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bellesaisonn · 7 days ago

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big day for annoying people (me specifically, because i'm obsessed with this and will reread it an embarrassing number of times)

a funny thing

part one

books & boys

warnings: the whole shebang, fluff, smut, and stuff, just read it, you perv

word count: 10k

He was a restless boy. His leg had been unstoppably bouncing for weeks, enough that his mum raised concern that he might have come down with a mad case of restless leg syndrome, but all her concerns were alleviated when she looked over his shoulder to see him texting away.

miss u

rly?

ofc

u 2

She can’t quite discern all the texting lingo, but she gets the gist based on who is on the other end. Alex had been a closed book on the topic of girls since girls transitioned for ew to fit. So, when he returned from school last winter with a big smile and a transformation into Chatty Cathy about a girl, it wasn't just a girl.

In July, when paid a visit by this girl, Alex’s cheek seemed a permanent red and he was deeply embarrassed by his mother at every turn. His mum backed up, but it’ll only prompt his father to pinch his cheeks and turn him back into a treatment that had not been seen since Alex’s infancy. You only seemed to laugh at this and said things like, “Now you know what it feels like,” leaving it to be assumed your parents gave similar treatment to you when Alex visited you in June.

In the month between your departure and the term’s start, Alex had been nearly unbearable, which left Penny praying for the start to come quicker so they all wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. She would feel horrible over this, except for the fact that Alex was doing the same thing. His dad would tease him by saying, “Less than 10 days left!” Alex would flush in embarrassment over this teasing, but clearly had his own mental countdown occurring.

It’s slightly pathetic to wait outside someone’s door. He knows that, hands in his pocket, feet pacing the hallway, but he waits because he is pathetic for you, and he’ll own up to that. He doesn’t mind it. He just thanks god no one is here to see it. The mere thought of you is enough to pass the time while he waits outside your dorm door, simply replaying the thought of you. You were supposed to meet here 15 minutes ago, but you’re late, which is slightly worrying considering you’re Little Miss On Time.

Another pair of shoes hit the carpeted floor. He looks up at you, completely casual, bag slung over your shoulder, and your hair a few inches shorter than when he last saw you. “Sorry, I’m late. You’ve been rubbing off on me,” you say.

He doesn’t care. He isn’t punctual like that and he’s just happy to see you. That’s all that matters to him at this moment. It’s like tunnel vision, a kind he wouldn’t mind indelibly having. “Oh, I’ll rub off on you.” You in those little shorts and that stupid shirt you picked up from a charity shop with the periodic table on it that’s missing oxygen. You two laughed about it for days because how do you miss oxygen???

“You can rub off by yourself all you’d like.” You throw an arm around him, yanking him to you. A clueless onlooker might consider it an assault, you shoving your body into his.

Especially when he shouts, “Ow! You’re banging up me head.” He scratched up the back of his hair with a pulling fist. He looks down at you as if you’re sitting in his little T-shirt pocket. A healthy little grin sprouts on his face. “Hi.”

You tip your head back, occupied by a grin. “Hi. How are you?”

He tosses his head from one shoulder to the other. “Alright.” His hand cups your hip bone, pulling it to his. “At least now.” First, your hips kiss, then he bends down and lets himself be the first to do the honours of welcoming you back. And if this kiss is the welcoming committee, a buzz goes through him, imagining what the rest of the year could be like.

“We should probably just go inside if that’s how we’re gonna act,” you suggest.

Sure, your room is right there with a bed just waiting to be acted on, but… “I thought we were going to get donuts.”

You exaggerate a sigh. “The plight of men everywhere. Sex or food?” You take a hand, leading him on a lease to the outside world.

“Not just any food, donuts. Aren’t you hungry?” He feels like a child again, except you are playing the role of his mother, who was forced to give in to his needs for a special treat so he wouldn’t be crying through the shops. He feels bad that he hasn’t quite aged out of this in the decade since, but he’s hoping by the end of university, he can consider himself an adult, or more aptly a man, instead of a boy.

You shrug. He’s staring at your back, shoulders moving, spine curving, butt included. “Yes, but I thought you seemed pretty desperate back there.”

“Well, sure,” he agrees. “But I had to wait sooooooo long, my stomach is grumbling away.”

You shake your head as you push the door, opening the sun to your skin, and he likes the look of it here too, forgets how good you can look when the sun hits you right. Your skin is slightly tanner. He’s still pale as ever, embarrassingly so. All in all, things feel the same, you feel the same, except you’re now with him.

For the first night back, right before classes start, everyone gets the idea to go out together. He’s fine with this because, despite how much he missed you, he missed his friends too. However, he didn’t plan to stay here this long with a need for relief in more… areas… than one. You make it worse and he thinks you know it, but you tend to get pretty oblivious when drunk.

It’s a hectic little fit. The evening is dark, this club is dark, and that’s not just from the sunglasses that seem permanently glued to his face, a habit he’s started ever since a RA caught him high at the end of last year. It also shields his eyes from his obvious staring at your hips swaying on beat. It might seem quite pervy to the unknowing eye, a boy staring from the couch as a girl dances, but he doesn’t think he comes across as a leering old man and you’re, well, you are sort of a smoke show and he’s a sunglass-wearing guy with a hard-on watching you, so, yes, it is quite pervy, but permissive pervy-ness.

He shields himself with his glass like a localised cold shower to his schlong. He stares at the ice in it until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to rip a hole through his jeans.

“The key is to go have a wank in the bathroom,” Matthew teases. Alex snaps a harsh look over at him, which is, of course, mitigated by the fact that he has large black shields over his eyes, which are also stoned as hell. “And maybe stop staring at the girl’s ass.”

“Fuck off,” Alex curses.

Matt simply chuckles in response. “Or is this some game between you two? She got a cock cage on you.”

“You’re awfully concerned with my dick.”

Matt pats him on the back. “I’m just looking out for you, mate. Wouldn’t want you losing the thing.”

“Like you did?”

He shakes his head and stands up. “I’m gonna go get my beak wetted now. Good luck with yours, Al.”

“I know a few hookers who can help you out with that!” Alex shouts out at his disappearing figure. Matt waves him off as his body evaporates into the crowd of people.

“Do you, now?”

“Shit!” He clutches his chest. You stand behind the couch with your arms crossed, getting a kick out of both teasing him and frightening him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

You giggle, rounding the couch until you’re sitting next to him. “I’m sorry your perception skills have been cut in half. I did tell you not to smoke so much.”

“I didn’t!” He insists.

You hum a note of disbelief and cover an arm around him, hugging his tiny frame to yours. “Now, where did you get to know these hookers?”

His lips curl up with confusion. “Huh?”

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

“Hey,” he says, shelving his head on your shoulder. “Missed you. Did you miss me?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, nudging your nose against his. “I’ve already told you.”

“Tell me again. It makes me feel…I don’t know. I don’t even know what it makes me feel, but I like it.”

You kiss him, locking him to you. He’s the most precious thing. Maybe it’s a side effect of young love or maybe it’s a simple fact with his hair completely roughed up from his fingers running through it, with his inability to keep still and his cold hand on your warm, bare thigh. “I missed you very much, Alex.”

He leans back, crossing his arms like a smug little boy getting his way. “Good.”

You roll your eyes because it’s the only way to deal with him when he’s like this. “I’m glad.” You pat his hand and stand up.

“Where are you going?” He whines. “Stay.” He desperately tugs on your hand.

“I have other people to see but you.”

“But are they going to treat you like I’m gonna treat you?”

You pat his cheek. “I’ll call you a hooker to keep you company.”

“Can’t you be my hooker?”

“How much?”

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet with a handful of bills. You snatch them out of his hand with a shake of your head at the total amount of them. “I’m not made out of money, woman.”

“Woman?”

“Madam.”

“I’ll see you in a little, Al.”

He leans his head back against the couch with a complete sense of exhaustion. Why did I pick donuts over fucking her? Oh, a donut sounds really good right now. But she took all my money. There’s got to be some food in here. His stomach miserably rumbles. Fucking hell I’m starved.

“Hello!” You crash into him, the liquor in his glass slightly spilling, not that either of you notices it. You adjust yourself onto his lap and curl your arms around his neck, tightening a hold on him akin to a death grip. “Where have you been?”

His mouth chews in response. He holds up the bag of Doritos he found.

“Oh, Cool Ranch.” You reach for the bag eagerly too but he snatches it away from your grasp. “Hey! What happened to sharing is caring?”

He pouts. “You stole all my money.”

“How did you get these then?”

He plucks another one, savouring it on his tongue. “Took them from the cupboard.”

You eye him closely. “Stole them from the cupboard.”

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

“Will you let me be an accomplice to your crime?” You pull the sunglasses down to look him directly in his eyes. “Please.”

He sighs exhaustively. “Fine.”

Your face is flushed red with sweat on your temples. He could lick it like a lime after a shot, and he does, a toss-up between hornyness or inebriation. “Don’t act like I won’t be paying you back.” You grind your hips into his.

He grabs your waist. “Don’t be cruel.”

You lock your arms around his neck, pushing closer, your breasts smashing up against his chest. “Oh, you’ll be fine.”

He pushes you back in an attempt to regain control of his airway. “Police officers should use you instead of handcuffs.”

“I am quite known for my domineering power.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you now?” He can’t help but feel eager to once again witness this domineering power.

“Yes,” you sigh, leaning backward until he has to hold onto to make sure you don’t fall backward off his lap onto the cement floors. Quickly, you snap back up, eye to eye with him. “But you already know this.”

He hums. “Shall we?”

You slap his chest. “No, Alex, we have to stay until they do the limbo.”

“The limbo?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes! They do a limbo challenge at midnight every night.”

He’s pretty sure you’ve just made this up, but, sure, why not witness you fail miserably at doing the limbo. “Fine. Then, let me take you to the bathroom.”

“No, not after the shower incident last year.”

“I’m more well-trained this time.”

“Trained enough not to do it.”

“I thought you were going to make it up to me.” He sulks like a sucker, an idiot, or some other variation of the debilitation.

You move off, flipping to lie beside him. “With the privacy of a locked door.”

“I’m sure these doors lock.”

You stand, walking away from him. “You can enjoy it yourself then.”

“Why is everyone talking about me having a wank tonight?”

It was raining on the way home, which put an extra eagerness on getting to shelter as soon as possible. Upon getting inside, in the close vicinity of a bed, it becomes a newfound eagerness to get all clothes off as soon as possible because they were soaked wet, of course. It then became necessary to get your bodies pushed up against one another for warmth. “Pneumonia is a killer way to start the year,” Alex says with his mouth muffled against your neck.

The whole charade of the rain making it a requirement for you to have sex with one another ends there, mostly because there isn’t much reason for Alex to stick his penis inside you because of the rain and it’s hard to say much when Alex’s penis is inside you. Though you are very warm, as he claims, thrusting in and out slowly.

It’s not the best fuck of your life because you’re drunk and he’s high making his movements lethargic and you’re a little too numb to the sensation from the alcohol. It’s like your body is cut in half and your brain can’t quite communicate with your lower half, but that part comes and he seems to do the same at a speed that makes him hide in your neck.

“Sorry, it was so quick. I’ll work harder next time,” he says earnestly. The time away from one another has him slipping under a shadow of insecurity as if you have to reacquaint yourselves with one another. Deep down, hidden in the back of his mind for no one but himself to see, he has the fear of you finding someone else along the way.

You comb your fingers through the back of his head, a slight pull on the longer strands of hair. “I liked it,” you say. “The part of me I can still feel did at least.”

He chuckles into your collarbone, relieving that knot in the center of you. “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” he amends.

“It’s okay,” you whisper into his ear. “I missed you.”

Alex lifts his head, a slow smile on his face for you. “Yeah?” You nod quickly. “Missed you too.” He lands a soft kiss on your cheek.

“But you can’t stay here, you know that,” you break the fantasy.

“Why not?” He whines, already tired out from the idea of walking to his dorm.

You pinch his nose irritatingly until he pulls your hand away. “Because you have an early class tomorrow and I don’t and you’ll wake me up with the alarm or oversleep and you can’t start the term like that and you have no clothes here other than the dirty wet ones on the floor that stink of weed.”

He clicks his tongue repeatedly at you. “Excuses, excuses, excuses.” He noisily exhales, hoisting himself up, and swinging his legs off the side of the small bed. “You’re gonna make me go out in that.” He points to the window where a slight beating of rain is coming down.

“You had no problem making it back here. You’re only a few minutes away and you can borrow my brolly.” You stand up, searching for the umbrella.

He loudly groans. “Now you’re gonna flaunt your naked body in front of me. What a cruel person you are.”

“Don’t be such a baby. You already got to play with it once tonight,” you tease.

“Only once!” He complains. “Why do you get to hang out with it all the time?”

You toss a puzzled look his way as you dig through your bin of things. “You mean, why do I get to be with my own body? Are you trying to tell me something, Al?”

“That I’m horny,” he moans.

You roll your eyes. “Put some clothes on.”

“Same to you.”

You retrieve the umbrella. “Touché.”

Despite his complaints, he begins pulling his damp clothes on with only a few whimpers. “I can’t wait until a year from now when we won’t have to kick one another out.”

“What do you mean?” You question as you pull a shirt on.

He cheekily grins, fixing the wet cloth of his shirt onto his torso. You can't help but ache and think of that Pablo Neruda quote, I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. He’s just so argh. It’s terrorizing.

“When we’re living together, dear.” He makes a point of tenderly placing a peck on your lips and quickly making his way to the door.

“Al!” You call out, but he shuts the door behind him, leaving you with only a quick flash of his smile.

You wait for him by attempting to read a book, but your mind struggles too much to focus on it, not even bothering to stare at the pages, instead the cafe’s front door. He’s late, of course, only by a few minutes, but you’ve already been here for fifteen minutes, hopelessly waiting for him. Again, on you, not him. You’re the steadfast loser whose eyes light up every time you hear the bell of the door ring.

Then, when he walks in with a slow gait and a peaceful smile, you feel you could slide under the covers of him and hibernate for the whole year inside him. He raises his hand with a wave. He waves like a politician, the dorky kind, not the dickhead kind. You tried to look like you’re reading while he waits in line, but you keep looking back to stare at him.

Finally, when he walks over with his signature donut and a coffee, you happily close the unread book. “Don’t let me keep you from…” he bends his head nearly upside-down to read the title of the book. “A Companion to British Art: 1600 to the Present. Riveting.”

“Don’t mock me.”

He slides into the chair across from you. “I’m not mocking you. I’m serious. I’m excited to hear you tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid ancient modernity might go over your head,” you tease.

He opens his mouth in ersatz offense. “Who’s mocking who now? Tell me about it.”

You blush in embarrassment and hide behind your cup of coffee. “I haven’t read it yet.”

He rests his head on his hand. “Read it to me then.”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“Shush. Read.”

Thus, the distraction becomes the solution as you read him far too many pages with the tiniest text size on ancient modernity in British art, but he listens intently, educating himself for those future geeky flashcards.

Later, once you’ve made it through the chapter, you ask him, “How was your first class? Curricular Integration.”

He smiles at you, remembering before frowning at the reminder of the class. “Fucking boring.”

You laugh at his frustrated expression. “It was the first class. Those are always boring.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like it’s not for me.”

“It’s only been one class, Al, you’ll be okay. I can help you, you know, if you ever need a tutor.” You try to flirt to cheer him up.

It sneaks a half-grin onto his face before the discouragement returns. “Thanks, but it’s not that. I’m just feeling a little lost. It’s not a big deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why do you feel lost?” You ask, placing your hand over his, stroking your thumb on the back of it.

He turns away, motioning the topic away. “It’s just one class,” he excuses. “Let’s talk about something else. Please.”

You nod. The words nervously rise up, asking, “What was that thing you were talking about last night?”

“Oh.” A grin quickly spreads across his face. “Living together? Yeah. I mean, it’s a logical conclusion.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is that so?”

He chuckles at your surprise, taking a sip of his coffee. “Duh.”

“Duh,” you impersonate.

“C’mon. Did you think we’d be living in tiny bedrooms for the rest of uni?”

“Well, no,” you keep your eyes on the napkin you’re ripping up to distract your nerves, “but you’re so sure of it.”

He leans forward. “Like you’re gonna say no.”

“When did you become so confident? Last night, you were so timid.”

“Timid. I know I was slow but I wouldn’t call myself timid.”

You snort a laugh. “You know what I mean, but it’s not like we know each other that well.”

“What do you mean?”

“You barely know me. I could be an axe murderer or you could be. Naive girls fall for that kind of stuff all the time.”

He makes a pointed look. “I wouldn’t call you naive.”

“Besides the point. It’s a risky thing to share something like that.”

He finds this to be a ridiculous argument. You can tell by the look on his face. “It’s an apartment. Not a child or stocks or something.”

“We’ve been together for less than a year and I don’t want to flat-on my ass with nowhere to live next year.”

“I’d move in with Matt before I let you be homeless.”

“You’re very sure of this.”

“I’m just sure of myself with you. Everything else can feel like a mess sometimes that if I start to question this then I might lose it completely. You make sense to me.”

You look over dreamily at him, half-sure you created him in a hyper-delusional state of mind. “You know how to wow a girl.”

“Oh, yeah,” he jests, “I’m teaching a class on it.”

You place a foot between his ankles. “Really? Can I be your TA?”

“It might not be highly advisable for me to be sleeping with my TA, but you’d look good with a ruler in your hand.”

You giggle, slotting your knee between his knees, on the edge of your seat. “What’s it with you in these dominatrix fantasies? Watching too much porn while we were away from one another?”

He won’t be fazed, leaning back in his chair. “I like you in any position.”

You loudly shush him, terrified of eavesdroppers. “I have Rhetorical Theory. You can’t be trying anything at this hour.” You stand, gathering your things.

“But another hour I can?” His head bends back, eyes following your movements.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” You bend down to him to kiss his lips like you’ve done this thousands of times, and you might have at this point. You squeeze his shoulder and disappear out the cafe’s door, only bells left ringing in your wake, one on the door and the one inside of Alex.

On Wednesdays, you two share a class with one another, specially picked out for the purpose. American Literature in the 20th Century. Alex dragged his feet on it until he heard there would be Nabokov short stories and a delectable treat with batting eyelashes and lips that taste so sweet.

You closely clutch the syllabus as you exit the hall together. “And we get to read Franny & Zooey! I love Franny & Zooey!” You shake the paper between your hands in unadulterated excitement.

He taps your back with a chuckle. “Okay, maybe don’t rip the paper in half.”

“Why? You nearly wet yourself when she said we’d be reading Nabokov.”

“Nabokov’s cool.”

“And Salinger isn’t?”

“No, Faulkner isn’t.”

“Right, Faulkner,” you say. “It’ll broaden our knowledge.”

