darbonime

[darbonime]

this. is. perfect.

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.

[darbonime]

so i was doing my usual walk to a tube when portion approaching started playing in my earphones and i understood that these lyrics

“If I could be someone else for a week”

“I’d spend it chasing after you”

are so alex from rien que noux deux’

[darbonime]

that was delicious! nom nom. boyfriend alex for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

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

[darbonime]

writing really slow…

[darbonime]

[darbonime]

[darbonime]

best ideas always come to me when i’m boiling in a bath or on edge of falling asleep at four am

[darbonime]

rien que noux deux’

contains: affair, age gap, smut, very slight angst and everything else. he's a bit rough and depressed. and freaky.

word count: 9k.

Alex regrets about coming to Paris – it’s one of the usual visits to the woman he’s with. He doesn’t exactly regret about the city but about the company that insistently goes together with it. Evening ended sorely. Well, of course, holding back his usual snarl he ended up spilling it, not being able to wait an hour until both of them went to bed. He couldn’t care less that a spot in her bed his body doesn’t warm now.

Night flows of the wind, play underneath his slightly unbuttoned disheveled shirt. It could be warm, but the wind insists on accompanying him. His boots with echo clink bluntly at paving stones. Alex doesn’t really look in front of him or gets mesmerized with architecture – the Paris allure is attractive to him and yet it got dull with years of forced relationships or too familiar, actually not so exotically special views. Probably both. London was no better like a jammed record but jammed on his favorite part. A lovely pair of French passes him at this late hour – he pecked out a few words only, not learning the French to the “parfait” level of speaking nor understanding after all these years of attempts, that he forced himself to do. Now it makes even less sense than it was in the beginning, when he finally realizes his previous shallowness and the disappointing reality of a rut he is in. Made a bed lie in it, they say. He could use a cigarette right now, but only a key from her apartment jingles in the pocket of his trousers. There’s a lonesome no-one on the streets and he gets a feeling of being possible on the most stupid thing ever, whatever it is.

Brushing his hair away from the forehead. He stops to look around. A drop of water falls onto his cheek making him look up as if he could find where’s it was from. Alex assumes it’s going to rain, clouds look baleful, he sighs. Some man leaves a building – it’s a church – the man is old and slowly makes his way down the street opposite from him. The sight strangely tingles in the chest. Alex looks at the facade. “Saint Antoine” is right above the arc of the doors. Trees hum with a rustle of the leaves, and few buildings away he could almost hear the Seine sings along with the current moment of solitude to the Paris, enjoying the quietness that gifts the night, while tourists are sleeping. He steps and leans on the massive door of a church to open it. Some places call for him and he follows willingly.

Architectural glory makes the breath catch in his throat – with powerful walls of God place around him Alex feels like a child, small and timid, unimportant. Stained glass windows, sprinkle with abundance of colors – figures on them give a shiver on the spine and strangely he feels watched. An organ that towers over him as a threatening animal. The building is empty, deafeningly silent in comparison to the streets that never have a rest. A dim light envelops the atmosphere. He wants to see the place in the morning, during the day. How is it? Alex doesn’t think he ever saw that place or even so gave a drop of attention to it.

Leaving was pointless. She probably fell asleep and if not, Alex prefers not to go back. His steps careful – not to bother anyone, but there a woman only and an usher, he places himself down on a bench, it characteristically creaked, making him wince initially. The fatigue suddenly feels like he has weight on his shoulders. He glances at you, that appears to be a young girl, he wouldn’t give you more than twenty years old. Your eyes closed, and you don’t even seem to acknowledge him – just a bench separates him and you. Alex thinks it’s a rare sight for young people visit church nowadays, but he doesn’t exactly believe in God. The thought visited him once in a while – God existence – in what people believe and in what believes he. Giving away the soul to God feels like coming to terms, he thinks, as if letting go, closing eyes and go only with religion and faith in charge of you. There’s still time for him to find himself trusting God. After all you open your eyes, piercing them exactly in him, Alex for a second catches himself thinking that she heard his thoughts. The habit of staring again, isn’t it? Awkwardness washes over him.

“Pardon me…” he mumbles out in English not really thinking in the moment.

“You aren’t the believer.”

Straight to the point. He can’t help but slightly raise his brows.

“Oh? Aye, I don’t.” He chuckles.

“And English.”

His mouth opens to give the answer, but you clearly don’t need it.

“I’m not a French too. To my unfortunate, probably, French has a charm to them,” you trail off waving with a hand at him, “I ramble. Don’t listen to me.” Your gaze faces a central strained glass window of the church.

Alex raises his brow. What a strange persona.

“Do churches calm you?” You turn your eyes on him again. Slumped shoulders in a crumpled costume, he feels out of place here, as if he is out of place completely everywhere, but strangely you want to ask him more. An exhaustion under his eyes urges you to talk him out.

Alex stumbles over the words, never he was the one who sits in churches to experience the windless mood, “I… Well, no. Honestly, no.”

You slowly nod.

“I jus’ walked and…”

“It’s right. Was the same with me for the first time.” You nod once again. The dark sundress with flowers looks on you especially innocent that doesn’t go with a collected voice.

Both of you fall silent.

The settled earlier numbness of tiredness in his bones dissolved as curiosity appeared. His heart beats with nervousness and hope for anything but just for more. This is interesting. It’s entertaining.

“My family. They are loud,” you sigh, smiling with twinkling love in the eyes when you mention your family, “very annoying. But here. Here, it is so quiet. Heaven on Earth.” Your sincere tone doesn’t let his eyes leave your face, the eyelashes in the dim light and a curve of the nose. Your hand is on your small cheap-looking leather purse, he notices, but you cling to it as if to something insanely worth cherishing.

Alex couldn’t say the same. He felt eerie when he just walked in, now though with you it feels different. Not that threatening as if you are the mysterious light in the darkness, unknown but safe.

“Is it the same in the daylight?” He tries to let the talk flow.

“Still peaceful.”

Alex thoughtfully nods.

The usher calls out for them, saying that church is closing. You walk in front of him, letting his eyes follow the hem of your dress waving around your thighs. The talk, the moment – they were fleeting, and yet Alex now leaves with a sense of completeness. Talking to strangers always feels a bit special in a way. He wants you to stay in his mind for a longer time after he leaves.

The night air makes him squint at first, freshness fills lungs. Rain didn’t start after all. And still, he couldn’t find the same tranquility as you in that church. Your words urge for him to give the place another chance, though – something in them or you charmed him to the foolishness - Alex wants to believe he can see it differently. You don’t rush to leave or say goodbye, you seem to let him take the first breaths as if after being reborn and then only talk.

“Would you like to have a cup of coffee?” Your arms tighten around your own frame, wind cradles you in a bad, violent way. Alex stops himself from taking off the jacket immediately – the gentleman nature speaks volumes in his head.

“Sure.” He doesn’t hesitate, it was said out loud impetuously.

“A cig?” You fish out a pack of Philip Morris.

“A cig.” He pulls out a thin cigarette out of the pack that you nicely proposed to him, he raises his brow slightly. Very lady like. That’s what he says.

“Very lady like,” he jokes with an awkward grin, “I mean… thin cigarettes.” Alex reaches for the pocket of trousers and remembers not having the usual set of things with him. “No lighter with me, love. S’rry.”

You smile, and courteously light his cig first, examining closely his stubble and dry lips that hug the cigarette tightly. The cute petite mole under his lower lip. Then you light yours one. A simple share yet feels so lived in as if it’s not the first smoke both of you, share. May be one of the instances when people hit it off, but the point not in the interests or hobbies but same place of the mind, when it’s just comfortable without any fizzy meanings.

A relieving drag of the cigarette fills his body. That one strikes just a tad better than others. Alex glanced at you as if just accidentally. Your kind of move and sway back and forth to scare away the cold, but the shiver you have is clear.

“Are ya cold? I could, y’know…” He points to his jacket.

“No, I’m good!” You chuckle, but teeth give a bit of chatter.

Your independence humors him. Alex smiles with a nod, “Bet you are.”

Of course, you aren’t cold. He believes for sure, and yet he takes off his jacket, leaning closer to you he catches a few notes of your smell mixed with perfume as his hand, securely with too much care that can have an unknown man, places his jacket on your shoulders. Alex would like to get to know it more. His smell intrudes into your nose too, and you without a doubt want to sense it just a second longer, but he pulls away, to your unfortunate.

A café is the last place where he should be now, especially not with girl much younger than him if presumably his woman waits him at home. Everything got out of hand at the moment when he started to speak with you in the first place. Alex could imagine you being a nymph with how easily you made him behave unusually to himself. Alex likes you – likes you in a way of liking passing strangers that he meets eyes with, in a crowded train car. Just a glance but he gets interested. He rumbles with strangers in pubs but never it had the same tricky tension of the minefield that could blow him with thousands of emotions like with you. Oh, he waits for the situation to escalate. Alex feels vague but at the same time the future seems to be clear as his actions.

You sip your coffee, still in his costume jacket – it doesn’t suit your sundress, absolutely ridiculous but cute in way. You ordered a cappuccino, no sugar and he ordered himself an espresso, no sugar as well. The coffee foam clings to your lips, before you lick it away, the gesture oddly makes him regret ordering just a black coffee. Having a coffee foam to lick you could stare at his lips too. None of you are saying anything, you don’t seem to want to fill the silence neither does he. For his own pleasure he has no desire to rush to prevent this comfortable quietness. Rare people pass the storefront of the café glancing at you and him and other people that found haven in this island with soaked in smell of coffee and pastries. Not just that – he can feel your perfume also. Importunate, deep and sugary notes. The scent trifles with his mind and his olfactory, it embraces him. A glass of whiskey turned into syrup – your sundress is misleading. Minutes run fast, Alex lost the track of time, but it barely bothers him – it’s one of the situations when time is out of his concerns.

“So...” you begin.

Adjusting his frame in the chair, Alex is ready to listen.

“…You don’t believe in God.”

He gives you a smile, scratches the back of his neck, “Not really.”

“Not really, you say. Does it mean there might a place for God in your heart and soul?”

“I might save a bit of a space for him jus’ in case,” he chuckles with raspiness to it.

Now you give him a smile, “What if it’s her?”

“Then be it.” He shrugs and sips his coffee, feeling how bitter liquid splashes with the warmth down his throat. Alex doesn’t mind it, he believes that whatever religion it is, it shapes with a tinge of difference for every person – the spine is one, but traits are different. He might be mistaken. It appears he makes mistakes quite frequently. And strongly.

You drum your fingers against the flat plastic of the table.

“Where are you from?”

“Far away from ‘ere.” He sighs, “Much far away than I’d like.” Alex sorely smiles, with a shake of his head regretting every skeleton that hides in closets of his mind, his Sheffield tattoo throbs with mental ache. The High Green he so hard tried to escape during his earlier years now call for him in small daily reminders as smells and sounds, bringing the sense of familiarity for a second tricking him into happiness only to remind him of his miserable state with aftertaste.

Your eyes don’t miss the look on his face.

“Seems like Paris after all doesn’t make happy as everyone want to think,” you joke. Neither does it make you happy. Being attached to the family at an earlier age you ended up in a place that you never supposed to end up in. Coming to terms with whatever it is takes years sometimes, you feel the tightness of cage around you. The responsibilities, the suffocating city, the need to live with whispering want to disappear, the uncertainty, the sudden obscure tears. If a painless death would open arms for you, you without a second thought hug it back tightly. Every second person lives this way, so you don’t complain.

A hint of smile appears on his lips, “Circumstances.” Unpleasantly Alex thinks of things, he so attempted to escape this night cowardly. Maybe he doesn’t deserve a way out, at the end of the day.

You hum. Something in him gives out that he is an often guest here in Paris, not an unwelcome one but the one that always wants to leave as soon as possible. You observe the way his fingertip traces the handle of the cap, then the saucer. His eyes looking down in thoughts – he is a person with the secrets. Wanting to unwrap him like one of those lollipop candies, mull him in the mouth until he melts away, to your unfortunate, the wrapper seems to be hard to rip.

“You never bring stuff with you? No phone, no anything.”

“Accident.” Alex innocently smiles, “Pure accident.”

The look of innocuous control of situation and answer, the look of knowing-all, all of it calls out you to spill your coffee all over him to see reaction that isn’t indifference or prepared face, emotions and politeness. You want to tear into him, ravish, hideously eat and swallow.

You roll your eyes; he raises his brow.

“Strange man.”

“I hear it from time to time.” A sip of coffee. He really does hear it from different mouths occasionally. Every time he explains the simplest common things for him people look at him with wide eyes and, he believes, a hint of nuisance. Alex isn’t a fan of talking about himself, he never knows where the people’s ability to accept ends.

“Are you interested in organ music?” You contemplate his possible answer in your head as you pick up a paper napkin starting to fold it in different ways to entertain yourself.

“I’m into music,” he mumbles following how carefully your fingers move. So delicate.

“Saint Antoine will have an organ music concert the day after tomorrow. I was about to go alone, but if you are interested…” you sheepishly trail off as if leaving him more air for an answer. You never liked to be alone, but got used to it, yet crowds of people still make you feel wrong even just for being in them. Sort of an addiction – to have someone near to function properly.

Alex smiles. The way you call the church by its name indicates as if you are friends with it. Probably more friends with anyone else. Places are much more stable than people, he thinks, probably for the best. The thought of a place that always could be nice for him seems a nice thing to have. Alex doesn’t have one. He would prefer anything but people, and he has a sense that you would do the same. Never would he choose voluntarily to spend all his time with a person beside him. It is sad in a way, but Alex guards his peace, very likely too protectively.

But he gives himself a slip once in a while.

“Sure, why not?”

Alex doesn’t think of the answer just as he wasn’t thinking about coffee question. He lets you lead him wherever you go.

Exchanging the names both of you let go of each other.

Next day, coming back late, he woke up closer to the midday, only to find out the capricious woman with clear intention to torture him with silence that clearly should conjure guilt on him. Alex couldn’t blame her and yet decided to leave it the way it is. He had thoughts to think and dreams to dream. At some point, crypt silence was a bless – Alex had enough of trying for something he barely needs. Well, needs, of course, the breakup would whine somewhere in the back of the heart but soon would change with freedom of the choice where to be and what to say. In general, freedom in everything. Not for long anyway, it’s the want to have someone just in case that locks him in unwished connections. His comfort zone is always to suffer in some kind of way.

His body spreads in the hot water, it creates gentle ripples, and the bathtub cradles him like a crib. Alex feels almost mindless, letting go the thoughts wander away in different directions. She has a disgustingly intrusive habit of walking in the middle of him showering or taking a bath, as if to appear the main character of a chic movie and join him, taking wrongly his annoyance as playfulness. Except, he never really liked it, and confronting became arduous these days. The only one moment when he could be not bothered by people around, and the most important, by himself, often goes to waste. Today, he locked the door, knowing she wouldn’t visit him here anyway, but to cut off the space completely between them.

Relieved, he sighs, every piece of the body dissolves, water washes away any worry that could cling to him. The gloomy day meets him in the window. His legs spread in the bathtub, every move urges water to slightly splash. A towel just beside him, to dry hands and pick up a cigarette again or a book. Alex would play that moment on a loop, wouldn’t leave the bathroom at all, knowing what expected him on another side of the door. He feels complete with a mix of the hot, kind of stinging to pleasure water, grey skies and dim light in the bathroom. Book keeps his head occupied, but rare harmless thoughts sneak in between sentences anyway. Alex is honest now, the book means nothing, a way to pass time not uselessly, but the sense of every word read by him doesn’t hold in mind for too long.

The cigarette smell is probably palpable outside of the room, carries into apartment. He breathes with it, inhales it, closes his eyes, enjoys. He dissolves, melts, close to losing his physical form. Alex grabs his practically weightless cigarette from the ashtray, takes a drag, groans with relief. Not minding everything, the day doesn’t seem too bad. Water slides against his body, in the most intimate way, caresses him with burning gentleness. From the crack of the opened window, he hears bustling French people, blabbering, clicking with their heels and rushing. Cars take most of the sound in his ears, in comparison to quiet night, he could barely accept Paris in the daylight that way. To his own annoyance it bothered him, the silence of yesterday and you, today appears in his mind as a distant dream, not real experience. His wet hand brushed through the dump strands, tugging them. Reality check-out.

The smell of coffee intrudes into his nostrils, he thinks about you, the way you licked away the foam from your plump lips. A delicious sight. Subconsciously his hand reaches for his cock, Alex closes his eyes, the back of his head meets the cold hard surface of the bathtub still holding the cigarette. Curled palm languidly moves up and down, not to bring the release, naturally without the back thought. Without the point. Without the purpose. Just the pleasure and him together. Water laps him, a few droplets escaped to the floor, a gruff hiss escaped his mouth. He mumbles out a quiet curse. The quick ripped memories of his jacket on you, of how your thighs moved under the sundress on the way out of the church are filling him through the veins straight to the brain. Dirty images flicker but don’t raise in him the same longing as the moments when he was observing you. The first thing he will do after coming out of the bathroom is sniff his jacket. Alex wants to feel your perfume.

Tiles are cold against his feet, a towel hangs on his hips. Rooms are lifeless. He searches for the jacket. A mess took over him lately, his desk became a seedling of random papers and rubbish. Alex glanced at this, shook his head. No need for saying “Later”, he won’t do it. He doesn’t want too. What’s the point? Lately, he asks himself that far more often than before, he asks with a glass-is-empty view of that question. None of it has sense or had or will. To find life’s point is the funniest thing he heard from people. That hide and seek game is never going to be won by him or whoever else. Jacket, right. His thoughts scatter irritatingly. Alex feels old. He could pass for seventeen if he just gets a shave and catches some Z’s, but sleep settles in his eyes uncomfortably nowadays. Every night dozing off comes only in hand with complete exhaustion, that feels like slow dying and nausea at the same time. And yet even in that state thoughts cradle in his head violently, every time urging him to get up and write whatever it is down. One time, second time, third time… Until he finally drops fatally head on the pillow not having energy to continue this fight.

