Sam Wilson's pretty boy

then he stopped coming by for a while. 

no requests for sugar. no lingering pauses disguised as small talk. no more secret glances (which weren't very subtle in the first place). 

but despite seeing very little of the man himself, his presence never completely disappeared from your life.

there are still little reminders of him everywhere -- his voice through the walls, his mail occasionally ending up in your post box, the subtle scent of his cologne lingering in the hallway when you're rushing out the door to work.

one evening, you even heard a dog barking when you were getting home from work.

which is strange, considering your building doesn't allow pets.

you're slightly annoyed by his sudden disappearance from your life, even more so because this was exactly what you wanted. he's no longer there, tempting you with something you know you can never have.

you tell yourself that should make things easier. but it doesn't.

---

you've started to resent those breathy groans that carry through the walls in the evening.

you try not to give in anymore, determined to distance yourself from the untouchable man.

you don't let his voice pull you into your own bed, your mind swimming with thoughts of him. you don't let his whines influence your thighs to rub against each other, or let his broken groans linger in your head long after the apartment falls quiet.

you've gotten better at ignoring him.

or, at least, you like to think you have.

"f-fuck, please." his deep voice is muffled by the wall, but you hear every word perfectly.

you bite your lip and try to focus on the youtube video playing on your laptop, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you dry your hair. the heat from the shower still lingers beneath your skin, making this situation even worse. you're soft, relaxed, and not nearly as composed as you want to be.

you can picture him clearly: hand wrapped around himself, chest flushed with need, soft blue eyes fixed on you. his hips desperately thrusting against his fist until he makes a mess of himself.

"ugh," you whisper quietly to yourself, "shut up."

you don't know whether you're saying it to him or to yourself. 

it's almost like he hears you anyway, because his next sound is softer, breathier. 

you close your eyes for a second. 

okay. one last time. 

you let the video continue playing in the background as you sink back against the pillows, slipping a hand into your pajama shorts.

---

you've been pent up and it's all his fault.

he must know when you're home, because every time you drag yourself back from a long day at work, he somehow has you fisting the sheets as you come apart together through the wall.

is he that insatiable?

are you?

so really, who can blame you when you finally decide to outsource your pleasure?

your attention drifts away from the man-of-the-week you're kissing when a knock sounds at the door. 

you were just getting things started, letting him pin you down against the mattress because you needed the weight of someone else's body against yours. he's tall, with dark hair, light eyes, and dimples that appear whenever he smiles. he doesn't have the sweet personality you keep hoping to find, but you're not really with him for conversation.

at first, you decide to ignore it, assuming it's a delivery. you moan against his mouth, letting his hand slip beneath your shirt and cup your chest. 

then another knock follows, this one a little sharper. 

"just a minute!" you call out, pushing against his chest to break the kiss. he tries to follow, chasing your lips and keeping you close, but you pull away before he can continue. "give me a second. i'll be back," you whisper, already climbing off the bed and leaving him behind.

you fix your hair and flatten out your shirt as you walk to the door. 

you open it to find clark standing there with a box in his hands.

"oh, clark." you try to slow your breathing, still rapid from the make-out session you'd been having. "what brings you here?"

his gaze darts behind you, lingering for a second too long before returning to you.

he offers you the box. "i was at the bakery down the street and figured i'd pick something up for you." he looks down at you with a soft smile.

"you shouldn't have," you say quietly, taking the box from him and peeking inside.

"blueberry muffins," he adds. "you said you like blueberries, right?"

"i did." your fingers tighten slightly around the box. "thank you."

his eyes drop to the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hangs low enough to reveal the curve of your collarbone. his smile falters, just slightly. 

"you have something…" his hand comes up, and his thumb brushes gently over your heated skin. the contact is brief, but it leaves a soft tingle behind that makes you want to lean closer.

then you remember. the bruise.

"oh." you step back instinctively, pulling the collar of your shirt higher.

clark's hand drops immediately. "sorry."

"no, it's --" embarrassment floods through you. "it's not your fault." 

his gaze lingers on the mark for a fraction of a second before he looks back at you.

neither of you moves for a second.

you want to say something, but you're not sure what. it's not like you were ever really friends. you only interacted in passing moments and bits of small talk. he's your neighbor. 

besides, he's taken. you know that.

you should just take the muffins and leave things as they are, but before you can make your move, a voice calls from inside your apartment.

"hey, are you coming back?"

clark's eyes flick past you.

"i didn't realize you had company."

"he's just a friend." the explanation comes out before you can stop it.

why are you explaining yourself?

"right." he gives you a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "i should go." 

"oh okay." 

---

clark argues with his girlfriend more these days. the poor sound insulation means you hear every spat…and every reconciliation that follows. but tonight, it has escalated.

"people were going to die!" his voice booms through the shared wall of the living room. 

must be about politics. 

you subtly turn down the show you're watching. just curious. 

"you always do this -- you get mad, you pout, and then you pretend that nothing is wrong."

a muffled response follows, too quiet for you to make out.

his front door opens forcefully. 

you can barely make out her voice.  

"...told you…wasn't good at relationships…" 

the door shuts.

you sit there in silence for a second. 

it's never ended with him leaving before.

a tiny, shameful part of you wonders if this means they're finally falling apart, but you immediately push the thought away.

you shouldn't care.

it's none of your business, and whatever happens between them has nothing to do with you.

still, you find yourself listening for the sound of his door opening again.

---

why did i decide to move to metropolis? you ask yourself.

you should've known that living in such a utopian city, protected by the strongest man on earth, would make it a magnet for disaster. you just never thought you'd have to deal with one in your own apartment building.

the large cyborg thing has already wreaked havoc across the streets, but apparently decided that your building of all places was the perfect spot to hide from superman.

you quickly dial clark's number, insisting to yourself that this is just what any good neighbor would do. not because you're worried about him or anything.

the call goes unanswered long enough to send you to voicemail.

okay, maybe you're a little worried.

you wedge your phone between your ear and shoulder as you hurriedly put some essentials into a bag.

