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Anonymous asked:

Hello friend!!!

I’ve been reading your stories every night they bring me so much happiness omfg!!!!

Anyway I had an idea for one

So like my thought, is that reader and Dom desire to have a drunk night in movies and card games surprise cuddles and such and drunk Dom confesses his feelings for reader that he’s had for a while and you know add as much fluff and smut as you please!!!!

Love you thank you!!!!

Replying to this via a new post because the ask box was glitching :(. First of all, thank you so much for this prompt! This was such a beautiful idea. I had so much fun exploring that shift from just mates playing cards to oh, we’re actually doing this. I hope this captures all the fluff (and the heat!) you were looking for. Love you right back! xx 🩷 ✨

A little note to everyone: I wanted to say a massive THANK YOU for all the love you’ve been sending my way lately. I’ve received so many requests and honestly, I’m blown away! Please know that I see every single one of them and I’ve received them all. I want to give each story the time it deserves. I promise I’ll get to yours! Thank you for being so patient and for making this such a lovely place to write. More to come soon! ✨

Drunk on You

dom x female reader ⛓️ friends to lovers ⛓️ drunk confessions ⛓️ slow burn ⛓️ domestic ⛓️ fluff & smut

The rain has already started when Dom knocks against the wooden door. You don’t hurry. You never do with him. By the time you open the door, he’s leaning back on his heels, jacket darkened at the shoulders, hair curling slightly where the damp has caught it.

“Oi mate! You look like you were thinking about not answering,” he says.

“You always say that. Nice to see you too, Dom.”

“Ya know I’m usually right.”

You step aside to let him in. He shakes off his jacket, drops it over the chair without looking, like he’s done it before - which he has. The apartment smells faintly of whatever you cooked earlier and the clean sharpness of the rain he’s brought in with him.

He lifts the bottle from under his arm. “Peace offering.”

You glance at the label. “That’s not cheap.”

“Aye. Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.”

You take it from him, fingers brushing his. The contact is brief, unremarkable. Still, you feel it.

The glasses clink softly on the counter. He pours without measuring, pauses, adds a little more to yours.

“Bold,” you say.

“Reckless,” he corrects.

You take the first sip standing up. It warms you immediately, settles low in your chest. Dom leans back against the counter opposite you, watching.

“What?” you ask.

“Just checking you don’t pull a face.”

“I never pull a face.”

“You absolutely do.”

He’s smiling when he says it, not teasing, just familiar. You turn away to hide your own smile, busying yourself with the remote.

“You picking?” you ask.

“Aye. But if you complain, I’m leaving.”

“You never leave.”

He shrugs. “One day.”

He chose ‘Lost in Translation’. Something old, slow-paced, the kind where people talk like they’re choosing each word carefully. You sit at opposite ends of the couch at first. There’s space between you. The room is dim except for the wash of the screen.

Ten minutes in, Dom speaks quietly. “This is the good bit.”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“That’s the point.”

You huff a laugh. He glances over, satisfied.

Time moves oddly after that. Not fast, not slow, but sideways. Dialogue drifts in and out. You comment on a line you like. He responds with something dry, observant. Somewhere along the way, he shifts closer. Not noticeably. Just enough that when you adjust your leg, your knee rests against his.

Neither of you moves it.

During a pause, you reach for your glass and miss, fingers brushing his wrist instead. He stills, then curls his hand around the glass and passes it to you.

“Careful, love” he says. “That’s how spills happen.”

You nod, a quiet thanks, and take a sip. His hand lingers near yours for a second longer than necessary before retreating.

Halfway through, you pause the movie and pull the cards from the shelf. He groans theatrically.

“Oh no. Not this again.”

“You love this.”

“I love winning.”

You sit on the floor, backs against the couch. He sits across from you, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The game starts badly and gets worse. He makes up rules. You call him out. He ignores you.

“That’s cheating,” you say.

“Strategy.”

“You can’t just change the rules.”

“Watch me.”

You throw a card at him. It hits his chest and slides to the floor. He laughs, unguarded, and for a moment you forget where you are.

“You’re awful,” you tell him.

“And yet,” he says, leaning back on his hands, “you keep playing.”

You do. Even when the game dissolves into something looser and more conversational. You talk about work. About a mutual friend who’s spiraling quietly. Then about a place he toured once and hated more than he expected.

“Thought I’d love it,” he says. “Turns out, I just wanted to leave.”

“You do that a lot,” you say.

“Leave?”

“Think you’ll love something. Then don’t.”

He considers it. “Maybe I just know faster now.”

The alcohol settles in gradually. You feel it in the way your body softens, in the way the room feels smaller. Dom’s voice changes too. It becomes slower, vowels stretching, accent deepening as the edges of the night blur.

You’re back on the couch at some point. You don’t remember deciding it. His arm is along the back, not touching you. You’re aware of the space like a held breath.

“You comfortable?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

A little later, you lean back without thinking. Your shoulder finds his chest. He freezes for half a second then exhales and settles.

“That alright?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is. Come here.”

His arm comes down, resting against your upper arm. Not pulling you in. Just there. Solid. Warm.

The movie plays on, forgotten. Rain ticks softly against the windows. You talk less now. Silence stretches, but it doesn’t press. It holds.

“You ever think about how long we’ve known each other?” you ask suddenly.

He hums. “Long enough to know when you’re avoiding a question.”

“Am I?”

“Aye.”

You smile, eyes on the screen. “What gave it away?”

“You only get philosophical when you’re circling something.”

He isn’t looking at the screen anymore. You can feel it.

“You circling something too?” you ask.

A pause. Then, “Maybe.”

