vengo dalla luna!

did you expect something different? i bet she talks dirty, like she's on a mission.

los angeles, december 31st, 2014.

the past couple of weeks went by in a blur of studio time, writing sessions, and goofing off. you, alex and miles had managed to accumulate a decent number of demos that were worth revisiting.

it was new years eve in L.A, and you were staying at alex's place in the hollywood hills. it was a beautiful mid-century modern home, secluded from the bustling city, with a great view and even its own recording space. the pleasant weather was a nice and well-deserved break from london's biting cold winters, and you'd been spending most of your time either on the beach or in his studio.

"i don't get it," you said, squinting at the tv screen as the credits rolled. it was ten in the morning, and your were on your fourth james bond movie of the weekend. today, it was from russia with love, and last night it was you only live twice. with all this time on your hands, alex insisted he show you all the greats, from music to movies to books.

"there's not much to get," responded alex. he sat next to you on the couch, his knee dangerously close to knocking against yours. you yawned.

the front door opened and closed, and you heard footsteps. your head turned to see miles, holding three iced coffees and a paper bag. you'd sent him to pick up bagels from your favorite place. "i come bearing gifts," miles said, setting the drinks and bag down on the coffee table before leaving to grab plates from the kitchen.

"you're the best!" you yelled back at him.

one bagel, an iced coffee, and two episodes of seinfeld later, you got up from the couch. "i'm going to wash my hair," you said, grabbing your drink, "so nobody bother me for at least three hours!"

"got it," alex responded, his eyes following you as you left the living room and walked up the stairs. he then looked at miles, who just kicked him playfully and smiled.

you spent the rest of the afternoon in the guest bedroom, where you'd been staying for the past two weeks. one window was left ajar as you sat at the vanity, doing your hair and makeup. the air was crisp and sweet, purling through the vibrant canopy of leaves outside your room. your phone laid on the table next to you playing your favorite playlist. between that and the loud whirring of your hairdryer, you didn't hear alex come in.

"fuck!" you yelped, "alex, you can't do that!" you turned around hit him with a hand towel.

"sorry, sorry!" he laughed, "i said your name like five times. anyway—i thought you might want this." he held out his hand. in it, was a necklace; gorgeous, probably expensive as shit, and went with your outfit for tonight beautifully.

"oh, jeez. wow." your face flushed a bit as you looked up at him. you had no idea where this was coming from. "are you sure you want me to have it?" you asked. how the fuck would he even know? you thought.

"of course i do," alex responded genuinely.

“put it on for me?" you asked, turning around in your seat to face the vanity mirror. he stood behind you and clasped the necklace.

"pretty," he said softly. "i'm really glad you like it." you could only stare at him dumbfounded as he left the guest bedroom, a gentle hand rested over your chest where the pendant lay.

-

the three of you were ready to leave for the party by seven. the sun had already set, leaving the neighborhood only illuminated by dim street lamps and front porch lights. the house, alex said, was only a few blocks away, and since you'd be drinking, it made sense to just walk. you had a very expensive bottle of wine in hand, while miles carried a case of miller lite. the slight breeze made your hair stick to your lipgloss, and you looked up to see a full moon.

you kicked a rock along as you walked, not caring if you scuffed your brand new heels. miles noticed your restlessness, but decided not to say anything.

less than ten minutes later, you stood in front of the house. it was similar to alex's, nestled between trees and looking like it came straight out of a storybook. inside, you were immediately greeted with a sea of unfamiliar faces and strong perfume.

the playlist was an odd mix of sixties jazz and current indie. you set the wine bottle you brought in a cooler in the kitchen, and then was immediately at a loss for what to do next. you searched the room for a familiar face.

"camille, i'm so glad to see you!" you hugged her dramatically, almost making her spill her drink.

"i'm glad to see you too," she told you genuinely before pulling away slightly to see your face. "who're you here with?"

"alex and miles." you said a bit sheepishly. you looked around to see alex gesticulating wildly to two other guys—probably telling a terrible story for the hundredth time—and miles getting himself a beer.

"really? i thought they were 'done with L.A,'" she mocked in a very bad british accent.

"well, we're writing another album. they were done with L.A until al decided he writes better in warm climates." you rolled your eyes playfully.

"such a princess." camille laughed.

"that's what i'm saying!"

your chat was interrupted when someone announced that they were starting karaoke. it'd only been an hour, and these people already wanted to hear their own voices more than they already were. you looked over at the living room to see alex, holding a cheap microphone. of course, you thought. next to him, also holding a microphone, was a tall blonde girl. the first notes of ain't no mountain high enough began playing from the tv speakers and you let yourself laugh.

she was tall, lithe, and unbelievably gorgeous. movie-star pretty. you weren't sure if you wanted to be her or be with her.

eventually, with enough convincing and a few more drinks in you, camille finally got you to go up there. you reluctantly performed a very watery rendition of prince's purple rain, which surprisingly turned out to be quite the hit. you could feel alex's eyes on you even with your back turned. camille sat next to the blonde girl on the couch and cheered obnoxiously loud when the song finished.

"i shouldn't have done that," you said to the blonde girl in the kitchen. maybe if you had another beer you could forget this all ever happened.

"what!? you were great!" she exclaimed, grabbing the bottle opener magnet from the fridge to help you. "oh! i'm taylor, by the way," she said, opening your beer for you.

"it's nice to meet you! i'm (y/n)," you responded, trying to sober up a bit. "thank you, by the way."

"no problem," she smiled and put a welcoming hand on your shoulder.

you glanced up at the clock to see there were five minutes 'til minute. taylor must've noticed too, because she gasped. "it's almost midnight!" she grabbed your hand and you followed her to the living room, where most people were gathered. alex was looking for her, and you knew where this was going. you looked around, slightly frantic, to see miles also standing alone, and you sighed in relief.

"...five, four, three, two, one, happy new year!"

at the countdown to midnight, you kissed miles's cheek, figuring it was better than nothing. your eyes, however, were on alex practically shoving his tongue down taylor's throat. the room erupted in wild cheers and laughter.

-

"i think i'm gonna go home with her," you overheard alex say to miles.

in response, miles just nodded and you made out him saying "be safe, have fun," and patting his shoulder before walking away.

you immediately looked away as miles then came over to you and rested a hand gently on the small of your back. it seemed like everyone tonight was treating you like a wobbly baby deer, even some of your best friends. "you wanna head out soon?" he asked you.

"isn't it still early?"

"yeah, but i think we've done enough for one night,"

"i suppose you're right," you nodded in agreement. he held his arm out for you and you took it gratefully.

the walk home was the most peaceful part of your day so far. you let miles just talk, retelling all the ridiculous stories he heard tonight."...however, i did talk to someone who said he could score us a set at the cafe hotel to try some material out." he said.

"that's good," you nodded, your head rested on his shoulder.

"you feelin' alright?" miles asked, probably for the fifth time in your very short walk.

He’d always dreamed of starting a band. Growing up around music, it was a passion that had been nurtured and developed over the years. Himself and Matt would watch the clock in school, yearning for the clock to hit 3pm, so they could race home and learn songs by The Strokes. The band soon materialised as more than a dream, with Jamie and Nick, boys from another school who had answered Alex’s ad on Myspace, coming on board. They practiced for hours in the garage of Alex’s house, covers and a handful of originals. Alex’s dad would scold them for being too loud, but having a passion for music himself, could never quite convey enough anger in his voice, and would walk away from the garage with a smile on his face. He was proud of his son for having a passion.

There was to be no practice today, as they had secured fake IDs, and were going to attempt to get into a club in the town. This made a difference from their usual Friday nights, by stealing their parent’s alcohol, and getting drunk in either the local park or Alex’s garage. They were going along with Nathan, Sean and Stephen, Sean’s older brother in the year above, who was a handy contact to have in that he was 18 and could buy alcohol. Alex had been quite lonely in primary school and early secondary school, only really having Matt to call a friend, so he was glad to be part of a group at this stage in his life, at the grand age of 16. Despite that, he was wary of Stephen, who always seemed to be on the lookout for a way to take the piss out of someone. He liked Sean and Nathan well enough, but really, he would have preferred to sit in the garage and continue practice, and he preferred hanging out with Matt, Jamie and Nick, despite never really seeing Jamie and Nick that much outside of practice. They had nearly mastered the whole album of Is This It, by the Strokes and he was very proud of this.

“Come on mate, it’ll be fun,” Matt nudged him at lunchtime. “Don’t be a downer. Nights like these might end up giving us inspiration for songs, anyway.”

Alex perked up at this. He liked writing, but he had to admit to himself, maybe Matt was right. The best writing does come from one’s own experience. “So, will we have a few beers in the garage first? No music, I promise,” he added quickly, seeing Sean’s raised eyebrows.

“Your dad won’t mind?” Nathan questioned.

“Not so much him we need to worry about,” Alex shrugged. “More my mum. But she doesn’t finish work until 10pm, so we’ll likely be away by then.”

The boys agreed they would ask Stephen to grab them some cans from the local off-licence, before meeting Jamie and Nick. At that point, Stephen came into the canteen with a group of boys from his year, the leader of the pack, a role he seemed to take on in any group that he was a part of. He was tall, broad-shouldered and had a commanding presence that could make even the manliest people feel small. Upon spotting Alex and the rest, a grin spread over his face and he bounded over.

“You lads looking forward to tonight?” He clapped his hands together, before ruffling Sean, his little brother’s, hair. “Clubs are great fun. Lots of drunk girls with low self-esteem looking for a good time, if you know what I mean.”

It was this sort of talk that made Alex wary of Stephen. But he forced a laugh, so as to fit in.

“I think even a monkey would know what you mean,” Matt laughed.

“You would know Matt, the only girls you’ve ever been basically are monkeys,” Stephen boomed. “Let’s hope you have better luck tonight.”

“Can you get us some cans, Stephen?” Sean inquired. “Gonna have a few beers at Alex’s first.”

They exchanged money, Stephen agreeing to call later tonight. Stephen took a seat at the table beside Nathan, and the chat about the club continued. Alex was feeling both nervous and excited, wondering what to do in the event that his fake ID isn’t believed, and also wondering what a club would be like.

Alex could tell Stephen was in a taunting mood, as he glanced around the canteen. Many people were clearing out, getting ready to go to their next classes. Only a few tables remained.

You were sitting at a table by yourself, minding your own business and reading “The Catcher in The Rye.” You were really enjoying it, not minding so much that you were by yourself. You weren’t hated at school by any means, and were pretty friendly with everyone, but you didn’t have a solid group of friends. Sometimes this got you down, but you enjoyed your own company, so you could usually entertain yourself.

Alex watched Stephen’s eyes wander, before they landed on you at the table next to them, a smirk displayed on his face. “Oi!”

You looked up as the light was blocked by Stephen’s broad figure. He was smirking down at you, his expression making you uneasy.

“You know, it’s been said that I can make a girl wet really easily,” he taunted.

You were both confused and disgusted in equal measure, and all you could find yourself saying was, “What?”

“I can make a girl wet really easily. Look.”

And before you could say anything or do anything, water was being poured over your head, all over your book, leaving you completely soaked and your book ruined. It felt like laughter was the only sound that could be heard in the whole world, as you grabbed your stuff and raced from the canteen, tears burning at your eyes.

Alex watched you go, feeling terrible, wanting to run after you and make sure you were okay. But all the lads were laughing, even Matt was chuckling slightly, and he didn’t know what to do. So he laughed as well, not wanting to risk being criticised.

But you were all he could think about for the rest of the afternoon, wondering if you were okay. He didn’t know you that well, the extent of your relationship was that you sat a couple of desks away from him in English. You seemed sweet really, delicately pretty and never saying much, keeping yourself to yourself. Sometimes, when he was bored and his eyes wandered, he could see you underlining lines in your books during class.

You had a double period of English that afternoon. You tried to dry your uniform and hair under the hand dryer. You attempted to do the same with your book but soon gave up and accepted that it was ruined. Despite this, you shoved it in your bag and made your way to English.

Your eyes fell on one of the boys from earlier, Alex, when you entered the class. You could have sworn he was looking at you sympathetically for a split second, but when you looked again, his head was down and his eyes focused on his notes. You sat down, sighing, wishing for the day to be over.

You walked home alone that day, as you always did. On your way home, you spotted the boys from earlier all walking together and laughing. The one who threw the water over you had one of the others in a headlock. You didn’t understand boys, and the ways they acted towards each other with such violence that they claimed was fun. You put your head down anyway, and walked briskly, hoping to make yourself invisible.

