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goblinontour · 5 months ago

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Awkwardly Stretching And Yawning

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

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

word count: 8k

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

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

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

You always did. It was impossible not to.

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

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

You don’t care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

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

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

“No?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The corner of your mouth lifts. “What?”

“Nothing.” he says, too quickly.

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

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

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

“Me parents?” he finishes for you.

“Yeah.”

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

“Yeah?” you ask, glancing at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows. Of course he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he murmurs, voice softer now.

“Nothing.” you say, shaking your head.

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

“What?” you whisper, barely audible.

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

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

“Your hair’s a mess.”

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

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

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

“Because it’s true.”

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

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

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

“You like it.” you say. “Masochist.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Notes and shit.” you echo, grinning.

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

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

“It’s true, though.”

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

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

“Good.” you repeat, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh fuck. Do you even have a toothbrush here?

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

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

And then you feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said, I’m never waking up again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you dreaming?” you ask.

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

“Then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.” he groans.

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

“Don’t- ugh- don’t mess with me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand trails down.

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

“Wait for what?”

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

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

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

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

And then he freezes.

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Stop overthinking.”

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

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

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

“Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s game over.

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

You nod. That’s all he needs.

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

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

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

It’s enough.

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

So bad.

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

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

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

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

And then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A rubber?” you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Worth it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s it.” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alex!” you squeak. “What the hell-”

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

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

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

“Yes, exactly!”

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

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

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

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

“Before what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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goblinontour · 3 months ago

Text

Baby, I’m Yours

santa is coming, indeed

warnings: dad!alex, fluff, smut, piv, raw, breeding kink (i guess), mentions of pregnancy and bodies and stuff like that

word count: 6.9k

If someone had asked him a few years ago how he thought he’d be spending Christmas, he’d have said anything but this.

Anything but sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with his hair sectioned off into impossibly tiny braids and adorned with about a million butterfly clips — those obnoxiously small, multicolored ones that came in packs of fifty (and you had at least ten of those in the house). He knew he’d eventually step on them when he least expected it, like the Lego pieces of a girl dad. Not that he thought Legos were strictly for boys, she had those too, of course, but you know.

“Alright.” he muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking to the mirror propped against the wall where he could just make out the glittering chaos atop his head. “I think that’s enough, girls.”

“No!” you and Poppy exclaimed at the exact same time, your voice louder than hers, embarrassingly so.

He turned his head to look at you, raising one eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

“What woman,” you began, defensive already, “what girl, soul, or being would say no to this?” You gestured toward him dramatically, and he rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.

“Yeah, Daddy!” Poppy chimed in, tugging on the left side of his hair. Her side. “We’re not done yet!”

Alex sighed, the kind of long-suffering sigh that made you laugh every time. “Okay.” he said quietly, turning back around, his gaze dropping to the tangle of clips and elastics scattered across the rug.

The pull on his hair — gentle from you, enthusiastic from her — was a constant he’d grown used to. He didn’t even flinch anymore.

He let his eyes wander to the Christmas tree, its lights casting a warm glow across the room. It looked like a scene from a postcard, all soft edges and muted colors, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it. The music playing faintly from the speaker in the corner wasn’t one of his own songs — he never let his own voice be the soundtrack to days like this, or any days really — but something slow and nostalgic, a crooner he didn’t even realise he’d hummed along to until you pointed it out.

He couldn’t help but think about how strange it all was, how far removed this was from the life he’d imagined for himself. There were years where he’d have spent Christmas nursing a drink in some dimly lit bar, or jetting off to some remote location just to avoid the holiday altogether. He’d been good at running, then. But now?

Now, he had butterfly clips in his hair and a daughter who thought he hung the moon just for her. He had you, with your too-loud laugh and your insistence on calling him beautiful whenever you got him to sit still long enough to let you mess with his hair. He had this house, this tree, this moment.

“Alright, what d’you think?” you asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. You were leaning back now, surveying your work with an air of seriousness.

Poppy giggled, clapping her hands. “You look so pretty, Daddy!”

Alex turned to you, his dark eyes narrowing. “Pretty?” he repeated, his voice dry.