"hey, clark, you gave me your number for emergencies and…there's an emergency," you whisper-yell into the phone, "i heard a dog bark from your place a while ago, so i'm just worried about the dog…um," you pause, trying to organize your thoughts. "it's a cyborg guy calling himself equus… i'm leaving so just be careful." you end the call quickly, ready to escape, hopefully without the maniac noticing.  

you make it halfway down the stairs before you hear the sound of metal scraping against the floor.

you freeze.

the stairwell is eerily quiet, save for your own short, uneven breaths.

where is everyone else? did they get out before you?

you tighten your grip around the strap of your bag and slowly peek around the corner. your stomach drops.

he's much larger up close, his metal body taking up most of the narrow corridor as he looks around with his glowing eyes. you immediately duck back behind the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

shit.

you should've stayed in your apartment.

you quietly pull out your phone, ready to call someone -- anyone -- when the cyborg suddenly turns in your direction. silver, razor-sharp claws spring out at the end of his hands.

before he can reach you, a blur of red and blue crashes between you. the impact shakes the stairwell, sending you stumbling backward. you hit the wall hard enough to lose your balance and slide to the floor. 

you immediately try to push yourself up and get away from the fight, but your arms feel weak. 

"are you okay?" a deep voice asks.

you look up. 

holy shit, it's superman.

he pulls you to your feet with effortless strength, his eyes already moving over your face as he searches for any sign that you're hurt.

"did he hit you? are you injured anywhere?" his arm stays around you, supporting your weight as you steady yourself.

you should probably say thank you, but instead you find yourself staring at him, caught off guard by how close he is.

there's something strangely familiar about his face, though you can't quite place it. maybe it's his eyes, soft and comforting despite everything happening around you. or the gentle way he holds you, so at odds with the way he had just thrown himself between you and a cyborg.

he scans your body, making sure there aren't any hidden injuries. then his attention shifts, his eyes narrowing when they reach your neck.

you barely hear him murmur, "there's more…"

you remember clark's thumb brushing over the same spot, his expression changing when he noticed the faint bruise there. the memory comes back so vividly that you almost forget where you are.

standing this close to superman, you can't stop noticing the similarities.

the eyes.

the voice.

you wonder if that's why your heart is beating so hard.

"i-i'm sorry?" you ask, wondering if you misheard him.

maybe you should start wearing a scarf...

superman's hand slowly rises, his fingertips brushing gently against your cheek. the touch makes your thoughts go completely quiet. his thumb lingers for a moment.

"you're warm."

you should probably move away. instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch.

"i'm okay," you reassure him. "it's just the adrenaline."

your eyes drop briefly to his lips. his breath catches when he realizes where you're looking, and for a moment, he seems almost nervous beneath your gaze.

when you look back up, his stare has grown more intense, though the flush creeping across his face is almost endearing.

you can feel his hesitation, like he's giving himself every opportunity to step away, but he doesn't. his gaze lingers on your face for a moment before he leans down, his lips barely brushing yours, like he's letting you decide what happens next.

so you lean into him, finally meeting his kiss.

the kiss begins gently, almost uncertain, but there's an unmistakable warmth behind it that makes your stomach twist. your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his suit, and for a brief moment, the chaos around you disappears.

the strength beneath the suit is impossible to ignore. he's so much taller and broader than you, all solid muscle and otherworldly power, and yet his heart is beating just as hard as yours.

a soft groan escapes him when your tongue traces the seam of his lips, and the hand on your back pulls you closer. he deepens the kiss, chasing your lips with a breathless urgency that makes your stomach flutter.

it almost feels unreal having superman, the man of steel, melting beneath your touch. but the way he moves, his body pressing against yours as your lips move hungrily against each other, reminds you that this isn't some daydream.

you think his name slips from your lips, though you can't tell if you actually said it. your thoughts are hazy with the warmth of him against you, and his grip around you tightens.

then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulls away.

he blinks at you, like he's surprised by his own actions. his lips are a pretty shade of pink as he stumbles over an apology.

he takes a step away from you, "i-i'm sorry, i don't know why i did that…" 

"it's okay, i mean… you don't have to apologize."

your fingers brush lightly over your bottom lip, still sensitive and buzzing from the kiss, and he just stares.

there's a small pause between you. a silent we could do it again lingers in the air.

another crash outside snaps you both back to reality.

"i need to go." he glances out the window, "i have to help the justice league."

you nod, clearing your throat as you force yourself to look anywhere but at him.

"um… thank you for your service, superman." you cringe the second the words leave your mouth.

what the fuck are you saying?

he gives you a brief, almost amused look before glancing toward the stairs.

"you shouldn't be out here. i'll take you back to your apartment." before you can protest, his arm settles carefully around your waist. "hold on." you follow his directions, looping your arms around his neck.

despite the fact that you're not actually injured, he carries you up to your floor before carefully setting you back on your feet in front of your apartment door. his hands leave your waist, and you find yourself wishing he wouldn't let go just yet.

you thank him quietly, reluctantly pulling your arms away from him before turning toward your door. before you enter your apartment, you glance back.

the hallway is empty.

he's gone.

you just never thought the man who lives next door would be so...hunky. but you should've known. you've heard his voice through the cheap thin walls you share, deep and muffled.

you've heard his magnetic laugh and indecipherable monologues, even the heated grunts, and the rarer -- choked out moan. your bedroom must sit right next to his because you've been there for every late night stress-relief session he's had in the past few months.

when he's alone, he allows his desperation to show. more whiney as he reaches the edge -- with you following soon after. but when his girlfriend is over, his headboard would let you know, knocking against the wall as her exaggerated screams echo throughout the apartment complex.

is she really exaggerating though? based on how big he was when you accidentally bumped into him while collecting your mail -- the box right next to his -- you're sure he gives her something to scream about. even his hand alone could wrap over your whole fist.

you've familiarized yourself with the out-of-reach man. even if he barely knows your name, he's the main character in your fantasies.

you see him in your dreams. feel him, even. and you have half a mind to take him.

but you can't. you're a good girl.

you wouldn't.

