warnings : he has anxiety, sad feelings (i cant stop), they talk about scissoring/frotting/squirting but nothing real (#girl talk), doing stuff in public (in a cinema), handjob, blowjob, masturbation (reader)
The restaurant's hot breath curled around your small table like a swirl of a tongue, bringing the chime of half-full glasses being clinked together and the warm, strong scents of different herbs and spices with it, all floating around you and Alex as you sat tucked away in the far corner of the packed but cosy, gently candlelit restaurant.
The restaurant wasn't too fancy, not in an overly modern, high-class way.
The beams supporting the ceiling twirled upwards like beanstalks, the patterns engraved into the dark, streaky oak wood swirling and spiraling into an intricate, winding labyrinth of passages, decorating the pillar.
There were somber paintings hung up sporadically on the walls, depicting old Victorian couples dressed in suits with long coats and dresses with large petticoats, swans on a serene, tranquil lake, and orange sunsets on a farm in the countryside, all bordered with carefully carved chocolate brown wooden frames, the designs complementing and accentuating the details of the brooding pictures that they housed.
The windows resembled those that belonged to a church, arching at the top with the glass panes lightly stained, allowing the minimal light that passed through them to match the dim glow that doused the inside of the restaurant.
The building used to be a post office, or maybe it was a bank. You couldn't remember exactly. It was something that would've made the heavily detailed architecture feel more natural, anyway.
You let your gaze float over the tall walls, walls that had seen so much history after standing there for so long, and your mind wandered for a moment. You began to think about who might've stood or sat in the same place that you were sitting now, hundreds of years ago.
Maybe they were a mother, rocking their newborn baby to sleep in their arms while the town whizzed past, disrupting the little one's slumber. Maybe they were an outcasted, independent teenage girl in the terrifying midst of being accused of witchcraft. Maybe they were a poor woman, trying to sell countless flower bouquets out of baskets on the pavement, just to make ends meet.
Whoever it might have been, you hoped they were gifted with a happy ending.
You were gently tugged from your thoughts when Alex's foot nudged against yours beneath the table, and you tore your gaze away from the walls, your eyes meeting his expectant expression, and you smiled a little at him before he spoke.
āWhich one's your favourite?ā he asked as he chewed, half of a chip in his hand after he took a bite.
You glanced down at his chapped lips before you asked, a little confused, āFavourite what?ā
āFavourite painting,ā he clarified, gesturing vaguely to the walls before tossing the other half of the chip he was holding into his mouth.
You turned your head again, eyes scanning over all of the solemn paintings dotted across the walls before your gaze settled on the one you'd found yourself zoning out on before.
āThat one,ā you pointed towards the opposite wall where the picture hung, and he wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans as he turned his head towards where your finger guided his eyes.
It was a gloomy looking painting, a dense forest of towering pine trees. The needle-like leaves were a dark, mossy sage and the sky a deep, cloudy grey. Maybe it had just rained in their world.
He squinted his eyes slightly as he studied the picture for a moment before he looked back at you. āPretty.ā
āWhat's yours?ā you asked back to him as you wrapped your hands around your glass, lifting it up to your mouth before capturing the flimsy, blue and white striped paper straw between your soft lips, taking a long, slow sip as you watched his eyes scan over the walls.
āI like that one,ā he slightly nodded his head towards a painting hung high on the wall behind you, one that was part of a small cluster of three different pictures.
You turned and tilted your head back, your eyes soughting out the one he gestured to, and you asked, āThe top or bottom one?ā
āBottom.ā
Your eyes flickered down to the lowest painting of the cluster, a picture of a bunch of flowers in a vase. The background and stems were dull, but the petals were painted with slightly brighter, though still dusty colours. Peachy white peonies, mustard yellow marigolds, currant red camellias. It was bordered with a thick, vintage-looking brass frame, worn shiny with age, instead of a dark oak one like the rest of the paintings had.
āI like it,ā you said as you turned back towards him, reaching for the white porcelain bowl sat on the table between you and plucking a chip from the centre, the hot exterior of the fried potato burning your fingertips a little.
The corners of Alex's lips quirked up into a small smile before he looked down at his empty plate. The waitress had brought them when she delivered the bowl of chips earlier, muttering some half-hearted apology about the delay of the pizza and how they're short on staff.
A handful of dark charred pieces of potato were dotted over his plate from him picking and peeling them off of the chips. He hated how they tasted, how they coated the inside of his mouth in an overwhelmingly acrid layer of bitterness. How it soaked into his tongue and contaminated the next few bites of his food with its lingering burnt poison.
It gave him something to do with his hands as well. Something to fiddle with, even if it meant getting his fingers slick with grease and rough with crumbs. Something to distract him from how inside, he was anything but still.
The restaurant wasn't loud, not in a way that would be expected with as many people as there were inside. Apart from the occasional round of loud laughter from a table in the far corner of the opposite side of the room, it was generally quite tame. Most of the patrons were quiet couples, just like you and him, but no matter how quiet the people around him were, nothing would be able to lower the blaring volume of his sickeningly anxious inner monologue.
There was a low static somewhere in his brain, and his heart felt slightly off-centre, just a little bit too far to the right, persistently beating and thumping against his ribs with a swift pace that made his breathing quicken out of nerves.
All of the tables were too close together, and everytime someone spoke, even if it was just a murmur, and everytime someone shifted, even if it was just by an inch, his stomach flinched and tightened with worry, with fear.
The sound of cutlery scraping violently stabbed his ears, making him blink too quickly in response to the noise. His eyes darted towards the sound each time, his chin-length, mildly wavy hair swaying with each quick turn of his head, only slightly, but enough to make him hyper aware of it.
He knew nobody was watching him. He knew nobody cared. Nobody cared about his leg constantly bouncing underneath the table, about how he chewed on his lower lip until it was red and stinging, or the way he rubbed his hands together and tugged on his fingers subconsciously.
He knew nobody noticed, but knowing and feeling were two completely different things.
He felt like everyone was staring at him. Whispering about the way he picked apart the chips, murmuring between each other about a water spot on his shirt from how he brushed his teeth right before you two left the house. He felt like every loud laugh, every muffled chuckle, every stifled cackle was at him, mocking him. His chest felt tight with the brutal, deafening anxiety festering inside of him.
He brought a chip that he'd been tearing apart on his plate up to his mouth, being careful not to chew too loud, or too fast, or too slow. The crunch of the crispy outer skin echoed through his brain as his teeth tore through the barrier, and he quickly swept his eyes over the room as he chewed slowly, deliberately, his lips pressed impossibly tight together to try and muffle the noise as much as possible, though he knew it couldn't possibly be as loud in reality as it was in his head.
His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, like it didn't belong to him, and his teeth felt itchy, the discomfort rooted deep in his gums. He took a sip of his drink, the damp paper straw nestled between his rough lips, and he sucked up a mouthful of the fizzy drink, swilling the sugary liquid inside of his mouth and letting it tingle across his tongue and gums before he swallowed it.
Thankfully, your soft voice broke through his haze of suffocating worries like a hot knife through butter, reminding him of where he was, who he was with, and that he was okay. At least for a moment.
āApparently it's all about his sister, Samantha,ā you said fleetingly before you took a bite of another chip, turning and looking over the other half between your fingers.
āWhat?ā he asked, his eyes focusing once more as he came back to, floating his way back up to the surface after drowning, but still not being able to get out of the water.
āThe film. S. Darko. It's meant to be terrible. I read a bit about it online.ā
He let out a short, breathy chuckle, his smile just barely evident on his lips. āIt's not even the same director, is it?ā
āNo. I forgot his name, but it's not the same guy. It's all about time travel and stuff again, though,ā you briefly explained as you wiped your fingers on a beige, slightly damp napkin that was lazily discarded beside your plate earlier.
āDo you think it'll ruin Donnie Darko for me?ā he asked, only half-joking as he reached for his drink again. He wasn't even thirsty, he just couldn't bear the thought of having to sit still, of not doing anything with his hands. He thought it would at least make him look normal.
āMaybe. I'm curious. I know it'll be awful, but maybe it'll be a good awful. I want it to be terrible and impossible to understand.ā
He chewed on his straw, the thin paper becoming mushy in his mouth. āYou like bad films?ā
You let out a huff of laughter through your nostrils. āI like bad sequels.ā
āI thought it concluded quite well in the first one,ā he said, glancing around the room for a moment before focusing on his coke again.
āThat's why they made a second one.ā
āFor money and stuff?ā
āProbably. And for articles and that. Negative engagement is still engagement, I guess. It'll make people hate-watch.ā
He chuckled quietly, the top of his chewed paper straw unravelling slightly. āWell, we fell for it, didn't we?ā
āWe didn't āfall for itā if I wanted to watch it.ā
āThen it was just you who fell for it.ā
Your soft laugh melted into the background hum of the restaurant, and he drummed a silent rhythm with his greasy fingers on his knee before the taps morphed into slow drags of his fingertips, tracing small patterns on the soft denim of his deep blue jeans.
The squeak of the kitchen door being swung open made him jolt slightly, and he sat up straighter without entirely meaning to. He was always doing that. Sitting up straighter at random times, usually after being startled. Maybe it reminded him where he was after zoning out, that he was human, that he had to look normal. As if that wasn't all he thought about anyway. Looking normal.
The same waitress who had served you two earlier, a young woman with an overgrown dark brown bob and a very patchy fake tan job, weaved through tables towards yours, carrying a wide plate with a pizza set atop on one hand, while her other hand held a folded wad of napkins.
He glanced at the woman for a second, but quickly looked away when he realised she was coming towards him, a wave of shame burning up through his chest and up to his face, flushing his cheeks a shade of red. He hoped she hadn't seen him looking.
The waitress approached, an attempted apologetic smile on her lips as she sat down the plate in the centre of the table. āSorry for the wait. Mind the plate, it's hot,ā she said. She didn't sound local. Actually, he couldn't tell where she was from. Her accent sounded like it was a hybrid of South London, Greater Manchester, and somewhere further up in the North.
She set the wad of napkins on the table as well, and you gave her a small smile and a thank you before she walked away, while he did everything in his power to avoid eye contact.
His stomach clenched and churned as he looked down at the pizza, his throat closing up. It wasn't that he didn't want to eat, or that he wasn't hungry. He was, but that wasn't what he was afraid of. He was afraid of the performance that came with eating.
The cutting, the lifting, the biting. The thought of getting tomato sauce on his lips, of the cheese stretching in long strings until they snapped and clung to his chin as if he were a child.
He was afraid of dropping a piece, or picking up a slice too awkwardly and having it flop back down onto the plate.
What if he took too big of a bite? What if his bites were too small? What if he chewed for too long? What if he didn't chew enough?
He did his best to keep his face neutral. He felt so stupid getting so worked up about something so small.
He reached for his drink instead, again, the condensation on the outside of the glass cooling and dampening his fingers. He took a very small sip, sucking slowly for one second, two seconds, before he pulled it from his lips again. Two seconds was fine. That was allowed. His drink was nearly empty, anyway, and he didn't know what he was meant to do with his hands once he did finish it.
He hated the vulnerability of being human.
It was exhausting. He hated the way his mind constantly spun with completely unreasonable and irrational scenarios like a toy train on a circular track.
You picked up a slice without fanfare, folding it with your fingers and bringing it up to your mouth. He watched you as you chewed, his lips pursed as he dragged his tongue over the backs of his teeth. He glanced around quickly, just double-checking to make sure no one was staring at him, before he reached for a slice very slowly, very carefully.
The crust was warm against his fingertips, crisp but not brittle, and his pulse quickened. He lifted it from the plate, the cheese stretching into soft threads but snapping before they could make a spectacle of themselves, before it could draw any attention, and he brought it to his plate in front of him.