“Gorgeous.” you corrected, grinning at him.

He shook his head, the clips jingling slightly with the movement, and you laughed again, that unrestrained sound that always seemed to fill the room.

“Alright, but if either of you take a picture, I’m cutting you both off from biscuits for the rest of the day.” he warned. He wouldn’t.

Poppy gasped, scandalized. “You wouldn’t!”

You just smirked, holding up your phone and snapping a quick photo before he could stop you. “Too late.”

He groaned, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair — a futile effort, given the number of clips now embedded in it. But as he looked at the two of you, your faces flushed from laughter, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

If someone had told him a few years ago that this would be his life, he might’ve laughed. Or maybe he’d have walked away, afraid of what it would mean to care this much, to have this much to lose.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He wouldn’t trade this for anything, either. Your hands in his hair, leaned over his shoulder, your careful concentration as you plucked out those clips by the end of the night, your smile that curved wider with every one you removed. It was reflected in the bathroom mirror, the same mirror where he caught glimpses of himself on days he barely recognised the man staring back.

Alex could have taken them out himself — there wasn’t much he couldn’t figure out when left to his own devices — but he let you do it instead. Maybe it was because he couldn’t see them properly in the back. Or maybe it was because he liked this, the way your fingers lingered in his hair, tugging gently, setting his scalp alight with a low, pleasant sting.

“You know,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, “maybe I should buzz it again. Save us all the trouble next time.”

Your hands stilled mid-motion, and your reflection whipped up to meet his. You looked scandalized, genuinely offended, gasped like he’d suggested chopping down the Christmas tree and setting it on fire.

“Never again, Alex!” you warned, swatting him lightly on the shoulder.

He grinned, leaning into the dramatics of it. “Why not?”

“Because!” you exclaimed, as though the answer were painfully obvious — Oh yes, he knew — “If you do, I won’t be able to do this.”

Before he could pretend to not know what this was, your fingers curled tighter into his hair, and you tugged — hard enough to make him gasp. His head tipped back instinctively, exposing the long, pale stretch of neck. You didn’t waste a second. Your lips found the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, brushing lightly before your teeth followed, scraping a slow path that made his breath hitch.

“Christ-” he muttered, his hands flying to the sink for balance. His knuckles went white against the porcelain as you trailed your mouth lower, your teeth leaving soft, fleeting bites before you soothed them with your tongue.

“Oh yeah…” he whispered — something tender, but also wanting.

You smiled, your lips curving against his neck as you pressed another kiss there. And another. “You were saying?” you murmured, barely audible against his skin.

His eyes flickered open, meeting yours in the mirror. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing uneven, and you smiled against his neck, pleased with yourself.

“Thought so.” you whispered.

“You can get so feral sometimes.” he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours in the mirror. He let out a breathless laugh, a sound that was almost a groan, and tilted his head further to the side, giving you more access. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to you.” you replied, letting your teeth scrape gently against his jaw before pulling back.

He huffed out a breath and shook his head slightly. “Not sure if that’s a warning or a promise.”

“It’s both.” you said, smirking as you plucked the last clip from his hair and set it on the counter beside him. “There. All done.”

You punctuated the word by dragging your lips up to his jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, and then biting softly at the hinge.

“Think I liked it better when they were still in.” He reached up, running a hand through his hair to shake it out, and gave you a look. “At least you were being nice to me then.”

You laughed, sliding your arms around his waist from behind and resting your chin on his shoulder. “You loved it.”

“Careful.” he said. “You’re playing with fire, baby.”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Am I?”

He turned his head just enough to face you. “You know you are.”

“Mhm.” you hummed, swaying him slightly. “You’re a sucker for attention. Especially mine.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that.”

His breathing was shallow now, and your lips were still close enough to graze his.

But then Poppy’s voice rang out from the living room, breaking the spell.

“Daddy! Mummy! Look what I made!”

The two of you froze, the moment suspended in time, before Alex exhaled sharply, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Saved by the kid.” he muttered, his lips twitching into a crooked smile.

