Abbi

SERIES

1.

Is This What You Had in Mind?

Summary: You're stalking the frontman.

Tags: AM Era + Unhealthy + Obsession

'Cause I Want You I'll Be Your Dog In The Corner Has It Gone For Good?

2.

You Know The Face, But You Can't See Past

Summary: You meet him at a club, he's too old for you, and you should really know better.

Tags: The Car Era + Age Gap (20 years) + Guilt

We've Got Nowhere To Go I'm Your Favorite Kid, Let's Play Come On Home, Girl

3.

Love Came in a Bottle with a Twist-off Cap

Summary: Babysitting a rockstar's secret son is a job made for you.

Tags: Tranquility Base Era + Fluff + Will They or Won't They?

Oh, Mr. Mystery [Pending] [Pending]

4.

Gimme All your Love so I Can Fill You Up with Hate

Summary: Poor girl, always looking for things that were never there.

Tags: ETYCTE Era + Cheating + One-sided Pining

He Hit Me & It Felt Like a Kiss [Pending] [Pending]

5.

[Pending]

Summary: [Pending]

Tags: [Pending] + [Pending] + [Pending]

[Pending] [Pending] [Pending]

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✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮⚭

ONE SHOTS

Professor Turner (University AU) Al (Married Life AU) Dracula Teeth (ETYCTE Era) [Pending] [Pending] [Pending]

✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮⚭

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Cute new places will keep popping up!

Alex had been nursing his beer as he looked at the grandfather clock in his living room that faced him, he was sat on his leather sofa, waiting for time to pass as his midnight thoughts meandered between a new verse born from that French film he watched with his girlfriend at the local cinema this afternoon. The mind was the quiet sea tonight, the soft waves was expected, he was sure there would be no deep plunge breaking the surface. Even you’d be arriving as promised, a little banter over cigarettes would be in schedule, along with a few hours of staying in bed, sweat mapping its way on his new linen, the scent of your shampoo on the silk pillowsheets.

The old bell above his door sliced through the low hum of the Rod Mckuen record he’d put on. Tonight didn’t click, it slammed open, echoing through the quiet apartment.

He turned to the door as he sets his bottle down on the coffee table. He was met with your pair of eyes: wide, glistening, reflecting the warm lights of from the dim lamps in his living room area. You look like you’d just left from the pub, and smelled like it too, the scent of strong alcohol on your mouth, the shot of desperation cutting through like lime as you stumbled inside. Your face was flushed, despite the low lights, he could see the mascara that ran down your face. Your heels scraped against his polished wood floor, a sound that made him wince.

“You…” you trailed, “You fucking dickhead,” you spat, voice thick in raw betrayal, "You absolute fucking prick.”

He knew he was, but he only watched with a slight tilt of his head as he stood up and made his way over. This wasn’t the languid, hazy encounter he usually had with you, something was off, clearly. Your hands flew in agitation, eyes searching for something hand-held, before it picked up on a marble ashtray that sat on the edge of his low-slung cabinet. He saw the stone, the sudden surge of adrenaline, and the trajectory of it all.

It flew past his ear, shattering against the vintage poster behind him, sending a spray of calcite fractures across the wall, the ashes, cigarette butts dropping on his Turkish carpet. He flinched, naturally as anyone would. The thud of the stones had ignited something in you as your shoulders began to shake, fresh tears painting your cheeks, lips trembling.

“What are we, Alex?” you pleaded.

Ah, right. Well, the fans work fast. He thought to himself, he knew now that you saw who he was with, and clearly that took a toll on you more then he cared to know.

The words came out choked up and heartbreaking, almost as if you didn’t arrive with a violent stunt.

“What the fuck are we, huh? I hate you, I hate you for making me feel like this, Al. You… You fuckin' bastard.”

The bastard straightened from where he’d been leaning against the mantelpiece, his movements in no rush, almost a cruel joke to piss on your meltdown. Rod Mckuen’s She played through the whole incident, he let it on as a background to the drama. His eyes, thoughtful, met yours. He knew he’d found the vulnerability behind the rage. He’d seen this dance, in different faces, but never quite like this, not with you.

He took a step after another, closing the distance between you two. You were still trembling, fists clenched at your sides, prepared to lash out once more—prepared to collapse. He extended his warm, big hands, to gently cup your cheeks and wipe your tears, his thumb brushing away your tears, mascara smearing.

He saw your face up-close, beneath the messy make-up, the bravado, your lips trembled and he wondered if it was right to kiss you here.

Your name was softly murmured, his voice like gravel in the way the years changed it, “Love, Look at you…” he continued, scolding you like a small child.

He lets go the left side of your face to snake his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. You struggled, escaping him, but his hold was strong and firm just like what you needed. He softly cooed you to settle down as he pinned you against the cool plaster of the wall behind you, your heels dangling a few inches off the floor. The scent of his cologne and cigarettes… he looked at you like you were the most precious thing on earth and it killed you to see it. He was concerned, and a tad tired, you noticed. He leaned close, his peach fuzz brushing against your temple.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his lips touching your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating to feel. “Calm down, now. Just breathe for me, darlin’. Just breathe.”

You squirmed in his embrace, a wild bird caught in his trap, your fists pushing against his chest, strong for someone who had too much to drink. “No! Get off me, you prick! You’re a cheat, a bloody cheater!” your voice was ragged, tearing through the soft sounds of his apartment, the record wailing in the backdrop.

“Piss off!” you shrieked, “Let me go, you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like a fuckin’ help when you’re the—”

“Easy, doll. Easy…” he whispered, “Darlin’, settle down for me, yeah? We can talk. Properly.”

“I hate you,” you spat again, curdling straight from your throat. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

He opened his mouth to say something again, to offer another word of reassurance. You lurched forward, face contorted, and a glob of saliva landed squarely on his cheek, warm and wet.

The record played on. The sound of your ragged breathing filled the deafening silence. He was frozen, looking through the distance on the wall. For a long moment, you wondered if you should apologize. You couldn’t hear his thoughts, but he seemed detached to what just happened.

The silence stretched on, pressing down on you. The wetness of her spit became cold, dripping down his jaw, only then did he look back at you, the soft gaze had hardened, an anger that seemed ice in nature had settled in his grip. His hands shifted, tightening on your waist as he pushed you back to the wall with a hard thud. His other hand gripped the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. Tender was gone in a second, and your eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from him.

He pulled her away from the wall, his grip on your neck had tightened as he steered you across the polished floor. Your heels scraped against the wood as you stumbled slightly, your body a puppet in his hand.

You’d forgotten which way was which in the house you’ve been in countless of times, as if you’d drop your brain in the living room from the impact. Though, you recognized the bed, and the closet, and the scent of his bedroom. He tossed you dismissively, and he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights and only wiped the saliva you spat in his face with the back of his hand. Your frame landed on the mattress, the springs from below groaned. Your body was nothing but mere lead, and before you could think of scrambling to sit up, to push yourself away, he was already over you. The light from the open blinds of his window etched his face: anger in capital letters, your stomach sank in fear. His knee kicked your legs open to make way for himself. He didn’t shout, which seemed enough.

Alex’s hand gripped your neck, the other pressing flat against your shoulder, forcing you back down to the mattress. His face was too close, and you could smell the beer, the cigarettes on his lips.

“You bloody brat, you think you can just walk in ‘ere, break my things, fuckin’ spit on me, and then scream like a bloody idiot because you’ve decided you’re allowed to, huh?” he hissed, his grip on your neck tightening.

You could only whimper, close your eyes, and turn your head. He leaned closer to your ear. “We had an understanding, didn’t we? a casual arrangement.” He reminded you.

“You were the one, if I recall, who was keen with the thrill of it.” he continued, but you couldn’t say anything. You knew your reason would seem flimsy, child-like. But you agreed, as that was the only thing that would get you closer to him, despite of the fleeting relationship, despite of the temporary paradise.

When you were silent with his one-sided statements, his hand let go of your shoulder and forced your head to face him, his fingers indenting your cheeks, you could only wince in pain, your eyes full of fear.

“You asked for this! Every casual glance, every late-night knock on that door, every texts you sent, every calls you ever answered—you fuckin’ wanted this.” He continued, his voice becoming a little louder, his grasp around your neck a little tighter.

“And now…” he rasped, “You come in here, pissed, cryin’ for a label that was never on the table, are you mad?”

Your hands, trembling, scrabbled against his chest, pushing him off desperately. You were still crying, soft, choked sounds escaping your throat. Alex didn’t even budge, he watched you, his expression cold, jaw clenched, the muscle ticking in his cheek.

When you failed, exhausted, he shifted, moving your body closer to the middle of the bed. His voice low, “Oh no, love.” he cooed, “We’re not done yet. I’m goin’ to knock some sense into that pretty little head of yours.”

He let go of your cheek, and the pain had reduced, temporarily. He found the hem of your shirt, pulling it upward, past your ribs, exposing a sliver of warm skin. He didn’t remove it, not yet. His body moved, covering you completely, deeper into the mattress.

You gulped, sweat breaking on your forehead as you sobbed, shaking your head as you tried to scream, only to silence you by pressing your neck a little harder.

“Shut up.” He commanded, his gaze unrelenting. “You’ve made enough noises for one night, haven’t you, darlin’?”

You choked up, closing your eyes as you whimpered. “You’re a fuckin’ monster,”

His gaze, swept over your tear-streaked face. He actually looked hurt at your insult. “Where is my good girl, huh? This isn’t my girl, is it?”

His grip around your neck had loosen, but his other hand trailed on the expanse of your stomach, pushing the fabric up slowly.

“This one… this one fights, this one screams, this one disrespects me.” He whispered, leaning closer against your ear, his tongue peeking out, licking the soft tissue. Your whole body shuddered in fear and something you couldn’t say.

“Don’t you worry, love.” he reassured, his hands on your chest now, his palm warm against your bra. “I’ll bring her back…”

He ignored your pleas as he unbuttoned, unzipped your jeans and took off your panties, your legs shaking from the cold. He took his time, watching you with that same loving gaze he always had before. His voice was soft and gentle when he peeled off your shirt. His lips on your collarbone as he whispered how beautiful you were, all while unclasping your bra with one hand and taking them off with such reverence.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked again, pulling his body off as he undid his belt, his weight dipping on the mattress, the sheets duvet wrinkling, his eyes were on you, asking the same question.

You were unsure, for all you know, you hated him. A manipulative cheater, a prick who treated you nothing more as a body to warm his lonely nights. You did, but when he’s like this.. all soft and gentle, it blurred your judgement, and you wondered if this ever works on other girls all the time, because he knew well it does on you.

Left with nothing but a confused, puzzled, and slightly fearful reaction from you, he chuckled and leaned in—you flinched—but hesitantly froze as he kissed your forehead.

“I’m sorry, love.” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to get so rough on ya,” he continued, his lips trailing to your temple, to your cheeks, he could taste the salts of your tears. His pecks of affection trailed to your neck, tongue darting out, his teeth gently brushing against the sensitive part of your skin you slowly gave him access to.

“My good girl,” he whispered on your skin, his head dipping low to your breasts, you felt your body begin to relax then. “My perfect, perfect girl..” he continued, his lips closing around one nipple.

Your back arched, a moan escaping from your mouth as your body laid down on the soft sheets of the mattress.

“You ready for me, darlin’?” He asked, his hands trailing to the soft skin between your legs, his questions immediately answered as he touched the soaking heat, two digits sinking in.

“No, Alex…” you whispered, “We can’t… You said we’ll talk…”

His face hardened, “After this.”

“Why can’t we talk about it now?” you demanded.

His body language changed immediately, he was back to being the same Alex who’d pin you on the bed and told you to shut up.

“You wanna talk? Fine.” he spat, his body hovering over you as he pushes your legs apart, giving him access as he roughly pulls his boxers down before he enters inside you, his hands flying to your waist to keep you close.

You gasped, holding on to his shoulder blades as you cried, back bowing off the duvet as you winced in pain.

”Fuck! It hurts, Al—”

He covered your mouth, his thrusts heavy and pushing you further on the bed.

“You like this, don’t you? You bloody like this.” He groaned, his hips moving with that calculated grind that spurred you on.

“This.” he said mid-thrust, his forehead pressing against yours. “This is all you’re ever gonna get, ye hear me?”

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes born from the heartbreak and the pleasure. It was as if the pain had heightened the feeling, practically blurring your visions, prickling on your skin, it hurt so good that you could only swallow the humiliation, the pride, for something that would only be gone in a minute, and you were willing to sacrifice any shame, any label, just to feel him again.

“Words, love.” He groaned, moving faster, the weight of his hand on your mouth disappearing. The moan that had been simmering in your throat had erupted, high and hitting the right places.

Despite the ragged breathing, and the soft moans coming from him, he grinned in satisfaction at your reaction. He leaned close to kiss your lips, tongues dancing in passion, your hips meeting his, the bed creaking with each force. With that, he pulled away roughly, his right hand touched your chin, opening your mouth for a wider access. His jaw moved, gathering saliva in his closed mouth before projecting it into you. You nearly choked as you swallowed the thick, warm liquid, cries begging to spill out once again from the humiliation.

“That’s what you get for spittin’ on me.” he said, voice rough, before his expression contorted, dipping on the crook of your neck as he gasped in pleasure, his voice hoarse.

“Fuck, you’re into this shite… can feel you tightenin’ up,” he groaned, “You see, this is why I love ya…” he murmured, grinning against your collarbone. That word, used so casually, was enough to twist your stomach into knots, but you could deal with the pain later, for now…

“Alex…” you moaned, eyes closing. He knew what that meant. His hips started grinding faster than before, challenging his good mahogany bed to collapse. His hand trailing to your hips, his other hand pushing your sensitive buttons, his thumb circling against your clit.

”A-Ah! Fu-fuck…” you groaned, hips flying off of the mattress but he pinned you down as he continued his assault. “I’m gonna—”

When you opened your eyes, the lights were low, but you could see the widow’s peak on his hairline, his damp hair swinging slightly with each impact. Alex’s face was sweating, dripping on to your skin like holy water. His eyes, dark like his very being, focused and boring on to you, his jaw clenched, teeth gritting as his gasps fogged with each thrust. For a moment, you began to believe that you’re the only woman on god’s green earth to have seen him like this, to have experienced him like this, it was a fleeting illusion, but a thought long enough to dream.

Your eyes rolled back as you let out a heavenly gasp, the warm feeling gently crashing a tide on your whole body.

Alex choked up from the sensation, his hips faltering before he pulls out with a harsh hiss, his hands working around his shaft as he comes, spilling over her stomach and breasts, the feeling warm and sticky, but it was a feeling you’ve come to know and loved.

He collapsed beside you, his weight dipping you close next to him. The aftermath was a series of pure, reluctant tranquility, the kind of quiet after a new year’s eve party where you’re nothing but a post-melancholic carcass, hollowed out from the high, and a mess to clean up by 10 am.

He offered you a cigarette from the bedside table, but you shook your head, just watching him smoke away.

His record had stopped long ago, across the hallway, the sound of faint clicking of the needle had been playing for the past hour, circling endlessly on the center of the record. You laid there, wondering if he’d sit up, walk over, and turn it off.

Your head turned to face him as he put out the cigarette on the headboard, before throwing it carelessly on the floor. Alex didn’t look back at you, not even once, the whole night.

But maybe he did, but you’d fallen asleep to even notice.

You’d come back again, you knew.

“Here are the daily blind items that were released on February 21st, 2017.

Number one, this one reads… this foreign-born rockstar, long thought to be a lifelong bachelor, has secretly fathered a child the public knows nothing about.”

May 05, 2016

Somewhere in LA, California

Rent was the headlights that dared to lead every decision in your life for the past coming weeks. The hours would roll by like watching paint dry when you’re penniless and unemployed, not when you’ve just gotten fired from Cha Cafe. Today, specifically, had made the grounds of Pasadena like crossing through treading waters, you were driving on your beaten-up Honda Civic on your way to a secluded neighbourhood in Beverly Crest. The call born from your tear-eyed desperation. It was a last minute plea to your friend you’d drunkenly met from a bar from the Valley, both coming from the same working-class backgrounds that both liked the same brand of cig*rettes. Now, this friend knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, so call them your guardian angel with suspiciously good strings to pull because, you’re in luck.

Drug-dealing? Robbery? a pawn to a cult in the guise of yoga, breathwork and personal transformation in Venice Beach? Not exactly…

“Babysitting?” You asked on the phone, standing up from your dusty, sweat-soaked bed. It wasn’t like you weren’t good with kids, they eat, they sh*t, they drink water, it’s nothing special, really, you put them in a trance with this multi-colored screen and suddenly they’re as quiet as the breezing leaf in July. For whom? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, the gig would be easy money, she assured. It was just gonna be a five-year-old, someone’s five-year-old. That’s easy, you’ve had your hips and arms carefully extracting nieces and nephews from your aunts during family holidays, you were built for this, for a day at least. This would be no different than a cat or a dog.

You’ve arrived at the exact address you were told, it was a private residence (as you assumed). The gravel driveway now audible as you pulled your car up a path to the far off what could be called civilization as it was entirely… secluded.

Really secluded.

Your boots crunched softly on the ground as you stepped out from your Honda. Trees enveloping the only building here. Far from the Hollywood glamour, but it didn't shy away from the subtle wealth... That was certain. Well, privacy itself is an understated status symbol nowadays. The place was a beautiful two-storey house with stone walls and terracotta roof tiles. The wraparound porch was charmingly cozy just from here; a rocking chair stayed still on the side near just by the window—which from here, had its lights on, and from there—

A figure moved.

Then, before you could even react, a young woman stepped out from the oak door as she opened it, her dark hair pulled in a bun, a tablet clutched in one hand. She wore a crisp, tailored suit—a practical jarring contrast to you, who wore nothing but a cotton shirt and thrifted jeans with questionable stains that the lady obviously noticed from the way her blue eyes gazed at the spot before she returned to gaze at your face. She approached, her heels clicking with confidence. When she spoke, you noticed the subtle lilt of something British in her words.

"You must be..." she trailed, looking at her iPad.

You finished her words by stating your name in full as you walked closer, climbing to the doorstep as you clutched your bag tighter.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

"I'm Clara Martin, Mr. Turner's personal assistant," she continued as she extended her hand, nails polished in ruby red.

"Hi, nice to meet you," you said as you shook her hand. Her blue eyes—now that she's up close—have bags underneath them. This is the first time that your employer has been mentioned; hell, you didn't even know what job he had. All you remembered is that he had a kid and he was always away.

"Will he be with us today?" you asked as she turned and went to the door. "Er… Mr. Turner?"

"No," she answered without looking, her fingers on the knob before she turned to your direction. "Would you like some tea?" 

You smiled, “No, just water for me.”

Clara led the way through the foyer, heels clicking on precised rhythm of the polished marble floor. You trailed, eyes wandering around as you took in the space. The house smelled expensive, it was a different quality of air from what you’d usually have in your cramped apartment, The intricate vases was clean enough to see your own reflection, the floor-to-ceiling windows had the natural light welcome through, it truly reminded you that friday mornings can look like this. As Clara talked about the cleaning lady’s schedule, and where the bathrooms are, you let yourself get distracted from the abstract sculpture to your left, What a pretentious thing to own in a home, you thought, but then again, if you had all the money in the world, you’d probably buy something tackier.

The foyer opened into a living area, and from the corner where it didn’t mean to capture your attention, stood an upright piano, positioned perfectly to catch the morning light, the gloss from its dark color gleamed. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it, it was practically the only thing that made Clara’s words slide off of your head. If you were correct, it was a Steinway Vertegrand. Now, you weren’t a huge music nerd, nor did you play the piano, it was just precisely the same piano your dad owned. It seemed touched, bought to use, out of all the things in this home, this seemed more real than anything else. Your eyes trailed around the room and it seemed clean, surprisingly, you’d almost forgotten you were here to watch a toddler, and the fact that the only noise you could hear right now is the assistant’s continuous one-sided conversation, you were wondering now if anything of this “babysitting” thing have been true at all. You’ve watched that horror movie doll thing before, and this seemed the beginning of that.

“...Mr Turner’s quite particular about his space.” she stated, her voice slicing through your contemplation as she gestured vaguely towards the room, which is loosely translated to: Do not touch anything.

“...and he values privacy above all else, which is why this property rather suits him.” Yeah, that makes sense.

“August—” that’s the name of the kid? “—has free rein over the most of the ground floor during the day.” She instructed, but as she droned on about the boy’s general routine: the naptimes, snack preferences, designated play areas, the directions had an almost maternal feeling around it, soft velvet against your skin. August adored playing with his plushies, he’s very active, engaging, and he’s currently fascinated with certain comic characters, she added, which felt like a plus, you asked which character it was, and she said you’ll find out eventually. You offered nothing but simple nods as your eyes took in every detail of the kitchen: the compact space had its window facing the back garden, a cozy breakfast nook in the corner had a table for two. The appliances were complete: an electric stove, a worn kettle on the right burner. A microwave on the far corner, and on the bottom was an oven just beside the dishwasher. Beside the sink was the refrigerator, with little drawings of what you assumed was the kid’s: A charming depiction of a sunday afternoon of a garden: the grass was purple, but you’d assume he ran out of green crayons, that’s understandable. The way your eyes lingered around the kitchen was caught by the assistant, but she didn’t question it. The job itself seemed straightforward enough.  

She set her iPad on the kitchen counter and opened the fridge, with her manicured hands she took out a bottle of water and handed it to you. “Now, before I introduce you to August,” Clara said, her voice shifting back to its crisp, professional tone, the warmth of her voice disappearing like it was never even there before. She took her iPad in her hands as she watched you drink your water. 

Clara took out her stylus.

“There’s just one last bit of paperwork to sort, a standard non-disclosure agreement. Considering Mr. Turner’s public status—” Huh? “—And the delicate nature… of well, his private affairs. It’s absolutely crucial for anyone working within the household.” Even her eyes had been devoid of its earlier softness, met yours.

Well, there it is, then.  

“It’s simply to guarantee that any information you come across during your employment here is kept strictly confidential. Personal details, household routines, anything relating to August’s life or to Mr. Turner himself, remains within these walls.” she said, smiling now.

Okay, what the hell did I get myself into? You stopped drinking your water, carefully setting it aside on the marble counter, eyes unblinking as you looked at the assistant’s hands, she was opening a file in there, and she was scrolling down through the digital pages. An NDA was the last thing you’d ever expect back in the drive. LA was always full of surprises. You’ve thought of harv*sted org*ns, perhaps even a kilo of something to deliver somewhere, but an actual babysitting job, and an NDA? Public status? You were a total shut-in and didn’t read Cosmos to care enough about this. 

But all of it clicked into place, the father wasn’t some ridiculous finance guy who was always travelling like you had in mind, the pristine Steinway wasn’t just a hobby—it was a lifestyle.

Mr. Turner was some classical pianist, probably from a very famous orchestra group.

Well, fuck me. It’s too late now, isn’t it? Your rent was on the line, and it wasn’t going to pay itself (not with your horrible credit score), and a last-minute profile gig didn’t seem too bad now, no matter how shady it seemed.

Clara’s tablet was already facing you while you were too lost in your own decision-making, when you’ve finally snapped out of it, you quickly took the tablet and stylus. Your eyes briefly skimmed over the legalese and dense paragraphs—desperation like tremors through your very fingers. Confidential clauses were alrighty, non-disparagement agreements were uh-huh, and penalties for breach were all sure thing. The whole point was to just keep your mouth shut, mind your business, and don’t talk about the kid, or what you see here. You shrugged, you weren’t much of a talker anyway, easier said than done.

You signed your name on the digital screen, before handing the tablet back to Clara. Her expression remained unchanged, as she looked down, her smile returned. “Splendid. Now, if you’ll follow me, August is in the conservatory. He’ll be thrilled to have a new playmate.”

The georgian conservatory was connected just beside the kitchen. It was bright, airy, and an acoustic guitar was resting silently on a wicker chair. The glass walls offered a panoramic view of the sculpted garden from outside just like what you have seen from the windows. It was a rich sight of succulents and exotic flowers—The air was warmer, humid, faint scents of coarse soil as the windows were open. Clara continued on her rundown, precised, clinical.

“Mr. Turner’s meeting concludes around six o’ clock this evening.”

Her gaze flicked to her slim gold watch on her wrist. “He should be home shortly after that, Until then, you have complete control around the house.” She then switched topic and began with the boy’s dietary restrictions, listing them like a Pediatrician on steroids. “He’s five, so mainly healthy snacks. Please do avoid excessive sugar, he’s not too keen on anything green, though, we do encourage a small serving of steamed broccoli with his dinner. Lunch is typically a turkey sandwich on wholemeal bread, crusts removed and cut into triangles. Water only, of course — no fizzy drinks. Good God, absolutely no fizzy drinks.”

The Do’s and Don’ts were next, the designated play areas, the telly screen time limits, the proper way to execute the kid’s evening bath.

“And.” she paused, stressing. “And under no circumstances… is August to leave the property without prior written consent from Mr. Turner, or myself.” she warned. “Gates are always locked, you’ll have the code but it should only be used for emergencies… we have surveillance of the whole house.” she added.

The reminders were all a flat circle, all leading back to privacy, security. This wasn’t just a usual 2 dollar per-hour babysitting, or maybe this was just your first time watching over some prodigy’s kid.

Clara was just about to venture through where the first aid kits were located when a motion erupted from behind the potted plant.

“Fear not, citizens!” a high-pitched, undeniably English voice declared, echoing through the glass room. “Batman is here!”

August, of all five years, was a tiny little thing with blonde hair and pale skin. He fashioned a miniature Batman mask, slightly skewed, covering the top half of his face, but it wasn’t enough to cover up the mischievous glint in his big brown eyes. He wore a cape, taken from what looked like a velvet curtain, dramatically following him as he skipped to a halt. His mask fell just in time and his little face was shown. Flushed pale cheeks, and a charmingly big smile for such a tiny fella, and a front tooth just yet to emerge. As he picked up his little mask, his cardboard belt creaked, with various plastic trinkets tucked into its loops had shimmied with each movement.

“August, darling,” Clara murmured, “This is going to be your new nanny. She’s gonna be the one to look after you today.”

There is certainly nothing as more excruciating than a kid’s scrutiny. August’s gaze, fixed on you, before his head tilted. “Are you Robin?” he asked, with his proper accent it made it all the more fond.

So, the family’s English then, that’s… something. 

You didn’t answer, clearly you should be, but you didn’t. You were too distracted with the idea of now seeing the reason you’re here, and well, the pressure’s just being felt now. 

Clara looked at the two of you, seemingly oblivious to the shared silence, she checked her wristwatch again. “Right, my apologies, but I have another pressing engagement.” She tucked her tablet and stylus close as she heads to the empty wooden bench where her briefcase was lying this whole time. “My number is on the fridge, should you need anything at all, just phone me.” She offered a final, tight-lipped smile, a professional, rather awkward, farewell, before turning and making her swift exit.

She called your name, echoing from inside.

“Good luck — you’ll need it.”

What? 

You heard the main door close shut, the soft boom echoed not only from the foyer but its ominous sound led to the glass room.

“Look, Robin!” August’s voice boomed from behind you, and as you turned, he was already on the plush wooden armchair, bouncing with an enthusiasm only a five-year-old could ever experience. His small hands reached into his cardboard utility belt. With a surprisingly theatrical aim, he launched a cardboard batarang.

You didn’t even have time to dodge, but thankfully it swiftly graced to the side of your head. An almost accurate projectile as it whizzed past your ear, the sound of the weapon’s wind passing through as it clattered harmlessly against the glass wall.

Your eyes met the boy’s, and he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

Oh, no.

July 2015 Los Angeles, California

“Big night for you, eh? Your bird’s finally landed.”

Miles teased as he leaned against his chair, his voice gravelly, accompanying the final notes of the guitar riff that filled the air, smoke-like ghosts of melodies they’ve been bottling and chasing for the past couple of weeks. Alex hummed, a noncommittal sound, as he stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray by the soundboard. He rose from the velvet sofa; the soft mewls of his leather jacket creaked in the control room. The exhaustion of today’s session was embalmed right through his cranial cavities, gripping the lids of his eyes and tugging the back of his neck.

“Yeah, guess… summat like that,” he murmured, his gaze distant.

He’d expected something more different, if one would consider the way an idealist would see the world. Perhaps a grand, cinematic arrival at the airport, a souvenir of kisses and open arms by the baggage claims, the jet lag magically disappearing in your system the moment your bodies collide as he whispers something endearing in your ear, before opening the conversation with where you would want to eat first and how the flight had gone; it was a proper, albeit overused, romanticised scene that has been packaged by Hollywood and put into one’s very eyes.

But reality was an unforgiving wake. It was during their tea break when he’d received your message, the notification popping up on his iPhone:

Landed. Got off the cab rn. Got the keys. Shift in at 6pm xx.

He grabbed the keys from the console as he replayed the message in his mind. A night shift. The phrase will be the jargon in your relationship for the next coming months as well, as it was highly expected. It wasn’t like Alex had the right to wallow about it; it was a risk to quit your old job and find another one close by.  He did want you to move in with him in LA, which you’ve been putting off for months. Not because you didn’t love him enough; frankly, you do, much more than you’d care to admit. Despite being a workaholic, you’d divide your time to answer his texts during work hours—sure, you’d respond a little late, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

You’ve only fully decided then because, well, the rent had gotten high by a whopping 9.5% in Manhattan (not like LA was any better at 11.6%), and as much as you enjoyed your stay there, it was a much-needed decision to move in with him, despite the usual restraint: independence. The two of you have never exactly stayed in one place before, at least not for a whole month. There were weekend stays, but so far, the two of you wanted to keep it casual in the earlier months. If you could say it out loud, you weren’t expecting anything more from him: you’d figured he might want someone who was on his level. The kind of girl that would move to the rhythm of the world he inhabited, entirely separate from your own. In his world, where the royalties would come in even when he’d just lie on his bed, yours came with a 9 to 5, a bad posture, and stuffy office cubicles. 

Someone’s got to make it out of the rat race. You never thought much of it, at least not every day. You were waiting for him to gradually lose interest, not out of insecurity—perhaps it’s just your brain protecting you from the worst.

Though, when those doubts won’t come, there will be instances where you’ve come to notice that maybe it’ll hurt you more now that the months have gone by; he was a devastating revelation to your carefully quiet life, and by God or whoever had made the world as it is, a part of you had begun to make space for him. He had awful takes on  French films, and you weren’t afraid to dish him out on it. You knew that specific memory of his childhood that he’d told once at the bodega. You knew the exact difference between him drifting off in his thoughts of the future or remembering the past. You were doomed from the beginning the moment you accidentally tripped him over at the theatres in Times Square. Oh god. He laughs like he knows the sun was made to shine on him, FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

Alex’s drive home blurred past the neons and headlights that streaked across his windscreen. The city of Lost Angels had hours like this, less of an iconic city and more of a sprawled, gentrified network of people crawling in and out of the familiar streets, living unfamiliar lives, and in a way, he is just one of them, if the industry blinked a little longer, maybe. It didn’t take long until he got back to his apartment; the click of the lock echoed in the stillness. As he opened it, the scent of your perfume wafted its way into his mind; he assumed you’d gotten back. He assumed wrong. You weren’t there to make your presence clear, but it was known in messy, bold letters. A large, scuffed suitcase by the sofa, a pair of second-hand boots—that Alex knew was too big for you, but you never really complained—kicked off by the shoe rack, completely out of place from his own collections, neat and meticulously shined; it was a welcoming invasion. 

Now, the note. He knew you always left notes. Aha! By the kitchen counter as he entered inside to grab a glass of water, he’d seen your familiar scrawl, a charming font he wished had its own name.

“Al. Left you some dinner in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”

The note ended with the initial of your name, naturally.

He sighed, holding the note in his palm as if to feel the remnants of your touch in the fibres; his weary eyes softened a little. You were within reach, yet you still felt a thousand miles away. He slept some time in the morning with you in his arms; it was a quick, almost painful relief, but like all dreams, he’d come to wake again, and he’d have to slip himself away from you, an extraction that seemed brutal in its nature.

The tango was a week's choreography where the two of you seemed to always be in parallel ways, pivoting when one had left and crossing back just as when the other had entered. The flat would be hollowed out with the sound of what should’ve been you; he’d always be met with your notes on papers, never your words from your very lips. He would sense you move beside him under the sheets, but he’d never feel you move close. Dusk was evil in its dawning way. It didn’t feel enough, this whole dance. In fact, it felt like he was being pinned down in hospice. He’d call you earlier, at a quarter to six, a long shot. The calls would always be sent straight to voicemail; he’d memorised your automated voice more than he’d memorised the cadence of your ‘I love you’s by now, and conversations seemed adrift, unfinished. He’d open the door, and you wouldn’t be there; the silence was a mocking croon of your lingering presence. He didn’t have a girlfriend; he had a ghost who was living rent-free.

Not just any ghost.

As he’d inspect the living room, he’d always expect it now. On the coffee table lay your debauched paperback, lying face down for a crime he didn’t commit; bookmarks weren’t of your time, apparently. He’d seen you do worse assaults with books, but this in itself is gruesome enough. Then, by the shoe rack where his Chelsea boots would shine, were your boots that have looked like they’ve witnessed the creation of man for how they’ve gathered dust from all the walking, and like a gymnast balancing off its beam, the other one fell off the rack, the dirt comically sprinkling on his good mahogany. Jesus Christ, this woman’s making my house a pigsty. 

He’d mention it a hundred times, like, really. The bloody boots, the books, the crumpled notes, the piling trash bins… It wasn’t about control, not really. Alex just simply had a meticulous love for order. It was a detail mishap that grated on him; he shouldn’t have to feel like that in his very home. He gently picked up the boot, carefully placing it beside its partner. He wandered into the bedroom, and the floor had your stray hair on it, and the sheets were unmade as if done in a hasty fashion: the form of your side of the bed remembered the indentation of your body, the pillows were rumpled, and by the nightstand, a notebook lay open. He didn’t bother looking inside; he has before, without telling you. Just groceries, budget tracks, and doodles. 