He swept his eyes over the room again, and for a moment, he considered eating it with a knife and fork. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek before he picked the slice up again from his plate, folding it to keep it from flopping limply, and he brought it up to his mouth and took a bite from the tip.
He chewed. He swallowed.
Nothing happened. Nothing bad, anyway.
No one looked, no one laughed, no one cared.
Except you, maybe, but not in a way that made him want to disappear.
You smiled softly at him from across the table, nudging your foot against his beneath the table, and he nudged yours back. You brought your thumb up to your mouth and licked a small fleck sauce off of your nail before you asked, āYou like it?ā
He nodded slightly before bringing a hand up to his head, pulling a section of his hair behind his ear, and he said, āYeah. It'sā¦ it's- yeah.ā
He took another slow, deliberate bite, sawing through the soft, warm cheese as much as he could with his teeth to avoid it stretching all together. He hoped he wasn't chewing too loud, hoped his jaw wasn't too tight, hoped he wasn't breaking some insanely strict yet unspoken rule of not being allowed to bite through the cheese the way he did.
You tore a piece of crust off of your slice with your teeth, letting it linger in your cheek for a moment as they dry crumbs coated your tongue before you chewed and swallowed. You kept your eyes on him, lovingly, watching over him. He was eating now, which was good, though you could tell he was still nervous. Careful, meditated bites, measured chewing, and slow wiped fingers.
He always did everything with such anxious precision when he was in public. He was terrified of getting things wrong, terrified of people looking at him, terrified of being human. But his shoulders weren't as slouched as they had been when you'd first sat down. Not fully relaxed, at least not yet, but a bit softer around the edges.
Still, you hated seeing him helplessly trapped behind that invisible wall around him built up and reinforced by all of his doubts, worries and disconnection from himself.
He felt so distant, despite sitting across from you, despite your feet touching beneath the table.
You watched the way he glanced around with his lips pursed every time before he cautiously chewed, how his hands hovered over a slice for just a second too long before he committed to taking another bite, how the bounce of his leg under the table got more intense whenever somebody walked by.
You let the silence linger between you for a little while longer, not wanting to overwhelm him, or make him feel like he had to talk, as you knew that was something that worried him in public, especially somewhere like this. Where the tables were close and the conversations were murmured.
You watched him pick at the layer of browned cheese on top of his slice, bringing the small, torn off pieces up to his mouth like a bird eating seeds. He kept his gaze down, his hair falling in front of his face like a shield.
It tugged at your heart to see him so reclused in public when you knew what he was really like. You knew he was brilliant, he was clever, he was funny, he was loving. You knew he loved to talk for hours on end about whatever had caught his interest that week. You knew how insanely competitive he got when playing card games that were meant for children. You knew how he loved to dance with you in the kitchen, even though he says he has two left feet.
So while his silence didn't bother you, the reason behind it did. The way he thought his presence was a burden, the way he was convinced he always had an audience, the way he so easily let other people's opinions mould and shape him into something to appease them, something that wasn't him at all.
You took another chip from the bowl as he continued to pick at his pizza, and you brought it up to your mouth, your teeth tearing through the crispy exterior. You rested your head in your other hand as you chewed, your elbow on the table, and you swallowed before you asked, āWhat part of you do you think is the hardest to love?ā
You didn't say it to be cruel, or to mock him, or to make him feel unlovable. You just knew he needed to be jostled sometimes, to stop him from shrinking into the silence too much. He liked to talk about his feelings, and you liked listening to him. The words he used to describe what was going on inside of him, the subtle hand gestures you weren't even sure that he was aware he was doing, the way he only ever spoke about them when he felt safe and loved.
He froze at first, looking up at you through his hair from his plate with pink, flushed cheeks, before he looked to the side, then down at the floor, then at whatever painting was nearest.
āUmā¦ā he started, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, and he brought his hand up to his face to wipe the corner of his mouth with his wrist, though there was nothing there.
You didn't push or repeat the question, you just let him figure it out by himself as you waited. He bit the inside of his cheek, and you bit down on another slice of pizza, chewing slowly as you kept eye contact with him, waiting.
You didn't soften or broaden the question, or give him an easy way out. You let him feel what he was actually feeling, give him a silence that wasn't hollow or riddled with constant worry. Let him actually be there with you instead of spectating the evening from inside of his shell.
You smiled a little as he licked his lips and sat back slightly in his chair.
āChrist,ā he muttered, letting out a breathy, slightly embarrassed laugh. āThat's a bit heavy, don't you think?ā
āBetter than watching you sit there like a hermit,ā you said, feeling your chin press into your palm with each syllable as you kept your head cradled in your hand.
He let a small smile quirk the corners of his lips upwards and he reached for a napkin to wipe his fingers on, though you knew it was just another distraction, something to do with his hands.
His teeth grazed his lower lip as his gaze drifted, dragging the soft napkin over his palms and fingertips, before he finally opened his mouth to speak.
āI thinkā¦ā he began, and you could tell he was trying to be very careful with the words he chose. āHow I'm notā¦ present. When I'm out. I feel like my brain stops me from having fun when I'm out doing stuff, even if I'm with people I love.ā
The low murmur of the rest of the restaurant blurred into the background as you watched him speak, your cheek slightly squished against your hand. You knew exactly what he meant, you'd seen it yourself. The amount of times he'd refused to let himself loose, even just a little, how he opted for quietly sitting aside in a corner, or just staying inside entirely, because he was so afraid of letting his guard down, of making a spectacle of himself.
Your eyes softened slightly as you said, āI don't think that makes you hard to love. I just think it makes youā¦ different.ā
He let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. āI don't wanna be different.ā
āWhy?ā you asked. You'd wanted to ask it for a while, but you'd never gotten a real chance, or you'd been afraid that it would upset him. You knew he didn't like confrontation.
He sighed, and he brought his hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes with the balls of his palms until black and white phosphenes spiked his vision behind his closed eyelids. He perched his elbows on the table and held his chin in his palm before he answered, āI don't know. I guess I don't mind beingā¦ different. In other ways. I just want my feelings to be normal. I don't wanna be scared of everything all the time.ā
One hand came to his throat, idly rubbing over the base of his neck as he tried to think of how to word what he wanted to say.
āI'm sorry that I'm like this. I want to be able to do stuff. I can tell you get upset when I back out of things or cancel, but I justā¦ I get this feeling in my belly or in my throat that's just soā¦ big. It makes it hard for me to breathe or swallow, but it goes away when I'm alone, or when I'm inside, or when I'm in bed.ā
He felt the urge to look around, to triple-check that no one was watching him, but he bit his cheek as he managed to keep his head in place, and he continued. āBut I'm worried that I'll never change, and that I'm gonna be this much of a hermit for my whole life. Sometimes I feel like I'm weighing you down, or that you're not doing the things you could be doing, just because you're waiting for me to get better. But I don't know if I'm going to get better.ā
You looked down at the plate in front of you, a handful of crumbs scattered across it, and a few smudges of tomato sauce, before you met his eyes again through the curtain of his fringe. āI'm not waiting for you to be anything,ā you said, reassuring. āI just want you to be with me when you feel like you can. And when you can't, I'll be waiting for you when you can. It's not āweighing me downā if I want to do it for you. Which I do. I really do.ā
He pursed his lips slightly as he took it in, his face softer now and his shoulders more relaxed. He looked at you with a soft gratitude in his eyes. āI love being with you. It's just everyone else that I'm afraid of.ā
āI know. It's okay.ā
He smiled slowly, letting out a small laugh as he looked away after holding eye contact for too long, blushing slightly as he brought his hand to the back of his neck.
The hue of his blush was your favourite colour. You wished you could paint it on the walls, polish your nails with it, and wear it as lipstick.
His laugh was the most precious sound in the world. It was your favourite song. You wished you could burn it into a cd, or carve it into a vinyl. You'd listen to it for hours on repeat, letting it fill you with the joy and security that only he knew how to muster up in you.
He felt a warmth inside of him, not exactly confidence, but his body wasn't restricting him, his mind wasn't preventing him from being human. At least, not at the moment. Maybe his fear would come back in five minutes, maybe it would come back in five hours. All he could do was enjoy it while he could.
He picked up the slice of pizza he'd been tearing apart on his plate, folded it with his fingers and brought it up to his mouth. He took a bite, which was mostly soft, chewy dough and tangy, slightly acidic sauce as he'd picked off most of the cheese.
You smiled, and finally, finally, you were having dinner together. Properly. Not just sitting at the same table while eating.
The rest of the meal passed by in a similar way to how it would at home, if he'd made an attempt at cooking something fancy. Easy, calm, and a deep adoration for one another floating between you.
You both ate slowly, his tension and worries from earlier dissolving and disintegrating with every word he spoke, every laugh he let slip out unguarded.
He still took careful bites, still occasionally glanced around the room if someone laughed a little too loud for his liking, but now there was a softness to the way he moved. Less caution, more comfort, like he wasn't as afraid that he was going to get into trouble for merely existing.
You finished off the last few slices of pizza together, the bowl of chips long since finished, but your drinks partially remained, just a few dregs left that had been diluted by the melting ice cubes, the condensation on the outside of the glasses glinting slightly in the soft light of the restaurant. He picked at an unfinished piece of crust on his plate before looking up at you as you wiped your hands on a napkin before you tossed one at him, the soft paper landing surprisingly well instead of drifting off as it flew due to it being slightly damp.
He rubbed his fingers and his palms with the tissue, cleaning off the remnants of any slick grease or rough crumbs. He pushed his chair back, wincing slightly at the scrape of the legs on the floor, and he stood up slowly, stretching his back with a small, barely audible groan as his spine loosened up again.
He tucked his chair back underneath the table as you got up as well, lifting it slightly off of the floor this time to avoid the ear-bleeding grate. You walked around the table to him, grabbing his hand and interlocking your fingers with him, his slightly sweaty palm pressed against yours, and you led him towards the door, weaving through the tables. You gave a small, grateful smile to one of the waitresses before you pushed open the heavy wooden door, the cool night air enveloping the two of you like stepping into the ocean on a rainy day, cold and biting.
His cheeks flushed slightly because of the chill, a light red, and he walked close to you, trying to sync up his steps with yours the best he could. He squeezed your hand gently, and you squeezed it back, just reminding him that he was okay, that you were right there with him.
There must've been a light rainpour while you two were in the restaurant, as the pavement glistened slightly in small puddles beneath the flickering yellow street lights, a faint sheen of dampness coating the black, lumpy tarmac of the road.
The gentle breeze blew through his soft hair. It had grown quite long, and despite being a little insecure about it, he refused to cut it. He knew you liked to play with it, liked to run your fingers through his long strands, and tie it up into ponytails and plaits, even if it made him embarrassed.
His lips were jutted out slightly into a pout, like they often were. You'd never really been able to put your finger on why or what made him do that, whether it be when he was deep in thought, or trying not to let his anxiety overwhelm him, or just doing it because it felt comfortable.
āReckon there's gonna be many people there?ā he asked with a quiet pop of his lips as he unpursed them. He felt a bit more comfortable now, as it was just you and him out there, save for the odd pedestrian here and there.
āWhere? The cinema?ā you asked, accidentally bunting him with your shoulder in an attempt to be closer to him.
āYeah. Can't be many, can there? Everyone knows the film is shit by now.ā
āYou scared, baby?ā you turned and tilted your head up towards him. He wasn't much taller than you. He wasn't that tall at all, to be honest, but he was tall enough so you had to look up to meet his eyes properly.
