#ughh

[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

[lavendermerry-go-round]

The struggle is real, people...

[goldetrash]

That looks like it's going to hurt

[mournfulroses]

Anne Sexton, from a letter featured in Anne Sexton; A Self-Portrait In Letters

[peekaboo6293]

ivo’s low self esteem issues

[blaithnne]

Why did they not just make Belinda a mother from day 1. Make it so she was ALWAYS trying to get home to her daughter. I still wouldn’t have loved this but it wouldn’t have been half as bad as shoe horning it in and retroactively changing her motivations at the last minute.

Fuck it I’m spitting the tags go in the post

[confusedhockeyslut]

what if i just started sobbing

[dykesevika]

ME NEXT ME NEXT ME NEXT !!!

[scythlyven-art]

This is easily one of the coolest and cleanest shots in this entire show

[t4tmetalsonic]

You're kidding meee Sonic and co are actually working WITH g.u.n....... sa2 I'm so fucking sorry

Turning off reblogs I don't trust y'all not to spoil shit

[jinmukangwrites]

I had a debate with my coworker about the Jedi not being crib robbers, regardless of the outcome of our argument, it has got me feeling ill about the parents who gave their children to the Jedi before or even during the Clone Wars. I'm watching Rebels and Kanan sounds so sad when he says he didn't know his parents. And then replaying Survivor, Cal has a conversation with Mosey about parents, and I remember that Cal is from Coruscant.

Like, imagine you're a parent. You probably live in the more poverty stricken levels of Coruscant. It's only a few years before the Clone Wars, but there's no way you could know that. All you know is that you have a baby in your arms, and there's Jedi in your home telling you that your baby is gifted, and that if you are willing, you can give your child up to a higher purpose. You'll probably never see your baby again, never see him grow, but... he'll grow up on the surface of Coruscant, in the Jedi Temple. He will not suffer poverty like you and your family, he will grow up to understand the mysteries of the Force and he'll become a peacekeeper of the galaxy and for whatever reason known only to you... it seems worth it.

You give your baby up.

And you wonder about him. Visiting the upper levels, you do the math in your head of how old he must be, and then you look out into the crowd made of trillions and wonder if you'll ever see a shock of red hair.

You never do, but that's fine. Your son is a Jedi, and maybe that's enough for you.

But then the Clone Wars come. And, not only do you see the Jedi join and lead their side of the war, but you begin to see the adult Jedi bring their young children with them on to the battle field.

Do you feel nothing? Do you feel anger? Acceptance? Do you think your baby is a hero? Do you go to the protests?

You watch the news, and perhaps you feel sick wondering if your baby will ever show up as a corpse.

But you never see him. And you're not sure if that's fine.

Years pass. The Jedi are branded traitors.

You hear about the masses of deaths, even the children are not spared from being branded as traitors and marked for execution from your new Emperor. Your baby is 12, or perhaps, was twelve. Perhaps 12 is the oldest he got, if he's lucky. That sticks with you.

You carry on.

Maybe you make a life for yourself within the Empire. Maybe you suppress the grief you must feel for the baby you gave to the Jedi all those years ago. Maybe you wallow in it. Maybe, on dark nights, surrounded by the never ending sounds of Coruscant, you think back to those simpler days, when there was no war, and you held your baby for the last time, and you think about what if. What if you held him tighter, and told the Jedi to leave. What if you worked harder to give him a better life yourself. What if you watched him grow, and he wasn't made a soldier, and he didn't die before he could become a teenager.

What if.

Years pass. You continue.

There's rumors of rebellion. You have your opinions on the Empire, on the rebels, some are deeply buried secrets, a bias you cannot escape, no one can know but that connection to the Jedi lingers.

Years pass. About a decade.

And you walk out one day, and you stop in your tracks, because you did not expect to see anything continue from your grief, the end of his story you told yourself.

A billboard shines in the darkness of the Coruscant lower levels, which isn't new, but this billboard stares at you.

A head full of red hair. Eyes that remind you of your partner. Scars scratch his features but his cheek bones remind you of your father.

Jedi terrorist.

About 22 years old.

Wanted by the Empire, and you don't know what to think but you know exactly what you're feeling.

And time moves on, and you're not in his life, but he's alive. Fighting against the Empire, while you continue to exist under the ruins of the Jedi Temple you gave him to, glancing up every once in a while, to see his face staring back in the light of wanted posters.

[sookja]

boom is so damn cute. my meow meow who gets shy easily, and hides behind smart or his hand when he bursts out laughing.

a clingy cat which likes physical affection. and back-hugs.

god bless top form for allowing him to discover his fullest potential (babygirlism).

END NOTE: YAOI!!!!!

[mournfulroses]

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter featured in The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay

[zuzu-draws]

"Well Well... Aren't we gawking with a little too much enthusiasm?"

[scriblesandbits]

I think we as a society moved on from karkat’s pesterquest route too quickly

[pure-koison]

@pure-koison ♡