you run your tongue over his tip in slow circles. He grips his jacket, then the sheets, and then— you reach up and grab one of his wrists again. You guide his hand to rest atop your head, then you resume holding his hip.

"O—okay. Do you want me to pull your hair, or guide you, or— just, leave it here?" He asks, obviously flustered.

You just shrug. Do whatever you want. As you open your mouth wider and take him between your lips, his fingers instinctively curl against your scalp.

Shuffling his legs further apart to accommodate you, his body shakes as you slowly bob your head. Randy can't hold back from moaning and whining as you lavish him. But he also can't shut up.

"Y—you don't have to keep doing this if you get bored, or— if you just want to do something else, we can do something else! … Not that this doesn't f—feel really good, oh my God… I can't feel your teeth at all!"

You idly wonder what caliber of blowjob he's received in the past if not feeling teeth is high praise from him. Reaching for his free-hand, you lace your fingers between his and squeeze reassuringly.

Before long, he can't catch his breath enough to keep rambling. He's panting sharply, and both of his hands are shaking uncontrollably. "I'm getting, uh, close again. You p—probably should stop, it doesn't taste very good…"

How does he know that? You ignore him, moving faster. His cock is stiffening up and throbbing against your tongue, and you can tell he's painfully close. You push your head all the way down to take him into your throat, and he tips over the edge with a pathetic cry. He cums in waves, and you swallow every bit of it without having to taste it.

It takes Randy a little longer to calm down after this one. His head is swimming as he sees stars dance in front of his eyes. You pull off of him with a soft pop. Then, you shift up to hold him close and help him catch his breath. He hugs you shakily, burying his face against your shoulder. He keeps repeating something, and it takes a moment for you to recognize his words as thank yous.

When he finally pulls back, a couple of minutes have gone by. His pulse isn't akin to a humming bird's anymore, and he seems to be breathing normally. He gives you a weak smile, thanking you one more time.

"You're welcome, sweetheart." You grin, kissing his lips and smoothing back his messy hair. "That was fun. You're seriously the perfect size for that."

"Really?" He asks again. "I was afraid I was too small for it to be, uh… good. Or too big somehow, and I'd make you choke."

"Neither of the above, actually. I think you're a great size for pretty much everything I want to do with you."

"… O—oh. Uh. Can I ask what else is on that list…?" He taps his fingers together.

"Well…" You look down at yourself, hooking a thumb into the band of your pants. To your surprise, you realize that Randy is still hard. He is both multi-orgasmic and (presumably) outrageously pent-up. You push your pants and underwear down, then move to straddle him as you had when you were making out.

"Oh. Oh my God." He mumbled, grabbing your waist to keep you steady. "You… want to do that? Make love, right now?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I— I don't know. I just figured—… I'm me. I'm not used to someone wanting to do this with me at all, let alone enthusiastically. Are you sure we aren't going too fast?"

"Randy, you called me 'my love' on our first date."

He flushed. "Well… I meant it."

"I know, Randy. I mean it, too. I want to do this." You promise. "… As long as you actually want to. Are you nervous?"

"Yeah, of course I am! I mean, what if I get you pregnant? I'd be a terrible father!!"

You laugh, leaning over to grab a box from your bedside table. You present him with a wrapped condom. "Ta-da! No babies today."

He stares at it, then glances up at you. "… W-wow. You're… really serious about this. Uh—… I guess—… Yeah! Yeah, I'm ready. Just— I might not be good at this, and—"

"It's our first time. It's probably not gonna be either of our best performances. I don't care about that - I just want to be close to you."

His expression melts. You can see him process your words, and finally… he nods.

You tear open the wrapper with your teeth, tossing it aside as you reach down to roll the condom onto him. As you touch him, you can feel him go from semi-hard to fully erect. You can't help but find that charming.

Once you're both ready, you angle yourself over him and align him with your entrance. You both hold your breath as you ease yourself down onto him.

He curses under his breath, fighting off a tremor as he watches himself disappear into you inch by inch. By the time you're fully sunk down onto him, you're both breathing unsteadily.

"Okay. I'm gonna… move. If you're good."

"I'll be good, I promise!" He babbles, gripping your hips tightly.

That… wasn't necessarily what you meant, but you don't correct him. Instead, you hold onto his shoulders as you begin to ride him. You keep your pace slow and steady to start, but you can tell quickly that this is going to be a short ride. Randy is already trembling, biting his lip hard enough to turn the skin white. You stop and sit down onto him fully.

"What— what's wrong?" He asks, panting.

"Nothing. I can tell you're close again." You say, slipping a hand off of his shoulder and down between your legs. His eyes widen comically as you begin touching yourself. "… I want to get off with you."

"Oh my God." He whispers, fighting the urge to grind deeper into you. … He loses that fight, pressing his cock against your sweet-spot in a wonderful way as your hand moves faster.

"Fuck, just like that, Randy…" You murmur, shutting your eyes and focusing on building up the tension in your body. It doesn't take long - this whole experience worked you up more than you'd like to admit.

When you begin bouncing again, Randy moans out your name. He urges you to move faster, guiding your hips as you rub yourself fast and hard. You can feel the edge creeping up on you, and at the same time, Randy is twitching inside of you with each thrust.

