#🤭don’t mind his pretty eyelashes!! I have always loved how visible his eyelashes are on his model when he closes his eyes

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

I just know his breath smells rancid.

[roadkillxd]

okay okay no ale but alex keller… 😮‍💨🤌🏽

alex keller w a m!reader who is his husband and alex is just totally absolutely smitten 🤭 a hard mission brings him home pent up and frustrated and reader picks up on it and offers himself up for stress relief? but it’s soft and tender loving sex not hard fucking… please? 🙏🏽 bottom reader if you don’t mind 🫡 thank you <3

The movements themself are a little rough but the actions are tender. Can you tell I love him the most? Please send more Alex (begging).

Alex x M!Reader ↪ 1504 words — 18+ / SMUT & ANGST.

Content tags — cis male submissive reader, cis male dominant/service top Alex, anxiety, mention of claiming, unsafe sex, mildly dubious consent, mention of chemical warfare, mild overstimulation, Alex being a little out of it, established relationship, penetrative sex, anal sex, fingering, desperation, reunion sex, biting, and cock warming. 

Alex moans softly against your mouth, long eyelashes tickling your cheekbones and the ungroomed beard scratching pleasantly against your face. 

The usual careful grooming—the nice, straight lines in his fade and the perfect curl to his mustache—has faded into something gruffer and overgrown. Something that had you pausing when he came through the door of your shared apartment. 

He looked tired, and the usual puppy-like excitement of seeing you again was replaced with something more like breathless relief, his shoulders visibly drooping—almost as if he was worried you wouldn’t be there—smiling but not quite reaching his eyes, not like the ones that make the corners crinkle with little crow’s feet like they usually do.

You approached him slowly, cupping his cheek and running your thumb along the new scabbed over cut across the jut of cheekbone. His eyes had fluttered shut, breath coming out in a shaky exhale as he pressed into the touch, starved. He’d dropped his bag and pulled you into a tight hug. It took almost five minutes for him to let you go so you could guide him down to sit on the couch, the dinner you’d made for the both of you forgotten in the kitchen. He didn’t usually have much of an appetite when he came home like this, anyway.

You’d straddled his lap, cradling his head against your chest and running your fingers through his disheveled hair in an attempt to straighten it out a bit. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You’d asked, tone indifferent.

He’d thought about it for a long moment, and for a second you thought maybe he’d fallen asleep against you.

“Maybe. Later,” he concludes, lifting his chin to look up at you. You smile gently down at him, and he returns it, strong arms tightening around you, “could you…?”

There’s a moment's pause, when you realize he’s not going to finish his sentence.

“Make you feel alive?” You murmur, a chuckle and then a wince at the bit of sadness to your tone.

He’d told you once, after a nightmare—memories of ULF, and Hadir, his brother, he’d said, as chlorine gas threatened to choke the life out of him—he’d told you that you reminded him he’s alive. That he’s still alive.

Despite your slight initial regret at your own word choice, Alex chuckled and nodded. 

“Yeah,” he’d murmured.

That’s how you’d ended up with his pretty lips against yours, soft little noises of pleasure and contentment slipping past them, never one to hide his own arousal. 

He keeps kissing you, licking into your mouth as he blindly grasps for the lube shoved somewhere between the cushions. You swear he stockpiles the shit in every crevice of the apartment, always so prepared.

You don’t realize how bad he’s shaking until he’s struggling to get the tube open, having to pull away from the kiss to look at what he’s doing. You gently set your hands on his inked forearms, trying to steady him.

“Alex…” you whisper, voice laced with the slightest worry.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out in a rush, finally getting enough of a grip to pop the cap open with a click. He squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers, wrapping his arms around you to ruck up your shirt and slip a hand into your boxers, teasing. He rests his forehead against your chest again, breathing you in, “I love you,” he sighs.

His hands still shake, skating across your skin, breath stuttering and occasionally rattling from his damaged lungs, but he knows he’s safe. 

It’s the pent up nerves, a tight coil in his chest present whenever he has to leave you, pressurizing more and more the longer he stays away, away from your touch, your body. So long without the intimacy he craves so deeply. It’s almost overwhelming once that coil can finally spring free, hence the shaking and shortened breaths. 

