First the stalker story and now the recent one, I don’t know if i should go to a therapist asap but i looove both of those stories, are we getting part two of the last one?
muse, if I were u, I'd probably get that checked out 😭 but I don't blame you, it's alex turner, plus it's only in fiction.... right??? riiiight???
annnnd okay since u love the recent one, I'll make it a three-chapter series tee hee<3
( + him in this gif I swear, OH MY GOOOOD)
Hi! I really love your works and your writing, I was wondering if you had in mind to continue the series of the stalker one or the 19 years old girl!
I loved them ❤️❤️
HIIII THANK U THANK U, BABE AAA
Unfortunately, since the beginning of writing the two, I've decided that there should only be three parts 😭. Awful, I know, but I'm open to other suggestions or requests you (and the others, hello!) may have<333
"I can hear violins, violins, give me all of that ultraviolence"
Masterlist Here
Chapter I
Rating: Explicit ❗
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys / The Last Shadow Puppets
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician), You
Tags: The Last Shadow Puppets (ETYCTE Era), Cheating, Smut, Dubious Consent, Missionary, Slight Dacryphilia, Spitting, Slight Manhandling, Choking, Slight Manipulation (if you squint enough).
Language: English
Word Count: 3.0k
Summary: You're a side piece, you shouldn't get angry when you see him on a date with his girlfriend, right???? righttttt????
Note: Soooo badly written and shorttt.
Alex had been nursing his beer as he looked at the grandfather clock in his living room that faced him, he was sat on his leather sofa, waiting for time to pass as his midnight thoughts meandered between a new verse born from that French film he watched with his girlfriend at the local cinema this afternoon. The mind was the quiet sea tonight, the soft waves was expected, he was sure there would be no deep plunge breaking the surface. Even you’d be arriving as promised, a little banter over cigarettes would be in schedule, along with a few hours of staying in bed, sweat mapping its way on his new linen, the scent of your shampoo on the silk pillowsheets.
The old bell above his door sliced through the low hum of the Rod Mckuen record he’d put on. Tonight didn’t click, it slammed open, echoing through the quiet apartment.
He turned to the door as he sets his bottle down on the coffee table. He was met with your pair of eyes: wide, glistening, reflecting the warm lights of from the dim lamps in his living room area. You look like you’d just left from the pub, and smelled like it too, the scent of strong alcohol on your mouth, the shot of desperation cutting through like lime as you stumbled inside. Your face was flushed, despite the low lights, he could see the mascara that ran down your face. Your heels scraped against his polished wood floor, a sound that made him wince.
“You…” you trailed, “You fucking dickhead,” you spat, voice thick in raw betrayal, "You absolute fucking prick.”
He knew he was, but he only watched with a slight tilt of his head as he stood up and made his way over. This wasn’t the languid, hazy encounter he usually had with you, something was off, clearly. Your hands flew in agitation, eyes searching for something hand-held, before it picked up on a marble ashtray that sat on the edge of his low-slung cabinet. He saw the stone, the sudden surge of adrenaline, and the trajectory of it all.
It flew past his ear, shattering against the vintage poster behind him, sending a spray of calcite fractures across the wall, the ashes, cigarette butts dropping on his Turkish carpet. He flinched, naturally as anyone would. The thud of the stones had ignited something in you as your shoulders began to shake, fresh tears painting your cheeks, lips trembling.
“What are we, Alex?” you pleaded.
Ah, right. Well, the fans work fast. He thought to himself, he knew now that you saw who he was with, and clearly that took a toll on you more then he cared to know.
The words came out choked up and heartbreaking, almost as if you didn’t arrive with a violent stunt.
“What the fuck are we, huh? I hate you, I hate you for making me feel like this, Al. You… You fuckin' bastard.”
The bastard straightened from where he’d been leaning against the mantelpiece, his movements in no rush, almost a cruel joke to piss on your meltdown. Rod Mckuen’s She played through the whole incident, he let it on as a background to the drama. His eyes, thoughtful, met yours. He knew he’d found the vulnerability behind the rage. He’d seen this dance, in different faces, but never quite like this, not with you.
He took a step after another, closing the distance between you two. You were still trembling, fists clenched at your sides, prepared to lash out once more—prepared to collapse. He extended his warm, big hands, to gently cup your cheeks and wipe your tears, his thumb brushing away your tears, mascara smearing.
He saw your face up-close, beneath the messy make-up, the bravado, your lips trembled and he wondered if it was right to kiss you here.
Your name was softly murmured, his voice like gravel in the way the years changed it, “Love, Look at you…” he continued, scolding you like a small child.
He lets go the left side of your face to snake his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. You struggled, escaping him, but his hold was strong and firm just like what you needed. He softly cooed you to settle down as he pinned you against the cool plaster of the wall behind you, your heels dangling a few inches off the floor. The scent of his cologne and cigarettes… he looked at you like you were the most precious thing on earth and it killed you to see it. He was concerned, and a tad tired, you noticed. He leaned close, his peach fuzz brushing against your temple.
“Shhh,” he whispered, his lips touching your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating to feel. “Calm down, now. Just breathe for me, darlin’. Just breathe.”
You squirmed in his embrace, a wild bird caught in his trap, your fists pushing against his chest, strong for someone who had too much to drink. “No! Get off me, you prick! You’re a cheat, a bloody cheater!” your voice was ragged, tearing through the soft sounds of his apartment, the record wailing in the backdrop.
“Piss off!” you shrieked, “Let me go, you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like a fuckin’ help when you’re the—”
“Easy, doll. Easy…” he whispered, “Darlin’, settle down for me, yeah? We can talk. Properly.”
“I hate you,” you spat again, curdling straight from your throat. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
He opened his mouth to say something again, to offer another word of reassurance. You lurched forward, face contorted, and a glob of saliva landed squarely on his cheek, warm and wet.
The record played on. The sound of your ragged breathing filled the deafening silence. He was frozen, looking through the distance on the wall. For a long moment, you wondered if you should apologize. You couldn’t hear his thoughts, but he seemed detached to what just happened.
The silence stretched on, pressing down on you. The wetness of her spit became cold, dripping down his jaw, only then did he look back at you, the soft gaze had hardened, an anger that seemed ice in nature had settled in his grip. His hands shifted, tightening on your waist as he pushed you back to the wall with a hard thud. His other hand gripped the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. Tender was gone in a second, and your eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from him.
He pulled her away from the wall, his grip on your neck had tightened as he steered you across the polished floor. Your heels scraped against the wood as you stumbled slightly, your body a puppet in his hand.
You’d forgotten which way was which in the house you’ve been in countless of times, as if you’d drop your brain in the living room from the impact. Though, you recognized the bed, and the closet, and the scent of his bedroom. He tossed you dismissively, and he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights and only wiped the saliva you spat in his face with the back of his hand. Your frame landed on the mattress, the springs from below groaned. Your body was nothing but mere lead, and before you could think of scrambling to sit up, to push yourself away, he was already over you. The light from the open blinds of his window etched his face: anger in capital letters, your stomach sank in fear. His knee kicked your legs open to make way for himself. He didn’t shout, which seemed enough.
Alex’s hand gripped your neck, the other pressing flat against your shoulder, forcing you back down to the mattress. His face was too close, and you could smell the beer, the cigarettes on his lips.
“You bloody brat, you think you can just walk in ‘ere, break my things, fuckin’ spit on me, and then scream like a bloody idiot because you’ve decided you’re allowed to, huh?” he hissed, his grip on your neck tightening.
You could only whimper, close your eyes, and turn your head. He leaned closer to your ear. “We had an understanding, didn’t we? a casual arrangement.” He reminded you.
“You were the one, if I recall, who was keen with the thrill of it.” he continued, but you couldn’t say anything. You knew your reason would seem flimsy, child-like. But you agreed, as that was the only thing that would get you closer to him, despite of the fleeting relationship, despite of the temporary paradise.
When you were silent with his one-sided statements, his hand let go of your shoulder and forced your head to face him, his fingers indenting your cheeks, you could only wince in pain, your eyes full of fear.
“You asked for this! Every casual glance, every late-night knock on that door, every texts you sent, every calls you ever answered—you fuckin’ wanted this.” He continued, his voice becoming a little louder, his grasp around your neck a little tighter.
“And now…” he rasped, “You come in here, pissed, cryin’ for a label that was never on the table, are you mad?”
Your hands, trembling, scrabbled against his chest, pushing him off desperately. You were still crying, soft, choked sounds escaping your throat. Alex didn’t even budge, he watched you, his expression cold, jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in his cheek.
When you failed, exhausted, he shifted, moving your body closer to the middle of the bed. His voice low, “Oh no, love.” he cooed, “We’re not done yet. I’m goin’ to knock some sense into that pretty little head of yours.”
He let go of your cheek, and the pain had reduced, temporarily. He found the hem of your shirt, pulling it upward, past your ribs, exposing a sliver of warm skin. He didn’t remove it, not yet. His body moved, covering you completely, deeper into the mattress.
You gulped, sweat breaking on your forehead as you sobbed, shaking your head as you tried to scream, only to silence you by pressing your neck a little harder.
“Shut up.” He commanded, his gaze unrelenting. “You’ve made enough noises for one night, haven’t you, darlin’?”
You choked up, closing your eyes as you whimpered. “You’re a fuckin’ monster,”
His gaze, swept over your tear-streaked face. He actually looked hurt at your insult. “Where is my good girl, huh? This isn’t my girl, is it?”
His grip around your neck had loosen, but his other hand trailed on the expanse of your stomach, pushing the fabric up slowly.
“This one… this one fights, this one screams, this one disrespects me.” He whispered, leaning closer against your ear, his tongue peeking out, licking the soft tissue. Your whole body shuddered in fear and something you couldn’t say.
“Don’t you worry, love.” he reassured, his hands on your chest now, his palm warm against your bra. “I’ll bring her back…”
He ignored your pleas as he unbuttoned, unzipped your jeans and took off your panties, your legs shaking from the cold. He took his time, watching you with that same loving gaze he always had before. His voice was soft and gentle when he peeled off your shirt. His lips on your collarbone as he whispered how beautiful you were, all while unclasping your bra with one hand and taking them off with such reverence.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked again, pulling his body off as he undid his belt, his weight dipping on the mattress, the sheets duvet wrinkling, his eyes were on you, asking the same question.
You were unsure, for all you know, you hated him. A manipulative cheater, a prick who treated you nothing more as a body to warm his lonely nights. You did, but when he’s like this.. all soft and gentle, it blurred your judgement, and you wondered if this ever works on other girls all the time, because he knew well it does on you.
Left with nothing but a confused, puzzled, and slightly fearful reaction from you, he chuckled and leaned in—you flinched—but hesitantly froze as he kissed your forehead.
“I’m sorry, love.” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to get so rough on ya,” he continued, his lips trailing to your temple, to your cheeks, he could taste the salts of your tears. His pecks of affection trailed to your neck, tongue darting out, his teeth gently brushing against the sensitive part of your skin you slowly gave him access to.
“My good girl,” he whispered on your skin, his head dipping low to your breasts, you felt your body begin to relax then. “My perfect, perfect girl..” he continued, his lips closing around one nipple.
Your back arched, a moan escaping from your mouth as your body laid down on the soft sheets of the mattress.
“You ready for me, darlin’?” He asked, his hands trailing to the soft skin between your legs, his questions immediately answered as he touched the soaking heat, two digits sinking in.
“No, Alex…” you whispered, “We can’t… You said we’ll talk…”
His face hardened, “After this.”
“Why can’t we talk about it now?” you demanded.
His body language changed immediately, he was back to being the same Alex who’d pin you on the bed and told you to shut up.
“You wanna talk? Fine.” he spat, his body hovering over you as he pushes your legs apart, giving him access as he roughly pulls his boxers down before he enters inside you, his hands flying to your waist to keep you close.
You gasped, holding on to his shoulder blades as you cried, back bowing off the duvet as you winced in pain.
”Fuck! It hurts, Al—”
He covered your mouth, his thrusts heavy and pushing you further on the bed.
“You like this, don’t you? You bloody like this.” He groaned, his hips moving with that calculated grind that spurred you on.
“This.” he said mid-thrust, his forehead pressing against yours. “This is all you’re ever gonna get, ye hear me?”
You nodded, tears welling in your eyes born from the heartbreak and the pleasure. It was as if the pain had heightened the feeling, practically blurring your visions, prickling on your skin, it hurt so good that you could only swallow the humiliation, the pride, for something that would only be gone in a minute, and you were willing to sacrifice any shame, any label, just to feel him again.
“Words, love.” He groaned, moving faster, the weight of his hand on your mouth disappearing. The moan that had been simmering in your throat had erupted, high and hitting the right places.
Despite the ragged breathing, and the soft moans coming from him, he grinned in satisfaction at your reaction. He leaned close to kiss your lips, tongues dancing in passion, your hips meeting his, the bed creaking with each force. With that, he pulled away roughly, his right hand touched your chin, opening your mouth for a wider access. His jaw moved, gathering saliva in his closed mouth before projecting it into you. You nearly choked as you swallowed the thick, warm liquid, cries begging to spill out once again from the humiliation.
“That’s what you get for spittin’ on me.” he said, voice rough, before his expression contorted, dipping on the crook of your neck as he gasped in pleasure, his voice hoarse.
“Fuck, you’re into this shite… can feel you tightenin’ up,” he groaned, “You see, this is why I love ya…” he murmured, grinning against your collarbone. That word, used so casually, was enough to twist your stomach into knots, but you could deal with the pain later, for now…
“Alex…” you moaned, eyes closing. He knew what that meant. His hips started grinding faster than before, challenging his good mahogany bed to collapse. His hand trailing to your hips, his other hand pushing your sensitive buttons, his thumb circling against your clit.
”A-Ah! Fu-fuck…” you groaned, hips flying off of the mattress but he pinned you down as he continued his assault. “I’m gonna—”
When you opened your eyes, the lights were low, but you could see the widow’s peak on his hairline, his damp hair swinging slightly with each impact. Alex’s face was sweating, dripping on to your skin like holy water. His eyes, dark like his very being, focused and boring on to you, his jaw clenched, teeth gritting as his gasps fogged with each thrust. For a moment, you began to believe that you’re the only woman on god’s green earth to have seen him like this, to have experienced him like this, it was a fleeting illusion, but a thought long enough to dream.
Your eyes rolled back as you let out a heavenly gasp, the warm feeling gently crashing a tide on your whole body.
Alex choked up from the sensation, his hips faltering before he pulls out with a harsh hiss, his hands working around his shaft as he comes, spilling over her stomach and breasts, the feeling warm and sticky, but it was a feeling you’ve come to know and loved.
He collapsed beside you, his weight dipping you close next to him. The aftermath was a series of pure, reluctant tranquility, the kind of quiet after a new year’s eve party where you’re nothing but a post-melancholic carcass, hollowed out from the high, and a mess to clean up by 10 am.
He offered you a cigarette from the bedside table, but you shook your head, just watching him smoke away.
His record had stopped long ago, across the hallway, the sound of faint clicking of the needle had been playing for the past hour, circling endlessly on the center of the record. You laid there, wondering if he’d sit up, walk over, and turn it off.
Your head turned to face him as he put out the cigarette on the headboard, before throwing it carelessly on the floor. Alex didn’t look back at you, not even once, the whole night.
But maybe he did, but you’d fallen asleep to even notice.
You’d come back again, you knew.
Note: I think I wrote this just to cope (uni is shite and I hate this course but whatever, will be retaking another subject, hopefully this year, and I have a deadline tomorrow). All I do is daydream of Alex being manhandling me 😖, specifically, his 2016 era, it's a sickness at this point... I'm a tad bit embarrassed to admit that I dream of him more than I should. Anyway, how's your feb, y'all? Mine was shite but I got a new book added to my collection! I'm also thinking of getting a mental health diagnosis this year, so I hope that works out. I also dyed my hair last month but I'm thinking of switching back to my natural color and growing it back.
I do apologize if I've been soooo inactive these past months, I really enjoy reading and writing, but life gets so busy sometimes... I will come back again. xoxoxooxoxox
Rating: E for Everybody
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Original Characters, You
Tags: Pre-TBHC Era (Arctic Monkeys), Employment, Babysitting, Alex Turner is here in spirit.
Language: English
Word Count: 2.6k
Summary: You get hired to handle some suspiciously rich bloke's spoiled brat for a day.
Note: Short so please just treat this as a prologue sorta LOL.
“Here are the daily blind items that were released on February 21st, 2017.
Number one, this one reads… this foreign-born rockstar, long thought to be a lifelong bachelor, has secretly fathered a child the public knows nothing about.”
May 05, 2016
Somewhere in LA, California
Rent was the headlights that dared to lead every decision in your life for the past coming weeks. The hours would roll by like watching paint dry when you’re penniless and unemployed, not when you’ve just gotten fired from Cha Cafe. Today, specifically, had made the grounds of Pasadena like crossing through treading waters, you were driving on your beaten-up Honda Civic on your way to a secluded neighbourhood in Beverly Crest. The call born from your tear-eyed desperation. It was a last minute plea to your friend you’d drunkenly met from a bar from the Valley, both coming from the same working-class backgrounds that both liked the same brand of cig*rettes. Now, this friend knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, so call them your guardian angel with suspiciously good strings to pull because, you’re in luck.
Drug-dealing? Robbery? a pawn to a cult in the guise of yoga, breathwork and personal transformation in Venice Beach? Not exactly…
“Babysitting?” You asked on the phone, standing up from your dusty, sweat-soaked bed. It wasn’t like you weren’t good with kids, they eat, they sh*t, they drink water, it’s nothing special, really, you put them in a trance with this multi-colored screen and suddenly they’re as quiet as the breezing leaf in July. For whom? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, the gig would be easy money, she assured. It was just gonna be a five-year-old, someone’s five-year-old. That’s easy, you’ve had your hips and arms carefully extracting nieces and nephews from your aunts during family holidays, you were built for this, for a day at least. This would be no different than a cat or a dog.
You’ve arrived at the exact address you were told, it was a private residence (as you assumed). The gravel driveway now audible as you pulled your car up a path to the far off what could be called civilization as it was entirely… secluded.
Really secluded.
Your boots crunched softly on the ground as you stepped out from your Honda. Trees enveloping the only building here. Far from the Hollywood glamour, but it didn't shy away from the subtle wealth... That was certain. Well, privacy itself is an understated status symbol nowadays. The place was a beautiful two-storey house with stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The wraparound porch was charmingly cozy just from here; a rocking chair stayed still on the side near just by the window—which from here, had its lights on, and from there—
A figure moved.
Then, before you could even react, a young woman stepped out from the oak door as she opened it, her dark hair pulled in a bun, a tablet clutched in one hand. She wore a crisp, tailored suit—a practical jarring contrast to you, who wore nothing but a cotton shirt and thrifted jeans with questionable stains that the lady obviously noticed from the way her blue eyes gazed at the spot before she returned to gaze at your face. She approached, her heels clicking with confidence. When she spoke, you noticed the subtle lilt of something British in her words.
"You must be..." she trailed, looking at her iPad.
You finished her words by stating your name in full as you walked closer, climbing to the doorstep as you clutched your bag tighter.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
"I'm Clara Martin, Mr. Turner's personal assistant," she continued as she extended her hand, nails polished in ruby red.
"Hi, nice to meet you," you said as you shook her hand. Her blue eyes—now that she's up close—have bags underneath them. This is the first time that your employer has been mentioned; hell, you didn't even know what job he had. All you remembered is that he had a kid and he was always away.
"Will he be with us today?" you asked as she turned and went to the door. "Er… Mr. Turner?"
"No," she answered without looking, her fingers on the knob before she turned to your direction. "Would you like some tea?"
You smiled, “No, just water for me.”
Clara led the way through the foyer, heels clicking on precised rhythm of the polished marble floor. You trailed, eyes wandering around as you took in the space. The house smelled expensive, it was a different quality of air from what you’d usually have in your cramped apartment, The intricate vases was clean enough to see your own reflection, the floor-to-ceiling windows had the natural light welcome through, it truly reminded you that friday mornings can look like this. As Clara talked about the cleaning lady’s schedule, and where the bathrooms are, you let yourself get distracted from the abstract sculpture to your left, What a pretentious thing to own in a home, you thought, but then again, if you had all the money in the world, you’d probably buy something tackier.
The foyer opened into a living area, and from the corner where it didn’t mean to capture your attention, stood an upright piano, positioned perfectly to catch the morning light, the gloss from its dark color gleamed. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it, it was practically the only thing that made Clara’s words slide off of your head. If you were correct, it was a Steinway Vertegrand. Now, you weren’t a huge music nerd, nor did you play the piano, it was just precisely the same piano your dad owned. It seemed touched, bought to use, out of all the things in this home, this seemed more real than anything else. Your eyes trailed around the room and it seemed clean, surprisingly, you’d almost forgotten you were here to watch a toddler, and the fact that the only noise you could hear right now is the assistant’s continuous one-sided conversation, you were wondering now if anything of this “babysitting” thing have been true at all. You’ve watched that horror movie doll thing before, and this seemed the beginning of that.
“...Mr Turner’s quite particular about his space.” she stated, her voice slicing through your contemplation as she gestured vaguely towards the room, which is loosely translated to: Do not touch anything.
“...and he values privacy above all else, which is why this property rather suits him.” Yeah, that makes sense.
“August—” that’s the name of the kid? “—has free rein over the most of the ground floor during the day.” She instructed, but as she droned on about the boy’s general routine: the naptimes, snack preferences, designated play areas, the directions had an almost maternal feeling around it, soft velvet against your skin. August adored playing with his plushies, he’s very active, engaging, and he’s currently fascinated with certain comic characters, she added, which felt like a plus, you asked which character it was, and she said you’ll find out eventually. You offered nothing but simple nods as your eyes took in every detail of the kitchen: the compact space had its window facing the back garden, a cozy breakfast nook in the corner had a table for two. The appliances were complete: an electric stove, a worn kettle on the right burner. A microwave on the far corner, and on the bottom was an oven just beside the dishwasher. Beside the sink was the refrigerator, with little drawings of what you assumed was the kid’s: A charming depiction of a sunday afternoon of a garden: the grass was purple, but you’d assume he ran out of green crayons, that’s understandable. The way your eyes lingered around the kitchen was caught by the assistant, but she didn’t question it. The job itself seemed straightforward enough.
She set her iPad on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge, with her manicured hands she took out a bottle of water and handed it to you. “Now, before I introduce you to August,” Clara said, her voice shifting back to its crisp, professional tone, the warmth of her voice disappearing like it was never even there before. She took her iPad in her hands as she watched you drink your water.
Clara took out her stylus.
“There’s just one last bit of paperwork to sort, a standard non-disclosure agreement. Considering Mr. Turner’s public status—” Huh? “—And the delicate nature… of well, his private affairs. It’s absolutely crucial for anyone working within the household.” Even her eyes had been devoid of its earlier softness, met yours.
Well, there it is, then.
