Sam Wilson's pretty boy

Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he sighs, clicking his tongue against his cheek as he checks the time, again.

What's this time? The hundredth-millionth-bagillionth?

He's lost count, but…

It sure felt like it.

The two of you were supposed to get the Celebration clothes today— made specifically by the "Best Garment-makers on Erid," according to Rocky, set for two weeks from now. He's known about the celebration for awhile; Rocky and Adrian had brought it up millions of times since a month ago, when it was officially scheduled.

And, yeah, he's done the same. Sue him— It was alien culture, of which he's been actually dying (or pretty close to it, on the way here) to know more of. Who wouldn't be shaking in their bones to see what their clothes-making skills were? How'd they'd adapt to the Human physique and create something for the two of you to wear that's connected to everyone and their history?

Especially when it was for celebrating work he'd been a big part of.

Saving Erid, and — hopefully — Earth. Their stars, too.

Big stuff.

Amazing stuff.

"Elevated Stress Levels Present," Armando calls from the other room, stating what he already knows. "Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace."

He grumbles.

"Yeah, buddy, I know," He huffs, tugging his glasses from his face only to sink down and cross his forearms over the table, nudging his forehead into his arms. "I know. I'm just excited. I mean— come on! Getting to try clothes made from a separate species on their planet! What's cooler?"

"Elevated Heart-rate Present, Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace." Armando dead-pans, emotionless and cruel. "Advising Contact with Crew mates… Requesting Captain—"

Huh. Looks like Armando still has some old programming from the ships system; you and Rocky missed that part.

Or left it in on purpose.

Who knows.

"Wha— You're no fun." He interrupts, groaning. "You're ruining my vibe."

Ruining my vibe? He questions internally, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he picks his head up from his elbow at the sound of the bathroom door. Well… It works. I didn't even think I'd remember that… Just Another lingo to steal from my probably-now-adult students.

Catching your form in the corner of his eye, he perks up, his gaze flitting over to you to watch as you come in. Instinctively, his shoulders droop a little, along with his gaze— his attention slips from your face, shower-messy and damp hair, to your shoulders, to your tummy, to the low slope of your hips…

"Who's ruining your… 'vibe'?" You question casually, slipping your arms through the arm-holes in your shirt. "Armando?"

He swallows.

Forcing his gaze up, he nods, grabbing his glasses from in front of him. "Yeah. They threatened to tattle on me," the arm of his glasses poke at his bottom lip as he brings them up, loosely crossing his arm over his lower stomach as he continues, hoping to avoid explaining why. Nonetheless, by the look on your face, you can likely already tell. "The shower work okay?"

Even as he's talking, his brain loses traction on his thoughts. Instead, they change course and latch onto you, never lessening in their intensity.

And By gosh, do you look good— even now, on a random day on a completely different planet than your shared home one, you look awfully amazing. He has to mess with his hair in the mirror for ten minutes every morning to get it looking even somewhat okay, yet you can wake up or shower without all of that and still be as beautiful as ever.

It was unfair, really.

"Mhmn," You nod, bringing your arms up and shoving your head through the neck hole of your shirt, dragging the fabric down roughly. You leave it as is, though it's not all the way down, leaving just a peek of your happy trail. "Have you just been obsessively checking the time, or…?"

Shoot.

He fumbles, flushing. "W— Well… No? Maybe?"

On habit, he reaches up, messing with his hair as he chews on the end of his glasses arm.

As you step forward and lean against the counter, his focus naturally shifts to track the movement, knowing already that you know him all too well. You could practically read his mind.

You had him figured out; knew that he could cry he was so excited and overwhelmed, that he was antsy and likely couldn't take another hour waiting.

He'd been like this for days now.

"Maybe?" You echo, raising a brow and tilting your head.

He presses his lips together around the tip of his glasses' arm, looking away to look right back.

If anything crawled on his face — it didn't even have to settle — you'd have deciphered and came up with a solution before it even left, always evolving around what he'd end up liking most. And as much as he enjoyed it, it freaked him out a little that you could just... do that, so simply.

You knew what he wanted way before he did.

It was as aggravating as it was helpful.

"Yeah, maybe." He repeats, more confidently this time, digging his fate a little deeper. The points of his teeth dig into the plastic earpiece on his glasses, adding to the littering evidence of past repeat offenses.

"So you haven't been pacing and thinking about it the entire time?"

"Nope. Totally not. I… would not do anything like that. Ever!" He lies.

He's not smooth at all.

It's obvious.

"Then why's your hair all messed up?"

Pausing, he lifts his hand and runs it through the front of his hair again— he doesn't even have to see it to realize it's got I've been stress-messing up my hair, all over it. His fingers catch on a small knot before they're even halfway through the crime.

He crumbles.

"Okay, okay, fine. I was pacing and losing my mind a little— But just a little! Nothing major. Just… casual, completely normal nerves!"

Sighing, he sinks into the edge of the counter, finally pulling his glasses away from his mouth and tucking them into their home on his face. He gnaws on the inside of his bottom lip, his hands dropping to curl and mess with the edge of the countertop, just to give him something to fiddle with.

After a moment, he lifts his gaze — not quite unlike a guilty puppy — and drags his attention to the look on your face; expectant, unyielding, but also strangely knowing. It's a weird mix, but it makes honesty bubble up between the spaces of his ribs, fighting their way to his mouth.

"Okay, I…" He exhales, digging his teeth into the fat of his bottom lip anxiously. The nail of his thumb picks at the edge of the counter; an output of his over-abundant energy. "I am… slightly nervous about the clothes. Garments. Whatever it is they're called."

At the sound of you moving, he glances up, watching you push away from the counter and come over. He forces his hand away from the countertop, opting to pull his glasses from his face again and mess with those.

"Because…?" You nudge, settling into place beside him— not quite touching, but close enough to.

"What if something goes wrong?" He questions, staring down at the hinge of his glasses as he opens and closes the arms, folding them up only to drag them back out. It squeaks slightly with every repetition, warning of their impending doom.

They are old, after all. Slightly. This is his last back-up.

"What if there's a problem and we don't get them in time? Or— or somehow we can't make it to the ceremony? Or I get sick again and can't see it?" He rambles, letting his nervousness tumble from his mouth without restraint; it feels both good to get it out and bad, because he's putting these thoughts out into the ether.

Who knows. He could jinx it.

It's happened before.

"I don't want to miss it," He mumbles. "This is once in a life-time. I'd regret it forever."

His shoulders drop weakly, and he sucks in a broken inhale, blinking quickly to calm himself down— and to further achieve that, he steps over to you, lowering his head and resting it on your shoulder.

You're warm, and you smell a lot like your soap; it's a good thing. It always smells a little different on you than him, for some reason— better.

