hear me out.. fetus al wins award with the band and celebrates with gf reader.. ‘celebrates’ wink wink wink
they fuck
smut 🥺 🙏
please 🙏
"Even when I sound like a right knob on stage”
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: First award show for the Arctic Monkeys- boy is Alex nervous.
A/n: Little cute and shmexy hehe. Thank you for your request darling x your wish is my command!
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 2k
______________________________
It’s 2006. The Shockwaves NME Awards are only hours away, and you’re watching Alex as he leans close to the mirror, scrutinising his reflection with intense focus.
“You do know your face has to stay intact when you go up on that stage, right?” you muse, pushing yourself off the bed and padding over to him.
He ignores you at first, lips pursing forward then pulling back as he checks his profile. You step behind him, sliding your hands over his shoulders and beginning to massage the tension there. He almost melts under your touch.
“What are you thinking?” you murmur against his ear.
“I just… can’t believe this is happening,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “An award? For Best British Band? It’s mental.”
You smile softly and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, watching the way your lips linger on his skin.
“Who says you’re winning it?” you tease.
He huffs a laugh, the rigid tension in his shoulders easing slightly. You’ve always known exactly how to pull him out of his own head. Your quiet laugh does the rest — his posture relaxes, and a reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.
“Shut up,” he mutters, though there’s no heat behind it. Instead he turns, catching you by the waist and pulling you in for a gentle kiss.
You hum contentedly against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. For a moment the world narrows to just the two of you — the faint taste of his toothpaste, the warmth of his skin, the way his fingers press into your lower back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
Eventually you pull back, albeit reluctantly. “You’ll be fine,” you tell him, smoothing his hair down before ruffling it again just to watch him scowl. “Like always.”
You step away with a playful wiggle of your fingers. “Right, I need to go get ready. Can’t have the hot girlfriend of the lead singer of the best British band looking anything less than perfect, can I?”
You slip out of the room before he can reply, but you feel his eyes on you the entire way. You always have that effect on him.
______________________________
The carpet outside the venue was loud and chaotic, flashing cameras and shouting journalists blending into one overwhelming wall of noise. Alex kept his fingers laced tightly with yours as you moved through it, his palm slightly clammy. At twenty, he still had that lanky, boyish frame — all long limbs and sharp cheekbones that hadn’t quite lost their teenage sharpness. His hair was a perfectly messy mop, and the suit he’d borrowed hung just a touch too loose on his shoulders.
“You alright?” you asked, squeezing his hand as another burst of flashes went off.
“Yeah… no. Maybe. I dunno,” he admitted with a shy laugh, glancing sideways at you. His Sheffield accent thickened when he was nervous. “Feels like I’m gonna trip over my own feet and ruin everything before we even get inside.”
“You won’t,” you reassured him, leaning in so only he could hear. “You look fit. And if you do trip, I’ll fall with you. Solidarity.”
That earned you a proper grin — the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He gave your hand another squeeze before you were ushered into the auditorium.
Inside, the atmosphere was electric. Arctic Monkeys were seated near the front with the rest of the bands, all of them buzzing with the same jittery energy. Alex’s knee bounced constantly under the table. Every few minutes he’d glance at you for reassurance, and you’d rest your hand on his thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles until he calmed a fraction.
When the category for Best British Band was finally announced, the room seemed to hold its breath. Alex’s fingers dug into your leg, his face pale.
“And the winner is…” The presenter paused for dramatic effect. “Arctic Monkeys!”
The table erupted. Alex froze for half a second, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, before Jamie clapped him hard on the back and dragged him up. The lads piled onto the stage in a tangle of limbs and disbelieving laughter. Alex accepted the award with both hands, staring at it like it might vanish if he blinked.
“Erm… wow,” he started, voice cracking slightly over the microphone. A ripple of fond laughter went through the crowd. He still wasn’t used to public speaking. “We, uh… we didn’t expect this. At all. Thank you. Seriously. To everyone who’s listened to us, who’s come to the gigs… it means everything.”
He shifted awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “And, uh… to my girlfriend, who’s probably cringing right now watching me make a fool of myself up here — thank you for believing in me even when I sound like a right knob on stage.” He looked straight out into the audience, finding your face instantly. His smile turned softer, almost bashful. “Love you.”
The room cheered. You felt your cheeks burn but couldn’t stop smiling.
Backstage afterwards was a whirlwind. Champagne corks popped. The lads were shouting, hugging, already planning how they’d celebrate. But Alex kept drifting back to you, slipping an arm around your waist as if grounding himself.
“Can we get out of here soon?” he murmured against your ear, voice low. “Just… wanna be with you.”
You nodded, heart racing at the look in his eyes.
______________________________
The hotel room door had barely clicked shut before Alex was on you.
That raw, wide-eyed hunger mixed with something softer — almost reverent.
Alex exhaled shakily and stepped closer, his hands hovering at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish. “You’re so gorgeous,” he whispered, voice thick. “All night I kept looking over at you thinking… how the fuck did I get this lucky?”
Before you could answer, he leaned in and kissed you — soft at first, almost careful, his lips warm and tasting faintly of champagne. But the desperation quickly bled through. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. He tilted his head, nose bumping yours clumsily for a second before he chuckled breathlessly against your mouth.
“Shit—sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing pink. Even after everything, he still got a bit awkward when his body moved faster than his brain.
You smiled into the kiss and slid your hands up his chest, loosening his tie. “Don’t apologise. I like you like this.”
He made a soft, needy sound and walked you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands roamed your body with eager reverence — sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts through the fabric of your dress, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened. Every touch felt like he was memorising you.
“God, look at you,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to drink you in. His pupils were blown wide. “You’re stunning. This dress… the way it hugs you… I’ve been half-hard since we left the venue just thinking about getting it off you.”
You reached for his shirt buttons, but your fingers tangled with his as he tried to help. He laughed quietly — that low, self-conscious sound — and let you take over, watching with parted lips as you undressed him. Once his shirt was open you pushed it off his shoulders, revealing his torso, a faint trail of hair disappearing into his trousers.
Alex tugged your dress up slowly, almost clumsily bunching the fabric in his fists before realising he needed the zip first. “Turn round for me, love?” he asked softly.
You did, and he pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the back of your neck as he fumbled with the zipper. It took him two tries, his breath hot against your skin. When the dress finally pooled at your feet, he turned you back around and just stared.
“Fuck…” The word came out reverent. “You’re proper gorgeous. Every bit of you.” His hands skimmed down your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist, then lower over your hips. He dropped to his knees without warning, pressing his face against your stomach and inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of you. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”
His fingers hooked into your knickers, sliding them down your legs with the same eager clumsiness. He helped you step out of them, then looked up at you with dark, desperate eyes. “Can I…?”
At your nod he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your mound before his tongue found your folds. He was gentle at first, almost exploratory, licking broad stripes and humming happily at your taste. But the longer he went, the more desperate he became — sucking your clit with soft, wet sounds, one hand gripping your thigh while the other held your hip steady. His free hand kept wandering up your body, palming your breast like he needed to touch every inch of you.
You moaned, fingers threading through his messy hair. He groaned in response, the vibration shooting through you. When your legs started trembling he pulled back, lips shiny and flushed.
“Come here,” he rasped, rising and guiding you onto the bed. He kicked off the rest of his clothes, nearly tripping over his own trousers in his haste, which made both of you laugh breathlessly. Naked, cock flushed and curving up against his stomach, he crawled over you.
“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he whispered, settling between your thighs. He rutted against you slowly, sliding his length along your slick folds without entering yet, teasing you both.
He kissed you deeply, one hand bracing beside your head while the other guided himself to your entrance. He pushed in inch by inch, forehead pressed to yours, mouth falling open in a silent moan. Halfway in he paused, breathing hard.
“Fuck… so warm. So tight,” he panted. “You feel incredible. Always do.”
When he finally bottomed out he stilled, burying his face in your neck and shuddering. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch. “I love you. So much. You’re everything.”
Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that gradually built in desperation. He was passionate but still a little clumsy, occasionally losing rhythm when pleasure overtook him, only to find it again with a soft, embarrassed laugh against your skin. Every thrust was accompanied by quiet praises:
“You’re so gorgeous like this…”
“Love the way you sound…”
“Can’t get enough of you…”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper. Alex moaned loudly, the sound muffled against your collarbone as he sucked a mark into your skin. His pace quickened, hips snapping with growing need. One hand slipped between you, rubbing messy circles over your clit — not perfect technique, but so eager and loving that it didn’t matter.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice cracking.
You clenched around him and he whimpered, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips stuttering through his release. The feeling tipped you over the edge right after him, waves of pleasure crashing through you as you moaned his name.
Alex collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you completely, arms wrapping around your body like he never wanted to let go. His breathing was ragged, heart hammering against your chest. After a long moment he lifted his head, eyes soft and hazy with afterglow.
“You alright, love?” he asked gently, brushing damp hair from your forehead. He pressed a clumsy kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your nose — unable to stop touching and kissing you. “That was… fuck. You’re unreal. So beautiful. I’m the luckiest bloke alive.”
He rolled to the side, pulling you into his chest and tucking you against him. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, soft and soothing now that the desperation had eased into warm contentment.
“Stay right here with me,” he murmured sleepily, lips brushing your temple. “Don’t ever want this night to end.”
Summary: You're not convinced they will make it big. Alex is set to prove you wrong.
A/n: Just a small fetus! Alex fic! I want to write more of these but no inspo is coming to me... annoyinggggg.
Word count: 2.2k
______________________________
You spot Alex before he spots you.
He’s completely absorbed—legs crossed, guitar resting comfortably in his lap, fingers moving with quiet certainty as he strums. There’s a notebook beside him, pages worn and filled with scribbles, messy lines, words scratched out and rewritten like they’ve been fought over.
It’s not the first time you’ve caught him like this.
And you know it won’t be the last.
Still, it feels rare. Seeing him like this; unfiltered. No fidgeting, no awkward half-smiles or forced coolness. Just… him. Comfortable in his own skin for once.
You tease him about it every time, of course. And every time, he turns just shy of scarlet.
“Practising for Friday?”
He startles so badly the guitar nearly slips from his hands.
“Jesus—” he blurts, scrambling, and you’re quick to grab the neck before it hits the ground.
“Careful,” you laugh, steadying it before handing it back. “You really need to work on not being so easily spooked. Guitars are expensive.”
He exhales sharply, one hand pressed to his chest like he’s just survived something life-threatening. Dramatic, as always.
“The way things are going,” he mutters, still catching his breath, “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about prices.”
You roll your eyes, lowering yourself to sit beside him. “If you got a job, you might not have to worry about half of it. If you’re lucky.”
He groans, immediately flopping back onto the grass, one arm tucked behind his head as he stares up at the sky. “You have no faith in us.”
“Not in you specifically,” you say lightly, stretching your legs out. “I’d say the public.”
That earns you a scoff. He turns his head to look at you, brows drawn together in mock offense. “We’re actually good, you know. People have been buying our CDs.”
You grimace, unconvinced. “I tend to buy openers’ music because I feel bad for them. Haven’t listened to any of it, really.”
“Now that’s just stupid,” he says, pushing himself up slightly on his elbows. “Why waste your money?”
You shrug. “What can I say? I’m kind.”
He nudges your arm with a finger. “Not really.”
You gasp dramatically, shoving him, and he laughs—really laughs—and pushes you back. It turns into a brief, stupid back-and-forth until you both give up, collapsing onto the grass side by side.
The laughter fades.
What’s left is quieter.
A warm breeze moves through, soft against your skin, taking the edge off the sun. You turn your head slightly, and suddenly he’s close—closer than you realised. Your noses nearly brush.
You don’t move away.
“I’m just worried,” you admit, the words slipping out softer than you intended. “About you. About this not working out.”
You expect him to argue. To push back, to defend it like he always does.
But he doesn’t.
His lips press into a thin line, and for once, he doesn’t have something clever to say.
“I know you are,” he says after a moment, quieter now.
His hand finds yours—clumsy, unsure, like he’s not entirely certain he’s allowed. You don’t pull away. You don’t tease him for it either.
That alone says enough.
“But you’ve got to have some faith,” he continues, eyes flicking toward you. “Your support… it means a lot to me.”
You open your mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere in your throat.
He looks at you then—really looks—and there’s something there that catches you off guard. Hope, maybe. Or something dangerously close to it.
“We’re young,” he says, softer still. “Why not take the risk?”
It hits you harder than it should.
Because beneath all the bravado, all the confidence he throws around so easily, you can see it now—he’s scared too.
He just refuses to let it win.
And how are you supposed to stand here, knowing that, and not be on his side?
A quiet sigh leaves you, your eyes fluttering shut for just a second before you reach up, cupping his cheek.
He stills.
His gaze drops briefly to your hand, then back to your face. There’s colour rising to his cheeks again, that familiar flush, but this time he doesn’t look away.
He just lets you.
“I’ll come see you on Friday,” you say.
He lights up almost immediately, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Really?”
You smile, softer now, but still teasing. “You’re acting like I haven’t seen you play before.”
“That’s different,” he insists, sitting up properly now. You stay where you are, propped slightly on your arm, watching him. “You’ve never seen us play in front of an audience. Only in the garage.”
“True,” you murmur, picking at a strand of grass, suddenly finding it very interesting.
You know you’re being difficult. Stubborn.
Because the truth is, it scares you. This dream of his—of theirs. It’s big. Unrealistic, even. And if it falls apart…
You’re not sure you could watch the light leave his eyes.
“You’ll see,” he says, softer now, leaning forward just slightly. “We really are something.”
You glance up at him, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you poke his arm. “Am I mistaken? Or do I hear arrogance from insecure Alex?”
Normally, he’d take the bait instantly.
This time, he doesn’t.
Instead, his fingers slip between yours, interlacing them properly now. You freeze, just for a second, caught off guard.
When you look up, he’s already watching you.
And the way he’s looking at you—it knocks the breath out of your lungs. No jokes. No deflection.
“You’ll have fun,” he says quietly. “Trust me.”
______________________________
Friday comes quicker than you expect.
You almost regret agreeing to it.
Not because you don’t want to go—but because now that it’s here, it feels real. Bigger than you’d let yourself believe when you were lying in the grass with him, the whole thing softened by sunlight and his hopeful eyes.
A proper gig. A real audience. A real chance for it to matter.
And that’s exactly what makes your chest feel tight as you stand outside the venue, arms folded loosely across yourself, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
It’s louder than you imagined.
People spilling out onto the pavement, laughter, cigarette smoke curling into the evening air. Music muffled through the walls, bass thudding faintly beneath your feet. There’s a queue, longer than you expected, and for a second—
You hesitate.
This isn’t the garage. This isn’t just you and him and a few mates messing around.
This is something else.
“Alright?”
You turn at the sound of a familiar voice, one of the boys—quick grin, nodding toward the door. “You coming in then?”
You force a small smile, pushing yourself forward. “Yeah. Course.”
Inside, it’s worse. Or better.
You can’t decide.
The air is thick, warm, buzzing with anticipation. People pressed close together, drinks in hand, voices overlapping. The stage is small, barely raised, but it’s enough. Enough to separate them from the crowd. Enough to make it feel official.
You hover near the back at first.
You tell yourself you’re just here to support him. That’s all. You don’t need to get caught up in it.
But then the lights dim slightly, conversations dipping into a low murmur, and there’s movement on stage.
And suddenly—
There he is.
Alex steps forward, guitar slung over his shoulder, adjusting the strap absentmindedly. He looks… different.
Not in any obvious way.
Same messy hair. Same slight awkwardness in the way he stands, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with his limbs.
But there’s something else too. Something steadier.
He glances out at the crowd, and for a split second, his eyes flicker across the room.
They find you.
You don’t even realise you’ve moved closer until you’re near enough to see the shift in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Recognition.
And then—just the smallest hint of a smile.
Your stomach flips.
He looks away just as quickly, focusing back on the mic, clearing his throat. “Alright,” he mutters, voice carrying just enough.
There’s a cheer. Not massive, but real.
You feel it in your chest. The first song starts, and—
You expect to feel the same as before. Amused. Supportive. Detached.
Instead, you go still.
Because it doesn’t sound like the garage. It doesn’t sound rough, or uncertain, or like a group of boys trying their luck.
It sounds—
Good.
No.
Better than that.
Your brows pull together slightly, like you’re trying to make sense of it, eyes fixed on him as he plays. He moves differently here, less awkward, more… certain. Like the music gives him something solid to stand on.
And his voice—
You’ve heard it before, obviously. Countless times.
But not like this. Not through a mic, cutting through a room full of people who are actually listening.
You feel it, low in your chest.
And it throws you.
By the second song, you’ve stopped pretending you’re unimpressed.
By the third, you’ve forgotten to analyse it at all.
You’re just watching him.
The way he leans into certain lines, the way his fingers move over the strings like it’s second nature, the way the others fall into rhythm with him so easily—it’s not messy. It’s not hopeful.
It’s real.
Somewhere around you, people start moving more, nodding along, energy building. Someone near you says something like, “they’re good, actually,” and you almost laugh.
Because, you know. You didn’t expect this.
Your eyes stay on him, almost without blinking.
And then it happens, he looks at you again. This time, he doesn’t look away straight away.