“It’s simply to guarantee that any information you come across during your employment here is kept strictly confidential. Personal details, household routines, anything relating to August’s life or to Mr. Turner himself, remains within these walls.” she said, smiling now.
Okay, what the hell did I get myself into? You stopped drinking your water, carefully setting it aside on the marble counter, eyes unblinking as you looked at the assistant’s hands, she was opening a file in there, and she was scrolling down through the digital pages. An NDA was the last thing you’d ever expect back in the drive. LA was always full of surprises. You’ve thought of harv*sted org*ns, perhaps even a kilo of something to deliver somewhere, but an actual babysitting job, and an NDA? Public status? You were a total shut-in and didn’t read Cosmos to care enough about this.
But all of it clicked into place, the father wasn’t some ridiculous finance guy who was always travelling like you had in mind, the pristine Steinway wasn’t just a hobby—it was a lifestyle.
Mr. Turner was some classical pianist, probably from a very famous orchestra group.
Well, fuck me. It’s too late now, isn’t it? Your rent was on the line, and it wasn’t going to pay itself (not with your horrible credit score), and a last-minute profile gig didn’t seem too bad now, no matter how shady it seemed.
Clara’s tablet was already facing you while you were too lost in your own decision-making, when you’ve finally snapped out of it, you quickly took the tablet and stylus. Your eyes briefly skimmed over the legalese and dense paragraphs—desperation like tremors through your very fingers. Confidential clauses were alrighty, non-disparagement agreements were uh-huh, and penalties for breach were all sure thing. The whole point was to just keep your mouth shut, mind your business, and don’t talk about the kid, or what you see here. You shrugged, you weren’t much of a talker anyway, easier said than done.
You signed your name on the digital screen, before handing the tablet back to Clara. Her expression remained unchanged, as she looked down, her smile returned. “Splendid. Now, if you’ll follow me, August is in the conservatory. He’ll be thrilled to have a new playmate.”
The georgian conservatory was connected just beside the kitchen. It was bright, airy, and an acoustic guitar was resting silently on a wicker chair. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of the sculpted garden from outside just like what you have seen from the windows. It was a rich sight of succulents and exotic flowers—The air was warmer, humid, faint scents of coarse soil as the windows were open. Clara continued on her rundown, precised, clinical.
“Mr. Turner’s meeting concludes around six o’ clock this evening.”
Her gaze flicked to her slim gold watch on her wrist. “He should be home shortly after that, Until then, you have complete control around the house.” She then switched topic and began with the boy’s dietary restrictions, listing them like a Pediatrician on steroids. “He’s five, so mainly healthy snacks. Please do avoid excessive sugar, he’s not too keen on anything green, though, we do encourage a small serving of steamed broccoli with his dinner. Lunch is typically a turkey sandwich on wholemeal bread, crusts removed and cut into triangles. Water only, of course — no fizzy drinks. Good God, absolutely no fizzy drinks.”
The Do’s and Don’ts were next, the designated play areas, the telly screen time limits, the proper way to execute the kid’s evening bath.
“And.” she paused, stressing. “And under no circumstances… is August to leave the property without prior written consent from Mr. Turner, or myself.” she warned. “Gates are always locked, you’ll have the code but it should only be used for emergencies… we have surveillance of the whole house.” she added.
The reminders were all a flat circle, all leading back to privacy, security. This wasn’t just a usual 2 dollar per-hour babysitting, or maybe this was just your first time watching over some prodigy’s kid.
Clara was just about to venture through where the first aid kits were located when a motion erupted from behind the potted plant.
“Fear not, citizens!” a high-pitched, undeniably English voice declared, echoing through the glass room. “Batman is here!”
August, of all five years, was a tiny little thing with blonde hair and pale skin. He fashioned a miniature Batman mask, slightly skewed, covering the top half of his face, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the mischievous glint in his big brown eyes. He wore a cape, taken from what looked like a velvet curtain, dramatically following him as he skipped to a halt. His mask fell just in time and his little face was shown. Flushed pale cheeks, and a charmingly big smile for such a tiny fella, and a front tooth just yet to emerge. As he picked up his little mask, his cardboard belt creaked, with various plastic trinkets tucked into its loops had shimmied with each movement.
“August, darling,” Clara murmured, “This is going to be your new nanny. She’s gonna be the one to look after you today.”
There is certainly nothing as more excruciating than a kid’s scrutiny. August’s gaze, fixed on you, before his head tilted. “Are you Robin?” he asked, with his proper accent it made it all the more fond.
So, the family’s English then, that’s… something.
You didn’t answer, clearly you should be, but you didn’t. You were too distracted with the idea of now seeing the reason you’re here, and well, the pressure’s just being felt now.
Clara looked at the two of you, seemingly oblivious to the shared silence, she checked her wristwatch again. “Right, my apologies, but I have another pressing engagement.” She tucked her tablet and stylus close as she heads to the empty wooden bench where her briefcase was lying this whole time. “My number is on the fridge, should you need anything at all, just phone me.” She offered a final, tight-lipped smile, a professional, rather awkward, farewell, before turning and making her swift exit.
She called your name, echoing from inside.
“Good luck — you’ll need it.”
What?
You heard the main door close shut, the soft boom echoed not only from the foyer but its ominous sound led to the glass room.
“Look, Robin!” August’s voice boomed from behind you, and as you turned, he was already on the plush wooden armchair, bouncing with an enthusiasm only a five-year-old could ever experience. His small hands reached into his cardboard utility belt. With a surprisingly theatrical aim, he launched a cardboard batarang.
You didn’t even have time to dodge, but thankfully it swiftly graced to the side of your head. An almost accurate projectile as it whizzed past your ear, the sound of the weapon’s wind passing through as it clattered harmlessly against the glass wall.
Your eyes met the boy’s, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.
Oh, no.
Note: i still cant fathom the fact that we have a new track from them lol, btw I'm certain I flunked my finals this week but I'm too happy about the new song to care about it. Also! I do apologize again if I haven't been writing much, I should be, but the world moves too fast, and I feel like I'm on a high-speed treadmill with rollerblades on. I'll try to get on with some requests from you guys. Originally, I've wanted the little serieses to be just 3-parts, It's still surprising to me that u guys enjoy reading my works, it's just one of the things that keeps me up at night (besides alex turner naturally). I wonder why Tumblr is flagging this as needing some warning or summat, sigh... Anyway, ill be back, always! xoxo
omg girl i thought you had disappeared from tumblr, i was so sad, i love your fanfics
The fanfics will be staying, don't worry, girl! Also, I deeply appreciate that you guys actually enjoy my fics. I'm BAWLING my eyes out... I do apologize that I'd deleted that account; perhaps it was some paranoia episode, or it was for privacy reasons. (If I'm being honest, I hardly remember doing them myself, until I checked my tumblr and other social media platforms.)
I'll be posting my works in this account from now on!
"And my skin starts to creep; you're hovering above my bed, looking down on me"
Masterlist Here
One Shot
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys / The Last Shadow Puppets
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician), You
Tags: The Last Shadow Puppets (Pre-ETYCTE Era), Relationship Strains (Doubts, Implied Cheating), Smut, Cunnilingus & Fingering, Somnophilia, Dubious Consent, Menstrual Sex, Missionary, Slight Dacryphilia, Orgasm Denial, No proof-read, we die like MEN.
Language: English
Word Count: 7.7k
Summary: The atmosphere of relationships will always change like the weather. Happy Halloween, you freaks... and to quote Caleb Hearon: "You, me, some white sheets I'ma have to throw out tomorrow?"
Note: Reader's work is unspecified, so go ahead, fill that gap.
July 2015
Los Angeles, California
“Big night for you, eh? Your bird’s finally landed.”
Miles teased as he leaned against his chair, his voice gravelly, accompanying the final notes of the guitar riff that filled the air, smoke-like ghosts of melodies they’ve been bottling and chasing for the past couple of weeks. Alex hummed, a noncommittal sound, as he stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray by the soundboard. He rose from the velvet sofa; the soft mewls of his leather jacket creaked in the control room. The exhaustion of today’s session was embalmed right through his cranial cavities, gripping the lids of his eyes and tugging the back of his neck.
“Yeah, guess… summat like that,” he murmured, his gaze distant.
He’d expected something more different, if one would consider the way an idealist would see the world. Perhaps a grand, cinematic arrival at the airport, a souvenir of kisses and open arms by the baggage claims, the jet lag magically disappearing in your system the moment your bodies collide as he whispers something endearing in your ear, before opening the conversation with where you would want to eat first and how the flight had gone; it was a proper, albeit overused, romanticised scene that has been packaged by Hollywood and put into one’s very eyes.
But reality was an unforgiving wake. It was during their tea break when he’d received your message, the notification popping up on his iPhone:
Landed. Got off the cab rn. Got the keys. Shift in at 6pm xx.
He grabbed the keys from the console as he replayed the message in his mind. A night shift. The phrase will be the jargon in your relationship for the next coming months as well, as it was highly expected. It wasn’t like Alex had the right to wallow about it; it was a risk to quit your old job and find another one close by. He did want you to move in with him in LA, which you’ve been putting off for months. Not because you didn’t love him enough; frankly, you do, much more than you’d care to admit. Despite being a workaholic, you’d divide your time to answer his texts during work hours—sure, you’d respond a little late, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
You’ve only fully decided then because, well, the rent had gotten high by a whopping 9.5% in Manhattan (not like LA was any better at 11.6%), and as much as you enjoyed your stay there, it was a much-needed decision to move in with him, despite the usual restraint: independence. The two of you have never exactly stayed in one place before, at least not for a whole month. There were weekend stays, but so far, the two of you wanted to keep it casual in the earlier months. If you could say it out loud, you weren’t expecting anything more from him: you’d figured he might want someone who was on his level. The kind of girl that would move to the rhythm of the world he inhabited, entirely separate from your own. In his world, where the royalties would come in even when he’d just lie on his bed, yours came with a 9 to 5, a bad posture, and stuffy office cubicles.
Someone’s got to make it out of the rat race. You never thought much of it, at least not every day. You were waiting for him to gradually lose interest, not out of insecurity—perhaps it’s just your brain protecting you from the worst.
Though, when those doubts won’t come, there will be instances where you’ve come to notice that maybe it’ll hurt you more now that the months have gone by; he was a devastating revelation to your carefully quiet life, and by God or whoever had made the world as it is, a part of you had begun to make space for him. He had awful takes on French films, and you weren’t afraid to dish him out on it. You knew that specific memory of his childhood that he’d told once at the bodega. You knew the exact difference between him drifting off in his thoughts of the future or remembering the past. You were doomed from the beginning the moment you accidentally tripped him over at the theatres in Times Square. Oh god. He laughs like he knows the sun was made to shine on him, FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Alex’s drive home blurred past the neons and headlights that streaked across his windscreen. The city of Lost Angels had hours like this, less of an iconic city and more of a sprawled, gentrified network of people crawling in and out of the familiar streets, living unfamiliar lives, and in a way, he is just one of them, if the industry blinked a little longer, maybe. It didn’t take long until he got back to his apartment; the click of the lock echoed in the stillness. As he opened it, the scent of your perfume wafted its way into his mind; he assumed you’d gotten back. He assumed wrong. You weren’t there to make your presence clear, but it was known in messy, bold letters. A large, scuffed suitcase by the sofa, a pair of second-hand boots—that Alex knew was too big for you, but you never really complained—kicked off by the shoe rack, completely out of place from his own collections, neat and meticulously shined; it was a welcoming invasion.
Now, the note. He knew you always left notes. Aha! By the kitchen counter as he entered inside to grab a glass of water, he’d seen your familiar scrawl, a charming font he wished had its own name.
“Al. Left you some dinner in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”
The note ended with the initial of your name, naturally.
He sighed, holding the note in his palm as if to feel the remnants of your touch in the fibres; his weary eyes softened a little. You were within reach, yet you still felt a thousand miles away. He slept some time in the morning with you in his arms; it was a quick, almost painful relief, but like all dreams, he’d come to wake again, and he’d have to slip himself away from you, an extraction that seemed brutal in its nature.
The tango was a week's choreography where the two of you seemed to always be in parallel ways, pivoting when one had left and crossing back just as when the other had entered. The flat would be hollowed out with the sound of what should’ve been you; he’d always be met with your notes on papers, never your words from your very lips. He would sense you move beside him under the sheets, but he’d never feel you move close. Dusk was evil in its dawning way. It didn’t feel enough, this whole dance. In fact, it felt like he was being pinned down in hospice. He’d call you earlier, at a quarter to six, a long shot. The calls would always be sent straight to voicemail; he’d memorised your automated voice more than he’d memorised the cadence of your ‘I love you’s by now, and conversations seemed adrift, unfinished. He’d open the door, and you wouldn’t be there; the silence was a mocking croon of your lingering presence. He didn’t have a girlfriend; he had a ghost who was living rent-free.
Not just any ghost.
As he’d inspect the living room, he’d always expect it now. On the coffee table lay your debauched paperback, lying face down for a crime he didn’t commit; bookmarks weren’t of your time, apparently. He’d seen you do worse assaults with books, but this in itself is gruesome enough. Then, by the shoe rack where his Chelsea boots would shine, were your boots that have looked like they’ve witnessed the creation of man for how they’ve gathered dust from all the walking, and like a gymnast balancing off its beam, the other one fell off the rack, the dirt comically sprinkling on his good mahogany. Jesus Christ, this woman’s making my house a pigsty.
He’d mention it a hundred times, like, really. The bloody boots, the books, the crumpled notes, the piling trash bins… It wasn’t about control, not really. Alex just simply had a meticulous love for order. It was a detail mishap that grated on him; he shouldn’t have to feel like that in his very home. He gently picked up the boot, carefully placing it beside its partner. He wandered into the bedroom, and the floor had your stray hair on it, and the sheets were unmade as if done in a hasty fashion: the form of your side of the bed remembered the indentation of your body, the pillows were rumpled, and by the nightstand, a notebook lay open. He didn’t bother looking inside; he has before, without telling you. Just groceries, budget tracks, and doodles.
As he changed to his simple home clothes, his mind replayed the weeks. The move-in felt more… like paranormal flatmates than two people in a committed relationship, with the missed calls and the messages exchanged in the most inconvenient hours. He had thought about it for a while, maybe this… no, he was sure of you, at least for now. You had one of the things that kept him tethered to the very ground you walked on; even during the early months when you were still in New York, he’d thought you were something else. You weren’t afraid to call his shit; you were blunt without the disrespect; you thought of him as an equal; you weren’t blinded by the way he sailed the world, for the two of you were two sailors in two respectable ships. The Mar Pacifico is vast for people just making it to land. Now, he didn’t know where that went exactly; both docked in the same harbour, and yet…
Alex slumbered—momentarily shifting onto your side of the bed, he could smell your shampoo on your pillow—his eyes began to close, and the contour of your face seemed to conjure up in his mind’s eye. He missed you; beyond it all, not just physically (god, did he miss it though). He missed the late-night conversations, he missed the quick kisses in the subway, he missed the way your eyes seemed to bore into him through the grainy laptop screen, and he missed the lilt of your voice when you were about to snooze off into the call. The two of you had responsibilities beyond the four walls of this very room, two lines never meeting, never intersecting. Alex slept deeply that night, burrowed in the duvet of his own thoughts.
“So, how’s the move-in then?”
Alex looked up from his notes, distracted by the question from his mate. He’d been in the studio with Miles the whole day; it had been three weeks since she’d stayed in his home.
He gave a small shrug. “Sound.” he murmured—which didn’t sell the lie, not even in a different currency—as he reached for his cuppa.
“Right, well, y’know… you should bring her around sometimes,” Miles suggested.
“She’s…” he backtracked, clearing his throat. “Night shifts. Different schedules, y’know.”
It was sort of telepathic, as he heard his unspoken question. Are you two still together? and even he didn’t know the answer. Were you a girlfriend? Were you just a fragment of his imagination, mingling in the air of his balcony cigarettes? Or were you just a very disruptive flatmate who worked at odd hours and stayed in the same bed as him?
Alex didn’t have the faintest clue.
He arrived home later in the night. The apartment lights were off, other than one lamp by the living room that he figured was left by accident. He sighed heavily as he rubbed his temples, he remembered throwing the keys by the bowl on the coffee table and turning the lamp off more aggressively than he intended. Then, he saw it. His eyes tracked a single, white sock, abandoned by the foot of the table. Not a pair, it was merely left on its own. He went into the bathroom to piss, and his eyes darted to the shower drain, the familiar strands of your hair collecting themselves in heaps of unflattering, unappetising noodles. His tongue clicked in irritation; he grimaced as he grabbed a piece of tissue to pull it out.
It was a snowball effect, is what it was. The mug rings on the kitchen counter, left by your cup of coffee. When he tossed his own shirt into the laundry basket, he found it more than half-full. Your clothes were piling up, her uniform mixing in with the vibrant colours of his stylish shirts. The last push down the hill was the bedroom, the bed to be exact. Unmade, for the hundredth time. The blanket was tangled and nearly dropping on the floor; even the bedsheet had popped out of its corner. How the hell does this woman sleep? Does she wrestle with the pillows?
He ran a hand through his own hair; the growing frustration was taut in his chest. This was the test of the waters he’d expected; he just didn’t know how long he could endure it.
The fight came fast, like flint against steel.
The next day, Thursday morning, he was off to go to the studio again. Lying down on his California king-sized bed was the maker of messes, fast asleep from a back-aching shift. As he made a quick tea in the kitchen, and as he sipped, he felt movements in the bedroom, leading to the hallway, before he heard the padding footsteps heading to the bathroom. The apartment, for once, was clean. He noticed in the night you’d been awake rustling around, but the tension had been simmering off the pot since.
It overflowed completely. When he checked his watch, he was fifteen minutes late for an interview. Right, keys… wait.
He headed to the living room, expecting to see his keys on the bowl, sitting neatly just as he’d left them last night. None but a lint, a butterscotch candy, and a penny.
“Love,” he calls for you softly at first, checking under the table, on, around, and under the sofa. He calls for you again, louder this time.
“Love?”
You were still in the bathroom, washing your hands. “What?”
“Have you seen my keys?”
“No?“ Your answer echoed in the tight space of the bathroom.
“I always leave them here on the coffee table.”
“Maybe you put them somewhere else; have you checked your pockets?”
You heard him groan as his footsteps began to pad around the living room. “They’re not here! You were cleaning last night, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t touch your bowl, Alex.”
You heard him groan, “It was here,” he swore, his voice tight as you watched him from the hallway, padding around the kitchen then.
“Calm down, will you? I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”
“No, I remember leaving them in the living room – blue carabiner, three keys!”
You nodded. “Okay, don’t worry.”
“It was here, in the bowl.” He swore again, surely this time.
“Yes, but it’s not. Alex, can you calm down for a moment so, we can—”
Alex’s voice became tighter. “You clean for one night, and now you reckon’ know where everythin’ is, then?”
You pushed your back against the wall, with an unreadable expression on your face. Your voice, threateningly soft. “What?”
He finally turned to face you, eyes dark and deep in dark louds that didn’t seem to rain. “It’s not here.”
You scoffed for a moment, crossing your arms. “Are you blaming me for that?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “I were just sayin’…”
“Say it,” you challenged.
He gritted his teeth then, gripping the semblance to stay calm. “You’re never around,” he stated.
Ah, there it is.
“It’s not like I have an option for my fixed schedule,” you explained. “It’s not like I chose to work nights.”
“Why don’t you find another job, then? One where I might actually see your face before the sun comes up?”
“You mean quit the job,” you began, stepping closer in the living room. “That I had to get to move here with you? So I could be here—in your city, in your apartment, trying to make your schedule work?”
“I didn’t ask you to work, anyway.” His voice dropped to an almost defensive tone.
Pause.
He continued, “You’re here with me, not in New York. You could just… focus on us.”
“You think I’d like that?” you spat. “You think I’ll stay here, waiting for you at night so you can feel what? Accommodated?”
You took a few steps closer, looking him in the eyes. “So you can feel like what… you have a girlfriend? A pretty accessory for your Hollywood apartment?”
Okay, things are going south.
“Stop stuffin’ words in my mouth,” he spat, brows furrowed, “I didn’t fuckin’ say that—” he began, but your voice sliced through.
“No, you implied that,” you continued. “Loud and clear, Alex. You implied that my purpose here is to simply be present for your own convenience.”
“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” he whispered in a dangerous manner, hiding behind the underlying fear of his control slipping. “We rarely talk enough as is.” Alex was clouded with the accusations, stinging him. He wanted to point out that he’s been feeling lonely living in a two-person house for three weeks; he wanted to point out how much it hurt him to see you tired in the morning, working your back off, for a pride he couldn’t tame.
But, instead of seeing the hurt look on his face, you nodded. “You want to talk? Okay,” you whispered back. “Let’s talk about last Friday, while you were in the studio,” you proposed, before continuing.
“Who was that blonde that came looking for you?”
The air in the living room trickled like a cold sauna, growing heavy with something unspoken. Alex felt a cooling dread seep into his bones, his world tilting on its axis, his mind immediately racing for an explanation. He let out a short, forced laugh, shaking his head slightly; his brown eyes—a deflector of lying—widened.
“Fuckin’ hell, the fuck are you talking about?” he scoffed, “Last Friday? What blonde?” his voice tinged with a perfect blend of faux confusion and annoyance. Which one? Would be the right question.
“She came looking for you three weeks ago, your name in her mouth,” you continued. “L’ermitage, she says, to meet her there. She thought I was the cleaning lady.” The last words made your voice crack, and sure enough Alex had caught it.
“Cleaning lady, love… what…” he echoed, brows furrowing in pity before shaking his head. “I-I was in the studio all day, same as every… every Friday. Miles and I were buried in the new tracks; ask him if you don’t believe me. I don’t know who that broad is.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking pig,” you spat venomously, in a tone Alex had rarely heard from you.
“I’m not cheatin’ on you,” he insisted, his voice defensive. “Do you really think I’d do that? After everything? After you moved all this way?”
You didn’t bother listening to his excuses as your heels turned back to the hallway, leading to the bedroom. Alex’s chest tightened in a knot of panic, as if every step you took was a straight jab to his stomach. He followed, just in time for you to close the door shut in his face.
He called for your name, desperately knocking on the door. “Love, come on, listen to me,” he pleaded, his voice rising frantically around the edges. “I wasn’t—there’s no one. This is a misunderstanding—”
You were shaking on the other side, listening to his attempts at mending the wound, but you shook your head, eyes blurring in salty tears as you choked. “I don’t fucking care if you sleep with half the people here in the city,” you said, your tone devoid of any emotion that your eyes were desperately showing. “But at least have the balls to say it, Alex. Just Once. Be honest.”
