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I learned early on that humans are incredibly tactile. Grace explores everything with his soft, five-fingered claws; he tosses objects from hand to hand, runs his fingers over surfaces, fiddles with the manipulatable parts of equipment.
He explained to me that human skin is highly sensitive. The way he describes it is very similar to an Eridian’s auricles: every inch of his body is equipped to take in and categorize touch-based information. Sight may be his primary sense, but he is more than capable of navigating the world based on touch alone. He once had Mary turn out the lights and showed me how, though falteringly, he could find his way from room to room, arms outstretched and seeking.
Perhaps due to this, Grace craves touch. He pats the sides of my tunnels as he walks by me. He wraps his arms around my ball (a hʌɡ, he calls it) and presses his cheek against it. Though Eridians do not engage in as much social touch as humans must, I try to initiate; the way his face joyfully contorts when I offer a ‘fist-bump’ is invaluable. Grace needs this, I have come to realize.
It feels unequal, though. Grace can so easily offer me the aural affection I desire — though he lacks the ability to form chords, he can hum to me or sing human songs for me to harmonize with. Even just his atonal speech has become stimulation enough to keep my mood lifted. So, when I hear him lean against my ball, reach a hand towards me, wrap his arms around himself in his sleep, my core aches. He will never touch another human’s skin again because of me.
I brainstorm. I do this primarily when he is asleep, working at the far end of the sleeping quarters so as not to wake him, because I need to keep this a secret. If I tell him too early and then can’t make it work, it will devastate him.
I make prototype materials, then a scale model, then eventually begin testing the fit of each piece. Grace’s spacewalking suit is a good basis; I will need mine to be thin enough to allow movement, but substantial enough to keep my atmosphere contained. I’m tempted to make the entire thing out of the tiniest panels I can fabricate but, at least for now, settle on making my claws highly flexible and using larger panels across the rest of my body.
The suit ends up being two pieces: one that covers the majority of my body and all five limb pieces and the other essentially a lid. I’ll put on the body, then weld the lid piece onto it. Using my tools with my claws suited is difficult, but not impossible, and I practice sealing and unsealing myself until I can do either within one minute. (One Earth minute. I instinctively think in Grace’s units now.) A small tank in the lid piece contains air; all in all, the suit will last me seventy-four minutes before I need to cycle out my air.
Is it enough? Could it ever be enough?
I try out a larger air tank design, but it makes me uncomfortably top-heavy. I could move it to one of my sides, but that will make my hearing uneven, which I don’t enjoy.
I dismantle and rebuild the gloves with more and more articulation. The design barely changes. I use them to grab tools, stroke things, wondering if my touch could ever feel soothing enough to his skin. After all, I’m so incredibly different from him — hard where he is soft, warm where he is cold. Will this even bring him comfort or will it just open the wound wider?
I consider scrapping the suit altogether until today.
Grace wakes with a yawn — his mouth opens, letting me hear his tongue and teeth and the softness of his throat better, and he makes a deep, wordless sound. He does this both when he’s tired and right after waking, paradoxically. As he stretches his arms above his head, making a lovely display of his ribs, Mary chimes, “Happy ˈbɝθˌdeɪ, Dr. Grace.”
”Oh. Huh.” He scratches his head, which is either a sign of confusion or that he’s trying to remove an unpleasant sensation from his skin.
“What is word, question?”
Grace stands and trudges over to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at me as he replies, “Oh, ˈbɝθˌdeɪ? It’s, uh, a day we celebrate on Earth. It’s the anniversary of the day my parent gave birth to me.”
“Your hatching day!” I’m on my feet immediately, rapping insistently at the wall. I should have picked up on the sounds — ‘birth’ and ‘day’. My tunnel system doesn’t extend all the way into the bathroom, and as I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me, question?” he shuts the door between us.
I whistle sharply and stomp all five limbs in turn. “I can still hear you through that, Grace!”
“What? Can’t hear you, buddy, sorry!”
