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birthday sex w alex pls🥳😵💫👀
dhhejeje maybeee.
like a part 2 to the one i did about y/ns birthday waittt okay let me see what i can do
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Awkwardly Stretching And Yawning

it’s always hard in the morning (would have been the better title but I’ve already used it)
warnings: fetus!al, fluff, smut, piv, young and in love, it’s cheesy
word count: 8k
His hair was sweaty the first time you met him, and it was sweaty every single time after that. Even in the cold, when the wind bit through your coat and left you shivering, his dark strands still clung damp to his forehead like he’d just run a marathon. He wasn’t a runner. You were sure of that — he was slow, always trailing behind like he had nowhere urgent to be. You’d once joked about it, something about snails moving faster than him, and he’d just grinned lazily, all soft lips and cockiness, like he knew something you didn’t.
Still, the sweat lingered. It made no sense, but you didn’t mind. It was the kind of detail you’d come to think of as uniquely his. Something only you knew because you were the one who reached for him. Always. Your hands threading through his hair, the damp strands slipping between your fingers as you pulled him closer — close enough to kiss, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’d been out in the sun all day.
Sometimes, you’d do it just to see what he’d do. Just to watch that stupid grin break across his face like it couldn’t be helped, like he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch no matter how hard he tried to pull away. “Stop that.” he’d mumble, though his voice never carried any real weight, his hands always ghosting at your waist or curling around your wrists like he wanted you to keep going.
You always did. It was impossible not to.
And maybe you should’ve teased him more about it. His perpetually sweaty hair, his inability to keep from leaning into you — but you never did. Because when you pulled him closer, when his grin faltered just a little and his breath hitched, you felt it. That shift. Like the world had stilled, leaving only the two of you in its quiet aftermath. His hair was damp, yes, but it was real, and it was his, and you could never resist tangling your fingers into it just to feel something so alive beneath your touch.
Now you’re in his lap, his hands splayed warm across your thighs, and your fingers are tangled in his hair like they always are. It’s still damp. Of course it is. But now you can blame it on the heater turned up to the max, the radiator rattling like it might burst, the heat heavy in the air and curling around you like smoke. It’s stifling, almost unbearable, and you swear you can feel it searing into you from across the room.
You don’t care.
Because you’re kissing him, and you’ve been kissing him for so long that you’ve forgotten where you are, forgotten the way the rest of the world feels. You’ve kissed him until your lips feel raw, tender and buzzing like a spark waiting to catch. Until your chest aches from holding your breath for him, like breathing was a luxury you’d trade just to stay close.
And then you’re forced to pull away, gasping, your head swimming.
His lips are red and slick, his hair more disheveled than it ever was before, and he’s looking at you with that expression like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He licks his lips and it makes you want to kiss him all over again, the pull of it deep and restless in your chest.
“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he murmurs, low and rough, words pressed out like he’s trying to catch his breath too.
You huff a laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the invisible stubble that’s just starting to show. “Yeah. Your fault, though.”
His grin is slow and lazy, the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s got you figured out, even when he hasn’t. “The heater?”
“You.” you correct, nudging his forehead with yours.
And you’re still so close you can feel his breath fan against your lips when he laughs. “I’m the problem?”
“Always.”
It’s teasing. You don’t mean it. Not really. Because there’s something about him that’s always been so easy, so natural, like you’ve known him your whole life, even if you hadn’t. It’s in the way he lets you pull at his hair, in the way he leans into you like you’re the only thing he needs. It’s in the way he’s looking at you now.
You press your palms against his cheeks because you feel like you might float away without something holding you there. “You’re sweaty again.” you murmur.
He groans, his head falling back with a dramatic thud. “It’s hot in here. Not my fault.”
You roll your eyes, though you’re smiling. “I don’t mind.”
“No?”
“No.” you say, threading your fingers through his hair again, pulling just slightly so he tilts his head back to meet you. “Not if it’s you.”
And maybe you’ve been kissing him all afternoon, maybe your lips are already swollen and your body is buzzing from the heat of him, but you kiss him again anyway. Slower this time. Like you’ve got all the time in the world. Because you do. You’re still young, and his room feels like the only place on earth that matters, and this is enough for you to live off of.
His hair is damp, and his lips are soft, and his arms curl around you like he couldn’t hold you close enough if he tried. And for once, you don’t feel like teasing him about it. You just kiss him.
When you break apart again his hands rest on your thighs, just barely there, and when you look at him, he’s grinning again — that slow, lopsided smile that’s all teeth and something else that makes your stomach flip. You roll your eyes at him, pressing your hands to his chest to steady yourself as you climb off, and he lets out this little whine of protest, though he doesn’t stop you.
It’s later, and the heat of the room has settled into something quieter. You’re perched at the edge of his bed, rummaging through your bag with a growing sense of dread because, of course, you didn’t pack pyjamas. It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight thing. You were just supposed to hang out, maybe grab dinner, and then leave, but plans like that never stick when you’re with him. He’s too good at convincing you to stay longer, to forget the time.
So now you’re stuck, turning your bag inside out like maybe a pair of shorts will appear, but nothing does. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” you mutter, looking over at him where he’s sprawled on his back, flipping a pen between his fingers.
“What?” he asks, looking up with that innocent tilt of his head, like he hasn’t been watching you the whole time.
You hesitate for a second before deciding not to care. “Nothing.” you mumble. You grab one of his shirts from the drawer — soft and a little worn, smelling like him — and strip off your jeans and sweater. You change with your back to him, just enough skin showing to get a reaction if he’s looking, but still leaving enough covered for modesty’s sake. His shirt hangs loose over your frame, brushing against the tops of your thighs, and you tug at the hem to make sure it’s long enough. You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch him biting his bottom lip, trying to look nonchalant about it.
The corner of your mouth lifts. “What?”
“Nothing.” he says, too quickly.
You smile to yourself as you climb back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged near the pillows. “I forgot pyjamas.” you explain, tugging at the hem of his shirt again. “Totally not intentional, by the way.”
He snorts, rolling onto his side to look at you properly, his hand propping up his head. “Sure it wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t.” you insist. “Staying the night wasn’t the plan, remember?” You pause, biting your lip. “Is it okay? If I stay, uh, with your…”
“Me parents?” he finishes for you.
“Yeah.”
His expression softens. “’Course it’s okay. They like you.”
“Yeah?” you ask, glancing at him.
“Yeah.” he says simply, his smile warm and a little boyish, and you know he doesn’t give it to just anyone.
That quiet admission makes your chest ache in the best way. You watch him as he rolls out of bed, muttering something about needing to change too, and he starts pacing toward the corner where a pile of clothes sits precariously on his desk chair. You curl up beneath the blanket, watching as he picks through the heap, holding up shirts and tossing them aside.
He’s smiling to himself as he sifts through the mess, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin. You can’t look away, even when you try to, and when he pulls his shirt off over his head, you stare. It’s instinctual, automatic. Even from a distance, you can see the little mole on the side of his ribs, and something about it makes you want to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of him with your fingertips, to kiss him there just to see if he’ll shiver.
You want to hold him. You want to kiss him until you can’t feel your lips again. You want to press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in.
Oh, god. You’re really, terribly in love, aren’t you?
“Eh, stop staring, you perv.” he says suddenly, teasing but his ears turn a little red as he tosses a shirt over his shoulder.
You snap your gaze up to his face, cheeks flushing. “I’m not-”
“Yes, you are.” he interrupts, grinning as he finally finds something that looks halfway clean. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”
“I wasn’t staring.” you protest weakly, though you both know it’s a lie.
He’s unbuttoning his jeans now, and you realise you hadn’t even noticed, too distracted by the more sensible top half of him. The more sensitive half, too, if you’re being honest. Ugh.
He shimmies out of his jeans, and you bury your face in the pillow, groaning. But you don’t bury your face for long. Curiosity — or something far more dangerous — gets the better of you, and you glance up just in time to see him standing there in his boxers. The lamplight in the corner of his room catches on the soft angles of him, the long stretch of his legs, the slight dip of his hips, the way the waistband clings low. He’s lean but solid, just enough muscle to make him look effortlessly strong, the kind of strength that doesn’t demand to be noticed but somehow always is. His skin is pale in places where the sun hasn’t kissed it, and you swear there’s a faint flush climbing up his chest like maybe he knows you’re still watching.
Then he turns, his back to you, just like you’d done when you changed earlier. He’s not subtle about it. He bends slightly as he peels off his boxers, and you don’t mean to stare — well, not really — but his butt is right there, perfectly shaped and smooth, and for a second you think about biting it, just to see what he’d do. If the bed weren’t so comfortable, if you weren’t tucked in just so, you might’ve actually gone for it.
He knows. Of course he knows.
“Enjoying the view?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Shut up.” you mumble. You don’t look away.
He’s tugging on a clean pair of boxers now. When he turns back around, he’s grinning — softly this time. He’s caught you red-handed but doesn’t mind one bit.
You roll onto your side, pressing your face half into the pillow to hide the warmth in your cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He laughs, that low, throaty sound that always makes you smile. He crosses the room and climbs back into bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in beside you.
“You stared, though.” he teases, turning his head to look at you.
“You undressed in front of me.” you counter, narrowing your eyes at him even though you’re smiling.
He shrugs, all nonchalance. “You started it.”
You huff, turning to face him properly, and he’s close now, close enough that you can see the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks. You want to kiss him again, but you’re too tired, too comfortable, too full of something soft and sweet that makes your chest ache.
“What?” he murmurs, voice softer now.
“Nothing.” you say, shaking your head.
You’re still curled up, his shirt falling loosely around you, and when you peek at him, he’s looking at you too.
“What?” you whisper, barely audible.
“Nothing.” he murmurs back, shaking his head. But he’s still looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know how to put into words.
And you think, maybe, you’re looking at him the exact same way.
“Your hair’s a mess.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that? Yours.” he says immediately, propping himself up on his elbow. “You’re the one who kept running your hands through it.”
“Because it’s always sweaty.” you shoot back, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.
He groans, flopping onto his back beside you. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”
“Because it’s true.”
“It’s endearing.” he mumbles, like he’s convincing himself.
“It is.” you agree, and his head turns toward you, surprised. You look over at him, your expression softening. “It’s gross, but it’s cute. Like you.”
He stares at you for a second, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile, and then he laughs. “You’re so mean.” he says, but his voice is fond, and he’s still smiling when he turns his head back toward the ceiling.
“You like it.” you say. “Masochist.”
“Yeah.” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I do.”
It’s quiet for a while after that. His arm brushes against yours as he shifts, and you think about reaching for his hand but decide against it.
“What time is it?” you ask eventually, your voice cutting through the stillness.
He twists to glance at the clock on his nightstand, squinting. “Half past midnight.”
You groan, pressing your hands to your face. “I have class tomorrow.”
“Skip it.” he says, so casual it makes you laugh.
“You skip too much already.” you say, nudging him with your elbow.
“Yeah, but I’m not you. You’re responsible. You’ve got, like…notes and shit.”
“Notes and shit.” you echo, grinning.
He shrugs, turning onto his side to face you. “It’s a compliment. You’re smart. Like, scary smart. Sometimes I think you’re gonna realise you’re too good for me and leave.”
You blink at him, surprised by the sudden turn, and then you shake your head, rolling onto your side to face him too. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Alex.” you say, reaching out to brush your fingers over his knuckles where his hand rests between you. “You’re, like, my favorite person. Ever. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stares at you, trying to find the words, but then he just nods. “Good.” he murmurs.
“Good.” you repeat, smiling.
And for a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, the space between you warm and buzzing, and when you close your eyes, you think you could stay like this forever.
It’s quiet, the hum of the heater filling the room, and the faint rhythm of Alex’s breathing beside you is already slowing. His right arm is tucked under your waist, holding you close, while your left hand rests just beneath the curve of his chest. You can feel the rise and fall of his breaths and it’s grounding in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut.
He’s the first to doze, just like always. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him — how his tired eyes will eventually drift shut, his breathing will even out, and the little tension in his body will melt away. Sometimes, you wonder if he fakes it, just to escape the nerves that still creep up on him when you’re this close. But not tonight. Tonight, it’s all real, all soft breaths and tiny, quiet snores that have that same nasally tone as his voice.
You shift, feeling his arm tighten instinctively around you even in sleep, like his body knows to keep you near. He doesn’t move much when he sleeps — always calm, always still—but you’re restless. You can’t help it.
It starts small, just a subtle roll of your hips as you try to find a better position, but it never stops there. Halfway through the night, you turn over, your arm slipping from under his chest. Then you turn again, pulling the blanket with you, and then once more until you’re on your stomach, tangled in the sheets.
He doesn’t stir, not even when your movements tug at the arm he has slung over you. But somehow, by the time dawn starts to creep through the window, you manage to end up back where you started. It’s always a guessing game — whether you’ll wake up as you fell asleep or in some entirely different arrangement.
This time you’ve got it and you open your eyes to his face pressed into the pillow, and his hair’s a mess, sticking up in all directions. The first light of morning spills across him, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.
You sigh quietly, turning away from him because the proximity is too much. If you had easy access to his lips for a second longer, you’d cave, and you know it. But you can’t — not now, not with your morning breath making itself known. You cringe a little at the thought, pressing your face into the pillow.
Oh fuck. Do you even have a toothbrush here?
The thought nags at you for a moment, but you shove it aside. Later. You’ll figure it out later.
You settle into the sheets again, your back to him, hoping to drift off for just a little longer. But then he stirs, his arm tightening around your waist as his chest presses closer to your back. His nose nudges against the back of your neck, warm and soft, and you almost melt into the touch.
And then you feel it.
Your body goes completely still, frozen as the unmistakable pressure of him presses against you, firm and insistent. What the fuck.
Okay, yes, you’ve slept together before — slept. As in, shared a bed, tangled limbs, whispered secrets into the night. But this? This is new.
You’re no stranger to intimacy with him. You’ve done things — things that have left you breathless, aching, satisfied. You’ve seen him naked, and he’s seen you. You’ve taken him in your mouth, made him groan your name. He’s touched you, too, kissed you there, made you come undone with his tongue and fingers in ways you didn’t know were possible. Equally mutual satisfactory fulfilment.
But you haven’t done it together. Not yet. Not because you don’t want to, but because time has never been on your side. It’s always been a stolen moment here, a rushed goodbye there. Too much tension and not enough space to let it all unravel.
You bite your lip, your mind racing. He’s so close, too close, and the heat pooling between your thighs is impossible to ignore. You’re…oh, God, you’re dripping just thinking about it. But now isn’t the time — not with his parents in the room down the hall, not with him lost in his dreams, innocent in his state of unintentional desire.
You shift slightly, trying to ease the tension without waking him, but it only makes things worse. The movement causes him to press against you more firmly, and you have to bite back a whimper.
Okay, okay, breathe. Think unsexy thoughts. Math equations. Old textbooks. Your friend’s crush on her weird philosophy professor.
But none of it works when his hand tightens on your hip and his body is so warm against yours.
“Alex.” you whisper, barely audible, hoping he doesn’t wake up but also kind of hoping he does because then maybe-
No. No, not now. Later. Later, when you have more time and privacy and not the looming threat of his parents overhearing something they definitely shouldn’t.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to calm down, and after a few agonizing minutes, you feel his grip slacken, his body relaxing again. His breathing evens out and he’s still fast asleep. You exhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, and then close your eyes again, determined to fall back into some semblance of rest.
Later, you tell yourself again. And God, you hope later comes soon.
But later seems to be now because before you can settle yourself, you feel it — him, again. His hips shift behind you, pressing insistently against you, the heat and firmness of him unmistakable. He’s…rutting into you.
Your breath catches, heart racing, and you think, No. He has to still be asleep. Right?
The soft, steady rhythm of his snores continues, only confirming it. And then they falter, turning into a deep, rough cough that rattles through his chest. He stirs, pulling back from you just enough to stretch, his arm leaving your waist. You can hear his joints pop as he yawns, long and loud.
You don’t dare move, still frozen, thighs pressed tightly together in an effort to keep your body from betraying you.
He turns toward you, his eyes heavy-lidded and his hair sticking up in every direction, but there’s no mistaking it: he’s awake now. And yet, the duvet is still covering him from the waist down, doing nothing to hide the outline of him. Oh, he’s very much awake.
“Morning.” he whispers, his voice deep and scratchy, rough from sleep.
“Morning.” you manage, though it comes out quieter, tighter.
He doesn’t seem to notice, instead rolling onto his back and stretching again. You take the opportunity to lean over, pressing your face into the spot between his arm and chest. The crook of his armpit, warm and soft, the place where his skin smells the most like him. You inhale deeply, savoring the scent of him, that mix of sweat and soap and something you can’t describe but is so unmistakably Alex.
He huffs a laugh, looking down at you as you nuzzle into him like a cat. “You weirdo.” he murmurs, his hand lazily brushing over your back.
You’re too caught up in the warmth of him, in the way your nose fits perfectly there, in how his skin feels against yours even through the thin fabric of his shirt to respond.
He shifts again, turning onto his side and pulling you with him, his arm draping over your waist. His thigh hitches over your hip, pulling you closer, and it’s only then that you feel him again.
Pressed against you, hard and obvious, and he doesn’t even realise it. You hold your breath as he rubs against you, slow and absentminded, his body moving on instinct alone. It’s clear his brain hasn’t caught up yet. He’s still in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where dreams and reality blur together.
But you are fully aware. Too aware. Every nerve in your body is alight, and the ache between your thighs is impossible to ignore.
“Alex.” you whisper, your voice trembling just enough to give you away.
He hums in response, his nose brushing against your shoulder as he pulls you even closer. His hand rests on your hip, his thumb stroking idly over the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and he presses against you again.
Your resolve is hanging by a thread, your body screaming for you to move, to push back, to let this moment become what it so desperately wants to be.
But his breathing evens out again, and his lips brush your shoulder in a subconscious kiss, soft and lazy.
“Alex.” you say again, a little louder this time, and his eyes finally flutter open, the hazy warmth in them clearing as his mind catches up to his body.
“Oh, fuck.” he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he freezes, his hand still on your hip. “Oh, fuck.” he mutters again, louder this time, his face going beet red as he pulls back the covers to confirm what he already knows.
And yep, there it is. His hard-on, unapologetic and obvious, tenting his boxers in a way that would’ve been funny if he weren’t so mortified.
“Shit.” he hisses, scrambling to cover himself again. He turns away from you in his panic, rolling onto his stomach like that’ll fix it.
It doesn’t.
As soon as his hips hit the mattress, he lets out a strangled noise, his face scrunching in pain.
“Fuck- ow-” He twists awkwardly, trying to lift his hips off the bed, his voice breaking into a groan as he clutches the duvet beneath him.
You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s not a mean laugh, more like a surprised, delighted giggle that bubbles out before you can stop it. “Alex.” you manage, caught somewhere between concern and amusement.
He’s still half-buried in the mattress, his arms bracing against the bed, trying to hold himself up without putting pressure on his…situation. “Don’t.” he grumbles, his voice muffled. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not.” you lie, even as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “Come here, you idiot.”
He groans again but finally relents, pushing himself off the mattress and turning back to you, his face still flushed. He flops into your arms like he’s seeking refuge, burying his head in your neck and mumbling something unintelligible against your skin.
“What was that?” you ask, still grinning as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close.
“I said, I’m never waking up again.”
“Oh, sure.” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “That’ll fix everything.”
He groans again, his hand resting on your waist as he tries to melt into you. Maybe if he stays there long enough he’ll just disappear.
You lean back slightly, tilting your head to look at him, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose scrunched in embarrassment. “Good morning.”
He finally cracks one eye open. “Good morning.” he mutters back, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile of his own. “Sorry,” he whispers, “didn’t- didn’t mean to-”
“It’s fine.” you cut him off. And it is. Fine. More than fine, actually. But you don’t say that part.
He hangs awkwardly next to you, hovering just far enough away that it doesn’t touch you, his arm still draped over your waist but with a noticeable gap now. You can feel the tension, the way he’s holding himself stiffly to keep his hips from brushing against yours like that’ll make the situation less obvious.
“Were you dreaming?” you ask.
He shakes his head, face still tucked into your neck. “Nah.”
“Then?”
There’s a pause, and then he giggles, this soft, boyish sound and it makes your heart flip. “Think the knowledge of you half-naked in my bed was enough.”
You laugh softly, your chest warming at his honesty. “Dirty boy.”
He grins, his confidence peeking through despite the blush still dusting his cheeks. “Yeah, well, you’re the one wearing my shirt and no pants, so…”
You can feel his gaze on you, lingering where the hem of his shirt just barely skims the tops of your thighs as you press them together, suddenly hyper-aware of the dampness pooling between them. “It’s comfortable.” you mumble.
He hums, his hand brushing over your hip. “Yeah.” he says, almost distractedly. “Looks good on you, though.”
Your leg brushes against his. He tenses. He’s still trying so hard to keep his distance, and it’s endearing in a way that makes you want to push him just a little. “You’re really embarrassed, huh?”
You glance up at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours before darting back down again. He’s trying so hard not to stare, not to make it obvious how much he wants you right now, but the flush creeping up his neck and the way he’s nervously biting the inside of his cheek gives him away.
“Maybe.” he mutters, his voice muffled. “It’s a little hard to be suave when you wake up like this.”
“Who said anything about suave?” You drag your fingers lightly down the back of his neck, feeling the slight shiver that runs through him. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“Don’t.” he groans.
“Don’t what?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers trail lower, grazing his back.
“Don’t- ugh- don’t mess with me.”
“I’m not messing with you.” you say softly, your hand sliding lower until it rests on his hip, dangerously close to the duvet-covered evidence of exactly how not fine he is. “You’re the one who woke up like this.”
“Yeah, well…” He trails off, biting his lip as he glances down. “Thought you said it was fine.”
“It is.” Your hand moves just a little higher, brushing against his stomach, and he exhales sharply.
“You’re playing with fire.” he warns, though it’s half-hearted at best, his hips twitching involuntarily toward your touch.
You shift closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand moves lower, skimming over the waistband of his boxers. “Maybe I want to get burned.”
His breath stutters and he doesn’t move, just staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. Then his hand moves, sliding down your side and over your hip, his fingers brushing the edge of your panties.
“Al…” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and he looks up at you, his lips parting like he’s about to respond. But he doesn’t get the chance.
Your hand trails down.
“Wait-” he stammers, his own flying to catch yours, though he doesn’t actually stop you.
“Wait for what?”
His breath catches again, and his hips shift, pressing against your hand. You can feel him, hard and insistent beneath the thin fabric, and it sends a thrill through you.
His hand moves too, hesitant, his fingers brushing over your thigh before creeping higher. They hover between your legs, just barely grazing. You can feel his breath against your neck, shaky and shallow, before his fingers dip lower.
When he touches you — just barely, a featherlight graze over the damp fabric — you shudder, your thighs twitching.
“Shit.” he breathes, his voice low and strained.
And then he freezes.
“Oh, my God.” he mutters, his eyes snapping open as his hand flies back to your hip.
“What?”
“You’re…” He trails off, his eyes flickering down, and you realise what he means. He felt it — the wet patch on your panties where they’ve been soaked through. “You’re so wet.” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
You shrug, your cheeks burning even as you try to play it off. “Well, you’re hard.”
“Don’t say that.” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin.
“Why not?” you tease, your hand trailing back up to rest on his chest. “It’s true.”
He doesn’t respond, just lets out a low, frustrated laugh before finally meeting your eyes again. Pupils dark and blown wide, and there’s a quiet, unspoken question in them.
“Alex.” you say softly, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek.
“Yeah?”
“Stop overthinking.”
And with that, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and just a little bit desperate. Your hands splay against his chest as you settle over him, his erection pressing against you in a way that makes your whole body flush.
“Still embarrassed?” It comes out breathier than you intended.
His hands find your thighs, sliding up and under the hem of his shirt that you’re still wearing. “Shut up.” he mutters.
“Make me.”
“I can do that.” he says, and then he dips forward, capturing your lips with his.
A tender slide of mouths that sends butterflies spiraling through your chest, all teeth and tongues and the kind of frantic energy that makes your heart pound so hard it’s all you can hear. But when you press down — accidentally, just slightly — and brush against him just so, you both gasp into it.
It’s instinctive, the way you press into him, your body seeking friction and finding it. The pressure so delicious. A steady drag of him against you. His hands tighten on your waist, guiding you as you move, and when your lips break apart, it’s only because you need air.
When you’re not kissing him, you’re biting his lip, tugging at it just enough to make him gasp. And when you’re not biting his lip, you’re biting your own, trying to keep quiet because you’re all too aware of the thin walls.
But it’s hard to stay quiet when every roll of your hips sends a new wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and the sound of his breathing makes you want to give in completely.
“Fuck.” he mutters, and the way he looks at you — lips swollen, hair messy, cheeks flushed — makes you want to ruin him.
You lean down, capturing his lips again. And then you press down just a little harder, the angle shifting just enough to hit just right.
It’s game over.
“Can I?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His hand hovers at your hip, thumb grazing the edge of your panties. The intention is clear: more, baby, give me more, I need more.
You nod. That’s all he needs.
His hand trembles slightly as he moves it lower, brushing over the curve of your thigh before tugging at the fabric, fumbling as he tries to pull it down. You lift your hips to help him, the movement brushing you against him again, and he groans low in his throat, his breath shaky as he finally gets the panties down far enough to push them aside.
Then he pauses. “You’re sure?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little.
You nod again, more emphatically this time. “Yes,” you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest, under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. “Yes, Alex.”
It’s enough.
He fumbles again as he reaches for himself, pushing his boxers down with a little too much force, and his dick springs free, flushed and hard and — oh god — so close. It would almost be funny, the way he struggles to get the fabric out of the way, but it’s not. It’s really, really not, because all you can think about is how much you want him.
So bad.
His breath catches as he looks down at you, his hand wrapping around himself almost instinctively, and you feel your whole body tighten at the sight.
“You’re so-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even find the words, his free hand sliding up to cup your face. “I want you.” he says, his voice raw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “So much.”
You press your forehead to his, your hands gripping his shoulders as you whisper, “Then take me.”
“Okay.” His breath stutters, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he shifts, guiding himself to you. He hesitates, just for a second, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “Tell me if-”
“I will.”
And then he pushes forward, just barely, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of hurting you.
“Oh, fuck.” he breathes, his voice trembling, holding himself back, trying to stay in control. He groans as he sinks deeper.
And then he’s finally there, fully there, and you both pause, your breaths mingling as you adjust to the feeling, the weight, the sheer intimacy of it all.
It’s everything. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
And then he moves.
“Fuck, that feels so good.” he whispers, the words spilling out of him unguarded, and you can’t help the quiet sound that escapes your throat, a soft, needy confirmation that yes — yes, it feels so good.
You shift your hips against him, slow and deliberate, so slow that anyone watching wouldn’t even know you’re moving. But inside, he’s shifting with every tiny motion, and the stretch, the fullness — it’s overwhelming. He’s so big, and every inch of him feels like it was made to fit you, and you’re not sure how you’ve gone this long without knowing this feeling.
“Wait.” he says suddenly, his hands gripping your hips to still you.
You stop immediately, your lips parted, your teeth catching on your bottom lip as you remember how undone you must look. Your hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction from the night before, and you’re sure there are still traces of sleep in the corners of your eyes. It hits like a bucket of cold water, and you want to disappear, to bury your face in his pillow and hide from the thought that he might see you like this and regret everything. But he doesn’t pull away. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, an apology written in the tenderness of it.
“Don’t.” he murmurs, and it’s like he can see the insecurity blooming in your mind. And then it hits you — he’s inside you. His body is wrapped around yours, his hands holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s far too late for him to find you repulsive.
You exhale shakily, relaxing into his touch just as he says, “We didn’t- I didn’t put on a- a…” He stumbles over the words, his face flushing as he looks up at you.
“A rubber?” you offer.
“Yeah. Fuck.” he mutters, his hand running through his already-messy hair.
You know you should care. You should be concerned, should pull away and figure it out. But the thought barely registers, drowned out by the heat pooling low and the way he’s looking at you, all flushed cheeks and wide eyes and breathless uncertainty.
“Alex.” you whisper, and he looks up at you like you’ve just spoken the most important word in the world. You lean down, your lips brushing his, and kiss him softly, slowly, until you feel the tension melt from his body, his lips moving against yours like he’s already forgotten the interruption.
“Fuck it.” he breathes against your mouth, low and desperate, and you can feel the smile tugging at his lips as you press your forehead to his.
“Fuck it.” you agree, and the moment you start moving again, the rest of the world disappears.
It’s soft. It’s lazy. Not so lazy that it doesn’t feel good — because it does. It feels too good. Like, you-know-will-ruin-you kinda good. The kind of good that turns your world upside down and leaves you wondering how you’ll ever survive without it again. And it’s not just the way he’s touching you or the way he fits inside you. It’s the way he looks at you. It’s dangerous, this feeling. You can already sense it sinking into your bones, settling deep in your veins, and you fear you’ll never get it out. How are you supposed to pull away from him when it feels like this?
“God,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, “you’re perfect.” He laughs softly before he says “Can’t believe we waited this long.”
“Worth it.”
“Yeah.” he agrees, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “Yeah, you’re worth it.”
So honest, so sure that it has you pressing closer, your body trembling as the pleasure builds slowly, steadily, until it feels like it’s wrapping around you, pulling you under.
“Alex.” you whisper, and his eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of something that feels so much bigger than the two of you.
“I’ve got you.” he says, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “I’ve got you, babe.”
It’s so much. There’s so much of him — his length, his heat, the way his hip bones graze yours with every thrust. Each motion feels impossibly intimate, like he’s carving himself into you, piece by piece, and you can’t help the way your fingers dig into his chest, searching for something to hold onto.
“Takin’ me so well.” he whispers, a secret meant only for you.
The words make you whimper, a soft, broken sound that you wish could say everything you’re feeling. But it’s not enough, and you almost feel bad that you can’t muster anything more coherent in return. You hope he understands. You hope the way you’re falling apart over him — every little gasp, every shudder, every desperate press of your hips — tells him he’s doing good. Tells him he’s doing everything right.
“God, love.” he breathes. His movements are still slow, but there’s more purpose now, more urgency, like he’s teetering on the edge and holding back just for you. “Feel so good. So fuckin’ good.”
He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your body’s giving in. He’s pulling you down so your chest is flush with his, and his lips find your neck, brushing kisses along your skin that make you shiver. You can feel him twitching inside you, every little pulse. He’s losing control, you can tell, and it’s making you lose it right along with him.
“Fuck-” he groans, his voice breaking, “I’m- I’m close. So close. Really close.” His head tilts back against the pillow, his mouth open as he gasps for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’s a mess beneath you, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “I- how do I- tell me what to-”
You know what he’s asking. He wants to make you fall apart, just like he is, but his brain is too scrambled to figure out how. Your hand moves instinctively, grabbing his wrist and guiding it between your legs.
“Here.” you whisper, pressing his fingers where you need them. “Just- like this.”
He gets it. He gets it so right. The circles he’s drawing are perfect, the pressure just enough to have you keening softly as your thighs begin to tremble.
“That’s it.” he says.
You’re shaking now, your body so tense you feel like you might break apart. His hand keeps working between you, his cock throbbing inside you with every desperate thrust, and you’re so gone. There’s no other way to describe it. You’re gone for him, gone because of him, gone with him. White-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamp down around him, and he chokes out a curse, his hips faltering as he tries to keep moving through the vice grip.
“Fuck- fuck.” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut, his face scrunching up like he’s in pain. “You’re- oh, my god, love, I’m- I’m gonna-”
He’s fighting it. But you’re still pulsing around him, your body shaking with the aftershocks, and it’s too much for him. “I need to-” he stammers, his breath catching as he pulls out.
The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, and you glance down just in time to see him. He’s slick and flushed, his cock impossibly hard and glistening from you, and the moment the cool air touches him, he gasps. He strokes tightly, quickly, his fist sliding over the slickness you’ve left behind.
“Oh-” His free hand clutches at the sheets, his hips bucking up into his own grip. You’re transfixed.
It only takes a few strokes before he’s gone, a choked moan spilling from his lips as his body tenses. His cock jerks in his hand, and he comes hard, painting his covered chest with thick, messy ropes that glisten in the soft morning light. He keeps stroking himself through it, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t help but reach out, your fingers brushing over the sticky mess he’s made. He groans at the touch, his hand falling away as he finally collapses against the bed, utterly spent.
“Holy fuck.” he whispers. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his chest is still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You collapse against him, your face buried in his neck, and he’s still gasping.
“Yeah.” you giggle, and he laughs too.
It’s messy, it’s clumsy, it’s perfect.
You stay draped over him, your cheek pressed against his collarbone as his arms lazily wrap around you. You just want to stay like this — floating in the quiet of the morning, the hum of his breath against your temple.
After a few moments, he huffs a soft laugh, his chest rising beneath you.
“What?” you ask, your voice muffled against his skin.
“Just…y’know. That.” he says. “Wasn’t exactly how I imagined it’d go, but-”
“Oh, shut up.” you say, swatting at his chest, and he winces dramatically.
“Careful.” he teases. “Still recovering here. You wore me out.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Neither of you mentions the obvious — what just happened, the closeness of it, how real it all feels. It’s not awkward, though. Just…warm.
“God, you’re heavy.” he murmurs, teasing, his voice still soft with the afterglow.
“Shut up.” you mutter, lips brushing against the curve of his neck. “You’re sticky.”
There’s a comfortable silence for a beat, the two of you just basking in each other. It’s peaceful, or it would be if Alex weren’t incapable of keeping still for longer than thirty seconds. He shifts, testing the waters, and then — suddenly — he’s twisting you both around, flipping you onto your back as he props himself up on his elbows above you.
“Alex!” you squeak. “What the hell-”
His laugh is bright, filling the room as he nuzzles his face into your shoulder. “Oh my God.” he says, dragging the words out as if he’s just had the greatest epiphany of his life. “You’re mine. I’ve got you. Right here. In. My. Bed.”
“Alex.” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down as you squirm under him. “Shut up! What if-”
He cuts you off with a kiss to your forehead, his grin so wide it’s getting infectious. “What if my parents hear?” he finishes for you.
“Yes, exactly!”
“They won’t.” He pulls back, still grinning like a madman. “They’re not even here. They leave for work early, remember?”
You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “Oh.”
“Oh.” he mimics, laughing again. “We’re free, baby. Just you, me, and this very comfortable bed.”
You groan, slapping his arm. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”
“Before what?”
“You know what.” you huff, trying to look annoyed but failing miserably because he’s looking at you like that.
He props his chin on your chest, right between that valley of breasts. “Not talking about it, are we?”
“Talking about what?” You blink, all mock innocence, and you roll your eyes.
“You know what.” His grin widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something ridiculous but he stays quiet.
“Maybe later.” you murmur, and he hums in agreement.
“Relax, love.” he says, his voice dropping to something softer, gentler. “We’re good. Promise.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but his smile is too infectious, and eventually, you find yourself smiling back.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” you grumble, and he laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“I know.”

a/n: This somehow went on so long but it feels very fast paced to me? I like it though. I think it turned out cute. I think I really want him. Based on this request.
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Murder Of Crows