---

you could do more.

you could invite him over for a beer or two -- maybe three with his stature -- then when he's all nice and pliable, you could peek up at him through your lashes, act helpless as you lean against him, letting him feel your softness before leaning in -- just enough to have him meet you in the middle.

you could, but you don't.

so when you open the door dressed in short sleep shorts and a tank top to face the tall man, it's just a coincidence.

really, how were you supposed to know he'd shyly ask for a few eggs at 8 in the morning?

soft blue eyes struggle to stay on your face as he speaks to you in a quiet voice, "sorry for disrupting your morning."

"no problem, neighbor," you give him a sweet smile, "how many do you need?"

"just two..."

"sure, just wait here a sec." you turn, leaving the door open as you quickly go to your fridge and collect the eggs. when you get back, you can see he's a bit more antsy, hands fidgeting at his sides. "so, what are you making?" your fingers brush his as you place the eggs in his large palm.

"pancakes," he says weakly, "my girlfriend wants some."

you hum in response, "plain, chocolate chip, or blueberry?"

"plain. she likes them plain."

"and how about you?"

"i guess...blueberry...?"

"good choice."

you can see a small smile play on his lips. almost like you complimented him, even though all you said was a simple comment.

"thanks for the eggs." he nods, "i owe you."

"anytime, neighbor."

---

and he takes that 'anytime' seriously.

one day it's a cup of sugar; the next, a splash of milk for his coffee. you're starting to wonder if he even uses his own kitchen anymore, with how often he shows up knocking for some odd ingredient.

and he never just takes it and leaves, he lingers in the doorway, making small talk. the conversations are mundane, but his eyes aren't. they lock onto yours, intent like he's memorizing every second until you finally close the door.

it kind of pisses you off.

not that he keeps asking for things, but that he keeps showing up at your place, all easy smiles and charm, like he belongs there when he has someone waiting for him at home.

you're trying to be good.

you want to be.

but he's making it really hard.

you tell yourself it's just a neighbor thing. neighbors borrow things. that's normal.

so you try to be polite while pushing him away. you keep your answers short, smile only just the right amount, and start to angle your body so the door is half-closed instead of wide open.

but nothing works.

he doesn’t take the hint.

if anything, he seems to lean into it -- resting a shoulder against the doorframe, asking one more question just as you're about to excuse yourself.

and then you start noticing things.

the way his gaze tracks your face, steady and curious, like he’s waiting for something you're not giving him. the way he listens -- really listens -- even when you're saying that isn't worth remembering.

it makes you aware of yourself in a way you don't want to be, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, how little space there is between you and the open door.

and you can't call him out on it, because what would you even say? stop being friendly? stop looking at me like that? stop flirting with me, even though you're just being a nice neighbor and i'm the delusional one?

when you finally end the conversation, making up random excuses, he's always polite. he thanks you and leaves with a lingering look. an invitation, though you can't be sure if it's real or something you've made up in your mind.

still, he never really stays for too long -- just long enough.

long enough for your crush to get worse, the feels dragging and fluttering in your stomach, quiet and unwelcome.

long enough for you to close the door and stand there afterward, annoyed at him for lingering, annoyed at yourself for letting him. annoyed because you know this wouldn't bother you if you didn't care at all. and that’s the part you don't like lingering on.

---

a knock at the door takes your attention away from the tv. you aren't expecting anyone at this time.

you glance through the peephole and find him on the other side, shifting nervously with his hands buried in his pockets, waiting. he sways a bit as he stands there, and he looks faintly...pinker.

it's late.

he has never visited after sundown.

you take a breath before you open the door.

"hiya, neighbor." he says, his voice a bit strained, the words not coming out as cleanly as usual.

"clark," you notice the state of his clothes: rolled-up sleeves, a shirt carelessly half-tucked, and a navy tie dangling loosely from his neck, "did you just come from a wedding or something...?"

"no, it was just a work thing, i got dragged into it."

you hum, "and did they force you to drink, too?"

"...you can tell?"

"kind of hard not to," you joke, "you're about to fall into my apartment."

he responds to your observation by attempting to straighten his posture and you can't help but find it endearing.

"sorry, i didn't realize how strong the drinks were." he admits, "i don't usually drink, so i thought fruity cocktails would be the safer bet."

"how many did you have?"

"5."

"jesus."

"yeah."

you stare at each other for a beat before you finally ask him why he's here, "....so what can i do for you this evening?"

"oh," his eyes avoid yours as he confesses, "i kinda got locked out of my apartment..."

"oh okay…" you trail off, unsure what to say. does he want to crash at your place or something?

"and i may have misplaced my briefcase which has my phone, wallet, and keys in it..." he adds shamefully, "so i was wondering if i borrow your phone to call my girlfriend..."

"um, yeah, sure." you look behind you, eyes roaming over the surfaces in your apartment for you phone. it sits by the couch, where you once sat. "you can come in if you want. don't want to disturb the other neighbors."

"sure."

---

she didn't pick up.

"wanna try again?" you ask -- even though he's already tried to reach her 3 times.

"nah, she's probably sleeping." he says casually, "makes sense, it's already after midnight." clark sinks back into the couch, legs spread a little too wide, like taking up more space will help him stay upright. his eyes are hooded when he looks at you.

this would be really hot if he weren't being so careless about the situation, you think distantly. you don't get how calm he is. he has lost all his belongings, he's in a neighbor's apartment he barely knows, and he's clearly too drunk to sit properly.

oh, yeah, he's drunk.