There’s something different in it now. Not just hope. Something like I told you so—but softer. Not smug. Not teasing.
Just… knowing.
Your breath catches slightly. You don’t look away either.
And for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades out completely.
It’s just him. And the music. And the awful, undeniable realisation settling into your chest—
You were wrong.
The set ends too quickly. Or maybe you just lose track of time.
The final chord rings out, and there’s a beat—just a second—before the room fills with applause. Louder than before. Real, genuine noise.
You find yourself clapping too, harder than you expected, something almost giddy bubbling up under your ribs.
He looks… stunned, for a second. Then pleased.
Then he’s stepping back, exchanging glances with the others, that same grin you’ve seen a hundred times—but it fits differently now.
Like it belongs here.
The crowd starts to shift, people moving, talking, energy spilling outward again. You stay where you are for a moment, grounding yourself, trying to process the way your chest still feels tight.
And then—
You push forward.
It takes longer than it should, weaving through people, slipping past shoulders and half-finished conversations. By the time you reach the side of the stage, they’re already coming off, instruments in hand, adrenaline still clinging to them.
He spots you immediately.
“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless, pushing his hair back. “You—”
“You didn’t tell me,” you cut in.
He pauses.
Brows knitting together. “Tell you what?”
“That you were…” you trail off, shaking your head slightly, like the words won’t come out right. “That good.”
It’s quiet for a second.
Then, he huffs out a small laugh, looking down, almost embarrassed. “I tried.”
“No, you didn’t,” you step closer, not letting him brush it off. “You just said ‘trust me’ and left it at that.”
He glances back up at you then, searching your face. “And?” he asks, softer now.
You hold his gaze. And this time, you don’t tease.
“You were right.”
Something shifts in his expression again— Relief, maybe.
“Told you,” he says, but it lacks its usual bite. It’s quieter, almost careful. You let out a small breath, shaking your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite yourself. “Don’t get used to it.”
“I might,” he replies, just as easily—but he doesn’t look away.
You’re closer than you realise. Or maybe you do realise.
And you’re just not stepping back this time.
There’s still noise around you, people talking, moving past, the band calling his name from somewhere behind—but it all feels distant.
Muted.
Because all you can really focus on is him.
The slight flush still in his cheeks, the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast, the way he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for something.
Like your opinion matters more than the rest of the room combined.
And maybe, it does.
“You’re going to make it, you know,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His expression falters, just for a second.
“Yeah?” he asks, quieter now. You nod.
And this time, there’s no hesitation. “Yeah.”
Something settles between you then. His hand brushes yours, tentative at first—like before.
You don’t indulge in his shyness. Instead, you wrap your fingers around the flaps of his collar and pull him in for a kiss full of excitement and passion. Excited for his prospective future and passionate to live it with him.
“I love you,” you whisper, tickling his lips. He slowly lifts his eyelids, although he is unsure if he should pull away from this intimate moment between you.
A satisfied smile makes its way on his lips, and he wraps his arms around you, kissing the top of your head, “I love you more.”
Summary: It's your first listening party and quite a memorable one too.
A/n: Tried to write my own song rip- so cringe lmao. I'm soooo bad at poetry. Anywayyyy I crave requestssss. Give me requests pleaseeeee.
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 3.2k
______________________________
The small venue is intimate and warm, tucked away in a quiet corner of East London.
Exposed brick walls glow under soft golden lighting, and the low hum of chatter mixes beautifully with the gentle clink of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter. Only the closest circle of people are here — band members, a few trusted friends, long-time producers, and you.
It feels exclusive, almost sacred. No phones are allowed. No recordings. Just music, genuine vibes, and thick, buzzing anticipation hanging in the air like electricity.
This is your first listening party, and you’re practically vibrating with excitement.
You’ve been looking forward to this night for weeks. Alex has been so secretive about the new album, only dropping tiny hints here and there. You spot him near the side of the room, talking quietly with one of the sound crew members.
Even from across the space, he looks effortlessly handsome in a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing his forearms. His hair is slightly tousled, and there’s that quiet intensity in his posture that always makes your heart skip.
When he sees you approaching, his entire face softens. The serious expression melts into a genuine, warm smile. He waves you over, quickly excusing himself from the conversation.
“Hey,” he greets, voice low and affectionate as you reach him.
You step into his arms without hesitation, hugging him tightly before pressing a quick, loving kiss to his cheek. “Hi! Are you excited?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, amusement dancing clearly in his eyes at the obvious sparkle in yours. “Not nearly as excited as you, apparently,” he teases, one hand lingering on your waist.
You giggle, unable to contain your joy. “I can’t believe you kept the whole record a secret from me. All I know is that you’re singing more instead of shouting this time.”
“Ouch,” he places a dramatic hand over his chest, pretending to be deeply wounded. “You really know how to hurt a man, don’t you?”
You grin stupidly at him, poking his side. “Which track are you most excited for me to hear? I barely even know the titles. Come on, give me something.”
For a brief second, Alex bites his lip — that familiar little tell when he’s thinking too hard or hiding something important. He shakes his head quickly, almost shyly. “Nah, I can’t give anything away. Don’t want you spoiling it by overthinking every single lyric before you even hear the full thing.”
You roll your eyes playfully, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re so cruel. I’ve been patient for months.”
Before he can respond with another teasing remark, the gentle tapping of a microphone cuts through the room. The chatter slowly dies down as everyone turns toward the small, dimly lit stage area. Alex gives your shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze.
“Wish me luck,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your arm affectionately.
“Blow us all away,” you reply, patting his back encouragingly. “I believe in you.”
He laughs softly — that warm, genuine laugh you love so much — and walks off toward the side of the room. You quickly find a comfortable spot on one of the low, velvet couches near the front, heart racing with pure anticipation. The lights dim slightly, casting the room in a softer, more intimate glow. The producer steps up to the microphone and says a few warm, heartfelt words about the new album — how personal it is, how much it means to the band.
Then, the first notes begin to fill the space.
You settle deeper into the couch, smiling brightly, completely unaware that one particular song is about to shift your entire world.
The fourth track starts with a soft, atmospheric guitar line and a gentle piano underneath. Alex’s voice comes in smooth and intimate — lower than usual, almost vulnerable, like he’s singing directly to someone in the room.
“You walked in like a quiet storm, no warning in your eyes…”
You tilt your head, listening closely. The lyrics feel personal. Intimate. Something about them tugs gently at your chest, but you can’t quite place why. It sounds like a love song — quiet, reflective, full of quiet longing.
“Cut through the smoke and small talk, no need for alibis…”
A few people around you shift in their seats. Someone near the back whispers something. You don’t notice — you’re too focused on the melody, the way Alex’s voice wraps around every word like a confession.
“While the room was spinning circles, chasing gold and pretty lies…
You stood still in the chaos, like a truth I couldn’t hide…”
Your smile falters slightly. That line feels… familiar. Too familiar. The way he describes someone who sees through the noise, who stays grounded when everything else is spinning. It reminds you of late nights when he’d come home overwhelmed by the industry, and you’d simply listen.
The pre-chorus hits, and Alex’s voice grows more emotional, almost fragile:
“I wrote a thousand endings, but none of them felt right…
‘Til you looked at me like maybe I could stay the night…”
Your breath catches in your throat.
The chorus swells gently, heartbreakingly honest and raw:
“You’re the silence in my symphony, the calm I can’t control…
The only voice that cuts the noise and reaches in my soul…
I never said I loved you, but the songs all know it’s true…
Every melody’s a secret, every lyric’s about you…”
The room seems to hold its breath.
Several heads turn in your direction. Matt catches your eye from across the room and raises his eyebrows meaningfully, a knowing smirk on his face. Jamie is grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. Even Nick looks like he’s trying (and failing) not to laugh. They know. The entire inner circle seems to understand exactly who this song is about.
But you’re still processing, eyes wide, heart hammering wildly in your chest as the bridge begins — softer, almost spoken-sung with quiet vulnerability:
“And if the world keeps turning, spinning faster than I can…
I hope you know I’d slow it down just to hold your hand…
I’m no good at saying feelings, but I’m better when I play…
So this one’s for the girl who stayed… anyway…”
Your throat tightens painfully. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
The final chorus comes in fuller, raw with emotion and years of unspoken feelings:
“You’re the silence in my symphony, the home I never planned…
The only one who sees me when I’m trying to be a man…
I never said I loved you, but tonight I’m saying it out loud…
This song was always yours, love…
I’m saying it out loud…”
The last notes fade out slowly, leaving the room in stunned, reverent silence for a long beat before soft applause and murmurs ripple through the crowd.
You sit frozen on the couch, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear anything else. The lyrics echo in your head, each line clicking into place like a puzzle you didn’t even know you were solving.
Every melody’s a secret…
This one’s for the girl who stayed…
It was about you.
All of it.
Every quiet moment, every late-night conversation, every time you stayed when things got hard — he had turned it into art. Into something beautiful and permanent.
You look up slowly, eyes searching desperately for Alex through the dimly lit room. He’s standing near the side, half-hidden in the shadows, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts nervous, hopeful, and vulnerable.
And suddenly, you understand why he was so reluctant to tell you anything about the new songs.
The last notes of “Silent Reverie” fade slowly into silence, leaving the room suspended in a heavy, reverent quiet. For a few long seconds, no one moves. Then the applause starts — soft at first, then building into warm, genuine cheers and whistles. Someone near the back lets out a loud “Fuck yeah!” and the room erupts into laughter and clapping.
You remain completely still on the low couch, hands clenched tightly in your lap, heart hammering so loudly it drowns out most of the noise around you. The rest of the album continues playing, track after track, but you barely register the music anymore. Your mind is stuck on a loop, replaying those lyrics over and over.
The realization settles deeper with every passing second, heavy and overwhelming. Your throat feels tight. Your eyes sting. Part of you wants to cry — not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of being seen so completely by someone you love. Another part of you is terrified. Did you overthink everything? Were all those quiet moments, those late-night conversations, those times you stayed when things got difficult — were they really enough for him to write something this vulnerable? Or had you imagined the depth of his feelings?
You feel exposed. Raw. Like the entire room just witnessed something deeply private between the two of you.
The album continues, but the other tracks blur together. You catch fragments — beautiful melodies, clever lyrics, that signature Arctic Monkeys sound — but nothing lands the way that one song did. People around you are nodding along, whispering excitedly to each other, clearly enjoying the new material. Matt catches your eye again from across the room and gives you a small, knowing nod, like he’s checking if you’re okay.
You force a small smile in their direction, but it feels shaky.
When the final track ends and the lights slowly come back up, the room erupts into proper applause — loud, enthusiastic, full of pride for the band. Whistles cut through the noise. Someone shouts “Best one yet!” and the energy in the room is electric. People are standing, hugging, congratulating the band members as they filter back into the crowd.
But you stay seated, frozen in place, staring at the floor as your mind races.
Maybe you did overthink it.
Maybe the song wasn’t about you at all. Maybe it was just a beautiful, vague love song that happened to feel personal. Or maybe Alex had written it years ago about someone else. The thought makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. After all, he never told you. He kept the whole album secret. If it really was about you, wouldn’t he have said something?
You’re still stuck in your spiral when you feel a presence beside you. Alex sits down carefully on the couch, close but not touching, giving you space. His knee brushes yours lightly.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely audible over the lingering chatter and laughter in the room.
You turn your head to look at him. He looks nervous — really nervous. His usual confident front is gone. His hands are clasped tightly between his knees, and he’s watching you with wide, vulnerable eyes, like he’s bracing for your reaction.
You open your mouth, but no words come out at first. The song is still echoing in your head. This one’s for the girl who stayed…
“Alex…” you finally manage, voice quiet and unsteady. “That song… ‘Silent Reverie’…”
He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah.”
You stare at him, searching his face. “It was about me?”
“Every word,” he admits. “Every single fucking word.”
The confession lands between you like something fragile and precious. Your breath catches. Tears prick at your eyes again.
“I wrote it over the last two years,” he continues, words tumbling out like he’s afraid he’ll lose the courage if he stops. “Every time I felt too much and didn’t know how to say it. Every time you stayed when I was being difficult. Every time you looked at me like I was more than just the guy on stage. I couldn’t say it out loud. I’m shit at saying things like that. So I put it in the song instead. I thought… maybe one day I’d be brave enough to play it for you. I didn’t expect it to happen like this.”
He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair.
“I was terrified you’d hear it tonight. Terrified you’d think it was too much. Or that I’d waited too long. Or that you didn’t feel the same way.” His voice cracks slightly. “But it’s true. All of it. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel seen. Not the frontman. Not the image. Just… me. The messy, overthinking, emotionally constipated version. And you stayed anyway.”
You’re crying now — quiet tears slipping down your cheeks. The weight of his words, the vulnerability he’s showing, it’s almost too much.
“Alex…” you whisper.
“I love you,” he says, the words finally spilling out, raw and honest. “I’ve loved you for years. I was just too scared to ruin what we had by saying it wrong. But I’m saying it now. I’m in love with you. The girl who stayed. The one who calls me out when I’m being a prick. The one who makes everything feel quieter and louder at the same time. It’s you. It’s always been you.”
The room feels smaller. The distant party noise fades completely. It’s just the two of you.
Before you can stop yourself, you take his hand and guide him away from everyone, away from prying eyes and into a secluded hallway. You step forward and cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the wetness at the corner of his eye. He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.
“I love you too,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I think I’ve loved you for just as long. I just… I didn’t know you felt it this deeply.”
He lets out a broken, relieved sound and pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other wraps around your waist. You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in — the familiar scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin.
“I’m sorry it took a song for me to say it,” he murmurs into your hair. “I should’ve told you sooner. Every day.”
You shake your head against him. “It doesn’t matter. I heard it tonight. That’s what matters.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining. Then he leans in and kisses you — slow, deep, and full of everything he couldn’t say before. It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s reverent. Like he’s pouring every unsaid lyric into this one moment.
When you finally part, foreheads resting together, he smiles — small, shy, and genuinely happy.
“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough with feeling. “Not here. Not like this. I need to feel you. Properly.”
You nod, heart racing. “Somewhere private.”
He takes your hand, fingers laced tightly with yours, and leads you down the hallway. His steps are quick but careful, guiding you past a few closed doors until he finds one slightly ajar — a small, dimly lit storage room used for extra coats and equipment. He checks inside, then pulls you in gently, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
The room is quiet, lit only by a single warm lamp in the corner. Coats hang on racks, boxes are stacked neatly against the wall. It’s not glamorous, but it’s private. Just the two of you.
Alex turns to you, eyes dark and full of love. He cups your face again, kissing you slowly, deeply, like he’s memorizing every second. His hands slide down your sides, careful and reverent, resting on your waist as he pulls you closer.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips between kisses. “So much.”
You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair as you kiss him back with equal tenderness. “I love you too.”
The kiss deepens gradually, growing warmer, more urgent but never rushed. His hands explore your body with gentle adoration — sliding under your dress to caress the soft skin of your thighs, tracing the curve of your waist, cupping your breasts with such care it makes you shiver. Every touch feels like a promise. Like worship.
You tug at his shirt, wanting to feel him too. He helps you, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. He sighs softly into your mouth, pressing you back against the wall with careful control.
He drops to his knees slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and lifts the hem of your dress. His lips press tender kisses along your thighs, your hips, the sensitive skin just below your belly. When he reaches the lace of your underwear, he looks up at you for permission. You nod, breathless.
He takes his time — slow, loving strokes of his tongue, gentle sucks, hands holding your hips steady as your legs tremble. Soft moans escape you, your fingers tangled in his hair. He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body.
When you come undone, it’s quiet and intense — a wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking. He rises, kissing his way up your body until he reaches your lips again.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, holding you close as you catch your breath.
You reach for his belt, hands a little shaky with emotion and need. He helps you, stepping out of his trousers and underwear. Naked in the soft lamplight, he looks beautiful — vulnerable and strong all at once. You stroke him slowly, lovingly, watching his eyes flutter shut and his breath hitch.
He lifts you carefully, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall for support. When he enters you, it’s slow and deep — a shared gasp leaving both of you. He stills for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing together.
“I love you,” he whispers again, voice breaking slightly. “So fucking much.”
You kiss him, pouring everything into it as he begins to move — long, rolling thrusts that feel like home. It’s not fast or frantic. It’s slow, deep, and full of emotion. Every movement is a declaration. Every kiss, every touch, every shared breath says the words he put into that song.
You come together this time — soft, trembling releases that leave you clinging to each other, foreheads pressed together, hearts beating in sync.
Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away. He stays inside you, holding you close as you both come down. His hands stroke your back, your hair, your thighs — gentle, grounding touches. He kisses your temple, your cheeks, your lips, murmuring soft words of love between each one.
“I’m never letting you go,” he whispers. “Not without telling you every day how much you mean to me.”
You smile against his skin, feeling safe, loved, and completely seen.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you reply softly. “I’m staying.”
He holds you like that for a long time — in the quiet room, wrapped in each other, the distant sound of the party forgotten. For the first time in a long while, everything feels exactly right.
just passing through here to say that your writing is amazing!!! and there has been some time over here on tumblr with so few writers for Alex soooo you’re doing the lord’s work 🥹🥹🥹 please continue writing 💞💞
AWWE sweetheart T-T thank you!!! <3 <3 <3 I am so happy to be writing it is my pleasure :DDDDD
hiya!! Would you be into writing anything about Alex looking after the reader when she's on her period?? (Totally not self indulgent at all) Please and thank you!!