He picks up the jacket you wore the previous night. It has the pleasant feeling of not being fully clean already, of being worn but not dirty. His nose presses to the collar of it – a ghost of your perfume, weak but making want for more. Alex buries his face in the fabric, breaths out the smell searching for notes of you. I must look perverted, he thinks. But it is out of his care. Alex likes to be strange and not seen. To be alone. To have something that even the frankest person wouldn’t share with others.

Thankfully, she has plans to meet her friends. Good for her, because Alex is going to meet… who, exactly? An acquaintance, a friend, possibly a mistress? Not a mistress, Jesus, he is too tired, old, for that affair amplua but subconsciously he does exactly that. An affair. He wants you, wants the unexplored, wants to feel a bit of the past, doesn’t he? When he was rocking the life, use you as rejuvenation potion, use you as women use injections for a young look. Alex wants to enjoy. Simply enjoy. Enjoy as in roots of the purest bare sense of that word.

Walking out of the building, that calluses the eye more than other buildings here Alex takes a stroll again. Saint Antoine waits for him, and he hopes you do too. He feels like that night back then; his feet lead him by themselves as if he doesn’t specifically walk to that mysterious church. Mysterious? Yes, he would say so. You aren’t opposite of that definition too. After all, he knows the way he describes all of it – mysterious, unknown – it’s only his bored-out mind that tries to sell him life as one of the TV advertisements. An idea-fix. An idea-fix that will magically cure and, not so strangely, fix everything that asks for the repair.

Alex forgot how nice it is to walk alone by himself. The anxiousness is here, but maybe he just needs practice. He tends to lock away from the information, people, sounds and sunlight. Not facing the world for two days at least brings out the most outrageous fears. Honestly, that’s not what he wanted. There’s a part that rots in him and slowly spreads all over his mind and body. He feels it distinctly. It turns inside of his stomach as a fetus of slow extinction. It’s there but evening feels nice. Alex’s worst enemy is himself, the mirror’s reflection. Except on this day, he won’t let it get ruined by the darkest of his reflections.

He came first, five minutes earlier. People already started to walk inside of the church – with heavy doors opened it looks more inviting than it was before, but a trace of unattractiveness stays in his heart about that place. Naturally, he wonders if you are going to come or not. Perhaps your plans changed as the night changes the day. Alex would honestly be disappointed. Waste of time and emotions, and emotions is the last thing he would want to waste. Those feel much sacred now, the very bits that has left in him he likes to keep on a leash. Just in case they decide to run away.

To his luck you appear, just the same as yesterday. And foolishly, he feels giddy.

Saint Antoine, filled with people oddly intimidates him even more, like all these people, young and old, you and he are here to follow sectarian chants. Alex can’t stop himself from looking around as a curious kid, hearing the irritated huffs of others about him doing so. It’s too much of an unusual atmosphere for him. His glance fleets to you - your eyes boring into facade walls blinking very rarely. He feels as if everyone is trance except him. Out of place. Alex tries to concentrate on the deep menacing sound of organ.

“Half people here truly enjoy music, and half of them try to appear cultural,” you whisper on his ear, awaking every tiny hair on his arms and legs. “When we gonna leave, you see those posh faces that “figured” these things from head to toes and up and down.”

Your face glimmers with mischief that knowing a secret brings. Alex mildly smiles. Not his cultural deepness stopped worrying him about some years ago. That is simply out of his business.

“And who are we then, eh?” He muses what you are going to answer.

“I enjoy the feeling of belonging, that crowd and music, and Saint Antoine, of course, give me.” You pause, “What about you?”

What about me?

The first words that want to leave his mouth are “I don’t know”. Alex could be ostentatiously romantic and say it’s because of you – it would come out incredibly idiotic his young self-like and you would probably laugh, which wouldn’t be that bad. The thing is he doesn’t really want you or the woman that isn’t currently here. With an apathy settling at his roots deeply, disliking and annoyed, he searches for a weird kind of solidarity in you.

“Solidarity.”

You smiled but not with full understanding in your eyes.

And after, none of you had said the word. The answer didn’t say a lot to you, and this kept your mind occupied for a good part of the concert. Meanwhile, Alex stayed satisfied with making a successful impression of a “strange man” as you called him, which covered his ego with honey of strange self-esteem.

Alex invited you to the hotel. It came out naturally without a word that could glimmer with hesitation. That is what was expected. He wouldn’t call you a chatterbox, but no witty remark left your mouth during a stroll to the future bond of solaces. The silence felt uncomfortable this time, palpable, and involuntarily Alex started thinking he had done something wrong. The café silence was much more pleasurable. Maybe he is the one who expected this turn? “Maybes” fill his head frequently as possible, and this one is not an exception. His mind is boiling while outside crisps with pacifying lack of people and bits of chirping cicadas. He afraid of letting some thoughtful “hm” or a deep sigh – it was out of his plans to be that bothered, but Alex knows, the attempts of changing the nature he has, always backfires. Even being all this thing is affair, Alex can’t it be carelessly simple.

Leaving you sitting on one of the couches in the lobby, Alex went to ask for a free room, really hoping he wouldn’t have to take you to another hotel. That appears to him really awkward even though it doesn’t depend on him. You were looking around, hesitating. That isn’t an everyday thing to hang out with a man that is double your age. Considering that he invited you to the hotel, the thought suggested you being a sidepiece. You keep it to yourself. Yet. Ignorance is bliss, right?  

Thankfully there is a free room. Not because he is eager, but you know how it is.

You follow him down the hallway, holding on a strap of your bag – it brings strange comfort to you.

“I ordered us a wine. Hope you drink wine,” he mutters with a reassuring sheepish smile. A common look for him, you noticed. The politest possible, for now you call it “affair”, you could have. Alex stops at the window, his back is slightly bent but still looks amazingly attractive to you, his palms rest on his own sides. He is thoughtful.

“I do…” You sit down on the bed. The blanket is nice against your palm. Velvet.

“Are ya hungry maybe? Didn’t think of…” The last part he mumbles too quietly, under his nose.

“It’s okay. I’m good.” The talk is forced just as your smile.

He looks around as if contemplating is it good enough for you or not. That would be a shame to scare you away. Should he first ask if you want wine? Probably it looks too pushy. Alex rubs the back of his neck, heavily sighs. Out of shape. He shouldn’t have gotten into it.

You look at him, watching the features and wrinkles. This man is incredibly pretty, your eyes could tear up, “You are taken, right?” The words jump out of you like a sparrow, completely subconsciously and unplanned.

Breath stuck in his throat. For a second, he can’t take full inhale at all. The guilt is written on his face. In that moment, you feel to the bones naive. It was obvious from the very beginning.

Alex shortly nods, looking up to ceiling, “Guess, I am.” Heavy exhale leaves his tightly squeezed throat from the inside by the laces of the cursed commitment he started.

Not meaning to hide anything, Alex just decided not to tell. As if it was an illusion of being free for himself in the first place, a perfect image he could carry right to your feet. He believes you are about to walk away. Then he will drink the whole bottle alone and feel the long-forgotten sensation of liquor and drunk warmness in his body.

“I should have told, shouldn’t I?” Again, this sheepish look. And the thing is he doesn’t try to tug some sort of forgiveness from you.

You slowly nod. Even with the secret being revealed, to your probably rotten morality you don’t want to get up and leave. Which would only mean you have no right for women solidarity in the future. If the world revolved only around being appropriate, life could be much easier, but with feelings being involved, the only desire to do the right is barely enough. The truth he said to you, settles down in your chest like some kind of dusty sediment, but disappear without a blink when Alex as if man that came from old times gently grabs your hand to place a kiss on it and after drops on the bed next to you with an arduous sigh.

“I would prefer to have it different way, believe me, darlin’.” His calloused, to your eyes, hand, dry but veiny, brushes through his, you think, soft hair. It looks like one of those silk fabrics you could see in the sewing shops. The ones so beautiful to look at and so nice to touch.

“You can leave if ya want. It’s ‘kay,” This stupid smile again, shy like first rays of sunshine. He looks away to his own feet, “but if ya wanna stay, then…”

You lie your head on his shoulder preferring not to answer. Words are out of your competency.

That gesture is enough for him. Now his perfume is much brighter, something sustainable and strong, something that suits him. And cigarette smell is here. It’s a part of him that sticks to his clothes as it’s stuck in his lungs. You sniff carefully, not wanting to give out yourself, as a wild cat getting used.

He breathes with you synchronously. You feel his mind is empty just like yours. Until the wine being brought into the room. Alex picks up the bottle to fill two crispy glasses. Fingers wrap around the bottle leaving you wishing to be it. You talk, and he does too. None of you touches the touchy topics, because surely neither of you want to discuss it.

The wine was left unfinished.

His palms started lapping your sides shamelessly, like you never imagined he could do due to his humble behavior. It came out nowhere, you were caught off guard honestly. Alex gripped your skin through the thin fabric of that appetizing sundress you wear. Forcing you on the bed, he crawls over you. You coquettishly chuckle, looking away, but he grabs your cheeks. Harshly and undoubtedly, meaning it, a gesture that is hard to describe as a mistake. His eyes lacking the sort of sheep naivety that peeked out of him sometimes. The liquor made him rough, intense and taut like a guitar string. His eyes deep, enveloping and threateningly dark, don’t remind you of him.

“Look at me,” he mutters. Your eyes are filled with doubt, and the room suddenly feels unsafe. The bones under the skin of your face start to moan with ache being clenched by his hand. Your fear makes you grip the blanket until your knuckles white.

Your face is soft, but slightly blurry. Wine always makes his vision blurry. The alcohol has a hold over him that is stronger than a hold over an alcoholic. Alex is afraid of it – the effect it causes, the things he can say, the things he might do. It’s a poison of omnipotence. The one that gave him powers years ago, the one that showed how miserable he is without it. One glass becomes the second, the second becomes the third, until all the liquor starts turning in his stomach moved by his own disgust to himself. It’s the race he wants to win. The race that gives a prize, which is rare to behold, and hard to acquire. The confidence. The unfair prize, he never won and will never win.

Alex eases his hold; his eyes follow the way a light trace of his grip appears on your cheeks. Red and invoking. Your eyes wide with feeling of not being in control.

“Open your mouth.” He sees that you are hesitating, scared away by his behavior, “Open mouth, love. I won’t do ya any harm.” His voice softened, and you can’t help but listen. Isn’t it a bit manipulative?

You follow his command when his palm lets you open your plump lips. Alex looks at your wet tongue, the way it faintly moves, the row of your teeth.

“Mhm…” His finger slips into your mouth, purposefully, and rubbing against the texture of your pink tongue, “And the second.” He sounds serious to the point where you are afraid to place the word in. Not like you can anyway. You suck on his fingers, looking at him as if you are programmed to do it. Alex watches without blinking, stares.

When he makes you get on your fours, you finally break the radio silence. The bedding bends under your weight, especially around your hands and knees. The sight of it arouses him just a tad more than the position your body is in.

“Never look at me that way again…” you murmur, hoping to receive about a tender response.

Alex signs. The desire splashes out of him as excess water out of rims, “I won’t. Me mistake.” He lifts the skirt of your sundress revealing your underwear, lacy at the edges. That position hides nothing of your sensations. His finger traces the wet folds that hide under the damp fabric yet with an entranced face, losing the reality contact for a second. You involuntarily shudder, “May I assume ya secretly liked it?”

 You glance at him with a huff, not being able to quite see him in your compromising position, “Rid me of “trembling legs” kind of jokes.” This little flare of his impertinence did both - scared and turned you on, but you won’t give him the satisfaction to hear it. Being too honest in an affair is too much of a bore.

Alex genuinely laughs, tracing the wetness with his thumb, “Whatever ya say. Girls nowadays don’t like cocky?”

“Cocky might be different.”

“Me cocky isn’t good enough?” He chuckles, not waiting for an answer, his nose tucks into your center making you yelp with surprise. His fingers hook and move away the drenched underwear, letting his tongue make a long strap over whole you, savoring you on a tip of his tongue, which evokes crazy whimpers out of you. That, you did not expect. Indeed cocky.

Alex unbuckles his belt, quick and easy, while you take the breaths that need to be taken before the main action starts. His own breath is rugged but mild. Patience mixed with adrenaline trembles your body as leaves on the trees during windy weather. His hand goes over the shaft; a hiss slips out of his mouth. Pressing his palm against your spine, he gently pushes you down, “Bend more. On your elbows.” When you do obey, he nods, “Good.”

He sinks into you. First thrust calls out in the room with a slap of the bodies and your muffled moan. Alex moves steadily but with a harsh end to it, that strikes you with dizzying haze of sensations. Every time he goes in and out you clench velvet with your fingers harder than before. The shame of being that open in front of a man you know only superficially becomes a strange, perverted pleasure. Every piece of you he has at his palm, every part of you devoured by him – from gripping your hips, only spreading them more, to the thrusts that flourish in your lower stomach. His curses arouse you to the peak of release. The politeness that took a backseat let the wild desire take the lead for both of you.

This was something you might call experience. Satisfaction in the barest concept. Literally too. You stayed with him just as he stayed with you. Anxiety looms in you, because it’s hard not to think that he should be in a completely different bed. You wonder what he had said to her, what is between him and her. Devilishly you think about Alex being yours more than anyone’s, when he is on the brim of falling asleep with his head on your chest, that replaces the pillow. His body is warm and heavy; you can see his eyes slowly blinking but stubbornly facing the direction of the window. Probably knowing just like you, that he should have left, for the sake of the simplicity in his life, that could have lacked any problem on the frontline of his personal life. But… Choosing any way, Alex assumes everything would wilt, it’s just the question when.

“Are you thinking?” you mutter.

“When ya ask now, I already don’t.”

You weren’t sure if he was annoyed by your interruption, but something made you not ask any more. And he didn’t ask either which only confirmed his want to have no chitchat right now. You didn’t cut yourself on his sudden change of mood, but neither was it pleasant.

In the morning, only an empty space met you. Strangely there is not a drop of disappointment - you expected it. The note on the bedside table, quick explanation and his phone number. “Call me after tomorrow.” Be that way.

The day “off” was spent sordidly. All day Alex had the feeling of not belonging to anything since doing nothing. He talked with her, only superficially, saw the spying gleam in her eyes. She probably has a few guesses.

Your question about his native places back in the cafe stirred the attentiveness, rubbed the wound. Outside having another stroll in the park, that he considered making a habit, he smelled the freshly cut grass, that was so vivid in his nostrils, Alex as if almost woke up and could clearly see the backyard of the house he grew up in. Worn out walls of his room, the kitchen that always was rich with scents, familiar voices that reassure just with the fact of being here. Memories sting his eyes. Nostalgia is always a bad feeling, he decided. The start fills him with lost warmth of past but at the end it’s always the chagrin that gobbles him. Alex is the man of the past. Always the man of the past.

Wandering in his head, Alex found himself thinking about Los Angeles. That place was his home as well, he remembers, coming back was always an exultation and relief for him. Then he found a woman he loved. She made sound Los Angeles like The Stone Roses record. Alex remembers the “naked nights”, when it was too sultry even at night and then there’s nothing left but to sleep vulnerable and skin to skin. The swimming pool that always sounded in the air and made him unused to the silence. The salt wind that ruffled his hair, and not being the water enjoyer, the shore soothed him in the best way possible. The tall palm trees that waved in the hippie dances being careless all the time making him just as unbothered. Alex let all of it to elude being charmed by a quick fun. Los Angeles was a snap of the fingers, the best song in the album and an Aperol Spritz made with a happy medium of sweetness and sourness.

The next evening, he met you once again. The same hotel. The day escorted him with the lack of any warmth, only with irritating tiny droplets in the air that no one could ever call a proper rain.

Alex had you just as before but different this time. His thrusts were slower, but still as deep. He was much more vocal. His arms were caging you in a hug as a snake, tightly and meaningfully, during making love. Yes, perhaps, you could call it that way. When you met him outside of the hotel, he grumbled for a bit about you standing outside in the first place, even though you could wait for him being surrounded with warmth. For a second during that moment, you felt like a normal woman could feel in a normal couple – cared for. Actually, you simply felt awkward to wait him inside, paranoia couldn’t let you in without thoughts that some faces might recall that you already have been there. Thoughts of others shouldn’t concern you, but they do, because the thoughts that might appear in their heads quite obvious. Or maybe you just overthink, hotel employees see such an extravagant number of people every hour after all.

“So…” Alex begins, his gracious yet the most ordinary fingers of the most, hold a cigarette tightly between them, “You live ‘ere with a family, eh?” Tonight, he is in the mood for a talk, and you can’t really refuse him being in the mood for the same. His frame nestled into a bathrobe just like yours as both of you stand on the balcony of the hotel room. Pile is cold under your feet and after finishing a smoke break you will quickly sneak under the blanket and, you hope, he will too. Paris brightened with the night coming. Sky is clear and stars out and about, glimmering and slowly popping in with every minute.

“I do.” You nod.

He hums, “What do you do?” His voice sounds strangely confident. That one confidence that appears in the moment and absolutely unexplainable. The sudden wave. An electric shock.

“I study art here. Some work here and there but not enough for my own place.” You follow the way his dry lips curling around the cigarette, almost in a slow motion. He is good to watch, nice to observe and delicious to taste. You can’t stop. That’s what it was at the very beginning, right?

“Art…”  His expression is thoughtful. Light teasing rises on his face, giving him the mischief of the youth that had passed him already, “Study how to be one or what?”