Grace turns on the sink. I know he’s doing it to avoid me; he usually doesn’t leave it running while he cleans his odd mouth-bones. Because his hearing is less developed than mine, the sound of running water this close to him makes it difficult for him to parse other noises. I continue yelling anyways.
“Hatching day is important! We must celebrate! Have no time to prepare!”
When Grace finally exits the bathroom, I pointedly tilt my carapace at him. He says this makes him feel like I’m staring at him, even though I don’t have anything resembling eyes on my body. He still isn't facing me, but his shoulders hunch guiltily.
“Grace,” I say gently. “You should have told me.”
He collapses into a chair and calls for his morning beverage. After a drawn-out sip, he mutters, “I don’t… really… celebrate my birthday, Rock.”
I tilt my carapace. “Eridians only celebrate every sixth hatching day. Is same on Earth, question?”
Grace shakes his head quickly and sighs through his teeth. He drinks more of his morning beverage and, as though he can hide from me, slowly sinks further down into the chair. The muscles of his neck and shoulders are tight; his fingers grip the drink pouch harder than normal. Stressed. I warble a soft, simple tone, one that I would use to soothe a frightened child, and he finally peeks over his shoulder at me.
“I’ve told you about my parents, right?”
I can’t help the mournful sound that escapes me. Grace’s parents died when he was very young — so young that he isn’t sure if he would have been able to recall their faces before his amnesia. The thought of not being able to remember my parents’ shapes is terrifying. Even if they had passed the day after my hatching, I would still be able to hear them with perfect clarity.
“Yeah, okay. So after that, I was in ˈfɑ.stɚ care — basically, adults who weren’t related to me took care of me.”
“Happens on Erid, yes,” I say. “Whole community help raise pebbles, so if parents die, already have other guardians.”
He nods. “Well, on Earth, the government handles ˈfɑ.stɚ care placements. I’d never met my ˈfɑ.stɚ parents before I lived with them.”
This, too, sounds terrifying. I don’t want to imagine Grace, so young that he was not yet in school, so small and vulnerable, being handed over to strangers. I’m prepared to ask a flurry of questions about this odd system, but he continues speaking before I can.
“They were nice enough. I had a bedroom and went to a good school and never went hungry. But…” He rakes a hand through his hair. I love the sound the strands make as they shift against each other. “That’s all, y’know? I was like… their roommate, not their kid. They didn’t include me in holiday celebrations or take me on vacations or anything, so they never threw me birthday parties either.”
“Oh.” I splay a claw against the tunnel wall. “But you tell me you are adult for many years. Why not celebrate with friends, question?”
“I never really had friends. At least, not ones close enough to know my birthday.”
He’s said this before, that he didn’t have many friends on Earth, but I cannot fathom it. Grace is brilliant and kind and funny and giving; how could humans not want to be his friend? How did they not find him as magnetic as I do? I am so thankful that fate sent Grace to me and not another of his kind, because I doubt any other human would have done for me what he has.
“I am your friend. I know your birthday. We celebrate.”
“I don’t know, Rock —“
I stomp insistently. “We celebrate. Not question. Statement. Command.”
Finally, for the first time today, the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. I make a victorious sound in a register I know he can’t hear; it would be rude to gloat.
“Okay. We celebrate. Just a little bit,” he acquiesces, pinching two fingers together to show me just how small the celebration must be.
I make an affirmative gesture and Grace’s smile widens. “Good! Yes! What humans do for birthday, question?”
“Well…”
He grabs his portable thinking machine and comes to sit by me, back pressed to the barrier. I rush off to fetch my texture gun and display. It gets a lot of use nowadays; Grace keeps an ever-growing list of Earth media that he insists I absolutely need to see, so we usually spend at least one half-hour each day watching screens. By the time I switch on the gun, he has several information tabs open.
“So you’ll hate this, but most people eat special food on their birthdays. In the region I’m from, we eat keɪk — it’s a soft, sweet food.” He shows me an image of a short, cylindrical food which, based on the varied texture, is very colorful.
“Humans obsessed with food!” I make my best approximation of the noise Grace makes when disgusted and he snickers.
