Wake Up In An Ice Cold Sweat
"And my skin starts to creep; you're hovering above my bed, looking down on me"
Masterlist Here
One Shot
Rating: Mature Category: F/M Fandom: Arctic Monkeys / The Last Shadow Puppets Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader Character: Alex Turner (Musician), You Tags: The Last Shadow Puppets (Pre-ETYCTE Era), Relationship Strains (Doubts, Implied Cheating), Smut, Cunnilingus & Fingering, Somnophilia, Dubious Consent, Menstrual Sex, Missionary, Slight Dacryphilia, Orgasm Denial, No proof-read, we die like MEN. Language: English Word Count: 7.7k
Summary: The atmosphere of relationships will always change like the weather. Happy Halloween, you freaks... and to quote Caleb Hearon: "You, me, some white sheets I'ma have to throw out tomorrow?" Note: Reader's work is unspecified, so go ahead, fill that gap.
July 2015 Los Angeles, California
“Big night for you, eh? Your bird’s finally landed.”
Miles teased as he leaned against his chair, his voice gravelly, accompanying the final notes of the guitar riff that filled the air, smoke-like ghosts of melodies they’ve been bottling and chasing for the past couple of weeks. Alex hummed, a noncommittal sound, as he stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray by the soundboard. He rose from the velvet sofa; the soft mewls of his leather jacket creaked in the control room. The exhaustion of today’s session was embalmed right through his cranial cavities, gripping the lids of his eyes and tugging the back of his neck.
“Yeah, guess… summat like that,” he murmured, his gaze distant.
He’d expected something more different, if one would consider the way an idealist would see the world. Perhaps a grand, cinematic arrival at the airport, a souvenir of kisses and open arms by the baggage claims, the jet lag magically disappearing in your system the moment your bodies collide as he whispers something endearing in your ear, before opening the conversation with where you would want to eat first and how the flight had gone; it was a proper, albeit overused, romanticised scene that has been packaged by Hollywood and put into one’s very eyes.
But reality was an unforgiving wake. It was during their tea break when he’d received your message, the notification popping up on his iPhone:
Landed. Got off the cab rn. Got the keys. Shift in at 6pm xx.
He grabbed the keys from the console as he replayed the message in his mind. A night shift. The phrase will be the jargon in your relationship for the next coming months as well, as it was highly expected. It wasn’t like Alex had the right to wallow about it; it was a risk to quit your old job and find another one close by. He did want you to move in with him in LA, which you’ve been putting off for months. Not because you didn’t love him enough; frankly, you do, much more than you’d care to admit. Despite being a workaholic, you’d divide your time to answer his texts during work hours—sure, you’d respond a little late, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
You’ve only fully decided then because, well, the rent had gotten high by a whopping 9.5% in Manhattan (not like LA was any better at 11.6%), and as much as you enjoyed your stay there, it was a much-needed decision to move in with him, despite the usual restraint: independence. The two of you have never exactly stayed in one place before, at least not for a whole month. There were weekend stays, but so far, the two of you wanted to keep it casual in the earlier months. If you could say it out loud, you weren’t expecting anything more from him: you’d figured he might want someone who was on his level. The kind of girl that would move to the rhythm of the world he inhabited, entirely separate from your own. In his world, where the royalties would come in even when he’d just lie on his bed, yours came with a 9 to 5, a bad posture, and stuffy office cubicles.
Someone’s got to make it out of the rat race. You never thought much of it, at least not every day. You were waiting for him to gradually lose interest, not out of insecurity—perhaps it’s just your brain protecting you from the worst.
Though, when those doubts won’t come, there will be instances where you’ve come to notice that maybe it’ll hurt you more now that the months have gone by; he was a devastating revelation to your carefully quiet life, and by God or whoever had made the world as it is, a part of you had begun to make space for him. He had awful takes on French films, and you weren’t afraid to dish him out on it. You knew that specific memory of his childhood that he’d told once at the bodega. You knew the exact difference between him drifting off in his thoughts of the future or remembering the past. You were doomed from the beginning the moment you accidentally tripped him over at the theatres in Times Square. Oh god. He laughs like he knows the sun was made to shine on him, FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Alex’s drive home blurred past the neons and headlights that streaked across his windscreen. The city of Lost Angels had hours like this, less of an iconic city and more of a sprawled, gentrified network of people crawling in and out of the familiar streets, living unfamiliar lives, and in a way, he is just one of them, if the industry blinked a little longer, maybe. It didn’t take long until he got back to his apartment; the click of the lock echoed in the stillness. As he opened it, the scent of your perfume wafted its way into his mind; he assumed you’d gotten back. He assumed wrong. You weren’t there to make your presence clear, but it was known in messy, bold letters. A large, scuffed suitcase by the sofa, a pair of second-hand boots—that Alex knew was too big for you, but you never really complained—kicked off by the shoe rack, completely out of place from his own collections, neat and meticulously shined; it was a welcoming invasion.
