aacheinthejaw

[aacheinthejaw]

Obsession With Death

part 2 | series masterlist

sickness or just human nature?

warnings: mentions of death, implied age gap, intercourse, exhibitionism, daddy’s back, inappropriateness

word count: 6.9k

Obsessed.  

It wasn’t an easy word for him to come to, much less admit. He’d never been one to dwell – well, he was but not like this, not to the point of ruin. But for days — days — you’d been stuck in his head, stitched into the fabric of his thoughts like a stray thread he couldn’t unravel.  

From the moment you’d walked away that first evening, your shape lingered behind his eyes. In the hours that stretched between dusk and dawn, when sleep came grudgingly and with little solace, you were there. And when morning dragged him back into the haze of routine, it was as though you’d never left.  

It’s only a crush, he tried to tell himself. It’ll go away. It’s just like all the others.  

But that was a lie. There were no others, not really. Or if there had been, none of them lingered in his chest the way you did, pressing against his ribs like something trying to claw its way out. Maybe this wasn’t a crush at all. Maybe it was danger.  

He knew it. But you didn’t.  

At first, he prayed it away, kneeling in the spaces between gravestones, the dirt still caked beneath his fingernails. He tried to will it smaller, to clip its wings before it took flight. But whatever this was — it grew.  

It consumed him slowly, a creeping vine winding its way through his thoughts. By the time he realised how deep it had taken root, it was too late. It was the way you moved, the way your voice wavered, the way you leaned into him on the hill like trust had been inevitable, like he hadn’t even had to ask for it.  

Every day he told himself, at the right place, the right time. That was how these things worked.  

Maybe tonight, he thought each evening, his chest tight with anticipation that never seemed to find its release.  

But the days stretched long, and the nights heavier still, and the right moment never came.  

Until it did.  

He wasn’t ready when he saw you again. He should have been. He’d told himself a thousand times to prepare for the moment, to practise how he’d act if you returned, if you dared step back through the gates.  

And yet, when you did, he froze.  

The sight of you felt like a slap to the chest, like breath pulled too sharply through his lungs. He didn’t expect it to feel like this — like fright.  

You walked in slowly, almost cautiously, like you weren’t entirely sure you belonged here. But you came anyway. He watched from the shadows, from the edge of the path, his body rooted in place as his mind swirled.  

What were you doing here again? What had brought you back to him?  

He prayed for something to say, some easy line to carry him through the moment. But his thoughts spiralled, and his hands felt like someone else’s, twitching by his sides.  

You didn’t see him at first. Not yet. But the way the dying light caught the outline of your face, the way your breath hung faintly in the chilled air — it undid him all over again. He thought about running, about disappearing into the rows of tombstones before you spotted him. But he stayed.  

He stayed because you had come back, and that had to mean something. Even if he didn’t know what yet. Even if it scared him more than he cared to admit.

“I can hear you this time, Alexander.” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet like a soft blade.  

To his disadvantage, the leaves had fallen dry to the ground, betraying the faint carefulness of his steps. They rustled with every subtle shift, giving him away. You’d been ready this time — alert, listening.  

He didn’t answer right away, but when he wanted you to see him, he made it known. Stepping from behind a nearby tree, he was met with your gaze, and the smile on his face seemed involuntary, almost sheepish. When he noticed the faint curl of your lips in return, something in his shoulders eased.  

“Got me.” he said, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. His voice carried that dry, self-effacing humour, but his eyes told another story. They lifted from the ground to meet yours, and you caught something hanging there — something you almost wanted to call shyness.  

“Always here.” you muttered.  

“Surprised?” he asked, shifting his weight to lean against the tree nearest him. It stood at the perfect midpoint between the two of you, a deliberate placement that felt calculated. He might’ve come closer, if not for the way he wanted you to come to him. So badly it almost ached.  

“Not at all.” you said, stepping toward him. “You’re much more predictable than one would think.”  

“Really?” he asked, the faintest hint of genuine surprise colouring his tone.  

It wasn’t a challenge. He didn’t believe you — not fully — but he didn’t seem offended either. There was no sting in his words, no edge. Instead, he seemed…amused. Like he might let you be right, just this once, even if you weren’t. Like he might let you think you’d figured him out.  

For now.  

“Well, you’re-” you started, only to be cut off by him.  

“Always here.” he said, finishing your thought as his lips curved upward into something sly, knowing.  

You laughed lightly, just a soft breath of sound, and kept moving closer. The space between you felt fragile, as though neither of you wanted to close it too quickly, to risk breaking whatever strange rhythm you’d found yourselves in.  

“And why are you always here?” you asked, stopping just shy of him.  

“Why are you?” he countered, tilting his head slightly, his gaze flicking over your face like he might find the answer written there.  

You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand, not to silence you but to pause you.  

“No, don’t answer that.” he said. “Not yet.”  

The weight of his words settled over the moment, heavy but not unwelcome. You wondered if he was asking for your silence or your patience. 

He leaned forward just slightly, the barest tilt of his body, enough to catch the faint chill of your breath in the air between you.  

“Maybe it’s the same reason.” he added, his voice softer now, almost careful.  

The same reason.  

His words stayed with you, even as the rest of the cemetery seemed to fall away, and you couldn’t decide if the thought was thrilling or terrifying. Maybe both.

You stilled before leaning closer, and the world seemed to follow suit, freezing in a moment suspended between what was and what could be. Alexander barely breathed, his body wound tight like a string pulled taut, vibrating faintly with an energy he was struggling to contain.  

Your hand — fingers chilled and trembling — brushed against the wool of his coat before landing on his shoulder, tentative but firm enough to hold your balance. A lifeline, or so you pretended, though you both knew the truth. He flinched — not away from you but within himself, the muscles beneath his skin jumping at the contact. For a moment, you wondered if you’d startled him, but no — he wanted this. He wanted it too much, and that was what unnerved him.  

He caught himself, of course, but you saw it. And he saw you see it. It was pointless to pretend now, but the pretence only made the moment heavier, more dangerous.  

His breath hitched again, catching on something deeper, and you felt it pass over your cheek as the cold air curled between you both. The atmosphere pressed in from all sides, close and heavy, as though the cemetery itself was holding its breath, watching, waiting.  

Your breath drifted upward as though summoned by the closeness, soft and visible in the chilled air, and he could feel the warmth of it mingling with the cold that clung to his skin. You leaned even closer, close enough now that he could see the faint dampness gathered under your nose, the faint condensation, a telltale sign of the biting temperature. The detail startled him with its intimacy. It was so small, so human, and yet it felt monumental in this moment.  

His eyes caught on it, lingered there as though to anchor himself, but it wasn’t enough. His gaze fell, unbidden, to your lips. The crack in the armour he’d tried so hard to maintain. He didn’t want to look. He knew once he let himself, he’d fall. There’d be no stopping it.  

Still, he looked.  

And there it was — his undoing.  

They were dry, cracked at the edges, with faint lines of redness where the winter air had worn at them. He noticed the faintest trace of dried blood there, too, caught in the creases of your lower lip like the aftermath of a small wound, so subtle it seemed almost imagined. Had you picked at them? Had the cold done this to you, or had your own hands contributed? Perhaps the former had caused the latter. The thought stirred something sharp in him, something protective and possessive all at once.  

You tilted forward, and your noses barely grazed, the faintest brush of skin, and it was like touching an exposed wire. His chest tightened, his breath snagged, and he couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped him — a mirror to your own. The sound mingled in the air like a single breath shared between two bodies.   

The sound of your gasp was the end of him. He wanted to pull away, to stop this before it became too much, but he couldn’t. Instead, he swayed closer, as though drawn by a force he didn’t fully understand. The faintest traces of your breath warmed his skin, and he swore he could taste it already. His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, the phantom of your presence lingering on it. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He wanted more.

Your lashes trembled faintly, blinking in the space between his skin and yours. He could feel them brushing against him like whispers, fragile and fleeting. Your eyes held something unreadable that made his stomach twist in ways he couldn’t name.  

Everything around you seemed to fade into a haze. The trees stood still, their bare branches scratching against the dim grey sky like veins on pale skin. The ground beneath you felt solid but distant and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot muffled, irrelevant. 

“Please.” you whispered, and the word shattered the moment.  

It hit him like a jolt, a crack of electricity splitting the air between you. His eyes fluttered shut, as though closing them might lessen the weight of what you’d just said. But it didn’t. If anything, it made it heavier, more visceral. He felt it sink into his chest, nestling there like a seed he couldn’t uproot.  

Your lashes brushed against his again, and it was maddening, the soft flicker of them against his skin. It was almost cruel, the way you seemed to lean in, barely moving yet pulling him closer all the same.  

He should resist.

He told himself this, over and over, even as his resolve crumbled.  

“Pleasure is an art of resistance.” he murmured, his voice low and frayed, so quiet it barely escaped his lips. He didn’t dare speak louder. Not here, not with the possibility of unseen ears or spirits lingering in the periphery. If they existed, he didn’t want them interrupting now. Not now. Not ever.  

He didn’t know why he said it — perhaps to remind himself, perhaps to warn you. But it sounded hollow, even to him.  

“Is it, Alexander?” you asked, your voice soft and steady, though the tilt of your head brought your mouth so close to his that he could feel the shape of your words against him.  

His body trembled faintly, every muscle locked in place, as though moving even an inch might shatter him. His lips parted, not to speak but simply to breathe, to take in the faint, intoxicating warmth of your proximity.  

“It’s hard to resist sometimes.” he admitted, a confession torn from some deep, hidden place.  

“Then don’t.” you whispered, sinking into him and pulling him forward, letting the words fall directly into his mouth. 

And he didn’t.  

His lips brushed yours, tentative at first, like testing the edge of something sharp, unsure if it would cut. But the softness of it undid him completely. There was nothing cold about you, nothing distant. You were heat and breath and something wild that burned through the frost lingering on his skin.  

The world fell away entirely. There were no trees, no gravestones, no brittle leaves — just the faint, undeniable press of you against him. Just the sound of your breaths mingling, the electric pull between you that he had fought for so long but could no longer resist.  

And he thought, in that moment, that perhaps resistance had never been the point at all. 

The moment your giggle broke the stillness, it cracked something open between you — something both electric and unsettling. It wasn’t loud, your laugh, but it was enough to remind him of the world beyond the thin veil you’d created. You pressed your face against the collar of his coat, nuzzling into the rough fabric like a cat seeking warmth, your nose brushing against his throat with every shift. He shivered at the contact, but he didn’t move. He didn’t know how to move.  

He felt your breath seeping through the layers, warming his skin beneath, and his pulse thrummed in response. It was as if your touch was slowly rewiring him, reconfiguring what it meant to exist in his body. He swallowed hard, uncertain what to do with himself, until instinct took over.  

His hand found yours, tentative at first, his fingers brushing against your knuckles like he wasn’t sure they were allowed to be there. Then he intertwined them, threading his fingers through yours with a deliberate pressure. Your palms warmed each other almost instantly, and it was such a simple gesture, yet it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  

“Come with me.” he said suddenly, his voice firm but low, the words carrying an urgency that felt out of place in the quiet. He didn’t give you time to hesitate, to question him, though his pace was slow enough to ensure you kept up.  

He walked like a man who knew exactly where he was going, though his steps were measured. His grip on your hand tightened briefly as if to anchor himself to you, to be certain you wouldn’t slip away before he could allow it.  

You could sense the shift before you understood it — the way the air grew heavier, the way his silence seemed to stretch taut like a thread on the verge of snapping. His steps slowed, the deliberate cadence faltering. You glanced sideways, catching the faint crease in his brow, the tension in the set of his jaw.  

“What is it?” you asked, the words softer than you intended, as though trying not to disturb whatever was unravelling in his mind.  

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze moved ahead, past you, drawn to something unseen yet inevitable. It was like watching someone step over the edge of a precipice.  

“Have you ever noticed,” he began, his voice quiet, almost contemplative, “how some names linger in your head like a melody you can’t shake? Not because you want to remember, but because forgetting feels impossible.”  

The question wasn’t for you, but it hung between you like frost, delicate and threatening to crack.  

You didn’t respond, unsure of whether he wanted an answer. He took another step forward, then stopped. His hand rose, brushing along the edge of a tree trunk as if grounding himself to the present moment.  

“It’s strange.” he continued, his tone darkening. “How a place like this makes you feel closer to something — someone — and yet further away all at once.”  

You frowned, unsure of where he was going. “I suppose,” you replied carefully, “it depends on who you’re here for.”  

His eyes met yours then, sharp and searching. “Does it? Or does it just depend on what you can live with?”  

You wanted to ask what he meant, but the look in his eyes stopped you. He wasn’t seeking answers — he was seeking something else entirely.  

And then he stopped, completely still. The clarity of the moment hit you like a jolt as your gaze followed his.  

You stood in front of it — the name etched into the weathered stone as familiar to you as your own reflection.  

“Do you miss him?” Alexander’s voice broke the stillness, as though the question wasn’t one that could shatter you.

Your gaze lingered on the stone, the name, the years carved there like a timeline you didn’t want to acknowledge. “Why-”  

“Do you?” he insisted, cutting you off.  

You turned to him, confusion and something sharper flickering across your face. He shifted, his boots scuffing the ground until the tips of them touched yours. He blocked your view of the gravestone, his hands sliding down to catch yours by the fingertips.  

“Sometimes.” you admitted. “Less now.”  

“Interesting.” he said simply, his head tilting as if he were cataloguing the information, filing it away for some unknown purpose.  

Your brows furrowed. “How is that interesting?”  

“I’ve always been interested in how what we can see and what we can’t see plays with our psyche and perception.” he said, his tone thoughtful, almost detached. “Barriers to gratification unlock the mind in a new way.”  

“What are you trying to say, Alexander?” you asked, your tone sharpening.  

You didn’t wait for his response. Instead, you pushed forward, your knee knocking into his, forcing him to take a step back. The motion caught him off guard, and he stumbled until he was sitting on the cold concrete of the raised plot.  

The wind picked up, tugging at your skirt as you stepped closer. The hem danced just beneath his nose, and he caught the faintest trace of your scent — something warm and almost sweet. He leaned back on his arms, trying to regain some semblance of control, but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your stockings stretched over your knees as you bent down. The fabric framed the barest hint of skin above them, a teasing glimpse that made his breath hitch.  

You climbed over him, settling onto his lap with a confidence that made his pulse pound in his ears. His gaze flicked upward, catching the glint in your eye, the knowing curve of your lips.  

“That you’re interesting.” he managed to say, remembering to answer your question, his voice low and strained.  

You smirked faintly, leaning in until your face was inches from his. “I’m just a girl with daddy issues.” you said, your tone laced with irony, but the truth beneath it wasn’t lost on either of you.  

His eyes flicked to the stone right behind, then back to your face. “Don’t you think it’s disrespectful? On your daddy’s grave?”  

He wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they were barely more than a breath, spoken into the curve of your neck as your hips shifted against him.  

And then it hit him — this was bad. Not the act itself, though the taste of wrongness lingered faintly in the back of his mind, mixing with the sweetness of you. No, what was bad was the fact that he wanted this too much. Wanted you too much.  

At first, it was simple — a small, flickering crush, like the faintest ember. Harmless. Something he could let burn out if he ignored it long enough. But now…now, it wasn’t a crush. Now it was like. Heavy and burning and uncontrollable, clawing its way up his chest and tightening its grip around him, making his pulse race every time you so much as shifted closer.  

He wanted you, that much was undeniable, but it was the kind of want that made him feel crazy, like his mind was coming undone in your presence. He wanted to do things to you, for you, things he shouldn’t let himself think about in a place like this, but he couldn’t stop. His thoughts spiralled faster than he could pull them back, and each one left him dizzier than the last.  

Your scent, the faint rasp in your voice, the way you tilted your head just enough to give him a sliver more of your neck — it was making him lose his grip on whatever composure he’d managed to hold onto before this moment.  

It wasn’t just physical. It couldn’t be. If it were, he could’ve brushed it off, left it behind in the cemetery along with every other moment of fleeting desire. But you weren’t fleeting. You were lingering, like the cold in the air, seeping into his skin and filling the cracks he didn’t even know he had.  

You tilted your head back slightly, your lips parting just enough to let out the softest gasp, and he swore his chest caved in.  

This was bad, he thought again. Bad, but too bad he didn’t care. Not anymore.

His hands, which had been braced against the concrete, moved instinctively to your thighs, his fingers pressing against the thick fabric of your stockings.  

“Maybe.” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear, your voice a soft, dangerous thing. “But maybe not.”  

And in that moment, nothing else existed — just you, the weight of you against him, the press of your bodies and the unrelenting pull between you that neither of you could deny. 

The cold air bit at the exposed parts of your skin, but it couldn’t touch the heat building between you. Alexander’s hands lingered on your thighs, his fingers curling slightly into your flesh. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one a struggle to steady himself.  

“I could get up.” you teased, the corner of your mouth quirking into a faint smile. “If it’s too disrespectful for you, Alexander.”  

His gaze darted to yours, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Do you want to?”  

Your laugh was soft, almost breathless. “No. I don’t think I do.”  

“Then don’t.” His voice was quieter now, less steady, though his fingers betrayed him by pressing a little harder into your thighs. You leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his cheek. Intoxicating, like the moment before a storm.  

“Do you always think about what’s respectful?” you asked, your breath ghosting against his skin.  

His eyes flicked upward, meeting yours with a sharpness that made your heart stutter. “Not always.”  

“No?”  

“Not when I’m with you.”  

The confession lingered between you, weighty and unspoken in all the times before now. You tilted your head, considering him, and he looked back at you like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, like he couldn’t decide whether to study you or let you consume him.  

“You don’t seem the type to care about rules.” you teased, fingers tracing the edge of his coat collar, testing the waters.

He tsk-ed softly, the sound carrying a mix of amusement and reprimand. “Now that’s where you’re wrong, love.” he said, tilting his head. “I’m very strict about rules.”  

“Not all.” you countered. “Obviously.”  

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, though the ghost of a smile played on his mouth. “I care about some.” he admitted, his voice tightening, edged with a restraint he was fighting to maintain. “But you…you make me forget them.”  

Your chest brushed against his as you leaned in closer, close enough to see the flicker of something in his eyes – something wild, barely contained. “And what happens when you forget?”  

His breath hitched, the tension between you taut. “I don’t know.” he whispered. “That’s what scares me.” 

You didn’t answer him immediately. Instead, you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension ripple through his body beneath you. His hands tightened instinctively, moving up just slightly, fingers brushing over the edge of your skirt where fabric met skin.  

“Scares you?” you repeated, your voice soft but teasing. “You don’t seem scared now.”  

“I’m good at hiding it.”  

“Show me.”  

The challenge hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he exhaled shakily, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against yours. The gesture was intimate, almost tender, and it made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t sure you liked.  

“I can’t.” he said finally, his voice barely more than a murmur.  

“Can’t what?”  

“Show you what scares me.” His eyes opened, meeting yours, and they were endless. “Not yet.”  

You let out a soft hum of acknowledgement, your fingers finding his and guiding his hand up to rest against your waist. “I’m not scared of you, you know.” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge of truth that made it land heavier.  “Should I?”  

His thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles against your waist. “No…maybe,” he admitted, “but not for the reasons you think.”  

You shifted again, leaning back slightly, enough to let your weight press into his legs. The concrete beneath him was cold and unforgiving, but he barely noticed it. His focus was entirely on you — the way your eyes watched him, the way your lips parted just enough to invite him closer.  

“Tell me something real.” you said, your tone suddenly more serious.  

“What do you want to know?”  

“Why you’re always here.”  

He hesitated, his grip on you tightening slightly before loosening again. “I don’t know.” he said after a moment. “It feels like…like this place is the only thing that makes sense sometimes.”  

“And me?”  

“You don’t make sense.” he said quietly. “But I don’t need you to.”  

You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. Your lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, you leaned in again, your forehead brushing against his as your fingers found their way to the back of his neck.  

“You’re strange, Alexander.” you whispered.  

“And you’re trouble.” he replied, his voice low, almost a growl.  

“Maybe we’re both.”  

“Maybe we are.” he admitted. His eyes stayed on yours, steady, calculating, but less guarded.  

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but charged. Then he spoke again, his voice quieter, almost pensive, like he was voicing a thought he hadn’t meant to share.  

“Sexuality is powerful,” he said, his gaze flicking downward for a second, before locking onto you again, “and difficult. Morally ambiguous. Rarely easy or safe.”  

You tilted your head slightly, considering him, and then asked, “It’s just a sexual reaction?”  

He studied you for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he was weighing whether to answer you honestly. “You and me?”  

You nodded, feeling something twist and coil in your stomach as you waited for him to respond.  

“That’s…” he began, his voice dropping lower, rougher, like gravel sliding over silk. “Animal attraction.”  

“Yeah?” you asked, the word slipping out of you, softer than you intended, like a challenge laced with curiosity.  

He paused, his lips parting as if to say something else, but then he shook his head slightly, leaning forward, closer than ever before. “You can shut up now.” 

Before you could respond — or disobey — he closed the remaining distance, his mouth capturing yours in a way that left no room for questions, only answers whispered through the heat between you.