***

Friday night at the club consisted of sticky floors, the smell of sweat, and more drinks than Alex could count. Due to this, Alex spent more or less the whole weekend recovering from a hangover. He hadn’t thought about you all weekend, until Sunday night when you popped into his head out of nowhere. He wondered how you felt after the incident, and hated himself for not saying anything. The book you were reading, The Catcher In The Rye, was one of his favourites. He pictured you, sitting in English class, underlining your favourite lines as you always seemed to be doing.

Over the next week, Alex found that you seemed to be occupying his thoughts more and more. Whether it was guilt or not, he didn’t know, but he found himself watching you every chance he got. The way your hair seemed to fall so delicately over your shoulder as you leaned over your book. The way your chin fit perfectly in your hand as you concentrated during class.

“Alex? Are you listening?”

He was struck out of his daze as his English teacher called on him. Embarrassed, with everyone’s eyes turned to him, he mumbled an apology before determining to put you out of his thoughts and concentrate. Exams were coming up, and between that and band practice, he had enough on his mind.

After English on Tuesdays, Alex had a free period, so he took a walk into the town to take a browse in the music shop. There was an absolutely beautiful Fender Jazzmaster that he loved to spend hours looking at, and tracing his fingers over the strings when none of the staff were looking.

His free period was nearly over, so he left the music shop and started the walk back to school, when the book shop caught his eye. He couldn’t help but wander in for a look, flashes of you passing in his mind. Images of you further cemented in his head when he came across a copy of The Catcher in The Rye, and before he knew it he was at the till, purchasing the copy.

He fished a pen out of his bag, and leaned on the windowsill outside the shop, scribbling a note in the front page. He wrote, “Make sure to underline your favourite lines.” He didn’t sign his name.

When he got back to school, he looked in to the English classroom, seeing that it was empty. It was nearing the end of the day, and as you and Alex both had English first thing tomorrow, he concurred that it would be safe to leave the copy on your desk.

The next day, Alex arrived early to class so that he could both watch for the safety of the book, and see your reaction. Seeing the pleasant surprise on your face made his stomach fill with butterflies.

He felt both afraid and desperate to talk to you, and enraged at the fact that in your mind, you probably lumped him in with the likes of Stephen. He watched you all day in English that day, you seemed to become more beautiful with every passing moment. At one point, you put the end of your pen in your mouth absentmindedly, and he thought he might pass out.

The thoughts were becoming more obsessive every day. Perhaps it was puberty talking, but he started to imagine kissing you, you running your hands through his hair, him grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer to him. He needed to catch a grip on himself, really. He had barely spoken to you, maybe a few passing words, here and there.

It seemed that Stephen had set his sights on you as his new victim since the day in the canteen. From then on, he made efforts to trip you up, taunt you, shout after you in the halls and in the street. Still, Alex said nothing.

You just hoped that things would be better after school ended. You would go off to university, make new friends, and look back on these school memories and laugh. You comforted yourself with these thoughts. You couldn’t catch a break lately. The only good thing that had happened was the mystery copy of The Catcher in The Rye. You wondered who had gifted it to you. You thought maybe it had been your teacher, but you were too embarrassed to ask and you thought it might lead to questions about what had happened in the first place, which you really didn’t want to get into. You didn’t want to make things worse than they already were.

On a rainy Wednesday, you were walking home, when Stephen pushed past you, making you fall on your knees onto the wet ground. The horrible sound of laughter filled the air again, when it was suddenly broken by an angry voice.

“Hey! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

At first you thought it was directed at you. You turned around, seeing a short and stocky girl with flaming red hair storming towards where you were. Her eyes were furious, but they weren’t directed at you, but at Stephen.

“Where do you get off, Stephen, huh? Pushing a woman? Is there something wrong with you?”

She held out a hand to you to help you up, and you took it, brushing yourself off.

Stephen just smirked, and shrugged. “It was an accident.”

The redhead scoffed. “You were an accident, by the looks of things. Come on,” she turned to you. “Let’s get you cleaned up. My house isn’t far from here.”

It turned out her name was Katie, she was in your year, but you didn’t have any classes with her. She didn’t possess your shy disposition, which you admired. You walked with her back to her house, a small townhouse tucked at the end of the street.

“Make yourself at home,” Katie said, when you went inside. You sat down on the edge of the sofa in the sitting room, feeling incredibly shy.

Katie returned with some cotton pads. “I’ve stuck the kettle on,” she said, passing you the damp cotton pad to dab your knees with. “And I’m starving. Fancy a cheese toastie?”

You followed her into the kitchen after you cleaned up your knees. You didn’t really know what to say, apart from a mumbled thanks, to which she just shrugged and said “Anytime. Those guys are dicks.” You watched her as she assembled the toasties and tea, accidentally brushing the crumbs onto the floor and shrugging again when she noticed.

“So, what’s your name?” Katie asked when she sat down, putting the toasties and tea in front of you both.

You told her, munching on the toastie, not realising how hungry you were. “This is amazing. Thanks.”

“It’s my secret recipe. Cheese and bread,” she joked. “So, you okay?”

“Oh yeah, don’t worry. I’m fine. You know that guy?”

“Cunt from the year above. Picks on the vulnerable, you know the type.”

You just nodded, slurping your tea.

“So, you smoke?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay, thanks.”

“You mind if I do?”

You shook your head, and Katie leaned over the table to pull open a drawer in the sideboard. She pulled out a grinder and papers.

“Is that weed?” you chuckled, under the impression that she had meant cigarettes before.

“Yeah, you wanna try it?”

And from then on, you had a best friend, something you had never experienced. You and Katie walked to and from school together. You smoked weed together after school before her parents got home and listened to Steely Dan. You made more cheese toasties and cups of tea than you could count. You talked about the books the both of you were reading, and swapped them afterwards. You spent every moment not in class or sleeping with Katie. And your parents liked her, and were glad to see that you had a friend.

“If I’d known that him doing those things would have helped me make friends, I would have asked him to start doing it a long time ago,” you laughed one afternoon out Katie’s back garden, passing the joint between the two of you.

“Well, now you have one,” Katie smiled. “I’ve never had loads of friends myself. Though, there are some people I’d like to you meet, I met them down at the skate park. Sometimes I hang out with them and have a drink. One of them is the fella I get weed off.”

You had pictured this guy to be a really scary man, bald with face tattoos and generally unapproachable. His name was Jamie, and he was a year older than you like Katie. When you told Katie how you pictured him, she nearly spat out her tea in laughter. “He’s literally the opposite of that,” Katie laughed. “I think they’re hanging out there today, if you fancy calling?”

“I can’t skateboard.”

“Half of the people at the skate park can’t skateboard. It’s just a place to hang out. I can though,” she added cheekily, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

So you made your way to the skate park, full of graffitied half-pipes and kids with long hair, falling flat onto their knees and then getting back up, unfazed.

“There they are,” said Katie, pointing to a group of two boys and one girl, gathered on a staircase, passing a joint. You made your way over to them and Katie introduced you.

“Hey,” Jamie greeted you. “Nice sticker.”

He pointed to the Stone Roses sticker stuck to your bag. “Oh, thanks.”

“Controversial opinion. Stone Roses self-titled is better than Oasis’ entire discography,” said the girl. “I’m Holly.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jamie scoffed. “Yeah, they’re good, but they only have that one good album. Oasis have built an empire.”

They continued to bicker, and you found yourself laughing along as Jamie nudged her on the shoulder, telling her to shut up. The teasing all seemed to be in good fun, and you and Katie sat down, the joint being passed to you, as well as a beer.

“Jamie and Nick are in a band,” Katie told you.

“If you can even call it that,” Nick laughed. “We’ve only got a few of our own songs. Alex pretty much wants us to be a Strokes cover band, at the rate he’s going.”

“Plus, we haven’t even had any gigs yet,” Jamie sighed.

“The end of year formal is coming up at our school,” you said, and then immediately regretted it. “But, that might be kind of lame.”

“Might be a good place to do a first gig,” Nick considered. “Think you could get us in?”

“Oh, I have no contacts,” you laughed.

“I might,” Katie shrugged. “I used to be pretty friendly with the girl who is organising it. Emily, she’s called. As far as I know they haven’t got anyone yet.”

***

Over the next few weeks, you ended up spending a lot of time with Katie and her group. They were all really nice, Nick was quiet, Jamie quite cheeky, Holly bubbly and opinionated. You drank and smoked at the skate park, sometimes just you and the girls when the boys were practicing. You found out little bits here and there about the band, what instruments Jamie and Nick played, what type of music they were into, but you hadn’t met the other members yet. You were really hoping to see them play at some point, which is why you were glad when Katie brought news at lunchtime on Wednesday.

“Well, we’ve got the boys in to play at the formal,” she grinned, plopping herself down on the bench next to you. “It didn’t take that much persuading. I think Emily was desperate as she’d blown all the budget on piñatas.”

“That’s great,” you said. You’d been wanting to bring up something with Katie but you weren’t entirely sure how to approach it. “So, have you got a date?”

“Yeah, we both have?” Katie said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Jamie and Nick. Jamie’s taking you.”

“Oh,” you blushed. “I didn’t realise.”

“Normally I would go stag,” Katie took a bite of your sandwich. “To defy the patriarchy. But, we need a lift there and I figured they’re going anyway to play the gig, so what the hell? So, I asked Nick, because his parents have a seven seater, and Jamie overheard and said he would take you.”

When Alex heard the news that they would be doing their first gig at the formal, he nearly had a panic attack. From then on, it was practice every day, rehearsing The Strokes, The Beatles, The Kinks until their fingers bled. He could barely sleep with fear and excitement. He hadn’t even realised that he hadn’t thought about you in weeks, until Nick said something at practice.

“So lads, we’re taking my dad’s seven seater to the gig. Should be able to fit all the gear in the boot, if not, someone will have to take a guitar in their lap. By the way, we’re bringing dates.”

“Dates? How?” Matt asked incredulously. “It’s not even your school!”

“Yeah, but it is Katie’s,” Nick shrugged. “And her friend. Jamie’s going with her.”

“This is supposed to be a gig! Not a night out,” Alex rolled his eyes.

“Same thing,” Jamie grinned. “C’mon, lighten up. We’ll do the gig and then we can have a bit of fun after, surely? Please tell me that cunt Stephen isn’t going,” he added. “I hate that guy.”

“He’s going with Nathan and Sean,” Matt said. “They all have dates. We were going to meet them there.”

Jamie put his hands out on either side, with his fingertip touching his thumb, in mock meditation. “Can’t let anything ruin the gig.”

The boys all laughed, Nick shoving Jamie playfully. Alex’s mind was elsewhere, though, as you had taken up presence in his mind once again. He was imagining taking you to the formal, how beautiful you would look with your hair pinned back and a flowy dress, your hands around his neck as he slow danced with you, smiling sweetly up at him.

“Oi!” Matt was clicking his fingers in front of Alex’s face, snapping him out of his daze. “What do you wanna do next?”

“Um, let’s do “You Really Got Me”. The Kinks,” Alex mumbled, trying to push you out of his mind.

The day of the formal, you and Katie rushed to your house after school. Katie had left her dress at yours already, a simple black dress that came to her knees, that she was wearing with Doc Martens, claiming that heels were a bitch. You, on the other hand, were going to wear a pale pink dress, also stopping at your knees, with silver heels that your mum had gifted you for the occasion.

“I agree though, heels are a bitch,” your mum laughed as she walked past your bedroom that afternoon while you and Katie were getting ready. “But they do look lovely on you, sweetie.”

“Thanks mum,” you replied, making the finishing touches to your make-up, before turning to Katie who proclaimed herself as useless at make-up, and kept blinking at the wrong times.

“So, when are the boys picking you up?” your mum inquired.

“In like, 5 minutes,” you said, rushing around and piling random stuff into a handbag, while Katie picked up your mascara and stared at it curiously, as if it were going to attack her at any second. You grabbed it and shoved it into your handbag. “C’mon,” you said to her. “We should wait downstairs.”

“Photos!” your mum clapped her hands together happily when you went downstairs. She took a polaroid camera from the drawer, lined you and Katie up against the wall and directed you into different poses, classy, silly, fun, smiley. Before you knew it, Jamie and Nick were at the door.

“The lads are waiting in the car,” Jamie grinned. “Think they’re embarrassed they don’t have dates. You look great by the way,” He added, smiling at you.

You tried to not let your face go completely red as your mum started to include Jamie and Nick in the photoshoot. Jamie seemed in good humour about it though, putting two fingers up behind your head and sticking his tongue out. When the photos were done, your mum gave you a kiss on the cheek and told you to be home for 12.

“I will!” You shouted happily, as you ran down the driveway towards the seven seater, hand in hand with Katie.