The word sits between you, heavy and unfinished. His thumb shifts against your arm, a small grounding motion. You become acutely aware of how close you are, how easily you fit there, how natural it feels.

“You’re different tonight,” you say.

“Different how?”

“More… present?!”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.” Another silence. This one sharper. “I don’t get nights like this much,” he says eventually. “Where nothing’s expected.”

“You’re allowed to have them, Dom” you reply.

“Am I?”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching you now, expression unreadable but intent. Not playful. Just there.

“Yeah,” you say. “You are.”

He adjusts his arm, pulling you in a fraction closer. Your cheek rests against his shoulder. You can feel his breathing, steady and calm.

Neither of you speaks for a long while.

When he does, it’s quiet. “You make things feel… manageable.”

You don’t answer right away. The weight of the sentence deserves space.

You nod, even though he can’t see it. Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt, resting there. The conversation drifts to small memories, half-told stories. Laughter fades into warmth. At some point, his chin rests lightly against the top of your head.

You breathe there.

So does he.

The credits roll without either of you noticing. The blue light flickers, then fades, leaving the room in the deeper dark, punctuated only by the streetlamp filtering through the rain-streaked window. It paints gold stripes across the floor, catches the curve of your glass on the table.

His thumb moves again, a stroke against the material of your sleeve. Each pass sends a quiet current up your arm.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“So are you.”

“Yeah. Well.”

Another pause. The rain has softened to a hush. The city sounds distant, muffled.

“D’you remember that barbecue last summer?” he asks suddenly.

You think for a second. “The one where Victor set fire to the hedge?”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “That’s the one. You wore that blue dress.”

The memory surfaces immediately: the heat of the sun, the smell of charcoal, the way the cotton had clung slightly in the humidity. You remember him watching you then, too. You hadn’t let yourself name it.

“What about it?” you ask, your own voice barely a thread of sound.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just. Remembering.”

His fingers drift from your arm, down to your wrist, where they rest, light as a breath. His thumb finds the delicate skin there, tracing slow circles. Your pulse answers.

“Your hands are warm,” you whisper, the observation slipping out before you can stop it.

“They usually are.” He shifts slightly, angling his body more fully toward yours. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.”

His arm around you tightens just enough to pull you against him. There’s no space left between your bodies. Your head is tucked beneath his chin now. You can feel the faint rasp of his stubble against your forehead.

Your hand slides from his shirt to rest flat against his chest, feeling the steady beats of his heart.

His other hand comes up to thread through your hair, fingers stroking gently, rhythmically.

“This is nice,” you breathe, the words absorbed by his shirt.

“It is,” he agrees. Then, after a long pause, “It’s always been nice. With you.”

There’s a rawness to the admission, stripped bare of any attempt at humor. Your fingers curl slightly, nails dragging against the fabric. His breath hitches.

A few minutes later you’re both smoking on the closed balcony. He shifts suddenly, like a thought has just tripped over itself.

“Oh fuck, that reminds me,” he says.

“Uh oh.”

“No, no, listen,” he insists, already half-laughing. His hand lifts from yours briefly so he can gesture, animated now, eyes lighting up in a way that’s unmistakably him. “You ever been backstage at a gig where everything’s gone to shit, like.. properly gone?”

“I feel like that’s most gigs.”

“Right, but this one” He shakes his head, grinning. “This one was biblical.”

You turn toward him fully now, interest piqued. “Go on.”

“So,” he begins, accent thickening as he settles into it, “we’re in this venue - tiny place, smells like beer an’ bad decisions - and there’s this lad, right? Sweet as anything. Nervous. First tour.”

He pauses for effect, glancing at you. “Should’ve known.”

You snort. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Aye. Anyway, he’s pacing. Proper pacing. Like an animal. Keeps sayin’ he’s ‘not right.’”

Dom lowers his voice, mimicking, “Dom mate, ’m not right.”

You laugh. “Did you help?”

“I said ‘you’ll be fine,’ because I’m an arsehole,” he replies cheerfully. “Five minutes later, I hear this noise.” He winces, like the memory still hurts.

“Oh no.”

“Yeah. Oh no is correct, baby.” He rubs his face with one hand. “Turns out ‘not right’ meant he’d trusted a dodgy kebab an’ his body chose violence.”

You choke on a laugh. “No.”

“I swear to God,” Dom says, earnest. “Kid comes out the bathroom white as a sheet, and just goes-”

He drops his voice again, solemn. “‘I think I’ve ruined everything.’”

You’re laughing openly now. “Please tell me he didn’t go on stage.”

“Oh, he did,” Dom says. “But not before askin’ me dead serious if anyone would notice if he tied a hoodie round his waist.”

“Stop.”

“I said, ‘Mate, it’s punk, not a funeral, you’ll be reet.’”

You wipe at your eyes. “You’re awful.”

“I know.” He grins, then sobers just slightly. “But listen - best part.”

He leans closer, conspiratorial. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, warm and faint.

“Halfway through the set, I look over and he’s smiling like nothin’ happened. Proper beaming. An’ I think fair play, lad. Then I realize.”

“What.”

“He’s nicked my spare trousers!”

You gasp. “No.”

“From me bag!” Dom says, incredulous even now. “Didn’t ask. Just… took ‘em.”

You laugh so hard you lean into him without thinking, your shoulder knocking against his chest. His hand comes up automatically to steady you, fingers splaying at your side.

“Oi,” he says, laughing too now. “Those were my good ones.”

“I cannot believe this,” you say, breathless.

He shrugs, still smiling. “Tour’s humblin’. Keeps you grounded.”

You look up at him then, still smiling, still caught in the afterglow of laughter. He’s watching you in that quiet way again, amusement softening a little. His hand is still at your side. He hasn’t moved it.

