warnings : smut, fingering (f receiving), kissing, mentions of cheating
wordcount : 2.2k
masterlist
late 2006 ᯓ★
after the party, they decided to come back to sheffield. they were getting enough success to earn their money even in this little city, and they wanted to represent the place they were born in, not a capital that already had hundreds of known artists.
so matt moved in with you, because he didn’t want to go back to your parents. and alex was just about to move in with johanna when they broke up.
the breakup was not loud, he told her he felt like all this time apart had changed something, and that he didn’t love her as she deserved. he wished her to find a boy that could love her more than he could, and then they parted ways, while she was still crying.
so of course, as the bestest friend he is, matt told alex to move in with you both. you should have said no, you wanted to say no. and yet here you were, helping them both set up their room. since you obviously didn’t have a ton of money, they had to share one. but they were happy with that, like kids doing an endless sleepover. plus, they promised that they would help with rent and everything else.
and just like that, the next year started with you three watching fireworks from your tiny balcony, because you were all too tired to go out after the move.
2007 ᯓ★
the second album launched in april, and they were fucking excited about it. at only twenty-one, they were already accomplished rockstars, and at twenty-five, you were still happily working at your music shop. after some years here, you were now manager, and you couldn’t be happier with your daily life.
every evening, you came back home to alex and matt writing together, playing around with instruments, or listening to things on their own. every evening, you ignored the visible tension between you and alex, hoping matt wouldn’t notice.
a few weeks later, matt came into your room - and as every self-respecting little brother, without knocking - and proudly told you, “i have a date”.
you whistled jokingly and clapped, “woah, tonight?”.
“obviously tonight”, he answered, arranging his tie in front of your big mirror, “can’t you see how i’m dressed?”.
“oh yeah, i can very well see. you look absolutely ridiculous”.
“ridiculous, indeed”, said a third voice from the living room.
“seriously? i’m classy!”
“you look like mom dressed you up for a wedding”, you added.
alex laughed at that, and matt frowned, throwing you a shoe that was on your floor.
“hey! get out of my fucking room, helders!”.
“i’ll let you know, helders, that the girl i’m going out with loves men that wear suits. she told me. so keep your remarks…”, he took the second shoe, aimed it at you, “...to yourself!”, and throwed it.
“asshole!”, you screamed, right before he left your room, running. because some things never change.
later that night, when matt leaves for the restaurant, you’re left alone with alex, something that has never happened since that night. cause matt is always home, and when he is outside, alex is with him, as the good best friends they are.
you try not to show you’re stressed, but this situation, in fact, worries you. so you go take a cold shower and take the time to thoroughly wash your hair, to try to soothe your nerves. when you come out, in your pajamas and hair still wet, alex calls your name.
“i’m making pastas, you fancy some?”.
“plain pastas?”, you ask.
“uh… yeah? you got something else in mind?”.
you join him in the kitchen and sit on the counter, watching him. he has a packet of pastas in each hand, like he is debating on which ones to cook. “dunno, we could make carbonaras”.
“sounds good, but i don’t think we have any crème left”.
after a few minutes of debating, you finally both settle on plain butter pastas, much to your dismay. while alex prepares the dish, you pour yourself a glass of wine. “want something to drink?”.
“a beer, please”, he answers.
you bring the bottle to him, and when he takes it, your fingers brush softly. “thanks”.
when the pastas are ready, you sit together on the couch, and put on a shitty movie on a shitty unknown channel. he brings his beer close to your drink and says, “cheers, love”.
“cheers. to your fabulous second album”.
after taking a sip and putting his drink down, he laughs softly. “did you listen to it fully this time?”.
this immediately sends you back to the night you two almost kissed.
“yeah, had no choice, matt was blowing my head off”, you snicker gently.
“what’s your favourite?”.
“it’s hard to chose. i’d probably say old yellow bricks, though. i like the beat”.
“it’s funny how you always make sure to not compliment my voice”.
you laugh loudly, surprised, “i do not! i like your singing too!”.
“nah, it’s fine. i grieved the fact that you hate my voice a long time ago”, he says, placing his hand over his heart to feign he’s offended.
you both laugh softly together, and after a few minutes of eating your delicious pastas in silence, you say, “i like do me a favour, too. but it feels personal, y’know. almost too intimate”.
“yeah, probably cause it is. i wrote it right after i broke up with jo”.
you eat more of your plate, and say, “you never told me why you guys broke up”.
he eats more, too, maybe because he thinks about how he is going to answer that. “s’nothing crazy. i just realized i didn’t love her that much. distance and allat… ‘t was complicated”.
“i get that. well… at least that made a good song. very raw and all”.
“mh mh”, he hums absentmindedly.
“that still hurt you? the break up, i mean. you guys looked like you were really in love with each other”.
“s’fine, just a bit weird. i always feel a bit guilty, y’know. she loved me more than i did, that’s all. i didn’t want to hurt her more”.
“well that was very mature from you, really. most people don’t do that”.
he hums again, and the conversation ends. but it’s not awkward, just comfortable and quiet. after a few moments, you take the plates to clear the table, and alex follows you with the drinks. you start washing the dishes when alex speaks again.
“you know, there’s another song that was inspired by something”.
“by your break up with jo?”.
“no, no. by something else”.
you keep cleaning, and ask, “well, which one?”.
“505”.
you try to contain a smile, but then realize he can’t see you, since he is facing your back. “who’s it written about, then?”.
“someone i always come back to, no matter what. someone that makes me feel nostalgic, that i can’t forget”.
“a pretty girl?”, you ask, almost teasingly.
“very pretty, indeed. super cool, too”.
you feel him before you even hear him. he steps forward and is right behind your back.
“a girl that i can’t predict. that i never know what to do when i’m around”, he admits.
“aw, that’s such a shame, alex”.
he puts a hand on your waist, and maybe he acts confident, but you feel it tremble against your body.
“i think you don’t understand how many days i’ve waited to be alone with you”.
you dry your hands on a towel and turn around, but his hand stays on your waist. “and why’s that?”.
“because i needed to talk to you. really bad. especially after that night. i can’t act like it didn’t happen anymore”.
he looks up from his hand on you, and looks straight into your eyes.
“i’m sorry for doing that. i shouldn’t have tried anything with you when i was in a relationship”.
he takes a deep breath to ground himself, and his fingers trace little circles on your hip.
“i thought about it a lot, y’know. i wish i hadn’t done what i did, cause i’m not that guy, yeah? i’m not a cheater”.
he places his second hand on your hip and steps a bit closer.
“i don’t want you to see me like that”, he pauses a second, and says, “but i still really want to kiss you”.
your heartbeat races up instantly, and you feel yourself getting hotter at his words. and you’re touched by the fact that he is still the insecure little alex you knew, despite all his efforts to prove that he is not. lost in thoughts, you don’t answer right away, and he keeps going.
“please, can i kiss you?”.
maybe you both grew up, yet you know this is still a fucking mistake. he is still your brother’s best friend, still four years younger than you, and most of all, he lives with you now. this is an enormous error, this is something you shouldn’t do.
but the part of you that had always felt something for alex doesn’t care about what is right. the part that was so jealous of johanna without understanding why know that it’s not wrong, it’s just something you never accepted about yourself. alex was a part of your life since you were ten, and he had taken a place in your heart almost at the same time.
so you tilt your head up, and nod. but this is not enough for him, and he asks,
“please, say it. i can’t take it anymore”.
“i want you to kiss me, alex”.
and his lips crash against yours the second these words leave you. both his hands come up to cup your face, and he passes his tongue on your lower lip slowly. that’s when you part them, and alex kisses you like he is trying to forget he wanted that since he was a teenager.
he kisses you softly at first, and then deeper, harder.
his hands slide from your face to your back, and he pulls you closer, just because he can’t help it. your fingers make their way to his hair, and he moans in your mouth when they do.
after a few more kisses, you part yourself, and he chases your lips before stopping to look at you. your faces are still so close, and he can’t help but kiss the corner of your lips, your jaw and down to your neck.
