#Alex Turner

[arcticmonkeyoftheday]

arctic monkeys at lollapalooza, chicago, 8th of august, 2009.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Arctic Monkeys on Absolute Radio, 2011 ☆

[misskattylashes]

See also my reasoning why Alex is Arabella. She is a fantasy woman (in part based on Suki Waterhouse) that Alex would like to be to be socially acceptable to (at the time) conflicted Miles...

the infamous “if i was a girl, maybe i could go out and…” paul quote is so insane to me because like… he doesn’t want john to NOT be a man, he wants it to be socially acceptable to be with john exactly as he is

[sleazearchive]

[sarahsghostcookies]

whyd you only call me when youre high?

[goblinontour]

Heaven In A Hurry

in which alex isn’t sober

warnings: smut, also fluffy, piv, semi-public, and talking about pee but it’s not really gross, i think it’s cute, but just saying

word count: 9.3k

Going out wasn’t a rarity or anything new for him. He’d been through them all throughout the years: dim-lit dives that reeked of stale beer and regret, velvet-roped sanctuaries where the drugs sparkled more than the people. From innocence to indulgence, from indulgence to ruin, from ruin to whatever state he found himself in now. Actions his body once carried out against his better judgment — no judge left up there to judge, no jury either. Just a man and his decisions. 

But that wasn’t the him you knew. Not anymore. The Alex you knew stayed home and turned pages in a paperback until the print blurred into smudges and he forgot what day it was. The Alex you knew smoothed down his hair with meticulous fingers, brushed invisible lint off his collar, and sighed when he realised he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. 

So when he told you he wanted to go out, you almost laughed. Almost. But the words had been so sure, so intentional, that the laugh died in your throat and was replaced by something closer to worry. You’d almost called his online therapist — not that you’d ever admit that to him. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but the concern was there, coiled like a spring in your chest. 

Was that wrong? You weren’t used to this. To him wanting to go to such a thing. A big party on New Year’s Eve full of booze and who knew what else? Alex hadn’t touched anything above a 4% ABV in months. Said it “messed with me brain.” But that excitement — that excitement!

“Are you serious?” you’d asked, and he’d laughed like you’d told the best joke in the world.  

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, sprawled on his stomach across the bed like a boy telling his secrets. You sat next to him, absentmindedly messing with his already messy morning hair, tugging it this way and that until it stuck out like he’d just rolled out of bed — because he had done just that. 

“I dunno.” you murmured. “You’re just…you’re not really a big party guy these days.”  

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. It made you want to reach out and hold it in your hands before it could disappear. “That’s exactly why I want to go. New year, new me, or whatever the kids say.”  

You snorted. “Pretty sure the kids stopped saying that in, like, 2014.”  

“Then it’s retro now.” he shot back, grinning wider.  

There was something about the way he looked at you then, like he was daring you to challenge him, daring you to say no, expecting you to. You couldn’t, of course. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his excitement was so infectious it made your chest ache.  

“Alright.” you said softly. “We’ll go.”  

“Yeah?” His face lit up, all sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, like he couldn’t believe you’d said yes.  

“Yeah.” you repeated, and his smile grew so wide you thought it might crack him open.  

He sat up then, pulling you closer until you were half-draped over his lap. “And we can come home early if you get too tired, hon. I promise. The second you’re done, we’ll leave.”  

“It’s fine, Al. I can handle it.” you said, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.  

“You sure?”  

“I’m sure.”  

“Alright.” he said, but he didn’t look away. His fingers traced patterns on your arm, and his voice dipped low, almost shy. “It’ll be good. I think it’ll be good for us. For me.”  

And the way he said it, so earnest and so soft, made your chest ache again all over again. You wanted to bottle this version of him up and keep it safe somewhere, away from the jagged edges of the world.  

There were dark circles under his eyes, a shadow of something he never spoke about. But he was glowing. You let yourself soak it in, the warmth of his voice, the spark in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly on your arm, afraid you might change your mind already.  

“Yeah.” you said again, quieter this time. “We’re going.” 

There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. To anyone else, at least. He looked like every other man who walked in with an air of effortless confidence, the kind of charm that made you second-guess your instincts about people. Just another face in a crowd of glitter and shadow, one more figure under the pulsing, fevered light. Maybe his boots were a bit too shiny for their own good. They were really shiny, polished to the point of absurdity — his “special pair” reserved for nights like this. Nights that didn’t feel like his. Bordering on kitschy, they should’ve looked ridiculous, but somehow, he made them work. He always did. The sharp black lines of his outfit, the slight smirk that hovered on his lips like an afterthought, the way his hair fell in careless waves that begged for your fingers. He was a study in contrasts, as though the whole night had dressed itself around him.  

There were too many people, too many bodies pressing in from every side, a cacophony of bodies and lights and voices blurring into something that made your head throb. Enough people to even make you overwhelmed, and you weren’t the one with a history of being unraveled by scenes like this. The music wasn’t just loud — it was oppressive, vibrating through the walls, through your chest, through your skull until your thoughts blurred and tangled. It was the kind of noise that made you want to run. But he stood there, composed and calm, his hand brushing against your lower back.  

Was this really what his life used to look like? Every night, every day, for months and years? It made your stomach twist. You couldn’t think of a worse environment for someone like Alex. Someone whose mind was a maze of thoughts that twisted in on themselves, too sharp, too endless. Too many people, too much noise, and the constant hum of too much everything. This wasn’t a place for him. Maybe it never had been. Maybe this was what broke him in the first place.  

You glanced up at him, half-lit by the shifting strobes, and something in your chest ached. He looked beautiful, in that effortless way he always did. The kind of beautiful that made you feel clumsy, made you want to stare too long, to trace the angles of his face with your eyes until you could memorise every shadow. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate. And his eyes — God, his eyes. Dark and watchful, flicking across the room like he was cataloging everything, seeing things you couldn’t.  

But you also saw the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his mouth tightened at the corners when he thought you weren’t looking.  

“What d’ya wanna drink?” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts, low and close to your ear. His breath brushed against your skin, tickling just enough to make you squirm. It wasn’t intentional, but you knew he wouldn’t deny that he liked the reaction. 

“Vodka cran.” you said, louder than you meant to, trying to compete with the music.  

“Vodka cran?” he repeated, his lips curling into a lopsided grin, pulling back just enough to look at you with mock incredulity. “What are you, fifteen?”  

“Yes.” you shot back, deadpan. “Precisely.”  

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Gonna get me in trouble, little girl.” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. It was meant to be playful, but the way he said it made your cheeks burn.  

“Ew.” You wrinkled your nose, pushing at his chest. “Don’t say that again.”  