"It'll work out, Ryland," You press a kiss to his temple, and his back tingles where you rest your hand there. "It'll be fine. These people are geniuses. If anything does happen — which it hopefully won't — they're smart enough to work around it. It'll be alright."

"I know," He grumbles, his voice muffled from your shoulder. He reaches around you, ditching his glasses on the counter to bury his nose further into you, exhaling slowly. "I can't help but think about all the possibilities anyway."

"Think about it from their perspective," You continue, "This is bigger than anyone here. You saw how Rocky and Adrian would chitter and do their little jazz-show when they sung about it— it's more than just a celebration to them. They wouldn't let anything get in-between it and its success, so, you bet your ass it'll work out perfectly fine."

Sinking into your side, he repeats what you've said in his head, letting it sink in. It was likely that you were right, per usual— you didn't quite wallow over the bad rather than the good like he had a habit of doing. Anything good he'd achieve, it'd get soiled by his brain automatically shifting to attach to his mistakes, or what big thing would have to happen next that he'd have to do.

Yeah.

It'll be… okay. It'll work out.

Hopefully.

"You're probably right," He huffs, pulling his head up from your shoulder to let his gaze roam your face. Your eyebrows are drawn together in seriousness, your expression settled like you were both trying to reassure him and get him out of his own over-thinking at the same time.

It works, even just a smidge.

He continues, managing a shaky smile at the feeling of your hand running up his spine, dropping and repeating to create a rhythmic motion. "Like usual. You're the clear thinker here—" He pauses, his expression scrunching. "Clear-er thinker. Yep. That's the one."

"Jeez," You laugh at him. Something in his chest untangles at the noise, steadying his grin. "Glad to know where I stand as the 'clear-er thinker.' That's what you think of me, huh?"

"Well, if we're being truthful—"

The sound of the doorbell interrupts him mid-way, and he stiffens, making a split-second of eye-contact with you before he's shoving himself back, his socks sliding on the floor in his urgency. Your laugh rings out again behind him, and he mirrors it breathlessly as he opens the door and stares down at whoever is beyond it.

It's Rocky, of course, in his own little xenonite sphere. With the garments.

Heck yes!

"Why Grace laughing, Question?" Rocky implores, chittering lowly. "I bring the Ceremonial Clothes! They have finished their 'detox,' statement. Ready for use!"

"Hey, Rocky," He greets, leaning against the doors threshold to catch his breath— it wasn't necessarily the sprint over to the door that got him, but more of his elevated Heart-rate. "What took so long?"

Okay, and maybe a little of the running. He hasn't been doing much of that lately.

Maybe he should.

"Grace too impatient, statement. Not take long at all!" Rocky argues, knocking into his leg as he pushes past him to get inside. "Bad bad bad trait."

Ryland's eyebrows raise as he steps out of the way, a shocked, small giggle being pulled from his throat. It wasn't too surprising, not really. He's heard more than enough "Calm down, you're being impatient,"'s in this lifetime.

Gosh, and to think he's said that same thing about a million times to his students back at Cleveland middle.

Yikes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," He huffs, pushing the door closed and trailing after him towards the kitchen. "You say that so much I think I've gotten the point by now."

"Have not, statement." Rocky defends. "Grace still Impatient. Grace no understand point."

Scoffing lightly, Ryland scrunches his nose at the back of Rocky's carapace, sticking his nose out at him— when Rocky suddenly turns, Grace straightens up, acting like he wasn't doing anything at all.

"Grace-friend, Grace make a stinky face at Rocky, statement!" Rocky tattles, clambering over in his sphere to stand beside you before he sets the Ceremonial clothing down.

"Wha— Hey, how do you know?!" Ryland huffs, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. He continues on into the kitchen, stopping at the curve of it and glancing between the two of you. "I was behind you, there's no way you could've seen me. I was just walking— I wouldn't do a thing as such… It's childish!"

You don't have time to say a thing before Rocky continues, his carapace vibrating lightly. "Grace lie, statement. Rocky saw stinky face. Rocky knows. Rocky has better vision than stinky Grace."

"Grace is not lying." Ryland argues, scrunching his nose at his perpetrator; the Eridian two feet to his left— but once he remembers he is, in fact, not wearing his glasses, he snags them off the counter and shoves them on his face. "And I don't stink!"

Rather desperately, Ryland looks over to you, making a lazy, clumsily hidden "you're supposed to take a side," gesture with his hand as he shifts on his feet.

In return, all you do is shrug, making a face that just yells "No thank you."

He exhales.

"Rocky saw Grace move hand, statement. Grace bad at hiding."

"We're moving on now," You interrupt, breaking eye-contact to look down at Rocky. "Tell us about the clothes, would you?"

Ryland perks up, stepping closer to peer down at him and the clothes too. They're all sorts of different colors, shining in various hues of the overhead lights, and they make small noises when the fabrics shift against one another. "Yeah. What're they made of? Will they hold temperatures well? Are they breathable?"

"Rocky is an Engineer, not ceremonial garment-maker. Knowledge of these is beyond Rocky's capabilities." He chirps, fiddling with the clothes with the smaller, "touch-stuff" part of his sphere. He grabs one with his claw, holding it up.

Quickly, Ryland grabs it, assessing the feeling of it. It's both smooth and firm, oddly enough. Like it was a recreation of their own, more fire-resistant, fabrics.

So awesome!

"How long do these typically take to make?" He asks, turning it over in his hand before he holds it up in front of him. It's far from a full-body piece— there's many gaps with little sewn-in gems or sigils tied between them. The biggest breaks are around the ribs, the stomach, and the back.

More markings and symbols are imprinted into the fabric itself, telling stories he can't quite understand yet.

"Two Earth years," Rocky states, handing you a different piece for you to look at one too. "Not very long."

Glancing over, Ryland looks over your expression— and, as usual, you look silently intrigued at what's in your hands. But yet again, you let him blabber out all of his questions instead of voicing your own. When he'd brought it up before, you'd said it didn't bother you any and that you were content to sit back and let him talk, but still.

He looks away.

"Huh…" He hums, turning back to Rocky. "These are amazing, buddy! Do you know how they made the fabric? What is it exactly? Is it like yours?"

"Rare plant fibers, statement. Many many many. Take long time to dry."

Plant fibers? He thinks, Rare plant fibers to make ceremonial clothing— I wonder which ones. The blue plant? The pink… aphrodisiac… one? The thick red plant? So awesome!

"Okay, what do the markings mean? I keep seeing all these little sigils 'n stuff. What're they about? For good luck? History-related? Experience or event-related?"

Rocky sings a low tune, adjusting in his Xenonite ball. "All of the above, statement. Little 🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 means success. Other ♩ ♪ 🎝 means bravery. Too many to explain, statement."

