Finding your blog was one of the most exciting things that happened to me this year 😭
I’m literally obsessed with aot (especially Levi) and arctic monkeys (especially Alex)! Finding someone with similar taste and that WRITES about it made me soool happy!!
Levi fics are really easy to find, but I kinda struggle to find some of Alex’s fics. Anyway, love your writing and thank you for coming back to tumblr!!
Omg T-T thank you so much!!!! This is such an honour you have no idea!!! My obsession with Alex started not very long ago and I was so craving fics about him- there are some very very good ones but you're so right they are so limited!!!
That is what really pushed me into coming back to writing and God have I missed it. And what keeps me motivated is people like you telling me they like my works <3 so thank you for that :))) requests are also something I love receiving because they give me different plots I usually would not have considered!
I hope I get to give you the fics you want to read because that is all I want to offer hehe! Currently writing one about reader and Alex being neighbours- enemies to lovers. Very fun.
Summary: You and Alex seem to have some relationship issues, and the new assistant is not making it any easier for you two.
A/n: Longest fic yet! And it was honestly the most fun one to write so far- don't know why. I liked this idea. It had a lot to explore. If anyone has any requests that are juicy with drama/misunderstandings I am all for it hehe.
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 7.2k
______________________________
It has been another ordinary evening — or at least it was supposed to be.
You stand in the middle of your living room, phone pressed tight against your ear, one arm crossed over your chest as you tap your foot impatiently. Alex had promised he would be free by seven. He had specifically told you to call him when you were ready so the two of you could go to that little bakery-cafe you love, the one with the ridiculous frosting he always steals a bite of.
But he is not answering.
This is the third time you have called, and it is very unlike him. Sure, he is not the most reliable with his phone — he still carries that ancient Nokia like it is a sacred relic — but when he is not with you, he usually forces himself to stay reachable.
The ringing stops and goes straight to voicemail again. You click your tongue in annoyance. Did his phone die? Wouldn’t it at least say something?
With a sigh, you decide to try the new assistant. She should know what is going on. Melissa is supposedly very good at keeping chaotic artists in check, so she should be straightforward and professional.
You pull up the number Alex had stuck on the fridge and dial it. It rings twice before she picks up.
“Yes?” Her voice is polite, almost too polished.
“Hi, Melissa?” you ask. “This is Alex’s girlfriend. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him but he hasn’t been answering his phone…”
There is a small pause on the other end.
“Oh,” she says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’m really sorry, but he’s currently unavailable.”
You purse your lips, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you sure? Because he told me he would be done by now.”
“Yes, yes, positive,” she chirps, a little too quickly. “I can see if I can pass on a message, but I might not be able to get it to him until much later…”
“That’s alright,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “Thank you, Melissa. Sorry for disturbing you.”
“No problem at all,” she replies sweetly before hanging up.
You stare down at your phone, a strange unease settling in your stomach. The call did not feel right. Something about her tone felt… off. But you push the feeling aside. If Alex is busy, he should have let you know. Instead, you have been waiting around like an idiot, wasting your evening.
You end up falling asleep on the sofa, still in the cute outfit you had chosen for your date.
Sometime around 9pm, you feel a gentle hand shaking your shoulder.
“My love,” Alex whispers near your ear, voice soft and fond.
You groan, trying to burrow deeper into the cushions. “Five more minutes…”
He chuckles quietly. “Come on, I brought cupcakes.”
That gets your attention. You crack one eye open and see him kneeling beside the sofa, holding up a familiar bakery bag with that boyish grin you love so much. His hair is messy from the studio, leather jacket still on, looking unfairly handsome even after a long day.
“Is this why you didn’t call me?” he coos, stroking your hair behind your ear. “Were you tired?”
At his words, your eyes snap open fully. “What?”
“It’s okay,” he says, still smiling as he helps you sit up. “I stopped by the bakery myself and got two of the ones with the extra frosting you like.”
You blink at him, now fully awake and confused. “I did call you. Multiple times. Seven pm sharp. It kept going to voicemail.”
Alex’s smile falters. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ancient Nokia, frowning as he presses the power button. The screen stays black.
“The fuck…” He smacks the side of the phone lightly. “I charged it all night yesterday. I should have received your calls.”
He slides the back cover off to check the battery. To his surprise — and not yours — the battery is missing.
“What—” He looks genuinely confused. “It must have fallen out or something.”
You give him a pointed look. “Don’t you think it’s time to let go of this ancient rock?”
Alex places the phone on the coffee table with a dramatic sigh and reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “No,” he whispers, tickling your nose with his. “It has character.”
Before you can whine again, he suddenly lifts you up and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, rushing toward the bedroom with a playful laugh.
You squeal, laughing as he carries you. “Alex! Put me down!”
“Never,” he declares, smacking your arse lightly. “You stood me up for cupcakes. Now you have to pay the price.”
He tosses you onto the bed with a grin, crawling over you and pinning you down gently. His eyes are sparkling with mischief as he leans in close.
“Now,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “where were we?”
______________________________
The bedroom is quiet except for the soft sound of breathing and the distant hum of the city far below. Moonlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting a silvery glow across the tangled sheets.
Alex holds you close against his naked chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other lazily stroking up and down your back. His skin is still warm from earlier, slightly damp with sweat. You feel completely boneless, tucked against him, legs intertwined, heart still settling after everything you just shared.
“How about we plan another date?” he murmurs into your hair, pulling you even closer. “Somewhere nice. Just the two of us.”
“Mmmm,” you hum, rolling your head up so your lips brush against his jaw. The simple touch makes him tighten his grip, his hand sliding down to rest on your lower back.
“That sounds nice,” you whisper. “Where?”
“You tell me,” he replies, voice low and warm. “What are you feeling? I want you to dress up for me.”
You make a show of thinking, tapping your chin with your finger and squinting one eye dramatically. Alex chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest as he leans down to kiss the side of your neck, making you melt further into him.
“How about the Italian place?” you suggest. “The one with the incredible tiramisu. They’re very strict with scheduling though.”
“Sold,” he says instantly, grinning against your skin.
“Seriously,” you look at him through your eyelashes, hand reaching up to cup his face. “Make sure you have a more reliable phone this time, please. I don’t want a repeat of last time.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, pulling you so you are straddling him. The blanket slips off your shoulders, pooling around your thighs. His hands find the swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he looks up at you with a mischievous grin.
“I’ll make the booking,” he promises, voice dropping. “And I’ll even try not to lose the new Nokia in the next four days.”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him — slow and deep, full of affection. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.
And so the date is booked for the week after, on Tuesday at 6:30pm.
Alex sends you the confirmation text during work the next day. You smile down at your phone like an idiot for the rest of the afternoon, heart fluttering every time you reread the simple message.
In return, you send him two red hearts. He chuckles softly to himself when he sees it, pocketing the phone with a private little smile.
“What has got you so happy?” Matt asks, noticing the rare grin on Alex’s face as he pockets the newer Nokia (still not a smartphone, but at least the back doesn’t fall off every time he breathes on it).
“Got me a hot date Tuesday at six thirty,” Alex replies, crossing his arms with a proud smirk.
“That so?” Matt laughs, smacking him on the arm. “Nice. Where you going?”
“Her favourite Italian place. It’s been a hot minute since I took her out on a proper fancy dinner. Felt kind of bad for neglecting her lately.”
“Well, make sure you treat her good,” Matt replies, swivelling around in his chair to reach for a notebook. “Just don’t forget we’ve got that label meeting at twelve on Tuesday. We should be done in time. Just keep your head in the game.”
Alex snorts, pushing Matt’s shoulder lightly before sitting down opposite him. “Sure, Mum.”
From just outside the half-open studio door, Melissa stands perfectly still, listening. Her expression is calm, professional — the picture of helpful efficiency. But her fingers tighten around the tablet she is holding until her knuckles turn white.
She sighs softly, almost too quietly to be heard, then turns and walks away down the hallway, heels clicking sharply against the floor.
______________________________
“What?” Alex’s eyes widen, disbelief etched across his face as Melissa’s words sink in. “How could you forget to tell us?”
Melissa shakes her head quickly, looking small and vulnerable in front of him, her eyes wide and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Alex. I didn’t forget! They just called this morning and said they had to move the meeting to five or it wouldn’t happen for months. I tried to push back, I really did…”
Alex’s hand shoots up to his forehead, rubbing hard as frustration boils over. Matt steps in, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Melissa, you can’t let that happen again,” Matt says firmly. “You’re here to help us, not disrupt our plans.”
Then he turns to Alex, expression apologetic but resolute. “I’m sorry, mate, but this is a meeting we cannot ignore. Without their sponsorship, the album rollout is going to suffer. We need this.”
Alex’s jaw clenches so tightly the muscle jumps. He looks torn, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. “I have to make a call…”
Melissa’s eyes widen slightly. She steps forward, pointing at the clock with an innocent, helpful smile. “The label meeting is starting in a minute. I can make that phone call for you, if you’d like. It’ll only take a second.”
Alex hesitates, clearly conflicted. “It’ll only take me a second…”
Matt puffs up, looking reluctant but firm. “I have to agree with Melissa. We need to get in that room now.”
Alex lets out a low, frustrated groan, digging his ancient Nokia out of his pocket and handing it over to her. “Can you please find her contact and call her? Tell her I’ll change the reservation to 8. And please tell her I will make it up to her. Tell her I’m sorry.”
Melissa nods, taking the phone with both hands and holding it close to her chest like it’s something precious. “Of course. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got this.”
Alex and Matt turn and walk down the hallway toward the meeting room. The second they disappear around the corner, Melissa’s sweet, helpful expression fades. She stares down at the old phone in her hands, a small, satisfied smile curling at the corner of her lips.
Twenty to seven.
You check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time, standing outside the beautiful Italian restaurant in your favourite dress, the one you know Alex loves. The evening air is cool, but your cheeks feel hot with a mix of embarrassment and growing frustration.
He is not answering his phone. Again.
He promised. He specifically said he would be here on time. He knows how strict this place is — on time is late, and ten minutes late might as well be never.
Tears start welling up in your eyes, hot and stinging. You blink them back fiercely, clutching your purse tighter as you step away from the front door. The elegant host had already given you a sympathetic but firm look.
You hail a cab, sliding into the back seat with a heavy heart.
You tell the driver to take you to Alex’s studio, voice tight. You give the address and lean your head against the window, watching the city lights blur past as the cab pulls away.
The ride feels endless. Your mind races. This isn’t like him. Not anymore. Not after everything you’ve been through together. He has been trying so hard. So why tonight? Why again?
By the time the cab pulls up outside the studio building, your frustration has mixed with a deep, aching worry. You pay the driver and step out, smoothing down your dress as you walk toward the entrance. The security guard recognizes you and lets you in with a nod.
The building is quieter than usual. You make your way to the main studio room, heart pounding harder with every step. When you push the door open, the sight that greets you makes your stomach drop.
Alex is not there.
The room is empty except for a few scattered papers and his jacket draped over the back of a chair. The silence feels mocking.
You stand there for a long moment, the beautiful dress you chose suddenly feeling ridiculous. Tears spill over before you can stop them, hot and angry.
Your phone buzzes in your purse. You pull it out with trembling hands.
Melissa: Alex is so sorry, the meeting ran much longer than expected. He feels terrible. He asked me to tell you he’ll make it up to you.
You stare at the message, something cold settling in your chest. The words are polite. Helpful, even. But something about them feels… wrong.
You wipe your tears, jaw tightening.
______________________________
"That went well," Nick whistles, stretching out on the sofa with a satisfied groan. "And faster than expected. We actually got out early for once."
Alex glances down at his watch — just five minutes past seven. Plenty of time. He had brought his suit with him, the one he knows you love, neatly hung in a garment bag. He can already picture your face lighting up when you see him in it, that bright, giddy smile that makes his chest feel warm. He had even considered suggesting you split one of those spicy cubes you both love, just to make the night more fun.
He couldn’t wait to see you.
The band files out of the small conference room, laughing and chatting. Alex is the last to step into the reception area, still riding the small wave of relief from the productive meeting.
He stops short.
You are sitting on the sofa near the entrance, arms crossed tightly over your chest, a stoic expression on your face. You look beautiful — the dress you chose hugs your figure perfectly, hair done nicely, makeup subtle but elegant. But the smile he had been imagining is nowhere to be found. Your eyes are red-rimmed, like you’ve been holding back tears.
“Hey,” he says, surprised but trying to sound casual as he walks toward you. “What are you doing here? We said we’d meet outside the restaurant.”
“That’s what I thought as well,” you reply, standing up slowly. Your voice is tight, controlled, but he can hear the storm underneath it. The rest of the band reads the room instantly and quickly evacuates, patting Alex on the back with murmured “good luck”s as they disappear down the hallway.
“I’m confused,” Alex says, brow furrowing as he stops in front of you. That’s when he notices it fully — your eyes are glassy, red from crying. His stomach drops. “What happened?”
“Are you kidding me right now?” You laugh, but there is no warmth in it. It is sharp, bitter, laced with hurt and anger. “I told you how important it was to be early tonight. I was waiting for you outside that restaurant like an idiot. Ten minutes late is already pushing it, and you just… didn’t show up.”
“Babe, hang on a second—”
“No,” you cut him off, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. I’m going home.”
You turn on your heel, but Alex reaches out, gently catching your wrist.
“Wait — I changed the reservation to eight! Melissa was supposed to call you and tell you. The meeting ran over and I—”
You yank your arm back, eyes flashing. “Melissa did contact me. She told me you were unavailable. Again. Just like last time.”
Alex freezes. Something cold settles in his stomach. “What?”
“You promised me,” you whisper, voice trembling now. Tears spill over despite your best efforts. “You promised this time would be different. That you wouldn’t let work swallow everything again. And I believed you. I got dressed up. I waited. And you just… forgot about me. Again.”
The pain in your voice hits him like a punch to the chest. He can see it now — the hurt, the exhaustion, the fear that this pattern will never change. His own throat tightens.
“I didn’t forget,” he says desperately, stepping closer. “I swear. I told Melissa to call you. I told her to explain everything. I thought—”
“You thought what?” you snap, voice rising. “That she would magically fix it? That I would just sit there waiting like a good little girlfriend while you handled ‘important’ meetings? I’m tired, Alex. I’m so tired of always being the one who understands. Of always being second to the album, the band, the next big thing.”
Alex looks stricken. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he stops himself. “You’re not second. You’re never second. I love you. I’m trying so hard to balance everything, but—”
“But what?” Tears are flowing freely now. “You’re always trying. And I’m always waiting. I can’t keep doing this.”
The silence that follows is heavy, painful. Alex looks wrecked, jaw clenched, eyes glassy with regret and frustration. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
You shake your head, wiping your tears roughly. “I’m going home.”
You turn and walk away without another word, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Alex stands frozen in the middle of the reception area, watching you leave, heart sinking with every step you take.
He doesn’t chase after you.
Not this time.
He just stands there, hands clenched at his sides, the weight of everything crashing down on him at once.
______________________________
You kick off your heels the second you step inside the flat, not caring where they land. They clatter noisily against the wooden floor, one tipping over near the entrance. You don’t bother picking them up. Your beautiful updo — the one you spent ten minutes perfecting with a tutorial — comes undone as you yank out the pins, letting your hair fall messily around your shoulders. You don’t change out of the dress. The beautiful fabric that made you feel elegant and desired earlier now feels like a cruel reminder.
Instead, you make a beeline for the bedroom, grabbing Alex’s pillow and an extra blanket from the wardrobe. You dump them unceremoniously on the sofa before heading to the kitchen. Your stomach is empty and churning, but the thought of cooking anything feels impossible. You settle for a box of cereal, pouring it into a bowl with mechanical movements.
The keys jingle in the door a few minutes later. You don’t turn around. You already know it’s him.
“My love,” Alex calls out softly when he sees your heels abandoned at the entrance. His voice is careful, laced with worry. He knows that habit — you only ever leave them like that when something has soured your mood.
You stay silent, pouring milk over the cereal.
“Please, let’s talk,” he says, stepping into the kitchen.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mutter, gripping the spoon tighter than necessary. “We already discussed this.”
He turns his head toward the living room and sees his pillow and blanket laid out on the sofa. His face falls.
“You’re making me sleep on the sofa?”
“I don’t want you in our bed tonight,” you reply, voice flat as you carry the bowl to the counter. “I want some space.”
Alex stares at you, heartbroken. Tonight was supposed to be perfect. He had been looking forward to it all day — seeing you in that dress, watching your face light up when the tiramisu arrived, stealing bites from your plate just to make you laugh. Instead, everything feels ruined, and he still doesn’t fully understand how.
You look ridiculous right now — eating cereal in an elegant dress with a moody pout — but he doesn’t laugh. He can’t. The sight only makes his chest ache more.
He slides onto the stool opposite you. You refuse to look at him.
“Baby… please look at me.”
“There’s nothing to look at,” you whisper, swirling your spoon in the bowl. Your appetite is gone. Tears are starting to build in the corners of your eyes again, but you hold them back with sheer willpower.
“There must have been some miscommunication,” he says gently, hands placed flat on the counter like he’s trying to ground himself. “An unexpected sponsorship meeting came up that couldn’t be rescheduled. I was going to call you to change the reservation to eight, which I did. But everyone was dragging me into the conference room. So I asked Melissa to let you know about the change of plans.”
You stay silent, staring at your cereal like it holds all the answers.
“Are you seriously blaming your assistant right now?” you ask, voice sharp with disbelief.
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, looking pained. “I’m telling you the truth. I thought she had handled it.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Of course you did. Even before she came along, things like this happened. You started getting better, but you obviously fell through again. You’ll probably tell me it’s her fault the battery fell out of your brick phone too.”
“That was an accident,” he exclaims, frustration bleeding into his voice.
You shrug, pushing the bowl away. “That’s besides the point. I’m better at this than I used to be. I didn’t forget about you. I rescheduled.”
“Well then I guess I didn’t get the memo,” you say coldly, standing up and dumping the untouched cereal in the sink. “Goodnight.”
You brush past him without another word and head to the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you. The sound echoes in the quiet flat like a final punctuation mark.
Alex stands there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. He places his face in his palms and groans, the weight of the evening crashing down on him.
“What the fuck is going on?”
______________________________
The next morning, Alex is still rattled.
He sits in the studio with Matt, eyes distant as he watches Melissa move around the hallway through the glass door. She is organizing paperwork with her usual efficiency — neat stacks, polite smiles, perfectly professional. But something about her feels off to him now. Too polished. Too convenient.
“Things have been going very wrong for me ever since Melissa started working here,” Alex mutters, interlacing his fingers under his chin, elbows resting on the table.
Matt raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “She’s a little clumsy with relaying messages, sure. But I wouldn’t say things have been going very wrong.”
Alex’s gaze stays fixed on her through the glass. “Apparently when my phone’s battery disappeared and I wasn’t answering her calls, she called Melissa to ask about me. And Melissa never mentioned that call to me. It’s all a little… weird.”
Matt runs a hand through his hair, processing. “That is weird. Maybe she’s just not great at communication.”
“Maybe,” Alex agrees, but his eyes narrow as Melissa walks past the glass again, humming softly to herself. “Or maybe something else is going on.”
Matt studies him for a moment, then leans forward, lowering his voice. “You don’t think… she’s doing it on purpose, do you?”
Alex turns to look at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Matt hesitates, then says it anyway. “Jealousy. She’s been working closely with you. Maybe she has a crush. Maybe she’s trying to create problems between you and your girl so she can… I don’t know, slide in.”
Alex’s eyes widen, the assumption hitting him like a slap. “Jealousy?” He repeats the word like it’s foreign. “You think Melissa is sabotaging my relationship because she likes me?”
Matt shrugs, looking a little uncomfortable. “It’s not impossible. She’s always extra attentive with you. Always offering to handle personal stuff. And the timing with the missed calls and the dinner… it’s too convenient.”
Alex leans back in his chair, staring at the glass door again. The idea settles in his mind, heavy and unsettling. At first it seems ridiculous. But the more he thinks about it — the way Melissa always seems to be the one delivering bad news, the way she offers to “help” with your calls, the way she lingers a little too long — the more it starts to make a sick kind of sense.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his face with both hands. “You really think that’s possible?”
“I don’t know,” Matt says honestly. “But it’s worth considering. You’ve been happier with her than I’ve seen you in a long time. If someone’s trying to fuck that up… you need to know.”
Alex is quiet for a long moment, jaw clenched, eyes dark. The suspicion takes root, growing fast. He doesn’t want to believe it. But he also can’t ignore the pattern anymore.
“I need to test it,” he says finally, voice low. “I need to know for sure.”
Matt raises an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”
Alex’s mind is already racing. “I’ll tell her I’m having doubts about the relationship. Plant the seed. See how she reacts. If she pushes it… if she tries to encourage it… then we’ll know.”
Matt nods slowly. “And then what?”
Alex’s expression hardens. “Then I confront her. And I make it very clear I am not happy with her.”
______________________________
The studio is busier than usual this afternoon. Most of the band is in the recording area, practicing. Alex sits at his desk, pretending to write things down, but his mind is elsewhere. He has been watching Melissa for the last twenty minutes — the way she moves around the room with that polished efficiency, always helpful, always nearby.
He needs to know.
“Melissa,” he calls out, keeping his voice casual. “Can you come here for a second?”
She turns immediately, a bright, professional smile on her face. “Of course, Alex. What do you need?”
She walks over and stops beside his desk, closing the door behind her, close enough that her perfume — something sweet and floral — reaches him. She leans slightly against the edge of the desk, looking down at him with attentive eyes.
Alex leans back in his chair, studying her. “I’ve been thinking about the schedule for next week. You’ve been handling a lot lately. How are you finding it? Working with us, I mean.”
She smiles wider, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love it. Really. You’re… intense, but in a good way. It’s exciting to be part of something so important.”
He nods slowly, keeping his expression neutral. “Good. I appreciate everything you do. Especially with the personal stuff. The calls, the messages… you’ve been a big help with keeping things running smoothly.”
Melissa’s eyes flicker with something — satisfaction, maybe. She shifts a little closer, her hip brushing the desk. “I’m glad. I just want to make your life easier. You work so hard. You deserve someone who can take some of the weight off.”
There’s a subtle shift in her tone. More personal.
Alex notices.
He keeps his voice light. “Yeah? Sometimes it feels like too much. The touring, the album, trying to keep my relationship strong… it’s a lot.”
Melissa’s expression changes — just a fraction. Her smile stays, but her eyes sharpen with interest. She leans in a little more, lowering her voice.
“I can see that,” she says gently. “It must be hard. Having someone who doesn’t fully understand the demands of your world. Someone who expects you to be available all the time.”
Alex’s jaw tightens, but he forces a small, tired smile. “You think so?”
She nods, looking sympathetic. “I’ve seen it before with other artists. The partners get frustrated. They don’t understand the late nights, the sudden meetings… the way the music has to come first sometimes. It puts a lot of strain on things.” She pauses, then adds softly, “You deserve someone who gets it. Someone who’s here, in the same world as you.”
The implication is subtle, but it’s there.
Alex feels a cold twist in his stomach. He keeps his face calm, but inside, the suspicion Matt planted is growing roots.
“That’s… interesting,” he says carefully. “You seem to have thought about this a lot.”
Melissa shrugs, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips. “I just pay attention. I see how stressed you get. I hate seeing you like that.” She reaches out, hesitating for a second before lightly touching his shoulder. “If you ever need to talk… or if things get too much… I’m here. Anytime.”
Her hand lingers just a moment too long. The touch is light, professional on the surface, but the way her fingers press slightly, the way her eyes hold his — it’s not just helpful assistant behaviour.
Alex notices everything.
He gently shifts so her hand falls away, keeping his voice even. “I appreciate that, Melissa. Really. It means a lot.”
She smiles brightly, like nothing happened. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”
Alex nods, turning back to his papers. “You can head out for the day if you want. I’ll finish up here.”
As soon as she leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her, Alex leans back in his chair and exhales sharply. His mind is racing.
Matt was right.
There is something there. Something deliberate.
He stares at the closed door for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then he pulls out his phone and texts you.
Can you come by the studio when you’re free? Need to talk. It’s important.
He sets the phone down, eyes dark with determination.
If Melissa is trying to break you two apart, he is going to make it very clear where his loyalties lie.
______________________________
You didn’t want to go.
The cab ride to the studio feels longer than it should, the city lights blurring past the window as you stare out, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Your eyes are still a little swollen from last night’s tears, and your heart feels heavy with a mix of anger, hurt, exhaustion, and that stubborn, aching love that refuses to let you stay away. Part of you wants to turn the cab around and go home. The other part — the part that still loves him so much it physically hurts — knows that if Alex says it’s important, you don’t really have a choice.
You push open the studio door with a sigh, the familiar smell of coffee, old vinyl, and faint cigarette smoke hitting you immediately. The main room is dimly lit, only a few lamps on. Alex is standing near the guitars, hands in his pockets, looking up the second you walk in.
