glassmarine

[glassmarine]

the fic for me

the shutterbugs

because it lasts forever

part 1

warnings: very smutty, very fluffy, slight slapping, chow town, blowie vill, piv palace, flash warning, recording warning

word count: 4k

You're standing in front of the produce, strawberries to be specific. One hand on the small shopping cart, the other on your chin. You're contemplating the strawberries. They aren't in season but they look perfectly sculpted, painted in a daunting red, designed to grab your eyes.

Then you hear the click. There he is. Alex. His tiny camera sitting in his hand. His brown leather jacket crinkles as he drops the camera down from his eyes, revealing his face. He plays the shy innocent card—bashful smile with those enamored brown eyes staring straight at you.

You giggle at the familiar sight. "God, you're like glorified paparazzi. You never leave me alone with that thing." You swat your hand at him and gaze back upon the strawberries.

He comes closer to you, one of his hands landing on your shoulder. "How could I?" He lands a kiss upon your cheek, gentle and soft.

You lift a carton, examining it. "Should I get strawberries?"

He pulls back, landing a hand on the small of your back. "Get whatever you want, love."

"I don't know if it'll be a waste of money." You tilt them in your hand trying to decide. It's easy for him to get lost in you in moments like this. That's why he takes pictures of all these little things. You make everything seem fun. The idea of the grocery store is a joy to you and something that was such a pain in his day, you make an adventure out of it, not only with his photography but with your behavior. 

"All eat 'em if you don't like 'em, so get 'em," Alex insists.

You hum, tapping your chin before exclaiming your decision, "Okay!"  You place them in the cart and start your stroll again. He lags behind to capture a picture. "Alex," you whine, "don't make me do all the work."

He snaps a shot of your frustrated face—nose wrinkled up, hand on your hip—before putting the camera away and taking over for you by pushing the cart. 

Things came easily in your relationship. He felt it was something you both just relaxed into the inevitability. In other relationships, this would have caused him trouble. He’s been called uncommunicative and taciturn for a time or twenty—something inherited from being a natural perceiver hidden behind the camera.

But this time was different. It was like a puzzle piece had fallen into place. Part of him slotted into part of you and that missing gap was no more. Maybe he’s becoming soppy, he’s been accused of that by some, including you—though that is more a teasing flirt than ridicule. 

He doesn’t mind. He takes it all with a shrug of his shoulders like yeah, no shit, how can you not be in love with her? 

*

Alex finds it weird that you, as a model, think having pictures of yourself is egotistical. He won’t pride himself and say he’s the greatest photographer of all time and he doesn’t have an altar dedicated to his work but he thinks homes are supposed to have pictures of loved ones. He reasons you’re a loved one so he should have pictures of you. He tries to convince you of this when you’re moving in.

You refuse every picture. He scrolls through each one trying to get you on his side. You shake your head at each one. There are the grocery shopping photos. There are the photos of you by the ocean wearing only bottoms (fair enough, if your parents ever visit). There’s one of you doing laundry, pissed off he was getting in your way. There’s the one when you painted his bedroom walls. 

You told him no person should have stark white walls. It makes you insane and the walls get super dirty. So, you painted them yellow with a bandana tying your hair back and a sunshine smile on your face. He asked you to move in that day.

“I’d like to have you around more often,” he said, standing on the ladder, perfecting the lines between the wall and the ceiling.

You giggled. “But I’m here all the time already.”

“Maybe you could live here all the time,” he offered plainly.

So, now there’s your clothes next to his clothes and way too many shoes on the rack and you have this weird powder you put in all your drinks that makes the water green. He had a taste of it once and almost vomited. But he sees that shade of green everywhere now because he thinks of you everywhere now. He likes the sight of your body next to his body.

The bed is warmer now and his house is starting to gain personality now, covered in colour and books and artwork, no longer looking like an asylum’s padded room. The world just seems to brighten up. He always found that to be cheesy, the way those people who aren’t in love roll their eyes when someone gushes, but he gets it now. As if the world was blurry and you’ve shifted it into focus.

Sometimes he feels crazy. He desires you violently. It’s kind of his every waking thought and he knows that’s crazy because it makes his heart beat really quickly and he’s aroused by just the thought of you. That’s certifiable. 

But then one time you straddled him in the morning. He had just woken up, barely had enough time to open his eyes before you were all over him. He never considered that he may want him this intensely too. Enough to crawl all over him during your first wink of the day. You’re uncontrollable. You’re licking up his body and you’re making him feel like he’s dead and you are the gates of heaven, slowly opening to him.

He reaches down in between the two front gates, runs his fingers through you. He brings it back up to his mouth just to taste it because he’s never tasted something quite so sweet. “They should make that into a lollipop,” he says.

“Shut up.” You hit his chest and he can tell you’re hungry for it. You would usually laugh at something like that but you’re horny, rubbing your cunt along his thigh, soaking your wetness on him. 

He puts his hands on your hips and stops your movement. He has you groaning and writhing against his hold. He’s hungry too but it’s nice to see you starve. “I was gonna give you a blowjob,” you say, “now I’m not so sure.”

Alex pouts. “You don’t behave well enough to give me a blowjob.”

You lean over him, your hair making a curtain around the two of you. “What do I behave well enough for?” Fuck. You’re whispering seductively, your breathing making love to his breathing, and it’s unfair when you have a voice like that. “What? Are you going to spank me?”

No, he doesn’t have the nerve for that. He doesn’t ever want you to hurt, even if you ask for it. Also, he thinks he’d be bad at it. Like it would be too soft or too half-hearted or he would rather fuck you within an inch of your life than smack you around. Fucking you sounds really fucking nice.

“Do you want to spank me?” He counters.

You straighten and laugh at him. It’s ruthless but he likes the feeling. You sober when you see his face. “Wait. Are you serious?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Hit me.”

You giggle nervously. “Like on the ass?”

“Wherever you want.” He does mind pain if it gives you pleasure.

You scoot down so you’re sitting on his thighs. “What if I kick you in the balls?”

He blushes and chuckles. “If you want, I would like to still have working function of my dick and I think you would too.”

You put your hand on his cock over his boxers. You press down on it placing pressure but not hurting him. “I wouldn’t kick you that hard.”

“I’ve seen you work out. I think I’d have to get a new set.”

You tilt your head back in laughter. Then, you pounce, laying your mouth on him, covering yourself over him. You kiss his bare chest, a straight line down from his Adam’s apple to his pubic mound. You bite into the waistband of his boxers, teething on them. Then, you drag until he pops out. 

You sit up again. “Should you roll over now so I can smack you?” You’re touching your lips together to reduce giggles.

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s natural sexual desire.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” Despite the insistence, your laughter bubbles up. “Swear.”

“Uh-huh,” he sounds. He can barely be heard over you losing it.

To hell with this, he thinks. He lifts his hips and rolls until you’re on your back and unable to breathe because of the shock. “I could blow air on you and you’d fall over,” he says.

You smirk. “I’m already laying down.”

He groans and ground his head into your stomach. It would be annoying if you weren’t so cute. 

His mouth is right there, kissing just above your clit. He would tease you if he wasn’t voracious. He sticks his tongue in and you crack almost instantly. Hands to the roots of his hair, yanking as if to scalp him. It hurts and he loves it because it’s a sign of your uncontrollable gratification.

“Higher,” you command, so he goes higher. He sucks right on the clit, pucker his lips out to tweak it, to put his tongue on it, to turn it in his mouth. He goes harder with each of your moans.

Alex traces his fingers up your leg until he reaches the middle of you. He runs his fingers through and then pushes in, fucks you with his fingers because he wants to be soaked by you. He wants his fingers to prune with the taste of you. 

You wanted more and now you think you asked for too much. It’s overwhelming and you’re beat red and you just woke up but you’ve never felt more exhausted in your life. But you don’t want him to stop. You want to dissolve into his hands.

You weren’t inexperienced when you met him but you were young and you had never felt lovemaking like this before. Sex was something to make guys like you. Sex was to make babies. Sex was something to fake your way through in the hopes of maybe, one day, that boyfriend will figure out how to make a girl cum.

Men are more appealing when Alex is included with them. Before men were gross, stuffy, stuck-up beings with only a handful of good ones that were either taken or related. You wake up smiling every day because you realize you’re one of the people you used to be jealous of. You’re consumed by the idea people look at you guys together and are green with envy. He’s one of the taken ones now and he’s taken by you.

And then you cum and it all goes white, those thoughts in your head. It’s the only time in your life when you don’t think it all. And then you spend the rest of your day replaying it in your head. You knew orgasms were good but you understand now why all guys think about is sex because it feels like that’s all you think about now too.

When you can see again, he’s lying on top of you, brushing your hair off of your face. He’s smiling and not in the pride way, but in the plain old happy way. Because making a woman cum isn’t an achievement for him. He’s never struggled with you and you doubt he’s ever struggled much since he figured out where a woman’s clitoris is. 