Alex and Matt sat in the seven seater, and Jamie was right, they were sort of embarrassed that they didn’t have dates. To be honest, it hadn’t even really occurred to Alex, being so focused on the gig itself. He sat in the 2 back seats with Matt, who was grumbling. “How do those two have dates and we don’t?”

“I don’t k-“ Alex stopped mid-sentence.

“What?” Matt said, following Alex’s eyes, who was staring out the window, his mouth agape. “Wait a second, is that-“

“Yes,” Alex scowled. “Yes, it is.”

He watched as you skipped down the drive, a grin taking up your whole face, hand in hand with the girl who had confronted Stephen that day after he pushed you. Anger bubbled up inside him as Jamie opened the door for you, his hand on the small of your back. He could have jumped over the seats and punched him. Especially, when you got into the car, and saw their faces, your face dropped.

“Oh no, not you,” Katie rolled her eyes.

“What?” Nick laughed, confused.

“These aren’t the guys in your band, are they?” Katie folded her arms.

“Yeah, why-“

“Nothing,” you interjected. “It’s nothing.”

Katie saw your face, and said nothing further. You were looking forward to tonight, and you didn’t want anything to ruin it. You felt amazing in your dress, and Jamie was fun, even though you were certain that this was just as friends. You put your seatbelt on and faced forward, trying to pretend that Alex and the other guy (you thought maybe his name was Matt, he wasn’t in any of your classes) weren’t there. You could feel eyes burning into you, but you just tried to focus on Katie, Jamie and Nick.

It was right that eyes were burning into you, the eyes of Alex. He was staring at you, basically drooling, at the way your hair was styled half-up, half-down, showing your shoulders. He could smell a fruity, flowery scent coming from you that was intoxicating. He could feel himself going into another one his trances, and tried to snap himself out of it. Tonight was about the gig, he needed to focus.

When you arrived at the venue, Jamie took your hand to help you up the steps. Alex could have murdered him, right then and there. He didn’t know why he was getting so worked up, it wasn’t like he really knew you. He’d just found that lately, he’d discovered something magical that he had been too stupid to notice had been there the whole time.

“Okay, well, we’re going to go play our gig,” Jamie said. “See you girls after?”

“I might have to take Katie home early, from the looks of things,” you joked, as Katie pulled a hip flask from her Doc Martens and began swigging it. “Now I know the real reason she wanted to wear DMs.”

You and Katie made your way over to the drinks table (and by drinks, it consisted of lemonade and coke, “mixers” as Katie said). The band made their way to the stage to set up their gear. Stephen stumbled up with Nathan and Sean, clearly already having had too much.

“Well, faggots,” he boomed, a fierceness in his eyes that seemed particularly intense today. “Should we start giving out the earplugs now?”

“Ha-ha,” said Jamie, who had never been afraid of Stephen, despite being smaller, and not as broad. He followed the philosophy that a bully only continues bullying when you don’t stand up them. “Do you have any earplugs by chance? I’ll need them, if you plan on continuing to talk.”

Jamie and Nick shared a look, sniggering. Stephen backed down, partly because he was very drunk, and partly because Jamie’s philosophy was correct. He turned his attention to Nathan instead, getting him in a headlock and dragging him away, towards the drinks table.

The boys finished setting up their gear, and Emily, the girl who organised the formal, introduced them as “Arctic Monkeys”, a name that Jamie had coined randomly the other week. They couldn’t think of anything else, so they got stuck with it.

They played a few Strokes, a few The Kinks (“You Really Got Me” proving to be a good choice, as it got the crowd going), a few Beatles, and 2 originals, “Matt Dave Rock Song” and “Ravey Ravey Ravey Club”.

You watched in admiration. Their sound seemed both really unique, but reminiscent of a sort of garage rock that you had listened to before. Your eyes seemed drawn to Alex, no matter where you tried to look, they automatically moved back to him. He possessed a disposition that appeared both shy and confident at the same time. It was really attractive, and you hated yourself for thinking it, since he was part of a group in school that seemed determined to make your life hell. When you really thought about it though, it was Stephen that was the perpetrator, the only crime Alex and the other boys had committed was laughing. You really were the bigger person, because you started to feel sorry for them, they were probably afraid of Stephen too – who knows what went on behind closed doors with them.

At one point, you and Alex locked eyes, and you could have sworn something in his eyes was trying to tell you something. But, that certainly wouldn’t have been the case, you told yourself. You were being delusional. Besides, you were here with Jamie, even if it was just as friends – Jamie was nice and good-looking, your energy was best spent on having a good time with him, Katie and Nick.

You could see Stephen slumped over a chair in the corner, eyes closed, drool dripping from his mouth, shirt half-buttoned. He looked really stupid, and it pleased you. Maybe you weren’t the bigger person after all.

The band finished their set. Everyone seemed to really enjoy it, but Alex noticed that you and Katie cheered the loudest, his stomach once again filling with butterflies.

“Right then lads, few cans? Katie’s got a free house,” Nick said happily, rubbing his hands together.

“Yeah, for some people,” Alex turned and saw Katie standing beside him, arms folded.

“Aw come on, Kate, they’ll do no harm,” Jamie said. He gestured over to the corner where Stephen had been slumped, where Nathan and Sean were currently trying to haul him up, an arm each. “Plus, looks like the ones we were worried about have got their hands full.”

“Well, all right,” Katie relented. “As long as it’s okay with you?” She turned to you.

“Oh yeah, that’s fine,” you said, just glad that Stephen wasn’t going to be anywhere near.

The crowd filed out of the hall, some couples rolling over each other in bushes, other groups of friends waiting for their lifts. The group consisting of you, Katie, Jamie, Nick, Matt and Alex piled into the seven seater again, and took off for Katie’s. Somehow you had ended up next to Alex this time, and an anxiety seemed to be radiating from him. At one point, Nick turned a hard corner and you nearly fell into his lap.

“Oh! Sorry,” you squeaked, pushing yourself up and fixing your hair.

“No problem,” he said quietly.

Alex was finding it hard to breathe. The perfume from you was right under his nostrils now, and he could barely concentrate. The thoughts were back again, imagining that it was just you and him in the car, you crawling onto his lap and kissing him hard as he ran his hands up your sides. It didn’t help that now he had a perfect view of your legs, fuck they were gorgeous, which kept knocking into his every time the car turned a corner. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him, but he knew that whatever it was, he needed to stop it. Maybe if he hadn’t been such an idiot, he could have made a move months ago, before Jamie got there first. He considered asking Nick to just drop him off so he could go home and wallow in his own stupidity. But, before he knew it, they were already at Katie’s.

When you got inside, Katie passed you a Smirnoff ice with a straw and set to rolling a joint. “This weed is way better than that over shit you gave me, Jamie. Make sure it stays at this standard.”

“What, you think I grow it myself?” Jamie laughed. “Take it up with the chief of police.”

“Music?” you suggested, as everyone found a seat. “Steely Dan?” You raised your eyebrows playfully at Katie, holding the vinyl up hopefully.

“I’ll never say no to Steely Dan,” Nick agreed.

You bent over the record player, placing the record on and letting the needle fall, “Do it Again” began playing. You had had some of Katie’s vodka at the formal, and you were starting to feel it. You and Katie started dancing, the joint was being passed round, and you could feel Alex watching you. Usually, you would be nervous of someone watching you, but right now, you didn’t really seem to mind. In fact, you kind of liked that he was watching you. You wanted to portray a different version of yourself to him, and to Matt as well, that you weren’t just some shy girl who could be walked over, and that you had confidence.

Jamie came over to dance with you, taking your hand and spinning you round. You were dancing in front of the record player, and as he grabbed both of your hands to pull you towards him, you were suddenly separated by Alex cutting in between you to get to the record player.

“What else have you got?” He said shortly to Katie.

“Calm down, you’re not Julian Casablancas yet,” she scoffed. “Have a look, the records are underneath.”

Alex chose “The Dark Side of the Moon” by Pink Floyd.

“We’re only smoking weed, not acid,” you joked playfully, but he just glared at you. You weren’t hurt though, it may have been the alcohol and the weed, but you were kind of spurred on. If anything, you wanted to annoy him even more. It seemed to be that the more you danced and got closer to Jamie, the more agitated he got. You thought maybe he had a crush on you, you definitely did on him, despite everything. Even if that wasn’t the case, you let yourself enjoy the thought that maybe he did.

So you danced closer to Jamie, and the night progressed. You drank your Smirnoff ice, delicately placing the straw in your mouth, watching Alex shift uncomfortably in his seat as you did so. Jamie was watching you too now, and you giggled at his jokes and placed a hand on his chest, flirting with him. It was fun, you had never really been given this much attention before. Maybe it was getting to your head. You decided to step out into Katie’s back garden for a bit of fresh air by yourself.

You didn’t want to play with Jamie, yes he was good-looking, but he seemed to you as more of a natural friend rather than anything else. After a couple of minutes, he came outside to check on you.

“You okay?” He asked, sitting down on the step beside you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed a bit of fresh air. Getting a bit drunk now,” you laughed, trying not to slur your words.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got the underage drinking blues,” he nudged your shoulder with his. “Come on, this is the type of stuff we’ll look back on when we’re older and wish we could re-live.”

Jamie took out a cigarette and lit it. “Can I have one of those?” you asked.

He handed you one and lit it. You shivered, only wearing your spaghetti strap dress. Jamie offered you his jacket, and you said yes. He was just placing it round your shoulders when the back door opened.

“Oh, sorry-“ Alex said awkwardly, with a tone of annoyance. “Matt and I are going to head. Was wondering if you wanted to walk with us.”

“It is getting a bit late,” Jamie said. You looked at the clock and saw that it was 2am.

“Fuck! I was supposed to be home by 12!” You jumped up, dropping the cigarette and rushing past Alex. “Sorry Katie, I have to go!”

“No point panicking now, you’re already late,” Nick laughed.

“We’re all walking that way anyway, we’ll leave you home,” Jamie said.

“Oh yeah, that’ll look good to her parents, walking with four boys she’s never met before,” Katie raised her eyebrows.

“It’ll be fine,” you said hurriedly, grabbing your bag and giving Katie a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You walked a couple of streets with the band, and said good-bye to the boys, who walked on down the street a bit. Jamie walked you up to the step. “I had a really good time tonight,” he said. “You look absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you said shyly, as he reached and placed a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked down to your shoes, but he reached a put a finger underneath your chin, bringing your face up to look at him.

He was leaning in closer to you, and your lips met. It was your first kiss, and you didn’t know what to do, but Jamie led the way, softly running his tongue over your lips, asking for permission to enter. You obliged, letting his tongue massage your own. His hands rested on your hips, while yours made their way up to his neck.

You pulled away for breath, and all you could say was “Wow.” It was great, and Jamie was definitely hot, but a nagging thought in your mind was that you hoped Alex was watching. He probably didn’t even care, but again, you let yourself enjoy the thought of Alex being enraged at you kissing his bandmate.

Alex was watching, and he was fucking furious, there was no other way to describe it. Apparently, Matt seemed to pick up on this, because he said in a concerned voice, “Mate? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alex snapped. “I just-want to get home. It’s fucking freezing out here. If I’d known we’d have to stand here and watch Jamie get some then I would have just gone home earlier.”

“Lighten up, Alex,” said Nick. “You’ll get some too. There’s plenty to go around.”

You went inside, and Jamie walked back over to them, looking very pleased with himself.

“Well?” Nick asked. “How was it?”

“Fucking amazing,” Jamie said, grinning. “Seriously, where the hell has she been? A girl that is that hot and funny and likes good music.”

“Oh, she’s the only girl in the world that likes good music,” Alex scoffed.

“Do you know any?” Jamie asked, shrugging.

“Katie and Holly, to be fair,” said Nick.

“You’ve got a point,” Jamie nodded. “Anyway, let’s get home.”

“Yeah, Jamie’s got a stiffy he needs to sort out,” Matt teased.

“Wouldn’t you have?” Jamie said unashamedly.

Yeah, I would, Alex thought to himself.

***

The next morning, you woke with a pounding headache. You were extremely lucky in that your parents fell asleep before you got home, so you managed to evade punishment for being late. You also felt kind of ashamed of yourself, a feeling that grew bigger over the following summer weeks as you and Jamie seemed to be getting closer, in more ways than one. You enjoyed the relationship with Jamie, he was your first kiss and had also now been your first time, but Alex seemed to be etched permanently into your mind. Also, Jamie would be going to university at the end of the summer, so it wouldn’t make sense to have a relationship with someone who would be moving to a different part of the country. The more you thought about Alex, the more obsessed you became, coming up with all kinds of theories that he had gifted you the new copy of The Catcher in The Rye. After all, he had seen the incident happen and he was in your English class. You tried to deny in your head that it was him, but you couldn't deny the facts.

