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Heat didn’t bother Sam. Before aliens broke the sky over New York and a band of actual superpowered heroes saved the world, he had called his preternatural heat resistance his superpower. The sweltering Georgia heat; the oppressive sweat box of a pre-war apartment in Harlem, the radiators going full tilt; the Afghani desert. He’d survived them all. Not just survived. He’d thrived. He’d considered training as a firefighter after his last tour, so confident he’d be good at it, it bordered on cocky.
Sam took pride in his ability to withstand 102-degree heat indexes with barely a glisten on his forehead and no concept of discomfort.
Steve’s body was too fucking hot.
Climbing into a pizza oven at the equator at high noon under a magnifying glass might have been hotter. Might have.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Steve said apologetically. He plucked ruefully at the sleeve of Sam’s sweat-plastered T-shirt. The sheer cotton that had been crisp and clean when Sam got into bed drooped with moisture.
“I know you’re not doing it on purpose,” Sam said. He pulled the sopping shirt off and threw it in the hamper by the door in one fluid motion. “But something’s gotta give. We tried it your way. There isn’t enough AC in the world for you to hold me like a teddy bear all night.” He stripped out of his pajama bottoms and boxers, then walked into the adjoining bathroom to turn on the shower. He kept the faucet knob on the cool side. He didn’t think he could handle anything hotter than a snowbank.
“Sleeping in separate beds is a dramatic solve,” Steve muttered. He’d come to the bathroom door to be heard over the fall of water.
“You say that,” Sam said gently, “but you get to sleep all night. I’m dealing with heat stroke, dehydration, insomnia. I’m literally fighting for my life. You know what my sleep score has been since we started sleeping in the same bed?” He pushed past Steve and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He opened the Fitbit app, scrolled down a few centimeters, and showed him the screen. “42. Out of 100. It used to be close to 80 every night. I was very proud of my ‘good sleeper’ status. Shot. To. Hell.”
“Okay,” Steve said, “I run hot.”
“The sun runs hot. You’re a fucking quasar, baby.”
“Quasar?”
“I knew you fell asleep! We—or I guess, I— watched a whole documentary about them. 10 trillion degrees. That’s the estimated temperature of a quasar.” He tossed his phone on the bed, then skirted past Steve’s bulk in the bathroom doorway, and stepped into the shower. The shock of cold water was pure relief, pure balm. He opened his mouth and drank it, then turned to let the spray wash away the sweat on his back. When he opened his eyes, Steve was watching him through the glass, as morose as the Madonna in a pieta painting, as beautiful as any fallen god or angel described in a paperback romance. Even in the freezing water, the lust pooled in Sam's balls and along his spine.
“Come get in,” he invited with a tilt of his head. For a moment, he thought Steve would refuse, too offended that Sam’s love did not conquer the homeostatic limits of his own body. But then Steve pulled off his t-shirt and stepped out of his pants. He left them in a heap on the floor, but Sam didn’t care. Seeing Steve naked, his dick already at half-mast, was worth the annoyance later. That was another thing about sharing a bedroom. Sam had never thought of himself as a neat freak, but it turned out, when Steve wasn’t in the common areas of the house, he was kind of a slob.
Sam turned the water temperature up to a normal, balmier setting and grabbed his washcloth from the hook. He made space for Steve to get into the shower stall with him, but not so much room that their bodies couldn’t touch incidentally. He kissed Steve’s shoulder as he reached for his shower gel, just a chaste “I love you kiss”, but Steve turned around and walked Sam back until his butt hit the cool tile. He crowded Sam, loomed over him like they were in one of those action scenes between hero and villain, nose to nose, so close you weren’t sure if the script was telling them to kiss or fight to the death. Even knowing the answer, Sam felt a little thrill of adrenaline.
“I don’t love you less because I need to sleep in a different bed,” he said. Steam gave Steve a day-time soap opera quality, smeared at the edges.
“We’ll be roommates who fuck,” Steve said. One of his hands went to Sam’s waist, the other to the wall behind them. The gentle bob of his erection against Sam’s happy trail set off sparks of pleasure everywhere from Sam’s dick to the nape of his neck.
Sam chuckled at Steve’s glum expression. “You think sleeping together is the difference between roommates who fuck and boyfriends?” he asked, leaning in close for more incidental contact with Steve’s dick.
“I think I like holding you when I fall asleep.” He ghosted kisses up from Sam’s clavicle to his ear. “I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“Lost time?”
“All that time I wasn’t touching you.”
Sam’s breath stuttered as Steve dropped to his knees. “No,” he said quietly. “Wait.”
Steve looked up at him.
“Are you trying to convince me to sleep in a deeply uncomfortable situation with a blowjob?”
Steve kissed the shallow groove of Sam’s abdominal V. “I’m trying to make you come with a blowjob,” he said.
“And the convincing me?”
“Separate thing.” He kissed the head of Sam’s dick, taking more of him into the hot depths of his mouth bit by bit.
Sam closed his eyes. The cold wall, the warm water, the hot suction. He didn’t chase the pleasure. Steve always took such good care of him. No matter how languid his pace, no matter how much he teased, Steve would bring him to a finish that felt unrivaled in the history of sex. It was always like that with them. Something out of a movie.
He brought Sam to the precipice once, twice, three times, retreating again and again. Sam could have lost his patience, could have pushed his hips forward for that one last bit of sensation, but he’d learned the art of existing here, wanting wanting wanting wanting and then satisfaction, then the spine-curling, thought-annihilating pleasure. He almost cried out from the ecstatic too-much of it all, but Steve pulled away before it tipped over into agonizing pleasure, looked up at him like he was the fallen god, the fallen angel.
Sam took long moments to come back to himself, to shake off the tingles and the almost irresistible wave of desultory enervation an orgasm gave him.
Steve seemed perfectly content there on his knees, kissing Sam’s stomach and hip bones and thighs.
“What's your mattress size?” Steve asked. “A queen.”
Sam nodded.
“Let’s get you a king, then.”
“A king won’t fit. It’d just be the bed and the flatscreen.”
“Move all your stuff across the hall. Dressing room. Bedroom.”
“What about your bed?” Sam asked.
“Sell it. Burn it. I don’t care.”
Sam laughed, tugged gently at Steve’s chin so he would stand up.
“You’ll have enough space that maybe my body heat won’t--”
“Kill me?” Sam asked, smiling lazily. “It could work.”
Steve grinned. He was fucking stunning, a fucking work of art.
“If this doesn’t work, it’s separate beds, Steve.” He held up a finger to stop Steve’s protests. “And in the meantime, it’s separate beds. I need to sleep.”
“We’ll set an alarm. Midnight, I’ll go.”
“No, you won’t,” Sam said, but Steve was already turning him around, gently pushing his hips into position. He lined up the head of his dick with Sam’s entrance and Sam widened his stance instinctually. “I hate shower sex,” he said half-heartedly. He did hate it. Just not with Steve. With Steve, it was as good as Sam had imagined it would be back when he was a horny teenager just learning about the possibilities of location and position. Steve could compensate for any logistical issues by being stronger and more athletic than just about anybody else attempting sex in an enclosed, slippery environment.
His breath grew fast and ragged against Sam’s neck, his body moved urgently against and inside him. The hot water gave out sometime during, but Sam barely noticed. Steve was all around him, burning hot as the scorching nucleus of a galaxy.