"Okay, cool," He says, looking over the garment in his hand again. "I'm seeing lots of empty space. Is there any reason for that, or…?"

When you lean against the counter and set your piece beside you, he glances over briefly, only for his brain to tug him back to his curiosity. He wanted to know— for these guys, almost everything seemed to have certain meanings. It'd taken awhile to log all of the ones he's seen before, and that was a quarter of what's sewn into the clothes in front of him.

He's in for a long night tonight.

"Standards," Rocky replies. "You are mated, so gaps are to woo mate. When not mated, no gaps! No point to show off for no mate, statement."

What?

"Mated…?" Ryland echoes, feeling his cheeks heat up as he pauses— on instinct, his gaze jumps back over to you to see what you're thinking, more interested to know your opinion on the matter than the word mated being tossed around by Rocky so casually.

I mean, sure, he's not wrong, Ryland thinks, staring at your face, per-say.

Your expression shifts every so slightly, and he catches the change the second it happens. Your head tilts faintly and you straighten up a little, but that's about it. You don't look over once, as if it doesn't make you perk up any; like you were more than comfortable with the term.

His tummy heats up at the thought.

"We call it dating on Earth," You pipe up, adjusting in your spot. "Or marriage, but not all of us are monogamous. We often go through bunches of people before we find ours."

For the first time, Ryland keeps his mouth firmly shut, quickly looking between the two of you.

"🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 ♪ 🎝 ?" Rocky repeats, chittering. "Why not 🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 ♪ 🎝, question?"

"Uh… It's more of a lifestyle choice. Some marry early 'n stick with their choice, some bounce around like a ball. Most don't pick one and stay, but a lot do."

"And this is Standard, question?"

Ryland clears his throat, speaking up for you when you make little move. You weren't quite the teacher like he was, but he didn't mind it any— in fact, he kind of liked it. "Yes. Very standard."

"Gross gross gross. Rocky like Adrian. Rocky not want anyone else... No one compare."

"Cute," He nods, setting the garment in his hand down beside yours on the counter. "We're happy for you, Rocky. You deserve it."

"Yeah," You agree, exhaling slowly.

"Yes, yes, yes," He says. "Rocky understands. Rocky very lucky. Happy happy happy."

A soft laugh tumbles from Ryland's mouth, calming and shifting to a small, comfortable smile. It was always great to see Rocky and the others so secure in their bonds, so sure in themselves and their mates.

It was very adorable.

Rocky perks up in his sphere, his carapace swaying just slightly. The Xenonite of his ball clicks quietly against the flooring with each one of his movements, keeping it from true quiet in the brief lull of conversation. "Garment-makers add mating gifts, statement!"

Grace's eyebrows tick up. "Gifts? For what?"

"Yes, gifts. As thank-you!" Rocky pauses, excitedly chittering as he grabs the other two garments off the floor and hands them to you, revealing two others beneath them. "For Grace and Grace mate!"

Oh my God.

"Take!"

"Wha— what are these?" Ryland sputters, slowly accepting the two clothing pieces forced into his hand. One looks suspiciously like the bottoms of a Lingerie set, and two looks awfully like a matching top. "Rocky, where did you come up with this?"

It's even got a cute little bow.

Quickly, Ryland tilts his head toward you, making eye-contact the moment you register what the actual frick it is. Heat swallows his face, covering his cheeks and the back of his neck in a hot, probably horribly obvious blush— he goes to toss the two onto the counter to get it out of his hands, only to realize right before that it might look like rejection towards the gifts.

He swallows, reluctantly keeping them close.

"Found similars on Human Technology! Adrian said would make nice gift before big ceremony for mates," He says. "Garment-makers accepted good idea, statement. Gifts!"

"Why were you look at Lingerie on the laptop?" He blurts, slightly exasperated, slightly scared.

"Why was it even on the laptop?" You add, shooting a questioning look to the (arguably) pretty clothing set in his hands, to his face, then down to Rocky.

"Where did you even find it?" He continues. "I didn't think anything like it was even on there."

"Grace worry too much," Rocky muses, his carapace resuming the little happy swaying motion. "Do you like your gifts, question?"

Okay.

Okay— well, shock aside… no, shock not aside. This is crazy.

"They're, uh…" Ryland pauses, clearing his throat in a poor attempt to focus. "They're awesome, buddy. Thank you."

In his peripheral, he catches as you turn your head away and bite your bottom lip; like you were flustered and/or about to laugh.

He huffs.

"Rocky glad. Yes, yes, yes. Garment-makers too! And Adrian— Adrian!"

Suddenly, Rocky turns in his sphere, bolting towards the door. The Xenonite has no traction against the flooring of the house, so he slips once or twice, only to sing chords Ryland hasn't exactly heard before once he gets to the door.

"Why not open?! Rocky need to tell Adrian good news!" He chitters angrily, pushing his ball into the door repeatedly— until Ryland's brain kicks into gear and he moves over, quickly opening it for him before he damages anything or hurts himself.

"Slow down, Rocky— You have plenty of time to tell Adrian before you bust a hole in our door!"

Rocky continues his pace even as he stumbles down the few front steps and into the gravel, practically running towards the exiting door and ignoring what had been said to him in favor of repeating alternate versions of Adrian needs to know!

"That's one way to drop off Lingerie," You mutter, "Force it over and book it for the hills. My kind of guy, really. Saves the embarrassment."

"Not funny," He grumbles, shutting the door with his foot before he makes his way back into the kitchen. "What are we gonna do with this now? Put it on Armando?"

Admittedly, it was a little funny.

Maybe a bit more than that.

"Is it for Chicks?" You snicker, the heels of your palms pressing into the counter beside your hips. He can feel your eyes track every single one of his movements— and normally, that makes him flustered enough, but with lingerie in his hands?

Just turn him back into stardust.

"I don't know, I didn't check," He responds, trying and failing to ignore the inferno making home of his face— it's not only embarrassing, but, oddly enough, humiliating. In a weird way. "He didn't give me the chance before running off."

He did not want this in his hands— or anything sex-related, really. That was bedroom stuff. Not… kitchen stuff. Or "anywhere outside the bedroom," stuff.

It just felt wrong, plain and simple.

When he spots the gimme it gesture you make, he quickly tosses it over, exhaling shakily once it's out of his hands. He stares as you catch it, watching as you toss the top part down on the counter next to the other non-sex related clothes.

"What are you doing?" He questions, licking his lips nervously.

"Looking?"

"You… know the difference between male and female lingerie? Why do you— how do you tell?"

"It's obviously for women 'cause it comes with a lacy bra, baby. I'm just seeing all the symbols on it— these are different than the ones on the ceremonial stuff."