You grinned, pressing one last kiss to his temple before stepping back. “Go on, then. She’s probably building an empire of Lego castles.”

He straightened, running a hand through his hair, again, wincing slightly when he hit a tangle you hadn’t yet smoothed out. “And I’ll be stepping on every piece of it when I least expect it.”

“Your dad feet can handle it.”

He glanced at you, his expression softening as his hand dropped back to his side. “What would I do without you?”

“Buzz your hair, apparently.”

“God forbid!” he said, shaking his head as he made his way toward the door.

But before he left, he paused, turning back to look at you.

“Hey.” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

He hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. “I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your teasing smile faltered. “Good thing you’ll never have to find out.”

Getting Poppy to bed had been a feat in itself. It always was. She was a tiny, determined ball of energy, fueled by excitement and the sugar cookies she’d insisted on helping “decorate” earlier…Alex had only managed to coax her into her little bed with promises of Santa coming in the morning — though he wasn’t entirely sure she even understood who Santa was or what he was supposed to do.

It didn’t matter. When he mentioned there would be more hair clips and playing with his hair tomorrow, she’d finally relented, settling down with a sleepy grin. He sat by her bedside for a while, stroking her curls until her breathing evened out and her little hand loosened its grip on his thumb.

God, he was lucky. So lucky.

Really lucky, he corrected himself when he stepped into the bedroom and saw you waiting for him.

You were lounging on the bed, propped up on one elbow, wearing…well, not much at all. A slinky piece of red lace that barely covered anything, with a sheen to it that caught the dim glow of the fairy lights strung along the headboard. His mouth went dry instantly.

He could feel his pulse quicken, blood rushing downward, hot and immediate. It embarrassed him sometimes, how little it took — how just the sight of you like this, your bare legs stretched out, your hair falling loose around your shoulders, could make him so…hard.

But then again, at least he could still get it up, right?

“Merry Christmas, baby.” you said, as though you weren’t fully aware of what you were doing to him. You smiled, your teeth catching your bottom lip in a way that made his brain short-circuit.

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his cool, but failing. Miserably. “Merry Christmas.” he managed.

You stretched slightly, shifting so the hem of your lingerie rode higher on your thighs, and his breath hitched audibly.

“I didn’t know what to get you.” you said, “so I thought…”

Alex didn’t let you finish. He crossed the room in three long strides, practically lunging onto the bed and over you, his hands already on your waist as he pinned you beneath him in a tangle of limbs and heat.

“You thought right.” he murmured as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “So, so right.”

His mouth found yours, desperate and insistent, and the kiss was a mess of teeth and tongues and heat. He could feel your smile against his lips, the soft sound of your laughter muffled as he pressed you deeper into the mattress.

“Fuck me…” he breathed, his hands already roaming over your body, fingers curling into the lace at your hips.

“That’s the plan.” you teased, your voice a low purr as your nails dragged down his back, making him shiver.

His head dropped to your neck, his lips finding the pulse point there, and he bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hands tightening on your hips.

“God.” he muttered against your skin, his voice ragged. “You’re- baby, you’re perfect.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you arched into him. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He let out a breathless laugh, his teeth grazing your collarbone as his hands slid up your thighs, taking their time, memorising the feel of your skin beneath his fingertips. You squirmed beneath him, impatient as ever, and he grinned against your skin.

“Patience.” he murmured, though he was quickly losing his own.

“You’re one to talk.” you shot back, your voice breathless as you tugged at his shirt, your fingers curling into the fabric, desperate to feel him — all of him.

Something shifted in his eyes, dark and molten, and for a moment, he simply stared at you. His lips parted as though he had something to say, but whatever it was dissolved before it could leave him. He reached down and gripped the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head.

His chest was bare now, the lean muscle of his torso taut and glistening faintly under the soft glow of the fairy lights. His collarbones cast delicate shadows across his skin, and the faint trail of dark hair that started at his navel and disappeared below his waistband made your stomach twist in anticipation. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and you could see the tension coiled in his body — the way his shoulders flexed, the way his hands twitched like he was holding himself back.

And then he was on you.

