The noise of the crowd still rattles in your chest when Neil steadies you against the wall. His palm is hot through your shirt, his breath still ragged from the stage, tasting faintly of cheap liquor and cigarettes. The dressing-room chatter hums somewhere behind you — Brett’s laugh, someone rummaging for another drink — but Neil’s got you pinned in his orbit, and the rest might as well be static.

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear before finding your mouth. The kiss is different now — rough, greedy, nothing like the sweet one in the bus. His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, tilting your head until he can devour you properly. The sharp bite of teeth has you gasping, and he laughs against your lips, low and hoarse.

“Missed you out there,” he mutters, though he’d been looking at you every other song. “Couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

The words are half accusation, half worship. You arch closer, tugging at the lapel of his jacket, feeling the heat that’s been simmering all night finally spilling over. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, then drops, dragging over your throat like he wants to memorize the pulse hammering beneath.

Someone wolf-whistles from across the room, but he doesn’t let go. He just presses harder, like he’s trying to melt your skin into his.

“Let’s get out of here.”

You let him lace his fingers with yours as he pulls you down the hallway, past a haze of smoke and laughter, through a side door that bangs shut behind you. Outside, the air is cool, slicing clean against your skin, and for a moment you gulp it down like water. Neil doesn’t even notice. He’s still buzzing, still vibrating with restless energy, still tugging you close like the space between you burns him.

“Can’t wait, love,” he says, words rushing out in a growl. His mouth finds yours again beneath the flicker of a lamppost, urgent and messy. His hand slips under the hem of your skirt like he can’t help himself, like the night might run out if he doesn’t take more right now.

“Where?” you whisper, breathless.

He grins, feral. “Mine. Now.”

—

The cab ride is a blur of neon streaks and impatient horns. He can’t sit still, fingers drumming against your thigh, his knee bouncing, every line of his body coiled tight like he’s still on stage. You catch his eyes once — wide, glitter-bright, pupils blown — and the look has your stomach flipping, equal parts hungry and nervous.

When you reach the hotel, he barely thanks the driver before tugging you out, his hand rough and warm, dragging you through the revolving door like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. The lift groans as it carries you both upward, he presses you against the mirrored wall, his mouth hot on yours, hands already sliding over your hps, your ribs, your chest. His reflection behind him looks wild — hair a mess, eyeliner smudged.

By the time the door clicks open, he’s practically shoving you inside, kicking it shut with his boot. The room smells faintly of cheap soap and stale air conditioning, but it might as well be holy ground with the way he looks at you.

“C’mere,” he rasps, already tugging at your jacket. It falls to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten. His fingers find the zipper of your bottoms, clumsy in his haste, and you laugh breathlessly, batting his hands away just long enough to strip it yourself.

“Impatient,” you tease, but your voice trembles when he crowds in again, mouth on your throat.

“You’ve got no idea,” he growls, nipping at the soft skin there. His hands roam everywhere at once — over your waist, up your sides, curling possessive at your breasts through thin fabric. He sucks in a sharp breath, like even touching you is too much. “You’re killing me.”

You push at his jacket in turn, sliding it off his shoulders, then tug at his shirt. He helps you, shoving it over his head with messy urgency. His chest is flushed, still damp from the gig, and your fingers trace the slick line of sweat down his sternum. He shudders, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck,” he whispers, leaning into your touch, before snapping his eyes open again, hungry. “On the bed. Now.”

You climb onto the mattress, the springs squeaking, and he follows, crawling up after you, eyes dark and intent. His hands catch at your thighs, spreading them wide, and he settles between them, grinding down just enough to make you gasp.

He kisses you like it’s the only language he knows — deep, rough, tasting of sweat and smoke — and then pulls back to look at you. 

“Never thought I’d get this,” he admits, voice hoarse, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “You. All mine.”

Your breath catches, because it sounds too close to confession, but then his hands are at your underwear, tugging them down in one smooth motion, and the weight of his stare pins you flat.

“You’re beautiful, love,” he murmurs, before lowering himself, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. The heat of it has you arching, already aching for more.

His hair tickles your thighs as he lowers himself further, shoulders braced between your legs like he’s anchoring himself there. He kisses his way closer — slow, teasing, leaving damp marks along the soft skin. Every brush of his lips makes your stomach tighten, anticipation building so sharp it aches.