One day, you, Katie, Holly, Nick and Jamie were hanging out at the skate park, when you asked Jamie if the two of you could talk.

“Listen,” you said, once you’d got him alone. “I’m really sorry, but I’m not sure we should continue whatever it is we have going on. You’ll be leaving soon, and I- well, I’m not sure I’m the right girl for you.”

Jamie sighed. “I thought this might happen. Can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I think you might have a point. Long distance stuff never works.”

You nodded, feeling really bad, but also kind of relieved.

“Though, I’m not sure about the part about not being the right girl for me,” Jamie grinned cheekily. “Yeah, that part I’m certain is incorrect.”

You blushed, staring down at your shoes.

“Gonna miss you blushing like that,” Jamie said. “But, what’s meant to be will be. Who knows what will happen in the future. For now, friends?”

He held out his hand for you to shake. “Friends,” you agreed, smiling.

Jamie and Nick both departed for university at the end of the summer, and that was that. It was weird for Alex, both a blessing and a curse that Jamie was gone. Yes, he knew that you and him had broken off whatever it was that you had going, but it also meant that the band had went into hiatus, and that – he wasn’t too pleased about. Stephen had departed also, to somewhere in Scotland. One thing for was for sure, Alex wouldn’t be making an effort to keep in contact.

In fairness, over the next year, he wasn’t sure that he would have even had time to think about the band with all the homework and revision he had to do. This was their final year, and though the band was his priority, he also wanted to go to university to study English Literature.

The year seemed to fly in and drag in at the same time. By the end of it, the entire year was exhausted. You weren’t sure that you even had the energy to go to Leaver’s Night, as it was called. With everyone now 18, you all went to a nightclub in town to get drunk and celebrate the end of secondary school.

One good thing about the situation with Jamie and the absence of Stephen was that your confidence had greatly increased. You had no qualms about wearing short dresses, skirts, wearing your hair up, anything. Your body had certainly matured into an adult, with your chest filling out and your curves accentuated. For Leaver’s Night, which was fairly casual, you chose a denim skirt and a low-cut top.

Things with Katie were the same as always. You had never known anyone like her, and you were grateful for her friendship every day. You both planned to go to university in Manchester, Katie to study History of Art, and you, English Literature.

“You look HOT!” She proclaimed, as you were both finishing getting ready. “Seriously, if Jamie could see you now, he’d probably shoot himself for leaving.”

You just giggled, but you knew Katie was right. Not only did you look hot, you felt hot. Alex had never made a move on you after Jamie left, so you knew it must have been in your head. Despite this, you couldn’t help but wonder if he thought you were hot. You were pretty much desperate for him to have those thoughts, so you did everything in your power to maintain it, even if it was just in your head. You had purchased black lacy lingerie with flowers embroidered, even though it was likely pointless.

Alex made his way to Leaver’s Night with Matt, Sean and Nathan. He was excited to be finished school, and even more so to reunite the band in London where he and Matt were planning to go to university, and where Jamie and Nick currently were.

He felt like a stalker though, as a big part of his year had consisted of watching you. He continued staring at you in English, and some part of him thought that maybe you knew. For example, you seemed to have developed a habit of dropping pencils on the floor that you never had before, and then bending over in such a way to pick them up that drove him crazy. He also noticed that your skirts got shorter, your perfume stronger, and your lips redder.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring when he saw you in the nightclub. The two of you locked eyes, and you shot him a quick smile before returning to giggling with Katie and sipping your Smirnoff eye through the straw. Fuck me, he thought, Does she always have to drink with a straw?

Alex was determined to get as drunk as possible tonight. After a few drinks, he was certainly feeling it. When he saw you dancing, he was about to make a move, then you started approaching the bar alone. Now was his chance.

He sidled up behind you, placing an arm over your shoulder, his palm flat on the bar. “Pint of Stella please,” he said to the barman. “And a Smirnoff ice. With a straw, please.”

You turned to look at him and he was grinning sloppily at you, clearly a bit of dutch courage seemed to be working for him. “What?” he said. “Isn’t that your drink?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you said. You were a bit drunk yourself, and you felt a flutter between your thighs as his arm remained in the same place, seemingly keeping you there. The drinks came, and you immediately put the straw in your mouth, making sure your lips were pouted.

Alex was looking at you hungrily, there was no denying it. You looked up at him through your eyelashes as you continued sipping through your straw. "Want a smoke?"

He ignored your question. "God, don't look at me like that. You know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?" you asked innocently.

"Oh please, don't act innocent," He leaned towards you, whispering, his breath hot on your ear. "You don't think I've seen you, your skirt getting shorter, bending over to get your pencil, giving me a full view of your ass? Maybe I'm crazy, if I am, then tell me to stop..."

Then he was kissing your neck, your cheeks, and finally your lips. He grabbed you roughly by the waist, like a man who had been waiting forever for this moment, and now that he had finally got it, he couldn't let go. You couldn't help but press your body into him, your hands immediately went into his hair, your fingers grabbing the tips and pulling. You were moaning into his mouth as his hands were applying pressure on your hips, his thumbs pressing deep, you imagined they were leaving bruises. The thought of that, God, it turned you on even more, him leaving his mark on you.

You finally pulled apart. "So, I'm not crazy then?" He grinned.

You shook your head, biting your lip, his eyes burning into you.

"You don't even want to know the thoughts I've been having over the past year," He said breathlessly, his hands still gripping your waist, his property.

"I bet I do," you responded, sipping your Smirnoff ice again. "Only, I don't want them to be thoughts anymore."

That was it for him. "Let's get out of here," he said hurriedly. "I can't wait. My parents are out at some dinner party. They'll not be back for a few hours."

You quickly grabbed Katie, telling her you were going home. "No way!" She pouted. "Holly just got here!"

"I know, but I gotta go. Give Holly a hug from me."

You left with Alex, and got a taxi together. You sat together in the backseat, Alex's hand resting on your thigh, drawing circles on it, driving you crazy. You wanted him to crawl on top of you and fuck you senseless right there, but you had to wait.

After what felt like an age, you finally made it to Alex's house. He fumbled with his keys, got the door open, let you in and closed the door behind him. You stood looking at each other for a moment, Alex's chest heavy, the tension between the two of you insurmountable. Then he moved towards you and pressed you up against the wall, placing his mouth on yours, roaming his hands all over your body. You responded with the same force, grabbing onto his shoulders. Your tongues massaged one another's, greedily exploring each other's mouths. You could feel the heat rising in your belly.

"You don't know how long I've waited for this. Having to see you with Jamie, fuck, it killed me," Alex admitted breathlessly.

"Really?" You replied. "Sometimes I thought you hated me..."

"I could never hate you," he whispered, cupping your face. "Ever. I'm an idiot. I should have stood up for you."

"I know," you conceded. "You should have. But, you did replace my book."

Alex grinned. "You knew it was me?"

"Well, it was never confirmed until now," you said, smiling. "But I had my suspicions."

"I'll never let that happen again," he promised, kissing your forehead, and your face. "I promise. I've hated myself ever since. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay, Alex," you said, putting your arms around his neck. "I forgive you." The alcohol was rising to your head, making you braver than ever. Your lifted your skirt slowly to show the lingerie you were wearing, that you'd put on with him in mind. "This is how much I forgive you. When I put this set on today, I was thinking of you."

"Fucking hell," Alex whispered helplessly, dropping to his knees. "Can I see it all?"

You nodded, pulling your top off and discarding it, him pulling your skirt down, leaving you standing in just the lingerie. He groaned at the sight of you, drinking you in. "I never wanna forget this," he said. "Can I touch you?"

"Yes," you breathed.

He touched you through your panties, where there was a damp spot. "You're so wet, baby. All for me?"

"Yes, Alex," you gasped, as he moved your panties to one side, putting his fingers between your folds and gathering your wetness, dragging it up your pussy to your clit, moving his fingers in circles.

You were a moaning mess. You couldn't believe this was finally happening. You had dreamed about it, all sorts of fantasies, him fucking you in a car, in class - you had no idea he was having these fantasies too.

Before you knew it, his mouth was on you, his tongue massaging your clit slowly. He inserted a finger inside you, then two, dragging them in and out at a maddeningly slow pace, before increasing it, his fingers fucking you quickly. You grabbed his hair, fisting it in your hands, your head lolling back against the wall. His dirty words were turning you on even more, if that was possible.

"You like that, me eating your pussy? Bet you've been thinking about this, haven't you?" His mouth hot against you. "You taste fucking amazing, I could stay here forever."

You were nearing the brink now. "So close, Alex, yes..."

"I love it when you say my name. You don't know how I've dreamt of making you scream it. You gonna cum for me? Come on, let go.."

And you did. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, your legs shaking, his hands attempting to hold them still. He stood up, his mouth shining, looking very pleased with himself. You could see how hard he was through his jeans, reaching out, you palmed him, earning another groan from him.

"You feel so big," you said, looking up at him through your eyelashes as he stood, looking down at you hungrily.

His hand covered yours, massaging him through his jeans. "See how hard you make me, baby? God, I've been wanting to fuck you for so long, I can't believe this is happening..."

"Me either," you admitted. Come on, say it. Be brave. "I've dreamt of being on my knees for you, your cock in my mouth..."

"Oh Christ. You're gonna make me cum in my pants if you keep saying things like that."

"How about in my mouth?" And you were kneeling down in front of him, pulling his jeans and boxers down, letting his cock spring free. It was as big as it looked through his jeans, you weren't quite sure how it was going to fit inside you, never mind in your mouth. But you went for it anyway, spitting on your hand and moving it through your hand with a fist, before putting it in your mouth and hollowing your cheeks.

"Fuck," groaned Alex. "You're so fucking sexy... just like that."

His hand was in your hair now, making a ponytail, manoeuvring your head back and forth. The hallway was filled with the sound of each other's moans, you hadn't even managed to make it to his bedroom yet. You were gagging on his cock, his sounds and words of encouragement spurring you on, before he pulled you off, and lifted you off your feet, carrying you upstairs.

"Sorry, babe, but you were gonna make me cum. And I really, really wanna fuck you, if you want to."

"Hmmm," you pondered playfully, watching his face drop. "I'm kidding."

"Thank God for that," he said, laying you on his bed. He grabbed a condom from his bedside drawer, rolling it on, before propping himself up on his forearms above you, positioning himself at your entrance. "You sure?"

"Yes," you answered, and he wasted no time. He pushed himself inside you, the stretch was amazing and you threw your head back against his pillow. "Oh my God, yes..."

"Feel good?" Alex grinned. You nodded, barely able to speak, as he started to move inside you slowly. You stared into each other's eyes, the way he was looking at you was like he could devour you in a second.

Then he picked up the pace, slamming his cock into you, watching your face for every expression to memorise. Your eyes were closed, your mouth agape, as he hit just the right spot over and over. His fingers found your clit again, moving in furious circles. You arched your back into him.

"Look at you," he growled. "Can barely control yourself on my cock. Does that feel good?"

You nodded, opening your eyes to take in the gorgeous view above you. His forehead was soaked with sweat, dripping onto you as he bit his lip, staring down at your face like it was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen.

"Use your words, baby," he commanded.

"Feels so good, Alex," you panted. "I love your cock inside me.."

"Yeah? Better than Jamie?"

"So much better, oh-I'm gonna cum-"

"That's it baby, cum all over my cock."

And you did. Your walls clenched around him, your legs shaking, your head thrown back as he kept hitting that spot and rubbing your clit simultaneously. Your pussy tightening made him groan. "You're so fucking tight, I'm gonna cum."

He followed shortly after you, collapsing on top of you, the both of you breathing hard. After tossing the condom in the bin, he pulled the covers over the two of you, holding you in his arms.

"I can't believe this, I've wanted to hold you like this for so long," he laughed, like he couldn't believe his own luck. "That was like- better than anything I've ever dreamed of."

You giggled. "Me too."

He kissed your forehead, brushing your hair out of your face. "That fucking lingerie... Jesus Christ. You really put that on for me?"

"Well, I never thought you and me would happen, but I just thought, you never know," you admitted.

"You got that right," he grinned. "Can you stay over?"

"Yeah, I'll just call my mum and say I'm staying at Katie's. Will your parents be alright with it?"

"Yeah, they'll be cool."

"Can I use your phone?" you asked, and he agreed, so you both got dressed and went downstairs to dial your mum's number. You left a message, and then went back upstairs, falling into bed together, exhausted.

"I'm so glad you've forgiven me," Alex said, kissing your head gently. "I'm not sure I deserve it."

"Of course you do," you said. "You were like, 16. Don't beat yourself about it."