Why would they make it for ladies if neither of you are women? He thinks, What the heck does that even mean? What does it entail? Do they think one of us is a girl? Huh? I'm so confused.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet. His eyes flit from your face, down to the lingerie, back to your face, back down…

"What do you think those mean? Good… fertility?" He winces, running his hand through his hair and lightly pulling on it. "Good bonding? Long relationships? I— I mean, we do know that reproduction for Eridians is quite dangerous if not done carefully. Maybe they're wishing us, uh, luck?"

"Maybe," You shrug, rather careless about the whole thing. "Wanna try it on?"

You grin, holding the lacy, see-through panties off of the edge of your finger, out to him.

He chokes on his spit.

A rope of heat knots in his stomach as he shakes his head rapidly, coughing into his elbow before swallowing harshly. "No!"

He's not sure which is more dominant: Embarrassment or heat. Both suffocate his insides and his face, making his heart-rate tick up a few notches and his breathing fall out of rhythm.

"Why not?" You muse, stepping back only to hold the panties over his lower half, closing one of your eyes like you were picturing him in it. "You'd look good in it, you know. Like you do with everything, so… There's no need to be nervous, Ry."

"Quit," His voice cracks awfully in his desperation as he moves to hide behind the counter, his face aching with the embarrassment latched onto it. "That— That's not amusing. I'd look terrible in that— I— I doubt it'd even fit! I mean, look at me!"

Casually — and not looking at him — you lean your weight on your hip, looking down at the equally lacy and see-through bra on the counter, only to look back after a second— He's got a feeling he knows what's going on in that brain of yours, and none of his ideas make the flush in his body go down any.

"I gave them your measurements for the ceremony stuff, remember? They're guaranteed to fit… if you wanna try it."

if.

"That's if they were made for me," He defends weakly, letting his gaze drift back over to you. You're just standing there, panties in hand, with a mildly teasing look on your face. When he looks longer, he finds a few more things; all of which have his stomach twisting with a concoction of emotions. "They could've thought you were the one who would wear it instead, not me— You'd look better in it, anyways! I don't wear lingerie!"

Wordlessly, you raise a brow, putting the underwear flush against your crotch over your jeans— and it becomes blatantly obvious that you, in fact, were not the expected recipient.

Awh, crud.

"See?" You hum, tossing it down on the counter next to its companion. "All yours."

His attention follows as he stares down at it— it's slightly taunting, the stupidly pretty little markings and sigils. It's obvious how much effort was put into it; the thin (but arguably soft) lace, the patterns within it, the detailed waistband. It's even got a little drawstring in the place of elastic.

Oh, gosh.

He's stuck.

If you just tossed in the back of the closet and forgot about it, he'd feel bad for not using a gift that was given to him and made with effort. If he did try it on, even just once, he doubts he'd get those feelings out of his head; whether good or bad.

But, for some reason, the moment wrings an old memory out of his brain— the one time he'd gotten caught by his mom with a certain magazine when she'd randomly cleaned his room as a teen.

He was so embarrassed then.

Quite similarly to now.

"It… It's kind of pretty?" He mutters, glancing back up to your face. "But I don't know. I've never worn anything like… that— or, uh, tried to."

Truth be told, he'd never even thought about the concept. He understood the point, yeah, but didn't find it worthwhile— he was often attracted enough by his partner alone (cough: you) to not need anything else to nudge that along. You alone were more than perfect; way more than anything else he'd need.

"You don't have to wear it, Ryland. I was kidding. If you don't wanna, you don't wanna," You pause, adjusting in your spot. "I don't care what you wear— pretty lingerie, normal clothes, nothing…"

He coughs, looking away.

"I, uh, I think I get the point— please, stop talking for just— just a second."

"…Alright."

Like with a lot of things, he wasn't sure. He's tried skirts on, yeah, on the Mary. Even dresses, again, on the Mary. But never panties. Even just the idea was questionable; he's never worn panties, never even worn lingerie, and didn't even know he was down to try. To wear …it… would just be to see how it was.

An experiment. Yeah.

Gosh. He's told his students many, many times, that if you're unsure about something, you've gotta try it out to figure it out!

Look at him now.

"O…Kay," He finally relents, looking away from the aforementioned set on the counter.

"Okay?" You echo, tilting your head.

"Yeah. Okay." He affirms, nodding slightly before he leans forward, his palms pressing into the counter, like he's trying to stand up to the rather intimidating, lacy, colored set of clothing. "It can't be that bad, right? I mean, it's just underwear. For… sex!"

"Yeah, Ry," You laugh a little, a small smile crawling onto the sharp corners of your mouth. His focus slips downward to the points of your teeth until he forces his gaze back up, swallowing the saliva that'd pooled in his mouth.

God, you— you look so good just standing there. It's torturous, even more-so thanks to the topic at-hand; he's embarrassed beyond belief.

His cheeks hurt.

"That's kind of their entire purpose, sweetheart," You continue, "But we don't have to have sex, especially if you don't want to. You can just try 'em on in your own time, for fun. Nothing has to come of it."

He pauses.

"You don't want to see me try them on?"

"Not if you don't want to show me."

…Oh.

That wasn't even the problem at all; he didn't even think about… well, not showing you. But…

He wanted to; his want and his interest are settled somewhere in his gut, buried deep and swallowed by his embarrassment so well he'd barely noticed it was there.

Until you brought the idea up, anyway.

Ugh…

It could be nice.

Can't knock it 'til you try it, right?

He couldn't just not try it on 'cause he's nervous. That'd be hypocritical.

Finally, he clears his throat, slowly shaking his head. "No, I— I want to. I think it could be, uh… fun? Or enjoyable? At least a little?"

Coming out from behind the counter, he exhales shakily, attempting to change the topic before he ended up dying of embarrassment. "Anyway, moving on! Let's see what's going on with these ceremonial clothes, huh?"

Gently closing the bathroom door behind him, he inhales harshly, forcing it out within the same pace as a feeble attempt to slow his heart-beat down a little, and hopefully make his feelings simmer with it.

It barely works, but it's good enough for him.

Not really.

Tossing the lingerie down on the sink, he stares down at it and messes with the hinge of his glasses. Then, he steps back, crossing his arms over his chest nervously and internally hyping himself up.

People do this all the time, he thinks, chewing on the earpiece of his glasses, It's nothing to worry about. It's entirely cool— he doesn't even care if I wear it or not, anyways!

No pressure.

He was just… making himself nervous. There was no edge to perform, no one but himself to impress— but he still felt like he should try to impress you, just because. It was a natural instinct; to prove himself, to woo you, to make sure you didn't have doubts.

It's not like either of you can exactly get away from each-other, here. He couldn't mess this up like his last ones.

…But, again, you were nothing like the people he'd been with before.

