"We've got nothing to prove, instead of dancing alone, I should be dancing with you."
Chapter |
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician)
Tags: POV Second Person, Age Difference, Fast Burn, Exhibitionism, Shameless Smut, Moral Ambiguity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Public Sex, Choking, Vaginal Sex, Drunk Sex, Alcohol, Guilt, The Car Era (Arctic Monkeys), No Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Cheating
Language: English
Word Count: 6.9k
Summary: The Car (2022) Alex Turner shags you in some nightclub restroom a night before their show.
Notes: Title is taken from a track of She Wants Revenge, loosely based it on vibes rather than lyrics. I apologize in advance if it’s a little rusty, English is not my first language.
March 05, 2023
The nightlife of the city blurred past the car window like kaleidoscope dreams, the lights from the buildings making their way like industrial stars, and neon signages from local fast food chains making an appearance every mile, late-stage capitalism trinkets wrapped in the urban paradise that spoke of vibrancy and chaos. The bass from your destination thrummed in the air, the nightclub was close and approaching, practically vibrating through your teeth as the two of you got out of the taxi. You lied to your mother that you were finishing a thesis project and asked for an advanced allowance for the cost of the ‘printings,’ all to spend it on the entrance fee of some overhyped nightclub somewhere in the crowded part of the avenue, a hotspot for quick fixes and long nights. You are fucked, incredibly so if your mother finds out, trading your safety for a world of loud music, fleeting glances, and drowning in the scent of something illicit.
The theme for tonight was ‘slutty enough that no one would notice you’re a devoted Catholic who goes to church every Sunday’: a satin halter mini dress in the color of amarena cherries. You opted to borrow your friend’s charcoal pointed-toe heels and made a mental note to clean the shoes before returning them. Looking down on the acrid ground, it was obvious enough you were about to break a sweat in order to get this pair of heels clean. You lined up behind a group of people, a varying group of young-ins who had the same intentions as you did, and a few older, more jaded faces that made you take a few glances. It was obvious you had a problem with authority, the different kind… the one specifically where you’re left like a rabid dog in heat.
Your stomach was practically somersaulting beneath your calm exterior, though your hands gave such clear messages, fixing your hair one moment before feeling the sides of your dress again. In contrast to you, your friend was in her element, practically gabbing about sneaking in the VIP side of the club where the majority of her friends were. The moment you two were inside, feigning ignorance to the glances of the wandering eyes of the other men in the club, the music had pumped the bones in your body, and the scent of something sharp and fruity—from the vapes and alcohol—clung to the air. The strobe lights from above danced around the stage, painting the unfamiliar faces of strangers like a sugar-induced dream. The pulsing beat of the music grew louder, in sync with the drumming of your chest. Is this it? the sweet taste of rebellion, wrapped in a crystal bottle of hard liquor? You two ordered by the bar, Tequila Sunrise—only because you thought it sounded like a good track title for an indie song… or a groupie name. “Alright,” your friend says, grinning. “Stay close,” she orders before she pulls you in to the throng of the crowd with practiced ease, the wisdom of being a seasoned club-goer, navigating through the laughter and shouts. She yelled through the sound of the club, mentioning the name of one of her colleagues, a forgettable one, ‘They’re at a VIP table near the back!’ You tried to keep pace, truly, taking in the dizzying crowd and the scent of vanilla and something woodsy from the perfumes of the people around you. Suddenly, the DJ dropped a Weeknd track—like a pack of hungry wolves, the crowd around you rippled with heightened, suffocating energy. Cheers erupted, and a mass of bodies pushed through. You were caught off-guard by the sudden shift in momentum, practically drowned out on the opposite side of the sea. Your frame was immediately racked away from your friend’s hold and out of the main current. Your arms flailed, spilling half of your drink to the ground as you gasped, you collided into something solid and warm, the scent of tobacco and crystal amber hitting your senses like a straight shot to the head—blanking your thoughts and pushing away the memory of the embarrassing stunt you just pulled—that this stranger might’ve even watched from afar.
