Alex Turner/One Shots. (Smuts And Non-Smuts)

Olympic Reader! (Fluff)

Alex tried not to stand out too much among the people. He wore an Olympic cap, a light button-down shirt, and comfortable tailored pants. As soon as you appeared from the locker room in your fitted leotard and short skirt, he smiled and stood up. You tended to be quieter when nervous, and he understood that but hated when your rigidity was more about anxiety than concentration. To anyone looking, you exuded confidence, and you certainly wore it well, but it wasn’t easy, and Alex knew that.
He touched your shoulders, his hand gliding down your arm until he reached your cold hands. "I'm excited," you said, your voice enthusiastic, followed by a few small jumps. Your outfit had glitter, and when you hugged him, Alex laughed at how some of it transferred onto his shirt sleeve. "You look stunning." He was used to your tennis outfits and loved how they looked on you but never tired of seeing you in them. "I love this one. I wish I could take it home, Al." Your cheek rested on his shoulder, and his large hands roamed your back, squeezing your waist a little.
Years of watching had taught Alex from a physiotherapist once that touching or stimulating other parts of the body could shift focus away from pain (such information would also apply well in other areas). This worked for physical injuries, but Alex believed it also helped your emotional state. He bent down a bit, giving your shoulder a soft kiss. You closed your eyes, and he gently nibbled at the spot, making you laugh, followed by some camera flashes. Since you didn't mind, he didn't either.
The important thing was that it worked; your posture was still confident, but you were visibly more relaxed. "We can have one made just like it when we get home, tiny one." You laughed softly, making him feel relieved to see you less tense. You certainly didn't have the money for that, but Alex wouldn't hesitate to fulfill your wish for something so simple for him to get. Under different circumstances, you might resist, but for the moment, you went along: "If I qualify, I'll hold you to that, love." He nodded, his big almond eyes bright. You thought he sometimes believed in you more than you did. "I can make sure it's yours by next week." You buried your face in his neck, hugging him tighter, not knowing what to say. He laughed, keeping his arms around you, holding you firmly until your moment arrived.
Until then, your fingers intertwined with the crumpled folds of his shirt hem, occasionally pinching the skin of his hands, tracing the prominent veins, and wrapping your fingers around his while he tried to keep you relaxed.
He understood the dynamics of the game well, thanks to you, of course. He followed the little ball with his eyes, as well as the precise movements of your body. Whenever you took a leap, your skirt flew freely, and he found it adorable; you look like proper doll. When your perfect posture flexed to hit the ball with skill, your ponytail moved gracefully. Deep down, he knew the sport was made for you, both for your talent and for how it enhanced your natural grace. "Go, pumpkin, you can do it," he whispered to himself, anxious as you handled everything like a perfectly choreographed dance.
The ball hit the ground, followed by cheers. Alex couldn't help but remember the previous Olympics, with photos in tabloids showing you with stern fingers on his chest and raised eyebrows, teaching him not to wish for opponents' mistakes; specifically not errors of chance (like wishing for a ball to fall just for your own benefit). You didn’t need that; you could win fairly. Alex didn’t fully understand, but your dedication warmed his heart.
Your breathing was heavy, eyes wide with excitement. You let out a loud cheer, filling the air around the court. The ball had fallen, but not due to any unfair advantage. You showed empathy to your opponent, who reciprocated. Alex beamed with pride, watching your glowing face as you placed your racket on the table and ran to him.
  You jumped over the barrier, and Alex caught you in mid-air, your legs wrapping around his torso and your arms around his neck. You felt tears of joy streaming down your face. "I knew you could do it, I told you, tiny one." He filled you with praise, always there to boost your ego, while keeping a hand on your skirt, aware of the crowd around you; not wanting to share any further piece of your soft skin.
You nestled into him, clutching his shirt, and Alex laughed, holding you firmly even though he knew you were stronger. Your training routine left him with no doubts about such confirmations; a d he was proud of that too. You placed your feet on the ground, eyes swollen with tears, looking at him. You loved how he was always there for you. The Olympics were spaced out, and this was his second year there with you, always finding a way to avoid tours or shows for you. Everyone around you expected the best from you, but Alex was there just for you. He didn’t care about the spectacle, only about you as his fav person.
"I'm so proud of you," he repeated, eyes brimming with tears like yours. He stroked your hair, kissing your forehead multiple times, making you smile with a contagious sigh before you had to return to your athletic peers. "Now you can get ready for the medals and new sparkly outfits."
...
Alex sat in a seat that offered a perfect view of your coach, his restlessness, and the anxiety about what lay ahead. He found it unfair that artistic gymnastics had such little performance time, considering your years of rigorous training.