"Stop thanking me"
Pairing: Alex Turner x Reader
Summary: It is that time of the month.
A/n: Girl- I'm on my period as we speak LOL so this is more selfish for me than it is for you! Thank you for requesting this <3
Word count: 1.1k
______________________________
"I'm back!"
The front door slams — Alex has never once managed to close it quietly in his life, and apparently a concerned boyfriend on a mission is no exception. The sound of his shoes being kicked off follows immediately, then the rustling of a plastic bag, then his voice again from the hallway.
"I'm coming, I'm coming—"
You don't respond. Mostly because moving your mouth feels like an unreasonable amount of effort right now. You've been in the same position on the sofa for the better part of two hours; knees drawn up to your chest, blanket pulled to your chin, existing in that specific miserable limbo between the pain being bad enough to be genuinely awful and not quite bad enough to justify dramatic weeping.
Although. Give it another twenty minutes.
Alex appears in the doorway, slightly out of breath, plastic bag dangling from one hand and his jacket half-hanging off one shoulder. He looks like a man who has sprinted through a supermarket, which, knowing him, is probably exactly what happened.
He crosses the room and kneels beside the sofa in one fluid motion, bringing himself level with you. Up close, you can see the slight furrow in his brow — the one that appears whenever something has his full, undivided concern. He gets it during difficult lyrics sometimes. Apparently you qualify for the same category.
"Got you steak and dark chocolate." He holds the bag up briefly as evidence. "I'll cook the steak now. The chocolate's already in there if you want it."
"Thank you, my love," your voice comes out smaller than intended.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek — gentle, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and no intention of spending it anywhere else. "Don't thank me," he says, with the mild scoff of someone who finds gratitude for basic decency slightly offensive. As though driving to the shops at short notice and buying iron-rich food specifically because he read somewhere that it helps is simply the bare minimum. Which, to him, it genuinely is.
That's the thing about Alex — he never makes you feel like being looked after is an inconvenience. He makes you feel like it's the only logical thing to do.
"More tea first," he decides, already standing. "Then food. Do you want the same as before?"
"Please."
He disappears into the kitchen. You listen to the familiar sounds of him moving around in there; the kettle being filled, the soft clatter of a mug, the fridge opening and closing. Ordinary sounds. Comforting ones.
"Are you feeling any better?" he calls through.
"No," you call back honestly.
A pause. Then: "Right. Okay."
Something about his tone makes you smile despite everything.
He reappears a few minutes later with a mug held carefully in both hands, steam rising from the top. Chamomile, by the smell of it. He sets it on the coffee table within easy reach, then straightens up and looks at you with that expression — the one you would absolutely make fun of under normal circumstances.
He always looks like he's the one in pain when you're hurting. Brows drawn in, mouth set, eyes moving over you with the careful attention of someone trying to assess the full scale of the damage. It's completely unnecessary and entirely endearing and you've never once had the heart to tell him it doesn't actually help anything.
"What can I do?" he asks. Not for the first time today.
"You're already doing it."
He makes a quiet unconvinced sound, perching on the edge of the coffee table so he's facing you. His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped — the posture of someone fully committed to staying exactly where they are.
"Heating pad needs replacing," you offer. The one currently tucked against your stomach had gone lukewarm about ten minutes ago.
He's on his feet before you finish the sentence. "On it."
You watch him disappear back into the kitchen, hear the microwave start, and close your eyes. The tea is warm in your hands. The blanket is soft. The pain is still there, gnawing and persistent, but somehow easier to bear at the edges.
He comes back with the heating pad, freshly warmed, and tucks it against you with considerably more care than the task technically requires; adjusting it once, then again, then checking that the blanket is sitting properly over the top of it.
"Better?"
"Mm."
Satisfied, he drops onto the sofa beside you, lifting your legs and settling them across his lap without asking. His hand rests over the blanket, warm and steady.
For a while neither of you says anything. The television murmurs quietly in the background. Outside, the afternoon light has started to go grey at the edges.
"You don't have to stay," you say eventually, because you always say it, even though you never mean it.
He turns his head to look at you. The expression on his face suggests he finds the statement faintly ridiculous. "I know."
He doesn't move.
You hadn't really expected him to.
A comfortable silence stretches between you. His thumb moves in a slow, absent circle over your ankle. You pull the blanket tighter and breathe through the next cramp without saying anything about it, though you suspect from the way his hand briefly stills that he notices anyway.
"Steak in about twenty minutes," he says quietly.
"Okay."
"Then I was thinking we could watch something."
"Okay."
"You pick."
You open one eye to look at him. "You always say that and then make comments the entire way through whatever I choose."
"I make observations."
"Alex."
"Informed observations." He has the audacity to look completely unbothered. "It's different."
You close your eyes again, but you're smiling, and he can definitely tell.
His hand resumes its slow movement. The heating pad does its quiet work. From the kitchen, the faint smell of something beginning to cook drifts through.
It doesn't fix anything, of course. The pain is still there and will probably remain there for the foreseeable future, and no amount of steak or chamomile tea genuinely changes that. But there's something about being looked after by someone who does it so naturally — without fuss, without making you feel guilty for needing it, without going anywhere — that takes the worst edge off.
You let out a slow breath.
"Thank you," you say again, quieter this time. "For all of this."
Alex glances at you sideways. The furrow in his brow has softened.
"Stop thanking me," he says. Gently.
You hum and say nothing else.
Outside the light continues to fade. Inside, everything stays warm. God how you love this man.
Summary: Alex has to face the consequences of his actions aka finally sit down and talk to you over a drink.
A/n: I love fetus! Alex man. This is part 2 of "I actually sing mostly" and let me tell you... this took a whileeee to write! I had an art block despite the first part being so easy to write! Once I managed to think of what to do tho (which is very cliche lol) I couldn't stop writing yay! Hope this lives up to the hype (don't believe the hype). Thank you for being patient with me and please enjoy hehe <3
Word count: 3.2k
______________________________
Deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. In—
What comes after again? Right. Out.
The crowd's applause is still ringing in his ears, hands still warm from the guitar strings. Whether his pulse is hammering from the adrenaline of finishing the set or from what comes next, he genuinely can't tell. Possibly both. Probably both.
He'd snuck one final glance towards your table before setting the guitar down.
You were still there.
Which should make him feel better. Somehow it makes everything significantly worse.
He's spoken to you twice already. What's a third time? Granted, the first two interactions combined probably didn't exceed ten minutes, but still. He's capable of a conversation. He's proved that much.
Probably.
"Ready for a night-long serenade?"
Matt materialises at his shoulder, slinging an arm around his neck with the grin of someone who has been waiting to say that since the second half of the set.
Alex goes very still.
Night-long.
"No way she'd stick around that long." Jamie reaches past him for a water bottle, already smirking. "Twenty minutes, tops. Anyone want to bet?"
Alex barely registers the back-and-forth that follows. His brain has already moved on to catastrophising independently. You work in a bookshop. You probably read constantly. You probably have opinions about things — interesting, considered opinions — and here he is, a lad who writes lyrics and hides behind cookbooks.
What the hell is he going to say to you?
Without thinking, he reaches for the line of shots waiting on the table and knocks one back. The burn is immediate. He blinks several times, wincing, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Right.
The lads stare. Then burst out laughing.
"Oh, good luck, mate."
Alex ignores them, straightening up and fixing his jacket with what little dignity he has left. Fake it till you make it. It's served him before. It can serve him now.
He has qualities. People have said so. His mum, for one, though he's aware that's not exactly a neutral source. Still. He can hold a conversation. He can be charming when he tries. He wants this — more than he's wanted most things, if he's being honest — and that has to count for something.
He spots a familiar head of hair a few feet away and takes one final breath before moving through the crowd.
You turn around just as he reaches you. The smile that crosses your face is immediate, easy, and does absolutely nothing to help his nerves.
"Hey!"
"You stayed," he says, managing a smile back despite the faint sting behind his eyes from the shot.
"Of course I did." You raise your voice slightly over the music the pub staff have now switched on — vinyl crackling through the speakers to fill the space the band left behind.
"Do you want to find somewhere quieter?" He nods towards the far end of the bar. "There are stools down there, if you'd like."
"Sounds good." You hop off your seat, wave a quick goodbye to your friend, then turn back and gesture for him to lead the way.
Alex walks the twenty or so metres to the bar almost entirely on autopilot, replaying the last thirty seconds in his head. Too forward? Not forward enough? Did he sound alright?
He has absolutely no idea.
"I'll say it again — you guys were brilliant."
You set your bag on the counter and swivel on the stool to tuck your legs underneath, and Alex finds himself staring a second too long at the movement before catching himself, cheeks already warm.
He grips both knees beneath the bar. Stay calm. Stay the fuck calm. "That's too kind," he manages, shaking his head. At least this time he'd actually responded to the compliment rather than standing there like a startled animal. Progress. "We're still quite new at all this."
"And yet you had the whole place cheering." You gesture around the pub, and he follows your gaze — elderly couples near the back, a rowdy group of lads by the bar, a handful of teenagers who probably shouldn't be in here, a family squashed into the corner booth. "All walks of life. That's not nothing."
It isn't, he supposes. He just never quite registers it in the moment. The gap between performing and actually believing people are enjoying it has always been wider than it probably should be. Hearing it from you, though — someone who has no particular reason to flatter him — makes something in his chest tighten unexpectedly.
"It doesn't register sometimes," he mutters, more to himself than anything.
But you hear it. Your hand moves to cover one of his where it sits on his knee, a brief, easy touch, and he goes completely still.
"You should let it." Your eyes hold his. "Especially the songwriting. It's genuinely phenomenal."
Is steam coming out of his ears? Is his face doing something alarming? His heart is certainly doing something alarming, hammering away with all the subtlety of Matt missing a cue.
Then his brain catches up with what you actually said.
The songwriting.
"How did you know I write the lyrics?"
You hum, turning so only your profile faces him. A wide, slow grin spreads across your face — the Cheshire cat variety — and the temperature around him drops about ten degrees.
"Well. The Post-it notes had to come from somewhere, didn't they?"
Shit.
The cold snaps immediately to heat, flooding straight up the back of his neck.
You know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. He'd told himself he might have a little more time — that whatever this thing between you was might develop enough first, that he could ease into that particular revelation rather than have it dropped on him mid-drink. Clearly not.
He is going to be sick.
Except — you're still here. Still perched on the stool beside him, watching him cycle through approximately seventeen different expressions of panic with something that looks dangerously close to amusement. Not disgust. Not alarm.
Amusement.
And your hand is still on his fucking knee.
"Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"
How does his mouth work? What are the steps involved? He glances past you, then down at his hands. Every instinct he possesses is screaming at him to bolt. "I didn't mean to—" His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. "It wasn't supposed to be—"
You giggle. Softly. And pat his hand again.
Oh.
"First time I found one, I didn't even think it was meant for me," you say, and he makes a concentrated effort to focus on the words rather than the warmth of your hand, the weight of it sitting lightly over his knuckles. "I thought it must have fallen out of someone's bag or something."
He exhales very slowly through his nose.
"It took a few before they got specific enough that I thought — oh. These are actually for me." You look at him with something earnest and open in your expression, not a trace of discomfort anywhere on your face. "I was so flattered."
And just like that, every last thread of anxiety quietly unravels.
"I—" Alex wants to connect words into something resembling a complete sentence, but his brain appears to have filed that particular skill away for the evening. "I'm sorry." A shaky laugh escapes him, and he drops his gaze to the bar. "I genuinely don't know how to talk to you."
A beat of silence follows.
He braces for it. The polite smile, the glance towards the exit, the sudden realisation that you left something somewhere across the pub. The whole careful architecture of the evening collapsing in on itself.
Instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with an expression he can't quite read.
"Alex." Your voice is calm. Almost gentle. "You're a breath of fresh air."
He blinks.
Of all the things he had mentally prepared for, that was not among them.
"I'm— sorry?"
"You heard me." You reach for your drink, unbothered, as though you haven't just completely short-circuited his nervous system. "Most people who come into the shop either don't speak at all or won't stop talking about themselves. You just…" you pause, considering. "You bought a book about touring and then admitted you were in a band almost as an afterthought. That's either very humble or very calculated."
"Humble," he says immediately.
You laugh. "That's what someone calculated would say."
"I'm being serious." The defensiveness in his voice surprises even him. "I didn't go in there planning to talk to you. I went in because—" He stops himself just in time.
Your eyes narrow slightly, amused. "Because?"
"Because I wanted a book."
"Mm." You don't look convinced. He has barely convinced himself. "A book you've never mentioned again since buying it."
He has no response to that whatsoever.
The corner of your mouth lifts. You let him off the hook without pressing further, which he appreciates more than he can say. Instead you turn your glass slowly on the bar, watching the condensation trail it leaves behind.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah," he says, which is brave considering his track record tonight.
"The lyrics." You glance up at him. "Do you always write like that? The Post-it ones, I mean. Not the songs."
He thinks about it properly rather than just deflecting. "The Post-it ones are different," he admits. "The songs go through about forty versions before they sound like anything. The notes just…" He shrugs one shoulder. "Come out."
"They're more honest, then."
He hadn't thought about it that way before. "Maybe, yeah."
You're quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortably. Just thinking.
"The first one I kept," you say eventually. "I've still got it actually, stuck to the inside cover of whatever book I was reading at the time." A small pause. "I just didn't know it was from you."
Something about that undoes him completely. Quietly, without fanfare, like a knot releasing.
"Which one was it?"
You think for a second. Then, looking almost shy for the first time all evening, you recite it back to him.
I wrote you into three songs before I knew your name. Now I do, and I think I need to start over.
Alex stares at the bar.
"God," he says, mostly to himself, face imploding in a bright red that trails down to his neck.
"I know." You smile. "I read it about twenty times."
He laughs despite himself, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I can't believe you knew it was me."
"I didn't at first," you say. "But then you came to the till and you had this look on your face the entire time, like you were about thirty seconds away from either asking me something or completely doing a runner." You pause. "And then the note turned up right after you left."
"The woman pointed it out," he says, the memory arriving with fresh horror. "The one who came in for the notebook."
"She did," you confirm, entirely too cheerfully.
"I nearly kept walking and never came back."
"I'm glad you didn't."
The words land quietly between you. He risks a glance sideways at you.
You're already looking at him.
He clears his throat. "So you've known this whole time. Since the shop."
"Since the shop," you confirm.
"And you still came tonight."
"And I still came tonight."
He lets that settle. Outside, the pub carries on around you — glasses clinking, music drifting, conversation overlapping from every direction. None of it feels particularly relevant.
"Right," he says finally.
"Right," you agree.
A comfortable silence stretches between you, and for the first time since stepping off the stage, Alex isn't thinking about what to say next. He's just sitting here. With you. And somehow that feels like more than enough.
"So," you say eventually, propping your chin on your hand. "Tell me about the band. How did you all end up together?"
He exhales slowly. Smiles. Relaxing at long last.
"Now that," he says, "is actually a good story."
______________________________
Despite every worry he'd carried into the evening, the conversation never once dried up.
Not even close.
You talked about everything and nothing in the specific way that only happens when time stops feeling relevant. Music, mostly — bands you loved, records that had changed something in you, gigs you’d seen in cramped venues that smelled of spilled beer and ambition. You had opinions. Strong ones. You delivered them with a certainty that made him want to argue back just to hear you defend them further, which he did, twice, and both times you held your ground without flinching.
He loved that about you. He was adding it to the ever-growing list.
You talked about the bookshop too. How you'd ended up there, what you actually liked about it beyond the job itself. The regulars you'd grown quietly fond of. The ones who drove you up the wall. He listened to every word with the kind of attention he usually reserved for lyrics that weren't quite finished yet, turning each detail over carefully, storing it somewhere.
At some point the lads had presumably said their goodbyes and filtered out into the night. Alex hadn't noticed. Hadn't particularly cared either. The pub had slowly emptied around you without either of you acknowledging it, your little corner of the bar becoming its own separate world entirely.
It was the bell for last orders that finally punctured it.
"Oh." You blinked, looking faintly surprised, like someone surfacing from underwater. A giggle escaped you — you'd had a few drinks by this point, a soft flush sitting high on your cheeks that he was trying very hard not to stare at. "What time even is it?"
Alex glanced around vaguely, as though the pub might offer some indication. "Close to two, I'd imagine."
"Two." You looked down at the melted ice in the bottom of your glass, then back up at him. "I suppose that means we should head out."
There it was. The twinge in his chest he'd been half-expecting for the last hour — the slow, sinking awareness that the night had edges after all, that it couldn't stretch on indefinitely no matter how much he willed it to. He could have stayed until morning. He could have sat on this bar stool until the pub staff started stacking chairs around them and very politely asked you to leave. He would have counted it a reasonable trade.
But he smiled anyway. "Sounds good to me."
He settled the tab without making a production of it and took one last look around the emptied pub. The stage where they'd played looked smaller now, unlit, the equipment already packed away by the lads at some point during the evening. He felt a distant fondness for it. Tonight had been a good night. One of the best he could remember.