He points at several small sticks atop the food and says, “These are ˈkændl̩z. They’re made of flammable string surrounded by material with a low melting point. Usually, you put one for each year you’ve lived.”
My apprehension towards the food is (after months of watching Grace eat without shame) fake, but my reaction to these flammable sticks is very genuine. I shrink into myself and sing, “Why why why, question? Humans stupid! Why make danger on important day, question?”
“They’re not dangerous!” He pauses. “Okay, not very dangerous. They’re small, and you’re only supposed to light them for maybe thirty seconds!”
“Why light at all, question?”
“They’re pretty!”
“Many object look nice!”
Grace reaches back to pat the wall clumsily. “Okay, okay. I don’t need ˈkændl̩z anyways, buddy. They’re mostly for a tradition you do with kids.”
I’m hesitant to prompt, “Explain tradition.”
His fingers tap the keys and he scrolls for a moment before making an affirmative sound and bringing up a moving image. A human child sits in front of their celebration food, five sticks aflame atop it, and giggles as an unseen group recites a repetitive chant. It’s very simple, wishing the child a happy birthday. When they finish the chant, the group claps and one person yells, “Make a wish!” The happy child inhales deeply, leans in close to the dangerous food, and exhales until the flames flicker out.
Confusing! “Child did not make wish,” I say. I don’t comment on how appalled I am that their parents allowed them to put their squishy, sensitive face so very close to the flame sticks; Grace can hear the rumble of anxiety underlying my speech.
“You just think the wish. Saying it out loud means it won’t come true. Or, y'know, we say it won’t come true — it’s a superstition. But you have to blow out the ˈkændl̩z to make your wish.”
I still don’t like it, but I can understand how the tradition would appeal to a child. A bit of controlled danger, a sensory spectacle, a dash of magical fantasy.
“Besides keɪk, you mostly just hang out with your friends and family doing whatever you think is fun. Kids usually play games. Adults might go for dinner or dancing or, if you have the money, on a trip.”
“Eridians similar!” I settle against the barrier again now that the talk of fire is over. I push the memory of my blood oxidizing down, down, down. “Try new experience on hatching day. Usually go to new place.”
Grace turns to face me, smiling softly, and asks, “What did you do on your last hatching day?”
Oh, this memory sends a shiver through me. I have revisited every memory of my beloved hundreds of times since I became my ship’s sole survivor, but this one in particular was my guiding song. It’s what I joined the mission for.
“Hey.” Grace splays his long fingers across the xenonite. “You don’t have to tell me if it’s a bad memory. Or too personal, or anything. Sorry I asked.”
I vehemently clack my claws. “No no no! Is good memory. Want to share! Just make me sad now, make me miss Adrian.”
His facial muscles relax in relief. I am forever astounded by the number of them; each little twitch represents a facet of emotion. I could spend a lifetime cataloguing Grace’s expressions.
“Adrian plan for many many days. Keep very secret. I expect trip far away, or event with many Eridians.”
They were so excited. My beloved is reserved around most, but with me, they are unabashed. As they led me through our city, they kept forgetting themselves, their long strides carrying them too quickly for me to keep up, then laughing and returning to my side. Just their joy would have been gift enough.
“They show me building. Home. Tell me they plan, they design, they and friends build. Home…” I want to wail. “Home too big for just Rocky and Adrian. Made for family. Pebbles.”
“Oh, sweetheart...” Grace has taken to calling me human terms of endearment. I like this one best; he compares me to his blood-pumping organ, to his very life. To something held tenderly within his chest. I would burrow into it if I could.
“This happen ten days before astrophage thrum begin. I choose to go on mission at end of thrum. Adrian angry, sad, afraid but also understand. Say we have much much much time after mission to make family.”
Grace lets out a wobbly breath. “You do have time. If Adrian loves you half as much as you love them, they’re still waiting for you.”
His voice catches in his throat, wet and shaky. He isn’t crying yet, but he’s on his way there; my stories of Adrian often make him emotional. He cries at other things as well — his favorite Earth media, pleasing collections of stars outside the ship, the memories of his life that he’s still piecing together. His emotions are a delicate thing, soaring and plummeting so easily.
