#behemoth!

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL in Tony Gilroy's 'Behemoth!'

[perotovar]

PEDRO PASCAL as ALEX SERIAN Behemoth! (2026) dir. Tony Gilroy

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

After Eleven

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep... Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif Words: 3,000

A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.

Masterlist

—-

The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.

You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.

You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?

Your new neighbor, apparently.

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.

So much for hating your new neighbor.

[notinamoodforsociety]

PEDRO PASCAL in Behemoth (Teaser trailer)

[kokoluwie]

so much hands...

[aurorawritestoescape]

Yep this movie’s gonna kill me🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

[milla-frenchy]

Behemoth!

bonus:

[petalsinblood]

Pairing: Alex Serian x f!reader

Summary: You help Alex practice a harder cello piece. But this practice is somehow entirely different from the previous ones.

Warnings: established relationship, MDNI (+18), swearing, subby Alex, sensory deprivation kinda (Alex is listening to music here), dry humping, fingering, brief oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, aftercare

Word count: 4k

Author's note: Look, I don't have anything to say. I think we all saw what we did yesterday, and immediately got obsessed. Did I write this during the night and fucked up my sleep schedule again? Maybe. But I think it was worth it. My darling Cha (@bergamote-catsandbooks) thank you for being so excited to beta read this story. Love you! 💜

The house is quiet. Quieter than on most days.

There isn’t any music echoing off the walls, no sound of cello creeping around every corner and the occasional curse of Alex when he misses a beat, or he makes a mistake.

It seems too odd. Your ears are already used to the constant loudness in the house, and now it is almost like it is haunted.

You shake yourself back to reality, giving the soup another stir in the pot before you reach to turn off the stove. You move to take a spoon from one of the drawers. The smells in the kitchen makes your mouth water, and your moves are maybe too quick as you taste the still too hot food.

The moment the spoon touches your lips, you hear a loud and frustrated sigh coming from the living room.

Well, maybe today isn’t as peaceful as you thought it would be.

You swallow that spoonful of soup, humming at the taste before you put the used spoon in the dirty dishes. It clatters against the plates, but you’re already out the door, worry filling you as you round the corner and your eyes fall on Alex.

You furrow your brows, not noticing anything unusual. Alex is laying on the couch, headphones on, tapping on the bunch of paper in front of him in his lap with a pencil. You almost swoon at the way he looks like. Black tank top with gray sweatpants. One of those outfits he wears when he’s not in his practice room, playing on his cello in just a shirt and his underwear.

“Alex,” you call out, but quickly realize that he can’t hear you because of the music playing in both his ears.

So you walk through the room, your bare feet tapping on the wooden floor quietly as you get closer. When you arrive beside him he still doesn’t look up, and as you sit down a soft breeze hits you through the open window behind the couch.

“Alex,” you try again, leaning closer to him.

When he still doesn’t pay any attention, not even turning his gaze towards you for a second, you do something that you immediately know you would regret after.

You take hold of the bunch of paper in his lap, placing it on the coffee table in front of you, followed by his pencil too.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks confused, brows furrowing, making the lines between them deeper.

You reach to push back his headphones, letting it hang around his neck as you look at him. “Lunch is ready,” you announce with a soft smile, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of his forehead.

His hands fall back onto his stomach, and with a frustrated sigh he throws his head back against the pillow. “I was in the middle of analyzing a very hard passage,” he murmurs under his breath, and you immediately feel guilty for interrupting him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you couldn’t have known,” he shakes his head, lifting his head and looking at you. With one hand he reaches out, holding you by your waist and pulling you suddenly towards him. To prevent falling across him and landing on the floor, you throw your leg over his lap, straddling his hips. When your eyes fall on his face, you see a wide grin paying on his lips. “It’s okay.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, his arms circling your middle and pulling you down to his chest. You rest your head in the crook of his neck as much as the headphones allow, and you listen to the music playing from it, the pace too fast, notes flying so quickly you can’t even understand how someone is able to play that.

“What is it?” you ask, curiosity winning as you glance up at him from behind your eyelashes.

“Saint-Saëns, Cello Concerto No. 2, Op. 119,” he answers immediately. Your eyes widen at his precision for knowing the exact passage, and you smile up at him.

“Sounds complicated.”

“That’s why I’m analyzing it first. I may understand harder works, but not this one. The notes I’m making don't make any sense,” he explains, his thumb drawing small circles on your back.

“And it’s making you frustrated because you want everything to go perfectly on your first try.” It’s not even a question. You know him so well now, to understand that he’s a perfectionist, when it comes to his playing and music.