Outside, the air hit him immediately — cool and clean after hours in the warm fug of the pub, carrying that particular late-night stillness that settled over Sheffield like a held breath. Alex exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping, feeling the pleasant flush of it against his face.
"That's nice."
You hummed beside him, turning to face him properly on the pavement. The streetlight caught you at an angle that did absolutely nothing to help him think clearly.
"I had a really nice time, Alex."
The way you said his name still did something to him. Even now, several hours in, it hadn't lost that particular effect. He wondered if it ever would.
"You don't want me to walk you home?" The question came out before he'd fully decided to ask it — not pushy, just hopeful. Transparent, probably. He was past caring about that.
"I'm alright, thank you." Genuine. Warm. Not a dismissal, just — certain. Independent in that quiet way he'd noticed from the very beginning, back behind his bookshelf when he was still a stranger watching you straighten bookmarks for the twentieth time.
"Of course," he said. And meant it.
A small silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable — nothing between you had felt truly uncomfortable since somewhere around the second drink — but different from the easy back-and-forth of the last few hours. The night had reached its natural conclusion and neither of you had quite worked out what to do with that yet.
He looked at you. Tried to arrange his face into something that didn't give everything away.
Failed, probably.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "Genuinely. I had — tonight was really good."
The words felt inadequate for what he actually meant, which was something closer to: tonight rearranged something in me and I'm not sure I'll be able to put it back. But that seemed like rather a lot to say on a pavement outside a pub at two in the morning, so he left it there.
He felt it before he properly registered it.
The brief, soft press of your lips against the side of his cheek. There and gone in a single second — so gentle it might almost have been imagined, except for the warmth of it that bloomed outward immediately, spreading up the side of his face and straight down through the centre of his chest like something catching light.
When he focused again you were already back in front of him, a small, bashful smile on your lips — different from every other smile he'd catalogued over the past three months. Softer. Just for him.
"Come by the bookshop soon."
And then you were turning, walking away down the pavement, heels quiet against the stone, hair catching the orange glow of the streetlights as you went.
Alex stood very still.
Slowly, with the energy of a man who had completely forgotten how his own body worked, he raised one hand and pressed it to the side of his face. Cupped it there. Held onto the warmth like it might evaporate if he moved too quickly.
He watched you reach the corner. Watched you round it. Watched the space where you'd been for a half second longer, just in case.
Then you were gone.
A breeze moved through the empty street, lifting his hair, carrying the last traces of the night along with it. He closed his eyes.
Replayed it.
The warmth. The softness. The fact that you'd done it at all.
Come by the bookshop soon.
As if there had ever been any danger of him staying away.
He stood there on the pavement for another moment — not because he had anywhere to be, but because moving felt like admitting the night was truly over, and he wasn't quite ready for that. The pub behind him had gone quiet. The street ahead was empty. Somewhere distant, a car moved through the city.
Alex Turner, stood alone outside The Grapes at two in the morning with one hand pressed to his own cheek like the world's most obvious cliché, smiled slowly to himself.
He was absolutely going to write a song about this.
Summary: Alex is not taking care of himself properly due to the workload he has, so the band decides to hire someone to help organise for him.
A/n: AHHHH I have been severely MIA. So many life events but alas, the show must go on! Very happy to be back!! I have been receiving a lot of requests which I am very eager to get to hehe. I am just trying to overcome some art blocks aka the Fetus! Alex continuation. I need to sit down and think!! Anyway hope you guys enjoy this one- I had a lot of fun with this <3
Word count: 6.4k
______________________________
“Thank you for your help!” You wave goodbye to the removal van driver as he pulls away, then let out a long, satisfied sigh, planting your hands firmly on your hips.
This was it. You had finally done it. You’d secured your dream flat in a surprisingly quiet pocket of central London, and now you were about to live the dream. New job (high-paying in theory, debatable in practice), no more soul-crushing commutes, a touch of greenery nearby, and easy access to the city’s bustle without sacrificing serenity.
Best of both worlds. At least, that’s how the real estate agent had sold it.
After unpacking the absolute essentials — because you were utterly knackered — you collapse onto your new sofa with a contented groan. That’s when you first hear it: a faint, melodic strumming of an electric guitar. It’s subtle, almost pleasant, weaving through the walls like a gentle undercurrent.
Your eyes flick to your phone screen. Nine thirty. A bit late for music, but hardly the end of the world. The groove is actually quite good. You catch yourself snapping your fingers along to the rhythm as you pad into the kitchen to heat up a very late dinner.
By eleven, you’ve washed up, showered, and are lying sprawled on your bed, exhaustion grinding your bones into dust. Your head sinks heavily into the frameless mattress, eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. And that’s when the faint hum returns.
What was once lulling and almost charming now starts grating against your eardrums like an insidious itch you can’t scratch. You press your lips into a thin line, exhaling through your nose. “Mmmmm,” you groan, unsure how to feel about this sudden shift.
By twelve thirty, you’re clutching a pillow desperately over one ear. You’re convinced the sound has grown louder — the electric guitar now amplified through a speaker, sending vibrations through the walls. Or perhaps you’re just delirious from tiredness. Either way, it’s becoming intolerable.
Breathing in sharply for what feels like the fiftieth time, you reach for your phone. Two a.m.
What the fuck.
You didn’t think people like this existed in neighbourhoods like this. You were promised peace and quiet. Perhaps you should sue the agent for false advertisement.
For now, though, you force your tired body out of bed and into your fluffy robe. You pause in front of the bathroom mirror, widening your eyes and practising a soft, kind-hearted smile. First impressions matter. You’ll be polite. Civil. Neighbourly.
You open your front door, and the music immediately sounds louder, guiding you like an obnoxious beacon toward the flat adjacent to yours. Taking a deep, calming breath, you walk up to the door and knock three times — firm but not aggressive.
You wait in the hallway, arms crossed, pulling your robe tighter around your chest against the slight chill. The music doesn’t pause. Doesn’t lower. Perhaps they didn’t hear.
A full minute passes. Still nothing. With a sigh, you press the doorbell.
At last, the guitar comes to a jarring halt. Your shoulders sag in relief.
A few seconds later, the door unlocks. An eye peeks through the narrow sliver. You peek back, offering your best soft, kind-yet-awkward smile.
“Um, hi there! I’m your new neighbour. Sharing your wall, to be exact.”
The door opens a little wider. You finally get a proper look at him: slightly messy dark hair falling over sharp brown eyes, a black t-shirt, and an expression that sits somewhere between alert and mildly inconvenienced. He’s annoyingly handsome, which somehow makes the whole situation worse.
“Hi,” he says, almost like a question. “Nice to meet you?”
You laugh — a bit sharper than you intended. “Sorry about the timing… it’s just that your music is kind of keeping me up.”
His eyes widen, genuinely surprised. You’re surprised by his surprise. Did he really have no idea?
“Oh,” he mutters, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that. No one’s lived next door since I moved in, so I never realised how loud it might be.”
Your brow twitches. Is he serious? The music could be heard from the bloody hallway. Even if the other flats were empty, someone must have complained before.
“I see,” you manage, licking your lips. “Well, would you mind lowering it just a bit? I’m quite tired from moving today and I really need some sleep.”
“Sure thing,” he nods, offering a small, almost considerate smile. “No problem.”
You smile back, relieved. “Great! Appreciate it a lot.”
“Goodnight,” he says, already closing the door.
“Good—” The door shuts before you can finish. You stand there for a solid minute, blinking in mild disbelief. He didn’t even ask your name. Or offer his.
Guess he doesn’t care.
With a shrug, you shuffle back into your flat, collapse onto the bed, and pull the covers over yourself with a satisfied sigh. Finally. Serenity.
Until the amp blasts back to life with a new, louder riff that makes your mattress vibrate.
______________________________
So apparently his name is Alex Turner.
Not just any Alex Turner, unfortunately. But that Alex Turner. The one people speak about with a certain reverence, like he’s less a man and more a mildly inconvenient cultural artefact. You learn this the next morning—if it can even be called morning—running on approximately three hours of fractured, deeply unsatisfying sleep that left your brain feeling like it had been put through a blender and then reassembled incorrectly.
You’d made the effort, despite your condition. Knocked on a few doors, introduced yourself with what you hoped passed as charm rather than delirium, offering a tin of biscuits as a peace offering slash social lubricant. A strategic move. You needed allies.
What you received instead was information.
“Oh, him?” one of the neighbours says, far too casually, as if you hadn’t just uncovered the root cause of your impending psychological deterioration. “Yeah, he’s actually quite lovely. Quiet. Keeps to himself.”
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Right,” you say slowly. “Apart from the nocturnal guitar exorcisms.”
A small shrug. A bite into your biscuit. Crumbs scatter with an almost offensive nonchalance.
“Yes, well. In his own flat, he’s a bit of an arse.”
A bit.
The understatement is almost impressive in its audacity.
“And you haven’t complained?” you press, incredulity bleeding through despite your best efforts to remain composed. “To the landlord? Management? Anyone with authority?”
Another shrug. Another biscuit. You’re starting to regret your generosity.
“He’s a celebrity,” they reply, as if that explains not just the behaviour, but the moral framework of the entire building. “They don’t really care what we think. Most of us just bought earplugs.”
Earplugs.
You stand there for a moment, plate in hand, processing this information with a kind of stunned, existential disbelief. The quiet, leafy, serene haven you had been sold now feels like a farce. A carefully curated illusion. A pastoral lie.
You thank them anyway. Because you are, fundamentally, still polite. Even when you are one minor inconvenience away from committing a small, highly justified crime.
By the time you make your way back down the corridor, your mood has soured considerably.
Your head throbs with a dull, persistent ache—low-grade but insidious—nestled right at the base of your skull like an unwelcome tenant. Sleep deprivation does not suit you. It strips you of patience, of softness, of the fragile civility you usually pride yourself on maintaining.
You fumble with the empty plate in one hand, the other already dipping into your coat pocket for your keys, mentally preparing yourself for a long afternoon of unpacking and quiet resentment—
And then his door opens.
Your eye twitches before you can stop it.
He steps out like he has absolutely no idea he’s the cause of your current state of near-cognitive collapse. Earbuds in. Leather jacket slung over his shoulder with an ease that feels almost performative. Effortless in that deeply irritating way some men seem to perfect without ever earning it.
You stare at him for half a second too long.
“Hey.”
It comes out sharper than intended. Not quite a shout, but enough to cut through whatever music is currently insulating him from reality.
He pauses mid-lock, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes widen slightly when he recognises you, like he wasn’t expecting continuity. Like you were meant to be a one-off interaction. A disposable inconvenience.
You point to your ear.
He pulls one earbud out, but notably does not pause whatever he’s listening to. The faint hiss of sound still leaks through.
“What?” he says.
Not hello. Not good morning. Just what. Charming.
“Thanks for lowering the music,” you deadpan.
A beat.
He blinks at you. Once. Slow. Processing.
Then shrugs. Actually shrugs.
You feel something inside you begin to combust.
“You should get earplugs,” he adds, like he’s offering helpful, benevolent advice. Like this is a reasonable solution. Like you are the problem here.
Your jaw drops before you can stop it.
“Earplugs?” you repeat, the word tasting acrid on your tongue. “In my own fucking home?”
He pockets his keys with infuriating calm, swinging his bag over one shoulder—of course just one shoulder, because God forbid anything about him suggests practicality over aesthetic.
“I work better at night,” he says, tone bordering on indifferent. “Not much I can do about that.”
You stare at him.
Taking in the complete absence of contrition. The almost impressive level of detachment. The sheer, unmitigated audacity.
“For starters,” you say, your voice tightening despite your effort to remain composed, “you could try being just a little bit empathetic towards the people who live around you. You know. Basic human decency.”
That gets something.
A flicker.
His eyebrow lifts, just slightly, and he shifts his stance—turning more fully toward you now, like you’ve finally said something worth engaging with. His gaze drags over you, not rudely, but thoroughly. Taking in the sleep-deprived pallor, the tension in your posture, the barely contained irritation radiating off you in palpable waves.
If he does notice, he doesn’t comment. “I don’t owe you anything,” he says simply.
No heat. No defensiveness.
Just a statement.
Which somehow makes it worse.
And then—because apparently he has decided this conversation has reached its natural conclusion—he turns. Just turns. Walks away toward the lift like you’re no longer part of the equation. Like you’ve already been dismissed.
The earbud goes back in.
Conversation over.
You stand there, momentarily frozen, your grip tightening involuntarily around the plate in your hands as your brain scrambles to catch up with what just happened.
What did just happen?
The lift dings. He steps inside. Doesn’t look back.
The doors slide shut.
And you’re left alone in the corridor, pulse just slightly elevated, jaw still tense, a dozen comebacks arriving far too late to be of any use whatsoever.
You exhale slowly.
Long. Controlled.
You should have thrown the plate. Honestly. It would have been justified. Symbolic, even.
Instead, you unlock your door and step back into your flat, the quiet pressing in around you in a way that feels almost mocking now.
Serenity, apparently, was conditional.
And currently—
Very much under threat.
______________________________
The constant back-and-forth has been going on for what feels like years—when in reality, it’s only been two weeks.
Two weeks of him blasting those insufferable experimental strums. Two weeks of you resisting the very real urge to bite his head off every single time you cross paths. And it’s not just confined to the hallway, either.
Laundry, for example, a communal nightmare.
Twice now, you’ve both ended up at the end of the corridor at the same time, loading your machines in tense, passive-aggressive silence. You’ve taken to scrutinising his clothes just to irritate yourself further—beige, white, black. That’s it. No variation. No personality.
“Like you, I see,” you remarked the second time, watching him dump everything into one wash. No separating. No care.
He raised an eyebrow at that. Said nothing.
And then there are the evenings.
On days when corporate life drags itself well past a 9–5—which is, unfortunately, most days—you come home wanting nothing more than to collapse onto your sofa, eat your sad little girl dinner, and rot in front of brainless TV.
Peacefully.
Except peace doesn’t exist here.
Not when Alex’s amp and speakers sound like they’re aimed directly at your living room wall, vibrating through the floors, the furniture, your bones.
By the third week, you’ve had enough.
Knocking hasn’t worked. Repeated knocking hasn’t worked. Aggressive knocking hasn’t worked. So now, you’re left contemplating something far more… questionable.
Risk your gorgeous flat for it?
Honestly—you might have already crossed that threshold.
So, at around ten at night, you make a decision.
Curtains are yanked open. Balcony door swung wide.
You step outside, the cool air hitting your skin as you turn toward his balcony. Adjacent. Of course it is. Because apparently, you’re destined to share everything with him. Even this.
Your newly bought plants tremble beside you, leaves quivering with every pulse of his music. Your jaw tightens.
Enough.
You grip the railing, inhale sharply, and swing yourself over.
The gap is laughably small—barely the width of your palm—but the act still feels reckless. Petty. You land easily on his side.
Straighten. Turn.
If his flat mirrors yours, those sliding doors lead straight into his living room. You hesitate for half a second, just long enough to question your sanity, before sliding the door open and stepping inside.
And then— Oh.
His place is bigger. Significantly.
You pause, taking it in. Twice the size of yours, easily. For a fleeting second, you wonder why you ever expected otherwise. He’s a rockstar, for fuck’s sake. Though, based on his aggressively bland wardrobe, you did briefly consider the possibility that he lived like a minimalist.
You were wrong. So wrong.
The space is full of character—records stacked and scattered, posters lining the walls, a warm, bohemian palette tying everything together. Plants in the corners. A worn leather sofa. A ridiculously expensive-looking vinyl player.
It’s… nice. Annoyingly nice.
Then you notice him.
Papers strewn around. Speaker beside him. Music playing (some rough demo, unfinished, evolving) as he scribbles notes, completely absorbed.
He looks… good like this.
Focused. In his element. Entirely wrapped up in his own little world. A peace bubble.
Too bad you’re about to burst it.
“Hey.”
He startles.
Hand jerking. Papers shoved aside instinctively. His head snaps toward you, eyes wide with shock.
“What the fuck—”
“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.”
His eye twitches. He glances toward his front door; secure, locked, very much not the point. Then back at you, realisation dawning.
“Did you just come through my balcony?”
“Turn the fucking music down.”
There’s a beat.
Then, to your surprise, he does. But he looks anything but pleased.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands, standing now. “Breaking into my flat? I could have you arrested.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you were even remotely considerate of normal people,” you snap, all previous appreciation dissolving into sharp irritation. “Some of us work during the day. Some of us want to relax after. I’m exhausted, and you clearly have no idea what that feels like—so the least you could do is try.”
He opens his mouth. You don’t let him speak.
“You used to write relatable music,” you continue, relentlessly. “Nights out, real life, actual people. Can you not apply that to reality? Or are you just that dense?”
Silence. Heavy. Immediate.
Your shoulders tense, then forcibly relax, but his gaze doesn’t shift. If anything, it sharpens as he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Too close.
His t-shirt sleeves stretch around his biceps as he crosses his arms, and—annoyingly—you notice.
“You break into my home,” he says, voice low, controlled, “insult my intelligence, and demand I change how I exist in my own space.”
You press your lips together.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “And I thought crazy fans were stressful.”
