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goblinontour · 2 days ago

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I Want You Hard

part 6 | series masterlist

or was it him all along?

warnings: implied age gap, angst, smut (not a lot), blowjob, nightmares, (mild) violence, choking (not the sexy kind), weirdness, overthinking, suicidal ideation again, oh, and a bit of daddy kink

word count: 7.6k

Waking up wasn’t exactly pleasant for him. It meant another day of living. And he wasn’t particularly fond of that anymore. The monotony of survival grated on him, the heavy knowledge of his existence weighing like a noose that never fully tightened. But waking up to your warm mouth wrapped around his cock? That was something else.

A better alternative than the usual crack of his joints, the stiff twist of his neck he could never quite finish, leaving his body in a continuous state of dissatisfaction. He’d stretch and contort himself every morning, yanking at muscles and vertebrae as if trying to realign something deeper than just his body. Sometimes, when the frustration boiled over, he twisted his neck so hard it felt like a test of how far he could push before something gave.

There were always cracks, sharp and satisfying in their own way, but never the final one. Never the one that might end the dull, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with his bones and everything to do with the parts of him he couldn’t reach. He didn’t know if he wanted it to snap or if he just wanted the threat of it. Either way, it didn’t matter. The moment always passed, leaving him in the same place he started — alive, irritated, and dissatisfied.

He’d think, sometimes, in those hazy early hours when sleep still clung to him, about how fragile the human body really was. A quick twist, a little more pressure, and it could all be over. The thought didn’t frighten him. If anything, it calmed him, a reminder that the choice was always there.

But he never did. Not because of hope or fear, but because he didn’t deserve an ending. He deserved the cracks without the snap, the tension without the release. The perpetual discomfort was his penance, his way of carrying the weight. That of everything he’d done, of everything he hadn’t.

This — your tongue tracing every ridge and vein — this seemed like the best way to start his day. Waking up to your mouth wrapped around him, to the soft warmth of your body and the slick, obscene sounds you made as you worked him over — felt like a reprieve. A distraction, maybe, but one he wasn’t about to turn down. Your touch dulled the edge, smoothed over the cracks, made the weight just a little lighter. For now.

He hadn’t asked for it. He didn’t need to. You’d grown to know your place in his space. You orbited around him and, somehow, into the cold, dark recesses of his heart. Holding and loving. Taking. Enduring. Soothing him even when he didn’t deserve it. Confusing him in ways he could never articulate. And now, serving him like a little slut — his little slut.

“Keep sucking.” he groaned out, his teeth clenched. The words barely escaped his lips, still sticky and sealed from the spit that always collected in the corners of his mouth while he slept. You paused for a moment, looking up at him, and his gaze burned down at you. “Don’t stop.” he growled.

His hand came down, gripping the back of your head — not to force, not yet, but to guide, to remind you who was in control. You obeyed, lips sealing tighter around him, tongue flattening against the underside of his cock as you moved.

The sounds you made were so wet and so messy they echoed in the quiet room. He hated mornings, but now, he was beginning to hate the idea of this ending even more.

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, his head sinking deeper into the pillow. His thoughts were sluggish, still caught in that liminal space between dreams and wakefulness. There was something almost tender about the way you worked him over, but he didn’t want to admit that — not even to himself. Tenderness wasn’t something he deserved and it wasn’t something he wanted. Or so he told himself.

“Fuck…” he hissed, his hips jerking. “You like this, huh? Waking me up like this, sucking me off like the desperate little thing you are.” His words were harsh, but there was a warmth in them, a heat that betrayed the growing affection he couldn’t snuff out.

You hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight through him. His grip on your hair tightened, and his breath hitched. He was close already — how could he not be? When you were looking up at him like that, like he was the only thing that mattered in your little world? It was maddening.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” he groaned, his voice dropping into a gravelly timbre. His hips bucked again, harder this time, and you gagged slightly, your hands bracing against his thighs. “Take it all. Every fucking inch. Don’t you dare pull away.”

Gripping tightly at the roots, he pushed himself deeper into your throat. He watched you struggle, your lips stretched around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. It only made him harder. “Keep…keep sucking me.” he ordered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You keep doing that, and I’ll let you taste me as a reward, yeah? Taste my cum…you wanna taste my cum?”

You nodded around him, desperate and eager, your throat tightening as you hummed in response. “That’s my good girl.” he murmured, his hips starting to rock in a steady rhythm. “You’re so fucking perfect like this, you know that? On your knees, choking on me, looking so damn pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

He could feel your tongue pressing against him, your mouth working in sync with the movement of his hips, and it was driving him closer and closer to the edge. “You’re gonna swallow every drop Daddy’s gonna give you, aren’t you? Gonna take it all like the perfect little girl you are.”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs tighter, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “That’s right, sweetheart. You love this…love being used like this.” His pace quickened, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps as he chased his release, knowing you were right there with him, ready to take everything he gave.

His mind wavered, teetering between the animalistic need to use you and an urge to ruin you so completely that no one else could ever piece you back together. The thought of it stirred something primal, clawing at the edges of his restraint. And yet, in the same breath, he imagined cradling you afterward, holding you against his chest like a precious, shattered thing, his whispered words — mine, mine, mine — the only softness he could offer.

Your hand, trembling but determined, slipped up his thigh, your fingertips grazing over the ridges of his muscles as if tracing the fault lines. You lingered there for a moment before sliding higher, brushing against the taut plane of his stomach, where the heat of him was palpable, radiating through the thin barrier of his skin that almost made you wish you could just rip into him. His breath hitched as your touch grew bolder, more insistent, and his hand moved instinctively to cover yours, engulfing it entirely. His palm was rough, calloused, and impossibly large against your smaller one, as if to remind you of the power he held over you, the power you willingly surrendered to him.

His grip tightened, just slightly, a silent command to stay there, to feel the way his body responded to you, twitching under the weight of his own conflicting desires. He wanted to break you and build you back up in the same moment, to destroy and preserve. Madness.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the air heavy with the storm of his thoughts and the weight of your touch. Every small movement felt amplified — the way your thumb repeatedly traced a slow circle over his belly, the way his fingers curled over yours, possessive and protective in equal measure. Unbearable. Yet neither of you moved to break it, the moment, the tension, caught in the fragile, twisted balance of wanting and being wanted.

For now, all he could do was watch you, your lips stretched wide around him, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him down, your eyes never leaving his. It was too much. Too good. His release was building.

“Shit, sweetie, I’m gonna-” He didn’t finish the sentence, just held your head down as he came, spilling into your throat with a guttural moan that seemed to shake the very foundation of the room. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, and for a moment, everything else disappeared — every dark thought, every regret, every ounce of self-loathing. There was only you, only this.

When he finally opened his eyes, you were still there, swallowing everything he gave you, your tongue flicking out to catch what had escaped. The sight of you like this — used, obedient, perfect — sent a shiver deep down and through his spine.

“Good girl.” he murmured, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. He pulled you up, his hand cradling your jaw as he stared into your eyes. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

You smiled at that, just a small curve of your lips in the shyness. “I just like making you happy, Daddy.” you said quietly.

“Oh, girl…” he breathed, the words spilling out between ragged pants. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and you could feel the tremor in his muscles as his body seemed to sag beneath you. He looked wrecked — more so than you’d ever seen him — and yet, his hands still held you.

His thumb brushed along your jaw, tracing the edge of your cheekbone with an almost unbearable tenderness. His eyes, dark and glassy, roamed your face, committing every detail to memory. He didn’t say anything else for a long moment, just breathed you in, his thumb now sliding down to the curve of your lower lip, pressing lightly as if testing its softness.

You kissed the pad of his thumb instinctively, and something flickered in his expression — a mixture of vulnerability and hunger, the kind of look that made you feel like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

“You’re something else, sweet-face.” he murmured. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” you whispered, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the tension still coiled in his biceps.

His grip tightened, only slightly, his fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding himself in the warmth of you. He didn’t respond — not with words, anyway. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your lips, warm and uneven, and you felt the way his body sagged further, his strength momentarily giving way to weightlessness.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick, heavy with meaning. But it wasn’t suffocating. His lack of words didn’t bother you — it never had. His hands, his touch, his presence — they spoke volumes more than his voice ever could. And right now, those hands were everything, holding you steady, reminding you that you were his and he was yours, in whatever twisted, imperfect way you’d found each other.

“Stay like this.” he muttered, his voice almost inaudible. The words were more for himself than for you. His fingers slid up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. “Just for a little longer.”

“‘m not going anywhere.” you said softly, your own hands now finding the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his hair. It felt greasy in between them.