He looks… nervous. Almost awkward. His usual confident posture is gone, replaced by tense shoulders and a hesitant expression. When his eyes meet yours, something soft and pained flickers across his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept much either.
“Hey,” he says quietly, voice rough. “Thank you for coming. I know you probably didn’t want to.”
You stop a few feet away, arms still crossed. “You said it was important.”
“It is.” He takes a small step closer, then stops, like he’s afraid to crowd you. “I… I didn’t sleep much last night. Kept thinking about everything. About how I hurt you. About how I let things get this bad between us.”
You don’t reply. The silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. Alex runs a hand through his hair, looking more vulnerable than you have seen him in a long time. His eyes are tired, like he has been replaying last night over and over.
“I talked to Matt this morning,” he continues, voice low. “And… I think Melissa might be trying to come between us.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
He nods, looking guilty. “The missed calls. The dinner. The way she always seems to be the one delivering bad news. Matt suggested she might be jealous. That she’s doing it on purpose.” He lets out a shaky breath. “At first I thought it was ridiculous. But the more I thought about it… the way she offered to call you, the way she held onto my phone… it started to make sense. I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to find out.”
You stare at him, processing. The anger from last night is still there, raw and aching, but so is the exhaustion of loving someone who keeps slipping away. “So you think your assistant is sabotaging us?”
“I think she might be trying,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were second place. You’re not. You’ve never been. I’ve been so caught up in the album, in the chaos… I forgot how much it was hurting you. How much it was hurting us.”
His voice cracks on the last word. He takes another step closer, eyes glassy with regret. “I love you. So much. And I’m terrified of losing you. Last night… seeing you walk away… it felt like my heart was being ripped out. I don’t want to keep doing this to you. I don’t want to keep failing you.”
You feel your own eyes sting again. The hurt is still there, but so is the love. The deep, stubborn love that has kept you here through all the missed calls and late nights.
“I love you too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “But I can’t keep waiting around, wondering if I’m going to be forgotten again. It hurts too much.”
“I know,” he says, stepping close enough to touch you but not quite doing it yet. “I’m going to do better. I’m going to set boundaries. With work. With Melissa. With everything. You’re my priority. Not the album. Not the schedule. You.”
He finally reaches out, gently cupping your face with both hands. His thumbs brush away the tears that have started falling. His touch is so tender it makes your chest ache.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “I’m so sorry, my love. Please don’t give up on me. On us.”
You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. The warmth of his hands, the familiar scent of him, the way he holds you like you are something precious — it cracks the last of your defences.
“I’m not giving up,” you whisper back. “But you have to fight for this too.”
“I will,” he promises, voice thick with emotion. “Every day. I swear.”
The tension between you finally breaks. He pulls you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in as silent tears soak into his shirt. He holds you like he never wants to let go, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back.
“I love you,” he whispers again and again, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much.”
You tilt your head up, and he kisses you — soft at first, then deeper, full of relief and love and the promise of trying harder. It is not desperate or frantic. It is tender. Healing. A quiet reaffirmation of everything you are to each other.
When you pull back, foreheads still touching, you smile through the tears.
“We’re going to be okay,” you whisper.
Alex nods, eyes shining. “We’re going to be okay.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, pouring everything he feels into it. The studio feels warmer. Safer. Like the beginning of something stronger.
For the first time in weeks, the space between you feels like home again.
______________________________
Alex guides you to his creative den, the studio quiet except for the soft click of the lock as he turns it behind you.
You barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling you into his arms, kissing you deeply, hands sliding down your back with a reverence that makes your knees weak. The kiss is slow at first — full of relief, love, and weeks of pent-up longing — but it quickly deepens, turning hungry.
“God, I need this,” he murmurs against your lips, walking you backwards until your hips hit the edge of the couch. “Every night, all I can think about is coming home to you.”
You smile into the kiss, fingers threading through his hair. “Then show me.”
He does.
He lifts you onto the couch, laying you down gently like you’re something precious. His hands are everywhere — sliding under your shirt, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you arch into him with a soft moan. He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he reveals — your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, your stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
When you’re bare beneath him, he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t deserve you. But I’m going to spend every day trying to.”
He settles between your thighs, kissing you deeply as he pushes inside you — slow, deep, and loving. You both moan at the feeling, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked. He moves with purpose, rolling his hips in long, sensual strokes, making sure you feel every inch of him.
“I love you,” he breathes, kissing you between thrusts. “I love you so fucking much.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, nails dragging down his back. “I love you too. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. The pace builds gradually — tender at first, then more passionate, more desperate. His hand slips between you, rubbing your clit in perfect circles as he thrusts harder. You come with a broken moan of his name, clenching tightly around him. He follows moments later, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, groaning your name like a prayer.
You stay connected for a long moment, breathing each other in, exchanging soft kisses.
Then the door opens.
Melissa stands in the doorway, files in hand, eyes wide as she takes in the scene — Alex still inside you, both of you half-naked and tangled on the couch.
For a second, no one moves.
Then Alex slowly pulls out of you, shielding your body with his own as he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and covers you both. His expression shifts from blissed-out to cold and smug in a heartbeat.
“Melissa,” he says, voice dangerously calm. “I believe I told you to knock.”
She stands frozen, face pale, eyes darting between you and him. “I—I’m so sorry, I thought you were alone. I just needed to drop off the—”
“Save it,” Alex cuts her off, voice sharp. He stands up, wrapping the blanket around his waist, completely unashamed. “You’ve been playing games for weeks. The missed calls. The cancelled plans. The ‘helpful’ little updates that always seemed to hurt my relationship. I know what you’ve been doing.”
Melissa’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are wide with panic.
Alex steps closer, towering over her. “I let it slide because I wanted to believe you were just incompetent. But after last night… I’m done. You’re fired. Effective immediately. Pack your things and get out.”
She stares at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Alex, please, I was only trying to—”
“Trying to what?” he snaps. “Trying to come between me and the woman I love? Get out.”
Melissa’s shoulders slump. She looks at you for a split second — a flash of resentment in her eyes — then turns and walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Alex turns back to you, the sharp anger melting from his face the moment his eyes land on you. He climbs back onto the couch, pulling you gently into his arms, careful to keep the blanket wrapped around both of you. His skin is still warm against yours, heart beating fast from the adrenaline of the confrontation and everything that came before it.
He kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, then your lips — soft, reassuring kisses that make your chest ache with affection. But underneath the warmth, embarrassment creeps in. Melissa had just walked in on you both naked, mid-act. The image of her shocked face flashes in your mind, and your cheeks burn hotter than they have in a long time.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he whispers against your hair, voice low and full of regret. “I didn’t want her to walk in like that. But… I needed her to know. I’m yours. And I’m never letting anyone come between us again.”
You smile against his chest, heart full despite the lingering flush of embarrassment. “I know,” you murmur, but your voice is a little shy. You can still feel the phantom heat of Melissa’s stare on your bare skin. “God, that was mortifying. She saw everything.”
Alex lets out a soft, apologetic chuckle, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders and tucking it securely. “I know. I’m sorry. I should have locked the door properly. I thought I had.” He kisses the top of your head, lingering there. “But part of me… part of me is glad she saw. She needed to understand what she was doing was not working.”
You hide your face in his neck, cheeks burning even more. “I can’t believe she walked in while you were still… inside me. I’m never going to live that down.”
He laughs quietly, the sound warm and fond as he rubs slow circles on your back. “Hey,” he whispers, tilting your chin up so you meet his eyes. “She’s gone now. It’s just us. And I don’t regret a single second of what we just did.” His thumb brushes your flushed cheek tenderly. “You’re beautiful. Even when you’re embarrassed.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest again, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Only for you,” he replies, voice soft. He holds you tighter, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “Mine,” he murmurs into your hair, the word full of quiet possession and love.
“Yours,” you whisper back, melting into him despite the lingering embarrassment.
The blanket cocooned around you both feels like a safe little world. Alex’s arms stay wrapped around you, strong and steady, as the tension of the day slowly fades. For the first time in weeks, everything feels right again.
Summary: Alex has a raging crush on the cute bookstore employee but can only observe- until courage takes over.
A/n: Was just thinking of starting to write about fetus Alex! I had a few ideas in mind but omg please do request! Now this- soooo fun to write. Awkward Alex has the most entertaining thought process. Thank you for reading all my AM stuff :D
Word count: 4.7k
______________________________
Alex can't help it. He really can't.
It's creepy and he knows it, but he hasn't been caught yet, so he keeps on doing it.
Behind a bookshelf—this specific one diagonally placed from the checkout counter—he watches through a carefully selected gap between a row of dusty cookbooks. Mediterranean cuisine, baking, vegetarian recipes. Books he knows nobody ever really touches, which makes them perfect. Over the past few weeks it has become his designated spot, the place he always gravitates towards whenever he comes in. Not because he's proud of himself, mind you. Quite the opposite.
He has played out the scenario of getting caught an embarrassing amount of times. Sometimes he imagines your eyes suddenly lifting and finding his through the gap. Other times he imagines you walking over and politely asking if he needs help finding anything, forcing him to explain why he has been staring through a shelf for the better part of fifteen minutes.
Every version ends with his face turning bright red.
He would genuinely never step foot in the neighbourhood again.
The thing is, it isn't for any conniving reason that he just... stares. At least, he doesn't think it is.
The truth is he has almost come to terms with how awkward he is around women. Almost being the key word there. Every blue moon he'll get some random burst of confidence and actually approach a cute girl, strike up a conversation and prove to himself that he is capable of functioning like a normal human being.
He's been waiting rather eagerly for that version of himself to show up.
Hasn't happened yet.
So instead he remains tucked behind his bookshelf, watching as you lean against the counter with a somewhat bored look on your face. Your fingers absent-mindedly flick through the stack of free bookmarks for what feels like the twentieth time. You straighten them, shuffle them around, then straighten them again. A customer comes in and you immediately perk up, offering a friendly smile. The second they leave, your expression drops back into mild boredom.
It's oddly amusing.
With one final lingering glance, Alex decides to dip out.
The layout of the bookshop is extremely beneficial to him. Quite dangerous for you, actually, considering you can't properly see who enters and leaves from behind the counter. It gives him the freedom to come in multiple times a week without drawing much attention to himself, and means you almost never get a good enough look at him to realise he frequents the place a bit too often.
One thing he does do, though—something that leaves his heart racing every single time—is leave behind Post-it notes with lyrics inspired by you.
He knows how creepy that sounds.
Again, it isn't intended that way.
It's just the only way he can think of communicating with you without actually having to communicate with you. He doesn't even know if you find them. For all he knows they get peeled off and thrown in the bin before you ever see them. Still, something about the possibility that you've read one is enough to make him feel excited.
"You turn pages without reading,trace bookmarks like constellations;and somehow every quiet thing you dobecomes a song I can't stop repeating."
Gently sticking it against the spine of a Mediterranean cookbook, he smooths down the edges and glances up to make sure you aren't looking his way.
You aren't.
Satisfied, Alex slips towards the door and exits the bookshop, the little bell jingling overhead.
"Thank you for coming!"
Your voice follows him out onto the pavement, and despite everything, he finds himself smiling all the way down the street.
______________________________
It has been roughly three months since Alex discovered Next Read (the bookshop, very creative), and he has somehow managed to make it part of his weekly routine.
Actually, weekly is underselling it. He passes by at least every other day now.
At first he had plenty of excuses for it. He liked books. The shop was on the way home. It was independent and had character unlike those massive chain stores that all smelt vaguely the same. But after a while even he had to admit those reasons were becoming increasingly flimsy.
The truth was that he kept coming back because of you.
Which sounded pathetic when he thought about it for too long.
Lately he has found himself getting more and more restless because of it. He'll lie awake at night staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, hands folded behind his head, intending to think about literally anything else. The band's next gig. Song lyrics. Whether he should finally replace the strings on his guitar. What he wants for tea tomorrow.
Instead his thoughts always drift back towards you.
Not because he knows much about you.
That's the problem.
He barely knows anything at all.
He has heard your voice properly perhaps five or six times, and every single one of those occasions involved a customer standing at your till. Yet somehow that tiny amount of information has only made him more curious.
You always seem to adapt yourself to whoever is standing in front of you.
The elderly woman who came in every Thursday received warmth and endless patience. The teenagers who crowded around the comics section got sarcasm and teasing remarks. The businessman who had marched in demanding a refund on a damaged hardback got a level of politeness so sharp it may as well have been a weapon.
Alex had nearly laughed out loud listening to that one.
You were funny.
Not intentionally, most of the time.
Just observant.
Dry.
The sort of person who clearly had very little tolerance for nonsense. Which should probably discourage him. Instead it does the exact opposite.
The more he notices, the more interested he becomes. He wants to know what books you actually enjoy reading when nobody is asking for recommendations. He wants to know what music you listen to on your way home. He wants to know whether you're this confident all the time or if you secretly spend hours replaying conversations in your head afterwards like he does.
The curiosity has become a craving.
A completely ridiculous craving.
One that he made the mistake of mentioning to the band a few hours earlier during practice.
The reaction had been immediate.
"Mate, you're a fucking creep."
"Sleazeball."
"She's gonna start charging you rent at this point."
Alex had told them to piss off.
They had laughed even harder.
Still, once the insults died down, they all seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.
He needed to speak to you. Not confess his undying love. Not propose marriage.
Just speak.
Like a normal person.
"Buy a book," Matt had said whilst adjusting his drumset. "If she recoils when she sees you, you'll know it's over."
Whilst deeply irritating, Matt occasionally produced surprisingly solid advice.
A simple customer-bookseller interaction.
That was manageable.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Which is how Alex finds himself standing outside Next Read late in the afternoon, staring at the glass door as if it has personally challenged him.
His reflection stares back.
He looks nervous.
Fantastic.
Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open.
The familiar bell rings overhead, filling the quiet atmosphere of the shop. Immediately your voice follows.
"Welcome!"
His stomach performs a manoeuvre usually reserved for rollercoasters.
You've spoken directly to him.
Technically.
Granted, you say that to everybody who walks through the door, but he decides not to focus on that detail. Instead he gulps and opens his mouth.
"Afternoon."
The word comes out surprisingly normal.
No voice crack. No awkward squeak. No complete loss of motor function.
A success by all accounts.
Mentally patting himself on the back, he immediately makes for the music section before he can ruin it.
He tries very hard not to look at you whilst passing the counter.
You don't appear particularly interested in him anyway.
In fact, from what he can tell, you look mildly bored.
Strangely enough, that helps.
If you're bored, then you're definitely not scrutinising him.
The music section feels oddly unfamiliar despite how many times he has visited the shop. Usually he remains hidden somewhere near the side, pretending to browse whilst keeping one eye on the counter. This is the first time he has actually ventured in front of it.
His heart continues hammering away as he scans the shelves.
Vinyl guides. Music history. Artist biographies.
His eyes eventually land on Diary of a Rock 'n' Roll Star.
He's never heard of it before. He doesn't particularly care about it either. But it looks convincing enough. Besides, buying a book is buying a book.
Grabbing it before he can change his mind, Alex turns around and heads back towards the till, feeling very much like a man marching towards his own execution.
His palms are definitely sweating.
Probably a normal amount. Hopefully a normal amount.
You look up as he approaches and offer him a smile.
A simple smile.
Nothing extraordinary.
Unfortunately his brain reacts as though you've just declared your love for him in front of a live audience.
For one horrifying second his breath nearly catches.
Thankfully he manages to compose himself before it becomes noticeable, returning a small smile of his own as he places the book on the counter.
You turn it over in your hands, reading the back cover before scanning it.
"You like tour diaries?"
The question catches him slightly off guard.
Not because it's difficult.
Because you're talking to him.
Properly.
He shrugs in what he hopes is a casual manner, though internally he is anything but casual.
"I imagine how cool that must be," he says. "Playing in front of loads of people, travelling everywhere."
You nod thoughtfully as you place the book beside the till.
"Do you play?"
The question makes something spark to life in his chest.
"A little guitar," he says before quickly correcting himself. "I actually sing mostly."
"Oh?"
For the first time since approaching the counter, you seem genuinely interested. And now there is absolutely nowhere to hide. He nods, fingers absent-mindedly tugging at the hem of his jumper.
"Yeah, my mates and I have a band. We're still pretty fresh though. Mostly just play a few pubs."
The words come out more naturally than he expected, which is encouraging. Perhaps he has finally settled into the conversation. Perhaps this is the point where his body remembers how to function properly.
"What genre?" you ask.
"Indie rock," he says, before adding, "we hope."
Because that feels important.
The last thing he wants is to sound pretentious. They're hardly selling out. Half the time they're just four lads squeezing equipment into whichever pub has agreed to put up with them for an evening.
Something in your expression brightens.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anybody else to notice.
Alex notices.
The smile you've been wearing up until now has been polite, customer-service pleasant. This one feels different somehow. More genuine.
"My kind of music," you say. "When are you playing again?"
His brain promptly forgets how conversations work.
For a second he just stares. You want to know when they're playing?
His heart feels as though it has missed several beats in a row before attempting to make up for them all at once.
Think. Answer the question. Don't just stand there looking shocked.
"Next Friday," he says quickly. "At The Grapes. Seven o'clock."
You hum thoughtfully, tapping your pen a couple of times against the countertop.
"If I'm free, I might pop by."
Alex is fairly certain his soul leaves his body.
Then you ask, "What's your name?"
There it is again.
That strange phenomenon where every question you ask seems to raise his internal temperature by several degrees.
His body completely freezes whilst simultaneously feeling far too warm. It's honestly impressive.
"A-Alex," he manages.
A brilliant start.
"And the band's called Arctic Monkeys."
You blink. Then your eyes widen. "Oh my God."
Alex immediately prepares himself for disaster.
Perhaps you've heard something terrible about them. Perhaps one of the lads accidentally insulted your family. Perhaps—
"My friend told me to check you guys out!" you say, clasping your hands together. "She said you'll make it big."
For a moment he genuinely doesn't know how to react.
He nearly gawks.
Actually gawks.
Thankfully he catches himself before completely embarrassing himself, rubbing the back of his neck instead.
"That would be the dream." And it would.
The idea of people knowing who they are. Of playing proper venues. Of hearing strangers sing lyrics back to them. He's imagined it a thousand times.
"I'll definitely come now," you say with a grin.
His chest tightens. Just enough to make breathing slightly more complicated than usual.
"We would be honoured."
You laugh.
"Awesome."
For a few seconds neither of you says anything. The silence isn't awkward exactly. At least not at first.
Alex opens his mouth twice, both times intending to continue the conversation. Unfortunately his brain appears to have abandoned him somewhere around the point where you said you'd come to the gig.
Meanwhile, you seem to return to reality.
Your eyes flick down towards the till. "Oh," you say. "The total's seven fifty."
Right.
The book.
The entire reason he's standing here.
He internally curses himself for not thinking of something clever to say. Not that he had anything clever prepared in the first place, but still. It feels like he's wasting an opportunity.
At the same time, he isn't entirely convinced his nervous system could survive another five minutes of this conversation.
As he reaches into his pocket for change, his fingers brush against a folded piece of paper.
A Post-it note. The Post-it note.
Immediately he feels a fresh wave of panic.
He completely forgot about it.
The original plan had been simple. Browse a section. Leave the note behind. Let you discover it after he'd gone.
Instead he got distracted by actually speaking to you for the first time and now the bloody thing is still sitting in his pocket.
Idiot.
As discreetly as possible, he pulls out the money and places it on the counter.
"Do you... uh... have a bag, perhaps?"
You nod.
"Of course."
The second you bend down beneath the counter, Alex moves.
With all the subtlety of a criminal who has never committed a crime in his life, he slides the Post-it onto the front edge of the counter beneath a display of expensive pens and fancy pencils.Just enough to be noticeable.
'Some people suit the city lights,some belong by the sea;you look like you were writteninto every book I see.'
By the time you stand back up, he has already shoved both hands into his pockets and adopted what he hopes is the expression of a completely innocent customer.
"Here you are."
You hand over the paper bag.
At that exact moment, the bell above the door jingles again as somebody else enters the shop.
Alex reaches for the bag. Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts less than a second.
A completely normal amount of time.
His brain reacts as though he's been struck by lightning.
"Excited to see you on Friday," you say.
He smiles. Not a cool smile. Not a charming smile. The smile of a man who has just received the best news of his entire week.
"W-yeah. See you then."
He turns far too quickly, nearly colliding with an elderly woman who has just stepped inside.
"Sorry."
The woman waves him off before approaching the counter. "Hi there, darling. I just need a notebook for my grandson."
Alex is already halfway through the door when he hears her continue.
"Oh—you seem to have a note here."
His entire body goes rigid.
Then he practically scurries out onto the pavement, the bell jingling wildly behind him as he escapes before he can witness the aftermath.
______________________________
He stayed away for four days. That's three days too long.
Alex had figured that now he had crossed the threshold and successfully introduced himself into your life, he could no longer lurk around Next Read pretending to browse books he had no intention of buying. The mystery was gone. He existed to you now.
Well. Sort of.
You knew his name, at least.
Which meant the only realistic chance of seeing you again rested entirely on tonight's performance.
Assuming you actually showed up.
You said you would, and unfortunately that simple fact had amplified his nerves tenfold.
He hadn't felt this anxious before a performance since the first time he stepped onto a stage months ago. Back then he'd spent the entire afternoon convinced he was going to forget every lyric, trip over a cable and somehow electrocute himself in front of an audience.
Tonight felt remarkably similar.
You've ruined him.
The Grapes was already beginning to fill up by the time the band started setting up. The familiar scent of stale beer and old wood lingered in the air, mixing with the occasional waft of chips from somewhere near the kitchen. Glasses clinked together. Conversations overlapped. Chairs scraped against wooden floors.
Normally Alex liked this part.
There was something comforting about watching a venue slowly come alive before a gig. Tonight he couldn't focus on any of it.
Every few minutes his eyes drifted towards the entrance.
Someone walked in. Not you.
A group of blokes in football shirts. Not you.
An older couple. Definitely not you.
A girl with similar hair. His heart nearly stopped.
Wrong girl.
For what had to be the twentieth time, he glanced towards the door again whilst pretending to tune his guitar.
What were you even going to wear? The thought appeared uninvited and immediately refused to leave.
At the bookshop you always wore the same uniform. Name tag. Neat clothes. Hair done properly.
Outside of work, though? Would you come straight from your shift without bothering to change? Would you dress for the atmosphere? Would you treat it like a proper concert?
He found himself imagining increasingly ridiculous scenarios.
You turning up in a leather jacket. You turning up in one of the band's shirts. You turning up and immediately asking him out.
Right.
That one was particularly unrealistic.
Alex rubbed a hand over his face. He was making this far harder than it needed to be.
Somewhere between tuning his guitar and staring into space, his thoughts had already progressed several months ahead. He was imagining dates. Shared playlists. Matching outfits. Being one of those disgustingly attractive couples that made strangers irrationally annoyed.
The worst part was he didn't even notice himself doing it anymore.
A sharp smack landed between his shoulder blades.
Alex nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus Christ."
Matt grinned. "Stop overthinking and make sure you don't fall over."
"I wasn't overthinking."
"You were staring at the door like a Victorian widow waiting for her husband to return from sea."
"Fuck off."
Matt looked unconvinced. Alex pushed him away before he could continue and glanced towards the entrance one final time.
Still no sign of you.
Fantastic.
With a sigh, he adjusted the strap of his guitar and headed towards the microphone. The chatter in the pub gradually softened.
His mates moved into position behind him. This was familiar territory. Safe territory.
Usually the second he stepped onto a stage, all his nerves disappeared. Usually.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned towards the microphone.
"Good evening. We're the Arctic Monkeys, and we'll be playing a mix of covers and originals tonight."
A few cheers sounded from somewhere near the bar. Alex nodded gratefully before wrapping his hand around the neck of his guitar.
One last glance around the room.
Still nothing.
The first chord rang out.
And despite the music starting around him, despite the crowd watching expectantly, despite years of dreaming about moments exactly like this, one thought continued circling his head.
Where the hell are you?
"This one is called Scummy Man," Alex breathes into the microphone.
The words leave his mouth automatically. By this point the performance feels strangely distant, as though he's moving through it on instinct alone. The lights hanging above the stage blur slightly whenever he looks directly at them, and the mixture of chatter, clinking glasses and laughter from around the pub has melted into a dull hum at the edges of his hearing.
He nods towards the lads behind him, fingers settling against the strings of his guitar.
Before the song begins, he lets his eyes drift casually across the room.
Just one more look.
One final check.
Then he'll stop thinking about it.
His gaze traces over crowded tables, half-empty pint glasses and groups of strangers talking amongst themselves. And then—
His soul nearly exits through his arse. There you are.
Sat at a table near the back of the room.
For a second he genuinely forgets how to breathe. You look completely different.
Not different enough that he doesn't recognise you immediately. That would be impossible. Just... different enough to catch him off guard.
Your eyes are lined dark and smoky, making them stand out beneath the dim pub lighting. Your lips are painted a deep shade of red that somehow makes it impossible to look anywhere else. Low-rise jeans sit comfortably on your hips, paired with a sheer black top that reveals a glimpse of skin above your waistband.