“i’ve been wanting this”, he kisses your neck again, “for so long”.
“alex”, you whine, and it sounds like music to his ears.
“let me touch you, please”.
fuck logic right now. fuck what’s wrong, fuck what’s right. you want him, and you want him now.
“yes, alex”.
“say my name again”, he demands, while his hand slips into your oversized pajama sweatpants.
and when you whimper “alex” again, and he finds your underwear already wet, he is the one who lets out a shaky moan.
“you’re… oh my god”, he breathes out, still touching you over your panties, “you want this”.
you scoff, “fucking hell, of course i want this”.
“you’re so pretty like this”, he confesses.
except you’ve never been a very patient girl. so, you grab alex’s hair to kiss him again, and when you part ways, you order right against his lips, “touch. me”.
and who is he to not listen to your desperate little voice, asking him to do something he’s been fantasizing about for years now? so he pulls your underwear to the side, and slips one finger inside.
your gasp makes his heart beat faster, and he can’t stop watching you. while he moves slowly, and adds a second one, he kisses you again.
he keeps moving his fingers inside of you, and puts his thumb on your clit when he feels your legs start to tremble.
“are you close?”, he whispers.
“don’t stop alex. i swear- fuck, don’t fucking stop”.
he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want this moment to ever fucking stop. you’re dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t let on, keeps on pleasuring you until your orgasm crashes over you, and you moan out his name. you grab his shoulders when your legs shake, and he encircles your waist with his arms so you don’t fall.
he wipes his hand against his shirt and kisses you again, very softly, just a quick peck on the lips.
the moment alex opens his mouth to talk, you hear the front door opening. you don’t even have the time to recover fully from your climax, so you push alex away and turn around, pretending to do the dishes again.
matt’s “i’m home!” resonates through the flat, and the reality of what you just did crashes over you.
alex, the little boy you learnt how to tie his shoes to, just touched you. and you liked it. and you don’t think you will ever be able to forget the way he looked at you. like you were heaven on earth.
but this shouldn’t have happened.
“welcome home, matt”, alex says, voice low, like he is disappointed, but he was expecting your silence at the same time. you don’t look back when he leaves the kitchen to join his friend in the living room.
and yet, you know it will happen again.
a/n: gulp... i feel like every time i write smut it's awkward... but yeah. anyways, i don't have the next parts written, so it's prolly going to be in a few days (weeks if i don't find the motivation to write soon), but yeah. they're coming.
Not sure what to call this series yet, i’ll come up with that later :/
(includes smut so MINORS DNI - 18+ only)
- includes p in v (protection not specified), edging, dirty talk, masturbation, he’s very arrogant
let me know if you like it!
Over the summer after Leaver's Night, you and Alex became inseparable. You got a summer job at the book shop, and he would come and pretend to be browsing the shelves. When your manager wasn't around, he would lean on the counter to talk to you about everything from what movies you had watched lately, what books you had read, to your plans for the future, your family history, what your deepest fears were in life. On your lunch break, he would steal you away for 45 minutes, bringing you sandwiches and crisps and lemonade. You would sit on the same bench every day in the local park (God forbid someone else sat there), taking bites of your sandwich in between kisses, his arm around you, trying not to think of the minutes passing when you would have to go back to work. He took you on dates, every Saturday you went to the cinema and every Sunday he cooked you dinner. He burned CDs with songs that reminded him of you. He played the guitar to you as you lay on his bed in one of his shirts, his voice dripping with love and affection. You had passionate conversations that lasted hours, learning everything about each other in great detail. It made Matt and Katie feel sick, really.
Alex was obsessed with you. He wanted to know everything there was to know about you, every part of you that you were too afraid to show to the rest of the world. You were like a drug, except that he never found himself chasing the first high - because every time you revealed something new about yourself, he found that it was even better than the last time. And the sex - Jesus Christ. You knew just how to coax him out, you said all right things, you moved exactly the right way. He was addicted to you. He tried not to think about going to university, because then you would be apart. He wasn't even that fussed on the band anymore, you consumed his mind, you were his everything. His favourite time of day was when you finished work, he would come to meet you at the door and you would walk home together and he would finally have you all to himself.
When the summer ended, it was like the whole world had come crashing down. You were going to university in Manchester, him in London. You discussed long distance, in hopeful tones, that neither of you really believed.
The first few weeks were Hell for Alex. You called each other on the phone, but soon it turned to never catching each other at the right time, instead a constant array of messages from either side. You planned visits with each other that never seemed to materialise, because you both were bogged down with assignments and lectures and freshers weeks and university societies.
If he thought the first few weeks were Hell, after a month and a half, was when he really entered the fiery pit. After weeks of messages, you finally caught each other at the right time. His excitement was soon crushed, when you said the fateful words, "I don't think this is working."
"You don't think so?" Alex tried to make his voice sound even.
"I'm sorry, Alex, I don't think it is," your voice breaking. "I just - I don't think this is good for either of us. It's killing me not being able to see you."
"You have no idea," Alex said, pushing his hair back with his hand in frustration. "I think about you all the time."
"Same here," you replied, your eyes starting to burn with tears. "I can't do it anymore. It's making me too depressed, and I need to focus. I've spent my whole life dreaming about coming to university, and now I'm here, I can't concentrate."
"Don't do this, please," Alex begged. "Please, we can work it out. You were going to come visit at Christmas."
"And then not see you for months after?" You said. "And spend the next six months of my life in misery?"
"Please. I love you..."
"I love you too, but I'm sorry."
And the line clicked, and you were gone.
***
You sobbed in bed nearly every day. You lived in a student house with Katie and some others you met at the beginning of the year, and the group of them tried to encourage you into coming out, having drinks, getting back on track. Your assignment scores, which had started out well, were dropping. The visit at Christmas, never happened. The months passed by in misery, until finally, January came and Katie had had enough.
"Okay, that's it," She came barging into your room at 4pm, wrenching the curtains open, flinging the window open, and pulling back your covers. "Come on now, it's been months."
"Katie please, just leave me alone."
"No, I've left you alone for too long. It's time to move on."
She cleared your desk, taking half drunk cups of mouldy tea to the kitchen, filling black bags with rubbish, taking loads of washing back and forth from the laundromat. She dragged you to the library, and forced you to work. She brought you coffees and pastries in the afternoon when you finished essays, seeing them as an incentive. She nagged you into showering. And after a couple of weeks of productivity, things started to feel normal again.
"Okay, we’re going out for cocktails,” Katie proclaimed one afternoon. “Tonight at 7.”
You didn’t feel like it, but there was nothing else to do, and you knew Katie would nag you if you protested. So you got up, got showered, put on a short black dress with flowers embroidered on the front, and straightened your hair. It was quite fun to be back to normality as you and Katie sat in your bedroom, playing CDs, sipping Smirnoff ices and doing your make-up. You found yourself laughing again, as Katie did impressions of one of your old, cantankerous lecturers, played fuck marry kill with members of the Beatles and rounds of never have I ever.
You departed for the cocktail bar with the rest of the group from your student house and the antics continued. Shots of tequila, disco dancing, and cheering Katie on when she ended up making out with a guy in the corner of the bar. You were having so much fun but you could feel the drink rising to your head so you stepped outside for some fresh air and a cigarette.
You flicked your lighter three times clumsily, realising there was no fluid left in it, when a voice came to your rescue.
“Need a light?”
You looked up, and a guy from one of your lectures was smiling at you. You had noticed him in passing, he had a sort of young James Dean thing going on, with dark hair and kind eyes. He held the lighter up for you, and you bent forward, cigarette in mouth to ignite the end.
“I’m Jack,” he said. “You’re in my Victorian Literature class, right?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, introducing yourself.
“What do you think of old Mercer then?”
You laughed into your drink. “That depends. Are you asking academically or emotionally?”
“Emotionally.”
“I think he’s one bad lecture away from snapping and locking us all in a room with Wuthering Heights.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but you’ve got to admit he makes Victorian literature sound kind of interesting.”
“That’s because he talks about doomed marriages like he’s experienced at least three.”
