yeah you guys are right. alex is super depressed and unhappy with louise, he'd only be happy if he was dating one of you parasocial weirdos who spend all your time making up stories about his life. now come on, we're going to visit him—no, don't worry, that van with no windows is definitely not headed to a psychiatric facility... please get in...
tried to reblog the original post but it was gone so here we are i guess. thanks for tagging me leigh!!!!! @poemeater <3 i love you to pluto and back come kiss me now
currently reading: nothing actually. walk of shame
last song: man in the mirror — michael jackson
last film: captain america brave new world
last series: new girl season 3, mha season 2 (rewatch), wbk s2
sweet/savory/salty?: savory + salty!!! but i would give up both kidneys for some cinnamon sugar pretzels rn
tea or coffee: tea always
working on: packing to move states in july, weeding through some rough friendships that no longer serve me, picking up guitar again, and. well. kinktober ‘25
no pressure tags 🤍 @carminechrollo @admiringlove @madaqueue @cheralith @bouqette @mochiqa @mosskissed @storiesoflilies @toadba @tokeposts @hiraethwrote sorry if you’ve been tagged i tried to choose people i haven’t tagged in awhile/at all hehe
Currently reading: Deep End by Ali Hazelwood
Last song: King of My Heart by Taylor Swift
Last film: The Batman
Last series: Young Sheldon
Sweet / savory / salty: sweet
Tea or coffee: Tea
Working on: not dying 💔
Thank you for the tag! I really appreciate it @marinthespring x
Currently Reading: One Day by David Nicholls
Last Song: Instant Crush by Daft Punk & Julian Casablancas
Last Film: Broken directed by Rufus Norris
Last Series: Currently binge watching Peaky Blinders!
Sweet, savory, salty: Sweet <3
Tea or Coffee: Tea in the morning to jump start my day and coffee at night to get me to sleep (yes, it has the opposite effect on me for some reason).
Working On: My new schedule for the rest of my year plus my new school year semester, writing and brainstorming things I will be publishing on here, and trying to be kinder to myself.
Npt! I will be tagging my favourite person and writers out here: @roxabellas @junedenim @rottinglilys @secretdoorr @eyctemonkeys
this is the only alex ai i saved because it had me straight rolling on the floor. who is asking for this???
nooo who’s making these 😭😭 the one that inspired my post last night was alex as spider-man and i can’t find it anymore but like… who exactly is the target demographic for spider-man alex turner ai art ???
warnings: the whole shebang, fluff, smut, and stuff, just read it, you perv
word count: 10k
He was a restless boy. His leg had been unstoppably bouncing for weeks, enough that his mum raised concern that he might have come down with a mad case of restless leg syndrome, but all her concerns were alleviated when she looked over his shoulder to see him texting away.
miss u
rly?
ofc
u 2
She can’t quite discern all the texting lingo, but she gets the gist based on who is on the other end. Alex had been a closed book on the topic of girls since girls transitioned for ew to fit. So, when he returned from school last winter with a big smile and a transformation into Chatty Cathy about a girl, it wasn't just a girl.
In July, when paid a visit by this girl, Alex’s cheek seemed a permanent red and he was deeply embarrassed by his mother at every turn. His mum backed up, but it’ll only prompt his father to pinch his cheeks and turn him back into a treatment that had not been seen since Alex’s infancy. You only seemed to laugh at this and said things like, “Now you know what it feels like,” leaving it to be assumed your parents gave similar treatment to you when Alex visited you in June.
In the month between your departure and the term’s start, Alex had been nearly unbearable, which left Penny praying for the start to come quicker so they all wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. She would feel horrible over this, except for the fact that Alex was doing the same thing. His dad would tease him by saying, “Less than 10 days left!” Alex would flush in embarrassment over this teasing, but clearly had his own mental countdown occurring.
*
It’s slightly pathetic to wait outside someone’s door. He knows that, hands in his pocket, feet pacing the hallway, but he waits because he is pathetic for you, and he’ll own up to that. He doesn’t mind it. He just thanks god no one is here to see it. The mere thought of you is enough to pass the time while he waits outside your dorm door, simply replaying the thought of you. You were supposed to meet here 15 minutes ago, but you’re late, which is slightly worrying considering you’re Little Miss On Time.
Another pair of shoes hit the carpeted floor. He looks up at you, completely casual, bag slung over your shoulder, and your hair a few inches shorter than when he last saw you. “Sorry, I’m late. You’ve been rubbing off on me,” you say.
He doesn’t care. He isn’t punctual like that and he’s just happy to see you. That’s all that matters to him at this moment. It’s like tunnel vision, a kind he wouldn’t mind indelibly having. “Oh, I’ll rub off on you.” You in those little shorts and that stupid shirt you picked up from a charity shop with the periodic table on it that’s missing oxygen. You two laughed about it for days because how do you miss oxygen???
“You can rub off by yourself all you’d like.” You throw an arm around him, yanking him to you. A clueless onlooker might consider it an assault, you shoving your body into his.
Especially when he shouts, “Ow! You’re banging up me head.” He scratched up the back of his hair with a pulling fist. He looks down at you as if you’re sitting in his little T-shirt pocket. A healthy little grin sprouts on his face. “Hi.”
You tip your head back, occupied by a grin. “Hi. How are you?”
He tosses his head from one shoulder to the other. “Alright.” His hand cups your hip bone, pulling it to his. “At least now.” First, your hips kiss, then he bends down and lets himself be the first to do the honours of welcoming you back. And if this kiss is the welcoming committee, a buzz goes through him, imagining what the rest of the year could be like.
“We should probably just go inside if that’s how we’re gonna act,” you suggest.
Sure, your room is right there with a bed just waiting to be acted on, but… “I thought we were going to get donuts.”
You exaggerate a sigh. “The plight of men everywhere. Sex or food?” You take a hand, leading him on a lease to the outside world.
“Not just any food, donuts. Aren’t you hungry?” He feels like a child again, except you are playing the role of his mother, who was forced to give in to his needs for a special treat so he wouldn’t be crying through the shops. He feels bad that he hasn’t quite aged out of this in the decade since, but he’s hoping by the end of university, he can consider himself an adult, or more aptly a man, instead of a boy.
You shrug. He’s staring at your back, shoulders moving, spine curving, butt included. “Yes, but I thought you seemed pretty desperate back there.”
“Well, sure,” he agrees. “But I had to wait sooooooo long, my stomach is grumbling away.”
You shake your head as you push the door, opening the sun to your skin, and he likes the look of it here too, forgets how good you can look when the sun hits you right. Your skin is slightly tanner. He’s still pale as ever, embarrassingly so. All in all, things feel the same, you feel the same, except you’re now with him.
*
For the first night back, right before classes start, everyone gets the idea to go out together. He’s fine with this because, despite how much he missed you, he missed his friends too. However, he didn’t plan to stay here this long with a need for relief in more… areas… than one. You make it worse and he thinks you know it, but you tend to get pretty oblivious when drunk.
It’s a hectic little fit. The evening is dark, this club is dark, and that’s not just from the sunglasses that seem permanently glued to his face, a habit he’s started ever since a RA caught him high at the end of last year. It also shields his eyes from his obvious staring at your hips swaying on beat. It might seem quite pervy to the unknowing eye, a boy staring from the couch as a girl dances, but he doesn’t think he comes across as a leering old man and you’re, well, you are sort of a smoke show and he’s a sunglass-wearing guy with a hard-on watching you, so, yes, it is quite pervy, but permissive pervy-ness.
He shields himself with his glass like a localised cold shower to his schlong. He stares at the ice in it until he doesn’t feel like he’s about to rip a hole through his jeans.
“The key is to go have a wank in the bathroom,” Matthew teases. Alex snaps a harsh look over at him, which is, of course, mitigated by the fact that he has large black shields over his eyes, which are also stoned as hell. “And maybe stop staring at the girl’s ass.”
“Fuck off,” Alex curses.
Matt simply chuckles in response. “Or is this some game between you two? She got a cock cage on you.”
“You’re awfully concerned with my dick.”
Matt pats him on the back. “I’m just looking out for you, mate. Wouldn’t want you losing the thing.”
“Like you did?”
He shakes his head and stands up. “I’m gonna go get my beak wetted now. Good luck with yours, Al.”
“I know a few hookers who can help you out with that!” Alex shouts out at his disappearing figure. Matt waves him off as his body evaporates into the crowd of people.
“Do you, now?”
“Shit!” He clutches his chest. You stand behind the couch with your arms crossed, getting a kick out of both teasing him and frightening him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
You giggle, rounding the couch until you’re sitting next to him. “I’m sorry your perception skills have been cut in half. I did tell you not to smoke so much.”
“I didn’t!” He insists.
You hum a note of disbelief and cover an arm around him, hugging his tiny frame to yours. “Now, where did you get to know these hookers?”
His lips curl up with confusion. “Huh?”
You shake your head. “Never mind.”
“Hey,” he says, shelving his head on your shoulder. “Missed you. Did you miss me?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him, nudging your nose against his. “I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me again. It makes me feel…I don’t know. I don’t even know what it makes me feel, but I like it.”
You kiss him, locking him to you. He’s the most precious thing. Maybe it’s a side effect of young love or maybe it’s a simple fact with his hair completely roughed up from his fingers running through it, with his inability to keep still and his cold hand on your warm, bare thigh. “I missed you very much, Alex.”
He leans back, crossing his arms like a smug little boy getting his way. “Good.”
You roll your eyes because it’s the only way to deal with him when he’s like this. “I’m glad.” You pat his hand and stand up.
“Where are you going?” He whines. “Stay.” He desperately tugs on your hand.
“I have other people to see but you.”
“But are they going to treat you like I’m gonna treat you?”
You pat his cheek. “I’ll call you a hooker to keep you company.”
“Can’t you be my hooker?”
“How much?”
He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet with a handful of bills. You snatch them out of his hand with a shake of your head at the total amount of them. “I’m not made out of money, woman.”
“Woman?”
“Madam.”
“I’ll see you in a little, Al.”