"...does she just leave her phone on silent when she sleeps?" you ask carefully.

"yeah...but it's good," he defends, "means she's prioritizing her beauty rest."

"okay, well, is there anyone else you can call?"

"uh -- jimmy, but he left the bar before me," his eyes squint as he attempts to focus and search his brain for contacts -- god he's drunk, "and my ma and pa...they're in smallville, so, uhm."

"it's fine," you decide, "just sleep here."

"here?"

"take the couch and we can try again tomorrow."

"are...you sure?"

"it's late, clark."

---

you find yourself unusually conscious as you get ready for bed. you brush off the fact that you picked out pajamas that are a little more revealing than usual -- it's just because the apartment feels warmer tonight.

and the way you linger at the mirror, brushing your teeth and washing your face a little more carefully than normal? well, that's only to make sure every inch is clean.

it's fine.

you're fine.

you gather a pillow and blanket, willing your heart to calm down as you step out into the living room.

"there you are," he says cheerfully, if not a bit loopy, "those for me?" his smile is charming, highlighting the pair of dimples you're obsessed with.

clark is a good guy, and you're a good girl. you'd never go that far.

"told you i'd only be a moment." you pass over the bedding, enjoying the way his eyes run over you as he takes it. if all you get tonight is his stare, that's enough for you.

it's funny, you've had this situation play out in your mind a thousand times: a drunk clark comes into your apartment, his morals suddenly blurred when he looks at you. and after a handful of minutes, he crosses every dangerous line just so he can get you in his arms.

but that's a fantasy that's far from reality.

"kinda chilly in here, isn't it?"

something lingers under his words. something has you biting for more.

"is it?"

if anything it feels hotter in here.

"looks like it." he comments, his stare dropping from your face to your --

"oh!" you fold your arms over your chest. shit, you're not wearing a bra. "um, yeah, guess i should turn on the heat." you try to sound casual as you reel with the fact that your hot neighbor just saw your nipples poke through your tank top.

"i mean...if you want," is all you get in response. "thanks for the blanket."

you stand there awkwardly as you watch him place the pillow down on the couch, "so...is there anything else you need?"

clark shakes his head, "i'm peachy, thanks for letting me stay over."

It was about 12:37am when you woke up. You body was hot. You felt restless.

You twisted your head, looking to see where you husband was. He was not beside you.

That's when you realized the shifting underneath the sheets.. and then the heat between your legs.

A sudden lick through your cunt told you everything you needed to know. You whimpered softly, hips bucking without your consent.

"Ry-?"

"Mm..?" A hum vibrated through your skin, causing your body to tremble.

You lifted the comforter only to find your husband between your legs, staring up at you.

"Ryland what're you doing, baby?"

His cheeked flushed a little.

"I... can't figure something out.. I need to relax."

You laughed sleepily.

He had just gotten home. You were asleep then. He was helping out with the whole astrophage problem so that meant coming home late and working from home sometimes.

It was one of those nights.

He must've been exhausted. That being why he couldn't figure out whatever he needed to figure out. His outlet was always eating you out.

When he did, his brain completely relaxed. He could let go and think freely. Plus he knew you liked it.

"I'm sorry I.. I didn't want to wake you up. I just.. need to let me brain relax..."

"Baby, come here.." You said, looking down at him sympathetically.

He pulled back from your legs reluctantly and settled beside you. Lying by your side.

You pressed a hand to his cheek.

"You're working yourself too hard, baby."

"I know.. I just.. I want to help."

You nodded. "I know, honey, but you should be asleep right now... not worried about something you can figure out tomorrow."

"You're right.." He said. "This thing just.. particularly stumped me. I want to figure it out or.. I probably won't sleep at all."

You sighed. "Oh my sweet boy." You pressed a kiss to his lips. "Always so hard at work."

He nodded, humming as he pressed his lips to your temple.

The two of you were silent for a moment.

"I missed you today.." He said, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"I missed you too..." You looked up at him. "I wish you'd take just one break. I know this whole astrophage thing is serious, but.. so is your mental health."

He nodded. "I will. I already talked to Stratt about it. I need some more time with you."

You smiled. "That's good."

He nodded again and sighed.

"Hm?" You asked. The sigh sounded like it was from frustration.

"Still stuck on that problem."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"You're such a silly man."

He pouted. "What, for needing a little help to relax? Needing to have a little bit of a stress reliever?"

"Not the fact that you need a stress reliever, but the fact that your stress reliever can sometimes involve eating out your wife who is in a deep slumber."

He shook his head. "Don't judge me."

You giggled softly. "I'm not judging you.. just observing."

He hummed against your head. Silence settling over you two as you had your own silent thoughts.

"So..... Can I..?" He asked.

You looked up at him. "Can you what?" You asked, teasing.

"Finish what I was doing..?"

"And what was that?"

He groaned. "Babyyy."

"Hm?"

"Don't make me say it."

"You woke me from my sleep, Ry. I think it's fair."

He groaned again, but sighed. "Can I finish fucking you with my tongue? Finish this problem?"

His sudden boldness made you shiver. But you nodded, of course. "Yes, you may.."

"Mm thankyouthankyouthankyou" He mumbled, moving to lay on his back now, however.

"Please, come sit on my face." He asked.

"Ry-" You had only done this once before. You were terrified of suffocating him.

"Please." He asked, looking at you.

You sighed. You had to admit the thought aroused you. So, you sat up and sectioned yourself on top of his face.

He was quick. The second he felt your warm, wet pussy on his face, he started making out with it.

You whimpered, hips bucking into his face, causomg his nose to bump against your clit.