He exhaled deeply, his breath shuddering as if the reassurance had drained something from him. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, his touch no longer rough or demanding. For the first time, he looked at you like he didn’t know how he’d ever let you go. And for the first time, you thought you saw something in his eyes that wasn’t just hunger or possession — it was need. Raw and painful and entirely human.

You stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet, letting the moment stretch until it became something neither of you dared to break.

Sunlight streaked through the windows, chasing the cold from the corners of the room but not entirely succeeding. It just pooled on the wooden floor and cast everything in a soft, golden glow. It caught his hair just right, almost like it was kissing it, illuminating it like a halo that seemed almost ironic against the sharp focus of his expression. The sweater — his thick sweater — hung off your frame, swallowing you whole, its fabric brushing against your thighs as you stood there watching him. He’d thrown it over your shoulders earlier. The warmth of it was undeniable, but the chill in the room still found its way to your exposed skin, prickling against the contrast of his lingering scent embedded in the threads.

“Alexander?” you called, your voice light but insistent, breaking the steady rhythm of the blade scraping against the stone.

He didn’t look up. A low hum escaped his throat from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, acknowledging you but keeping his focus. His spine was straight, his shoulders loose, but his thighs gripped the sharpening stone tightly, keeping it in place as his hands moved with practiced precision, the motion almost hypnotic in its repetition of drawing the blade down with a sound that sent tiny shivers down your spine.

“Al?” you tried again, softer this time, testing.

His hands stilled mid-motion, the blade poised mid-drag, hovering just above the stone. The furrow in his brow deepened as he snapped his head toward you, his eyes sharp and questioning.

He hated how that name sounded coming from your lips. Too casual, too intimate, too much like you thought you knew him. Like you had some claim over him. It was dangerous, the way you wielded familiarity like a weapon, soft and subtle but no less sharp.

Al. The syllable grated against something inside him, an old wound he thought he’d buried deep. That name didn’t belong here, didn’t belong to you. It belonged to another life, another version of him, one that was long gone. Wasn’t it? And yet, hearing it from you — it didn’t just sting. It burned, seared its way through the walls he’d built and made him want to — what? Push you away? Pull you closer? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

You don’t know me, he thought bitterly, though the words felt hollow even in his own mind. Because you did know him, didn’t you? Or at least the pieces he’d allowed you to see. Maybe that was the real problem.

His fingers twitched against the blade, a faint tremor betraying the steadiness he usually prided himself on. He didn’t want to think about why you saying his name felt like a violation and a comfort all at once. Didn’t want to examine the way his chest tightened, how it wasn’t entirely…unpleasant.

Because if he started to unravel that thread, he wasn’t sure he’d like what he found at the other end.

“Why did you call me that?” His voice was low, steady, but there was something underneath it, something taut and wound too tight — disapproval, confusion, maybe both.

The suddenness of his reaction made your breath hitch. “I- what do you mean? It’s just…a nickname.” you said softly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the sweater’s sleeve. “I just…thought it’d be okay. Isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened. He stared at you, the weight of his gaze making your chest feel heavier. His knuckles whitened around the handle of the blade as though the mere sound of your voice had disrupted something within him. He set it aside on the stone with deliberate precision, his gaze locking on you in a way that not only made you feel small, but like you’d stepped somewhere you shouldn’t have.

“No one calls me that.” he said finally, his tone quieter but no less intense. “Not like that.”

The way he said it made you feel like you’d…touched something fragile. You weren’t sure if he was angry or just…exposed.

“Why not?” you asked.

His lips pressed into a thin line, unflinching. “Because they don’t. And they won’t.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to retreat. “It’s just a name…”

“It’s not ‘just a name.’” He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but enough to make you feel threatened by his presence even from across the room. “You think you can just call me whatever you want? That you know me enough to-”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” you interrupted, your voice trembling slightly.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t mean it.” he repeated. “You don’t think, do you? You just…speak.”

The words stung, but there was something, some…a frustration that didn’t feel entirely aimed at you.

You dropped your gaze, the fabric of his sweater bunching under your grip as you kept twisting the hem in your fingers. “I just thought it’d be nice.” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. I just-” you continued, taking a cautious step closer.

“Don’t.” he interrupted this time, his voice softening slightly as he looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Just don’t.”

The silence stretched, the only sound audible being the faint scrape of the blade as he resumed his work, slower this time, less precise, the rhythm uneven. You wanted to press, to ask why it mattered so much, but the set of his jaw and the slight downturn of his lips warned you against it. Instead, you sat down on the edge of the chair nearest him, your hands tugging at the sleeves of his sweater that dwarfed you. The air felt heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

A soft brush against your ankle drew your attention.

The cat — Lulu — had wandered over, her sleek black fur catching the sunlight as she rubbed against you. You crouched down instinctively, your fingers running through her fur as she purred, her tail curling around your wrist.

“She likes you.” Alexander said suddenly, like he’d sensed it without even looking at you, or looking up at all.

“She’s sweet.” She leaned into your touch.

Alexander shifted slightly, adjusting back to his cross-legged position on the floor.

“She likes most people.” he said, his tone flat, almost indifferent. “Isn’t there some saying about animals being like their owners? She didn’t get that from me, but I guess…”

You glanced at him, your brows furrowing at the pause. “But you guess what?”

His mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile. “Maybe I’ve got a little softness somewhere, buried deep. You’d know better than me at this point.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound light and warm in the cool air of the room. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

The scrape of the blade against the stone stilled again. He didn’t look up, but his hand tightened on the hilt of the knife, his knuckles going white for a brief second before he relaxed again.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetie.” Sharp but he lacked the venom he might’ve carried in another moment. “I’m not the one petting my cat like she’s some kind of sacred treasure.”

You laughed again, a little louder this time, and the cat’s ears twitched at the sound. “Well, someone has to make up for your lack of affection.” you teased, scratching under the chin.

“I give affection.” he said, almost defensively. “You just don’t notice it.”

“Oh?” you said, raising a brow. “When exactly was that?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a moment before smirking faintly. “You’re wearing my sweater, aren’t you?”

You glanced down at yourself. “I meant towards Lulu. Plus, this doesn’t count.” you said. “You practically threw it at me.”

“And you didn’t give it back.” he shot back, his smirk widening. “Seems to me like you’re the clingy one here.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you stood. The cat stretched lazily at your feet, rubbing her head against your ankle before padding off toward the window. “You’re impossible, Alexander.”

“I know.” he said, leaning back on his hands as his eyes followed you. “But here you are.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at you. “Wearing my stuff. Invading my space.” His gaze raked over you slowly, before his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “Guess I must be doing something right.”

Your cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, but you didn’t look away. “Or maybe I’m just very patient.”

His grin widened. “Keep telling yourself that, sweets.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand, silencing you. “Don’t. You’ll just say something else you’ll regret.”

“Does it bother you when I say your name?” you asked anyway, careful to keep your voice gentle.

He didn’t answer right away. But then he sighed.

“It’s not that.” he admitted. “It’s just…different when it’s…you.”

“Different how?”

He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible shake. “It just is.”

“Okay.” you said simply, your voice light, almost breezy, as though the moment hadn’t just shifted into something unspoken and strange. But it had. You could feel it like a current beneath your skin, humming, pulling, insistent.

You didn’t push him further, though. You could tell — by the way his hands resumed their methodical motion, the blade dragging across the stone — that whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to put it into words. Maybe he didn’t even have the words.

Still, your eyes stayed on him, drawn like a moth to flame. The light from the window carved him in sharp shapes all over, shadows along the lines of his face, the hollow of his throat, the tension in his shoulders. You wanted to reach out, to smooth the furrow in his brow with your thumb, to ask him again — why does it bother you so much when I call you that? — but you didn’t.

He’d gotten all weird when you said it. It was just a name, wasn’t it? A nickname, nothing more. But the way he reacted…

You wished you could see inside him, to look past the carefully constructed exterior he wore. He was so good at keeping you at a distance, even when you were close enough to feel his breath on your skin. You’d caught glimpses, here and there — small, fleeting moments where his guard slipped, where something raw and vulnerable surfaced before he shoved it back down. But it was never enough.

He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a book with missing pages. And still, you couldn’t stop trying.

“Alexander?” you said softly, testing the feel of his full name on your tongue.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. “What?”

“Nothing.” you said quickly, shaking your head.

“I’ve got a blade in my hand.” he said dryly, holding it up as if to make his point. “Don’t want to lose focus and end up bleeding all over the place.”

You smiled faintly, but the humor — if that’s what he meant it to come across as — didn’t land. You wanted to say more, to ask him why he was always so careful, so controlled, even in moments like this. You just nodded.

You wished he’d let you in. You wished he’d let you see him — really see him. But you knew better than to push. He wasn’t the kind of man you could coax or cajole into opening up. If he wanted to show you, he would. Until then, all you could do was wait.