He leans his head back against the couch with a complete sense of exhaustion. Why did I pick donuts over fucking her? Oh, a donut sounds really good right now. But she took all my money. There’s got to be some food in here. His stomach miserably rumbles. Fucking hell I’m starved.
*
“Hello!” You crash into him, the liquor in his glass slightly spilling, not that either of you notices it. You adjust yourself onto his lap and curl your arms around his neck, tightening a hold on him akin to a death grip. “Where have you been?”
His mouth chews in response. He holds up the bag of Doritos he found.
“Oh, Cool Ranch.” You reach for the bag eagerly too but he snatches it away from your grasp. “Hey! What happened to sharing is caring?”
He pouts. “You stole all my money.”
“How did you get these then?”
He plucks another one, savouring it on his tongue. “Took them from the cupboard.”
You eye him closely. “Stole them from the cupboard.”
“Tomayto, tomahto.”
“Will you let me be an accomplice to your crime?” You pull the sunglasses down to look him directly in his eyes. “Please.”
He sighs exhaustively. “Fine.”
Your face is flushed red with sweat on your temples. He could lick it like a lime after a shot, and he does, a toss-up between hornyness or inebriation. “Don’t act like I won’t be paying you back.” You grind your hips into his.
He grabs your waist. “Don’t be cruel.”
You lock your arms around his neck, pushing closer, your breasts smashing up against his chest. “Oh, you’ll be fine.”
He pushes you back in an attempt to regain control of his airway. “Police officers should use you instead of handcuffs.”
“I am quite known for my domineering power.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you now?” He can’t help but feel eager to once again witness this domineering power.
“Yes,” you sigh, leaning backward until he has to hold onto to make sure you don’t fall backward off his lap onto the cement floors. Quickly, you snap back up, eye to eye with him. “But you already know this.”
He hums. “Shall we?”
You slap his chest. “No, Alex, we have to stay until they do the limbo.”
“The limbo?”
You roll your eyes. “Yes! They do a limbo challenge at midnight every night.”
He’s pretty sure you’ve just made this up, but, sure, why not witness you fail miserably at doing the limbo. “Fine. Then, let me take you to the bathroom.”
“No, not after the shower incident last year.”
“I’m more well-trained this time.”
“Trained enough not to do it.”
“I thought you were going to make it up to me.” He sulks like a sucker, an idiot, or some other variation of the debilitation.
You move off, flipping to lie beside him. “With the privacy of a locked door.”
“I’m sure these doors lock.”
You stand, walking away from him. “You can enjoy it yourself then.”
“Why is everyone talking about me having a wank tonight?”
*
It was raining on the way home, which put an extra eagerness on getting to shelter as soon as possible. Upon getting inside, in the close vicinity of a bed, it becomes a newfound eagerness to get all clothes off as soon as possible because they were soaked wet, of course. It then became necessary to get your bodies pushed up against one another for warmth. “Pneumonia is a killer way to start the year,” Alex says with his mouth muffled against your neck.
The whole charade of the rain making it a requirement for you to have sex with one another ends there, mostly because there isn’t much reason for Alex to stick his penis inside you because of the rain and it’s hard to say much when Alex’s penis is inside you. Though you are very warm, as he claims, thrusting in and out slowly.
It’s not the best fuck of your life because you’re drunk and he’s high making his movements lethargic and you’re a little too numb to the sensation from the alcohol. It’s like your body is cut in half and your brain can’t quite communicate with your lower half, but that part comes and he seems to do the same at a speed that makes him hide in your neck.
“Sorry, it was so quick. I’ll work harder next time,” he says earnestly. The time away from one another has him slipping under a shadow of insecurity as if you have to reacquaint yourselves with one another. Deep down, hidden in the back of his mind for no one but himself to see, he has the fear of you finding someone else along the way.
You comb your fingers through the back of his head, a slight pull on the longer strands of hair. “I liked it,” you say. “The part of me I can still feel did at least.”
He chuckles into your collarbone, relieving that knot in the center of you. “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” he amends.
“It’s okay,” you whisper into his ear. “I missed you.”
Alex lifts his head, a slow smile on his face for you. “Yeah?” You nod quickly. “Missed you too.” He lands a soft kiss on your cheek.
“But you can’t stay here, you know that,” you break the fantasy.
“Why not?” He whines, already tired out from the idea of walking to his dorm.
You pinch his nose irritatingly until he pulls your hand away. “Because you have an early class tomorrow and I don’t and you’ll wake me up with the alarm or oversleep and you can’t start the term like that and you have no clothes here other than the dirty wet ones on the floor that stink of weed.”
He clicks his tongue repeatedly at you. “Excuses, excuses, excuses.” He noisily exhales, hoisting himself up, and swinging his legs off the side of the small bed. “You’re gonna make me go out in that.” He points to the window where a slight beating of rain is coming down.
“You had no problem making it back here. You’re only a few minutes away and you can borrow my brolly.” You stand up, searching for the umbrella.
He loudly groans. “Now you’re gonna flaunt your naked body in front of me. What a cruel person you are.”
“Don’t be such a baby. You already got to play with it once tonight,” you tease.
“Only once!” He complains. “Why do you get to hang out with it all the time?”
You toss a puzzled look his way as you dig through your bin of things. “You mean, why do I get to be with my own body? Are you trying to tell me something, Al?”
“That I’m horny,” he moans.
You roll your eyes. “Put some clothes on.”
“Same to you.”
You retrieve the umbrella. “Touché.”
Despite his complaints, he begins pulling his damp clothes on with only a few whimpers. “I can’t wait until a year from now when we won’t have to kick one another out.”
“What do you mean?” You question as you pull a shirt on.
He cheekily grins, fixing the wet cloth of his shirt onto his torso. You can't help but ache and think of that Pablo Neruda quote, I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. He’s just so argh. It’s terrorizing.
“When we’re living together, dear.” He makes a point of tenderly placing a peck on your lips and quickly making his way to the door.
“Al!” You call out, but he shuts the door behind him, leaving you with only a quick flash of his smile.
*
You wait for him by attempting to read a book, but your mind struggles too much to focus on it, not even bothering to stare at the pages, instead the cafe’s front door. He’s late, of course, only by a few minutes, but you’ve already been here for fifteen minutes, hopelessly waiting for him. Again, on you, not him. You’re the steadfast loser whose eyes light up every time you hear the bell of the door ring.
Then, when he walks in with a slow gait and a peaceful smile, you feel you could slide under the covers of him and hibernate for the whole year inside him. He raises his hand with a wave. He waves like a politician, the dorky kind, not the dickhead kind. You tried to look like you’re reading while he waits in line, but you keep looking back to stare at him.
Finally, when he walks over with his signature donut and a coffee, you happily close the unread book. “Don’t let me keep you from…” he bends his head nearly upside-down to read the title of the book. “A Companion to British Art: 1600 to the Present. Riveting.”
“Don’t mock me.”
He slides into the chair across from you. “I’m not mocking you. I’m serious. I’m excited to hear you tell me about it.”
“I’m afraid ancient modernity might go over your head,” you tease.
He opens his mouth in ersatz offense. “Who’s mocking who now? Tell me about it.”
You blush in embarrassment and hide behind your cup of coffee. “I haven’t read it yet.”
He rests his head on his hand. “Read it to me then.”
“I don’t want to bore you.”
“Shush. Read.”
Thus, the distraction becomes the solution as you read him far too many pages with the tiniest text size on ancient modernity in British art, but he listens intently, educating himself for those future geeky flashcards.
Later, once you’ve made it through the chapter, you ask him, “How was your first class? Curricular Integration.”
He smiles at you, remembering before frowning at the reminder of the class. “Fucking boring.”
You laugh at his frustrated expression. “It was the first class. Those are always boring.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like it’s not for me.”
“It’s only been one class, Al, you’ll be okay. I can help you, you know, if you ever need a tutor.” You try to flirt to cheer him up.
It sneaks a half-grin onto his face before the discouragement returns. “Thanks, but it’s not that. I’m just feeling a little lost. It’s not a big deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why do you feel lost?” You ask, placing your hand over his, stroking your thumb on the back of it.
He turns away, motioning the topic away. “It’s just one class,” he excuses. “Let’s talk about something else. Please.”
You nod. The words nervously rise up, asking, “What was that thing you were talking about last night?”
“Oh.” A grin quickly spreads across his face. “Living together? Yeah. I mean, it’s a logical conclusion.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Is that so?”
He chuckles at your surprise, taking a sip of his coffee. “Duh.”
“Duh,” you impersonate.
“C’mon. Did you think we’d be living in tiny bedrooms for the rest of uni?”
“Well, no,” you keep your eyes on the napkin you’re ripping up to distract your nerves, “but you’re so sure of it.”
He leans forward. “Like you’re gonna say no.”
“When did you become so confident? Last night, you were so timid.”
“Timid. I know I was slow but I wouldn’t call myself timid.”
You snort a laugh. “You know what I mean, but it’s not like we know each other that well.”
“What do you mean?”
“You barely know me. I could be an axe murderer or you could be. Naive girls fall for that kind of stuff all the time.”
He makes a pointed look. “I wouldn’t call you naive.”
“Besides the point. It’s a risky thing to share something like that.”
He finds this to be a ridiculous argument. You can tell by the look on his face. “It’s an apartment. Not a child or stocks or something.”
“We’ve been together for less than a year and I don’t want to flat-on my ass with nowhere to live next year.”
“I’d move in with Matt before I let you be homeless.”
“You’re very sure of this.”
“I’m just sure of myself with you. Everything else can feel like a mess sometimes that if I start to question this then I might lose it completely. You make sense to me.”
You look over dreamily at him, half-sure you created him in a hyper-delusional state of mind. “You know how to wow a girl.”
“Oh, yeah,” he jests, “I’m teaching a class on it.”
You place a foot between his ankles. “Really? Can I be your TA?”
“It might not be highly advisable for me to be sleeping with my TA, but you’d look good with a ruler in your hand.”
You giggle, slotting your knee between his knees, on the edge of your seat. “What’s it with you in these dominatrix fantasies? Watching too much porn while we were away from one another?”