You looked up—tall, motionless. His gaze, deep-set and burnished like roasted hazelnuts in the dimness of the corner he settled in, pierced the air as the club's strobelights played their cruel, flaunting light upon his brow. His brows were furrowed, seemingly almost irritated by the course of events, as if he tried his best to blend in some comedy show—just another face in the crowd—until the comedian gave him a shout-out he definitely wasn’t ready for. He looked out of place, or maybe he does fit in, and it was just you who didn’t belong here. Ethnically, he did, though; you inspected him as you pulled away and muttered a quick apology. A foreigner, tall enough for people to notice, he wore a white silk shirt that would catch the light every now and then; the top of his collar was left undone, revealing the glimpse of a subtle gold chain on his neck. His charcoal trousers were well-fitting and complemented the color of his hair, which fell on his forehead almost ceremoniously, and he pushed it back with his fingers, his eyes bored into yours still. Your mind was working overtime now. He looks so familiar, and it lingered in the air, and against the wall his back leaned on. Abel’s voice, crooning from the speakers, faded between your space.
He hadn’t moved, observing the chaos with such calmness. His messy hair, the way his jaw had set, and the faint 5 ’o’clock shadow that seemed to darken up a little. He was brooding, which felt different from the usual way foreigners acted here in the city—there was a certain element in the way he stood that was borderline familiar; the tilt of his head, now facing yours, completely snagged your memory. It felt like an illusion, a stupid fan-filled illusion. It was a face you’ve seen in photographs, on screens, and in music videos. You simply fixed your blurring eyesight for a bit, the Tequila Sunrise truly living up to its name. Other girls had tried to catch his eye tonight; you’d noticed from the bar all of their hushed voices and heads seemingly leading in this area—you’ve come to understand why—they were drawn by his quiet magnetism, only to be faced with a polite but firm rejection. But you haven’t sought him out; you simply have just fallen into him.
“Are you…” you trail, “Alex Turner?” His eyes fell back to yours again, seemingly holding a quiet, almost knowing depth, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, you thought he might’ve just not heard you, your voice swallowed by the pulsating bass of the beat playing. His lips, thin and slightly chapped, curved into a hint of a smile, close to an outright grin, like he just got caught stealing candy from a kid and feels no sense of guilt whatsoever. Though, as you tried to look at him again, it was more of knowing amusement and less of arrogance. Maybe he hadn’t expected to be recognized here. He took his time to let the music fill the silence, making you sort of… embarrassed in a way. Maybe he was just a mere celebrity who wanted some quiet time for himself before the big performance. You’ve heard of the news, of course. For the first time ever, the band was performing in your country. Although the venue was a few miles away, and you hadn’t bought your tickets, it was still, well, enough of a good news. The thought of being in the same city with Alex, let alone in the same nightclub as him now, felt too good to be true. “Are you looking for an autograph?”
His voice came rough, a little hoarse over the music, but that distinct Yorkshire accent he held was the nail to the coffin. It’s him, Christ, it’s really him. You blinked, once, and then twice. His question sounded less like an annoyance and more like a distinct curiosity that made you blush, or maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. This was a tango Alex has played over the years, and he even mentioned in his interviews it’s hard for him to be detected or be seen as a celebrity when he lived in LA, let alone here, in a country where he hasn’t stepped foot in before. “No.” Your answer came rather quickly, shaking your head. Stupid, we both know you’d ask for more than an autograph. “It’s just, uhh…” you trailed, your words coming in that fake American accent you’ve picked up from watching old Western shows. “I’m surprised to see you here,” you continue, laced in that almost unexpected wonder. Alex watched you long enough for you to think he seemed interested in what you had to say after this, or maybe he’s just waiting for you to leave. The amusement in his eyes trickled down, just for a bit, replaced by something you couldn’t quite read along yet—scrutiny? Maybe. His posture was still relaxed, hands in his tailored trousers. His nose was prominent under the strobe lights, you knew of that, but it felt different now seeing him in real life, and he inhaled, taking a slow breath before answering, maybe even considering whether to answer or not. His eyes weren’t subtle, practically assessing the proximity between the two of you, almost a foot close as you leaned back against the wall. A part of you was conscious of whether you’ve worn the right dress for the occasion. The club lights, red and yellow, washed over the two of you, your skin glinting under the lights. “Surprised, love? ”
He finally says, making your hair from the back of your neck stand up. He wasn’t exactly giving out any answers as to why he was there; it wasn’t like you were worth giving that out to. His gaze fell back to yours again, as if asking the same question back: and you? What brings you here? Before he added. “It’s a Friday night.”
