But with Al, Jude’s pleasure was no afterthought. Everything from hand jobs to full-on fucking lit Jude’s nerve endings on fire. His body ached for him.Allof him. Jude was quickly becoming addicted to all things Al. His touch, of course, and his mouth, but so much more than that. Like his smell. Al always smelled slightly sweet—a scent that grew stronger on the very rare occasions that he sweated—as though, underneath his human disguise, there was something about the composition of his body that gave him the essence of sugar. He had a unique taste to him, too. When Jude kissed or licked (or bit or sucked) his skin, there was an aftertaste that lingered on his tongue that was almost spicy. Like the faintest hint of nutmeg or ginger.
Jude swore he hadn’t noticed those subtle differences about Al the first few times they’d slept together, but as they neared the two-month mark since the crash, Jude was becoming more and more aware of them. It was like he was suddenly, for no reason he could discern, much more sensitive to taste and touch and smell. Hell, even the lilt of Al’s breathy voice saying ridiculous things like, “Yes, that makes me feel good when you do that, thank you very much please, Jude,” affected him, causing his heart to go all fluttery like a twitterpated teenager. But he couldn’t help it. It was like his body and mind had homed in on one thing and one thing only: Al, the fucking alien stranded in the apartment.
And what was worse was that he wanted himall the goddamn time.
“I’m close,” Jude warned, his whine catching as he spoke. In response, Al pressed the gentlest of kisses to Jude’s forehead, melting his fucking heart at the same time that heat began coiling in his abdomen. Al squeezed Jude’s cock tighter, just on the right side of too much, and then swiped the pad of his thumb over Jude’s slit. That sent him over the edge so fast that even though he’d been expecting to go off any second, his climax still caught him off guard. Jude bit the meat of Al’s shoulder to keep his moans muffled—for Ezra’s sake—and Al held him close and continued stroking him until he’d spilled everything he had over Al’s fist and their bare bellies.
While the aftershocks rattled through him, Al removed his hand and gingerly began wiping up the mess with a few tissues he plucked from the box on Jude’s nightstand. He did it with care, cleaning Jude before himself, and then, when he was done and had trashed the sticky wad of tissues, he settled back in next to Jude and chastely kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning,” he said, brushing Jude’s hair back and letting his fingers linger in what Jude was certain had to be a tremendously silly case of bedhead. Al didn’t seem bothered—he just loved petting Jude’s hair. “Do you feel properly relieved of your post-unconsciousness arousal?”
Jude burrowed his face into a pillow and snorted.
“Yeah, man. You took care of it pretty damn well, I’d say.” He peeked up at Al through heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes and added, “You always do.”
Al blushed at the compliment.
Al had learned about morning wood quite early on in their—arrangement? Fuck buddies agreement? Pretend boyfriend act, only where pretending meant also doing all the things real boyfriends did, from sweetly kissing each other to railing each other into a different dimension? Political dalliance, where they were ambassadors from different planets practicing some really questionable diplomacy techniques?
Jude didn’t know how to define their relationship, but whatever. The point was, Al had quickly taken note of the fact that Jude often woke up in the mornings with a stiff cock. It was not a difficult thing to notice, especially because Jude had a tendency to hump Al’s thigh in his sleep. To Jude’s delight, Al had considered this not to be embarrassing or awkward, but rather a situation that required his immediate intervention.
“If your human body feels the desire to mate,” he’d said, “then it is stupid not to let me help alleviate this when I am willing to provide assistance.”
And, like, Jude wasn’t a fucking masochist, so Al didn’t hear any argument from him in regards to this flawless logic. Sometimes it escalated to more than just hand jobs, and sometimes Jude would do some alleviating for Al in return, but more often than not, Al seemed very content to simply give Jude an orgasm every morning. It had become as routine as pouring a cup of coffee. And again, Jude was no masochist, so he hadn’t said a peep.
The only part Al had shown any resistance toward was the term “morning wood.” He adamantly refused to refer to it that way, stating that “wood is not related to arousal, Jude. They are very different things” and “English is a bad language and its euphemisms are not good and they make me feel confusion. Why do people not feel this way also, Jude? It is very stupid.”
Jude laughed a little at the memory of what had then become another full-scale rant about English grammar. God, Al could be cute sometimes. Life with him was never boring.
But then, another thought followed—one that caught Jude off guard:I’m gonna miss him when he goes home.
The smile slipped from Jude’s face instantly, and a heavy weight settled in his gut.
“Are you feeling okay?” Al asked, noticing his abrupt change in demeanor. “Is your stomach acting incorrectly again?”
For a moment, Jude merely searched Al’s face, a strange melancholy settling over him that felt kind of like grief or, absurdly, like homesickness, but he quickly shook himself out of it, reminding himself that Al wasn’t going anywhere yet. Hell, he didn’t even have all the materials he needed to finish building his fancy-pants long distance walkie-talkie.
He’d explained to Jude just the other day that he had asked “a human professor” if she could help him get a hold of some piece of equipment Jude immediately forgot the name of that was crucial in making soundwaves accelerate or something, and apparently the professor had answered, “Sure, and I will get you a lightsaber and the schematics of the Death Star while I’m at it.” This had led to a conversation about sarcasm, followed by a movie marathon, wherein Al discovered popcorn for the first time and had declared, quite passionately, “I feel gratefulness that humans witnessed a plant explode and the first feeling they felt was a desire to consume it. That was very stupid of them, but I feel happiness about it.” He’d then twisted the lid to the saltshaker off and poured the entire contents into his popcorn bag, and that had been the last time the communication device had come up between the two of them.
“My stomach’s fine,” Jude assured him, pushing the thought of Al leaving him firmly out of his mind.
“Do you feel certainty?” Al pushed himself onto an elbow to get a better look at Jude. The rainbow lanyard that he refused to take off for anything other than showering (and even that was a battle) swung forward and thwapped Jude in the face.
“Ow,” Jude muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose where the plastic part of Al’s fake university ID had struck him. Al was immediately apologetic.
“Oh, I am sorry, Jude. That action was not on purpose. Here, I will fix it.” He gently moved Jude’s hand away and then leaned in to press his lips to the sore spot. He sat back up, looking very self-satisfied, and said, “I read in a book that I attained with the pretend library card your flirtatious human friend Corbin gave me that humans can treat injuries to their physical forms by ‘kissing it better.’ Did it work?”
Al was so earnest and was looking at Jude so expectantly that Jude couldn’t help but assure him, in no uncertain terms, that yes, of course he had kissed it better. He then vaguely wondered what would happen if he were to get an actual injury in front of Al. He’d probably have to explain that bandages were more efficient at treating wounds than kisses, but that was another thing he was going to just… worry about later.
“What is your agenda for the day?” Al asked once he had been thoroughly convinced that Jude was not in pain from a stomachache, a lanyard attack, or other ailment. “It is Sunday. Those are the days you said are for ‘fuck all,’ correct? I sometimes forget which is which.”
“No you don’t,” Jude said, shooting Al a look as he shifted up into a sitting position. “You’re just looking for an excuse to complain about calendars again.”
“Not all calendars. Some calendars are not dumb.Yourcalendar is dumb, though. That is a correct statement.”
“I don’t care if you get me off every morning—if you make me talk about calendars again, I swear to god I am going to make you sleep on the couch tonight.”
“But—”