“You’re stressed?” you fire back, before you can stop yourself. There’s something flickering in his eyes at your reaction—amusement, maybe. “Should I not be concerned about the fact that someone just climbed into my flat?”
“I didn’t climb,” you correct. “And I’m not a stranger.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“And whose fault is that?”
That lands.
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face.
And just like that, the absurdity of the situation starts to settle over you. Because, objectively, this is insane.
You broke into his flat. Over noise.
“Look,” you sigh, the fight draining out of you, exhaustion bleeding into every word. “I’m sorry. That was… a lot. I just—haven’t slept properly since I moved in. I’m tired. I just want a compromise.”
A pause. “I’m sure you’re not as big of a dick as you pretend to be.”
His eyebrow lifts at that. You roll your eyes immediately. “Our neighbours seem to think you’re kind. Shy, even.”
“Allegedly,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Maybe,” you continue, gesturing toward the wall you share, “you could move your setup? Just… slightly? Or lower it a bit? Or—crazy thought—play during normal hours?”
He watches you. Actually listens.
And for the first time since this whole ridiculous feud started, you think you might be getting somewhere.
He doesn’t answer immediately. That alone feels significant.
Instead, he glances past you, toward the wall you share, like he’s actually picturing it. Replaying it. Hearing what you hear.
Then he exhales, quieter this time. Less defensive.
“…It’s not that loud,” he says, but there’s no bite to it anymore. It sounds more like a habit than an argument.
Your eyebrow lifts. “Oh, amazing. So I’ve been hallucinating the last three weeks.”
His mouth twitches. “Right,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay—maybe it’s… louder than I think.”
“Groundbreaking.”
“Don’t push it.”
There’s a pause—but it’s different now. Looser. The tension isn’t gone, but it’s not cutting anymore. It’s… bending.
He walks past you then, heading toward the speaker. You watch as he crouches slightly, fiddling with the settings, turning a few knobs down. The music softens—not gone, but no longer aggressive. No longer invasive.
It’s… tolerable.
You blink.
“Well,” you say slowly, “would you look at that. Growth.”
He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh.
Then he stands again, turning back to you, arms folding loosely this time.
“I can move it,” he says after a second, nodding toward the setup. “Further from that wall. Didn’t realise it carried like that.”
You tilt your head, studying him like you don’t quite trust the version of him currently standing in front of you. “That would be… appreciated,” you admit, before offering a small smile. “Thank you.”
He nods, and your gaze drifts away from him, unintentionally, towards the scattered papers on his table. Scribbled lyrics. Half-finished lines. Crossed-out thoughts.
“You write all that here?” you ask, softer now.
He follows your line of sight, then shrugs. “Most of it.”
“Hm.”
You step a little closer before you can stop yourself, glancing down at one of the pages. Your eyes skim a few lines—disjointed, raw, unfinished. “Am I allowed to take a look?” You glance at him, “or do I have to sign an NDA?”
He finally smirks, shaking his head. “They’re not done so you can go ahead.”
You trace a finger over some of the words, thoughtful. “Bit ironic,” you murmur.
“What is?”
“You,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the mess of words. “All this… introspective, emotionally aware writing.”
He stiffens slightly. “And?”
“And then you’re out here acting like you’ve never interacted with another human being before.”
That earns you a look. “You broke into my flat,” he reminds you.
“Details.”
“That’s not a detail.”
You shrug, folding your arms. “Still.”
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary.
Then—
“Alex,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“My name,” he clarifies, like it’s obvious. “Since that seemed to bother you.”
Oh.
Something about that lands strangely in your chest.
You recover quickly. “Right,” you look up at him in amusement. “You think I didn’t find out who you are?” He shakes his head, a small chuckle escaping him. “I guess it was inevitable.”
A beat.
“Well, Alex,” you say, testing it, “try not to make me commit another crime, yeah?”
His lips press together, but you can see it now—the effort not to smile.
“No promises.”
“Unbelievable.”
You open your mouth to argue some more—
Then stop.
Because he’s looking at you again.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, you don’t feel like you’re standing on opposite sides of something.
It’s not quite friendly.
But it’s not hostile anymore, either.
It’s something in between.
“…I should go,” you say eventually, gesturing vaguely toward the balcony.
“Probably,” he agrees.
Neither of you moves straight away.
You turn first, stepping back toward the sliding door, pulling it open. The cool night air rushes in again, grounding you slightly. You pause on the threshold, glancing back at him.
“Move the speakers,” you add.
“I will.”
“Actually do it.”
“I said I will.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m holding you to that.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Good.”
That almost-smile again.
You shake your head, stepping out onto the balcony, gripping the railing as you swing yourself back across to your side.
When your feet land, you turn—
And he’s still there.
Standing just inside his living room, watching.
You hesitate for half a second.
Then slide your door shut.
The music, when it starts again a few minutes later it is quieter.
And somehow, that feels like more than just a compromise.
______________________________
Three days after your criminal activity, you finally seem to coexist without the overwhelming urge to slit his throat. He actually kept his promise, and for the first time since moving in, you managed to get a proper night’s sleep.
It was heavenly.
You woke the next morning feeling like a Disney princess—well-rested, mildly delusional, and far too pleased about it. You twirled into your kitchen, made your coffee, and even dared to sit out on the balcony.
You glanced over at his side. Curtains drawn. Silent.
He must’ve had a long night.
Because of his newly discovered respect for volume control, you now actually have to focus to hear what he’s playing. And annoyingly, you’ve caught yourself doing exactly that; leaning in, listening, appreciating the music now that it isn’t rattling your bones or short-circuiting your nervous system.
Today, after finishing work from home at exactly five p.m. sharp (a rare and glorious victory), you decide to take full advantage of the nice weather. Tea, a book, your balcony—very main character of you.
You settle into your chair, adjusting yourself just right, the city stretching out in front of you like a carefully curated backdrop. Very aesthetic. Very peaceful.
Ten minutes in, soft music drifts out.
You don’t hate it. It’s pleasant.
Some pieces catch your attention, the rhythm easy, almost hypnotic. You find yourself absentmindedly bobbing your head as you sip your tea, pretending you’re not actively enjoying it.
Another twenty minutes pass. Your mug is empty.
Then— the sharp slide of a door.
You glance up just as Alex steps out onto his balcony, already lighting a cigarette like it’s part of the ritual. He looks… aggravated. Slightly rumpled. Leather jacket still on, like he’s only just come back.
He hasn’t noticed you yet.
So, naturally, you take a moment.
Leaning against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, jaw set just enough to suggest he’s thinking too hard about something, it’s a look. A very intentional look, you suspect.
You almost wonder if he practices it.
“Sounds good,” you say.
He startles slightly, turning toward you with a frown. “Do you have to jump-scare me every time?”
“Absolutely,” you reply, closing your book and standing, drifting closer to the divider between your balconies. “Is that piece a new development?”
“Just came back from recording it,” he says, nodding as he takes a drag. He gestures loosely with the cigarette, offering. You shake your head, “I’m alright, thanks.”
There’s an ease now—a strange, reluctant truce that’s settled between you. And now that he’s actually respected your wishes, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity about his life.
“Well,” you say, leaning your elbows against the railing, “it sounds good.”
He glances at you, cigarette hanging lazily from his fingers. It is attractive. Effortlessly so. Which is irritating.
“High praise,” he says, a slow, playful smile pulling at his mouth. “I’ll have to frame that.”
You roll your eyes. “Relax. It just doesn’t sound like distorted death in my ears anymore. That’s all.”
“You said it’s good,” he counters. “Not ‘tolerable.’”
“Semantics.”
“Backtracking already?”
“Don’t push it.” There’s a small silence—light, easy—as he exhales smoke, deliberately angling it away from you. You take a note of that.
“I feel like something’s missing,” he says after a moment. “That’s why I brought it home. Thought I might figure it out here.”
You nod, glancing down at your hands wrapped around the railing. “I’m not exactly musically gifted, so I don’t think I’ll be much help.”
He grins. “Wasn’t asking. But thanks for the disclaimer.”
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. God, he’s insufferable. In an entertaining way.
There’s another brief pause after that. Not awkward, exactly—just… settled. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.
Alex takes another drag from his cigarette, leaning back against the railing as he watches the street below. You follow his gaze without really thinking about it.
For the first time, you notice how the evening light softens everything. Even him.
“You always work like this?” you ask eventually, quieter now. Less sharp around the edges. He glances at you, as if considering the question more seriously than it deserves.
“Not always,” he says. “Just when I can’t get it out of my head.”
“That sounds tiring.”
“It is,” he admits, almost offhand. Then, after a beat: “But it’s worse when I don’t.”
You hum softly in acknowledgement, like you understand more than you actually do.
A breeze moves between the buildings. Your hair shifts slightly across your cheek, and you tuck it behind your ear without thinking.
Alex looks back toward his flat, where the faint sound of the track is still bleeding through—much quieter now, barely a presence at all.
“I can turn it off,” he says, as if it’s only just occurred to him again that you can hear it.
You shake your head lightly. “No. It’s fine. It’s actually… nice now. When it’s like this.”
He raises an eyebrow, just slightly. “What, faint and non-threatening?”
You smile. “Exactly.”
That earns a quiet exhale from him—something between a laugh and a sigh.
He leans forward a little, resting his forearms on the railing. The cigarette is nearly finished now, forgotten between his fingers.
The city hums below, distant traffic and soft evening noise blending with the remnants of his music. It’s almost… domestic, in a way you don’t comment on.
Alex flicks the end of his cigarette into an ashtray nearby and leans back again, stretching his shoulders slightly.
A comfortable quiet returns.
Eventually, you push off the railing slightly, stretching your arms.
“Well,” you say, “I should probably go before I start enjoying the fresh air too much and turn into one of those people who ‘does evenings on the balcony’ unironically.”
That makes him look over. “You’re already halfway there.”
“I absolutely am not.”
“You’re drinking tea outside.”
“Because I have taste.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth again, but softer this time. Less teasing, more… observant. “Fair enough,” he says.
You hesitate, then give a small nod toward his flat. “See you around, then.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “See you.”
You turn to head back inside, but something makes you pause for half a second.
When you glance back, he’s still there on his balcony, watching the city, cigarette now gone, hands resting loosely on the railing.
Not performing. Not posturing.
Just… there.
You step back into your flat, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft click.
______________________________
You’ve ended up becoming one of those people who enjoy spending their evening on the balcony. Every day the last two weeks, with no fail, you have winded down in your little chair outside, steaming mug and whatever form of entertainment (book, phone, etc) in either hand.
And, to your pleasant surprise, Alex has been there too. He always appears after you, but without fail every evening he will spawn on his side for a cigarette break. Is it a break, or does he actually enjoy your company? It feels as though every time it stretches for longer and longer.
You’re not complaining.
Nevertheless, it couldn’t last. Today the weather is shit. Thunder and pouring cats and dogs, making you want to curl deeper into your sofa, with your throw over your legs and your mug close to your chest. You’re disappointed you didn’t get to see him today, but there’s not much you can do.
At least that’s what you think before hearing a tepid knock on your door. It is quiet, and you almost miss it because of the raging storm outside. But when your brain registers that it is not just a random noise, you slowly get up and walk towards your front door, looking through the peep hole.
Your eyes widen and you step back before opening the door. “Hey,” you greet Alex, and he offers a small smile, almost distracted. “Hey.”
You wait for him to explain why he is here, and he gets the gist, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Ugh, I thought you might like to come over and keep me company? I’m a little bored…”
A surprised laugh escapes you and he quirks an eyebrow, looking almost self-conscious. “Sorry,” you reassure, quieting down by placing a hand over your chest. “I didn’t expect that.”
“It’s just an invitation, you don’t have to accept,” he murmurs and you think over it for a second. The only time you were at his place was when you broke in. This time you’re being allowed to enter.
“I wasn’t going to break-in again you know,” you tease and he shakes his head with that smile of his. You’ve grown to really like it. “I figured I’d save myself from the jumpscare this time. Plus, I thought you might be scared of the storm.”
You grab your key and put on your slippers, following him to his flat. “Why would I be scared?” You furrow your eyebrows, confusion evident in your tone.
He doesn’t look at you as he unlocks his door, opening it to let you in. It looks as cosy as the first time you were here, and you feel a squeeze in your chest at being welcomed.
“You want something to drink?” He ignores your question as he makes a bee-line to his kitchen, and you follow suit, watching him from the doorway as he grabs a glass from one of his cupboards. You cross your arms, “are you afraid of thunderstorms?”
You wanted to tease him about it, but he glanced back at you and your heart seemed to stutter for a moment. “I find them comforting.”
The way he said it, the way he looked at you; warmth erupted in your chest and spread towards your face. Times like this make you find him very attractive, but you always try to bury those feelings. This time it feels harder to do so.
You hum, struggling to find words, but he beats you to it. “Surprisingly I enjoy your company. Is that so wrong?”
There it is again- his words send an arrow through your chest and dead centre into your heart, bullseye. You considered the possibility: you and Alex. Quite a fantasy.
But would it be realistic? Would he even be interested? Your lifestyles are so different. He is a freaking famous rockstar, he could probably have whoever he wanted. You’re not diminishing yourself, you know your worth. But you know there are women way ahead of you. Just a fact.
Then again, the way he looks at you, soft and intense through hooded eyes, it makes it feel possible.
“Maybe a little bit,” you gulp, and he shakes his head with a small grin, filling your glass with whatever drink he has on the counter. “Thanks,” your fingers graze as he passes it to you, and you convince yourself it is on purpose. No way is it accidental.
“Are you working now?” You walk back into the living room, finding yourselves sitting on opposite sides of his corner sofa. “I was, but I think it is time for a break.”
“Since when are you aware of the concept of a non-cigarette break?”
“Since I burnt out quite badly,” he sips from his own glass, and you hum, settling more into the cushions. “Has it ever been very bad?”
He almost whistles, “I used to read the dictionary before going to bed. Unironically.” You blink, “it wasn’t a method to knock yourself out?”
“Nope,” he smiles almost self-deprecatingly, “I took notes of words I liked to use for songs. My mates organised an intervention for me.”
You can’t help yourself when you exhale a choked laugh and he raises an eyebrow, “it was serious you know.”
“Oh no doubt,” you giggle at last, “I just can’t take that image out of my head.”
He watches you as you laugh, and something about it makes your laughter taper off sooner than it normally would.
“What?” you ask, a little more self-aware now, fingers tightening slightly around your cup. “Nothing,” he says, but there’s a softness there that wasn’t before. “Just—”
He doesn’t finish.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Just…?”
He exhales quietly through his nose, shaking his head like he’s dismissing his own thoughts. “You’re different here.”
Your brows knit. “Here as in… your flat?” A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “Maybe.”
You roll your eyes lightly, but there’s no bite to it. “Don’t get used to it. The weather shouldn’t be this shit for long.”
“I won’t,” he says easily, though it sounds like he might want to.
The storm outside cracks loudly, thunder rolling through the room in a low, heavy rumble. You instinctively glance toward the window, watching the rain streak against the glass.
“It’s worse now,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he replies, but he isn’t looking at the storm.
You feel it—his gaze again. It’s becoming a problem.
You shift slightly on the sofa, tucking one leg under you, trying to ground yourself in something normal. “So,” you say, clearing your throat a little, “no dictionary reading these days?”
“Retired the habit,” he nods. “Figured I should probably interact with real people instead.”
“Bold move, takes bravery.”
“Dangerous, even.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but your voice softens again without you meaning it to. “You’re doing alright so far.”
His expression flickers at that—something small, but noticeable.
“Why thank you. High praise coming from you,” he says, echoing his earlier tone from the balcony two weeks ago, though this time it lands quieter. More sincere.
You don’t deflect it, you just hold his gaze for a second too long.
And then another.
The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer.
The storm outside fills the silence, but it doesn’t feel loud anymore, just distant, like something happening far away from where you’re sitting now.
Your fingers tap lightly against your glass before you set it down on the table, needing something to do with your hands.
He mirrors you a second later.
Neither of you says anything. You swallow, glancing down briefly before looking back at him. He hasn’t looked away.
“Alex—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re about to say.
He leans forward slightly at the sound of his name, like he’s waiting for it.
You hesitate. And that hesitation seems to answer something for him.
“Can I—” he begins, then stops himself, jaw tightening just a fraction. He exhales, quieter this time. “Is this alright?”
You don’t ask what this is. You know.
And for a second, your brain tries to catch up—runs through every logical reason why this is complicated, why it might not be a good idea, why—
But none of them feel particularly important right now.
“Yeah,” you say, softer than you expected. You’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to, but you feel excitement bloom in your chest. That’s all it takes.
He closes the distance slowly, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. You don’t want to.
Your breath catches just slightly when he gets close enough, and for a moment he just hovers there, close, but not quite touching. His eyes flick between yours, searching, making sure.
Then his hand comes up, hesitant but deliberate, brushing lightly against your jaw. It’s gentle. More than you expected.
And then he kisses you.
Like he’s figuring it out as he goes, like he doesn’t want to get it wrong. It is so soft, so fragile. The weight of his lips is warm, grounding you into the pleasure of finally melting into the possibility of being something with him. Now what that could be, you don’t dwell on it.
Your hand finds his sleeve without thinking, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt as you lean into it, meeting him halfway.
