Chapter Text
Rome, Italy
Rock in Roma
June 10, 2013
As the final distorted chord of "505" vibrated through Alex's ears, the phantom surge of the post-performance energy in him continued to seep through his bones, refusing to fade, slowly amalgamating with the weariness that he'd been feeling the past few weeks as he headed backstage—though, not forgetting to blow a tender, tired kiss to the crowd even when he was in the state of collapsing. The crowd roared, a physical force even from the relative silence of the backstage corridor. Surely, it should've just been a sweet tune of pure adrenaline and victory, but tonight the sound was overplayed—at least in his mind. It was a grating backdrop to the long-week fatigue, bleeding through his very skull. He was drenched from his own sweat, his white slim-fit shirt had become a translucent fabric, clinging to his torso, waiting to be shed, and his dark hair that was styled, teased, and tugged from earlier was now tattooing his forehead. He was unsure whether this was from the coke crash or the fact that he'd been in planes and venues more than he'd been asleep, and tonight might be just the last ultimate straw that'll break the camel's back—or his—he wasn't sure at this point. His bandmates were beside him, but he was too knackered to even register their conversation. Matt threw him a fresh towel, which he caught with practiced ease as he roughly threw it over his shoulder.
"That was fucking biblical, lads! Absolutely biblical!" Miles was already bouncing on the sole of his boots, eyes lighting up with the promise of post-gig activities. "So, I heard we've got some afterparty over in Trastevere... FullMoonClub Roma ?" Matt and Jamie exchanged knowing glances at each other, already anticipating the chaos. Nick shrugged, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Right, as long as they've got a proper pint, I'm game."
Alex, though, just shook his head for a moment, a slow deliberate action that foretold the tired ache in his body he couldn't even say. His phone was already buzzing from his pocket as he picked it up— Christ, right, I nearly forgot about the fight —he pressed the cool glass of the phone to his ear, the voice of his girlfriend, Arielle—bless her—crackled through the static, her LA accent that Alex once adored was now an undeniable pain that vibrated through his eardrums, a piercing whine of a fly that refused to die. He immediately looks at his mates for a moment. "Just give us a minute, will you? I need to..." he trailed, his voice hoarse, and not even bothering to continue his words to them as he waved a dismissive hand, already turning away from them.
"No," his voice was a stern, low murmur. "It's not bloody like that, luv... For fuck's sake, I'm workin'." he groaned into the receiver, pinching the bridge of his sculpted nose. The voice of her accusation on the other line was a clear resemblance to nails inside a front-load washer. "Darlin', I'm not ignorin' you, I've just played a two-hour set to twenty thousand people. I'm a bit... knackered ." He rasps, scrubbing his hand over his sweaty face, the stubble scraping against his calloused palm. Bloody hell, this again. Different city, same argument—always the same bloody argument. Her voice still rang in his ear, the grip on his phone tightening by each syllable that came out of her mouth. "... 'cause I can't talk right now! The lads are right 'ere!" he groans, his hazel brown eyes turning back to his mates, who were now awkwardly heading to the wings to chat with the opening band. "No, don't—" he says, before immediately getting cut off by her on the other end, "Don't twist it. That's not what I said."
Christ, he needed to get away. From the band, from the noise, and from the voice of the woman that should soothe the softest parts of his already rattled brain—now mercilessly drilling his skull with each accusatory tone. The green room, momentarily empty, was now his only sanctuary, the open gap of the door becoming a soft invitation to the tranquility that he was seeking. "Look, I'll phone you at the hotel, I've got to go." He didn't even wait for her reply, his thumb already punching the button so hard it might've cracked the whole screen.
And then, he saw it.
He saw you, your silhouette from inside. Just as though you felt his gaze on you, your head snapped in his direction, wide-eyed, unblinking, like a poor deer caught in the beam of his headlights.
What the bloody...
He glanced over his shoulder to see if he had witnesses, but no, his mates were already in the wings: Jamie in deep conversation with the frontman of The Vaccines, even Miles was having a good banter with the bassist, Matt and Nick had drifted off, likely waiting for them outside or sneaking in a smoke.
Fuck.