"It's hard not to," he admitted. "I always wanted to run after you, make sure you were okay. It must have been Hell."

"It was," you said. "But it's all good now. Plus, I'm pretty sure I just went to Heaven in the last half an hour."

Being sober sucked! At least it did in Izzy's opinion, thus far. He was only a handful of months into sobriety, and whilst he was expecting clarity, fresh perspective, and a spring in his step, it was quite the opposite. Completely the opposite actually; his head was more scrambled than his borderline-schizophrenic coke-spiral, so much so he couldn't get any 'fresh perspective' until he cleared his head. How did he do that exactly?

Fucking his girlfriend, of course.

He’d never been in such a committed relationship before—he’d never been able to keep himself entertained enough for it. It sounded horrible, and it was, but he supposed the drugs had left him with a pit that one girl simply couldn’t fill at the time. Now his head was all fragile and his body was so delicate, and he had met you, there was no thought in his mind or cock asides from you.

That was the all-consuming thought in his head at the moment. The two of you were chilling on the couch of his new place in Lafayette, somewhere quiet and away from the noise of LA. He was laid between your legs as you watched some random cable series, something with Tom Selleck in it he thought. Though what was on TV was of zero importance when his head was nuzzled between your thighs.

You were wearing some sinful sleep shorts, so the warmth of your skin was pressed flesh against his cheeks, the soft indents of your stretch marks made for a difference in texture that was more than welcome. That only fuelled the thoughts in his head even more.

His sex drive had been through the roof the last two months or so. Initially, for the first three months of sobriety he felt like he’d rather be reborn as a virgin monk than be touched. Now, it had come back full force to a point it was pathetic.

As he lay there, all he could think about was having his face buried between your thighs, ravishing your cunt like it was a puddle in a desert and he hadn’t drank for days. Then, if he begged enough, maybe you’d ride him. The thought alone, of your hips rocking back and forth on his cock, made a ragged sigh slip from his nose that nudged against your plush skin.

His hand tightened around the side of your thigh just a little, trying to restrain himself. You were just innocently watching TV and playing with his hair; nothing about the moment was sexual at all, but he just couldn’t stop the rush of blood to his dick. Your presence alone was arousing, and it left him so incapacitated he felt like a teenage boy messing around for the first time.

Hoping to satisfy some of his appetite, he started kissing the inside of your thigh, not going high enough to make him lose his head, but enough to scratch that itch of getting closer to that sweet cunt of yours. He felt like he could spend hours in it.

You thought nothing of it. Your attention was mainly on Magnum PI, which you had worn tapes of too many times to count, and Selleck’s lovely facial hair! Though, Izzy’s little kisses snapped you out of it for a second. Looking down at him with a smile, seeing him pepper tender lips against your skin, you felt a warm rush of heat go through you. It wasn’t anything intense, but the sensation was just sweet.

You hummed audibly as you scratched at his scalp, accidentally catching a strand or two between your fingers as you shifted slightly. The slight burn on his scalp when you caught his locks made a muffled moan spill against your skin—reserved and quiet, but noticeable.

“Sorry, honey, did I hurt you?” You asked worriedly, interpreting the sound as one of pain rather than pleasure. It was a relatively innocent moment, so you hadn’t registered there being any chance of him being worked up.

Quite the contrary, he found. There was something about being under your hand that turned him on so much; there was no control in his mind or body, so to be controlled felt like a necessary restraint. He’d never been particularly submissive before, but his newfound sobriety perhaps had given him new perspective after all.

“Nah, nah, baby, ‘s fine…fine.” He murmured, pushing your one thigh deeper against his mouth where kisses went from gentle pecks to slow open-mouthed kisses. All he wanted to do was prove to you how badly he needed you all to maybe get a ‘yes’. If he got a ‘no’? He’d just beg. He’d beg until he cried if he had to. Anything to have you around him.

His abrupt behaviour had tickled you a bit; he was so on and off as of late—there was no in between. He was either relaxed as anything, trying to write new material and soaking in the peace of Indiana, or like this. A desperate mess. Even with his holding back, you could easily tell he was already getting himself worked up.

It was fun, making it worse. He didn’t beg and plead in a way that was grating and pushy. He would whine, ask as politely as he could to tongue your pussy as filthily as he could. There was something thrilling on your behalf about being able to see this famously ‘reserved and mysterious’ rockstar, who could have any woman he wanted, yearn to be inside you.

Teasingly, you remarked, “You sure? I didn’t catch it too hard?” as you raked your fingers through his hair again, intentionally pulling this time around just to gauge his reaction.

You played unfair, he thought, as his erection strained painfully against his sweatpants and pressed into the couch. It was uncomfortable and throbbing. Feeling you tug on his hair the way you would once he was tongue-deep in your cunt made his hips twitch into the couch.

Still, he tried to keep himself together, just to feel like he could for a moment. Sucking against your skin now, leaving little marks that dotted upwards like a treasure map, he shook his head. “Doesn’t hurt, promise, babydoll,” he insisted, the restraint he was putting into his body escaping slightly in his voice crack.

You could feel the couch shift beneath you when he twitched into the fabric, and the ego boost you got from it was unfounded. You wanted to see him do it again—needed to. “Humping the couch now? Someone’s desperate.” You mused lightly, going back to just stroking his brown locks as you pretended to focus back on the TV. You knew he’d fight to get your attention back.

Unashamedly, he breathed out shakily against the fabric of your shorts that clothed your crotch, “A little.” Then he felt your nails trail down the back of his head and onto his neck, which made his whole body shudder, and his cock grind against the couch. He even murmured a little, “fuck,” as he felt his restraint slip away from him.

The more you tried to ignore him, the more he wanted you. It was like he had an uncontrollable urge to make you pay him attention, to help him out, or to just push him as far as you could.

“Please, baby, please,” he would murmur with need against your clothes as he began to kiss over your clothed cunt, which had silently dampened the fabric. You had given no indication you were turned on at all, and here he was humping the couch like a poorly behaved dog. It was your own self control that made his own crumble.

You hummed curiously, letting your gaze look down for a moment. You knew what he wanted to do; he was craving to taste your pussy, and to have you wrapped around his cock, but you wanted the ego boost of hearing it. Hearing him groan with frustration as he looked back up at you definitely satisfied that boost.

His brown eyes were blown and wide, pitifully staring up at you like a dog begging for a treat whilst the rest of his face was pressed against your cunt, nose nuzzled against your clit over clothes. With his messy brown curls, he looked like a sweet, needy puppy. You knew he’d do anything for it, for you, from his look alone.

Moving his mouth away just a little so you could hear his low whine clearly. “Let me eat you out, babydoll, please. Gotta taste you…my dick hurts you got me so hard. ‘s not even fair, didn’t do anything. Just- please, sugar.” It was a scramble to get his words together, as he was caught between pleading for your pussy, and actually being up against it.

Rolling your eyes with a loving chuckle, endeared and aroused by his desperation, you assured him it was fine to go ahead. “Okay, baby, do what you want,” you relented, leaning over just enough so that you could kiss his forehead sweetly before leaning back against the couch, spreading your legs further apart.

Seeing you open your legs invitingly was like winning the lottery in his eyes. He wasted absolutely no time in moving your shorts and panties to the side, tentatively licking a stripe up your wet pussy. Gently, he tugged at the waistband of your shorts, “Can you take these off, sugar, please?” he shuddered slightly, feeling a sugar-high from one lick of you already.

How could you deny a boy so sweet? Lifting your hips, you let him take off your bottoms and gave him the honour of seeing your cunt in its entirety. With ferocity, he wrapped his hands around your lower back and pulled you down the couch so you met his lips as he immediately latched his open mouth onto your wetness.

He groaned with relief, matching your own moan of pleasure, before muttering, “Taste so good, like sugar, babydoll…fuck, ‘s so good,” as he suckled on your clit. Every sigh and moan that left your pretty mouth made his cock throb in his boxers. You made such pretty sounds, he wished there was music like it, but there was no piece imaginable that could mirror the serenity of your moans against his ears.

Your legs writhed either side of his ear, causing his one hand to wrap around the matching thigh, as the other frantically rushed to slide two fingers into your soaked hole. He heard you gasp, “Oh Iz’, that feels so good,” in that breathy voice that made precum leak into his boxers. You really were music to his ears.

As he ravished you with it mouth and fingers, you could see him grind himself against the couch still, but more unabashedly now. The sight alone, of him rutting himself against the couch and moaning into your cunt, could have been enough to make you cum.

But he was already taking care of that. His long, dexterous fingers curled against your g-spot as he made circles around your clit with a desperate fashion. He was so eager to make you cum on his mouth, to taste you come apart. He could tell you were close from how you now harshly tugged on his hair, moans just fell from your mouth along with whining praises.

“You’re so good, honey,” “look so messy humping the couch like that, huh?”, “my pathetic pretty boy.” All of it felt like enough to make him cum in his pants, which he nearly did once you came shivering on his mouth, hips grinding yourself against his mouth and nose.

The living room was coated with the smell of your sex, heavy with your panting breaths. However the silence that came post-orgasm was cut short by your needy lover pleading for you again. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he leant up to kiss all over your neck. His hips settled between yours, and you could feel his strained hard-on rub against your bare pussy.

The sensation made you twitch from overstimulation, and gratification. You could imagine how painful it was, hear how uncomfortable it was from the ragged groans that kissed your skin. You hadn’t done a thing to him, and he was like this? It made you feel like the sexiest woman alive, and as far as Izzy was concerned? You were.

“What do you want, honey? Tell me.” You insisted gently, not wanting to be too mean when he was already such a state from eating you out alone. One of your hands knitted into his messed hair, the other settling on the crook between shoulder blades.

Hearing you essentially coo to him, wanting to hear what he wanted, made his head spin. You were perfect; you let him work himself into a mess, but once you could see it was toeing the line between discomfort and genuine pain, you just wanted to help him out. He shuddered at your gentility, “Need to be inside you, baby. Please, please, ride my cock, sweetheart, I need you on top of me.” Each of his ‘please’s punctuated by messy kisses to your neck and grinds against your cunt.

“Sit back.” You told him simply, and he did so with ease. He instantly moved away from you to sit down, legs spread so you could see the pronounced bulge against the fabric of his bottoms. The fabric was darkened from where your juices had marked him. His hair was all messy and sticking to his face, which was flushed and wide-eyed.

Bless him.

Getting up from the couch, you could see he’d do anything you told him, so bossing him around felt like a fun little warm up. Gently, but with a tone of authority, you ordered, “Take your clothes off, babe,” to which he nodded frantically.

First his shirt was off, showing off his pale and slim frame, kisses by some freckles. He looked a healthier weight nowadays, the coke and heroin had worn him thinner, but his shoulders were looking bigger now, so were his arms. It was sexy, seeing him with a bit more filled out, a bit more muscular but still slim.

His chest was rising and dropping heavy, his mouth was open slightly so he could get more air as his thirsty eyes drank in the sight of your half-naked body before him. You were like some sort of angel, sent to him to keep him on the straight and narrow.

He looked like a dream. But he still wasn’t as unclothed as you wanted him, “Forgetting something?” you reminded him teasingly, nodding towards his lower half. Scrambling, he muttered out a ‘shit sorry, angel’, as he shimmied out of his sweats and boxers.

Sitting there, vulnerable and completely at your mercy was a sight to see. His strained cock resting against his stomach now, the usually soft pink tip a more poignant shade as precum leaked from it—he was an utter state. “Want me to ride you, honey? That what you want?” You teased as you stripped off your own shirt, not wanting him to feel embarrassed by being the only one completely naked.

You obviously had gotten the answer to that question mere moments before, but because you knew he’d say it again, you just wanted to hear it. He nodded helplessly, eyes not knowing where to focus on your body, “Yeah, yeah, I want it, baby, want you, need you.” Hearing him confirm his need for you was like music to your ears.

“Sure you deserve it?” It was a mean question to ask, but he had to work for what he wanted! Though you were dangling the bone in front of the dog, really, because you now straddled his lap, but left his dick out of it. You weren’t quite going to give him that satisfaction yet.

Hands gripping on your hips, almost whimpering as his hips bucked up to meet nothing, his lips spanned all over your chest. Whining against your breast he insisted messily, “I’m sure, i’m sure, angel, i’ll do anything you need me to, just let me have you.”

At that point you had given up being mean, he was just a pathetic puppy of a man and you wanted to put him out of his misery. Tilting his head up to catch his lips, you mumbled against them, “You can have me then, since you asked so nicely,” before the two of you were intertwined in a messy french-kiss.

As his hand groped at your tits, one up in your hair, your arms draped over his shoulders as you raised yourself up to drop down onto his cock. It was a careful manoeuvre, and wholly gratifying when you felt the stretch of his dick, satisfying the emptiness inside of you.