His glasses were beginning to fogging as he devoured you. His tounge now sliding in and out of your hole.

"Mm-" he mumbled something. It was inaudible, of course, just sending a vibration through your pussy.

You held onto the headboard in front of you as you rose his face, feeling every little thing.

"Oh my god-" You moaned.

Ryland took that as a sign and he continued doing exactly what caused the sound to spill from your lips.

He seemed to be spaced out, but in a good way. Probably pussy drunk. The one thing that helped him the most.

Even though he was very set on figuring out what he needed to, he couldn't focus tonight. The sounds you were making drove him wild. It was causing his pants to tighten.

He whined into you, it making you shiver.

Your legs began to squeeze against his face, so he wrapped his arms around your thighs and held them, continuing his relentless licking and sucking.

He mumbled again, something along the lines of "Yeah that's it baby-" and "Good girl, ride my face, use me."

You were trembling.

"Ryryry-" You whimpered. "I'm gonna cum-"

He nodded. One of his arms moved from your thigh to your surprise. He slid it down his body, only to shove his hand under his sweatpants.

He began to stroke himself. Already whimpering as if he had already reached his climax.

"Ry-!" Your hips twitched.

You came, eyes rolling back.

He didn't stop.

He kept fucking you through your orgasm, but kept going anyways.

You didn't know what he was doing behind you. Didn't know why he was whining so much.

He just kept fucking you with his tongue, sucking your clit, swiping through your folds. Everything.

He began to moan into you, and only then did you feel the soft jerking of his hand.

The fact that he got hard from simply eating you out drove you crazy.

You only reached your next orgasm after a minute or so after, him groaning into you as you slid yourself back and forth on his face. He came, making an absolute mess in his pants.

The two of you were panting softly, but he quickly switched into aftercare mode. He helped you off his face, helping you lay down before pulling you into his chest.

"R'you okay, sweetheart?" He asked.

You nodded, now more exhausted than before.

"Get some rest.." He said, brushing his hand gently through your hair.

The two of you fell asleep together, completely a mess.

It was early in the morning on Erid. You and Grace had woken up a few minutes ago, having decided to have a lazy morning today. You two are tangled up together, basking in each other's warmth and presence. Your face is pressed into his neck and your arms are around his midriff. His arms are around your shoulders and his face is buried in your hair. You both have sleepy grins painting your faces.

You get a little idea, sticking your tongue out against his neck. He tenses up for a moment before letting out a soft laugh.

"Did you just lick me?" He snorts. You giggle mischievously.

Instead of answering him with words, you do it again. You taste the salts and oils of his skin. The action makes him laugh harder.

"Quit it," he murmurs, clearly not upset in the slightest.

You nuzzle his neck before laying kisses and licks all over. You're both laughing until you hit a certain spot on his neck.

Your tongue brushes against one of Graces favorite spots. He lets out a shaky mix of a laugh and a moan. You look up at him, he's averting eye contact and blushing hard.

"Ryland, what was that?" There's a teasing lilt to your voice that makes the red flush on his face more prominent.

He says, "nothing" way too loud for it to be nothing. You can feel his body trembling slightly against yours.

"Mhm, 'nothing'. I'm sure it was nothing, babe," you tease. He lets out a shaky sigh.

"Can… Can we go back to snuggling?" He whispers, pulling you closer.

"We could, or I could help you with your little friend," you rumble in his ear, making his whole body shudder.

He knows exactly what you're talking about. His cock is poking your thigh through his clothes. The way your pressed against him only makes it twitch. He can see a wicked grin spread across your face.

"P-please," he half-moans.

"Please what, Ry?" You hum, nibbling his ear. He bites his lip to keep from making embarrassing noises.

"Please… Touch me," he whispers.

"Okay, only because you asked so nicely," you murmur as you begin trailing kisses back down to his neck.

You press your leg into his bulge a bit harder, grinding it into him a little. Grace lets out a moan. You slip your hands under his shirt to trace his sides. You've barely done anything and he's already unraveling.

You start sucking his skin a little, making his little noises grow louder. He sounds angelic and it's making you wet. He's writhing under your gentle touches, completely forgetting to be quiet.

"Want more?" You ask, voice vibrating against his skin. He nods, choking back another moan.

You slide a hand into his pants, gently stroking his dick. He groans and ducks his head into your neck, panting softly.

You slip his length out of his pants before moving your hand faster, making Grace buck his hips into you. He starts panting harder, letting out loud whimpers that he would be ashamed by if he wasn't so horny.

As his hips start stuttering, you know he's getting closer. You pull your hand away, making him whine. He pulls away from your neck to pout at you.

"Don't give me that look, I'm gonna give you something even better," you say before pressing your lips into his. He melts into the kiss, becoming pliant.

You take off both of your pants, laying Grace on his back. He looks up at you, face flushed and needy.

You straddle his hips grinding your hips into his cock. Your bottom growth catches against his tip, making you both groan. He bites his lip to hold back his desperate noises. You smile before lifting your hand to tug his lip free.

"Now now, love. Let me hear those pretty noises," you murmur. He obeys, letting his moans free. "Want inside?" With that simple question, you'd think his neck would snap with how aggressively he nods.

You let out a small chuckle before positioning his tip against your wet entrance. His lips curl into a, frankly adorable, smile.

Something you've always loved about your relationship is that there's never a 'need' for sex. You both just use it as a way to get closer to each other. It's a level of intimacy that makes you both happy, but you could also both go weeks without it and nothing about your dynamic would change.

The thought has occurred to you that you both might be on the asexual spectrum, but ever since landing on Erid, neither of you have cared for labels. If you don't like sex, it's as simple as that. If Grace wants to put on a skirt to feel pretty, he does that without shame.

It's something both of you cherish about your new life here. Something neither of you take for granted.

