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It's one of those nights when raging hormones and excitement of the day lead them to an urgent undressing and groping each other, to kissing so hungrily and heated it leaves a smear of shiny saliva and irritated red patches around their lips. They step and stumble over their stripped clothes and can't be bothered to turn off the lights. Eyes want to see every twitch in the face and every crease on the skin—they enjoy their aging bodies thoroughly, no shame in it whatsoever.
Miles, in fact, is moved by that—he first met Alex with a remnants of pubescent acne on his chin, now he's a witness to first four or five silver hairs making an appearance above his spiky hairline. A new grey hair appeared just few months ago and Miles noticed it in noon sun. Not that he is spared of that, but he keeps his hair buzzed off so short it's hardly noticeable. And the best thing about it is the more they age together, the better the sex gets. Full of need and playfulness, adventurous. It's not only chasing a climax, it's about savouring every minute spent naked together.
So they touch and explore, massage each other gently, kiss ticklish brow bones and suck on each other's tongues. Miles runs his thumbs across Alex's scapulas and down and up his spine, then he reaches for his meaty ass hungrily, squeezing and molding it in his palms like he wants to adhese to it and never let it out of his grip. But most of all, he wants Alex on his back so he can have his way with him, so he welcomes when Alex's legs finally give up under him and he succumbs onto bed.
Then they roll over each other for several minutes straight, fighting for who gets to straddle the hips.
Miles need to stop for a second when he's got Alex pinned below, because he's already heated enough to erupt. He sits straight, reaches for his phone, unlocks it quickly and points the lens at Alex sprawled beneath. He looks like a dish ready to be savoured—there's enough of him, carefully selected pieces of lean meat put together, all warm and saucy, just the most delicious dish and Miles can't wait to dive his mouth into his cock and his arse, but first, he wants to take a picture, because there's hardly anything better than seeing your partner writhing in pleasure.
Before the phone can fully focus, Alex does a little "oh!" and rolls over to his stomach. "Absolutely not!" The feast might be over, Miles fears as he's crawling up his lover's back, leaving wet trail up his spine, kissing his neck apologetically.
"Please, let me have a picture," he runs a finger down between his cheeks, fondling his tender hole gently. That should work, because hair on the back of Alex's neck raises slightly against Miles' lips. "Please, just one picture."
It's a reasonable request Miles thinks, to have a little something to look at in the most solitary times, a picture that starts your engine and fills your thorax cavity with warmness and affection.
"No. I don't intend on being posted on some bloody Instagram story."
The sentence ruins the spell, Miles' blood growing cold in his circular system. He removes the hand and Alex's ass arches up and follows the motion for split second, seeking back friction.
"What do you mean?" he snaps and straightens his back like there's some invisible rubber band pulling him away.
"I already told you. No incriminating pictures of mine on mobile devices."
That's not explanatory enough for Miles. "What's gotten into you? You're afraid I'm gonna post you to Instagram? That's what you think of me?"
"Not post." Alex faces him now, but he's timid and cold, covering front of his body in a duvet. "But what if you put it there or send it to someone by mistake!"
"I wouldn't. The fuck, Alex?" Miles feels his anger rising. He stands there, cock still hard and swinging in the air, and he feels like an idiot, betrayed both by his bodily reactions and Alex's disrust. He reaches for a piece of clothing on a carpet, covering himself.
"What if you send it to your mom or some friend? It happens all the time to people."
"No it doesn't!"
Width of the room separates them now, Alex taking shelter under the blanket and Miles backing towards the exit. He just wants to get away before he manages to say something he'll regret later. He's still willing to resolve the argument amicably though. "You're eventually going back on tour. I need something to keep my heart pumping. That's all I'm asking for."
"No. It's a no from me, Miles, and I'm not arguing on that."
"Fine. Then just wank yourself off. And I hope you get your trust issues out of your system while on it."
* * *
Three days later Alex brings a gift, a meticulously packaged square box. It has been torturous three days, endless dayhours filled with uncomfortable silence and thorny looks. It's been also a first serious row they had since moving in together, going back and forth about it on the next day, bringing up jabs and blaming each other of the most foul intentions.