His head turned again at the door as he decided to check it on his own. A ghost? This was no cookie, that's for sure.
You, on the other hand, were already sweating through your palms as you practically ran further inside, hiding underneath the filled wardrobe racks in the corner. Are these his clothes? I hope it is, the leather jacket is unmistakable. Christ, really, this wasn't the plan. All you wanted to do for tonight was take something from him as a memento—something that he might think of in passing and forget about the next day—but this was far from what you wanted, and you saw him fuming lividly beneath the fluorescent lights of the backstage corridor. Stupidly, you felt this rush once more, far more potent than earlier when you were sneaking in the threshold. He'd seen you before, obviously. It's not like you were hiding it, or rather, you were just an awful hider. Not just tonight, he was sure he caught a glimpse of your profile in the crowd at Glastonbury , or was it in Denmark? matter of fact—in Moscow too. It was odd enough that Alex would remember someone from the crowd that much, and he had a troubled time remembering faces, which means you were no ordinary fan: he'd remembered that unnerving stillness in the depths of your eyes that stood out more than any screaming fan had. You were always there, watching, unblinking. He'd mentioned it to the security, of course, just a passing "keep an eye out," but of course it wasn't like you were climbing through the barricade or anything. But tonight, you not only snuck in backstage but also in the bloody green room.
Christ, and I didn't even want to be a frontman in the first place.
The frustration from the phone call, the long-held fatigue from the performance, and the itching unease from your sudden intrusion were the matches that dared to set fire to the back of his head, burning into a single point of sharp anger. The sound of his boots was as heavy as the pit that settled in your stomach; each step was the sound of a ticking bomb as the distance—no matter how exhilarating—was slowly closing in. He reached the door and looked around to catch a glimpse of your silhouette, surely enough, he saw your worn Converse like a hidden Mickey. His footsteps were clearer now, and you tried your hardest to breathe steadily. Your eyes met him from above the metal hangers, his body covering any chance of you escaping now as he towered over you.
Oh my god, he's... God... what a sight.
"Oi. You," his voice was low, grim, and stripped of any stage-born charm that you'd always play in your head when you were alone with your train of thoughts. Gone was your adoring fantasy, and for a moment, you were on the verge of wishing that the ground would swallow you whole. "I don't know who you are, or how you got in 'ere, but this—this is out the fuckin' line." He continued, cocking his head to the side as his hazel brown eyes narrowed at your retreating, shrinking form. "What the bloody hell are you doing back 'ere? And don't go actin' dumb. You've been tailin' since Hultsfred, ain't like I didn't clock it." Your eyes were wide as you stared at him despite the underlying fear, his questions were still queuing in your head, too busy staring at him in pure reverence. Alex felt every drop of blood in his system rushing to his pretty head, hot, fiery anger amplifying as you stood there silently, next to his bloody leather jacket, and his pack of Camels was in there. Oh, for fuck's sake . His fingers brushed through his hair, a sharp and clearly agitated gesture, his last chance of self-control, a quick, safe alternative to punching a hole through the drywall.
"Aye, it's me. Congrats." The sarcasm in his drawl was as sharp as broken glass, devoid of pure warmth, not even amusement, truly, he was bloody pissed. "That doesn't answer the question, does it, love? I asked, What the fuck are you doin' 'ere?"
Still, you were ever as quiet. Practically speechless, in your eyes he was moving in slo-mo, with rose-colored filters and glinting golden stars. Heaven is on earth, and he's sweating through his white tee. His gaze flickered back, through the open door, down the empty corridor, expecting a security guard to round the corner, but it seemed like his prayers were still on the answering machine. It was just the two of you, alone. Truly, he wanted this night to end. Right, that's it. No more messin' about. He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at you again, brows furrowed this time, his gaze impossibly hard and cold. "Look, I'm tired, I'm fed up, and I'm not in the mood for your bloody games. You've been following us for weeks. I see you in the crowd, loiterin' near the hotels. It was weird, whatever. This? This is summat else." he gestured at you, still hiding, shivering beneath the rack of clothes. He leaned close to your face, close enough that you could see that one freckle on the corner of his mouth, the hairs stuck on his forehead, and the weary stare in his brown eyes that begged to just have some good fucking sleep for once.