His reasoning made you smile a little; it was devoid of everything you expected from him, and maybe he wasn’t exactly the stammering poetic type like in the interview he painted himself as. You nodded. “Friday night, exactly,” you echoed, trailing again. “...why I’m also here,” you say, letting the word hang in the alcohol-filled air before clarifying, the words flimsy.
“Y’know, a bit of a rebellion.”
He turns his head now, brow arched, waiting for you to continue. It was sickeningly heady. Having his attention for even just a few seconds practically made you fully aware now of how awkward you must look beside him. “My friend… dragged me out, said I needed to get some ‘shit out of my system,’” you explain, gesturing with your fingers in the air as you looked at him. “I’m usually tucked at home, just…I mean, not like there’s anything wrong with going out,” you preface rather quickly. His stare didn’t waver as you spoke, still in that blur of detached observation, and staying rooted to the hum of the party, he slowly shrugs. “A rebellion,” he repeats, chuckling, as if he were tossing the word in his mind like a softball. “That’s… one way to look at it.” “And, is it working?” he asked, tilting his head back as he looks at you.
“Getting that ‘shit’ out of your system? ”The cadence was a good mimicry of your accent, and for a moment you found yourself cheekily smiling at him; he was actually listening. Your face had heated up within a few seconds; it was a familiar, embarrassing flutter in your chest. You tried to fight that feeling off, sipping your half-empty drink, not trusting yourself to answer just yet. “No.”
Your confession came soft, barely audible from the music but clear enough for Alex to pick up. Your eyes darted to the crowd again, looking for a familiar face, your friend, surely, who’s probably already looking for you, the lights shifting from every corner, and still, no sign of her. You picked up your phone before you could even get distracted again, and just as you’d have it, there were nine missed calls from her, and as you typed and sent her a quick reassurance that you were fine, Alex was already moving—not exactly to the grand exit, but merely a subtle shift off the wall, to the edge of the crowd, heading deeper into the club. You watched him go for a moment, and you felt this sudden pull to talk to him again. But maybe it was better off to just look for the VIP table and stick to the original plan. But the back of his head, slowly disappearing into the dark corner and into the hallway, made your heart race. You wanted to talk to him. Christ, maybe even ask for a photo? You were just being nice earlier, but now a part of you just wants to…
Your feet had decisions of their own, heels clicking on the sticky floor as you followed him. Just five more minutes with him, and probably ask about evermont too, or whatever. The music pulsed, the bodies moved, and the scent of cherry vapes effervesced through the club like a horrid aftertaste. The club felt like a manic hallucination, reminiscent of a Bartolacci painting. Your eyes, though, remained fixed on Alex. You called him twice, making sure you were heard. The man didn’t turn immediately, but your voice, no matter how soft it seemed, had passed through his senses—a delicate tilt of his head, his eyes looking back, a sign that he’d heard you. Though, he continued to move, weaving away from the main exit, not even to the bar—to a more secluded corridor, a secret part of the club’s architecture, and away from the main spot of the party. It looked more like a path towards the restrooms or a lounge area no one took notice of. You set your drink on one of the empty tables, your tequila half-sipped and already warming up from your hold, before following him. It was a burst of adrenaline and an underlying desperation that made you leap through the hallway. The light was less harsh here, making your dress a beautifully wilting rose passing through. Alex was already in the mouth of the dimly lit corridor. The click of your heels accompanied the thudding, indistinct beat of a Rihanna song from the dance floor. The sea of the crowd surged through the heart of the building behind you, but here—this was the tide, and you felt like you were sinking underwater. His pull was effortlessly insistent, washing out the early anxieties of your reluctant rebellion. He waited there, his hands in his pocket, facing you now. The tension was as thick as salted butter. His scent, tobacco and amber, felt warm in contrast to the shift of air from here, cool and less humid, mingling with the scent of the disinfectant cleaner. He looked as though he wasn’t looking at you exactly, more like he wasn’t present at all, contemplating a very difficult equation that was in the sole of your borrowed heels, before he looked into your eyes again, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “What’s your name, love? ” His voice was low, softer than earlier, close to a whisper. You answered back, stammering embarrassingly. Alex nodded slowly, almost as if he was registering your name in his head, playing it, breaking it apart in his mind, and piecing it back together.