“Thanks for tellin’ me that,” you say.

“Why?”

“Because now,” you reply, “every time I see you on stage, I’ll just think about stolen trousers and bad kebabs.”

He groans. “Ruined me.”

“Completely.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, then grows quieter. The laughter ebbs, leaving warmth behind. His thumb shifts absently against your side, a small, grounding motion that feels less like a question now and more like habit.

“You laugh easy,” he says.

“So do you.”

“Only when I mean it.”

The room settles again. The rain. The quiet. The closeness that now feels earned, eased into place by shared humor, by the intimacy of being told something stupid and real.

You realize you’re still leaning into him.

You don’t move away.

His head lowers slightly. Your foreheads almost touch now, breaths mingling in the small space between.

“This feels different,” you whisper.

“Aye,” he agrees. “It does.”

His free hand lifts to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone. The touch is hesitant at first, testing. When you don’t pull back, he presses in, fingers sliding into your hair.

“I’ve wanted this for a long while,” he admits, quiet and raw. “Not just… this. This bit. All the bits before it too.”

Your breath catches. Your body leans in a fraction more, answering without words. His other arm tightens around your waist, pulling you against him. There’s no space left between your bodies. No room left for unspoken things.

“Say something,” he whispers, almost pleading. “Even if it’s ‘piss off.’”

You shake your head, your cheek brushing against his. “Not going to.”

“Good.”

A sudden, reckless energy surges through him. Dom's eyes light up, and before you can fully register what's happening, he's grabbing your hand and pulling you up from the couch.

"Come on," he says, that familiar grin back in full force.

"What are you doing?" you laugh, stumbling slightly as he leads you toward the small speaker system on your shelf.

"Dancin'. Been sat still too long." He fumbles with his phone for a moment, then a raw guitar riff floods the room, something rock, gritty and alive. "Turns your living room into a proper venue, this."

The Stooges. He knows you love them too.

He's already moving, not with any formal grace but with that loose-limbed, instinctive rhythm you recognize from shows. It's ridiculous and glorious. He spins once, then catches your wrist.

"Your turn," he says, pulling you into the small patch of floor between the couch and coffee table. "Don't be shy."

"I'm not shy," you protest even as he guides your hands to his shoulders. "I'm soberer than you."

"Only a bit," he says, swaying with you. "An' that's fixable."

He doesn't give you time to think, just starts moving you both in a clumsy circle, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other holding your hand out like they do in films you've both made fun of. You trip over the rug. He catches you, laughing.

"Told you I've got you."

The song changes, something slower, more soulful with a thumping bass line. Dom's movements shift with it. He presses closer, chest to chest, your bodies moving as one.

"You know," he says, lips close to your ear, "I once tried to teach this to our guitarist."

"Teach what, exactly? The art of nearly falling over?"

"Nah. How to dance without looking like a frightened idiot." He spins you suddenly, then pulls you back in. "Failed, obviously. Some people are just cursed."

You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder. "And you're not?"

"Me? I'm blessed," he says, completely serious. "Got rhythm, charm, and ridiculously good taste in music."

"And incredibly modest," you add.

"Modesty's for people who've got somethin' to hide."

The music shifts again, faster now, and suddenly you're both jumping around like teenagers, arms flailing, laughter bouncing off the walls. You're breathless, face flushed, moving without thinking.

When the next song starts, a melancholic indie ballad, you collapse against him, both of you panting.

"I think I'm too old for this," you gasp.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close. "Nah. You're perfect."

You stay like that, swaying gently to the music. His chin rests on your head. Your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat against your ear.

You feel the words form before you consciously decide to speak them, rising from somewhere deep and unexamined in your chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you press your cheek more firmly against him, seeking courage in the steady rhythm of his heart.

"You know," you start, your voice muffled slightly by the material, "I don't think I ever properly told you how much I miss you when you're gone."

Dom stills. The slight sway of your bodies slows, then stops completely. One of his hands comes up to stroke your hair, a gesture both soothing and questioning.

"It's not just that you're away," you continue, the confession flowing more freely now. "It's... the phone calls never quite capture it. They're good, but they're thin, you know? Like looking at a photograph of a place instead of actually being there."

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his in the dim light. "I miss the Dom that's in the room. The one who takes up all the space, even when he's trying not to. The one who tells terrible stories and makes me laugh until I can't breathe. The one who... notices when I'm having a shit day without me having to say anything."

The vulnerability hangs in the air between you, fragile and honest. Dom's expression has softened, all traces of playfulness gone. He looks... moved. Struck by something he hadn't expected to hear tonight.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, fingers still combing gently through your hair.

"Yeah," you confirm. "It's like a part of me goes quiet when you're away. The part that knows exactly how to fit into the spaces you leave behind. And I don't... I don't like that part of me very much."

He pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you now, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a moment, warm and certain.

"Fuck," he murmurs against your skin. "I didn't know."

"Neither did I," you admit softly. "Not until tonight."

He pulls back enough to look at you properly, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. His eyes are filled with an emotion you haven't quite seen before.

"I think about you on tour," he says, the confession tumbling out with that distinctive northern honesty. "Not just... I think about you all the time. But when I'm away, it's different. It's like you're this... this anchor point. And I'll be in some shitty hotel room in god-knows-where, or backstage in some place that smells like beer and regret, and I'll think to myself, 'I wonder what she's doing right now.'"

His thumb traces your jawline. "I picture you making tea in your kitchen. Or reading in that chair by your window. Sometimes I even picture you dancing round your living room when you think no one's watching."

You laugh softly. "I do that."