His hands were everywhere, all at once, moving with a sort of urgency that made your breath catch. He didn’t just touch you — he claimed you, his palms skimming over your hips, your waist, the curve of your ribs, before sliding up to cup your face. He kissed you like he needed it, like the air he breathed wasn’t enough, his lips trailing over your cheeks, your jaw, your throat.

“Christ-” his voice came out muffled against your collarbone. “You’re-” words faltered as his lips found your shoulder next, his hands working to rid you of the thin scrap of lace that had been driving him mad since the moment he stepped into the room.

When he finally pulled it free, he paused for a moment, his gaze raking over you, reverent and unhurried. You swore you could feel the heat of it, the way his eyes traced every inch of your bare skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” he whispered, the words raw and honest, as though they’d escaped him without permission. His voice cracked slightly, and you could see the faint flush spreading across his cheeks, a mixture of awe and need.

You smiled, soft and teasing, but before you could reply, he kissed you again, harder this time, his hands pressing into your skin like he was afraid you might slip away. His lips moved lower, leaving a trail of heat down your chest, over the curve of your breast, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.

He kissed you everywhere — everywhere. Your shoulders, your stomach, the inside of your thighs, until you were trembling beneath him, your fingers buried in his hair, tugging at the dark strands. His touch was possessive, his mouth lingering in places that made your breath hitch, his stubble scraping against your skin in a way that sent sparks of sensation racing through you.

“God, you’re so perfect.”

He was back up, pressing kisses to your cheeks. And then you felt him shift against you, the hard length of him nudging insistently against your thigh, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Alex-” you breathed, tugging his head back up so you could look at him. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, and his chest heaved as he hovered over you.

“Can I fuck you now?” he asked, tinged with a desperate edge that made your stomach tighten.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, breathless and a little giddy. “Can you?”

His face turned red all over immediately, a crooked, embarrassed smile pulling at his lips. “Shut up.” he muttered, though the way his eyes softened told you he didn’t really mean it.

But just as he leaned back down to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours, you saw it. A small figure in the doorway, clutching something soft and worn. You blinked, your stomach flipping — not the good flip this time.

“Oh, fuck- Poppy!” you whispered, your voice sharp enough to make Alex pause mid-kiss.

“Poppy?” he repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. He followed your wide-eyed gaze over his shoulder until — “Poppy. Oh. Oh shit.”

There she was, your little girl, her tiny legs and arms hugging Mr. Bear as she stood quietly in the doorway. Her sleepy eyes blinked up at the two of you, oblivious to the sheer chaos she’d just unleashed.

Alex moved instinctively, his broad shoulders blocking your, well, compromising position from view. “Uh, Alex.” you hissed, trying to stay calm despite the fact that you were very much — not dressed — beneath him. “You said you’d put her to bed.”

“I did!” he whisper-shouted back, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“Well, clearly not well enough. Do something!” you whispered, gesturing frantically toward her.

“What?!” he whispered back, incredulous.

“Now, Alex!”

With some very careful rearranging of the sheets — and an awkward shuffle on Alex’s part to ensure his, uh, situation wasn’t obvious — he climbed off the bed. His movements were stiff, his steps slightly stilted as he crossed the room to kneel in front of your daughter.

“What’s wrong, Pop?” he asked softly, his voice a perfect blend of calm and concern despite the…circumstances.

She looked at him with big, curious eyes, clutching Mr. Bear a little tighter. “Where’s Santa?”

Alex blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to formulate an answer. “Oh…well, uh, Poppy, if…if you don’t go back to bed, Santa won’t come.”

“He’s not the only one!” you muttered from the bed, earning a quick glare from Alex over his shoulder.

“Santa won’t come?” Poppy asked, her little face scrunching in confusion.

“Not if you’re awake.” Alex said, nodding earnestly. “Santa only comes when little girls are fast asleep in their beds. So, you’ve gotta help him out, okay? Go back to bed, and I promise he’ll come.”

Poppy seemed to think about it for a moment, her little brow furrowing. Then, with a small nod, she turned and padded back toward her room, Mr. Bear swinging from her arms.