part 4 | series masterlist
are you part of his project?
warnings: you know it by now, mentions of death, suicide, dead animals, implied age gap, piv, eating, blood, restraints
word count: 7.3k
“And you have to spread them like this.” he murmured, his voice low and precise, like a teacher’s, like a sculptor’s. Methodical. Every word was deliberate, measured, and paired with a subtle gesture. His fingers moved with a kind of artistry that made you forget, just for a moment, that what he was working on had once been alive.
It felt eerily normal, the rhythm of his movements, the almost reverent care he took, how easily he handled the bird, how steady and unshaken he seemed. Yet, the scene was anything but. There was no smell, no pungency you might have expected, no mess. Nothing visceral. You had imagined something grittier, bloodier, but the scene before you was unnervingly sterile.
The absence of it somehow made it worse.
He had gloved his hands in thin pale latex, the type that clung to his fingers and made the softest, almost imperceptible squeak as he adjusted his grip. You weren’t allowed to touch — only to watch — but the texture of the gloves felt like it imprinted itself onto your senses. Somehow, you could feel them anyway. That powdery, almost waxy texture haunted your mind, slipping over your skin like a phantom sensation.
He worked quickly, pinning the left wing into place before you even realized what he was doing and the speed of it made you wonder how many times he’d done this before. His movements were so smooth, so practised, that it was impossible to believe he hadn’t done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times before. You wondered how long it had taken him to get this good. How much practice did this take? How many creatures had fallen into his hands for the sake of this obsession? You didn’t ask. But the questions turned sour on your tongue. Some truths were better left buried.
He looked like he was carving something holy. His brows furrowed, but not in frustration — this was focus, pure and undistracted. His lips parted slightly as he leaned closer, his breath shallow and even. You could hear it if you listened closely enough, steady and rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock. You hated how much you were listening, how much you were watching.
It wasn’t just his hands. It was the line of his jaw, the slight curve of his neck as he tilted his head to examine his work. It was the way his shoulders shifted beneath his shirt, how they seemed so broad but so fragile at the same time. It was the faint shadow of stubble catching the light, the way his lashes fanned over his cheeks when he blinked.
You drifted. Your eyes found the bird’s face, its hollow stare fixed on you, unblinking. It was so perfect it almost looked alive. Like a cruel trick of the light, or some last remnant of its former life lingering to watch this strange act of preservation.
“Listening?” His voice cut through the haze, sharp and steady. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder, but somehow, he knew. He always knew.
You flinched at the suddenness of it, blinking hard. “Yeah- yes.”
“Good.” He returned to his work, unbothered, unconcerned by your distraction. You wished you could say the same.
His attention went back to the bird. The long, delicate needle in his hand moved like an extension of himself, and he began to fix the other wing in place. His focus was unnerving, his hands an artist’s, but his subject felt like a sacrifice. You couldn’t stop staring at him. The way his fingers moved with such certainty, the subtle curl of his lips as he concentrated. He was beautiful in the most terrifying way. Beautiful like the sharp edge of a blade or the first spark of a fire. You wanted to keep looking at him even though you knew you shouldn’t.
“You wanted to see this.” he said, not looking away. There was no malice in his tone, but the words carried weight, as if he were reminding you of something you had asked for but now regretted.
“I did.” Your voice was quieter than you intended, but it felt wrong to be loud here. To interrupt him.
“Good.” he repeated, as if that settled everything, pinning the final feather into position. He leaned back slightly, head tilting as he surveyed his work, examining the bird’s wings, now spread wide. The firelight caught the edges of his face, casting shadows that made him look almost otherworldly. He had always seemed a little unreal to you, like a figure pulled from a half-forgotten dream. “Most people don’t understand. But you…” He turned, just enough to catch your eye. “You could. If you wanted to.”
You weren’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning or a threat. The words sat heavy in your chest, coiling tightly around your ribs like something alive.
“Why do you do it?” you asked, and immediately regretted it.
He paused, his hands stilling for the first time since he’d begun. The air shifted. The silence that followed was almost unbearable. He removed the gloves with a snap, peeling them off one finger at a time. “To keep them.” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “To make them last.”
You swallowed hard, throat dry. “Is it just birds?”
The corner of his mouth quirked into a shadow of a smile. “For now.”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Something about him kept you there, rooted to the spot, like a moth caught in a web. You thought about the way his hands had felt on you, how they had pressed and pulled and claimed, with the same intensity he gave to this lifeless thing. And you hated yourself for wanting it again.
Maybe you were becoming obsessed. Maybe you already were.
“Deconstructing and putting them back together, recollaging them…just — death and renewal…” he said, like he was peeling back layers of meaning as much as flesh. He stepped closer as he spoke, his presence filling the space between you. “It’s a sensuous subject.”
He paused then, just long enough for the weight of his statement to settle between you. Long enough for you to feel its boldness, its audacity. The room felt smaller somehow, the shadows from the lamp growing heavier as the firelight from the next room flickered faintly on the walls.
“But in our presence,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, intimate, “it also becomes a sensing, sensual, sense-making object.”
He was close now. Too close. Close enough that the sharp, sterile scent of latex mingled with the natural warmth of him. His eyes locked onto yours, and you were struck by how unblinking they were, how intent. As though he were dissecting you now, seeing through your skin to the raw tissue underneath.
“It also gets sticky.” he added, his voice dipping into a near-growl, pulling you back to the moment with a jolt. He snapped the gloves off, letting them crumple in his hands before tossing them carelessly to the side.
The sound was stark, breaking the quiet. You flinched at it, more from the way it cut the air than anything else.
His bare hands flexed at his sides now, the faint indentations from the gloves still visible on his skin. He didn’t move back. If anything, he seemed to draw closer, his eyes scanning your face as though he was looking for something — recognition, understanding, permission.
“Sticky?” you echoed, the word slipping out before you could stop yourself.
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. “Life is sticky.” he said simply, his tone almost amused, like he found it funny that you didn’t already know this. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, leaving a phantom trace where his fingers had been.
“Messy. Unclean. But that’s what makes it real, isn’t it?” His thumb hovered near the corner of your mouth before falling away. “The stickiness makes it human.”
You didn’t answer, but your silence didn’t seem to bother him. Instead, he let it linger, thick and charged, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Or perhaps, with his.
“Where do I fit into all of this?” you asked, the words soft but weighted, as if the answer might shatter you. You weren’t even sure what you meant. The words spilled out unformed, driven by something deeper than reason — an instinct, a need.
He didn’t move at first, his focus still fixed on the fine balance of delicacy and control he wielded with such ease, almost as though the question hadn’t even reached him. Or perhaps it had, and he was simply measuring his response. “You’re…our bodies are conduits, reflecting each other.” he said at last. “Something like…elemental fusion.”
Your heart kicked in your chest. The words unsettled you, as much for their strangeness as their intimacy. “So did you come to me to see your fantasies performed before your very eyes?” you asked, the accusation trembling on your lips.
That was when he turned to you. Slowly. Deliberately. The room felt darker. It made your skin prickle His gaze found yours, heavy and unyielding. “You came to me, remember?” he said, his voice sharp enough to carve you apart, cutting through you like the edge of a blade dulled just enough to bruise without breaking. Small. He made you feel small again.
Small in the way he had a talent for. It wasn’t a diminishment that came from malice but rather an awareness, a stark and cutting reminder of your fragility in the face of his intensity.
“We’re both…looking.” he said, his voice softening just enough to unsettle you further.
The air seemed to shift with him, thickening, growing weighty. You couldn’t move — not because he forced you but because his presence locked you in place. He left the bird alone, its wings spread and vulnerable under the lamplight. It was then you realised he wasn’t just speaking about the bird. He’d found something else to pin, something else to dissect. He came to his bird instead.
His hand found your neck — not rough, not even threatening — fingers curling around the column of your throat, not squeezing, but holding. Light but firm. His touch felt surgical in its precision, and though it didn’t hurt, the tips of his fingers pressing just enough to remind you they were there, you couldn’t ignore the power that simmered just beneath his skin.
It wasn’t a choke. It was a claim.
His thoughts moved through him like dark water — slow, deep currents filled with things he could never say aloud. You were fragile, too fragile, and yet you were something that refused to break no matter how much he pressed. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to. There was a part of him that feared your strength and a part that craved it. You were a contradiction to him. Soft and delicate in all the places that called to his most base urges, yet unyielding in ways that left him restless and raw.
And yet, as his hand rested on your throat, as his thumb brushed against the hollow there, he thought about how easy it would be to ruin you, to take the raw materials of you and shape them into something more his. Something beautiful, not unlike the bird on the table. But he didn’t want to ruin you — not fully. Not yet. He wanted to see you unmade, but he also wanted you to keep standing.
His lips met yours, and everything sharpened.
They crushed against yours, hard, swallowing your gasp like he was consuming something he thought already belonged to him. His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat as his mouth moved against yours, hungry, urgent, leaving no room for doubt. The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming, devouring. He kissed you as though it wasn’t an act of affection but of necessity, as though your lips had something he needed to survive. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of hunger that felt old, like it had lived in him far longer than you’d known him. His tongue slid against yours, tasting, coaxing, demanding.
The warmth of him pressed into you, and your body registered every detail — the roughness of his unshaven jaw, the faint scent of latex and soap that lingered on his hands, the tension in his body that vibrated just beneath his skin. He was solid against you, overwhelming, and yet his grip on your neck remained careful, precise. He didn’t tighten his fingers, though you felt them twitch, as though he was constantly holding himself back. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this was just part of the game.
For a moment, you thought you could taste his contradiction, the way his mind warred with itself. He wanted to keep you safe, and he wanted to tear you apart. He wanted you untouched, and he wanted you completely ruined.
You clung to him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself against the storm he brought with him. He kissed you deeper, harder, his breaths rough and uneven against your cheek.
In his head, his thoughts twisted. You weren’t just a distraction. You were the thing — the thing that made him feel too much, that made him want to forget himself and remember you instead. You were raw material, yes, but raw material he didn’t need to mold. You were already beautiful in ways he couldn’t replicate, and it infuriated him.
“You’re mine.” he whispered against your lips, his voice ragged and heavy, breath hot and heady. He wasn’t asking. He wasn’t even confirming. He was stating. A fact he expected you to accept without protest. A truth as simple and unyielding as gravity.
Your chest tightened. His words shouldn’t have felt comforting, but they did. “Yours.” you whispered back, the word catching in your throat like a secret too dangerous to release.
But the question still lingered in your mind, even as his other hand slid up your spine, pulling you closer, making it harder to think. Where did you fit into all this? Were you his reflection, his experiment? Or just another bird, pinned neatly into place, caught in his grasp?
“Good girl.” he murmured, and the warmth in his tone contrasted sharply with the cool weight of his hand still on your throat. It made your head spin, made everything blur and sharpen all at once.
His lips left yours, trailing down to your jaw, your neck, pressing marks into your skin like he wanted to leave proof of this moment. You tilted your head, offering yourself to him, and his breath came heavier against your pulse.
Then, something in his gaze shifted — like a shadow passing over a light. He pulled back, his hand lingering on your neck for a moment longer before he let you go. He stepped back, the space between you suddenly unbearable.
You couldn’t stand it. The emptiness where his hand had been, the hollow absence of his warmth against you — it was suffocating in its own way, and you acted before you could think better of it.
Your hand shot out, grabbing him by the front of his shirt with a force that surprised even you. His eyes widened for the briefest of moments, a flicker of shock crossing his face before you surged forward. You dived into him, reckless and unrelenting.
You kissed him hard, desperate, pouring everything into it. Your hands roamed, gripping the fabric of his shirt, sliding to his jaw, threading into his hair. You pulled at him, as though dragging him closer might make him a part of you, something you couldn’t lose. Your tongue swept against his lips, and when they parted for you, you licked into his mouth with a hunger that bordered on feral.
He groaned, low and guttural, the sound reverberating through your chest. His hands were on you again, pulling you to him, holding you steady as your knees began to falter. You felt his fingers sink into your waist, even as you threatened to collapse under the weight of your own desire. But then your knees did give out, the strength leaving you in a rush. He went down with you, and the next thing you knew, your back hit the wooden floor.
The impact jolted you, the cold of the wood a sharp contrast to the heat coursing through your body, but none of it mattered. He braced himself over you, his knees digging into the floor on either side of your hips, his weight held by his palms planted firmly on either side of your head.
You stared at each other, breathless. His face was close, so close you could see the way his pupils had swallowed the color of his eyes, could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His lips were swollen from your kiss, and there was a slight flush to his cheeks that made your chest ache.
“Take me.” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm.
His expression flickered — hesitation, hunger. His chest heaved, and for a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, as though he was trying to decide whether to obey you or devour you whole.
Then he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Careful what you wish for.” he murmured.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time, but no less consuming. Clothes were pulled off. Yours, to be precise. Piece by piece, each layer peeled back to leave you bare beneath his gaze, vulnerable in a way that somehow didn’t feel humiliating. Exposed. And yet, even in this exposure, there was a power that lingered, palpable and undeniable.
Even from below, you could see the way his body betrayed him. He was at the mercy of his own desire, as much as you were at his. His jaw was tight, his breathing labored, and his trousers, straining with every sharp inhale, were proof that this wasn’t just you unraveling. It was both of you, caught in the pull of something you couldn’t fully explain.
His gaze burned into you, devouring every inch of your skin as though memorizing it, committing the sight of you to something deeper than memory. You could almost feel the weight of his eyes, the way they lingered on the rise and fall of your chest, on the subtle curve of your stomach. His hunger was unmistakable, and yet, restrained — painfully so, you thought.
He reached for your hands and you didn’t resist as he grabbed your wrists and brought them together. His grip was firm but not cruel, his palms warm against your skin as he maneuvered your arms. The motion brought your own body into sharp focus — your arms squeezed your sides, pressing your breasts together, and your hands found a place just above your womb, a posture that felt ceremonial, like you’d been molded into an offering.
He was the one holding it all together, the tie that kept you bound in place. His fingers lingered on your wrists for a moment longer than they needed to, and when his eyes met yours, they were dark and smoldering, barely contained.
“Stay like that…” he said, his voice rough, almost trembling. “Don’t- don’t move.”
There was a note of desperation in his command, but you didn’t dare disobey. You nodded, too breathless to speak, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
He was up before you could get a word in, his body moving with a deliberateness that left you both anxious and aching. You heard him rummaging, something shifting, though your gaze stayed forward, locked onto the space where he had been. It wasn’t until he returned, crouching above you again, that you looked down and saw what he held.
Rough, coarse rope.
The first loop circled your wrists before you fully registered what was happening, the fibers scratching against your skin. It was precise — tight enough to feel, but not so tight as to hurt. Yet.
You flexed your hands instinctively, testing the bond, and felt the burn of friction as the rope resisted. Terrifying in its finality.
“Tighter?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
You opened your mouth to answer, unsure if you’d even dare to admit you…liked it, but he didn’t wait for your reply.
“Tighter.” he concluded for himself, his voice low and definitive as he pulled the rope taut.
Your breath hitched as the pressure increased, your wrists pinned together, immobile. Your fingers twitched against each other, your palms brushing the faint warmth of your own skin. There was no escape.
The tension in the air was unbearable. You watched his face as he worked — focused, obsessive, his lips slightly parted as though the act of binding you was something sacred to him. His fingers moved with precision, tugging and adjusting, and you realised this wasn’t just about control. This was art to him. He was shaping you, sculpting you into something that could only exist beneath his hands.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice softer now, a strange juxtaposition to the roughness biting into your skin.
You shook your head, though the raw sensation prickled your nerves. “Not yet.” you whispered.
His lips quirked, the faintest shadow of a smile.
His hands lingered on the knot, testing it. And as you lay there, bound and bare, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the moment he saw you as something beyond flesh — beyond what you thought you were. You wondered if he saw something transcendent.
But his thoughts weren’t as lofty.
He looked at you, laid out and helpless, and the only thing he could think about was how much he wanted to ruin you. How the sight of your wrists bound together stirred something he couldn’t ignore. How your skin, so soft and pliable, made his restraint feel more like a curse than a choice.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “Stay still.”
And you did, because what else could you do?
His hands left you for only a moment, and you shivered at the loss of his touch. He stood over you and began peeling off his shirt. The fabric clung to him, damp with heat and tension, and the way he tugged it over his head revealed more of him in agonizing increments.
Muscle stretched taut under pale skin, his chest rising and falling with every breath. There was something mesmerizing in the act — how casual it seemed, yet how intimate it felt. Like he was stripping away more than just his clothes.
The scrape of his belt buckle was louder than your breathing, and the sound of the zipper being undone made your pulse quicken.
He didn’t hesitate after that.
He was on you in an instant, his weight pressing you into the floor as he kissed you with teeth and need. His mouth latched onto your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting only to bite again.
His cock brushed against your bound hands each time he moved, a heated, silken pressure that made you burn with anticipation. You could feel the pulse of him, the way he twitched against your skin, and it was maddening.
“Can’t hold back.” he growled, his voice ragged as his teeth grazed your collarbone.
“Don’t.” you whispered, and the word barely had time to settle between you before he surged forward, filling you in one swift, unrelenting thrust.
You cried out, your body arching beneath him, your wrists straining against the rope as your fingers sought something — anything — to hold onto. But there was nothing to grasp except him.
He was everywhere.
His hips pressed flush against yours, leaving no space between your bodies. He was so close, so deeply buried inside you, it felt like he’d erased the boundaries of where he ended and you began.
“Fuck.” he hissed through gritted teeth, his forehead pressing against yours. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh.
Your breath hitched as he moved, his pace slow but merciless, each stroke dragging him against every sensitive part of you. Your tied hands were pinned between your bodies, brushing against the base of his cock with every thrust, and the friction only added to the delirium.
“You take me so fucking well.” he said, his voice low and reverent, though his movements were anything but gentle. “Like you were made for this. For me.”
Your thoughts were a haze of heat and sensation, your body pliant and open beneath his relentless pace.
“Say it.” he demanded, his teeth nipping at your jawline.
“Made for you.” you managed to gasp, and the sound of your voice seemed to break something in him.
He cursed under his breath and surged forward, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate. His hands left your thighs to grip your hips, pulling you against him with bruising force. The rope around your wrists burned against your skin as you writhed, but the pain only tethered you to him.
You felt his breath against your ear, hot and uneven. “You’ll remember this.” he murmured, his voice raw. “You’ll feel me tomorrow, and you’ll know who you belong to.”
“I already do.” you whispered, your voice breaking as his pace pushed you closer to the edge.
He groaned, low and guttural, and you knew he was losing himself in you, just as much as you were losing yourself in him.
It hit you then, like the floor beneath your back and his weight pressing you into it — this wasn’t simple desire. It was the raw, consuming need to dismantle you, to strip you bare in every way, and yet you weren’t afraid. If he wanted to destroy you, you’d let him. You’d beg for it, even, and when he was done, you’d still be there, pressing your lips to the hand that delivered the final blow.
Your wrists strained against the rope as his movements became rougher, more insistent. Suddenly, you felt them being tugged upward. He was holding himself up on one elbow, his other hand grabbing the bindings and pulling them closer to his face.
You bit your lip as he drove into you harder, your cry muffled behind your teeth. He didn’t let you stay quiet, though. He bit into the fleshy part of your palm, his teeth sinking deep enough to make you gasp, the pain sharp and startling.
“Al-” you whimpered.
“Shh, shh…” he murmured. His lips were soft against your hand as he kissed over the fresh indentations, soothing where his teeth had been just moments before.
“I’m sore.” you said, barely able to find the words as he rocked into you again.
He shifted, rubbing his thumbs along the rope marks on your wrists, but it wasn’t a gesture of comfort. He was studying the way they bloomed red against your skin, admiring the effect. “What?” he asked, feigning concern. “Your pussy’s sore?”
You nodded, unable to voice it properly, but your answer didn’t soften him. It spurred him on.
“Good.” he said, his voice dropping an octave as his thrusts grew deeper, more deliberate. His cock filled you so completely it felt like there was nothing left for you to give, and yet he kept pushing, kept taking.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke. “I’m gonna fill you up all nice.” he rasped, his breath hot against your skin. “You’ll forget all about it.”
The promise was as cruel as it was intoxicating. His pace never faltered, his hips driving into yours with bruising precision. Each thrust sent another shockwave through your body, your mind blanking with the intensity of it.
“I-” you whimpered again, your voice breaking as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
He kissed your temple this time, a fleeting gesture of tenderness that contrasted the unrelenting force of his body against yours. “I know.” he whispered. “I know, baby. Just take it for me. That’s all I need from you.”
And you did. You took every bit of him, every thrust, every bite, every rough squeeze of his hand on your flesh, until you weren’t sure where the pain ended and the pleasure began.
It happened all at once — the unraveling of him. His pace grew uneven, frantic, each thrust harder than the last as if he were chasing something just out of reach. His face twisted, caught between tension and release, his jaw tightening, lips parting as a guttural sound escaped his throat.
He was beautiful in that moment, devastatingly so. His head tilted back slightly, the muscles in his neck straining, veins prominent as he gave in to the wave overtaking him. His eyes, half-lidded and glazed, were almost unseeing, lost in the intensity.
Then came the sharp cry, almost animalistic, torn from his chest as he spilled into you. The heat of it was overwhelming, searing, the evidence of him claiming you in the most visceral way. His cock twitched inside you, over and over, each pulse sending more of him deeper, marking you in a way that felt irreversible.
But he didn’t let the sound echo far. His teeth found your shoulder first, sinking in hard enough to draw a startled gasp from your lips. Then your collarbone, then the curve of your neck — he bit wherever he could reach, muffling his cries against your skin. Each bite was sharp, leaving tender marks in their wake, a series of his claiming scattered across your body.
“Fuck.” he groaned, his voice muffled as he pressed his lips against your neck again, softer this time, lingering. He stayed buried deep inside you, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.
You felt his cock twitch one last time before it started to soften, still filling you but no longer with the same urgency. He didn’t pull away, though. He stayed close.
His hands moved to cradle your face, rough and tender all at once. When his lips brushed against your forehead, you realised his breaths had quieted, but his body hadn’t moved. He was inside you, still holding you as though he couldn’t bear to let go. You couldn’t tell where his need ended and this tenderness began, and maybe neither could he.
“So good to me.” he whispered.
He stood, pulling his pants up as if regaining a semblance of control, leaving you still tied, exposed, and utterly vulnerable on the floor. You watched him move, calm and precise, and for a moment, you thought he might leave you like this — abandoned in your own wreckage. But then he returned, holding a small knife in his hand, the blade gleaming faintly.
Your breath caught. It wasn’t unlike the one he’d used earlier on the bird, but this one was slightly larger, heavier in his hand. He crouched in front of you, his gaze flickering between your bound wrists and the rope that kept you there.
“Hold still.” he murmured. He aimed the blade at the rope, but as he pressed it against the fibers, you flinched — just barely, but enough for the knife to slip.
It kissed your skin, sharp and unforgiving, and a sting followed as blood welled up along the shallow cut on your belly. You gasped, the sound involuntary, and his hand froze. His gaze snapped to yours, unreadable at first, before it dropped to the crimson bead that now trickled down your skin.
He stared at it, entranced. “Look what you made me do.” he said, his voice low and almost accusatory, though the words were tinged with a dark sort of fascination.
You stretched your wrists, testing the bonds, but his hand on your stomach stopped you. Before you could say anything, his head dipped, and his tongue dragged along the cut, collecting the blood before you even had the chance to process what was happening.
“Al- what are you doing?” you asked.
“Tasting.” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the wound as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You’re sweet, you know that?”
His head dipped lower. At first, you thought he might simply kiss the curve of your hip, but he kept going, his lips trailing a path down, and lower, and lower still.
When his mouth closed over your clit, you flinched again, a sharp, startled cry escaping you. “Fuck-”
A hand flew to his head, your fingers threading through his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. His tongue was relentless, flicking and swirling with a precision that left you gasping. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Alexander-” You couldn’t get the words out, your thoughts fragmented as the pressure built and built until it became unbearable.
He hummed against you. “Don’t hold back.” he muttered between licks, his voice muffled but clear enough to command. “Let me hear you.”
Sharp and sudden, your thighs trembled as you cried out, clutching at him like he was the only thing. His tongue didn’t stop until you were twitching, overstimulated and breathless, and even then, he gave you one last, deliberate suck that made you whimper.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick, his expression smug. “See?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good for both of us.”
You could only stare at him, chest heaving, your wrists still bound and raw. He reached for the knife again, cutting the rope this time without hesitation.
“You’re bleeding.” you managed to say, noticing the faint red streak smeared along his jaw.
He didn’t even glance at it. “No…you are.” His hand brushed over the cut on your stomach, now smeared with a mixture of blood and his spit.
He didn’t move far, didn’t seem able to. After freeing your wrists, he set the knife aside and crawled back over you, his presence looming but his touch…different now. Gentler.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to your neck, faint and fleeting kisses that barely grazed the surface of your skin. They trailed down to your shoulder, each one a whisper of warmth that left your body tingling in their wake. It felt so unlike him, so far removed from the roughness and force of moments ago. The contrast made your breath hitch, made your heart ache in a way you didn’t understand.
It was odd, almost unsettling, but also…lovely.
You let your hands wander, brushing over his shoulders, sliding down his back. His skin was warm, but beneath it, he felt unyielding. The curve of his spine was firm, the ridges of his muscles hard, like something long locked in tension. There was a toughness to him, not just physical but something deeper, like an atrophied muscle that had grown stiff with time and disuse.
Your fingers traced one vertebra after the next as if you could soothe whatever it was that kept him like this. He shivered under your touch, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. Felt the way his breath hitched against your shoulder, how his body stilled as if caught in a moment too vulnerable to escape.
“Alexander.” you whispered, barely audible.
He paused, his lips resting against your collarbone. “What?”
“I don’t know.” you admitted. It was the truth — you didn’t have the words for what you felt, for what he was doing to you, for what you were doing to him.
“Then don’t say anything.”
And he dipped back down, his kisses resuming their path along your shoulder and collarbone. Your hand slid to his nape, fingers threading into his hair. He leaned into it, just barely, and the subtle way he responded made something twist inside you. You wanted to ask what he was thinking, but the words wouldn’t come. Maybe because you were afraid of what he’d say. Or maybe because you were afraid he wouldn’t answer at all.
Instead, you stayed silent, your hand stroking down his spine again. He let out a soft, shaky breath against your skin, one that you might have missed if you weren’t so attuned to him. For a moment, it felt like he might say something, but he didn’t.
He just kissed you again.
When all the clothes came back on, it felt like something had shifted. Alexander was distant again, leaning into the couch as though it would swallow him whole, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. The fire painted restless shadows across his face, but his expression was unreadable. His ruminations had started — you could see it in the way his eyes darkened, his mind somewhere else entirely.
You didn’t sit. Couldn’t. The raw marks on your wrists burned under your touch, and your pacing felt inevitable, as though standing still might crush you under the weight of everything unsaid. The air felt thick between you, but not impenetrable.
Your voice broke the silence, louder than you intended, startling even yourself. “Did I ever tell you about my father?”
Alexander’s eyes flicked to you sharply, his brow furrowing just slightly. “No.” he said. It was quiet, almost, like he already knew he wouldn’t like what you were going to say.
You stopped, rubbing your wrist absently as you stared at the window. The darkness outside seemed endless, like a mirror of your thoughts. “He killed himself.” you said flatly, the words falling between you like a stone. “In my bedroom.”
The fire popped, but Alexander didn’t move. His stillness made it worse somehow, like he was absorbing your words in a way you hadn’t expected. You paced again, feeling like a caged animal, your arms crossed tight over your chest.
“I wasn’t there when it happened.” you continued. “I didn’t find him. Thank God for that, I guess. But sometimes I wish I had. Isn’t that fucked up?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “I feel too much without anything actually having happened. Like there’s no room to let it out, no picture to hold onto except the ones my brain paints for me.”
Alexander’s gaze tracked your movements, his hands tightening slightly, a twitch of the fingers. “Why your bedroom?” he asked quietly.
You stopped in your tracks. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought it was the easiest way to say something without having to say it. Maybe he thought I’d know what it meant.” You glanced at him, searching his face for something — understanding, maybe, or condemnation.
“Did you see him?” you asked suddenly, your voice sharp, almost accusing. “I mean…you must have. Afterward.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, and he looked away for the first time. His hands rubbed together, the faintest sound of skin on skin breaking the silence. “No.” he said, and it felt too fast, too automatic. “I didn’t see him.”
You took a hesitant step closer. “Then what-”
“I just…” He paused, the words caught somewhere in his throat. His hand dragged across his jaw, his fingers rough. “I just dug the…” strained, and he trailed off as though even saying it aloud was a step too far.
Something in his tone made your stomach twist, but you didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, you crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch. The cushions shifted under your weight, but he didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the way you leaned into his space.
Lulu’s soft meow broke the silence, and she leapt onto the piano down the hall. Her paws struck a few discordant notes, the sound grating against the fragile atmosphere.
“Lulu.” Alexander said, his voice low but sharp. She meowed again, unfazed, stepping over more keys.
“Lulu.” he snapped, louder now. He started to rise, but you put a hand on his knee. “She’s fine.” you murmured, though your voice shook slightly.
He stayed seated, but the tension in his frame didn’t ease. His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched forward like he was ready to spring up at any moment. Lulu pawed at a few more keys, and his hand balled into a fist.
You hesitated, your hand still on his knee. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” you said softly, pulling his focus back to you. “About him. About what he felt in that moment. If he was scared or if he just…let go.”
Alexander’s gaze was heavy on you now, his fists unclenching as he leaned back slightly. You stared at your hands, your fingers brushing over the marks on your wrists. “I think about what he saw before he…did it. My things, my bed…did he look at them and think of me? Or was it all just…a blur to him?”
Alexander’s hand shifted, moving closer to yours but not quite touching. “You’ll drive yourself mad thinking like that.” he said quietly.
You gave him a small, humorless smile. “I think I already have.”
His brow furrowed, but he didn’t respond. Instead, his hand finally moved to cover yours, his touch light, almost hesitant.
“Do you think he was selfish?” you asked suddenly, your voice cracking. “Or brave? Or- God, I don’t even know. I can’t figure it out. I just…I can’t stop wondering if it’ll ever make sense.”
“It won’t.” Alexander said, his voice steady now, certain. “Not the way you want it to.”
You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for answers you knew he couldn’t give. But the way he held your hand, firm, made something inside you shift.
The silence didn’t feel quite so unbearable.
Alexander pulled you closer, circling your shoulders with a quiet decisiveness that left no room for protest — not that you would have protested. He didn’t hold you too tightly, didn’t speak or push. He just folded you into his chest, his chin brushing the top of your head, and let it take over.
Usually it was suffocating, a vacuum that forced you to fill it with restless thoughts. But for him, silence seemed easy. Natural. At least on the surface.
Inside, his mind roiled. He told himself to focus on your breathing, the rise and fall of your chest against his, the faint tremor in your hands as they clung to him. But even in this moment, he felt the itch — like static beneath his skin, his compulsions sparking at the edges of his restraint. You were soft against him, vulnerable in your grief, and part of him wanted to stay here, to hold you and absorb every jagged piece of pain until there was nothing left. But another part of him wanted to strip you bare — not just your body, but your soul, your defenses, your very essence.
He knew how to take things apart. Knew it so well that sometimes he wondered if he could do anything else.
“You should stay.” he said finally, his voice low but resolute.
He thought you might argue, might retreat back into yourself like you sometimes did when the weight of the world pressed too hard.
“I will.” you said softly.
The relief that coursed through him was almost painful. He hadn’t realised how badly he needed you to stay until you agreed.
You shifted closer, settling into him. He held you tighter, his hand trailing down to rest on the small of your back, his fingers spreading wide as though anchoring you there.
Outside, the wind howled faintly, rattling the windows. But inside, the world narrowed.
You didn’t fight him on staying because, deep down, you wanted it too. You wanted the quiet, the pull of his presence that made you feel seen in ways that were as thrilling as they were terrifying.
And so you stayed.

a/n: Not really the biggest fan of this one. Don’t wanna talk about it. (insert sticker of my tbhc alex memoji giving you the hand to talk to)
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Playground Love

principles and piercings
warnings: dad!alex, fluff, talking, that’s it, the kid is mentioned but not present
word count: 4.9k
The sound of the door seemed to echo through the empty house, punctuating your frustration. You slammed it behind you, exhaling a rough, irritated breath. “Fuck.” The word left your lips in a low groan, half-lost in the rumble of thunder that chased you inside. The rain hadn’t just soaked you – it had become a cold, unyielding second skin, seeping through your sweater, tracing icy rivulets down your neck and arms. Each drop felt like a reminder of his refusal to leave the house this morning, his insistence that you go instead. All because he insisted on playing his brooding poet routine. Stuck inside like a house cat that could no longer bear the sun, playing reclusive vampire. As if the world outside these walls had become foreign, too bright, too sharp for him to tread.
The sky was a dense shade of grey, heavy with clouds that looked like bruises on the horizon. The air had smelled thick and metallic, almost electric, as if the storm carried something more ominous in its folds. And yet, he’d chosen to stay here, curled up in his warm little corner, lost in whatever book had captured his interest this time, entirely detached from the reality you had to walk through alone.
As you shrugged off your drenched coat, it landed with a damp, resigned thud on the hallway bench. The boots took more effort, sticky from mud and pooling rainwater, but you tugged them off and let them drop, watching as small puddles began to spread across the floor. Normally, you’d tidy it up, make sure the mess didn’t creep into the house. Today, you let it lie there, like a silent reminder of what you’d endured.
You made your way through the silent house, feeling the warmth of it slowly seep into your bones. And that’s when you spotted him, his little mop of hair barely visible above the couch cushions, the tips messy and almost comically unkempt, contrasting with the stillness of the room. He sat in his typical lounging position, legs tucked under him, shoulders hunched slightly, a small crease on his forehead as he concentrated on the words in front of him. His headphones were big, cocooning him in sound, book in one hand, and a cup of tea cradled in the other, the soft tendrils of steam curling up like wisps of smoke.
You could tell from the slight furrow in his brow and the relaxed set of his jaw that he was somewhere else entirely, lost in a place he always retreated to. He hadn’t noticed you – he never did, not when he was like this. You watched as he flipped a page, moving as if in a trance, his thumb tracing the corner of the book’s edge in a habitual, absent-minded way, like the very act of reading was a ritual for him.
You stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, half-amused, half-annoyed. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, you thought, a mantra fighting against the urge that was rising within you. But his hair looked so irresistibly soft, so inviting, and that little voice inside you – the one that always wanted to shake him out of his dreamy, unreachable state – was louder today. He’d been distant for days now, and this simple, innocent moment of solitude felt almost selfish, given the morning you’d had.
He deserved a jolt back to reality, you reasoned. A reminder that you were still here, dripping wet from the storm he had refused to brave.
You let your hand hover just above his head, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the finer details of the little dark waves framing his face. And then, with a quick, almost mischievous swipe, you tangled your fingers in his hair, giving it a deliberate tousle.
Perfect. Just enough to pull him out of his own head.
The reaction was immediate. He tensed, his whole body freezing for a split second before he jerked just enough to spill a splash of tea over his fingers. He whipped around, tugging off his headphones with a startled look, his eyes meeting yours, filled with a mix of surprise and irritation that slowly shifted to something softer when he saw your dripping clothes, the slight smirk on your face.
“Really?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his lips.
“Really.” you replied, letting the word hang in the air, as if daring him to argue.
He looked down at his tea-stained hand, holding it up with an exaggerated sigh as if the sticky mess were some grand tragedy. His fingers curled, studying the small streaks that glistened against his skin, almost contemplative. He opened his mouth, maybe to complain, maybe to tease, but you cut him off.
“You could’ve done the school run.” you said, your tone light but laced with an unmistakable edge. “It’s just rain, not lava.”
He looked back at you, his eyes widening a fraction, a bemused expression flickering across his face as he processed your words. “I hate the rain.” he said, the statement soft, almost gentle, as if reminding you of something you’d forgotten about himself.
You shrugged, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from the lingering dampness that still clung to your skin. “I hate a lot of things too.” you replied, though your voice softened as you watched him. “But I went anyway. Because she wanted someone to walk her in.”
He seemed to take that in, letting it settle in the silence between you, his gaze dropping to his tea-stained hand, then back to you, the smallest trace of guilt flashing across his face. You reached out, took his cup, and wrapped your chilled hands around its warmth. He watched as you took a long, slow sip, savouring the taste of the drink you hadn’t even made, letting the warmth seep into you while his eyes lingered on you with something like quiet regret.
The storm outside raged on, thunder rumbling low, but in here, in this small, still room, everything seemed to slow down. The two of you sat there, tangled in a shared silence, an unspoken understanding hanging heavy between you both. The rain might still be falling, but here, wrapped in his gaze and the faint aroma of tea and damp wool, you almost felt warm again.
Without a second thought, you sank down onto the couch beside him, invading his space, still damp and dripping. He could feel the cold fabric of your clothes sticking to his leg, but he didn’t move. If anything, he seemed to settle deeper into the cushions, unfazed, watching you with that quiet, stubborn gaze of his. The book, the well-worn Nabokov novel he’d been pouring over for days, slipped from his hand and came to rest on the coffee table, forgotten in favour of this small exchange.
He didn’t say a word as he reached for you, his hands curling around your ankle. With a practised focus, he began pulling off your damp socks, his fingers deft but gentle, peeling the fabric away like it was some chore he’d taken upon himself long ago. His thumb brushed the arch of your foot, lingering just enough to send a warm spark up your leg. You knew what he was doing, you could feel the unspoken offer in his touch. You’d come back from the rain, chilled and annoyed, and he would be the antidote to all of it, the warmth to counter your cold.
“Despair?” you asked, nodding at the worn paperback now lying on the table.
“Yeah.” he replied without opening his eyes, pressing his thumb deeper into the soft skin of your foot, working out the tension that had gathered there from the cold walk.
“Again?” you asked, with a bemused little smile. You’d watched him read Despair more times than you could count, seen the way he lingered over certain passages as if trying to unlock some hidden truth buried in the sentences.
“Well, it seems so, doesn’t it?” He looked up, a sly glint in his eyes as he took in your expression, the corners of his mouth quirking into the barest hint of a smirk.
You raised an eyebrow, playing along. “You gonna go through with it this time?”
“What? My own murder?” His smirk widened.
“I could do it for you, you know.” you said, feigning an air of indifference. “You couldn’t even get your kid to kindergarten – I doubt you’re qualified for something as ambitious as self-sabotage.”
He scoffed, but you saw the amusement flicker across his face. “Probably not.” he muttered, his voice dropping to something softer, almost pensive. “I’d mess that one up too.”
His hand shifted, his fingers pressing insistently into the sole of your foot, kneading, coaxing the tension out of you with a subtle, possessive touch. He watched as you shifted under his hands, his gaze steady, challenging. And as his fingers pressed, you pushed back, just enough to test his patience, to feel the resistance in his grip. His eyes darkened, a silent warning in his gaze.
But why would you listen to him?
You pressed harder, a slow, playful pressure against his hand, and he raised an eyebrow. He tightened his grip, his thumb digging in with renewed insistence, letting you feel the full weight of his focus as he worked, as if he could undo more than just the aches in your body, as if he could unearth something deeper in you, something he knew you were holding back.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting across your cheek as he murmured, “You think you could manage it?”
“What, getting rid of you?” you asked, your tone light, though you could feel the intensity thickening the air between you, wrapping around you like the rain-soaked clothes clinging to your skin.
He tilted his head, his lips curving in that knowing way of his, a slow, calculating smile as his gaze travelled over your face, settling somewhere just beyond your eyes. “Well,” he said softly, “you seem pretty adept at destruction. Thought I’d be spared for a bit.”
His thumb pressed deeper into the arch, his eyes flicking up to watch your reaction, to see if you’d break first, if you’d turn away or push back again. But you held his gaze, the words catching somewhere in your throat, held there.
“That so?” you said, tilting your head as you watched him, your voice low, as if you were offering him something far more dangerous than he was ready for.
In the dim light of the sitting room, shadows played across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the unruly hair that fell across his brow, the softness that lingered at the edges of his mouth even as his eyes held that impenetrable gaze. You could feel it gathering, the way the air seemed to hold its breath between you, as if it were waiting for one of you to give in.
But he held steady too, unwavering. He let his hand drift up, his fingers brushing your ankle with a gentle insistence that made you want to shiver. “You don’t want to be in charge of my destruction.” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You like having something to fight against.”
“Oh, do I?” you countered, feeling the pull, feeling the tension draw you closer to him, like a thread strung taut between you both, waiting to snap.
He leaned back, his gaze unreadable, but his hand remained on you, warm and grounding, as if he could keep you tethered to him. “Yeah.” he murmured, a smile just brushing his lips, like he was sharing a private joke with himself. “You love the fight.”
He closed his eyes again, pressing his thumb in one last time, a lingering pressure that seemed to say he knew you better than you’d ever admit, that he saw the dark, hidden corners you tried to keep from him. You felt it – the quiet ache that simmered between you both, like an unhealed bruise, tender and waiting for the next touch.
“So…Poppy-” you began, voice careful, trying to ease into what you wanted to say. The words were still a half-formed thought in your mind, and you were searching for a way to soften them, to bring them up without triggering one of his spiralling, introspective rants that would turn a simple conversation into a storm.
But he interrupted before you’d even figured out how to say it. “What? Did she want me to walk her?” He said it with that same, quiet self-reproach, already trying to shoulder a blame that hadn’t even been cast. That was the way he worked – always a little too ready to bear the weight, to assume that he’d fallen short.
You let out a sigh, more exasperated at the rain than at him. “No, you’re fine, Al.” Your hand slid over his, prying it gently from your foot, which he had clutched a little too tightly. His fingers held on tight before finally releasing, almost reluctant to let go. You pulled your leg back, shuffled into the corner of the couch, and leaned into it, letting your back slump down, finally allowing yourself to sink into the comfort of it. Your feet came up onto the coffee table, as if claiming that little space for yourself, unguarded and tired.
You patted the cushion beside you, a soft, wordless command. “Sit.”
And he did, moving closer, his gaze subdued, that obedient feline quality settling back over him, turning him soft and pliable as he folded himself to rest his head in your lap. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling rather than meeting your own, though you knew he could feel the quiet gravity in your touch, the way your fingers began moving through his hair, each pass aimed towards calming him. The warmth began to seep into your skin, radiating from him, taking the last chill of the rain from your bones.
He lay still, his face turned upward, shadows pooling beneath his eyes as he stared with an intensity that seemed directed at something only he could see. His voice, when it came, was soft, raw, like he was sharing something fragile, something he wasn’t sure you’d want to hear. “I got better, right?” His tone was almost tentative, like he needed the words to land softly, like he was testing their truth. “I know I was…pretty bad at this when she was littler. And I had that whole…thing.”
He trailed off, but you knew exactly what he meant. Those times he’d tried so hard to keep hidden, when the house had felt more like a place you both haunted than lived in. The times when his silences had grown so deep, you worried they might swallow him whole. But he’d pulled through – though not without scars, not without shadows that still lingered.
“And I think…I think I was depressed.” he continued, his voice almost a whisper, as if naming it gave it too much power, as if he could scare it off by speaking it quietly. “But I don’t think I am anymore. I’m better, aren’t I?”
You nodded, letting the gentle motion of your hand convey your answer. You could feel his breath shift, his body relax as he let himself trust in the rhythm of your touch, let himself believe in what he couldn’t see from his place in your lap. “But I just- sometimes I feel like I need a break, you know? Like I need to step back, just for a moment, so I can keep being…better.” He sighed, and it sounded almost like a confession. “I’m sorry you had to go through the rain and everything. I should’ve gone. I’ll take her tomorrow, I promise.”
He promised.
The words hung between you, solid and steady, a commitment you could feel resonating through his voice, through the weight of his head in your lap, through the way his hand drifted to rest on your knee as if he needed something to hold him there. And you knew he meant it, even if you could also feel the fragility in his words, that lingering hesitation, the quiet plea beneath the promise. He was asking you to trust him again, to…believe. In this version of himself, the one that was still trying to figure out how to hold the weight of all the things he’d once tried to escape from.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. Your fingers continued their slow rhythm, threading through his hair, smoothing it, grounding him, answering his unspoken question with each gentle stroke.
The storm outside had settled to a quiet murmur, the rain drumming softly against the window panes. He reached up, his hand curling around yours, guiding it down to his chest, holding it there like he needed you to feel his heartbeat, the steady proof of his presence, of the life he was still fighting for, day by day. The pulse thrummed beneath your fingers, warm and steady and real.
His eyes drifted closed under the weight of his quiet admission. You felt something ease inside you too, some small place that had held itself closed for too long. Maybe you didn’t need words all the time.
“She wants to get her ears pierced.” you said, finally finishing the thought that had been lingering. You’d been wondering how to say it without sparking one of his reactions, but as soon as the words left your mouth, his head snapped toward you, his face already set with that familiar, stubborn frown.
“No.” he replied flatly, as if the answer were obvious and non-negotiable.
You blinked, not sure whether to laugh or protest. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” you asked, voice edging with challenge, but you could tell by the set of his jaw and the way his eyes narrowed that he was digging his heels in.
“My say is no.” he repeated, his voice low and unyielding, like that was all there was to it. You could tell he was ready to defend his stance, even if he hadn’t thought it through entirely.
Your hand stilled in his hair, and you saw his mouth twitch in offence as he noticed the sudden absence of your touch. “Why’d you stop?” he muttered, almost wounded.
“Maybe my say is yes,” you shot back, leaning into him slightly, challenging him with a small smirk.
“Well, I don’t want her to.” he answered, sitting up properly now, his full attention at play. His eyes were serious, like he’d decided to double down rather than let this slide.
“You sound like my father.” you retorted, the words slipping out before you’d fully realised what you were saying. The expression on his face faltered for a moment, and he looked almost chastened, but then his defences rose again.
“Oh, come on, don’t say that.” He rolled his eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh, though you could tell he didn’t want to come across as unreasonable.
You relaxed back into the couch, giving him a softer look. “She saw mine this morning, you know? She was looking at my nose and asked what it was, and she said she wants pretty earrings in her ears, like some of the girls in her class.” You could still picture Poppy’s face as she’d gazed up at you with wide eyes, all that wonder and excitement. It had surprised you, the way she’d connected that small detail to something she wanted to experience herself.
“I thought you took that out?” he asked, his voice softening as he leaned closer to you, his hand finding its way back to your knee, thumb rubbing circles into the bone. “I always loved your septum ring.”
“I did take it out, but it didn’t close up. This morning, I just thought I’d try, and it went in easily. I’ve been wearing it up-”
“You should wear it again.” he interrupted, his tone softer, and you caught a hint of that wistfulness he never let show. “The silver ring. The thin one. That was my favourite.”
You shook your head, trying to deflect his sentiment even as you felt yourself soften. “I don’t care what your favourite was.”
“Oh, really?” he said, smiling with that hint of mischief, the edge of his mouth quivering as he tilted his head to look at you, challenging you in his own quiet way. He shifted, closing the space between you, and his gaze held you, pulling you in like it always did, no matter how many times you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t let him win.
“Okay.” he murmured, as if conceding, but his smile stayed. And as you slid back into the couch, he moved easily, resting his head in your lap again, his body finding its way back to that comfortable position as if he’d never left. His hand came to rest over your knee, anchoring himself there, his eyes glinting with amusement as they drifted back to your nose.
“I can see it now.” he teased, his voice low and playful as his hand drifted upward, his fingers reaching closer to your nose.
You leaned back, feigning exasperation, though you couldn’t quite hide your smile. “Don’t stick your fingers up my nose, Alex.” you warned, but the laughter was already threatening to break through.
He chuckled, eyes glimmering with that irrepressible mischief. “Oh, come on.” he said, brushing your hand away with a playful insistence. “I think I’ve stuck myself up enough places inside you for this to not be a problem, babe.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but he was faster, his fingers brushing against your nose, nudging the ring down so it was visible. The small, silver balls glinted beneath your nose, a sudden reminder of a version of you he hadn’t seen in a while.
“There it is.” he whispered, his eyes soft as he took you in, his thumb brushing lightly over the silver ring as if rediscovering something precious. Then a glint of mischief flashed across his face, and he grinned. “Hehe, two little balls hanging…looks familiar.”
You rolled your eyes, amused, exasperated. “Oh my god, Alex. You are so mature.” But you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, warmth spreading through you as you tried – and failed – to keep a straight face.
He reached up, brushing his thumb over the bridge of your nose. You felt yourself melt slightly as he tilted his head, studying you with those eyes that somehow managed to see past everything.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost shy in a way that felt rare, “you look more like you, with this. Like the you I fell in love with.” His eyes traced your face, lingering over every familiar line and curve. You could feel his hand warm on your leg. “I mean, not that you aren’t you now, but…I don’t know, you look like you’re a little more…alive.”
You felt a flush creeping into your cheeks, not entirely sure what to say. But the honesty in his face held you there, kept you from pulling away as his fingers brushed over the small silver ring again. You reached out, brushing your fingers along his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble beneath your fingertips. His eyes closed for a moment, savouring the simple contact, and when they opened again, there was a softness there, a vulnerability that he kept hidden from the world but shared with you in quiet moments like these.
“Maybe,” you said softly, fingers still resting against his cheek, “Poppy just wants to feel a little more like herself too. Maybe that’s what this is really about.” You watched him take in your words, saw the faint flicker of realisation cross his face as he thought it over.
He leaned his head back, his eyes gazing up at you with a quiet acceptance, like he was finally willing to meet you halfway. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, holding you there with him, not pushing or pulling, just resting.
“Maybe…” he murmured, unsteady, as if he was still letting it sink in. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. “I just don’t want her to be in pain.” he mumbled, his voice softer now, almost as if he were talking to himself rather than you. His eyes flicked to your nose, and then away again. There was something distant in him, reluctant and protective, like he was working through the idea in real-time.
He finally looked back up at you. “Does it hurt?” he asked, a hint of worry creeping into his voice, as if he were asking for the first time.
“A little.” you admitted, feeling the gentle throb where the ring rested, a reminder of the time it took to heal, of all the small aches that came with wanting something and sticking with it. “But I think she can take it. She’s a big girl now.”
He nodded slowly, but his lips pressed into a thin line, reluctant to fully agree. “Mhm…” he murmured.
You tilted your head, raising a brow. “What?”
“Nothing. Just…nothing.” He tried to brush it off, but you caught the way his gaze drifted, a small crease forming between his brows. He looked like he was holding back, wrestling with some unspoken worry.
You waited, giving him space, until he finally let out a soft sigh, his shoulders sinking as he leaned back against the couch. “I know she’s growing up. And I know you think I’m being...old-fashioned, or whatever.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I just– she’s so small. So…I don’t know…I don’t want her to be hurt. Or regret it later.”
A slight smile tugged at your lips, and you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “You realise that’s why they make the small, safe starter studs, right? It’s not like she’s going to get a septum piercing or go full rock and roll in kindergarten. It’s just earrings, Alex.”
He gave you a sheepish, lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. It’s just…she saw your ring, and suddenly I could see her all grown up, making her own choices, and it just hit me. Feels like I just blinked, and now she’s already asking for things I don’t know how to give her.”
You took his hand, feeling his fingers relax under yours as you squeezed gently. “She’s going to be okay, you know. She’s smart. And stubborn – she’s got that from you."
“Hey.” he scoffed, pretending to be offended, but his smirk betrayed him. “I’m not stubborn. I just have strong…principles.”
“Right. Principles.” you echoed with a grin, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I think maybe the real problem here is you’re just not ready for her to need things from someone else besides us. She’s growing up, Alex. And it’s going to hurt a little – for all of us. But she’s brave, and we’ve done a good job with her.”
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing his face. “I guess…I guess I don’t want to mess it up, you know? She’s…she’s so full of life, and I don’t want her to lose that because of something I say or do.” He looked at you, his eyes soft and uncertain. “I want her to feel like she can be herself. Even if I don't get it, or even if it's something I never would’ve done.”
You nodded, brushing his hair back, letting him feel that you were there. “Then let her be herself. Earrings or no earrings, she’ll still look at you like her hero. The way she always does.”
He smiled at that, a little shy, a little boyish. “You think so?”
“I know so.” you replied, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, watching his face soften as you did. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, you just sat there.
After a beat, he let out a chuckle, low and soft. “Fine. She can get the damn earrings.” he muttered, a reluctant smile creeping onto his face. “But I’m holding her hand the entire time. And I’m not leaving her side, even if it takes all day.”
“Deal.” you replied, your own smile mirroring his. “And afterward, we’ll let her pick out whatever sparkly, obnoxious earrings she wants. Even if they clash with her clothes for a month.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Perfect. And I’ll make sure to tell her how much of a trendsetter she is.” His tone softened, and he took your hand again, holding it tightly. “Thanks for…everything. And for reminding me. It’s easy to forget sometimes, but…I trust you, you know?"
You gave him a gentle smile, squeezing his hand. “Good. Because no matter how big she gets, we’re in this together. For every scraped knee and every new little piercing.”
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. And there, with his breath mingling with yours, he murmured, “Our little girl. She’s gonna be amazing, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” you whispered back, certainty settling back over you both. “She already is.”

a/n: pretty boring I guess...but I like it! got the idea from these requests x & x. also I feel like I was channeling @futuristicanoe in this. idk. their fic has been on my mind a lot these days and it seeped into this.
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would you guys rather one long fic or 3 shorter ones of the same connected story?
trying to pace myself rn with classes
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Keep You Soft, Keep You Hard