Then the gift entered their home wrapped in a martini pattern paper, the one that strongly resembled print on Miles' favourite boxer shorts. No need for name tag, it waited for Miles on his spot on a sofa.
"It's a peace offering," Alex hints. "To put a stop to our small argument."
Miles wouldn't call it small, but he's willing to move on.
"Is it a set of martini glasses?" Which is a stupid question, because why would they need another set of martini glasses? Alex already has three full boxes he keeps at storage room.
"Go on, shake it."
He can't tell whether it's a silly tease or genuine incentive to do so. He does rumble the box gently while studying Alex's expression closely—nothing jingles nor shatters inside. Something definitely moves, something heavy, but secured tightly, judging by the mere shuffling sound.
It is classic Polaroid camera, the one popular so much in the nineties and prior, the one creating those somehow raw or dreamy pictures—nothing in between—and as Miles holds the uncovered box in his hands, he feels the excitement rising in his chest. Miriad of colourful images blossoms in his head and it contains all the different parts of Alex's body, partly unclothed or even bare, flushed, wet, painted with red hand prints and angry teethmarks, covered in fresh cum.
"I thought you were opposed to the idea."
"I'm not opposed. I just do not trust any electronic device that's connected to social media and all this crap." He watches Miles fumble with the angular and somewhat clumsy and big camera, quickly finding out how to feed it with photo paper. "I don't mind the analog way."
They could still reignite the fire like it never went out with their little domestic row. Alex gives him the lecture on potentials of usage: like, for example, when he pouts his lips this, like he's blowing a kiss, Miles can take a photo of him and then carry it around in left pocket of his trousers—that way he can pretend Alex is there craving to place a kiss atop of his cock. Miles likes that way of thinking very much.
Analog it is then.
* * *
There are periods of time when Miles misses Alex badly and Monkeys tour is always one of those. It feels like suffering from high fever, the body restless and trembling, but mind hazy and longing after better times—times spent together, that are now gone and seem unreachable. Not the type of ache you can cure with aspirin or two.
Hot shower sometimes helps; if Miles closes his eyes and stands right under the water flow, letting it drum on his face and eyelids, he can pretend Alex is standing there with him, cuddled tightly against his shoulders, hands placed on his hips like he's holding onto him to stay stable, crotch pressed against his ass. Miles can then run wet, soaped-up sponge over his shoulder blade and his glutes and pretend it's Alex who's touching these places.
If the shower runs hot enough, the steam enshourds Miles' delusions mercifully. A crumpled brown towel on the shelf can look like tuff of Alex's hair through misted glass of shower cubicle and Miles can keep pretending his boyfriend moving around quietly, as on their normal domestic schedule.
Most of the time, the daydreaming isn't enough though. Miles can sometimes spot Alex's sightings in the wild on the socials—someone snapping a picture of him leaving the venue here and there, some lucky fans running into him on the streets of various cities during the day and posting it to Instagram mere minutes later. Albeit they call and text daily, seeing Alex surrounded by strangers leaves a bitter taste in Miles' mouth. It should be him who's by his side, puffing out his chest with pride, then holding his hand in secret, later caressing his head when he's tired and just about to fall asleep after the gig at two o'clock in the morning, then, even later, licking between his ass cheeks and imagining how outraged would all the fans become to know their idol loves getting his ass eaten out by another man.
Moments like these usually triggers session of shameful masturbation—once he starts thinking about his favourite place on Earth, there's no coming back. Steady hand opens the drawer of his nightstand and reaches inside. Why even put it off. The body has its needs and needs has its collection of most exquisite Polaroid photographs.
Miles usually wanks in the bed. He likes being comfortable and that way he can just lay the pictures down around himself and rumage through them freely, bringing them closely to his eyes one by one while he thrusts into his own fist.
He got the pictures somehow sorted—from the most innocent to the least decent, the one absolutely unpublishable, almost disgraceful. It's also the one very best of them, the one he always finishes off to.
First picture sitting on top of them all, just really a sweet one. Miles calls it A Portrait with a Fruit; it depicits Alex standing in the morning light in the kitchen, exceptionally in the mood for being pictured. He flexes his bicep holding an apple, one of his cheek bulging slightly with a bite he's chewing on.