The world narrows down to something small and quiet; just the warmth of him, the soft press of his lips, the faint smell of smoke and something distinctly him. What is it about him that makes him so encapsulating?
It lingers for a second longer than it probably should. Then he pulls back, just enough to look at you again.
There’s something unreadable in his expression now. Softer, but also a little uncertain. He is waiting for a response from you, reassurance.
You don’t let that sit for long. “Come here,” you breathe before pulling him in again, this time without hesitation.
You both smile into it, some type of relief rolling off you in waves as your arms wrap around each other.
When the thunder rolls outside, neither of you even glances at it.
Summary: Alex is not taking care of himself properly due to the workload he has, so the band decides to hire someone to help organise for him.
A/n: Nice little slow burn. Idk how it is considered a slow burn if it is in one post but oh well. I need more Alex Turner gifs and Tumblr does not have too many good ones T-T help a girl out, if you know a better place to find them. Also- omg Olivia Rodrigo's new album?? Best thing to bless my ears. If anyone wants me to write something with one of the songs as the prompt I would be very very excited to do so hehe. Writing another long fic in the meantime so hopefully that will be done soonish. I am just like that, writing multiple ones at the same time. Multitasker lol.
Warning: Smut, explicit sexual content
Word count: 6.8k
______________________________
"Alex," Matt calls out for what feels like the third time.
Alex finally looks up from the notebook he’s been scribbling in, blinking like he’s resurfacing from another planet. “What?”
That’s when he notices you standing beside Matt — proper office attire, crisp white button-down tucked into a fitted pencil skirt, hair neatly pulled back. You look like you belong in a boardroom, not in the middle of his chaotic creative den.
“Um… hi? Who are you?” Alex asks, eyebrows raised.
Matt gives you an apologetic glance. You wave it off with a small, professional smile.
“I’m here to help you,” you reply coolly, voice steady and unflinching.
Alex quirks an eyebrow, slowly lowering the notes he was working on. There’s a glint in his eyes — not quite amusement, but close. He clearly isn’t taking this seriously.
“Help me?” He looks at Matt. “Matt, what the hell is going on?”
“I hired her to get you organised,” Matt explains, crossing his arms. “Alleviate some of that stress you’ve been drowning in. You’re a mess, mate.”
You nod once, expression neutral, giving nothing away.
Alex lets out a disbelieving laugh, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not serious. Are you?”
“Dead serious,” Matt says. “We’ve tried helping you ourselves, but we don’t know how. So we found someone who has actual experience managing difficult people like you.”
“Difficult people like me,” Alex repeats, scoffing as he pushes his chair back and stands up. He approaches the two of you, hands settling on his hips as he looks you up and down. “No offence to you, miss, but I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Debatable,” you say smoothly, your gaze drifting pointedly to the absolute chaos behind him — papers scattered everywhere, empty coffee cups, guitar picks, half-eaten packets of crisps, and at least three different notebooks open to completely different pages. “You seem incapable of organising your thoughts, let alone your space.”
Alex’s jaw clenches. He glances at Matt, who is failing miserably at hiding his amused grin.
“Are you listening to this?” Alex asks, gesturing toward you.
“She’s not wrong,” Matt replies with a shrug.
Alex breathes in sharply, eyes narrowing at you. He didn’t expect the quick, sharp comeback. Most people tiptoed around him. You clearly didn’t plan on doing any tiptoeing.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Alex says, turning back to you. “I have my own creative process. I can’t have someone come in and mess it up. Plus—” He pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Have you even signed an NDA?”
“Already done,” Matt says, pulling the contract out like magic from behind his back and handing it over. “You don’t need to worry about anything leaving this room. Just give it a try, yeah? You genuinely worry us sometimes.”
Alex softens slightly at the real concern in Matt’s voice. He glances down at the contract, flipping through a couple of pages before letting out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Fine,” he mutters. “We’ll do a test run. You mess with my process, you’re out.”
“Sure,” you reply, completely unbothered by his attitude. Your calm confidence seems to annoy him even more.
“Have fun,” Matt says with a smirk, already turning on his heel. “Try not to kill each other.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you and Alex alone in the cluttered room.
You look around slowly, taking in the beautiful disaster that is Alex Turner’s creative space. Then you turn back to him with a small, challenging smile.
“Let’s see what this ‘creative process’ of yours really looks like then.”
Alex sticks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, clearly restraining himself from firing back immediately. His eyes linger on you a beat longer than necessary — equal parts irritated and intrigued.
This is going to be a very long day.
______________________________
A long day had somehow bled into two very long, very exhausting weeks.
Alex Turner had not made this easy for you. Not even slightly. He tested boundaries like it was his favourite hobby — moving things you had just organised, “forgetting” to tell you about important calls, leaving sarcastic little notes on your desk. And you, in return, had not made it easy for him either. You matched his energy with calm, unflinching professionalism and the occasional sharp remark that always landed perfectly. You had worked with difficult artists before. Ego-driven, chaotic, brilliant messes. He was no different.
Just prettier. And more stubborn.
“You’re late,” he huffs the moment the door opens behind him. He doesn’t even turn around, too busy scowling at the chaotic sprawl of lyric sheets covering his desk like fallen leaves after a storm.
“No, I’m not,” you reply coolly, stepping into the room with the calm confidence that you know irritates him to no end. You place the coffee cup precisely on the coaster you had bought after witnessing one of his near-meltdowns when a mug got too close to his sacred notes. “I was already in the building.”
“You weren’t in here,” he mutters, finally swivelling his chair to face you. His hair is slightly dishevelled today, dark circles prominent under his eyes. The nice button down from those first chaotic days has been replaced by a worn black hoodie, but the entitled, slightly chaotic rockstar energy remains fully intact.
“My shift starts now,” you say simply, refusing to rise to the bait as you set your bag down.
“Whatever,” he groans, reaching for the coffee like it’s a lifeline. He takes a long sip and mutters a reluctant, “Thanks.”
“Part of the job,” you reply, eyeing him with a touch of dry amusement. “Though those impressive raccoon eyes suggest you might need more than just caffeine. What exactly is keeping you up at night? The ghosts of unfinished choruses haunting your dreams?”
Alex leans back in his chair, coffee cup hovering near his lips, and gives you a withering look. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“That’s what you think,” you say lightly, not pushing. You have learned quickly that artists hate admitting they need help. Their egos are delicate, bruised easily by the mere suggestion that they are not perfectly in control. “So, tell me. Is there anything specific you want help with today, or should I just start figuring it out myself like usual?”
He stares at you for a long moment, slumped in his chair like a disgruntled king on a very messy throne. You can practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes — calculating, suspicious, and maybe just a little impressed despite himself.
“Yes,” he finally says.
You wait. He offers nothing else.
Before you can call him out on his deliberate vagueness, he swivels around dramatically, grabs a bright yellow sticky note covered in chaotic bullet points, and hands it over with a smug little tilt of his head. At the very top, you catch your name scribbled in his trademark chaotic chicken scratch.
You take the note and lean against the nearby bookshelf, scanning the list with a perfectly neutral expression. Categorise the entire vinyl collection by genre and then alphabetically. Cancel three old subscriptions he apparently forgot about. Organise the chaotic pile of tour memorabilia from the last five years. Reply to a stack of fan mail dating back to last September. It’s June.
Your jaw tightens slightly. He is clearly trying to break you with ridiculous, time-consuming tasks designed to make you quit.
From the corner of your eye, you see him cross his arms, watching you with barely concealed smugness, waiting for you to protest.
He thinks this will make you crack.
How adorable.
“Sure,” you say calmly, folding the note and slipping it into your pocket with deliberate poise. You push off the bookshelf and walk over to the small, neatly organised desk that was installed for you two weeks ago. “Expect all of this to be done within two hours.”
Alex’s face falls just slightly. The smug expression flickers.
You sit down, open your laptop, and start typing without another word. The corner of your mouth twitches upward when you feel his stare burning into the side of your head.
He has severely underestimated you.
They always do.
______________________________
It has been another month now.
The days have started to blur together in a strange, almost comfortable rhythm. Alex still doesn’t make anything easy for you — he is stubborn, sarcastic, and fiercely protective of his creative chaos. But you have noticed the subtle shift. He no longer fights you on every single task. Sometimes he even asks for your opinion, clearing his throat awkwardly when he feels lost and doesn’t quite know how to ask for help directly.
It is his version of progress. You appreciate it more than he will ever know. Most artists take far longer to crack, or they never do at all.
Right now, you are watching him from your desk across the room. Alex is tapping his pencil against his chin, brow furrowed in deep concentration. The late afternoon light filters through the windows, catching on the sharp lines of his face and the faint stubble along his jaw. He looks tired but focused — that quiet intensity that always makes your chest feel a little tighter than it should. He is back to wearing his favourite button downs, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the veins on his forearms as he writes.
A frustrated groan suddenly escapes him. He pushes his palm against his forehead and lets his head fall back against the chair with a dramatic thud, eyes squeezed shut.
That is your cue.
“Alright,” you say, pushing your chair back and walking over to him. Your footsteps are soft on the wooden floor. “What is it now?”
He glances at you through the gaps in his fingers, then slowly lowers his hand. His eyes are tired but sharp as they meet yours. “I’m stuck. I don’t know how to word… this.”
He slides the notebook toward you across the desk. You stare at it for a second, genuinely surprised. In the two months you have been here, he has never asked for your opinion on actual lyrics. You are not a lyricist. You are here to organise his life, not step into the sacred, messy heart of his creativity.
“You know I’m not a lyricist, right?” you tease, tone light as you pick up the notebook. “I don’t know anything about this kind of stuff.”
Alex shifts in his seat, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment. “I value your opinion,” he mutters, almost under his breath.
Your eyes widen. That… you did not expect.
He must see the shock written all over your face because he immediately huffs, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Geez, if you don’t want to help—”
“No, no, no!” You quickly press the notebook against your chest before he can snatch it back. “I want to. I mean… I can try.”
You lean against the edge of his desk, scanning the page. The lyrics are raw, fragmented, typical of his process — beautiful pieces that haven’t quite found their shape yet. You read them slowly, letting the words settle in your mind. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the occasional tap of his pencil against the desk.
After a moment, you speak carefully.
“This part here,” you point to a specific line, “it’s strong. Really strong. The imagery is vivid. But the one after it feels… a little forced. Like you’re trying to make it rhyme instead of letting it breathe.”
Alex watches you intently, arms crossed over his chest, saying nothing. You continue, gaining a little confidence.
“And this image — the ‘ghost in the hallway’ one — I love it. But maybe you could make it more personal. Less abstract. It feels like you’re holding back a little.”
He stays quiet for a long beat. You start to worry you’ve overstepped your bounds.
Then he lets out a low breath and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re right.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“You’re right,” he repeats, almost begrudgingly. There is the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been forcing that second verse for two days. Didn’t want to admit it.”
You can’t help the small, victorious grin that spreads across your face. “So the great Alex Turner can admit when he’s wrong? I should mark this day in the calendar.”
“Don’t push it,” he warns, but there’s no real bite in his voice. His eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Immensely,” you reply, setting the notebook back down. “It’s not every day I get to watch a brooding rockstar swallow his pride.”
Alex leans back in his chair, studying you with that intense, unreadable look he sometimes gets. The tension between you feels different today — softer around the edges, less combative. The air is charged, but not with irritation.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly, almost to himself.
You raise an eyebrow, heart beating a little faster. “What did you expect?”
“Someone who would nod and agree with everything I said. Someone easier to ignore.” He pauses, then adds, softer, “Not someone who calls me out every single time and still makes me want to listen.”
You feel warmth bloom in your chest. You try to play it cool, but your voice comes out gentler than intended. “Good thing you got me instead, then.”
Alex holds your gaze for a long moment. Something shifts in the air between you — subtle, but undeniable. The walls he had built so carefully during those first weeks feel thinner now. Almost transparent.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low. “Good thing.”
The silence that follows is comfortable. Not awkward. Not charged with frustration like it used to be. Just… warm.
You clear your throat softly and step back from his desk, trying to regain some professionalism. “Well… if you want, I can help you workshop that verse a bit more. Only if you want.”
Alex watches you for another second, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
For the first time in two months, he doesn’t sound annoyed by the idea of your help.
He sounds almost relieved.
______________________________
Some time later, it is well past midnight, and the studio feels different in the quiet hours.
The overhead lights have been switched off long ago. Only the warm, golden glow of a single desk lamp remains, casting long, intimate shadows across the cluttered space. Vinyl records lean haphazardly against the walls, half-empty coffee cups form a small city on the side table, and scattered lyric sheets cover every surface like fallen snow. The faint hum of the outside world far below is the only sound besides the occasional scratch of Alex’s pen against paper.
You should have gone home hours ago.
Instead, you are still here — curled up on the worn leather couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, shirt long untucked from your skirt and hair let loose, pretending to organise his overflowing, upcoming tour schedule while really just keeping a quiet eye on him. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor in nearly four hours. His shoulders are tense, hair messy from the countless times he has run his hands through it in frustration. He looks exhausted, but he won’t stop. He needs one more song for the album, and time is running out.
You watch him quietly from across the room. The way the lamplight catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the deep furrow between his brows, the subtle movement of his lips as he mouths words to himself. There is something undeniably beautiful about him in moments like this — completely absorbed, brilliant, and quietly tormented by his own standards. But tonight, you also see something else: the weight he carries. The perfectionism that borders on self-destruction.
This is not just ambition. It is something deeper. A relentless need to chase an impossible standard, as if one imperfect line could unravel everything he has built. You have seen glimpses of it before, but never this clearly. Never this raw.
A frustrated groan suddenly escapes him. He pushes his palm hard against his forehead and lets his head fall back against the sofa with a heavy thud, eyes squeezed shut in defeat.
“Okay,” you say softly, closing your laptop and walking over to him. Your footsteps are practically silent, having taken your heels off hours ago. “What is it?”
He glances at you; his eyes are tired, red-rimmed, but when they meet yours, there is something different in them tonight. Less guarded. More open. Almost vulnerable.
“I’m stuck,” he admits, voice rough with exhaustion. “This doesn’t feel right. None of these combinations are working. It’s close… but it’s not there. It’s never fucking there.”
He slides the notebook toward you across the floor. You lower yourself down beside him without hesitation, sitting with your knees together on the worn rug. The notebook feels heavy in your hands as you scan the page. The lyrics are raw, fragmented, beautiful in their imperfection — but you can see why he is frustrated. They hover just short of something transcendent.
You read them slowly, letting the words settle. The silence between you is comfortable now, no longer laced with the sharp edges of the beginning of your professional relationship.
After a long moment, you speak gently.
“This line here,” you point to a specific verse, “it’s haunting. I can almost see it. But the one after it… it feels like you’re trying to force it to match. Like you’re scared to let it be simpler.”
Alex watches you intently, saying nothing at first. His shoulders are still tense, but he is listening. Really listening.
You continue, voice soft. “You don’t have to make every line perfect, Alex. Sometimes the power comes from the space between them. From what you don’t say.”
He lets out a long, tired breath and runs both hands through his hair, messing it up further. For a moment, he looks younger. More human.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know that. But I can’t… I can’t let it be anything less than perfect. If it’s not right, then what’s the point? People expect something extraordinary. They expect me to be extraordinary. And if I fail…” He trails off, staring at the notebook like it holds all his fears. “Then I’m just another pretentious arse who peaked too early.”
The vulnerability in his voice hits you harder than you expect. This is not the arrogant, sarcastic man who fought you at every turn during those first weeks. This is someone carrying an enormous weight — the fear of not being enough, of disappointing everyone who believes in him, including himself.
You set the notebook down gently between you.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” you say quietly. “Not with me. Not tonight.”
Alex looks at you then. Really looks. His eyes are tired but searching, like he is seeing you clearly for the first time. The silence stretches, soft and heavy with understanding.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The lamp flickers slightly.
Then Alex reaches out slowly and takes the notebook back. His fingers brush yours — brief, accidental, but neither of you pulls away immediately.
“Thank you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “For staying. For seeing… this.”
You smile gently, something warm blooming in your chest.
“Anytime.”
He doesn’t reply. He just nods, a small, grateful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And in that small, quiet moment, sitting on the studio floor at 2 a.m., you realise something important:
You are no longer just his organiser.
You are starting to see the real him.
And he is starting to let you.
______________________________
It has been a couple of weeks since that late night in the studio.
The album is finally complete. The crushing pressure has lifted, leaving behind a strange, almost lazy calm that feels foreign in this space. No more frantic rewrites. No more lyric sheets covering every surface. The studio feels lighter now — windows cracked open, sunlight pouring in during the afternoons, music playing at a comfortable volume instead of the intense, focused silence that used to dominate the room.
You are at your desk sorting through the last of the admin work — finalising tour logistics, organising interview schedules, politely declining brand deal offers that Alex keeps ignoring. It is mindless but satisfying. You have grown used to this new rhythm with him. The sharp edges of those first weeks have softened, replaced by something quieter. Almost comfortable.
Alex is across the room, sprawled lazily on the worn leather couch with his laptop balanced on his stomach. He is supposedly answering emails, but you catch him scrolling more than typing. He looks relaxed in a way you have rarely seen — black t-shirt, hair well-kept, legs stretched out across the cushions. The usual intense, brooding energy has mellowed into something softer. Almost domestic.
