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futuristicanoe · 6 months ago

Text

a true believer

venus, looking in the mirror — is she covering herself with the fur, or is she opening the fur to reveal more?

mature themes & nsfw content, mental health issues. [ sub al <3 drinking & smoking mention. a bit messy. ]

Alex is standing in front of a mirror.

It is a tall thing, firmly holding onto the wall. He feels nervy, overwhelmed with the need to scratch his throat from the inside for a few seconds before he calms down and pulls up the zipper of his boot. He has only put on the left one, and the fact irks him all of a sudden. He always puts on the right shoe first.

Alex slumps down in his armchair, next to the mirror.

The white undershirt he is wearing remains to be the only thing that feels comfortable at the moment. The rest of it clings to his skin like a fever.

Yesterday was not good, last night — even worse. He drank a bit, got soppy then sloppy, and at some point he had, apparently, opened his closet and taken everything he found there, scattering the neatly folded clothes all over his bed. It was a mess, and not even a beautiful one, not the kind of mess that makes you want to stare and stare till it hurts to blink. It felt more like looking at the table after a giant supper. The flashy evidence of distorted humanity is so clear in every inch of the scene that it could ruin a nerve ending or two. He had grimaced, confused with himself. Frustration and the wine he had before raising up in his throat...

Something has surely gone wrong, he had thought.

And when he woke up in the morning with a dull ache pressing into him, writhing behind his eyes, he just pinched the bridge of his nose and went to take a shower. It went smoothly afterwards. He put on the bathrobe that is acknowledged only when he can't find anything else to wear and grabbed a cigarette.

Now, that is where a line should be drawn. More specifically — or, preferably — a telephone line.

As if bound by a seemingly useless string of telepathy, you called him. He answered, which is classified as one of the better directions that interaction could have gone in, but he sounds way too distant for your liking.

(You ask him if everything is okay, and he says, "Yeah." It is just a low grumble that does nothing special or nice to your worried state.

"Alex?" You say, and he has to pull his phone away for a second so he doesn't accidentally hear more of your words, your gentle voice. He is not entirely sure he deserves it at all.

"It's okay," he answers.)

Alex is wearing his black slacks here, now. Worn, slightly too big for him, but they look great. He lets his head fall back. What was he thinking about just a few minutes ago?

Did he tell you? No. Surely he didn't write it down either, but it was something good. Oh...

What a pity.

Luckily, he does not have time to start overthinking this time.

He freezes suddenly, perking up at the dim noises of footsteps echoing through the house.

They get closer, slower, then stop abruptly.

He lets out a gentle breath. It's you. It's you getting ready to knock on his bedroom door, probably pressing your lips together and letting your knuckles hover over the door. The door, which has been left slightly open, actually, but you know it does not mean that you should just push it open without knocking first. For some odd reason, he often forgets to close doors like a normal human being.

It is impossible to remember who came up with it, but you remember laughing when someone joked about how his inability to close doors properly could be the reason he is at home all the time.

("Been gettin' way too used to elevators, haven't I?" He had joked back, pressing a smirk into the rim of his glass. Is that funny, or is he just sweet?)

"Come in." His voice feels scratchy in his throat, just like the sound of you opening the door, letting yourself in.

There is one thing to feel nice about; he looks calm. You smile at him.

"Hello, Alex."

He smiles back. Soft, in every sense of the word. Hair a bit tousled and mussy from the shower, jaws soft and more or less clean-shaven, while his chin and moustache remain prickly. This is the way of life he has found the most suitable lately. Slightly stubbly with a troubled face, his eyes blinking slowly, a few strands of pretty hair dancing over his forehead. As his bony fingers silently squirm over his piano, just to feel how smooth the tiles are. Flawless.

"Was just getting dressed."

You nod, moving over to sit on the bed.

"Going somewhere?" You ask. The question is genuine, soft on your tongue. Even though you already know the answer to it.

Alex laughs at that, but it is short-lived. His face slowly relaxes again when you don't laugh along with him. He bites his lip and shakes his head slowly. "No."

You smile again. He envies that sometimes, the way you can smile so effortlessly. An awkward laugh is the most he can do lately. Maybe he will just settle on trying to make you laugh, then.

"That looks nice," you say and look at his legs. The black fabric is draped over him so... carelessly. Flawless. "Old?"

"Yes." He touches his bottom lip with two fingers, fidgeting and staring at the criss-cross stripes on the wall. "But it's not– didn't even need ironing or anything."

You hum. "Where were you last night?"

He stills. "Home."

"Here?"

"Here," he agrees and looks over at you. He is avoiding your gaze this whole time. There is a particular shade of comfort all over the wooden floor, which he can never seem to catch unless he is avoiding somebody's gaze. "Where were you?"

"Had to take care of some family stuff. A matter of urgency, as it always is." You accidentally pull on the skin around your nail too harshly, letting your downward gaze meet a lively drop of blood. "Meant to call you earlier."

Alex nods, "It's okay," he says.

It is easy to get past it. You've heard him say that phrase far too many times. It is kind of losing its meaning. "Are you?"