a lesson turned into a lesson learned
warnings: dom!alex, smut, spanking, fucking, he’s a piano tutor in this one
word count: 6.9k
You told yourself to focus, to blink hard and drag yourself back to the lines of notes staring up from the page, to the tidy rows of black and white at your fingertips. But it was impossible, not with him so close.
The bench was small, and he had this way of filling it, of crowding your thoughts with his presence alone. It was maddening, the quiet authority that he seemed to radiate. His knee grazed yours, barely a touch, yet every nerve sparked, hyper-aware of that faint contact. A steady reminder, right there in your periphery, while his hands moved so effortlessly, coaxing sound from the keys as though he were simply pulling music from thin air.
His hands stilled, resting for a moment, fingers slightly curled, frozen in the poised elegance of someone who knew precisely what he was doing. He looked over at you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with expectation, heavy and relentless. He wasn’t saying anything, but his silence was a challenge. You could feel it in the air around, pressing down on you.
“Got it?” he asked, breaking the spell of quiet, his voice low and thick with a trace of impatience. It curled up in your chest. He wasn’t a big man, and yet somehow he seemed to take up so much space, shrinking you, folding you up in the force of his presence.
“I’ll try.” you whispered, and it felt like you were conceding some silent game of power that perhaps you hadn’t realised you’d been playing until this moment.
You lifted your hands from your lap, letting them hover over the keys as though you might find the confidence somewhere in the space between you and the piano, in the faint vibration left over from the notes he’d just played. Your hands were almost shaking — or were you imagining that? You tried not to breathe too audibly, tried to ignore the way his gaze felt like it was searing into you, trying to drag your attention back to the music. The melody, simple as it was, mocked you from the page, its simplicity an indictment of your scattered thoughts.
You pressed down, trying to mimic the way his fingers had danced, almost weightless and more than sure. The first note sounded harsh, loud, the clumsy sound of hesitation. You grimaced, starting again, forcing yourself to exhale, to soften, trying to hear the music he had made so effortlessly just minutes before.
He leaned in, just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked down at your hands, as if examining them. You could feel the warmth of his body, a slow, steady heat radiating through the coldness of his gaze, through the unyielding expectation. That closeness did something to you, ignited something bright and sharp. It made you forget, just for a moment, about the thin sheet of music paper in front of you and instead focus on the way his breath seemed to mingle with yours in the shared silence.
“Not quite like that.” he murmured, and it was almost unbearable, the quiet ease of his tone. One of his hands hovered near yours, fingers reaching, a faint suggestion. You could feel his pulse in his fingers as they ghosted over your hand, showing you where you should go. “Here, like this…”
It was a whisper of a touch, his hand grazing yours as he adjusted your fingers on the keys. The contact was brief, yet it set your skin alight, your heart stumbling over itself as you looked at your hands, at his hands, and then at him. His gaze held yours a second too long, something smoldering in his eyes, something that made you forget that the notes on the page even existed.
He leaned back, waiting, his expression a quiet challenge.
You tried. Over and over. Again and again, your fingers hesitating, faltering. The notes blurred, merging together into an indistinct haze. Each attempt brought a new mistake, a clumsy miss, a sour note hanging in the air, thick and uncomfortable. The heat of his presence, once electric, now seemed to be coaxing the uncertainty out of you and exposing it.
The room was silent except for the quiet creak of the piano bench as he rose, that little huff of impatience escaping his lips. It wasn’t much — a slight exhalation, a shift in his stance — yet it was as if he’d sent the entire world slightly off-balance.
His hand swept through his dark hair, and you could tell he was trying, struggling even, to keep some reign on his composure, but the attempt to hide the irritation was as thin as smoke. He leaned a little closer, his hip against the side of the piano, his fingers splayed across its polished wood surface. The gesture felt deliberate, looming in your line of sight, a hint of menace in the casual way he positioned himself, like he could close it and end this lesson — this — at any moment.
“You still don’t get it…” His voice was barely above a whisper, a murmur meant for himself, perhaps, but his eyes remained on you, their dark gaze unwavering, full of an exasperation that made your stomach clench. There was a weight to his words that landed hard in your chest. They stung.
“I’m sorry.” you managed, though your voice felt small, strangled. Your hands dropped to rest on your knees, helpless, defeated by the simplicity of the music you couldn’t manage to hold onto. You didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare meet the storm in his eyes.
His lips twisted slightly. “You should be.” he said, his words cutting, blunt, piercing through you with a cold, unapologetic edge. “We’re wasting time.” He didn’t need to emphasise it, but he did anyway, leaning in, “My time.” he bit out, as if it was some precious currency you’d carelessly squandered. He looked at you as if expecting you to feel his sacrifice, as if you’d let some vital opportunity slip through your fingers.
Your throat went dry. “I know, I-” you tried, but his hand moved abruptly, his fingers curling around the cover of the keys. He pulled it down over the ivories with a sharp, definitive sound that echoed in the quiet, and you flinched, the unexpected noise splintering through the silence like glass shattering. He held the cover closed for a moment, his fingers resting on its surface, a steady, relentless pressure.
But then, as suddenly as he had lost it, he seemed to regain control, the tension in his jaw softening just a fraction. He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint, perfunctory smile, as though he could erase the roughness of his words with that one small gesture. “Sorry.” he murmured. He let go of the cover and met your gaze again, softer now, less fire and more ice. “Let’s try again.”
And so you did, though something had shifted, something unsettled lingering between you both. When he moved behind you this time, his presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating, his body curved over yours, his shoulders just barely brushing yours, the subtle weight of his breath warm on your neck.
“Like…this.” he murmured, his voice inches from your ear. His fingers found yours, one by one, slowly positioning each in place. Deliberate, exacting, and somehow possessive, as though he were moulding your hand to his own will. His touch lingered, his fingers curling around yours with a strange intimacy that made the air feel thicker.
His hand pressed down lightly over yours, guiding you to depress the keys, the sound spilling out around you in quiet, uncertain notes. The music felt distant, secondary to the sensation of his hands on yours, his skin brushing against your own, the slight weight of his fingers as they settled over yours. Warm, the faintest tremor of tension in his fingertips as though he, too, were struggling to maintain his composure, fighting to keep some unnamed feeling at bay.
He guided you through the melody, a single line, slow and measured, the notes haunting, soft and lingering. It was as if he were showing you something secret, something he hadn’t intended for you to see, and you felt it, this strange flicker, the faintest glimpse of something vulnerable hiding beneath his sharp edges. But just as quickly, he withdrew, letting go of your hand, the sudden absence of his touch leaving the air cold and hollow around you.
He stepped back, allowing space between you, his gaze unwavering yet now softened by the connection you had forged through the music. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a rare glimpse.
“You did well.” he acknowledged, his voice steady but carrying a warmth that had been absent before. “Again.”
And so you tried. Again. Stumbling through the notes, the sounds were fractured, scattered, hollow attempts that echoed off the piano and seemed to hang in the air between you, each wrong note punctuating the palpable strain. You didn’t know if you couldn’t get it right without him or if, somehow, you simply didn’t want to, as if each mistake only pulled him closer, made his attention sharper, heavier.
“Stop.” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Stop…Stop, stop, stop it. Now.”
He was shaking, just barely, his breath catching on each word, and for the first time, you saw something raw flicker in his gaze — a frustration that bordered on something harsher, something almost painful.
“Get up.” he demanded, but you were frozen, your mind barely processing the command, every nerve straining, every muscle locked in place.
“Come on, get up.” His voice was a low snarl, almost desperate, but you couldn’t move. The space between you felt impossibly small and all you could hear was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest. His eyes met yours, unrelenting, and you felt yourself break under them.
“Now.” His voice rose, the word almost breaking as it left his lips, and it was as if he were barely holding himself together.
You stood, the smallness of the room pressing in as you shuffled to turn toward him, as if the act itself might offer you some release. But before you could even face him fully, his hands found your wrists, his fingers curling around them with a deliberate strength that held you in place, pinning you where you stood. You felt the pressure of his grip, not quite painful but harsh. Like a shock to the system, a steady burn against your skin.
He was close, his chest brushing against your back, his breath fanning across your neck, the heat of him all-consuming. His fingers tightened around your wrists, firm, his pulse thrumming against your skin. Even with the stool between you, the space felt suffocating, filled only with the rapid staccato of your breaths, the sound of your own pulse echoing in your ears.
Then he kicked the obstacle aside, and you felt him press against you fully, his body a solid, burning presence at your back. Every inch of him pressed against you, searing into you, keeping you there, locked in place. His voice came, soft and devastating, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.
“You said you’d do better.” he murmured, his tone almost mournful, like a wound he couldn’t bear to look at. His words slid down your spine, igniting something that was equal parts fear and desire, something that left you trembling, unable to breathe, unable to think.
He shifted, leaning down, his broad shoulders hunched over yours, his chin coming to rest on your right, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You could feel a faint vibration as his words continued, slipping into the hollow beneath your jaw, wrapping around you like a shiver. “You promised me.” he whispered.
You felt the faint press of his mouth at your pulse, his lips barely brushing, lingering as though tasting the words he’d just spoken, as though binding you to them. His grip loosened on your wrists, one hand sliding slowly up your forearm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake, his fingers tracing the line of your skin with a deliberateness that felt like both a question and a dare. You could feel his heartbeat, quick and insistent, echoing your own, swept away in the sheer gravity of his presence. A loaded stillness seemed to pulse and twist.
“You promised you wouldn’t make me do this again.” Then his lips traced the shell of your ear, his breath warm and rough before he let his teeth graze your earlobe, biting down. The sensation drew a gasp from your lips, a sound that echoed in the silence, fragile and thin. His response was immediate — a low, guttural groan that seemed to reverberate through his whole body, breath catching in his throat.
His hands tightened, fingers pressing into you as he guided you forward, bending you at the waist over the piano. Your palms landed heavily on the keys, and the sudden, discordant noise shattered the quiet. It was too loud, a jarring reminder of the chaos. You barely registered it, lost in the feel of him pressed against you, his hips against the curve of your back, his breath uneven as he held you there. You could feel the unforgiving press of the cold wood digging into the front of your thighs.
Time slowed. Your heart was a drum, matching his beat for beat, two pulses woven together in the thick quiet.
And then, suddenly, his touch left you, the absence so abrupt it felt like a jolt. You turned instinctively, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes wide with a mix of longing and something that bordered on fear. Your heart tripped in your chest, and a faint sound escaped your throat, helpless and raw.
But his expression shifted, his jaw clenched as he took in the look on your face. His hands moved to his hips, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, and you could see the tension in him, see it written in the tight set of his mouth, in the way his chest rose and fell, the faint crimson flush at the base of his throat creeping up into the open collar of his shirt.
“No, don’t do that.” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading as his gaze caught yours. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His words were quiet, but they held a warning, a boundary that neither of you seemed able to respect. You could see the way his hands balled into fists, could see the conflict etched into the lines of his face. His shoulders were taut, his trousers tight, his stance tense, like he was holding himself back by the faintest thread, every muscle braced, unwilling to give in. He looked down, his eyes tracing over you, lingering on the delicate arch of your back, the softness of your eyes, the way your body seemed to lean toward him instinctively.
This had been inevitable, written in the stolen glances, the barely-there touches, the tension that had simmered from the very beginning. You’d known it when you left the house, every step up the street, every second in his presence only confirming what you already knew you both wanted. You’d known it when you chose which skirt to wear, when you felt the anticipation coil inside you, knowing you’d see him, knowing exactly what you wanted.
And he’d known, too. You could tell in the way he moved now, as though he’d planned this, as though every choice had been leading here, somehow certain that this moment would come.
His hand brushed the edge of your skirt, his fingers grazing your thigh with an almost unbearable lightness, teasing, testing, as he raised the hem slowly, each inch of skin exposed to the cool air intensifying the fire that already burned low in your stomach. His touch was unhurried, a slow, savouring cruelty that made your breath catch as he bunched the fabric around your waist, revealing the secret you’d been hiding, the choice you’d made just for him.
He stilled, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he took in the sight of you, already trembling, already ready and glistening, his fingers lingering just above your skin, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his hand, the faint tremor of his breath against you. “You’re so naive.” he murmured, as if marvelling at the sheer audacity of you, that you wanted this as much as he did, a dark edge of amusement colouring his tone as his fingers ghosted over you, not yet touching, just enough to make your whole body ache.
They traced a line, feather-light, down your thigh. You felt your skin heat up, as his touch hovered, taunting, not quite touching the place where you needed him most. You could see the way his jaw tightened, his eyes dark with the same hunger that burned through you, uncontained from the knowledge that you were already, unmistakably, his.
His hand drifted up to your lower back, then to your hips, his fingers splaying out over the curve of you as though to steady himself, or perhaps to stake his claim.
“I hate that I have to do this, you know?” His voice was a murmur, edged with a roughness that made your stomach twist. He was close again, his breath warming your shoulder as his lips pressed softly against your skin, lingering, his kiss a soft contrast to the harshness of his words.
“I know.” you replied, barely a whisper, the admission slipping out before you could catch it. His hand flexed against you, and you could feel the shakiness in his grip, fighting against a feeling he couldn’t quite control.
“But you make me do it.” he continued, his tone softer now, almost tender, as though he were caught between anger and desire. He bent over you, letting his lips press another kiss onto your shoulder, the heat of his mouth lingering against your skin as he breathed you in, slow and deep, as though he needed to commit this moment to memory. “Until you’re all red, yeah?”
You nodded, a faint sound escaping your lips. “Mhm.”
“Good.” he whispered, satisfied, a quiet acceptance of what was to come. You braced yourself, your heart pounding as you felt him shift behind you, the warmth of his hand leaving your skin as he took a step back. The quiet stretched out, the seconds slipping by with agonising slowness.
And then, his palm came down, sharp and sudden, a searing heat spreading through your skin where he struck. The sound reverberated, louder than you’d anticipated, the sting bright and instant. You gasped, the sharp sensation leaving your breathless, but it was his reaction that surprised you most — a sharp, quiet intake of breath, as though he, too, felt the impact, the strange ache of it lingering in the room.
There was a pause, brief and fleeting, as he steadied himself, his hand hovering over your skin, fingers flexing. Then he brought it down again, the sound sharper, the sting hotter, his movements controlled as he adjusted his angle, perfecting it, finding the rhythm.
“You know,” he whispered, his voice thick with something unspoken, “this could have been avoided.” His words held a hint of frustration, but there was something else layered beneath it, something raw, almost regretful.
You swallowed, gathering the strength to respond, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
His lips hovered close to your ear. “I know.” he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. “I’m sorry too.” he murmured, his voice rough and frayed at the edges, as if the admission cost him. But then he didn’t give either of you a chance to dwell on it. His hand descended again, and again, each strike measured, unyielding, filling the room with the sharp sounds and leaving no room to think, no space to breathe. “But sorry doesn’t make it right, does it?”
Before you could answer, his hand came down again, another sharp strike that sent a shock through you, forcing you to brace yourself against the piano. The sting seemed to resonate, lingering long after his hand lifted, and you could feel your pulse throbbing in time with the heat spreading across your skin.
He took a slow breath, his fingers brushing over the marks he’d left, tracing the warmth, feeling the impact of his own actions. “I didn’t want to do this.” he murmured, almost to himself. “But you…you make it so damn hard not to.”
“I know.” you replied. There was a heaviness in the air, a shared tension that seemed to press in, leaving no space for anything else. His presence, his hand, his breath — they all surrounded you, a consuming heat that blurred the lines of pain and need.
He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes, a quiet acceptance. And then, his hand came down again, another strike, harder this time, the sting biting. You gasped, the pain a vivid spark that seemed to connect you both in a way that went deeper than words.
“Do you understand now?” he asked, his voice rough, his tone almost pleading. His fingers traced the curve of your hip, his touch light, a strange contrast to the intensity of his strikes.
“Yes.” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I understand.”
He shook his head, letting out a low, frustrated breath. “I don’t think you do.” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His hand came down again, a quick succession of strikes, each one sharper than the last, each one pulling a gasp from your lips, leaving you breathless, each one resonating through both of you.
The sting grew with each impact, building a slow, burning ache that seemed to settle deep within you. He didn’t let up, his hand moving in a steady rhythm, each strike precise, his movements honed to a rhythm that left no space for anything but the sensation.
“Look at me.” he demanded, his voice low and edged with something raw that caught at the back of his throat. His hands tightened on your hips, steadying you as you shifted, glancing back over your shoulder to meet his gaze. His pupils went wide, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that looked almost vulnerable, caught in the same heat.
You held his gaze, your breath catching as you saw the way he looked at you, the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his hands gripped you just a little too tightly. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested on your skin, his fingers tracing the marks he’d left, committing them to memory.
“Why do you push me like this?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His fingers tightened on your skin, his grip unyielding as he drew in a slow, shaky breath. “Why do you make it so hard?”
You swallowed, your voice coming out in a rough whisper. “Because…because I know you want this, too.”
He let out a low, frustrated sound, his hand coming down once more, a sharp strike that left you gasping, the sting immediate. His breath caught, and he stilled, his hand hovering over you, as though the force of his own body had taken him by surprise.
“You think this is what I want?” he murmured, conflicted, his hand tracing the line of your spine with a tenderness that belied his words. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“I’m trying to.” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. You could feel his gaze on you, the weight of his stare as he searched your face, as though trying to find some answer in the lines of your expression.
After a long moment, he drew back, his hands moving to steady you, a faint tremor in his fingers as he took in the sight of you, your body still flushed, your breath coming fast and shallow. His gaze softened, his expression shifting to something almost tender, as though the fire between you had softened, leaving something gentler, like the quiet after a storm — a fragile, trembling peace that felt bound to shatter. His hands settled against your hips, pressing you back against him, his body grounding yours, the soft fabric of his clothes rough against your skin, still sensitive, still burning. The heat radiated between you, unrestrained. The moment had left you both stripped bare, without pretence.
“Can I turn around?” you whispered, your voice quiet, unsure.
He didn’t answer, but he loosened his grip, allowing you to slip from his hold. As you turned to face him, you searched his face, hoping to find something there — some trace of tenderness, of gentleness. But his gaze had fallen, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, lost in some unspoken thought that kept him at a distance, even now.
You hesitated, a strange ache twisting in your chest at the sight of him like this, but then your hand moved of its own accord, slipping into his line of sight as your fingers reached for the buckle of his belt, fumbling slightly as you unfastened it, feeling the heat of him beneath the fabric. You let your hand linger there, tracing the line of his cock, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch.
“Do you want to fuck me now?” you asked, your voice barely more than a murmur, but the words cut through the stillness, shattering the fragile quiet as you traced your fingers over the last barrier of fabric, feeling the barely-contained hunger in his stillness.
He nodded, silent but certain, his gaze lifting to meet yours, the intensity there almost overwhelming. And for a moment, you felt a strange vulnerability in him, an openness that felt as raw as your own.
“I don’t deserve it.” you murmured, almost to yourself, the admission slipping out unbidden. The words hung in the air, fragile and true, as far as you knew.
He reached out, his fingers brushing over your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that caught you off guard. “You don’t.” he whispered, his voice rough, but his touch gentle. He held your gaze, his thumb tracing a slow line over your cheek as he tilted your face up to meet his. “But I do.” he continued, a quiet declaration that carried the weight of all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he’d kept hidden.
He leaned in slowly, and you could feel the weight of his desire, the depth of it, pressing against you. His lips brushed over yours, a soft, tentative kiss that felt at odds with everything that had come before. It was a slow, lingering moment, his lips moving against yours with a gentleness that left you breathless, a quiet confession in the way he held you, as though afraid to break the fragile stillness. Wrapped in his touch, you realised that maybe this was what you’d both been searching for — not the sharp edges, not the intensity, but the quiet truth that lay beneath it all, the connection that bound you both, unspoken but undeniable.
He was physically pressed against you now, fully, his need palpable, and the sheer hardness of it sent a shiver through you. For him being the aforementioned small man he was, he felt impossibly big against you, and the sensation was overwhelming. You could take him — mostly — but there were moments when he’d push further, deeper, relentless, making sure that every inch of him was buried inside you, as though he needed all of you, as though the connection wasn’t complete until there was nothing left between you.
Your breath caught as he moved, as he filled you, the pressure and heat building until you felt like you were coming undone under him. He kept his gaze averted, his eyes closed or fixed somewhere past you, refusing to meet your gaze, as though if he looked at you, he’d lose himself.
But you couldn’t help yourself — you reached for him, fingers brushing over his hair, craving the softness of holding him close. For a split second, he let you, his hair soft under your touch. But then his hand was there, pinning yours down with a strength that felt possessive, leaving you no room to resist, making sure you couldn’t reach for him again, couldn’t draw him in.
“Keep them there.” he murmured, his voice rough, a quiet demand, his hand tightening slightly as if to underline the point. The weight of him, the pressure of his touch, made you dizzy.
As he moved, you could feel the way he held himself back, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep control even as he pressed into you. His face was tight with restraint, his lips parted in a silent gasp each time he thrust, and you could see the faint lines of tension in his brow, as if he were holding himself on the edge, refusing to fall. He wouldn’t let himself make a sound, not fully — each time he came close, he’d grit his teeth, his breath catching as he fought to keep his composure. But his body betrayed him in the way his hands tightened on your wrists, the slight tremor in his arms as he braced himself above you, his breath coming faster, harsher, each thrust a little more desperate.
He liked hearing you, though — that much was clear. Each time you gasped, each breathless sound that escaped you seemed to spur him on, as if the music of it was something he needed, something that fed him. And so you gave in, letting yourself surrender to the sounds, letting him hear what he did to you, each gasp and moan, each confession.
His lips brushed over your neck, a fleeting touch that left you breathless, his control slipping for a brief second as he let himself lean into you, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot against your skin. And in that moment, you felt the depth of it — the way he was holding onto you, the way he needed this, needed you, more than he would ever admit.
The rhythm softened and there was a flicker of something risky that crept in — a dangerous sweetness that neither of you could allow. And just as quickly as it had come, it vanished, replaced by the darker need he couldn’t restrain. In an instant, he had you flipped, repositioned. The sudden absence of him left you gasping, only for him to push back inside in a single, hard thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The force of it rocked you forward, the whole piano trembling beneath you, and you heard the dull thud of his shoes slipping against the wood floor as he steadied himself, finding a rhythm that was relentless. No more room for tenderness.
He kept you down, his hand firm against the back of your head, pressing your cheek against the polished wood. You felt the ache, the sharp edge of pleasure and pain, the burn of him rubbing you raw from the inside, and the sharp slap of his hips against your bruised skin with every thrust. But even the ache, even the bruising sensation, blurred into the overwhelming pleasure, all of it heightening, feeding into the feeling building inside you.
You felt yourself surrendering, giving in completely, every sense overcome, until you could hardly keep yourself together. A trickle of drool slipped from the corner of your mouth, leaving a warm trail against your cheek, and you cursed under your breath, embarrassed by the loss of control.
But he noticed, of course he noticed, with that sharp attention that caught every small detail. “Don’t make a mess…” he murmured. His hand shifted, angling your head so that your cheek brushed against the wood, and his fingers lightly traced over your lips. “Lick it off.” he instructed.
You obeyed, your tongue darting out to catch the trace of drool, your cheeks heating, both at the intensity of his eyes watching and the act in itself.
His control snapped again, and he resumed with a renewed vigour, each thrust sharper, more consuming, as though he were lost in the sensation, unable to stop himself. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your skin. And as he moved, as he filled you again and again, you felt that same feeling you always craved rise in you, a shared hunger that bound you both, tightening until you could hardly tell where he ended and you began.
The pressure inside you built, tension wound so tightly it felt like it might break you apart. And then, with his relentless rhythm, his hands digging into your hips, holding you in place, the wave crashed over you, pulling you under in a flood of sensation. You came around him, your whole body shaking, the feeling consuming you as you dared to moan his name, broken, unable to hold anything back.
He grunted, feeling your release as your muscles tightened around him, and it was enough to finish him. He pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the absence, his hands firm as he guided you upright, making sure you stayed in place. His hand moved to gather the fabric of your skirt, smoothing it down from where it was bunched up around your waist, his fingers almost twitching as he positioned himself over it.
“Keep still.” he commanded, his voice rough, his breath uneven as he stroked himself in his hand, his gaze fixed on you with a look that was both possessively sick and admiring. “I’m going to make sure you remember this. Every time you put this skirt on…” he trailed off, his voice low, as he guided himself to your thigh, brushing against your skin.
He hissed a quiet, “fuck” through clenched teeth, his body tense with the effort of holding back, his hand moving faster, the muscles in his forearm flexing with each motion, even through his shirt. You watched him, captivated by the sight of him giving in completely, his usually composed exterior slipping away. He caught you staring.
“Like watching me?” he asked, not fighting back his smirk, teasing. “Is this what you wanted?”
You nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Yes.” you whispered, feeling a thrill run through you at the way he looked at you like he needed nothing else in the world but this moment.
He laughed softly, a low, satisfied sound. “Good.” he murmured, his gaze intense as he held your eyes, his hand moving faster. “Then watch.”
And then, with a final, rough exhale, he came, his release splattering onto your skirt, warm, delivered precisely. His grip on his cock loosened more and more as he held you there, steadying himself, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts. He watched the mess he’d made, a gleam in his eyes as he admired his work, a small, self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
“Perfect.” he murmured, his voice softer now, a hint of tenderness in his tone as he took in the sight of you. He reached out, his fingers tracing lightly over the fabric, smearing it slightly, leaving a deliberate mark. “Just like I planned.” He let out a low chuckle, his sticky thumb brushing over your cheek. “Now every time you put this on, you’ll remember who did this to you. And you’ll know why.”
After a moment, he tucked himself back in, fingers steady, composed, as though smoothing back every crease into the carefully maintained image he always wore. His shirt, a little wrinkled, his belt buckled, everything was back in place, sharp and polished, the usual mask settling back over his face. He took a slow, measured breath, pulling himself into that cold, closed-off composure, looking as good as new.
But you — he’d left his mark on you. The stain on your skirt was his, deliberate, visible. It made you feel claimed in a way that filled you with a guilty thrill, though you’d never tell him that, wouldn’t dare. And he’d know without you saying it, anyway.
He sat back down on the bench, reclaiming his place, his expression distant now. The fire between you seemed to dissolve into a quiet, foggy comedown, a return to reality. He ran a hand through his hair, a touch of restlessness in the motion, as if trying to shake off whatever had just taken hold of him. He let his gaze drift over you one last time, but this time it was cool, already locking himself away again.
“I think our time is up.” he said, his voice flat, almost clinical as he glanced at his watch, his eyes shifting back down to his hands, fingers curled loosely in his lap. He dropped his head to his palms, the shadow of exhaustion just visible in the hunch of his shoulders.
You adjusted your skirt, smoothing out the fabric where you could, feeling his eyes flicker back to you, watching you through the gaps between his fingers. Even through his guarded expression, you could sense him taking in every detail, like he was cataloging the moment to revisit later.
“I’ll learn it for next week.” you said softly, a promise meant to close the gap between you, to act as if you’d merely been practising all along. You reached for the sheet music scattered around, some pages crumpled from where they’d pressed beneath you. His eyes followed your hands, and he let out a quiet, dismissive “yeah, yeah” as he straightened up, only half listening.
He stood up, almost mechanically, then froze, watching you with a conflicted look. There was a pause, tension still hanging between you, as if he wanted to say something more, but couldn’t.
“You’re alright?” he asked at last, the barest hint of vulnerability still slipping through.
You nodded, feeling the warmth creep up into your cheeks. “Yeah…thank you.” The words came out softer than you intended, trailing off as his expression tightened, a barely perceptible flinch crossing his face at your quiet gratitude of what lay unsaid, but neither of you would put words to it.
His eyes shifted, searching your face for a long moment, something uncertain flickering in his gaze. Then he gave a small, resigned sigh, a hint of care lingering in the shadow. “I’ll clean you up.” he said. Kindly, like a faint echo of the person he was beneath the walls he’d built.
Without another word, he reached out, carefully brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away the smudge he’d left, an unspoken apology wrapped in the gentleness of his touch. He didn’t elongate it, his hand pulling back as quickly as it had come, but the warmth stayed, a reminder that somewhere beneath his icy demeanour, a part of him cared.
He pulled a napkin from his pocket, worn from being tucked away and handled, but still clean enough to press gently to the stain on your skirt. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as he dabbed at the fabric, his thumb brushing over the marks, trying to erase evidence of his own impulse.
You could feel his heat even through the layer of cloth as he worked, methodical, his eyes focused intently on the task. It required his full attention. Each touch was precise, respectful, the passion of moments before gone, forgotten, and replaced. When he was satisfied, he folded the napkin back up, creasing it at the corners. His hand hesitated over his pocket before he slipped it back inside, his eyes stuck on the place where the stain had been.
A question formed on your lips, one you didn’t even know you’d wanted to ask. “Did I do good?”
He froze, his fingers still lingering over his pocket. For a moment he looked uncertain, eyes flicking from the floor back up to meet yours, searching. Then he stepped forward, slowly, and you felt the distance between you dissolve as his arms circled around you.
He pulled you close, his embrace firm yet gentle, enveloping you in him. Your head nestled just beneath his chin, and his hand found its way to the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair. He held you there, still and quiet, his breath steady against your temple.
“You were good.” he whispered. His hand moved gently, smoothing over your hair in a gesture of silent reassurance, as if he were trying to ease away any doubt in your mind. “Better than you know.”
There was something calming in his touch that he wouldn’t allow himself to express in words. And though he eventually let go, stepping back and regaining the familiar, guarded expression you’d come to know, you felt the lingering warmth of his presence, his arms around you still imprinted on your skin. He gave you a final, quiet glance, a look that spoke of more than he’d ever speak, before he turned away, his fingers brushing his pocket once more, as if to hold on to the trace.

a/n: I feel like it's a bit messy, couldn’t really focus, but it’s decent enough, I guess. Night night.
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trump getting re-elected the week after i submitted all my transfer applications to move back to the states 😭
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fuckkkk
Somethings That I Shouldn’t Have Done

but i haven’t stopped loving you
series masterlist
warnings: angst, smut, just normal fucking, cheating
word count: 10.1k
Between Paris and London, 2023
You were used to Alex being gone. In fact, you’d had to get used to it long before he was truly yours. Before he called you his, before the world started to pair your names together in passing conversations. You were familiar with the ache of waiting, the distance, the silences that stretched too long between calls. Nights spent wondering where he was, whether he was thinking of you. And after a while, you learned to fill the space his absence left behind, telling yourself that it was just part of loving someone like him. Someone whose life was loud and sprawling, filled with constant movement. He was the man made for stages. You were just a shadow at the edge of all that.
So when he left for tour, when the rhythms of his life pulled him away from yours, you told yourself it shouldn’t hurt. You should have been used to it by now.
But this time was different.
The difference wasn’t something you could name at first. It was quiet, like the feeling of standing in a room before a storm hits, the air thick and electric, waiting for the first drop of rain. He still made the effort to call, and you still made the effort to see him when you could. That part hadn’t changed. You flew to meet him in airports, standing by the baggage claim, waiting for his familiar silhouette to emerge from the blur of strangers. Every time, without fail, your heart would jump at the sight of him, even slightly dishevelled from the flight, always with that bag slung over his shoulder like he wasn’t entirely ready to put down roots.
He would smile, that lopsided grin that once made you feel like you were the only person in the world he saw. But this time there was something else behind it. A kind of tiredness that wasn’t just from travel. A weight in his eyes that lingered even when he pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair to remember the scent of you.
Your hands would slide up to his head, fingers threading through his hair, a small ritual you’d developed over the years. Checking its length like you were marking time. Had it grown since you last saw him? Was it shorter? You liked to feel the changes. Subtle things no one else would notice. To anyone else, he was still the same man they saw onstage or in photoshoots, the same tousled rock star they’d idolised for years. But not to you. You knew the man beneath the persona. You knew every inch of him, every shift in mood, every line that had deepened in his face over time.
As your hands slid down to his face, lightly brushing the scruff on his chin, you felt the familiar scratch of his stubble. Even this had become something of a compass to you. His facial hair was always a little different each time, like the changing of the seasons. It was your way of reorienting yourself to him after the time apart. You would catalogue the changes and tell yourself it was still him. Still the man you loved.
But this time, there was something else in the details. A slight hesitation in the way he held you, a flicker of discomfort that passed through him so quickly, you almost thought you imagined it. But you knew better. Your heart had grown sharp in noticing the things he thought he could hide.
You pulled back to look at him, really look at him, and for a moment, you saw a flash of something in his eyes, there and gone so fast you almost missed it. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You okay?” you asked, your tone casual, thumb brushing over the scruff on his chin. “You look…I don’t know, different.”
“Different?” he laughed softly, tilting his head, playing along.
You grinned. “Yeah, you’ve got that tragic rockstar look going on.”
He chuckled, pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Tragic, huh? I thought I was pulling off mysterious.”
“Mmm, mysterious, tragic…same thing.” you teased, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “But seriously, you need a nap or something.”
His smile softened, and for a second, it felt real again, like the way things used to be before the distance started to creep in. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” he joked, but there was a quietness to his voice, a softness that tugged at your heart.
“Maybe you should take a break now and then, so you don’t end up there too soon.” you replied, letting your hands slide up to rest on his shoulders.
He laughed, the sound warm, as he leaned down to nuzzle his face into your neck. “I’ve got you for that.” he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm. “You always take care of me.”
You smiled, relaxing into him, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the muscles in his back. “Someone’s gotta. Can’t have you falling apart on me.”
He held you tighter, almost too tight, like he was afraid to let go. “Never.” he whispered, his lips brushing against your collarbone.
For a moment, it was easy to fall into the warmth of his embrace, familiar in all the ways that mattered. His scent, the way his hands knew just where to hold you — it was all the same.

Paris in the spring. The city you both returned to again and again, as if drawn by some invisible thread. The first time you came together was different — back when neither of you belonged to the other, when the lines between ‘friendship’, your arrangement, and something more were blurred beyond recognition.
It had been magical then, walking the narrow streets, hand in hand, like you were the only two people in the world. He had taken you there, not because he was on tour, not because it was convenient, but because he had wanted to. He had wanted to show you the city through his eyes, and in doing so, made you feel like you were something special.
One night, or more accurately, one early morning, you lay naked in bed together, the sheets kicked to the side in the heat of the stuffy air. The room smelled faintly of sweat and the sweetness of sex, the street noises below filtering in through the open window. The first light of morning crept in, just enough to cast a soft glow on the walls. You were both wide awake, buzzing, like the night hadn’t quite let you go yet.
He sat up a little, leaning on one elbow, and then without a word, pulled the sheets over your body, covering you up, while he stayed bare. You laughed softly, your hand tugging at the sheets. “Why are you covering me up? A little late for modesty, don’t you think?”
He smirked, his hand resting on your hip through the fabric. “Just want to keep you to myself for a little longer. Don’t want to steal the view now, do you?”
“How poetic.” you teased, though your smile softened, your heart swelling with something warm.
He looked at you then, the playfulness fading into something deeper. “You know, I've never really brought anyone here before. Not like this.”
You blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “What do you mean?”
He lay back down, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. “I mean, this...us. This isn’t something I do. I guess. Bringing someone here, or anywhere really, just because I want to. No agenda. Just…being together.” His voice was quiet, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
You felt a weight in your chest, and you weren’t sure if it was because of the words or because of the way he said them — like he was trying to let you in, but only just enough. “Alex…” you started, but he interrupted you.
“You don’t have to say anything.” He glanced over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not trying to be weird, I just-” He stopped, swallowing hard, his eyes soft in a way that made you feel exposed. “Sometimes, I think I feel too much.”
You reached for him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. “You never seem like it.” you whispered.
“I know.” he said, his voice almost a sigh. “I think that’s deliberate. I got good at pretending. But with you…it’s different.” His hand found yours, squeezing it lightly. “You make me say things I probably shouldn’t. Things I’d never tell anyone else.”
You chuckled softly, trying to lighten the moment even though your heart was pounding. “Like what? Your deepest, darkest secrets?”
“Like how I’m terrified, sometimes. That I’ll fuck this up. That I’ll never be able to keep things like this, easy. How being with you makes everything feel so fucking simple, and I don’t know how to deal with that.”
You froze, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. This wasn’t a conversation you were supposed to have. You weren’t supposed to be more than what you were — a fling, a moment in time, something fleeting. But here he was, unravelling in front of you, saying things you weren’t sure you were ready to hear and he wasn’t ready for you to hear.
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, trying to brush off the heaviness. “You’ll be fine, Alex. We’ll both be fine.”
He laughed softly, but the sound was hollow, almost resigned. “I don’t know if I believe that, sometimes,” he admitted quietly, his eyes still avoiding yours.
You frowned, but you didn’t let it show to him. Instead, you shifted closer, draping an arm over his chest, pulling the sheets tighter around you. “You deserve more than you think, you know that?”
He didn’t respond at first, just looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read, a mixture of sadness and something else. Then he smiled again, but it was softer this time, more vulnerable. “Maybe you’re the only one who thinks that.”
You shook your head, leaning in closer. “Maybe I’m the only one who knows you well enough to see it.”
He met your eyes then, really looked at you. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “God, you make everything sound so easy.”
“It can be.” you whispered back, smiling up at him.
For a moment, he stared, his eyes searching yours, and then, slowly, he leaned in. His lips found yours, soft and warm, and the kiss was slow, like he was trying to say something he couldn’t put into words. His hand slid behind your head, pulling you closer as his body shifted against yours.
He kissed you like he wanted to stay in that moment forever, as if the world outside didn’t exist and it was just the two of you, tangled up in each other, the city of Paris breathing softly around you.
There’d be time for everything else later. For now, there was only this — this kiss, this closeness, this fleeting moment that you both wanted to hold on to, even if you didn’t know how.
That was years ago. Back then, his hair had been short, styled in a way that made him look more polished, sharper around the edges, like he was still trying to prove something to the world. But now, now his hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, falling into his eyes in a way that made him look softer, more real. You liked it better this way. It felt like he was letting go of the need to keep up appearances, letting you and everyone else see the man underneath.
He never really pretended with you. Not in the ways that mattered, at least. He had tried, back when you were still getting to know each other, when he was still figuring out how to let you in without losing himself. But with you, he never succeeded in keeping up the walls. You saw him, really saw him, in a way that no one else did. He knew that, and so did you.
The first night in Paris, he was exhausted, and it showed. He leaned into you as you walked back to the hotel, his arm heavy over your shoulders, his body sagging from the weight of too many sleepless nights, too many miles spent away.
As you walked in silence, his head dipped closer to yours. “I’m so tired.” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges. “Feels like I haven't slept in days…maybe weeks.”
“You look like you haven’t.” you teased lightly, though your heart wasn’t quite in it. He smiled, but it was weak, like it took too much effort.
“Yeah.” he chuckled half-heartedly, his fingers tapping against your arm as you continued down the hallway. “Think I forgot how a bed feels. Been living off caffeine and power naps. God…what I’d give for a real cup of coffee. The stuff on the bus is awful. Like drinking mud.”
You hummed in agreement, though your mind was elsewhere, caught up in the quiet distance between you. He went on, the words drifting out as if he was speaking just to fill the silence. “And I think I left my good headphones somewhere back in Berlin...can’t keep track of anything lately.” His voice trailed off, his arm pulling you in a little closer as you entered the room, as if seeking some kind of comfort.
The smell of him – sweat, cigarettes, and that familiar musky cologne – was stronger now, clinging to his clothes, to his skin. It was the scent you’d always associated with him, something that had once been comforting, like coming home. But now, even that felt different, like the smell was masking something else. When you slipped your hands beneath his jacket, your palms brushing the heat of his back, it didn’t feel the way it used to. His warmth was still there, but it didn’t pull you in like before. There was a barrier between you now, a wall that you could feel but couldn’t yet see.
Even with his body pressed against yours, it didn’t feel the same. Not like it used to.

You had sex. There was no other way to put it. It wasn’t making love. Whatever softness had once defined the two of you, whatever tenderness had lingered in your touches, was missing. It wasn’t even fucking, because there wasn’t enough passion in it for that. It was just…sex. A simple, transactional act, like something to get through. In, out and done.
He’d taken you from behind. No foreplay, no buildup. Just the raw mechanics of it. His hands gripped your hips as he thrust into you, but there wasn’t any urgency, any need to be closer. There was distance, even in this, the most intimate act you could share. It reminded you of something he’d told you a long time ago, back when you were still figuring each other out. He had once joked, back then, he was afraid that if he looked at you during sex, he’d fall in love. It had been a flirty, careless comment, something that made you laugh at the time because you thought it wasn’t really true. This time, it felt like he didn’t want to look at you because if he did, maybe the love would crack, or worse, fall apart completely.
He didn’t say much throughout, only the occasional grunt, a breathless “fuck” or a muttered “yeah” when you responded to him. You moaned for him, not because it was some elaborate performance, but because even in the fog of whatever was happening between you two, he still knew your body well. He still knew how to work himself inside of you, and you didn’t have to fake that part. But it wasn’t connected to anything deeper. It was just a reaction, just your body doing what it always did.
When he came, his grip tightened for a moment before he pulled out and slapped your ass, a gesture that felt more like habit than anything meaningful. Like punctuation to an act that didn’t need one. In, out, and done.
You rolled over, silent, and made your way to the bathroom. The water felt good, scalding hot, as you stood under the showerhead, letting it wash away the sweat and the sense of something unfinished. You’d expected him to follow you. He usually did. When he didn’t, you felt a brief moment of relief. Space. At least there was that. But then, after a few minutes, the door creaked open, and there he was, stepping into the shower behind you, his hair sticking to his forehead from the heat. Without a word, you reached for the hotel shampoo and started working it into his hair, your fingers rubbing through the strands. It was something you’d always done for him, something you had never thought twice about.
He groaned, not in pleasure but in complaint. “This stuff’s gonna dry my hair out.” he mumbled, and you could hear the tiredness in his voice, the strain of a day that had been too long. You didn’t say anything. Just nodded and kept working the shampoo into a lather. You worked it through his hair, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch, his eyes closed as if he were already half-asleep. It was such a mundane conversation, the kind you’d had a hundred times before, but now it felt almost surreal. He still handed you the little packet of conditioner, though, the same way he always did, as if that small gesture of care could make up for everything else that had gone wrong.
There was a time when moments like this had felt intimate, like the quietest parts of your relationship were the ones that mattered the most. The nights when you washed his hair, or when he kissed the back of your neck while you brushed your teeth, or when you lay tangled together in bed, too tired to speak but content just to be near each other.
Now all of it felt like a routine. A hollow echo of what it used to be.
You finished rinsing his hair, and he stepped out of the shower without another word, leaving you standing there alone, water still running, wondering if you’d ever truly get back what you had lost. Or if it had been slipping away long before you even noticed.
When you stepped out of the shower, the room was dark, save for the dim glow from the city lights outside the window. The hotel room felt colder now, the silence thick in the air. You dried yourself off, the damp towel heavy against your skin, and made your way toward the bed. He was already there, lying on his side with the covers pulled up to his waist. His breathing was deep and steady, and you knew without even looking at him that he was asleep.
You slipped under the duvet quietly, careful not to disturb him. But the moment your body hit the mattress, even though he didn’t wake, his arms found you, pulling you in without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his palm pressing against the curve of your hip, trying to hold onto you, even in sleep. It was instinctual, the way his body gravitated toward yours, like it always had.
His chest pressed against your back, and you felt his breath, warm and slow against the nape of your neck. It was comforting in the way it used to be – the weight of him behind you, the way your legs fit together like pieces of a puzzle. His skin was cool from the night air, but the warmth between you began to build, seeping into the space where your bodies met, turning the cold bed into something almost bearable.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the feeling of him, of this.
“I love you.” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with sleep. It was slurred. He hadn’t fully woken up, and it felt both real and fragile, like a secret said in the dark.
A soft smile tugged at your lips. “I love you, too.” you whispered back, your fingers tracing lazy circles on the back of his hand where it rested on your waist.
“Missed this.” he added, his voice fading as sleep pulled him back under. “Missed you.”
You felt his body relax even more against yours, his breathing growing deeper. “Goodnight.” you whispered, but he was already gone again, lost to the quiet rhythm of sleep, holding you tight even in his dreams.
But even as his arms tightened around you, the feeling of safety that had once come so naturally felt fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment. There had been a time when being wrapped up in him like this meant everything was right, when the simple act of falling asleep in his arms was enough to make you forget whatever else was going on. He still held you the same way, but something had shifted, something that his arms couldn’t bridge.
Your thoughts wandered back to the way he had touched you, how it had been automatic, devoid of the tenderness you craved. You had shared your body with him, but it hadn’t felt like sharing at all. It had been two people going through motions they’d gone through so many times before, and now, lying here, entwined with him, it was hard to know which felt more distant – the silence of his sleep or the brief, hollow intimacy you’d shared just earlier.
Still, you let yourself lean into him. Your body softened into his embrace because, at the very least, you could hold onto this moment. He was still here, still wrapped around you, and there was a strange comfort in that, even if it wasn’t the same. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, slow and steady, syncing with your own, lulling you into that hazy space between sleep and waking.
For a moment, you let yourself forget. You closed your eyes, focused on the rise and fall of his chest against you, on the way his breath brushed lightly against your skin. It was enough to let sleep pull you in, despite the lingering thoughts that still crowded your mind. In this small, fragile moment, it was just the two of you, tangled together in the dark, the way you always had been.
You wondered if he held you tighter in his sleep because, somewhere deep down, he knew that he was losing you. Or maybe it was you who was losing him. Either way, you slept like that, wrapped in his arms, bodies entwined, pretending, if only for a few hours, that the distance wasn’t there.

He was distracted, his phone buzzing more than usual. At first, you didn’t think anything of it. He was always busy, always connected to something or someone. But then you started to notice the way his eyes darted away from yours when he checked his messages, the way he quickly put the phone down when you glanced his way. Little things. Things that didn’t feel right.
And then you found out.
You weren’t sure how, or when exactly it happened. Maybe it was a stray comment from someone, a mention of a name you didn’t recognize. Or maybe it was the look on his face when you asked him a simple question, the way he hesitated just a second too long before answering. That hesitation was all you needed.
You didn’t make any accusations. You didn’t need to. That hesitation – so small, so quick – was enough to confirm what had already started to unravel in your mind. The truth lingered between the two of you, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break, but you kept silent. What would have been the point of asking? You knew. You didn’t need him to say it. Saying it would make it real, and somehow, keeping quiet allowed you to hold onto a piece of what you had for just a little longer.
So, you let the moments pass.
You spent the next two days in Paris, walking the streets you’d come to know so well, trying to lose yourself in the city, in him. You visited the places that had become sacred to the two of you. It should have felt like a homecoming. It didn’t.
You walked with him, your hand still clasped in his, but the warmth wasn’t there. His grip, once tight and reassuring, now felt like a formality. The café where you shared your first real conversation, where you used to sit for hours, talking about everything and nothing, felt smaller now, like the space between you had grown so large that even this place couldn’t contain it. He ordered for both of you, his voice still carrying that gentle tone, but he didn’t meet your eyes. You smiled when the waiter brought your drinks, tried to carry on the conversation, but it was all surface-level. The usual ease of your back-and-forth had vanished, replaced by polite exchanges that felt more like strangers trying to keep the peace.
There were pauses now, long stretches of silence that once might have felt comfortable but now only reminded you of what wasn’t being said. You sipped your coffee, nodding when he spoke, but your mind was somewhere else, circling back to that moment of hesitation, that flicker of guilt in his eyes.
You didn’t ask him about the messages, didn’t mention the way he quickly turned his phone face down on the table every time it buzzed. You didn’t ask why he seemed distracted, why his eyes seemed to dart away from yours whenever you caught him in a rare moment of stillness. You just…let it be. You let it pass, hoping, maybe foolishly, that if you didn’t press, it would somehow dissolve on its own.
At the bookstore, he picked up a volume of poetry, holding it up for you to see, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Remember this?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.
You glanced at the cover and nodded. “Of course I do.” you said, taking it from his hands. It was the same book he had bought for you on one of your first trips here, back when everything between you was still new and full of possibility. You remembered lying in bed together, his voice low and steady as he tried to read the French words aloud, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.
He leaned over your shoulder as you flipped through the pages. “We never made it through the whole thing, did we?” he said, his tone light, almost playful.
“No.” you replied, forcing a smile as you skimmed over the familiar lines. “We got...distracted.”
He chuckled softly, but the sound wasn’t as warm as it used to be. “Yeah, well…maybe we should try again. Finish what we started.”
You paused, your fingers resting on the edge of a page, not quite turning it. “Maybe.” you said quietly, glancing up at him.
His smile faded just a little as he caught your eyes, but he didn’t say anything more. He lingered behind you for a moment, his presence close but somehow distant. You felt the empty space between you growing, even as he stood there beside you, and when you turned back to the book, the words on the page blurred into nothing.
The city had always been a place where you could lose yourselves in each other, where the noise of the world faded and it was just the two of you. The streets felt smaller. The air felt heavier. And the gap between you was everywhere. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape it.
You spent those two days trying to fill the silence. He still held your hand, still smiled at you when you made a joke, still kissed the top of your head in passing. But it all felt practised. As if he were going through the motions of something he no longer fully believed in.
And you played along. You laughed at the right moments, kissed him back when he leaned in, made small talk about the things you’d always shared. But inside, there was a quiet resignation building. You didn’t start a fight. You weren’t sure if you had the energy for it anymore. Maybe a part of you was afraid of what he might say, what kind of lie he might offer to cover the truth you already knew.
So, you stayed quiet. You told yourself you just needed to get through the weekend. Get through these last moments in Paris without shattering everything. Because once you did, there would be no going back. And maybe, just maybe, you could somehow preserve what was left of the two of you.
But as you walked through the city, his phone vibrating more often than not, the silence between you started to feel louder. Louder than the sounds of the traffic, the chatter of people in the streets, the clatter of dishes. The truth was always there, looming over everything.
He knew you knew. That much was clear. You saw it in the way he avoided your gaze, in the way his touches felt just a little too brief, too careful. But neither of you said anything. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it impossible to pretend, and right now, pretending was the only thing keeping you both together. You let the truth sit between you, unspoken, like a third presence neither of you wanted or dared to acknowledge. And the city that had once felt like a homecoming, now felt like a goodbye.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it. He knew it then. He knew it when it happened, and he knew it even more now, with the weight of everything pressing down on him like a knot in his chest. It was one of those truths that was always there, lurking in the background, even when he tried to tell himself otherwise. He’d spent so long convincing himself that he didn’t know what he was doing, that maybe in the moment, he wasn’t aware of the damage it would cause. But that wasn’t true. He did know. He knew it every second before, during, and after.
Maybe pretending he didn’t understand the consequences made it easier to live with himself. Maybe it helped him sleep at night – those rare nights when the guilt didn’t wrap around him like a tight coil. But the more he let himself think about it, the more it ate away at him. That promise he made to you, the one he had buried so deep, came creeping back, clawing at him. It had been a constant, gnawing reminder that no matter how far he ran, no matter how many miles separated you two, it was still there, festering inside him.
You hadn’t seen him since then, since that trip to Paris. You both existed around each other, circling the same truth without ever speaking it aloud. He still called. You still answered. But it wasn’t the same. There were no lighthearted moments, no jokes, no sweet nothings whispered into the phone at midnight. Just empty conversations filled with pleasantries, both of you dancing around the silence. He never suggested meeting up. He knew better. The gap between you had grown too wide, and now it was too vast to ignore.
And now the tour was over, and it wasn’t exhaustion weighing him down. It was the thought of you waiting for him back home. He was tired, sure. His body ached, his mind worn out from endless flights and crowded venues, but what really haunted him was how he’d look you in the eyes again when he saw you at the airport. The guilt was always there, lingering, but now it was sharpening into something real. Unavoidable. He couldn’t hide from it anymore.
You were waiting for him at arrivals, standing among the sea of strangers with your arms folded, eyes scanning the crowd. He spotted you instantly. He always did, like some instinct he couldn’t shake. You didn’t wave or smile, just stood there, waiting, and when he finally reached you, he hugged you close. His arms wrapped around you like they always did, pulling you into him, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. To anyone else watching, you looked perfect. The couple everyone probably envied, the kind that made people roll their eyes and wonder how anyone could be so lucky.
To you, nothing was perfect. And he knew it.
“I missed you.” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
“Yeah?” you replied, glancing over at him but not reaching out like you usually would. “Long trip?”
He shrugged, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Same as always. Glad it’s over though.” He flashed you a smile, the kind that might have once melted you, but now it just felt like a thin cover. “Paris was nice, wasn’t it? I’m sorry we didn’t see each other, uh…”
“It was, yeah.” you said, your voice neutral, as if you were commenting on the weather.
He looked ahead, the sound of the airport buzzing around you. “You didn’t touch my hair.” he muttered, almost like he was joking, but you could hear the edge in his voice. “Didn’t check if I trimmed it.”
You swallowed, keeping your eyes forward. “Did you?”
“Yeah.” he said, and his hand reached up, brushing a strand of it back. “Thought you’d notice.”
“I did.” you said, not meeting his eyes.
He kept his glasses on as you walked out of the airport, hiding behind them, keeping his face just out of reach. You kept your distance, and he could feel it. He could feel everything had shifted, even if neither of you were ready to say it aloud.