Now, the note. He knew you always left notes. Aha! By the kitchen counter as he entered inside to grab a glass of water, he’d seen your familiar scrawl, a charming font he wished had its own name.
“Al. Left you some dinner in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”
The note ended with the initial of your name, naturally.
He sighed, holding the note in his palm as if to feel the remnants of your touch in the fibres; his weary eyes softened a little. You were within reach, yet you still felt a thousand miles away. He slept some time in the morning with you in his arms; it was a quick, almost painful relief, but like all dreams, he’d come to wake again, and he’d have to slip himself away from you, an extraction that seemed brutal in its nature.
The tango was a week's choreography where the two of you seemed to always be in parallel ways, pivoting when one had left and crossing back just as when the other had entered. The flat would be hollowed out with the sound of what should’ve been you; he’d always be met with your notes on papers, never your words from your very lips. He would sense you move beside him under the sheets, but he’d never feel you move close. Dusk was evil in its dawning way. It didn’t feel enough, this whole dance. In fact, it felt like he was being pinned down in hospice. He’d call you earlier, at a quarter to six, a long shot. The calls would always be sent straight to voicemail; he’d memorised your automated voice more than he’d memorised the cadence of your ‘I love you’s by now, and conversations seemed adrift, unfinished. He’d open the door, and you wouldn’t be there; the silence was a mocking croon of your lingering presence. He didn’t have a girlfriend; he had a ghost who was living rent-free.
Not just any ghost.
As he’d inspect the living room, he’d always expect it now. On the coffee table lay your debauched paperback, lying face down for a crime he didn’t commit; bookmarks weren’t of your time, apparently. He’d seen you do worse assaults with books, but this in itself is gruesome enough. Then, by the shoe rack where his Chelsea boots would shine, were your boots that have looked like they’ve witnessed the creation of man for how they’ve gathered dust from all the walking, and like a gymnast balancing off its beam, the other one fell off the rack, the dirt comically sprinkling on his good mahogany. Jesus Christ, this woman’s making my house a pigsty.
He’d mention it a hundred times, like, really. The bloody boots, the books, the crumpled notes, the piling trash bins… It wasn’t about control, not really. Alex just simply had a meticulous love for order. It was a detail mishap that grated on him; he shouldn’t have to feel like that in his very home. He gently picked up the boot, carefully placing it beside its partner. He wandered into the bedroom, and the floor had your stray hair on it, and the sheets were unmade as if done in a hasty fashion: the form of your side of the bed remembered the indentation of your body, the pillows were rumpled, and by the nightstand, a notebook lay open. He didn’t bother looking inside; he has before, without telling you. Just groceries, budget tracks, and doodles.
As he changed to his simple home clothes, his mind replayed the weeks. The move-in felt more… like paranormal flatmates than two people in a committed relationship, with the missed calls and the messages exchanged in the most inconvenient hours. He had thought about it for a while, maybe this… no, he was sure of you, at least for now. You had one of the things that kept him tethered to the very ground you walked on; even during the early months when you were still in New York, he’d thought you were something else. You weren’t afraid to call his shit; you were blunt without the disrespect; you thought of him as an equal; you weren’t blinded by the way he sailed the world, for the two of you were two sailors in two respectable ships. The Mar Pacifico is vast for people just making it to land. Now, he didn’t know where that went exactly; both docked in the same harbour, and yet…
Alex slumbered—momentarily shifting onto your side of the bed, he could smell your shampoo on your pillow—his eyes began to close, and the contour of your face seemed to conjure up in his mind’s eye. He missed you; beyond it all, not just physically (god, did he miss it though). He missed the late-night conversations, he missed the quick kisses in the subway, he missed the way your eyes seemed to bore into him through the grainy laptop screen, and he missed the lilt of your voice when you were about to snooze off into the call. The two of you had responsibilities beyond the four walls of this very room, two lines never meeting, never intersecting. Alex slept deeply that night, burrowed in the duvet of his own thoughts.
“So, how’s the move-in then?”
Alex looked up from his notes, distracted by the question from his mate. He’d been in the studio with Miles the whole day; it had been three weeks since she’d stayed in his home.
He gave a small shrug. “Sound.” he murmured—which didn’t sell the lie, not even in a different currency—as he reached for his cuppa.
“Right, well, y’know… you should bring her around sometimes,” Miles suggested.
