#goblinontour

[goblinontour]

Swallow You, No Remorse

mirror, mirror, flesh upon my face, woah

warnings: shopping, dissociation, light spanking, fucking, blowie, peaches & cream (separately), and, as always, love

word count: 7.3k

The paper is crinkling in his back pocket. He can feel it. He can’t hear it over the music that fills the store and his ears — some overly formalised rhetorical score, too grand for a place like this — but he can feel it. It’s there, pressed against the denim, an irritant, an accusation. He could just pull it out and look at it, end this ridiculous wandering in circles or zigzags or whatever absentminded, aimless pattern he’s been making.  

A half-hour? A full hour? Time passes differently in places like these. Unnatural, windowless, fluorescent-lit limbos where the mind empties out and the body moves on its own, like a wind-up toy slowly running out of momentum.  

Isn’t that why he made the list in the first place? A proper list, dashes neatly marking each item, a safeguard against his own inevitable forgetfulness. And yet here he is, already lost, already drifting, already failing at the one simple thing he set out to do.  

The sane thing — the reasonable, adult, functional thing — would be to just reach into his back pocket, fish it out, and confirm what else was on there beyond the carton of eggs he’s already thrown into the cart. Are they even on the list? He doesn’t know. He reckons eggs are a necessary enough thing to have, so he grabbed them. That’s how people do this, right? They go to a store and they buy eggs. They don’t turn it into some existential ordeal.

He knows there’s more written on that crumpled scrap of paper. He distinctly remembers making more than one little line. But isn’t it so…pathetic? To walk around with it in his hands, scrutinising his own handwriting like a child trying to decipher a secret code, broadcasting to the world that he isn’t capable of remembering basic things?  

He exhales sharply, barely more than a puff of breath, and grips the shopping cart’s handle. It’s already been annoying him for the past however many minutes, but he’s been ignoring it, thinking maybe the problem would solve itself if he just stopped paying attention. But it hasn’t, and now, now that he’s noticing it again, it’s all he can focus on. The damn thing keeps swaying to the right, veering off-course if he doesn’t keep constant pressure on the left side. He’s been correcting it instinctively, nudging it back in line with his hip, but the repetitive movement is getting to him now. If he doesn’t finish up soon, he’s going to walk out of here with crooked legs and a bent spine.  

He straightens up, suddenly hyper-aware of how he’s been hunching forward, shoulders curled in, neck craning down. He rolls his shoulders back, stretches his spine, quietly sighs like this is some great epiphany, though it’s really just common sense. His t-shirt — too tight, a size too small, probably shrank in the wash — digs into his skin at the adjustment, fabric straining against his shoulder blades and seams rubbing in the crooks of his armpits. Tight t-shirts are great for that. They start to hurt if you don’t adjust to them.  

Christ, he’s probably overthinking this.

People are work. A lot of work. Too much work. And that’s, like…ultra, mega okay. Usually. It’s just pure psychic automatism and he should-

Oh, right. Tanning lotion.

He should probably get into forgery since his only real skill is mimicking people. He doesn’t even know who it is he’s trying to become by making himself potentially orange, depending on how this turns out, but here he is, in Los Angeles, and as much as he enjoys the sun, he can never seem to spend enough time in it to actually tan. The burns always get to him first. So: tanning lotion.

God, Alex.  

Alright. He knows that we, humans, with our mighty little brains, like to dwell on our own condition — maybe it’s narcissistic in principle, maybe it’s just an unavoidable side effect of consciousness and self-consciousness — but he still doesn’t know why he can’t just pull out the list.  

Maybe, apart from all the above, there’s another recurring thought in his busily thinking brain. An obsession with its own incontrovertible and eventual void.  

The oxymoronic appeal of…death.  

Death as a dreamless sleep.  

He’s never had a night of dreamless sleep. If it isn’t a dream, it’s a fantasy occurring and occupying that space.  

He holds such a deep sense of longing for his bed.  

All the time. Yesterday. Twenty-nine years ago. Right now.  

His gaze snags on a display of discounted candles as he passes. The real scents are all gone. All that’s left are the ones that are meant to smell like an idea rather than an actual thing. Soft Cashmere & Oakwood, Midnight Rain, Golden Hour Mist. He wonders if he should get one, just for the hell of it, just to see what the hell “Golden Hour Mist” is supposed to smell like. The idea of golden hour doesn’t seem like it should have a scent. And mist? Mist just smells like air, right? Probably overpriced, anyway.  

The cart sways again. He corrects.  

You simply have to adjust. That’s what everyone says. That’s what life is made out to be: adjustments. Adjusting yourself to it. When the avalanche of stimuli starts coming your way — some good, some bad, some ugly — it’s difficult for most people to handle. He’s one of those ‘mosts.’ He thinks so, anyway. Most people don’t have the thick skin required to make it through all the lies, all the assumptions, and most of all the truths being said about them.  

It’s like Brecht says in his play: “In its natural state, human skin is too thin for this world, so men take care to see it grows thicker.” 

Until, finally, they’re bumping into things and not feeling them anymore. He’s not quite there yet.  

But then comes the second part, the part that messes with his plans and hopes of one day becoming unbreakable: “There would be nothing wrong with the method, if only you could stop it from growing. Take a piece of tanned leather: it stays the way it is. But the living skin grows, it grows thicker and thicker.”  

Does his skin gain a new layer if he tans it? Is that what he’s trying to do? Does he get a thicker layer of protection that way? Or does he become less himself and more skin?  

A woman brushes past him too fast, her perfume hanging in the air in her wake, and he wonders what it would be like to live in the kind of brain that doesn’t trap itself in loops like this. To just…buy eggs. Push a cart that works properly. Pick up a candle and preferably not think about the philosophy of its name.  

He reaches into his back pocket. Feels the paper wrinkle under his fingers.  

Almost pulls it out. Almost.

Which aisle is this?