After a moment, he clears his throat and says, “So Eridians do birthday presents too, then?”
I perk up. “Same on Earth, question?”
“Yep.”
“Perfect! Perfect perfect perfect!” I bounce from side to side as I chirp, “Cannot make you sweet food or fire sticks or take to new place, but can give gift!”
“Aw, buddy, that’s — you don’t have to do that," he protests with a dismissive gesture.
I click in frustration. I absolutely do have to do this. Grace does nothing but give; he deserves every present I could lavish on him and more. He deserves a room full of friends and a hearty meal and a thousand wishes granted, but for now, I only have one thing I can give him.
I point at him. “Stay. I return in one hundred twenty seconds maximum.”
I rush to the storage container in the lab that I’ve kept my suit hidden in. My claws are shaking, but I still manage to put it on and close myself in without trouble. I flex each limb as I wait for the airlock to cycle and, as soon as the door opens, I scurry back to our sleeping quarters with ten seconds to spare.
“Gift!” I squeak.
Grace’s mouth falls open as he stares at me. He adjusts his light-focusers, which had slipped down his nose. I hear the thumping rhythm of his heart quicken as he makes a choked noise in his throat and throws his hands over his face.
“Grace, question?” I step closer. I want to touch him. I don’t dare. “I hope is good crying. Cannot tell.”
He nods, shoulders shaking. His face is still buried in his hands.
“You want hug, question?”
Before I finish my sentence, Grace has already scrambled to his knees and thrown himself at me. I am not prepared for the experience of being surrounded by him, his arms encircling me, his chest flush with my side, his cheek squished atop my air vents. The melody of his body renders me frozen, a familiar tune suddenly exponentially louder. I want to keep him wrapped around me like his woven jacket.
“Normally this is when you’d hug me back,” Grace teases.
“Oh! Yes!” I gingerly wrap two of my limbs around him and rest my claws on his back.
He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a sob. “You can go a little tighter. I won’t break.”
Yes, my Grace, you will, I think. I could crush his thorax right now if I wished, splintering his ribs into his heart and lungs with little effort. But he trusts me. He reminds me of a small creature my parents let me keep as a pet when I was young; he trusts me, so much so that the idea of me harming him is unfathomable in his mind.
I hold him a fraction tighter and he sighs deeply, his weight settling further against me. I listen to his lungs expand and contract with his shuddery breaths, to his tears dripping onto my suit. One hand strokes along my side and, cautiously, I mirror the motion with one of my own.
“God, this is nice.” He kisses the top of the suit, close-lipped, and I wiggle happily in his arms. “You… how long did it take to make this?”
“Weeks. I finish four days ago.”
Another kiss. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“Is simple engineering. Easy easy.”
“Take the dang compliment, Rocky. You’re a genius.”
I tilt my carapace skeptically but stay quiet. I suppose it would be bad form to argue with him on his birthday. Grace draws back, hands still lingering on my shoulders, and sniffles. His face is wet; cautiously, I raise a claw to his cheek and catch a tear. He leans into my touch and his cheek squishes over my claw, soft and malleable and so cold that I can hardly believe he’s alive.
“So…” I know this tone. His voice is a bit deeper than normal, held further in his chest. “How much air can this thing hold?”
“Seventy-four minutes total, but we have sixty-nine of them left.”
Grace laughs suddenly, then smothers himself with a hand.
“What, question?”
He shakes his head. “Hard to explain. That’s just an amusing number on Earth.”
How can a number be amusing? Human humor so often eludes me. I stamp a claw in confusion and that gets him laughing again, so I say, “Explain, explain!”
“It’s… okay, it sounds dumb when I say it out loud, but the number written down kinda looks like a sex act? We call it sixty-nine and everything. Let me tell you, I got so good at avoiding that number around my middle schoolers.”
“Sex act, question?” Now I’m very interested.