“She’s…” he backtracked, clearing his throat. “Night shifts. Different schedules, y’know.”
It was sort of telepathic, as he heard his unspoken question. Are you two still together? and even he didn’t know the answer. Were you a girlfriend? Were you just a fragment of his imagination, mingling in the air of his balcony cigarettes? Or were you just a very disruptive flatmate who worked at odd hours and stayed in the same bed as him?
Alex didn’t have the faintest clue.
He arrived home later in the night. The apartment lights were off, other than one lamp by the living room that he figured was left by accident. He sighed heavily as he rubbed his temples, he remembered throwing the keys by the bowl on the coffee table and turning the lamp off more aggressively than he intended. Then, he saw it. His eyes tracked a single, white sock, abandoned by the foot of the table. Not a pair, it was merely left on its own. He went into the bathroom to piss, and his eyes darted to the shower drain, the familiar strands of your hair collecting themselves in heaps of unflattering, unappetising noodles. His tongue clicked in irritation; he grimaced as he grabbed a piece of tissue to pull it out.
It was a snowball effect, is what it was. The mug rings on the kitchen counter, left by your cup of coffee. When he tossed his own shirt into the laundry basket, he found it more than half-full. Your clothes were piling up, her uniform mixing in with the vibrant colours of his stylish shirts. The last push down the hill was the bedroom, the bed to be exact. Unmade, for the hundredth time. The blanket was tangled and nearly dropping on the floor; even the bedsheet had popped out of its corner. How the hell does this woman sleep? Does she wrestle with the pillows?
He ran a hand through his own hair; the growing frustration was taut in his chest. This was the test of the waters he’d expected; he just didn’t know how long he could endure it.
The fight came fast, like flint against steel.
The next day, Thursday morning, he was off to go to the studio again. Lying down on his California king-sized bed was the maker of messes, fast asleep from a back-aching shift. As he made a quick tea in the kitchen, and as he sipped, he felt movements in the bedroom, leading to the hallway, before he heard the padding footsteps heading to the bathroom. The apartment, for once, was clean. He noticed in the night you’d been awake rustling around, but the tension had been simmering off the pot since.
It overflowed completely. When he checked his watch, he was fifteen minutes late for an interview. Right, keys… wait.
He headed to the living room, expecting to see his keys on the bowl, sitting neatly just as he’d left them last night. None but a lint, a butterscotch candy, and a penny.
“Love,” he calls for you softly at first, checking under the table, on, around, and under the sofa. He calls for you again, louder this time.
“Love?”
You were still in the bathroom, washing your hands. “What?”
“Have you seen my keys?”
“No?“ Your answer echoed in the tight space of the bathroom.
“I always leave them here on the coffee table.”
“Maybe you put them somewhere else; have you checked your pockets?”
You heard him groan as his footsteps began to pad around the living room. “They’re not here! You were cleaning last night, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t touch your bowl, Alex.”
You heard him groan, “It was here,” he swore, his voice tight as you watched him from the hallway, padding around the kitchen then.
“Calm down, will you? I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”
“No, I remember leaving them in the living room – blue carabiner, three keys!”
You nodded. “Okay, don’t worry.”
“It was here, in the bowl.” He swore again, surely this time.
“Yes, but it’s not. Alex, can you calm down for a moment so, we can—”
Alex’s voice became tighter. “You clean for one night, and now you reckon’ know where everythin’ is, then?”
You pushed your back against the wall, with an unreadable expression on your face. Your voice, threateningly soft. “What?”
He finally turned to face you, eyes dark and deep in dark louds that didn’t seem to rain. “It’s not here.”
You scoffed for a moment, crossing your arms. “Are you blaming me for that?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “I were just sayin’…”
“Say it,” you challenged.
He gritted his teeth then, gripping the semblance to stay calm. “You’re never around,” he stated.
Ah, there it is.
“It’s not like I have an option for my fixed schedule,” you explained. “It’s not like I chose to work nights.”
“Why don’t you find another job, then? One where I might actually see your face before the sun comes up?”
“You mean quit the job,” you began, stepping closer in the living room. “That I had to get to move here with you? So I could be here—in your city, in your apartment, trying to make your schedule work?”
“I didn’t ask you to work, anyway.” His voice dropped to an almost defensive tone.
Pause.
He continued, “You’re here with me, not in New York. You could just… focus on us.”
“You think I’d like that?” you spat. “You think I’ll stay here, waiting for you at night so you can feel what? Accommodated?”
You took a few steps closer, looking him in the eyes. “So you can feel like what… you have a girlfriend? A pretty accessory for your Hollywood apartment?”
Okay, things are going south.