He laughed, a sound that made your stomach twist in the best way. Before you could fake being more annoyed, he kissed your cheek, soft and fleeting, leaving a warmth that lingered long after.  

“Are you drinking?” you asked then, turning to face him fully.  

“Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, too quickly.  

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I thought you were taking a break.”  

“It’s a party.” he said, shrugging as if that explained everything. His hand dropped from your back, and for a moment, he seemed smaller somehow. “I wanna…loosen up a bit.”  

It came out forced, and you knew it. He knew you knew it. You didn’t believe him, and you could tell he knew it.  

For a moment, the noise around you seemed to dim, leaving only the two of you in the uneasy silence that followed.  

He shifted on his feet, looking away. You watched him move his weight from one foot to the other. It wasn’t that he didn’t like this — the music, the people — but he needed something to blur the edges, to make the room tilt just enough that he didn’t feel so himself. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to be Alex Turner right now. Not the Alex Turner who overthought everything. Not the one who couldn’t fit in, who couldn’t let go, who felt too much and showed too little, who was too bitter, too sharp, too him. Just for a little while, he wanted to disappear into the crowd and not be the pretentious fucker they all secretly couldn’t stand but wouldn’t admit it because, well, manners. He needed to fit in, just for a night.  

“What are you drinking, then?” you asked, trying to lighten the moment.  

“Tequila.” he said after a beat, running a hand through his hair. “With club soda. Or tonic. Whatever they’ve got.”  

“Sounds horrendous.” you said, trying for a teasing tone.  

“You know me…” he replied, draping an arm over your shoulder. His fingers found a strand of your hair, twisting it gently, absently, like he couldn’t help himself. He needed something to keep his hands busy. “All bitter.”  

You laughed softly, leaning into his side despite yourself. He kissed the top of your head, a gesture so small and quiet it almost felt like it didn’t belong here, in this cacophony of sound and light.  

“I’ll be right back.” he said, pulling away reluctantly. “Don’t move. Or do. But don’t leave.”  

“Where would I even go?” you asked, gesturing to the sea of people around you.  

He didn’t answer, just smiled that small, crooked smile of his before disappearing into the crowd. You watched him go, his too-shiny boots catching the light with every step, and felt the first flicker of unease in your chest, a pang of something you couldn’t name. This wasn’t his world anymore, but he was trying so hard to pretend it was. For you? For himself? You weren’t sure.  

And yet, as the music thumped on, you stayed exactly where he left you, waiting, the music pounding in your chest, the crowd pressing closer. And as the minutes stretched on, you wondered — not for the first time — what he was looking for out there, and whether he would find it before it found him. 

By his third drink, Alex had softened in every way that mattered. Your couple-months-sober Alex was drunk. Not the sloppy, reckless kind of drunk you had heard about from his stories — the kind that turned nights into shame-soaked mornings — but the kind of drunk that made him soft, warm, and weightless. His sharp edges dulled, his usual careful precision melting into something looser, something warmer. He was teetering on the edge of his own body, words slurring into affectionate nonsense, his movements uncoordinated but so endearing you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed.  

You were sitting in a chair, your feet aching from the heels you’d worn for reasons you couldn’t even remember now. He was perched on the arm of said chair, his weight tipping slowly into your side like he couldn’t help himself. At first, it was just a knee brushing against your thigh, but soon enough, his entire torso was draped over you, his head nuzzling into the crook of your neck like he was trying to burrow his way into you. His head lolled, his body heavier with every passing moment, until it felt like you were holding up more of him than the chair was.  

“You want me to rub your feet?” he’d asked earlier, slurring slightly, his eyes earnest and wide in the way only a tipsy Alex could manage.  

“No, Al.” you’d said, biting back a laugh. “I don’t think the other people here would appreciate that view.”  

He’d frowned, clearly displeased with your reasoning, but he’d forgotten about it the second you’d squeezed his side and brushed your fingers through his hair. He was heavy and comforting in a way you didn’t want to analyze too much.  

Now, he was half-listening to the conversation happening around you, his mind somewhere else entirely.  

“Santa, man…” he mumbled suddenly, half-asleep but still trying to contribute to the conversation buzzing around you about something you hadn’t been paying attention to.  

“Al?” you asked, glancing at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation.  

“Yeah, babe?” His voice was too loud, cracking over the music and cutting through the din of the room. Heads turned briefly in your direction, but Alex didn’t seem to notice — or care. His eyes were half-lidded, his smile lazy, his fingers tracing mindless patterns against the fabric of your dress.  

You’d been concerned since that first order of tequila. But this wasn’t the Alex who fell into black holes of regret, the Alex who hurt himself because it was easier than feeling the weight of his own thoughts. This was a different version of him, one who laughed too loud and leaned too close and let himself need.  

Louder, louder, and touchier, his hands restless as they slid over your arm, your waist, your thigh. Everything about him was amplified in this state: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body pressing into yours, the way his words spilled out unfiltered.  

His head dipped forward, his nose brushing against your collarbone, then lower, nudging into the soft swell of your cleavage. You sighed, shifting in your chair as he nuzzled there like it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips grazing your skin in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.  

“Stop it.” you said quietly, though there wasn’t much conviction in your voice.  

“What?” he asked, his tone all faux innocence. He kissed the exposed flesh, soft and unhurried, like he was tasting sunlight.  

“Alex.” you hissed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to shift him upright. “Not here.”  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy and half-focused. “Why not? You’re beautiful. They should see how lucky I am.” He chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “You’re so pretty.”  

You rolled your eyes, though your heart clenched in your chest. He could be so unguarded like this, so sincere it almost hurt.  

“Because,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair, glancing around nervously, “we’re in public, and you’re drunk, and I don’t think you want your grand declaration of love to be remembered as that time you kissed my tits in front of strangers.”  

“I’m not drunk.” he protested, though the slight slur in his words betrayed him. “I’m just…tipsy.”  

“Tipsy doesn’t mean you get to bury your face in my boobs in front of strangers.” you said.  

He pouted, his hand catching yours and holding it against his cheek and his bottom lip jutting out in a way that would’ve been ridiculous if it weren’t so endearing. “Fine.” he mumbled, reluctantly pulling back. But he didn’t go far, his head finding its way back to your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.  

“I like it here.” he murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now, almost shy. “With you.”  

The words landed somewhere deep inside you, threading through the cracks in a way that made it impossible to pull them back out. You sighed, brushing your fingers through his hair again, the strands soft and slightly damp from the heat of the room. “I like it too.” you admitted.  

You traced your thumb along his cheekbone, feeling the faint scratch of stubble beneath your skin. He was soft and pliable in a way that made you ache because long gone was the Alex you’d first met but never forgot, all sharp lines and distant glances who hid behind his own brilliance like a shield. Hello you, Alex you saw in stolen moments, the one who let himself lean into you like he needed you to keep him steady because he did.  