The memory: it was a rare occassion to not catch Alex sleepy and grumpy so early. He went downstairs in briefs only, rested his elbows on a counter and watched the coffee machine grind and grunt mindlessly; mind you, it's only morning! Miles followed him with the camera just to catch a glimpse of his perky butt dressed in white cotton, but what he got was much better, much more valuable. A rare thing, full portrait: Alex's facial features outlined by soft morning sun, his puffed bangs glistening in honey tint, crease of a pillow still wrinkled deep and visible on his left cheek, his almost forty years old skin keeping it close and dearly like it didn't want to let go.
Miles put the camera down, put the printed-out photo down, kissed the real him and tasted a sour morning breath balanced out by sweetness of an apple.
He midlessly runs a palm across his head, because Alex would do that. He can never get enough of his short buzzcut. "The shorter you keep it, the better the sensation gets," he sometimes mumbles into Miles' ear and runs fingers in his stubbly hair. Circles it, savouring the sensation. "I could stroke it for hours."
In second picture, Alex is completely still, lying like a motionless marionette and smiling like he's tipsy on strong and sweet port. Blessed out, not a single thought in his head, languid and hazy stare fixed on his photographer. Dicked down good, Miles calls it.
The memory: it was a night time when decent people are long lost to REM sleep phase, but not them—being the wandering, ever-searching souls they are, they were still up and awake because you could always find song nuances hidden in hazy 4 AM shadows cast on the bedroom ceiling or hidden in creases of rumbled up sheets. Musician habits: sleeping at irregular times, trailing from bathroom to balcony every fifteen minutes to lit a smoke. Definitely too much smoking, shamelessly even right in the bed.
Alex held a pillow against his stomach and put an ashtray on top of it. It didn't tip over, because he was just completely still, his body that of man worn out after session of heavy work—or rather heavy pleasure.
"How do you feel?" Miles urged, always curious to get peak on insides of Alex's mind.
"Mhm, like..." There was a long silence filled with silvery tobacco smoke and lips opening and closing with puffs of several fruitless thoughts. "Like me head is filled with a piece of cumulus cloud."
Miles liked the image—him reaching up for the sky, picking the tip of white, sheep–like cloud like ripe fruit from the tree, and planting it inside Alex's skull.
"How come you shagging me ass feel se freaking good? It shouldn't– aargh!" He covered his face and the growling grunt came out unnecessary loud. "It shouldn't feel so freaking good."
Their on-and-off intimate relationship went already for many years, but Alex sometimes still felt troubled on why he enjoyed being penetrated so much.
Miles felt just fucking proud.
Miles strokes his own stomach lazily, tracing the trail of short hairs and just tapping a finger against his belly button, turning the photos with his left hand. He presses against the fabric of his comfortable jeans, at the spot where a curve of his cock lies. It's the spot Alex unmistakably goes for even blindfolded, yet still unstoppable. It makes Miles smile—Alex could be a cartographer of his body, drawing maps, marking wondrous spots.
Third photo makes him smile too. It's his face with an ecstatic expression plastered to it, he's feasting on Alex's toes with cream, cake corpus and poppy seeds squashed and smeared everywhere among them and all over Miles' mouth. But that was okay, because they planned to lick each other clean anyway.
The memory: he doesn't remember how Alex's foot ended up in the cake, whether he did that on purpose or it was an accident, but it obviously did, then it went into his mouth and Alex snapped picture of it. It was Miles' birthday and just as tradition dictated, his mom had a cake sent to him. She never missed a year—last time it was a pistachio one, the year before red velvet. As usual, it came accompanied by a card saying: "Happiest of birthday to my boy xx—ps don't let Alex eat it all. mom"
It didn't take Alex long to discover the cake in the fridge. He had this special talent to be very observant and aware when his favourite food appeared around—a good nose he had, or maybe a whole sixth sense, Miles wasn't sure; always discovered raw fresh steaks or bowl of crispy Coleslaw in mere minutes.
"What's the cake?" he sniffed around curiously.
"Chocolate cream, poppy seed and maraschino."
"Ohh, you must be freaking kidding me," Alex gasped and went to grab a knife.