His hand slipped to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and the motion sent a shiver up your spine. You let out a soft sound against his lips, and it was all the encouragement he needed to deepen the kiss, his other hand threading through your hair as though trying to memorise the feel of it.  

He let the strands curl between his fingers, pulling just enough to draw a gasp from you. The noise unravelled him further, and his grip tightened for a moment before he forced himself to stop, his breath uneven as he tugged lightly instead, teasing the edge of his own restraint.  

“You want me to fuck you here?” he whispered against your ear, the words raw and low, sending a spark through you.  

Your nod came fast, almost desperate, as you melted into his touch. His hold shifted, steadying you, his hand slipping from your back to your throat. His fingers curled around it like a collar, possessive but not cruel, applying just enough pressure for you to feel his strength and his control.  

“Do you want me to be your Daddy?” he asked, tilting your head back until your eyes locked with his. There was no escaping him, no escaping the intensity in his gaze or the sheer weight of the moment. He was everywhere, consuming every piece of you.  

“Please.” you whimpered, your voice trembling as it escaped, the sound vibrating against the palm of his hand.  

He felt it — felt the shiver in your tone, the fragility in your plea — and something inside him shifted. He let out a soft, dark chuckle, his thumb brushing over your jaw.  

“I can be your Daddy.” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, soft enough to contradict the roughness of his grip on you. The contrast made your knees feel weak, but his hold kept you steady. Kept you his.

The tension between you seemed to hold the entire world still, time itself pausing to watch. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he added, “But if I am, you’re mine.” 

His free hand drifted to your hip, the rough pads of his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. He guided you against him, letting you feel how much control he was losing, how much he wanted to lose it.

“Say it again.” he demanded, his voice more forceful now, less a suggestion and more a command.

“Please, Daddy.” you whispered, a soft plea that sent a surge of heat through him, making him bite down on his own restraint.

“Good girl.” he growled, and his lips crashed against yours again, rougher this time, more desperate, as though every kiss, every touch was sealing the words you’d exchanged in something far darker than a promise.

“Fuck, I need you.” he said, his voice breaking as though the admission cost him.  

“Show me how bad.” you whispered, your breath shaky, barely audible.  

His eyes darkened further, a flicker of something feral flashing across his face. “Get on your knees.” he ordered, sliding out from beneath you.  

You obeyed without hesitation, sinking to the cold, unforgiving concrete. The loose gravel bit into the bare skin of your knees through the stockings, but you didn’t care. His hands were already on you, pulling your skirt up, exposing the flushed skin underneath. You felt the sting of the cold air, but it was fleeting, because his touch followed, hot and insistent.  

Your heart thundered in your chest as one of his hands moved to tug your panties aside, the fabric stretched taut against your skin. The other worked quickly, fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal sharp in the still air. His zipper hissed as it came undone, and then his pants were lowered in haste.  

There was no pause, no hesitation. He pushed into you all at once, a sudden, overwhelming invasion that knocked the air from your lungs. You gasped, a sharp, desperate sound that echoed faintly around you. 

“That’s it.” he groaned, his voice thick with want. “Take it all for me, princess.”

Deeper. He pushed deeper, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. Your knees scraped against the concrete as he pulled you back onto him, setting a punishing rhythm that left no room for thought, only feeling.  

You dropped further, your forearms pressing into the cold as your body yielded to him completely. He seemed to take it as permission, his hips snapping harder, his breathing ragged. Somehow, impossibly, he sank deeper still, the stretch of him almost unbearable, almost.  

He paused for a moment, stilling inside you, his chest heaving against your back. You felt the heat of his breath on your neck, but it was drowned out by the pounding of your pulse in your ears.  

Something wet dripped beneath you, darkening the grey concrete. You blinked, trying to make sense of it — drool, tears? It didn’t matter. Your face was too cold, too numb to tell where the wetness was coming from, but the sensation of him inside you burned hot enough to block out the chill.  

“You’re perfect.” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent as his fingers dug into your hips again. He started moving once more, slower this time, like he wanted to brand the feeling of you into his very bones.  

He shifted, his knee pressing firmly onto the grave ledger, unbothered by the risk of scuffing his trousers. His hips rolled, steady and deliberate, and you felt every ridge and vein of his cock dragging against your walls. The sensation was overwhelming, electrifying. He hissed through his teeth, his grip tightening.  

Reaching forward, he caught your wrist, guiding your hand back to your own body. “Hold yourself open for me.” he ordered, his voice low, raw, each word laced with possession. He pressed your palm against the soft curve of your ass, forcing you to pull yourself apart. His eyes darkened as he stared, transfixed by the sight of himself disappearing into you, again and again, his thrusts deep and unrelenting.  

“Fuck-” he groaned, his words roughened by desire, his gaze glued to where your bodies joined. His movements became harder, more erratic, driven by the wet, obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin — hips against yours, balls slapping against your soaked pussy. The sharp cadence of it echoed in the cold stillness, a lewd symphony that made your stomach tighten and your legs tremble.  

The intensity built faster than either of you expected. You gasped, trying to shift forward, to pull away even slightly, but his grip was iron.  

“No, no-” he groaned, the sound almost desperate, his voice breaking with need. His hands caught your wrist again, both of them wrapping around it, his fingers engulfing it completely. Your hand looked so small, so fragile in his grasp, and the sight sent a new wave of hunger coursing through him.  

“You’re not going anywhere.” he growled, pulling your hips back toward him, sinking deeper, harder. “You hear me? You’re staying right here, taking everything I give you.”  

You whimpered, and the sound only spurred him on, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you breathless. His control frayed with every thrust, every cry you made, his nails pressing into your skin, leaving half-moon imprints as he held you steady.  

“Look at you.” he rasped, his voice full of dark admiration. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”  

You nodded, barely able to form words, your body pliant and trembling under his relentless pace.  

“Say it.” he demanded, his voice sharp now, desperate, as though he needed to hear it, to solidify the bond between you in this moment.  

“I’m yours-” you managed, breath hitching. “Yours, Alexander.”  

The last fragile thread of restraint snapped. Whatever boundaries might have existed between you dissolved completely, leaving nothing but raw need in their place. He moved faster, harder, until your chest slammed against the cold, hard surface beneath you. The impact sent a dull ache spreading through your body, but it was quickly drowned out by the intensity of his presence — his hips slamming into you, his hand claiming your mouth.  

“Shh…” he murmured into your ear, pressing his lips against the curve of it as his palm muffled the sounds spilling from you. “Quiet, princess. Let me hear it. Let me hear how wet you are for me.” 

Your muffled cries were swallowed by the graveyard silence, but the obscene, slick sounds of his cock plunging into you were deafening. His hand covered your lips tightly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. The other hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he buried himself deeper with every thrust.  

“You hear that?” he rasped, his voice low and hoarse, more to himself than to you. “That’s you, soaking me. Taking me. Every. Fucking. Inch.”  

You whimpered against his hand, the vibrations travelling through his palm and shooting straight to his core. The sound drove him crazy, made him lose control, made his hips snap forward faster and harder, chasing the feeling of your body clenching around him.  

“I can feel you shaking.” he growled, his lips brushing against your temple. “You like this, don’t you? You like being used like this?”  

You tried to nod, but his hand kept your head pressed down. Instead, you whimpered again, and he chuckled darkly.  

“Say it.” he demanded, pulling his hand away just enough to let you speak.  

“I-” you gasped. “I love it. I love the way you feel.”  

He groaned, his head falling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. “Fuck, you drive me insane.”  

His free hand left your hip, sliding up your stomach and under your shirt to palm your breast, his fingers teasing your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. “So soft,” he muttered, as if the sensation overwhelmed him. “So fucking perfect.”  

You clenched around him at his words, and he cursed, his pace faltering for a moment before he recovered, thrusting into you even harder.  

“Al-” you whimpered, your voice breaking as his hand slid down, pressing against your stomach, holding you in place as he drove into you.  

“I’ve got you.” he said, his voice rough and possessive. “You don’t go anywhere. You don’t get to pull away. You’re mine.”  

You turned your head slightly, enough to meet his eyes, dark and burning with something primal. “Yours.”

He cursed again, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, his teeth sharp even through the thickness of the barriers. “Say it louder.” he demanded, his voice barely controlled.  

“Yours.” you cried, louder this time, and it was all he needed to lose himself completely. His grip tightened on you, his movements growing erratic as he chased the release building between you, pulling you with him into the abyss.

The shiver that ran through your body had nothing to do with the cold anymore. It was from him — his touch, his voice, his weight pressing into you. Every part of him surrounded you, consumed you. When he felt you tighten around him, his control finally gave way.  

“Come on, come on Daddy’s cock.” he muttered, his voice breaking into a rasp as he moved with deliberate, devastating slowness now. “Just like that- shit-”  

Then came the stillness. Blissfully thundering toward death in a stampede of his fumbling green gentleness. An inexplicable poetry to the moment, as he buried himself fully inside you. You felt him tremble against your back, his breath hot on your neck. His hands, once so demanding and possessive, now softened their grip on your body, lingering reverently. His body tensed, every muscle trembling as he let himself go, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like surrender.  

“Stay still.” he commanded, his voice softer but still firm, his hands keeping you in place as his chest pressed against your back. He lowered himself over you, wrapping you in his warmth.

“Okay.” you whispered, though your voice cracked, rough — whether from the cold or from the aftermath of your cries, you couldn’t tell.  

One of his hands slid under your cheek, cradling it gently, cushioning it from the hard surface beneath you, as if it had suddenly become intolerable for him. The gesture was tender, almost jarringly so after the intensity of everything else.

“Close your eyes.” he murmured. His words were a request, not an order. There was a softness now, something stripped raw and quiet in him. He stayed inside you, unwilling to move, unwilling to let go. His body still pressed against yours, his arms bracing you, holding you close.  

“You’re so lovely,” he said, his voice barely more than a breath. His lips found your hair, pressing against it softly, an excuse to inhale your scent, to keep you closer than he’d ever thought he’d need to.  

His hand smoothed over your hair, tracing the curve of your jaw before resting on your shoulder. “Stay with me a little longer.” he added, almost pleading. You understood.

You nodded against his hand, the tension in your body melting under the warmth of his. 

“Do you feel safe?” he asked finally, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.  

“Yes.” you whispered, barely audible but enough for him to hear.  

He sighed, a sound heavy with relief and something else — something you couldn’t quite place. Then he pressed another kiss to the crown of your head, lingering there as though reluctant to part from you, even for a moment.  

“You make me crazy.” he muttered against your hair, and though it sounded like a complaint, the warmth in his voice betrayed him.  

“I think I like it.” you replied, your lips curving into the faintest smile.  

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head just enough to catch your eyes when you opened them.  

“Yeah.” you murmured, and his smile mirrored yours, soft and secret, meant only for you. 

a/n: Heavily based on the She Wants Revenge songs in the playlist, you can tell :) I think the smut went a bit too long, but I still have a hard time knowing how much to describe things. Like, I want to make sure you can envision exactly what I had in my mind. And yes it ends a bit abruptly, I guess, but I think it’s a good point. The birds will return in the next part. And it won’t come as fast as this part because I haven’t even started it, but I don’t have self control so I’m just going to post this one and go with it.

[aacheinthejaw]

crocodile hour with alex turner

[aacheinthejaw]

hey so this actually isn’t fucking funny jesus christ

[aacheinthejaw]

A Pair Of Wine Lips

he fucks you better than your husband

warnings: smut, piv, boobjob, cheating, me going on about him being hung for way too long

word count: 6.2k

You had too much on your plate. And your hands. Quite literally. Phone, drink, takeout bag, other bags, his bag, your bag — what else? You wouldn’t have been carrying all of it on your own if he hadn’t gotten that “very important” work call. 

How important could anything be when it came down to a sales assistant — excuse you, “brand ambassador.” And on a Saturday, no less. Important enough, apparently, for your husband to dump every single bag onto you so he could pace around with his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing wildly in the air. You’d watched him weave in circles on the pavement, tracking his steps back and forth, while the bags dug into your palms. It had been somewhere around ten minutes of this, and by the look of his hand waving, he wasn’t wrapping up anytime soon.

You’d noticed a flower stand nearby, a cart spilling over with reds and yellows, snapdragons and sunflowers in makeshift buckets. Figured it’d be the best distraction you could get until he finished. If only he could last that long in other places, you muttered, smirking to yourself. As you inched toward the stand, teetering under the weight of the bags, you managed to tilt your head over a bundle of roses, trying to take in a bit of their perfume — but the carefully balanced stack in your arms wobbled, then tipped, spilling everything in a heap on the sidewalk.

“Need a hand?” came a voice — low, thick like honey, with a lilt of something you couldn’t quite place. You glanced up, and there he was, leaning down to pick up the scattered bags, easy as anything.

He had this buzz cut, a close-cropped edge that somehow suited him perfectly, revealing the shape of his cheekbones, sharp and angular, and his jawline, defined enough to look almost sculpted. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but the way he moved, so deliberate, so steady, made you feel like he could see right through you even with them on. And the irony wasn’t lost on you, because rain was clearly on the way — the clouds rolling in were practically swallowing the afternoon light, dimming the street around you. But there he was, standing beside you in the gloom, hair buzzed close, shades on, wearing a jacket that looked soft enough to sink into.

“Here you go.” he said, holding out the bags he’d picked up, a hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. There was a care in his movements, a gentleness that made you feel seen for the first time all day, maybe all week. His gaze dropped to the bags you still held, and for a moment, his hand lingered, steadying your grip as he passed the last one over.

“Thanks.” you managed, finally finding your voice. It was awkward, catching your husband’s voice on the periphery, still barking into the phone, oblivious to everything. “Sorry- I didn’t mean to dump this all out at your feet.”

“Oh, no trouble.” His voice was warm, and he lingered for a second, as if you were someone worth staying a little longer for. He pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, clicking it with his thumb. You watched, dazed, as he leaned in and wrote his number on the paper bag you were clutching. Gliding black ink. His fingers brushed yours, light as a whisper.

“There.” he murmured, tilting his head just slightly, like he was looking over his sunglasses at you, reading you. “If you ever need a hand with anything else.”

Your mouth went dry, your heart fluttering beneath your ribs. For a moment, you were caught in a spell, in the warmth of his voice and the glint of that hidden gaze. You didn’t mention your husband, and he didn’t ask. Instead, he just smiled — a slow, knowing smile that left you weak on the spot. He turned, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he went, but not before glancing back over his shoulder one last time.

And with that, he left you there, bags in hand, a number scrawled across the paper, and a spark of something kindled deep inside you.

This should have been a forget it situation. The kind of thing you crumple up and toss in the trash of your mind, like an impulse you’d never act on. But you held onto that bag. And when you got home, you carefully transferred his number from the crinkled paper to your phone, fingers trembling just a little as you typed it in. For days, you let it sit there, an unnamed contact, glinting back at you whenever you scrolled past.

Why were you even thinking of calling him? Was it just for a bit of attention? Or were you just…a bad woman? But you had a feeling that he liked bad women, and the thought made your stomach flip, an electric thrill you hadn’t felt in a long time. You couldn’t explain it, but you knew that call was going to happen eventually.

When you finally pressed “call” your heart hammered, every nerve in your body suddenly alive. You’d barely registered the dial tone when he picked up, the sound of his voice rough, catching you off-guard.

“Hello?”

For a second, you froze. You hadn’t been ready to speak, let alone with him on the other end, sounding like that.

“Hi, stranger. Did I…wake you?” You heard yourself, chipper, a bit too eager, and it threw you for a second. But it felt good to play this game.

“Oh, you…” His voice softened at the recognition. “Hello, you.”

He coughed, a scratchy, lazy sound that somehow made your pulse quicken. You pictured him rolling over, stretching an arm across rumpled sheets.

“Would it make me seem like a bad person if I was asleep at 3 in the afternoon?” he asked, voice thick with sleep, laced with a smirk you could hear even through the line.

“Would it make me a bad person if I woke you up?” you shot back, matching his tone. It felt dangerous, that little exchange, and thrilling. You liked the way it felt on your tongue.

“I don’t mind.”

A quiet hung between you, a silence that stretched, strangely intimate. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded filling, but it tugged at you all the same. You heard him shift. You couldn’t help but imagine him lying there, head nestled into the pillow, dark eyes half-lidded in the dimness of his room.

“You need your knight in shining armour again?” a tease laced with just enough of a challenge to make your heart beat faster.

“What?” It went over your head for a second, the memory of your last encounter washing over you. “Oh…I suppose I do.” you murmured, leaning into the words, letting them linger between you.

“Alex, by the way.” he said, his tone low and amused. “I think we didn’t get to introductions last time.”

You told him your name, almost shyly. He whispered it back, like he was memorising it, tasting each syllable.

Alex had taken you to dinner before he took you to his place. True to form, he insisted on paying, playing the gentleman with an ease that you found unexpectedly charming. You didn’t mind it — not even a little. There was something delicious about letting him take the lead, about letting yourself be wined and dined for once. You hadn’t felt this light, this seen, in so long. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed it.

The wine had continued long after the restaurant, past the quiet walk to his door, until you found yourself settled comfortably into the worn-in corner of his couch. You thought about looking around, about taking in the details of his place — the books on the shelves, the art on the walls — but you decided to let him reveal himself, to find him through him, in what he chose to share. Letting him unfold on his own terms.

“Nice little place you’ve got.” you said with a half-smile, leaning back as he turned from the kitchen, wine bottle in hand.

“Little?” He raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye as he looked you over, cutting through the wine-softened haze you were in.

“I didn’t mean-” you stammered, flustered by the look he gave you, by how sharply it sliced through the comfortable lull between you. But before you could say more, he stepped forward, placing the glass back in your hand, his fingers brushing yours. Your hand tightened instinctively around the stem as you felt a quiet shiver ripple down your spine.

“Nothing’s little over ’ere.” he murmured, wrapped in that smoky accent, daring. He hovered for a second, watching the blush creep up your cheeks, and leaned back with a smirk that made your stomach twist.

You managed a breathless laugh, feeling the heat rise in you, and took a long sip from your glass, grateful for the way the wine let you hide a bit behind the glass. He settled onto the couch beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, the air between you thickening with every inch he took closer.

“I can assure you.” he added, his eyes flickering over you as he unbuttoned another button of his white shirt. You couldn’t help but look, your eyes trailing over the hollow of his throat, the bare stretch of his collarbone and the hint of a lean chest beneath the fabric. His skin was flushed, a sheen of sweat just barely glistening in the low light, like he was feeling the same kind of heat you were.

It felt like a test, like he was asking you something without saying a word.

You debated holding back, feeling that fluttering urge to play coy, to tease this out longer. But in the end, you knew it’d be a waste of time — for both of you. This moment felt inevitable, like the two of you had been moving toward it since the second you locked eyes at that flower stand. So you gave in, shifting forward and swinging your leg over his lap, settling over him. Your hand pressed against his chest. The glasses in your hands bumped together, spilling a few drops of wine between you, but neither of you cared.

His hands moved instinctively to your waist, fingers splayed against your sides. “You wanna make sure?” he murmured, the barest smirk at the edge of his lips. “Shouldn’t make big claims if you’re not ready for an over-check.”

“And you’re ready?” you asked.

“I’m ready.”

His words went straight through you. You wanted to eat him whole, to devour every look, every unspoken invitation he was offering you. A boldness welled up inside you as you tilted the glass in your hand, spilling the last of the wine down the front of his shirt, watching the deep red stain bloom across the white fabric.

He gasped, an exaggerated look of mock offense crossing his face, followed by a playful scoff. “Well, guess you need to take it off.” you whispered, leaning closer so he could feel your breath against his cheek.

“Oh, you guess so?” he shot back, eyes narrowing with a kind of wild mischief that made your pulse race.

“Yeah.” you murmured, lips barely an inch from his. His hands tightened on your waist, drawing you closer, pulling you against him until your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Yeah.” he echoed. 

And then his lips were on yours, warm and insistent. His mouth moved, his hand pressing against the small of your back to draw you closer. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his wine-stained shirt as his tongue swept against yours, tasting the culprit on your breath. He was all heat and tension, the rough warmth of his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, grazing your skin as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

He was impatient, his hands everywhere, tugging, reaching, wanting, while your body moved against his, heat pooling between you. His fingers tangled through the layers of fabric between you, pulling  insistently until they finally found its way to your breast, his touch rough, his hot warm against your skin. He was hot. Everything was hot. 

“You’re so hot.” he murmured against your neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there, and the vibration of his voice made your spine arch, hips grinding over his with a mind of their own.

“Thanks.” you whispered back, breathless, tilting your head to give him more access as he trailed his mouth up your jawline, each kiss more urgent than the last.

“You’re welcome.” he breathed, pulling back just long enough to grip your shirt and give it a tug. The buttons popped, scattering across the couch, hunger and awe.

He was nothing if not dramatic. “Sorry.” he said, voice low, as his hands splayed across your bare skin. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine. We’re even now.” You ran your fingers over his chest, feeling the tight muscle beneath his shirt as your hips shifted again, pressing down over the hard shape of him through his jeans.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He smirked, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes, hands slipping around to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you feel his strength. “You did insult my size.”

“Of the house.”

“Which is a reflection of the owner, isn’t it?” His hands skimmed down your back, pressing your body closer against him, until you could feel every inch of him. “I won’t let myself be littled.”