“Stop stuffin’ words in my mouth,” he spat, brows furrowed, “I didn’t fuckin’ say that—” he began, but your voice sliced through. “No, you implied that,” you continued. “Loud and clear, Alex. You implied that my purpose here is to simply be present for your own convenience.”
“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” he whispered in a dangerous manner, hiding behind the underlying fear of his control slipping. “We rarely talk enough as is.” Alex was clouded with the accusations, stinging him. He wanted to point out that he’s been feeling lonely living in a two-person house for three weeks; he wanted to point out how much it hurt him to see you tired in the morning, working your back off, for a pride he couldn’t tame.
But, instead of seeing the hurt look on his face, you nodded. “You want to talk? Okay,” you whispered back. “Let’s talk about last Friday, while you were in the studio,” you proposed, before continuing.
“Who was that blonde that came looking for you?”
The air in the living room trickled like a cold sauna, growing heavy with something unspoken. Alex felt a cooling dread seep into his bones, his world tilting on its axis, his mind immediately racing for an explanation. He let out a short, forced laugh, shaking his head slightly; his brown eyes—a deflector of lying—widened.
“Fuckin’ hell, the fuck are you talking about?” he scoffed, “Last Friday? What blonde?” his voice tinged with a perfect blend of faux confusion and annoyance. Which one? Would be the right question.
“She came looking for you three weeks ago, your name in her mouth,” you continued. “L’ermitage, she says, to meet her there. She thought I was the cleaning lady.” The last words made your voice crack, and sure enough Alex had caught it.
“Cleaning lady, love… what…” he echoed, brows furrowing in pity before shaking his head. “I-I was in the studio all day, same as every… every Friday. Miles and I were buried in the new tracks; ask him if you don’t believe me. I don’t know who that broad is.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking pig,” you spat venomously, in a tone Alex had rarely heard from you.
“I’m not cheatin’ on you,” he insisted, his voice defensive. “Do you really think I’d do that? After everything? After you moved all this way?”
You didn’t bother listening to his excuses as your heels turned back to the hallway, leading to the bedroom. Alex’s chest tightened in a knot of panic, as if every step you took was a straight jab to his stomach. He followed, just in time for you to close the door shut in his face.
He called for your name, desperately knocking on the door. “Love, come on, listen to me,” he pleaded, his voice rising frantically around the edges. “I wasn’t—there’s no one. This is a misunderstanding—”
You were shaking on the other side, listening to his attempts at mending the wound, but you shook your head, eyes blurring in salty tears as you choked. “I don’t fucking care if you sleep with half the people here in the city,” you said, your tone devoid of any emotion that your eyes were desperately showing. “But at least have the balls to say it, Alex. Just Once. Be honest.”
You were fully aware of the ride you were in for, this lifestyle… the complex emotions, the needs that an artist like him needed, and you were, despite the cruel indecency of it all, on board with it. God, as long as he returns home to you at the end of the day, as long as you’re the one he saves a seat for in any crowded room, as long as you’re the only one he carries in his heart. But you also knew you couldn’t live with it; you couldn’t bear to see it with your own two eyes. When that morning came, the first sunrise to greet you was of a woman who looked as though she’d been expecting someone else to be by the door, someone you knew, someone who knew the sound of your laughter, the sound of your cries.
His voice continued through the door, muffled but clear, “I’m not cheating on you.” Whether he was denying or reiterating was coalescing into something unimaginable, words that seemed to press harder to the point of numbness. He continued.
“It was a journalist from Music Weekly. She… she must have got the wrong address, or thought I was home… We were supposed to meet at that hotel for an interview that day… for, for the new album… Love, please…”
You didn’t answer, even when he tried the knob again for the fifth time. He was about to knock once more when he heard his wristwatch beep. “Love, please… let’s talk about this later, okay? Don’t… just don’t…” he trailed, and you didn’t know what that meant, lost in the sheer confusion and betrayal as you heard his footsteps disappear.
Alex was distraught, hair tugged, a mess, and looking like he needed a hard drink, He had an interview coming up in a few minutes and here he was at the right place, at the right fucking time. Distracted by the anger as he cursed under his breath for the keys, he headed to the living room again… there, by the table lamp beside the sofa.
Blue carabiner, three keys.
It was 3 am when you arrived back home; the click of the lock was a familiar sound Alex had grown accustomed to, his sleep easing a little better every night that he’d hear it. But this time, it was the sound that shook his body awake. He returned around in the afternoon, expecting you to be there, but you’d already gone to work earlier than you usually did; you didn’t respond to his texts or his calls, and even when he visited your building, you stayed in your office, crying uncontrollably under the window shutters.