He won’t be fazed, leaning back in his chair. “I like you in any position.”
You loudly shush him, terrified of eavesdroppers. “I have Rhetorical Theory. You can’t be trying anything at this hour.” You stand, gathering your things.
“But another hour I can?” His head bends back, eyes following your movements.
“I’ll see you at dinner.” You bend down to him to kiss his lips like you’ve done this thousands of times, and you might have at this point. You squeeze his shoulder and disappear out the cafe’s door, only bells left ringing in your wake, one on the door and the one inside of Alex.
*
On Wednesdays, you two share a class with one another, specially picked out for the purpose. American Literature in the 20th Century. Alex dragged his feet on it until he heard there would be Nabokov short stories and a delectable treat with batting eyelashes and lips that taste so sweet.
You closely clutch the syllabus as you exit the hall together. “And we get to read Franny & Zooey! I love Franny & Zooey!” You shake the paper between your hands in unadulterated excitement.
He taps your back with a chuckle. “Okay, maybe don’t rip the paper in half.”
“Why? You nearly wet yourself when she said we’d be reading Nabokov.”
“Nabokov’s cool.”
“And Salinger isn’t?”
“No, Faulkner isn’t.”
“Right, Faulkner,” you say. “It’ll broaden our knowledge.”
“You and this broadening of knowledge. Can’t I broaden my knowledge by reading something I can actually understand?”
“You’ll understand Faulkner. You’re a lot smarter than you let yourself believe.”
“I think you might be confusing me with someone else. Is this your other boyfriend?”
You pinch his side to get a laugh out of him. “Jealousy isn’t a nice look on you.”
“I’m not jealous,” he mumbles.
You wrap your arm around his back and curl your hand against his body, tugging him closer. You might as well take up a sideshow career as Siamese twins. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He tilts his head until his cheerful smile is facing you directly. “I’m not,” he insists. “And if I were, it would only be a little because this guy gets to spend time with you.”
“We barely talk when we’re together, and when we do, it’s me lecturing him.”
“Isn’t that what we pretty much do?” He reasons.
“He’s much dumber than you.”
“Well, we can’t all have our smarts to fall back on.”
“And our looks,” you compliment with your mouth so close to his skin, the air you let out dances against his jaw.
“What a charmer you are. Do you talk to everyone this way?” His eyes look down like he’s trying perilously to take you all in at once. “Or just the boys you fancy?”
You roll your eyes. “Ha ha,” you exaggerate before mouthing against his ear, “just one boy.”
“Young Joe’s a lucky man.” That’s the boy. Joe.
You sock him in the arm. “I can’t help it if you’ve a teacher kink, you pervert.”
He adjusts his bag to knock shoulders with you as you now walk side-by-side. “If they all looked like you, everyone would have a teacher kink. Hence, young Joseph.”
“He’s only a year younger than us.”
“Is that so? An older woman.”
You huff a laugh as Alex holds the door open for the dining hall. “Weren’t you the one who had a crush on your professor last year? I should be concerned with an older woman coming in to sweep up a young man.”
He rejoins your side, saying, “I simply said she was good looking, not that I wanted to do her. I was fargone on you by that point.”
You hum in a disbelieving fashion. “So you say.”
“Yeah. Just like Junior Joe is. It doesn’t take much.”
“Junior Joe?” You question. “You’re getting very creative with these nicknames for a boy you’ve never met.”
“I know Joey’s kind.”
You infectiously giggle with him. “Are you pretending to be in an old western again?”
He shrugs with a sheepish grin. “We’re watching The Searchers in my film class.”
“Aw,” you coo, pulling at his cheek like an old granny. “You should consider an acting class. It might help you get all that unaddressed rage out.”
“Rage?”
“They’ll at least train you in stage combat, which will help you for duel against Joe, which will, of course, also be your final exam.”
“When you tutor him, do you wrestle in preparation for this final exam?” Alex quips.
You pick up your tray of dinner. “Yes, and we’re usually naked, wet, and oiled up.”
“Really?” He follows behind you like an obedient pup. “Can I sit in on these lessons? I could really use your assistance.”
“But wouldn’t that ruin the integrity of the sport? You would be spying on him.”
“Wouldn’t you be spying on him for me? Or are you going to flip on me? Double agent.”
You sigh. “Not quite yet, but if he throws any other money my way, I can’t make any promises.”
*
Just as you had taken up tutoring, Alex obtains a job at one of the campus pubs. The best decision the owners of this pub ever made was letting their employees dress in casual attire. It allows Alex to roam the place in his perfectly fitted T-shirts that expose the lower plain of his torso every time he grabs something on one of the taller shelves.
The place itself is a proper hangout spot, allowing you to chill with friends while watching him in the distance or, on slow weekday nights, share a basket of leftover chips with him. On one night, this particular night, his jeans hang loosely on his hips and a navy blue long-sleeved shirt as the cold autumn air creeps its way into every corner of your world. He leans on the bar with the chips sitting between you and other than a gathering of teachers in the corner, the place has grown empty in the late hour.
“He’s too buddy-buddy. He keeps asking me for high fives,” you complain about your British Art professor. “I get that it’s to facilitate a relationship, poorly, I might add, because the guy doesn’t even know my name. I’m sure of this.”
Alex chews and chuckles. “Did you know the high five wasn’t invented until 1977?”
“Shut up, really?” This is clearly a method of distraction, something you won’t pick up on until later.
He hums, taking another chip. “LA Dodgers.”
“Baseball, right?”
“Very good. I’ll add a baseball class to my roster.”
“You barely know anything about baseball. Have you ever even seen a game?”
He counters, “Have you?”
“Fair enough.”
“Besides, what’s there to know—”
“Excuse me!” A group of girls has come in, with one girl violently waving her hand to get Alex’s attention.
He pulls away, attending to them, while you play Lode Runner on your phone with patience. The group is rather large and noisy, ruining the former environment that felt like a cozy fireplace and turning it into an inferno with each drink they gulp down.
“I should go,” you tell Alex when he returns.
“Sorry about them.”
You shake your head, admiring his charming, solemn face. “Nonsense. You better get some good tips.”
He smirks. “I don’t think you’d like that.”
You button up your jacket. “Don’t become some cheating bastard. I’d have to write my name on your forehead.”
“I don’t know. That blonde one looks rather nice.”
You eye the girl, slinging a purse over your shoulder. “One bleach away from her hair falling out. How lovely.”
He chuckles, leaning over the bar for a kiss. “I’ll see you later.” A quick liplock before you once again leave one another.
*
His hands grow icy on the way to the dorm, enough that he can’t feel the tip of his fingers. The air is windy; it causes his nose to exhibit a biting red that you told him last winter reminded you of Frosty the Snowman. He rubs it and his running nostrils when he finally enters the radiator-heated building, the kind that emits the terrible rusty smell.
He makes it into your room where your sleeping figure lies, shucking his too-thin jacket, and lying down beside—half beside you, half on top of you, considering how small a twin bed is. You murmur an awakening sound, turning to give more space to him.
“Why do they call it a twin if it only fits one person?” He whispers into your ear.
“Because they used to be sold in pairs,” you answer, curling your arms around his neck.
“How’d you know that?” He asks.
“Grandparents.”
You hiss from the contact of his hands on the hollow of your hip. “Sorry,” he softly purrs.
“It’s okay,” you grumble back. “How was the rest of your shift?”
“Alright. Girls were bad tippers.”
You nuzzle your nose into his neck. “‘m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” His hands run up and down your cloth-covered back, both to soothe and to warm.
You raise your head, blinking your eyes, dazedly looking at him. “Do you want a tip?” You ask, nudging what’s between his legs.
He gives a shake of his head and rests you back into him. “No. I just want to lay like this. You’re warm.”
You giggle against his skin. “See what dressing properly gets ya.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” He taps along your skin as he says each word. “Can I stay over tonight?”
“You beat any blanket, babe. Couldn’t have you leave me even if you tried.”
And he thinks this is the kind of thing romance novels are made of. Though, he wouldn’t know, he’s only read Wuthering Heights, which is “totally not a romance” as you repeatedly state at any given chance.
*
The moors are under a crust of snow—not enough to blanket them in white, but a mean, dirty frosting on the hard earth and wilted shrubs. It was early November but the snow came on so harshly that when the first sign of it had occurred, classes had quickly been cancelled for the day, despite half the school’s attendance rushing outside to engage in squabbles of snowball fights and dip their backs into snow angels.
You sling a scarf around Alex’s bare neck in spite of his protests. You slip on mittens, knitted by his mother. They were sent in this month’s care package, one pair for Alex, one pair for you. You palm his already red cheeks in your hand. “Can’t we stay in?” He whines.
“Everyone else is going out. Don’t be such a loner.”
“I’m not. I just want to be with you and everyone is going to be at the pub tonight.”
“But you’ll be working.”
“Exactly. A convenient excuse to exit any conversation.” He enthusiastically smiles so wide his face might split in two.
You sigh and head for the door. “We have to go and after we can warm up in the shower before you have to go to work.”
“We?” You peek back to see his wide, gratifying smile.
“Yes, we. Now, let’s go.” You tug on his hand and make your way out to the frigid, homely world.
Alex complains about being cold every other sentence before everyone gets sick of it and decides to simply pelt snowballs at him to at least get pleasure in the grumbling, but then Alex keeps insisting on going inside, which you won’t agree to until everyone else decides to disband so Alex quickly hardens and suffocates everyone else in snow, including poor, old you.
“You could’ve at least spared me, the woman you love, the one you want to sleep with. I could’ve gotten a nosebleed or needed stitches.” You pull your snow-covered hat off as you reenter your room. You strip your heavy clothes into the laundry basket, hoping to spare the rest of your room from a wet, melting disaster.
“Poor old baby,” he teases.
You gasp. “Don’t ‘poor old baby’ me! That’s my line, you’re the whiny little brat.”
He tosses his scarf at you before turning on his heels. “I’ll see you in the showers, baby.”