While he didn't expect the worst, Alex couldn't feel at ease knowing you were nervous and doubtful of your abilities. Despite being distant from you, whenever your eyes met his, he tried to reassure you with a smile, blowing kisses, or making heart shapes. You found it endearing because he typically didn't express himself that way unless it was for you.
Your heart was racing, and your hands were cold, making it hard to focus on him for long. This worried Alex, not because of the competition, but for your well-being. Ignoring protocol but not acting recklessly, he moved closer to where you were standing, waiting for your turn. You were puzzled, but since no one objected, you didn't mind. He felt closer to you, held your hand, traced his fingers along your wrist and palm. Having something else to focus on helped, and you looked at him with a light smile of gratitude. He added, "You are amazing, tiny one. You'll do great, and I'll be 'ere for you no matter what happens." Alex's presence was immensely helpful. You appreciated that he was there not for your professional development but because you were important to him as a person. Just the physical touch and his sweet words boosted your confidence.
Unfortunately, it wasn't enough, and rationally, you knew it wasn't your fault. But in the moment, it felt dreadful, as if all your invested time was wasted. You had prepared for this, and even though you failed, shouldn't you be emotionally prepared? The scene replayed in your mind seconds after it happened.
Everything had gone well—the beginning, all the aerial acrobatics—but your knees couldn't handle the landing. The sound was harsh, your head hurt, and even though it wasn't a fall, your stumble and attempt to recover to avoid injuries would come at a cost. You tried to keep a smile, but your face crumbled as you realized what had happened. It was not a good day.
After the acknowledgments, your tearful eyes searched for Alex. In tense moments like these, he would nibble on his nails—not severely, but it was different (a good kind of different) to know he got nervous watching you do something important to you, as it impacted your life as a couple. You liked how he cared. "I thought it was great," he whispered, opening his arms for you to nestle into. The phrases varied, but they always carried the same meaning. "It was terrible this time, Alex." You pronounced his full name as if in pain and buried your face in him.
He hugged you tightly, wanting to lift all that weight off your shoulders. He couldn't imagine it, but he knew you well enough to understand your thoughts were burdened with wasted time and how your team was affected. "It's not your fault, my luv. No one thinks it is, 'kay?" he said, feeling the urge to cry seeing you were in tears but holding it back. He knelt in front of you as you sat on the bench, still wrapped in his arms. He lifted your head, caressing your cheek and holding your waist.
"You still have more chances; it was just a bad day." He saw more tears falling, his chest heavy, and then you broke down. And he was there for you, holding your face to his shoulder while he stroked your hair and back. It was heartbreaking, but he hoped you felt lighter afterward. "I'm right 'ere; everything'ill be okay from now on, you'll see, huh?" It was uncertain, but his voice calmed you.        
At that moment, a few reporters appeared, and Alex reflexively thought to shoo them away, but remembered that in sports, they were more respectful, so he just lifted your face before they got close. "You're one of the strongest people I know; I know you'll do well." You didn't hesitate, not wanting to but knowing it was expected whether you did well or not. You gave a brief interview, even through tears, explaining yourself as best as you could.
Alex avoided appearing when it was your moment, not wanting to draw attention to himself and not answering questions about him when asked, respecting the significance of your day. But as soon as it was over, there he was, holding your Olympic jacket to put over you, knowing it made you more comfortable because walking around in public in a leotard wasn't your cup of tea.
You needed to watch the rest before the scores were announced. And so you did, even with some doses of tears and lament, but Alex did everything to make it comfortable and bearable for you. He would rather you talk or cry with him there than keep all the weight to yourself.
He sat by your side, your body lying against his chest, in a somewhat hidden spot in the audience, not forcing an impractical good mood on you. He took off his cap and put it on your head while you curled up next to him. "I'm happy for them," you said, watching your fellow teammates and friends. Alex nodded, "I know," he said in a somewhat proud tone.
He understood you were upset with yourself, a common reaction, and that it had nothing to do with your relationship with the other professionals.
Your eyes filled with tears again, and Alex kissed your head, understanding that it would take time. Your fingers tightened on the edge of his shirt while his hand squeezed your thigh, trying his best to ease all of that and in fact he tried to keep your hands busy with him so that they wouldn't pass incessantly over your swollen eyes. He couldn't imagine himself in your place. He could mess up a show, and there would be many more in the near future. The Olympics weren't like that. "You're an excellent professional, pumpkin. It wasn't your failure; it was just a bad day." And Alex would do anything for you to hear him, especially since he was with you and had been following your routine long enough to know what he was talking about.