You never got irritated when he'd get overwhelmed or miss his students and get himself all upset, never cared when he always wanted it to be foggy outside, never minded when he'd keep you up talking about random stuff all the time (even when you really wanted to sleep) or when he'd take way too long in the shower.

You were his saving grace. Literally.

So… He could do this for you.

Yeah.

He exhales. "…Okay, I can do this. It's no biggie."

Setting his glasses down on the counter, he drops his hands to his waist once they're empty, carefully grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt and pulling it up, over his head, and off. Gaining a little more confidence, he goes for his jeans buttons next, quickly fumbling to get those undone before he loses his momentum.

He yanks the denim downward as soon as the buttons pop open, accidentally pulling his briefs down a little in his rush— he kicks the fabric off once its down to his calves, fighting a bit to get his other foot out of it and steadying himself with a hand on the sink counter.

He could do this one thing for you— he will do it for you. You expressed an — albeit teasing — interest in it, and he feels like he doesn't give you enough, so this is nothing compared to what you end up silently doing for him.

And, heck, he'd be lying if he wasn't even slightly curious about it; the two of you couldn't wear the ceremonial clothing until two weeks from now, and he wanted to know how the fabric interacted with his movements and his body.

It was a win-win. You get to see him in girly lingerie, and he got to be the first human in history to try out alien fabrics.

Of course, no one would know that but you and him, seen how there's no way to transfer information this far out in space away from the NASA transmitters and receivers, but still. He'd know it.

Nudging his jeans aside with his sock-clad foot, he glances back over to the widely-colored set splayed out carelessly on the counter, feeling himself get slightly flustered again.

He slows down a little, not yet pushing his briefs down in favor to just… think about it for a second longer.

You were busy in the living room fiddling with Armando's movement ranges; not at all in-the-know of what the heck he was doing in here… hopefully. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but he did knock his hip into the sharp corner of his dresser coming into the room and ended up groaning pretty loudly.

You hadn't said anything, though.

He's probably fine.

If he got too embarrassed, he could just pretend he wasn't doing anything but messing with the shower-head again (it had quite the habit of having a few straying streams that always, somehow, ended up directly in his eyes no matter where he stood).

He could shove the lingerie into a dresser drawer somewhere and hide it forever— or, heck, even pretend he lost it, if he got to that point of desperation.

There were many options.

But… He's curious, as any Alien-interested man would be.

And he's also flustered beyond belief.

Aw, heck.

Carefully, he hooks his thumb around the elastic of his briefs, shuddering slightly when the sewing seam ghosts over a sensitive spot on its descent. Once they're down, he steps out of them, using his foot to nudge them over with the rest of his clothes.

He feels bare.

Well, technically, he is— but in a vulnerable sense.

He's putting on lingerie, for the person he loves (and totally not for the fabric), and they're gonna see him in said lingerie. At least until he runs away to go hide.

Uuuugh.

Snagging the panties from the counter, he looks them over for a minute, until pushing past it and leaning down to put them on. He steps through the leg holes first, quickly tugging it up until the waistband circles around the low of his hips.

And Jesus.

It feels… strange. In a weird way— they're comfortable as all fudge, and they fit perfectly, like you said. They're also slightly warm for some reason… but now that he thinks about it, all of the Eridian fabrics he's touched hold some sort of heat on their own.

It actually feels really good.

"Um…"

He reaches up, messing with his hair awkwardly as he tries to settle into being comfortable in them beyond their natural feel. Once he adjusts a little, they feel better, but it takes a few more moments for his shoulders to sink and for him to acclimate.

They're… not that bad.

"O… Kay. This isn't that awful… I think I was being a little dramatic before."

The bra, though, is out of the question. He's got no true need for that— no breasts for it to support or cover, so he's more than happy to ignore its existence and move on to grabbing his shirt. He slips that back on, just to soothe some of the I feel very naked right now sensations and recuperate for a minute, avoiding the reflection of the mirror.

He had very different ways to go about this from here.

One: Just ignore the fact he's wearing them and behave at least somewhat normally to get used to it.

Two: Put his clothes back on and do the same as number One, but try to manage the reveal casually later on. Maybe before bed?

Three: Call you back here now, so he can step over that hurdle and deal with what comes next more smoothly, and not be flustered and nervous and half-hard thinking about it the rest of the day.

Three sounds pretty good.

Abandoning his dirty clothes to rest on the floor, he pulls the door open, getting halfway out of the bathroom before he back-tracks to turn off the light. He keeps one hand over his groin, trying to save a least a little dignity until you come in and… do whatever it is you'll do to him.

He swallows, clearing his throat as he steps over to the bedroom door, calling out into the hallway for you.

"Hey, uh, [Name]? Can you bring me my glasses? I think they're on the kitchen counter!"

He knows he has his glasses; they're in the bathroom where he accidentally forgot them.

He thinks the excuse will work fine.

"Hold on," You reply, "I'll be there in a second, baby. Gotta fix this first."

What are you working on? He wants to ask, but settles on an "Okay," instead, stepping back from the door to sit on the bed. His thighs press and rub together as he sinks into the mattress, thanks to the fact he's not wearing his briefs— he spreads his legs a little to avoid it, softly clearing his throat.

His hands worry over the lower hem of his Star-trek shirt, fiddling with the old and frayed threads slipping from their stitches as he, rather impatiently, waits for you. He both wants you to show up now and also take way more time than you need; just to give him enough time to settle.

But you don't.

This time, when you speak, you're way closer— somewhere in the hall. "Hey, uh, they're not there. Did you lose them somewhere else? Have you checked the bathroom yet?" You push the door open a second or so after, stilling in the threshold.

At your silence, he nervously glances up, his teeth sinking into the fat of his bottom lip as he runs his gaze over your face. Your eyebrows are raised, mouth slightly parted, hands falling away from the door and back to their home next to your sides.

His face flames, his body-temperature kicking up a few degrees. He doesn't move his hands away, but he can see the look on your face; you know exactly what he's wearing without needing to have him move them.

His shirt didn't cover everything, after all.

"…Surprise?" He manages, voice weak; shy. "And, um, I know where I, uh, left my glasses. Sorry. I just… needed you to come."

You lick your lips, adjusting your weight between your feet. "So you… didn't lose your glasses?"

"…No."

You exhale.

"Jesus, Ryland."

The expression on your face makes his stomach curl in on itself like a Black hole— it makes all of his nerves and everything else well worth it.

Your gaze leaves hot blooms of heat along his body everywhere you look, succeeding in doubling his flustered-ness and faint embarrassment for tricking you. Though, he can't miss the way your expression changes; The way you overcome his little ploy and realize what he was doing, how your eyebrows furrow just slightly as your gaze drifts downward to his thighs before back up to his face.