āNot scared. Not that much, anyway. Just premeditating. Preparing,ā he briefly explained, kicking a wet rock beneath his feet across the pavement and watching the water droplets fly off of it as it bounced, rattling across the concrete.
The walk to the cinema wasn't too long, maybe around fifteen minutes. Long enough to be able to dawdle.
āAl,ā you started, your gaze ahead of you while you walked as you felt him turn his head down towards you.
He looked down at you, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips at your voice. āYeah?ā
You slowed your steps a little, and he was quick to match your pace, the rubber soles of his shoes scuffing against the wet floor. āWhat would you do if you had a pussy?ā
You looked up at him, and you swore you could see his brain lagging a second behind through his eyes.
āWhat?ā he laughed, a wide smile spreading across his face, his eyes squinting slightly.
You burst out laughing, leaning your head against his shoulder and squeezing his hand tighter.
āYou sure it was just coke you had in that glass, love?ā he asked, his smile seeping into his voice.
āI'm serious! I've just been wondering. Would you sit around and play with it all day, or would you fuck someone?ā
āHow long do I get the pussy?ā he asked, his shoes squelching quietly from the puddles with each step he took.
ā...One day,ā you said after a moment of thoughtful consideration.
He rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand, shaking his head slightly with a grin, and he said, āI'd scissor you, probably.ā
You smiled. āWould you, now?ā
āThat'd be the first thing I'd do.ā
āWould you buy pretty underwear and take loads of pictures in them?ā you teased.
āWould I have the ass too?ā
āYou've already got the ass.ā
He felt his face heat up as he laughed, and you tugged him around a corner on the street towards the cinema. āI think I'd finger myself first. I've always wanted to know how that feels.ā
You smiled, pulling him along the damp pavement. āYou can already do that.ā
āI'm not fingering my ass.ā
āI'll do it, then,ā you looked over your shoulder at him for a moment, smiling from both the conversation, and how he wasn't as reclused at the moment. You knew it never lasted long, though, so you cherished it. Not that you didn't cherish him when he was anxious and quiet, but you try to make the most of it when he's not.
āWhat would you do if you had a dick?ā he asked back at you, unable to control his laughter at the last few words.
His laugh was contagious. You tugged him forwards to walk beside you again and you rested your head on his shoulder as you spoke. āI'd wank. Then I'd fuck you.ā
He smiled. āWould you have a dick at the same time that I had a pussy?ā
You thought for a moment, taking it a little too seriously. ā...Yes. Like, we'd swap.ā
He frowned, his voice tainted with faux disappointment as he said, āNo scissoring then?ā
You laughed before backtracking, āI take it back. You'd have a pussy one day, then I'd have a dick the next day. I wanna frot with you.ā
āWhat else would you do?ā he asked, trying to calm down after his fits of laughter.
āPiss standing up,ā you said with a certainty that made another chuckle bubble out of his throat. āWhat about your pussy? Would it be hairy?ā
He thought for a moment. āI'd cut my pubes into a heart.ā
āCute.ā
āAnd I'd squirt.ā
āFuck off,ā you said before you stepped into the cinema, the automatic doors sliding open with a mechanical whir.
The outside air, crisp, cool, and smelling of petrol and wet, earthy leaves, gave way to the warmth of the cinema. It smelled like popcorn, buttered and scorched at the edges, a thick mix of sweet and salty swirling through the air. There was a synthetic, sugary smell emanating from the slushy machines on one side of the counter, churning the colourful, icy drinks inside of them.
You walked ahead of him, a thousand spilled and crushed kernels crunching beneath your feet as the damp soles of your shoes scuffed against the rough, flattened carpet that was probably well overdue a clean. You stepped over a dried patch of some spilled soft drink, deep brown and cemented to the floor, as you walked over to the counter, Alex trailing behind you.
He was a little quieter now, the walls surrounding him making him feel almost claustrophobic, suspending his right to talk for as long as he was boxed up. His fingers slipped from yours, clasping his own two together in front of him, and you made your way to the counter with an effortless gracefulness that made him feel something that resembled jealousy. He wanted to be able to live that easily, he wanted to be able to talk to people freely without stuttering and stammering over every word that had the misfortune of tumbling out of his mouth.
The young woman at the counter barely looked at you as you approached, bags under her eyes and a silver necklace around her neck. She was chewing gum a little too loudly, her lips smacking, and the smell of synthetic watermelon drifted over the counter as she opened her mouth. āYes?ā
You forced a small, pleasant smile. āCan I have two tickets for S. Darko, please?ā your voice was calm, casual and polite, not so much for the lady behind the counter, but for him, Alex, behind you, to keep the space safe and light.
You could hear him shifting his weight, the way the heel of his boot rolled over the carpet, the quiet exhale that he didn't realise had come out, the subtle wipe of his hands against his jeans as he brushed his fingertips over the soft, dark denim.
The girl blinked, her chewing stilling for a moment as she glanced up at you before tapping something into the till with a series of bored smacks, and she slid two paper tickets across the countertop before she said, her voice monotone through her gum, āTen quid.ā
You reached into your pocket and fished out two five pound notes before you passed them to her, the money slightly curled and folded from being in your pocket all night, and you took the two tickets with a final friendly smile which she didn't reciprocate.
The second the transaction ended, you stepped aside, the tickets secure between your fingers. They were still warm from the printer, the ink slightly smudged, but you could still work out what it said just fine.
āWe're in screen three. It starts in about fifteen minutes,ā you told him as you mindlessly strolled away from the counter, lingering quietly as you waited for the time of the screening to draw closer.
He nodded once, quick and tight, his lips slightly pursed as he looked over the walls. There were posters of films from ten, twenty, thirty years ago, upcoming films, and films he'd never heard of in his life. You could tell he wasn't fond of the fluorescent overhead lights, the brightness and faint buzz of them making him wince.
You could see the telltale signs of him trying to manage it all, pressing his thumb to each one of his fingers rhythmically, attempting to even out his breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth, and the downward tilt of his chin to avoid eye contact with any strangers.
You took his hand again, the hand that was hanging limply by his side, and he interlocked his fingers with yours. āDo you wanna get anything?ā you asked, nodding vaguely towards the far side of the counter, with popcorn machines, slushies, and ice creams that came in tiny cardboard tubs with equally tiny wooden spoons.
He looked over at it briefly before flickering his eyes away again, like he was scared of being caught looking at it, like he was scared of being perceived. The thought of going up to the counter and ordering something from someone who would probably be annoyed to be doing their own job and risking making a fool of himself, whether it be them not having what he wanted, him mispronouncing something, or him having to repeat himself a few times due to his voice being too quiet. It made him feel sick.
He shook his head, his lips pressed together. āNo thanks, love. You?ā
You scanned your eyes over the counter from the distance, but the scent of melted butter and bitter chocolate ice cream was so strong, it almost stung. You shook your head. āI'm alright. The ice cream always tastes out of date here, anyway.ā
He let out a soft huff of laughter through his nose, his smile small but sweet, and you two began to walk down the long, wide hallway where the screens resided, Alex trailing slightly behind you but still holding onto your hand.
The carpet beneath your feet was a deep red with a gaudy swirl pattern that didn't match at all. Every cinema seemed to be cursed with a floor like that, seemingly designed to disguise spills better.
You stilled outside of the door with a large number three plated beside it, and you said, āHow shit do you think it's gonna be?ā
He smiled. āOn a scale of what?ā
You thought for a moment, laughing to yourself as you thought of the best and worst films you could think of to use as a scale. āOn a scale of Battlefield Earth to The Shining.ā
He tutted. āI liked Battlefield Earth though.ā
āNo, you didn't.ā
He was quiet for a moment before he said, ā...Battlefield Earth.ā
You laughed, pressing your face into his shoulder as you closed your eyes, and he nudged you off. āCome on.ā
You pushed open the heavy black wooden door with a squeak of the hinges and a soft, suctioned huff, and he trailed after you. It was dark inside, but you could tell there was still that atrocious carpet plastered all over the floors. He held your hand a little tighter, letting you guide him through the pitch black. The scent in the room was a cocktail of salty popcorn and carpet cleaner, each smell warmed through from the humidity of the room.
There were just six people scattered around the seats sporadically. A middle-aged couple at the front, three lads who looked to be in their twenties each with a bucket of popcorn larger than their heads, and a woman sat solitary right at the front.
Your eyes flickered upwards almost instinctively, up to the back row, and it was completely empty. You smiled and tugged on his hand as you climbed the wide steps together, each footstep muffled, the carpet absorbing the noise. Alex stayed just behind you, clinging onto your hand.
You exhaled slowly as you sank down into the plush red seat, the fabric slightly hardened in places from a substance you weren't sure you wanted to identify. He perched on his seat beside you, hesitating for just a second before he leaned back into it, turning his head to look at you to make sure he was doing it right.
He shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, his hand never leaving yours once. You turned your head to look at him, your cheek pressing against the fabric of the backrest of your chair. The glow emitted by the adverts and trailers was soft, contrasting their volume, and it lit his pale face in gentle flashes of white and blue. It casted flickers over his large nose, his lips, his cheekbones, and his hair, which was falling just over his shoulders.
āYou're beautiful,ā you said quietly, your voice softer, more thoughtful, just barely loud enough to be passed through to his sensitive ears.
He smiled shyly and his eyes drifted over your gentle face, down to your lips which you pouted, and he leaned over to give you a soft kiss.
You brought your other hand up and threaded your fingers through his silky strands as your lips moved together, his chapped ones lightly scraping against your smooth ones.
You pulled back slightly, your hand still in his hair, and he murmured, āLove you.ā
āI love you too,ā you said quietly, adoration laced like ribbons into your tone.
You turned your face back towards the screen, while his eyes lingered on you. His eyes weren't darting around frantically anymore, not worried about who was looking or what they were looking at. His chest rose at an easier, steadier pace now, and while his nerves weren't completely gone, as they never were, he felt at ease.
As the adverts and trailers came to a close, their lingering volume sent a deep vibration through your sternum, rattling your ribs, and only then did he manage to tear his eyes away from you to look at the screen.
About fifteen minutes into the film, it became abundantly clear. This wasn't Donnie Darko. It wasn't even close. The dialogue was stilted and lifeless, the lighting was bleak in all the wrong ways, and the plot, if there even was one, unravelled like a wet tissue in the rain.
Your eyes were glued onto the screen for a while, mostly out of pure disbelief that they could butcher it this badly. You tilted your head slightly as another poorly delivered line dragged itself through the large speakers. Alex had said nothing, but you could feel him next to you. Shifting occasionally in his seat, slowly and deeply inhaling through his nose like he was trying to centre himself, his thumb idly grazing the edge of his chair. He wasn't anxious, not now, not really, he was just quietly enduring it, his jaw set in that gentle, unreadable way of his.
You perched your elbow on the armrest you two were sharing, resting your cheek against your knuckles.
Twenty more minutes passed. Twenty minutes of empty, pointless scenes, droning dialogue, and some of the worst cinematography you'd ever seen in your life.
You sighed softly and turned your head towards him, seeing his gaze locked straight ahead, but his lashes fluttered at the sound of your breath. You let a small smirk tug at the corners of your lips before you leaned in slightly, āBoring, isn't it?ā
As you said it, you reached across over the armrest, casually across to his lap. Your fingertips grazed over the tops of his thighs at first, light and unhurried, then up, deliberately brushing over and tracing the shape of his cock through the denim of his jeans. Just enough to be felt.
He stiffened slightly, but not by too much, just a slight hitch in his posture as his spine straightened by a fraction, his lips parting around a gasp he didn't let himself voice.
You let your hand linger for a moment, your touch feather light as you pretended to be still watching the film.