"I know, baby”, he smiles. "I know you do."

His expression sobers again. "It's... fuck, it's the only thing that feels real sometimes. All the noise and the crowds and people wanting something from me…and then there's you, jus’ being you. In your own space. It keeps me grounded."

You're both silent for a moment, just breathing together in the dim room. The music has ended, leaving only the sound of rain and the distant city hum.

"I never told you this," he continues, "but after that first tour... when I came back and you met me at the train station... I felt like I could breathe properly for the first time in months."

You remember that day. You'd rushed from work, still in your office clothes, standing on the platform scanning faces until you saw him emerging from the crowd, backpack slung over his shoulder, hair messy, exhausted but smiling when he saw you.

He takes both your hands in his, holding them between your bodies like something precious. His thumbs stroke over your knuckles, back and forth, a slow, rhythmic motion that's both nervous and certain.

"I've been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot," he begins, looking at your joined hands rather than your face. "And I'm probably going to fuck it up anyway."

You stay silent, letting him find the words.

"Being your friend... it's the best thing in me fucking life, honestly. You know things about me that nobody else does. You've seen me at my worst and didn't run away." He looks up then, and the vulnerability in his eyes catches you off guard. "But that's not all it is anymore. It hasn't been for a while."

He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher. "I'm crazy for you. I'm properly, completely, stupidly in love with you."

The words hang in the air between you, so honest and raw they almost ache. Your heart hammers against your ribs.

"And I know," he continues, "I know that might make things weird between us. If you don't feel the same way, I get it. I do. But I couldn't keep pretending anymore. Not tonight."

"Dom," you whisper, your own voice trembling slightly. "We’ve been drinking."

His expression doesn't change. "Not enough for this."

"I just… I don't want either of us to say something we'll regret tomorrow."

"I won't regret this," he says, simple and absolute. "But I can see how this might be a lot. And I'd hate for you to feel pressured."

The tears you've been fighting back finally spill over, tracing warm paths down your cheeks. You hate that he's seeing you cry, but there's no stopping it now. Your hands tremble in his.

"Hey now," he says softly, releasing one of your hands to cup your cheek, thumb gently wiping away a tear. "None of that. Not unless they’re happy tears."

"I don't know what they are," you admit, your voice barely audible. "I think... I think I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of this changing everything. Of losing you if it goes wrong."

"That's not going to happen," he says, certain. "I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls you into a hug, arms wrapping around you, holding you tight. You press your face against his chest, breathing him in, feeling his heart against your ear. One of his hands moves to stroke your hair, a slow, comforting motion.

"I'm sorry," you mumble against his shirt.

"What for?"

"For crying. For making this awkward."

He chuckles softly. "You're not making anything awkward. You're being honest. And I'd rather have honest tears than fake smiles any day."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, feeling the warmth seeping through your clothes. His steady breathing calms you, and gradually the tears subside, leaving you feeling raw but clear.

"You still want to dance?" he asks quietly.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are gentle, understanding. There's no pressure there, only affection.

You nod.

He takes your hand again, leading you back to the small space between furniture. He puts on a new playlist. Something softer, more intimate, as he pulls you close.

No talking now. Just movement. His arms around you, yours around him. Bodies swaying gently to the music. Foreheads resting together. Breaths mingling. The rain tapping against the windows like a heartbeat.

In this moment, nothing else exists. No past, no future, no uncertainty. Just him. Just you. Just this.

As the song fades into another, you feel him press a soft kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your eye.

The next song begins, its melody wrapping around you both. Dom's hands rest on the small of your back. His head is bent toward yours, cheek against your hair, and you feel each breath he takes as if it were your own.

Something inside clicks into place. The fear dissipates like mist, and in its place blooms something fierce and true. All the years of friendship, all the unspoken moments, all the times you've watched him walk away to catch a train or a plane, none of that matters now. What matters is this feeling, this certainty that has been growing in the dark corners of your heart, finally stepping into the light.

You stop moving.

Dom senses the change immediately. He pulls back slightly, concern etched on his face. "What is it? Too much?"

You shake your head, unable to speak around the sudden lump in your throat.

His brow furrows. "Are you okay?"

Instead of answering, you do something you've been wanting to do for longer than you'll ever admit. You lift your hands, framing his face, your thumbs stroking over the rough stubble on his jaw. He stills beneath your touch, his eyes widening slightly as he registers what's happening.

Then you kiss him.

It's very gentle. But not hesitant. It's the answer to a question that has been hanging between you for years. His lips are soft at first, then firm as he responds, a surprised gasp swallowed by the contact. One of his hands moves from your back to cradle your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss, tilting his head to better fit against you.

The music fades into the background, the rain outside a distant whisper. There's only the sensation of his lips against yours, the taste of whiskey and Dom, the way his other arm tightens around your waist.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, you search his face. His eyes are wide with a mixture of surprise and wonder and relief.

"Well," he says, his voice rougher than before. "That wasn't exactly what I expected."

"Did you hate it?" you ask, your thumb still stroking his cheek.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Are you kidding? I've been bloody dreaming about that."

"Then kiss me again," you whisper.

He doesn't need to be told twice.

This kiss is different- slower, more exploratory. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and you open to him with a soft sigh. One of your hands slides from his face to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair there. His other hand moves from your waist to your hip, thumb stroking circles through the fabric of your shirt.

The world narrows to this small space between your bodies, this collection of sensations: the soft press of his lips, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the way your bodies fit together as if they were made for this. The night outside disappears, leaving only the warmth of the apartment, the gentle music, and the growing certainty that this is right, this is inevitable, this is something that has been waiting to happen for longer than either of you would admit.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs. "I'm crazy about you."