Plus, the simultaneous moaning gasp that left the both of your lips was so delicately intimate. To know that the both of you were experiencing the exact same pleasure and sensations whilst being intertwined in one another was simply beautiful.

Simplicity. That was what Izzy had needed all these years. He wasn’t a man of grandeur and extremity, but he’d engorged himself into a life of excess and chaos, and it had ruined him. Now, with you wrapped around his cock securely, moaning into his mouth and caressing his body, nothing felt complicated about it. You just made sense.

His eyes felt hazy as he leant back and watched you roll your hips, letting you use him however you felt necessary. The sight of your flushed face, arched back, and perky tits was a sight he wanted engraved into his eyelids so he could see it whenever he blinked. “Fuck, thank you, sweet girl,” he breathed out, ragged, as he took hold of your hips so it was easier to thrust up into you.

As a musician, he was a man of rhythm, and as aforementioned, one of simplicity. He didn’t need a flashy solo to know his skill at guitar, nor did he need to lose his control and thrust up mindlessly into you. This wasn’t about him. All of this was for you; the mess he was, was all for you.

But as the pleasure built up in both of your bodies, the higher your moans became, the messier your movements were, the more he felt this innate restraint be pulled away from his hands. He wanted to get himself off, sure, but he prioritised and craved to see you fall apart on his dick.

As his thrusts became more forceful, still making sure to meet your hips accordingly, but now using his hands to guide that movement, your head fell back whilst your hands rest against his knees. Your eyes were closed majority of the moment, just taking in the physical pleasure of it, but once your gaze fluttered open at a particularly good angle, and you could see his handsome face, all delirious looking at you like some sort of painting, you committed to keeping them open.

Your chests pressed together, touching heartbeats and intermixing breaths, as your delicate hands took hold of his face. Kissing over his nose, you murmured between moans, ‘I love you’s, relishing in the soft whine that left his throat when you did. Despite the desperation in the build-up, the moment itself wasn’t rushed or half-assed.

“Can I go a bit faster, babydoll? Please?” He whimpered brokenly. His whimpers weren’t high-pitched, still in that mid-toned Indiana drawl you were used to, but there was a tone of desperation to it you’d never heard from another man. It was like he needed you to breathe.

Once he was met with your breathless permission, he really gripped your hips as he began to fuck into you with minimal restraint. It nearly knocked the air from your throat as a sharp moan spilt from your lips. He pressed his face into your neck, nose brushing over your skin, biting flesh and muffling his own moans as he felt his resolve tear away.

Your own resolve went away with his, as you felt a tightening sensation in your lower abdomen, and a trembling in your thighs. Your chest felt tight as you panted, “Izzy, Izzy, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Hearing those words were like the heavens opening before him, “Come on, angel, please cum on my dick, need to feel you, wanna cum in you,” he pleaded helplessly. He was trying his hardest to not speed up or change anything, as he knew it messed with you when he abruptly changed anything like pace or force.

But as soon as your moans broke in the way he knew to be your orgasm washing over you, as well as your arching back and the spasming movements in your hips, he took it as his green light. He didn’t want to overstimulate you, but he needed this. Needed you.

He mindlessly fucked up into you, kissing all over your neck and onto your jaw as he murmured in a whining tone, “So pretty when you come, sugar, so fucking pretty,” as he chased his own orgasm.

He panted against your neck, as your hands stroked the back of his head, the odd whimper slipping from your throat as your body relaxed. “Come on, pretty baby…you gonna cum for me? Yeah?” you coaxed warmly, kissing his sweaty forehead adoringly.

He shuddered out a moan with a nod, feeling his hips begin to falter, overwhelmed with a rush of pleasure and more significantly, relief. His own orgasm hit hard and heavy, a broken groan of your name leaving his lips as his load spilled into you shamelessly. He’d been needing this since he felt a twitch in his trousers just being between your thighs.

Neither of you moved, nor did you want to. The lull that followed was warm and comforting, like a blanket despite your mutual nakedness. Soft pants filled the sex-scented room, and you collapsed into his chest, feeling his cock go soft inside of you. Like the sex itself, nothing felt rushed, and neither you nor him wanted to pull off of each other just yet.

The reason he loved you so much was the quiet you gave his head. In that moment, nothing was on his brain; no craving, no music, no nothing. It was just you. Just the warmth he felt being with you and the calm that came with it.

Who needed drugs when they had you, huh?

Chapter 1 - Wait for Me. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 2 - Patience. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 3 - Safe as Houses. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 4 - Stay With Me. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 5 - You're My Girl. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 6 - All I Need. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 7 - Score. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 8 - Old Habits. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 9 - Intimacy. [AO3]/ [Tumblr].

Chapter 10 - Spite. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 11 - Obsession. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 12 - Coming Down. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 13 - Overdose. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 14 - The Aftermath. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 15 - Calm. [AO3] / [Tumblr.]

Chapter 16 - Only if it's With You. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 17 - Change. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 18 - The Secrets We Keep. [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Chapter 19 - Relapse [AO3] / [Tumblr].

Alex hits send with a heavy sigh, pocketing his phone as he leans against the window in his living room. The towel draped over his shoulder is damp from the rain, and the cigarette between his lips is one of the last ones he had scavenged from the bottom of his bag. This was a new phone — some stupid upgrade Matt had forced on him — and he had to manually input every contact. Painstaking work, but necessary.

He was texting Matt, who was currently on holiday with his wife celebrating their anniversary. Since Matt was the one who bullied him into getting the damn thing in the first place, Alex figures the least he can do is subject him to a detailed rant about his shitty day. It’s only fair.

The phone vibrates almost immediately. Alex raises an eyebrow — surprised at the fast reply. He pulls it out, expecting some half-assed sympathy or a joke.

Sounds like it was your lucky day.

Alex scoffs, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Fuck you. You’re living the life. Hot wife, unlimited free time, gorgeous weather wherever you are. Meanwhile I’m here drowning in my own incompetence.

The reply comes back faster than he expects.

I’ll be damned — didn’t know I had a hot wife.

Alex pauses, staring at the screen. Matt would never say that. He knows better than to risk his life like that.

Matt what on earth are you on mate?

I’ll help you out. I’m not Matt.

His eyes widen. Cheeks heating up, he quickly checks the number he typed in. Sure enough, he added a seven instead of an eight at the end. Great. Another thing to add to his already stellar day.

Sorry ‘bout that. Wrong number.

He expects that to be the end of it. Instead, another message pops up.

Nah mate, you’re cool. Sounds like you need to talk about your shitty day. Hit me.

Alex hesitates, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is a complete stranger. A random person on the other end of a phone who has no idea who he is. No expectations. No preconceptions. No pressure to be “Alex Turner, frontman of Arctic Monkeys.”

It’s… almost exciting.

I’d bore you to death.

Try me. Unless you stack shelves at the library. Then yes, I’d be bored.

He huffs out a surprised laugh, leaning back in his chair. The towel slips off his shoulder as he types.

Close. I play guitar in a band. Today the string snapped mid-take, my mate spilled coffee all over my new shoes, the shop was out of my usual smokes, and the rain decided to baptize me the one time I forgot my umbrella. 10/10 day.

Sounds like the universe is personally out to get you. Did you kick a puppy in a past life or something?

Probably. Or maybe I just exist. Same difference.

Brutal. But relatable. I once spilled coffee on my boss’s laptop during a presentation. Still have the scar from the death glare he gave me.

Alex finds himself smiling despite the terrible day. The stranger’s replies are quick, sharp, and match his energy perfectly. No pity. No awkward “hope your day gets better” nonsense. Just sarcasm. He likes it.

At least your boss didn’t make you redo the entire session while your shoes squelched with every step.

True. But I did have to buy him a new laptop. Expensive bastard.

Worth it for the story though.

Absolutely. So, rockstar with the tragic day — you got a name or should I call you “Unlucky Guitar Guy”?

Alex pauses, fingers hovering. He could lie. He could give a fake name. But something about the anonymity feels freeing. Still, he doesn’t want to be completely dishonest.

Let’s stick with Unlucky Guitar Guy for now. Safer that way.

Mysterious. I like it. You can call me Coffee Disaster.

He laughs again, louder this time. The tension in his shoulders eases just a little. For the first time all day, the weight of the studio, the pressure, the endless cycle of perfectionism feels a little lighter.

Deal, Coffee Disaster. So tell me — what’s your tragic tale today? Fair’s fair.

The reply comes almost instantly, and Alex finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.

This is going to be an interesting conversation.

______________________________

Over the following weeks, the messages become a daily occurrence.

What starts as occasional sarcastic replies quickly turns into a constant stream of conversation. Alex finds himself checking his phone first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Your replies are quick, sharp, and perfectly matched to his dry humour. You send memes at 2 a.m., complain about your chaotic job as a graphic designer, and tease him mercilessly about his “brooding musician” energy. He sends long rants with spelling errors when he’s too tired to type, about studio disasters or terrible lyrics he wrote at 4 a.m.

After a full month of this, the shift to voice messages happens naturally.

Alex is nervous the first time he sends one. He records it three times before he’s happy, heart hammering as he finally hits send. Part of him is relieved when you reply with a voice note — confirming you’re a woman with a warm, slightly raspy voice that makes something in his chest tighten. Another part of him is terrified you’ll recognise him if he speaks too much.

But you don’t.

Your reply comes through after a few minutes: “Okay, Unlucky Guitar Guy has a voice. Deep. Kinda sexy, if I’m being honest. Also, I’m guessing you do some indie-rock shit? You give off that ‘I wear the same black hoodie for three weeks’ energy.”

Alex chuckles, leaning back on the couch with a grin he can’t wipe off his face. He replies with another voice note, keeping his accent soft but still noticeable.

From then on, it’s smooth sailing.

For the next two months, your conversations become the highlight of his days. You don’t know too much about each other — he still hasn’t told you his real name, and you’ve kept certain details vague too — but you know just enough to feel strangely comfortable. You know he hates mushrooms, loves old French cinema, and gets frustrated when lyrics don’t come. He knows you hate mornings, love strong coffee, and have a habit of adopting stray houseplants that always end up dying.

One rainy Thursday afternoon, Alex is on a break in the studio, sprawled on the couch behind the glass while the band sets up. He’s listening to your latest voice note, a smirk playing on his lips.

“So yeah — this fucker won’t stop tailing me until I threaten to let him crash into me,” your voice plays from his phone speaker, full of exasperation and humour. “Best believe his stupid Ferrari was not about to take that risk. Central London has some of the most pretentious fuckers I have ever had the displeasure to come across.”

Alex shakes his head in amusement, but something in his chest squeezes.

Central London.

You’re close. Really close. He could have walked past you on the street. Sat next to you on the Tube. Locked eyes with you in a café without either of you knowing.

The realisation hits him harder than expected. His foot taps anxiously on the carpet as he types back quickly.

You’re in London?

Your reply is almost instant.

Ugh, yes. My whole life, as far as I’m concerned.

A lump forms in his throat. His heart starts racing. He stares at the screen for a long moment, nerves and excitement twisting together.

Shit… I’m in London too.

There’s a pause — longer than usual. Then your voice note comes through. He presses play immediately.

“You’re joking,” you say, laughter clear in your voice. “All this time and we’re in the same bloody city? Would have never guessed. You sound way too northern to be a proper Londoner.”

Alex rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks warm. He records a voice note back, letting a bit more of his Sheffield accent slip through on purpose.

“Too northern? That’s rich coming from someone who just admitted they live in the same pretentious postcode as Ferrari boy. At least I don’t sound like I’ve been drinking posh tea since birth.”

Your next voice note comes back almost immediately, full of mock outrage and laughter.

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know I drink my tea like a normal person. You’re the one who probably pronounces ‘bath’ like ‘barth’ you absolute northerner.”

Alex laughs out loud, the sound startling the technician behind the glass. He records another one, voice low and teasing.

“Careful, Coffee Disaster. Keep insulting my accent and I might have to track you down just to defend my honour.”

There’s a pause after he sends it. Longer this time. When your reply comes, your voice is softer, a little shy but undeniably flirty.

“…Is that a threat or a promise, Unlucky Guitar Guy?”

Alex’s heart flips. He stares at his phone, a slow smile spreading across his face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

This bubble you’ve both been living in just got a lot more dangerous.

He lets out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. The studio around him feels distant. The guys are still setting up, but all his focus is on the phone in his hand. He records another voice note before he can overthink it, his Sheffield accent slipping through more than usual.

“Depends,” he says, voice low and playful. “You gonna keep insulting my northern charm, or are you brave enough to say it to my face?”