Home wasn’t much different than before. The same familiar walls, the same furniture, the same little routines you had fallen into. But it felt like there was a new layer now, an invisible wall that kept you apart. You’d moved into his place months ago, but now it felt like you were more distant than when he was halfway across the world. He stayed out later than usual, spending evenings at the pub around the corner, avoiding the quiet tension that filled the house. He’d come back after a few drinks, claiming his bones were tired, that he was still adjusting to being back, to sleeping in his own bed again. But you knew. You both did.
And then tonight, something shifted again.
You were both lying in bed, the flicker of the TV casting shadows across the room. He was on the right side, you on the left, the gap between you as wide as ever. The opening credits of some film he’d chosen were rolling, but neither of you were really watching. You were lost in your own thoughts, in the quiet sound of the city outside, when you felt him glance over at you.
“Is this one any good?” he asked, his voice soft, almost casual.
You blinked, not even sure what the movie was. “I don’t know.” you replied, shrugging slightly. “You picked it.”
“Right.” he muttered, his eyes still on you. His hand reached out, fingers brushing over your chest, rubbing your nipples through the thin fabric of your tank top. The touch was familiar, almost automatic. “You cold?”
You shook your head. “No.”
“You’re stubborn.” he teased lightly, glancing at the blanket you hadn’t pulled up. “You know it’s freezing in here.”
“You could just turn the heat on.”
“It’s barely October.” he chuckled, his fingers now lazily trailing down your side. “Gotta wait ‘til Halloween, remember?”
It was early October, the chill of autumn creeping into the room, but you refused to wear anything heavy. He refused to turn the heat on before Halloween, claiming it was still too early for that. You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything, your focus drifting back to the movie, though neither of you were really watching. His touch lingered, his thumb grazing back over your nipple as he glanced at the screen.
“Let me know if it gets good.” he said quietly, leaning a little closer.
His touch was tentative at first, but when you didn’t pull away, he became bolder. He rubbed your breasts through the fabric, his fingers lingering, and you felt his gaze, that intensity returning. You turned to him just as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, and this time, there was love in it. It was broken, yes. Fractured. But it was there, a flicker of something still alive.
You reached for the remote, turning off the film, and he reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. He moved over you, his body pressing into yours, and in that moment, he seemed bigger than you remembered, or maybe you just felt smaller. His hands roamed over your skin, tracing familiar paths, and his lips followed, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your neck. Your mouth parted, a soft moan escaping your lips as his fingers trailed lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.
There was something desperate in the way he touched you, something that felt like he was trying to make up for lost time, for the distance that had grown between you. His hands were rough, his kisses urgent, but there was love in it, somewhere beneath the layers of guilt and longing. You felt it in the way he whispered your name against your skin, in the way his breath hitched when you moaned beneath him.
For a moment, it was just the two of you again, bodies tangled together, lost in each other like you used to be. The outside world didn’t exist. The mistakes, the lies, the silence. It all faded away, leaving just this. Just you and him, wrapped in the fragile remains of what you once were.
But even now, as he kissed you, as his hands moved over you with the same familiar rhythm, you knew that when the night was over, when the quiet settled back in, everything would still be there. It would all still be waiting for you, lurking in the dark corners of your home, reminding you that love, once broken, is never quite the same again.
He undressed himself slowly, his hands trembling as he pulled his shirt over his head, then shimmied out of his pants. It wasn’t that he needed to. It would’ve been enough for him to stay half-clothed, letting you be the one stripped bare. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the distance between you had been so stark for so long. He needed to be just as exposed as you were. Naked. Vulnerable. Your equal.
The cool air hit his skin, but all he could feel was you – your warmth, your breath, the way your eyes traced the lines of his body. He needed this, needed you, needed to feel small beneath you, as if the weight of everything that had happened could be lifted, if only for a moment. He needed you to make him feel small, to remind him of the part of himself that was still yours.
His hands shook as he braced them on either side of you, lowering himself over you, the skin-to-skin contact sending a shiver through him. His body pressed against yours as he looked into your eyes, searching for something, some sign of forgiveness, some hint of the love you once shared. His gaze was intense, desperate, and as he entered you, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
You felt him everywhere. He filled you, his hips moving against yours with a deliberate, slow rhythm that was more careful than it had been in months. His arms caged you in, the weight of him pressing into the mattress as if he was trying to hold you there, to anchor you to him. Even if you looked to the sides, his hands were there, gripping the sheets, bracing himself as his body moved over yours. And even when you closed your eyes, the sensation of him was inescapable, his breath hot on your neck, his hair sticking to your skin as he pushed into you, again and again.
But you wanted more. More than this. More than his body moving above you. You needed to take control. To flip the script. To remind him that this wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t just about guilt or regret. It was about you, too.
You shifted beneath him, pushing against his chest with a gentle firmness, and in one smooth motion, you flipped the two of you around, your thighs wrapping tightly around his hips as you straddled him.
He slid deeper inside you as you pressed down, his breath catching in his throat. His hands instinctively found your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, but there was no resistance. He let you take control, let you lead, his body sinking back into the bed as you stayed on top of him, every inch of him buried deep inside you.
His eyes locked on yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw something break in him. His tough exterior, that carefully constructed wall he’d built around himself, started to crumble as you moved. His gaze softened, his pupils blown wide, his lips parting as his breath grew shallow. His eyes were beginning to get glassy, the emotion he’d been holding back flooding to the surface, threatening to spill over. He gripped your hips tighter, his fingers trembling as he tried to keep some semblance of control, but it was slipping away from him, fast.
You could feel the shift, the way he was unravelling beneath you, the way his need for you – this moment – was consuming him. You rocked your hips, slow at first, grinding down on him, and a guttural sound escaped his throat. His hands slid up your back, clutching you closer as if he couldn’t stand to have even a fraction of space between you.
You leaned over him, your hair falling around his face as you pressed your forehead to his. Your breaths mingled, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. His hands roamed your body, no longer possessive but reverent, afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on. You rode him harder, faster, and his eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open as he let out a shaky breath.
There was no more pretending, no more hiding behind the silence. It was raw, exposed, and for the first time in a long time, you were both on the same page. Both needing, both wanting, both afraid of what would happen when this moment ended.
He came with a sob.
You weren’t sure at first if it was because of the orgasm or something deeper, something raw that had been building inside him for longer than either of you cared to admit. But as you felt his body tense beneath you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, holding you down against him, you realised it wasn’t just about release. His chest was pressed so firmly against yours that you could feel his heart racing, the uneven breaths he was trying to control.
He didn’t want you to see. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his lips pressed against your skin, as if he could hide the crack in his facade, as if he could bury the shame, the guilt, and the weight of everything he had been carrying. But you felt it – the way his lip trembled against your collarbone, the slight quiver in his chin as he fought to hold it all in. The tear that slid down his cheek and onto your skin was undeniable, no matter how hard he tried to press you into him to hide it.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t ask. You didn’t stop him. You let him hold you down, let him keep you close, his arms a cage around you, trying to anchor himself to something real. The room felt heavier, as though every breath you took pulled you deeper into this tangled mess that neither of you were prepared to face.
Even with his body trembling, his dick still moved inside you, slow, with that familiar purpose. His hips jerked involuntarily, prolonging the sensation, and despite the sob that had escaped him, despite the vulnerability that hung thick in the air, he knew how to move in a way that still brought you there with him. He knew your body, even now, even through all the confusion and hurt, in a way no one else ever could.
Your head fell back, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as the sensation built within you, your thighs tightening around his hips. The tension that had been coiling inside you for what felt like an eternity finally snapped, your body trembling as you came, the pleasure crashing over you. It was quiet but intense, your muscles tightening around him as you ground down into him, riding out the last of it as his body softened beneath you.
But as the high began to fade, the reality of what had just happened – the sob, the tear, the fragile state he was in – settled in the quiet between you. His hands stayed on your back, but their grip had softened, as if he wasn’t sure whether to keep holding on or let go. He hadn’t said a word since it happened. His breathing was still uneven, the aftermath of his breakdown lingering in the room like a ghost.
You could feel him underneath you, his chest rising and falling, but the connection between you wasn’t just physical anymore. There was something deeper now, something you both had been avoiding, something that neither of you could quite find the words for. And in the stillness, with your bodies still tangled together, the weight of it all – the love, the pain, the betrayal, the regret – settled heavily between you.
And neither of you knew where to go from here.
Your chest rose and fell against his, still catching your breath as the tremors of your orgasm faded. Slowly, you pulled back, your body lifting slightly off his. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t fight it. His hands fell away from your back, loose now, no longer gripping you with that desperate need to hold on.
For a moment, his eyes flickered down, as if he considered turning his gaze away. But he didn’t. He met your eyes, and in that second, you could see everything. His guilt, his pain, the extent of what he’d done. It was raw and unfiltered, no walls left between you. And it hurt him. He could feel it deep inside, that crushing feeling of seeing himself reflected in your eyes like this. But he deserved it, and he knew it. You deserved to see him like this, broken, even if it wasn’t any kind of consolation.
You reached up and gently wiped the tear from his cheek, your thumb brushing his skin with a softness that only made his heart ache more. A second later, you felt your own tears, the hot, stinging trail they left as they slid down your face. He caught them before they could fall too far, his hand trembling as he wiped them away, his thumb hesitating at your cheek. His lips parted, as if to say something, but nothing came.
Instead, you both just cried together. Quiet, broken sobs, tangled up in each other in the most intimate way possible, yet somehow feeling miles apart. He was still inside you, still connected to you in the most physical sense, but emotionally, it felt like a chasm had opened between you that neither of you knew how to cross.
“I’m sorry.” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His hand drifted to your waist, as if holding onto you would make the apology mean more.
You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself, to keep from breaking completely. “It’s fine.” you whispered back, but even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t true. You felt the words as they left your mouth, hollow and unconvincing.
He smiled then, but it was small, weak. Bittersweet. “No, it’s not.” he said quietly, shaking his head, his eyes shining with the remnants of tears. He let out a breath, like he was trying to gather the strength to keep speaking. “It’s not fine.”
You looked down, nodding as a fresh wave of tears threatened to spill over. “No.” you agreed softly. “It’s not.”
He closed his eyes for a second, the truth of it was too much to bear, his hand slipping from your face to rest against your thigh. The silence that stretched between you now felt heavier than anything you’d experienced before. There was no rushing to fix things, no desperate attempt to gloss over the cracks. Just honesty, raw and undeniable.
“After laughter may come tears,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “but we owe it to ourselves to feel everything. The highs, the lows…all of it.”
You blinked back your tears, taking in the warmth of his breath on your skin, the way his hand trembled ever so slightly against you. He was right, even if it hurt to admit it.
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, wiping away the tears that fell. “We owe it to ourselves,” he repeated softly, his eyes locking onto yours, “to embrace it all.”

The days passed quietly. You both existed in the same space — ate together, slept together, spoke in passing — but it was as though you were living in parallel worlds. Every interaction was careful, deliberate, skimming the surface of the deeper things that needed to be said. You both avoided the hard truths, as if dancing around them might keep them at bay a little longer.
But you knew it couldn’t last forever. The distance, the unspoken questions, the answers you already half knew but needed to hear were inevitable.
It was a Sunday evening when you finally felt ready to ask. The house was quiet, the autumn chill creeping in through the windows, and he was sitting on the edge of the couch, flipping through the channels without really watching anything. You were sitting at the kitchen table, half-heartedly scrolling through your phone, but you weren’t paying attention to the screen. Your mind was elsewhere, circling the same question over and over.
The thing about knowing the answer to something before you ask is that it doesn’t make the asking any easier. If anything, it makes it harder, because once it’s spoken, it becomes real. And you weren’t sure if you were ready for that, if either of you were.
You watched him for a moment, his familiar profile lit by the soft glow of the TV. He hadn’t shaved in days. He didn’t put in the effort anymore. He glanced over at you suddenly, as if sensing your gaze. His eyes met yours, and for a split second, there was something vulnerable there that he quickly masked with a half-hearted smile.
“What?” he asked, his voice light, too casual.
You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Nothing.” you said, though you knew it wasn’t true. “Just...thinking.”
He nodded, his attention drifting back to the TV, but you could tell he was waiting. There was a tightness in his posture, a tension in his shoulders that said he knew exactly what you were thinking about, and he was bracing himself for it.
“Do you ever...” you began, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “Do you ever wonder if things would’ve been different if I hadn’t come back to Paris that last time?”
He looked over at you again, brow furrowing slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that question. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light, deflecting just a little. “I don’t know. It just feels like...everything shifted after that trip. Like we crossed some kind of line, and we’ve been...off balance ever since.”
He didn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting down to his hands. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. restlessness settling into his movements.
“I don’t think it’s about Paris.” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I mean...I- I don’t think the city had anything to do with it.”
You nodded, even though his answer wasn’t really an answer at all. It was a way of avoiding the real issue, the same way you’d both been doing for weeks. But it didn’t make you angry. If anything, it made you sad. Sad because you both knew the conversation was coming.
He turned the TV off, tossing the remote onto the coffee table, and then leaned back on the couch, his head resting against the cushions. “Why?” he asked after a moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Why are you asking about Paris?”
You stared at him for a second, trying to figure out how to answer that without tipping into dangerous territory too quickly. “I don’t know. Just...thinking about how different things felt before that. How easy it was.”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was hollow, as if he was laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Yeah.” he muttered, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Things were definitely…yeah.”
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “So, uh, what changed?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, and as soon as the words were in the air, you knew there was no taking them back.
He didn’t move for a long moment, just lay there, his chest rising and falling slowly. You watched him, waiting, your heart beating in your throat.
“I don’t know.” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been asking myself that same question.”
You stood up then, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy that was building inside you. You walked over to the couch and sat down next to him, close but not touching, your hands folded in your lap.
“Do you really want to know what changed?” he asked, his voice tentative, as if he was testing the waters.
You met his gaze, your stomach tightening. “Yeah.” you said quietly. “I do.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess…I guess I got scared.” he admitted. “Of everything. Of how much I needed you, of how much I could hurt you. I tried to pretend like it wasn’t happening, like I wasn’t feeling all of it, but…it caught up with me.”
You frowned, confused. “You got scared of me?”
He shook his head quickly, sitting up a little. “No. Not of you. Of…what we have. What we had. It’s like I started thinking I wasn’t good enough for it, that I’d screw it up eventually.” He paused, his eyes searching yours, trying to gauge your reaction. “And I guess…I guess I did.”
“You didn’t screw it up.” you said softly, though you weren’t sure if you believed it.
He smiled at you then, but it was a sad one. “I did, though. You just haven’t figured out how much yet.”
His hand reached for yours, fingers brushing against your skin as if he needed to touch you to get through the rest of it.
“I think I have.” you said quietly, your voice steady even though your heart wasn’t.
His hand stilled. He glanced away, shifting uncomfortably. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his eyes flickered to the floor. He wasn’t good at hiding.
You thought he might deflect again, retreat into that space where he kept things locked away, just out of reach. But something in him seemed to crumble. His shoulders slumped, and he took a breath that sounded heavier than it should’ve.
“You know?” he said, but there was no challenge in his voice. It was soft, resigned, like he knew that pretending wasn’t going to save him anymore.
You nodded, keeping your gaze on him. “Yeah.” you said, the words sticking a little in your throat. “So…who’s the mystery girl?”
There it was. The question that had been hanging between you for weeks, maybe longer. The question that neither of you had wanted to ask because once it was out in the open, everything would change. You’d felt it — her presence — without ever meeting her. You just didn’t know how or when or who. But you could feel her shadow there in the distance.
His head dropped, chin to his chest, as if he was trying to disappear. You watched him, the way his fingers fidgeted, the way he couldn’t quite look at you now.
After what felt like forever, he looked up. His eyes were glassy, full of something that resembled regret but also shame. “It’s not like that.” he said softly. “I didn’t mean for any of it to…”
His voice trailed off, and you could see the internal battle written all over his face. He was caught between wanting to tell you everything and wanting to protect himself, protect you, maybe, from the reality.
You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat. “Then what is it like?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his hair. “It’s not- She’s not…I don’t even know how to explain it.” he admitted, frustration edging into his voice now. “It just happened. I wasn’t looking for anything. I didn’t want anything to happen. But…”
“But it did.” you finished for him.
He looked at you, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting you to be so calm. And maybe you weren’t calm, maybe it was just the shock of hearing it said aloud, of it becoming real after so long of pretending it wasn’t.
“Yeah.” he whispered. “It did.”
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel. You felt all of it, but none of it was coming to the surface. Instead, you just felt…numb. Like this was always going to happen, and now that it had, there was a strange sense of inevitability to it.
“Is she still around?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost detached.
He winced, the question hitting him hard. “No.” he said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t…serious. It wasn’t anything, really.”
You raised an eyebrow at that. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
He let out a sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of all the guilt he’d been holding onto. “I know. But I swear…it’s over. It’s been over. I don’t even know why it happened in the first place.”
You nodded, taking in his words but not sure how to process them. “So what now?” you asked softly, your voice trembling a little despite your best effort to keep it steady.
He didn’t have an answer. At least, not one he could give you right then. His eyes searched yours, pleading, but he stayed quiet, his fingers brushing against yours as if that could fix everything.
“I’m sorry.” he whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
You nodded again, staring down at your hands, trying to keep the tears at bay. You were angry. Of course you were. But more than that, you were tired. Tired of carrying this weight, tired of not knowing what was real between you anymore.
What could you even say to him when you didn’t know what to think anymore? You wanted to explode. You wanted to kiss this man — with his stupid beautiful face and the most perfect brown eyes. You wanted to make love to him. You wanted to pull his hair straight out with your bare hands. You wanted to hurt him too.
You didn’t. You loved those eyes too much.
“I know.” you said softly. “But you did.”

a/n: the end, I suppose.
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Mister Superstar

we didn’t want each other, we wanted so much more
series masterlist
warnings: smut, phone sex, facetime sex, actual sex, threesome (brief), oral (both), cockwarming-ish (a bit), cheating, alex.
word count: 9.5k
Far away to Los Angeles, 2018
You could see your reflection in the small corner of the screen, but you barely gave it any attention. The little square with your face, your parted lips, flushed cheeks — none of that mattered. It was the bigger picture that had you captivated, to say the least. The rest of the screen, where he was displayed, bathed in the dim light of his room. Barely in focus, but God, that didn’t matter. Every now and then, the camera would wobble, shifting the angle ever so slightly, but each time it stilled, your eyes would find their way back to what mattered. And that sure as hell wasn’t tiny.
It had been going on like this for a while now. Both of you so close, and yet so far from the finish line. Every time one of you seemed on the brink of tipping over, the other would say something. A sharp inhale. A gasp. A word. An interruption. And suddenly, it was back to the start. Again. And again. You weren’t even frustrated by it anymore. Not with him. Not when you both knew that you’d drag it out, let the tension stretch until it felt unbearable, because that was half the fun.
But your body…your body was starting to protest. Your fingers, slick and aching, had been working in steady rhythms that you couldn’t seem to break — back and forth, round and around, pressing and stroking where it felt best. Your muscles were tired, your skin sore from the constant pressure and friction, but every time you thought you might ease up, you’d hear him.
And that sound. Fuck. That sound is why you couldn’t stop.
His angle wasn’t nearly as carefully curated as yours. You had positioned yourself with precision, making sure the frame captured exactly what it needed to — just enough to drive him wild. A glimpse of skin, the motion of your fingers, the rise and fall of your chest. But him? He held the phone loosely in his hand, probably not even caring much about where it pointed, only that it stayed steady enough for you to see. Still, you could make it out, the way his hand moved over his cock, slick with his own spit, the sound of it almost drowned out by the ragged edge to his breathing. The soft, guttural moans that escaped him whenever he lost focus. He wasn’t quiet, not in the slightest.
And you didn’t know what did it for you more — the sight of him, the way his fist glided smoothly along his length, or the low, gravelly moans that interrupted his half-formed sentences. Every few strokes, he’d try to speak, say something to you, but it always came out broken, as if he could barely get the words out before another shiver of pleasure stole his breath.
“Fuck, I-” he’d start, but then a deep groan would tear through his voice, and you’d see him tense, shoulders tightening, head falling back. It was hypnotic, the way his body reacted, how he seemed to unravel just as much as you did.
You couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t.
“Jesus Christ, Alex-” you muttered, your fingers faltering for just a moment as his moan sent a bolt of pleasure through you. The tension in your core was building again, spreading, coiling tighter, and you knew this time it would be impossible to delay the end any longer. Not with him like this.
He laughed breathlessly, the sound rough and wrecked. “Don’t stop now, love.” His voice was low, shaky. “We’re nearly there.”
You didn’t need any more convincing. You pressed your thumb to the spot that always made you lose it, circling in time with his breathing. His eyes flicked back to the screen, and for a second, his gaze locked with yours. That look — dark, hungry, desperate — was enough for you.
The pressure built to an almost unbearable peak, and then finally, it broke. It stole your breath as you came on your fingers, back arching off the bed, head tipping back. But even in the haze, you still had control over that final sound you let out, the moan you knew would be for him — long, low, and perfectly pitched, deliberate in its effect.
It worked.
On the other side of the screen, you watched him tense. His breath caught in his throat, and then a strained “Fuck-” slipped from his lips as his body jerked. His hand, still wrapped around himself, pumped one, two more times before he completely lost control. His hips bucked forward as he came hard, his cum spilling over his fingers and dripping down his stomach, maybe even splashing onto the sheets below him — not that either of you cared where it landed.
His phone wobbled as he tried to hold it steady, but in the rush of his release, it slipped from his hand. For a second, the screen spun wildly before the image went black.
You lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling while you listened to the muffled sounds of him scrambling to grab it again. It only took a moment before his face came back into view, the angle awkward and unflattering, catching him mid-swipe as he tried to clear some of the mess from his chest. There was a pause as he stared at the screen, eyes half-lidded, his lips parted and still glistening from where he’d licked them in between his moans.
“God.” he muttered, a breathy laugh escaping him. He wiped his hand on something off-camera, perhaps a crumpled shirt or towel or anything he could grab without thinking too much, and tried to gather himself. “You- uh, you alright there?”
His voice was softer now, the husky roughness from before fading into something more intimate. It was like the post-orgasmic haze had brought him back down to earth, and for a second, he almost seemed shy. You couldn’t help but smile, catching the hint of embarrassment in his voice. He glanced at the camera and then away again quickly, as if he wasn’t quite ready to look directly at you.
“I’m more than alright.” you replied, your voice still breathless, your fingers ghosting over your stomach where your own release was leaving a faint sheen. You shifted slightly, the stickiness between your thighs now a reminder of just how hard you’d come. “I think you made quite the mess, though.”
At that, his gaze flicked back to the screen, a sheepish grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well, whose fault d’you think that was?” He ran a hand over his hair, sitting up a bit, but his movements were lazy, like his body was still heavy from the aftermath. “Jesus, that noise you made…What’re you tryin’ to do, kill me?”
“Just wanted to make sure you got there. Looked like you were struggling.”
He let out a playful groan, covering his face for a moment before dropping his hand, letting the camera catch his slightly flushed cheeks. “Struggling? Love, you’re the one who kept dragging it out. Thought you were trying to torture me or something.”
You propped yourself up on one elbow, still a little shaky but grinning at his half-hearted attempt to deflect. “And yet, here you are, still alive. A little shy, maybe, but alive.”
He made a face, one eyebrow arching. “Hey, I’m not shy. I just dropped the bloody phone, that’s all.” But there was a hint of colour on his cheeks, and the way he avoided your gaze for just a second longer told you otherwise.
You didn’t press him on it. Not when he looked like that, all relaxed and unguarded in the soft light of his room. His posture had slumped a little, his head resting back against the headboard, the tension gone from his body. He ran a hand over his chest, wiping away the last of the mess he’d made, and gave you a smile.
“Still,” he said after a moment, “that was…fuckin’ incredible.” His eyes softened, and this time, when he looked at you, there was something unspoken lingering in his gaze. “You’re…God, you’re somethin’ else, baby.”
You felt your heart skip at his words, the way he said them so simply, like it was just a fact he couldn’t help but acknowledge. It wasn’t just the sex anymore, wasn’t just the physical connection that had you both coming back to this, again and again. It was something neither of you ever seemed willing to put into words.
“Same goes for you, Turner.” you said softly, your tone matching his.
The air felt heavier, as if the silence carried more than just the aftermath of what you’d done. It was that tension, the one that always settled in after the pleasure faded. The one that hinted at something deeper you both felt but never quite said.
But like always, he was the first to break it.
“Right then,” he said, “I should probably clean myself up before this gets worse.” He gestured down to his stomach, and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“Yeah, you probably should.”
He winked at you before setting the phone down, propping it up somewhere so you could still see him as he disappeared off-screen for a moment. The sounds of him moving around in the background made you smile, the everyday normalcy of it. And then he came back into view, wiping his hands dry.
“So,” he said, settling back into bed and pulling the covers up over his lap, “same time tomorrow?”
Your heart fluttered. “If you’re lucky.”
He blew you a kiss, his lips curving into that cheeky grin of his that always managed to melt away any tension. And just like that, with a simple “See you, love.” he was gone. The screen went black, the connection severed, leaving you alone in the dim quiet of your room.
You sat there for a moment, staring at the now-empty screen, still catching your breath. But as the adrenaline began to fade, something else crept in.
Jesus…what the fuck were you doing?
The question hit hard, the sharp edge of it cutting through the post-orgasmic haze like cold water. You swallowed, suddenly too aware of the mess between your thighs, the lingering slickness on your fingers. You grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and wiped yourself off, it didn’t go away. It was like no matter how much you cleaned, that sticky, uncomfortable feeling wouldn’t leave.
Because it wasn’t the physical mess that bothered you. It was the guilt. The reminder that always came rushing in the moment you were alone.
He has a girlfriend now.
You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning back against the headboard, the words echoing over and over in your mind. You’d been repeating them to yourself for weeks, trying to let them sink in, trying to convince yourself it mattered. But it hadn’t stopped you. It hadn’t stopped him either.
No, you two hadn’t stopped. Not when he got with her. Not when things between them started getting more serious. Hell, he didn’t fly you out to see him anymore — that had stopped — but somehow, this was worse. It was just video calls now. Just phone screens and breathless moans, but it felt even dirtier. Like some twisted secret you both pretended wasn’t real because it wasn’t technically crossing a line. As if the distance made it more acceptable.
But it didn’t.
You didn’t know if it was worse because of her, or worse because of how it had shifted between you and him. Before, when you’d met in random cities, it had been thrilling, exciting in a way that made you forget everything else. The unspoken nature of what you had kept it light, kept it on the surface. Just something physical.
But now? Now it was different. More intimate. Somehow, the distance had made it more intense, more personal. Seeing him on that tiny screen, vulnerable, unguarded in a way he never was in person, it felt like you were crossing a line you hadn’t even realized existed. Like you were seeing a side of him she wasn’t seeing. Like you were still holding a piece of him that she didn’t even know he was giving away.
You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the phone in your lap, the screen now dark and lifeless. It was a twisted situation, and yet you kept letting it happen. Every time his name lit up on your phone, your heart still skipped. Every time he smiled at you like that, it was like the guilt didn’t exist. But the moment he was gone, the reality came crashing down on you again.
You were still tangled in something that should have ended a long time ago.
And now, no matter how hard you tried to justify it, it just felt wrong.

“Hi.”
Your voice echoed through the line, softer than you'd intended, but it reached him. And of course, you didn’t stop. You didn’t even think you would.
“Hey.” he said, his voice thick with that low rasp, a bit softer, maybe even tired. “Where are you?”
“Bed.” you replied, sinking further into the pillows. The late morning light was muted behind thick clouds, casting a gray haze over everything. “You?”
“Balcony. Los Angeles…home.”
You blinked at that, reminding yourself where he was. “Oh right, you’re-”
“I can’t sleep. Just wanted to talk to you for a bit. Is that alright, my love?”
Silence. The word hung in the air like a spark, catching you off guard. My love? You stared at the phone in your hand, your brain still spinning. What time was it even in LA? He must’ve been up late, too late. And yet, there he was, calling you. Saying things like that. Saying that.
How could he just say that?
The pause stretched, and it felt like the world outside your window was holding its breath with you. You clutched the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to chase warmth that never quite came - until now. Until he gave it to you with that one careless word.
“You still there?” His voice cut through the fog in your head.
“What?!” You said it louder than intended, the shock bleeding into your tone. Your heart raced, beating too fast, and you didn’t know if it was from what he said or the way he said it, so casually, like he hadn’t just tossed a grenade into the middle of your chest.
“Hey, don’t jump at me like that. It’s too late, early, whatever.” His tone was playful, a little reprimand wrapped in a sleepy grin you couldn’t see but could easily imagine. “Christ, what time even is it here?”
“Sorry.” Your voice came out quieter, more cautious now, still processing. He had a way of shaking you up and smoothing you over in the same breath.
Through the soft static of the call, you could hear the faintest sounds of the city behind him — muffled car horns, the hum of traffic, a distant siren. You pictured him leaning against the railing of his balcony, the city lights stretching out below him, the LA night still heavy with heat even at this hour. And him, shirtless, of course — because you knew how he got when it was hot, the way his skin would glisten faintly with sweat under the night air.
You could almost see it now. The soft glow from the streetlights casting shadows over his bare shoulders, the tendrils of smoke curling up from the cigarette he held loosely between his fingers, the way his chest rose and fell as he exhaled. He was calm, unhurried, while you sat tangled up in your bed, blankets pulled tight around you, craving warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. LA might have been hot, but where you were, the day was still wrapped in a cool, overcast morning chill.
But the heat you wanted, the heat you needed — it came now, seeping into you from a single word. From him. From the way he’d said it like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just shattered the unspoken rules you’d clung to for so long.
“So,” you said, trying to regain some sense of control, but the question felt hollow, a distraction from the larger, heavier thing hanging between you. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“Nah.” he muttered, and you could almost hear the lazy smirk in his voice as he took another drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing briefly before fading. “Not much of that happening tonight. Thought I’d call you instead.”
You shifted beneath the blankets, trying to stop the racing thoughts swirling in your head. “And…that helps?”
He exhaled, the sound of his breath catching slightly before he spoke again. “Yeah. You help.” There was a slight pause, as if he was considering something, then his voice dropped lower. “Always have.”
It hit you like a punch, his honesty, the way he just laid it out there without hesitation, as if the fact that he had a girlfriend wasn’t a reality for either of you in that moment. Like nothing else mattered except the space between his words and how they reached you.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Alex…” you started, but you didn’t know where the sentence was going. How could you? There was so much you wanted to say, but none of it came out right, none of it could untangle the mess you were both in.
“I know.” he said softly, as if he could read your thoughts through the silence. “Don’t think too hard on it, alright? Not now.”
Not now. The way he said it made you wonder if there would ever be a right time, a moment when the weight of what you had — what you still had — would catch up to both of you. But for now, it seemed easier to let it go, to let the conversation drift back into safer waters, even if you were both just trying to pretend.
You closed your eyes and sank further into the pillows, the phone still pressed to your ear, the sound of his steady breathing filling the space between you. It was late, and you should have been up already, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up. Not yet. Even though you knew this was getting dangerous, that this whole thing had already gone too far.
You stayed quiet, listening to the faint crackle of his cigarette, the deep hum of his voice as he spoke to you about nothing in particular. And somehow, despite everything, it still felt like the only place you wanted to be.
Even though you knew you shouldn’t.

“Fuck, that was good.” His voice was a low, ragged whisper, barely audible over the soft static of the call, but you heard every word. The mic must have been pressed right up against his lips, and the intimacy of it — the sheer closeness — made your pulse quicken.
You didn’t need to see him anymore, didn’t need the visual to get lost in this with him. Just hearing his voice, feeling the rhythm of his breath in your ear, was enough to set every nerve in your body alight. One sense was enough now, more than enough to fulfill the others.
But you weren’t done yet.
“I haven’t finished.” you whispered back, your voice catching slightly, almost breathless. The gentle hum of the toy still buzzed between your legs, its vibrations steady but relentless, pushing you right to the edge without tipping you over.
He knew, of course. He always knew. The sound of it was unmistakable, that faint buzzing, a sweet torment that filled the silence between your words. You could hear the shift in his breathing, the way it deepened as he imagined you there, still needy, still chasing that final release.
“Good.” he murmured. “Keep going. Don’t stop. I want to hear everything, love.”
You whimpered softly, your hand trembling as you pressed the vibrator harder against yourself, the pressure building, unbearable now. Your body was already aching, but his voice was all you needed to keep going. He had that effect on you, even with just words, guiding you through it like he was right there with you, his breath hot against your skin.
“Come on.” he coaxed, the edge of command in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “I know you're close. Let me hear it, yeah? I want to hear you fall apart for me.”
The desperation in his voice pushed you further. Every word felt like a touch, like the heat of his hand between your thighs, coaxing you toward that final plunge. Your breath hitched, your thighs clenching as the pressure mounted, winding tighter and tighter inside you.
“I-” your voice cracked, the tension unbearable, your body quaking beneath the relentless rhythm. “Alex, I can’t-”
“Yes, you can.” he cut you off, his tone rougher now, demanding. “You can. Don’t hold back. I want you to come for me, baby. Right into my ears.”
His words hit you like a surge of electricity, sending you over the edge before you could even process it. The orgasm crashed through you, raw and overwhelming, your entire body seizing up as the pleasure ripped through your core. You gasped, the sound breaking into a sob as you came, tears spilling from your eyes as the release took everything from you, left you shaking, vulnerable.
“That’s it.” he whispered, softer now, but still firm, steady. “Good girl. Fuck, you sound so beautiful.”
You cried out, the intensity of it too much, tears mingling with your breathless moans as you pressed the phone closer to your ear, like you needed his voice to hold you together through the storm.
He didn’t say anything else, just listened to you, the sound of your soft, broken sobs filling the space between you, echoing into the tiny microphone like a confession. It felt like you were giving him a part of yourself you hadn’t even meant to, something more than just pleasure.
When it finally subsided, when your body went limp and your breath evened out, there was a pause. A silence so thick it almost felt like you were both trying to process what had just happened. You wiped at your eyes, embarrassed at how emotional you’d gotten, but he didn’t comment on it.
“Fuck.” you whispered, your voice hoarse, raw.
His laugh was quiet, warm. “Yeah. You alright?”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, clutching the phone to your ear like a lifeline. “Yeah.” you breathed. “I’m…yeah.”
“Good.” he said, and there was something almost tender in the way he spoke now, like he was still holding you in that moment, even though it was over. “You’re fuckin’ perfect, you know that?”
Your chest ached at his words, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sound of his voice again. Even after everything, it was still all you needed. Just him.
“Gotta head on stage soon.” he said, his voice coming down from that intimate space where it had been all hushed and rough, still raw from listening to you fall apart just moments ago. You could hear the background noise creeping back in — muffled conversations, footsteps, the distant hum of pre-show chaos.
You still felt the remnants of your orgasm lingering in your limbs, a dull thrum of satisfaction mixed with exhaustion. “How soon?” you asked, not really ready for him to go yet.
“Eh, twenty minutes maybe. Just long enough to catch my breath.” he teased, a soft chuckle following his words.
You smiled, settling deeper into your pillows. The conversation drifted from there, casual and light, the kind of banter that was easy between you both now. Little jokes, comments about his setlist, the usual back-and-forth that felt so familiar. But then, out of nowhere, he hit you with something that left you completely off balance.
“Have you ever had a threesome?”
You blinked, momentarily stunned. “What?”
“You heard me.” he said, a playful lilt in his voice now, as if he was enjoying your sudden hesitation. “Come on, answer the question.”
You swallowed, feeling heat rise to your cheeks despite yourself. You hadn’t expected that. “Why?”
“Don’t ask me questions.” he replied, his tone teasing but with just enough command to make you listen. “Just answer. Have you?”
You hesitated for a second longer, your fingers gripping the edge of your blanket. “Yeah.” you finally admitted, your voice quieter, shyer than before.
There was a brief pause on his end, then “Oh yeah? Have you?” He sounded both surprised and entirely too intrigued. “How many times?”
“Once.” you said, biting your lip. You didn’t want to get into details, but you knew he wouldn’t let it go now. “Two guys.”
His laugh came through the phone, low and delighted. “Oooh, dirty.” he teased, dragging out the word in a way that made your face burn. “Did you take both at the same time?”
“Alex-” you stammered, feeling your pulse quicken. “What?”
“Sorry, sorry- couldn’t help it.” He chuckled, clearly not sorry at all. But the way he said it was disarming, and even though you felt embarrassed, there was something about his tone that made you want to answer. Made you want to keep playing along.
You exhaled, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah, I did.”
There was a moment of silence on his end, and then he made this low sound, something between a hum and a laugh, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. “Well, then.” he finally muttered, and you could practically hear the grin on his face. “Look at you, all adventurous.”
You smiled despite your embarrassment, your heart still racing. “Have you had a threesome?” you asked, hoping to turn the tables on him a little, to put him on the spot for once.
“Maybe…technically.” he replied, the words casual but laced with something more. “But I don’t count it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Eh, long story.” He brushed it off like it wasn’t important, but you could tell there was more behind it. “Why’d you ask?”
“Why’d you ask?” You shot back, deflecting the question as easily as he had.
There was a pause, then, with a grin in his voice, he said, “Wanna try?”
Your heart skipped a beat, caught between excitement and disbelief. “What?” You laughed nervously, unsure if he was serious or just teasing you again.
“I’m just saying.” he continued, his voice low, almost daring. “Might be fun, yeah?”
Your breath caught, the sudden shift in the conversation leaving you a little breathless. You didn’t know what to say — if you were supposed to laugh it off or take him seriously. But knowing him, maybe it was a bit of both.

“Come to LA.”
You blinked, staring at your phone in the dim light of your room, rubbing your eyes. “Alex, it’s like 5 in the morning.” You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, your voice heavy with sleep, but he didn’t seem to care about the time difference.
“Come to LA, come on.” he repeated, his voice insistent, but not pushy. Just playful enough that it made you smile, even though you were groggy and half-buried under your covers. “You could be here by tomorrow. Think about it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” he said, but there was a smile in his voice, like he knew you’d hesitate, and he already had an answer for every one of your excuses.
You hesitated, the question bubbling up in the back of your mind. “What about-” You didn’t finish the sentence, but he knew what you meant.
He cut you off before you could say the words aloud. “Won’t be a problem, love.” His tone was breezy, almost dismissive, as if you were worrying about nothing, but you knew that wasn’t true. Still, the way he said it made it sound like it didn’t matter, like she didn’t matter — not right now, not to him.
You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. It was like this every time — the strange guilt that nagged at you but never seemed to reach him. He had a way of brushing it off, making it feel like what you were doing existed in a different space, separate from his life with her. But you couldn’t ignore it forever.
Instead of pushing it, you let the moment pass, your heart still fluttering a little at the thought of him on the other side of the world, wanting you there, wanting you.
“What are you doing up so late, anyway?” you asked, changing the subject. You could hear the faint sounds of clinking dishes in the background, the unmistakable scrape of a fork on a plate.
“Eating dinner.” he replied through a mouthful of something. “Just got back from rehearsal.”
“What are you eating?” you asked, smiling at the fact that you could actually hear him chewing, like you were there with him, even though you were worlds apart.
He paused for a second, and you could almost hear the smirk forming on his lips. “I’ll show you.”
There was a shuffle on his end as he propped the phone up, the faint sound of a bottle clinking against the coffee table. You could hear him moving around, then the camera flickered, and there he was. The screen was a little dark, but you could make him out — shirtless, his hair a bit messy from the day, sitting on the couch with a plate of food balanced on his lap. The phone was perched on top of an empty wine bottle on his coffee table, and he was hunched over a bit, angling himself so he could still see you.
“Ta-da.” he said, gesturing to his plate with a grin, like this was some grand reveal.
You laughed softly. “What is that?”
He tilted the plate toward the camera. “Steak. Some weird salad thing. Not my best effort, but it’s food.”
You rolled your eyes, settling back against your pillows, watching him through the screen. It felt oddly intimate, seeing him like this, in the middle of the night, halfway across the world, eating dinner while you lay in bed. “You’re such a man.”
“This is a fine meal, thank you very much.” he protested, stabbing a piece of steak with his fork.
You smiled, watching as he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before he swallowed. “Well, I’ll give you points for the presentation. Wine bottle stand and everything.”
He leaned forward, closer to the camera, his face now filling the screen. “This is a dinner date, you know. Technically.”
You raised an eyebrow, your heart skipping a beat at the way he was looking at you, even through the tiny screen. “A dinner date?”
“Mmhm.” He sat back again, stretching his legs out on the couch. “Just me and you. Across the world.”
The thought of it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t quite understand — something warm, but also bittersweet. “Is that what this is?” you teased softly, trying to hide the way his words tugged at something deeper inside you.
“Yeah.” he said, his voice softer now. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?”
You bit your lip, your gaze lingering on him as he took another sip of wine, his eyes flicking back to the camera every now and then like he was checking to make sure you were still there, still watching. He hunched a little more, getting closer to the screen, adjusting the phone so you could see him better, his face illuminated by the dim light of his living room.
“So, what’s for dinner on your end?” he asked, his tone casual but affectionate, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“Nothing. It’s 5 a.m.” you reminded him with a laugh. “But I’ll pretend I’m eating steak with you.”
“Perfect.” he murmured. “We’ll call it a proper date, then.”
And just like that, the distance between you shrank. You talked more about nothing, about everything, trivial things that made you both laugh. He’d take bites of his food between sentences, telling you stories from rehearsal or complaining about the heat in LA, while you curled up under your blankets, half-asleep but not wanting the call to end.
It felt normal, like you were just two people on a date, no complications, no mess. Just him, and you, halfway across the world, falling a little deeper into something that neither of you could quite name.

“Who is she?” you whispered into his ear, your voice barely audible as you stood close to him, the air thick with tension.
“A friend.” he whispered back, his breath hot against your skin. His hand rested on your hip, his thumb brushing softly along the fabric of your dress.
“A friend?” you repeated, your eyes flicking over to her, sitting on the edge of his bed, already there, waiting. She was relaxed, confident, her body half-reclined like she was used to being in this room, like she knew exactly how this was going to go. It made your pulse quicken.
He nodded, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered again. “We’re doing a threesome with your friend?”
“Do you like her?” His question was a tease, but the intent behind it was clear.
“I mean-” you started, but the words faltered in your throat as your gaze lingered on her. She was gorgeous, with soft curves and this way of looking at you that made you feel both seen and wanted, like she was waiting for you to set the tone, to give her permission to proceed.
“You do, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing your earlobe. There was something knowing in his voice, something that made your breath hitch. And he was right. You did like her. You bit your lip, feeling your cheeks flush with heat as you nodded slightly, almost embarrassed by how much you did.
His hand slid from your hip down to your thigh, fingers curling around the hem of your dress, his touch firm but gentle, guiding. He turned toward you, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment, before his gaze shifted, catching hers, and the silent agreement between them was palpable.
Then, without a word, he stepped back slightly, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head in one fluid motion. His bare chest gleamed under the dim light of the room, his skin warm and flushed. Every movement was deliberate, slow, as if he was letting you both take your time, drinking him in.
You watched as he undid the button of his jeans, his eyes flicking up to meet yours again, searching your face as he slipped the denim down his hips. There was something unbearably intimate about it — watching him undress for both of you, knowing where this was going but still feeling that rush of nerves, that flutter of excitement.
He kicked his jeans aside, standing there in just his boxers now, his confidence in every line of his body. The bed creaked softly as she shifted, watching him too, her lips parting just slightly as her gaze trailed down his body. You could feel the heat of her eyes on him, the tension between you all growing thicker and heavier.
“Do you like her?” he asked again, this time louder, for her to hear too, his eyes darting between you and the woman on his bed. His tone was knowing, a bit teasing, like he was enjoying this dance you were all doing. The way his hands moved to his waistband told you everything you needed to know — he was setting the stage, stripping away any last pretences, letting the heat of the moment take over.
You glanced at her again, your heart pounding in your chest as her eyes met yours, a slow smile spreading across her lips. You swallowed, feeling your nerves twist, the unspoken invitation clear in the way she looked at you. You took a step closer to the bed, drawn toward her, feeling the heat from his body behind you and the magnetic pull from hers in front of you.
“Well?” he murmured, his voice low as he slipped off his boxers and stood completely bare before you both. The weight of his question still lingered in the air, but it was no longer just about her. It was about all of you, together, in this moment, waiting for the next move.
You licked your lips, your breath quickening as you took it all in — the three of you, this shared anticipation. This wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about what you all wanted, what you were about to share.
He moved with purpose, his hands sliding under the hem of your dress as he stood before you, the fabric slipping off your shoulders, down your body, pooling at your feet. He didn’t rush it. His fingers lingered on your skin as he undressed you, a touch that was both tender and possessive, like he was savouring every inch of you as he revealed it. His lips brushed your collarbone, then down, before he took a step back to take in the sight of you, standing there bare before him.
Behind you, she had already undressed herself, her eyes flicking between the two of you, watching, waiting. But there was no jealousy in her gaze, no tension. She knew her place here. And as you watched her sit back on the bed, her legs parting as her hand dipped between her thighs, you could feel the heat rising between all of you.
But his attention was still on you. He dropped to his knees before you, his hands trailing down your legs, his grip firm as he pulled you closer to the bed, positioning you just where he wanted you. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and hungry, but there was a softness there too, a tenderness that made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the physical. It was more than just the heat of the moment — it was the connection, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Behind him, she began to touch herself, her soft moans filling the room, but his focus was entirely on you. His fingers dug into your hips, bruising but steady, guiding you onto the bed. And then he laid back, his body stretching out beneath you as he pulled you toward him, his breath hot against your thighs.
“Sit.” he commanded.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you did what he asked, your knees on either side of his head, your body trembling. The second his mouth found you, your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your lips as his tongue moved against you with practised precision. He knew exactly how to unravel you, how to make you lose yourself in the sensation.
His grip tightened on your hips, pulling you down harder against his mouth, his tongue relentless, his lips dragging over your most sensitive places in a way that made you want to scream. But you couldn’t. Your breath was caught in your throat, your fingers gripping the headboard for support as the pleasure built inside you.
His eyes found yours, locking onto your gaze even as he devoured you, and it was like the rest of the room faded away. She was there, yes, her soft moans blending with yours as she took him into her mouth, her head bobbing between his legs. But to him, she was background noise, an accessory. The way his hands gripped you, the way his eyes never left yours — it was clear where his attention was.
Every time your gaze met his, his moans grew louder, more desperate, vibrating against you as he pushed you closer to the edge. Her lips wrapped around his cock, her tongue flicking over him, but still, it was your body he was focused on, your pleasure that made him groan, that made his grip on your hips tighten as he pulled you down harder, his mouth working you over with an intensity that left you breathless.
You could hear her, the wet sounds of her mouth on him, the way she moaned softly around his length, but none of it compared to the way he looked up at you, his eyes soft yet burning. He worshipped you with his mouth, his tongue sending you spiralling as the heat in your core built and built until it felt unbearable.
He moaned again, louder this time, as your hand reached down, your fingers searching to tug through his hair, but there was nothing to pull on, so you just kept it there, nails scratching his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, savouring your touch, but when they opened again, they were focused, locked onto yours, as if he wanted to watch every second of you coming undone.
And when you finally did — when the pressure inside you snapped and you cried out his name, your body trembling above him — he held you through it, his mouth never stopping, his grip keeping you steady even as the waves of pleasure washed over you, leaving you breathless and spent.
She was still there, still moving on him, but he barely seemed to notice, barely seemed to react, except when his gaze found yours, except when he could hear your moans. To him, there was only you.