“You and this broadening of knowledge. Can’t I broaden my knowledge by reading something I can actually understand?”

“You’ll understand Faulkner. You’re a lot smarter than you let yourself believe.”

“I think you might be confusing me with someone else. Is this your other boyfriend?”

You pinch his side to get a laugh out of him. “Jealousy isn’t a nice look on you.”

“I’m not jealous,” he mumbles.

You wrap your arm around his back and curl your hand against his body, tugging him closer. You might as well take up a sideshow career as Siamese twins. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He tilts his head until his cheerful smile is facing you directly. “I’m not,” he insists. “And if I were, it would only be a little because this guy gets to spend time with you.”

“We barely talk when we’re together, and when we do, it’s me lecturing him.”

“Isn’t that what we pretty much do?” He reasons.

“He’s much dumber than you.”

“Well, we can’t all have our smarts to fall back on.”

“And our looks,” you compliment with your mouth so close to his skin, the air you let out dances against his jaw.

“What a charmer you are. Do you talk to everyone this way?” His eyes look down like he’s trying perilously to take you all in at once. “Or just the boys you fancy?”

You roll your eyes. “Ha ha,” you exaggerate before mouthing against his ear, “just one boy.”

“Young Joe’s a lucky man.” That’s the boy. Joe.

You sock him in the arm. “I can’t help it if you’ve a teacher kink, you pervert.”

He adjusts his bag to knock shoulders with you as you now walk side-by-side. “If they all looked like you, everyone would have a teacher kink. Hence, young Joseph.”

“He’s only a year younger than us.”

“Is that so? An older woman.”

You huff a laugh as Alex holds the door open for the dining hall. “Weren’t you the one who had a crush on your professor last year? I should be concerned with an older woman coming in to sweep up a young man.”

He rejoins your side, saying, “I simply said she was good looking, not that I wanted to do her. I was fargone on you by that point.”

You hum in a disbelieving fashion. “So you say.”

“Yeah. Just like Junior Joe is. It doesn’t take much.”

“Junior Joe?” You question. “You’re getting very creative with these nicknames for a boy you’ve never met.”

“I know Joey’s kind.”

You infectiously giggle with him. “Are you pretending to be in an old western again?”

He shrugs with a sheepish grin. “We’re watching The Searchers in my film class.”

“Aw,” you coo, pulling at his cheek like an old granny. “You should consider an acting class. It might help you get all that unaddressed rage out.”

“Rage?”

“They’ll at least train you in stage combat, which will help you for duel against Joe, which will, of course, also be your final exam.”

“When you tutor him, do you wrestle in preparation for this final exam?” Alex quips.

You pick up your tray of dinner. “Yes, and we’re usually naked, wet, and oiled up.”

“Really?” He follows behind you like an obedient pup. “Can I sit in on these lessons? I could really use your assistance.”

“But wouldn’t that ruin the integrity of the sport? You would be spying on him.”

“Wouldn’t you be spying on him for me? Or are you going to flip on me? Double agent.”

You sigh. “Not quite yet, but if he throws any other money my way, I can’t make any promises.”

Just as you had taken up tutoring, Alex obtains a job at one of the campus pubs. The best decision the owners of this pub ever made was letting their employees dress in casual attire. It allows Alex to roam the place in his perfectly fitted T-shirts that expose the lower plain of his torso every time he grabs something on one of the taller shelves.

The place itself is a proper hangout spot, allowing you to chill with friends while watching him in the distance or, on slow weekday nights, share a basket of leftover chips with him. On one night, this particular night, his jeans hang loosely on his hips and a navy blue long-sleeved shirt as the cold autumn air creeps its way into every corner of your world. He leans on the bar with the chips sitting between you and other than a gathering of teachers in the corner, the place has grown empty in the late hour.

“He’s too buddy-buddy. He keeps asking me for high fives,” you complain about your British Art professor. “I get that it’s to facilitate a relationship, poorly, I might add, because the guy doesn’t even know my name. I’m sure of this.”

Alex chews and chuckles. “Did you know the high five wasn’t invented until 1977?”

“Shut up, really?” This is clearly a method of distraction, something you won’t pick up on until later.

He hums, taking another chip. “LA Dodgers.”

“Baseball, right?”

“Very good. I’ll add a baseball class to my roster.”

“You barely know anything about baseball. Have you ever even seen a game?”

He counters, “Have you?”

“Fair enough.”

“Besides, what’s there to know—”

“Excuse me!” A group of girls has come in, with one girl violently waving her hand to get Alex’s attention.

He pulls away, attending to them, while you play Lode Runner on your phone with patience. The group is rather large and noisy, ruining the former environment that felt like a cozy fireplace and turning it into an inferno with each drink they gulp down.

“I should go,” you tell Alex when he returns.

“Sorry about them.”

You shake your head, admiring his charming, solemn face. “Nonsense. You better get some good tips.”

He smirks. “I don’t think you’d like that.”

You button up your jacket. “Don’t become some cheating bastard. I’d have to write my name on your forehead.”

“I don’t know. That blonde one looks rather nice.”

You eye the girl, slinging a purse over your shoulder. “One bleach away from her hair falling out. How lovely.”

He chuckles, leaning over the bar for a kiss. “I’ll see you later.” A quick liplock before you once again leave one another.

His hands grow icy on the way to the dorm, enough that he can’t feel the tip of his fingers. The air is windy; it causes his nose to exhibit a biting red that you told him last winter reminded you of Frosty the Snowman. He rubs it and his running nostrils when he finally enters the radiator-heated building, the kind that emits the terrible rusty smell.

He makes it into your room where your sleeping figure lies, shucking his too-thin jacket, and lying down beside—half beside you, half on top of you, considering how small a twin bed is. You murmur an awakening sound, turning to give more space to him.

“Why do they call it a twin if it only fits one person?” He whispers into your ear.

“Because they used to be sold in pairs,” you answer, curling your arms around his neck.

“How’d you know that?” He asks.

“Grandparents.”

You hiss from the contact of his hands on the hollow of your hip. “Sorry,” he softly purrs.

“It’s okay,” you grumble back. “How was the rest of your shift?”

“Alright. Girls were bad tippers.”

You nuzzle your nose into his neck. “‘m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His hands run up and down your cloth-covered back, both to soothe and to warm.

You raise your head, blinking your eyes, dazedly looking at him. “Do you want a tip?” You ask, nudging what’s between his legs.

He gives a shake of his head and rests you back into him. “No. I just want to lay like this. You’re warm.”

You giggle against his skin. “See what dressing properly gets ya.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” He taps along your skin as he says each word. “Can I stay over tonight?”

“You beat any blanket, babe. Couldn’t have you leave me even if you tried.”

And he thinks this is the kind of thing romance novels are made of. Though, he wouldn’t know, he’s only read Wuthering Heights, which is “totally not a romance” as you repeatedly state at any given chance.

The moors are under a crust of snow—not enough to blanket them in white, but a mean, dirty frosting on the hard earth and wilted shrubs. It was early November but the snow came on so harshly that when the first sign of it had occurred, classes had quickly been cancelled for the day, despite half the school’s attendance rushing outside to engage in squabbles of snowball fights and dip their backs into snow angels.

You sling a scarf around Alex’s bare neck in spite of his protests. You slip on mittens, knitted by his mother. They were sent in this month’s care package, one pair for Alex, one pair for you. You palm his already red cheeks in your hand. “Can’t we stay in?” He whines.

“Everyone else is going out. Don’t be such a loner.”

“I’m not. I just want to be with you and everyone is going to be at the pub tonight.”

“But you’ll be working.”

“Exactly. A convenient excuse to exit any conversation.” He enthusiastically smiles so wide his face might split in two.

You sigh and head for the door. “We have to go and after we can warm up in the shower before you have to go to work.”

“We?” You peek back to see his wide, gratifying smile.

“Yes, we. Now, let’s go.” You tug on his hand and make your way out to the frigid, homely world.

Alex complains about being cold every other sentence before everyone gets sick of it and decides to simply pelt snowballs at him to at least get pleasure in the grumbling, but then Alex keeps insisting on going inside, which you won’t agree to until everyone else decides to disband so Alex quickly hardens and suffocates everyone else in snow, including poor, old you.

“You could’ve at least spared me, the woman you love, the one you want to sleep with. I could’ve gotten a nosebleed or needed stitches.” You pull your snow-covered hat off as you reenter your room. You strip your heavy clothes into the laundry basket, hoping to spare the rest of your room from a wet, melting disaster.

“Poor old baby,” he teases.

You gasp. “Don’t ‘poor old baby’ me! That’s my line, you’re the whiny little brat.”

He tosses his scarf at you before turning on his heels. “I’ll see you in the showers, baby.”

And if he’s going to try and goad you, then you’ll just wait here in your room, under the warm covers, while he impatiently waits in the shower for a gift that won’t be given. Upon his return—with his hair planted to the skin like a wet old dog—you’re on the phone with Holly. You don’t need to be on the phone with Holly, in fact, she’s grown rather annoying, but there’s nothing quite like Alex getting all pent up.

He has one goal in mind: release. He shivers from water still dripping down his body, even as he covers himself with sweats and a hoodie. (Sweats and a hoodie!! He’s good. Too good.) He fiddles with the zipper, pulling it all the way up and all the way down several times, enjoying the percussion of its sound, before settling the slider right below the collar and placing his hands in the pockets.

He stands by the foot of the bed. He might be tapping his foot, but you can’t see the lower half of him. Your eyes acknowledge his presence before tipping them to the ceiling, admiring the cracks in them. “Who are you on the phone with?” He harshly whispers at a level that could be deemed no longer a whisper, other than the fact that he has made his voice more raspy.

The only acceptable answer would be your parents, some important family news that’s worth blowing off giving him a blowjob in the shower. And yeah, maybe a blowjob only involves his desire, but he suffered through the snow, and that’s the only thing he deems worthy enough of giving him a runny nose. “Holly,” you shortly answer.

“Holly?!”

“Yeah.” You don’t spare him a glance. It’s easy to predict the puzzled look on his face, worthy of giving a slap followed by a soul-sucking kiss.

You feel his weight enter the bed. His body rubbing against your legs as he crawls his way up you. “Get off the phone.”

You place your finger over your lips. “No, it’s just Alex,” you irritably say to the phone.

He heaves and takes the phone from your fingers. “She’ll call you back, Holly.”

“That’s very rude,” you say right away.

He straddles your hips. “You left me hanging.”

“I got distracted.” You slyly smile.

He furrows his brows and leans down, hovering his face right above yours. “By Holly? Nice try. You don’t have to be mean to me.”

Your arms hug around him, taking in his body heat. “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t be all cute and crawl in my lap like this.”

He breaks, hiding a chuckle into his shoulder. “You’re very conniving.”

You shrug. “A wise woman. A genius, if you will.”

“Alright, you witch, do I get the pleasure of going into your hut?” He leans down, hiding under the blankets.

His nose tickles your stomach, making you giggle out, “Not if you start speaking like that.”

The laughter hides away as he pulls on the waistband of your sweats, taking them and your underwear down in one pull. He’s a smart man, going straight for the jugular. Mouth meets vagina. His tongue colors within the lines, or maybe outside the lines, because it’s hard to believe other people have felt this pleasure and considered it not worthy of discussion every day, or consider it taboo. This can’t be taboo. Why don’t people have classes on this?

“You should teach a class on how to do this,” you moan out, clawing your fingers into his hair, yanking, combing, petting, stroking, soothing.

He places a kiss just right and speaks against you, “As long as you’re my TA.”

“Quit it with this kink,” you quip. “You’re gonna be one of those pervert professors who fucks their student.”

“You? Hell fucking yes.”

“Quit it. We’re the same age.”

“I’m very advanced.” He reinforces this succinctly, placing his mouth where it should be biologically attached, sucking, licking, kissing, spitting, tonguing. He’s an unwillful beast and a delicate angel wrapped in the body of a boy who loves you. You could kick your feet at the idea if your legs weren’t too busy shaking at the feeling of this uncontrollable vibration.

You go from pushing his face inward like you’re trying to do some reverse birth with him and shove him back into the womb to dragging him away because he’s too much. Too much all the time but really too much when he sucks at you like the elixir of life is hidden within the folds of your vulva.

He hangs around with his chin atop your pubic bone watching your lungs expand and deflate heavily before deciding it has been enough, flipping over, squishing beside you, and declaring, “My turn.” He even helps you out by untying his sweats, but not taking them off because that’s “a woman’s job.” Something he sexistly and sexily declared last month.

“So much for patience.”

Alex points at himself. “I’ve been patient, in fact, I have shown an intense amount of restraint. I’ve made a down payment and now I’m waiting for my return of investment.”

“Jeez, Warren Buffet, you really know how to make a woman feel special.” You roll yourself up because despite his chauvinism, he’s been patient, and he is very, very…

You brush your hand over the fabric of his sweats and his eyes flutter at the mere suggestion of his dick being touched. You would tease him, but you only find his sensitivity endearing. You won’t hold him up anymore, exposing him, just this little portion of him to keep the rest of his sensitive skin warm from this snapping air.

You spit in your hand and give him a few slow tugs. His hips lift and shift. His thighs push against your still exposed center. His knee slides right into it, causing a slight trembling in your motions. It’s hard to tell whether this act was intentional or not. His expression too lost in pleasure, eyes shut, mouth pursed tightly together to fight off the urge to groan.

You slowly lean down. Your lips circle his cock with your tongue sweeping over the head, forcing that groan to leave his mouth in a tiny little mewl. You smile and go lower, halfway down, and then go back out. When you stop halfway again, his hands hold you there, pressing just a little further.

When you pop back out, he says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rough.”

“You weren’t rough,” you assure. “I liked it.”

His eyes open up darkly. “Good. Go on.”

You shake your head, roll your eyes, and go on. You move lower each time with delight, toe-curling delight. His legs move up and down, not kicking, more digging, heels pressed down into the mattress, and his knee shifting pleasingly at your sensitive bits.

You’re not sure how good at giving head you are. You’ve never received any feedback other than the grateful conclusion of any person: coming. Alex always does this, making a noise almost like he’s so painfully frustrated like there is a splinter in his finger and then a blissful breath as the pest is removed. His cum doesn’t have much of a taste. Maybe a little salty, but that could be sweat. He often sweats, a little gathering right around his pubic hair, but no complaints from either party.

After he has returned to this biosphere, he tucks himself in and hugs you to his chest. “I wish all snow days were like this.”

“I don’t think it would’ve been appropriate—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “Don’t make some creepy underage sex joke. That’s my territory.”

You ease into his body with your nose poking behind his ear before settling with an exhale. “You’re very possessive lately.”

“I’ve never been called a sharer. Too controlling for that.”

“Obsessive, some may call it.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, his lips not even poking his cheeks. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You okay?”

His fingers brush your upper arm. He doesn’t say anything for a minute before letting out, “Yeah.” Then, sighing. “Just thinking about winter. The break and all. Being away from you.”

“You’ll live.”

“But I won’t want to,” he bemoans.

“Don’t be dramatic, Romeo. I’m only faking my death. No need to kill yourself.”

He stills a laugh, and with that, the year ends, pulled away by two omnipotent hands.

He gets allergies in spring, the terrible, terrible kind where he sneezes all the time and has to carry tissues with him. Those dorky little packs, but you keep an extra pack in your purse in an act of devotion. He theorises in his journal (yeah, he has a dorky little journal too, fuck off) that there’s no greater act of love than carrying tissues around for someone else. It’s a great signal of caring for another person, looking out for their well-being, their forgetfulness, their sickness, their health. It’s what wedding vows are made of, and he sounds insane, 20, and clinging to an eternal loving debt to you.

The days have formed in a lather, rinse, repeat fashion. There’s class, work ( still tutoring for you, the pub for him), and some form of hangout. Sometimes just the two of you, either keeping him company at the pub, sex, or an activity—dinner, “studying,” movie, or, his favourite, the arcade, which may sound geeky and nerdy, but you’re both saving up for Margaritaville light-up ice bucket and that’s not dorky.

Other times, it’s a whole group thing, drunk idiot nonsense, which also includes collecting tickets for the Margaritaville light-up ice bucket that could likely be purchased for less money than what the arcade is selling it for, but you consider it to be a rare luxury only afforded to the stupidest “adults” roaming the UK.

On a Saturday night, a group of you sneak beers into the arcade, and play Jet-Pong, an appropriated version of beer pong for children. You ask Alex, “How can they have beer pong in here and not beer?” as he sinks one pong into the far left corner. “Nothing promotes drinking like a fun game.”

He shrugs, missing the next one.

“Holly asked me about getting a place with her next year.”

“Oh.” He tries his best to focus on the game in front of him. “What’d you say?”

“I’d get back to her.” You pull from your bagged beer. “Since we hadn’t talked about it since the start of the year. I didn’t know if you had made other plans.”

“My offer still stands.” Last pong, center cup. The tickets spit out. “I can always room with Matt.”

“Do you want to room with Matt?”

He bends down to collect the fifteen tickets. “Do I want to room with that dirty bastard or you? I’ll get back to you on that one.” He passes you to go to the ticket counter.

You catch up to his side. “Well, I’d like that too. You and me, I mean.”

“You feel you know me adequately enough?” He asks you as he feeds his bucket of tickets into the machine.

You lean against the side of the machine to be right in his line of sight. He eyes you carefully. “I feel I love you adequately enough.”

He blows a laugh like it’s a sick joke being played. He takes his ticket from the machine and stuffs it for safekeeping into his wallet. Once everything is packed away, he turns to you and reaches his hand out. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” You take his hand, entering the thawing weather, making your way back to the dorms. “Is this the cold shoulder?”

“No,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m just trying to think of something to say.”

“What about ‘Yes!’?” You offer.

He cracks a grin and leans over, kissing your cheek. “You’re very cute. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I can’t help my feminine wiles.”

“Yeah right. I know how cunny you can be.”

“You like my cunningness.” You make eyes at him, luring him into your web. “So, Alex, what is your answer?”

He has to take a moment to capture this in his mind. This happens every once in a while, usually pertaining to you, but not limited to circumstances associated with you. It’s a click in his head. It might be a camera, but he hasn’t decided yet. It’s his brain having to catch up with the rest of him. It’s a processing issue that might be a sign of a larger problem, but at this point in his life, Alex merely relates it with moments of importance. This, you, the moment are all more than worthy enough. “It’s yes, you dweeb. Now give me a swing of that.”

He finds you curled up in his bed with a book laying facedown on your chest. You haven’t been asleep too long. He can tell because you always end up turning on your stomach and your book hasn’t fallen down onto the floor below. He begins to pry the book out of your hands, you grab his wrist in a frightful fit, scaring him half-to-death.

“It’s just me,” he whispers. You relax back into the substandard mattress, slept on by hundreds of students before him and hundreds more after him. “How’d you get in here?”