Here now, you saw him more clearly, from the soft warm light of the lamp by the sofa. He was on the couch, his hands dropping the bottle of beer on the coffee table, along with other bottles of hard liquors beside him as his eyes found yours. He felt nauseous, exhausted, and incredibly guilty. He hadn’t moved from the same spot since he returned from the interview; his mind wasn’t in his body, it was searching for you in the astral plane, looking to see if somehow, he could talk to you there. Miles had to nudge him a couple of times just to get a word out of him.
Your face, impassive, shadowed by the faint light as you headed to the hallway, he jerkily stood up, movements uncoordinated as he attempted to follow you.
“There’s leftover in the fridge.”
“I already ate.” you replied, voice flat as you headed to the bathroom, closing and locking it once again. He could hear the sound of your clothes swishing on the other side as he waited for you. The water ran for what felt like eternity, with the sound of scrubbing in between. Patience was his last vestige to the ever-growing walls you’d create.
You emerged, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, walking past him as if he were mere air, heading to the bedroom. His steps echoed on the floor like the pawprints of a lost puppy following its owner as it stood by the doorframe; in the dark bedroom where the only light that served the two of you was the moonlight from the window and glass-door balcony, his eyes tracked your every movement as you pulled out your designated drawer, you dressed, your skin disappeared under the white buttoned shirt you wore, and your hips shimmied as you put on your panties. Your hair, wet, dripping on your back as it faced him, water droplets deepening the colour of your shirt as you moved.
He softly called your name, earnest, achingly regretful. “I’m sorry about earlier, love… I… I need you to know. Honest… I would never cheat on you. She—the girl—t-the journalist…” He mentioned her name, but the syllables registered as nothing but mere white noises to you, he continued. “She got the address wrong. I promise you, I never would. Not after… not after everything, darlin’...”
You heard him shuffle through his pocket, and as you turned to face him, his phone was outstretched, a desperate, helpless offering. “Here. Look. My texts. My calls. You can go through everything. Just work, you, and well… Miles.”
You didn’t look; instead, you adjusted your shirt over your chest with soft, unhurried movements as if you were just imagining the man. You walked past him, heading to the nightstand, pulling out the little drawer for the pack of Camel lights you knew he kept there, along with his Bic lighter.
Your pace remained soft, almost airy, as if you weren’t bound to the ground, as you headed to the balcony. The soft mechanical ember from the lighter as you flicked it cast shadows on your face as you lit your cigarette. He watched you by the glass doors, dragging the tip a few inches short as the smoke dissolved into the air of Los Angeles. Once again, you were unreachable, a distant path Alex couldn’t stride close to.
He slowly slid his phone back in his pocket as he picked up your towel on the floor.
You slipped back to bed as he remained staring off in the distance outside the bedroom door, the night air and the faint, rich Turkish tobacco clung to your body as you tucked yourself to your side of the bed. His cigarettes and lighter were left outside; whether on purpose or not, Alex didn’t care for now.
This profound, deafening silence, this treatment that felt more clinically surgical than any other petty shouting match… It was too much; stones settled in his stomach that seemed to add more as each second passed. He found himself stepping close on the bed, kneeling on the floor as he looked at you. Your eyes remained shut, but his gaze was a sensation that made your heart beat twice as fast than it was intended for, even with all the confusion and the sheer gnawing knowledge of infidelity. You remained impassive, sinking your face into the pillows; the scent of hard liquor, his cologne, and cigarettes filled your space. It was as though all the places had lost their meaning and their names, it was just the two of you in a room, all the faults of the world and his had been banished. Your heart in its purest form still searches for him in the dark.
His rough hand moved to touch your hair, softly smoothing it back from your forehead. His hands trailed down on your hands that tugged the soft cushion; holding you reverently, he lifted your hands to his lips, a soft kiss, gentle on your knuckles, the peach fuzz leaving friction that seemed to administer angelic brushes against your skin.
Forgive him. Called whoever was in your head, and you already knew; you’ve already done so.
Alex’s gaze never left your face; his eyes that pooled like soft earthen coals were an abyss you’ve gotten lost into for so long, you knew full well staring back at them would seal your fate forever, or for as long as he’d want you around.
“I love you,” he whispered, syllables thick with raw vulnerability, spilling out heavy and bleak.
You didn’t respond, though your eyes peeled open and found their way back to his, dark, desperate eyes that shone under the moonlight. He was unforgiving; he was… he simply was the kind to melt your guard down. The flint and the steel had lost their way, nowhere to be found in your voice of reason.
“I know, I’m not the kind…” you trailed, “not the kind you usually… well, stay with.”
“No.” He shook his head, kissing your knuckles again. “You’re everything I ever need, you are, love.”