The conversation around you had shifted, the group laughing about something you hadn’t been paying attention to. Alex, again, didn’t seem to notice. His world had narrowed to you, his fingers brushing against the hem of your dress, his lips grazing your shoulder like a prayer.  

You wondered if this was what it felt like for him — being unravelled. To be stripped down to the raw, trembling core of yourself, every defense laid bare. You thought of his hands, the way they trembled when he lit a cigarette, the way they tightened into fists when he thought no one was looking. He was always holding himself together, always carrying too much. But now, here, he was letting you carry him instead.  

“Do you need to lie down?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible over the music.  

He shook his head, his hair brushing against your neck. “No. I need to stay here.”  

“Okay.” you said, leaning into him just enough to let him know you were still there.  

“Hey.” he followed with a giggle that seemed to bubble up from nowhere.  There was something funny, apparently — something you hadn’t been let in on yet, some inside joke only he knew. Like there was a punchline coming, but the joke was just you. 

You turned your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”  

“Yes. No- I mean…” He leaned in so close his breath tickled your ear, his words barely there but still somehow heavy, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I really wanna fuck you right now.”  

His giggle followed, sweet and shy, self-conscious thing that softened the confession. His hand wasn’t shy at all. His hand was already trailing higher on your thigh, tracing the edge of your hemline with deliberate slowness, as if testing how much he could get away with.  

“Right now?” you asked, keeping your tone light, though your pulse was suddenly a traitor. 

His pupils were blown wide, his smile crooked, and his cheeks flushed from the heat of the room and the alcohol in his system. “Yeah.” His voice broke a little on the word, his eyes searching yours, wide and almost pleading.

Don’t you see me? Don’t you feel me?

You brushed your hand over his hair, smoothing the strands that had fallen into his face. His legs shifted restlessly against yours, the movement almost imperceptible at first. But then it wasn’t. He rubbed his thighs together. He couldn’t stay still. He was trying to chase some relief that just wasn’t coming fast enough.  

“Thought you were too old to be getting all…frisky. From a drink.” you teased, but your voice faltered slightly at the way his hand tightened on your thigh.  

“Tequila makes me wanna…jump. And crawl. And…stuff.” He struggled to find the right words. His other hand slid across the back of your chair, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. He needed every possible point of contact with you right now. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but…”  

He didn’t finish, his hand sliding a little higher, his fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. If anyone had been paying attention — anyone sober enough to care — they might have said something. Like, indecent exposure…and all that. But you were inside, and the room was dark, and the music was loud, and no one noticed the way his palm pressed against the inside of your thigh, trying to mark you.  

“Wouldn’t it be considered taking advantage of you?” you asked.  

His head dipped lower, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “I wouldn’t mind ya doin’ that.” he murmured, dragging like honey over your nerves.  

“Oh, Alex.” you whispered, half-laughing, half-breathless.   

His legs shifted again, his knees brushing yours, his body restless. His fingers tightened on your thigh, digging in just enough to make you gasp, and his lips grazed the curve of your neck, lingering like he couldn’t bear to pull away. “I mean it.” he said. “I want you. Here. Now. Please.” he whispered, and the word wasn’t small. 

Please see me. Please feel me. Please.

You glanced around the room, lights flickering in dizzying patterns, the crowd a blur of movement and noise. No one was looking, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about them. This was about Alex, and the way his hand was sliding higher, his thumb tracing circles against your skin. About the way he was pressing himself closer, his breath catching as he nuzzled into the hollow of your neck like it was the only place he belonged, the way he was letting himself need you without hesitation or shame.  

“Alex.” you murmured, your hand sliding to his cheek, tilting his face toward yours. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted.  

He swallowed hard. No words came out. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his hands trembling against you.  

“Please.” He said it again.

The bathroom down the hall was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that didn’t flatter anyone but lent everything a certain edge, a certain moody glamour that felt fitting for what was about to happen. You didn’t lock the door — it felt too final, too obvious — but you did close it with the kind of care that made Alex’s mouth twitch into a cocky grin.  

His boots were loud against the tiles, or maybe it was just too loud in your head, the echo ricocheting off your skull like a warning. Not that he seemed to care. No, he was already behind you, his hands on your hips, his body crowding yours as you leaned over the sink.  

The mirror was streaked with watermarks, but you could still see his reflection, the way his eyes darted over you like he couldn’t decide where to look — your back, the curve of your waist, the hem of your dress that was already riding dangerously high, your ass being the focal point. His palms were needy. Pressing into the fabric as though he’d found some invisible “touch here” sign and was determined to follow its instructions to a T.  

You glanced up, catching his eyes in the mirror. “Are you gonna fuck me,” you asked, “or just stare?”  

“Yeah.” he said, all soft and breathless, like that single word was supposed to answer everything.  

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as his hands roamed higher, his thumbs brushing over the curve of your lower back, just beneath the zipper of your dress. “That wasn’t an answer.” you said, but he was already moving, his lips pressing to the nape of your neck, his fingers curling around the fabric as though he couldn’t decide whether to pull it down or push it up.  

Belts clinked. Zippers slid. Heels scraped against tile. Your dress bunched around your hips, and his hands were everywhere — gripping and pulling and feeling. You caught his gaze again in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his mouth slightly open as though he was on the verge of saying something but couldn’t quite get the words out.  

“I…” He took a deep breath, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “Need…”  

You smirked, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Tequila doesn’t make your dick jump?”  

“Apparently.” he mumbled, self-deprecating, frustration clear in every syllable. 

You caught his hesitation, the way his hands faltered on your waist, his grip loosening ever so slightly as though he didn’t trust himself to hold on too tightly. You could see it in his posture too, in the way his shoulders hunched just a fraction, his head dipping low enough that his breath brushed the back of your neck. He wanted to hide, to disappear into the floor, and yet…  

He couldn’t stop touching you, tracing the curves he’d spent the entire night stealing glances at. He wanted this — you. Desperately.  

But his body wasn’t cooperating, and the alcohol buzzing through his veins was mocking him for it.  

You reached behind you, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his trousers, finding the button and popping it loose. They slid down his thighs, pooling around his boots, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and a sheepish expression as he looked down at himself. You slid your hand lower, just enough to brush against him, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a groan. He was soft under your touch, and you felt the faintest twitch.  

He didn’t say anything, just let out a small, strangled noise as your fingers brushed the skin, warm and soft and so painfully close to what he wanted. Pliant in your hand, heat radiating off him as you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly.  