When his mouth finally finds you, it’s with a reverence that knocks the breath from your lungs. He licks a slow stripe, groaning against you, like the taste itself undoes him. The sound vibrates through you, makes your toes curl in the sheets.

“God,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look up at you, his face glistening in the low light. “Could live down here. Proper heaven.”

Your hips jerk, chasing the press of his tongue, and he laughs low in his throat, gripping your thighs tighter to keep you still. “Easy. Let me take my time.”

But there’s nothing slow about the hunger in him. He devours you, tongue flicking and circling, nose pressed into your skin. Every sound you make — every gasp, every broken moan — seems to drive him harder. He shifts, flattening his tongue against you, dragging it in long strokes that make your vision swim.

Your hand flies to his hair, tangling in the sweaty strands, tugging as if you can ground yourself in him. He groans at the pull, eyes flashing up to meet yours. The sight nearly undoes you: Neil, wild-eyed, eyeliner smudged, mouth glossy with you, looking at you like you’re a stage he’d play forever.

“You like that, yeah?” he mumbles against you, words muffled but wicked. His tongue flicks where you need it most, relentless, precise. “Sound so good. Singing just for me.”

Your back arches, a cry spilling from your lips. He eats the sound like it feeds him, sucking at you, shaking his head side to side until you’re trembling. You can’t help the curses that fall, messy and helpless.

“Neil—please—”

He pulls back just long enough to smirk, chin shining, voice ragged. “Please what? Say it again.”

You try to catch your breath, but he dips back down, tongue plunging inside you, curling, and the words break apart on your tongue. He hums, satisfied, as your thighs clamp around his head.

“Don’t hold back,” he says between licks, voice rough. “Wanna hear you fall apart. Wanna know I did that.”

It’s too much. His mouth is everywhere — hot, greedy— and your body answers without asking permission. You shudder, grinding against his face, chasing the unbearable edge he keeps you on. He slips two fingers inside, crooking them just right, and the cry that tears from you feels ripped from your chest.

“That’s it,” he groans, curling them again, his lips never leaving you. “That’s my girl. Come for me.”

The orgasm crashes over you like a wave breaking, sudden and all-consuming. You convulse, clutching his hair, crying out his name as your vision blurs at the edges. He doesn’t let up — licking, sucking, working you through it like he’s determined to wring out every last drop.

Finally, he pulls back, licking his lips, chin wet. He wipes it with the back of his hand but grins wolfishly, like he wants you to see. “Tastes like sin and sweet,” he says, voice hoarse. “Could eat you every night and never get bored.”

You’re still catching your breath, your body humming, when he crawls up over you, mouth finding yours. He kisses you deep, messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, like he’s proud of it. His chest presses against yours, his weight grounding you, his lips still slick as they drag across your jaw. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters into your mouth, breath ragged. “Look at you. Shaking for me.” His hand drags down your stomach, thumb brushing your clit once, just to watch you gasp, before settling on your hip. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He grinds against you, cock straining hard through his jeans, and you feel how badly he needs it — twitching, pulsing, practically begging. You reach down, fumbling with the button, and he lets out a laugh that’s more of a groan.

“Eager, much?” His tone is teasing, but his hands are just as desperate, yanking the denim down clumsily, cursing under his breath when they catch at his thighs. When he finally frees himself, the heat of him pressed against your bare skin makes your breath stutter.

You look down, and his cock is flushed, slick at the tip, heavy in his hand as he strokes once, twice, lining himself up. The sight makes your mouth water.

“Neil—”

“Shh.” He kisses you hard, swallowing the plea. “Gonna give it to you. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.”

He pushes in slowly, deliberately, stretching you inch by inch until you’re clinging to him, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. His jaw tightens, a guttural noise ripping from his throat. “You’re so tight. Always so perfect for me.”

The stretch burns in the best way, pleasure sparking sharp and hot, and when he bottoms out, the both of you just breathe, pressed together, sweat mingling. He kisses your temple, whispering, “There we go. That’s it. Made for me.”

When you nod, whimpering, he smiles, soft. Then he starts to move.

The first thrust is slow, testing, but the second drives deeper, harder, making you cry out. He finds a rhythm quick, hips snapping with precision, dragging himself against that spot inside you that has your legs trembling. The slap of skin fills the room, mixed with the guttural sounds spilling from his throat.