You break into quiet laugh. What an idiotic joke it is.

“Wow. Spectacular. You could be a comic.” You nudge him and accept a cigarette that he passes to you. You take a deep drag feeling his eyes contemplate every move with mild curiosity and deliberation. Alex breaks in the small smile, that is quite his usual that you, for that short-spent time together, had grown to like. He glanced back to the room, to the bed. The messed blankets of it have the remnants of you and his scents and sweat in the most vicious way.

Not being sentimental, tonight he feels different. He feels right to the tears in your eyes. You look away to contain every salt tear that might drop on your cheeks.

Then both of you settled down in bed. His kisses are sweet and slow when he traces with his lips a path between your breasts . Alex could almost believe this – this affair – being love. As if God created you just for him and his eyes, hands only. Your body is warm, and nothing else about it could make him feel that much. The darkness of the room, the rustle of bed sheets, distant sounds of other visitors. You and he are intimate in a way he never was with any woman or man. This secret intimacy of both people that in need and ready to seek the haven in strangers.

After the day when he said that silly joke passed one day and you met with him once more, and then after the day once again. A schedule that could never bring oversaturation for both of you to face.

She understood. Alex could tell. Her eyes looked at him differently, not when she’s angry or sad. Now she always looks at him with confusion as if he is a completely unfamiliar to her man, and with every time of him walking out of the door, less of her Alex will come back to her. Her face shows the fear for the ruined system her and Alex had, the one that was built scrupulously and worked till now. The disappointment hangs in the air of the apartment just as the hopelessness of a woman that can’t leave.

The clearness of Paris was only momentary. The thunderstorm came to the city when you met him again.

When he called you, his voice sounded much gloomier than usual almost the same night when you interrupted his thoughts. The words “We should meet” with a heavy sight wiped away the first happiness of being called. The weather is the one to lock in at home and that’s what you told him. Alex only answered short “At Saint-Antoine”. This disarmed you. Alex could be mysterious; you give him that. With one of the excuses, you thought up since starting to see him, you left the cozy apartment cheating on it with the unpredictable thunder outside.

You found him sitting inside of the church on one of the cold wooden benches. The place is without a soul inside. You sit on the bench behind him, and Alex is thankful for that. His shoulders are bent just on the day you decide to talk to him. Vociferous thunder outside shakes the whole church and every brick of it. You have a bad feeling about this.

“Alex,” you mumble to point out your presence.

He gives you an almost unnoticeable nod. His soft brown hair twine into loose curls on the back of his head. You want to lean in and wrap arm around him from behind and kiss the nape of his neck, to place a tiny teasing peck.

“Why…” You trail off, not being sure yourself why, “why did you decide to meet here?” Rapidly in a second you try to lighten the mood with a chuckle, “I hope we don’t plan do it here.”

You could feel him smiling but he still didn’t turn to you.

“That would be a nice fantasy to recreate, darlin’, but…” This accent of his sounds painful right now without a reason, like a knife cutting into the skin with hard push to it. I have a bad feeling about this. This one thought rings in the mind making you focus only on his voice. You were supposed to be untouchable and immune, so why do you worry now in the most bothered way?

“It’s time for me to leave, love.” Alex straightens and faces the big round colorful window, “I’m going back to London.”

Your heart sinks down into the toes and the first thing you say to yourself is that you expected it. I expected it. Way of coping. No, you didn’t expect it. To begin with, you didn’t want to expect it at all.

Alex doesn’t say anything, and with your breath stuck in your throat, you can neither say anything. He brushes his falling on the forehead hair; a heavy sight escapes his mouth meaning his struggle, but that doesn’t help you not to struggle.

“I should have told, shouldn’t I?”

You think about the first night back then in the hotel.

“Yes, you should have.” Your voice sounds cold, that could sound illogical, dramatic, but you didn’t want to lose him now when you just had found him. You really want to believe that you found him, that he must be yours.

It’s about the way he tells it to you. He is going to leave and after he said that to you from his mouth went only silence. You know, today is the last day you see him, or he would already say about the possibility of keeping each other’s phone numbers and calling in the near future.

Alex hoped this would go easier.

“Don’t even tell me about not wanting it to be that way.” You quietly scoff, glancing back to the massive church doors when someone walks inside.

Alex hates apologies that are truly meaningful because these are the hardest ones. His palms have gotten sweaty.

“I’m sorry for beginning this.”

You feel fooled.

You chuckle but there’s nothing happy about it, “Alex, you won’t even face me?”

You sound pleading, but he doesn’t give you a glance. You can’t hear his breath either – he stiffened as a statue. For the first time you see not the alluring secretive stranger that could cure your life but a haggard man that cowardly hides his face after every loving touch he has gave you and every gentle smile he offered.

His head is fragile, bent down facing his own palms folded on his lap restlessly. Guilt sips through his veins only more rapidly after this. Alex knows that attaching strings to the person that is out of reach is his and only his mistake. Beginning this was the mistake in the first place, because no matter how he escapes it or tries to sink it somewhere down – he is a coward. Alex can’t leave and he can’t stay. The idea of breaking free makes him tremble with stinging tears of fear deep in the heart yet being his most craving desire. The rare rise of alacrity is short to accept or recognize it – it’s fleeting. You were his rise of alacrity, the change, the emotion. The barren dearth in his head clears in the moment when he hears you getting up and the bench is creaking. The sound of your footsteps becomes a foggy mirage.

You did exactly what you should have done back then on the first night in the hotel.

You left.

a/n: finally! well, that was unjustifiably long.

okay, first of all, i just didn't really want to write the exact name for she because... we all know. no offense. just didn't want to.

second of all, the book i'm currently reading inspired me this time. there was that moment where the main character went to the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. and then boom. idea appeared in my head.

i hope all of it is readable. yep. who even will read all this after fic thing? i have no clue.

masterlist

[darbonime]

Hey how are you

Do you take requests x

hey! can’t promise anything, but i’m open to hear ideas

[darbonime]

my new fic has more words than my term paper

[darbonime]

please!!! so cute!!!

the heartbeat's at its peak

party

warnings: barely smut and an affliction of sweat

word count: 3.5k

Kirsty and Gavin have been kissing for the last hour. You wonder if they’ll ever come up for air or if they plan on suffocating themselves. You wonder how long you’ll sit here and watch them in some abstractionist’s form of self-harm.

Staring is probably creepy but it’s like an exhibitionist act and it’s not like their eyes are ever open enough to see you. You aren’t the only one staring either. “It’s fucking disgusting,” you moan to your friends. You slump back on the couch in the hopes the cushions will suck you in.

“I actually think they’re quite cute,” Hannah says. You eye her and she quickly corrects herself, “But they don’t have to be so in your face about it. Get a room!” 

She takes the pressuring gloom off the situation. You giggle and lean into her, taking comfort in her warmth. You’re tempted to leave this party if your lack of presence wouldn’t be more alarming. You refuse to give those two idiots the satisfaction. Maybe you’re crediting yourself too much for them to be even giving a second thought to you. Clearly, they don’t care, considering the display.

A weight slumps into the couch beside you. He’s there—scruffy, red-eyed, melancholic. “Hi, Al,” you mumble. You both sit with your eyes trained on Kirsty and Gavin.

“Drink,” he offers, handing you a cup.

You accept it with little questioning, neither of you bother to look at one another. You sip on its bitterness hoping it will balm some of your inner rancor. “It’s like they’re eating each other,” you spit.

Alex slouches, placing his chin into his chest. He sits his cup on his thigh, the liquid leaving a lasting wet mark. “I feel like me eyes are burning.”

“It’s the antichrist being born,” you say. You will yourself to sit up and look at his sagging figure. “I can’t look at this anymore. I’m being burned from the inside out. Come with?”

He sighs as he hoists himself off of the black hole couch. “Let’s go vomit outside.”

A giggle ripples through you, a smile peeks on your face for the first time that night. You walk through the suffocation of people together until you reach the fresh air, a rush of cold air peppering your skin. It is easier to breathe out here, fewer people and fewer Kirsty and Gavin to stare at.

“When they go at it, they really…go at it,” Alex said. He was flustered, something not out of the ordinary for his demeanor, but you tried to discern the origin of his discomposure—if it started in front of you or in front of her.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Never kissed me like that.” You scoffed, completely disgusted with yourself. “I shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

He shrugged with his hands in his pockets. “I don’t mind.”

You smiled pleasingly at him. “I know you don’t. I shouldn’t be obsessing over them. It makes me into such a loser.”

“I’m a loser too, then.”

You shook your head. “You’re not a loser,” you promise him. He eyed you with a rhetorical smirk. “Fair point.”

Alex faced the house and waved it off as if it had come to life and he was wishing it farewell. “Let’s forget about all that. I’m sick about thinking of Gavin…and Kirsty.”

“You miss her?”

He put his chin to his chest and gave a pre-verbal response in a grunt, signalling he didn’t really want to talk about it. He raised his head and put his shoulders back, no longer looking so mopey. “Do you miss him?”

“Maybe. I think I’m more jealous that he never treated me that way, but then again, I’m not the kind of person who likes to make out in the middle of a crowded room.”

Alex gagged. “Yuck! It’s like a mama bird feeding a baby bird.”

The tension dissolved into giggles and the two of you slowly moved further from the house. “He was never a good kisser.”

“Nah, her either. Her mouth was too wet.”

“His was always too dry! Like rubbing your lips against sandpaper. They must be a match made in heaven.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t think they’ll actually stay together?”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re Kirsty and—and G-Gavin.”

“So, you want to get back together with her?”

“No.”

“Sounds like you do.”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He’s rubbing his face now, trying to wash away all the emotions playing out on his face.

“It’s okay.” You pull out a cigarette and slot it between her lips. You mindlessly offer the pack to him, and he takes one for himself. He pulls out his lighter, giving it to you first and then lighting his own. It’s as if you’ve done this before, and maybe you have at some party you can’t remember, but this feels like the first of many times. “I miss him too. It’s okay.”

He drops his head, not wanting to look ahead. “Doesn’t feel right. I dumped her.”

“Do you actually want her back or is it a possessive thing?”

He thinks about this. You don’t think the thought has ever crossed his mind before. It’s been all feelings up until this point and now he is finally thinking logically. “I just didn’t think she’d go for Gavin. Or that Gavin would go for her.”

You scoff. “Gavin always had the eyes for her. Even when you were with her and I with him.”

“Well, then, I don’t think she ever had the hots for him back then. I think she’s doing it to make me jealous.”

“Maybe. Or maybe they love each other.”

His head snaps over to you, full of worry and loneliness, like everyone is riding off into the sunset and leaving him behind in the shadows. 

“I’m kidding.” You laugh at him. “Or maybe I’m not. It shouldn’t matter to us. We can’t think about them as if they are thinking about us. We could be the thing they’re picturing when they kiss each other, or they could never think of us again.”

“Mum always said girls were more mature,” he compliments.

His elbow knocks yours by accident and shiver goes down it. “I can’t take the credit. Hannah told me all that.”

“Well, a girl nonetheless.”

The conversation lulls and you’ve moved far enough into the house’s backyard that the party’s music has grown faint and you can hear the sound of crickets up ahead. You could move further into the woods or venture back into the house. 

You stare at the lights glaring out of the house. Every other house on the street is dark. Part of the world has gone to sleep and you should probably follow suit, but you don’t think you could fall asleep now. You’ve been too stirred awake, prodded with smoke, alcohol, talking, and emotions.

“We should date,” you say.

Alex drops his cigarette but doesn’t put it out. “What? Like dinner and a movie?”

“If you want,” you offer. “Get all dressed up, kiss in the back of the theatre.”

“Suit and tie or button-down.”

You leaned closer curiously. “Do you have a suit?”

“Well…no.”

“You’d be very impressive if you were a teenage boy who owned a tuxedo.” You drop your cigarette and put yours and his out with your shoe. “You’d be a bigshot. Our very own Joe Millionaire.”

“Shut up,” he says with a mouthful of laughter. “I’d pick you up in slacks and a T-shirt.”

“Slacks. That’s pretty impressive. Gavin wore track bottoms on our first date. I don’t think they had ever been washed.”

“Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You realize you’ve been unconsciously walking back toward the house just to have somewhere for your feet to take you while you talk. “He did buy me flowers.”

“Pft,” Alex sounds, “Any old bloke can buy you flowers.”

“What would you buy me?” The conversation is light. It could barely qualify as flirting other than the topic. The tone is playful and you’re pretty sure you could kiss him right now and he’d reciprocate, but you’re not sure if it would be in character or a true, genuine kiss.

He scratches his chin with one finger and you notice a faint pimple scar. “I’d get you seeds, then you could grow flowers for as long as you wanted.”

You mimic a laugh because you think he is telling a joke, but the sentiment itself touches you and leaves your cheeks pink. You’re increasingly thankful that both of your focuses have remained on the house. You’d only blush more if he were to look at you now. “And then we’d go to dinner?”

“No, we’d do the movie first so we could talk about it over dinner.”

“Okay. What are we getting for dinner?”

He hums and scratches at his chin some more. You imagine if he had a long beard he would be twirling it right now. The thought of him with a long grey beard only makes you giggle more. “Italian,” he says. “Cheap, but fancy.”

“We’d get table service but not have to leave a big tip.”

“Yeah, I’ll take you to Rose Garden so we can get our drinks spilled on us and get our meal comped.” That had happened to Danny and Hannah last year. We all started going because we’re all dirt poor and usually piss drunk. It never happened so we just got shitty food for too much money.

“Then we’d get drunk on the cheap free wine they give us.”

“And eat too many of the comped chips.”

“And we’d end up tossing it all in the bushes outside.” You were consumed with laughter and it felt like the first time you had laughed in a long time. You were relearning how to do it as you spoke to one another. You had feared so long that sadness had taken up your final year at college and you hated yourself for allowing that.

“We’d go back to your place to brush our teeth,” he said.

“And then I’d kiss you once our breath was minty fresh.”

“And I’d faint and hit my head on the sink.”

Your cheeks hurt from laughing so hard and you could fall into him. His humour is so cheesy, but so charming, nothing like those stupid boyish fart jokes Gavin used to make. “And the phone line would be out so I couldn’t call for help, and I have to stitch you up with a needle and thread.”

He hisses as if a needle is poking through his skin as you speak. “And I’d come back to life through true love’s first kiss.”

You bump into him, not being able to control your orientation. “And you’d come onto me but I’d insist we couldn’t because of your head trauma.”

“And I’d take your hand.” He reaches down and grabs your hand, stopping you in your tracks. You feel like you're in a play or The Truman Show, unable to figure out the reality of the situation. 

“And I’d place it over the wound.” He lifts your hand and guides your fingers on the back of his head, slowly grazing his scalp. You could run your fingers through his hair if you stretched your digits apart and combed your fingers through the strands.

“And you would feel no scar.” Just like real life, nothing beneath your fingers but his smooth hair and his dry scalp. You wonder if you’re supposed to do something more, like scratch it or agree or hum along. You wonder if you’re playing your role right.

“And I’d tell you it was ‘cause of true love’s first kiss.” His eyes glance down. It’s close, so close, too close. When he moves, you think he’s coming in for a lip smacker, but instead, he drops your head and keeps moving.

You follow beside him, not wanting to seem out of line. “And I’d say you were a dork.”

“A magical dork,” he corrects.

You oblige him, “A magical dork. Did you want to be a wizard when you grew up?”

“No, I wanted to be a magician,” he says with no hiccup of humor.

“Seriously?” 

He nods.

“Like a rabbit in a hat or cards?”

“I never got that far, but I always wanted to do the rings. You know, the ones you have to slide apart.”

“It’s never too late to pursue your dreams,” you tease.

He takes it in stride and chuckles, never finding your comments to be malicious. “I think it might be too late for that dream. But never say never. You could be my assistant.”

“I’m already magic. Haven’t you seen my disappearing act?”

Before you can move, he grabs your hand. “Don’t disappear on me now.”

“Alright.” A feeling churns in your stomach and you don’t think you’re playing pretend anymore. “After our magical first kiss we’d probably have sex.”

“Yeah,” he agrees casually, even though he’s still holding your hand and this feels less and less like pretending. “But they never get to that part in the fairy tales.”

“If true love’s first kiss can heal your cut then a shag would probably cause world peace.”

“In that case, we might as well do it in the grass right here.” He drops to the ground and pulls you to sit down next to him. Neither of you put the moves on but it feels like your storybook has come to an end. The grass is mostly dead here with scatterings of empty dirty patches and dry grass that crunches under your shoes.

Alex picks up a blade and rips it between his fingers. “Do you think they’re still kissing?”

You laugh, even though you don’t want to talk about them anymore. “Probably. Do you want to go back inside?”

“Not if they’re doing that.”

“You’re going to have to get over—”

“I am over it.”

You don’t believe him but you don’t fight him. You let him tell himself what he needs to believe. “I thought this party would be fun,” you complain looking at the house. The only sign of partying is the booming music. Everyone seems to be standing around idly. 

“I’m having fun,” he claims.

You roll your eyes and lean back onto your elbows. “You look like the sad dwarf.”

“There is no sad dwarf.” He looks down at your, his frown replaced by a grin.

“Yes, there is,” you fight back. “He cries all the time and he has a tissue.”

“Sneezy has the tissue.”

“Sneezing doesn’t make you sad.”

“Because there’s no sad dwarf. What would he be called Saddy? They all end in ‘y.’”

“No. Doc doesn’t.”

“Fine. Everyone except Doc.”

“Bashful doesn’t.”

He rolls his eyes but his smile tells a different story of his exasperation. “You’re a Seven Dwarfs historian but you can’t recall that there isn’t a sadness dwarf.”