As he changed to his simple home clothes, his mind replayed the weeks. The move-in felt more… like paranormal flatmates than two people in a committed relationship, with the missed calls and the messages exchanged in the most inconvenient hours. He had thought about it for a while, maybe this… no, he was sure of you, at least for now. You had one of the things that kept him tethered to the very ground you walked on; even during the early months when you were still in New York, he’d thought you were something else. You weren’t afraid to call his shit; you were blunt without the disrespect; you thought of him as an equal; you weren’t blinded by the way he sailed the world, for the two of you were two sailors in two respectable ships. The Mar Pacifico is vast for people just making it to land. Now, he didn’t know where that went exactly; both docked in the same harbour, and yet…

Alex slumbered—momentarily shifting onto your side of the bed, he could smell your shampoo on your pillow—his eyes began to close, and the contour of your face seemed to conjure up in his mind’s eye. He missed you; beyond it all, not just physically (god, did he miss it though). He missed the late-night conversations, he missed the quick kisses in the subway, he missed the way your eyes seemed to bore into him through the grainy laptop screen, and he missed the lilt of your voice when you were about to snooze off into the call. The two of you had responsibilities beyond the four walls of this very room, two lines never meeting, never intersecting. Alex slept deeply that night, burrowed in the duvet of his own thoughts.

“So, how’s the move-in then?”

Alex looked up from his notes, distracted by the question from his mate. He’d been in the studio with Miles the whole day; it had been three weeks since she’d stayed in his home.

He gave a small shrug. “Sound.” he murmured—which didn’t sell the lie, not even in a different currency—as he reached for his cuppa.

“Right, well, y’know… you should bring her around sometimes,” Miles suggested.

“She’s…” he backtracked, clearing his throat. “Night shifts. Different schedules, y’know.”

It was sort of telepathic, as he heard his unspoken question. Are you two still together? and even he didn’t know the answer. Were you a girlfriend? Were you just a fragment of his imagination, mingling in the air of his balcony cigarettes? Or were you just a very disruptive flatmate who worked at odd hours and stayed in the same bed as him?

Alex didn’t have the faintest clue.

He arrived home later in the night. The apartment lights were off, other than one lamp by the living room that he figured was left by accident. He sighed heavily as he rubbed his temples, he remembered throwing the keys by the bowl on the coffee table and turning the lamp off more aggressively than he intended. Then, he saw it. His eyes tracked a single, white sock, abandoned by the foot of the table. Not a pair, it was merely left on its own. He went into the bathroom to piss, and his eyes darted to the shower drain, the familiar strands of your hair collecting themselves in heaps of unflattering, unappetising noodles. His tongue clicked in irritation; he grimaced as he grabbed a piece of tissue to pull it out.

It was a snowball effect, is what it was. The mug rings on the kitchen counter, left by your cup of coffee. When he tossed his own shirt into the laundry basket, he found it more than half-full. Your clothes were piling up, her uniform mixing in with the vibrant colours of his stylish shirts. The last push down the hill was the bedroom, the bed to be exact. Unmade, for the hundredth time. The blanket was tangled and nearly dropping on the floor; even the bedsheet had popped out of its corner. How the hell does this woman sleep? Does she wrestle with the pillows? 

He ran a hand through his own hair; the growing frustration was taut in his chest. This was the test of the waters he’d expected; he just didn’t know how long he could endure it.

The fight came fast, like flint against steel.

The next day, Thursday morning, he was off to go to the studio again. Lying down on his California king-sized bed was the maker of messes, fast asleep from a back-aching shift. As he made a quick tea in the kitchen, and as he sipped, he felt movements in the bedroom, leading to the hallway, before he heard the padding footsteps heading to the bathroom. The apartment, for once, was clean. He noticed in the night you’d been awake rustling around, but the tension had been simmering off the pot since.

It overflowed completely. When he checked his watch, he was fifteen minutes late for an interview. Right, keys… wait. 

He headed to the living room, expecting to see his keys on the bowl, sitting neatly just as he’d left them last night. None but a lint, a butterscotch candy, and a penny.

“Love,” he calls for you softly at first, checking under the table, on, around, and under the sofa. He calls for you again, louder this time.

“Love?” 

You were still in the bathroom, washing your hands. “What?”

“Have you seen my keys?”

“No?“ Your answer echoed in the tight space of the bathroom.

“I always leave them here on the coffee table.”

“Maybe you put them somewhere else; have you checked your pockets?” 

You heard him groan as his footsteps began to pad around the living room. “They’re not here! You were cleaning last night, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t touch your bowl, Alex.”

You heard him groan, “It was here,” he swore, his voice tight as you watched him from the hallway, padding around the kitchen then.

“Calm down, will you? I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.”

“No, I remember leaving them in the living room – blue carabiner, three keys!”

You nodded. “Okay, don’t worry.” 

“It was here, in the bowl.” He swore again, surely this time.

“Yes, but it’s not. Alex, can you calm down for a moment so, we can—”

Alex’s voice became tighter. “You clean for one night, and now you reckon’ know where everythin’ is, then?”

You pushed your back against the wall, with an unreadable expression on your face. Your voice, threateningly soft.  “What?” 

He finally turned to face you, eyes dark and deep in dark louds that didn’t seem to rain. “It’s not here.”

You scoffed for a moment, crossing your arms. “Are you blaming me for that?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “I were just sayin’…”

“Say it,” you challenged.

He gritted his teeth then, gripping the semblance to stay calm. “You’re never around,” he stated.

Ah, there it is.

“It’s not like I have an option for my fixed schedule,” you explained. “It’s not like I chose to work nights.”

“Why don’t you find another job, then? One where I might actually see your face before the sun comes up?”

“You mean quit the job,” you began, stepping closer in the living room. “That I had to get to move here with you? So I could be here—in your city, in your apartment, trying to make your schedule work?”

“I didn’t ask you to work, anyway.” His voice dropped to an almost defensive tone.

Pause.

He continued, “You’re here with me, not in New York. You could just… focus on us.”

“You think I’d like that?” you spat. “You think I’ll stay here, waiting for you at night so you can feel what? Accommodated?” 

You took a few steps closer, looking him in the eyes. “So you can feel like what… you have a girlfriend? A pretty accessory for your Hollywood apartment?”

Okay, things are going south.

“Stop stuffin’ words in my mouth,” he spat, brows furrowed,  “I didn’t fuckin’ say that—” he began, but your voice sliced through. “No, you implied that,” you continued. “Loud and clear, Alex. You implied that my purpose here is to simply be present for your own convenience.”

“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” he whispered in a dangerous manner, hiding behind the underlying fear of his control slipping. “We rarely talk enough as is.” Alex was clouded with the accusations, stinging him. He wanted to point out that he’s been feeling lonely living in a two-person house for three weeks; he wanted to point out how much it hurt him to see you tired in the morning, working your back off, for a pride he couldn’t tame.

But, instead of seeing the hurt look on his face, you nodded. “You want to talk? Okay,” you whispered back. “Let’s talk about last Friday, while you were in the studio,” you proposed, before continuing.

“Who was that blonde that came looking for you?”

The air in the living room trickled like  a cold sauna, growing heavy with something unspoken. Alex felt a cooling dread seep into his bones, his world tilting on its axis, his mind immediately racing for an explanation. He let out a short, forced laugh, shaking his head slightly; his brown eyes—a deflector of lying—widened.

“Fuckin’ hell, the fuck are you talking about?” he scoffed, “Last Friday? What blonde?” his voice tinged with a perfect blend of faux confusion and annoyance. Which one? Would be the right question.

“She came looking for you three weeks ago, your name in her mouth,” you continued. “L’ermitage, she says, to meet her there. She thought I was the cleaning lady.” The last words made your voice crack, and sure enough Alex had caught it.

“Cleaning lady, love… what…” he echoed, brows furrowing in pity before shaking his head. “I-I was in the studio all day, same as every… every Friday. Miles and I were buried in the new tracks; ask him if you don’t believe me. I don’t know who that broad is.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a fucking pig,” you spat venomously, in a tone Alex had rarely heard from you.

“I’m not cheatin’ on you,” he insisted, his voice defensive. “Do you really think I’d do that? After everything? After you moved all this way?”

You didn’t bother listening to his excuses as your heels turned back to the hallway, leading to the bedroom. Alex’s chest tightened in a knot of panic, as if every step you took was a straight jab to his stomach. He followed, just in time for you to close the door shut in his face.

He called for your name, desperately knocking on the door. “Love, come on, listen to me,” he pleaded, his voice rising frantically around the edges. “I wasn’t—there’s no one. This is a misunderstanding—”

You were shaking on the other side, listening to his attempts at mending the wound, but you shook your head, eyes blurring in salty tears as you choked. “I don’t fucking care if you sleep with half the people here in the city,” you said, your tone devoid of any emotion that your eyes were desperately showing. “But at least have the balls to say it, Alex. Just Once. Be honest.”

You were fully aware of the ride you were in for, this lifestyle… the complex emotions, the needs that an artist like him needed, and you were, despite the cruel indecency of it all, on board with it. God, as long as he returns home to you at the end of the day, as long as you’re the one he saves a seat for in any crowded room,  as long as you’re the only one he carries in his heart. But you also knew you couldn’t live with it; you couldn’t bear to see it with your own two eyes. When that morning came, the first sunrise to greet you was of a woman who looked as though she’d been expecting someone else to be by the door, someone you knew, someone who knew the sound of your laughter, the sound of your cries.

His voice continued through the door, muffled but clear, “I’m not cheating on you.” Whether he was denying or reiterating was coalescing into something unimaginable, words that seemed to press harder to the point of numbness. He continued.

“It was a journalist from Music Weekly. She… she must have got the wrong address, or thought I was home… We were supposed to meet at that hotel for an interview that day… for, for the new album… Love, please…”

You didn’t answer, even when he tried the knob again for the fifth time. He was about to knock once more when he heard his wristwatch beep. “Love, please… let’s talk about this later, okay? Don’t… just don’t…” he trailed, and you didn’t know what that meant, lost in the sheer confusion and betrayal as you heard his footsteps disappear.

Alex was distraught, hair tugged, a mess, and looking like he needed a hard drink, He had an interview coming up in a few minutes and here he was at the right place, at the right fucking time. Distracted by the anger as he cursed under his breath for the keys, he headed to the living room again… there, by the table lamp beside the sofa.

Blue carabiner, three keys.

It was 3 am when you arrived back home; the click of the lock was a familiar sound Alex had grown accustomed to, his sleep easing a little better every night that he’d hear it. But this time, it was the sound that shook his body awake. He returned around in the afternoon, expecting you to be there, but you’d already gone to work earlier than you usually did; you didn’t respond to his texts or his calls, and even when he visited your building, you stayed in your office, crying uncontrollably under the window shutters.

Here now, you saw him more clearly, from the soft warm light of the lamp by the sofa. He was on the couch, his hands dropping the bottle of beer on the coffee table, along with other bottles of hard liquors beside him as his eyes found yours. He felt nauseous, exhausted, and incredibly guilty. He hadn’t moved from the same spot since he returned from the interview; his mind wasn’t in his body, it was searching for you in the astral plane, looking to see if somehow, he could talk to you there. Miles had to nudge him a couple of times just to get a word out of him.

Your face, impassive, shadowed by the faint light as you headed to the hallway, he jerkily stood up, movements uncoordinated as he attempted to follow you.

“There’s leftover in the fridge.”

“I already ate.” you replied, voice flat as you headed to the bathroom, closing and locking it once again. He could hear the sound of your clothes swishing on the other side as he waited for you. The water ran for what felt like eternity, with the sound of scrubbing in between. Patience was his last vestige to the ever-growing walls you’d create. 

You emerged, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, walking past him as if he were mere air, heading to the bedroom. His steps echoed on the floor like the pawprints of a lost puppy following its owner as it stood by the doorframe; in the dark bedroom where the only light that served the two of you was the moonlight from the window and glass-door balcony, his eyes tracked your every movement as you pulled out your designated drawer, you dressed, your skin disappeared under the white buttoned shirt you wore, and your hips shimmied as you put on your panties. Your hair, wet, dripping on your back as it faced him, water droplets deepening the colour of your shirt as you moved.

He softly called your name, earnest, achingly regretful. “I’m sorry about earlier, love… I… I need you to know. Honest… I would never cheat on you. She—the girl—t-the journalist…” He mentioned her name, but the syllables registered as nothing but mere white noises to you, he continued. “She got the address wrong. I promise you, I never would. Not after… not after everything, darlin’...”

You heard him shuffle through his pocket, and as you turned to face him, his phone was outstretched, a desperate, helpless offering. “Here. Look. My texts. My calls. You can go through everything. Just work, you, and well… Miles.”

You didn’t look; instead, you adjusted your shirt over your chest with soft, unhurried movements as if you were just imagining the man. You walked past him, heading to the nightstand, pulling out the little drawer for the pack of Camel lights you knew he kept there, along with his Bic lighter. 

Your pace remained soft, almost airy, as if you weren’t bound to the ground, as you headed to the balcony. The soft mechanical ember from the lighter as you flicked it cast shadows on your face as you lit your cigarette. He watched you by the glass doors, dragging the tip a few inches short as the smoke dissolved into the air of Los Angeles. Once again, you were unreachable, a distant path Alex couldn’t stride close to. 

He slowly slid his phone back in his pocket as he picked up your towel on the floor.

You slipped back to bed as he remained staring off in the distance outside the bedroom door, the night air and the faint, rich Turkish tobacco clung to your body as you tucked yourself to your side of the bed. His cigarettes and lighter were left outside; whether on purpose or not, Alex didn’t care for now.

This profound, deafening silence, this treatment that felt more clinically surgical than any other petty shouting match… It was too much; stones settled in his stomach that seemed to add more as each second passed. He found himself stepping close on the bed, kneeling on the floor as he looked at you. Your eyes remained shut, but his gaze was a sensation that made your heart beat twice as fast than it was intended for, even with all the confusion and the sheer gnawing knowledge of infidelity. You remained impassive, sinking your face into the pillows; the scent of hard liquor, his cologne, and cigarettes filled your space. It was as though all the places had lost their meaning and their names,  it was just the two of you in a room, all the faults of the world and his had been banished. Your heart in its purest form still searches for him in the dark.

His rough hand moved to touch your hair, softly smoothing it back from your forehead. His hands trailed down on your hands that tugged the soft cushion; holding you reverently, he lifted your hands to his lips, a soft kiss, gentle on your knuckles, the peach fuzz leaving friction that seemed to administer angelic brushes against your skin. 

Forgive him. Called whoever was in your head, and you already knew; you’ve already done so.

Alex’s gaze never left your face; his eyes that pooled like soft earthen coals were an abyss you’ve gotten lost into for so long, you knew full well staring back at them would seal your fate forever, or for as long as he’d want you around.

“I love you,” he whispered, syllables thick with raw vulnerability, spilling out heavy and bleak. 

You didn’t respond, though your eyes peeled open and found their way back to his, dark, desperate eyes that shone under the moonlight. He was unforgiving; he was… he simply was the kind to melt your guard down. The flint and the steel had lost their way, nowhere to be found in your voice of reason. 

“I know, I’m not the kind…” you trailed, “not the kind you usually… well, stay with.”

“No.” He shook his head, kissing your knuckles again. “You’re everything I ever need, you are, love.”

Does need hold a stronger resistance against temptation? Your mind asked, if you asked, you know it would take a whole ‘nother minute for Alex to lie again.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you murmured. “We’re always in different places, Al. Even when we’re in the same room. You’re in your head, your music… your… whatever.  All I do is watch you live a life I can’t seem to stomach, it seems I only hold you close when I can… It makes me wonder if I’m still… there,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his temple, his eyes closing immediately, leaning against your touch.

“You keep me grounded; you know that’s why I need you here, with me… When I feel like everything’s mad,  when I feel like I’m not my own…” he trailed, his palms enveloping over yours, before he took them close to his lips and kissed  the soft skin of your hand. He could smell the scent of tobacco on your fingertips, before whispering again,

“I love you,” he repeated, it was just as heavy as the first.

Then, relief came soaring through every vein in his body in dizzying waves as you whispered back.

“I love you too.”

Alex choked in disbelief and in gratitude, hesitantly leaning—second-guessing if he’d gone delusional and was hearing words he wanted to hear—before pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, just to feel your cheek against the tip of his nose, inhaling the scent of your skin before capturing your lips in a soft kiss. You accepted, lips parting slightly under his; a shaky sigh escaped him—a wordless prayer as he leaned closer.

But you pulled away, shaking your head.

“I’m tired, Al…” you murmured, voice fragile against the sheer racketing emotion that endured the past few weeks. “So, so tired…”

His eyes, once widened in fear, had softened. “ ‘s alright, you can sleep, love,” he whispered, pushing you back to the soft cushions of the California king bed. You nodded, though he continued his kisses down to your neck, nibbling gently on your soft skin, his tongue tracing the lines of your collarbone. The thrill was beginning to reach its way back as he trailed his kisses further down to your body, pushing the duvet off gently as his lips soon became the mere blanket that sent shivers down your spine. 

It was a tender travel down below as he reached your lower abdomen, his fingertips holding the waistband of your panties. Only then did it jolt you awake, your face flushed as you sat up, placing a light tug of hand on the back of his head. 

“Wait,” you whispered. He paused, his gaze questioning.

“Now’s not the time,” you  muttered. Avoiding his direct gaze now as you slowly shut your legs closed.

“Why?” he asked, his fingers touching your stomach. “I thought you were on birth control?”

You stopped taking them three months back, and somehow you gave a nod so vague that you needed to further explain it. “I’m on my period.”

“Oh,” he realised, nodding slowly. His hand, though, travelled to your abdomen. “Cramps?” he asked.

You nodded again, “Kinda…” you whispered.

He began to press his palm against her abdomen, a comfortable pressure to ward off the discomfort she’d been feeling since the early morning.

You began to lie back down in bed, humming in content as he kept himself there for longer than a few minutes.

“You’re just going to… sit there the whole night? ” you teased, voice shining in amusement, a tone that he’d been deprived of for days.

Alex lets out a soft smile. “Maybe.” He leaned in, kissing your temple.

You didn’t argue this time; you just let him. 

A few minutes later you’ve begun to keep a steady breathing, succumbing to sleep. Alex watched the way you seemed magical under the moonlight as you slept; he’d sometimes do this in the early morning, a few minutes long before he went to the studio. He waited until your breathing deepened into a steady rhythm of a pitch-black dream. Then, with careful movements, he reached for a soft pillow on the other side of the bed, slipping it under your lower back. You stirred gently but didn’t wake.

He walked to the closet, rummaging through fresh towels, preferably a darker one. He took it with him back to bed and gently lifted your hips again, just enough to slide the towel underneath you. He watched you stir for a moment, eyelashes fluttering as you hummed in your sleep.

With his preparations now done, he quietly dove back into the warmth between your thighs, his hands reaching to the waistband of your panties as he slowly peeled them off of you, the flimsy fabric gliding like butter over your legs as he tossed them on the floor. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous…” he whispered to you, his hands already travelling to the smooth expanse of your thighs as he widens them apart, a beautiful panoramic view for his very eyes. He sank down between her thighs, head nuzzled close to the soft, musky warmth that he missed so dearly. Alex inhaled your scent of arousal from his earlier teasing, then, with his tongue, warm and wet, licked tentatively, working his way around it. Then, his lips parted as he began to kiss your clitoris, a delicate chasteness that awakened you gently. The tip of his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, tasting, lapping. You felt something ticklish between your thighs, and you’d expected it now that this was another wet dream. Then, you heard the familiar groans of Alex down there that seemed far from a hazy, subconscious-filled taste.  

Oh my god.

A soft moan escaped your lips, straight from the back of your very throat, a sound that sent Alex’s mind reeling. Your hips bucked, arching, pressing close into his mouth. Your eyes were the last to wake, as in a blurred, unfocused vision of the ceiling greeted you, you looked down to find the familiar head of Alex, his warm hands on your thighs, pressing them further apart. 

But, his eyes.

Oh god, his eyes.

Alex looked at you. Under the determined furrow of his brows, his eyes were like the clouds before the thunder. Gone were his inhibitions as he feasted on you, the tip of his nose hitting the sensitive pearl of your mound as he gently suckled your labia, the sound pornographic in the quiet bedroom. 

“Wait, Alex…” you murmured between gasps, breathless and biting soft whimpers. Your hand reached for his long hair, anchoring yourself as the feeling washed over you. It was a battle, a desperate plea to pull him away, even when your body longed for him. 

“Wait, please… I… Al- Alex—” your voice cracked as your back arched, your head throwing back when his thumb found its way back to your clitoris, rubbing soft, demanding, delirious circles that made your head cock to the side, breathless, while he simultaneously tongued your orifice, not even minding the fact that your string was still inside. He ignored your pleas, making use of his own hungry mouth as he returned to your swelling clitoris, pulsing in raw sensitivity. You tugged him closer, gasping for air.

“God.” you gasped.

You were at a loss for a mere semblance of sanity, but it fractured the moment you felt him tug the string of your tampon. Your eyes flew open, immediately closing your legs as you pushed his head away.

“Wait.” you whispered, face flushed in embarrassment.

But he didn’t listen, he shook his head. “No,” his voice rumbled, unrestrained; he returned his hands to your thighs as he pushed them apart. 

“It’s been weeks… months…” he whispered, your name falling from his moist, wet lips. “Can’t, love. Not now.”

He tugged the flimsy, bullet-like barrier completely, throwing it on the floor carelessly, the action so savage it surprised you completely.

Before you could even say anything, he kissed your lips, and you could taste your own juices from his very tongue, the aftertaste of the hard liquor strong beneath the scent of something metallic.

Oh, god.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as you opened your mouth to feel his tongue again. Just then, his big hands gently trailed back to your inner thighs, the kiss uninterrupted, his thumb brushing your clitoris, and you let out a soft mewl. Then, as he parted your folds, his middle finger and index finger began to slide inside of you.

Warm. Searing. Volcanic Heat.

The metallic taste lingered in the air; certainly, he could feel the soft, thick viscousness of it all. But he didn’t mind it, not when you were moaning against his mouth, not when your hips were attempting to meet his every thrust, the flick of his wrist pushing, pulling. His mind reeled from the sheer, intoxicating pleasure of finally feeling your heat after so long; it was almost carnal. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth just from the sensation of you around his fingers. You pulled away from his lips only to moan out a string of indecent calls. 

“Fuck… Alex… Don’t stop…” you whispered, and he followed your commands. 

He massaged your velvet walls, middle and ring fingers coaxing, pressing against your G-spot. He deepened further, fingers reaching in as his thumb pressed insistently against your clit from outside. He groaned under his breath as the sound of your slick juices began its symphony as he moved his wrist faster than before.

He moved his fingers back. The loss of sensation was cruel, but it would only be temporary as he slowly dipped his head between your thighs. You were still embarrassed by the mess; the metallic scent was stronger now that he withdrew his hand, but as you were just about to close your legs, he stopped you—pushing them apart again. The unrestricted access wasn’t a request but an order. His mouth found its way back, this time with desperate hunger,  a man parched in the desert of Sahara. It was obscene, it was mortifying, it was everything you’ve never expected from him. The varied pressure of his tongue was an experiment you weren’t aware was to be conducted, the flat base as he licked, before his tip rolled around. His lips suckled, his tongue lashed, swirling, before coming back to tease the erect pearl of your mounds.

“Oh, yes… Alexander, oh god…” you cried out, tears in your eyes from the sheer pleasure. You weren’t even being pretty shy about it, gripping his long dark hair, tangling it through your fingers as he groaned each time you pulled him close, your hips grinding his face in impatient circles as he lapped you up, his gasp and growls vibrating between you.

You were close, so fucking close.

Then, to your surprise, he pulled back.

You stiffened, eyes bewildered as you searched for him in the dark. The grip you had in his head had loosened from the pure shock.

“What… what the fuck, Alex?” you hissed. You heard him laugh cheekily, a sound of mischievous triumph, and he reached for your wrists, binding them above your head. You tried to break free as you glared at him. You were in a rage for all good reasons: the lack of sleep, the fight from earlier, the lingering cramps, and the forbidden release. You didn’t know whether you wanted to swat at him in anger, or just cry it all out. The frustration was building up; everything about this was so unfair. Tears prickled at the corner of your eyes as a lump in your throat began to form; you hiccuped until hot tears came falling against your temple. 

“You’re a fucking sadist,” you spat, voice thick with emotions. He leaned impossibly close to your face as he wiped your tears, and even in the dark you could see the mess, you could smell the faint scent of your bloody fluids mingling with the scent of his whisky, he began cooing in that faux manner—the kind of person who would make a baby cry, and you hated the sheer comparison that he was treating you like one. “You’re a sadist,” you repeated, “And a pig… and a—”

Alex let out a soft, tender chuckle as he shushed you gently. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your neck, his peach fuzz scraping in ways that made you shudder, his breath was hot, lips wet from your own making. “Now, love…” he purred. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist…” he whispered against your ear as he kissed your temple. “I were just messin’ with you.”

He pulled back, gripping your wrist tight as he held you there. 

“Darlin’... sorry for teasin’ you, you know me…” his voice softened as he gently touched your cheek, wiping off the blood he’d left there. “Right, you can sleep now…”

You didn’t believe him until his hand that gripped you had bound you loosely; only then did you shuffle and slowly relax your shoulder. The tension that was once there had disappeared as your tired eyes fluttered closed; the ragged breathing and the flushed face slowly dissolved as you lulled yourself to sleep. Alex continued to watch you dream off again, the brows that etched worry and irritation in your face had gently subsided was only then did he begin to move.

Carefully, as to not wake you up, he knelt between your open legs. His fingers, sticky from your own juices, worked at the knot of his jeans with reverent slowness and anticipation, just to chastise himself a little longer, the calm before the storm. He pushed the denims down, carelessly tossing them on the floor. His dick was already rock solid from the constant teasing and riling you up; he was practically staining pre-cum against the fabric of his boxers. He reached down, hooking his thumbs under the waistband before pulling his member free. It sprang, thick and heavy, just aching, practically salivating to be buried deep inside you. The air touched his tip, and even that was enough to make him shudder.  

As he repositioned himself, he knelt closer between your thighs, his knees, gently pushing your legs further apart until you were nothing but an open, gaping, messy hole for him. Even int he dark he could see the faint, perverted, glistening sight of your cunt, just begging for his attention. He brushed his tip against your clit, and he felt your knees jolt.

With a devoted intake of breath, he began to enter inside. His dick pressed against the opening, slowly pushing in. The resistance was a beautiful, warm embrace as it adjusted around him until it moulded around his shift.

The months of longing, the empty encounters, the meaningless touches – all of the insignificant moments of connection he had  before was nowhere compared to this. It was a fuckin’ furnace, he thought, a searing entry to an inferno he was happy to burn into. The scent of your blood was still there. Actually, it was still a fresh tang in his mouth, but he didn’t mind it at all.  All he wanted to feel, taste, and think was you, and only you. He wanted his senses robbed and reprogrammed where all he could experience was nothing but you ,and this felt like this was the closest thing he could ever have to that desire.

He pushed deeper, and he let out a hard groan as your muscles clenched around him; he looked up to see that you were still asleep.

Not for long.

He moved gently, deliberately, then he thrust another. 

You felt it. Again. Again. And Again.

Your eyelids fluttered open, the world blurring, seemingly out of focus as you felt your body slowly regain its control, only to have it be stolen again when you felt your insides get pistoned by a familiar sensation. You looked up, and there, navigating the movement of the tide you were drowning in, was Alex, his hips thrusting in a rhythmic, hypnotic pace. Each time he moved, a moan came falling from your lips; the sensation was fresh, odd, and dream-inducing. You didn’t know whether it was because of the lack of mobility or the loss of your own agency slipping away with each thrust.

All you could do was gasp, moan, and cry his name out.

Alex angled further, lifting your hips as he hovered over you. He moved faster, harder, chasing the race where his hips would meet yours, filling you completely. In his eyes was nothing but pure possession that felt like a sedative trance; you didn’t know how loud you were being; you didn’t even know if time existed at all - as your climax felt like the longest high you’ve ever had in all of your life, your eyes rolled back and your lips worshipped his name.

You fell limp once more, and your vision began to blur back to the subconscious mind; the last thing you heard was the sound of his last groan that came from his very lungs, deep, guttural, and completely unrestrained, vibrating against your ear. You felt full, incredibly full; the sensation was warm and oddly welcoming. You felt the heavy weight that covered your body; the very last thing your mind registered was the scent of sweat, copper, amber and whisky.

East London, England Around March, 2019

The sun had long gone as Alex checked his wristwatch; it was only the lavender blue that remained in the sky from his rearview mirror, a telling sign… but it's not like one could trust mere visuals from now on ever since global warming began to creep its way back in. The car was parked out front, and the soft crunch of his boots as he stepped inside their home was audible in the whole room. It was a long drive from the studio; traffic in March was as abundant as anything could ever be, he was exhausted, his body was begging to just slip into bed, by your warmth, collapsing into the beautiful thing that you were. He'd been like this for three months, working non-stop with the album, leaving in the middle of the night to record something, giving your lips a soft kiss as permission to leave, getting the keys from the fishbowl by the homemade vase you made, and throwing them back in some time in the afternoon.

The album didn't need to be perfect—well, that's a lie—but he wanted it to at least preserve everything before his mind forgot every lyric he'd thought of, every tune he'd heard in the middle of the night. It was a beautiful haunt, it was. He'd told you about them every chance he had of you being awake—to pee or drink your water.

“There's this thing that's been boggling my mind recently ever since we started watching that—”

“What was that place we went to again? Back in—”

“Does this sound like another song, or am I too sleep-deprived?”

“Love, I don't think I'm where time is right now… Good morning…”

You've gotten used to it. Always replying with, “That's nice, Al.”

You were God's strongest soldier, babysitting a man who'd work so much that he'd leave his tea out cold by the grand piano, forget to wash his hair, or leave the house wearing the same clothes for the past three days. He has passion, concerning passion, but it was a charming thing. That was one of the things you liked about him. In turn, you had one of the qualities he appreciated about you the most: you were pretty down-to-earth and would always be open to hearing about his ramblings. You didn't mind that he was the old man living in his own stories; watching the pure joy in his eyes as he reiterated the same thing he told you the night before and the countless nights before that, it was enough to make you melt. Out there, in the world, he'd always leave room for interpretation, but with you, he'd tell you everything. From the way his fart sounds exactly like his dad’s earlier in the studio or from the way he thinks Monday is oddly a blue colour if the days magically become a colour.

How long has it even been? Ah, five years—35 in dog years. Not like Alex would think he's a dog ever since he met you, but the way you would ruffle through his hair and call him every goodness in the world would make him think otherwise. But you've thought of him more as a cat—you mentioned that to him—in the middle of the night, he would always leave and come back with weird trinkets (midnight fish and chips, a sticky note behind his back that Jamie probably put, and sometimes a leaf inside the pocket of his coat).

Plus, cats love the purest because they weren't trained to be; they simply just choose to. 

He loves you so much, God, he does. He always felt like he was in the public eye with his past lovers, but with you… it was different. It wasn't a quick rush that would seep through his veins after a bump; it was rather… quiet, like he didn't need to put on any facade about it. He didn't need to feel like he had to look good all the time, because in your eyes he always just is. He could spend a week without shaving, with his hair a total mess and looking like he'd fought with a chicken with his eyes closed and won by unanimous decision. You adored every inch of his existence; that was what true love was. It was freeing, it was unconditional, it was a maddening sense of peace he'd never felt before.

He'd thought for the first year that it was 100% about the fact that you digressed from being in the spotlight. You had a life of your own, so secluded and far from his—your world revolved more on the least flashy things on earth, where books simply weren't for props, where your coffee sat neatly against a stack of thesis papers by undergrads who were rushing on a deadline you decided. You were an associate professor at a university, so you'd always be away from home, stuck in meetings, lectures, and seminars—and yourself.

Mind you, it was 2014, you met him at a time when he was feeling experimental… and was with anyone and was, well, practically on anything. The first conversation was absurdly memorable: the Apollo 11 Flight Journal—your fixation at the time. He was only expecting a shag… not exactly an in-depth conversation about the J-2 engine.

He did remember leaving your flat the morning after, catching himself thinking about you chanting “This is Apollo Saturn Launch Control: T minus 1 hour, 30 minutes, 55 seconds and counting.” every 10 minutes the whole damn night, as you two hardly slept and continued talking, the sounds of voices echoing through the walls.

When you two started dating, you told him from the very beginning that dating in this economy felt like a chore. It was an offence he took highly of, rejecting him? He wanted to take you out again, just to spite you. Three months in, he found that you were naturally distant, facing away from the sun not because it was blinding, not even because you would rather look at the moon, but because the stars felt closer to you than any big rocks could ever be; that was how 4.24 light years of a separation felt—to you it was purely better.

It was a dizzying contrast to what he was used to. It was as refreshing as the next lime-wedged Pepsi you'd always order. The whole ball and chain bit felt less scary by four years in; the shackles felt lighter the moment it struck him that he'd willingly sit down and rot with you, and he thanked whoever was turning the world’s axis that he was two hours late at that party and that you were clumsy enough to spill on his good shirt. Alex never imagined he'd be married to a professor, but then again, who's ever surprised? His parents are teachers, for god's sake, like a moth to a sickeningly educated flame, if you ask me.

And that was half a decade ago; let's put a pin on that.

Alex was once again distracted by the painting he bought from an independent artist in South Bank, the subject held an uncanny resemblance to you. It hung in the hallway along with other paintings you two collected over the years. He reached out, touching the frame with his hand, the band of his golden ring glinting under the warm overhead light, fixing the crooked angle with a gentle flick of his finger. It was an expressionist painting of a girl with her chest plunged open—but you specified that the hit was from the back—she was lying back against a sycamore tree, the last chance of protection, the sun shining against her face; it made the audience catch a glimpse of the perspective of being in someone's life on their last fleeting second—it was an oddly poetic thing now that you've grown to see it around the house, but the first time he explained it, you'd thought of breaking up with him: Oh god, I’m in the start of a true crime documentary, this is how you could probably die, in the hands of a frontman who saw beauty in the most jarring places.