“You’re still here,” he says without looking up, a hint of amusement colouring his voice. “I thought you’d have run away by now. Found a less difficult employer.”
You glance over at him, pen tapping rhythmically against your notepad. “Someone has to make sure you don’t disappear into another creative black hole. You’re impossible to manage.”
He finally looks up, meeting your eyes across the room. There is a slow, lazy smirk tugging at his lips, but his gaze lingers a second longer than it used to. The air between you feels different these days — charged in a way that has nothing to do with frustration.
“Yet here I am,” he replies, voice low and deliberate, holding your gaze. “Managed.”
The words hang in the air between you. Neither of you looks away immediately. The silence stretches just a beat too long, thick with something unspoken. You feel it in your chest — that subtle shift that has been growing for weeks. The banter no longer feels purely professional. It feels personal. Intimate, even.
You clear your throat and look back down at your notes, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “You’re welcome, by the way. Your schedule is actually readable now. You’re welcome to thank me anytime.”
Alex chuckles softly, but he doesn’t look away. His eyes stay on you, darker than usual, more intent. Like he is really seeing you. Not just the organiser who keeps his life together, but you — the woman who calls him out, challenges him.
“You’re enjoying this power trip far too much,” he says, setting his laptop aside and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Only because you make it so easy,” you shoot back, glancing up again. Your eyes meet his. This time, the contact lingers. The room feels smaller. Warmer. The usual teasing has shifted — no longer just about work or his chaos. It is about the two of you. About the way he looks at you when he thinks you are not paying attention. About the way your heart skips when he says your name a little softer than necessary.
Alex tilts his head slightly, studying you with that intense, unreadable look he sometimes gets. “You know, most people would have quit after the first week. You just… stayed. Called me out. Fixed my mess. Why?”
The question feels heavier than it should. You shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your pulse quickens. “Because someone has to keep you from self-destructing. And maybe I like a challenge. But, if we’re being honest, you’re not as bad as you think you are.”
He smiles slowly, but there is something softer underneath it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
Your breath catches. The tension that has been simmering for weeks feels closer to the surface now — no longer hidden behind sharp remarks and eye rolls. It is warmer. Deeper. More dangerous.
“You say that,” you reply, voice quieter than you intend. “But you haven’t fired me yet.”
Alex holds your gaze for a long moment. His eyes darken just slightly. “Maybe I like the challenge too.”
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy with everything neither of you has said out loud. You hold his gaze longer than you should. He doesn’t look away either. The air between you crackles with a new kind of tension — not frustration anymore, but something warmer. More intimate. More inevitable.
Alex is the first to break it, leaning back with a small, almost self-conscious laugh. But his eyes stay on you.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. “Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you actually enjoy being here.”
You tilt your head, a small, teasing smile playing on your lips. “Maybe I do.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. The tension snaps tighter. Alex’s eyes darken further. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the faint music playing in the background and the rapid beat of your own heart.
He opens his mouth to say something — then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just looks at you.
And you realise, with a quiet thrill running down your spine, that the dynamic between you has definitely shifted.
It is no longer just boss and assistant.
It is something else entirely.
______________________________
It has been three weeks since you last saw him in person.
The album is out. The tour has begun. Everything is scheduled to perfection — interviews, soundchecks, travel, press — and Alex has not needed you on the road with him. “Call if anything comes up,” you had said casually during your last meeting, like it was nothing. Like the two of you had not spent months tangled together in that studio every single day.
You tell yourself it is fine. Professional, even. You are his organiser, not his shadow. But the silence feels heavier than it should. His texts are short and work-related. Your replies are equally professional. Neither of you admits how strange it feels not to be stuck together for hours every day.
Until tonight.
Your phone rings while you are curled up on the couch with a book. The name on the screen makes your heart skip.
Alex Turner
You answer on the second ring, trying to sound casual.
“Hello?”
There is a beat of silence, then his voice — low, warm, a little tired. “Hey. It’s me.”
“I know,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “What’s up?”
He clears his throat. You can hear the faint noise of a venue in the background — distant voices, equipment being moved. “We’re playing Manchester tomorrow night. It’s close to you. I thought… maybe you’d want to come. Not for work. Just… to enjoy yourself, you know? If you’re free.”
Your stomach flips. He has never invited you to a show before. Not like this.
“I haven’t seen you perform live yet,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’d love to.”
“Yeah?” There is a smile in his voice now. “Good. I’ll put your name on the list. Come backstage after, alright?”
“Alright.”
The call ends shortly after, but you sit there for a long time, phone still in your hand, heart beating too fast.
The next night, the venue is electric.
You arrive early, nerves buzzing under your skin. The crowd is loud and eager, the air thick with anticipation. When the lights finally drop and the band walks on stage, the roar is deafening.
And then there is Alex.
He looks every inch the rockstar — black shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly jelled. The moment he steps up to the mic, the crowd loses it. You stand near the side of the stage, heart in your throat, watching him command the room like it belongs to him.
His voice is raw and powerful. The way he moves, the way he holds the mic, the way his eyes scan the crowd — it is magnetic. You have seen him vulnerable in the studio, frustrated, soft. But this? This is a different side of him. Confident. Commanding. Alive.
During one of the slower songs, his eyes find you in the wings. For a second, the whole world narrows. He doesn’t smile, but something in his expression changes — softer, almost private. Your breath catches at how he looks.
The show ends in an explosion of lights and sound. The crowd is screaming for an encore. You slip backstage as instructed, nerves and excitement twisting together.
You wait in the green room, heart pounding. When the door finally opens and Alex walks in, still buzzing from the stage, sweat on his skin and adrenaline in his eyes, the air shifts instantly.
He stops when he sees you. For a moment, both of you just stare.
“You came,” he says, voice rough from singing.
“I told you I would.”
He closes the door behind him. The room feels smaller. The noise of the crew outside fades into the background.
“You were incredible,” you say honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Alex walks closer, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile, a little shy. “The way you own the stage… it’s different from how you are in the studio. More… sure of yourself.”
He stops a few feet away, eyes locked on yours. The usual banter is there, but underneath it is something heavier. Deeper.
“You looked good out there,” he admits, startingly, voice lower. “In the wings. Watching me.”
You are taken completely aback, throat drying up. “You saw me?”
“I always see you.”
The silence stretches. The tension that has been building for weeks feels ready to snap. You are both acutely aware of how close you are standing. How alone you are. How long it has been since you were in the same room.
Alex takes another small step forward. “I missed having you around,” he confesses quietly. “My days felt too quiet without you calling me out on my shit every five minutes.”
You laugh softly, but your heart is racing. “I missed it too. More than I thought I would.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The air between you feels thick, electric. His eyes drop to your lips for a split second.
Then, without warning, he closes the distance.
The kiss is sudden. Hungry. Weeks of tension exploding in a single moment. His hand slides into your hair as his mouth moves against yours, desperate and deep. You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his damp shirt, pulling him closer.
He backs you against the wall, one hand bracing beside your head, the other sliding down your side. The kiss deepens, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling. It is messy. Urgent. Perfect.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, forehead resting against yours for a second. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
You pull him back in, kissing him harder. His hands roam — down your waist, over your hips, pulling you flush against him. You can feel how much he wants you. How much you both want this.
You break apart only when you need air, both of you breathing hard, eyes locked.
Alex’s thumb brushes your bottom lip, voice rough. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You don’t tell him to stop.
Instead, you reel him back in.
His mouth crashes into yours, hands sliding down your body like he’s afraid you might disappear. You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his damp shirt, pulling him closer.
“We can’t do this here,” you gasp between kisses, even as you arch into him.
“I know,” he growls, biting your bottom lip. “My hotel. Now.”
You barely make it out of the venue without drawing too much attention. Alex keeps a hand on your lower back the whole way, guiding you through back hallways and out a side exit where a car is already waiting. The ride to the hotel is pure torture — his hand on your thigh, sliding higher under your skirt, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear while the driver pretends not to notice. You bite your lip to stay quiet, but every time his fingers brush higher, a soft whimper escapes you.
By the time the elevator opens in the hotel, you are both breathing hard.
The second the doors shut, Alex pushes you against the mirrored wall, kissing you like he’s starving. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as he grinds against you.
“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groans against your mouth. “Seeing you in that skirt every day, bending over my desk, teasing… you have no idea.”
You moan as his fingers slip under your underwear at long last, finding you soaked. “Alex—”
“Say my name again,” he demands, voice rough. “I’ve been dying to hear you moan it.”
The elevator dings on his floor. He barely pulls his hand away in time. You stumble down the hallway together, half-kissing, half-laughing, until he gets the keycard into the lock.
The door barely shuts before he’s on you again.
He spins you around, pressing you against the wall, mouth on your neck as he yanks your skirt up around your waist. “This fucking skirt,” he growls, palming your arse. “You wore it to torture me, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” you gasp, pushing back against him.
He drops to his knees, yanking your panties down your legs. Before you can catch your breath, his mouth is on you — hot, wet, and relentless. He licks broad stripes through your folds, then sucks hard on your clit, two fingers sliding inside you without warning.
“Fuck— Alex!” you cry out, hand flying to his hair.
He groans against you, the vibration making your knees buckle. “Taste so fucking good. Been thinking about this for weeks. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me… I wanted to drop to my knees and eat you out until you couldn’t stand.”
He fucks you with his fingers and tongue, relentless, until you come hard, thighs shaking around his head, moaning his name like a prayer.
He stands up, spinning you around and guiding you to the bed. You hear his belt buckle, the sound of his zipper. You help him out of his jeans, and not being able to wait any longer, allow him to slip in.
“Fuck,” he groans, bottoming out. “So tight. So perfect.”
He fucks you hard and deep, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip. Every thrust is punctuated with filthy praise.
“Look at you,” he pants. “You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about this. About bending you over my desk and fucking you until you couldn’t walk.”
You moan loudly, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Harder, Alex. Please—”
He gives you what you want, slamming into you with punishing strokes. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mixed with your desperate moans and his low groans.
When you come again, clenching tightly around him, he follows right after, burying himself deep as he spills inside you with a broken groan of your name.
You stay like that for a long moment — him still inside you, arms wrapped around you from behind, both of you breathing hard.
Alex presses soft kisses along your shoulder, voice hoarse but full of affection.
“I’ve wanted you for so fucking long,” he whispers. “Not just like this. All of you.”
You smile, turning your head to kiss him softly. “You have me now.”
He pulls out gently, and kisses you deeply, cradling your face in his hands like you are something precious. His eyes are dark but incredibly soft as he looks at you, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.
“Come here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
He lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the centre of the bed, laying you down like you’re something fragile. He disappears for a moment into the bathroom and returns with a warm, damp cloth. Without a word, he gently cleans you up, his touch tender and careful. Then he climbs into bed beside you, pulling the covers over both of you and immediately drawing you into his arms.
You settle against his chest, one leg thrown over his, your head tucked under his chin. His fingers trace slow, soothing patterns up and down your bare back. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
For a while, neither of you speaks. Just breathing. Just being close.
Then Alex lets out a soft, amused huff.
“So…” he starts, voice low and teasing, “how exactly are we supposed to work together now?”
You smile against his skin, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “That’s a very good question, Mr. Turner. You’re still my boss. Technically.”
“Technically,” he repeats, the word laced with amusement. His hand slides down to squeeze your hip. “But I just fucked my assistant against a wall and then the bed. Pretty sure that breaks several HR rules we don’t even have.”
You laugh softly, the sound vibrating against his chest. “We barely had boundaries.”
“Clearly,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in his voice. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m serious though. I don’t want this to make things weird. You’re… important. To the work. To me.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are warm, a little vulnerable in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
“I don’t want it to be weird either,” you say honestly. “But I also don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen. Or that I don’t want it to happen again.”
Alex’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “Good. Because I definitely want it to happen again. Preferably when I’m not covered in post-show sweat and you’re not wearing the skirt that’s been torturing me for months.”
You grin, shifting closer so your bodies press together under the sheets. “The skirt stays. It clearly had an effect.”
“Oh, it did,” he groans, rolling you slightly so you’re half on top of him. “Every single time you wore it, I had to stop myself. You have no idea how many times I had to excuse myself because of you.”
You laugh, burying your face in his neck. “You should have done something. Would have made those long days a lot more interesting.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm, his arms tightening around you. “Next time you bend over my desk, I’m not holding back. Fair warning.”
“Deal,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his throat.
The playful energy settles into something quieter. Alex’s hand strokes slowly up and down your back, soothing and possessive at the same time.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he whispers after a while. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Not just like this. All of you. The way you challenge me. The way you see through my bullshit. The way you make me want to be better.”
You lift your head to look at him again. His eyes are sincere, a little raw.
“I’ve wanted you too,” you admit softly. “Even when you were being an absolute pain in the ass. Especially then.”
He smiles, leaning in to kiss you — slow, deep, and full of affection. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“So… we’re doing this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “For real?”
You nod, brushing your nose against his. “We’re doing this.”
He lets out a relieved breath and pulls you even closer, wrapping you up completely in his arms. You settle against him, legs tangled, hearts beating in sync.
The future might be complicated. Work, public perception, the demands of his career. But right now, in this quiet hotel room, none of that matters.
There is only the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet certainty that you both finally stopped fighting what you’ve wanted.
Alex presses one last kiss to your forehead as sleep starts to pull you under.
I check your acc almost every day im in love with how consistent your fics are beings uploaded 🫶 I love your fics smm
OMG T-T you sent that and then I proceeded to disappear for like a week... Hopefully I haven't disappointed you darling I had uni stuff to deal with- managed to prove my work is in fact my work so being accused about AI usage was very very stressful. I WILL BE BACK SHORTLY!!! HOPEFULLY TODAY I UPLOAD SOMETHING <3
On AI? As in Artificial Intelligence?? This is so creepy- the timing of your question rip. I just got an email from my uni a few days ago telling me one of my essays got flagged for using AI and they have to review it. Dude-
I HATE AI. Ruining our lives and making us dumber I swear. Lazier at least. I am genuinely so stressed despite knowing it is fully my original work. I put through zerogpt my essay and tell me why it said it was 34 percent 'AI detected language' and bitch it highlighted the essay question and THE DATE as some of the AI stuff T-T. I then plugged in my highest graded essay AND IT SAID 94 PERCENT AI LIKE HELLO??
Genuinely believe that just because it is formal language the detector thinks it is AI. It is an academic paper obv it is going to be formal.
Hope that answers your question hehe. In all honesty though it can be used as a great tool- but it is simply that. It is not meant to replace anyone, or our cognitive functions. I have too many people in my life who use it for any inconvenience they have and it really grinds my gears. Instead of doing a simple google search or, idk use their BRAIN, they run straight to chatgpt. Ridiculous.
It ruins lives I'll tell you that. I'm scared it might ruin mine...
Summary: You, a professional interviewer, are interviewing Alex Turner for an article and video. Best believe, it goes disastrously.
A/n: Tell me why- when I complained some days ago that I couldn't find good Alex gifs somehow now I get a whole new selection?? Tumblr you are sus. I appreciate it tho hehe. Now- I really had fun writing this. I honestly would continue it more but I just have a gazillion scenarios in my head that I want to write about so if anyone wants me to write another part for this I'll very happily do so! I love requests, love when people like my own scenarios. I am just happy to write!
Word count: 4.2k
______________________________
You're looking over your notes when someone calls your name, and you look up to see your assistant waving you over. Well- the department's assistant. You're not paid enough to have your own.
"He's waiting in the lounge," she informs and you nod, about to take one last glance at your notes but she nudges you for your attention. In a whisper, she says "you might want to hurry. He does not seem like he is in a great mood."
That catches your attention, a tinge of dread taking over. It never ends well when the interviewee is grumpy. You're hoping she misread the situation.
You take one steadying breath before pushing open the door to the interview room.
The energy inside is immediately heavy. Alex Turner is slouched deep in the armchair you had carefully arranged with good lighting and a flattering angle. His long legs are spread out in front of him, arms tightly crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the leather jacket he’s wearing. His jaw is clenched, eyes half-lidded and staring somewhere near the floor, expression distant and bored. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
This is going to be painful.
“Hi, Alex,” you greet warmly, walking over with your most professional smile and extending your hand. “Thank you so much for taking the time to do this today.”
He glances up at you slowly, almost reluctantly, before uncrossing one arm just long enough to shake your hand. His grip is firm but brief, and he drops it immediately, returning his arm to its defensive position across his chest.
“Hi,” he mutters. His voice is low, flat, and completely devoid of enthusiasm.
You sit down opposite him, smoothing your skirt and trying to maintain your composure. “Can I get you anything before we start? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
He gives the smallest shake of his head, eyes flicking toward the window instead of you. “I’m fine.”
You nod, forcing your smile to stay in place as you set up the recorder on the low table between you. “Great. Are you okay if we start recording now?”
Another indifferent shrug. “Sure.”
You press the record button, the soft red light blinking to life. You lean back slightly, pen in hand, and begin with your warmest tone.
“Well, it’s wonderful to have you here, Alex. You and the band are currently dominating the music scene. AM has been an incredible success — how does it feel to go from a cult favourite to one of the biggest bands in the world right now?”