“Do you think it’s offensive that the only dwarf that can’t speak is called Dopey?”

He falls onto his back in a peal of laughter. He lies next to you and counts on his fingers. “Okay, we have four dwarves: Sneezy, Doc, Bashful, and Dopey. What are the other three?”

“The sad one.”

His face turns towards you. You can feel the sensation of his breath on your neck. “Will you shut up about sadness?” You both cut into each other with laughter. Your bodies rock and knock against one another, becoming an entanglement. “Who else?”

“Grumpy and Happy.”

“And then…”

“The sad one!” You exclaim, sitting up.

“There’s no sad one,” he argues, following suit.

“Then, who’s left?”

His lips stay shut. He holds up a finger. “Hold on.”

You cross your arms. “Exactly.”

“I can’t think of it, that doesn’t mean it’s ‘The Sad One.’” He places air quotes around the moniker you’ve made up.

You lean over to him. “But it is.”

He kisses you then because arguing is so dull in the grand scheme. It’s an awkward kiss, your noses rubbing against one another, and little movement. You pull away and rub your lips with the back of your hand. He sighs and hunches over himself again, picking at the grass. “That was pretty bad.”

“Yeah.” You laugh forgivingly.

“Give me another try?”

“Yeah.”

“You go left and I go right.”

“We’d be going the same direction then.”

He chuckles at himself awkwardly. “Right.”

“Right,” you agree.

You both nervously laugh together before he places his hands on your cheeks. He moves in slowly, too slowly. You close the distance and land your lips on his. It’s an improvement but it feels stiff like two statues kissing on another.

You pull his hands off your cheeks and he pulls away from you. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Keep going,” you urge him, leaning your forehead against his.

He moves in more forcefully. You place his hands on your hips and he moves further, pushing you onto your back into the grass. His hand drags up your side, slightly pushing your shirt up. His thumb smooths over the last rung of your ribs. 

You pull back. “Mighty improvement, but you can’t feel me up in a patch of grass. No matter how nice it is.”

He smiles into the alcove of your neck. His lips graze over the sliver of skin before he removes himself, standing up over you. He reaches a hand down to you. Alex pulls you off the ground and you make your way back toward the house.

You return to the couch where the group has gathered, stuck in the depths of conversation and drunkenness, to notice that Alex and you have come back hand in hand. Alex asks if you want a drink. You nod and he squeezes your hand before he goes. The upturn of his lips burned into your memory.

You take a seat on the arm of the couch and try to keep up with whatever argument is going on between Pete and Kenny. Alex comes back, standing beside you, and hands you a cup. You whisper commentary of the fight to him until it dies down when Kirsty and Gavin come over to the group.

“Hey,” Kirsty sheepishly says, waving to the group, but mostly to Alex. She and Gavin walk closer to you and Alex as the group eagerly watches the drama. “I don’t want this to be awkward for anyone.”

“It’s not awkward,” you say, your lips skimming over the rim of your plastic cup. 

Kirsty’s eyes move over to you as if you’ve threatened her with a knife. You suppose the comment was directed toward Alex and not Gavin’s former counterpart. “Just…we’re all friends, Al. We’ve shared things and I don’t want to have to avoid each other.”

Alex shrugs and looks at the liquor in his cup instead of Kirsty. “We’re not avoiding each other. We’re talking now.”

“Right.” Kirsty slowly nods, picking at the edge of her dress. “Still, I don’t want anything to change.”

Gavin maliciously corrects, “Well, other than Kirsty and I being together now.”

“Are you two together? Like together together?” You ask.

Gavin smugly raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. You stared enough to figure that out.”

Refusing to let him embarrass you, you shrug and focus on your cup. “I just wasn’t sure if you were just sleeping with one another.”

“We’re sleeping with one another too. If you’re so curious,” he says accusatively.

Before anybody could respond in defense, Alex shouts out, “Sleepy is the seventh dwarf!”

And while everybody else stares in complete confusion, you and Alex burst out laughing. You shake your head at him and stand up from the couch. “Have a nice night, guys,” you say to the couple as Alex and you exit the house, going back to the grass.

*

Alex’s skin feels hot. There’s a coat of sweat on his forehead that feels uncontrollable. At the start, he wiped it away but now he doesn’t want to disrupt his rhythm by lifting his arm and collapsing on top of you. But he feels disgusting. He’s convinced beads of sweat are going to drop on you and you’ll yelp in disgust and make him leave.

However, he’s been focusing so much now that he’s distracted from the actual act of fucking you, prompting you to say, “Are you okay?”

“Me?” He questions like there are other people in the room you could be talking to. “Yeah. Yeah. Are you? Is it not good? Sorry. I’m just sweating so much.”

You softly giggle at his rambling and reach over to your bedside table, grabbing a tissue and handing it to him. He wipes over his forehead and discards the tissue by shooting it into your wastebasket. “You okay now?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Should I keep going?” His heart beats against his ribs so harshly that it could make the house shake. No matter how many deep breaths he takes, he can’t calm it.

You lift yourself up and kiss his cheek. “Yeah. You can keep going if you want.”

His smile is achingly sweet. “Yeah. I want to. Of course I want to.” And suddenly, he can breathe just fine.

*

a/n: i don't believe in sex anymore. i'm a nun.

[darbonime]

love these two moles on his neck

[darbonime]

up at night

contains: dad! alex, fluff, smut. he is a munch. also a tiny bit of masturbation and fingering.

word count: 3.9k.

Baby fusses in the crib, her tiny hands messing the blanket that affectionately was put over her hours earlier. Her small face crunched in discomfort and upset. Quiet wailing calls out for the parents. A night lamp on a dresser dimly lit the nursery, guarding little girl from the horrors of the darkness. And yet something put her in babyish melancholy.

You toss and turn, but exhaustion forces you, pins to bed, no matter how baby’s sobs call out for your attention and care. Rustle of the sheets beside you, make your bleary with sleep eyes to open – you guess the vague silhouette in the blankets of gloominess is Alex, letting him to handle the situation you peacefully shut eyelids again, disappearing into beauty sleep with his departing steps and weeps somewhere far away behind.

A minutes after you sit up as if hit with a thunder – it’s unusually silent. Anxiously silent. You look around, but Alex isn’t here. That stirs your concerns even more. Just one indulgence guilt trips you about not getting up yourself to check on Karen. You trust Alex. Absolutely. Yet it’s better to do everything your own hands. That’s how you lived all your life - by yourself. Waning through the tiredness that sticks to you like one of these unpleasant thoughts in the back of the mind, you pull on your cardigan. The stinging feeling in the eyes hardly gives you the ability to part your eyelids. You meander in the dark room, trying not to bump into a dresser on your way to find your family.

Peeking into the room, you crack the door open, it creaks and standing near crib Alex, holding a baby, startlingly jumps. His frame turns to you with wide eyes, caught of a guard, exhausted and yet with a pinch of annoyance. No one likes to be caught off guard, and he never exactly liked to be seen in his vulnerable gentle state.

“Bloody hell, love,” he murmurs, letting his gaze lovingly come back to the baby, rocking her ever so slightly, initially begging for her not to wake up. You are much better with her - little one rarely dozes off quickly with him. Alex conceives about it without a break, not even noticing that those thoughts take him down like a swamp. The possible reasons pop out in his head constantly becoming his migraines.

He still holds her very carefully as back then in the hospital when you just gave a birth to her, “Karen lost her bunny in the crib. Started cryin’.” Not being even, a year old, she is already attached to the stuffed creature as much as to parents. Getting older, she probably will get a name for this one bunny. Being very honest, he might have a few name variants for that poor stuffed animal covered in baby saliva and showered in innocent child love.

“Yeah, I heard… Couldn’t force myself to get up. Sorry, babe.” You nestle against his side, cradling the vulnerable head of your daughter. Hints of hair are smooth and soft against your palm, “Thanks for… y’know.” Your eyes close for a second in helplessness, knowing he understands you without words. You lean your head on his shoulder.

“It’s ‘kay.” His eyes stay on the little frame clenching bunny as if it’s the dearest thing in the world, “You’re knackered.”

You are knackered. Karen can be quite handful. She drops plastic plates spilling all food on the floor, wants to be on the arms all the time and when you or Alex put her down, she throws an immediate tantrum. A loud one. At a very young age she already decided both of you have at her hand. Alex said to you couple of days ago: “I have no idea how we are gonna survive later when she starts walkin’.” Neither do you.

But now she is silent. Karen’s breath is stable, full baby cheeks are pinkish, looking very squeezable as her whole. She is peaceful in her own dimension, not quite here, body curled in the blanket. Alex holds her head, so it didn’t fall – the essential support. You and he look at her, still with curious expressions as if she’s a peculiar little creature. Someone who is from a different planet. A few months after her birth, Karen still didn’t become something “common”. Every day, she has the ability to bring small things that she never misses to surprise with. First smile, first laugh, first “peace” sign with fingers. You are terrified of her growing so fast, and you know he is too. Time slips through your fingers and now a wish of ABBA to freeze the picture to save it from the funny tricks of time feels to the pain familiar. It’s selfish, probably.

Never being against having a child, you still find yourself surprised by the amount of boundless love your heart can create. Alex changed too, when the prepared crib finally found a small habitant to it, he became calmer, at least that’s what he shows. You see the ocean anxiousness waves over him from time to time, especially if Karen goes out of control, but you always have his back. Some things that are natural to you, don’t sit right with him. You had a couple of skirmishes about it, and yet united exhaustion never made these arguments too long. After all, neither of you want to pout on different sides of the couch, or moreover in the bed.

A cold crawls on your skin, a sheer of early spring chillily runs over the floor. Looking up you see a cracked window – letting in a fresh air in the nursery before putting down Karen to sleep, someone of you forgot to close it. The lost sleep steps away, not wishing it, you feel more awake, having a baby ruined your sleep schedule fully and undoubtedly. You wrap your arms around yourself, thin strap top underneath cardigan doesn’t hide the sensitive nipples. Alex notices. Details became crucial to ignore these days. He puts small frame back in the crib delicately – Karen has a sound sleep – gets sure she is wrapped in blankets and her bunny securely clenched in tiny hands.

“Forgot to close it…” He scratches his neck with a yawn, the necklace clinks faintly against his old to-sleep-in t-shirt. His eyes follow your movements as you stride to close the window, too intensely for that late hour – he just wants to catch a glimpse of your chest again. To see it. Alex feels guilty, ashamed. Conscience tells him to leave any impure thoughts. At least keep them for later. At least not in the nursery. The starvation forms in him as a disease, it drives him crazy, urges him to want the closeness he never had to you before – closer than pregnancy. He doesn’t know what it is, how that closeness looks like or what sensations should give, and yet he desires it undeniably and deeply.

You close the window, capturing the family aura away from the other world. A warm island of chaos and love. Street sounds disappear, replacing with a monotony sound of ticking clocks and steady breaths, only flows of a wind still try to break inside. Turning to him, you see his lost-in-himself gaze, the usual one when he is reluctant to ache in the bones.

“I don’t think she gonna get a cold,” you reassure him, knowing his tendency for overthinking, but he shakes his head.

“Not that. I…” His eyes look over your body expectantly.

Your body still hasn’t changed to the form it has been in before, swollen and not entirely healed, but he doesn’t mind. Opposite. You shy away from his touch, scarcely but do, but he just wishes to feel you the way you are now, to know what your body became, to find out what he had done to you. It shouldn’t be perfect. Alex imagined his palms sink in your body, in your skin. Caressing it, examining it with new fondness, adoring it with acquired passion. Making love can’t bring the point of proximity he so violently wants, he needs it much tighter, much nearer. To cry with you, squeeze your body in a hug until you whimper in shock of your ribs being crushed.

“Jus’…” Alex sighs heavily, with his full lungs, “I feel like we aren’t the same.” He brushes back his tousled strands, then runs down his stubble with his palm, an anxious demeanor rests beneath the gestures. Gifting a glance to the crib, he mumbles, “Guess we shouldn’t discuss it ‘ere.”

You follow him out of the room, wondering, yet having guesses, what does he mean. The night lamp is left to defend Karen from dark monsters as you quietly close the door. Rooms ring with silence, you can hear his, with a tinge of heaviness, breath, fatigue slip out in between his exhales. You sit on messed up bedsheets, he lands on the bed beside you.

“Al… We can’t be the same when now… Karen is here,” you softly explain, fully knowing it’s tough to change the way they were living – in a windless atmosphere, that subsided away with the child. Playing a fool you now, too nervous to address elephant in the room you speak only vaguely.

“It’s… I know,” Alex grumbles at your stubborn attempt to not hear him, his palms curl into tight fists. “It’s not that. I feel like I haven’t touched you for an insanely long time. Too long time for me to bear, being completely honest, love.” His voice is raw and attacking, words come out without any hesitation nor stutter.

Your eyes follow his movements and behavior, brows furrowed, his body is tense and clearly the topic is hot, even burning – he was waiting to finally say things out loud, to speak out. The night, the lateness, the dark bedroom, such an inconvenient moment – you both want sleep to death, and yet it feels like a right time to finally explain ourselves. In cold shades of the night. Your delicate fingers entwined with his rough, making him look up at you. Alex’s eyes pierce you; his expression is written with disappointment about how much he probably pressures you right now, and hopefulness to feel you.

Alex bumps his forehead against your neck like a baby deer and you can’t hold back a chuckle. You love his little habits – this one might be your favorite. Nuzzling into your neck, breath lashes over your skin with a warm wave, his lips start peppering you with faint careful kisses, letting you pull away anytime. You close your eyes to let him take what he wants, your fingers find his hair, silky strands melt in between them leaving you in desire to never stop touching his hair. The softest hair you have ever touched. Uncoupling hands, his palm eagerly runs down your thigh to the knee, giving it a light squeeze. The fabric of your pajama pants is tepid, but the body underneath is characteristically hot.

The affection he gives you is silent with words but loud in caresses, you don’t have to question it. Alex is needy, he’s not the type to say be loud about feelings – the words he said a minute ago probably gathered in him for a long time like rainwater in the bucket, until it started to pour out of the rims. His nose huffs over your collarbone, giving a nip to the skin here as a kitten that just endeavors to learn how to bite. Your hand languidly slips from hair to the neck, and the little hunch on his back – his posture far from the best – you massage it, and he immediately straightens a bit. That makes you smile. Trailing your fingers to the nape of his neck once again, you play with short strand of his hair here, you twirl them around your finger, tug it, holding a tuft a hair in between fingertips. He isn’t greedy about reaction, pleasant shiver runs down the back and arms, a small twitch from bliss skips here and there. The moment could be ephemeral, except it feels like a step that should be taken after a newfound life, after pregnancy and with Karen now. There are still plenty of steps to take for both of you, and you are willing to do it as long as Alex is taking them with you.

His face playfully nuzzles into your cleavage clearly knowing you will start giggling. He grins but doesn’t stop just yet, his nose slides away the clinging fabric of your strap too. You feel the satisfaction of familiar scratching of his unkept stubble. Alex could blame everything on exhaustion, but age brings indifference to these things.

 “Alex…” you mutter through the quiet laughter.

He leaves one final kiss on your cheek, now looking at you, “Couldn’t help meself.” Just a second touch of his lips on your skin flourishes with the tingling joy inside. Alex’s smile is tired, with remnants of sleep, that already feels far away, his expression is warm to the pain in the chest, skin around eyes is creased in wrinkles but makes him more adorable. His voice is rough, just how you like it, and yet still there’s the tenderness glimmers through the intonation. You can’t hold back yourself from a peck on his lips – a quick one, but both of you close eyes to not waste even that little kiss.

“You want to do it now?” you whisper against his dry lips, you could feel the dry parts he usually bites away.

Alex swallows, “Yes.” His head dips back to your cleavage, his finger hooks another strap of your top to lower it down your delicate shoulder.

You let him have his way.

His body lashes over you like a wave, an intense one, you wrap arms round his neck as you lie down on the bed. The vein on his neck thrums with silent excitement keeping it at bay, as if emotions could wake little one in the next room. Alex caresses you gingerly as for the first time, as if you are the first flower that sees the light after the long chilly winter. He palms your waist under the top, it doesn’t feel the same – something is different, and he feel the urge to get used to the new you. He lifts it glancing at you as a scared animal, in case you want to stop. His lips never cease the kisses, he licks his lips to make kisses softer for you. You softly run over and through his hair, closing eyes you let yourself sail away and only soft sighs indicate your presence here.

Alex leaves a loving kiss on the rear, then makes his way to your sternum and kisses it with an especial sense. Fatigue crawls into eyelids and he decides to not stretch the moment because you are clearly tired too – to his desire to savor and go slowly he feels a tad of burning disappointment. There’s only a wish to catch up on intimacy in the morning. He lifts the top higher, the breasts are perked up just for him and not because of the cold, his lips wrap around the nipple, his eyes closing and he feels buzzing contentment throughout his body. With teeth he teases it and nips – your fingers tighten in his hair, means he does right. It awakens the tremble in his body, and you never could feel more loved than with him.

His face now finds yours again, leaving a fervent peck on your lips, and then another. Alex grinds his lower body against yours, arching into you with a groan as close as possible, his hardness in a satisfying bulge rubs against your pubic bone. You feel the rushed pulse strikes down to your lower body; the whimpering neediness appears right in your center.

“Bloody…” he mumbles out, with tightly shut eyes. He finally feels the closeness that was lacking between you and him all that time, “Fuck.”

The familiar feeling of your pajama trousers being moved down and thighs being spread, you lift on your elbows to watch him. Alex is between your legs, looking up at you as his fingers part your folds teasingly. His eyes are dark, deep, absorbing the wildness of an animal gradually appears. Following the reaction and how your face sculpts by pleasure he gives you, his mouth dives forward to partake you.