The girl did look exactly like you, though.

“Al.”

His head turns in the direction of your voice. In the hallway, it seemed like you'd been standing there for quite a while now, hands on your hips as you looked at him with loving amusement.

You were wearing… not your usual at-home fits—but rather, the red velvet dress, it complemented the flush on your lips. His brown eyes raked over the sight; he'd remembered picking up that dress at a boutique in Paris and thinking how he'd ravage you if he saw you in it. It was a gift solely for his own indulgence, but he thought you'd love it anyway. It was provocative, and you were never the kind to wear this in public from your upbringing, but you'd promised to wear it on a very special occasion.

Let's put another pin on that.

“You're thinking again,” you whispered, though it was loud enough for him to hear. 

“I'm always thinking,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving you.

“Good things, I hope?”

“You always are, if that answers your question.” He whispered now, dropping the keys on the bowl before making his way over, hugging you close and tight. God, you smelt heavenly, under all that whiff of menthol cigarettes, spiced wood perfume and cold brews that would sit on your colourful coasters in your study.

The beat of his heart would always slow down by a few tempos, and the wrinkle between his brows would always soften, and when your arms would wrap back, life was bliss under the warmth that you effortlessly carried. He hummed, Christ, I would never get tired of this woman. It wasn't an assurance; it was a mere certain belief not bound by confidence but solely by conviction.

The scent of guanciale and fresh tomatoes took him in, trailing from the kitchen. It reminded him of an Italian dish he mentioned to you once on a trip, the first dish he tried on their first gig in Milan, ‘06. It felt appropriate for him to mention it to you when you were currently hyperfixated on this one American show that recently just aired. The cinematic fast-paced cuts, the conversation about grief and addiction, and the music that you swore you were the only one listening to, got you hooked. He’d try watching it with you, maybe after he’s done with the album.

For now, Alex was confused; you were dolled up. “Are we… going somewhere tonight?” he murmured, his face still in your neck as he left soft kisses on your skin. You rubbed his back gently. Your other hand touched the nape of his neck and the soft little hair above his warm skin. He was already flushing up underneath his blue cotton shirt, and he looked at you as if you were the most tantalising rose he’d ever seen.

“But I already cooked,” you answered back.

Now, you see, that’s how things were getting more confusing. You never cooked dinner; it was always take-out and cuddles over the most camp movie you could find on Hulu. The honeymoon was never-ending for the two of you; every waking day felt like it was the first. It always was. Thus, he did one thing a married man should’ve known not to do about now given the situation: he looked at you, and he began to open his mouth.

“What for?”

The smile on your face dropped, and the movement of your fingers from under the nape of his neck paused.

“You’re joking,” You whispered, giggling at first. But, poor guy, was clueless as a newborn lamb. The depths of his brown eyes seemed to lighten just a tad; the soft pout on his lips deepened, and so did the indentation between his brows.

“Is it… a bank holiday or summat?”

“You…” you trailed, you knew the look on his face like the back of your hand. When you’d ask him to get him tampons from Tesco, or if he remembered to thaw the meat from the freezer.

You pushed yourself away from him now. “You seriously don’t remember?”

Quick, Al. Think. 

But his exhausted head was still trying to get its way out of his own arse. A promotion? His birthday? Has he been a Pisces this whole time? Or was it yours? No, of course not… He knew your birthday was on… nah, no.

“Love,” he whispered, laughing dryly. Silly you, you must’ve forgotten that your anniversary wasn’t until August. “Bit too early to celebrate our wedding anniversary, innit?”

Your face hardened, Alex practically saw the way you spiritually left the hallway now, and into the kitchen. You were immensely crushed by your own foolish hoping. Earlier, when you awoke in the morning, he had already left, and you assumed it was to plan for the day. You then decided to leave campus early to prepare for the entire day, for your part.

No texts were given together from the start; it was already a spoken tradition. But this time, it seems you’d been the one keeping the streak, while he… was actually at work.

“It is, because that’s not what I prepared for, you tool.” You frowned. “You’ve forgotten the anniversary.”

It dawned on Alex now, Bollocks.

“Wait, love—”

You pushed yourself off of him and stormed off into the kitchen.

“I didn't forget it, I were just messin’ with ya—” 

Liar, the resurgence of his accent was a dead giveaway. He was glass in your eyes, the beautiful nose you love so dearly was growing by the minute.

His footsteps had gone soft as he stepped inside the tiled floors of the kitchen. Your back was facing him as you took the lid off your pot, the steam off the sauce had wafted into the air, physically covering the disappointment in your face. You couldn't believe it, he'd forgotten the day you two met.

“Darlin’, come on… Okay, maybe it lost its way out of my mind for a bit…” he admitted, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he gently drew circles on your open back. The soft gesture should've charmed you and maybe made you giggle; he always apologised like a child.

But tonight had no place for immaturity.

“It doesn't mean I love ya any less… I… me and the lads... we've been busy the whole day, been in there finishing the final tracks…” he swallowed, he didn't want to make any excuses, but the production of the album had its part in the whole ordeal. 

Yes, you were always a distant lover, but you grew up in the philosophy of celebrating the days that mattered, you were saving up all your affection in the most important numbers on the calendar. It was as though you were in the marines coming back to land every once in a year, that's how a relationship was with you.

One never learns anything until they make the same mistakes twice; he realised that now as the words left his mouth, he spoke again without thinking.

You kept your lips shut as you stirred the pot before turning off the stove, the dancing flames disappearing as you twisted the knob and turned off the gas. He felt you move forward closer to him, and perhaps it was him in the precipice of the possibility that you'd forgive him for his mistakes—until it was only to turn and push him off of you.

Throughout the 1,826 days that Alex has met you, he has learnt a few things, and he was willing to put it to the test.

“Love, come on… don't be like that…” he pouted, reaching out to hold you by the waist before expertly turning you around to face him. His hand was warm around your body, practically like palm stones of lava, but you were still furious, your brows sinking above the bridge of your nose, your precisely done red lips pouting, though the blush on your cheeks felt natural, so maybe it was working.

God, you were utterly adorable in his eyes; even now he could tell you were trying your hardest to be mad at him. You could see the amusement in his gaze. I swear to God, this man. It made you turn your face to the side; suddenly the sight of overflowing pots and plates in the sink was a rather comfortable channel to binge.

“Oi,” he murmured, cocking his head to face yours.

You turned to the left.

“Darlin'—” he rolled his tongue against his cheek to stifle a grin at your adorable way of avoiding him.

He moved his head again, and you two locked eyes.

You lifted your face to the ceiling, watching the wooden fan with boundless curiosity, Anything but his stupid… handsome face.

The sigh that left his mouth was a short crumble of the exhaustion begging to come to the surface, but he was always patient when it came to you. Like that one time you stayed in one aisle of the book store in Cross Road because the store’s cat was lounging near Schrödinger’s books by the science section. The two of you stayed there for a full hour, hogging the whole shelf just for an orange tabby.

Alex would defend it to this day; it was indeed cute, a bit too on-the-nose. But cute.

You were an open page in front of him, holding you like the index of a well-loved paperback as he takes your chin by his thumb and lowers your head to finally look at him.

“Love… look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya.” he commanded, before softly adding, “Please.”

“No, I hate you.”

“That’s a lie, you love me.”

“I hate your eyes.”

“You love my eyes.”

“Damn your eyes.”

He inhales through his nose, trying his hardest not to even let out the softest chuckle.

“Etta James? That’s new… last week was Otis Redding.” He grinned, humming the beginning tune of Rock Me Baby under his breath.

The memory of last Tuesday was a distant feeling that involved new positions over the good sofa – what too much wine and expiring condoms could do in one night, Otis Blue crooned in the background on your new Denon DP-100.

“Shut up,” you muttered, pushing him away as you tried to hide your reddening face, but his grip reached first, holding you bound to the wrist as he leaned in and kissed both sides of your heated cheeks. “Let go of me,” you spat.

He—used to your antics during exam week—shook his head. “Never,” he objected, bringing your hands to his lips as he kissed your knuckles, his eyes on you. Those earthen depths, unwavering, the coarse dirt colour of eyes were always rich in whatever made him this way, and he would always say out loud that it’s always because of you.

You remained standing there, by the stove, the warm ceiling lights giving your wedding band the soft, reflective glints. It was pure crackling silence in the kitchen, where the scent of oregano and garlic was mingling in the air. He began to speak up then—his plan worked.

“I’m sorry, darlin’, I am…” he whispered, his thumb rubbing the smooth palm of your hands as he gently opens them up, before bringing you closer to him. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as you continued to stare at him. It was apparent in your body language—stiff, still, languid—that it would take a few more things than just a mere apology.

“I’m a foolish man, baby... I don’t deserve ya…” he murmured, kissing your jaw as he whispered in your ear. His hot breath against your skin spread the heat through the pits of your stomach and between your thighs, haywired lust that was slowly amalgamating through your supposed disappointment. “Let me apologise…” he continued, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your nose was touching his, the distance was closer than you’d expected, and all you could see, feel, and smell was him, and only him. He did look guilty under that comforting presence he was giving to woo you in, but of course…. Damn. This. Man. 

“I’m sorry… and y’know I love ya, darlin’, and that’s summat I’ll never forget…” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing. The soft warmth against your skin—the soft peck, the sensation of him inhaling to smell the scent of your hair—was entirely enough to make you momentarily forget about everything. He was here, tangible, close, and utterly devoted. It was everything that you could ever ask for.

“Happy anniversary, love…” he mumbled against your ear before pulling back, his gaze gentle and honest.

Goddamn it.

Your pout deepened, and before you could even realise it, your vision began to blur.

He just hummed softly as he wiped away your tears with his thumbs, gentle enough not to ruin your makeup.

Alex just cooed, shushing you gently when you whimpered—not to silence you, exactly, just a natural occurrence when one catches a glimpse of a baby in the height of crying; the emotion was overwhelming.

You nodded, hugging him tight. 

“Happy Anniversary…” you mumbled back against the collar of his shirt, his hands travelled against your back, rubbing soothing circles. As your breathing began to even out, you pulled away from him, and he fixed the soft baby hairs against your forehead, tucking a few strands against your ear. You leaned in, eyes closed, tears shining softly on your eyelashes before Alex took your lips—a kiss that spoke so much with such little words, you opened your mouth, and he took a soft dive inside, his tongue against yours; the hum that escaped your lips was a sensation Alex had felt and known for so long.

After what felt like hours, both of you pulled away, breathing heavily.

His pale skin was flushed red, and his eyes were dark with need, but there was a sense of contentment underneath; he was a gambling man who was on a winning streak.

And your lipstick had transferred to his—soft pigments of cool sangria that looked prettier on him than on you—what a funny thought—you giggled, cleaning his lips with your thumb, but all it did was smear it all over his chin.

“You’ve got a little something…” you chuckled, pointing at his lips.

Alex ignored your words as he broke out a sheepish grin before pulling you in for another kiss.

The scent was thick in the air: a grounding whiff of old paper had blanketed the lecture hall in the midday. Professor Turner stood before the class, leaning back against his desk, his face etched by the light from the large windows in the most magnifying way ever, his reading glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose, his salt and pepper hair a beautiful dishevelled mess, his Oxford shirt ever so crisp, and his pleated trousers high-waisted, supported by a leather belt with its golden buckle: wrappers of the eye candy that was your literature professor in Modern Poetry. In his hands was a well-loved poetry book you couldn’t remember the name of—he had been talking for the past three hours, explaining it rather, in an almost descriptive detail, and you had been watching, of course. Now, that’s just different from listening, isn’t it?

Well, at least that’s entirely different now in comparison to what you had been doing for the past semester. You’d been flunking all your subjects, barely meeting the required units. Really, you just didn’t care about your degree at all, sitting through lectures, hearing old people drone about shit you didn’t care about. There are more important things in life than just a flimsy diploma you’ll chuck in your basement ten years from now—or use as a kindling for when the apocalypse starts. It was funny, this. When you’d gotten a hold of information from your friend that the new professor this semester this whole time was some hot DILF (yes, she texted THAT, as a last resort to you actually showing up to class), you had to check it for yourself—the face you wore the entire class was utterly priceless. Professor Alexander David Turner was a dreamboat. With that expensive cologne, that calm, relaxed posture he carried, and that small wrinkle between his brows when his mind was taking him to another place. It’s come to your attention now why all of your classmates were always present in his lectures. You thought it had something to do with their fixation with Dead Poets Society, but no, he’s just really tantalising to look at, a beautiful melting sundae on an August afternoon. He didn’t check for attendance, but you’ve made quite an impression on him—to put it subtly, you’ve grown quite infamous in the block as the student who haunts the class. The moment he stepped inside the room, his eyes landed in your direction—a new face in the crowd. Ah. 

You were nervous, of course. Before even going straight inside the building, you were by the tennis court, smoking. You’d nearly gotten caught—the sound of footsteps from behind you—you made a quick exit then before you’d caught a glimpse of the witness, leaving them with nothing but a stray cigarette butt on the artificial grass. 

“...and so, Plath uses Holocaust references to give… a rather dramatised version of her trauma. Now, she’s not exactly making a historical argument, is she? But… it’s used as an expression to vividly express the scale of her suffering. Pushing the limits of what confessional poetry could be.” His voice was softly rough, like something that would sound heavenly on the microphone.

A hand shot up from the front row, probably the one who's been ogling too, but in academic hunger. “So, she’s angry at her father, then?” Alex looked up from the book before answering. “Yes, but we could still see that she saw him from a more childlike point of view,” he explained, his hazel brown eyes under the glasses going back to the open page.

He continued, “The cadence in the beginning is easily compared to a nursery rhyme rhythm that contrasts to the imagery of the violence in the last bit. So, we can assume she’s mad… but she idolised him and also still sees him as a paternal figure in her life.”

Hell yeah, fix my daddy issues, Professor.

“So, in a way, we’re seeing the entirety of her waking up from this dream—seeing the psychological hold he had over her, even when he had already died. Does that make sense?”

The girl who asked slowly nodded, “Yes, sir.”

Once the clock had struck five, he began to close his book shut. “Right, well, we’ll continue our discussion on Tuesday.” The minority of uninterested students of the class sighed in relief.

“Class, please remember to submit your outputs tonight; I’ll be leaving the class portal open until midnight. No extensions, so please plan accordingly, and make sure to reread them before submitting, and no, there is never too much use of em dashes,” he announced, before his eyes darted at you.

Oh. Your name slipped from his mouth like petrol on wood against the scraping of chairs from the students leaving to head to their next class.

“Could you stay behind for a moment, please? I’d like to have a word.” Your friend, who was waiting for you to finish packing up your bags, heard this and grinned—mouthing a “You’re dead (but tell me how it goes)” to you before leaving the classroom. You nodded in defeat, sighing heavily as you waited for the last student to leave, the door closing shut behind them, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. You were stumped, of course, but also thrilled; an extra time with the hot professor was the kind of opportunity you get after you accidentally clean a genie bottle, but he seems responsible, so this conversation could land somewhere about your grades.

“You’ve had 97 absences in my class this semester,” he starts, his eyes not leaving yours as he sets the book down on the table.

I know, so many days wasted…

“And as much as you are an active participant with sending your assignments to me through the class portal, it’s come to my attention that you’re never attending any classes—mine and other professors, in particular.” Professor Turner has talked about your absences in the faculty, and of course, they knew you too. When it comes to your outputs… Well, he’s seen your essays: a bit derivative, with imprecise wordings, but it could be honed; he saw potential, but not just that, he saw something else today, too.

The lecture hall was now a box of solitude between the two of you. You were about to say something when he continued again.

“Could you come to the table?” It was a command masked as a question. He sat on the soft swivel chair behind the desk.

You nodded, leaving your bag on your chair as you slowly made your way to him—accidentally knocking over someone’s forgotten Hydro Flask—before you reached him. Up close, you could see the faint wrinkles between his brows and under his eyes; it made him impossibly hotter than before. He looked like he spends his nights in pubs drinking beer in a booth alone, reading T.S. Elliot. His brown eyes under those reading glasses were still on you, almost as if memorising your face. 

A few minutes passed, his hand travelled into the pocket of his trousers. There was a crinkling sound of some small Ziploc bag—he set it down on the wooden desk—a cigarette butt.

Not just any cigarette butt. The tennis grounds met this particular butt, it was the bastard that was in your mouth four hours ago. The lipstick smudge you left was undeniable evidence. Fuck. He was the…

“This”, he begins, and his voice heavy with authority and disappointment, “was found near the tennis court this morning.” Oh, fuck me.

“Around the time you were… otherwise occupied, I believe?” He paused, looking at you. You could sense it, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

“Now, your grades and attendance are a concern, a fairly significant concern, mind. But this…” he trailed, pushing the baggie closer to you. You took the courage to look at him then, and his facial expression was serious. He continued again, arms crossed now, his biceps visible under his shirt. “I’m not going to lecture you on the health risks; that’s merely your choice. But what I am going to address is…  that it is against the campus policy to smoke on the university grounds.” “So,” he says now, leaning back against the chair, “can you explain yourself?”

Busted.

You were embarrassed, of course. His steady gaze didn’t help; he was disappointed but also authoritative: it was enough to heat your body up to a burning, molten degree. You wanted to shackle yourself from doing something unholy—like going under the desk and apologising with your mouth instead. “I just needed to, sir,” you started. “I didn’t have time to run out because, well… my next class—yours—was about to start in a few minutes.”

“Yes, I hear you,” he replied, adjusting his reading glasses with his knuckle. “But that’s not an option; it’s in the rules. Smoking, vaping, any of it, is not permitted here.” He tapped the baggie again with a single finger. “Your attendance is a concern, and now, this incident… just adds to the pile.” He lets out a small sigh, his gaze steady and holding yours. “Your cigarettes and your lighter, please.” He extends his hand now, expecting.

Your eyes widened. Cigarettes? While a rather pricey haul this morning, it was easily replaceable. But your lighter? Your Zippo was now on a different footnote; it was a vintage, beautiful old Maritime Zippo back from the 1940s you got from an antique shop. You exhaled through your nose, fumbling through the pocket of your skirt, before taking out your crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and placing it on the table beside the plastic baggie.

His hand remained outstretched, waiting for the last object he asked for. “I… I don’t have a lighter.” You lied, voice strained and and your eyes looking away from him.

He furrowed his brows, the lines on his forehead indenting. “I saw you. You have it.”

“Must’ve slipped my hands.” “Now,” he demanded. “Or we will have to discuss the consequences of your resistance.”

You scoffed, What’s the worst he could do?

“Fine, you want proof? Search me,” you taunted, raising your arms up. Alex didn’t move from his seat; instead, his eyes remained fixed on you. You thought he was just going to do that for the next five minutes to embarrass you further, but as you challenged him, you soon realised he wasn’t the kind to back down. He stood up from the swivel chair in an unhurried manner and rounded the desk before walking up to you. He stopped just two feet away from you, and his presence this time was more imposing than before. His eyes scanned your whole figure, finding a loose thread from your flimsy facade. His hands didn’t move, not yet. The air in the lecture hall had gone off, crackling in the air. Even the lights from the big windows behind the two of you had dimmed down. His silence was more dangerous than any verbal cut. It was a test, perhaps a counter to your challenge; it’s not like you’re expecting him to actually do it, right?

But the objective was clear: if you did have the lighter, and you were lying, the consequences would be dealt with.

You remained rooted in your footing; he won’t do it, you were sure of that. 

But your assurance had died quickly as he finally closed the inches between the two of you. His hands—unexpectedly—touched you, patting gently on your sides. Your mind had gone blank; only his cologne—spiced amber and sandalwood—and his touch filled the gaps in there. His palms were warm and large, and they made their assessing travel to the pocket of your skirt: empty, no cold rectangular bump of a Zippo. Professor Turner continued his slow, clinical exploration of your form, his touch surprisingly grounding. His eyes were not staring back at you; rather, he was staring at your forehead, as otherwise looking into you would seem too intimate.

He found nothing; his movement paused now. But under his lenses, his gaze landed on you.

“See?” You whispered, a subtle triumph in your voice, fresh from the bundle of nerves as his touch was still tattooed into your skin.

His touch shifted, his long fingers now ascending to the lines of your ribs. You felt ringing in your ears, panicking as he reached the curve of your breast; you tensed immediately. “Hey! I don’t think you’re supposed to do this, sir—”

But your protest died as his hands cupped the swell of your breast, his fingers gently pressing the fabric of your bra from under your shirt. Nestled against your thin lace bra, located just near the underwire, was the warm metal, the familiar shape of your reusable lighter. His fingertips brushed against the metallic form. 

Busted. 

Your face was warm for two reasons. His eyes, which once darted to your chest, had returned to look at you again.

“Take it off,” he commanded.

Confused, you let out a disbelieving scoff. “What? My shirt?”

Professor Turner offered nothing but a raised brow, as if asking you himself, did he stutter?

Well, this situation has just gotten interesting.

Your hands trembled as you gently reached for the buttons of your shirt, looking down at his loafers as you released each button with the slight touch of your shaking fingertips. Your skin had slowly exposed itself to him; with enough access, he reached out, gently easing the Zippo from its hiding place. His knuckles brushed the soft flesh of your breast as he retrieved the contraband. The small metallic pocket-sized thing was dented from the corners, and its line-drawn sailboat was etched onto the case. There was a name written on the bottom—unreadable now from its constant usage; it was a well-loved thing. He didn’t acknowledge it; his focus was solely on you as he pocketed the lighter. Professor Turner looked more serious this time. He steps back then, and before, with his words, he instructed you two words that made your brain leak out of your ears.

“Bend over, on the desk.”

You blinked, unsure if you were hearing him correctly. Regardless, you did, slowly leaning forward, your hands resting on the smooth surface of the wooden desk, your eyes a pair of dilated, questioning gazes as you looked up at him. His jaw was set in that commanding, intimidating way, and he looked at you like you were easily crushable in the palm of his hands.

Professor Turner’s voice was firmer now, breaking the silence of the lecture hall. “Disregarding campus policy, attempting to conceal contraband… it’s unacceptable,” he says, the words distasteful in his mouth. Then, with a sharp edge of his tongue, he continued. “Lift up your skirt.”

Your hands trembled, obeying regardless of the fear. The fabric rose up over your hips, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs. You didn’t know what was about to happen, but you weren’t complaining, not even in the slightest. Your mind raced through all the possibilities of what was about to come as he walked behind you.

Then, a sharp, stinging smack against your backside.

“Count,” he ordered. “O-one,” you whispered, before he landed another blow to your skin, the sound echoing through the hall. 

“Two,” you continued, eyes closed. His palms meet the soft skin of your arse again, and it was a delicious sensation that sent your whole body shivering. “Three.”

Each strike was the aftertaste of rum, the long finish of each note dancing on your tongue; it was a build-up to something potently delectable, and you felt your voice growing hoarse with each whip of his palm. By the tenth strike, you were already a flushed, trembling, sweating mess. 

“Now,” his voice had cut through your haze, firm and commanding. “Apologise. Say, ‘Sorry, Sir.’”

It was a simple thing, but you felt that if you said it, then whatever this was would stop—and frankly, you didn’t want it to.

“No,” you spat, shaking your head in defiance.

The lecture hall was dead quiet for a brief period before, with a final, decisive blow, Professor Turner stated, “Right. That’s it.” 

You couldn’t see his face, you could only make out his reflection from the windows that you two were in front of, and you wanted to turn before finally a set of two fingers slid your panties to the side, exposing you further. You felt the cool air hit your wet cunt, tensing you up, and to make your breath hitch higher, the fingers left your skin, and the sound of the distinct unbuckling of a belt filled the air, the leather rasping against the fabric. Then, the sound of his metal zipper had sealed the deal.

Oh, god.

He offered one last opportunity for you to reclaim your absolution. “Apologise,” he repeated.

“No,” you managed to say, the last word you’ve ever uttered.

The heavy weight of the silence filled the space between the two of you. Then, you felt it—he slid your panties further to the side—he entered inside of you.

You gasped, immediately holding on to the edge of the desk as you cried out. The stretch was the sear of a cigarette burn against your skin. He moved with a precise, slow movement, as if to get you used to the feeling—or to withhold you from what you’d be begging for in the next few minutes. Your mouth fell open with each thrust, eyes closed as you moaned out. It felt like your insides were being spread to the absolute limit.

“Yes…” you whimpered; the word was a continuous affirmation straight from your throat as he continued to move his hips. “Yes. Yes. Yes…” your resistance weakened now, and the need for your release was imminent now in the large space, the sound of your bodies filling the air.

“Oh, sir… Ah—hah—” you gasped when he thrusted particularly hard. “Faster, please…” you begged, your back arching.

Professor Turner leaned closer to your body, his warmth hovering over your back as he whispered in your ear. “Apologise for me, love,” he repeated once more.

You let out a choked moan as you shook your head; you weren’t going to apologise, no. 

In response, he lifted himself off and gave you another stinging strike against your bare ass. You let out a loud cry before that whine soon died down as he thrusted—but a man of pure sadistic orders, kept his slow pace. 

You couldn’t take it anymore; it felt like you were on the world’s slowest roller coaster. Your resistance has crumbled now, cracking under the surface. 

“S-sorry, sir.” you choked out.

As those words left your lips, the slow rhythm of his hips had halted. The sudden stillness was enough to be scraped with a butter knife.

“Again.” He ordered, his voice a steady rumble. You whimpered as your body trembled, with a shaky voice, you repeated the words with a tonne more weight. “Sorry, sir.”

Professor Turner moved again; this time it was a movement made to brutally fuck you straight into the desk. Your body shook as he plunged inside you with the force of a hydraulic press. It was too much—you were crying out, your back arching as your nails scraped the varnish off of the wood. He was revelling at the sounds you were making; every gasp made him go impossibly faster. He was putting every frustration he had over you into this biological ritual practice that was as old as the Zippo you kept. You were rocking on the table, your moans flying around the walls of the godforsaken lecture hall like a DVD logo screensaver, bouncing off of every corner of the room.

He gathered your hair in his hands, pulling your hair back into a tight ponytail, the nape of your neck exposed. He continued his ruinous pace; each thrust was a series of him banging you up to heaven and then back on earth, your body coiling around his big hard dick. You were close, so fucking close.

“Hold it,” he growled, his breath hot against your neck.

The command was the first thing you were sure you wouldn’t follow through with now. The pleasure was hot, bordering on painful—his moans filled your ear, hot breath against your skin, as he groaned, calling out your name like it was made to be in his lips at this exact moment.

Too much.

You let out a strangled cry, cumming all over his length, sending uncontrollable spasms all over him. Your body had convulsed into pure elated sensations, the bright lights filled your vision, and a release left you breathless and momentarily at peace. He groaned, as your climax was a chain reaction to his own that was felt to an unimaginably precise degree. He lets out one last guttural sound that vibrates through you before he finally rolls his hips one last time—his hot, fat load filled you to the absolute brim, making you shiver as you whimpered against him. He fell against your back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. 

As you turned to look at him. His brown eyes—bigger than you realised—were half-closed, completely relaxed under his fogged glasses. His salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in every direction. He was still taking the air back to his lungs as you two lay there for a while; his heavy weight was a comfort you didn’t know you needed—or maybe he just smelt good.

It was quiet, the sunlight on the window was starting to reach the two of you, and you wondered now if anyone from outside had heard or seen of anything, but for now, it didn’t matter.

The comfortable silence was slowly knocked down from the shelf like a soft thud on the carpeted floor.

“I’m confiscating the Zippo,” he whispered. “Be here on Tuesday, if you want it back.”

You let out a grin, humming softly. “Yes, sir.”

March 06, 2023

A pin could be dropped inside the velvety, smoky, leather-scented dressing room, and you’d be certain that you’d hear it with the decibel of an atomic bomb. The silence was filling in the gaps of what had happened earlier, still fresh against your lips: his sighs, the wet muscle of his tongue, and the graze of his teeth on your bottom lips before he sucked them gently. Vivid as any fever dream, it was. The look he gave you before leaving was certainly a clear signal as to what was about to come; you couldn’t contain your excitement, your heart drumming fast like you’d managed to wake up from a marathon.

His scent was still in the air; his taste was still fresh on your buds, and the soothing voice he carries so effortlessly played in your ears like a beautiful, broken record. The heavy pressure of the backstage pass hung on your neck. God, it was all too much, all so much. Your legs bounced on the soft carpet of the dressing room, the sound of your jeans rough against the leather couch. You’d managed to lay your head against the headrest, but at last, the nervous buzz was still there, surging out of your sweaty palms, the same palms that tugged his hair not too long ago. 

Oh my god. Distraction, I need a distraction. 

You fumbled through your phone, opening the message of your friend. Once again, she’s complaining that you’ve left her on read.. Sorry, I’m hooking up with a rockstar at the moment. Can’t a girl have a hobby? You shook your head to erase those thoughts as you pressed your phone closer to you, the harsh blue light of the cellular device glowing in the darkened space of solitude. 

“aaah sorry,” you typed, “hell week rn, prelims, ill return the shoes next week.” 

She replied with a heart reaction before the chat bubble had begun to appear again. 

“omg no it’s ok no worries.” 

The bubble disappeared for a moment, then returned. 

“came to chat u bc we’re going to XYLO tn” 

You pursed your lips as the typing continued, she adds.

“i know u wanna gooooo 👀 u had fun last night didnt u? u game?”  

“can’t.” you replied instantly, “next time maybe.” 

“😭 girl stfu be so fr... study well tho, manifesting for u!!!” 

The funniest thing this week would probably be the knowledge that she has no clue about what you’d ventured last night, not even a who. A lady never tells, right? Maybe, but you didn’t want to mess up this image your world painted you as. It was nothing more than a barricade, a protection to defer your identity, not only to your friends but also to your family too. If they find out that you’d been fooling around with a man twice your age—out of wedlock—they’d certainly disown you. Sure, whatever, Christian-raised household, blah, blah,  blah. Policing women’s bodies, yadda, yadda, yadda. This’ll be a secret you keep forever. You were not to tell anyone, not even her.

It’s not like anyone’d expect it anyway. 

The phone flickered shut as you pressed the off button. Well, that momentarily took off the pressure. You scrubbed your eyes as you sighed. Your phone slipped through the pocket of your jeans before you quietly moved—straightening up your posture from the couch, a lighter from the throw pillow fell to the ground—before, with a soft, reluctant push of your body, you stood up from your seat, the rustling sound of the lanyard against the fabric of your shirt was audible in the room, as if it was even asking, 'Care to put it to the test?'  

You managed to sneak into the bustling catering area again, all unfamiliar faces, each sharing a different resemblance to whatever the night was taking them, or rather, depending on what their job entailed. Everyone moved with a purpose; it was one thing you lacked tonight, and even despite it all, to appear busy, nonchalant, and feigning innocence to a crowd you didn’t belong to, all of your efforts and movements translated to stiff awkwardness that surprised you, even. You were awkward, but not to this extent. 

You were sure the vase would begin to crack; someone might notice this puny little teenager wearing a band shirt isn’t just some staff member’s daughter. Are you even holding the sandwich correctly? Is this the right dressing? Is hot sauce frowned upon to put on a sala—

Then, because the jokes write themselves, you took a miscalculated step back and collided with someone, again. You turned with your mouth hanging open, midway through a bite of the chicken sandwich. 

“Oh—” the stranger gasped, “Alright, mate?” he exclaimed apologetically, with somewhat of an accent taken from someone’s hometown you haven’t stepped in before, but knew all too well.  

It was Matthew fucking Helders, also eating a sandwich in his hand. He looked at you, brows furrowed in mild apology as if he’d also been distracted, maybe pre-show jitters? Or it was just the sandwich. You were frightened; maybe, somehow, in some way, he knows who you are. But the drummer was blissfully unaware of the dreading look on your face; all he assumes is that he must’ve stepped on your leather boots. He took a close inspection, eyeing up and down—someone’s kid? Or not, the lanyard evident around your neck. 

“No, uh—sorry.” You stammered, cheeks flushed as you stepped back.  

The man only chuckled in that friendly, easy sound. “No worries, love. Happens all the time backstage, ‘s like a maze in ‘ere, it is.” he says, looking around, as he took another bite of his food, then, he paused. “Say, you wouldn’t by any chance know where the fire exit is, would ya?”  

  He gestured for a door, with the red neon sign above blinking ominously; he mentioned that the way it was glowing should’ve been memorable for anyone who’d seen it. You shook your head quickly, almost as if your head was sending a message: No, haven’t seen your fire exit; no, I didn’t sleep with your best mate, no. 

“ ‘s alright,” he nodded, popping the last bit of the sandwich before clasping his pocket. He cursed, looking around to where the hallway leading from the dressing room was before turning to look at you again. “You got a lighter on ya?” 

By instinct of pure hospitality, despite the very fact that you didn’t smoke nor participate in burning things for pleasure, you clasped your pocket; only your phone and your wallet were in there. “Sorry, I don’t...” you murmured, before scratching your head, looking out the catering area and out the hazy hallway heading who knows where. “But, the exit is...” Your mouth was filling with words, grasping for an answer you didn’t know. “Uhh...” 

It seemed that this antic you pulled sent him to a deeper sense of amusement, a genuine, almost fatherly smile spreading across his face. “No worries, love. First time here, then?” he asked. 

You nodded, head empty still as you looked around. 

“Ah, new crew.” he assumed, a complete misinterpretation of your presence, but regardless, it was a buildable strawman, strong enough to weave. “Yes, uhh... Sound.” you answered quickly, and he gave you a friendly pat on the back, an almost jarring gesture. Oh god, he’s so nice.  

“Fuckin, ‘ell, they hire in nappies or summat? You lot should be in the wings, in case you get lost—don’t wander too far, eh?” he joked, before letting you off. He turned, disappearing into the throng. You were left standing there, your sandwich forgotten in your hand. Right, well...  He didn’t look like he was suspecting anything. It wasn’t like you were the kind of girl Alex sought out, as Matt’d seen them first-hand throughout the years of touring; you were... Well, an entirely different genre, and he knew full well it would take a couple of years for the man to shift his taste in women, that mid-life crisis, y’know? 