"I know," you reply softly. "I'm crazy about you too."

His smile is immediate. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, quick and joyful this time, before pulling back slightly to look at you properly.

"I don't think it's much of a surprise, is it?" you say, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "This chemistry between us... it's been there for ages."

He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch. "Ages," he agrees quietly.

"I've been dying to touch you," you admit, the confession feeling both terrifying and liberating. "Not in the friendly way. In the... other way."

His eyes open, dark with emotion. "Me too. Fucking hell, me too."

His hands tighten on your hips. “You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do this," he says, then demonstrates by leaning in to kiss the side of your neck, just below your ear. The sensation sends a shiver through you.

"Or this," he continues, pressing a trail of kisses along your jawline until he reaches your lips again.

This kiss is different from the others. Deeper, more urgent. Your hands slide from his face to his chest. His fingers find their way under the hem of your shirt, pressing against the small of your back, warm and sure.

The alcohol creates a pleasant floatiness at the edges of your perception, blurring the boundaries between you. You sway together, a rhythm not quite matching the music but wholly your own. Your head rests against the crook of his shoulder, and you lean into him more, letting your body mold against his.

His breath hitches when you shift slightly, the movement bringing you into fuller contact with him. You feel it then; the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. It's an unmistakable sign of his arousal, a physical confirmation of everything he's been saying.

A boldness you didn't know you possessed takes over. You move experimentally at first, a subtle shift of your hips that creates friction between you. His hands tighten on your back, a sharp intake of breath beside your ear.

You do it again, more deliberately this time, grinding against him slow. His response is immediate. A low groan, his head dropping to your shoulder, fingers gripping you tighter as if to anchor himself.

"Fuck," he breathes against your neck. "What are you doing to me?"

"Exactly what I want to be doing," you reply, your own breath coming faster now.

His hips begin to move in counterpoint to yours, matching your rhythm, creating a friction that's both maddening and exquisite.

Your breasts press against his chest with each movement, the friction of fabric against your nipples sending jolts of pleasure through your body. Heat pools in your abdomen, spreading through your limbs until you feel flushed and feverish. You can feel how the alcohol thrums in your veins, dissolving inhibitions, amplifying desire.

His hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine, dipping lower to cup your ass, pulling you even closer. The kiss becomes deeper, more urgent.

You need more. You need everything.

"Please," you whisper against his ear, the words ragged with need. "I want you."

"Are you sure, baby?" he asks, his voice rough.

You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward your bedroom, your fingers laced together. The dim hallway seems to stretch forever, each step a choice. Behind you, the living room with its half-empty glasses and abandoned playlist feels like a different world.

In the bedroom, you turn to face him.

"Dom… please put your hands on me," you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He does, warm palms settling on your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above your jeans. For a moment, he just looks at you, really looks at you.

"There's no going back from this," he says, not as a warning but as a statement of fact. "I know what I'm doing, baby, and I know what I want. You need to trust me."

"I do," you reply without hesitation.

"Good," he says softly. "Because I've got you."

You reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. His breath catches as he takes in the sight of you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. It falls away, and his eyes darken with desire.

"Undress me slowly," you tell him. You’ re so nervous, but you don’t want him to sense that right now.

His hands move to the button of your jeans, as hiss fingers work the metal through the hole. The zipper sounds loud in the quiet room. He kneels as he slides the denim down your legs, his lips following the path of fabric, pressing soft kisses to your hips, your thighs, your knees.

When you're standing before him in just your underwear, he stays kneeling for a moment, looking up at you. You reach down, pulling him to his feet, your hands finding the hem of his shirt. As you lift it over his head, your fingers brush against the warmth of his skin. The scent of him is stronger now, cigarettes and cologne layered with the clean, sharp smell of alcohol. It's intoxicating.

He undresses you with a focused intensity, each piece of clothing removed with careful reverence. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his hot, wet mouth. The sensation pulls a gasp from your lips.

"Dom," you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair as he switches to the other breast, his tongue darting out to tease it. The room spins slightly, a dizzying reminder that this is actually happening, that the fantasy you've barely allowed yourself to acknowledge is becoming real.

You tug at his jeans, pushing them down over his hips. He steps out of them, leaving him in only his boxers, his hard cock straining against the fabric. Something takes over in you then a boldness you didn't know you possessed.

With a sudden surge of confidence, you place your hands on his chest and push. He stumbles back slightly, surprised but compliant, falling onto the bed. You follow, straddling him, the warmth of his body against your bare skin sending sparks through your system.

His hands immediately find your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. "Fuck," he breathes, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What is it baby? What do you need?"

You lower yourself onto him instead of amswering, the thin fabric of your panties and his boxers the only barrier between you. The friction sends waves of pleasure through your body, and you begin to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that makes both of you gasp.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you down for a kiss that's messy and desperate. His tongue tangles with yours as you continue to grind against him, the movements becoming more and more urgent.

"Want you so much," he murmurs against your lips between kisses. "Been wanting you for so long."

“No, Dom. i want you so much, so much it fucking hurts.” You respond reaching between you, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips to help you remove them, and suddenly there's nothing left between you except the thin cotton of your panties. His erection presses hot and hard against you, and you break the kiss to look down at him.

His hands grip your hips, urging you closer. "Ride me," he says, his voice rough with desire. "Take as much of me as you need inside you."

The words send a thrill through you, and you lift up just enough to slide your panties to the side. You position yourself above him, feeling the tip of him pressing against your entrance. Slowly, you lower yourself down, taking him inch by inch, savoring the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it.

“Aaahh, Dom!”

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. "You feel incredible."