"You've got ten seconds. Tell me who the hell you are and how you slipped past security, or I'll have 'em drag you out by the collar."
Drag me out? The very fact of that happening filled you with dread—no, not after you worked hard enough to see him. You gulp, shaking your head, "No, please. Alex, I'm sorry... I'll do anything! Just don't—"
Alex lets out a dismissive wave of his hand before a sharp, humorless laugh escapes his lips, a sudden, imminent sound that fills the room. It sounded like you'd just uttered the best joke he's heard in years, but in full honesty, it was the sound of his last nerve snapping. Bloody hell, she's no business major to be negotiation' like that. Does she think she can just charm her way out of 'ere? 'Anything'? This ain't no porno for her to be sayin' shite like this... Christ, this one. The pure annoyance he'd felt painted his face like a warning sign, and you were blind—by choice or delusion—to even see it.
"I don't want any fucking thing from you, alright? I want you to piss off, leave me be, so I can pour myself a bloody drink and not worry about some... nutter sniffing 'round my fuckin' wardrobe."
You stood there, not a peep to be heard, too frightened to even continue your words, as he'd cut you off sharply after weeks of having constant eyes on him, the lack of privacy, and the very fact that he was being treated as a concept rather than a person by some girl who had no right being around here.
Don't what?
"Don't make me leave," you breathed, slowly slipping out of the rack where he could finally see you closely. "Please, Alex. Just a few minutes of your time, I'll do anything."
His jaw tightened, a small muscle twitching near his ear, your desperation didn't soften his guard, not one bit. If anything—as you were assessing every fraction of his movement—what he did was a slip through the cracks, the kind of behavior that didn't reach through any interviews you've watched before, and as selfish as you were being, it was a sight that was so intimate, and you were blessed enough to see it with your own two eyes. His gaze fell upon you, you wore the same grey hoodie he'd spotted you wearing in Croatia, the dark blue denim of your pants was a visceral sight that reminded him of the shadowed coves in El Matador, and the untied laces of your worn-out 70s Chuck Taylors were tearing by the minute, hardly surviving the cobblestone grounds of Italy.
God, what was he gonna do with you?
He gave you a slow, deliberate shake of his head, the kind of disapproval shake a kindergartner would get when they'd wet their pants on the first day of school. "Listen to me. Very carefully," he starts, sighing heavily as if he's aware he's about to make a bad record deal with some suit who thinks their demos are ' really bitchin'. "I am not a character in one of your twisted daydreams. I'm a tired bloke who just wants to be alone for five bloody minutes." He points at himself before continuing as he then points his finger at you, "And you... you are a stranger who has followed me across countries. There are no 'few minutes of time' to be given here. No 'anything.'" He lets that one air out for a few seconds before finishing. "What there is... is you leaving me alone, or you leaving with two blokes in uniforms hauling you out."
But in your eyes, there was more of a semblance of star-struck wonder and less about being the first girl to get a restraining order from Alex Turner. The pep talk felt like a one-off conversation with a brick wall, a lip-trembling, wide-eyed devotee, physically an incarnate of a fragile brick wall. His hands—once again—raked through his crunchy, messily styled hair. Christ, this is the karma I get for writing songs about my exes. He thought for a moment. Clearly, he needed to hit two birds, the first magpie had the penchant for collecting shiny little rockstars, and the other, is well, a crow that just wants to be left in peace.
"You know my name, that's no surprise, innit?" He says now, looking at you as he steps back and fumbles through his pocket, a knowing tic, to reach for his lighter. The anger was still lying underneath the cold, casual, almost dismissive tone in his voice, before continuing. "Seems fair now that I should know yours." Stupidly, you blushed, he wants to get to know you, you lucky dog! You introduced yourself, stuttering even, and he just stared at you, his lighter dancing between his fingers as he fidgeted. It felt like romance, this was. So, you let your mind, and mouth, roam free.
"Alex, I... I know it's so sudden that I did this, but I'm going to be honest... I just think there's this unspoken thing between us, and... well, your songs, they speak to me in ways others have never uttered to me before. I love you..."
He dropped the lighter.