"It's, um, surprisingly comfortable, if you were wondering," He mutters, wiggling in his spot to find his comfort, and to give his body something to expel even a little bit of his nerves. "…Very soft."

"Yeah? It fits okay?" You implore, staying in the doorway— he's not sure who you're doing it more for, yourself or him. "It looks good on you."

Either way, he doesn't like it. Nerves or no nerves, he always wanted you close. It felt alike a crime to have you be out of arms reach, even when he was secure in everything else. Having you close… it felt nicer, made him relax. His brain would know that you were there, away from any further harm that could make its way to you.

He nods, gaining some lost confidence— enough to pull his hands away, instead using them to help him carefully stand up. He feels better now, less like he should runaway and hide.

You had a tendency to make that feeling disappear.

Like now.

He swallows. "Yeah— pretty much, um, perfectly, actually. You were right… per usual."

This time, it's your turn to nod. You keep your eyes up near his chest and his face — no doubt to allow him to feel less seen, even though, for you, that's all he wants — and around that area, never dipping downward for more than a second or two.

Your chest rises and falls in steady, deep breaths, but it's your hands that tattle on you. Your hands flex at your sides and mess with the loose strap of your belt; he knows what that tick means. He knows most, if not all, of your ticks and tells.

He takes a lot of pride in that.

Clearing his throat, he shifts on his feet.

"You, uh, you know you can look, right?" He asks, tilting his chin up a little— almost all of his embarrassment is gone, or close to it. The knot of warmth in his stomach, though? It never lessens, not even slightly. "I mean, um, I did put it on for you. I don't— I want you to look. It's for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He echoes quietly, licking his lips.

He stands up a little straighter when you finally move to step inside, away from the door, and closer to him. Forcing his hands to let go of his shirt, he lets his arms drop to rest at his sides, watching your every move— and, again, your expression gets him. Bad.

"So…?" He pipes up, shifting on his feet. "Do you like it? You're being… too quiet. It's freaking me out."

Whilst you stay quiet for a little longer — like in the way you do when you're focused — your eyes stay locked onto what is exposed of the lingerie, not covered by the length of his shirt. He allows your silence to stick around a little longer, staring at your face, your expression.

You've got that look in your eye; the one that has his breathing picking up a notch, that has his heart-beat fall out of rhythm with his breathing.

You look like you want to tear him apart. Respectfully.

"I'll, uh, take that as a yes, then," He mutters, standing up a little straighter for you once you stop in front of him. When you finally lift your gaze and make eye-contact, electricity sparks up his spine, making goosebumps rise along his arms.

"Shit, Ryland," You breathe, breaking your silent streak— the sound of your voice has saliva pooling in his mouth, forcing him to swallow. "You look perfect."

"'Perfect,' Is a little much," He mumbles, licking his lips again. "I, uh, don't know about all of that."

He glances down to your lips once, twice, then three times, before you move to circle him to get the full picture. His head turns to follow you, but he ditches the attempt half-way— he doesn't need to see you to know where you are, or where you're looking. His body, his brain, is tuned to wherever you are, constantly searching.

"No— You look amazing— Better than that… and it isn't at all thanks to the lingerie." You pause, rounding out to stand in front of him. Your focus flits to his face, the panties, his thighs, then back up. Your voice lowers. "fuck me, shit."

His face feels like It's on fire.

"Um, thanks," He manages, his voice cracking weakly. "I, uh, I'm happy you like it."

He watches as you nod, only for his focus to drop down to your mouth, staring as you lick your lips.

He wants to kiss you— pathetically badly. His tummy is in tangles, twisting and turning, making his brain turn into a muddled, distracted mess; he wants you to kiss him, to guide him back onto the bed, to touch him 'til it hurts.

His want hurts— no, need. Want is too weak a word for this; he wants you eternally, like an old history story that continues decades beyond its time.

His eyebrows furrow as he lifts his gaze, panting shakily as he calls your name. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he inhales shakily through his mouth, desperate. "…Please."

He barely gets a gasp in before you're curling your hand around his hip— you don't even get him halfway to you before you're stepping forward to close the gap, cutting his inhale off with a kiss.

Instantly, he moans into your mouth, his arms finding solace around you— one moves to grab at your hair to keep you in place, and the other sinks around to your lower back, to keep you close. Your knee bumps into his thigh as you guide him backward, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed.

The proximity to his dick has him twitching, whining lowly as you break apart; the dissatisfaction is soothed when your hands roam his sides, jumping over his ticklish spots as you reach for the hem of his shirt.

"Can I—"

"Yes, yes," He interrupts, nodding quickly. The backs of your fingers brush his stomach as you grab his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you, making it easier for you to yank it upward and toss it aside somewhere he doesn't truly care about now.

"Hurry." He grumbles, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you back down to him to reconnect in a kiss. The moment you do, he spreads his legs, giving more space for your knee; he feels pleased by how quickly you take the hint, pushing his legs a little wider to fit you before your weight sinks the bed between them.

Now shirtless and only in the panties, he leans back a little, forcing you to loom over him a bit more. His hand tangles in your hair, warmth spreading like wildfire from his tummy and upward as your breath fans across his face; And when you adjust, his already-hard dick grinds against the front of your jeans, making him jerk and twitch, moaning into you.

"Good?" You pant, one of your hands keeping you balanced, the other on his waist as you lean over him, your weight deepening into the bed as you chase another kiss.

"Yes," He repeats, nodding against you. Upon the added weight, his thighs close around your leg, the lace of the lingerie rubbing against the flushed tip of his dick— his hand tightens in your hair as he whines, his other ditching its spot to grab needily at your hip, trying to keep you from moving. "Mnn— F— fudge, just like that, please—"

When he feels you nod, his grip on your hair loosens, letting you sink down to mouth at his throat without a fight— and just like he asked, you stay right where you were, planting little popcorn kisses to the underside of his jaw, his throat, his shoulders, as his hips weakly grind against your leg.

Until he pulls your head back up by your hair, smushing your lips together as he pants harshly; his stomach caves in a twitch when your hand drifts down to hold the back of his knee, widening the space between his legs to make it more comfortable for yourself to move.

"Wanna move up the bed? I'm slipping," You question, asking in-between quick, short kisses. He can feel your breath against his face, catch the little, faint noises tacked onto the tail of each one.

He nods against your mouth, humming a broken "uh-huh," automatically.

When you break apart, he inhales roughly, trying to straighten his muddled brain out— but when you lean down, grab him by the hips, and push him further up the bed for him, every attempt is instantly destroyed; he moans lowly, propping himself up on his elbows to stare as you hurriedly pull your shirt off.

"You're so pretty," He whines, licking his kiss-bitten lips as his gaze drifts from your face, down to the scars littered along your form, to the belt and jeans keeping you from him, then back to your face.