These thoughts warm you as you slide down on Grace's length. You smile softly even as he becomes a mess under you. He's too out of it to notice the look on your face and it makes you smile brighter.

The fact that you can make your partner melt so easily brings you a sense of satisfaction. You lean down, catching his drool-covered lips with your smiling ones as you bottom out on him. He keens into you.

You just sit on his pelvis for a bit, letting you both calm down a bit while you kiss each other. When you finally move, Grace's whole body arches into you. You set a moderate pace that makes both of you moan into one another's mouths.

Grace clings onto you, pulling you as close as he can get you. You wrap your arms around his neck, still bouncing up and down. He pulls back suddenly.

"N-need to feel you," his voice is broken and sprinkled with various noises of pleasure.

You know what he needs, so you pull your torso from his before lifting both your shirts. Once your shirts are off, Grace pulls you against him again. You let out a breathless chuckle at his eagerness.

"Mm, better?" You ask, lips pressing into his temple as he buries his face back in your neck. He nods, losing his ability to speak.

The skin-to-skin contact gives this experience another level of intimacy that gets you both closer to the edge.

Grace lets out more desperate noises into your neck. You can feel your juices drip down and make your pelvises sticky. You blush a little at the feeling. It's one you've experienced countless times before, but you never seem to get used to it. It's pleasant, but a bit embarrassing. Proof of your desire for him soaking the both of you.

You can feel yourself getting closer and by the looks of things, Grace isn't doing much better.

You both cling to each other as you find your releases. Yours making the mess between the two of you bigger. His filling you to the brim and making you moan louder.

You both take your time coming down from your respective highs. You're basking in each other and the closeness of the situation.

Mid-cleaning up, you hear a knock on the door. It's go the impatience of Rocky, so you hurry up with cleaning and getting dressed. Grace opens the door and looks down.

"Grace late for teaching, statement," Rocky stamps a limb down, clearly peeved at Grace's tardiness. The action makes you snort. Grace sends a glare at you, making it clear he's blaming you for making him late. You just shrug and walk off deeper into the cabin.

Bonus: As Rocky and Grace are walking to the teaching area, Rocky speaks up.

"Why Grace mate call Grace 'Babygirl', question?" He asks in a neutral but curious tone. Grace chokes on air for a second.

"H-how about we stop talking for a bit, yeah?" He speeds up, trying to get away from the alien before he can ask anymore questions about his relationship with you.

This pathetic man has a chokehold on me. I also wish to rail him.

“Well,” he sighs, walking back into the living room, “they are apparently doing everything they can to ‘assess the situation’ and ‘fix it as soon as possible.’” The air quotes he puts around those phrases are frustrated and punctuated with eye rolls.

“Awesome.” You try to fan yourself with your shirt. It had felt like loose and baggy was the way to go, but now it seems like it is simply trapping your body heat. “Did they give any kind of estimate?”

He sprawls on the opposite end of the couch and wipes at his forehead. Some of his hair is already starting to stick to his skin. “Nope.”

Your head thuds back with a groan. “Fantastic. Should we try to find somewhere else to hang out for a bit? Somewhere with functioning AC?”

“We’d have to go pretty far. It’s affecting multiple neighborhoods.”

This is just miserable. Absolutely, positively, miserable. “Well. So much for our relaxing day in.”

He smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I can put some wet paper towels in the fridge? Once they’re cool, you can put them on your pulse points, try to keep your internal temp down.”

No mention of whether he would do the same; it’s incredibly sweet, just how much he puts your safety and comfort over his own. (Sometimes it is stupid, instead of sweet, but right now it just makes you smile.) “Sure, that would be nice.”

Ryland gets up again. You try to find something to put on the TV in the meantime, just to have a distraction while the two of you try to wait this out. One of your fingers slips over the buttons on the remote. “I’m going to take a quick, cold shower, I think,” you call into the kitchen.

“Sounds good.” As you walk by, he turns around to look at you with a boyish grin. “Don’t take too long. I’ll have to—check in on you, you know. Make sure you haven’t fainted from heat exhaustion.”

You laugh and press a quick peck to his cheek before continuing on to the bathroom. “I’ll try my best.”

The cold shower is, frankly, amazing, and you have half a mind to just stay in there all day—but that would definitely not help the water bill, and neither of you make that much money. So you reluctantly shut the water off after a few minutes and try to towel yourself dry as quickly as you can, before the sweat returns.

The baggy t-shirt was fine, you suppose, but it got pretty uncomfortable when it had started to stick to your skin. You settle for a sports bra and some loose pajama shorts. At least this way, you figure that the bra will help collect some of the sweat, so you won’t feel completely like a wet seal.

When you return to the living room, you see that Ryland is back to languishing on the other end of the couch, probably so you can still sit in the spot most directly in front of the fan. What a gentleman. He’s also put a bowl of ice water in front of the fan; polite and smart, you think with a small smile.

“I don’t know how you’re wearing jeans right now,” you say once you sit down. The air from the fan meets the sweat already gathering again on your skin, and it causes little goosebumps to rise and shiver. “You’re insane.”

His eyes are closed. Likely trying to conserve energy, or something—you can almost imagine the ‘lesson’ he would give you about it. “I’m used to it from teaching. It gets pretty stuffy, standing in front of a room full of twenty to thirty preteens. You don’t even want to know what the smell is like.”

You simply huff out a small laugh and resume your search to find something to put on. There’s a new video about some space mission; that will work. “Are you sure you don’t want a turn with the fan?”

“Nope, I’m good.” His eyes open by a fraction to watch the video, and he takes his glasses off, setting them on the coffee table. They were probably sliding down his nose anyway. “You need it more than—woah.”

It took him a lot longer to notice than you thought it would. You keep your gaze on the TV, even as one of the corners of your mouth lifts. “What’s up?”

“You are wearing a lot less clothes than the last time I checked.”