Right fuckin' hell. He flinched, physically revolted, stepping back as if to lodge away from the fact that you were actually this delusional. His eyes graced the ceiling, wishing for the whole venue to collapse right at this moment. His face, already weary and far too stressed out for a conversation like this, drowned into a mere trickle, replaced by a visceral expression between sorrow and dread.
Right, well, she's out of it. Certifiably lost the fuckin' plot.
Alex had a lot to say, and one would mean A LOT. He was pissed at you, sure, but would he drive an already insane woman to their death? 'Course not, certainly not give you a few words that would end you making a new historical artifact somewhere off the coast of the Mediterranean. He looked at you, the way his earlier warnings didn't even seem to go through your head. The anger, which used to be patient enough to take all of this, was slowly curdling into stone-cold embers. He could scream at you until he'd develop laryngitis, sure. He could call security and every police force in the G8. But you were practically on another plaintiff, where the law allowed rose-tinted glasses and smooth CapCut transitions appearing out of nowhere every time you'd look at him. He could feel his stubble through his palms again as he scrubbed his hands over his face, to ground himself, or to wake himself up from this nightmare. What's the point? The question dove through his head, his shoulders slumping by a fraction as he stared back up, as if the answer had been written in the smoke-stenched ceiling this whole time, just written in braille—to be fair, it is a popcorn ceiling.
Call security, there's a scene, a report, tour manager gets involved, it gets leaked to the press... Oh, I just know The Sun will be ravin' about this. Ugh, a bloody nightmare, can't have that when I'm already livin' in one.
He was tired, physically and mentally. Slowly, he let his hand drop to his sides, his brown eyes now assessing you, though the hard, cold gaze disappeared, almost as if he was just... truly looking into you after an eternity of spiritually rolling his eyes at you. Nervously, you tucked your hair back behind your ear, a shy, almost hesitant gesture. You were trembling, and Alex was unsure whether to compare your reaction to a small chihuahua. Within just a few minutes, you were now introduced as the obsessive girl that managed to sneak in his room, sniffling through his clothes like you were in foreplay with the metal hangers. He wasn't blind, nor was he deaf, he saw and heard the sheer borderline sincerity in your eyes and words, and when his gaze fell on your lips, your voice echoed in his ear, Anything.
A thought filled his head like a planted bomb, hot and ugly, and born from pure cynicism, it was unlike him to think such a twisted thing. Hell, it was a selfish, fucked-up idea. But... it was, nonetheless, a solution. A way to get what he wanted, and... yours. It would only be a moment, like playing chess... Distant Checks . He turned and headed to the door—your heart sank—only for him to close it shut, the sound of the latch echoing from inside the room. His back was still facing you, the lines of his muscles impossibly etched to the thin, sweaty shirt he was still wearing. You swallowed the saliva from your mouth that you didn't even know was building up—a sheer testament to your perverted mind. Then, without looking, his voice was a soft hush to the deafening silence that filled the whole room.
"You said you'd do anything."
Yes. Yes. YES.
His head tilted back, his profile shadowed in from the soft lights above, making his jawline impossibly sharp in your perspective. "So, here's the deal, love." He continued slowly, as if he was waiting for you to oppose the proposal he's about to make. "I'll give you the, well, the chance. And after... you walk out that door, and I never see you again." He gently raised his fingers as he continued talking, "No more waitin' by the hotels, and you don't show up at the next bloody venue. This moment... it never happened, it's a secret that you take with you, alright?"
He held careful, stealthy movements as he finally faced you, his eyes boring into you, which made it all absurdly real, oh my god. He closed the distance a few inches more, the warmth of his breath tickling your temple. "You get one moment with me. And I get my peace. Deal?"
You nodded, a quick jerky excitement that twisted Alex's stomach through a series of pure revulsions. It wasn't just desire that fueled your decision, but a long, rabid thirst no other temptations could even quench to your closest satisfactions. This was real: his scent, his sweat, and every fluid that was allowed by the state to be consumed in the human body imaginable. The gasp, the nod, the glistening bead of saliva dripping from the corner of your lips... Jesuuuussss.
God, she's actually buzzin', fuckin' buzzin'.