Tossing his head back, he groans, feeling his dick throb against the lace— his heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears, but the raised temperature of his body doesn't swallow the ache from the loss of your touch.

His brain feels fuzzy.

When the bed dips with your weight, he picks his head back up, watching you crawl up to him until you're settled on top of him, his thighs pressing into the front of your own. He pushes himself up a little higher, catching your lips and dragging you down with him until his back is pressed against the mattress, feeling your weight settle beside his head as you hold yourself up.

Now that he's not the only one shirtless, one of his hands roam down to rest over your ribs, settling over a small burn scar there— his fingers dig in lightly, trying to pull you down to lay on top of him. When you finally relent, the clasp of your belt is cold against his cock, even through the thin fabric of the panties. His hips jerk weakly, a small groan sticking in his throat as his thighs tighten around your hips, the same going for the hand in your hair.

He always liked it when you'd lay completely on top of him; for a reason he's yet to figure out, it always felt the best, and it's not like you'd purposefully crush or hurt him. It felt better because he knew he could trust you to figure out what he needed, even if it's not what he wanted— you'd put his well-being over his pleasure, even if it'd break his high.

You'd make it better by giving him a greater one, anyway.

"Shit," You breathe, pushing yourself up a little with the help of the hand beside his head. He lets the disconnect happen, panting in bliss below you and letting you do whatever it is; his hand slips from your hair to rest on your hip again when you nudge yourself up further to kneel, and the sound of your belt buckle coming undone has his brain snapping to full attention.

"Still good?" You ask breathlessly, checking in while you undo your belt and pull the worn leather from the loops.

He nods against the pillows, breathing in through his mouth as he stares shamelessly at your crotch and your hands, his dick twitching faintly. "Mhmn."

Hooking a finger in one of your now-empty belt loops, he tugs on it lightly, reaching to undo the buttons and open the fly to your jeans. While he's busy doing that, his brain splits between the task and the feeling of your hand gently tracing down his thigh, your fingers sinking lightly into the flesh there.

Yanking the buttons open and unzipping your fly, he laughs a little as you pull back and flop down beside him on your back, but he focuses more on the lift of your hips as you shimmy out of your jeans— as soon as they're off, he sits up and moves to straddle you, muting the moan that was going to escape at the feeling of your warmth alone as his hands find station on your stomach.

"These really are nicely made," You pipe up, kicking your jeans off the bed as he settles on top of you. Your forefinger ghosts over the sensitive skin of his hip as you slip it beyond the waistband, pulling it out only to let it go and gently snap back into place around his waist.

His stomach jerks, and the breath is tugged right out of his mouth; it's broken, barely noticeable, but the way you look up and smile slightly means you heard it more than well enough. His dick strains against the lace of the panties, pre-cum slicking up some of it in small, desperate spots.

"Yeah," He agrees mindlessly, licking his lips as he nods again. He can feel your hard-on from underneath him, easier than before, thanks to the fact your jeans are off now— he sinks to sit completely, sucking in a breath as it pokes against him.

The way your eyes flutter and you inhale sharply has another little glob of pre-cum slipping from his tip, adding to the other tiny spots staining the lace pressed against his dick; he wiggles a little like he's trying to get comfortable, but all he's aiming for is a repeated reaction.

And, of course, you catch onto him quick, narrowing your eyes at him as you moan lowly— he gets no time to respond before you're sitting up, dragging him back with you when you move to lean back against the headboard; thanks to the position, the panties rut against him with every one of your movements, forcing a whine from his lips.

But he can't say he minds too much with the change when your hand settles at his hip, pulling him closer until you distract him with another round of kisses. Every time you inhale, your stomach bumps into his cock, steadily tightening the rope in his tummy.

He grabs at your shoulder, shifting until he's as close to you as can be, grinding against your stomach— the rough sensation of the lace against the dichotomy of the smoothness of your stomach has him groaning into your mouth, exhaling harshly.

Your arm is warm as you hook it to rest beneath his ass, setting him at a slight angle that has his hips stuttering and muffled, broken whines, whimpers, and huffs being yanked freely from his throat; he adjusts on his knees, tightening them desperately around your hips and swallowing the moan that slips from your mouth and into his.

"Hnng— hah, [Name]— Please—"

His hand snakes to rest behind your head, fingers twisting in your hair as his hips continue their sloppy, careless, pleasure-chasing rhythm, pushing your face more into his so you can't pull away too quickly. He feels your other hand drop from his hip to slip between his dick and your stomach, allowing him to thrust up into the palm of your hand until you pull the panties down, coiling your hand around him instead.

The pad of your thumb runs across his pre-cum slick tip, making his stomach jerk as his rhythm breaks into needy, small thrusts, chasing the skill of your hand— then he breaks your mouths apart, groaning within his throat as his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling your head back a little.

"Mmhng— I— I'm gonna cum, wait, please," He pants, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as his head drops, spine curving as he nudges his forehead into your shoulder. His other hand pulls away from your side only to curl into a tight fist, spread wide, and close again, his voice muffled as he moans open-mouthed into your neck.

All you do is briefly adjust the arm below him, panting loudly as your hand continues its path on his dick— his thighs tense and twitch, his breathing breaking weakly in between each inhale and exhale as he lets go of your hair, instead hooking his arm around the back of your neck to pull him as close as possible.

It still doesn't feel like enough.

"[Name], I—" He gasps, his voice cracking as he pushes his nose further into the crook between your neck and your shoulder, feeling the points of his teeth gently ghost over your pulse-point on accident. "P— Please, wait, I— mmng, don't— I don't want to cum too fast," He whines.

"R— Relax, Ryland," You huff, grinding your palm against his tip; your fingers bump into the sensitive spot just below there when you curl your fingers around him again, making him squeeze his eyes shut and try to ignore the taut rope of his insides. "I, ah, I want to make you cum. That— that's the whole point of this: To make you feel good. That's all I want, I don't care about anything else."

That's all I want.

It echoes in his head once, then twice, before getting overlapped and ruined by pleasure, shoved aside to try to focus on not cumming— if he came too soon and you didn't, then he'd just feel bad; you'd have to wait at least five to twelve minutes until he'd be okay with doing anything else and not cry from oversensitivity. And even though you've, quite literally, never cared about anything but getting him off, doesn't mean he thinks the same way.

He wants to make you cum.

Plain and simple.

Quickly, his hand coils around your wrist, forcing your hand to quit moving— which is a good thing, because he was way too close to cumming that If you'd kept going a second longer, he would've been canned. He straightens his spine, breathing through his mouth as his heart thuds against his ribs like it's trying to escape.

His hips continue to twitch and jerk weakly into nothing, making his expression scrunch; he'd just edged himself, forcing himself not to cum so he could make you cum first.