Later in the evening, when Miles came home after a day spent hustling around the studio and crucial business meetings, he found Alex rolling in a bed in only an underwear, listening to PJ Harvey, reading Harlan Ellison's novel and eating.
"Are you having my cake again?"
It was covered with spoonful of sour cream, because of course it was—Alex was a sour cream enjoyer. He made an innocent face, cream smeared in corner of his mouth. "I mean... there's still some left."
"Some?!"
"Are you mad? Please, don't be mad. Come, I'm waiting here so we can make love."
And then he moved the plate somewhere onto the bed and took Miles into his hands instead—carresing his head, squeezing his shoulders, undressing his torso so he could smell his skin. Somewhere between a lick over a nipple and palm laid over Miles' hardening cock, Alex's foot accidentally stepped into the forgotten plate.
Is This Desire? was indeed a very fitting song to make sweet, maraschino flavoured love to.
Phantom taste of sugar fills Miles' mouth and he mimics Alex's movements as he knows them so well—at some point, Alex always massages his penis against the skin of his thigh, just as he does it to himself so often. It's really the most unique way Miles has seen someone masturbate and it's all Alex. He just can't do anything the way common people do; it'd be an insult to his ego.
Speaking of ego, fourth picture is about bringing Alex out of his comfort zone a little. It is a backstage settings, their surroundings all black and Alex wears big aviator sunglasses indoors. He is captured in a short-lasting pause, just stopped in his tracks for a second, offering Miles a glance over a shoulder and a brief peek of his arse.
The memory: Alex running away from nosy photographer. "Do I date a papparazzi now?"
Miles couldn't be shaken off. "Come on, gimme something! A pout, at least!"
They chased through dimmed backstage, everything around them dark in colour and smelling of stale cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol. Alex looked around suspiciously, but there was no one there, not a single soul in reach, except for Miles who was adamant to follow and urge his lover to do something, to show a bit of skin, blow a kiss into wind.
Alex has always been rather chaste in public environment, but he hooked his thumbs into his pants and shifted them down a little. It was only a tiny offering for Miles, but he took it nevertheless—a peak of round arse, tempting line running through the middle—boom!—a shocking erruption of camera flash, and then it was gone, suit trousers put back in its place, belt being fastened, Alex on the run again. It's showtime.
Fifth one is Alex who's holding the camera and pointing it towards tall mirror. It makes Miles move faster. They are pictured in their newly acquired flat they bought together, just behind the entrance door, because they couldn't make it any further. Miles on his knees and completely oblivious to camera—only thing he focuses on is giving a thorough blowjob.
The memory: one thing they always fight for is a privilege of giving pleasure.
First, they wanted to got home by foot, taking a stroll through Soho and Marylebone, but the urgency of Alex getting closer and closer to Miles' body sent them to the privacy of a cab.
"Let get home quickly. I wanna make you feel good." Placement of Alex fingers—up on Miles' thigh, just too close to where his dick and balls rested under the fabric—made it self-explanatory.
"That was my idea and you just stole it."
Alex mouth came close to Miles' ear and his hot breath tickled. "You'll make me feel good by fucking my throat."
They had to sit still for the rest of the ride and act as good boys, because the driver already gave them one grim glance through the rear-view mirror. Alex took his hand off Miles' thigh and kept it to himself restlessly.
Once they stepped into their house, it turned into completely different story: they started to battle for a dominance, for an urge to overwhelm. It was Alex who first verbalised the wish "Wanna suck you off", but Miles who was determined to win the fight for it. "No, I wanna suck you off. I told you, it was my idea."—"But I said it first."—"I thought it first." He was also the first to get on his knees, taking Alex's pants down with him. "Goddammit, Miles."—"Grab the camera, baby."
Miles remembers Alex snapped two pictures: one from above from his point of view (and kept it), one a side view in a mirror, really spicy one, and then he stepped back, wiggling his cock like a bone in front of hungry puppy. Miles decided to go for it and Alex took another step backwards, cheeky brat.
Hell, he was even ready to woof and wiggle a tail for it.