You rub his shoulders and back as he teases against your hole, slipping two thick fingers into you with ease. You let out a moan at the filling sensation, nails scraping gently up his spine and making him shiver as your fingers tangle tight in the short strands at the base of his skull. 

He uses the movement of his fingers pumping in and out of you to rock you forward and back on his thigh, encouraging you to grind your hard cock against him, straining against the fabric of your boxers and darkening the already dark fabric. 

His freehand winds itself up your side, under your arm to cradle the back of your head, holding you close as he leans up to suck bruises against your throat, desperate to mark you—leave something of him behind, brandished into your skin like belonging. 

“I missed you,” he ushers, strained and gravelly, hot breath fanning across your neck followed by the wet heat of his tongue chasing a droplet of salty-sweet sweat, “so fuckin’ much.”

“Me too, baby, I know,” you breathe, a third finger pushing into you, splaying out to test how stretched you are, making you whine. You can hear the guilt—or not quite guilt, the neglect of his own desires—in his voice, in his gentle, throaty groans and borderline whimpers. 

You shush him as he continues to mouth miserably at your throat, pulling his head back with a gentle tug in his hair, making him strain to look up at you kneeled over him. His pupils are blown so wide, the inky black darkening the sky blue fading around them. 

“C’mon, love,” you urge, trailing your hands down to work his belt open, unbuttoning his pants to free his cock, the hard flesh bobbing out and slapping against his stomach, making him groan, “I want you.”

“Fuck,” he groans again, low and guttural, shoving at the hem of your boxers, doing his best to help you out of them. He wraps his slick hand around your prick, making you gasp as he strokes you slow and sweet, twisting on the upstroke and running his thumb over the sensitive slit. 

You grab his dick in turn, shifting into position until it teases against your fluttering hole, leaking warm lube onto his swollen cockhead. He’s chewing through his lip, and you have to use your freehand to swipe a thumb along the taut skin before he rips it open, sinking down onto him just as he releases the flesh.

He gives a hearty moan, head thrown back against the couch cushions as you take him to the hilt in one swift movement. He’s so, so pent up. You can feel the clear outline of the thick vein that travels up the side of his cock, his flesh pulsing and twitching inside you. 

He moves his hands from your lower half to wrap around your torso instead, pulling you flush to him in a tight hug. You can feel him shift, his legs spreading further apart and forcing your thighs to go as well before he plants his feet, nibbling gently at your shoulder as he starts to rock up into you, his cock perfectly grinding over your prostate on each drag in and out.

You’re both moaning into each other’s ears, Alex rambling as he thrusts, hips straining but desperate to please you, feeling how your prick pushes his own t-shirt up and ruts between the divot of his abdomen, getting his already sweaty skin sticky with precum.

“So goddamn good,” he chokes, and you can tell he’s not going to last long, not like this. You rock your hips back and forth in order to meet his thrusts, simultaneously grinding your cock harder against his flexing stomach, chasing your own pleasure. You can feel his nails digging into your shoulder blades, crooked and slightly jagged from being peeled away at the tips. An anxious habit. The feeling, the sting, steals your breath away, makes you see stars.

Alex suddenly pushes you back with one hand on your shoulder, arching his hips and spine further to keep fucking up into you, his free hand reaching for your cock to stroke it hard and fast as he lets out a string of deep grunts. 

His prick grinds perfectly over your prostate and you're crying out, just as he does, heads thrown back as you ride through the aftershocks, milking each other for all your worth. His hips stop moving relatively quickly, but you have to grip his fist to stop him from mindlessly stroking you to an early, overstimulated grave.

You gently move forward, his gradually softening cock beginning to slip out of you before he grabs your hips bruisingly fast, eyes snapping open.

“Don’t leave,” he rasps, so vulnerable you freeze in your tracks, searching his wide, almost frantic eyes. You nod slowly and settle back down, taking his length back in, watching him visibly slacken as he pulls you into cuddle against him.

You haven’t quite gotten your Alex back just yet, but that’s okay. You’re willing to wait for him however long it takes.