You managed to sneak in through the wings just as Matt instructed. It was just the perfect time; the crowd had begun to rumble, the wave of their excitement reaching from where you stood. You wore your lanyard like a shield against the workers who are being paid to be there, and as nervous as you seemed, they assumed you were just another intern; one even asked you to bring them coffee, which… well, you did with no complaints. The stagehands, with their headset radios and their focused expression, moved with precision, making last-minute adjustments.

Then, the lights dimmed, and the roar was enough to make you deaf in both ears.

An intern—an actual one, and no, he’s afraid of telling his boss that you’re not included in the payroll—nudged you gently, handing you a pair of earplugs. You gladly take them, mouthing in gratitude before putting them on. It was a momentary pan to the show you were watching; with your ears protected, you felt more… relaxed.

A single spotlight pierced through the darkness of the stage, illuminating in all its glory — Alex, like an ethereal being who just happened to fly down from the sky, but only just for tonight. His guitar slung around him, his wifebeater under his dark blue suit, the soft gleam of his gold chain, and the way he was looking over the crowd… His presence… God, his presence. He was entirely a different man on stage, in front of hundreds of crowds. It was as if you were the only one who’d notice it, despite your adoration for him… there’s always a hidden veil wrapped around his face that no other person could reach and take off, as they’re too blinded by the glitz and glamour of the product they sell. The quiet, sexed-up man in the night club, the contemplative brown-eyed man in the convenience store,  the guilt-ridden man in the dressing room, and now, this… this untouchable being on stage,  all different… and you’ve come to wonder which one bears the most truth.

Though, even as your mind was sailing trips, you were still mesmerised by the arrays of music. It wasn’t the way he commanded the stage that harmonised something inside you, something that’s been lost and just begging to creep to the surface. You’d think it was the way he fucked or the way he kissed that got you shaking in the corner, but no. It was the dance he’d honed and perfected for two decades; it was an undeniable charm that left the audience fixating, begging, clamouring for more. At the end of the day, you were no free agent when it came to him. The song you’ve only listened to on your phone was alive, and maybe… thinking about you when he’s staring off in the distance.

Tonight is a memory you’d wish to keep in a bottle.

Wait a minute… Is… he… you squinted, is he seriously doing weight lifts with his mic stand?

The encore was ironically the first song that introduced you to him, and as its last chords began to ring in a dissonant end, the crowd erupted in thundering applause. The moment the stage lights dipped, you immediately walked out of the wings and back to the backstage area. The question was simmering still; did he see you? You didn’t know if he’d noticed you in the same spot by the wings for almost two hours (you’d become the tech crews’ favourite in running coffee errands, so you’d done some jogging in between; it was entirely sacrificial, to maintain the ‘intern’ front). Yet, you didn’t care. If he saw you, then he saw you; if he didn’t… he’s probably looking for you in the dressing room, where he’d left you before.

You pushed your way through, bumping awkwardly into a stagehand carrying a guitar case; you left them with an unheard apology as you raced through the backstage area… already moving from each corner, crew members urging from left and right. Fuck, this was the frenzy that almost seemed theatrical; despite it all, you managed to slip through the bodies. But at last, your sense of direction was left in the dressing room; the corridors all seemed identical. Which one was it? 

The question helter-skeltered in your head as you turned to one corner and then another, your pace quickened, and underneath your soles was a panic that was beginning to rise, prickling through the base of your foot. You didn’t know now if this was all just a dream now, and that this whole time, you’ve been in your dorm, falling asleep to one of their songs. Fuckin’ hell, you cursed to yourself. It was in here earlier; you needed to know which one it was before someone finds you here. You swore to yourself this’d be the last time that you’d be doing all this rebellious shit.

You sighed heavily as you laid your back against the wall, admitting defeat now for the second time in the evening.

Only then did you realise that this wasn’t a wall but a door—it swung open abruptly; your sigh had heard you.

The first thing you felt after the wooden frame disappeared from your sensation was a hand: strong, firm, and familiar.

It was a wordless extraction as the person pulled you inside, the door clicking shut behind you in a soft thud, you looked up at the culprit, your mind still hazy from the action, before you were met with the familiar gaze of the ebony eyes of Alex Turner. Post-performance high at its peak: sweat shining on his flushed, pale skin, his hair clinging to his neck and forehead, his familiar scent of cologne effervescing through the fabrIc of his wifebeater, he smelt of beer and cigarettes, a specific scent you were naturally repulsed by, but with him… he wore it well, as it was fashion fit for his lifestyle. Oh god, he had the look that could melt you in the palm of his warm hands. You tried to be an equal measure of composure, but alas, you looked away, blushing. He looked hot, undeniably, devastatingly hot. The main event was over; what’s next?

“You, uh,” you murmured, “You were good out there.” The way it fell off your lips, he’d merely compare it to a Catholic whispering his crimes in the confessional room, breathless, unsure.

He hummed, pleased with himself. Now that you’ve said it, you could’ve sworn he’d lift you up against the wall and start nailing you there, as he’d gently laid his hands on your waist, a soft, mind-dizzying touch before he let go of you, his hands grasping on the doorknob just beside you as he locked it with a soft click—privacy, to ward away the eyes of others. 

Then, he turned, his back facing you, before he casually moved to the worn sofa. Every inch of exhaustion had sat through the leather skin of the furniture the moment he sank into it; he leaned back, eyes closed, and his legs parted by instinct, as did his arms as he rested them on the back pillows.

Oh, what a sight.

You moved towards him,  your boots soft against the familiar carpet. It was out of courage that you gently settled onto his lap, your body humming with the excitement. You felt him jolt awake, and when his face turned, it was you he stared back at. “That bit…” you began, your eyes looking down on his chest, his aviators sitting on the collar of his shirt. “Of… you using the mic stand as a metal detector…” you continued, your eyes rolling back as though you were playfully irritated with him. 

“It was funny.” 

Alex chuckled; he made a quick bounce of his knee—to move you closer to him. His hands moved to the small of your back as he held you there. You looked up, and he was staring back at you, almost contemplative; behind the tiresome expression he wore, he looked almost guilty still. You knew you were in his mind the whole night, holding his guilt as if you were bound to his morals.

If porcelain dolls condensed, he’d look like it; his sweat was shining on the top of his lip, and you were carrying weights of your restraint to prevent yourself from leaning in and licking it.

Instead, you began to break the ice through your careful observations from the performance.

“You sing off-tempo.” 

Alex laughed, a genuine sound that vibrated through you. It almost caught you off guard, the thrill of it, yourself being the cause of his mirth. Oh, it was too much. He reached up; his hands that touched you found the back of your neck, his fingers gently toying with your hair.

“It’s our song,” he reasoned; the playful deviance of his voice was evident. He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, “I can sing it in any bloody way I want.”

Ah, so that’s how it is. You reached down, grabbing his aviators, then you opened them up and lifted them to wear on your face. The tinted lenses obscured your vision entirely, there was something poetic in there, experiencing the perspective of how he sees the world.

“How do I look?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as you stared at him.

Alex leaned back, squinting as if he was taking his sweet time assessing you; he was smiling in that charming way that had completely taken your heart from the very beginning. “Like a rockstar,” he softly whispered. Now, he wouldn’t say that word unironically, but he only did because he knew what you wanted to hear, what his girls would always want to hear, and you were one of them for tonight, as long as the guilt doesn’t come back up to the surface, as long as you two tread in the safest waters.

He continued then, his fingers traced the line of your jaw, “The kind that’d sing off-tempo.”

You giggled. God, the teasing, the compliment, the very knowledge that you’re sitting on his lap, wearing his sunglasses… it was all too much, a heady mix of delight, soft on your tongue. You leaned in now, your lips finding his.

The groan he put into the kiss was a sensation that you felt underneath you, his hand gripped the back of your head as he pulled you closer. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, tongues danced, and he took the lead of tracing the seam of your lips before he sucked on them possessively, as if he’d been waiting hours for this again. It was passionate; hell, it was raw hunger, mirroring the desire, the concoction of last night.

But it came back again, and it twisted his stomach—he pulled away, groaning in guilt and reluctance. His forehead rested against you, breaths shared, ragged, shallow. He kept his eyes closed shut as if the thought of seeing you would be a straight shotgun to the head; he needed to think this clearly. More importantly, he needed to push back the tide of his own desire.

“Taxi…” was the first word he managed to say. “It’s getting late…” he trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air: I should take you home, I should send you away, I should stop this. 

“Just a few minutes,” you plead, leaning closer, kissing the sensitive skin of his sweaty neck. you could taste the salts; your teeth grazing against his flesh was a sensation that left his whole body shuddering as you pressed a warm kiss, and then another, trailing along his pulse point. He groaned, stiffening with each landing of your lips; he was already flushing rapidly, his neck and up his face reddening under the sleight of your touch. “Nnngh…” the sound escaped from his throat; he was absolutely struggling for control. You paused as you took off your lips from his skin and began removing his glasses, the brown filters immediately disappearing from your viewpoint; you could see him clearer now. You hung the aviators on him then. 

“There,” you whispered. 

Then, you began to fumble for his belt; the familiar sound of it was a jarring trip back to the first hours of yesterday’s moon. Feather-like touch, light, purposeful against the fabric of his trousers. But, despite the heightened state, he managed a last-minute grip back to reality. His hand shot out, wrapped around your wrist, a gentle halt. You looked up, and his half-lidded eyes, clouded with lust, flickered open as he looked back.

Your name, those letters that had been coalescing in his head, had escaped his lips as he whispered softly, “It’s… fuck, it’s gettin’ late. I… I don’t want this to happen again, ‘s not right—”

“Please…” you whispered, your lips pouting as you leaned closer to him, your nose touching his, your breath mingling with his.

In a way, you were probably his tormentor, the greatest clapback from whichever God that truly exists out there, where they spawned you here on earth, to teach him what exactly? Control? To keep his dick in his pants on each tour? Fuck that, fuck everything. He’d blame it on the aviators: blurring his morals and judgement, and maybe if he was immature, he’d probably even blame it on you, on how girls like you would only learn that the stove is hot when you touch it twice. He groaned heavily before his eyes landed down on his merely undone belt, as he finally, finally, surrendered, once again. 

His belt loosened in an instant, he zipped open his fly and pushed down his boxers. Boom goes the fuckin’ dynamite—springing free already, and you didn’t waste even an ounce of a moment. Desperately, you pushed yourself up from his lap; you quickly kicked off your boots, your feet adorned with pastel-coloured socks, then you shimmied off your baggy pants and lastly, your panties. You shed them off, dropping them to the carpet, and your legs, glowing underneath the dim light of the dressing room, exposed themselves in his filtered eyes.

It conflicted Alex just how clumsy you’d be in conversations, and then there would be a time when you’d be of equal grace in your movements and equally predatory. You straddled him, knees steady, settling on either side of his hips, bare skin pressed warmly against his trousers. You were a gymnast suspended above him as your eyes met his with hunger that he didn’t know if he could even satisfy. His dick was already hard, stiff, throbbing, pressing against your cunt.

With both your hands on his shoulder, you began to sink down, a slow, torturous movement as your body aligned with his. Ohhh, fuuuuuck, he gritted his teeth as the sensation of you, the soft brush of your flesh, and the moist heat that you carried wrapped around his cock. His eyes, which were closed underneath his aviators, snapped open, and he gasped.

“Fuck—condoms.” he choked out, a last-minute thought, the forgotten caution.

“I don’t have one,” you murmured, cheeks already flushing. “Do you?”

He closed his eyes before shaking his head in an almost apologetic manner. God, this was so absurd; if life were a sitcom, the audience would probably be laughing now.

You giggled, he felt the vibration around his shaft.

“Then…” you trailed, “Can I continue…?”

He looked into your eyes, aviators hanging on the bridge of his nose. 

You took a gentle grind and he groaned, his hands finding your waist immediately as he gripped you close, a clear sign, then.

Oh, this raw feeling – how he missed it. Fuck. The sensation, the deep pressure that made his entire body sink deeper into the leather sofa. “Ugh…” he groaned, forgetting everything he’s ever thought or every problem that had been in his mind. He was shackled to the moment, your sighs, your moans, and the way your body moved above him. It was a pleasure that was deep, achingly full, hitting you in all areas. Alex was a wet dream come alive, in his dark suit, with his shades still on, his hair mussedly styled, and he shamelessly groaned again, biting his lips in times when you’d grind particularly stronger. His state was the embodiment of a beautiful wreckage, face flushed, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. He was practically liquefied underneath you, his sweat glistening under the dim lights, his aviators a few thrusts from falling off. Naturally, men are visual creatures, and from this coffee-filtered viewpoint, there you were, straddling him, your hair framing your equally flushed face, your body moving with such passion — God, you were riding him like a professional. 

His other hand reached out from under your shirt, clasping your breasts. His lips were begging to suckle on you. With practised ease, he pushed your shirt above your collarbone; your bra was the same black pair as your panties, a flimsy thing made to be taken off. Clever girl. He unhooked your bra, the clip clasping off before he also pushed them off, lifting both fabrics off of your head impatiently. As the barrier had made its careless fall on the armchair of the sofa, his eyes gazed at your chest, tracing the soft curves of the beautiful flesh as you moved. He pushes his head off the headrest as he descended close, his mouth warm and wet against one nipple. You let out a soft moan as he sucked gently, your hands tugged the strands of his hair, begging for more. His tongue expertly rolled around your nipple—fast, slow, fast again—while his free hand kneaded with the other, teasing the peak until it was a hard, sensitive bud. Alex alternated between them, mouth closing on the other, then vice versa.  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You remained your uniform grinds, despite the feeling that you were already close. Alex, though, was already thrusting underneath, his hands now holding on to your hips; he pulled his mouth from your breast, a loud, wet smack in the dressing room as he began to focus now on the encore. He met your movements with an increasing rhythm, skin to skin, sending jolts of pleasure to his senses. Your moans had transitioned to an airy, breathy call that was undeniably a beautiful hymn to his fuckin’ ears, spurring him on.

You gasped—eyes rolled back—and Alex saw the way the climax had painted your face so beautifully he couldn’t tear his focus away. You gripped his cock with a hungry clench, dragging you down with him—he gasped sharply as he let himself go, painting your insides hot, thick, to the absolute brim. He’d managed another groan from his very lungs, drawn-out, the last sound of his surrender before the guilt would resurface again, but it didn’t hit him like a punch exactly, more like… a slow death, but he was relaxed against you, completely fuckin’ spent.

Fuck, did he need a cigarette.

The flick of the lighter filled the quiet street in the secret part of the venue. He lit his cigarette, inhaling—puffing once, the first smoke trailing off his lips before he inhaled again through his nose. You watched him smoke beside you, utterly fascinated by the way he held the cigarette.  He saw you looking, and he offered a silent question in his gaze as he opened the tab of his Marlboro Gold.

“No, thanks,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I… I don’t smoke.”

Alex nodded, taking another drag as he put his cigarette and lighter in the breast pocket of his suit. It was close to midnight when the two of you managed to slip out of the backstage area, somewhat, in some way, after you dressed quickly; one made a beeline first, before the other followed next. You knew where the fire exit was located now, funnily enough, and Alex was beside you this time, waiting patiently (because this isn’t dine and dash, unlike last night…) for a taxi to arrive. This time, you were wearing the aviators, perched up above your head like a headband. 

“Matt mentioned some crew member who was hogging the sandwiches,” he said out of the blue. 

You immediately tensed up, covering your face with your hands, groaning. “What?”

He just shrugged; subtle grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took another slow drag from his cigarette. “Nothin’, forget about it.”

Absolutely not, you will absolutely not forget about it.

The silence that left was comfortable enough, the distant sounds of the city making an appearance every now and then, along with the soft hiss of his cigarette. Then, he turned to face you, the gaze thoughtful.

“ ’ve got a nice voice, by the way.”

You blinked, “Sorry?”

“Your voice,” he clarified, exhaling his smoke before inhaling a centimeter close to the filter now. “ ‘sounds nice, 've grown to appreciate it now that we’ve actually… talked before the…  y’know. ” He gestured vaguely, the understatement dancing with the greyish smoke.

You looked away then, staring off in the distance, genuinely touched by his compliment. You knew full well you were blushing again, rather deeply this time.

“Thanks.”

“Listen,” he started again, as he threw the filter away, the ember disappearing as it hit against the tarmac. “Can you… y’know, just keep this—”

“—Between us? Of course.” you nodded. “I understand,” you whispered, already aware of the unsaid negotiation from the very beginning.

You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell that it was the answer he wanted to hear; he’s choosing to believe that you would keep your word.

A taxi was closely approaching, and you flagged the driver down.

He’d handed cash to the driver more than he should—so far, he still hasn’t grasped the currency of this country. You took a careful glance on the sideview mirror, his figure disappearing; he didn’t leave in the spot you were seconds ago; instead, he’d stayed for another cigarette.

You closed your eyes, the ride on your way to your flat would be quiet, deafeningly so. 

Fuckin’ hell, you thought to yourself, Well, that got out of my system.

March 06, 2023

The next day came with an easy humid promise. It was typical weather for your country's climate, especially with March settling early in the calendar. You had spent the morning in a daze, barely holding yourself together in class—all the lectures seemed to mesh on the whiteboard as one charmingly handsome frontman, straight out of a fucking Bruno Mars music video. It was odd enough that you were listening in class, only because the letters on the board seemed to reiterate everything that happened last night, in graphic, pornographic, sensory-filled detail. The simmering anxiety was still there, though the afterglow of what had been done was shining through like a cruel, brown-eyed, gold-chain-wearing silver lining. 

Last night, your friend (poor thing), had thought of nine different scenarios of where you'd gone off to, she was scared shitless. By the time you arrived at the table, her face had morphed from a shell-shocked victim who was glued to her phone to a very disapproving mum, who was, now, praying to be given the opportunity to chuck her drink at you. It didn't help in the slightest that you didn’t smell like yourself and  looked like you’d just been run over by a bus—to be precise, a double-decker bus. You gave her an awkward smile, mumbling about how the line in the bathroom was taking so long.

“Oh?” One of her acquaintances—who you’ve just met—replied, “Which bathroom did you go to? We were there earlier.” The rest of her friends nod along, recounting the lengthy hallway they went through to get there.

Huh.

“But I think that bathroom’s haunted… probably by a malevolent ghost,” she adds, genuinely terrified as she clutches her purse.

Huh.

Anyway…

The afternoon sun was a scorching hot ball in the sky, it was a long trip back home due to traffic, and you decided to take a quick shower and change into comfortable clothes: an oversized graphic tee and some starched blue denim, as well as your leather-clad boots that you polish every other century. The blues from above slowly blended into a beautiful purply sky as night was soon upon us to watch your mission. You opted to ride the train this time, heading to the familiar, jostling affair on the avenue from where the concert would be held. Each stop made your heart lurch—a nervous energy that you simply couldn't shake. You only carried your phone and your wallet to be practical. Now that the next stop was slowly approaching, you couldn't help but wonder now—fuck, the taste of rebellion was an acidic, sour plum. You were ticketless, lost, and maybe a little tired. The impulsive decision was now settling in your stomach.

God, what am I doing?

The journey south was deeper than you realized—and longer too. It was a two-hour travel, and when you stepped off the station, heading to ride one of the buses parked out in front of the exit, you were just expecting to stop at the north gates of the venue. The streets swarmed with the cars and their smoke-filled air, but here in this bus was enough of a barrier to calm the racing heart you were wearing in your chest, at least for five minutes. You called out the driver to stop by the main entrance. The man, already used to the pre-concert chaos, merely gave a short grumble and pulled over by the sidewalk, the car behind him honked impatiently. You boarded off, feeling disoriented from the air pollution, the noise, and the gum that you accidentally stepped on the asphalt road.

It was 6 pm, two hours before the supposed call time—based on the post you read on Twitter. Though the entrance was already a putty, vape-frenzied vortex. It’s too early, too many people. You rubbed the sides of your pants nervously before lurking around to search for any escape, far from the tide of teenagers and young adults who actually looked like they bought their tickets to get here. Your eyes landed far, on a small less populated area to your left—a patch of green, bordered by trees, and a faint glint of water that reflected the light of the lampposts. It was a creek park, a secluded hollow, offering a brief break from the chaos. Your feet moved instinctively, and you remained standing there, a solitary figure navigating the crowd you didn’t belong in. In here, the air was cooler, and the grass was quite overgrown, just carrying the earthy scent that the damp soil and decaying foliage seemingly have—a scent somewhat intimate just for you and the stars tonight.

There was a line of humble vendors just outside the main spot, selling street foods that you were eager to get a bite from—but eating felt like a nuisance, you wanted to chastise yourself for this choice you made, travelling 20 kilometres to a city you only knew by name. You gazed upon a narrow winding path leading deeper into the park, and you followed through. Despite the countless people in there, it seemed warmer to stay in just for a while. Your boots kissed the softer ground, following the thrumming rhythm of your heart. You found a secluded bench under an old acacia tree, a soft bubble inviting you in away from the noise. The sounds of the pond gurgled softly, a gentle murmur to soothe the nerves you’ve been carrying the whole day. Slowly, you let your back slack against the wooden bench, sighing heavily.

What was I thinking?

Last night’s vaunt about being a fast learner seemed somewhat comical now, a terribly naive bravado that you wished you had kept to yourself, maybe then you would’ve been sleeping in bed at this exact moment… contemplating what would happen if you followed through with your whims. That’s no good way to live. But you were alone, with no ticket, no concrete plan, and absolutely no idea on how to even get close to the stage, let alone backstage… Plus, it’s not like he would recognize you from the sea of hundreds of faces in the crowd. But Alex… the memory of the rasp in his voice, the pressure of his touch, the raw hunger that pooled in his brown eyes as he took you inside that grimy bathroom stall—it was a dream that fueled your night like nothing else in the world, ever, but it seemed like an idiotic illusion now, slowly crumbling the actual face of your reality. Your mum would kill you if she knew where you’d gone off to, you practically spent your weekly allowance to meet a man you shagged in some dingy nightclub, and here you were, unsure now if the world would continue to work in your favour. 

You pulled out your phone then, the screen lighting up to show your friend’s unanswered messages about her heels. Maybe tonight was made for cleaning footwear, not running after a frontman who’s already forgotten about you. You decided then, standing up to ground yourself from the sheer overwhelming last-minute choice, the chatters of the crowd seemed to prickle through your skin like a mocking, itchy rash. This was an insane thing to do, a completely insane thing you’d vow to never do again. You looked into the distance one last time, your head turning to look over the crowd. The eager notion of meeting him again had slowly effervesced into a cruel joke that filled your heart with stones; maybe the crowd was ganging up on you too, laughing at your misery. With a sigh, you looked down at your phone and fumbled to book a taxi right this instant. Within a few minutes, a black sedan had pulled up from the road, the plate was a familiar combination from your phone, the air-conditioning inside that smelled like artificial pine trees felt like great company on your way home. 

You practically ran out by the gates and dove through the passenger seat, giving the driver a confirmation that you were the one who booked before he drove to the city exit. The relief was a quick exhale coming straight from the back of your lungs. You leaned your head against the cool window. The blurry sight of the city lights was a sickening purchase of comfort, the venue ground was a vibrant stream of lights and sound that was slowly sinking into a small blip in the rearview mirror. Tonight was a waste of time, you decided, a waste of train fare and effort. You couldn’t help but mope, though… The rebellion hum was a thing you’ve always yearned for, after all. 

The taxi continued its journey, passing through a more upscale part of the city, with somewhat sleek, modern buildings that shone through like glass, almost. The part of this city was something you hadn’t recognized before, but the driver reassured you that this was a shortcut. Just as you nodded at him, staring at the Google Map on his phone to make sure he wasn’t bluffing, your head turned back at the window. As the sedan passed by a particularly expensive luxury hotel, its grand entrance opened, and the chandelier lights from the lobby spilled on the red carpet first, before your gaze sharpened at the familiar silhouette, a snapshot from your desperate search.

From the revolving doors, emerged Alex.

Impeccably dressed in a blue tailored suit, his signature gold chain subtly at the open collar of his wifebeater. His dark hair was styled in artful taste—the kind that an artist would prepare their wrist’s movement for the correct stroke—caught the warm lights, and the familiar 5 o’clock shadow accentuated the lines of his jaw, and his eyes were covered by his aviators in coffee-colored lenses, but his profile was facing his mates, whom he’s mid-conversation with: Matt, Nick, and Jamie, their faces carefully illuminated from the soft lights of the chandelier that danced around them as the revolving door continued to slowly turn. It was a serious yet relaxed discussion that they were having, perhaps going over some last-minute details or having a chat about the humidity of the city as they waited for their vehicle to arrive to drive them to the venue. Oh god, oh god… 

Your mind screamed, and your heart was a trapped bird in its rib-shaped cage. It felt as though the sedan had slowed down, and your gaze was locked onto his figure. The world was having a laugh, pushing your buttons with a soft twirl of her fingertips. Seconds were suspended off the tightrope as your car glided past the busy street before his head cocked in the direction of the vehicles passing by. It wasn’t for a deliberate search, really, it was an unconscious instinct he’d grown to do as he felt the eyes of another from that very direction, but with an almost uncanny precision, his gaze landed directly on the beat-up sedan, before it landed on you. His eyes under his aviators seemed to almost shift, and maybe you felt foolish, but perhaps he recognized you from the tinted glass of the car. It was a connection that surpassed fast-paced linkage through satellites, it was the kind that pierced through the hum of the city. Whatever this was, it was funnier than fate.

His conversation with them didn’t break, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, barely there, but you could tell he knew you were here by the tightening of his jaw. 

You softly blurted to the taxi driver to stop the car, urgently, cutting through the radio that you didn’t even know was playing. The driver was startled, glancing at you through his peripheral vision. He was about to explain that you two weren’t there yet, or that you’ve already paid, but nonetheless, he slowed down the vehicle. Pulling over—not directly at the hotel—but a few stops down, in front of the red and green neon signage of a convenience store close by. You fumbled for your wallet as your gaze never left Alex’s, whose eyes under the lenses were looking directly at you. You paid the poor driver a couple bills, apologizing again as you leaped out of the car.

You fixed yourself up, the fluorescent lights of the convenience store touching your face like a soft kiss, before your head turned again to the hotel entrance. They were still there, it was as if his bandmates were used to him staring off somewhere even as they talked, a well-known habit of his—but god, he was looking at someone this time, and it was you. A part of you was torn between sheer joviality and panic.

What now? Do I just… approach them? You shook your head as if you were a very stressed Etch-a-Sketch. Overwhelmed, you looked out to your front again and began walking inside the convenience store. You ducked your head as you bolted into the bright entrance of the automatic doors, the soft electric chime sounding like a morning alarm. You were alone (apart from two employees by the cash register talking about Crypto), but it was quieter in here, and you found yourself going further inside, standing in front of the beverage coolers, looking at the collection of chilled drinks, but all of them morphed into label-less pixelated blobs in your eyes. You weren’t here for anything; you were just here from your own cowardice. For what felt like agonizing hours, your fingers were beginning to get numb from holding glass doors. The buzzing of the coolers, the fluorescent glare, and the faint scent of instant noodles were orchestrated in the rebellion you mustered up on a Monday night. You wanted to look casual, but instead you looked like a constipated drug dealer loitering in the most heavily surveilled place in the city.

The chime of the automatic doors nearly jolted you—your gaze landed on the fogging surface of the coolers, squinting a little bit to check the reflection of who it could be. The blue tailored suit was a dead giveaway; it was Alex. Alone this time—his aviators hanging on the collar of his shirt—looking as if he were some aristocratic prick who was suddenly craving gas station coffee. The realization that you two were practically the only customers in the store felt like some stupid prank you didn’t know you were in on, the two stunned employees who stopped talking the moment he walked in should grab some popcorn, sit back, and watch. 

Alex headed directly towards the counter, his pace surprisingly leisured as he paused and looked up at the racks of cigarettes behind the two employees. He was taking his time, not quite interacting with you yet, and you felt like some stupid lurker by the coolers, he was aware that you were there, but for now he wanted to pause for a bit, he was in no rush. He gestured for a pack of Marlboro Gold, the sleek white and gold packaging glinted under the overhead lights, a quick purchase. You were sure he was about to leave then, but no—a devil, he is—he turned and walked towards the aisle you were loitering in, just in time when you were finally opening the coolers for a cold can of Coke. 

Oh, fuck’s sake, here we go. 

He stood there for a moment, just behind you, almost as if savouring the tension with a golden spoon. You looked different from the club, he thought to himself. You looked younger... and that didn't sit right with him. You were fresh-faced without the makeup, the body glitter, and the dress. Fuck.

Your hand was trembling as you grabbed your drink. Just in time, his hand reached out for a small bottle of water; his warm palms covered your hand at the handle as he closed it.

FUCK.

You practically leaped out between the coolers and him as you padded to the counter, setting the can down with more force than necessary, only for Alex to appear immediately behind you.

“Add hers to mine,” he said to the cashier.

He placed his bottle of water next to your Coke. The cashier, looking utterly baffled under his prescription glasses, complied regardless. Alex fumbled for his wallet, his move efficient, as he paid for both items. You were properly flushed and speechless as you watched him, you were trying your best to decipher the expression written on his face. He wasn’t smiling, he was just… there, wearing a mask you couldn’t quite lift off yet. But there was something else in there, almost a sneaky glint in his hazel eyes, and a minute tension around the corners of his lips—perhaps suppressing a grin of amusement, or maybe it was just you who was seeing all this. He didn’t say anything yet, though, and didn’t offer an explanation. He simply paid. You took your drink, hands unsteady as you offered a mumbled gratitude to him and the cashier before walking up to the empty tables facing the glass walls of the convenience store. The tension around your body seemed to melt into the plastic stool as you sat down, its metal legs scraping the tiled floors. You felt a shadow fall beside you, the soft movements of the empty chair being pulled, before finally he sat down at the same table across from you. Your head turned, and he was there, just waiting for your attention as he opened his bottle of water, taking a slow sip. FUCK. The silence was charged, echoing the intimate chaos from last night. And you couldn’t explain what was happening, this was something you’ve thought about in your sleepless dream—that somehow, Alex has this uncanny ability to make you feel like it was only the two of you in any room you both occupied.

The two workers were innocent vultures, watching.

He finally broke the silence, his brown eyes on you. “You actually came,” he stated.

His intonation was more of an observation than a question, perhaps even a surprising hypothesis, a third-factor outcome he hadn’t expected. You blushed, fumbling nervously with your drink, you opened the can with a soft hiss, avoiding his gaze.

“You didn’t want me to?"

Alex shook his head slowly. “I didn’t expect you to, love.” he corrected. 

The implication was out there, humming with the air conditioner inside. You were one eager girl, following through with his half-assed plan. 

You turned your head then, your gaze falling on his face, and for a moment, the mask faltered. He looked… weary. There was a subtle tension in his jaw and maybe even a slight furrow in his brow that suggested a hangover—not from the drinks—but from the sheer regret of what he did last night. Alex remembered it all so clearly, felt it even. He remembered returning, telling himself he was too tired to shower, and slipping into bed instead. The truth was, he wanted to wear your scent a little longer, wake up from it, and let himself feel the raw guilt and sheer wrongness of it all the morning after.

“I was about to leave,” you admitted, your voice soft as you sipped your drink, the carbonation filling your mouth.

Alex’s head dipped a bit as he nodded, staring off in the distance now, the lip of his bottle hovering slightly over his as he hummed. “Huh,” he murmured, his gaze at the door. “Lucky, then,” he whispered. He straightened his posture a bit as he drank his water before continuing. “You caught me just in time.” 

You scoffed, shaking your head as you ducked to hide the blush on your cheeks. Alex Turner, right in front of you, talking about fate is a dangerous thing to witness, it’s best to tread carefully. 

“But… it was a stupid idea, really,” you whispered, chuckling self-deprecatingly.

He glanced at you again.

“I… I came all the way here… I don’t even have the tickets to see you.” His gaze softened, nodding as you spoke, taking your words free of judgement.

“Aye, guess that explains the leavin’,” he rubbed the back of his neck nervously, feeling responsible.  “You still set on that? ‘Cause I could, you know…” he trailed, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table as he looked at you. “I could take you.”

“Really?” you asked, bewildered. 

He nodded, “Really.”

Alex was guilt-ridden. The very knowledge that he ruined the innocence of some young girl, abandoned her, and lured her all the way here for another fix—to fix the craving he couldn’t keep in his pants, it was the stone that was sitting in his stomach the whole day. Inviting you in to watch the show was a small thing in comparison to what you’ve done for him. Your head was still reeling from the opportunity, the concert was all anyone could talk about on social media, practically sending notifications through your phone, flooding a persistent stream of Google alerts every hour. You weren’t a casual listener, of course, you were drawn to the hype the moment you saw him in R U Mine?

You stammered, “Wow… uh, thanks, Alex.” 

He gave you another nod, a slow, knowing gesture. “So, you’re actually a fan, then?” he asked. It wasn’t a question of challenge, rather much of another observation of his.

You shrugged noncommittally, “I just listen to some stuff, here and there…”

Alex didn’t seem convinced, you met his gaze and there, an imperceptible glint, under his brown eyes and a subtle flick of his tongue against his teeth—by the molars—a gesture to hide his grin. He knew full well you were downplaying.

“Okay,” you murmured, admitting just a tad bit, “But I’m not like… insane or anything, I mean, I think AM is a great album.” The last part was a flimsy lie, the correct answer would be Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino.

He just watched for a moment, shrugging as he looked across the street now. This man had a show in a few hours and here he was living his life as if he was time himself. “Have you listened to the new album?” he asked, casually. You tilted your head, before nodding. “Yeah.” “So, any thoughts about it?” He pressed, holding a steady gaze.

You hesitated at first, your fingers tracing the condensation of the can of Coke you were holding. This was a dangerous territory, where your false narrative of being an unpretentious fan was put to the test, but the album… it’s just that good, and your curiosity was begging to be put to sleep—to ask why the album doesn’t have any b-sides? but it’s too early to ask, too soon to pretend. 