Later that night, the room was a haze, the remnants of heat still hanging in the air between you. She’d left. The buzz from the drinks had settled into a soft, pleasant warmth, mixing with the afterglow of everything you’d just done. You were wearing his robe, one that smelled like him, the fabric heavy against your skin, and you hadn’t even thought about putting on real clothes. Why bother? You knew there wouldn’t be much need for them.
He, on the other hand, was draped in a robe too — his girlfriend’s, unmistakably. The soft floral print clung to his frame in a way that would’ve been laughable under any other circumstance. But right now, in this drunken, hazy moment, you didn’t care. He looked absurd, yes, but it was easy to ignore with the heady mixture of the buzz and the way he was sprawled out next to you, a lazy grin on his face, his hand absentmindedly tracing circles on your leg.
You shifted, pulling your feet into his lap. He started massaging them, his thumbs pressing into the arch of your foot with slow, deliberate strokes. It felt good, more than good, and you let your head fall back, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself melt into the sensation.
“You’re good at this.” you murmured, your voice soft, almost slurred from the alcohol.
He chuckled, his fingers kneading deeper into the sole of your foot. “I’ve had practice. Long tours, lots of tired feet.”
You laughed softly, opening your eyes to look at him. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, and there was a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He looked adorable. “So you’re just a professional foot masseuse, then? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Mm, I’ve been called worse.” he teased, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. His gaze lingered, and for a moment, the playful air between you shifted, something quieter settling in its place. His fingers continued their slow, rhythmic movements, the pressure just right, easing away the tension from earlier. “Feel good?” he asked, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.
You nodded, watching him. “Yeah.”
He smiled, his fingers sliding up to your ankle, massaging the muscles there, his touch lingering. You could see the glaze in his eyes, the alcohol working through him, making him looser, more relaxed. “You’re wearing her robe.” you blurted out, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t accusatory, just…an observation.
He glanced down at the floral fabric and let out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah…didn’t even think about it.” He tugged at the sleeve, pulling it up to look at the pattern more closely, like he was seeing it for the first time. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s comfy.”
“I bet.” you said with a smirk, though your mind wandered, unable to help but think of her for a moment. How she wore this same robe, how different the context must be when it was her in his lap instead of you. But you pushed the thought away, focusing on the feel of his hands on your skin, the soothing motion of his touch.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured, his thumb pressing into a particularly tight knot in your foot, making you wince, then sigh as the tension released.
“I’m not.”
“Liar.” He tilted his head back, resting it against the couch as he looked at you, his eyes half-lidded and hazy. “I can see it all over your face. What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”
You shook your head, trying to play it off, but the way he was looking at you — like he could see straight through you — made it harder to lie. “Nothing. Just…this.”
He raised an eyebrow, his fingers still working their magic on your feet. “This? What, the robe? It’s just a piece of fabric, love.”
“Yeah, but it’s hers.”
He shrugged. “It’s not like she’s here.” You bit your lip, knowing he was right, but the words still felt heavy between you. He was too far gone to care, though, his eyes drifting down to your legs as his hands slid up your calves, massaging there now, his touch more deliberate, more intimate. “I don’t want you thinking about her right now.” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Not when it’s just us.”
For a moment, the reality of what you were doing tried to push its way in. But then his hands pressed into your skin, pulling you back into the moment. You let out a soft sigh, leaning back again, letting him take the lead.
“I’m not.” you whispered, though part of you knew it wasn’t entirely true.
He smirked, his fingers trailing back down to your feet, his touch gentle now. “Okay.” he murmured. “I don’t think we’ll need these robes for much longer anyway, do you?”
You laughed. “Probably not.”
“Thought so.” He leaned in a little closer. “You look better in mine, anyway.”
As his hands continued to knead into your skin, the playful atmosphere between you began to shift, slowly, imperceptibly at first. His touch softened, and he leaned back into the cushions of the couch, the faint smile on his lips dimming as a more pensive expression took its place. The buzz of the alcohol still hummed between you, making everything feel a little looser, a little more vulnerable.
You noticed the change in him almost immediately. His movements slowed, and he became quieter, as if the weight of the night and the drinks had caught up to him. He let out a long, tired sigh, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your ankle. You sat up a little, your senses sharpening, trying to read him as he stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed slightly.
“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the silence that had settled between you. His hands paused, resting against your legs, but he didn’t answer right away.
He shook his head, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. “Just…been thinking too much, I guess. Too much for someone who’s supposed to be having fun.”
You shifted a little closer, sitting up straighter as you watched him, your own fingers reaching out to brush against his hand, trying to coax him out of whatever was weighing on him. “What are you thinking about?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze still distant. Then he sighed again, heavier this time, and turned his head slightly to look at you. His eyes were glassy, almost sad, though he tried to hide it behind a crooked smile.
“Do you ever feel like…no matter how much you get, how much you have, it’s never enough?” he asked.
You swallowed, unsure of how to respond at first, but you knew this was more than just a passing thought. This was something that had been sitting with him for a while, something that was starting to spill out now that his guard was down.
“Sometimes.” you admitted quietly, your fingers brushing his as they rested on your leg. “But why do you feel that way? You’ve got so much…”
He shook his head again, that same bitter laugh escaping his lips, but this time it was edged with something sharper, something more painful. “Yeah, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I’ve got everything anyone could ask for. The career, the money, the…the- everything . And yet…” His voice trailed off, and he stared down at his hands, his jaw clenching as if he was trying to keep himself from saying too much. You stayed silent, sensing that he needed space to find his words.
“And yet…I still feel empty sometimes. Like I’m missing something.” he continued, his voice barely audible now. His thumb stroked over the top of your foot absentmindedly, a small, grounding gesture as he spoke. “I don’t even know what it is that I’m missing, but I feel it. This…ache.”
Your chest tightened at the rawness in his voice. You wanted to reach out, to tell him something that would make it better, but you didn’t know what to say. Instead, you stayed close, your presence a quiet offer of comfort as he struggled with his thoughts.
“Alex…” you whispered, feeling the walls between you crumbling.
His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a brief second, the mask he wore — the confident, unflinching version of himself — slipped away. What you saw was someone who was tired, someone who carried a burden even he couldn’t name, and for a moment, he looked almost…scared.
“I shouldn’t be saying this.” he muttered, his voice thick with the alcohol and the emotion he was struggling to keep at bay. “I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re not.” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re not fucking anything up. Just…talk to me.”
He let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around yours as if you were the only thing holding him together. “It’s just…when I’m with you, it feels different.” he admitted, his words slow and deliberate, like he was walking a tightrope, careful not to tip too far into dangerous territory. “Like I’m not missing anything. For a moment, I’m not hollow.”
Before you could respond, he kept talking, his voice getting more and more unsteady. “I know I probably shouldn’t be saying this, and fuck, I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but…when I’m with you, everything feels…right.”
The confession hung between you, and you could feel the air grow thick with the gravity of it. He wasn’t saying it outright, but you could feel it in the way his eyes searched yours, in the tremble in his voice. He was almost telling you that he loved you.
Your breath hitched, your heart racing as you tried to process what was happening, what he was saying without really saying it. Part of you wanted to stop him, to tell him he was drunk and emotional and that this wasn’t the time, but another part of you — a deeper, more selfish part — wanted to hear him say it. Wanted to believe that what you had between you was more than just stolen moments and hidden desire.
You swallowed hard, and when you finally spoke “Alex...”
But before you could say more, he shook his head, squeezing your hand as if to ask you to stop. “No, don’t. I don’t want to mess this up. I just…I just needed to tell you that, even if I shouldn’t.” He dropped his gaze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he struggled to pull himself back from the edge. “I shouldn’t have said that.” he muttered, his voice thick with regret, but his grip on your hand never loosened.
You shook your head, squeezing his hand in return, your heart pounding as you looked at him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise.”
As if he’d run out of words, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a softness that made your heart stammer. It wasn’t like before — hungry, reckless. This was different, slower, like he was afraid of shattering something fragile between you when there wasn’t even a you.
He kissed you gently, his mouth lingering as though he needed this closeness to steady himself, to ground him in the moment and pull himself away from whatever lay beneath his words. His other hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his fingers tangling softly in your hair, holding you close but not pressing you, as if he were asking rather than taking.
You leaned in closer, letting the robe slip off his shoulder, exposing more of his skin to the soft, dim light. He shivered slightly at the sensation, his gaze never leaving yours as his hands found your bare waist, his fingertips pressing lightly, anchoring himself as his touch skated across your skin. You felt his breath hitch, as though this tender intimacy had surprised him, as though he hadn’t expected it to feel like this.
His lips brushed down your jaw, trailing softly across your neck as his hands roamed your back, his touch steady and grounding. You could feel his reluctance in the way he moved, his own hesitations cloaked in every caress, like he was trying to ward off what he’d just confessed. But here, with his hands against your skin, with the warmth of you pressed close, it was easy for him to let it all blur, to deflect, to let action say what words couldn’t.
You tilted your head back, drawing a slow, deep breath, feeling the last barriers fall away as he leaned down, his mouth pressing gentle, careful kisses along your collarbone. The robe slipped lower, leaving you bare under his gaze, his fingers skimming over your skin with the kind of reverence that felt like an apology and a promise all at once.
For him, this was a way to escape what he couldn’t put into words, a way to quiet the ache inside him without breaking the fragile equilibrium between you. And for you, it was enough just to be here, his hands on your skin, the silent understanding building between you in every touch, every sigh, and every look exchanged in the dim light.
He pulled you onto his lap with a gentle urgency, his hands steadying you as he guided you down. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself inside, and when he was fully there, he stilled, his breath catching as he held you close. Neither of you moved.
He rested his forehead against your shoulder, his lips grazing your skin, soft and unhurried. You could feel his breath tickling along your collarbone, his mouth pressing featherlight kisses. His arms tightened around you, holding you in place, his fingers tracing gentle circles against your back.
The stillness held something fragile and profound, as if you were both suspended in a space where words didn’t need to be spoken, where it was enough just to feel. His lips moved along your shoulder, his breath hot and his kisses lingering. You shivered as he reached your neck, brushing his mouth against your pulse, each touch a silent confession.
He exhaled, a low, shaky sound that seemed to hold more than just desire but something he was reluctant to let show. His grip on you softened slightly, his hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, guiding your head down so that your foreheads rested together, eyes closed, breaths mingling.
You stayed that way, connected, still, letting the silence speak where words had no place. You felt his hands wander up your spine, his fingers tracing gentle paths over your skin. And without moving, without a single thrust, the closeness between you grew thicker, heavier, a feeling that lingered in every sigh.
Eventually, he opened his eyes, looking at you with a gaze that felt like an unspoken promise, one you both knew might go unfulfilled. But for now, with his body beneath yours, his touch lingering on your skin, it was enough. You could feel him tremble faintly, a silent surrender as his lips returned to your shoulder, pressing a single kiss that seemed to say everything he couldn’t.

a/n: kinda digging it, not sure if it makes perfect sense (heh) with the rest of the parts cause it’s been a while but I think it’s okay, this would fall sometime after Dublin In Ecstasy (obviously) and before Mister Midnight.
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how do we feel about something long as hell and sad as hell
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Justice For All

between these walls and neon lights, boy did good
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
warnings: lawyer!alex, smut, oral (both receiving…blowie!)
word count: 7k
The two of you sat outside at a little rundown corner stand, the kind of place that had probably seen better days, with faded signage and creaky plastic chairs that always felt sticky, no matter how much they were wiped down. The smell of sizzling grease filled the air, mingling with the faint diesel fumes from the street. But none of that mattered, not really. Not when you were together and the hot dogs were loaded with enough toppings to make you forget about the city grime, or the fact that, logically, this kind of food should have you both feeling queasy by the end of the night if it weren’t so damn good. You were both leaning into it, elbows on the metal table that wobbled whenever you moved too suddenly, devouring the indulgence like it was a meal fit for royalty.
Across from you, Alex was biting into it. Grease glistened on his fingers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had this ability to make even the most scruffy look seem like it was part of some carefully crafted plan. He was halfway through his hot dog, ketchup and mustard smeared across the bun, a little dab of something clinging to the corner of his mouth. You were sure he hadn’t noticed, and you didn’t say anything. You kind of liked the imperfection of it.
He wiped his fingers on a napkin that was already streaked with everything else, leaning back in his chair as he looked at you. “You like it?” he asked, nodding toward your own half-finished one.
You took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “Yeah, surprisingly good.” you said. “I don’t know if I’ll regret it later, but for now...it’s great.”
He smirked, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “My dad used to bring me here after football when I was a kid. Same exact spot.” he said, gesturing vaguely to the rundown stand. “It hasn’t changed a bit. Same grease, same chairs that stick to your legs.”
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him skeptically. “You? Football? You don’t exactly strike me as someone who’d be into football.”
Alex chuckled, a soft, throaty sound as he leaned forward again, elbows resting on the shaky table. “What? You don’t think I can appreciate a bit of footie? I loved it.” he said, eyes glinting with nostalgia. “Every Saturday, me and my dad would play. He’d yell from the sidelines, try to get me to run faster, kick harder, all that...and after the game, we’d come here. It was like a reward.”
You smiled at the thought, imagining a younger version of him, gangly and wide-eyed, trying to impress his dad on the field. “That’s cute.” you said, wiping some mustard from your thumb. “The food’s good, but...I don’t know if I’m sold on hot dogs in general. They’re a bit-”
Alex cut you off mid-sentence, shaking his head as he raised a hand in protest. “Nuh-uh, don’t you dare.” he said, pointing at you with a playful glare. “I just put that in my body. I don’t wanna know what’s in it. Let me live in ignorance for tonight.”
You laughed, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fair enough.” you said. “Ignorance is bliss.”
“Exactly.” he grinned, taking another massive bite, grease dripping from the corner of his mouth as he chewed. “Bliss in a bun. You know,” he began, his voice low and casual and a little playful as he set the hot dog down on the wax paper, licking his thumb with exaggerated flair, “I was willing to take you to a more high-end establishment.”
He said it with this exaggerated, mock-serious tone, pausing for a moment to meet your eyes before taking another hearty bite, almost as if to challenge the idea that anything could be better than what you two had right here.
“Oh, were you now?” you teased, watching as he tried to chew with some semblance of grace but ultimately failing. There was something incredibly endearing about how unpolished he was in this moment.
Alex swallowed, grinning as he wiped his mouth. “This…” He gestured to the hot dog and the table with a flourish. “This requires a proper celebration, yeah?” He punctuated the statement by taking another bite, speaking halfway through chewing, like he couldn’t quite wait to get the words out. “So don’t think that this counts.”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms and shaking your head as you smirked at him. “This is perfect.” you said, and you meant it. You reached across the table without thinking, your hand brushing against his cheek as you wiped away the crumbs from the corner of his mouth, your fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and for a moment, the noise of the city around you faded into the background. It was just the two of you, sitting here at this rickety table, with ketchup-stained napkins and plastic trays, but somehow it felt like the start of something much bigger.
Alex’s eyes flicked to yours when you pulled your hand away, and for a second, you caught a glimpse of something softer in his expression before he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were indulging him.
You shrugged, leaning forward again. “Besides,” you continued, “we’re pinching pennies now. When we have some steady revenue coming in, when we’re swimming in clients and have a proper income, we can make our way to that fancy place you keep talking about every night.” You raised your eyebrows, teasing him again. “Till then-”
“Yes, that!” he cut in quickly, nodding, his voice a little more eager than before. He gave you this quick, almost boyish smile. “Let’s make that happen.” he added, more seriously now, his eyes locking on yours as if there was an unspoken promise behind his words.
For a second, you didn’t say anything, just sat there soaking in the moment. His smile lingered, but there was something deeper now, something that spoke to how much this partnership, this plan, this…you, meant to him. It felt so real now, tangible in a way it hadn’t before. You could almost see the future stretching out ahead of you, the two of you working late nights in some office you hadn’t rented yet, your names on the door, the smell of coffee filling the air as you figured out how to make it all work.
Alex broke the silence first, leaning back in his chair, hands resting on the arms like he was stretching out after a long day. “Tonight’s a funny night.” he mused. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, but it fell right back into place a second later. “For some reason, tonight I feel like I’ve got all the answers. Like, I’m feeling- I don’t know…like- like Carnac.”
You blinked, trying to make sense of that one. “Carnac?” You were used to his odd references by now, the random bits of trivia and humour he pulled from some mental archive that you were pretty sure no one else had access to.
He nodded, eyes glinting with amusement. “Yeah, Carnac.” he said, his voice picking up a little energy, even if you had no idea where he was going with it. “You remember when Johnny Carson used to do Carnac the Magnificent?” He paused, as if waiting for you to nod along, but you just stared at him, completely lost. “You know, Ed McMahon would hand him these sealed envelopes, yeah? And Johnny, dressed in this ridiculous turban, would hold them up to his forehead, give the answer before the question.”
You tried to follow, tilting your head, a smile playing at your lips because, even though you didn’t get the reference, you were enjoying watching him light up like this. “Okay…” you said, still waiting for the punchline.
“And then he’d open the envelope,” Alex continued, eyes sparkling now, “and the question would be some ridiculous thing. Like, he’d say ‘Leave It to Beaver,’ and then he’d open it, and the question would be something absurd like ‘What did the dead raccoon leave in his will?’” He burst into a laugh, delighted by the absurdity.
You just stared at him, shaking your head, trying to suppress your own laughter. “Does that ring a bell?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly in mock disbelief.
“Nope.” you replied, grinning, leaning forward to prop your chin in your hand.
“Before your time, huh?” He gave you a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, leaning back in his chair, his lips twitching like he was trying to hide his amusement. “All right, all right. I’m officially the old guy now.”
“You’re not even that much older than me.” you countered.
“I remember Carnac.” he shot back, like that settled the matter once and for all.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay.” you said, stretching the word out.
He gave you a sideways grin, then leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table. “You remember when we met?” you asked after a moment, your voice quieter now, the memory bubbling to the surface like a warm, nostalgic wave.
He blinked, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Hmm?”
“That mixer.” you reminded him, watching his face light up in recognition.
“Oh, yes!” he said, pointing at you like he was suddenly piecing it all together. “That firm mixer.” He laughed, the sound low and throaty. “I got so drunk.”
You chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, me too.”
“What was that?” He tilted his head, squinting like he was trying to place the timeline. “I think it was my second year as a lawyer?”
“And my first.” you added, remembering how nervous you’d been walking into that event, how out of place you’d felt until you’d started talking to him.
“I remember.” he said, nodding like he was proud of himself for getting the details right. “’Cause I hadn’t seen you before then. And then I saw you and…” He let out a low whistle.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Stop.”
“No, seriously. Your ass looked so good in that dress. Don’t pretend like you didn’t want people staring.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. “Maybe.”
“Knew it!” he said triumphantly, pointing at you again, his grin widening as he leaned back in his chair.
You both laughed, the sound mingling with the city noise around you. Alex gave you a long look, the kind that made your heart skip a beat for reasons you weren’t quite ready to explore. He reached across the table this time, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second. “We’re really gonna do this, aren’t we?” His eyes held yours, like he was searching for some kind of reassurance.
“Yeah.” you said softly, feeling that familiar spark of excitement welling up inside you. “We’re really gonna do this.”
And with that, he leaned over the table, and he smiled again, that slow, easy smile that always seemed to linger a little too long, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment. “We’ll make it happen. Come on.” he whispered. “Give me a kiss, baby.”
“Not happening.” you said, deliberately staying in your seat, watching as his eyes narrowed in mock frustration.
“Really?” he chuckled under his breath, glancing down at the table between you. He let out a dramatic sigh, calculating his next move. “You always make me work for it. But fine, be difficult.” he muttered with a grin.
You simply raised an eyebrow in response, refusing to budge. Alex shook his head as he shifted in his seat, then half-climbed onto the table, the edge digging into his side, awkwardly balancing his weight, but committed to closing the distance himself.
“You know,” he muttered, his face just inches from yours now, “you’re lucky I don’t mind making a fool of myself for you.” His breath was warm against your lips as he hovered there for a moment, teasing you with the closeness.
When his fingers brushed your cheek, you finally softened, letting him draw you in. The kiss was unhurried, almost gentle at first, but it lingered, his lips moving against yours. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again.
“There.” he whispered. “To seal the deal.” as if the whole act had been nothing but a playful dare. His lips brushed yours one more time, softer this time, before he pulled back fully, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as he finally sat back down, trying to smooth his shirt and pretend he hadn’t just climbed over a table to get to you. “You’re-”
“Don't even try to act like you didn’t want that kiss.”

The office was far from glamorous, but it was yours. After weeks of searching, driving around to every dingy building and basement unit the city had to offer, you’d finally found it. On the second floor of an old, brick building with large windows that let in just enough sunlight to make it feel more inviting. The rent was low enough to make sense, but high enough to be a risk, and the moment you saw it, you knew. This was the place. Alex had agreed instantly. He didn’t care about the details, about the layout or location or anything. As long as this was happening — actually happening — he was in.
But he had one condition. There was no way those god-awful orange walls were staying.
“They’re offensive.” he’d said the moment you unlocked the door and walked in. His lip had curled in disgust as he looked around, hands shoved in his pockets. “We can’t have clients in here with that…monstrosity.”
And now here he was, standing in the middle of the half-painted office, half being generous, covered in white paint. There was a streak of it across his cheek, a splotch in his hair, and his once-clean shirt was speckled with it like some kind of abstract art project. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, but the fabric was still damp with paint, sticking to his forearms as he moved the roller across the last patch of the wall. It was slow, painfully slow, and Alex was grumbling under his breath every few minutes about how this wasn’t his “thing.” He wasn’t meant for manual labour, he’d insisted after about ten minutes.
You sat on the edge of a paint-streaked table, watching him, your arms crossed and a smirk playing on your lips as he complained.
“My shoulders.” he groaned, letting the roller drop dramatically onto the plastic sheet beneath him. “I swear to God, they’re on fire. How do people do this for a living?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Alex, you’ve painted exactly one wall.”
“One wall too many.” he shot back. “This is cruel and unusual punishment. You’re supposed to be my partner, and yet here you are, letting me- making me suffer.”
You rolled your eyes, hopping off the table and walking over to him. “Oh, is that what this is? Suffering?” you teased as you stood behind him.
He gave you a sideways glance, eyebrows furrowing like he couldn’t believe you weren’t taking his “pain” seriously. “It is! My shoulders are gonna give out. You’ll have to carry me out of here.”
You sighed, shaking your head as you stepped closer, your hands resting on his shoulders. “Fine. I guess I’ll have to be the assistant on duty.”
The second your fingers dug into his muscles, he let out a noise that was almost indecent, a low, deep moan of relief. “Oh, that’s so good.” he muttered, tilting his head to the side, giving you more access to work out the knots. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he looked like he might actually melt into a puddle on the floor.
“God, you’re such a baby.” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers worked into his skin, pressing a little harder.
“Ow!” he yelped, whipping around in your grip, his eyes wide as he looked at you like you’d just tried to strangle him.
You grinned, unbothered by his dramatics. “What?” you asked innocently.
He narrowed his eyes at you. “What? Are you trying to kill me? Is this your master plan, huh? Rub me out and steal the office all for yourself?”
“Indeed.” you said. “Robbery and murder. The perfect crime.”
He gave you a look, lips twitching into a smile as he leaned down, his face hovering just inches from yours. “You’re twisted.” he muttered before closing the gap and kissing you.
You melted into him, your body instinctively pressing closer. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you in as the kiss deepened. You could feel the cool, wet paint smudging against your shirt, but it didn’t matter when his lips were moving against yours like that, slow and soft like it was the first and last time he’d ever get to do it.
“Alex-” you murmured against his lips, trying to keep some semblance of thought as his hands tightened their grip on your waist. “You’re getting paint on my shirt.”
“I won’t live to see the consequences. You’ll kill me, remember?” he muttered in reply, his mouth already moving back to yours before you could say another word.
This time, you kissed him harder, your hands slipping up into his hair, pulling him closer. The toxic smell of wet paint was still hanging in the air, but all you could smell was him. There was something so sweet about him, so overwhelming that it almost felt like you could taste sugar and flowers instead of the sharp scent of chemicals, his lips soft but demanding, like he was trying to pour every ounce of affection he had into you all at once.
He broke away first, just barely, his lips hovering over yours as he caught his breath. “Mmm.” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum. “Sometimes when we kiss…” He trailed off, his lips brushing your cheek now, then lower, down to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “The love’s too much.”
You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, your hands still tangled in his hair. “Too much, huh?”
“Yeah.” he muttered, his lips now trailing down your neck, leaving a path of soft, lingering kisses in their wake. “And it makes me wanna do you on the kitchen floor.”
You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach at his words. “We’re not in a kitchen.” you pointed out, though your voice had lost some of its strength.
He shrugged, his lips still pressed to your skin. “You get the gist.”
You laughed, shaking your head as your hand traced down his back, still stained with paint. “Is that supposed to be a love poem?”
He straightened up slightly, giving you that wicked grin you’d seen a hundred times. “That’s a love poem.” he confirmed, his voice serious.
You tilted your head, smirking. “That is what you consider a love poem?”
“Yes.” he said, no hesitation in his voice as his fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. “You know…” He trailed off, clearly trying not to laugh as he tugged lightly at your shirt. “My mum raised me to be a gentleman.”
You nodded, trying to hold back your grin. “I know.”
“But you…” He paused, a chuckle bubbling up in his throat before he could even get the words out. “You raise my-”
You gasped, slapping him lightly on the arm, though you couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of you. “Jesus Christ, Alex!”
His laughter followed yours, his face buried in your neck as his shoulders shook. “Oh, come on!” he groaned, pulling you back into his arms. “Why you gettin’ all legal on me, huh? Thought you liked wordplay.”
You tried to shove him off, but he tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you flush against him. Before you could protest, his hips ground into yours, just enough to make your breath catch.
“I swear to God…” you muttered, trying to suppress the heat that was quickly building between you, your voice trailing off as his lips found yours again.
But this time, you didn’t resist. You let him kiss you, let him press his body against yours, and for a moment, the half-painted office, the smudges of paint on both of you, and even the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, caught in this electric pull that neither of you could — or wanted to – escape.
Alex’s hands slipped down your back with a deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the line of your spine before gripping your ass through the soft fabric of your leggings. The sensation was sharp, electric, his touch rougher than before, like he needed to claim you right there. His fingers dug in just enough for you to feel the possessiveness in his hold, and when he spoke, his voice was low, laced with that teasing roughness that always drove you wild.
“You’re dressed like a slut.” he murmured, the words landing somewhere between a growl and a laugh. His hands pressed you back with enough force that your feet stumbled a little, guiding you until your body collided with the still-bare offensively coloured wall, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat of his body on you. His breath was hot against your ear, sending shivers down your neck as he pressed closer.
“I’m literally wearing leggings and one of your shirts.” you pointed out, a small smirk tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse quickened under his touch.
“Yeah, but…” His hands squeezed your ass tighter, making you gasp slightly at the sudden roughness. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping even lower. “Anyone could see you’re not wearing any panties.”
His words ignited something in you, and you couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped your lips. The way he was touching you, how his hands gripped you as if he couldn’t bear to let go. It was all you could think about. His fingers dug into the soft curve of your ass again, rough and purposeful.
“Wanna eat you.” he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin.
A rush of heat pooled between your thighs, your heart racing, and for a second, you almost wanted to tease him, make him work for it. But then, you exhaled sharply, your voice breathless but steady. “Fine.”
His eyes darkened, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he echoed, “Fine.”
Before you could blink, Alex dropped to his knees in front of you, his grip on your hips still firm as he spun you around to face the wall. Your palms pressed against the unfinished surface, bracing yourself as your breathing quickened. His hands were back on you immediately, firm and hungry, guiding you until your ass was pushed back against his face.
You felt him bury his face in you, rubbing his nose and mouth against the fabric like a cat in heat, almost purring under his breath. His lips brushed against the skin that peeked through, his breathing heavy, ragged with need.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down in one quick, fluid motion, the cool air hitting your bare skin as the fabric pooled at your knees. And then, without hesitation, his hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you back toward him.
The first touch of his tongue was slow, almost torturous, flicking against you with a teasing lightness. “Fuck.” you breathed, your fingers curling into fists against the wall as his mouth pressed closer, the heat of his breath against your bare skin sending another wave of need coursing through you.
He chuckled softly, the sound muffled against you as he licked and kissed, his grip tightening around your hips like he never wanted to let you go. “You taste so fucking good.” he muttered. His tongue moved with precision, the flicks and swirls driving you wild, your thighs already trembling.
Your body responded instantly, hips bucking against his mouth as your breath came in short, sharp gasps. “Alex-” you whimpered, unable to hold back the soft moan that followed his name. You pressed your forehead to the wall, struggling to keep your composure as his tongue worked.
“Mmm.” he groaned against you, his voice vibrating through your body. He took his time, licking and teasing, driving you to the edge with every flick. “I could stay down here forever.” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Keep you against this wall all night.”
Your knees buckled slightly, your body trembling under the assault of his mouth, but before you could even think of losing your balance, Alex shifted. His arms slid around to your front, wrapping tightly around you and pulling you flush against him. With a firm tug, he pulled your legs together, keeping them tightly pressed as he continued.
He wanted you this way. No spreading, no movement. Just his face buried between your thighs entirely on his own accord, his tongue continuing its relentless work. The pressure of your legs pressed together seemed to drive him wild, the soft, wet sounds of his mouth working harder as he moaned against your skin, shooting up through you.
The way he pulled you into him made it impossible to escape, not that you wanted to. You were caught in this unbearable tension. Your legs trembling, your body straining as he kept you pinned to the wall, his mouth still devouring you without giving you any room to breathe.
It was maddening, the sensation of his tongue flicking, swirling between your tightly-pressed thighs, like he was determined to unravel you piece by piece with nothing more than sheer will. Your knees buckled slightly, but his hold on you was iron-clad, keeping you from collapsing as he pulled you even closer. He needed to taste every bit of you.
“Fuck…Alex.” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as the pleasure built inside you, overwhelming and intense. “You- God-”
He hummed in response. His tongue moved faster, hungrier now, as if he could sense how close you were, how you were unravelling with every flick and stroke.
“God, you’re so fucking good at this.” you gasped, your breath coming in ragged pants as your fingers pressed harder against the wall.
He pulled back slightly, his mouth wet, lips glistening as he looked up at you with that devilish grin. “I know.” he said, his voice smug, confident. Then, without warning, his tongue was back on you, even faster this time, his lips sucking and teasing until you could barely stand.
You moaned, your head falling back as the pleasure consumed you, your hips grinding against his face as you chased that high, that edge that was so close now. “I’m gonna- fuck, Alex-”
He didn’t stop, didn’t let up for a second. His hands held you steady, his tongue working with such precision that it sent you spiralling. Your body tensed, gasping his name like a prayer.
Your legs gave out, and he caught you, his hands still firm on your hips as he pressed one last kiss against your cunt. He stood, slowly, hands sliding up your sides, pulling you close as he nuzzled against your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
“Better?” he whispered, his voice low, teasing, but laced with affection. His lips brushed your ear, then your jaw, before he kissed the corner of your mouth.
You couldn’t help but smile, still catching your breath as you leaned back into him. “Shut up.” you muttered, though the softness in your voice gave you away.
He chuckled, pulling you tighter into his arms, his lips brushing your temple. “You’re welcome.”

Later that night, the chaos of the half-painted office was far behind you. The bedroom was warm and quiet, the faint hum of the city outside barely reaching through the thick curtains. Alex lay sprawled out on the bed, looking every bit like a man who’d just completed a gruelling day of manual labour – despite only having painted one wall. He had an arm draped lazily over his stomach, his shirt hiked up just enough to reveal a sliver of his skin, and he groaned. He’d been defeated by his own indulgence.
“My tummy hurts now.” he muttered, the sound somewhere between a complaint and a sigh of resignation, as if the entire ordeal was completely out of his control.
You stood in the doorway, watching him with a smirk tugging at your lips. “You did that to yourself, you know.” you teased, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorframe. “I told you to slow down.”
He squinted at you through half-closed eyes, his hand patting his stomach dramatically. “You ordered it. It’s your fault.”
Rolling your eyes, you pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the bed, perching on the edge near him. “You’re unbelievable.” you said with a laugh. “How are you going to blame me for you eating like a starving animal?”
Alex gave a low groan of agreement and shifted slightly, his hand never leaving his belly. Then, with a sluggish, lazy motion, he hiked his shirt up even further, exposing the soft skin of his stomach completely. He rubbed it in slow, exaggerated circles, his eyes closing again as if the act might magically relieve him of his self-inflicted misery. “Ugh...too much food.” he muttered, his voice drifting on the verge of slipping into a coma.
You couldn’t help but smile, watching him, your fingers lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt where it was bunched up just below his ribs. “You’re so dramatic.” you teased softly.
Without opening his eyes, he reached for your hand, guiding it to his stomach and placing it there firmly, his fingers lingering over yours for a moment before pulling away. Then, in a voice as serious as a doctor delivering bad news, he asked, “Do you think it’s a girl?”
You burst into laughter, shaking your head as you pressed down lightly on his belly. The second your hand applied pressure, Alex let out a dramatic yelp, squirming beneath your touch as if you’d genuinely hurt him. “Ow, ow, ow! That hurt!” he whined, turning his body away from you, curling up slightly and clutching his stomach as if you’d wounded him.
You couldn’t help but laugh harder at his theatrics, even as you slid closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “I’m sorry.” you whispered into his neck, kissing the soft skin there gently. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He didn’t budge, still curled up and facing away from you like a sulking child. “I’m not forgiving you so easily.” he muttered, though his voice was lighter now, betraying the smile he was trying to hide.
You pressed another kiss to his neck, then another, your lips trailing up toward his ear. “Please? I’ll be extra nice.”
He let out a dramatic sigh, still pretending to be stubborn. “I don’t know. It really hurt.” he said, his tone teasing, though he still didn’t turn to face you. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”
You smiled against his skin, hugging him tighter, your hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to rest on the warm skin of his stomach again, but gentler this time. “Anything you want.” you murmured softly, your lips brushing against his ear.
He finally shifted, turning back toward you, his eyes opening just a fraction, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Anything?” he asked.
You nodded, your forehead resting against his as you smiled back. “Anything.”
He didn’t even hesitate, his grin only widening. “Blowie?” he said, the word leaving his mouth like a half-joke, but the heat in his gaze told you he was entirely serious. His hand, still resting lazily on his stomach, gave a slight, almost imperceptible tug at the hem of his pants as if to illustrate his point.
You snorted softly, shaking your head but smiling. “Is that your grand demand?” you asked, leaning up just enough to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He didn’t answer, just gave you a look – a look you knew all too well.
Alex grinned, his hand finding yours again, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pulled you closer, wrapping you in his arms. “You’re lucky I’m so easy to please.” he murmured.
“Okay.” you whispered against his cheek before shifting lower, sliding off his chest and shuffling down between his legs.
Alex barely moved. He was still sprawled out lazily on the bed, his body relaxed, no intention of putting in any effort, even for this. He lifted his hips just enough to give you room as you settled between his legs, the sheets rustling softly beneath you. His hand lazily drifted down, brushing against your arm as you got comfortable, but even that felt like an afterthought.
“Mmm, there you go.” he muttered, his voice low and sleepy as he grinned down at you, his legs parting just enough to make space. He was still so lazy about it all, barely bothering to adjust his position, just enough for you to do the work, like he expected to be pampered.
You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath, shaking your head at how easy it was for him to be like this. His entire body was relaxed, not a hint of tension, as if he were already halfway to falling asleep again, trusting you completely to take care of him.
“You’re such a lazy bastard.” you teased softly, your fingers tracing along the waistband of his pants.
He gave you a crooked grin, shifting just enough to make you laugh again. “Too full to move.” he mumbled in mock protest, though the glint in his eyes told you otherwise. His hand rested lazily over his stomach, fingers tracing absent circles as he watched you with half-lidded eyes. “Seriously, I might die. This could be my last request.”
You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Your last request is a ‘blowie’? How romantic.”
“I’m a simple man with simple needs.” he replied, his voice low and teasing, though the way he was watching you made it clear that there was nothing simple about what he was feeling right now. His hand drifted down, brushing against your cheek with a touch so light it made your skin tingle. “Besides, you owe me for earlier. And you hurt my delicate stomach.”
You smirked, pressing a kiss to his thigh, making him twitch slightly. “I said I was sorry.” you said, your tone mock-innocent.
“Nuh uh, not enough.” His lips curved into that crooked grin again, his hand finding its way back to your hair, fingers lazily threading through it. “I require more convincing.”
“And this is what you want as an apology? Not, I don’t know, maybe a back rub or a foot massage?”
He huffed, shifting slightly like he was thinking about it for a second. “Nah. I’d rather have this.” He gestured lazily down toward his waistband, his hips lifting slightly to emphasise it.
“You’re so predictable, Alex.”
His fingers tightened slightly in your hair, but not to guide you, just to feel you there. His voice dropped to a lower tone, though his grin remained. “Can’t help it if I want you.” he said, the words carrying a meaning that didn’t match the smile on his face. He watched you with half-closed eyes, but they were focused, drinking in the sight of you between his legs, exactly where he wanted you.
You bit your lip, your hands tracing the line of his pants, fingers teasing the edge of his skin. “Okay, okay.” you said, giving in. “You win.”
Alex gave a satisfied hum, his grin widening as he scooted his hips up a little to make room for you, but barely. “That’s my girl.” he muttered, his voice slurring with contentment.
You kissed his thigh again, watching his expression as his eyes fluttered for a moment. “You know,” you said as your fingers slipped beneath his waistband, pulling it down just enough to free him, “you’re really spoiled.”
“Yep.” he agreed without missing a beat. “Spoiled rotten, baby.”
You laughed softly, your hands moving slowly, deliberately teasing him. “What would you do without me?”
“Probably starve.” he replied, his tone so serious it made you giggle. His fingers tangled in your hair again, tugging lightly to pull you closer “Definitely wouldn’t get blowies.”
“Poor baby.” you murmured, kissing the inside of his thigh once more, making him shiver slightly beneath your touch.
“Mmm.” he hummed in response, his body shifting slightly. “You’re not gonna tease me too long, right?” His voice was playful but low, a hint of impatience creeping in as he finally opened his eyes to look down at you, his gaze dark and heated.
You smiled, your hand wrapping around him gently, giving him a teasing stroke. “No promises.”
His breath hitched slightly, but he was still grinning, his fingers tightening in your hair as his hips lifted, pushing into your touch as he relaxed back against the pillows. “God, you’re good at this.” he muttered, his body pliant beneath your touch as he basked in the sensation.
“You spoil me too.” you whispered softly.
“Damn right.” he murmured, though his words were starting to slur together, his body relaxing even more as he let out a deep, contented sigh. His hand remained in your hair, though it was no longer guiding, just resting there as he let you do the work, his eyes closing once more as he surrendered to the moment.
You started with slow, teasing licks, your tongue circling the tip of him, savoring the warmth and taste as you explored him. His deep, satisfied sigh reverberated through his chest, his fingers tangling further in your hair as his body melted deeper into the pillow, completely at ease under your touch.
You found a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling, taking your time to enjoy every inch of him. The taste was intoxicating, a mix of heat and salt that made you moan softly. You felt him throb in response to each flick, his body tensing and relaxing with every movement.
“God, that feels incredible.” he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure, every word laced with a desperation that made your heart race. You took him deeper, your lips sliding down his length, filling your mouth completely. The warmth of him, the weight stretching your lips, pulled a soft moan from you. The vibration of your voice made him twitch, and he let out a breathless laugh. “You can’t just make sounds like that and not expect me to get more turned on.”
“Mmm, glad you like it.” you mumbled, your words muffled but playful. It was hard to focus on anything else when he filled your mouth so completely, when his guttural sounds spurred you on and with the way he throbbed with each gentle suck. He felt perfect in your mouth.
“I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up.” he admitted, his voice strained, yet full of awe. “You’re-”
“You don’t have to hold back.” you murmured around him, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want to hear you.”
He chuckled, the sound warm but edged with urgency. “Oh, you’ll hear me.” he promised as you glanced up at him. “Just wait until I-” His words dissolved into a low moan as you picked up the pace, sucking harder, your mouth working him with an intensity that had him gasping again.
“Holy hell.” he breathed, his hips bucking as you took him even deeper, your tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of him. He shuddered. “Just like that. God, you’re amazing.” His words tumbled out in a stream of appreciation and need. “Just...a little more.”
You hummed softly, the sound vibrating around him, and Alex’s eyes widened as a groan ripped from his chest, his head falling back against the pillow. “I’m gonna-” he gasped, breath catching. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
With each motion, you felt his body tighten, his breathing becoming more erratic, matching the rising tension between you. “You’re so close.” you whispered, catching his gaze briefly before pressing your lips to him again, teasing his most sensitive spot with expert movements.
His body trembled, and the pressure between you built rapidly. “You’ve got to- oh god, don’t stop. Just don’t-” he gasped, his fingers tightening in your hair with the slightest pressure, urging you to continue.
With a final flick of your tongue, you felt him throb hard in your mouth, his body arching as a choked groan escaped him, echoing through the room as he reached his climax. You swallowed around him, savoring the warmth and taste, moaning softly as he let go completely, lost in the moment.
“Holy shit.” he gasped, his body trembling as he collapsed back deeper into the mattress, chest heaving. You pulled away slowly, licking your lips, a satisfied smile on your face.
“That was quite the reaction.” you teased, resting your chin on his thigh, the warmth of his body still radiating through you.
He chuckled, breathless but amused. “You have no idea.” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Ten out of ten for that. You’re something else. ”
“Just a little practice.” you replied. “Maybe I’ll spoil you like that more often. But don’t forget who made you feel this way.” you said, flashing him a playful smile.
His laugh was soft and genuine, fingers gently threading through your hair. “I’ll never forget.” he promised, “Not a chance.”

a/n: I think it’s a bit messy still but he’s cute so maybe you’ll forgive me...that first scene is very inspired (copied) from BCS, as you’d expect.
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maybe i was mistaken

just a summer thing
warnings: smuting, sexing, blowing, eating, fingering, flinging, etc.
word count: 3.4k
The relationship between Alex and you can't be understated. Some say it was gradual, some say it was all at once. But you would just describe it as one summer. Nestled in the heated crest of 2013, you met Alex, you fucked Alex, you loved Alex, and you never saw Alex again.
You met Alex at a party in January. One with a blurry memory and only one photo to prove you were ever there. Then, you met again at another party. This time in June, only one drink in, and enough hair gel to suffocate a man and turn on a woman to a ridiculous degree.
"You know, I'd never thought I'd have a thing for Danny Zuko," you told him, three drinks in, two makeout sessions later. The edges of his mouth had red lipstick smeared on it, just like the rim of your glass. He had visions of that smear around his cock and he was sure he was going to get it tonight. "But after tonight."
He wrapped an arm around you and gripped your ass, not shameful in feeling you up. In fact, every advance had been edged closer and closer to exhibitionism. It turned you on along with the clang of his belt and those black Chelsea boots. "Some say it's Elvis," Alex said, pushing his hand along the side of the grease helmet.
"Isn't that the same thing?" You countered. "Elvis, Danny, Birdie."
He raises an eyebrow. It feels calculated. "Birdie?"
"From Bye Bye Birdie, the musical," you explain. "It's based on Elvis going to war. It even has Ann-Marget, Elvis's l—"
His mouth covers you, absorbing away at that red pigment. He takes control of you completely and you fall away, into him completely. There's a tight squeeze of your ass and a signal from him, rubbing up against you, telling you it's time to get a room.
Somewhere in the pounding chaos of this party, he locks a door, and you get down on your knees. Alex's eyes glaze over as you take him into your mouth, his head lulling to the side as your tongue sweeps across his head and teases his slit. Your eyes lock onto his, watching him watch you as you bop your head up and down, your plump lips stretching as you slowly take more of him into your mouth.
You hollow your cheeks and suck, your mouth making obscene noises. You get halfway down before you pull back and start again, bringing a hand up to wrap around his shaft and stroke him as you begin to descend again, this time gagging when you feel his tip poking the back of your throat.
"Fuck, baby, that's it," Alex moans, his hands tangling in your soft hair, feeling your throat contract around his dick. He doesn't hold your head or force you to take more, just massages your scalp and lets you keep control. "That feels so good."
You smile around his cock, slurping and sucking and stroking him to full length with eagerness and vigor. You watch his face as you please him, feel the way his thighs tighten underneath your hands, the way his body does these cute little jerks and jumps when he's trying not to come too early. You fall in love with it all. He takes hold of his cock and empties completely into your mouth, the last drop hanging on that faded red lip.
Then, there was a call. It might have been a week after the party, maybe less. He called and invited you to dinner and what you thought to be unrequited infatuation after a hookup became reciprocated because Alex has always known how to reciprocate.
He never called you his girlfriend. You never called him your boyfriend. But you were each other's arm candy. He was your date for a wedding. You were the woman on his arm at Glastonbury.
Fortunately and unfortunately, it wasn't a friendly affair. It was a carnivorous and burning desire that left you both desperate individuals with only the other to suppress the flames until the fire fought back and the process repeated.
You slammed your head up against the wall as he mauled away at your neck. He could kill you, mouth on your jugular, let you bleed out. Is it sick that you'd let him? You've fallen so deeply into him. Deeper than you want to confess, even to yourself.
He's hungry, hand on your thigh, pulling your left leg up, his erection dancing right around your core. It's obsessive teasing and you ride up right into him, making his breath hitch against your throat. "You want me to do you right here?"
You hum with a quick nod. He pulls back with a smirk, his hands leaving your body to undo his belt. You're in some bathroom at some fancy function that you don't understand and are quite bored by but he asked you to come so you came. Now, well, now he's asking again.
He presses his body up against yours, sandwiching you in between the wall. Alex's hands slowly drag their way up your thighs to your short silk dress, pushing the skirt up so teasingly. His mouth hovers inches away from your mouth, hot breath consuming you. You could fall right into him and die for it but you maintain your willpower to resist his pull.
His fingers brush the lacy edge of your panties, sending shivers through you. The smirk on his face only grows more pleased. He moves across the waistline, stopping to play with the tiny bow.
Then, suddenly, his movements quicken like the desire has caught up with him. He pulls himself out of his underwear, giving himself a few pumps. "Do you want me to...?" You suggest, motioning to his cock.
He chuckles. "Nah, I want to fuck you here and now and quick. That alright with you?"
It's all too easy to say, "Yeah" before he's taking you over again. He pulls your panties to the side and runs his fingers through the folds once before he enters you. It's pounding and there's no teasing in any way. You both know there is probably a line forming outside this bathroom and you're both so hungry for it that there is no need to play it slow and sensual. Not that there's much love in your lovemaking.
"Fuck," he mutters, "you like that? Huh?"
You can only manage to say, "Yeah." Your arms cling around his neck to keep some stability as he thrusts into you. His hands are on your waist, pulling you into him, having you match his rhythm. It's dirty. You feel dirty. And you like it.
Everything is pounding—Him, the music, your head—but you're lost in it completely. You throw your head back and knock into the wall again, enough to grasp your head in pain, cursing. Alex just thinks you're really into it. He pushes you to your knees, grabs your head, and lays his dick on your tongue, shooting into your mouth. "Fuck that was good."
"Yeah." You continue to clutch the back of your head. "I think I'm bleeding."
"What? Like your period?" Alex looks down at his cock, still out and shiny with cum, no period blood.
"No, my head. I hit it." You look at the tips of your fingers, a slight stain of red.
"Oh, fuck. You okay?" He takes up his pants, fixing his belt, and taking a long gaze in the mirror at his slightly roughed-up appearance. He pulls out a comb from his back pocket and runs it through his hair.
You're not sure what to say. You take to your feet and try to get a look at yourself in the mirror. "Yeah." Your hair is messy but that's nothing new. The light is hurting your eyes and you suddenly feel like you should be at home. Not in some foreign country with a man you barely know. "I think I'm gonna go back to the hotel."
"Alright. I'm gonna hang around here some more. Are you sure you're okay? I'm sure a drink would help."
Alex seems to think that a lot. The cure for anything is a drink. You're not sure if that applies to everything in his life or just you. You shake your head and say you'll be fine. You're not sure what time he returns to the hotel but his arm is wrapped around you when you wake up. It's enough reason to not go home.
*
In July, he crashes at your place for a week. You try to be realistic, as you always have with Alex, but you can't convince yourself this isn't serious. That during his break from touring, he shacks up with you. He cooks dinner for you one night and on another, he rubs your feet after they've suffered in heels.
"I love having you around here," you tell him on the last night. It's the closest you'll ever get to saying "I love you" to him.
He rubs his hands along your legs that are sitting in his lap. "Thanks for having me. I like it around here a lot."
You giggle at his pronunciation. "You mean you like the privacy."
"Well, yeah." Your words are a sign for him and he brushes his hand up higher, past your knee, up your thigh. Any response you had is left in your throat.
His fingers touch the waistband of your shorts, flicking them away from the skin. "Will you do something for me?" For the first time, he sounds timid, nervous even.
"What?"
You think of what he could say, what you long for him to say. Those declarations of love that sit on your tongue. Instead, he asks, "Can you touch yourself?"
Your mouth gapes. "Like masturbate?"
Alex chuckles at your reaction. "Yeah. Touch yourself," he whispers.
You never thought you would do this, something so vulnerable to you, but his gaze is strong and he can convince you of anything with those eyes. You slide your shorts off, your fingers brushing against the moist material of your underwear.
You lean back and relax against the couch's arm cushion as you spread your legs wider, allowing Alex a greater view. You bite your lip as you run the tip of your finger up and down your underwear, applying a little bit more pressure each time you trace yourself.
"Will you do it too?" You ask. The imagined sight of that turns you on severely.
He shakes his head. "Later. I want to watch you now." You hum and dance over the fabric shielding your pussy. You reach in and finally touch yourself. "How wet are you?" He asks softly, watching your hand move between your legs. He keeps one hand on your leg, the other sits on his crotch, neither moving.
Your eyes flutter closed as your fingertips slide through your slick folds, tracing a long path up the entire length of your slit, your breath hitching as you brush your clit. "So wet," you finally answer him.
You start rubbing tight circles on your clit until your whole body tenses and you're coming violently with Alex staring straight on.
A satisfied smile covers his face as your body relaxes. His body starts moving toward you, a predator hunting its prey. You whimper as his fingers approach your pussy, his hand resting on the lips. "You want to come on my fingers now?"
You nod and his slowness is destructive but it's so much softer now. You've never done foreplay but now one hand is smoothing over your sensitive skin while the other reaches under your top, searching for your nipple. His eyes look into yours and for a moment you can see everything clearly, the feeling seeping out of him.
Then, his fingers run through you, wetting themselves from you. His head moves down lower and he moves off the bed, kneeling beside you. He shifts your hips toward him, giving him a perfect view. He hooks his fingers in the band of your panties and pulls them down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder and spreading you wide open to get a nice look at your pussy. He licks his lips before diving in, giving your inner thigh a few quick nips before he drops the pretense and moves his mouth directly on you.
The first lick makes your head spin and he laps at you to get more and more of you on his tongue. The flat of his tongue licks broad stripes up and down your wetness. Your hips buck off the bed and towards Alex's mouth, practically humping his face.
He latches his plump lips onto your swollen clit, sucking and slurping on the nub as his tongue traces words and shapes on it. His fingers wrap around your thighs and pull you even closer.
Alex abandons your clit to move down to your hole, dipping his tongue inside your warmth and fucking you with it while his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit. As he eagerly licks you out, his gaze drifts up and meets yours, staring you down until you are falling apart around his tongue, the walls of your pussy vibrating around it. He grips your thighs tightly to keep you in place as he continues to eat away at you through your orgasm.
He wraps you up in his arms that night. Each caress is caring when he fucks you and he leaves his cum inside you and you know your deluding yourself with the thought that he loves you, trusts you enough to hold something so personal. You know you're not the first. You'd beg to be the last. But you've always seen the writing on the wall.
On tour, it's like being a ghost. Sex is the only solution it seems. You can't complain, you enjoy it, you love it, but sometimes you feel like you don't exist. It's easy to make excuses. He's busy. The schedule is insane and it's hard to hold the same bliss as you had at your house when you're basically in a tin can for a month straight.
You decide to head back home citing work responsibilities but you know he doesn't believe you. The rest of July passes with no contact. Everything is a blur until August.
He shows up at your front door like some bizarre vision. He's suave and moves with little hesitation into your apartment. You think about questioning him, asking him what right he has to stroll in here after hearing nothing from him, but you know it's no use.
"You look nice," Alex says. He looks around the place like he's playing Spot the Difference, trying to find the changes in you, trying to see if somebody else has come in here. He eyes you up and down like he's trying to see if there is somebody else.
"Thanks. You too." For him, that's all the permission he needs to approach you. "It's late."
"Yeah," he rubs the side of his head, "I'm a little drunk."
You nod. "Figured."
"Come here to fuck you," he laughs embarrassingly. "Now I just kind of feel pathetic."
You shake your head. "I'm the pathetic one."
"No, you're not. Sorry I've been a jerk."
"It's fine. I'm not shocked by it."
He chuckles. "I'm just, you know, going through some stuff."
"Okay."
"I'll probably be going through it for a while."
"Okay."
"Sorry."
"You don't have to feel guilty. We can just fuck."
"Okay," he says. His lips are quick because it's always quick. His hands are rough on your body and he's pulling away at your shorts, taking them off along with your underwear. He's equal, pulling away to take off his jeans. You take your shirt off, so he takes his shirt, and suddenly you're both nude.
He comes back to you, taking your head in his hands, holding you to him. His hand travels down, teasing its way to your pussy where he rubs his fingers through you. "This good?"
You nod your head, bucking your hips forward into Alex's hand, desperately trying to create some friction. "Please, I need…"
"What do you need?" He whispers, smirking at you and the way you shiver as his hot breath tickles your neck. He moves with your body, his fingers slipping through you, pulling little gasps out of you every time he hits your clit. He keeps teasing you, massaging the bud for a moment before dipping back into your folds, reaching back, but not far enough to get to your entrance.
He trails his hand across smooth skin, flipping you around so your back is to him. You lean against the back of the couch and stick out your butt. Alex shuffles and lines himself up with your core. He grips the base of his cock, and guides the head through your wet folds. He slowly starts pushing inside you. "Holy fuck."
"You okay?" You pant out, turning your head back to look at him.
He nods but doesn't make eye contact, too dazed. "Yeah. It's just been too long."
You giggle at him. "Same here. You stretch me out good."
He moans at that, dipping his head back. He pushes the rest of the way in, burying his entire length in your pussy. You clench around him as you get used to the feeling of being so full again.
Alex holds still, taking a moment. It takes so long that you start moving your hips back into him, rolling them in that way he likes. His eyes roll back as you fuck yourself on his cock, and he lets you set the pace for a few moments before he gathers his bearings and starts thrusting forward, meeting each of your slams with his own sharp pumps.
You rock against each other roughly before your movements start to flow, and you're fucking each other in rhythm. He grips your hips as he drills into, holding on tight as his thrusts pick up speed.
He drops his forehead against your shoulder, his eyes drifting down to watch as your ass presses up against his stomach with each pump. "That feel good, baby?" He pants into your ear.
You moan back, "I want you to come inside me, fill me up."
He whimpers at the words, and transitions from his pounding into smoother, longer thrusts, letting his hands move from your sides to find your hands, lacing your fingers together. He arches his chest away from your back so he can slide into you more easily.
His moans blend with your whimpers, and you're so caught up in pleasure. He keeps thrusting, feeling your walls starting to get tighter around his cock each time he slides through you.
"I'm close," you pant. He speeds up his pumping and he hits that spot that makes you go stiff. Your pussy clamping down hard on his cock. "Oh, fuck, I-" It's all you're able to spit out before you're shaking. He's quick to follow, spilling into your pussy.
You pant and shake against one another for a minute, Alex's hips jerking a bit as he continues to empty himself into you. Then, there's the question of the after.
He pulls himself from you with a sigh. "Are you alright?" He asks.
"Yeah."
He heads to the shower and you join him. It's as intimate as you'll ever get. After, he almost heads home, but you convince him to stay that night. In bed, you ask him about the tour.
He says, "It's long. This is my last big break until Christmas."
"And you spent it with me?" You hate the hopefulness in your voice. It betrays you, desperate to not sound desperate.
Alex seems to not know what to say for a while. He grabs your hand and plays with the tips of your fingers. "I feel like a jerk for saying goodbye."
You sigh and for once decide to be honest with him. "You are. I cared about you a lot. More than you did." He nods, staring down at your fingers. He tries not to show your words affecting him but his face betrays him, frowning and hopeless. "But I'm alright with saying goodbye. I'm comfortable just being a footnote in your story."
He shakes his head and finally looks at you. "You were more than a footnote. You'll at least get a chapter in the story of my life."
You share a laugh and it's nice when it's like this. Quiet and just the two of you and your laughter. "Thanks. I think you'll get a page in mine."
He nods. "I'm fine with that. I'm happy you're even allowing me to be included."
You sigh. "Well, you did fly me to Europe so I can't complain."
*
a/n: not my best work but it's finally something. writing some other things too...
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Sweet Rain