He let out a laugh. “You’re brutal.”
“You started the conversation.”
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m glad I did,” he said with a grin, his eyes fixed on you, waiting for your reaction.
Heat rose to your cheeks, maintaining eye contact with him, despite a voice in the back of your head whispering Alex.
“Me too,” you said, tilting your head to one side.
“You wanna continue it tomorrow over dinner?”
You exchanged numbers and agreed to meet at seven tomorrow. He reached over slowly, dropping his lighter in your pocket, letting you inhale his scent of cigarettes and aftershave. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, as he kept his eyes on yours, flickering down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. "Keep that one," he murmured, before turning away from you to make his way back inside.
***
The dinner went well, and the dates following that were great. Jack was charming, flirty and there was no doubt about his good looks, but you couldn't shake the feeling of guilt sitting deep in your stomach every time you agreed to meet him again. You knew that you had nothing to feel guilty about, you and Alex had been broken up for 10 months now, and you were sure that he would have moved on. You tried to comfort yourself with this thought as the time rolled on and things escalated with Jack, to the point where you ended up staying at his a couple of nights a week. It didn't help that every time you had sex, you compared it to Alex, and it never seemed to measure up. You found yourself touching yourself some nights, dreaming of Alex.
"So, Blur are doing a gig in London," Jack told you one evening, as you lay on his bed beside him. "I bought us tickets, I thought we could make a weekend of it?"
"In London?" you shifted uncomfortably, Alex's presence in your mind making its way to the front again.
"Yeah, don't you like London?"
"No I do, it's just-" you paused, not sure how to proceed. London was a big city, Blur a big band - you probably wouldn't even see Alex. "Nevermind. I'd love to go with you."
***
10 months had passed since your break-up, and Alex was finally starting to feel like himself again. The band reuniting had helped, giving him something to focus on and pour energy into, aside from university which was hectic the last couple of weeks. He submitted his final assignment for the year, and met up with the lads for pints that afternoon.
"Thank God that's over," he said, with a sigh of relief. "This year has been shit."
"Break-ups are hard," said Jamie with a playful grin. "I should know - we had the same one."
Alex nudged him as the lads all laughed, but it was all in good fun. Jamie had been understanding about the whole relationship, despite going out with you himself a year prior. You and Jamie had got on well, but it was a young, fairly short-lived romance. Jamie knew that Alex loved you in a way that he never had so he never had any hard feelings about the situation. He had been even more supportive to Alex during the break-up, trying to urge him to talk as much as possible. It was Jamie that had helped reignite Alex's passion for the band.
Topic turned to the Blur concert next week. "You better have that money you owe me for the ticket, Jamie," Matt warned, as Jamie rolled his eyes. "This isn't a bank. I'm a struggling uni student."
"Yeah, yeah," Jamie laughed. "I'm skint now but I get paid next week. I'll give you it then."
"But you can come out and buy pints?"
"That's different, that's necessary for my health and mental wellbeing."
The week passed by in a flash. After sticking on a t-shirt and jeans, spraying himself with aftershave and clumsily shoving wallet, keys and cigarettes in his back pocket, Alex departed with the lads to the pub nearby the venue to get a pint or two in before the concert.
Jamie came back to the table holding a tray of shots. "Payday," he explained.
"This is why you have no money, mate," Nick joked.
"Worth it," Jamie shrugged.
So they all downed the shots amongst pints of Stella and discussed the concert in excitement. Alex was happy, properly happy, for the first time in what felt like forever. The happiness came crashing down quite quickly, though.
"So I was trying to chat her up, and my boss completely gets in the way, saying something about 'You can't flirt with the customers?' And then-" Nick stopped dead in the middle of his sentence.
"What?" said Alex.
"Nothing," Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Jamie had noticed before Alex. "Will we head into the venue now?"
"Why? It doesn't start for another hour."
"I know, I know, but we can get a pint in there..."
But it was too late. Alex had turned his head, and there you were in the corner of the bar, sitting close to some guy, who had his arm around you and was twiddling with your hair. You looked good, too. A low-cut top with a gold, heart-shaped necklace just resting above your bosom. Your hair falling at your shoulders, a glint in it when you turned, a catch of the light. Your skin looked so soft, his imagination was so strong in that although you were sitting a bit away, he could almost smell the fruity scent that was always previously stuck to your skin. It awoke something in him again, something that he had tried to bury and he felt a twitch in his boxers as he imagined again holding you, hearing you gasp in his ear, moan his name, grasp at his neck and his back.
You were laughing at something the guy said. As Alex watched the scene before him, he felt his heart literally ripping in two. The complete separation happened as he watched the guy lean down and press his lips to yours, your hand rising to rest on his neck - the same way that it had rested on Alex's neck many months ago.
"Fuck sake," Jamie muttered. "Look, don't worry about it mate. Let's just go and enjoy the gig."
But to Alex, Jamie's voice sounded like it was coming from really far away and he could barely even process what he was saying. All he could do was stare down at his half-finished pint, and fight the urge to pick it up and smash it over that guy's head.
Matt appeared with more shots, which Alex took willingly. 20 minutes before the gig was due to start, they made their way into the venue. Alex could see you from out the corner of his left eye - you were standing in front of that guy, who had his arms wrapped around your waist from behind. Alex could feel the rage bubbling inside him. The more alcohol he consumed, the worse it became.
So much for London being a big city and Blur a big band, because you spotted Alex in the venue. You and Jack stood in the crowd, his arms around you, when you glanced to your right and saw them - all four of them standing together, pints sloshing in their hands. Alex's eyes met yours, you could see the ferocity in them, and God, you were a terrible person, being here with Jack, because all you could think when you saw Alex's face and the anger that seemed to be within it, was Please fuck me. His hair was slightly longer now. You were finding it hard to not look, and because Alex always seemed to have had a skill for reading your mind, particularly when it came to this sort of thing, you were becoming panicked. The more you tried not to imagine him fucking you, the harder it was to get the images out of your mind. Bent over as his hand rested on the curve of your back. His words of praise and encouragement warming you from the inside out. Rising back up so that his chest aligned with your back. Gripping on his neck as he stood behind you, slamming into you with the force of a man who couldn't believe what he had, but would do everything in his power to protect it and keep it for himself. You could feel your panties getting wet as you stood there.
"I-uh, I have to go to the bathroom!" you blurted out to Jack over the noise of the crowd, as Blur started to appear.
Jack looked confused at your tone. "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine - just not feeling well..."
You left him and said you would meet at the same spot, and made your way through the crowd to the back, behind the bar where there were toilets. The sound was muffled here and it was deserted, everyone out enjoying the concert. You stumbled into one of the toilets, closing the door standing in front of the individual sink, breathing hard.
All the feelings were coming rushing back. This was a mistake, coming here, and you were kicking yourself for not trusting your gut instinct. It was almost in you to just run away now, but you couldn't leave Jack. You touched up your make-up, fixed your skirt and hair, sprayed some perfume on your neck and wrists and opened the door, to see Alex standing against the wall in front by himself.
The distance was too close now to ignore, it wasn't like in the crowd, when you both could just look away from each other. Alex was staring straight at you, the flame still present within his eyes as he looked at you. He took a step towards you, and you to him. No words were spoken, but suddenly - you were on each other. Your mouths met with a ferocity like no other, he forced his tongue into your mouth and you were stumbling back into the toilet, holding onto his hair as he shut the door and locked it behind him, never removing his mouth from yours.
When you finally did break apart, he held you in his arms, running his hands and eyes up and down your body, taking you all in, as if he feared you weren't real.
He spoke first. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Making me jealous. And we know how that ended last time."
His face was at your neck now, taking in a deep breath, inhaling your scent before his mouth touched your neck, sucking and biting - marking you for all to see. His hands ran over your body, squeezing your ass roughly before one hand came around the front, feeling underneath your skirt.
"Fucking hell, you're soaking," He said, as one finger ran over your clothed pussy. "That better be for me."
"It is," you breathed, not being able to help yourself - God, you really wanted him.