Alex doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. His brain isn’t logging that information, isn’t marking this moment as a mundane one. It’s failing him. Much like his ability to remember a list (a list he has already abandoned, crumpling like an afterthought). And much like his ability to keep his hands to himself when you’re this close.  

The scent hit him first. That was the problem.  

That scent that has lived in the fibers of his pillows, in the hollow of his throat where your mouth always finds purchase, in the folds of his sheets where your weight has pressed into them long enough to leave an imprint, a ghost of you that lingers even after you’re gone, and in the space between wakefulness and sleep where his subconscious is still occupied with the freshest memory of you. 

He should have known it immediately. Should have inhaled and thought, Ah! There you are!, but the cruel delay, the stupid hesitation of his own mind taking a second too long to recognise you. That brief lapse, that fraction of a second where he didn’t immediately register you — it infuriates him. It makes him feel like a fraud in his own body.  

That scent should be coded into his DNA by now.  

The phone was an impulse. A stupid one, but when he feels like this — like he’s been caught in the space between hunger and hallucination, his own body a trap he doesn’t know how to escape — he acts before he thinks. He moves before his brain catches up. His fingers wrap around the mobile in his pocket, slip past the crinkled sticky note he’s still too stubborn to pull out and use, and he’s already pressing your name, already lifting it to his ear when he watches it happen — your body stills, just slightly, as you feel the buzz of your phone in your pocket.  

You answer.  

“Hi.” he says.  

“Hi.”

“It’s me…Alex.” A pause. He watches your back, the set of your shoulders shifting under your shirt, watches the muscles in your neck tighten for just a second before you relax again. “I’m right behind you right now. And now,” he continues, watching the slight turn of your head, the way you let him see only the elegant slope of your left side greeting him in place of your full face — “now you see me.”

“Now I don’t.”

It’s a game. Always is.

Did you see him when you walked past? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. You won’t tell him, because you know him. He’d rather believe this is some happenstance of faith, some cosmic alignment, proof that you are tethered together in a way neither of you fully understand but both of you are too weak to resist, by being placed in the same aisle, at the same time, under the same flickering fluorescent light that is wholly unfit to illuminate you.  

“You look good. I like those jeans.”

It’s not just a compliment. He needs you to know that. It’s an admission of guilt. Because he’s following your lead without thinking, without hesitation, without needing to see your full face to know you heard the shift in his tone. You felt it. And without eyes in the back of your head, you know he’s checking you out. 

Shamelessly.  

“Keep following me.”

Your voice curls through the receiver. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He obeys.  

“Don’t turn around.”

“You hungry, Alex? You starving?”

The whisper is quiet. So quiet that only he hears it. So quiet that it should be a secret, but it isn’t, not really, because he already knows. He knows what you’re doing, what you’re saying, what you’re thinking, because it’s the same thing he’s thinking.  

And God, those peaches — his eyes catch on them absently, these soft, golden things in jars, bathed in syrup, and it makes him think of you. He sees them, and then he sees you, the way you hovered near his bathroom counter that one time, plucked the bottle of his new peach-scented body wash, uncapped it, brought it to your nose, inhaled deep, and sighed. 

He remembers the hum you let out, the way you said, “This makes me wanna eat you.” And he remembers how it made him ache, how it sent some violent shiver of want down his spine.  

He’d wanted to crumble into the tile floor on the spot.  

You tried to take a bite out of him once. A real, actual bite. Not a playful nibble. Not a fleeting graze of teeth. A bite.  

Below his arm, the softest part of him, your mouth on the fleshy underside of his triceps — if you can even call it that, because it wasn’t the muscle you wanted. It was the fat, the place where the fibers fade into something pliable, something tender, the kind of flesh that invites teeth, that begs to be consumed, the plush layer beneath the skin, the part of him that could bruise beneath the pressure of your teeth. You wanted to sink in. Wanted to hurt him, to mark him, to make him less of a man and more of a meal. To swallow him whole, turn him into something that belonged inside you. But the moment your lips touched the spot, he stirred.  

Unsuccessful. So far.  

“Evidently.” he says, because he’s past the point of lying. There’s no use pretending.  

“Evidently…”  

“Let’s go back to my place.”

You laugh — sharp, quiet, indulgent. You don’t have to turn around for him to see the way your mouth curves around the sound. You call him out instantly.

“When you say things like that, do you realise what you say? It’s like saying ‘That’s so gay’ at something. You need more subtlety, darling.”

“Knock it off, alright?” He giggles, but his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s already unravelling.  

Because in his dream, or fantasy, or whatever the fuck his brain does when it takes reality through a rewiring and distorts it into something softer, he’s on the living room floor, lying on his back, and you’re petting the cat inside him. Kneading his stomach with your own paws, walking back and forth, pressing into him like you mean to stay, like you mean to burrow inside him, curl into him, make a home there, settle somewhere deep where even he can’t get you out, stretching and leaving behind little ghosts of warmth everywhere you touched.  

In reality, he lets go of the shopping cart.  

Lets it drift, lets it rattle against the linoleum as he moves toward you. No pretenses. No more games. No invisible inside-his-brain things meant to protect him.  

And that’s the moment it catches up to him — how much of a fucking hassle this stupid thing has been, this wonky, defected cart that has spent the last twenty minutes dragging him to the right, making him counter it with his whole body weight, making him lean so hard in the opposite direction that he felt it in his spine, digging into his ribs.  

But he doesn’t have time to fix it now. He’s already moving. Without fanfare, without hesitation, without any real sense of whether he should or shouldn’t-

The hunt is over. He catches you.  

You don’t even flinch. Because you knew. You always know.  

And he’s weak. So fucking weak.  

His hands are on you before his brain can tell them not to be. He’s touching you in broad daylight, in public, in the middle of this goddamn aisle, and there’s no stopping it. No rewinding this back into subtlety. No pretending his body isn’t betraying him, that the very blood in his veins isn’t singing mine mine mine mine mine.  