The urge suddenly possesses you because the thought has been ticking in your head since he mentioned it. You slap him. Clearly across the face. It barely makes a noise but it puts a red mark on his face. He squints his eyes and shakes his head before he’s able to process everything.

You’re laughing below him, clearly sheepish by the action and waiting for his response. He can’t think of anything to say. He didn’t think you’d actually do it and he’s kind of stunned, but, you know, incredibly turned on.

“Do you still want that blowjob?” You ask, a slight blush on your cheeks like you’re a schoolgirl with a crush. He lets out a breathy laugh. You feel the way his stomach rubbles, tickling up against your skin. Sometimes you’d like to rip him limb from limb, other times, you’d like to just stare at his softness.

He rubs his nose against yours, his mouth hovering over yours. “You can if you like. I won’t object.” He’s kissing you gently like a cushion for your soul to rest on.

You nudge him to signal him to roll off of you. When he’s on his back, you assume your previous position straddling his legs. You take him in your hand, squeezing him slightly before putting him in your mouth. He’s half-hard. You like the way he feels when he’s soft like you have to work for it. Sometimes you like to feel him when his dick is in its resting position. The slight window into his natural body.

For better or worse, he arouses quickly. You take the compliment and suck him off. You lick his shaft because it always gets him kicking his legs and he’s fighting against your body resting on top of his legs, unintentionally brushing against your pussy. 

You kiss his tip, treating him delicately after the harshness inflicted on his face. You want to treat him right and make him squirm from the lightest touch. You mouth your way down his cock and begin to stroke him with one of your hands.

He curls his toes and squeezes his eyes shut, despite how much he wants to look at this. He wants to capture every moment of this. He wants someone to transmit the whole scene into his brain to replay over and over again. He sees why people become sex addicts and he might even be one because he wants to stay buried in this. He pets your hair back before fisting it, cumming, jerking up, and shaking his legs. He can’t help but mutter, “Fuck.”

He opens his eyes and sees you wipe your mouth after taking every drop of him. He tosses his head back. “Fuck.”

*

You like watching him take pictures. You don’t often get to center in on him because you’re usually the one he’s taking photos of, but every once in a while he’s able to take you with him. You fake being an assistant and sit in his chair and watch him work. You’ll get him a bottle of water to play into the act but other than that you simply watch him.

He leans a certain way depending on how good of a photo he thinks it’ll be. If he’s standing straight up, he hates it. If he’s all the way forward, willing to get on the ground for the photo, he’s completely in love, swooning for the photo (you know from experience that he likes getting on his knees, at least for you).

It’s probably not the smartest thing for you to be on set with him because he’s easily distracted. It’s hard to pull his attention away from the camera but he’s beginning to understand the beauty of his own eyes. It’s much sweeter to look at you than whatever person is before him.

People used to ask him how he didn't fall in love with all these beautiful models. Before you, he had always viewed this as work. He keeps work and pleasure separate. What a fool he was because mixing pleasure with work was the best decision of his life. But nobody else has had that ability. You drive your personality into the photo. Your gaze only turns any picture into art. He thinks whoever said eyes are the windows to the soul was only referring to you. Everyone else is just a model, nothing else.

This doesn’t do well when he’s on a professional photoshoot and he’s distracted every two seconds by you—your laugh, your eyes, your smile, the way you leave to talk to Jerry (because nobody else ever wants to talk to Jerry).

He has two models yell at him for getting distracted but he doesn’t understand how they can blame him. How are they not staring at you? 

He’s a fool who should never bring you to work again but can’t bear to leave your side. He has an attachment issue.

*

Alex gets an idea. This can either be the smartest idea ever or the dumbest one. This one might be the first to lie somewhere in the middle.

“You want to make a sex tape?”

“An artistic film,” he says because he’s a pretentious prick who claims everything you do is art. It’s flattering but sometimes you want to brush your teeth in peace.

“A porno.”

He purses his lips. “An erotic film.”

You furrow your brows. “Do you jerk off to photos of me?”

He stands up and collects your plates from dinner, silently.

You gasp. “You totally do. You perv. I never gave you permission to do that!”

Alex chuckles. “What did you think I was doing with nude photos of you?”

You follow him to the kitchen sink. “Admiring their aesthetic quality.”

“Believe me, your tits are very aesthetically pleasing.”

You smack his arm and walk down the hall.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

You don’t bother to turn back and walk straight to the bedroom. “To prepare for my porno debut.”

*

The sex tape, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t happen until the weekend. Alex wants to shoot it on film because he’s a weirdo (he admits it) and you want to get cute lingerie because you're self-absorbed (you admit it). You’re two peas in a pod.

“Are you rolling?” You ask him as he sets up. “Oh, god, that was the most pornographic thing I could have said.”

“Relax,” he commands. You’re on edge, he can tell. 

In an effort to put you at ease, he walks over and lies on top of you. He wraps his arms around you and holds you to him. He digs his nose into your neck and breathes you in. He told you once that you smelled like what he imagines clouds smell like and cherries. It puts him at ease and his body in this position calms you. It’s familiar and there’s no reason to be performative.

“Do you ever wish that film could capture smell?” He asks into your skin.

“When there’s cookies on screen, yeah, but what if someone farts or just smells bad?”

He chuckles and looks up at you. His smile is joyous and there’s something about this being for only you—the smile and this film. It makes this idea of his even more interesting because it’s not about sex, it’s about these little in-between moments.

Each move is delicate. He’s always been a smooth lover, even when he’s harsh and raw, his touch is always soft. He parts your legs and drags your underwear down. He takes his shirt off and you unclip your bra. He stands off the bed to take his pants off. 

“Film is expensive so we’re gonna have to go quick,” he says. It leaves you cackling and already out of breath.

“That’s up to you. You’re the one who drags things out for so long.”

Alex joins you back in bed. “I can’t help it if I last long.”

You squint. “I didn’t say that. It takes you a long time to make me cum.”

He leans over you, pushing you down against the mattress. “I know that isn’t true.” He moves closer and closer. It would be threatening if his eyes weren’t so swoon-worthy. You want to kiss every inch of his face. You’d give butterfly kisses to his eyelashes. You’d make love to every last inch of him.

He’s fast, but in a controlled manner. His hips meet yours and he lines himself up with your core. He eases in slowly as you engulf his cock. He hums at the wetness and you moan at being open. Sometimes it feels like the first time all over again. Sometimes it feels like you’ve been doing this all your life and you’ll do it for another hundred years. Either way, you don’t mind, both feel this good.

“Should we be loud?” You ask.

Alex smirks. “You’re already loud.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean so the camera can hear us.”

He’s moving in and out of you now. “I don’t think it’ll have a problem hearing us.” He thrusts straight into, knocking your head against the wooden headboard, eliciting a moan from you. He knows every move in the book. He could write a manual on you to fuck you.

You push against his shoulders. “Should we do a sexier position?”

His grin is shit-eating. “Like what?” You’d slap him again if you didn’t think he’d enjoy it so much.

“I don’t know. Should I ride you? Or doggy? What way do you want it?”

“Whatever way you want it.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. He’s still moving, albeit slowly, but still pleasantly. “I don’t know that’s why I asked you.”

“Alright.” He pulls out of you and it aches. It isn’t right, he should always be there. It feels like a part of you slipped out. He flops onto his back beside you. “Go to work.”

“Facing you or the camera?”

“Me.”

“But the camera won’t be able to see my boobs.”

“But I’ll be able to see your boobs.”

“But does future you want to see my boobs?”

“Every me wants to see your boobs.”

“So, I should face the camera.”

“No, I still want to have sex with you, not the camera.”

You giggle and don’t say anything else. You want to give yourself over to him. The whole point of this was to commit your sex to film not have sex for the film. You sink down onto him and rock against him. It’s quick because you want it to be, not because the amount of film calls for it.

It’s the perfect sight for him. Some people like sunsets or the ocean, he likes your body. He doesn’t care if it’s naked, clothed, or covered by bubbles in the bath, every part of it is poetic. He’s a bit self-conscious about him being on film. He isn’t used to being in front of the camera. But he so desperately wants you committed to filmic memory. He’s terrified one day you’ll leave or he’ll get dementia or amnesia. He wants to remember every second of this. 

You arch your back and throw your head back. You’re shaking. His hips buck up, slamming into you, finishing you both off. You land on top of him and this is his favourite part, other than the incomparable act of coming for a man, this is his second favourite. He wraps his arms around you, still inside you, and holds this moment in his arms. 

The physical thing will always be better than any photography or piece of film. Only here can he feel your laughter and see your smile and smell that cloudy scent and feel the touch of your delicate, little hands. Only here can he kiss every bit of you while resting inside you. He feels you as you slowly fall asleep. He whispers, “I love you,” only for himself to hear, but you know it just as well as he does.