You begin to move, finding a rhythm that's torturous. His hands guide your hips, encouraging you to take more, to go deeper. You brace yourself against his chest, fingers curling into the muscles there as you ride him, the pleasure building with each movement.

The room fills with the sounds of your bodies coming together, your moans, his whispered encouragements. The alcohol still thrums in your veins, making everything feel more intense, more real, more perfect.

"Dom," you gasp, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds toward a peak. "Oh god, Dom."

You feel the wetness spreading between you, the obscene sounds your body makes as it takes him in completely. He's big, stretching you in ways that make you feel utterly possessed, and you accommodate all of him, taking him deep until you can feel the hair at his base against your sensitive skin.

The room was tilting, but you didn’t care; you were finally where you wanted to be. You were straddling Dom, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, looking down at him. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and his eyes were glassy with whiskey and a desperate, honest hunger.

“We’re gonna regret this,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the heat of him being inside you finally became the only thing that felt real. “In the morning, Dom... we’re gonna be so bloody awkward.”

He let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated through your thighs, his large hands coming up to steady your waist, fingers digging into your skin. “I’ve been regretting not doing this since we were nineteen, angel. I’d rather have a messy morning than another year of pretending I don’t want to rip your clothes off every time you laugh.”

As you moved against him, a long, broken groan escaped his throat. He arched his back, his accent slipping into that deep, thick Northern drawl as the alcohol stripped away his last bit of composure. “Fucking hell... you’re... you’re rightly perfect. Why did we wait? Why are we so bloody stupid?”

You leaned forward, hands flat against his chest, feeling his heart hammer against your palms. “Because we’re best friends, you idiot. Because I didn’t want to lose you.”

Dom gripped your wrists, pulling your hands up so he could kiss your knuckles, his gaze locked on yours with a ferocity that made your head spin faster than the booze. “You’re never losing me. I’m stuck to ya. Like a righ’ bad habit.”

He pulled you down closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly, drunken silk against your lips. “Go on then. Take it. I’m a bit far gone, but I want you to have everythin’ I’ve been keepin' for you. Ride me ‘til I can’t breathe.”

You began to move again, your rhythm clumsy but frantic, fueled by years of repressed wanting. “Don’t be gentle,” you gasped, your head falling back as he reached up to cup your jaw, grounding you. “I’ve waited too long for gentle. I want the truth, Dom.”

“The truth?” He huffed, a raw, feral sound. “The truth is I’m head over heels. I’m drunk, and I’m a mess, and I’m bloody obsessed with you. Always have been.”

He bucked up to meet you, his movements blunt and primal.

“That’s it,” he growled, his eyes dark and triumphant as he watched you shatter. “Stay righ’ there. Keep lookin' at me. See? It was always gonna be us. Always.”

Dom's thumb found your clit. He circled it, gathering your wetness on his finger before bringing it to his lips. His eyes locked with yours as he tasted you, and the sight was so incredibly erotic that you nearly lost control.

"You taste fuckin’ delicious," he growled, his voice thick and jagged with desire. "Fuckin’ incredible."

He reached down again, this time pushing aside the soaked fabric of your panties to get better access to your clit. His fingers worked expertly, finding exactly the right pressure to drive you wild.

"Dom," you pant, your hands braced against his chest, your hips rolling in circles, grinding against him. "You feel... fuck... deep… so deep."

Your breasts bounced with each movement, and Dom's hands left your hips, reaching up to cup them. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, already sensitive from his earlier attention, and you arched into his touch with a cry.

"Can't not touch," he groans, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "Been wanting to touch these for fuckin’ years, baby."

His words sent another wave of desire through you, and you increased your pace, riding him harder, faster. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound adding to the symphony of pleasure filling the room.

"You're so wet," he said, his voice rough. "Can feel you all over me. Soaking me."

Your head fell back, exposing your throat. "That's what you do to me," you manage to say. "Always have."

His hips began to thrust up to meet your movements, driving himself deeper with each stroke. "Lean down, please," he commanded, his voice strained. "Put those perfect tits in my mouth."

You obeyed, lowering your upper body until your breasts brushed against his lips. He immediately took one nipple into his hot mouth, sucking hard, while his hand massaged the other. The sensation was overwhelming, and you clenched around him involuntarily.

"Fuck," he gasped against your skin. "Do that again?"

You squeezed him with your inner muscles, and he cried out, his hips bucking up hard.

"Stop, stop,” he panted suddenly, his hands gripping your hips to still your movements. "Gonna make me cum if you keep doing that."

You look down at him, at the flush on his cheeks, the desperation in his eyes. "Not yet," you say. "Don't want this to end."

"Never want this to end," he agreed, pulling you down for a kiss that's all just teeth and tongue. You resume your movements, but slower now, drawing out the pleasure. Your hips slammed together with each downward stroke, the sound of your wet bodied echoing in the quiet room.

"I've never been this honest with anyone," he whispered against your ear. "Never been this raw."

"Me neither," you admit. "It's like... all the walls are down."

"They should've been down years ago," he said, his hands gripping your ass, pulling you harder against him with each thrust. "I know."

"We're here now," you reply, your head falling forward to rest against his.

"We're here now," he agreed, and then there were no more words, only the wet sounds of your arousal, the desperate moans and gasps that you can't hold back. His tongue explored your mouth lazily, thoroughly, as if he had all the time in the world. When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your bodies still joined. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

"I've always loved you," he said, the words quiet, clear, absolute. The confession hung in the air between you, raw and vulnerable. There was no alcohol-induced slurring, no hesitation. Just truth, stripped bare and offered to you in the heat of what you were sharing.