His invincible streak is done for.  

He’s lost.  

He’s ruined.  

Have I led a toothless life? he thinks. He feels like he has never bitten into anything. He feels like he’s still waiting. He was reserving himself for later on and he has just noticed that his teeth could be gone.

And all he can see is your nape.  

Taut. Bare. Untouched by the sun, lacking its kiss, but not untouched by him, and it’s now visible from your hair being out of the way, the soft back of your neck, which every now and then he set his teeth in, forgetting he could have none, such is the power of instinct.

Still, it’s a lifeless thing without the bloom of his lips pressed against it, without the red marks his teeth have left before, and that is unacceptable. He should be kissing you there. He should be biting down now, now, now, now, because what else is instinct but an uncontrollable thing? He wants to bite it now.

He wants.  

He takes.  

And when you finally — finally — turn in his arms, when your breath ghosts against his jaw, when your fingers curl into his shirt and hold, “Which aisle is this?” he asks, dazed.  

And you whisper against his mouth, “Doesn’t matter.”

His dick has its own heartbeat.  

It is…growling.  

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

He turns his nose at couples in public because something picks at his heart every time. A tight pull, a slow gnawing, a sensation he can never name but always, always feels. How can you be so in love where everyone can watch? Aren’t you afraid? Shouldn’t you be afraid? It has always seemed like something meant to be hidden. A private ache, a secret indulgence, a thing that blooms best in dim-lit corners and half-shielded glances. Not something to be flaunted under the cold, all-seeing eye of the world.  

He didn’t know love was something you could show.  

And yet, here he is. Here you are.  

He is kissing you.  

He thinks about this often, how his lips are always one heartbeat away from betraying him. How they tremble with need whenever you are too close for too long. How they seem to make decisions before his mind can catch up. He had spent years convinced he would rather be bitter in his ways than accept that he could have this and it could be this simple. In all its raw and relentless weight, it was something he was allowed to hold.  

It has always been easier to watch it happen to other people, to keep it at a safe distance, to see it in fiction, in film, in strangers on the street. Something to be observed but never touched. To nod along and say, Yes, of course, I know love exists, without ever having to know what it feels like.   

But then — your taste is still on his tongue.  

It tells him everything.  

And how could he ever not want to hold his hand on your waist?

“Mhmm…” He licks at his lips when he pulls back, sees his sparks reflecting in your eyes, blinks long so they don’t blind him. His heart is a drumbeat in his throat, and your breath is warm against his chin. He doesn’t know if he should be moving, talking, staying still, holding you closer. He only knows that he wants.  

“Come on. Did you walk here? I’ve got the car parked up front.”

“I did. I just wanna see all this first.” You nod toward the vastness, the endless rows of shelves, the long aisles stretching ahead, the lights buzzing faintly above. You take a quick glance at the abandoned cart behind him, tilting your head slightly. “And you have to get toilet paper.”

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, half-amused, half-exasperated, knowing full well you’re right, but already too distracted by the way your mouth moves, the way your voice lingers between the syllables.  

“There was only one roll left last time I checked.”

“I have a bidet.” He counters, smirking. It’s a weak defense and a feeble attempt at distraction. You both know it. He’s trying to lure you, and he reckons you’ve already made your decision. He just hopes it’s in his favour. But even if it’s not — not yet — he won’t quit before he’s got you in the passenger seat, or perhaps his bed.  Because you never know what might happen on the way, but bed is definitive. 

Bed is undeniable.  

There’s no escaping there. No excuses, no distractions, no aisles of meaningless products to stall the inevitable. He could cage you in between his arms, press you down into the mattress, make you stay, make you understand just how much he needs-

“You don’t.” You smile.  

A slow, knowing one. One that makes his chest tighten, makes his fingers twitch with the need to pull you closer, closer, much closer.  

“I’ll order one. And I’ve got a roll of paper towels somewhere, I’m sure. We’ll be fine. Let’s go home.”

And maybe this is another kind of love, too. The kind that lingers in the in-betweens, in the ordinary, in the stupid, pointless arguments. It sneaks up on him in places he never expected to find it.  

He can no longer deny it is his.

All of the best things in life demand a surrender to vulnerability, don’t they? A willingness to look a little foolish, to risk the burn of embarrassment, to let the world see you stripped. 

Dancing, where your limbs might betray you, or singing, where your voice might not reach the note you swore you could hit in the safety of solitude. Even cooking, where the knife could slip, where the sauce could curdle, where your best effort might still be met with a polite grimace and a half-hearted “It’s…interesting.”

And then there’s sharing not just a piece, but the whole of yourself, which is the most reckless act of them all. 

Love, which is reaching out a hand and hoping that it won’t be left hanging in the air, untouched. Pressing your mouth to another’s and bracing for the possibility that they won’t kiss back. Undressing not just in body but in spirit, standing naked before another person in ways that go far beyond skin and fabric. There’s no armour in love. No way to safeguard your pride. There’s only the leap, the freefall, the hope that you won’t hit the ground alone. And there’s no escape from it. No way to avoid the raw exposure of being seen for what you are, the lurking threat of rejection or ridicule or simply doing it wrong.  

It’s terrifying.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of appearing unbothered. Of sculpting himself into something smooth and untouchable that doesn’t flinch at the mere idea of possibly falling flat on his face. If you pretend not to care, then no one can use it against you. If you laugh first, then the joke can’t be at your expense. If you never hold your hand out for too long, then you won’t have to endure the slow, awful realisation that no one is going to take it.  

He’s learned to not care. At least, that’s what he tells himself.  

So long as he doesn’t care, nothing can bruise his ego or dent the fragile, meticulously thought out version of himself that he presents to the world. He doesn’t care, then he doesn’t need. He doesn’t care, doesn’t long. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t ache.

Right?  

And yet-

Thud.

He smacks his head against the headboard, and you laugh. Too eager for your own good, too full of uncontainable glee, too…little old you.

And it wrecks him.  