And if he’s going to try and goad you, then you’ll just wait here in your room, under the warm covers, while he impatiently waits in the shower for a gift that won’t be given. Upon his return—with his hair planted to the skin like a wet old dog—you’re on the phone with Holly. You don’t need to be on the phone with Holly, in fact, she’s grown rather annoying, but there’s nothing quite like Alex getting all pent up.
He has one goal in mind: release. He shivers from water still dripping down his body, even as he covers himself with sweats and a hoodie. (Sweats and a hoodie!! He’s good. Too good.) He fiddles with the zipper, pulling it all the way up and all the way down several times, enjoying the percussion of its sound, before settling the slider right below the collar and placing his hands in the pockets.
He stands by the foot of the bed. He might be tapping his foot, but you can’t see the lower half of him. Your eyes acknowledge his presence before tipping them to the ceiling, admiring the cracks in them. “Who are you on the phone with?” He harshly whispers at a level that could be deemed no longer a whisper, other than the fact that he has made his voice more raspy.
The only acceptable answer would be your parents, some important family news that’s worth blowing off giving him a blowjob in the shower. And yeah, maybe a blowjob only involves his desire, but he suffered through the snow, and that’s the only thing he deems worthy enough of giving him a runny nose. “Holly,” you shortly answer.
“Holly?!”
“Yeah.” You don’t spare him a glance. It’s easy to predict the puzzled look on his face, worthy of giving a slap followed by a soul-sucking kiss.
You feel his weight enter the bed. His body rubbing against your legs as he crawls his way up you. “Get off the phone.”
You place your finger over your lips. “No, it’s just Alex,” you irritably say to the phone.
He heaves and takes the phone from your fingers. “She’ll call you back, Holly.”
“That’s very rude,” you say right away.
He straddles your hips. “You left me hanging.”
“I got distracted.” You slyly smile.
He furrows his brows and leans down, hovering his face right above yours. “By Holly? Nice try. You don’t have to be mean to me.”
Your arms hug around him, taking in his body heat. “Yeah, but then you wouldn’t be all cute and crawl in my lap like this.”
He breaks, hiding a chuckle into his shoulder. “You’re very conniving.”
You shrug. “A wise woman. A genius, if you will.”
“Alright, you witch, do I get the pleasure of going into your hut?” He leans down, hiding under the blankets.
His nose tickles your stomach, making you giggle out, “Not if you start speaking like that.”
The laughter hides away as he pulls on the waistband of your sweats, taking them and your underwear down in one pull. He’s a smart man, going straight for the jugular. Mouth meets vagina. His tongue colors within the lines, or maybe outside the lines, because it’s hard to believe other people have felt this pleasure and considered it not worthy of discussion every day, or consider it taboo. This can’t be taboo. Why don’t people have classes on this?
“You should teach a class on how to do this,” you moan out, clawing your fingers into his hair, yanking, combing, petting, stroking, soothing.
He places a kiss just right and speaks against you, “As long as you’re my TA.”
“Quit it with this kink,” you quip. “You’re gonna be one of those pervert professors who fucks their student.”
“You? Hell fucking yes.”
“Quit it. We’re the same age.”
“I’m very advanced.” He reinforces this succinctly, placing his mouth where it should be biologically attached, sucking, licking, kissing, spitting, tonguing. He’s an unwillful beast and a delicate angel wrapped in the body of a boy who loves you. You could kick your feet at the idea if your legs weren’t too busy shaking at the feeling of this uncontrollable vibration.
You go from pushing his face inward like you’re trying to do some reverse birth with him and shove him back into the womb to dragging him away because he’s too much. Too much all the time but really too much when he sucks at you like the elixir of life is hidden within the folds of your vulva.
He hangs around with his chin atop your pubic bone watching your lungs expand and deflate heavily before deciding it has been enough, flipping over, squishing beside you, and declaring, “My turn.” He even helps you out by untying his sweats, but not taking them off because that’s “a woman’s job.” Something he sexistly and sexily declared last month.
“So much for patience.”
Alex points at himself. “I’ve been patient, in fact, I have shown an intense amount of restraint. I’ve made a down payment and now I’m waiting for my return of investment.”
“Jeez, Warren Buffet, you really know how to make a woman feel special.” You roll yourself up because despite his chauvinism, he’s been patient, and he is very, very…
You brush your hand over the fabric of his sweats and his eyes flutter at the mere suggestion of his dick being touched. You would tease him, but you only find his sensitivity endearing. You won’t hold him up anymore, exposing him, just this little portion of him to keep the rest of his sensitive skin warm from this snapping air.
You spit in your hand and give him a few slow tugs. His hips lift and shift. His thighs push against your still exposed center. His knee slides right into it, causing a slight trembling in your motions. It’s hard to tell whether this act was intentional or not. His expression too lost in pleasure, eyes shut, mouth pursed tightly together to fight off the urge to groan.
You slowly lean down. Your lips circle his cock with your tongue sweeping over the head, forcing that groan to leave his mouth in a tiny little mewl. You smile and go lower, halfway down, and then go back out. When you stop halfway again, his hands hold you there, pressing just a little further.
When you pop back out, he says, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rough.”
“You weren’t rough,” you assure. “I liked it.”
His eyes open up darkly. “Good. Go on.”
You shake your head, roll your eyes, and go on. You move lower each time with delight, toe-curling delight. His legs move up and down, not kicking, more digging, heels pressed down into the mattress, and his knee shifting pleasingly at your sensitive bits.
You’re not sure how good at giving head you are. You’ve never received any feedback other than the grateful conclusion of any person: coming. Alex always does this, making a noise almost like he’s so painfully frustrated like there is a splinter in his finger and then a blissful breath as the pest is removed. His cum doesn’t have much of a taste. Maybe a little salty, but that could be sweat. He often sweats, a little gathering right around his pubic hair, but no complaints from either party.
After he has returned to this biosphere, he tucks himself in and hugs you to his chest. “I wish all snow days were like this.”
“I don’t think it would’ve been appropriate—”
“I know,” he cuts you off. “Don’t make some creepy underage sex joke. That’s my territory.”
You ease into his body with your nose poking behind his ear before settling with an exhale. “You’re very possessive lately.”
“I’ve never been called a sharer. Too controlling for that.”
“Obsessive, some may call it.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, his lips not even poking his cheeks. “Yeah, maybe.”
“You okay?”
His fingers brush your upper arm. He doesn’t say anything for a minute before letting out, “Yeah.” Then, sighing. “Just thinking about winter. The break and all. Being away from you.”
“You’ll live.”
“But I won’t want to,” he bemoans.
“Don’t be dramatic, Romeo. I’m only faking my death. No need to kill yourself.”
He stills a laugh, and with that, the year ends, pulled away by two omnipotent hands.
*
He gets allergies in spring, the terrible, terrible kind where he sneezes all the time and has to carry tissues with him. Those dorky little packs, but you keep an extra pack in your purse in an act of devotion. He theorises in his journal (yeah, he has a dorky little journal too, fuck off) that there’s no greater act of love than carrying tissues around for someone else. It’s a great signal of caring for another person, looking out for their well-being, their forgetfulness, their sickness, their health. It’s what wedding vows are made of, and he sounds insane, 20, and clinging to an eternal loving debt to you.
The days have formed in a lather, rinse, repeat fashion. There’s class, work ( still tutoring for you, the pub for him), and some form of hangout. Sometimes just the two of you, either keeping him company at the pub, sex, or an activity—dinner, “studying,” movie, or, his favourite, the arcade, which may sound geeky and nerdy, but you’re both saving up for Margaritaville light-up ice bucket and that’s not dorky.
Other times, it’s a whole group thing, drunk idiot nonsense, which also includes collecting tickets for the Margaritaville light-up ice bucket that could likely be purchased for less money than what the arcade is selling it for, but you consider it to be a rare luxury only afforded to the stupidest “adults” roaming the UK.
On a Saturday night, a group of you sneak beers into the arcade, and play Jet-Pong, an appropriated version of beer pong for children. You ask Alex, “How can they have beer pong in here and not beer?” as he sinks one pong into the far left corner. “Nothing promotes drinking like a fun game.”
He shrugs, missing the next one.
“Holly asked me about getting a place with her next year.”
“Oh.” He tries his best to focus on the game in front of him. “What’d you say?”
“I’d get back to her.” You pull from your bagged beer. “Since we hadn’t talked about it since the start of the year. I didn’t know if you had made other plans.”
“My offer still stands.” Last pong, center cup. The tickets spit out. “I can always room with Matt.”
“Do you want to room with Matt?”
He bends down to collect the fifteen tickets. “Do I want to room with that dirty bastard or you? I’ll get back to you on that one.” He passes you to go to the ticket counter.
You catch up to his side. “Well, I’d like that too. You and me, I mean.”
“You feel you know me adequately enough?” He asks you as he feeds his bucket of tickets into the machine.
You lean against the side of the machine to be right in his line of sight. He eyes you carefully. “I feel I love you adequately enough.”
He blows a laugh like it’s a sick joke being played. He takes his ticket from the machine and stuffs it for safekeeping into his wallet. Once everything is packed away, he turns to you and reaches his hand out. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah.” You take his hand, entering the thawing weather, making your way back to the dorms. “Is this the cold shoulder?”
“No,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m just trying to think of something to say.”
“What about ‘Yes!’?” You offer.
He cracks a grin and leans over, kissing your cheek. “You’re very cute. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I can’t help my feminine wiles.”
“Yeah right. I know how cunny you can be.”
“You like my cunningness.” You make eyes at him, luring him into your web. “So, Alex, what is your answer?”
He has to take a moment to capture this in his mind. This happens every once in a while, usually pertaining to you, but not limited to circumstances associated with you. It’s a click in his head. It might be a camera, but he hasn’t decided yet. It’s his brain having to catch up with the rest of him. It’s a processing issue that might be a sign of a larger problem, but at this point in his life, Alex merely relates it with moments of importance. This, you, the moment are all more than worthy enough. “It’s yes, you dweeb. Now give me a swing of that.”