"Yeah?" He asked, continuing to tease you through your panties. "How do I know that? How do I know you're not thinking about him?"
He slipped one finger inside your panties, agonisingly slow, as your eyes burned into each other's. You let out a gasp as he pressed his finger right against your clit. "You want me to keep going?"
You nodded, biting your lip in desperation as you longed for more of his touch.
He removed his hand completely. "You're going to have to prove to me that you weren't thinking about him, then. Touch yourself and tell me what you were thinking about."
He watched as your own hand went into your panties, collecting the wetness and bringing it back to your clit. You started to move your fingers in small circles as he stood there in front of you, watching your every movement. "Tell me, then," he ordered.
"I was thinking about how-how you used to bend me over," you trembled. "And fuck me from behind."
"You always loved that position, my dirty girl," he growled, as he undid his jeans and ran his hand over his length, through his boxers. "Ok, what else?"
Your eyes followed his hand, watching as he palmed himself slowly. You were desperate to see his cock, hold it in your hand, and the desperation showed in your voice. "I-I was thinking about your cock," you whined, as you increased your speed with your own hand. "I was thinking about how big it was inside me, and how it felt so good.."
He reached into his boxers, taking his cock in his hand. He collected the precum at the top on his thumb, sliding his hand up and down his length. "Can he fuck you like I can?"
"No, never," you said immediately. "I always touch myself after and think of you."
That did it for him, he couldn't wait anymore. He grabbed you then, pushing you against the wall, wrenching your hand out of your panties and replacing it with his own. He massaged your clit at such a speed where you threw your head back, crying out his name and gripping his neck. "That's it baby, you like that?"
"Yes, yes!" you cried, his fingers entering you while still rubbing your clit, you could feel your orgasm coming closer.
"You want me to make you cum, don't you?"
"Yes-" the room was filled with the sound of your moans, and then - his fingers slid out of you, his hand out of your panties, just as you were nearing the edge.
"Not yet," he said simply. "No, I think you need to be taught a lesson. You can't come here, looking like that, parading around in front of me with him. Take off your panties."
"We're going to do my favourite position," he continued, picking you up to wrap your legs around him. He leaned against the sink then. "And then I'll see about letting you cum."
He lowered you onto his cock, the feeling was euphoric, something that you had missed with every fiber of your being. He watched you closely as your mouth formed an 'o' shape, adding the image to his mental memory. His strong arms held your legs, him doing most of the work to help you bounce on his cock, his familiar words of praise washing over you.
"So good baby, fuck I've missed you," he whispered. "Let me hear you."
You moaned, directly in his ear, panting his name. He could have came right then. "You're my dirty slut, aren't you? Coming and getting fucked while he's out there waiting on you?" He drawled, watching your face as you stared at each other with intensity. "You fucking love it, don't you? Tell me what you are."
"I'm your dirty slut," you moaned.
"Tell me he can't fuck you like I can," he increased the speed, slamming you down onto his cock, hitting your g-spot every time, making you cry out for more.
"He could never fuck me like you could!" You cried. "Please, Alex- please let me cum, I'm so close.."
"Cum for me then baby, only because you probably haven't had an orgasm this good in months.."
It was true, you hadn't. And when your orgasm did hit you, it was like your brain went blank, and all you knew was pleasure. Your legs shook, your head threw back, as he continued fucking you through it. When you looked back at him, he was staring at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
The sound from him was rough and guttural as his own release came shortly after. He held you for another moment, not really wanting to let go. Because he knew once you opened that door, the feelings of uncertainty would return, you’d be going back to Manchester, leaving him here.
When he set you down, you kissed him again, deeply and slowly this time, then turned to clean yourself up and get dressed.
Once you were both dressed and fixed up, both of you had completely come down from your highs and were left with an emptiness that seemed like it might never be filled.
“I- I have to go,” you said, your voice breaking as you said it. “He’ll be wondering where I am.”
Alex just nodded, wanting to say stop, run away with me. But he didn’t. He let you go, and stood standing in the bathroom, feeling worse than ever before. So much so that when he found the lads again, he fibbed that he was ill, and got the tube home by himself. He got into bed that night without even getting undressed, and lay staring at the ceiling for hours.
Summary: Locked up in his studio, you and Alex have not seen each other for the last month. But when you're in the same room, he barely glimpses at you. You've had enough.
A/n: Yoooo I am so unhinged. Fourth fic within three days. Someone take this laptop away from me!! In all seriousness, this is my first smut attempt, please don't judge me too harshly I tried really hard T-T. Genuinely had so much fun writing this. Why have I never tried this before?? It allows for great vulnerability and intimacy, chef's kiss for reals. On a real note, this is long lol. Very happy with how it turned out! Enjoy <3
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 5.6k
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“I don’t know anymore, I’m getting tired of this,” you sigh, your fingers tightening around your glass as you glance up across the table.
Alex is barely even in your orbit.
He’s leaned into Matt, laughing at something you didn’t catch, his hand coming up to clap him on the back as he hunches forward slightly, shoulders loose, relaxed—present.
Just not with you.
“He was locked in the studio all of last month. I only saw him when I called him to know if he’s still alive,” you mutter, the words laced with something between sarcasm and something far more bitter.
Your friend reaches over, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your face, her expression softening slightly. “You know him. He can get… obsessive when it comes to a new album.”
You let out a quiet, humourless breath.
Obsessive is an understatement.
You’ve known this about him—long before you ever got involved. It’s part of what made him who he is. The drive, the tunnel vision, the way everything else falls away when he’s in the middle of creating something.
You knew that.
You accepted that.
But somewhere along the way, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d soften around you. That you’d be the exception. That he’d find a way to make space.
That he’d want to.
Alas—nothing has changed.
If anything, it’s worse.
This is the first time he’s stepped outside the studio in weeks. The first time you’ve seen him in person after what feels like forever, and he’s barely said a word to you.
A side-hug.
A quick, distracted “you alright?”
And then he was gone again, mentally, if not physically, slipping straight back into conversations about music, production, ideas, things you’re not even sure you’re meant to follow.
All over a beer, like this is just another normal night.
Like you haven’t been counting the days.
You swallow hard, your jaw tightening.
You miss him.
God, you miss him.
You miss his voice when it isn’t filtered through a phone screen, rushed between sessions. You miss the way he fills a room without even trying. The way his hand finds yours absentmindedly, like it belongs there.
It’s unbearable, knowing that when you get back tonight, his side of the bed will still be cold.
That even the shirts you’ve been stealing from his side of the wardrobe, ones you’ve been living in, sleeping in, have started to smell more like you than him.
That thought alone makes something twist sharply in your chest.
Across the table, his laugh cuts through the noise again—warm, easy, effortless.
And that’s it.
You’ve had enough.
The chair legs scrape harshly against the floor as you stand abruptly, the sound louder than you intended. Conversations around you falter for just a second, a few heads turning in your direction.
You don’t care.
“I have to go,” you murmur quickly, your hand landing briefly on your friend’s shoulder—an apology, a goodbye, something in between—before you’re already moving.
You don’t look at him.
You can’t.
Because if you do, you’re not sure you won’t just break right there in the middle of the pub.
The warmth hits you as you push through the door—noise, laughter, everything muffled instantly as it shuts behind you with a dull slam.
The air outside is sharp.
Cool enough to make you inhale deeply, your lungs stinging slightly as you try to steady yourself.
Your eyes burn.
You blink hard, tilting your head back just slightly, willing it away.
Not here.
Not now.
A faint drop lands against your cheek.
You pause for half a second, glancing upward.
The sky is heavy, dark, threatening.
Rain.
Of course.
You huff out a quiet breath and start walking, your pace quicker than usual, hands pulling your coat tighter around you as if that might hold everything in place.
You just need to get home.
You just—
“Hey!”
You freeze.
Just for a second.
Your shoulders tense, your stomach dropping as his voice cuts clean through you, far too close, far too familiar.
“Where you going?”
You don’t turn.
Instead, you keep walking, faster now, your vision blurring slightly as your eyes sting again.