“How old are you? ”
The question was left wafting in the air like smoke, adding a ton to the weight of the unspoken tension around you two. You felt the familiar heat on your neck creep up again. You hesitated for a moment; for one, you didn’t look like your own age, from your makeup and the way you were dressed tonight, and maybe Alex hadn’t picked up on that yet, or maybe he had and that’s why he walked away in the first place. “...Nineteen.” Alex blinked. The air was dead, and for a moment a part of you wanted to just bolt out and leave straight from the crowd and out the exit, a sudden leap to just leave this poor man alone, but you were nailed to the ground; deep down, you were eager, sickeningly so. His hazel eyes, which were glinting with faint amusement from the dim lights of the dance floor, were replaced by a still blankness. He shifted a few steps back. The invitation was gone, a flicker of something achingly close to reconsideration that made your heart sink for a moment. The age gap was significant, and it was out there now in depressing, flying colors. Even his expression changed, and for a moment you felt that maybe he’s going to be the first one to bolt instead, a shared calling from your doorknob confession. He repeated the word again, “Nineteen.” The truth felt like dry chalk in his throat. Christ, he has boots older than you and has walked in them in music festivals you’ve never set foot in before. He shook his head slightly, his gaze trailing down over you: the dark satin dress, the heels, the makeup, and the desirous look in your eyes. “Right, then… I’m fossilized, I suppose,” he finally says again, chuckling dryly, though the reluctance was still there. “Bloody old enough to be your father, then.”
“I don’t mind.”
Though it was said with an almost practiced ease, like it was the very fact, which, truly, it was. It was an innocent counter, delivered in a way that made him groan. It wasn’t a sound of anger or frustration, but the sound of his last restraints crumbling in the very corridor. His fingers ran through his hair, a gesture of indignation. But the action felt more like surrender, to sink into the very water that only the two of you were swimming in. His shoulders dropped, and his jaw slacked as he looked at you, as if he were making sure his mind wasn’t some perverted sicko that mistranslated your words.
“Right.”
His voice was a low rumble; the carefully constructed wall of his polite distance seemed to slowly fall off the very precipice. “This is a right mess, ain’t gonna end well, love.” he stated. It was the very truth, but what can one do? Then, he continues. “You’re—Christ, really, bloody, young.”
Young. The term landed like a punch straight to the gut. He didn’t say it as if he were to demean you, but it was clear—a barrier between you two, a boundary you were so eager to cross over. You took another step forward, unyielding. His gaze lingered on you, tongue clicking against his cheek as he finally turned to lead the way down towards the door, marked with the ambiguous symbol for restrooms. Still, he was battling internally, and it played across his features like a yellow neon sign, even when he was already moving towards it and you were following aimlessly. Softly, you voice out.
“Age is a bit subjective.” The statement would be wrong if one were to put it in the judgement of a birth certificate. It was simple, yet it implied a lot of unsaid things between the two of you; it held a challenge, a quiet assertive quality he didn’t see from you on the dance floor. The restroom door was momentarily untouched, his hand just hovering above the knob as he registered your words in his head. You heard him chuckle, and as he turned his head to you, he had that smile on his face, something achingly predatory that made the hazel in his eyes much darker than it was before. A smile that could be shot from a paparazzo’s lens, and it could be the cover of a magazine the next morning. That statement was probably the funniest joke you’ve said tonight.
“Subjective,” he repeats, “perhaps.” His voice dropped even lower, the syllables rolling off his tongue like the stretch of a napping cat. He took a slow step back, the click of his Chelsea boots thudding in the confined space. “But love, experience doesn’t bend like your truth does.” His words were a soft hush, nonetheless, loud enough. It was a subtle jab, a gentle reminder of the encounters he’s probably had in the early years of his life; maybe you were bathroom girl #23 on his list, while you, on the other hand, were still looking for a paper to write on. God, you felt rooted to the spot, your eyes taking a snapshot of his face as he tilted his head slightly, observing, as if you were a cute puppy who just shat on his white carpet.