“Al?”

“You’re here?”

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, and for a moment, I couldn’t believe it. Her silhouette blurred, bathed in the golden light that streamed through the windows, almost too perfect, too radiant to be real. But when she stepped closer and I felt the warmth of her arms wrapping around me, solid and grounding, just a moment, the ache in my chest loosened.

What day is it?

“Of course, honey. Where would I go?”

“Anywhere.” I whispered into her hair, breathing her in, the scent of her so familiar and intoxicating, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in ages. She smelled like home, like things I didn’t know how to name but never wanted to lose. My hands gripped her tighter, unwilling to let her slip away, even though a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispered that this wasn’t real.

“Not without you.”

Her voice was so soft, so certain, wrapping around me like the arms I couldn’t bring myself to release. It almost broke me.

“Oh, please. Never…never ever.” I murmured, the words escaping through a grin that felt too wide for my face. I pulled back just enough to see her face again, to remember the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes — her eyes, shining as if the sun itself lived inside her — but not far enough to lose the feeling of her in my grip. My hands stayed on her waist, refusing to let her go.

“She’s in the garden, picking flowers for you.” she said.

“For me?” My voice cracked, a strange mix of disbelief and hope cutting through my words.

“You know how much she adores you.”

“I know.”

I said it and nodded, but that feeling in my chest grew heavier again, the pain of something unnamed that pressed against my ribs, threatening to split me open. My gaze drifted toward the window, where the garden stretched out like something of a dreamscape. It was impossibly vibrant, every color too bright, too alive. And there she was — another figure, smaller, crouched among the flowers, her hands gathering blooms into a bundle.

I knew her. God, I knew her.

“She wanted to surprise you.” the figure in my arms whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. “She’s been waiting for you all morning.”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. Words tried to form and my tongue wouldn’t let them come alive. Something wasn’t right. Something about the scene felt too sharp, too vivid, as if it might all shatter if I looked too closely.

“Don’t you want to go to her?” she asked, tilting her head to catch my eyes.

I nodded again. My legs felt heavy. They wouldn’t move. My hands clenched against her waist. It felt as though letting her go would mean losing something vital. I was unwilling to release her warmth, even as my eyes remained fixed on the figure in the garden, her small hands busy arranging the flowers.

The blooms were red. Too red.

“She’s waiting, Al.”

But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. The scene began to blur, the sunlight dimming, the vibrant colors bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain or paint washing down a drain. I tried to step forward, but my feet were rooted, heavy as stone. My chest tightened, the ache turning sharp, twisting like a blade inside of me.

“Al?” Her voice echoed, pulling at me, dragging me toward something I didn’t want to even see, much less face.

I blinked, and everything was gone.

I blinked, and then there was nothing but the dark and the sound of my own breathing.

That darkness hit like a wave, crushing and infinite, pressing in from all sides. My chest heaved, but the air I breathed felt thin, as if the void itself was swallowing it whole. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold that sank into my bones.

I was alone.

I tried to call out, but my voice wouldn’t come. The silence was suffocating, thick and unyielding, and the ache in my chest grew unbearable. I reached out, blindly, desperately, but there was nothing to hold onto.

Just the dark.

And the sound of my own breathing.

Shallow and ragged, echoing back at me like a cruel reminder that I was still alive.

You didn’t feel him at first. He was quiet in the way only someone utterly consumed by their own torment could be. You didn’t feel him. Until you did. Like a curse of affliction poured down upon him, saturating every corner of the room, and now it was sinking, deeper and deeper, infecting. And you were here to see its symptoms showing, right before your eyes. It was suffocating, thick and cloying, and you felt it before you even opened your eyes. Something heavy and dark sat there waiting for you to wake up and witness its reign.

The change in his breathing was what woke you. So sharp and loud even with the lack of audibility. It was like he wasn’t even here anymore, like someone else was doing it for him — some foreign force that dragged air in and shoved it back out in violent bursts. Cries without tears, just the relentless pressing of lungs and dry, guttural sobs from the subconscious.

And then came the sound. It broke the already loud silence. It wasn’t just the sound of air moving in and out — it was something far more primal. A sound so raw and distant that for a moment, you weren’t even sure it really was him. It didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like it could come from the man lying beside you.

When you turned to him, the sight was worse than the sound. His body was a warzone of tension, his muscles rippling under his skin as if they were locked in battle. His chest rose and fell violently. The shallow gasps made his ribs stand out starkly beneath his damp skin. His head was buried in the pillow, but it wasn’t resting there — it was pressed down hard, as if he were trying to smother whatever demons had clawed their way into his subconscious.

And when you reached out, instinctively touching from where your fingers hovered just above his back, the moment you made contact with his skin, it was like you’d burned him, branded him with a hot iron rod. His muscles flinched so violently you could practically trace each separate one by sight, their spasms highlighting the structure of his back and shoulders in sharp, unforgiving detail. You didn’t even know enough about human anatomy to name them all, but, in that moment, you could’ve pointed out each one like you’d studied it for years or even decades.

He fought the pillow beneath him, dragging it down from underneath his head and crushing it against his chest. His arms twisted around it, his hands gripping in a vice grip, so tightly that his knuckles went bone-white, the veins in his forearms standing out in stark prominence, his fingers trembling as though he might rip the fabric apart. His back arched. His legs curled inward. His feet scraped against the sheets in an almost desperate crawl away from something that wasn’t even there. His mouth hung open, drooling onto the mattress. His breath came out in wet, choking sounds.

And when you said his name, you knew it was a mistake. You knew it before the word even left your mouth.

“Al?”

His body jerked, head snapping up like a puppet pulled by its strings. His eyes — wild, glassy, unseeing — searched the room. Looking for something, someone. His chest heaved, his breathing erratic, the veins in his neck standing out against his damp, sweat-slick skin. His lips parted, but no words came out, just the wet sounds from within his throat. For a moment, he looked at you, or through you — it was hard to tell. His gaze was unfocused, his expression a mask of confusion and something darker, something almost feral.

“Al?” you tried again, softer this time, like you were speaking to a wounded animal.

He froze.

Your voice left your lips, and the change in him was immediate. He moved without thought, without awareness, his body snapping into motion as though driven by something beyond his control. In an instant, he was above you, looming, a shadow blotting out the faint light of dawn filtering through the windows. It was like watching a storm descend, a force of nature too powerful to stop. One second he was distant, his head buried in some unseen hell, and the next, he was there.

His arm was at your neck before you could even process the shift, the pressure instant, brutal, and suffocating, pinning you to the mattress with a force that was more than terrifying. His head was buried down, out of sight, his face pressed into the curve of your shoulder as if he were hiding from something, from you- no, from himself. The weight of him was so unbearable pressing down on your chest. The sharp edge of his forearm against your throat stole what little breath you could muster.

He remained hidden, tucked low. You couldn’t see his face, but his breath came in jagged bursts, hot and damp against your skin, his chest heaving with every sharp inhale. The tension in him was so severe that he was trembling, every muscle in his body was trembling, all his strength pouring out of him in waves and into you.

He wasn’t there. Not really.

Your body reacted automatically, hands clawing at his back, your nails scraping down the length of him, but it was like fighting against stone. He didn’t feel it, or maybe he did, and it just didn’t matter. His arm pressed harder against your throat, cutting off the air entirely, and panic surged through you like ice in your veins.

Desperate, desperate attempts only for his grip to tighten. Your vision blurred, black spots blooming at the edges as your lungs screamed for air.

Your legs kicked out, thrashing against the mattress, the sheets tangling around you as you fought for something — anything. Hits went to his shoulders, his arms, his chest, trying to push him off, but he was immovable. Solid. The sharp sound of his breathing filled the room and covered yours, so loud and erratic it felt like it was vibrating through you.

You tried to call his name, but the sound was lost, caught in your throat as you choked on your own spit. Your hands pushed at his chest, weak and frantic, your nails continuing to scrape anywhere you could reach. It was no use. He was too far gone, too deep in whatever nightmare had swallowed him whole.

It was terrifying, yes, but there was something worse, something darker about the way he didn’t seem to be there. His body was here, crushing you, suffocating you, but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in some abyss you couldn’t reach. He wasn’t Alexander in that moment. He was something unrecognizable.

Your lungs burned from the lack of air. Any sound you tried to make was swallowed by the pressure against your throat, your voice reduced to a weak, strangled gasp. Your nails found his skin again, this time digging deeper, hard enough to draw blood, but still, he didn’t stop.

You could feel the tears on your face, mingling with the spit you choked on, the desperate, wet sounds of your struggle filling the air alongside his uneven breaths. It was unbearable. Everything about it. The weight of him, the crushing force, the suffocating panic that clawed at your chest.