You were fully aware of the ride you were in for, this lifestyle… the complex emotions, the needs that an artist like him needed, and you were, despite the cruel indecency of it all, on board with it. God, as long as he returns home to you at the end of the day, as long as you’re the one he saves a seat for in any crowded room, as long as you’re the only one he carries in his heart. But you also knew you couldn’t live with it; you couldn’t bear to see it with your own two eyes. When that morning came, the first sunrise to greet you was of a woman who looked as though she’d been expecting someone else to be by the door, someone you knew, someone who knew the sound of your laughter, the sound of your cries.
His voice continued through the door, muffled but clear, “I’m not cheating on you.” Whether he was denying or reiterating was coalescing into something unimaginable, words that seemed to press harder to the point of numbness. He continued.
“It was a journalist from Music Weekly. She… she must have got the wrong address, or thought I was home… We were supposed to meet at that hotel for an interview that day… for, for the new album… Love, please…”
You didn’t answer, even when he tried the knob again for the fifth time. He was about to knock once more when he heard his wristwatch beep.
“Love, please… let’s talk about this later, okay? Don’t… just don’t…” he trailed, and you didn’t know what that meant, lost in the sheer confusion and betrayal as you heard his footsteps disappear.
Alex was distraught, hair tugged, a mess, and looking like he needed a hard drink, He had an interview coming up in a few minutes and here he was at the right place, at the right fucking time. Distracted by the anger as he cursed under his breath for the keys, he headed to the living room again… there, by the table lamp beside the sofa.
Blue carabiner, three keys.
It was 3 am when you arrived back home; the click of the lock was a familiar sound Alex had grown accustomed to, his sleep easing a little better every night that he’d hear it. But this time, it was the sound that shook his body awake. He returned around in the afternoon, expecting you to be there, but you’d already gone to work earlier than you usually did; you didn’t respond to his texts or his calls, and even when he visited your building, you stayed in your office, crying uncontrollably under the window shutters.
Here now, you saw him more clearly, from the soft warm light of the lamp by the sofa. He was on the couch, his hands dropping the bottle of beer on the coffee table, along with other bottles of hard liquors beside him as his eyes found yours. He felt nauseous, exhausted, and incredibly guilty. He hadn’t moved from the same spot since he returned from the interview; his mind wasn’t in his body, it was searching for you in the astral plane, looking to see if somehow, he could talk to you there. Miles had to nudge him a couple of times just to get a word out of him.
Your face, impassive, shadowed by the faint light as you headed to the hallway, he jerkily stood up, movements uncoordinated as he attempted to follow you.
“There’s leftover in the fridge.”
“I already ate.” you replied, voice flat as you headed to the bathroom, closing and locking it once again. He could hear the sound of your clothes swishing on the other side as he waited for you. The water ran for what felt like eternity, with the sound of scrubbing in between. Patience was his last vestige to the ever-growing walls you’d create.
You emerged, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, walking past him as if he were mere air, heading to the bedroom. His steps echoed on the floor like the pawprints of a lost puppy following its owner as it stood by the doorframe; in the dark bedroom where the only light that served the two of you was the moonlight from the window and glass-door balcony, his eyes tracked your every movement as you pulled out your designated drawer, you dressed, your skin disappeared under the white buttoned shirt you wore, and your hips shimmied as you put on your panties. Your hair, wet, dripping on your back as it faced him, water droplets deepening the colour of your shirt as you moved.
He softly called your name, earnest, achingly regretful. “I’m sorry about earlier, love… I… I need you to know. Honest… I would never cheat on you. She—the girl—t-the journalist…” He mentioned her name, but the syllables registered as nothing but mere white noises to you, he continued. “She got the address wrong. I promise you, I never would. Not after… not after everything, darlin’...”
You heard him shuffle through his pocket, and as you turned to face him, his phone was outstretched, a desperate, helpless offering. “Here. Look. My texts. My calls. You can go through everything. Just work, you, and well… Miles.”
You didn’t look; instead, you adjusted your shirt over your chest with soft, unhurried movements as if you were just imagining the man. You walked past him, heading to the nightstand, pulling out the little drawer for the pack of Camel lights you knew he kept there, along with his Bic lighter.
Your pace remained soft, almost airy, as if you weren’t bound to the ground, as you headed to the balcony. The soft mechanical ember from the lighter as you flicked it cast shadows on your face as you lit your cigarette. He watched you by the glass doors, dragging the tip a few inches short as the smoke dissolved into the air of Los Angeles. Once again, you were unreachable, a distant path Alex couldn’t stride close to.
He slowly slid his phone back in his pocket as he picked up your towel on the floor.
You slipped back to bed as he remained staring off in the distance outside the bedroom door, the night air and the faint, rich Turkish tobacco clung to your body as you tucked yourself to your side of the bed. His cigarettes and lighter were left outside; whether on purpose or not, Alex didn’t care for now.
This profound, deafening silence, this treatment that felt more clinically surgical than any other petty shouting match… It was too much; stones settled in his stomach that seemed to add more as each second passed. He found himself stepping close on the bed, kneeling on the floor as he looked at you. Your eyes remained shut, but his gaze was a sensation that made your heart beat twice as fast than it was intended for, even with all the confusion and the sheer gnawing knowledge of infidelity. You remained impassive, sinking your face into the pillows; the scent of hard liquor, his cologne, and cigarettes filled your space. It was as though all the places had lost their meaning and their names, it was just the two of you in a room, all the faults of the world and his had been banished. Your heart in its purest form still searches for him in the dark.
His rough hand moved to touch your hair, softly smoothing it back from your forehead. His hands trailed down on your hands that tugged the soft cushion; holding you reverently, he lifted your hands to his lips, a soft kiss, gentle on your knuckles, the peach fuzz leaving friction that seemed to administer angelic brushes against your skin.
Forgive him. Called whoever was in your head, and you already knew; you’ve already done so.
Alex’s gaze never left your face; his eyes that pooled like soft earthen coals were an abyss you’ve gotten lost into for so long, you knew full well staring back at them would seal your fate forever, or for as long as he’d want you around.
“I love you,” he whispered, syllables thick with raw vulnerability, spilling out heavy and bleak.
You didn’t respond, though your eyes peeled open and found their way back to his, dark, desperate eyes that shone under the moonlight. He was unforgiving; he was… he simply was the kind to melt your guard down. The flint and the steel had lost their way, nowhere to be found in your voice of reason.
“I know, I’m not the kind…” you trailed, “not the kind you usually… well, stay with.”
“No.” He shook his head, kissing your knuckles again. “You’re everything I ever need, you are, love.”
Does need hold a stronger resistance against temptation? Your mind asked, if you asked, you know it would take a whole ‘nother minute for Alex to lie again.
“You know that’s not what I mean,” you murmured. “We’re always in different places, Al. Even when we’re in the same room. You’re in your head, your music… your… whatever. All I do is watch you live a life I can’t seem to stomach, it seems I only hold you close when I can… It makes me wonder if I’m still… there,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his temple, his eyes closing immediately, leaning against your touch.
“You keep me grounded; you know that’s why I need you here, with me… When I feel like everything’s mad, when I feel like I’m not my own…” he trailed, his palms enveloping over yours, before he took them close to his lips and kissed the soft skin of your hand. He could smell the scent of tobacco on your fingertips, before whispering again,
“I love you,” he repeated, it was just as heavy as the first.
Then, relief came soaring through every vein in his body in dizzying waves as you whispered back.
“I love you too.”
Alex choked in disbelief and in gratitude, hesitantly leaning—second-guessing if he’d gone delusional and was hearing words he wanted to hear—before pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, just to feel your cheek against the tip of his nose, inhaling the scent of your skin before capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You accepted, lips parting slightly under his; a shaky sigh escaped him—a wordless prayer as he leaned closer.
But you pulled away, shaking your head.
“I’m tired, Al…” you murmured, voice fragile against the sheer racketing emotion that endured the past few weeks. “So, so tired…”
His eyes, once widened in fear, had softened. “ ‘s alright, you can sleep, love,” he whispered, pushing you back to the soft cushions of the California king bed. You nodded, though he continued his kisses down to your neck, nibbling gently on your soft skin, his tongue tracing the lines of your collarbone. The thrill was beginning to reach its way back as he trailed his kisses further down to your body, pushing the duvet off gently as his lips soon became the mere blanket that sent shivers down your spine.
It was a tender travel down below as he reached your lower abdomen, his fingertips holding the waistband of your panties. Only then did it jolt you awake, your face flushed as you sat up, placing a light tug of hand on the back of his head.
“Wait,” you whispered. He paused, his gaze questioning.
“Now’s not the time,” you muttered. Avoiding his direct gaze now as you slowly shut your legs closed.
“Why?” he asked, his fingers touching your stomach. “I thought you were on birth control?”
You stopped taking them three months back, and somehow you gave a nod so vague that you needed to further explain it. “I’m on my period.”
“Oh,” he realised, nodding slowly. His hand, though, travelled to your abdomen. “Cramps?” he asked.
You nodded again, “Kinda…” you whispered.
He began to press his palm against her abdomen, a comfortable pressure to ward off the discomfort she’d been feeling since the early morning.
You began to lie back down in bed, humming in content as he kept himself there for longer than a few minutes.
“You’re just going to… sit there the whole night? ” you teased, voice shining in amusement, a tone that he’d been deprived of for days.
Alex lets out a soft smile. “Maybe.” He leaned in, kissing your temple.
You didn’t argue this time; you just let him.
A few minutes later you’ve begun to keep a steady breathing, succumbing to sleep. Alex watched the way you seemed magical under the moonlight as you slept; he’d sometimes do this in the early morning, a few minutes long before he went to the studio. He waited until your breathing deepened into a steady rhythm of a pitch-black dream. Then, with careful movements, he reached for a soft pillow on the other side of the bed, slipping it under your lower back. You stirred gently but didn’t wake.
He walked to the closet, rummaging through fresh towels, preferably a darker one. He took it with him back to bed and gently lifted your hips again, just enough to slide the towel underneath you. He watched you stir for a moment, eyelashes fluttering as you hummed in your sleep.
With his preparations now done, he quietly dove back into the warmth between your thighs, his hands reaching to the waistband of your panties as he slowly peeled them off of you, the flimsy fabric gliding like butter over your legs as he tossed them on the floor.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous…” he whispered to you, his hands already travelling to the smooth expanse of your thighs as he widens them apart, a beautiful panoramic view for his very eyes. He sank down between her thighs, head nuzzled close to the soft, musky warmth that he missed so dearly. Alex inhaled your scent of arousal from his earlier teasing, then, with his tongue, warm and wet, licked tentatively, working his way around it. Then, his lips parted as he began to kiss your clitoris, a delicate chasteness that awakened you gently. The tip of his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, tasting, lapping. You felt something ticklish between your thighs, and you’d expected it now that this was another wet dream. Then, you heard the familiar groans of Alex down there that seemed far from a hazy, subconscious-filled taste.
Oh my god.
A soft moan escaped your lips, straight from the back of your very throat, a sound that sent Alex’s mind reeling. Your hips bucked, arching, pressing close into his mouth. Your eyes were the last to wake, as in a blurred, unfocused vision of the ceiling greeted you, you looked down to find the familiar head of Alex, his warm hands on your thighs, pressing them further apart.
But, his eyes.
Oh god, his eyes.
Alex looked at you. Under the determined furrow of his brows, his eyes were like the clouds before the thunder. Gone were his inhibitions as he feasted on you, the tip of his nose hitting the sensitive pearl of your mound as he gently suckled your labia, the sound pornographic in the quiet bedroom.
“Wait, Alex…” you murmured between gasps, breathless and biting soft whimpers. Your hand reached for his long hair, anchoring yourself as the feeling washed over you. It was a battle, a desperate plea to pull him away, even when your body longed for him.
“Wait, please… I… Al- Alex—” your voice cracked as your back arched, your head throwing back when his thumb found its way back to your clitoris, rubbing soft, demanding, delirious circles that made your head cock to the side, breathless, while he simultaneously tongued your orifice, not even minding the fact that your string was still inside. He ignored your pleas, making use of his own hungry mouth as he returned to your swelling clitoris, pulsing in raw sensitivity. You tugged him closer, gasping for air.
“God.” you gasped.
You were at a loss for a mere semblance of sanity, but it fractured the moment you felt him tug the string of your tampon. Your eyes flew open, immediately closing your legs as you pushed his head away.
“Wait.” you whispered, face flushed in embarrassment.
But he didn’t listen, he shook his head. “No,” his voice rumbled, unrestrained; he returned his hands to your thighs as he pushed them apart.
“It’s been weeks… months…” he whispered, your name falling from his moist, wet lips. “Can’t, love. Not now.”
He tugged the flimsy, bullet-like barrier completely, throwing it on the floor carelessly, the action so savage it surprised you completely.
Before you could even say anything, he kissed your lips, and you could taste your own juices from his very tongue, the aftertaste of the hard liquor strong beneath the scent of something metallic.
Oh, god.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as you opened your mouth to feel his tongue again. Just then, his big hands gently trailed back to your inner thighs, the kiss uninterrupted, his thumb brushing your clitoris, and you let out a soft mewl. Then, as he parted your folds, his middle finger and index finger began to slide inside of you.
Warm. Searing. Volcanic Heat.
The metallic taste lingered in the air; certainly, he could feel the soft, thick viscousness of it all. But he didn’t mind it, not when you were moaning against his mouth, not when your hips were attempting to meet his every thrust, the flick of his wrist pushing, pulling. His mind reeled from the sheer, intoxicating pleasure of finally feeling your heat after so long; it was almost carnal. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth just from the sensation of you around his fingers. You pulled away from his lips only to moan out a string of indecent calls.
“Fuck… Alex… Don’t stop…” you whispered, and he followed your commands.
He massaged your velvet walls, middle and ring fingers coaxing, pressing against your G-spot. He deepened further, fingers reaching in as his thumb pressed insistently against your clit from outside. He groaned under his breath as the sound of your slick juices began its symphony as he moved his wrist faster than before.
He moved his fingers back. The loss of sensation was cruel, but it would only be temporary as he slowly dipped his head between your thighs. You were still embarrassed by the mess; the metallic scent was stronger now that he withdrew his hand, but as you were just about to close your legs, he stopped you—pushing them apart again. The unrestricted access wasn’t a request but an order. His mouth found its way back, this time with desperate hunger, a man parched in the desert of Sahara. It was obscene, it was mortifying, it was everything you’ve never expected from him. The varied pressure of his tongue was an experiment you weren’t aware was to be conducted, the flat base as he licked, before his tip rolled around. His lips suckled, his tongue lashed, swirling, before coming back to tease the erect pearl of your mounds.
“Oh, yes… Alexander, oh god…” you cried out, tears in your eyes from the sheer pleasure. You weren’t even being pretty shy about it, gripping his long dark hair, tangling it through your fingers as he groaned each time you pulled him close, your hips grinding his face in impatient circles as he lapped you up, his gasp and growls vibrating between you.
You were close, so fucking close.
Then, to your surprise, he pulled back.
You stiffened, eyes bewildered as you searched for him in the dark. The grip you had in his head had loosened from the pure shock.
“What… what the fuck, Alex?” you hissed. You heard him laugh cheekily, a sound of mischievous triumph, and he reached for your wrists, binding them above your head. You tried to break free as you glared at him. You were in a rage for all good reasons: the lack of sleep, the fight from earlier, the lingering cramps, and the forbidden release. You didn’t know whether you wanted to swat at him in anger, or just cry it all out. The frustration was building up; everything about this was so unfair. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes as a lump in your throat began to form; you hiccuped until hot tears came falling against your temple.
“You’re a fucking sadist,” you spat, voice thick with emotions. He leaned impossibly close to your face as he wiped your tears, and even in the dark you could see the mess, you could smell the faint scent of your bloody fluids mingling with the scent of his whisky, he began cooing in that faux manner—the kind of person who would make a baby cry, and you hated the sheer comparison that he was treating you like one. “You’re a sadist,” you repeated, “And a pig… and a—”
Alex let out a soft, tender chuckle as he shushed you gently. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your neck, his peach fuzz scraping in ways that made you shudder, his breath was hot, lips wet from your own making. “Now, love…” he purred. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist…” he whispered against your ear as he kissed your temple. “I were just messin’ with you.”
He pulled back, gripping your wrist tight as he held you there.
“Darlin’... sorry for teasin’ you, you know me…” his voice softened as he gently touched your cheek, wiping off the blood he’d left there. “Right, you can sleep now…”
You didn’t believe him until his hand that gripped you had bound you loosely; only then did you shuffle and slowly relax your shoulder. The tension that was once there had disappeared as your tired eyes fluttered closed; the ragged breathing and the flushed face slowly dissolved as you lulled yourself to sleep. Alex continued to watch you dream off again, the brows that etched worry and irritation in your face had gently subsided was only then did he begin to move.
Carefully, as to not wake you up, he knelt between your open legs. His fingers, sticky from your own juices, worked at the knot of his jeans with reverent slowness and anticipation, just to chastise himself a little longer, the calm before the storm. He pushed the denims down, carelessly tossing them on the floor. His dick was already rock solid from the constant teasing and riling you up; he was practically staining pre-cum against the fabric of his boxers. He reached down, hooking his thumbs under the waistband before pulling his member free. It sprang, thick and heavy, just aching, practically salivating to be buried deep inside you. The air touched his tip, and even that was enough to make him shudder.
As he repositioned himself, he knelt closer between your thighs, his knees, gently pushing your legs further apart until you were nothing but an open, gaping, messy hole for him. Even int he dark he could see the faint, perverted, glistening sight of your cunt, just begging for his attention. He brushed his tip against your clit, and he felt your knees jolt.
With a devoted intake of breath, he began to enter inside. His dick pressed against the opening, slowly pushing in. The resistance was a beautiful, warm embrace as it adjusted around him until it moulded around his shift.
The months of longing, the empty encounters, the meaningless touches – all of the insignificant moments of connection he had before was nowhere compared to this. It was a fuckin’ furnace, he thought, a searing entry to an inferno he was happy to burn into. The scent of your blood was still there. Actually, it was still a fresh tang in his mouth, but he didn’t mind it at all. All he wanted to feel, taste, and think was you, and only you. He wanted his senses robbed and reprogrammed where all he could experience was nothing but you ,and this felt like this was the closest thing he could ever have to that desire.
He pushed deeper, and he let out a hard groan as your muscles clenched around him; he looked up to see that you were still asleep.
Not for long.
He moved gently, deliberately, then he thrust another.
You felt it. Again. Again. And Again.
Your eyelids fluttered open, the world blurring, seemingly out of focus as you felt your body slowly regain its control, only to have it be stolen again when you felt your insides get pistoned by a familiar sensation. You looked up, and there, navigating the movement of the tide you were drowning in, was Alex, his hips thrusting in a rhythmic, hypnotic pace. Each time he moved, a moan came falling from your lips; the sensation was fresh, odd, and dream-inducing. You didn’t know whether it was because of the lack of mobility or the loss of your own agency slipping away with each thrust.
All you could do was gasp, moan, and cry his name out.
Alex angled further, lifting your hips as he hovered over you. He moved faster, harder, chasing the race where his hips would meet yours, filling you completely. In his eyes was nothing but pure possession that felt like a sedative trance; you didn’t know how loud you were being; you didn’t even know if time existed at all - as your climax felt like the longest high you’ve ever had in all of your life, your eyes rolled back and your lips worshipped his name.
You fell limp once more, and your vision began to blur back to the subconscious mind; the last thing you heard was the sound of his last groan that came from his very lungs, deep, guttural, and completely unrestrained, vibrating against your ear. You felt full, incredibly full; the sensation was warm and oddly welcoming. You felt the heavy weight that covered your body; the very last thing your mind registered was the scent of sweat, copper, amber and whisky.
Note: This was a woozy thing to write, and I do think we've gone off the plot… Anyway! I wrote this in between writing my project proposal for our major subject—in the midst of sleep deprivation, I almost sent the doc of this fic to my professor 😭. Just came here to say the good news that the paper got approved, though! (YES IT WAS THE CORRECT FILE. DON'T WORRY.)
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician), You
Tags: Pre-The Car Era, Married Life, Older Man/Younger Woman (33 & 23), Lover's Quarrel, Wooing, Fluff, He's determined to win you over, Apollo 11 Mentioned, The Bear reference, Just one kiss (okay fine, two.)
Language: English
Word Count: 3.8k
Summary: Sometimes it takes about five summers in the relationship to forget the start of spring.
Notes: Title is taken from my favourite Beatles track and album...(white album supremacy btw) + it's the song I'll be singing for a wedding. I'm really nervous... but it got me thinking about marriage with Sir Turner, and how it (fictionally) might be... UGH I KNOW... before I am human, I'm a romantic fool...
East London, England
Around March, 2019
The sun had long gone as Alex checked his wristwatch; it was only the lavender blue that remained in the sky from his rearview mirror, a telling sign… but it's not like one could trust mere visuals from now on ever since global warming began to creep its way back in. The car was parked out front, and the soft crunch of his boots as he stepped inside their home was audible in the whole room. It was a long drive from the studio; traffic in March was as abundant as anything could ever be, he was exhausted, his body was begging to just slip into bed, by your warmth, collapsing into the beautiful thing that you were. He'd been like this for three months, working non-stop with the album, leaving in the middle of the night to record something, giving your lips a soft kiss as permission to leave, getting the keys from the fishbowl by the homemade vase you made, and throwing them back in some time in the afternoon.
The album didn't need to be perfect—well, that's a lie—but he wanted it to at least preserve everything before his mind forgot every lyric he'd thought of, every tune he'd heard in the middle of the night. It was a beautiful haunt, it was. He'd told you about them every chance he had of you being awake—to pee or drink your water.
“There's this thing that's been boggling my mind recently ever since we started watching that—”
“What was that place we went to again? Back in—”
“Does this sound like another song, or am I too sleep-deprived?”
“Love, I don't think I'm where time is right now… Good morning…”
You've gotten used to it. Always replying with, “That's nice, Al.”
You were God's strongest soldier, babysitting a man who'd work so much that he'd leave his tea out cold by the grand piano, forget to wash his hair, or leave the house wearing the same clothes for the past three days. He has passion, concerning passion, but it was a charming thing. That was one of the things you liked about him. In turn, you had one of the qualities he appreciated about you the most: you were pretty down-to-earth and would always be open to hearing about his ramblings. You didn't mind that he was the old man living in his own stories; watching the pure joy in his eyes as he reiterated the same thing he told you the night before and the countless nights before that, it was enough to make you melt. Out there, in the world, he'd always leave room for interpretation, but with you, he'd tell you everything. From the way his fart sounds exactly like his dad’s earlier in the studio or from the way he thinks Monday is oddly a blue colour if the days magically become a colour.
How long has it even been? Ah, five years—35 in dog years. Not like Alex would think he's a dog ever since he met you, but the way you would ruffle through his hair and call him every goodness in the world would make him think otherwise. But you've thought of him more as a cat—you mentioned that to him—in the middle of the night, he would always leave and come back with weird trinkets (midnight fish and chips, a sticky note behind his back that Jamie probably put, and sometimes a leaf inside the pocket of his coat).
