request: adapt fic when you’re really mad at him so he makes smut happen to try to get you to relax and you still are kinda making petty comments during but secretly enjoying it then at the end reader softens up :)
warnings: 18+, a lil angst over forgotten birthday, EVERYTHING IS CONSENSUAL, sexual tension and kinda teasing, p in v, verbal conflict, frustration and emotional vulnerability, late-night setting, consent emphasized.
the apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the glow of the tv. you’ve been scrolling your phone for the past hour, pretending to be busy, but really just staring at the clock and feeling your chest tighten.
the door opens quietly and alex steps in, hoodie half off, sneakers scuffing the floor. he freezes when he sees you on the couch, knees pulled to your chest. “hey,” he says low. “you’re still up?”
you don’t answer right away. just look at him, tired eyes sharp enough to make him shift.
“yeah,” you say finally. “couldn’t sleep.”
he nods slowly, like he already knows where this is going. “i was with the guys—”
“i know,” you cut him off. “i saw the stream.”
there’s a long pause. the tv hums quietly in the background.
you push your hair out of your face. “you didn’t text me today.”
he frowns. “i— i thought i did earlier—”
“no. you didn’t. you didn’t call, didn’t message, nothing. you spent the whole day streaming while i sat here waiting.” your voice shakes a little. “forget it.”
alex runs a hand through his hair. “y/n, come on. i didn’t mean to ignore you. you know how crazy today was—”
“yeah,” you snap. “so crazy you forgot my birthday.”
he freezes. mouth opens, then closes again. “shit.” he steps closer. “y/n, i—”
“don’t. don’t start with ‘i forgot’ or ‘i didn’t mean to.’ that’s the problem. you always don’t mean to. always busy, always distracted, and i’m just—here. waiting.”
he swallows. “i know i messed up. but it’s not like i don’t care—”
“then show it!” you shout, standing. “because right now it feels like i’m the only one who does!”
silence falls. the tv flickers. both your breathing sounds loud in the quiet.
alex runs a hand down his face. “you really think i don’t care about you?”
“i think you don’t try,” you say quietly.
he flinches. shakes his head, muttering, “unbelievable.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“it means i screw up one day and suddenly i don’t care about you?” his voice is louder now, frustration slipping through. “you know how much i’ve got going on, and you still—”
“alex,” you cut him off, voice trembling. “it’s not about your schedule. it’s about me.”
he finally exhales, quieter this time. “you’re right. i fucked up.”
he steps closer, softer now. “i’m sorry. i really am.”
you cross your arms, trying to stay mad, trying to ignore how drawn you are to him. but then he’s close enough that you can smell the faint cologne on his hoodie, feel the warmth of him standing there.
he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm. “let me make it up to you,” he murmurs.
you don’t look up. “how?” your voice is small. “you can’t take it back.”
he tilts his head, watching you — jaw clenched, eyes glassy but stubborn. his thumb drags lightly across your wrist. “you’re tense. just… let me fix it, yeah?”
you finally look at him — hurt, mad, and still stupidly drawn in. and right there, in that quiet apartment, the tension between you feels almost unbearable, a weight pressing down, heavy and electric.
the moment hangs, the night still, and everything is waiting — just before it shifts into something more.
he doesn’t wait for an answer.
his hands slide to your hips, gentle, palms warm through the thin cotton of his hoodie you’re wearing. he pulls you close, slow, giving you every chance to shove him away. you don’t. you stand rigid, arms locked across your chest, jaw set so tight it aches, eyes fixed on the wall behind him.
“i’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice raw, cracked open like he’s been holding it in all day. his forehead rests against yours, breath shaky, the faint scent of red bull and cologne clinging to him.
“save it,” you snap, the words sharp enough to cut. “your words don’t fix shit.”
he sinks to his knees without another sound. his palms glide up your thighs, calloused fingertips tracing the soft skin just above your knees, pushing the hoodie higher inch by inch. the fabric bunches under your ribs, cool air kissing the newly exposed skin. goosebumps bloom in the wake of his touch. you don’t help, don’t move an inch, just glare down at him—eyes glassy, lips pressed thin, every muscle screaming still furious.
he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your cotton shorts, tugs them down with deliberate care. the elastic catches on the curve of your hips, then slides free, pooling at your ankles in a soft heap. you step out of them, one foot at a time, still not giving him anything.
“let me take care of you,” he says, voice low, almost pleading, eyes searching yours for any crack in the armor.
you scoff, cold. “you had all day to care.”
he spreads your knees gently, wider, until the couch edge presses into the backs of your thighs. he settles between them, the heat of his breath ghosting over your inner thigh before his mouth makes contact. the first touch is tender—just the flat of his tongue, one slow, reverent lick from your entrance to your clit. the warmth of it sends a jolt up your spine; you inhale sharp through your nose, fingers curling hard into the couch cushion, knuckles white. he does it again, slower, parting you with his thumbs so he can taste every fold, every slick inch.
“this doesn’t fix it,” you say, voice clipped, icy.