And then, with the last ounce of strength you had, your hands found his face. Your fingers pressed against his cheeks, your thumbs digging into the sharp lines of his jaw as you forced his head up. Forced him to see you. His hair was damp against your palms, clinging to your skin as you pushed, as you gasped out his name, a broken, strangled sound that barely escaped your lips.

“Al-”

His eyes snapped open.

For a moment, they didn’t see you. They were wild, feral, and broken, so dark that they sent a shiver down your spine even as relief flooded your chest. But then they focused, locking onto yours, and everything shifted. When they focused, the change was instant again, as if snapped out of a trance.

His grip loosened, his arm dropping away from your neck like dead weight, the pressure vanishing so suddenly it left you coughing and choking on the air you dragged into your lungs. He scrambled back, his body jerking away from yours, his movements frantic, uncoordinated.

And then those eyes of his widened, horror flooding his expression as he looked down at you, taking in the red marks on your throat, the way you cradled your neck with trembling hands, the way your chest rose and fell as you gulped down oxygen. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, just a dry, choked rasp. Until-

“Oh god-”

He dropped onto his back, his hands clawing at his own chest, his throat, as though he were the one who couldn’t breathe. His body heaved with every ragged inhale, his head thrown back as he stared at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Oh god…” he gasped, his voice barely audible, broken. His chest was heaving, trying to breathe through the weight of what he’d just done. “Oh god, I- what did I-”

His hands flew to his face, covering it as his body shook, the tremors violent, uncontrollable. “I didn’t- oh god, I wasn’t- oh god!” he said again, louder this time, the words catching in his throat. His hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his scalp burn, but he didn’t stop. “What did I- oh- I- I-”

He turned his head to look at you, his gaze filled with a mixture of guilt and terror so profound it made your stomach twist. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-”

You sat up slowly, every movement deliberate, careful, less because you were afraid he might snap again at the slightest provocation and more to not startle him in this fragile state. Your fingers touched your neck, tracing the tender, throbbing skin, and you winced at the pain. But you swallowed it down, pushing it aside as you looked at him.

“It’s okay.” you said, your voice raw, hoarse, barely more than a whisper, or rather a rasp. You reached out, your hand brushing against his arm, and he flinched, jerking away from your touch like it hurt. “It’s okay, Alexander. I’m okay.”

But you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

“No!” he said, shaking his head, his hands still covering his face. “No, it’s not okay. I-”

“It is.” you insisted, your voice firmer this time, though it still trembled. “Alexander, look at me.”

He didn’t. His hands stayed where they were, his body curling in on itself as if trying to disappear. “I hurt you.” he said, barely there, muffled by his hands. “I could’ve…”

“But you didn’t.” you interrupted, leaning closer, your hand finding his and tugging gently. “You stopped. You’re here now. Look at me, Alexander.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered his hands, his eyes meeting yours. They were filled with so much guilt, so much pain, it hurt more than anything the touch of his hands might’ve laid on you.

“I’m here.” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a split second, you thought he might lash out. But then his shoulders sagged, the tension in his body releasing all at once as he let out a shuddering exhale. His grip on the pillow loosened, his hands falling limp against the mattress.

But it wasn’t relief you saw on his face — it was something else. Resignation. And defeat.

“You were dreaming.” you said, your hand hovering above his back again, hesitant to touch him.

He didn’t respond.

“It’s okay.” you continued, your fingers brushing against his skin. This time, he didn’t flinch, though his muscles were still taut beneath your touch. “You’re here now. I’m here. Hey, it’s me.” you whispered. “I’m here.”

You seemed to reach him, though not entirely. His eyes flickered, recognition dawning slowly, like the sun struggling to break through a thick, oppressive fog. His expression changed. The wildness faded, replaced by something colder, harder. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together audibly. He turned his head away from you, his body curling further in.

“Go back to sleep.” he rasped.

“Al, I-”

“I said, go back to sleep.”

There was no anger in his tone, no sharpness, but it was crushing, the way he left no room for argument. Still, you couldn’t just leave him like this.

“I’m not going anywhere.” you said softly.

There was nothing but silence, broken only by the sound of his breathing — slowing. You thought maybe he was coming back to himself, grounding in the reality of your presence. But when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet it was almost swallowed by the stillness.

“Don’t…don’t say my name like that again.”

“Like what?” you asked, your hand stilling.

“Like you’re trying to save me.”

The words hit you like a blow. You didn’t know how to respond. You wanted to save him, of course you did. But you knew him too well by now. You knew he wouldn’t let you.

“I just want to help, Alexander.” you said finally, your voice soft, almost pleading for him to understand.

He let out a low, humorless laugh, his head turning slightly but not enough to face you. “Help?” he repeated, his tone bitter. “You can’t help me, darling. No one can.”

Your hand resumed its gentle motion on his back. “Maybe not,” you said, “but I can stay.”

He didn’t reply.

You stayed anyway, your hand tracing slow, soothing circles against his skin. His breathing evened out little by little, the tension in his body ebbing away in increments so small they were almost undetectable. His back, once tense and unyielding, softened ever so slightly, though his head remained turned away.

“Do you…” you hesitated, not wanting to push too hard, but unable to keep the question inside. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His body got caught between fight and flight. Then, finally, his voice came.

“Not now.” he said. “I can’t. Not now.”

“Okay.” you murmured.

The quiet stretched again, the kind that made time feel like it was spilling out into an endless void. His breathing steadied, but there was still something in it — an edge, a tremor, a ghost of whatever storm had taken him moments before.

“Can you…would you-” He stopped, swallowing hard, the words catching in his throat.

“What is it?” you asked gently, leaning closer, your voice soft enough to coax without crowding him.

He shook his head, his hair brushing against your arm like even this small movement pained him. “I don’t know how to ask.” he admitted.

“You don’t have to.” you said, your fingers tracing along the curve of his spine.

But he did. You saw it in the way his hands clenched at his sides — a man holding onto himself with all the strength he could muster, and still losing — until he whispered, “Will you hold me?”

Like a bird with broken wings. Fragile, hollow-boned, and trembling in your hands in the same way he’d hold them in his. His fingers worked with such precision, restoring lifeless creatures to some facsimile of beauty. How carefully he stitched and smoothed, as if his hands alone could defy death. Now, those same hands lay useless at his sides, like they’d forgotten how to fix anything — including himself.

Words felt clumsy in a moment like this, too blunt for something so tender. So you just held him. Your arms came around him, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and softness, careful not to press too hard.

It felt almost sacred, holding him like this. You felt him give way — leaning into you, his breath uneven and fluttering, just like the faint heartbeat of a bird resting right in your palm.

You wondered now if he saw himself in them, in the brokenness he tried to repair, in the stillness he tried to make beautiful.

His breath hitched again, a shudder running through him that you felt down to your bones. Your hands moved, smoothing over his back, his shoulders, to remind him that he was here, that he was whole, that he was yours to care for. Only this time around, it wasn’t about restoration or preservation. It was about keeping him alive and keeping him real, even when he felt like he was fading.

“It’s okay.” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You held him like he was something precious, something worth saving. Because to you…he was.

“I don’t think I know myself anymore.” he said suddenly. “I don’t even know what’s left of me. If there’s anything left at all.”

You held him tighter. “You’re still here.”

“Am I?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m watching someone else, like I’m not real anymore. Like I’m just a ghost haunting my own body.”

You didn’t know what to say, what words could possibly bridge the gap between his despair and your love for him. Was it love? Was this what that felt like? So you didn’t speak. You left your touch to speak for everything you couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t stay.”

“I know.”

And still, you stayed.

a/n: This wasn’t really the plan at all, but that’s where my mind seemed to go while writing it. The last scene, I mean. Soooooo yeah. Not the end quite yet.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner x oc #alex turner angst #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #goblinontour #you’re so dark

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goblinontour · 1 month ago

Text

Awkwardly Stretching And Yawning

it’s always hard in the morning (would have been the better title but I’ve already used it)

warnings: fetus!al, fluff, smut, piv, young and in love, it’s cheesy

word count: 8k

His hair was sweaty the first time you met him, and it was sweaty every single time after that. Even in the cold, when the wind bit through your coat and left you shivering, his dark strands still clung damp to his forehead like he’d just run a marathon. He wasn’t a runner. You were sure of that — he was slow, always trailing behind like he had nowhere urgent to be. You’d once joked about it, something about snails moving faster than him, and he’d just grinned lazily, all soft lips and cockiness, like he knew something you didn’t.

Still, the sweat lingered. It made no sense, but you didn’t mind. It was the kind of detail you’d come to think of as uniquely his. Something only you knew because you were the one who reached for him. Always. Your hands threading through his hair, the damp strands slipping between your fingers as you pulled him closer — close enough to kiss, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’d been out in the sun all day.