and he’s even sweeter
warnings: dad!alex, smut, handjob, mommy’s boy, he’s a bit sad (of course he is)
word count: 5.5k
It was dark and wet and cold outside, the kind of night that seemed to seep into your bones. You loved it. He hated it. It always made him more melancholic, his usual quiet introspection deepening into something heavier, something he couldn’t easily shake. You didn’t mind the rain, not necessarily, but the cold always brought with it a craving for warmth — the kind of warmth only his arms, wrapped tightly around you, could give. His body against yours. The kind of comfort that only came when the world outside felt so unforgiving.
Tonight, though, you needed something different. Something that would give you space to breathe, if only for a little while. A bath seemed perfect.
Before heading off, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, your lips brushing the faint stubble that had started to grow along his jawline. You whispered that you were going to the bathroom, giving him a gentle smile. He didn’t look up right away, his eyes still fixed on something beyond the window, the rain casting streaks across the glass. But he nodded, his voice low and gravelly from the day’s exhaustion. “I’ll take care of her tonight.”
You stepped back, though you couldn’t help but linger, your gaze finding him once more. He sat in the old wooden chair by the window, one leg bent, his body slouched slightly, as if he allowed the weight of the day to finally settle. His hair was tousled, dark strands falling just above his brow, curling slightly where the rain had touched it earlier when he’d come inside. His eyes, though tired, were still sharp, still alive, focused intently on the crib beside him.
The soft light illuminated the side of his face, catching the shadows under his eyes — deeper now from sleepless nights — and the soft curve of his lips, lips that hadn’t quite formed a smile today. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers occasionally twitching, like he wasn’t fully at ease. Yet there was something almost sacred in the way he watched her. His attention completely absorbed by her tiny figure, wrapped snugly in blankets, her small breaths so soft they barely disturbed the air. She was still settling, tiny movements, little stretches, her face occasionally scrunching in that way babies do, like they’re dreaming of something they can’t possibly understand.
He’d developed a habit of watching her like this, especially when he thought no one else was around. Like the world quieted, narrowed down to just the two of them. Maybe it was how he was processing the enormity of it all, the shift from the life he once had, to this new reality, to being a father. You’d caught him like this before, his gaze far away yet so intimately connected to her, almost as if he was trying to memorise every second of her existence.
Tonight was no different. He was so still, so wrapped up in the moment, that he didn’t notice you standing there, watching him for longer than you intended. Or maybe he did. There was always that thing, wasn’t there? That sensation people get when they’re being watched. The way the air changes, the way something shifts, as if the person can feel the weight of your gaze on their skin. But he didn’t seem to mind too much. If anything, he relaxed into it, as if your presence was a comfort even from across the room.
His fingers drummed lightly on the chair, a slow, absent rhythm that matched the steady hum of rain outside. His other hand drifted toward the edge of the crib, fingertips brushing the wood as if he needed the physical connection to her, like touching the crib itself somehow granted him that. The curve of his shoulders, the way his body leaned into the chair, told you he was tired. Tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. But there was a gentleness in the way he sat there, a calm that only seemed to come when he was with her.
You felt a pang of something in your chest as you finally broke the moment. Stepping softly, you made your way down the hallway, the spell of the room lifting as you moved further away. The sound of the rain outside filled your ears again, a steady patter on the roof that was almost comforting in its consistency. It accompanied you like an old friend as you entered the room.
The quiet was soon interrupted by the rush of water as you turned the faucet, letting it fill the tub at just the right temperature. Warm, almost hot, the kind of heat that would soak deep into your muscles. You sat on the edge of the tub for a moment, feeling the steam rise, wrapping itself around you.
You began to undress, peeling off the layers one by one, tossing them into the laundry basket nearby. You tugged your hair out of its tie, running your fingers through the strands to loosen them. It was a small routine, but a comforting one, a ritual that signalled the day was ending. A time to unwind.
As you stepped into the water, you sighed, the warmth immediately pulling you under its spell. You sank deeper, letting the heat surround you, closing your eyes and listening to the muffled world outside. The cold, the rain, the melancholy — it all felt distant now. All that mattered was this. This moment of stillness, this warmth, and the knowledge that just down the hall, he was watching over her.
That warmth began to take over, its heat slowly loosening the tightness in your body. You let yourself sink deeper, the water creeping up around your neck, inch by inch, until it filled your ears, muffling the sounds of the world outside. The rain still tapped against the window, but it sounded far away now, like it belonged to some other place, some other time. All you could feel was the warm, soothing embrace of the bath, your body floating in its weightlessness.
For a moment, you let your thoughts drift, lulled by the warmth, your mind blissfully blank. It was so quiet, so still, that you almost didn’t hear his steps as he approached. It wasn’t until you caught the faint creak of the floorboards and the way the light from the hallway spilled across the tiles that you realised he was there. You lifted your head just slightly, your eyes half-lidded as you watched the doorway.
His bare feet appeared first, hesitating just on the edge of the tile as if the coldness of the floor was something he wasn’t quite ready to confront. He just stood there, hovering in the threshold, the soft glow of the light behind him casting him in silhouette. He looked almost hesitant, like he’d forgotten why he came in the first place. His hand rested on the doorframe, fingers curling loosely around the wood, while his other hand hung by his side, his posture heavy, but somehow still alert.
“She’s asleep.” he said softly, but still a little rough around the edges. It was the kind of voice that made you feel like everything was all right. Even when it wasn’t.
You smiled to yourself, eyes still closed, relaxing further into the warmth of the water as you asked, “Did you take all the blankets out of the crib?”
He nodded, though you couldn’t see it. His presence was more felt than seen in the dim light. “Yeah. Took ’em all out.” he said, his voice still gentle, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the room.
“And Mr. Bean?”
There was a pause, and you could almost hear the faint amusement in his voice when he answered, “Yeah, Mr. Bean too. Everythin’s where it should be.”
Mr. Bean was the small, brown teddy bear that his parents had gotten for her. A soft, worn copy of the one that the actual Mr. Bean, the character, carried around. You both hadn’t exactly been inspired when it came to naming him, but somehow, it fit. He was always there, tucked into the crib, watching over her, just like Alex did.
You opened your eyes now, catching the faint outline of him as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face in a motion that seemed more habitual than anything. He looked tired, still. His hair, still slightly damp from the earlier rain, curled in uneven waves, and he blinked slowly, as if he, too, was trying to keep hold of some kind of calm in the middle of everything. The room was dim, but in the quiet intimacy of the space, you could see the way his shoulders had slumped, how the day had worn him down.
You could tell he wasn’t ready to leave yet. He lingered in the doorway like he needed a moment before heading back to the quiet house, to the weight of responsibility waiting for him. And in a way, you both knew this was your sanctuary, your small escape from the world you now shared with her.
You leaned your head back against the edge of the tub, your eyes softening as you looked at him, catching his gaze, trying to offer some unspoken reassurance.
“Thanks for taking care of her.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, the warmth of the water lulling you back into that drowsy comfort.
He gave a small, crooked smile that tugged at the corner of his lips but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing.”
But you both knew it wasn’t nothing.
He lingered, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other. You could see it, the subtle hesitation in the way his fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe, like he was trying to work up the courage to ask something. His gaze flicked from you to the water, then back again, as if searching for the right words.
“Can I, uh…” He cleared his throat, the faintest hint of a sheepish grin tugging at his lips as he gestured toward the tub, a small, awkward motion that betrayed how much he wanted to join you in your warmth. “Mind if I...?”
You nodded, a smile creeping across your face as you shifted in the water, making room for him. He gave you a grateful look, his shoulders relaxing a little as if your permission had taken a weight off him.
With deliberate slowness, as if to drag this out as long as he possibly could, he started unbuttoning his shirt, his long fingers working deftly down the row of buttons. You’d often wondered why he still bothered dressing up, even when most days he didn’t venture much further than the shop at the corner of your street. A crisp shirt, tailored pants — it was almost a ritual for him. Maybe it was something that made him feel more like himself, even when the rest of the world felt chaotic. Enough so that it came above pure comfort.
The stripes on the shirt, neatly aligned just moments ago, soon became a mess of crumpled spirals as he bunched it up and tossed it into the growing pile of dirty clothes. There was something oddly satisfying in watching him shed those layers, peeling back the day. His pants followed soon after, falling to the floor with a soft rustle before they were kicked aside. The familiar rhythm of this scene, the quiet intimacy of it, felt like a balm to the coldness outside.
He was left with nothing but the faint gleam of gold around his neck and the ring that rested on his finger. You knew how much that ring meant to him. It wasn’t a wedding band, but something he’d gotten after she was born. “I missed wearing a ring.” he’d told you once, referring to the other one he’d lost years ago, fiddling with it absentmindedly. It seemed like a small thing, but to him, it was significant. Something that deserved its place on him all the time. A mark of who he was now, tied to something greater than himself.
You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back again, before stepping forward, carefully dipping his toes into the water as if testing the temperature. He let out a small sigh of relief, the warmth already starting to seep into his skin. His body, lean and familiar, moved with that same easy grace he always had, even though you could still sense the exhaustion clinging to him.
He stepped into the tub slowly, the water rising around his legs as he carefully manoeuvred himself to sit in front of you, his back tentatively pressing against your chest. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, eyes searching your face with a flicker of uncertainty.
“Is this…okay?” he asked, his voice quiet, softer than one might expect to hear from him. “Or did you want me behind you?”
You blinked, surprised by the hesitation in his words. There was something about the way he asked that tugged at you, like he was testing boundaries, nervous. You could feel it in the way he sat, not quite committing to the closeness yet. “I just didn’t want to, y’know, take up too much space.” he added quickly, a hint of awkwardness creeping into his tone, his gaze flicking away as if embarrassed by his own words.
You tilted your head, watching him closely, and realised just how much this moment seemed to mean to him. It was rare to see him like this. So uncertain, almost shy. There had been a distance between you two lately, unspoken but felt in the quiet moments, in the days that passed without the usual touches or lingering glances. Life had filled every gap, leaving little room for moments like this.
“Hey.” you said softly, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pulling him closer so his back rested more fully against your chest. “You’re not taking up space. You’re fine here.” You gave him a reassuring squeeze, hoping it would quiet the nervousness you could feel radiating from him.
He paused for a moment, his muscles still tense beneath your touch. “You sure?” he asked again, his voice almost a whisper now. “I can move if you want…”
You leaned in, your lips brushing against his shoulder as you spoke. “I want you here. With me. Like this.”
You felt the last bit of tension leave him as he sighed, finally allowing himself to settle into you, his body relaxing in the warmth of the bath. And your embrace. His head tipped back slightly, just enough for you to feel the way his breath started to come slower, deeper.
“Alright.” he muttered, sounding more at ease now. His hands came up and lightly covered yours where they rested on his chest. “I just…I don’t know.” he trailed off, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing along your knuckles. “I’ve missed this.” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. “Feels like it���s been…a while.”
Your heart softened at his words. He was right. Neither of you had really acknowledged how long it had been since you’d had a moment like this. Just the two of you. You nodded, though he couldn’t see it, your chin brushing his shoulder as you rested your head against him.
“Yeah.” you whispered, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his collarbones beneath your palms. “I’ve missed it too.”
He let out a soft chuckle, though there was a hint of sadness to it. “Guess we’ve both been a bit…lost in it all, huh?” His hands tightened slightly over yours, as if he was afraid you might pull away.
You hugged him a little tighter. “Yeah.” you agreed, voice soft. “But we’re here now. That’s what matters.”
He nodded silently, his head falling forward slightly, eyes closing as he allowed himself to truly relax in your hold. For a while, neither of you said anything more, letting the quiet stretch between you.
After a few moments, he let out a deep, contented sigh. “Missed this.” he murmured again, but this time his voice was calmer, more settled, as though the weight of his admission had finally lifted.
His fingers traced over your knuckles before rubbing softly along his collarbones, the motion gentle, almost instinctive. You felt his pulse there, steady under your touch, and you smiled against his skin.
“Me too.” you whispered back, holding him close, both of you finally feeling the peace that had been missing for so long.
He leaned back into you, fully surrendering to the closeness, his body sinking deeper into the water as he rested against your chest. His head settled against your shoulder, you felt your wet hair dripping softly onto his, dark strands sticking to his forehead. He shifted, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed just behind your ear, and a slow ripple of goosebumps formed on your arms, your legs, not from the cold air, but from the way his presence made your body react everywhere he touched.
His arms moved, sliding over his own chest, as one hand reached around to your neck, his fingers brushing the other side — the part of you he wasn’t currently rubbing his face against. His touch was soft at first, but you could feel the tension growing, the restlessness in the way he held you. It was as if the heat of the water, mixed with the scent of your skin, was pulling him deeper into something he couldn’t control, something he didn’t even want to resist.
You felt the shift in his breathing, the way it grew heavier, more laboured, as your fingers began to trail down from his chest, over the smooth plane of his stomach, stopping just at the point where the faint trail of hair began. A shiver ran through him, his body reacting instantly to your touch. His lips trembled against the side of your neck, brushing your skin as his hand left its place at your throat and moved to cover yours, guiding it lower.
He didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers pressed down on yours told you everything he couldn’t bring himself to ask aloud. He led you to him, your palm brushing over the hardness beginning to stir between his legs. You cupped him gently in your hand, feeling the way his body responded, his cock growing firm against your palm, his own hand covering yours, his fingertips pressing insistently into your knuckles as if to say, more.
His breathing quickened, loud in your ear, each breath a little more rugged than the last as you started to move your hand slowly along his length. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of your touch, and you felt him hardening, the warmth of the water mingling with the heat radiating off him. His chest, which had been pale moments ago, was now turning rosy, the flush spreading like wildfire across his skin. You could feel his heartbeat syncing with the motion of your hand.
The water sloshed softly around the two of you, the movement barely noticeable. His head tipped back against your shoulder, his lips parted slightly, a low groan escaping him as he pressed his body further into yours, wanting more of the contact, more of the closeness. You could feel the tension, the way his hands tightened on yours, guiding you along, wordlessly communicating his desire.
You kept your movements slow, feeling him grow harder with each pass of your palm, the heat between you intensifying until it felt like the water was barely containing it. The flush deeped and you could hear the faint hitch in his breath as you continued, the soft sound of his pleasure filling the room, mixing with the steady rhythm of the rain outside.
His legs bent instinctively, lifting his knees out of the water and exposing them to the bite of the cold air. He didn’t seem to care. His hips moved gently, insistently, pushing into your hand as if pleading for more, his body urging you on even before his voice could catch up. Urging. More please. More.
“Please mommy…” His whisper was so soft, so fragile, that you wouldn’t have caught it if his lips weren’t right against your ear. He wasn’t kissing you, but his mouth hovered over your neck, lips parted against your skin like he was trying to hold himself back, just barely keeping his restraint. Just feeling you, drinking you in. His fingers gripped yours a little tighter, urging you to keep going, to give him more of what he needed so badly.
“Touch me more.” he mumbled, his words rough and trembling, a mix of need and surrender. That admission, that raw vulnerability, hit you with full force. You hadn’t realised how deeply he craved this, how much he needed you, until you processed the weight of his words. For him, asking for anything — let alone this — never came easily. He had made himself ask for it, and that said more than he could ever express out loud.
“Need me to touch you, baby?” you asked softly, the question hanging in the space between you like a bridge only he could cross. His breath hitched when you spoke, and you felt his body tense, a silent confirmation before he nodded slowly, his hips rolling against your hand in response. He didn’t need to answer with words. His body did it for him. He wasn’t just asking, he was begging, wordlessly showing you how much he craved your touch.
“Mhm…” he hummed, his voice strained, a mix of need and vulnerability. His hips rolled again, pressing into your hand, a desperate gesture, the only way he could answer right now.
“I’m here, baby.” you whispered back, your voice soothing, comforting, as your fingers wrapped more firmly around his length. You squeezed gently as your hand moved upward, feeling the soft skin gather beneath your grip, covering the tip of his cock for a moment before you moved back down, revealing him again. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air, and his body shuddered against yours.
His hips bucked slightly, pushing up into your hand, seeking more. You could feel the tension in him, the way he was fighting to keep some semblance of control, but the way his fingers dug into your thighs told you he was losing that battle. You didn’t speed up. You kept the rhythm slow, drawing it out for him, making him feel every moment. His lips pressed harder against your neck, still not quite a kiss but close.
“God…” he groaned softly, his voice rough, barely holding back the desperation in his tone. “Feels so good…please don’t stop.”
You smiled against his shoulder, your fingers tightening slightly around him as you continued to stroke, slow and steady, keeping him on the edge. “Mommy’s got you.” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head. “Just relax, baby. I’m right here.”
His whole body seemed to tremor at your words, his hips rolling more insistently into your hand. You could feel the heat rising in him, the way his muscles tensed and released with every stroke, his chest heaving as he lost himself in the rhythm of your touch.
His voice was a broken whisper, almost a whimper. “I need you…need you so bad.” The sheer need made your heart ache for him. He wasn’t just asking for release, he was asking for you, for the closeness, for the comfort only you could give him.
You pressed your lips softly to his neck. “I’m here, baby.” you whispered again, your voice full of reassurance. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His hips jerked in your grip, that quiet, needy whimper still caught in his throat. He was trembling in your arms now, teetering on the edge, and you could feel his desperation growing with every slow stroke of your hand.
“Please…go faster.” he begged, his voice so strained it barely made it past his lips. It wasn’t just a request but a plea, one you couldn’t possibly deny. You’d never heard him sound so raw, so exposed, like he needed this more than air, and your heart clenched at the thought of how long he’d been holding it all in.
You couldn’t say no. You wouldn’t.
Your hand quickened, wrapping tighter around his length as you stroked him harder, the water around you sloshing with each movement, splashing up against the sides of the tub. A few droplets spilled over the edge, trickling down to the floor, but it didn’t matter. You were too caught up in him, in the way his body reacted to every touch, every squeeze, the way his breath hitched in your ear as he squirmed in your arms.
A sharp sound escaped him, a noise so keen and desperate that it almost made you stop. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not when he was so close, so lost in it. His hips bucked harder, rocking as you stroked him faster, his skin slick and hot beneath your palm. He was held there by your touch, by the promise in your voice, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he let go completely.
“Fuck, please mommy-” His voice broke off in a gasp, his head falling back against your shoulder, lips parted as another sound, deeper this time, ripped from his throat.
His body tensed in your arms, every muscle tight as he hovered right there, so close to the edge. You could feel the strain in him, the way he was holding back, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to just let go. His breath came in sharp gasps, his hips stuttering against your hand, every sound he made growing more desperate.
You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “It’s okay, baby. You can let go.” you whispered, your words washing over him like a permission he didn’t know he needed. “I’ve got you…mommy’s got you.”
His whole body shuddered in response, and you felt him break, surrendering to the release he’d been holding back. With a strangled groan, he gave in, his hips jerking one last time as his cock pulsed in your hand. His release spilled out in hot, thick spurts, the water swirling with it as you stroked him through it, your grip firm but soothing.
“Fuck…oh God.” he moaned, his voice shaky and broken, his body still trembling in your arms as you slowed your movements, your hand gently squeezing him through the aftershocks. You held him there, tight against your chest, his breathing loud and uneven in your ear, his heart racing beneath your palm.
“That’s it.” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “Just let it all go.”
The water around you had turned murky, faint streaks of his release still visible before they vanished into the heat. You held him close, letting him come down slowly, your fingers still wrapped around him.
He was quiet for a moment, his head lolling back, eyes closed, chest heaving. Then, with a soft, breathless chuckle, he spoke, his voice still hoarse from everything. “Fuck…I- I didn’t think I’d last that long.”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, your fingers still gently stroking his chest, tracing lazy circles over his skin. “You did so good, baby.” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “I’ve got you.”
He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against your neck, the kiss barely there but full of gratitude, full of everything he couldn’t put into words. “Needed that…needed you.” he mumbled, his voice sleepy now, a little more relaxed, the tension that had been in his body moments ago completely gone.
You smiled again, resting your cheek against the top of his head. “I’m always here.” you whispered, running your hand through his damp hair, your other arm wrapped around him, holding him. “You don’t ever have to ask.”
He sighed, long and content, the last of his tension melting away. The rain still tapped softly against the window, the sound soothing as it mixed with the gentle lapping of the water around you.
“I love you.” he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. His words were soft, raw, like they held the same weight as his earlier plea.
“I love you too.” you whispered back, tightening your arms around him as you pressed another kiss to his head, your lips lingering there for a moment, with his body finally at peace in your embrace.
And for that moment, there was nothing else but the two of you, wrapped up in each other.
Then, everything was as you’d always known it, slipping back into that familiar rhythm of care. You shifted to let him wash your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp, working through the tangles with a tenderness that was second nature to him now. His touch was slow, not rushing, just taking his time. When he was done, you switched, running your fingers through his damp hair, gently lathering the shampoo through it, the simple act of caring for him grounding you both in a way words couldn’t.
He washed your body, his hands moving over you slowly, almost reverently. When he knelt down to do your legs, his voice came out almost uncertain. “Do you want me to, uh…return the favour?” He didn’t look up at first, his words hesitant, his hands still resting against your calf.
You smiled at his sweetness, at his need to give back even when you knew he was just as exhausted as you were. “No, it’s fine.” you murmured, reaching out to cup his cheek gently, guiding him to stand. “I’m tired. Just wanna get to bed.”
He looked relieved but still nodded, as if part of him had felt obligated to offer, like he couldn’t let the night end without trying to give you what he felt you might need. He finished rinsing off, and you dried off together.
Before joining you in bed, he quietly checked on her one last time, making sure she was still sound asleep, Mr. Bean nestled in his seat from earlier, watching over in his place. It was a little ritual of his he did every night, even when he had already made sure everything was in place. He was protective, and you loved him for it.
When he finally climbed into bed beside you, he seemed needier than usual. After earlier, after how raw and vulnerable he had been, it wasn’t surprising. And you didn��t mind. You held him close, his body curling into yours as if he couldn’t bear to be apart, his head nestled between your breasts, his breath warm against your skin. He sighed, a sound that was equal parts contentment and weariness.
“Sorry if it was…if I was, uh, weird.” he murmured, his voice muffled against your chest. His hands were splayed across your sides, his touch gentle, but there was a nervous energy in his words.
You frowned slightly, petting the back of his head, fingers combing through his damp hair. “What do you mean?” you asked softly, your voice low, almost a lullaby. You could feel him relax under your touch, but there was still something bothering him, something he needed to get out.
“How I called you…you know.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s weird now that…with her-”
You interrupted him gently. “You’ve called me that before, you know I like it.” you reminded him, your voice calm, reassuring.
“I know, but now…I don’t know. Forget it.” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed, though his body still clung to you, craving the closeness despite his hesitation.
You shifted slightly, enough to press a soft kiss to the top of his head. “You can call me anything you want. Nothing’s changed.”
He didn’t respond right away. He just buried his face deeper into your chest, his fingers curling into your side.
“A lot has changed.” he whispered eventually, his voice soft but heavy with meaning.
You sighed, knowing he was right. Everything had changed in so many ways. Your lives were different now, more complicated, more tiring. But the one thing that didn’t have to change was this, was you and him, the way you held each other through it all.
“I know.” you said quietly. “But things between us don’t have to change. We’re still us, okay?”
He didn’t bother with words this time, but you felt him nod against you, his body settling even closer to yours. Everything seemed to melt away in the silence, leaving only warmth and connection.
After a while, in that soft, almost drowsy voice that only came when he was on the verge of sleep, he whispered, “I love you.”
Your heart squeezed at the simplicity of the words. You smiled softly, stroking his hair, pressing another kiss to his head. “I love you too.”
In that quiet, in that stillness, you held him, his breathing deepening as sleep finally claimed him.

a/n: I hope it doesn't come across too out of nowhere when he says it but I like how this one turned out…I can see him so well :(
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he won't go away

he's haunting you. am al.
WARNINGS: p-in-v, he's possessive and a bit mean, feelings, references to drugs/drinking, technically cheating but not really
WORD COUNT: 4.2k
Being a young woman in the 21st century had to be torture. You thought the breakup would be the hardest part; moving all your stuff out of the shared apartment was incredibly sad; sometimes you still got sad when you saw his shirts in your closet. But it turns out the hardest part is actually trying to get back out there. The apps of hell.
It was practically impossible to find someone who matched your standards. Alex, your ex, was so perfect in (almost) every way that everyone else paled in comparison. Seriously, how were you supposed to fall back in love when your last boyfriend was a global phenomenon rockstar?
He was almost everywhere you looked, practically inescapable. Every shop you went into was selling his newest record or playing one of their songs. His face was in every magazine at every store. The month you spent traveling in the states didn’t even help; Arctic Monkeys had finally crossed over, and he was big there too.
The worst part of it was that even when you scrolled Tinder to move on, you’d see him. Someone would have them as his favorite band; they’d have a lyric in their bio; they’d be wearing merchandise; or you’d check their Instagram to see concert photos. It was a frustrating cycle of constant reminders that he didn’t want you anymore.
That’s what he said—that he couldn’t stand to be in a relationship with you anymore. That he was moving on to “bigger and better things,” and you weren’t a part of that. You had sensed it was coming; he had started to become cockier; he was drinking and smoking more, and you even thought he might be taking something stronger. You didn’t blame him though; he was on top of the world, and you were just his hometown girlfriend who worked a 9-5.
You didn’t mean to keep up with him, but you read the headlines: ‘Arctic Monkeys Announces Massive UK Tour’, ‘Arctic Monkeys Sells Out Madison Square Garden’, ‘Arctic Monkeys To Headline Reading and Leeds.”
Those were tolerable; you knew he’d be big. The ones that bothered you were the personal ones. ‘Alex Turner Seen Wasted After Big Night Out’, ‘Alex Turner Seen With Another Mystery Blonde’. That was frustrating. You envied him in a sense; he didn’t have to worry about seeing your name anywhere. He was able to move on as quickly as possible and never look back. He had all the money, all the girls, and everything he could ever need at his disposal.
It was obvious you had become bitter; your best friend had remarked that you ‘just hadn’t been yourself’ since the breakup and “needed to get laid soon” or you’d “become a criminal case.” Maybe she was right, and that's what put you on the apps. You wanted to find a nice, normal man, someone who wasn’t performing at the Olympics.
The guys were nice for the most part. You had seen a few cute ones and had a few good conversations. There was even a date once! He was a nice guy from the north side of town who worked at a bank. The dinner you had with him was good, but the chemistry just wasn’t there.
For every match there were at least 50 strikeouts, but you were hopeful about this current guy. His name was Rob. Rob was tall and had pretty blue eyes and worked a well-paying job in finance. He liked nature and Oasis and had two dogs. He was the type of normalcy you craved. He asked you on a date, and of course you said yes; maybe you’d finally move on.
-
The two of you decided on one of your favorite pubs on a Saturday. And when Saturday came along, you pushed your nerves to the side and tried to look as presentable as possible. You felt a bit guilty about wearing a dress that Alex bought you, but you had to wear it at some point. You cover yourself in perfume and slip on your finest lace lingerie, just for the confidence. Today is supposed to be the day you become the new you.
Rob was already there when you arrived; he wore a nice outfit and looks good, but you’re not immediately head over heels. Maybe this would take time; that was fine. He gestured to the open bar stool next to him and the pint waiting for you. You smiled and walked over to him.
“Hey! Thanks for... this.” You pointed your head towards the pint and took a seat next to him.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he smiled at you, giving your body a once-over. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”
His compliment doesn’t fluster you as much as it should, but you still smiled and thanked him, attaching your lips to the glass and taking a drink.
The conversation was easy; he told you about what it’s like to work in finance, and you told him what it’s like in your occupation. He showed you pictures of his three dogs whose names you could not remember, and you showed him pictures from your trip to Italy last year, neglecting to add the piece of information that you went with Alex.
Things seemed to be going really well; your bar stool had ended up closer to his, and his hand brushed across your knee a few times. Maybe the night would end well and you’d get to go home with him; you hadn’t been fucked since Alex and your vibrator weren’t doing the job anymore. In fact, it was going so well that you were about to ask about a second date when his head perked up and his eyes darted to a corner.
“Holy shit! Is that the guy from Arctic Monkeys?”
Your first thought was that somehow he knew that he was fucking with you and wanted to get you upset. But then you noticed the genuine surprise and shock in his face—a lump forming in your throat. Maybe he got his people confused?
The split second glance you turned in Alex’s direction is all you needed to know it was him. He was carrying himself the same way he had been, and you could almost hear the boom of his voice from the other side of the pub. Christ. Your stomach suddenly felt like you could throw up any second.
“I think it is.” Your voice was barely above a mutter, but Rob heard it all, his face perking up even more.
“That’s so cool! I saw them last time they came here!”
You nodded and said you saw them too. You didn’t tell him that you also saw them in London and Paris and New York and Tokyo, and that he dedicated a song to you on your birthday at a show in New Jersey. It felt like years of memories were flooding back, but you just had to repress that.
It seemed that Rob wasn’t that big of a fan because he quickly diverted his attention back to you and started talking about some hike he took a few months ago. You’re sure it was lovely, but your mind couldn’t really focus on anything but the man who hadn’t even noticed your presence. You kept nodding and attached your lips to your drink.
After a bit of one-sided conversation, Rob patted you on the back and excused himself to the restroom. He leaves you alone. Alone with Alex, only half a room away. You ordered a second drink to try and distract yourself, but that’s no help.
You swear you hear your name come from his lips, echoing in your eyes in an almost painful way. It’s just a hallucination; you’re just remembering stuff. That’s what you tell yourself.
“Her? Yeah, she was my bitch ex. Too uptight for me, if you know what I mean.” His voice booms through the room, like he’s purposely saying it as loud as possible because he knows you’ll hear. Fuck.
You couldn’t help it; you had to check. When you turn your head to the side to see him again, his dark eyes are staring right into you, that cocky smirk he adopted in the last months of your relationship present on his face. He caught you.
You didn’t recognize the guys he was with; they were probably figures from his new life. You also didn’t recognize the blonde girl he conveniently had his hand on the ass of. You couldn’t tell rather to be flustered or pissed that his attention was on you and not whoever she was. He still stared directly into your soul; something between anxiety and sorrow filled you up.
Rob returned after a minute, snapping you out of your trance and pulling your attention back onto him. Right, your date. You smiled and tried to focus on his face—his face that was nowhere near as attractive as Alex’s.
“So, what was it you were saying about hiking in Ireland?” It was a copout, but it was safe; he was more than happy to talk about himself. He went on and on about the cows and the grass and his sister Emily.
Every few minutes you’d hear Alex say something else. Something about the ‘pretty lady standing next to him’ or the ‘total fucking bender’ he went on last week. Was he trying to rile you up? Get a reaction? Well yeah, it worked. You could feel your blood start to boil while you drank more and more.
That caught up; after maybe your third drink you had to pee, really bad. You stood up and apologized to Rob before excusing yourself in the ladies room. Your head was starting to spin, and it would be lying to say you weren’t overwhelmed. You did your business and took a second to breathe.
You opened the door to head back to your date that was going very well. Thank you. The door creaked open and then shut just as instantly, your back against the door and your body back in the bathroom. Him.
He wasn’t a big man by any means, but his presence took up the entire room; it made you feel small. Alex was staring down at you, and it was hard to tell if he was really bored or really turned on.
“We need to talk.” Is all that he uttered? His voice was surprisingly monotone for him.
“In the ladies room at a pub?”
He nods.
“I have a date. He’ll get worried.” You crossed your arms, trying to hold your ground even though all you wanted to do was fold.
“Yeah. That’s why we need to talk.” He backed away from the door and leaned against the wall, very obviously checking himself out in the mirror. He ran a hand through his quiff and turned back to you with a scoff. “I don’t like him. He’s a twat.”
You scoff back, “Yeah? Well, last time I checked, you didn’t like me either.” Alex winces at this.
“I never said that,” he corrected you, his face slightly less smug. “I said I wanted to explore. Try new things. Spend the rest of my tour living like a real rockstar.” He pauses for dramatic effect, staring you up and down. “But I’m over that, baby; I want you back. I want to be us again. Please.”
You couldn’t tell if he was drunk or not; he probably was. He was probably drunk and didn’t know what he was saying. But goddamnit, these last months of pain came back, and you couldn’t help but feel for him. You wanted him back too.
“What about your new life? The fucking benders. All your new friends out there... the new girl you were fondling earlier.” You needed to stay strong; you couldn’t cave like that. You made sure that all your mockery and frustration with him for the last months came out in your voice.
He sighed again, his hand returning to his quiff. You couldn’t tell if he was that obsessed with himself that he wanted to perfect it constantly or if it was a nervous habit.
“What about your new life? Chad from finance is telling you about the stock market and his university days.”
“Rob, actually. And he’s very nice. Nicer than you’ve been this past year.” An eye roll.
Alex guffawed at this, nodding his head in a way that reminded you of a movie greaser.
“And yet you still want me more than him, don’t you? You want me again just as bad as I want you.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was the alcohol, but yeah, you were getting hot and bothered. The rockstar act was obnoxious, but it was also sexy as hell.
“I can’t just leave. Rob’s a nice guy; I don’t want to destroy him.” Even if you were about to throw yourself at your ex, you still had enough morals to think about Rob.
Alex hummed and thought for a second; he wasn’t going to let you just run away from him. He needed you to come back home.
“Go up to him and say ya got your period or something. You need to go home and take care of it. You’re a smart girl; figure it out.” Condescension laced his voice. He brought his hand up and ran it across your arm just to watch the goosebumps it elicited. “See, you want this. Come home with me.”
You couldn’t fight it anymore and nodded. You were weak for him; he was your weakness. He was perfect, and you couldn’t go without feeling him again.
“I’ll meet you out front,” the smirk reappeared on his face, and he gently guided you out of the bathroom with his hand on your ass. He went right towards the exit and left you to go right towards Rob.
“Hey Rob. I’m sorry it took me forever. I have some lady problems going on, and I need to run home and grab a pad. I’ll text you about a second date, yeah?” You smiled at him but gave him no time to respond before you were out the front door and Alex was wrapping his big hands around your back. You had a long night ahead.
He kept his hand on your shoulder the entire way home; no words fell from his mouth. There was this feeling he was giving you, like he was disappointed beyond words even though he was the one that ended things.
The drive to his place was painstakingly familiar. You had done this very same trip back and forth more times than you could count. One of your first dates had been him taking you here and then kissing you while the band played a Stone Roses song; maybe you had fucked with fate by returning to the same location.
You felt a sharp pain searing through your heart when you saw the brick exterior of his flat. That was your home. Your home for two years that you had been shut out of only within the last 5 months. And you were back.
He made a whistling noise followed by a click, as if you were a dog. You’re embarrassed in the way you immediately folded, hopping out of the car and walking up the familiar stairs to the front door. His keys opened it up, and you took a step inside, the sight of it all flooding your senses.
The flat was redecorated, but it was still yours; there was your old sofa in the corner, the painting you bought with him at the market, and his collection of leather boots sat at the door. The smell was also different; it was no longer you and Alex. It was just Alex. Musky cologne and cigarette smoke replaced what was once the smell of your baking and your combined scents.
Alex watched you take in the sight; a humorless chuckle left his lips. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same pain; he missed you more than he wanted to admit. His eyes flicked back over to your body, scanning you in. Fuck, that dress.
“Why are you wearing my dress?” It was basically a bark, an accusation. All pain he felt was met with anger. You were wearing something he bought you to see another man.
“It’s not your dress. It’s mine.” Playing dumb never worked with Alex, so you were unsure why you did it. Maybe it was a defense mechanism that led to your relationship's downfall.
“Don’t be a bitch. I bought that dress with my money for my eyes to see you in it. It’s my dress.” His voice was harsher now; the frustration of months without you and the alcohol clouded his head.
“I thought it made me look pretty. And until an hour ago, you wanted nothing to do with me. I figured game was game.” There’s a truth to your words, but it still elicited a deep scoff from the back of his throat. He took a step towards you.
“Does make you look pretty. You’ve always been the prettiest baby.” You started to take this as him softening in a way; he was complimenting you instead of getting mad again. But then he took another step forward and, in one swift motion, pulled the dress over the top of your head, leaving you exposed in your lace bra and panty set. A deep blush covered your face, and a groan left his mouth.
“Fuck. You’re killing me, baby.” His hands started to travel up and down your body, making your body shiver when he ran by your chest and hips. “You expected him to take you back home? You wanted him to fuck you and make you forget all about me?”
“I tried,” but before you could even begin to explain the complexity of emotions running through your brain, he threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It was simultaneously the most degrading, humiliating, and hot thing you’d ever experienced.
He brought you over to the bed, your old shared bed, and threw you down on it, looking down at you with lust-blown eyes.
“I tried. I really tried. But I just can’t fucking get over you. Been looking for you everywhere, hoping to make you mine again.” The confession made your heart stop, but not for long until his hands started to remove your bra. All the heat and tension of the moment made your panties start to feel wetter, and your nipples perked up. Alex licked his lips.
“You were looking for me?” You tried to manage your cool and not give in too easily. You hadn’t been fucked in so long, but he was supposed to be your ex; he kicked you out, and now he’s begging for you back.
“You were looking for me too. Don’t lie.” He said it like he knew it was a truth, even if you hadn’t admitted it yet. His hands slipped off your underwear and slipped it in his pocket. “You’re not wearing these for someone else again.”
After seeing how you bit your lip to hide a moan, he smirked and ran two long fingers through your folds. Nothing could compare to his touch; you had tried so many different vibrators, and yet you hadn’t felt pleasure like this since the last time he touched you. A small whimper escaped your lips, and thats when he knew he won. You were his again.
He started to circle his fingers around your entrance, brushing against your clit a few times before entering you. The first moan of the night escaped your lips, and he gave a knowing nod and chuckle. His free hand worked to dispose of his leather jacket and then started to work at the buttons of his shirt.
“I’ll fuck you if you say you’re mine again. If you promise to come back to me. Be my baby again. Me and you.” He rasped, voice pooling with desire, dominance, and genuine affection. It was an odd combination, but so was Alex. It all made you miss him more. He bent his fingers inside of you and started to move them faster.
“SHIT! Yeah. Yeah. I’ll be yours again. Please Alex.” You felt pathetic at how easy you gave in, but the sight of the bulge pressing against his jeans was enough to show that you weren’t the only one desperate. And it was nice to know he wanted you back for more than just a fuck.
“Atta girl.” He smirked and then removed his hand from inside of you, bringing it to his lips to taste the distinct and vaguely sour-sweet juices from you. The sight was pornographic, and while you whined at the lack of contact, you moaned at the sight. “Missed your taste,” he added before he used his hands to slip his jeans and boxers off in one solid motion.
And there you were, back to old times. Two naked figures in a shared bedroom. Most of your nights pre-breakup were spent fucking until you both passed out. You were sure tonight would be no different.
He pushed you back on the bed slightly, angling his own body so his throbbing would line up with your leaking cunt. The sight made you salivate; he was big, and the head was turning red in desperation. It was like his cock missed you just as much as the rest of him.
He leaned down to meet your lips in a searing kiss, not even bothering to ask you for permission to slip his tongue in your mouth. He let this dance go on for a bit, the kiss becoming sloppier and teeth starting to collide. He let you get totally preoccupied in the kiss before he shoved himself inside of you with no real warning, his entire length puncturing your hole.
You were definitely tighter than last time you two fucked, the result of the absence of him. He smiled at that; it felt better than it ever had, and it was a confirmation you were really holding yourself back for him.
“Tight baby. Thank you for not sharing my pussy with everyone else.” He chuckled a bit at his own words, as if they were funny, before he decided you had had enough time to adjust to his stretch and began to move.
Just as he did, the moans began to fall from your mouth, the pleasure beginning to build up in ways you forgot were possible. Every movement stretched your tight warmth out more and more, filling you up with such deliciousness that you couldn’t help but cry a stream of ‘Alex!”.
His breath started to become a bit shallower, and he reached out to palm at your tits while he thrust. It was like a teenager seeing them for the first time, but he had missed them so much. His fingers pinched at your nipples, his cock hit every nerve entrance in your vagina, and his mouth returned to yours to envelope you in a passionate fire. Every part of you felt hot, and every part of him felt hot. Just how it was supposed to be.
A pace was set after a minute; he was fast and hard because he needed this and he knew you did too. You knew he wouldn’t last too long out of the sheer intensity and desperation of it all.
As his grunts became louder and his movements faster, you brought your hand down to circle around your clit, the little movements causing a full-body shiver to run down and a stream of obscenities leaving your mouth. He grinned at this but didn’t move your hand; he’d usually help you out, but he was too preoccupied with your perfect tits. Every sense of yours was activated, and on full sensitivity, it was just too hot. Your vibrators couldn’t compare to him, and he realized then that your pussy had ruined every other girl for him. He spent months seeking pleasure, but you’re the only one he wanted.
It was the hottest feeling in the world when you felt his dick begin to twitch inside of you; the addition of this made everything just the hotter. You sped your hand movements up and your back arched slightly, your mouth falling open and your eyes turning white. You two were both close.
It was a sudden snap of the coil inside your stomach that had you cumming, practically exploding in bliss. It was an orgasm to an extreme you hadn’t had in a while, maybe since even before the breakup.
The feeling of you cumming just turned Alex on more, and he was soon to follow after, making one final thrust before he pulled out and covered your stomach in warm lines of milky cum. He stared at it for a second, finding it the most beautiful sight in the world, before collapsing next to you, catching his breath.
The two of you layed like that for a while, chests returning to normal speeds and minds trying to process what just happened. His cum was still on your stomach, but all you could think about was how you had just crossed a line you were never supposed to cross with an ex. As if he could sense this, he lifted his head up and wiped the cum off your stomach with his shirt from the floor. It was laundry day tomorrow anyway.
“That was... incredible. I missed you, baby.” He said, and his voice returned to a softness you only remembered from your most intimate moments.
“I missed you too.” You giggled a bit at his choice of cleaning material but smiled at his words, moving your body a little closer to his when he laid down again.
“Good. I want you to be my girl again.
“I want to be your girl again. We’ll figure this out in the morning, I guess.” You were both too fucked out to make logical, rational decisions.
“Yeah. We’ll get through this. I won’t be a twat again. I promise.” And then he pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead, almost like a silent promise that he wouldn’t. At the moment you trusted him, but maybe it was just the sex lingering in your brain. At that moment, what you knew was that the man you had loved for years was back next to you, and Rob from finance was someone you’d never have to worry about again.
A/N: this is shit again but i felt like putting something out. currently in the process of applying to transfer universities so i'm pretty out of time.
#andbreakmynose#alex turner#alex turner fanfic#alex turner fic#alex turner smut#alex turner x fem!reader#alex turner x reader#alex turner x you#fanfic
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His Job Is Beach