“I’m a fast learner.”
Your words were out quick off your lips before you could even think about it. Time stopped. Then the knob clicked, and he slowly let both of you inside the restroom. His touch was a wave of a thousand electrons around your wrist, his hand rough, and you could feel the calluses on his fingertips after decades of playing guitar in sold-out shows and stadiums, and here it was, pulling you in for the promise of more. He closed the door shut, the sound of the latch deafening the both of you. He didn’t even reply immediately to your words; he’d forgotten about it, yet it played in his head like a tune, the lyrics somewhat forgotten. His gaze was fixed on you as he gently pressed you against the door, a sudden push just to see if you were going to react differently, your tequila and his whiskey mingling in the air. He could smell your perfume, and you were memorizing the base notes of his.
In his head, you were probably a complication, a potential tabloid article waiting to be released in the next 24 hours or less; the internet was a quick bathroom shag at this point. You were a hazardous klutz that he should have steered clear of the moment you stumbled into him. But it was the look in your eyes that threw him off, the unnerving eagerness, something he hasn’t been on the opposite end of in a long, long time. Maybe he really was getting old, his gray hairs have started to peek out, and his knees were weaker than he’d ever liked to admit, but that validation, that you were willing to be with him, even just for tonight, was more potent than anything else he’d ever drunk, smoked… even snorted. Christ, he couldn’t even wait to take you to his hotel, but your self-respect had gone out the door the moment you wore that dress—you were willing to take it off on whichever ground he wanted it to land on, all for the sheer bloody thrill. The desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control was slowly collapsing. He moved, his head turning to the whole restroom. A glistening shiny packet of a condom lay in the corner, a previous encounter, a natural occurrence in a place like this, and the faint sweet scent of a vape: blackcurrant. He picked one of the empty stalls; the metal door was slightly dented, but the lock was working. In a decisive manner, he pulled you in with him; the stall door shut behind him like a gunshot. Your hands were shaking not from fear, but rather from the adrenaline waiting to be unleashed any moment now. The small space felt hot and intimate, intensely intimate; you could see the sweat pooling on his forehead and running down to his neck, the gold chain glinting from the fluorescent light from above. Roughly, he made you kneel on the toilet seat, your knees on the unsteady toilet lid, as he faced your back. You prepared—or, perhaps, attempted to balance yourself—your elbows on the cool porcelain of the tank. You could practically feel him moving behind you; the stall was so tight that you could hardly move. He lets his hands roam on your sides, as if to anchor himself to the very knowledge that this was truly happening, but the ship had sunk long ago.
“Christ,” he rasps, “This is mental.”
The words left his mouth as he fished for his condoms; the sound of his hands on his pockets, the jingle of keys and coins, and even the sound of his leather wallet, before a muttered curse flew through the air, a sudden brake occurred in the middle of a highway. “Condom?” he asked, wondering if you had one. You, however, shook your head, your hair moving gently. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered, “and I’m clean…” The words were an attempt at reassurance, just a soft, shaky plea to continue. He froze, hands still, and you turned your head only to find him looking at you with a sense of a blooming panic and just a soft bruising of disbelief crossing his face. He blinked before letting out a heavy exhale, jaw tensed as he tried to move his lips. This was reckless. He played it safe, even with his own girlfriend. Don’t think you’re the exception. But your gaze softened by a fraction, your eyes meeting him with an intensity that was a borderline, dangerous trance that had him blanking out. He felt your hands touch his, a steady squeeze around his fingertips. Then, with your parted lips, you softly plead again.