"Maybe it's not okay..." He looks you in the eye properly. "But it's..."

"Tell me." Your sweet voice breaks the silence. Gently, quietly like a vase falling, shattering on the floor and making sure the flowers land safely.

"I love how you do it," he says. "The openness, I suppose. Don't have to crack you open to know what it's inside. You are just always... there. Where I never seem to be." Silence. "It's as if I am in a dream- and I can't get the words out of me mouth no matter how much I mean them, you know?"

"Alex."

"Yes?"

"Do you want me here?"

His eyes are slightly watery. You continue speaking before he can answer the question.

"I saw you in my dream, actually. Think it was last night..." You get up from the bed, leaving your bag there and standing over him with your hands crossed behind your back. Just a habit.

"Really?" Alex sounds blissfully distracted for a moment.

"Yes. You didn't see me, though."

"Oh." He looks almost apologetic. "What did I do, then?"

"Nothing that I can recall, really. But you were there. It was a special moment." You look down at him. The way one socked foot is resting almost elegantly on the carpet, while the other one is in a completely different state. Precious.

The next thing comes naturally, almost as a reflex. Not that you remember ever doing it before. "We were here, I think. You, looking in the mirror," you say, slowly lowering yourself down on the floor. Kneeling like a true believer, who doesn't even know what they believe in, but there is truth to be found in most things, and some of those are just meant to be treated with love first, before any soul-searching can begin. "I don't remember where I was..." You put a hand on his knee. "But this is quite nice now."

Alex chuckles, covering his amusement with a hand over his face. You reach for his ankle, running your fingers over the sock with a pleased expression on your face. It feels soft, almost velvety, and you gently press your thumb against the smoothness. He shivers as you trap his ankle in place when he instinctively tries to move.

"Love–"

"Hush..." you kiss his thigh. "Need to put this on you, too, now that I'm finally here."

Alex grips the waistline of his pants, which is tight over his soft tummy. He lets a thumb rest beneath it, bending it at the knuckle.

You are too busy picking up the boot, adoring the way it gleams with elegance and something derived from madness. There is a tender tremor in your hands that you have not felt for a long time. It makes him feel like an animal. But not like one of the animalistic kind. This is not about anything carnivorous or — what is this print – reptilian? It is sort of silly. When it comes down to subconscious needs, a great fucking conversation might cure him for a decade, but nobody should enforce epiphanies.

You can not force a flower to bloom, isn't that what they say? Kind of odd to think like that now. But then again, that is something you both are very good at.

Gently, you zip up the boot.

"You are so..." he murmurs. His voice is low, rumbling, almost cute. Very cute.

"Go on." You nudge him, your legs touching his boots as you lean forwards to brace yourself on his lap. With an elbow pressing into his thigh now, the words come way more comfortably.

"Fuck..." he has gone all sorts of wobbly. Rapid heartbeat ripples through his veins like a bad memory at the sound of his own shaky voice.

You frown, then glance down at his hand. "Oh, baby..." The trousers are taut over his groin, digging into him. Cruel, but smooth. You kiss the shape of him that's beginning to show through the fabric.

Only the sound of your soft sigh holds the room together. He is not even breathing. As if you have gotten so close that he does not need to breathe himself, and can just rely on your mouth smearing wet kisses over his trousers to ground him. It's only when you look up, with your lips gently touching him, that Alex lets himself peek through his fingers to catch your gaze, willing it to make his lungs jolt to life again.

You chuckle against him and decide to be mean because you can do that here, holding his ankle down as you think of another way to ruin him. You bite his thigh, not even bothering with pulling your hair back and surely tasting nothing but warmth and fabric, but when he cries out, it is the sweetest thing that has ever existed in the same world as you.

Alex grabs the back of your head with a trembling hand. "Don't–"

You pull away without making it seem as if the touch on your nape is unpleasant. Instead, you gently grasp his wrist. "What is it?"

He tries to squeeze his thighs together.

"Nothing- don't let me go, or think, not now..."

"Think about what, Al?"

"Just want to be here, with you." He drops his head to the side, trying to avoid your gaze, but nearly shuddering in defeat when he finds his own eyes in the mirror. "Please."

You slide your thumb over his boot, silently admiring the texture.

"Watch yourself." You say, "think about how lovely you look."

He shakes his head. A fuzzy curl falls on his forehead almost innocently, and he shuts his eyes tightly, as if it hurts. Just like how he scrunches his face up when he is trying to find the perfect word to end his sentence with, or when your fingers are inside him and your shushed sweet nothings become part of a memorable moment.

"You are so wet, aren't you?" You whisper the words into his tummy, feeling his pulse under your cheek, your chin gently pressing on him.

"Mhm."

"Really?" You smile, happy with his little noise. Your fingers reach up to his face, caressing his scruffy chin before gently dipping a finger into his slack mouth. "Here?"

Alex whines, squirming.

You feign confusion and frown back at him. "Don't think I can trust you to speak the truth, dear. You are drooling over me." There is stickiness clinging to your finger when you pull it away, and you let him see it. "Many things your mouth is good for, but this is just pure sweetness. Wish you were looking at yourself now."