Then there's Alex's—holding Miles' calves in his hands, shoulders flexed, belly pushed out a little. It's really just a headless torso and a pair of male legs creating V shape, but Miles knows safely it's him and Alex inside him, fucking him right as Miles orders: slow, deep, quick, shallow, in a rhytm of steady drummer.
The memory: he wasn't the greatest enjoyer of penetration, however when they flipped and did it that way, Miles loved Alex's endless enthusiasm for it, almost scientific urge to please him, his hunger for knowledge—what felt good and what didn't, what's the thing Miles grew to like the most, what he rather should not do.
For Miles, it was one of those activities in which psyche beats the physicality of it.
Alex's cock curves significantly to the right and it made Miles question so many things in situation like this. Did Miles' body straighten it or did the curved cock actually shape him when inside? Miles didn't know. He would like to though.
"Did you like it?" Alex asked after the deed was done. He always asked and he always said it with a doubt.
"I did like it, yeah." Miles got up and and grabbed pack of cigarettes for them.
"But you'd tell me if you didn't, right?"
"Jesus, Al," Miles laughed and collapsed back into the bed on top of him, his drying semen gluing them together, mouth finding each other like they were magnets. "I fucking came all over me tits, what other proof do you need?"
Miles didn't lie. With so much experience from bottoming, Alex was a fucking great top. Absolute star.
Alex found the proof with his tongue and licked it away.
"So—" Miles began, determined in his mind, "since I already underwent the torment of preparation, I plan to make the most of it and do it once more. 'm gonna ride you so hard I'll milk the last drop out of you."
Alex shielded his face in ostensible fear. As if he could hide his excitement. "Let me gather me strength first, cowboy."
Miles takes a deep breath, slows down. He's never able to last long when pleasing himself, he's just too eager in his imagination and too firm in his grip. It's time for brief break if he wants to edge just a tiniest bit. He even gets up and opens the window to lower the temperature in the room. The gust of fresh air goes well together with the view on the next picture.
It's an outside one, taken while on their last vacation. It's an early autumn and they're at Pacific Ocean at a windy place called Kalaloch Beach. Alex is pictured all naked and wet and absolutely shocked, mouth agape and eyes wide with terror, cock shrunken with icy grasp of Pacific water, holding onto his freezing balls with both of his hands.
The memory: "Don't do it, Al." A voice of reason. Voice of Miles.
The sky above them was endless and full of uniform clouds resembling tiny white poops. The scenery was a lot to soak in—you could spend days there and still wouldn't have enough of it.
"I heard cold plunges are good for you!" There's not much you can do with determined Alex Turner, so Miles watched him shed his clothes and ran straight towards shallow, restless water, feeling adventurous, while he waited patiently on the shore, judging him, teasing him, being the wiser one as always, with camera ready in his hands. "Look at yourself! Thirty seven years old man!"
He started yelling and shouting right after Miles snapped the picture. At first, he seemed speechless, an ability to breathe and speak stuck and crippled somewhere inside a cage of his thorax. It was when the realization came and overwhelmed senses made him run for his life, back to the land, right into Miles' arms; a pale creature escaping the sea, every muscle tensed and skin dampled with goosebumps. He crashed into Miles like a truck, with full force. "M–Miles, h–ho–hold me, 'm gonna d–die, gonna die." Teeth clattering, hands pinching through layers of Miles clothing like he was jealous of it.
Later, when they were back in their cabin, Alex growled from his spot in front of fireplace for Miles to burn the cursed picture. "My dick's not that small!"
Miles laughed. "It's not. Poor thing just tried to save its life."
He licked and sucked him warm afterwards, healing the sensitive, shocked skin with his wet tongue, bathing it in hot saliva.
Alex, lesson learned, decided to remain dry for the rest of their Washington holiday.
Eight photo is the one Miles would probably call his favourite. The pause's over and as physical memory of the scene shivers through him. Iit's just Pavlov's reflex, really—when he sees Alex in his silk dressing gown, his dick hardens so much the vein on it pulsates with thuds Miles can hear inside his skull.
So, eighth photo. Alex posing in his silk dressing gown on a balcony over Marseille, and it's a rarity, because Alex doesn't usually object to spontaneous photographs, but he hates posing. The dressing gown itself is beautiful, a piece of tailoring art he's been gifted somewhere from someone, worth capturing.'