“Please, Alex,” you breathed, “I want you…”
The words hung like silent bells, simply disarming, and he didn’t understand why. All his built-up reservations, the mental calculations, and his attempt to pull away had simply been taken away from his mind. Fuck, his dick was left doing the thinking, raw restraint desire twitching in the confines of his trousers. It was an offer—from a needy girl who should know better—that he simply couldn’t refuse. A groan escaped his lips as he rested his head against the back of the grimy stall door, looking up at the white ceiling that has undoubtedly been a regular at movie premieres like this. The risk, the age difference, the potential danger—a horrid combination of being a jaded rockstar, it was a cynical reality he wasn’t too keen on thinking about, not yet. His mouth found yours; the last gleam of his self-preservation was now out the door. The kiss was desperate and messy, teeth colliding and all, with the taste of cigarettes and his whiskey on the tip of his tongue, guttural sounds of pleasure, and the small smacked sounds filling the tight space. The kiss—no matter how surreal it felt—had been pulled out of your momentary focus as you felt the warmth of his palms on your hips. He gently grazed under the dress, feeling the smooth skin of your supple ass. He gently bunches up your dress higher, taking his time. His calloused fingertips, a sharp contrast to your soft skin, stilled on your chest. He hummed softly between your lips, as if approving how snug your breasts fit between his palms, like a perfect-fit glove, before gently pinching your nipples together. The moan that fell from your lips was electrifying; you were at a loss at just how much he knew how to work his hands and his lips in sync, but then again, he was a frontman for a reason. His soft assault trailed to the corner of your lips before he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and tickling, “Settle back on the tank for me, love.” His voice was rough, aching with that half-shot of restraining himself from pushing you down and taking exactly what he wanted from you.
You obeyed, earning a soft whisper of good girl in that signature drawl of his that made your knees buckle—a straight jolt of heat that fell hot and heavy on your skin as you whimpered. Your ass was facing him, and he wasted no time, pushing your dress around your waist. His fingers dove in gently between your crevices, slipping your laced panties to the sides, finding the heat of your arousal. You let out the softest of gasps, a sound of anticipation. He takes a sharp inhale at the dampness; it was undeniably overwhelming, like he just discovered a hidden waterfall in a desert landscape, an incredibly abundant waterfall, falling on the edge of the overhanging. “Christ,” he groaned, rough and raw against your skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, a shuddering breath escaping his lips; his fingers were coated with your viscous wetness, dripping onto the toilet lid like craft glue. The intensity, the absolute knowledge of how much you’ve been wanting this, more than your words and actions could ever say. The growl that erupted from his throat was animalistic.
He fumbled with his belt urgently, frantically. The sound of the buckle was a stark echo in the bathroom, ringing in your ears, but the loudest sound of all was his dry laugh, a playful teasing tone. “Well, then..." he murmured, voice honeyed with desire. “Someone’s eager…” he whispers softly, the smile audible enough that it made your face heat up in shame. His middle finger returned, pressed between your cavernous heat; the gasp you let out was the hymn he’d heard once in a dream, and he was coaxing it out with his digits, once, twice. “Come on, love…” he whispers, taunting now as he begins to thrust his fingers inside you, your muscle pulsing. “Tell me, get it out of your system.”
Your back arched when he added another, “Alex… I need you…”
“Need me to what?”
“Hngh…” you moaned out, barely holding yourself still, your knuckles whitening as you gripped the porcelain tank. “A-Alex… I need you to fuck—hah—fuck me…”
“Good girl, truly a fast learner, that,” he teased, whispering in your ear. Satisfied with your answer, he hummed, removing his fingers, in between those achingly slow seconds, you hoped that the loss would be temporary—you finally heard him unzip his pants. He gently stroked himself as he stared at your pussy, glistening under the dim lights. He pressed his hard, engorged dick between your slick folds, teasing your clit. The friction was enough to make your teeth clench as you let out a soft moan.
“Alex… please…” you whisper, your hips acting instinctively to grind back against him.
“Patience, love,” he whispers, before pushing your folds apart with his thumbs. “Beautiful,” he praises, staring at your sleek, dripping cunt, hungry, waiting to devour. “So bloody wet for me, are you?” You didn’t even need to answer as he finally, finally, slipped inside. The stretch made your eyes water, blurred your vision, and quite literally took your breath away; your mouth fell open as you let out a choked gasp. Alex was barely holding it; your muscles clenched around him like a desperate velvet glove, so impossibly wet and warm that it felt like he couldn’t even think, too overwhelmed by the sensation of you.
“Oh… fuuuckin’ hell,” he rasps out. For a few seconds, all you two could do was stay still, accompanied by the sound of ragged, desperate gasps that filled the small space.
