Work Text:
"You're just a worthless bug, Alex," Greg says, tapping his cock on the tip of Alex's nose. He's straddling Alex on his bed, pinning him down where he belongs—underneath him.
The words come rushing out of Alex. "I'm nothing, Greg. I'm worthless without you, I was just a nobody before you—”
Alex chokes down the rest of the sentence. He will be nothing after Greg, too, if Greg ever decides to leave him.
"Please, give it to me, please," Alex babbles. "I want you to—fucking hell, Greg—I want your cum all over on my face, please, come on my face," he urges. He wants Greg to claim him. Own him.
And Greg does; he lets go and paints Alex's flushed red face with streaks of translucent white.
He's gorgeous like this.
Alex squeezes his eyes and savors the feeling of Greg's come—hotter than his face at first, then rapidly cooling. He licks the corner of his mouth experimentally, locating a stray droplet that tastes like Greg.
Oh fuck, god, Alex feels a bigger mess pool on his own stomach.
Greg collapses by Alex's side. He wonders if he might die, feeling his heart pounding and his brain flooding with ungodly amounts of chemicals.
The slippery sweat cools down rather quickly into a clingy, thin film over his skin. Like clockwork, the familiar feeling worms itself into the pit of his stomach.
It's annoying, that's what it is. But he can't help but pick up the worry like a post-coital cigarette.
Alex can sense that Greg is getting antsy. His brain is barely functioning and the emotional highs are orchestrating uncontrollable micro-shivers around his body. Yet, his instinct knows to listen to the particular pattern of Greg's shallow breathing when he's ruminating over something.
Alex knows how worrisome Greg gets. It's nothing new. He's comforted him and assured him before, with varying degrees of success.
He doesn't know what's so different this time, but he can't seem to bring himself to do the same.
He tries to open his eyes, but his face is still covered in come. It's turning quite uncomfortable. "God," Alex says. He finds his own voice hoarse from begging—and all that swearing! He'd let loose so much that he's starting to feel a bit embarrassed about the entire thing.
"I can't believe I did that," Alex mutters, feeling the come congeal on his face.
Greg's eyes widen at that.
Trying not to completely lose it, he pushes himself up on his elbow to face Alex.
"Alex, mate," he says, then immediately winces. Mate? He sounds like he's keeping his distance after he's used him and came on his face.
His stomach churns at that.
Oh god, Greg thought he could handle it, but turns out he can't. He doesn't think he can recover from this.
It doesn't help that Alex is staring at him with those wide open eyes, his mouth firmly shut into a thin line behind his mustache and beard. He's still donning his come on his face, his left eye fluttering every now and again as his come threatens to drip into his eye. Greg reaches out to wipe it off with his hand, but Alex flinches.
Greg knows it's a gut reaction—Alex is extremely finicky with physical touch, but he can't help but feel a bit monstrous that Alex's gut instinct won't let him trust him after all this time.
The exhaustion from the physical output is hitting him too. He'd rather have a lie down and fat a nap with Alex by his side. He wants to reach over to bring him closer, but Alex moves further away to get up from the bed.
"Is there some place I can clean up?" Alex says, wrangling his clothes into a bundle in front of his crotch.
"Er—yeah. Down the hallway," Greg says, pressing on his eyes to stop a headache from coming on. He should get up and make sure Alex gets there fine, supply him with towels and whatnot like a good host. Instead, he can only manage to get up and point at the general direction of the bathroom.
Greg doesn't even feel like sitting back down while he waits for Alex, so he paces about the room instead. He could clean up the bed so they could lie in it together, debrief, share any notes for the next time—just like how they end a filming day. But he can't bring himself to fuss about the bed, because he'd rather be pacing like a caged animal.
He yanks open his bedside drawer and rummages for his vape. It's not there.
His body tenses up when he hears the toilet flush, the sink running, then the sound of the door opening.
"Er," Alex says, standing in the hallway. He looks so stupid standing in the dark hallway like a nightmareish creature—limbs aimless and wooden, face still a bit wet from washing (of course—he never gave him a fucking towel), but fully dressed compared to Greg who's been pacing around naked like a madman. "Shall we grab something to eat?"
Greg isn't feeling much like eating if he's being honest. "No, not really," he lets it slip, then groans at himself for being an absolute tit.
"Okay," Alex says, ever so patiently, but there's an edge to it. Greg can hear it. And it's grinding his gears that Alex is acting so nonchalant when it's clearly irritating him too.
What Greg doesn't know is that Alex isn't acting nonchalant about this at all. He feels lost, having offered to shower together, to go outside and get some fresh air, and to eat something together. Greg's swatting all of his suggestions down, and he doesn't know how to make it better. He feels uneasy. He's on terrible footing.
"Okay," Alex sighs, more like a question. "I—" he says, then decides not to. "See you tomorrow?"
Of course they're shooting tomorrow.
"Yeah, okay," Greg replies.