“I have my ways,” you sneakily say.

He chuckles, closing the book, and placing it on his desk. He sits down in the desk chair, untying the laces of his Converses, placing them beside yours at the door. “Am I going to wake up tomorrow with all my stuff gone?”

You sleepily giggle. “I’d never steal from you. You don’t have anything worth stealing.”

He cocks his head back, testing a challenged look on you. “What about the girl in my bed?”

“Oh, well, she’s different.”

“Uh-huh.” He strips his jacket off then his jeans before he races on top of you causing you to groan loudly.

“God, you’re gonna break one of my ribs.”

He kisses all around your face, tracing the other corners before bubbling in the circle. “They’re nothing valuable anyway.”

“Really? What about the rest of me?”

“Oh, you’d sell well on the black market.”

The laughter slowly dissolves into a heated make-out session. He takes his time. It’s hard for boys to do that, including him, in this tiny bed, trying to get it over quickly so you don’t have to sit on top of one another in a suffocating fashion. “Won’t it be great when we can do this in a bigger bed. Even a full would do.”

“We are not sleeping in a full. Queen, at least,” you insist.

“I’d get a California king, no complaints.”

The making out resumes, this time a little more naked, and then his fingers inside you like he’s scooping your insides out. He’d liken it to taking all the guts out of a pumpkin, which is admittedly a disgusting comparison, but he can’t think of anything else. He isn’t a sexologist, just a boy who’d like to think he knows his way around you. “Does that feel good?” He asks against your lips.

“Yes,” you whimper out. So, he keeps going like he’s pushing a button or strumming the strings of a guitar. You lean your quivering body into his, exhibiting startled breathing into his ear. Your hands clutch around your shoulder, reassuring him of the previous form of affirmation you gave and then he feels that familiar throbbing around his fingers and you let out a grunt of finality before all the tension furling up inside you is released in one shake.

He lays you down against the mattress. Your hair pressed up in a nest against the pillow. “Do you want to keep going?” He asks, implying future steps: him inside you, preferably with his cock, preferably said cock fucking you, preferably to completion.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him with this smile that he’ll try for many months after to find an adjective that fits this smile before giving up and deciding a person would have to see it to believe the beauty of it. Like a wonder of the ancient world or the harmonium solo in “In My Life.” It feels like that, searing. “Please do.”

It’s a natural inclination. He feels like his soul is being sucked away as he eases into you and lands his hands on your torso in a careful touch. His thumbs stroke your stomach and his fingers pull your skin to his as he settles all the way in. His eyes look at you, speaking for him, asking if it would be okay to keep going, that everything feels good, that this isn’t just for him, this is a shared act. You nod all-knowingly.

It’s how Alex knows this is different. This is love, not everyone can read him at a glance. It’s the beauty of letting someone know all of you. It’s the thing that makes poets write sonnets. It’s what makes ordinary people feel they can write sonnets.

The feeling shifts to his gut, getting tangled up in the center, moving about him in that somersaulting way. A flickering flame in a deep, dark cave. He feels this when he masturbates too, but that’s more lonely, and this is like kilonova or the initial singularity (sorry, he’s reading Carl Sagan right now), and the universe is inflating but hasn’t banged or boomed or whatever the word is yet.

He moves a little quicker in order to get to that bang, but still not what one would perceive as fast. He likes it this way. It’s out of the ordinary but not some wild origami-style sex that is cool to watch but he is so not ready to do yet, or maybe ever because it looks like too much work and it feels good like this and he isn’t ready to mess with a good thing by folding you in half.

His mind tends to drift a lot when he’s having sex. Or all the time. Sometimes he wishes he would just shut up, but occasionally he’s thankful for his fair-weather mind, like during boring lectures or long shifts at the pub. But in situations like this where he should just focus on the simple feeling of sex his mind wanders to Carl Sagan and he’s shouting at himself like “Fucking hell, Alex, just shut the fuck up.”

Of course, you can tell when he does this and then he can tell that you can tell and then he’s stuck on that, that previous feeling of being exposed then feels violating because what gives you the right to know that in his head he’s screaming at himself and then you say something like, “Keep going.” and he realises he is once again reading too much into situations and you’re probably just enjoying the feeling of being fucked or maybe also screaming at yourself in your head too because you’re the same after all or Siamese twins or some shit and he returns to the thought that this fucking feels really fucking good and he’s said the word “fuck” too many fucking times to count and fuck is a weird word, but so is every word, and what is the English language, and why didn’t his mum teach him German like all the students she fucking teaches, instead he only knows how to count to 20 and the colours of the rainbow and other stupid fucking elementary phrases.

And then he comes as he so often does. Cum is disgusting. White, slimy jizz dripping out of him and into a condom. Who invented the condom? He’ll write that down in the back of his mind and try to remember to look it up later, but then everyone in the library will think he’s a pervert for looking up who invented a condom on the communal computers. He should’ve asked for a computer for his birthday. Not that he would use it much, computer screens hurt his eyes and give him a headache, but he sure would help when he wants to look up the inventor of condoms or watch porn or something. And school, that too.

“Alex.” Fuck, right, you. “Can you, um, get out of me? I’ve got to pee.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry.”

You giggle. “You’re okay.” You cradle his face and he feels like a bobblehead that has been shaking around for hours and now suddenly stilled. You kiss his cheek. “I’ll be right back.” You slip on your clothes and shoes and head to the hallway bathroom.

He sits for a while before realising he has been sitting naked with his cock resting in his own jizz wrapped in latex for far too long to be seen as normal if he were to be walked in on. He disposes of the goods and digs into his drawers for his, well, drawers. Isn’t it funny that two words can mean totally different things? And the word for that is…—he struggles on this for a while—homonym, right, right, right.

His stomach rumbles. There were no leftovers at the pub tonight. It was crawling with disgustingly drunk people that make Alex question why alcohol is legal if it makes people into such dickheads. He only has a bag of sour cream & onion chips, and that’ll have to do the job of dinner.

He sits at his desk and grabs handfuls out of the bag, having to truly stuff his face because that is how hungry he is. He understands why the Donner Party ate each other. He looks at the book that you were reading, now sitting next to his journal. He realises he didn’t put a bookmark into the page you were on. He’ll have to remember to apologise for that. He already knows you’ll say it’s fine and you can find the page you left off on, but he’s convinced you’ll be hiding your indignation toward him.

Madame Bovary. He’ll have to pick up a copy. All he knows is Emma Bovary is “a cunt and we love her.” You said this yesterday at the cafe. You were only a few chapters in then. It seems to have gotten much further since based on the thickness of the book’s split when he picked it up.

She cheats, too, Emma Bovary. Maybe that’s a good thing in the book. Like her husband is scum and thank god she was able to find love elsewhere or something. He doesn’t know. Now all he can think about is paranoia about whether you are cheating on him or not. Not you actually cheating, just the paranoia he would feel if you actually did cheat.

He is aware that he’s giving himself ulcers over this heavy contemplation of nothingness but he can’t stop the turning of the wheel. His mind goes on and on and he’s still trying to figure out ways to make this train of thought stop. Like someone tied to the track while the train blows the horn instead of slamming on the brakes. He tugs and tugs but can’t free himself and he’s only making things harder rather than accepting his—

“Hey.” You’ve returned, thank god. “You’ll never guess what I saw in the bathroom.” You hop on the bed with the glee of those monkeys jumping on the bed in that nursery rhyme.

“What?” He chucks his head in anticipatory elation.

“There were eggs all over the floor and I exclaimed something like ‘Ew!’ because, you know, eggs on the bathroom floor is a little bizarre, right?” He’s nodding along. “But then these two girls answered back, saying they were doing an experiment. I asked what kind of experiment and they were like ‘The science kind’ and I said ‘No, shit’ but in my head. When I came out of the stall, they were like ‘Try not to step on the eggs on the way out’ and that’s when I cracked—ha ha, get it, cracked.”

Yeah, he gets it, and he fucking loves this. This is all he needs. He cracks along with you. “Keep going.”

“Right. Sorry. Sorry. So, then I said, ‘Why would I want to step in eggs?’ As if it’s a well-known thing that egg yolk moisturises your skin. Then, I left and came here and had to tell you.”

“Thanks for telling me,” he sincerely says. “I needed it.”

You give a thoughtful smile. “I could tell.”

He doesn’t ask how. He doesn’t feel he is supposed to know. You don’t explain any further. You sit criss-cross on his bed and he remains in his desk chair for now. Of course, he is sure that at some point you’ll both get under the covers and go to sleep, but you’ll just talk for now because he needs it, and you could tell.

a/n: can you tell when i started to like what i was writing? i like the smut in this. maybe because i usually hate the smut i write so this feels like an improvement. it's been a while. maybe i'll do a part three. maybe in a week or four months. thanks. night from me, morning to you.

#knackered converse was the fic that made me want to write for alex so i was SEATED waiting for part two #i love fetus and i love boyfriend!alex so this was perfect #he was just so clingy and horny and jealous and in love i'm gonna cry #i need more!!!!!!!#fic rec #junedenim

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bellesaisonn · 8 days ago

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Not a shipper, but a one drunken handjob in 2006 truther

#me with jamex

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bellesaisonn · 8 days ago

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Just spotted Alex in Sheffield train station. He was being dropped off, and the person who dropped him off said ‘to be continued’. Wonder if it could be a final night at leadmill thing? [...] just to clear up - he was leaving Sheffield. Not arriving x

#getting major bigfoot sighting vibes from this #but a recent is a recent ig...#i feel like i manifested this in some capacity

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bellesaisonn · 9 days ago

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#girlfriend reveal #i NEED to braid his hair #humbug era #alex

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bellesaisonn · 9 days ago

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no reader fics seriously need more love!! this one is so good <333

In The Filthy Morning After

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 6,611

warnings : no reader (just him again, sorry i love it), confused feelings regarding sexuality, self hatred, depression implications, mentions childhood bullying, wet dream, morning sex (in his dream), frotting and anal (both in his dream), missionary (dream), creampie (dream), masturbation, rex cries after he ejaculates

The concept of time, day and night, morning and evening, had long since become detached and alienated from his secluded life, if the poor way he lived could even be considered a life anymore.

He hadn't left his flat in weeks. He didn't see a point in it anymore. He didn't see any fun in anything, didn't find any enjoyment in the hobbies he used to adore. He was living off of whatever money his parents sent him every few weeks. Each time they sent it over, they'd say, “This is the last time, Al. You need to get a job and start making money yourself.” But it never was the last time, and if he kept going like this, it probably never would be.

Every day was the same. He'd wake up in his stiff bed sheets that he hadn't washed or changed in months, force himself out of his bed to go for a piss, eat something stale that had been festering in his cupboard or order something greasy that was bound to make his stomach hurt later, before going right back to his cave.

He wasn't even sure what he was doing that made the hours pass by quite like they did. He'd lie beneath his stained duvet, gangly legs sprawled out with his brown hair a tangled mess around his face, watch movies on websites that were almost definitely going to give his laptop a virus in the long run, and jerk off whenever his cock got pathetically hard at a sex scene.

His bulky silver laptop that was sat on his thighs gave off a low, constant hum, like it was having trouble breathing, the underside of it overheating against his skin from the effort of just being switched and kept on. He could feel it burning into his legs through the thin, flimsy cotton of his plaid pyjama trousers, but he didn't care, nor did he make an attempt to move. He never did. There was something strangely comforting in the dull heat of it on his skin, the ache, like it was a punishment for his behavior, or at least a reminder that he was still connected to a body, that he wasn't just a subconscious haze of deteriorating thoughts.

The dull glow from his laptop screen washed over his face, making him look even more ill than he already did. His eyes were sunken, purple bags streaked beneath them like a black eye, and his skin was paler than he even thought was possible for a human being, almost indistinguishable from milk or snow.

He'd been sleeping poorly. That was if he was even able to get to sleep these days. The most he got was a few hours of dozing in and out of consciousness, and strange, fractured dreams that left him dry-mouthed, disorientated, and cold.

He was watching an old Italian film, something from the 70s, something black and white and bloody, on one of those dodgy websites that he frequented, ones with ‘Local Sluts In Your Area’ accompanied by images of animated naked girls with tits bigger than their heads plastered around the edges of the film, and six pop-ups for every click. It was low quality, both the video and the audio, the footage grainy and occasionally lagging while the sound was muddy and slightly tinny, mostly due to the broken speakers on his old laptop.

Girls in bikinis kept popping up in the corners, trying to lure him to their links, promising to make him cum in less than five minutes, but his eyes were fixated on the subtitles more than the actual movie, trying to understand a language he'd never bothered to learn and make sense of the plot.

It paused again to buffer, the stuttering audio crackling and warping into something indistinct before cutting out entirely. He didn't mind that much. He was lost anyway.

The screen had frozen on one of the male leads. He had sharp, defined features, thin, long, lanky limbs, and blushed cheeks as he cried. His face was crumpled into something so raw and vulnerable, delicate lines, and it made Alex's stomach clench, a strange and unwelcome feeling. The character's cheeks were wet, nose red, and lips plump. He looked beautiful, in a way. Tragically so. In a way that made Alex's heart ache in his chest. In a way that made him feel guilty, shameful, regretful. In a way he would never admit to another human being.

The quiet tap of rain against his window pane growing heavier as the downfall increased in intensity pulled him out of his trance, and he turned his head slightly towards his drawn curtains, his face scrunched up a little. It had been drizzling all day, the kind of persistent rain that didn't soak you all at once, but snuck under your collar and into your socks. The kind that found its way into your bones when you weren't paying attention, chilling you through.

He likes the sound of it. It was calming, it was peaceful, and it usually helped lull him to sleep some nights when he was having trouble even closing his sore eyes.

He adjusted his neck slightly on his sweat-damped pillow, tilting it to one side and earning a dull pop as he cracked it, and he blinked up at the fractured plaster on his ceiling above him. They looked vaguely like veins, or a road map, or at least something that felt humanlike, despite everything in his home being far from anything that could be deemed alive.

There were spiderwebs congealed in the corners from a futile attempt he'd once made at “restarting” his life, in which he'd began to brush all of the webs aside with a bright green duster that was a little bit taller than him, before deciding it was too difficult and abandoning it, and crawling back into his bed where he knew he'd be safe, where he knew he could hide.

He felt his stomach clench painfully inside of him before it let out a long, low growl, like thunder, begging him for something of sustenance, but that would mean leaving the safety of his bed, his nest, and he wasn't sure if he was able to face that.

He ignored the gurgles of his belly, and instead, he reached for the stub of a cigarette he'd smoked half of earlier in the afternoon before putting it out, and he hoped it would suppress his appetite and calm his stomach. He fumbled for his lighter, almost accidentally knocking over a clouded glass of water that had been sitting there for god knows how long, before flicking it on, the flame small and rounded due to the lack of lighter fluid inside. He brought it up to his slightly bent, crinkled cigarette and relit the charred end, holding the flame there for a few moments longer than necessary to ensure it caught alight.

He inhaled deeply, the tip burning red as he welcomed the smoke into his lungs. It tasted like ash, bitter, and maybe a small hint of mould. The wispy smoke curled upwards, clouding his room with its greyish haze as he kept the fog in his lungs for a few moments, before he closed his eyes and exhaled, like he didn't want to see the visual evidence of his destructive habit.

He wanted to vanish like that, the same way the smoke dissipated into the air. He wished he could be weightless, unnoticeable, wished he could just disappear. He was jealous of the smoke for being able to do what he yearned for. So much, it hurt him.

He wasn't really sure when he'd started hating himself. Maybe he always had. Maybe it started back in his childhood. In the awkward franticness of PE lessons, how uncoordinated he was, how all the more athletic boys in his year shouted and squawked at each other over football, how they all screamed at him if he fumbled a kick, or missed the ball entirely. It was dehumanising, belittling, but still, he was always jealous of them.

They were confident, they were good at sports, they were always invited to all of the parties. They had friends, they were strong, they were liked. They never had to worry about their favourite stall being occupied during lunch and break, they never had to worry about not having a partner in group lessons, they never had to worry about being made fun of or humiliated for having the misfortune of existing in a body that seemed to repel any ounce of likability. They never had to cry on their mum's shoulder and be told by her to ‘just ignore the bullies’.

He was never ‘manly’. Not really. That's what made him an easy target. They used to tease him whenever he went into the boys' bathroom. They used to joke about how he should be on the girls' team instead in PE. They used to disguise his name beneath mocking coughs and stifled laughter whenever the female reproductive system was shown in science lessons.

He'd had girlfriends. Well, a girlfriend. She was beautiful. He adored the smell of her perfume, he even bought a bottle for himself long after she'd left just so he could pretend that she was still there, that he still had somebody. He loved the softness of her skin, how he could run his hands over her body and it feel like silk. He loved the way she said his name, like it was everything to her, like it belonged in her mouth.

He liked sex. Sometimes. Enough. Back when he used to socialise.

But then there were the other feelings. The ones he tried to hide himself from, the ones that had always been there somewhere that he'd locked away, the ones that had infected his heart, rotting and gnawing away at it.

The way he'd catch himself staring at men's hands, at their long fingers, their cracked lips, the gentle slopes of their necks. The thoughts that crept in sneakily, unwelcomed, after one too many drinks. The thoughts that stung him whenever he heard a lad laugh, or when a man leaned in close to him, or just the mere sound of a bloke's voice. It made Alex's body tense, not exactly with fear, not entirely, but with something that made his stomach lurch in his belly and his heart pound in his chest.

He hated those feelings, he hated himself for having them, and he hated himself for having himself. It was a never-ending carousel of self-loathing, spinning and spinning and spinning until it was bound to drive him insane.

He stared at the grainy screen of his laptop, at the small spinning wheel still turning in the middle of the screen which was still frozen on that boy. That boy that made Alex's stomach turn and twist with guilt and disgust for the attraction he felt towards him. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the paper encasing the tobacco slowly but surely burning down.

He didn't understand the film, and couldn't follow the subtitles. They were in the wrong place, bleeding into the frame. Half of the lines were missing, and the audio was out of sync, the people's mouths and words coming a second too late.

He sighed, long, low, and tired through his nose, the smoke coming out along with it, and something sour flickered in his chest. Not quite frustration, but it was getting there. It was more like apathy, but sharp around the edges, threatening to boil over into something more angry.

The wheel kept spinning, almost taunting him, forcing him to look at the image of the young man for as long as possible, knowing how it made him feel, knowing it made him miserable. He moved his index finger along the smooth trackpad, and he tried pausing and unpausing the film, hoping it would snap it back to life, but to no avail. Nothing happened.

The third click forcibly brought up a new tab. Congratulations! You're the 1,000th visitor! Click to claim your free iPhone 3G now! Colourful confetti erupted across his screen in a looping animation, and he groaned before clicking the tiny X in the corner of the screen, only for yet another tab to open in its wake.