And your hair. Your hair isn't pinned neatly into place like it usually is behind the counter at Next Read.
It's looser. Messier. Like you've actually spent time getting ready for the evening. Like you wanted to be here.
Alex feels his pulse spike violently. And then it gets worse.
Because you're looking directly at him.
Not vaguely towards the stage. Not through him. At him.
And you're smiling.
For fuck's sake.
His throat immediately dries up.
The song starts.
Which would be fine if he wasn't expected to sing it. The first lyric leaves his mouth. His voice cracks. Alex notices so hard he nearly folds in on himself. Keep it together, dickhead.
Three months.
Three months of hiding behind bookshelves and writing stupid little Post-it notes. You finally show up and immediately reduce him to this.
He forces himself to look away. Pretend she's not there. Pretend she isn't watching. Pretend she hasn't somehow become the only person in the entire pub.
It proves significantly harder than expected.
Because every time his eyes accidentally wander in your direction, you're still paying attention.
Still watching.
Still smiling.
Shit.
She is so fucking hot.
By some miracle, he manages to survive the rest of the song.
Mostly by staring at the floor. Occasionally his guitar. Once or twice Matt. Never your table.
Well.
Almost never your table.
When the final note rings out, the pub immediately erupts into applause. A few whistles cut through the noise. Someone near the bar shouts something incomprehensible but enthusiastic.
Alex finally gathers enough courage to lift his head. The courage of a hundred men charging into battle. The courage of someone voluntarily touching a hot stove.
And there you are.
On your feet. Actually stood up. Clapping enthusiastically with a grin stretched across your face.
Not a polite smile. Not the customer service smile. A genuine one. You look excited.
Impressed, even.
Oh boy.
The confidence boost hits him so hard he almost laughs. His entire body suddenly feels lighter. Warmer. Like maybe he's not completely embarrassing himself after all.
A grin pulls across his face before he can stop it. "Thank you!" he says into the microphone. "Next one is a beloved song."
The crowd cheers. And for the first time all evening, Alex actually relaxes. A little.
The next few songs pass in a blur. A cover. A couple more originals. One song where Matt almost misses his cue. Another where the crowd starts singing along despite definitely not knowing the words.
The whole time Alex feels fuelled entirely by adrenaline.
Every now and then he catches sight of you. Swaying slightly to the music. Smiling. Tapping your fingers against your drink.
Every glimpse adds another burst of energy straight into his bloodstream.
By the time they finally finish the first half of the set and step away from the stage for a break, he feels like he could run through a brick wall. The crowd is eating their shit up.
People are clapping. Patting them on the back. Asking questions.
Someone buys Jamie a drink. Someone else tells Matt he reminds them of a bloke they went to school with.
Alex barely processes any of it. His mates could probably tell him they'd won the lottery and he wouldn't hear a word.
All he can think about is you. You're here. You came.
And before his nerves have the chance to drag him into a dark corner and convince him not to do it, he starts walking towards your table.
One step. Then another. Then another. No turning back now.
"Hey!"
The smile that appears on his face feels completely involuntary.
A bead of sweat slides down the side of his face. Was that already there? Or did it just appear? No idea.
You immediately look up.
The second you recognise him, your entire face brightens.
It's ridiculous how much that affects him.
"Hey!" you beam. "You guys are so awesome! Totally getting the hype now."
Alex's brain briefly blue screens. Compliments. Right.
People say those sometimes. He has never known what to do with them. "You came," is what ends up leaving his mouth.
A completely normal response. Not awkward whatsoever. You laugh.
And just like that, he's distracted again.
The sound settles somewhere deep in his chest. He's absolutely going to replay that in his head later tonight whilst staring at his ceiling.
"I had to."
God. He likes hearing you laugh. Far too much.
"Are you staying for the rest?" he asks quickly, hoping the question sounds casual. "It's only a few more songs."
"I might as well."
You glance at him over the rim of your glass. There's something curious in your expression.
Like you're trying to figure him out. Alex immediately begins trying to figure out what that means. Which is impossible. His brain is not functioning at a high enough level for interpretation.
Swallowing hard, he scratches the side of his arm.
Here goes nothing. "If you want..." he starts. "When we're done, I could buy you a drink?"
A pause. Then, because apparently self-destruction is inevitable: "Hang out, I mean."
He actually got the sentence out. First try. No stuttering. No spontaneous death.
A remarkable achievement considering his heart is currently trying to escape through his ribcage. Your eyes widen slightly.
And immediately panic floods his system. Too soon. Too weird. Too much.
She's about to say no. You've ruined everything.
Then you smile. "That sounds like fun. Sure."
Alex nearly collapses.
If a feather landed on him right now, he'd probably hit the floor.
"Cool."
Smooth. Very smooth.
"I gotta head back now. Talk to you in a bit." The sentence comes out so mechanically he almost winces.
Unfortunately, remaining here any longer would increase the chances of him saying something catastrophically stupid. Retreat is the only option.
"Break a leg!" you call after him.
Alex turns away before you can see how much he's smiling. He practically waddles back towards the stage.
His mates are already staring. Every single one of them. Like vultures.
"Oh my God," Matt says. "Was that—"
"Don't."
The word comes out through gritted teeth. Not angry. More... preventative. Containment measures. Because if they start, they will never stop.
Matt immediately grins.
Which means they absolutely know.
Alex closes his eyes briefly, exhales through his nose, and wraps both hands around his guitar.
Alex in the AM era suffering and feeling unwell with laryngitis, and his girlfriend taking care of him. Fluffy and spicy. Thanks in advance. 🙈🤗
“Just want your company.”
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: Alex suffers from laryngitis so it's time for you to become his caretaker.
A/n: Man, laryngitis sucks soooo baddddd. I was out for two weeks- and then I had an allergic reaction to penicillin so I almost died T-T So yes I have a personal take on this- I did have a fever when I got mine so this is an actual symptom. Thank you so much for the request <3 this was really cute to write hehe :)
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 2.1k
______________________________
“I can’t believe this,” Alex croaks, voice barely above a whisper as he exits the doctor’s office, looking thoroughly miserable. “This is setting us way back.”
You shake your head, a small, fond smile tugging at your lips as you wrap your arm around his waist, letting him slump against you for support. “No, it’s not. This is actually a good opportunity for you to rest. You’ve completely burnt yourself out. If anything, this was expected.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh as you approach the car. For once, he doesn’t fight you when you gently guide him into the passenger seat. Passenger princess duties are reserved exclusively for when he’s not feeling well, and today he looks like he’s running on empty.
“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” you say softly, buckling him in before sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’ll be good as new in no time.”
All he does is lean his head against the window, eyes closing with exhaustion. You glance over at him with a soft expression, reaching out to pat his thigh gently before pulling out of the parking lot and driving back to his place. The city lights blur past, and the quiet hum of the engine fills the comfortable silence between you.
______________________________
You lower the phone from your ear as you approach the bedroom, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress. Alex is buried under the covers, looking small and vulnerable in a way that tugs at your heart.
“That was Matt,” you say gently. “He was asking how you are.”
“Shit,” Alex breathes weakly, barely opening his eyes. “I feel like I’m burning to a crisp.”
Your hand automatically rises to press against his forehead. You frown deeply. “Yeah… you feel hotter than usual.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, not even strong enough to look smug. You shake your head with a soft chuckle, reaching for the thermometer on the bedside table. “Couldn’t have been any cheesier.”
He grunts as you slide it under his armpit, holding his arm close to his side. You wait in silence for it to beep, listening to his ragged, shallow breaths. “Do you want anything? Some more water?”
He shakes his head, reaching weakly for your hand instead. “Just want your company.”
You smile gently, heart melting at the simple request. The thermometer beeps, and you pull it out, grimacing at the number. “It’s high…”
“How high?”
“High enough to worry me.”
You stand up, and he tries to whine but his voice catches painfully in his throat. “I’m just going to prepare you a bath. Relax. That should help bring your temperature down.”
“You gonna wash me?” he asks, the suggestive tone completely ruined by how scratchy and weak his voice sounds.
“Wrong priorities, darling,” you chuckle, disappearing into the bathroom to run a warm bubble bath.
When you return a few minutes later with a cool rag, he’s barely awake, eyes half-lidded and glassy. “Let’s get you in there,” you coo softly, peeling the blanket off him.
A quiet hiss escapes you when you see how much he’s sweated through his clothes and the sheets. “Wow, okay. This fever has really got you, huh?”
“You think?” he breathes out, very slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. You watch him carefully, aware of how weak he is, ready to catch him if needed. “You’ll feel better once you’re in the tub.”
He doesn’t respond, but you know he heard you.
You half-carry, half-support him to the bathroom, lowering him gently onto the closed toilet seat. “Let’s get you out of these sticky clothes, shall we?”
He manages a weak, suggestive look that makes you shake your head with a grin. “You’re unbearable, even when you’re sick.”
Slowly, you help him out of his damp shirt and bottoms, then guide him into the warm, bubbly water. A long breath of relief leaves him the moment he sinks in, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours.
“This should bring your fever down,” you murmur, kneeling beside the tub. You soak the rag in cool water and place it gently over his forehead.
“Some people think cold water helps, but you actually need to sweat it out,” you explain softly, running your fingers through his damp hair. He rolls his eyes half-heartedly. “I’m not an idiot.”
Seeing he still has enough energy to be sassy, you don’t worry too much. If he can joke, he’ll be okay.
You both remain there for a while, the bathroom filled with the gentle sound of water and his slow breathing. Your fingers keep playing with his hair, massaging his scalp lightly as he relaxes. It is very peaceful. You watch him lovingly, heart full, as his eyelashes flutter and his tense expression softens.
When you dip a finger into the water thirty minutes later, you hum. “It’s getting cold now. Time to go back to bed.”
He hums in reply, barely audible. He looks more relaxed, more comfortable than before. When you help him out and wrap a fluffy robe around him, he looks a little more like himself again — still groggy, but less feverish.
“I’ll settle you in bed, then bring you some soup. Should help with your throat,” you say, guiding him back to the bedroom. He pouts as you tuck him under a fresh duvet (you changed the sheets while he was in the bath).
“Stay with me,” he looks up at you with those tired, pleading eyes.
You ruffle his clean hair gently. “I’ll be back shortly. You just rest, okay?”
You return about fifteen minutes later with a tray — warm soup, herbal tea, and the pills the doctor prescribed. Alex cracks one eye open, slowly pushing himself up against the headboard.
“You seem more alert than before,” you observe, placing the tray on his lap.
His voice is still painfully scratchy, so you hand him the spoon and lean in to kiss his forehead. “Take it slow, okay? And maybe don’t use your voice too much. I’m surprised we didn’t go to the doctor earlier! You’ve sounded like this for three days now.”
He shrugs, tasting the soup. He hums in quiet approval. “Thought it was just a cold.”
“Good thing we went today and caught the fever,” you say, your fingers playing with his hair as he eats. He melts under your touch, clearly enjoying the pampering. It’s not every day you get to baby him like this. He likes to act tough and independent, but right now he’s soaking up every bit of care.
When it’s time for his pills, he swallows them with barely any water, making you smile comically. “I didn’t expect you’d be that good at that.”
He gives you a look that clearly says ‘Don’t’ and you giggle, taking the tray off his lap and setting it on the floor. The tea finds its place on the bedside table.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He doesn’t put up any fight. He snuggles into you immediately, laying his head on your chest. He’s not sweating anymore, which is a great sign. One arm wraps around your waist as he closes his eyes comfortably.
You start humming one of the workshop songs he’s been obsessing over for the last two weeks. He smiles, sighing peacefully against you.
Before he even realises it, he falls asleep — safe, warm, and loved in your arms.
______________________________
A few days have passed.
The fever broke the day after, and Alex’s voice slowly started to return — still a little raspy around the edges, but no longer the painful croak that made your heart ache every time he spoke. He has been surprisingly obedient, letting you baby him. But now, on the morning of day five, the old Alex is clearly coming back — softer, warmer, and very intent on making up for lost time.
You wake up slowly to the feeling of warm lips pressing soft, lingering kisses along your bare shoulder. Then your neck. Then the sensitive spot just behind your ear. Each kiss is slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring every inch of you.
“Mmm… good morning,” Alex murmurs, voice still slightly husky but warm with affection. His body is solid and warm behind you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist as he pulls you back against his chest. His hand rests possessively on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles against your skin.
You smile sleepily, eyes still closed, melting into his touch. “You’re feeling better.”
“Much better,” he confirms, pressing another slow kiss to the nape of your neck. His hand slides higher under your shirt, cupping your breast gently, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbles under his touch. “And I have a lot of making up to do.”
You let out a soft laugh, turning in his arms to face him. His hair is messy from sleep, eyes bright and full of quiet desire, a faint, playful smirk on his lips. The sight makes your heart flutter.
“Making up?” you tease, raising an eyebrow as you brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “For what exactly? Being a dramatic patient who demanded tea every two hours and refused to take his pills without a kiss?”
He grins, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose. “For making you worry. For being a useless lump on the bed for days.” His hand slides down your side, cupping your hip and pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how much he wants you. “Mostly for not being able to do this for days.”
You shiver at the contact, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. “You’re still a little raspy,” you murmur against his lips. “Shouldn’t you be resting your voice?”
“Resting is overrated,” he replies softly, rolling you onto your back and settling between your thighs with gentle care. His eyes are dark with want but incredibly tender. “I’ve been thinking about this for days. About you. About how good you’ve been taking care of me. Let me take care of you now.”
You bite your lip, hands sliding down his bare back. “You sure you’re up for it, rockstar?”
He gives you a slow, loving smile, grinding his hips against yours so you can feel exactly how “up for it” he is. “Does that answer your question?”
You laugh breathlessly, pulling him down into a deep kiss. This one is slower than usual — full of relief, gratitude, and quiet passion. His hands roam with reverence — sliding under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you arch into him with a soft moan. He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he reveals — your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, your stomach, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
When you’re bare beneath him, he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion.
He settles between your thighs, kissing you deeply as he pushes inside you — slow, deep, and loving. You both moan at the feeling, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked. He stays there for a long moment, just feeling you, breathing with you.
Then he starts moving — long, rolling thrusts that make you gasp with every stroke. His hands are everywhere — cupping your breasts, gripping your hips, sliding between you to rub your clit in perfect, slow circles. Every movement is deliberate, tender, full of love.
“I love you,” he whispers, kissing you between thrusts. “So fucking much.”
“I love you too,” you breathe, legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. The pace builds gradually — tender at first, then more passionate, but still slow and deep, like he wants to savour every second. You come with a soft, broken moan of his name, clenching tightly around him. He follows right after, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a low, reverent groan of your name.
You stay tangled together afterwards, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. Alex rolls onto his back, pulling you on top of him so you’re draped across his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back as you both come down, hearts slowing together.
“Best way to wake up,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head.
You smile, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Agreed. But next time you get sick, I’m tying you to the bed so you actually rest.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and content. “Promise?”
Please, please, please, Alex x pregnant reader. The Car era. I think that would be so cute.
"Patience, love. We’re almost there."
Pairing: Alex Turner x Pregnant! Reader
Summary: Alex has a surprise for you.
A/n: Very cute and fluffy!! Thank you for requesting this hehe <3
Word count: 1.2k
______________________________
“Is it much further?” you mutter, your voice carrying a tired but affectionate whine as you press closer against Alex’s side. The London evening air is cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from earlier in the day and the distant hum of city traffic. You feel like a sardine tucked tightly against him, but you don’t mind — not really.
His arm is locked securely around your waist, keeping you safely on the inside of the pavement, away from the occasional passing cyclist or car. This protective instinct of his has only intensified since you found out you were pregnant. Now, deep into your third trimester, every step feels heavier, your balance slightly off, and your body aches in ways you never imagined.
Alex’s hand rests gently but firmly on the side of your rounded belly, as if shielding both you and the baby from the world. “Just two more minutes, my love,” he encourages softly, his accent warm and soothing in the quiet street. He leans down slightly to press a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
You sigh dramatically, though a small smile tugs at your lips despite the discomfort. Your hand rests on your lower back, trying to ease the constant ache that seems to live there these days. “This better be worth it,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. “You made me walk such a long way—”
“It’s been ten minutes,” he cuts in with a quiet laugh, glancing down at you with fond amusement.
“—yeah, ten minutes in a body that currently feels heavier than yours,” you finish, giving him a pointed look. Your free hand rubs slow circles over your belly, feeling the baby give a lazy kick in response. “I swear this little one is practising for the Olympics in there. Or maybe they just take after their dad and enjoy making me suffer.”
Alex chuckles, the sound low and affectionate as he rubs your side gently. “Cheeky. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent carrier of emotional weight. Physical weight… maybe not so much.”
You can’t help but smile at his attempt at self-deprecation. Even now, in this music era of his — all tailored trousers, silk shirts, and quiet confidence — he still has that boyish charm that makes your heart flutter. He’s wearing his signature blue jeans and heeled boots tonight, the ones that give him just a little extra height. You’ve always found it endearing how self-conscious he can be about his stature, even after all these years.
“You know,” you tease, glancing down at his feet, “those boots are doing the lord’s work again. Very practical.”
He glances at you, lips twitching with amusement. “They’re stylish. And practical. Multi-purpose.”
“Practical for adding three inches so you can reach the top shelf when I need the fancy tea?” you counter, raising an eyebrow.
“Exactly,” he replies without missing a beat, a playful smirk forming. “Very thoughtful of me, really.”
You giggle, the sound light despite the tiredness weighing on your body. Even though your ankles are swollen, your back aches, and you feel like you’ve swallowed a watermelon whole, moments like this — walking slowly through the quiet streets of London with his arm around you and his hand protectively on your belly — make everything feel bearable.
He’s been so attentive lately, almost overly so. Making sure you rest, bringing you snacks at odd hours, reading to the bump when he thinks you’re asleep. It’s overwhelming sometimes, but in the best possible way.
Alex slows his pace even more as you turn onto a narrower, tree-lined street. The city lights twinkle softly overhead, casting gentle shadows on the pavement. He’s been secretive about tonight’s plans all evening, only telling you to dress comfortably and trust him. Knowing Alex, it could be anything — a quiet dinner, a private rooftop view, or something completely unexpected.
“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him with mock suspicion.
He smiles down at you, eyes soft with affection and a hint of mischief. “Patience, love. We’re almost there. I promise it’s nothing too overwhelming. I know how these big nights can be for you.”
Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness. Pregnancy has amplified every emotion, but Alex has adapted beautifully — learning when to give you space, when to hold you closer, when the world feels too loud or too bright. He’s been your steady anchor through the nausea, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming joy of it all.
“Just a little further,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple as he guides you through a small iron gate tucked between two old brick buildings. The gate opens into a hidden courtyard garden, and your breath catches.
Fairy lights are strung delicately between the trees and along the walls, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. In the center is a beautifully set table for two — crisp white tablecloth, flickering candles, fresh flowers in a vase, and silver cloches covering what smells like your favourite dishes. A quiet jazz record plays from a small speaker in the corner, the music gentle and intimate. The courtyard is completely private, enclosed by ivy-covered walls, with no one else around.
You stop in your tracks, eyes wide with surprise and emotion. “Alex…”
He looks almost shy as he watches your reaction, one hand still resting protectively on your lower back. “I know restaurants and loud places aren’t easy for you right now with everything going on,” he explains softly. “So I asked if we could have this courtyard for the night. Just us. No crowds. No noise. No stress. I wanted tonight to be perfect for you. For both of you.”
Tears prick at your eyes almost instantly. Pregnancy hormones have made you more emotional lately, but this — the care he’s put into making you feel safe and loved — overwhelms you in the best way. You turn to him, stepping into his arms and burying your face in his chest.
“I love you so much,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. This is… perfect.”
He wraps his arms around you carefully, mindful of your belly, and rests his chin on top of your head. “I love you more,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on your back. “Now come sit down before your feet decide to stage a rebellion.”
You laugh wetly as he guides you to the table with utmost care, pulling out your chair and helping you settle in. He kneels briefly to help slip off your shoes, his hands gentle as he massages your swollen ankles for a moment before sitting across from you.
The night feels magical — quiet, intimate, and wrapped in love. Just the two of you (and the little one kicking gently between you), surrounded by fairy lights and the promise of your future as a family.
pls do alex x autistic reader (if ur comfortable w it) ! ur writing’s awesome love ur fics
“I know what you’re doing.”
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: It is your first time joining Alex to an official event. You're quite, understandably, anxious.
A/n: Won't lie I do not know too much despite having some friends who have autism. I had to do some research on it so I really hope this is alright x thank you for requesting!
Word count: 1.1k
______________________________
Your leg bounces up and down in a steady, rhythmic pattern against the floor of the car. You don’t even notice you’re doing it until Alex’s warm hand gently rests on your knee. The touch grounds you, pulling your scattered attention back into the present moment.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice low and steady, the way he knows helps when everything feels too loud inside your head.
You blink, snapping your gaze to him. “Hey.”
“You shouldn’t be coming if it’s already this much,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the restless movement of your leg. You follow his gaze and immediately still it, offering a sheepish smile. He shakes his head, but there’s nothing judgmental in it — only gentle resignation and affection. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you reply lightly. “I’m just sitting.”
“And overthinking,” he adds, rubbing slow circles on your knee with his thumb.
“When do I not, according to you?” you tease, a small spark of playful defiance cutting through the anxiety. He clicks his tongue, but his smile is soft as he continues stroking your leg, helping regulate the nervous energy humming through your body.
“You know what I mean,” he says quietly.
You nod, eyes drifting again to that unfocused point somewhere beyond the car window. “I know.”
Alex bites his lip, watching you carefully. His fingers never stop their gentle movement on your leg — a silent anchor. “Are you sure you want this? You’ve never felt comfortable with the idea of a big PR event like this.”
You’re quiet for a moment, then place your hand over his, stilling his fingers. “You’re right. I don’t love crowds or flashing lights or the noise… but I want to try. For you. This is an important night, and I want to be there. Even if I get overwhelmed, I want to support you.”
His heart flutters visibly in his expression. You’ve been together for a few years now, and he’s learned — slowly, patiently — how to navigate your world with you. He knows when the lights are too bright, when the sounds layer into overwhelming static, when your body needs to move or stim or withdraw. His lifestyle makes it challenging, but he’s never seen you as a burden. If anything, you bring balance to his chaotic rockstar existence — a quiet, honest sanctuary away from the constant performance and people-pleasing.
He loves your directness, your unfiltered way of seeing the world, the way you cut through bullshit with refreshing clarity. You’re nothing like the industry people who surround him daily.
And tonight, you’re willingly stepping into his world.
“I instructed no flash photography when it’s our turn on the carpet,” he says, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You lean into the touch, humming softly. “Good luck keeping them at bay.”
“I’ll bite their heads off if I have to,” he replies, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. You smile, but you’re not entirely convinced. Still, his effort means everything.
The car slows to a stop. The muffled roar of the crowd outside hits you like a wall — screams, shouts, the rapid clicking of cameras. Your body tenses instantly. Alex squeezes your hand, grounding you again.
The door opens.
Bright lights flood the interior. The noise intensifies — a chaotic symphony of voices calling his name. Alex steps out first, then turns and extends his hand toward you, patient and unhurried. He doesn’t rush you. He never does.
You take a deep breath, steel yourself, and place your hand in his. It’s almost like a Phantom of the Opera climactic hand-holding. The music intensifies in your ears, people screaming and lights shining as you step out and onto the carpet. You look around, almost mesmerised at everything happening all at once.
The sensory input is immediate and overwhelming.
Flashing lights (even with the no-flash rule, there are still plenty), overlapping shouts, the press of bodies behind barriers, the heavy fabric of your dress suddenly feeling both too tight and too exposing. Your heart pounds against your ribcage. Ears ring. The world feels simultaneously too fast and too slow.
Alex keeps your hand firmly in his, guiding you forward without pulling. He stays close, his body acting as a partial shield. You focus on the feeling of his fingers intertwined with yours — a single, reliable point in the chaos. Your eyes are wide, taking in everything at once: the long stretch of red carpet, the sea of cameras, the elegant building ahead.
It feels surreal. Like stepping into a world you’ve only watched from the outside.
Alex moves with practiced ease, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders — he’s protective, attuned to every shift in your body. He doesn’t linger. True to his word, he leads you steadily down the carpet, nodding politely to a few photographers but never stopping for long.
By the time you reach the entrance, your breathing is shallow. The cool air of the lobby hits you like a balm. The noise dulls. The lights soften. Alex immediately guides you to a quieter corner, away from the flow of arriving guests.
He turns to you, hands gently cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “We’re inside,” he murmurs. “You did it. How are you feeling? Do you need somewhere quieter? We can skip the main room if it’s too much.”
You blink slowly, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline starts to settle. “Wow,” you breathe. “You go through that every time?”
He nods, a small, understanding smile on his lips. His hands slide down to hold yours again. “That was a lot. Even for me. You did amazingly.”