He hits send and immediately regrets how forward it sounds. But the reply comes quicker than expected.

Your voice note starts with a soft laugh that makes something warm bloom in his chest.

“Oh, so now we’re talking about meeting in person? Bold move, rockstar. What if I’m actually a 60-year-old man catfishing you?”

Alex grins, already recording back.

“Somehow I doubt that. Your voice doesn’t sound like any 60-year-old I’ve ever met. Unless you’ve got a very impressive range.”

He sends it, then waits, leg bouncing with nervous energy. Your next message is a voice note again, and this time your tone is lighter, almost shy.

“Alright, fine. You’ve got me. I’m not a 60-year-old man. But I could still be completely insane. You sure you want to risk it?”

Alex leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, smiling like an idiot.

“I’ve survived worse than a potentially insane Londoner. Besides, you already know too much about my tragic days. Might as well put a face to the disaster.”

There’s a longer pause this time. Almost a full minute. Alex starts to worry he’s pushed too far when your next voice note comes through. Your voice is softer now, a little nervous but clearly intrigued.

“Okay… how do we do this then? Coffee? Somewhere public so I can run away if you turn out to be a serial killer?”

He chuckles, relief and excitement flooding through him at once.

“Coffee sounds safe. Public. Good escape routes. I know a little place in Shoreditch that’s quiet during the week. Decent coffee, and they don’t play terrible music. This Friday? Around three?”

He sends it and holds his breath.

Your reply takes a couple of minutes. When it arrives, it’s another voice note. He can hear the smile in your voice.

“Friday at three. Shoreditch. I’ll be the one wearing the suspicious expression and holding a very large bag for protection. How will I know it’s you, mystery northern man?”

Alex hesitates for only a second before recording his reply. His voice is warm, a little playful, but honest.

“I’ll be the one who looks like he hasn’t slept properly in three days and is pretending he’s not nervous. Black hoodie leather jacket combo, probably. Can’t miss me.”

He sends it, then adds one more quickly.

“Looking forward to finally putting a face to Coffee Disaster. Don’t stand me up.”

Your final voice note of the day comes through just as the band calls him back into the booth. He plays it with a stupid grin on his face.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Unlucky Guitar Guy. See you Friday. Try not to have another apocalyptic day before then.”

Alex pockets his phone, heart racing, a mixture of nerves and genuine excitement buzzing under his skin.

For the first time in months, he’s actually looking forward to something that isn’t music.

______________________________

Alex arrives at the café almost forty minutes early, which is ridiculous and he knows it.

He stands outside the small Shoreditch spot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, hood pulled up just enough to feel inconspicuous but not enough to look like a complete prick. He debated wearing a cap but decided against it — he didn’t want you to think he was some pretentious twat hiding from the world. Sunglasses and the hoodie would have to do.

He checks his phone for the tenth time in five minutes. No new messages. No “sorry, can’t make it.” Nothing.

Part of him is relieved. The other part is spiralling.

What if she takes one look at me and screams? What if she recognises me immediately and the whole thing collapses? What if the last few months of easy, comfortable conversation disappear the second she realises who “Unlucky Guitar Guy” actually is?

He lights a cigarette to calm his nerves, taking a long drag as he leans against the brick wall beside the café entrance. The late afternoon sun is warm, but his stomach is in knots. This is stupid. He’s faced thousands of people screaming his name, yet the idea of meeting one sarcastic, witty woman who doesn’t even know his real name has him properly nervous.

Then he sees you.

You’re walking down the street, scanning the café signs, looking just as uncertain as he feels. You’re wearing a casual jacket over a simple top, hair down, eyes bright with a mixture of nerves and curiosity. You look exactly like the voice he’s been listening to for weeks — warm, a little chaotic, and unfairly attractive.

His heart stutters.

You spot him standing there and slow down, tilting your head slightly as you approach. He straightens up, crushing the cigarette under his boot and pulling his hood down.

You stop a few feet away, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Unlucky Guitar Guy?” you ask, a cautious but amused smile tugging at your lips.

Alex lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coffee Disaster, I presume.”

The recognition hits you both at the same time. Your eyes widen.

“Wait… I know that voice,” you say, pointing at him. “You’re— oh my God. You’re Alex Turner.”

He winces, but there’s a grin breaking through. “Guilty.”

You stare at him for a long second, mouth slightly open, then let out a surprised laugh. “You absolute bastard. All this time you let me call you Unlucky Guitar Guy when you’re literally the Alex Turner?”

“In my defence,” he says, stepping closer with his hands raised in mock surrender, “you were having way too much fun insulting me. Didn’t want to ruin the vibe.”

You shake your head, still laughing, cheeks flushed. “I told you my boss was a nightmare. I complained about spilling coffee on a laptop. I sent you voice notes at 2 a.m. about my dying houseplants. This is so unfair.”

“You called my music taste pretentious but hot,” he fires back, smirking. “We’re even.”

Your laugh is bright and genuine, and it eases something tight in his chest. The nerves are still there, but the chemistry — that instant, electric spark — is even stronger in person.

“So…” you say, biting your lip as you look at him. “Do we still do coffee? Or do you run away screaming now that I know you’re famous?”

Alex steps aside and gestures toward the café door. “Only if you promise not to ask for an autograph on the first date. I have a reputation to uphold.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly delighted. “First date? Bold assumption, rockstar.”

“I’ve been talking to you every day for months,” he says, voice dropping playfully as he holds the door open for you. “I think we’re past formalities.”

You brush past him, shoulder grazing his arm, and shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Careful. I might still be a 60-year-old man catfishing you.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” he murmurs, following you inside. The café is quiet and warm, low chatter mixing with the smell of fresh coffee. You find a small table by the window and sit down. Alex slides into the seat across from you, unable to stop staring.

You rest your chin on your hand, studying him with open curiosity. “So… Unlucky Guitar Guy has a famous face. And a very nice one, I’ll admit.”

He chuckles, cheeks warming. “Flattery this early? Dangerous game.”

“I’ve earned it after months of emotional support via voice note,” you tease. “You owe me.”

The banter flows easily, just like it did over text, but now it’s accompanied by eye contact, little smiles, and the way your foot accidentally brushes his under the table. Neither of you moves away.

Alex leans forward slightly. “For the record… I’m really glad you’re not a 60-year-old man.”

You grin. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

He holds your gaze, voice softer now. “Because I’ve been looking forward to this more than I probably should have.”

The air between you shifts — warmer, heavier, full of possibility.

You smile, a little shy but clearly pleased. “Good. Because I have too.”

The waitress comes over, and you both order — you get a large flat white with an extra shot, he gets an americano with no milk. Once she leaves, an expectant silence settles between you. Alex leans back in his chair, studying you with a small, amused smile.

“So,” he starts, voice low and playful, “Coffee Disaster in the flesh. You’re much better looking than I imagined.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “You imagined what I looked like?”

“Obviously. I’m only human.” He shrugs, but his eyes are warm. “I had a vague idea. I was thinking… chaotic graphic designer with paint on her hands and at least three houseplants named after musicians.”

You laugh, the sound bright and easy. “Two of them are named after musicians. The third is called Kevin because he refuses to die no matter how much I neglect him.”

“Kevin sounds like a survivor,” Alex says, smirking. “Respect.”

You rest your chin on your hand, openly looking at him now that the initial shock has faded. “I still can’t believe it’s you. I spent weeks thinking Unlucky Guitar Guy was some cute, sarcastic indie musician who worked in a record shop or something. Not… well, you.”

He winces dramatically. “Ouch. Was the fantasy better?”

“Different,” you admit, eyes sparkling. “But this is… interesting.”

“Interesting?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “That’s a dangerous word. You called my music ‘pretentious but hot’ in one of your voice notes. I’m holding you to that.”

Your cheeks flush, but you don’t back down. “In my defence, I didn’t know I was talking to the man himself. That was private feedback.”

“Private feedback?” He laughs softly. “You sent it to me.”

“Because you were being dramatic about your lyrics!” you counter, grinning. “You said they sounded like ‘a depressed robot wrote them at 4 a.m.’ I was being supportive.”

The waitress returns with your coffees. You thank her, then immediately wrap your hands around the warm mug, watching Alex over the rim as you take a sip.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, “does the real Alex Turner live up to the mysterious northern man I’ve been texting?”

He pretends to think about it, running a hand through his hair. “Depends. Do you still think I sound too northern?”

“Absolutely,” you say without hesitation, smiling. “But it’s growing on me. It’s very… you.”

Alex’s gaze softens. The playful energy is still there, but something warmer slips in. “You know, these last few months… talking to you has been the best part of most of my days. Even when I was having a shit time in the studio, I’d look forward to your replies. Or your voice notes. Especially the ones where you complain.”

You bite your lip, clearly pleased but a little shy. “Same. I’d finish a nightmare client meeting and immediately want to tell you about it. It felt… easy. Natural. Even though I had no idea who you really were.”

He nods slowly, tracing the rim of his coffee cup with his finger. “That’s what I liked about it. No pressure. No expectations. Just… talking to someone who got me. Even when I was being a miserable bastard.”

You watch him for a moment, the teasing tone fading into something gentler.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.

“Anything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were sooner?”

Alex exhales, leaning back. “Honestly? I was scared it would change things. People treat me differently when they know my name. I didn’t want the version of me you were talking to — the sarcastic, messy, normal version — to disappear the second you found out.”

You reach across the table without thinking and gently squeeze his wrist. “It doesn’t change anything. I liked Unlucky Guitar Guy. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to like the real you too.”

His eyes drop to your hand on his wrist, then back up to your face. The air between you feels charged again — warmer, heavier.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice quieter.

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling softly.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The café noise fades into the background. Alex turns his hand over and gently laces his fingers with yours on the table. It’s tentative. Careful. But it feels right.

“So,” he says eventually, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “does this mean I get a second date? Or are you still planning your escape route?”

You laugh, squeezing his hand. “Buy me another coffee and we’ll talk about that second date, rockstar.”

“Deal,” he says, grinning. “But only if you promise not to call me pretentious again.”

“No promises.”

Alex laughs — loud, genuine, and lighter than he’s felt in months. For the first time in a long time, sitting across from a girl in a quiet café, the future doesn’t feel complicated.

It feels exciting.

You stood behind the camera for Matt's 'The View From...' series and helped Alex with his long hair when the saltwater and the sweat made it hard to handle. You stood backstage at every show, cheering behind the curtains. In exchange, Alex gave you the first margarita and wrapped his leather jacket around your shoulders when it got chilly.

Weeks have passed since.

Now, it's just Alex and you, in the quiet heaven of your shared flat. With his messy brown hair and half-opened eyelids, Alex Turner has completely stripped down the image he puts on for the band. Now he's just a boy who is really in love with a girl.

His eyes are closed, and he rests over the bedcover, one arm laid out for you to use as a pillow and the other one grazing your waist. The clock on the wall signals three in the afternoon. He cracks an eye open, looking at you.

"Don't move," he murmurs.

"Alex. We've been in the same position for two hours."

"So?" The tone of his voice is still raspy from sleep. That roughness in the way he speaks out that lets you know that he is, finally, fully rested.

His eyes close again and he inches his face closer to yours, to the point where you can feel the warmth of his breath hit your cheeks.

You sighed with tender exhasperation. You could never be angry at him for this—for so gently resting against you, soaking in the love he felt and hadn't been able to properly express while he was on tour. As much as both of you enjoyed the pre-gig luck kisses, there was little room for moments like this one when you lived on a bus with his band.

Naps are a habit of yours. Alex is a very warm guy; his arms around you and a soft kiss to your head are all it takes to put you to sleep. As though you were meant to fit together, neither of you gets sore when you cosy up.

"I've got things to do, Alex," you spoke quietly, brushing your fingers against his hair, which fell over his face.

Alex hums and pays no mind to what you were saying. It's an excuse, to him at least—he wants it to be. Then and there, he does not want to deal with the implications of you having to deal with anything that wasn't him.

"This is what you get for staying up at night…" Your words don't actually scold him; they merely jab at him for having left you alone last night.

"Jetlag. And had to write," he responds, opening his eyes again and almost smiling when he notices that you are still looking right at him.

"More songs, hm? You've just released an album."

He shrugs and presses a kiss to your jaw. "Inspiration doesn't care about that."

"Guess it doesn't." Your quiet chuckle was followed by a lazy and sleepy kiss.

The silence floated like mist around you for a few more beats. Your fingers are through his hair, and his hand is around your waist, right where they should be.

"You're not truly getting up, are you?"

"No, I don't think I am. This is entirely too nice."

"Good."