“Fine.” you murmured. You could already feel him — not little — and your cheeks flushed at the thought, your body thrumming as his hands roamed over your bare back, the tension in his body a barely-contained force under your hands.

He tilted his head, capturing your lips in another kiss, his mouth soft, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. Your bodies moved in a slow, pulsing rhythm, building heat. You pressed down harder, the rough fabric of his jeans a friction that made your pulse quicken, and he groaned, a low, ragged sound that told you he was feeling it, too. His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you into a slow grind, pushing you both to the edge of restraint.

He had you turned around so easily. You’d managed to open his shirt, your fingers grazing the warmth of his skin underneath, but you hadn’t gotten it off yet, hadn’t seen the full strength in his arms — but you could feel it now with his chest pressed to your back. The way he gripped you, his fingers digging in just enough to make your skin tingle, told you everything you needed to know. His thighs tensed beneath you, solid. 

“You gonna let the little one in tonight?” he murmured, his accent curling around each word. 

“Yeah.” you breathed out, barely recognizing your own voice. You pushed yourself up, enough to slip your pants and underwear down, letting them fall to your ankles. Before you could  even fully settle, his arms came around you, pulling you back down, holding you tightly. He thrust up, needy, leaving no space between you. A slick warmth spread and you felt the wetness you were leaving on him, a messy streak over the front of his jeans. He let out a low, rough chuckle.

“Makin’ a mess on all my clothes.” he said.

“You don’t mind.” you whispered, leaning closer.

His hands gripped your waist tighter. “I really don’t.” he murmured, his voice almost a growl. He held you, hands roaming over your skin, lingering in places that made you ache, made you want to pull him closer until there was nothing left at all.

“Let the little one speak.” you teased, a challenge, enough to spark that glint in his eye.

You felt the subtle tug of a zipper, the quiet sound as he slid it down. His boxers shifted, and you felt him, hard and hot against you, the head of him nudging right at your entrance. He kept one hand around your throat, not tight, but enough to hold your gaze with his own, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“Don’t peek.” he warned, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, even as his breathing grew shallow, betraying the restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I won’t.” you whispered, licking a trail up to his ear. “Don’t wanna ruin the surprise.”

In a seamless motion, he thrust up as he pulled you down, guiding you onto him. The feeling was deep. That was the only thing that came to you. Intense, leaving you breathless, and you could barely contain the gasp that escaped your lips. He filled you completely, and the pressure was perfect, a slow, steady stretch that made every nerve in your body hum.

He was big – you’d known –  but it was more than you’d imagined. He fit inside you with an ease that felt both unexpected and inevitable, as though your body had been waiting for this exact moment. His tip brushed against that perfect spot almost instantly, sending a jolt through you, and you couldn’t help but cling to him, hands reaching back and nails digging into his shoulders as you let yourself sink onto him.

He didn’t move, holding you there, just as you were, letting you adjust, his hand still wrapped loosely around your throat, the other trailing down your front. You could feel every subtle shift of his body, every little twitch and throb, each one setting off sparks that made you ache for more. He leaned forward, his breath warm against your ear, his lips brushing just beneath it as he whispered, “Ready?”

In response, you shifted your hips, pressing yourself harder against him, feeling every inch, letting the heat build until he finally started to move. His rhythm was slow, almost torturous, but each thrust drove him deeper, making you gasp as he hit that spot again and again. It was a blur of heat and urgency, neither of you willing to let down, driven by a shared hunger that was finally spilling over. 

His hands gripped the backs of your knees, spreading you open as he thrust harder, a ferocity starting to spill into every movement, and you were clutching onto him like he was the only solid thing keeping you grounded. His shirt was still hanging off his shoulders, half-buttoned and wrinkled, and you’d barely managed to slip out of your own clothes, but none of it mattered.

“Fuck, yeah.” he groaned, his voice rough, watching you. His eyes flicked between your face and your body, watching the way your breasts bounced right under his nose, the way you arched into him, utterly lost in the rhythm he was setting. You could barely hold his stare, making you feel almost vulnerable in its rawness.

“Yeah.” you moaned, barely able to get the word out as he buried himself deeper, hips moving in a relentless rhythm that left you gasping. The sounds filled the room, each moan, each breath layering over the other, building like the heat pooling between you. It became a question of who could be louder, your voices blending, overlapping, neither of you wanting to let the other win, each new sound spurring him to thrust harder, to make you scream his name.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me.” he muttered, voice half-lost in the strain of holding himself back. His fingers tightened around your legs. 

“You’re already ruined.” you managed to tease back. 

That made him smirk even as his eyes darkened. He let out a low, strained laugh, each word rough as he ground out, “Say that again when you’re the one begging me to stop.”

You moved your hand between you, fingers finding your clit, and you watched his eyes narrow as he caught what you were doing. “Fuck- wanna come on your tits.” he breathed, his voice thick and almost pleading. His hips stuttered for a second, the strain clear in the tight line of his jaw as he tried to focus, his gaze drifting down to where your fingers moved.

“You don’t mind if I help myself then.” you said, arching a little under him, every stroke pushing you closer to the release you could feel hovering just out of reach.

“Help yourself?” he repeated, a low murmur that made your stomach flip. He leaned down, bringing his face close to yours, his hand moving to your throat again, thumb brushing against your jaw as he smirked. “Go on, then. Show me how much you want it.”

You moaned, barely able to hold his stare as your fingers moved faster. His hand tightened around your throat. He watched, captivated, his hips moving slower, more purposeful, every thrust drawing out the tension, letting it build until it was almost unbearable. “You look so good.” he whispered. “Fuck- you’re gonna come on my cock, aren’t you?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Alex- fuck- so close…”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, “Not so little now, huh?”

It was too much. Your body tightened, every muscle tensing as you reached that peak, pleasure washing over you, clenching around him, completely undone. He felt it, felt every shudder, every spasm as you came, his hands tightening around you. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

He kept moving, thrusting deep and slow, riding out your release, every inch of him coaxing a new tremor from you, drawing it out until you were left gasping, completely undone in his arms. He held you close, his own breath coming in ragged pants as he tried to keep control, his hands roaming over your chest.

“You made a mess of me.” he murmured, his voice rough but laced with a hint of amusement as he looked down at the slick stain between you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I guess I can forgive you.”

“Forgive me?” you managed to whisper, barely catching your breath, a teasing smile forming as you tilted your head. 

“I think you owe me.”

“Do I?” you turned in his arms, lips brushing against his ear. “Then let’s see if we can make it even.”

“Get down, will ya?” he murmured. He ran his thumb along his length, stroking himself slowly, keeping just enough control to hold back until you’d settled yourself between his thighs. 

The way he looked in that moment felt almost unreal — like something straight out of a daydream you didn’t know you’d had. His jeans were pooled around his ankles, his legs spread open and relaxed as he sat back, his thighs taut and flexing with each movement. His shirt, still half-unbuttoned and wrinkled from everything you’d just done, hung loose on his shoulders, almost slipping off entirely, but not quite. A light sheen of sweat clung to his collarbone. One hand was behind his head, fingers running over his hair as he watched you, that smug, satisfied look on his face only deepening as he took in the sight.

“Down here for me, yeah?” You shifted on your knees, glancing up, and he reached forward, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. “You look so good like this.” he said. “Think you can take care of me, love?” 

You nodded, a smile playing on your lips as you let your hand slide up his thigh, feeling the heat radiating off him, your fingers brushing over the pulse beating against his skin. “What do you want?” You reached up, brushing his hand aside with a soft, “Let me.” You took hold of him, your hand curling around his length, feeling him twitch at your touch, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he spread them wider.

He let out a shaky breath, that cocky smirk fading slightly as you stroked him. He was trying, but he wasn’t fooling you — his chest was heaving.

“Or do you just want to watch?” you teased, arching an eyebrow as you pushed your chest up against him. You saw his jaw clench, his hand flexing on the back of his head as he kept his gaze on you, unwilling to look away.

“Whatever you’ll let me do.” he mumbled, as though you’d taken the breath out of him. “Think I could watch you like this for hours.” His eyes were fixed on you, but you could see the strain in his expression, the way his lips parted as his breaths came faster. “But you’re making it hard to last much longer.”

You hugged his cock between your breasts, the warmth of his skin against you making your own heartbeat quicken. You pushed them together, creating a perfect channel just for him, your skin soft and warm as you began to move, setting a steady rhythm that had him on edge immediately.

His head almost tipped back as the sensation washed over him, but he forced himself to look down, to drink it in. The hand that had been propping his head now drifted to his neck, fingers brushing over his own collar, as if needing to feel something to keep from slipping under. He looked undone.

“God…fuck…look at you.” he groaned, the sound deep and guttural. His hips bucked slightly, unable to stay still, his eyes fixed on you with a hunger that made your own need flare again. “You look…you look fucking perfect, you know that?”

You smiled up at him, giving him a teasing squeeze with your chest, which drew a low moan from his lips. His hands gripped his own thighs, fingers digging in as he watched you, every torturous movement you made.

“You like that?” you whispered, leaning forward just enough to tease your tongue along the head of his cock, tasting him briefly before letting him fall back between your breasts. 

“Like it? I- fuck- yeah, I do.” he muttered, his voice rough and full of heat. “But…think I’m close…so close, love. Keep going…” His hand gripped the back of his neck again, muscles flexing as he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second before he forced them open, unwilling to miss a single moment. 

“Good.” you murmured, hugging him tighter between your breasts.

His head tilted back. “God, that’s good.” he breathed, barely able to get the words out. “So fucking good.”

Your pace quickened, and you could feel the way he was straining, every muscle in his body tensing as he got closer. You looked up at him, catching his gaze, and whispered, “You wanna come all over me, don’t you?”

The sound that left him was half a groan, half a laugh, his hand flexing on the back of his head as he tried to keep his composure. “You’re killin’ me, love.” he muttered, his accent coming out thicker. “Think you know exactly what I want.”

You pressed tighter, moving with just enough friction, watching as his breathing turned shallow, his gaze flicking down to where you held him, to the way you kept him close.

“God, just like that…” he muttered, voice breaking as his body shuddered. “Don’t stop.”

And then, with one more deliberate squeeze, one more slow, torturous stroke, he let go and came undone. His hips jerked, and his head tipped back, eyes closing as a rough, broken moan spilled from his lips. Warmth splashed across your chest, painting your skin as he came, each pulse wracking his body, leaving him shuddering above you. 

“Fuckkk-” he groaned, the word dragged out as he rode the last waves of his release. His body was taut, his hand falling from his neck to grip the couch beside him as he came down, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He looked utterly wrecked, blissed out, his gaze soft as he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you, at the evidence of his desire smeared across your skin.

“Fuck me…” he murmured, voice still rough as he watched the way his cum streaked over your chest, down to your stomach. He smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he ran a thumb over your cheek, brushing away a stray streak that had landed there. “Guess I owe you one hell of a clean-up, don’t I?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. “Worth it?” you asked.

His lips curled, his touch moving along your jaw, soft and appreciative. “More than you could know.” he murmured, his voice warm and low. His eyes followed the path he traced, utterly transfixed by you.

The steam from the shower curled through the small bathroom, fogging the mirror as you stood there in his towel — too big for you, wrapping you in his scent and the lingering heat. You adjusted it, tucking the corner more securely across your chest, your fingers trembling slightly, though not from the chill. 

From the bed, his voice carried easily into the bathroom. “You staying?” It was casual, almost lazy, but there was an edge of something more, a thread of curiosity tugging at the question. 

You glanced up into the mirror, catching sight of him reflected in the glass. He was sprawled on the bed, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, legs spread wide like he owned the space and everything in it. Because, well, he did. One arm was tucked behind his head, his bicep flexing slightly, while the other lay across his stomach, fingers tracing aimless patterns on his skin and his eyes — half-lidded but sharp — were locked on you.

God, he was a beautiful man.

You hesitated for half a second before walking over, your feet sticking against the floor as you approached the bed. The cool sheets pressed against your skin as you adjusted yourself beside him. “Do you want me to stay?” you asked, your voice light but tinged with genuine curiosity. 

He propped himself up on one elbow, tilted his head, studying you, looking you over with a smile that bordered on smug. “I wouldn’t be opposed.” he said, patting the space next to him. 

“I can stay.” you said softly, climbing onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. You settled beside him, your towel clinging precariously to your body. He rolled onto his side to face you, his legs stretching out, the towel draping low on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.

But it was his next words that made the air between you shift. 

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his fingers reached out, brushing against your arm. And then, with a soft hum, he said it “Won’t be a problem with your husband?”

Your body stiffened, his words hitting you like a jolt. What?

“What?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though your heart was suddenly pounding. 

He didn’t falter. If anything, he seemed amused, a sly smile tugging at his lips. He gave you a small, almost apologetic shrug, but the smirk on his face didn’t fade. “You’ve got a tan line,” he said casually, nodding toward your hand, “right around where a ring would’ve been. Figured you’d have a husband or…fiancé? Someone, at least.”

Your mouth opened and closed, the shock rendering you momentarily speechless. “You- what?”

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that only irritated you more in the moment. “Why are you surprised I noticed that?” he asked, propping his head up with his hand, watching you like he was thoroughly enjoying your discomfort. “I just fucked your brains out, love. You really thought I wouldn’t notice the details?” He raised a brow, still smirking. “Am I wrong?” His voice was calm, teasing almost, but the sharpness of his eyes told you he was reading you, piecing you together.

Your cheeks burned, and you sat up, pulling the towel tighter around you like it could somehow shield you from the weight of his gaze. “I- It’s not like that.” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensive. 

“Oh?” He was clearly not letting you off the hook. “So what’s it like, then?”

You scrambled for an explanation, something that didn’t make you sound like the exact mess you were. “I’m…I didn’t think it was something you’d pick up on.” you said finally, the words feeling clunky in your mouth. “Most men aren’t that observant.”

Alex chuckled softly. “I’m not most men.” he said. “Come on, don’t get shy on me now. I’m just curious. What’s the story?” he prompted. 

You bit your lip, glancing away, unsure how much to say. But you knew he wouldn’t let it go — not with that curiosity dancing in his eyes. “There’s not much to tell.” you started, shrugging. “I’m married. Things…they aren’t great.” 

He nodded slowly, his thumb idly brushing against your knee, oddly comforting. “Not great enough to explain why you’re here?”

You met his gaze, heat flooding your cheeks. “It’s complicated.”

He hummed, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Complicated enough for you to slip that ring off before you came out today?” You didn’t respond. “Complicated.” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like it amused him. He didn’t press you further, though, instead leaning back against the pillows, his arms stretching above his head in a way that made his muscles flex just enough to distract you. “Fair enough.” he said after a beat. “I’m not judging, you know.”

“You’re not?” you asked, your voice sceptical.

He shrugged, the movement casual. “Not really my place to, is it? You’re here, aren’t you?” He smirked, his gaze dropping to your chest where his towel clung, barely keeping you covered. “Guess I just find it interesting…all those little things people don’t say.”

You didn’t respond, but he didn’t seem to expect you to. Instead, he leaned over, his hand trailing along your arm again, his touch soft now, almost comforting. “Look,” he said, his voice quieter, less teasing, “I’m not trying to make this a big thing. Just thought I’d say it, that’s all.”

“You’re really observant, huh?”

He grinned, but it wasn’t cocky — just knowing. “I like details. Like how you tried to act like this was just a bit of fun, but I can tell you’ve been starving for this. For someone to actually see you.”

You blinked, his words hitting closer to home than you wanted to admit. “Alex…”

He shook his head gently, sitting up now, the towel slipping lower, giving you a better view of his toned stomach. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m just saying…I get it.” His voice softened, and the shift in his tone made you look at him fully. “Sometimes things go stale. People stop paying attention. And then there’s someone who notices you’re wearing a towel that’s too big because it’s mine.” 

You laughed softly despite yourself, the tension easing just a little. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?” he asked, leaning closer, his hand sliding up to your thigh.

“At making it seem like you don’t care about what you’re asking…but you actually do.”

His smirk widened, and he tilted his head as if conceding your point. “Maybe I do. But only because you’re interesting.” His voice dropped a little, his hand squeezing your thigh lightly. “And you’re beautiful. And I don’t think you hear that enough.”

Your breath hitched, his words catching you off guard. The way he looked at you felt disarming. “You don’t even know me.” you said quietly, almost to yourself.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, “but I know enough. Enough to know you’re not staying here because you’re scared of me. Or because this is just a distraction.” He shifted closer, his other hand brushing a stray hair from your face. “You’re staying because, for once, you want something for yourself.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you hated how close he was to the truth. “You think you know me that well?”

“I think I know what it’s like to want more.” he said, his voice softer now, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “And I think you do too.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the vulnerability creeping in again. “This isn’t…I don’t want you to think-”

“I don’t think anything.” he cut in gently, his hand slipping to your chin, tilting your face toward him. “I just want you to be here. No expectations. No questions. Just…stay.”

Your lips parted, the words caught in your throat as his gaze locked onto yours, warm and inviting and patient. And for the first time in a long time, you felt seen. Really seen. Without judgment, without assumptions. Just for who you were in that moment.

His words hung between you for a moment, and then he tilted his head again, a softer smile spreading on his lips. “You staying or not?” he asked again, his voice gentler this time.

You exhaled, letting yourself relax just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m staying.” you said firmly, settling back down beside him.

“Good.” he murmured, rolling closer, his hand slipping around your waist as he pulled you against him. “I’d have had to convince you otherwise.” 

a/n: Initially wanted this to be more moody but it turned out like this, I guess it's better. And boobjob. And bald Alex. I think I want to start a little series after this, and I want to write it all, or at least the first few parts before I start posting it. It's not gonna be as long as mr turner or once upon a time were (and I mean the length of the individual parts, they'll probably be shorter, I'm not sure exactly yet). So far I'm thinking 6 parts because there are 6 pictures I want to use as the covers, that's what I'm going off of.

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

Hello You…

[aacheinthejaw]

No but seriously imagine it:

Alex Turner escapes from your screen! etc etc

[aacheinthejaw]

catch some z's

he's lovedrunk.

warnings: smut, blowie, angst, fluff, ambiguity, you get the picture

word count: 4.6k

He’s bored. It's not a major affliction, it just sort of happens at these kinds of things. Parties fall into two categories boring and too drunk to remember. He doesn't want to get drunk so he's bored. Everyone else seems drunk. He knew he had come to this party too early. It's only 10 o'clock and he's been here for 2 hours and he's ready to go home. But everyone else is just getting started. In fact, half the people planning to attend this party have yet to arrive. So, he guesses that's why he's staying. Within that half, there's you. That kind of thing just happens too.

Your relationship has been a fuzzy one. Alex used to date your best friend but now they are just friends. He's also friends with your friend's wife. Everyone just kind of knows each other. It's all very incestuous. But you've always been friends. You're witty, sharp like a whip, and have a laugh so contagious he's gotten stomach aches from it. He also might be in love with you but that part is a little fuzzy too.

He sits and waits at the bar, still nursing just one drink. He knows not to go too heavy on the alcohol like last time. He's been too sloppy with his liquor lately. Somehow, you're never drunk. He's seen you down enough liquor to make a person fall over but you stand the same: hand-on-hip with a slight curve of your spine. It's enough to get him to break a sweat.

He's been stuck daydreaming for too long he thinks he might have fallen asleep. He leans against the bar and debates whether it's worth staying. He knows you'll come here with someone else because you always do. He wonders if you're ever alone. There's also someone on your arm and someone in your bed.

Sometimes, it's him. He's okay with the "sometimes" part of things. It works for people like him, the comers-and-goers of the world. But within that "sometimes" you're together, you like to play these games. Bring another man along, show up late to the party, pretend he doesn't exist. He knows you do all this to get a rise out of him, in more ways than one, but his impatience is at the max. Alcohol would make it more tolerable but he wants to be fully aware tonight.

A warmth spreads across the back of his neck and there you are with your hand on your hip, that curve in your spine, and Michael on your arm. Michael is fine. He's a horrible drunk but one of the more manageable men in your life. He'll pass out on the bar soon enough and you can pawn him off to one of your other friends to take home.

He knows all this because of the glint in your eye. He's only turned around, his vision not even properly focusing on taking everything in, but that spark shines through. You're smiling and it's both conniving and lustful. He wants to take a bite out of you sometimes, to have you lodged in his throat.

"Hiya, sailor!" You salute him, having a big joke out of you. That'll make it tougher. When you're in this joking mood, you have him play court jester for you, mock him all night, tease and toy with him before you finally give in. He doesn't know if he can work for all that tonight. He feels tired and there's a pounding in his head. It's light but he won't make it past midnight. He can tell by your smirk that you're in it for the long haul and you're ready to drag him through it.

Alex finds it best to just play along. The quicker he gives, the quicker you'll give. He bows his head. "How are you doing, ma'am?"

You play your swooning act, a soft gasp, and give him your hand. He places a soft kiss on the back of it, giving it the featherlight touch that he knows leaves you aching for more. He wants you to ache. "We had a long journey from Rex."

His head lifts slowly, trying to keep track of all your slight movements like the way your eyebrow quirks as you wait for a response from him. You know how to handle your prey. You're a master of it. "You've been out already?" He raises himself up completely, leaning back against the bar.