“At this point you know me better than me," he chuckles. He angles his head so he can place a soft kiss on your temple, hugging you tighter.

You stay like that for a few minutes. Him holding you, the music playing beside your ear, the occasional chirping of birds creeping through the window, filling the room. But no matter how peaceful the moment seems like, the position makes your legs go numb, so you start squirming in his lap, trying to find a better one.

As you move, you feel his hands tightening on your waist, and he lets out a low groan. “Shit. Stop moving around, baby.”

You look at him confused for a second, not understanding why he says that, but then realization dawns on you when you push yourself back to sit in his lap again. You can feel something hard under you, pressing against your center. You look at him with a surprised expression, but then a satisfied smile stretches across your face. “You’re hard.”

He tries to ignore your statement, clearing his throat as he looks up and down your body. “This is my shirt. The one that I played in yesterday.”

“Don’t avoid the conversation,” you warn him, leaning close so you are hovering above him, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. “You’re hard just by me moving around a little in your lap.”

“That wasn’t moving around a little. You were basically dry humping me. Of course I get hard.”

“Oh, Alex. I see some concepts are not clear for you. This is what dry humping is,” you shoot back with a wicked smile, starting to move your hips around in his lap, dragging the most aching part of your body across the hard line of his cock in his pants, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh at the feeling, the thin fabric of your underwear not blocking the sensation.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips and guiding your movements as he occasionally lifts his hips to match your rhythm.

When he closes his eyes and throws his head back, you suddenly stop. He tries to thrust up again, but you lift off of him enough that he can’t reach you, and he looks at you with a wounded expression. “Why did you stop?”

“I thought you wanted me to stop, no? You said it moments before.”

“No, hell no. I don’t want you to stop. The music must have got to my brain for saying that. Too many notes, too many sounds, too many—”

You don’t let him finish the sentence, capturing his lips with yours. He groans into the kiss, and you take that quick moment to take control, slipping your tongue past his teeth. His hands wander down from your back to your ass, squeezing down hard when you teasingly nip at his bottom lip.

You can feel his hands moving again, up under your — technically his — shirt, caressing your back before he moves them to your front, moaning gently when he realized you don’t have any bra on. He immediately starts playing with your breasts, the callouses on his hands rough against your skin, but still igniting a fire on the path he takes with them.

You can feel the wetness between your thighs, and maybe because of the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of the kiss, or because something else entirely, you get an idea you never had before.

You break away from him with a soft gasp, taking in a deep breath as you look into his eyes, seeing only hunger and desire burning in them, his soft brown eyes turning almost fully black.

When you feel like your brain can function again, you reach for his headphones, taking them off from around his neck, but not putting them down behind you on the coffee table. You just hold them while he looks at you with confusion. You nod towards his tank top. “Take it off.”

He complies without a sound, taking his hands from under your shirt and sitting up so he can quickly get out of his tank top, throwing it to the side. When he is done, he lays back again, his hands finding their place again on your waist.

You lift the headphones a little in the air, hovering above him again. “So I hear this piece is very fast. Must require some amazing finger work,” you wonder, and you watch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I wonder how yours is compared to it.”

Without warning you take hold of his left hand, guiding it down along the waistband of your underwear until you dip it into the fabric, his fingers immediately swiping across your wetness. He moves to dip his fingers lower, but you stop him with a soft squeeze on his wrist, and you hold up the headphones in your other hand. “You’ll follow this pace, alright?” you ask, and lift it to put it on his head, but he is the one stopping you now.

“I won’t be able to hear you that way.”

“Take it as a challenge or an experiment,” you answer. “Imagine a deaf musician. They simply rely on their feelings and eyes. They feel the vibration of the strings under their fingers, see where they’re supposed to hold them down. You feel too, no?” you ask, bucking your hips into his hand, his fingers gliding across your folds again.

“I do,” he nods, his voice strained.

“Great. Good thing you have this piece on repeat.”

You place the headphones on his head, pulling them over his ears so he can only hear the music and nothing else. You nod at him, and he dips his fingers between your folds, swiping them back and forth until his index settles on your clit, drawing slow and tight circles over it.

But his pace is not matching the music you heard coming from his headphone earlier, so you lean down next to his ear, lifting one side of the headphone so he can hear you. “I don’t think the music is this slow.”

That is all you say before placing the headphone back on his ear and leaning back again. At your words his finger immediately speeds up, following the pace of the piece in his ear. His eyes are studying your reactions closely, and you can see them glint when your mouth opens around a soft moan, your eyebrows running together.