It has been weeks since he last saw you in person. Australia and South America were incredible, but the distance has worn him thin. Phone calls and rushed late-night phone sex are a poor substitute for the real thing. He misses touching you, tasting you, hearing those pretty sounds you make just for him. The separation has left him properly feral and more than a little clingy.

The elevator ride to one of the highest floors feels endless. Soft jazz plays through the speakers, but Alex barely notices. He pulls out his little flip phone, thumbs moving quickly across the keys.

About to get to my room. Free to call?

He sends it and stares at the screen, willing the little envelope to show a reply. The time difference is brutal — it is just past 11pm for him, which means it is early morning where you are. He knows you have an early flight tomorrow… or rather, today. Still, no reply comes. He frowns, a small pout forming despite himself.

“Come on, love,” he mutters under his breath. “Give me something.”

The elevator dings and the doors open. He drags his feet down the quiet hallway, the plush carpet swallowing his steps. The venue booked the band luxurious rooms on one of the top floors — stunning views, private balconies, and blessed silence. He cannot wait to show you. He swipes the key card, hears the soft buzz, and pushes the door open.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, he drops his bag on the floor and leans back against the wood, eyes closed. For a few long seconds he just stands there, arms hanging limply at his sides, letting the quiet wash over him. Alone at last.

He kicks off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket, leaving them in a messy pile by the entrance. The city lights pour through the massive windows, bathing the dark suite in glowing oranges, blues, and whites. It is beautiful. He should feel relaxed. Instead, that clingy ache in his chest only grows.

He checks his phone again. Still no reply. A small, frustrated huff escapes him.

“Too busy packing or something,” he tells himself, but it does not stop the disappointment. He wants to hear your voice. He wants your laugh, your teasing, the way you say his name when you are half-asleep. Weeks apart have turned him soft and needy in ways he would never admit to the lads.

He wanders further into the suite, rolling his shoulders to ease the post-show tension. That is when he notices it — a few things have been moved. His brow furrows. He is sure he told the front desk not to bother with turndown service. Then his eyes land on a familiar suitcase in the corner. Definitely not his.

His heart slams against his ribs. “Babe?” he calls out, voice lifting with sudden hope and energy.

A teasing hum floats from the direction of the bathroom. “Yes…?”

A wide grin breaks across his face. He crosses the suite in seconds and nearly collides with you as you step out. Without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest like he is afraid you might disappear.

“Holy shit, it is really you,” he murmurs into your hair, breathing you in deeply. That familiar scent — your shampoo, your skin, your warmth — hits him like a drug. “Fuck, I missed this. Missed you so much.”

“Who else would it be? Your secret mistress?” you laugh softly against his chest.

He squeezes your sides in playful warning, a low chuckle rumbling through him. “Don’t even joke about that. I would never survive another woman. You have properly ruined me for anyone else.” He pulls back just enough to cup the side of your neck, thumb stroking your jaw as he drinks you in. “What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to fly in tomorrow morning.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” you say, batting your lashes innocently. “I finished work earlier than expected, begged the band to help switch my flight, and… here I am.”

“Best fucking surprise of my life,” he breathes, eyes darkening with hunger. His gaze drops slowly down your body, taking in the sight of you wearing his oversized shirt. “And is that my shirt you are wearing?”

You shrug with a shy smile. “I did not get much sleep before the flight, so I napped while you were performing. Stole the first thing that smelled like you.”

His hands trace your sides possessively, sliding under the hem to find the band of your shorts. “You are going to be the death of me, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Tell me, love… you still tired?”

“Not too tired for you,” you whisper, fingers tracing along his collarbone. “Never too tired for you.”

That is all it takes. He dips his head and kisses you like a man starved, weeks of frustration and longing pouring out in one heated clash of lips and tongues. You moan softly into his mouth, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as his hands roam under the shirt, cold fingers against your warm skin making you gasp.

“Fuck, your hands are freezing!” you whine against his lips.

He grins, wicked and smug. “Then warm them up for me, darling.” In one smooth motion he spins you around, backing you towards the balcony doors while his mouth attacks your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. You stumble together, laughing breathlessly between kisses, hands grabbing at clothes and skin.

Your back gently hits the cool glass of the sliding door. Alex presses his body flush against yours, one thigh sliding between your legs. “God, I missed you,” he groans, sucking lightly on your pulse point. “Missed the way you taste. Missed how fucking wet you get for me.”

You tug at his messy hair. “I missed you too… sleeping alone is absolute shit.”

His chest swells with that familiar ache. His hand slips into your shorts without warning, fingers gliding through your slick folds. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick with approval. “You are absolutely soaked already. Been thinking about me, have you? Touching yourself while I was gone?”

You laugh breathlessly, hips rocking against his hand. “My fingers are not exactly the same as yours.”

“No, they are fucking not,” he says smugly, ego clearly inflating. “Say it again. Tell me how much better mine are, love. Stroke my ego a bit — I have earned it after all those long nights alone.”

Before you can smack his chest for being cocky, he finds your clit and circles it with perfect, practiced pressure. Your knees buckle instantly. He catches you easily, sliding two fingers deep inside you, curling them just right against that spot that makes your vision blur.

“Alex— fuck—”

“That’s it,” he murmurs hotly against your ear, voice low and filthy. “Say my name while I fuck you with my fingers. Been dreaming about this for weeks. Phone sex does not do it justice.”

He pumps his fingers slowly at first, savouring every wet sound and every little twitch of your body. Then he picks up the pace, curling them relentlessly while his thumb works your clit in tight, fast circles. You are already trembling, moaning louder with every thrust of his hand.

“You are clenching so hard around me,” he groans, biting gently at your earlobe. “Been this needy the whole time I was gone? Poor thing. Bet you touched yourself every night thinking about me.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. He adds a third finger, stretching you open, and the new fullness makes you cry out.

“Too much?” he teases, though he does not slow down. “Or is this exactly what you need? Tell me, darling. Tell me how much you missed my fingers ruining you.”

“I missed them— fuck, Alex, please—” Your voice cracks as he curls his fingers perfectly again, hitting that devastating spot over and over.

He keeps you right on the edge for what feels like forever, slowing down every time you get too close, only to speed up again with a wicked smirk. “Not yet,” he whispers. “I want you desperate. I want you shaking before I let you come.”

When he finally lets you tip over, you shatter hard with a broken cry of his name, body convulsing violently around his fingers. He works you through every wave, murmuring filthy praise the entire time.

“Good girl. That’s it. Give it to me. So fucking beautiful when you come.”

You are still twitching and gasping when he drops to his knees, yanks your shorts down, and buries his face between your legs. His tongue replaces his fingers, licking broad stripes through your folds before sucking hard on your clit. The sudden overstimulation makes your legs buckle, but he holds you up firmly against the glass.

“Alex— oh my god, I just came—” you whimper.

“And you are going to come again,” he growls against you, the vibration making you jolt. “I have weeks to make up for. I am not stopping until you cannot stand.”

He eats you like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, then sucking your clit while two fingers thrust deep inside again. It does not take long before you are coming a second time, harder than the first, thighs shaking around his head as you moan his name like a prayer.

Only then does he rise, lips shiny with your arousal, and kiss you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“Delicious,” he purrs. “Missed that taste so much. Weeks without you nearly ended me.”

You are still trembling when he spins you toward the balcony doors. “Alex— wait—”

He unlocks the sliding door and guides you outside. The crisp New York night air washes over your overheated skin as the city sprawls out beneath you in a sea of glittering lights. Your hands instinctively grip the railing.

“What a view,” you breathe, awe mixing with nerves.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping right behind you and pressing his body flush against your back. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” His lips find your nape, brushing your hair aside for better access. “Been thinking about this for days… bending you over right here with the whole city watching.”

Your eyes widen. “Alex— You cannot be serious.”

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending fresh heat between your legs. You hear the unmistakable clink of his belt buckle opening. “Oh my God, you are serious.”

“And why would I not be?” His hand slides under your shirt to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers almost in retaliation. “Tell me if it is too much, love… but I don’t think you want me to stop, do you? I can feel how wet you still are.”

The thrill of it — the height, the open air, the very real risk — makes you drip even more.

“Are you sure it is a good idea?” you sigh shakily as he tugs your shorts and underwear all the way down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to the night.

“It’s a private balcony, my love. We are so high up. Just enjoy the view while I enjoy this.” His voice is velvet sin. “Let me remind you who you belong to.”

You obey, gripping the railing tighter as he bends you forward. He frees himself from his jeans with a relieved hiss, his cock hard and leaking after weeks of deprivation. He rubs the thick head teasingly against your soaked entrance, slapping it against your clit a few times just to hear you whimper.

“Fuck… finally,” he groans as he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by thick inch until he is buried to the hilt. “This is what I have been missing. This warmth. Christ, you feel even better than I remembered.”

He gives you a moment before he starts moving — deep, powerful strokes that make your moans spill into the night air. One hand stays at the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Alex— oh my God—”

“Quiet, darling,” he warns, leaning over you, lips brushing your ear. “Unless you want the whole city to hear how well I fuck you.” He snaps his hips harder, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. “That’s it. Take every inch like a good girl. Let New York watch while I ruin you.”

The angle is devastating. Every thrust drags against your g-spot, and the risk of being seen makes everything feel more intense. Alex reaches around to rub your clit again, determined to pull another orgasm from you.

“You going to come on my cock?” he pants, voice strained. “Come for me again, love. Let me feel you squeezing me. I have waited weeks to fill you up.”

You come hard for the third time, clenching around his cock so tightly that he groans loudly, hips stuttering. He fucks you through it, then pulls out, spins you around, and lifts one of your legs around his waist so he can fuck you face-to-face against the glass.

“Look at me,” he demands, forehead pressed to yours. “I want to see your face while I fuck you.”

This new angle lets him go even deeper. His thrusts are relentless, skin slapping against skin, his cock dragging perfectly inside you. His dirty talk never stops.

“Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking my cock so well on the balcony where anyone could see. You love it, don’t you? Love being my dirty little secret up here.”

When he finally comes, it is with a deep, guttural moan of your name, spilling hot and deep inside you as his hips jerk. He keeps thrusting through his orgasm, like he cannot bear to stop.

For a long moment afterwards, you both stay locked together, trembling in the cool night air. Alex’s forehead rests against yours as you both try to catch your breath. His hands stroke soothingly up and down your sides, gentle now after the roughness.

“Welcome to New York, love,” he murmurs against your lips with a tired, satisfied smirk. “Round two inside?” You manage to choke a small laugh, shaking your head with a disbelieving grin. 

A minute passes, silence engulfing you with the gentle breeze.

“Fuck… I needed that,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He presses soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Missed you so much, love. Not just this — though Christ, this was incredible — but you. All of you.”

He slowly pulls out, but does not let you go. Instead, he turns you around in his arms and holds you close against his chest, wrapping you up in a warm, protective embrace. The city lights twinkle far below while a gentle breeze cools your overheated skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, one hand cradling the back of your head. “Not too cold? Did I get a bit carried away?”

You shake your head, smiling into his neck. “I’m perfect. That was… intense.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Intense is one word for it. I have been thinking about bending you over in front of this view from the moment I laid eyes on it. Had to make it worth the wait.” He kisses the top of your head, then tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly. His eyes are soft now, full of affection. “You are so beautiful like this, flushed and glowing because of me. My favourite sight in the world.”

He reaches down and gently pulls your (his) shirt back down over your body, then tucks himself away. Without another word, he scoops you up bridal-style, making you squeal in surprise.

“Alex!”

“What? My legs work fine,” he says with a smug grin, carrying you back inside. “Besides, you are shaking like a leaf. Can’t have you falling over after that.”

He carries you over to the massive bed and lays you down gently, then climbs in beside you. He pulls you into his chest immediately, tangling your legs together and wrapping his arms around you like he never plans to let go.

For a while, you simply lie there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back under the shirt. The city hums quietly far below.

“I still cannot believe you surprised me like this,” he murmurs eventually, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Best decision you have ever made. I was proper clingy tonight — staring at my phone like a sad puppy waiting for you to reply. Pathetic, really.”

You laugh softly. “It’s cute.”

“Oi, do not call me cute after I just fucked you on the balcony,” he teases, squeezing your arse playfully. “Ruins my rockstar image.”

You snuggle closer, kissing his collarbone. “Too late. You are my cute, clingy rockstar.”

He smiles, genuinely soft, and holds you tighter. “Only for you, darling. Only ever for you.”

The two of you stay wrapped up like that for a long time — talking quietly, exchanging lazy kisses, basking in the warmth of being together again after so many weeks apart. Eventually, his hand starts wandering again with clear intent.

“So… about that round two,” he murmurs against your lips, voice already turning husky. “You still not too tired for me?”