He should be mortified. He thinks he might start spiralling into himself, cursing the fact that he’s just made an utter fool of himself at a moment when he was supposed to be cool, in control, but instead…he wants to kiss you stupid.  

You’re not laughing at him. You’re laughing because it’s funny. Because the world is full of imperfect, messy moments, and you don’t treat them like something to be ashamed of. Because you think he’s beautiful when he’s clumsy and human and stripped of all the careful precision he usually wields.  

Because you like him, even when he’s like this. 

That’s what really undoes him.  

He craves perfection, but he detests things that are perfect. He aches for beauty, but only if it’s earned. He so desperately wants to see things that are flawed and raw and honest — and in those things, he finds something more perfect than perfection itself. Something like you. 

It’s a constant war within him, these contradictions. The fight toward adaptability, toward softness and letting go of his own impossible standards. He lets himself lose that battle with you. Every time.  

So he traces you before he even thinks of undressing you. Before even a single article of clothing is removed, his hands and lips commit you to memory. The texture of the fabric you wear — delicate silk, some well-worn cotton, the softness of a sweater he knows you stole from him — he makes note of it all. Because you let those things touch you, just as you let him touch you, and that means they must be worthy. And if he is worthy, then this must be real.  

He feels you with everything he has. Fingers, palms, lips, breath, heart. 

He yearns with every inch of himself.  

You don’t have patience for it. You don’t want to savour, to take your time, to stretch this moment into eternity. You want him in pieces. You want to rip him apart.  

So you start with his shirt.  

It’s tight. Clings to him like a second skin. You try to pull it over his head, but the neckline catches on his nose, and by the time it’s off, his face is flushed red, heat rising up his throat, spreading over his cheeks. He’s burning, and you might get charred. You lick over his collarbone as if to soothe him.  

It only makes it worse.  

His hands fumble with the buttons on your top, his usually deft fingers betraying him in their hunger.  

“Need help?” you tease, voice dripping with wicked amusement.  

You glance down at him, and he looks ruined already, struggling to maintain the illusion of composure. His jaw is tight, his breathing uneven, his pupils blown wide as he watches you, his entire body tense with the effort of holding himself back.  

But you don’t want him to hold back.  

You want him to break. You want him mad. You want him to feel as insane as you do when your tongue grazes his skin and you get a taste, when you shift against him just right and you feel the hard press of his erection through the tight denim of his jeans, rubbing against the middle seam of yours.  

Gone, gone, it all needs to be gone. 

“Take everything off.” he demands, unhinged, something dangerous brewing.

And you smile. You’ve won.

He watches the way your body shifts under his hands. Always studying you, learning you, committing every reaction to memory so he can play them back later when he’s alone and desperate and reaching for anything that will get him off. He knows how your breath stutters when his fingers skim just under the waistband of your panties, and how your back arches when he presses his lips to the dip behind your ear. 

He knows you because he’s taken his time learning, and God, does he love learning.  

You willingly bare yourself to him, and he to you, without hesitation, without shame — only the deep, bone-deep hunger that neither of you can satisfy, no matter how many times you try.  

He kisses your shoulder as it’s revealed, lets his lips linger just to feel the way your skin warms beneath them. Your fingers ghost over his hip bone, tracing the sharp ridge, the soft skin stretched over it. You feel the twitch of muscle when you press down just a little harder. 

He shivers too. 

He’s naked now, completely, because he couldn’t stand anything between you and him. That just won’t do. The second his jeans got caught clinging around his ankles, twisting and restricting, he twisted himself under you, kicking them off with impatience and an almost frustrated groan, not willing to be anything less than completely unrestrained. If he can’t spread his legs the way he wants, then he can’t get you where he wants you — can’t pull you between them, can’t press you down against the mattress, can’t cage you in like he needs to. He needs to feel you pinned down, not to keep you in place, but so you know there’s no need to run.  

He needs to. You let him.  

“You gonna get on your knees for me?” he asks. 

His voice is softer than it should be given the filth coming out of his mouth. But it’s his eyes that do it. Big, wide, full of hunger. He’s not looking at your face, though — no, his gaze is locked a little lower, where your arms push your breasts together. Barely concealed. He’s got your wrists pinned, elbows locked, holding you in place just to get a better look. He’s made this happen, orchestrated the scene, maybe for his own benefit, maybe for yours. Maybe he doesn’t know the difference anymore.  

“Maybe.” you whisper, and you swear you see something snap in him.  

“Maybe?” He repeats it, mocking, tasting it on his tongue like it’s something foreign. “I can fuck you like this.” He dips down. He presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, open-mouthed, breathing in your scent, then lower, lower, until his breath is hot against your chest, so hot it’s making your skin burn. But he doesn’t take what’s right there in front of him. He stalls, teases himself as much as you, because anticipation is half the pleasure, isn’t it? He enjoys the ache. “But I would like you from behind.”  

“Would you?”  

“Mhm…” A hum. “Come on, get on your knees.”  

You hold still, just to make him wait, see what he’ll do.  

He doesn’t ask again.  

He gives in to his own impatience, pressing one last pair of kisses to your chest, one for each of the girls, before gripping your hips and flipping you over, pinning you beneath him, pulling your hips up just to get you where he wants you. You don’t even have time to react. His knees press into the mattress, solid. He yanks you back, forcing your body until it is flush against his and you can feel the heat of him on you, heavy and insistent.  

He rolls his hips once through the groove between your legs to make you gasp, feel how hard he is. You push yourself up onto your elbows and turn your head to look at him, your cheek brushing against the sheets.  

“Are you gonna take them off?” you ask, shifting your hips.  

He’s got the lace between his fingers. He’s playing with the fabric, running his digits over the delicacy, contemplating. The little thing is already damp, clinging to you in the most delicious way. He loves this part — the power in holding you right where he wants you.  

To be or not to be, that is the question.  

You decide for him. “Leave them on.”  