He proposed a deeply debasing transaction, hoping you'd change your mind and run off, instead, he was met with a reaction that looked like you just got told that he had the cure to cancer. God, he felt dirty, genuinely clenching his teeth in pure disgust, he could hardly imagine someone to actually be this... pathetic. Alex rubbed his temples as he closed his eyes for a moment, willing the last of his composure to overcome this situation that the world has given him tonight. "Right." The word was flat on the tip of his tongue, dead in the quiet room. He didn't even offer a hand, instead, he leaned back against the door, sweat trickling to his forehead as the sound of distant footsteps from outside the wings was thumping in his ear, the crew probably packing in after the show.
"This is it, then," he whispered. "The only time this will ever happen, you understand?" He made no room for you to even answer as his hands already started filling it in, his hands went to the button and zipper of his sweat-dampened jeans. The sharp zzzpp! sliced through the silence, he didn't bother taking them off yet, just pushed the tight denims down to the bottom of his waist in a mechanical fashion, similar to a clinical test at the doctor's. Surprisingly, he was already half-hard from the remnants of the post-adrenaline energy from the earlier performance, simply a natural reaction that felt more like betrayal to him.
"You said you'd do anything, love." he stated, looking down at you with no sign of respect whatsoever. "So get on your fuckin' knees."
Your knees hit the ground faster as you scrambled to reach him. A desperate, clumsy collapse that scraped your blue jeans against the linoleum floor. Alex caught your gaze as you stared at him with a mix of crazed worship and disbelief that only made his stomach twist in an anchor-bent knot. Then, your eyes drifted down, whoa. Twitching by the second, its purple veins were a translucent tattoo on his shaft, and the tip was a pinkish hue that contrasted with the dark moss of his pubic curls. Alex practically revolted, the unshed devotion painting your face made his member jerk even more, and he hated that he was enjoying this. It was one thing to see that look from the crowd, but here? With his open fly and your breath steaming at his cock? Christ, this was some Stanley Kubrick type of sinister.
"Don't just fuckin' stare at it," he snarled. "You're the one who begged for this, get on with it."
But it was obvious that you were too mesmerized to even move, and this just pissed him off even further. Without even breaking a sweat, he took the back of your hair with his hand, your strands pulled taut from the root as he lifted your head up, hard enough that you heard something crack, and you gasped, mouth open as you begged him to let you go. He leaned down, your noses inches apart as he stared at your frightened, shaking state. Unexpectedly, he gathered a glob of saliva from his very mouth. Hckk .
Then, he spat.
The fluid was warm on your tongue, your whole body shivering from shame and excitement. As he pulled back, his hold on your scalp had tightened. There was no room for hesitation left, Alex was hearing none of it as he swiftly shoved his hips forward in your open mouth, slamming home. It was a brutal violation as you forced your jaw to relax, not wanting to hurt him. His thrusts were relentless, taking everything. The pedestal he was standing on was now being jackhammered by himself, but it only spurred your lust even further. The sound of your wet-strangled sound that was coming straight from the back of your throat was obscene and pornographic, you could hardly breathe. As you tried to control the rest of the bodily functions you had left: which was inhaling through your nose, the musky scent of his pubes filled your lungs, a heady aroma that made you impossibly wetter between your thighs.
Ghgk. Hhgk. Ghck—!
Every chance of survival wasn't even in your head as you only thought of his length hitting the back of your throat beautifully. The sensation was incredibly full, bypassing any access to your body's most basic limits. As you looked up, he watched, this whole time. His hazel brown eyes clouded with pure dehumanizing lust, brows furrowed as he concentrated on chasing the high his reluctant body was getting off from your eager mouth, teeth gritting as a series of rasps and groans escaped his lips in denial.
"Fuckin' hell, look at you... fuckin' slut." He gasped, "Ah—wanted this bad, didn't you?"
Just as you were about to touch yourself from under your hoodie. A shrill digital buzz of a phone interrupted the two of you, shattering the impossibly tense moment in the green room. As a devoted fan who needed to hide in plain sight, it was obviously not yours. It was his phone, from the pocket of his jeans. He froze, hands stilling from the once tight grip from your head before he pulled you off, you collapsed back on the ground, coughing, wheezing, but he didn't even pay attention to you, he was already fumbling for his phone, and as he lifted the screen, it felt as though he had a bucket of ice cold water dropped above his head. It was Arielle.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Guilt coiled his guts like barbed wires. Fuck, does she know? Did someone...? Fuck—Did someone hear us from outside? FUCK.