“Uh, I love Mr Schwartz.” You answered. It was true, the acoustic guitar, the soft brushes on the snare drum, and the lyrics were a collection of reflection in the maze of his own mind, as if he’s foretelling his past self a decade of living smokes and mirrors. 

He didn’t respond to your answer, as if you never even did. He just watched you, under all that carefully curated blankness, a subtle breeze in the wind—surprised? Maybe. But he looked as though he was juggling the letters to create another meaning, or maybe he was afraid to ask why you love that specific track, and he feared what you’d answer next. He was never good with intimacy, not the sex in particular—just conversations in general, especially with someone he’s only met in two nights. Then, his mouth twitched,  a barely-there of a smile. Oh boy, your choice has revealed more than you intended.

“Right.” He murmured, before pushing his bottle across the table, and then standing up, the legs of the stool scraping the tiles as he glanced at his watch. “Well then…” he says, looking at you, “Come on.” 

The venue was pure sensory overload. Waves of concert-goers, the tide was vibrant and buzzing with excitement. They made their way by car—a driver who happened to be waiting for him by the hotel—though it was still enough for your heart as if you two were out there, travelling by foot. He was in the passenger seat talking to the driver, watching you every now and then from the rearview mirror. The car made a turn somewhere far from the main gates, before they stopped by a less-lit service road, just away from the crowd. The atmosphere was vastly different here, the sounds were a distant hum now, replaced by the clatter of heavy equipment. Alex exited the car, before he walked up to your side and opened your door. You glanced up at him as you headed out, face flushed before he reached out and gently fixed your hair. 

The two of you passed by massive tour buses, engines idling softly, and trucks with various production company logos. Wow, this is what it looks like behind the scenes, huh. Before, finally, you two arrived at a distinguished side entrance, carefully guarded by security, a man who looked perpetually unimpressed, mind. Alex approached him, movements calm just as the expression he carried. The guard’s eyes flickered from him to yours, his gaze somewhat questioning—you didn’t look like you should be here. “She’s with me.” Alex stated, his voice low, his accent cutting through the industrial hum. The guard gave a curt nod and stepped aside, pulling back the heavy barrier. 

You were in complete disbelief as Alex held the door open for you. You slipped inside, and your eyes scanned the whole area. You’ve never been to any band shows before, but this was the better glimpse—the inner workings of the sets that play the songs you’ve listened to in your busted earphones, you’ve only seen this kind of settings in movies you’ve watched. A sea of dark drapes, the thick cables—connecting from god knows where— and around the dimmed corners you could hear gears being hauled around, and the scent of sweat once it hit the metal, and the kind of buzz you heard from the open amps were filling your senses.

You let him steer you through a few turns of corridors, you stumbled upon some other crews who glanced your way, but their eyes were only on him, you on the other one, seemed to blend in under the drapes, like you were one with the walls. The catering area was decently packed, their conversations were soft chatters and almost imperceptible to your ears. Alex made a quick pluck, grabbing two bottles of water from the coolers and then handing one to you.

He led you deeper backstage. You noticed that the air was cooler, and almost quieter here, as you two paced to a series of doors. He stopped at an unmarked one and reached in for the handle, pushed it open with his shoulder—you saw him almost take a quick assessment if the room was, well, safe for the two of you. His loosely-written plan was slowly being revised.

Did he ask you if you wanted to meet the rest of the band? Of course not. Can you imagine? Hey lads, so this is some bird I shagged in the bathroom at a club I went to last night—Did I mention she’s two decades younger than me? Yeah, they’re not exactly planning to bring back that 60s, you see…

Alex touched you by the small of your back as he gently ushered you inside. It was a dressing room—his? Maybe, you weren’t sure. “Right,” he murmured, smiling at you. “I’d advise you not to wander off, or touch—or you know—sit on anythin’ that looks like it might spark up.” he says, grinning.

He twists the cap off his water and sips slowly, “Trust me, the stage manager’s the kind you wouldn’t wanna mess with, kid.”

You pouted playfully at his taunting warnings, “I’m not a kid…” you mumbled softly as you looked at your bottle of water, fumbling with the cap.

The silence was the squeak against the linoleum floor. Ooh.

“Sorry.. Last night, you know…” he stammered, not looking directly at you as he sighed before cleaning up his words again. “Look, what we did… and how that went down… and for—you know—leavin’ you alone… I was pissed out my fuckin’ mind—we both were—and it was probably not the wisest shit I’ve done… in a long time.”

The knot in your stomach seemed to come back again, he was spewing his apology like it was a bottle of tequila he regretted the morning after, it was a moral hangover. The magic of the strobe lights, the raw energy that sparked in the enclosed space in the restroom, have finally stopped. What was left now was the harsh reality of the fluorescent lights, the hard swallow of the ibuprofen. You were now reduced to one thing you defied yourself from him: a kid.

You shrugged, “It’s alright,” you mumbled, “I was with a friend anyway, and I got home safe…”

“Yes, I’m glad you did… but that’s not the point, love.” he says, his voice stern yet kind. “I… the point is… I shouldn’t have—Christ…” he lets out a deep breath as he looks up, the bottle in his hand trembling as he exhales, before shaking his head. “Listen, I think… I think it’s best if we just…”

“Alex,” you whisper. “I didn’t come here for an apology.”

“Well, I owe you one, and believe me, love—you’ll look back on this when you’re old enough, and you’ll hate me.”

“Stop that.” you shake your head. “Stop saying that.” He looked at you with those guilty eyes, his arms flying around as if to sign the things that his voice refused to say, “This is mad, I don’t… I… Look, I’ll fetch one of the guards to assist you back at the grounds, I’ll… this…” he trails, unsure what point he was even attempting to cross. “It was risky… bloody reckless, even. I should’ve asked if you were alright—” Right, that’s it.

It was a decision that even surprised you, you leaned in, your boots scraping the floor as you closed the space between the two of you. The kiss was quick, and yet, it was enough to make Alex’s mind go pitch black. The words died in his mouth as his whole body stiffened. Then, his eyes closed shut, he groaned as his hands began to relax—the bottle of water he was holding had dropped, spilling onto the floor—and it drove through your sides. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your other free hand had tugged his carefully styled hair, cradling him as your mouth parted to let his tongue in. He deepened the kiss, taking the access so gratefully as he did so.

Alex was the first to pull away then, the sound of the separation was stark against the quiet dressing room, his breath was hot and his lips were still buzzing. His eyes were still on you as he tried to calm himself, instinctively licking his bottom lip, a sign that he was still craving the kiss, well, craving you.

“Right, uh.” He started, his voice rough around the edges. His fingers ran through his hair nervously, and for a moment, Alex seemed younger, you couldn’t help but smile at his state. The breathless expression, the flushed face, the messy hair, and the soft, moist lips. He looked like an absolute cutie.

“I… really need to go.” but he didn’t seem like he wanted to.

Alex patted his jacket pocket for a moment, his movements still sluggish, before he pulled out a laminated ID, some sort of all-access pass, he offered it to you. You blinked, “What’s this?” you asked, looking at it intently. “Backstage pass, you might need it… If you want to watch from the wings, security’s quite strict here… They won’t bother you though, if you wear this.” He explained, taking the lanyard over your head before setting it gently around your neck, his knuckles lingering a bit too long on your collarbone before he puts his arms back to his sides.

You didn’t question the fact that he had a spare ID this whole time, maybe what he said earlier was nothing but a lie—or not—he didn’t expect you to come, but he did hope you would.

“Right, those right bastards are probably lookin’ for me…” he said, chuckling, “I'll… I'll see you later, don't go runnin’ off, alright?” He continued, reaching out to graze your cheeks fondly. You leaned in to his touch, eyes closing momentarily before you looked at him and nodded.

“Can I watch from the wings?”

March 05, 2023

The nightlife of the city blurred past the car window like kaleidoscope dreams, the lights from the buildings making their way like industrial stars, and neon signages from local fast food chains making an appearance every mile, late-stage capitalism trinkets wrapped in the urban paradise that spoke of vibrancy and chaos. The bass from your destination thrummed in the air, the nightclub was close and approaching, practically vibrating through your teeth as the two of you got out of the taxi. You lied to your mother that you were finishing a thesis project and asked for an advanced allowance for the cost of the ‘printings,’ all to spend it on the entrance fee of some overhyped nightclub somewhere in the crowded part of the avenue, a hotspot for quick fixes and long nights. You are fucked, incredibly so if your mother finds out, trading your safety for a world of loud music, fleeting glances, and drowning in the scent of something illicit.

The theme for tonight was ‘slutty enough that no one would notice you’re a devoted Catholic who goes to church every Sunday’: a satin halter mini dress in the color of amarena cherries. You opted to borrow your friend’s charcoal pointed-toe heels and made a mental note to clean the shoes before returning them. Looking down on the acrid ground, it was obvious enough you were about to break a sweat in order to get this pair of heels clean. You lined up behind a group of people, a varying group of young-ins who had the same intentions as you did, and a few older, more jaded faces that made you take a few glances. It was obvious you had a problem with authority, the different kind… the one specifically where you’re left like a rabid dog in heat.

Your stomach was practically somersaulting beneath your calm exterior, though your hands gave such clear messages, fixing your hair one moment before feeling the sides of your dress again. In contrast to you, your friend was in her element, practically gabbing about sneaking in the VIP side of the club where the majority of her friends were. The moment you two were inside, feigning ignorance to the glances of the wandering eyes of the other men in the club, the music had pumped the bones in your body, and the scent of something sharp and fruity—from the vapes and alcohol—clung to the air. The strobe lights from above danced around the stage, painting the unfamiliar faces of strangers like a sugar-induced dream. The pulsing beat of the music grew louder, in sync with the drumming of your chest. Is this it? the sweet taste of rebellion, wrapped in a crystal bottle of hard liquor? You two ordered by the bar, Tequila Sunrise—only because you thought it sounded like a good track title for an indie song… or a groupie name. “Alright,” your friend says, grinning. “Stay close,” she orders before she pulls you in to the throng of the crowd with practiced ease, the wisdom of being a seasoned club-goer, navigating through the laughter and shouts. She yelled through the sound of the club, mentioning the name of one of her colleagues, a forgettable one, ‘They’re at a VIP table near the back!’ You tried to keep pace, truly, taking in the dizzying crowd and the scent of vanilla and something woodsy from the perfumes of the people around you. Suddenly, the DJ dropped a Weeknd track—like a pack of hungry wolves, the crowd around you rippled with heightened, suffocating energy. Cheers erupted, and a mass of bodies pushed through. You were caught off-guard by the sudden shift in momentum, practically drowned out on the opposite side of the sea. Your frame was immediately racked away from your friend’s hold and out of the main current. Your arms flailed, spilling half of your drink to the ground as you gasped, you collided into something solid and warm, the scent of tobacco and crystal amber hitting your senses like a straight shot to the head—blanking your thoughts and pushing away the memory of the embarrassing stunt you just pulled—that this stranger might’ve even watched from afar.

You looked up—tall, motionless. His gaze, deep-set and burnished like roasted hazelnuts in the dimness of the corner he settled in, pierced the air as the club's strobelights played their cruel, flaunting light upon his brow. His brows were furrowed, seemingly almost irritated by the course of events, as if he tried his best to blend in some comedy show—just another face in the crowd—until the comedian gave him a shout-out he definitely wasn’t ready for. He looked out of place, or maybe he does fit in, and it was just you who didn’t belong here. Ethnically, he did, though; you inspected him as you pulled away and muttered a quick apology. A foreigner, tall enough for people to notice, he wore a white silk shirt that would catch the light every now and then; the top of his collar was left undone, revealing the glimpse of a subtle gold chain on his neck. His charcoal trousers were well-fitting and complemented the color of his hair, which fell on his forehead almost ceremoniously, and he pushed it back with his fingers, his eyes bored into yours still. Your mind was working overtime now. He looks so familiar, and it lingered in the air, and against the wall his back leaned on. Abel’s voice, crooning from the speakers, faded between your space.

He hadn’t moved, observing the chaos with such calmness. His messy hair, the way his jaw had set, and the faint 5 ’o’clock shadow that seemed to darken up a little. He was brooding, which felt different from the usual way foreigners acted here in the city—there was a certain element in the way he stood that was borderline familiar; the tilt of his head, now facing yours, completely snagged your memory. It felt like an illusion, a stupid fan-filled illusion. It was a face you’ve seen in photographs, on screens, and in music videos. You simply fixed your blurring eyesight for a bit, the Tequila Sunrise truly living up to its name. Other girls had tried to catch his eye tonight; you’d noticed from the bar all of their hushed voices and heads seemingly leading in this area—you’ve come to understand why—they were drawn by his quiet magnetism, only to be faced with a polite but firm rejection. But you haven’t sought him out; you simply have just fallen into him.

“Are you…” you trail, “Alex Turner?” His eyes fell back to yours again, seemingly holding a quiet, almost knowing depth, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. For a moment, you thought he might’ve just not heard you, your voice swallowed by the pulsating bass of the beat playing. His lips, thin and slightly chapped, curved into a hint of a smile, close to an outright grin, like he just got caught stealing candy from a kid and feels no sense of guilt whatsoever. Though, as you tried to look at him again, it was more of knowing amusement and less of arrogance. Maybe he hadn’t expected to be recognized here. He took his time to let the music fill the silence, making you sort of… embarrassed in a way. Maybe he was just a mere celebrity who wanted some quiet time for himself before the big performance. You’ve heard of the news, of course. For the first time ever, the band was performing in your country. Although the venue was a few miles away, and you hadn’t bought your tickets, it was still, well, enough of a good news. The thought of being in the same city with Alex, let alone in the same nightclub as him now, felt too good to be true. “Are you looking for an autograph?”

His voice came rough, a little hoarse over the music, but that distinct Yorkshire accent he held was the nail to the coffin. It’s him, Christ, it’s really him. You blinked, once, and then twice. His question sounded less like an annoyance and more like a distinct curiosity that made you blush, or maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. This was a tango Alex has played over the years, and he even mentioned in his interviews it’s hard for him to be detected or be seen as a celebrity when he lived in LA, let alone here, in a country where he hasn’t stepped foot in before. “No.” Your answer came rather quickly, shaking your head. Stupid, we both know you’d ask for more than an autograph. “It’s just, uhh…” you trailed, your words coming in that fake American accent you’ve picked up from watching old Western shows. “I’m surprised to see you here,” you continue, laced in that almost unexpected wonder. Alex watched you long enough for you to think he seemed interested in what you had to say after this, or maybe he’s just waiting for you to leave. The amusement in his eyes trickled down, just for a bit, replaced by something you couldn’t quite read along yet—scrutiny? Maybe. His posture was still relaxed, hands in his tailored trousers. His nose was prominent under the strobe lights, you knew of that, but it felt different now seeing him in real life, and he inhaled, taking a slow breath before answering, maybe even considering whether to answer or not. His eyes weren’t subtle, practically assessing the proximity between the two of you, almost a foot close as you leaned back against the wall. A part of you was conscious of whether you’ve worn the right dress for the occasion. The club lights, red and yellow, washed over the two of you, your skin glinting under the lights. “Surprised, love? ”

He finally says, making your hair from the back of your neck stand up. He wasn’t exactly giving out any answers as to why he was there; it wasn’t like you were worth giving that out to. His gaze fell back to yours again, as if asking the same question back: and you? What brings you here? Before he added. “It’s a Friday night.”

His reasoning made you smile a little; it was devoid of everything you expected from him, and maybe he wasn’t exactly the stammering poetic type like in the interview he painted himself as. You nodded. “Friday night, exactly,” you echoed, trailing again. “...why I’m also here,” you say, letting the word hang in the alcohol-filled air before clarifying, the words flimsy.

“Y’know, a bit of a rebellion.”

He turns his head now, brow arched, waiting for you to continue. It was sickeningly heady. Having his attention for even just a few seconds practically made you fully aware now of how awkward you must look beside him. “My friend… dragged me out, said I needed to get some ‘shit out of my system,’” you explain, gesturing with your fingers in the air as you looked at him. “I’m usually tucked at home, just…I mean, not like there’s anything wrong with going out,” you preface rather quickly. His stare didn’t waver as you spoke, still in that blur of detached observation, and staying rooted to the hum of the party, he slowly shrugs. “A rebellion,” he repeats, chuckling, as if he were tossing the word in his mind like a softball. “That’s… one way to look at it.” “And, is it working?” he asked, tilting his head back as he looks at you.

“Getting that ‘shit’ out of your system? ”The cadence was a good mimicry of your accent, and for a moment you found yourself cheekily smiling at him; he was actually listening. Your face had heated up within a few seconds; it was a familiar, embarrassing flutter in your chest. You tried to fight that feeling off, sipping your half-empty drink, not trusting yourself to answer just yet. “No.”

Your confession came soft, barely audible from the music but clear enough for Alex to pick up. Your eyes darted to the crowd again, looking for a familiar face, your friend, surely, who’s probably already looking for you, the lights shifting from every corner, and still, no sign of her. You picked up your phone before you could even get distracted again, and just as you’d have it, there were nine missed calls from her, and as you typed and sent her a quick reassurance that you were fine, Alex was already moving—not exactly to the grand exit, but merely a subtle shift off the wall, to the edge of the crowd, heading deeper into the club. You watched him go for a moment, and you felt this sudden pull to talk to him again. But maybe it was better off to just look for the VIP table and stick to the original plan. But the back of his head, slowly disappearing into the dark corner and into the hallway, made your heart race. You wanted to talk to him. Christ, maybe even ask for a photo? You were just being nice earlier, but now a part of you just wants to…

Your feet had decisions of their own, heels clicking on the sticky floor as you followed him. Just five more minutes with him, and probably ask about evermont too, or whatever. The music pulsed, the bodies moved, and the scent of cherry vapes effervesced through the club like a horrid aftertaste. The club felt like a manic hallucination, reminiscent of a Bartolacci painting. Your eyes, though, remained fixed on Alex. You called him twice, making sure you were heard. The man didn’t turn immediately, but your voice, no matter how soft it seemed, had passed through his senses—a delicate tilt of his head, his eyes looking back, a sign that he’d heard you. Though, he continued to move, weaving away from the main exit, not even to the bar—to a more secluded corridor, a secret part of the club’s architecture, and away from the main spot of the party. It looked more like a path towards the restrooms or a lounge area no one took notice of. You set your drink on one of the empty tables, your tequila half-sipped and already warming up from your hold, before following him. It was a burst of adrenaline and an underlying desperation that made you leap through the hallway. The light was less harsh here, making your dress a beautifully wilting rose passing through. Alex was already in the mouth of the dimly lit corridor. The click of your heels accompanied the thudding, indistinct beat of a Rihanna song from the dance floor. The sea of the crowd surged through the heart of the building behind you, but here—this was the tide, and you felt like you were sinking underwater. His pull was effortlessly insistent, washing out the early anxieties of your reluctant rebellion. He waited there, his hands in his pocket, facing you now. The tension was as thick as salted butter. His scent, tobacco and amber, felt warm in contrast to the shift of air from here, cool and less humid, mingling with the scent of the disinfectant cleaner. He looked as though he wasn’t looking at you exactly, more like he wasn’t present at all, contemplating a very difficult equation that was in the sole of your borrowed heels, before he looked into your eyes again, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “What’s your name, love? ” His voice was low, softer than earlier, close to a whisper. You answered back, stammering embarrassingly. Alex nodded slowly, almost as if he was registering your name in his head, playing it, breaking it apart in his mind, and piecing it back together.

“How old are you? ”

The question was left wafting in the air like smoke, adding a ton to the weight of the unspoken tension around you two. You felt the familiar heat on your neck creep up again. You hesitated for a moment; for one, you didn’t look like your own age, from your makeup and the way you were dressed tonight, and maybe Alex hadn’t picked up on that yet, or maybe he had and that’s why he walked away in the first place. “...Nineteen.” Alex blinked. The air was dead, and for a moment a part of you wanted to just bolt out and leave straight from the crowd and out the exit, a sudden leap to just leave this poor man alone, but you were nailed to the ground; deep down, you were eager, sickeningly so. His hazel eyes, which were glinting with faint amusement from the dim lights of the dance floor, were replaced by a still blankness. He shifted a few steps back. The invitation was gone, a flicker of something achingly close to reconsideration that made your heart sink for a moment. The age gap was significant, and it was out there now in depressing, flying colors. Even his expression changed, and for a moment you felt that maybe he’s going to be the first one to bolt instead, a shared calling from your doorknob confession. He repeated the word again, “Nineteen.” The truth felt like dry chalk in his throat. Christ, he has boots older than you and has walked in them in music festivals you’ve never set foot in before. He shook his head slightly, his gaze trailing down over you: the dark satin dress, the heels, the makeup, and the desirous look in your eyes. “Right, then… I’m fossilized, I suppose,” he finally says again, chuckling dryly, though the reluctance was still there. “Bloody old enough to be your father, then.”

“I don’t mind.”

Though it was said with an almost practiced ease, like it was the very fact, which, truly, it was. It was an innocent counter, delivered in a way that made him groan. It wasn’t a sound of anger or frustration, but the sound of his last restraints crumbling in the very corridor. His fingers ran through his hair, a gesture of indignation. But the action felt more like surrender, to sink into the very water that only the two of you were swimming in. His shoulders dropped, and his jaw slacked as he looked at you, as if he were making sure his mind wasn’t some perverted sicko that mistranslated your words.

“Right.”

His voice was a low rumble; the carefully constructed wall of his polite distance seemed to slowly fall off the very precipice. “This is a right mess, ain’t gonna end well, love.” he stated. It was the very truth, but what can one do? Then, he continues. “You’re—Christ, really, bloody, young.”

Young. The term landed like a punch straight to the gut. He didn’t say it as if he were to demean you, but it was clear—a barrier between you two, a boundary you were so eager to cross over. You took another step forward, unyielding. His gaze lingered on you, tongue clicking against his cheek as he finally turned to lead the way down towards the door, marked with the ambiguous symbol for restrooms. Still, he was battling internally, and it played across his features like a yellow neon sign, even when he was already moving towards it and you were following aimlessly. Softly, you voice out.

“Age is a bit subjective.” The statement would be wrong if one were to put it in the judgement of a birth certificate. It was simple, yet it implied a lot of unsaid things between the two of you; it held a challenge, a quiet assertive quality he didn’t see from you on the dance floor. The restroom door was momentarily untouched, his hand just hovering above the knob as he registered your words in his head. You heard him chuckle, and as he turned his head to you, he had that smile on his face, something achingly predatory that made the hazel in his eyes much darker than it was before. A smile that could be shot from a paparazzo’s lens, and it could be the cover of a magazine the next morning. That statement was probably the funniest joke you’ve said tonight.

“Subjective,” he repeats, “perhaps.” His voice dropped even lower, the syllables rolling off his tongue like the stretch of a napping cat. He took a slow step back, the click of his Chelsea boots thudding in the confined space. “But love, experience doesn’t bend like your truth does.” His words were a soft hush, nonetheless, loud enough. It was a subtle jab, a gentle reminder of the encounters he’s probably had in the early years of his life; maybe you were bathroom girl #23 on his list, while you, on the other hand, were still looking for a paper to write on. God, you felt rooted to the spot, your eyes taking a snapshot of his face as he tilted his head slightly, observing, as if you were a cute puppy who just shat on his white carpet.

“I’m a fast learner.”

Your words were out quick off your lips before you could even think about it. Time stopped. Then the knob clicked, and he slowly let both of you inside the restroom. His touch was a wave of a thousand electrons around your wrist, his hand rough, and you could feel the calluses on his fingertips after decades of playing guitar in sold-out shows and stadiums, and here it was, pulling you in for the promise of more. He closed the door shut, the sound of the latch deafening the both of you. He didn’t even reply immediately to your words; he’d forgotten about it, yet it played in his head like a tune, the lyrics somewhat forgotten. His gaze was fixed on you as he gently pressed you against the door, a sudden push just to see if you were going to react differently, your tequila and his whiskey mingling in the air. He could smell your perfume, and you were memorizing the base notes of his.

In his head, you were probably a complication, a potential tabloid article waiting to be released in the next 24 hours or less; the internet was a quick bathroom shag at this point. You were a hazardous klutz that he should have steered clear of the moment you stumbled into him. But it was the look in your eyes that threw him off, the unnerving eagerness, something he hasn’t been on the opposite end of in a long, long time. Maybe he really was getting old, his gray hairs have started to peek out, and his knees were weaker than he’d ever liked to admit, but that validation, that you were willing to be with him, even just for tonight, was more potent than anything else he’d ever drunk, smoked… even snorted. Christ, he couldn’t even wait to take you to his hotel, but your self-respect had gone out the door the moment you wore that dress—you were willing to take it off on whichever ground he wanted it to land on, all for the sheer bloody thrill. The desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control was slowly collapsing. He moved, his head turning to the whole restroom. A glistening shiny packet of a condom lay in the corner, a previous encounter, a natural occurrence in a place like this, and the faint sweet scent of a vape: blackcurrant. He picked one of the empty stalls; the metal door was slightly dented, but the lock was working. In a decisive manner, he pulled you in with him; the stall door shut behind him like a gunshot. Your hands were shaking not from fear, but rather from the adrenaline waiting to be unleashed any moment now. The small space felt hot and intimate, intensely intimate; you could see the sweat pooling on his forehead and running down to his neck, the gold chain glinting from the fluorescent light from above. Roughly, he made you kneel on the toilet seat, your knees on the unsteady toilet lid, as he faced your back. You prepared—or, perhaps, attempted to balance yourself—your elbows on the cool porcelain of the tank. You could practically feel him moving behind you; the stall was so tight that you could hardly move. He lets his hands roam on your sides, as if to anchor himself to the very knowledge that this was truly happening, but the ship had sunk long ago.

“Christ,” he rasps, “This is mental.”

The words left his mouth as he fished for his condoms; the sound of his hands on his pockets, the jingle of keys and coins, and even the sound of his leather wallet, before a muttered curse flew through the air, a sudden brake occurred in the middle of a highway. “Condom?” he asked, wondering if you had one. You, however, shook your head, your hair moving gently. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered, “and I’m clean…” The words were an attempt at reassurance, just a soft, shaky plea to continue. He froze, hands still, and you turned your head only to find him looking at you with a sense of a blooming panic and just a soft bruising of disbelief crossing his face. He blinked before letting out a heavy exhale, jaw tensed as he tried to move his lips. This was reckless. He played it safe, even with his own girlfriend. Don’t think you’re the exception. But your gaze softened by a fraction, your eyes meeting him with an intensity that was a borderline, dangerous trance that had him blanking out. He felt your hands touch his, a steady squeeze around his fingertips. Then, with your parted lips, you softly plead again.

“Please, Alex,” you breathed, “I want you…”

The words hung like silent bells, simply disarming, and he didn’t understand why. All his built-up reservations, the mental calculations, and his attempt to pull away had simply been taken away from his mind. Fuck, his dick was left doing the thinking, raw restraint desire twitching in the confines of his trousers. It was an offer—from a needy girl who should know better—that he simply couldn’t refuse. A groan escaped his lips as he rested his head against the back of the grimy stall door, looking up at the white ceiling that has undoubtedly been a regular at movie premieres like this. The risk, the age difference, the potential danger—a horrid combination of being a jaded rockstar, it was a cynical reality he wasn’t too keen on thinking about, not yet. His mouth found yours; the last gleam of his self-preservation was now out the door. The kiss was desperate and messy, teeth colliding and all, with the taste of cigarettes and his whiskey on the tip of his tongue, guttural sounds of pleasure, and the small smacked sounds filling the tight space. The kiss—no matter how surreal it felt—had been pulled out of your momentary focus as you felt the warmth of his palms on your hips. He gently grazed under the dress, feeling the smooth skin of your supple ass. He gently bunches up your dress higher, taking his time. His calloused fingertips, a sharp contrast to your soft skin, stilled on your chest. He hummed softly between your lips, as if approving how snug your breasts fit between his palms, like a perfect-fit glove, before gently pinching your nipples together. The moan that fell from your lips was electrifying; you were at a loss at just how much he knew how to work his hands and his lips in sync, but then again, he was a frontman for a reason. His soft assault trailed to the corner of your lips before he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and tickling, “Settle back on the tank for me, love.” His voice was rough, aching with that half-shot of restraining himself from pushing you down and taking exactly what he wanted from you.

You obeyed, earning a soft whisper of good girl in that signature drawl of his that made your knees buckle—a straight jolt of heat that fell hot and heavy on your skin as you whimpered. Your ass was facing him, and he wasted no time, pushing your dress around your waist. His fingers dove in gently between your crevices, slipping your laced panties to the sides, finding the heat of your arousal. You let out the softest of gasps, a sound of anticipation. He takes a sharp inhale at the dampness; it was undeniably overwhelming, like he just discovered a hidden waterfall in a desert landscape, an incredibly abundant waterfall, falling on the edge of the overhanging. “Christ,” he groaned, rough and raw against your skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, a shuddering breath escaping his lips; his fingers were coated with your viscous wetness, dripping onto the toilet lid like craft glue. The intensity, the absolute knowledge of how much you’ve been wanting this, more than your words and actions could ever say. The growl that erupted from his throat was animalistic.

He fumbled with his belt urgently, frantically. The sound of the buckle was a stark echo in the bathroom, ringing in your ears, but the loudest sound of all was his dry laugh, a playful teasing tone. “Well, then..." he murmured, voice honeyed with desire. “Someone’s eager…” he whispers softly, the smile audible enough that it made your face heat up in shame. His middle finger returned, pressed between your cavernous heat; the gasp you let out was the hymn he’d heard once in a dream, and he was coaxing it out with his digits, once, twice. “Come on, love…” he whispers, taunting now as he begins to thrust his fingers inside you, your muscle pulsing. “Tell me, get it out of your system.”

Your back arched when he added another, “Alex… I need you…”

“Need me to what?”

“Hngh…” you moaned out, barely holding yourself still, your knuckles whitening as you gripped the porcelain tank. “A-Alex… I need you to fuck—hah—fuck me…”

“Good girl, truly a fast learner, that,” he teased, whispering in your ear. Satisfied with your answer, he hummed, removing his fingers, in between those achingly slow seconds, you hoped that the loss would be temporary—you finally heard him unzip his pants. He gently stroked himself as he stared at your pussy, glistening under the dim lights. He pressed his hard, engorged dick between your slick folds, teasing your clit. The friction was enough to make your teeth clench as you let out a soft moan.

“Alex… please…” you whisper, your hips acting instinctively to grind back against him.

“Patience, love,” he whispers, before pushing your folds apart with his thumbs. “Beautiful,” he praises, staring at your sleek, dripping cunt, hungry, waiting to devour. “So bloody wet for me, are you?” You didn’t even need to answer as he finally, finally, slipped inside. The stretch made your eyes water, blurred your vision, and quite literally took your breath away; your mouth fell open as you let out a choked gasp. Alex was barely holding it; your muscles clenched around him like a desperate velvet glove, so impossibly wet and warm that it felt like he couldn’t even think, too overwhelmed by the sensation of you.

“Oh… fuuuckin’ hell,” he rasps out. For a few seconds, all you two could do was stay still, accompanied by the sound of ragged, desperate gasps that filled the small space.

As his grip tightened around your hips, he began to move—every thrust was heaven-sent; there was no way it was this fucking good. Every neuron receptor in your brain had practically shut down; all you could do was feel and take every inch of him—only the primal instincts remained. This is what life was about; this was the exact feeling of what ends wars, and starts them. He slowed down his pace, a deliberate, torturous drag that made every hair in your body stand, the roadmap of his veins etched in your very insides, the shape of his tip grinding relentlessly in that very sweet spot inside you, agonizing and transcendental all at once. His movements were precise and achingly slow, pure reverence, all dedicated to memorizing this feeling in his mind forever: the yielding warmth of your cunt and the sound of your voice. His breath was warm on your neck and tinged with the sharp scent of whiskey. His groans and whispered obscenities echoed in your ear, amplifying your surrender even more.

“Agh, love—hngh… Oh god…” he gasped as he pulled back again before finally driving back in. Christ, you felt so good he could practically taste you in his mouth: a sweet, unforgettable flavor he’ll be savoring for days, years if he isn’t careful.

The sensual, intimate bubble they were trapped in was suddenly shattered as the restroom door slammed open. The sound of the club’s music intensified from the gap of the door, followed by a lively, slurred chatter of female voices; their heels danced on the tiles, their purses clicking as they set them down on the sink, the sound echoing through every corner in the restroom. Alex and you were frozen in place, caught in a very awkward position. Sweat trickled from your forehead, slowly racing through your eyebrows as you two waited to do something, anything. Your head turned, finally getting a glimpse of Alex: his mousy brown hair was an absolute mess, some glued to his forehead like grapevines; his ghostly pale face was flushed down to his chest, his gold chain caught the bathroom’s ceiling lights, sweat glistened on his skin like glass, his pupils were blown like pits of ebony, and his lips were blowing steam from the way he was chasing his breath. It seemed as though he was exactly in the same state as you were, and here you thought you were the one who was begging. Before you could even say something, his arm snaked in the other direction to your face, his palm clamped in a gentle yet firm manner over your mouth, the stall held its breath, and you gently exhaled through your nose, looking at him. “Shh,” he shushed gently, “Not a sound, love.”

With a resurgent, shameless thrill, his hips rolled again. His thrusts, which were once a series of slow, drawn-out, tortured pleasures, came like the harsh crack of a whip. Your eyes rolled back through your head, your moan vibrating through his palms, begging to escape. It was a sickening game that a part of you was excited to play. His lips slowly kissed your temple, whispering against your skin a dangerous song that descended through your very core.

“Unless you fancy tellin’ them…” he pants, “...who’s fucking you good.”

The voices from outside continued, completely oblivious—and intoxicated—to even sense the ritualistic mending of two strangers inside the only occupied stall in the restroom. The rhythmic grinds of your bodies, the whines that vibrated through the palm of Alex’s hand, and his stifled groans mingled in the small enclosed space, impossibly close against your ears, filling the intensity of his exhibitionistic desire even more. He slowly took his hands off your lips, and you had to bite your bottom lip to control yourself, not a sound. One powerful thrust was enough to break your silence—deep and utterly precise, an agonizing electricity that sent your legs shaking and nearly caused the toilet lid to fall off its screws.