You lift your hips with a quiet whimper asking for more, your head bends down not being able to hold your neck for longer, “Please...” you beg shamelessly.

Alex’s another hand finds his cock, keeping his head where it should be, he squeezes himself through the fabric, it sends sparkles to his head – he feels dizzy. Lifting his ass, his hand finds way inside of the sweatpants. Closing his eyes, he touches himself, so openly in front of you, finally not lurking in the shower as previous times. Alex knows it wasn’t right. He should have told you, come to you. That felt dirty back then, treacherously, but when you watch him moving his palm up and down his shaft, relieve splashes through his body to the shiver. He adores being watched, he adores your sultry gaze at him while he reaches the bottom in front of you. Focusing on the tip of his cock, his mouth sucks at your clit, then burrows deeper inside as his curled fingers slide down close to the balls. Your noiseless gasps sound like you are about to lose breath, change with soft, almost innocent sighs in the process.

“Fuck…” he curses one more time. Sensations are overwhelming, a long break made both of you sensitive to ridiculousness.

His arms find the way under your body, sprawling on your lower back. Holding, gripping you tightly, that his wrists start to hurt with tension in them, his nose nudges against your pubic bone as his tongue licking stripes through your core. Your toes curling with a deep moan – never it felt so good like now. He grips your thigh, letting you throw it over his shoulder to let his tongue het deeper into you. Alex’s mouth slurps at you as the sweetest nectar alive, as the cat licking at the milk. Your back arches and lifts from the bed. That will be a vivid memory for you just as for him.

“Al…” you mumble out, losing yourself. Everything around fades away. Just the sensations he gives you. You are sure he knows what you mean again – you are about to finish with fireworks.

“Mhm.” Suddenly his finger pumps into you, giving a break to the mouth, as his cheek is leaned against your thigh watching you closing to the edge, “Let it go. Come, love.” His voice is loving soaked with longing.

Alex doesn’t waste time, stretching you more when he adds the second finger. He curls them inside with a winning smirk.

The sharp gasp sticks to the back of your throat when you are going through the climax. His mouth finds the way between your folds again, enveloping your clit with his lips completely, while you tug his hair to the pain in his scalp. Your legs tremble as Alex’s tongue flicks over you riding out your orgasm. He hums teasingly as if munching the cake.

Alex falls with his head on your stomach, his cock still demands for attention, but he barely can be up anymore. Not tonight, not now. Emotions and sensations take too much energy to bear, he clearly missed out that part. You gasp for breath, railing a hand through his hair, feeling how sweat strips down his forehead.

“Let me help you out too…” you murmur fervently, trying to force yourself to move not minding the pleasing after sex exhaustion.

Alex shakes his head, “In the mornin’, darlin’. Can’t move.” His eyes are already drooping. He is so quick with drifting away to a somnolent condition, usually there is not enough time to snap your fingers as you hear stable sleeping huffs.

You groan, “Alex.” That feels incredibly unfair not to give the passion back.

“Jus’ gimme a sec,” he mumbles with his rough voice that blurs with nearing sleep.

Giving up, you sigh. You untangle his hair, playing with it carelessly waiting a minute for him to reload and be able to function. First time during the intimacy you listen attentively – Karen sleeps. You breathe out, relieved. A small detail caught your attention. Being near Alex always meant enjoying, or not really, the smell of cigarettes on him. The scent gone – almost gone. The thought makes tiny smile raise on your lips; he became very attentive about his smoking addiction since you became pregnant, and he still is. Never smoke around the baby. It’s a rule.

A quiet snore comes out from Alex. Your eyes goes to him with raised brows. He dozed off, sprawled on your warm body using it like a pillow and heater at the same time.

“Al,” you whisper.

No reaction.

“Alex,” you say in the full voice.

“Wha’?” He shuddered at the loudness. What a silly innocent man. You like having him that way, just as only you can have. Tomorrow, he will be grumbling about the coffee machine and complaining about the weather. You call it oldie pattern – every day the same, but no way you would replace him with someone else. Once, you were told that every person contains something unreplaceable when they leave, you considered it with skepticism but if Alex would leave, you know for sure there is no other human being that could match you better. It hurts.

“Baby let’s move to the pillows,” you say. Both of your bodies lose its hotness, and you have a strong desire to slip under a blanket like a cat looking for a place to hide.

He grunts lifting on his elbows to look at you, hair falls on his eyes barricading the view. Barely he can form a thought nor some answer. Alex obediently climbs on pillows after all. God, he only hopes for at least four hours, it will be enough to survive the day. Maybe a nap after lunch. If Karen will be willing, of course.

“Want to sleep for years. Like a bloody volcano,” he murmurs.

You quietly giggle, snuggling close to him. You want absolutely and entirely the same.

Lying with him in bed always has special sense, you could feel the weight of his body near and that always brings you peace – he is there with you and safe. His arms encircle you in a loose hug, curtains are drawn letting in just a straw of light. You tuck your face into his neck sneakily breathing in the familiarity of him – his smell is your favorite, much better than vanilla or gasoline.

Alex started to snore again. He fell asleep, and this time you won’t bother him. You listen to his stable breath, look at his features, still mildly tight but soon he will look relaxed and younger. His back faces you. Your fingers feel his spine, every bone, you trace it up and down and hear a relieved sigh. Wrapping arm around him he unconsciously locks his fingers with yours, and then you let yourself sleep too.

a/n: it's not really good, i guess. i really didn't want to write smut, but thought it might have a place in the end. i write a fic that is much more important for me than this one. yeah. have no clue when i will post it but who cares anyway. bye bye.

masterlist

[darbonime]

made me think of lawyer al

[darbonime]

i’m in awe

L.A. Is In Flames, It’s Getting Hot

divorce babe, divorce. 

warnings: fingers, mouths, and main parts all meeting in public (kind of)

word count: 9.1k

He was not the chosen one, it seemed.  

And perhaps, all along, in the quiet of those nights thick with pathos, he had known — somewhere beneath the weight of fleeting euphoria, in the hollow of his chest and the sharp ache of his solitude — that she would leave, sooner or later. It was written into the fabric of their arrangement, into the way they always parted with the morning, with the sun spilling in unwelcome through half-drawn curtains. And yet, every night, they found each other again, bound not by words but by some unspoken agreement, some quiet resignation. Shy limbs tangled beneath the sheets, bodies whispering what lips refused to say, only the hush of breath and hesitancy. 

A cycle, a ritual, a love story with missing pages.  

He would have loved her for as long as she had life in her, if only she had let him be hers. But it just wasn’t meant to be, like some things were, no matter how much longing pressed against the bones. He needed to let go. The inevitability of it was something he had made peace with in theory, though not in practice. It could have been different. It wasn’t. 

His stubbornness was not the dignified, noble kind. It was self-sabotage wrapped in a thin veil of restraint, an excessive self-repression born of a lack of confidence so ingrained it had become a second skin disguised as indifference, wrapped in layers of detachment. Or so he’d been told. Oppositions, paradoxically, helped in mapping out the meaning of that — strength against fragility, certainty against doubt, love against longing. They were what defined him, the push and pull of things shaping the jagged edges of who he was.  

And so he had learned not to force a narrative where there was none.

He had long since given up on imposing any kind of linear structure to his life. It was not a seamless arc. His days and nights unfolded in fragments, in fleeting vignettes loosely stitched together by what, at best, could be described as moments that felt significant at the time but, in retrospect, were merely a bunch of personal recollections. A diary of observations and impressions rather than events. Traces caught though never quite forming a whole. He lived not through grand happenings but through the fragments that lingered — turns of phrase, echoes of his own experiences, quoting them to himself like lines from a half-forgotten script he’d learned to follow.  

He needed to leave. He needed to get out.  

The places that had once formed his world had grown too small, too familiar, pressing in on him with a kind of claustrophobic nostalgia. In the sprawl of concrete, in the jungle of cities that he had to choose from, he chose to go back in time. He chose Los Angeles, a place where everything stretched out endlessly, where time felt less like a rigid sequence and more like something fluid, dissolving beneath the unrelenting sun. 

His solicitors back home could handle the practicalities. He had no patience for all the technicalities, for paperwork and signatures and logistics, and no interest in the intricacies of transition. 

What he longed for was escape, the slow, unhurried languor of a place where heat settled into your skin and never quite let go. There was something indulgent, almost luxurious, about this phase he was in — a season of slowness, of drifting. Tiredness and inactivity were no longer states to be resisted but to be embraced. These things suited him now. And seemed especially pleasurable as a particular kind of exhaustion had settled into his bones, the kind that made stillness feel like relief rather than restlessness. 

He couldn’t say, with any real conviction, that he thought himself immune to the sum of statistics working against him. He didn’t fool himself into thinking he’d be the exception to the rule, the sole outlier. But still, for some inexplicable reason — some foolish, persistent shred of hope he held onto — a small part of him believed that maybe, just maybe, things could have been different. Looking back, it seemed almost laughable. Redundant, even, to have hoped at all. Especially now, with this new status attached to his name and no one left to warm the other side of the bed. 

But this was moving on, wasn’t it? That’s what he told himself, at least. Moving on, drifting forward. 

His whole being was penetrated by this uninterrupted universe composed of oppressive stillness floating all around, a hush that pressed against his skin and slowed his thoughts to a crawl. Palm-lined streets, the hazy glow of twilight settling over the hills, everything felt like a dream he wasn’t fully awake for. It was different from the quiet he had known before. It wasn’t the absence of noise but the presence of something being there in ways he couldn’t articulate.  

Moving on. That’s what he was doing. Yes, moving on.  

The afternoons here were hot, and quiet, and unbearably heavy, thick with a kind of peace that made his brain sluggish and his blood run thinner on nights when he sought solace in substances or found himself under the influence of some narcotic draft or another. Even the air itself was intoxicating, laced with the kind of languid indifference that made it easy to surrender to one’s vices. Some nights, he let himself sink into it. Other nights, he chased oblivion. The walls of his existence blurred, the ache of his existence softened, dissolved in the haze.  

Maybe it was different. Maybe he was different. Or maybe this was what it had always been like, and he was only now beginning to notice.

Perhaps it all depended on the moment. His mood. His state of mind. Or whatever was left of it.

This day, too, was lethal. The heat gnawed at the edges of consciousness, thick and shimmering. No sunglasses, no matter how dark the lenses, could cut back on the glare. The light ricocheted off every surface, searing into his skull, making his temples pulse. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, dampened the collar of his shirt, and rolled down his back in slow streaks that tickled. He thought he heard a fly circling near his forehead, its insistent buzzing drilling into his ears. When it finally dipped into his field of vision, he noticed that even the fly seemed tired, its wings slicing the air in lazy arcs.  

That was the tranquility he had been chasing — the slow-motion existence, the unhurried drift towards superfluity that he had stumbled into without even meaning to. The balance between presence and detachment was something he had spent years trying to cultivate, but here, it was seemingly forced upon him. The keys to that narrow corridor of not too much, but just enough, weren’t always attainable — certainly not easily — but now they had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, slammed there without him even asking, without him even opening his palm to catch them.  

Alex had a sick sixth sense that he might have turned into a ghost, a pawn aimlessly wandering the land of the living. Just another transparent figure slipping through the heatwaves, unnoticed except for the brief, confused glances of strangers. But that had to be a stupid thought. Just dumb. This was simply how things felt when the sun burned this fiercely, when the day was this hot and golden, when there was no fog or drizzle to dampen the edges of his anxiety. 

He had grown so accustomed to the perpetually gray cold across the ocean that this brightness, this exposed, relentless clarity, left him unguarded and maybe even the slightest bit vulnerable.  

He was wearing swimsuit bottoms under his linen pants, though he wasn’t quite sure why he had even bothered with the latter. People here walked around shirtless, parading their sun-bronzed shoulders and sweat-slicked skin with the kind of easy confidence that still felt foreign to him. Short-shorts, sunglasses, nothing else — no one batted an eye. He couldn’t bring himself to fully adopt that kind of effortlessness. There was something reluctant ingrained in him that made him cover up even when there was no need.  

When he stepped out of his car the heat pressed against him like a living thing, wrapping around his limbs, making the fabric of his shirt feel even more suffocating. 

A boy — no, a young man, though nowhere near his own age — stood a short distance away, watching him. Recognition flickered across the kid’s face, a spark of excitement that made his posture shift, his movements quicken. He approached with a kind of nervous energy, eyes bright with the thrill of proximity to someone he’d only seen through screens and speakers.  

“Can I get a picture?”  

Alex felt his face tighten before he could stop it, an involuntary grimace passing over his features. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He barely even remembered what being in the mood for this felt like. But still, some residual politeness lingered in him, enough to form a half-hearted apology as he declined. The boy’s disappointment was instant and poorly disguised. The fake “Sorry” that followed was laced with irritation, the enthusiasm bleeding out of him in real time, right before his eyes. “No worries.” Alex offered, forcing a small smile, a weak peace offering.  

He stepped away, deflated, retreating back into the anonymity of the street.  

He was trying to be good, Alex realised. Just trying to be good. As if it would matter whether or not he smiled at some kid he would likely never see again, hopefully. As if this small act of civility could somehow tip the cosmic scales in his favor, inch him closer to whatever quiet redemption he was hoping for.  

He still felt preposterous, caught in the surreal loop of his own making, trapped in this strange, psychedelic orbit where everything was both too real and not real at all.

Alex needed to sit in one place and try — really try — to think. To figure out what to do, or how to exist, or at the very least, how to pass the next few hours without feeling like a ghost in broad daylight. That’s what he had come to the beach for.  

He walked barefoot through the scorching sand, every step a sharp, fleeting pain as the heat licked at the soles of his feet. He didn’t hurry, though. Maybe he liked the burn a little. Or maybe he just didn’t care enough to avoid it. When he found a patch of unclaimed land, he laid his towel down, then let himself drop onto it, the sun instantly pressing down on him like a blanket made of light. 

He took his pants off then, kicking them aside, leaving just the trunks. Of course, he kept the trunks. The salt-sticky fabric clung to his thighs as he let his shirt slip from his shoulders. His skin, slick with sweat, caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly before the heat began to dry it, the salt tightening over him in an invisible film. 

For a moment, it was almost pleasant — this exposure, the surrender to the elements.

He stretched out, legs extended, holding himself up on his elbows just enough to keep his head raised, staring ahead at the horizon. That lasted all of two minutes before the restlessness kicked in, crawling under his skin, making him ache for something to touch, to turn over in his hands, to handle.  

He dug through his bag, fingers brushing past tangled wires and loose receipts before closing around the stiff fabric of his baseball cap — the one with the big L.A. embroidered across the front, a souvenir of sorts, or maybe just an unspoken agreement to go with the flow, to blend in with the passions of the people here — he pulled it onto his head, adjusting the brim low over his eyes. It helped against the glare, a little. At the very least, it gave his hair a break from getting fried and frayed, more than it already was.  

Still restless, he reached back into the tote and pulled out the one book he had brought with him on the flight out here. A slim thing, no more than 150 pages, give or take. He had read half of it on the plane, in between bouts of staring out the window, fidgeting, and drifting in and out of sleep. Since landing, though, he hadn’t read much of anything other than road signs and menus.  

He flipped it open and found his place, his eyes scanning over the same paragraph three times before the words actually registered. He slapped at an unidentifiable pest that landed on his stomach, turned the page, shifted onto his side. God, his skin already felt too hot, the heat sinking into him with an almost predatory impatience. It was starting to burn. He rummaged through his bag again, searching for some kind of relief, and came up empty-handed. Who forgets sunscreen at the beach?  

Something to read was useful, if nothing else was. A visible, obvious task, something to make his presence here feel less strange. Like he had some kind of purpose and wasn’t just drifting through someone else’s landscape.  

He abandoned it the moment a rare breeze ghosted over him, a brief mercy in the stifling heat. Better than nothing.  

He had assumed there would be more to do here, for some reason. A stupid assumption, considering he had come here to do nothing. But now, lying there, the sand clinging to his arms and the sun blurring the edges of his thoughts, he realised how little there really was.  

That’s when he saw you.  

It took a second for his brain to catch up with his eyes. A figure like you, here, alone — it didn’t quite compute. Something about it didn’t look right, or at least, didn’t fit. You seemed too cultivated, too old-fashioned for this place, like you had been plucked from a different story and dropped into this one by accident, his.  

Or maybe that was just him projecting.

You saw him staring long before he realised it.  

Maybe it was the hat, tilted just so, or the oversized blocky sunglasses that made him think you couldn’t see him nodding his head slightly, or maybe just a little bit of wishful thinking on his part — like if he moved slow enough, casual enough, his staring at you would just pass through you, unnoticed. Of course you noticed. His motion was small, barely more than a twitch of his chin, but it was there. The up-and-down, the once-over. Not leering, not obvious, just…surveying. Testing the waters, casually enough that his gaze could slip past you like sunlight through the gaps in a straw hat.  

Foolish, foolish men. 

You sat on one of the loungers, no towel like he had, legs stretched out, languid, lazy. It just so happened to be angled in his direction—more or less. 

You didn’t have a towel like he did. Just sat back on one of the loungers, stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle, comfortably at ease. Languid and lazy. The lounger just so happened to be angled in his general direction, more or less. Could be a coincidence. Could not be. Either way, it didn’t matter now. It was coincidental enough to maintain plausible deniability, but intentional enough to make things interesting.  

He was wearing striped shorts — white and blue, or green, it was hard to tell through the glare of the heat. Classic boater stripes, nonetheless. Like something torn from the pages of an old Riviera holiday catalogue. A salmon-coloured shirt lay thrown next to him, carelessly abandoned and wrinkled in the sand, like he’d shrugged it off mid-thought. And then, of course, there was the hat — the obvious one, the one that screamed yeah, I get it, I live here now, see? I belong, don’t I? — and the sunglasses that swallowed half his face. But you caught glimpses beneath them. Pieces of dark hair curling out from under the brim, damp with sweat, stuck to his forehead in the places the sun had already started working on him. 