Meet Hung Twinks In Your Area.

This one played a muffled, high-pitched but undoubtedly male moan before he was even able to process what was on his screen. He fumbled on the keys, slamming the volume right down as his face flushed despite there being no one there. It was an automatic response from his body, like muscle memory.

The bullying and mocking he'd been a victim of during his adolescence was so embedded in his mind, so deeply ingrained into the depths of his brain, that he found it hard to not feel shame for even the tiniest things. He'd become his own bully.

As he tried to exit the websites with desperate clicks, exit the pop-ups, the adverts just multiplied.

Hot MILFs Want You.

Top 5 Gay Hookup Sites.

Do You Like Your Men Hairy Or Smooth?

Local Teens Are Online NOW.

His screen became a battlefield. Every time he thought he closed something, two more would pop up, like digital hydras. Neon banners flashing and glittering, animated gifs and pictures of naked bodies twisting into all kinds of positions, voiceovers whispering lewd phrases and buzzwords in voices so high it rivalled falsetto.

He felt his heartbeat in his ears. It felt like being caught looking through a dirty magazine.

He finally managed to close the web browser entirely, hitting and smacking the trackpad like it had personally offended him. The screen flickered back before showing his cluttered desktop, crammed full of a thousand apps that he probably hadn't touched in years.

He sighed again, rubbing his tired eyes with the heels of his hands as he held his short cigarette between his lips. He wasn't that sleepy, not in the traditional sense, anyway. It was like his body was trying to give up participating in the concept of time, just like his mind already had months ago. His circadian rhythm, if he even had one to begin with, was wrecked.

He took his cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his fingers again as ash dripped down onto his bed sheet beside him like shrapnel, and he reopened his browser, and Google Chrome coughed to life, somehow even slower than it had before, like it was physically carrying the weight of all of those porn ads it contained. The fan nestled inside roared, like a tiny little desperate turbine trapped in the plastic, and the heat built under his palms.

He cautiously typed ‘watch movies free no sign up no ads’, knowing the chaos it would bring right back to his screen. Google loaded for a few moments longer than normal, and he wasn't sure if it was just a problem with his internet, or his browser desperately trying to save him from the onslaught of ads and potential viruses that he'd only just escaped.

Once it finally loaded, he clicked the first link, ‘FreeMoovies123’, and it spread across his screen like a bruise as he opened it. He'd been on this one before. The layout assaulted his eyes, just like always. There was thick, bold, lime green text plastered across black backgrounds with shimmering borders, like something from 1998. Banner ads that changed every couple of seconds outlined the centre of the site, garish and flickering nonsense about debt relief, a new weight loss pill, and something about cheating spouses. Every time he moved his cursor, something danced or blinked in his face.

His finger smeared across the trackpad as he scrolled through the film thumbnails, movie posters that were pixelated and cropped into strange dimensions, every few titles renamed in a futile attempt at avoiding copyright. ‘The Dark Night’, ‘Slumdog Billionaire’, ‘Fite Club’.

None of them appealed to him, his brain felt exhausted just looking at them from how much he didn't want to watch them. He kept hopelessly scrolling, his head starting to ache from the motion, both from the harsh brightness of his screen against the darkness of his room and the painfully repetitive action of aimlessly swiping on his trackpad.

His eyes were dry, but blinking didn't help, and his stomach growled, a weak little noise that made the organ twist with shame as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

He finally stopped on a film that he vaguely remembered enjoying a few years back. It was something sad and art-house, and he clicked it, only to be met with another pop up.

Horny College Boys Want YOU.

He clicked it shut like it had burned him.

The film began to load, gradually, slowly, like an old man waking up from an afternoon nap. He stared at the blank video player, waiting for the wheel again. It blinked, paused, then spun, then paused again.

He sighed heavily and leaned back onto his pillows, his head sinking into the cotton, his laptop continuing to overheat on his thighs. He glanced down at the stubby cigarette that still resided between his fingers, and when he saw that it was barely hanging on, nearly burnt all the way down to the filter, he lazily tossed it aside onto his bedside table. It'd put itself out eventually. Hopefully.

He rubbed one hand along his jaw, his fingers smelling like tobacco and soap, and he felt his patchy stubble, the raw skin beneath where he'd shaved too close a few days prior. His mouth tasted sour as he ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth and poked it at the inside of his cheek. He hadn't brushed his teeth in… he couldn't even remember how long ago it was. Maybe two weeks? He thought that guess was playing it safe, but he found a small comfort in it, making him believe that he wasn't as unhygienic as he was.

The rain continued hitting his window like bullets, ramming against the glass like it was trying to get in.

He squinted at the screen, still buffering, still loading, still spinning. Still empty. Just like everything else in his life. And suddenly, he couldn't even remember why he wanted to watch another film in the first place.

It wasn't for the plot. Wasn't for comfort. Maybe it was just for noise, something to fill the awful silence in his head; a silence that kept stretching and stretching and stretching until it was taut and felt like it might snap.

He closed the tab for good, the rain continuing to hammer against his window, and he felt a thrum of painful sleepiness ripple through him, like tossing a rock onto still water. It made him feel almost lightheaded for a quick moment, the strange feeling lingering in his limbs, persistent in staying until he closed his eyes and let sleep swallow him whole.

He groaned quietly before he blindly reached for the lid of his laptop through heavy eyelids, and smacked it down with a dull thud, the whirring of the fan slowly dying down.

He slid his laptop off of his thighs, discarding it beside him in the sheets, before he shuffled further down into his bed with his elbows, nestling deeper into his duvet and pulling it up to his chin.

He let his head fall to the side, his hair covering his face and tickling his nose before he pushed it out of the way a little more violently than intended in the half-awake state that he was slipping into.

It wasn't even that he wanted to sleep, it was just that he physically didn't have the energy to stay awake for any longer.

So, he let himself go, let himself drift into the blissful state of… nothing. Free himself from the tight chains and shackles of his self pity that tortured him when he was awake, at least for a little while.

Sleep came like water, slowly rising and letting his thoughts sink beneath the rippling surface. The warmth of his bed coaxed him into it, letting him fully surrender to slumber, the dip in his mattress that had formed from the sheer amount of weeks he'd spent curled up in the same spot cradling his hips.

His chest rose and fell, slower now, much slower, and deeper, that taut wire of awareness inside of him beginning to slacken until it slipped free entirely.

His consciousness drifted further and further away from reality, swaddling him up in its comforting arms and taking him somewhere that was bound to scare him, but somewhere that was far from a nightmare. Something warm. Domestic. Something his body wanted but his mind rejected.

It was warm. Not the oppressive kind of warmth, not humid or sweat-inducing or claustrophobic, no. This warmth was quiet, golden, and it came from the gentle sunshine spilling in through linen curtains that were a soft, pale beige. His bare legs were tangled with themselves, slightly slick with a thin sheen of sweat.

He was in a bed, but it wasn't his own bed. Wasn't the thin, worn, stained sheets that he had grown used to. This one had a cosier duvet, softer pillows, and a large memory foam mattress.

And there was someone else there.

The man was laying on his side, facing Alex, one arm tucked beneath his head. He looked older than Alex, but only by a little bit. Maybe two or three years, if he had to guess. His hair was fair, messy from the tossing and turning of sleep, and it was a gentle mousy brown. It was only short, but slightly wavy, the kind of curls that formed when you didn't dry your hair properly after a shower.

There was a small mole near the man's jaw, and faint freckles were dusted over his pale shoulders. His eyes were a woodland-ish colour, almost like river silt; green, brown, maybe the tiniest hint of yellow, and impossible to name.

Alex recognised him. Sort of. He wasn't someone from his real life, or maybe he was, just once. Maybe he was someone he'd walked past on the train, caught a glimpse of in the field of a park, saw through the condensation of a raindrop covered pub window. It was one of those strange faces his brain photographed without permission and filed away in the back of a drawer, just in case.

And now he was here, breathing softly and steadily in the quiet space between them, in this life that they shared in this fleeting dream.

Alex didn't speak, he couldn't, but it didn't matter. The man smiled at him, and without realising it, Alex's own lips twitched up into a small but warm smile, and the man reached across the space and rested his hand on Alex's wrist, his thumb tracing lazy but gentle circles there. It was a small touch, but Alex felt it ripple through his whole chest like a solitary droplet on tranquil water, and his whole body softened.

The man leaned closer, the tips of their noses brushing, and their foreheads pressed together, warm skin to warm skin, their breaths mingling together in a way that Alex would've found repulsive in real life, but here, it felt intimate, romantic. Something that would've terrified real-Alex to his core, but dream-Alex revelled in it.

And then, lips. The kiss was slow, sweet, not rushed, not devouring, not frantic, just… real. Like they'd kissed hundreds of thousands of times before, the kind of kiss that carried weight and history behind it.

The man's hand moved to Alex's jaw, his thumb gently stroking along the stubble there in slow, continuous movements, and Alex leaned into it without even thinking twice. He wasn't even sure if he thought once. It just felt natural.

His own hands found the curve of the other man's waist, then further back to the dip of his spine, his fingers tracing the subtle bumps of his vertebrae through his warm skin up to his shoulders. It felt familiar. It felt right.

The man's lips continued to move against Alex's as his hands moved, pulling him closer, and Alex felt it deep in his ribs, in his fingertips, in the twitching coil of something low in his belly that unfurled with a slow but delicious ache, the kind of ache he didn't let himself feel when he was awake. The kind he told himself was just... something else. Something forbidden.

But not here. Not in his dream.

In his dream, it was allowed. It was welcomed. It was encouraged.

Alex exhaled softly against the man's lips, a faint tinge of a whimper in his breath, laced with something deeper. Release. Relief. Being touched in the way he'd never admit he needed, by the gender he'd never admit he craved.

Their bodies shifted together, their legs entwined, skin on skin, and the man's knee gently parted Alex's thighs, nudging them apart before settling between them, and Alex rocked against it with an instinct that he didn't realise he had.

Fingers slid under fabric, shirts were pushed up over chests until they came off entirely, and Alex's breath hitched. There was nothing aggressive, nothing performative, and while it was sex, or it was bound to happen, it was more tender than anything Alex had ever known. It wasn't just desire, wasn't just lust, but it was care, adoration, a kind of intimacy that left no room for shame.

Back in real life, in Alex's bed, he shifted beneath his duvet, the sheets crinkling under his movements, and his breath caught in his throat. His brow furrowed faintly, just barely a twitch of his forehead, and a soft, broken sound escaped him. A tiny exhale, only half-formed, barely a breath.

His hips moved unconsciously, just once, then again, a slow, subtle roll, his dreams hijacking the nerves of his body. His left hand twitched, his fingers curling slightly as they gripped the fabric of his bedsheet tight, while his right hand slithered towards his crotch. His lashes fluttered as his groin stirred, and his fingers found the soft, worn, grey cotton of his boxers, and they began their tantalisingly slow massage.

Back in his dream, the man was now above him, hair falling into his face, laughing gently as Alex blinked up at him with wide, worshipful eyes, eyes that had never known embarrassment or guilt for simply existing in a body that was tainted with the attraction for the same gender, at least in the dream world.

Their hands were clasped, fingers threaded and palms damp, and the man's hips rocked downwards against Alex's, their clothed lengths brushing against each other by just a whisper, the fabric of their boxers just barely making contact with each other.

But then he did it again, harder this time, pressing against Alex's hardening cock. The friction, the electricity, the closeness, it all combined in Alex's lower belly, simmering, stirring his cock awake.

Alex's hand found the man's back once more and skimmed over it, his fingers tracing along the grooves and indents of his spine like he was reading braille. The man's mouth found his again, kissing him harder this time, his tongue swiping over Alex's lips before he parted them, letting the man's tongue invade his mouth as he licked along his cheeks and swirled around Alex's own tongue.

Their erections pressed together tightly, separated only by the thin cotton barrier of their boxers, and the fabric grew damp where they met, the movements between them growing more fluid.

They rutted against each other softly, sweetly, like they didn't want to rush it. Like the man actually cared about getting Alex off too.

Alex gasped into the man's mouth when his hands slipped beneath his boxers, freeing himself first before freeing Alex, not even bothering to pull them all the way down before their cocks were pressed together again, hot, flushed, and leaking pre-cum like a fountain.

Alex's hands clutched at the man's waist desperately as he wrapped his large hand around both of their dicks at once, the underside of the man's cock pressed against the top side of Alex's. The man started to move his hand in the same motion he would if he was jerking off, and in a way, he was. Alex's cock was just wedged beside his own as well.

Their lengths slid together, glossy with the sheen of their combined arousals and maybe a hint of sweat, and Alex let out a whimper as the man's fingers brushed over the small ridge just beneath the head, the sensitivity that harboured there almost unbearable, his flushed lips parting around the soft noise.

Alex's legs spread just a little bit more to accommodate to the weight pressing down on him, and his fingers dug into the man's shoulders as he rocked up into his hand, their cocks rubbing in slick, hot arcs between their bellies, tip to base, side to side, the slide growing increasingly wet with each thrust and pass.

Both of their breaths came in quick, sharp puffs and gasps, and the man cut off Alex's short-lived whine as he leaned down again, capturing Alex's lips between his own as he kissed him again, slow, open-mouthed, their tongues swiping and licking against each other like paintbrushes on a canvas. Their kiss was messy, desperate, their hips still working together as the friction built up and up.

“Fuck,” Alex squeaked against the man's mouth. “God, that's…”

Another roll of their hips and another pass of the man's fist cut him off, shut him up, and their cocks continued slipping together, flushed, hot, and leaking, the electricity between them growing to an almost unbearable point.

The man pressed harder, gripped tighter, jerked faster, pinning Alex's thighs down and open with his own. His cock dragged deliciously over the length of Alex's, smearing pre-cum across the flat planes of both of their bellies.

Alex moaned loudly, unfiltered, raw, and his body arched up, chasing the feeling, the contact, the connection.

Back in his real bed, Alex had flipped over onto his front, his hips rutting and twitching into the mattress as he whimpered and whined incoherently into his pillow, a small dribble of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth and dampening a spot on the cotton.

He tightened his hands on his sheets, mimicking the way he was gripping onto the man's shoulders in his dream.

He was barely thinking anymore. He was just feeling.

He felt everything. The man's weight, the heat of their skin, the slick slide of their cocks kissing and gliding together, wet and needy.

The man adjusted his grip on both of their lengths, squeezing tighter, holding their heads as close together as physically possible, and that did it for Alex.

Alex's body jolted, his limbs locking up on him as he completely surrendered to the all-consuming pleasure, his hips hopelessly and frantically thrusting up into the man's fist, into the red-hot friction between them, and his first orgasm tore through him like lightning, his thighs trembling, his stomach clenching, and wheezy gasps escaping his throat as he tried his best to handle the sheer intensity of it.

Alex came with a broken, ragged moan, a deep, throaty noise, and hot, thick spurts of cum shot out from the wide, flushed tip of his cock, streaking both of their stomachs, messy and beautiful, the kind of climax that left him shaking and almost teary.

The man continued moving gently, pulling every ounce of cum out of Alex's cock, grinding and coaxing him through his high, both of their cocks pulsing between their slick stomachs.

His dream blurred as real-Alex's hips continued their gentle rocking into his mattress, his cock achingly hard as he sleepily murmured something inaudible into his pillow, his cheek damp from drool.

Back in his dream, the man was still hovering above him, but with Alex's legs bent even further open with a flexibility he'd never be able to reach in real life. The man's hands reached beneath Alex's hips, squeezing the soft flesh there, before lining himself up, his thick cock already slick and wet from the amount of dewy pre-cum that Alex had dripped, and the man began to slowly ease himself inside Alex's tight, warm hole.

The stretch stung at first, but Alex's body welcomed it, his back arching from the soft mattress with a breathless moan.

The rhythm built, slow and deep, making Alex whimper into the man's shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to take more. Every gentle thrust knocked the air out of him, but he begged for more, whined, whimpered, tilted his hips up and changed the angle to be able to take the cock deeper.

He tightened his grip on the man's waist, his fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin so hard he thought it would bruise. Alex clung to him so tightly like the contact was the only thing keeping him tethered, and their mouths brushed again, but they didn't kiss, their breaths mingling in sharp exhales and grumbled groans.

In real life, in Alex's bed, his thighs tensed and trembled beneath his thin duvet, his toes curling and his cock twitching and leaking with every imagined thrust. His knuckles ached with how hard he was gripping the sheets, and he ground his teeth together unconsciously as he made a small but impossibly desperate sound that managed to slip through as small tears unknowingly pricked at the corners of his closed eyes.

Back in his dream, the man continued to thrust into Alex, thick, long, heavy, and buried deep inside, his tip kissing that rubbery spot nestled inside of Alex that made his stomach jolt.

Alex's thighs were hooked around the man's waist, his ankles crossed at his lower back. Every thrust was slow and purposeful, dragging across something inside him that made his toes curl and his wet lips spill soft, involuntary moans.

Alex's cock, which was pinned between them, leaked helplessly onto his stomach, the red, swollen head sticky against his navel as he continued dripping. Each thrust of the man's hips rocked him just enough for the soft hairs on his stomach to brush over the sensitive top side of his cock, just enough to make him throb, to make him pulse.

Alex's hands scrabbled at the man's back, not exactly clawing, but dragging his short nails all across the large plane of skin, trying to help himself cope with the overflow of sensations all coiled up inside of his body.

The man growled low, pushing deeper, fucking Alex with steady, claiming strokes as he got more lost in it himself. His heavy balls slapped rhythmically against the base of Alex's ass, the sound deafening and impossibly wet and lewd in the dreamspace. Alex couldn't even think, couldn't speak, he just took it, body trembling, eyes rolling back every time the man bottomed out and held his cock there, just to see Alex's feeble reaction to the fullness.

Alex let out a breathy moan, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the cry as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to cope.

In reality, his hips had started to rock against the mattress even harder, grinding and writhing like an animal into the sheets. His cock was hard and flushed, twitching with every shallow thrust he dreamt of receiving.

He whimpered in his sleep, the muscles in his thighs constantly tensing and releasing as he grew closer to his climax and in real life.

The man shifted, grabbing Alex's hips with firm hands, angling just right for it to feel the best, then began to fuck into him with sharper, harder thrusts, deep, deliberate, fast enough now that the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, echoing off of the walls. Alex couldn't take it. His body was trembling, his mouth open in a silent scream as the man hit that smooth, rubbery spot over and over, driving him closer and closer to the edge until he squealed.

“Fuck..!” Alex cried in his dream, his body jerking up into the man as he came hard, both in his dream and in real life.

Back in his bed, in reality, his cum spilled into his boxers, drenching the soft, worn cotton, his cock throbbing in time with his dream orgasm, his hips lifting off of his bed in sharp little movements before shoving them back down again, rutting into his mattress as his dream fucked him through his orgasm.