He doesn’t argue. It means he doesn’t have to waste time. It means he gets to take you sooner. He almost doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’ve given him an easier way to ruin you.  

Dragging his fingers over you, he says “You’re already fucking dripping.” His voice is thick with it, with need, with pride. “You just get like this when I touch you, huh?”  

“Alex-”  

“Shh, babe. Let me play with you for a little, would you?”  

Then, with a hand firm on your hip, he pulls the fabric to the side, giving himself the view he’s been waiting for. His fingers slip through your slick folds, teasing, not giving you anything substantial, but enough to make you shiver at the obvious implication. He takes himself in hand, runs the head of his cock against you, wet and throbbing, teasing, knocking before entering, the polite thing to do. He pushes the tip in just barely, not quite pressing in yet, only spreading your wetness over himself.  

Then he lifts his hand and gives one of your cheeks a slap, testing, watching the way the flesh bounces before settling back into place. A little taste.  

You make a sound — a moan, but you try to stifle it, try to act as if you weren’t expecting it, as if you didn’t love it. You turn your head, give him a look that’s pure scandalised indulgence. 

“Oh, you like that?” His voice is full of something cruel and sweet all at once. “Come on, baby, you can take a little more than that, can’t you?”  

He does it again. A little harder this time. A sharp sting that quickly turns into a warm, burning ache. He grips your hip to steady you when you tremble, his fingers pressing deep enough that you know you’ll have marks in the morning.  

He’d do it again to see how many times it takes for it to really turn red, but it’s business time. 

“Gonna let me fill this little hole, huh?”  

How can he look like an angel and create such terrible vile things with his mouth? You’ll never know. Perhaps it’s you that’s corrupted him or him you or maybe you’re just both fucked up in all the right ways because it almost makes you gush to hear it coming out of his mouth. 

Maybe you were always meant to be like this.  

“Yes.” 

“Tell me.” he murmurs, leaning forward, his lips brushing against the back of your neck. “Tell me how bad you want it.”  

Your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in the sheets.  

“Please.” you whisper.  

His cock twitches at the sound. Fuck, you sound so sweet when you beg.  

“Please what?”  

“Please, Alex-”  

Another slap, harder this time, making you whimper. “You can do better than that.”  

“Please.” you breathe, your voice shaking, your body trembling. “Please fuck me. Please- need you inside me, need you to-”   

“Good girl.”

Too sweet, far too tender for how he proceeds to ruin you.  

He likes to destroy — you see it in the mirror on the side of the bed, a perfect, damning reflection of the mess you’ve become. Of the way his hands grip your waist, fingers pressing deep to leave the shadow of bruises in their wake. Of the way his hips snap against yours, relentless, measured, pushing you forward only to pull you right back onto him, over and over, a rhythm so precise it’s almost cruel.  

You see it in his face too.  

His lips part around silent gasps, and his brows furrow, and his jaw clenches every time you squeeze around him. He watches himself dissociate, detaching from the act enough to observe it from the outside, like he’s studying a creature he doesn’t recognise no more.  

He’s so rarely in touch with his own body, so rarely aware of how it feels. He feels too much. So much that not even the image staring back at him can explain everything coursing through him, everything you make him feel. It’s overwhelming, and he doesn't know how to hold onto it, so he ends up letting it take him whole. He lets it consume him the same way he consumes you.  

You weren’t his, and he wasn’t yours.  

You were each your own, bound to nothing but the pull of your bodies and the hunger in your bones. But you were so good at making it feel like you belonged to each other, like you were carved from the same aching desire, sculpted by the same desperate hands.  

You hold onto the hope that he’s as weak when it comes to being inside you as you are to getting filled by him. And felt by him. And kissed by him. And- 

“Are you close already?”

His voice is low, almost teasing, but not quite. More like he’s genuinely asking, like he can’t believe it. He’s half impressed, and the rest is just desperation to see how much further he can take you.  

You don’t answer right away because you can’t. Now that he’s brought it to your attention, that he’s voiced what you hadn’t fully grasped yourself, it’s all too obvious — how your legs are shaking, how you can’t seem to pick yourself up, how your fingers clutch at the sheets so tightly your hands start to cramp.  

And you only now realise that he’s barely been inside you for a few minutes. A few minutes. And yet — how much more could there really be to do?  

You squeeze around him involuntarily, and he groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder for a fleeting second before he pulls back to look at you. He’s smug, lips curling, that familiar glint in his eye — like he’s just stumbled upon something he didn’t know he needed but now can’t live without. He does that every time. 

“That close, huh?”

You whimper, trying to shake your head, trying to tell him no, not yet, but it’s a lie, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you tremble, the way your breath stutters, the way your back arches ever so slightly like you’re subconsciously chasing something you don’t want to end just yet.  

“I bet you could come just like this.” He slows his thrusts, shifts the angle, rolls his hips just right, making you feel every inch of him as he drags against every sensitive spot inside you. “All stuffed and barely moving. That’s all you need, isn’t it? Just me, nice and deep, keeping you full.”

You let out the most pathetic sound. It makes him curse under his breath, gripping your hips harder, holding you steady as he starts moving again, just a little rougher and a little more determined than before.  

“Fuck, look at you.” he murmurs, gaze flicking between your face, and the flushed skin on your neck, and the mirror, watching the way your body takes him, how your mouth falls open, how your lashes flutter. “Don’t even need to work for it, do I? You were already there.”  

You want to protest, but you can’t, because it’s true. You’re already there. And he’s not gonna let you go anywhere else.

He grabs you by the hair. Rough in intention, delicate in his grip. A contradiction — like everything about him. He pulls, and your scalp burns, a quick bloom of sensation, but oh, it stings so good. 

And he’s everywhere. Kissing all your spots, inside and out, his mouth mapping the edges of your pleasure, finding every weak spot, pressing his advantage. He knows your body better than his own. He knows just where to touch, where to lick, where to bite. It’s too much. He’s too good. And it has to come out of you in some way, has to escape from somewhere deep inside where you can’t contain it.  