In a haste, without even thinking, he swiped the call to answer it, an unwelcome instinct born from self-destruction. He immediately pressed the phone to his ear, his voice merely a strained whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Al? Hey..." Her voice was softer now, the kind of softness he'd miss in a while. "Look, I'm sorry about before... it's just... I missed you, baby. I shouldn't have... you know, been a big bitch."
The shudder that left his body was the manifestation of guilt that he'd been burying inside of him this whole fucking week. Christ, she shouldn't be the one apologisin' . He closed his eyes shut, almost as if to forget about the very presence of the girl in front of him. The weight of his tiredness leaned against the door, his back against the cool wooden frame as he looked up.
"No, I'm sorry, love..." he whispered. "It's fine... I've just been very busy, darlin'."
He could feel the unnerving stare from you even when he had his eyes closed, like it was a physical touch. He knew that you were listening, barely even breathing just to hear the one-sided conversation closely, still, he ignored you. His girl was here, on the line, and that's what he needed now.
But you had other plans, of course.
Before Alex could even process the sudden shift in your action, you leaned forward again, gone was the hesitant look in your eyes, even in your movement—no mess, no clumsiness—as you took him in your mouth, as if you were doing it now for something to prove. Then, you hollowed your cheeks, creating a seal of unrelented suction. Your skills had shown, eager, meticulous suckles that would drive him to his own madness, and your tongue worked him with vengeance. It was an active worship, but farther than that, it was absolution.
Alex felt the pleasure, diving in the deepest, warmest body of water, adrenaline rushing through his spine as his knees buckled. The gasp he let out was evidently loud from the mic of his phone.
"What was that?" his girlfriend asked, her voice distant but enough to rattle through his teeth.
"N-nothin'." He stuttered, his free hand balling into a fist. "Matt... uh, dropped summat."
Oh really? You hummed softly, taking him even deeper, your throat working him in as he succumbs to the slick heat of your wet mouth, and what's worse is that he was tethering on the edge of surrender. His mind goes completely blank, and his head finally ducks down to look at you in shameful lust and horror at the incredible deep pressure in your mouth as you devour him in ways he hasn't felt before, not even with her.
The groan that escaped his throat was uncalled for, truly he tried his best to fight it, chewing the insides of his cheeks, but in the end, it didn't help. You sensed his struggles, a small victory that swelled through your heart, a selfish reward that tasted just as good as he did. You took him deeper, widening your jaw as you took him whole, his pubes invading your nose, and you inhaled his musky scent again, making your visions fade in momentary bliss. It was a devastating pull that ripped the last shreds of his self-control from his very lungs.
"HNGH—!"
"Al, what the hell was that?"
He couldn't answer, God, he couldn't even trust himself to open his mouth. But still, he tried.
" 've gotta go." He gasps out before ending the call with a trembling touch. The cool metal dropped from his sweaty palm, the loud thud from the floor was a mirrored sound to his state of mind. All he could think of now was you, you, you.
Alex bit his bottom lip as he—by all odds—whimpered at your pure sadistic devotion. His brain felt like mush, and his hips were fastening, rutting endlessly inside of you, the buckle from his belt clanking with each thrust filled the room, accompanying the schlk sounds escaping you, his hands flying out to grip the back of your head. Steering—not from the earlier irritation and built-up anger—but by a hopeless, humane need that his body was begging for. He fucked your mouth like an animal, saliva slipping through the corners of your lips, snot escaping your nose, as your glossy, tear-filled eyes stared at him. Heaven is on earth, indeed.
"Oh... fuuuuckin' hell... Hah—"
"Ugh—just like that, love. Agh—don't you dare fuckin' stop."
He looked so lost in the heat, sweat trickling all over his face, those half-closed eyes, lip-biting expression seared to the deepest parts of your brain, and the groans that escaped his lips practically vibrated through every nerve ending in your system. He moaned out your name like a prayer, for a deity he didn't believe in.