He's thankful for the way Michael sways, already lost in the sauce. Any sober person would question these slow movements, this dance you do with one another, every position calculated. Each of your response times inch on for years. There's an extended period of time—one long enough to be classified as an eternity—before you give a slight nod of your head. "Rex Club, Bridge—enough for Michael to be drunk."

"Michael's drunk," Alex notes like this is new information. Michael looks like he might need a chair but you kept him pinned at your side like your puppy. Alex takes a sip from his drink to wash you down.

He waits for your quip, the one that will make him feel foolish. But your eyes begin to wander and he's panicked he's lost your interest. You tug at Michael's hand like you're trying to keep him awake. "Can I have that?" You point to his half-empty glass, sitting in his hand. Zig-zag.

"Yeah." The glass looks better in your hands, somehow turned into fine china. The liquor slips easily down your throat and the glass is suddenly empty, sitting on the bar beside him. Your head roams around the room like you're looking for someone else to prey on. At one point, he would have begged for you to stay but he's too tired to make a fool of himself. Another drink doesn't sound bad so he orders another of his and one for you. That makes you stay. Alcohol is always key to getting your attention.

"You didn't ask me what I want?" You play coy, biting your lip, letting go of Michael's hand to place your hands on your hips. He's got you, he knows it now. You've let go of Michael, now you just need to rid of him, pawn him off to Matt or something.

He shrugs. "I know what you like." You'll take anything, you're flexible that way, and you're a dipsomaniac, at least in practice.

You hum and tilt your head like you don't quite believe this but he knows this to be the truth. He knows that you know this. Your hair flows down with the movement of your head, your neck is exposed and just like that, you've knocked him back. You know each other so clearly, so knowledgable in the movements that'll make the other snap. His control has broken and he's been reduced to a puddle just by the sight of the slope of your neck. How sweet it is.

"Should we get Michael a seat?" He asks. The man's eyes are half-shut and he hasn't said a single thing this whole time. Alex wonders if he's hooked on anything else but at least he isn't doing his drunken rambling routine yet.

You look over Michael with an admiring gaze. Alex doesn't understand Michael. He's a normal guy who can sometimes make you laugh and sometimes make you want to kill him. He's not exciting and he can be rather tiresome. Alex knows, in some sense, Michael is a project for you. He's a toy for you to play around with for this month. But shouldn't these projects be more interesting than Michael? There's nothing admirable about Michael. He's miserable to look at. (He's handsome but Alex is steadfast in the belief no one is worthy of you, not even himself, not that he wants to be. He's content with whatever this is because this is fun. Michael is not fun).

"Michael and I will grab us a table. You'll bring over the drinks?" You're playful and, to him, it's hurtful. He thinks you should know he's tired, that this was a long week and he can't do this hours-long dance with you. Now, you're just being cruel. You walk away, swaying in your hips and his eyes are on your ass. He waits and waits and waits for those drinks.

He sets them down at the small table, the one up against one of the walls. Michael has gained an awareness of his surroundings and spots the two glasses sitting before him. "Where's mine?"

Alex chuckles at the man's slurring. Michael is a punching bag to him. But then you're looking at him and with a smirk you say, "Al, go get Michael a drink."

He swears to himself this is it. He'll grab Michael a drink and grab your hand and go home and fuck you because this is all tiring. You once said you like a man in charge so he's going to do that and he does do that and you yelped and yelled at him to sit down. So, he sits down. "You can be so extreme," you say with an eye roll.

He's baffled by this. "I'm extreme?" He doesn't understand how you aren't aware of the extreme torture he is suffering from. "What about you?"

You scoff and sip your drink, smiling into the glass. "You like to make scenes."

Alex laughs. It's a falsehood of a story to consider him to be capable of making scenes. He has always been the quiet mouse sitting in the corner. He's been known to occasionally come out of his shell but compared to you. There's no competition. "You don't know me very well."

You bite your lip and lean back in your chair. Michael is chugging his drink. "I know you perfectly."

He concedes, "Yeah." It's the truth. You've always had this irregular responsive relationship. One look and each of you knows, like the stare you give one another as Michael burps. Hidden peals of laughter slipped under the "pleasantries" you exchange.

You cross your legs. His eyes travel down the exposed skin. A thigh to kiss, a knee to caress, shoes to scatter across the halls of his house. During one of the first go-arounds you two had, you kicked his shin. He swears the bruise is still there.

"You make me laugh, Al," you randomly say. He considers this to be a calculated move. Your right leg, the one crossed over the left, swings back and forth, knocking against the leg of the table and his leg. His view of you is obstructed by the glass sitting in front of your lips like you could kiss it at any point. He's always wanted to be a cold liquor-filled glass.

He'll play with the cat. "Why's that?" He leans back in his chair, wraps his hands around his glass, sitting his arm on the table. He crosses his leg—right over the left—knocking his boot-covered foot against your strappy heels. If he could smoke in here, he'd lit a cigarette now. He knows how that gets you going.

You shake your head at him. And then, you're blushing. It shocks him how much he's overtaken you. It shoots pleasure through him and puts a feather in his cap. He'll boast about this to whoever cares to listen. You lift your head back up and push your hair back, uncovering those rosy cheeks. "You really know how to do a girl in."

"Do a girl?" It's his way of prompting Let's get the fuck away for Michael and fuck. But it's cheesy and sloppy and has you turning your face away, looking around the room again. Not a good sign.

"Is anyone else here?" The question makes him wince. Why should you give a fuck about anyone else when he's here? He's here, exposed, and he made you blush just a minute, who else here has made you blush? Certainly not Michael.

He shrugs and downs most of his drink. Michael's glass is empty and he's rising out of his chair to go get another. "You get the next one, Mike?"

Michael, with no awareness of time, money, words, or you, nods his head. "Yeah. I got you. I got all of you." He leaves and it's a relief.

Alex inches closer to you while you're looking away. He thinks about reaching out but that isn't part of the game. "When are we leaving?" It could be too much, too quick. Sometimes you like it hot and cold but that's not important to Alex right now. He's tired. And horny. Really fucking horny.

You cock your head back like you're trying to evaluate him. "We? Leaving?" You click your tongue. "No. Not now." He'll take his time. Alex knows he sometimes has to wine and dine you. Another drink will lighten things up and maybe induce Michael into alcohol poisoning so he can leave for good.

Michael comes back with more drinks. You all sit in a silent circle. Your eyes are off looking at the rest of the party, looking for someone better to devour. Alex is looking at you, trying to will your eyes toward him through his stare or magical powers or whatever. Michael is looking at his drink. Michael likes his drink very much.

"When are you going to look at me?" Alex finally asks. Wizardry wasn't doing much so maybe words will work.

Your head turns back. You look at him, really look at him, dissecting him for your science fair project. Your gaze is puzzling at first, trapped in a landmine. You brush your hair behind your ear twice and lean back in your chair again. A smirk reemerges across your face. "I'm looking at you now aren't I? Do I need to watch you all the time?"

Alex nods. "I'd like you to."

You adjust yourself. He's made you frazzled. How pleased he is. "Okay." It's like you've accepted your fate, surrendered yourself, not to him, never to him, but to wherever the night leads. For him, this is preferably his house and preferably right now.

"Go?" He points his thumb behind him to the exit. You look sold with the smirk burying itself deeper on your face and your feet both firmly placed on the ground. It excites him to an extreme degree.

You tilt your head to the side and he's ready to stand and sweep you away for the rest of the night. Your smile grows wider. "Michael, we're going to Al's." His smile fades and his head drops back with a groan. You stand and grab Michael as you're unsure if he can stand on his own two feet.

Alex grunts as he stands and doesn't bother helping with Michael. "You hate me," he says, sipping the rest of his drink. He puts his suit jacket back on and waits for you and Michael, who is leaning against your back, slumped in sleep how Alex wishes to be.

You pinch Alex's side, the first touch all night. He squirms away from it but he's desperate for your hand on him again. You possess a touch that makes a man unfold. "You're very cute when I work you up."

"Why don't you let me work you up?" Code for Please let me into your panties right now.

You begin to walk toward the exit. You sigh and pull Michael to your side, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and his head slightly perked up as he relearns how to walk. "I have to take care of Michael," you say. Michael can take care of himself. Michael has a hundred other people at the party who would have taken care of him. But you enjoy working Alex up, you told him this. When his hair gets all messy from his hands running through it so much, that's your favourite part of him. The unraveling and the unraveled.

The air feels late as you walk toward Alex's place. He chases the alleviation of a cigarette, placing it between his lips and dangling it there. Michael is saying something about Canada but his ears feel too muffled to listen. You stand between Alex and Michael, your arm around the latter and the side of your hip knocking into the former. You're testing him, he knows this.

"Michael, would you like to go home?" Alex asks at a red traffic light. A taxi rounds the corner and Alex hopes to shove him into it.

Michael babbles something on your shoulder before looking at Alex. He chuckles. "No, we're going to your place, remember? Silly guy."

You cackle with Michael, making fun of Alex, who puts up with all this because his house is just a block away but these cars keep getting in the way of crossing the street. Michael stands up straight, brushing off his shoulders like there's dust there or something. He starts trying to touch his toes. The traffic light is still red. "Are you having a good time?" You ask.

He thinks about spitting to show his disgust. He turns his head to you and smiles with such a falsehood that it gets you giggling again. You tap his shoulder and leave your hand there, commanding attention. "When are you going to kiss me?" You ask.

Alex laughs. "If this traffic light ever turns green." That and Michael getting hit by a car. Alex truly does like Michael.

You giggle. "You have many rules." Your body seems closer.

"I do?" He questions, a smirk appearing as your face draws closer. "I think you're projecting."

"Mhmm," you agree but words are so far away and your lips are so close to his. Kissing passes the time quickly. He is looped into you and refuses to take his hands off of you. You pull away but Alex's hand remains in contact with your arm. You look behind you. "Michael, the light's green." And then, you're crossing the street and Alex has to remember what walking is. Your skin's touch burned into the palm of his hand and he finds himself having to catch up.

Michael races into the house the second Alex opens the door. He lets you enter first and locks the door after himself. Michael is sitting at the kitchen table and you’re moving through his cabinets. His boots stop clicking at the archway into the kitchen. You turn your head toward him, your hair spilling down your back. “Where’s your alcohol?”

“You finished it off.” He rubs his right eye. He’s getting a headache. Maybe this is a prolonged hangover. He wants to sit down but he can’t sit at the same table as Michael, he might have a stroke if he does that. He takes his suit jacket off and folds it over his arm. He unbuttons the top two ones of his shirt. It feels so fucking hot.

You turn around with a frown. Your hands go to your hips. Your head tilts to the left. “Michael needs his bottle.” Like he's a baby or something and not a grown man. This would be more fun if Alex was drunker. He's just tired.

Alex rubs his hand over his face, trying to scrub away his headache, the exhaustion, and this sweat. "There's some stuff in the fridge. I'm gonna go change." He turns his back and hears you mutter, "Okay," before he moves into the bedroom. He can hear you snap open a bottle and Michael is doing some shouting but it's largely muffled to him.

Alex takes his shoes off. He pushes his trousers off and pulls his button-up over and ends up facedown on his bed. His head aches and his back feels sharp. He debates going to sleep. He knows you can manage to let yourself out, you've done it before. 

The door creaks open and you come in and sit on the bed. Your hands make their way through his hair and for a moment he thinks he's imagining this pleasure. He feels a gentle release of his tension as your healing hand sweeps through his hair, their cold touch on his scalp. "My poor old baby."

Alex muffles a chuckle into his pillow and turns his head to look up at you. "I'm not that bad."

You openly giggle. "I don't know. You're suffocating yourself in your pillow."

Your hand continues to move its way through and his eyes flutter momentarily, almost eroding his exhaustion. "Where'd Michael go?" He's either dead on the couch or you let him out because not a peep can be heard. That whining has finally gone away, maybe that's why he feels better.

You sigh. You remove your hand from his head, using them to remove your shoes. "He's getting more alcohol."

"Ah," Alex says. Michael is like a fly Alex is simply unable to get rid of. It's rather frustrating but he's pretty sure that's the reason why you keep him around. Because he bugs the hell out of Alex. But Alex actually does like Michael.

His eyes have been closed for too long. You're somehow in your bra and underwear, sitting on the side of the bed with your arms crossed. Your returning touch snaps him out of it. Your hand skims through his hair. "Go to sleep," you whisper.

"You're almost naked and you want me to sleep." For people who have slept together so much, Alex can only think of two times you've actually slept together (one was his birthday, and the other was that blizzard last December). That's where the chink in your relationship lies but we won't concern ourselves with that today.

"Why? You want head to relieve your head." You're playful and wonderful and he's pathetic and weird and he loves you so fucking much and you know this and you love this and maybe even part of you loves him but he can't be sure of anything just that you feel good and he makes you feel good and maybe that's all it has to be (but wouldn't it be great for it to be more).

He flips onto his back. "If you insist." And he insists. He insists so much. He'd beg at this point but he's just so tired. He hates feeling this way like he'd give up parts of himself just to please you. But your hands are playing with the waistband of his underwear and all of that feels pointless.

"Oh, how you flatter me," you gush. You bring your legs up onto the bed and sit on your knees. You overpower him, hovering above. One hand moves up and grazes over his stomach, the other deepens into his underwear. He better flatter you, fully erect with all of him—his heart, his soul, his dick—sitting in your hands.

Tingles overtake him. Your mouth covers him and your tongue washes over the head like windshield wipers. He's jelly in your hands, complete mush. You take him deeper. He hits the back of you, unable to go any further. It's all too much but he can't turn this feeling away. The moaning, groaning, grunting, and whimpering that escapes his lips. 

You take your lips off of him and sit up so your eyes meet his. Your hand continues to move up and down. You smile, just slightly, no words. In there, he sees the love. He sticks his tongue out and you giggle and stick yours out. He puts his away while you leave yours out and return to his cock. He's back to feeling overwhelmed and you're quick, wanting to get this done before Michael is back. That doesn't ruin the feeling. It's actually kind of exciting like when you're a teenager and you're scared your parents are going to catch you. It's this newfound excitement, the kind he seems to find on every corner he passes with you.

He thinks about being brutal with you. It's something you've done before in these vignettes of quickies. The fast, rough nature of forcefully moving himself into your mouth. But he doesn't want this soft nature to leave. The one that you set the tone with when you walked into his bedroom and combed your hands through his hair. The kind that makes him feel warm inside, not from the sweat or liquor, but a much rarer feeling.

Instead, he reaches down and pushes the shadow of your hair back, just so it's out of your way. You laugh with him in your mouth. He's not sure why but it has him tensing his muscles, a desperation in the vibrations. You move him further and quicker and his heart is beating in his ears. 

Then, you sit up, rubbing him with your hand, finishing him off onto his stomach. He's left with his toes curling and his eyes closing. It's all too much. He wants to take you in handfuls. A moment passes. You stand and return with a tissue, rubbing him off of himself. You tuck him away back into his underwear.

You're still in your bra and panties. He reaches up and fixes a strap sliding off your shoulder. You reach your hand behind yourself, approaching the snap. He shakes his head. "Stay like that. I just like to look at you sometimes."

You're blushing again. Your hands fall onto his thighs. "Your head better?" Deflection. For someone who commands such a spotlight, you shrug away any attention, at least that is mixed with affection.

He reaches out and places his hand on your thigh—his right, your left. "Yeah." It'd be nice to stay like this for a while.

"What will we do when Michael gets back?" Oh, right. Him.

Alex says, "Lock the door."

You laugh and you tell him so, "You make me laugh." You lay down and tuck your head onto him. "Was that okay? Me moving?" You don't usually ask for permission, especially from him, especially when you're like this—next to naked and alone together. His arm curls around you, keeping you close because that's when everything feels good.

He feels sleepy. "Yeah." Everything is okay with him, everything that involves you like this is okay. His eyelids flutter and he feels bad for not doing anything for you but he's tired and he's taken care of you plenty of times before.

The front door shuts. Alex groans. You laugh. Michael whistles. "I'll make him leave."

Alex shakes his head. "You're going to make a drunk Michael leave?” A drunk Michael is the worst human being on Earth. Alex seriously does like Michael.

You stand up. Your hand finds his and tugs on it. He sleepily sits up but you've already left the room, moving out into the living room, still, only in your bra and panties. Alex thinks about putting his clothes back on but it's Michael and he doesn't care if Michael knows you've just given him head. Actually, it feels him with glee for Michael to know that. Besides, Michael is too drunk to recall anything anyway.

Michael has poured three glasses of brandy. "It'll help you digest dinner!" He exclaims. Alex doesn't think any of you had dinner unless you count all this liquor. Alex joins you and Michael on the couch and sips on his glass of brandy.

You put your hand on Alex's thigh. Michael leaves about an hour later. You and Alex are very drunk by the time he leaves. He doesn't remember the rest of the night. But you're in his bed when he wakes up. You're both hungover. He shouldn't drink so much.

*

a/n: i had fun writing this. i think it's written a little differently than my other stuff but maybe that's just me thinking i sound like hemingway. (currently reading the sun also rises). thanks!

[aacheinthejaw]

Alex Turner's pedalboard c. 2011.

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

Keep You Soft, Keep You Hard

a lesson turned into a lesson learned 

warnings: dom!alex, smut, spanking, fucking, he’s a piano tutor in this one

word count: 6.9k 

You told yourself to focus, to blink hard and drag yourself back to the lines of notes staring up from the page, to the tidy rows of black and white at your fingertips. But it was impossible, not with him so close.

The bench was small, and he had this way of filling it, of crowding your thoughts with his presence alone. It was maddening, the quiet authority that he seemed to radiate. His knee grazed yours, barely a touch, yet every nerve sparked, hyper-aware of that faint contact. A steady reminder, right there in your periphery, while his hands moved so effortlessly, coaxing sound from the keys as though he were simply pulling music from thin air.

His hands stilled, resting for a moment, fingers slightly curled, frozen in the poised elegance of someone who knew precisely what he was doing. He looked over at you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with expectation, heavy and relentless. He wasn’t saying anything, but his silence was a challenge. You could feel it in the air around, pressing down on you.

“Got it?” he asked, breaking the spell of quiet, his voice low and thick with a trace of impatience. It curled up in your chest. He wasn’t a big man, and yet somehow he seemed to take up so much space, shrinking you, folding you up in the force of his presence.

“I’ll try.” you whispered, and it felt like you were conceding some silent game of power that perhaps you hadn’t realised you’d been playing until this moment.

You lifted your hands from your lap, letting them hover over the keys as though you might find the confidence somewhere in the space between you and the piano, in the faint vibration left over from the notes he’d just played. Your hands were almost shaking — or were you imagining that? You tried not to breathe too audibly, tried to ignore the way his gaze felt like it was searing into you, trying to drag your attention back to the music. The melody, simple as it was, mocked you from the page, its simplicity an indictment of your scattered thoughts.

You pressed down, trying to mimic the way his fingers had danced, almost weightless and more than sure. The first note sounded harsh, loud, the clumsy sound of hesitation. You grimaced, starting again, forcing yourself to exhale, to soften, trying to hear the music he had made so effortlessly just minutes before.

He leaned in, just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked down at your hands, as if examining them. You could feel the warmth of his body, a slow, steady heat radiating through the coldness of his gaze, through the unyielding expectation. That closeness did something to you, ignited something bright and sharp. It made you forget, just for a moment, about the thin sheet of music paper in front of you and instead focus on the way his breath seemed to mingle with yours in the shared silence.

“Not quite like that.” he murmured, and it was almost unbearable, the quiet ease of his tone. One of his hands hovered near yours, fingers reaching, a faint suggestion. You could feel his pulse in his fingers as they ghosted over your hand, showing you where you should go. “Here, like this…”

It was a whisper of a touch, his hand grazing yours as he adjusted your fingers on the keys. The contact was brief, yet it set your skin alight, your heart stumbling over itself as you looked at your hands, at his hands, and then at him. His gaze held yours a second too long, something smoldering in his eyes, something that made you forget that the notes on the page even existed.

He leaned back, waiting, his expression a quiet challenge.

You tried. Over and over. Again and again, your fingers hesitating, faltering. The notes blurred, merging together into an indistinct haze. Each attempt brought a new mistake, a clumsy miss, a sour note hanging in the air, thick and uncomfortable. The heat of his presence, once electric, now seemed to be coaxing the uncertainty out of you and exposing it.

The room was silent except for the quiet creak of the piano bench as he rose, that little huff of impatience escaping his lips. It wasn’t much — a slight exhalation, a shift in his stance — yet it was as if he’d sent the entire world slightly off-balance. 

His hand swept through his dark hair, and you could tell he was trying, struggling even, to keep some reign on his composure, but the attempt to hide the irritation was as thin as smoke. He leaned a little closer, his hip against the side of the piano, his fingers splayed across its polished wood surface. The gesture felt deliberate, looming in your line of sight, a hint of menace in the casual way he positioned himself, like he could close it and end this lesson — this — at any moment.

“You still don’t get it…” His voice was barely above a whisper, a murmur meant for himself, perhaps, but his eyes remained on you, their dark gaze unwavering, full of an exasperation that made your stomach clench. There was a weight to his words that landed hard in your chest. They stung.