Curling forward, you rest your forehead against his as you cum together. He buries himself inside of you, savoring the sensation of your muscles clamping down on him rhythmically. He doesn't fully stop moving until you're both spent.

You pull him in for a series of mutually sloppy kisses, whispering sweet nothings to each other. Praise and affection all wrapped into each other. You guide his hands one last time, and he hugs you just as tightly as you do him.

"Do it. Do it, do it." You whisper, audibly excited.

Holding his breath, he snuffs out the cigarette on your arm. You jump slightly, expecting to feel intense burning pain. You feel some intense heat, but the saliva seems to have taken the brunt of the damage. When he pulls the butt back and wipes your arm clean, all you have is a soft pink mark. You got lucky this time — no permanent damage.

When you look up, he's studying your expression with concern. "Y'alright? Does it hurt?"

"Nope. I'm stupidly hard, though. That was hot."

The worry in his eyes gives way to incredulousness. "… Y'serious?"

"Yeah. What, you don't believe me? Wanna check me for boners?"

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Y'got a way with words."

Norm considers flicking the butt out the window, but decides against it. He flips his pack open and tucks the leftover into it before setting it aside. He scoots closer to you, pressing your back against the wall with the open window. Using the hand he hadn't been smoking with, he reaches down into your sweatpants and slips his hand into your underwear. His eyes widen as he runs his rough fingertips over your excitement.

"G'lord, sugar." He gives you a pleased grin, "S'that just from the burn?"

"And watching you smoke…" You admit sheepishly, shifting to keep your legs open for him.

"Y'got it bad, don't you?"

He collects your slick on his fingers before beginning to rub you in slow circles. You sigh shakily, nodding. "Can't help it. You're hot."

"I'm jus' some old man, sugar. M'damn lucky y'like me so much." He shakes his head again. You can see his dark eyes trailing over you and admiring your body's response to his touch. As he uses more pressure, you can't help but let out a moan of satisfaction. You hold onto his arm to keep yourself steady, and—

From the street below, you can hear voices. A group of people are walking past the apartment. Before you can do more than draw in a whimper of a breath, he presses his free-hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. You groan against his fingers, and you can smell the earthy scent of tobacco left on his skin.

He doesn't let up, slipping his other hand down lower to ease his thick fingers into you. Closing your eyes, your legs shake as he fucks you with his fingers. It's astronomically difficult to focus on staying quiet while he's staring at you with such smug satisfaction.

Once the passers-by have ambled on, he lowers his hand from your mouth. "You alright, sugar?"

You nod, catching your breath. "Can we—?"

Before you can finish that question, he's helping you to your feet and pushing you back onto the bed beside you. The springs squeak under you as you quickly shuffle back, shucking off your sweats and leaving yourself bare under him.

Norm needs a moment to undress, but once he's down to his skivvies, he takes out his cock and gives himself a couple of pumps to make sure he's ready. From your angle, you can see his full bush and happy trail sprouting from beneath his plain undershirt.

You don't need much prepration for this. You welcome him in as he aligns himself with you, sinking into a familiar missionary position. Sure, it was considered a boring position by some, but you both enjoy being so close to each other. And it gives him good leverage without taking up too much physical stamina, which is a plus for both of you.

With your arms looped around his neck, you both look down to watch as his cock rub against you. Norm isn't huge, but it's more than enough for you. Considering that you only have felt the modest effects of testosterone for a few years, he's massive in your book.

After frotting against you for long enough to make your mind fuzz over, he eases himself into you. You both let out sounds of mutual satisfaction. With a few shallow strokes, he hilts himself inside of you.

"Norm, oh god…" You murmur, cupping his cheek. He leans down to kiss your face, and you nuzzle against him in return. Norm takes your hands in his, lacing your fingers together and pinning you down to the mattress. Meanwhile, his hips move in a slow and steady rhythm. By this point in your relationship, he's figured out what angle you like best, and he uses this knowlege to liquify your brain a little more with each thrust.

You squirm under him, openingly admiring his open-mouthed expression while he pants above you. His long hair falls into his face, and as much as you want to push it back, you're enjoying being trapped beneath him too much to protest. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him in deeper as you urge him to move faster. He obliges, and the air fills with the sound of wet skin-on-skin.

"Yer all mine, y'hear?" He whispers, filling your senses with the smell of campfire on his breath. "Don't care if I gotta mark y'up t'prove it. Yer all mine, sugar."

You nod helplessly, "I'm yours, Norm! Please, don't stop, I need you…!"

"I gotcha, sugar…"

He redoubles his effects, fucking you faster and harder. The bed groans in protest, but you pay it no mind. Instead, you focus on the pleasure building up in your core. The tension builds to a sharp crescendo, and as he feels your muscles baring down on him and milking him for everything he has, he pulls out and cums against your stomach.

You watch as milky white ropes cover your pubic hair and lower belly, and the sight makes you wish you could take a picture. Norm looks so handsome, coming undone against you like that…

He finally lets go of your hands, and your reach up to pull him in for a nuzzle. "That was amazing, Norm. You're amazing."