Does need hold a stronger resistance against temptation? Your mind asked, if you asked, you know it would take a whole ‘nother minute for Alex to lie again.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” you murmured. “We’re always in different places, Al. Even when we’re in the same room. You’re in your head, your music… your… whatever. All I do is watch you live a life I can’t seem to stomach, it seems I only hold you close when I can… It makes me wonder if I’m still… there,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his temple, his eyes closing immediately, leaning against your touch.
“You keep me grounded; you know that’s why I need you here, with me… When I feel like everything’s mad, when I feel like I’m not my own…” he trailed, his palms enveloping over yours, before he took them close to his lips and kissed the soft skin of your hand. He could smell the scent of tobacco on your fingertips, before whispering again,
“I love you,” he repeated, it was just as heavy as the first.
Then, relief came soaring through every vein in his body in dizzying waves as you whispered back.
“I love you too.”
Alex choked in disbelief and in gratitude, hesitantly leaning—second-guessing if he’d gone delusional and was hearing words he wanted to hear—before pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, just to feel your cheek against the tip of his nose, inhaling the scent of your skin before capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You accepted, lips parting slightly under his; a shaky sigh escaped him—a wordless prayer as he leaned closer.
But you pulled away, shaking your head.
“I’m tired, Al…” you murmured, voice fragile against the sheer racketing emotion that endured the past few weeks. “So, so tired…”
His eyes, once widened in fear, had softened. “ ‘s alright, you can sleep, love,” he whispered, pushing you back to the soft cushions of the California king bed. You nodded, though he continued his kisses down to your neck, nibbling gently on your soft skin, his tongue tracing the lines of your collarbone. The thrill was beginning to reach its way back as he trailed his kisses further down to your body, pushing the duvet off gently as his lips soon became the mere blanket that sent shivers down your spine.
It was a tender travel down below as he reached your lower abdomen, his fingertips holding the waistband of your panties. Only then did it jolt you awake, your face flushed as you sat up, placing a light tug of hand on the back of his head.
“Wait,” you whispered. He paused, his gaze questioning.
“Now’s not the time,” you muttered. Avoiding his direct gaze now as you slowly shut your legs closed.
“Why?” he asked, his fingers touching your stomach. “I thought you were on birth control?”
You stopped taking them three months back, and somehow you gave a nod so vague that you needed to further explain it. “I’m on my period.”
“Oh,” he realised, nodding slowly. His hand, though, travelled to your abdomen. “Cramps?” he asked.
You nodded again, “Kinda…” you whispered.
He began to press his palm against her abdomen, a comfortable pressure to ward off the discomfort she’d been feeling since the early morning.
You began to lie back down in bed, humming in content as he kept himself there for longer than a few minutes.
“You’re just going to… sit there the whole night? ” you teased, voice shining in amusement, a tone that he’d been deprived of for days.
Alex lets out a soft smile. “Maybe.” He leaned in, kissing your temple.
You didn’t argue this time; you just let him.
A few minutes later you’ve begun to keep a steady breathing, succumbing to sleep. Alex watched the way you seemed magical under the moonlight as you slept; he’d sometimes do this in the early morning, a few minutes long before he went to the studio. He waited until your breathing deepened into a steady rhythm of a pitch-black dream. Then, with careful movements, he reached for a soft pillow on the other side of the bed, slipping it under your lower back. You stirred gently but didn’t wake.
He walked to the closet, rummaging through fresh towels, preferably a darker one. He took it with him back to bed and gently lifted your hips again, just enough to slide the towel underneath you. He watched you stir for a moment, eyelashes fluttering as you hummed in your sleep.
With his preparations now done, he quietly dove back into the warmth between your thighs, his hands reaching to the waistband of your panties as he slowly peeled them off of you, the flimsy fabric gliding like butter over your legs as he tossed them on the floor.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous…” he whispered to you, his hands already travelling to the smooth expanse of your thighs as he widens them apart, a beautiful panoramic view for his very eyes. He sank down between her thighs, head nuzzled close to the soft, musky warmth that he missed so dearly. Alex inhaled your scent of arousal from his earlier teasing, then, with his tongue, warm and wet, licked tentatively, working his way around it. Then, his lips parted as he began to kiss your clitoris, a delicate chasteness that awakened you gently. The tip of his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, tasting, lapping. You felt something ticklish between your thighs, and you’d expected it now that this was another wet dream. Then, you heard the familiar groans of Alex down there that seemed far from a hazy, subconscious-filled taste.
Oh my god.
A soft moan escaped your lips, straight from the back of your very throat, a sound that sent Alex’s mind reeling. Your hips bucked, arching, pressing close into his mouth. Your eyes were the last to wake, as in a blurred, unfocused vision of the ceiling greeted you, you looked down to find the familiar head of Alex, his warm hands on your thighs, pressing them further apart.