*
He finds you curled up in his bed with a book laying facedown on your chest. You haven’t been asleep too long. He can tell because you always end up turning on your stomach and your book hasn’t fallen down onto the floor below. He begins to pry the book out of your hands, you grab his wrist in a frightful fit, scaring him half-to-death.
“It’s just me,” he whispers. You relax back into the substandard mattress, slept on by hundreds of students before him and hundreds more after him. “How’d you get in here?”
“I have my ways,” you sneakily say.
He chuckles, closing the book, and placing it on his desk. He sits down in the desk chair, untying the laces of his Converses, placing them beside yours at the door. “Am I going to wake up tomorrow with all my stuff gone?”
You sleepily giggle. “I’d never steal from you. You don’t have anything worth stealing.”
He cocks his head back, testing a challenged look on you. “What about the girl in my bed?”
“Oh, well, she’s different.”
“Uh-huh.” He strips his jacket off then his jeans before he races on top of you causing you to groan loudly.
“God, you’re gonna break one of my ribs.”
He kisses all around your face, tracing the other corners before bubbling in the circle. “They’re nothing valuable anyway.”
“Really? What about the rest of me?”
“Oh, you’d sell well on the black market.”
The laughter slowly dissolves into a heated make-out session. He takes his time. It’s hard for boys to do that, including him, in this tiny bed, trying to get it over quickly so you don’t have to sit on top of one another in a suffocating fashion. “Won’t it be great when we can do this in a bigger bed. Even a full would do.”
“We are not sleeping in a full. Queen, at least,” you insist.
“I’d get a California king, no complaints.”
The making out resumes, this time a little more naked, and then his fingers inside you like he’s scooping your insides out. He’d liken it to taking all the guts out of a pumpkin, which is admittedly a disgusting comparison, but he can’t think of anything else. He isn’t a sexologist, just a boy who’d like to think he knows his way around you. “Does that feel good?” He asks against your lips.
“Yes,” you whimper out. So, he keeps going like he’s pushing a button or strumming the strings of a guitar. You lean your quivering body into his, exhibiting startled breathing into his ear. Your hands clutch around your shoulder, reassuring him of the previous form of affirmation you gave and then he feels that familiar throbbing around his fingers and you let out a grunt of finality before all the tension furling up inside you is released in one shake.
He lays you down against the mattress. Your hair pressed up in a nest against the pillow. “Do you want to keep going?” He asks, implying future steps: him inside you, preferably with his cock, preferably said cock fucking you, preferably to completion.
“Yeah.” You smile up at him with this smile that he’ll try for many months after to find an adjective that fits this smile before giving up and deciding a person would have to see it to believe the beauty of it. Like a wonder of the ancient world or the harmonium solo in “In My Life.” It feels like that, searing. “Please do.”
It’s a natural inclination. He feels like his soul is being sucked away as he eases into you and lands his hands on your torso in a careful touch. His thumbs stroke your stomach and his fingers pull your skin to his as he settles all the way in. His eyes look at you, speaking for him, asking if it would be okay to keep going, that everything feels good, that this isn’t just for him, this is a shared act. You nod all-knowingly.
It’s how Alex knows this is different. This is love, not everyone can read him at a glance. It’s the beauty of letting someone know all of you. It’s the thing that makes poets write sonnets. It’s what makes ordinary people feel they can write sonnets.
The feeling shifts to his gut, getting tangled up in the center, moving about him in that somersaulting way. A flickering flame in a deep, dark cave. He feels this when he masturbates too, but that’s more lonely, and this is like kilonova or the initial singularity (sorry, he’s reading Carl Sagan right now), and the universe is inflating but hasn’t banged or boomed or whatever the word is yet.
He moves a little quicker in order to get to that bang, but still not what one would perceive as fast. He likes it this way. It’s out of the ordinary but not some wild origami-style sex that is cool to watch but he is so not ready to do yet, or maybe ever because it looks like too much work and it feels good like this and he isn’t ready to mess with a good thing by folding you in half.
His mind tends to drift a lot when he’s having sex. Or all the time. Sometimes he wishes he would just shut up, but occasionally he’s thankful for his fair-weather mind, like during boring lectures or long shifts at the pub. But in situations like this where he should just focus on the simple feeling of sex his mind wanders to Carl Sagan and he’s shouting at himself like “Fucking hell, Alex, just shut the fuck up.”
Of course, you can tell when he does this and then he can tell that you can tell and then he’s stuck on that, that previous feeling of being exposed then feels violating because what gives you the right to know that in his head he’s screaming at himself and then you say something like, “Keep going.” and he realises he is once again reading too much into situations and you’re probably just enjoying the feeling of being fucked or maybe also screaming at yourself in your head too because you’re the same after all or Siamese twins or some shit and he returns to the thought that this fucking feels really fucking good and he’s said the word “fuck” too many fucking times to count and fuck is a weird word, but so is every word, and what is the English language, and why didn’t his mum teach him German like all the students she fucking teaches, instead he only knows how to count to 20 and the colours of the rainbow and other stupid fucking elementary phrases.
And then he comes as he so often does. Cum is disgusting. White, slimy jizz dripping out of him and into a condom. Who invented the condom? He’ll write that down in the back of his mind and try to remember to look it up later, but then everyone in the library will think he’s a pervert for looking up who invented a condom on the communal computers. He should’ve asked for a computer for his birthday. Not that he would use it much, computer screens hurt his eyes and give him a headache, but he sure would help when he wants to look up the inventor of condoms or watch porn or something. And school, that too.
“Alex.” Fuck, right, you. “Can you, um, get out of me? I’ve got to pee.”
“Oh, fuck, sorry.”
You giggle. “You’re okay.” You cradle his face and he feels like a bobblehead that has been shaking around for hours and now suddenly stilled. You kiss his cheek. “I’ll be right back.” You slip on your clothes and shoes and head to the hallway bathroom.
He sits for a while before realising he has been sitting naked with his cock resting in his own jizz wrapped in latex for far too long to be seen as normal if he were to be walked in on. He disposes of the goods and digs into his drawers for his, well, drawers. Isn’t it funny that two words can mean totally different things? And the word for that is…—he struggles on this for a while—homonym, right, right, right.
His stomach rumbles. There were no leftovers at the pub tonight. It was crawling with disgustingly drunk people that make Alex question why alcohol is legal if it makes people into such dickheads. He only has a bag of sour cream & onion chips, and that’ll have to do the job of dinner.
He sits at his desk and grabs handfuls out of the bag, having to truly stuff his face because that is how hungry he is. He understands why the Donner Party ate each other. He looks at the book that you were reading, now sitting next to his journal. He realises he didn’t put a bookmark into the page you were on. He’ll have to remember to apologise for that. He already knows you’ll say it’s fine and you can find the page you left off on, but he’s convinced you’ll be hiding your indignation toward him.
Madame Bovary. He’ll have to pick up a copy. All he knows is Emma Bovary is “a cunt and we love her.” You said this yesterday at the cafe. You were only a few chapters in then. It seems to have gotten much further since based on the thickness of the book’s split when he picked it up.
She cheats, too, Emma Bovary. Maybe that’s a good thing in the book. Like her husband is scum and thank god she was able to find love elsewhere or something. He doesn’t know. Now all he can think about is paranoia about whether you are cheating on him or not. Not you actually cheating, just the paranoia he would feel if you actually did cheat.
He is aware that he’s giving himself ulcers over this heavy contemplation of nothingness but he can’t stop the turning of the wheel. His mind goes on and on and he’s still trying to figure out ways to make this train of thought stop. Like someone tied to the track while the train blows the horn instead of slamming on the brakes. He tugs and tugs but can’t free himself and he’s only making things harder rather than accepting his—
“Hey.” You’ve returned, thank god. “You’ll never guess what I saw in the bathroom.” You hop on the bed with the glee of those monkeys jumping on the bed in that nursery rhyme.
“What?” He chucks his head in anticipatory elation.
“There were eggs all over the floor and I exclaimed something like ‘Ew!’ because, you know, eggs on the bathroom floor is a little bizarre, right?” He’s nodding along. “But then these two girls answered back, saying they were doing an experiment. I asked what kind of experiment and they were like ‘The science kind’ and I said ‘No, shit’ but in my head. When I came out of the stall, they were like ‘Try not to step on the eggs on the way out’ and that’s when I cracked—ha ha, get it, cracked.”
Yeah, he gets it, and he fucking loves this. This is all he needs. He cracks along with you. “Keep going.”
“Right. Sorry. Sorry. So, then I said, ‘Why would I want to step in eggs?’ As if it’s a well-known thing that egg yolk moisturises your skin. Then, I left and came here and had to tell you.”
“Thanks for telling me,” he sincerely says. “I needed it.”
You give a thoughtful smile. “I could tell.”
He doesn’t ask how. He doesn’t feel he is supposed to know. You don’t explain any further. You sit criss-cross on his bed and he remains in his desk chair for now. Of course, he is sure that at some point you’ll both get under the covers and go to sleep, but you’ll just talk for now because he needs it, and you could tell.
*
a/n: can you tell when i started to like what i was writing? i like the smut in this. maybe because i usually hate the smut i write so this feels like an improvement. it's been a while. maybe i'll do a part three. maybe in a week or four months. thanks. night from me, morning to you.
Just spotted Alex in Sheffield train station. He was being dropped off, and the person who dropped him off said ‘to be continued’. Wonder if it could be a final night at leadmill thing? [...] just to clear up - he was leaving Sheffield. Not arriving x
warnings : no reader (just him again, sorry i love it), confused feelings regarding sexuality, self hatred, depression implications, mentions childhood bullying, wet dream, morning sex (in his dream), frotting and anal (both in his dream), missionary (dream), creampie (dream), masturbation, rex cries after he ejaculates
The concept of time, day and night, morning and evening, had long since become detached and alienated from his secluded life, if the poor way he lived could even be considered a life anymore.
He hadn't left his flat in weeks. He didn't see a point in it anymore. He didn't see any fun in anything, didn't find any enjoyment in the hobbies he used to adore. He was living off of whatever money his parents sent him every few weeks. Each time they sent it over, they'd say, “This is the last time, Al. You need to get a job and start making money yourself.” But it never was the last time, and if he kept going like this, it probably never would be.