Alex waited until she was out of sight before letting out a long, slow breath. He turned back to you, his face a mix of relief and lingering embarrassment.

“Well…” he said, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “That’s a mood killer.”

You snorted, unable to help the laugh that escaped you even as your body still hummed with unmet need. “I don’t know.” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “You did a pretty good job handling that. Very dad of you.”

Alex climbed back into bed with a groan, pulling the sheets up around the both of you as if to erase the interruption. He flopped onto his back for a moment, one arm slung over his eyes, his chest still rising and falling unevenly from the tension of moments ago.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna need a minute to recover from that.”

“Oh, take your time.” you said, smirking as you leaned in to kiss his jaw. “Santa can wait.”

“Sure he can, but…” he said, dragging his hand down his face. “Kind of hard to, uh, stay in the zone when your kid asks about Santa mid-”

“Mid this?” you finished, arching a brow as your hand trailed down his chest, brushing over his stomach.

“Exactly.”

You didn’t miss the way his cock was still hard, twitching faintly against his thigh as if it hadn’t gotten the memo about the interruption.

“Doesn’t seem like it’s bothering everything.” you teased, your fingers dipping lower, brushing against the base of him.

“Jesus-” he muttered, his hips jerking slightly as he looked at you, his cheeks flushing pink. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

You smiled, wicked and unapologetic, as you wrapped your hand around him, marveling at the weight of him in your palm. He was thick and heavy, the velvety skin burning hot against your fingers and even though you couldn’t see it yet you knew his tip was flushed, glistening with evidence of just how much he still wanted you.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already.” your voice got low as you stroked him slowly, watching his face shift from mock indignation to something much darker, much hungrier.

“Giving up?” he repeated, his voice rough as his hand shot out, gripping your wrist to still your movements. “You’re kidding, right?”

Before you could reply, he was on you again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was hot and insistent, a sharp contrast to the tender, teasing pace from before. His hands slid down to his waistband, shoving his pants and boxers down in one hurried, almost clumsy motion.

You pulled back just enough to watch as his cock sprang free, flushed and hard, the sight of it enough to make your thighs clench involuntarily.

“See?” you said, smirking as you reached out to touch him again. “You’re fine.”

“Just shut up.” he muttered, though the crooked smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

His palms were hot on your hips, gripping you firmly as he pushed you back onto the mattress. He hovered over you, his body warm and solid against yours, his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

“Where were we?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he rocked his hips, the slick head of him dragging against your skin.

“Right about…here.” you replied breathlessly, your hands sliding over his shoulders, down his back, desperate to pull him closer.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice dropping lower as he guided himself to your entrance, the thick head of him pressing against you, teasing you. “Think you can focus?”

“Think you can?”

He shifted, angling his hips to let the tip of him slide in, just barely. A tease of pressure that left you aching for more. He moved deliberately, dragging himself along your slick folds, his breathing ragged as he worked to build the tension.

“Fuck.” he groaned, his voice thick and uneven as he watched himself move against you. “You’re so wet. Always so fucking wet for me.”

“Alex.” you whimpered, your hips lifting to meet his, desperate for him to give you more.

He gritted his teeth, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place as he teased you further, letting the tip of his cock nudge against your clit before sliding back down.

“God, I want to be inside you.”

“Then do it.” you said, your voice shaking as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

His response was a low groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as he slid deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside of you. His hands slid up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he kissed you again, slower this time.

“You-” he muttered against your lips, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, the movement unhurried but devastatingly deep. “You feel so fucking good. Always so good for me.”

He slid his arms around you then, pulling you close, his hands splayed across your back as he shifted you into his lap. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your chest pressed against his as he settled you over him.

“Come here.” he murmured, his voice soft now, coaxing, as he guided you down slowly, the stretch of him making your breath hitch.

His eyes met yours, and there was something raw in his gaze, something vulnerable and unguarded that made your heart ache. You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and kissed him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in perfect sync. He groaned into your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist as you began to move.

His head fell back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands roamed your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “You feel-” His voice cracked, and he shook his head slightly, as though words weren’t enough. “Like heaven.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips brushing against his jaw as you whispered, “So do you.”