It comes in the form of his name, breaking past your lips the way a prayer tumbles from the lips of oneself when they finally feel salvation. Your body shudders, shakes, clenches around him as he thrusts through it, and you hear him groan above you, see the clench of his jaw in the mirror’s reflection.  

“Just a bit more.”

That’s what he’s telling himself, grounding himself in the thought as he pushes forward, chasing his own undoing. Just a bit more, just a little longer. A weak little lie that can’t hurt, or a promise that he wants to believe, because if he pretends it’s just a little longer, he can keep fucking you like this without fear of it ending. Just a bit more — but it’s never just a bit when it comes to you.  

And suddenly, he’s getting harsher.  

He’s fucking you like he’s forgotten how to do anything else, like he was made for this, and you — god, you can’t take him. Not like this. Not right now. The desperation, the need, it’s tipping over the edge.

“Hold on, hold-”

You turn to shove at his chest, knocking him off balance. He stumbles back onto his heels, his hands catching himself against the mattress, eyes wide with shock. Stunned. You don’t wait, don’t hesitate — you’re on him. Settled between his legs, hands pressed to his thighs for leverage, you take him in your mouth. You don’t ease into it — he’s welcomed straight to the back of your throat, and his breath hitches, a strangled sound getting caught in his chest, one that makes pride bloom in your heart, even in your half-ruined state.

He’s still hot, still slick from you and flushed to the tip, and when you press your tongue flat against him, you swear he tastes sweet. You love how he tastes. Maybe that makes no sense, but it does. It’s not just his skin but the way he’s looking down at you, blown pupils and lips parted.  

He thinks it might just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, to have someone take parts of you in them. To accept it, to want it. There’s something sacred about it, something almost devastating. A kind of surrender that isn’t forced, but offered. Trust laid bare like a gift he never asked for but would die to keep.

And you take him so well.

He’s full in your mouth, thick and heavy against your tongue, and the muscles in his stomach tense under your fingers as you press your hands higher and he fights the urge to thrust deeper. But you don’t need him to. You do it yourself. You take him as far as you can, let your body mould around him, let the wet sounds spill.  

He’s already close, so close, and now he’s getting there quick.

“Fuck-” 

His fingers weave into your hair again, gripping tight, but not to control — he lost that control the second he saw you looking up at him like this, with your lips stretched around him, with that hunger in your eyes. He just needs something to hold while you ruin him with how your throat tightens just right.  

“So good, baby.” His voice is wrecked, slurred with pleasure. His knuckles pale against the bedsheets, clenching like he’s holding onto a chain, bracing himself against the inevitable, yet the swing moves to a rhythm his hands don’t command and it hits him now that perhaps not everything he holds is his to control. 

And through it all, you watch him.  

You never look away.  

Crave me. 

That’s what your eyes say.  

Desire me. Want me. I know you do already. All mine. 

Be a good pup and bark for me. 

If he had the ability to speak, he would’ve said your name. If he had the ability to move, he would’ve fucked your throat until there was nothing left of either of you. But he has nothing, nothing except the little solace he gets as he bites down on his lip to muffle the noises slipping from his mouth, and how his fingers tighten in your hair, his body bowing forward as he spills himself down your throat, his thighs tensing under your palms, his hips stuttering forward before he can stop himself. 

And he’s glad now. 

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to think about where it’ll go, the mess — no streaks across your cheek, no pearly trails cooling on your thighs, no need to wipe it off your skin before it gets sticky or a single wasted drop. No, he knows exactly where it’s going. Straight down. You’ll take it, let it coat your tongue, let him watch as you swallow every last drop, warm and thick, taking him so deep he swears he can feel himself sitting heavy in your stomach. He wonders if you can feel it too, if it lingers in your throat. 

Does it make you ache for more? 

He’d keep going if he could, fuck your mouth until it overflowed, until you had no choice but to let it dribble past your lips, down your chin, onto your tits, a mess after all. 

“Fuck-”

Creaming is great and all, but it’s even better when it’s put exactly where it belongs, or else it starts to drip.

This is much better. 

And if he could, if his voice worked, if his lips weren’t parting around silent moans and his mind weren’t so thoroughly fried, he would’ve barked for you. He would’ve barked had he not been too busy chewing your name in his mouth like his last meal whilst you ate your fill of him. 

He would have done anything for you. Anything.

Pliant in your hands, pliant between your lips. Got him feeling tender and maudlin. Got him stripped down to nothing. 

There’s nothing left to say but “I think I love you.”

a/n: This started from @heartshapedpolaroid saying she would read a shopping list if i wrote one. That was the first half-ish. But everything I write somehow turns into being about love in one way or another. I think writing is one of the only places I have to express it. It has nowhere else to go so it just end up in this stuff. I guess. And I was channeling @junedenim quite heavily, I think. Anyway :)

[futuristicanoe]

sub alex, always. but i specifically think you would do it really really really well. not even necessarily kinky but you know, make him…submit.

- goblinontour

Ah, thank you!! <333

I've been thinking about that for a while.

I don't know if you had a specific era in mind when you said that (well, I always find a way to think of the car alex first when it comes to him being a sub, for some reason😭) but I wanted to include the boots & the pants he wore during tbhc in a fic, because I really love them. I think it'd be interesting to focus on those things and make him subby at the same time.

We'll see! <333

[multipleheartbreakhotels]

@goblinontour just reposted something I reposted..... I need to go and seek reality right now..

[tedioepica]

GANG WAKE UP ALEX RECENT I'M CRYINGAND SHARING (ALSO I'M SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING BUT I'LL COME BACK

[tedioepica]

@goblinontour me reading your fics

family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”

me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:

[youresodarkbabe]

MAEVE CAN WE TALK ABOUT GIVING FETUS!ALEX HIS FIRST BLOWJOB!?!?!?! PLEASEPLEASE

okay, i'm heavily sleep deprived so here's just some ideas i have about this (maybe they'll turn into a fic, idk)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

he'd go from awkward to a fucking mess so so fast. like blink of an eye fast.