“My love—”
He’s closer.
You can hear it in the rhythm of his steps, quicker now as he catches up to you.
“Are you going for a fag? I saw you leaving—”
His hand reaches for your shoulder.
You don’t let it stay.
You turn sharply, pulling yourself out of his grasp before he can settle there, the movement sudden enough to catch him off guard.
“What do you want?” you snap, the words coming out tighter than you intended—strained, like they’ve been sitting in your chest for far too long.
His expression shifts instantly.
Confusion. Concern. Something softer underneath it.
“Darling… what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice dropping slightly as he takes you in properly now. “Why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
A hollow laugh escapes you.
You stare at him, genuinely incredulous.
“Are you fucking serious right now?”
The first drops of rain start falling properly now; light at first, scattered.
He blinks, taken aback.
“Alex,” you continue, your voice sharper now, the restraint you’d been holding onto finally cracking, “you said one word to me the entire night. One.”
He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him speak.
“I haven’t seen you in a month.”
The rain picks up, just slightly—enough for it to settle into your hair, your coat, your skin.
His brows pull together, confusion flickering into something more defensive as he steps closer.
You step back immediately.
The distance stays.
“I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair—uncharacteristically messy, soft from weeks of neglect. “But you know how I work. You know I have to shut everything out when I’m in it.”
A pause.
His eyes flick over your face.
Brief.
Almost uncertain.
“You’re…” he exhales, jaw tightening slightly. “You’re too distracting.”
Silence.
The words don’t land all at once.
They settle slowly.
Like something sinking.
“I’m too distracting,” you repeat, quieter now.
It doesn’t even sound like your voice.
Like the words belong to someone else entirely.
You nod once.
More to yourself than to him.
“Right,” you murmur. “Got it.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” he says quickly, turning slightly away, his hand coming up to rub at his jaw, frustration creeping in.
“Then what do you mean?” you snap, stepping forward this time, the rain dampening your hair now, droplets sliding down your temples.
“It’s not even about you focusing,” you continue, your voice tightening. “I get that. I do.”
Your chest rises and falls sharply.
“What I don’t get is how we can be in the same room after all this time and you don’t even touch me.”
That hits.
You can see it.
“You used to not be able to leave my side…” your voice falters slightly, the anger bleeding into something more vulnerable. “And now I feel like I’m just—”
You stop yourself.
But it’s too late.
He’s already heard it.
His shoulders drop slightly, something like guilt flashing across his face.
He steps forward again.
You step back.
Again.
And again.
The distance stretches, snaps, stretches again.
“What I don’t understand,” you continue, your voice quieter now but no less intense, “is how you can say you love me and not stay on a call with me for more than five minutes.”
That does it.
“Don’t.”
The word is sharp.
Low.
Controlled.
Worse than shouting.
You barely have time to react before he closes the distance entirely, his hands gripping your arms—not rough, not enough to hurt—but firm enough to stop you from moving any further away.
“You don’t get to stand there and tell me I don’t love you,” he says, his voice tight, restrained, something simmering just beneath the surface.
Rain is falling properly now.
Soaking through everything.
Your hair, your clothes—his.
Neither of you move.
“You can’t imagine how fucking wrong you are right now.”
His grip tightens slightly.
You’re close.
Too close.
Your breath catches—not from fear.
From something else entirely.
The rain is loud now.
Relentless.
But neither of you step back.
Not this time.
“Do you understand how difficult it is to stay away?” he snaps, the words sharper now, ripped straight from somewhere deeper than anger. “Because it kills me—”
His voice catches slightly, frustration bleeding into something more desperate.
“You don’t understand,” he continues, dragging a hand through his soaked hair, pacing a step before looking back at you. “I don’t want you to see me like that.”
Your breath is uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly as the rain comes down harder, blurring everything—his face, the space between you, the line you’re both about to cross.
“Why would I care about that?” you shoot back immediately, stepping closer despite yourself. “I am here for you through your best and your worst. Do you really think I couldn’t handle you at work?”
Your hands lift, palms up, incredulous.
“How weak do you think I am? How shallow?”
The rain soaks through your sleeves now, dripping from your fingertips as your voice cracks, not with fragility, but with sheer intensity.
“Are you even hearing yourself?”
For a moment, neither of you holds back.
Voices raised. Words overlapping. The tension thick enough to choke on.
It’s chaos.
And underneath it, something else entirely.
“Of course I don’t think that!” he fires back, stepping toward you again, eyes caught somewhere between frustration and something dangerously close to pleading. “When I’m like that—when I’m locked in—I’ve got nothing left to give you. I don’t want to half-ass this. Not with you.”
“Well you’re doing a brilliant job of going against that logic,” you laugh bitterly, shoving lightly at his chest; not to hurt, but to create space.
You need space.
Your head drops, rain dripping from your hair, clinging to your lashes.
“I don’t want you like this,” you say, quieter now—but somehow heavier. “I don’t want you distant. I want you to come home. I want to sleep next to you. I want to hear about your day, your frustrations, your stupid little studio problems, everything.”
Your voice softens at the edges, despite yourself.
“I just… want you.”
That lands.
Properly.
He goes still.
The anger that had been simmering in him falters, cracks, gives way to something else entirely.
And when you lift your head again—
There’s nothing between you now.
Not distance.
Not pride.
Nothing.
“I miss you…” you admit, barely above a whisper.
It’s not dramatic.
Not loud.
That’s what makes it worse.
Alex’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you, something shifting visibly behind his eyes.
He knows you’re right.
He hates that you’re right.
“I thought…” he exhales, almost laughing at himself, though there’s nothing amusing about it. He kicks lightly at the ground, frustration turning inward now. “I thought if I just put my head down—worked day and night—I’d get through it faster. And then I could come back to you properly.”
Another breath.
“Like it’d make it worth it.”
You stare at him for half a second.
Then—
“That’s a fucking dumb mindset.”
It slips out before you can stop it.
For a moment, he just blinks at you.
And then—unexpectedly—a breath of laughter leaves him, quiet, disbelieving.
“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. “I know.”
The tension shifts.
Not gone.
Just… different.
Softer around the edges. Familiar.
You look at him, something almost fond flickering through your expression despite everything.
“Oh, you know now?” you challenge lightly.
He scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there’s no bite to it this time.
“I know now, alright,” he shoots back. “Didn’t exactly have it spelled out to me before, did I?”
That does it.
“Fuck you,” you fire back instantly, stepping toward him again, the heat returning just as quickly as it faded. “I was trying to be supportive! Had you not followed me out here, we wouldn’t even be having this argument!”
That lands too.
Harder.
His expression shifts again—eyes widening just slightly as the realisation settles.
You’re right.
Again.
How long would this have gone on?
How long would you have kept swallowing it down for his sake?
Something in his chest twists sharply at the thought.
“Christ…” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
And then—
Before you can say anything else—
His hands are on you.
Firm.
Certain.
Pulling you flush against him in one sharp movement that knocks the breath clean out of you.
And then his lips are on yours.
There’s no warning.
No hesitation.
It’s immediate.
Overwhelming.
All the tension, the frustration, the weeks of distance—it crashes into the kiss all at once, rough and consuming and completely unchecked.
You gasp against him, your hands instinctively tangling into his damp hair, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself to something real.
Something solid.
God—you missed this.
You missed him.
But he’s not slowing down.
Not even close.
If anything, it’s the opposite.
His grip tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s trying to erase every second you’ve spent apart in one go.
Like letting go isn’t even an option.
“You think I don’t—” he breathes against your lips, the words breaking apart as his mouth finds yours again, more insistent this time. “After all that—you think I don’t love you?”
You barely have time to respond before he’s moving you—guiding, pushing—until your back hits the wall behind you with a soft thud.
The world narrows instantly.
No streetlights.
No people.
Just him.
His hand slides down, gripping your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist with a confidence that makes your breath catch sharply in your throat.
The contact sends heat straight through you—sharp, immediate, overwhelming despite the rain soaking through both of you.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
A quiet, involuntary sound escapes you.