“I’m sorry.” you managed, though your voice felt small, strangled. Your hands dropped to rest on your knees, helpless, defeated by the simplicity of the music you couldn’t manage to hold onto. You didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare meet the storm in his eyes.

His lips twisted slightly. “You should be.” he said, his words cutting, blunt, piercing through you with a cold, unapologetic edge. “We’re wasting time.” He didn’t need to emphasise it, but he did anyway, leaning in, “My time.” he bit out, as if it was some precious currency you’d carelessly squandered. He looked at you as if expecting you to feel his sacrifice, as if you’d let some vital opportunity slip through your fingers.

Your throat went dry. “I know, I-” you tried, but his hand moved abruptly, his fingers curling around the cover of the keys. He pulled it down over the ivories with a sharp, definitive sound that echoed in the quiet, and you flinched, the unexpected noise splintering through the silence like glass shattering. He held the cover closed for a moment, his fingers resting on its surface, a steady, relentless pressure.

But then, as suddenly as he had lost it, he seemed to regain control, the tension in his jaw softening just a fraction. He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint, perfunctory smile, as though he could erase the roughness of his words with that one small gesture. “Sorry.” he murmured. He let go of the cover and met your gaze again, softer now, less fire and more ice. “Let’s try again.”

And so you did, though something had shifted, something unsettled lingering between you both. When he moved behind you this time, his presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating, his body curved over yours, his shoulders just barely brushing yours, the subtle weight of his breath warm on your neck. 

“Like…this.” he murmured, his voice inches from your ear. His fingers found yours, one by one, slowly positioning each in place. Deliberate, exacting, and somehow possessive, as though he were moulding your hand to his own will. His touch lingered, his fingers curling around yours with a strange intimacy that made the air feel thicker. 

His hand pressed down lightly over yours, guiding you to depress the keys, the sound spilling out around you in quiet, uncertain notes. The music felt distant, secondary to the sensation of his hands on yours, his skin brushing against your own, the slight weight of his fingers as they settled over yours. Warm, the faintest tremor of tension in his fingertips as though he, too, were struggling to maintain his composure, fighting to keep some unnamed feeling at bay.

He guided you through the melody, a single line, slow and measured, the notes haunting, soft and lingering. It was as if he were showing you something secret, something he hadn’t intended for you to see, and you felt it, this strange flicker, the faintest glimpse of something vulnerable hiding beneath his sharp edges. But just as quickly, he withdrew, letting go of your hand, the sudden absence of his touch leaving the air cold and hollow around you.

He stepped back, allowing space between you, his gaze unwavering yet now softened by the connection you had forged through the music. A subtle smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a rare glimpse. 

“You did well.” he acknowledged, his voice steady but carrying a warmth that had been absent before. “Again.” 

And so you tried. Again. Stumbling through the notes, the sounds were fractured, scattered, hollow attempts that echoed off the piano and seemed to hang in the air between you, each wrong note punctuating the palpable strain. You didn’t know if you couldn’t get it right without him or if, somehow, you simply didn’t want to, as if each mistake only pulled him closer, made his attention sharper, heavier.

“Stop.” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Stop…Stop, stop, stop it. Now.”

He was shaking, just barely, his breath catching on each word, and for the first time, you saw something raw flicker in his gaze — a frustration that bordered on something harsher, something almost painful.

“Get up.” he demanded, but you were frozen, your mind barely processing the command, every nerve straining, every muscle locked in place.

“Come on, get up.” His voice was a low snarl, almost desperate, but you couldn’t move. The space between you felt impossibly small and all you could hear was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest. His eyes met yours, unrelenting, and you felt yourself break under them.

“Now.” His voice rose, the word almost breaking as it left his lips, and it was as if he were barely holding himself together.

You stood, the smallness of the room pressing in as you shuffled to turn toward him, as if the act itself might offer you some release. But before you could even face him fully, his hands found your wrists, his fingers curling around them with a deliberate strength that held you in place, pinning you where you stood. You felt the pressure of his grip, not quite painful but harsh. Like a shock to the system, a steady burn against your skin.

He was close, his chest brushing against your back, his breath fanning across your neck, the heat of him all-consuming. His fingers tightened around your wrists, firm, his pulse thrumming against your skin. Even with the stool between you, the space felt suffocating, filled only with the rapid staccato of your breaths, the sound of your own pulse echoing in your ears.

Then he kicked the obstacle aside, and you felt him press against you fully, his body a solid, burning presence at your back. Every inch of him pressed against you, searing into you, keeping you there, locked in place. His voice came, soft and devastating, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

“You said you’d do better.” he murmured, his tone almost mournful, like a wound he couldn’t bear to look at. His words slid down your spine, igniting something that was equal parts fear and desire, something that left you trembling, unable to breathe, unable to think.

He shifted, leaning down, his broad shoulders hunched over yours, his chin coming to rest on your right, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You could feel a faint vibration as his words continued, slipping into the hollow beneath your jaw, wrapping around you like a shiver. “You promised me.” he whispered. 

You felt the faint press of his mouth at your pulse, his lips barely brushing, lingering as though tasting the words he’d just spoken, as though binding you to them. His grip loosened on your wrists, one hand sliding slowly up your forearm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake, his fingers tracing the line of your skin with a deliberateness that felt like both a question and a dare. You could feel his heartbeat, quick and insistent, echoing your own, swept away in the sheer gravity of his presence. A loaded stillness seemed to pulse and twist. 

“You promised you wouldn’t make me do this again.” Then his lips traced the shell of your ear, his breath warm and rough before he let his teeth graze your earlobe, biting down. The sensation drew a gasp from your lips, a sound that echoed in the silence, fragile and thin. His response was immediate — a low, guttural groan that seemed to reverberate through his whole body, breath catching in his throat.

His hands tightened, fingers pressing into you as he guided you forward, bending you at the waist over the piano. Your palms landed heavily on the keys, and the sudden, discordant noise shattered the quiet. It was too loud, a jarring reminder of the chaos. You barely registered it, lost in the feel of him pressed against you, his hips against the curve of your back, his breath uneven as he held you there. You could feel the unforgiving press of the cold wood digging into the front of your thighs. 

Time slowed. Your heart was a drum, matching his beat for beat, two pulses woven together in the thick quiet. 

And then, suddenly, his touch left you, the absence so abrupt it felt like a jolt. You turned instinctively, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes wide with a mix of longing and something that bordered on fear. Your heart tripped in your chest, and a faint sound escaped your throat, helpless and raw.

But his expression shifted, his jaw clenched as he took in the look on your face. His hands moved to his hips, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, and you could see the tension in him, see it written in the tight set of his mouth, in the way his chest rose and fell, the faint crimson flush at the base of his throat creeping up into the open collar of his shirt.

“No, don’t do that.” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading as his gaze caught yours. “Don’t look at me like that.”

His words were quiet, but they held a warning, a boundary that neither of you seemed able to respect. You could see the way his hands balled into fists, could see the conflict etched into the lines of his face. His shoulders were taut, his trousers tight, his stance tense, like he was holding himself back by the faintest thread, every muscle braced, unwilling to give in. He looked down, his eyes tracing over you, lingering on the delicate arch of your back, the softness of your eyes, the way your body seemed to lean toward him instinctively. 

This had been inevitable, written in the stolen glances, the barely-there touches, the tension that had simmered from the very beginning. You’d known it when you left the house, every step up the street, every second in his presence only confirming what you already knew you both wanted. You’d known it when you chose which skirt to wear, when you felt the anticipation coil inside you, knowing you’d see him, knowing exactly what you wanted. 

And he’d known, too. You could tell in the way he moved now, as though he’d planned this, as though every choice had been leading here, somehow certain that this moment would come.

His hand brushed the edge of your skirt, his fingers grazing your thigh with an almost unbearable lightness, teasing, testing, as he raised the hem slowly, each inch of skin exposed to the cool air intensifying the fire that already burned low in your stomach. His touch was unhurried, a slow, savouring cruelty that made your breath catch as he bunched the fabric around your waist, revealing the secret you’d been hiding, the choice you’d made just for him.

He stilled, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he took in the sight of you, already trembling, already ready and glistening, his fingers lingering just above your skin, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his hand, the faint tremor of his breath against you. “You’re so naive.” he murmured, as if marvelling at the sheer audacity of you, that you wanted this as much as he did, a dark edge of amusement colouring his tone as his fingers ghosted over you, not yet touching, just enough to make your whole body ache. 

They traced a line, feather-light, down your thigh. You felt your skin heat up, as his touch hovered, taunting, not quite touching the place where you needed him most. You could see the way his jaw tightened, his eyes dark with the same hunger that burned through you, uncontained from the knowledge that you were already, unmistakably, his.

His hand drifted up to your lower back, then to your hips, his fingers splaying out over the curve of you as though to steady himself, or perhaps to stake his claim. 

“I hate that I have to do this, you know?” His voice was a murmur, edged with a roughness that made your stomach twist. He was close again, his breath warming your shoulder as his lips pressed softly against your skin, lingering, his kiss a soft contrast to the harshness of his words. 

“I know.” you replied, barely a whisper, the admission slipping out before you could catch it. His hand flexed against you, and you could feel the shakiness in his grip, fighting against a feeling he couldn’t quite control.

“But you make me do it.” he continued, his tone softer now, almost tender, as though he were caught between anger and desire. He bent over you, letting his lips press another kiss onto your shoulder, the heat of his mouth lingering against your skin as he breathed you in, slow and deep, as though he needed to commit this moment to memory. “Until you’re all red, yeah?” 

You nodded, a faint sound escaping your lips. “Mhm.”

“Good.” he whispered, satisfied, a quiet acceptance of what was to come. You braced yourself, your heart pounding as you felt him shift behind you, the warmth of his hand leaving your skin as he took a step back. The quiet stretched out, the seconds slipping by with agonising slowness.

And then, his palm came down, sharp and sudden, a searing heat spreading through your skin where he struck. The sound reverberated, louder than you’d anticipated, the sting bright and instant. You gasped, the sharp sensation leaving your breathless, but it was his reaction that surprised you most — a sharp, quiet intake of breath, as though he, too, felt the impact, the strange ache of it lingering in the room.

There was a pause, brief and fleeting, as he steadied himself, his hand hovering over your skin, fingers flexing. Then he brought it down again, the sound sharper, the sting hotter, his movements controlled as he adjusted his angle, perfecting it, finding the rhythm.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice thick with something unspoken, “this could have been avoided.” His words held a hint of frustration, but there was something else layered beneath it, something raw, almost regretful.

You swallowed, gathering the strength to respond, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His lips hovered close to your ear. “I know.” he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. “I’m sorry too.” he murmured, his voice rough and frayed at the edges, as if the admission cost him. But then he didn’t give either of you a chance to dwell on it. His hand descended again, and again, each strike measured, unyielding, filling the room with the sharp sounds and leaving no room to think, no space to breathe. “But sorry doesn’t make it right, does it?”

Before you could answer, his hand came down again, another sharp strike that sent a shock through you, forcing you to brace yourself against the piano. The sting seemed to resonate, lingering long after his hand lifted, and you could feel your pulse throbbing in time with the heat spreading across your skin.

He took a slow breath, his fingers brushing over the marks he’d left, tracing the warmth, feeling the impact of his own actions. “I didn’t want to do this.” he murmured, almost to himself. “But you…you make it so damn hard not to.”

“I know.” you replied. There was a heaviness in the air, a shared tension that seemed to press in, leaving no space for anything else. His presence, his hand, his breath — they all surrounded you, a consuming heat that blurred the lines of pain and need.

He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes, a quiet acceptance. And then, his hand came down again, another strike, harder this time, the sting biting. You gasped, the pain a vivid spark that seemed to connect you both in a way that went deeper than words.

“Do you understand now?” he asked, his voice rough, his tone almost pleading. His fingers traced the curve of your hip, his touch light, a strange contrast to the intensity of his strikes.

“Yes.” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I understand.”

He shook his head, letting out a low, frustrated breath. “I don’t think you do.” he murmured, more to himself than to you. His hand came down again, a quick succession of strikes, each one sharper than the last, each one pulling a gasp from your lips, leaving you breathless, each one resonating through both of you.

The sting grew with each impact, building a slow, burning ache that seemed to settle deep within you. He didn’t let up, his hand moving in a steady rhythm, each strike precise, his movements honed to a rhythm that left no space for anything but the sensation.

“Look at me.” he demanded, his voice low and edged with something raw that caught at the back of his throat. His hands tightened on your hips, steadying you as you shifted, glancing back over your shoulder to meet his gaze. His pupils went wide, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that looked almost vulnerable, caught in the same heat.

You held his gaze, your breath catching as you saw the way he looked at you, the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his hands gripped you just a little too tightly. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he hesitated, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested on your skin, his fingers tracing the marks he’d left, committing them to memory.

“Why do you push me like this?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His fingers tightened on your skin, his grip unyielding as he drew in a slow, shaky breath. “Why do you make it so hard?”

You swallowed, your voice coming out in a rough whisper. “Because…because I know you want this, too.”

He let out a low, frustrated sound, his hand coming down once more, a sharp strike that left you gasping, the sting immediate. His breath caught, and he stilled, his hand hovering over you, as though the force of his own body had taken him by surprise.

“You think this is what I want?” he murmured, conflicted, his hand tracing the line of your spine with a tenderness that belied his words. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“I’m trying to.” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. You could feel his gaze on you, the weight of his stare as he searched your face, as though trying to find some answer in the lines of your expression.

After a long moment, he drew back, his hands moving to steady you, a faint tremor in his fingers as he took in the sight of you, your body still flushed, your breath coming fast and shallow. His gaze softened, his expression shifting to something almost tender, as though the fire between you had softened, leaving something gentler, like the quiet after a storm — a fragile, trembling peace that felt bound to shatter. His hands settled against your hips, pressing you back against him, his body grounding yours, the soft fabric of his clothes rough against your skin, still sensitive, still burning. The heat radiated between you, unrestrained. The moment had left you both stripped bare, without pretence.

“Can I turn around?” you whispered, your voice quiet, unsure.

He didn’t answer, but he loosened his grip, allowing you to slip from his hold. As you turned to face him, you searched his face, hoping to find something there — some trace of tenderness, of gentleness. But his gaze had fallen, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, lost in some unspoken thought that kept him at a distance, even now.

You hesitated, a strange ache twisting in your chest at the sight of him like this, but then your hand moved of its own accord, slipping into his line of sight as your fingers reached for the buckle of his belt, fumbling slightly as you unfastened it, feeling the heat of him beneath the fabric. You let your hand linger there, tracing the line of his cock, feeling the way his breath hitched under your touch.

“Do you want to fuck me now?” you asked, your voice barely more than a murmur, but the words cut through the stillness, shattering the fragile quiet as you traced your fingers over the last barrier of fabric, feeling the barely-contained hunger in his stillness.

He nodded, silent but certain, his gaze lifting to meet yours, the intensity there almost overwhelming. And for a moment, you felt a strange vulnerability in him, an openness that felt as raw as your own.

“I don’t deserve it.” you murmured, almost to yourself, the admission slipping out unbidden. The words hung in the air, fragile and true, as far as you knew.

He reached out, his fingers brushing over your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that caught you off guard. “You don’t.” he whispered, his voice rough, but his touch gentle. He held your gaze, his thumb tracing a slow line over your cheek as he tilted your face up to meet his. “But I do.” he continued, a quiet declaration that carried the weight of all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he’d kept hidden.

He leaned in slowly, and you could feel the weight of his desire, the depth of it, pressing against you. His lips brushed over yours, a soft, tentative kiss that felt at odds with everything that had come before. It was a slow, lingering moment, his lips moving against yours with a gentleness that left you breathless, a quiet confession in the way he held you, as though afraid to break the fragile stillness. Wrapped in his touch, you realised that maybe this was what you’d both been searching for — not the sharp edges, not the intensity, but the quiet truth that lay beneath it all, the connection that bound you both, unspoken but undeniable.

He was physically pressed against you now, fully, his need palpable, and the sheer hardness of it sent a shiver through you. For him being the aforementioned small man he was, he felt impossibly big against you, and the sensation was overwhelming. You could take him — mostly — but there were moments when he’d push further, deeper, relentless, making sure that every inch of him was buried inside you, as though he needed all of you, as though the connection wasn’t complete until there was nothing left between you.

Your breath caught as he moved, as he filled you, the pressure and heat building until you felt like you were coming undone under him. He kept his gaze averted, his eyes closed or fixed somewhere past you, refusing to meet your gaze, as though if he looked at you, he’d lose himself.

But you couldn’t help yourself — you reached for him, fingers brushing over his hair, craving the softness of holding him close. For a split second, he let you, his hair soft under your touch. But then his hand was there, pinning yours down with a strength that felt possessive, leaving you no room to resist, making sure you couldn’t reach for him again, couldn’t draw him in. 

“Keep them there.” he murmured, his voice rough, a quiet demand, his hand tightening slightly as if to underline the point. The weight of him, the pressure of his touch, made you dizzy. 

As he moved, you could feel the way he held himself back, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep control even as he pressed into you. His face was tight with restraint, his lips parted in a silent gasp each time he thrust, and you could see the faint lines of tension in his brow, as if he were holding himself on the edge, refusing to fall. He wouldn’t let himself make a sound, not fully — each time he came close, he’d grit his teeth, his breath catching as he fought to keep his composure. But his body betrayed him in the way his hands tightened on your wrists, the slight tremor in his arms as he braced himself above you, his breath coming faster, harsher, each thrust a little more desperate.

He liked hearing you, though — that much was clear. Each time you gasped, each breathless sound that escaped you seemed to spur him on, as if the music of it was something he needed, something that fed him. And so you gave in, letting yourself surrender to the sounds, letting him hear what he did to you, each gasp and moan, each confession.

His lips brushed over your neck, a fleeting touch that left you breathless, his control slipping for a brief second as he let himself lean into you, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot against your skin. And in that moment, you felt the depth of it — the way he was holding onto you, the way he needed this, needed you, more than he would ever admit.

The rhythm softened and there was a flicker of something risky that crept in — a dangerous sweetness that neither of you could allow. And just as quickly as it had come, it vanished, replaced by the darker need he couldn’t restrain. In an instant, he had you flipped, repositioned. The sudden absence of him left you gasping, only for him to push back inside in a single, hard thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The force of it rocked you forward, the whole piano trembling beneath you, and you heard the dull thud of his shoes slipping against the wood floor as he steadied himself, finding a rhythm that was relentless. No more room for tenderness.

He kept you down, his hand firm against the back of your head, pressing your cheek against the polished wood. You felt the ache, the sharp edge of pleasure and pain, the burn of him rubbing you raw from the inside, and the sharp slap of his hips against your bruised skin with every thrust. But even the ache, even the bruising sensation, blurred into the overwhelming pleasure, all of it heightening, feeding into the feeling building inside you. 

You felt yourself surrendering, giving in completely, every sense overcome, until you could hardly keep yourself together. A trickle of drool slipped from the corner of your mouth, leaving a warm trail against your cheek, and you cursed under your breath, embarrassed by the loss of control. 

But he noticed, of course he noticed, with that sharp attention that caught every small detail. “Don’t make a mess…” he murmured. His hand shifted, angling your head so that your cheek brushed against the wood, and his fingers lightly traced over your lips. “Lick it off.” he instructed.

You obeyed, your tongue darting out to catch the trace of drool, your cheeks heating, both at the intensity of his eyes watching and the act in itself. 

His control snapped again, and he resumed with a renewed vigour, each thrust sharper, more consuming, as though he were lost in the sensation, unable to stop himself. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your skin. And as he moved, as he filled you again and again, you felt that same feeling you always craved rise in you, a shared hunger that bound you both, tightening until you could hardly tell where he ended and you began.

The pressure inside you built, tension wound so tightly it felt like it might break you apart. And then, with his relentless rhythm, his hands digging into your hips, holding you in place, the wave crashed over you, pulling you under in a flood of sensation. You came around him, your whole body shaking, the feeling consuming you as you dared to moan his name, broken, unable to hold anything back.

He grunted, feeling your release as your muscles tightened around him, and it was enough to finish him. He pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the absence, his hands firm as he guided you upright, making sure you stayed in place. His hand moved to gather the fabric of your skirt, smoothing it down from where it was bunched up around your waist, his fingers almost twitching as he positioned himself over it.

“Keep still.” he commanded, his voice rough, his breath uneven as he stroked himself in his hand, his gaze fixed on you with a look that was both possessively sick and admiring. “I’m going to make sure you remember this. Every time you put this skirt on…” he trailed off, his voice low, as he guided himself to your thigh, brushing against your skin. 

He hissed a quiet, “fuck” through clenched teeth, his body tense with the effort of holding back, his hand moving faster, the muscles in his forearm flexing with each motion, even through his shirt. You watched him, captivated by the sight of him giving in completely, his usually composed exterior slipping away. He caught you staring.

“Like watching me?” he asked, not fighting back his smirk, teasing. “Is this what you wanted?” 

You nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Yes.” you whispered, feeling a thrill run through you at the way he looked at you like he needed nothing else in the world but this moment.