There were a lot of older men here. The beach was full of them. Weathered, sun-baked pieces of meat, their skin burnt to the same rust color as their baggy, oversized swim trunks. Men who had spent too many years in too many places like this, drinking something cold and expensive on terraces that smelled like salt and citrus. 

He wasn’t like them. 

Slim, lean in the way that wasn’t intentionally forced but just…happened. Enough that the lines and shapes of him pressed faintly against the surface of his skin when he moved — on his arms, his forearms especially, strained just a smidge from the way he held himself up, and lower, just above the waistband of his shorts, where you caught the soft definition of his abdomen when he stretched out, ridges and valleys, catching the light just right. And a faint line of hair, an invitation, a suggestion. Dark and narrow, pointing downward, heading you to look south. 

Interesting.

He saw you look. You saw him look. He saw that you saw him look.  

He didn’t look away. Neither did you.  

How old were you? Mid-twenties? Maybe younger. Maybe older. Hard to say. Hard to tell. Hard to gauge women’s ages these days. Wouldn’t be polite to ask, even if he wanted to. That was a question he wouldn’t dare to mess with, because, regardless if he could get away with it or not, there was something inelegant about trying to pin a number to a woman like you. Some things were better left unknown.  

Love, lust, integrity, deceit.

The four horsemen of his own personal apocalypse.

A recipe for disaster or a hell of a good time, depending on how you mixed them. He was laundered by nostalgia looking at you, though he couldn’t quite put a name to the memory. Just a feeling. A sense of, hmm…before.  

He could come up to you. Could walk across the sand, close the distance, say something. Anything. He used to be good at that. Used to know what to do with himself in situations like this. But lately, the idea of committing to anything — even something as small as a conversation — felt impossible. His newly found unwillingness to put faith into things kept him anchored in place, stretched out on his towel like a relic waiting to be uncovered. And so he stayed where he was, stuck in the stillness of the moment. 

Somehow, despite the distance, despite everything — here, now — unconscious fantasy began.  

You were cast in shadow beneath your umbrella, untouched by the sun’s brutal attention. That alone made him jealous. Was it insane to think he could already taste you on his tongue? Like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of something sweet. The thought sat heavy in his mouth, something slow and melting, something indulgent. Thick like honey. 

You knew what he was thinking by the way his breathing shifted — nothing dramatic, just a change in rhythm, a fraction of a second faster, his belly rising and falling a smidge more than before but in a way that no longer matched the rest of the world. A sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. His shorts grew tighter. Barely. Just enough to notice, if you were paying attention, which you were.  

Were you perverted for wanting it? For wanting to feel the heat of his breath against you, to let his lips press against the places where the sun had burned, to cool you down in the slowest way possible with the wet drag of his mouth? Would he be hotter than the sun itself?  

Reality bent.

The two of you were in your own realm. The sand, the sky, the waves…Get gone! You were in a private orbit. A closed circuit humming.

You waved your fingers at him, a flick of your hand, casual, easy. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you moved your features. He saw it, registered it, but wasn’t sure how to interpret it — was it a greeting? A beckon? A tease? You spoke to him without a single word, through the minute shifts in your expression, through the way your lips twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Just…something. Too subtle for most, but not for him. 

Okay, maybe for him too, because you did it so subtly that you got him doubting himself and wondering if he was imagining things.  

He got flustered. You could see it, the way he stiffened, then tried to cover it up, shifting where he lay as if adjusting for comfort. His fingers twitched briefly at his side, digging lightly into the towel beneath him. He was trying to follow along, trying to make sense of whatever was happening between you, trying to grasp at some solid ground in the shifting, unpredictable landscape you’d laid out for him. 

Any glitch in the usual order of things, any deviation from the expected social script, tended to make people uneasy. Knock them off balance. And he was off balance, no doubt about it. 

But it made you amused.  

Even the barest touch — a glancing brush at his elbow, a whisper of a squeeze on his arm — could short-circuit any lingering wariness right out of him. But you didn’t even need to touch him. You did it with your eyes. A look with just enough weight to it, enough gravity, and suddenly, just like that, he was newly suggestible, eager to find steady footing in whatever story you were about to offer him.  

You had come to learn that men, as it turned out, did not mind being approached by a young woman — at least, not usually. And he certainly didn’t. He wasn’t the type to second-guess a situation like this, wasn’t immediately suspicious of your motives, didn’t consider that anything about this moment might be murky or unclear. His own vanity — whether he acknowledged it or not — likely allowed for the possibility that you had simply been drawn to him, swept in by the sheer force of his…his everything.  

He leaned back on the towel, stretching out like some chiseled, sun-drenched idol, relaxed but still thrumming with something like anticipation beneath his carefully nonchalant exterior. He was watching you approach, watching the way you moved, the way your gaze didn’t waver and you let him see the hunger in your eyes. He liked that. It was irresistible.  

Your imperturbability impressed the hell out of him.  

“Hot out here,” he said, voice slow, low, a little lazy. “isn’t it?”  

How many times had he already said that today? A useless thing to say, obviously, a space-filler meant to keep his mouth moving while the rest of him tried to figure you out.  

“Very exciting, right?” You humored him, dryly amused.  

He laughed, soft, breathy. “Oh, yes.”  

Always interesting, this moment of possibility, this moment right before things changed. You smiled at him without looking away, despite the fact that his own smile shone brighter than the sun itself — and now you really suspected he’d be hotter than it too.  

That was often all it took. 

“You’re in trouble, sir.” you teased, tilting your head to let the words drip slow and sweet from your tongue.  

He played into it easily. “Am I?” He had nothing more to lose.  

And then — his skin. He noticed it when you touched him. And then, the moment broke — just a smidge — when he noticed, fuck, my skin hurts. A sharp sting ghosted over him when you touched a spot. You grabbed his poor, sunburnt shoulder and it screamed at him. He tried not to flinch. He kept his mouth shut.  

“No swimming, or…laying, without sunscreen. Don’t you know?”  

He exhaled a laugh, twiddling grains of sand between his fingers. He avoided eye contact at times, for a second here and there, which only made you crave it more — to see those dark lashes flutter beneath his dark lenses, to make him look at you and stay there.  

“Forgot it in my car.” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “Too eager to get out here ‘n all. You have any?”  

“As it just so happened,” you said, “I ran out.” Then, without much thought, you planted your hands on either side of him, leaning over slightly. He felt the heat of your skin through there and its effect through the thin fabric of his shorts. “I could ask around for some.” you offered. 

He took a quick gander around, scanning the beach — mostly strangers, half of them probably carrying what he needed, but none of them nearly as interesting as you.  

“Let’s actually go to my car,” he suggested, “if you don’t mind.” Then he glanced up for you to catch the look in his eyes through the slant of his sunglasses.  

You nodded. He nodded.  

That was that.  

Without much else to say, he shoved his things into his bag, slung his shirt over his shoulder, then the tote, keeping the fabric pinned under the strap so it wouldn’t fly away in the occasional breeze.  

You followed him through the sand, your feet sinking slightly with every step, then onto the hot concrete of the parking lot. The sun-baked ground burned the soles of your feet, but you didn’t make a sound. Not yet, anyway. 

The parking lot was quiet. Empty, almost. 

He pushed open the door to his car while you lingered outside, waiting, watching him. Nice vehicle he’s got. Nice ass, too.  

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t think…” He trailed off as he swept his arm across the passenger seat, clearing it like some flustered host who hadn’t expected company. A handful of empty plastic water bottles crinkled under his grip as he tossed them into the backseat.

You leaned against the frame of the car, stretching your arms above your head for the hell of it, feeling the way the heat rolled off the pavement and onto your skin. The inside of his car, though, was blissfully cool — the air conditioner humming lured you in. A promising relief. And you both knew where this was going. Might as well get on with it.  

“Wanna fix me in your car?” you mused. The hunger hurt somewhere low in your belly, too insistent to ignore. You were past the point of subtlety. “Mister mechanic…”  

Alex glanced at you, brow slightly lifted, a slow grin curling at the corner of his lips. “You want me to, huh?”  

Was he attractive? Attractive enough, you thought. Maybe more than that, considering the way you shifted on your feet, the way your tongue darted out to wet your lips without thinking and how your fingers brushed against your collarbone absentmindedly. He noticed everything.  

“Sure, I have time.” you giggled, and he gave you a once-over.  

Twice-over.  

And another one.  

“You’re legal, right?” he asked.  

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Do I look like-”  

“Just making sure, honey.” he cut in, that teasing drawl back in his voice. “Can never be too safe, can you?”  

He could see it written all over your face, the deep longing to touch, to taste, to claim every inch of him. And he let you see his, too.  

You grinned at him, stepping just a little closer. “Not too safe.” you agreed, your voice dropping just slightly.  

He slid into the passenger seat, adjusting himself. You climbed in after him, your legs draped over his, your body folding into place. A moment later, he was rolling the seat back as far as it would go, his bare back pressing against the warm leather with a quiet hiss of discomfort. He almost wished he had it now, his shirt, except he didn’t, not really. Not when you were here, caging him in with the heat of your skin.  

The door shut behind you. No one in, no one out.  

The tinted windows kept the sun from pouring in, and in turn kept the two of you hidden from the world. He felt you up and you felt him down, his hands gripping your waist, thumbs pressing lightly into the curve of your hip bones. You turned, reaching for the air-con dials, twisting them cooler. Because God, things were bound to get hot in here.  

His fingers traced the hem of your swimsuit, then tugged at the ties, fumbling slightly in his impatience, like he wanted to take his time but didn’t want to waste it. His hands were warm, a little rough, and when he finally moved them lower, you gasped, the sound soft, barely there.  

The first press of his fingers startled you, but it was good — good enough to make you move against his hand, chasing the feeling. His lips parted slightly, eyes flicking up to yours. 

“You’re all wet.” he murmured.  

You leaned in, let your skin slide against his, the sheen of sweat on his chest meeting yours. “You’re all sweaty.” you countered, voice light, teasing, even though the fact was only making you more aware of him.  

You reached up and ruffled his hair. He softened instantly beneath your touch, eyes fluttering briefly closed. The gesture was so simple, so genuine, that it caught him off guard. He knew, in that moment, that he was yours for the taking.  

And you took.  

His hand moved over you, mapping you out, learning you. You gasped when he found the right spot, and his smirk deepened, pleased with himself. The movement continued both on the outside and on the inside. His fingers flexed, pressed deeper, worked against the rhythm of your hips. He moved with intention and instinct. His free hand drifted up, found your chest, pushed the fabric of your swimsuit aside. He grabbed a boob, pinched the special spot. You gasped again, jerking against his touch.

“Booze doesn’t grow your bones.” you mused, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “Or your boner. Did you know that?”  

A breathy chuckle, laced with arousal. “Nope, it doesn’t.”  

“Have you been drinking?” You played with his hair, twisting small sections between your fingers, tugging just slightly.  

His hands faltered for the briefest moment before resuming. He hesitated, then whispered, “Maybe.”  

You pulled away just enough to watch his expression, sliding lower between his parted legs. He widened them instinctively, a response as old as time.  

“Maybe?” you echoed, eyebrows raised.  

He swallowed, shaking his head slightly. “No, no- I don’t know why I said that.” he admitted quickly with a quiet laugh, more at himself than anything. “I haven’t. I’m driving.” He gestured vaguely to the car, as if to say duh.  

Fair point.  

Your hair was already up, pinned back with a clip he hadn’t even noticed before, but now? Now, he was grateful for it. Less work for him. Less distractions. He had nothing else to hold up but himself — whatever that meant these days.  

You ran your hands slowly up his thighs. The hair on his legs stood up, prickling against your fingertips as you went up, from the sharp angles of his knees to the hem of his shorts, dragging your nails lightly through the soft, sparse strands before slipping just a little farther, your fingers teasing at the edge of his waistband. The contrast was intoxicating — soft there, warm and damp with heat everywhere else.

His breath stuttered for just a second. Barely noticeable. You noticed.  

Drifting higher, you felt it — hard, twitching beneath the thin fabric. He was already straining against the material, barely containing him. You pressed your palm flat against him, feeling the rigid length beneath your touch, the way he twitched again at even the lightest pressure.  

You tilted your head. “Are you nervous?”  

Another slow, teasing stroke over his shorts, feeling the heat of him. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his voice came out quieter than before.  

“Maybe.”

His cock gave another twitch.

“You are nervous.” you teased, voice just above a whisper, dipping your head closer, letting your breath ghost over his skin.

Alex let out a quiet, shaky laugh, but there was no real amusement in it — just anticipation, tension wound so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t already come apart at the seams.

“Yeah, yeah…maybe.” 

His hips shifted beneath you, an instinctual, seeking movement. You felt the shape of him more clearly now, the way he throbbed, begging for relief. You hummed, dragging your nails lightly up his thighs again, just to feel the way he twitched in response.

“Maybe…” you echoed, letting your fingers slip inside. “We should do something about that.”

You followed that up by pulling his shorts down, fingers brushing the warmth of his skin as you exposed him. And — damn. It wasn’t just the size of him that caught your attention, though yeah, that was impressive. It was how he twitched in your hand, like he was waving hello or something, how he pulsed against your palm like he had his own heartbeat, he was as eager for this as you were.  

“Jesus…” you muttered under your breath, giving him a testing squeeze, eyes still glued to the way he filled your hand, the way his cock sat heavy and full, almost impossibly so. “Look at the size of that thing.”  

Alex let out this breathy little laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, shifting slightly, adjusting himself in his seat like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put his hands now.  

You let go just to watch it bounce up against his stomach, stiff and so ready. His body had made up its mind before his brain even had a chance to catch up. “Means your dick’s big.” you said, not even pretending to be shy about it. He was so hard, it made your mouth water. 

He grinned, resting his head back against the seat and giving you an almost appreciative look. “Too big?” he asked, his voice dropping a little, wishing you would say it, to confirm his own sense of self-importance. 

You bit your lip, fingers trailing along the length of him. “Not too big. Just right.”  

“Good, good. Would hate to disappoint.”  

You grinned, wrapping your fingers around him properly this time. “Yeah,” you mused, “don’t think that’s gonna be a problem, baby.” You leaned forward, lips brushing over him, a soft touch at first, just enough to make him shiver.

His hands stayed planted by his sides, he was giving himself to you fully. There was no guard in his posture, no effort to hide his eagerness. His jaw tightened, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he let you do whatever you wanted. His legs spread slightly, daring you to do more, take that next step, whatever that next step might be. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his body practically burning under your touch. You couldn’t help but look up at him through your lashes, letting that connection linger for a moment longer than necessary. 

“Go ahead.” he said, “Show me what you want to do with me.”

Still gripping nothing but the hot leather of the seat, he was patient, but as your mouth worked him over, he started to falter. His breath hitched, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he bit his lip. Holding back was something he had trained himself to do. His knuckles went white against the upholstery when you took him down again and his thighs tensed when you swallowed around him.

You sucked him however you wanted, and that was deep and slow. He tasted like sweat, and sweat had never tasted better than in this moment. You weren’t in any rush. You took your time, savouring the weight of him in your mouth, the way the tip of him pulsed. He was leaking somewhere in the back of your throat, faint and warm, and you knew, just knew, he was fighting a losing battle. He was struggling not to let out too many sounds. His lip was caught between his teeth. Every once in a while, the smallest sound would slip past his lips — half a groan, half a whimper, barely there, but enough to make your core tighten in response.  

You could feel him getting close from the way he was swelling inside your mouth, how his hips started to lift ever so slightly, like he was trying not to fuck into the heat of you. And in an embarrassingly short amount of time — which he was painfully aware of — he reached his limit. 

“Shit-” he ground out, brows furrowing as he pushed at your shoulder, pulling you off him before he could lose it completely. 

Your lips left him with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva still connecting you for a second before it broke. His cock slipped, flushed, slick, still twitching against his stomach as he tried to regain some semblance of control. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, watching him as he exhaled sharply, running a shaky hand through his damp hair. His head fell back against the seat, chest rising and falling, a dazed expression overtaking his face as he exhaled hard through his nose. His sunglasses had slid down a little, and through the gap between them and his flushed cheeks, you could see his eyes — dark, blown-out, watching you like he was trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened to him.

“Fuck.”

He squeezed himself at the base, groaning softly as he tried to regain control, blinking down at you.  

“Are you okay, uh…?” You didn’t even ask for his name, you now realised.   

“Alex.” A bit late, considering you’d both been familiarised with each other’s bits already, but better late than never. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. You’re…you’re very good at that.”  

“I’ve been told.” You soothed the poor guy by rubbing his thighs, still warm under your palms, still trembling just a smidge. He was stroking himself, or more like squeezing the fuck out of his dick so he didn’t come on the spot.  

“Have you?” he asked, breathless. You nodded. “I’m not surprised, hun.” 

“I don’t think you were ready for this.” you whispered.  

He smirked wider. “I think I’ll survive.” 

The next move was obvious.

You were back to having him in your mouth, lips stretching around him, your tongue gliding over every inch with an unhurried sort of devotion. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists against the seat like he was fighting the instinct to grab onto you, to guide you deeper, but he didn’t. He let you have control, let you take him the way you wanted.  

Despite his best efforts — his held breath, his bitten lip, his quiet curses muttered into the humid air — Alex still finished inside your mouth. A shudder rolled up his spine as his cock pulsed against your tongue. You felt him unravel, tasted the salt of him as you swallowed.  

You didn’t stop.  