Every day was the same. He'd wake up in his stiff bed sheets that he hadn't washed or changed in months, force himself out of his bed to go for a piss, eat something stale that had been festering in his cupboard or order something greasy that was bound to make his stomach hurt later, before going right back to his cave.
He wasn't even sure what he was doing that made the hours pass by quite like they did. He'd lie beneath his stained duvet, gangly legs sprawled out with his brown hair a tangled mess around his face, watch movies on websites that were almost definitely going to give his laptop a virus in the long run, and jerk off whenever his cock got pathetically hard at a sex scene.
His bulky silver laptop that was sat on his thighs gave off a low, constant hum, like it was having trouble breathing, the underside of it overheating against his skin from the effort of just being switched and kept on. He could feel it burning into his legs through the thin, flimsy cotton of his plaid pyjama trousers, but he didn't care, nor did he make an attempt to move. He never did. There was something strangely comforting in the dull heat of it on his skin, the ache, like it was a punishment for his behavior, or at least a reminder that he was still connected to a body, that he wasn't just a subconscious haze of deteriorating thoughts.
The dull glow from his laptop screen washed over his face, making him look even more ill than he already did. His eyes were sunken, purple bags streaked beneath them like a black eye, and his skin was paler than he even thought was possible for a human being, almost indistinguishable from milk or snow.
He'd been sleeping poorly. That was if he was even able to get to sleep these days. The most he got was a few hours of dozing in and out of consciousness, and strange, fractured dreams that left him dry-mouthed, disorientated, and cold.
He was watching an old Italian film, something from the 70s, something black and white and bloody, on one of those dodgy websites that he frequented, ones with ‘Local Sluts In Your Area’ accompanied by images of animated naked girls with tits bigger than their heads plastered around the edges of the film, and six pop-ups for every click. It was low quality, both the video and the audio, the footage grainy and occasionally lagging while the sound was muddy and slightly tinny, mostly due to the broken speakers on his old laptop.
Girls in bikinis kept popping up in the corners, trying to lure him to their links, promising to make him cum in less than five minutes, but his eyes were fixated on the subtitles more than the actual movie, trying to understand a language he'd never bothered to learn and make sense of the plot.
It paused again to buffer, the stuttering audio crackling and warping into something indistinct before cutting out entirely. He didn't mind that much. He was lost anyway.
The screen had frozen on one of the male leads. He had sharp, defined features, thin, long, lanky limbs, and blushed cheeks as he cried. His face was crumpled into something so raw and vulnerable, delicate lines, and it made Alex's stomach clench, a strange and unwelcome feeling. The character's cheeks were wet, nose red, and lips plump. He looked beautiful, in a way. Tragically so. In a way that made Alex's heart ache in his chest. In a way that made him feel guilty, shameful, regretful. In a way he would never admit to another human being.
The quiet tap of rain against his window pane growing heavier as the downfall increased in intensity pulled him out of his trance, and he turned his head slightly towards his drawn curtains, his face scrunched up a little. It had been drizzling all day, the kind of persistent rain that didn't soak you all at once, but snuck under your collar and into your socks. The kind that found its way into your bones when you weren't paying attention, chilling you through.
He likes the sound of it. It was calming, it was peaceful, and it usually helped lull him to sleep some nights when he was having trouble even closing his sore eyes.
He adjusted his neck slightly on his sweat-damped pillow, tilting it to one side and earning a dull pop as he cracked it, and he blinked up at the fractured plaster on his ceiling above him. They looked vaguely like veins, or a road map, or at least something that felt humanlike, despite everything in his home being far from anything that could be deemed alive.
There were spiderwebs congealed in the corners from a futile attempt he'd once made at “restarting” his life, in which he'd began to brush all of the webs aside with a bright green duster that was a little bit taller than him, before deciding it was too difficult and abandoning it, and crawling back into his bed where he knew he'd be safe, where he knew he could hide.
He felt his stomach clench painfully inside of him before it let out a long, low growl, like thunder, begging him for something of sustenance, but that would mean leaving the safety of his bed, his nest, and he wasn't sure if he was able to face that.
He ignored the gurgles of his belly, and instead, he reached for the stub of a cigarette he'd smoked half of earlier in the afternoon before putting it out, and he hoped it would suppress his appetite and calm his stomach. He fumbled for his lighter, almost accidentally knocking over a clouded glass of water that had been sitting there for god knows how long, before flicking it on, the flame small and rounded due to the lack of lighter fluid inside. He brought it up to his slightly bent, crinkled cigarette and relit the charred end, holding the flame there for a few moments longer than necessary to ensure it caught alight.
He inhaled deeply, the tip burning red as he welcomed the smoke into his lungs. It tasted like ash, bitter, and maybe a small hint of mould. The wispy smoke curled upwards, clouding his room with its greyish haze as he kept the fog in his lungs for a few moments, before he closed his eyes and exhaled, like he didn't want to see the visual evidence of his destructive habit.
He wanted to vanish like that, the same way the smoke dissipated into the air. He wished he could be weightless, unnoticeable, wished he could just disappear. He was jealous of the smoke for being able to do what he yearned for. So much, it hurt him.
He wasn't really sure when he'd started hating himself. Maybe he always had. Maybe it started back in his childhood. In the awkward franticness of PE lessons, how uncoordinated he was, how all the more athletic boys in his year shouted and squawked at each other over football, how they all screamed at him if he fumbled a kick, or missed the ball entirely. It was dehumanising, belittling, but still, he was always jealous of them.
They were confident, they were good at sports, they were always invited to all of the parties. They had friends, they were strong, they were liked. They never had to worry about their favourite stall being occupied during lunch and break, they never had to worry about not having a partner in group lessons, they never had to worry about being made fun of or humiliated for having the misfortune of existing in a body that seemed to repel any ounce of likability. They never had to cry on their mum's shoulder and be told by her to ‘just ignore the bullies’.
He was never ‘manly’. Not really. That's what made him an easy target. They used to tease him whenever he went into the boys' bathroom. They used to joke about how he should be on the girls' team instead in PE. They used to disguise his name beneath mocking coughs and stifled laughter whenever the female reproductive system was shown in science lessons.
He'd had girlfriends. Well, a girlfriend. She was beautiful. He adored the smell of her perfume, he even bought a bottle for himself long after she'd left just so he could pretend that she was still there, that he still had somebody. He loved the softness of her skin, how he could run his hands over her body and it feel like silk. He loved the way she said his name, like it was everything to her, like it belonged in her mouth.
He liked sex. Sometimes. Enough. Back when he used to socialise.
But then there were the other feelings. The ones he tried to hide himself from, the ones that had always been there somewhere that he'd locked away, the ones that had infected his heart, rotting and gnawing away at it.
The way he'd catch himself staring at men's hands, at their long fingers, their cracked lips, the gentle slopes of their necks. The thoughts that crept in sneakily, unwelcomed, after one too many drinks. The thoughts that stung him whenever he heard a lad laugh, or when a man leaned in close to him, or just the mere sound of a bloke's voice. It made Alex's body tense, not exactly with fear, not entirely, but with something that made his stomach lurch in his belly and his heart pound in his chest.
He hated those feelings, he hated himself for having them, and he hated himself for having himself. It was a never-ending carousel of self-loathing, spinning and spinning and spinning until it was bound to drive him insane.
He stared at the grainy screen of his laptop, at the small spinning wheel still turning in the middle of the screen which was still frozen on that boy. That boy that made Alex's stomach turn and twist with guilt and disgust for the attraction he felt towards him. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, the paper encasing the tobacco slowly but surely burning down.
He didn't understand the film, and couldn't follow the subtitles. They were in the wrong place, bleeding into the frame. Half of the lines were missing, and the audio was out of sync, the people's mouths and words coming a second too late.
He sighed, long, low, and tired through his nose, the smoke coming out along with it, and something sour flickered in his chest. Not quite frustration, but it was getting there. It was more like apathy, but sharp around the edges, threatening to boil over into something more angry.
The wheel kept spinning, almost taunting him, forcing him to look at the image of the young man for as long as possible, knowing how it made him feel, knowing it made him miserable. He moved his index finger along the smooth trackpad, and he tried pausing and unpausing the film, hoping it would snap it back to life, but to no avail. Nothing happened.
The third click forcibly brought up a new tab. Congratulations! You're the 1,000th visitor! Click to claim your free iPhone 3G now! Colourful confetti erupted across his screen in a looping animation, and he groaned before clicking the tiny X in the corner of the screen, only for yet another tab to open in its wake.
Meet Hung Twinks In Your Area.
This one played a muffled, high-pitched but undoubtedly male moan before he was even able to process what was on his screen. He fumbled on the keys, slamming the volume right down as his face flushed despite there being no one there. It was an automatic response from his body, like muscle memory.
The bullying and mocking he'd been a victim of during his adolescence was so embedded in his mind, so deeply ingrained into the depths of his brain, that he found it hard to not feel shame for even the tiniest things. He'd become his own bully.
As he tried to exit the websites with desperate clicks, exit the pop-ups, the adverts just multiplied.
Hot MILFs Want You.
Top 5 Gay Hookup Sites.
Do You Like Your Men Hairy Or Smooth?
Local Teens Are Online NOW.
His screen became a battlefield. Every time he thought he closed something, two more would pop up, like digital hydras. Neon banners flashing and glittering, animated gifs and pictures of naked bodies twisting into all kinds of positions, voiceovers whispering lewd phrases and buzzwords in voices so high it rivalled falsetto.
He felt his heartbeat in his ears. It felt like being caught looking through a dirty magazine.
He finally managed to close the web browser entirely, hitting and smacking the trackpad like it had personally offended him. The screen flickered back before showing his cluttered desktop, crammed full of a thousand apps that he probably hadn't touched in years.
He sighed again, rubbing his tired eyes with the heels of his hands as he held his short cigarette between his lips. He wasn't that sleepy, not in the traditional sense, anyway. It was like his body was trying to give up participating in the concept of time, just like his mind already had months ago. His circadian rhythm, if he even had one to begin with, was wrecked.