Plus, cats love the purest because they weren't trained to be; they simply just choose to.
He loves you so much, God, he does. He always felt like he was in the public eye with his past lovers, but with you… it was different. It wasn't a quick rush that would seep through his veins after a bump; it was rather… quiet, like he didn't need to put on any facade about it. He didn't need to feel like he had to look good all the time, because in your eyes he always just is. He could spend a week without shaving, with his hair a total mess and looking like he'd fought with a chicken with his eyes closed and won by unanimous decision. You adored every inch of his existence; that was what true love was. It was freeing, it was unconditional, it was a maddening sense of peace he'd never felt before.
He'd thought for the first year that it was 100% about the fact that you digressed from being in the spotlight. You had a life of your own, so secluded and far from his—your world revolved more on the least flashy things on earth, where books simply weren't for props, where your coffee sat neatly against a stack of thesis papers by undergrads who were rushing on a deadline you decided. You were an associate professor at a university, so you'd always be away from home, stuck in meetings, lectures, and seminars—and yourself.
Mind you, it was 2014, you met him at a time when he was feeling experimental… and was with anyone and was, well, practically on anything. The first conversation was absurdly memorable: the Apollo 11 Flight Journal—your fixation at the time. He was only expecting a shag… not exactly an in-depth conversation about the J-2 engine.
He did remember leaving your flat the morning after, catching himself thinking about you chanting “This is Apollo Saturn Launch Control: T minus 1 hour, 30 minutes, 55 seconds and counting.” every 10 minutes the whole damn night, as you two hardly slept and continued talking, the sounds of voices echoing through the walls.
When you two started dating, you told him from the very beginning that dating in this economy felt like a chore. It was an offence he took highly of, rejecting him? He wanted to take you out again, just to spite you. Three months in, he found that you were naturally distant, facing away from the sun not because it was blinding, not even because you would rather look at the moon, but because the stars felt closer to you than any big rocks could ever be; that was how 4.24 light years of a separation felt—to you it was purely better.
It was a dizzying contrast to what he was used to. It was as refreshing as the next lime-wedged Pepsi you'd always order. The whole ball and chain bit felt less scary by four years in; the shackles felt lighter the moment it struck him that he'd willingly sit down and rot with you, and he thanked whoever was turning the world’s axis that he was two hours late at that party and that you were clumsy enough to spill on his good shirt. Alex never imagined he'd be married to a professor, but then again, who's ever surprised? His parents are teachers, for god's sake, like a moth to a sickeningly educated flame, if you ask me.
And that was half a decade ago; let's put a pin on that.
Alex was once again distracted by the painting he bought from an independent artist in South Bank, the subject held an uncanny resemblance to you. It hung in the hallway along with other paintings you two collected over the years. He reached out, touching the frame with his hand, the band of his golden ring glinting under the warm overhead light, fixing the crooked angle with a gentle flick of his finger. It was an expressionist painting of a girl with her chest plunged open—but you specified that the hit was from the back—she was lying back against a sycamore tree, the last chance of protection, the sun shining against her face; it made the audience catch a glimpse of the perspective of being in someone's life on their last fleeting second—it was an oddly poetic thing now that you've grown to see it around the house, but the first time he explained it, you'd thought of breaking up with him: Oh god, I’m in the start of a true crime documentary, this is how you could probably die, in the hands of a frontman who saw beauty in the most jarring places.
The girl did look exactly like you, though.
“Al.”
His head turns in the direction of your voice. In the hallway, it seemed like you'd been standing there for quite a while now, hands on your hips as you looked at him with loving amusement.
You were wearing… not your usual at-home fits—but rather, the red velvet dress, it complemented the flush on your lips. His brown eyes raked over the sight; he'd remembered picking up that dress at a boutique in Paris and thinking how he'd ravage you if he saw you in it. It was a gift solely for his own indulgence, but he thought you'd love it anyway. It was provocative, and you were never the kind to wear this in public from your upbringing, but you'd promised to wear it on a very special occasion.
Let's put another pin on that.
“You're thinking again,” you whispered, though it was loud enough for him to hear.
“I'm always thinking,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving you.
“Good things, I hope?”
“You always are, if that answers your question.” He whispered now, dropping the keys on the bowl before making his way over, hugging you close and tight. God, you smelt heavenly, under all that whiff of menthol cigarettes, spiced wood perfume and cold brews that would sit on your colourful coasters in your study.
The beat of his heart would always slow down by a few tempos, and the wrinkle between his brows would always soften, and when your arms would wrap back, life was bliss under the warmth that you effortlessly carried. He hummed, Christ, I would never get tired of this woman. It wasn't an assurance; it was a mere certain belief not bound by confidence but solely by conviction.
The scent of guanciale and fresh tomatoes took him in, trailing from the kitchen. It reminded him of an Italian dish he mentioned to you once on a trip, the first dish he tried on their first gig in Milan, ‘06. It felt appropriate for him to mention it to you when you were currently hyperfixated on this one American show that recently just aired. The cinematic fast-paced cuts, the conversation about grief and addiction, and the music that you swore you were the only one listening to, got you hooked. He’d try watching it with you, maybe after he’s done with the album.
For now, Alex was confused; you were dolled up. “Are we… going somewhere tonight?” he murmured, his face still in your neck as he left soft kisses on your skin. You rubbed his back gently. Your other hand touched the nape of his neck and the soft little hair above his warm skin. He was already flushing up underneath his blue cotton shirt, and he looked at you as if you were the most tantalising rose he’d ever seen.
“But I already cooked,” you answered back.
Now, you see, that’s how things were getting more confusing. You never cooked dinner; it was always take-out and cuddles over the most camp movie you could find on Hulu. The honeymoon was never-ending for the two of you; every waking day felt like it was the first. It always was. Thus, he did one thing a married man should’ve known not to do about now given the situation: he looked at you, and he began to open his mouth.
“What for?”
The smile on your face dropped, and the movement of your fingers from under the nape of his neck paused.
“You’re joking,” You whispered, giggling at first. But, poor guy, was clueless as a newborn lamb. The depths of his brown eyes seemed to lighten just a tad; the soft pout on his lips deepened, and so did the indentation between his brows.
“Is it… a bank holiday or summat?”
“You…” you trailed, you knew the look on his face like the back of your hand. When you’d ask him to get him tampons from Tesco, or if he remembered to thaw the meat from the freezer.
You pushed yourself away from him now. “You seriously don’t remember?”
Quick, Al. Think.
But his exhausted head was still trying to get its way out of his own arse. A promotion? His birthday? Has he been a Pisces this whole time? Or was it yours? No, of course not… He knew your birthday was on… nah, no.
“Love,” he whispered, laughing dryly. Silly you, you must’ve forgotten that your anniversary wasn’t until August. “Bit too early to celebrate our wedding anniversary, innit?”
Your face hardened, Alex practically saw the way you spiritually left the hallway now, and into the kitchen. You were immensely crushed by your own foolish hoping. Earlier, when you awoke in the morning, he had already left, and you assumed it was to plan for the day. You then decided to leave campus early to prepare for the entire day, for your part.
No texts were given together from the start; it was already a spoken tradition. But this time, it seems you’d been the one keeping the streak, while he… was actually at work.
“It is, because that’s not what I prepared for, you tool.” You frowned. “You’ve forgotten the anniversary.”
It dawned on Alex now, Bollocks.
“Wait, love—”
You pushed yourself off of him and stormed off into the kitchen.
“I didn't forget it, I were just messin’ with ya—”
Liar, the resurgence of his accent was a dead giveaway. He was glass in your eyes, the beautiful nose you love so dearly was growing by the minute.
His footsteps had gone soft as he stepped inside the tiled floors of the kitchen. Your back was facing him as you took the lid off your pot, the steam off the sauce had wafted into the air, physically covering the disappointment in your face. You couldn't believe it, he'd forgotten the day you two met.
“Darlin’, come on… Okay, maybe it lost its way out of my mind for a bit…” he admitted, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he gently drew circles on your open back. The soft gesture should've charmed you and maybe made you giggle; he always apologised like a child.
But tonight had no place for immaturity.
“It doesn't mean I love ya any less… I… me and the lads... we've been busy the whole day, been in there finishing the final tracks…” he swallowed, he didn't want to make any excuses, but the production of the album had its part in the whole ordeal.
Yes, you were always a distant lover, but you grew up in the philosophy of celebrating the days that mattered, you were saving up all your affection in the most important numbers on the calendar. It was as though you were in the marines coming back to land every once in a year, that's how a relationship was with you.
One never learns anything until they make the same mistakes twice; he realised that now as the words left his mouth, he spoke again without thinking.
You kept your lips shut as you stirred the pot before turning off the stove, the dancing flames disappearing as you twisted the knob and turned off the gas. He felt you move forward closer to him, and perhaps it was him in the precipice of the possibility that you'd forgive him for his mistakes—until it was only to turn and push him off of you.
Throughout the 1,826 days that Alex has met you, he has learnt a few things, and he was willing to put it to the test.
“Love, come on… don't be like that…” he pouted, reaching out to hold you by the waist before expertly turning you around to face him. His hand was warm around your body, practically like palm stones of lava, but you were still furious, your brows sinking above the bridge of your nose, your precisely done red lips pouting, though the blush on your cheeks felt natural, so maybe it was working.
God, you were utterly adorable in his eyes; even now he could tell you were trying your hardest to be mad at him. You could see the amusement in his gaze. I swear to God, this man. It made you turn your face to the side; suddenly the sight of overflowing pots and plates in the sink was a rather comfortable channel to binge.
“Oi,” he murmured, cocking his head to face yours.
You turned to the left.
“Darlin'—” he rolled his tongue against his cheek to stifle a grin at your adorable way of avoiding him.
He moved his head again, and you two locked eyes.
You lifted your face to the ceiling, watching the wooden fan with boundless curiosity, Anything but his stupid… handsome face.
The sigh that left his mouth was a short crumble of the exhaustion begging to come to the surface, but he was always patient when it came to you. Like that one time you stayed in one aisle of the book store in Cross Road because the store’s cat was lounging near Schrödinger’s books by the science section. The two of you stayed there for a full hour, hogging the whole shelf just for an orange tabby.
Alex would defend it to this day; it was indeed cute, a bit too on-the-nose. But cute.
You were an open page in front of him, holding you like the index of a well-loved paperback as he takes your chin by his thumb and lowers your head to finally look at him.
“Love… look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya.” he commanded, before softly adding, “Please.”
“No, I hate you.”
“That’s a lie, you love me.”
“I hate your eyes.”
“You love my eyes.”
“Damn your eyes.”
He inhales through his nose, trying his hardest not to even let out the softest chuckle.
“Etta James? That’s new… last week was Otis Redding.” He grinned, humming the beginning tune of Rock Me Baby under his breath.
The memory of last Tuesday was a distant feeling that involved new positions over the good sofa – what too much wine and expiring condoms could do in one night, Otis Blue crooned in the background on your new Denon DP-100.
“Shut up,” you muttered, pushing him away as you tried to hide your reddening face, but his grip reached first, holding you bound to the wrist as he leaned in and kissed both sides of your heated cheeks. “Let go of me,” you spat.
He—used to your antics during exam week—shook his head. “Never,” he objected, bringing your hands to his lips as he kissed your knuckles, his eyes on you. Those earthen depths, unwavering, the coarse dirt colour of eyes were always rich in whatever made him this way, and he would always say out loud that it’s always because of you.
You remained standing there, by the stove, the warm ceiling lights giving your wedding band the soft, reflective glints. It was pure crackling silence in the kitchen, where the scent of oregano and garlic was mingling in the air. He began to speak up then—his plan worked.
“I’m sorry, darlin’, I am…” he whispered, his thumb rubbing the smooth palm of your hands as he gently opens them up, before bringing you closer to him. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as you continued to stare at him. It was apparent in your body language—stiff, still, languid—that it would take a few more things than just a mere apology.
“I’m a foolish man, baby... I don’t deserve ya…” he murmured, kissing your jaw as he whispered in your ear. His hot breath against your skin spread the heat through the pits of your stomach and between your thighs, haywired lust that was slowly amalgamating through your supposed disappointment. “Let me apologise…” he continued, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your nose was touching his, the distance was closer than you’d expected, and all you could see, feel, and smell was him, and only him. He did look guilty under that comforting presence he was giving to woo you in, but of course…. Damn. This. Man.
“I’m sorry… and y’know I love ya, darlin’, and that’s summat I’ll never forget…” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing. The soft warmth against your skin—the soft peck, the sensation of him inhaling to smell the scent of your hair—was entirely enough to make you momentarily forget about everything. He was here, tangible, close, and utterly devoted. It was everything that you could ever ask for.
“Happy anniversary, love…” he mumbled against your ear before pulling back, his gaze gentle and honest.
Goddamn it.
Your pout deepened, and before you could even realise it, your vision began to blur.
He just hummed softly as he wiped away your tears with his thumbs, gentle enough not to ruin your makeup.
Alex just cooed, shushing you gently when you whimpered—not to silence you, exactly, just a natural occurrence when one catches a glimpse of a baby in the height of crying; the emotion was overwhelming.
You nodded, hugging him tight.
“Happy Anniversary…” you mumbled back against the collar of his shirt, his hands travelled against your back, rubbing soothing circles. As your breathing began to even out, you pulled away from him, and he fixed the soft baby hairs against your forehead, tucking a few strands against your ear. You leaned in, eyes closed, tears shining softly on your eyelashes before Alex took your lips—a kiss that spoke so much with such little words, you opened your mouth, and he took a soft dive inside, his tongue against yours; the hum that escaped your lips was a sensation Alex had felt and known for so long.
After what felt like hours, both of you pulled away, breathing heavily.
His pale skin was flushed red, and his eyes were dark with need, but there was a sense of contentment underneath; he was a gambling man who was on a winning streak.
And your lipstick had transferred to his—soft pigments of cool sangria that looked prettier on him than on you—what a funny thought—you giggled, cleaning his lips with your thumb, but all it did was smear it all over his chin.
“You’ve got a little something…” you chuckled, pointing at his lips.
Alex ignored your words as he broke out a sheepish grin before pulling you in for another kiss.
“I love ya..” he whispered between the soft loving graze of his lips, “...so, so much.”
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Professor AU)
Tags: Alternate Universe — Professor/Student, Older Man/Younger Woman (20 & 44), One Shot, Plotless Smut, Sylvia Plath mentioned, Spanking
Language: English
Word Count: 3.7k
Summary: Professor Turner has caught you smoking inside the campus and asks you to stay after class.
Note: Title is taken from an unreleased track by Lana Del Rey. This may or may not have happened to me in real life (just the PG, very strict rule of conduct part between student and professor bit, of course. Yes, it was a professor I had a crush on too.)
The scent was thick in the air: a grounding whiff of old paper had blanketed the lecture hall in the midday. Professor Turner stood before the class, leaning back against his desk, his face etched by the light from the large windows in the most magnifying way ever, his reading glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose, his salt and pepper hair a beautiful dishevelled mess, his Oxford shirt ever so crisp, and his pleated trousers high-waisted, supported by a leather belt with its golden buckle: wrappers of the eye candy that was your literature professor in Modern Poetry. In his hands was a well-loved poetry book you couldn’t remember the name of—he had been talking for the past three hours, explaining it rather, in an almost descriptive detail, and you had been watching, of course. Now, that’s just different from listening, isn’t it?
Well, at least that’s entirely different now in comparison to what you had been doing for the past semester. You’d been flunking all your subjects, barely meeting the required units. Really, you just didn’t care about your degree at all, sitting through lectures, hearing old people drone about shit you didn’t care about. There are more important things in life than just a flimsy diploma you’ll chuck in your basement ten years from now—or use as a kindling for when the apocalypse starts. It was funny, this. When you’d gotten a hold of information from your friend that the new professor this semester this whole time was some hot DILF (yes, she texted THAT, as a last resort to you actually showing up to class), you had to check it for yourself—the face you wore the entire class was utterly priceless.
Professor Alexander David Turner was a dreamboat. With that expensive cologne, that calm, relaxed posture he carried, and that small wrinkle between his brows when his mind was taking him to another place. It’s come to your attention now why all of your classmates were always present in his lectures. You thought it had something to do with their fixation with Dead Poets Society, but no, he’s just really tantalising to look at, a beautiful melting sundae on an August afternoon. He didn’t check for attendance, but you’ve made quite an impression on him—to put it subtly, you’ve grown quite infamous in the block as the student who haunts the class. The moment he stepped inside the room, his eyes landed in your direction—a new face in the crowd. Ah.
You were nervous, of course. Before even going straight inside the building, you were by the tennis court, smoking. You’d nearly gotten caught—the sound of footsteps from behind you—you made a quick exit then before you’d caught a glimpse of the witness, leaving them with nothing but a stray cigarette butt on the artificial grass.
“...and so, Plath uses Holocaust references to give… a rather dramatised version of her trauma. Now, she’s not exactly making a historical argument, is she? But… it’s used as an expression to vividly express the scale of her suffering. Pushing the limits of what confessional poetry could be.” His voice was softly rough, like something that would sound heavenly on the microphone.
A hand shot up from the front row, probably the one who's been ogling too, but in academic hunger. “So, she’s angry at her father, then?”
Alex looked up from the book before answering. “Yes, but we could still see that she saw him from a more childlike point of view,” he explained, his hazel brown eyes under the glasses going back to the open page.
He continued, “The cadence in the beginning is easily compared to a nursery rhyme rhythm that contrasts to the imagery of the violence in the last bit. So, we can assume she’s mad… but she idolised him and also still sees him as a paternal figure in her life.”
Hell yeah, fix my daddy issues, Professor.
“So, in a way, we’re seeing the entirety of her waking up from this dream—seeing the psychological hold he had over her, even when he had already died. Does that make sense?”
The girl who asked slowly nodded, “Yes, sir.”
Once the clock had struck five, he began to close his book shut. “Right, well, we’ll continue our discussion on Tuesday.”
The minority of uninterested students of the class sighed in relief.
“Class, please remember to submit your outputs tonight; I’ll be leaving the class portal open until midnight. No extensions, so please plan accordingly, and make sure to reread them before submitting, and no, there is never too much use of em dashes,” he announced, before his eyes darted at you.
Oh.
Your name slipped from his mouth like petrol on wood against the scraping of chairs from the students leaving to head to their next class.
“Could you stay behind for a moment, please? I’d like to have a word.”
Your friend, who was waiting for you to finish packing up your bags, heard this and grinned—mouthing a “You’re dead (but tell me how it goes)” to you before leaving the classroom. You nodded in defeat, sighing heavily as you waited for the last student to leave, the door closing shut behind them, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. You were stumped, of course, but also thrilled; an extra time with the hot professor was the kind of opportunity you get after you accidentally clean a genie bottle, but he seems responsible, so this conversation could land somewhere about your grades.
“You’ve had 97 absences in my class this semester,” he starts, his eyes not leaving yours as he sets the book down on the table.
I know, so many days wasted…
“And as much as you are an active participant with sending your assignments to me through the class portal, it’s come to my attention that you’re never attending any classes—mine and other professors, in particular.” Professor Turner has talked about your absences in the faculty, and of course, they knew you too. When it comes to your outputs… Well, he’s seen your essays: a bit derivative, with imprecise wordings, but it could be honed; he saw potential, but not just that, he saw something else today, too.
The lecture hall was now a box of solitude between the two of you. You were about to say something when he continued again.
“Could you come to the table?” It was a command masked as a question. He sat on the soft swivel chair behind the desk.
You nodded, leaving your bag on your chair as you slowly made your way to him—accidentally knocking over someone’s forgotten Hydro Flask—before you reached him. Up close, you could see the faint wrinkles between his brows and under his eyes; it made him impossibly hotter than before. He looked like he spends his nights in pubs drinking beer in a booth alone, reading T.S. Elliot. His brown eyes under those reading glasses were still on you, almost as if memorising your face.
A few minutes passed, his hand travelled into the pocket of his trousers. There was a crinkling sound of some small Ziploc bag—he set it down on the wooden desk—a cigarette butt.
Not just any cigarette butt. The tennis grounds met this particular butt, it was the bastard that was in your mouth four hours ago. The lipstick smudge you left was undeniable evidence.
Fuck. He was the…
“This”, he begins, and his voice heavy with authority and disappointment, “was found near the tennis court this morning.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Around the time you were… otherwise occupied, I believe?” He paused, looking at you. You could sense it, but you didn’t meet his gaze.
“Now, your grades and attendance are a concern, a fairly significant concern, mind. But this…” he trailed, pushing the baggie closer to you. You took the courage to look at him then, and his facial expression was serious. He continued again, arms crossed now, his biceps visible under his shirt. “I’m not going to lecture you on the health risks; that’s merely your choice. But what I am going to address is… that it is against the campus policy to smoke on the university grounds.”
“So,” he says now, leaning back against the chair, “can you explain yourself?”
Busted.
You were embarrassed, of course. His steady gaze didn’t help; he was disappointed but also authoritative: it was enough to heat your body up to a burning, molten degree. You wanted to shackle yourself from doing something unholy—like going under the desk and apologising with your mouth instead.
“I just needed to, sir,” you started. “I didn’t have time to run out because, well… my next class—yours—was about to start in a few minutes.”
“Yes, I hear you,” he replied, adjusting his reading glasses with his knuckle. “But that’s not an option; it’s in the rules. Smoking, vaping, any of it, is not permitted here.” He tapped the baggie again with a single finger.
“Your attendance is a concern, and now, this incident… just adds to the pile.”
He lets out a small sigh, his gaze steady and holding yours. “Your cigarettes and your lighter, please.” He extends his hand now, expecting.
Your eyes widened. Cigarettes? While a rather pricey haul this morning, it was easily replaceable. But your lighter? Your Zippo was now on a different footnote; it was a vintage, beautiful old Maritime Zippo back from the 1940s you got from an antique shop. You exhaled through your nose, fumbling through the pocket of your skirt, before taking out your crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and placing it on the table beside the plastic baggie.
His hand remained outstretched, waiting for the last object he asked for.
“I… I don’t have a lighter.” You lied, voice strained and and your eyes looking away from him.
He furrowed his brows, the lines on his forehead indenting. “I saw you. You have it.”
“Must’ve slipped my hands.”
“Now,” he demanded. “Or we will have to discuss the consequences of your resistance.”
You scoffed, What’s the worst he could do?
“Fine, you want proof? Search me,” you taunted, raising your arms up.
Alex didn’t move from his seat; instead, his eyes remained fixed on you. You thought he was just going to do that for the next five minutes to embarrass you further, but as you challenged him, you soon realised he wasn’t the kind to back down. He stood up from the swivel chair in an unhurried manner and rounded the desk before walking up to you. He stopped just two feet away from you, and his presence this time was more imposing than before. His eyes scanned your whole figure, finding a loose thread from your flimsy facade. His hands didn’t move, not yet. The air in the lecture hall had gone off, crackling in the air. Even the lights from the big windows behind the two of you had dimmed down. His silence was more dangerous than any verbal cut. It was a test, perhaps a counter to your challenge; it’s not like you’re expecting him to actually do it, right?