*

The film cuts off right around when you straddle him. Something is better than nothing. You can always do it again. Neither of you mind.

*

a/n: sigh, the long-awaited part 2. is it as good? probably not. but it's the most smut i've written in a while i feel like (two scenes in a fic, very impressive for me as of late, i am no longer a prude). i wrote the first part of this fic back in september and now here we are in march with 3.3k words more. anyway, take a picture, it'll last longer. and someone please take more pictures of alex. please & thank you!

[glassmarine]

"Guys I was riding a bike to Gary's house and he was casually walking on the street with a bag and I thought it can't be I saw it again and it was him there I hii sorry to disturb you can I take a picture and he's like sure there omg I can't believe it yeah cheers have a good day you too"

March 19, 2025

giovanakury on Twitter

[glassmarine]

i recently went to see arctic monkeys at zepp haneda :D here's some pics i took and edited just a little<3 pls rb & like if u use them or anything

[glassmarine]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALEXANDER DAVID TURNER — b. January 6th, 1986

[glassmarine]

wait does anyone know which era this is???? why does he look like that why cant I place this on the timeline???

Who is this beautiful gay p0rn twink playing vintage keyboard and pouting into camera? Wait what do you mean it's Alex Turner???

[glassmarine]

and what if i wrote this.

when i ask for the lighter this is what i mean

[glassmarine]

baby, it's been nice

so many words in one glance

warnings: smut, blowie, piv, angstish, some affairing...

word count: 4k

You got on the bus and the skies grew dark. When the bus had stalled between the Dockhead and Boss stops, the storm broke and showered down against the bus’s windows, adding a jolt to the ride. Passengers pressed in from the rain, forcing you into the middle of the bus. You felt for a handle before the bus took off again and that’s when you first spotted him.

He stood out amongst the flurry of people because he was the only one who wasn’t wet. He must have hopped on before the rain fully broke. You feel down at your wet shirt, the nice white shirt not made for the early summer rain. 

His eyes found yours and engaged in a duel. He broke it to look down at your hands turning to pat away the wetness on your shirt. He couldn’t escape the way you touched yourself against the slight sheerness unveiling what lies underneath.

Outside, the veritable downpour clashed on. As you approached the Tower stop, you pushed yourself closer to the door, hoping the crowd wouldn’t swallow you up. You exited out and stood under the overpass to wait out the rain. 

He too had gotten off and was standing there. You looked. And he was looking too. 

The air was cold and you pulled on your jacket. You saw him smiling and you smiled back at him. Then, you noticed you pulled on your jacket over your bag and he was smiling at that, not you. You felt stupid and straightened yourself out to wait some more.

And then the rain halted, but before you could move, you looked over at him again, and he was looking back. 

He responded by setting off in the same direction as you. He kept in step and joined you in smiling at the ground. “Shall we get a coffee?” He asked.

“Yes,” you told him. There was no other possibility. 

He questioned how people would look at the two of you. How young you were compared to him. How old were you anyway?

You took your coffee black because it felt childish to ask for heaping amounts of sugar, even if he had milk in his coffee. You felt heavy under his eyes. You wanted to impress him and be deemed worthy by him.

He thought to himself, it’ll be a simple chat and go situation, there’s no need to go deeper. 

But nothing can ever be simple like that. The sun shines through the window onto your face and you lean forward, cupping your face in your hands, staring at him so delicately he’s almost afraid to move, to breathe. Your gaze is light and pure and he’s terrified to be the one to rupture it by pulling away. You’re the rainbow after the storm. Now, he’s just getting cheesy.

He leans closer, his elbows on the table, the only thing other than your cups of coffee separating you two. “Were you heading home from work?”

“School,” you correct. “I’m getting my MA in cultural history, specifically contemporary history.” Your voice is smooth. Will you be smooth all over? “You?”

“A writer.” Even he feels pretentious when he says it.

“Anything I would know?”

He shakes his head.

You’re convinced he thinks you’re dumb.

He’s been sitting too tall on his horse. He didn’t even go to university and yet he’s been looking down upon you for appearing to be younger. “How old are you?”

You giggle. “You aren’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

*

You walk out onto the street together. He tells himself to leave it there and to be left with the taste of a nice cup of coffee and the memory of that beaming smile. “It was nice talking with you,” he tells you.

He nods and you walk off one way and he walks off the other. You walk to the streetlight before stopping. You feel the pain in the tips of your fingers and you can’t help but feel like you said something wrong. Cars splash in puddles, the hiss of wet tires on asphalt, and street lights change for pedestrians to cross but you hesitate. You don’t want to go anywhere without him. He nodded his head and had said that it was nice talking to you but clearly it wasn’t that nice or else you would’ve stayed.

Then, behind you, you heard him, “Or do you, maybe, want to spend the night together?”

You walk toward his place. It’s funny, he doesn’t live far from you and you’ve probably rode the same bus together before, but before today you had never noticed one another. You cross under a weeping beech and he comments, “Funny hairdo on that one.” And you’re grinning violently, grinning constantly with no change.

You hike up the stairs to his place and stand back while he unlocks the door. His keyring is organized with only a few keys on it and one keychain. You’ve never seen anyone else’s like that. It’s so stark and plain. You almost say something, but then he opens the door.

“I’ve been living here for a while,” he says. He’s just up the road from you and yet you’ve never seen him before. That can’t be right.

The place is clustered with paintings and photographs, although none seem personal. He leads you through to the kitchen. In the sink, there’s a saucepan. The breakfast fixtures are still lying out on the counters. Eggshells, the dirtied plates, and a glass. There’s a window behind the sink that shows the backyard. “There’s no trees out there but I swear every day a bird comes by and sings away. I don’t know what possesses her.” He believes wholeheartedly that this bird sings just for him.

He points down the hallway. “Bedroom is back there.” He has no reason to tell you this or guide you to where everything is. Maybe it’s the polite thing to do, but it also feels explicit like he’s suggesting something by pointing his finger there.

Through a wide archway, he walks you into the living room. There’s a grey rug on the floor to match the dark couch that sits on top of it. You’re standing in the archway, leaning up against it. He will remember exactly how you look there. 

There’s a stack of books on the floor beside his bookshelf. They’re the ones that don’t fit, forcing him to either get rid of some books or get a new shelf. You walk over and bend down to examine them. He wonders if this is research for a school project. “Do you want some wine?”

You look back at him, your hair tossing behind your shoulder. “Sure.” You say it in such a cutesy way. You lift a shoulder like you're doing a dance for him. One shift of your shoulder and you’re sending him back into the stratosphere. 

While he’s in the kitchen, you look at the spines on the bookshelf. You trace your finger over his collection. He’s got postcards leaning against the books and photographs pinned to the shelving. Some he is in, but most he isn’t. They’re of what you assume are friends. There’s one of George Harrison winking, tapped to the side of the shelf. There’s one of a woman smiling. It seems likely that Alex took this photo and this woman was smiling at him but now, through the immortal ability of a photograph, the smile is now toward you.

Behind you, there’s the clashing of two glasses against one another, two in one of his hands, a bottle in the other. “Some music?” He asks while crossing the living room. 

“Yes,” you say, following him.

The sound of the needle in the grooves of the disc sounds through the room. He turns the knob on the player to make sure the sound is perfect. All this time gives you a chance to take him in. His shoulders are narrow, almost curving in. His moves are gangly, and from behind, he could almost give the appearance of a teenager if not for the way he dressed. His slacks and fabric of his shirt are too proper and fancy for any teenage boy. His hair is too fluffy and trimmed for any careless young boy.

When he turns and walks toward you, he is grown once more. The lines that have been traced on him by age. The modest amount of stubble that barely appears. The gleam from the chain around his neck catches your eyes and he sits on the armchair beside the couch.

He waits for the music to start before touching his glass. He nods toward you and lifts his glass as if to cheers you, although you’ve already taken a sip from yours. He smiles slowly as you avert your eyes, too prone to blushing.

*

He’s been to this restaurant before. The waiter knows him and set you two up at a table in the back. You’re face to face with Alex now and a great happiness—the feeling of the unknown and whatever is on the horizon—overcomes you. 

He thinks you look lovely even with your mouth full. 

*

Without consulting you, he directs you back to his home. Perhaps the only reason he went out with you was to come home. To have the illusion that what is familiar to him is unexceptional for you too. You make your way almost automatically to the living room while he fetches another bottle of wine from the kitchen. When he walks in, you're standing by the window. The sill is so low that it would be easy to tip out. "Look, someone else is still awake," you say, pointing across the street.

"Oh, that's Chuck. He's a painter. Up at all these crazy hours of the night. Just painting away." You turn to face him. He is holding a record in one hand, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“That’s not very appropriate for now.” You’re referring to the music playing. It’s some classic rock record but it has a children’s choir singing.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Good music is always appropriate,” he argues.