“It’s —“ Grace giggles again. “Sorry, sorry, just realized that this’ll gross you out. So I think I’ve already explained oral sex, the kind where one person puts their mouth on someone else’s genitals? When two people do that at the same time — like, one lays on top of or beside the other so they can both reach each other’s crotches — that’s sixty-nining.”
“Disgust!” I scuttle away from him dramatically, then back to prod his chest with a finger. “Awful! You ever do this, question?”
He coughs and sputters, “Uh, no. I… mostly remember giving oral sex, I think?”
“Giving means you use your mouth, question?”
Blood pools over his cheekbones as he nods and, oh, isn’t that a pretty sound to imagine? Grace parting his lips to let something in, unable to speak, his flushed face nothing but a toy.
“You’re fogging up your suit, baby,” he chuckles.
“Yes.” I point over his shoulder. “Bed now. Sixty-seven minutes left, should use them well.”
"Bossy." But he's grinning as he walks over to the bed and flops down onto it, his long limbs splayed out around him. He tucks one arm beneath his head and watches me as I step onto the mattress. My instincts lead me to a spot I've desperately wanted to be ever since we met — I straddle his chest and lower my carapace to touch him, careful not to put my weight onto him. His heartbeat thrums against my ventral seam and, when I purr joyfully, kicks up its speed.
Grace reaches out to stroke along my limbs. "You're being adorable right now."
"Am not."
"Are too. You're like if a ˈkæt and a boulder had a baby." He takes my claws in his hands and lifts them, eyes flicking minutely as he observes them. "God. Wow. We can hold hands."
And then he pulls one closer to his face, tips his chin, and kisses it.
"Grace..." He smirks; I wonder if he can now sense my arousal as easily as I can his. "Again."
He hums softly as he presses his lips to the top of my claw again, lingering for several seconds this time. The pop of his mouth separating from the xenonite is obscene. I let a second claw be drawn to his repulsive, moist, filthy orifice for a kiss as well, and he alternates between them, peppering both with spots of condensation. I have begged to see his mouth in every possible situation — Grace has stretched his cheeks open with his fingers, lolled out his tongue, fingered over his teeth and named them for me — but I boil with the desire for more, more, more.
I pull a claw from his grasp and place it against his bottom lip. "Let me touch inside. Observe up close."
"Um." He rests a hand on my elbow. "Okay, but be really careful, please? I think we've talked about the gag reflex. Mine isn't super sensitive, but still."
"Will be very very careful," I promise.
Grace takes in a deep breath through his nose, his lungs inflating beneath me, and then slowly drops his jaw open for me. I purr again as I push inside the tiniest bit, just enough to rest my claw between his teeth. These are the part of him most similar to an Eridian that I have any hope of touching, hard and resonant. He has told me before about false teeth — that humans value the symmetry of their mouths highly, so they will replace missing teeth with visually similar implants — and I wonder if, perhaps, he'd trade me one. A tooth for a chip of my carapace, filed down to perfectly fit the hole left behind. I want a piece of him embedded in me for the rest of my life. Does he?
I dare to dip my claw a little further, this time seeking his tongue. He makes a small noise and, ah, there it is, the lovely rushing sound of blood to his groin. He presses his thighs inwards and I can hear the network of nerves there throb at that minute sensation. I'll get to those later, I think.
"Interesting." I press his tongue down gently. "You enjoy me in your mouth, question?"
"Uh huh," he says, the sound distorted around my claw. His fingers squeeze around my elbow for a moment.
As I probe at the inside of one cheek, I say, "Tap fingers on arm. Joints best. Good feeling."
He does as instructed, drumming all five fingers in a rapid rhythm, a five-part harmony echoing down my limb. He tries to speak around my claws but fails.
"This touch Eridians do," I explain, since that's most likely what he wanted to ask. "Humans like soft touch, pet and hug and hold. Eridians like rough touch. Make vibration to hear and feel. Only done with closest to self — friend, family, mate. Not done often."
