Work Text:
This is what life has been like, ever since the tour ended.
The curtains are drawn, one small lamp in the corner supplying the little bit of light in the room from beneath a red shade. All is quiet, except for the faint sounds coming from his computer, and...
You gag as he hits the back of your throat, eyes welling up immediately. Try as you might to be good for him, sometimes it's too far. Too much.
"Fuck... Relax," he chides you, reaching down to lazily card his fingers through your hair with his unoccupied hand. The other is busy clicking away at the computer mouse.
Taking a deep breath in through your nose, you do as he asks. Attempting to ground yourself, here in the present moment. In the lazy mundanity of it all.
Both of you have other things you should be doing,—the obligations that come along with being adults with well-respected careers. And yet, the house is empty today, save for the two of you. Finally free of his stupid friends, who are supposed to be taking up studio time but usually just drop by to fuck around and do drugs, as well as the assorted artist-types who try desperately to worm their way into his inner circle in the process of working with him.
You find the whole thing to be quite awkward, really. You know good and well that he isn't the most sociable guy,—not when excess adrenaline and various substances aren't involved, at least. They mistake his politeness for friendliness, his friendliness for welcome. It turns the home you've spent months tailoring to the two of you into a space you hardly recognize, packed to the brim with people you don't particularly like.
Plus, you're selfish.
You want him to yourself, in any way he's available to you. You've had to share him for too long,—with his work, with the road, with all the things that he uses to quiet the myriad things that bother him. It's always fucking something. Dragging him down. Keeping you from having him completely.
You know that you're greedy, always wanting more from him. You know that you have to settle for what you can get sometimes.
Luckily, you find the video games to be easy to work around.
He can immerse himself in them all he likes. Let the hours slip away into a screen like he so often does, even though, this time, what's on that screen doesn't dictate his next carefully-crafted career move.
It's just a game. All muscle memory and personal strategy. Easy to start over if he fails.
Nothing much to lose if you wordlessly crawl under his desk and undo his jeans in the middle of it.
"There you go." He exhales shakily, his hand still planted gently at the back of your head as you establish a less demanding pace. "That's my good girl."
The praise leaves you moaning around him, closing your eyes as you take him down just a little bit deeper. You don't even have to play it up. There's something about being reminded that you're his, even after almost five years together, that ignites a fire deep within you.
You're his. Despite all the things in his life that he destroys or throws away at a moment's notice, he wants to keep you.
You're not stupid. You see how the people around him so often come and go. You know that the common denominator is him.
You worry about it sometimes. Making one wrong move too many. There have been times he's taken your concern the wrong way, times when you've realized firsthand why even those closest to him oftentimes label him as 'difficult.' You aren't sure which worries you most,—the petty shouting matches that the two of you fall into, or his silence when he suddenly goes cold with you.
But, without fail, there's the makeup sex afterwards. Or he crawls into bed beside you, letting out a weary sigh before pressing himself against your side and falling asleep.
Most everything and everyone in his life has been disposable before now. But not you. Never you.
At least, not yet.
Slowly, you lick up the underside of his cock. Though you know he won't pay you a bit of attention, you cast your gaze up to take him in.
Lost in concentration. Eyes focused intently on the screen.
Even without looking at you, he must feel your eyes on him. "Stop staring," he murmurs. "Gonna lose my focus."
Yeah. You looking at him is a threat to his focus. Sucking him off is perfectly fine, though.
You roll your eyes before making a conscious effort to relax your throat again. You don't take him all the way down this time, but just a little bit further, hollowing your cheeks as you go further down.
Judging by the shaky gasp from above you, you don't think he expected it. "Shit," he curses. His ragged breathing is followed by the frantic clicking of keys. "Fuck."
The change in his tone tells you that this second utterance is not one of pleasure, but frustration.
More clicking as you continue to lazily lick along the length of him. Suddenly, a slight sting settles into your scalp as he gives your hair a slight tug. "Stop for a second."
You pull back, annoyance surely flashing through your features even as you get the opportunity to properly catch your breath. "Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm serious." He pulls at your hair again,—half-playful gesture, half warning not to disrupt his concentration. You let out a slight yelp before giving in, resting your head against his thigh for the moment.
But that doesn't mean you're going to shut your mouth. You don't make things that easy for him. "I can't believe you," you speak up. "Prioritizing that stupid game over your living, breathing girlfriend. What kind of man are y—"
The frantic clicking halts, and his fingers dig into your scalp, harder this time. "Shut up," he bites out, "and get back on me if you want it that bad."
Anyone else, and you would be tempted to claw their eyes out. But this is par for the course with the two of you.
If your self-respect was a priority when it came to him, you wouldn't be kneeling underneath his desk.
You get him back in your own way, fingernails digging into his thigh as you take him back down.
He gives a hiss of satisfaction. "That's it..." He doesn't move his hand this time, keeping it planted firmly against the back of your head. It's only when he lets out a low groan that you realize that his hand is shaking a bit, along with his legs beneath you.
When you cast a glance back upwards, you're delighted to find that he's gnawing at his bottom lip, eyes burning into the computer display. Half concentration, you're sure. Half desperate attempt not to shoot down your throat without warning.
The heat pooling between your legs is too much to ignore. You squeeze your thighs together, a soft moan breaking up from your throat in the process.
"Don't do that," he says, his voice breaking just slightly. "Don't make noises like that, baby, I can't..."