“Ah! Fuck, Alex!” Your eyes snapped open impossibly wider with each deep thrust; the collection of whines slowly evolved into pure, pleasured cries, effortlessly pushing you closer to the high that your body’s begging for.

The message was as clear as the Blue Lake; the voices soon piped down. A sudden, almost crisp silence enveloped the room before their shoes scuffed the tiles again, heading in the direction where the door was, before it quickly squeaked open and sealed shut. His movements slowed, and for a moment, the two of you wanted to laugh. He began drawing back slightly before pushing back with a strong force. “God… you’re—hah, ugh—something else, aren’t you?” he teased, using his free hand to tilt your face back towards him. “Fuckin’ eager little…” he gasps, feeling your insides contract around him. The pressure was pure divination.

"Bloody hell—couldn’t even wait for a proper intro, could you?"

Thrust.

“Just beggin’ for it, love? ”

Thrust. Thrust.

“Ugh, God…” he grunted, “You’re so tight…”

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

One hand tightened around your hips, while the other found its way to the nape of your neck, gripping you close, squeezing your arteries just enough to make you lightheaded, his teeth were gritted as he controlled your movement; the pace was done without hesitation, fastening up. Gone was the teasing and was now replaced by the force of a man whose instincts were sinking to its natural state: taking, consuming, and feeling. The harsh skin-to-skin slaps, the cries and the harsh groans that seemed to grow louder and higher, and the toilet lid shaking off its hinges were echoing off the wet tiled walls. Your head snapped behind you to get a glimpse of him again, and his eyes were melting onto yours. Alex groaned as he saw the heavenly debauched sight of you, your mascara bleeding down your cheeks like gothic rivulets, your eyeshadow merely gone—smudged off from the very bane of existence, and your lipstick stripped off completely, leaving only the soft hues on your swollen, tender lips. Alex, with his continuous, breathless assault, leaned in, raw satisfaction and hunger in those hazel brown eyes, before catching your moaning lips to taste you again. He pushed your knees further apart, widening your stance on the toilet seat. The shift was indescribable; you couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening anymore as your back arched, and he filled you to the absolute brim, the angle sending the two of you deeper to the very brink of rapture. You thought you’d known pleasure, but everything before this was just a mere buzz—this, this was euphoria. His hips worked relentlessly to the point that every plunge was blinding; the guttural sounds that vibrated from his chest had made their way to yours, amplifying the deep, animalistic connection even more. Your hips bucked against him as you gasped, and as your lips pulled apart—a string of saliva beaded between the two of you as you both struggled to catch your breath together.

Suddenly, you felt your vision blur from the overwhelming shuddering height of pleasure that was finally crashing down off its very foundation. Your muscles taut around his thick, hot length, a coiling, merciless squeeze that made his head melt. You moaned—no, cried out uncontrollably—gripping the porcelain tank as you climaxed, your whole body shaking.

“Hngh—fuuuuck—hah—” Alex gasped. It was a violently exquisite surprise that pulled him in. He rides out the wave of her release with clenched teeth and eyes closed before finally, in desperate, deep grunt, follows suit. Every inch of his body was hot, and his dick was searing from the dizzying sensation as he painted your insides, a fat, hot load that filled you in ways he’d never done before—not that he’d tell you out loud—but the coda was entirely transformative. You gently fell back against the toilet tank, body still trembling. Your cheek was cold against the porcelain as you inhaled shakily, desperately, like it was your last prayer. The world, in that moment, was just one big rock, floating in space. Alex leaned against the grimy, sticky stall door, his chest heaved as he tried his best to catch his breath. He never thought he’d do this again, not when he was nearing his forties, anyway, but here he was. His still-dazed eyes landed on you; you looked like an absolute work of art in his vision, cinematic colors and romanticized diplopia. He hissed as he slowly withdrew himself from your heat with a soft, wet pop that made you whimper weakly. Hot viscous fluid dripped from his and yours, silent evidence of what had just happened in this very stall, filling you and the air around with the scent of sex, whiskey, tequila, and his cologne. His eyes lingered on you even when he was tucking himself back in, fingers shaking as he zipped himself back up, softly grunting as he struggled to slip his prong in the right hole.

“Tomorrow, backstage.” You barely registered his words; you hummed in confusion for a moment, voice dry after an eternity of crying out. He finally slips the end tip of his belt in the loop before fixing it in his trousers.

“The concert,” he specifies, “you should… come ‘round, find me.”

You hummed. “ ‘Kay.” He grinned at your answer, though you could hardly see it. Since he’s a gentleman, he slips your panties back on before striking a playful spank on your backside, and with a surprising, tender touch, he slides your dress back down. His palm lingered on your hips for a few seconds before drawing back. “Right, I should…” he trails. “Oh. Okay… Yeah, of course.” He slipped out before you could even steady yourself as you slowly sat back on the toilet; the restroom door clicked open before closing shut, leaving you on your own.

En route to London, England British Airways September 08, 2013

The humming, monotonous drone of the Boeing 777 felt like a wake-up call for Alex. It was the sound he’d grown familiar with for so long after the countless times they’d been on tour ever since starting the band, and yet it felt like something gnawed in the back of his head, it was a feeling his fingers couldn’t point at, and it was the kind that could never be found on the tip of his tongue. Ninety days. Twelve weeks, and five days it has been since Rome. Since that green room, since that hotel suite, since you… He didn’t exactly count the days, you know? But every stop led his mind to fill in the gaps. The brain, after all, is a master of that very phenomenon; it was a human thing to do. He didn’t care about you, he told himself that. No matter, it was another dawn falling into another morning; for now, they were heading back to London—to the sound of his mates sleeping soundly beside him, Jamie was snoring softly, head lolling against the window. Matt was engrossed in some old 80s film on his tablet, headphones secured over his ears, and Nick had gone to the bathroom, his seat momentarily empty.

The back of his head softly leaned against the worn headrest, the leather felt cool against his damp hair. He couldn’t; he simply couldn’t sleep. He’s gotten used to it though; the lack of sleep was something he’d grown accustomed to after weeks of constant travel. He could blame it on the jet lag or the homesickness, but he wouldn’t go to the extent of you being the reason; but no matter how many pints he’d finish, cigarettes he’d bum, and pills he’d take, his mind would be a traitorous glob of fat. He could practically feel your fingers brushing through his scalp that one night in Vienne, your ghost was haunting him more than he’d care to admit. But denial was a close contender to avoidance, which was what he’d been doing ever since Italy, sometimes he’d forget to call his girlfriend, every virtual conversation felt pixelated. It wasn’t what it used to be. Maybe he is a bad boyfriend, but who can blame him? It’s the life of being in a band since the very beginning, rock stars before him found it was a sweet escape to escape the war and the responsibility of being a husband and a father. It was a selfish service for the sake of the art; it was a beautiful system that he’d been blessed with in the 21st century.

Just as when he thought he’d be able to sleep, his mind was still the twelfth disciple. 

She’d really done it.

His paranoia had reached the overhanging after that day. It was just a cruel assumption, he thought. You kept your end of the deal. The girl who followed him across countries had vanished that easily. The realisation of that knocked the coldest air out of him. It actually worked. Silence has never felt so overwhelming, but who knew your presence was a white noise he’d found comfort in this whole time? The leather squeaked under his tight blue denims as he shifted. It felt too easy to have this freedom, this promise of privacy. He felt exposed in a different way, and he wouldn’t say it out loud, but he liked your version better. 

Acton had surprisingly cheap hotels, you knew that now. Here, where the wallpapers peeled and where the carpet had stains you weren’t too keen on guessing where they originated from, felt like the safest refuge in a while, since Rome…  since Carcassonne, Meco, Vienne, and Istanbul. You were lying on the edge of the saggy mattress, sweating, with a burning cigarette between your lips, as you abundantly filled the ceramic ashtray on the nightstand. The scent in the cheap hotel room was filled with lavender-scented cleaning agent, mildew, and something tangy.

The deal was promised, of course; you kept your word. Disappear, from his direct line of sight, anyway.

It was an agonising sacrifice you had to make; it was the wound that could never be mended, not when you’ve already tasted the pressure of his touch: the only thing that could ever stop the bleeding. But it was a sacrifice you were willing to make; distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that bullshit. You were nothing but persistent, meticulous, and ineffably devoted. Your dominant hand had gone limp, your fingers sticky and warm as you let it rest on the hard pillow. In your other hand was your digital camera, your clean fingers gliding on the screen of its battered edge. The plastic body was scratched from its first owner; it was a camera you bought at a flea market in France. It did its purpose, it could capture your rockstar with its decent image quality and fast autofocus that could reach him from afar, close enough that he wouldn’t notice you. This particular photo you’ve been thoroughly enjoying was of him by the hotel lobby in Vienne, smoking a cigarette as he talked on the phone. His tattoo on his wrist was visible as he brushed his hair back, and damn did you miss that ink. 

Him taking notice of you—as much as how thrilling it was—was an error that needed fixing. You learnt to be comfortable just being out of the corner of his eye, never, ever in his focus. You’ve learnt the blind spots: the moment security would turn another direction, when a fan approaches him and asks for a picture. You’ve learnt to be the backdrop of a busy cafe during his interviews, you’ve learnt to become the figure sketching in Plaça del Trenet just in front of his window, and you’ve learnt to be the local in every city they were in. You’ve opted for better camouflages, unassuming prints that would blur you out of his sight: wigs, posture, sunglasses, and clothes of any kind. It was that you didn’t really vanish; you just got better at hiding, so much better. Your camera was one of your sources of lifeline. It was one of the patches that could temporarily repair your withdrawals. That, along with the cigarette he smokes. You found yourself buying his brand as the months have gone by, just to taste him in your mouth. 

With your sinful hands, you gently took your cigarette off your lips and stubbed it on the wooden headboard before carelessly throwing it on the floor. You took your camera again. The precious, silver-coloured thing was a hand-held collection of your never-ending devotion, to have something to hold of him, to have him in your hands when you’re aching for his touch. Each grainy, unaware photograph of him on stage, by the car, laughing with his bandmates, or when he’s caught in his own thoughts—it was a dizzying high that you didn’t know you’d ever even known. This was your only fragment of imagery collection, though, and nothing else. Somehow, the connector port was busted—you couldn’t transfer your photos—and anytime you’d take out the picture card, plug it into a card reader and into a computer, the photos would be there, crystal clear, every five seconds; all it would leave you with is the tab of the files: corrupted and unreadable. €10 came with a prize, after all.

Whatever, this was still yours. All yours.

The release of AM would’ve been tomorrow. But somehow, iTunes had gotten bugged, releasing it today—needless to say, you’d heard the studio version of the songs while it was still on the site, playing on your small, bulky laptop, leaving it on shuffle—Knee Socks was a beautiful drug-induced song with its tasteful reverbs and distortion. Alex somehow captured the echo of his voice in your mind, hitting every surface of your skull. You fumbled through your duffel bag, taking out the shirt he gave you. It was in a plastic zip-locked bag to make sure his scent would remain on the fabric forever. You took it out gently; the fabric was worn, but his cologne was still here, the base notes a faint ticklish thing that never failed to send you on a waking memory back to Rome. Though the solitary listening party felt more intimate when Fireside came on, the lyrics, the steady drums, and the bridge were enough to cross the gap of your delusions; it only made the yearning stronger. Your hands gripped his shirt, the fabric wrinkling. Fuck, you missed him; he was everywhere. Alex Turner was fucking everywhere, your vision blurred from your own tears, and for some unexplainable reason, the air in the world had disappeared. He always made you feel this way; he always did. You reached for your crumpled pack of Camel Filters on your bed, taking another one.

The damp chill of early September was a familiar thing that Alex knew too well, the streets of Camden peering through the windows, almost a wistful greeting. They exited the tour bus the moment they stopped at the hotel entrance—a small crowd of fans gathered outside—and the band moved with practised ease, a polite nod, and even a quick offer to sign some albums. His grip on the Sharpie was loose, his mind was already drifting upstairs, towards the promise of clean linen and heavy duvets. The hotel was in close proximity to The Roundhouse, tomorrow’s venue for the iTunes Festival. As much as Alex wanted to rest, they knew they wouldn’t be staying long; they were just here to drop their bags before the next round of promotional duties kicked in.

He followed the others into the lobby, his carry-on bag in his hands, he tossed it gently at a bellhop. “Cheers, mate,” he mumbled, already running a hand through his hair. 

“Just put it in my room, yeah?”

Throughout the rest of the day, all of it was a blur of lights, microphones, and the same old question that was being recycled—though some good questions popped up, especially about the release of the new album, AM, tomorrow. They answered just enough to leave room for interpretation from the listeners, with enough banter and short laughs that fans would tweet about. He wondered if you’d be watching, or listening at least. He didn't understand why it bothered him that throughout the past months you were nowhere to be heard, nowhere to be found. 

“Al.” Matt nudged him gently, breaking his train of thoughts. It took him a moment to realise they were heading back to the hotel, huh. Did he even remember getting inside the car?

“Wha’?” he asked, looking at the drummer.

“I was askin’ if you've heard the news, apparently the album got leaked.”

“Nah,” he slowly shook his head, as if assessing if he'd heard correctly, but Matt added that it got taken down prior to its sudden release.

Matt gave him a quick clap on his shoulder. “Right, well, you need to sleep.”

It was well past midnight when they finally arrived at The Grand, their footsteps audible on the tiled floors as they headed to the elevator. That bone-deep exhaustion travelled through his body from each floor they passed through; he really needed to sleep. He needed to sink under the soft sheets. His bandmates gave quick goodnights as they headed to their own rooms. The soft click of the lock behind him was the sound of solitude; the suite was dimmed, with soft blue filters in the air, and the faint glow from the window—the curtains letting the soft lights of the city pass through—was the only light source, he didn’t bother turning on the main lights. It was a dead weight around his arms, his leather jacket, as he carefully shed it off, tossing it on the leather couch. Now, where was his luggage?

He made his way to his bedroom, turning the knob as he entered inside. The soft carpet floor met his worn boots, and the crisp linen sheets of the king-size bed felt like the closest comfort he’d seen tonight—almost glowing in his visions despite the fact that it was dark. He carefully turned on the bedside lamp, its warm tangerine glow filling in the darkened space. At the foot of the bed was his luggage, right… Okay. Just as he was about to fall into the soft bed, his phone—the same old one—buzzed from the pocket of his jeans. He grunted as he checked the caller ID, Arielle. Fuckin’ hell, not now. All he wanted was a piss and a long, dreamless sleep.

Alex shut the small gadget, his thumb pressing on the button before setting it on the bedside table. He stepped further inside the room, going to the bathroom connected to the bedroom. He passed through an empty closet—his shadow dancing on its louvred doors as it faced nothing but his bed. He switched on the lights, his heavy sigh echoing inside the tight space. Alex manoeuvred to the toilet, lifting the lid open as he unzipped his pants.

The soft rush of water tickled his ears; the release of his own fluid took off every tension he had in his body.

Then, he heard it.

A soft creak of a door from the bedroom.

Hairs stood from his skin, prickling through. He zipped quickly and stepped out, expecting the worst. Nothing, the window was closed shut—the door was ajar, just like he’d left it, unmoving. His phone was still on the nightstand.

He frowned, his brows furrowed slightly. The feeling of being watched resurfaced after months… maybe it was the trick of the light, the time… but he wouldn’t doubt it, not now.

He took a few calculated steps, the sound plush and quiet on the carpet as he stepped out, heading not to the bed but to the door. His fingers touched the cold knob as his body passed through the wooden frame. His eyes checked the hallway with such hypervigilance that surpassed his tiredness. He wanted to be proven wrong; he wanted to think it was just paranoia, really.

He sighed; maybe it really was just paranoia. His thirst came up from his throat as he viewed the kitchen. The sound of the water running out of the faucet filled the air, the warm lights from the overhead lights covered Alex as he filled the glass of water. He drank, the cold water felt like mint as he gulped it down.

Right, sleep.

The tension was still roused in his body as he made his way inside the bedroom, but all of that build-up came back tenfold when he saw a shadow by the closet.

Fuck.

His instinct came up like a war veteran who’s been conditioned for years to act on his feet—to reach for the closest weapon or to throw his own body on an oncoming grenade. Alex quickly moved, lunging swiftly as he tackled the figure, his hands clamped around their waist, pulling them with a force that was enough to bruise. They both fell on the bed, and the intruder’s back landed on the mattress as Alex pinned them down. The soft light from the bedside lamp and the sudden course of events blurred in Alex’s sleepless vision before it heightened just as quickly as he took sharp intakes of breath.

You.

Your wide eyes, the surprised, terrified look on your face, and the way that your body was melting on the bed. Your hair splashed around the white sheets. The month of June was a memory lane he didn’t want to look back on, but now you were here, under him, just like that very night.

Alex couldn’t speak. He didn’t need to, he held your arms against the soft mattress so tightly that it made you grit your teeth in pain. But then, he spoke, his voice blending through the parallels between hot rage and utter disbelief.

“I thought I fuckin’ told you…”

His grip tightened as his chest rose up and fell against yours. His jaw was clenched, a vein on his temple begging to pop as he stared at you with a look that could liquify metal.

“I’m sorry, Alex…” you whispered, “I… I tried… I really tried to stay away.”

“Bullshit,” he spat, his saliva hitting your face, but really, you didn’t mind at all. “You think this is ‘trying to stay away’? you bloody fuckin’...” he couldn’t continue, he couldn’t trust his own mouth to say it.

“What’ve you been doin’ here, huh?” he didn’t even bother asking about how you were here in London or how you even got access to his room, he knew he wouldn’t like the answers, not when all he was seeing was red. “Sniffin’ through my shit, have ya? Like a fuckin’ creep?” He snarled, “We had a fuckin’ deal.”

You looked away the moment he mentioned it. You were guilt-ridden, you were trying to stay sober, and you were trying to quit. But you couldn’t; the loophole settled in the deepest parts of your brain. You could always quit tomorrow – just one more pill, just one more pack, just one more hit.

“Talk, you fuckin’ psycho.”

Your lips trembled as you looked into his eyes, the colour of oak wood that’s been set ablaze in a bonfire you were in. You were still as quiet as the day he confronted you, and it only made more sense in Alex’s mind—you were never going to change, and he was certain of that now.

He shifted slightly, but his hips remained pressed against you, his cold belt over your pants—the same pants that housekeepers wore in this hotel. Your shirt? His baby blue buttoned shirt that he knew full well you fished out of his abandoned suitcase.

It all clicked at the evidence of just how far you were willing to go through—it made him fucking sick.

Then, he felt it. A hard, rectangular bulge in the pocket of your ill-fitting uniform. It had a distinct shape that made his blood run cold. A gun? His hand moved quickly as his free forearm weighed you down. His fingers touched it before, with a movement born from fear—but he wouldn’t say it now—he fished it out.

“Alex—No, please—” You finally spoke up, but he pushed you back to the bed, whispering viciously for you to shut up.

A pistol would’ve been kinder, but no, it was a disposable camera. The cheap silver body glinting from the warm lamp, the lens was scratched, as if it had been wiped clean by inadvisable fabrics, like the hem of a cotton shirt. 

It dawned on Alex’s face; whatever it was that he felt, he had to look for it through a dictionary first… It was an unexplainable feeling. 

“Give it back, Alex… please…” you whispered, your voice thin and laced with such a plea it was beyond belief.

“Shut up, oi—eyes here, you sicko,” he whispered. The arm that was an anvil on your chest had clamped your jaw as he forced you to look at him and not at your perverse possession. “You’re fuckin’ pathetic, I’ll smash this ‘to a thousand fuckin’ pieces—right in front ya—see how you fucking like it,” he threatened.

You whimpered, fresh hot tears spilling down your temples as you went still, lenient in his own hold—unsure what to say as you choked up, attempting to breathe—your focus remained on him, not like it was hard to, anyway. Despite your trembling state, the knowledge that he was here, touching you, looking at you with his big brown eyes, made your heart race differently, a half-step higher. It seemed as though love and fear were distant paths leading up to one same destination, to you, anyway… and maybe to him?

Alex watched you for a moment before finally, he looked at the camera, his thumb tracing for the power button before he found it, he pressed it hard, and it flickered to life. The bluish glow of the artificial light was a soft contrast against the warmth of the bedside lamp. You continued to stare at him, his jaw sharp from the way he was positioned, despite everything, the distance of what was once a few steps far was now in front of you, your eyes tracked every micro-expression, the vignettes edged in the borders of your obsessive focus.

The images flashed across the tiny screen as he navigated through the folders. Each press of the button made his stomach lurch, each pebble sitting deep inside. There he was in Meco, a blurry figure on stage. Then, a candid shot at a cafe he went to in Zürich,  a cigarette burning between his fingers as he stared out in the distance. Lastly, a grainy shot of him laughing with Miles backstage in Vienne, France. 

Page after page, country after country. All blurred abstract images of him, on the phone, by the restaurant window, on the stage where he’s almost a blip from how far you were aiming from, almost as if you were purposely there, just out the corner of his eye.

It was fucked up, is what it was. 

Laughable, even. How did you even do it? He was stumped; he didn’t want to know.

The rage was melting like lead, sinking to a hardening, sickening horror. You were everywhere, all this time. All those nights when he thought he was finally alone… fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You,” he rasps out, “You’re bloody sick.”

“I love you, Alex.” 

He blinked at your words, dropping the camera on the soft mattress, the hand that gripped your jaw disappeared—only to come back, slapping you in the face.

“You’re insane!” 

He heaved, harshly. This was a revelation not made for a man like him.

The bedroom was silent, his hand that delivered the blow suspended in the air. As he pulled back, you were lying still, your eyes on him. A fraction of remorse begged to come up to the surface. He’s slapped a woman—in the face—his nan would kill him if she knew.

Out of involuntary movement and guilt. He reached out. His fingers hovered over your swollen cheek as he touched your face gently. You didn’t flinch—you were still lost in thought about him slapping you, harshly, but you deserved it, you knew you did. You leaned into his touch, your fingers gently wrapping around his, savouring the contact. He stared at your eyes, expecting tears, and there were, but it was not from pain. It was out of pouring devotion. He was a god, punishing his own creation, and you remained lying, repenting. 

He felt like a right knobhead.

Alex let out a heavy sigh as he shifted over you, standing up as he paced around the carpet. His fingers that created the mark on your cheek grazed through his hair. This was bloody insane. You began to sit up, still disoriented, but you managed to look around… and there, by the pillows, was your digital camera. 

“Don’t,” Alex warned. He paused now, looking at you knowingly. He moved quickly, taking the camera as his eyes never left yours. “This stays with me, understand?”

You bit the insides of your cheek, wanting to rebut, but you nodded.

He carefully puts the camera on top of his suitcase, then his hands fish through his pocket. He needed a cigarette, badly, but… Nothing. Bloody hell, he patted his other pocket, then his back, then his shirt. He groaned. Left it in the car, didn’t I? 

He walked outside, leaving you with the camera because that’s how nicotine helps with setting a man’s priorities. You didn’t move; you didn’t want to.

In the living room, his gaze scanned over the sofa and the coffee table before his eyes landed on his jacket, hoping his pack of Camels was there. But it wasn’t there either. He sighed in frustration. Just my fuckin’ luck.

He went back inside the bedroom; you watched his frustrated search, and you knew it,  all too well.

Slowly, you reached into your back pocket and fished out your crumpled pack of Camel Filters, offering it to him. Alex turned in your direction, drawn by the familiar rustle of the packet. The distinct white and yellow colour was the same thing he smoked. He didn’t move for a moment, his eyes tracking your outstretched hand before it swept over your face: you didn’t say anything, just staring at him; you had your fair share of frustrations looking for your cigarettes, you knew.

He walked over, moving stiffly before snatching the pack. He pulled one out, placing it between his lips and threw it back to bed. Without a word, you fumbled through your other pocket where you keep your digital camera, and took out your lighter. You flicked it open, leaning closer to him to light his cigarette. He promised himself it was just the nicotine as he leaned down. You couldn't help but stare at the way the light danced on his face, the end of his cigarette lit to life as he drew a quick drag, the smoke coming out his nose—before he took another drag again, it was a desperate warmth he sought inside his mouth, burning in his lungs. He exhaled slowly, the grey clouds filling the ceiling. His eyes never left your figure on the bed as you busied yourself, nestling it back under your shirt—his shirt, he reminded himself.

“... what do you think you’ll gain from... all this?” It was the million-dollar question, and you found yourself thinking about it too.

You smiled softly, a chilling contrast to your answer. “Everything,” you whispered, looking into his eyes. “I’ll gain everything.”

Alex took a long drag of his cigarette; he couldn’t speak.

“I’ll be in your words…” you continued, “or least, in your every fleeting thought…”

Your smile widened just a fraction as you played with the button of his shirt you were wearing. “And then… you’ll look for me, everywhere… in every corner… every spot in the crowd you missed…” Your fingers twirled the loose thread on the hem. “For me, love and fear… they just…” you trailed. Alex could see the way your eyes seemed to gleam in that intelligent way; you were smart, maybe educated too. This was a well thought-out hobby, and he pitied you for it, all this effort… just for a man who didn’t care about you.

“They just dance in the same room, don’t they?” You looked at him again. “...In the same space, perhaps… and with you… Alex, I’ll take every chances…”

It was a sharp, desperate flick of his wrist—his half-smoked cigarette flew in your direction. An impulsive thought, fuelled by a frustration he couldn’t name, told him he’d heard enough. Your eyes widened as the ember hit your skin. You didn’t move; the burn was a fresh sear, and you touched your face gently. The cigarette lay on the sheet just beside you then, the ember dying down, burning a hole in the crisp linen. 

“Take it off,” he commanded, “my shirt. Take it off. Now.” 

Your gaze from the cigarette fell back to his as you heard his words. A fresh pang of emotion fell on your face – reluctance. You didn’t want to. But you had no choice. With agonising slowness that seemed to ridicule his patience, you pulled it over your head. You were naked, on your stomach, then on your chest. You gently folded it neatly as you set it on the edge of the bed.

Your lighter, the plastic disposable, was under your bra strap, just before your collarbone, sitting neatly. Alex watched your state. A swollen cheek on one and a burnt spot on the other, the ash of his cigarette seemed to cover the mark beautifully. He watched the tremor on your hand as you kept it tucked on your lap, seemingly trying to hide it from him.

You were a pathetic, broken pot, with its golden renders keeping the cracks from separating. 

“Take that off too.”

Your head snapped just as fast as he said it. You were expecting him to order you to leave, but as your fingers gently grasped the hook behind you, he didn’t answer, he just watched, expecting you to.

The clasp quickly came off, and you pulled the fabric off of you, your breasts popping out, the lighter falling on the sheet.

“Your pants,” he continued. His voice was devoid of anything other than a command that made you question your hearing for a moment, but this time you didn’t hesitate. Your hands flew to the waistband of your trousers as you unbuttoned it and unzipped them shakily. Along with your underwear, you pushed them down to your feet before tossing them on the floor. Alex didn’t feel anything. He just… watched you, naked, on the bed. He was exhausted, but he wanted you to feel what he felt, but no… you were indifferent.

Before he could even say anything, you began to move. Your knees sinking on the floor just by the toe of his boots. Your body was a willing thing, vulnerable, your eyes fixed on him. Your hand reached out to his thighs—not lustfully—but it was the kind of touch a common man would give a saintly figure, for a connection of absolution, to plead for forgiveness.  There was no demand, no expectation. It was a submission that was beyond disturbing.

You looked up, his brown eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed as you leaned your forehead against his thigh, feeling his soft starched denim and his warm skin underneath. Alex was speechless, but his body spoke too much. His entire frame shuddered at the sight; it was horrific. He could break you if he wanted, not that he’d find any enjoyment in it, but the idea of that being a possibility—a close reality—was beginning to settle in his gut. His wide eyes stared down at you as your fingers slowly danced upwards, making their way to the buckle of his Kawasaki belt. The pressure had loosened around his hips, and it made him clench his teeth as you unbuckled it with ease.

“I’m sorry, Alex…” you continued the meaningless affirmation as you unzipped his pants. Underneath his grey boxers, he was already hard; the familiar bulge of his member was warm under your touch. Your lips reached over first, landing a soft peck—his scent filling your nose. “I’m sorry…” You looked up at him once more. He lets out a groan that was entirely involuntary—a sound before the surrender—a betrayal of his own body. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make you disappear. He could push you away, call security, and file a restraining order… but his hand hovered over your head before brushing through your scalp and then finally holding taut. He was pulling you close, shamelessly pushing your face close against his dick. It was the permission you craved, you softly let out a private smile as you began to push the thin fabric down, the leather and the denim rustling followed through as you exposed his cock, springing free, glistening with pre-cum that made your mouth water.

You worked fast. Kissing his length, each touch of your lips lingered against his shaft, again and again. Slowly, you lowered your head, suckling the sensitive tip of his cock, your tongue circling around his head. A gasp escaped from Alex’s lips as his body shivered at the sensation, and his grip on you tightened, holding you close. Your other hand that had been resting on his thigh moved, your fingers wrapping around the base as you stroked him, just like before.

But, he whispered. “Stop.” 

You froze instantly. Your mouth is still around him, even the movement of your hand had paused. You obeyed, pulling back as you waited for his command. His eyes—forever staring at you—were heavy and dark from the potent lust and desire, fixed on your face. He gently pulled your mouth off of his cock; the separation was a cruel sound in the bedroom as he stepped back from you, turning, before walking stiffly to the bed. He gently laid down on his back. He didn’t look at you, no; his gaze was set on the ceiling, waiting.

Slowly, you stood up and climbed on the bed with him. Your body, naked, warm… felt like a hot radiation that only Alex could feel as you settled over him. Your knees straddled his hips. You looked into his eyes, an unspoken question written underneath your pupils. It made Alex turn his head down, his eyes meeting yours. Unreadable, you couldn’t make out what he was thinking; the warm colour of his brown eyes had never felt colder. 

“This means nothing,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You leaned down, your hands resting on his chest, and somehow, Alex could see a fracture from the way your eyes had—not exactly looked away from him—but it was a soft shift that he wouldn’t know if he hadn’t paid attention. It was as if you were watching a film, and you knew the ending of it, but you remained seated in the theatre until the credits rolled. 

Your lip found his neck, kissing his skin softly. His neck flushed immediately from the contact, and a groan escaped him as you settled in that one spot that made him shiver underneath you. The press of your hand that stayed on his chest for leverage had slid down… diving underneath his shirt. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin, a weight to keep your mind in tune with the overwhelming reality; it felt like a dream, still, even now. You were afraid you’d wake up, like always, if you didn’t act right, it was almost comical at just how desperate you were. Your touch underneath the shirt began sliding down his toned abs. Primal, desperate traces over his skin, your nails scratching to leave something invisible, something only he could see via memory and sensation. He shuddered, it was enough to make his head sink deeper in the pillows. 

Your hands travelled now, the test of the waters was over, the dive was expectant on the plank as your fingers closed around his hard dick, still wet from your own saliva. You stroked him, and in that hypnotising movement, you knew his body craved it. The pad of your hand was a firm pressure. It was a sensation that was entirely humane, natural, and utterly exquisite. You watched the way his face contorted, his eyes closed shut, clenched tight with each stroke as he tried to bite back his moans. Oh, Alex… he was the dream; he was the Cadillac parked out on Sunset Boulevard. He was the first fruit of the summer, and the way he bucked against your touch, despite his exhaustion… magnificent, utterly magnificent. 

You couldn’t wait any longer; you began to move your hips, your fingers pausing. His eyes opened and stared back. Then, his length began to slip inside, slowly. His jaw tightened, and he let out a soft whimper, he couldn’t tear his focus away. It was a memory he was reliving, he wanted to focus on anything else other than you, his girlfriend, his ex… that girl he met at the pub, but no… your moans filled the space of his mind, like you had accessed it in ways no one else could. 

Each roll of your hips was maddening, he didn’t want to say it. No, he won’t.  It was desperate, too desperate. The stretching pressure of your cunt, God. So warm, so wet. The bed creaked underneath you two. 

“Hngh… Oh fuck…” he groaned, his eyes closing shut. “Hahh… ugh… fuck… ” his head was thrown back against the soft pillows. The light from the lamp caught the shadow of his Adam’s apple beautifully, the string of saliva from his open mouth could be easily compared to a harp string of an angel, and the way his eyes had opened just a millimetre wide, staring up at the ceiling—not to navigate the world, but to experience it just like how it was intended to be.

“Hah… Alex—! Oh… I love you…” you whispered. He couldn’t hear you, or frankly, he just didn’t care.

He didn’t want to hear it.

Alex’s hips began responding with an animalistic grind. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down onto his length, sinking deeper, reaching through the crevices that was entirely new. He thrusted faster, meeting yours in desperate rhythm. The bed creaked louder, rocking through, born from his clouded lust. Even when he did look at you, it was with a harsh, all-consuming fire in the ebony, with no hint of understanding, no hint of caring. Just dark, molten pleasure, to fuck the delusion out of you.

It was enough; it was the last ration that you had left, after all.

His hips slammed faster and harder; it was an assault that sent your body reeling. Your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails sinking on his skin as you cried out from the pleasure, his name spilled from your lips so naturally. With one, final devastating thrust as he felt the tension from below his stomach, he knew he was close. It was a brutal plunge as he buried himself deep inside of you, his cum spilling inside. What escaped from his lips wasn’t your name, just a raw, passionate groan that vibrated through you. His eyes, wide and unfocused, burnt into yours.

Then, the disgust came just as fast; he pulled out completely, and the suction echoed inside the bedroom. Your body tumbled onto the mattress, limp, trembling, your back to him—you didn’t even cum, but that didn’t matter; he was done with your body.

You felt his fluid leaking between your legs, it was an odd sensation, but it felt… somewhat right.

