Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

What Is and What Should Never Be

Warning: Contains smut.

2014

Alex's lips press harder against my own, his hand going to the back of my neck, fingers sliding against the roots of my hair. I'm drunk enough that I let myself enjoy it for a moment, mouth opening slightly for his tongue. There's something so familiar about this– but so deliciously different– that I want to sink into it like a bath. But the Strokes are still playing in the background, Can't you see me I'm trying– I don't even like it– I just lied to– Get to your apartment, and I'm so drunk the room feels warped, and I pull away abruptly, standing up so quickly I think my brain might detach from my spine for a moment.

Without a word, I take my empty glass– still clutched in my hand– into the kitchen and put it in the empty sink. As if this is a perfectly logical thing to do following that kiss.

When I turn around, Alex is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and I don't know what to say. My heart is pounding a million miles a minute, and I'm thinking of how sad I was, wanting him for so many years in Sheffield, and how I want this so badly now, but not like this. Not drunk, and sloppy, and when it probably doesn't mean what I want it to mean.

"Alex," I walk to him, about a foot away, and I'm about to ask him what we're doing– tell him that he's proper pissed– but then he's closing the space between us, his hands on my waist, pulling me against him.

"I've missed you, Lils."

My whole body is reacting to him– like a magnet drawn to his force– but I'm trying to keep my drunken brain in check, looking after my heart for the future.

"Al," I finally get out. "What are you doing?"

"Old habits die hard," he whispers with a little smirk, and he's kissing me again, fervently, and when my mouth opens for his tongue– almost like my body is going against my brain– I'm too drunk to fight with the fact that I should pull away. So, I give in, melt against him like putty, delirious, falling into what feels natural.

But this is so different from before– so different from when we were teengaers– and the spark engulfs us in fire. And maybe it's all because we're drunk, but I try to savor it anyway– try to put everything in slow motion– except Alex's hands are cupping my ass, and his body is pressed tightly against mine, and I feel like I might shake apart from wanting him.

"Alex," I pull away breathlessly, hands clutching fistfuls of his clean, white shirt.

"Come to the bedroom," he says, almost against my lips, and his eyes are hooded, hungry.

I should say no, put a stop to this before something more happens, before I get hurt. But he's already walking out of the kitchen, towards the stairs with my hand in his, and I already miss his body on mine.

So– fucking hell– I follow him.

His lips crash against mine in the doorway of the bedroom, hands already pulling at my shirt. I could be sixteen, clumsy, hungry, desperately in love with him– for how familiar it is– but then his mouth is descending on my breasts, on the skin above my bra, and I'm breathless because this is new.

My skin feels electric underneath his lips and tongue, toes curling in tingling anticipation, and his big doe eyes are swimming in my brain, making me wish I was sober for this.

We tumble onto the bed together, and his lips are on mine once more, fingers working at the button of my jeans as I clutch desperately at his hair. The Strokes are still playing downstairs, and I feel sixteen, but so different, and fucking hell I wish I was sober.