You reach to unbutton the shirt you have on, giving him a free sight of your bare breasts, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he sits up to take one of your nipples in his mouth while his right hand plays with the other. His tongue circles around the hardened nub while his index finger wanders downwards towards your entrance. You hold on to him with your arms around his shoulders, and you tilt your hips a little when he eases one finger inside of you, a soft moan leaving your lips.

He starts to move it in and out of you to the music, and you can already feel your walls tightening around his finger, your orgasm building up faster in you than you expected.

It doesn’t take long until he adds a second finger too, and you look down at him.

He is now resting his chin on your sternum, your nipple still glistening from his saliva. But in his eyes you see such concentration like you never saw before. He is looking out for every small breath you let out against his face, every time you open your mouth when you moan, every time you furrow your brow at the sensation growing in you.

And you know he can also feel the way your walls are tightening around his fingers.

So when the music hits another fast point and he picks up the pace of his fingers again, you let go. You fall forward, letting your forehead rest against his while your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs are shaking slightly around his, but he holds you up, slowing his fingers so you can ride out your high without him overstimulating you.

When you feel like your body can work again, you lean in to kiss him. He reciprocates it, pulling his hand out from your underwear to place it on your thigh.

When you pull back, you also push off one side of his headphones. “And how is your timing?”

“What do you mean?” he asks confused.

“Your timing. When you have to hold down the note, or jump into a passage,” you explain, trying to sound like you understand everything about his world.

“It’s pretty good I guess,” he shrugs, still looking at you with furrowed brows, trying to guess where this conversation is going.

“How about we practice that too?” you ask, slowly climbing off of him to lay down on your back. He follows you, hovering above you. “Do you want the underwear to stay?” you ask, hooking your thumbs in the waistband.

“No, not this time,” he shakes his head, his answer coming out breathless. You start pushing the lacy material off, but he takes over halfway down your thighs, pulling them off himself and throwing it on the ground. His eyes fall on your exposed center for a second, and before you can say anything, he is already laying on his stomach between your thighs.

You place your leg on his shoulders, but realize that this position easily pushes off his headphones, so you reach down to pull it back in place, keeping your hands on either side of his head.

He doesn’t wait for you to approve his action, he dives in, swiping his tongue all the way from your entrance to your clit. You jerk your hips at the sudden contact, and he places one hand on your lower belly to keep you still.

You let out a loud moan when he starts drawing quick circles over your clit with his tongue, you are sure that he can hear it even through the headphones. And when he closes his lips around the little nub and starts sucking it gently between his teeth, you know you won’t be able to last too long this way.

And the second time you come, you want that to happen on his cock.

So you quickly pull him up by his hair, and the sight of him with your wetness glistening on his mustache and beard makes you go dizzy. You partially push back the headphones from his ears again.

You open your legs wider so he can settle in, and when he is leaning comfortably over you, you reach down to pull down his gray sweatpants along with his underwear too. The moment his cock is free, your focus falls on it. His tip is already glistening with his precum, the head almost an angry red for being denied any friction for so long.

You place your hand on his stomach first, following that path of coarse hair from his belly button leading down to his cock, taking a hold of him.

He lets out a long groan above you as you gather his precum with your fingers, spreading it over his length as you stroke him a few times.

When you pull your hand away, he tries to chase it at first, bucking his hips, but then he waits for what you are going to do next. You reach up taking a hold of his headphones. “Concentrate on the timing,” you remind him before you put the headphones back over his ears.

He purses his lips, but nods. He reaches down between your bodies, taking a hold of his cock and guiding it through your folds a few times before he lines himself up at your entrance, pushing in slowly. Your walls stretch around his length, and you throw your head back against the pillows at the feeling.

He lowers himself closer to your body, his forearms resting on both side of your head, his chest making contact with your breasts.

When he bottoms out, you both let out a strained moan. He waits for a few seconds for you to adjust to his size before he starts moving based on the music.

His rhythm is steady, and when he hits the spot in you, you don’t even care anymore if he really is following the music’s timing, or he is just making it up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders, keeping him close while you wrap your legs around his waist, the new angle allowing him to go deeper in you, making you see stars.

You are moaning at every thrust, and next to your ear Alex is grunting too, breathing heavily and occasionally cursing under his breath. You can hear the music drifting out from his headphones, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

You tear it off from his head, throwing it to the ground carelessly.

Alex falters for a second, pulling back to look down at you, and when you nod in encouragement it is almost like a spell falls over him. He leans down to capture your mouth with his, and he starts driving into you with more force and determination, and you can’t help but hold on to him tighter, every thrust sending you further up on the couch.