He turned his head towards you slightly, just enough, and in the dim blue flicker of the wide screen, you caught his deep brown eyes, half alert and half cautious. His gaze flickered down to your hand on his crotch, then back up to your face.
You smiled without looking at him fully, and your fingertips pressed down again, ever so slightly, just a little bit firmer, and the muscles in his thighs tensed, his breathing growing heavier.
The screen continued to drone on with more futile dialogue and confused exposition, but neither of you were watching it anymore.
Your fingers curled, subtle and slow, gradually adding more and more pressure over his cock through his jeans, until you felt it. A faint twitch beneath your palm.
A warmth prickled through your body, delicious and full of tension and invitation, daring you to go further.
He exhaled, the sound barely audible, just a slow huff of air through his mouth, and when you glanced sideways again, his lips were parted around quick breaths, and his eyes were dark and needy behind the soft fall of his hair, but focused entirely on you.
You let your hand linger for a moment longer, lazily stroking the length of him through his jeans, and he bit down on his lower lip gently. You were moving more deliberately now, making no attempt to mask what you were doing. The warmth of him beneath the denim had shifted, thickened, and you could feel him swelling slowly beneath your touch, pressure and tingles blooming through the fabric as your palm moved in slow, rhythmic presses.
He didn't say anything. Not in words, anyway. His body was tense in a way that said more than any amount of speech would ever be able to. The tension in his body wasn't out of nervousness or fear anymore, the earlier anxiety replaced with something warm-blooded and heavy. He was quiet, sure, but every part of his body had stilled except for the subtle twitch of his fingers against the armrest, his pulse now visible in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were still fixed on the screen, but they were empty, glazed, half-lidded. He wasn't processing anything in front of him anymore. Only you.
You leaned in a little closer, slowly, until he could feel the heat of your breath against his jaw. āYou getting hard for me?ā
His throat bobbed and he inhaled sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was about to answer, but nothing came out. His body spoke for him.
You didn't press for him to respond. You just smiled slightly to yourself, your eyes on him as you reached for the cool button of his jeans.
Your fingers were calm but nimble as you undid his trousers. The dull pop of his metal button being pushed through the hole was easily swallowed by the sounds of the film, and the slow whir of his zip that followed sounded louder to you than it would've to anyone else in that cinema.
Your hand slipped inside, your fingers tracing along the much softer cotton of his boxer shorts. It was warm in there, cosy, and they were already tented, his thick length already hardened down one of the leg holes.
You felt his cock give a gentle twitch against your palm, accompanied by a small sigh that fell from his lips that sounded like pure sweet sugar being sifted into your ears.
His thighs quivered slightly as you rubbed your fingers further and further up his shaft, teasing the ridge of his head.
Only then did he peel his eyes away from the screen to look at you, his jaw slack and eyes half-lidded as he murmured, sounding more like a breathy exhale than a solid word, āFuckā¦ā
You slipped your hand underneath the taut waistband of his white boxers, your teeth lightly grazing against your lower lip as you smiled. You tugged him free with delicate fingers, hard and hot and twitching in the humid air of the cinema. The light from the screen washed over his lap in flickers of blue and gold.
You started to stroke him. Slow, very slow, your hand gliding in smooth, measured tugs as you coaxed tiny, breathless gasps from his throat. Your fingers curled just slightly at the tip, twisting your wrist subtly around the swollen, angry red head, then down again with a soft squeeze. Your thumb brushed the ridge gently with every upward pull, making his face scrunch up with the effort to not moan your name.
His head tipped back slightly, his eyes darting all over the tall ceiling. His lips were damp and parted as his breaths grew shallower. He clenched one of his fists around nothing in his lap while your hand continued to work him in that steady, teasing rhythm, just enough friction to draw out every reaction from him, but not enough to let him settle into it, to lose himself in it.
āThat feel good?ā you teased, tightening your grip around his shaft, and he huffed out a breathless, unsteady sound, something like a laugh but ruined halfway through, and you felt him pulse and throb in your palm.
You adjusted your grip, even slower now, firmer, letting the pleasure and pressure build in his abdomen in smooth, delicious increments. Your thumb dragged trails along the sensitive underside of his tip, and his eyes fluttered shut, his knee twitching involuntarily.
You kept stroking him, your palm now slick with his dewy precum that had beaded at the tip out of his desperation. Your fist moved slow enough to drive him mad, yet fast enough to keep him right on the brink.
He was heavy in your palm, flushed and pulsing, the head leaking just enough that your fingers were able to glide just a little easier each time. You could hear it, just barely. Faint, obscene sounds drowned out by the whir of the projector and the muffled film.
He shifted beside you again, restless, his throat tightening around a moan that he couldn't let escape out of fear of the volume. You looked up at his face again, glistening lips open wide, his hair falling in messy strands around his red face. His thighs were rigid and spread wide apart, and while one of his hands lay scrunched up on his lap, you watched as the other one drifted up his torso, up to his chest, his thumb shakily circling one of his nipples.
Your lips curled into a wide smile as you caught what he was doing. āYou like playing with your tits, baby?ā you teased, your voice coaxing him through the pleasure while his lower lip quivered.
His breath caught in his throat on its way out, his hand stilling on his chest for a moment before allowing his fingers to continue their slow, torturous movements on his nipples.
You pulled your hand from his slick cock, and before he could complain, or even realise what was happening, you sank down on your knees in front of him, the sticky, hideous pattern of the carpet completely forgotten, and quite frankly irrelevant, your focus now entirely on the aching, swollen length of him standing proud in front of your face from the open fly of his jeans.
His tip glistened in the low light of the theatre, and you leaned in, your breath hot against his sensitive skin, and you swiped your tongue over the head, quick, just one lick over his slit.
You looked up at him and you smiled. He looked so pretty like this, flushed and desperate, trembling in the dim light, fingers playing with his nipples.
You wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, his soft, short pubes lightly brushing against your skin, and then you took him in. Slow at first, letting your lips wrap around the head, so warm and wet, your tongue swirling gently. His whole body tensed above you, and a short, shaky huff of air escaped from his throat. His fingers continued their tantalisingly slow circles on his nipple, while his other hand gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles bleaching white under the force.
You sank further down, inch by inch, your soft lips stretching around his thick shaft. You relaxed your throat as you continued to work him, your hand stroking what you were unable to fit into your mouth while you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper.
Above you, he was silent, save for the occasional long, ragged breath and the softest, most broken sounds that escaped his throat when your wet tongue dragged just right against that sensitive ridge tucked just beneath the head. His shirt had ridden up a little, exposing his belly button, and you could see his stomach trembling with the effort of staying quiet, of staying still, of not rutting up into your mouth.
The way his cock tasted, warm and salty on your tongue, leaking and dripping against the insides of your cheeks. The way it felt, hot and heavy in your mouth, pulsing and throbbing. You could feel his whole body straining to hold back, his thighs taut beneath your arms, and you wanted to make him lose it. You wanted to make him moan the way he would at home, loud, whiney, unapologetic.
You hummed softly around his length, letting the vibration travel through his veins, and you glanced up at him. His chin was tilted down, watching you intently with his half-lidded eyes, full of desire, disbelief, and desperation.
Your hand drifted down between your thighs without much thought, naturally, like a gravitational pull. Just the softest pressure through the warm, thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimpered softly around his length, pressing your fingers against the damp cotton between your legs.
Alex's eyes fluttered shut once more, tilted his head back as his mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He throbbed inside of your mouth, twitching against your tongue in frantic little spasms, and he let out the tiniest sound, cracked and broken, but unmistakably his.
He was so close. You could feel it, see it, taste it. He was right on the edge, ready to topple over.
You took him deeper, relaxing your jaw as he filled your mouth completely, and your fingers moved more insistently against your clit, pressure and heat building behind your navel with every pulse of him on your tongue and every broken moan that tumbled from his lips.
His eyes were dazed, his vision darkening at the edges and blurring in the centre as the scorching hot heat simmering low in his belly threatened to spill over. His lower lip quivered as he whispered your name, and with a final swirl of your tongue, your lips tight around him, he broke.
His hips jerked once, not violently, but enough to shove some of his cock deeper as his balls drew up unbearably tight. His fingers frantically flicked against his nipple, his whole face scrunched up with the sheer force of his orgasm as he spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, hot ribbons of cum flooding your mouth with each spurt from his tip.
His body was shaking and trembling as you unravelled him, and you stayed like that, swallowing gently as you felt him slowly soften against your tongue, growing heavier and more pliable.
You carefully pulled away, freeing him from your mouth, and a thin string of saliva connected you both for a second more before it snapped, lingering on your chin.
He looked destroyed, breathless, sweaty, and red-faced. He wasn't quite looking at you, just vaguely staring ahead like he'd forgotten where he was, his hand still hovering on his chest.
You withdrew your hand from between your thighs, and you smiled up at him, still kneeling between his legs. āYou okay, baby?ā you whispered.
He blinked before he looked down at you, looking disorientated, like he'd just woken up. He hesitated for a moment, processing your words, before he nodded, his cheeks flushed pink. āYeah.ā
You let your hand linger for a moment more before pulling it away, letting his cock grow limp, and you gently rubbed his thigh. āLove you.ā
He managed a slight smile through his sweaty, out of breath state, and he murmured, his voice carrying a mildly hoarse edge to it, āLove you too.ā
Anyoneās even interested in a part two for that???
š¬ 1Ā Ā š 2Ā Ā ā¤ļø 29Ā Ā·Ā Until you get out of this messĀ Ā·Ā You just finished your law degree and found a paid internship with a renowned lawyer (the
warnings : it's just him (no reader), mentions of offensive language, he has anxiety, masturbation, anal fingering, experimenting, hes confused with his sexuality, he watches straight & gay porn, a little bit of internalised homophobia ......and hes a little bit sad.......
The humid air in the pub reeked of the sour tang of sweat, the bitter aroma of stale beer, and the suffocating essence of men who had drenched themselves in far too much cologne, hoping it'd mask their body odour, and Alex was stranded right in the midst of it. It was never normally this packed, this rammed full of tipsy people all surrounding him like a pack of wolves, woozily barking and howling their drink orders at him. Especially not on a random Wednesday. The amount of bodies that were stuffed into the pub like sardines rivalled how many there were on New Year's Eve.
He was working alone on the bar, as usual, every pint, shot and glass being poured and stirred by his own two clammy, trembling hands. His coworker hadn't shown up, again, as per usual. He just gave a half-assed excuse about sorting stock earlier in the evening before leaving, that the shift would be a āpiece of pissā anyway, but never came back.
The tacky wooden floor beneath his feet clicked against the rubber soles of his shoes with each step he took, the quiet sound blurring into the background noise and chatter from the sheer amount of customers all crammed into the small building.
He felt the damp sweat patch on the back of his grey polo shirt growing larger with each passing moment like a tide coming in at dawn and swallowing the shore, his fringe curling in all different directions around his flushed face.
He pulled down on the Carling tap, the pipe hissing as the lager gushed and frothed into the branded pint glass he was holding beneath it, tilted, the loud chime of a group of people clinking shots together ringing through the air like a church bell through a cemetery.
He slid the glass across the bar to the customer, a tall, tattooed bald man with a scowl on his face, presumably from how long he'd had to wait for his drink, and Alex said in a timid voice, drowned out by the deafening banter and loud laughter echoing through the pub, āThree quid, please.ā
After a few quiet repeats from Alex and some obnoxious āhuh"s and āwhat?ās from the man, he finally passed over three pounds in coins before trudging off, pint in hand, and Alex quickly dropped the money into the till before moving onto the next customer. Two young ladies, one with thick rimmed glasses and grown-out dyed red hair, and the other with uneven red lipstick and a push-up bra.