Sometimes, you’d do it just to see what he’d do. Just to watch that stupid grin break across his face like it couldn’t be helped, like he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch no matter how hard he tried to pull away. “Stop that.” he’d mumble, though his voice never carried any real weight, his hands always ghosting at your waist or curling around your wrists like he wanted you to keep going.

You always did. It was impossible not to.

And maybe you should’ve teased him more about it. His perpetually sweaty hair, his inability to keep from leaning into you — but you never did. Because when you pulled him closer, when his grin faltered just a little and his breath hitched, you felt it. That shift. Like the world had stilled, leaving only the two of you in its quiet aftermath. His hair was damp, yes, but it was real, and it was his, and you could never resist tangling your fingers into it just to feel something so alive beneath your touch.

Now you’re in his lap, his hands splayed warm across your thighs, and your fingers are tangled in his hair like they always are. It’s still damp. Of course it is. But now you can blame it on the heater turned up to the max, the radiator rattling like it might burst, the heat heavy in the air and curling around you like smoke. It’s stifling, almost unbearable, and you swear you can feel it searing into you from across the room.

You don’t care.

Because you’re kissing him, and you’ve been kissing him for so long that you’ve forgotten where you are, forgotten the way the rest of the world feels. You’ve kissed him until your lips feel raw, tender and buzzing like a spark waiting to catch. Until your chest aches from holding your breath for him, like breathing was a luxury you’d trade just to stay close.

And then you’re forced to pull away, gasping, your head swimming.

His lips are red and slick, his hair more disheveled than it ever was before, and he’s looking at you with that expression like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He licks his lips and it makes you want to kiss him all over again, the pull of it deep and restless in your chest.

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he murmurs, low and rough, words pressed out like he’s trying to catch his breath too.

You huff a laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the invisible stubble that’s just starting to show. “Yeah. Your fault, though.”

His grin is slow and lazy, the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s got you figured out, even when he hasn’t. “The heater?”

“You.” you correct, nudging his forehead with yours.

And you’re still so close you can feel his breath fan against your lips when he laughs. “I’m the problem?”

“Always.”

It’s teasing. You don’t mean it. Not really. Because there’s something about him that’s always been so easy, so natural, like you’ve known him your whole life, even if you hadn’t. It’s in the way he lets you pull at his hair, in the way he leans into you like you’re the only thing he needs. It’s in the way he’s looking at you now.

You press your palms against his cheeks because you feel like you might float away without something holding you there. “You’re sweaty again.” you murmur.

He groans, his head falling back with a dramatic thud. “It’s hot in here. Not my fault.”

You roll your eyes, though you’re smiling. “I don’t mind.”

“No?”

“No.” you say, threading your fingers through his hair again, pulling just slightly so he tilts his head back to meet you. “Not if it’s you.”

And maybe you’ve been kissing him all afternoon, maybe your lips are already swollen and your body is buzzing from the heat of him, but you kiss him again anyway. Slower this time. Like you’ve got all the time in the world. Because you do. You’re still young, and his room feels like the only place on earth that matters, and this is enough for you to live off of.

His hair is damp, and his lips are soft, and his arms curl around you like he couldn’t hold you close enough if he tried. And for once, you don’t feel like teasing him about it. You just kiss him.

When you break apart again his hands rest on your thighs, just barely there, and when you look at him, he’s grinning again — that slow, lopsided smile that’s all teeth and something else that makes your stomach flip. You roll your eyes at him, pressing your hands to his chest to steady yourself as you climb off, and he lets out this little whine of protest, though he doesn’t stop you.

It’s later, and the heat of the room has settled into something quieter. You’re perched at the edge of his bed, rummaging through your bag with a growing sense of dread because, of course, you didn’t pack pyjamas. It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight thing. You were just supposed to hang out, maybe grab dinner, and then leave, but plans like that never stick when you’re with him. He’s too good at convincing you to stay longer, to forget the time.

So now you’re stuck, turning your bag inside out like maybe a pair of shorts will appear, but nothing does. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” you mutter, looking over at him where he’s sprawled on his back, flipping a pen between his fingers.

“What?” he asks, looking up with that innocent tilt of his head, like he hasn’t been watching you the whole time.

You hesitate for a second before deciding not to care. “Nothing.” you mumble. You grab one of his shirts from the drawer — soft and a little worn, smelling like him — and strip off your jeans and sweater. You change with your back to him, just enough skin showing to get a reaction if he’s looking, but still leaving enough covered for modesty’s sake. His shirt hangs loose over your frame, brushing against the tops of your thighs, and you tug at the hem to make sure it’s long enough. You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch him biting his bottom lip, trying to look nonchalant about it.

The corner of your mouth lifts. “What?”

“Nothing.” he says, too quickly.

You smile to yourself as you climb back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged near the pillows. “I forgot pyjamas.” you explain, tugging at the hem of his shirt again. “Totally not intentional, by the way.”

He snorts, rolling onto his side to look at you properly, his hand propping up his head. “Sure it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t.” you insist. “Staying the night wasn’t the plan, remember?” You pause, biting your lip. “Is it okay? If I stay, uh, with your…”

“Me parents?” he finishes for you.

“Yeah.”

His expression softens. “’Course it’s okay. They like you.”

“Yeah?” you ask, glancing at him.

“Yeah.” he says simply, his smile warm and a little boyish, and you know he doesn’t give it to just anyone.

That quiet admission makes your chest ache in the best way. You watch him as he rolls out of bed, muttering something about needing to change too, and he starts pacing toward the corner where a pile of clothes sits precariously on his desk chair. You curl up beneath the blanket, watching as he picks through the heap, holding up shirts and tossing them aside.

He’s smiling to himself as he sifts through the mess, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin. You can’t look away, even when you try to, and when he pulls his shirt off over his head, you stare. It’s instinctual, automatic. Even from a distance, you can see the little mole on the side of his ribs, and something about it makes you want to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of him with your fingertips, to kiss him there just to see if he’ll shiver.

You want to hold him. You want to kiss him until you can’t feel your lips again. You want to press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in.

Oh, god. You’re really, terribly in love, aren’t you?

“Eh, stop staring, you perv.” he says suddenly, teasing but his ears turn a little red as he tosses a shirt over his shoulder.

You snap your gaze up to his face, cheeks flushing. “I’m not-”

“Yes, you are.” he interrupts, grinning as he finally finds something that looks halfway clean. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”

“I wasn’t staring.” you protest weakly, though you both know it’s a lie.

He’s unbuttoning his jeans now, and you realise you hadn’t even noticed, too distracted by the more sensible top half of him. The more sensitive half, too, if you’re being honest. Ugh.

He shimmies out of his jeans, and you bury your face in the pillow, groaning. But you don’t bury your face for long. Curiosity — or something far more dangerous — gets the better of you, and you glance up just in time to see him standing there in his boxers. The lamplight in the corner of his room catches on the soft angles of him, the long stretch of his legs, the slight dip of his hips, the way the waistband clings low. He’s lean but solid, just enough muscle to make him look effortlessly strong, the kind of strength that doesn’t demand to be noticed but somehow always is. His skin is pale in places where the sun hasn’t kissed it, and you swear there’s a faint flush climbing up his chest like maybe he knows you’re still watching.

Then he turns, his back to you, just like you’d done when you changed earlier. He’s not subtle about it. He bends slightly as he peels off his boxers, and you don’t mean to stare — well, not really — but his butt is right there, perfectly shaped and smooth, and for a second you think about biting it, just to see what he’d do. If the bed weren’t so comfortable, if you weren’t tucked in just so, you might’ve actually gone for it.

He knows. Of course he knows.

“Enjoying the view?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Shut up.” you mumble. You don’t look away.

He’s tugging on a clean pair of boxers now. When he turns back around, he’s grinning — softly this time. He’s caught you red-handed but doesn’t mind one bit.

You roll onto your side, pressing your face half into the pillow to hide the warmth in your cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs, that low, throaty sound that always makes you smile. He crosses the room and climbs back into bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in beside you.

“You stared, though.” he teases, turning his head to look at you.

“You undressed in front of me.” you counter, narrowing your eyes at him even though you’re smiling.

He shrugs, all nonchalance. “You started it.”

You huff, turning to face him properly, and he’s close now, close enough that you can see the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks. You want to kiss him again, but you’re too tired, too comfortable, too full of something soft and sweet that makes your chest ache.

“What?” he murmurs, voice softer now.

“Nothing.” you say, shaking your head.

You’re still curled up, his shirt falling loosely around you, and when you peek at him, he’s looking at you too.

“What?” you whisper, barely audible.