His eyes darted down to where your hand was, teasing, waiting. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and nodded like he didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted this — wanted you — so badly it was practically vibrating off him.  

“Alex.” you whispered, his name like a promise on your lips.  

“I-” He tried, but the words stuck in his throat. His hands came up to grip the edge of the sink, his knuckles going white as he shifted on his feet. You caught the way his thighs pressed together, his boots squeaking against the tile as he tried to ground himself. “It’s just- fuck- give me a second.”  

His voice was rough, tinged with embarrassment, and his eyes darted to the mirror, avoiding yours. He looked almost apologetic, his cheeks flushed and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “It’s the…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Swear it’s not you. You- God, you’re-”  

“Shh…” you said softly, your free hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “I know, baby. I know.”  

You pressed a kiss to his neck, just below his ear, your lips warm against his skin. Your other hand didn’t stop, stroking him slowly, methodically, coaxing him with every gentle movement. You felt him twitch again, a faint pulse against your palm, and you smiled against his skin, brushing with just enough pressure to make him suck in a sharp breath. “Come on, baby.” Trailing kisses that were more encouragement than affection, your other hand gripping his thigh to keep him steady as his knees buckled. His breath hitched, his head falling back as your mouth pressed just below his jaw, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.  

“Jesus-” he muttered, too quiet to cover the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.  

“Focus.” you whispered, both command and comfort, your hand tightening enough to make his hips jerk forward.  

He groaned, his hands finding your waist again, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “I’m trying…” he said. “I’m trying.” again, tinged with that frustration and something that almost sounded like shame.  

Your laugh was soft, almost cruel, as you leaned back against him. “Don’t try.” you said. “Just feel.” 

His face flushed, and not just from the tequila or the heat. He looked down at himself, then back at you, his eyes darting away almost immediately. Your thumb brushed over the tip of him. He was warm, his skin hot to the touch. You could feel him stirring under your palm, his hips jerking forward as if to chase the sensation.  

“There you go.” you whispered.  

“Fuck-” he breathed, his voice breaking on the word. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes squeezed shut, and his whole body tensed like he was bracing himself for something he wasn’t sure he deserved. “I just…I-”  

“Shut up.” you murmured, guiding his face toward yours. His eyes fluttered open, wide and glassy, and you kissed him, slow and sweet, your lips coaxing him out of his head and into the moment.  

“Feel me.” you whispered against his mouth, your fingers tightening just enough to make him moan. “You’re doing so good, Alex.”  

He finally let himself lean into your touch, his body softening and melting against yours. Except for the vital part. That wasn’t softening. You felt him harden fully in your hand, the weight of him growing, warm and alive and achingly real.  

“You feel that?” you asked, your thumb brushing over him again.  

He nodded, his lips parting as he let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.” he said, his voice raw, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Yeah, I feel it.”  

“See?” you whispered, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You’re perfect.”  

He let out a broken laugh, his forehead pressing against yours, hands gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m a fucking mess.” he muttered, but his voice was softer now, less self-deprecating and more…tender.  

“Yeah, you are. But you’re my mess.”  

His eyes shut again, his lips parting as he let out a low groan, his hips moving in time with your hand now, chasing the friction, the feeling, you.

“Good boy.” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear.

“Fuck- stop.” His hand flew to your wrist, halting your movement as his chest heaved. “Let me fuck you now, or I’m going to come.”  

“Fuck me.” you said.  

“Turn.” he demanded, and there was nothing soft left in his voice, no room for teasing.  

His mouth twitched, that half-smile he wore when he felt the moment slip out of his control. He didn’t waste another second, though. His hands bunched your dress up again, pulling the fabric high around your waist, exposing you fully to him and to the reflection in front of you. The flimsy g-string you’d chosen tonight — barely there, more for show than practicality — was tugged to the side with such rough impatience that the elastic bit into your skin.

His eyes caught yours in the mirror, holding you there for a breath too long, and then he was pushing into you. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. He slid all the way in with one solid motion. The stretch made you gasp, your hands flying to the edge of the sink to keep yourself upright. Behind you, Alex let out a sound that was almost pained, a low groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest.  

“Christ.” he muttered, his forehead briefly pressing against your shoulder before he pulled back and drove into you again, harder this time. “You feel…you feel so fucking good. How do you feel this good?”  

You met his gaze in the mirror, your reflection hazy but clear enough to catch the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed. His hands gripped your hips with a ferocity that would leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted those marks.  

Each time he momentarily stopped, it wasn’t to pause or regroup. He thrust into you again, again, and again, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene in the small, tiled room. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing there lightly, guiding you into a deeper arch.  

“Look.” he rasped, his voice low and rough. One hand slid down to spread you apart, exposing the slick glide of his cock as he dragged himself out and then slammed back in. “Look at the way you take me. Do you see that?”  

No, you couldn’t see, but still you nodded, your head bobbing almost frantically, your breath catching on a gasp as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that made your knees buckle.    

“Stay up, baby.” he barked, his hand flying to your stomach to pull you back against him, holding you steady. “Don’t fall now. I need to see you like this. Fuck, I need it.”  

You didn’t trust your voice to answer, too consumed by the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, by the heat of his body against yours, by the raw, unfiltered hunger in his gaze as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again.  

“Fuck.” he muttered again. It seemed to have become his favourite word. His hips stuttered for a moment before finding his rhythm. “You’re too good. It’s too good.”  

“Don’t stop.” you whispered, barely audible over the sound of your bodies colliding.  

“Never.” he said.  

His movements were brutal, almost punishing, but there was a little something to the way his hands moved over you, exploring every inch of exposed skin. His thumb brushed against your clit, almost absentmindedly, and the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through you made you cry out.  

“Yeah, yeah.” he groaned, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin right there. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Let everyone out there hear you. Let them know who’s fucking you like this.”  

The angle was perfect, devastatingly so. Each motion sent sparks shooting up your spine, your knees trembling as the pleasure built higher and higher. His name fell from your lips, broken and breathless, and you felt his grip tighten.  

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, baby.” he groaned, his gaze fixed on you in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at how perfect you are. Do you even know what you do to me?”  

“Alex.” you gasped, your voice breaking on the syllable.  

“Say it again.” he demanded, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. “Say my name.” 

“Alex.” you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of it all, gripping that edge so, so tightly your knuckles turned white.  

“Louder.” he said, his hips snapping into you harder.  

“Alex-” you moaned, louder this time.  

“That’s it.” he growled, his hand tangling in your hair and tugging your head back just enough for him to kiss you, messy and desperate. “You’re so fucking perfect. You know that? You’re perfect.”  

You watched him in the mirror, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his shoulders tensed and flexed with every movement, the way his eyes never left yours. There was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, even as your body burned with pleasure.  