And he notices.
Of course he does.
His mouth shifts, dragging slightly along your jaw, down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin despite everything else being cold.
“You’ve got no idea…” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher, his grip tightening just slightly. “No idea what you do to me when you start talking like that.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him back up just enough to catch his lips again; messier now, less controlled, matching his energy completely.
It’s been too long.
Far too long.
“You’re right,” he breathes, forehead pressing briefly against yours as you both try to catch your breath.
Your heart is racing.
So is his.
“You’re right about everything…” his voice drops further, quieter now, but heavier. “Except that.”
His hand slides up, fingers curling into your hair, pulling gently—just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your neck fully.
Your breath stutters.
“Never…” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing slowly before pressing firmer, more deliberate, “fucking doubt my love for you.”
The words settle deep.
Possessive.
Certain.
Not something he says lightly.
And the way he says it—
It makes your knees weaken.
Your grip tightens at his nape, pulling him closer again, your lips brushing just beneath his ear as you lean in, voice softer—but no less charged.
“Then prove it.”
Before you even realise, you’re inside his flat—everything before it a blur you don’t care to piece together.
Had you taken a cab? Walked? It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is this, him, the way his hands won’t leave you.
Wet jackets are shrugged off and abandoned somewhere behind you, shoes kicked away carelessly. Neither of you slows down long enough to think, to breathe, to process.
He’s guiding you—no, driving you—down the hallway, hands firm on your waist, your wrists, wherever he can keep you close.
You barely make it to the bedroom.
Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you fall back with a breathless gasp, the mattress dipping beneath you—and he’s already there.
Hovering over you.
Eyes dark.
Focused.
Starving.
His shirt is gone in seconds, dragged over his head and tossed aside without a second thought before he’s back on you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.
His mouth crashes into yours again, deeper this time, hungrier, like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s gone without you.
“You really thought that, didn’t you?” he murmurs against your lips, voice low, roughened by restraint that’s hanging on by a thread. “That I don’t want you?”
Your breath stutters, your hands gripping at his shoulders, pulling him closer without even realising it.
“I’m going to make you take that back.”
There’s something about the way he says it, quiet, certain, that sends heat straight through you.
His hands move quickly, efficiently—familiar.
Too familiar.
Your belt is undone before you can even register it, jeans following just as fast, his impatience slipping through in every sharp movement, every breath that leaves him a little too heavy.
“Alex—” you start, but it dissolves into a gasp when his hand finally slip behind your underwear, the contact sending a jolt through your entire body.
He exhales sharply at how wet you are, head dropping, forehead briefly pressing against your stomach as if grounding himself.
“Christ…” he mutters under his breath, voice almost disbelieving. “Do you know what you do to me?”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight, your body already reacting faster than your thoughts can keep up, as his thumb finds that delicious bundle of nerves.
“Please—”
That’s all it takes.
His eyes flick up to yours, dark, intent, and something shifts in them.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, quieter now, dragging it out just enough to make your breath catch.
“That what you want?”
You nod, desperate and impatient, and he doesn’t make you wait this time.
The moment he finally gives in to what he’s been holding back, it’s overwhelming.
Too much and not enough all at once.
Your knickers are pulled off within seconds, his mouth latching onto your opening with an eager, wide tongue. A broken sound escapes you before you can stop it, your back arching, your grip tightening in his hair as your body reacts instantly, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He always does.
And it only makes him worse.
“Missed this…” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice lower now, rougher, the restraint slipping further with every second. The taste of you driving him mad.
“Missed you like this.”
Your chest rises sharply, your breath uneven as everything builds too quickly, your body already teetering on the edge far sooner than you expected.
It’s been too long.
Far too long.
He adjusts his fingers without thinking, like instinct, like memory; he knows exactly how to push you there.
Spreading your thighs apart with his free hand, he revels at you. The view he has is entirely explicit, and he can feel himself harden at how gorgeous it is.
“Look at you…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to take you in properly.
And that—that almost does you in more than anything else, “please, Alex.”
"As you wish," he whispers, more to himself if anything, and he dives right back in, lips attaching where you want him the most, fingers toying with you, teasing your entrance.
Because he’s not distracted now.
Not distant.
He’s right here.
Watching you like you’re the only thing that matters.
Your lips part, your breathing shallow, your entire body reacting to him in ways you can’t control—and he takes it in like he’s memorising it.
Like he’s been waiting for this.
“I’m not done with you,” he says softly—but there’s nothing gentle about the way his fingers move after that.
He feels your thighs shaking at his pace so he brings them to rest over his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of them crushing his head far more than he would like to admit. Then, he pulls away to take a better look at you.
His ego shatters through the roof at the mess he has made of you. Hair splayed out, red-faced and eyes barely open. Your perfect lips parted in an attempt to catch your breath.
The shift is immediate.
The pace changes.
The intensity spikes.
Everything becomes sharper, deeper, harder to hold onto.
Your name slips from his mouth under his breath like it’s instinct, like he doesn’t even realise he’s saying it.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, like letting go isn’t even an option.
“Don’t drift off now.”
But you’re already slipping—already losing yourself in the way he knows you, the way he reads every reaction, every movement.
The swelling in his chest has him grinning so wide, especially when seeing you raise your head, ready to reprimand him for stopping. "Don’t worry, I'm not done, love," he beats you to it, his ring and middle fingers slowly sliding into his mouth, before pulling them out. Your eyes watch him hungrily, knowing exactly what he is going to do next.
Without warning he pushes them inside you and you moan in ecstasy. He is well aware of the fact that he knows exactly how to use them, as he pumps them in and out, the speed, movement and angle absolutely and divinely suffocating you.
Alex straightens one leg so it is against his chest, holding your thigh to keep it in place as he completely wrecks you. His lips attach against your ankle and you lose it at the overstimulation, his thumb drawing those damn perfect circles in sync with his movements.
"Give it to me," he demands, eyes gone completely dark as he watches you struggle to keep up with him.
This is beyond entertaining for him. He becomes completely sadistic when it comes to him giving you exactly what you asked for. He knows you become far too overwhelmed.
And when it finally crashes over you, at one last flick of his wrist and a bite of your ankle, you gasp and let loose. It hits harder than you expect.
Your whole body tenses, breath catching, breaking, your grip tightening as everything peaks all at once.
He doesn’t stop—not immediately—dragging it out just enough to push you further, to make sure you feel all of it, every last second.
You haven't orgasmed since the last time you slept together, so it takes you by complete surprise how powerfully it rocks your body.
His lips leave a trail of kisses as he follows up your leg, planting a few where he most needs it. A shaky sigh escapes you when his tongue makes contact again, but he doesn't stay long, climbing back up to meet your lips.
Only when you start to come down does he ease up slightly, his touch softening just enough to let you breathe again. Lips latch onto you to get a taste.
But even then—
he doesn’t pull away.
Not really.
When he comes back up to you, there’s no smug grin waiting.
No teasing remark.
Just that same look.
Heavy.
Focused.
Unshaken.
“I meant it,” he says quietly, brushing damp hair back from your face, his touch slower now—but no less intense. “I need you, desperately.”
Your breath catches again—not from what he’s doing, but from how he’s saying it.
Like it’s not just physical.
Like it never was.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, fingers tug your wet blouse over your head, your bra coming into view. Your breathing picks up again, completely enamoured by his urgency.
Your breathing is still uneven, your body heavy against the mattress, his weight hovering over you—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the tension still coiled tight beneath his skin.
He’s watching you.
Not casually.
Not distracted.
Completely.
Like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s spent not looking at you properly.
You nod and he quickly works against your bra clasp, wasting no time in throwing it across the room. He proceeds to latch his lips onto your nipple, sucking as though his music inspiration depends on it.
Your fingers curl slightly against his shoulder, grounding yourself in something real—something solid—because everything still feels like it’s spinning.
And then—
he exhales.
Slow.
Controlled.
But there’s nothing calm about it.
“You’ve got no idea…” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his thumb brushing lightly along your jaw, your throat—like he’s reminding himself you’re actually here.