“Nothing.” he murmurs back, shaking his head. But he’s still looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know how to put into words.

And you think, maybe, you’re looking at him the exact same way.

“Your hair’s a mess.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that? Yours.” he says immediately, propping himself up on his elbow. “You’re the one who kept running your hands through it.”

“Because it’s always sweaty.” you shoot back, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

He groans, flopping onto his back beside you. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s endearing.” he mumbles, like he’s convincing himself.

“It is.” you agree, and his head turns toward you, surprised. You look over at him, your expression softening. “It’s gross, but it’s cute. Like you.”

He stares at you for a second, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile, and then he laughs. “You’re so mean.” he says, but his voice is fond, and he’s still smiling when he turns his head back toward the ceiling.

“You like it.” you say. “Masochist.”

“Yeah.” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I do.”

It’s quiet for a while after that. His arm brushes against yours as he shifts, and you think about reaching for his hand but decide against it.

“What time is it?” you ask eventually, your voice cutting through the stillness.

He twists to glance at the clock on his nightstand, squinting. “Half past midnight.”

You groan, pressing your hands to your face. “I have class tomorrow.”

“Skip it.” he says, so casual it makes you laugh.

“You skip too much already.” you say, nudging him with your elbow.

“Yeah, but I’m not you. You’re responsible. You’ve got, like…notes and shit.”

“Notes and shit.” you echo, grinning.

He shrugs, turning onto his side to face you. “It’s a compliment. You’re smart. Like, scary smart. Sometimes I think you’re gonna realise you’re too good for me and leave.”

You blink at him, surprised by the sudden turn, and then you shake your head, rolling onto your side to face him too. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

“It’s true, though.”

“Alex.” you say, reaching out to brush your fingers over his knuckles where his hand rests between you. “You’re, like, my favorite person. Ever. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at you, trying to find the words, but then he just nods. “Good.” he murmurs.

“Good.” you repeat, smiling.

And for a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, the space between you warm and buzzing, and when you close your eyes, you think you could stay like this forever.

It’s quiet, the hum of the heater filling the room, and the faint rhythm of Alex’s breathing beside you is already slowing. His right arm is tucked under your waist, holding you close, while your left hand rests just beneath the curve of his chest. You can feel the rise and fall of his breaths and it’s grounding in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut.

He’s the first to doze, just like always. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him — how his tired eyes will eventually drift shut, his breathing will even out, and the little tension in his body will melt away. Sometimes, you wonder if he fakes it, just to escape the nerves that still creep up on him when you’re this close. But not tonight. Tonight, it’s all real, all soft breaths and tiny, quiet snores that have that same nasally tone as his voice.

You shift, feeling his arm tighten instinctively around you even in sleep, like his body knows to keep you near. He doesn’t move much when he sleeps — always calm, always still—but you’re restless. You can’t help it.

It starts small, just a subtle roll of your hips as you try to find a better position, but it never stops there. Halfway through the night, you turn over, your arm slipping from under his chest. Then you turn again, pulling the blanket with you, and then once more until you’re on your stomach, tangled in the sheets.

He doesn’t stir, not even when your movements tug at the arm he has slung over you. But somehow, by the time dawn starts to creep through the window, you manage to end up back where you started. It’s always a guessing game — whether you’ll wake up as you fell asleep or in some entirely different arrangement.

This time you’ve got it and you open your eyes to his face pressed into the pillow, and his hair’s a mess, sticking up in all directions. The first light of morning spills across him, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.

You sigh quietly, turning away from him because the proximity is too much. If you had easy access to his lips for a second longer, you’d cave, and you know it. But you can’t — not now, not with your morning breath making itself known. You cringe a little at the thought, pressing your face into the pillow.

Oh fuck. Do you even have a toothbrush here?

The thought nags at you for a moment, but you shove it aside. Later. You’ll figure it out later.

You settle into the sheets again, your back to him, hoping to drift off for just a little longer. But then he stirs, his arm tightening around your waist as his chest presses closer to your back. His nose nudges against the back of your neck, warm and soft, and you almost melt into the touch.

And then you feel it.

Your body goes completely still, frozen as the unmistakable pressure of him presses against you, firm and insistent. What the fuck.

Okay, yes, you’ve slept together before — slept. As in, shared a bed, tangled limbs, whispered secrets into the night. But this? This is new.

You’re no stranger to intimacy with him. You’ve done things — things that have left you breathless, aching, satisfied. You’ve seen him naked, and he’s seen you. You’ve taken him in your mouth, made him groan your name. He’s touched you, too, kissed you there, made you come undone with his tongue and fingers in ways you didn’t know were possible. Equally mutual satisfactory fulfilment.

But you haven’t done it together. Not yet. Not because you don’t want to, but because time has never been on your side. It’s always been a stolen moment here, a rushed goodbye there. Too much tension and not enough space to let it all unravel.

You bite your lip, your mind racing. He’s so close, too close, and the heat pooling between your thighs is impossible to ignore. You’re…oh, God, you’re dripping just thinking about it. But now isn’t the time — not with his parents in the room down the hall, not with him lost in his dreams, innocent in his state of unintentional desire.

You shift slightly, trying to ease the tension without waking him, but it only makes things worse. The movement causes him to press against you more firmly, and you have to bite back a whimper.

Okay, okay, breathe. Think unsexy thoughts. Math equations. Old textbooks. Your friend’s crush on her weird philosophy professor.

But none of it works when his hand tightens on your hip and his body is so warm against yours.

“Alex.” you whisper, barely audible, hoping he doesn’t wake up but also kind of hoping he does because then maybe-

No. No, not now. Later. Later, when you have more time and privacy and not the looming threat of his parents overhearing something they definitely shouldn’t.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to calm down, and after a few agonizing minutes, you feel his grip slacken, his body relaxing again. His breathing evens out and he’s still fast asleep. You exhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, and then close your eyes again, determined to fall back into some semblance of rest.

Later, you tell yourself again. And God, you hope later comes soon.

But later seems to be now because before you can settle yourself, you feel it — him, again. His hips shift behind you, pressing insistently against you, the heat and firmness of him unmistakable. He’s…rutting into you.

Your breath catches, heart racing, and you think, No. He has to still be asleep. Right?

The soft, steady rhythm of his snores continues, only confirming it. And then they falter, turning into a deep, rough cough that rattles through his chest. He stirs, pulling back from you just enough to stretch, his arm leaving your waist. You can hear his joints pop as he yawns, long and loud.

You don’t dare move, still frozen, thighs pressed tightly together in an effort to keep your body from betraying you.

He turns toward you, his eyes heavy-lidded and his hair sticking up in every direction, but there’s no mistaking it: he’s awake now. And yet, the duvet is still covering him from the waist down, doing nothing to hide the outline of him. Oh, he’s very much awake.

“Morning.” he whispers, his voice deep and scratchy, rough from sleep.

“Morning.” you manage, though it comes out quieter, tighter.

He doesn’t seem to notice, instead rolling onto his back and stretching again. You take the opportunity to lean over, pressing your face into the spot between his arm and chest. The crook of his armpit, warm and soft, the place where his skin smells the most like him. You inhale deeply, savoring the scent of him, that mix of sweat and soap and something you can’t describe but is so unmistakably Alex.

He huffs a laugh, looking down at you as you nuzzle into him like a cat. “You weirdo.” he murmurs, his hand lazily brushing over your back.

You’re too caught up in the warmth of him, in the way your nose fits perfectly there, in how his skin feels against yours even through the thin fabric of his shirt to respond.

He shifts again, turning onto his side and pulling you with him, his arm draping over your waist. His thigh hitches over your hip, pulling you closer, and it’s only then that you feel him again.

Pressed against you, hard and obvious, and he doesn’t even realise it. You hold your breath as he rubs against you, slow and absentminded, his body moving on instinct alone. It’s clear his brain hasn’t caught up yet. He’s still in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where dreams and reality blur together.

But you are fully aware. Too aware. Every nerve in your body is alight, and the ache between your thighs is impossible to ignore.

“Alex.” you whisper, your voice trembling just enough to give you away.

He hums in response, his nose brushing against your shoulder as he pulls you even closer. His hand rests on your hip, his thumb stroking idly over the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and he presses against you again.

Your resolve is hanging by a thread, your body screaming for you to move, to push back, to let this moment become what it so desperately wants to be.

But his breathing evens out again, and his lips brush your shoulder in a subconscious kiss, soft and lazy.

“Alex.” you say again, a little louder this time, and his eyes finally flutter open, the hazy warmth in them clearing as his mind catches up to his body.

“Oh, fuck.” he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he freezes, his hand still on your hip. “Oh, fuck.” he mutters again, louder this time, his face going beet red as he pulls back the covers to confirm what he already knows.