He closes his mouth, licking his lips lazily. "I don't want that." He sighs. "'s wearing me out."

You feel something tug on your bones, urging you to comfort him. Or slap him across the face. "It's okay," he will say, still. "It's alright."

"Then, what is this for, Al?" Your voice is soft, soothing his thoughts like a balm, as you touch the leather of his shoe, the silky material of his pants — it's difficult to feel anything but love. Keeping something so special like his vulnerability in your heart has to make a tear fall down your cheek, but you feel yourself growing needy just from looking at him. His hazy eyes, the way he looks stubborn and grumpy even when he would happily let you eat him up.

"I was just trying to remember. Being somewhere else..."

"So, why would you try going back?" You kiss him again, tracing cute patterns with your fingers over his thigh. "Stop trying to chase old memories. There is always a reason for it if they keep slipping away from you."

"Like what?" When did that angry shadow appear on his face?

You don't like that, so you pull on his waistband with a firm grip until his back arches. "You want me here, no?"

Alex nods swiftly. Warmth pools in his belly as his lips are trembling, gone all glossy like his eyes.

"There is always the wrong way to do a good thing." You put your fingers over the zipper of his trousers, waiting for another quick nod before pulling it down.

"I know that," he whispers and shifts his hips.

"Of course you do," you say, as you pull him out, intently listening to his soft hisses when you move your hand around him. You hum, content with the way he feels in your hand. Needy. Thick. "You are all sticky. Maybe I can trust you to know things, hm?"

Alex bucks up into your touch, shuddering as he moans softly.

"Is that a yes?"

He nods.

"That's a good boy."

You don't look up; he does not want to be looked at, so you stare in the mirror instead.

The jittery warmth that often fogs your brain lives somewhere inside him, you realise. Whether it is the pink tint over his cheeks, or his eyes going slightly wider when you say something particularly satisfying, it is dizzying.

He is beautiful. Like a painting, but not the famous one. Not the kind of painting you would see on the TV or in some old magazine, but the kind that people would judge, as if it was done just for them, and they have the right to demand corrections. Too showy, too raw,

head tilted back and mouth open, — his Adam's apple looks even sharper from the side. The arm of his chair hides where your fingers are working over him.

What a pity.

It is only a matter of seconds before you catch his gaze in the mirror.

It doesn't last long. He twitches in your palm, and a little whine escapes his throat as warmth coats your fingers, dripping down onto his trousers.

His thighs tense under your arms and you grab him with your free hand again, cradling his ankle lovingly. It keeps him calm this time, instead of riling him up like before.

There is a feeble moment of peace.

Alex looks absolutely indecent, even after you tuck him back in his trousers. Not before pressing a little kiss to his soft cock, of course. He might have snorted at that, somewhat surprised by the intimacy or how good it felt — being treated like a precious thing.

His hand comes down to brush your hair back.

"Thank you," he says. "Needed you."

You rest your head on his knee, letting out a sigh. It has been a weird couple of days. Blurry moments, shaky mornings ending with you passing out on the couch, stubbing the cigarette out just in time so you don't accidentally burn your house down. Your eyes grow heavy, and you hold in another sigh.

"Have I tired you out?" His question is gently folded like an envelope, full of carefully chosen words.

"No," you murmur against him. "I was already tired."

Alex tangles his fingers in your hair, rubbing your scalp sweetly. "I would suggest a nap, but the bed looks busy, doesn't it?"

You agree with a slow nod. "I did not know you still owned so many colours."

"And I still picked something so..." He looks at the criss-cross stripes on the wall to find the perfect word. He says, "Funereal. Must be something wrong with me."

"Wanna shower?" You ask.

"I think-" He laughs at the way your tired mind does not even register his words. "No, yeah, I don't think so. I showered just before you got here. The back of me head still feels pretty wet."

"How about a bath? I can wash your hair properly."

He traces his teeth with the tip of his tongue, considering the idea.

You are technically curled around his leg, an image of pure exhaustion. Absentmindedly caressing his calf, not caring for the cold floor beneath your knees... It fascinates him how you seem absolutely eager to please, always.

He is glad to be here. Even if filthy at the moment, his mind is perfectly slow. No racing thoughts pinching and pressing into his brain, no need to stare at the furniture and analyse the day before. He looks in the mirror again, his gaze immediately dropping to you. Your hair has gone all messy, your lips a lovely shade of red.

Alex notices the little spot on your finger and looks back down at you. Still keeping up the bad habit, he thinks, as he observes the tender skin and the similarities between the two of you.

You snap out of your dreamy daze when he grabs your wrist, caressing the bone and loving how he knows the reason you aren't wearing your favourite ring is that it makes your hands feel too cold on windy days. He smiles at your wide-eyed face before leaning down, kissing your nose.

A/N: dedicated to/inspired by/basically everything — goblinontour. <3333

#uhhhh #tumblr deleted this too many times #and im sick #bear with me #alex turner x reader #alex turner fic #alex turner x you #alex turner x oc #my writing #[alex]

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