Alex doesn’t even look at you. His eyes stay fixed on a spot on the carpet, jaw working slightly like he’s already tired of this. After a long pause, he finally answers.
“It’s great.”
You wait for more. Nothing comes.
You shift in your seat, trying again. “Would you like to elaborate on that? It must be quite an exciting time — the charts, the critical acclaim, the sold-out shows…”
He sighs through his nose, the sound loud and impatient. His arms tighten across his chest as he slouches even deeper into the chair. “It’s… fine. Good. Whatever.”
Your fingers tighten around your pen. You can feel the camera crew subtly shifting behind you, sensing the tension.
“Okay,” you say, keeping your voice light but professional. “And with this success, you’re heading out on your biggest tour yet. Is there any particular city or venue you’re most looking forward to? A homecoming show in Sheffield, perhaps?”
Alex finally lifts his gaze to you, but it’s unimpressed. Almost irritated. “Every show feels pretty much the same.”
You visibly grimace before you can stop yourself. That is not the kind of quote you can run in a published interview.
You try one more time, smiling through the growing frustration. “Surely there must be something special about certain nights? The energy of the crowd, the atmosphere in different countries—”
“Look,” he cuts in, voice low and edged with clear annoyance. He uncrosses his arms just to gesture vaguely with one hand before crossing them again. “I show up, I play the songs, people clap. That’s it. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
The silence that follows is brutal.
You stare at him, eyebrows raised. His body language screams discomfort — shoulders hunched, jaw tight, eyes avoiding yours like this whole thing is physically painful for him. He looks like a caged animal who’d rather chew his own leg off than be here answering questions.
“Wow,” you say, unable to keep the sharpness out of your voice any longer. “That’s… incredibly enthusiastic. I’m sure your fans will be thrilled to hear how passionate you are about the tour they’ve spent months waiting for and saving up to see.”
Alex’s eyes snap to yours properly for the first time. There’s a flash of surprise in them, followed quickly by something sharper. Defensive. Almost impressed.
“You want me to lie?” he challenges, tone biting. “Tell them it’s all magical and life-changing? It’s a job. A loud, exhausting, repetitive job.”
You lean forward slightly, refusing to be intimidated. “No, I don’t want you to lie. But I also don’t think it’s too much to ask for something other than one-word answers and the musical equivalent of a shrug. You’re Alex Turner. People want to hear from you — not a brick wall with nice hair and a bad attitude.”
A beat of charged silence fills the room.
Alex’s lips twitch. It’s almost a smirk, but there’s genuine surprise in his eyes now. He uncrosses his arms and leans forward slightly, finally giving you his full attention.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he mutters, voice lower, almost amused in a dry, unimpressed way. “Didn’t expect that.”
You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “And I didn’t expect the most talked-about musician of the year to give answers like a bored teenager being forced to talk to his aunt at Christmas. Yet here we are.”
Alex lets out a short, humourless huff and slouches back into the armchair, arms crossing over his chest again like a shield. His head tilts slightly as he looks at you, eyes narrowed.
“Alright,” he drawls, the Sheffield accent thickening with irritation. “What do you want me to say? That I’m ‘living the dream’? That every night on stage is ‘magical’ and I cry tears of joy after every show? Is that what your readers want?”
His tone is dripping with sarcasm. He gestures lazily with one hand, clearly fed up.
“I show up. I play the songs. People scream. Then I go home. That’s it. There’s your quote. Print that.”
You feel your jaw tighten. The camera is still rolling, and you can practically see the headlines writing themselves.
“That’s incredibly helpful, thank you,” you reply, your own voice edged with sarcasm now. “I’m sure your fans will be thrilled to know that touring the album they’ve waited years for feels about as exciting as waiting in line at the post office.”
Alex’s eyebrows lift slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching again — not a smile, more like he’s surprised you’re still pushing.
“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?” he says, voice flat. “Fine. What do you want? Poetry? Should I tell them how the lights hit the crowd and make me feel ‘alive’? How every city blurs into one big sweaty mess of noise and expectation?”
He rubs a hand over his face, clearly exhausted and done with the entire situation.
“Look, love… I’m here because I have to be. Not because I enjoy sitting in rooms like this, answering the same questions for the hundredth time. So if you want me to lie and sound like a proper pop star, I’m happy to make something up. Otherwise, this is what you get.”
The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You stare at him, pen frozen above your notebook. His body language is screaming reluctance — shoulders hunched, legs sprawled like he owns the room but doesn’t want to be in it, eyes half-lidded with boredom and irritation.
You let out a slow breath, trying to regain control of the interview.
“Fair enough,” you say coolly. “Then let’s talk about something else. The new sound on AM — it’s a big departure from your earlier work. Was that a conscious decision, or did it just happen organically?”
Alex sighs through his nose, head falling back against the chair as he stares at the ceiling.
“It just happened,” he answers dully. “Next question.”
You press your lips together, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. This is quickly becoming one of the worst interviews you’ve ever done.
“You’re really making this difficult,” you mutter, half under your breath.
Alex’s gaze snaps back to you.
“Welcome to my world, darling. Get used to it.”
______________________________
As disrespected and enraged as you felt after the interview, your job was still on the line. You genuinely didn’t want to disappoint the fans or paint the band in a terrible light. So you spent hours that evening hunched over your laptop, desperately trying to salvage what you could.
You cut, trimmed, rephrased, and softened. You pulled out every positive fragment you could find, even the half-hearted grunts that could maybe pass for thoughtful if read generously. You added context, tried to frame his short answers as “brooding introspection,” and wrote a glowing introduction about how influential AM had been. You worked until your eyes burned, hoping against hope that you could turn that trainwreck into something passable.
But no amount of editing could completely hide the truth. His disdain had bled through every syllable. In the end, you submitted the piece with a heavy heart, knowing it was the best you could do without straight-up fabricating quotes.
The article went live a week later.
You’re sitting on your sofa in comfy clothes the morning after, a large coffee in hand, when you finally brave the internet. The moment you open the comments section and social media reactions, your eyes widen.
The internet has not been kind to Alex.
@arcticfairy92: “Did anyone else see the video?? Bro was acting like she personally ruined his day 😭 She was so professional and he gave the most dry answers known to man.”
@monkeysdaily: “That ‘every show feels the same’ quote… we waited 4 years for this album and he can’t even pretend to be excited?? I’m actually disappointed.”
@turnerenthusiast: “She called him out so politely and he still acted like a brick wall with nice hair LMAOOO. Iconic journalist. Terrible interviewee.”
@alexturnerhatersclub: “Not her saying ‘a brick wall with nice hair’ on camera 💀 I’m deceased. She ate him up.”
You almost choke on your coffee when you read that one. You didn’t think that line would make the final cut, but apparently the video snippet of the interview had gone mildly viral too. Clips of Alex’s deadpan responses and your increasingly pointed comebacks were everywhere.
@sheffieldsh00ter: “He was so rude omg. She tried so hard to give him good questions and he just kept shrugging. My respect for her went way up.”
@arcticmonkeys4life: “I love Alex but this was rough. He looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. Hope he’s okay but damn… the fans deserved better.”
Some fans were more defensive:
@turnerdefence: “You guys are dramatic. He’s always been like this in interviews. He hates doing press. Leave him alone.”
But the majority seemed to be on your side, praising how you handled the situation with grace while still pushing back. A few edits of the interview were already circulating with captions like “When the journalist has more personality than the rockstar” and “POV: You pay for an interview and get this energy.”
You set your phone down for a moment, leaning back into the cushions and closing your eyes. A strange mix of emotions swirls in your chest — warmth from the unexpected support, but also a heavy knot of anxiety. You can already imagine the emails waiting for you at the office. The label might not be happy. The band’s management definitely won’t be. And your boss… well, you’re not sure whether she’ll praise you for getting such a raw interview or scold you for not magically making him sound enthusiastic.
You rub your temples, sighing deeply.
This was supposed to be a standard profile piece.
Instead, it feels like you just accidentally started a minor internet war.
You glance at the clock. You still have to go into the office today. The thought makes your stomach twist. Part of you wants to stay buried under your blanket and avoid the consequences. The other part knows you have to face whatever storm is coming.
With one last deep breath, you stand up and head to get ready, muttering under your breath:
“This is going to be a long day.”
______________________________
You push open the glass doors of the office building with a knot the size of a fist lodged in your stomach. The article has been live for less than twenty-four hours, and the internet has already turned the interview into a spectacle. Clips of Alex’s dry responses and your increasingly pointed comebacks are circulating on Twitter, Youtube, and music forums. You keep replaying the worst moments in your head as you ride the elevator up — his bored shrug, the way he barely looked at you, the flat “every show feels the same.”
You’re bracing yourself for a reprimand. Maybe even a formal warning. Your boss has always been fair, but this is Alex Turner. The label is powerful. One bad interview could damage relationships that took years to build.
When you reach your boss’s office, she’s already waiting with the door open. Instead of the stern expression you expected, she waves you in with a calm, almost amused smile.
“Close the door and have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the comfortable chair across from her desk. “We need to talk about the Turner piece.”
You sit down slowly, back straight, hands clasped tightly in your lap. “Before you say anything, I know it got heated. I tried my best to edit it into something usable, but his answers were—”
Your boss raises a hand gently, cutting you off. “Relax. I’m not upset with you.”
You blink, genuinely surprised. “You’re… not?”
“Not at all,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a small, genuine smile. “In fact, I thought you handled it exceptionally well. Alex Turner has a reputation in this industry for being difficult in interviews. Some of the most experienced journalists we’ve worked with have come out of meetings with him with almost nothing usable. You got him talking. You pushed back when he gave you nothing. That takes skill.”
You let out a shaky breath, some of the tension in your shoulders finally easing. “I was worried the label would be furious. I tried so hard to soften his answers, but there wasn’t much to work with. He was… really not in the mood.”
Your boss nods, understanding. “They were annoyed at first. They called this morning, actually.” She pauses, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “And they apologized. On his behalf.”
Your mouth falls open slightly. “They… apologized?”
“Mm-hmm. First time I’ve seen a major label move that fast. They said he wasn’t in the right headspace that day and that his behavior was unprofessional. They thanked us for handling the situation with professionalism and said they hope it doesn’t affect future collaborations.”
You sit back in your chair, stunned into silence. The knot in your stomach slowly unravels, replaced by a strange mix of relief and disbelief.
Your boss continues, tone sincere and warm. “Look, I know it was uncomfortable. But what you did — staying composed, calling him out without being unprofessional, turning a difficult interview into something compelling — that’s exactly the kind of journalism I want from you. The clicks and shares we’re seeing right now prove it. People loved how you handled him. You showed respect but didn’t let him walk all over you. That’s rare.”
You feel a rush of warmth in your chest. “Thank you. I was genuinely worried I’d messed up.”
“You didn’t,” she assures you. “You did your job well under tough circumstances. Take the win. And maybe brace yourself — this piece is getting a lot of attention.”
You leave her office feeling lighter than you have in days. The anxiety that had been weighing on you since yesterday finally lifts. You make your way to your desk, still processing the unexpected praise and the label’s apology. You drop into your chair, exhale slowly, and open your work email.
Your heart nearly stops when you see the most recent message sitting at the top of your inbox.
You stare at the sender for a long moment, pulse quickening. Then you click it open.
Hi,
I’ve been sitting here for the last hour trying to figure out how to write this email without sounding like a complete arse. I owe you a proper apology.
Last week’s interview was inexcusable. I was in a terrible mood before I even walked into the room, and I took it out on you. You were doing your job — asking fair, thoughtful questions — and I gave you nothing but short, rude answers. That wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way, and I’m sorry.
I saw some of the clips that are going around online. I cringed at myself more than once. You were right to call me out. I’ve been doing this long enough to know better than to behave like that. I was disrespectful, and I regret it.
If you’re open to it, I’d really like the chance to apologize properly. In person. No cameras, no recorder, no pressure. Just coffee (or whatever you prefer) and an actual conversation where I’m not acting like a miserable bastard. I’d completely understand if you’d rather not, but I hope you’ll consider it.
No expectations. Just let me know.
Alex
You read the email twice. Then a third time.
It’s sincere. No excuses, no deflections, no “I was tired” cop-outs. Just a straightforward, honest apology. The fact that it came from his official email — not some assistant or PR person — makes it feel even more genuine.
You lean back in your chair, staring at the screen as a whirlwind of emotions crashes over you. Part of you is still annoyed at how he treated you. Another part feels strangely warm at the vulnerability in his words. And a small, dangerous part of you is… curious.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You don’t know what to reply yet.
But for the first time since the interview, you’re not dreading what comes next.
______________________________
A few days later, you arrive at the small café just a few blocks from your office, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. The place is quiet in the mid-afternoon lull — warm wooden tables, soft lighting, and the comforting smell of fresh coffee and pastries. You spot him immediately.
Alex is sitting at a corner table near the window, partially tucked away from the main seating area. He’s wearing a dark sweater and a black coat, looking more casual than the day of the interview but still unmistakably him. His hair is quite well kept, but there’s a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. When he sees you, he stands up quickly, almost awkwardly, and raises a hand in a small wave.
You walk over, nerves buzzing under your skin. He pulls out the chair opposite him like a gentleman, which surprises you.
“Thanks for coming,” he says as soon as you sit down. His voice is quieter than you remember, less guarded. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
You settle into the seat, placing your bag beside you. “I almost didn’t. But… curiosity won.”
A small, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Fair enough.”
The waitress comes over and takes your orders — a flat white for you, an americano for him. Once she leaves, a weighted silence settles between you. Alex fiddles with the sleeve of his sweater, clearly gathering his thoughts. He looks tired, but more present than he did during the interview.
He exhales slowly and finally meets your eyes.
“I owe you a proper apology,” he starts, voice sincere and low. “Not the half-arsed email version. A real one.”
You stay quiet, watching him. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, hands clasped together.
“What I did during that interview was shit. I was rude, dismissive, and disrespectful. You were trying to do your job, asking perfectly reasonable questions, and I gave you nothing but one-word answers and attitude. I’m really sorry for that. You didn’t deserve it.”
His sincerity catches you off guard. You nod slowly, letting him continue.
“I wasn’t in a good place that day,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “The label had been pushing me hard for weeks to do more press. I’d already done three interviews that week, all of them asking the same bloody questions. I was exhausted — creatively and physically. I’d barely slept the night before because I was stuck in the studio trying to fix a song that just wasn’t working. Everything felt… heavy. Like I was failing at the one thing I’m supposed to be good at.”
He pauses, jaw tightening for a moment before he continues.
“And then they told me I had to do this one. Matt usually handles a lot of the press because he’s better at it — more personable. But because I’m the frontman, they said it had to be me. I felt trapped. So when I walked in… I was already defensive. Angry at myself, angry at the situation. I took it out on you. That was unfair and immature. I’m embarrassed by how I behaved.”
You listen quietly, absorbing every word. His vulnerability is striking — this isn’t the prickly, closed-off man from the interview. This is someone who’s genuinely reflecting.
“I saw the clips,” he continues, voice softer. “And the comments. I cringed at myself the entire time. You handled it with way more grace than I deserved. You called me out without being cruel, and I respect that. A lot of people would’ve just let me be a miserable bastard and printed whatever.”
He leans back slightly, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m not great at interviews,” he admits with a small, self-conscious shrug. “Never have been. I get in my own head. I hate the performative aspect of it — pretending everything is amazing when sometimes it’s just… work. Hard work. But that’s not your problem. It’s mine. And I shouldn’t have made it yours that day.”
The waitress returns with your coffees. You thank her softly, then wrap your hands around the warm mug, giving yourself a moment to process everything he’s said.
When you finally speak, your voice is calm and measured.
“Thank you for apologizing. It means a lot that you reached out and that you’re being honest about it.” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “I could tell you didn’t want to be there. Your body language made that very clear — the crossed arms, the way you barely looked at me. It felt like pulling teeth. But I appreciate you explaining why. Creative burnout is real, and the pressure from labels can be brutal. I’ve interviewed enough artists to know it’s not always rainbows behind the scenes.”
Alex watches you closely, relief visible in his expression.
“I still shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he says quietly. “You were good at your job. Patient. Sharp. I was just… not in the right headspace.”
You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. “I accept your apology. And for what it’s worth… I’m glad you reached out. The internet definitely had opinions, but I think most people understood you were having a bad day.”
He lets out a small, tired laugh. “Yeah. I’ve seen some of the comments. ‘Brick wall with nice hair’ is going to haunt me for a while.”
You can’t help but smile. “It was a pretty good line.”
The tension between you eases slightly. It’s not gone — there’s still a careful distance — but the hostility from the interview has been replaced by something gentler. Understanding.
Alex looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’d like to make it up to you properly,” he says eventually. “If you’ll let me. Not as an interview. Just… as a person who acted like an arse and wants to do better.”
You tilt your head, studying him. The man in front of you now feels very different from the one who sat across from you a few days ago.
“I’ll think about it,” you reply honestly, a small smile playing on your lips. “But coffee is a good start.”
He nods, visibly relieved. “Fair enough.”
The conversation continues — slower, more careful, but no longer hostile. For the first time, you see glimpses of the man behind the reputation. And Alex, for the first time in a long while, feels like maybe he hasn’t completely ruined something before it even started.
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?”