You take another deep breath, grounding yourself in his presence. “It was… a lot. But I’m okay. For now.”
Alex searches your face carefully, always checking, always making sure. “We don’t have to stay long. One hour, maybe less. Whatever you need.”
You squeeze his hands, feeling a quiet surge of affection and determination. “Let’s do it. I want to be here with you.”
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thank you. For trying. For being here.”
Hand in hand, you both step toward the main event space — nervous, but together.
Summary: Alex feels personally offended at you criticising his lyrics.
A/n: Ahhhh just some banter practice. These put a smile on my face every time I write them.
Word count: 2.2k
______________________________
You’re not even really looking. You’re just… bored.
And he’s taking too long.
“So this is what creative genius looks like, is it?” you murmur to yourself, glancing around the studio. Papers everywhere. Half-written lines, chords scribbled in margins, arrows pointing to absolutely nothing.
From across the room, his voice cuts in instantly.
“I can hear you, you know.”
You don’t even look up, flipping another page. “Good. Then maybe you’ll feel ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“This,” you gesture vaguely at the chaos. “It’s criminal.”
There’s the sound of a chair scraping, then footsteps. “Careful,” he warns, voice closer now. “That’s a very delicate ecosystem you’re disturbing.”
You snort. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s organised.” “It’s not organised.” “It is to me.”
You finally look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Right. Of course. Silly me. The crumpled paper pile is clearly the chorus.”
He points at you. “That one actually is.”
You blink.
“…you’re joking.” “I’m not.”
You stare at the paper in your hand, then back at him. “…that’s deeply concerning.”
He rolls his eyes, grabbing his guitar again and dropping back into his seat like this conversation is beneath him. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t, would I?” you hum, attention already drifting back to the notebook in your lap.
You flip a page.
Pause. Then another. And then— “…oh.”
He doesn’t look up. “What?”
You tilt your head slightly, rereading the line.
“No, nothing.”
“Say it.”
“It’s fine.”
“Say it.”
You glance at him over the top of the notebook, lips twitching. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t care.”
“That line is embarrassing.”
His head snaps up. “It is not.”
“It is.”
“It’s poetic.”
“It’s desperate.”
“It’s not desperate.”
“It literally sounds like you wrote it at three in the morning after being ignored.”
“I probably did write it at three in the morning—” “—after being ignored,” you finish, smiling sweetly.
He stares at you.
You stare back.
Then he scoffs, shaking his head and looking away. “You liked it five minutes ago.”
“I was being polite.”
“Oh, brilliant,” he mutters. “Don’t be polite then.”
“Alright,” you sit up straighter, clearing your throat dramatically. “It’s tragic.”
“Right.”
“In a bad way.”
“Fantastic.”
“I mean, genuinely—if someone said that to me, I’d block them.”
He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m honest.”
“You’re brutal.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a character assassination.”
You grin. “I think it needs one.”
He leans back, dragging a hand over his face, clearly trying not to smile despite himself. “Go on then,” he gestures lazily toward the notebook. “Fix it.”
You blink. “Fix it?”
“Yeah. Since you’re such an expert.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say expert—”
“No, no,” he cuts in, sitting forward now, eyes sharper. “Go on. Do better.”
There’s a beat.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
You glance down at the page again, then back at him. “And if I do?”
“If you do,” he says, settling back like he’s very confident in this, “I’ll admit you were right.”
“And if I don’t?”
He smirks. “Then you stop talking.”
You huff out a laugh. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he nods toward the notebook, “you’re still here.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Then look down.
“Fine.”
There’s a shift.
Subtle.
But there.
You tuck one leg under you, leaning over the notebook properly now, pen tapping lightly against the page as you reread his line.
He watches you.
Openly.
No shame about it.
“What’s it even about?” you ask, quieter now, more focused.
He shrugs. “Depends who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
Another shrug. “Something you can’t quite have.”
You hum softly. “That’s vague.”
“It’s meant to be.”
You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s a small smile there now. “Of course it is.”
Silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just… concentrated.
You chew lightly on the end of the pen, thinking.
He notices that too.
“You always do that,” he says suddenly.
You glance up. “Do what?”
“That,” he nods toward the pen. “When you’re thinking.”
You pause, then slowly pull it away from your mouth. “And?”
“And it’s distracting.”
You smirk faintly. “Sounds like a you problem.”
He huffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “Just write something.”
“God, you’re impatient.”
“And you’re stalling.” “I’m not stalling.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been thinking for ages.”
“It’s been thirty seconds.”
“It’s felt longer.”
You shake your head, but your smile lingers as you finally lower the pen to the page.
“Alright,” you murmur, half to yourself.
You cross out his line.
He makes a noise of protest. “Hey—”
“Relax.”
You write.
Slow at first.
Then a little quicker.
You read it under your breath, adjusting a word, then another.
He leans forward slightly. “Well?”
“Shh.”
“You’re taking this very seriously.”
“Because you made it a challenge.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually—”
“Alex.”
“Right. Quiet.”
Another beat.
Then you sit back, tapping the pen against the page once.
“Okay.”
“Well?” he prompts.
You tilt the notebook toward him slightly—but not enough for him to fully see.
“Read it properly,” you say.
He frowns. “I can’t see.”
“Exactly.”
He narrows his eyes at you, then shifts closer, leaning in.
Closer than he probably needs to.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
For a second, neither of you are looking at the page.
Then he finally glances down.
Reads.
And goes quiet.
Not in a dismissive way.
Not in a teasing way.
Just… quiet.
You watch his face carefully. “Well?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Reads it again.
Slower.
“…that’s not fair,” he says eventually.
Your eyebrows lift. “What?”
“That’s actually good.”
A grin spreads across your face. “So I win.”
He shakes his head, still looking at the page. “No, you cheated.”
“How did I cheat?”
“You made it… specific.”
“I made it better.”
“You made it personal.”
You tilt your head. “Isn’t that the point?”
He looks up then. Really looks at you.
There’s something different in his expression now.
Less defensive.
“Who’s it about?” he asks.
You shrug lightly. “Depends who’s asking.”
“I’m asking.”
You hold his gaze, lips twitching slightly. “Someone who doesn’t say things like that.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Right.”
“But thinks them,” you add.
That lands.
You can tell it does.
Because his expression shifts again.
Softer.
More focused.
“Is that what you think?” he asks quietly.
You don’t answer straight away.
Just hold his gaze.
Then—
“Maybe.”
Silence stretches.
Thicker now.
Charged.
He studies you like he’s trying to figure something out.
Like he’s been given a piece of information he didn’t expect.
“…what would you write about me?” he asks suddenly.
Your breath catches slightly.
Not obvious.
But enough.
You recover quickly, leaning back again, expression light. “Oh, I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Too easy.”
His eyebrows lift. “Too easy?”
“Mhm.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
“It’s an observation.”
“Go on then,” he leans in again, closer this time. “Prove it.”
You laugh softly. “You’re obsessed with being proven wrong.”
“I just think you’re all talk.”
You narrow your eyes. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
“Or I might actually do it.”
There’s a beat.
His voice drops slightly. “Do it.”
And the way he says it—
Isn’t entirely joking anymore.
Your stomach flips.
Just a little.
You glance down at the notebook again, then back at him.
He hasn’t moved.
Still close.
Still watching.
Waiting.
“…fine,” you murmur.
And this time, when you lean in—
He doesn’t look at the page.
He looks at you.
You can feel it.
That shift again.
The way his attention isn’t scattered anymore, isn’t on the song or the notebook or anything else in the room—
It’s just you.
“Stop staring,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected as you lower the pen to the page.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m waiting.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m observing.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “You’re annoying.”
“And yet—”
“Don’t,” you cut in quickly, fighting a smile.
He grins anyway. “—you’re still here.”
You shake your head, but your hand steadies as you start writing.
This one comes easier.
Which is… dangerous.
Because you’re not thinking about a concept anymore.
You’re thinking about him.
About the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice.
About how he never quite says what he means—but somehow still does.
About the way he leans in like this—
Too close.
Always just a little too close.
“…done,” you say quietly.
You don’t show him immediately.
For a second, you just stare at what you wrote.
Then you tilt the notebook toward him.
He leans in again, shoulder brushing yours this time.
Neither of you moves away.
He reads.
And you watch him.
The subtle shift in his expression.
The way his jaw tightens slightly—not in annoyance, but in thought.
The way his eyes flick back to the beginning.
Then to you.
“…you said it was easy,” he murmurs.
You shrug, trying for casual. “It is.”
“That’s not easy.”
“It is if you know the person.”
There’s a pause.
A quiet one.
“And you think you know me?” he asks.
You meet his gaze. “I think you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
He lets out a soft breath of a laugh. “That so?”
“Mhm.”
“And what exactly am I doing, then?”
You tilt your head, studying him for a second—mirroring the way he looks at you.
“This,” you say simply.
His brows pull together slightly. “This?”
“Yeah.”
“Which is?”
You don’t answer straight away.
Instead, you lean forward just a fraction—closing the gap in a way that suddenly makes the air feel different.
“He watches,” you say quietly, almost like you’re reading from the page. “Like he’s trying not to say something.”
His expression stills.
You continue, softer now.
“Like if he waits long enough, it might go away.”
There’s no teasing in your voice anymore.
No edge.
Just honesty.
“And does it?” he asks.
You shake your head slightly.
“No.”
Another pause.
This one heavier.
“Right,” he murmurs.
Your eyes flick briefly to his lips, then back up again.
Mistake.
Because he notices.
“You didn’t answer properly,” he says, voice lower now.
“About what?”
“Who it’s about.”
You swallow lightly. “I think you know.”
“Say it.”
You exhale a small laugh, more nervous than you intend. “God, you’re persistent.”
“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the pen.
Your voice drops.
“It’s about you.”
The words hang there.
Between you.
And something in him shifts—completely this time.
Not teasing.
Not defensive.
“Oh,” he says softly.
You nod once, like that explains everything.
Neither of you moves.
But the distance feels… louder now.
“Can I?” he asks.
You blink. “Can you what?”
He nods toward the notebook.
“…read it again.”
You hesitate for half a second.
Then hand it over.
Your fingers brush his.
It lingers.
Just slightly.
He takes the notebook, but instead of leaning away—
He stays right there.
Close.
Reading quietly.
You can hear your own heartbeat now.
Annoying. Loud.
When he finishes, he doesn’t say anything straight away.
Just closes the notebook slowly.
Then—
“You’re right,” he says.
You blink. “About?”
He looks at you.
“I don’t say things.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“No,” you agree softly.
Another pause.
Then, quieter—
“But I think them.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Because you know he means it.
You can see it.
Feel it.
“And that’s better?” you ask, barely above a whisper.
He shakes his head once.
“No.”
And before you can overthink it—
Before you can turn it back into a joke or deflect or move—
He leans in.
It’s not rushed.
Not sudden.
It’s… deliberate.
Like he’s giving you time to stop him.
You don’t.
And when his lips finally meet yours—
It’s soft. At first.
Testing.
Like he’s still not entirely sure you won’t pull away.
Your hand finds his sleeve, gripping lightly.
You don’t pull him closer—
But you don’t let him go either.
That’s enough.
Because the second he feels it—
He deepens the kiss.
Just slightly.
A quiet inhale against your lips.
His hand comes up, hovering for a moment like he’s deciding— Then settling at your jaw.
Gentle.
Grounding.
You melt into it without meaning to.
The notebook slips from his other hand onto the sofa beside you, completely forgotten.
And for once—
Neither of you has anything to say.
No clever remark.
No teasing comeback.
Just this.
When you finally pull back, it’s only by a fraction.
Your foreheads almost touch.
Your breathing is uneven.
“So,” you murmur softly, a hint of your earlier smile returning, “I think I win.”
He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, eyes still on yours.
“Don’t push it.”
You grin. “You said you’d admit it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
He leans in again, brushing his lips against yours.
Okay diva I LOVE “I thought I could help you”, it is literally perfect, and so well written, and maybe I cried a little. I was wondering if you’d be up for doing a sort of follow up? Maybe like a few years later and Alex is pretending he’s over it because they haven’t seen each other since, but all of a sudden she shows up at some event. She’s been to rehab and is sober but in a fragile sort of way and is struggling to get her life back together.
OKAY THAT MIGHT BE TOO SPECIFIC BUT JUST DO WHATEVER YOU’RE COMFORTABLE WITH TWIN <3
-☕️
"I’m proud of you."
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: Years later, you finally cross paths again, and you have changed.
A/n: hfejuhuesh darling you are such a sweetie pie <3 Thank you so much for your request ahhhhh hell yeah make it as specific as you want I am here to deliver~ so so happy you are enjoying my content hehe! Hope you enjoy this too :D
Word count: 2.1k
______________________________
Alex really doesn’t want to be here.
The event is exactly the kind of thing he hates — a glossy, invite-only industry gathering in a lavish London venue, full of people who want something from him. He is tired, hungry, and cranky after weeks on the road. All he wants is his bed, a quiet night, and maybe a cigarette on the balcony. But “PR purposes” has won again, and his team has practically dragged him here. He has been skipping too many of these lately.
With a deep inhale, he steps out of the limousine into the flash of cameras and the roar of voices. He keeps his head down, following the rest of the band inside, offering only the bare minimum of polite nods. The moment he crosses the threshold, the noise dulls slightly, replaced by soft jazz and the clink of glasses. The room is elegant but stifling — crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and too many people smiling with teeth that don’t reach their eyes.
He hovers near his bandmates, half-listening to their conversation, eyes scanning the room for something — anything — interesting enough to keep him awake. He isn’t expecting much. These events rarely deliver.
And then—
His breath catches sharply in his throat.
Across the room, near the end of the long buffet table, stands you.
For a second, the entire world narrows to just that one spot. You. After almost three years. You look different — healthier, softer around the edges, but still unmistakably you. The satin dress you wear is simple yet elegant, hugging your frame in a way that makes his chest tighten. Your hair is longer, falling in gentle waves, and your posture is straighter than he remembers. But there is a fragility to you too — a tiredness in your eyes, the way your fingers clutch your elbow like you need something to hold onto.
You look beautiful.
And you look like you don’t want to be here either.
Alex doesn’t think. He just starts walking, weaving through the crowd without a single coherent thought in his head. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a chaotic mix of relief, shock, and something deeper — something he has spent three years trying to bury.
You don’t see him approaching at first. You are staring down at the untouched champagne flute in your hand, looking lost in thought. When he stops a few feet away and clears his throat, your head snaps up.
Your eyes meet.
The recognition hits you both like a physical force.
“Alex,” you breathe, completely stunned. The glass in your hand trembles slightly before you set it down on the table.
“Hey,” he replies, the word tumbling out breathless and unsteady. He can feel his pulse in his throat, loud and erratic. For a moment, neither of you moves. You simply take each other in — adjusting to the shock of seeing someone you once knew so intimately, someone you haven’t spoken to in years.
Finally, you break the silence, voice soft but steady. “I didn’t think you would be here.”
“I was forced to,” he admits with a small, awkward shrug. “PR stuff. You know how it is.”
A tiny scoff escapes you — amusement mixed with sincere disbelief. “To be honest, I never expected to see you again…”
“I second that,” he says, stepping a little closer. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the faint scars on your arms have faded to almost nothing. You look healthier. Tired, but healthier. It makes something tight in his chest loosen just a fraction. “You look… good.”
You fidget, clearly struggling to find the right words. “I… I am better,” you manage, voice quieter now. “When we… when we separated, it wasn’t easy. I’ll admit, I thought I would feel some kind of freedom. Obviously that wasn’t the case.”
He remains quiet, hanging on every word, craving to know what the last three years have been like for you.
You continue, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment before meeting his again. “I got worse before I got better. The breakup was a real wake-up call. But only after some time passed. I went to… rehab. It took a lot of effort. A lot of falling down and getting back up. But I’m sober now. Almost two years.”
A wave of relief washes over him, so intense it makes his shoulders relax. He hadn’t realized how much not knowing had been eating at him.
“That’s… that’s great to hear,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m really glad. Truly.”
You stare at him, lips pursed, as if afraid of what he might say next. “It hasn’t been easy. Once I got out, I found a job as an assistant to this very rich family. Hence my presence here tonight.”
Alex nods slowly, taking in every detail — the way you hold yourself, the slight tremor in your hands, the quiet strength in your eyes. He wants to say so many things. That he has thought about you every day. That he has wondered if you were okay. That he has never stopped loving you, even when he tried to convince himself he had.
Instead, he says the only thing that feels safe.
“I’m proud of you. For getting better. For fighting.”
You give him a small, fragile smile. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It is heavy, full of everything you both aren’t saying yet. The noise of the party fades into the background. For a moment, it feels like it is just the two of you again — like no time has passed, and like three years have passed all at once.
Alex takes a small step closer. “I… I thought about reaching out. Many times. But I didn’t know if you wanted that. If you were ready.”
You look down, then back up at him. “I thought about it too. But I needed to do it on my own first. For me.”
He nods, understanding. “I get that.”
The conversation pauses again. This time, the air feels thicker. Charged. Like the years apart have only made the pull between you stronger.
Alex opens his mouth to say something else — maybe ask how you are really doing, maybe tell you he has never stopped caring — when someone calls his name from across the room. He glances over, jaw tightening in irritation at the interruption.
When he looks back at you, his expression is softer. “I should probably…”
“Yeah,” you say quickly, offering a small smile. “Go. It was… really good to see you, Alex.”
“You too,” he replies, voice quiet. He lingers for a second longer than he should have, eyes searching yours. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.”
He walks away reluctantly, heart pounding, mind reeling. Seeing you has cracked open something he has spent years trying to seal shut.
And as he rejoins the crowd, pretending to listen to whatever nonsense someone is saying, all he can think about is how much he still wants you in his life.
______________________________
Alex tries to find you in the crowd after what feels like forever, when it must have been max two hours. He is so done with it all. The small talk, the fake smiles, the endless handshakes — none of it matters anymore. All he can think about is you.
The way you looked at him. The way your voice trembled when you said you were better. The way you still made his chest feel too tight after three years of trying to convince himself he had moved on.
He weaves through the elegant crowd, nodding politely when people try to stop him, but his eyes keep scanning. The satin dress you wore should make you easy to spot, but the room is packed, and his heart is pounding too hard for him to think straight. Every second without seeing you feels like another minute wasted — another minute he can’t get back.
Finally, he spots you near the far end of the room, standing by a tall window overlooking the city lights. You’re alone, nursing what looks like sparkling water, staring out at the night with a distant expression. You look beautiful and fragile all at once, and it hits him like a wave.
He walks up behind you slowly, not wanting to startle you.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You turn, eyes widening slightly when you see him. “Alex. You came back.”
“I did.” He stops a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching for you. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t just let you disappear again. Not without talking more.”
You give him a small smile and glance back out the window. “I wasn’t planning on disappearing. I just… needed a minute. These events are a lot.”
He nods, understanding more than he wants to admit. “They are. I hate them too.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Full of three years of unanswered questions. Alex shifts his weight, searching for the right words.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he says quietly. “I’m really proud of you. For getting sober. For fighting so hard. I… I thought about you a lot. Wondered how you were. If you were okay. It killed me not knowing.”
You turn to face him fully, eyes glistening. “It killed me too. After rehab… I thought about reaching out so many times. But I was scared. Scared you’d see me and remember the worst version of myself. Scared I’d drag you back down with me.”
Alex’s chest tightens. He takes a small step closer. “You could never drag me down. You were never the problem. I was scared too. Scared I wasn’t enough to help you. Scared that loving you meant watching you destroy yourself and not being able to stop it. So I left. And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
Your breath catches. Tears spill over before you can stop them. “I regretted it too. The way I pushed you away. The way I let the addiction win. I’m so sorry, Alex. For all of it.”
He closes the distance then, gently pulling you into his arms. You bury your face in his chest, and he holds you tightly, one hand stroking your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. The noise of the party fades into nothing. It’s just the two of you again, standing by the window with the city lights sparkling below.
“I’m sorry too,” he whispers into your hair. “For leaving when you needed me most. For not fighting harder. For not telling you how much I loved you before it all fell apart.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red but full of something hopeful. “We were both messes back then. But… I’m better now. I’m really trying. Every day.”
“I can see that,” he says softly, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “And I’m proud of you. So fucking proud.”
The moment stretches. His hand lingers on your cheek. Your fingers curl into his shirt. The pull between you feels inevitable — the same magnetic force that drew you together all those years ago, now stronger after everything you’ve both survived.
Alex leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss — full of hesitation, relief, and years of unspoken love. It deepens gradually, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as you press closer, pouring everything you’ve held back into it.
When you finally part, foreheads resting together, you’re both breathing a little harder.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he whispers.
“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady for the first time tonight. “Not if we don’t let it happen.”
He smiles — small, genuine, and full of quiet hope. “Then let’s not let it happen.”
You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms by the window, the party continuing around you like background noise. For the first time in three years, the future doesn’t feel terrifying.
Summary: Alex texts the wrong number about his shitty day. Surprisingly, it doesn't stop there.
A/n: This was soooo fun to write! OMG WHY DID I LIKE THIS SO MUCH!! If anyone wants me to continue this story I would be so down. You can give me some ideas for a continuation hehe <3
Word count: 3.8k
______________________________
Fuck. Is this exciting.
Today was the best day ever. No, really, fuckass recording session and all. Everything went according to plan. The string on my guitar snapped mid-take, Nick spilled his entire coffee across the new carpet (and all over my fresh shoes), the corner shop by the studio was completely sold out of my Camels, and the rain decided to greet me like an old friend the one fucking time I forgot my umbrella. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Alex hits send with a heavy sigh, pocketing his phone as he leans against the window in his living room. The towel draped over his shoulder is damp from the rain, and the cigarette between his lips is one of the last ones he had scavenged from the bottom of his bag. This was a new phone — some stupid upgrade Matt had forced on him — and he had to manually input every contact. Painstaking work, but necessary.
He was texting Matt, who was currently on holiday with his wife celebrating their anniversary. Since Matt was the one who bullied him into getting the damn thing in the first place, Alex figures the least he can do is subject him to a detailed rant about his shitty day. It’s only fair.
The phone vibrates almost immediately. Alex raises an eyebrow — surprised at the fast reply. He pulls it out, expecting some half-assed sympathy or a joke.
Sounds like it was your lucky day.
Alex scoffs, thumbs already flying across the screen.
Fuck you. You’re living the life. Hot wife, unlimited free time, gorgeous weather wherever you are. Meanwhile I’m here drowning in my own incompetence.
The reply comes back faster than he expects.
I’ll be damned — didn’t know I had a hot wife.
Alex pauses, staring at the screen. Matt would never say that. He knows better than to risk his life like that.
Matt what on earth are you on mate?
I’ll help you out. I’m not Matt.
His eyes widen. Cheeks heating up, he quickly checks the number he typed in. Sure enough, he added a seven instead of an eight at the end. Great. Another thing to add to his already stellar day.
Sorry ‘bout that. Wrong number.
He expects that to be the end of it. Instead, another message pops up.
Nah mate, you’re cool. Sounds like you need to talk about your shitty day. Hit me.
Alex hesitates, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is a complete stranger. A random person on the other end of a phone who has no idea who he is. No expectations. No preconceptions. No pressure to be “Alex Turner, frontman of Arctic Monkeys.”
It’s… almost exciting.
I’d bore you to death.
Try me. Unless you stack shelves at the library. Then yes, I’d be bored.
He huffs out a surprised laugh, leaning back in his chair. The towel slips off his shoulder as he types.
Close. I play guitar in a band. Today the string snapped mid-take, my mate spilled coffee all over my new shoes, the shop was out of my usual smokes, and the rain decided to baptize me the one time I forgot my umbrella. 10/10 day.
Sounds like the universe is personally out to get you. Did you kick a puppy in a past life or something?
Probably. Or maybe I just exist. Same difference.
Brutal. But relatable. I once spilled coffee on my boss’s laptop during a presentation. Still have the scar from the death glare he gave me.
Alex finds himself smiling despite the terrible day. The stranger’s replies are quick, sharp, and match his energy perfectly. No pity. No awkward “hope your day gets better” nonsense. Just sarcasm. He likes it.
At least your boss didn’t make you redo the entire session while your shoes squelched with every step.
True. But I did have to buy him a new laptop. Expensive bastard.
Worth it for the story though.
Absolutely. So, rockstar with the tragic day — you got a name or should I call you “Unlucky Guitar Guy”?
Alex pauses, fingers hovering. He could lie. He could give a fake name. But something about the anonymity feels freeing. Still, he doesn’t want to be completely dishonest.
Let’s stick with Unlucky Guitar Guy for now. Safer that way.
Mysterious. I like it. You can call me Coffee Disaster.
He laughs again, louder this time. The tension in his shoulders eases just a little. For the first time all day, the weight of the studio, the pressure, the endless cycle of perfectionism feels a little lighter.
Deal, Coffee Disaster. So tell me — what’s your tragic tale today? Fair’s fair.