“And how often is that something you check on?”

You can hear him sit up a little, can hear the smile in his voice. “Oh, very often. It’s important to be rigorous with these sorts of things.”

“I see.” You turn the volume down, but you still do not look over, even as you hear him stand and the sound of his zipper being pulled down. “Whatcha doing over there?”

Ryland settles back onto the couch. “You’re right, jeans are a terrible idea. One of the worst I’ve ever had.”

This makes you finally turn your head, so you can look at him with raised brows and a smug smile. “I don’t know, you’ve had some pretty bad ones.”

His legs look positively unfair right now. He’s got on those longer tube socks, and the way they cinch at the top merely highlights the curves of his calves, the fine, dirty blond hair that dusts his shins and the tops of his thighs.

He is, also, already half-hard in his boxers.

When he catches you looking, he makes a sort of frustrated, embarrassed noise. “What did you expect. You—you’re sitting there, half-naked. This is my body doing what it was programmed to do.”

You can’t help the self-satisfied grin that spreads on your face. “Of course.” The expression falters a moment, though. This is how you would have liked to have spent the day, if the AC was actually functioning. But. “It’s just too hot, right now. To, you know. Do anything. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Ryland shifts on the couch, trying to tug his shirt down a little. “It’s—I’ll be fine. It’ll go away on its own.”

But you don’t want that to happen, at least not by itself. There are quite a lot of things you would like to do to help it ‘go away.’ You turn this over for a little while before adjusting your sitting position, so that your back is against the armrest and your body is fully facing him. You let one of your legs hang off the edge of the couch, your hands resting on your thighs.

His attention, if it wasn’t already before, is now fully on the lines of your body, the hem of your shorts, your glistening midriff. “See something you like?” You ask, a little cheeky.

“Oh, a whole lot. There’s a list. It is being actively and enthusiastically maintained.”

Then he just—keeps looking at you, at the rise and fall of your chest, as the flush of his skin from the heat deepens. His tongue darts out, just a little, to wet his lips. He shifts again. The movement makes his shirt ride up again, so you can see the tent of his boxers and the barest hint of the hair on his stomach.

Your finger twitches. Then, slowly, you let your hand graze upward, brushing past the bottom of your shorts, until it rests on your mound, just above where the heat of your body has started to pool and concentrate. “I think. I am understanding where this is going.”

“Yeah?” You breathe. “What’s that big brain of yours telling you?”

He turns then, too, leaving his legs spread a little, not bothering to pull his shirt down again to cover the newly-exposed sliver of skin. “I can describe it in detail. Excruciating detail. If you want.”

Your hand slides down a centimeter. Not enough that you’re doing anything, not yet, but enough that his eyes flick down to track it. You’re too far away to really tell, but you think his pupils have already widened, hiding some of the blue of his irises. “I do. You know I like it.”

“I think you’re the only person that likes how much I run my mouth,” he grins. This is definitely not true. You think it’s one of his most endearing qualities, and that other people must see it, too; but you let the statement slide anyway, because one of his hands has started to move. “I think. That it is too hot, first of all.”

“Correct.”

“But you would still like to do something about my—problem.”

“Mm-hm.”

His hand has reached the crease of his hip, over the fabric of his boxers. “And the solution you have come up with is. Is. Us watching each other.”

Your fingers dip another centimeter. “That’s not the excruciating detail I was promised.”

You watch as his Adam’s apple bobs. His throat looks a little damp with sweat already, you note, and it would be really nice if you could crawl over there and lick it off. “Right. That’s—you’re right, as always.” Very smooth, Ryland. “You want to watch me touch myself. And you would like me to watch you do the same.”

“That’s exactly it. Good job,” you purr. You finally let your hand slide the rest of the way, until the pads of your fingers are resting over your clit. You press down with your middle finger, and your eyelids flutter, just once. “Well,” you murmur, dipping your head to look pointedly at his crotch, “what are you waiting for?”

He nods, a little frantic, and moves his hand to cup himself through his underwear. His head leans back against the couch at the feeling, but he never closes his eyes, even as his fingers curl around his hard length and grip, because he’s right, of course he’s right—you want to watch him, and you want him to watch you.

You apply a little more pressure, this time in a slow circle, while your other hand moves up to knead your breast. Ryland’s eyes flick back and forth between them. It’s extremely cute, the way he wants to be able to look at both of your hands at the same time. “Lift up your shirt a little,” you instruct, and your words are already a little breathy, tinged with pleasure.

The great thing about him is he always follows your instructions, in situations like this, eagerly and wholeheartedly. His free hand immediately drags the hem of his shirt up, so you can see the way the muscles of his stomach shift and contract as he fists his cock, the trail of hair that stretches from beneath his waistband to his navel. “You, ah, see something you like?” He parrots back, repeating your earlier question, though his version is a little more strained, more pitchy.

“Mm-hm,” you hum. Your hips start to move in tandem with your fingers, still circling through the layers of fabric. “A whole lot.”

“Like—like what?” The question ends with a little moan, and the sound sends little rivulets of desire sparking through your ribs and down into your core.

You let your eyes drag along the length of his body: across his bare thighs, the up-and-down of his hand, his exposed midriff, the flush of his face, the blue of his pleasure-laden eyes. “We’d be here a long time, I think, if I listed it all.”

He smiles at that, and then the two of you keep going like this for a little while; touching yourselves through your clothes, watching the other with rapt focus, tracking each and every quiet mewl and whine that filters through the room. He could probably come like this, you think, but you can’t, at least not without him touching you—and you would really, really like to see him, more of him, when he does.

So you stand and shuck off your shorts and underwear before settling back onto the couch. His hand has stilled. “You can keep going.” Your fingers slide through your folds, spreading them open so he can see what the sight of him has done to you, and then you return to circling at your clit. A real moan flies out at the sensation, now unfettered by your clothes.