They seemed tipsy already, either from pre-drinks, or maybe he'd served them earlier in the evening. He couldn't remember. They shouted their drink orders at him, voices strained and unable to stay in the same pitch as they squawked for a Bloody Mary and a Sex on the Beach.
He didn't like this.
The bleeding noise, the intense pressure, the watching eyes, the suffocating claustrophobia, the sour hostility. He despised all of it with a passion.
He liked quiet shifts, where he could get away with doodling on his hand or nipping outside for a quick cigarette, something he could never do at home out of fear of his mum finding out.
He liked when the building wasn't overflowing with customers, when there were just a handful of regulars who ambled in one at a time periodically, never causing too much fuss or anguish, calling him their āboyā or āladā with a smile. He particularly liked it when they called him āloveā.
It made him feel nice when the middle-aged male usuals smiled at him, or when they asked how his day was, even if it was just a fleeting conversation while they waited for him to pour their drink. It made him feel different than when a girl smiled at and talked to him. A lot different.
But tonight wasn't like that, obviously, though the funny feelings in his belly were still prevalent.
He tried not to tremble as he passed a tray of vodka cokes over the counter, moisture dripping down the glasses and onto the black plastic, but the sheer overwhelming feel of it all, of the people shouting, leaning over, barking like dogs at him, made his throat tighten and eyes tingle. It felt like he was drowning, like he was being strangled. His heart fluttered and clenched beneath his ribs while his stomach churned and lurched. His palms were slick with sweat, and there was a constant ringing in his ears.
He kept his eyes on the glasses, on his hands, anywhere but the wall of people in front of him, all pressed up against the bar like vultures at a carcass. Just don't look up, he told himself. Don't make eye contact.
āOi!ā a gruff voice shouted with a smack of a large hand on the bartop. āTwo Jack nā cokes, mate. Been waiting for ten fuckinā minutes now!ā
Alex looked up to see a man, red-faced, much like himself, with broad shoulders and a football shirt clinging to his sweaty body. He nodded with a quiet, āYeah, sorry,ā before reaching for two glasses tucked beneath the bar.
He tried to breathe steadily through his nose as he filled both of them with ice, the sharp clink stabbing his ears as his hands worked deftly, pouring equal amounts of Coca-Cola and Jack Daniels into each glass while his brain berated him.
Don't engage. Stay calm. Smile if you can.
But his damp hands were starting to tremble more and more, sweat pooling under his arms and around the back of his neck, and his mouth was as dry as chalk. He couldn't swallow properly, his throat too tight to even let oxygen in, let alone saliva.
Then it happened.
The glass slipped from his grip mid-pour, tumbling from his slimy fingers and plummeting down to the ground, shattering into a thousand glittering wet shards across the floor, like a constellation.
Coke splashed onto his shoes, the worn, stained leather glistening from the fizzy liquid, and he quickly bent down to grab a cloth as well as the dustpan and brush before kneeling, his heart hammering profusely in his throat. But dropping the glass wasn't the worst part, nor was the shatter, nor was the clean up. It was the cheer that followed.
A loud, mocking, whooping cheer.
All around, several of them, erupting into laughter, jeers and a round of āwheyās, mirroring the reaction of whenever a football player scored a goal on the TV.
His face burned, keeping his head down as the limp strands of his fringe fell into his eyes which were already stinging with the overwhelmingly embarrassing urge to just cry.
He cut the pad of his thumb on a rogue shard as he brushed them into the dustpan, biting back a whimper as the pressure piled on top of him like an avalanche while a trickle of crimson blood dribbled down his thin finger like wet ink on paper.
The blood seeped into the creases of his knuckle, and he stood back up, forcing himself to breathe normally as he sauntered over to the bin and tipped the broken glass inside before tapping the brush on the rim of the rubbish, trying to get out the tiny, crystal-like shards nestled deep between the rough bristles.
He spared half a second to glance up at the brass clock mounted on the wall as he bent back down to quickly wipe the floor with a cloth. 11:39PM. About an hour and twenty minutes left until he could leave, hopefully. If all went right and he managed to get all the people served and herded out by then.
He got back to pouring pints and shots for the feral customers, his shoes squelching as he moved. The floor was still a little bit wet from his futile attempt at wiping it under pressure, his footsteps smearing the remaining coke and Jack Daniels mix across the ground.
The crowd somehow hadn't thinned. If anything, more had squeezed in, the claggy air swirling around Alex's head as the patrons, each one drunker than the next, hurled insults at him along with their orders like they were going out of fashion.
Poof. Fairy. Ladylike. He'd heard them all before. He didn't think he presented himself that way, but maybe they'd caught on. Caught onto how his ears went pink whenever a group of lads around his age approached, or how he stammered when taking the order of a middle-aged bloke asking for his nightly Guinness.
He hated those feelings, hated himself for having them, but he didn't know how to make them stop. Didn't know how to get his lower stomach to stop burning whenever a man leaned in close, breath hot and reeking of tequila and tobacco. How to stop the flutter in his groin or the stutter in his heartbeat whenever a boy's fingertips brushed against his hand or wrist as they took their drink.
Midnight passed loudly, then one. His clock out time, in theory, on normal nights when it wasn't so rowdy and rammed.
He continued working, pouring, mixing, sliding drinks across the sticky wood of the bar and setting glasses on stained beer mats. He brushed damp notes and coins with strange substances stuck to them into the register with a quiet thanks, trying not to flinch whenever someone snapped their fingers in his face or waved their arms in front of him like he was nothing more than a zoo animal to be gawked at and bossed around.
Slowly but surely, the people began to drain, moving onto louder clubs with blaring neon lights or other bars with a cosier atmosphere in the area that typically stayed open later, or served a wider variety of cocktails.
The drunken conversations from those who stayed got sloppier, more obnoxious, each syllable slurring into the next to the point where you couldn't tell where one word ended and another started.
There was a woman in the corner hitting the buttons on the fruit machine too hard, bruisingly so, while a boy, who probably wasn't as old as his ID said he was, slipped on a spilled drink strewn across the floor while making an attempt to leave.
His voice grew raspy from repeating just a sec, mate over and over again, the weird little heat that he despised rising by a small amount each time a man doused in thick lined tattoos with thick, wide forearms leaned in a bit too close to him, made eye contact with him and called him āsweetheartā, even if it was only to ridicule, to mock.
The clock above ticked by achingly slow, each minute dragging by like a corpse, but by 2AM, the pub had finally began to deflate, the tsunami of people dwindling down and wringing out to just a manageable handful of people, all lingering with dry, croaky laughs and glossy, bloodshot eyes.
He wiped down the slick countertop stiffly, his eyes drowsy and stinging with the urge to sleep as he fought to keep them from closing. He swept the floors idly, biting his lips as he tried to pluck up the courage to get the last few people to leave. He knew they weren't nasty, knew they wouldn't shout at him or try to start a fight, but he was still afraid, still nervous, the confrontation looming and daunting like an approaching thunderstorm.
He set the broom aside behind the bar, propping it up in the corner alongside where the mop resided as the long wooden handles knocked against each other, and he fidgeted with his fingers before turning around again, his stomach growling and his lower back aching painfully, and he approached the final cluster of drinkers.
āUmā¦ā he started, but his voice was too quiet to be heard. His pounding heartbeat in his chest was louder. He cleared his throat anxiously and tried again. āSorry for interrupting, it's just, umā¦ we're closing now, and I need to lock up.ā
The men turned to look at him, and he felt each and every one of his nerve endings catch on fire. One snorted before saying, āBit early, ain't it?ā
His cheeks burned and he opened his mouth like a fish out of water, his lower lip quivering slightly and his eyes darting around, before he said, his voice cracking a little bit, āIt's just that it's gone half two, andā¦ it's been a long night and that. I need to lock up and stuff.ā
Lock up and stuff. He cringed internally at himself, chewing on his lower lip, and he hadn't even realised it had gone silent until they shrugged and down what was left in their glasses before shuffling out of the cracked leather seats with a creak from the dark wood supporting them.
Alex stood by the door as the men filed out, murmuring something along the lines of thank you or have a nice night. He couldn't tell which one had come out, his brain still too blurred to process anything as it slowly came down from the frantic anxiety and pressure earlier in the night.
When the heavy wooden door finally clicked shut behind them, he stood there in the quiet as he let out a long sigh, letting the cool wave relief of being alone and being able to go home soon wash over him.
The clean up was half-hearted at best. He was far too tired to do as good of a job as he'd usually try to do. He wiped down the bar for a final time, collected and stacked rogue glasses left on tables, and counted the till in silence, other than the occasional plasticy swipe of notes sliding against each other or the jangle of coins.
It had just passed 3AM when he left the building and locked the door behind him, slinging his white fleece jacket over his shoulders and stepping out into the biting chill of the early hours, nipping at his cheeks and fingers.
The streets were mostly empty, except for the odd straggler on a corner smoking something earthy, and the quiet rustle of a stray crisp packet someone had lazily discarded bouncing across the pavement wherever the breeze took it. He stuffed his cold hands into his jacket pockets, the soft wool inside warming his palms up just enough to last him until he got home.
He passed the usual takeaway on the corner of the street, the one with grimy windows and buzzing, fluorescent yellow lights, and he paused across the road from it, his stomach letting out a growl. He was hungry, but the thought of greasy food made it turn.
The shop was empty, just one man behind the counter who looked preoccupied on his phone, so he crossed the road, his shoes scuffing against the tarmac, and he pushed open the creaky door before looking up at the worker over the counter.
The man turned off his phone as Alex stepped in, straightening up slightly before saying, āAlright?ā
He nodded quickly, ripping his eyes off of the man and looking down at the stained tiled beneath his shoes, and he stuttered, āYeah, can I, umā¦ can I just have a Pepsi, please?ā
He looked him up and down for a moment before moving without a word, fetching a can of Pepsi from the old, buzzing fridge behind him that probably violated at least three different health and safety guidelines, but he didn't seem to care.
The man passed the cold, blue can over the counter before saying, his voice rough and deep, āTwo pound fifty, please, mate.ā
Alex nodded once, a second too late to be casual as he took a moment to process what had been said to him, and he fished into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans for a few coins.
He handed them over and took his can in return, the condensation dripping down over the aluminium dampening the pads of his fingers and partially soothing his sore thumb before he gave the man behind the counter a small smile and left the takeaway shop with a whine of the door hinges as he swung it open.
He traced a dent on the side of the can absentmindedly, his eyes briefly scanning over the ingredients out of curiosity as he made his way down the road, and he smiled a little as he saw a little message where the barcode would normally be. Not to be sold separately.
He cracked the tab open with a hiss as he walked, the foam bubbling up over the top and he quickly brought it to his lips, slurping up the little puddle that had leaked onto the top of the can. He swallowed with a grimace as the fizzy liquid burned down his throat, stinging his taste buds, and he licked his lower lip.
The walk home was relatively short in the daytime, but painfully long at night. Around fifteen minutes, or twenty, depending on how slow he trudged.
He took small, thoughtful sips of his drink and he walked down the familiar route, his back slightly curved in an attempt to relieve the persistent ache that had festered in his spine all night. The caffeine stirred something inside of him, just a little bit, waking him up slightly, giving him an odd sense of alertness that was out of place for the late hour.
His breath was visible in the cool air with each huff he took, almost shimmery in the glow of the harsh street lights buzzing above.
He sipped another mouthful of Pepsi and swilled it around his mouth out of habit before swallowing, something his dad used to tell him off about, saying it'll make his teeth rot.