He took his cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his fingers again as ash dripped down onto his bed sheet beside him like shrapnel, and he reopened his browser, and Google Chrome coughed to life, somehow even slower than it had before, like it was physically carrying the weight of all of those porn ads it contained. The fan nestled inside roared, like a tiny little desperate turbine trapped in the plastic, and the heat built under his palms.
He cautiously typed ‘watch movies free no sign up no ads’, knowing the chaos it would bring right back to his screen. Google loaded for a few moments longer than normal, and he wasn't sure if it was just a problem with his internet, or his browser desperately trying to save him from the onslaught of ads and potential viruses that he'd only just escaped.
Once it finally loaded, he clicked the first link, ‘FreeMoovies123’, and it spread across his screen like a bruise as he opened it. He'd been on this one before. The layout assaulted his eyes, just like always. There was thick, bold, lime green text plastered across black backgrounds with shimmering borders, like something from 1998. Banner ads that changed every couple of seconds outlined the centre of the site, garish and flickering nonsense about debt relief, a new weight loss pill, and something about cheating spouses. Every time he moved his cursor, something danced or blinked in his face.
His finger smeared across the trackpad as he scrolled through the film thumbnails, movie posters that were pixelated and cropped into strange dimensions, every few titles renamed in a futile attempt at avoiding copyright. ‘The Dark Night’, ‘Slumdog Billionaire’, ‘Fite Club’.
None of them appealed to him, his brain felt exhausted just looking at them from how much he didn't want to watch them. He kept hopelessly scrolling, his head starting to ache from the motion, both from the harsh brightness of his screen against the darkness of his room and the painfully repetitive action of aimlessly swiping on his trackpad.
His eyes were dry, but blinking didn't help, and his stomach growled, a weak little noise that made the organ twist with shame as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
He finally stopped on a film that he vaguely remembered enjoying a few years back. It was something sad and art-house, and he clicked it, only to be met with another pop up.
Horny College Boys Want YOU.
He clicked it shut like it had burned him.
The film began to load, gradually, slowly, like an old man waking up from an afternoon nap. He stared at the blank video player, waiting for the wheel again. It blinked, paused, then spun, then paused again.
He sighed heavily and leaned back onto his pillows, his head sinking into the cotton, his laptop continuing to overheat on his thighs. He glanced down at the stubby cigarette that still resided between his fingers, and when he saw that it was barely hanging on, nearly burnt all the way down to the filter, he lazily tossed it aside onto his bedside table. It'd put itself out eventually. Hopefully.
He rubbed one hand along his jaw, his fingers smelling like tobacco and soap, and he felt his patchy stubble, the raw skin beneath where he'd shaved too close a few days prior. His mouth tasted sour as he ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth and poked it at the inside of his cheek. He hadn't brushed his teeth in… he couldn't even remember how long ago it was. Maybe two weeks? He thought that guess was playing it safe, but he found a small comfort in it, making him believe that he wasn't as unhygienic as he was.
The rain continued hitting his window like bullets, ramming against the glass like it was trying to get in.
He squinted at the screen, still buffering, still loading, still spinning. Still empty. Just like everything else in his life. And suddenly, he couldn't even remember why he wanted to watch another film in the first place.
It wasn't for the plot. Wasn't for comfort. Maybe it was just for noise, something to fill the awful silence in his head; a silence that kept stretching and stretching and stretching until it was taut and felt like it might snap.
He closed the tab for good, the rain continuing to hammer against his window, and he felt a thrum of painful sleepiness ripple through him, like tossing a rock onto still water. It made him feel almost lightheaded for a quick moment, the strange feeling lingering in his limbs, persistent in staying until he closed his eyes and let sleep swallow him whole.
He groaned quietly before he blindly reached for the lid of his laptop through heavy eyelids, and smacked it down with a dull thud, the whirring of the fan slowly dying down.
He slid his laptop off of his thighs, discarding it beside him in the sheets, before he shuffled further down into his bed with his elbows, nestling deeper into his duvet and pulling it up to his chin.
He let his head fall to the side, his hair covering his face and tickling his nose before he pushed it out of the way a little more violently than intended in the half-awake state that he was slipping into.
It wasn't even that he wanted to sleep, it was just that he physically didn't have the energy to stay awake for any longer.
So, he let himself go, let himself drift into the blissful state of… nothing. Free himself from the tight chains and shackles of his self pity that tortured him when he was awake, at least for a little while.
Sleep came like water, slowly rising and letting his thoughts sink beneath the rippling surface. The warmth of his bed coaxed him into it, letting him fully surrender to slumber, the dip in his mattress that had formed from the sheer amount of weeks he'd spent curled up in the same spot cradling his hips.
His chest rose and fell, slower now, much slower, and deeper, that taut wire of awareness inside of him beginning to slacken until it slipped free entirely.
His consciousness drifted further and further away from reality, swaddling him up in its comforting arms and taking him somewhere that was bound to scare him, but somewhere that was far from a nightmare. Something warm. Domestic. Something his body wanted but his mind rejected.
It was warm. Not the oppressive kind of warmth, not humid or sweat-inducing or claustrophobic, no. This warmth was quiet, golden, and it came from the gentle sunshine spilling in through linen curtains that were a soft, pale beige. His bare legs were tangled with themselves, slightly slick with a thin sheen of sweat.
He was in a bed, but it wasn't his own bed. Wasn't the thin, worn, stained sheets that he had grown used to. This one had a cosier duvet, softer pillows, and a large memory foam mattress.
And there was someone else there.
The man was laying on his side, facing Alex, one arm tucked beneath his head. He looked older than Alex, but only by a little bit. Maybe two or three years, if he had to guess. His hair was fair, messy from the tossing and turning of sleep, and it was a gentle mousy brown. It was only short, but slightly wavy, the kind of curls that formed when you didn't dry your hair properly after a shower.
There was a small mole near the man's jaw, and faint freckles were dusted over his pale shoulders. His eyes were a woodland-ish colour, almost like river silt; green, brown, maybe the tiniest hint of yellow, and impossible to name.
Alex recognised him. Sort of. He wasn't someone from his real life, or maybe he was, just once. Maybe he was someone he'd walked past on the train, caught a glimpse of in the field of a park, saw through the condensation of a raindrop covered pub window. It was one of those strange faces his brain photographed without permission and filed away in the back of a drawer, just in case.
And now he was here, breathing softly and steadily in the quiet space between them, in this life that they shared in this fleeting dream.
Alex didn't speak, he couldn't, but it didn't matter. The man smiled at him, and without realising it, Alex's own lips twitched up into a small but warm smile, and the man reached across the space and rested his hand on Alex's wrist, his thumb tracing lazy but gentle circles there. It was a small touch, but Alex felt it ripple through his whole chest like a solitary droplet on tranquil water, and his whole body softened.
The man leaned closer, the tips of their noses brushing, and their foreheads pressed together, warm skin to warm skin, their breaths mingling together in a way that Alex would've found repulsive in real life, but here, it felt intimate, romantic. Something that would've terrified real-Alex to his core, but dream-Alex revelled in it.
And then, lips. The kiss was slow, sweet, not rushed, not devouring, not frantic, just… real. Like they'd kissed hundreds of thousands of times before, the kind of kiss that carried weight and history behind it.
The man's hand moved to Alex's jaw, his thumb gently stroking along the stubble there in slow, continuous movements, and Alex leaned into it without even thinking twice. He wasn't even sure if he thought once. It just felt natural.
His own hands found the curve of the other man's waist, then further back to the dip of his spine, his fingers tracing the subtle bumps of his vertebrae through his warm skin up to his shoulders. It felt familiar. It felt right.
The man's lips continued to move against Alex's as his hands moved, pulling him closer, and Alex felt it deep in his ribs, in his fingertips, in the twitching coil of something low in his belly that unfurled with a slow but delicious ache, the kind of ache he didn't let himself feel when he was awake. The kind he told himself was just... something else. Something forbidden.
But not here. Not in his dream.
In his dream, it was allowed. It was welcomed. It was encouraged.
Alex exhaled softly against the man's lips, a faint tinge of a whimper in his breath, laced with something deeper. Release. Relief. Being touched in the way he'd never admit he needed, by the gender he'd never admit he craved.
Their bodies shifted together, their legs entwined, skin on skin, and the man's knee gently parted Alex's thighs, nudging them apart before settling between them, and Alex rocked against it with an instinct that he didn't realise he had.
Fingers slid under fabric, shirts were pushed up over chests until they came off entirely, and Alex's breath hitched. There was nothing aggressive, nothing performative, and while it was sex, or it was bound to happen, it was more tender than anything Alex had ever known. It wasn't just desire, wasn't just lust, but it was care, adoration, a kind of intimacy that left no room for shame.
Back in real life, in Alex's bed, he shifted beneath his duvet, the sheets crinkling under his movements, and his breath caught in his throat. His brow furrowed faintly, just barely a twitch of his forehead, and a soft, broken sound escaped him. A tiny exhale, only half-formed, barely a breath.
His hips moved unconsciously, just once, then again, a slow, subtle roll, his dreams hijacking the nerves of his body. His left hand twitched, his fingers curling slightly as they gripped the fabric of his bedsheet tight, while his right hand slithered towards his crotch. His lashes fluttered as his groin stirred, and his fingers found the soft, worn, grey cotton of his boxers, and they began their tantalisingly slow massage.
Back in his dream, the man was now above him, hair falling into his face, laughing gently as Alex blinked up at him with wide, worshipful eyes, eyes that had never known embarrassment or guilt for simply existing in a body that was tainted with the attraction for the same gender, at least in the dream world.
Their hands were clasped, fingers threaded and palms damp, and the man's hips rocked downwards against Alex's, their clothed lengths brushing against each other by just a whisper, the fabric of their boxers just barely making contact with each other.
But then he did it again, harder this time, pressing against Alex's hardening cock. The friction, the electricity, the closeness, it all combined in Alex's lower belly, simmering, stirring his cock awake.