The living room is filled with moans and the sound of skin slapping against each other, the smell of sweat and sex lingering in the air. Now the house is not filled with cello notes bouncing off the walls, but with the music of two people merging into one.

“Oh God, Alex,” you moan into his mouth.

He groans too, closing his eyes tightly. “Fuck, I missed hearing your moans,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.

You can feel yourself get closer to your high again, and you pull back to warn him. “I’m close, Alex. I think I’m gonna—” Your sentence is broke off with a loud moan from you, your walls squeezing him tight as your orgasm washes over you in waves again, this one a lot more powerful than the previous.

Alex doesn’t stop moving above you, but you can feel how his thrusts become sloppier, and he doesn’t need more than a few before he comes hard, burying himself to the hilt, his warmth filling you. You can feel his cock twitching in you as your walls milk every last drop of cum from him, and then he collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.

Neither of you says anything, but you don’t need to.

You brush your fingers through his hair, combing back the sweaty curls as he breathes into the crook of your neck. His hand is all over your body where he can reach — your arms, your shoulders, your sides, your outer thighs.

You have already learned that after such an intense time with you he always needs time to process. He is not used to such level of intimacy, not used to being vulnerable in front of anyone. So after these moments he needs some time to look back at them while you hold him close. Not because he is weak, but because he is afraid of the possibility that it was only just a dream that he made up to comfort himself.

And you always wait patiently until he is the one to break the silence.

Like now.

“I’m hungry,” he says with such simplicity that you can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.

“I bet you are. We’ll need to re-heat the soup.”

“Maybe, but I don’t regret having this moment,” he shrugs, looking up at you with a loving smile. He cranes his neck to place a kiss on your jaw before he pushes himself off of you. Both of you let out a low hiss when he pulls out of you, the emptiness in you suddenly too unexpected. He gets up from the couch, pulling his underwear and sweats back on before he looks back down at you. “I’ll get a wet towel.”

You nod, resting your head on a soft pillow as you watch him walk away, the muscles in his back moving under his tanned skin, hips swaying slightly with every step he takes, making your eyes fall on the curve of his ass.

When he disappears around the corner, you look up at the ceiling, closing your eyes for a few minutes, listening to the birds chirping outside under the window.

You only open them again when you hear his footsteps.

He kneels down beside the couch, cleaning you gently, and you watch in silence as he works. When he is done, you look around for your underwear, and when you see it on the ground you reach for it, but he stops you. You glance at him holding up a simple black material, and you look at him with a questioning expression. “A new pair of underwear. So you wouldn’t have to put on back one that is… well, you know,” he tries to find the words, and you consider it adorable how he stumbles over his own thoughts.

“I get it, don’t worry,” you reassure him, taking it from his hand to put it on. When the material sits around you comfortably, you take his face between your palms, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”

“Right,” he laughs nervously, getting up from the ground and pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, get us some food then. I’ll be right back,” he announces.

Before he can disappear behind the corner you call after him. “Alex.”

He turns around quickly, eyebrows pulled up, waiting for your next words. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His lips pull into a small smile at those three words. He nods before he finally disappears.

He didn’t say it back. He never has, but you're patient with him. You know about some of the traumas that happened in his past. He sometimes is emotionally distant, but you don’t blame him. In those times you let him have his moment in his practice room, and when he comes out after spending hours in there, you keep him company.

Sometimes he talks about what happened at the rehearsal that day, or why he feels that way, sometimes he just prefers the silence and you close to him. There were times he asked you to read for him, or asked if he could play for you while you watched.

Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, you know he loves you. He shows it with his actions.

He just needs time to process his own emotions and feelings before he can say those three little words out loud too.

And you will be next to him when that day comes. Let it be days, weeks, months, or even years. But you know that you won’t ever be his first true love.

His true love will always be the music, and the beauty of playing. He fell in love with it as a child, and since then the bond between him and the music only grew. Nothing proves it better than him still playing on his first cello, that he got from his parents.

But you don’t mind. It was composed for him this way.

And his fingers run through the strings of life with a quiet, but strong confidence, creating a beautiful melody.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @eviispunk, @baronessvonglitter, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @nutbutterjellie, @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa

Some peope who were interested, but aren't on the taglist: @grogusmum, @vodkaandpizza, @peepawmiller, @kellyxo1, @mystickittytaco, @ningaispunk, @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls, @loveoverpride, @pedrospurplerain, @chewie-bars, @604to647, @joelmillerpascal, @smvtluvr