Grace's other hand balls into a fist and experimentally knocks against one of my shoulders. I croon approvingly and dare to trail my claw further down his tongue, intrigued by the way the muscle presses back against my touch, until Grace's eyes widen and his throat constricts as he gags. For a moment, I consider prodding that spot again and again, my weight more than enough to hold him down as I force him to eject the contents of his stomach. You would let me, wouldn't you, my sweet Grace? But I don't. I can save that desire for another day. Instead, I remove my claw from his mouth.
His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth as he wets it again. "You can keep going if you want," he says. "Now that you know how far is too far."
"No, is enough for now." I focus away from his head now, stroking a limb down his torso to rest over the hem of his shirt. "Can take this off, question?"
“Please,” he breathes.
It's easy to disrobe him, passing the hem between my claws as I slide the fabric up his stomach and over his chest. He raises his arms so I can tug the garment all the way off and as I throw it off the mattress, I purr, "Keep arms up, Grace. Make easy for me to observe you."
There's another rush of blood to his face as he folds his arms beneath his head. I can't help the sound I make at the sight of his arm and chest muscles flexing in tandem, reminding me that, no matter how weak he is to me, Grace is a comparatively strong human. Impressive. Attractive. A human who could have his pick of his species if he so desired and now has picked me. I reach out and put a hand on each pectoral muscle, the ones directly over his ribcage, and squish them around curiously.
"Didn't think you'd be a ˈbuːb guy," he chuckles.
I poke at one of the raised buds — a ˈnɪp.əl — on his chest. They mark him as a mammal, he told me, as a creature that feeds its young with fluids it produces in its own body. I had asked him then if he'd show me the feeding fluid and he'd laughed; apparently, humans only produce it when they have young to feed. He has plenty more fluids for me to appreciate, though, so I wasn't too disappointed.
"New word." I tap his nipple again. "Think I know meaning, though."
Grace jolts when I frame a nipple with two fingers and apply the barest bit of pressure. I trail my second hand down to rest against his soft stomach, right over the little pit that he calls his belly button. Another mammalian trait, this one indicative of a temporary organ that links a human parent and its offspring as it develops. When I push a finger lightly into it, he grimaces, but does not stop me. I withdraw and instead pet along his belly, up and down, my claw dipping close to his waistband but never beneath it.
"Rocky."
"Yes, Grace?"
I have a leg braced on either side of his torso and a third between his legs. Currently, I'm not touching anything more than his inner thighs; he slides down the mattress until his groin is flush with my limb.
"You're a tease," he says. "I know you wanna see more of me, c'mon."
I hum, "Cannot see any of you. No eyes. Human brain so stupid, so forgetful."
"Rockyyyyyyy." A complaining tone is the same across both our languages, a drawing out of sounds at the end of words. "It's my birthday?" He widens his eyes up at me and juts out his bottom lip. Pouting.
I let out a flat chord. "Rude. But correct."
When I grab his waistband and tug it downwards, Grace hisses, "Yes!" to himself before lifting his hips so I can pull down his pants. He lifts his legs up and inwards so I can pull them over his ankles, then lets them fall back against the mattress with a light thud.
I can't help myself. I maneuver my carapace between his legs and hunker down so I can press a side directly against his unclothed genitals, actively echolocating as rapidly as I can. He makes a surprised noise at the contact and a hand flies down to rest over my air vents, fingers curling for purchase on the smooth xenonite. I love every part of Grace, but this part, this vulnerable, leaking orifice that is so antithetical to my own biology, is magnificent. I want to push my claw into him and listen to his hole twitch around me. I've already heard how easily it can stretch; he fit four of my eggs inside of himself eagerly. He could take my arm, would writhe and moan and gasp as I pressed my claw against the entrance to his womb.
Next project: figuring out how to make the limbs of my suit soft enough to fit inside of Grace. We can work on that one together.
"So pretty," I trill, and the noise sends a shiver through him.
"Keep going." The hand on my vents slides down to one of my shoulders and knocks gently. "Keep talking."
"My pretty, pretty alien. Love how soft you are, Grace. Soft and squishy and stretchy. Able to change. Need word."
Grace's knuckles trail their way down my limb and back up again as he thinks. "Um, ˈmæɫiəbɫ̩? That means something that can be changed. We use it for metal, usually."