And yep, there it is. His hard-on, unapologetic and obvious, tenting his boxers in a way that would’ve been funny if he weren’t so mortified.

“Shit.” he hisses, scrambling to cover himself again. He turns away from you in his panic, rolling onto his stomach like that’ll fix it.

It doesn’t.

As soon as his hips hit the mattress, he lets out a strangled noise, his face scrunching in pain.

“Fuck- ow-” He twists awkwardly, trying to lift his hips off the bed, his voice breaking into a groan as he clutches the duvet beneath him.

You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s not a mean laugh, more like a surprised, delighted giggle that bubbles out before you can stop it. “Alex.” you manage, caught somewhere between concern and amusement.

He’s still half-buried in the mattress, his arms bracing against the bed, trying to hold himself up without putting pressure on his…situation. “Don’t.” he grumbles, his voice muffled. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not.” you lie, even as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “Come here, you idiot.”

He groans again but finally relents, pushing himself off the mattress and turning back to you, his face still flushed. He flops into your arms like he’s seeking refuge, burying his head in your neck and mumbling something unintelligible against your skin.

“What was that?” you ask, still grinning as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close.

“I said, I’m never waking up again.”

“Oh, sure.” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “That’ll fix everything.”

He groans again, his hand resting on your waist as he tries to melt into you. Maybe if he stays there long enough he’ll just disappear.

You lean back slightly, tilting your head to look at him, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose scrunched in embarrassment. “Good morning.”

He finally cracks one eye open. “Good morning.” he mutters back, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile of his own. “Sorry,” he whispers, “didn’t- didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine.” you cut him off. And it is. Fine. More than fine, actually. But you don’t say that part.

He hangs awkwardly next to you, hovering just far enough away that it doesn’t touch you, his arm still draped over your waist but with a noticeable gap now. You can feel the tension, the way he’s holding himself stiffly to keep his hips from brushing against yours like that’ll make the situation less obvious.

“Were you dreaming?” you ask.

He shakes his head, face still tucked into your neck. “Nah.”

“Then?”

There’s a pause, and then he giggles, this soft, boyish sound and it makes your heart flip. “Think the knowledge of you half-naked in my bed was enough.”

You laugh softly, your chest warming at his honesty. “Dirty boy.”

He grins, his confidence peeking through despite the blush still dusting his cheeks. “Yeah, well, you’re the one wearing my shirt and no pants, so…”

You can feel his gaze on you, lingering where the hem of his shirt just barely skims the tops of your thighs as you press them together, suddenly hyper-aware of the dampness pooling between them. “It’s comfortable.” you mumble.

He hums, his hand brushing over your hip. “Yeah.” he says, almost distractedly. “Looks good on you, though.”

Your leg brushes against his. He tenses. He’s still trying so hard to keep his distance, and it’s endearing in a way that makes you want to push him just a little. “You’re really embarrassed, huh?”

You glance up at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours before darting back down again. He’s trying so hard not to stare, not to make it obvious how much he wants you right now, but the flush creeping up his neck and the way he’s nervously biting the inside of his cheek gives him away.

“Maybe.” he mutters, his voice muffled. “It’s a little hard to be suave when you wake up like this.”

“Who said anything about suave?” You drag your fingers lightly down the back of his neck, feeling the slight shiver that runs through him. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Don’t.” he groans.

“Don’t what?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers trail lower, grazing his back.

“Don’t- ugh- don’t mess with me.”

“I’m not messing with you.” you say softly, your hand sliding lower until it rests on his hip, dangerously close to the duvet-covered evidence of exactly how not fine he is. “You’re the one who woke up like this.”

“Yeah, well…” He trails off, biting his lip as he glances down. “Thought you said it was fine.”

“It is.” Your hand moves just a little higher, brushing against his stomach, and he exhales sharply.

“You’re playing with fire.” he warns, though it’s half-hearted at best, his hips twitching involuntarily toward your touch.

You shift closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand moves lower, skimming over the waistband of his boxers. “Maybe I want to get burned.”

His breath stutters and he doesn’t move, just staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. Then his hand moves, sliding down your side and over your hip, his fingers brushing the edge of your panties.

“Al…” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and he looks up at you, his lips parting like he’s about to respond. But he doesn’t get the chance.

Your hand trails down.

“Wait-” he stammers, his own flying to catch yours, though he doesn’t actually stop you.

“Wait for what?”

His breath catches again, and his hips shift, pressing against your hand. You can feel him, hard and insistent beneath the thin fabric, and it sends a thrill through you.

His hand moves too, hesitant, his fingers brushing over your thigh before creeping higher. They hover between your legs, just barely grazing. You can feel his breath against your neck, shaky and shallow, before his fingers dip lower.

When he touches you — just barely, a featherlight graze over the damp fabric — you shudder, your thighs twitching.

“Shit.” he breathes, his voice low and strained.

And then he freezes.

“Oh, my God.” he mutters, his eyes snapping open as his hand flies back to your hip.

“What?”

“You’re…” He trails off, his eyes flickering down, and you realise what he means. He felt it — the wet patch on your panties where they’ve been soaked through. “You’re so wet.” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

You shrug, your cheeks burning even as you try to play it off. “Well, you’re hard.”

“Don’t say that.” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Why not?” you tease, your hand trailing back up to rest on his chest. “It’s true.”

He doesn’t respond, just lets out a low, frustrated laugh before finally meeting your eyes again. Pupils dark and blown wide, and there’s a quiet, unspoken question in them.

“Alex.” you say softly, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek.

“Yeah?”

“Stop overthinking.”

And with that, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and just a little bit desperate. Your hands splay against his chest as you settle over him, his erection pressing against you in a way that makes your whole body flush.

“Still embarrassed?” It comes out breathier than you intended.

His hands find your thighs, sliding up and under the hem of his shirt that you’re still wearing. “Shut up.” he mutters.

“Make me.”

“I can do that.” he says, and then he dips forward, capturing your lips with his.

A tender slide of mouths that sends butterflies spiraling through your chest, all teeth and tongues and the kind of frantic energy that makes your heart pound so hard it’s all you can hear. But when you press down — accidentally, just slightly — and brush against him just so, you both gasp into it.

It’s instinctive, the way you press into him, your body seeking friction and finding it. The pressure so delicious. A steady drag of him against you. His hands tighten on your waist, guiding you as you move, and when your lips break apart, it’s only because you need air.

When you’re not kissing him, you’re biting his lip, tugging at it just enough to make him gasp. And when you’re not biting his lip, you’re biting your own, trying to keep quiet because you’re all too aware of the thin walls.

But it’s hard to stay quiet when every roll of your hips sends a new wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and the sound of his breathing makes you want to give in completely.

“Fuck.” he mutters, and the way he looks at you — lips swollen, hair messy, cheeks flushed — makes you want to ruin him.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. And then you press down just a little harder, the angle shifting just enough to hit just right.

It’s game over.

“Can I?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His hand hovers at your hip, thumb grazing the edge of your panties. The intention is clear: more, baby, give me more, I need more.

You nod. That’s all he needs.

His hand trembles slightly as he moves it lower, brushing over the curve of your thigh before tugging at the fabric, fumbling as he tries to pull it down. You lift your hips to help him, the movement brushing you against him again, and he groans low in his throat, his breath shaky as he finally gets the panties down far enough to push them aside.

Then he pauses. “You’re sure?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little.

You nod again, more emphatically this time. “Yes,” you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest, under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. “Yes, Alex.”

It’s enough.

He fumbles again as he reaches for himself, pushing his boxers down with a little too much force, and his dick springs free, flushed and hard and — oh god — so close. It would almost be funny, the way he struggles to get the fabric out of the way, but it’s not. It’s really, really not, because all you can think about is how much you want him.

So bad.

His breath catches as he looks down at you, his hand wrapping around himself almost instinctively, and you feel your whole body tighten at the sight.

“You’re so-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even find the words, his free hand sliding up to cup your face. “I want you.” he says, his voice raw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “So much.”

You press your forehead to his, your hands gripping his shoulders as you whisper, “Then take me.”

“Okay.” His breath stutters, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he shifts, guiding himself to you. He hesitates, just for a second, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “Tell me if-”

“I will.”

And then he pushes forward, just barely, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of hurting you.

“Oh, fuck.” he breathes, his voice trembling, holding himself back, trying to stay in control. He groans as he sinks deeper.

And then he’s finally there, fully there, and you both pause, your breaths mingling as you adjust to the feeling, the weight, the sheer intimacy of it all.

It’s everything. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

And then he moves.

“Fuck, that feels so good.” he whispers, the words spilling out of him unguarded, and you can’t help the quiet sound that escapes your throat, a soft, needy confirmation that yes — yes, it feels so good.