But, his eyes.
Oh god, his eyes.
Alex looked at you. Under the determined furrow of his brows, his eyes were like the clouds before the thunder. Gone were his inhibitions as he feasted on you, the tip of his nose hitting the sensitive pearl of your mound as he gently suckled your labia, the sound pornographic in the quiet bedroom.
“Wait, Alex…” you murmured between gasps, breathless and biting soft whimpers. Your hand reached for his long hair, anchoring yourself as the feeling washed over you. It was a battle, a desperate plea to pull him away, even when your body longed for him.
“Wait, please… I… Al- Alex—” your voice cracked as your back arched, your head throwing back when his thumb found its way back to your clitoris, rubbing soft, demanding, delirious circles that made your head cock to the side, breathless, while he simultaneously tongued your orifice, not even minding the fact that your string was still inside. He ignored your pleas, making use of his own hungry mouth as he returned to your swelling clitoris, pulsing in raw sensitivity. You tugged him closer, gasping for air.
“God.” you gasped.
You were at a loss for a mere semblance of sanity, but it fractured the moment you felt him tug the string of your tampon. Your eyes flew open, immediately closing your legs as you pushed his head away.
“Wait.” you whispered, face flushed in embarrassment.
But he didn’t listen, he shook his head. “No,” his voice rumbled, unrestrained; he returned his hands to your thighs as he pushed them apart.
“It’s been weeks… months…” he whispered, your name falling from his moist, wet lips. “Can’t, love. Not now.”
He tugged the flimsy, bullet-like barrier completely, throwing it on the floor carelessly, the action so savage it surprised you completely.
Before you could even say anything, he kissed your lips, and you could taste your own juices from his very tongue, the aftertaste of the hard liquor strong beneath the scent of something metallic.
Oh, god.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as you opened your mouth to feel his tongue again. Just then, his big hands gently trailed back to your inner thighs, the kiss uninterrupted, his thumb brushing your clitoris, and you let out a soft mewl. Then, as he parted your folds, his middle finger and index finger began to slide inside of you.
Warm. Searing. Volcanic Heat.
The metallic taste lingered in the air; certainly, he could feel the soft, thick viscousness of it all. But he didn’t mind it, not when you were moaning against his mouth, not when your hips were attempting to meet his every thrust, the flick of his wrist pushing, pulling. His mind reeled from the sheer, intoxicating pleasure of finally feeling your heat after so long; it was almost carnal. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth just from the sensation of you around his fingers. You pulled away from his lips only to moan out a string of indecent calls.
“Fuck… Alex… Don’t stop…” you whispered, and he followed your commands.
He massaged your velvet walls, middle and ring fingers coaxing, pressing against your G-spot. He deepened further, fingers reaching in as his thumb pressed insistently against your clit from outside. He groaned under his breath as the sound of your slick juices began its symphony as he moved his wrist faster than before.
He moved his fingers back. The loss of sensation was cruel, but it would only be temporary as he slowly dipped his head between your thighs. You were still embarrassed by the mess; the metallic scent was stronger now that he withdrew his hand, but as you were just about to close your legs, he stopped you—pushing them apart again. The unrestricted access wasn’t a request but an order. His mouth found its way back, this time with desperate hunger, a man parched in the desert of Sahara. It was obscene, it was mortifying, it was everything you’ve never expected from him. The varied pressure of his tongue was an experiment you weren’t aware was to be conducted, the flat base as he licked, before his tip rolled around. His lips suckled, his tongue lashed, swirling, before coming back to tease the erect pearl of your mounds.
“Oh, yes… Alexander, oh god…” you cried out, tears in your eyes from the sheer pleasure. You weren’t even being pretty shy about it, gripping his long dark hair, tangling it through your fingers as he groaned each time you pulled him close, your hips grinding his face in impatient circles as he lapped you up, his gasp and growls vibrating between you.
You were close, so fucking close.
Then, to your surprise, he pulled back.
You stiffened, eyes bewildered as you searched for him in the dark. The grip you had in his head had loosened from the pure shock.
“What… what the fuck, Alex?” you hissed. You heard him laugh cheekily, a sound of mischievous triumph, and he reached for your wrists, binding them above your head. You tried to break free as you glared at him. You were in a rage for all good reasons: the lack of sleep, the fight from earlier, the lingering cramps, and the forbidden release. You didn’t know whether you wanted to swat at him in anger, or just cry it all out. The frustration was building up; everything about this was so unfair. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes as a lump in your throat began to form; you hiccuped until hot tears came falling against your temple.