In his dream, the man groaned above him as Alex painted his stomach in a second load of cum, before the man spilled inside of Alex himself, filling him up with a low, guttural moan ripping from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips twitching as he fucked and pumped his cum deep inside, making sure none of it dripped out. Alex shuddered at the warmth painted his insides, the stretch, the slick mess between them.

Alex whimpered, his voice raw and wrecked. His entire body felt limp, boneless, used, and loved all at once.

The man didn’t move right away. He hovered there, still buried deep, his hot forehead pressed to Alex's, their sweat mingling, breathing each other in. There was a gentleness to it, one that made Alex's heart clench with something sweet.

Gentleness was all he wanted, all his body craved, all his tainted mind needed.

One last, lazy grind of the man's hips pushed the cum deeper, making Alex whimper softly, legs trembling as he clung to the man's sweaty back, before it all began to dissolve.

The dream blurred once more, but this time, it faded out, the warmth, the love, the safety, all of it slipping through Alex's fingers like sand as he stirred.

A choked sound broke from his throat as he rolled over slightly, his face wet against the pillow from both dribble, and tears. Real tears.

His eyelashes were damp, his cheeks were streaked, and there was a tear clinging to the corner of his mouth, or was that drool?

He cringed as he felt the dampness in his boxers, and he hesitantly peeled back the duvet to look down at his crotch. His underwear were a mess. Filled to the brim with thick ribbons of cum like glue, a small bit leaking down onto his thigh through the fabric.

He groaned, his chest aching. He couldn't remember his dream, at least, he couldn't yet, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He blinked slowly in the dark, dazed, before he curled in on himself like a woodlouse, one hand pressed to his face, his lips trembling as a fresh tear slipped down his cheek.

He sighed before he shut his eyes again, not bothering to clean up the mess that he knew was in his boxers, his cum cooling until it felt like snot in his underwear, but he didn't fall asleep. His body was hurting too much for it to allow himself to.

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of his own breathing and the occasional sniffle as his nose ran.

He lay there in the dark, his body aching and sticky, his hair greasy, and everything feeling like it was just too much.

He wasn't made for real life. He wasn't made for being a human. Or maybe he was, and the world just wasn't made for people like him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

by writing about him getting 'romantic' feelings about all men he sees, i hope that doesn't come off as me thinking gay men are just attracted to every single male ever 😭 i dont know if its the same for queer men, but pretty much every queer woman that i know (myself included) confused friendship/general kindness as being romantic interest when they were first starting to discover their identity, and im trying to convey that. if that makes sense

#i like my men a little sad #this is so hot and so touching at the same time #also pls someone teach this man what a torrent is #it's no secret i'm roxabellas' n.1 fan #ilyyyy #fic rec #roxabellas

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bellesaisonn · 9 days ago

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so i'm stuck on whether i should make the hot dad series a slow burn and keep cockblocking them, or just let them fuck already

#im torn between being evil and being a slut #i love slow burns but i wrote alex in such a horny way i think he'll die if he gets cockblocked again #ramblings #hot dad alex

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bellesaisonn · 9 days ago

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louise do the right thing post a new picture of alex and you will be reincarnated as a lotus flower

#im having withdrawals #i need recents so i can get through this week #alex turner

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bellesaisonn · 11 days ago

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i'm obsessed with humbug era alex and i have social anxiety so this feels like it was made specifically for me

Doll Mouth

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 9,847

warnings : he has anxiety, sad feelings (i cant stop), they talk about scissoring/frotting/squirting but nothing real (#girl talk), doing stuff in public (in a cinema), handjob, blowjob, masturbation (reader)

The restaurant's hot breath curled around your small table like a swirl of a tongue, bringing the chime of half-full glasses being clinked together and the warm, strong scents of different herbs and spices with it, all floating around you and Alex as you sat tucked away in the far corner of the packed but cosy, gently candlelit restaurant.

The restaurant wasn't too fancy, not in an overly modern, high-class way.

The beams supporting the ceiling twirled upwards like beanstalks, the patterns engraved into the dark, streaky oak wood swirling and spiraling into an intricate, winding labyrinth of passages, decorating the pillar.

There were somber paintings hung up sporadically on the walls, depicting old Victorian couples dressed in suits with long coats and dresses with large petticoats, swans on a serene, tranquil lake, and orange sunsets on a farm in the countryside, all bordered with carefully carved chocolate brown wooden frames, the designs complementing and accentuating the details of the brooding pictures that they housed.

The windows resembled those that belonged to a church, arching at the top with the glass panes lightly stained, allowing the minimal light that passed through them to match the dim glow that doused the inside of the restaurant.

The building used to be a post office, or maybe it was a bank. You couldn't remember exactly. It was something that would've made the heavily detailed architecture feel more natural, anyway.

You let your gaze float over the tall walls, walls that had seen so much history after standing there for so long, and your mind wandered for a moment. You began to think about who might've stood or sat in the same place that you were sitting now, hundreds of years ago.

Maybe they were a mother, rocking their newborn baby to sleep in their arms while the town whizzed past, disrupting the little one's slumber. Maybe they were an outcasted, independent teenage girl in the terrifying midst of being accused of witchcraft. Maybe they were a poor woman, trying to sell countless flower bouquets out of baskets on the pavement, just to make ends meet.

Whoever it might have been, you hoped they were gifted with a happy ending.

You were gently tugged from your thoughts when Alex's foot nudged against yours beneath the table, and you tore your gaze away from the walls, your eyes meeting his expectant expression, and you smiled a little at him before he spoke.

“Which one's your favourite?” he asked as he chewed, half of a chip in his hand after he took a bite.

You glanced down at his chapped lips before you asked, a little confused, “Favourite what?”

“Favourite painting,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely to the walls before tossing the other half of the chip he was holding into his mouth.

You turned your head again, eyes scanning over all of the solemn paintings dotted across the walls before your gaze settled on the one you'd found yourself zoning out on before.

“That one,” you pointed towards the opposite wall where the picture hung, and he wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans as he turned his head towards where your finger guided his eyes.

It was a gloomy looking painting, a dense forest of towering pine trees. The needle-like leaves were a dark, mossy sage and the sky a deep, cloudy grey. Maybe it had just rained in their world.

He squinted his eyes slightly as he studied the picture for a moment before he looked back at you. “Pretty.”

“What's yours?” you asked back to him as you wrapped your hands around your glass, lifting it up to your mouth before capturing the flimsy, blue and white striped paper straw between your soft lips, taking a long, slow sip as you watched his eyes scan over the walls.

“I like that one,” he slightly nodded his head towards a painting hung high on the wall behind you, one that was part of a small cluster of three different pictures.

You turned and tilted your head back, your eyes soughting out the one he gestured to, and you asked, “The top or bottom one?”

“Bottom.”

Your eyes flickered down to the lowest painting of the cluster, a picture of a bunch of flowers in a vase. The background and stems were dull, but the petals were painted with slightly brighter, though still dusty colours. Peachy white peonies, mustard yellow marigolds, currant red camellias. It was bordered with a thick, vintage-looking brass frame, worn shiny with age, instead of a dark oak one like the rest of the paintings had.

“I like it,” you said as you turned back towards him, reaching for the white porcelain bowl sat on the table between you and plucking a chip from the centre, the hot exterior of the fried potato burning your fingertips a little.

The corners of Alex's lips quirked up into a small smile before he looked down at his empty plate. The waitress had brought them when she delivered the bowl of chips earlier, muttering some half-hearted apology about the delay of the pizza and how they're short on staff.

A handful of dark charred pieces of potato were dotted over his plate from him picking and peeling them off of the chips. He hated how they tasted, how they coated the inside of his mouth in an overwhelmingly acrid layer of bitterness. How it soaked into his tongue and contaminated the next few bites of his food with its lingering burnt poison.

It gave him something to do with his hands as well. Something to fiddle with, even if it meant getting his fingers slick with grease and rough with crumbs. Something to distract him from how inside, he was anything but still.

The restaurant wasn't loud, not in a way that would be expected with as many people as there were inside. Apart from the occasional round of loud laughter from a table in the far corner of the opposite side of the room, it was generally quite tame. Most of the patrons were quiet couples, just like you and him, but no matter how quiet the people around him were, nothing would be able to lower the blaring volume of his sickeningly anxious inner monologue.

There was a low static somewhere in his brain, and his heart felt slightly off-centre, just a little bit too far to the right, persistently beating and thumping against his ribs with a swift pace that made his breathing quicken out of nerves.

All of the tables were too close together, and everytime someone spoke, even if it was just a murmur, and everytime someone shifted, even if it was just by an inch, his stomach flinched and tightened with worry, with fear.

The sound of cutlery scraping violently stabbed his ears, making him blink too quickly in response to the noise. His eyes darted towards the sound each time, his chin-length, mildly wavy hair swaying with each quick turn of his head, only slightly, but enough to make him hyper aware of it.

He knew nobody was watching him. He knew nobody cared. Nobody cared about his leg constantly bouncing underneath the table, about how he chewed on his lower lip until it was red and stinging, or the way he rubbed his hands together and tugged on his fingers subconsciously.

He knew nobody noticed, but knowing and feeling were two completely different things.

He felt like everyone was staring at him. Whispering about the way he picked apart the chips, murmuring between each other about a water spot on his shirt from how he brushed his teeth right before you two left the house. He felt like every loud laugh, every muffled chuckle, every stifled cackle was at him, mocking him. His chest felt tight with the brutal, deafening anxiety festering inside of him.

He brought a chip that he'd been tearing apart on his plate up to his mouth, being careful not to chew too loud, or too fast, or too slow. The crunch of the crispy outer skin echoed through his brain as his teeth tore through the barrier, and he quickly swept his eyes over the room as he chewed slowly, deliberately, his lips pressed impossibly tight together to try and muffle the noise as much as possible, though he knew it couldn't possibly be as loud in reality as it was in his head.

His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, like it didn't belong to him, and his teeth felt itchy, the discomfort rooted deep in his gums. He took a sip of his drink, the damp paper straw nestled between his rough lips, and he sucked up a mouthful of the fizzy drink, swilling the sugary liquid inside of his mouth and letting it tingle across his tongue and gums before he swallowed it.

Thankfully, your soft voice broke through his haze of suffocating worries like a hot knife through butter, reminding him of where he was, who he was with, and that he was okay. At least for a moment.

“Apparently it's all about his sister, Samantha,” you said fleetingly before you took a bite of another chip, turning and looking over the other half between your fingers.

“What?” he asked, his eyes focusing once more as he came back to, floating his way back up to the surface after drowning, but still not being able to get out of the water.

“The film. S. Darko. It's meant to be terrible. I read a bit about it online.”

He let out a short, breathy chuckle, his smile just barely evident on his lips. “It's not even the same director, is it?”

“No. I forgot his name, but it's not the same guy. It's all about time travel and stuff again, though,” you briefly explained as you wiped your fingers on a beige, slightly damp napkin that was lazily discarded beside your plate earlier.

“Do you think it'll ruin Donnie Darko for me?” he asked, only half-joking as he reached for his drink again. He wasn't even thirsty, he just couldn't bear the thought of having to sit still, of not doing anything with his hands. He thought it would at least make him look normal.

“Maybe. I'm curious. I know it'll be awful, but maybe it'll be a good awful. I want it to be terrible and impossible to understand.”

He chewed on his straw, the thin paper becoming mushy in his mouth. “You like bad films?”

You let out a huff of laughter through your nostrils. “I like bad sequels.”

“I thought it concluded quite well in the first one,” he said, glancing around the room for a moment before focusing on his coke again.

“That's why they made a second one.”

“For money and stuff?”

“Probably. And for articles and that. Negative engagement is still engagement, I guess. It'll make people hate-watch.”

He chuckled quietly, the top of his chewed paper straw unravelling slightly. “Well, we fell for it, didn't we?”

“We didn't ‘fall for it’ if I wanted to watch it.”

“Then it was just you who fell for it.”

Your soft laugh melted into the background hum of the restaurant, and he drummed a silent rhythm with his greasy fingers on his knee before the taps morphed into slow drags of his fingertips, tracing small patterns on the soft denim of his deep blue jeans.

The squeak of the kitchen door being swung open made him jolt slightly, and he sat up straighter without entirely meaning to. He was always doing that. Sitting up straighter at random times, usually after being startled. Maybe it reminded him where he was after zoning out, that he was human, that he had to look normal. As if that wasn't all he thought about anyway. Looking normal.

The same waitress who had served you two earlier, a young woman with an overgrown dark brown bob and a very patchy fake tan job, weaved through tables towards yours, carrying a wide plate with a pizza set atop on one hand, while her other hand held a folded wad of napkins.

He glanced at the woman for a second, but quickly looked away when he realised she was coming towards him, a wave of shame burning up through his chest and up to his face, flushing his cheeks a shade of red. He hoped she hadn't seen him looking.

The waitress approached, an attempted apologetic smile on her lips as she sat down the plate in the centre of the table. “Sorry for the wait. Mind the plate, it's hot,” she said. She didn't sound local. Actually, he couldn't tell where she was from. Her accent sounded like it was a hybrid of South London, Greater Manchester, and somewhere further up in the North.

She set the wad of napkins on the table as well, and you gave her a small smile and a thank you before she walked away, while he did everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

His stomach clenched and churned as he looked down at the pizza, his throat closing up. It wasn't that he didn't want to eat, or that he wasn't hungry. He was, but that wasn't what he was afraid of. He was afraid of the performance that came with eating.

The cutting, the lifting, the biting. The thought of getting tomato sauce on his lips, of the cheese stretching in long strings until they snapped and clung to his chin as if he were a child.

He was afraid of dropping a piece, or picking up a slice too awkwardly and having it flop back down onto the plate.

What if he took too big of a bite? What if his bites were too small? What if he chewed for too long? What if he didn't chew enough?

He did his best to keep his face neutral. He felt so stupid getting so worked up about something so small.

He reached for his drink instead, again, the condensation on the outside of the glass cooling and dampening his fingers. He took a very small sip, sucking slowly for one second, two seconds, before he pulled it from his lips again. Two seconds was fine. That was allowed. His drink was nearly empty, anyway, and he didn't know what he was meant to do with his hands once he did finish it.

He hated the vulnerability of being human.

It was exhausting. He hated the way his mind constantly spun with completely unreasonable and irrational scenarios like a toy train on a circular track.

You picked up a slice without fanfare, folding it with your fingers and bringing it up to your mouth. He watched you as you chewed, his lips pursed as he dragged his tongue over the backs of his teeth. He glanced around quickly, just double-checking to make sure no one was staring at him, before he reached for a slice very slowly, very carefully.

The crust was warm against his fingertips, crisp but not brittle, and his pulse quickened. He lifted it from the plate, the cheese stretching into soft threads but snapping before they could make a spectacle of themselves, before it could draw any attention, and he brought it to his plate in front of him.

He swept his eyes over the room again, and for a moment, he considered eating it with a knife and fork. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek before he picked the slice up again from his plate, folding it to keep it from flopping limply, and he brought it up to his mouth and took a bite from the tip.

He chewed. He swallowed.

Nothing happened. Nothing bad, anyway.

No one looked, no one laughed, no one cared.

Except you, maybe, but not in a way that made him want to disappear.

You smiled softly at him from across the table, nudging your foot against his beneath the table, and he nudged yours back. You brought your thumb up to your mouth and licked a small fleck sauce off of your nail before you asked, “You like it?”

He nodded slightly before bringing a hand up to his head, pulling a section of his hair behind his ear, and he said, “Yeah. It's… it's- yeah.”

He took another slow, deliberate bite, sawing through the soft, warm cheese as much as he could with his teeth to avoid it stretching all together. He hoped he wasn't chewing too loud, hoped his jaw wasn't too tight, hoped he wasn't breaking some insanely strict yet unspoken rule of not being allowed to bite through the cheese the way he did.

You tore a piece of crust off of your slice with your teeth, letting it linger in your cheek for a moment as they dry crumbs coated your tongue before you chewed and swallowed. You kept your eyes on him, lovingly, watching over him. He was eating now, which was good, though you could tell he was still nervous. Careful, meditated bites, measured chewing, and slow wiped fingers.

He always did everything with such anxious precision when he was in public. He was terrified of getting things wrong, terrified of people looking at him, terrified of being human. But his shoulders weren't as slouched as they had been when you'd first sat down. Not fully relaxed, at least not yet, but a bit softer around the edges.

Still, you hated seeing him helplessly trapped behind that invisible wall around him built up and reinforced by all of his doubts, worries and disconnection from himself.

He felt so distant, despite sitting across from you, despite your feet touching beneath the table.

You watched the way he glanced around with his lips pursed every time before he cautiously chewed, how his hands hovered over a slice for just a second too long before he committed to taking another bite, how the bounce of his leg under the table got more intense whenever somebody walked by.

You let the silence linger between you for a little while longer, not wanting to overwhelm him, or make him feel like he had to talk, as you knew that was something that worried him in public, especially somewhere like this. Where the tables were close and the conversations were murmured.

You watched him pick at the layer of browned cheese on top of his slice, bringing the small, torn off pieces up to his mouth like a bird eating seeds. He kept his gaze down, his hair falling in front of his face like a shield.

It tugged at your heart to see him so reclused in public when you knew what he was really like. You knew he was brilliant, he was clever, he was funny, he was loving. You knew he loved to talk for hours on end about whatever had caught his interest that week. You knew how insanely competitive he got when playing card games that were meant for children. You knew how he loved to dance with you in the kitchen, even though he says he has two left feet.

So while his silence didn't bother you, the reason behind it did. The way he thought his presence was a burden, the way he was convinced he always had an audience, the way he so easily let other people's opinions mould and shape him into something to appease them, something that wasn't him at all.

You took another chip from the bowl as he continued to pick at his pizza, and you brought it up to your mouth, your teeth tearing through the crispy exterior. You rested your head in your other hand as you chewed, your elbow on the table, and you swallowed before you asked, “What part of you do you think is the hardest to love?”

You didn't say it to be cruel, or to mock him, or to make him feel unlovable. You just knew he needed to be jostled sometimes, to stop him from shrinking into the silence too much. He liked to talk about his feelings, and you liked listening to him. The words he used to describe what was going on inside of him, the subtle hand gestures you weren't even sure that he was aware he was doing, the way he only ever spoke about them when he felt safe and loved.

He froze at first, looking up at you through his hair from his plate with pink, flushed cheeks, before he looked to the side, then down at the floor, then at whatever painting was nearest.

“Um…” he started, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, and he brought his hand up to his face to wipe the corner of his mouth with his wrist, though there was nothing there.

You didn't push or repeat the question, you just let him figure it out by himself as you waited. He bit the inside of his cheek, and you bit down on another slice of pizza, chewing slowly as you kept eye contact with him, waiting.