You shift your hips against him, slow and deliberate, so slow that anyone watching wouldn’t even know you’re moving. But inside, he’s shifting with every tiny motion, and the stretch, the fullness — it’s overwhelming. He’s so big, and every inch of him feels like it was made to fit you, and you’re not sure how you’ve gone this long without knowing this feeling.

“Wait.” he says suddenly, his hands gripping your hips to still you.

You stop immediately, your lips parted, your teeth catching on your bottom lip as you remember how undone you must look. Your hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction from the night before, and you’re sure there are still traces of sleep in the corners of your eyes. It hits like a bucket of cold water, and you want to disappear, to bury your face in his pillow and hide from the thought that he might see you like this and regret everything. But he doesn’t pull away. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, an apology written in the tenderness of it.

“Don’t.” he murmurs, and it’s like he can see the insecurity blooming in your mind. And then it hits you — he’s inside you. His body is wrapped around yours, his hands holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s far too late for him to find you repulsive.

You exhale shakily, relaxing into his touch just as he says, “We didn’t- I didn’t put on a- a…” He stumbles over the words, his face flushing as he looks up at you.

“A rubber?” you offer.

“Yeah. Fuck.” he mutters, his hand running through his already-messy hair.

You know you should care. You should be concerned, should pull away and figure it out. But the thought barely registers, drowned out by the heat pooling low and the way he’s looking at you, all flushed cheeks and wide eyes and breathless uncertainty.

“Alex.” you whisper, and he looks up at you like you’ve just spoken the most important word in the world. You lean down, your lips brushing his, and kiss him softly, slowly, until you feel the tension melt from his body, his lips moving against yours like he’s already forgotten the interruption.

“Fuck it.” he breathes against your mouth, low and desperate, and you can feel the smile tugging at his lips as you press your forehead to his.

“Fuck it.” you agree, and the moment you start moving again, the rest of the world disappears.

It’s soft. It’s lazy. Not so lazy that it doesn’t feel good — because it does. It feels too good. Like, you-know-will-ruin-you kinda good. The kind of good that turns your world upside down and leaves you wondering how you’ll ever survive without it again. And it’s not just the way he’s touching you or the way he fits inside you. It’s the way he looks at you. It’s dangerous, this feeling. You can already sense it sinking into your bones, settling deep in your veins, and you fear you’ll never get it out. How are you supposed to pull away from him when it feels like this?

“God,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, “you’re perfect.” He laughs softly before he says “Can’t believe we waited this long.”

“Worth it.”

“Yeah.” he agrees, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “Yeah, you’re worth it.”

So honest, so sure that it has you pressing closer, your body trembling as the pleasure builds slowly, steadily, until it feels like it’s wrapping around you, pulling you under.

“Alex.” you whisper, and his eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of something that feels so much bigger than the two of you.

“I’ve got you.” he says, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “I’ve got you, babe.”

It’s so much. There’s so much of him — his length, his heat, the way his hip bones graze yours with every thrust. Each motion feels impossibly intimate, like he’s carving himself into you, piece by piece, and you can’t help the way your fingers dig into his chest, searching for something to hold onto.

“Takin’ me so well.” he whispers, a secret meant only for you.

The words make you whimper, a soft, broken sound that you wish could say everything you’re feeling. But it’s not enough, and you almost feel bad that you can’t muster anything more coherent in return. You hope he understands. You hope the way you’re falling apart over him — every little gasp, every shudder, every desperate press of your hips — tells him he’s doing good. Tells him he’s doing everything right.

“God, love.” he breathes. His movements are still slow, but there’s more purpose now, more urgency, like he’s teetering on the edge and holding back just for you. “Feel so good. So fuckin’ good.”

He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your body’s giving in. He’s pulling you down so your chest is flush with his, and his lips find your neck, brushing kisses along your skin that make you shiver. You can feel him twitching inside you, every little pulse. He’s losing control, you can tell, and it’s making you lose it right along with him.

“Fuck-” he groans, his voice breaking, “I’m- I’m close. So close. Really close.” His head tilts back against the pillow, his mouth open as he gasps for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’s a mess beneath you, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “I- how do I- tell me what to-”

You know what he’s asking. He wants to make you fall apart, just like he is, but his brain is too scrambled to figure out how. Your hand moves instinctively, grabbing his wrist and guiding it between your legs.

“Here.” you whisper, pressing his fingers where you need them. “Just- like this.”

He gets it. He gets it so right. The circles he’s drawing are perfect, the pressure just enough to have you keening softly as your thighs begin to tremble.

“That’s it.” he says.

You’re shaking now, your body so tense you feel like you might break apart. His hand keeps working between you, his cock throbbing inside you with every desperate thrust, and you’re so gone. There’s no other way to describe it. You’re gone for him, gone because of him, gone with him. White-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamp down around him, and he chokes out a curse, his hips faltering as he tries to keep moving through the vice grip.

“Fuck- fuck.” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut, his face scrunching up like he’s in pain. “You’re- oh, my god, love, I’m- I’m gonna-”

He’s fighting it. But you’re still pulsing around him, your body shaking with the aftershocks, and it’s too much for him. “I need to-” he stammers, his breath catching as he pulls out.

The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, and you glance down just in time to see him. He’s slick and flushed, his cock impossibly hard and glistening from you, and the moment the cool air touches him, he gasps. He strokes tightly, quickly, his fist sliding over the slickness you’ve left behind.

“Oh-” His free hand clutches at the sheets, his hips bucking up into his own grip. You’re transfixed.

It only takes a few strokes before he’s gone, a choked moan spilling from his lips as his body tenses. His cock jerks in his hand, and he comes hard, painting his covered chest with thick, messy ropes that glisten in the soft morning light. He keeps stroking himself through it, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t help but reach out, your fingers brushing over the sticky mess he’s made. He groans at the touch, his hand falling away as he finally collapses against the bed, utterly spent.

“Holy fuck.” he whispers. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his chest is still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You collapse against him, your face buried in his neck, and he’s still gasping.

“Yeah.” you giggle, and he laughs too.

It’s messy, it’s clumsy, it’s perfect.

You stay draped over him, your cheek pressed against his collarbone as his arms lazily wrap around you. You just want to stay like this — floating in the quiet of the morning, the hum of his breath against your temple.

After a few moments, he huffs a soft laugh, his chest rising beneath you.

“What?” you ask, your voice muffled against his skin.

“Just…y’know. That.” he says. “Wasn’t exactly how I imagined it’d go, but-”

“Oh, shut up.” you say, swatting at his chest, and he winces dramatically.

“Careful.” he teases. “Still recovering here. You wore me out.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Neither of you mentions the obvious — what just happened, the closeness of it, how real it all feels. It’s not awkward, though. Just…warm.

“God, you’re heavy.” he murmurs, teasing, his voice still soft with the afterglow.

“Shut up.” you mutter, lips brushing against the curve of his neck. “You’re sticky.”

There’s a comfortable silence for a beat, the two of you just basking in each other. It’s peaceful, or it would be if Alex weren’t incapable of keeping still for longer than thirty seconds. He shifts, testing the waters, and then — suddenly — he’s twisting you both around, flipping you onto your back as he props himself up on his elbows above you.

“Alex!” you squeak. “What the hell-”

His laugh is bright, filling the room as he nuzzles his face into your shoulder. “Oh my God.” he says, dragging the words out as if he’s just had the greatest epiphany of his life. “You’re mine. I’ve got you. Right here. In. My. Bed.”

“Alex.” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down as you squirm under him. “Shut up! What if-”

He cuts you off with a kiss to your forehead, his grin so wide it’s getting infectious. “What if my parents hear?” he finishes for you.

“Yes, exactly!”

“They won’t.” He pulls back, still grinning like a madman. “They’re not even here. They leave for work early, remember?”

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “Oh.”

“Oh.” he mimics, laughing again. “We’re free, baby. Just you, me, and this very comfortable bed.”

You groan, slapping his arm. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”

“Before what?”

“You know what.” you huff, trying to look annoyed but failing miserably because he’s looking at you like that.

He props his chin on your chest, right between that valley of breasts. “Not talking about it, are we?”

“Talking about what?” You blink, all mock innocence, and you roll your eyes.

“You know what.” His grin widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something ridiculous but he stays quiet.

“Maybe later.” you murmur, and he hums in agreement.

“Relax, love.” he says, his voice dropping to something softer, gentler. “We’re good. Promise.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but his smile is too infectious, and eventually, you find yourself smiling back.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” you grumble, and he laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“I know.”

a/n: This somehow went on so long but it feels very fast paced to me? I like it though. I think it turned out cute. I think I really want him. Based on this request.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner fluff #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #fetus alex turner #goblinontour

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