The memory: the request was two pictures, one frontal and one from behind, partly nude and flirty, of course, because Miles just couldn't help himself, but to that, Alex shaked his head. "You can have only one picture. So make your choice, it's either cock or ass. Once I finish this fag the photoshoot's over," he informed Miles and puffed out a cloud of tobacco smoke right into his face.
"Excuse you, I'm trying to quit."
"Why should I care?" He mocked him openly now. Daily street life rumbled beneath them, oblivious to their little drama.
"Nice attitude you have there."
"Fuck you." Alex was clearly in his bratty attitude. "Take the photo while I'm offering."
"Don't fucking tease me, Alex," Miles said, tempted to tear that smile down his face. But he was halfway done with the cigarette already, so Miles didn't waste his time and chose cock. Alex draped one side of the silk robe away as he promised and revealed his navel, curved line of Adonis belt and his soft, velveteen penis just resting there uninterested in thick bush of dark hair. Then he flicked the cigarette butt out of balcony and got inside, bumping into Miles on his way back.
Miles can feel drops of sweat gathering in his moustache. He knows what's coming, because this is a tandem of photographies that makes his balls ache. Sometimes the arousal comes with a sting of physical pain—similar he inflicted upon Alex on that spring parisian day.
Ninth picture also features Alex in his dressing gown: his face is not visible at all, he's lying on the bed with hands tied tight behind his back and he can easily be just some anonymous, tamed and tortured geisha. Silk gown is rolled high up and his ass is covered in splash of glinting semen and fresh hand print bruise.
The memory: the photo was taken merely fifteen minutes after the previous one. It was after 'a justified correcting', as Alex started to call it some time later.
Someone could say it gets increasingly worse, but Miles wouldn't care. He's a visual person after all, and he has no shame when it comes to sex. Tenth picture is straight up pornographic one. It's just body parts in detail—white plump ass cheeks and hole stretched around erect penis. It could be anyone's, really, just an anonymous body parts pictured during penetration. If you'd ask Miles though, he'd be able to describe it like a painter, every stroke of a brush still vivid in his mind.
The memory: there was a moan and breath hitched in the throat. He just penetrated Alex and while he let him rest and accomodate, he grabbed the camera and took the picture.
He loved that view, how it stretched and gripped around his cock, never had enough of it, couldn't stop watching it, soaking the picture in, running a finger all around, feeling the tensed, slick flesh. It was vulgar, almost nasty, and so, so beautiful. Just carnal, visual intakes mixed with deep affection he held in his heart - it melted his thoughts into one incoherent proclamation. "Fuck yourself on me cock, Al, love, gosh, that fucking hungry hole of yours, I love you."
He fucks into his squeezed fist, then briefly opens it, spitting into it. He imagines spiting between their connected bodies, adding lubrication. He imagines Alex riding him facing his feet, moving like an experienced jockey, arching his back and pounding his lap and dick with his ass like he wants to break all bones in Miles' body.
Then there's penultimate picture, morning wood, just a mundane, daily thing, your bits getting hard and stiff under the duvet. Alex's cock is hard and smooth against his pale, soft abdomen, just resting there unconsciously, filled with remnants of arousing dreams and basic physical processes. There is something tenderly vulnerable in it—Alex sleeping comfortably while his body works on its own like the most stubborn unit.
The memory: sound of shutter woke Alex up. He mumbled something inaudible and covered his eyes with unmoving, feeble hands. "Please, not yet." Voice of a martyr.
It was a chance for Miles to took him and handle him like a ragdoll, turning him and pressing him lovingly against his own body, bringing him impossibly closer by entangling their legs.
The closeness took him back to old times, when they both got their hair cut like Beatles. Their precious time spent together under the same blanket was nothing but innocence and shaken touches, their bodies just grinding against each other. They were in no hurry towards penetration, unsure of the composition of it and too shy to ask or even suggest something so binding.
Miles sometimes even craved those simpler times. They were unmistakably happy, just discovering what felt good and right, and the orgasms felt exploding and often too sudden, but that was part of the thrill.
"Shh, we're going slow," Miles whispered into Alex's parted mouth, slowing his movements with tight grip onto his hips. "Go slow, lamb. Remember the old times."