You didn't soften or broaden the question, or give him an easy way out. You let him feel what he was actually feeling, give him a silence that wasn't hollow or riddled with constant worry. Let him actually be there with you instead of spectating the evening from inside of his shell.

You smiled a little as he licked his lips and sat back slightly in his chair.

“Christ,” he muttered, letting out a breathy, slightly embarrassed laugh. “That's a bit heavy, don't you think?”

“Better than watching you sit there like a hermit,” you said, feeling your chin press into your palm with each syllable as you kept your head cradled in your hand.

He let a small smile quirk the corners of his lips upwards and he reached for a napkin to wipe his fingers on, though you knew it was just another distraction, something to do with his hands.

His teeth grazed his lower lip as his gaze drifted, dragging the soft napkin over his palms and fingertips, before he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“I think…” he began, and you could tell he was trying to be very careful with the words he chose. “How I'm not… present. When I'm out. I feel like my brain stops me from having fun when I'm out doing stuff, even if I'm with people I love.”

The low murmur of the rest of the restaurant blurred into the background as you watched him speak, your cheek slightly squished against your hand. You knew exactly what he meant, you'd seen it yourself. The amount of times he'd refused to let himself loose, even just a little, how he opted for quietly sitting aside in a corner, or just staying inside entirely, because he was so afraid of letting his guard down, of making a spectacle of himself.

Your eyes softened slightly as you said, “I don't think that makes you hard to love. I just think it makes you… different.”

He let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I don't wanna be different.”

“Why?” you asked. You'd wanted to ask it for a while, but you'd never gotten a real chance, or you'd been afraid that it would upset him. You knew he didn't like confrontation.

He sighed, and he brought his hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes with the balls of his palms until black and white phosphenes spiked his vision behind his closed eyelids. He perched his elbows on the table and held his chin in his palm before he answered, “I don't know. I guess I don't mind being… different. In other ways. I just want my feelings to be normal. I don't wanna be scared of everything all the time.”

One hand came to his throat, idly rubbing over the base of his neck as he tried to think of how to word what he wanted to say.

“I'm sorry that I'm like this. I want to be able to do stuff. I can tell you get upset when I back out of things or cancel, but I just… I get this feeling in my belly or in my throat that's just so… big. It makes it hard for me to breathe or swallow, but it goes away when I'm alone, or when I'm inside, or when I'm in bed.”

He felt the urge to look around, to triple-check that no one was watching him, but he bit his cheek as he managed to keep his head in place, and he continued. “But I'm worried that I'll never change, and that I'm gonna be this much of a hermit for my whole life. Sometimes I feel like I'm weighing you down, or that you're not doing the things you could be doing, just because you're waiting for me to get better. But I don't know if I'm going to get better.”

You looked down at the plate in front of you, a handful of crumbs scattered across it, and a few smudges of tomato sauce, before you met his eyes again through the curtain of his fringe. “I'm not waiting for you to be anything,” you said, reassuring. “I just want you to be with me when you feel like you can. And when you can't, I'll be waiting for you when you can. It's not ‘weighing me down’ if I want to do it for you. Which I do. I really do.”

He pursed his lips slightly as he took it in, his face softer now and his shoulders more relaxed. He looked at you with a soft gratitude in his eyes. “I love being with you. It's just everyone else that I'm afraid of.”

“I know. It's okay.”

He smiled slowly, letting out a small laugh as he looked away after holding eye contact for too long, blushing slightly as he brought his hand to the back of his neck.

The hue of his blush was your favourite colour. You wished you could paint it on the walls, polish your nails with it, and wear it as lipstick.

His laugh was the most precious sound in the world. It was your favourite song. You wished you could burn it into a cd, or carve it into a vinyl. You'd listen to it for hours on repeat, letting it fill you with the joy and security that only he knew how to muster up in you.

He felt a warmth inside of him, not exactly confidence, but his body wasn't restricting him, his mind wasn't preventing him from being human. At least, not at the moment. Maybe his fear would come back in five minutes, maybe it would come back in five hours. All he could do was enjoy it while he could.

He picked up the slice of pizza he'd been tearing apart on his plate, folded it with his fingers and brought it up to his mouth. He took a bite, which was mostly soft, chewy dough and tangy, slightly acidic sauce as he'd picked off most of the cheese.

You smiled, and finally, finally, you were having dinner together. Properly. Not just sitting at the same table while eating.

The rest of the meal passed by in a similar way to how it would at home, if he'd made an attempt at cooking something fancy. Easy, calm, and a deep adoration for one another floating between you.

You both ate slowly, his tension and worries from earlier dissolving and disintegrating with every word he spoke, every laugh he let slip out unguarded.

He still took careful bites, still occasionally glanced around the room if someone laughed a little too loud for his liking, but now there was a softness to the way he moved. Less caution, more comfort, like he wasn't as afraid that he was going to get into trouble for merely existing.

You finished off the last few slices of pizza together, the bowl of chips long since finished, but your drinks partially remained, just a few dregs left that had been diluted by the melting ice cubes, the condensation on the outside of the glasses glinting slightly in the soft light of the restaurant. He picked at an unfinished piece of crust on his plate before looking up at you as you wiped your hands on a napkin before you tossed one at him, the soft paper landing surprisingly well instead of drifting off as it flew due to it being slightly damp.

He rubbed his fingers and his palms with the tissue, cleaning off the remnants of any slick grease or rough crumbs. He pushed his chair back, wincing slightly at the scrape of the legs on the floor, and he stood up slowly, stretching his back with a small, barely audible groan as his spine loosened up again.

He tucked his chair back underneath the table as you got up as well, lifting it slightly off of the floor this time to avoid the ear-bleeding grate. You walked around the table to him, grabbing his hand and interlocking your fingers with him, his slightly sweaty palm pressed against yours, and you led him towards the door, weaving through the tables. You gave a small, grateful smile to one of the waitresses before you pushed open the heavy wooden door, the cool night air enveloping the two of you like stepping into the ocean on a rainy day, cold and biting.

His cheeks flushed slightly because of the chill, a light red, and he walked close to you, trying to sync up his steps with yours the best he could. He squeezed your hand gently, and you squeezed it back, just reminding him that he was okay, that you were right there with him.

There must've been a light rainpour while you two were in the restaurant, as the pavement glistened slightly in small puddles beneath the flickering yellow street lights, a faint sheen of dampness coating the black, lumpy tarmac of the road.

The gentle breeze blew through his soft hair. It had grown quite long, and despite being a little insecure about it, he refused to cut it. He knew you liked to play with it, liked to run your fingers through his long strands, and tie it up into ponytails and plaits, even if it made him embarrassed.

His lips were jutted out slightly into a pout, like they often were. You'd never really been able to put your finger on why or what made him do that, whether it be when he was deep in thought, or trying not to let his anxiety overwhelm him, or just doing it because it felt comfortable.

“Reckon there's gonna be many people there?” he asked with a quiet pop of his lips as he unpursed them. He felt a bit more comfortable now, as it was just you and him out there, save for the odd pedestrian here and there.

“Where? The cinema?” you asked, accidentally bunting him with your shoulder in an attempt to be closer to him.

“Yeah. Can't be many, can there? Everyone knows the film is shit by now.”

“You scared, baby?” you turned and tilted your head up towards him. He wasn't much taller than you. He wasn't that tall at all, to be honest, but he was tall enough so you had to look up to meet his eyes properly.

“Not scared. Not that much, anyway. Just premeditating. Preparing,” he briefly explained, kicking a wet rock beneath his feet across the pavement and watching the water droplets fly off of it as it bounced, rattling across the concrete.

The walk to the cinema wasn't too long, maybe around fifteen minutes. Long enough to be able to dawdle.

“Al,” you started, your gaze ahead of you while you walked as you felt him turn his head down towards you.

He looked down at you, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips at your voice. “Yeah?”

You slowed your steps a little, and he was quick to match your pace, the rubber soles of his shoes scuffing against the wet floor. “What would you do if you had a pussy?”

You looked up at him, and you swore you could see his brain lagging a second behind through his eyes.

“What?” he laughed, a wide smile spreading across his face, his eyes squinting slightly.

You burst out laughing, leaning your head against his shoulder and squeezing his hand tighter.

“You sure it was just coke you had in that glass, love?” he asked, his smile seeping into his voice.

“I'm serious! I've just been wondering. Would you sit around and play with it all day, or would you fuck someone?”

“How long do I get the pussy?” he asked, his shoes squelching quietly from the puddles with each step he took.

“...One day,” you said after a moment of thoughtful consideration.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand, shaking his head slightly with a grin, and he said, “I'd scissor you, probably.”

You smiled. “Would you, now?”

“That'd be the first thing I'd do.”

“Would you buy pretty underwear and take loads of pictures in them?” you teased.

“Would I have the ass too?”

“You've already got the ass.”

He felt his face heat up as he laughed, and you tugged him around a corner on the street towards the cinema. “I think I'd finger myself first. I've always wanted to know how that feels.”

You smiled, pulling him along the damp pavement. “You can already do that.”

“I'm not fingering my ass.”

“I'll do it, then,” you looked over your shoulder at him for a moment, smiling from both the conversation, and how he wasn't as reclused at the moment. You knew it never lasted long, though, so you cherished it. Not that you didn't cherish him when he was anxious and quiet, but you try to make the most of it when he's not.

“What would you do if you had a dick?” he asked back at you, unable to control his laughter at the last few words.

His laugh was contagious. You tugged him forwards to walk beside you again and you rested your head on his shoulder as you spoke. “I'd wank. Then I'd fuck you.”

He smiled. “Would you have a dick at the same time that I had a pussy?”

You thought for a moment, taking it a little too seriously. “...Yes. Like, we'd swap.”

He frowned, his voice tainted with faux disappointment as he said, “No scissoring then?”

You laughed before backtracking, “I take it back. You'd have a pussy one day, then I'd have a dick the next day. I wanna frot with you.”

“What else would you do?” he asked, trying to calm down after his fits of laughter.

“Piss standing up,” you said with a certainty that made another chuckle bubble out of his throat. “What about your pussy? Would it be hairy?”

He thought for a moment. “I'd cut my pubes into a heart.”

“Cute.”

“And I'd squirt.”

“Fuck off,” you said before you stepped into the cinema, the automatic doors sliding open with a mechanical whir.

The outside air, crisp, cool, and smelling of petrol and wet, earthy leaves, gave way to the warmth of the cinema. It smelled like popcorn, buttered and scorched at the edges, a thick mix of sweet and salty swirling through the air. There was a synthetic, sugary smell emanating from the slushy machines on one side of the counter, churning the colourful, icy drinks inside of them.

You walked ahead of him, a thousand spilled and crushed kernels crunching beneath your feet as the damp soles of your shoes scuffed against the rough, flattened carpet that was probably well overdue a clean. You stepped over a dried patch of some spilled soft drink, deep brown and cemented to the floor, as you walked over to the counter, Alex trailing behind you.

He was a little quieter now, the walls surrounding him making him feel almost claustrophobic, suspending his right to talk for as long as he was boxed up. His fingers slipped from yours, clasping his own two together in front of him, and you made your way to the counter with an effortless gracefulness that made him feel something that resembled jealousy. He wanted to be able to live that easily, he wanted to be able to talk to people freely without stuttering and stammering over every word that had the misfortune of tumbling out of his mouth.

The young woman at the counter barely looked at you as you approached, bags under her eyes and a silver necklace around her neck. She was chewing gum a little too loudly, her lips smacking, and the smell of synthetic watermelon drifted over the counter as she opened her mouth. “Yes?”

You forced a small, pleasant smile. “Can I have two tickets for S. Darko, please?” your voice was calm, casual and polite, not so much for the lady behind the counter, but for him, Alex, behind you, to keep the space safe and light.

You could hear him shifting his weight, the way the heel of his boot rolled over the carpet, the quiet exhale that he didn't realise had come out, the subtle wipe of his hands against his jeans as he brushed his fingertips over the soft, dark denim.

The girl blinked, her chewing stilling for a moment as she glanced up at you before tapping something into the till with a series of bored smacks, and she slid two paper tickets across the countertop before she said, her voice monotone through her gum, “Ten quid.”

You reached into your pocket and fished out two five pound notes before you passed them to her, the money slightly curled and folded from being in your pocket all night, and you took the two tickets with a final friendly smile which she didn't reciprocate.

The second the transaction ended, you stepped aside, the tickets secure between your fingers. They were still warm from the printer, the ink slightly smudged, but you could still work out what it said just fine.

“We're in screen three. It starts in about fifteen minutes,” you told him as you mindlessly strolled away from the counter, lingering quietly as you waited for the time of the screening to draw closer.

He nodded once, quick and tight, his lips slightly pursed as he looked over the walls. There were posters of films from ten, twenty, thirty years ago, upcoming films, and films he'd never heard of in his life. You could tell he wasn't fond of the fluorescent overhead lights, the brightness and faint buzz of them making him wince.

You could see the telltale signs of him trying to manage it all, pressing his thumb to each one of his fingers rhythmically, attempting to even out his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and the downward tilt of his chin to avoid eye contact with any strangers.

You took his hand again, the hand that was hanging limply by his side, and he interlocked his fingers with yours. “Do you wanna get anything?” you asked, nodding vaguely towards the far side of the counter, with popcorn machines, slushies, and ice creams that came in tiny cardboard tubs with equally tiny wooden spoons.

He looked over at it briefly before flickering his eyes away again, like he was scared of being caught looking at it, like he was scared of being perceived. The thought of going up to the counter and ordering something from someone who would probably be annoyed to be doing their own job and risking making a fool of himself, whether it be them not having what he wanted, him mispronouncing something, or him having to repeat himself a few times due to his voice being too quiet. It made him feel sick.

He shook his head, his lips pressed together. “No thanks, love. You?”

You scanned your eyes over the counter from the distance, but the scent of melted butter and bitter chocolate ice cream was so strong, it almost stung. You shook your head. “I'm alright. The ice cream always tastes out of date here, anyway.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter through his nose, his smile small but sweet, and you two began to walk down the long, wide hallway where the screens resided, Alex trailing slightly behind you but still holding onto your hand.

The carpet beneath your feet was a deep red with a gaudy swirl pattern that didn't match at all. Every cinema seemed to be cursed with a floor like that, seemingly designed to disguise spills better.

You stilled outside of the door with a large number three plated beside it, and you said, “How shit do you think it's gonna be?”

He smiled. “On a scale of what?”

You thought for a moment, laughing to yourself as you thought of the best and worst films you could think of to use as a scale. “On a scale of Battlefield Earth to The Shining.”

He tutted. “I liked Battlefield Earth though.”

“No, you didn't.”

He was quiet for a moment before he said, “...Battlefield Earth.”

You laughed, pressing your face into his shoulder as you closed your eyes, and he nudged you off. “Come on.”

You pushed open the heavy black wooden door with a squeak of the hinges and a soft, suctioned huff, and he trailed after you. It was dark inside, but you could tell there was still that atrocious carpet plastered all over the floors. He held your hand a little tighter, letting you guide him through the pitch black. The scent in the room was a cocktail of salty popcorn and carpet cleaner, each smell warmed through from the humidity of the room.

There were just six people scattered around the seats sporadically. A middle-aged couple at the front, three lads who looked to be in their twenties each with a bucket of popcorn larger than their heads, and a woman sat solitary right at the front.

Your eyes flickered upwards almost instinctively, up to the back row, and it was completely empty. You smiled and tugged on his hand as you climbed the wide steps together, each footstep muffled, the carpet absorbing the noise. Alex stayed just behind you, clinging onto your hand.

You exhaled slowly as you sank down into the plush red seat, the fabric slightly hardened in places from a substance you weren't sure you wanted to identify. He perched on his seat beside you, hesitating for just a second before he leaned back into it, turning his head to look at you to make sure he was doing it right.

He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, his hand never leaving yours once. You turned your head to look at him, your cheek pressing against the fabric of the backrest of your chair. The glow emitted by the adverts and trailers was soft, contrasting their volume, and it lit his pale face in gentle flashes of white and blue. It casted flickers over his large nose, his lips, his cheekbones, and his hair, which was falling just over his shoulders.

“You're beautiful,” you said quietly, your voice softer, more thoughtful, just barely loud enough to be passed through to his sensitive ears.

He smiled shyly and his eyes drifted over your gentle face, down to your lips which you pouted, and he leaned over to give you a soft kiss.

You brought your other hand up and threaded your fingers through his silky strands as your lips moved together, his chapped ones lightly scraping against your smooth ones.

You pulled back slightly, your hand still in his hair, and he murmured, “Love you.”

“I love you too,” you said quietly, adoration laced like ribbons into your tone.

You turned your face back towards the screen, while his eyes lingered on you. His eyes weren't darting around frantically anymore, not worried about who was looking or what they were looking at. His chest rose at an easier, steadier pace now, and while his nerves weren't completely gone, as they never were, he felt at ease.

As the adverts and trailers came to a close, their lingering volume sent a deep vibration through your sternum, rattling your ribs, and only then did he manage to tear his eyes away from you to look at the screen.

About fifteen minutes into the film, it became abundantly clear. This wasn't Donnie Darko. It wasn't even close. The dialogue was stilted and lifeless, the lighting was bleak in all the wrong ways, and the plot, if there even was one, unravelled like a wet tissue in the rain.

Your eyes were glued onto the screen for a while, mostly out of pure disbelief that they could butcher it this badly. You tilted your head slightly as another poorly delivered line dragged itself through the large speakers. Alex had said nothing, but you could feel him next to you. Shifting occasionally in his seat, slowly and deeply inhaling through his nose like he was trying to centre himself, his thumb idly grazing the edge of his chair. He wasn't anxious, not now, not really, he was just quietly enduring it, his jaw set in that gentle, unreadable way of his.

You perched your elbow on the armrest you two were sharing, resting your cheek against your knuckles.

Twenty more minutes passed. Twenty minutes of empty, pointless scenes, droning dialogue, and some of the worst cinematography you'd ever seen in your life.

You sighed softly and turned your head towards him, seeing his gaze locked straight ahead, but his lashes fluttered at the sound of your breath. You let a small smirk tug at the corners of your lips before you leaned in slightly, “Boring, isn't it?”

As you said it, you reached across over the armrest, casually across to his lap. Your fingertips grazed over the tops of his thighs at first, light and unhurried, then up, deliberately brushing over and tracing the shape of his cock through the denim of his jeans. Just enough to be felt.

He stiffened slightly, but not by too much, just a slight hitch in his posture as his spine straightened by a fraction, his lips parting around a gasp he didn't let himself voice.

You let your hand linger for a moment, your touch feather light as you pretended to be still watching the film.

He turned his head towards you slightly, just enough, and in the dim blue flicker of the wide screen, you caught his deep brown eyes, half alert and half cautious. His gaze flickered down to your hand on his crotch, then back up to your face.