“Listen to that,” he groans, pounding into you, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. 

Every thrust is deliberate, filthy, like he wants to etch himself into your bones. He grabs your thigh, pushes it higher, opening you wider, and the angle makes you choke on a moan.

His pace quickens, brutal and beautiful, and you can barely form words. All that comes out are broken cries of his name, begging for more.

“Please,” you gasp, the word ripped from you. “Neil—please.”

The coil in your stomach tightens again, unbearable. He feels it, of course he does, groaning into your skin as your walls clench around him. “You’re close? Go on, love. Fall apart. I’ve got you.”

His thumb circles your clit, relentless, and that’s all it takes. You shatter beneath him, body spasming, a scream tearing from your chest. The orgasm rips through you harder than before, white-hot, every nerve alight.

He doesn’t stop — if anything, he fucks you deeper, chasing his own release as you convulse beneath him. His hips stutter, pace growing erratic, and then he’s spilling inside you with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he collapses against your chest.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your ragged breaths, the slick pulse of your bodies still joined. He presses kisses along your collarbone, murmuring things you can barely make out — “so good,”, “never lettin’ you go.”

When he finally pulls back to look at you, his eyes are wild, glassy, but soft with something you almost don’t recognise.

–

He stays heavy over you long after the tremors settle, like if he lets go too quickly the room will remember you were here and take you back out of his arms. 

His chest rises and falls against yours, sweat cooling where your skin meets his. You can feel the slow, satisfied weight of him—solid, utterly real—and it steadies something in your chest you didn’t know needed steadying.

“Too loud,” he mutters into the hollow of your throat, but it’s not a scold. It’s astonishment, rough and private. His fingers find the nape of your neck and curl there, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he’s memorising the cadence of you. Every so often he presses his mouth to the shell of your ear and hums—some half-remembered melody that sounds like the aftertaste of the night. It’s ridiculous. It’s the softest thing you’ll hear him do, and it makes your ribs ache in a sweet way.

You turn your head and catch him watching you properly for the first time since he climbed off the stage, exhausted, glitter in his lashes, chest still heaving. There’s a wildness in his eyes but now braided through it is something warmer, something like awe. 

He swallows, an animal sound, and the grin that follows is the kind that shows up in private—narrow, embarrassed, entirely sincere.

“You good?” he asks, soft, shy.

“Yeah,” you answer. The word comes out small but true. You press a lazy kiss between his collarbones, taste of him and the cheap smoke that lingers on his skin, and he sighs, soft as a lover’s promise. “Better than good.”

His hand drifts, fingers mapping the small of your back without thinking. 

He sits up far enough to tug the rumpled duvet over you both, making a little nest out of the mess of records and shirts. 

The apartment is a chaos you could have sworn would irritate you, but right now it reads like a map of him—lived-in, noisy, somehow holy.

“Stay,” he says, and there’s an edge to it that’s greedy and childish. As if your leaving would make the night evaporate. You curl into him, forehead to forehead, letting the heat between you slow into a steady, measured warmth.

He talks like he can’t help it—little half-sentences, small confessions that spill out between kisses. “Did you see the rig? Looked like the lights were following you from up the stage. Tech guy was praying on my downfall, was about to lose my mind." 

You laugh, breathless. “You say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s true every time,” he snaps, then softens immediately when you nudge him. “Came back to the tour bus and you were there. Like—like you’d been planted in my life and I hadn’t seen the pot yet.”

You nudge him back, thumb tracing the little scar at his jaw he’s never bothered to mention. “You’re romantic when you want to be.”

“Only with you,” he says, and it’s so fierce it’s almost tender. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, like filing you under Important Things.

You stay, you make a habit of being the person who finds him on those late buses, who stitches his frayed edges with something softer.

He sleeps like he’s made of something heavy and honest—arms thrown wide, chest still warm against you. 

You watch him, the rise and fall of his breathing a certainty. You reach up to tuck a curl behind his ear and his hand finds yours, thumb brushing the pad of your palm until you both drift.

Morning comes the next day in slow silver light, and for a suspended second you remember that the world outside the flat will spin on regardless. 

He wakes first, eyes opening with the startling clarity of someone who hasn’t stopped thinking about you all night.