“Fuck, I’m close.” he muttered, his voice almost frantic. “You’re gonna make me- shit, you’re gonna make me-”  

“Come for me, baby.” you whispered. 

He let out a broken sound, his entire body shuddering as he drove into you one last time, holding you there as he came undone. The tension melted from his frame as he leaned against you, his lips brushing against the back of your neck in a lingering kiss.  

Neither of you moved for a moment. Then Alex pulled back slightly, his hands sliding over your hips. And then he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, and you met his gaze in the mirror, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips.  

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft, almost teasing.  

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands sliding up to rest on your waist. “Better than okay. Are you okay?” 

You nodded. “Better than okay.”  

He chuckled as he smoothed your dress back down over your hips. His fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment before he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.  

The apartment welcomed you home with a heavy quietness, the kind that felt almost oppressive after the chaos of the night. It was dark, except for a single lamp that cast a soft honey-colored glow across the living room, long, warm shadows over the furniture that made everything feel quieter. The place smelled faintly of the candle Alex had insisted on lighting before you left, like he knew you’d need some kind of sanctuary to return to.  

It was late — too late to be doing anything but sleeping — but you weren’t quite there yet. The adrenaline still lingered faintly in your veins, though it was fading fast, leaving behind an ache in your legs and a haze in your mind.  

You toed off your heels off just inside the door, wincing as the hardwood bit into the sore pads of your feet. Behind you, Alex groaned as he stumbled in. The man was barely holding himself together, his jacket sliding off one shoulder, his shirt half-untucked and rumpled beyond saving. He kicked the door shut with a thunk and stood there, blinking at nothing in particular, like he’d forgotten where he was. He was still beautiful in that maddening way he always was.  

“Are you gonna stand there all night?” you asked, unzipping your dress as you padded toward the bathroom.  

He groaned again, louder this time, and shuffled after you. “You’re so mean to me.” he muttered.  

Fuck, the overhead light was too bright. You reached for the dimmer switch, letting it settle down. Alex appeared in the doorway a moment later, leaning heavily against the frame, watching as you pulled bobby pins from your hair, one by one, and dropped them onto the counter. His hair was a mess, a lopsided tangle of waves that begged to be smoothed down, and his eyes, though half-lidded and bloodshot, still carried that quiet, unnameable something that made you ache just to look at him.  

“You good?” you asked, glancing at him in the mirror.  

He shrugged, then winced. “Feel fuckin’ sore. Everywhere.”  

“Sure you’re okay?” you insisted, turning on the tap and letting the water run hot.  

He groaned softly, letting his head thud against the wood. “Yeah, yeah…it’s just that…my body just feels so…ancient. Like my bones are trying to quit on me.”  

“Get in the tub.” you said, testing the water with your fingers.  

He laughed a “Thanks, Mum.” But he obeyed, shuffling out of his jacket and dropping it in a heap on the floor. His shirt followed, then his belt, and then his pants, until he was standing there in just his boxers, looking pale and lanky and rumpled and tired and a little shy under the soft light and somehow still managing to look like he’d stepped out of some black-and-white photo you’d find in a gallery.  

You turned back to him, arms crossed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna fall asleep in there, are you?”  

“Not if you keep talking.” he shot back, but his smirk was faint, his eyes heavy-lidded. He caught you staring and raised an eyebrow back. “Y’alright there, sweetheart?”  

“Yeah.” you said, a little too quickly. “Just…get in the tub before you collapse on me.”  

“D’you know how much I love it when you boss me ‘round?” 

But again, he obeyed with a soft grunt, stepping over the edge and sinking into the water. It took him a moment to adjust, his knees pulling up as he hissed at the heat that met his skin. Then he leaned back, letting his head rest against the cool porcelain and letting out a long, low groan that was almost indecent.  

“Better?” you asked, sitting on the closed toilet lid and watching him.  

“Ask me again in five minutes.” he murmured, his eyes already drifting shut. “Mm.” — five seconds later — he cracked one eye open to look at you, his lips twitching into something resembling a smile. “You’re still dressed.”  

You reached for a washcloth, wetting it under the faucet before leaning over the tub to press it against his chest.  

It took him a couple more seconds of looking down at your hand as it moved across his skin before he asked “What’re you doing?”  

“Taking care of you.” you said simply, dragging the cloth over his collarbones, his shoulders, the faint lines of muscle that cut across his torso.  

“Mm.” He closed his eyes again. “You’re too good to me, y’know that?”  

“Someone has to be.” you teased, but your voice was soft, almost fond. “You’re a mess.” 

“I know.” His eyes stayed closed. “But you love me anyway.”  

You froze for a moment. Then you smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.  

“Yeah.” you said softly. “I do.”  

He opened his eyes at that, just a sliver, and looked up at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze that made your chest ache, a raw vulnerability that he rarely let you see. His hand found yours under the water, his fingers curling weakly around your wrist. “C’mere.” he mumbled, tugging lightly.  

“I’m not getting in there.” you said, even as you let him pull you closer.  

“Why not?” His voice was low, almost petulant. “Water’s nice. ‘S warm. You’ll like it. Come here.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“I’m not-”

“Just for a minute.” he pleaded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll make room.”  

With a sigh, you stood and pulled your dress over your head, letting it fall to the floor. He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze lingering on the curve of your waist, the line of your legs, as you climbed into the tub and settled between his legs.  

The water was scalding, but his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you felt yourself relax against him.  

“Happy now?” you asked.  

“Getting there.” he said, his arms tightening around you and pulling you back against his chest, as close as he could get.  

The water sloshed softly around you as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. His chin rested on your shoulder, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your back.  

“You’re quiet.” you said after a moment.  

“Just thinking.” he murmured.  

“About what?”  

“‘Bout how lucky I am.” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear him.  

You turned your head to look at him, but his eyes were closed again.  

“You’re drunk.” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.  

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” he replied, his lips brushing against your shoulder.  

The room was warm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made everything else feel far away. His hands rested lightly on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. Actually, the whole apartment was quiet except for the occasional drip of water from the faucet and the soft creak of the tub as he shifted slightly.  

“You’re my favorite person.” he said suddenly.  

You turned your head to look at him, surprised by the confession, but he didn’t meet your gaze — still closed.

“That’s nice.” you said, reaching up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead. “You’re mine too, Al.” 

Alex wasn’t thinking much, not in the way he usually did. His head, always busy with too many thoughts at once, was blissfully quiet now, silenced by the tequila and the late hour and the way you felt against him. He wasn’t worried about whether he was saying the right thing or touching you the right way. For once, he just…was.  