birthday boy gets special treatment
warnings: smut, blowjob, sex on the beach, pretty straightforward
word count: 7.1k
It was supposed to be the perfect escape to somewhere warm, away from the monotony of the freezing cold and yet another birthday spent on the slopes. You’d both had your fill of ski trips and snowy landscapes, and this year, you were determined to give Alex something different. A sun-drenched island vacation in the dead of winter sounded like paradise. But reality? Reality had other plans.
You weren’t built for heat. Neither was he, really. Instead of leisurely days on the beach or exploring whatever tropical locales were around, the two of you had spent most of your time lying naked in the blissfully air-conditioned hotel room, bodies tangled together beneath cool sheets, just chasing relief from the oppressive sun. Sleep and sex. Not necessarily in that order. And it wasn’t like either of you minded.
But you were determined to get him to the beach before you left, no matter what.
He was sprawled on the bed, the lazy grin on his face telling you that he knew exactly what you were up to. His arms were crossed behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he watched you kneel between his legs. The tension in the room was warm, just like the sultry air outside. Only here, in the dim comfort of your room, everything was cooler. Slower.
“Come on.” you purred, your voice a soft plea as your lips grazed the length of him. “Just once, Alex. Let’s go to the beach. It’s not that bad.”
He huffed a laugh, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “Not that bad? You do know it’s like a hundred degrees out there, right?”
“Don’t be dramatic.” you teased, your tongue flicking against the sensitive head of his cock, eliciting a soft groan from him. “It’s not like I’m asking you to hike across a desert. We’ll go early, while it’s still cool. We’ll find some shade. Promise.”
His hips twitched, though he still managed to keep that languid composure, eyes following your every move. He was weighing his options. Or at least pretending to. He knew you’d get your way. The sight of him, so relaxed, so at ease, sent a thrill through you. His body glistened slightly with sweat from the warmth of the island, but here in the dim cool of the room, you had all the control.
“You’re relentless, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and amused.
“And you love it.” You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing lightly as your lips brushed against the tip once more. “You know you’ll love the beach. The sand, the ocean. You haven’t been out there once.”
His breath hitched as you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, until his head tipped back slightly against the pillow. He groaned, fingers flexing against the back of his neck but still refusing to give in fully to the temptation of touching you.
“I’m not really a sand kind of bloke.” he managed, though his voice wavered just enough to let you know he was slipping. “Sand gets everywhere.”
You pulled back slightly, your lips leaving a wet trail along his cock. “I’ll make it worth your while.” you whispered, your breath hot against him.
“Is that what this is?” he asked, his voice rasping. “Bribery?”
“Call it persuasion.” you smirked, lips curling up as you kissed the tip of him again before running your tongue along his shaft. You could feel him getting harder under your touch, his body betraying the act of indifference he was trying to keep up.
His head lifted slightly, those deep, dark eyes fixed on you. “And what’s the catch?”
You grinned up at him, shifting your position to get a better angle as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, until a sharp breath hissed from between his teeth.
“You,” you said, pulling off slowly, “just have to let me put sunscreen on you. Don’t want you burning, do we?”
Alex groaned, dropping his head back again, arms still propped beneath it like he was trying his best to maintain any semblance of control. But the way his body was reacting to you? He was already yours.
“You’ll do all the work?” he asked, voice strained.
You nodded, licking a long stripe up his cock before meeting his gaze again. “All of it. You just lie there, let me take care of you.”
His lips curled into a smirk, but his breathing was ragged now, his control slipping with every motion of your mouth. “Tempting.”
“I thought so.” you murmured, before taking him deeper again, your fingers tightening slightly around the base of his cock as you worked him in steady, rhythmic strokes with your mouth. His groans grew louder, more unrestrained, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every second.
“Fine, fine.” he gasped, finally giving in. “We’ll go to the bloody beach.”
You looked up, giving him a satisfied, victorious smile before licking him again, swirling your tongue around the head in a way that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “Good boy.”
He laughed breathlessly, his hands finally unclasping from behind his head and drifting toward your hair. “You’re gonna have to keep that sunscreen promise, though.”
“I’ll keep it.” you teased, sliding your lips around him.
His grip was firm but not forceful. At least, not yet. His voice was low, roughened by the pleasure coursing through him, a hint of command slipping in.
“Yeah, now suck my dick.” he said, pushing just enough that you understood exactly what he wanted, that you were no longer in control of this moment.
Your only response was a muffled moan, your mouth too full of him to offer anything else. The sound vibrated through him, and you could feel his hips twitch, his body reacting to the sensation. His cock throbbed against your tongue as you took him deeper, your lips stretched around him, eyes half-lidded as you stared up at him.
Your hands, braced on either side of his thighs, trembled slightly as he thrust up, his fingers pressing harder against the back of your head, guiding you further down.
“All of it.” he groaned, voice catching in his throat as he thrust again, harder this time. “Fuck- take it all.”
You tried to relax your throat, but the weight of him was overwhelming. The coarse hair at the base of his cock brushed against your nose, the musky scent filling your senses as your mouth and throat stretched to accommodate him. Spit spluttered from the corners of your lips, dripping down onto his thighs, pooling between them. The sound of your gagging filled the room, raw and uncontrolled, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
His hand remained on your head, holding you down for a beat longer, savouring the feeling of you buried so deeply on his cock. His groans were louder now, more ragged, each one a testament to how much you were undoing him.
Just as you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, he pulled you up, your mouth sliding off him with a wet gasp. You coughed slightly, your chest heaving as you caught your breath, your lips red and swollen, slick with spit.
Alex’s hand stayed in your hair, his eyes heavy with lust as he looked down at you, the smirk on his face unmistakable. “Good.” he muttered, his thumb brushing along your cheek, wiping away some of the mess you’d made. “Good.”
His gaze stayed locked on yours, something possessive flickering behind his eyes. “Again.” His voice was soft but filled with authority, leaving no room for hesitation.
Before you could catch another breath, he was guiding you back down onto him, thrusting up to meet your lips as they wrapped around his cock once more. He squirmed beneath you, no longer in control of his body, and his hand tightened its grip in your hair. His hips bucked upward again, driving his cock deeper into your mouth, and a rough groan escaped his throat.
“Fuck-” he mumbled, voice thick with pleasure, “I’m so deep inside you.”
Your body responded automatically. You slid one hand underneath him, fingers curling around the firmness of his ass, squeezing lightly to keep a hold of him just as he kept a hold of you. The heat of his skin was intoxicating, slick with a sheen of sweat as his muscles tensed beneath your touch.
With each movement of your mouth, you squeezed him tighter, your lips stretched wide as you sucked him harder, feeling him writhe and twitch with each pass of your tongue. His moans filled the room, deep and guttural, and his body couldn’t seem to stay still, hips thrusting, thighs tensing, abs flexing beneath his taut skin.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, and you stole a glance up at him, catching the way his jaw clenched, the sharp line of his cheekbones accentuated by the dim light in the room. His dark eyes were hooded, half-lidded with pleasure, but they were fixed on you, watching every movement, every reaction. He couldn’t bear to look away. The little hair on his chest glistened with sweat, sticking to his skin.
“God.” he groaned again, voice strained. “You- fuck, you feel so good.”
You could feel it too. The way his body was coiling tighter, the way his moans were turning more desperate, the way his breathing was becoming shallower. He was close. You knew it, and he did too.
He let out a ragged breath as you slid up slightly, just enough to free his length from your mouth, your hand immediately wrapping around the slick shaft to take over. Your strokes were firm, matching the rhythm you’d set with your mouth as your other hand remained under him, fingers pressing into the firm flesh of his ass as he tensed beneath you.
His head fell back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his lips parted as he gasped for air. His entire body was tight now, muscles corded and strained, his thighs trembling under your touch as the tension built.
You leaned down again, lips closing around the tip of his cock, and he let out a choked sound, half-gasp, half-moan, as you sucked gently at first, then harder, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head.
“Shit-” his voice broke, the word barely audible as his hand tightened in your hair, hips jerking upward again involuntarily. “I’m gonna-”
He couldn’t finish the sentence before his body gave in completely. You felt him pulse against your tongue, his cock twitching as the first hot spurt of cum hit the back of your throat. You sucked harder, drawing it out of him, every drop, until he was groaning your name.
You swallowed him down, not letting up, your hand still stroking him as he finished inside your mouth, your other hand still squeezing the taut muscle of his ass as his body slowly began to relax, the tension melting from him. His chest heaved as he came down from the high, his fingers loosening in your hair but not fully letting go.
When you finally pulled away, his cock slipping from your lips, he was left panting, his eyes glazed over with satisfaction. The smirk on his face was lazy, content, as he gazed down at you.
“Fuck.” he breathed, voice hoarse. “That was good.”
You crawled up his body, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath you as you hovered over him, your lips grazing his with a soft kiss. His breathing was still uneven, his body recovering, but his hand instinctively slipped up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you close.
“Happy birthday.” you whispered against his lips, the words barely audible as you kissed him again, your lips lingering on his as if sealing the moment.
He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing lazily against the back of your neck. “My birthday’s tomorrow.” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Consider this your early present.” you said, tapping his nose lightly with your finger.
Alex raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning in full as he tilted his head slightly, a hint of mischief in his gaze. “Oh? Is that all I’m getting?”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face stayed as you leaned down to brush your lips over his again, soft and teasing. “No.”
His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your skin as he gazed up at you, a low hum of curiosity escaping his throat. “Hmm?” he prompted, his lips quirking into a grin.
You shifted slightly, pressing your body against his, enjoying the way his warmth seeped into you as his hands moved lower, stroking your sides. “That’s what the beach is for.” you whispered, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth as you spoke and your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.
He exhaled a soft laugh, his hand rubbing slow circles on your lower back as he pulled you even closer, holding you against him. His body was still warm, muscles loose and relaxed.
“Guess I’ll have to endure the sun, then.” he muttered. His hand travelled further up your back, fingers weaving into your hair as he tilted your head slightly to kiss you, slower this time, deeper, like he was savouring every movement.
“You’ll love it.” you murmured against his lips, your body melting into his as his hand continued to rub gentle, soothing patterns along your spine. “Besides,” you added with a smirk, “there’s plenty more where this came from.”
Alex groaned softly, pulling you closer still until there was no space left between you. “Yeah?” his lips brushed against your ear, his breath warm and teasing. “I’ve got a lot to look forward to then.”

The morning light hadn’t fully crept in yet, but the room was tinged with that soft, pale blue that comes just before dawn. You stirred first, the quiet stillness outside reminding you that today wasn’t just any day. It was his birthday. And you had plans.
Lying beside Alex, you glanced over at him, still fast asleep, his dark hair a tousled mess against the pillow. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing deep and steady, peaceful in a way that made you not want to wake him. But you couldn’t help yourself. Not today.
You reached out, fingers playfully ruffling through his messy hair, shaking his head lightly as you whispered, “Come on, birthday boy…”
He groaned in protest, shifting slightly under the covers, his brow furrowing as if your touch was pulling him from some deep dream he wasn’t ready to leave. His hand, heavy with sleep, fumbled its way up to bat lazily at your hand, as though he could ward you off without actually having to wake up.
“Nooo…” he mumbled, his voice thick and muffled by the pillow. “S’too early.”
You grinned, undeterred, your fingers still gently mussing his hair, pulling at the strands. “Come on, you’ve got a whole day ahead of you. Beach, remember?”
His only response was another groan, this one longer and more dramatic as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. He clearly had no intention of moving anytime soon.
“Give us a kiss.” he mumbled into the fabric, his voice slurred with sleep, eyes still firmly closed. “Not opening my eyes ‘til you do.”
Laughing softly, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and slow, as you watched his lips curl into a lazy smile. His hand found your arm, still half-asleep but already holding you close, refusing to let you escape just yet.
“Mmm, better,” he murmured, though he still didn’t open his eyes. His grip on you loosened slightly as he sank deeper into the pillow, but the soft smile never left his face. “Love me more.” he mumbled, the words barely audible but clear enough for you to hear.
Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing a series of light kisses across his face — on his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and finally, the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was delicate, almost teasing, and with every touch, his smile grew wider, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating from his chest.
“How early is it?” he mumbled after a beat, his voice still heavy with sleep. He cracked one eye open just a sliver, squinting up at you in the dim morning light.
“Almost sunrise.” you whispered back, pressing another kiss to the side of his head. “We’ll catch it if we get moving.”
He groaned again, this time louder, clearly unimpressed by the idea of moving at all, let alone before sunrise. “Who gets up before the sun on their birthday?” he grumbled, though the smirk tugging at his lips told you he wasn’t entirely serious.
“You do, apparently.” you teased, poking him lightly in the side.
“We could make sweet love ‘til the break of dawn…right here.” he murmured, his voice low and suggestive as he tilted his head, cracking one eye open just a bit more to gauge your reaction. His hand slid lazily across your waist, pulling you closer against him with a slow, languid motion, the warmth of his body inviting you to stay pressed into the bed.
You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes as you brushed your fingers through his messy hair. “I’ve got plans, Turner.” you said, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth again. “You don’t want to ruin them, do you?”
“Depends.” He cracked both eyes open this time, blinking up at you through the haze of sleep, his smile widening just enough to give him away. “Only if I get more kisses as a reward.”
You rolled your eyes, but the grin on your face was hard to hide as you leaned down again, pressing your lips to his. You lingered there, regardless of the inevitable morning breath and all the little imperfections that came with waking up together. It didn’t matter when his lips were soft beneath yours. Or when his hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer.
Alex hummed softly against your mouth, the sound vibrating between you, and his other hand lazily trailed down your side, his fingers light and teasing. His body was still relaxed from sleep, but you could feel the way he responded to you, slowly waking up, his lips moving against yours with a sleepy kind of sweetness that made your heart flutter. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his, smiling as his eyes fluttered open again.
“Not bad for a reward.” he murmured, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your stomach flip.
“You’d ask for more if you could get away with it.”
“Can’t say I wouldn’t.” His thumb brushed the nape of your neck, sending a small shiver through you. “But I suppose I should save some energy for this ‘sunrise’ you‘re dragging me out of bed for.”

The beach was empty, just as you’d hoped. You had the place to yourselves, the soft golden sand stretching out in front of you, untouched, as the sun inched higher above the horizon. The light was soft, still hazy and pale, casting a shimmering reflection across the water that seemed to go on forever. The waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythm slow and hypnotic, as you settled onto your towels, feeling the warmth of the sand beneath you.
Alex stretched out beside you, his arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he took in the view. You leaned back on your elbows, looking out over the ocean, feeling that quiet sort of calm you only get when the world feels like it’s just yours for a little while.
“Not bad, right?” you asked, glancing over at him.
He gave a lazy nod, lips curling into a slight smile. “Not bad at all.”
There was something about the stillness, the early morning quiet, that made the world feel suspended, like time wasn’t moving.
“It reminds me of this film.” Alex said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence in that casual, easy way he had.
He reached up and slid his sunglasses off, carefully, almost like he didn’t want to disrupt the moment. He set them down on his stomach, the dark lenses reflecting the soft light of the rising sun as his fingers rested lightly over them for a second, his eyes now visible and squinting slightly against the light.
His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the sunlight catching in his eyes, making them gleam with that unmistakable hint of green that always showed up in moments like these. You loved that little thing about him, the way his eyes seemed to change with the light, different shades looping through them, like a secret only the sun could bring out.
It was subtle, the way those flecks of green would surface. An earthy mix with the usual brown, swirling together like the ocean reflecting the sky. And every time you pointed it out, he’d deny it, always laughing and insisting his eyes weren’t green at all.
“Can’t remember the name. Wasn’t that memorable, really, but…it had this one scene, like this, y’know? The way the sun reflects on the water.”
You were still lost in your thoughts, staring at the way the light danced in his eyes, barely registering the words.
Alex paused, then turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “You still listening?” he asked, a teasing edge in his voice as he caught you staring at him instead of the view.
He reached for his sunglasses, fingers hesitating as he lifted them. He slipped them back on, then adjusted them, only to push them halfway down his nose again, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to shield his eyes from the light or keep you in his full gaze. Indecisive.
You blinked, a little caught off guard, and smiled sheepishly, feeling the warmth of his gaze settle on you. “What was the film about?”
He shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders. “No idea. Didn’t stick with me. But the way they shot that one scene, with the light bouncing off the water like that…” He motioned with his hand toward the ocean, as if that explained everything. “It was beautiful. Just like this.”
You smirked, leaning over slightly as you nudged his arm. “So…just like any beach sunrise ever?”
Alex laughed, the sound low and soft, and he shook his head. “Nah, nah. They don’t all look the same. This one’s special.”
You raised an eyebrow, playful. “What, because it’s your birthday?”
He glanced over at you, his eyes still bright with the soft reflection of the sun on the water. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m here with you.”
“Smooth.” You leaned back on your towel, squinting at him through the morning light as he continued watching the water, a content little smile on his lips. “So, do you still want me to lather you up in sunscreen?” you asked.
Alex shook his head, barely turning to look at you. “Nah, I’ll take my chances.”
“Well,” you began, your tone shifting, “how about this, then…do you want to have sex?”
His eyebrows shot up immediately, even behind the sunglasses. “Here?” His voice was low, almost incredulous. There was already a hint of interest creeping in.
You shrugged, nonchalant, though your hand was already making its way toward him, fingers playing with the tie of his swim trunks. “Yeah.” you said, your fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged lightly at the knot. “Not much else to do at the beach.”
His lips parted slightly, and you could feel his body tense under your touch as he glanced around the empty stretch of sand. His eyebrows raised higher, though the smirk was quick to follow. “Was that your big plan?” His gaze flicked down to your hand as you pulled the bow loose, the fabric of his trunks slackening under your fingers.
“Maybe.” you replied, your fingers tracing along the waistband. “It’s not like we’ve got an audience, have we?”
Alex shifted slightly on the towel, his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to see the way his eyes darkened beneath them. “I was wondering when you’d skip to the main event.”
He was already half-hard under your touch, the heat from his skin mingling with the warmth of the morning sun, and you leaned down closer, lips hovering just near his ear as your fingers continued to toy with the fabric. “I didn’t want to rush you or anything…” you whispered.
He exhaled a soft laugh, his hand moving to rest on your thigh, fingers brushing along your skin as he spoke. “Yeah, well, I’m all yours now, love.”
Your hand hovered for a moment before you touched him, feeling the familiar shape of him. The material was already starting to cling to his skin, sticking slightly from the heat, maybe from the sweat beading at the back of his neck, or maybe from something else entirely. The corners of your mouth tugged upward as your fingers traced his length, watching the way his body responded beneath your touch.
Alex let out a soft breath, the smirk on his face faltering for just a second as his hips shifted slightly, like he couldn’t help it. His hand, still resting on your thigh, tightened its grip, fingers pressing into your skin as you teased. The shorts were clinging tighter now, his cock straining against them.
“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” you asked.
He huffed a laugh, tilting his head back slightly. “Wasn’t like you were exactly subtle about it.” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin.
You leaned in closer as your fingers pressed harder against him, feeling the heat of him through the now-damp fabric. “And here I thought I was being clever.”
“Mm, clever.” he repeated, his voice low, almost a groan as he shifted again under your touch. Your hand slipped under the waistband of his trunks, brushing against his skin, and he let out a breathy chuckle, his lips parting slightly as he spoke. “You gonna keep teasing me, or…?”
You raised an eyebrow, fingers curling slightly around him, feeling the weight of him in your hand as you leaned down closer. “Depends.” you said. “What do you want?”
His breath hitched slightly. “I want you on top.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyebrow arched in curiosity. “Yeah?” you asked, your fingers still working him slowly.
Alex nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to the horizon where the sun was still rising, casting a golden glow over the ocean. “Yeah.” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I want to watch the sunrise…” His eyes returned to yours, that lazy smirk back on his lips as he added, “And you’ll only add to the view.”
You laughed softly, biting your lip as you shifted. “You’ve got a way with words.”
His hand slid up your thigh, fingers teasing against the hem of your swimsuit as he leaned up enough to brush his lips against yours. “Only when it counts. Now come here.”
You moved over him slowly, the sand warm beneath your knees as you straddled his lap, your body hovering just above his. His hands rested on your hips, firm but gentle, fingers sliding up the sides of your body. He didn’t rush. He never did. His fingers found the ties of your swimsuit bottoms, and he undid them with deliberate slowness. First one side, pulling the string loose with a soft, satisfying tug. He pulled the second knot loose, the fabric loosening around your hips.
“Don’t know how you expect me to focus on anything else.” he muttered, his voice low and teasing as he let the fabric fall away from your skin. His thumb traced over the bare skin of your hip. “You’re making this sunrise thing impossible.”
You smiled down at him, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the firm planes of his stomach. “That’s the point.” you whispered, your voice just as low.
When he reached up for your top, he didn’t bother with the ties. His hands moved over the fabric, pushing the cups away roughly, leaving them bunched up at the sides of your boobs, like he couldn’t be bothered with the mechanics of it.
“Much better.” he muttered, his voice husky as he gazed up at you.
You leaned forward, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pushing them down just enough to pull his cock free. You wrapped your hand around him, giving him a slow stroke, feeling the way his breath hitched as you did.
He let out a low groan, his head tilting back slightly. “The sun’s riiight behind you. It’s like... the perfect shot.”
“Oh yeah?” you teased, your voice soft, teasing. “Good view, is it?”
He chuckled, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he gave a small nod. “Best one I’ve ever had.”
Alex’s fingers slipped up to his face, casually tugging off his sunglasses. He turned his head to the side for a moment, scanning the sand beside him like he was on some kind of mission. You watched him as he found just the right spot, carefully placing them down with exaggerated precision.
“There we go.” he muttered, half to himself, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he turned his attention back to you. His hands moved back to your hips, gripping you firmly as he shifted his body slightly, adjusting his position beneath you. “Alright…let’s hope we don’t get sand in the wrong places, yeah?” His fingers dug into your hips just a little as he began to position you, guiding you down with a steady, confident grip.
His gaze flicked briefly back to the horizon, the sun now hanging just above the water, casting a soft, golden light over both of you. Then, his eyes returned to you, darker now, full of anticipation.
“Perfect view.” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch.
With one hand, you guided him to your entrance, feeling the heat of him against you as you lined yourself up. Slowly, you sank down onto him, taking him fully in one smooth motion. The sensation was overwhelming, both the stretch and the way he filled you so perfectly. A gasp tore from his throat, sharp and uncontrolled, and his head fell back slightly, eyes squeezing shut.
His hand flew up to your breast, as if on instinct, fingers curling around the soft flesh, gripping it as though he needed something to hold onto. Maybe it was for support — emotional or otherwise — and you couldn’t help but remember the time he’d jokingly told you that he thought “boobs are healing.”
Maybe it wasn’t just a joke. Or maybe it was just because he was obsessed with them — yours, more specifically.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, voice shaky, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His other hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you in place for a moment, as if he needed time to recover from the way you felt around him.
“You alright down there?” you teased, your own breath uneven, feeling the way his body tensed beneath you.
“Barely.” His hand flexed on your waist, pulling you down harder. He wanted to feel every inch of you against him. “You’re…fuckin’ unreal.”
You rolled your hips just a little, watching the way his breath hitched. “Is that so?”
He groaned softly, the sound caught somewhere in his throat as his hips twitched up. “You’ve got no idea.” he whispered, his voice low and breathless. “Every fucking time…it’s like I’m losing my mind.”
You leaned down slightly, bringing your lips close to his ear, your voice soft, teasing. “Good.”
You rocked your hips against him, the sensation overwhelming as his cock stretched you, filled you. His hands clung to your waist, guiding you as you rode him, every muscle straining as he tried to hold on to some shred of control.
His head tilted back slightly as he watched you move above him. “Fuck…” he breathed, the word slipping from his lips like he couldn’t stop it.
You could feel him twitch inside you, responding to the way you rolled your hips, grinding down on him. The sun was rising behind you, casting golden light over the beach, but he didn’t seem to notice, his attention entirely consumed by you — the way you felt around him, the way you looked with the light casting shadows across your skin.
“Fuck the sunrise.” he muttered, his voice a breathless rasp, the words almost swallowed by the sounds of your bodies moving together. “Come ‘ere-” His grip tightened on your waist, strong hands pulling you down, forcing you closer to him.
Before you could respond, he grabbed you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you down flush against his chest. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, your breasts pressing against his chest, your heart pounding in sync with his. His arms were strong, firm as they held you, one hand sliding up your back as he pulled you tighter, like he needed you closer and closer, needed to feel every part of you against him.
His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You could feel his stubble brush lightly against your collarbone, making you shiver. He buried his face under your chin, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your throat as he held you, his body thrumming with tension beneath yours.
With his knees bent, he found leverage, and he thrust up into you, hard and deep. The sensation ripped through you, making you gasp, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to hold on as his hips bucked up into you with a rough, relentless rhythm. He wasn’t gentle anymore — he was desperate, his need for you overwhelming any sense of restraint he might have had.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” he groaned against your neck, his voice thick and rough. His hands roamed over your back, fingers pressing into your skin as if he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t pull you close enough. His hips kept driving up into you.
The air was thick with the sound of soft slaps of your bodies meeting, the wet, slick noises of him thrusting up into you. The ocean waves lapped softly in the background, but it was all distant, like the world had shrunk. His hands dug into your hips, pulling you down harder onto him with each thrust, his body trembling beneath yours with the effort of holding back.
“God, you’re-” he tried to speak but couldn’t finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by the feel of you, the way your body moved with his. His hands slid down your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist as he held you tighter, his lips brushing against your throat in a desperate kiss.
You couldn’t hold back either, your hands clutching at his shoulders, back, nails digging into his skin. His knees bent tighter, giving him more leverage as he fucked up into you harder, his whole body trembling beneath yours. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as if holding on to you was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“You’re…fuck- Alex-” you gasped. “I love you.” he murmured between thrusts. Your heart clenched. You managed to choke out, “So much.”
He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut, repeating it again, more urgent this time. “So much…so much…” His voice broke with the weight of it, and the sound of him saying it, again and again. “You’re everything.” he gasped, his hands holding you tight. “I can’t...fuck...you’re everything.”
Your body trembled as the sensation built inside you, the pleasure mounting higher with every thrust, every breathless whisper. The way he held you, the way he filled you so completely was too much. You clung to his shoulders. You could barely form the words, your voice shaking as you whispered, “I’m gonna come…”
“Please, please…” he muttered, his voice a rough, desperate plea, like he was begging for you to fall apart in his arms. His hands gripped you tighter, his fingers pressing hard into your hips as if he could pull you closer, hold you tighter.
You could feel him everywhere. His breath hot against your neck, his heart pounding under your palm, his cock throbbing deep inside you. And then it hit. Your body seized, your muscles tightened around him. A soft, broken cry escaped your lips, muffled against his hair.
He groaned, his voice rough and strained as he felt your walls gripping him in a way that made him lose all sense of control. “Fuck.” he muttered, his rhythm faltering as his hips jerked up into you one last time, too much for him to hold back, his grip on you unsteady as he let go, spilling into you moments later.
His hands, still holding you, softened their grip, his fingers now gently tracing over your skin as his breathing began to slow. His release poured into you, the heat of it making you feel completely connected, like you were one with him in that moment, everything else fading away. His hands slid up your back, soothing, as he pressed a soft kiss against your shoulder, his lips brushing against your skin in a tender, wordless gesture.
Slowly, you lifted yourself off his chest, sitting back on his thighs. The weight of him still inside you was grounding, intimate, and as you gazed down at him, your heart felt like it might burst.
His face was flushed, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. The soft morning light framed him perfectly, making him look almost unreal, like he was made of something more delicate in that moment.
Your hand moved instinctively, fingers brushing over his jaw, tracing the stubble there before sliding down to his lips. You let your thumb graze his lower lip, trembling slightly from the intensity of it all, as if that small touch held more weight than anything else. His lips were soft, swollen from your earlier kisses. You couldn’t help but be drawn to them.
And then a drop of spit gathered at the edge of his lip, and it was like that tiny, insignificant detail unravelled you completely. It slipped from your control, your breath hitching as you watched it slowly make its way down. So simple, so quiet. Somehow, it was everything. You couldn’t stop yourself, you didn’t want to.
Your thumb pressed gently against his lower lip, tracing it softly, and as if he knew exactly what you needed, his lips parted slightly, inviting you in. The moment his mouth opened, warm and wet, you let your finger slip inside. His lips closed around it.
It was intimate, too intimate almost. You sat there, your finger resting on his tongue, feeling the soft heat of his breath against your knuckles. He let it happen, let you in, let you feel him in this simple way.
It was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected — the sensation of his mouth on your finger, the soft press of his lips, the warmth of his tongue. You felt vulnerable, exposed, yet completely in control all at once. And he just lay there, letting you take whatever you wanted from him, his body relaxed under yours, as if you were the only thing holding him to this earth.
His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a quiet glimmer in them that said he wanted to speak. Slowly, you slid your finger out of his mouth, watching as his lips parted, his breath quick and shallow.
He blinked, his voice soft and a little hoarse from everything. “You wanna wash this off?” He let the words hang there for a second, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “In the water?”
His question hung in the air, and you tilted your head, your own smile forming in response. “What, you need a rinse after that?”
A low, lazy sound rumbled in his chest as he stretched his arms above his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no. There’s sand everywhere.” His fingers brushed your thigh as if to prove his point, raising a brow. With his other hand, he tugged your bikini top back into place, pulling the fabric over your breasts with a flick. “And we’re not exactly clean anymore.”
You shifted slightly, still perched on his thighs, and glanced over at the ocean, the waves gently lapping at the shore just a few feet away. The idea of the cool water against your heated skin was tempting, but you couldn’t help but drag it out a little.
“Couldn’t wait for the main event, and now you’re complaining about a little sand?” you teased, fingers trailing down his chest in a lazy circle. His skin was still damp with sweat, and the cool morning air felt good against it.
He snorted, shaking his head as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “I’m not complaining. I just-” He paused, glancing down at where your bodies were still tangled together. “Could use a reset, you know? Before we...get into anything else.”
You raised an eyebrow, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “Already planning what’s next, huh?”
Alex shrugged, eyes glinting. “I’m just sayin’, we’ve got the whole day. I’m sure you’ve got more surprises up your sleeve.”
“Oh, I do.” You leaned down, lips brushing against his just enough. “But I think I could use a dip first. Cool down a bit.”
His hands slid to your hips, squeezing gently as he smirked. “You and me both.”
You smiled back, sitting up and sliding off him carefully. You extended a hand to him, and with a playful groan, he took it, letting you help him to his feet. As he reached down to adjust his swim shorts, tugging them back into place with a muttered, “Think we managed to not get sand in any…delicate places.” You were busy tying the loose strings of your bikini bottoms, fingers knotting them back in place, the ties brushing softly against your thighs.

a/n: this is just the result of seeing alex in his beach outfit again the other day, enjoy. also based on a request x. also i’m gonna stop doing the tags cause i’m lazy. also i miss junedenim, if you see this, you’re missed (by me, i’m impatient)
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And Seek Delirium

oh, he’s so in love
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
warnings: lawyer!alex (loosely), smut, (slight) sub!alex, handjob, fucking, rimming (f receiving), and one finger goes in briefly, begging, he’s down bad and clingy, think that’s all (no cocobolo)
word count: 6.8k
You had barely settled into bed when the intercom buzzed, loud enough to cut through the pillow you’d been pressing over your ears, pulling you from the soft cocoon. You groaned, dragging the pillow over your head as if it might somehow muffle the obnoxious sound. No such luck. It rang again, louder this time. The buzzing persisted, insistent, demanding your attention until you finally caved, throwing the covers off and scrambling over to answer.
You groaned, rolling over and scrambling toward the receiver. “Hello?” you said, half-expecting what was coming and knowing exactly who was coming but too tired to be sure.
On the other end, Alex’s voice crackled through. “I’m here. I’m here.” he announced, almost triumphant, a little too loud, a little too slurred. That slur in his words made it obvious. He’d been drinking. Hard.
He sounded winded too, like he’d just run to your building when he realised how late it was, probably trying to make up for lost time. You could picture him now, leaning against the wall downstairs, his face probably pressed and squished to the cold metal of the intercom, his breath warm and sticky from whatever he’d been drinking. His words were muffled and lazy, like he was talking with his mouth almost right up against the speaker.
The thought made you smile, even if he was a little late. Okay, a lot late. He had probably been knocking back drinks with some people he was handling business with, forgetting about the time until the alcohol caught up to him.
“I was already in bed.” you sighed, resting your forehead against the wall. You weren't really mad, just...tired. He was supposed to be here hours ago, but you knew how these nights went.
He laughed softly, a low rumble that vibrated through the intercom. “That’s perfect. I’ll just get in with you. Let me in.” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled, probably because his cheek was still glued to the cold metal.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth betrayed you. He had a key, he just didn’t have the one for downstairs anymore. You’d lost count of how many times he’d shown up needing to be buzzed in because he was waiting for someone to come out or for you to answer, usually after he’d lost track of time doing exactly what he was doing tonight.
“I was almost asleep, babe. I’m tired.” you tried again, your voice softer this time, but still teasing him. You’d picked up on the intentions in his voice already.
There was a beat of silence on his end before you heard a soft snicker, and then “I’ll wake you up…with my penis.” he said, dragging out the words, elongating that last one like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said, followed by a self-satisfied chuckle. You could practically hear him shifting against the intercom, probably playing with the buttons like they were the most interesting thing in the world right now, no doubt drawing curious looks from any passerby.
You couldn't help it. You laughed. Despite the absurdity, despite how late it was, there was something about him when he got like this. “You’re an idiot.” you muttered, pressing the buzzer to let him in, already hearing him muttering something incoherent into the speaker as the door unlocked.
He didn’t wait for you to say anything more, probably didn’t even notice the door unlocking. It was a good thing too because, as you heard the faint click of the front door opening, you were sure he wouldn’t have made it up otherwise. His usual trick of relying on a neighbour or someone leaving the building to sneak him in had come in clutch once again.
Alex leaned back from the intercom just in time to see the girl from the floor below heading out, probably on her way to get just as drunk as he already was. He gave her a lazy wave as he stumbled into the building, feeling victorious. His legs were jelly, his head spinning just enough that the idea of climbing the stairs felt like an Olympic event. Still, he managed, one hand braced against the railing as he took each step slowly, as if he was conserving what little energy he had left.
You could hear the faint sounds of his footsteps from the stairwell below. He could’ve taken the elevator. But he was probably too impatient, or too drunk to bother finding the button, his mind already half focused on the thought of getting to your bed.
By the time he reached your door, he could barely remember how many floors he’d climbed, only that the light outside your apartment felt too bright and the hallway felt too narrow. He fumbled for a second, knocking half-heartedly before leaning against the door, waiting for you to let him in.
You could hear him fumbling with the handle, cursing softly under his breath before you finally swung it open. He stumbled in, leaning against the doorframe for a moment, looking as though he’d just finished running a marathon. His hair was a mess, his jacket half-off his shoulder, and he gave you a lopsided grin that was pure, unapologetic Alex.
He straightened up, trying to appear more put-together than he actually was. His shirt was untucked, his belt buckle halfway undone as though he’d already started stripping down on the way. His grin was boyish and crooked, eyes glazed but warm as he saw you standing there in your pyjamas, rubbing your tired eyes.
“Finally.” he slurred, stepping inside with no hesitation and immediately pulling you into a sloppy hug. His arms were loose around you, his cheek resting on top of your head. “Missed you. You look comfortable.” he slurred, his eyes already scanning the bed like it was the most inviting place on earth.
“I was comfortable.” you teased, propping yourself up on one elbow as you watched him. “You look like you could use a nap. You’re drunk.” you said, though your arms wrapped around his waist automatically. He smelled like whiskey and something sweet, and maybe the cologne he’d forgotten to apply properly before heading out.
“A little.” he admitted, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. His breath was hot, tinged with alcohol as he spoke. “But no naps.” he said, making his way further inside with you in his arms and with a drunken swagger that had you laughing again. “I came here for...very specific reasons.”
“Oh, really? And what might those be?”
“To see you.” he mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “And to use my penis, obviously.”
He didn’t waste any more time, tugging you toward the bedroom at last, though he swayed slightly with every step, his grip on your waist tightening like he needed you to keep him steady. When he finally flopped down onto the mattress, he let out a long, contented sigh, kicking off his shoes with clumsy enthusiasm.
You followed, climbing in beside him, though you couldn’t help but shoot him an amused look as he wiggled around, trying to get comfortable.
“I can’t believe you came here like this.” you muttered, shaking your head. You rolled your eyes again, but your smile softened. “You’re lucky I let you in.”
“Lucky…” he echoed, his breath evening out as his eyes fluttered closed, some exhaustion catching up with him. “Always lucky…with you.”
You looked down at him, his tousled hair splayed out on the pillow, eyes slightly glassy but still sparkling. As you absently played with the tie around his neck, you felt the warmth radiating from him, the way his body relaxed against yours. “You know,” you said, your fingers twisting the fabric lightly, “you look really good like this. All rumpled and...well, a little ridiculous.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and playful. “Ridiculous? Nah, I’m going for ‘debonair’.” he replied, his lips quirking into that familiar smile. You pulled him closer, using the tie to guide him into a kiss, feeling the spark ignite between you as his mouth moved against yours, warm and inviting.
“Tie me up.” he said, pulling back slightly, a cheeky grin plastered across his face. He stretched his arms above his head as if to encourage you, showcasing his muscular frame even through his shirt and inviting you to play. You couldn’t help but laugh at his boldness.
“How drunk are you?” you asked, already feeling the thrill rise in your chest as you tugged at the tie, loosening it from around his neck.
“Don’t make me ask for it again.” he said playfully, wiggling his fingers at you as he spread his legs, making space for you to climb onto his lap.
You positioned yourself comfortably, feeling the heat radiating between you, and took the tie in hand. “Alright then.” you said with a smirk, wrapping it around his wrists and tying it securely to the bedpost. “Let’s see how well you behave.”
“Hey, careful with that!” he teased, though there was a hint of excitement in his voice. He tested the restraints, a devilish smile on his face as he found himself effectively tied down.
With a sudden sense of dominance, you pushed his pants down, exposing him fully. You noticed how sensitive he was, a soft gasp escaping his lips as the cool air hit his skin. It was also impossible not to notice how hard he was beneath his boxers, the fabric straining against him, barely containing the outline of his cock. His hips shifted restlessly, pushing up as if begging for your touch without saying a word, his breath quickening with every teasing brush of your fingers near his waistband.
“Come on, don’t be cruel.” he groaned, his voice thick with need, his wrists pulling slightly against the tie. His fingers flexed as if to grab onto something, anything, but he was helpless under your control, and the sight of him squirming and the way he couldn’t stop making those delightful little sounds only spurred you on further.
You trailed a single finger along the waistband of his boxers, watching his muscles tense in anticipation. His eyes were glued to your movements, pupils blown wide with lust.
“Patience.” you whispered, deliberately avoiding the spot he so desperately wanted you to touch.
“Patience?” he repeated, his voice full of exasperation, “I had to sit there for hours listening to those pricks talk about nothing but the damn stock market.” he groaned, shifting his hips closer, desperate for your touch. “All I could think about was you.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused by his confession as your fingers continued their slow, teasing dance along his skin. “Oh? Sounds dreadful.”
“Like we’re lawyers, for God’s sake.” he continued, his voice thick with both desire and annoyance. “What the hell do stocks have to do with anything? I don’t care about any of it. All I wanted was to get out of there and have you.” His breath hitched as he tugged uselessly against his restraints, his desperation palpable as he ground up toward you again. “So, please...stop torturing me.”
You felt bad. He was cute. So you slowly pulled down the fabric of his boxers, revealing the smooth skin beneath. His erection sprang free, hard and pulsing, and you couldn’t help but admire how perfectly he filled your hand. You wrapped your fingers around him, the heat radiating from him sending a thrill through your body.
“Is this what you wanted?” you asked, your voice low and sultry as you gave him a gentle squeeze.
He let out a desperate gasp, his head falling back against the bedpost as he writhed beneath you. “Yes…just like that…don’t stop.” he urged.
You used your thumb and index finger to tease the tip of his cock, swirling around it and pinching.
“God, that feels amazing.” he groaned, biting his lip as he tried to keep his composure, his hips bucking slightly as he chased the sensation.
“Yeah?” you said, stroking him gently as you took in the sight of him. “I hate giving hand jobs, you know? It’s like...ugh...I really have to do it in front of the expert?” You feigned annoyance, though a smirk crept onto your face.
“So just fuck me then, baby.” he said, voice thick with need, his breath hitching slightly as you continued your teasing. “I need you.”
You caressed his belly under his shirt, fingers tracing the lines of his abs, feeling him twitch under your touch. As you continued to stroke him, you leaned in closer, eyes locked onto his, watching the way his expression shifted between pleasure and desperation.
Your lips brushed against his ear as you whispered, “You’ve got to behave then, tied up and all.” His body responded to your words, his desire evident as he wriggled, the excitement bubbling between you.
“Whatever you want, just...please.” he urged. You could tell he was ready, and that only fueled your own anticipation.
“Whatever I want?” you asked as you continued to stroke him, slow. So, so slow. Your words hung in the air, daring him to offer more, testing just how far he was willing to go.
His breath hitched, and for a moment, you could see him trying to hold back a groan. “Yeah, whatever you want.” he said. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours. “I’d even let you stick your fingers up my arse if that’s what you wanted.”
You paused for a moment, your grin widening at his boldness. “Oh, really?” you asked. He wriggled again, turned on by his own confession.
“Yeah, I’m serious.” he continued, almost breathless now. “Whatever it takes, just…”
“You really want this, don’t you?” you whispered, trailing your fingers lightly down his chest, which rose and fell with quickened breaths, and he nodded, eager but teasingly silent, waiting for you to make the next move.
“Tell me what you want, Alex.” you encouraged, your voice low and sultry.
“Just...just touch me.” he said, and then chuckled softly. “Maybe…maybe no penetrating me right now.” He looked up at you, the amusement in his eyes giving way to raw desire. “You know what I like.” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “You always know.”
With a sly grin, you relished his urgency. “Alright, but you’ll have to wait a little longer.” you said, your fingers brushing lightly against him, teasing him without giving in to his pleas just yet.
“Baby.” he protested, squirming slightly against the bedpost. “Don’t make me wait.”
You chuckled softly at his impatience, your fingers now wrapping around him again, stroking him. He gasped, a low sound that echoed in the quiet room, and you watched him closely, delighting in how his body responded to every touch.
“See? This isn’t so bad, is it?” you teased, continuing your ministrations, alternating between firm strokes and soft caresses.
“Ugh, you’re killing me.” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. “You know I can’t last like this.”
“Is that so?” you replied, your voice playful. “I should just keep you waiting, then.”
He let out a frustrated sigh, and you could see the way his patience was waning. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.” he said, his eyes pleading with you. “Just let me feel you. I need you…now.”
You felt a surge of satisfaction at his desperation, but the thrill of the moment drove you to keep him on edge a little longer. “Alright, alright.” you said, finally relenting, your voice softening as you looked into his eyes. “You’ve been a good boy. I’ll give you what you want.”
You climbed off his lap to take off his pants all the way, but you left his shirt on. And he watched you like an eager puppy as you repositioned yourself, getting into the right spot. You leaned over him, brushing your lips against his, feeling the warmth radiating from his body.
As you reached for the waistband of your own pants, he bit his lip, eyes flicking down to watch you. “You’re killing me.” he repeated, this time with a mix of longing and admiration.
“You like it.” you shot back playfully, finally sliding your pants off and straddling him. The moment you sank down onto him, both of you let out a collective sigh of relief, and you could feel him filling you completely.
“God, yes.” he breathed, his fingers instinctively tightening against the bedpost, the sensation of being tied up only heightening his pleasure.
You began to move slowly at first, savouring the feeling of him inside you, the connection between you two as he watched you with those dark eyes. The tension that had built up earlier was quickly transforming into something sweeter, and as you started to pick up speed, the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room.
“You feel so good.” he murmured, his voice raw as he pushed against the restraints. “Don’t stop.”
You picked up the pace, feeling the heat rise between you as you rode him. The way he reacted, each gasp, each moan, only made you work harder, and you leaned in closer, kissing him, tasting the alcohol on his lips as he responded with equal fervour.
“I could get used to this.” he panted, a smile breaking through as you pulled back slightly, wanting to see his face. “Me tied up, at your mercy...”
“Only when you behave.” you teased, your breath hitching as you leaned back and felt him hit that sweet spot deep inside you.
“Then I’ll be good.” he promised, his words slurring slightly, lost in the pleasure you were both creating together. “Just keep doing that.”
You obeyed him, even though he was supposed to not be in control. He always had control over you. You sank down deeper onto him, feeling every inch of his cock fill you completely, stretching you in a way that made your body tremble. He let out a groan, his body tensing beneath you, completely at your mercy. You could feel his thighs quivering as you took him so deep that he couldn’t even move if he tried, his cock buried inside you with nowhere left to go.
You pressed yourself against him, holding him so close it felt like time had stopped. His breath came in ragged gasps, his head falling back against the bedpost, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands.
You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the connection as you stayed there, completely wrapped around him, feeling every pulse of his body against yours. He was so deep inside you that it felt like he was a part of you, like there was nowhere left for him to go, and yet you wanted to stay just like this forever, caught in the heat, in the intensity, in the perfect, overwhelming fullness of him.
“You feel so good.” you whispered, barely able to find your voice, your body trembling as you held him inside you. He could only nod, his eyes closed.
You felt a rush of excitement surge through your veins. You pulled your top off, letting it fall carelessly to the side. Your bare skin was now exposed to him, and you could see the way his eyes widened, drinking in the sight of you. Your heart raced as you noticed how his gaze fixated on your breasts, the way they bounced slightly as you continued to move above him.
“God, you’re so stunning.” he breathed. “I want to touch them so bad.” he said, frustration lacing his tone as he strained against the tie binding him to the bedpost. “It’s killing me that I can’t reach.”
You chuckled softly, a thrill of power coursing through you. “What’s that? You can’t reach? Poor baby.” you teased, leaning in closer so he could see every detail of you. “Maybe I should let you have a taste.”
His cock twitched inside you at the thought. He tried to lean forward, but was held firmly in place. “Don’t tease me like that.” he said, half-laughing, half-serious, as he flexed his arms in frustration. “You know how much I want to touch you right now.”
You weren't necessarily used to being this bold with him, to wielding such power and control, but something about the way he looked at you, so desperate, so hungry, made you crave it even more. “Maybe I like teasing you.” you replied. “Besides, you brought this on yourself, remember? Asking to be tied up.”
“Okay, okay, you got me.” he conceded, a grin creeping onto his face. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t give me a little taste of what I’m missing. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Take what? The way you can’t touch me? Or the way I feel wrapped around you?”
Each word you spoke seemed to ignite a fire inside him. You watched as his eyes rolled back, his lips parting in a low moan. “Both.” he gasped, the need evident in his voice. “Just…please, don’t stop.”
You relished the control you had over him, the way he squirmed beneath you, longing to break free just to feel you. “You’ll have to wait.” you said, emphasising each word as you let your breasts bounce lightly in front of his face, watching the way his eyes tracked every movement.
“Fuck-” he groaned, biting his lip as he leaned back against the pillow, straining against his bindings again, but you could see that spark of determination in his gaze. “You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” you teased, your smile widening as you continued to move, your body gliding against him, feeling the friction build between you. “You could always beg for it.”
“Please.” he said, mock seriousness in his tone but with genuine longing beneath it. “I’ll do anything. Just let me touch you.”
“What if I want you to beg harder?”
He threw his head back again, laughter mixing with pleasure as he squirmed beneath you. “You’re ruthless.” he admitted. “But fine, I’ll play along.”
“Good.” you said, leaning closer so your lips brushed against his ear. “Now, what do you want, Alex? Be specific.”
“I want to feel you, I want to touch you, I want you to let me kiss them.” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Just once. Please.”
You paused, considering his request for a moment. “Maybe if you keep being a good boy.” you teased, your fingers tracing down his chest. “You’ll get what you want.”
“Fuckinh hell.” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just- just give me a chance.”
With a soft chuckle, you relented slightly, leaning down so your breasts were just inches from his face. “Alright, just this once.” you said, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. “You can touch them, but only if you promise to be good.”
“I promise.” he said, his voice filled with genuine earnestness. “I swear.”
You leaned closer, allowing him just enough space to brush his fingers against you. The moment his hands made contact, you felt a shiver run down your spine as he explored, his touch gentle yet insistent. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” he murmured.
“I think I have an idea.” you replied breathlessly, feeling the warmth of his hands on your skin, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch.
“Fuck, yes.” he said, his voice a husky whisper, his fingers deftly kneading and teasing. “You feel amazing.”
His hands, though tied, were still skilled, and he continued to find ways to worship you with his mouth when you leaned down and the limited movement of his arms when you allowed.
“Faster, baby.” he urged. “I want to feel you.” You complied, your body moving instinctively to the rhythm of your shared pleasure. “Just like that, love.” he breathed as he watched you bounce on his cock. “You feel so good around me.”
“Yeah? You like it?” you teased, leaning down to kiss him deeply, your bodies moving in perfect harmony.
“More than you know.” he replied, as he thrust upward, matching your movements.
The sound of his restrained moans filled the room as you rode him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance, his eyes pleading silently as you pushed him closer to the edge. His breath hitched, and you knew he was close from the way he bucked his hips beneath you, seeking more friction, more intensity, more of your cunt, more, more, more.
“God, you feel so good.” he groaned, his voice strained as his muscles tightened. His head fell back against the pillow for the hundredth time, and his chest heaved with each ragged breath.
You were right there with him, feeling the tightening coil of your own release building, the heat rising in your core. His eyes flicked up to you, desperate and overwhelmed, and you couldn’t help but smile as you leaned forward, your breasts brushing against his face, smothering him, with no complaints from on part.
“Fuck-” he gasped, his hands uselessly straining against the tie as he tried to pull you closer, if that was even a thing. “I’m so close.”
You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Me too.”
And then it hit, the flood of sensation overwhelming you both at once. His hips bucked upward, and you felt him pulse inside you as he came, his body shuddering with the intensity of it. You collapsed against him, your chest pressing into his face as your own orgasm tore through you, the feeling of his cum inside of you only heightening your pleasure.
“God, yes.” you both moaned, the words coming out in unison, your voices blending together in the haze of satisfaction.
For a moment, everything was still, the only sound in the room your shared breaths, heavy and labored. You stayed there, wrapped around him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath you as you both came down from the high. His head turned slightly, lips brushing against your skin as you both relished the closeness of the moment.
You let out a contented sigh, feeling the warmth of his body beneath you, still tied but completely at ease. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and you felt his hands flex again as he tried to reach for you.
“You’re incredible.” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. His face nuzzled against you, and you smiled, enjoying the closeness that always came with him after you’d fuck.
“You did pretty well yourself.”
Alex chuckled, his breath warm against your skin as he shifted slightly beneath you. “You know, if you untie me, I could show you just how good I can be with my hands.”
You laughed, still catching your breath, and kissed the top of his head. “I think I like you just where you are.”
Your bodies remained entwined, the heat from your skin mixing with the lingering warmth of your shared release dripping between you. You both lay there, catching your breath, your chest still rising and falling as you rested against him. Alex shifted slightly beneath you, nuzzling his face against your chest, his breath tickling your skin.
“You really gonna leave me like this?” he asked, his voice playful, but there was a definite edge of pleading beneath it. He tugged his wrists again, trying to move, but to no avail. “Come on, love. Untie me, yeah? I want to feel you properly.”
You smiled down at him, running your fingers through his hair, feeling the dampness from sweat and heat. “You look pretty comfortable to me.” you said, tracing a finger along his jawline. “I think I like you all tied up like this. It’s a good look for you.”
He groaned dramatically, throwing his head back into the pillow. “You’re enjoying this far too much.” he said, his tone half exasperated, half amused. “I didn't think you’d get such a kick out of leaving me helpless.”
You grinned. “It’s not often I get you like this, Turner. You can’t blame me for wanting to savour the moment.”
Alex let out a low, frustrated laugh, his eyes following every movement of your body. “Savour all you want.” he said, shifting his hips slightly beneath you, the motion sending a little jolt of sensation through both of you. “But you're driving me insane. I need to touch you. I think I’ve more than earned it, love. I mean, I was good, wasn’t I?”
“Good, yeah. But I’m enjoying watching you squirm. It’s cute. You’re cute.”
He groaned again, louder this time, as he shifted beneath you. “If you untie me, I’ll make it worth your while.” he promised.
“Oh?” you asked, cocking your head to the side as you looked down at him. “What do you have in mind, Turner?”
“I’ll make you feel things you didn’t know you could feel.” he replied smoothly. “Is that convincing enough?”
You laughed softly, leaning down to brush a kiss against his lips, your tongue lightly teasing his bottom lip before you pulled back again. “You always know just what to say.”
Something in the way he looked at you, so desperate, made you finally relent. Slowly, you untied him, his wrists slipping free.
Before he could react, you leaned in and gave him a light slap across his cheek, playful but enough to catch his attention. Just as quickly, you slipped off of him, feeling his cock fall weakly onto his stomach, a frustrated whimper leaving his lips at the loss of contact.
You stood up, moving toward your shirt, the cool air hitting your skin as you picked it up and slipped it back on. But the second you turned away, you felt his hands grasp your hips, pulling you back.
“Hey, hey, hey, no.” Alex growled, his grip firm as he pushed you back down onto the bed. You landed on your stomach with a soft thud, and he was on top of you in an instant, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t go.”
You glanced back over your shoulder, breathless from the suddenness. “I was just going to the bathroom.” you protested, though you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.
“No.” he said again, his voice husky with intent.
“No?” you asked, your heartbeat quickening as you felt his hands moving down your body.
“No.” he repeated, more insistent this time as he gripped your hips tightly, lowering himself. His teeth grazed your skin as he bit your ass, a sharp, playful nip. He followed it with slow, teasing kisses on both your cheeks, alternating between them. Left and right. And repeat.
One of his hands slid between your legs, spreading your cheeks apart as his other moved lower, gathering the slick remnants of his cum from you. You felt him pause for a moment, his finger hovering at your other hole.
“Can I?” he asked, his voice full of curiosity, desire laced in every word.
You nodded, your body already responding to his touch. He pushed a finger inside, slowly, testing your limits, watching intently as your body took him in. The pressure sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. But it didn’t last long. Within moments, he withdrew his finger, deciding on something else. The next thing you felt was his tongue, hot and eager, licking at you. The loss of his digit was quickly replaced by the wet, insistent pressure of his mouth as he dove in.
“Oh, God…” you breathed, your fingers curling into the sheets.
With one hand gripping your hip to keep you steady, his other hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers dancing over your nipple. You couldn’t stop yourself from arching your back, pressing into him more.
“Alex…oh, God…” you moaned.
“Tell me how good it feels.” he said. “Let me hear you.”
“Feels amazing.” you managed to gasp, unable to suppress the pleasure building within you.
“Good.” he replied, satisfaction lacing his tone as he continued to lavish attention on you.
With that, he dove back in, his focus becoming more intense. The way he licked and teased sent you further into bliss, and each flick of his tongue pushed you closer to the edge. You could feel yourself teetering on the brink, entirely lost in the sensations he was creating.
“Don’t stop.” you urged as your body instinctively responded to his every movement. The tightness in your core was almost overwhelming, and you felt like you were about to shatter at any moment.
“Never.” he promised.
You felt his hand glide down your body, sliding between your legs to find your clit. The moment his fingers made contact, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, sharp and intense. Even drunk, Alex knew exactly what he was doing. He knew you, knew your body, and how to unravel you effortlessly.
His fingers circled your clit with just the right amount of pressure, perfectly timed with the flicks of his tongue. Every touch, every stroke, sent you higher, and your hips bucked against him, craving more. He adjusted seamlessly, his rhythm unrelenting.
It was almost maddening how well he knew his way around you, how he could push you right to the edge with such ease. He played you like an instrument, his hand and mouth working in perfect harmony, coaxing you closer and closer to that sweet release.
Now you were completely at his mercy. Your mind went blank until you could feel that tight knot deep inside you unravelling, pulling you right to the brink of ecstasy.
“Alex…I’m so close.” you gasped, your voice shaky as you surrendered.
“Good, let go for me.” he urged. “I want to feel you. Let it all out.”
With those words, the tension in your body snapped, and you cried out. You felt the world blur around the edges. Alex didn’t relent, continuing to lick and tease, drawing out your release as you bucked against him. You could hear your own cries mingling with his low chuckle of satisfaction.
You instinctively pushed away from him, your body too sensitive to handle any more of his relentless attention. He let you move, but not without a playful protest.
“Don’t make me chase you. You know I’ll catch you every time.”
You squealed, half-jokingly trying to push him away again, though the way your heart raced told you how much you secretly loved the idea. The heat in your cheeks gave you away, and Alex noticed.
“What if I want you to chase me?” you teased, grinning as you tried to put some distance between you and the inevitable.
His gaze softened, but his voice dropped into that deep, sultry tone that always made your stomach flutter. “Oh, love, I will always chase you.” he promised. His hand reached out, pulling you back gently, but with a firmness that left no room for protest. “But right now.” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I want you right here.”
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest. The weight of him, the feel of his body enveloping yours, made you melt back into him as he pressed you down into the sheets. You were right where he wanted you, where you wanted to be, wrapped up in him, the chase ending exactly where it always did — in each other’s arms.
“God, it’s hot in here.” he murmured, shifting slightly.
“Then take off your shirt.” you suggested.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to move from you.” he replied, his arms tightening around you as if to emphasise his point.
“You want me to help you?”
“Would you?”
You nodded and moved. He let you shift away, rolling onto his back to give you better access. As you unbuttoned his shirt, you could see the excitement in his eyes, the way he watched your every move.
“A little more.” you encouraged, pulling the fabric from beneath him and tossing it aside. He stretched out, muscles rippling beneath his skin, and you couldn’t help but admire the sight.
“I should really clean up.” you said, glancing at the mess between your legs.
“Do I have to let you go?”
“Just for a moment, I promise.” you replied, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips before slipping off the bed. You quickly put your clothes back on, feeling a mix of satisfaction and warmth at the sight of him still sprawled out. Naked. Carefree.
As you returned to the mattress, Alex’s expression shifted to something more clingy. “You took too long.” he pouted, reaching for you and pulling you close once more, wrapping his arms around you tightly.
“Sorry, I was just trying to be responsible.” you laughed softly, settling into his embrace.
“I don’t want you to be responsible.” he replied, his voice suddenly serious as he nuzzled into your neck. “I want you right here, with me. Don’t leave again.”
“Okay, okay, I’m right here.” you reassured him, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?” he asked, his tone playful but laced with sincerity.
“Promise.” you said, tracing your fingers along his arms, feeling how he relaxed under your touch.
“Good.” he murmured, tightening his grip around you. “I like having you close. It’s nice.”
“It is nice.” you agreed, feeling your heart swell as you melted into him. “But you have to let me move sometimes, too.”
“Nope.” he replied stubbornly, holding you even tighter.
You chuckled, the sound mixing with the warmth in the air. “Okay.”
You took his hands in yours, gently rubbing at his wrists when you noticed the slight red marks left from the tie. Your touch was soft, soothing, and Alex watched you with a lazy smile on his face. His eyes softened at the touch, giving way to something tender.
“Do they hurt?” you asked as you traced over the marks.
He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nah, I’m good. Actually, I really enjoyed that...and not just because I’m drunk.” he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I mean, maybe the alcohol helped me loosen up a bit, but...I liked it. A lot.”
Your heart fluttered and you squeezed his hands just a little tighter. “You’re not just saying that?”
He shook his head again, his hair falling messily into his eyes as he looked at you, his expression so sincere it almost made your chest ache. “No, I’m serious. It was...I dunno, it felt good to let go. I trust you like that.”
You smiled, feeling warmth flood through you. “I liked it too. You were good to me.”
He chuckled, his voice a little lighter now. “Good, huh? Good enough for a kiss?” he asked.
“Yes.” you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough for him to savour it. He hummed against your mouth, clearly satisfied but always hungry for more.
After a moment, you pulled back, resting your forehead against his as you spoke. “I need to go see the office tomorrow.” you said quietly, watching his face for any sign of protest.
He wrinkled his nose, a little pout forming. “Do I have to come too?” he asked, his voice almost childlike in its sweetness.
You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Only if you want to.”
Alex thought about it for a second, then shrugged, that easygoing smile returning to his lips. “I trust you to choose.” he said, his voice warm and full of faith. “Besides,” he added with a playful smirk, “I’m pretty sure I’d just be a distraction.”
“You? A distraction? Never.” you teased, laughing softly as you pressed another kiss to his cheek. “But I think I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.” he murmured, pulling you closer again, his arms wrapping around you as if he couldn’t bear to let you go just yet, not like anyone asked him to, but still. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
His warmth and sweetness completely enveloped you. “I think you might be a little drunker than you realise.” you said, though the sincerity in his voice made that a redundant statement.
“Maybe.” he admitted, his voice soft. “Nah, I’m serious.”
You smiled, letting the moment linger as he held you close. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” you whispered, knowing that’s what he needed to hear.
“And I’ll be here waiting.” he replied, kissing the top of your head, his arms wrapped securely around you as the night gently carried you both into sleep.