After a few minutes had passed, the soft click of the bathroom door had shut behind you. You scrubbed yourself clean this time, right after the sex. Alex didn’t want to see your face in bed; his arm was a heavy weight over his eyes as he ordered you to shower. You returned, smelling of clean soap, you wrapped in a white hotel towel, and your hair was damp, clinging on your skin.

Alex remained in bed, propped up against the headboard, a fresh cigarette between his lips, one of yours. He didn’t even look up; his focus was fixed on the small screen of your disposable camera, his thumb punching the button, flipping through every photos you took of him. As he stared at the unknowing version of his past self, in here, he looked weary, the wild rage from before had been replaced with the same indifference you had the moment he ordered you to undress. It was the madness that settled on its own, a grim acceptance of what this means to him now.

After with what felt like hours, his eyes lifted up, watching your figure approaching the bed, hesitantly standing by the side. With his free hand, he took a slow drag of his cigarette as he rested it between his fingers, the smoke curling out of his nose and mouth as he watched you.

“Can I… stay for a bit?” you asked, nervously.

He rolled his eyes, grunting. “Fine.” he answered flatly. “But I want you gone in the morning before I wake up, alright?”

You nodded, “Yes…”

You sat on the bed, slowly this time.

“Can I have my camera back?”

“No.” he reiterated, “This, stays with me.”

Your shoulders slumped, saddened. It was a month's worth of collection, it was an effort that was way beyond what you even expected of yourself to do.

“You’ll be takin’ more photos of me, anyway.” he reasoned, the bitter truth of it all, the inevitable fact that you’ll come back, regardless of everything.

You were silent, staring up at him as he took another drag, an inch close to the filter.

“You don’t want me to stop…?” 

“If I tell you to stop, would you?”

You gently rubbed the back of your neck; your answer was unspoken, but it was there now, and he heard it, loud and clear.

You moved, gently taking off the towel as you climbed back to bed, taking his folded shirt as you wore it on. He just watched you this time, not a word to be uttered. You made your way to the other side of the bed, not too close… but not too far from him. It was an unconscious mirroring you did, copying his posture as you stared back at him.

Neither of you said anything else that same night.

Rome, Italy. Hotel de Russie. June 11, 2013.

Hotel de Russie, Room 412, 2:00 am was a mantra you’ve repeated in your head for the past three hours. Needless to say, for a five-minute walk from the nearest tabaccheria to the hotel, each step was a sickening, electrifying thrill that stimulated the very back parts of your head that he was endlessly tugging not too long ago. It felt as though time had barely passed. If you were being honest with yourself, you’d spent the past hours seated front-row, replaying the way he looked when he climaxed, a perfect film to pass the time as you waited for the clock to hit northwest in your analog wristwatch. Your brain had blocked the incident of when he tossed you to the couch, the way he held your face so painfully, you’d swear his thumbprints would have been imprinted on your skin right after, and you wouldn't have minded at all. But all your fizzed-up thoughts could only choose to conjure up one thing: the dawning realization in his hazel brown eyes that for tonight, even just for tonight, he needed you, and you were here to deliver. 

You walked through the timeless beauty of the city, comically contrasting with your case, where every second counted. You strode your way to the block of the hotel, purposeful, fearful. You pulled your hoodie up, trying to make yourself smaller from the people inside as you slipped through the grand entrance. It was a stealthy journey on your way inside; the loud hushes of quiet wealth, polished marble, and the scent of fresh lilies filled the lobby. You were wise enough to avoid the concierge's gaze, a flicker of mixed politeness and indifference. The soles of your shoes were one with the metal floors of the elevator as you pressed mindlessly on the buttons.  The numbers on the floor clicked as you ascended, your heart tampering with your ribcage, tapping the tiny bones like a cruel drum solo to the commercial jazz song that played inside the lift. Fourth floor.

As it opened, the hallway felt narrower than it should be, or maybe it was just the lack of sleep you’ve gotten waiting outside. The silence was a pair of tiny little foams in your ears as you stepped out. The carpet cleaned off the dried mud that you carried after three hours of circling around Piazza del Popolo, though your mind was miles ahead to even notice that—as your sole focus was on the numbers of the doors. For a minute, you’d doubted your ability to comprehend numerical symbols, as if it had been accidentally left in the lobby, along with your dignity. 408… 410…

Room 412, it was 1:59 am.

You glided softly on the wool carpet. You held your breath tightly in your chest as if exhaling was enough to wake you up from another vivid dream, and honestly? You wouldn’t even be surprised, every waking dawn felt like an absolute nightmare when you'd wake up in your cramped bedroom again—just before when you thought you'd finally built a life with Alex—it was an innate torture built in your REM switch, a psychological tactic that was made to soak your pillows every dying night. You stood there for what felt like agonizing years as you slowly raised a trembling hand, knuckles hovering inches from the dark wood…

The door swung open with silent precision. 

2:00 am. Alex stood there, his silhouette covering you like a dark cloak against the warm light of his hotel suite. He smelled like fresh spearmint soap, his hair was damp, haphazardly dried by a towel slung over his shoulders, he wore a simple black t-shirt now, though still clinging to his slim frame, and for the sake of comfort that no skinny jeans could ever give, grey lounge pants. Three thousand positions slipped through the lenses of your eyes in a moment’s notice. This was madness, utter fucking madness. The energy that emitted from him was now different, almost an utterly chilling, cool, detached exhaustion. Whatever he had in that party must’ve worn out the raw fury he carried back in the green room.

In his other hand was his phone, the crack was still there, almost a shameful reminder to the both of you. His voice wasn’t to greet you or any of that sort, it was a continuous conversation that the walls prevented you from hearing while you were here in the hallway, the warm murmur laced in that familiar Sheffield drawl of his. “Yeah, love, I know. It was a late one,” he said on the phone. It was a voice packaged neatly on the line for her, not you. A gentle, intimate tone that you’ve never heard in the dirtiest songs he'd sang to date… or maybe this was just on purpose, to poke the burn in your heart that’s already searing in.

His gaze flickered over your hooded form before meeting your eyes. He didn’t smile—you’d be shocked if he did—not even a nod to acknowledge your presence. Instead, he gestured with the hand that held the door earlier, pointer and middle finger in downwards motions. Hoodie off.

“Nah, love, ‘m not annoyed,” he continued. You let your mind indulge in the sound of his voice for just a second. “Just knackered, darlin’, that’s all.”

Your fingers fumbled gently with the soft fabric of your worn hoodie as you pulled it back. Your hair was still damp from your earlier attempt to wash up in some public restroom, the scent of the cheap soap mingled with the mildew of your wet, used-up clothes. You looked like a wreck, a building attempting to hide its rubble by painting itself in cheap enamel paint. 

Alex’s expression didn’t change, but the last of his empathy appeared through the audible sigh he gave you before his eyes performed an almost theatrical roll through the back of his head (what a fucking diva?!). Unadulterated annoyance was written on his face to cover the page of pity in his thoughts: She looks like a sodding stray dog caught in the rain. He tilted his head to the back, looking over the suite—to the door with the wet mat—before turning back to you again, before letting his thumb give you the direction to the bathroom. “Shower. Now,” he mouthed.

“Yes, love… I’m just gonna have a quick shower an’ get some sleep.” The lie slid from his lips with an almost practiced ease. Cruelty would be joking to yourself that you weren't the only one he's waiting for in his hotel, but you’d rather choose to relive the night half-glass full. “Big day tomorrow… yeah… we’ve got tha’ radio thing early…” 

You gave him a quick nod, as if he was letting you know… c’mon now, let a girl dream. God, did you feel so, so dirty and so out-of-place? You shuffled inside, your shoulder brushing against the doorframe, careful enough not to bump into him. The suite was huge: a sprawling sofa in plush velvet, windows that touched the floors and ceiling, showcasing the Eternal City, and the bed… well, spacious, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. His scent was faint, but here, wrapped in expensive silk and linen. You heard him end the call behind you, “Yeah, love you too… Yes, love, eat your dinner… Don’t stay up too late…” The click of the mobile was soft against the squeak of the door that he slid into place.

The bathroom was twice the size of the motels you'd spent your nights in, with no smell of stained piss or stale scents of tobacco. The veined marble walls were pristine, free of hard water from the surface, though beneath the very damp room, his presence was clear from the humidity and his spearmint shampoo that danced through the enclosed air—it was dizzying—the knowledge that he was here moments ago, bathing. You locked the door with an almost confused twist of the knob due to its futuristic design. You were welcomed by the sound of the water dripping from the showerhead, and your nervous, self-regulated breathing greeted back. Your eyes were still darting around as your trembling hands took off your hoodie, then your jeans, and lastly, your undergarments; you casually left them on the marble sink like a pile of unwanted offerings before stepping inside the shower. The glass partition did so little to hide the grime on your body.

Christ. How could I have even thought I'd show Alex… this? 

It was a profound, irritable thought, a seedling that had taken years to bloom from your unresolved issues. Your hand shot out to the bottle of shower gel in one of the hollowed racks beside the valve, squirting a more generous amount than what it's intended to instruct on the bottle, before lathering yourself with it, trying your absolute hardest to erase yourself. You scrubbed every inch until you were flushed and raw: under your arms, the back of your ears, your belly button, the  inner parts of your legs and thighs, under your nailbeds, and between your toes, and you cleaned your folds until they started to sting. You washed your hair twice for good measure; it was an odd ritual, to replace every trace of your dirt with a part of him, a way to wear the love of your life. This is real, he is… he is the lather that touches my skin, he is the water that cleanses me off.

After what felt like centuries, you stepped out, a new woman in a fluffy white towel. You practically fogged the whole space from your delusional baptism, and for a moment you felt like you just wanted to go to bed, but the promise of being in the same sheets as Alex—if he lets you stay—was too good to ignore. The mirrors fogged the harsh reality of the room, and as you quietly padded to see a glimpse of your reflection with a quick wipe of your wet palms, you saw it. His toothbrush, in one of the ceramic holders sitting beside the polished sink. A black, sleek toothbrush, slightly used… by him.

This morning, and just minutes ago, this was in his mouth.

Temptation greets you like an old friend asking you to hang out at the same old pub just after you've thought of sobriety, but this was beyond sickening, beyond thrilling.

Just a nibble…

Your hand moved before your self-control could even stop it, holding the flimsy plastic in your palm. It felt cool and wet, the fibres brushing your thumb as you grazed it gently. A part of you was even jealous that this… has purpose in his life and has access to reach through the gaps no one would ever see—apart from his dentist—maybe, you could live with that; you’d understand. Dentistry is a hard practice. For a moment, you let yourself hold it, breathing in the mint fluoride. Then, with a shuddering, almost perverted sigh, you slid the plastic into your mouth.

You didn't brush it, no… like an oddly shaped lolly, you just… suckled, gently. You rolled the head along your tongue, catching the artificial mint of the toothpaste, and if you could close your eyes to enhance the feeling, his saliva… tasted exactly like what you've thought of for years. One of life's greatest mysteries was now being discovered here in the hotel bathroom where you stood, and it tasted fresh.

Outside the door, Alex has dug a hole through the marble floor from where he was pacing around, the two fingers of whiskey in his tumbler were an incompetent distraction that just made his throat burn. His gaze landed outside the window, through the beautiful Mediterranean gardens of Rome, but he couldn't even stomach the gorgeous sight, his mind was occupied by you—in the bathroom—taking longer than a bloody hormonal teenager who figured out how to lock the door. 

Then, the sound of the spritzing shower had cut off like an answered wish. Fuckin’ finally. Two minutes felt like it was enough for Alex to  grow a beard, but of course… it's not like he'd actually grow one. It was the gnawing anticipation, the patience that was slowly succumbing to the bottom of his imaginary hourglass.

Fuckin’ hell… she's not lickin’ the shower drain, is she?

His steps were a series of impatient thuds on the marble floor as he made his way to the bathroom door, holding the empty  whiskey in his hand. He listened to the silence and the soft hum of the ventilator, and that was enough for him. 

His knuckles tapped the wooden barrier, harsh enough to almost make you choke.

“Oi,” he called out. “You settin’ up camp in there or wha’? Hurry up.”

You practically spat out the plastic from your mouth, your saliva bridging a tiny string from the bristles to your lips as you haphazardly threw it in its container. “Coming!” you called out before fixing the loosening grip of your towel. You take one last reassuring inhale as you finally get out. The lights were softly dimmed now, you found him by the window, looking over the view as he held his mere focus out there, as if he hadn't just been tracing the same path on the ground earlier. He was leaning against the frame, his hand on the pocket of his sweatpants, while the other was holding a half-empty glass of neat whiskey.

You let yourself soak in the still image of him, the way he looked lost in thought, finding its way back to what propelled him to do this. The thought of Roman tapestries  reminded him of the pedestal you put him on before he finally turned to look at you. If the room had been a little bit brighter, and you were a few feet closer, and if he'd let you touch him, you could’ve sworn there were tiny little specks of green in those eyes… not exactly begging to be seen, but it was profoundly noticeable to the ones who always looked under the surface. He was a remarkable statue you had gazed upon in your past life, and here you were, reliving that moment.

He didn't blink at first, perhaps he was too busy deciphering what you were thinking too—he knew it was about him, but still, he needed the kind of specificity that one would have when throwing darts. The eye-fucking spell broke when he finally looked down at you, at the puddle that was collecting itself on your feet, at the length of the towel,  at the slight shake of your figure—out of nervousness? Probably, he'd remembered to put the AC on low—and back up to your face.

You were exposed, and for the first time in a while, you'd caught a glimpse of what he must feel on a day-to-day basis. Gone was your emotional support hoodie that always gave you the anonymity you needed, and here you were, wet, shivering in a hotel towel. In his mind, he'd remembered to praise your architect, you looked… well, good enough. Your shape was there, hidden under all that unruly clothing, your hair was damp and leaching on your skin, and those eyes… Alex didn't even mind the wild, crazed look in your eyes, as long as it was all on him. Narcissus is a frontman of Arctic Monkeys, apparently. 

His voice was a sudden intrusion to the tension. “Right, the towel,” he said, his chin tilted a fraction towards you. “Take ‘em off.” His eyes shifted to yours, then to the king-size bed, white linen sheets almost glowing against the dark headboard. Then, with the flick of his head, he continues, “and get on the bed. Go on.”

You moved to the mattress as if you were chained to a metal ball Alex couldn’t see. Limbs heavy with the surreal combination of fear and anticipation, your knuckles hardened from the grip you had on the last barrier you had left around your body, before finally, with a hitch of a breath, you let it fall onto the floor. It pooled around your ankles like a saturated cloud. His eyes that seemed somewhat blurry before had cleared up as he tracked the movements of your body. As you made your way to the bed, a thought sank in as he gently rolled his tongue against his cheek. Huh. It wasn’t obvious, of course, that he was wondering now what your skin tastes like, wondering if your body would melt against his hot mouth, but the anger was still there, frozen in place. It was just a casual curiosity—the way one would wonder about the taste of street food of the city they hated. Your arms immediately did their best to pick up the glass shards of your shame, covering your chest as you looked away from his lingering focus. Alex’s mind was a cold, calculating machine that was fueled by one diesel: control. She’s a proper little thing… doesn’t matter still. 

He gently places the empty glass on the bedside table, alongside with an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and the roll of his belt, the leather was a familiar colour you knew he wore at the show. The sound felt hard against the quiet room. His eyes never left yours, as if it were even possible to undress an already naked body, you could practically hear the sounds of the fabric leaving you as you slowly sat on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly from your weight. His hands were the first to talk, already reaching for the belt on the bedside table, your blood spiked by the sight of it, now in his hold. “Right then, love,” he whispered. It was calm, almost conversational. “You wanna be here, don’t ya? You…” he trails, reaching out to touch you with his free hand, his thumb grazing your bottom lip, and you couldn’t help but moan softly at the sensation, the very act of what’s about to come. “...wanna please me, yeah?”

You nodded, with that, he let go of you.

He gestured with the belt pointedly to the empty space near the headboard.

“Roll over. On your hands and knees. Face that way.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting from his face to the belt, the direction he was indicating… with the leather wrapped around his hand. Oh, my god. Your body was in a series of tremors that ran all over as you turned to your side, pushing yourself up on all fours, your hands wrinkled the soft, cool sheets, and your knees sank into the mattress. Your hair fell forward, you could hear the soft hush of your strands as gravity pulled them down. Alex took his sweet time savouring this obedience you never even second-guessed, it was natural and perhaps not even born from your sickening celebrity iconography, but he knew better. He stopped right behind you, footsteps softening from the plush carpet, he was close enough that you could feel the heat of his body. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the deafening silence stretched like glutinous dough, you wondered if he was even there anymore. Maybe this is just another dream. I knew it, I knew it, I’m dogged down in my own subconscious—

“So, love…” His voice as he spoke was enough to pierce your thoughts. “About what you did earlier… on the phone.”

You didn’t answer first, still in disbelief whether reality was even a clear grasp in your sweaty palms to even think of your past mistake, or did that even happen? For a moment, you felt like you were somewhere else, somewhere where the fog was touching you close, and this vessel wasn’t even yours, before his voice boomed again.

“That weren’t part of the deal now, was it, love? Messin’ with my calls like tha’... bit cheeky, weren’t it?”

Your head snapped just a fraction, looking over your shoulder just to see if he was really there, and he is—by everything that makes the world firm on its axis—he is. You couldn’t even think for a moment, too overwhelmed by the crashing truth that he is in the space you were breathing in. Your mind was a hundred miles away, far from the message he was instilling in your head. He seemed oblivious enough, but he could see that dazed-out look in your eyes from when he dragged you to the couch when he'd blown a fuse, it was enough to lower his brows a bit before finally, he continued.

“You gonna apologize for that, then?” he asked, eyes on you.

Your answer was a quick nod, a frantic bob of your head as you stuttered, “Y-yes.” It was an awful attempt, a small gush from your windpipe, “I'm sorry, Alex… so, so sorry…” 

He didn't answer for a moment, at least not verbally—his lips tightened, almost clinically assessing your half-assed apology, an apology with a sound of falling quarters, he was expecting paper bills. With a strong grip on his leather belt, he gently raised his hand—you flinched, turning your head back to your front as you shut your eyes, afraid—then with the sharp flick of his wrist, he landed a sharp, stinging slap on your backside.

Thwack!

You gasped; you expected it, of course. But still, it was done in such an almost precise way that it felt too intimate… that a part of you now knows how hard he can hit. You knew your face was heating up despite the pain, you couldn't even muster up a thought. It was as if the slap was an anchor that grounded you to stay in the present. “Again,” he whispers, “Apologize properly, love. For interrupting my call, for nearly causing a scene,” he ordered.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your call, Alex… I didn't mean to…” 

He landed another strike.

“Again, you did mean it,” he corrects.

“I did, I'm sorry… I shouldn't have…”

He brought the belt down again, in an almost punishing land that surprised you. “Ah—!” You cried out, gripping the sheets, your body that was shaking earlier was practically vibrating now off the king-sized bed.

“Again,” he growled this time, before landing another sharp, stinging smack on your ass. You gasped, nearly falling limp on the mattress—which is his entire intention anyway, to break you apart, to see the smug, star-struck wonder loosen with each impact.

The crack of the leather was enough to make you cry, and soon enough you did. Tears came out hot and heavy, blurring your vision as you stared at the dim lamp of the hotel suite. Your sob was a lodge that came from the back of your throat, “N-no more, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” you cried out.

Not enough, he landed the fifth strike, echoing in the quiet room, and you ducked your head then, looking at the white sheets; the tears that streamed down your chin had already fallen, creating Rorschach-like blots on the clean linen. A soft, uncontrollable whimper escaped your lips, and when you bit them off, you tasted the pure salts of your tears. This was the sound of victory Alex had been searching for, a bitter, broken sob that felt like pure reverence. He took a long, almost loving glance at the raw, reddish blush on your ass, his new work of art.

But it's not over yet.

“Turn over,” he ordered, his voice authoritative in ways you hadn't imagined before. “On your back. Go on.”

Despite the way you were shaking and choking in your own tears, you obeyed. It was a sluggish attempt as you fell on the mattress, tucking your feet in as you tried to cover your loins. His eyes were on you, though, boring straight to the rawest parts of your emotions, no hint of softness in those earthen depths as he looked at his masterpiece, then, his eyes landed on your knees, pressed together.

“Open your legs for me, love,” he whispers.

Your breath hitched, and your eyes, already puffed and red, widened enough to notice as you looked at him. Your body was an unmoving figure on the white sheet, and your knees squeezed even tighter as if to protest before finally, reluctantly, you began to part them—in excruciating slowness, deep down you were unsure what he even thinks of you now, but then again… you were on his bed, an obedient little puppy in his calloused palm, his touch was enough of a validation, and his gaze sweeping over you was better than any compliments you’d receive in a lifetime. Oh, he was more than your whole world, he was the sun.

Alex looked down, eyes narrowing as he took in the glistening sight, he furrowed his brows before letting out a sadistic smile. The way your body had clearly given mixed signals, he had to click his tongue as he let out a disbelieving scoff. “Well, would you look at tha’, then…” his voice was lush velvet, the deep drawl of his accent honeyed on the surface of each syllable, and it did not help, not one bit. It was a jarring contradiction, your tears and the arousal between your thighs. You were crying, you were in pain, yes, but Christ, you were simultaneously getting off on it like some untamed animal, responding to his cruelty like this, it was… beyond repulsive. It was enough to make Alex chuckle.

Your parted legs were shivering under his scrutinizing gaze, the belt was still wrapped around his hands, faintly rustling as he gently lowered the thin leather strap. It wasn’t a hard strike this time. Just a feather-light touch, a test of the waters, tapping the tip of his belt against your clitoris before dragging it teasingly over the sensitive nub.

Your whole body spasmed, hips twitching as a soft gasp escaped your lips, “Hah—” you squeezed your eyes shut. Alex watched your reaction, shaking his head as he smiles to himself, “Still feelin’, don’t you, darlin’?” he murmured, “Even after all tha’, you’re still soakin’... proper soakin’...” he observed, his gaze shifting from your moist folds to your eyes, “After I had just taught you a lesson.”

He tapped again, a soft, taunting flick on your clit, you hissed.

“You like that?”

Your body was a trembling form, your eyes still shut, and your lashes wet from your tears. You couldn’t even answer, too ashamed to even speak of what your mind begged to say: that you would let him do anything, absolutely anything. He knows that full well, it was written on your face in abstract watercolors, etched across your face in the crowd, tinted in your silhouette from the hotel lobbies, and glossed over your eyes when he found you backstage. Yet, you still wanted to show him just how much you were willing to take it. You nodded. The smile that plastered Alex’s voice was a million bucks, a grim, self-satisfied twist of his lips. He let go of the belt with a soft thud on the carpeted mat under the bed, tossed and forgotten. The very hands that wrote your beloved songs and strummed every riff you adored—lowered close to where you were aching for him most. It wasn’t a gentle caress, but it was real and settling on the soft flesh between your thighs.

It felt like he was memorizing a new pattern of the fretboard again, an exploration of a new interval as he pushed his fingers on your swollen clitoris, sliding them into the slick folds of your labia, the thumb of his dominant hand pressing your nub, before his other hand took a gentle, almost enticing graze upon your inner folds, a millimeter close before plunging inside. Your hips buck against the movement of his hands, a warm, searing pressure just after the stinging strikes of the leather belt. He always revelled in it, the sounds of a woman’s moan… the kind that was drawn from sheer unadulterated pleasure, the kind that would rasp their vocal cords just a tad, the kind that would slur their sentences until they could no longer form coherence, you were giving him exactly that.

Just as the sound left your lips, his hands were gone. He pulled them away, a punishment for a crime you'd forgotten. Your eyes flew open.

“Do you really think you deserve my touch?”

You whimpered, biting your lip as you looked at him, before shaking your head. “No, Alex… I don’t.”

He hummed before his hands moved to his sides. He slowly slides his thumb over the waistband of his lounge pants, his gaze never leaving your face as your eyes follow the movement of his fingers. The garter of his black boxers peeked through as he slowly lowered his pants to his hips before finally he tugged both fabrics down, and you couldn't help but admire the sight again. It was hard, hot, and ready, and god did you miss it, the tip was glinting from his pre-cum. He gently took it in his hands, his thumb stroking the tip as he looked at you.

Your legs that were already open had gone impossibly wider now. Though, he didn't move closer, just stroked himself as he stared at your moist folds. 

“You want it, love?”

You nodded.

“Use your words.”

“Y-yes… yes, Alex…”

He moved closer, until his tip was practically hovering over your cunt. He lowered his tip on your clitoris, and the electricity that coursed through your body was enough to power the whole building. You gasped, the sensation was divine and better than everything you've ever dreamed of. It was maddening, the teasing, the light graze that was utterly precise, “Look at you… but you just said that you don’t deserve this, didn’t you?”

You nodded as you whimpered. “Say it for me, love,” he commanded.

“I don’t deserve you, Alex…”

His pupils were blown to the edge just before his schlera as those words escaped your lips, his torment continued, impossibly slower this time that you could practically hear the ringing in your ears. Your hips danced on their own, a drive of pure agony and the desperate need for him. You rolled your hips upward, instinctually impaling yourself on his thick length. His tip had nearly slithered inside, and for a moment you thought this was it, until his hands shot out, clamping down on your hips with a force made to break your bones. His warm hands were on you, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he halts your movement completely. You were scared to even look at him now, for you knew the anger was slowly curdling in his eyes.

“Did I tell you to move?”

You shook your head, “No, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t get to take anything,” he whispers, his fingers sinking further through that it nearly made you cry out, “Not until you’ve fuckin’ earned it, alright?”

Just as fast as he had touched you, he was just as fast to let you go. He returned, pushing himself on the bed, sitting up against the plush headboard as he lowered the remaining bottoms he was still wearing, and tossed them on the floor where the belt had lied. “You wanna get fucked so badly, huh?” he asks, tilting his head, the squint in his eyes were enough to make you shiver. “You’re gonna have to work for it.”

You were silent for a moment, an unmoving figure as you slowly sat up, your head turning in his direction. He raises a brow at your dumbfounded state, as if he wasn’t clear.

“On top of me, love.”

The world tilted for a moment, it was exactly the same words you dreamed of hearing that had finally manifested itself in front of your very eyes, ringing in your very ears. You couldn't help but feel the complete utter excitement of it at first.

This is it, this is it! Slowly, you pushed yourself up from the wrinkled sheets. Your muscles were still freshly aching from the earlier punishment, but your eyes—wide and pleading—never left him as you crawled closer. 

“Ah-ah, not so fast,” he adds. “Condom, ‘s in my pocket.” 

You quickly got off the bed as you reached for his pants—and sure enough, a crinkling foil pocket was already within your fingertips. You pulled it out, looking at it as you returned to the mattress, the light catching the reflective, metallic feel of it. Alex watched as you struggled, clumsily opening it with your shaking fingers. He didn't want to interrupt, it was enough that he was doing you a favour to even sleep with him. It tore with a soft rip, and as you rolled it over his shaft, it was done with such slowed reverence that Alex assumed it was for the reason of fearing you’d scare it away, like hell, it was a funny thought, though. The cool slide of it, the lube from the packet, was enough to make his cock twitch, it was a live performance art that was enough to invoke your deepest desires… you felt something drool from the corner of your mouth before you caught it with the back of your hand.

Alex saw this, under the dim lights, in his very suite. Good god, she’s actin’ like it's a pie on a windowsill. 

“Right,” he starts, his voice a gravel tone, the widening of his spreading legs with reluctant invitation. “Get on.”

You swallowed hard, legs feeling like lead seeping to the mattress, but you moved with the sheer temptation, one knee lifted, then the other, until you were hovering over his hard, gleaming dick. As your eyes finally looked up to see his face, he looked displeased.

“Did I tell you I wanted to see your face?” Ouch, a hurl of a cold stone brick would've hurt less. It was a clear message, he wanted a body, a vessel for his release. Maybe he's finally gotten a glimpse of your face up close as ever, and it was an unappetizing sight.

“N-no,” you finally answered.

“Turn around.”

The humiliation was a fresh deep cut in your very soul, your body felt heavier than ever, and for a moment, you just wanted to cry. Your chest felt like it was being pressed by the heel of his boot, and you were unsure how to feel about it. You slowly turned, facing the eyes of an abstract painting hanging against the wall, your knees were still bracketed between his thighs, and your hair, which was still damp from the shower, had filled Alex's vision now. That's better. His eyes tracked the way your shoulders were trembling—maybe you were trying hard not to cry, but he's way too tired to even think about it now, he just wanted to feel the heat of a warm body, not care about its feelings. 

He reached out, his palms on your hips as his thumbs moved, circling; the minute movement felt sickeningly loving. “Take it. Slow.”

Your hands tethered themselves on his thighs, and with excruciating slowness, you slowly reached for the latex feel of his length, your fingers proportioning the tip to your core before finally sinking in. The sensation was enough to make you gasp as the head plunged inside of you, almost easily from your wetness. The stretch was a burning flame, agonizingly filling you in. The gasp that left your lips soon was an invocation of a gratitude prayer as you carried the height of it all, it was a punctuating pressure with each inch of him, pushing past the resistance of your own body. 

He was fully inside of you.

Your hands left him as they were now fisted to the soft fabric of the bedsheets. You heard his head drop against the plush headboard, a soft thud, as he hissed. Alex’s eyes were a bit dazed despite his armored dominance, his teeth clenched as he tried his best to not end this feeling so soon. Your cunt was a greedy little thing, practically sucking him in, and he could feel your heartbeat in there, it was an oddly poetic thing he might jot down later, he had important matters at hand tonight. You began to move, a tiny shift, before another. It was an almost tentative test, taking just how much you can handle. It was as if you were learning him, the way his cock stretched inside you, his girth deep inside your aching cavern, the way his head kissed the lips of your cervix, just a series of soft tender nudges with every counting slide.

Each small rock was a wave of sensation that bled through his skin, and for a moment, Alex’s head was somewhere in the clouds, and he knew where it was because it was up there shouting profanities. Fuckin’ hell, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Your movements began to accelerate, faster and bolder. A frantic, desperate motion that was sending prickling touches to the back of his head and to his ears. Your moans filled the air, your hair began to stick to your sweaty back, and he could see it because he was finally seeing you, hearing you, in ultraviolet senses. Fuck, he wanted to bottle this sensation in a vial and keep it in the breast pocket of his shirt. You weren’t even shying away from the uninhibited moans that were spouting out your drooling lips. “A-Alex… Ahh… H-ha… s-so good…”

It was music not made for rhythm—it was a racing tempo, and Alex was way too prideful to let it happen, at the very fact that he might come first, like an eager teenager on prom night. His hands touched your hips, gripping and halting your mid-movement. “Hold on, love.” he whispers, “Where you off to, hm?” he asks, a casual conversational drawl as if he’s not a few thrusts close to cumming inside.

With his iron grip, he pulled you back before pushing forward, an action of who’s meant to man the ship. He dictated the pace, slow, agonizing, only when he’d promise you with a teeth-gritting speed, he’d bare you with only with a measure of controlled friction.

“Not gettin’ off that easy, love.” he whispered in your ear, he could smell his body wash on your skin.

“Don’t forget, you have to earn..” he trailed, before punctuating his point with a trilogy of surprisingly hard plunges. “Every. Single. Thrust.”

Your legs felt like jelly, salivating with the torturing demand. It was a maddening slide, and the wet movement was a taunting reminder of the pace you were so, so desperate for. You whimpered, shoulders shaking, head bowed down, your collecting saliva slipped off your lips but you didn’t care; shame was long gone. All that remained was Alex’s commands, your voice of reason. But you were only a human after all, starved of pleasure.

“Alex, please,” you whimpered. “Faster, please… I— I can’t— I n-need—”

“Makin’ demands now, are we?” he mocked. “Faster? Now… do you really think you deserve allat?”

“Just fuck me! Please! I can’t t-take this anymore!” Your begging came in ragged gasps, verbal sobs that were curdling into desperate pleas, echoing in the quiet suite.

He lets out a hard laugh. Christ, pathetic, so bloody pathetic.

“Alright,” he conceded, before letting out a low, reluctant sigh; he was granting you a massive favour.

He released your hips, only to lean forward with a measured pace. He began to guide you, the intensity building up to what was closer to agonizing than the earlier denial. His hands touched your breast, full and soft in his palms, as he circled the small pebbles lightly with his thumb and pointer fingers, nearly sending you over the edge. It was a short travel as he presses your body close now, his chest warm with cold sweat, and your backside pressed to his pelvis, his dick was deeper inside you than before. You could feel the hot exhales escaping his lips near your ear and the grunts that would come along.

“Fuckin’ hell, ‘s so tight.” His movements were no longer pretty, no longer hesitant as he drove upward with sheer force, a collection of powerful grinds. “You’ve been dreamin’ about this, haven’t you?” It was static in your head when you heard him, he knows your fantasies, and you felt a sickening thrill hearing it from his very throat. You were nothing more than an open book. “Every night…” he continues, grunting as he pistons faster, hitting your g-spot with an almost painful precision. “Layin’ in your bed, touchin’ yourself… thinking about my dick inside you, huh?”

You nodded frantically, crying out his name as you felt him everywhere, sending you to a profound bliss that was petrifyingly close to a short tour to the garden of Eden. You’ve found now that it was not a place; it was an experience. You bucked and rolled against him, no longer asking for permission, as your body has gone sentient on its own and begun riding him. The once fearful submission was now blossoming into a desperate hunger only he could feed. The thought was embedded in Alex’s mind, his cock throbbing in time with your rocking. He’d let you have it, have you chase the feeling, his big hands gripping your hips tightly as a last resort to his control.

Like a Chevrolet in a high-stakes car chase, it was a short crash off a highway, hauntingly beautiful. A scene that Alex couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

The cry that ripped from your lips was euphoria, your sweat-soaked back arched, muscles taut and intricate in the dim lights, and your walls spasmed all over his dick—unexpected enough—that he thought the veins in his temples were about to pop. It was a short fuse after a moment of goading you. He was still hard, still aching, and now, he was a man on a mission. He yanked you off of him, and you could barely feel the world as he moved around you—even when he flipped you, your back on the mattress, and your empty head thudded against the soft bed—you were fucked straight to an elated reverie, but your eyes had darted to his face, and he was the only clear vision as he moved in your blurred-out lenses.