His fingers curled tighter around the thin metal of the can as he approached his house, the aluminium crinkling and denting slightly with a metallic pop and crack. He paused for a moment as he tilted his head back, pouring the last dregs of his drink into his mouth and swallowing down the sweet, syrupy liquid before carefully placing the empty can on top of someone's recycling bin and speeding up his steps.
He reached the end of the road, his house tucked between two others that looked almost identical, save for his dad's overgrown hedge that had began to consume the garden like a shroud.
He pushed open the rickety little metal gate with a rusty creak, walking up the uneven stone path slowly while holding his breath as if he were an intruder. He pulled his keys out slowly, being careful as to not make them jangle, and he cupped them in his palm as he sought out the one for the front door.
He slid it in slowly and twisted it with a click as they latch unlocked, and he pushed the door open before slipping inside. He slipped his thumb beneath the pull tab at the heel of his shoe, sliding out of them with a quiet shuffle and kicking them underneath the oak entryway table.
He shut the door behind him with a soft thud before peeling off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, spotting a small, dark stain near the top of the zip. Must've been from the Pepsi, he thought.
His parents were asleep upstairs, probably had been for many hours by now. He padded up the stairs one at a time, just his damp socks covering his feet, and he dodged the spots that he knew creaked when trodden on. The right side of the second step from the top. The middle of the fourth one from the bottom. He'd come to remember them as if it were morse code.
He quietly snuck past his parents' bedroom, the door closed, and he stepped into his own room. He shut the door behind him with a soft, tiny snick, and he finally let himself exhale. Properly.
He peeled off his work clothes one by one. His grey polo shirt that had been glued to his back from sweat and his dark blue jeans that were covered in stains and a little too tight at the hips.
He tossed them aside into a pile on the floor, the strong odour of sickly sweat and old beer emanating off of them like an illness. He stood there in nothing but his moist socks stuck to his feet, and his Batman boxers. His underwear were a bit embarrassing, black with a bright yellow waistband and a Batman logo planted on the front thigh. It wasn't like anybody else was going to see them anyway.
He crossed the room to his little desk, the wood scuffed at the edges and littered with little doodles. His chair squeaked as he sat down, and he rubbed at his eyes before he opened the lid of his old Dell laptop and powered it on with a click and a mechanical whir, like it was struggling to breathe.
He shifted his hips in his chair a little, his hips rolling subtly and his thighs tense as he waited. That simmering in his belly from earlier in the evening hadn't cooled down, not even a little bit. He licked his lips while his skin prickled as he remembered how the men stared at him while he was working. Even if it was mocking, even if it was with anger, impatience, restlessness, his brain filtered all of that out.
He looked over his shoulder at his window. Closed. The blinds were drawn too. He turned back to his laptop and typed in his password before his home screen slowly loaded and opened up.
His room was pitch black, except for the sickly blue glow his laptop casted over his tired face, making his skin look paler than it was. He dragged his cursor across the screen, and he hesitantly typed in PornHub.
The site loaded slowly before it invaded his screen with its signature black and orange, patchy thumbnails and dodgy advertisements filling his screen as they promised ejaculation in less than five minutes.
His eyes scanned over the videos, tanned bodies, heavy makeup, fabricated moans frozen mid-frame. He clicked on a random one, one with a slim girl with her legs spread wide on a leather couch, wrapped up in fishnet stockings and silk ribbons, while a strong man knelt between her legs, his thick cock positioned theatrically. It looked too polished, too professional, too much of a production to be even remotely immersive or enjoyable, but he plugged his flimsy little headphones in anyway.
The video began, and he stared at his grainy screen, his hand hovering just above the yellow waistband of his boxer shorts, just resting on his hip bone, and before he could even process what was happening, the woman was moaning.
The man hadn't even done anything yet. Just brushed his hand over her thigh, pressed a kiss to the base of her neck, ran his fingers through her hair. He thought it was stupid. He didn't like it.
He sat slouched in his seat, unmoving as the lady fluttered her eyes shut and groaned in an overreacting haze. It felt so empty. So synthetic, it was awful. His stomach didn't twist, and his dick didn't twitch.
He leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly. The video kept playing, loud, screeching moans from the woman in his ears, seeping through his cheap headphones, but what wasn't so unbearable for him, what didn't suck all of the joy out of it, was the little grunts the man in the video made every so often, each one sending a little shiver through his body.
His tongue poked out to wet his lips, sliding along his bottom one, and he dragged a hand down over his face. Maybe he should just go to sleep, worry about jerking off the next morning.
He closed the tab, the blueish light creeping back up his face, and he sighed. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his lips pursing, then, after a long, reluctant pause, he opened his files.
He scrolled down, past all the ānormalā ones. College, friends, Spain, music stuff. All safe, all ordinary. But his eyes slid past them, all the way down to the bottom, nestled among a cluster of random clutter.
āBoysā.
He clicked on it with his mouse, and instantly, instantly, his cock fluttered beneath the thin black cotton of his boxer shorts, giving a throb, a pulse, a sign of life.
He swallowed hard, his chest tightening just like his underwear. The reaction was so immediate it made his face burn. Not from shame, not exactly, but something rawer, something more sensitive. He didn't feel confident enough to name it.
There were only a handful of videos, but they all followed the same sort of structure. They were all grainy with gentle, warm lights, all homemade, and they felt so much more intimate than those high-quality, high production videos plastered all across the mainstream websites.
He clicked on a random one, his hand tentatively brushing over his taut boxers, feeling his stiff length beneath them, and he bit his lip gently as the video slowly loaded.
The footage bloomed to life, and he let out a soft, quiet gasp. He darted his head around to his door, paranoid, but his eyes were drawn back to his laptop screen as he heard the faint rustle of bedsheets feeding through the tiny speakers on his headphones.
There was a boy not much older than him spread out on the bed, crisp white sheets crinkled beneath his body, while a slightly larger man with wide biceps and a toned back nestled between the boy's pale thighs, his pink cock deep in his mouth.
Alex inhaled, quick, sharp and shallow, and this time, it curled right through him. The familiar, forbidden heat sparking low in his belly like electricity, spreading all over his body like a plague.
His lips parted as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, rubbing his fingers along the velvety skin of his hardening length, trying to subtly match the pace of which the man's head was bobbing up and down on the video before he tugged his underwear down to his knees.
His fist worked in lazy strokes as he matched the rhythm of the two men on the video. They were taking their time, and so was he. His teeth grazed over the rough skin of his lower lip as he tightened his fingers around his shaft, squeezing lightly as a bead of precum formed at his tip.
He closed his eyes for a moment, just letting the soft noises of suction and quiet moans dripping into his ears like honey guide him through the pleasure as he stroked, his thumb brushing over the head, over his slit, smearing the dew over the sensitive ridges tucked beneath his foreskin.
His hips twitched in his chair as his hand gradually slowed down, his other hand circling his nipple with his fingers, feather-light, and it drifted down his body like a boat on gentle water.
He kept his fingers locked around his pulsing, twitching shaft, and he watched how the two men on his screen moved together. The man who was sucking the other curled his arms around the boy's thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin, possessive in a way that made Alex's heart ache with a longing he didn't want to voice aloud.
His other hand floated past his dick, brushed over his balls and ghosted over his perineum, until his fingers reached that spot. That tender spot he'd only started playing with and exploring in the last month or two, the feeling still new and exciting.
He ran his fingers over his hole before lifting one of his legs up onto his chair, bent at the knee, giving him easier access. He rubbed small, continuous circles over it, his breath catching in his throat each time his mouth moved to form a gasp.
The two men on his screen had changed positions, the smaller man on his hands and knees, lanky back arched and legs spread wide, while the larger man kneeled behind him, his hands firm on the other's hips as he lined himself up.
Alex's cock throbbed relentlessly in his palm, matching the speed of his pulse in his wrist, while the pleasure from being stimulated in both spots licked up his spine like a flame lighting up a trail of gasoline.
His mouth was dry, chapped lips parted around shallow breaths, but he brought his middle and index fingers up anyway, slipping them into his mouth and pressing them against his tongue. He closed his lips around them, his other hand still tight around his cock while he sucked gently on his fingers, slicking them up. He pushed them a little deeper, challenging himself, and a drip of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he squinted his glossy eyes, which were still fixed on his bright laptop screen. He gagged slightly, forcing a cough out of his throat, and he buried his mouth in his elbow for a moment to muffle the sound.
He pulled his fingers from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting them to his lips before it snapped, and he brought them back down between his legs, rubbing over his tight, tender hole nestled between his soft, plump cheeks.
He breathed in slowly, gently, trying to be less clumsy. He pressed his lips together and held his breath before sliding one finger in, his middle finger, the slight stretch deliberate, tense but bearable.
He let out a quiet moan, or at least, he hoped it was quiet. He couldn't hear himself over his headphones. His lower lip quivered as he curled his knuckle upwards against his sensitive walls, and he started to move his other hand again, wrapping it tighter around his cock and stroking steadily.
The two sensations clashed in his gut, sharp and sweet, twisting his belly with the intensity. A soft moan caught in the back of his dry throat as he hesitantly eased a second finger into his hole, his index finger, stretching him wider as precum dribbled from his slit.
He shifted his hips, angling them to take his fingers deeper, and his head lolled to the side as his fingertips brushed against the soft, rubbery spot secluded deep inside of him. His shaft twitched in his hand as he pressed against it, and he rolled his hips against his fingers, chasing after that feeling.
His head lolled to the side, his cheek squished against his shoulder as he continued to gawk at his laptop screen, his eyes glossed over with unshed tears of pleasure and his lips parted and slick with saliva. The two men moved on video, the larger man thrusted with a quick rhythm while the shorter man pushed back against him, and Alex tried to mimic their movements, his own hips twitching and thrusting against his hand wrapped around his length and his fingers curled inside of him.
His digits began to work inside with more confidence as he began to lose himself in it, insistently pressing and padding against his prostate, making his cock throb and pulse heavily.
He panted softly, his breaths shallow and uneven as he tried to stay quiet, hyper aware of everything around him and terrified of his parents hearing.
His hand on his dick continued its lazy strokes as he ground his hips into his fingers, faster now, his eyes glued to the boy on screen being pounded into the mattress, and it made his mouth water with longing, craving, any ounce of embarrassment lost in his haze of pleasure.
His lower belly burned and tightened, pushing him to the brink of an orgasm as his toes curled into the carpet, eyelids drooped and teeth clenched. His hips desperately lifted up off of his chair into his palm as his fingers worked relentlessly, the flush on his face spreading, contaminating his chest and shoulders with its red bloom.
He came with a silent cry, his hole clenching around his fingers as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling, exposing his throat, and his shaft twitched helplessly in his hand as his cum spilled and splattered across the flat plane of his stomach and his soft thighs in shuddering spurts.
His legs trembled and his torso clenched and spasmed beneath the force of his release, his vision whiting out for a moment as he let it consume him.
It should've felt good. Or it did, for a few seconds, at least.
But almost instantly, as the pleasure began to ebb and flow away, leaving just a few foamy remains in its wake, it was overtaken by something else. A hollow, empty feeling filling his body, leaking in like water to a submarine with a crack in the wall.
His fingers stilled inside of him, his walls still gripping them tightly, and his chest rose and fell as he came down, his eyes unfocused.
He peeled his hand off of his cock before pulling his flimsy headphones off of his sweaty head, tossing them aside on his desk with a clatter, bringing the soft groans from the men on screen with them.
He slowly retrieved his fingers, lifting his hips and pulling them out with a soft, wet squelch, his fingertips shrivelled up, before he hesitantly reached for his mouse, sliding it across the small felt pad and clicking out of his files, the two men being swallowed up by his innocent home screen wallpaper.