“You’re a fucking sadist,” you spat, voice thick with emotions. He leaned impossibly close to your face as he wiped your tears, and even in the dark you could see the mess, you could smell the faint scent of your bloody fluids mingling with the scent of his whisky, he began cooing in that faux manner—the kind of person who would make a baby cry, and you hated the sheer comparison that he was treating you like one. “You’re a sadist,” you repeated, “And a pig… and a—”
Alex let out a soft, tender chuckle as he shushed you gently. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your neck, his peach fuzz scraping in ways that made you shudder, his breath was hot, lips wet from your own making. “Now, love…” he purred. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist…” he whispered against your ear as he kissed your temple. “I were just messin’ with you.”
He pulled back, gripping your wrist tight as he held you there.
“Darlin’... sorry for teasin’ you, you know me…” his voice softened as he gently touched your cheek, wiping off the blood he’d left there. “Right, you can sleep now…”
You didn’t believe him until his hand that gripped you had bound you loosely; only then did you shuffle and slowly relax your shoulder. The tension that was once there had disappeared as your tired eyes fluttered closed; the ragged breathing and the flushed face slowly dissolved as you lulled yourself to sleep. Alex continued to watch you dream off again, the brows that etched worry and irritation in your face had gently subsided was only then did he begin to move.
Carefully, as to not wake you up, he knelt between your open legs. His fingers, sticky from your own juices, worked at the knot of his jeans with reverent slowness and anticipation, just to chastise himself a little longer, the calm before the storm. He pushed the denims down, carelessly tossing them on the floor. His dick was already rock solid from the constant teasing and riling you up; he was practically staining pre-cum against the fabric of his boxers. He reached down, hooking his thumbs under the waistband before pulling his member free. It sprang, thick and heavy, just aching, practically salivating to be buried deep inside you. The air touched his tip, and even that was enough to make him shudder.
As he repositioned himself, he knelt closer between your thighs, his knees, gently pushing your legs further apart until you were nothing but an open, gaping, messy hole for him. Even int he dark he could see the faint, perverted, glistening sight of your cunt, just begging for his attention. He brushed his tip against your clit, and he felt your knees jolt.
With a devoted intake of breath, he began to enter inside. His dick pressed against the opening, slowly pushing in. The resistance was a beautiful, warm embrace as it adjusted around him until it moulded around his shift.
The months of longing, the empty encounters, the meaningless touches – all of the insignificant moments of connection he had before was nowhere compared to this. It was a fuckin’ furnace, he thought, a searing entry to an inferno he was happy to burn into. The scent of your blood was still there. Actually, it was still a fresh tang in his mouth, but he didn’t mind it at all. All he wanted to feel, taste, and think was you, and only you. He wanted his senses robbed and reprogrammed where all he could experience was nothing but you ,and this felt like this was the closest thing he could ever have to that desire.
He pushed deeper, and he let out a hard groan as your muscles clenched around him; he looked up to see that you were still asleep.
Not for long.
He moved gently, deliberately, then he thrust another.
You felt it. Again. Again. And Again.
Your eyelids fluttered open, the world blurring, seemingly out of focus as you felt your body slowly regain its control, only to have it be stolen again when you felt your insides get pistoned by a familiar sensation. You looked up, and there, navigating the movement of the tide you were drowning in, was Alex, his hips thrusting in a rhythmic, hypnotic pace. Each time he moved, a moan came falling from your lips; the sensation was fresh, odd, and dream-inducing. You didn’t know whether it was because of the lack of mobility or the loss of your own agency slipping away with each thrust.
All you could do was gasp, moan, and cry his name out.
Alex angled further, lifting your hips as he hovered over you. He moved faster, harder, chasing the race where his hips would meet yours, filling you completely. In his eyes was nothing but pure possession that felt like a sedative trance; you didn’t know how loud you were being; you didn’t even know if time existed at all - as your climax felt like the longest high you’ve ever had in all of your life, your eyes rolled back and your lips worshipped his name.
You fell limp once more, and your vision began to blur back to the subconscious mind; the last thing you heard was the sound of his last groan that came from his very lungs, deep, guttural, and completely unrestrained, vibrating against your ear. You felt full, incredibly full; the sensation was warm and oddly welcoming. You felt the heavy weight that covered your body; the very last thing your mind registered was the scent of sweat, copper, amber and whisky.
Note: This was a woozy thing to write, and I do think we've gone off the plot… Anyway! I wrote this in between writing my project proposal for our major subject—in the midst of sleep deprivation, I almost sent the doc of this fic to my professor 😭. Just came here to say the good news that the paper got approved, though! (YES IT WAS THE CORRECT FILE. DON'T WORRY.)