You smiled without looking at him fully, and your fingertips pressed down again, ever so slightly, just a little bit firmer, and the muscles in his thighs tensed, his breathing growing heavier.

The screen continued to drone on with more futile dialogue and confused exposition, but neither of you were watching it anymore.

Your fingers curled, subtle and slow, gradually adding more and more pressure over his cock through his jeans, until you felt it. A faint twitch beneath your palm.

A warmth prickled through your body, delicious and full of tension and invitation, daring you to go further.

He exhaled, the sound barely audible, just a slow huff of air through his mouth, and when you glanced sideways again, his lips were parted around quick breaths, and his eyes were dark and needy behind the soft fall of his hair, but focused entirely on you.

You let your hand linger for a moment longer, lazily stroking the length of him through his jeans, and he bit down on his lower lip gently. You were moving more deliberately now, making no attempt to mask what you were doing. The warmth of him beneath the denim had shifted, thickened, and you could feel him swelling slowly beneath your touch, pressure and tingles blooming through the fabric as your palm moved in slow, rhythmic presses.

He didn't say anything. Not in words, anyway. His body was tense in a way that said more than any amount of speech would ever be able to. The tension in his body wasn't out of nervousness or fear anymore, the earlier anxiety replaced with something warm-blooded and heavy. He was quiet, sure, but every part of his body had stilled except for the subtle twitch of his fingers against the armrest, his pulse now visible in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were still fixed on the screen, but they were empty, glazed, half-lidded. He wasn't processing anything in front of him anymore. Only you.

You leaned in a little closer, slowly, until he could feel the heat of your breath against his jaw. “You getting hard for me?”

His throat bobbed and he inhaled sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was about to answer, but nothing came out. His body spoke for him.

You didn't press for him to respond. You just smiled slightly to yourself, your eyes on him as you reached for the cool button of his jeans.

Your fingers were calm but nimble as you undid his trousers. The dull pop of his metal button being pushed through the hole was easily swallowed by the sounds of the film, and the slow whir of his zip that followed sounded louder to you than it would've to anyone else in that cinema.

Your hand slipped inside, your fingers tracing along the much softer cotton of his boxer shorts. It was warm in there, cosy, and they were already tented, his thick length already hardened down one of the leg holes.

You felt his cock give a gentle twitch against your palm, accompanied by a small sigh that fell from his lips that sounded like pure sweet sugar being sifted into your ears.

His thighs quivered slightly as you rubbed your fingers further and further up his shaft, teasing the ridge of his head.

Only then did he peel his eyes away from the screen to look at you, his jaw slack and eyes half-lidded as he murmured, sounding more like a breathy exhale than a solid word, “Fuck…”

You slipped your hand underneath the taut waistband of his white boxers, your teeth lightly grazing against your lower lip as you smiled. You tugged him free with delicate fingers, hard and hot and twitching in the humid air of the cinema. The light from the screen washed over his lap in flickers of blue and gold.

You started to stroke him. Slow, very slow, your hand gliding in smooth, measured tugs as you coaxed tiny, breathless gasps from his throat. Your fingers curled just slightly at the tip, twisting your wrist subtly around the swollen, angry red head, then down again with a soft squeeze. Your thumb brushed the ridge gently with every upward pull, making his face scrunch up with the effort to not moan your name.

His head tipped back slightly, his eyes darting all over the tall ceiling. His lips were damp and parted as his breaths grew shallower. He clenched one of his fists around nothing in his lap while your hand continued to work him in that steady, teasing rhythm, just enough friction to draw out every reaction from him, but not enough to let him settle into it, to lose himself in it.

“That feel good?” you teased, tightening your grip around his shaft, and he huffed out a breathless, unsteady sound, something like a laugh but ruined halfway through, and you felt him pulse and throb in your palm.

You adjusted your grip, even slower now, firmer, letting the pleasure and pressure build in his abdomen in smooth, delicious increments. Your thumb dragged trails along the sensitive underside of his tip, and his eyes fluttered shut, his knee twitching involuntarily.

You kept stroking him, your palm now slick with his dewy precum that had beaded at the tip out of his desperation. Your fist moved slow enough to drive him mad, yet fast enough to keep him right on the brink.

He was heavy in your palm, flushed and pulsing, the head leaking just enough that your fingers were able to glide just a little easier each time. You could hear it, just barely. Faint, obscene sounds drowned out by the whir of the projector and the muffled film.

He shifted beside you again, restless, his throat tightening around a moan that he couldn't let escape out of fear of the volume. You looked up at his face again, glistening lips open wide, his hair falling in messy strands around his red face. His thighs were rigid and spread wide apart, and while one of his hands lay scrunched up on his lap, you watched as the other one drifted up his torso, up to his chest, his thumb shakily circling one of his nipples.

Your lips curled into a wide smile as you caught what he was doing. “You like playing with your tits, baby?” you teased, your voice coaxing him through the pleasure while his lower lip quivered.

His breath caught in his throat on its way out, his hand stilling on his chest for a moment before allowing his fingers to continue their slow, torturous movements on his nipples.

You pulled your hand from his slick cock, and before he could complain, or even realise what was happening, you sank down on your knees in front of him, the sticky, hideous pattern of the carpet completely forgotten, and quite frankly irrelevant, your focus now entirely on the aching, swollen length of him standing proud in front of your face from the open fly of his jeans.

His tip glistened in the low light of the theatre, and you leaned in, your breath hot against his sensitive skin, and you swiped your tongue over the head, quick, just one lick over his slit.

You looked up at him and you smiled. He looked so pretty like this, flushed and desperate, trembling in the dim light, fingers playing with his nipples.

You wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, his soft, short pubes lightly brushing against your skin, and then you took him in. Slow at first, letting your lips wrap around the head, so warm and wet, your tongue swirling gently. His whole body tensed above you, and a short, shaky huff of air escaped from his throat. His fingers continued their tantalisingly slow circles on his nipple, while his other hand gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles bleaching white under the force.

You sank further down, inch by inch, your soft lips stretching around his thick shaft. You relaxed your throat as you continued to work him, your hand stroking what you were unable to fit into your mouth while you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper.

Above you, he was silent, save for the occasional long, ragged breath and the softest, most broken sounds that escaped his throat when your wet tongue dragged just right against that sensitive ridge tucked just beneath the head. His shirt had ridden up a little, exposing his belly button, and you could see his stomach trembling with the effort of staying quiet, of staying still, of not rutting up into your mouth.

The way his cock tasted, warm and salty on your tongue, leaking and dripping against the insides of your cheeks. The way it felt, hot and heavy in your mouth, pulsing and throbbing. You could feel his whole body straining to hold back, his thighs taut beneath your arms, and you wanted to make him lose it. You wanted to make him moan the way he would at home, loud, whiney, unapologetic.

You hummed softly around his length, letting the vibration travel through his veins, and you glanced up at him. His chin was tilted down, watching you intently with his half-lidded eyes, full of desire, disbelief, and desperation.

Your hand drifted down between your thighs without much thought, naturally, like a gravitational pull. Just the softest pressure through the warm, thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimpered softly around his length, pressing your fingers against the damp cotton between your legs.

Alex's eyes fluttered shut once more, tilted his head back as his mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He throbbed inside of your mouth, twitching against your tongue in frantic little spasms, and he let out the tiniest sound, cracked and broken, but unmistakably his.

He was so close. You could feel it, see it, taste it. He was right on the edge, ready to topple over.

You took him deeper, relaxing your jaw as he filled your mouth completely, and your fingers moved more insistently against your clit, pressure and heat building behind your navel with every pulse of him on your tongue and every broken moan that tumbled from his lips.

His eyes were dazed, his vision darkening at the edges and blurring in the centre as the scorching hot heat simmering low in his belly threatened to spill over. His lower lip quivered as he whispered your name, and with a final swirl of your tongue, your lips tight around him, he broke.

His hips jerked once, not violently, but enough to shove some of his cock deeper as his balls drew up unbearably tight. His fingers frantically flicked against his nipple, his whole face scrunched up with the sheer force of his orgasm as he spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, hot ribbons of cum flooding your mouth with each spurt from his tip.

His body was shaking and trembling as you unravelled him, and you stayed like that, swallowing gently as you felt him slowly soften against your tongue, growing heavier and more pliable.

You carefully pulled away, freeing him from your mouth, and a thin string of saliva connected you both for a second more before it snapped, lingering on your chin.

He looked destroyed, breathless, sweaty, and red-faced. He wasn't quite looking at you, just vaguely staring ahead like he'd forgotten where he was, his hand still hovering on his chest.

You withdrew your hand from between your thighs, and you smiled up at him, still kneeling between his legs. “You okay, baby?” you whispered.

He blinked before he looked down at you, looking disorientated, like he'd just woken up. He hesitated for a moment, processing your words, before he nodded, his cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah.”

You let your hand linger for a moment more before pulling it away, letting his cock grow limp, and you gently rubbed his thigh. “Love you.”

He managed a slight smile through his sweaty, out of breath state, and he murmured, his voice carrying a mildly hoarse edge to it, “Love you too.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

cameras do not exist

#that one meme: i wanna nut in this boy so bad but i don't have a dick 😭#nipple play is so valid i almost fainted while reading THAT part #i need more humbug!al!!!!#roxabellas #fic rec

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bellesaisonn · 11 days ago

Photo

#the little hip thrust I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM #i feel the urge to slutshame him #literalmente ele ta de joelho implorando por pica desse jeito 🥺#sias era #alex

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bellesaisonn · 12 days ago

Text

when we're side by side

early morning cuddles with (early sias!)alex

contents: smut, fluff, early sias!alex, cuddling & tickling, oral sex (f receiving), handjobs, cockwarming, p in v (unprotected), creampie

word count: 6k

New York in February has a way of pressing in on you. The air is dry and heavy, the kind that cracks your lips and seeps through windows no matter how tightly they’re shut. Snow turns to slush, and slush turns to grime, and you learn to move through it all without looking down. Everything feels a little colder, a little slower, like the city itself is in hibernation.

But five floors up, in a pre-war apartment with hissing radiators and windows that rattle in the wind, it’s warm. Quiet in that way things get when they’ve been waiting a while.

Five weeks apart doesn’t feel like much, but airports and time zones stretch it out, make everything seem further away than it should. There were late-night calls. Scrambled mornings. His voice on the line, half a world away, saying "Wish I was there."

You couldn’t go with him. Not this time. Work had you locked in place, deadlines stacked like bricks, meetings that kept getting rescheduled but never canceled, and the pressure of being good at what you do. You wanted to be there but your life here didn’t pause just because he was gone. And he never made you feel guilty about it. Never asked you to choose. Alex had always been the one reminding you that your career mattered, that you were building something real and solid.

But even then, even in his constant support, you could hear it sometimes. In the way his voice dipped when you said, "I can’t get away right now." In the pause before he said, "I get it." Like he did get it, but that didn’t make it easier. Like part of him was still wishing for something simpler. For closeness that didn’t have to be scheduled around flight times and calendar invites.

You'd counted down the days without meaning to. Tried not to miss him too much, tried not to make a big deal out of it. But still, when he showed up at your door, tired and rumpled and carrying the same old leather jacket, your chest had gone quiet in that very specific way. The kind that only happens when something that's been out of place clicks back in.

Alex flew in last night. Straight from five weeks in Los Angeles, where the sun never really set and the days blurred into studio sessions and notebooks full of crossed-out lines and coffee stains. He looked wrecked when he showed up at your door. His hair a mess, jumper stretched at the collar, a smudge of ink on his hand.

He hasn’t said much about the album. Just that it’s done. Just that he’s glad to be out of LA.

And now, it's morning. Or close enough. Neither of you has looked at the clock. The suitcase is barely touched, still by the door. You’ve spent most of your time under the covers, talking when you feel like it, not talking when you don’t.

The sun’s barely pushing through the curtains when Alex wakes up. His right arm is pinned under you, the other draped over your waist. Somehow, even in sleep, you stayed close.

He watches you for a moment. One of his old t-shirts hangs loose on your frame and the underwear you grabbed from the clean laundry pile still carries the scent of lavender soap. Your breath is steady, lips slightly parted, your hair spilling messily over the pillow.

He brushes a bit of hair from your face, careful not to wake you, not yet. His fingers trail down, tracing the curve of your jaw, then pause at the corner of your mouth. He missed this. The softness of your face first thing in the morning, the weight of your leg draped over his.

Quietly, he leans down, pressing a barely-there kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Your nose. A line of soft, sleepy affection.

You start to stir.

"Al…"

"Mornin’, love," his voice is thick, still rough from sleep, softened by a grin.

"Mmm. S’too early," you mumble, eyes still shut.

"You don’t even know what time it is."

"I feel it," you groan, pulling the blanket up to hide from the soft light sneaking in through the curtains.

Lowly chuckling to himself, he pulls the cover off your face. He tugs you closer, bringing you to his chest, wrapping his arm around your waist. His lips press a soft kiss to your temple, lingering just for a moment before he rests his cheek against your hair.

You melt into him, your body softening as his warmth surrounds you. His arm tightens around your waist, his fingers tracing gentle circles on your skin.

You shift, drawing your legs up, letting them tangle more with his, feeling the comforting heat of his body pressed against yours. A soft sigh escapes you, content and peaceful, at ease in his embrace.

"I missed you so much," he says, voice low, almost muffled.

You smile, eyes still closed. "You’ve only said that, like, six hundred times."

"Mean it every time."

You brush your fingers along the line of his ribs.

"Wanna know how much I missed you?" he asks.

"Tell me."

He hesitates like he’s waiting for the punchline to land.

"You noticed your perfume’s missin’?"

You pull back just slightly to look at him. And the moment he says it, it clicks — the little pink bottle. Your favorite. You’d turned the apartment upside down looking for it.

"No. You didn’t."

"I did. Took it to L.A. with me," he smiles, the lazy kind, all proud of himself.

"You stole my perfume."

He shrugs, eyes bright. "It’s not stealin’ if I’m givin’ it back, is it?"

You laugh, head dropping back onto his shoulder.

"I sprayed it on my sheets," he says. "On my jumpers. Even sprayed it on me before goin’ to the studio. Smelled girly. But I dunno. Made me feel closer to you."

You’re laughing now, properly. That kind of breathless, soft laugh that only happens when you’re stupidly happy.

You lean into him, your voice softer now. "You’re such a sap."

He hums. "Remember that day we watched The Good, the Bad and the Ugly three times in a row?"

"Of course I do. You kept quoting Clint Eastwood for a week after."

He grins. "Well, I kept watchin’ them in L.A. Leone. Peckinpah. That one with the harmonica and the train."

"Once Upon a Time in the West."

"Yeah. That one. They felt different without you."

You rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him. "You went full cowboy while you were gone, huh?"

He gives a half-smile. "Maybe. But it didn’t feel right watching them alone. You were supposed to be there, curled up next to me, making fun of their mustaches."

"Terrible, terrible mustaches.”

"Exactly. No one to share that with. Just me, smelling like your perfume and talking to the TV."

You chuckle, "I still can't believe it was you. I thought someone stole it for real."

"What, broke into the apartment just to take your perfume?"

"It’s a really good perfume."

"Fair enough."

You nudge his leg with yours. "You missed me so much you walked around L.A. smelling like me."

"Course I did," he says. "You think I could survive five weeks without you completely?"

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. "No. You’re helpless without me."

Alex exhales a quiet laugh, like he knows you’re right. "Yeah. I am."

There’s a beat. His thumb is moving slow circles over your hip again.

"Are you helpless without me?" he asks, quieter now.

You smirk against his chest, but your voice stays steady. "I manage."

"Oh, you manage, do you?" he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice before you see it. "That’s how it is?"

You tilt your head up. "Exactly how it is."

He looks down at you, amused. “So while I was walking round smelling like you, homesick every night, you were here just... managing?”

You shrug, pretending to think. "Well. I did miss you. A bit."

"A bit," he repeats, like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week.

He leans in, presses a kiss just behind your ear, and mumbles, "You’re full of it."

"And you love it."

He doesn't answer, and for a moment, you think maybe he's just letting it go. Then, in one smooth movement, he flips you onto your back, his body pinning you down beneath him.

Your breath catches in surprise, but before you can even think of protesting, his fingers are at your sides, merciless.

"Alex—no!" you gasp, trying to squirm, but his grip is too steady, his hands too sure.

He digs in, his fingers lightly brushing over your ribs, quick and relentless. The moment your laugh escapes, it's a full-blown squeal.

"Say you missed me more," he grins, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I didn't!" you laugh through the tickling, wriggling beneath him as you struggle to get free.

"You're lying."

His fingers slip under your shirt, pressing lightly against your stomach, and you can't help the burst of laughter that escapes.

"Come on. Just say it. You know you missed me," he presses, a playful edge to his voice.

"No! I won't," you choke out, laughing so hard it hurts. "Stop! You're evil!"

"Oh, I'm evil now, am I?" He laughs, but there's a softness in it, too, a kind of warmth that only comes with being too comfortable around someone. His fingers are still dancing against your skin, and you're still trying to catch your breath.

Finally, you give in, gasping between laughs, "Fine! Fine, I missed you! I missed you so much, alright?"

He stops, hands hovering above your ribs, giving you a moment to recover. You're breathless, a smile pulling at your lips even as you glare up at him. He looks down at you, face flushed from laughing, his breath still uneven.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" he says, smug and pleased with himself, his accent cutting through the teasing.

"You're impossible," you mutter, still catching your breath.

He leans in, presses a lingering kiss to your lips, a quick, gentle thing that lingers just a bit too long for it to be just playful.

When he pulls back, his grin is wide, that satisfied, content look in his eyes that makes you feel like he's won, even if it's a small victory. You push at his chest, but it's weak—more for show than anything.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as his lips find your neck, tracing slow kisses across your skin like he's discovering it for the first time. His hands roam upward, tugging your shirt higher to uncover more of you, leaving a trail of warmth in his wake.

"Hey– no tickling," you murmur, half-laughing.

"No tickling," he promises with a smirk, pressing a tender kiss just below your belly button, his lips teasing the edge of your panties. "Gonna show you how much I missed you."

Truth is he already had. Twice in the last twelve hours.

First, it came in the form of messy, fast-paced, no-time-to-think kind of sex. The kind that happens when five weeks of wanting crash headfirst into the present. You were half-laughing, half-gasping as you fumbled toward the bed, knocking into walls and tugging at clothes, hands everywhere at once. It wasn’t about finesse; it was about release.

Afterward, he barely lasted ten minutes before passing out, head heavy on your stomach, one arm flung across your hips, breath evening out into soft, rhythmic snoring.

He woke up with your name on his lips, kissing the inside of your thigh. The second time was marked by quiet I love yous, soft I missed yous, and the unspoken language of two people finding their way back into each other.