Alex hovered over you, his hips between your thighs as he spread them apart, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. You felt him before you could even tell, and it was the rhythm of a punishing pace, the percussion of destruction. It was an uncoordinated, messy piston of flesh and sweat. He didn’t care if it might even overwhelm you—hell, you were probably getting off on this—the bed frame was rocking through a thunderous storm, and he was taking you with him. Your head thrashed from side to side on the linen sheets as you trembled beneath him, your body still fresh from the aftershock and searing around his cock, honestly? He might as well fuck a pile of shivering, burning coals. You were barely hearing your loud, incoherent cries as he thrust inside you to the point of oblivion.

Your hands, once trembling, gathered strength and flew up to his shoulders and on his back, your nails digging in his sweat-slicked skin as you pulled him closer to you; wherever the flood was taking him, you’d come along in a heartbeat… the look on his face was enough to make you come again. Alex was a moving picture in front of you, sweat trickling to his forehead and nose, his hair a beautiful mess, and his eyes… Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It was the eyes you’ve seen a thousand times in shaky performance videos, on magazine covers, and in interviews, and they were now staring right at you in the most intimate way possible. Blown pupils, wide, dark, and devastatingly unfocused. It was the look of unalloyed possession, but you knew he wasn’t seeing you—that would be insane. No, he… he’s not seeing the girl from the green room, the girl from the crowd venues. He was seeing the source of this all-consuming heat that was pulling him deeper to the pits of hell. He was staring at the face of Satan, and he was shaking hands with him.

His groans that were once controlled and teasing were now raw and guttural. He didn’t even remember your name—not that it should matter to him—he drove into you one last time, burying himself in the rubble of his own making. His dark eyes that were once staring at you had closed shut. Before finally, it came hot and heavy, and it made every hair on his body stand. He finally released his hot current of cum, flooding the latex condom; the force of his release was enough to make him shiver as he pulsed inside you. God, the climax was sweeter than a shot of Cuervo Gold. 

Alex collapsed on top of you, his strength completely gone as his weight crashed your body. He was still there, not pulling out. His face was buried in the crook of your neck as his breath fanned against your skin. In the end, he was just a man, spent and broken, instinctively seeking the warmth and scent of the woman he’d just been with. The sex was an intoxicating aroma, and the aftertaste was creamy and tangy on his tongue, down to the pepper kick. The silence was deafening, mingling with your heavy breathing and his.

“Fuck,” he rasped, exhaustedly. He had lost control, and he’d nearly forgotten who you even were and how you got here in his bed in the first place. After a long moment, his warmth soon disappeared as he lifted himself from you, his movements were slow and painfully heavy. Pulling out with a wet sloppy sound, and the sight of the filled condom tethered him back to reality, and it was an unwelcoming clarity. 

He pulled it off of him, fingers slick as he tossed it on the floor, a soft, wet smack just beside your discarded towel. He swung both his legs off the bed and stood up, his body still trembling, but he still had enough will power beneath his aching muscles to stalk towards the bathroom, the click of the door opening and the sound of the shower turning on was the last thing you’d heard: Alex washing you off of his body, every stark piece of evidence that you were on him. God, you wanted to cry, but your eyes were too tired to keep themselves open as you slowly fell back to sleep, taking the heartbreaking ache into your subconscious.

The next day was a soft, tranquil light that seeped through the gaps of the heavy curtains, painting the interior of the hotel suite in beautiful, luminous, warm colors of the early morning. The first thing you registered was the pain, it was a deep sore between your legs, a dull string from your ass, and the exhaustion that was etched to your very bones. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sex and sweat, and if it weren’t for it, you would have thought last night had been another sick and twisted dream. You slowly opened your eyes, and his back was facing yours, he was shirtless and asleep beside you. His back was a beautiful sgraffito painting, filled with the scratches of your own doings; the sight of it was a short, shiver-filled thrill. It was something he couldn’t wash off that easily and would be there for a day or two.

A part of you wanted to stay in this bed with him forever, but you knew the transaction had long been dealt with. You slowly got off the heavy sheets—you’ve noticed now that you had a blanket over you, and a part of you was happy to theorize he was probably the one who did it—before making your way to the bathroom to get your discarded clothing in the sink. Funny enough, it was still there, a bit damp from his last night’s shower, but it was enough. As you put everything on, you found his sweat-soaked tee from last night hanging from the bathroom hook. The cotton was soft, still holding a faint warmth—if that was even possible—as you brought it up to your nose, it still smelled like him. It was an irresistible artifact, a memento.

You were too lost, too in-your-own-head, that you didn’t even realize that he walked in the bathroom, hair still a mess, eyes half-closed and only widening when he saw you inside.

“Fuck—” his morning voice woke you up, and you immediately froze, hiding the shirt behind your back as you looked at him.

He was wearing the same grey pants, and he was muttering something about how he’d assumed you had already left.  “I’m sorry, I…” you stammered, your voice a hoarse, pathetic whisper. “I didn’t… I… I wasn’t…”

“You know what?” he cut you in, rubbing his temples as he closed his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe before he finally looked at you, or you were finally looking at him. The creases and folds on his cheek from the pillows and sheets, a sign of a good night’s sleep. “Keep it.” he continues.

“R-really?”

He nodded before shrugging nonchalantly. He was still shirtless, and he could tell that you were savouring the sight like a morning tea. “Oi.” he mutters, “Get off, ‘ve gotta piss.” You nodded, sprinting out, your shoulders touching his as you got out. It’s not like he’d wear it again, not after it smelled like you. Before he closed the bathroom door on you though, he gave you one last look.

“Anyway… remember what I said, yeah?”

The unspoken deal was hanging heavy in the morning.

You get one moment, I get my peace.

You nodded quickly, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” you whispered, “I remember.”

He lingered his eyes on you, as if assessing if you really did, and nodded back. He gave you one last order before entering the bathroom.

Rome, Italy. Rock in Roma. June 10, 2013.

As the final distorted chord of “505” vibrated through Alex’s ears, the phantom surge of the post-performance energy in him continued to seep through his bones, refusing to fade, slowly amalgamating with the weariness that he’d been feeling the past few weeks as he headed backstage—though, not forgetting to blow a tender, tired kiss to the crowd even when he was in the state of collapsing. The crowd roared, a physical force even from the relative silence of the backstage corridor. Surely, it should’ve just been a sweet tune of pure adrenaline and victory, but tonight the sound was overplayed—at least in his mind. It was a grating backdrop to the long-week fatigue, bleeding through his very skull. He was drenched from his own sweat, his white slim-fit shirt had become a translucent fabric, clinging to his torso, waiting to be shed, and his dark hair that was styled, teased, and tugged from earlier was now tattooing his forehead. He was unsure whether this was from the coke crash or the fact that he’d been in planes and venues more than he’d been asleep, and tonight might be just the last ultimate straw that’ll break the camel’s back—or his—he wasn’t sure at this point. His bandmates were beside him, but he was too knackered to even register their conversation. Matt threw him a fresh towel, which he caught with practiced ease as he roughly threw it over his shoulder.

“That was fucking biblical, lads! Absolutely biblical!” Miles was already bouncing on the sole of his boots, eyes lighting up with the promise of post-gig activities. “So, I heard we’ve got some afterparty over in Trastevere… FullMoonClub Roma ?” Matt and Jamie exchanged knowing glances at each other, already anticipating the chaos. Nick shrugged, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Right, as long as they’ve got a proper pint, I’m game.”

Alex, though, just shook his head for a moment, a slow deliberate action that foretold the tired ache in his body he couldn’t even say. His phone was already buzzing from his pocket as he picked it up— Christ, right, I nearly forgot about the fight —he pressed the cool glass of the phone to his ear, the voice of his girlfriend, Arielle—bless her—crackled through the static, her LA accent that Alex once adored was now an undeniable pain that vibrated through his eardrums, a piercing whine of a fly that refused to die. He immediately looks at his mates for a moment. “Just give us a minute, will you? I need to…” he trailed, his voice hoarse, and not even bothering to continue his words to them as he waved a dismissive hand, already turning away from them. 

“No,” his voice was a stern, low murmur. “It’s not bloody like that, luv… For fuck’s sake, I’m workin’.” he groaned into the receiver, pinching the bridge of his sculpted nose. The voice of her accusation on the other line was a clear resemblance to nails inside a front-load washer. “Darlin’, I’m not ignorin’ you, I’ve just played a two-hour set to twenty thousand people. I’m a bit… knackered .” He rasps, scrubbing his hand over his sweaty face, the stubble scraping against his calloused palm. Bloody hell, this again. Different city, same argument—always the same bloody argument. Her voice still rang in his ear, the grip on his phone tightening by each syllable that came out of her mouth. “... ‘cause I can’t talk right now! The lads are right ‘ere!” he groans, his hazel brown eyes turning back to his mates, who were now awkwardly heading to the wings to chat with the opening band. “No, don’t—” he says, before immediately getting cut off by her on the other end, “Don’t twist it. That’s not what I said.”

Christ, he needed to get away. From the band, from the noise, and from the voice of the woman that should soothe the softest parts of his already rattled brain—now mercilessly drilling his skull with each accusatory tone. The green room, momentarily empty, was now his only sanctuary, the open gap of the door becoming a soft invitation to the tranquility that he was seeking. “Look, I’ll phone you at the hotel, I’ve got to go.” He didn’t even wait for her reply, his thumb already punching the button so hard it might’ve cracked the whole screen.

And then, he saw it.

He saw you, your silhouette from inside. Just as though you felt his gaze on you, your head snapped in his direction, wide-eyed, unblinking, like a poor deer caught in the beam of his headlights.

What the bloody…

He glanced over his shoulder to see if he had witnesses, but no, his mates were already in the wings: Jamie in deep conversation with the frontman of The Vaccines, even Miles was having a good banter with the bassist, Matt and Nick had drifted off, likely waiting for them outside or sneaking in a smoke. Fuck. His head turned again at the door as he decided to check it on his own. A ghost? This was no cookie, that’s for sure.

You, on the other hand, were already sweating through your palms as you practically ran further inside, hiding underneath the filled wardrobe racks in the corner. Are these his clothes? I hope it is, the leather jacket is unmistakable. Christ, really, this wasn’t the plan. All you wanted to do for tonight was take something from him as a memento—something that he might think of in passing and forget about the next day—but this was far from what you wanted, and you saw him fuming lividly beneath the fluorescent lights of the backstage corridor. Stupidly, you felt this rush once more, far more potent than earlier when you were sneaking in the threshold. He’d seen you before, obviously. It’s not like you were hiding it, or rather, you were just an awful hider. Not just tonight, he was sure he caught a glimpse of your profile in the crowd at Glastonbury , or was it in Denmark? matter of fact—in Moscow too. It was odd enough that Alex would remember someone from the crowd that much, and he had a troubled time remembering faces, which means you were no ordinary fan: he’d remembered that unnerving stillness in the depths of your eyes that stood out more than any screaming fan had. You were always there, watching, unblinking. He’d mentioned it to the security, of course, just a passing “keep an eye out,” but of course it wasn’t like you were climbing through the barricade or anything. But tonight, you not only snuck in backstage but also in the bloody green room. 

Christ, and I didn’t even want to be a frontman in the first place.

The frustration from the phone call, the long-held fatigue from the performance, and the itching unease from your sudden intrusion were the matches that dared to set fire to the back of his head, burning into a single point of sharp anger. The sound of his boots was as heavy as the pit that settled in your stomach; each step was the sound of a ticking bomb as the distance—no matter how exhilarating—was slowly closing in. He reached the door and looked around to catch a glimpse of your silhouette, surely enough, he saw your worn Converse like a hidden Mickey. His footsteps were clearer now, and you tried your hardest to breathe steadily. Your eyes met him from above the metal hangers, his body covering any chance of you escaping now as he towered over you.

Oh my god, he’s… God… what a sight. 

“Oi. You,” his voice was low, grim, and stripped of any stage-born charm that you’d always play in your head when you were alone with your train of thoughts. Gone was your adoring fantasy, and for a moment, you were on the verge of wishing that the ground would swallow you whole. “I don’t know who you are, or how you got in ‘ere, but this—this is out the fuckin’ line.” He continued, cocking his head to the side as his hazel brown eyes narrowed at your retreating, shrinking form. “What the bloody hell are you doing back ‘ere? And don’t go actin’ dumb. You’ve been tailin’ since Hultsfred, ain’t like I didn’t clock it.” Your eyes were wide as you stared at him despite the underlying fear, his questions were still queuing in your head, too busy staring at him in pure reverence. Alex felt every drop of blood in his system rushing to his pretty head, hot, fiery anger amplifying as you stood there silently, next to his bloody leather jacket, and his pack of Camels was in there. Oh, for fuck’s sake . His fingers brushed through his hair, a sharp and clearly agitated gesture, his last chance of self-control, a quick, safe alternative to punching a hole through the drywall.

“Aye, it’s me. Congrats.” The sarcasm in his drawl was as sharp as broken glass, devoid of pure warmth, not even amusement, truly, he was bloody pissed. “That doesn’t answer the question, does it, love? I asked, What the fuck are you doin’ ‘ere?”

Still, you were ever as quiet. Practically speechless, in your eyes he was moving in slo-mo, with rose-colored filters and glinting golden stars. Heaven is on earth, and he’s sweating through his white tee. His gaze flickered back, through the open door, down the empty corridor, expecting a security guard to round the corner, but it seemed like his prayers were still on the answering machine. It was just the two of you, alone. Truly, he wanted this night to end. Right, that’s it. No more messin’ about. He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at you again, brows furrowed this time, his gaze impossibly hard and cold. “Look, I’m tired, I’m fed up, and I’m not in the mood for your bloody games. You’ve been following us for weeks. I see you in the crowd, loiterin’ near the hotels. It was weird, whatever. This? This is summat else.” he gestured at you, still hiding, shivering beneath the rack of clothes. He leaned close to your face, close enough that you could see that one freckle on the corner of his mouth, the hairs stuck on his forehead, and the weary stare in his brown eyes that begged to just have some good fucking sleep for once.

“You’ve got ten seconds. Tell me who the hell you are and how you slipped past security, or I’ll have ‘em drag you out by the collar.”

Drag me out? The very fact of that happening filled you with dread—no, not after you worked hard enough to see him. You gulp, shaking your head, “No, please. Alex, I’m sorry… I’ll do anything! Just don’t—”

Alex lets out a dismissive wave of his hand before a sharp, humorless laugh escapes his lips, a sudden, imminent sound that fills the room. It sounded like you’d just uttered the best joke he’s heard in years, but in full honesty, it was the sound of his last nerve snapping. Bloody hell, she’s no business major to be negotiation’ like that. Does she think she can just charm her way out of ‘ere? ‘Anything’? This ain’t no porno for her to be sayin’ shite like this… Christ, this one. The pure annoyance he’d felt painted his face like a warning sign, and you were blind—by choice or delusion—to even see it.

“I don’t want any fucking thing from you, alright? I want you to piss off, leave me be, so I can pour myself a bloody drink and not worry about some… nutter sniffing ‘round my fuckin’ wardrobe.”

You stood there, not a peep to be heard, too frightened to even continue your words, as he’d cut you off sharply after weeks of having constant eyes on him, the lack of privacy, and the very fact that he was being treated as a concept rather than a person by some girl who had no right being around here.

Don’t what?

“Don’t make me leave,” you breathed, slowly slipping out of the rack where he could finally see you closely. “Please, Alex. Just a few minutes of your time, I’ll do anything.”

His jaw tightened, a small muscle twitching near his ear, your desperation didn’t soften his guard, not one bit. If anything—as you were assessing every fraction of his movement—what he did was a slip through the cracks, the kind of behavior that didn’t reach through any interviews you’ve watched before, and as selfish as you were being, it was a sight that was so intimate, and you were blessed enough to see it with your own two eyes. His gaze fell upon you, you wore the same grey hoodie he’d spotted you wearing in Croatia, the dark blue denim of your pants was a visceral sight that reminded him of the shadowed coves in El Matador, and the untied laces of your worn-out 70s Chuck Taylors were tearing by the minute, hardly surviving the cobblestone grounds of Italy.

God, what was he gonna do with you?

He gave you a slow, deliberate shake of his head, the kind of disapproval shake a kindergartner would get when they’d wet their pants on the first day of school. “Listen to me. Very carefully,” he starts, sighing heavily as if he’s aware he’s about to make a bad record deal with some suit who thinks their demos are ‘ really bitchin’. “I am not a character in one of your twisted daydreams. I’m a tired bloke who just wants to be alone for five bloody minutes.” He points at himself before continuing as he then points his finger at you, “And you… you are a stranger who has followed me across countries. There are no ‘few minutes of time’ to be given here. No ‘anything.’” He lets that one air out for a few seconds before finishing. “What there is… is you leaving me alone, or you leaving with two blokes in uniforms hauling you out.”

But in your eyes, there was more of a semblance of star-struck wonder and less about being the first girl to get a restraining order from Alex Turner. The pep talk felt like a one-off conversation with a brick wall, a lip-trembling, wide-eyed devotee, physically an incarnate of a fragile brick wall. His hands—once again—raked through his crunchy, messily styled hair. Christ, this is the karma I get for writing songs about my exes. He thought for a moment. Clearly, he needed to hit two birds, the first magpie had the penchant for collecting shiny little rockstars, and the other, is well, a crow that just wants to be left in peace.

“You know my name, that's no surprise, innit?” He says now, looking at you as he steps back and fumbles through his pocket, a knowing tic, to reach for his lighter. The anger was still lying underneath the cold, casual, almost dismissive tone in his voice, before continuing. “Seems fair now that I should know yours.” Stupidly, you blushed, he wants to get to know you, you lucky dog! You introduced yourself, stuttering even, and he just stared at you, his lighter dancing between his fingers as he fidgeted. It felt like romance, this was. So, you let your mind, and mouth, roam free. 

“Alex, I… I know it's so sudden that I did this, but I'm going to be honest… I just think there's this unspoken thing between us, and… well, your songs, they speak to me in ways others have never uttered to me before. I love you…”

He dropped the lighter.

Right fuckin’ hell. He flinched, physically revolted, stepping back as if to lodge away from the fact that you were actually this delusional. His eyes graced the ceiling, wishing for the whole venue to collapse right at this moment. His face, already weary and far too stressed out for a conversation like this, drowned into a mere trickle, replaced by a visceral expression between sorrow and dread.

Right, well, she's out of it. Certifiably lost the fuckin’ plot. 

Alex had a lot to say, and one would mean A LOT. He was pissed at you, sure, but would he drive an already insane woman to their death? ‘Course not, certainly not give you a few words that would end you making a new historical artifact somewhere off the coast of the Mediterranean. He looked at you, the way his earlier warnings didn't even seem to go through your head. The anger, which used to be patient enough to take all of this, was slowly curdling into stone-cold embers. He could scream at you until he’d develop laryngitis, sure. He could call security and every police force in the G8. But you were practically on another plaintiff, where the law allowed rose-tinted glasses and smooth CapCut transitions appearing out of nowhere every time you'd look at him. He could feel his stubble through his palms again as he scrubbed his hands over his face, to ground himself, or to wake himself up from this nightmare. What's the point? The question dove through his head, his shoulders slumping by a fraction as he stared back up, as if the answer had been written in the smoke-stenched ceiling this whole time, just written in braille—to be fair, it is a popcorn ceiling.

Call security, there's a scene, a report,  tour manager gets involved, it gets leaked to the press… Oh, I just know The Sun will be ravin’ about this. Ugh, a bloody nightmare, can't have that when I'm already livin’ in one.

He was tired, physically and mentally. Slowly, he let his hand drop to his sides, his brown eyes now assessing you, though the hard, cold gaze disappeared, almost as if he was just… truly looking into you after an eternity of spiritually rolling his eyes at you. Nervously, you tucked your hair back behind your ear, a shy, almost hesitant gesture. You were trembling, and Alex was unsure whether to compare your reaction to a small chihuahua. Within just a few minutes, you were now introduced as the obsessive girl that managed to sneak in his room, sniffling through his clothes like you were in foreplay with the metal hangers. He wasn't blind, nor was he deaf, he saw and heard the sheer borderline sincerity in your eyes and words, and when his gaze fell on your lips, your voice echoed in his ear, Anything.

A thought filled his head like a planted bomb, hot and ugly, and born from pure cynicism, it was unlike him to think such a twisted thing. Hell, it was a selfish, fucked-up idea. But… it was, nonetheless, a solution. A way to get what he wanted, and… yours. It would only be a moment, like playing chess… Distant Checks . He turned and headed to the door—your heart sank—only for him to close it shut, the sound of the latch echoing from inside the room. His back was still facing you, the lines of his muscles impossibly etched to the thin, sweaty shirt he was still wearing. You swallowed the saliva from your mouth that you didn’t even know was building up—a sheer testament to your perverted mind. Then, without looking, his voice was a soft hush to the deafening silence that filled the whole room. 

“You said you’d do anything.”

Yes. Yes. YES.

His head tilted back, his profile shadowed in from the soft lights above, making his jawline impossibly sharp in your perspective. “So, here’s the deal, love.” He continued slowly, as if he was waiting for you to oppose the proposal he’s about to make. “I’ll give you the, well, the chance. And after… you walk out that door, and I never see you again.” He gently raised his fingers as he continued talking, “No more waitin’ by the hotels, and you don’t show up at the next bloody venue. This moment… it never happened, it’s a secret that you take with you, alright?”

He held careful, stealthy movements as he finally faced you, his eyes boring into you, which made it all absurdly real, oh my god. He closed the distance a few inches more, the warmth of his breath tickling your temple. “You get one moment with me. And I get my peace. Deal?”

You nodded, a quick jerky excitement that twisted Alex’s stomach through a series of pure revulsions. It wasn’t just desire that fueled your decision, but a long, rabid thirst no other temptations could even quench to your closest satisfactions. This was real: his scent, his sweat, and every fluid that was allowed by the state to be consumed in the human body imaginable. The gasp, the nod, the glistening bead of saliva dripping from the corner of your lips… Jesuuuussss.  

God, she’s actually buzzin’, fuckin’ buzzin’.

He proposed a deeply debasing transaction, hoping you’d change your mind and run off, instead, he was met with a reaction that looked like you just got told that he had the cure to cancer. God, he felt dirty, genuinely clenching his teeth in pure disgust, he could hardly imagine someone to actually be this… pathetic. Alex rubbed his temples as he closed his eyes for a moment, willing the last of his composure to overcome this situation that the world has given him tonight. “Right.” The word was flat on the tip of his tongue, dead in the quiet room. He didn’t even offer a hand, instead, he leaned back against the door, sweat trickling to his forehead as the sound of distant footsteps from outside the wings was thumping in his ear, the crew probably packing in after the show.

“This is it, then,” he whispered. “The only time this will ever happen, you understand?” He made no room for you to even answer as his hands already started filling it in, his hands went to the button and zipper of his sweat-dampened jeans. The sharp z zzpp! sliced through the silence, he didn’t bother taking them off yet, just pushed the tight denims down to the bottom of his waist in a mechanical fashion, similar to a clinical test at the doctor’s. Surprisingly, he was already half-hard from the remnants of the post-adrenaline energy from the earlier performance, simply a natural reaction that felt more like betrayal to him.

“You said you’d do anything, love.” he stated, looking down at you with no sign of respect whatsoever. “So get on your fuckin’ knees.”

Your knees hit the ground faster as you scrambled to reach him. A desperate, clumsy collapse that scraped your blue jeans against the linoleum floor. Alex caught your gaze as you stared at him with a mix of crazed worship and disbelief that only made his stomach twist in an anchor-bent knot. Then, your eyes drifted down, whoa . Twitching by the second, its purple veins were a translucent tattoo on his shaft, and the tip was a pinkish hue that contrasted with the dark moss of his pubic curls. Alex practically revolted, the unshed devotion painting your face made his member jerk even more, and he hated that he was enjoying this. It was one thing to see that look from the crowd, but here? With his open fly and your breath steaming at his cock? Christ, this was some Stanley Kubrick type of sinister. 

“Don't just fuckin’ stare at it,” he snarled. “You're the one who begged for this, get on with it.” 

But it was obvious that you were too mesmerized to even move, and this just pissed him off even further. Without even breaking a sweat, he took the back of your hair with his hand, your strands pulled taut from the root as he lifted your head up, hard enough that you heard something crack, and you gasped, mouth open as you begged him to let you go. He leaned down, your noses inches apart as he stared at your frightened, shaking state. Unexpectedly, he gathered a glob of saliva from his very mouth. Hckk . 

Then, he spat.

The fluid was warm on your tongue, your whole body shivering from shame and excitement. As he pulled back, his hold on your scalp had tightened. There was no room for hesitation left, Alex was hearing none of it as he swiftly shoved his hips forward in your open mouth, slamming home. It was a brutal violation as you forced your jaw to relax, not wanting to hurt him. His thrusts were relentless, taking everything. The pedestal he was standing on was now being jackhammered by himself, but it only spurred your lust even further. The sound of your wet-strangled sound that was coming straight from the back of your throat was obscene and pornographic, you could hardly breathe. As you tried to control the rest of the bodily functions you had left: which was inhaling through your nose, the musky scent of his pubes filled your lungs, a heady aroma that made you impossibly wetter between your thighs.

Ghgk. Hhgk. Ghck—!

Every chance of survival wasn't even in your head as you only thought of his length hitting the back of your throat beautifully. The sensation was incredibly full, bypassing any access to your body's most basic limits. As you looked up, he watched, this whole time. His hazel brown eyes clouded with pure dehumanizing lust, brows furrowed as he concentrated on chasing the high his reluctant body was getting off from your eager mouth, teeth gritting as a series of rasps and groans escaped his lips in denial.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at you… fuckin’ slut.” He gasped, “Ah—wanted this bad, didn’t you?”

Just as you were about to touch yourself from under your hoodie. A shrill digital buzz of a phone interrupted the two of you, shattering the impossibly tense moment in the green room. As a devoted fan who needed to hide in plain sight, it was obviously not yours. It was his phone, from the pocket of his jeans. He froze, hands stilling from the once tight grip from your head before he pulled you off, you collapsed back on the ground, coughing, wheezing, but he didn't even pay attention to you, he was already fumbling for his phone, and as he lifted the screen, it felt as though he had a bucket of ice cold water dropped above his head. It was Arielle.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Guilt coiled his guts like barbed wires. Fuck, does she know? Did someone…? Fuck—Did someone hear us from outside? FUCK.

In a haste, without even thinking, he swiped the call to answer it, an unwelcome instinct born from self-destruction. He immediately pressed the phone to his ear, his voice merely a strained whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Al? Hey…” Her voice was softer now, the kind of softness he'd miss in a while. “Look, I'm sorry about before… it's just… I missed you, baby. I shouldn't have… you know, been a big bitch.” 

The shudder that left his body was the manifestation of guilt that he'd been burying inside of him this whole fucking week. Christ, she shouldn't be the one apologisin’ . He closed his eyes shut, almost as if to forget about the very presence of the girl in front of him. The weight of his tiredness leaned against the door, his back against the cool wooden frame as he looked up.

“No, I'm sorry, love…” he whispered. “It’s fine… I've just been very busy, darlin’.” 

He could feel the unnerving stare from you even when he had his eyes closed, like it was a physical touch. He knew that you were listening, barely even breathing just to hear the one-sided conversation closely, still, he ignored you. His girl was here, on the line, and that's what he needed now.

But you had other plans, of course. 

Before Alex could even process the sudden shift in your action, you leaned forward again, gone was the hesitant look in your eyes, even in your movement—no mess, no clumsiness—as you took him in your mouth, as if you were doing it now for something to prove. Then, you hollowed your cheeks, creating a seal of unrelented suction. Your skills had shown, eager, meticulous suckles that would drive him to his own madness, and your tongue worked him with vengeance. It was an active worship, but farther than that, it was absolution. 

Alex felt the pleasure, diving in the deepest, warmest body of water, adrenaline rushing through his spine as his knees buckled. The gasp he let out was evidently loud from the mic of his phone.

“What was that?” his girlfriend asked, her voice distant but enough to rattle through his teeth.

“N-nothin’.” He stuttered, his free hand balling into a fist. “Matt… uh, dropped summat.”

Oh Really? You hummed softly, taking him even deeper, your throat working him in as he succumbs to the slick heat of your wet mouth, and what's worse is that he was tethering on the edge of surrender. His mind goes completely blank, and his head finally ducks down to look at you in shameful lust and horror at the incredible deep pressure in your mouth as you devour him in ways he hasn't felt before, not even with her.

The groan that escaped his throat was uncalled for, truly he tried his best to fight it, chewing the insides of his cheeks, but in the end, it didn't help. You sensed his struggles, a small victory that swelled through your heart, a selfish reward that tasted just as good as he did. You took him deeper, widening your jaw as you took him whole, his pubes invading your nose, and you inhaled his musky scent again, making your visions fade in momentary bliss. It was a devastating pull that ripped the last shreds of his self-control from his very lungs.

“HNGH—!”

“Al, what the hell was that?” 

He couldn't answer, God, he couldn't even trust himself to open his mouth. But still, he tried.

“ ‘ve gotta go.” He gasps out before ending the call with a trembling touch. The cool metal dropped from his sweaty palm, the loud thud from the floor was a mirrored sound to his state of mind. All he could think of now was you, you, you.

Alex bit his bottom lip as he—by all odds—whimpered at your pure sadistic devotion. His brain felt like mush, and his hips were fastening, rutting endlessly inside of you, the buckle from his belt clanking with each thrust filled the room, accompanying the schlk sounds escaping you, his hands flying out to grip the back of your head. Steering—not from the earlier irritation and built-up anger—but by a hopeless, humane need that his body was begging for. He fucked your mouth like an animal, saliva slipping through the corners of your lips, snot escaping your nose, as your glossy, tear-filled eyes stared at him. Heaven is on earth, indeed. 

“Oh… fuuuuckin’ hell… Hah—”

“Ugh—just like that, love. Agh—don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

He looked so lost in the heat, sweat trickling all over his face, those half-closed eyes, lip-biting expression seared to the deepest parts of your brain, and the groans that escaped his lips practically vibrated through every nerve ending in your system. He moaned out your name like a prayer, for a deity he didn't believe in.

He bucked once.

Then twice.

Before, finally. A surge of white vision blinded him as he lets out a helpless groan, his back bowing off the door as he came sharply, hitting the back of your throat, a release that felt like life and death itself. His body shook violently as his body sagged against the door, catching his breath. You stepped back for a bit, coughing up as you wiped the remains of his cum from your lips, the taste of him was bitter but exquisite, an acquired taste you could get used to if he'd let you.

You looked down, and his phone was still on the ground, cracked from the drop impact from earlier, but for a moment, the air was still, and for a fleeting second, Alex didn't remember.

That was when he trailed where your eyes were on. Then, a hot, vicious, violent energy slowly surged through him as he shoved himself off the door. He looked down at you, still kneeling on the ground. Your hair was a mess, and you were dazed from the very irresponsible stunt you just pulled. He did a quick zip of his jeans before buckling up his belt, hands shaking as he looped it in his pants. Then, his eyes were on you. He quickly grabs you by the front of your hoodie, his knuckles brushing your chest as he pulls you up before tossing you on the leather sofa. You stumbled, panicking.

“What the fuck were you doing, huh?” he spat silently, which to you felt more dangerous than shouting. “Huh? While she was on the phone? Are you that fuckin’ stupid, or just fuckin’ mental?” 

He stood over you, grabbing your face, his thumb and fingers gauging your jaw open, and you cried out, and for a moment, you felt actual fear from his action. It was a sick, twisted thing to do, yes, but nonetheless, you just wanted him, all to yourself. Is that ever so bad? Alex looked at you closely. “You wanted to get caught? You wanted her to hear? Is that part of the little movie you play in your head? God…” He couldn’t even hide the anger anymore, the sheer disrespect accosting him, not only his image but also his relationship. He wanted to physically throw you out into the corridor and let security deal with the fallout. But, with a surprisingly tender grip, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. You were breathing heavily, regulating yourself as you cried in distress. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What he saw stopped him cold. Your eyes were wide, yes, but with an almost comical remorse, with a tinge of haze, still unfocused and still lost in the afterglow, and now you were being pushed like a ragdoll by a man you’ve looked up to for God knows how long. In the back of his mind ensued the recollection of the climax from earlier, the all-consuming pleasure. Despite the riskiness of it, a part of Alex enjoyed it, and he hated himself for it. It was just a head, yes, but Christ, it was better than any fumbled encounters with the groupies he’s had on the road, better than any detached, borderline clinical intercourses he’d been having for months. It was raw, desperate, undeniably sickening, but also… undeniably incredible.

He sighed, a long shuddering sound of a man who knew too much of what he felt and what he had to decide.

He slowly lets go of your face, his hands dropping to his side as he stands up. The anger was still lurking, it was clear in his hard, cold gaze, yet it instilled something within, something close to another cruel, opportunistic idea that he knew wouldn’t play out well, he knew he couldn’t send you away. Not yet.

“Get up,” he ordered, before changing his mind. “No. Stay there.”

He started pacing around the room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair again before finally turning back to look at you. “Hotel de Russie,” he said. The place was a familiar spot in your mind. Of course you did, you knew the band was staying there.

“Room 412. Be there at 2 am. Don’t be early. Don’t be late,” he says, stepping closer to you again, and this time, you didn’t even move back, not even an inch. “Don’t talk to anyone in the lobby; go straight up. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your fucking life. Do you understand me?”

You were about to answer. Yes, yes, and yes . When suddenly, a muffled voice erupted from outside, close to the other side of the locked door, followed by the sounds of a light knock.

“Al? You in there, mate? We’re heading out.”

It’s Miles.

The panic was evident on Alex’s handsome face, he didn’t even bother looking at you as he snatched his phone from the floor, shoved it deep in his pocket and turned to the door. He pulled it open, a small gap in which he filled his body with, covering any evidence of his secret from inside.

“Yeah, alright.” he called out, voice surprisingly steady.