As his grip tightened around your hips, he began to move—every thrust was heaven-sent; there was no way it was this fucking good. Every neuron receptor in your brain had practically shut down; all you could do was feel and take every inch of him—only the primal instincts remained. This is what life was about; this was the exact feeling of what ends wars, and starts them. He slowed down his pace, a deliberate, torturous drag that made every hair in your body stand, the roadmap of his veins etched in your very insides, the shape of his tip grinding relentlessly in that very sweet spot inside you, agonizing and transcendental all at once. His movements were precise and achingly slow, pure reverence, all dedicated to memorizing this feeling in his mind forever: the yielding warmth of your cunt and the sound of your voice. His breath was warm on your neck and tinged with the sharp scent of whiskey. His groans and whispered obscenities echoed in your ear, amplifying your surrender even more.
“Agh, love—hngh… Oh god…” he gasped as he pulled back again before finally driving back in. Christ, you felt so good he could practically taste you in his mouth: a sweet, unforgettable flavor he’ll be savoring for days, years if he isn’t careful.
The sensual, intimate bubble they were trapped in was suddenly shattered as the restroom door slammed open. The sound of the club’s music intensified from the gap of the door, followed by a lively, slurred chatter of female voices; their heels danced on the tiles, their purses clicking as they set them down on the sink, the sound echoing through every corner in the restroom. Alex and you were frozen in place, caught in a very awkward position. Sweat trickled from your forehead, slowly racing through your eyebrows as you two waited to do something, anything. Your head turned, finally getting a glimpse of Alex: his mousy brown hair was an absolute mess, some glued to his forehead like grapevines; his ghostly pale face was flushed down to his chest, his gold chain caught the bathroom’s ceiling lights, sweat glistened on his skin like glass, his pupils were blown like pits of ebony, and his lips were blowing steam from the way he was chasing his breath. It seemed as though he was exactly in the same state as you were, and here you thought you were the one who was begging. Before you could even say something, his arm snaked in the other direction to your face, his palm clamped in a gentle yet firm manner over your mouth, the stall held its breath, and you gently exhaled through your nose, looking at him. “Shh,” he shushed gently, “Not a sound, love.”
With a resurgent, shameless thrill, his hips rolled again. His thrusts, which were once a series of slow, drawn-out, tortured pleasures, came like the harsh crack of a whip. Your eyes rolled back through your head, your moan vibrating through his palms, begging to escape. It was a sickening game that a part of you was excited to play. His lips slowly kissed your temple, whispering against your skin a dangerous song that descended through your very core.
“Unless you fancy tellin’ them…” he pants, “...who’s fucking you good.”
The voices from outside continued, completely oblivious—and intoxicated—to even sense the ritualistic mending of two strangers inside the only occupied stall in the restroom. The rhythmic grinds of your bodies, the whines that vibrated through the palm of Alex’s hand, and his stifled groans mingled in the small enclosed space, impossibly close against your ears, filling the intensity of his exhibitionistic desire even more. He slowly took his hands off your lips, and you had to bite your bottom lip to control yourself, not a sound. One powerful thrust was enough to break your silence—deep and utterly precise, an agonizing electricity that sent your legs shaking and nearly caused the toilet lid to fall off its screws.
“Ah! Fuck, Alex!” Your eyes snapped open impossibly wider with each deep thrust; the collection of whines slowly evolved into pure, pleasured cries, effortlessly pushing you closer to the high that your body’s begging for.
The message was as clear as the Blue Lake; the voices soon piped down. A sudden, almost crisp silence enveloped the room before their shoes scuffed the tiles again, heading in the direction where the door was, before it quickly squeaked open and sealed shut. His movements slowed, and for a moment, the two of you wanted to laugh. He began drawing back slightly before pushing back with a strong force. “God… you’re—hah, ugh—something else, aren’t you?” he teased, using his free hand to tilt your face back towards him. “Fuckin’ eager little…” he gasps, feeling your insides contract around him. The pressure was pure divination.
"Bloody hell—couldn’t even wait for a proper intro, could you?"
Thrust.
“Just beggin’ for it, love? ”
Thrust. Thrust.