"Even before I knew what it was," he continued, his voice rougher now. "Even when I was trying to pretend it was jus’ friendship. Even when I was fucking other people and thinking of you. Always."

His fingers traced your jawline, your collarbones, the curve of your shoulders, as if memorizing you. "All that joking and teasing," he said with a wry smile. "Just a way to be close to you without having to admit why I needed to be."

You shifted slightly, and he groaned as the movement created friction between your still-sensitive bodies. You didn't separate, though. Instead, you adjusted so you can look at him properly. "Me too," you admit, your own voice barely a whisper. "Always me too."

His smile widened, genuine and unguarded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kissed you again. You became acutely aware of his hands, the way they moved over your skin with confident familiarity, the ink-dark hearts on his middle fingers. You've always had a thing for those tattooed hands, the way they look wrapped around a guitar neck or a bottle, but now, touching you, they're something else entirely.

Dom's hands were everywhere, tracing your spine, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they were hard and sensitive. He watched your reactions as if committing them to memory, adjusting his touch based on your responses. Then he shifted, surprising you with his strength. His hands moved to your waist, fingers splaying across your ribcage as he lifted you slightly, raising your upper body until your breasts were level with his face. He kept you propped up like that, suspended between his hands as he began to move beneath you, setting a rhythm that's entirely his own.

"Fuck," you gasp, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the sight of him beneath you, by the control he's exerting with such effortless strength. You can't help but admire him, the sweat-darkened hair curling at his temples, the muscles flexing in his arms as he holds you, the intense focus in his eyes as he watches your face.

He looked at you with a worshipful intensity, as if seeing you for the first time. There's a raw vulnerability in his expression that takes your breath away. It’s a mix of desire, awe, love. He fucked into you with a steady, deliberate rhythm, each movement a declaration of everything he can't yet put into words.

Your hands came up to cover his where they held you, fingers interlacing with his tattooed ones. "Yes, baby," you moan, not hiding your admiration. "Just hold me with your strong, gorgeous hands."

Your words drew a deep groan from his chest. His gaze dropped briefly, taking in the sight of your bodies joined and how he disappears into you with each thrust. When he looks back up, his eyes are wilder and hungrier. "Been dying to hear that," he admits, pushing deeper, faster now. "Been dying to hear you say things like that."

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and you cry out as he hits a spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble. "Right there?" he asks, though he already knows the answer. You're completely exposed to him now; body lifted, supported by his strong hands, chest thrust forward, face open and unguarded. Every gasp, every shudder is visible to him. There's nowhere to hide, and instead of feeling vulnerable, you feel worshipped.

"God, you're so fucking beautiful," he says, his eyes scanning every inch of you. "Look at you, takin me like this."

"I love your body," you admit, your hands running over his chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the scattering of tattoos. "Love how strong you are. Love how you feel inside me."

He responded with a particularly deep thrust that makes you cry out. "And I love yours," he says, his fingers flexing against your ribcage. "Love the sounds you make. Fucking love how you take all of me."

He's not quiet about it either, every sigh, every moan, every grunt of pleasure is unashamedly loud. There's something incredibly freeing about it, about being with someone who doesn't hold back, who lets their pleasure be heard without inhibition.

"Talk to me," you pant, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. "Don't stop talking to me."

"Never," he promises, adjusting his grip, holding you even tighter. "Wanted to tell you everything for so long. How you make me feel. How I think about you when I'm alone in my bunk on the tour bus. How I touch myself and pretend it's your hands on me."

Even as you ride him, he's in complete control, setting the pace and depth with movements of his own. His eyes never leave yours, watching every flicker of emotion, every gasp and shudder. Occasionally, he'll lift his hips with a sudden, forceful thrust that drives him impossibly deep, making you cry out and cling to him.

His face is a study in concentration and pleasure; the way his brow furrows, how his jaw clenches, the flicker of his eyelids when he finds just the right spot. You can see how deep inside you he is, can feel it with each movement, can see on his face that he's barely holding on.

His fingers lace with yours as he shifts, using his strength to flip you both onto your sides without ever breaking the connection between you. His leg hooks around yours, holding you open as he continues to fuck into you from this new angle. You can only tremble and gasp, overwhelmed by the sensations. He's hitting all the spots inside you that make your toes curl, your back arch, your mind go blank. Just as you feel yourself spiraling toward another peak, he pauses slightly, checking in with you.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice strained but considerate. You can't speak, so you turn your head back to kiss him, desperate, all teeth and tongues. The kiss is answer enough, and he resumes his movements, driving into you with renewed intensity.

That simple question, that moment of care even when he's clearly about to lose control, makes something inside you soften completely. You trust him, surrender to him in a way you never have with anyone else. His hands are steady as he guides you onto your stomach, the movements practiced and confident. You feel the cool sheets against your overheated skin, a brief relief before he raises your hips, positioning you on your knees.

"Spread your legs for me, baby," he murmurs, and you comply without hesitation. You've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in this position - ass in the air, face pressed into the mattress, completely open to him. But with Dom, it feels right, natural, as if this is exactly where you're meant to be.

He kneels behind you, and you can feel his gaze on you, hot and appreciative. "Fucking perfect," he says, his hands stroking over your hips, down your thighs. You tremble under his touch, anticipation building as you wait for what comes next. When he finally enters you again, it's with a slow, deliberate thrust that has you crying out into the mattress.

His hands grip your hips, the tattooed fingers pressing into your flesh with a pressure that's both grounding and possessive. He begins to move, but not with the urgency of before - this is different, slower, sensual as fuck. Each thrust is measured, controlled, allowing you to feel every inch of him as he enters you, as he withdraws, as he fills you again. You're trembling uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the slow, steady build of pleasure. You're drooling onto the bed, completely lost to sensation, capable only of moaning, of pushing back against him, silently begging for more.