"are you sure? you don't need to do this f'me," to being the loudest person in the vicinity.

whispered groans -> loud, whimper-y moans

god forbid your hair looked nice before, because it definitely wouldn't after! his hands would find your hair and STAY THERE.

him being too scared to tug on your hair and mess it up, but eventually pulling when his tip grazes the back of your throat.

he'd instantly apologize, being shocked when you tell him it's okay.

he'd be even more shocked if you told him to keep doing it.

thrusting into your mouth as he gets closer, mumbling apologies in between moans because he didn't mean to 'hurt you'. (all you did was gag, this man is just insane)

the eye contact.

especially before it actually starts, as you kiss your way down his clothed torso, his anxious eyes meeting your reassuring ones; as you press kisses to his cock, he'd look so interested, so genuinely baffled that someone like you would do this for someone like him.

the whining, the whimpers, the moans (i need him rn.)

whining if you tease him, "c'mon, be nice," and giving you a lil pout.

whimpering as he gets closer and closer, "please, feels s' good, fuck," his cute lil face all scrunched up because he's feeling too good and it's overwhelming him in the best ways possible.

moaning as you guide him through his high, too fucked out to form a single thought, his words mirroring his thoughts— just you.

praising and thanking you so much after.

"that was so good, god,"/"i wanna make it up to you"/"that was the best thing ever"

just being the biggest loser about it (i say this with love).

having to tell him you don't want him to return the favour, all you need is to be with him and you're happy.

him agreeing but already planning on when he'd give you what he owes you.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

i'm not really the best when it comes to fetus alex fics 😭 i'd highly recommend @goblinontour, though! her fetus al fics are <<33

[captainwans]

6k words…got a little carried away 🙈 i finally finished it 😫 and it will be posted tomorrow!! this is for my prof!al lovers 💗 ahh so excited for this new project of mine!!!

++ and also this series is heavily inspired by the wonderful, legend and queen herself @goblinontour for those who haven’t read her mr. turner series you should it’s a masterpiece 🫶🏼

[junedenim]

i will 100% be posting earlier now because i always read your fics before i go to bed and it's the perfect way to end my day.

girrrlll😭 you’re on fire with the fics rn 😍😍 you and goblinontour single-handedly giving me life at the moment 😭

ah! thank you. plenty more to come either today or tomorrow. i have a bunch of free time on my hands right now so that's why i've been able to pump them out but i can't compare to and would probably not be posting without @goblinontour. she is the moment.

[glorious-blackout]

i saw these gifs by @goblinontour and *immediately* thought of your gorgeous ‘this is going to hurt’ fic (which i have been rereading cause nothing says comfort than a milex sick fic) and alex trying to soldier through the show with his appendicitis 😭💖

Oh wow, those gifs genuinely could be taken straight out of chapter four of 'This is Going to Hurt' 😅

Thank you so much for your kind words about that fic, it's so lovely to hear you're revisiting it 🥹💖

[gaspandrollureyes]

꒰🕸꒱ 𝑺 𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦™ ˙⊹

︶︶ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ 𝜗𝜚 ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ︶︶

⁰¹ │ I'm Al and I go by he/him!!

⁰² │ English isn't actually my first language, so sorry for any grammar mistakes.

⁰³ │ My biggest inspiration for this blog was @goblinontour !!

⁰⁴ │I occasionally write smut, but I prefer writing fluff or angst tbh!!

⁰⁵ │Yes, this blog is focused on Arctic Monkeys/TLSP only.

⁰⁶ │I should focus on writing about Alex Turner only, but I plan on writing about the other guys (and maybe even Miles) at some point! ^_^

⁰⁷ │ I've started this blog to share my stories and have fun around here while doing what I like :-)

⁰⁸ │I love to interact with readers and people in general, so feel free to reach out!

[goblinontour]

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.

[futuristicanoe]

hello, hello! i don’t really know what to write exactly, but i just wanted to say i hope you’re doing good <3 maybe i’m just growing attached to strangers online for no reason but i noticed you haven’t been that active these last few days, so i hope everything’s fine (and that your holidays were nice). then i saw your post about feeling unmotivated so yeah, i don’t know, just wanted to check in. sending love and hugs 🫂

- goblinontour

Hello! :)

I think I'm okay. But the last few months have been weird, and I'm probably just tired now.

Thank you for checking in, dear, I appreciate it. I'm always looking forward to hearing from you, so don't worry about anything. I hope your holidays were nice, too! 🫂 <333

[shit-talk-turner]

some of you haven’t read “Dublin in ecstasy” by goblinontour and it shows…bald Alex was hot// come on that's not real, that's a fantasy someone wrote, it's not like that's how he is in real life. pretty good read btw- love goblinontour

we haven’t been able to check them out yet but happy to hype up some good fanfic any time

[doctor-dusk]

this is about fetus al, im not good at thinking of fics or explaining them so i hope this is good😭

like he was so horny in class, and he had a crush on you, and he started noticing the little things you did out of habit or just normal things that turned him on more. like, biting the tip of your pen, licking your lips, biting your lip when you concentrate, shuffling back in your seat and your skirt rides up

and then you feel eyes on you and you glance at him, you see his eyes immediately go back up to yours and you grin a little, then you talk to him after class, hes all nervous and awkward and you could say “what were you thinking about” and hes like “ummmmmm” and eventually he tells you a little bit and your like “do you want me to do those things with you” and hes like WTF

but when you are doing it hes SO SO awkward, because like, he never thought he’d do this with you?? like wtf?? and hes very hesitant (kind of like goblinontours fetus fic, love her)

also if it wasnt already clear, this is virgin al

ps, im the girl from the other request about part 2 of omegle and mr turner, im just gonna use an emoji to make it clear😭😭

- 🐢

hi baby, it took me longer than expected, but it's posted!

honestly, i've never written fetus!alex before, although i really like it, so i hope i met at least 25% of your expectations.

thank you so much and feel free to make more requests <3

[savorypink]

we have decided that i am your favourite (and also goblinontour's favourite, i have the receipts!!)