The reply comes almost instantly, and Alex finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.
This is going to be an interesting conversation.
______________________________
Over the following weeks, the messages become a daily occurrence.
What starts as occasional sarcastic replies quickly turns into a constant stream of conversation. Alex finds himself checking his phone first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Your replies are quick, sharp, and perfectly matched to his dry humour. You send memes at 2 a.m., complain about your chaotic job as a graphic designer, and tease him mercilessly about his “brooding musician” energy. He sends long rants with spelling errors when he’s too tired to type, about studio disasters or terrible lyrics he wrote at 4 a.m.
After a full month of this, the shift to voice messages happens naturally.
Alex is nervous the first time he sends one. He records it three times before he’s happy, heart hammering as he finally hits send. Part of him is relieved when you reply with a voice note — confirming you’re a woman with a warm, slightly raspy voice that makes something in his chest tighten. Another part of him is terrified you’ll recognise him if he speaks too much.
But you don’t.
Your reply comes through after a few minutes: “Okay, Unlucky Guitar Guy has a voice. Deep. Kinda sexy, if I’m being honest. Also, I’m guessing you do some indie-rock shit? You give off that ‘I wear the same black hoodie for three weeks’ energy.”
Alex chuckles, leaning back on the couch with a grin he can’t wipe off his face. He replies with another voice note, keeping his accent soft but still noticeable.
From then on, it’s smooth sailing.
For the next two months, your conversations become the highlight of his days. You don’t know too much about each other — he still hasn’t told you his real name, and you’ve kept certain details vague too — but you know just enough to feel strangely comfortable. You know he hates mushrooms, loves old French cinema, and gets frustrated when lyrics don’t come. He knows you hate mornings, love strong coffee, and have a habit of adopting stray houseplants that always end up dying.
One rainy Thursday afternoon, Alex is on a break in the studio, sprawled on the couch behind the glass while the band sets up. He’s listening to your latest voice note, a smirk playing on his lips.
“So yeah — this fucker won’t stop tailing me until I threaten to let him crash into me,” your voice plays from his phone speaker, full of exasperation and humour. “Best believe his stupid Ferrari was not about to take that risk. Central London has some of the most pretentious fuckers I have ever had the displeasure to come across.”
Alex shakes his head in amusement, but something in his chest squeezes.
Central London.
You’re close. Really close. He could have walked past you on the street. Sat next to you on the Tube. Locked eyes with you in a café without either of you knowing.
The realisation hits him harder than expected. His foot taps anxiously on the carpet as he types back quickly.
You’re in London?
Your reply is almost instant.
Ugh, yes. My whole life, as far as I’m concerned.
A lump forms in his throat. His heart starts racing. He stares at the screen for a long moment, nerves and excitement twisting together.
Shit… I’m in London too.
There’s a pause — longer than usual. Then your voice note comes through. He presses play immediately.
“You’re joking,” you say, laughter clear in your voice. “All this time and we’re in the same bloody city? Would have never guessed. You sound way too northern to be a proper Londoner.”
Alex rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks warm. He records a voice note back, letting a bit more of his Sheffield accent slip through on purpose.
“Too northern? That’s rich coming from someone who just admitted they live in the same pretentious postcode as Ferrari boy. At least I don’t sound like I’ve been drinking posh tea since birth.”
Your next voice note comes back almost immediately, full of mock outrage and laughter.
“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I drink my tea like a normal person. You’re the one who probably pronounces ‘bath’ like ‘barth’ you absolute northerner.”
Alex laughs out loud, the sound startling the technician behind the glass. He records another one, voice low and teasing.
“Careful, Coffee Disaster. Keep insulting my accent and I might have to track you down just to defend my honour.”
There’s a pause after he sends it. Longer this time. When your reply comes, your voice is softer, a little shy but undeniably flirty.
“…Is that a threat or a promise, Unlucky Guitar Guy?”
Alex’s heart flips. He stares at his phone, a slow smile spreading across his face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
This bubble you’ve both been living in just got a lot more dangerous.
He lets out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. The studio around him feels distant. The guys are still setting up, but all his focus is on the phone in his hand. He records another voice note before he can overthink it, his Sheffield accent slipping through more than usual.
“Depends,” he says, voice low and playful. “You gonna keep insulting my northern charm, or are you brave enough to say it to my face?”
He hits send and immediately regrets how forward it sounds. But the reply comes quicker than expected.
Your voice note starts with a soft laugh that makes something warm bloom in his chest.
“Oh, so now we’re talking about meeting in person? Bold move, rockstar. What if I’m actually a 60-year-old man catfishing you?”
Alex grins, already recording back.
“Somehow I doubt that. Your voice doesn’t sound like any 60-year-old I’ve ever met. Unless you’ve got a very impressive range.”
He sends it, then waits, leg bouncing with nervous energy. Your next message is a voice note again, and this time your tone is lighter, almost shy.
“Alright, fine. You’ve got me. I’m not a 60-year-old man. But I could still be completely insane. You sure you want to risk it?”
Alex leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, smiling like an idiot.
“I’ve survived worse than a potentially insane Londoner. Besides, you already know too much about my tragic days. Might as well put a face to the disaster.”
There’s a longer pause this time. Almost a full minute. Alex starts to worry he’s pushed too far when your next voice note comes through. Your voice is softer now, a little nervous but clearly intrigued.
“Okay… how do we do this then? Coffee? Somewhere public so I can run away if you turn out to be a serial killer?”
He chuckles, relief and excitement flooding through him at once.
“Coffee sounds safe. Public. Good escape routes. I know a little place in Shoreditch that’s quiet during the week. Decent coffee, and they don’t play terrible music. This Friday? Around three?”
He sends it and holds his breath.
Your reply takes a couple of minutes. When it arrives, it’s another voice note. He can hear the smile in your voice.
“Friday at three. Shoreditch. I’ll be the one wearing the suspicious expression and holding a very large bag for protection. How will I know it’s you, mystery northern man?”
Alex hesitates for only a second before recording his reply. His voice is warm, a little playful, but honest.
“I’ll be the one who looks like he hasn’t slept properly in three days and is pretending he’s not nervous. Black hoodie leather jacket combo, probably. Can’t miss me.”
He sends it, then adds one more quickly.
“Looking forward to finally putting a face to Coffee Disaster. Don’t stand me up.”
Your final voice note of the day comes through just as the band calls him back into the booth. He plays it with a stupid grin on his face.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Unlucky Guitar Guy. See you Friday. Try not to have another apocalyptic day before then.”
Alex pockets his phone, heart racing, a mixture of nerves and genuine excitement buzzing under his skin.
For the first time in months, he’s actually looking forward to something that isn’t music.
______________________________
Alex arrives at the café almost forty minutes early, which is ridiculous and he knows it.
He stands outside the small Shoreditch spot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, hood pulled up just enough to feel inconspicuous but not enough to look like a complete prick. He debated wearing a cap but decided against it — he didn’t want you to think he was some pretentious twat hiding from the world. Sunglasses and the hoodie would have to do.
He checks his phone for the tenth time in five minutes. No new messages. No “sorry, can’t make it.” Nothing.
Part of him is relieved. The other part is spiralling.
What if she takes one look at me and screams? What if she recognises me immediately and the whole thing collapses? What if the last few months of easy, comfortable conversation disappear the second she realises who “Unlucky Guitar Guy” actually is?
He lights a cigarette to calm his nerves, taking a long drag as he leans against the brick wall beside the café entrance. The late afternoon sun is warm, but his stomach is in knots. This is stupid. He’s faced thousands of people screaming his name, yet the idea of meeting one sarcastic, witty woman who doesn’t even know his real name has him properly nervous.
Then he sees you.
You’re walking down the street, scanning the café signs, looking just as uncertain as he feels. You’re wearing a casual jacket over a simple top, hair down, eyes bright with a mixture of nerves and curiosity. You look exactly like the voice he’s been listening to for weeks — warm, a little chaotic, and unfairly attractive.
His heart stutters.
You spot him standing there and slow down, tilting your head slightly as you approach. He straightens up, crushing the cigarette under his boot and pulling his hood down.
You stop a few feet away, eyes narrowing playfully.
“Unlucky Guitar Guy?” you ask, a cautious but amused smile tugging at your lips.
Alex lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coffee Disaster, I presume.”
The recognition hits you both at the same time. Your eyes widen.
“Wait… I know that voice,” you say, pointing at him. “You’re— oh my God. You’re Alex Turner.”
He winces, but there’s a grin breaking through. “Guilty.”
You stare at him for a long second, mouth slightly open, then let out a surprised laugh. “You absolute bastard. All this time you let me call you Unlucky Guitar Guy when you’re literally the Alex Turner?”
“In my defence,” he says, stepping closer with his hands raised in mock surrender, “you were having way too much fun insulting me. Didn’t want to ruin the vibe.”
You shake your head, still laughing, cheeks flushed. “I told you my boss was a nightmare. I complained about spilling coffee on a laptop. I sent you voice notes at 2 a.m. about my dying houseplants. This is so unfair.”
“You called my music taste pretentious but hot,” he fires back, smirking. “We’re even.”
Your laugh is bright and genuine, and it eases something tight in his chest. The nerves are still there, but the chemistry — that instant, electric spark — is even stronger in person.
“So…” you say, biting your lip as you look at him. “Do we still do coffee? Or do you run away screaming now that I know you’re famous?”
Alex steps aside and gestures toward the café door. “Only if you promise not to ask for an autograph on the first date. I have a reputation to uphold.”
You raise an eyebrow, clearly delighted. “First date? Bold assumption, rockstar.”
“I’ve been talking to you every day for months,” he says, voice dropping playfully as he holds the door open for you. “I think we’re past formalities.”
You brush past him, shoulder grazing his arm, and shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Careful. I might still be a 60-year-old man catfishing you.”
“Somehow I doubt it,” he murmurs, following you inside. The café is quiet and warm, low chatter mixing with the smell of fresh coffee. You find a small table by the window and sit down. Alex slides into the seat across from you, unable to stop staring.
You rest your chin on your hand, studying him with open curiosity. “So… Unlucky Guitar Guy has a famous face. And a very nice one, I’ll admit.”
He chuckles, cheeks warming. “Flattery this early? Dangerous game.”
“I’ve earned it after months of emotional support via voice note,” you tease. “You owe me.”
The banter flows easily, just like it did over text, but now it’s accompanied by eye contact, little smiles, and the way your foot accidentally brushes his under the table. Neither of you moves away.
Alex leans forward slightly. “For the record… I’m really glad you’re not a 60-year-old man.”
You grin. “Yeah? And why’s that?”
He holds your gaze, voice softer now. “Because I’ve been looking forward to this more than I probably should have.”
The air between you shifts — warmer, heavier, full of possibility.
You smile, a little shy but clearly pleased. “Good. Because I have too.”
The waitress comes over, and you both order — you get a large flat white with an extra shot, he gets an americano with no milk. Once she leaves, an expectant silence settles between you. Alex leans back in his chair, studying you with a small, amused smile.
“So,” he starts, voice low and playful, “Coffee Disaster in the flesh. You’re much better looking than I imagined.”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “You imagined what I looked like?”
“Obviously. I’m only human.” He shrugs, but his eyes are warm. “I had a vague idea. I was thinking… chaotic graphic designer with paint on her hands and at least three houseplants named after musicians.”
You laugh, the sound bright and easy. “Two of them are named after musicians. The third is called Kevin because he refuses to die no matter how much I neglect him.”
“Kevin sounds like a survivor,” Alex says, smirking. “Respect.”
You rest your chin on your hand, openly looking at him now that the initial shock has faded. “I still can’t believe it’s you. I spent weeks thinking Unlucky Guitar Guy was some cute, sarcastic indie musician who worked in a record shop or something. Not… well, you.”
He winces dramatically. “Ouch. Was the fantasy better?”
“Different,” you admit, eyes sparkling. “But this is… interesting.”
“Interesting?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “That’s a dangerous word. You called my music ‘pretentious but hot’ in one of your voice notes. I’m holding you to that.”
Your cheeks flush, but you don’t back down. “In my defence, I didn’t know I was talking to the man himself. That was private feedback.”
“Private feedback?” He laughs softly. “You sent it to me.”
“Because you were being dramatic about your lyrics!” you counter, grinning. “You said they sounded like ‘a depressed robot wrote them at 4 a.m.’ I was being supportive.”
The waitress returns with your coffees. You thank her, then immediately wrap your hands around the warm mug, watching Alex over the rim as you take a sip.
“So,” you say, tilting your head, “does the real Alex Turner live up to the mysterious northern man I’ve been texting?”
He pretends to think about it, running a hand through his hair. “Depends. Do you still think I sound too northern?”
“Absolutely,” you say without hesitation, smiling. “But it’s growing on me. It’s very… you.”
Alex’s gaze softens. The playful energy is still there, but something warmer slips in. “You know, these last few months… talking to you has been the best part of most of my days. Even when I was having a shit time in the studio, I’d look forward to your replies. Or your voice notes. Especially the ones where you complain.”
You bite your lip, clearly pleased but a little shy. “Same. I’d finish a nightmare client meeting and immediately want to tell you about it. It felt… easy. Natural. Even though I had no idea who you really were.”
He nods slowly, tracing the rim of his coffee cup with his finger. “That’s what I liked about it. No pressure. No expectations. Just… talking to someone who got me. Even when I was being a miserable bastard.”
You watch him for a moment, the teasing tone fading into something gentler.
“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.
“Anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were sooner?”
Alex exhales, leaning back. “Honestly? I was scared it would change things. People treat me differently when they know my name. I didn’t want the version of me you were talking to — the sarcastic, messy, normal version — to disappear the second you found out.”
You reach across the table without thinking and gently squeeze his wrist. “It doesn’t change anything. I liked Unlucky Guitar Guy. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to like the real you too.”
His eyes drop to your hand on his wrist, then back up to your face. The air between you feels charged again — warmer, heavier.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice quieter.
“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly.
For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The café noise fades into the background. Alex turns his hand over and gently laces his fingers with yours on the table. It’s tentative. Careful. But it feels right.
“So,” he says eventually, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “does this mean I get a second date? Or are you still planning your escape route?”
You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Buy me another coffee and we’ll talk about that second date, rockstar.”
“Deal,” he says, grinning. “But only if you promise not to call me pretentious again.”
“No promises.”
Alex laughs — loud, genuine, and lighter than he’s felt in months. For the first time in a long time, sitting across from a girl in a quiet café, the future doesn’t feel complicated.
hey man would you ever write a fic where alex is looking after pregnant reader? love ur work !!
"I love you. Both of you. "
Pairing: Alex Turner x Pregnant! Reader
Summary: Pregnant reader scenarios with Alex <3
A/n: This was very cute and fun to write about! Hell yeah I would write about pregnant reader and Alex hehe. Thank you so much for the request and thanks for the praise :D
Word count: 2.8k
______________________________
“I can’t get up,” you mutter under your breath, trying to roll toward the edge of the bed for what feels like the tenth time. Your very pregnant belly makes the simple movement feel like a Herculean task, and you let out a frustrated groan as you sink back into the pillows.
Alex quirks an eyebrow from his side of the bed, placing his book on the bedside table with a soft thud. Amusement dances clearly in his eyes as he watches you struggle, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“I’ll help you up, don’t sweat it,” he says, voice warm and teasing.
“It’s your fault I’m like this in the first place,” you scoff, giving it one last determined try before giving up with a dramatic sigh. “I used to be independent, you know? I could roll out of bed like a normal person.”
He shakes his head, chuckling as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. “Should I remind you that you were also very much part of the baby-making process? Enthusiastically, if I remember correctly.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Don’t you dare.”
He grins, walking around to your side of the bed. His hands are gentle as he takes your arms, carefully guiding you to sit up on the edge. His fingers linger on the sides of your waist, thumbs brushing lightly over the swell of your belly in a tender, almost reverent way.
“Still your fault,” you mutter, but you’re smiling now as you lean into his touch.
“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips, “you enjoyed yourself quite a bit. Multiple times, if memory serves.”
You melt against him for a moment, hands grabbing the front of his nightshirt as you kiss him back. When he pulls away, you’re both smiling.
“I don’t think you remember correctly,” you tease, eyes sparkling.
“I don’t?” He raises an eyebrow, voice dropping playfully as he hovers closer. “Should I remind you?”
Before you can protest, he gently pushes you back onto the bed, crawling over you with careful movements so he doesn’t put any weight on your belly. You let out a surprised laugh that turns into a soft whine as he attacks you with light, affectionate kisses — your cheeks, your jaw, the sensitive spot on your neck.
“Alex!” you giggle, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders. “I wanted to pee!”
He laughs against your skin, the sound warm and full of love. “Fine, fine. But only because I’m a gentleman.”
He helps you up again, this time more successfully, keeping one hand on your lower back for support as you waddle toward the bathroom. Even in your very pregnant, very grumpy state, he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“You’re lucky I love you,” you say over your shoulder, trying to sound stern but failing miserably.
“I know,” he replies softly, watching you with that fond, slightly awed expression. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”
______________________________
The bedroom is dark and quiet, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city outside the curtains. You shift restlessly under the covers, your very pregnant belly making every movement a calculated effort. The baby has been active all evening, and now, at some ungodly hour, a very specific craving has taken over.
“Babe…” you whine softly, lips brushing against Alex’s ear. His arm tightens around you instinctively, even in sleep, pulling you closer to his warm chest.
“Mmm?” he hums, voice thick and raspy with exhaustion. His eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the darkness as he tries to focus on you.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, almost apologetically.
He blinks a few more times, processing your words. “You’re hungry?”
“Yes,” you nod, shifting again as the baby gives another enthusiastic kick. “Really hungry.”
Alex lets out a long, dramatic groan, but there’s no real annoyance in it. He sits up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands before reaching over to switch on the bedside lamp. The soft light fills the room, and he turns to look at you, bed hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Okay,” he says, voice gravelly. “What does my wife and our very demanding baby want at…” He glances at the clock. “3:17 a.m.?”
You bite your lip, suddenly a little shy about the absurdity of it. “It might sound weird… How about gherkins dipped in chocolate?”
Alex stares at you for a long moment, the cogs in his brain visibly turning as he processes the request. “Gherkins… dipped in chocolate.”
“That’s what baby wants,” you say, patting your belly with a small, innocent smile.
He smacks his lips together, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. “That baby is going to have some fucked up taste buds, I’ll tell you that.”
You laugh softly, reaching out to poke his side. “Be nice. This is your child too.”
He leans in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your cheek, then your forehead. “I’ll be back in a bit. Try not to eat the pillows while I’m gone.”
You melt back into the covers, watching him with a fond smile as he pads out of the room in just his boxers, hair wild and movements slow from tiredness. You hear him open the fridge, the clink of jars, the rustle of packaging. A few minutes later he returns with a plate in hand.
“Five gherkins,” he announces, setting the plate carefully on your lap. “Each with a different chocolate. Dark, milk, white, and I even melted some hazelnut spread for the last two. You’re welcome.”
Your eyes light up with pure delight. You clasp your hands together like a kid on Christmas. “You’re the best.”
He climbs back into bed beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you eat. “You little freak,” he teases, but his voice is full of affection.
“You love this little freak,” you reply with a grin, picking up the first milk chocolate-covered gherkin and taking a big bite. The sharp acidity mixed with the sweet chocolate makes you hum happily, even as you cough a little at the intense contrast.
Alex stares at you, looking both disoriented and deeply amused. He props his chin on his hand, clearly fighting to stay awake. He had stayed late at the studio again, and sleep is calling his name loudly, but he refuses to close his eyes until he’s sure you’re satisfied.
“You want to try some?” you ask, extending the plate toward him with a mischievous glint.
He grimaces weakly, gently pushing the plate back toward you. “That would be a hard no.”
You shrug, before finishing and placing the plate on the bedside table. "Now I am done for tonight."
"You sure?" He asks as you settle in his arms once again, heading finding its way under his chin. "Because I there is this mouth-watering carton of expired milk in the fridge with your name on it."
You smack his chest and he smiles, turning off the lights and before kissing the top of your head and shutting his eyes. "Just saying."
______________________________
The studio is alive with the usual controlled chaos — guitars humming, Matt laughing at something Jamie said, the faint click of a lighter as someone lights a cigarette in the corner. Alex is in the middle of a take, headphones on, eyes closed, lost in the melody he’s been chasing for days. The new song is almost there. Almost perfect.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it at first, too deep in the zone. Then it vibrates again. And again.
He pulls it out, frowning when he sees your name on the screen. You rarely call during studio hours unless it’s important. He steps out of the booth, motioning to the band that he’ll be quick.
“Hey, love,” he answers, voice still warm from singing. “Everything okay?”
There’s a shaky breath on the other end. Then your voice — small, scared, trying to stay calm but failing.
“Alex… I’m bleeding. Not a lot, but… it’s not normal. I called the doctor. They want me to come in right away.”
The world tilts.
For a second, everything stops. The studio noise fades to a dull roar in his ears. His hand tightens around the phone so hard the plastic creaks.
“Bleeding?” His voice cracks. “How much? Are you in pain? Is the baby—?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper, and he can hear the tears you’re holding back. “It started about twenty minutes ago. I’m scared, Alex. I’m really scared.”
His knees feel weak. He leans against the wall, free hand pressed to his forehead as panic crashes over him like a wave.
“I’m coming,” he says immediately, already moving. “I’m leaving right now. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up. Tell me where you are.”
“I called a cab. I’m heading to the hospital now. The one we went to for the last check-up.”
“Good. That’s good.” His voice is shaking. He’s already grabbing his jacket, ignoring the confused looks from the band. “I love you. Both of you. I’m on my way. Just… breathe, alright? I’m coming as fast as I can.”
He hangs up after you promise to keep him updated, then turns to the room. Everyone is staring.
“I have to go,” he says, voice tight. “It’s her. There’s bleeding. They’re taking her to the hospital.”
Matt stands up immediately. “Go. We’ll handle everything here.”
Alex doesn’t wait for more. He runs.
The drive is a blur of red lights and honking horns. His hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat. Every red light feels like torture. Every slow driver in front of him makes him want to scream.
His mind races with worst-case scenarios.
What if something’s wrong with the baby?
What if he loses both of you?
What if he wasn’t there because he was too busy chasing another perfect take?
Guilt claws at him, sharp and vicious. He should have been home more. He should have noticed you were more tired lately. He should have—
His phone rings again. It’s the hospital this time. The nurse’s voice is calm but serious: they’ve admitted you, the bleeding has slowed, but they’re monitoring the baby closely. Braxton Hicks is possible, but they need to rule out other complications.
Alex thanks her, voice hoarse, and floors the accelerator the second the light turns green.
By the time he bursts through the hospital doors, he’s a mess — hair wild, eyes wide with terror, jacket half-off his shoulders. A nurse recognizes him from your description and leads him to your room.
The second he sees you — pale, hooked up to monitors, hand protectively over your belly — his heart shatters.
He crosses the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside your bed and grabbing your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’m here,” he chokes out, pressing his forehead to your knuckles. “I’m right here. I’m so sorry I wasn’t with you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You squeeze his hand, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
He stays on his knees for a long time, trembling, whispering apologies and promises between shaky breaths. The fear of losing you both is still raw in his chest, but having you safe in front of him — even for now — brings a fragile kind of relief.
The monitors beep steadily. The baby’s heartbeat is strong.
And for the first time since the call, Alex allows himself to breathe.
He stays on his knees for a long time beside your hospital bed, one hand clasped tightly around yours, the other resting gently on the swell of your belly. His forehead is pressed to your knuckles, eyes fixed on the fetal monitor as if he can will the baby’s heartbeat to stay strong through sheer force of love and fear. The steady beeping fills the room like a lifeline, each pulse a small mercy that keeps his own heart from shattering.
The silence is broken only by the rhythmic sounds of the machines and the occasional soft murmur of nurses passing in the hallway. Alex’s breathing is shaky, his shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the panic that hasn’t fully left him. Every second feels like an eternity. He keeps replaying the phone call in his head — your scared voice, the words “bleeding” and “come now” — and the guilt claws at him mercilessly. He should have been with you. He should have answered sooner. He should have—
After what feels like hours, the doctor finally returns, chart in hand, expression calm and reassuring. “Good news,” she says gently. “It was a strong round of Braxton Hicks combined with minor spotting. The baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady. No signs of distress. We’ll keep you for a few more hours to monitor, but you can go home tonight. Just rest, stay hydrated, and call us immediately if anything changes.”
The relief hits Alex like a wave. His shoulders sag, a broken exhale escaping him as he presses his face into your hand. You stroke his hair with your free hand, whispering soft reassurances until he can breathe again.
The drive home is quiet. Alex keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles. He helps you inside the house with gentle hands, supporting your weight as you walk, refusing to let you do anything yourself. Once you’re safely in bed, he fusses over every detail — fluffing pillows behind your back, adjusting the blanket so it’s not too tight around your belly, bringing you water and the prenatal vitamins you forgot earlier.