You kept your lips wrapped around the flushed, sensitive tip, swirling your tongue in lazy circles, coaxing the aftershocks from him. His stomach tensed, a strained noise escaping the back of his throat. It was almost too much.  

Almost.  

But this was like your own scoop of ice cream. Just like one, it started dripping, and you didn’t seem in any rush to pull away. You licked a slow stripe up his length, dragging the flat of your tongue across the underside. 

When you looked up, you saw Alex watching you.  

“Is it too much? Do you want me to stop?”

Did he?  

He didn’t seem too concerned either way, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hand running absently over his stomach, smearing the sheen of sweat that had gathered there. He exhaled through his nose, blinking down at you.  

“I’m…it’s fine.” he said. His hand drifted lazily to his cock, giving it a slow stroke, seeing just how much he had left in him. “I’m still hard, if you wanna…”

His words trailed off, but his meaning was obvious.  

You lifted a brow. “How was the blowjob?”

Alex let out a breathless laugh, rubbing his thumb over his swollen tip. “Come sit on me?” 

He’d just discovered he wanted something more and wasn’t sure how to ask for it. You stretched up, wiping the traces of spit and everything else from your face, smirking when you saw the way his eyes followed your every movement. He was rubbing his crotch with one hand, the other gathering the strands of your hair that had fallen loose in the heat of it all. Somewhere in the middle of this, he’d found a confidence he hadn’t had before, something in him clicking into place. Maybe it was the way you looked at him. 

Or maybe it was just the fact that he wanted more.  

“Please?”

You didn’t hesitate any longer. Why would you? The heat between you had already sunk deep into your bones, made a home in the space between your breaths, in the places where your skin had already met his. This was inevitable.  

Alex was still holding himself, fingers wrapped tight around his own restraint, and it made you smile. A man like him, all sharp wit and careless charm, reduced to this — gritting his teeth like he was afraid he’d spill again before you even got to the good part.  

“You sure about that?” you teased. “You’re looking a little…overwhelmed.”

“Get on top of it. You think I can’t handle you?”

“I think,” you leaned in close, lips brushing the corner of his jaw as your hand ghosted up his stomach, fingers tracing the sweat-damp lines of muscle, “you’re holding back.”

And you were right. His whole body was humming with it, with that careful self-control, with the way he was teetering on the edge, trying so fucking hard not to let go just yet.  

But you weren’t interested in patience.  

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his length, prying his own fingers away from the base. He let you. Let you take over, let you guide the next move, let his head tip back against the seat with a deep, shuddering breath when you pressed him against the heat between your legs.  

His hands finally found your hips, fingers digging in like he needed something to anchor himself to. “Jesus.” he muttered.  

“Shh…” you soothed, pressing a finger against his lips, watching as his eyes darkened, as his tongue flicked out to taste your fingertip, as his resolve finally started to crack. “You’re all sticky.”

“Instead of sticky, how about…” He swallowed, exhaling sharply through his nose because he trying really hard to act normal about this. 

“Lubed up?” you offered.  

“Greased up.” he corrected. “I’m a well-oiled machine.”

You snorted, pressing your palms into his shoulders as you shifted, feeling the way his fingers tightened on your thighs. “Is that what they used to tell you in your prime, old man?”

“Sorry?” His eyes flicked open fully, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. “I’m very much in my prime, sweetheart. I got plenty left in the tank. You wanna test that theory?”

“Already am.” you shot back, rolling your hips. 

Alex wished he would have kept his hands to himself. If he touched you more, he might beg. His fingers twitched against your thighs, aching to grab hold, to squeeze, to pull you closer. He chewed his tongue until it swelled, swallowing down every word before it could betray him.  

You rode him slowly at first, moving your hips, adjusting to the tight space, feeling every inch of him stretching you, filling you. His head hit the back of the seat with a soft thud, his jaw going slack, a broken curse escaping his lips as you took him all the way in, again and again. He bit your shoulder mid-thrust, a desperate attempt to muffle the groan that built in his throat. You felt the warmth of his mouth, the sharpness of his teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark. He pulled out slow, teasing, before pushing back in just to hear you gasp, just to feel you tighten around him.  

The pace didn’t last.  

It never did.  

It was slow until it wasn’t, until you were colliding aggressively, until the small space around you was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breathy moans and quiet curses. The car rocked with your movements, the air thick and humid, sticking to your skin, making everything feel even more desperate.  

Vehement shivers ran through your bodies, waves of pleasure cresting higher and higher, building into something unbearable, something that neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

“Jesus- fuck, okay, wait, wait-”

Alex’s voice broke around the words, hands flexing uselessly on your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or pull you down harder. His cock twitched inside you, and the way his face was screwed up in something dangerously close to defeat had you grinning.  

“Wait?” You rolled your hips deliberately slow, just to make him squirm, to watch the way his brows furrowed and his mouth parted like he was about to say something but forgot how to form words. “For what, exactly?”

“For me to process what the fuck is happening.” he groaned, blinking up at you with those hazy eyes, half-lidded and barely holding onto focus. “Jesus Christ, you- I don’t even-”  

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Spit it out, honey.”

Alex exhaled, his breath stuttering when you clenched around him. “You’re evil.”

You grinned. “And you’re still hard.”

“Yeah, no shit, you’re on top of me.” he shot back, then sucked in a sharp breath as you lifted yourself up and sank back down with purpose, making him jolt beneath you. “Oh, fuck- okay, okay, shit, I take it back- you’re, uh, really fucking nice, actually.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, so nice.” His voice cracked, and he let out a choked laugh while his brain was busy going back and forth between God, this is amazing and Holy fuck, I’m gonna die here.  

“You look like you’re struggling a bit, mister well-oiled machine.” You dragged your nails lightly over his chest.  

“I’m not struggling. I’m- I’m just, uh- managing expectations.”  

You cocked your head. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause, uh-” He swallowed thickly, then grinned, lopsided and cocky but nervous all the same. “If you keep that up, I’m gonna embarrass myself real quick, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? That a promise?”

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath before tipping his head forward, pressing his forehead against your collarbone as you moved quicker.  

“You are evil.” he groaned.  

“Shut up and touch me.” you told him.  

He snuck a hand between you and cupped you, fingers pressing in, he already knew how you wanted it. “Here, baby?”

“Yeah, baby.” you teased, lips curling at the way his breath caught.  

He knew where to touch anyway. He wasn’t married for nothing. His fingers found the spot, rubbing slow and nice, testing, adjusting to the sounds you made. You clenched around him, and his hips jerked up too.  

“That’s good.” you let him know.  

“Yeah? You gonna come? Make a mess on me?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The rhythm got messy, all desperation and no restraint, and Alex wasn’t even trying to hold back anymore. His breath hitched, then turned into these low, wrecked noises against your shoulder, muttering, “Shit- fuck- yeah, yeah, just like that, baby, just like that.” His words came out choked, like he was talking more to himself than to you, like he couldn’t believe how good this felt.  

His fingers dug into your ass, gripping tight, probably leaving marks — not that you minded. He thrust up, almost frantic now, like he was chasing something he was barely holding onto. And then you clenched around him, hard, squeezing him in just the right way, and that was it.  

“Ah- fuck.” he groaned, voice cracking somewhere in the middle, his whole body shuddering beneath you. His hips stuttered, jerking up one last time as he finally lost it, falling apart completely.

He stayed inside you after, cum running out of you and sweat running down the both of you. Breathing heavily, his forehead rested against yours, like he needed a second to come back to earth, just like you did. Everything was connected. Your breaths, your purposes, your spirits. The more present you were, the more you understood that…there was something so sacrilegious about pounding.  

“You have any tissues in here?” you asked.  

Alex let out a breathy, almost disbelieving chuckle, his hands smoothing over your thighs. “I don’t even care if we’re making a mess in here. That was- Jesus.” His head tipped back against the seat, chest still rising and falling, skin still sticking to the leather in a way that made him grimace slightly. “Fucking hell.”

You smirked, rolling your hips just a fraction, feeling him still inside you, still thick, twitching slightly even in his post-orgasm haze. His hands gripped your waist on instinct, a breath whistling through his teeth.

“Fuck- don’t do that, unless you wanna go again.” he warned, though it didn’t sound he was entirely against the idea.

You just hummed, stretching lazily, making a show of reaching for the little strap of your bikini top that had slid off your shoulder. His eyes tracked the movement, dark and greedy despite the fucked-out exhaustion creeping over his face.

“You’re still inside me, y’know.” you murmured, tilting your head, watching for his reaction.

Alex blinked, then gave you this slow, lopsided grin, hands flexing slightly where they rested on your hips. “Yeah.” he rasped, voice rougher now, like he’d been talking too much, or maybe just moaning too much. “I noticed.”

“You really don’t have any tissues?” you asked, giving him a look.

His grin faltered. “Shit.” he muttered, suddenly looking a little more awake. “Yeah, I think. I mean- I thought I did, but- fuck.” He groaned, glancing around like he could manifest some out of thin air. “Can’t you just like, uh, pull this little thing back over?” He nodded towards your bikini bottoms, his voice a little hopeful.  

You stared at him. “Unbelievable. That’s your solution? Just trap it in there?”

He grinned, completely unashamed. “What, you’ve never done that before?”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “Fucking men.”

“Hey, don’t act like it’s not a solid backup plan.” he argued, still grinning. “I mean, what else are we gonna do? Air dry?”

“I could air dry. You, on the other hand…” You reached between you, brushing over the mess still leaking out of you, and dragged your fingers down his stomach.  

“Fuck, warn a guy next time.”

You smirked, licking the remnants of your touch off your fingers. “Mm. Salty.”

“God.” he groaned, letting his head fall back dramatically. “You’re the type to ruin a man’s life, aren’t you?”

You just smirked. “You wish I’d ruin your life.”

He huffed. “I might.” Then, more to himself, he muttered, “I definitely should’ve cleaned my car before this.” Alex let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand over his face.

“You didn’t think you’d be getting laid in here today?”

“Not really.” he snorted. “I didn’t think I’d be getting wrecked in here today.” he corrected himself, glancing down at where you still straddled him before meeting your gaze again. He let out another breathless laugh. “Fuck, I’m not even embarrassed to tell you any of this.”

“You should be.”

“Yeah, well.” He grinned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Too late for that.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “Okay, but seriously, you don’t have anything to clean up with?”

“Uh…hold on.” He reached over, fumbling around in the center console. “I got, like fuckin’…napkins from a drive-thru, maybe?” He pulled out a crumpled stack and held them up with a triumphant little smirk. “Jackpot.” You raised a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it. These things are practically currency.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, shifting off of him with a wince and using one to clean yourself up while he tucked himself back into his shorts. He groaned softly, resting back against the seat, still looking at you like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.  

“I’ve never had sex in a car before.”

You blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “Seriously?”

He lifted his head, giving you an amused look. “Why do you sound so shocked?”

“I mean, look at you.” you said, gesturing vaguely to his still-flushed skin, the way he was sprawled out like he’d just had the life fucked out of him. “You had me fooled.”

He laughed, warm and breathy. “Guess I’m a natural, huh?”

“You…kept up. I’ll give you that.”

“Kept up?” he repeated, scoffing. “Sweetheart, I did more than keep up-”

“Mhmm.” 

“That was amazing. Fuck.” He looked you over again. “I should’ve had car sex way sooner.”

“You needed me to show you how it’s done.” 

“Mhm…you know, I’m subscribing to the notion that the most unpredictable or unlikely moments are probably the most entertaining.” he said. 

“Big dick, big words.” you joked, but there was a softness in your voice, a playful lilt that told him you weren’t brushing it off entirely.  

And he felt good. Wrecked, sure, like he’d just been steamrolled in the best possible way, but beneath that, something deeper had settled in his chest. Like a window had been cracked open inside him, letting in some fresh air he hadn’t even realised he needed. He looked at you, taking you in, the way you stretched, rolling your shoulders, lazily adjusting your bikini like nothing had happened and you hadn’t just pulled him apart and put him back together again from a simple look. 

He didn’t know what to do with that yet. But fuck, he liked it.

The afternoon would be no more than a ripple in the tide of pleasure that awaited him, a hazy memory soaked in sweat and sun and the lingering press of your hands. But still — it would be something. Something carved into the space between one breath and the next, something he could feel in the ache of his muscles, the rawness of his throat. 

A small hiccup.

But wasn’t that where the real fun lived? In the fleeting, the unplanned, the moments that slipped through your fingers even as they left their mark?

a/n: Inspired by this ask. Don’t wanna talk about it. I think I was borderline asleep when I wrote the second half of it and it’s…I don’t know, feels kinda half-assed, but I can’t be bothered to fix it. I like the start though. Anyway, bye.

[darbonime]

the shame of being himself

contains: college alex, selfharm and no reader, just him. hope everyone will stay untriggered by the topic.

word count: 1.1k.

His fingers tremble but he can’t do the first cut. It’s always the first that he struggles to do. Tears embarrassingly sting on his dry skin, feels like it tightens around the skull – a common feeling. Alex holds a stationary knife, very tight, he hesitates – it’s unnatural for a human being hurt by themselves. The sharp tip is against the soft sensitive skin, scars on him are always very noticeable and the choice to deal with difficulties this way is not the best. It’s not the best anyway, no matter the skin sensitivity, that’s what people say – Alex doesn’t care as long it helps. It’s going to heal anyway. He isn’t a fool – there’s should be the end of it. They, the cuts, raised with him, from light ones they became the violent ones, merciless. An addiction.

Faint scars hide underneath the plain jumpers or Adidas windbreakers as everything stays unsaid, a pocketful of secrets and regrets. His friends are amusement, they don’t talk about those kinds of things, it’s a shame for a man to be a crybaby like him. But Alex sobs, very quietly lets out only not loud sounds – to free emotions but don’t wake anyone.

The things he said, or didn’t say, the stupid joke of a friend about him, the way no one sees. Never sees. The things he could do better, the things he messed up, the things he can’t do, the things others can do but not him. He wonders what he could’ve done wrong in that life or previous. Sometimes he looks up to whispery ask “God, why?” There’s no God but Alex wants to reach out for anyone. There’s no anyone. It’s only him. No one else.

The blade goes into skin, hesitantly but harsh and quick – Alex doesn’t pity himself, that pain is well-deserved. He takes a breath, a shuddering one, wipes the single salt tear on the cheek. His disheveled hair from hour of mourning starts to stick to the forehead, and blanket pulled around the legs starts feeling hot and annoying, the t-shirt clings to the body and room narrows on him, the borders of things around him get blurry.

Taking a leap, it dissolves all emotions. Alex feels like an empty package from some toy. The hatred and torture leaked into cut on the wrist not leaving for him anything but blank mind. Voices are silent in his head, cuts euthanize them, they go to the void. There’s no “Want to drink water” or “I’m tired.” The moment is quick, could have no sense or any importance, like a chore, but cuts will remind him of themselves for a few days, giving him the thoughts to think in the middle of the day or after classes on the bus.

His arm is trembling, and blood starts to slowly appear in the place where skin was damaged by him, but it’s not the end. He goes underwater, goes deeper, presses the blade with loathing. Alex cuts again. And again. And again, until stationery knife doesn’t fall on the bedsheets naturally. He shivers as if being splashed into cold water, but it’s only common aftershocks. Alex wants to cry out from pain, physical and emotional.

Night light falls onto his act, looks almost cinematic. Blood appears on every of the cuts, gradually, but then it will look like water droplets on the spiderweb, until they get dry, and he wipes them – it will look wretched. The morning will start with disgust to himself and exhaustion from waking up again, the haunting disappointment when cuts will rub against the fabric during the day. The shame of not having other ways to have emotional release, the shame for being himself and not someone who is much easier. This time is going to be the last one, he says to himself after every time to end up doing the same.

Alex leans on the wall, breaths, and closes eyes as if to get back on the course. It’s stuffy and late, he feels fatigue crashes over him, the cuts sting and he knows they will until he gets used to it as always. His shaky hand puts the stationery knife back on its place – bedside table drawer, always at hand, but hidden under the book. Just in case.

“Should put on me hoodie…” Alex mumbles to himself to awake after kind of trance, to understand that life is going to continue, and he should do something about it. Now, put his hoodie on. His voice sounds fervent and raspy as if he was having a high temperature. The carefulness is important – he doesn’t want to know how his friends might react when one of them will come wake him up, because he oversleeps as always. The more important he doesn’t want any of them to see nor react. Alex doesn’t know how he would react if he saw the cuts on the wrist of a friend. Probably, he would feel guilty, for not noticing. The thought of someone going through the same as him made his heart squeeze sufferingly, it doesn’t feel right. They aren’t him to deserve it.

Getting up, he feels weak, but it’s only lack of sleep, it’s really time to rest. Limbs have a numbing feeling in them, as do have legs. Alex slips into an old hoodie, warmth spreads over body, giving a sense of comfort and safety. He stops to look outside the window – usual way of things. Not really winter but not exactly spring, he only hopes for a warming sun tomorrow and a coffee with sugar. After wintertime makes him feel almost human and reminds him that things weren’t or won’t be that way constantly. It might get better, Alex wants to believe. Night sky is deep, and he wishes to find the star he always searches for between buildings when he looks out of the window at nights – it doesn’t seem to be here – it’s okay.  He heavily sighs.