"Perfect." I begin a low hum beneath my words and his hips buck, smearing wetness along a large, flat face of my suit. "Like metal. Can use my tools and shape you how I want."
He moans loudly, like he wasn't expecting that, then breathes, "Like what?"
"Your hole. Could put whole forearm inside. Stretch you out."
"Oh, fuck —" Grace's teeth clamp down on his bottom lip, which halts his words but does nothing to muffle the whine he produces.
"Hold you down and make it fit," I continue, "make you take it."
He nods desperately. His hand trembles as he switches from knocking to that five-finger drumming pattern again and my hum pitches up in pleasure. I add more notes, a three-part harmony vibrating against him, and his mouth falls open again to chant, "Rocky, Rocky, Rocky." His knees are drawn up on either side of me and I shift so that I can hook a claw under one of them, lifting his foot off the mattress as I spread him open further. His abdominal muscles clench suddenly and I relish in the arrhythmic melody of his orgasm, my song wavering in time with the pulsation of his insides.
I begin to lower my volume but Grace pleads, "No, no, keep going, fuck," and I increase it again. His other hand comes up to stutter across another of my shoulders, then settles into a grip, giving him leverage to grind downwards against me. I hear the nerve-filled protrusion at the top of his genitals — his ˈklɪtəɹɪs, he'd told me at first, then amended that to kɑk when we started having sex — rub obscenely against the xenonite, its angle changing to match every up-down of his hips. I push his knee further, forcing his spine to curl, and he swears again.
"Can — can you..." I love it when he gets like this, so pleasure-drunk he can't speak properly. "Rock against me. Like you're fucking me."
My hum splits into four parts and I push my carapace into him, then back, trying to match his rhythm. It's clumsy at first, but after a moment I find it, a pattern that makes him gasp and loll his head back against his sheets. He's stopped his knocking, instead clinging desperately to me as I meet his every movement, and I think I like this even better. The sound of his long fingers clutching at me is so human, spurred by his own desire to touch and hold and feel.
"My Grace," I sing fondly.
"My Rocky," he pants back.
The keening sound I make tips him over the edge again and he spasms against me, little whimpers caught in his throat. This time, I hear him try to pull away, overstimulated, and I immediately go quiet; he relaxes back into me as soon as I do with a sigh.
Grace tugs futilely at my shoulders. "C'mere, wanna make you come too, baby, please."
I crawl back up his body and settle on his chest once more. He smiles as he once again raises my hand to his lips and smatters kisses over each claw, the joint, my forearm, heartbeat fluttering beneath me.
"Talk to me."
Between kisses, he says, "You're incredible. That was incredible. You... Rocky, nobody's ever made me feel like you do."
I reach another claw up to stroke over his cheekbone.
"I hope you know you've created a monster. I'm never letting you use that stupid ball again. God, I want to study you, wanna pin you down on one of the tables in the lab and see how many times I can make you come."
"Want want want," I warble inelegantly.
"Good, sweetheart. I'll be the Hail Mary's leading expert in Eridian sexual pleasure."
I chitter. "You steal my joke."
He grins and opens his mouth to lave his tongue over my claw. No matter how many times I hear him lick me, I'll never be prepared; I squeal as he keeps going, trailing saliva up to my elbow and down again.
"Gonna come for me?" he asks before re-wetting his tongue and going right back to what he was doing, this time swirling his tongue around one of my digits.
He knows my answer. Half a second later I whistle so high it's almost out of his range of hearing as I orgasm, pleasure rolling over me in a cresting wave.
"Grace," I say, just because I can.
Grace chuckles. "You're adorable."
This time, I don't protest. Instead, I grab his wrists and pull them around me. He squeezes me tight for a moment, then relaxes, his arms holding me in a languid hug. I could stay here forever.
"We've got, what, another twenty or so minutes left to cuddle?" he asks.
"Twenty-two," I reply primly, and he laughs.
"Perfect."
I tilt my carapace at him. "Happy birthday, Grace."
"The happiest," he murmurs.