And so his hands moved without thought, fingers tracing the lines of your thighs, the curve of your waist, the dip just above your hip bone. It wasn’t intentional, at first. It was instinct, the way you feel for something familiar in the dark. His palms mapped your body like they’d forgotten and were desperate to remember, skimming across water-warmed skin as if committing you to memory all over again.  

“You okay?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.  

His hands stilled, resting lightly on the dip between your thighs. “Yeah.” he murmured, his voice low and drowsy. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  

“I don’t know. You’re just…too quiet.”  

“Mm.” He pressed his forehead against the curve of your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “I like being quiet with you. Feels good.”  

You turned your head to look at him, your expression tinged with something between curiosity and concern. “You sure you’re okay, Alex?”  

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your back. “You’re always worrying about me.”  

“Someone has to.” you said, echoing your earlier words.  

“I don’t mind it.” he admitted, his hands starting to move again, idly smoothing over the tops of your thighs. “Kind of like it, actually. Makes me feel…dunno. Like you see me. Like you care.”  

“Of course I care.” you said. “Why wouldn’t I?”  

He shrugged. “Not everyone does.”  

Heavy and something unspoken for too long. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that everyone cared, that they just didn’t know how to show it. But you didn’t want to lie to him, not now, not when he was being this open with you.  

Instead, you reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your thigh. “I care.” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.  

“I know.” he said, his voice barely audible. “That’s why I’m still here, I think. I think you’re why.”  

A pang right through your chest, equal parts tenderness and ache. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and felt his arms tighten around you once more in response.  

“You’re so good for me…to me.” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.  

“You deserve it.” 

“Dunno about that.” He laughed, the sound quiet and obviously self-deprecating. 

“Well…I do.” you said firmly, turning your head to look at him again.  

His eyes met yours, soft and glassy in the dim light. He just looked at you, tracing your features like he was trying to commit them to memory, too.  

“Y’know, I think it’s that…” he said after a long pause, “that you make everything feel a little less…heavy.”  

You smiled, from your subconscious straight onto your face. “Good.” you said softly. “Because you do the same for me, I think.”  

He didn’t respond, but the way his arms tightened around you said more than words ever could. His hands kept wandering, tracing lazy, aimless patterns across your skin, and you let him.  

For once, you felt no need to fill the silence. 

But he…

“Love, uh…don’t wanna ruin the moment, but mind if I piss in the water?” His voice came soft and slurred, half a joke, half serious, in that unmistakable cheeky tone he got when he was tipsy and too comfortable for his own good.  

You tilted your head, glancing back at him, the corner of your mouth twitching, your nose wrinkling in (mock) disgust. “You’re so fucking gross.” But even as you said it, you couldn’t keep the affection from seeping into your tone. 

And I still love you, you thought, exasperated at the fact. And I’ll still love you.

He grinned, all boyish charm and mischief, his wet hair falling messily across his forehead. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” he teased, shifting slightly behind you. The water rippled around you, warm and soft, and you felt his chest press closer to your back. 

“We said we’d never talk about that again.” you said, sitting up slightly in the water, though the memory — humiliating, ridiculous, and still, oddly tender — flickered between you.  

“‘Bout what?” His grin widened, the alcohol still fogging his head. He played innocent so poorly it almost made you laugh.  

“Like you don’t remember.” You shifted your weight, your thigh brushing against his.

“Oh, I remember.” he said, his grin widening. “Bet it turned you on too.”  

“Ew. Never.”  

“Right…” he murmured, low enough to hum against your skin. “C’mon.” he teased, his voice dropping slightly as his hand slid down to your knee under the water, his thumb tracing small circles. “I remember…when you were sucking me and I…” He trailed off into that stupid giggle of his, high and tipsy and impossible to resist, truly unable to finish the sentence without dissolving into one of them breathy, ridiculous laughs, all while his nose brushed against your neck as he kept leaning in closer, until you could feel the way his lips curved into a smile.  

“Yeah.” you said, voice flat but your body betraying you. His giggles were contagious, the sound so light and free it made it hard to hold onto your indignation. “Like I said, gross.” you muttered, leaning back against him again.  

“Yeah…I wouldn’t mind ya suckin’ my dick again.” he whispered, quieter this time, his lips so close they grazed your ear.  

“Of course you wouldn’t.” you replied, dry as dust, willing your heart to not give itself away, but it was still skipping a beat, and another, as his hand shifted on your waist. His palm was warmer than the water, somehow.

“Yeah.” he murmured, his hand pausing on your ribs, squeezing lightly. “Missed it.”  

“Mm, is that so?” you replied, tilting your head to look at him.  

“Not my fault you’re irresistible.” he shot back, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. The movement sent another ripple through the water, and your legs brushed again, the contact sending a small, electric thrill up your spine. 

His nose nudged yours, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, the space between you thick with steam and not only. His hand moved again.  

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” he murmured, his voice losing some of its teasing edge. He could be more annoying than a child sometimes. “You know you want to.”  

“You’re so stubborn.” you said, your voice quiet. 

“Yeah, but you like it.” he said, his lips brushing against the corner of your jaw.  

His other hand found your thigh under the water, again, and the feeling of his skin against yours was impossibly intimate. His touch was slow, unhurried, and you wondered if he even realised how his fingers curled slightly, holding you there.  

“Alex…” you said softly, your voice catching.  

“Hmm?” His lips brushed against your neck again, his breath warm and steady.  

“I’m tired.” you said.  

“And you’re also beautiful.” he replied, so simply like he meant for your chest to start aching inside.  

You could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, like even this small touch was something he needed to hold onto. This — his thumb tracing slow, absent circles into your skin.  

“You really gonna piss in the water?” you asked, breaking the silence.  

“Only if you say I can.” he replied, grinning against your skin.  

“Shut up.” you said, but the laugh that bubbled up in your chest betrayed you.  

He would have kept his arms wrapped around you. But…but the water made every touch slick and slow, and he seemed mesmerised by the way your skin felt under his palms. His hands explored in slow, wandering motions that felt like they had no destination anymore. Like he wasn’t even aware of how much he was touching you — he just needed to.  

“You’re so warm…and soft.” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse. “Like…stupidly soft. It’s unfair.”  

“That’s a weird compliment.”  

“No, it’s a good one.” he insisted, his voice still carrying that drunken, boyish sincerity that made you blush, for some reason. “I’m being romantic.”  

“Oh, is that what this is?” you teased.  

“Shh.” he whispered, laughing against your skin. “Don’t ruin my moment.”  

One of his hands wandered back up, brushing over the side of your waist before sliding across your stomach, just resting there, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or keep you where you were so he could feel every inch of you. There was a faint scratch of his fingernails against the sensitive spot near your belly button.  