He reached forward, pressing the small button just below the screen with a click and a slow whir as his laptop slowly powered down, the screen going black, and he was met with his reflection.
His sweaty, tousled, tired reflection.
He stared at himself, his face red, lips shiny and eyes half-lidded. His collarbones glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, just barely visible on his dull, filthy screen, and he swallowed hard, his throat aching.
He felt dirty, just like he always did after this. He felt guilty, like he was keeping secrets, that awfully familiar, tainted, murky fog clouding in his chest, behind his ribs, and drowning his heart.
He closed the bulky lid of his laptop, unable to bear looking at himself anymore, the heat that had previously simmered in his lower belly twisting into something that resembled pain as his post-orgasm shame stabbed him hard.
He swivelled in his chair, looking over the walls of his room before settling on the football alarm clock on his bedside table. 3:47AM. He chewed on the inside of his cheek before he pushed himself up, the backs of his thighs peeling off of his cracked leather chair, and he grabbed an old, already used tissue from the floor beside his desk and made a half-assed attempt at wiping his cum off of his skin before pulling his boxers back up to his hips, a faint red mark left on his thighs from the waistband.
He didn't cry, he wasn't going to cry, but it felt like he might. His eyes stung with something bitter. Regret, maybe. But he didn't regret it, not really. He just wished he didn't feel so confused afterwards, every single time. Wish he didn't feel so disgusting, so gross, so wrong.
He crawled into his bed, the old springs of his mattress creaking beneath his weight as he settled, tucking himself in. He pulled his duvet up to his chin and slid his hand beneath his pillow.
His joints were still a little stiff, and he stretched his legs like a cat, his face scrunching up before he sighed heavily and closed his eyes.
He wished he could be normal. He wished so hard, it hurt him. Normal people don't have these feelings. Normal people don't make themselves ill with how hard they try to suppress their feelings.
A bitter tightness curled in his chest as he clutched his pillow tightly. He felt exposed, despite being alone. Exposed to himself. Or rather, exposing himself to the truth that he was too terrified to face, petrified to confirm.
He squeezed his eyes tighter and buried his face in his pillow. He wished he could sink into the mattress and disappear. Wished he didn't have a brain or a heart, wished he was just a robot programmed with all of the correct feelings and unable to think or explore any further, wished there was nothing wrong with him.
But instead, he lay still, very still, like a rock. He'd prefer to be a rock. He let sleep come and rescue him slowly, swaddling him up in its blissful embrace, taking him somewhere he wouldn't feel pain for merely existing.
i dont CARE if pornhub didnt exist in 2006. i didnt want to search 'porn websites that existed in 2006' any more than i already did just to not find anything anyway
A/n: thatās the first time i write a full one shot and the first time that i think itās decent enough to postā¦ i still think i can make it better. It was based on this request and i hope anyone enjoys it!
You woke up in that room. The room you met as his but now itās yours too. It was a silent request for you to move to his house when you discovered the pregnancy, it wasnāt something you had planned, at least not so early, but as you and him discovered, the future couldnāt be clearer. You moved to his place, it was the logical step, afterwards things flowed naturally, nursery, toys scattered everywhere and photos framed on the walls. Now it was a home, not just his house.
It was a lazy saturday morning, the ones so good you felt guilty for seeing as a routine. The house was quiet, the only noises were the soft raindrops thudding over the roof, you looked at him, on his side with some brown locks falling over his face while he snored softly. You loved to observe even the things youād find ridiculous on any other person. It was him and it was enough to make anything enjoyable.
You brushed off his hair from his face, giving you the sight of his long dark lashes almost touching his cheek while de drooled a little on the pillow with his mouth semi open. It made you chuckle at how cute you could find an old man.
You caressed his face, warm on your palm, then approached to seek his embrace. Even half asleep he followed your motion, letting you snuggle closer. You caressed his back and planted a few kisses on his neck in an attempt to wake him up to enjoy a little private moments before she wakes up. Catching you back for reality, he blinks a couple times situating himself and then his face softens giving you a smile.
āMorning sleepyheadā you said softly kissing his cheek. āMorninā dear.ā He said softly with his voice still raspy from sleep, making his accent look funnily more pronounced. āThe weekendās gonna be ours, uh?ā He said before rubbing his eyes. You two had planned to give your daughter Marianne a weekend to spend with her grandparents. Of course he loved giving her full time attention and spoiling rotten that little girl but he always managed to find time to stay just with you. āYeah, Iām glad it is.ā You said before giving him a soft smile. āLet me just brush my teeth so i can kiss you properly. He laughed and when you came back you two just kept cuddling and kissing tenderly.
A few minutes after that brief session of cuddles you two heard fast footsteps approaching the room. She walked in just like she was used to almost every morning, everyone was greeted good morning with a hug and a kiss, then she sat between you two telling about the dream she had last night. the blonde little girl with big brown eyes that you recognised from the first sight, the eyes youāve been in love with for so many years now in another face.
He listens to her with more attention that adults usually have with children since she learned how to speak, answering her with always the right words.
It fascinated you to see them interacting, him always so tender. It seemed like with her he had only his soft side, even when correcting something wrong, he was always on the spot, never too harsh nor too soft, he was just a natural.
āLetās have some breakfast?ā You said after a few minutes talking with both of them. āI want hot chocolate!ā Your daughter exclaimed excitedly. Alex stood up and carried her on his lap. āFirst letās brush those teeth you stinkyā he said while she giggled holding onto him.
You went downstairs and headed to the kitchen, still dark in that gloomy morning, turning on the coffee machine and heating some milk to prepare Marianneās hot chocolate. You turned on the lights and when the coffee was made you put it into your mug and his faded one with the the strokes logo almost invisible innit, he got it as a gift from Miles like three years ago and have been using the same religiously every single day. You loved to set this little rituals and traditions like just making breakfast the way both of them liked. You put the hot chocolate on Alexās old batman mug cause Marianne always loved to be like him.
When making toasts you felt two warm hands gripping on your waist, foreign at first but unmistakably his touch. He hugged your back as your head softly turned to kiss his head now buried on your neck. āSheās getting ready, me mumās gonna be there in a few minutes.ā He said before placing a kiss on your cheek. āI think weāll miss her.ā You said and he chuckled. āYāknowā¦ i love my two girls but today i wanna focus on this one.ā He said giving you one last kiss before going to take a sip from his coffee.
The family ate together before penny and David came to pick up their granddaughter, it was the first time she would spend more than a few hours without you two, but together you decided that it would be a good experience. Everyone said a thousand goodbyes with Alex hugging her a little longer than used to and you holding a few tears but everything went okay.
Now for the first time in a while you two were alone in that house again just laying on the couch all snuggled in with the warm lights illuminating the cozy living room while some black and white film playing on the background. He was paying attention, but not you, who was just focused on feeling his warmth. āWhen this filmās over want me to run us a bath, Al?ā You said before planting a kiss on his neck. āIād love that darlināā he said in a low tone. You stared at him a little bit. āI really liked what you did to your hair, even though i loved it long.ā You said running your hands through his now shorter hair, he had cut before that award.
When the film reached its end, you two went upstairs and walked to the bathroom. You turned the water on and sat at the edge of the tub as it was filling. āI missed itā he said in a low tone looking at himself on the mirror. āMissed what?ā You said when your eyes met his. āJust being quiet with you.ā
When both were properly undressed and the tub filled with water to its brim, he got into it, letting it make the tips of his hair get wet. As he settled, he looked at you invitingly, you tied your hair lazily and sat between his legs letting the hot water and his presence relax your muscles as you rested your back on his chest. He kissed your temple and took a breath. āDo you think about me age often?ā He said. The words came out more scrambled as intended by him. Conversations like this were becoming more frequent, he used to say things about him being older than you and things about afraid of not being the best father he could when he get older, youāve always tried your best to brush it off those insistent thoughts of him but they used to always come back.
You havenāt even realized you were dead silent while thinking until he broke it. āUh, i mean, my parents had me when they were like in their 20ās and i had marie when i was 37.ā Even in a serious moment like that you couldnāt help but smile when he called her āMarieā it was the nickname he gave her because she loved the movie aristocats. āLove youāll be present in her life i know thatā¦ you donāt need to worry. Youāre the best father i know.ā You turned to face him. āI know sweetheart, thank you but thats not where Iām terrifying to get.ā You furrowed your brow a little confused. He was caressing your back soothingly. His expression became more serious. āIām turning 40 next year.ā āYeah that's true.ā You said adjusting your position on the tub, then he held your waist, signaling you to pay attention for him. āIām trying to tell you i wanna have another baby.ā
It had taken you aback at first, Marianne was just 2 years old and it was something sudden but it wasnāt like you havenāt considered it yet. The idea of another child was something you two had discussed vaguely, but now it was an ask of his. āDo you think itās the right time, Al?ā You asked. āI know it is.ā He answered very calm, as if it was a solid statement, then he grabbed your arms turning you to straddle him. āSo?ā He said caressing your back, while you cupped his face. āYou might be right.ā You said, your face almost close enough to touch his.
The only noises on the bathroom were the water when you moved, he started kissing you, his mouth soft, his eyes closed, both of your bodies drown in the now not so warm water had the heat enough to not bother with the water temperature, both of you getting too excited for that tiny space, his dick now hard brushing against your leg as he started to seem more desperate for each passing second. The only slow tender kisses became hungrier and his hands around you firmer. Being there became uncomfortable.
You two stood up and dried your bodies poorly making the floor a bit soaked but now, neither cared. He held you tight while you tried to walk discohordenately to the room. Every accidental friction was a torture, when you two reached the room, he pushed you down on bed getting on top of you. He panted āare you on the pill?ā
Your eyes are closed and your brows furrowed as he lines his dick on your entrance. āN-no, i havenāt take it yet today.ā You said gasping. āYouāll stop? You really wanna try it?ā He asked cupping your face. In that moment you were already a bit dazzy with pleasure, but you knew what you wanted and you answered him, placing your hands around his neck and pulling him closer. āI really want you to fuck a baby inside me, Daddy.ā
When you said that, you could almost hear a moan escaping his lips, he kissed you slowly, your hands pulling his hair, then he finally thrusted his hips and his dick was inside you with that familiar stretching sensation, every single time, even after years you had that same feeling when he pushed into you, that pleasant pain that came together with his movements, he was trying to set a pace, he was still half wet from the bath, his hair falling on his face and sticking to his forehead. He grabbed one leg of yours, wrapping it around him creating a whole new angle,
He was restless at first, but when he started to get closer, he slowed down, you were almost reaching your climax aswell, and the chance of pace were painfully delicious, his eyes never left yours, he studied your expressions, he knew what you liked. āOpen your mouth, love.ā He said in a firm yet affectionate tone between little gasps, then his hand grabbed your face as you stood there mouth open wide, he spitted on your mouth. He knew how it turned you on and in that exact context, with the room thick with the tensions, and the only noises being obscenely wet thrusts, it pulled you to the edge. āgod, please faster, al.ā You said almost ashamed of the moaning mess you have turned. He was maintaining his pace āplease, love you gonna take all my cum, arenāt you? Iām gonna breed youā he said making an effort to form a sentence.
Your sight was pornographic, him on top of you, his gold chain going forth and back, his mouth open and eyes half-lidded,āpleaseā¦ Iām not gonna last longerā you cried out for him, who set up a more random, faster and out of rhythm pace, you moaned loudly as you finally came, your vision turning white and pussy clenching around his aching cock. He moaned at the sensation and kept going with sloppy thrusts until your eyes were tearing up because of the overstimulation.