When a blanket envelops him, for a second, he feels like a child back in careless time. No thoughts, the head is pleasingly quiet but somewhere in the back Alex knows it’s not as good as he thinks it is. People should have emotions and should feel, lamentable as it is. He drifts off, and next day he will wake up to the cruel sensation of cuts, need to get up and a necessity he can’t escape to face his own dramatization. Eyelids get shut and eyelashes innocently rest down, they are slightly wet. Curling around himself, his body disappears into desirable dreamless slumber, his previous rugged breath is finally peacefully calm. Sleep well, Alex.

a/n: not a proper fic... more of a personal thing that i wrote in the moment at night. decided not to choose a second picture ugh yeah.

masterlist

[darbonime]

such a bless to read your fics

baby, it's been nice

so many words in one glance

warnings: smut, blowie, piv, angstish, some affairing...

word count: 4k

You got on the bus and the skies grew dark. When the bus had stalled between the Dockhead and Boss stops, the storm broke and showered down against the bus’s windows, adding a jolt to the ride. Passengers pressed in from the rain, forcing you into the middle of the bus. You felt for a handle before the bus took off again and that’s when you first spotted him.

He stood out amongst the flurry of people because he was the only one who wasn’t wet. He must have hopped on before the rain fully broke. You feel down at your wet shirt, the nice white shirt not made for the early summer rain. 

His eyes found yours and engaged in a duel. He broke it to look down at your hands turning to pat away the wetness on your shirt. He couldn’t escape the way you touched yourself against the slight sheerness unveiling what lies underneath.

Outside, the veritable downpour clashed on. As you approached the Tower stop, you pushed yourself closer to the door, hoping the crowd wouldn’t swallow you up. You exited out and stood under the overpass to wait out the rain. 

He too had gotten off and was standing there. You looked. And he was looking too. 

The air was cold and you pulled on your jacket. You saw him smiling and you smiled back at him. Then, you noticed you pulled on your jacket over your bag and he was smiling at that, not you. You felt stupid and straightened yourself out to wait some more.

And then the rain halted, but before you could move, you looked over at him again, and he was looking back. 

He responded by setting off in the same direction as you. He kept in step and joined you in smiling at the ground. “Shall we get a coffee?” He asked.

“Yes,” you told him. There was no other possibility. 

He questioned how people would look at the two of you. How young you were compared to him. How old were you anyway?

You took your coffee black because it felt childish to ask for heaping amounts of sugar, even if he had milk in his coffee. You felt heavy under his eyes. You wanted to impress him and be deemed worthy by him.

He thought to himself, it’ll be a simple chat and go situation, there’s no need to go deeper. 

But nothing can ever be simple like that. The sun shines through the window onto your face and you lean forward, cupping your face in your hands, staring at him so delicately he’s almost afraid to move, to breathe. Your gaze is light and pure and he’s terrified to be the one to rupture it by pulling away. You’re the rainbow after the storm. Now, he’s just getting cheesy.

He leans closer, his elbows on the table, the only thing other than your cups of coffee separating you two. “Were you heading home from work?”

“School,” you correct. “I’m getting my MA in cultural history, specifically contemporary history.” Your voice is smooth. Will you be smooth all over? “You?”

“A writer.” Even he feels pretentious when he says it.

“Anything I would know?”

He shakes his head.

You’re convinced he thinks you’re dumb.

He’s been sitting too tall on his horse. He didn’t even go to university and yet he’s been looking down upon you for appearing to be younger. “How old are you?”

You giggle. “You aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

*

You walk out onto the street together. He tells himself to leave it there and to be left with the taste of a nice cup of coffee and the memory of that beaming smile. “It was nice talking with you,” he tells you.

He nods and you walk off one way and he walks off the other. You walk to the streetlight before stopping. You feel the pain in the tips of your fingers and you can’t help but feel like you said something wrong. Cars splash in puddles, the hiss of wet tires on asphalt, and street lights change for pedestrians to cross but you hesitate. You don’t want to go anywhere without him. He nodded his head and had said that it was nice talking to you but clearly it wasn’t that nice or else you would’ve stayed.

Then, behind you, you heard him, “Or do you, maybe, want to spend the night together?”

You walk toward his place. It’s funny, he doesn’t live far from you and you’ve probably rode the same bus together before, but before today you had never noticed one another. You cross under a weeping beech and he comments, “Funny hairdo on that one.” And you’re grinning violently, grinning constantly with no change.

You hike up the stairs to his place and stand back while he unlocks the door. His keyring is organized with only a few keys on it and one keychain. You’ve never seen anyone else’s like that. It’s so stark and plain. You almost say something, but then he opens the door.

“I’ve been living here for a while,” he says. He’s just up the road from you and yet you’ve never seen him before. That can’t be right.

The place is clustered with paintings and photographs, although none seem personal. He leads you through to the kitchen. In the sink, there’s a saucepan. The breakfast fixtures are still lying out on the counters. Eggshells, the dirtied plates, and a glass. There’s a window behind the sink that shows the backyard. “There’s no trees out there but I swear every day a bird comes by and sings away. I don’t know what possesses her.” He believes wholeheartedly that this bird sings just for him.

He points down the hallway. “Bedroom is back there.” He has no reason to tell you this or guide you to where everything is. Maybe it’s the polite thing to do, but it also feels explicit like he’s suggesting something by pointing his finger there.

Through a wide archway, he walks you into the living room. There’s a grey rug on the floor to match the dark couch that sits on top of it. You’re standing in the archway, leaning up against it. He will remember exactly how you look there. 

There’s a stack of books on the floor beside his bookshelf. They’re the ones that don’t fit, forcing him to either get rid of some books or get a new shelf. You walk over and bend down to examine them. He wonders if this is research for a school project. “Do you want some wine?”

You look back at him, your hair tossing behind your shoulder. “Sure.” You say it in such a cutesy way. You lift a shoulder like you're doing a dance for him. One shift of your shoulder and you’re sending him back into the stratosphere. 

While he’s in the kitchen, you look at the spines on the bookshelf. You trace your finger over his collection. He’s got postcards leaning against the books and photographs pinned to the shelving. Some he is in, but most he isn’t. They’re of what you assume are friends. There’s one of George Harrison winking, tapped to the side of the shelf. There’s one of a woman smiling. It seems likely that Alex took this photo and this woman was smiling at him but now, through the immortal ability of a photograph, the smile is now toward you.

Behind you, there’s the clashing of two glasses against one another, two in one of his hands, a bottle in the other. “Some music?” He asks while crossing the living room. 

“Yes,” you say, following him.

The sound of the needle in the grooves of the disc sounds through the room. He turns the knob on the player to make sure the sound is perfect. All this time gives you a chance to take him in. His shoulders are narrow, almost curving in. His moves are gangly, and from behind, he could almost give the appearance of a teenager if not for the way he dressed. His slacks and fabric of his shirt are too proper and fancy for any teenage boy. His hair is too fluffy and trimmed for any careless young boy.

When he turns and walks toward you, he is grown once more. The lines that have been traced on him by age. The modest amount of stubble that barely appears. The gleam from the chain around his neck catches your eyes and he sits on the armchair beside the couch.

He waits for the music to start before touching his glass. He nods toward you and lifts his glass as if to cheers you, although you’ve already taken a sip from yours. He smiles slowly as you avert your eyes, too prone to blushing.

*

He’s been to this restaurant before. The waiter knows him and set you two up at a table in the back. You’re face to face with Alex now and a great happiness—the feeling of the unknown and whatever is on the horizon—overcomes you. 

He thinks you look lovely even with your mouth full. 

*

Without consulting you, he directs you back to his home. Perhaps the only reason he went out with you was to come home. To have the illusion that what is familiar to him is unexceptional for you too. You make your way almost automatically to the living room while he fetches another bottle of wine from the kitchen. When he walks in, you're standing by the window. The sill is so low that it would be easy to tip out. "Look, someone else is still awake," you say, pointing across the street.

"Oh, that's Chuck. He's a painter. Up at all these crazy hours of the night. Just painting away." You turn to face him. He is holding a record in one hand, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“That’s not very appropriate for now.” You’re referring to the music playing. It’s some classic rock record but it has a children’s choir singing.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Good music is always appropriate,” he argues.

“What about a funeral march?” You retort. 

He chuckles. “Alright,” he caves. He walks over and takes the needle off the record. 

When he walks back over, he for the first time enfolds you in his arms. You take his face in both hands and kiss him very gently like it’s second nature. There is nothing daring him to perform any differently in response.

He brushes the strap of your top and dares to move further by pulling the bra strap down too. The way your bare shoulder feels in his cupping hand is something he won't forget as long as he lives. He moves down and traces his lips on the soft skin. You're looking up at him and smiling before sinking your teeth into his flesh, biting a piece out of him. You pull him even closer to you, turning two bodies into one, where one may not run away only toward one another.

His hands discover your bottom fits neatly into them, a peach to each. You are still both standing there, on the grey living room rug, on your island, barefoot, with interlocking arms and legs, only at rare intervals, opening your eyes and emerging from your blindness to look at one another. He wonders where you get your certainty from. Then he shuts his eyes again, and it is better to see with his hands and mouth.

"We better not make each other miserable," he says. 

"Isn't it too late already?" You smile briefly before insisting, “Sleep with me.” He’s unsure if you mean the whole word. Not just fuck you, but sleep side-by-side with interlocking bodies sharing such unwilling vulnerability with one another. 

Alex takes you by the hand and leads you out of the room, through the kitchen, down the hallways, into the room, the one he pointed at earlier, suggesting to you that you'd spend your night in there. "I might have some trouble," he tells you, "I've had too much to drink. Too much excitement." 

"I don't mind," you say, lying back on the bed, stretched out on the sheets with a halo by your head, your hair shining bright from the bedside lamp. That grin reaches out to him, taking him completely, pulling the light from the whole room, and reflecting it back to him. 

You unbuckle him and take his softness into your hand. He stands still and watches the alchemy as you move him. You pucker your lips out, sitting the tip of him on the edge of your lip. It’s a teasing prospect and he waits eagerly, so close to pushing himself straight in, not being able to resist temptation. 

But he says a prayer and waits, swears to the heavens as you wrap your lips around him, and take bits of him. He feels faint, like his knees might buckle, and he’ll fall straight through the floor. He pushes back on you, making you relinquish your grip. 

“I’ve got to sit down.” He blinks and relaxes onto the bed. “You’re too clothed.” Only the straps he pushed off earlier are bearing your skin to him.

“Isn’t it more tempting?” You taunt, standing on your knees, towering over his laid-out body. You straddle over him, the core of you hovering over the center of him. “You can imagine whatever you want.”

His hands grab your hips, his thumbs dig into the bone. “The real thing is better than anything my brain could put together.” He pulls at the waistband of your skirt, yanking down, down, down.

When the fabric is wiped clean from your surface, his finger fiddles with your nipple, much like he did with the knobs on his record player. (The same amount of noise comes out too.) He runs his fingers through you just to get a taste of the wetness. He puts fingers on your bottom lip, tapping until he has gained entry. Your mouth sucks on the two fingers and the way your tongue moves on them might get him harder than it did when you did it to his dick.

You sit on him, sinking like he is the bottom of the ocean. You sway like the waves and he tries his best to not have them pull him under, tries surfing them. He places his hand on his head before grabbing your waist, ebbing and flowing with you.

He leans up to capture your mouth. In the midst of the kiss, which is rabid and ruinous, he loses all sense of time, of space, of self. He feels you up and down, relishing in that soft, smooth skin, in your curves, in your perked breasts and the ridges in your spine. 

You rake your teeth along his shoulder, kissing with a lightness then a roughness, sucking and scraping, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, head falling to rest against the stack of pillows. He feels high when he’s inside you, and you’re so warm and so wet he could cry. 

You ride him with a purpose, eyes on his, your hand fisted in his hair as you carve your hips into his body like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Alex can’t help but match your rhythm and gets you moaning desperately, so he’s not alone in this. “You feel so goddamn good,” he whispers, right into your ear, just to drive you crazy. 

You pull his head back as if to get even, quickening your pace as you ravage his neck, but he doesn’t want this to end yet. He wants it to last, wants you in other ways. “Hang on,” he rasps, trying to slow you. “Stop.” You make a frustrated noise, but do. He grins. “Something the matter?” 

“Shut up,” you gasp. “What?” 

“Get on your stomach,” he says, soft but firm. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you counter, but do it anyway, and when he pushes in from behind, you cry out, muffled into the pillows that you hold onto in a white-knuckled grip. 

“You like that?” He asks, and you don’t want to satisfy him with a nod because you’re stubborn, but when he reaches between your legs to stroke your clit you can’t help but let a whine escape. 

“Fuck, you sound so pretty.” He’s relentless and doesn’t allow a break, he doesn’t believe they exist. He’s chasing after like a dog going after a car, not letting up until he reaches the bumper. Skin slapping and panting are the only sounds being made. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come after all that, and he falls over the edge with you. You end up out of breath, you shaking and him hot-blooded. You grab his hand suddenly, bringing it to your lips to lick dry and then kiss, one on his palm, another on his wrist, his knuckles, his thumb. He nuzzles your ear. You stroke the height of his cheek. You end up burrowed under the blankets, beat to hell. You sprawl out on top of him, playing with his hair. His lip quirks up because it’s impossible for it not to.

*

He recognizes you right away. You're swinging your handbag as you walk, dressed in all black, and as you come closer, he can see you've put your hair up and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. He thinks of how exposed your face is. He knows he has to be straight with you.

He deliberately chose one of the larger tables, telling the hostess a table for three. You both look up from time to time to see what's keeping your third. He's brought you one of his books so that you can see the things he writes about—his first present to you. You shouldn't read the dedication. Time to look across to the entrance and shake your heads—what's keeping our unpunctual friend? You're in cahoots, you have your first secret to keep from the world, and he knows what you're thinking as you share a look, and that's why it's important to set conditions.

"We will only see each other occasionally," he says, "but each will be like our first time. A celebration." You listen to him attentively and nod. "I can only be a luxury for you because, you know, I have someone else."

“I know.” You’ve always known this. It’s clearly shown on his left hand.

"Perhaps that won't be enough for you and I understand that." You look straight at him, directly in the face. He notices things about you that he didn't before. The way your pupil shines in this light.

"If you had a hundred women, all that matters is the time that we spend together." How can he ever refuse you anything if you don't demand anything? The black velvet ribbon moves him, it makes you look like a schoolgirl. He feels sick.

"You can't expect any sort of public declaration. We both know and that will have to do." "That's fine," you say and then you smile. It terrifies him how comfortable you are. How comfortable this all feels.

He pours you more wine to go with your food. You see his pack of cigarettes on the table and think you don't ever want to sit at a table that doesn't have his cigarettes on it. 

He can't forget that one day he will have to hand you on. He can't forget that he knows this better than you do. He has to remember this no matter how long or short your time together is. This jagged thought must shine through all other thoughts of happiness, love, and desire, through all your shared experiences and any memories you may have; he must endure it when the crash happens. If it isn't to destroy him. The funny thought is that he doesn't think he would mind you destroying him.

"We can be as long as you want us to be," Alex says. 

You nod. So long as you can see him, as long and as often as possible, you wouldn't mind anything else.

He tells the waiter, "It looks like our friend hasn't made it." He pays and pockets his pack of cigarettes. Your jacket hangs beside his coat in his cloakroom, the two rubbing shoulders with one another. "That couple," he tells the attendant while pointing to them. The attendant hands Alex the items, and he holds your jacket out for you to slip into.

While walking, you stand apart because touching is too much. He takes you to his office. It's dusty with shelves of tapes and records you wouldn't know what to do with. There are piles of papers on the desk and windows with blinds covering the outside world. You imagine a person would go mad in a room like this. 

"It isn't much of a view," he says. He lifts the blinds and you peek out to the alleyway with trash cans and let out a giggle.

He offers you a chair and slips a pair of headphones onto your head without saying a word. He leans over you, pressing his body into your shoulders, and hits play on the deck. 

You've never heard anything like it before. It makes you sit upright as if it was his personal version of an electric chair. He stands by the window and lets the moonlight shine on him. He watches you as you listen and lights a cigarette. He likes how concentrated you look, as if he might quiz you after the song is done.

He hears the click and you place the headphones on top of the player. “It’s old recordings I recovered. They’re from some guy in the ‘50s. We’re trying to find the originator.” You get the feeling he likes talking about his work, but people aren’t usually interested in waiting for his sentences to find their way out. 

Before you head out again, you see a photo of Alex on the desk. "Can I have this?"

Alex asks back, "For your imagination?" 

"No," you say, "so that when I'm on the train tomorrow, I won't think all this was just a dream." 

"Are you going so soon?" You’re going away on a trip with a friend tomorrow. You told him that on the first night you spent together. When the hour was so late that it felt like the rapture had occurred and you were the only two people left on Earth.

"Yes." While you hold the photo in your hands, he comes up behind you and holds you. He kisses your neck. You keep your eyes shut throughout, only opening them when he lets go of you, and then you stow the photo away in your bag, between the pages of a book. "Oh no! I left your book at the restaurant."

"Will you walk me home?" 

So now he walks you back the way he saw you come earlier, swinging your bag the exact same, rounding a corner, and then another one, and another one until you've reached your apartment building. It’s down the road from the Moose Cafe. "My room is on the third floor, two windows from the left." He stands next to you and looks up."

Every time he went to the cafe, he came this way, never knowing you were in that building. "What's that in the window?"

"A Basquiat postcard." You put it there after seeing the way he placed postcards around his house. 

"Nice," he says, trying to imagine your room. 

"It's only a week," you say, even if it feels so pathetically long to you.

And to him. "Think of me," Alex says. At certain times, he thinks, Why should she? He's in no way certain it wouldn't be better to forget you in a hurry. There's no kiss on the public street, just an exchange of glances.

*

a/n: i don't mean for everything i write to be somewhat related to cheating. it just turns out that way. this is inspired by a book i'm reading and i'm only 30 pages into said book so they're will probably be some form of a part two or some other fic inspired by this book. (i read 1 book i want per year and it inspires everything i write for the next 12 months.) praying there are no errors in this.