He sounds so genuinely helpless. It's almost enough to make your eyes roll back.
And of course, you're moaning around him again as you take him down just the slightest bit deeper. It's involuntary. You can't help the effect that he has on you.
His fingers thread desperately through your hair. "Fuck," he groans. "Fuck."
There's more clicking, more assorted noises from the speaker next to the desktop, but it hardly registers to you. You're completely immersed in this, in him.
You have him now. For the moment, that's all that matters.
His fingers give a faint tremor against the back of your head as you pull back ever-so-slightly before slowly lowering yourself back down. He sucks in a trembling breath.
"I can't..." he rambles between those pretty noises you so adore drawing out of him. "Fuck, baby... I'm trying so hard to be good, but I..."
You choose that moment to lick directly over the head of his cock. Consequently, you soon find yourself being unceremoniously shoved all the way back down onto him. Your throat contracts in protest before you will yourself into relaxing again. After all, this is par for the course for him.
Not that you would know it from the way that he's apologizing. "I'm sorry," he manages. "Oh God, I'm sorry, baby. I just..."
You don't want to listen to him trying to explain himself. Not when you could be listening to him losing all semblance of both control and composure instead.
You drag your mouth halfway back off of him before slamming yourself back down on him.
That does the trick, you think.
"Oh, fuck." His hips twitch up against you as his voice breaks. "Fucking... Relax your throat again. Yeah, that's it, that's my girl..."
You do as he asks. It would be stupid for you not to, knowing exactly what's coming next.
His hand slides down from head to your neck. He pushes down, just hard enough to force you all the way down on him. "Take it," he orders you. "Be a good girl. Take it all."
You don't deny him. You never do.
Right now, your complete singleminded focus boils down to this. Sucking, licking, hollowing your cheeks. Briefly, half-heartedly attempting to come up for air, only to be shoved right back down. Just like you expected to be. Just like you wanted to be.
The sound of his desperate whimpering is enough to keep you focused on breathing through your nose for as long as you can.
"Feels so good," he says. "God, that pretty fucking mouth..."
If you could, you would tell him that his mouth is pretty, too. Alas, you're a bit occupied at the moment.
"Fuck." He lets out something that sounds like a growl,—less man, more feral beast. The faint sound of keys registers in your muffled ears as he bucks his hips up against you again. "Fuuuuck."
Obviously, you can't look right now. But if you didn't know any better, you would guess that he has his head thrown back, his eyes closed. His exquisite face, for once not set in an expression of stress and hyperfocus. At ease, even if just for one moment, because of you.
But you know better. Because of the fucking game.
He almost has you fooled, though, as his hand slides back up to tangle in your hair. "So fucking good for me," he says, his voice so beautifully broken, so absolutely wrecked. "So perfect... My perfect girl..."
And then his knees are buckling beneath your hands as he tenses up. Every modicum of tension in his body coils up like a spring before he finally relaxes, spilling his release into your mouth. He lets out a long, drawn out groan before relaxing into his desk chair, spent and boneless beneath you.
You hum, swallowing around him until he has nothing left to give.
"Holy shit..." He gives your hair a much-gentler tug, signalling for you to break away.
As you draw in a much-needed mouthful of air, he looks down on you. At last, he's offering you his undivided attention.
"I fucked up the level," he informs you. His voice sounds considerably even, all things considered.
It takes a moment for the meaning of the words to register. When they do, however, you give him a look that rests just between surprise and self-satisfaction. "Just now?"
He grins with a sheepish shake of his head. "No," he says. "Not long after you started deepthroating me."
You scoff, reaching up to absentmindedly wipe at your mouth. "Ohh. So it's my fault. Okay." You pull your hand back, licking the corner of your lips before looking up to meet his eyes. "Round two?"
He shrugs. "Maybe later." He directs those blown-wide green eyes down at you, and you know that you're still in trouble. "As far as the video game goes, anyway."
Before you can make sense of it, he's standing up, pulling you up off the floor in the process. The next thing you know, you're being shoved down into the sofa in the middle of the room, letting out a surprised yelp as he yanks your legs apart, settling quite comfortably between them.
He makes quick work of your pants and underwear before lifting your legs over his shoulders. He lets out an amused chuckle as he slides his middle and pointer fingers between your lips, only for them to come back soaked. "Always get so wet from sucking my cock," he comments. "So fucking good for me..."
You let out a borderline embarrassing squeak as he buries his face between your legs without any further warning.
It doesn't take long for you to find yourself melting beneath his tongue. He has eating you out down to a science, after all. Unlike the abandoned computer game across the room, his technique here is completely foolproof. In fact, you wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't keeping some secret tally of how fast he could make you come each time.
Like right now.
He looks up at you as he flicks his tongue against your clit, and you fucking lose it in no time flat. Your legs tremble against him as he licks you through it, your voice echoing off the walls of the spare room.
He pulls back, eyes gleaming with something that most people would only get to see a fraction of in professionally-taken concert candids. "Careful," he cautions you. "You know that tourist bus comes through around this time every day." He nuzzles your thigh softly. "What do you figure they'll say, hmm? Anne Rice is over here, and the Satan-worshipping rockstar is next door, eating out his girlfriend?"
You roll your eyes. "Shut the— fuck!"
He cuts you off by diving right back in.
It's safe to say that neither of you will be getting anything of use done today. Maybe tomorrow.
For now, you have him. Content. Clear-headed enough. Completely focused on you.
It's all you could ever ask for.