“What about a funeral march?” You retort. 

He chuckles. “Alright,” he caves. He walks over and takes the needle off the record. 

When he walks back over, he for the first time enfolds you in his arms. You take his face in both hands and kiss him very gently like it’s second nature. There is nothing daring him to perform any differently in response.

He brushes the strap of your top and dares to move further by pulling the bra strap down too. The way your bare shoulder feels in his cupping hand is something he won't forget as long as he lives. He moves down and traces his lips on the soft skin. You're looking up at him and smiling before sinking your teeth into his flesh, biting a piece out of him. You pull him even closer to you, turning two bodies into one, where one may not run away only toward one another.

His hands discover your bottom fits neatly into them, a peach to each. You are still both standing there, on the grey living room rug, on your island, barefoot, with interlocking arms and legs, only at rare intervals, opening your eyes and emerging from your blindness to look at one another. He wonders where you get your certainty from. Then he shuts his eyes again, and it is better to see with his hands and mouth.

"We better not make each other miserable," he says. 

"Isn't it too late already?" You smile briefly before insisting, “Sleep with me.” He’s unsure if you mean the whole word. Not just fuck you, but sleep side-by-side with interlocking bodies sharing such unwilling vulnerability with one another. 

Alex takes you by the hand and leads you out of the room, through the kitchen, down the hallways, into the room, the one he pointed at earlier, suggesting to you that you'd spend your night in there. "I might have some trouble," he tells you, "I've had too much to drink. Too much excitement." 

"I don't mind," you say, lying back on the bed, stretched out on the sheets with a halo by your head, your hair shining bright from the bedside lamp. That grin reaches out to him, taking him completely, pulling the light from the whole room, and reflecting it back to him. 

You unbuckle him and take his softness into your hand. He stands still and watches the alchemy as you move him. You pucker your lips out, sitting the tip of him on the edge of your lip. It’s a teasing prospect and he waits eagerly, so close to pushing himself straight in, not being able to resist temptation. 

But he says a prayer and waits, swears to the heavens as you wrap your lips around him, and take bits of him. He feels faint, like his knees might buckle, and he’ll fall straight through the floor. He pushes back on you, making you relinquish your grip. 

“I’ve got to sit down.” He blinks and relaxes onto the bed. “You’re too clothed.” Only the straps he pushed off earlier are bearing your skin to him.

“Isn’t it more tempting?” You taunt, standing on your knees, towering over his laid-out body. You straddle over him, the core of you hovering over the center of him. “You can imagine whatever you want.”

His hands grab your hips, his thumbs dig into the bone. “The real thing is better than anything my brain could put together.” He pulls at the waistband of your skirt, yanking down, down, down.

When the fabric is wiped clean from your surface, his finger fiddles with your nipple, much like he did with the knobs on his record player. (The same amount of noise comes out too.) He runs his fingers through you just to get a taste of the wetness. He puts fingers on your bottom lip, tapping until he has gained entry. Your mouth sucks on the two fingers and the way your tongue moves on them might get him harder than it did when you did it to his dick.

You sit on him, sinking like he is the bottom of the ocean. You sway like the waves and he tries his best to not have them pull him under, tries surfing them. He places his hand on his head before grabbing your waist, ebbing and flowing with you.

He leans up to capture your mouth. In the midst of the kiss, which is rabid and ruinous, he loses all sense of time, of space, of self. He feels you up and down, relishing in that soft, smooth skin, in your curves, in your perked breasts and the ridges in your spine. 

You rake your teeth along his shoulder, kissing with a lightness then a roughness, sucking and scraping, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, head falling to rest against the stack of pillows. He feels high when he’s inside you, and you’re so warm and so wet he could cry. 

You ride him with a purpose, eyes on his, your hand fisted in his hair as you carve your hips into his body like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Alex can’t help but match your rhythm and gets you moaning desperately, so he’s not alone in this. “You feel so goddamn good,” he whispers, right into your ear, just to drive you crazy. 

You pull his head back as if to get even, quickening your pace as you ravage his neck, but he doesn’t want this to end yet. He wants it to last, wants you in other ways. “Hang on,” he rasps, trying to slow you. “Stop.” You make a frustrated noise, but do. He grins. “Something the matter?” 

“Shut up,” you gasp. “What?” 

“Get on your stomach,” he says, soft but firm. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you counter, but do it anyway, and when he pushes in from behind, you cry out, muffled into the pillows that you hold onto in a white-knuckled grip. 

“You like that?” He asks, and you don’t want to satisfy him with a nod because you’re stubborn, but when he reaches between your legs to stroke your clit you can’t help but let a whine escape. 

“Fuck, you sound so pretty.” He’s relentless and doesn’t allow a break, he doesn’t believe they exist. He’s chasing after like a dog going after a car, not letting up until he reaches the bumper. Skin slapping and panting are the only sounds being made. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come after all that, and he falls over the edge with you. You end up out of breath, you shaking and him hot-blooded. You grab his hand suddenly, bringing it to your lips to lick dry and then kiss, one on his palm, another on his wrist, his knuckles, his thumb. He nuzzles your ear. You stroke the height of his cheek. You end up burrowed under the blankets, beat to hell. You sprawl out on top of him, playing with his hair. His lip quirks up because it’s impossible for it not to.

*

He recognizes you right away. You're swinging your handbag as you walk, dressed in all black, and as you come closer, he can see you've put your hair up and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. He thinks of how exposed your face is. He knows he has to be straight with you.

He deliberately chose one of the larger tables, telling the hostess a table for three. You both look up from time to time to see what's keeping your third. He's brought you one of his books so that you can see the things he writes about—his first present to you. You shouldn't read the dedication. Time to look across to the entrance and shake your heads—what's keeping our unpunctual friend? You're in cahoots, you have your first secret to keep from the world, and he knows what you're thinking as you share a look, and that's why it's important to set conditions.

"We will only see each other occasionally," he says, "but each will be like our first time. A celebration." You listen to him attentively and nod. "I can only be a luxury for you because, you know, I have someone else."

“I know.” You’ve always known this. It’s clearly shown on his left hand.

"Perhaps that won't be enough for you and I understand that." You look straight at him, directly in the face. He notices things about you that he didn't before. The way your pupil shines in this light.

"If you had a hundred women, all that matters is the time that we spend together." How can he ever refuse you anything if you don't demand anything? The black velvet ribbon moves him, it makes you look like a schoolgirl. He feels sick.

"You can't expect any sort of public declaration. We both know and that will have to do." "That's fine," you say and then you smile. It terrifies him how comfortable you are. How comfortable this all feels.

He pours you more wine to go with your food. You see his pack of cigarettes on the table and think you don't ever want to sit at a table that doesn't have his cigarettes on it. 

He can't forget that one day he will have to hand you on. He can't forget that he knows this better than you do. He has to remember this no matter how long or short your time together is. This jagged thought must shine through all other thoughts of happiness, love, and desire, through all your shared experiences and any memories you may have; he must endure it when the crash happens. If it isn't to destroy him. The funny thought is that he doesn't think he would mind you destroying him.

"We can be as long as you want us to be," Alex says. 

You nod. So long as you can see him, as long and as often as possible, you wouldn't mind anything else.

He tells the waiter, "It looks like our friend hasn't made it." He pays and pockets his pack of cigarettes. Your jacket hangs beside his coat in his cloakroom, the two rubbing shoulders with one another. "That couple," he tells the attendant while pointing to them. The attendant hands Alex the items, and he holds your jacket out for you to slip into.

While walking, you stand apart because touching is too much. He takes you to his office. It's dusty with shelves of tapes and records you wouldn't know what to do with. There are piles of papers on the desk and windows with blinds covering the outside world. You imagine a person would go mad in a room like this. 

"It isn't much of a view," he says. He lifts the blinds and you peek out to the alleyway with trash cans and let out a giggle.

He offers you a chair and slips a pair of headphones onto your head without saying a word. He leans over you, pressing his body into your shoulders, and hits play on the deck. 

You've never heard anything like it before. It makes you sit upright as if it was his personal version of an electric chair. He stands by the window and lets the moonlight shine on him. He watches you as you listen and lights a cigarette. He likes how concentrated you look, as if he might quiz you after the song is done.

He hears the click and you place the headphones on top of the player. “It’s old recordings I recovered. They’re from some guy in the ‘50s. We’re trying to find the originator.” You get the feeling he likes talking about his work, but people aren’t usually interested in waiting for his sentences to find their way out. 

Before you head out again, you see a photo of Alex on the desk. "Can I have this?"

Alex asks back, "For your imagination?" 

"No," you say, "so that when I'm on the train tomorrow, I won't think all this was just a dream." 

"Are you going so soon?" You’re going away on a trip with a friend tomorrow. You told him that on the first night you spent together. When the hour was so late that it felt like the rapture had occurred and you were the only two people left on Earth.