Alex's hand found the man's back once more and skimmed over it, his fingers tracing along the grooves and indents of his spine like he was reading braille. The man's mouth found his again, kissing him harder this time, his tongue swiping over Alex's lips before he parted them, letting the man's tongue invade his mouth as he licked along his cheeks and swirled around Alex's own tongue.
Their erections pressed together tightly, separated only by the thin cotton barrier of their boxers, and the fabric grew damp where they met, the movements between them growing more fluid.
They rutted against each other softly, sweetly, like they didn't want to rush it. Like the man actually cared about getting Alex off too.
Alex gasped into the man's mouth when his hands slipped beneath his boxers, freeing himself first before freeing Alex, not even bothering to pull them all the way down before their cocks were pressed together again, hot, flushed, and leaking pre-cum like a fountain.
Alex's hands clutched at the man's waist desperately as he wrapped his large hand around both of their dicks at once, the underside of the man's cock pressed against the top side of Alex's. The man started to move his hand in the same motion he would if he was jerking off, and in a way, he was. Alex's cock was just wedged beside his own as well.
Their lengths slid together, glossy with the sheen of their combined arousals and maybe a hint of sweat, and Alex let out a whimper as the man's fingers brushed over the small ridge just beneath the head, the sensitivity that harboured there almost unbearable, his flushed lips parting around the soft noise.
Alex's legs spread just a little bit more to accommodate to the weight pressing down on him, and his fingers dug into the man's shoulders as he rocked up into his hand, their cocks rubbing in slick, hot arcs between their bellies, tip to base, side to side, the slide growing increasingly wet with each thrust and pass.
Both of their breaths came in quick, sharp puffs and gasps, and the man cut off Alex's short-lived whine as he leaned down again, capturing Alex's lips between his own as he kissed him again, slow, open-mouthed, their tongues swiping and licking against each other like paintbrushes on a canvas. Their kiss was messy, desperate, their hips still working together as the friction built up and up.
“Fuck,” Alex squeaked against the man's mouth. “God, that's…”
Another roll of their hips and another pass of the man's fist cut him off, shut him up, and their cocks continued slipping together, flushed, hot, and leaking, the electricity between them growing to an almost unbearable point.
The man pressed harder, gripped tighter, jerked faster, pinning Alex's thighs down and open with his own. His cock dragged deliciously over the length of Alex's, smearing pre-cum across the flat planes of both of their bellies.
Alex moaned loudly, unfiltered, raw, and his body arched up, chasing the feeling, the contact, the connection.
Back in his real bed, Alex had flipped over onto his front, his hips rutting and twitching into the mattress as he whimpered and whined incoherently into his pillow, a small dribble of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth and dampening a spot on the cotton.
He tightened his hands on his sheets, mimicking the way he was gripping onto the man's shoulders in his dream.
He was barely thinking anymore. He was just feeling.
He felt everything. The man's weight, the heat of their skin, the slick slide of their cocks kissing and gliding together, wet and needy.
The man adjusted his grip on both of their lengths, squeezing tighter, holding their heads as close together as physically possible, and that did it for Alex.
Alex's body jolted, his limbs locking up on him as he completely surrendered to the all-consuming pleasure, his hips hopelessly and frantically thrusting up into the man's fist, into the red-hot friction between them, and his first orgasm tore through him like lightning, his thighs trembling, his stomach clenching, and wheezy gasps escaping his throat as he tried his best to handle the sheer intensity of it.
Alex came with a broken, ragged moan, a deep, throaty noise, and hot, thick spurts of cum shot out from the wide, flushed tip of his cock, streaking both of their stomachs, messy and beautiful, the kind of climax that left him shaking and almost teary.
The man continued moving gently, pulling every ounce of cum out of Alex's cock, grinding and coaxing him through his high, both of their cocks pulsing between their slick stomachs.
His dream blurred as real-Alex's hips continued their gentle rocking into his mattress, his cock achingly hard as he sleepily murmured something inaudible into his pillow, his cheek damp from drool.
Back in his dream, the man was still hovering above him, but with Alex's legs bent even further open with a flexibility he'd never be able to reach in real life. The man's hands reached beneath Alex's hips, squeezing the soft flesh there, before lining himself up, his thick cock already slick and wet from the amount of dewy pre-cum that Alex had dripped, and the man began to slowly ease himself inside Alex's tight, warm hole.
The stretch stung at first, but Alex's body welcomed it, his back arching from the soft mattress with a breathless moan.
The rhythm built, slow and deep, making Alex whimper into the man's shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to take more. Every gentle thrust knocked the air out of him, but he begged for more, whined, whimpered, tilted his hips up and changed the angle to be able to take the cock deeper.
He tightened his grip on the man's waist, his fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin so hard he thought it would bruise. Alex clung to him so tightly like the contact was the only thing keeping him tethered, and their mouths brushed again, but they didn't kiss, their breaths mingling in sharp exhales and grumbled groans.
In real life, in Alex's bed, his thighs tensed and trembled beneath his thin duvet, his toes curling and his cock twitching and leaking with every imagined thrust. His knuckles ached with how hard he was gripping the sheets, and he ground his teeth together unconsciously as he made a small but impossibly desperate sound that managed to slip through as small tears unknowingly pricked at the corners of his closed eyes.
Back in his dream, the man continued to thrust into Alex, thick, long, heavy, and buried deep inside, his tip kissing that rubbery spot nestled inside of Alex that made his stomach jolt.
Alex's thighs were hooked around the man's waist, his ankles crossed at his lower back. Every thrust was slow and purposeful, dragging across something inside him that made his toes curl and his wet lips spill soft, involuntary moans.
Alex's cock, which was pinned between them, leaked helplessly onto his stomach, the red, swollen head sticky against his navel as he continued dripping. Each thrust of the man's hips rocked him just enough for the soft hairs on his stomach to brush over the sensitive top side of his cock, just enough to make him throb, to make him pulse.
Alex's hands scrabbled at the man's back, not exactly clawing, but dragging his short nails all across the large plane of skin, trying to help himself cope with the overflow of sensations all coiled up inside of his body.
The man growled low, pushing deeper, fucking Alex with steady, claiming strokes as he got more lost in it himself. His heavy balls slapped rhythmically against the base of Alex's ass, the sound deafening and impossibly wet and lewd in the dreamspace. Alex couldn't even think, couldn't speak, he just took it, body trembling, eyes rolling back every time the man bottomed out and held his cock there, just to see Alex's feeble reaction to the fullness.
Alex let out a breathy moan, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the cry as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to cope.
In reality, his hips had started to rock against the mattress even harder, grinding and writhing like an animal into the sheets. His cock was hard and flushed, twitching with every shallow thrust he dreamt of receiving.
He whimpered in his sleep, the muscles in his thighs constantly tensing and releasing as he grew closer to his climax and in real life.
The man shifted, grabbing Alex's hips with firm hands, angling just right for it to feel the best, then began to fuck into him with sharper, harder thrusts, deep, deliberate, fast enough now that the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, echoing off of the walls. Alex couldn't take it. His body was trembling, his mouth open in a silent scream as the man hit that smooth, rubbery spot over and over, driving him closer and closer to the edge until he squealed.
“Fuck..!” Alex cried in his dream, his body jerking up into the man as he came hard, both in his dream and in real life.
Back in his bed, in reality, his cum spilled into his boxers, drenching the soft, worn cotton, his cock throbbing in time with his dream orgasm, his hips lifting off of his bed in sharp little movements before shoving them back down again, rutting into his mattress as his dream fucked him through his orgasm.
In his dream, the man groaned above him as Alex painted his stomach in a second load of cum, before the man spilled inside of Alex himself, filling him up with a low, guttural moan ripping from somewhere deep in his chest, his hips twitching as he fucked and pumped his cum deep inside, making sure none of it dripped out. Alex shuddered at the warmth painted his insides, the stretch, the slick mess between them.
Alex whimpered, his voice raw and wrecked. His entire body felt limp, boneless, used, and loved all at once.
The man didn’t move right away. He hovered there, still buried deep, his hot forehead pressed to Alex's, their sweat mingling, breathing each other in. There was a gentleness to it, one that made Alex's heart clench with something sweet.
Gentleness was all he wanted, all his body craved, all his tainted mind needed.
One last, lazy grind of the man's hips pushed the cum deeper, making Alex whimper softly, legs trembling as he clung to the man's sweaty back, before it all began to dissolve.
The dream blurred once more, but this time, it faded out, the warmth, the love, the safety, all of it slipping through Alex's fingers like sand as he stirred.
A choked sound broke from his throat as he rolled over slightly, his face wet against the pillow from both dribble, and tears. Real tears.
His eyelashes were damp, his cheeks were streaked, and there was a tear clinging to the corner of his mouth, or was that drool?
He cringed as he felt the dampness in his boxers, and he hesitantly peeled back the duvet to look down at his crotch. His underwear were a mess. Filled to the brim with thick ribbons of cum like glue, a small bit leaking down onto his thigh through the fabric.
He groaned, his chest aching. He couldn't remember his dream, at least, he couldn't yet, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to.
He blinked slowly in the dark, dazed, before he curled in on himself like a woodlouse, one hand pressed to his face, his lips trembling as a fresh tear slipped down his cheek.
He sighed before he shut his eyes again, not bothering to clean up the mess that he knew was in his boxers, his cum cooling until it felt like snot in his underwear, but he didn't fall asleep. His body was hurting too much for it to allow himself to.
The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of his own breathing and the occasional sniffle as his nose ran.
He lay there in the dark, his body aching and sticky, his hair greasy, and everything feeling like it was just too much.
He wasn't made for real life. He wasn't made for being a human. Or maybe he was, and the world just wasn't made for people like him.
｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽
by writing about him getting 'romantic' feelings about all men he sees, i hope that doesn't come off as me thinking gay men are just attracted to every single male ever 😭 i dont know if its the same for queer men, but pretty much every queer woman that i know (myself included) confused friendship/general kindness as being romantic interest when they were first starting to discover their identity, and im trying to convey that. if that makes sense
stormborns
origamiaround
jbbartram-illu
2087
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
andulkaphoto