“Ugh, God…” he grunted, “You’re so tight…”
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
One hand tightened around your hips, while the other found its way to the nape of your neck, gripping you close, squeezing your arteries just enough to make you lightheaded, his teeth were gritted as he controlled your movement; the pace was done without hesitation, fastening up. Gone was the teasing and was now replaced by the force of a man whose instincts were sinking to its natural state: taking, consuming, and feeling. The harsh skin-to-skin slaps, the cries and the harsh groans that seemed to grow louder and higher, and the toilet lid shaking off its hinges were echoing off the wet tiled walls. Your head snapped behind you to get a glimpse of him again, and his eyes were melting onto yours. Alex groaned as he saw the heavenly debauched sight of you, your mascara bleeding down your cheeks like gothic rivulets, your eyeshadow merely gone—smudged off from the very bane of existence, and your lipstick stripped off completely, leaving only the soft hues on your swollen, tender lips. Alex, with his continuous, breathless assault, leaned in, raw satisfaction and hunger in those hazel brown eyes, before catching your moaning lips to taste you again. He pushed your knees further apart, widening your stance on the toilet seat. The shift was indescribable; you couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening anymore as your back arched, and he filled you to the absolute brim, the angle sending the two of you deeper to the very brink of rapture. You thought you’d known pleasure, but everything before this was just a mere buzz—this, this was euphoria. His hips worked relentlessly to the point that every plunge was blinding; the guttural sounds that vibrated from his chest had made their way to yours, amplifying the deep, animalistic connection even more. Your hips bucked against him as you gasped, and as your lips pulled apart—a string of saliva beaded between the two of you as you both struggled to catch your breath together.
Suddenly, you felt your vision blur from the overwhelming shuddering height of pleasure that was finally crashing down off its very foundation. Your muscles taut around his thick, hot length, a coiling, merciless squeeze that made his head melt. You moaned—no, cried out uncontrollably—gripping the porcelain tank as you climaxed, your whole body shaking.
“Hngh—fuuuuck—hah—” Alex gasped. It was a violently exquisite surprise that pulled him in. He rides out the wave of her release with clenched teeth and eyes closed before finally, in desperate, deep grunt, follows suit. Every inch of his body was hot, and his dick was searing from the dizzying sensation as he painted your insides, a fat, hot load that filled you in ways he’d never done before—not that he’d tell you out loud—but the coda was entirely transformative. You gently fell back against the toilet tank, body still trembling. Your cheek was cold against the porcelain as you inhaled shakily, desperately, like it was your last prayer. The world, in that moment, was just one big rock, floating in space. Alex leaned against the grimy, sticky stall door, his chest heaved as he tried his best to catch his breath. He never thought he’d do this again, not when he was nearing his forties, anyway, but here he was. His still-dazed eyes landed on you; you looked like an absolute work of art in his vision, cinematic colors and romanticized diplopia. He hissed as he slowly withdrew himself from your heat with a soft, wet pop that made you whimper weakly. Hot viscous fluid dripped from his and yours, silent evidence of what had just happened in this very stall, filling you and the air around with the scent of sex, whiskey, tequila, and his cologne. His eyes lingered on you even when he was tucking himself back in, fingers shaking as he zipped himself back up, softly grunting as he struggled to slip his prong in the right hole.
“Tomorrow, backstage.” You barely registered his words; you hummed in confusion for a moment, voice dry after an eternity of crying out. He finally slips the end tip of his belt in the loop before fixing it in his trousers.
“The concert,” he specifies, “you should… come ‘round, find me.”
You hummed. “ ‘Kay.” He grinned at your answer, though you could hardly see it. Since he’s a gentleman, he slips your panties back on before striking a playful spank on your backside, and with a surprising, tender touch, he slides your dress back down. His palm lingered on your hips for a few seconds before drawing back. “Right, I should…” he trails. “Oh. Okay… Yeah, of course.” He slipped out before you could even steady yourself as you slowly sat back on the toilet; the restroom door clicked open before closing shut, leaving you on your own.
Tomorrow, backstage, the concert. Come around and find me.
gummygunk
janainaart
blakekathryn
jbbartram-illu
theartofmadeline
jacobvanloon
areudirty
titsay
stormborns
2087