“You know,” he said after a long pause, “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.”  

“Of what?”  

“Of you, baby.” he said. “Of how you feel, how you smell…how you just let me hold you like this.”  

You snorted softly. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”  

“I mean it.” he said, a little more earnestly this time. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, lingering there for a moment. “I mean, I’m also still a little drunk, but…it’s true.”  

One hand slid back up to your other shoulder, brushing aside a damp strand of hair. He kissed the spot he uncovered.  

“I think I love you even more when you’re wet.”  

“That’s definitely the tequila talking.”  

“Maybe.” he admitted, grinning lopsidedly. “But it’s true. You’re all shiny and slippery and…” His hand was back on your thigh — he really had a preference, didn’t he? — It squeezed lightly, his thumb stroking the inside of it, dangerously close to-

“Alex.” you warned.  

“Sorry, sorry.” he said, but his grin only widened. “I can’t help it. You’re right here, all warm and…” He trailed off, his lips finding your cheek this time, planting tiny wet kisses.  

For a moment, you let yourself relax into him, let his hands and his lips and his warmth lull you into forgetting the late hour and the exhaustion settling into your bones. His hands felt good, even through the water, and his chest against your back was solid and comforting.  

Then he shuffled awkwardly behind you, just enough for you to notice.  

“Alex.” you said suspiciously, turning your head slightly. “What are you doing?”  

He didn’t answer right away, but you felt his chest shake with quiet laughter against your back.  

You frowned, pulling back just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Are you peeing, Alex?”  

He froze for half a second before dissolving into giggles, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder.  

“Oh my god.” you groaned, sitting up straighter, but his arms wrapped around you, holding you in place.  

His laugh broke free, loud and shameless, and he buried his face in your wet hair, his own brushing against your neck. “I couldn’t hold it.” he admitted between giggles. “It was too warm- I swear, I tried- it was too warm, and I couldn’t-”  

“Alex, I swear-” you said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held you tighter, his lips pressing against your neck in a poor attempt to pacify you.  

“Don’t be mad.” he pleaded, his voice still shaking with laughter. “It’s not like you’d even notice- it’s just water now!”  

“You’re disgusting!” you said, half-laughing despite yourself as you tried to push his hands off your hips.  

“Disgustingly in love with you.” he countered, planting a wet, obnoxiously loud kiss on your neck. “I’ll make it up to you.” he promised, his hands moving again, sliding up your sides and back down to your hips. “Just let me hold you.”  

You sighed, exasperated but not really angry, and leaned back against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk, you idiot.”

“And lucky you love me.” he added.  

“Don’t push it.” you said.  

His hands settled on your waist again, his thumbs stroking softly, absentmindedly, and he kissed your shoulder once more, this time slower, more deliberate. The laughter faded.  

“You’re so pretty.” he murmured after a moment, his voice quiet and a little more serious. “I don’t tell you that enough. I love you a lot.” 

You felt it sink into your skin.  

He didn’t need you to say it back. He could feel it in the way you leaned into him, in the way you let him hold you, even after he’d been so utterly himself. 

“I know.” you said, squeezing his hand gently. 

 

a/n: This was meant to be posted on NYE. It was obviously not :) I finished it tonight but I didn’t look through what I had already written too much, so excuse any mistakes, please.

[mrschwartz]

Alex Turner for Rumore Magazine (September 2013)

Seventies Heads and Modern Loves or I Don't Know What I Want But I Surely Want You

by Elia Alovisi

Until he opens his mouth, Alex Turner looks like he stepped out of the Nevada desert. Leather loafers, a belt, slicked-back hair, sunglasses. But as soon as he starts talking, between “summat” instead of “something” and “me” instead of “my,” he transforms back into a boy from Sheffield who grew up on cocktails and DJ sets. The discrepancy between the way he looks and the way he speaks is strange: you would expect a cocky and arrogant rock star, but instead you have before you a relaxed and thoughtful boy who carefully measures his words, but does so with a smile and not a frown. The lyrics of AM, the fifth album of his band, mainly revolve around difficult and elusive women. There are many questions. “Do I want to know?” “Are you mine?” he says; “Why do you always call me when you’re high?” she says. There is no shortage of desires: “I want it all,” “I want to be yours.” Absent, however, are the answers. We tried to get a few out of him.

How was it to be back at Glastonbury as a headliner five years after the first time?

Fantastic. Absolutely wonderful, this time it was very natural. Everything was harder in 2007, we had done a lot less shows and had a lot less songs. Now we have learned to move better.

After the experience of Humbug, you collaborated again with Josh Homme.

Yes, Josh is on Knee Socks, towards the end of the piece. We gave him carte blanche and he decided to sing a sort of counter-melody that reminds me a lot of Bowie.

Are knee socks your favorite piece of underwear on a woman?

[Laughs] What do you think?

If she has the right legs.

Exactly, yes. The best is the garter. But then they would not be Parisian anymore, right? And then they are thicker than women's stockings. However they are not my favorite underwear, I go with the push-up.

In the lyrics of Arabella you talk a lot about the universe.

I wanted to use that linguistic palette to try to describe a woman. There are many songs that use those sorts of words… galaxy, interstellar, constellation, things like that, but usually they are used just for the sake of being used. Instead I wanted to make them an active part of a description, they are images that I find very interesting. In England, on the BBC, there is this program called Wonders of the Universe, with Professor Brian Cox. And it is one of my favorite programs [smiles, pleased].

Barbarella also pops up in the text.

Yes, although I haven't read practically any of her comics and I've only seen a small piece of the movie. I don't really like B movies. To know her, you just need to have seen a poster, that's all you need. I just used her to make a comparison with the costume she wears.

How does the suite you sing about in Fireside relate to room 505 in Favourite Worst Nightmare?

Yes, I’m talking about a suite in my heart… or in her heart? Well, in someone’s heart. Room 505, in my mind, is something very concrete. I wrote that song on a train between Philadelphia and New York, my girlfriend was in a hotel waiting for me and I just wrote about that [Turner’s voice becomes increasingly whispered as the sentence progresses]. In Fireside, however, it’s all figurative.

So how much of your real self is in your lyrics and how much is just imagination?

There's no rule, sometimes there's a lot of me in the lyrics when you least expect it. I put little secrets in them. What I try to avoid is that people who listen to one of my songs say, 'oh, he's talking about that girl'. You know when you read a novel and, somehow, in your mind you see its characters with the faces of some of your friends, or your favorite actors? That's where I want to get to with my music, I want it to be like being in front of a story, not the evidence of two people with a name and a surname who are kissing. It's up to the listener to give them both a face. When I write I pretty much always have someone or something in mind, but it doesn't really matter.