"Yes." While you hold the photo in your hands, he comes up behind you and holds you. He kisses your neck. You keep your eyes shut throughout, only opening them when he lets go of you, and then you stow the photo away in your bag, between the pages of a book. "Oh no! I left your book at the restaurant."

"Will you walk me home?" 

So now he walks you back the way he saw you come earlier, swinging your bag the exact same, rounding a corner, and then another one, and another one until you've reached your apartment building. It’s down the road from the Moose Cafe. "My room is on the third floor, two windows from the left." He stands next to you and looks up."

Every time he went to the cafe, he came this way, never knowing you were in that building. "What's that in the window?"

"A Basquiat postcard." You put it there after seeing the way he placed postcards around his house. 

"Nice," he says, trying to imagine your room. 

"It's only a week," you say, even if it feels so pathetically long to you.

And to him. "Think of me," Alex says. At certain times, he thinks, Why should she? He's in no way certain it wouldn't be better to forget you in a hurry. There's no kiss on the public street, just an exchange of glances.

*

a/n: i don't mean for everything i write to be somewhat related to cheating. it just turns out that way. this is inspired by a book i'm reading and i'm only 30 pages into said book so they're will probably be some form of a part two or some other fic inspired by this book. (i read 1 book i want per year and it inspires everything i write for the next 12 months.) praying there are no errors in this.

[glassmarine]

thinking about tranquility base hotel + casino today and about how fucking cool it was. like what do you mean you were done writing love songs so you watched a million movies, locked yourself away in your home recording studio (that you named the lunar surface), and wrote a semi-concept album about a hotel on the moon that you invented in your head? where you're both the receptionist and the lounge singer performing two shows a day four nights a week? completely with a taqueria that gets four stars out of five? as mentioned in the lead single that's literally a faux advertisement for the hotel and all its accommodations? in the video for which you play evil twin versions of yourself? and you made a 3d model of the hotel that you singlehandedly, painstakingly put together using cardboard and an x-acto knife? with a sign that literally spins around if you put in on your tape recorder and turn it on? and you made a picture of that model the cover art for the album?

[glassmarine]

2005 Milex Pillow Fort ft Miles Kane’s bowl cut

guitar lessons with 2005 milex! i tried my best unfortunately environments are still hard (´ω｀;)

+ bonus doodle

[glassmarine]

Used To Be My Girl - Ferrara, Italy [05-06-2016]

[glassmarine]

[glassmarine]

and what if i wrote an Alex fic huh what if i did

[glassmarine]

what i carry in my pocket:

- lana del rey's unreleased music

- alex turner

- cuban cigars

- my journal

- lipgloss

- headphones

- crystal neacklaces

[glassmarine]

if youve read lost in translation and you liked the cigarette scene just know that an evil man did that to me once and he ghosted me and that's how i became a smoker (it's been a year.)

[glassmarine]

The interview that goes with that GQ fashion shoot!

[glassmarine]

lost in translation (mdni!)

You meet a man in a bar, in a foreign city neither of you belong to. MDNI!

ship: alex turner x reader, alex turner x you, bar hook-up, implied age gap

warnings: unsafe and drunken sex practices

word count: 6818

note: this was super self-indulgent (tokyo girl here)

“I don’t think this place is particularly great if you’re looking for a deep connection.” This is what you say when someone brings up dating in Tokyo. You’ve been here a while on exchange now, exploring the city as newcomers are wont to do and on a rainy Friday night, you’re in a new bar, surprised by how crowded it is with people you can speak proper English to. Not that you have any trouble with anyone else, but it’s refreshing being able to speak without slowing down your pronunciation or repeating a word or having to resort to your weak Japanese. “Tokyo is like, ever-expanding. I like it. But it’s not great, you know, for connections or something.”

You nurse your drink, taking a sip from it. You’re surrounded by a few people older than you, who vaguely talked about being here for work. You can see their rough hands, the band tees, the worn shoes. Concert or something? you had asked, and they laughed, relaxing at your unsurprised expression, perhaps pleased that you had not immediately started asking when, what, or who.

Truthfully, you’re not incredibly curious. You just want a slow night. You didn’t have any class today, and you had spent last night partying to celebrate the end of your midterms. Now, you’re still slightly hungover as you drift through this little bar in a small alley somewhere in Tokyo, but you’re not really here to drink.

The warmth inside slowly begins to grow oppressive as you engage in mild conversation, alcohol hot in your throat and stomach. The ice in your drink is melting, watering down the sweet liquor. You swirl it in your glass and take the straw out, knocking back the drink.

“I’m going to go for a cigarette,” you say to the woman you’re speaking to, and pat your pockets for your pack and lighter.

“Oh, I don’t smoke.”

You glance around the room. It smells like cigarettes. You smile at her wryly and say, “You’re in bad company, then. See you in a sec.”

You frown as you dig through your coat, and try and pat down your pants until you remember you’re wearing one of your skirts with no pockets. You only find an empty pack of Seven Stars. 

It’s not a promise to return to the conversation, but it’s only polite. You set your drink down, thanking the bartender and you walk out to stand under the awning. There’s someone else there, patting their pockets, too.

You’re startled by the slightly slurred request from the man standing on the far side of the awning. He’s English, you notice. 

“Could I have one of those?” 

“If I had one at all,” you reply, and turn the packet upside down, shaking it. You stick your hand out and feel the rain. It’s not bad. You saw a convenience store a little down the road. “I’m gonna go get a pack, I think.”

The man walks up to you. “I’ll come with.”

“I’m glad you weren’t expecting me to give you one after I got back from the supply run alone.”

He shrugs, languid and loose. “You seem like a ray of sunshine.” He’s very handsome, you realise, with a nice nose and large, intense eyes, the colour of chocolate in the focused lighting under the awning. 

You smile at his comment. “Aren’t I? Come on.”

You pull your coat up over your head and begin walking in the direction of the convenience store, the only sound coming down the street the distant noise from the main road, your boots clicking on the wet pavement, and the rain coming down gently.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” the man says. Alex says. You commit his name to memory. “This th’part where you give me your name.”

You introduce yourself, slowing down to keep up with his tipsy–or maybe drunken–pace. “Are you with the rest of the party in the bar?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I work with them.”

He looks at you in a simultaneously intense and lazy way, as if he’s figuring out a new problem, the likes of which he already knows what to expect. There’s a naked feeling that comes with this, like he knows what he’s seeing.

“Will you be here very long?” you ask curiously. 

He raises a brow. “Need me for very long, love?”

That startles a laugh out of you and you blush, ever so slightly. “No! I mean–sorry, it’s kind of a thing you ask other foreigners. How long they’ve been here, how long they’ll be here for. This place is kinda… transitory, I guess.”

“Just here for a little while, then Osaka,” he says, answering your question, now his unspoken question clear in the air.

“England?”

“I study here,” you tell him. “On exchange. I do, um, astrophysics. I go to uni in…”

“How’d you know?” you ask suspiciously.

“You said uni.”

“I could be going to uni in Scotland. How Anglocentric of you.”

He shakes his head. “Real big words you’re shooting out there, darlin’.”

“Sorry,” you say, the slightest hint of humorous snark in your voice. “I’ll stop, you do need to keep up.”

Alex laughs. It surprises you, how warm it sounds as you go down the cool, dark street. The air is sticky with humidity, but it feels much lighter when he laughs. 

“You’re a cruel one,” he jokes. “Just the kind of girl I sing about.”

“You sing?” Now that you ask, you can see it in the way he carries himself despite his clear introversion–you can see the confidence and the charm, and when you make eye contact, you realise he knows you see it now.

“Here an’ there.”

A cyclist zips down the street behind you, racing the rain and you jump, shocked by how close he had seemed as he sped on. “Jesus.”

“Yeah.” Alex reaches out and you feel his hand on your shoulder, guiding you to the inner side of the road, and then his hand doesn’t leave. Maybe he actually is drunk. “Maybe don’t walk down th’middle right there, love.”

“I thought I’d hear him,” you grumble slightly. “They’re evil, the bloody bikers here. They cycle on the fucking pavement.”

“That’s your sign to start walking in the middle of the street?” 

You look up at Alex. “You’re a cruel one.”

He laughs again, and you finally see the dim glow of the convenience store a little way down the street. He makes a sound of realisation.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be farther,” you say, brow furrowing.

“I don’t know about you, but there’s somethin’ to be said about how everything feels closer at night.”

“That sounds incorrect,” you say. “But you’re a man with no fear of the darkness.”

He shrugs. “I spook easily. It’s closer when you start running.”

You can’t help your giggle at this admission. “Right,” you say, approaching the convenience store and shaking rain off your damp coat. “I’m so hungry. I need a cigarette so bad.”

The fluorescent lighting stings your eyes a little but you head to the counter and ask for a pack of Seven Stars before turning to Alex. “Which one?”