It was a little strange, he'd admit, but it's what he wanted.

He hangs his head, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt, only to distract him from the sound of your ruined panting and how warm you are. If he doesn't find something other than you to focus on, he'll one-up himself and cum without you even needing to keep touching him.

"Wha— What's the matter?" You ask, your fingers instantly releasing him; like you thought you'd done something. You pull your arm out from underneath him, too, giving him space. "Ryland?"

"Y— yes?"

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you? What'd I do?"

Now he just feels guilty.

"You didn't do anything," He mumbles, shaking his head and spreading his knees a little so they'll stop suffocating your hips. He hadn't even realized they were, just moments ago. "I, um… I wanted you to cum first?"

"What?" You breathe, confused. Your free hand presses into the bed by your thighs, still not touching him.

It kind-of aches that you're not.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and his hand — that's not around your wrist — droops from the back of your neck, sinking to rest on your bicep. His thumb takes a back-and-forth motion over the scar there, giving his hands something to do.

"I want to make you cum first," He repeats, slightly more confident this time. "You always get me off before I can do you, I— I want to make you cum. Before me."

"But you were close," You grumble, letting your head lull back against the headboard. A small smile fights its way onto his lips, and he gives into it, a small breath of a laugh following at your dissatisfaction.

"Yeah," He agrees, one of his thighs twitching absently. "I was, but I don't really care— Not that much, anyway."

His hand finally lets go of your wrist, moving to gently grasp your pre-cum slick hand instead; he doesn't lace your fingers together, but he does let the back of your palm rest in his, his fingers easily curled a little into your palm— until he adjusts, sinking back to lay on his tummy between your legs.

You catch on to what he's doing pretty quick, picking up your head and sighing lightly.

"Ryland… You don't have to do that. Seriously. It's gross."

"Making you cum isn't gross," He huffs defiantly, wiggling a little to get comfortable— he exhales shakily when his dick grinds into the bed through the lace of the panties, only to clear his throat to re-focus. "And I want to. You're not forcing me to do anything; I'm doing this of my own volition, like an adult."

"You're a germophobe, but you want to suck me off. Baby, that makes no sense."

"Yeah— germs are grody, but you aren't. Just… be quiet. Please. I want this."

He adjusts on his elbows, reaching for the waistband of your underwear— when you give him a lazy nod, he returns the gesture, pulling your underwear off once you lift your hips and allow him to. He tosses them aside carelessly, not bothered by wherever they could land on the floor before he crawls upward, laying a little on top of you so it'll be easier on him.

Wordlessly, you spread your legs to give him more room, but he catches the way your breath stutters in your chest, even just faintly, when he comes closer.

"You're sure you want to do this?" You mutter, reaching over and pushing his bangs out of his face. "There are other ways to make me cum, you know that. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I know," He affirms, nudging his head lightly into your hand before he takes your dick into his hand, inhaling slowly before he takes you into his mouth. Immediately, your thighs tense around his sides, and the groan that spills from your mouth has him moaning around your dick.

Admittedly, sucking you off has always been something he wanted to do, even if it seldom came up— he had an oral fixation, sue him, and he liked the weight of you in his mouth; you weren't thick (or rough) enough that'd choke or gag every time, meaning you were perfect to soothe that need.

Really, you were just perfect in general.

Pressing the tip of his tongue to the underside of your cock, he inhales roughly as he comes up, mouthing lazily at your tip— you pant above him, each breath tacked with a faint, barely-there moan, all of which have him grinding against the bed to get rid of his need for friction.

His teeth graze you accidentally as he comes up for air, and he hums an apologetic noise around you, feeling your stomach twitch when he does; in replacement of his mouth, he wraps his hand around your dick, licking his lips as he catches his breath.

"Sorry," He breathes, swallowing the spit gathering in his mouth. "That was an accident. I didn't mean to do that."

"You— You're fine, Ryland," You ease, sucking in a shaky breath as he runs his thumb along the crown of your tip. He leans back into your hand when you thread your fingers through his hair, going back to sucking you off as you scratch lightly at his head.

One of his hands come up, gripping idly at your waist as he takes you deeper into his mouth, gagging slightly before coming back up a little and licking at the underside of your tip. You moan a little louder that time, and the way your fingers pull at his hair accidentally have him groaning as he does it again, grinding against the bed to give well-needed attention to his dick; which is still wildly sensitive.

"Jesus christ," You gasp, and he glances up when he hears your head thump against the headboard— your expression is scrunched together and your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth parted as you whine and moan, your other hand a fist around the comforter.

Oh my God.

He drags his tongue over the underside of your dick as he comes back up, only to force himself back down right after— he pushes your legs open wider with his forearm when they try to jerk closed around him, making sure he has enough room to keep going without interruption.

He continues rutting into the bed as he sucks you off, choking on his own breath when he rights just the right spot— he pulls off of you just to gasp and return, his hand tightening around your hips desperately as he closes his eyes, repeating the weak grind of his hips and whining around you.

When your hand gets a little rougher in his hair and your stomach caves in a twitch, he knows you're close; your noises change, too, getting a little more raspy and broken when he pays special attention to the places he knows you're sensitive.

All he has to do is hold out until you cum— it's simple enough, but with the way each thrust of his hips into the bed and the feeling of you in his mouth feels, it's sure going to be a close one.

He adjusts in his spot, whining lowly when you pull your hand from his hair; when he glances up, he can see you bite into your forearm, your fingers curled into your fist as you pant, and your chest heaving as your thighs twitch around him.

The sight has him rutting desperately into the sheets, choking lightly around you when he hits the sweet-spot that has him closing his eyes and tightening his hold on your hip.

Your dick twitches in his mouth, and he hums a moan around you, exhaling quickly through his nose.

"S— Shit," You moan, voice broken in a way he understands almost immediately. "Ryland, I—"

This time, when he comes up, he times his rhythm with the jerking of his hips, feeling your stomach tense and thighs twitch around him when he takes you down to your base— he holds himself there as he feels you cum, finally thrusting his hips.

He cums right after you, his brain filling with cotton as bliss crashes down onto him, making a tangled string of whimpers and moans spill out around you as you cum into his mouth; its an odd, but also weirdly pleasant sensation— he made you cum just by sucking you off.

It makes a certain kind of ego and pride well up in his brain.

Coming down from his high, his finally registers that you're gently pulling him off of your dick, and he lets it happen. The moment you're out of his mouth, he swallows and gasps for air, coughing lightly and wiping his mouth.

The cum on the lingerie makes it stick wetly to him, and he winces as he sits up, laughing breathlessly.

"See?" He pants, curling his hand around your calf idly. "It's not too bad."

And it truly wasn't— for him, anyway.