When he finally climbs into bed beside you, he curls around you protectively, one arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting reverently on the curve of your stomach. His forehead presses against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin.
“I was so scared,” he whispers, voice breaking again. “The whole way here I kept thinking… what if I lose you? What if I lose both of you? I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to be a father if I can’t even keep you safe.”
Tears spill down his cheeks, hot and silent. You pull him closer, holding him tightly as he buries his face in your neck, his body trembling with the aftermath of fear.
“You’re not going to lose us,” you whisper, stroking his hair with slow, soothing movements. “We’re okay. The baby is okay. And you’re already going to be an amazing father. I see how much you love this baby already. How careful you are with me. How hard you try every single day, even when the music pulls you away. That’s what matters.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red and vulnerable, shining with unshed tears. “I’m terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I fuck it up? What if I’m too distracted with music, too absent? What if I can’t be what you both need? What if I put the album before everything again and miss the important moments? What if I’m not enough?”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing away his tears. Your voice is steady, full of love and certainty. “You won’t. Because you’re already showing up. You dropped everything today. You ran out of the studio without hesitation. You’re here, holding me, scared but present. That’s what a good father looks like, Alex. Not perfect. Just present. And we’re going to figure this out together. Every step. The late nights, the fears, the joy — all of it. You’re not alone in this. I’m right here with you. Always.”
He kisses you then — slow, deep, and full of gratitude. It’s not passionate in the usual sense. It’s full of love, relief, and the quiet promise that you’re in this together, no matter what comes next. His hands cradle your face like you’re something sacred, and when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
“I love you,” he whispers into the quiet darkness. “Both of you. More than anything in this world.”
You smile, covering his hand with yours on your belly. “We love you too. So much.”
He falls asleep first, exhaustion finally winning after the panic of the day. His breathing evens out, face relaxed for the first time in hours. You stay awake a little longer, feeling the baby give a gentle, reassuring kick under his palm. In that quiet moment, despite the fear and the uncertainty of the day, you know with absolute certainty that everything is going to be okay.
Summary: It's the night before you fly into New York for a few days during Alex's tour. Little does he know you flew in a day early.
A/n: I am limiting myself to one post per day. I am having too much fun. I'm worried I will burn myself out, leading to me not wanting to do this anymore. So once a day it is! Hehe. I was travelling the last couple of days so forgive my absence- it was torture.
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 3k
______________________________
The cab door slams shut with a heavy thud, and Alex lets out a long, bone-deep sigh of relief as he stands outside the luxurious hotel entrance. Another sold-out show, another night of roaring crowds and flashing lights, but Christ, he is exhausted. The rest of the band wanted to stay out for drinks and celebration, but he waved them off with a tired grin. All he wants is to get back to his room and finally hear your voice.
It has been weeks since he last saw you in person. Australia and South America were incredible, but the distance has worn him thin. Phone calls and rushed late-night phone sex are a poor substitute for the real thing. He misses touching you, tasting you, hearing those pretty sounds you make just for him. The separation has left him properly feral and more than a little clingy.
The elevator ride to one of the highest floors feels endless. Soft jazz plays through the speakers, but Alex barely notices. He pulls out his little flip phone, thumbs moving quickly across the keys.
About to get to my room. Free to call?
He sends it and stares at the screen, willing the little envelope to show a reply. The time difference is brutal — it is just past 11pm for him, which means it is early morning where you are. He knows you have an early flight tomorrow… or rather, today. Still, no reply comes. He frowns, a small pout forming despite himself.
“Come on, love,” he mutters under his breath. “Give me something.”
The elevator dings and the doors open. He drags his feet down the quiet hallway, the plush carpet swallowing his steps. The venue booked the band luxurious rooms on one of the top floors — stunning views, private balconies, and blessed silence. He cannot wait to show you. He swipes the key card, hears the soft buzz, and pushes the door open.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, he drops his bag on the floor and leans back against the wood, eyes closed. For a few long seconds he just stands there, arms hanging limply at his sides, letting the quiet wash over him. Alone at last.
He kicks off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket, leaving them in a messy pile by the entrance. The city lights pour through the massive windows, bathing the dark suite in glowing oranges, blues, and whites. It is beautiful. He should feel relaxed. Instead, that clingy ache in his chest only grows.
He checks his phone again. Still no reply. A small, frustrated huff escapes him.
“Too busy packing or something,” he tells himself, but it does not stop the disappointment. He wants to hear your voice. He wants your laugh, your teasing, the way you say his name when you are half-asleep. Weeks apart have turned him soft and needy in ways he would never admit to the lads.
He wanders further into the suite, rolling his shoulders to ease the post-show tension. That is when he notices it — a few things have been moved. His brow furrows. He is sure he told the front desk not to bother with turndown service. Then his eyes land on a familiar suitcase in the corner. Definitely not his.
His heart slams against his ribs. “Babe?” he calls out, voice lifting with sudden hope and energy.
A teasing hum floats from the direction of the bathroom. “Yes…?”
A wide grin breaks across his face. He crosses the suite in seconds and nearly collides with you as you step out. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest like he is afraid you might disappear.
“Holy shit, it is really you,” he murmurs into your hair, breathing you in deeply. That familiar scent — your shampoo, your skin, your warmth — hits him like a drug. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed you so much.”
“Who else would it be? Your secret mistress?” you laugh softly against his chest.
He squeezes your sides in playful warning, a low chuckle rumbling through him. “Don’t even joke about that. I would never survive another woman. You have properly ruined me for anyone else.” He pulls back just enough to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw as he drinks you in. “What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to fly in tomorrow morning.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” you say, batting your lashes innocently. “I finished work earlier than expected, begged the band to help switch my flight, and… here I am.”
“Best fucking surprise of my life,” he breathes, eyes darkening with hunger. His gaze drops slowly down your body, taking in the sight of you wearing his oversized shirt. “And is that my shirt you are wearing?”
You shrug with a shy smile. “I did not get much sleep before the flight, so I napped while you were performing. Stole the first thing that smelled like you.”
His hands trace your sides possessively, sliding under the hem to find the band of your shorts. “You are going to be the death of me, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Tell me, love… you still tired?”
“Not too tired for you,” you whisper, fingers tracing along his collarbone. “Never too tired for you.”
That is all it takes. He dips his head and kisses you like a man starved, weeks of frustration and longing pouring out in one heated clash of lips and tongues. You moan softly into his mouth, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as his hands roam under the shirt, cold fingers against your warm skin making you gasp.
“Fuck, your hands are freezing!” you whine against his lips.
He grins, wicked and smug. “Then warm them up for me, darling.” In one smooth motion he spins you around, backing you towards the balcony doors while his mouth attacks your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. You stumble together, laughing breathlessly between kisses, hands grabbing at clothes and skin.
Your back gently hits the cool glass of the sliding door. Alex presses his body flush against yours, one thigh sliding between your legs. “God, I missed you,” he groans, sucking lightly on your pulse point. “Missed the way you taste. Missed how fucking wet you get for me.”
You tug at his messy hair. “I missed you too… sleeping alone is absolute shit.”
His chest swells with that familiar ache. His hand slips into your shorts without warning, fingers gliding through your slick folds. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick with approval. “You are absolutely soaked already. Been thinking about me, have you? Touching yourself while I was gone?”
You laugh breathlessly, hips rocking against his hand. “My fingers are not exactly the same as yours.”
“No, they are fucking not,” he says smugly, ego clearly inflating. “Say it again. Tell me how much better mine are, love. Stroke my ego a bit — I have earned it after all those long nights alone.”
Before you can smack his chest for being cocky, he finds your clit and circles it with perfect, practiced pressure. Your knees buckle instantly. He catches you easily, sliding two fingers deep inside you, curling them just right against that spot that makes your vision blur.
“Alex— fuck—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs hotly against your ear, voice low and filthy. “Say my name while I fuck you with my fingers. Been dreaming about this for weeks. Phone sex does not do it justice.”
He pumps his fingers slowly at first, savouring every wet sound and every little twitch of your body. Then he picks up the pace, curling them relentlessly while his thumb works your clit in tight, fast circles. You are already trembling, moaning louder with every thrust of his hand.
“You are clenching so hard around me,” he groans, biting gently at your earlobe. “Been this needy the whole time I was gone? Poor thing. Bet you touched yourself every night thinking about me.”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. He adds a third finger, stretching you open, and the new fullness makes you cry out.
“Too much?” he teases, though he does not slow down. “Or is this exactly what you need? Tell me, darling. Tell me how much you missed my fingers ruining you.”
“I missed them— fuck, Alex, please—” Your voice cracks as he curls his fingers perfectly again, hitting that devastating spot over and over.
He keeps you right on the edge for what feels like forever, slowing down every time you get too close, only to speed up again with a wicked smirk. “Not yet,” he whispers. “I want you desperate. I want you shaking before I let you come.”
When he finally lets you tip over, you shatter hard with a broken cry of his name, body convulsing violently around his fingers. He works you through every wave, murmuring filthy praise the entire time.
“Good girl. That’s it. Give it to me. So fucking beautiful when you come.”
You are still twitching and gasping when he drops to his knees, yanks your shorts down, and buries his face between your legs. His tongue replaces his fingers, licking broad stripes through your folds before sucking hard on your clit. The sudden overstimulation makes your legs buckle, but he holds you up firmly against the glass.
“Alex— oh my god, I just came—” you whimper.
“And you are going to come again,” he growls against you, the vibration making you jolt. “I have weeks to make up for. I am not stopping until you cannot stand.”
He eats you like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, then sucking your clit while two fingers thrust deep inside again. It does not take long before you are coming a second time, harder than the first, thighs shaking around his head as you moan his name like a prayer.
Only then does he rise, lips shiny with your arousal, and kiss you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“Delicious,” he purrs. “Missed that taste so much. Weeks without you nearly ended me.”
You are still trembling when he spins you toward the balcony doors. “Alex— wait—”
He unlocks the sliding door and guides you outside. The crisp New York night air washes over your overheated skin as the city sprawls out beneath you in a sea of glittering lights. Your hands instinctively grip the railing.
“What a view,” you breathe, awe mixing with nerves.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping right behind you and pressing his body flush against your back. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” His lips find your nape, brushing your hair aside for better access. “Been thinking about this for days… bending you over right here with the whole city watching.”
Your eyes widen. “Alex— You cannot be serious.”
He chuckles darkly, the sound sending fresh heat between your legs. You hear the unmistakable clink of his belt buckle opening. “Oh my God, you are serious.”
“And why would I not be?” His hand slides under your shirt to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers almost in retaliation. “Tell me if it is too much, love… but I don’t think you want me to stop, do you? I can feel how wet you still are.”
The thrill of it — the height, the open air, the very real risk — makes you drip even more.
“Are you sure it is a good idea?” you sigh shakily as he tugs your shorts and underwear all the way down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to the night.
“It’s a private balcony, my love. We are so high up. Just enjoy the view while I enjoy this.” His voice is velvet sin. “Let me remind you who you belong to.”
You obey, gripping the railing tighter as he bends you forward. He frees himself from his jeans with a relieved hiss, his cock hard and leaking after weeks of deprivation. He rubs the thick head teasingly against your soaked entrance, slapping it against your clit a few times just to hear you whimper.
“Fuck… finally,” he groans as he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by thick inch until he is buried to the hilt. “This is what I have been missing. This warmth. Christ, you feel even better than I remembered.”
He gives you a moment before he starts moving — deep, powerful strokes that make your moans spill into the night air. One hand stays at the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
“Alex— oh my God—”
“Quiet, darling,” he warns, leaning over you, lips brushing your ear. “Unless you want the whole city to hear how well I fuck you.” He snaps his hips harder, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. “That’s it. Take every inch like a good girl. Let New York watch while I ruin you.”
The angle is devastating. Every thrust drags against your g-spot, and the risk of being seen makes everything feel more intense. Alex reaches around to rub your clit again, determined to pull another orgasm from you.
“You going to come on my cock?” he pants, voice strained. “Come for me again, love. Let me feel you squeezing me. I have waited weeks to fill you up.”
You come hard for the third time, clenching around his cock so tightly that he groans loudly, hips stuttering. He fucks you through it, then pulls out, spins you around, and lifts one of your legs around his waist so he can fuck you face-to-face against the glass.
“Look at me,” he demands, forehead pressed to yours. “I want to see your face while I fuck you.”
This new angle lets him go even deeper. His thrusts are relentless, skin slapping against skin, his cock dragging perfectly inside you. His dirty talk never stops.
“Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking my cock so well on the balcony where anyone could see. You love it, don’t you? Love being my dirty little secret up here.”
When he finally comes, it is with a deep, guttural moan of your name, spilling hot and deep inside you as his hips jerk. He keeps thrusting through his orgasm, like he cannot bear to stop.
For a long moment afterwards, you both stay locked together, trembling in the cool night air. Alex’s forehead rests against yours as you both try to catch your breath. His hands stroke soothingly up and down your sides, gentle now after the roughness.
“Welcome to New York, love,” he murmurs against your lips with a tired, satisfied smirk. “Round two inside?” You manage to choke a small laugh, shaking your head with a disbelieving grin.
A minute passes, silence engulfing you with the gentle breeze.
“Fuck… I needed that,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He presses soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Missed you so much, love. Not just this — though Christ, this was incredible — but you. All of you.”
He slowly pulls out, but does not let you go. Instead, he turns you around in his arms and holds you close against his chest, wrapping you up in a warm, protective embrace. The city lights twinkle far below while a gentle breeze cools your overheated skin.
“You okay?” he asks softly, one hand cradling the back of your head. “Not too cold? Did I get a bit carried away?”
You shake your head, smiling into his neck. “I’m perfect. That was… intense.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Intense is one word for it. I have been thinking about bending you over in front of this view from the moment I laid eyes on it. Had to make it worth the wait.” He kisses the top of your head, then tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly. His eyes are soft now, full of affection. “You are so beautiful like this, flushed and glowing because of me. My favourite sight in the world.”
He reaches down and gently pulls your (his) shirt back down over your body, then tucks himself away. Without another word, he scoops you up bridal-style, making you squeal in surprise.
“Alex!”
“What? My legs work fine,” he says with a smug grin, carrying you back inside. “Besides, you are shaking like a leaf. Can’t have you falling over after that.”
He carries you over to the massive bed and lays you down gently, then climbs in beside you. He pulls you into his chest immediately, tangling your legs together and wrapping his arms around you like he never plans to let go.
For a while, you simply lie there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back under the shirt. The city hums quietly far below.
“I still cannot believe you surprised me like this,” he murmurs eventually, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Best decision you have ever made. I was proper clingy tonight — staring at my phone like a sad puppy waiting for you to reply. Pathetic, really.”
You laugh softly. “It’s cute.”
“Oi, do not call me cute after I just fucked you on the balcony,” he teases, squeezing your arse playfully. “Ruins my rockstar image.”
You snuggle closer, kissing his collarbone. “Too late. You are my cute, clingy rockstar.”
He smiles, genuinely soft, and holds you tighter. “Only for you, darling. Only ever for you.”
The two of you stay wrapped up like that for a long time — talking quietly, exchanging lazy kisses, basking in the warmth of being together again after so many weeks apart. Eventually, his hand starts wandering again with clear intent.
“So… about that round two,” he murmurs against your lips, voice already turning husky. “You still not too tired for me?”
Summary: With a big interview just around the corner, you want to help prepare him. Alex does not take you seriously.
A/n: Hehe the back and forth is entertaining to me. Nice and short one today.
Word count: 1.1k
______________________________
The living room is dimly lit, the way Alex prefers when he’s pretending to be productive. A half-empty bottle of red wine sits on the coffee table next to two glasses. An old vinyl record spins lazily on the turntable — something smooth and groovy from the 70s, the kind of music that makes the whole flat feel like a smoky lounge bar.
Alex is sprawled on the couch like he owns the entire world (which, in this moment, he kind of does). His hair is still perfectly slicked back from the photoshoot earlier in the day, and he’s wearing that half-unbuttoned black shirt that should honestly be illegal in at least three countries.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the coffee table directly in front of him, notepad balanced on your knee, pen clicked dramatically like you’re about to conduct the interview of the century.
“Absolutely not,” Alex says for the third time, arms spread across the back of the couch, that signature smirk firmly in place. “I’m not doing this.”
“Come onnn,” you drag out, grinning widely. “You’ve got that big NME interview tomorrow. You hate interviews. Let me help you practice.”
“I don’t need practice,” he replies, voice dripping with that cocky, effortless charm. “I’m naturally charismatic. Irresistible, even. The words just flow.”
You snort loudly. “You’re naturally sarcastic. There’s a very big difference, rockstar.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing playfully as he looks at you. “Fine. If it’ll shut you up for five minutes. But I’m not calling you ‘ma’am’ or any of that bollocks. And if you ask me anything stupid, I’m walking out.”
You clear your throat theatrically, sitting up straighter like a proper serious journalist, and put on your best professional voice.
“Mr. Turner, thank you for sitting down with us today. First question: How would you describe the sound of the new album?”
Alex stares at you for a long, deliberate beat, then answers in that signature deadpan Sheffield drawl.
“Loud.”
You bite your lip hard to keep from laughing. “Care to elaborate for our readers?”
“Not really.”
You scribble nonsense on your notepad. “Fascinating insight. Truly groundbreaking. Moving on. There have been rumours that the band is going in a more… mature direction with this record. Would you say this album reflects your growth as both an artist and a man?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Are you calling me immature?”
“I’m asking the questions here, Mr. Turner.”
“You’re asking stupid questions, darling.”
You narrow your eyes, fighting the smile that wants to break free. “Fine. Let’s get personal then. How does it feel knowing millions of girls around the world want to shag you?”
Alex’s smirk grows wider, dangerous. “Feels pretty good. But I’m more interested in the one sitting on my coffee table right now wearing nothing but my shirt and looking far too pleased with herself.”
You point your pen at him warningly. “Stay professional.”
“You’re the one who stole my shirt and decided to play journalist in my living room. Don’t talk to me about professional.”
You have to pause for a second to laugh. “You’re the worst interviewee I’ve ever had in my entire career.”
“And you’re the most distracting interviewer I’ve ever had,” he fires back smoothly, eyes dropping slowly down your bare legs. “Do all journalists sit like that? Legs crossed, leaning forward, looking far too comfortable on my furniture?”
“Only the ones trying to fluster arrogant, overconfident rockstars who think they’re too cool for media training.”
He leans back again, spreading his thighs a little wider in that effortlessly cocky way that makes your stomach flip. “Is it working?”
“Next question,” you say, ignoring the way your face is heating up. “There’s been talk in the industry that you’re difficult to work with. Care to comment on that?”
Alex runs his tongue along his bottom lip, pretending to think. “Only difficult when people waste my time with boring questions from beautiful women who keep crossing and uncrossing their legs like they’re trying to kill me.”
You gasp dramatically. “Rude. Last one: On a scale of one to ten, how attractive do you find your interviewer tonight?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Eleven.”
You lower your notepad, staring at him. “You’re not taking this seriously at all, are you?”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious,” he says, voice dropping an octave. He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that intense stare of his. “Come here.”
You raise an eyebrow, heart beating faster. “This is supposed to be a professional interview, Mr. Turner.”
“Interview’s over.”
He reaches out, grabs your wrist, and tugs you forward. You let out a surprised laugh as you tumble into his lap, straddling him. His hands settle on your thighs, sliding up under the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.
“You’ve been winding me up for twenty minutes straight,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “You really think I was paying attention to any of your questions?”
“You were supposed to be practicing,” you whisper, but you’re already leaning in closer, hands resting on his chest.
“Fuck practicing.”
He kisses you hard, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist. The kiss is cocky, hungry, a little rough around the edges. You melt into it immediately, hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back just as eagerly.
He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips. “You know what I think?”
“Hm?”
“I think you never wanted to help me practice at all,” he says, nipping at your bottom lip. “I think you just wanted to sit in my lap and tease me until I snapped.”
You smile, rolling your hips once. “Maybe.”
He groans, fingers digging into your thighs. “Brat.”
You kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. His hands slide under the shirt, palms warm against your bare skin. When his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts, you shiver.
“Alex…”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, sucking lightly.
“You’re still shit at interviews.”
He laughs against your throat, the sound low and warm. “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me in line.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, both of you breathing harder. The playful spark in his eyes has shifted into something darker, hotter.
“So,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across his bottom lip. “Interview over?”
He flips you suddenly, pinning you beneath him on the couch. His hair’s a mess now, shirt half unbuttoned, that signature smirk firmly in place.
Summary: You have been friends for many years, but something has been brewing and you don't know if you can make it stop.
A/n: Genuinely so satisfying to write. I love long fics lol. Multiple sexy scenes? Hell yes. It's like a reward. I hope you guys enjoy it because I put a lot of effort into this.
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 6.8k
______________________________
Alex has known you for what — three years now? Funny how time slips away when you’re pretending something isn’t happening.
It all started at one of those dreadful industry parties he hated with a passion. He hadn’t wanted to be there. Management had practically dragged him, muttering something about “visibility” and “networking.” So there he was, tucked away in a dimly lit corner like a moody shadow, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other nursing a cigarette. He made sure his expression screamed do not approach. Bored eyes, slight scowl, shoulders hunched. It usually worked.
Until it didn’t.
“Wow. You look absolutely miserable,” a voice chimed beside him, bright and far too amused for the gloomy atmosphere.
Alex turned his head slowly, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He hadn’t expected anyone to actually speak to him, let alone call him out so boldly. You stood there in a striking, form-fitting dress the colour of ripe cherries — completely out of place among all the blacks, beiges, and funeral tones. Your eyes sparkled with mischief.
He stared for a beat too long, momentarily speechless.
You took his silence as an invitation and dropped into the seat beside him without a care. “To be honest, I was only dragged here as a plus one. My boyfriend said he ‘had to be seen with his girlfriend.’” You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. “As if parading me around like a shiny accessory is going to magically boost his career.”
Alex blinked, caught off guard by how refreshingly blunt you were. Most people at these things either kissed his arse or tried to use him. You were doing neither.
“You’re Alex Turner, right?” you asked, tilting your head.
He braced himself for the usual fan interaction — wide eyes, gushing compliments, maybe a request for a photo. “I am,” he answered carefully, voice low and guarded.
“So you do talk,” you teased, lips curving into a playful smirk. “I was starting to wonder if the rumours were true and you only communicated through brooding stares and cigarettes.”
He poked his tongue against his cheek, fighting a smile. “Maybe I do. When the company’s worth it.”
“I would sure hope so,” you fired back smoothly. “If you can write songs like you do, the least you can manage is stringing a few sentences together for a stranger at a boring party.”
Alex felt something shift in his chest — the first crack in his carefully built wall. No one here was talking to him like a normal person. They all wanted something. Connections. Clout. A story to tell later. But you? You were just… talking. Teasing him like he was any other bloke.
He leaned back a little, finally letting the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Why bring you here if it’s not your scene?” he asked, genuinely curious now.
You rolled your eyes again, glancing toward the centre of the room where your boyfriend was laughing too loudly with a group of suits. “He doesn’t exactly take my discomfort into consideration. Apparently standing around looking pretty is part of the job description now.”
“That’s… nice of him,” Alex deadpanned, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You let out a soft laugh and nudged his shoulder playfully. “Right? Real gentleman behaviour.”
He watched you for a moment, intrigued. There was something refreshing about you — untouched by the jaded cynicism that clung to most people in this world. Your dress was bold and bright against the sea of muted tones, just like your personality. It stood out. You stood out.
“You’re wearing a very bright colour,” he pointed out, letting his gaze drift over you appreciatively. “Didn’t know people came to these things dressed for a carnival.”
You glanced down at yourself, then back at him with a grin. “I didn’t get the memo that we were all attending a funeral. It’s depressing in here.”
“It’s classy,” he countered, lips twitching.
“It’s boring,” you shot back. “Life’s too short to dress like you’re already dead.”
Alex let out a genuine chuckle this time, shaking his head. The sound surprised even him. He hadn’t laughed properly all night. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Only on my best behaviour,” you replied sweetly, batting your lashes in mock innocence.
The night stretched on like that — easy, flowing conversation while your boyfriend made his rounds, completely oblivious. You talked about everything and nothing: terrible industry parties, favourite records, the absurdity of small-talk with people who only cared about who you knew. Alex found himself opening up more than usual, drawn in by your quick wit and the way you refused to treat him like a celebrity.
For once, someone wasn’t trying to get something from him. And that felt dangerously good.
A few weeks later, still intrigued (more than he wanted to admit), he tracked down your number and invited you to one of his shows. You accepted without hesitation.
That night after the gig, you ended up hanging with the whole band. They adored your energy just as much as he did — fresh, funny, unafraid to take the piss out of them. It felt natural. Easy.
A few weeks after that… you broke up with your boyfriend.
That was three years ago.
And now? Things are very different.
Or at least… that’s what you both keep telling yourselves.