"Love you like this," he murmurs, his voice deep and husky. "So responsive. Taking me so well." His words only heighten your arousal, and you clench around him involuntarily. "Always wanted you like this," he continues, still maintaining that maddeningly slow pace. "From behind, watching myself disappear into you."

The alcohol has stripped away all filters, and now that you're here, in this intimate space, Dom has no restraint. He tells you everything, each confession more raw than the last. "Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, still moving slowly, deliberately. "So tight, so wet. Can feel you all the way to my soul."

His pace increases slightly, and you respond by pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Can't last much longer," he admits, his breath hitching. "You're going to make me cum.”

You want to tell him to let go, that you want to feel it, but words fail you. Instead, you reach back, your hand finding his thigh, your fingers digging into the muscle in silent encouragement. "So close," he pants. "God, so fucking close."

There's something so vulnerable about him like this, completely open, honest about what he's feeling, how close he is to losing control. It's intoxicating, this window into his desire... You can feel him gathering momentum, his thrusts becoming more urgent despite their slowness. Then he shifts, one hand sliding around to your front, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease.

"Want to feel you cum around me," he murmurs, starting to circle that sensitive nub in just the right way. "Want to feel that tight little pussy squeezing me cock when you fall apart."

“Dom, please, please -“

His words are filthy, direct, and absolutely perfect. They wash over you, stoking the fire already burning in your core. "You're so close already, aren't you?" he continues, his voice dropping to that intimate, confidential tone. "Can feel you getting tighter, getting wetter. That's it, baby. Let go for me. Let me feel you."

His fingers work you mercilessly, matching the rhythm of his hips. You bury your face in the pillow to muffle the sounds you're making desperate, needy moans that you've never made before. "That's it," he encourages. "Just like that. Fuckin love the sounds you make. Fuckin love this little body, baby"

The pressure builds, a tight coil in your belly drawing closer and closer to snapping point. "Dom, Dom, Dom," you moan. You feel him pause inside you, pressing deep, holding himself there as he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you up and back against his chest.

The change in position is sudden, intense- his cock fills you completely as he continues to rub your clit from behind. You're completely at his mercy now, your back pressed against his chest, your head falling back onto his shoulder. His other arm comes around to support you, holding you steady as your legs begin to shake.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs directly into your ear. "Let me have it. Let me feel you cum all over my cock."

The words, combined with the relentless stimulation, send you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you; intense, overwhelming, all-consuming. You cry out, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him in waves of pleasure. "Fuck, yes," he groans, feeling your orgasm. "Just like that. Fucking perfect."

He continues to rub your clit, drawing out your pleasure, extending your orgasm until you're a mess in his arms. Only when you start to come down does he slow, then stop, still holding you close, still buried deep inside you.

"Where do you want me to cum?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me where you want it."

"Inside," you manage to gasp. "I want it inside me."

"Thank fuck," he groans. "Been wanting to fill you up, to pump you full of my cum until you're dripping with it." He starts moving again, fast, deep thrusts that make you gasp with each entry. "Made this little cunt mine," he continues, his words dirty, unfiltered, perfect.

"Yes," you moan, pushing back against him. "Please, Dom. Pump me full. Fill me up."

"Such a beautiful girl," he says with a grin in his voice. "My dirty beautiful girl. Love how you beg for it."

His thrusts become faster, more erratic as he approaches his own release. "So close," he pants. "Gonna cum so deep inside you. You ready for that?"

"God, yes," you moan. "Give it to me. All of it, please."

One more deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and lets go. You feel the hot rush of his release, the throb of his cock as he empties himself into you. It seems to go on forever, more than you expected, the heat of it spreading through your core.

"Fuck," he groans, collapsing against your back. "Fuck, that was..."

Words fail him, and he just holds you there, still joined, as you both come down from the intensity of your shared pleasure. You're trembling, aftershocks still rippling through you, your body buzzing with satisfaction. When he pulls out, it's with a gentleness that surprises you. He lowers your hips to the bed, then presses a soft kiss to your lower back, to each of the dimples above your ass.

He collapses onto the bed next to you, and when you turn to look at him, he's watching you with such unguarded affection it takes your breath away. Without a word, he pulls you into a messy, emotional hug; your bodies pressing together, faces buried against each other's skin.

"I've never..." he starts, then stops, shaking his head as if words are inadequate. "I've never felt anything like that."

"Me neither," you admit, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest. He rolls onto his side to face you properly, propping his head up on one hand. His other hand comes to rest on your hip, thumb stroking gently.

"I'm not drunk anymore," he says quietly. "Not enough to blame this on anything but what it is."

"What is it?" you ask, though you already know the answer.

"It's everything," he replies simply. "Everything I've been too scared to say or do. Everything I've wanted. For how long? Properly? Since that festival we went to last summer. The one where it rained all weekend, and we spent two days in that tiny tent, talking about everything and nothing."

"I thought... maybe you felt it too," he continues. "But I was too much of a coward to find out. Easier to keep things as they were than to risk losing you completely."

"I was scared too," you admit. "Of the same thing."

"We're idiots," he says with a small smile.

"The biggest," you agree.

His smile widens, then softens. "Not anymore, though."

He leans in to kiss you, and this one is gentle, tender, full of affection rather than urgency. It's a kiss that promises more nights like this. When he pulls back, he settles down beside you, pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

"Stay with me tonight," you say quietly.

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," he replies, kissing the top of your head. "Not ever again, if I can help it."