And for a while, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the quiet creak of the bed beneath you. It wasn’t hurried or frantic — it was slow, intentional, the kind of intimacy that left no room for pretense.

Whenever he slid into you, it was like the air had been stolen from your lungs. You’d gasp softly, your body stretching to take him in, the familiar fullness making your back arch. The way he filled you, the way you took him in — it was the same as it had always been, the same old love, but it never failed to unravel you completely. The way he moved felt like second nature now. The way he’d fill you completely, only to pull out just enough to make you crave him again. He knew you like the back of his hand, like he’d memorised every nerve, every response.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he moved inside you. You clenched around him. His tip hit you there, up and deep, that spot deep inside you, the one that made your toes curl and a soft, involuntary moan spill from your lips.

Panicked, you bit into his shoulder to stifle the sound, your teeth sinking into the firm muscle there. You couldn’t risk it, couldn’t let yourself get too loud. He hissed quietly at the sensation, his fingers tightening on your waist, but he didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have the same problem. Alex had always been quieter than you during moments like this. He never made much noise. It wasn’t that he wasn’t affected — you could feel how his breath hitched, how his grip on your hips tightened when you tightened around him — but he rarely let those sounds escape him. It was just who he was, the same shyness that sometimes bled into other parts of your life together. Even now, it lingered, making him quiet, careful, while you were left fighting to keep your own sounds contained. Even now, as his lips brushed over your jaw, his breathing ragged, he kept his composure in a way that made you curse him under your breath. You hated him for it, just a little — how he could stay do controlled while you had to bite your lip, dig your nails into his back, anything to keep from waking her up.

You definitely couldn’t wake her up.

He knew it, too. You could see it in the faint smirk tugging at his lips as he kissed along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“Al…” you whispered, a warning, though it came out more like a plea.

He grinned against your skin, the kind of grin that made you want to both kiss him and smack him at the same time. “Shh…” he murmured as his hips rolled deeper, more deliberately, like he was testing you. And your nails raked down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake. His smirk grew, and he kissed you then, his lips soft but insistent, swallowing the soft gasps and moans you couldn’t keep down as he thrust deeper and harder.

And then, as if out of nowhere, he whispered, “We should get married.”

Your head snapped back, your breath hitching as you stared at him. A “What?” tumbled out, half-gasped.

“It’s the perfect time.” he said, his lips brushing over yours as he spoke, like the words had been building inside him, waiting to spill out.

“Perfect time for what?” you managed, though the words were broken, fragmented by the way he was moving inside you now — harder, deeper, his hands guiding your hips to meet his thrusts.

“Before…” He trailed off, capturing your mouth in another kiss, and you swore you could feel the words vibrating against your lips.

“Before what?”

“Before you’ll have a big belly again.” His hips snapped into yours, and you felt the words before they fully registered. “Because I’m gonna fuck another baby into you.”

Your eyes widened, your body tensing in shock as you gasped, “What?!”

“We should have another baby.” he said, his voice a little desperate now, as though the idea had overtaken him completely and he just couldn’t stop it from pouring out. “I- I want to have another baby with you.”

“You’re insane.” you managed, though your voice was trembling, your hands gripping his shoulders as he held you close, his movements growing more erratic.

“I’m serious.” he murmured, his lips trailing down your throat, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “I love you. I love her. I want…more of this. More of us.”

“Alex.” you whispered, your voice breaking, and he kissed you again, silencing whatever argument you might have had.

“Say yes.”

“To what?” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrust into you.

“To everything…To me. To this. To us.”

You kissed him then, your lips soft and searching, though the answer to his question could be found there, in the quiet desperation of your touch.

You were already his. And he was yours.

And as he held you close, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, you realised you didn’t need to say anything at all.

Except you did.

“Fuck it into me.” you whispered, the words spilling out like a secret you hadn’t meant to reveal that held more tenderness in it then the way it came out.

He froze for half a second, his eyes flickering to yours, his lips parted slightly in disbelief. “Yeah?” he rasped, his voice rough and thick, his breath fanning against your cheek.