He examines the line-up behind the till. “Whichever you’re gettin’ darlin’, and… Reds,” he says decisively. 

You ask for those, too, and pull your wallet out, but Alex stops you with a hand on your arm as he pulls out a literal fistful of coins. You start laughing. “Oh my god. Why do you have so many?”

“The lads dumped them on me,” he grumbles, and pays for the cigarettes, cutting his coin balance in half. “Ah. Better.”

“Much,” you agree, giggling. “Come on. I can’t stand to see you in this lighting.”

He follows you as you walk out back into the darkness, rain still falling but gentler now. You don’t mind getting drizzled on for a short walk. It’s warm in the bar, anyway.

“You prefer me in the dark?” Alex says lowly, tone light as he nudges your arm with his elbow. 

You blush, letting out another laugh. “Jesus Christ, Alex. Take me out to dinner, first,” you joke. You open up a pack and pull out the lucky cig and put it back in before taking one out. Next to you, Alex opens up his pack of Reds and does the same. You reach into your pocket automatically, expecting to find your lighter, but your hand closes around air and you groan.

“What?”

“Lighter,” you bemoan, turning around.

“Wait,” Alex says, and pulls a really nice, silver one out of his pocket. He looks up at the dark, cloudy sky, and pulls you into an alcove, a locked-up door with the tiniest awning in the world, and he ends up gently pushing you against the wall. “One sec…”

You’re no longer getting drizzled on, but you’re close enough to feel the raindrops on his coat. You swallow nervously. You’re not put off by his proximity, but…

He places his cigarette between his lips, then lights it. His face is bright in the warm glow, his eyes glowing like amber and you’re struck by how handsome he is–and infuriatingly, your face warms, heart beginning to pound harder.

“Wow,” you say, your cigarette between your bared teeth. “Thanks a million, Alex.”

He leans in. If it were not for the cigarettes, you think he’d kiss you. He touches the tip of his cigarette to yours and you remember to breathe, inhaling deeply as your cig sparks to life gently. Your face is unbelievably hot and you’re deeply grateful for the darkness.

“I wouldn’t leave you wanting, now would I, love?”

You roll your eyes. “Evidently not.” You say this with a smile nonetheless.

“We should finish this here,” he says suddenly. “It’ll go out otherwise.”

“Fair enough,” you reply, and take a deep, calming drag. Your limbs loosen almost deliciously and you can’t help the low, dramatic moan you let out as you exhale. “This is addicting.”

“You don’t smoke often?” Alex’s voice is soft and low, the distinct timbre distracting you. 

“I mean, no, but I am just stating the obvious.”

He offers you his cigarette. “Try this.”

You wrinkle your nose. You tend to avoid the Reds. You like your Seven Stars just fine… but his posture is inviting. You reach up to take it from his hands, but he tuts and you flush before realising and you place your face in his open palm, taking the cigarette between your lips and inhaling deeply.

His thumb brushes your cheek. You feel hot when he does that, your chest tightening with a strange want for more. But you have self-control. You look up at him through your lashes and smile as you take another drag.

“Like it, hm?”

You pull back slowly and his thumb brushes your cheek again. Your fingers tighten around your forgotten cigarette, threatening to crush it. Your heart is pounding in your ears, from the hangover, the alcohol, the nicotine, Alex. 

“It’s… passable,” you murmur. 

“Ah. Give me yours.” His eyes flick to your hand, clenched in a fist and crushing your cigarette ever so slightly. He takes your wrist and your palm falls open as he lowers his head, and he uses you almost as a cigarette holder. You can feel his stubble on your hand and his lips on your fingers.

Mother of god almighty.

He takes a drag, then pulls out to exhale, and comes back in for one more, lips closer to your skin now, properly pressing against your palm.

“I think you like that,” you joke, voice coming out only a little weak, and you clear your throat in an attempt to strengthen it, because smoking makes you hoarse. Right. Smoking.

“I think you did, love,” Alex says with a little smirk as he lowers your hand, but he doesn’t let go of your wrist until you move to take a drag from your own cigarette.

“Don’t be vile.”

“Never have been, never am,” he quips, unbothered by your weak rebuke.

You two finish your cigarettes in oddly comfortable silence, you still against the wall and him half-facing you, half-turned to the road. You put it out, dropping it to your feet and crushing it with the tip of your shoe. There’s hesitation as you move away from the alcove under the awning, and you can’t help but wonder if the strange intimacy you shared there would pass.

Alex puts his cigarette out and places his arm over your shoulders, prompting you to start walking to the bar.

You wonder if he can hear your heart beating as loudly as it is right now. You don’t think you’ve ever been so attracted to someone in a while, and the last time must’ve been right as you started uni and a boy you had liked broke up with you because he was moving away to the mainland.

“Rain’s stopped.”

You look up, your thoughts of kissing him and its consequences sharply interrupted by his comment. “Oh. Yeah. It does that.”

He laughs at your reply, shaking his head. “What a fag does to a girl.”

“Hey,” you complain, nudging his side with your elbow and he laughs harder, jerking away but keeping his arm around your shoulder. “I’m trying. Real hard.”

“Right you are, love.”

“All these bloody coins, darlin’.”

“You drive me to drink,” you mutter, smiling.

It doesn’t take long to get back to the bar, and even as you enter, his arm doesn’t leave your shoulders as you order a drink at the counter, and Alex butts in, asking for his own and paying.

“You really didn’t have to.”

You wait for your drinks and you gratefully take yours, thanking the bartender and sipping on it. It’s heady and sweet, and the alcohol hits you harder than you thought it would. “This is good,” you tell Alex, who is watching you, holding a tumbler of whisky in his free hand.

His other hand squeezes your shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Very good.” Your eyes fall to the clock on the wall as you glance up over Alex’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss my train home, I think.”

He turns to look. “What time…?”

“In ten minutes,” you say with a sharp sigh. “It’s a fifteen minute walk there. Seven if I sprint.”

Alex looks down at your shoes, then smiles. “Guess you’ll be getting lucky at a hospital tonight?”

You laugh, closing your eyes and pressing your fingers to your temple. “Ughhhh. No. Not tonight. I’ll just…” You glance around the room, then look at him. “I don’t know. All-night karaoke.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not surprised they have that here. I can’t say I’m tempted, though.”

“It’s not half bad, but don’t worry, you’re not invited. Can’t let you upstage me.”

“Stay with me,” he blurts out. This is clearly uncharacteristic for him to do–to be so bold and direct, and it shows on his face when he glances away, slightly embarrassed. “If you haven’t got plans to sing all night.”

“Okay,” you find yourself agreeing. There is a certain peculiarity in this, considering the fact that you have never so easily agreed to a man, albeit without sexual innuendos, propositioning you spend a night with him. But Alex comes across differently, his charm subtle and almost excruciatingly calm, like it’s in his skin rather than a look he puts on. 

You finish your drink. The liquor burns sweetly. 

Alex knocks back his tumbler of whisky as if it was a shot, and you wrinkle your nose. “That’s meant to be savoured. You’re like a uni kid.”

He gives you a look. There's still a little left in his glass. “When in Rome…”

You’re a little clumsier under the influence, a little more comfortable being touched with every sip. “Think I should get another?”

Alex checks his watch. “One for the road.”

Someone tells his–yours too, now–party that their last train is in 15 minutes, and their station is closer. 

Alex orders you two more drinks, and when he lets go of your shoulder to point at the menu, he puts it back on your waist this time, hand warm against your body. You hardly resist, one hand coming up to gently squeeze his wrist before you lean in against him. Someone finds Alex, emerging from one of the more crowded corners.

“Alex,” the man slurs. He has one of the most English faces you’ve ever seen. 

You blink. “Miles Kane.”

“Miles Kane,” Miles repeats. “He’s somewhere a… oi, that’s me.”

“You know him?” Alex asks you, surprised. You had never shown any indication you knew Alex, but you know Miles.

“My best friend thinks you’re really fit,” you tell Miles. “She keeps showing me pictures of you.”

“Now, is your best friend in this room, and is she half as fit as you?” Miles drawls out with a grin. “Because, if so…”

“My best friend is at LSE,” you blurt out, surprised, unable to comment on your best friend’s fitness in surprise.

“LS… Oh, Jesus,” Miles whistles. “You’re young.” He looks at Alex, who you are leaning on, who has his hand on your hip.

You shrug. “And you are…?”

“The cheek of this one, Al!” Miles laughs loudly, and Alex laughs at your question. “Alright, alright, won’t comment on it. No need to give me a crisis, gorgeous.”

“I don’t give anything,” you reply, smiling. 

“Right,” he says, and drunkenly points at you and Alex, up and down. “Right.”

Alex feels your eyes on him. “I bought her cigarettes an’ drinks. I gave her things.”

“As I said. I don't give a thing.”