How did you come up with the idea of ​​using John Cooper Clarke's words for I Wanna Be Yours?

We wrote most of the songs on this record on a four-track that I got for my birthday. I spent a while recording ideas on it, sometimes we'd loop a bass and drum melody for five minutes and the fact that it was on tape gave it an incredible color. Then I'd sit there with headphones and a microphone humming melodies, or making up silly lyrics to start coming up with ideas. One day, while I was jamming, the words I wanna be yours came out and I remembered that they were the title of one of his poems. I thought it would be cool to use someone else's words – and especially his, I'm a big fan of his. It's one of my favorite songs on the record, the lyrics alone make it different from anything we've done before. And then I love the juxtaposition of the slow, sexy, flirtatious music and his words.

The party you talk about in No. 1 Party Anthem seems a lot more laid back than the ones you’ve talked about in the past, like the house in This House Is A Circus.

That’s true, but the parties we go to are still pretty messy. They’re just twice as long.

Am I supposed to be imagining some sort of indie celebrity party?

Indie celebrity party? [Laughs.] No, no, no. The slow tempo of that song gives it a bit of a Los Angeles feel. It’s a city that I’m told is very similar to what we’re portraying on the new record, and I’m starting to think that might be true. Not that it sounds like the Eagles, you know.

It's like your sound is becoming more and more American.

Yeah, maybe. There's something special about that part of the world. Everything that came out of California owes something to '70s rock, the spontaneity of those rhythms also comes back in West Coast hip-hop. But then came the fucking '80s and… a lot of fucking bands that don't fit into that theory. I think there will always be something English in our sound, it's something we can never detach ourselves from.

How much does Sheffield still mean to what you do?

Well, you know… [he taps two fingers on a tattoo on the inside of his arm: the Yorkshire rose and underneath it the word “SHEFFIELD”].

There are three songs on AM whose titles are questions.

You don't notice things like that until you sit there and write the titles of the songs one after the other. I hadn't noticed until then, there are also a lot of wanna.

The protagonist of R U Mine? is wrapped up in a certain western imagery, you portray her as “a lone cowboy riding in an open space.” And in All My Own Stunts you talked about “watching cowboy movies on gloomy afternoons.”

I love the western style. The leather ties, the belts… Hey, look at this one I’m wearing! [He stands up and shows me his leather belt, turning his back: it has “TURNER” engraved on it, on either side of the horseshoes.] A friend gave it to me for my birthday, this year was really nice, between this and the four-track. I also love western movies, especially the ones about Butch Cassidy. I also love Ennio Morricone’s soundtracks, obviously.

How do you usually celebrate your birthdays?

They’re nothing too devastating. I have a birthday in early January, everyone is still recovering from Christmas and New Year’s, so the average response I get is usually “forget it.”

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High? brings back the drunken text messages you mentioned in The View From the Afternoon.

We've all done that at least once, come on. Those lyrics might have come off the first record, but the music is fully invested in what we're doing now. I just wanted to write something simple.

While we're on the subject: when was the last time you got bounced at the entrance of a nightclub? It's not like From The Ritz To The Rubble anymore, is it?

Shit, that was like four weeks ago! [Laughs.] We were in Stockholm, we were trying to get into an area of ​​the nightclub and there was no way we could get in.

What are those Mad Sounds you're talking about?

That song is about those moments when you put on a song and it's like it's talking about exactly how you feel. It's a song about those songs, and I hope it can become one of them. I get that feeling from some songs by Lou Reed, John Cale, or Harry Nilsson. It's like sometimes they really understand how I feel, and you're like, "What the fuck..." and you almost tell them to go fuck themselves.

The point where the song explodes is when you start singing a series of ooh-la-la-la. What is the la-la-la moment that sticks with you the most from the music you listen to?

Definitely the do-dodo-dodo-do-do-do-do from Walk on the Wild Side by Lou Reed.

By the way, who came up with the idea of ​​calling a song The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala? What does that mean?

It came up one day when we were making up names for guitar pedals – sometimes they have crazy names. The Blond-o-Sonic Shimmer Trap  would be perfect for a fuzz, for example. The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, however, comes from a bar we hung out in a lot while we were writing the previous record. The room was full of glitter and there were a lot of weird chicks all winking, like cougars.

The lyrics to Snap Out of It revolve around hypnosis. Do you think there's any real power behind it or is it just persuasion?

I've never been hypnotised, but it all seems pretty real when you watch hypnotists on telly. There's this show in the UK where this guy, Derren Brown, gets people to do all sorts of things. Crazy stuff like, "rob someone!" Nothing I'd want to be involved with.

In I Want It All you say, “Leave me listening to the Stones 2000 light years from home.”

I’m actually a Beatles guy, no doubt. But I like them both, I saw the Stones at Glastonbury and it was great.

Don't you think it's better for a band to go at the top of their game than to keep going and going and risk having nothing left to say?

What the Stones have managed to do is really extraordinary. I mean, they're seventy years old and they're still on stage. It's very difficult to have an opinion on something like this because I don't think I've reached that level yet. I'm very excited about the new album, we've reached the point of being a good live band and, speaking as an artist, I think I've reached a certain excellence this time. I want to build on that, explore new things. We still have a lot of places to go.

I think the main difference between AM and your previous albums is the small amount of guitars.

This time we didn't want to sound like four guys playing in the same room, while that's exactly what we wanted to sound like in Suck It And See. We immersed ourselves in a more minimalist idea. The guitars are perfect, sometimes they don't even sound like guitars from the way they're played, or from the effects we put on them. They sound a bit "spacey," they would be good for the stereo of a flying saucer. Then we came out with some bass and drum parts perfect to be played at full volume through the speakers of a car. We also worked much more with the vocal lines, especially with the choirs.

There are actually a lot of songs where you put backing vocals and backing vocals, especially One For The Road.

Matt, Nick and I do them. Jamie is the only one who doesn't want to have anything to do with them. It all started with R U Mine? , the part where we all start going: [hums the backing vocals]. As soon as we tried that part we realized how good it sounded, we especially liked the fact that it was something we hadn't done before. So we just went for it.

[nicoscheer]

Chris McClure (cover of wpsiatwin) Interview 2021

How to communicate with the monkeys:

Alex via E-mail

Matt via Insta

[urfavsecretgirl]

my husbands and wife

[urfavsecretgirl]

this man.

[k1lljoysmakesomenois3]

CDS AND VINYL HAUL YAY :D

[arcticmonkeyoftheday]

arctic monkeys at pacific coliseum, vancouver, 2023.

[dangeroustaintedflawed]

[girlbragging]

[lizzygrantisaliveandbreathing]

vintage summer heels by sororitè vintage

[1warpspeedch1c]