-ice (cannot find the emoji to save my life)

glad we can come to a consensus 🙏🏽 no more fighting!

[youresodarkbabe]

curtains closed (a. turner x reader)

smut.

warnings: oral (m recieving), sub!al, reader gets called momma a lil bit (like once, maybe twice), somno, idk anymore help

word count: 1.2k

for @goblinontour my fav fetus al enjoyer !! also 2 blowjob fics in a row... something's wrong with me </3

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"i'll be a few hours, baby, 'm sorry."

alex sighed at the comment— he needed you now. you had left home at ten in the morning, while he was asleep, it was around half past twelve in the night now, he wasn't able to see you at all. he missed you, rightfully so.

"but i can't wait a few hours!" he whined, you had to stop yourself from laughing as you could hear the pout in his voice.

"i'm sure you can last, al, i have faith in you."

he, however, knew better than to trust himself.

as you spoke, he palmed himself through his sweatpants, finishing himself off in his fist after you hung up. he cleaned up after and tucked himself back into his boxers and went about his night as usual, turning on an old movie to fall asleep to, which is exactly what he did. you were enamored by the sight that greeted you when you walked into your shared bedroom, alex with one of his hands in his boxers and another in his shirt, he looked like he had been playing with his nipples— you found it cute. pathetic, yes, but torturously cute.

you'd fuck him right there if you could, it was a shame that he was asleep. all you wanted was his cock in your mouth, you craved it more than anything after such a strenuous day, and you were going to get it.

"alex, baby, 'm back." you murmur as you litter kisses all over his face and neck. he whines quietly and you feel yourself wanting him more by the second. your fingers graze against his soft cock in an attempt to wake him up, only leading to him whining again.

you nip at alex's neck as your hand slides under his shirt and finds his, replacing it and playing with his hard nipple, your kisses moving down his body. "c'mon, puppy, you said you were gonna wait up," you whisper against the skin of his lower stomach, the feeling of the trimmed hair rubbing against your nose somehow making you feel even more eager to take him down your throat. "but i'm tired, momma," his voice comes out hoarse and desperate as his back arches into you and your hands push his shirt up so you can maneuver it off of him, he helps as much as he can without drifting away from his sleep.

"d'you want me to help you feel good? 's that what you need, baby?"

he moans a soft 'yes, please' and you can't help but enjoy how his accent somehow grows stronger; partly due to his tiredness, also due to how badly he needed you.

and soon enough, he'd have what he wanted.

you slide his black boxers off and pry his hand away from his soft cock, you always loved when he was like this. he could wrap a bow around his soft cock and present it to you as a gift and you'd be grateful to him forever.

you kiss his cock softly, holding the base in your hand as you press your tongue flat against his tip, swirling it around as your hand starts to stroke him slowly, exposing the head which you take into your mouth and suck on, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on every sound coming out of alex's mouth. one of his hands instinctively go to your head and weakly try pushing it further down, making you laugh around his cock, which sends vibrations all throughout his body, making him groan deeply, hips bucking into your mouth.

your eyes water slightly as you feel him harden in your mouth, stretching your lips and making them sting. still, you pushed through the pain and try taking as much of him down your throat as you can before pulling off and spreading all the precum that had been leaking from him all over his now half-hard cock. you kitten lick the tip again before going to lick a stripe up from the base til the tip, your tongue digging into the slit as you look up at him and see what you'd consider heaven— alex with his hair a spiky mess, lips rosy red and parted, repeating your name like a prayer, and his now half hooded eyes which showed his tiredness and his pure need. he was enjoying himself thoroughly and it boosted your ego immensely to know you gave him this much pleasure.

even in his sleep, alex was so responsive for you. every kiss, every touch, every stroke, every lick; you got a reaction out of him. whether it was his mouth falling open, his hips bucking or him moaning your name, a reaction was practically guaranteed with him. he was always so sensitive and at this point, he was used to expressing how you made him feel for you. you've turned it into a habit for him, one you've both grown to enjoy.

you leave kisses along his lower stomach as your hand strokes him, quickly moving up for a peck on the lips and then taking your time to make your way back down, practically running your face down his body and kissing as much of his neck and chest as you can, leaving marks wherever possible. by the time you're back at his cock, you decide you haven't played with him enough, so you massage the inside of his thigh with your free hand and quickly nip at the pale skin, making him yelp and his eyes flutter open as he looks down at you pleadingly.

your body settled between his thighs again, nails grazing along his skin as you finally take his cock into your mouth again. he was achingly hard for you, and so painfully close.

managing to get a hold of himself, he decides to look down at you, the second his gaze met yours, he couldn't hold back any longer.

still half asleep, alex was barely registering how loud he was as he came, filling your mouth up completely. his knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping onto the sheets and your hair, and you're positive you bruised his little waist with how hard you held onto it while trying to still him.

after swallowing as much as you could, you pull off, pressing a quick kiss to his inner thigh and get up, leaving the room to change and leaving alex alone with his desperate thoughts. you coming back wearing your (his) shirt didn't help either.

you get into bed with alex and hold him close. you two talk for a little while, you recount your day and he tells you about his and when the conversation dies out, you shut your eyes, expecting to go to sleep fairly quickly when you're disturbed by his timid voice.

"can i return the favour?", he asks as he kisses your neck softly, one of his hands slipping under the shirt to wrap around your lower back and pull you closer to him.

you contemplate this. you wouldn't mind letting him return the favour, but you were incredibly tired and craved rest.

"not right now, baby. but you can wake me up like that tomorrow if you'd like?"

alex was unable to go back to sleep for the rest of the night.

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