“Riiiiight,” Miles says, laughing. “Alright, join us, love. Your humour keeps me young.”

But with that, Miles wanders off, leaving you alone with Alex.

“You know him?”

“I guess I know you,” you say. “Alex Turner.” You had never seen him live, but you've heard his songs on the radio a few times. You never thought he'd be particularly attractive to you, but you're also not surprised anymore. 

He gives you a sidelong look as he finishes his whiskey. “Does that matter to you?”

You shrug. “Should it?”

There's a look that flashes in his eyes and he says, with a smile, “No, guess not.”

As it turns out, the Japanese interpreter they had brought along was utterly sloshed. You're not surprised by this either, so you end up telling Alex to tell everyone what to do, because you're hardly going to take charge of a group you're not part of. The two of you end up leading the way, anyway, but you earn no curious looks. 

“The rain is gentler now,” Alex notes as you walk, his hand warm on your hip, skimming the edge of your skirt, lifting the hem of your jacket.

“It’s still sticky.”

“Makes you wanna peel your skin right off,” he muses in a way that doesn’t make that sound creepy at all. Or only a little bit, at worst.

You make it down to the station and he tells you which stop. It's a little while away, and when you sit, he places his head against yours. It's been so long since you've delighted in any kind of intimacy. There was no envy when you saw couples do this on the train, sleeping on each other, waiting for their stop.

Now you might be a little envious after tonight, and you have the slightly nauseous realisation that you might do anything to capture this feeling again. The warmth of his body against yours, his shoulder pressed to your own, his soft breathing you ultimately end up mimicking. The train trembles to a stop.

“Our stop,” you say, words slurring as you realise how much you've had to drink when you get the chance to rest.

Alex mumbles something then rises.

“Stop mumbling.”

He shoots you a look. “Mean. I said ‘okay.’” 

Miles, on his other side, says, “No, he didn't.”

“What did he say?”

Alex shushes Miles drunkenly.

“He said, ‘I like the way you say that.’”

You shake your head and smile. It's a short walk to their hotel, a very nice one. You pile into the elevator in groups, Alex giving one of the security detail a look when they try and have you take the next one. 

“You're too confident for your own good,” you mumble to Alex in the crowded elevator, while everyone is drunkenly chattering in low, slurred voices. 

“Confident about what?” he whispers back. His mouth is warm against your ear.

It’s just the alcohol that’s very, very warm in your body. Right. Just the liquor. 

You and the group file out once you reach one of the uppermost floors and you realise that you have almost forgotten who you’re with. The opulence is dazzling and it makes your eyes burn. You sway, and Alex places his hand on your hip again. “Steady on, love.”

“Aye, captain,” you remark dryly. 

He pulls you towards a door and fishes a keycard out of his pocket, and he nudges you in, following and locking the door behind you with a soft click. The room is dimly lit, a suitcase left open on the floor, a few clothes strewn about on chairs, an acoustic on the coffee table. It’s a mess that room service had left behind–his bed is immaculately done up. Your mouth goes dry. Pillows have never looked so inviting before.

“It’s a Japanese thing to take your shoes off,” Alex murmurs from behind you, the hand on your hip casual yet persistent. What an oxymoron that is, but you can’t describe it any other way; his fingers are soft, easily shaken off, but they stay even as he kicks his shoes away, and he doesn’t bother with politely nudging them to the side.

“You’re like a stalk of wheat in th’breeze.”

You bend down to remove your boots and you sway even worse than before. 

“Don’t distract me,” you reply, focused on the laces of your boots. Then Alex casts a shadow in the dim lights as he bends down, deftly undoing the knot and taking your shoes off for you, breathing out a slow, drunken and sighing laugh.

You find that his hand is on your ankle and you look into his eyes—he looks up, he looks beautiful on his knees–and he looks hungry. Starved.

You’re not the type to sleep with strangers. Not with rockstars, especially. Those are the last thoughts in your head before you make the decision to lean down and kiss him. What a good thing that you do–his mouth is soft and warm as you press your mouth to his, pliant and open and waiting. Eager, if there’s anything to say about how his grip tightens around your ankle and his free hand comes up to your cheek and his fingers snake their way into your hair. You sigh into the kiss when he does that–he takes it as the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth. Tentative at first, then exploratory. Your head spins at the taste of his mouth, all liquor and Alex at once.

He only draws back to stand up, but in the brief moment you glimpse his face before he is on you again, you see the way he looks at you, like you are a struck match. You can smell him when he kisses you standing now: cigarettes, rain, leather. His hands are grasping your waist, your coat bunching around his fingers as he pulls it off you with what seems to be his oxymoronic attitude about these things: gentle, hurried. Desperate, steady.

“I don’t do this often,” you murmur when you two come apart for a little air. “Or–at all.”

Alex kisses you, then the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “Good.”

It’s very tense silence for a moment when he says that, and then it’s a rush and his mouth is on your neck, sure to leave marks, and you slip your hands into his jacket and Alex takes it off, discarding it on the floor and his mouth–his talented, talented mouth is still on your neck, moving from one spot to another and his warm hands pull your tucked sweater out of your skirt; so many things are happening at once and you can feel him want so many things at once as he slips his hands up your top and his fingers tremble when your cold palms press against the sliver of skin where his t-shirt rides up as he pushes you against the wall, and he is slipping this thigh between your knees and you gasp–good god, you are kissing again, and the heat of his body comes in waves as he kisses you and you think your knees are about to give out and it hasn’t even been three minutes since you stepped into his hotel room and the bed is so close and so far away.

Your hand reaches up for his arms and you can feel the flex of muscle and the warmth of his skin and you don't think you've ever been so hungry before, paralysed with want as his hands reach for your bra—you almost thought he'd be deft with it, with those lovely hands but he's clumsy and he scrabbles for the hooks on either side in a frustrated rush that ultimately has you lifting your top off your head and you hear the hiss of his breath as his open, hot mouth finds the top of your breast while you are in the midst of stripping and he is in the midst of ripping your bra off.

“There,” you say, voice coming out in a hissing sigh as the hand that is not clutching your hip and pulling you into him finds your nipple as his tongue laves at the edges of the peak of the breast he had kissed. “Right—fuck—there.”

His thigh is nudging your weak, ineffective legs apart and you suck in a sharp breath as it presses against that spot, right there, there, there—

“You taste good,” Alex says. What an understatement for his urgency—his teeth scrape and you arch your back with a silent gasp. 

His fingers dig into your waist, nudging your skirt down and you reach for his belt, unbuckling it with shaking hands and he groans against your chest as you undo his jeans, loosening up the tightness and you can feel his cock better now, burning hot through his boxers into the side of your mons and you cannot help the gasping, breathless sigh you release that you didn't know you were holding when he kissed you, and now he kisses you again—short but deep and nearly careless with urgency. Then, somehow, when he pulls away to grind closer, the space between your bodies tighter, you manage to place your mouth on the soft skin of his neck and the heat of his skin is addictive, and the realisation that he's a real person who can feel all of this too is quite nearly too much until he pulls you away from the wall and walks you backwards into the bed, landing the two of you in a messy, hungry heap atop it.

“Ow, fuck—my cock—”

“Jesus fuck, did you have to be so rough—Alex,” you hear yourself say, pleading and demanding and breathless. “Alex.”

“I like it when you say my name,” he says, looking up at you. “Not that Jesus bloke.”

This startles a laugh out of you and he takes it as the opportunity to pounce, his lips sharp on yours, heady waves of pleasure crashing into your body as he reaches for the back of your skirt in an attempt to get it off—he’s successful and you can feel his excitement at that when he kisses you harder, presses his cock insistently into your thigh. Your hands come up to tangle through his hair and he groans into your mouth when your grip tightens, and you decide that you really, really like that sound.

“If I can't get your fuckin’ stockings off, love,” Alex slurs, the warning clearly on the tip of his tongue the way he says it with such sharp urgency, “I’m gonna rip them off.”

“Don't,” you gasp as his mouth finds your neck again and you squirm, pushing your hips up into his in such a way that has him shuddering and with a sudden need for air, “I like these.”

“Get you new ones,” he practically growls against your collarbone.

“I got these in London—”

“Better.” And rip your stockings he does, cleanly from the bottom up and he rips them off until you are finally, finally left in your panties and he pulls back, his eyes nearly black in the lighting and his pupils blown-out. His gaze is hungry, eating one glance of you at a time, almost in slivers as his eyes drag down torturously slow, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. “Much better.”

“Fuck me,” you tell him, heart hammering in your chest. You sit up and your fingers find his hips, playing with the waistband of his boxers. You can see him closing his eyes, swaying for a second, and then he looks at you like a piece of meat dangling in front of a starved animal when you snap his waistband against his hips for his attention. “Are you gonna fuck me?”

“N… No, not yet. I want you to—unless there's lube—” 

You ghost your mouth over the hard tent in his boxers. “You were saying?” You breathe out, hot and soft over his bulge and his hands find your head, both coming down the side but one placing itself under your chin and the other on the side of your head.