The sound seems to kick him back into gear. Ryland dips his hand underneath his waistband, then, and you’re about to scold him for hiding it, but he slides his boxers down, not even bothering to stand to take them off all the way. The groan he lets out when he grasps his bare length sends your fingers moving faster, your cunt clenching around nothing.

You probably should have put a towel down, or something, you think idly, but the thought gets swept out of the way when he pauses to let a little bit of saliva drip onto his palm. “That’s it,” you whimper. “Does it feel like me? When you do that?”

He shudders a little as he spreads his spit over the leaking head of his cock. “Not even close,” he gasps. “You are—so much tighter, so much warmer. Just. Better, all around, really.”

“Good answer,” you smile. You spread your legs even wider, as wide as they can go like this, still circling your fingers, still laser focused on the twist and pull of his hand and the tightening of his abdominal muscles. “Wish you were inside me right now.”

“That’s—gosh—we can make that happen, please, right now, if you want.” His hand starts to move a little faster, and when you glance up to meet his eyes, they are wide and pleading.

Your cunt clenches again. “S’too hot, remember?”

Ryland honest-to-god whimpers at your response. “Yes, but—but—hold on, let me, I can think of something, just give me a second.” What’s really wonderful about this is he still doesn’t stop jerking himself off, even as he tries to think of whatever bullshit reason he can pull out of thin air to try and change the fact that it is simply too warm in the apartment. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. It’s—excess heat removal. Sweat does the same thing, really, so—all of that fluid—it’s getting rid of heat.”

“And where is that fluid going, Ryland?” A strangled noise vibrates in the back of his throat at the sound of his name fluttering and lilting from your lips. You dip your fingers down again to collect more of your wetness, wishing they were his. “When I beg you to come inside me, where would that fluid go?”

It is possible that you are being a little cruel. Because, really, what the two of you are doing right now is also not helping with the heat, if the red, sweaty flush of your bodies is anything to go off of. But he plays right a long, spitting a little more into his hand and sliding it over his cock. The sound of it, you can hear it, can hear the saliva and the drag of his fingers. “It would—okay, yes, you’re right, it would just transfer to you, because I—when you ask me to do that—”

His sentence drops off at the end, as his other hand glides further up his damp torso, dragging his shirt up along with it. “What?” You goad, “What do you do when I ask for that?”

The squeeze of his eyes is almost enough to get you there, or to the buildup of it, at least, so you focus on the rhythm of your fingers and your hips, brushing the pads of your other fingers across your nipple through your bra. Whatever, it wasn’t really helping anyway—you lift the bra up, and almost instantly the aching buds pebble and peak from the air of the fan.

“Answer my question, please,” you whine sweetly, because you’re still waiting for his reply, “and look at me when you do.”

You wonder how much effort it takes him to pull his eyelids open, and you hope that the sight of you like this, bare and needy, sprawled on the couch just for him, is enough of a reward for it. His nostrils flare as he takes it all in. “When you ask me to do that,” he says, slowly, voice low and just barely measured, “all I want to do is give that to you. To—to come inside you, just like you want.”

It’s your turn to nod feverishly, all whines and moans, rolling the bud of your nipple under your thumb in time with the fingers at your clit. “Thank you,” you manage to get out, “you’re doing so well. Thank you.”

The praise makes his stomach ripple, makes a little more pre-cum leak out of his tip, and it gets caught by his hand on the next up-and-down. His eyes drop to your cunt again. After a particularly delicious turn of your fingers, you can feel yourself clench again, and a choked groan tumbles out of his mouth. “I can see you—when you—I can see it,” he says, and his voice is colored with awe.

This brings you a little closer, especially when his eyes flutter shut, because you can tell that he’s imagining it, what that squeeze would feel like around him. “Put your glasses back on,” you blurt. “Please.”

Ryland cracks an eye open after a moment to look at you, confused. “But. Then I can’t see you,” he pouts. You would very much like to take that pout in between your teeth, tug at his bottom lip.

“You can—let them rest on the tip of your nose, just, please? For me?”

Those are the magic words. He leans forward, still touching himself, and fumbles for his glasses, practically slamming them on his face. Yes, that’s it, you think distantly, as he peers at you over the metal frames with his brows drawn, that’s exactly what you wanted. “Are you…?”

“Yeah. Yes, I am, please just keep—so close,” and then you’re tipping your head back, fighting to keep your eyes open so you can continue watching him, his eyes shining over the tops of his glasses, the heave of his chest, his hand around his cock, still slick with his saliva.

His lips part as he pants. You can tell that he’s almost there, too, by the way his hand quickens and stutters. “You are so. You—so pretty, so beautiful,” he babbles, praise and moans falling out of his mouth, “wish I was—I should have just tried to fix it myself, so I could feel you when you—when—”

Ryland never finishes his sentence, because then his abdomen his tightening, and his cum is spilling over his knuckles and spurting onto his torso, eyes still transfixed by the sight of your cunt, your fingers playing with yourself. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as the apex of your pleasure finally rises and splits and floods through you at the image laid out in front of you; after that first moment, that initial crest, loud moans rip and cascade out of you while your thighs quiver, while what feels like each and every muscle contracts and releases.

You watch him through it all, because he’s still touching himself, still moving his cum-covered hand even when it starts to make him twitch and jerk.

When you’ve finally stilled, melting and languid on the couch, you let out an amused huff. “You should. Probably join me in the shower now.”

He looks down at his stomach, at his hand. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Then his other hand—the one not covered in his own spend, though that would have been pretty funny—flies up to his face in disbelief. “Why didn’t I—I should have just suggested that in the first place. The water would have kept us cool.”

You give him a wide, suggestive smile at that, and then he’s scrambling off of the couch to follow you into the bathroom.