But now, in the present, Alex looks up at you with hungry eyes, his breath warm against your skin as he catches the waistband of your panties between his teeth.

He gives the fabric a tug, a glint in his eye that says he's not asking. You raise your hips, making it easy for him, and he slides them off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking.

Now it's just you. Bare, open, and stretched out beneath his gaze.

He pauses, eyes trailing slowly over you, and lets out a low breath through a crooked smile.

"I'm never gettin' tired of this, y'know?"

You run your fingers through his hair, a smile tugging at your lips. "Good. I expect you to still be giving me head when we're seventy."

He chuckles, kissing your thigh. "Oh, baby, I will."

You smile, tugging gently at his hair. "Stop yapping then. Shoot. Don't talk."

He laughs, nose nuzzling into your thigh. "Aye, Tuco," he says in his best mock-dramatic voice. "But fair warnin'—I'm a damn good sharpshooter."

You don't answer, spreading your legs wide, exposing yourself to him. He bites his lower lip as his eyes drag over you, soaking in every detail.

One hand smooths up the inside of your thigh, fingers grazing so close to where you ache that it makes your breath hitch. He pauses there, eyes flicking up to meet yours again, relishing your every reaction.

He dips lower, mouth brushing your skin in a featherlight path. The kisses start soft, almost innocent, before deepening into something far more intense. When he finally kisses your core, it's with unbearable slowness, just the faintest press of his lips against your folds like he's savoring the first taste.

"God, you're perfect," he murmurs, and you feel his words as much as you hear them.

Then comes the first lick. His tongue drags through your folds with maddening patience, enjoying every drop, every twitch of your body under him.

He presses a kiss to your clit. Then his tongue flattens against it, slow and firm, and he groans against you– because fuck, you're soaked, you're shaking, and you taste like everything he's ever wanted.

Your body jolts, already sensitive from being fucked earlier, and the shock of sensation makes your thighs tremble around him.

"Al," you whimper.

He understands what you want.

Without a word, he slides his hands beneath your thighs, coaxing you to bend them and open yourself wider to him. You oblige, and the new angle has your cunt glistening in the low light.

Alex slides two fingers into you with a practiced ease. You gasp, back arching, and he watches your face for a moment, drinking in your expression.

"Like that, love?" he rasps, eyes dark and dilated.

You don't have time to answer. His mouth is back on you, lips sealing around your clit in a gentle suck that has your vision sparking.

Your head falls back into the pillows, a cry catching in your throat as waves of pleasure surge through you. You fight the urge to clamp your thighs around his head, your body on the verge of giving in completely.

But Alex doesn't mind. He'd stay there between your legs all day if you let him. His mind is a haze, thick with you. The scent of your arousal clings to his skin, fills his lungs, smears wet and warm across his lips. It's intoxicating.

Every desperate sound that escapes your lips goes straight to his cock, already hard and straining beneath the unforgiving fabric of his boxers. It aches with a dull, pulsing need, every beat in time with the flutter of your walls around his fingers, the flick of his tongue against your clit. He grinds his hips down into the mattress chasing friction.

A low groan escapes his chest, and he pulls his fingers out just long enough to spread your folds apart with his thumb. His gaze flickers down, watching the way you tremble under him. His tongue dips lower, fucking into you with wet, languid strokes before he circles back up to your clit, wet and swollen and begging for attention.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with lust. "Fuckin' shakin' for me."

You can barely reply but the way your body arches into his mouth says everything.

Alex leans in again, lips closing around your clit, and sucks a little firmer this time, just long enough to make your entire body pulse with need. You cry out, the sound desperate, raw, and your thighs start to quiver.

"Shh," he soothes, one hand stroking your hip, the other pressing down gently on your thigh to keep you open for him. "Just let go."

And he knows. He can feel it. His mouth doesn't let up, tongue working faster, lips moving in sync, his name falling from your lips again and again. His jaw aches, his cock is leaking, but none of that matters.

You're teetering on the brink, your body trembling with the effort of holding back.

He growls against you, and it shoves you right to the edge.

Your body breaks apart beneath him, back arching, a cry ripped from your chest as pleasure surges through you. It floods you from the inside out, rolling over every nerve like a crashing tide. You tremble, thighs shaking around his head as your climax pulses through you.

Alex doesn't stop right away. He keeps his mouth on you, easing you down from the high with slow, gentle licks. You twitch with sensitivity, hips jerking, but he only hums low in his throat and presses a kiss to your thigh, then another, then one to the soft skin just above your mound. He lingers there for a moment, breathing you in, grounding himself.

He lifts his head, face flushed, eyes glassy and tender, lips slick with you. He drags the back of his hand across his lips in an attempt to clean himself.

"Hey," he whispers, his voice a low rasp as he crawls up the bed to you, bracing himself on his forearms as he hovers above your spent body. "You alright?"

You nod, dazed, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. "Yeah," you murmur, smiling faintly. "I'm... wow."

He grins softly, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead,"You were so fuckin' good," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Always are."

His body settles beside yours, warm and solid. One hand finds your waist, pulling you close as the other smooths over your thigh, calming the aftershocks still fluttering through your muscles.

You tuck yourself into him, still catching your breath, your head finding the curve of his shoulder. His skin is hot, slightly damp, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your cheek.

You shift slightly, your thigh brushing against the hard press of him through his boxers. He's still aching. Still hard. And though he hasn't said a word, you feel it in the way his breath catches, the subtle tension in his muscles.

You lift your head and look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes heavy, and they meet yours with a heat that simmers just beneath the surface. His lips are swollen, kiss-bitten and parted slightly as if he's still catching his breath. His hair is a beautiful mess, tousled and damp, strands sticking to his forehead where your hands had pulled at him earlier.

"Al," you whisper, "you're hard."

"I know," he breathes, voice wrecked, "It's okay. I don't need anything. Just wanna take care of you."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "But I want to make you feel good too."

He looks down at you, searching your face. "I've kept you up all night. I know you've been working a lot lately, you must be tired."

"I'm not," you say quickly, eyes wide, honest. You press another kiss to his chest, then let your mouth trail higher, up his collarbone, to the warm curve of his neck. "I swear. I want this."

He cups your jaw, fingers gentle but firm, and pulls you into a kiss. This one is slower, deeper, soaked with something heavier than need. You can taste yourself on his lips, the sharp edge mixing with the familiar heat of his mouth. It makes you dizzy. You press closer, letting the kiss grow urgent, messy. His hands slide into your hair, holding you there, his breath stuttering each time your lips part and find each other again.

Your hand moves down between you, fingers grazing the line of his stomach. His muscles twitch beneath your touch, tightening as you trail lower. You push beneath the waistband of his boxers, your knuckles brushing the coarse hair at the base of him before wrapping your hand around his cock.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, the skin silky-smooth over the hard length of him. He jerks slightly when you touch him, hips lifting from the bed in a reflex he can't control. A broken moan tears from his throat, raw and immediate.

"Fuck," he gasps, his head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.

You shift again, propping yourself up so you can kiss his neck, your lips dragging slowly along the curve of it. His skin tastes like sweat and heat, and you leave open, sloppy kisses there, letting your teeth scrape gently across the sensitive spot beneath his jaw.

Your hand strokes him steadily, your grip firm but familiar. You know exactly how he likes it. You twist your wrist at the top, thumb brushing over the head, spreading the precum that's already beading there. The slick sound of it fills the space between his breathless gasps.

He grips the sheets beside him, his knuckles white, and bucks into your hand again, chasing every motion like he's desperate for more. His mouth is open, his breathing ragged, every sound that escapes him winding tight in your belly.

You drag your tongue along his throat, feel the vibration of the moan he swallows, and press a kiss just below his ear as you whisper, "You look so good like this."

His response is a shudder, his whole body tightening beneath you, as if your voice alone undoes him.

You pull back for a moment, letting your hand take over, stroking him slow and steady as you look up at him. His head is tipped back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling fast now, flushed down to the collarbones. He's falling apart, piece by piece, and you're the only one who gets to see it like this. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as his hips give the smallest, involuntary push into your touch.

"You gotta stop," he murmurs, the words strained and hoarse. "If you don't stop, l'm gonna cum."

"Not yet," you whisper. "Wanna feel you inside me."

His gaze drops to you, dark and glassy, pupils blown so wide there's hardly any color left. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, chest heaving like he's trying to pull himself back from the edge just long enough to make it to you. "Yeah?" he breathes, the sound barely there.

"Yeah," you stare back at him.

He leans back against the headboard, spreading his legs slightly as his hands guide you towards him.

"Right then, love," he says quietly. "C'mere. Let me feel you."

You crawl into his lap, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips, the warmth of his body already pulling you in. Your skin is still tingling, your core still sensitive and slick from the climax he coaxed from you.

You reach down between you to tug at the waistband of his boxers, and he helps you, lifting his hips just enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed. You wrap your fingers around it again, guiding him to your entrance with practiced familiarity.

"Wait," he says, voice suddenly low, almost hoarse. "Let me grab a condom."

You hesitate, just for a second. Up to this point, you've only gone without protection a handful of times. Even then, you always asked him to pull out, the fear of getting pregnant curling like a knot in your stomach. It was always there, that boundary you both understood.

But right now, that distance feels unbearable.

You missed him. Missed him so much it aches under your skin, makes your lungs tight, your chest hollow. You want all of him. Every inch, every drop, every part of him pressed deep and nothing separating you.

You smile, soft and a little sheepish, but your voice is steady.

"No," you whisper. "I want to feel all of you this time."

His eyes search yours for a beat, something dark flickering behind them. Then his hands tighten, and the look he gives you in that moment is pure, undone devotion.

"Are you sure?" he asks quietly. There's heat in his voice, but gentleness, too. That careful way he always gives you space to change your mind, even when he's shaking with want.

You nod, your slickness coating him as you grind slowly along the length of him, not taking him in yet, just sliding over him, letting him feel every bit of how ready you are. He groans again, louder this time, the sound scraping raw out of his throat.

"Fuck, love," he says, voice shaking. "Don't tease."

You lean down, mouth ghosting over his. "You said you didn't need anything."

"I lied," he gasps, his hands coming up to grip your hips, fingers digging in like he's barely holding back.

His cock is trapped between your bodies now, hot and rigid, the pulse of him matching your own. You shift your hips, just a little, just enough, and the head of him catches right at your entrance.

His chest rises and falls beneath your hands, and you can feel the tremble running through him, that edge of control fraying as you stay poised right there, the tip of him resting against your entrance, your bodies barely connected but already unraveling.

Alex reaches between you, guiding himself gently, breath caught in his throat as he slides in. It's slow. He fills you completely. The stretch is deep, almost overwhelming, your walls fluttering in response to the intrusion. You let out a soft, helpless whimper.

"Too much?" he asks gently, brushing his nose against yours.

You shake your head, threading your fingers into his damp hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. "No," you whisper, though your body trembles slightly. "Just... full."

He hums, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as if just being inside you settles something restless in him. His lips graze yours. A kiss, soft as a sigh. Then another. Then deeper.

"That's my girl," he breathes, shifting his hips just slightly. Just enough.

You gasp, the subtle motion dragging a delicious friction through your core. His cock twitches inside you, and you feel every pulse, every heartbeat, every throb of want pressing deep into where you're already stretched around him.

"Always take me so well," he murmurs. His half-lidded eyes roam your face, filled with lust and something deeper. "I love your pussy," he adds with a crooked grin, rough affection in his tone.

You smirk, teasing, "How romantic." But the way he's looking at you makes a heat coil low in your stomach.

Alex chuckles, a soft, throaty sound. "I'm serious. Fits so well. Made for me."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you taste yourself on his tongue again. It's raw and intimate, and you meet him with equal hunger. One hand strokes along his jaw, the other rests over his heart, feeling it beat strong and steady beneath your palm.

His head falls back slightly as he gasps, breath stuttering. "Please move," he chokes out, his voice barely holding together.

And you do. You start slowly, rocking against him with long, unhurried strokes. He meets you there, rhythm syncing with yours. His hands map the lines of your back, then one slides up to cradle your jaw again. The other tangles in your hair, anchoring you as he presses kisses to your throat, your collarbone. He can't seem to get close enough.

Your forehead leans against his, breath mingling in the scant space between your mouths. His nose brushes yours with each thrust, eyes fluttering open just long enough to find you, to hold your gaze as you move together.

"Can feel you everywhere," you whisper into his mouth, your voice thick with it, with the way he fills you completely, with how right it feels.

"Yeah?" he groans, thrusting up slow and deep. "This what you wanted?"

You nod, teeth sinking gently into your bottom lip as you ride him harder now, your thighs burning, his cock dragging against everything that makes you gasp and shake.

His fingers dig into your skin with each roll of your hips, urging you to take him deeper, to stay right there. The tension in his arms is palpable, a silent plea written in the way his thumbs press into your hipbones like he's afraid you might disappear.

"Wanna fuck you for the rest of my life," he says, voice low and cracked open, like the words come from somewhere deeper than just lust. They pour out of him, unfiltered, aching with truth. "Wanna wake up like this every morning. You on top of me. You wrapped around me. Nothing in between."

Your breath catches. The rhythm of your hips falters for a beat, the weight of what he's saying sinking into your chest. But his hands pull you right back into motion, slow and steady.

One hand slides up your spine, cradling the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss. It's messy, hungry, your tongues sliding together, teeth clashing slightly. He's moaning into your mouth now, trembling beneath you, every muscle taut.

The bed shifts with every motion, the rhythm growing more frantic, more desperate. You chase the build rising between you, that tightening coil low in your belly. His lips find yours again, messy and urgent, and you lose yourself there, in the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the thick, perfect stretch of him inside you.

You can feel how close he is, the tension growing in his body, the way his breathing shortens and his grip tightens. You curl your hips just right, clenching around him, and he groans deep in his throat.

"I'm close," he gasps, the words broken and barely more than a breath, his voice cracking as he presses his forehead to yours. His whole body trembles beneath your hands.

"Please, come inside me," you manage between gasps, your voice strained.

He groans, long and guttural, as though the request physically hits him.

"God—" Alex's voice is wrecked, shredded by the heat crawling up his spine. He's too far gone now, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack, every muscle in his body pulled tight with the effort of holding back.

You lean in close, lips brushing his ear, voice dropped low and hungry. "I want your cum," you whisper, each word dripping with heat, with knowing. "Fill me up, Al. Give it to me."

That's all it takes.

Alex breaks with a ragged cry, hips slamming into you once, twice more as he comes hard, spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves. His entire body arches beneath you, every muscle locking as he pours himself into you, lost to it. You feel him twitch deep inside you, feel the heat of it flood you, and it sends your own climax crashing through you in a sharp, helpless rush.

You cry out his name as you clench around him, shaking with it, the two of you unraveling together in a mess of gasps and moans and tangled limbs. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you down, crushing you to him as though he needs you pressed close just to survive the aftershocks.

You hold him through it, forehead to forehead, breathing together like your lungs were made to match. His hips twitch a few more times, riding out the aftershocks, and then he slumps back against the headboard, taking you with him.

Minutes pass in the hush, but neither of you moves. His arms remain around you, secure and unmoving, holding you there like the world outside the bed doesn't exist. Skin sticks where sweat has dried, hearts still thudding out a slower rhythm now, but still in time. His thumb traces lazy circles against the curve of your spine, not for any purpose other than to remind himself you're real. Still here. Still his.

His lips brush lightly against your hair. "I don't want to pull out yet," he murmurs into your scalp. "I just want to stay here. With you. Feels... too good."

The idea of staying like this, wrapped up in the quiet cocoon of him, makes your heart swell. No words need to be said, because everything that matters is here, in the way his body fits with yours, in the way you can feel him move just the slightest bit, still buried deep inside.

"Tell me," he whispers, voice thick and raw. "What're you feeling right now?"

No teasing. No smirk. Just an open, aching need to understand what's happening inside you. He leans back just far enough to look at your face, his eyes dark and wide, scanning you like the answer is already there, written in the softness of your mouth or the flush on your cheeks.

Fingers trace a line up his spine as you take a breath, trying to name the sensations unraveling through you.

"Warm," you start, the word catching in your throat. "And full... you're all over me. Inside me." A slow inhale follows. "I can feel it all."

He exhales through his nose, shaky, eyes closing like he's overwhelmed by the idea of it. One hand slides up your back, beneath the fabric of your shirt, palm spreading between your shoulder blades.

His forehead rests against yours again, and he sighs, deep and full of need.

"You're too warm, y'know that? Too soft. I could stay buried in you all day."

You hum, stroking your fingers through his messy hair again. "Then do it."

"I am." He kisses the tip of your nose. "I'm not going anywhere."

The words settle into you, and you hum approvingly, content in his arms.

"In fact," he continues, his voice dropping lower, more possessive, "I'll take you with me on tour. Don't care where we go. I want you backstage every night, just waiting, all ready for me."

You snort softly. "What, I'm your groupie now?"

"Aren't you already?" he grins.

"Fuck off," you say with mock annoyance, but your smirk gives you away.

He laughs, then leans close again, his breath hot at your ear. "Gonna fuck you in every country. Every city. Would you like that, baby?"

You nuzzle against his cheek, pressing your nose to his skin, a soft sound of agreement escaping you. The idea of being his, in every corner of the world, stirs something deep inside. You shiver, the possessiveness in his tone sinking into you. Your hips shift, just a little, craving more.

His breath hitches, and his cock moves inside you, the soft grind of him making your eyes flutter. He growls, low and warning, "Careful, love. You keep that up, and I won't be able to stop."

"Sorry, I'll behave," you whisper playfully, content in keeping him close just like this.

So you don't move. Neither does he. It's not about friction right now, it's about presence. The way he fills you completely, the way your bodies are molded together so tightly that you can't tell where you end and he begins.

Outside, the sky has softened from inky black to gray-blue. Pale golden light spills into the room, touching the edges of the bed, brushing against your skin. The warmth between your bodies feels richer by contrast like you've built your own small world in the cradle of morning.

His fingers trace the edge of your collarbone, lightly, as though savoring the feel of your skin beneath his touch. "We should get up soon," he murmurs, but there's no rush in his voice, no impatience. "I'll make coffee. We'll go slow today."

"Sounds perfect," you whisper, shifting slightly so you can press a kiss to his neck.

A soft sigh escapes Alex's lips, and without a word, you feel it settle in your chest. He’s here now. Everything will be alright.

a/n: dear followers, today i offer you another fic with oral sex (f receiving) and cockwarming. tomorrow? who knows

been working on this since april and it just never felt right until now… finally feels like what i wanted. very boyfriend-coded. hope you liked it <3

ps: all the western stuff came from google and alex interviews. i've only watched one single western in my whole entire life so if it makes no sense… yeah same

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