The words made Alex's eyes open fully. "We didn't do it slow back then. Miles, we rutted like dogs in heat," he chuckled, pointing out the blatant lie.
"Fine, you're right," Miles smacked his ass lovingly. "Do it slow now tho. Wanna build it."
Alex closed his eyes again and folded his face under Miles' scratchy chin. They moved in silence and the motion resembled waves merging together in meandering river: drag of the engorged bits between their bodies, soft squeeze of glans here and there, shuffling of skin, clash and pull of entangled legs, just lazy bliss.
He knows what's coming. The last picture, the best of them, the one that always makes him come.
It's Alex's face covered in thick white cum, tip of his tongue darting out to taste what has been offered. His black eyes looking up to Miles and to the camera with an obedient stare.
The memory: he was kneeling in front of him like a good puppy, with his tongue out and hands tied behind his back. It's something Miles came up with. Tying Alex's hands tightly together by elbows and by wrists, he found out it brought a whole change of mindset in him. With physical constriction he became calmer, slowed down, it made him extraordinary perceptive, it brought up different him.
Miles liked him obedient. He liked making him obedient. He liked evicting the long trail of smart remarks coming out of Alex by fucking into his throat until he couldn't speak anymore.
Gosh, Miles fucking loved using him.
And even when being at his lowest, completely out of breath and gagging, Alex still looked up and stuck out his tongue again, hinting silent "go on and don't ever stop". Because sometimes, the night is just too dark and it covers the little decency you have left in you and you just have to act based on your filthiest impulses.
That's when the kisses turned to bites, touches left bruises upon the skin and fucking got a bit too brutal. It ignited a certain light behind Alex's pupils and when the moon flashed through curtains, his eyes glowed in the dark like he was some kind of feline creature.
Miles remembers it scared him shitless that night and the memory of inhuman glowing eyes kept coming back to him for days to follow.
It can't keep him from reaching his orgasm now though.
The climax makes him shut his eyes close. He comes hard with the last image behind his lids, covering his fingers and paper Alex and in warm sperm. There's hardly any hotter image than Alex taking his hot spunk. When he opens his eyes again and comes down from a sky high, he feels guilty and sick for a second, but hey—when it comes to getting off, he's indecent and primal, always imagining his lover submitted to his cock fully.
He's just a simple, primitive man after all.
* * *
They are connected on telepathic level, because Miles' phone rings exactly two minutes later. It's enough for him to come down a little, to calm his breath back to normal respiration patterns. Alex is way too perceptive though.
"Hi Miles. Had to hear you, love. I'm just too pumped up after the gig and it wouldn't be complete without hearing your voice." Alex's voice is its usual syrupy deep and post-performance tired. There's a lot of background noise and Miles can recognize Jamie's laughter and can hear rattling of bottles and filled glasses. They're either still chilling backstage or made a quick move to a nearby bar. "Miles, you're panting, what's going on?" Alex sounds taken aback, but still happy. "Came back from a run?"
"No."
"Oh–" Alex does a little sound of comprehension and Miles can hear him shuffling around and moving away from the voices to some kind of shelter, calm and private enough. "Have you been masturbating, Miles Kane?"
"Yes." Miles says it loudly, proudly almost.
There's a slight pause in the phone.
"Did I make you come good?" Here, another telepathic hint. Alex doesn't need to ask if he looked at the photos; he knows it.
"Oh yes, you did," Miles grins and presses one of Alex's photos against his lips to plant a tender kiss while he waits for a reaction.
"Is there–is there still cum on your hand?"
Miles raises his fingers and studies them. It's sticky, thick and cold now and it almost disgusts him.
"Yeah, there is."
Alex's breath grows heavy in his ear. The background noise is completely gone now, replaced by utter silence. "Would you let me lick it off?"
Miles can hear shuffling of a fabric and a soft sound of metal buttons popping through denim one by one. There are four of them in Alex's fly. Pop pop pop pop.
"Tell–tell me," it's hitched now, and more muffled, Miles can tell the phone is held pinched between Alex's cheek and shoulder, "tell me how you'd shove the fingers down me mouth."