He bucked once.
Then twice.
Before, finally. A surge of white vision blinded him as he lets out a helpless groan, his back bowing off the door as he came sharply, hitting the back of your throat, a release that felt like life and death itself. His body shook violently as his body sagged against the door, catching his breath. You stepped back for a bit, coughing up as you wiped the remains of his cum from your lips, the taste of him was bitter but exquisite, an acquired taste you could get used to if he'd let you.
You looked down, and his phone was still on the ground, cracked from the drop impact from earlier, but for a moment, the air was still, and for a fleeting second, Alex didn't remember.
That was when he trailed where your eyes were on. Then, a hot, vicious, violent energy slowly surged through him as he shoved himself off the door. He looked down at you, still kneeling on the ground. Your hair was a mess, and you were dazed from the very irresponsible stunt you just pulled. He did a quick zip of his jeans before buckling up his belt, hands shaking as he looped it in his pants. Then, his eyes were on you. He quickly grabs you by the front of your hoodie, his knuckles brushing your chest as he pulls you up before tossing you on the leather sofa. You stumbled, panicking.
"What the fuck were you doing, huh?" he spat silently, which to you felt more dangerous than shouting. "Huh? While she was on the phone? Are you that fuckin' stupid, or just fuckin' mental?"
He stood over you, grabbing your face, his thumb and fingers gauging your jaw open, and you cried out, and for a moment, you felt actual fear from his action. It was a sick, twisted thing to do, yes, but nonetheless, you just wanted him, all to yourself. Is that ever so bad? Alex looked at you closely. "You wanted to get caught? You wanted her to hear? Is that part of the little movie you play in your head? God..." He couldn't even hide the anger anymore, the sheer disrespect accosting him, not only his image but also his relationship. He wanted to physically throw you out into the corridor and let security deal with the fallout. But, with a surprisingly tender grip, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. You were breathing heavily, regulating yourself as you cried in distress. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
What he saw stopped him cold. Your eyes were wide, yes, but with an almost comical remorse, with a tinge of haze, still unfocused and still lost in the afterglow, and now you were being pushed like a ragdoll by a man you've looked up to for God knows how long. In the back of his mind ensued the recollection of the climax from earlier, the all-consuming pleasure. Despite the riskiness of it, a part of Alex enjoyed it, and he hated himself for it. It was just a head, yes, but Christ, it was better than any fumbled encounters with the groupies he's had on the road, better than any detached, borderline clinical intercourses he'd been having for months. It was raw, desperate, undeniably sickening, but also... undeniably incredible.
He sighed, a long shuddering sound of a man who knew too much of what he felt and what he had to decide.
He slowly lets go of your face, his hands dropping to his side as he stands up. The anger was still lurking, it was clear in his hard, cold gaze, yet it instilled something within, something close to another cruel, opportunistic idea that he knew wouldn't play out well, he knew he couldn't send you away. Not yet.
"Get up," he ordered, before changing his mind. "No. Stay there."
He started pacing around the room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair again before finally turning back to look at you. "Hotel de Russie," he said. The place was a familiar spot in your mind. Of course you did, you knew the band was staying there.
"Room 412. Be there at 2 am. Don't be early. Don't be late," he says, stepping closer to you again, and this time, you didn't even move back, not even an inch. "Don't talk to anyone in the lobby; go straight up. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your fucking life. Do you understand me?"
You were about to answer. Yes, yes, and yes . When suddenly, a muffled voice erupted from outside, close to the other side of the locked door, followed by the sounds of a light knock.
"Al? You in there, mate? We're heading out."
It's Miles.
The panic was evident on Alex's handsome face, he didn't even bother looking at you as he snatched his phone from the floor, shoved it deep in his pocket and turned to the door. He pulled it open, a small gap in which he filled his body with, covering any evidence of his secret from inside.
"Yeah, alright." he called out, voice surprisingly steady.
Without even a backward glance—as if you weren't even there, he slipped out of the green room, closing the door shut behind him, leaving you completely alone in the silence. The taste of him was still fresh in your mouth, and a part of you were still craving for more.