“Yeah.” you breathed, your lips brushing his jaw as you repeated yourself.

His composure shattered in an instant. His grip on you tightened immediately, his fingers digging into your waist as he pushed you back down onto the mattress. The shift was sudden, almost jarring, but you didn’t care. You wanted this — wanted him — with a kind of intensity that left no room for hesitation.

“You want me to put another baby in you?” Dangerous. He sounded dangerous and he needed to hear you say it again.

“Yes.” you said, the word trembling on your lips as you reached up to tangle your fingers in his hair.

“Fuck.” he groaned.

His movements were different now — less careful, less restrained. There was a new purpose in the way he moved, a new fire that burned between you. Dirty words spilled from his lips, low and ragged, each one landing hot against your ear. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect. Made for me.”

You whimpered in response, your nails raking down his back as he drove into you.

“God, you feel so good. Always so good for me, yeah?”

“Always.”

His hands roamed your body, gripping your thighs, your waist, your breasts, like he couldn’t get enough of you. Like he needed to touch every part of you, claim every inch of you as his own.

“You’re gonna look so good,” he whispered. “You’ll look so fucking beautiful, you know that? All round and full. Carrying my baby again.”

“Alex,” you whimpered again, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“You will.” he continued, his voice softening slightly, though the hunger in his tone remained. “You’ll be glowing. Just like last time. Fuck, I remember it so clearly.”

He slid a hand down your body, his palm coming to rest on your stomach, flat and soft beneath his touch. His movements slowed for a moment, his thumb brushing over your skin like he was trying to picture it, imagine what it would look like, what it would feel like.

“I’ll feel it.” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Every time I touch you, I’ll feel it growing inside you. My baby. Our baby.”

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling as his words wrapped around you, making you dizzy with the weight of them.

“I’ll talk to it, just like before.” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “Every night. I’ll put my hand right here…and I’ll tell it how much I love it. How much I love you.”

Your breath hitched, your hands trembling as they clung to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“And you’ll be so beautiful, baby.” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “All round and soft. You won’t be able to see your feet, and you’ll complain about it, but fuck, I’ll love it. I’ll love every second of it. You want that?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing against your jaw. “You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes.”

“Say it again.” he demanded, his voice thick with need, his movements growing more erratic.

“Yes.” you cried, your hands clawing at his skin as his hips snapped into yours. “I want it. I want you. I want-”

Words dissolved into a moans as he shifted slightly, angling himself deeper, his movements pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“I love you.” he murmured, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. “You’ll be mine.” he murmured, his lips trailing down your throat, the heat of his breath making your skin prickle. “You already are, but fuck me, I’ll make sure everyone knows it. You’ll be carrying my baby, and no one will ever doubt it.”

You could feel him, the fat tip of his cock dragging against that sensitive spot deep inside you, pulsing and swollen as he pushed deeper, deeper, until there was nothing left of him that wasn’t inside of you. You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, the way he throbbed inside of you as though his body was desperate to mark you in every way possible. You whimpered into his mouth, your body tightening around him. The pressure was building, coiling tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. You could feel him swell inside of you, his cock thickening as your walls fluttered around him, desperate and needy. His hands slid up your body, one of them coming to rest on your stomach again, his palm pressing against your skin like he was imagining what it would feel like to have you full with his child.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” he admitted, his voice low and breathless. “You. Pregnant again. Carrying my baby- Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.” he groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “I can feel it- you’re close, aren’t you? So fucking close.”

“Yes-” you gasped, your voice trembling as your hips bucked against his. “Alex, I-”

“Come for me.” he urged. His hand slid down to grip your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he thrust harder, his movements precise and unrelenting. “I want to feel you. Come on, baby, let go for me.”

And when you did, it was like the world shattered around you. Your body tensed, every muscle locking up as the release crashed over you, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure that left you trembling beneath him.

“Fuck, that’s it.” he groaned, his voice breaking as he felt you clench around him, your walls milking him for everything he had. “That’s so fucking good. You’re so fucking good for me.”