a/n: i feel like it’s kinda bad but not that bad so it’s alright. this was supposed to be waaay longer but i decided to split it into 2 fics, so i’ll post the other part soon
tags: @st7rnioioss @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @rentsturner @yourstartreatment @avxoxo1 @jqsvi @turnersfav @youresodarkbabe @psychedelicrocker @aacheinthejaw @zayndrider @humbuginmybones @tedioepica
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brilliant
it's three in the morning

for the long haul
warnings: piv, eating, pregnancy piv, mild dad!alex, and probably some other stuff too
word count: 8.8k
There was an attitude when you first met that you each would hold a sense of permanence in each other's lives. It wasn't completely romantic at first. You and Alex met through a series of shared friends.
This was 2013 and you were both otherwise occupied with separate relationships. His was longer and much more stable. Yours was a short passionate fury that ended by early 2014. Coincidentally, as did his.
But still, it wasn't a direct rebound. He was touring and when the band stopped in New York—your home at the time—you stuck around at the after-party with Alex. Nothing much happened there other than a questionable conversation three rounds in.
"It's all speeding up," he said. It was drunk talk and you weren't paying attention to the idea he had spoken before it but you tried your best to follow after. His body came closer and huddled so close to yours, which was excusable in the February chill, but debatable with the indoor heating.
He slung an arm over your shoulder and, with great camaraderie, you slid your arm behind his back; a "friendly" side hug. "Time is weird," you said.
Alex looked at you. His eyes were alcohol-glazy but his soul was bursting to say something. You could both feel the unsaid left lingering and his head moved forward at one point as if he were going to kiss you but it was then decided he would hesitate on that front.
He chuckled through his nose as if some joke had been made before turning his head to look at the buzzing partiers. He nodded at something and you weren't sure if it was related to your statement or not. You took another sip of your vodka Coke and he said, "Timing is everything."
He slipped away from you after that and it's possible he slept with someone else that night but you aren't sure. You don't even know if he would remember. He slept with a lot of people in 2014. It was a messy time.
Later in the year, toward the end of July, he called you from Iowa. Despite the hour, somewhere in the early morning, neither of you was drunk. Alex's sleep schedule had little idea of the concept of time with the mad case of severe jet lag he could be diagnosed with and you, well, you were asleep but you acted like it was normal for him to wake you up at 3 AM.
"Where in Iowa are you from?" He asked. Neither of you had really gotten to know one another. Not those small details. You knew he was from Sheffield but you don't know what college he went to or his parents' names or if he's ever broken a bone. Your relationship had never been built on knowing each other. It was always just about feeling each other. You had always gotten on well, never fought, always laughed, slung arms around one another, and thought about the maybes.
"Why do you ask?" You laughed at the idea of him calling you in the dead of night, sitting outside his tour bus, smoking a cigarette, talking about your tiny hometown.
"We're playing there tomorrow. Council Bluffs or something. You're the only person I know from Iowa." You told him that the first night you met and he latched onto it like it was some lie you told to impress people because people are usually so impressed with the concept of being a Hawkeye. Although, he never got more information about it. He didn't know that you grew up on a corn farm and you learned how to drive your dad's truck at 9 years old.
You scoffed, "Council Bluffs. You might as well just be in Nebraska."
He chuckled. "Sorry. I'll plan it out better for you next time."
"I'm from Beaman. It's close to the center. Very small town," you told him. "But there's a library and a basketball court that becomes an ice skating rink in the winter. It was dull but I liked it."
"Sounds like a nice place to grow up." You shrugged, not that he'd be able to see it. An air of silence hung over the conversation and you're not sure if he was waiting for you to say something in return. And then he suddenly said, "I've been thinking about you. Not just in Iowa."
You weren't sure what that meant. He was still so new to you and a one-on-one phone call had never been done before. You couldn't yet tell what he was trying to convey through the tone of his voice if this was some playful thing, a joke or something serious, a flirtation. "Why?" You questioned.
It was silent and you imagined him shrugging but you'd never know for sure if he did or not. Eventually, he answered, "Guess I just missed you. Is that allowed?" It was rolled in humour and tucked in a laugh so you took it as a joking sweetness. Some sense of sincerity lingered but it wasn't packed with desperation.
So, you told him you missed him too and hopefully you'd hang out again soon. The conversation ended and soon wasn't around the corner. You kept in touch, by text and through friends, but he didn't return from the road until November and you weren't yet one of the people he would hang out with as soon as he was back, especially since you were in New York and he was in LA when he wasn't on the other side of the pond.
But then you moved to LA, right at the beginning of 2015. Truthfully, it was for your boyfriend. It was an awful idea and you knew it. You had only been dating the guy for a few months and retrospectively it was never serious but in the moment fantasy and blurred visions came to mind and they took the wheel from you. Besides, you had a career that you could do anywhere, most of your friends were in LA, and there was, of course, Alex.
At a shared friend's birthday party, you saw Alex again through a barrier of smoke. Your boyfriend was off in the bathroom and Alex was pushing himself off the wall with a drunken stumble and throwing his arms around you.
"Huck told me you'd be here. Told me you're out in LA. How come you didn't tell me?" His words were rolling out of him quickly with little care where they ended up.
You did your best to reciprocate the hug and follow his sloppy manner as he leaned back against the wall. You stirred your gin & tonic with the flick of your wrist, still sober having just arrived. "It's all been hectic. We're just starting to settle out here."
His eyes drifted away, looking behind you, and when the cold hand touched your back you realized what he was looking at. "Yeah, well, once you are, we should get together or something. Alex, by the way." He waved to your boyfriend, staying against the wall this time. He looked like he was having trouble keeping his eyes open but his speech was clear with no slurring sounded.
You put your arm around your boyfriend's back, returning his hold. "I'd like that. We'll probably have some housewarming party at some point so..."
Alex hummed his acknowledgment like words were becoming too much work. He brought the spliff to his lips and the smell of marijuana began to give you a headache and a craving at the same time. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him away from you. It took a moment of staring before you moved to find residency on the couch, but more lingered in the air than just the smell of weed. Uncertainty persisted.
A month later, the house had been settled and a housewarming party occurred but Alex didn't attend. He had said he was out of town but you're not sure where out of town. It didn't matter much. You didn't live in that house for very long.
It would seem like fate stepped in at some point or a mere happenstance that the night you and your boyfriend broke up everyone in the world seemed to be busy. Friends were away for the weekend or had guests staying with them or simply didn't pick up their phones at 2 AM. But Alex did.
When you arrived at his house, he was peculiarly waiting in his driveway. His hands were on his hips and his head cocked in a way that some might interpret as pissed but you knew it was just his resting position.
Your unaffected nature could also be misinterpreted. You didn't feel the urge to cry, and though you were upset at the demise of a loving relationship, it didn't provoke your tear ducts and you remained indifferent.
After exiting your car, he asked, "Are you okay?"
And it was easy to nod and answer, "Truthfully, yes." It's probably easier to feel this way when you are the one who initiated the break-up.
It's also easy to feel that way when instead of going to bed you're accompanied by Alex and drinks. No rejection was involved when downing a bottle of hard liquor, especially when Alex seemed to have it stockpiled. You both operated better drunk, which could have been alarming to an outsider, but for you and Alex it was understandable. It wasn't used as coping, each other was used for that. The alcohol was just an additional treat.
"It's hard to not feel like I'm wasting away my youth," you told him, leaning your head on the back of the couch.
He was on the opposite end, cigarette stuck in his mouth as he spoke, "You're still young."
"Not forever," you lamented. "I guess that's the thing. I'm not particularly pissed it's over. I think I did us both a favour but I'm pissed about running out of time for these things. I mean, I moved across the country for this guy. I used to have fun with guys! Now I'm just following them places and desperately trying to play the role of wife. Like, who am I?"
Alex openly laughed in response.
You giggled in return, "Don't laugh at me."
He shook his head, removing smoke and cigarette from his lips. "I think you're getting worked up over nothing."
"Maybe." You shrugged. "But I don't think so. I don't know what I'm saying. Wait, yes, I do." Alex laughed again. "I'm saying I want to have fun again."
"Right." He nods.
His eyes locked with yours and once his cigarette was stubbed out and the bottle you had been clutching was placed down on the coffee table, his lips then locked with yours. It was harsh and rough like every drunk kiss that had occurred before in history.
It must have been around 4 AM at this point and everything felt hungry. Like this was—he was—your midnight snack. This is when desperation occurs. The quick need for satisfaction with no care about the journey to get there.
Alex's arms clutched around your lower back up to your shoulder blades, pulling you on top of him. Her hands grasped around the endpoints of his sharp jaw making it impossible to be stuck in a heated makeout. You straddled him but it was hard (in two ways) to not feel frustrated quickly.
You reached down, swiping your hands along his chest, and landing on the button of his jeans. Everything must come undone and he understood that perfectly. You didn't even bother to pull his zipper down, instead reaching your hand into his underwear and letting the force drag the zipper apart.
He pulled your hand out just so you could get your top off of you and while your arms were up in the air, you grind on him and soft moans escaped, swallowing it up when your lips reunited. He was a master at unclasping a bra and had easy access to your pussy through your small skirt made up of flowy material.
Your hand made small movements around his cock and his fingers grazed through your folds and he seemed to want to do a version of shared masturbation but you ached for something stronger. You lifted yourself off of him to remove your skirt and panties. He shuffled just enough to kick his jeans and underwear off the bottom of his feet. You finished reaching nudity at the same time.
Alex didn't allow you to straddle him again, pushing you onto your back as he took off his shirt. His nude body hovered over you and the back of your head hit the arm of the couch. You curled your legs around him, pushing his hips toward yours. Everything is non-verbal, all performed through signs. You've always been on the same wavelength and it feels like words would have ruined this and made this all seem questionable.
He quit the foreplay of kissing your neck and pinching your breasts and became rough like this is what you wanted, now shut up and take it. He was in you and on top of you and it's exactly what you wanted: fun. He could be described as a pleasurable jackhammer as he moved in and out of you. Everything was hard and skin was slapping but you're both moaning and none of it was silent whimpers. It was shouts of "Fuck!" and "Harder!" and "Holy shit!" and "Right there!"
It's all responded to correctly. You nipped at his neck and toward the end, he reached down to rub your clit. It's all masterfully done on both of your parts. Your walls clenched around his dick and he stretched you open to a degree that has you grasping at the couch cushions until you've come. Then, he pulled out of you, letting it all go, straight onto your stomach.
Exhaustion and complete silence fell. Alex laid back on his side of the couch, panting. A few breaths passed before he rose and grabbed a rag from the kitchen, wiping his cum off you.
"Is that your cum towel?" You joked.
His face broke a smirk and he nodded. A question hung in the air of what to do next, stuck in the middle of his hot living room. He towered over you as you sat up, slowly adjusting. He folded the rag up in his hand and then asked, "You wanna use it again?"
Laughter erupted from you but you did end up using it again the next time in his bedroom, which allowed comfort and greater sensuality. It was less rushed but left you both exhausted by the end of it. You slept like rag dolls, limbs hanging over one another, and powerful sleep.
In the morning (or afternoon, you're unsure), with your bodies connected, you both awoke around the same time, blinking away sleep and finding his eyes doing the same. Your unsaid nature returned and you weren't sure if you should even leave the bed or if you should be racing out the front door.
"Thanks for letting me stay," you whispered with tired vocal chords.
He shuffled closer, sheets rustling, and licking away sleep. "Course," he croaked. "You could stay forever."
It might have meant more, especially after fucking each other, but it felt more like a favour than a request. You ate breakfast together before you left, no goodbye kisses, and he said goodbye at the door instead of walking you to your car. Two weeks later, he joined you and a group of friends for drinks where you shared light small talk and he bought a round. You left for New York two days later with no acknowledgment of anything more. It just was what it was and neither of you was hurt by that, but both of you still felt longing for it to be otherwise.
In the heat of summer, you visited LA and met up with Alex for dinner. The LA visit was more for business but you decided to sort out the personal while you're there. His hair was longer, cut around the ears, no longer greased back. It's a reminder of that morning when everything was thrown about without care. He was dressed in a white button-down that was unbuttoned enough to have a clear view of the chain that hung around his neck and his seductiveness was so clear you have a hard time believing he didn't know exactly how this night was going to end.
There was small talk but Alex was quick to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of things. "We've never had dinner together before," he said. "Not just the two of us." A smirk played on his face and lewd images flashed in your mind.
You sipped your wine as a coping mechanism and leaned back in your chair. You needed to be far from him, at least for now. Playing it cool was the main goal. "Are you telling me you don't want to hang out with me?"
"Oh, I want to hang out with you but I was thinking of something much different."
Intentions were clear and things were laid out on the table so when he invited you back to his house for drinks, you had no issue with him stopping in an abandoned parking lot so you could fuck each other.
Because fucking was easy and you always felt things together instead of knowing things together. So, when he takes you in the backseat, confined, and hot & heavy, it feels romantic for something usually so drenched in the word "dirty."
The leather seats stick against your sweaty back while he undoes his belt and then his trousers before sliding your underwear aside and going into you. The AC is blasting but you don't feel it and there's a lightheaded feeling likely from wine and dehydration but you blame the way his cock hits that spot in you.
The rest of the drive isn't awkward and that's when things started to feel different. It became clear that the sense of permanence with one another wasn't a platonic coincidence of sharing friends but something much more loving. You laughed that his car radio was stuck on the sports channel and made fun of the baseball announcers shouting over the Dodgers losing to the Phillies.
Before this shift, you expected to continue your intense rush to instant passion; fucking in the hallway, fucking in the living room, fucking in the kitchen, fucking on the bathroom floor, fucking in the shower, fucking in his bed, fucking against a wall, fucking on the washing machine, fucking on the ceiling if you could. Instead, you watched the rest of the Dodgers v. Phillies game, despite knowing little about baseball and Alex's knowledge reliant on Bad News Bears and high school phys ed.
Besides, little attention was paid to the game itself. He drank a beer and made you a vodka Coke and baseball is boring and Alex had suddenly become everything.
"There's a reason baseball is America's pastime," you commented. "Who the fuck wants to sit and watch this all day?"
Alex shrugged, a smile playing on his cheeks. "It's fun when they get a home run."
"It's fun when I get a strike in bowling, doesn't mean everyone wants to sit and watch me," I struck back.
He chuckled, wiping his beer lip. "You like bowling?"
"Yeah. My dad used to set up empty cans and have us play. The nearest bowling alley was 45 minutes away so we went there on special occasions."
Alex smiled, completely charmed, and that's when you started knowing each other. Later, you walked to his bedroom and had sex and while it was passionate, it had lost its spontaneity quality, which didn't lessen it, instead changing it into something new.
The following morning, you took his old words of "stay forever" to heart and never left LA. Your return move to LA was mocked by your friends for your coming-and-going nature and moving everything all over again was a pain in the ass but Alex flew to New York and helped pack your things. When you moved into your new place, Alex helped you unpack and helped "Christen the place," as he put it by going down on you on those marble kitchen counters.
Separate places felt ideal not to rush things, but soon it seemed wasteful as most nights were spent at Alex's. You weren't a big fan of your new place in comparison to Alex'ss, which wasn't shocking. Alex had a pool for Christ's sake.
Although, it still felt like the best fit. You didn't like how much Alex smoked and Alex didn't like how messy you were. While technically not living together, you fought over these things like you did.
Smoking usually went:
"It's my house. I can do it however much I want to!"
"You're going to ruin the house by smoking inside it!"
"I paid for it!"
"You're killing yourself!"
"It's my lungs!"
"I'm gonna die from secondhand smoking!"
Messiness usually went:
"You can't come over and trash my house!"
"It's barely anything! If you let me have a drawer this wouldn't be a problem!"
"It's not just your clothes! You leave dirty dishes everywhere!"
"I get to it eventually!"
"So do the rats!"
But all and all, it always ended relatively positively. Alex took to smoking on his balcony more and you would join him from time to time. You didn't really clean up more, but Alex did give you a top drawer in his dresser.
At the beginning of December, you both attended a Christmas party, where you and Alex wore a Santa hat you bought at Party City because neither of you owned anything festive. However, everyone at the party considered it to make you the cutest couple there. You both thought it was rather cheesy but you leaned into the cliche of it and got drunk off eggnog and roleplayed Mr. & Mrs. Claus at the party until it verged on too creepy.
Over a shared cup of eggnog, Alex asked you, "You want to come to Sheffield?"
Meeting the parents had never been discussed. It was easy when his parents lived in another country and your parents were scared of planes. Though excitement and nerves bubbled, you answered, "Sure" before taking a sip.
He chuckled, now accustomed to what your reactions meant. "We could do Christmas there."
You said, "Sure" and sipped the eggnog again because it helped fight against those nerves in your stomach.
Alex chucked again because he was charmed, now completely lost in you.
Christmas in Sheffield was cold. It rained heavily the whole time you were there. You and Alex only braved walking around town once on the 23rd when the rain had stopped momentarily. The city centre was time for sightseeing all his old haunts. You walked arm-in-arm with Alex in an effort to combat the cold but still keep your hands in your coat pockets.
You got a half hour in before it started pouring rain and you were left feeling like idiots for not bringing an umbrella with you. The car was far away and you both debated ducking into a bookstore but you were both already too soaked and cold and decided just to head back to the car. He grabbed your hand, leading the way, as you raced through the unbearably cold beating rain.
On the way back to his childhood home, the rain had increased even more making it nearly impossible for Alex to see properly while driving. "This is how you end up killing someone," you said.
Alex put his hand on your shoulder but kept his eyes steady on the road. "Relax. I know how to drive."
You removed his hand from your shoulder and placed it back on the wheel. "Then, keep both hands at 10 and 2," you ordered.
He laughed and reached over to kiss your cheek and while the affection made you gain a cavity, your nerves bubbled up as you pushed him away. "Eyes on the road, mister!"
You both made it back unscathed, minus your socks, which had been soaked through. The house was warm and the smell of dinner wafted through the air. The house was quiet other than the pattering of rain and some jazz record his dad had put on. It felt like coming home.
Christmas dinner, however, was hectic. You drove out to his grandparents' place and the quiet 4-person car ride led to a fistful of screaming grandchildren and uncles whose laughs broke the sound barrier.
It had you turning to him. "This is your family?"
"Yeah. Hard to believe, right?" The calmness of Alex must come from his mum's side of the family.
Once dinner was served, the noise level calmed down as people stuffed their faces and they wished to show a great impression to their American guest of honour. The questions were light and it was clear that you weren't the first American girl Alex had brought home but everyone was welcoming and Alex placed a reassuring arm on the back of your chair. He would occasionally lift his hand and play with the longest strands of your hair, bouncing the curls you had made that morning.
Later, while the young kids played with the toys they had just received as gifts, Alex and you drank tea together. It was a warm distance for the fast nights of Los Angeles. You leaned close to Alex on the settee so he could hear your words. "I like Sheffield a lot."
He turned his head away from watching the kids, meeting your eyes. A smile crept to his lips. "Good." His hand smoothed down your sweater-covered arm. "I'm happy you're happy."
That in turn made you smile. "I like this quietness. You know, of the city, not this house."
Alex chuckled and pushed the front hanging pieces of hair behind your shoulder, eyes sculpting over your body. "It's nice to come back. Feels like a reset."
You took your fancy tea cup off your fancy tea plate and took a sip, feeling like a proper English lady. "You should come to Beaman. You'll probably hate it but it's like no one else in the world exists out there."
He hummed, staring softly at you. His eyes made the ice in you melt. "If you love it, I'll love it," he promised.
"It'll just be you, me, and the chickens," you giggled.
Alex grinned, skimming his thumb over your cheekbone. "Hm. I love you."
It caught all the air in the room and it suddenly didn't feel as cold as it did a minute before. You inched closer to him and smiled because he was smiling. "You've never told me that before, you know."
He furrows his brows, playing up his acting. "I haven't?"
"Actually, you told me when you were drunk once. Back in October, at that Halloween party."
He squints seriously this time. "I don't remember this."
You coyly smile. "I know. It was when Miles and me were carrying you inside and I couldn't figure out if you were saying it to me or him."
He leaned forward, his arm pulling you toward him as he laughed in your ear before kissing your cheek. "You. Always you."
"Good." You clapped your hands. "I'll hang this over Miles's head for decades."
That night, Alex fell asleep quickly, allowing you to realize something. You nudged him awake, making him groan. "What?"
You curled your arm around him. "Nothing. I'm sorry I woke you."
His arms moved around your waist, laying you on top of him. His eyes stayed shut, not wanting to lose his sleepiness. "It's alright," he mumbled. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah." You leaned into his ear, whispering, "Love you."
A grin spread across his lips, enticing you to lean over and kiss the corner of it. He hummed. "Love you too. Night."
The following year, Alex went away on tour. You stayed, he went, but it never felt like it placed a strain on the relationship. There was longing and missing but never any resentment and as Alex would put it, "It always makes for great reunion sex."
You briefly joined them in August when they played California: Santa Ana, San Diego, and Outside Lands in San Francisco. They were all one after the next and left you exhausted and though Alex was much more well-adjusted to the pace of touring, it was reaching the tail end and he struggled with the comedown on it all.
Those were the only times you grew frustrated with one another. You never really yelled or fought—maybe because you didn't want to or maybe because you were in close quarters with other people—although, you had tiffs.
Much like your annoyances at home, traveling or touring only amplified what truly annoyed you about each other but in a way—a super corny, cheesy way—you loved Alex even more for that.
"I like that you're not perfect," you said late to him one night. He was smoking a cigarette and though the weather was hot, there was a nighttime breeze that settled over the two of you.
"Gee, thanks," he quipped, puffing away.
You knocked a shoulder into him. "I'm being sweet. If you were perfect then I'd feel inadequate all the time in comparison but since you've got these flaws and vices that make you more real, in a roundabout way, you are perfect. For me, at least."
Alex grew amused with every passing word, tucking an arm behind you. "Well, you're perfect. I hope you feel that."
You shifted your body to get a full look at him. "Maybe not perfect but I feel worthy or something. You always make me feel adequate. I appreciate that."
He shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "You're easy to love. I've never struggled with that."
That's always been the word: easy. From the moment you met, it was a clear link holding you two together, and with time doing its thing, it only grew slowly into what it should be. There was never a force of change, you held onto each other until you clicked at the right time. After that, there was no way to disrupt it.
You moved into Alex's in September. After the tour (and even before), you spent all your time there anyway. He decided over breakfast one day to make it official.
He pulled out a pan to make eggs but before he could place it on the stove, he stared at it. "This is your pan," he said."
You looked up from your cereal. "Oh, yeah, you don't have small pans so I brought mine over. It's better for your eggs, you know. Heats up quicker."
Alex began to laugh, placing the pan down on the stove, and his hands on his hips. You chuckled along with him, even though you were confused. "What's so funny?"
He shook his head, trying to shake off the laughter. "Do you even have anything at your place anymore?"
"Um, I don't know." you thought aloud. You shoveled a pile of cereal in your mouth.
"Why don't you just sell the place?" He suggested. "Move in here."
You shrugged. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" He questioned.
"Yeah, I mean, I like my place."
Alex snorted. "You're never at your place."
"I still like it," you insisted.
He moved over, coming behind you like a snake, and hugging your waist tightly. "Come on, move in," he whispered in your ear.
"I'll think about it," you said as he kissed your neck.
Alex decided on other plans for breakfast. You stood up to clean your bowl but his arms stopped you from making it to the kitchen sink. "I have a convincing argument," he said, taking the bowl out of your hands and setting it down.
You laughed at his bravado but you were soon overpowered by it. He bent you over the counter harshly with a kiss to your left shoulder blade as a form of salvation. He kneeled down on both his knees and grazed his hands on your butt, playing with the fabric of your shorts. He squeezed and pulled and yanked, eventually dragging the material off of you and having it lay at your feet.
Alex's slow nature in the morning took hold as he danced his fingers around your cunt. The tips of his fingers edged on the lips of your pussy. The thumb on his other hand, touched over your asshole, making it pucker up with tension.
"Your teasing is only making me want to say no," you said, desiring relief as soon as possible.
Alex only hummed and muttered, "Interesting." He placed a light kiss on your inner thigh but it only felt like he was moving further away from the point of release. He moved up and kissed your left butt cheek, his hand squeezing the right.
His touch became light and he moved his hand back down to your lips. "I know how to get you there," he insisted. He tapped both your knees. "Spread. They're so close together. It's like you don't want me to touch you."
"It's called being bored," you retorted.
Then, Alex slapped your ass. He'd never done anything more than a pat and it was usually more in a casual setting, not when you were butt naked and not that hard.
You turned your head around, looking down at him with a squint. "Did you just slap my ass?"
"Yeah," he quickly admitted. "Why? Did you like it?" A smirk presented as if he already knew the answer.
You didn't want to give in to him. This was frustration, it wasn't supposed to be satisfaction. You wanted him begging for you, not the other way around. But you couldn't help it. You bit your lip and turned away, not wanting him to see the pleasurable smile on your face. "Maybe."
But then he overwhelmed you, diving straight in and placing his mouth directly on your cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. You could feel the coldness of the counter through your shirt, erecting your nipples. Your hands made a fist, unable to grab onto anything, thwarting you.
His tongue plunged into you and then moved up to your clit before pulling away again, making everything unbearable. His mouth moved to kiss your inner thigh before he left completely to slap your ass again. "You alright?" He asked to make sure, even if you gasped in delight at every feeling.
"Go back down," you demanded.
Alex listened and returned to your core, licking his way through your fold, and reaching his tongue up to your clit. He continued the game of agony, moving back and forth from the pleasurable, but slowly the edging made for a great build-up and he began to lay it on thick, never abandoning your clit until your legs were shaking and you were practically pushing him away from you.
He stood up and slapped your ass. You moved in on Tuesday.
Not much changed. You already had drawers in his dresser and space in his closet and pans in his kitchen. You had already infected his house with your essence and the only difference was you weren't paying rent on a place you were barely ever sleeping.
As the new year began, things slowed. Alex started growing his hair out, stopped shaving, and became far more reclusive. He had grown tired from the road, was now in his 30s, and, most importantly, settled. At times, that thought was terrifying for you, staring down the barrel of this being the rest of your life. Other times, it was comforting, usually waking up in the morning next to Alex.
But there was a lifestyle shift in Alex that you weren't yet aligned with. He rebuffed the idea of going out, talked about leaving LA, and locked himself away in his music room. You weren't particularly annoyed at the latter other than it sometimes felt like he was locking you out of part of him. The idea of leaving LA wasn't unappealing, but he longed for England more and you were American through and through. Going out, well, maybe that's where you got into trouble.
Alex's newfound life as a hermit wasn't horrible now that you were living together but you started to go out more and more without him. Usually with various groups of friends, sometimes for work, two times with Miles, and one time by yourself. Alex said no to going so often that you stopped asking. Soon, you weren't spending many nights together. He'd stay up late working on music or you'd stay out late drinking. Like everything else, it eventually came to a head.
"I think I'm going to Beaman next week," you told him while getting ready to go out one night.
He was in the shower. He was staying in. "Why?"
You furrowed your brows toward the shower curtain. "I haven't been back in a while. My mom's birthday is at the end of the month."
"Alright," he said over the sound of rushing water.
"Do you want to come with me?"
For a moment, only the shower made a noise. It didn't even sound like Alex moved an inch. You stared at the shower curtain and thought he might pop his head out. But he didn't and you didn't move to open the curtain either. Finally, he answered, "No, no. I think I'll stay here. Jamie's coming into town soon."
You thought about fighting it or asking him if he was going to do anything with Jamie, instead, you said, "Okay. I'm leaving now."
"Alright," he said, "Have fun. I love you." He never came out from behind the curtain. When you came home he was asleep.
Upon your return from Iowa, Alex picked you up at the airport. The car ride home was pleasant and he made dinner. You were scraping your fork along the plate when he asked, "Would you ever want to live in Iowa again?"
You snorted at the ridiculousness. "I left home when I was 18 and have only lived in New York and LA. Does that strike you as someone who wants to move back to the Midwest?"
Alex shrugged and thoughtfully looked down at his nearly empty plate. "I just never knew if you thought about it."
"Are you thinking about it? About England?" You leaned on your fist, eager for the answer.
He shook his head. "I'm just homesick, I guess." He then stood up and took his plate to the dishwasher.
"Do you want to talk about it?" You shouted into the kitchen.
You awaited an answer from the other side of the wall. You heard the dishwasher shut and his feet pad across the wooden floor, he stopped in the archway, facing you. With certainty, he said, "I'm happy here."
You stayed seated. "Would you want to move back?"
He looked unsure but answered, "I don't think so."
"You can be honest," you assured him. "If you think I'm worried or going to shoot it down. I mean, I'm not saying yes, but if you're thinking about it I think we should talk about it."
He shook his head. "I'm not saying I want to be here forever and maybe that's something we should talk about since..."
"Since?" You questioned, clueless of where his words were leading.
Alex laughed at you, turning away, not bearing to make eye contact. "Since we're us. You and me."
"I'm confused," you said, crossing your brows. "What's this have to do with England?"
He laughed again, nerves tackling him. "We're not just fooling around here anymore. This direction..." He motioned a straight line and though you were catching on you still wished to hear him talk in full.
"This direction?"
He rolled his eyes with a smile, exasperated by your questioning. "Look, we've talked about it."
You playfully raised an eyebrow. "It?"
He wagged his finger at you. "Quit playing games with me here."
"Oh," you nodded enthusiastically, "the marrying me thing. You talk around it like it's a curse word."
"'Cause it makes me nervous." He played with the ends of his hair as a soothing mechanism.
You shifted forward, leaning your head onto your hand, resting it on your knee. You genuinely asked, "Why does it make you nervous?"
A nervous smile played at his lips as he calmly said, "Why the fuck do you think?" He laughed, feeling overwhelmed, both of you.
"You tell me," you egged him on.
Alex threw his head back, exhausted from you toying him. "You do the laundry. I know you've been in my underwear drawer."
You giggled, remembering the sight. "Well, you put it in your underwear drawer, how cliche are you?"
"At least I didn't do my sock drawer!" He shouted, trying to insist he wasn't such an idiot. "I didn't think you'd go digging around in there."
"Hey!" You assert. "I didn't find it. It found me."
You both laughed and soon the room fell quiet. "Hey," you said. "You got me a princess cut." It was dainty like you wanted, no giant diamonds, and no uncomfortability. A simple, classic look. He did good.
He kept a small smile, despite both of your racing hearts. "Well, that's what you wanted."
You grinned back, sitting up straight, and leaning your side into the back of the dining room chair. "You got my ring size right too."
He raised his eyebrows. "You put it on?"
"On my right hand that way I didn't break any rules."
Smiles were plastered on each of your faces. "Should I just go get it?" You'll probably cry if he does go get it.
"Yes. And yes to your next question too."
"I haven't even gotten down on one knee."
You shook your head. "You don't have to get down on one knee."
"I want to." He does. And the ring fits just as well on the left as it did on the right.
Just like moving in, being engaged isn't that much different either with the exception of getting your mother off your back and a nice new piece of jewelry. Alex enjoyed calling you "fiancée" when introducing you.
You started to go out less but when he did he came more often. It was a non-verbal comparison and with a new album on the horizon, you started to stockpile time together. Any wedding talk was limited but agreed upon to take place after the tour so you could enjoy married life together. Alex also heavily enjoyed the in-between state of being engaged and what you thought would be the dull before the actual excitement of marriage, turned into its own new game.
You accompanied him more on tour, mostly because it was much longer this time. You joined him for branches, attended the US shows, made him shave his head in Texas, and made your way over to London. There were bigger breaks this time with things not packed so closely together. You spent Christmas in Iowa with Alex for the first time. You went to Hawaii for his birthday. You went bowling for Valentine's Day.
When the tour ended and there was an actual wedding to plan, everything felt stuck. It was either too cliche or too underwhelming. It became easier to just get married and worry more about planning a party. So, you got married at a cute small inn with sycamore trees with a small number of guests. Those who would be willing to sit through a wedding without getting antsy.
The reception party grew in numbers and the loveliest part is you didn't have to worry about cleaning any of the mess up. Alex got cake on his suit and you went to the bathroom more times than you can count. But overall, it was a simple, sweet night.
Honeymooning (fucking) in Fiji and then resuming life two weeks later. "Wife" became Alex's new favourite word but everything else stayed the same. Well, for about a month.
You just had a feeling. You woke up one day and felt it. You nudged him awake, it was early before the sun was up. "Alex."
He hummed in acknowledgment, shut-eyed.
You burrowed into him and nonchalantly said, "I'm pregnant."
"What?!" His eyes were wide and his face wrinkled in confusion. "Seriously? When did you find out?"
You flopped onto your back, turning your head to the side to look at him. "Just now. I can feel it."
"So, you feel like you're pregnant?" He questioned.
"Yeah."
"But you don't know it. You didn't take a test?"
"No, but I know. I'll take one in the morning, I just wanted to let you know. Night." You turned over into your pillow and closed your eyes.
Alex sat with his mouth agape. "Yeah. Night." He didn't fall back asleep.
And you were right. You shrugged and said, "Told ya." Alex laughed. Then, he cried. Then, he hugged you. Then, he kissed your stomach, but you thought that was too weird so you told him to stop.
Being pregnant definitely changed things but things felt the same just with one more thing. You fucked. A lot. Your sexual appetite increased but you had always been horny for Alex. It's just a given. But there was a point where things did change.
It was the first ultrasound. You felt it when you entered the room. The air was cold and there was a shift, everything suddenly becoming real. You enjoyed watching Alex twiddle his thumbs while you waited for the technician.
When they started to move the wand around your stomach, he became fascinated with the machine, continuously asking questions. More of them were about the machine rather than the baby.
And, well, then the whole twin thing happened.
"Like two of them?" Alex held two fingers up like he couldn't quite comprehend it.
The technician nodded and you still couldn't think of a verbal response to the news.
Then, Alex said, "We've been having a lot of sex, did we like make another baby when we—"
You interrupted, "Are you the dumbest person alive?"
Alex pinned the ultrasound to your fridge and kept a copy in his wallet. He held an affection for it that you didn't. Maybe because you were the pregnant one. The proof came attached to you. Nonetheless, you were charmed by Alex in his fatherly role, even if he stressed you out with the need to be super-ultra-prepared. His nervousness about what you could and couldn't do got annoying by the second month. He calmed down after you yelled at him.
Although, it was nice for him to take on the extra work. You picked out the design for the nursery and he did all the work, citing that you couldn't paint because of the toxic fumes and everything was a heavy load.
He knew you were full of bullshit but he didn't care. "I like helping out. Being the man in charge."
You told him not to get too full of himself. His insistence on doing everything led him to break his index finger.
But after everything had healed and two babies became two girls, you both relaxed into your final months of solitude, which really just meant lots of sex. You fucked and he went down on you but sometimes you felt too sore down there from all the pelvic pressure and though Alex insisted that no sex was fine, you insisted that release was release, even if it wasn't your release. Alex still fondled your breasts too, saying that's where all his horniness came from.
"How can I not be turned on when they're just staring at me?" They were bigger and Alex was always insatiable.
"I feel like a cow," you whined. You were bigger with two babies and the only way you did have sex was doggy style with everything hanging.
"You're not a cow," Alex said, climbing into bed. You were under the sheets, exhausted at 9 PM. He curled up behind you, whispering in your ear, "You want me to fuck you on your side?"
You thought about it, felt the ache, and said, "Okay."
You were already underwear-free because they hurt your vagina too much when you slept. You had returned to your old days of quickness. Alex pulled himself out of his boxers, gave himself a few pumps, and slid into you. You softly moaned as Alex pushed into you slowly at first before his thrusts grew quicker. He knew you were tired and needed a quick release.
"Fuck," he harshly whispered as his speed picked up, skins slapped, and sweat beads formed. He clutched your hipbone tightly and you fisted your pillowcase. Every action rushed and a final slam resulted in you falling apart and him emptying into you. His hand caressed up your bump and you knew he was very turned on but the whole pregnancy sex things and not just because of the boobs. However, he did love those too, and gave them a quick squeeze before cleaning up.
The final change came in an expected way. Labour was shorter if only for the epidural and the C-section. You wanted to resist the idea until the thought of pushing two babies out set in and the pain became too unbearable and Twin A was breached and then a C-section seemed like the best thing, even if it was surgery.
Alex liked wearing the medical gear and kept adjusting his mask. Oh, Alex, sweet naive Alex. Luckily, everything was smooth, except for the fact you couldn't hold the babies until they had sewn everything up. But Alex cut the umbilical cord and got to hold them, which was a sweet enough sight.
When you were placed in recovery and finally got to hold them, then came the hard part. "What do we name them?" You asked.
Alex shook his head. "I got no fucking idea." Names had been discussed but you never really landed on one let alone two. "You should name them. You carried them and they're getting my last name."
"It's too much pressure," you whined.
Alex sighed and concluded, "Thing 1 and Thing 2 it is then."
Eventually, you decided on Wren and Willow. You initially hated the shared first initial but Alex liked it and it became too frustrating to think of any other names.
The first month was harsh. Your body was slowly healing and you ached all the time. You had backup with both sets of parents but then everyone went back home and everything shut down and it was just you, Alex, and Wren & Willow. It didn't actually feel like much had changed. It's not like you would have left the house anyway.
Alex takes to having the girls nap on him. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes both. Sometimes he will let you nap in his arms too. The days are long but the weeks move fast.
One day, Willow laughs. It's the first time either of them has laughed. It took you both by surprise. You were feeding Wren while Willow laid on her back with Alex loomed over her. Usually, when he would blow raspberries on her stomach she would just gurgle and flap her arms and legs around, but this time she laughed, and it’s the loudest sound you've ever heard.
Alex looked down at her, completely engaged, not bearing to take his eyes off, scared to miss the sight. It gets him laughing too with tears in his throat. He leaned down again and blew more air against her tummy. She shrieks this time, giggling, and you want to capture the sound forever. Run and have Alex record it.
But you looked down at Wren and rubbed your finger against her tiny baby cheek, deciding that there was no need to move from this comfort.
They aren't easy babies. There are two of them too. They both wake each other up, which means both you and Alex have to get up because it's 2 v. 2 and they're small but mighty. They eventually get on a sleep schedule and a routine and trade-off between you and Alex is set into place.
By the end of the year, it's the new normal and you don't remember a time when they weren't around. You want to be with them all the time just like you want to be with Alex all the time.
They're great. But then they wake you up at 3 AM.
*
a/n: so...this slowly became a prequel to my dad!al fic and i decided to just finish it that way. i also have not read through it because i'm tired so any mistakes you did not see.
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