He laughed softly, a low, satisfied sound. “Good.” he murmured, his gaze intense as he held your eyes, his hand moving faster. “Then watch.” 

And then, with a final, rough exhale, he came, his release splattering onto your skirt, warm, delivered precisely. His grip on his cock loosened more and more as he held you there, steadying himself, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts. He watched the mess he’d made, a gleam in his eyes as he admired his work, a small, self-satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

“Perfect.” he murmured, his voice softer now, a hint of tenderness in his tone as he took in the sight of you. He reached out, his fingers tracing lightly over the fabric, smearing it slightly, leaving a deliberate mark. “Just like I planned.” He let out a low chuckle, his sticky thumb brushing over your cheek. “Now every time you put this on, you’ll remember who did this to you. And you’ll know why.”

After a moment, he tucked himself back in, fingers steady, composed, as though smoothing back every crease into the carefully maintained image he always wore. His shirt, a little wrinkled, his belt buckled, everything was back in place, sharp and polished, the usual mask settling back over his face. He took a slow, measured breath, pulling himself into that cold, closed-off composure, looking as good as new.

But you — he’d left his mark on you. The stain on your skirt was his, deliberate, visible. It made you feel claimed in a way that filled you with a guilty thrill, though you’d never tell him that, wouldn’t dare. And he’d know without you saying it, anyway.

He sat back down on the bench, reclaiming his place, his expression distant now. The fire between you seemed to dissolve into a quiet, foggy comedown, a return to reality. He ran a hand through his hair, a touch of restlessness in the motion, as if trying to shake off whatever had just taken hold of him. He let his gaze drift over you one last time, but this time it was cool, already locking himself away again.

“I think our time is up.” he said, his voice flat, almost clinical as he glanced at his watch, his eyes shifting back down to his hands, fingers curled loosely in his lap. He dropped his head to his palms, the shadow of exhaustion just visible in the hunch of his shoulders.

You adjusted your skirt, smoothing out the fabric where you could, feeling his eyes flicker back to you, watching you through the gaps between his fingers. Even through his guarded expression, you could sense him taking in every detail, like he was cataloging the moment to revisit later.

“I’ll learn it for next week.” you said softly, a promise meant to close the gap between you, to act as if you’d merely been practising all along. You reached for the sheet music scattered around, some pages crumpled from where they’d pressed beneath you. His eyes followed your hands, and he let out a quiet, dismissive “yeah, yeah” as he straightened up, only half listening.

He stood up, almost mechanically, then froze, watching you with a conflicted look. There was a pause, tension still hanging between you, as if he wanted to say something more, but couldn’t.

“You’re alright?” he asked at last, the barest hint of vulnerability still slipping through.

You nodded, feeling the warmth creep up into your cheeks. “Yeah…thank you.” The words came out softer than you intended, trailing off as his expression tightened, a barely perceptible flinch crossing his face at your quiet gratitude of what lay unsaid, but neither of you would put words to it. 

His eyes shifted, searching your face for a long moment, something uncertain flickering in his gaze. Then he gave a small, resigned sigh, a hint of care lingering in the shadow. “I’ll clean you up.” he said. Kindly, like a faint echo of the person he was beneath the walls he’d built.

Without another word, he reached out, carefully brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away the smudge he’d left, an unspoken apology wrapped in the gentleness of his touch. He didn’t elongate it, his hand pulling back as quickly as it had come, but the warmth stayed, a reminder that somewhere beneath his icy demeanour, a part of him cared. 

He pulled a napkin from his pocket, worn from being tucked away and handled, but still clean enough to press gently to the stain on your skirt. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as he dabbed at the fabric, his thumb brushing over the marks, trying to erase evidence of his own impulse.

You could feel his heat even through the layer of cloth as he worked, methodical, his eyes focused intently on the task. It required his full attention. Each touch was precise, respectful, the passion of moments before gone, forgotten, and replaced. When he was satisfied, he folded the napkin back up, creasing it at the corners. His hand hesitated over his pocket before he slipped it back inside, his eyes stuck on the place where the stain had been.

A question formed on your lips, one you didn’t even know you’d wanted to ask. “Did I do good?” 

He froze, his fingers still lingering over his pocket. For a moment he looked uncertain, eyes flicking from the floor back up to meet yours, searching. Then he stepped forward, slowly, and you felt the distance between you dissolve as his arms circled around you.

He pulled you close, his embrace firm yet gentle, enveloping you in him. Your head nestled just beneath his chin, and his hand found its way to the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair. He held you there, still and quiet, his breath steady against your temple.

“You were good.” he whispered. His hand moved gently, smoothing over your hair in a gesture of silent reassurance, as if he were trying to ease away any doubt in your mind. “Better than you know.” 

There was something calming in his touch that he wouldn’t allow himself to express in words. And though he eventually let go, stepping back and regaining the familiar, guarded expression you’d come to know, you felt the lingering warmth of his presence, his arms around you still imprinted on your skin. He gave you a final, quiet glance, a look that spoke of more than he’d ever speak, before he turned away, his fingers brushing his pocket once more, as if to hold on to the trace. 

a/n: I feel like it's a bit messy, couldn’t really focus, but it’s decent enough, I guess. Night night.

[aacheinthejaw]

[aacheinthejaw]

Alex’s hair falling in his face at Best Kept Secret 2018. (x)

[aacheinthejaw]

2010

beneath the boardwalk, part 8 (series masterlist)

glass in the park

warnings: the usual...angst, fluff, smut, etc.

word count: 13k

In late January, I bought a fur coat. I don't know if it's real or faux because I still haven't determined the difference in feeling between the authentic and the fake but I thrifted it so there's no guilt if it is made out of a poor chinchilla or something. It carried a dramatic feeling with it. I would wear it all the time. Sometimes, I would go out on walks just to wear it. I'd walk from my apartment to Grand Central and take the subway back just to make sure people saw it.

Alex returned to touring around the same time. While I was in a dirty slush-filled New York, Alex was travelling through the coastal cities of France. I knew it was cold there too but I'm sure it was much more conventionally beautiful and I envied him at times when I came home and my socks were soaked through.

We tried to talk on the phone daily, but time zones were difficult. We promised one another to always call on Saturday mornings for me so if we missed previous days in the week, I would always be able to tell him about my work week on Saturday.

Alex seemed to have everything and nothing going on. He'd play shows, get drunk or high, play ping-pong, take pictures of the Belem Tower, and watch Mighty Mouse.

I was busy. I liked it. My work would sometimes be straightforward office work, sometimes I'd visit places to review, sometimes they sent me home early to test products out, and sometimes they had me stay late to review products. I had a group of friends that I went out drinking with on Fridays and it was social drinking, not drinking to get drunk. One night, I ordered a Shirley Temple and laughed about it on the subway ride home at the thought of my younger self seeing me: a sober girl taking the subway home alone from the bar. It was nice to finally like myself. Or at least who I was becoming.

In my empty time, I wrote autobiographical things. I sometimes sent things to Alex but I found my writing became more introspective and it wasn't details I wanted to share with him. I was fearful of why I felt the need to hide it, but I didn't even feel much like reading it.

My friend, Fennel (he hates his name too), said it came from an overprotective biological need that all women must hide things from men, even if they are loving and trusting. I didn't think so. I told him I trusted Alex more than I trusted myself. He told me that was the issue.

Fennel cultivated weed on the balcony of his apartment in Murray Hill. He had a boyfriend named Kaka, who was a former Chippendales stripper and currently worked for Goldman Sachs. Sometimes, when he got drunk enough he'd reenact a routine. They were both in their early 40s, shared a dog named Rooster, and, still to this day, had the most luxurious apartment I have ever seen.

The building had a disheveled front but inside they had an open floor plan, a kitchen that was larger than my apartment, and the glorious aforementioned balcony. Fennel was a creative director at Condé Nast and had taken a liking to me because of my crooked teeth and what he called my "gemütlich" British accent.

I went over to their place nearly every week. They often had parties and I'd arrive in the early afternoon claiming to help them set up but I'd eat their fancy Bonilla a la Vista potato chips and play with Rooster. Their dinner parties were grandiloquent and their house parties were glamourously gauche.

One Sunday, I went over early through Fennel's insistence on dressing me. It was Pygmalion in a way or maybe I was the Edie Sedgwick to his Andy Warhol (I said this to him once and he took great offence because Warhol slept with Edie and he had no intention of taking advantage of me) but I quite liked it. I felt like a living doll and through his higher-up position and wealth, he was able to obtain fabulous pieces that he let me keep.

I walked around barefoot in their apartment wearing a Yohji Yamamoto (Fennel insulted me for not knowing who that was) white dress that flowed with every step I took while discussing Alex, who they had yet to meet.

"I can't believe you've been with him since you were 18." Kaka marvelled at this fact every time we talked about Alex.

"We had some brief pauses in there but yeah. You guys have been together for over a decade."

Fennel chuckled. "We were both in our 30s. It's quite the difference."

I sat on their black leather couch and leaned my head on the back of it. They were both setting the table. I was relaxing. "Yeah but isn't it hard at any age?"

"Sure but if I was still with the same person I was with at 18...well, that was a woman so it wouldn't count," Fennel laughed.

"Are you going to marry him?" Kaka asked. He was a complete romantic who would often say how much he loved love.

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know if I ever want to get married."

"Independence?" Fennel questioned as he pulled out a wine bottle.

"Parents."

"Ah," he sighed.

"But I have a feeling they always hated each other. I've always loved Alex. Does that make me lovesick and annoying?" I turned my head to ask them.

"Yes, but it's admirable. You seemed to have picked the right one. Good looking, loyal, you talk about him so sweetly," Kaka praised.

"I sometimes wonder if he picked the right one." It wasn't a newfound concern. I always felt secure in my relationship with Alex, not so much in myself. Occasionally, the worry of whether he could do better than me peeked itself out, usually when he was away and I didn't have the physical reassurance.

"Hush!" Kaka told me. "Any woman is better than a man. Take it from me." He kissed me on my cheek and it was nice to feel so fabulous. Fennel let me keep the Yamamoto. I try it on whenever I feel insecure.

*

I got sick on Valentine's Day. I had been unscathed for too long and on the morning of Alex's return from Europe—Valencia, Spain to be specific—I woke up with the urge to vomit. So, I vomited. And when Alex arrived home, I was vomiting.

I heard his bag drop while I was keeling over the toilet. The clacking of his boots on our wood floors stopped at the tile of our bathroom as he said, "Jesus, are you okay?" He hesitated, surely disgusted, before kneeling on the floor beside me, rubbing my back.

I had emptied most of my stomach and was dry heaving mostly. I slumped against the wall, catching my breath. "Welcome home." I managed a faint smile and my sarcasm didn't cause any laughter from Alex.

His hand stroked my forearm. He still had his jacket on and I was in my pajamas. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just woke up nauseated."

"Food poisoning?" He suggested as he stroked his thumb over my knee.

I shook my head. "No, no. I feel fine now."

I attempted to stand up but Alex held me down. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just need to lay down for a little." I slowly stood, reorienting myself.

Alex, still kneeling proposal-style, offered, "Alright. Do you want me to carry you?"

I laughed. "I can manage to walk five feet to the bedroom, Alex." I headed toward our unmade bed.

"I can manage to carry you five feet to the bedroom." He wanted to make sure I knew that.

I smiled and to placate his need to help I had him get me a glass of water. He returned, jacket- and shoeless, with my glass of water. I took a sip and placed it on the bedside table we found at the Grand Bazaar last December. Alex sat in front of me, taking my feet into his lap. "You think it's the flu?"

I shook my head and slumped back onto the pillows up against the headboard. "No, no. I feel fine and I don't have a fever."

"Hungover?" He smirked, poking fun.

"No," I mocked. "An upset stomach. I'm fine now. How have you been? How was the flight?"

"Fine," he quickly answered. "Did you eat anything this morning?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I insisted. "How are you?"

"Fine. Do you want me to get you something? Tea? Crackers?" He continued to pester.

"No. Can we talk about something else or else I might vomit on you?" I crossed my arms, frustrated with myself for ruining the morning, frustrated with him for continuing to ruin this reunion.

"I'm just concerned something might be wrong. Should we go to the doctor?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine. I know my own body. It was just a little morning bug."

His eyes shot up and wide looking straight at me as if he had just gotten an electric shock. "Do you think you could be...?"

I took my feet off his lap, criss-crossing them. "Oh, god, I'm not pregnant. Calm down."

"You sure? When was your last...you know?" He moved his hand up and down in front of his stomach.

I raised my eyebrows and laughed. "Period? What are you? A 12-year-old boy, you can't say the word?"

He sat awkwardly, a nervous look on his face. "No, it's just, you know..."

"I don't know and I don't know where this sudden weird behavior of yours is coming from." I sipped on the water and rolled my eyes behind my closed lids.

He reached out to rub my knee again. It was becoming rather annoying like a fly pestering you. "I'm concerned. That's all. So? When was it?"

I shrugged. "Like a month ago. I don't know."

He was bug-eyed and staring into my soul. "Well, are you late?"

"I don't keep track of that stuff." It was probably laziness or maybe because I was on birth control. Granted, I wasn’t very regular with that anymore. I never liked taking it and Alex hadn’t been there for a month.

"You don't keep track!" He stood up, pacing like it was the 1950s and he was stuck in the hallway while I was giving birth.

"You don't even have a period." I crossed my arms and leaned further back into bed. I was tired. He must have been jet lagged too. Why weren’t we sleeping?

"Yeah, but I am having sex with you."

"We last had sex a month ago. I'm not pregnant."

"And have you had a period since?"

I sighed. "No."

He exhaled and his head fell to his chest. He looked like my father. His head slumped after my mother disappointed him. It terrified me. Like I had done something wrong by not shedding my uterine lining. I didn't feel pregnant. Alex's concern made me concerned but I was more scared by the way his head sank.

"Should I go buy a test?" I asked. I didn't feel like fighting that I wasn't. I got an eerie feeling like I was overhearing my parents fight but I had suddenly body swapped with my mother. It felt like some trust had snapped in between Alex and me. For him, he'll say it wasn't and that it was based solely on concern. I thought otherwise. Like his paranoia had overtaken him.

"I'll go," he offered.

I shook my head and went to my dresser for a change of clothes. "No, it's fine." It's wicked that in my mind I held more worry over someone catching Alex Turner with a pregnancy test than actually being pregnant.

I threw the fur coat on and made my way to the nearby CVS. I had never bought one before. I don't know if I thought I ever would but I suppose I imagined it over different circumstances—a happy one, maybe with someone beside me with equal excitement. I bought a tube of toothpaste and a bag of Cheetos. I still had vomit on my breath.

Alex was sitting on the couch when I returned. His fingers were tapping the armrest and he had the TV on The View but he held a locked stare with the front door, meeting my eyes as I walked in.

I tossed the plastic bag on the coffee table and collapsed on the couch beside him. "I don't have to pee."

"Okay."

I grabbed the remote sitting between us and began to flip channels. Not much of anything good was on that early. I felt Alex staring at me but he didn't speak so I didn't speak. I landed on Notting Hill. "I hate this movie," I said just to have something to say.

He didn't say anything. Not even a Hugh Grant joke.

A half-hour passed in silence beside the movie before I stood up, dug the box out, and went to the bathroom. Not a word from Alex. I slammed the bathroom door shut.

I fumbled with the test for a while, struggling to open the box's lid. I wondered if Alex didn't join me in the bathroom because he thought I needed privacy or because he was upset. I think he was mostly just a scared little boy.

He felt so little to me in that moment and not in the way I loved. He was small and made my blood boil, even if I couldn't fully blame him for his concern. But his silence bugged me. His impassive form on the couch, a refusal to move or communicate. He had a habit of getting in his own head and barring entry. He'd say it was his personality. I'd say it was immaturity.

I took the test and waited for the results to appear alone in the bathroom. Negative, as expected. Still, I was left with uncertainty about what to do. I was mad at him but I didn't want to yell. I was relieved but I didn't want to celebrate. I was left where he was: silence.

Alex was still where I had left him. I put the test on the coffee table and sat down beside him, the last 10 minutes of Notting Hill playing. But he didn't move to look at it. His head turned to me instead. He was reading my face rather than the test. I stayed neutral and stared onward, refusing his enticing gaze.

"I'm sorry if I made you..." He hadn't fully grasped what I was thinking. I tend to think men and women are mostly the same but I find our biological difference is showcased in those times of stress. "It's negative. Right?"

I nodded, staring at Julia Roberts, arms crossed. "Mhmm."

He scooted closer to me. "Jane." His hand landed on my sweatpants-covered thigh and my eyes decided to finally snap over to him, small, tiny, scared little boy Alex. "I would've..."

"What?"

He looked at me as if he didn't expect a reaction from me. His expression was stunned and his hand stilled. "I don't know." You brought his hand up to his forehead, pushing his long strands back over his head. He took a deep breath. "This whole morning has felt like whiplash."

I scoffed, "Yeah." My head turned away from him. I was battered with the feeling of numbness. In the past, I think I would've cried. Or yelled. Now, I felt indifferent. I didn't know how to feel about that either.

"Have I ruined Valentine's Day?" He asked in an attempt to make me laugh.

I shut off the TV and stood up. "Yeah." I walked away to the bedroom. Alex stayed out in the living room.

When I went out to the kitchen, Alex was asleep on the couch. I made as much noise in the kitchen as possible to wake him up. I knew he was jet lagged and tired but I was a scorned woman.

I started the tea kettle and turned around to see a yawning Alex. "Do you want tea?" I offered.

He shook his head and placed his hands on the back of a chair. "I'm sorry for being an asshole." I turned away, not particularly interested in looking at him, instead I searched for a mug. "I suppose I have a habit of that. But I figured we could go out tonight. Go to a pub. Get some drinks."

Alex smiled, proud of himself for upholding a minimal tradition in my eyes. "I have plans tonight."

I didn't expect him to roll over and die. "Oh. Okay." He sat down on one of the stools and said nothing else.

There was no fight in him, meaning I had to be the one to fight. "Fennel and Kaka are having a party. I told them we'd go."

"That'll be fun.” He sent me a complacent smile. “I'll finally get to meet them."

I smiled back just as limitingly. "They've heard a lot."

He looked down at his hands. "Bad, I'm sure."

I exhaled. "I don't hate you, Alex."

"Feels like it." He was moody and refused eye contact, almost like he was me. We had been around each other for so long that we had become each other. People would say this to me but I rarely saw it.

"Call it PMSing. It just wasn't the best greeting."

He nodded, the understanding slowly seeping into him. "I know. I'm sorry for that."

"I woke up early to be awake when you got back and there I go getting sick."

He looked guilty. Solemn and culpable. "I should be making you tea."

I turned back with a smile. "Yeah. You should."

He walked closer and hugged my side. He placed a kiss on my temple and squeezed me close to him. "Go sit down. I'll bring this over to you."

I kissed his cheek. "Alright."

*

Fennel and Kaka's apartment was stuffed with everything. People, liquor, drugs, music, hearts. Alex wore a white shirt with a suit jacket over top. I wore a pink floral Roberto Cavalli cocktail dress, Fennel provided. Maybe it was because of our fight earlier or maybe I had just changed since I had seen Alex last, but I held a superiority complex over him. The silk of my dress wrapped me in elegance and the rough quality of his suit jacket. Oh, shit, I was becoming posh.

Looking back, I wasn't dignified or aware enough that my mother held these opinions of my father as well. However, I was also in a bitter state, and even Alex said I looked better than him so I wasn't really kidding myself.

People held cocktails and canapés were being moved throughout the room. Alex and I stood in the corner silently, I sipped the edge of my gimlet to keep it from spilling. Alex drank a whiskey. I kept thinking about it, in an ashamed way, but then I found humour in it and thought it best to break the ice and tell Alex what I was thinking. "We really are my mother and father."

He turned, originally with a neutral look on his face before spotting the crack of my smile. He breathed laughter out and lifted his glass, taking a slow sip from it. I imagine he was looking for something to say. We hadn't spoken for so long that his vocal chords must’ve needed a refresher course. He dropped the glass to his side. "I hope all the good parts."

I chuckled. "You say that like there are some."

He tossed his head side-to-side. "They've always had elegance to them. They intimidate me. The way the act is, you know..." He moved his hand like he was fishing for the word, trying to find it in the ocean of his mind.

"Posh?" I suggested.

His jaw dropped. "Now, Janie, I would never say that."

"Oy! Jane Cavendish!" It was Fennel, approaching us with Kaka following behind him. They were both dressed in matching maroon suits, each with a cocktail. "Beautiful. Always beautiful. And this must be Alex. Oh, how we've waited for this moment."

"Don't say that. You'll make him nervous," I told them. Alex didn't like it when I told people this. He found it to be invasive for other people—those not close to him—to know his emotions. I found Fennel and Kaka to be trustworthy of this information.

Alex peered over at me like I was his mother embarrassing him in front of his friends. "It's nice to finally meet you both." He shook their hands and they were both very impressed by this. I could tell.

"You both look lovely," I told them.

"Ralph Lauren," Fennel replied. He moved his hand down the fabric of his suit. "Red velvet. Feel." He reached out for my hand and rubbed it up against the velvet, the smoothness running under my fingers. "Now, you, Alex." He grabbed Alex's hand doing the same. It was awkward and made me giggle but Fennel always had a way of putting people at ease. At the sound of my enjoyment, Alex chuckled, nodding his head in approval of the fabric choice.