As he is distracting you, his hands are rushing to release himself from his jeans, kicking them off and allowing for a part of his discomfort to be relieved. Finally, it is out in the open and he lets a sigh escape him, gripping himself in an attempt to give him some more alleviation.
You glance down and are surprised to see just how frustrated he is. He notices and runs his fingers through your hair, pressing his lips against your ear. "I've done nothing since the last time I saw you."
The shock in your eyes does not last, as he grabs your thighs, wrapping them around his waist and inserts himself with one swift, calculated motion, leaving you both breathless.
“That’s what you do to me.”
Your breath catches again at the tone alone.
Lower now.
Rougher.
Less restrained.
His hand slides down your side, slower this time, deliberate—like he’s choosing to take his time now after everything that just happened.
A complete shift.
And somehow that makes it worse.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
You do.
Of course you do.
And the second your eyes meet his, something tightens in your chest.
Because there’s nothing casual in his expression.
Nothing fleeting.
It’s deep.
Focused.
Almost overwhelming.
“I meant what I said,” he continues, his voice softer now—but heavier. “About needing you.”
His forehead dips briefly to yours, your breaths mixing, uneven and close.
“I don’t… do this halfway. Not with you.”
The words settle between you, thick with meaning. For a moment, you both focus on the feeling of finally being together again, feeling complete and in each other's arms.
And then his hands move again—firmer this time, pulling you closer, guiding you with quiet certainty until there’s no space left between you at all.
One arm circles around your waist to lift you up and against him, the other planks next to your head, and he slams himself into you, pulling out and repeating the motion with insane speed.
The shift is immediate.
What was slow turns urgent again—less frantic than before, but deeper, more intentional, like he’s fully there now.
Every movement is grounded.
Every touch deliberate.
And you feel it.
God, you feel it.
Your hands slide up into his hair again, gripping tighter this time, your body responding instinctively, like it remembers him better than your mind ever could.
A soft sound slips from you—uncontrolled—and his reaction is instant.
His jaw tightens slightly, his grip following suit.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, almost against your lips, his voice threaded with something possessive now. “I want to hear you.”
Your breath stutters at that.
At the way he says it.
Like it matters.
Like you matter.
And it pulls more out of you than you expect—your reactions coming easier now, less restrained, your body giving in completely to the way he’s guiding you.
You can't help yourself moaning at every collision, voice stuttering at the sheer power of his thrusts. "A-Alex... Oh my God," you manage to gasp out and he looks at you, sweat dripping down his face.
“Yeah…” he breathes, quieter now, his forehead pressing briefly against yours again as the rhythm between you builds. “That’s it.”
There’s no rush now.
No chaos.
Just intensity.
The look in his eyes tells you exactly what he is thinking.
He wants to consume you. He wants to wreck you to the point where you won't be able to walk the next day. He wants to prove to you that whatever fucking lies your brain has been telling you could not be any further from the truth.
So he is going to prove it to you with the precision of knowing exactly how to work your body, leaving you unequivocally satisfied.
Your nails press into his back, your body tightening instinctively as everything begins to build again, slower this time—but stronger.
His hand shifts, grounding you, steadying you, keeping you right there where he wants you.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs again, more firmly this time, like he’s anchoring you.
“Right here.”
Your name slips from his mouth again—quieter now, but heavier, like it carries more than just the moment.
Like it means something.
And that—
that’s what pushes you closer.
"Tell me exactly how you want it," he growls, thrusts rocking your entire world as you keep seeing stars with each impact. "Tell me, you think I don't love you?" He is breathless, feeling himself beginning to get close.
His knees dig deeper into the mattress and his forearm by your head flies down to find your clit, over swollen and eager for attention. You almost scream when he rubs flawlessly, eyes screwing shut and arms locking around his neck. "P-Please... please, please, please."
He huffs, muscles tense as he drives faster into you, and you can't help but choke when you feel him so deep, it forces your eyes to fly open and stare at him incredulously. "You're so- ugH!" You whine, and your head is thrown back, in any attempt to ground you.
You're close, he can tell. Your voice is pitchier, your nails are digging deliciously deeper into his back and shoulders. He wants to give it to you, but first he needs to get you there.
"Come for me, my love," he encourages into your ear and you almost gurgle as a reply, completely unintelligible to both of you. Your insides are contracting as his fingers work their magic and he himself chokes at how you grab onto him.
Everything tightens, builds, spirals—
His movements start becoming sloppy, feeling himself about to fall off the edge. He grips into your skin, desperate for you. "Do it, give it to me."
—you can’t hold it anymore.
Your own grip tightens sharply, your breath breaking as the feeling finally overtakes you again, your entire body reacting all at once. Your legs lock him in place as you milk him dry, shaking uncontrollably through your release.
He exhales against you, tension snapping in his own body at the same time, his movements faltering for just a second before pulling you closer—closer—like he’s trying to keep you there with him.
Not letting go.
Not yet.
Not fully.
It’s messy.
Uncontrolled.
Real.
And when it finally settles, when the tension slowly starts to ease, you’re left there, tangled together, both breathing harder than before.
His forehead rests briefly against your shoulder, his grip still firm, like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this is real yet.
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
You just… stay there.
Together.
And then, softer now—his hand slides up your arm, slower this time, his touch almost careful in contrast to everything that came before.
“You still think I don’t love you?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less serious.
You don’t even hesitate.
Your hand comes up to his face, brushing damp hair away, your thumb grazing lightly along his cheek.
“No,” you breathe.
And that’s all it takes.
Something in him finally loosens.
Not the tension entirely—
that’s still there, humming beneath the surface—
but enough.
Enough for him to press his lips to yours again, slower this time.
For a while, neither of you moves.
Your breathing slowly evens out, your body still warm, still sensitive, tucked beneath him as he keeps you close—closer than necessary, like he’s not quite ready to let you go yet.
His fingers linger in your strands, tracing along your cheek like he’s grounding himself in you.
“You alright?” he murmurs, voice low, stripped of all the sharpness from before.
You nod softly, your hand sliding along his back, slow and absent, just feeling him there.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”
He exhales at that—like he didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Properly.
Then his forehead rests against yours.
“I’m not doing that again,” he says quietly.
There’s no hesitation in it.
“No more disappearing. No more sleeping at the studio like that… no more shutting you out.”
His thumb brushes your cheek again, slower this time.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he admits, voice softer, almost frustrated with himself. “But I was just pushing you away.”
You don’t say anything, you just watch him.
Because this matters.
“I’ll figure it out,” he continues, more certain now. “Take my time with it. Come home to you. Talk to you. All of it.”
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“I don’t want to miss you like that again when you’re right there.”
That one lands.
Your hand comes up to his face, mirroring him, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw.
“You won’t,” you murmur.
He studies you for a second—like he’s committing it to memory.
Then he leans in, pressing one last slow kiss to your lips. Not rushed. Not desperate.
Summary: After a late night of board games and kisses, you and Alex wake up in the mid hours of the day. Domestic relationship at its best.
︎DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction depicts a real person and a sexual scenario. Nothing included in this story is implied to be accurate. This is a purely creative work and is not meant to offend, or make anyone uncomfortable.
The night had stretched long for you and Alex, filled with board games and tired giggles. You had been so anxious awaiting his arrival, but the moment he spoke, it all melted away.
You expected him to jump you right away, to shower you in physical love before five words were uttered. Instead, he gave you a long, exhausted hug, a simple pleasure he had been missing sorely.
Midnight hours progressed lazily, your body laid between his thighs, back against his chest. His hand was on your stomach and he mumbled silly studio stories into your hair. It was bliss.
The game of Life was sprawled out in front of you, the bright colours seemingly illuminating the dark room.
“I don’like this shitty new version,” He grumbled. “s’too childish.”
You reminded him that it was a kids game, but he argued that all of the aspects of the game were adult activities. His reasonings made you giggle as you moved your ‘childish’ piece ahead of his on the board.