______________________________
After waving goodnight to the roaring crowd and delivering one last sweaty, euphoric encore, the band finally stumbles backstage. The green room is alive with that unmistakable post-show buzz — adrenaline still crackling in the air, loud laughter, and the satisfying ache of a gig well played. Back slaps and hoarse compliments fly between them as they catch their breath and start peeling off sweat-soaked shirts.
The second Alex spots you standing in the corner chatting with Matt’s girlfriend, his whole face lights up like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
“Hey!” he calls, voice still rough from singing.
You turn, eyes sparkling with delight, and walk straight into his arms. The hug is quick but warm, and you can’t help teasing him the second you pull back. “Yikes, you’re properly sweaty,” you laugh, wrinkling your nose as you reach up to fix a damp strand of hair that’s fallen into his eyes. Your fingers linger just a second too long against his temple.
He ignores the comment completely, still riding the high. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it tonight?”
“I have my ways,” you grin, looking far too pleased with yourself. Before he can fire back, the rest of the band descends on you, pulling you into enthusiastic hugs one by one. Alex watches from the side, a small, private smile playing on his lips.
He hadn’t seen you in a couple of weeks, and fuck, he’d missed this. Missed you. Ever since things ended with Arielle, his thoughts had been drifting back to you more often than he cared to admit. Having you around always made everything feel easier. Lighter. Like the world wasn’t quite so heavy.
“Are you joining us for after-drinks?” Nick asks, finally releasing you from a dramatic bear hug.
“Hell yeah, I am!”
The boys let out a loud, chaotic cheer that makes you throw your head back and laugh. The sound hits Alex right in the chest every single time.
You wait while they shower and change, then the whole group heads to a nearby pub to celebrate the final London show before the North American leg begins. What starts as “just one pint to celebrate” quickly turns into something much looser.
By the fifth round, Matt is happily slumped against his girlfriend, Nick and Jamie are failing spectacularly at arm-wrestling, and you and Alex have drifted into your own little bubble at the end of the table.
“Can’t believe how much gel you use these days,” you murmur, running your fingers through his hair with zero shame. Alex lets you, eyes half-closed in contentment, shamelessly leaning into your touch.
“Twenty minutes every morning,” he hums, voice low and lazy. “It’s a science, darling. I’ve mastered it.”
“That’s some serious dedication,” you tease softly, eyes drifting down to his lips without meaning to. “Almost admirable. A bit vain, but admirable.”
He cracks one eye open, catching the shift in your gaze. “Careful. Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you fancy me.”
You snort, but there’s no real bite to it. “In your dreams, Turner.”
The air between you thickens. Your fingers slow in his hair. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noisy pub fades into the background. Just you, him, and that dangerous, humming tension that’s been building for years.
Then Nick slams his arm on the table in defeat. Jamie whoops in victory. The spell shatters.
You jolt and let out a startled laugh, quickly pulling your hand back. “I think it’s time to get going,” Matt’s girlfriend announces, the only sober one left.
“Yeah… probably smart,” you agree, cheeks noticeably warmer.
The others pile into a cab, leaving just you and Alex standing on the pavement. The cool night air feels sobering, but not nearly enough.
“Walk you home?” Alex offers, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
“Sure,” you shrug, trying (and failing) to sound casual.
The walk starts slow and pleasantly wobbly. You bump shoulders every few steps and immediately turn it into ammunition.
“Watch it, rockstar. You’re drifting into my lane again.”
“Pretty sure you’re the one veering, love. Can’t handle your drink?”
You laugh. “Says the man who nearly fell off the stage during the second encore.”
“That was stylistic,” he protests with a grin. “Artistic expression.”
The banter flows easily the whole way, but something underneath it feels different tonight. Every brush of your arms sends little sparks across your skin. The silences grow heavier. Warmer.
When you finally reach your building, you stop at the doorstep. The quiet stretches. Alex looks at you — really looks — and something tightens in his chest.
“Fuck,” you mutter, swaying slightly. “I don’t even know how I’m going to function at work tomorrow.”
“Just call in sick,” he suggests, stepping closer. “Tell them you were out corrupting a very charming musician.”
You roll your eyes, but the movement makes you lose your balance. Alex catches you instantly, hands firm on your waist as he pulls you flush against him.
“Watch it,” he murmurs, voice suddenly lower, rougher.
For a heartbeat, you’re pressed chest to chest, staring at each other. His hands feel burning hot through your clothes. Your fingers curl into his shirt. The air crackles.
Then you’re kissing.
It starts desperate and messy, months — maybe years — of buried tension exploding at once. You crash your lips together, hands grabbing at jackets and shirts, bodies pressing urgently closer. Alex backs you against the brick wall beside your door, hidden enough from the quiet street. His palms cup your face as he kisses you like he’s starving, tongue sliding against yours, a deep groan vibrating in his chest.
You match his hunger, moaning softly into his mouth. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, then higher. He cups your breasts boldly over your top, thumbs brushing across your nipples through the fabric. You arch into him with a gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss even further, tongue exploring, teeth grazing your bottom lip.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he breathes against your mouth, voice wrecked.
His thigh slides between your legs, pressing up against you. You grind down on it instinctively, another moan slipping out. His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting gently while one hand slips under your top, palming your breast properly this time.
“Alex…” you whimper, head tipping back against the wall.
The sound of his name seems to jolt you both back to reality.
You pull away at the same time, chests heaving, eyes wide. Your lips are swollen, hair messy, cheeks flushed. Alex looks just as ruined — breathing hard, hair dishevelled, eyes dark.
“What the fuck are we doing?” you gasp, one hand still fisted in his shirt.
“I… fuck,” he mutters, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“We can’t let that happen again,” you say quickly, though your voice is unsteady. “We’re friends. Best friends. This is— this is just the alcohol talking.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, a little too fast. “Definitely the drinks. Bad idea. Terrible idea.”
You let out a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh. “We probably won’t even remember this tomorrow morning.”
Alex meets your eyes. Neither of you believes that for a second.
“It was a mistake,” he says, trying to sound reassuring, but his gaze keeps drifting back to your lips. “We’re not… we shouldn’t complicate things.”
“Exactly,” you nod, stepping back even though your body wants the opposite. “Never again. We’re just friends. Always have been.”
“Always,” he echoes, but the word sounds hollow.
The rest of the walk to your actual door is painfully awkward. You try to salvage some weak banter, but it falls flat.
“So… see you soon?” you ask at the doorstep, avoiding his eyes.
“Yeah,” Alex says softly. “See you soon.”
You don’t hug him goodbye like you usually do. He doesn’t push for it. The absence of that familiar affection stings more than either of you wants to admit.
______________________________
Two months have passed since That Night, and neither of you has uttered a single word about it.
The awkwardness lingered for about a week. The first group hang after the incident was stiff — too many careful laughs, eyes that darted away too quickly, conversations that felt one beat off rhythm. But you were both experts at pretending. Within two weeks, you had slipped back into your usual groove like nothing had happened. Late-night texts, studio visits, sarcastic roasts over coffee. It was easier that way. It was just a drunk mistake. A one-time slip. Nothing worth risking years of genuine friendship over.
Right?
Tonight is a stylish but intimate gathering to celebrate the end of the tour. A converted warehouse venue in East London with warm lighting, live music in one corner, and an open bar. Mostly close friends, partners, and a handful of trusted industry people. The vibe is relaxed — enough alcohol to loosen tongues, but no one is getting properly drunk. Just pleasantly tipsy.
Alex invited you, of course. He always does.
The moment you walk through the door wearing that deep emerald green dress that hugs your curves and makes your skin glow, Alex feels it like a physical blow to the chest. He’s mid-conversation with an old friend but loses his train of thought completely. His eyes trace the way the fabric clings to your waist and hips, the way it moves when you laugh at something someone says. He forces himself to look away, jaw tightening.
She’s your best friend. Get a grip.
You spot him across the room and make your way over, a bright smile on your face. “There you are. Hiding in the corner like old times?”
“Someone has to maintain the mysterious rockstar aesthetic,” he replies, pulling you into a quick, familiar hug. You smell like vanilla and something faintly sweet. He lets go a second too slowly. “You look… good.”
“Good?” You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “That’s the best you can do?”
He smirks, trying to play it cool. “Stunning. Devastating. A public safety hazard. Better?”
“Much better,” you laugh, nudging his shoulder.
For the first hour, everything feels normal. You talk easily — about the tour, stupid stories from the road, your latest work drama. He finds excuses to stay near you, laughing at your jokes a little too hard, eyes lingering when you’re not looking. But the crowd eventually pulls you apart naturally. He gets dragged into conversation with some producers, and you wander toward the bar.
That’s when it starts.
Alex is only half-listening to the man in front of him when he notices you at the open bar. You’re talking to a guy he doesn’t recognise; tall, sharp suit, easy smile. The kind of confident, polished type who knows exactly how charming he is. You’re laughing at something he said. Not just polite laughter — that bright, genuine laugh that makes your eyes crinkle. And then you do it. You twirl a strand of hair around your finger. Slowly. Deliberately.
Alex knows that move. You told him once, tipsy and giggling, that it was one of your go-to flirting techniques.
Something hot and ugly coils tight in his chest.
He tries to focus on the conversation, nodding along, but his eyes keep flicking back. The guy leans in closer, saying something near your ear. You tilt your head, smiling up at him. Another laugh. Another hair twirl. The man’s hand brushes your arm.
Alex’s grip tightens around his glass until his knuckles turn white. An ugly, possessive feeling gnaws at him. He has no right to feel this way. You’re single. You’re allowed to flirt. You’re friends. But the thought of that guy making you laugh, touching you, possibly taking you home…
It burns.
“Alex?” The producer in front of him says his name for the second time.
“Sorry,” Alex mutters, forcing a half-smile. “What were you saying?”
He tries. He really does. But every thirty seconds his gaze drifts back. The jealousy festers, sharp and unfamiliar. He watches the way the guy looks at you — appreciative, interested — and something primal twists in his stomach. He doesn’t even realise he’s glaring until someone claps him on the shoulder.
“Alright, mate?” one of the band’s old roadies asks.
Alex blinks, tearing his eyes away. “Yeah. Fine.”
But he can’t stop glancing. You’re still at the bar. Still smiling. Still twirling your hair.
A few minutes later, you excuse yourself from the guy and start heading toward the quieter side of the venue. Alex follows before he can stop himself.
He catches up to you near a dimly lit hallway.
“Hey,” he says, voice tighter than he means.
You turn, smiling warmly. “There you are. I was wondering where you disappeared to. Having fun?”
He doesn’t smile back. “Who was that?”
You blink. “Who?”
“The guy at the bar.”
“Oh.” You shrug lightly, though your eyebrows furrow slightly. “Just a friend of a friend. Why?”
Alex steps closer, jaw clenched. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite a bit.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “Are we really doing this? You’re jealous because I was talking to someone?”
“I’m not jealous,” he scoffs, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. “Just… curious. You were twirling your hair. I know what that means.”
You let out a surprised laugh. “You remember that? God, you really do listen to me when I’m drunk.”
“Hard not to,” he mutters. “You talk a lot when you’ve had a few.”
You step closer, eyes sparkling with challenge. “So what if I was flirting? I’m single. I’m allowed to talk to people.”
Alex’s jaw tightens. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Then why do you look like you want to punch him?”
“I don’t,” he lies.
You raise an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Right. So the death glare was just your resting face tonight?”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You were laughing. Doing that thing with your hair. He was standing way too close—”
“Alex.”
“What?”
You’re smiling now, but there’s something softer underneath it. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” He steps even closer, voice dropping. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were enjoying his attention.”
You hold his gaze, the air between you growing thick. “And what if I was?”
That does it.
He grabs your wrist and pulls you down the hallway into the first unoccupied room he finds. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the party noise outside.
Alex doesn’t waste a second. He pushes you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours with weeks of suppressed frustration. The kiss is aggressive, hungry, almost angry. His hands grip your waist hard, pulling your body flush against his as his tongue demands entrance. You moan into his mouth, hands flying up to fist his hair, tugging just the way he likes.
“Fuck,” he growls against your lips between kisses. “You have no idea what you do to me. Seeing you with him—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He kisses you harder instead, one hand sliding up to cup your breast through the dress while the other grips your thigh, hiking it around his hip. You grind against him, gasping when you feel how hard he already is.
“Alex—” you breathe, dizzy with want.
His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting, marking you just enough that you’ll feel it tomorrow. “You let him make you laugh,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough. “Let him stand so close. Twirling your hair like you do when you’re flirting.”
You let out a shaky laugh that turns into a moan as he grinds his hips into you. “Jealous, Turner?”
“Shut up,” he growls, but there’s no real heat in it. He captures your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue stroking yours in filthy, deliberate movements. His hand squeezes your breast, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple through the fabric until you arch into him with a whimper.
He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to consume you — slow, deep kisses followed by sudden hungry ones, biting your bottom lip, sucking on your tongue. His thigh presses firmly between your legs, giving you something to grind against. You roll your hips shamelessly, chasing friction, and he groans into your mouth at the feeling.
“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours for a moment. “Been thinking about this since that night. About you.”
Before you can respond, he drops to his knees in one fluid motion, hands pushing your dress up your thighs with urgent reverence. He looks up at you, eyes dark and intense, almost challenging.
“Let me show you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me show you exactly how good I can make you feel. Better than anyone else ever could.”
You barely manage a nod before he hooks your panties to the side and buries his face between your legs.
The first broad swipe of his tongue pulls a sharp, broken moan from your throat. He doesn’t tease tonight. He devours. His mouth is hot and relentless — licking long, hungry stripes through your soaked folds, sucking your clit into his mouth with perfect, pulsing pressure. His tongue fucks into you like he’s trying to claim every inch, tasting you deeply.
One of his hands holds your thigh open while the other grips your hip, keeping you pinned firmly against the wall.
“Fuck— Alex,” you whimper, fingers tightening painfully in his hair.
He groans against your pussy, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine. “Taste so fucking good,” he mutters, barely pulling back enough to speak.
He eats you out with single-minded intensity, alternating between sucking hard on your clit and plunging his tongue deep inside you. When he adds two fingers, curling them just right against that devastating spot inside you, your legs start shaking violently.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your soaked pussy, voice muffled and filthy. “Let me hear you, darling. No one else gets to have this. Not while I’m around. You hear me?”
You moan louder, hips rocking against his face as he works you expertly. He adds a third finger, stretching you open while his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth fill the small room, mixing with your desperate whimpers.
He doesn’t let up. He sucks harder, curls his fingers faster, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. When you start trembling uncontrollably, he looks up at you, eyes locked on yours.
“Come for me,” he demands, voice rough. “Come on my tongue.”
You shatter hard, biting your lip to muffle your cry as pleasure crashes through you. Your thighs clamp around his head, hips jerking against his mouth. He doesn’t stop. He works you through every wave, licking and sucking gently until you’re oversensitive and gasping his name like a prayer, legs barely holding you up.
Only then does he pull back, lips and chin shiny with your arousal. He looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes, breathing hard.
He stands slowly, pressing his body against yours again, and kisses you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is slower now, but still possessive. His hands roam over your body — gentler, but still claiming.
For a long moment, you both just breathe against each other, foreheads pressed together.
Then reality starts creeping back in.
“Fuck,” you whisper, voice shaky. “We said never again.”
Alex lets out a rough, breathless laugh, still trying to steady himself. “Yeah… we did.”
You both stay pressed together for several more seconds, hearts racing, bodies still buzzing. Slowly, reluctantly, you pull apart. You fix your dress with trembling hands while he runs a hand through his thoroughly messed-up hair.
“We can’t keep doing this,” you say quietly, though there’s no real conviction behind it.
“I know,” he replies, but his eyes are still dark, still hungry.
The silence that follows is heavy. Loaded with everything neither of you is ready to say.
“We should probably get back out there,” you murmur eventually.
“Yeah,” Alex agrees. He reaches out and gently fixes a strand of your hair, the gesture strangely tender after what just happened. “You go first. I’ll follow in a minute.”
You nod, giving him one last lingering look before slipping out of the room.
Alex stays behind for a few minutes, leaning against the wall, trying to collect himself. His heart is still pounding. The taste of you is still on his tongue.
This “never again” thing? It’s starting to feel like a joke.
And the worst part is… he’s not sure he wants to stop.
______________________________
It has been three weeks since the party, and the silence between you has become unbearable.
At first, Alex told himself it was nothing. You were busy. Work was crazy. Life got in the way. But when his usual invitation to the studio was met with Sorry, slammed with deadlines, and the next suggestion for coffee got a vague Maybe next week?, the excuses started to feel like walls.
He tried calling. You let it ring out. He showed up at your favourite café at your usual time. You weren’t there. Every unanswered text felt like another brick in the fortress you were building, and Alex was slowly losing his mind trying to tear it down.
Tonight, he can’t take it anymore.
It’s almost 11pm when he shows up at your front door. He doesn’t text first. He doesn’t give you a warning. He just knocks — sharp, insistent.
You open the door in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy. Your eyes widen in genuine surprise when you see him.
“Alex… what are you doing here?”
“Not a good time?” His voice is already edged with frustration. “That’s what you’ve been saying for three fucking weeks.”
You shift uncomfortably, one hand still gripping the door like you might close it. “It’s late. I’m tired, I have work tomorrow—”
“Bullshit.” He steps forward. You instinctively back up, and he walks straight into your flat, slamming the door behind him hard enough that the sound echoes. “You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t stand there and lie to my face.”
You cross your arms tightly, defensive. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just been busy, okay?”
“Busy,” he repeats with a bitter laugh. “Too busy to answer a single text properly? Too busy to meet for one coffee? I’ve known you for years. I know when you’re full of shit.”
You look away, jaw clenched. The silence stretches, thick and painful.
Alex paces a few steps, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell happened? One minute we’re fine, the next you’re treating me like I’m contagious. Is this because of what happened at the party? Because if it is, then fucking say it. Don’t disappear on me.”
You finally look at him, eyes glistening with frustration and fear. “Yes, okay? It’s because of the party. Because we keep slipping up and every time it happens, it gets harder to pretend we’re just friends. I don’t want to lose you, Alex. You’re the most important person in my life. If we keep doing this and it blows up, I lose everything.”
His eyes flash with anger. “So your solution is to cut me out? To make me feel like I did something wrong? I’ve been going out of my mind, wondering if I pushed too far, if I ruined the best thing I have. And you just… ghost me? That’s how you protect our friendship?”
“I wasn’t ghosting you!” you snap, voice rising. “I was trying to create some distance so we don’t ruin what we have. Every time we cross that line, it feels like we’re playing with fire.”
“Distance?” He laughs harshly, stepping closer. “Distance doesn’t fix anything. It just makes me miss you more. Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit in the studio knowing you’re avoiding me? To check my phone every five minutes hoping you’ll finally answer?”
You blink back tears, voice cracking. “And do you have any idea how terrifying this is for me? I’ve watched so many friendships turn into relationships and then explode. I don’t want that to be us. You’re my safe place. What if being together ruins that?”
Alex’s expression softens for a split second, but the hurt is still there. “You think I’m not scared? My life is chaos. Tours for months, studio until 4am, never knowing where I’ll be next year. I don’t know how to be a good boyfriend when I’m gone half the time. But I’d rather try and figure it out than spend another year pretending I don’t feel this.”
You stare at him, breathing hard. “Feel what, exactly?”
He steps right up to you, eyes blazing with raw vulnerability. “I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time. Not just the sex, not just the friendship. You. The way you call me out on my pretentious lyrics. The way you make me laugh when everything feels heavy. I’m fucking in love with you and it’s terrifying because I know I might not be enough for you.”
Your breath catches. Tears spill over.
“I’m in love with you too, you absolute idiot,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve been in love with you for so long it hurts. That’s why I’ve been pulling away. I’m scared that if we do this and it doesn’t work, I lose my best friend. I lose the person who knows me better than anyone.”
Alex’s eyes soften, but the intensity remains. He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away your tears.
“Then we fight for it,” he says fiercely. “I don’t want safe and perfect if it means I can’t have you. I’d rather try and fail than keep lying to myself. I love you. Messy tours and late nights and all. I want you to be mine. Properly.”
You let out a shaky sob-laugh, gripping his wrists tightly. “I love you too. So much. I don’t want anyone else. Just you. Even when you’re gone for months. Even when it’s hard.”
He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in. The anger, the fear, the weeks of silence all melt away into something overwhelming and real.
“So… we’re doing this?” he asks softly, voice rough with emotion. “No more running. No more ‘never again.’ We try. For real this time.”
You nod, eyes locked on his. “We try.”
The relief that washes over both of you is almost dizzying. He pulls you into a crushing embrace, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go. You bury your face in his chest, holding him just as tightly.
For the first time in weeks, the heavy tension that had been strangling you both finally breaks.
But underneath the relief, something else burns hotter than ever — the knowledge that everything is about to change.
The second the words “We try” leave your lips, the dam breaks completely.
Alex kisses you like a man who has been starving for years. His hands cradle your face as his tongue strokes deeply into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, pouring every unsaid feeling into the kiss. You moan against him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer as your tongues slide together in a messy, desperate dance.
“I love you,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked and raw. “Fuck, I love you so much it hurts.”
“I love you too,” you whisper back, hands sliding under his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. “So much, Alex. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
He walks you backwards toward your bedroom without breaking the kiss, hands roaming everywhere — squeezing your waist, sliding up your back under your hoodie, gripping your arse possessively. When the back of your knees hit the bed, he lowers you down gently but urgently, crawling over you like he can’t bear even an inch of space between you.
His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting, leaving dark marks he wants you to feel for days. “Mine,” he growls against your skin, voice low and possessive. “You’re mine now. No more running. No more pretending.”
“Yours,” you gasp, arching into him. “Only yours, always.”
He sits back just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside, then does the same with yours. The sight of you in just your bra makes him groan deeply. He worships every inch of newly exposed skin — kissing down your collarbones, sucking marks into the tops of your breasts, tongue tracing the edge of your bra before he unhooks it and throws it across the room.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs reverently, cupping your breasts in both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden under his touch. “So fucking beautiful. Been dreaming about touching you like this for what feels like forever.”
He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other, rolling the peak between his fingers. You moan loudly, back arching off the bed, fingers threading through his hair. He spends long, indulgent minutes worshipping your chest — licking, sucking, biting gently, switching between breasts until you’re writhing and gasping beneath him, hips rolling up against him desperately.
“Alex… please… I need more.”
He kisses lower, trailing his mouth down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. He peels your leggings and panties down your legs slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin he reveals; your thighs, the sensitive skin behind your knees, your ankles. When you’re completely bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels and just looks at you, eyes dark with hunger and awe.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “Every fucking inch of you is perfect.”
He spreads your thighs wide and settles between them. The first slow, broad lick through your soaked folds pulls a sharp, broken moan from deep in your throat. He doesn’t tease. He devours you. His mouth is hot and relentless — licking long stripes through your wetness, sucking your clit into his mouth with perfect pulsing pressure, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to claim every part of you.
One hand holds your thigh open while the other grips your hip, keeping you pinned to the bed.
“Fuck— Alex,” you whimper, fingers tightening painfully in his hair.
He groans against your pussy, the vibration shooting sparks up your spine. “You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, barely pulling back. “Been thinking about this for weeks. Missed this sweet pussy so much.”
He eats you out with single-minded intensity, alternating between sucking hard on your clit and plunging his tongue as deep as he can. When he adds two thick fingers, curling them perfectly against that devastating spot inside you, your legs start shaking violently.
“That’s it,” he growls against you, voice muffled and filthy. “Let me hear you, baby. No one else gets to have this. This pussy is mine.”
You come hard with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He doesn’t stop. He works you through every shudder, licking and sucking gently until you’re oversensitive and gasping his name.
Only then does he pull back, lips and chin shiny with your arousal. He looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes.
He stands just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes, then crawls back over you. You push him onto his back, taking control for a moment.
“My turn,” you whisper.
You take your time undressing what little remains, kissing every new inch of skin — his chest, his abs, the sharp V of his hips. When his cock springs free, hard and leaking, you wrap your hand around him and stroke slowly. He groans, head falling back against the pillows.
You take him into your mouth, sucking gently at first, then deeper, tongue swirling around the head before taking him as far as you can. Alex’s hand fists in your hair, not forcing, just holding on.
“Fuck, baby… your mouth feels incredible,” he pants. “So warm. So perfect. Look at you… taking me so well.”
You worship him with long, slow bobs of your head, taking him deeper each time, hollowing your cheeks, using your hand on what you can’t fit. His hips twitch, curses spilling from his lips as you swirl your tongue around the head. He pulls you off before he finishes.
“Not yet,” he rasps. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
He flips you onto your back and settles between your thighs. The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He looks into your eyes, raw and vulnerable.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too.”
He pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open. When he bottoms out, buried to the hilt, you both moan loudly. He stays there for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, just feeling you clench around him.
Then he starts moving.
The first round is desperate and possessive. His thrusts are deep and hard, hips snapping against yours with raw need. One hand grips your thigh, holding it high around his waist, the other braces beside your head.
“Mine,” he growls, biting your neck. “Say it.”