He followed soon after, the sharp rhythm gaving way to something deeper, slower, his hips slamming into yours one final time as he buried himself as deep as he could go. You felt him pulse inside of you, thick and hot, as he came.

“Take it.” he breathed, his voice trembling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “Take all of it. Fuck, you’re gonna look so perfect.” His teeth grazed your skin, sharp and insistent, and then he bit down, not hard enough to hurt but enough to leave a mark, a physical reminder of this moment. You gasped, your nails raking across his skin as if to claim him in return.

“You feel that?” he asked, his voice softer now but no less intense. He pressed his palm against your stomach. “I can feel it- feel you taking me.” You gasped, your body still shuddering from the aftershocks as he continued to move, slowly. “You’re so mine.”

And as he kissed you again, soft and unhurried, you couldn’t help but believe him.

Your limbs felt disconnected, your body humming with a soft ache, the kind that only came from being completely unravelled. The world beyond this room felt impossibly distant, blurred at the edges, as if it had been reduced to the faint glow of the fairy lights above and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

Neither of you spoke at first, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of the sheets and the soft, labored sounds of your breathing. For a while, there was nothing but that. It was that strange, floaty kind of quiet where time didn’t seem to exist.

His hands wandered idly over your skin, tracing lazy patterns along your waist, your hip, as though he couldn’t quite let go of you yet.

“Wow…” he muttered after a while, his voice soft and hoarse. His lips brushed against your collarbone, a gentle apology for the bite he’d left there. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” you managed, still catching your breath. “I’m more than okay. You?”

He lifted his head to look at you, his hair a wild mess, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah.” he said, grinning. “Though, uh…I think you scratched me.”

“Good.” you teased, your fingers tracing the faint red lines on his back. “You deserved it.”

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile, the kind that always managed to undo you. He leaned in, kissing you softly, his hand slipping down to your stomach again, his palm pressing flat against your skin as if he could feel something there already.

And then, after a long moment of quiet, he broke the silence with a laugh — low and almost disbelieving. Eventually, he lifted his head, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked at you, his cheeks still red, his lips still smiling.

“I definitely just got you pregnant.” he said, his voice tinged with something between amusement and awe. And then he laughed again.

You laughed too, breathless and a little giddy, the sound mingling with his as you looked at him, your hand covering his on your stomach.

“Oh, you think so?” you teased, though the way he was looking at you made it impossible to deny the idea.

“I know so. Absolutely.” he said, his voice firm but warm, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, deliberate circles. “And you know what?”

“What?” you asked, looking up at him.

“I can’t fucking wait.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with something you couldn’t quite name. “Alex.” you breathed, your body arching beneath him as his words sent shivers down your spine.

“I’ll take care of you.” he promised. “Every single day. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. Even-” He kissed you again, grinning against your lips. “-if it’s 3am and you want pickles and ice cream.”

“Pickles and ice cream?” you repeated, laughing softly.

“You never know.” he said, his grin widening. “You might get new cravings.”

Later, much later, as the two of you lay tangled together beneath the sheets, Alex pressed another kiss to your temple. He stayed there for a moment, his arms wrapped around you as though he never wanted to let go.

“I meant it.” he whispered, his voice soft now, almost hesitant.

“Meant what?” you asked, your fingers brushing through his hair.

“Everything.” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “The marriage. The baby. All of it.”

“Okay.” You smiled sleepily, curling into his chest. “Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas.”

And as the two of you lay there, tangled together, he thought again about how lucky he was. How, somehow, he’d ended up here, with you. How this had become his life.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, but he knew one thing for certain.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Okay, maybe two things, because he also wasn’t letting go of it. Ever.

a/n: Is it weird to post something Christmas-themed in February? If so, forgive me. I did start it in December but I kinda wanted to end it for a bit there so I wasn’t really in the mood to finish something so happy but it’s finished now, roughly. It was mostly finished anyway but I didn’t really like it that much and then I forgot about it but he looked kinda dad-like in the pics from today (may lolll) so I thought I might as well…It’s not really proof-read I just skimmed the unfinished bits so sorry if there are mistakes. Okay gn.

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

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