He had been pouty to lose, but gracious enough to give you a kiss. Then a few more. You became wrapped in his arms on the rug, lips lovingly pressed together for what must been a half hour.
You almost slept there on his chest, but he gently rose you and ushered you into bed. He wished he could’ve carried you, but his muscles and bones ached with a tiredness he could not combat.
The mattress bent comfortably underneath your shared weight and cradled you to sleep. Alex’s warmth was like a lullaby, and you couldn’t resist curling up to his body.
He stroked your hair, forcing himself to stay conscious long enough to make sure you were content.
This morning, or rather, afternoon, soft sunlight pokes at your eyes until you concede and crack them open.
A soft, amused hum slips from your lips at the way Alex’s hair sticks up in all directions at odd angles. You tangle your fingers into it and kiss his forehead.
“Alex, baby,” You whisper. “wake up.”
His groan makes you smile. Your eyes drift to the clock on the nightstand and you find that it’s 14:30.
“Jesus, Al,” You laugh. “it’s way past noon!”
Your voice is soft despite your surprise, not wanting to startle him. He clumsily throws his arm over your upper body, attempting to physically tug you back to sleep.
“Don’t care,” He mumbles. “s’still too early.”
You wriggle out of his grip and he whines.
“Baby!” You laugh again, it starting to bubble from deep in your chest now. “Don’t be so lazy.”
He flops onto his back and covers his eyes with his hands, trying to block out any bit of light he can. His fingers split over his left eye and he spares a look at you.
“Y’look pretty this mornin’, love.” He placates your nagging to get up with the simple compliment.
As mush as you know he’s trying to get away with more sleep, you can’t help but crumble a little from his cute smile. Your hands pry his off his eyes and you can see the happy crinkles around them.
Muscles soften and you lean down to kiss him. He hums happily.
“That’s better,” He sighs against your lips, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck.
“Yeah?” You smile, rubbing his hand before guiding it up to your jaw. “You’re okay with being awake as long as my mouth is involved?”
“Oh absolutely.” He groans at the inadvertent implications.
“I didn’t mean you were getting a blowjob.” You laugh when he starts pushing the blankets down.
His eyebrows furrow and he gives you a betrayed expression, his palm to his heart.
“M’hurt. Really, I am.” He grumbles dramatically. “Thought you loved me.”
You crawl onto him and let a leg rest on each side of his hips.
“I only said no blowjob,” You explain. “I didn’t say we couldn’t do anything.”
He swallows hard, suddenly not so sarcastic. His hands find their places on your thighs and he rubs up and down.
“I missed you a lot, Al.” You whisper, pressing your hands flat to his chest and rolling your hips on his. The movement elicits a soft sound from his chest.
“Missed you too, love.” He whispers back, voice flimsy in a way only you could recognize. The way his stomach tightens and you can feel it under your thumbs, his hips shifting beneath you.
You kindly indulge his neediness with a more involved kiss, tongue sliding past his sleep-puffy lips to taste him. In this moment, he’s glad he brushed his teeth so late last night that his mouth is still fresh and minty.
Fingers slip around his throat and hold it lovingly, a grounding. He whimpers helplessly when he feels your digits encircling his airway, the touch sending chills down his spine.
You’re so gentle. The hold is weak and only provides a much needed grounding.
“Can I take your shirt off, love?” He asks in a trembling whisper.
“Don’t be so scared, baby.” You coo at him, thumb rubbing up his Adam’s apple to his bottom lip. “No need to ask.”
A smile breaks his face and he pulls your shirt up and off your body, revealing your soft, supple skin to his wandering eyes and grabby hands. You take those hands and guide them to your chest, encouraging his play.
His thumbs rub over your tender nipples and you sigh, head tipping back. Squeezing the delicate flesh in his palms, he focuses on your face. You’re like a work of art for him to admire, even more so when he’s making you feel good.
“That’s it,” You praise, rolling your hips down onto his. “my good boy.”
The blush that crawls from his neck to his ears is burning, his body shrinking almost submissively from the name. You’ve never called him that before, but he likes it a lot.
A hum vibrates through your chest and into the air of the small flat bedroom, filling Alex’s ears entirely.
“Can you ride me now, please?” He asks sweetly, eyes pleading from below you.
You nod simply and get off his lap to remove your panties, his own hands scrambling to pull his achingly erect cock from its confines. It bobs over his stomach, pink with precome beading at the tip.
“So pretty,” You comment absentmindedly. “hate having to hide it in latex.”
Blush warms his cheeks and a bashfully smile stretches his lips. He wants to say ‘thank you’, but it feels more natural to be silent right now.
The condom package tears open with a crinkle, some of the lube dripping onto his thigh. You hold his cock straight up and roll the protection on. A few quick jerks up and down the length follow—for good measure.
His eyes are pleading up at you, and you have no choice but to slide him inside you without teasing. It fills you perfectly, a sigh billowing out of your chest as your head tips back.
“God…” He whispers. “you’re so wet. S’that ‘cause I was gone for so long?”
You chuckle under your breath, palm rubbing over his chest, your hips rolling on his cock. Bottom lip tugging from between your teeth, you focus back on your boyfriend.
“Yeah,” You nod. “missed you a lot, baby.”
His eyes squeeze shut and his eyebrows furrow at the sensation, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs.
“My hand could never compare to you, fuck.” He breathes. “Y’always feel so good. Can I kiss you?”
A smile spreads across your face at his adorable request, and you lean down to oblige him. His lips are eager and his head lifts from the pillow to press harder to yours.
You hum, fingers slipping to his hair and tangling in as deep as they can. They tighten and tug gently, eliciting a soft moan from his mouth straight into yours.
His hips start to buck without rhythm, sloppy and needy. Your thighs tighten around him and you give him a quiet sound of warning.
“I’ll ride you, baby.” You coo. “No need to get so impatient.”
Your body finds a pleasant pace, the way his cock caresses the walls of your cunt is extraordinary. You whimper, eyes squeezing shut the way his did.
“Oh, thank you, love.” He mewls, his cock already giving a pathetic twitch inside you. “M’not gonna last long.”
“It’s okay,” You assure him. “I’m not going to either.”
His muscles relax at knowing he won’t make a fool of himself, that you’re just as desperate as him. Your cunt puts more pressure on his length with every thrust he gives, almost as if you’re trying to keep him from leaving your warmth.
Your fingers find your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud with a gentle vigour. The circles are loose and lazy, but you don’t need too much extra when your boyfriend’s cock is buried to the hilt.
“Baby,” Alex mumbles. “lemme’ do that for ya’.”
He swats your hand away from your core, replacing it with the pad of his thumb. It presses hard, sliding up and down in tiny repetitions.
A whine leaves your tightening throat, his ministrations so much more stimulating than your own. He’s so focused.
“Mm, Al,” You sigh. “that’s it. Make me come on your cock.”
His chest feels locked up at your dirty words; you usually don’t talk like that to him. It makes his cock twitch again, signalling his foggy brain that he has to finish you off quick.
He angles his thrusts toward your stomach, poking the head of his cock to your sensitive spot, combining all the sensations he can give you at the moment.
“God, yes!” You whine, fingernails digging into the skin just below his collarbones.
Your insides grip him, pulsing with an eye-rolling-orgasm, and he has to put everything he has into helping you ride it out.
“Y/N, I—I’m not…” He struggles to find words in the mess that is his mind. “Comin’” is all he can come up with.
“Yeah, come for me, pretty boy.” You encourage through laboured breaths.
You tuck your face under his chin and he holds your hips down onto his, his cock as deep as it can go as he spills into the condom.
He kisses your temple, his hands rubbing up and down your sides and back to calm you along with himself.
“So fuckin’ good.” He praises.
“It always is,” You giggle softly, fingers digging into his fluffy hair. “thanks, babe.”
“Thank you,” He laughs back at you. “for givin’ me n’amazing first afternoon back.”
support writers!->interactions greatly appreciated!
A/N: (not proofread) this took a lot longer to actually complete than I thought it would but oh well…
—I do not authorize my content to be fed to artificial intelligence—