Kaka told Alex, "Has Jane told you how jealous we are of you two?"

Alex looked over at me at the knowledge of this news. "No, no. Why?" He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"The romance," Kaka swooned. "I wish I could have met Fennel sooner but we were a mess at your age. To find your love so early and keep it going and in the way you two are. If I was doing that at 23, I'd be a mess. Young love is just so lovely. Sorry, I'm a little inebriated."

Alex chuckled. "That's fine."

"You're a very beautiful couple," Fennel said. "I know a lot of ugly ones. Inside and out."

"Well, we had a fight before this so, if that brings us down from paradise for a bit." Alex seemed shocked I had said this. I thought I sounded like my 17-year-old self again. It was honest to me but it was also childish.

Fennel waved his hands. "Fights are great. You should have makeup sex in the bathroom."

I asked, "But where will everyone do coke?" We all laughed. Alex too, if not out of humour than of peer pressure.

Hours passed. We talked with some of my co-workers and Fennel's and Kaka's cultured friends. While Alex was in the bathroom, I talked with David Remnick and nearly fainted out of nervousness because I couldn't remember how to say Ibuprofen.

Alex and I went to the balcony to smoke. The city rushed by below and we each lit a cigarette up alone. I sighed and leaned on the railing, my head in my hand. It was so hot in the apartment but I felt so chilly outside as the wind rushed by. I felt Alex place his hand on my back. He was like a hot water bottle. He knocked against my spine like he was checking to make sure all my vertebrae were still in place. "You look like Juliet."

I turned my head to look at him but his head was off to the left, the smoke escaping out of the side of his mouth. He looked like he was stargazing, even though he couldn't have seen any in that light-polluted sky. His touch on me was this firm thing. I had never felt him so strongly like he wanted me to know he was still standing there beside me.

"The moon is so bright," he said. I looked into his eyes, searching for it in there. I followed his line of sight before my own landed on the glowing sphere hanging up in the sky. It stood bold against the black void surrounding it.

I looked at Alex, bold as ever. I couldn't manage anything with my tongue. I just stared at him while he stared at the moon. I don't know if he felt my eyes on him or if he was so enraptured with the moon that he couldn't handle looking anywhere else.

I sighed, standing up straight. I don't know what I was thinking by standing up so quickly. I don't know why I didn't just stay there and watch him for hours. "I've never understood the whole man-in-the-moon thing."

Alex shrugged, still staring above. "You can see anything if you look long enough."

I scuffed my cigarette out on the railing but kept the dog end in my hand. "Do you think if I stare at it long enough I'll see you?"

He hummed his response. I wasn't sure if we were speaking in some kind of code or just dancing around one another's words. Everything felt off, even if we looked so on track. I was uneasy in finding a response. He acted like he wanted to be alone but his hand persisted its touch on my back. His lips wrapped around his smoke and his eyes stared off into the lights of the city.

My arms crossed and I stood at what felt like such a distance. I stepped sideways, figuring Alex to be done with me and on to his stargazing. I'd have greater engagement talking to the walls inside and at least then I'd have a cocktail too. I turned away and his hand grazed across my back as I moved.

"I feel like I've done something wrong," Alex finally spoke. I had my back to him and it felt like I may never look at him again. Either he or my feet wouldn't allow me to turn around to see him. "I overstepped earlier."

My hand went to my forehead and it was like my brain was going to swell up and push itself out of my skull. I spun around on my heels. He was leaning back against the rail nonchalantly but held such caution in his bones. His eyes had a hard time staying on mine as he committed to the nervous habit of playing with his nails and tapping the end of his cigarette. "It's fine. I don't want to fight about it. I'm tired."

"Okay." He deflected his silence onto me, acting as if I was the one causing tension between us. Earlier that was the case but I dropped it in the kitchen and moved on with life. The whole day Alex held a wall around him. It wasn't a new thing for him to have his guard up, but I usually wasn’t the one blocked from entering.

I swore to myself long ago, after our break-up in '07 that I wouldn't be accusatory to Alex. Trust had always been strong but we always had a weak link. His stare now penetrated me and I felt like the nervous one. My arms stayed crossed but my hands began to squeeze the sides of me and I looked away, inside at the party, which had grown louder as the pretense of class had dropped with the amount of alcohol and drugs. "Did something happen on tour?"

My eyes moved back at his quietness. I had a sick feeling in my stomach but I didn't feel like I had a right to. I'm the one who fucked up before so I'd forgive him if he did now. Instead of guilt, he stared at me like he didn't know what language I was speaking. "No. Why?"

I don't know if he wanted me to feel sorry for him because I was accusing him of something that he didn't do or if he was as lost as I was when it came to this stalemate. "You just seem off. That's all."

He shrugged. "It's been a weird day." I was hit with a wave and I'm still figuring out whether it was from nostalgia or because I actually did see it but I swore he looked 17 again at that moment. I'll always see glimpses of that. The locked-in memory of his first impression. Through his long hair and whatever frustration he seemed to have, I smiled because we were standing in a garden. One that was on a balcony and was mainly weed other than one pot of zinnias.

I dropped my arms and plucked at the fabric of my dress. I didn't tell him what I thought. I thought myself to be a little childish in my reminiscing but it was Valentine's Day and I don't know why we went to this party because I always just wanted Alex to myself. I was a desperate woman with a sole propensity to be alone with Alex, especially when it was the day of his homecoming. I blamed it on my period, which I got the following day (not pregnant).

"You didn't want to come here tonight?" I said it as a question but it was a statement. I was already sure of Alex's stance. His inability to relax around strangers and his reluctance to engage in small talk. I knew he also had an inclination to be alone with me.

He played nice though. Always gave in to me easily on these kinds of dilemmas because it's what I wanted. He couldn't give me much in other areas (I had just finally won the whole location problem) so he found it expected to do what I wanted to do when he was around. But, sometimes (I use sometimes very loosely because I do in fact like getting my way), I liked doing what he wanted to do. Most of all, my favourite thing was talking to him. So, why would I spend a whole night chit-chatting with other people? (Besides, David Remnick because that really was a dream come true).

"I'm having fun." He wasn't very convincing. A tone of neutrality and a shrug of his shoulders that just looked like disinterest.

I chuckled to myself. "I'd like to give myself some credit. I know you better than anyone else so I know that you're full of shit."

He laughed and finally dropped his cigarette and his rough shoulders. "I'm just tired."

"Sure," I dragged out, unconvinced. "I'm kind of wishing we just went to a pub or something."

Alex looked down and rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. I'm wishing a lot of things right now."

My brows furrowed and I wanted to look closer at him but his hand and hair shielded his expression. "Like what?"

He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the city. "I don't know. I think I'm just a little messed up right now."

I stepped forward, wanting to stand next to him, wanting to touch him. I moved close enough that he was forced to look at me. "What's going on?"

The browns of his eyes looked darker and shinier as if they had been glazed over. I wanted to touch his face and have him lean into my hand, but I wanted to hear what he had to say first. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his jacket but I had him cornered. "Just in my head. The usual."

"About what? Me?" It might have been selfish to think so but he looked like he might cry while looking at me and I don't think I had felt that insecure in front of Alex in years.

He shook his head. "I don't even want to say it. It's so stupid."

"I don't want you to leave it in there."

His eyes darted in a million directions before landing on mine. "Just things are changing."

It took me a second to understand. It took me a gust of wind passing before I pointed to myself. "Me?"

He rattled his brain with the shake of his head. "I'm just in my head, Janie."

I grabbed his upper arm, forcing him to take notice of me. "Well, let me in. You know, I like when we talk." I smiled up at him and he released the hint of a smile, a sparkle behind his eyes. "I like knowing what's going on and what you have to say, what you're thinking. I don't get much of that while you're away and I think we both stew in our thoughts for so long that we're practically bored of it by the time we see the other and then we think we don't have to bother saying anything. But I've never heard about this and I want to know about this. I want to know about you if you let me."

A grin covered his face, so wide his teeth peeked through to wave to me. "What?" I asked. His smile just seemed to grow bigger and his eyes cast down on me. I thought he might kiss me but I'm glad he didn't, I didn't want to get distracted. "What?" I insisted, punching his leaning figure.

"Nothing," he said so cheerfully. I thought he might have taken something to cause this sudden change. He put his hand on my shoulder like he wanted to touch me but wanted to make sure we kept our distance. "I just love the way you talk. I don't know. Like the way you know how my brain works and you feel everything I'm feeling. I just...I love talking to you too. It's what I've always loved about you. I feel like I can't do this with anyone else. Just lay myself out and never have to worry. I think I forgot the feeling."

I wrapped my arm around his neck, closing the distance, and having us stand chest-to-chest. "We'll blame the jetlag."

"Sorry for being moody. I think it's an after-effect of prolonged homesickness."

"It's fine. I suffer from it too." It made me smile that we both considered each other home. It was cheesy and cliche but that didn’t make it untrue.

"Do you think there's a cure?" He moved closer and it took me that long to realize we hadn't kissed all day between the vomit and the fighting and the party. I should be put in jail for this.

I didn't kiss him right away. I hugged him first just to feel him, make sure he was there, all of him. "I might start with getting out of here."

Alex insisted, "Don't make me force you to leave."

"I wouldn't if I didn't want to. I'm craving shitty fries and chairs that squeak." And him. I really craved him.

"You love it when we play poor together."

"I love when we're together." We finally kissed at that point, waiting any longer felt like too much. He was right with me and I never wanted him to leave. If we kissed any longer we might have fallen off the side of the balcony. Together.

I dragged him through the apartment with me, trailing like my puppy but he was my loyal dog. His hand was clasped in mine and I kissed both Kaka's and Fennel's cheeks and promised to have dinner sometime soon for a more proper introduction to Alex. "Enjoy your Valentine's, love," Kaka said in his drunken impersonation of a British accent.

"You too," Alex said for both of us.

He put my fur coat on me and we left onto the sidewalk of the loved-up city. We decided to walk back in the direction of our apartment and land at a shitty bar along the way. We walked side-by-side like we were two anxious teenagers again. I suppose we had regressed in the absence of one another and the readjustment was more structurally unsound than usual.

"So, uh," I started, "you think I've changed too much?"

He threw his head back. "Don't listen to me."

I grabbed his arm, tugging on it. "No, I want you to be honest with me. None of this evasiveness."

Alex put his arm around my shoulder, pushing me into him. "I'm just catching up a little. You've been busy while I've been gone and I like that."

"But too much too quick?" Fennel and Kaka and the load of other people they had in their apartment could be too much. It overwhelmed me at times and I knew most of the people in the room.

We stopped at a corner, waiting for a light. He turned his head to look directly at me. "Just give me a bit of a grace period." He smiled so carefully. Not in a calculated way but to reaffirm his statement.

I smiled back. "I'd give you anything you want." It was probably too much to give a person, something I wasn't even willing to give to myself, but we were sharing a desperate kind of love. It wasn't the healthiest but he was the only person I knew would love me no matter what.

He seemed struck by this statement, unable to tear his eyes away to spot the green light in front of us. I pointed ahead at it but he didn't move his feet. He bent down and kissed my cheek firmly. I think he would have stayed there forever if I hadn't pushed him and insisted we cross the street before the light turned red again. He leaned down and whispered, "Ditto."

We stopped at The Scratcher in the East Village. It was Irish but akin to English by nature. It had exposed brick and when I asked the bartender for a Guinness (me) and lager shandy (Alex) he talked with me about England long after he had given me our drinks. The lighting was low and it was late but the bar was still full with mostly lonely hearts, save us and a few other couples.

Alex found us a table in the back corner by a group of rowdy men and for a bit it did feel like we were back home. "That's what I love about New York," I mused to him. "I find pieces of home here. I never found that in Los Angeles. Too deserty."

Alex leaned his cheek on his fist. His eyes looked tired but his smile stayed exercising. "You seem really happy here."

I shrugged. It was hard to admit these things. Like if I spoke it out loud it would cease to be true. "I guess, in a way, it feels like it’s something I did on my own. I know I'm not alone but...you know what I mean."

His eyes flashed down at the table and he sat up straight, leaning back against his chair. "Yeah. I know what you mean." He sipped his drink and I could tell he was going to say something once he washed his words down. "I really like it here too." The infliction in his voice was distracted as if he was thinking about 10 other things. I didn't know which one to ask about.

"Tour's almost over." I was ashamed that it flew by for me. Maybe because I was more occupied. I thought it should have felt like it dragged on forever. The way I used to feel about it. Granted it was shorter than the previous tours but I had never been this involved with Alex. We shared a home now, yet, his things—his clothes next to mine and the record collection collecting dust—didn't make me long for him, yearn for him. Perhaps, it was growing up. Perhaps, it was growing apart.

I circled my finger around my glass's edge. "I don't know if I'll be able to get off for the London shows."

"That's fine." He has always been so accepting. Like most things, it was a blessing and curse. Sometimes, I hated that he didn't put up a fight. He never told me what he desired, even with things like LA. It was a work obligation, not something he wished for. Maybe it's because I always wanted too much and Alex balanced it out by wanting too little.

"I got off work tomorrow. If you want to do anything."

He smirked. "I have one idea." Alex did desire some things.

*

I cut Alex's hair a week later. He complained of it being too long and I suggested he go to the barber and then he said I should do it. It was late but we were very happy.

We shared a glass of wine. I had Alex sit in the bathtub and I kneeled on the tile floor. We washed it first and then emptied the bathtub before I began to cut it. "What if you end up not liking it?" I questioned. I wasn't nervous. If anything I was power-hungry holding the kitchen scissors.

"I'll like it. It'll grow back either way. How bad could you fuck it up?” He chuckled before saying, “Last time you did this we broke up. Can't fuck up more than that."

His laughter induced me to join him. I sipped the wine before passing it to him. It felt very adult and I told him that. He said, "I could do this forever."

*

Alex experienced his first nor'easter blizzard at the end of February. I had experienced my first at the beginning of the month. He was quite excited for it. It was childish excitement like he was going to receive a snow day. I suppose his snow day was the fact that I didn’t have to go to work. I ended up getting Thursday and Friday off, which, well, did feel like a snow day.

However, it was cold. Like really cold. We ventured outside at the start of the storm to collect groceries and experience the snowfall. We got into a snowball outside our building’s front door before the snow turned to slush. Alex accidentally ended up hitting Russ Tillerson, who lived on the floor below us. He had a good spirit and laughed before shoving snow down Alex’s back, smushed in between his skin and his coat.

It took me a good few minutes to recover from laughter over Alex’s shivers. “It’s not fun,” he insisted, still patting snow out.

I hit his thick jacket with my gloved hand. “You’re not a good sport.”

He pouted and whined, “I don’t want to be a good sport. I want to be warm.”

I stroked his cheek, rubbing the icicle crystals stuck on my glove onto his skin making him wince. “Awwww. Poor baby. I’ll run you a bath when we get back.” He quite enjoyed that bath.

The days were fun but long. We watched TV and had sex for most of it. We ate sloppy like we were at a slumber party. We got high Friday night while watching Goodfellas. I ate a bag of salt & vinegar chips and half a pack of Chips Ahoy! Alex ate a whole pack of Oreos and drank enough Coke to shut down your organs.

“I’m sorry I’m so high,” I apologized.

He waved me off and sunk deeper into the couch pillows. “It’s fine. I wish we had more Coke.”

“We could do coke coke.”

“You have coke coke?”

“No. But we could get some?” It was candy in my new circle. Easy to obtain, sweet to do, horrible for you.

“Nah,” he rejected. “You’ve done it?”

“Yeah. I used to do it with…what’s his name…Robert.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry I’m so quiet,” I apologized again.

“You’re good.”

“Ray Liotta is so hot.”

“You’re so hot.”

“Mhmm.” My eyes moved away from blue eyes to Alex’s brown. He had sat up from his slump and was leaning on the armrest, observationally. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” He smirked, all-knowing.

“You know…how horny I get…” His smirk grew. “Don’t look at me like that!”

He curled his fingers, beckoning me to him. “Come here. Let me do you.”

I laughed and closed my eyes, prepared to succumb to sleep. His foot knocked mine. “What?”

“C’mon.”

He came to me. And, well, in me.

*

Alex left halfway through March, narrowly missing another nor’easter, but this time less severe. Opal came a few days later for work. She stayed at the Bowery Hotel, a few blocks east of me. I had walked by it a million times and always longed to go in. It was my second most desired hotel after the Plaza. 

She was there for work but apparently now had a boyfriend there too but that was all supposed to be obvious. Opal talked about things like you already knew everything about it. She told outlandish stories where she'd say, "You know how Charlie is" when I had never heard of Charlie before. Nonetheless, she was exciting and good company.

Alex was in Baltimore by the time I called him while drunk. Opal and I had gone to House of Yes and said yes to every drink along the way. Opal left with some guy who wasn't her boyfriend but it's okay because they had an open relationship, I think. Therefore, I was left outside House of Yes going home alone. I don't blame Opal for ditching me; the guy was hot and I insisted she go by saying I wasn't drunk, just tipsy.

I called Alex and lit up a cigarette at the same time. He picked up after 2 rings while I was still muffled by the cigarette in between my teeth. "Hiya, honey," I mumbled.

I heard laughing, either from him or the drunkards around him. He had been drinking too but not heavily. "Hey, sweetie." He moved away from the sound. I imagined him tucking himself away in the back end of the tour bus.

"I'm needy and I miss you," I whined.

His soft chuckling rang through the phone. "What's that mean?"

"It means I'm walking to the subway in Brooklyn." I scraped my heels against the cement.

"Ah. You and Opal have fun?"

"Yeah, but I'm drunk and alone. She's probably having sex right now. Everyone is having sex right now." House of Yes was a very sexual place in 2010.

"I'm not."

"Yeah,” I giggled. “I figured that one out. Could you imagine? You're on the phone with me having sex."

"What? Like phone sex?" He teased me.

I scolded him, "I'm not having phone sex in public. I meant like you were fucking someone else and on the phone with me."

"Why would I fuck someone else?" His tone was puzzled and I think he was drunker than I thought he was at the time.

"I don't know. I'm drunk. There's no logic to my thinking."

"I don't think I'll ever have sex with someone else. It'd be weird."

"I'd have sex with other people."

"Really?" He didn’t sound worried. Just curious.

"Yeah. Like George Clooney or something."

"I'll let you have Clooney. I’d fuck Clooney."

"Nah. He wouldn't settle down with me anyway."

There was a pause of silence before he expressed, "Miss you."

"Yeah. Me too."

He buzzed as if the words were sinking in. "End of the month and then I'm all yours."

"I like that idea. I've been hanging out with Opal so much I think she's starting to hate me."

"No. She just needs hot ass like the rest of us." It had been a very lonely month in the sex department.

"I'm not hot ass?"

"You're the hottest ass."

"Subway's here."

"Okay. Let me know when you're home."

"Yeah. Love you."

He hummed in agreement.

*

Alex returned at the end of April. We relaxed back into domestic obliviousness. That weekend, we went over for dinner at Fennel and Kaka's. We drank wine, ate fancy chicken, and played with Rooster. 

We sat at one end of their dining room table. Alex's nervousness had faded but he remained stiff, the obvious odd man out. We were laughing about work and Sally Condalteen's explosible haircut, all out of Alex's frame of reference. 

Fennel, observing this, gasped and said, "I just realized I haven't even heard the story of how you two met."

I turned to Alex, who was looking at me. I was like a mother training a child to speak for themselves. "You tell it. I've never heard your side of things."

"Okay. Uh, well, Jane had a class with Matt, who is the drummer of, you know, the band, and he invited her to our first gig. We sort of knew each other—small college and that kind of thing—but never talked. So, at the venue, I went up to her and called her the wrong name. The whole night I figured I screwed things up and made a fool of myself. Then, I'm outside smoking and she comes out and I thought maybe I wouldn't say anything but then I realized I'd probably never get another chance, so..."

"You went for it?" Kaka, a big woosy romantic, grinned.

"Obviously," I answered.

"What about you? What did you think when he came up to you?" Fennel asked me.

I shrugged. "Nervous. I think. After, terrified."

"Why?" He was like a psychologist desperate to get to the bottom of things.

I shrugged. I didn't want to reveal my whole emotional state to them but their eyes stared at me. "He knew me better in one conversation than anyone in my life. It's stupid."

"No!" Fennel insisted. "It makes me believe in soulmates."

"Oh, god," I exhaled exasperatedly, rolling my eyes.

Kaka swatted at me. "Don't be so pessimistic."

"I have to be. I'm a realistic woman." Or a doubtful one. I was a recovering romantic at best.

Fennel turned his bark onto Alex. "You think you'll marry her, Alex?"

"Don't answer that,” I quickly insisted. “They're wanting to cause trouble. They did the same thing with me."

Alex looked tempted but listened to my instructions. He turned to the two men. "How'd you two meet?"

When we left there was a drizzle of rain. Not enough to wet your clothes, but enough to huddle close to one another as we walked to the subway. Alex squeezed my hip, playing with the sculpture of the bone. "Do you want to get married?"