“i know,” he murmurs against you, breath warm, vibrating faintly. “but i want to earn it.”
he seals his mouth over your clit, sucks soft, then firm, the pressure perfect. two fingers circle your entrance, teasing, tracing the rim without entering. you shift, hips lifting a fraction, chasing friction, but he doesn’t rush—just waits, watching your face with those sorry, desperate eyes.
“tell me,” he says, voice muffled, lips brushing you. “tell me what you need.”
you bite your lip, stubborn, teeth sinking in hard enough to sting. he waits, fingers still, mouth hovering, the silence thick and heavy. the denial stretches—five seconds, ten—until the ache between your legs is unbearable.
“please,” you finally mutter, hating how small it sounds, hating that he heard it.
he rewards you instantly—two fingers deep, curling slow, mouth sealing over your clit, sucking steady. the wet sound of it fills the room, deliberate and reverent, the slick slide of his fingers in and out, the soft hum of his throat when he tastes you. his tongue flicks in perfect time with his fingers, building pressure without rushing, every stroke measured, worshipful.
you grip his hair, anchoring hard, nails scraping his scalp. “this doesn’t mean i’m over it.”
“i know,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny, chin glistening. “but i’m here now.”
he adds a third finger, stretching you open, scissoring slow, the burn sweet and sharp. your thighs start to tremble, muscles tensing. he curls them again, pressing firm against that spot inside you, holding the pressure until your breath stutters.
“you’re still an idiot,” you manage, voice shaking.
“i am,” he agrees, voice rough with want. “let me prove i’m your idiot.”
he stands, shoves his joggers down in one motion. his cock is heavy, flushed dark, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. he drags it through your folds once, twice, slow, coating himself in your slick, the head nudging your clit with every pass. then he lines up, hands braced on the couch beside your hips.
“eyes on me,” he says, soft but firm.
you do. his eyes are dark, focused, sorry—pupils blown wide, lashes damp with sweat. he pushes in slow—one thick inch at a time, letting you feel every ridge, every pulse, every vein. the stretch is exquisite, a slow burn that makes your toes curl. when he’s fully seated he stills, hands braced on either side of your head, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling.
“feel that?” he whispers, voice trembling. “that’s all for you.”
you clench around him involuntarily, walls fluttering. he groans, low and broken, hips rolling once, deep, grinding against you.
“gonna let me make it right?”
“don’t get cocky,” you hiss, but your hands are on his back, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents.
he starts to move—long, measured strokes, pulling almost all the way out until just the tip remains, then sinking back in, bottoming out each time with a soft, wet sound. the couch creaks under the rhythm, springs protesting. he angles his hips, finds that spot inside you, and stays there, grinding slow, relentless.
your breath hitches, sharp. “fuck—”
“tell me baby,” he says, voice rough, desperate. “what do you need?”
he obeys. grips your hips, lifts them slightly off the cushion, thrusts deeper, slower, the angle perfect. the slap of skin on skin is soft, intimate, punctuated by the wet slide of him moving inside you. sweat beads at his temple, drips onto your collarbone, warm. he leans down, mouth on your neck, kissing gently, then sucking a slow, deliberate mark just below your pulse.
“i should’ve been here,” he says between thrusts, voice cracking. “should’ve had my mouth on you at eight instead of in a fucking discord call.”
you moan, quiet, back arching off the couch. “keep going.”
“should’ve eaten the cake off your stomach,” he murmurs, hand sliding between you, thumb circling your clit in tight, slick strokes, pressure perfect. “should’ve lit every candle while you were in my lap, while i was inside you, while you came on my tongue.”
the image hits you hard—candles flickering, chocolate smearing, his mouth on you. you come with a soft, broken cry, walls fluttering around him, pleasure rolling in slow, deep waves. your whole body trembles, thighs clamping around his hips. he doesn’t stop—keeps moving through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, oversensitive, tears pricking your eyes.
“i’ve got you,” he says, voice strained, reverent. he flips you gently onto your stomach, pulls your hips up until you’re on your knees, chest pressed to the cushion. enters you again from behind, one slow, smooth thrust that makes you sigh into the fabric.
he sets a steady pace—deep, careful, the angle perfect, every stroke dragging against that spot inside you. his hand slides under you, fingers back on your clit, rubbing soft, slow circles. the second orgasm builds slower, sweeter, coiling tight in your belly.
“still with me?” he asks, voice trembling.
you cum again, clenching hard, a quiet, muffled sound into the couch. he follows seconds later—hips stuttering, a low, broken groan against your spine as he spills inside you, warm and pulsing, filling you completely.
he stays buried, chest heaving against your back, arms sliding under you to hold you close. after a minute he pulls out slow, turns you over, gathers you into his lap. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, the room thick with the scent of sex and apology.
he kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—soft, lingering. “i’m sorry,” he says, voice soft now, cracked open. “i’ll never forget again.”
you lean into him, fingers tracing the sweat at his neck, the anger finally gone. “cake’s still in the fridge.”
he smiles, small and genuine, eyes glassy. “i’ll light the candles. then i’ll eat it off you.”
you laugh, quiet, exhausted. “you’re still sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“worth it,” he murmurs, kissing you slow, deep, like he’s got all the time in the world to prove it.
omg i wish u guys could try these cookies i just made