He came, and you could feel it deep inside you, the warm feeling of his load spread through you, his body that had collapsed on top of you, heavy breathing on your ear. You gathered your remaining forces to caress his back and his hair while whispering sweet nothings to him. If was the most intimate youāve been for a long time, sex with him was always special but in this context it was more.
āI bet you got me pregnantā you said with a chuckle on your post orgasm dizziness. āI hope i didā¦ but it wouldnāt be exactly a problem if we needed to fuck againā he said and then both laughed. When he pulled off and layed by your side you felt an awkward emptiness, he hugged you, cuddled and kissed every inch of your face. āI love you. I love our familyā¦ā he placed a hand on your lower belly caressing it softly. āā¦and i love the future Iāll have with youā
The day went by slowly, after it all happend, he just became clingy as usual, couldnāt stop talking about how would we tell marianne about a sibling orā¦ where the fuck would we get another room, this talk became about moving, then telling family, then baby names and all the chessiest things we could talk about.
For dinner, you decided to cook something together, he was confusingly staring at a carbonara pasta recipe on his phone while you tried to make it by instinct, he would rage about doing the things wrong but not seriously, you two had fun making an awfully overcooked pasta and spending lots of expensive pecorino cheese but it worthed a laugh.
Whe. The plates were setted and he ate the first bite of it, he just looked at you holding a laugh. You looked at him confused and then took a bite. It was awful. You both laughed a little too much before ordering some thai food and eating it sitting on the settee.
When it was too late, you went upstairs with him and laid together, even though it wasnāt so late at night, he spooned you placing a hand on your belly and softly caressing it. āGood night, loveā he kissed your cheek. āLove you, alā you paused as he hugged you tightly from your back. āGood night.ā
I sent this request to another blog but it was prolly too unhinged to be taken seriously so here I am dropping it here hoping youād pick it up
I have this idea of a fic where Alex is an atheist univ prof, like militant kind of atheist whoād subtly demean the religious and their beliefs until the very day he meets a devoted Christian student who upends his world and redefines his perspectives.
Sorry for taking out my religious guilt relics on youš
Thatās a really cool idea actually š i just love when people send random ideas cuz it inspires me sm soā¦ even if you think whatever is unhinged please send me cuz i love different stuff !!!
Ps: Iām already writing something based on this request
Is the little shaky hand thing alex has does in interviews over the years a stick or just drugs bc heās been doing it for so long that itās pretty much impossible for it to be drugs but nobody seems to agree with me
hello!
you mean the shoulder tappy StimOrWhatever thing? I think itās no different than when heās biting his fingers or grabbing his hair nervously yāknow?
itās so weird to just call things drugs when you find them strange
hereās a compilation of him doing it made by my friend jetskis
and here he is pretending to just scratch his shoulder
Iām always itching for a tbhc AU where Alex is an absolute hermit who owns the hotel and the reader is a journalist trying to write an article on the placeā¼ļø Heās all closed off and sour at first but actually ends up liking the reader a lot while they stay at the hotel for a week or twoš
I love the idea of AUs and that would be quite interestingā¦ Iāve already thought about writing some tbhc related stuff (cuz itās my life favourite piece of music) but i feel like Iāll never honour the greatness of that piece enough but Iām willing to try something like that.
I have some ideias for a tbhcās AU where has some crime and murderer stuff involved perhaps i can put it all together someday
You just finished your law degree and found a paid internship with a renowned lawyer (thecar!al) who needed a new assistant.
Tw: age gap (reader is 24 and alex is 38), Dad!al, mentions of divorce, fluff.
Thatās mostly an introduction so sorry if itās short i just needed to create a proper context (;
The soft crack of your heels against the floor filled the court hallway, illuminated by large wooden framed windows with the gloomy light of that rainy day morning. It wasn't that there weren't people working and walking around up and down but you could only concentrate on your failed attempt to find your office on your first day of work. Endless copies of the same door with a confusing numeration didnāt help exactly.
After some time you found the office of the lawyer youād start working for as his assistant today. You even confirmed it on your phone, but his name lingered in your mind for days by now so of course you werenāt mistaken. Youāve already worked with a lot of jerks, so you were hoping for him to be at least bearable to work with, itās not that you wanted a friend or something, because when you hire such big expectations to work with a random old lawyer they tend not to be exactly fulfilled.
You stood there in front of the door gathering enough courage to walk in, you were expecting the worst sequel ever because itās better to be surprised positively than the other way round. When you decided it was getting awkward to stand there looking like a piece of furniture, completely still. You grabbed the handle and twisted it reluctantly slowly as if it would make your last comforting moment out of that room last a bit more.
As you opened that door that cracked ridiculously loud, or just in your head. You saw him and his appearance was nothing like you imagined. āOh hello missā¦ā he said after pausing and glancing at a piece of paper looking for your last name through his reading glasses. As he said it and you greeted him back, he gave you a warm smile and gestured for you to sit on the chair facing him.
Meeting him got all your worries about being stuck with a dickhead for the rest of your stage away, he was surprisingly kind and well. A little too much actually, as he explained the dynamics of the job and your functions that you were going to have working with him, you could just thank god he was nice, but in balance of it, you saw another problem showing up, You were starting to feel attracted to him.
It was something subtle but there was something magnetic about him and god you had only known him for 10? maybe 15 minutes. Of course you wouldn't let it even affect your performance working for him, you thought it was something that would just fade with time, Well, you hoped at least.
When he finished listing your duties, that were mainly to organize papers, archives and things he was too important to lose his time doing. And after that you were kind of excited to start, because anyways you just finished law school and already got an internship with a very renowned lawyer in his area, of course, him being handsome and kind had nothing to do with all of your excitement. At least you were blaming your career and not your attraction for your sudden change of demeanor towards this job.
The first day began to go by faster than you expected. It wasn't much to do, you just spent your day looking for a case archive in some dusty drawers and during it you felt it wasn't so necessary but he wouldn't give you the pleasure of doing nothing and for his luck, you were committed to cause a great impression. After a short time looking for that old pile of yellowish paper, you couldn't help but peek just a bit, after all, you're there to learn, and you're not going to stop using this as an excuse to get some tea. It was just a very complicated divorce by what you read but you felt your stomach flip when you realised his name was written there, not as the lawyer, as the client. You closed it fast and you instantly felt the guilt of reading such a personal thing of his.
You walked back to his, (now kind of your too) office. It had his big desk with papers and photo frames scattered everywhere, shelves with uncountable books, framed certificates, a large window behind the desk, your desk of course, that stayed in the corner of the room, it was smaller than his but still a comfortable size. It had a leather couch on the other corner and a Persian carpet under all of that furniture. It was cozy and smelled like cigarettes and sometimes old coffee by some forgotten empty cups.
You had nothing to do now, so you just kept reading snippets from a random gossip magazine, probably forgotten by his past assistant or something. Even though you were really trying to seem innocent you were nervous, and his glances to your shaking leg started to be more recorrent. āYou read it uh?" He broke that awkward silence and it instantly turned into something heavier. You stayed quiet for a little, not breaking eye contact. You couldnāt just lie to him now, if you hadnāt read you wouldnāt be acting like that right now. āYeahā¦ anyways, I shouldn't have asked you to grab my personal things." You could feel you just caused the worst impression on him. āIām sorry I just thought it was a standard case or somethingā¦" He looked you in the eyes again and it felt like he could see your deepest secrets. āWell thatās not an excuse for being nosy. Just do your job and nothing more please or are we getting in trouble here, got it?ā He got clearly pissed and you could tell it in his tone. He stopped what he was doing and leaned back on his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh while you stood there frozen. āLook darling, I didn't want it to sound rude, okay? itās justā¦ Iām going through a lot of things right now and my privacy is something I value quite highly and I want to establish boundaries between us.ā
''I'm really sorry, I swear, I'm not like this... really bad way to start, uh." You said as you let an awkward chuckle. "oh, that's nothing, let's just forget it.'' He said, his voice warm. And thatās how your first day ended, after weird weather the whole afternoon and embarrassed stolen glances from both parts.
The next few days went by smoothly, and you started getting used to him, he grew more comfortable around you. It made your thoughts about him worse. He had an amazingly deep knowledge about music, had seen all of your weird films you never had no one to talk about and a great sense of humour. It felt nicer than you expected to work for him, even though he was mostly busy with you chasing him around holding some pile of papers, when he wasnāt heād talk subtly about his life or just sit across you on that leather sofa in the corner and listen to the music softly filling the room, coming out of the radio, occasionally commenting about a particular song or band.
After that day when you peeked his divorce papers, this topic was never discussed again. But he spoke about his life often, he told you about his daughter who was turning four in September, even the dumbest things, heād love to talk about and whenever she was mentioned you could see the way his eyes crinkled in the corner and sparked as he talked. He was too cute when talking about his little brown eyed girl. She looked like him so much you couldnāt even imagine her mother. Just his mini blonde version, he had framed pictures of her on his desk, one just of her and another one of them both laughing and every time you stared at that pictures you could feel that warm feeling inside, you could see how good a father he seemed to be.
He had never mentioned the girlās mother, presumably the woman he was in the divorce process, and about a girlfriend or anything? He wasnāt the type of man that would start yapping about his love life or even casual hookups to his work colleague. About you, there wasnāt much to tell, you just used to tell him mundane things and futilities while heād pretend to be interested very well. And after quite a while working with him you started paying more attention to his demeanour changes, as you were finally starting to get a snippet from his true self out of the work.
One day you were sitting at your desk randomly tidying up the drawers while he wasnāt there yet. something was off. He was late. He had never been this late. You started getting worried at this point, not just it, you were lost. Without him there to order you around you were completely unuseful. It was around 10 am when he arrived. Hair all disheveled, shirt all crumpled, holding a paper cup filled with back coffee in a hand and his everyday leather bag with dark circles around his eyes.
He entered the room almost ashamed of lack of punctuality, opposite of him normally. He had never done that, and when he arrived looking like he slept on the street or something you couldnāt help but ask at least. āYouāre okay boss?ā You asked, your tone soft as he placed his bag on the desk settling down his things. āYeah, yeahā¦ nothing to worry about.ā He answered firm yet gentle. As the day went by, it was like he was on his first day of work, he was lost and even thought you wanted to help him but you didnāt even know how, every help you offered he just said something like. āOh, you donāt need to do it nowā or even āOh, lemme take care of it.ā and then just not doing it and burying himself on a pile of papers and saying nothing.
It was pissing you off just staying there just watching him work and doing nothing, not that it was bad watching him, the way he moved, the way he held his pen and just did those normal things affected you more than it should. Finally by almost the end of the shift you rose up from your desk and stood there in front of him. He looked at you with a confused gaze. āWhat happened, Mr.Turner?ā He furrowed his brow and dropped his pen, directing his gaze to you. āUh, what do you mean?ā You took a deep breath and just let out a chuckle at the awkwardness of all of it. āUmā¦ just tell me if you need something okay? You donāt look okay.ā You said, giving him a soft smile, almost apologetic.
He gave you a look after it, you havenāt seen him doing it before, it was something more tender than his usual. āThanks dear, I really appreciate that you umā¦ worry.ā He said as if thinking about better words. āItās justā¦ā he sighed. āIām moving and things are kind of a mess with me trying getting along with it.ā He let out a weak chuckle at the end of the sentence. āOh, if you need anything you can count on me okay?ā You said it and he smiled at you even though you just thought you had forced proximity a lot but he seemed to not mind at all.
At the end of that shift, you two had something more comfortable lingering in the air and as you two finished up work he stood up at his desk and grabbed his bag, staying in front of you grabbing your things. āThank you, darling. Sometimes itās good just to have someone to say a kind word.ā You stood up as well. āNo need to thank me, boss.ā You said watching his figure go towards the door.
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