"We've talked about this." The whole subject made me feel awkward. I felt too young for the subject.

But then Alex said, "No. I mean, do you want to get married tonight?"

"It's midnight!" Deflection.

"Then, in the morning."

I shook my head. "No."

Alex looked like the air had been taken out of him. He readjusted and continued walking. "Okay."

"Maybe in like two years." Or two decades. The whole thing gave me body sweats.

"What's the difference between now and 2 years?" He didn’t ask it accusatorially. He was inquisitive.

"We're 24!” Frontal lobe and all that. “I can't tell if you're being serious now or not?"

He lightly shook his hair around. "Maybe a little. If you wanted to, I would. I'd do whatever for you. If I can give it to you, I will."

"Are you sure?" He worried me too much when he talked about giving things to me. He had always stretched himself and I was sure one day he would break.

He squeezed my hand. "What's going on?"

"What's going on with you? This overcompensation or whatever. I don't want you to give me everything. Keep some for yourself."

He looked at me for a moment, thinking it over. Then, he said, "Fine. Half to you then."

"40%."

"45%."

*

We went to Coney Island because I really wanted to ride the Cyclone. It was the first really hot day of the year. Unknown to us, it was also Memorial Day Weekend, which meant the beaches were open, which meant everyone, their mother, and their grandmother were at Coney Island.

Alex could wait in lines. I could whine to Alex while we waited in lines. He bought us enough tickets to ride the Cyclone and then go home because I was miserable in the heat and in line. But the line to get on the Cyclone was long and we had been standing there for what felt like hours.

"It's been 5 minutes," he noted. "We can come back another day."

"No," I moaned. "I want to do it today. I had it all planned out. I had planned to ride a rollercoaster today."

He laughed. "How do you plan to ride a rollercoaster?"

"You eat light so you don't throw up."

Alex tossed his head back in laughter. Suddenly, he snapped his head down with a concerned look on his face. "Have you not eaten anything today?"

"Well, yeah, I didn't want to throw up."

"God,” he scoffed, “no wonder you're in a horrible mood."

"I'm not in a horrible mood."

He gave me a look. He grabbed my hand and yanked us out of line. "Where are we going?"

"To eat. The Cyclone will still be there next weekend."

When we went next weekend, I loved the Cyclone and wanted to ride every ride there. I then threw up after the tilt-a-whirl.

*

I wrote a piece for The Paris Review in June. Alex sent it to what felt like everyone we knew. He attached it with a note that The Paris Review was located in New York and not Paris. He was very fascinated by that.

He had flown to London for the theatrical release of Submarine when the piece was published. It felt like a mighty contrast. The songs Alex had written for Submarine were what I would describe as the last box that had yet to be unpacked in our apartment. They were vulnerable but covered in metaphors I'm not sure anyone understood other than me. 

He had played them for me, asked for my opinion, revised, and played again. It was the first time Alex workshopped music with me since "Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts." I always thought it was because he didn't have the band to work with. He has denied this and said that the songs were meant for me first, the movie was inconsequential. I'm not sure how true that is and how much Alex just wants to take credit for being a romantic or something. 

Either way, he wrote me a note before he left. He tucked it in my journal to make sure I wouldn't find it until he left. It read, There’s a piece of you in this, and in me.

My piece was fictional. It was about a girl who drinks too much coffee. It's hard to explain without it sounding stupid. 

I didn't write about Alex much. Opal found this weird when I had shown her my work last year. She said he was such a big part of me that it seemed bizarre I didn't write about him. My explanation, mostly, was the protective quality I held over Alex. His songs were shielded in forty different metaphors before you got to me. In my work, as evidence here, I name names, especially in these years when my name was so attachable to Alex’s.

I had shifted back to writing fiction because that's what most literary magazines like The Paris Review accepted. Of course, I'm not a girl who drinks too much coffee at all.

I liked the stability of the Condé Nast job but I had been indulging myself in fantasies of writing a book again. When Alex returned to New York, I told him this over lunch. We went to Lexington Candy Shop, which is a diner, not a candy shop. Another thing Alex wouldn’t shut up about.

I drank a malt shake (coffee-flavoured) and Alex had a Coke (the old-fashioned way where the syrup and soda water is stirred together, not the really old-fashioned way with coke like Alex wouldn't stop joking about) while we waited for our food. "I think I want to go for it."

Alex was contagious. You could believe you could do anything with that smile. "You should. You have one guaranteed customer."

"Well, you'd read anything I'd write."

"'Cause it's good."

"Don't butter me up."

"Come on, you know you're a great writer, Janie. You don't get into The Paris Review as a shite writer."

"Shut up about The Paris Review," I laughed.

I reached across and squeezed my hand. It made me squirmish. "I'm never shutting up about The Paris Review and that's because I read this really good piece about coffee in it and—"

"Stop talking about coffee too. You're making me stressed."

"Ease up. You'll be a New York Times bestseller by this time next year."

I stood up, running away from his stress-inducing words. "I'm going to the bathroom."

He crossed his arms. "That won't change anything."

We returned home. Alex put on a record and I decided to act like I was reading a book until Alex sat beside me. Then, I decided to makeout with him. Hormones. I'm not sure what his excuse was since he wouldn't stop grabbing my ass. "Are we about to have sex to The Beatles?" I asked as "All My Loving" sounded out through our apartment.

"Yeah. It's what John Lennon would have wanted." He pushed me down into the couch cushions. I was the meat in a sandwich between the two.

"I love this song," I mused against his lips.

"Good,” he huffed. “Let's fuck to it."

"Stop," I shrieked, laughing too hard to focus on his penis. I pushed him up off of me and sat up, collecting the trash that had accumulated on the coffee table.

Like any typical guy, he said, "Come on, Janie, I had to take care of this myself all week."

I knocked, "You masturbated all week?"

"I did other things too," he joked.

I was slightly fishing for a compliment but I was genuinely curious too when I asked, "What do you do it too?"

He laughed at my question. He scruffed my hair up. "You, you fucking idiot. What else? What do you think about?"

I shrugged. "I don't masturbate."

"Liar."

"I don't," I insisted.

"You told me you used to have a vibrator."

"Not anymore." I hadn’t thought to bring it through customs. It was tossed around the London to LA move.

"You don't masturbate? Why?" Alex was still stuck in that heightened sexual teenage boy phase. It made it so sex seemed like the only answer. He eventually grew out of this but it was an enduring fixture of his personality for a while.

I shrugged. "I don't like it."

"How can you not like it?”

"I get all sad after. I don't really do it anymore." It made me depressed for the whole day after. I would think about growing up too quickly and dying alone. Maybe that’s just how I was in the aughts. I didn’t give it up completely. Things would change soon after this conversation. I also got on anti-depressants. 

"Why?"

"Is it shocking that someone isn't thinking about sex 24/7?"

"Well, yeah.” I did think about it often but not like Alex, still-not-fully-matured did. “I'm not good enough to masturbate to." Now, he was fishing for compliments.

I stood up from the couch and walked to the garbage bin. "No, it's more like...the other way."

He turned to me with an open jaw. "I'm that good in bed?"

"Don't get an inflated ego on me. I'll refuse to have sex with you if you start boasting."

"I won't boast. I'll just show off." He pulled me down, stuffing me between him and the couch. He made a great effort into "proving it." In a way, it kind of ruined it. I mean, he had this smug look on his face the whole time and he was so into the thought that he was good at it that he started to not be good at it.

"When you get off your pedestal, sir, can you actually fuck me?" I asked.

He seemed to snap out of it and realized he was inside me and not himself. "Fuck. Sorry."

Later, around "Devil in Her Heart," Alex laid his head on my stomach. He'd move around and kiss around my stomach, sometimes rising up to my breasts, but mainly hanging out around my belly button. 

I sighed from exhaustion, lust, and resignation. "I have to get glasses."

Alex laughed against my liver. "You can see fine. I think you've got a couple decades before you have to worry about glaucoma."

"No. The doctor told me I have to get glasses."

Alex seemed to find this really funny. "Are you serious? You're gonna look so geeky."

"Gee, thanks."

He kissed my diaphragm repeatedly. "I like nerds. Are you going to have to wear them all the time?"

"No, just at night. I've been struggling in the dark."

"You're gonna get night vision. Like Batman."

I got the glasses about a week later and I walked back into the apartment wearing them. Alex looked up from the couch, placed his hand over his heart, and said, "Everyone must hate you."

I tossed my keys in the little dish by the door that Alex had made it at a ceramics session that we did together about a month prior. "Enlighten me," I said with a laugh.

"You're just fucking gorgeous, Janie," Alex decided. He looked back down at his book like I burned his eyes.

I kicked my shoes off. "Careful. I'll get a complex."

"What? Like you'll finally believe me."

"I believe you," I promised. I had grown confident in myself or at least confident enough in Alex to believe he wasn't lying to me. "Or I'll try to."

I sat down beside him on the couch and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Here," he pointed his finger to the middle of the page, "read this sentence."

I rolled my eyes but obliged. "'So they went on for a good while, talking now of their cards and now about me, as though I were not in the room'—how long do I have to do this for?"

He smashed his lips against my cheek. "That's all." He returned to his book and I ordered us dinner.

A few days later, we were trapped inside due to the pouring rain. I was working on a review for work and Alex was reading. He had a cigarette in his mouth but it was unlit. I think he was going through the motions but couldn't go outside to smoke it and I refused to let him smoke indoors. 

My feet poked at the side of his body. Every five minutes or so, I'd poke my toes into him. He'd laugh, whether provoked or ticklish, it was an acknowledgment of our presence with one another. 

Thunder pounded through and Alex squeezed my foot to get my attention. I looked up at him through my lenses. He smirked, which I knew meant he was thinking something foul. "Can I fuck you with your glasses on?"

I don't mean for this year to seem particularly nasty but we did...you know...do it all the time. There wasn't much else to do. We were together all the time, we would talk over dinner, share this alone time together, and then I or Alex (usually Alex) would hit a point in the evening where we might as well just get on with it. Besides, this instant was pretty important. You know, with the thunderstorms. And my glasses. Alex really likes that part.

*

Alex and I went to an antique store in Dobbs Ferry because Fennel, who had been vacationing in Mykonos for the last month, needed me to pick up a statuaries from this rare antiques store. We decided to make a day trip out of it. Not there was much to do in Dobbs Ferry.

We shared headphones on the way up. Our moods were transactional through the iPod. Alex had this habit of scrolling his finger back and forth on the dial. It would make this scrolling noise, but I kind of liked that noise so I never stopped him. 

We walked the town's aqueduct for a bit. It had felt like the city was on fire but just a little north felt cooler. Maybe it was the fresh rain with that dewy smell. Alex's jeans ended up getting grass stains on the butt of them because he sat down in the wet field.

At lunch, we shared a stack of pancakes and Alex let me eat all the bacon. "I can't remember the last time I had a proper breakfast," I said as I chewed into the syrup-soaked fried batter.

Alex chuckled. "It's noon. I think it's more like lunch."

"Shush," I forced him out. I looked around and observed the tiny diner we were in. It's exactly what you'd imagine for a small town with men having coffee at the counter and mother and child having lunch. "I like it here."

Alex nodded with a smile. "You like a small town."

I shook my head. "Just for a bit. Not forever."

*

At the start of August, Matt visited us for a week. He slept on the couch and ate all our food but we all had a great time. Not since Barnsley had just the three of us hung out, especially for an extended period of time. Matt and I—just the two of us—hadn't hung out in close to eight years. Not that we ever were best of friends but it's weird how he had adapted more into Alex's friend than my friend. Nonetheless, he still felt like a brother to me. Or maybe brother-in-law.

Alex went out to the store one evening, leaving just Matt and I and whatever movie we were semi-watching. Matt sat up from his slumped back state, placing his beer on the coffee table. "I'm gonna have a smoke. You gonna join me?"

I giggled. "Oh, Matt, you know just the way to my heart."

We travelled up to the apartment building's rooftop. It was sparse besides a picnic table and a grill. The Fourth of July party had been held up there. Alex and I went for the free food but had to endure several Revolutionary War jokes. Matt sat on one side of the table and I sat on the other, an ashtray between us.

"I can't remember the last time we smoked together," I commented.

Matt lit his up before handing me the lighter. "At least not cigarettes," he laughed. "It's funny. This is all we used to do."

"Used to? Speak for yourself." I knew Matt didn't smoke that much anymore. Not like Alex and I who upheld equality with one another on who was going to get lung cancer first. We smoked enough to decide we'd both probably get it under the same time. Depressing romanticism.

"It's weird to think of a time before you and Alex got together," he said, flicking the ash.

I fanned the smoke away from my eyes. "Yeah. It's hard for me to imagine."

"And you guys are good and all that?" His tone was traced with suspicion or maybe I was just misplacing it there.

"Yeah." He nodded but stayed silent and I grew worried that I was being left out on something but I didn't want to touch it. "And you? Are you good?"

He chuckled. "Yeah. I'm good, Jane."

I joined him in laughter. "Good."

The roof door opened and Alex walked through. "Thought you two ran off."

"We kind of did. We made it as far as the roof," I told him as he walked over to us.

He sat next to Alex and grabbed a cigarette from himself. "Am I joining one of those fabled smokes?" He asked.

"What?" Matt questioned.

I explained, "When we were younger, and used to sit out on the kerb with one another. I call them Fireside Chats like FDR."

Matt laughed. "I was drunk for most of those. Memory is a little fuzzy."

"You're not alone in that." I stubbed at the cigarette and rested my head on my palm. "I don't want to drink tonight though."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Pregnant?"

"Shut up." I rolled my eyes and wondered if Alex had told Matt about the scare back in winter. "I have work tomorrow."

"Oh," Matt uttered, "little Janie's all professional now."

Alex nodded. "Yeah. What losers the rest of us are."

"Yeah. If Jane of all people can settle down—"

I interjected, ready to fight, "I was not that horrible." Alex and Matt only met me with a stare causing another eye roll from me. "I'm going to bed."

Alex and Matt stayed put and I assumed they were going to have one of their own Fireside Chats. "We'll try and be quiet," Alex told me before I pecked his lips.

I walked over and placed a kiss on Matt's cheek. He slapped his hand over the cheek, wiping it down. "Ew. You slobber like my mum."

"God. What a baby you are." With that, I went downstairs. I'm not sure what time they went to bed but when I left for work the next morning, they were both dead asleep. Not even the sound of me dropping my coffee arose them.

*

Alex was writing something. I woke up and the red light of the clock blared out, the time reading 4:34 AM. I rubbed my eye, scrubbing the dream out of me. His pen moved across the page and he was propped up against the headboard with his notebook tilted under the soft light coming from his small bedside lamp. 

He felt my movement and turned to me as I flipped onto my side to look up at him, his eyebrows knitted. "Did I wake you?"

I shook my head against the pillow. "I don't think so. Why are you still up?" I held the tip of his elbow to keep in touch with him.

"Woke up about an hour ago. Couldn't fall back to sleep." He was scratching his pen up and down across his page, just making lines. 

I flipped onto my back, roughing my hands through my hair. "Probably because it's so fucking hot in here." Our landlord had turned the AC off a week ago when it seemed like it was finally getting cold until the temperatures started shooting back up this week. "I might take a shower. I feel so sweaty." I sat up, throwing my legs off the bed. 

I could hear the smirk in his voice. A light chuckle as he said, "Let me know if you do."

My phone rang. "I bet it's Stacey," I told Alex. "She still doesn't understand the whole timezone thing."

"She's 18 and she still doesn't know about timezones?" Alex questioned.

I sighed as I tied my hair up. "Let me rephrase. She doesn't care about the whole timezone thing."

"Ah," Alex said as I picked up the phone.

I moved into the bathroom, preparing to start the shower as I talked to Stacey. I sat in the bathroom, on the toilet seat, for about 10 minutes before I moved back into the bedroom. "Shower time?" He asked him with a grin that could kill.

"No." I shook my head walking back over to my side of the bed. I threw my phone down on the bed and picked at my fingernails. "My dad had a heart attack."

I could hear Alex closing his notebook but didn't look up. I wasn't sure how to deliver news and make eye contact at the same time. "Is he okay? Are you okay?" He crawled across the bed and stood up beside me.

I dropped my hands and moved past him going to our dresser. "Yeah. No. He's fine for a guy who just had a heart attack. I mean, he'll live and all that." I hadn't realized that I started pacing back and forth across our bedroom. I would stop at our dresser but then I would keep moving.

"Good. Now. Jane. Sit," Alex instructed me.

I listened. He was my guide. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to figure out what I was doing. "I should go back home."

"Okay. I'll look for flights." He moved for my laptop, sat in my backpack on the floor. 

I stayed on the bed. "Should you?"

He looked up at me. I was looking at his eyes but I didn't even realize what was going on. I hadn't processed anything. I was busy facing the fact my parents could in fact die and that I also was not immortal. Alex wasn't sure what to do or what I wanted him to do. "Do you want me not to go?"

I shook my head. "I'm not sure if I should go."

Alex moved toward me on his knees. He stopped in front of me and leaned over my knees. "I think you should. At least for Stacey."

"Right." I’m not sure if I went for Stacey. She would have Greg and Harper, even my mother, for comfort. I’m not sure if I felt an obligation to go too. It seemed cruel not to show up after a medical emergency but since the move to America, I hadn’t seen them other than during Christmas. They had never visited me. They rarely called me. It made me think that if I didn’t show up they wouldn’t be that shocked. But I knew I wasn’t held to the same standard as them and having a heart attack is much more serious than anything I had going on.

We got into a taxi at some point but I think I was still trying to figure out if I was still in a dream or if we were in fact going to JFK Airport. Alex must have packed the suitcase because I don’t remember doing anything. I became a functioning human being around when we sat at our gate for about 15 minutes. The flight wasn't boarding for another hour. Alex had gotten me a coffee and a glazed donut for Dunkin' Donuts. He got a Boston Kreme and coffee for himself.

He sat with his hand on my knee as I scarfed down my donut as a form of something to do. I wiped my fingers on the napkin and leaned back in my chair with the warm coffee in my hand. "I broke my wrist when I was 10," I told Alex. I could tell he wasn't expecting me to speak. "I sat waiting for my mum to pick me up for over an hour. They finally decided to call my dad and he showed up in 15 minutes. Five minutes less than his drive from work to my school."

"I honestly wasn't expecting the story to go that way," Alex confessed. There’s a million untold stories from my childhood that Alex had never heard. They were tricky for me to go about.

I breathed a laugh, relieving the tension from both of us. "Neither was I. It was right after Tommy and I guess a broken wrist was one step away from being dead." Alex squeezed my thigh and I thought about Tommy. I hadn't thought about him in a while.

We sat together for a moment before Alex bit into his Boston Kreme. The cream smeared over his nose. I laughed, which pleased him even if I was mocking him. “It’s all over your face. You look like you can’t properly feed yourself.”

We boarded the flight and arrived in London a little after 6 PM. I fell asleep after take-off and didn't wake up until the jolt from landing. Alex stayed awake the whole time.

We took the train out to Bath and Greg would pick us up at the train station. Halfway through the train ride, I said to Alex, "Thanks."

He pushed my hair back and stroked my cheek. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I've never been to Bath."

I laughed into the palm of his hand. "I'm glad this is working out for someone."

Visiting hours had ended about an hour before we arrived. The family report was that he was fine and Greg drove Alex and me back to the family home. We had dinner together where we mainly talked about my father. Alex and I went to bed after in a stripped-down guest room.

*

We had been in Bath for two days when Alex finally asked the question what I knew he had been thinking since we arrived. "Can we go on a drive?" My car had sat in my parents' garage since I drove it down when they moved. I'm sure they hated it being stuffed in their driveway but Alex was insistent on keeping it so I insisted to my parents to not get rid of it. For some reason, they didn't.

I didn't know much of Bath. Stacey told me she sometimes went to Henrietta Park with her friends so I decided we would drive there. Alex fiddled with things. The radio, the window, the glove compartment. He was trying to check if everything still worked. He missed this car more than I did. I rarely thought about it other than the remarks my mother would make over the rare phone calls that it was still sitting in the garage. 

Alex sighed and leaned back in the passenger seat. "I love you."

I chuckled at the affection but replied, "Love you too."

He looked over at me. I could feel the stare but my eyes remained on the road. "Just getting to do this with you. I love it. I love that we've been in each other's lives for so long."

"Me too."

"We've been together long enough that when I sit here now I'm reminded of how much I loved you then. And, you know, how much I still love you now. More now."

My eyes hurt. I don't think I had cried since we'd been there. I felt overwhelmed by it all. But always him. I couldn't look at him for safety and emotional purposes. I loved him for being there and for being there for such a long time. He had always been my best friend. Even when I had just met him. Like fate. Soulmates or something. "Alex. I have to drive."

He chuckled. "Don't wreck the car now." He kissed my cheek.

*

a/n: well, there we go. i'm very into writing this right now so hopefully have another part soon. i'll probably do a one-off piece before. we shall see...

[aacheinthejaw]

alex turner's ass appreciation post because he has a better ass than mine

[aacheinthejaw]

They’re whispering his name across this disappearing land, but hidden in his coat is a red right hand.

[aacheinthejaw]

he looks so tiny here, i love you mr turner

via atraceofbodypaint on ig