“Yours,” you moan, nails raking down his back. “All yours, Alex. Only yours.”
He fucks you harder, pace relentless, whispering filthy praise between deep kisses. “No one else gets to have you like this. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. This pussy was made for me.”
You come again with a loud cry, clenching tightly around him. He follows right after, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a guttural groan of your name.
For a minute, you just hold each other, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.
But you’re nowhere near done.
The second round is slower. Softer. More intimate.
He flips you so you’re on top, hands sliding up your body in worship. You sink down onto him slowly, taking every inch until he’s fully seated inside you. You both moan at the feeling.
You ride him with deep, rolling movements, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke. His hands explore every curve — squeezing your breasts, rolling your nipples, gripping your waist, sliding down to where you’re joined to feel himself moving inside you.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
You do. Eyes locked, foreheads pressed together, you move together in perfect rhythm. The pleasure builds slowly this time, deep and overwhelming.
“I love you,” he says again, voice breaking with emotion as he thrusts up to meet you. “So fucking much. Never letting you go.”
“I love you too,” you moan, grinding down harder. “Always have. Always will.”
You come together this time — slow, intense, breathtaking. You collapse onto his chest, and he wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing your temple, your cheeks, your lips.
For a long time, you stay like that — tangled together, hearts slowing, the weight of everything finally settling into something beautiful and real.
I have so many old drafts from yearsss ago and idk if I should publish them. The quality is so different from my recent works T-T and idk if I have it in me to rework them rip.
This might seem like a sad and dramatic idea, but I was imagining a story where Alex (EYCTE era) is dating this girl who is a drug addict. He loves her and knows she loves him back, but the relationship along with the addiction is destroying them both. He decides to break up with her, which might be seen as selfishness, but in reality he's just trying to save her from himself and from herself, if that makes sense. Explicit/smut content is welcome.
You write perfectly well. Keep shining with your excellent writing. 🖤🤍
"I thought I could help you."
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: While he thought he knew the extent of your drug issue, it really didn't hit until it caused too much pain.
A/n: Amazing request- thank you for this <3 It is a challenging concept considering I have no real knowledge on this subject. Addiction is a strange thing. It is a very sticky situation, knowing you both love each other but can't help. One of the worst feelings in a relationship for real. Thank you also for the praise T-T you know exactly how to talk to me hehe.
Warning: Mentions of substance abuse, some smut, sexual content
Word count: 2.7k
______________________________
He met you at the back of the club, in that dimly lit corridor where the bass was only a distant thump and the air tasted like smoke and secrets. Most people never ventured this far — they stayed in the pulsing heart of the dancefloor, blissfully unaware of what went on in the shadows.
Alex was never one for parties, but lately he had been forcing himself out of his comfort zone. Miles had a way of dragging him into the night, and for once, he wasn’t entirely hating it. The music, the drinks, the anonymity in the chaos — it felt almost liberating.
He had only been looking for the restroom. Instead, he found you.
You were leaning against the wall, mid-snort of whatever white powder was lined up on the back of your hand. The faint glow of a neon sign painted your face in hues of violet and crimson. When your eyes lifted and locked with his, something in Alex’s chest tightened.
He should have looked away. He should have kept walking.
But he couldn’t.
Your gaze held him there — glassy, sharp, and strangely magnetic. For a second, the world narrowed to just the two of you in that dim, hazy hallway.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you offered a lazy, almost amused smile and extended your hand toward him.
“You want some?” Your voice was low, a little rough around the edges, like smoke and honey.
Alex swallowed. “No thanks,” he managed, trying to sound casual. “Only do ghost cookies.”
A soft, surprised laugh escaped you. You finished the line with practiced ease, then let out a long breath of relief, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When they opened again, you looked… gorgeous. Dangerously so. The kind of beautiful that made smart men do stupid things.
He should have been deterred. He should have turned around and walked away.
Instead, he found himself saying, “I’m Alex.”
You leaned back against the wall, studying him with a knowing little smirk. “Who doesn’t know your name in here, Alex?” You gestured lazily to the empty space beside you. “Sit. If you want.”
He did. Gladly.
“So you know me?” he asked, unable to stop the small grin tugging at his lips as he settled next to you.
You shook your head, still smiling. “I know your music. I’d be living under a rock if I didn’t.”
He hummed, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning back to take you in properly. There was something about your eyes — the way they caught the light, the way they seemed to see straight through him — that he couldn’t look away from.
“Well, what about you?” he asked. “I haven’t heard of you.”
“There’s not much to hear,” you replied, reaching for a cigarette on the low table. You lit it with a practiced flick, took a slow drag, and then surprised him by offering it over.
He accepted without hesitation. The smoke tasted different — sweet, chemical, laced with something that made his head feel pleasantly fuzzy. For once, he didn’t mind.
You watched him with a curious tilt of your head, cheek resting against your palm. “Well? Go on then. Ask me whatever you want to hear.”
And so the night unfolded.
You talked for hours — or maybe minutes, time had already started to blur. You got high together in that dim back room, trading stories and cigarettes and lingering glances. Your laugh was addictive. Your eyes were even more so. By the end of the night, you ended up at his place.
The door had barely clicked shut behind you before clothes were being tugged off with impatient hands.
Alex pushed you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on yours. There was no slow build, no gentle exploration, just raw need. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom.
You fell onto the sheets together in a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks as he moved inside you, deep and urgent. You moaned his name like a prayer, nails dragging down his back.
It was messy. Intense. Almost frantic.
When it was over, you both lay tangled in the sheets, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. Alex pulled you close, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead, but neither of you spoke.
The silence felt heavier than it should.
The beginning of the end.
______________________________
Alex is worried sick.
He has been sitting on the sofa for hours, the same spot he collapsed into after cancelling the restaurant reservation. The deep frown etched between his brows hasn’t left. His hand keeps rubbing at his forehead, trying to ease the pounding headache of anxiety that has been building since you failed to show up five hours ago.
His phone lies dark on the coffee table. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
It is 2 a.m. when he finally hears the faint jingle of keys outside the door. His entire body tenses. The lock turns slowly, clumsily, and the door creaks open.
You slip inside like a ghost, trying to be quiet, a grimace twisting your face as you concentrate on not making noise. The second the lights flick on, you freeze.
Alex is already standing, eyes burning.
“Where the hell have you been?!”
You look like a deer caught in headlights. Your pupils are blown wide, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He has seen you high before, but tonight it feels worse — heavier, more dangerous. Your makeup is smudged, your hair a mess, and your clothes carry the stale scent of smoke, sweat, and something chemical.
“Sorry…” you mumble, the word slurring slightly. “I had this thing, you know…”
Alex sucks in a sharp breath. Even in your fucked-up state, you don’t bother trying to lie. You know you’ve been caught.
“What happened to thirty days clean?” His voice cracks with disappointment as he steps closer. “You promised me. You said you were done with this shit.”
You sway a little, blinking slowly. “Saying and doing… are two different things.”
The casual way you say it breaks something inside him. He can see there is no point trying to have a real conversation right now. You are too far gone, floating somewhere he can’t reach.
With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Alex’s shoulders slump. “Let’s just… go to bed, alright? We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
He reaches for your arm to guide you toward the bedroom, but you let out a soft, lazy giggle and press your palm against the front of his pyjama pants, cupping him boldly.
“Come on,” you purr, voice thick and uncoordinated. “We’re both up. Might as well take advantage of it…”
The forwardness hits him like ice water. For the first time ever, disgust curls in his stomach at your touch. He grabs your wrist and yanks your hand away.
“No.”
You smile lazily, undeterred, and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. “I know you want it. You always do.”
Something ugly and heavy rises in his chest — anger, repulsion, heartbreak all tangled together. He shoves you off him with more force than he means to. You stumble backwards and fall hard onto your ass on the floor.
You look up at him in dazed confusion, like you don’t even understand how you got there. “What…?”
“That’s enough!” Alex yells, chest heaving, pulse thundering in his ears. “No means no. I don’t want to do anything with you when you’re… when you’re like this!”
You blink up at him slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. You’re so far gone it almost hurts to look at you.
He doesn’t offer his hand to help you up. The guilt that usually follows moments like this doesn’t come. He physically cannot bring himself to look at you any longer.
Without another word, he turns away.
“I’m going to sleep.”
Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. His heart sinks lower and lower with every footfall. Behind him, you remain on the floor, slowly lying back until you’re staring blankly at the ceiling, expressionless.
The silence that follows is deafening.
______________________________
Morning light filters weakly through the half-drawn curtains, pale and unforgiving. It spills across the living room like a quiet accusation.
You wake up on the couch, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your head feels like it’s been split open and stuffed with cotton. “Oh my God…” you groan under your breath, voice cracked and hoarse. You’re a complete disaster — mascara crusted in thick black rings under your eyes, hair a wild rat’s nest.
You manage to crack one eye open, wincing at the light. The room spins lazily for a second before settling.
Alex is sitting directly opposite you in the armchair, angled so he can watch you. His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle jumps. A mug of coffee rests in his hands, but it has long gone cold — forgotten. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted, and filled with something between anger and heartbreak.
“What time is it?” you mumble, slowly pushing your upper body up. The movement sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.
“Ten thirty,” Alex replies. His voice is flat. Hollow. Like he’s been rehearsing this moment for hours.
You nod weakly, which only makes the dizziness worse. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. You reach for it with mechanical, practiced movements — the same ones you’ve done dozens of times before. You drink slowly, buying yourself time, trying to piece together the fragments of last night.
“We need to talk,” Alex says, clearing his throat.
You lower the glass, stomach twisting. “Yeah…”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes downturned. His voice is quiet at first, almost pleading.
“Please… help me understand,” he says. “You were doing so well. Thirty days. You were proud of it. I was proud of you. What happened?”
You frown, already defensive, walls slamming up. “You can’t understand, Alex. It’s not something normal people just… get. You just can’t.”
“Try,” he pushes, desperation bleeding into his tone. “If it was an impulse, maybe it’s time to consider a facility.”
Your eyes snap open. The word lands like a slap across the face.
“You can’t be serious,” you hiss, voice rising. “You want to lock me up in a fucking loony bin?”
“It’s not a loony bin,” he snaps back, frustration cracking through. “It’s rehabilitation. Professional help. Structured support. Something I clearly can’t give you.”
“Same fucking thing!” you spit, teeth gritted so hard your jaw aches. “You think throwing me in some sterile room with therapists and group sessions is going to magically fix me? Like I’m broken?”
The tension in the room becomes suffocating. Thick. Electric. You both know the next words will set everything on fire, so silence stretches between you — heavy, unbearable.
Alex is the one who breaks it.
His voice is low and careful, but trembling with barely-contained pain.
“If you don’t get the help you need…” He swallows hard, eyes glassy. “We will have to break up.”
Your eyes widen, jaw dropping in genuine shock. “Are you giving me a fucking ultimatum?”
“It can’t keep going on like this,” he huffs, dragging a hand down his face. His voice cracks. “It’s destroying you. It’s destroying me. It’s destroying us. I stay up whole nights wondering where you are, if you’re safe, if this is the night I get a phone call saying you’re gone. I can’t live like that anymore.”
“You knew what you were getting into when you started dating me, Alex,” you snarl, venom dripping from every syllable. You have never spoken to him like this before — so full of anger and hurt. “I never hid it from you. Not once. You said you could handle it.”
“I know that!” he yells suddenly, voice breaking. You flinch. He sees it and looks wrecked. “But we’ve been together for two years. I had no idea how bad it really was. I thought I could help you. I thought love would be enough. But it’s not. Not when you keep choosing this over us.”
Your hand tightens around the glass until your knuckles turn white. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to disappear.
“I love you too,” you admit, voice cracking. “But whatever you think might help… it won’t. No one can fix me. No one can rewire my brain. No one can change me.”
Alex stares at you, completely heartbroken, tears shining in his eyes.
“If you’re not even willing to try…” His voice is barely above a whisper now, shattered. “Then this is it, I guess.”
The silence that follows is devastating.
You can’t breathe. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too final.
Tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them.
“Then I guess this is it,” you whisper, voice breaking.
The silence after your words is deafening.
Alex stares at you like you just stabbed him. His eyes are wide, glassy, filled with a pain so deep it makes your chest ache. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the distant hum of traffic outside and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Then he lets out a shaky breath and stands up slowly, like every movement hurts.
“…Okay,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “If that’s what you want.”
You sit there frozen on the couch, heart hammering. You didn’t expect him to accept it so quickly. Part of you wanted him to fight harder. Another part — the exhausted, addicted part — was relieved.
Alex walks toward the bedroom without looking at you. You hear him moving around, the rustle of clothes, the sound of a bag being zipped. When he comes back, he’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes are red.
“I’m going to stay at Miles’ for a while,” he says quietly. “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. Watching you destroy yourself and pretending it’s okay. I love you too much to keep watching you kill yourself slowly.”
Tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them. “So that’s it? You’re just leaving?”
He stops in front of you, jaw tight, fighting back his own tears.
“I’m not leaving because I stopped loving you,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m leaving because I love you too fucking much to keep enabling this. Every time I stay, every time I forgive you, I become part of the problem. I can’t save you if you don’t want to be saved.”
You look up at him, lips trembling. “I do love you.”
“I know,” he whispers, voice breaking. “That’s what makes this so hard.”
He crouches down in front of you, taking your hands in his. His thumbs stroke your knuckles gently — one last tender gesture.
“If you ever decide to get real help… if you ever want to fight this… I’ll be there. I’ll come running. But I can’t keep being the person who watches you drown and does nothing. I can’t.”
You sob quietly, gripping his hands like they’re a lifeline.
Alex leans forward and presses a long, trembling kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there, like he’s trying to memorize you.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “I’ll always love you. Even if this is the end.”
Then he stands up, shoulders heavy, and walks to the door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, back turned to you.
“Please… get help,” he says, voice barely holding together. “For you. Not for me. Not for us. Just… for you.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
You stay on the couch for what feels like hours, staring at the empty space where he used to be. The flat feels colder. Bigger. Lonelier.
And for the first time in a long time, beneath the haze of the drugs still lingering in your system, you feel something sharp and painful:
The terrifying realization that you might have just lost the best thing that ever happened to you.
Husband Alex, please! 🥺 TBHC. Thank you in advance. I love your blog! 💛
“You sound like my wife.”
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: TBHC has been taking a toll on Alex, and it is making him feel like an inadequate husband.
A/n: Ahhhh thank you so much! I enjoyed wiring this one hehe. I just wanted to say that because you didn't request anything spicy, I didn't want to include anything in case you don't like that. So if you would like that from now on go right ahead! Anyway I really hope you enjoy this! Spaced Alex is cute.
Word count: 2.6k
______________________________
The Los Angeles house is quiet in that particular way only deep night can manage — the kind of silence that feels almost sacred, broken only by the low, velvety croon of an old vinyl record spinning on the turntable in the living room. Frank Sinatra’s voice drifts through the air like smoke, smooth and melancholic, singing about love and loneliness in equal measure. The lights are dimmed low, casting long golden shadows across the wooden floors and the scattered notebooks that have become permanent fixtures in every room.
It is a little past 3 a.m.
Alex sits at the kitchen island in his favourite navy silk robe, the fabric slipping off one shoulder as he leans over a mess of crumpled papers and half-empty coffee cups. His hair is a little messy, no longer perfectly styled like it is for photoshoots — a few dark strands falling across his forehead. A cigarette burns slowly between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling as he scribbles lyrics in that intense, almost feverish way he gets when the TBHC concept has him in its grip.
He is lost in it again.
You stand in the doorway for a long moment, just watching him. The soft glow of the single lamp illuminates the sharp line of his jaw, the concentrated furrow between his brows, the way his lips move silently as he tries out different phrases. There is something undeniably beautiful about him like this — completely absorbed in his art, creating an entire world inside his head. But there is also a heaviness in your chest. You love this version of him, the brilliant, slightly untethered artist… but sometimes you miss the Alex who would look up and smile the second you walked into the room.
You have been his grounding force for years now. His wife. His safe place. And tonight, as you watch him chase another elusive line, you wonder how much longer you can watch him drift before you gently pull him back.
Alex finally exhales a long stream of smoke and mutters something under his breath, crossing out half a page with a frustrated scratch of his pen.
You step into the kitchen, the cool tiles cold against your bare feet.
“Still chasing ghosts at 3 a.m.?” you ask softly, voice warm but carrying that familiar note of gentle teasing.
He looks up, blinking as if coming out of a trance. For a second his eyes are distant, still halfway inside the concept album swirling in his mind. Then they focus on you, and something in his expression softens.
“Darling,” he murmurs, the word slow and fond, like he is tasting it. “What are you doing up?”
“Could ask you the same thing,” you reply, padding over to him. You stop beside the island, reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “You have been in here for hours. The bed is cold without you.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, leaning into your touch for a moment before straightening again. “I know. I just… I can’t quite get this part right. The whole thing needs to feel like stepping into another world. Tranquility Base. This luxurious, detached, slightly broken place…” He gestures vaguely at the papers. “But it keeps slipping away from me.”
You glance down at the scattered lyrics, some crossed out so violently the paper is nearly torn. You can see the weight of it on him — the pressure of following up on something as bold as Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, the character he is building, the aesthetic he is sinking deeper into every day.
You slide onto the stool beside him, your hand resting on his silk-covered thigh. “You will get there. You always do. But maybe not at 3 a.m. after six cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes?”
He gives you a tired but genuine smile, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. “You sound like my wife.”
“I am your wife,” you remind him, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple. “And as your wife, I am officially declaring a temporary ceasefire on genius songwriting. At least until morning.”
Alex chuckles lowly, turning his head to catch your lips in a brief, grateful kiss. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?”
“Only when my husband looks like he is about to dissolve into cigarette smoke and jazz records.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you are half in his lap. For a moment the TBHC haze seems to lift just a little, his eyes clearing as he looks at you properly.
“You are too good to me,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “I do not deserve you staying up with me like this.”
“You deserve everything,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Even if you are a dramatic artist who forgets what time it is when the muse hits.”
He smiles softly, pressing another kiss to your lips — slower this time, lingering. When he pulls back, there is a hint of that familiar playful glint in his eyes again.
“Stay with me a little longer?” he asks, voice low. “Just until this verse stops haunting me.”
You sigh fondly, but you are already nodding, settling more comfortably against him. “Only if you promise to come to bed after.”
“Deal.”
The vinyl keeps spinning softly in the background as you sit together in the quiet glow of the kitchen, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. The night stretches on, but for now, at least, he is not drifting quite so far away.
______________________________
You have been planning this for days.
Nothing too fancy — you know Alex well enough to understand that grand gestures sometimes make him retreat into his own head. So you keep it intimate. His favourite foods: a simple but perfect pasta dish with fresh herbs from the little garden you have been tending on the balcony, crusty bread, and that expensive red wine he likes. A few candles flicker softly on the dining table, and a small chocolate cake (his weakness) sits waiting in the fridge with a single “Happy Anniversary” written in delicate icing.
The house smells warm and inviting when he finally emerges from his late-night writing session locked in his office. You have dimmed the lights and put on one of his favourite old records — Dean Martin this time, crooning softly in the background.
Alex walks into the kitchen still in his silk robe, hair messy, a pen tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He stops in the doorway, blinking at the scene in front of him.
“What’s all this?” he asks, voice soft with surprise.
You turn from the stove, smiling. “Happy anniversary, love.”
His eyes widen. For a moment he just stands there, processing. Then guilt flickers across his face.
“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “It’s today? I completely lost track of time. I’ve been so wrapped up in this album, I—”
You step forward and cut him off with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. I know how you get when you’re deep in it. That’s why I wanted to surprise you.”
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “You shouldn’t have to surprise me on our anniversary. I should have remembered.”
“You remember other important things,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Like how I take my coffee, or that I hate surprises but secretly love them when they’re from you. One date slipping your mind because you’re creating something beautiful doesn’t change how much I love you.”
Alex lets out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve everything,” you reply, kissing him again — slower this time. “Now come sit down before the pasta gets cold. I made your favourite.”
He follows you to the table, still looking a little dazed. When he sees the candles, the carefully plated food, and the small cake waiting in the background, his expression softens even more.
“You did all this while I was muttering to myself like a madman inside?” he asks, pulling out your chair for you before sitting down across from you.
“I had help from Dean Martin,” you tease, nodding toward the record player. “He kept me company.”
Alex chuckles, reaching across the table to take your hand. His thumb strokes gently over your knuckles. “I really am the luckiest bastard alive. Here I am, lost in my own head again, and you still do something like this for me.”
You squeeze his hand. “I love you, even when you’re lost in album world. Especially then. Someone has to remind you to eat and sleep and celebrate the good things.”
He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I don’t know what I would do without you. You keep me grounded when the concept takes over. You make all of this feel real.”
The two of you eat slowly, talking about everything and nothing — the ridiculous lyrics he wrote, the way the neighbour’s cat keeps sneaking into the garden, how excited he is (and nervous) about the direction of the new album. The candles flicker between you, casting a warm glow over his face. Every now and then he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.
When you bring out the small cake, he laughs softly.
“You even got the chocolate one,” he says, eyes crinkling with affection. “I really don’t deserve you.”
“You do,” you insist, cutting him a generous slice.
“Thank you,” he whispers against your hair. “For everything. For putting up with my midnight writing sessions. For reminding me what matters. For being my wife.”
“Always.”
The night feels soft and golden around you — just the two of you, the music, and the quiet certainty that no matter how deep Alex dives into his art, he always finds his way back to you.
The candles have burned lower, casting a soft golden glow across the kitchen. Dean Martin’s voice still drifts lazily from the record player, singing about love like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You and Alex have finished dinner and the small cake, but neither of you wants to move from this quiet bubble you’ve created.
Alex is holding your hand across the table, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. He has been unusually quiet for the last few minutes, eyes distant in that way they get when he is thinking deeply.
Finally, he speaks.
“I’ve been a bit of a shit husband lately, haven’t I?” His voice is soft, almost hesitant. “Lost in my own head again. The album… it takes over everything. The concept, the character, the whole world I’m trying to build. I forget what time it is. I forget to eat. I forget…” He swallows. “I forget to come back to you.”
You squeeze his hand gently. “Alex…”
“No, let me say this.” He looks up at you, eyes more open than they have been in weeks. “You have been so patient with me. You always are. You let me disappear into these late nights and endless rewrites, and you never complain. You just… wait for me to come back. And I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
There is a slight tremble in his voice now. He looks down at your joined hands, then back up at you.
“You’re my grounding force,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “When everything feels too big, too loud, too much… you bring me back. You make me remember who I am outside of all the music and the persona. I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without you. I wouldn’t want to.”
A single tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, he lets you see it — the raw, vulnerable side of him that very few people ever get to witness.
You feel your own eyes sting. You stand up and move around the table, sliding into his lap. He wraps his arms around you immediately, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin. “Not just because you’re my wife. Because you see me. The real me.”
You hold him tighter, one hand stroking through his hair. “I love you too. All of you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy. Then he leans in and kisses you — slow, deep, and full of everything he cannot put into words. You melt into it, tasting the salt of his tear and the sweetness of the chocolate cake on his lips.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Dance with me?” he asks softly.
You smile. “Always.”
He stands, keeping you in his arms, and walks you both to the middle of the kitchen. Dean Martin is singing about memories and love. Alex wraps his arms around your waist, and you loop yours around his neck. You sway together slowly, barefoot on the wooden floor, bodies pressed close.
He holds you a little tighter, chin resting on top of your head as you continue to sway. The music wraps around you both like a warm blanket. For the first time in weeks, Alex feels completely present — not lost in the album, not chasing concepts or characters. Just here. With you.
“I’m going to do better,” he murmurs after a while. “I promise. Less 3 a.m. sessions. More nights like this. More time where it’s just us. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re second to the music.””
You tilt your head up to kiss him again. “We’ll figure it out together. Like we always do.”
He nods, eyes shining with emotion. “Together.”
You kiss him again, softer this time, pouring all your love into it. He kisses you back with the same tenderness, hands cradling your face like you are the most delicate thing in the world.
After a while, he pulls back just enough to take your hand. “Come on,” he says, voice warm. “Let’s go to bed. I think I’ve had enough genius for one night.”
You laugh softly as he leads you through the house, turning off lights as you go. When you reach the bedroom, he helps you out of your clothes with gentle hands, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders and collarbones as he does. You do the same for him, sliding the robe off his shoulders and kissing the warm skin you reveal.
There is no rush. No heat. Just quiet intimacy.
You both slip under the covers, and Alex immediately pulls you into his arms, wrapping himself around you like a protective cocoon. Your legs tangle together, your head resting on his chest as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your back.
“I love you,” he whispers into the darkness, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “More than anything.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, snuggling closer. “Always.”
He holds you tighter, breathing you in. The house is quiet now, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear.
And as sleep begins to pull you both under, he whispers one last time against your hair:
“Thank you for tonight. For every night. For being my wife.”
You smile sleepily, pressing a kiss to his chest.
The two of you drift off like that — tangled together, hearts full, the world outside forgotten for a little while longer.