But the objective was clear: if you did have the lighter, and you were lying, the consequences would be dealt with.
You remained rooted in your footing; he won’t do it, you were sure of that.
But your assurance had died quickly as he finally closed the inches between the two of you. His hands—unexpectedly—touched you, patting gently on your sides. Your mind had gone blank; only his cologne—spiced amber and sandalwood—and his touch filled the gaps in there. His palms were warm and large, and they made their assessing travel to the pocket of your skirt: empty, no cold rectangular bump of a Zippo. Professor Turner continued his slow, clinical exploration of your form, his touch surprisingly grounding. His eyes were not staring back at you; rather, he was staring at your forehead, as otherwise looking into you would seem too intimate.
He found nothing; his movement paused now. But under his lenses, his gaze landed on you.
“See?” You whispered, a subtle triumph in your voice, fresh from the bundle of nerves as his touch was still tattooed into your skin.
His touch shifted, his long fingers now ascending to the lines of your ribs. You felt ringing in your ears, panicking as he reached the curve of your breast; you tensed immediately.
“Hey! I don’t think you’re supposed to do this, sir—”
But your protest died as his hands cupped the swell of your breast, his fingers gently pressing the fabric of your bra from under your shirt. Nestled against your thin lace bra, located just near the underwire, was the warm metal, the familiar shape of your reusable lighter. His fingertips brushed against the metallic form.
Busted.
Your face was warm for two reasons. His eyes, which once darted to your chest, had returned to look at you again.
“Take it off,” he commanded.
Confused, you let out a disbelieving scoff. “What? My shirt?”
Professor Turner offered nothing but a raised brow, as if asking you himself, did he stutter?
Well, this situation has just gotten interesting.
Your hands trembled as you gently reached for the buttons of your shirt, looking down at his loafers as you released each button with the slight touch of your shaking fingertips. Your skin had slowly exposed itself to him; with enough access, he reached out, gently easing the Zippo from its hiding place. His knuckles brushed the soft flesh of your breast as he retrieved the contraband. The small metallic pocket-sized thing was dented from the corners, and its line-drawn sailboat was etched onto the case. There was a name written on the bottom—unreadable now from its constant usage; it was a well-loved thing. He didn’t acknowledge it; his focus was solely on you as he pocketed the lighter. Professor Turner looked more serious this time. He steps back then, and before, with his words, he instructed you two words that made your brain leak out of your ears.
“Bend over, on the desk.”
You blinked, unsure if you were hearing him correctly. Regardless, you did, slowly leaning forward, your hands resting on the smooth surface of the wooden desk, your eyes a pair of dilated, questioning gazes as you looked up at him. His jaw was set in that commanding, intimidating way, and he looked at you like you were easily crushable in the palm of his hands.
Professor Turner’s voice was firmer now, breaking the silence of the lecture hall. “Disregarding campus policy, attempting to conceal contraband… it’s unacceptable,” he says, the words distasteful in his mouth.
Then, with a sharp edge of his tongue, he continued. “Lift up your skirt.”
Your hands trembled, obeying regardless of the fear. The fabric rose up over your hips, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs. You didn’t know what was about to happen, but you weren’t complaining, not even in the slightest. Your mind raced through all the possibilities of what was about to come as he walked behind you.
Then, a sharp, stinging smack against your backside.
“Count,” he ordered.
“O-one,” you whispered, before he landed another blow to your skin, the sound echoing through the hall.
“Two,” you continued, eyes closed. His palms meet the soft skin of your arse again, and it was a delicious sensation that sent your whole body shivering.
“Three.”
Each strike was the aftertaste of rum, the long finish of each note dancing on your tongue; it was a build-up to something potently delectable, and you felt your voice growing hoarse with each whip of his palm. By the tenth strike, you were already a flushed, trembling, sweating mess.
“Now,” his voice had cut through your haze, firm and commanding. “Apologise. Say, ‘Sorry, Sir.’”
It was a simple thing, but you felt that if you said it, then whatever this was would stop—and frankly, you didn’t want it to.
“No,” you spat, shaking your head in defiance.
The lecture hall was dead quiet for a brief period before, with a final, decisive blow, Professor Turner stated, “Right. That’s it.”
You couldn’t see his face, you could only make out his reflection from the windows that you two were in front of, and you wanted to turn before finally a set of two fingers slid your panties to the side, exposing you further. You felt the cool air hit your wet cunt, tensing you up, and to make your breath hitch higher, the fingers left your skin, and the sound of the distinct unbuckling of a belt filled the air, the leather rasping against the fabric. Then, the sound of his metal zipper had sealed the deal.
Oh, god.
He offered one last opportunity for you to reclaim your absolution. “Apologise,” he repeated.
“No,” you managed to say, the last word you’ve ever uttered.
The heavy weight of the silence filled the space between the two of you. Then, you felt it—he slid your panties further to the side—he entered inside of you.
You gasped, immediately holding on to the edge of the desk as you cried out. The stretch was the sear of a cigarette burn against your skin. He moved with a precise, slow movement, as if to get you used to the feeling—or to withhold you from what you’d be begging for in the next few minutes. Your mouth fell open with each thrust, eyes closed as you moaned out. It felt like your insides were being spread to the absolute limit.
“Yes…” you whimpered; the word was a continuous affirmation straight from your throat as he continued to move his hips. “Yes. Yes. Yes…” your resistance weakened now, and the need for your release was imminent now in the large space, the sound of your bodies filling the air.
“Oh, sir… Ah—hah—” you gasped when he thrusted particularly hard. “Faster, please…” you begged, your back arching.
Professor Turner leaned closer to your body, his warmth hovering over your back as he whispered in your ear. “Apologise for me, love,” he repeated once more.
You let out a choked moan as you shook your head; you weren’t going to apologise, no.
In response, he lifted himself off and gave you another stinging strike against your bare ass. You let out a loud cry before that whine soon died down as he thrusted—but a man of pure sadistic orders, kept his slow pace.
You couldn’t take it anymore; it felt like you were on the world’s slowest roller coaster. Your resistance has crumbled now, cracking under the surface.
“S-sorry, sir.” you choked out.
As those words left your lips, the slow rhythm of his hips had halted. The sudden stillness was enough to be scraped with a butter knife.
“Again.” He ordered, his voice a steady rumble.
You whimpered as your body trembled, with a shaky voice, you repeated the words with a tonne more weight. “Sorry, sir.”
Professor Turner moved again; this time it was a movement made to brutally fuck you straight into the desk. Your body shook as he plunged inside you with the force of a hydraulic press. It was too much—you were crying out, your back arching as your nails scraped the varnish off of the wood. He was revelling at the sounds you were making; every gasp made him go impossibly faster. He was putting every frustration he had over you into this biological ritual practice that was as old as the Zippo you kept. You were rocking on the table, your moans flying around the walls of the godforsaken lecture hall like a DVD logo screensaver, bouncing off of every corner of the room.
He gathered your hair in his hands, pulling your hair back into a tight ponytail, the nape of your neck exposed. He continued his ruinous pace; each thrust was a series of him banging you up to heaven and then back on earth, your body coiling around his big hard dick. You were close, so fucking close.
“Hold it,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck.
The command was the first thing you were sure you wouldn’t follow through with now. The pleasure was hot, bordering on painful—his moans filled your ear, hot breath against your skin, as he groaned, calling out your name like it was made to be in his lips at this exact moment.
Too much.
You let out a strangled cry, cumming all over his length, sending uncontrollable spasms all over him. Your body had convulsed into pure elated sensations, the bright lights filled your vision, and a release left you breathless and momentarily at peace. He groaned, as your climax was a chain reaction to his own that was felt to an unimaginably precise degree. He lets out one last guttural sound that vibrates through you before he finally rolls his hips one last time—his hot, fat load filled you to the absolute brim, making you shiver as you whimpered against him. He fell against your back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
As you turned to look at him. His brown eyes—bigger than you realised—were half-closed, completely relaxed under his fogged glasses. His salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in every direction. He was still taking the air back to his lungs as you two lay there for a while; his heavy weight was a comfort you didn’t know you needed—or maybe he just smelt good.
It was quiet, the sunlight on the window was starting to reach the two of you, and you wondered now if anyone from outside had heard or seen of anything, but for now, it didn’t matter.
The comfortable silence was slowly knocked down from the shelf like a soft thud on the carpeted floor.
“I’m confiscating the Zippo,” he whispered. “Be here on Tuesday, if you want it back.”
You let out a grin, humming softly. “Yes, sir.”
Note: Any self-respecting Zippo owner wouldn't put their lighters against their skin (might evaporate the fluid), but for the sake of the story 💔 (Yes, I wrote this in a rush, forgive me!)
"He said with a smile, you don't have to love me, let's get high awhile"
Masterlist Here
Chapter |||
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician), You
Tags: Age Difference, Guilt, Moral Ambiguity, Older Man/Younger Woman (19 & 39), The Car Era (Arctic Monkeys), Post-performance Shagging, Sitting on his lap is the place to be, The glasses stay on, No proofread; we die like men.
Language: English
Word Count: 5.0k
Summary: Continuation of "I'm Your Favorite Kid, Let's Play!" Last one for the road? He's sweating through his suit, body aching in humming soreness. He smells like cigarettes, beer, and metal gears (and boy, do you love it.)
Note: Because sex with Turner sounds like the start of this specific guitar riff. (For legal reasons, I will say that I'm guessing.)
March 06, 2023
A pin could be dropped inside the velvety, smoky, leather-scented dressing room, and you’d be certain that you’d hear it with the decibel of an atomic bomb. The silence was filling in the gaps of what had happened earlier, still fresh against your lips: his sighs, the wet muscle of his tongue, and the graze of his teeth on your bottom lips before he sucked them gently. Vivid as any fever dream, it was. The look he gave you before leaving was certainly a clear signal as to what was about to come; you couldn’t contain your excitement, your heart drumming fast like you’d managed to wake up from a marathon.
His scent was still in the air; his taste was still fresh on your buds, and the soothing voice he carries so effortlessly played in your ears like a beautiful, broken record. The heavy pressure of the backstage pass hung on your neck. God, it was all too much, all so much. Your legs bounced on the soft carpet of the dressing room, the sound of your jeans rough against the leather couch. You’d managed to lay your head against the headrest, but at last, the nervous buzz was still there, surging out of your sweaty palms, the same palms that tugged his hair not too long ago.
Oh my god. Distraction, I need a distraction.
You fumbled through your phone, opening the message of your friend. Once again, she’s complaining that you’ve left her on read.. Sorry, I’m hooking up with a rockstar at the moment. Can’t a girl have a hobby? You shook your head to erase those thoughts as you pressed your phone closer to you, the harsh blue light of the cellular device glowing in the darkened space of solitude.
“aaah sorry,” you typed, “hell week rn, prelims, ill return the shoes next week.”
She replied with a heart reaction before the chat bubble had begun to appear again.
“omg no it’s ok no worries.”
The bubble disappeared for a moment, then returned.
“came to chat u bc we’re going to XYLO tn”
You pursed your lips as the typing continued, she adds.
“i know u wanna gooooo 👀 u had fun last night didnt u? u game?”
“can’t.” you replied instantly, “next time maybe.”
“😭 girl stfu be so fr... study well tho, manifesting for u!!!”
The funniest thing this week would probably be the knowledge that she has no clue about what you’d ventured last night, not even a who. A lady never tells, right? Maybe, but you didn’t want to mess up this image your world painted you as. It was nothing more than a barricade, a protection to defer your identity, not only to your friends but also to your family too. If they find out that you’d been fooling around with a man twice your age—out of wedlock—they’d certainly disown you. Sure, whatever, Christian-raised household, blah, blah, blah. Policing women’s bodies, yadda, yadda, yadda. This’ll be a secret you keep forever. You were not to tell anyone, not even her.
It’s not like anyone’d expect it anyway.
The phone flickered shut as you pressed the off button. Well, that momentarily took off the pressure. You scrubbed your eyes as you sighed. Your phone slipped through the pocket of your jeans before you quietly moved—straightening up your posture from the couch, a lighter from the throw pillow fell to the ground—before, with a soft, reluctant push of your body, you stood up from your seat, the rustling sound of the lanyard against the fabric of your shirt was audible in the room, as if it was even asking, 'Care to put it to the test?'
You managed to sneak into the bustling catering area again, all unfamiliar faces, each sharing a different resemblance to whatever the night was taking them, or rather, depending on what their job entailed. Everyone moved with a purpose; it was one thing you lacked tonight, and even despite it all, to appear busy, nonchalant, and feigning innocence to a crowd you didn’t belong to, all of your efforts and movements translated to stiff awkwardness that surprised you, even. You were awkward, but not to this extent.
You were sure the vase would begin to crack; someone might notice this puny little teenager wearing a band shirt isn’t just some staff member’s daughter. Are you even holding the sandwich correctly? Is this the right dressing? Is hot sauce frowned upon to put on a sala—
Then, because the jokes write themselves, you took a miscalculated step back and collided with someone, again. You turned with your mouth hanging open, midway through a bite of the chicken sandwich.
“Oh—” the stranger gasped, “Alright, mate?” he exclaimed apologetically, with somewhat of an accent taken from someone’s hometown you haven’t stepped in before, but knew all too well.
It was Matthew fucking Helders, also eating a sandwich in his hand. He looked at you, brows furrowed in mild apology as if he’d also been distracted, maybe pre-show jitters? Or it was just the sandwich. You were frightened; maybe, somehow, in some way, he knows who you are. But the drummer was blissfully unaware of the dreading look on your face; all he assumes is that he must’ve stepped on your leather boots. He took a close inspection, eyeing up and down—someone’s kid? Or not, the lanyard evident around your neck.
“No, uh—sorry.” You stammered, cheeks flushed as you stepped back.
The man only chuckled in that friendly, easy sound. “No worries, love. Happens all the time backstage, ‘s like a maze in ‘ere, it is.” he says, looking around, as he took another bite of his food, then, he paused. “Say, you wouldn’t by any chance know where the fire exit is, would ya?”
He gestured for a door, with the red neon sign above blinking ominously; he mentioned that the way it was glowing should’ve been memorable for anyone who’d seen it. You shook your head quickly, almost as if your head was sending a message: No, haven’t seen your fire exit; no, I didn’t sleep with your best mate, no.
“ ‘s alright,” he nodded, popping the last bit of the sandwich before clasping his pocket. He cursed, looking around to where the hallway leading from the dressing room was before turning to look at you again. “You got a lighter on ya?”
By instinct of pure hospitality, despite the very fact that you didn’t smoke nor participate in burning things for pleasure, you clasped your pocket; only your phone and your wallet were in there. “Sorry, I don’t...” you murmured, before scratching your head, looking out the catering area and out the hazy hallway heading who knows where. “But, the exit is...” Your mouth was filling with words, grasping for an answer you didn’t know. “Uhh...”
It seemed that this antic you pulled sent him to a deeper sense of amusement, a genuine, almost fatherly smile spreading across his face. “No worries, love. First time here, then?” he asked.
You nodded, head empty still as you looked around.
“Ah, new crew.” he assumed, a complete misinterpretation of your presence, but regardless, it was a buildable strawman, strong enough to weave. “Yes, uhh... Sound.” you answered quickly, and he gave you a friendly pat on the back, an almost jarring gesture. Oh god, he’s so nice.
“Fuckin, ‘ell, they hire in nappies or summat? You lot should be in the wings, in case you get lost—don’t wander too far, eh?” he joked, before letting you off. He turned, disappearing into the throng. You were left standing there, your sandwich forgotten in your hand. Right, well... He didn’t look like he was suspecting anything. It wasn’t like you were the kind of girl Alex sought out, as Matt’d seen them first-hand throughout the years of touring; you were... Well, an entirely different genre, and he knew full well it would take a couple of years for the man to shift his taste in women, that mid-life crisis, y’know?
You managed to sneak in through the wings just as Matt instructed. It was just the perfect time; the crowd had begun to rumble, the wave of their excitement reaching from where you stood. You wore your lanyard like a shield against the workers who are being paid to be there, and as nervous as you seemed, they assumed you were just another intern; one even asked you to bring them coffee, which… well, you did with no complaints. The stagehands, with their headset radios and their focused expression, moved with precision, making last-minute adjustments.
Then, the lights dimmed, and the roar was enough to make you deaf in both ears.
An intern—an actual one, and no, he’s afraid of telling his boss that you’re not included in the payroll—nudged you gently, handing you a pair of earplugs. You gladly take them, mouthing in gratitude before putting them on. It was a momentary pan to the show you were watching; with your ears protected, you felt more… relaxed.
A single spotlight pierced through the darkness of the stage, illuminating in all its glory — Alex, like an ethereal being who just happened to fly down from the sky, but only just for tonight. His guitar slung around him, his wifebeater under his dark blue suit, the soft gleam of his gold chain, and the way he was looking over the crowd… His presence… God, his presence. He was entirely a different man on stage, in front of hundreds of crowds. It was as if you were the only one who’d notice it, despite your adoration for him… there’s always a hidden veil wrapped around his face that no other person could reach and take off, as they’re too blinded by the glitz and glamour of the product they sell. The quiet, sexed-up man in the night club, the contemplative brown-eyed man in the convenience store, the guilt-ridden man in the dressing room, and now, this… this untouchable being on stage, all different… and you’ve come to wonder which one bears the most truth.
Though, even as your mind was sailing trips, you were still mesmerised by the arrays of music. It wasn’t the way he commanded the stage that harmonised something inside you, something that’s been lost and just begging to creep to the surface. You’d think it was the way he fucked or the way he kissed that got you shaking in the corner, but no. It was the dance he’d honed and perfected for two decades; it was an undeniable charm that left the audience fixating, begging, clamouring for more. At the end of the day, you were no free agent when it came to him. The song you’ve only listened to on your phone was alive, and maybe… thinking about you when he’s staring off in the distance.
Tonight is a memory you’d wish to keep in a bottle.
Wait a minute… Is… he… you squinted, is he seriously doing weight lifts with his mic stand?
The encore was ironically the first song that introduced you to him, and as its last chords began to ring in a dissonant end, the crowd erupted in thundering applause. The moment the stage lights dipped, you immediately walked out of the wings and back to the backstage area. The question was simmering still; did he see you? You didn’t know if he’d noticed you in the same spot by the wings for almost two hours (you’d become the tech crews’ favourite in running coffee errands, so you’d done some jogging in between; it was entirely sacrificial, to maintain the ‘intern’ front). Yet, you didn’t care. If he saw you, then he saw you; if he didn’t… he’s probably looking for you in the dressing room, where he’d left you before.
You pushed your way through, bumping awkwardly into a stagehand carrying a guitar case; you left them with an unheard apology as you raced through the backstage area… already moving from each corner, crew members urging from left and right. Fuck, this was the frenzy that almost seemed theatrical; despite it all, you managed to slip through the bodies. But at last, your sense of direction was left in the dressing room; the corridors all seemed identical. Which one was it?
The question helter-skeltered in your head as you turned to one corner and then another, your pace quickened, and underneath your soles was a panic that was beginning to rise, prickling through the base of your foot. You didn’t know now if this was all just a dream now, and that this whole time, you’ve been in your dorm, falling asleep to one of their songs. Fuckin’ hell, you cursed to yourself. It was in here earlier; you needed to know which one it was before someone finds you here. You swore to yourself this’d be the last time that you’d be doing all this rebellious shit.
You sighed heavily as you laid your back against the wall, admitting defeat now for the second time in the evening.
Only then did you realise that this wasn’t a wall but a door—it swung open abruptly; your sigh had heard you.
The first thing you felt after the wooden frame disappeared from your sensation was a hand: strong, firm, and familiar.
It was a wordless extraction as the person pulled you inside, the door clicking shut behind you in a soft thud, you looked up at the culprit, your mind still hazy from the action, before you were met with the familiar gaze of the ebony eyes of Alex Turner. Post-performance high at its peak: sweat shining on his flushed, pale skin, his hair clinging to his neck and forehead, his familiar scent of cologne effervescing through the fabrIc of his wifebeater, he smelt of beer and cigarettes, a specific scent you were naturally repulsed by, but with him… he wore it well, as it was fashion fit for his lifestyle. Oh god, he had the look that could melt you in the palm of his warm hands. You tried to be an equal measure of composure, but alas, you looked away, blushing. He looked hot, undeniably, devastatingly hot. The main event was over; what’s next?
“You, uh,” you murmured, “You were good out there.” The way it fell off your lips, he’d merely compare it to a Catholic whispering his crimes in the confessional room, breathless, unsure.
He hummed, pleased with himself. Now that you’ve said it, you could’ve sworn he’d lift you up against the wall and start nailing you there, as he’d gently laid his hands on your waist, a soft, mind-dizzying touch before he let go of you, his hands grasping on the doorknob just beside you as he locked it with a soft click—privacy, to ward away the eyes of others.
Then, he turned, his back facing you, before he casually moved to the worn sofa. Every inch of exhaustion had sat through the leather skin of the furniture the moment he sank into it; he leaned back, eyes closed, and his legs parted by instinct, as did his arms as he rested them on the back pillows.
Oh, what a sight.
You moved towards him, your boots soft against the familiar carpet. It was out of courage that you gently settled onto his lap, your body humming with the excitement. You felt him jolt awake, and when his face turned, it was you he stared back at. “That bit…” you began, your eyes looking down on his chest, his aviators sitting on the collar of his shirt. “Of… you using the mic stand as a metal detector…” you continued, your eyes rolling back as though you were playfully irritated with him.
“It was funny.”
Alex chuckled; he made a quick bounce of his knee—to move you closer to him. His hands moved to the small of your back as he held you there. You looked up, and he was staring back at you, almost contemplative; behind the tiresome expression he wore, he looked almost guilty still. You knew you were in his mind the whole night, holding his guilt as if you were bound to his morals.
If porcelain dolls condensed, he’d look like it; his sweat was shining on the top of his lip, and you were carrying weights of your restraint to prevent yourself from leaning in and licking it.
Instead, you began to break the ice through your careful observations from the performance.
“You sing off-tempo.”
Alex laughed, a genuine sound that vibrated through you. It almost caught you off guard, the thrill of it, yourself being the cause of his mirth. Oh, it was too much. He reached up; his hands that touched you found the back of your neck, his fingers gently toying with your hair.
“It’s our song,” he reasoned; the playful deviance of his voice was evident. He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, “I can sing it in any bloody way I want.”
Ah, so that’s how it is. You reached down, grabbing his aviators, then you opened them up and lifted them to wear on your face. The tinted lenses obscured your vision entirely, there was something poetic in there, experiencing the perspective of how he sees the world.
“How do I look?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as you stared at him.
Alex leaned back, squinting as if he was taking his sweet time assessing you; he was smiling in that charming way that had completely taken your heart from the very beginning. “Like a rockstar,” he softly whispered. Now, he wouldn’t say that word unironically, but he only did because he knew what you wanted to hear, what his girls would always want to hear, and you were one of them for tonight, as long as the guilt doesn’t come back up to the surface, as long as you two tread in the safest waters.
He continued then, his fingers traced the line of your jaw, “The kind that’d sing off-tempo.”
You giggled. God, the teasing, the compliment, the very knowledge that you’re sitting on his lap, wearing his sunglasses… it was all too much, a heady mix of delight, soft on your tongue. You leaned in now, your lips finding his.
The groan he put into the kiss was a sensation that you felt underneath you, his hand gripped the back of your head as he pulled you closer. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, tongues danced, and he took the lead of tracing the seam of your lips before he sucked on them possessively, as if he’d been waiting hours for this again. It was passionate; hell, it was raw hunger, mirroring the desire, the concoction of last night.
But it came back again, and it twisted his stomach—he pulled away, groaning in guilt and reluctance. His forehead rested against you, breaths shared, ragged, shallow. He kept his eyes closed shut as if the thought of seeing you would be a straight shotgun to the head; he needed to think this clearly. More importantly, he needed to push back the tide of his own desire.
“Taxi…” was the first word he managed to say. “It’s getting late…” he trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air: I should take you home, I should send you away, I should stop this.
“Just a few minutes,” you plead, leaning closer, kissing the sensitive skin of his sweaty neck. you could taste the salts; your teeth grazing against his flesh was a sensation that left his whole body shuddering as you pressed a warm kiss, and then another, trailing along his pulse point. He groaned, stiffening with each landing of your lips; he was already flushing rapidly, his neck and up his face reddening under the sleight of your touch. “Nnngh…” the sound escaped from his throat; he was absolutely struggling for control. You paused as you took off your lips from his skin and began removing his glasses, the brown filters immediately disappearing from your viewpoint; you could see him clearer now. You hung the aviators on him then.
“There,” you whispered.
Then, you began to fumble for his belt; the familiar sound of it was a jarring trip back to the first hours of yesterday’s moon. Feather-like touch, light, purposeful against the fabric of his trousers. But, despite the heightened state, he managed a last-minute grip back to reality. His hand shot out, wrapped around your wrist, a gentle halt. You looked up, and his half-lidded eyes, clouded with lust, flickered open as he looked back.
Your name, those letters that had been coalescing in his head, had escaped his lips as he whispered softly, “It’s… fuck, it’s gettin’ late. I… I don’t want this to happen again, ‘s not right—”
“Please…” you whispered, your lips pouting as you leaned closer to him, your nose touching his, your breath mingling with his.
In a way, you were probably his tormentor, the greatest clapback from whichever God that truly exists out there, where they spawned you here on earth, to teach him what exactly? Control? To keep his dick in his pants on each tour? Fuck that, fuck everything. He’d blame it on the aviators: blurring his morals and judgement, and maybe if he was immature, he’d probably even blame it on you, on how girls like you would only learn that the stove is hot when you touch it twice. He groaned heavily before his eyes landed down on his merely undone belt, as he finally, finally, surrendered, once again.
His belt loosened in an instant, he zipped open his fly and pushed down his boxers. Boom goes the fuckin’ dynamite—springing free already, and you didn’t waste even an ounce of a moment. Desperately, you pushed yourself up from his lap; you quickly kicked off your boots, your feet adorned with pastel-coloured socks, then you shimmied off your baggy pants and lastly, your panties. You shed them off, dropping them to the carpet, and your legs, glowing underneath the dim light of the dressing room, exposed themselves in his filtered eyes.
It conflicted Alex just how clumsy you’d be in conversations, and then there would be a time when you’d be of equal grace in your movements and equally predatory. You straddled him, knees steady, settling on either side of his hips, bare skin pressed warmly against his trousers. You were a gymnast suspended above him as your eyes met his with hunger that he didn’t know if he could even satisfy. His dick was already hard, stiff, throbbing, pressing against your cunt.
With both your hands on his shoulder, you began to sink down, a slow, torturous movement as your body aligned with his. Ohhh, fuuuuuck, he gritted his teeth as the sensation of you, the soft brush of your flesh, and the moist heat that you carried wrapped around his cock. His eyes, which were closed underneath his aviators, snapped open, and he gasped.
“Fuck—condoms.” he choked out, a last-minute thought, the forgotten caution.
“I don’t have one,” you murmured, cheeks already flushing. “Do you?”
He closed his eyes before shaking his head in an almost apologetic manner. God, this was so absurd; if life were a sitcom, the audience would probably be laughing now.
You giggled, he felt the vibration around his shaft.
“Then…” you trailed, “Can I continue…?”
He looked into your eyes, aviators hanging on the bridge of his nose.
You took a gentle grind and he groaned, his hands finding your waist immediately as he gripped you close, a clear sign, then.
Oh, this raw feeling – how he missed it. Fuck. The sensation, the deep pressure that made his entire body sink deeper into the leather sofa. “Ugh…” he groaned, forgetting everything he’s ever thought or every problem that had been in his mind. He was shackled to the moment, your sighs, your moans, and the way your body moved above him. It was a pleasure that was deep, achingly full, hitting you in all areas. Alex was a wet dream come alive, in his dark suit, with his shades still on, his hair mussedly styled, and he shamelessly groaned again, biting his lips in times when you’d grind particularly stronger. His state was the embodiment of a beautiful wreckage, face flushed, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. He was practically liquefied underneath you, his sweat glistening under the dim lights, his aviators a few thrusts from falling off. Naturally, men are visual creatures, and from this coffee-filtered viewpoint, there you were, straddling him, your hair framing your equally flushed face, your body moving with such passion — God, you were riding him like a professional.
His other hand reached out from under your shirt, clasping your breasts. His lips were begging to suckle on you. With practised ease, he pushed your shirt above your collarbone; your bra was the same black pair as your panties, a flimsy thing made to be taken off. Clever girl. He unhooked your bra, the clip clasping off before he also pushed them off, lifting both fabrics off of your head impatiently. As the barrier had made its careless fall on the armchair of the sofa, his eyes gazed at your chest, tracing the soft curves of the beautiful flesh as you moved. He pushes his head off the headrest as he descended close, his mouth warm and wet against one nipple. You let out a soft moan as he sucked gently, your hands tugged the strands of his hair, begging for more. His tongue expertly rolled around your nipple—fast, slow, fast again—while his free hand kneaded with the other, teasing the peak until it was a hard, sensitive bud. Alex alternated between them, mouth closing on the other, then vice versa. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You remained your uniform grinds, despite the feeling that you were already close. Alex, though, was already thrusting underneath, his hands now holding on to your hips; he pulled his mouth from your breast, a loud, wet smack in the dressing room as he began to focus now on the encore. He met your movements with an increasing rhythm, skin to skin, sending jolts of pleasure to his senses. Your moans had transitioned to an airy, breathy call that was undeniably a beautiful hymn to his fuckin’ ears, spurring him on.
You gasped—eyes rolled back—and Alex saw the way the climax had painted your face so beautifully he couldn’t tear his focus away. You gripped his cock with a hungry clench, dragging you down with him—he gasped sharply as he let himself go, painting your insides hot, thick, to the absolute brim. He’d managed another groan from his very lungs, drawn-out, the last sound of his surrender before the guilt would resurface again, but it didn’t hit him like a punch exactly, more like… a slow death, but he was relaxed against you, completely fuckin’ spent.
Fuck, did he need a cigarette.
The flick of the lighter filled the quiet street in the secret part of the venue. He lit his cigarette, inhaling—puffing once, the first smoke trailing off his lips before he inhaled again through his nose. You watched him smoke beside you, utterly fascinated by the way he held the cigarette. He saw you looking, and he offered a silent question in his gaze as he opened the tab of his Marlboro Gold.
“No, thanks,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I… I don’t smoke.”
Alex nodded, taking another drag as he put his cigarette and lighter in the breast pocket of his suit. It was close to midnight when the two of you managed to slip out of the backstage area, somewhat, in some way, after you dressed quickly; one made a beeline first, before the other followed next. You knew where the fire exit was located now, funnily enough, and Alex was beside you this time, waiting patiently (because this isn’t dine and dash, unlike last night…) for a taxi to arrive. This time, you were wearing the aviators, perched up above your head like a headband.
“Matt mentioned some crew member who was hogging the sandwiches,” he said out of the blue.
You immediately tensed up, covering your face with your hands, groaning. “What?”
He just shrugged; subtle grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took another slow drag from his cigarette. “Nothin’, forget about it.”
Absolutely not, you will absolutely not forget about it.
The silence that left was comfortable enough, the distant sounds of the city making an appearance every now and then, along with the soft hiss of his cigarette. Then, he turned to face you, the gaze thoughtful.
“ ’ve got a nice voice, by the way.”
You blinked, “Sorry?”
“Your voice,” he clarified, exhaling his smoke before inhaling a centimeter close to the filter now. “ ‘sounds nice, 've grown to appreciate it now that we’ve actually… talked before the… y’know. ” He gestured vaguely, the understatement dancing with the greyish smoke.
You looked away then, staring off in the distance, genuinely touched by his compliment. You knew full well you were blushing again, rather deeply this time.
“Thanks.”
“Listen,” he started again, as he threw the filter away, the ember disappearing as it hit against the tarmac. “Can you… y’know, just keep this—”
“—Between us? Of course.” you nodded. “I understand,” you whispered, already aware of the unsaid negotiation from the very beginning.
You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell that it was the answer he wanted to hear; he’s choosing to believe that you would keep your word.
A taxi was closely approaching, and you flagged the driver down.
He’d handed cash to the driver more than he should—so far, he still hasn’t grasped the currency of this country. You took a careful glance on the sideview mirror, his figure disappearing; he didn’t leave in the spot you were seconds ago; instead, he’d stayed for another cigarette.
You closed your eyes, the ride on your way to your flat would be quiet, deafeningly so.
Fuckin’ hell, you thought to yourself, Well, that got out of my system.
Note: Can you tell I wrote this during ovulation week I'M SO HAPPY THEY HAVE BACKSTAGE PHOTOS FROM THE LAST TOUR AHAHAHHA. OH, HE LOOKED SO GOOD I WAS COMICALLY SALIVATING.
I apologise for the late update; my phone broke, and the draft was in there. I won't have a phone 'til December LOL.
Also, I wrote this instead of doing my electrical and power layout for my floor plan... which I will be passing tomorrow—*checks time*—today! (update: clutched it during a 3-hour lecture, THREE CHEERS TO PROCRASTINATION!)
Apparently,,,, there's an influenza outbreak here, and we're advised to not go to classes (I'm waiting for suspension... I need that suspension, I have the immune system of a pringle chip).
And yes, apparently the AO3 writer curse is real, and no, I don't care; I'm still going to write!
"Dedicated to the ones we serve, she's so full of learning curves."
Masterlist Here
Chapter ||
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician), Matt Helders, Nick O'Malley, Jamie Cook.
Tags: Age Difference, Guilt, Moral Ambiguity, Older Man/Younger Woman (19 & 39), The Car Era (Arctic Monkeys), Kissing (kiss count: 1, just an appetizer before the main course)
Language: English
Word Count: 5.4k
Summary:
Continuation of "We've Got Nowhere To Go"! Getting cornered at the convenience store somehow gets you a free drink... and a backstage pass.
Notes:
Title is taken from a track by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. The band's lyrics are oddly poetic, and it pains me deeply that no one talks about it.
Also, Alex is a Camels guy, yes? But I'd like to pretend we're on the same team (Marlboro, anyone?)
March 06, 2023
The next day came with an easy humid promise. It was typical weather for your country's climate, especially with March settling early in the calendar. You had spent the morning in a daze, barely holding yourself together in class—all the lectures seemed to mesh on the whiteboard as one charmingly handsome frontman, straight out of a fucking Bruno Mars music video. It was odd enough that you were listening in class, only because the letters on the board seemed to reiterate everything that happened last night, in graphic, pornographic, sensory-filled detail. The simmering anxiety was still there, though the afterglow of what had been done was shining through like a cruel, brown-eyed, gold-chain-wearing silver lining.
Last night, your friend (poor thing), had thought of nine different scenarios of where you'd gone off to, she was scared shitless. By the time you arrived at the table, her face had morphed from a shell-shocked victim who was glued to her phone to a very disapproving mum, who was, now, praying to be given the opportunity to chuck her drink at you. It didn't help in the slightest that you didn’t smell like yourself and looked like you’d just been run over by a bus—to be precise, a double-decker bus. You gave her an awkward smile, mumbling about how the line in the bathroom was taking so long.
“Oh?” One of her acquaintances—who you’ve just met—replied, “Which bathroom did you go to? We were there earlier.” The rest of her friends nod along, recounting the lengthy hallway they went through to get there.
Huh.
“But I think that bathroom’s haunted… probably by a malevolent ghost,” she adds, genuinely terrified as she clutches her purse.
Huh.
Anyway…
The afternoon sun was a scorching hot ball in the sky, it was a long trip back home due to traffic, and you decided to take a quick shower and change into comfortable clothes: an oversized graphic tee and some starched blue denim, as well as your leather-clad boots that you polish every other century. The blues from above slowly blended into a beautiful purply sky as night was soon upon us to watch your mission. You opted to ride the train this time, heading to the familiar, jostling affair on the avenue from where the concert would be held. Each stop made your heart lurch—a nervous energy that you simply couldn't shake. You only carried your phone and your wallet to be practical. Now that the next stop was slowly approaching, you couldn't help but wonder now—fuck, the taste of rebellion was an acidic, sour plum. You were ticketless, lost, and maybe a little tired. The impulsive decision was now settling in your stomach.
God, what am I doing?
The journey south was deeper than you realized—and longer too. It was a two-hour travel, and when you stepped off the station, heading to ride one of the buses parked out in front of the exit, you were just expecting to stop at the north gates of the venue. The streets swarmed with the cars and their smoke-filled air, but here in this bus was enough of a barrier to calm the racing heart you were wearing in your chest, at least for five minutes. You called out the driver to stop by the main entrance. The man, already used to the pre-concert chaos, merely gave a short grumble and pulled over by the sidewalk, the car behind him honked impatiently. You boarded off, feeling disoriented from the air pollution, the noise, and the gum that you accidentally stepped on the asphalt road.
It was 6 pm, two hours before the supposed call time—based on the post you read on Twitter. Though the entrance was already a putty, vape-frenzied vortex. It’s too early, too many people. You rubbed the sides of your pants nervously before lurking around to search for any escape, far from the tide of teenagers and young adults who actually looked like they bought their tickets to get here. Your eyes landed far, on a small less populated area to your left—a patch of green, bordered by trees, and a faint glint of water that reflected the light of the lampposts. It was a creek park, a secluded hollow, offering a brief break from the chaos. Your feet moved instinctively, and you remained standing there, a solitary figure navigating the crowd you didn’t belong in. In here, the air was cooler, and the grass was quite overgrown, just carrying the earthy scent that the damp soil and decaying foliage seemingly have—a scent somewhat intimate just for you and the stars tonight.
There was a line of humble vendors just outside the main spot, selling street foods that you were eager to get a bite from—but eating felt like a nuisance, you wanted to chastise yourself for this choice you made, travelling 20 kilometres to a city you only knew by name. You gazed upon a narrow winding path leading deeper into the park, and you followed through. Despite the countless people in there, it seemed warmer to stay in just for a while. Your boots kissed the softer ground, following the thrumming rhythm of your heart. You found a secluded bench under an old acacia tree, a soft bubble inviting you in away from the noise. The sounds of the pond gurgled softly, a gentle murmur to soothe the nerves you’ve been carrying the whole day. Slowly, you let your back slack against the wooden bench, sighing heavily.
What was I thinking?
Last night’s vaunt about being a fast learner seemed somewhat comical now, a terribly naive bravado that you wished you had kept to yourself, maybe then you would’ve been sleeping in bed at this exact moment… contemplating what would happen if you followed through with your whims. That’s no good way to live. But you were alone, with no ticket, no concrete plan, and absolutely no idea on how to even get close to the stage, let alone backstage… Plus, it’s not like he would recognize you from the sea of hundreds of faces in the crowd. But Alex… the memory of the rasp in his voice, the pressure of his touch, the raw hunger that pooled in his brown eyes as he took you inside that grimy bathroom stall—it was a dream that fueled your night like nothing else in the world, ever, but it seemed like an idiotic illusion now, slowly crumbling the actual face of your reality. Your mum would kill you if she knew where you’d gone off to, you practically spent your weekly allowance to meet a man you shagged in some dingy nightclub, and here you were, unsure now if the world would continue to work in your favour.
You pulled out your phone then, the screen lighting up to show your friend’s unanswered messages about her heels. Maybe tonight was made for cleaning footwear, not running after a frontman who’s already forgotten about you. You decided then, standing up to ground yourself from the sheer overwhelming last-minute choice, the chatters of the crowd seemed to prickle through your skin like a mocking, itchy rash. This was an insane thing to do, a completely insane thing you’d vow to never do again. You looked into the distance one last time, your head turning to look over the crowd. The eager notion of meeting him again had slowly effervesced into a cruel joke that filled your heart with stones; maybe the crowd was ganging up on you too, laughing at your misery. With a sigh, you looked down at your phone and fumbled to book a taxi right this instant. Within a few minutes, a black sedan had pulled up from the road, the plate was a familiar combination from your phone, the air-conditioning inside that smelled like artificial pine trees felt like great company on your way home.
You practically ran out by the gates and dove through the passenger seat, giving the driver a confirmation that you were the one who booked before he drove to the city exit. The relief was a quick exhale coming straight from the back of your lungs. You leaned your head against the cool window. The blurry sight of the city lights was a sickening purchase of comfort, the venue ground was a vibrant stream of lights and sound that was slowly sinking into a small blip in the rearview mirror. Tonight was a waste of time, you decided, a waste of train fare and effort. You couldn’t help but mope, though… The rebellion hum was a thing you’ve always yearned for, after all.
The taxi continued its journey, passing through a more upscale part of the city, with somewhat sleek, modern buildings that shone through like glass, almost. The part of this city was something you hadn’t recognized before, but the driver reassured you that this was a shortcut. Just as you nodded at him, staring at the Google Map on his phone to make sure he wasn’t bluffing, your head turned back at the window. As the sedan passed by a particularly expensive luxury hotel, its grand entrance opened, and the chandelier lights from the lobby spilled on the red carpet first, before your gaze sharpened at the familiar silhouette, a snapshot from your desperate search.
From the revolving doors, emerged Alex.
Impeccably dressed in a blue tailored suit, his signature gold chain subtly at the open collar of his wifebeater. His dark hair was styled in artful taste—the kind that an artist would prepare their wrist’s movement for the correct stroke—caught the warm lights, and the familiar 5 o’clock shadow accentuated the lines of his jaw, and his eyes were covered by his aviators in coffee-colored lenses, but his profile was facing his mates, whom he’s mid-conversation with: Matt, Nick, and Jamie, their faces carefully illuminated from the soft lights of the chandelier that danced around them as the revolving door continued to slowly turn. It was a serious yet relaxed discussion that they were having, perhaps going over some last-minute details or having a chat about the humidity of the city as they waited for their vehicle to arrive to drive them to the venue.
Oh god, oh god…
Your mind screamed, and your heart was a trapped bird in its rib-shaped cage. It felt as though the sedan had slowed down, and your gaze was locked onto his figure. The world was having a laugh, pushing your buttons with a soft twirl of her fingertips. Seconds were suspended off the tightrope as your car glided past the busy street before his head cocked in the direction of the vehicles passing by. It wasn’t for a deliberate search, really, it was an unconscious instinct he’d grown to do as he felt the eyes of another from that very direction, but with an almost uncanny precision, his gaze landed directly on the beat-up sedan, before it landed on you. His eyes under his aviators seemed to almost shift, and maybe you felt foolish, but perhaps he recognized you from the tinted glass of the car. It was a connection that surpassed fast-paced linkage through satellites, it was the kind that pierced through the hum of the city. Whatever this was, it was funnier than fate.
His conversation with them didn’t break, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, barely there, but you could tell he knew you were here by the tightening of his jaw.
You softly blurted to the taxi driver to stop the car, urgently, cutting through the radio that you didn’t even know was playing. The driver was startled, glancing at you through his peripheral vision. He was about to explain that you two weren’t there yet, or that you’ve already paid, but nonetheless, he slowed down the vehicle. Pulling over—not directly at the hotel—but a few stops down, in front of the red and green neon signage of a convenience store close by. You fumbled for your wallet as your gaze never left Alex’s, whose eyes under the lenses were looking directly at you. You paid the poor driver a couple bills, apologizing again as you leaped out of the car.
You fixed yourself up, the fluorescent lights of the convenience store touching your face like a soft kiss, before your head turned again to the hotel entrance. They were still there, it was as if his bandmates were used to him staring off somewhere even as they talked, a well-known habit of his—but god, he was looking at someone this time, and it was you. A part of you was torn between sheer joviality and panic.
What now? Do I just… approach them?
You shook your head as if you were a very stressed Etch-a-Sketch. Overwhelmed, you looked out to your front again and began walking inside the convenience store. You ducked your head as you bolted into the bright entrance of the automatic doors, the soft electric chime sounding like a morning alarm. You were alone (apart from two employees by the cash register talking about Crypto), but it was quieter in here, and you found yourself going further inside, standing in front of the beverage coolers, looking at the collection of chilled drinks, but all of them morphed into label-less pixelated blobs in your eyes. You weren’t here for anything; you were just here from your own cowardice. For what felt like agonizing hours, your fingers were beginning to get numb from holding glass doors. The buzzing of the coolers, the fluorescent glare, and the faint scent of instant noodles were orchestrated in the rebellion you mustered up on a Monday night. You wanted to look casual, but instead you looked like a constipated drug dealer loitering in the most heavily surveilled place in the city.
The chime of the automatic doors nearly jolted you—your gaze landed on the fogging surface of the coolers, squinting a little bit to check the reflection of who it could be. The blue tailored suit was a dead giveaway; it was Alex. Alone this time—his aviators hanging on the collar of his shirt—looking as if he were some aristocratic prick who was suddenly craving gas station coffee. The realization that you two were practically the only customers in the store felt like some stupid prank you didn’t know you were in on, the two stunned employees who stopped talking the moment he walked in should grab some popcorn, sit back, and watch.
Alex headed directly towards the counter, his pace surprisingly leisured as he paused and looked up at the racks of cigarettes behind the two employees. He was taking his time, not quite interacting with you yet, and you felt like some stupid lurker by the coolers, he was aware that you were there, but for now he wanted to pause for a bit, he was in no rush. He gestured for a pack of Marlboro Gold, the sleek white and gold packaging glinted under the overhead lights, a quick purchase. You were sure he was about to leave then, but no—a devil, he is—he turned and walked towards the aisle you were loitering in, just in time when you were finally opening the coolers for a cold can of Coke.
Oh, fuck’s sake, here we go.
He stood there for a moment, just behind you, almost as if savouring the tension with a golden spoon. You looked different from the club, he thought to himself. You looked younger... and that didn't sit right with him. You were fresh-faced without the makeup, the body glitter, and the dress. Fuck.
Your hand was trembling as you grabbed your drink. Just in time, his hand reached out for a small bottle of water; his warm palms covered your hand at the handle as he closed it.
FUCK.
You practically leaped out between the coolers and him as you padded to the counter, setting the can down with more force than necessary, only for Alex to appear immediately behind you.
“Add hers to mine,” he said to the cashier.
He placed his bottle of water next to your Coke. The cashier, looking utterly baffled under his prescription glasses, complied regardless. Alex fumbled for his wallet, his move efficient, as he paid for both items. You were properly flushed and speechless as you watched him, you were trying your best to decipher the expression written on his face. He wasn’t smiling, he was just… there, wearing a mask you couldn’t quite lift off yet. But there was something else in there, almost a sneaky glint in his hazel eyes, and a minute tension around the corners of his lips—perhaps suppressing a grin of amusement, or maybe it was just you who was seeing all this. He didn’t say anything yet, though, and didn’t offer an explanation. He simply paid.
You took your drink, hands unsteady as you offered a mumbled gratitude to him and the cashier before walking up to the empty tables facing the glass walls of the convenience store. The tension around your body seemed to melt into the plastic stool as you sat down, its metal legs scraping the tiled floors. You felt a shadow fall beside you, the soft movements of the empty chair being pulled, before finally he sat down at the same table across from you. Your head turned, and he was there, just waiting for your attention as he opened his bottle of water, taking a slow sip. FUCK. The silence was charged, echoing the intimate chaos from last night. And you couldn’t explain what was happening, this was something you’ve thought about in your sleepless dream—that somehow, Alex has this uncanny ability to make you feel like it was only the two of you in any room you both occupied.
The two workers were innocent vultures, watching.
He finally broke the silence, his brown eyes on you. “You actually came,” he stated.
His intonation was more of an observation than a question, perhaps even a surprising hypothesis, a third-factor outcome he hadn’t expected. You blushed, fumbling nervously with your drink, you opened the can with a soft hiss, avoiding his gaze.
“You didn’t want me to?"
Alex shook his head slowly. “I didn’t expect you to, love.” he corrected.
The implication was out there, humming with the air conditioner inside. You were one eager girl, following through with his half-assed plan.
You turned your head then, your gaze falling on his face, and for a moment, the mask faltered. He looked… weary. There was a subtle tension in his jaw and maybe even a slight furrow in his brow that suggested a hangover—not from the drinks—but from the sheer regret of what he did last night. Alex remembered it all so clearly, felt it even. He remembered returning, telling himself he was too tired to shower, and slipping into bed instead. The truth was, he wanted to wear your scent a little longer, wake up from it, and let himself feel the raw guilt and sheer wrongness of it all the morning after.
“I was about to leave,” you admitted, your voice soft as you sipped your drink, the carbonation filling your mouth.
Alex’s head dipped a bit as he nodded, staring off in the distance now, the lip of his bottle hovering slightly over his as he hummed.
“Huh,” he murmured, his gaze at the door. “Lucky, then,” he whispered. He straightened his posture a bit as he drank his water before continuing. “You caught me just in time.”
You scoffed, shaking your head as you ducked to hide the blush on your cheeks. Alex Turner, right in front of you, talking about fate is a dangerous thing to witness, it’s best to tread carefully.
“But… it was a stupid idea, really,” you whispered, chuckling self-deprecatingly.
He glanced at you again.
“I… I came all the way here… I don’t even have the tickets to see you.”
His gaze softened, nodding as you spoke, taking your words free of judgement.
“Aye, guess that explains the leavin’,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, feeling responsible. “You still set on that? ‘Cause I could, you know…” he trailed, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table as he looked at you. “I could take you.”
“Really?” you asked, bewildered.
He nodded, “Really.”
Alex was guilt-ridden. The very knowledge that he ruined the innocence of some young girl, abandoned her, and lured her all the way here for another fix—to fix the craving he couldn’t keep in his pants, it was the stone that was sitting in his stomach the whole day. Inviting you in to watch the show was a small thing in comparison to what you’ve done for him. Your head was still reeling from the opportunity, the concert was all anyone could talk about on social media, practically sending notifications through your phone, flooding a persistent stream of Google alerts every hour. You weren’t a casual listener, of course, you were drawn to the hype the moment you saw him in R U Mine?
You stammered, “Wow… uh, thanks, Alex.”
He gave you another nod, a slow, knowing gesture. “So, you’re actually a fan, then?” he asked. It wasn’t a question of challenge, rather much of another observation of his.
You shrugged noncommittally, “I just listen to some stuff, here and there…”
Alex didn’t seem convinced, you met his gaze and there, an imperceptible glint, under his brown eyes and a subtle flick of his tongue against his teeth—by the molars—a gesture to hide his grin. He knew full well you were downplaying.
“Okay,” you murmured, admitting just a tad bit, “But I’m not like… insane or anything, I mean, I think AM is a great album.” The last part was a flimsy lie, the correct answer would be Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino.
He just watched for a moment, shrugging as he looked across the street now. This man had a show in a few hours and here he was living his life as if he was time himself. “Have you listened to the new album?” he asked, casually.
You tilted your head, before nodding. “Yeah.”
“So, any thoughts about it?” He pressed, holding a steady gaze.
You hesitated at first, your fingers tracing the condensation of the can of Coke you were holding. This was a dangerous territory, where your false narrative of being an unpretentious fan was put to the test, but the album… it’s just that good, and your curiosity was begging to be put to sleep—to ask why the album doesn’t have any b-sides? but it’s too early to ask, too soon to pretend.
“Uh, I love Mr Schwartz.” You answered. It was true, the acoustic guitar, the soft brushes on the snare drum, and the lyrics were a collection of reflection in the maze of his own mind, as if he’s foretelling his past self a decade of living smokes and mirrors.
He didn’t respond to your answer, as if you never even did. He just watched you, under all that carefully curated blankness, a subtle breeze in the wind—surprised? Maybe. But he looked as though he was juggling the letters to create another meaning, or maybe he was afraid to ask why you love that specific track, and he feared what you’d answer next. He was never good with intimacy, not the sex in particular—just conversations in general, especially with someone he’s only met in two nights. Then, his mouth twitched, a barely-there of a smile. Oh boy, your choice has revealed more than you intended.
“Right.” He murmured, before pushing his bottle across the table, and then standing up, the legs of the stool scraping the tiles as he glanced at his watch.
“Well then…” he says, looking at you, “Come on.”
The venue was pure sensory overload. Waves of concert-goers, the tide was vibrant and buzzing with excitement. They made their way by car—a driver who happened to be waiting for him by the hotel—though it was still enough for your heart as if you two were out there, travelling by foot. He was in the passenger seat talking to the driver, watching you every now and then from the rearview mirror. The car made a turn somewhere far from the main gates, before they stopped by a less-lit service road, just away from the crowd. The atmosphere was vastly different here, the sounds were a distant hum now, replaced by the clatter of heavy equipment. Alex exited the car, before he walked up to your side and opened your door. You glanced up at him as you headed out, face flushed before he reached out and gently fixed your hair.
The two of you passed by massive tour buses, engines idling softly, and trucks with various production company logos. Wow, this is what it looks like behind the scenes, huh. Before, finally, you two arrived at a distinguished side entrance, carefully guarded by security, a man who looked perpetually unimpressed, mind. Alex approached him, movements calm just as the expression he carried. The guard’s eyes flickered from him to yours, his gaze somewhat questioning—you didn’t look like you should be here.
“She’s with me.” Alex stated, his voice low, his accent cutting through the industrial hum. The guard gave a curt nod and stepped aside, pulling back the heavy barrier.
You were in complete disbelief as Alex held the door open for you. You slipped inside, and your eyes scanned the whole area. You’ve never been to any band shows before, but this was the better glimpse—the inner workings of the sets that play the songs you’ve listened to in your busted earphones, you’ve only seen this kind of settings in movies you’ve watched. A sea of dark drapes, the thick cables—connecting from god knows where— and around the dimmed corners you could hear gears being hauled around, and the scent of sweat once it hit the metal, and the kind of buzz you heard from the open amps were filling your senses.
You let him steer you through a few turns of corridors, you stumbled upon some other crews who glanced your way, but their eyes were only on him, you on the other one, seemed to blend in under the drapes, like you were one with the walls. The catering area was decently packed, their conversations were soft chatters and almost imperceptible to your ears. Alex made a quick pluck, grabbing two bottles of water from the coolers and then handing one to you.
He led you deeper backstage. You noticed that the air was cooler, and almost quieter here, as you two paced to a series of doors. He stopped at an unmarked one and reached in for the handle, pushed it open with his shoulder—you saw him almost take a quick assessment if the room was, well, safe for the two of you. His loosely-written plan was slowly being revised.
Did he ask you if you wanted to meet the rest of the band? Of course not. Can you imagine? Hey lads, so this is some bird I shagged in the bathroom at a club I went to last night—Did I mention she’s two decades younger than me? Yeah, they’re not exactly planning to bring back that 60s, you see…
Alex touched you by the small of your back as he gently ushered you inside. It was a dressing room—his? Maybe, you weren’t sure. “Right,” he murmured, smiling at you. “I’d advise you not to wander off, or touch—or you know—sit on anythin’ that looks like it might spark up.” he says, grinning.
He twists the cap off his water and sips slowly, “Trust me, the stage manager’s the kind you wouldn’t wanna mess with, kid.”
You pouted playfully at his taunting warnings, “I’m not a kid…” you mumbled softly as you looked at your bottle of water, fumbling with the cap.
The silence was the squeak against the linoleum floor. Ooh.
“Sorry.. Last night, you know…” he stammered, not looking directly at you as he sighed before cleaning up his words again. “Look, what we did… and how that went down… and for—you know—leavin’ you alone… I was pissed out my fuckin’ mind—we both were—and it was probably not the wisest shit I’ve done… in a long time.”
The knot in your stomach seemed to come back again, he was spewing his apology like it was a bottle of tequila he regretted the morning after, it was a moral hangover. The magic of the strobe lights, the raw energy that sparked in the enclosed space in the restroom, have finally stopped. What was left now was the harsh reality of the fluorescent lights, the hard swallow of the ibuprofen. You were now reduced to one thing you defied yourself from him: a kid.
You shrugged, “It’s alright,” you mumbled, “I was with a friend anyway, and I got home safe…”
“Yes, I’m glad you did… but that’s not the point, love.” he says, his voice stern yet kind. “I… the point is… I shouldn’t have—Christ…” he lets out a deep breath as he looks up, the bottle in his hand trembling as he exhales, before shaking his head. “Listen, I think… I think it’s best if we just…”
“Alex,” you whisper. “I didn’t come here for an apology.”
“Well, I owe you one, and believe me, love—you’ll look back on this when you’re old enough, and you’ll hate me.”
“Stop that.” you shake your head. “Stop saying that.”
He looked at you with those guilty eyes, his arms flying around as if to sign the things that his voice refused to say, “This is mad, I don’t… I… Look, I’ll fetch one of the guards to assist you back at the grounds, I’ll… this…” he trails, unsure what point he was even attempting to cross. “It was risky… bloody reckless, even. I should’ve asked if you were alright—”
Right, that’s it.
It was a decision that even surprised you, you leaned in, your boots scraping the floor as you closed the space between the two of you. The kiss was quick, and yet, it was enough to make Alex’s mind go pitch black. The words died in his mouth as his whole body stiffened. Then, his eyes closed shut, he groaned as his hands began to relax—the bottle of water he was holding had dropped, spilling onto the floor—and it drove through your sides. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your other free hand had tugged his carefully styled hair, cradling him as your mouth parted to let his tongue in. He deepened the kiss, taking the access so gratefully as he did so.
Alex was the first to pull away then, the sound of the separation was stark against the quiet dressing room, his breath was hot and his lips were still buzzing. His eyes were still on you as he tried to calm himself, instinctively licking his bottom lip, a sign that he was still craving the kiss, well, craving you.
“Right, uh.” He started, his voice rough around the edges. His fingers ran through his hair nervously, and for a moment, Alex seemed younger, you couldn’t help but smile at his state. The breathless expression, the flushed face, the messy hair, and the soft, moist lips. He looked like an absolute cutie.
“I… really need to go.” but he didn’t seem like he wanted to.
Alex patted his jacket pocket for a moment, his movements still sluggish, before he pulled out a laminated ID, some sort of all-access pass, he offered it to you. You blinked, “What’s this?” you asked, looking at it intently. “Backstage pass, you might need it… If you want to watch from the wings, security’s quite strict here… They won’t bother you though, if you wear this.” He explained, taking the lanyard over your head before setting it gently around your neck, his knuckles lingering a bit too long on your collarbone before he puts his arms back to his sides.
You didn’t question the fact that he had a spare ID this whole time, maybe what he said earlier was nothing but a lie—or not—he didn’t expect you to come, but he did hope you would.
“Right, those right bastards are probably lookin’ for me…” he said, chuckling, “I'll… I'll see you later, don't go runnin’ off, alright?” He continued, reaching out to graze your cheeks fondly. You leaned in to his touch, eyes closing momentarily before you looked at him and nodded.
“Can I watch from the wings?”
“ ‘Course, as long as you're right where I can see you.” his voice was soft as he ordered you, and as expected, you were happy to oblige.
"We've got nothing to prove, instead of dancing alone, I should be dancing with you."
Masterlist Here
Chapter |
Rating: Mature
Category: F/M
Fandom: Arctic Monkeys
Relationship: Alex Turner (Musician)/Reader
Character: Alex Turner (Musician)
Tags: POV Second Person, Age Difference, Fast Burn, Exhibitionism, Shameless Smut, Moral Ambiguity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Public Sex, Choking, Vaginal Sex, Drunk Sex, Alcohol, Guilt, The Car Era (Arctic Monkeys), No Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Cheating
Language: English
Word Count: 6.9k
Summary: The Car (2022) Alex Turner shags you in some nightclub restroom a night before their show.
Notes: Title is taken from a track of She Wants Revenge, loosely based it on vibes rather than lyrics. I apologize in advance if it’s a little rusty, English is not my first language.
March 05, 2023
The nightlife of the city blurred past the car window like kaleidoscope dreams, the lights from the buildings making their way like industrial stars, and neon signages from local fast food chains making an appearance every mile, late-stage capitalism trinkets wrapped in the urban paradise that spoke of vibrancy and chaos. The bass from your destination thrummed in the air, the nightclub was close and approaching, practically vibrating through your teeth as the two of you got out of the taxi. You lied to your mother that you were finishing a thesis project and asked for an advanced allowance for the cost of the ‘printings,’ all to spend it on the entrance fee of some overhyped nightclub somewhere in the crowded part of the avenue, a hotspot for quick fixes and long nights. You are fucked, incredibly so if your mother finds out, trading your safety for a world of loud music, fleeting glances, and drowning in the scent of something illicit.
The theme for tonight was ‘slutty enough that no one would notice you’re a devoted Catholic who goes to church every Sunday’: a satin halter mini dress in the color of amarena cherries. You opted to borrow your friend’s charcoal pointed-toe heels and made a mental note to clean the shoes before returning them. Looking down on the acrid ground, it was obvious enough you were about to break a sweat in order to get this pair of heels clean. You lined up behind a group of people, a varying group of young-ins who had the same intentions as you did, and a few older, more jaded faces that made you take a few glances. It was obvious you had a problem with authority, the different kind… the one specifically where you’re left like a rabid dog in heat.
Your stomach was practically somersaulting beneath your calm exterior, though your hands gave such clear messages, fixing your hair one moment before feeling the sides of your dress again. In contrast to you, your friend was in her element, practically gabbing about sneaking in the VIP side of the club where the majority of her friends were. The moment you two were inside, feigning ignorance to the glances of the wandering eyes of the other men in the club, the music had pumped the bones in your body, and the scent of something sharp and fruity—from the vapes and alcohol—clung to the air. The strobe lights from above danced around the stage, painting the unfamiliar faces of strangers like a sugar-induced dream. The pulsing beat of the music grew louder, in sync with the drumming of your chest. Is this it? the sweet taste of rebellion, wrapped in a crystal bottle of hard liquor? You two ordered by the bar, Tequila Sunrise—only because you thought it sounded like a good track title for an indie song… or a groupie name. “Alright,” your friend says, grinning. “Stay close,” she orders before she pulls you in to the throng of the crowd with practiced ease, the wisdom of being a seasoned club-goer, navigating through the laughter and shouts. She yelled through the sound of the club, mentioning the name of one of her colleagues, a forgettable one, ‘They’re at a VIP table near the back!’ You tried to keep pace, truly, taking in the dizzying crowd and the scent of vanilla and something woodsy from the perfumes of the people around you. Suddenly, the DJ dropped a Weeknd track—like a pack of hungry wolves, the crowd around you rippled with heightened, suffocating energy. Cheers erupted, and a mass of bodies pushed through. You were caught off-guard by the sudden shift in momentum, practically drowned out on the opposite side of the sea. Your frame was immediately racked away from your friend’s hold and out of the main current. Your arms flailed, spilling half of your drink to the ground as you gasped, you collided into something solid and warm, the scent of tobacco and crystal amber hitting your senses like a straight shot to the head—blanking your thoughts and pushing away the memory of the embarrassing stunt you just pulled—that this stranger might’ve even watched from afar.
You looked up—tall, motionless. His gaze, deep-set and burnished like roasted hazelnuts in the dimness of the corner he settled in, pierced the air as the club's strobelights played their cruel, flaunting light upon his brow. His brows were furrowed, seemingly almost irritated by the course of events, as if he tried his best to blend in some comedy show—just another face in the crowd—until the comedian gave him a shout-out he definitely wasn’t ready for. He looked out of place, or maybe he does fit in, and it was just you who didn’t belong here. Ethnically, he did, though; you inspected him as you pulled away and muttered a quick apology. A foreigner, tall enough for people to notice, he wore a white silk shirt that would catch the light every now and then; the top of his collar was left undone, revealing the glimpse of a subtle gold chain on his neck. His charcoal trousers were well-fitting and complemented the color of his hair, which fell on his forehead almost ceremoniously, and he pushed it back with his fingers, his eyes bored into yours still. Your mind was working overtime now. He looks so familiar, and it lingered in the air, and against the wall his back leaned on. Abel’s voice, crooning from the speakers, faded between your space.
He hadn’t moved, observing the chaos with such calmness. His messy hair, the way his jaw had set, and the faint 5 ’o’clock shadow that seemed to darken up a little. He was brooding, which felt different from the usual way foreigners acted here in the city—there was a certain element in the way he stood that was borderline familiar; the tilt of his head, now facing yours, completely snagged your memory. It felt like an illusion, a stupid fan-filled illusion. It was a face you’ve seen in photographs, on screens, and in music videos. You simply fixed your blurring eyesight for a bit, the Tequila Sunrise truly living up to its name. Other girls had tried to catch his eye tonight; you’d noticed from the bar all of their hushed voices and heads seemingly leading in this area—you’ve come to understand why—they were drawn by his quiet magnetism, only to be faced with a polite but firm rejection. But you haven’t sought him out; you simply have just fallen into him.
“Are you…” you trail, “Alex Turner?” His eyes fell back to yours again, seemingly holding a quiet, almost knowing depth, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, you thought he might’ve just not heard you, your voice swallowed by the pulsating bass of the beat playing. His lips, thin and slightly chapped, curved into a hint of a smile, close to an outright grin, like he just got caught stealing candy from a kid and feels no sense of guilt whatsoever. Though, as you tried to look at him again, it was more of knowing amusement and less of arrogance. Maybe he hadn’t expected to be recognized here. He took his time to let the music fill the silence, making you sort of… embarrassed in a way. Maybe he was just a mere celebrity who wanted some quiet time for himself before the big performance. You’ve heard of the news, of course. For the first time ever, the band was performing in your country. Although the venue was a few miles away, and you hadn’t bought your tickets, it was still, well, enough of a good news. The thought of being in the same city with Alex, let alone in the same nightclub as him now, felt too good to be true. “Are you looking for an autograph?”
His voice came rough, a little hoarse over the music, but that distinct Yorkshire accent he held was the nail to the coffin. It’s him, Christ, it’s really him. You blinked, once, and then twice. His question sounded less like an annoyance and more like a distinct curiosity that made you blush, or maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. This was a tango Alex has played over the years, and he even mentioned in his interviews it’s hard for him to be detected or be seen as a celebrity when he lived in LA, let alone here, in a country where he hasn’t stepped foot in before. “No.” Your answer came rather quickly, shaking your head. Stupid, we both know you’d ask for more than an autograph. “It’s just, uhh…” you trailed, your words coming in that fake American accent you’ve picked up from watching old Western shows. “I’m surprised to see you here,” you continue, laced in that almost unexpected wonder. Alex watched you long enough for you to think he seemed interested in what you had to say after this, or maybe he’s just waiting for you to leave. The amusement in his eyes trickled down, just for a bit, replaced by something you couldn’t quite read along yet—scrutiny? Maybe. His posture was still relaxed, hands in his tailored trousers. His nose was prominent under the strobe lights, you knew of that, but it felt different now seeing him in real life, and he inhaled, taking a slow breath before answering, maybe even considering whether to answer or not. His eyes weren’t subtle, practically assessing the proximity between the two of you, almost a foot close as you leaned back against the wall. A part of you was conscious of whether you’ve worn the right dress for the occasion. The club lights, red and yellow, washed over the two of you, your skin glinting under the lights. “Surprised, love? ”
He finally says, making your hair from the back of your neck stand up. He wasn’t exactly giving out any answers as to why he was there; it wasn’t like you were worth giving that out to. His gaze fell back to yours again, as if asking the same question back: and you? What brings you here? Before he added. “It’s a Friday night.”
His reasoning made you smile a little; it was devoid of everything you expected from him, and maybe he wasn’t exactly the stammering poetic type like in the interview he painted himself as. You nodded. “Friday night, exactly,” you echoed, trailing again. “...why I’m also here,” you say, letting the word hang in the alcohol-filled air before clarifying, the words flimsy.
“Y’know, a bit of a rebellion.”
He turns his head now, brow arched, waiting for you to continue. It was sickeningly heady. Having his attention for even just a few seconds practically made you fully aware now of how awkward you must look beside him. “My friend… dragged me out, said I needed to get some ‘shit out of my system,’” you explain, gesturing with your fingers in the air as you looked at him. “I’m usually tucked at home, just…I mean, not like there’s anything wrong with going out,” you preface rather quickly. His stare didn’t waver as you spoke, still in that blur of detached observation, and staying rooted to the hum of the party, he slowly shrugs. “A rebellion,” he repeats, chuckling, as if he were tossing the word in his mind like a softball. “That’s… one way to look at it.” “And, is it working?” he asked, tilting his head back as he looks at you.
“Getting that ‘shit’ out of your system? ”The cadence was a good mimicry of your accent, and for a moment you found yourself cheekily smiling at him; he was actually listening. Your face had heated up within a few seconds; it was a familiar, embarrassing flutter in your chest. You tried to fight that feeling off, sipping your half-empty drink, not trusting yourself to answer just yet. “No.”
Your confession came soft, barely audible from the music but clear enough for Alex to pick up. Your eyes darted to the crowd again, looking for a familiar face, your friend, surely, who’s probably already looking for you, the lights shifting from every corner, and still, no sign of her. You picked up your phone before you could even get distracted again, and just as you’d have it, there were nine missed calls from her, and as you typed and sent her a quick reassurance that you were fine, Alex was already moving—not exactly to the grand exit, but merely a subtle shift off the wall, to the edge of the crowd, heading deeper into the club. You watched him go for a moment, and you felt this sudden pull to talk to him again. But maybe it was better off to just look for the VIP table and stick to the original plan. But the back of his head, slowly disappearing into the dark corner and into the hallway, made your heart race. You wanted to talk to him. Christ, maybe even ask for a photo? You were just being nice earlier, but now a part of you just wants to…
Your feet had decisions of their own, heels clicking on the sticky floor as you followed him. Just five more minutes with him, and probably ask about evermont too, or whatever. The music pulsed, the bodies moved, and the scent of cherry vapes effervesced through the club like a horrid aftertaste. The club felt like a manic hallucination, reminiscent of a Bartolacci painting. Your eyes, though, remained fixed on Alex. You called him twice, making sure you were heard. The man didn’t turn immediately, but your voice, no matter how soft it seemed, had passed through his senses—a delicate tilt of his head, his eyes looking back, a sign that he’d heard you. Though, he continued to move, weaving away from the main exit, not even to the bar—to a more secluded corridor, a secret part of the club’s architecture, and away from the main spot of the party. It looked more like a path towards the restrooms or a lounge area no one took notice of. You set your drink on one of the empty tables, your tequila half-sipped and already warming up from your hold, before following him. It was a burst of adrenaline and an underlying desperation that made you leap through the hallway. The light was less harsh here, making your dress a beautifully wilting rose passing through. Alex was already in the mouth of the dimly lit corridor. The click of your heels accompanied the thudding, indistinct beat of a Rihanna song from the dance floor. The sea of the crowd surged through the heart of the building behind you, but here—this was the tide, and you felt like you were sinking underwater. His pull was effortlessly insistent, washing out the early anxieties of your reluctant rebellion. He waited there, his hands in his pocket, facing you now. The tension was as thick as salted butter. His scent, tobacco and amber, felt warm in contrast to the shift of air from here, cool and less humid, mingling with the scent of the disinfectant cleaner. He looked as though he wasn’t looking at you exactly, more like he wasn’t present at all, contemplating a very difficult equation that was in the sole of your borrowed heels, before he looked into your eyes again, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “What’s your name, love? ” His voice was low, softer than earlier, close to a whisper. You answered back, stammering embarrassingly. Alex nodded slowly, almost as if he was registering your name in his head, playing it, breaking it apart in his mind, and piecing it back together.
“How old are you? ”
The question was left wafting in the air like smoke, adding a ton to the weight of the unspoken tension around you two. You felt the familiar heat on your neck creep up again. You hesitated for a moment; for one, you didn’t look like your own age, from your makeup and the way you were dressed tonight, and maybe Alex hadn’t picked up on that yet, or maybe he had and that’s why he walked away in the first place. “...Nineteen.” Alex blinked. The air was dead, and for a moment a part of you wanted to just bolt out and leave straight from the crowd and out the exit, a sudden leap to just leave this poor man alone, but you were nailed to the ground; deep down, you were eager, sickeningly so. His hazel eyes, which were glinting with faint amusement from the dim lights of the dance floor, were replaced by a still blankness. He shifted a few steps back. The invitation was gone, a flicker of something achingly close to reconsideration that made your heart sink for a moment. The age gap was significant, and it was out there now in depressing, flying colors. Even his expression changed, and for a moment you felt that maybe he’s going to be the first one to bolt instead, a shared calling from your doorknob confession. He repeated the word again, “Nineteen.” The truth felt like dry chalk in his throat. Christ, he has boots older than you and has walked in them in music festivals you’ve never set foot in before. He shook his head slightly, his gaze trailing down over you: the dark satin dress, the heels, the makeup, and the desirous look in your eyes. “Right, then… I’m fossilized, I suppose,” he finally says again, chuckling dryly, though the reluctance was still there. “Bloody old enough to be your father, then.”
“I don’t mind.”
Though it was said with an almost practiced ease, like it was the very fact, which, truly, it was. It was an innocent counter, delivered in a way that made him groan. It wasn’t a sound of anger or frustration, but the sound of his last restraints crumbling in the very corridor. His fingers ran through his hair, a gesture of indignation. But the action felt more like surrender, to sink into the very water that only the two of you were swimming in. His shoulders dropped, and his jaw slacked as he looked at you, as if he were making sure his mind wasn’t some perverted sicko that mistranslated your words.
“Right.”
His voice was a low rumble; the carefully constructed wall of his polite distance seemed to slowly fall off the very precipice. “This is a right mess, ain’t gonna end well, love.” he stated. It was the very truth, but what can one do? Then, he continues. “You’re—Christ, really, bloody, young.”
Young. The term landed like a punch straight to the gut. He didn’t say it as if he were to demean you, but it was clear—a barrier between you two, a boundary you were so eager to cross over. You took another step forward, unyielding. His gaze lingered on you, tongue clicking against his cheek as he finally turned to lead the way down towards the door, marked with the ambiguous symbol for restrooms. Still, he was battling internally, and it played across his features like a yellow neon sign, even when he was already moving towards it and you were following aimlessly. Softly, you voice out.
“Age is a bit subjective.” The statement would be wrong if one were to put it in the judgement of a birth certificate. It was simple, yet it implied a lot of unsaid things between the two of you; it held a challenge, a quiet assertive quality he didn’t see from you on the dance floor. The restroom door was momentarily untouched, his hand just hovering above the knob as he registered your words in his head. You heard him chuckle, and as he turned his head to you, he had that smile on his face, something achingly predatory that made the hazel in his eyes much darker than it was before. A smile that could be shot from a paparazzo’s lens, and it could be the cover of a magazine the next morning. That statement was probably the funniest joke you’ve said tonight.
“Subjective,” he repeats, “perhaps.” His voice dropped even lower, the syllables rolling off his tongue like the stretch of a napping cat. He took a slow step back, the click of his Chelsea boots thudding in the confined space. “But love, experience doesn’t bend like your truth does.” His words were a soft hush, nonetheless, loud enough. It was a subtle jab, a gentle reminder of the encounters he’s probably had in the early years of his life; maybe you were bathroom girl #23 on his list, while you, on the other hand, were still looking for a paper to write on. God, you felt rooted to the spot, your eyes taking a snapshot of his face as he tilted his head slightly, observing, as if you were a cute puppy who just shat on his white carpet.
“I’m a fast learner.”
Your words were out quick off your lips before you could even think about it. Time stopped. Then the knob clicked, and he slowly let both of you inside the restroom. His touch was a wave of a thousand electrons around your wrist, his hand rough, and you could feel the calluses on his fingertips after decades of playing guitar in sold-out shows and stadiums, and here it was, pulling you in for the promise of more. He closed the door shut, the sound of the latch deafening the both of you. He didn’t even reply immediately to your words; he’d forgotten about it, yet it played in his head like a tune, the lyrics somewhat forgotten. His gaze was fixed on you as he gently pressed you against the door, a sudden push just to see if you were going to react differently, your tequila and his whiskey mingling in the air. He could smell your perfume, and you were memorizing the base notes of his.
In his head, you were probably a complication, a potential tabloid article waiting to be released in the next 24 hours or less; the internet was a quick bathroom shag at this point. You were a hazardous klutz that he should have steered clear of the moment you stumbled into him. But it was the look in your eyes that threw him off, the unnerving eagerness, something he hasn’t been on the opposite end of in a long, long time. Maybe he really was getting old, his gray hairs have started to peek out, and his knees were weaker than he’d ever liked to admit, but that validation, that you were willing to be with him, even just for tonight, was more potent than anything else he’d ever drunk, smoked… even snorted. Christ, he couldn’t even wait to take you to his hotel, but your self-respect had gone out the door the moment you wore that dress—you were willing to take it off on whichever ground he wanted it to land on, all for the sheer bloody thrill. The desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control was slowly collapsing. He moved, his head turning to the whole restroom. A glistening shiny packet of a condom lay in the corner, a previous encounter, a natural occurrence in a place like this, and the faint sweet scent of a vape: blackcurrant. He picked one of the empty stalls; the metal door was slightly dented, but the lock was working. In a decisive manner, he pulled you in with him; the stall door shut behind him like a gunshot. Your hands were shaking not from fear, but rather from the adrenaline waiting to be unleashed any moment now. The small space felt hot and intimate, intensely intimate; you could see the sweat pooling on his forehead and running down to his neck, the gold chain glinting from the fluorescent light from above. Roughly, he made you kneel on the toilet seat, your knees on the unsteady toilet lid, as he faced your back. You prepared—or, perhaps, attempted to balance yourself—your elbows on the cool porcelain of the tank. You could practically feel him moving behind you; the stall was so tight that you could hardly move. He lets his hands roam on your sides, as if to anchor himself to the very knowledge that this was truly happening, but the ship had sunk long ago.
“Christ,” he rasps, “This is mental.”
The words left his mouth as he fished for his condoms; the sound of his hands on his pockets, the jingle of keys and coins, and even the sound of his leather wallet, before a muttered curse flew through the air, a sudden brake occurred in the middle of a highway. “Condom?” he asked, wondering if you had one. You, however, shook your head, your hair moving gently. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered, “and I’m clean…” The words were an attempt at reassurance, just a soft, shaky plea to continue. He froze, hands still, and you turned your head only to find him looking at you with a sense of a blooming panic and just a soft bruising of disbelief crossing his face. He blinked before letting out a heavy exhale, jaw tensed as he tried to move his lips. This was reckless. He played it safe, even with his own girlfriend. Don’t think you’re the exception. But your gaze softened by a fraction, your eyes meeting him with an intensity that was a borderline, dangerous trance that had him blanking out. He felt your hands touch his, a steady squeeze around his fingertips. Then, with your parted lips, you softly plead again.
“Please, Alex,” you breathed, “I want you…”
The words hung like silent bells, simply disarming, and he didn’t understand why. All his built-up reservations, the mental calculations, and his attempt to pull away had simply been taken away from his mind. Fuck, his dick was left doing the thinking, raw restraint desire twitching in the confines of his trousers. It was an offer—from a needy girl who should know better—that he simply couldn’t refuse. A groan escaped his lips as he rested his head against the back of the grimy stall door, looking up at the white ceiling that has undoubtedly been a regular at movie premieres like this. The risk, the age difference, the potential danger—a horrid combination of being a jaded rockstar, it was a cynical reality he wasn’t too keen on thinking about, not yet. His mouth found yours; the last gleam of his self-preservation was now out the door. The kiss was desperate and messy, teeth colliding and all, with the taste of cigarettes and his whiskey on the tip of his tongue, guttural sounds of pleasure, and the small smacked sounds filling the tight space. The kiss—no matter how surreal it felt—had been pulled out of your momentary focus as you felt the warmth of his palms on your hips. He gently grazed under the dress, feeling the smooth skin of your supple ass. He gently bunches up your dress higher, taking his time. His calloused fingertips, a sharp contrast to your soft skin, stilled on your chest. He hummed softly between your lips, as if approving how snug your breasts fit between his palms, like a perfect-fit glove, before gently pinching your nipples together. The moan that fell from your lips was electrifying; you were at a loss at just how much he knew how to work his hands and his lips in sync, but then again, he was a frontman for a reason. His soft assault trailed to the corner of your lips before he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and tickling, “Settle back on the tank for me, love.” His voice was rough, aching with that half-shot of restraining himself from pushing you down and taking exactly what he wanted from you.
You obeyed, earning a soft whisper of good girl in that signature drawl of his that made your knees buckle—a straight jolt of heat that fell hot and heavy on your skin as you whimpered. Your ass was facing him, and he wasted no time, pushing your dress around your waist. His fingers dove in gently between your crevices, slipping your laced panties to the sides, finding the heat of your arousal. You let out the softest of gasps, a sound of anticipation. He takes a sharp inhale at the dampness; it was undeniably overwhelming, like he just discovered a hidden waterfall in a desert landscape, an incredibly abundant waterfall, falling on the edge of the overhanging. “Christ,” he groaned, rough and raw against your skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, a shuddering breath escaping his lips; his fingers were coated with your viscous wetness, dripping onto the toilet lid like craft glue. The intensity, the absolute knowledge of how much you’ve been wanting this, more than your words and actions could ever say. The growl that erupted from his throat was animalistic.
He fumbled with his belt urgently, frantically. The sound of the buckle was a stark echo in the bathroom, ringing in your ears, but the loudest sound of all was his dry laugh, a playful teasing tone. “Well, then..." he murmured, voice honeyed with desire. “Someone’s eager…” he whispers softly, the smile audible enough that it made your face heat up in shame. His middle finger returned, pressed between your cavernous heat; the gasp you let out was the hymn he’d heard once in a dream, and he was coaxing it out with his digits, once, twice. “Come on, love…” he whispers, taunting now as he begins to thrust his fingers inside you, your muscle pulsing. “Tell me, get it out of your system.”
Your back arched when he added another, “Alex… I need you…”
“Need me to what?”
“Hngh…” you moaned out, barely holding yourself still, your knuckles whitening as you gripped the porcelain tank. “A-Alex… I need you to fuck—hah—fuck me…”
“Good girl, truly a fast learner, that,” he teased, whispering in your ear. Satisfied with your answer, he hummed, removing his fingers, in between those achingly slow seconds, you hoped that the loss would be temporary—you finally heard him unzip his pants. He gently stroked himself as he stared at your pussy, glistening under the dim lights. He pressed his hard, engorged dick between your slick folds, teasing your clit. The friction was enough to make your teeth clench as you let out a soft moan.
“Alex… please…” you whisper, your hips acting instinctively to grind back against him.
“Patience, love,” he whispers, before pushing your folds apart with his thumbs. “Beautiful,” he praises, staring at your sleek, dripping cunt, hungry, waiting to devour. “So bloody wet for me, are you?” You didn’t even need to answer as he finally, finally, slipped inside. The stretch made your eyes water, blurred your vision, and quite literally took your breath away; your mouth fell open as you let out a choked gasp. Alex was barely holding it; your muscles clenched around him like a desperate velvet glove, so impossibly wet and warm that it felt like he couldn’t even think, too overwhelmed by the sensation of you.
“Oh… fuuuckin’ hell,” he rasps out. For a few seconds, all you two could do was stay still, accompanied by the sound of ragged, desperate gasps that filled the small space.
As his grip tightened around your hips, he began to move—every thrust was heaven-sent; there was no way it was this fucking good. Every neuron receptor in your brain had practically shut down; all you could do was feel and take every inch of him—only the primal instincts remained. This is what life was about; this was the exact feeling of what ends wars, and starts them. He slowed down his pace, a deliberate, torturous drag that made every hair in your body stand, the roadmap of his veins etched in your very insides, the shape of his tip grinding relentlessly in that very sweet spot inside you, agonizing and transcendental all at once. His movements were precise and achingly slow, pure reverence, all dedicated to memorizing this feeling in his mind forever: the yielding warmth of your cunt and the sound of your voice. His breath was warm on your neck and tinged with the sharp scent of whiskey. His groans and whispered obscenities echoed in your ear, amplifying your surrender even more.
“Agh, love—hngh… Oh god…” he gasped as he pulled back again before finally driving back in. Christ, you felt so good he could practically taste you in his mouth: a sweet, unforgettable flavor he’ll be savoring for days, years if he isn’t careful.
The sensual, intimate bubble they were trapped in was suddenly shattered as the restroom door slammed open. The sound of the club’s music intensified from the gap of the door, followed by a lively, slurred chatter of female voices; their heels danced on the tiles, their purses clicking as they set them down on the sink, the sound echoing through every corner in the restroom. Alex and you were frozen in place, caught in a very awkward position. Sweat trickled from your forehead, slowly racing through your eyebrows as you two waited to do something, anything. Your head turned, finally getting a glimpse of Alex: his mousy brown hair was an absolute mess, some glued to his forehead like grapevines; his ghostly pale face was flushed down to his chest, his gold chain caught the bathroom’s ceiling lights, sweat glistened on his skin like glass, his pupils were blown like pits of ebony, and his lips were blowing steam from the way he was chasing his breath. It seemed as though he was exactly in the same state as you were, and here you thought you were the one who was begging. Before you could even say something, his arm snaked in the other direction to your face, his palm clamped in a gentle yet firm manner over your mouth, the stall held its breath, and you gently exhaled through your nose, looking at him. “Shh,” he shushed gently, “Not a sound, love.”
With a resurgent, shameless thrill, his hips rolled again. His thrusts, which were once a series of slow, drawn-out, tortured pleasures, came like the harsh crack of a whip. Your eyes rolled back through your head, your moan vibrating through his palms, begging to escape. It was a sickening game that a part of you was excited to play. His lips slowly kissed your temple, whispering against your skin a dangerous song that descended through your very core.
“Unless you fancy tellin’ them…” he pants, “...who’s fucking you good.”
The voices from outside continued, completely oblivious—and intoxicated—to even sense the ritualistic mending of two strangers inside the only occupied stall in the restroom. The rhythmic grinds of your bodies, the whines that vibrated through the palm of Alex’s hand, and his stifled groans mingled in the small enclosed space, impossibly close against your ears, filling the intensity of his exhibitionistic desire even more. He slowly took his hands off your lips, and you had to bite your bottom lip to control yourself, not a sound. One powerful thrust was enough to break your silence—deep and utterly precise, an agonizing electricity that sent your legs shaking and nearly caused the toilet lid to fall off its screws.
“Ah! Fuck, Alex!” Your eyes snapped open impossibly wider with each deep thrust; the collection of whines slowly evolved into pure, pleasured cries, effortlessly pushing you closer to the high that your body’s begging for.
The message was as clear as the Blue Lake; the voices soon piped down. A sudden, almost crisp silence enveloped the room before their shoes scuffed the tiles again, heading in the direction where the door was, before it quickly squeaked open and sealed shut. His movements slowed, and for a moment, the two of you wanted to laugh. He began drawing back slightly before pushing back with a strong force. “God… you’re—hah, ugh—something else, aren’t you?” he teased, using his free hand to tilt your face back towards him. “Fuckin’ eager little…” he gasps, feeling your insides contract around him. The pressure was pure divination.
"Bloody hell—couldn’t even wait for a proper intro, could you?"
Thrust.
“Just beggin’ for it, love? ”
Thrust. Thrust.
“Ugh, God…” he grunted, “You’re so tight…”
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
One hand tightened around your hips, while the other found its way to the nape of your neck, gripping you close, squeezing your arteries just enough to make you lightheaded, his teeth were gritted as he controlled your movement; the pace was done without hesitation, fastening up. Gone was the teasing and was now replaced by the force of a man whose instincts were sinking to its natural state: taking, consuming, and feeling. The harsh skin-to-skin slaps, the cries and the harsh groans that seemed to grow louder and higher, and the toilet lid shaking off its hinges were echoing off the wet tiled walls. Your head snapped behind you to get a glimpse of him again, and his eyes were melting onto yours. Alex groaned as he saw the heavenly debauched sight of you, your mascara bleeding down your cheeks like gothic rivulets, your eyeshadow merely gone—smudged off from the very bane of existence, and your lipstick stripped off completely, leaving only the soft hues on your swollen, tender lips. Alex, with his continuous, breathless assault, leaned in, raw satisfaction and hunger in those hazel brown eyes, before catching your moaning lips to taste you again. He pushed your knees further apart, widening your stance on the toilet seat. The shift was indescribable; you couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening anymore as your back arched, and he filled you to the absolute brim, the angle sending the two of you deeper to the very brink of rapture. You thought you’d known pleasure, but everything before this was just a mere buzz—this, this was euphoria. His hips worked relentlessly to the point that every plunge was blinding; the guttural sounds that vibrated from his chest had made their way to yours, amplifying the deep, animalistic connection even more. Your hips bucked against him as you gasped, and as your lips pulled apart—a string of saliva beaded between the two of you as you both struggled to catch your breath together.
Suddenly, you felt your vision blur from the overwhelming shuddering height of pleasure that was finally crashing down off its very foundation. Your muscles taut around his thick, hot length, a coiling, merciless squeeze that made his head melt. You moaned—no, cried out uncontrollably—gripping the porcelain tank as you climaxed, your whole body shaking.
“Hngh—fuuuuck—hah—” Alex gasped. It was a violently exquisite surprise that pulled him in. He rides out the wave of her release with clenched teeth and eyes closed before finally, in desperate, deep grunt, follows suit. Every inch of his body was hot, and his dick was searing from the dizzying sensation as he painted your insides, a fat, hot load that filled you in ways he’d never done before—not that he’d tell you out loud—but the coda was entirely transformative. You gently fell back against the toilet tank, body still trembling. Your cheek was cold against the porcelain as you inhaled shakily, desperately, like it was your last prayer. The world, in that moment, was just one big rock, floating in space. Alex leaned against the grimy, sticky stall door, his chest heaved as he tried his best to catch his breath. He never thought he’d do this again, not when he was nearing his forties, anyway, but here he was. His still-dazed eyes landed on you; you looked like an absolute work of art in his vision, cinematic colors and romanticized diplopia. He hissed as he slowly withdrew himself from your heat with a soft, wet pop that made you whimper weakly. Hot viscous fluid dripped from his and yours, silent evidence of what had just happened in this very stall, filling you and the air around with the scent of sex, whiskey, tequila, and his cologne. His eyes lingered on you even when he was tucking himself back in, fingers shaking as he zipped himself back up, softly grunting as he struggled to slip his prong in the right hole.
“Tomorrow, backstage.” You barely registered his words; you hummed in confusion for a moment, voice dry after an eternity of crying out. He finally slips the end tip of his belt in the loop before fixing it in his trousers.
“The concert,” he specifies, “you should… come ‘round, find me.”
You hummed. “ ‘Kay.” He grinned at your answer, though you could hardly see it. Since he’s a gentleman, he slips your panties back on before striking a playful spank on your backside, and with a surprising, tender touch, he slides your dress back down. His palm lingered on your hips for a few seconds before drawing back. “Right, I should…” he trails. “Oh. Okay… Yeah, of course.” He slipped out before you could even steady yourself as you slowly sat back on the toilet; the restroom door clicked open before closing shut, leaving you on your own.
Tomorrow, backstage, the concert. Come around and find me.
stormborns
dailybridgerton
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theartofmadeline
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