“Fuck.”

“I know,” you say, and you're pulling his boxers off, freeing his painfully hard cock and admiring the reddened, leaking tip, glossy with pre-cum. Your tongue darts out for a lick, his hand finds its way into your hair and tightens there, almost like a warning. You take him in, a bit at a time. First his tip, and then all the way down.

Alex gasps, properly gasps, his hips jerking his cock deeper and nudging your throat. You choke but hold in place, looking up at him through your lashes, eyes glittering and shining with want.

“Good,” he breathes, flushed and hungry.

Your tongue traces the underside of his heavy cock, the tip of your tongue dragging against the sensitive red tip–silky and hot around the red tip and then you swallow him back down again and Alex hisses your name, his hips thrusting into your mouth with barely controlled restraint, one hand coming up to clasp his opposite shoulder and the lower half of his face tucking into his elbow–distantly, you wonder if he’s going to sneeze, god forbid, then in the darkness you make out the red flush of his cheeks and he’s embarrassed, god, he’s embarrassed–

You suck in earnest, taking him in deep and when your throat tightens as you swallow around him, his cock jumps in your mouth, thrusting into the very back of your throat and you choke again and refuse to break your gaze–then Alex makes a decision, one hand grasping the back of your neck, the other on the side of your head. He fucks your mouth, his thumb trembling with restraint as it pads at your cheek, pressing under your glassy, hungry eyes.

Mouth open wide, cheeks hollowed as you suck, bright, teary, starving eyes shining with want—Alex pulls back from you suddenly with a shuddering gasp. “Oh, love, I can’t—not yet—”

You kiss the tip of his cock, tongue darting out like a kitten.

Alex moans, honest-to-god moans all low and deep and lifts your chin away from his heavy, leaking cock. “Stop. I don't—I still want to fuck you.”

You smile, razor sharp but softened by intoxication. Whether it's alcohol or his cock in your mouth, it's hard to tell. Alex looks at your grin and thinks of papercuts.

He swallows, throat bobbing, then he bends down to kiss you, pushing you back down onto the bed and finding your fingers. You think he's just gonna hold your hand and then he is clasping your wrist and pressing it firmly into the bed as his mouth closes on a nipple again. You arch your back, gasping as you push your breast into his mouth and he pushes back, teeth scraping on your soft skin, biting back a gasp when you feel his cock, wet with your spit pressing hard and insistently against the inside of your thigh.

His fingers dig into the soft skin of your thigh, slipping your panties down so quickly you would say you barely noticed if it hadn’t been for his sharp inhale as he pressed his fingers against your cunt, just the outside.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says, words strained with hunger, drawn out by liquor. “God, you’re so fuckin’ wet…”

“I prefer it when you say my name–ah!” you gasp as he spreads your lips apart, searching for your clit with the rough pad of his thumb. “Better than that God bloke.”

“You’re mouthy,” he observes, and draws circles with his thumb, a smug, lazy grin forming on his face as your hips jerk in response.

“Just like you,” you shoot back, “Just like–fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s good–”

“Just like you,” Alex repeats, and replaces his thumb with his mouth, tongue flat against your clit, slickly flicking and dragging against your skin. He groans at the taste of you. It reverberates through your body, like his laugh when your hips jerk up involuntarily. He clicks his tongue. “Impatient.”

His hand abandons your wrist to loop around your thighs, one on each side, holding you wide open—exposed, so exposed and naked—and mercifully, his eyes are closed as he eats you out like a starving man, all lips and tongue and teeth scraping at your skin hungrily. And Alex moans when you arch into him, pushing your cunt further against his face, his nose digging into your pubic bone—you moan when he moans, begging yes, Alex, right there, please and he only groans and drunkenly laughs at your pleading and he doesn't stop his steady pace, it’s almost punishing how well he does this, and the shockwaves of pleasure turn into a low vibrational hum that echoes from the top of your head to the tips of your toes like standing too close to speakers at a concert, your body too hot, desperate to be pressed against another body, his body to be perfectly precise—and his mouth is perfect precision when he flicks his tongue.

“Good, yeah, cum for me, love. You look so pretty when you’re about to cum—”

You do, back arching, and you feel your teeth click on your knuckles as you stupidly try to hold a cry down but it doesn't work and Alex is laughing against your cunt, not mockingly but with far too much smugness for a man that got too shy to look at you while you blew him. 

Your head is pounding with pleasure, chest tight and breathing stuttering in time with your heart threatening to jump right out of your chest. You look at him, dazed and drunk, and say, “You gonna fuck me now?”

Alex is still laughing—giggling, really. “Yeah. Yeah, I will…” Then as he trails off he hauls your legs to side off his body as he lifts your hips up to match him kneeling on the bed. 

You can’t see what he’s doing, what his eyes are now trained on, but you can feel it–his cock slickly and delicately tracing your seam. And you can see Alex, the trembling in his shoulders, the restrained breaths as he teases himself almost as much he’s teasing you, the way he is biting his lip, brow furrowed with restraint. You see his throat bob as he swallows thickly, silently, the entire motion remaining with his body.

There’s a plea in the back of your throat, your body hot and dizzy, and you want him to just fucking do it, right now, right now, right now–but when his name exits your mouth, it’s coaxing. Warm.

“Alex…”

Then he pushes himself in with a low hiss, eyes falling shut. “Fuck,” he says, strained and breathless.

It pulls a soft gasp from you, the way he fills you, and he shifts forward almost gingerly, leaning forward and bending over you until you are nearly nose to nose and he grasps one of your wandering hands again, fingers closing around your wrist as he pins it to the bed, his weight sinking you into the mattress; your other hand is free to move, it finds the back of his head, his nape, his back and making a map out of his body.

Alex kisses you once, twice, and then he moves. There’s a certain drunk clumsiness to him now, not missing any spots but he’s careless with a steady, building force and your chest is heaving as you are jolted with each sharp thrust of his hips. Right there, you think, holding back a moan, but you realise you weren’t thinking when he lets out a strangled sound as you feel the pressure building, your body tightening up and around him, and he whispers, “Yeah, there?”

“There,” you gasp. 

There, Alex, there, there, there spills from your mouth with each shift of his hips, his head dipping as he kisses you with a wonderful desperation that makes you gasp his name into his mouth and he groans again as you feel his fingers tremble around your wrist and the heat of his body is everything now, coming off him in a sticky way like the hot Japanese rain, the scent of whiskey and cigarettes and clouds in his hair, but you want his skin to stick to yours, you want the pleasure of it–fuck, Alex, don’t–and he says your name, telling you he won’t stop in shaky breaths as he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. His eyelashes flutter and scrunch against your neck.

“Good?” he says into your skin, teeth dragging on your sensitive flesh.

You arch into him, hungry for more, and he keeps moving, he said he wouldn’t stop so he doesn’t and you can feel it, the pleasure drumming in your head and your toes, your ears and your heart and your body tenses as if you’re running one last stretch, then Alex moans, low and sweet into your ear again, like he is feeling all of this too. And you’re already sensitive, already on edge from cumming just now, it’s tantalisingly close, you’re tantalisingly close and you only get closer when you feel his pace grow erratic and nearly harsh, and then his right hand which you had nearly forgotten about marks a firm path up your side and then your breast, tugging at your nipple and you cry out his name. Under him, your body twists with pleasure, raw and convulsing as you cum so hard the whole world seems to tremble with you sharply.

Alex groans. “I’m going to–”

“Not inside,” you gasp.

“Right, right, oh, fuck–” He bears down on his left arm, pinning your hand deeper and almost painfully tight into the sheets as he pulls out hurriedly, hand going down as he strokes himself roughly, head lifted and gaze down as he shudders almost helplessly, moaning as he cums, making a mess all over your stomach, warm and sticky and in a surprising quantity. 

You wish you knew him well enough to let him cum inside, now that you think of it through the last, pounding darts of heat that strikes through your brain from your orgasm.

Alex looks up at you, eyes heavy and satiated. “Good?” he mumbles. He sounds like he ought to be drinking water.

“Good,” you affirm with a trembling breath.

He groans and relaxes, slumping down and letting go of your wrist and utterly mindless of the cum that’s going to be a pain to clean up between your bodies. His face is back in the crook of your neck. You can feel his eyelids fluttering shut, as if he’s trying to stay awake.

“‘m so tired.”

“For good reason,” you murmur, fighting off a yawn. It’s a losing battle, and then Alex yawns against your shoulder.

“Don’ do that.”

You yawn again. “Should clean up. It’s so sticky.”

“Always time to shower in the morning.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says so quietly, and then he goes so quiet, his breaths evening out, that you know for certain that he’s asleep.

You close your eyes. There go your plans to leave on the first train in the morning.

[glassmarine]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride